[Exalted] For The Sake of the Ash - A Demon-blooded Quest

[Gargulec]

FOR THE SAKE OF THE ASH
a demon-blooded quest​

Roots-Among-Ash, lover to demons, scourge of the Silent Valley, nurturer of the great manse of the Iron-Leaved Oak, master sorceress and wielder of the emerald fire of Malfeas faced justice on the morning of a cool spring day.

As many before her, justice arrived by the perilous ascent from the valley below. At the gates of the manse, she stood no different from an itinerant nun: head piously shaved, robed in faded red and well-worn staff in hand. She stopped to give praise to the rising Sun, as was proper, and then standing under the great branches of the Oak called out, demanding that Roots-Among-Ash come out from her chamber above. As to many before her, you were sent down instead, to warn her that she was an intruder, and that she was to beg for forgiveness, or else pay for her trespass with life and soul.

Then justice spoke to you a word of power, and you were brought to heel.

Bound to kneel in dust with its will and weight, you watched your mistress descend, the soulsteel blade Quiet in her hand, preceded by her three infernal champions each in their full battle regalia. When justice demanded repentance, she laughed and said proudly that the strong have nothing to atone for, for it is the duty of the weak to bear their will.

With great sorrow justice said: "So be it," and when the demons were loosened against her, she raised her staff and the mantle of the Sun was placed on her shoulders, and she performed a two-finger exorcism against each of them in turn. Champions of Hell they were, tomescu bound for glory and triumph, but on that cold morning, their bright fates were each cut short by a higher power.

So Roots-Among-Ash called upon great sorceries; she unleashed against justice the antediluvian cry of the Thunder Wolf, and rained down on her obsidian butterflies, and drowned her in evening mists that sap sense and will. But justice rebuked the Thunder Wolf, and his cry was stifled into a whimper, and she breathed life into obsidian, so it flew away as a black-winged swarm, and with golden sunlight cut through the mists and scattered them, like morning light banishes night terrors.

Then your mistress raised her sword, and whispered its true, forbidden name, and at once all sound was stilled and stolen, and the gaze of gods was averted from the land that was consecrated to the chronic masters of the Underworld. And as not even the power of the Most High could stand against a blade hewn from black rock of the shrine-tombs of the Neverborn, you saw justice's light dim and gutter. And as many before, justice was brought to heel.

Or so you thought was inevitable.

But the light did not dim; it grew thrice bright, and a sign of the sun in zenith blazed on justice's forehead, and with it, she defied the quiet. With an opened palm, she turned away slayer-strikes, and such as was the strength of her rebuke that it was Root-Among-Ash who was brought low and onto her knees.

And then, your world came apart.

---

You remember being too exhausted to move, laying on your back and watching the empty sky. By blackness and barrenness of the dome of the firmament above you knew yourself to be on the liminal desert of Cecelyne, whose silver sand bound Hell and separate it from the Creation. By the song around you, you knew you were not alone, for where there is song, there must also be demons.

You listened to it.

It was a shanty, flat and monotonous, barely raising above a low drone. You recognized it for the sort that that baidaks sing, those hollowed-out shells of men who lost their will and soul to the demon Sigreth. Mindless as they were, they were also a common sight on the Cecelynian waste; crewing smooth-sailing sandships fashioned out of red glass that were commanded to forever journey back and forth across the desert. It surprised you that it was where you found yourself, as you had no recollections of boarding one.

But more surprising was that you are were alive.

"You failed."

You knew. Still, you let your head tumble left, towards the voice, scowling as your stiff neck protested with a jolt of dull pain. The ship came into your view, as did the great vastness of silver sands, and the woman speaking to you.

She sat not far from you, cross-legged. Tattered, grey cloak flapped about her skeletal frame; from beneath the folds of old cloth patches of leathery, creased skin peeked, hardened in the elements. Her exposed arms were thin and wiry, veins twitching just underneath the skin with every little move. There was something abraded about her, as if she had been sanded down to the hardest core of bone and muscle. Her face was pulled to tautly over the skull, any moment now it looked ready to snap free of bleached bone beneath; her hair were short and bristling, needle-like. But it was not a death-like visage - there was nothing languid about the way she held herself pillar-straight, and her greyish eyes showed too much focus and alertness. A massive blade, gray-pommeled, black-scabbarded sat next to her; a daiklave of the sort worn by the Chosen.

What she reminds you the most was some manner of a starved predator out hunting, lean and vicious.

Patiently, she waited for you to finish taking her in. Only after did she speak again.

"Usually," she said, and you tried to name the affect in her coarse tone. Reprimand? No, not that, "when you try something like that, you succeed, or you pay with your life."

Admiration? No, not that either. There was nothing impressive in what you failed to do.

"Childish as it was, one can't call your attempt stupid," she continued. "You must have been well aware of the risk and of the price, as well as of the fact that a mortal teen will not disrupt the schemes of a demon of the Second Circle."

Article:

Demon of the Second Circle. Princess of Hell. Your mother.
[ ] Zsofika, The Kite Flute, Messenger Soul Of The Prince Upon The Tower
[ ] Mara, The Shadow Lover, Defining Soul of That Which Calls To The Shadow
[ ] Stanewald, She Who Surmounted the Omphalos, Reflective Soul of the Ravine of Whispers
[ ] Sondok, She-Who-Stands-In-Doorways, Warden Soul of the Green Sun

Spoiler: About the demons

The Kite Flute is a demoness of hunt and prophecy. She is called into Creation to track and kill, and whenever she goes, a parade of drum-beaters follow her, setting pace to her incessant killing. Her blood carries an affinity for slaughter, for soothsaying, and tireless pursuits.

The Shadow Lover is the great seducer and a master soul-thief. She is summoned as a lover and a teacher of dark arts, and only rare summoners get the better end of a deal with her. Her blood carries an affinity for dreams, shadows and lying without a tell.

She Who Surmounted the Omphalos is the bane of stone and dancer without peer. She is beckoned by those who wish to learn her sacred dances that bring down fortresses and mountains. Her blood carries an affinity for arts, the occult, and boundless endurance.

She-Who-Stands-In-Doorways is black-iron clad guardian of sacred thresholds. She bars the way for many and opens it for few, and that is the purpose of her summoning. Her blood carries an affinity for martial mastery, coldness of heart and kinship with guardian spirits.

Finally, you recognized the tone. It was care. She spoke with care, in the way that demons do: as if it was something alien and dangerous, better hidden, lest it brands you as vulnerable.

"More, the extent of your preparations shows that it was no spur of the moment act, no lashing out of a broken heart. You drove yourself towards suicide with rare conviction."

You tried to speak up and explain, to clarify, but your throat was thoroughly shot, and besides she had most of it right. Still, she noticed your lips speechlessly move, and came closer, brushing by your side. You felt her fingers pick up the behind of your head; they were harsh and calloused, even if the touch itself was tender. Gently, she lifted your head up and put a flask to your lips. Its contents smelled of burned herbs and old iron.

"It will keep the pain away," she said, squeezing a burst of something down your throat and holding you to help you swallow. It hurt at first, but left behind a cool numbness. She wiped your mouth with the hem of her cloak, then laid you back down.

Again, there was silence. You pushed your eyes closed and try to remember how you could had ended up here, in the care of a woman you most certainly never met before. Little came out of it. Past a certain point, there was a kind of muteness to your memories. Not unlike, you considered, of the sort of dampening of sound once you leave a roaring-music hall, when even shouts feel quiet. So instead of remembering, you reached for what you knew and tried to piece together how your current circumstances could have come to pass.

You knew this: that you were alive, and not in pain. That meant that the punishment for your transgression was aborted, somehow interrupted. It was unlikely for that this break to be a kind of slow-cutting of the mind, meant to soften you before resumed torture. However sublime such subtle punishment could be, it is not in the custom of Hell to offer traitors even a poisoned respite. And so, you had been saved from your mother's wrath, from death and worse.

"I am Roots-Among-Ash. I am a sorceress," her sharp voice broke you out of your thoughts, "among other things. We are four days from Creation, for which we are bound. By the time we arrive, you should be on your feet again. They have not managed to get deep into you, thankfully"

You didn't know what she meant by that, but even then you knew it was a blessing. You did not dwell.

"There is no staying in Malfeas for you."

As you could hardly make yourself nod, you just looked at her. She met your eyes and pursed her lips.

"And there is no easy fate awaiting you in Creation, demon-child. Not with the way you look."

Article:

[ ] How do you look? How does your body betray your lineage? (write-in)
[ ] What's your name? (write-in)

Note that this vote is not binding, and I may end up altering it to taste.

You know little about Creation, most of it terrible stories of cruelties of men. You found it easy to believe her.

"You can stay with me, I suppose" she added after a moment. The sharp edge in her voice was replaced by something hesitant, unsure. "People find me a hard company to bear, but I suppose you grew up with worse," she chuckled dryly.

The implications of what she had said took some time to worm their way into your mind. As they did, you felt something tense inside of you, some knot long tied in your gut, finally loosen and go slack. Tears, unbidden, well in the corner of your eyes.

She defied a Princess of Hell to save you. Why? She was caring for you, Why? She was offering you shelter and help. Why? Her voice was sharp and harsh, but when she spoke, you felt at ease. Why? Questions you couldn't voice piled up, so you did the best you could and squeezed a single word past your hurt throat.

"Why?"

Initially, she almost smiled as if to shrug the question off, but her face soon darkened and the smile shifted into a deep frown. She looked away from you, locking her eyes at some point on the horizon, hands twitching as she gesticulated wordlessly at someone, most likely herself. The shanty's refrain rolled over thrice before she looked back at you. You saw her then, for the first and only time, in a state of powerlessness.

"I don't know."

 

[Gargulec]

MECHANICS
(with credit to @Maugan Ra and @EarthScorpion)

This is a narrative quest, where the mechanics serve to quantify and define story variables.

Improving your capabilities will depend on the allocation of XP, which can be obtained in two primary ways: as narrative awards given out at the end of each story arc, or as personal rewards given to anyone who writes omakes, draws fanart or otherwise contributes to making the Quest thread a more interesting place for me to visit on a regular basis. The former will be allocated as part of a general vote, while the latter is assigned at the will of the person responsible for obtaining it.

These are the broad categories of things XP can be spent upon:

---

INHERITANCES
Unlike the mighty Chosen and great spirits, you do not have access to powerful Charms and similar refinements of Essence. Instead, you wield inherited powers, echoes of your mother's puissance contained in your blood. In time, those inheritances can be cultivated and mastered, likely developing into forms familiar to the ones possessed by your mother.

Inheritances are not just magical abilities. In fact, they cover a wide array of skills, mundane and supernatural, for which you have affinity by dint of your parentage. Thus, for example, a child Makarios' inheritance of Prism-Eyed Merchant would indicate their mastery of trade, while their inheritance of Dream-reaving would indicate their ability to enter and raid dreams.

With time and practice, some Demon-bloods attain PRIVILEGES, abilities formed by the transformation of the inherited power through personal experience and growth. Privileges range from outward mutations through unique forms of Essence manipulation all the way to abilities mimicking forms of Chosen's might. While they remain grounded in the themes of the demonic parent, they nonetheless show the idiosyncracy of the child And so, for example, a child of Makarios' mastery of Dream-reaving inheritance may lead to them developing Gossamer-Weaving Hand, an ability to store one's dreams as tangible gossamer, ready to be shaped into tools or weapons.

Your blood will develop a new PRIVILEGE at the rank of Disciple, and then every other rank.

• Latent (N/A) - You either have not inherited that particular aspect of your parent's power, or it lies dormant and inactive for now.
• Quiescent (100xp) - Your blood slightly stirs, and the affinity it bestows is perceptible. Barely.
• Spouting (200xp)- This is the level of most demon-bloods who never bother to develop their inheritances. Parental affinity grants you minor excellence, but not quantifiably different from professional training and focus.
• Budding (400xp) - Attaining this level requires a measure of practice and cultivation, transforming latent affinities of your blood into powerful a boost. In mundane abilities, you begin to approach the limits of mortal capacity, thrillingly aware that they bind you in the same way.
• Flowering (800xp) - Your inheritance comes into its own and endows you with the first Privilege. At this level, you have not only cultivated your Essence, but also began to turn it into something new and personal.
• Blooming (1600xp) - The power of your blood blossoms as you reach for the sort of abilities that should be reserved for spirits and Chosen. It is rare for a Demon-blood to attain this level of mastery over an Inheritance.
• Embodied (2400xp) - Your Inheritance no longer appears as an imitation or copy of your parent's power, but rather a reflection of it. In its narrow field, you become dangerously close to matching your parent and develop your second Privilege. To break past this level, truly extraordinary circumstances must occur - for most Demon-bloods, it is simply not possible.
• Ascendant(3600xp) - You match or exceed your parent in the aspect of the Inheritance. It is arguable whether you count as a mortal anymore, or rather should be counted among your parent's lot.
• Transcendent (5400xp) - Perhaps a handful of Demon-bloods have developed their Inheritance to this level. Along with developing the third Privilege, you dwarf your parent. In the narrow field of your focus, you can go toe-to-toe with anyone, mortal, spirit or Chosen.
• Regnant (7500xp) - Your power is no longer inherited. You have broken through limits that should be inviolate, and are as far away from being a mortal as any creature born out of primordial Essence. In practice, a Demon-blood who attained this sort of power has long since become a Demon of the Second Circle in their own, quite possibly by supplanting their parent.
• Crown (10,000xp) - Knowledge of what lies within the crown of the fourth Privilege is sealed by the Maiden of Secrets and forbidden by the decrees of Orabilis.
• Mythic (N/A) - You are the Fetich-soul of a Yozi.

---

SORCERY

Sorcery is many things, for many people. The shape it will take for you will depend on the way you are initiated into it, and your choice of spells.

A spell costs 500XP. It is important to note, however, that learning one is more than just adding a new toy to your spellbook. Sorcery changes who you are. Although the change will be most pronounced for your CONTROL SPELL, each spell you learn will grant you a minor, persistent power alongside with it.

Some spells, once mastered, can be developed further, depending on your initiation and Inheritances.

---

QUIET

Imbued with the essence of the Neverborn at the bottom of the Underworld, the soulsteel daiklave QUIET is a potential source of great powers - and great dangers. For now, you lack the means of accessing them, however. Further information will be revealed if and when you acquire them.

---

ALLIES

The road to your goal is steep, and likely lonesome. But it is not set in stone that you will walk it completely alone: and there others in Creation who can accomplish what is not possible to you. Help them grow, and they will help you. This is not to say that you will not succeed without them.

But perhaps such success is not worth pursuing?

 

[Gargulec]

Record sealed by the Maiden of Secrets.

 

[Gargulec]

II. Justice Came For Roots-Among-Ash, part 2

It didn't take long after your arrival at the bleak Iron-Leaved Oak for you to learn that, in truth, Roots-Among-Ash had no need for an apprentice, nor any desire for one. She offered you a room to stay and bound one of her tomescu champions to cater to all of your needs as she descended back into the depths of her manse to pursue her occult work. For a time, you saw each other rarely.

Perhaps part of it was because the dusty, dim corridors of the Iron-Leaved Oak seemed to you more fit for a ruin or a tomb, not a place for the living, so instead you spent your time among the mountains and valleys outside. At first the experience was thrilling, but the excitement turned out to be short-lived. Creation, with its indifferent sky, unbound horizons, and pervasive quiet left you unnerved more often than awed.

It was the vastness, the openness. The feeling of being plunged into a world without walls, a world that you could travel a lifetime and never cross your own path. Of course, Malfeas was also vast, but there was always a kind of closedness to it: streets looping onto themselves, layers piled on top of one another, and everything always bound around the burning green torch of Ligier.

And on those streets life teemed - no, not teemed. Screamed, shouted and sang. As leaving silence be meant invoking disaster, thousand races of demons never let it settle over their frenzy of colour, motion and desire that does not quiet even in the worst hours of Hell.

Compared to them the dwelling-places of humans seemed at best quaint. There were villages scattered about in the valleys around the manse, small clumps of slant-roofed houses, inhabited by men and women you struggled to tell apart. Partially, it should be admitted, because they were not very welcoming of you. You visited their dwelling-places mostly at night, to better avoid the light of the traitor Sun, and in those dark hours they saw you as kind of a bad omen, a gaunt, fiery-eyed creature leaving behind fine flakes of rust. They grew convinced you were another of Roots-Among-Ash's demons, and they dealt with you as they dealt with them: doors barred and prayers chanted. You wished you could assuage their worries, but they did not speak your language, nor you theirs.

And so eventually you gave up on exploring, and instead decided to seek your rescuer in the deep-running bowels of manse, where the roots of the Iron-Leaved Oak broke through the ceiling and walls like iron spikes. There, you found her in cavernous halls lit only by handful of lanterns.

She danced to a beating of a Hell drum, her tomescu setting the pace for her. To watch her in motion was a strange experience: she was at once stilted and awkward in the tense, limited motions of her joints, and also at the same time indisputably graceful, in a way you never could describe. It reminded you of the legends of the legends of Stanewald, Who Surmounted the Omphalos, and of her stone-scouring dances. But whatever sorcery Roots-Among-Ash worked there was of a different kind, less obvious in purpose, if it had a purpose at all.

Although at first it felt as if were intruding upon her intimacy, she made no attempt to bar you from watching and since you found her presence soothing, you persisted. After a few weeks of this worldless companionship, you started to play the drums for her; it came easy to you. As a child of Malfeas, you were born with music in your blood. She adjusted to the altered tempo within a day, and encouraged you to stay.

Some time later, you began to talk. You on the drums, and her dancing. At first, it was you, setting words to a rhythm, letting her dance to the story of your growing up the daughter of Sondok, of learning the purpose of your begetting and upbringing, and of the futile rebellion against it. Once told, it opened a floodgate, and so you spoke to her about other things, small things, intimate things. About a body you were growing into, confusions and worries, about how you found it difficult to sleep in silence and how you still missed Hell, even though you knew that life was easier in Creation. And it was over those pains of adolescence that she spoke back to you, with the advice of an older, wiser woman.

And that advice opened her, too. She started to speak back. At first about the ice-gripped land that spawned her, where Sun is worshipped as an absent father. Then about coming to power in early youth. And then the dam broke, and she spoke like she had never had an opportunity to: about abandoning her clan to a dark fate for the sake of sorcery, about planting the Iron-Leaved Oak from a rusted seed, about watering it with the blood of others until it grew strong and tall. And, eventually, also about loneliness.

You grew close.

Over the next few years, you were seldom apart. Together, you learned the languages of men and fae. She summoned an anagylkae for you so that its music could keep the dread silence of Creation at bay when you tried to sleep, although she could never bear its harp herself. In the caverns of her manse you became sparring partners - her experience and power against the sizzling youth of Malfean blood. She led you on an expedition into the Underworld, to there find a spectre of her old rival and bind it into the roots of the Iron-Leaved Oak.

Those deeds, those memories, could be long recounted. What matters is that you felt safe, and she felt less lonely. Or so you hope, because your didn't ask her before your world came apart.

---

The weight of the sun is on your shoulders, and it is too much to bear. You bend down in genuflection, forehead buried in damp soil, and though no chains binds you, you do not dare to make a sound, let alone speak. It takes you all your strength to lift your head a few inches and look up at the Solar before you.

Wreathed in the burning halo of her anima, she is too bright to gaze upon, and yet too beautiful to avert your eyes and your entire body shivers at the grandeur. Even without thought it can understand how before justice, it is wretched and unclean. Unlike your mistress, you warrant not a glance, not a word of judgement.

"Again, I ask you," when the Solar speaks to Roots-Among-Ash, her voice melodic is calm. There is exhaustion in it, no sign of the fight just fought, only patience without limit. "You are not beyond mercy. Admit the wrongs, and expiate for them."

The defeated sorceress kneels on one leg, arms planted in the soil, fingers still cinched around the grip of her quiet blade. Wisps of green fire haze around her, feebly swelling only to be once again pinioned by the punishing sunlight. You watch sweat evaporate from her forehead, leaving behind a thin crust of salt, painting her grimace-frozen face into a funeral mask. Only in her eyes can you see that emerald fury you always associated with her, raging with unlessened defiance. It does not matter. You know, just as well as she does, that her body can bear no more struggle.

"I've made my life with my own hands," she coughs out a few motes of dried blood. "I regret not a thing."

Slowly, the Solar shakes her head in sadness and reprimand.

"Such a miserable life you must have led, alone with the weight of your sin," she speaks with soft, easy confidence, but you know she is wrong. You were always by your mistress' side. "But the wells of forgiveness run deep, and atonement is barred to no one. Not even you."

She steps closer, and extends an opened hand, there is a smile on her face.

"I can help you."

You see veins and tendons twitch on your mistress' neck as she struggles to lift her head up and stare the Solar in the eyes. Her chest heaves as she presses the weight of her body down on the blade, the daiklave sinking half-way into soil. The smile she returns is nothing but contempt, and she spits into the extended hand.

"Spare me your prattle, you sanctimonious bitch."

You watch the Solar's smile fade into sincere regret. You watch her glance at her blood-and-drool stained hand, as if uncertain how to clean it, even as there is no hint of disgust in her bearing. You watch it all, and there is so much you want to do in the face of what you know is to come. Every muscle in your body tenses, as you throw yourself in one last desperate attempt to break your chains. But they are strong, and you are not.

"As you wish," the Solar finally says, and claps her palms together in a gesture of resignation. Briefly, she bows her head; her mouth moves in a wordless prayer. When she straightens up, her eyes burn with golden fire.

"Roots-Among-Ash," nothing remains of the gentle voice, however quiet it is, it rings like brass and bronze. The mantle of sunlight extends behind her until she stands against a disk of solid gold, upon which glyphs of judgement are etched, "for crimes against the Celestial Order, for your cruelty and your tyranny, for every soul you have violated and every life you have cut short, I pass upon you the judgement of the Most High. May the waters of Lethe wash over you, and bring you peace."

Your mistress does not suffer. The execution is a single strike loosening the soul from the body. You inhale and air puffs your lungs so that you can scream loud enough to snap your vocal chords, but no sound can make it past the seal on your mouth. In wretched silence, you watch last wisps of emerald fire gutter out as the body of the woman who was everything to you goes limp, and then, with a gust of easterly wind, is unmade into a handful of glittering ash. You watch it swirl and dance, and then vanish down the valley, into nothing from which no one is ever to return.

Before the Solar turns to you and undoes the binding word, the cry in your throat has already rotted away into something foul, stuck lump-like to the inside of your chest.

You stand up, and though your legs can scarcely hold you, you make a few uneasy steps towards the daiklave still erect in the ground. She watches with a kind smile as you tug at the hilt with all of your strength, you manage to free the blade from the ground, and even lift it half-way to your chest, before its weight brings you down. Still holding it tight, you sit down, limp. If not for the hilt to curl against, your fingers would bite into flesh, and then into bone, and you think they might as well pierce the useless palm. It is the blade, perhaps, that makes the world sound so very quiet, or perhaps no sound can break to you.

You wonder where your tears are, because you know you should be crying, but don't. The light drenching the field is so very bright, and nothing around you feels real. It must be some sort of delusion. You feel what at first seems to you hunger, but as you dwell on it, it appears more and more as some sort of strange void taking nest behind your heart. Soon, you hope, it will suck you inside, your body will implode, and nothing of it will remain. It's a comforting thought.

But it does not come to pass, and slowly there sound bleeding into your ears again; some birds are singing, or maybe its the wind. Or maybe it's her. You do not look at her, but you speak, still holding onto the sword.

"Kill me," you say, surprising yourself with how clean your pronunciation is, even if a bit flat. "Let me follow her."

But the Solar did not allow you to beg before, and does not listen to you know.

"Demon child," she whispers motherly compassion, "you are just another of her many victims. You are free now, and safe."

You try not to blink, out of fear that if you do, you will see golden ash flitter away, again and again.

"If you don't kill me," you say instead, eyes set on nothing in particular, "I promise you that I will follow you to the edges of Creation, and into wild Chaos beyond. You will not hide from me in Hell, and find no shelter in Heaven. I will visit upon you every curse and calamity, and when you lay lifeless at my feet I will find your soul among the spectres of the Underworld and drag it howling to the maw of the Void at the end of all things and sink it in oblivion at the bottom of time. Do you understand?"

She does not respond at first, just sits down an arm's length away from you. Then puts a hand on your shoulder. Her touch is warm and reassuring; and you know that if you lean into her and cry, you will bleed your sorrow away and everything will be alright. You have never felt so violated, but it hurts so much to refuse.

"Rest now," she whispers into your ear when she sees you will not be helped. "When you wake up, I will be gone, and you will feel better."

You give her no word or acknowledgement. You should be screaming. You should be raking her eyes out. You should be reaching for what paltry power you have to throw against her in pointless defiance. But numbing exhaustion seizes you, and no matter how hard you hold on, you slide from consciousness into something sickeningly warm and dark. Your last thought is that you hope to never wake up, so that there is no life for you knowing that the murderer of your mistress, of the one person who gave you kindness, lulled you to sleep like a mother would an upset child.

When you wake up, the sun is close to setting, and no trace remains of her, save for the ground still warm to the touch where her golden mantle has graced it. Again, you think you should be crying, and you know that there are tears somewhere inside you. They do not come; your sobs come out as pained coughs. And so, as there is very little else to do you, you lift yourself up. Very slowly, unsure if your own legs will carry you even a step, you turn to face the Iron-Leaved Oak.

But then you think about the empty halls inside where air still carries her scent. You think of all the things she left behind undone and unfinished: of the summoning circle she began to draw last night, of the scarf she started to embroider for you in the slow hours of night, of the pot of tea, now cold. And as you do, you realize that there is no strength left in you to face any of that.

So hurriedly you turn back, and think instead of the Zenith whose face you can scarcely remember from the beatific light, who never gave her name. Who was many hours gone. Who defeated your Roots-Among-Ash at her peak in saintly effortlessness. Finally, you think if it changes anything.

It doesn't.

You find the jet-studded scabbard your mistress' discarded, and then crouch by the soulsteel daiklave, to try to lift it up again. This time, you succeed, and with a grunt of effort throw it over your shoulder. You almost fall down under the weight, but after a few tries, you catch your balance. The route from the manse to the valley below is perilous, and there is little sun remaining. You will have to hurry.

Article:

You are Hearth-Wise Omen. You are the daughter of Sondok, She-Who-Stands-In-Doorways. You are about to commence something very foolish. Why? What drives you?

[ ] Rage
You will never watch Roots-Among-Ash dance again. You will never tell her of your troubles again. Never. She was stolen from you, like Creation was stolen from its rightful king The Chosen of the traitor Sun were wise to bind Malfeas, for they knew he could never forgive them for their usurpation, and you are his blood, and his rage.

Your rage is the legacy of Sondok. As a child, you watched her roaring fury against trespassers and thieves, launching herself into fighting in a whirlwind of fire and iron. That, you inherited. You gain the Rancor-Fire Furnace Inheritance: a style of fighting that embraces berserk rage and wild abandon. You will focus on striking fast, striking hard and losing yourself in the thrill of violence, even if that means disregarding your own safety.

[ ] Grief
You had a life. You escaped Hell, and lived in Creation. You were not alone, and not without purpose. You had more than any child of Malfeas could ever hope for. Now, it is gone, and bleak days await. So you will pursue, and teach her your pain, because this is what is left to you. And if you can't have more, she shouldn't either.

Your grief is the legacy of Sondok. You knew her coldness and cruelty: her heart was as unassailable as her form. That, you inherited. You gain the Unyielding Iron Inheritance: a style of fighting that embraces hardiness and resistance. You will focus on defending and wearing your enemies down, slowly and methodically drawing them to exhaustion and failure.

[ ] Hopelessness
There is nothing left. Not of her, and not of your future. You know that you cannot win against the one who harmed you. She is a Chosen of the traitor Sun, as mighty as they come. You are barely more than mortal. There is no hope for victory here, and you are under no illusions. But there is also no other choice. So you will pursue it to the end, no matter how bitter.

Your hopelessness is the legacy of Sondok. You grew in her care, knowing that there is no future meant for you, and that your will matters not against the designs of the powerful. Briefly, you embraced blithe ignorance, but now you are awake to the truth again. You gain the Long Night of the Soul inheritance: a style of fighting rooted in enlightened emptiness of your mind. You will focus on empty-minded clarity and precision, utilizing wisdom born in resignation to see flaws and mistakes in those who still cling to life.

You will gain the chosen Inheritance at the Spouting level.

 

[Gargulec]

III. That You Must DIe

A dead forest rots on the slopes of the Iron-Leaved Oak. Fossilized husks of trees, drained of all life and colour slowly crumble in the harsh, mountain winds. Their branches are long gone; what remains are jagged trunks; had you not seen them before the manse consumed their essence, you would have mistaken them for some ancient bones piercing the dry, fine soil.

Your feet collapse into sand-like dust covering the path down. The moon shines mad-bright above, and its silver light, everything around you seems to shimmer. During the days, you would sink into dull greys, the colour of washed-out fabric - the light of the full moon draws out a mica-like shine out of it. There is brightness about you in all this devastation, and a stark kind of beauty.

It is difficult to find your step. The shine is almost blinding, and the soil quick enough to barely fix in place rocks that once paved the way up to the manse. With the weight of the daiklave on your back, you stumble. More than once, you come perilously close to falling down, spraining an ankle and remaining here, forever, waiting for the dust to cover and hide you. The thought is without taste; it neither scares nor entices you.

There are footprints that you follow; the Zenith's, no doubt. No one else dared to ascend the old temple mountain in months. The path she took was an obvious one, leading past the abandoned villages and shrines directly up to the Iron-Leaved Oak. You find no sign of her ever stopping mid-way through the ascent, no place where she swept away the dust to sit down and catch her breath. Unlike her, you have to.

It is as you sit down and briefly unsling the daiklave to let your back rest that it occurs to you how silent the night is. Here, in the dead forest, there is nothing left to disturb the quiet, and even the wind is still tonight. You can hear your own breath, the beating of your heart, the hum of blood in your veins. All is quiet, and you are unafraid.

You consider that idly, watching the star-strewn sky. In many years you have spent in Creation, you have never quite left behind the habits and prejudices of your youth. As any child of Hell should be, you were always uneasy in silence, and always sought a way to break it. Even as you no longer had to fear the Silent Wind of Malfeas, you kept the habit; alone, you would hum to yourself, or hang chimes off your wrists so that they would jingle with your every move. When you couldn't sleep, Roots-Among-Ash would send you a harpist-demon to banish the quiet away and let you rest.

But now all is quiet, and you feel nothing at all. It is a strange experience, almost as if there was a thin, but strong film between you and the world. You can reach through it, feel it stretch under your touch, but it remains an impenetrable barrier. Everything that passes through it appears to you muted and distant, every so slightly distorted. Even what is inside of you feels foreign. The nooks and crannies of your self that have always harboued anxiety and concern lie empty and you step so lightly that it surprises you that your body even sinks into the dust around. It is so completely weightless that it should rather blow away with the wind, like ash.

When you walk again, the waste around you starts to give way to forest more mundanely dead. Here, the manse hasn't drained it of everything, so it is just barren soil and leafless trees. There are sounds, too, of the few animals that survive. Footprints vanish along with dust, and light recedes. You are in darkness, and soon lose track of the Zenith. This, too, neither concerns you nor makes you happy. Propelled by inertia more than anything else, you stumble forth into the dark.

Long after midnight, you finally reach the valley below, past the influence of the manse. Under thick canopies of old trees, you walk in complete darkness, carefully feeling out ever step so to avoid a knotted root or a quick-running brook. You are not quite sure where you are headed to, other than forwards; you count on finding some point of orientation eventually and are eventually rewarded.

The music, at first, is so faint you barely pick it out from the idle rustle of the woods. But you recognize it nonetheless; drums, bagpipes, flutes. Loud singing. The melodies are alien to you, but the pitch is hard to mistake for anything short of a celebration. You turn towards it and brave the darkness until the trees thin out and you emerge onto fields surrounding one of the valley's villages.

It doesn't sleep. It feasts.

As you move towards its light and music, you wonder why; you do not recall there being any holy day to observe, and besides, the valley peasants were never quick to jubilation. But as you pass the line of buildings, and move towards the central square, where the celebration is taking place, you notice clues.

Talismans against sorcery gone from the doors of the slanted-roofed houses; offerings given to the East, where the sun is to raise; effigies of a witch hastily corded together and stacked not far away from great bonfires around which the villagers gather. Chants too, frantically joyous.

"We are free, we are free, she is dead, she is dead."

They don't notice you, too taken in the celebration of Roots-Among-Ash's killing. You find yourself a spot away from the fires, in the shadow of an overhanging roof, and sit down, Quiet propped against the wall behind you. You keep your eyes half-closed, so that their orange shine won't give you away.

The men of the village dance in a ring around the fire, arms entwined. They were white linens, as if to a shrine. The fabric is soaked with sweat and holds tight to their narrow frames; not a single one of them seems well-nourished. You remember their faces as dark, black-ringed, gaunt, but as they circle the bonfires, they gleam and smile with unexpected joy of a miracle.

The women wear flowers in their hair, let immodestly loose. They are sharp-faced, vicious; they throw in effigies into the crackling fires and hurl insults at them. Triumphantly, they chant names and toast to memories of those who fell to Roots-Among-Ash. They curse her soul, wishing for it to suffer a hundred times what they did. Pointlessly, as you are well aware; her soul was mercifully washed in the waters of Lethe and no trace will remain of it.

There are children too, happy to eat and sing. There, a small boy licks honey from his fingers, eyes alight with glee. There, a young girl dances her first dance. They all seem careless, exultant. You suppose it makes sense. After all, the weight they were looking up to live under has been lifted.

Between them all, you notice but a few that do not participate in the celebration; strangers, you assume, watching them shuffle awkwardly, trying not to get pulled into a revel that they do not understand, and do not trust. But even their reluctance has its limits; a man can refuse a festive drink only so many times, and when booze warms their blood, they too kick down and dance, their strange, foreign dances.

And so they all dance, and they sing, and they make merry. You watch them and think of all the things that you should be feeling. There should be rage, for certain, grief and despair. All that you have felt not so long ago, strong enough to curse the Zenith and bind yourself to the act of revenge. But in truth, as another effigy of her is tossed into flames, spat and pissed upon, all you feel is confusion. Who are you? What are you? What is this thing you are, this skin and those bones, and the flesh binding it all together? Is it Hearth-Wise Omen? She had just lost someone who meant everything to her. She would not be acting like that. She was the daughter of Sondok, the blood of Ligier himself. She would overflow with rage and vitriol of the Demon City, and come down upon the blaspheming villagers in blind fury. But you don't feel like there is any point in harming them, in lashing out, and so it follows that you cannot be her, but rather some kind of a ghost, or perhaps...

"Look!"

A voice saves you from a quagmire of your own mind and dredges you back up. Confused, you open your eyes and see a young man, golden-haired and narrow-waisted; his forehead is damp with sweat. He stands ten paces from you, finger pointed. As you open your mouth to speak, a few sparks fly out, and his eyes go wide.

"Demon!" he shrieks.

Soon, they surround you, firebrands in hands and fury in their eyes. You don't move from your hiding spot. However wrathful they are, they are also not yet provoked, so you give them no excuse. You still your body and stare back at them through half-closed eyes. They don't expect that; fear, or aggression, that they would understand, but not impassivity. Long minutes pass as they wave their torches, exchange glances and wait. So do you.

It is one of the women that breaks the tension; middle-aged and hard-faced. She comes closer, looking down on your crouched frame; she is flushed all over with the exertion of celebration.

"What are you?" she demands to know.

Very slowly, you straighten up to your full height, and she has to raise her head to keep staring you in the eye. You see her gulp, quickly throw a glance over her shoulder to see if others are there.

"What am I?" you repeat after her, and there is a flatness to your voice that makes you think of dead things, of ghosts and apparitions dredged from the bowels of the Underworld. "What am I?"

How must you appear to them, you wonder? Caked in dust, clinging to a blade they know so very well; they must know who you are, or at least suspect. That you are unlike them is unmistakable: they can tell it from the glow and furnace-sparks you exhale. Yes, you are a demon to them, as you are to Creation entire. However diluted the ichor in your veins may be, it still brand you a stranger, a night-gaunt, an omen. They recognize you for what you are. But what is that?

"I am…," you say, hoping that the words would come out, out of habit if anything. But they stick to this veil between you and them and instead your voice trails off. They exchange worried glances and wait. For a time, only the crackle of the bonfires and songs of those who are yet to join the commotion can be heard.

The expression of the woman in front of you changes. You try to recognize its meaning, but it, as so many things around, does not make sense. She is smiling? You stand head taller above her - you thought you would tower. But she shakes her head at you, not with disapproval and not with fear. There is softness to the gesture, or maybe something else that you just can't name. Suddenly, you feel out of place, lost. What are you even doing here?

"Are you all right?" she asks watching you twitch around nervously, and the words cut deep.

Why would she ask you that? You are a shade, a reminder of someone they cursed night and day. You would understand if they were to shout you off, or chase you. That would make sense to you, but not softness, not kindness. You try to read her expression, and see only emotions you can't understand. So you turn to other faces and try to read them, but nothing you see makes any sort of sense. Kindness? Anger? Fear? Nothing is legible. There is a dryness in your throat, a sharp tug in your stomach. Who are those people? What are they?

"Poor thing," she says and her voice sounds distant, as if coming from behind a curtain, "completely mad. The witch stole her mind, no doubt. Come, let's feed her."

"Bad omens about if we do," someone else says. Is it a man's voice? Is it woman's? You look at the speker and see only a rugged mask of years of hardship, but what hides behind it? You can't see past it. You can't understand.

"Do you not see what it is?"

They are talking about you? You jerk your head and as you do the shapes of the village begin to swim and twist. The fires spread and soak the night with warm oranges and shadows they cast lengthen and coil and you can't tell them from the outline of things, and there is a darkness upon the land, so you throw your eyes up to find the outline of the Dragon eclipse the green sun, but only a pale silver orb hangs around. What is it? A sense of vertigo smashes its way into you Is this what you are standing on ground? Is the surface behind you wood? Is the great blackness above the sky? There are sounds around, voice and language, but none legible. It is the chitering of a great swarm of flies. It is gibberish. Noise. Fires crawl along the edge of shadow, licking the black soil and reaching towards you. What are those piles of wood and stone they illuminate? All of it should be familiar, and yet nothing is recognizable. Your body opens its mouth and a sound without structure leaves it. The eyelids close over eyeballs that are set inside the skull that you are inside, if there still a you left at all. All is black.

You fall into that blackness, without end, and maybe, just maybe, you could fall like that forever. Dissolve in it. But something tethers you; you can't name it, but you feel its pull, tugging you back. It is the only thing left to feel, so you focus on it. It feels cold, but solid and certain. You find it comforting.

Why am I being pulled back?

Because you have made a promise that you will seek vengeance for your mistress. The promise was an act of idiocy: against a Chosen of the Traitor Sun you can not hope to stand. It is impossible. But it is necessary. You must find your mistress' slayer and fall to her. You know this. It is certain.

Why must I?

Because you had a mistress, and when doom came upon her, you failed to die first. Because you are a child of Hell and this means you understand that there exists a hierarchy that is inviolate, and that you understand that in this hierarchy, you are ever a servant, a tool. You were born out of someone greater and defied her designs. You blasphemed. Then, you were taken into someone else's service, and once again failed. But the hierarchy is inviolate. You cannot escape, so you must seek death.

So why not just allow yourself to be gone? Why not sink? Why are you being held?

Because servants die for their masters, and such is the rule of the made world. And so you must die for Roots-Among-Ash, and receive death from the same hand that slew her. Such is necessity. Servants die for their masters. Such is the rule of Hell. You were born out of Malfeas, and you belong to it. You will do as it demands.

It doesn't matter how long it will take, but it is the only thing that matters. You must correct the wrong of your survival. This is why you can't fall. This is why you must stand up. This is you, and you know yourself. The thought is cold, but as you hold onto it, you feel ground beneath your feet again. You open your eyes; your eyes. The film between you and the world peels like scab from a closed wound. There are bonfires around you, and they cast light over low huts the villagers dwell in. The Scoundrel Moon shines above with her faithless light.

You are seated by a fire and surrounded by women; someone is mixing medicine in a bowl. They talk about madness, and possession. How long have you spent putting your sense of self back? No matter. You are here again.

"This will not be necessary," you say and wave the medicine-woman away. Your voice is no longer flat. It rings harsh and loud, like iron being stricken. They startle.

"Are you all right?" one of them asks - the same that wanted to feed you.

"The noise confused me," you lie. "I am fine now. I thank you for your care, but I will not need it."

"You spit fire," someone observes, a tightness in her voice. Not everyone here trusts you. "And your teeth are iron. Are you a demon?"

You look at her. She is young - your age, you wager. There is a mug in her hand, an ungainly clay thing; and the hand too is roughly-hewn and prematurely twisted by labour. She knows hard toil.

"Are you here because the witch is dead?" she asks.

Another villager pushes a cup into your hand, and you drink eagerly. You didn't realize just how thirsty you were.

"Yes," you say, then as fear flashes on her face, you shake your head quickly. "But I mean you no harm. I only seek the one who slew her."

"Ah," she replies, worriedly glancing at others.

"She is gone," the one who first asked you if you are all right states, voice quite firm and forceful. She stares you straight in the eye. "She has left the village. You will not find her here."

You avert your eyes and sip from the cup. Even if they are afraid to ask directly, they must know what it is that you are after.

"Where has she gone to?"

"Elsewhere," the woman. "We do not know."

Perhaps she is lying; in truth, you can't tell. You turn the cup in your hand, idly.

"You must know the direction, at least. Please, it is important," you say and meet her gaze.

"No, witch-daughter," she whispers, again softly. So she, at least, knows what you are. "We will not help you with this. Stay. Drink. Rest. Or leave. But we will not point towards what you are after."

You exhale. They will not help you. Not willingly. But that does not mean you can't find the way.

[ ] Force it out of them. You have inherited Sondok's Midnight Warden Voice. Your speech is iron and fire, and promises devastation to those who disobey it. This inheritance makes you better at intimidation and command, but also imbues your speech with callousness and harshness of Sondok.

[ ] Find the trail yourself. You have inherited Biryu's (who is also Sondok) Guardian-Beast's Pursuit. Biryu (who is also Sondok) hunts down trespassers over his mistress dominion. This inheritance makes you more perceptive and capable of great feats of investigation, but also gives you an air of savagery that men find disquieting.