The Soteriological Disaster
Once, a man stood in Heaven, and declared the words: 'Salvation is meaningless without success.'
In order to save a world, you must have more than a simple intent, as even the purest intent can be corrupted through flawed insight, or something as simple as misdirection. To save another life, you needed the ability, ingenuity, conviction, and wisdom to prevail in your drive.
It'd been a millennium since the man in Heaven evoked that Truth. In common Soteriological dogma, it was strongly believed this central tenet of salvation was so crucial to the universe's metaphysical fabric that every child on Sotiras comprehended its every nuance and modulation from the moment of drawing breath; a not baseless belief, as every infant child always cried out for salvation in one form or another with its first words, asking to be saved. It was the few rare souls that didn't cry out for salvation, but offered to deliver it instead, that drew the eye of the Order, spirited away for education, and eventually became dedicated Soteriologists.
Although the right to save themselves was offered to each child of Sotirias, simply through comprehending the words of the man in Heaven, only the Soteriologists could achieve complete and total mastery of the disciplines, as within them was a rare drive, a plurality of every aspect: not mere selfishly directed deliverance, but a hand reaching out to scoop as many of the world's damned as it could.
To Soteriologists were conferred fourfold disciplines, the so-called Doctrines of Salvation, or simply the Doctrines: Freedom, Concord, Solace, and Life.
By studying the associated principles, pathways revealed themselves. Many were common, a well-studied collection favored by multitudes, a conclave following the footsteps of their seniors. Freedom from Death granted immortality, as did a Life of Eternity; Solace in Longevity and Concord through Good Works could likewise contribute.
The man formerly known as Abraham elected to bring salvation to others with a constant Life of Battle. An error of youth, resulting from hasty attribution of sloth and ineffectuality to the Soteriologists of the Concordant Ribbon. From then on, century after century, he fought and sharpened his skills on the skulls and bones of his enemies.
Eventually, however, civilization found a way forward without War - making Concord through Pacts, through Marriage, through Good Works and so many other things - and now, having honed every aspect of his Life over the centuries, having accessed Freedom from Rest, the idea of Concord was nigh-unattainable to him.
Therefore, a millennium after the man in Heaven said his mythopoeic line, Abraham the Kingkiller was unceremoniously spirited away from a world without battlefields, delivered into the graceful clutches of the nexus at the Architecture that spanned his and every other world.
---
On Friday, exploration came as promised. However, it didn't come as planned - although Solomon ventured out with the rest of the Surveryor's Club, adorned with the Magician's vestments, he found the experience swiftly spoiled.
An inauspicious shroud hung over practically everything, making him sick - in every direction Solomon looked, the stones and tenor of the air sang with doom, a promise of violence incipient within every corner. The Architecture rebelled against insight, and yet, a faint instinct said that retreating back to the Academy wasn't a choice.
A doom came and Solomon was meant to face it, even if the cost was blood. His warnings fell on uncharacteristically deaf ears, as if a malicious hand had seized the Architecture and wrung any semblance of listening to him out of the people within his surroundings, his alarmed look only met with confusion and shrugs.
His choice not to attend the Court of Rider was related, as the mere idea of it spiked dread, a primal fear of death so cavernous it roused even the symbiote,
Around the Tower itself were roiling hills of verdant grass, stretching lazily into the horizon. The ancient wizard's Tower stood as the sole vertical feature of that horizon, a massive construct of stone as large as suburban houses, preceded by a valley-tomb with an awning of kindred stone, baked white by exposure to Fortuna's sun, the sepulchral depths studded with gravestones and memorial tablets carved from obsidian, each one with Latin numerals and a strange alphabet containing names he couldn't pronounce.
He continued to constantly voice concerns over his grim premonitions, and yet only Penelope seemed to notice, if only in the most tangential manner possible, simply positioning herself closer to him, as if mere proximity could assuage such a fear of some unknown future.
In the absence of rational salvation and no way to contact the Educator, Solomon girded himself with as many fortifications as he could, maintaining a shielding spell that could theoretically survive a nuke, once; as well as a constant oracular forecast of the near-future, a ceaseless scission of the timeline, entire forks of probability dislimned with the ominous and ill-defined kismet. The moment a single road revealed itself as the one safe from the shadow, even if slightly more luminous than its siblings, Solomon stepped onto its causal cobblestones, navigating a slow way out of this mess. The Architecture, although unclear like a lake suddenly filled with mud and pond scum overnight, still provided the occasional flash of insight to capitalize on the motions, brightening the trunk of the tree.
Once they entered the magical Tower, the origin of the destined terminus was clarified, if only slightly.
Within its catacombs, almost half a kilometer underneath the stolid earth, a war brewed. An increasingly heated battle of monstrosities, eldritch and arcane, against one intercessor, a man whose fists couldn't even shatter cities, but who could paradoxically murder all of the Tarot's Enrolled with a moment of attentive aggression.
Solomon's eyes foresaw the causation, aching with premonition - an adverse reaction of some sort. The man's natural magic advanced via warmongering and participation in combat, rendering him a fighter of conceptually terrifying and overwhelming aptitude, but the esoteric defenses he possessed, albeit comprehensive and impressive even by their standards, had a number of serious gaps. The slaying of a liminal beast would chain him down with a fate of ironic doom, causing him to snowball into an avatar of warfare that could destroy the world of Fortuna without the Educator's intervention.
A single path shone clear: in order to avert disaster, abjure the man's slaying of the beast before he became a monster.
"Solomon?" asked Penelope, half-turning. He'd been so lost in spellcraft's throes he'd missed some bit of conversation. Irrelevant.
"I need you to listen to me," he said, in return approaching and placing both hands on Penelope's shoulders, stressing the syllables, lacing every word he spoke with as much intent and seriousness as his vocal cords could impart. As if her soul were a flickering lightbulb, Penelope's eyes suddenly gained vibrancy, an attentiveness that people's minds normally resisted. He could see the Architecture attempting to reset her back to baseline, to ignore the commandments that went against its structure, and her flicking herself back to the state of attentiveness with sheer force of will. He was too focused on composing his message to be impressed.
"There's a man down there," he explained. "He's fighting monsters. He'll kill one and it'll lead to disaster for everyone. We need to stop him. Talk to him, fuck him up, whatever. Probably can't fight him, but we might have to."
"I understand. Harrison, can you translocate us?"
"Uh, what?" Harrison turned around. "I wasn't listening."
Solomon shook her shoulders. Penelope looked back at him.
"Don't bother with them," he said. "This is just us."
At that, it was as if understanding - a more complete form of one - dawned on her. "Alright, I've got it, I think. Can you bring us down?"
Solomon nodded. "We need to plan first. We have a minute or two."
---
How do you approach this? Keep in mind, the wind blows against you; no matter how reasonable your attempts, the Architecture and fate shall seek to spite them, and working against such forces can be difficult for the Magician. Tactics are recommended.
[ ] Diplomacy - From what your divinations portend, the warrior himself isn't an unreasonable individual. The monsters attacked him first and en masse, he's simply cutting down through their constant wave, without awareness of the calamity he'll bring. If you can manage to contact him and communicate without being taken for enemy combatants, you should be able to forewarn him, at which he should be more than happy to let you defuse the beast's kismet before slaying it.
*Modest risks for you. His reactions are fast enough that he could attack you and seriously harm you even as you appear within his field of view; some of the other monstrosities are sufficiently humanoid that your possession of Eldritch and Seraph may mark you as targets, rather than innocent fellow sapients.
*Communication isn't assured, as he doesn't speak your language and doesn't have native translatory capabilities. You can improvise a spell with Raw Manifestation, but it'll be a little rough; reverse-engineering an entire language with only divination is a little difficult, even for your standards.
*If you manage it, you'll gain a strong ally.
*If you don't, you've lost the advantage of surprise.
[ ] Ambush - Can't risk it, so you'll have to take a more drastic measure. If you attack at the correct moment, your combined forces should be capable of slaying the man without a possibility of retaliation. The swarm of monsters attacking him can even be turned to your advantage.
*Risk of death or injury exist, naturally, although strictly lesser overall than Diplomacy, as you'll have the advantage of first strike: a terrifying trump card for the Magician and Justice working in tandem.
*Maybe you can resurrect him later under more controlled conditions?
*Although not in favor, as the Olympian's daughter, Penelope understands dire necessity and will follow the dictates of your best judgment; an impressive mental feat, given she's already battling a constant reset from the Architecture.
[ ] Preemptive Slaying - Instead, target the beast that he'd slay, the Liminally Destined Ox, and disarm its kismetic capabilities, then slay it yourselves.
*A considerable amount of risk. The Ox isn't as powerful as you, so it should be a straightforward task. And yet, if you are noticed or a section of the wave directs itself over to you, then you may be facing a different sort of issue.
*If you slay the Ox without disarming it first, you're fucked.
*The Architecture and destiny's weave are holding hands in collaboration to reduce your odds of success here.
*Alternatively, you can have Penelope take on the burden of slaying the Ox.
[ ] Write-in
