Blessed be the ignorant, for their world is eternal. To know is to be aware of change – that the world was not always as it is, for it to become this it must have been that. And with that cruelty of time means the understanding of loss; that what is, is not necessarily what could have been, and from there – regret, fury, grief.
Sanguine sits before you in a white bed in a white room. Bimar is well kept, you'll say that; not a speck or a stain. Even you had to change into white clothes to come in – color's an aggravation, the orderly said. Just as pure and blank is the old priest's mind. He remembers little and knows less.
"A God of Death seems awful gloomy" he says, pale blue eyes wide.
"But you were devoted to Him." you explain for the umpteenth time.
"If I was, I'm not now, thanks very much. And you should do the same if you've got any sense. Plenty of better things to do – pass me the pie, would you?"
You cut a slice (cherry) and bring it over from the side-table. It's his ninth since you've gotten here.
"You have no memory of any faith?" you say.
"Neither in past nor future" he replies. There's been a few odd responses like that – slight nonsense. You can't make heads or tails of it.
"You're a young man, and the Gods will
always be here" he snickers, like that's some private joke. "You should try and enjoy yourself too. The material world – (chomp, slurp) – has its pleasures. Another slice please!".
You cut another and hesitate. "Service to Morr is my own pleasure – are you sure you aren't full?"
Sanguine pats his stomach and gives a quizzical look. "When it hurts, I should stop, shouldn't I?"
You are well and truly baffled. "Yes?"
He grins. "Thanks for the advice. No more then, please. But to your point – I'm changed, I know, but that's not so bad. It's inevitable."
You're getting tired of this folksy pseudo-wisdom. "One thing does not" you say with ire "
Memento mori."
But Sanguine just tilts his head and giggles. "For the Raven that stands before me, sure, but not for the Raven
true."
You storm out.
[FLIP: Internal Immigration – Heads (Success)]
Next up on the schedule, perfect to relax, is smuggling fugitives in the Roost in the dead of night. Marcus left you a note to meet a cheese merchant, who then gave you the address to a warehouse, in which was a carriage driver taking his break who told you, by-the-by, he was booked to deliver some people to the Roost tonight, so you'd better be expecting guests. You spend a little money getting ready; you move the rest of the Brothers into an house adjoining the Garden, and hire a few nurses to care for them. You're not giving anybody else up to anymore "treatment" in this godsforsaken place. But that clears out the lowest cells, which, conveniently, are already set up to be secure and comfortable enough for some people to stay all day. They are still catacombs, but, you know, runaways can't be choosers.
What you're expecting is some bedraggled slaves or some legion deserters – scruffy, poor, and desperate. Marcus is a Friend of the House, at you're reasonably sure is linked up with some degree of military conspiracy, so you don't imagine anything than the ordinary treason that's becoming relatively commonplace. Hence you are extremely surprised, when, of all people, Her-Ben, the missing Liche Priest and him alone pop out of a carriage. He's got a hideous wound cutting across his face, clearly missing an eye, dried blood crusted around the bandages. He's limping, almost listing to one side; you have to rush up to catch him as he almost falls descending from the vehicle. He's light as a feather – unhealthily so. His skin, mottled and wrinkled, has gone paper thin, and near translucent. His heart isn't beating; instead, you feel, still too slow for a pulse, ever other second, a burst of divine magic. Revivification, over and over, to keep a dead man walking.
You call for help as soon as you get into the Garden proper, and Maban and Santo help you carry Her-Ben down into the ossuary. Camilla readies some tea, while Caecilia kneels before him, and begins to recite prayers for peace and soft dreams. Iefyr and Pelops go to guard the gate. Novices they are, but with hearts equal to the greatest masters.
Her-Ben's been wheezing and coughing this whole while, each with the dry heaving of a last breath. Only when he takes and drinks some tea does the crease of his brow soften, and his breathing calms.
"My… gratitude…. son of Usirian." He draws his palm across his face, the ancient greeting of your order.
You return the gesture. "Gods speed you. What brings you here in such a state, Brother Priest?"
"Who else?" he replies, squeezing his eyes in pain. "The Black Pharoh. The Great Betrayer. NAGASH." The room goes silent.
"In the city?" Caecilia asks? "In Tylos – never!"
Her-Ben groans. "Here. Now. They attacked the temple. They stole my holy books. They stole the Cloak of the Dunes!". He prostrates himself against the floor, with a cry of pain, weeping. "Forgive me Lord Khsar! I was weak! Forgive me!"
"Please, Brother, calm yourself" you say.
With a hiccup, he pushes himself sideways into a fetal position. Whatever stitching has torn; blood is pouring down his face. You tell Santo to run out and buy some opium at the druggist for the pain.
You kneel beside Her-Ben "What happened? Who took the cloak?". Forgive you for badgering an broken old man, but guarding against an attack by Nagash was far and above what you and Marcus had agreed to.
"That terrible creature – S-nefer-Ka had made an appointment, gods be dammed. Maybe, I thought, he finally comes to ask redemption for his blackened soul. But in the anteroom – I was hit over the head, and then it was dark and I woke and there was fighting in the Temple – in the TEMPLE to the GODS – forgive me, forgive me, forgive me – and a dead man on top of me, a rich man, gold rings on his fingers, and then soldiers ransacking and they were looking for me and it was Zandri again!" He grabs your lapels, screaming. "NO MORE ZANDRI, please! I run and I run and I run – please NO MORE NO MORE NO MORE"
Whap! Mervin knocks him out with the back of a broom. "My apologies, milord, but guests should be held to a certain standard of
decorum."
You sigh, and call Santo back to pick the man up, and secure him in the catacombs. He gets medical attention, but the amount of sedative you slip him will knock him out for few days. Madmen in, madmen out. Zandri… Nagash took the city by storm in a rebellion seventy years ago, put the leaders out into the delta, bound, covered in honey, to be slowly eaten by bugs and birds. You'd bet Her-Ben's easily that old, and that'd explain why he's here, but you can't see any connection between that and an attack over a half-century later. Before the evening's out, you send Pelops on a runner to ask Marcus what the hell's going on. You get a note back within the hour.
"Bounty for him, five grand. No bounty for the Cloak, or the treasures taken. Secret too, which means its by a Senator or the Princeps – why's that, you think?"
You don't know.
Your final bit of work before the grand reconsecration is a meeting with Ambrose. Entirely professional, you know – that it's at one of the better restaurants in town, a seafood place with a chef from Cothique is neither here nor there.
Still, you dress well, for once abandoning your pitch blacks for a mere dark grey toga with hems of red velvet. Ambrose is also dressed handsomely, as ever – his sky-cloak at night a matching shade of midnight, speckled with beautiful stars.
"How was your week my fair fellow?" he asks with his ever-pleasant grin.
You think back to the execution in the deep, and the meat, and the lunatic in your basement (again). "Bad" you offer lamely.
A warm hand on your shoulder. "Well, let me be here to make it better."
And, shock and awe, he does.
Over some wonderful lobster bisque, you go over your options for ratlines. Ambrose has three suggestions – Tilia, Stalia, or far Araby. The first option is the Elven city of Tor Cynath. East of Tylos-Kavzar, it declared independence during the Sundering, refusing to side with either Malekith or Caledor. Declaring itself free until the Phoenix Crown was held by one uncontested, that day never came. Instead, it swore itself to Tylos-Kavzar as an early ally, and now quasi-vassal, though no one dares tell its Elvish residents that straight to their pointed faces. It is a strong and pretty city, with white walls and clean streets. The Cult of Morr is strong there, the second largest (or now, what you presume to be
the largest Garden) outside the Twin Cities. You'd bet that's where your coward brothers went. The only risk is it's on the sea in the east, which is to say near the Dwarven border. If any war were to start, Tor Cynath would be one of the first to be attacked.
Second is on the edge of Stalia, the Red Vault of Estensa. A project by a long-dead Princeps, it was a city meant to survive at a time when the fleets of Nehekara threatened total destruction. A small cluster of settlements above a massive labyrinth underground, huge stores of resources and treasures were stored to last and preserve Tylosi civilization past the ending of all things. How good it is an open question, but it's certainly secure. Your only concern is that the town very much remains deeply engaged in the project of your people's empire, and how much freedom any refugees might get rather than being forced to reproduce the horrors of today is very much an open question.
Finally, is Araby, The newest of human realms, having just fought a hard won war against Ulthuan, led by the Mullah Aklan'd. He binds daemons, calling them Jinn, and presses all magic users, divine and holy into his cult of the One God, which you understand to be some variety of solar (or lunar?) faith. It's hot, it's sandy, you have no idea how well your people would do there. But the Mullah has put out a call to immigrants to rebuild his ravaged nation, so you would certainly be welcome – and it is far, so very far from any afterquakes for what happens here.
Ambrose has managed figure out ways to book passage on ships heading out to any of these locales, week by week. Starting in a few days, you'll be able to offer tickets to those who you wish (and can convince) to get out of here. Hopefully, when they get there too, they'll send whatever help they can find to help you on the home front. Where do you choose?
[] Tor Cynath, City of Dew
[] Estensa, the Red Preserve
[] Copher, Port into Araby
After you give Ambrose your answer, as you're served a lovely steamed eel, he digs into his bag, and produces another ticket, this one just for one – to Lothern. It's got your name on it.
"Please" he says, handing it to you.
"What?" you say, shocked. His face is heartbreakingly earnest.
"You said what you saw. We're all going to die here. I don't want that for you."
"And not me for you! What makes you think I'm a coward!?"
He puts up his hands in surrender.
"I have a reason to be here. I
need-" he looks around nervously "to end our mutual acquaintance. Pelops has nobody, so it makes sense for him to stay – even the rest of your merry band at your Temple, they've really got nowhere else to go – who's going to accept a band of former slaves and servants and ghost-hunters?"
You open your mouth to defend your clergy, but you're taken aback by the slight tears in Ambrose's eyes.
"You're talented – brilliant. Truly – in what, a month, you've made yourself something in this city from nothing at all. That's real and you can clearly go anywhere – and gods know why you chose the profession you did but it's transferrable and – you can leave! Why don't you leave? You've seen this place, the rats under the floorboards. Gods! You're eating dinner with me here, as if you've not seen – what I want, that I was sent by what might be your mortal enemy to spy on you? But you're here. You care. You care about all of this – and I don't understand why."
His green-hazel eyes are really very beautiful. His cheeks are pink from his ranting, his dark curly hair slightly tousled. You realize, at this moment, you
want – this stupid, passionate boy, who thinks he's alone – to make him feel better, make him feel happy, make him realize you're here, by his side, and neither need to be so lonely in the face of the end of the world.
What's your answer?
[] For faith.
Morr guides and you follow. You've cut yourself off for a reason.
[] For duty.
You were born Tylosi, and will die Tylosi. You are a citizen of these cities, and beyond their corruption their essence is good. They are mankind's greatest works, and you will fight and die to protect them.
[] For fury.
You hate this place, and its manifold evils, which only seem to multiply but the day. It has wronged so many, and it has wronged you, and you will be the one to bring this morass of sin crashing down and none other.
[] For love.
Your clergy is here. Your parents are here. Ambrose is here. Where else is there?
And do you kiss him?
[] Yes.
[] No.
AN: No plan vote, please, and this is fairly consequential, so a 24h moratorium.
