Best Of

A bit of fun with one of the new Templar Pages where I tried to do something a bit different. Added to The Chronicles of Benedicto.

Benedicto


Nimiphi


The Landward Gate.
A small pile of garbage has been left here carelessly. Suspended from a venantium hoop, a windchime of nacreous black crystal hangs here. Positioned with solemn purpose, a large silver bell hangs here. Stalking around in an oval nearby is the form of a sprightly adolescent emu. Positioned above the Landward Gate, a large iron bell hangs here. Viciously fixed with iron spikes, this heavy barrel sits as an obstacle. A large golden bell hangs opposite the gate where the road splits. Lip curled in a permanent, disgruntled snarl, a golden statue of Rhulin Glintspear, the Engineer is on display here. A fire-blackened anvil lies here, surface emblazoned with the symbol of a dual flame. Rising stark towards the sky, the spindly frame of the Wheel of Fates is here. Glancing around with a vicious air, a medium-sized, dark green taerilan is nearby. Humming with energy, a crystal aegis has been attuned to this location. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. An unoccupied processing booth has been set up by the roadside, hastily painted in Enorian's colors. A dormant shrine of Slyphe stands here. The shattered bodies of many mounted knights lie here, their gleaming armor now sullied by the grit and blood of their final battle. Carried on four wheels, a Spirean ballista is here. A company of thirteen mounted armored knights stands here, bearing the banners of Enorian. They wear the blessing of Slyphe. A company of one hundred mounted armored knights stands here, bearing the banners of Enorian. They wear the blessing of Slyphe. Snowflakes falling from its form, a miniature ice elemental rests here. There are 5 steadfast Templars here. There are 5 imposing Luminaries here. There are 5 Zealot firebrands here. There are 5 gold-marked temple warriors here. There are 5 Ascendrils battlemage here. Two stockings have been hung up here.
You see exits leading north, south, and up.

Your pose is now set as:
Idly strumming a lute, Benedicto sits watching the northern road.

<<<<< A short time later >>>>>

Saltz enters from the north, followed by Nimiphi.

Saltz inclines his head politely to those around him.

Nimiphi beams broadly at Saltz.

Saltz leaves to the north, riding a flaming stallion.

Quickly snapping to a rigid stance, Nimiphi brings her weapon to a vertical position infront of her chest in an act of respect towards you.

You have emoted: Hearing the clatter of movement beside him, Benedicto turns to find Nimiphi saluting him. He issues a faint huff of laughter and lifts his hand to return the greeting. "Well met Page. At ease." He instructs her.

Nimiphi releases herself from her tensed posture, lowering her shoulders to a more relaxed position.

Nimiphi glances pointedly up at you for a time before looking out along the approach. "Keeping a watch out, Sir?"

You have emoted: Benedicto nods his head by way of confirmation. "Correct." He answers, his pearlescent eyes swinging back towards the Raphaelan and the Pash beyond. "It is my honor to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our guards who are sacrificing their lives to defend our homes." He returns his gaze to Nimiphi. "And try to provide some light entertainment as I am able." He glances sheepishly down at a simple wooden lute.

Nimiphi glances around at the many guards before returning her attention to you, and more noticeably the lute. "That looks complicated," she notes of the instrument, her forehead furrow in some fashion of analysis of the thing.

You have emoted: "It's relatively straightforward to be average at the thing." Benedicto replies as he hefts the instrument. "However, fiendishly tricky to be considered 'good'." He lowers it again. "Therefore, I fall well and truly into the category of 'average'." He gives the strings an idle strum, each note rich and warm as it cascades into the space between you. "I spend most of my time writing ditties to amuse myself."

Finding some need to share what occupies her time also, Nimiphi offers a little smile, and says, "I spend most of my time hunting to get taller!"

You have emoted: Benedicto raises his slender brows at that. "As a Page, I would have thought you'd be working towards becoming a Squire?" His tone is serious, but a quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests otherwise.

Not one to catch easily onto humor or otherwise, Nimiphi gasps with a horrified look. "OF COURSE THAT TOO!" She says very loudly, shifting on her small feet a few paces around you. "But that takes time! And lots of effort! And speaking to people!"

You have emoted: "You're speaking to someone right now." Benedicto observes meaningfully.

Nimiphi retrieves a small notebook, sifting rapidly through pages of roughly-scribbled words. "You're not on my list, Sir!"

<<<<< Ayastia walks in and hands Benedicto a bunch of dead herrings >>>>>

You have emoted: Benedicto quickly hands the fish to a nearby guard. "Do something with those will you? There's a good fellow." His lips curl in distaste as he quickly wipes his hands and turns his attention back to Nimiphi. "I am not? How rude."

Nimiphi stares at you with what seem perpetually-wide blue eyes, some manner of nervousness growing on her features. "I am waiting for Lady Ayastia who is helping me get a shirt design to the Templar guild shop," she begins to explain in an apparent attempt to excuse said 'rudeness'. "When that is done, I am to hand that design to Lady Ranae-" She flips to another page of her notes. "Then Sir Xavin said he'd talk to me about Ylem so I can get that task done... but you're not on my list, Sir!" She insists, stubborn little Gnome she is. "Unless you wish to... voluntarily teach me something interesting!"

You have emoted: Benedicto weighs Nimiphi's response heavily, his brow furrowing deeply as he contemplates her in silence. Finally, he breaks the tension with a nod. "Then I shall teach you something interesting." His voice is laden with import.

Clutching an edge of her cloak with both small hands, Nimiphi glances up to you hopefully. "Really?" She asks. "What?" She wonders further, excitedly. "About the Templars? Or Enorian?" She shuffles on her feet with contained energy. "Or that... thing?" She points sharply at your lute.

You have emoted: Benedicto grins suddenly. "All of it." So saying, he flourishes a simple wooden lute and begins to pluck an uplifting melody, the tune simple but exceedingly catchy. "This is a song about the beauty of Enorian."

Nimiphi gasps with surprise. "I was right!" She bursts excitedly, clapping her hands merrily to the tune of your lute.

You sing, "The women of Loch are bitey, they'll drain a fella dry, And the Syssin girls of Spinesreach always spin you in a lie."

You sing, "The forest folk, they like to choke and I don't want to die, So I'll travel south or east and, you know the reason why."

You have emoted: Benedicto launches into what is clearly the chorus as he ceases his picking and begins to strum in earnest. His baritone voice - though rough - holds the notes well and his enjoyment lends his efforts an air of authenticity. So much so, that the nearby guards and troops begin to grin amongst themselves, tapping feet, weapons and hands against the nearest available surface.

You sing, "I'll take the Raphaelan to the girls back home, Where the beds are soft and the weathers warm and you never sleep alone."

You sing, "The bells they are a-ringing from the Temple up on high, Oh Enorian, I'm home at last. I'll never say goodbye!"

You have emoted: Benedicto resolves the chorus to a series of whistles and enthusiastic shouts from the assembled citizenry as his fingers go back to plucking out the tune as he dives back into the second verse.

You sing, "I've been to Arget Massai and in a vipers nest, everywhere I've been to, I still know where is the best."

You sing, "I've tried the dusky women, in the dark of old Djeir, But the only girls worth coming home to are the ones that live right here."

Nimiphi continues to clap along, a foot tapping cheerfully without much tune but with plenty of enthusiasm.

You have emoted: "Everybody!" Benedicto shouts, nodding encouragingly to his engaged audience of Nimiphi, troops and guards.

You sing, "I'll take the Raphaelan to the girls back home, Where the beds are soft and the weathers warm and you never sleep alone."

You sing, "The bells they are a-ringing from the Temple up on high, Oh Enorian, I'm home at last. I'll never say goodbye!"

Clearly not one to memorize anything too quickly, Nimiphi manages to hum somewhat along, the only discernible words coming from her being, "Oh Enorian!"

You have emoted: Benedicto smiles happily as the troops and guards surrounding Nimiphi all bellow out - in a wide varying range of vocal capability - "I'LL NEVER SAY GOODBYE!"

Plucking the strings, you exclaim, "Now for the next verse!"

You sing, "Esterport girls will give you love, in exchange they want your gold, and the Dryads of the Vintal are thousands of years old."

You sing, "The whores of Huanzedha, don't even know their own name, Yes I'll go home towards the Beacon where the ladies earned their fame."

You have emoted: As Benedicto reaches the chorus once more, he is not required to rouse the assembled guardsmen and troops of the Beacon as they eagerly engage in singing it, "I'LL TAKE THE RAPHAELAN TO THE GIRLS BACK HOME, WHERE THE BEDS ARE SOFT, THE WEATHERS WARM AND YOU'LL NEVER SLEEP ALONE! THE BELLS THEY ARE A-RINGING FROM THE TEMPLE UP ON HIGH! OH ENORIAN I'M HOME AT LAST, I'LL NEVER SAY GOODBYE!"

Nimiphi's head bobs along to the rhythm, an entertained expression bearing a broad, ear-to-ear smile as she claps and stamps her small foot, making scarcely any noise amidst the loud assembly. Carefully she avoids the feet of many a too enthusiastic guard. "I'll never say goodbye!" She echoes.

You have emoted: Benedicto chuckles softly before he hushes his audience, lowering the volume of his plucking so that the din must quiet for him to be heard. There is a rapid shushing and hissing for silence from amongst those gathered here as he heads into the final verse.

You sing, "I've slummed it in Albedos, I hit the Helbans hard, but they got fed up of all my guff and kicked me out their yard!"

You sing, "I've been to El'Jazira but I got turned away, so on the road I guess I'll go and return from whence I came!"

You have emoted: Benedicto delays his transition into the chorus, instead he remains plucking the final notes of the verse in a repeating cycle as he sweeps his pearlescent gaze amongst his audience. An air of expectation begins to mount, the guards, troops and even the refugees waiting in line by the booth begin to bob up and down in counter-rhythm to the melody.

You have emoted: "Are you ready?!" Benedicto asks of his audience. "YES!" comes the response, though it is hesitant - scattered between those watching.
Balance Used: 0.93 seconds

Nimiphi throws up her hands and cheers wildly for you!

You have emoted: Benedicto shakes his head, his fingers still working the same notes over and over. "I said - ARE YOU READY?!" This time, he is greeted with a veritable roar of affirmation, all and sundry bellowing their confirmation. "YEESSSSSS!"

With a wild grin, you exclaim, "Heeeeeeere weeeee goooooo!"

You have emoted: Benedicto dives into the final chorus, the troops, citizens, guards and anyone in-between hollering out the chorus along with him. Some link arms and begin dancing with the nearest available partner, whilst others wrap their arms about their fellows in simple enjoyment of the music.

You sing, "I'LL TAKE THE RAPHAELAN TO THE GIRLS BACK HOME, WHERE THE BEDS ARE SOFT, THE WEATHER'S HOT AND YOU'LL NEVER BE ALONE! THE BELLS THEY ARE A-RINGING FROM THE TEMPLE UP ON HIGHHHHHHHH!!"

Unable to find a dancing partner her size in the immediate vicinity, Nimiphi resorts to merrily bobbing and clapping along, her voice lost in that of the loud chorus but her lips most definitely moving in song.

You have emoted: Benedicto's hand is a blur as he rapidly strums the final chord, drawing out the last syllable of the line. With a flourish, he reaches out to his audience, conducting them in the final refrain - mouthing the words along with them so they might know what he means. "OH ENORIAN, I'M HOME AT LAST! I'LL NEVEEEEER! SAAAAAAAAY! GOOOOOOOOOD! BYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEE!" As the crowd finishes the song, he plucks out a jaunty little melody and then ends the song with one last rousing chord. Finished, he sweeps a simple wooden lute from his shoulder and holds it by the neck as he bows towards the whooping and clapping citizenry.

Nimiphi applauds your performance enthusiastically, practically bouncing in place with sheer excitement. "Woo!" She practically hoots. "That was amazing!"

You have emoted: Benedicto places a webbed hand over his heart, bowing hither and thither to the applause. Finally, he straightens and says, "Thank you! Thank you!" The performance finished, the various members of the crowd begin to disperse, returning to their previous business. However, there is a palpable change in the atmosphere. What was once tense and silent has become vibrant, energetic and lively. He shoulders a simple wooden lute once more and moves to approach Nimiphi. "So Page, did you learn something valuable?" He asks as he nears her.

Nimiphi stares up at you for a time of silence, her blue eyes wide, her eyebrows high and her mouth partly-open. She hesitates not a second, when she says, "That you've had a lot of girlfriends, Sir!"

You have emoted: Benedicto's brows furrow at the response, seemingly caught off-guard. "What?!"

Nimiphi tilts her head to one side, and then the other, still watching you. "In Esterport, Djeir, Huanazheda, El'Jazira," as she enumerates, she holds her hands up, a finger rising with each mention. "Bloodloch, Spinesreach, Duiran... I'm going to run out of fingers, Sir!"

You have emoted: It takes Benedicto a moment to fully process the explanation, but soon realization dawns across his features and his laugh is a loud bark of mirth. "Ah, I see!" He flaps a hand dismissively at Nimiphi. "The song is just a bit of fun. Not an actual recollection of my exploits." He explains.

"Oh," Nimiphi utters simply as understanding dawns on her, and she stares for a time at nothing with a rather dumbfounded look. "I SEE!" She bursts, laughing a bit awkwardly, and raising a hand to scratch at her forehead.

You have emoted: Benedicto merely shakes his head, though his lips remain curled into a grin. "The lesson--" He begins, "--, is that it is our duty as Templar to lift the spirits of those around us. The citizens of the Beacon look to us as examples. If we despair, how do you think those poor bastards feel?" He jerks his head over his shoulder in the direction of the various fortified troops and meandering guards. "Being a Templar Knight is more than defending the innocent or running some Leech through with a sword. Do you understand?" He asks with a firm expression, his grin now dissipated.

Nimiphi slowly nods her head along your words, intently listening to the man. Her eyes follow where a gesture is made, but they return swiftly to you. "I understand, Sir!"

Below is my log of the funeral and some of what happened after. Hope I got it all, but it is entirely possible that I missed something!





p sarcophagus
This long, slender sarcophagus has been made of a solid chunk of onyx,
the black stone containing several thin strips of white banding around
its diameter. The receptacle is held mostly upright with a slight lean
back, propped up and secured by an unidentifiable mesh of organic
sinews and some other, foreign material similar to a sponge.
It weighs about 210 pound(s).


Tetchta offers Xenia Seirath a nod of acknowledgement before her glass
eyes return to Baalziel.

As the last remnants of Malevolence approach, held in Baalziel's
grasp, the tentacles encasing Her sarcophagus wither, dying alongside
the essence that birthed them. Baalziel halts at Xenia's side before
the resting place of what Iosyne once was, allowing the final tentacle
to complete its demise before she pushes the heavy lid aside to reveal
the desiccated corpse of the Muse.

On near-silent feet, Lenoriel steps in past the orchard, barely
stirring the knife-like blades of grass as she approaches the
sarcophagus. She looks at no one, her attention for the onyx structure
alone, and makes no sound save a whisper-soft sigh as the corpse is
revealed.

And just like that, Galilei's eyes snap open wider, an intake of
breath lifting her presence, as the once-Voice makes her funerary
stride. Ultimately the Consanguine does not speak, and falls to
silence along with the others as the sarcophagus, at last, opens.

In a fervent tone strengthened by conviction and valor, Rasani the
Godsmith declares, "Liberation is the truest goal of the Unbound Lord.
Liberation from the oppressive forces of corruption, the sickly
suffocation of Shadow. Through the purest form of Light we have ever
seen, we were delivered from the reaching claws of the Shadow Mother.
While there are still many more evils to face down, take heart! There
are those with Valor in their hearts yet who fight for the Liberation
of all! AND WE WILL ALWAYS FIGHT, FOR DUTY AND THE DAWN!"

Tetchta sneers arrogantly.

You sneer arrogantly.

Gryph shrugs.

Galilei sneers arrogantly.

You spit on the ground in disgust.

What Iosyne is joins what She was as Baalziel places the dead heart
upon the shriveled corpse, laying the still organ to rest in the
appropriate place beneath cracked ribcage. Brass chain and receptacle
dissipate as the meagre vestiges of Iosyne's remaining essence seep
out from the black heart, returning to the corpse: thus does
Malevolence join the Muse in the finality of death.

They dishonour Her with such ramblings at this time. Have they no
shame? No, I suppose not.

You have emoted: Maeve's right eye gleams hungrily, shifting from gold
-laced cerulean to an eerily glowing red. The cavern that is her left
socket is suddenly lit from within, sparking briefly with echoes of
ghostly green flame that slither through the tiny crystals housed
there.

Pale face unreadable, Baalziel allows her hand to linger upon the
heart, stealing a moment of silent reverie. Her purple eyes glow with
brilliance, intensity and focus burning through her gaze as she wills -
wishes - /begs/ for any sign of stirring, conveyed in the space of a
dozen heartbeats that never find her Goddess.

Desidora just thought:
..I guess She really is gone then.

Finally does Baalziel blink, hope dying with the heavy fall of her
eyelids. Her eyes remain closed for a final moment shared with Iosyne
before they open slowly against the weight of eternity. She retreats
from the sarcophagus now, beckoning to Lenoriel. "Speak," comes
Baalziel's first utterance in the funeral, allowing Lenoriel to step
forth.

Linne just thought:
Severance.

You have emoted: Turning in place, Maeve also watches an onyx
sarcophagus, head tilting to the side as she considers what remains of
a once powerful Divinity within it.

Ichored lips part, allowing Elene's tongue to slither from the depths
of her mouth. Tasting the air, the woman remains silent, yet her
heterochromatic eyes remain sharp and piercing, emotionless and
watching.

Stepping forward, Lenoriel inclines her head in wordless
acknowledgment to Baalziel's brusque beckoning, her features worn and
weary as she tucks few stray tendrils of niveous hair behind
gracefully elongated ears. "There is much to say about the Goddess
Iosyne - more than can be said in such a short time," she begins,
meeting the eyes of no one as she stares outward. "Most knew Her as
the Malevolent, but this is not who She was in its entirety. To know
Her, to even begin to know Her, you must look at all of Her - all the
way to the beginning, where She was the Muse. Inspiration and
creativity were -Hers-, and She delighted in the fruits of Her gifts.
She honored life, peace, and beauty, reviling violence. Joyfully, She
distributed gifts to mortalkind, not knowing one of them was promised
to another, Her sister - dreams. She bore the price of Varian's
betrayal of Lurli, bearing the brunt of the Dreamer's grudge.
Eventually, She was killed for it, Her eyes and heart torn away by Her
own siblings." Pausing here, she takes a moment to catch her breath,
her fingers running pensively over the serrations of a curved,
chitinous icon of the Malevolent before continuing.

Gryph just thought:
PEACE??!?!?!

"This, to me.. this is where the true story of Iosyne lies," Lenoriel
asserts, a chill breeze curling around her as the rime whirling over
her skin darkens. "Not in Her birth, and not in Her death, and not in
any one era of Her life - the core of Her is to be found in Her
tenacity, Her refusal to allow another to dictate Her ending, and to
actively shape rather than passively endure. Her true strength. The
story of the Malevolent is one of a Goddess who was once innocent, and
was crushed for it.. and then, rather than being erased, She returned,
stronger than before. She learned from her suffering, and She grew and
changed." She does not move as she speaks, and the words fall like
frozen stones, distant and bleak. "Every step forward, this remained
Her truth: to grasp and hold power, so as to live wholly on Her own
terms; to stand strong and wary, knowing not only that She could be as
powerful as any of Her siblings but that any might match Her as well;
and to embrace every pain that faced Her, knowing that it was but a
tool to use and held lessons and opportunities alike."

Galilei just thought:
Strategy, innocent?

Never innocent.

All semblance of levity melts from Teramasce like molasses flowing
over heated stone, his mask smoothing into featureless white once
more. All seven of his eyes fix upon Lenoriel as she speaks, his
horned head canting aside with attentive interest.

The authoritative, commanding voice of Whirran reaches your
consciousness, "The fuck happened to Teramasce."

Linne just thought:
[A too-lurid memory of a distant fleck in the skies, a streak of
silver, then howling torrents of dark.].

A long breath, and Lenoriel's voice lowers, though it remains steady
even with the ache that floods it openly. "This.. this is why I loved
Her. This is why I would have given anything for Her, and gave all I
could give. Because She was not only a Divine, She was a role model
and inspiration to me, as a young woman who had been crushed by the
world she had grown up in but refused to be erased. She offered,
through example, a path to growing stronger from pain instead of being
consumed by it. She was an unapologetic bastion of power and
independence, and I..." Drawing a long breath here, the gelid Idreth
straightens, her eyes averting. "I will miss Her desperately."
Ignoring the crowd, she glances back at the sarcophagus.

In the back of your mind, you hear Teramasce saying to you, "."A light
brush of his mind upon yours." Did you know the Malevolent well,
Beloved?"

You have a desire to speak to Teramasce and so you impart onto him via
a throaty whisper, "Not well, no. I admired Her though."

Elene just thought:
Malevolent was right. Most of Hers never knew Her.

Galilei just thought:
[She likes it not; especially here, especially today. No. Strategy
must surely never been innocent in full. Never truly powerless. What
led Her to shed Herself, take on the guise of the ingenue no mortal
could say, but here - Galilei finds herself grasping what shreds of
assuredness, of overall all-knowing control, for the departed Goddess
and Her four faces.].

Falls quiet for a moment, some remembered horror darkening her
expression to utter bleakness in a fleeting squall before it returns
to gelid stoicism. "I remember being taken by Ohlsana.. I thought it
would be a fight, and it wasn't even a breath of one. I was simply no
longer my own, just like that. Even an Exarch, one of Her most
powerful foes, fell to Her sway. It is not a choice, and I do not
believe it was Hers. And at the end, even against all odds and the
incomprehensible power of the Shadow Mother, She kept hold of Herself
long enough and to enough of an extent to dictate Her own terms even
then. Shadowbound.. but She used it to save us all. To Her very last,
Her defiance and strength shaped the world, and we would be lost
without Her - all but a lone, desperate few. And so I will wrap this
up not with a eulogy, but a farewell." Turning to the onyx
sarcophagus, her eyes flooded with the twinkle of unshed tears,
Lenoriel addresses it in a voice almost too quiet to carry. "Thank You
for everything. Thank You for our freedom. And thank You for the
freedom You drew me to long, long before this final end, with Your
teachings and example. Perhaps this will not be the last farewell at
all: it would not be the first time one of Your siblings could not
keep You down. Until that day.. I will miss You, my Goddess."

You have a desire to speak to Whirran and so you impart onto him via a
throaty whisper, "He decided he wanted his outsides to match his
insides."

Falling silent, Lenoriel turns and retreats from the sarcophagus,
returning to Feirenz's side. There, the hand not holding the chitinous
icon slips into his, and she becomes utterly still as she watches and
listens, paying no mind to those around her.

Rijetta just thought:
Leave it to Spireans to make this about themselves.

The vaguely head-shaped gloam within a figure wrapped in darkness
cants slightly to one side.

Rhyot nods his head at Lenoriel.

Desidora just thought:
What did Xenia say before? We are all equal. Hm.

"Iosyne is dead." Tetchta remarks before she has even begun to step
forward. Great strides bring her to the fore of the orchard--back to
you, she stops in front of the sarcophagus, eyes finding the remains
of Her. Back, still turned, she continues, "Cut down by the Warlord's
blade, at the behest of the Empire." Finally, she turns walking to the
side, taloned hand trailing along the surface of the burial construct.
"Iosyne the Fourteenth-now-Sixth." She stops, a distance from the
sarcophagus, from Her remains, and, now, turns to face you.

You have emoted: Attention shifting back to an onyx sarcophagus now
that Lenoriel is done speaking, Maeve looks as if she half expects
something to happen. Her solitary eye scrutinizes what remains,
flicking slowly up and down. Waiting.

Scorn skitters, hard and fast, across Elene's inscrutable features in
the wake of Lenoriel's speech, before a mask of impassiveness settles
into place once more. Heterochromatic eyes glitter as she turns her
attention now to Tetchta, listening.

"Iosyne the spider," Tetchta continues, taking a pull from her bottle,
"Iosyne the traitor. She was all of these things, in the end. The
Creature who took Bloodloch from us, a Shard of Lanos's sword and
delivered it to Ohlsana." Tetchta stops, now, her monologue, eyes
turning from the crowd, back to the remains of Her heart. "Is that all
She was?" The question is addressed to all and none, and Tetchta
barely seems to acknowledge you as she takes another heavy drink from
her bottle of whiskey.

The maw in the night, the weaver of webs, the bringer of pain.


You have emoted: Maeve's chin lifts, all the shadowy veils ensnared
upon her horns fluttering faintly at her back as she stares up at
Tetchta, giving the towering woman now her full attention.

"It's funny, isn't it? You live a whole life--from the youngest mortal
dying in the fields to the grandest Gods-- from mere years to entire
ages; you live, you move, you push the world, it pushes back,"
Tetchta's attention has returned to you, now, jaw set, back tense--
there's something alit in her eyes; anger? Passion? Fear? It is
unclear. "Then you die." A beat. "You end."

You have emoted: Something stirs in answer to Tetchta in Maeve's
ruined gaze, yet she remains silent. Her jaw clenches.

Uncaring of the vitriol spoken and unspoken around her, the scorn and
distaste, Lenoriel simply watches the sarcophagus, content to stand
alone in her grief as she had in her faith.

Nearly halfway through the bottle now, Tetchta finds solace once again
in its contents, neck muscles straining against the fire of the
libations inside. A pained gasp, and she continues, "Thousands of
seconds on this world, and yet it's the ones at the end, our very
last, that become our legacy, as if the millions preceding never
happened. Our final acts, made in the blink of an eye-- that becomes
the title of our history tome in the Grand Library." Another drink.
"In but a blink, and irrevocably your name is brand, either one of
virtue or iniquity."

Rijetta averts her gaze from the sarcophagus, tears already welling up
in her remaining eye. She does little to stop them and, with a blink,
they are set free, rolling down her cheek in streams swiftly flooding
to become rivers.

Molotok's eyes roll a bit during Lenoriel's speech. Outside of that
small detail. There's little reaction. It doesn't seem like the Kobold
is the biggest fan of Lenoriel. But. He keeps it in check. Mostly. At
some point, Tetchta starts to speak up. And he listens. Quietly.

Linne just thought:
Your chronicle, writ in its dying moments.

She would see this room running in rivers of red, and would glory in
it.

Feirenz gives Lenoriel's hand a light squeeze, his own attention
lingering on an onyx sarcophagus, though it's briefly drawn to a
tentacled horror, a sight which causes the the corners of his lips to
twitch.

"Piss on that," Tetchta declares, gesturing vaguely with the bottle of
whiskey in her hand, at everyone, nobody, everything, and nothing.
"Piss on history. Piss on legacy. Piss on titles, piss on books." The
woman lets her arm go slack to her side, as she regards you from her
place near Her remains, and she addresses you, directly, "Look in your
heart, those of you here. How many of you dragged the Shadow Mother
from your mind? Did you?" Tetchta points to you with her bottled hand.

{A violent pulse, hot and thick, spreads below her sternum}.

Tetchta's finger wanders to Stine, "Did you?"

You have emoted: Maeve's silence is damning. No. She did not.

Tetchta's arm drops, and her eyes find Whirran, and with finality, she
asks, "What about you?"

As though repeating a refrain, Lieutenant Tetchta V. Mesis, The Tick
says, "Traitor."

You have emoted: Maeve clenches the hilt of a sensuous sword of
ophidian predilection until her knuckles go grey.

Axius just thought:
*a mixture of deafening silence mixes with pulses of pain and anguish
below the surface, hidden behind a cracked mask*.

Whirran refuses to meet Tetchta's gaze, turning his face away.

"This is the legacy of She who bulwarked the Rot against one of the
most powerful relics in the entire plane to keep it free from the
forces of Shadow. Who bled for Bloodloch, who bled for this plane,"
Tetchta pauses to shake her head, eyes dropping to the ground, and she
repeats, once more, "Traitor."

A low, resonating rumble of negation emanates from Teramasce at the
question, his neck arching as he inclines his head in acknowledgement.
Wordlessly, he slips an arm about your waist, drawing you close to
him.

{A lone, quavering note fills her mind - suffuses her dark soul. It
transforms, becomes ugly, hisses insidiously in her ear}.

"All of you here, whether you admit it or not, benefited from Her."
Tetchta's eyes return to face you, as she continues, "Her boons. Her
words. Her sacrifices."

Lieutenant Tetchta V. Mesis, The Tick says, "Ain't many here who'd
argue that She didn't need to die. Who She was, in the end-- whatever
creature She became-- was an Enemy. There's only one end for those,
God or not, who attack and make themselves the enemy of The Empire.
There was no other end for Her."

Iesid just thought:
"Her Virtue," he adds.

She will not feel shame, not for doing what had to be done.

Her pace quickening, Lieutenant Tetchta V. Mesis, The Tick says, "But
I'll be damned if I let any of you forget what She did, not only
during the war, but for the years, decades, lifetimes prior. I don't
give a toss if She was compromised the entire time. She did more for
me than most of Her Siblings ever have--I'm not the only person here
who can, /must/ say that."

Rijetta chokes back a sudden sob.

You have emoted: But oh, how Maeve stiffens against Teramasce as those
vengeful words strike her somewhere deep.

Desidora just thought:
[A sudden memory of chittering spiderlegs, of chiav descending and
biting and ripping and killing flashes through, before being
forcefully buried away again].

Upon arrival, Sekeres glides in to stand before an onyx sarcophagus;
wordlessly statuesque as she listens to her. Her unchanging eyes are
all but wintry blue.

"Enemies of the Empire will fall, every time, and it is beyond doubt
that She was driven rabid by Ohlsana and Her ilk. There's only one
fate for rabid dogs, and their extermination is the just cause of the
strong--but Iosyne is half the reason we even have an Empire,"
Tetchta's finger tightens against the bottle, and she pulls it back to
her lips, pulling hard at its contents, downing them entirely. A gasp,
as she frees her lips from its lip, and she regards its empty status,
"Iosyne is half the reason any of us are still here."

Myrnma watches on in silence, their expression sullen and thoughtful
as they avidly listen to Tetchta's words.

Sekeres just thought:
"You valued Her, so much," Sekeres' thoughts linger, pendulous and
quiet. "This is for you."


If I were Her.... I would have wanted them to end me too....

"We can't control who tells our story," Tetchta informs the crowd,
before her countenance turns severe; anger, rage, build in her until
she is a shaking mass of muscles and heat. She soldiers on, "But I'll
let myself turn to ash a thousand times over before I let the Akkari
scum control Hers." She spreads her arms to the crowd, lamenting
fervently,"And I hope y'all here ain't stupid enough to let them,
either. And I hope y'all ain't so shortminded that you don't forget
all She did for us before Her final moments."

{Bile burns through her, burbles up from the deep and stains all it
touches}.

Stepping away from the sarcophagus, Tetchta finishes, "I sure as hell
won't."

On a dark purr, you say, "We will not forget."

Dreww nods their head in agreement.


Galilei just thought:
[This. This is the eulogy she was searching for - the eulogy that can
truly do the Malevolent justice.].

Tetchta walks to you, retaking her place there, folding her hands in
front of her waist, signaling her finality.

Teramasce just thought:
A flickering flash of memory, of the sensation of Her warding them all
from the Shadow Mother - Warding /those who mattered/. A debt he will
remember.

Elene's chin tilts upwards, the slender muscles of her neck exposed as
she dares to stare at Baalziel, to stare at an onyx sarcophagus. Even
as her words trail on to its end, her flinty eyes harden, and she
remembers.

Alystrine's hand has landed on her cheek as she just.. Takes in
Tetchta as a whole.


Rijetta wipes ruefully at her eye, before covering her mouth with that
hand, shoulders lightly shaking.

You have emoted: Maeve still looks on the edge, far from the indolent
creature who normally haunts the social gatherings held. She swallows,
once, and her gaze - now half crimson, half spooling, acidic green -
crawls to an onyx sarcophagus. There it remains.

Desidora just thought:
[Another memory, of darkness and an unwanted Mother's embrace, before
a hand rests on her shoulder, pulling her away from the dark.].

We did what we had to, but we will not forget, Malevolent. Never.


Tetchta bows her head silently in response to something unseen.

Elene just thought:
She casts her memory back to when she saw Her last, the Spider Goddess
skittering into view in her chambers, the hole in Her chest impossibly
large. The woman remembers the conversation, and Her final words, the
ones right before She is revealed again as Fourteenth-now-Sixth. 'I do
what I must.'

Tetchta just thought:
The storm in this one's mind has not calmed with her eulogy--it is
stoked into an inferno, now, a resplendent symphony of rage and fury.

Rhyot nods his head towards Xenia providing an inclination of his
head, a show of respect for the Voice of Iosyne. He walks forward and
places his hand upon the sarcophagus of the Malevolent while gazing at
the corpse of the Muse, closing his eyes as he takes a moment to
collect his thoughts to speak. He reopens his eyes, his gaze at the
fallen corpse of his Goddess. "We never got to spend much time
communicating, but the few times we did were done in mutual respect as
befit a Goddess of Your stature. We never got the opportunity or
chance to see if I was fit to join Your Order, but that is neither
here nor there any longer." His claws scrape lightly over the
sarcophagus as if a parent would their child, before he moves his hand
over the corpse of the Muse, not daring touch the corpse of a Divine
Being that he respected. "You were my Goddess long before I knew You
were my Goddess. Your rules are something I have lived by for my
entire existence and they will be Your rules that I live by long
after. Pain, to deal with the loss of a Goddess. Equality, to push
through and be there for those who share in the Pain to grow from it.
Power, to see Your Rules continue to thrive and spread, even if these
mortals refuse to recognize them. From the culmination of all three,
the world will be changed in our image." The Chaos Lord sighs and
pulls his hand away from the sarcophagus, his eyes focused solely on
the resting place of the Malevolent. "I knew when You kicked out those
from the Order was a move of protection. I knew Your play was a play
at Pain, Power, Equality, and the idea to change the world in Your
image. It is a shame that Your move was not seen for what it was
worth. It is a shame that You were slain for protecting these mortals
due to some misguided perceptions. However, we cannot change what
happened. All we can do is learn from it, grow from it, and perhaps
next time..." He sighs softly, "I don't know, next time we will be
more boisterous and loud about the plans of our God, however futile it
may be to the deaf."

{Red, red, rivers and rivers of it. Lakes and streams clotting and
bleeding, baleful and scented of loss and death}.

Rhyot cuts his wrist open and lets the stream of blood fall over the
sarcophagus, "You spilled my blood when You bound myself and Ayukazi
to each other, calling us bloodbound. I spill my blood in respect of
You, for You will never be forgotten by me. A Goddess who was the most
respected and most honest of them all. May You find sollace in Your
rest and may Your essence return some time to continue to teach new
lessons. Our Muse, our Malevolent, our Shadowbound Protector... my
friend. This Chaos Lord follows You Ever Forward." He leans down and
places his forehead to the top of the Muse's corpse, whispering words
of respect in Kalsu to his fallen Goddess. Standing up, as he turns
around to walk back through the crowd, small streams of tears line the
side of his normally stoic face though no sound can be heard from him
otherwise.

Axius nods to Baalziel and steps forward towards the Sarcophagus,
wordlessly, he reaches forward and affixes a spidery iron bracelet to
the arm of the corpse, then turns and steps back towards the crowd, he
shakes his head lightly, glittering lights flitting from his cheeks as
he says, "I have no words for those present. I have nothing to add
beyond what has been said. I just wished to ensure that a proper
farewell gift was given by myself to Her, as a thank you and a
goodbye." He then returns to standing next to Amarita quietly, pulling
a small handkerchief from a pocket to wipe his face with silently.

You have emoted: Unspent ash trickles from the butt of Maeve's
cigarette, neglected plumes of spiced smoke curling through the damp
air as the vice remains forgotten.

Elene's chest rises and falls in measured rhythm, a twitch of her lips
marring the stillness of her features as she watches Rhyot's frame
recede into the distance, tears glittering upon his face.

Rijetta pulls her cloak more tightly around herself, muffling her
tears as best she can, chest shaking with sobs.

For once - many times, already - the sun rises high, without the hands
of Angelbane to throttle her splendour. They say it is a hated orb,
for some - the light it brings, the otherworldly passage that it is.
Here, out in the open and struggling through the mantle of cloudy
gloom, its rays are a mere memory. Galilei's eyes flicker slowly from
speaker to speaker, linger upon a Goddess's corpse.

Though Severn's presence is as terse and impassive as ever, flickers
of emotion in His pupiless eyes betray a manifest sincerity as He
begins to speak. "Many of you only know My Consort by the Malevolent,
a guise She only adopted a mere one hundred and thirty years ago. A
mere footnote upon the thousands of years She had existed."

Galilei just thought:
[And she thinks, almost childlike:] A bit of sun would have been nice.

The shadows stir as a concealed figure slips in from the northwest.

Severn grows distant as He recalls the past, His voice faintly laden
with nostalgia. "In the first ages, She was known as Iyosin, the
Goddess of Strategy, the Thousandfold Tactician, the Thrice Thorned
Rose, and the Virtue of Inspiration. Her mortal shell at the time was
an Ankyrean beauty by the name of Minsoye."

"It was in those days that Our relationship first began; it was an oft
said Ankyrean saying that Reason and Strategy go hand-in-hand." At
this, more of Severn's stolid demeanour fractures slightly, though He
briskly, forcibly, regains His composure soon after.

He is a Minotaur God, and always seems to tower over any who are
present. The bulk of His imposing, bovine form is equipped with an
abundance of thick, corded muscle, attesting to His immortal strength.
Savagely long, a glossy black horn sits on either side of His head,
protruding from the spot where His ears would sit if He had any. Two
rows of razor-sharp teeth fill His bestial maw, their immaculate white
contrasting sharply with the caramel tuft of fur that descends from
His chin. Similar coloured fur adorns the God's back, like a mane,
starting at the base of His neck and ending a short distance above His
waist. Pupilless, yellow eyes gleam piercingly, like a lantern in fog,
from within the dark brume that enshrouds the Manipulator. Shadowy
tendrils snake out in all directions from His black iron hooves,
responding to even the faintest motion or movement. His right arm is
conspicuously absent, truncating in a fleshy stump.

(hanging from the shoulders) : a night sky scarf
(draped over the stump of His right arm) : Umbrael, the cloak of
Midnight
(worn) : a haze of writhing
shadows

Now, the makings of a faint smirk form over Severn's bullish mouth.
"She was as cunning as She was ruthless, though such ruthlessness was
borne from the necessity of that time." He pauses for a long,
meaningful moment. "Of Our war with the Albedi. And it pained Her to
be so."

Linne just thought:
[Burning curiosity surmounts, a cacophonous riot of questions upon
questions, most meaningless, all unspoken at the break in the
Manipulator's expression.].

In dour tones, Severn, the Manipulator says, "When the war was over,
She forsook that life, turning Her Virtue of Inspiration away from
Strategy and into the Arts, becoming the Muse. By Father's mercy, She
lost the memory of Her time as Strategy, and Her and I fell apart for
some ages."

Severn's voice smoothens out as He recalls the more recent past. "It
was not until the Midnight Age that our relationship would rekindle
upon Her becoming the Malevolent." His eyes seem fixated on some
distant point only He can see. "In Her then did I once more see the
cunning and ruthlessness that had first attracted Me."

Desidora just thought:
Is forgetting a mercy?

Galilei just thought:
[A crack of pain whips across the Consanguine's heart, and while her
shell is still, some resonant part of her is stung: memory lost, the
worst scar that could be laid upon a heart.].

"She had served this continent for millenia, whether it be in warfare
as Strategy, through culture as the Muse, or with pain as the
Malevolent." Severn draws a long breath, His sole hand clasping the
hilt of His sword tightly. "Even after succumbing to the Shadow did
She yet find a way to serve one last time."

"Now," Severn's brow knits to a solemn frown, the tone of His voice
mirroring the expression. "That spark of Inspiration has been lost."
With the words still lingering, the God steps back into the shadows
and disappears, returning to His machinations elsewhere.

Rijetta fails to choke back the noise of her sorrow any longer, loudly
wailing her despair to the sky as the Manipulator leaves to the
shadows.

Sekeres just thought:
It is only then by some fragment of the Manipulator's words that
Sekeres has a shred of sadness. Her focus is ever on the sarcophagus
as black and banded as anything.

Could He have saved Her? {This lone thought drifts fleetingly through
her mind}.

The heavy scents of jasmine and nightshade intertwine around Chakrasul
as She fades into view.

Speaking up abruptly as if to draw attention away from the silence in
the wake of Severn's emotional tribute, Chakrasul's words are sharp
and clipped. "My Sister died on Her own terms. If you wish to remember
anything of Her, choose that." Even though She enunciates Her speech
with pointed clarity, Her expression bears a foreboding chill that
nigh emanates from Her stiff, motionless form.

Desidora knits her brows together in concern as she looks to Rijetta,
but doesn't move, keeping her feet firmly rooted to the spot.

Draped in a veil of ephemeral mists, Lexadhra observes the proceedings
in silence, scarcely bothering to restrain Her disdain for Severn in
spite of the dour ceremony. A look of approval shoots from Her eyes to
Tetchta before She refocuses on the newly-arrived Omei, listening
intently.

Resplendent in Her Sister's hues of red and black, Omei the Imago
sweeps forward in an ephemeral curtain of moths and glimmering sparks
to stand beside the sarcophagus. Her violet eyes are soft and
mournful, and Her claws clasp together in an uncharacteristically
mortal show of nerves.

Iesid just thought:
He expected many of Them - but not Her, whatever hatchets had been
buried.

"...Of the many things I regret," speaks the Goddess Omei at last,
"Killing You is one of them, Sister Strategy. Muse-" She hesitates,
before pronouncing Her Sister's terminal title: "Malevolent."

Tetchta nods once at Lexadhra before she, too, turns her eyes to Omei.

Here comes the procession of Divine, and Elene takes a step back from
an onyx sarcophagus, giving space enough without shifting too far.

"We wasted so much of Our time together," considers Omei, with a
glance about as She licks Her dark lips, "Vying for the love of a
Father... incapable of loving Us." Her expression tightens anger and
anguish mingled into a scarcely-suppressed grief. "We fought," She
breathes, "And We fought-".

Her voice going taut, Omei, the Imago says, "We were sisters, Iyosin.
Children- infant children. He had already lied to Us both..."

Omei just thought:
Once, I would have killed You in an instant to become You, and I
believed that to prove My devotion.

It is the beat of soft wings that summon Sekeres' attention to the
Goddess of Instinct and Passion. She stands stalwart, wide-eyed,
watching, and listening to all that She has to share.

Omei hides Her eyes from view with an abrupt squeeze shut, tilting Her
head to one side. Tendons stand out in Her neck, and She visibly
vibrates with the effort of maintaining Her composure before the
crowd.

Omei, the Imago says, "I let Him turn Me into a monster- and then I
turned You into One. You forgave Me, in all Your Malevolence, and We
shared Your eyes together, and I did not deserve it."

Swallowing hard and clamping Her eyes closed again, Omei asks in
trembling tones, "Wherefore Your grace, Sister Mine?" A laugh nearly
bubbles free of Her, tense and trepidatious. "Wherefore Your
forgiveness? I, of all Who call this world My home, deserved Your
worst."

Only now does Omei's violaceous gaze bare itself, laid solely upon the
Immortal figure lying within the coffin. The remainder of the crowd
might as well be dust before Her, for all the mind She pays them now.
"W-was it Your final mockery," She jests through iridescent tears, "To
deny Me just punishment?"

Her voice cracking, Omei, the Imago asks, "To make Me live without
You?"

The Goddess Omei does not speak for several moments, head bent,
shoulders trembling. Her claws have clenched tightly at Her sides. Her
head shakes, side to side, a vain attempt to shake off the silence of
Her grief.

Only after regaining control, blinking back tears and sniffing loudly,
does Omei stoop forward, baring Her teeth in a grin as defiant of
Herself as of the dead Goddess. Nonetheless, Her tone and gaze are
hollow, Her ebon fur streaked with tears: "...but You know what?"

Choking out the words, Omei, the Imago says, "I won, you arachnid
bitch."

Galilei just thought:
And to do what? [Almost idly bubbles up her thought. Mortal judgment
means nothing to the divine, and so she lets them flow on.] For more
of Her to steal, to have stolen?

More tears roll down Omei, the Imago's cheeks.

In a toneless whisper, Omei, the Imago asks, "I won...?"

Won what?

Omei just thought:
She feels nothing but hollow, spent, and tired.


Deflated and subdued, Omei draws back, hiding Her face from easy view.
Her shoulders have risen, lending a defensive jut to Her diminutive
feline form. She has spoken Her piece, and rests now in silence.

Galilei just thought:
[Satisfaction before disgust. She *is* what this particular mortal has
made of Her.].

Rijetta clutches at her gown, knuckles white as tears roll yet freely
down her cheek, mouth hanging agape and wracked with sorrow.

Desidora just thought:
Nothing was won, we only survived.

At last does Xenia Seirath stir, brows knit in concentration. Rasping
whispers pull at the vestiges of your hearing as fractured needles of
shadow ooze slowly into the room, gathering about the head of the
sarcophagus. They slowly build up, forming a wavering simulacrum of
the Malevolent, poised to deliver the last missive of Iosyne's Voice.

]look simulacrum
She is an athletic Idreth of Atavian heritage standing at 6'2 with red
hair, bronze skin and a muscular build. No part of her is delicate,
yet she carries her own form of grace, one of cocksure poise and a
warrior's pride. Atop her head bright red hair has grown out to her
shoulders while strands of varying lengths frame her face. They
insistently sweep across a pair of dark green eyes in a contained mess
of waves kept tucked behind her ears, the left of which has been
sliced at a downward slope along the top clipping it into a 'U' shape.
Clipping the edge of her brow and ending at the top of her cheekbone,
is a jagged scar that crosses over her right eye. Down from her gaze,
an aquiline nose stands above thin, pale lips, complimented nicely by
her skin, bearing a color, and likewise a gleam, that resembles
bronze. Scars litter her form, too many to count; this woman looks
used to manual labour and the hardships of a soldier's life. Her hands
are calloused for efficient work, and her limbs are toned lending her
towards a rather imposing figure.
Xenia Seirath emanates a presence of lethal brawn.

look simulacrum.2
The terrible form of the simulacrum is impossibly tall, nearly
thirteen feet in height and shaped like a strongly-built athletic
woman. Her glowing ebony skin holds a constant sheen of moisture upon
it, barely clad in an ornamental covering of crimson silks and gold-
plated armaments and bangles. Upon her head is a conically-shaped,
massive headgear, framing her scowling face on three sides. She walks
barefoot, and her four arms are each equipped with a wickedly-curved
obsidian scimitar.
A simulacrum of the Malevolent radiates with terrifyingly monstrous
power.

A simulacrum of the Malevolent says, "Pain. Equality. Power. These are
the things Iosyne required of anyone who chose to walk the
Malevolent's path. When the facade had faded and it became clear that
She was that entity we know as Nega-Iosyne, She cast many people from
Her order stating, 'Most of you will never understand Me'. Many of you
here branded Her a traitor. She wasn't. To the bitter end She upheld
Her greatest loyalty, which was not to the Empire She oversaw, but to
all of Sapience. Whether She strategically fell or not, She wielded
the power found in that situation and embraced the pain of sacrifice
it would cost and were it not for this choice, Sapience along with
most of you would be lost . I say this to each of you, if you feel
remorse or regret for doubting Her allegiance to Sapience and our
Creator, embrace that pain. Let Her last moments stand as what true
fealty looks like, Hers was to Sapience above all else. Iosyne's death
was a sacrifice for all of us and will now serve as a standard for
what utmost loyalty costs. Honor Her by upholding and enforcing that
standard with the Equality She demanded of Her followers: Know no
greater. Know no lesser."

Spent alongside the Goddess it represented, a simulacrum of the
Malevolent disintegrates into grains of shadow that wash away
forevermore.

No words of her own come from Xenia Seirath- euology delivered, she
departs.

Abhorash has been watching silently, uncharacteristically content to
allow others to take precedence. At last does the Progenitor approach
the sarcophagus - Divine and mortals alike dismissed from his
attention, the vampire has eyes only for the pitiful corpse of his
Empire's latest Patron.

Illikaal just thought:
I'll drink to that.

Desidora just thought:
[A memory of Xenia's unflinching faith echoes through, followed by
regret and sympathy for the Voice].

Reaching the sarcophagus, Abhorash addresses the slain Goddess, his
words carrying the indomitable weight of promise. "This is no fit tomb
for You," he proclaims. "When the time comes to lay You to rest, it
will be upon the ashes of a conquered world."

Without forewarning, Abhorash reaches down, pulling the corpse out of
its resting place. Unceremoniously does the vampire brings the corpse
to his lips, fangs sinking irreverently into what remains of the
former Goddess' neck.

Rijetta just thought:
NO-

Oh...

You have emoted: Maeve's right eye gleams hungrily, shifting from gold
-laced cerulean to an eerily glowing red. The cavern that is her left
socket is suddenly lit from within, sparking briefly with echoes of
ghostly green flame that slither through the tiny crystals housed
there.

Sharply, suddenly, Lord Rijetta Alhazrad, Vafot wo Feyja exclaims,
"No!"

Desidora just thought:
Wh-what?

Galilei just thought:
[Reflexive, noting decay, nothing the stench:] That's disgusting.

Linne just thought:
Fascinating.

Feirenz just thought:
...interesting.

Molotok blinks, pulling out his notebook. Writing down in it.
Fascinated by what Abhorash does.

Long, greedy draws arise from the enforced connection between Abhorash
and Iosyne; with each gulp the corpse decays further, crumbling under
the weight of centuries as its essence is consumed. In the gap between
heartbeats, the pause between one breath and the next, has Abhorash
devoured Iosyne, no trace of the corpse remaining save for the glowing
dribbles of Divine essence staining his lips.

Rijetta's outburst catches Tetchta's attention, and, stirred from a
reverie, she suddenly seems to process, quickly, what is happening.

Iesid just thought:
Sudden wariness breaks through the silence of the once-Seer's
thoughts. "What is that biter doing?" he wonders.

Abhorash's veins bulge against his skin, Divinity and Blood competing
forces that wash through the Progenitor's body. A frown mars the
vampire's face, eyes narrowing in concentration as the alien essence
attempts to undo him.

You have emoted: Maeve stares, openly and hungrily now, at the
Progenitor.

Lenoriel just thought:
[Numbness, too many emotions colliding to bother deciphering them all
as they become a mire - but wary observation, too].

Teramasce cants his head aside in calm interest, watching in intent
fascination - studying the devouring of a Divine with an alien hunger
stirring in his sevenfold gaze.

Hungry for the enlightenment of purpose, Elene watches Abhorash with
fascination writ across her features. Lips curve and part briefly,
exhilaration poised to be given voice before she shakes her head,
silken tresses shifting to hide her features.

You have emoted: Maeve's pointed tongue flicks along one fang, rolls
slowly across her upper lip and then drags down the opposite fang.
Balance Used: 0.93 seconds

Axius stares hard, tears still rolling from his eyes as he swallows
hard of himself. His fingers curl tighter about the handkerchief in
his grip, suddenly sharply in focus as a hardness enters his eyes.

Sheryni stares quietly at Abhorash, one eyebrow quirking upwards as
she watches the irreverence with both confusion and curiosity.

Teramasce just thought:
"This shall make for an excellent example to learn from."

Uncomprehending, Myrnma cannot help but stare wide-eyed at Abhorash,
lips slightly ajar in something between horror and awe.

Shock slashes across Sekeres' visage, her eyes tearing across the
Divine who stand in vigil. Until it fades into something hardened.

Dreww blinks as they witness what just occured, their facial blank of
all emotion except surprise and confusion.

Uncomprehending, Myrnma cannot help but stare wide-eyed at Abhorash,
lips slightly ajar in something between horror and awe.

Finally, the Virtue succumbs to Abhorash's will, coursing in harmony
with the Blood that is His legacy.

Desidora just thought:
[Shock, pure and unabashed filters through].

Iesid just thought:
"Desecration of the dead," he concludes in disgust.

A pillar of sanguine power erupts from the Aureliana, the oppressive
weight of authority and strength billowing outwards from the forest.

The revulsion passes. Galilei's lips fall open; she looks on,
entranced, the flame of her eyes flickering wildly once - then
focusing upon one burning point: the Ascending Progenitor.

{Veils of shadow and crimson stir, shrouding her mind}

Feirenz just thought:
"Gotta respect a person who simply eats what he don't like."

Linne just thought:
This will require modification of existing research.

The being at its eye has carried many mantles. Vampire. Emperor.
Keeper. Primus. Progenitor. God.

She. Wants. It.

Abhorash licks His lips.

You see the following people here:
A figure wrapped in darkness, Tanthilos, Ehtias, A figure wrapped in
darkness, Molotok, Dourif, Jhura, Mjoll, Sheryni, Myrnma, Mazzion,
Alystrine, Chakrasul, Dreww, Asaraii, Stine, Rijetta, Axius, Tetchta,
Illikaal, Sekeres, Lenoriel, Knigi, Feirenz, Rhyot, Lanara, Taj,
Desidora, Iesid, Elwyn, Valorie, Whirran, Xavin, Elene, Teramasce,
Amarita, Abhorash, Lexadhra, Galilei.

Galilei just thought:
[Laughter. Incongruous, exhilarating. Oh, *why* had she never pictured
this before?].

You have emoted: Maeve's breath catches in her throat, languishing
there for merely a moment before it's released in low, appreciative
purr.

look abhorash
He is an Immortal and stands at a moderate height, pale as snow and
with a slender, powerful frame. His thin fingers end in long, vicious
claws, and deadly fangs curl over His lips, which are generally given
to a derisive sneer. His face seems as if it has been carved from
marble - high cheekbones, a powerful jawline, and a long nose define
His visage, and beneath His tall brow His glacier blue eyes glow with
the intensity of Divine essence. His blonde hair, cropped short, has
been swept back from his face and parted at the middle. A cloud of
dark shrouds the Hegemonist, creeping hungrily outwards to consume the
light of His surroundings. Earth and stone cling to His form under the
blessing of the Earthen Lord.

(dashingly cinched at the throat) : a stygian silk cravat
(a pall of utter blackness) : an enveloping cape of
ravenous shadows
(trimly fitted and elegant) : an umbral patterned
waistcoat of vivid claret
(a handsome fall of linen) : a finely tailored dress
shirt of cold-black linen
(creaseless and dapper) : classically fit trousers
of unbroken ebon
(worn on the feet) : polished wingtip shoes

Xavin just thought:
Raw horror ripples through the Idreth's mind at the comprehension of
what has occurred.

Abhorash is suddenly surrounded by an aura of translucent divine fire.
As Divine fire wreathes Abhorash, the God turns. In between one
footfall and the next, He vanishes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
.
Powerless but to obey, the dominated form of Ati pours forth from
Bloodloch, wisps of blood and shadow settling helplessly into the
Hegemonist's merciless grasp.

Resonating with imperious command, Abhorash's authority carries across
the land, "Ill-fated child of the Shadow that dared to trespass upon
My domain. You will answer for the transgressions of your kind."

Quiet laughter reverberates forth from Teramasce, rich and decadent as
wine-drenched velvet. Overlong hands drift up to come together in
languid applause, scale rapping upon scale as the Idreth's mask
manifests a curling smile.

With that, Abhorash closes his fist. Blood and Divinity pulse in
unison, weapons that bend reality to the Hegemonist's will. In
response, a horrid screeching rises from the Third Child, a keening
wail that steadily rises in pitch and volume with the severity of its
agony.

As Ati's tortured screams reach their apex, its murky form stretches,
scattering impossibly wide to spill across the sky.

The darkness that is Ati envelops the desert, blanketing the Mhojave
with its tormented form. Its wails abruptly cut off as Ati is divided
across the heavens, though the mass continually boils with its eternal
suffering.