SILVER SPEAR
Elatreis, the Wolf-Haunted Kingdom

Night falls hard in Elatreis, a crush of darkness within which mortal hearts beat fast and mortal lungs breathe labored, and only the terrible music of distant howls moves clearly through the land after dusk. But here in the silver city, the falling night is pierced through by the great tower for which the city is named, and falls broken to be devoured by the light of ten thousand torches below. Those lights dance and flow, a great river of fire, and all the city's people are drowning within it - countless bodies moving through the mandala of streets, bodies whose faces are the slender masks of placid saints or heavy stone-shouldered helms made up in the image of wolves and worse beasts. The city sings with a greater music than any hunting pack could answer, and if something does howl in the dark beyond its edges, its counterpoint goes unheard. Somewhere within the city a stone statue is being hefted by a score of strong men and women, snarling and snapping playfully at children and youths who come too close to their ceremonial burden. Somewhere, too, wild-eyed legionnaires are fighting against a drunk, delighted crowd, too panicked and frantic to remember the routes set aside for emergencies, and in any case too late, for the doom they would prophecy walks now in their shadows.

It is the night of the First Festival.

The jangle of countless instruments and the roars, laughter, and song of countless throats shudders even the walls of Verimos Cathedral, a looming Gothic structure of flowing stone and spider-like arrangements of glass that serve as both window and warding rune. Like its overrun exterior, the inside of the cathedral is swarmed with beasts - serpentine, lupine, feline, a hundred chimera shapes crawling down pillars and along ceiling arches, curled beneath low tables and encircling the central altar. Their shadows move with black intent, their silver eyes glitter - but is only the flicker of lantern-light. With every window glowing by the light of the parade's torches, these gargoyles of stone and metal are clear enough for what they are.

And whyever should the ones gathered amid stone shadows fear the night? They are damned to it, after all, and to them - to you - there is a music sweeter and clearer than that of the festival refrain or the forgotten howls of hateful things. Power, sings the dark within the cathedral. Power is here.

So are the others like you. Eight faces, all in all, share the shifting shadow mysteries of Verimos' few tending lanterns. No druid attends the wandering this night, and the cathedral's god rests in a chamber above the vaulted ceiling, closer to the sky, the better to look out over its city. Its chamber doors are locked and sealed, and what danger to so enchanted a place on so enchanted a night? Who would dare disturb the undercroft below the cathedral, the spiralling catacombs where are interred a thousand years of Elatreis' royalty and city nobles? Who walks among the dead?

The cathedral has five great entrances and a few clandestine ones, but however you came to Verimos, here you are, arrayed in a circle with those who, like you, walk the night. It seems ridiculous to pretend you are here for some innocent purpose, but it seems ridiculous to admit your damnation to a stranger, if indeed strangers each of you be. Still - eight faces circle, cowled or masked or bare, and while silence is banished far from Silver Spear this night, within the cathedral a kind of hush exists. This is a place of sacred silences, and even conquered by the festival chorus, it remembers its nature and purpose.

Do you?

Alive above the dead.

How do you break from the symmetry of stares?

The black-haired man's eyes run over the assembled sinners, a detached awkwardness to his gaze. His eyes hovered across them as if purveying scenery, the cloudy hazel never focusing on their faces, hidden or not. Unlike others amongst the group of strangers, he wore no cowl nor cloak, his eccentric clothing easily passable for a strange noble with stranger tastes. After all, the glinting mirrors and polished silver that dotted his expensive-looking clothing was sure to be exorbitant in its price - and the almost ethereal, pale skin and gorgeous, finely feminine features could only be harnessed by one who sees little natural light or labor. In the flickering glimmers of torchlight, the glinting, unmistakably human eye that appeared intermittently on these pieces could be mistaken for a trick of the light.

But then again, with this assembly of unique individuals, perhaps not.

He breathed out, his survey seemingly complete. He closed his eyes with a light smile, and as if he were in a conversation no-one else could hear, spoke out loud. "Perhaps it would be best if we do," he replied.

He sets down his burden - a heavy-looking thing, seemingly a rounded portrait, wrapped so heavily in cloth. He kneels down aside it, awkward in his movement, as if unused to the long blade that rest holstered at his side as he maneuvered around the scabbard. Gingerly, with an almost reverential touch, he unwrapped the long strips of cloth, one by one. Slowly, it revealed a brilliantly ornate mirror, inlaid with gold and jewels. Instead of his own reflection, however, it displayed an inversion of his own visage, ever slightly more feminine - with colors completely opposite that of the man. The Woman in the Mirror, her light smile and even lighter flush, was vibrant, far more than her brother, despite her two-dimensional existence. Her eyes, however, only saw her brother, clearly adoring him as he worked. She waited for him to finish, then wasted no time in breaking the silence.

"I am Rozana Repercutio," she introduced, her voice carrying a casual confidence that would have carried through an entire room - even had it not carried through the mind. It rang in the ear like chiming bells, yet clearly did not come from the mirror, for what mirror could produce sound? "This is my brother, Rozar Repercutio. It is a pleasure to meet you all." Her smile widened to a cheerful grin, complete with tilting her head lightly in a mockery of childish glee - she is no performer, and the faux joy is clear. "How is treason treating you today?"

In a place of such grim wonders as the Verimos Cathedral, one would be hard pressed to notice any one peculiarity amongst so many. Least of all, the faint glint of tarnished metal only barely shining out from beneath the labyrinth of shadows that twisted and writhed between the imposing statues that lined the edifice. One would have to be of uncommon perceptiveness to notice the frantic click of gears, spinning in a frenzy to propel one another to their destination.

Indeed, the little mechanical creature had found little of interest to show its master, his face stern, gazing idly through the tight-fitting lense perched in front of his left eye. Perhaps it was out of sheer paranoia that the tiny automaton was sent skuttling out into the far reaches of the sanctum. More likely, the motive was idle curiosity; a gnawing desire to increase familiarity with this most wholly unfamiliar of places.

The master of the machine stood quiet and distant, focused on the unknowable thoughts churning like tempestuous currents in his head. His stark gray hair and pristine white coat made him stand out against the tenebrous chamber in which he stood, but, much as he stuck out, he seemed more distracted than uncomfortable.

The single eye of his that was visible lit up with excitement at the revelation of the woman in the mirror. In a heart beat, eight glittering legs of brass-colored alloy came dashing across the cathedral to the strange artifact. The clicking and clacking of the spider's movement was accompanied with the sound of a voice, at once enthusiastic and monotone, straining to be heard without shouting.

"What a fascinating object." the man said. "Care to share how it works?"

Sanguine fluttered around playfully, colourful feathers trapped in the thrall of the whimsical wind as the beat of hastened foot steps rang through the narrow streets and alleyways of Silver Spear. Glistening rubies gazed through a shroud of bone towards the dance of lights surging through the streets, taking in the gleaming joy and mirth from a people secluded in a sanctuary of peace amidst an ocean of turmoil. Confusion and caution had taken root in the thin slits of the helmet shaped out of bone, barely standing out amongst the sprawl of masks and helmets portraying the most vile of beasts known within the reaches of the Wolf-Haunted Kingdom. The scarlet shade of cloth and bone listened to the howls of man, to find what they hunted in their reveries. Steps quickened as glistening eyes never strayed far from the pinnacle of the great silver city, Watching the dark twisted arches and the elaborate web of glass grow ever more refined and detailed as the shadow of the cathedral drowned out the shadow of the creature of red and white.

The swirl of cloth came to an end, sanguine cloaks hanging fallow as the thing of masks stood motionless before the swarm of beasts, completely idle, settled on every perch and arch of the sepulcher. Cloth parting briefly to bare a swelling chest, heaving slowly with a deep inhale of precious air. The head of bone angled upwards, horns angled downwards as the shapeless form managed to tense up regardless, a palpable tension felt from the very fiber of its being. Time not measured in the march of its hands, or the even smaller measures of words and grains of sands. But rather in violent beats of a black heart, pounding and pumping with searing hot blood. Laughter from afar broke the spell placed upon the creature of crimson, finally stirring, tension melting like snow on a summer day. In a complete contrast to its earlier demeanor, a humble door of wood gave way to its desires, protesting with only a silent creek drowned out by reverend song and mirth of thousands.

A new shadow joined the many others within the halls of faith, candlelight and moonlight being the only guide offered to the furtive creature, as it made its way deeper inside. Pale digits tracing along the edges of the caliginous edifice, curving along the detailed and elaborate stone features, known to the love of far more gentle and caring fingers that had given it shape and purpose within these hallowed halls. A journey of touch that came to an end once one moving shadow swelled to number eight, belonging to those who did not belong, not within the home of the silver god or amongst the realms of man. Strangers to reason, to the natural order of things and perhaps even to peace itself. Soft snickering laughter spilled past the unmoving jaws of the bestial skull mounted upon the head of the shade of scarlet.

Yet that expression of amusement could not overshadow the faint but powerful throb of life, pounding at a slow and almost deathless pace. Every beat of a heart resonating through the halls of the sanctum wrapped in silence. It came directly from the scarlet shade, from amongst the many layers of cloth draping over its true form. Its pale arm parted from the wall, sliding back into sanguine veil shrouding the creature of bone and blood. Briefly exposing the simple shirt found beneath along with the wreath of blessings hanging from her neck. Small pouches holding blessed stones, hair clippings of saints, leafs and twigs from everlasting trees. Each promising golden fortune and prosperity, yet easily discernible as gilded blessings offered by soothsayers and silver-tongued peddlers rather than true sages and druids.

“Fifty-Seven” A feminine voice spoke from beneath the abominable skull, tilted towards the visage of the raven-haired aristocrat. Crimson eyes turned towards the scholar of gray and chaos. “Fifty-Eight.” She declared in a firm voice, yet not one aimed towards the collective of sinners within the hallowed halls of the Cathedral. “Fifty-Ni- “ She spoke as she gazed at the reflection within the mirror presented by the raven-haired aristocrat, canting her head to peer over her shoulder towards the only place where the pale reflection of the woman could have come from, only to find nothing. “Fifty-Eight” she amended her count, resuming onwards to include the remaining five strangers in her count. “...Sixty-Four.” Her voice rang through the skull. “Fifty-Seven beasts shaped from stone.. Seven from flesh. But I have come here for those of Ash.” The Orphan of Anshu departed as swiftly she had joined the eight-pointed star, parting with her end of it to make way to the passage that held the greatest promise to lead to the undercroft beneath the Cathedral. The languid beating of the black heart slowly fading from the halls of Verimos, unless she were to be halted in her descent.

A hollow, murky gaze swept around from within the shadowed folds of a hood, feeling its way like a wary shade flitting by in the night. Over the eyes that cast it, that of which it was the pale reflection slept in its silken tomb, unseen and ever open to its world of nightmares. The stare passed over each of the shapes assembled before it once, twice, now and again, swift yet heavy. It sank into the shadowy gaps between them, sounding the absence for hidden sights and motions, before emerging again with nary a sign of having strayed. To one who had caught it, it could have seemed that it was searching for something familiar, which it neither hoped nor wished to find. Yet no one could say, for it was deft and furtive, beyond the skill of even the wariest to seize, and it rose from twin corpses buried deep in an untimely sable grave.

The sightless pit that was the cowl moved to one side, then another, following the tones of speech, and the flickering light of the torches revealed glimpses of the face beneath it. The cadaverous glimmer of the eyes proved deceptive, for it was not the visage of a corpse that peered out from the abyss, but a genial smile, seated in a plump and affable countenance that could have belonged to a kindly prelate or well-to-do tradesman. Still, in the dim flashes of the wavering flames, even that face, which would have appeared perfectly harmless and even inviting in a daylit marketplace, had a vaguely sinister, even insidious impression to it. Perhaps it was because of this that it withdrew again into the shadows of the hood, leaving once more nothing visible but the cold eyes, now ever so slightly less daunting by virtue of contrast, before it spoke.

"I don't know if we oughta call that an 'object'," the man addressed the seemingly one-eyed figure in white. His voice was as low and steeped in solemn mystery as befitted their surroundings, but, at the same time, it carried undertones of rowdy mockery and plebeian boisterousness. More than the speech of a druid or hierophant, it resembled the playful blasphemy that dwells in shabby taverns and around crude clay hearths. "To me, it looks - and sounds - like something that mightn't like that name. Though, since we're apparently beasts -" he motioned with his head after the direction in which the skull-headed newcomer had gone, "- I suppose that's only fair. But, more to the point..."

The speaker tore himself away from the wall, all but invisible in the darkness, against which he had been leaning and drew forward by a step. As he did, he seemed to coalesce out of the formless blackness, materialising into a human-like figure whose contours were, nonetheless, still left blurry and undefined by the cloak that covered him. What might have been an arm, but was transformed into a ghastly amorphous appendage by the black folds draped over it, swept before the circle in a rapid gesture.

"Isn't strange that there's so many of us here and now? Real bloody treason -" the shrouded hand curtly waved at the bejewelled mirror, "- if you ask me, of anybody not to be out there." He was quiet for a moment, and the sounds of the revels outside could be heard, muffled and distorted by the distance. "While we still can." A grim, artificial chuckle. "But no. We're here, like corpses waiting to be brought down..." A finger, colourless in the dusk, wormed out of the cloak's folds and pointed to the Cathedral's floor. "One of us thinks she knows why, at least. But can we all say the same?"

The Spear rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking around the strange circle of fellows that had trapezed into the church. From eighteen angles he saw each person walk between the aisles to gather near enough to the centre of the room, his Eyes nestled in the high arches and behind pillars. If it were any other night but the First Festival, they would have been a very eccentric if not suspicious group. But here, together, they were normal.

Picking up the half-eaten stuffed roll he had left on the pew next to him, he chowed down studying the group from multiple angles. The way that they spoke inferred that they were here for a similar reason as he, but the Spear doubted he could trust them. The Hunter had said that somewhere there were his brethren, but had said nothing about them having avatars of their own. Suddenly the Spear was glad he brought more than the sacrificial knife he habitually carried, his sword wrapped to appear like a staff resting to his side and his shield disguised as a mask. Dressed with feathers, reeds and light cloth rather than his habitual merchants robes, he keenly felt the cold.

Finishing the stuffed bread roll, he reached down and put on his mask/shield. Grasping his sword/staff he turned in the direction of the man who last spoke. “It’s only treason if you’re a local.” The Spear stretched slightly, rolling his shoulders back. “I’m certainly not looking for something of ash, and I have no idea what you’re here for. I’m merely a lost reveller, but as I understand it there’s an entrance to the catacombs this way.” He indicated with his staff in the direction the girl went and strode off in her wake, fourteen Eyes detaching themselves from the walls of the church, joining the others attached to his costume with a few scouting ahead.