//A7 - The Ever-Burning MausoleumIt was a solid building, with solid chimneys. No windows from the outside, but the chanting of canticles sounded alongside the rising plumes. It was continuous, that liturgy, a task taken on in succession rather than unison, but the words were ancient or foreign, indecipherable beyond the underlying emotion within the art.
If the end came, let it be bright.
The Ever-Burning Mausoleum was such a building, and when Lethe pulled the doors open, he could feel how heavy they were, could feel the hot draft that struck him as if he were entering a forge. His eyes teared up from that ambient heat, his dark clothes ill-suited for the searing brightness of the undying pyre. Acolytes, half-naked to avoid an unwanted immolation, chanted and raked ashes in sequence. It was through the gift of the Thousand-Faced that such miracles could be accomplished to begin with, magic alone being the source of the inferno that so readily blackened and disintegrated bodies beyond recognition.
Here too, however, money remained something to be considered. Clear prices segregated the services that would be given to the rich and the poor and those in between. The more money one spent, the whiter the ashes, the more private and glorious the spectacle. No doubt, the cheaper prices had no guarantee to begin with, that the ash brought back truly belonged to the one that was sent off.
Perhaps that was just another compromise though. If one’s life had burnt out, then so too ought one’s flesh.
"You appear to not require our services," a man, noteworthy due only to his age and the burn scars entwining with his sinew, approached Lethe's flock.
"Are you followers of the Flame-Face? Or have you come only to watch our ceremonies?"@Thayr
//A3 - The Mug At DuskIt could have ended in bloodshed and great loss, or even just a first blood and a small loss.
But instead, nothing had come of the encounter, that monstrous swordswoman breaking away and retreating. It had been an exchange that only lasted a fraction of a minute at most, far too short for any of the bystanders to have really noticed or considered it to be of any concern.
For those involved, however, it had changed everything. There was no mistaking it, after all. If that woman had not announced her presence, if she had simply steeled her resolve and struck like a proper bandit would, Theodore would be missing his head. Even if they had fought her with all they had, with all of Theo’s followers, they would’ve likely been on the losing end. It was by the fortune of her weak will that those who were Blessed by Blood had not been forced to swallow their pride and run away.
And now, there was a true and proper conundrum. Was it still wise to split, when that inconstant Ichor-Blessed could change her mind and return? Was it smart, however, to simply
miss his other three followers, in an unknown city that was approaching the gloom of gloaming? If there was one Ichor-Blessed, there had to be more. Who knew how many threats remained then, how many who would be as flagrantly aggressive as that swordswoman?
Regardless of what Theo thought, regardless of what he did, he found himself sitting across from Samuel in a dingy pub. The Mug At Dusk was a proper hole-in-the-wall, squished between two more raucous establishments. Candles burned away by the half-dozens within the building, its dim light serving more to accentuate shadow than to illuminate darkness. Some huddled to play cards or games of chance. Others whispered furtively, planning heists or trysts. Still more remained by themselves, their moods ill-suited for the revelry that was common in other parts of the Adventurer’s District.
Samuel himself, however, was in a good mood.
“C’mon, mate, drink up,” he gestured.
“Yah got outta it with your head intact and your wallet unharmed, so what’s there to sulk about? Now for real here, what exactly is your deal here? Divinity, blood-drinking, monster bait, tell me everything you can offer, and maybe you’ll get real rich, real quick.”@SilverPaw
//The AbyssThe Abyss welcomed her.
Even as the day died, after all, there were still guards up on the walls, ferrying adventurers up and down, and Elys too found herself descending into the darkness. Without the sun overhead, darkness consumed the Ichor-Blessed of the Void in her entirety, dark robes mixing with deep shadow. She could not appreciate the fog until she felt the damp against her skin. She could not appreciate the ridgeline terrain that paradoxically persisted in the depths of the earth, but could feel the softness of the grass beneath her feet. She could not appreciate the vibrant hues of the wildflowers yet smelled their scent in the misplaced breeze.
The beauty of the Abyss, its allure of adventure within a nonsensical labyrinth, was perhaps lost upon her, who sought only to wield her blade and to lose herself in the death-dance. To lose her thoughts before what she sought to achieve clashed once more with her own ideals as a human being.
It was a seductive thing though, the Abyss.
Even if ‘adventure’ was lost to her, ‘battle’ was not. And as the earth around her began to shift, the labyrinth rearranging itself beneath the twinkling rapture of the Perishing Star that crested over the horizon, she could feel it.
Monsters. Drawn to her, and her alone. Motley crews of murderous goblinoids, the entirety of their meagre intelligence driven to violence and plunder. If they had freedom of choice, they would undoubtedly be ‘evil’, but just as animals were driven to predation without burden upon their souls, so too were monsters driven towards the destruction of the creations of the Thousand-Faced Deity.
They would come. She would fight.
Perhaps that is where her solace lied, her identity as a monster slayer.
Or perhaps that is where she would fall further, away from what an Ichor-Blessed ought to be.
@Estylwen 
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