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CollectorOfMyst
NightbringerGrand Ballroom, the Great Basilika, Magnagrad
[written by Lovejoy & Scout]
Viveca immediately felt as though she’d asked a stronger question than intended. Mother Indira seemed to reel for just a moment and by the time the new priestess was ready to dismiss it, her mentor was answering. It didn’t take long for Viveca to be enraptured by her story, opening up about her ashe-ran; though the words were brief, it was probably a deeper, longer glimpse into Mother Indira’s life than the young Omestrian had ever been given. Then, as soon as the window was opened a crack, Indira slammed it shut, recounting all of her words, her wisdom, and dismissing it as a silly phrase that she took up to fit in.
The young woman frowned and nodded, “I doubt I’ll forget it, Mother, but I’ll not pry.” Had she not looked up in time, she might have missed it; there wasn’t a doubt in Viveca’s mind when she looked up and saw the look of worry, of… guilt? Yes, it must have been guilt, in Indira’s eyes, for Viveca herself had held it in her own gaze many times under the wing of the kind Inquisitor before her education at the Red Seminary. She hadn’t even registered the young military officers walking by – upon her Culmination, they’d be daft to stand against so much as a look from her. At least, that was how she viewed it.
And again, as though Indira knew exactly what she was thinking, Viveca couldn’t even ask what was wrong before her mentor’s hushed hiss filled her ears. Her stomach flipped over in her gut and the new priestess had rarely heard such urgency in Indira’s voice. In the same, nearly inaudible tone she asked, “Not here, then.” Her mind flashed to those young officers and she gave a soft shake of her head, “Perhaps we should relocate?”
And the small sense of nausea filled her, Viveca couldn’t help but speculate. Were they going on a suicide mission? Was it really so uncommon for Inquisitors to travel into the unknown like this? They were so new, she figured this would be dangerous, but no more so difficult than what she’d been trained to handle… Suddenly, Viveca felt as though she was so much happier only thirty seconds ago. Pining now for the bliss of ignorance, she followed her teacher, unable to control her nervous habit of reaching back and stroking the ribbon behind her head for only a moment. It reassured her. It was, in all of its essence, hope for her.
***
"Come."
Indira turned and walked towards the balcony.
The night's festivities seemed to be dying down and the dance floor was growing emptier by the moment. The grand ballroom of the Great Basilika was a colossal hall of dark obsidian and shining azure crystal, its opulence at odds with the rest of the spartan yet mammoth chambers that filled the ancient cathedral. As they made their way to the balcony, Indira couldn't help but notice the blue jewels inlaid within the glossy black walls and floors of the ballroom. She had been drinking all night and hadn't taken a proper look, but in that moment she couldn't help but admire the beauty and irony of it all. The black marble interior like a swath of night, the jewels like constellations blinking in the heavens... Indira scanned the room and picked apart every Lanostran-- Astraia standing in the shadows watching, Ziotea dancing quietly with Rodeon, Galahad standing around looking bored while flocked by three female soldiers, Indira wondered if they were aware that this ballroom had been carved with stones and jewels wrested from the sacred mountain of their homeland. They were all traipsing upon stolen ground.
There was no one on the balcony except for a young servant girl smoking a cigarette. When she caught Indira's eyes, the servant bowed and hastily made her way inside.
The two inquisitors stood by the gilded railing of the balcony and gazed down upon the world. From on high they could glimpse to where Magnagrad's boundary, that burning gold horizon of etherlight, ended and where the darkness of the frozen icelands began. Indira thought back to her own Rising Ceremony, back when she was a skinny twig of a girl. No one had asked her to dance that day. Except for Creid...
Indira turned to Vivica and sighed, her breath turning to fog in the frigid night.
"We're all going to die," she said suddenly.
The words seemed to hang in the air. Viveca stared at her blankly. There was no look of shock nor fear in the young Inquisitor's eyes. Only a sort of grim acceptance.
Indira smiled.
Good. She's felt it as well. The disquiet. But you don't truly understand, Vivica. You don't understand what's waiting out there.
Somewhere far away, past the Godsfall and into the deeper wards of the city, an entire sector went dark, its etherlights blinking in erratic rhythms before shutting off completely. Indira spared a moment to grieve for those who would die of exposure tonight. It would take at least a day for the Church to send out a team of engineers to repair whatever infrastructure had broken. Indira breathed in and allowed herself to take in the enormity of Magnagrad unfolding itself before her. She tried to picture the entire city with its hundreds of sectors and wards in shadow, but found that she couldn't.
Instead, she envisioned the city in flames, just as she had all those years ago during her Culmination. She found that the image was still there, burned into her eyes.
"Before you say anything else, I want you to listen."
She turned to Vivica and gazed at the young inquisitor, admiring how the years had forged her pupil into a shrewd and powerful woman, but had not robbed the Omestrian girl of her beauty. The light cast from the ocean of ether bathed the young inquisitor's hair in gold and sapphire light, but the darkness of the colorless Varyan night framed her other half in shadow. The blue ribbon that she had worn since she was a girl hung lazily in the wind.
"Father Creid... and Father Antonin." Indira stopped then, as if to brace for the words she was about to unleash upon the world. "They committed a grave crime-- a crime against Lord Varya and all the Gods... and I helped them."
She paused again, as if to recover from the dark admission that had passed from her lips. Seemingly in response, the wind began to howl.
"I'm sure you have heard rumors of what Father Creid is capable of. I will tell you, what you have heard doesn't begin to capture it. Father Creid is capable of great miracles. He is also capable of causing irreparable damage to the world...
Imagine having the ability to gaze upon the future, to see with your own eyes what tomorrow brings. That is what he decided to do after Lord Varya decided on sending the better part of the empire's inquisitors and soldiers to invade the eastern continent. Whether he did it to sate his own curiosity or to prepare his own class of inquisitors for whatever is awaiting them, I don't know... but with Antonin's help, Creid was able to... travel forward in time. I know it sounds crazy, but it's real. He stepped aboard the Durandal, the ark that he is destined to command, and for three months he observed what was to transpire aboard that ark, unable to change anything. At the end of those three months the armada had made their way far beyond the Narrow Gates, but had not reached El. It was then that it happened... It was then that he saw it."
Indira's eyes darted to the balcony entrance, and when she was satisfied that not a soul could hear, she leaned in close to Viveca and whispered the words into her ear.
"Vai'roth."
The two words danced in Vivica's head. She could not immediately grasp the meaning of the ancient Omestrian sounds. She thought back to her childhood, to the words of her ancestors spoken in secret within the shadows. It was then that the meaning came to her, and her soul filled with dread.
Vai'roth...
Hellfire.
***
"Quickly! Indira!"
Antonin's screams echoed across the darkened infirmary ward. The summoner stood frozen, gazing down at the ruined body of her former mentor. Father Creid lay motionless beneath her. He was strapped to a bed with sheets stained in crimson. His mutilated body was covered head to toe in blood. Apart from his missing limbs, large sections of his abdomen were missing, the flesh and muscle tissue gone from him. Reddened shards of bone were visible under his pallid translucent skin while the chasm in his chest cavity showed the pulsing mechanical heart that gave him life. The white ether that emanated from the mechanism seemed to be fading with every beat. All around her feet his appendages lay strewn about. Behind her his clockwork limbs lay smoking in a ruined heap, while in her hands, his bronze mask was coated in blood. She could feel it staining her fingernails.
"He is going to die! I need your ether now."
She found herself turned around and staring at Antonin's sweat-streaked face. His face was paler than it had ever been, and his pupils appeared black in the shadows of this place. They appeared to glisten. Whether the man's eyes were moist from his friend's blood, or his own tears, Indira couldn't tell.
"Of-Of course."
Indira drew in a sharp breath. She raised her hand in front of her face and tried to center her concentration. With her mentor dying there next to her, Indira found the summoning of a spellblade more difficult than it needed to be, but this was Creid-- the man who had guided her since she was a girl, who had taught her the value of cloaking one's faith, of enduring and keeping the spirit strong.
Indira closed her eyes, and an instant later, opened them. With a flash of pale blue light a short blade of ether manifested forth from her fingertips. She bit her lip and fought her natural instinct to summon a paling around her, but with a warrior's grace she quickly guided the blade down through her wrist, severing her own hand. She watched as it fell on the floor and immediately kicked it under the bed. No matter how many times she had lost a limb, be it in her own experiments or through aiding Antonin, she had never quite gotten used to seeing her appendages lying on the ground beneath her.
The pain was there, but Indira had grown accustomed to the feeling by now. She hovered her amputated wrist over Creid's blood-covered body and watched as her Omestrian blood flowed forth, melding with his own. Beside her, Antonin held aloft his catalyst and began to channel his own ether into a blood transfusion spell. It would take time, but Creid would live.
It was several hours before Creid awoke and called out to them.
"Indi. Toni."
Antonin was looking over Indira's reattached hand when they heard his voice. Antonin jumped up from his stool and hastily made his way to Creid's side. He brushed the dark hair from his friend's face and slapped him gently across the cheek.
"You damned fool. I hope that was worth it."
Creid attemped to sit up, but found that he couldn't. Instead, he craned his neck to stare at Indira sitting on the opposite bed. He smiled at her.
"Tell him, would you, dear? I've never gone forward before. How was I supposed to know this would be the result?"
"You're a fucking idiot," she fired back.
Indira got to her feet and walked over to her mentor, where she placed her reattached hand on his shoulder and squeezed. The things I do for you. Antonin had done a masterful job of healing him, but whatever insane chronospell Creid had cast had taken its toll. There was less of him now. And there was no getting that back, no matter the strength of Antonin's healing magic.
Creid stared down at his abdomen, where the gouges of missing flesh and bone still remained.
"Hm. Suppose I'll require some skin grafts. I hear they're quite reasonably priced these days. Wait, why am I slurring?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It also took part of your jaw," Antonin answered.
"An acceptable bargain for what I saw--"
"What did you see? Tell us already," Indira spoke up. Something told her that Creid was dreading what he was about to say.
Creid was quiet for a moment before speaking again.
"You should sit down. Both of you."
***
At the mention of those two unholy words stuck together, Vivica's eyes widened in fear.
"Father Creid said it was quick. One moment the armada proceeded onward, arcing across foreign ice... the next, destruction. He claimed it came from the sky, something hot, burning, a ocean of that unknown force flooding over every ship, every soul. Creid described what it felt like. His flesh disappearing. His bones smoking and turning to ash."
"He doesn't know what annihilates the grand armada, or whether this catastrophe will truly come to pass, but, if there is something out there that can kill Creid and Gregoroth both... you, Ilya, Oren and the rest of Warband Phoenix must prepare for it."