Recap: The Portal Under Whitehall
The group attempt to track the lycanthrope, but are forced to give up, as its trail leads away from Northwall and its head start too great. They decide to resume the journey to Whitehall so Bartholomew may claim his new estate.
They are met with a grim discovery– the manor and village are almost entirely abandoned. To their horror, the castellan jumps to his death on the cobblestones at their approach, and they discover his anatomy is no longer fully human.
They learn from his records that a sad tale has played out, one Cei has seen before in her investigations– the estate has fallen on hard times, partly due to a profligate and incompetent lord, and out of desperation, the villagers struck a deal with beings from the Black Multitude, brokered by a townswoman kidnapped by bandits, and evidently saved by said beings.
The chapel is horribly desecrated; a massive gold idol of a water demon occupies it, along with many smaller gold items, and massive piles of rotting fish.
The fell beings are aquatic in form, and the villagers’ bodies show evidence of transforming into fish-like shapes. The party is attacked by them on the lakeshore; they are defeated, but it becomes evident that more remain, and are like to return at night.
The party searches the manor and village and make more discoveries– among them, an ancient copy of the Liber Lucis, and a secret chamber containing the effects of a powerful cleric of Aëo. They conclude that the manor was the home of a powerful cleric, or series of clerics, entrusted with guarding the lake.
The magically gifted among the party sense a profound evil in the lake's strangely abyssal depths. Bart and Ren argue that perhaps the demon-twisted villagers can be reasoned with, or placated, and that slaying them is perhaps not the only solution; Cei, Abelard, and Sevara vehemently disagree, and Cei tells them of the Purifier assignment where she and Abelard met; they were horribly tortured by possessed monks who thought they, too, could bargain with demons, escaped only due to the appearance of the Thunderhead, and were forced to slay all the monks, their captive villagers, and burn the monastery– a priceless trove of ancient documents– to the ground.
They decide they must search the labyrinthine tunnels underneath the keep, accessed through several points: a secret tunnel behind the altar, and a keg in the wine cellar.
They are then accosted by Athamorne– the former kidnapped village woman– at the head of a host of mutated villagers. Athamorne asks them to treat and is answered by Sevara, who blasts them with divine power. Midway through the fight, something truly horrifying and epoch-shaking comes to pass– the demon Kanrien appears from a magic portal, the first demon ever known to have fully incarnated in the Framework since the creation of the Cauldron.
Cei, showing no fear, effortlessly summons the previously elusive Thunderhead, and attacks the demon. The other party members contemplate fleeing; it is apparent Cei is willing to die to bring it down. But the Thunderhead suddenly displays a mystical synergy with Bart’s parents' legacy, the Neverender staff; they both crackle with the same lightning, heightening each other’s power. The tide of the battle begins to turn.
Cei and Sevara are grievously wounded in the fight; Lyra’s arrow thankfully finishes it off just in time.
They now face the grim responsibility of deciding what must be done. They decide to keep Kanrien’s head and hands, and that of one of the villagers, as proof of what transpired, and destroy the rest. They conclude they must invite representatives of all relevant factions in the Framework to bear witness, so that none may control or suppress the truth. They especially decide to invite the Magi from the tower to investigate the massively powerful, ancient, and evil portal from whence the demon came.
It is decided that Abelard must guard the remnants by taking an oath of holy vigil, never speaking or leaving the cavern, for as long as it takes.
The group searches the manor again, more carefully, and make yet another epoch-shaking discovery: a scroll written by one Aretosca Simeon, who is discovered to be a former Saint in Aëo's Host, having abandoned the rank and accepted a position guarding the portal beneath the lake, to be passed to his descendants. In it, Aëo is referred to as a woman. Sevara, attempting to sense the object’s history, is struck into a coma.
Abelard and Cei do their best to heal her, but Abelard determines she must make the rest of the journey herself.
Feeling shaken by the latest of a faith-crisis-inducing series of revelations, Cei, accompanied by Abelard, leaves to consecrate the small shrine of Phanaia by the creek. At the altar, she weeps for all their losses and tragedies– from Calli and Bart’s parents, to Lyra and Cyrus's torture at Calli's hands, to Havikar and Emelius, to the tragedy of Aeo's truth suppressed for millennia. If Phanaia (who traditionally accepts offerings of symbolic tears, returned water, spoken sorrows) accepts, she gives no sign.
Abelard begins his vigil, and the party send cryptic but emphatic invitations to the relevant parties. For the next month, Bart tirelessly readies the manor; Cei stays by Sevara’s side and prays without cease. Reniel trains, cares for, and befriends Musetti, Berenice, and Jack, and brings food and water to Abelard. Lyra surveys the land, and Cyrus melts all the cultist gold into bars for the settlement’s use.
A month passes, and the distinguished guests begin to arrive: Archbishop Amherst, Jorinian Green, the three Magi from the Tower at Northwall, Sosimar Kaine and the ranking Inquisitor-General among them. The party is somewhat shocked at how effective their summons proved to be.
Predictable conflicts and tensions erupt among the attendees. The party feeds them and takes them to the chapel for prayer, then proceed to the matter at hand. Bickering over civil and Ecclesiastical matters erupts at the sight of just the portal, then Cei tears the tarp from Kanrien's head.
Mayhem ensues. The Archbishop and company are torn between despair that the Cauldron’s potency is no longer assured, and suppressing the truth to prevent mass panic. Sosimar Kaine denounces the Liber Lucis as lies and the Ecclesiastes as liars. Cei and Bartholomew somehow manage to maintain order, urging courage, and the cooperation of all factions present as necessary to face the threat.
The rallying speeches prove all too timely, as suddenly the gate flares to life, and Mother Leviathan herself appears.
A Dream at the end….or was it the beginning?
A DREAM AT THE END, OR WAS IT THE BEGINNING?
The darkness rises above me as a tidal wave, rank upon rank of the blighted enemy: a motley, malformed army of nightmares beyond count: ceaseless, ruthless, unstoppable. The terror I feel before their unholy violence threatens to choke me, to stop my heart dead in its beat. Against all sense and reason, my arm rises time and again, my mace heavy in my numb, stinging hand…all my mortal will is spent just holding my grip upon it in the face of such horror. I dare not let myself rest, a surcease in this moment could only result in my death. And she needs me….she needs my will, she needs my steel. Fatigued, wounded, covered in, and near blinded by the stinging black blood of the enemy, with my nostrils full of the unbearable stench, I turn my gaze to her, hoping to refill my vessel with faith and hope…and it works. It always works.
She is beautiful, in much the same way as a raging fire is beautiful, or a lightning storm, or a volcano. She inspires awe rampant in me…beyond the love, and the infatuation. We are all infatuated with her. She is our creator, our saviour….our salvation. But what is remarkable is how easy it is to forget just what she is….in times of quiet and peace, she appears to the eye to be nothing but a young girl: of no more than 18 years; with a willowy, slight build; long, straight, white-blonde hair, a comely, winsome aspect and blue eyes full of love, wisdom and compassion. But here, on this field of battle, the FINAL battle, you see what she truly is: she is power, and grace eternal…she is The Avatar of the Light. She is Apocalypse: Revelation in the ancient tongues. Wreathed in cleansing white flame, so hot and bright that it threatens to burn the faithless to ash just to look upon her. Fighting with her spear Dawnbringer in one hand and a benediction in her other: praising her holy soldiers to steel their hearts against the profanity of the Halls of the Endless, she knows neither fatigue nor surrender, and her bond is to her children. ALL of her children. She is oathbound to provide the time that the last four of her Archons, including my mistress Phanaia, need to complete their sacrifice and become the shield that guards the walls of reality. The Empress does not expect to survive….but how could we ever live without her?
The thought raises a new fear in me: that even though the fear radiating from the monstrous horde before me threatens to take my heart, the fear of losing her is even more painful. And so my arm rises again, smashing the skull of a horrid shadow with the face of an infant and tentacles of fathomless black. Formless aeons of infinite sadness envelop me, and I scream a fervent prayer to my Empress, light arcing along the line of my comrades, slicing the shadows with blades of pure holy light. I feel claws wrap around my ankle, halting my move forward along the line, and I see St. Michael slash the hand free, red mane and trim beard matted with gore and ichor. We rally together, with St. Yeshuel, against a wall of sentient blood. We barely break stride to cut down the horrid Shedim with holy flame so we can rush in vain to rescue St. Caicanar, his inhumanly muscled chest heaving in a mortal grapple with the terrible demon lord Jhaharadin. I feel the scream leap from my mouth as one of the demon’s many arms slides the Blade called Gluttony into Caicanar’s noble heart, drinking his soul. In the split moment of drunkenness whilst Caicanar’s mighty soul flowed from the cursed knife into Jhaharadin, we rush him and cut him down in a flurry of steel and ire. But Yeshuel is lost….brave Yeshuel, who never bowed to fear and always raised a shield to defend the weak. St. Michael, glorious commander, turns to face Gothriel’s consort Urmakastikorrianiss, who is called Leviathan, Mother of Horrors, great Queen of the Deepest Waters, just as our Empress locks blades with Azakariel, The Grand Marshal of the Army of Endless Edges. His visage fills me with dread….is he 20 feet tall? Or 20 times 20 feet? The air and light warps around him as he savages the field. Pits of nothingness lie in his spoor, each step of his cloven black feet rending reality and leaving only death behind him. The fallen of our number wake as mindless dead behind him, their eternal rest stolen away from them by his fell power. I freeze in terror as I behold his face….he is endless darkness within and without, and he reminds me of what I am: naught but a weak, fleshy worm…a maggot, feasting and trying to grow fat on his leavings. I am nothing before him…how could I have thought to face this? The only option is to turn and run. Or to throw down my weapons and beg for death.
And then I see her again: my Empress. My sole solace. She fights on, expecting to die, her spear flashing with hope. And as I feel my heart lighten, I see him skulk behind her: Saraiel…his very name a curse. The Betrayer. He who broke Panegal. He who opened the gates to the Enemy. And then I’m rushing towards her, screaming a shrill warning in a voice I scarcely recognize. I fell 1, 2, 5, 10 opponents, in as many heartbeats, and I’m running, faster than I ever have before….but every step feels like a step away from her. I bound up a mountain of corpses and fling myself into the air, arm raised to strike, seemingly hanging for an eternity as she bravely faces the monstrosity before her…I see the Betrayer slip behind her, so smooth, so slow, so cowardly, and then her scream. Time freezes. Infinity stretches out before me. I fly through a miasma of Sanguis Sacer Imperatricis and my sadness overwhelms me as she falls. I raise my shield against Azakariel’s killing blow to her and feel his blow shatter my arm, pain beyond pain. I feel my very soul reverberate within me, struggling to break free from my foolish flesh that imperilled it to death eternal. He raises his arm again, and again time freezes: I see around me my dead and dying brethren, those who yet draw breath fighting on, on and on, with hope and faith. They do not falter. St. Michael, that valiant soul, thrusts his long, strong sword into the eye of Mother Leviathan, a gout of the endless abyssal ocean shooting forth, and her agonized roar rattles the foundations of creation as her measureless tentacles and thousand gaping mouths flee back into her black queendom, with Michael’s sword still embedded in her foul gaze. I see sweet St. Anne and radiant St. Alia leading a contingent of Exalted against the Black Prince Gothriel and his army of wraiths, twin beacons of holy light driving back an unstoppable sea of undeath. And I see St. Gaius, St. Vicius and St. Thorne mob Saraiel with tears in their eyes for their fallen mistress, swearing oaths of vengeance against the hated Betrayer, only to fall to Saraiel’s swift blades. Their courage shames the fear I feel in my heart, and I renew my vow with my blood and heart, ‘til my ending.
But most of all, I see him before me, The Architect of Death, The Lord of the Shifting Host, The Grand Marshal of the Army of Endless Edges: Azakariel the Hunger. He who the Eldest appointed to break the Upstart Empress and destroy her Throne. And I know my life is over. I meekly raise my broken shield and arm against an unstoppable force, and prepare for the end, his black, flaming breath stealing the air from me and hungering for my very soul. And then, suddenly, with no warning, all grows silent and still: until the sky bursts forth with blinding light and flame. The very earth shakes and great tidal waves, coupled with blasts of lightning arcing from above, crash into the hordes of the enemy. The endless ranks of the Shedim scream and writhe, burning in the radiance of the new Lighthouse upon the walls of eternity, or falling into the great crevasses that open in the firmament. The final four Archons have succeeded, and sacrificed their very souls in defense life itself. I utter a small, silent prayer of thanks in my heart for all four of them, but foremost for Phanaia, river-maiden, who honoured me by calling me to her service.
Azakariel recoils from the light, and his arm rises to smite my Empress…but though my fear threatens to choke me, I can’t allow it, so I throw myself in the path of his blow and brace for the end. But I feel her beside me, and her slender arm rises one last time. Dawnbringer finds its mark, and Azakariel screams in pain. Saraiel, wounded but still victorious against my comrades, pulls Azakariel screaming back into the shelter of the Endless Night as the shattered remnants of Panegal are cast back into the light of day.
What a cost we have paid…The Empress lies in eternal sleep, the Archons are all destroyed, except the Betrayer, fully half of the Exalted lie dead or worse…and the world is forever broken.
We are the inheritors of a dark destiny. I wake up every night screaming in terror with the memories of those darkest of days. And I light a candle every single morning in honour of those we lost. We will weather it, because we must. We carry the legacy of life in the face of endless death, and we will not falter.
The Tutelage of St. Vicius
Bail stood, awkwardly at attention, at the back wall of the lecture hall in the Cloister of Saint Vicius. (Truth be told, Bail didn’t even like the building. He loved most of the campus– he’d grown to manhood in a hamlet of thirty people south of Pike’s Burden; he’d wept the first time he’d seen the glorious cathedral spires. But the Cloister was dark. The windows were narrow, and all the ironwork formed sinister points and barbs, and icons of Saint Vicius glowered disapprovingly from every wall.) As usual while on duty, he sported his freshly pressed tabard proclaiming him to be a recruit of the Gladium Aeo– he beamed and preened a little bit with pride every time he donned it– and in one hand he carried a cudgel, which at the moment he was doing his best not to fidget with. “No blades, those are for the battlefield,” Sergeant Bedivere had told them. “You’ll not need them to subdue a few drunken initiates.
Well, as far as Bail could tell, no one was drunk in the lecture hall. This was an odd assembly. In addition to a small handful of young trainees, there were full-fledged Purifiers, Confessors, Inquisitors… even a few from outside the Inquisitoraea, who from their panoply, were Gladium Aeo, and off in a corner, one Knight of the Reclamation; Bail’s eyes widened at the power, and confidence, and holiness that radiated off the knights in their gleaming mail.
The man droning at the lectern at the front of the hall was not someone Bail recognized. He knew Purifier-General Havikar, at least by sight, anyway; Havikar was businesslike and cool and eternally preoccupied, and bustled about in his tidy and well-kept black hat and brigandine. This man was different. He wore a voluminous robe with a hood so deep that Bail could only see his chin and thin, wrinkled mouth. And his voice grated, scraped like the iron rims on a wagon wheel, dragged the wrong way over cobblestone. Usually when Bail was tasked with keeping watch over a lecture hall, he barely heard the words of the men at the lecterns. When people spoke with large, complicated words, they tended to slip through his ears and escape, anyway, like canny trout leaping over the village weir. But these words stuck, somehow, and made him squirm, ill at ease.
“It is impossible to classify or categorize or predict the demonic, because demons are the spawn of the Maelstrom, and the Maelstrom is pure chaos. It is the work of Aeo, and the duty of his Tytonian children, to vanquish chaos by hewing order from it. Hence all things orderly and harmonious are the work of the divine, and all things chaotic and deviant are tantamount to the demonic. You need only look at the Framework itself to see the truth of this– four Immortal Sentinels, each governing one of the four eternal elements, forming the Cauldron; each presiding over one of the four seasons. There is no purer evidence of order vanquishing chaos. There are many documented accounts of encounters with the demonic, and those of you in the Order of Holy Flame will study these accounts in great detail as you progress in your training. However, as you review them, you will notice how wildly they differ, even from each other.”
Bail’s gaze fell on two figures seated nearest him; he watched their postures shift a little as the cloaked man spoke. One of them steepled his fingers and cocked his head– an odd head it was, his tidily trimmed hair snow-white, even though he was young, no older than Bail. The other– Bail realized with a start that it was a girl. He almost hadn’t noticed, because her head was shrouded in one of the head-cloths that the Ordo Solatium sisters wore. She leaned forward, intently, and he saw that she was writing on parchment, fast, constantly, filling the pages with lines of neat black text. Bail could barely read, despite the best efforts of Father Llendric back home, and he knew that this girl possessed some sorcery he would never master.
Curious, he took a few steps to the left, to better scrutinize this odd pair. The white-haired boy caught the movement in his peripheral vision and glanced over. He was very handsome. Their eyes met, and he smiled, dazzlingly, his lips full and his teeth straight and white. Bail felt blood rush to his face, and he quickly looked away.
The girl did not look up from her writing, but Bail could see, wreathed in the habit, a very pale oval of a face, dark brows furrowed in concentration, and strange eyes, a hazel so light they looked almost yellow. Like a goat’s. He realized, from their matching dark baldrics, that they were Purifier recruits. The incongruity made his head spin. Neither of them had cruel eyes. In fact, the girl looked… Not scared, precisely. His little sister, back home, often got nervous when out in the village square, especially during feastdays when there were strangers around, and would cling to his hand. This girl’s posture was tense in the same way. The realization filled him with an urge to protect this strange Purifier girl, as absurd as the idea of protecting a Purifier seemed.
“...but the important thing is to learn to identify those who traffic with them,” rasped the cloaked man. “Detection, identification, purification, as our colleagues here in the Cloister are wont to say. Now there are many hints, some subtle, some obvious, that a Tytonian is in league with the demonic. We shall go over the most readily identifiable today. They are summarized, of course, by the nine Great Alarums, but I am here to provide you with my extensive experience, observations, and interpretations of the holy texts, that you might benefit from it as well as your studies of the texts themselves.
“As Aeo elevates high from low, all things forming a natural and ordered hierarchy in His kingdom, so too are Tytonians sorted into a hierarchy. The highest are the nobles and clergy, charged with enacting His laws in the mundane sphere, and His will in the Ecclesiastical. The lowest are commoners. They too have a place in Aeo’s kingdom, of course, but they need to be shepherded by noble rulers and lawgivers, and guided by the Ecclesiastes, lest they stray into immorality. Because, you see, the common man is always at greater risk of trucking with the demonic than the noble man.
“Secondly, while we have an accord with the Circle of Thorns, and that accord is official, and respected officially in all manners and means by the Ecclesiastes, and they are sworn to self-police for the faintest trace of devilry among their members… the fundamental truth of the Framework is that magic is chaos; it is the selfsame wellspring that births the demons we seek to destroy. It is wholly different than the divine power that those gifted among the Ecclesiastes wield, as different as blood and wine, though they be the same hue; it is inherently a gateway to corruption, and those who wield it can never fully be trusted, no matter how many centuries the accord holds.
“Thirdly, it is a long-established fact that unnatural sexual perversions and deviance, anything other than the holy union of man and woman united in Aeo’s sacrament of marriage, is one of the first and most telltale signs of demonic corruption. And while it is not officially doctrine, let me tell you from my own experience… women, themselves, seem to be more vulnerable to diabolism, hence the countless tales of supposed harmless village herb-wives who are in fact vile demoniacs preying on the goodfolk of their village.”
He heard a snicker, from the row just behind Bail’s two trainee Purifiers, and a voice– sneering, haughty. “So the two of you are demon possessions waiting to happen. Perhaps we should just Purify you now, save the Cloister the expense of training you.”
“Oh come now, Wayans,” the handsome white-haired boy chuckled, perfectly at ease. “I only fucked your mother in the unnatural fashion because she begged me for it. I would’ve been perfectly content to fuck her in the conventional way.”
Pandemonium exploded as the sneering boy leapt over the table at the white-haired boy. He knocked him off his stool and they both fell to the ground. Bail’s body was already moving long before his mind could catch up. The girl was fast too, and attempted to pull Wayans off her white-haired friend. Wayans’ hands were wrapped around the other boy’s throat, and were squeezing. Bail collared him and wrenched him away, placing his body between Wayans and the two odd Purifiers. He was a full head taller than Wayans; it wasn’t difficult, and he was gratified as he saw the white-haired boy grinning at him–
And then a lance of ice shot between his ribs, and he looked down, and blood was soaking his clean, pressed tabard, and something was glinting in Wayans’ hands, and suddenly everything was very blurry, and the dark Cloister walls were spinning, and then closing in…
“There, lad. You’ll be right as rain. You just lay there a moment, till you feel ready to rise.” A rumbly deep voice. It was the Knight of the Reclamation, his face looming over Bail, who found himself laying flat on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. The Knight was a powerfully built man in his prime, with a shockingly bright rust-coloured beard. His gauntleted hand was pressed to Bail’s side, and though Bail’s blood streaked the steel, a soft light haloed it, and he felt no pain, only warmth. The Knight stood, addressing the chaotic hubbub of the lecture hall. “For shame. You besmirch the name of the Order of Holy Flame when you behave in this way. We are fortunate enough to have an… expert of this caliber in our midst, and you disrespect him thus?”
Bail looked up to see Wayans being dragged off by the senior Gladium Aeo. As he passed, he hissed at the white-haired boy. “You’ll fucking pay for this, Endicott. You and your little whore friend. Maybe that huge dimwit too. My father will make sure I don’t spend a single night in gaol–” He stopped abruptly as one of the Gladium Aeo cuffed him across the face. “That’s about enough out of you, lad. Don’t make things harder on yourself,” the knight growled.
The raspy voice grated from the front of the lecture hall yet again. “Oh, pay no heed, Sir Alaric. It was a most… amusing display. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Havikar’s new pet, isn’t it? The girl?” His chuckle sounded like a graveyard gate swinging. “Impress me, little girl. Show me why the mighty Lyonel Havikar saw fit to ignore centuries of doctrine on your behalf. Tell me what you learned today.”
Bail watched, from his vantage point on the floor, as the girl stood. She was tall for a girl, and as her posture straightened, he watched all resemblance to his timid little sister vanish. It was as though being challenged made her less afraid. She faced the cloaked man squarely, and when she spoke, her voice was deep, level, devoid of emotion. Somewhat intimidating, actually.
“The demonic host defy categorization and even understanding by the mortal mind, for they are creatures born of and steeped in chaos, and as such defy classification and understanding, for those are creations of Aeo, the architect of all natural order, and tools to be wielded by Tytonians, His children, servants, and the executors of his will. All things ordered and harmonious carry within them this divine order, and all things aberrant bear evidence of the Maelstrom’s touch.
“While demons themselves cannot be categorized or predicted, centuries of careful documentation, analysis, and study, by devotees of Saint Vicius, have resulted in the observation of certain broad patterns in the manifestation of demonic activity in the Framework, as demons wield influence in the Framework through the most effective means available to them, repelled as they are by the Cauldron: inroads through manipulation of Tytonians, via influence, in which their behaviour can be seen to be altered, escalating to pacts, in which they have brokered an agreement of some sort with the demonic entity, and finally to full possession, in which the entity is fully in direct control of the mortal host. These broad patterns form the bulk of the ‘detection and identification’ steps of Purifier methodology, yet as they are still echoes of the demonic, there may still be wide deviance and unpredictability within them, and at any of these stages, one demonic incursion may look completely different from another.
“The central text of the Order of Holy Flame, the Maleficarum, was written by the first Purifier– Grand Purifier Sicoris Aldesevrin Bellico, in the 288th year of the Cauldron, and all Purifier and Confessor methodology is derived from its pages. The Maleficarum identifies nine Great Alarums by which we may be alerted to the presence of a demonic incursion.
“The first is Perfidy. As Saraiel broke the trust of Aeo, so too does any demonic activity involve some manner of duplicity, oathbreaking, misleading, be it large or small.
“The second is Thrall, the ability to exert influence and sway over a group. This is why so many demonic incursions take the form of cults, presided over by a singular cult leader.
“The third is Depredation. Aeo commands His children to protect and defend the weak and vulnerable. The demonic invariably preys upon the vulnerable and seeks out weakness.
“The fourth is Malevolence. Aeo commands His children to act in each other’s defense, to champion each other, to sacrifice themselves for the good of all, if need be; the demonic twists and warps Tytonians to strive to plunder, exploit, take advantage.
“The fifth is Bloodthirst. Almost all confirmed diabolists and demoniacs use blood as currency; it is not fully understood why, but it is omnipresent in rituals and as offerings.
“The sixth is Licentiousness. The minions of the Utterdark seem to find a particularly reliable means of manipulating Tytonians via carnal desires; this is a corruption of Aeo’s holy gift of procreation, and can be seen in many documented cases of cults’ profane rites.
"The seventh is–”
Bail’s eyes widened as he realized she wasn’t reading from her notes, she was reciting all this from memory. The hooded man seemed to realize it too; he cut her off, and from his tone, he did not sound pleased at her flawless recounting. Bail was confused; why wouldn’t he be pleased she had learned so well?
“That’s enough, girl; perhaps you should be sent to the Ordo Solatium and reminded that humility is a virtue, hubris a sin. We’re finished for today. I suggest you all read the scholar Calanwicke’s pioneering Revelations on Saint Vicius; the Holy Flame’s library has a half dozen passable copies for student use, if I recall correctly...”
But Bail barely heard him; as he struggled to his feet, the Knight of the Reclamation, Sir Alaric, and the white-haired boy, and now the pale girl, were all looking at him, and he felt dizzy, but in a good way. The Knight nodded, approvingly. The girl met his gaze, and he could see gratitude in her odd goat eyes. The white-haired boy winked.
Oh, Aeo have mercy. Mayhap he’d have to get skilled enough at writing to pen Mama a letter. She’d never believe half the things that happened in a single day on Campus.
Exorcism
Freeday, 29th of Gabri YotC 2267
“There is no peace in this world, except the peace we create. But the wisdom and solace that I have found through self-mastery and attunement project inward, and are impotent to change the course of the patterns that have emerged in every population center we find ourselves in. Wisdom dictates a course of acceptance, but I cannot allow my complacency to be a tool for oppressors.
The monk I spoke to in Charligan gave such an interesting answer to my question. He indicated that the grafted vine represents the cooperation of multiple entities working towards a common goal - but the production of fruit seemed secondary to the characteristics of the fruit itself. Have I misread that as indifference, or was he trying to share greater wisdom than I can yet comprehend?
I feel my course being steered by lesser wisdom. My companions have given me no reason to doubt them, but I doubt myself - would they still have such compassion if they could see more clearly through my cracked facade to the fear and anger that drive even my more admirable ambitions? I feel these emotions consuming me. I feel longing for the embrace of that soul who singularly held the ugliness of the world at bay, and I feel contempt for the world she so believed was worth defending. It destroyed her before she could save it.
I need to regain clarity in the thoughts that cloud my mind. The Monks Militant maintain a monastery in the range to the southwest, perhaps they can refresh me with their wisdom and create peace where there is so much torment. Abelard is acquainted with one of their order and wishes to accompany me, we depart at first light for the Fast of St. Urmath.”
Ren had been told that the monastery was inhabited by an order, Monks Militant, a sect of the Ordo Contemplata populated largely by former members of the Ordo Militaria and Gladium Aeo, tired, scarred and damaged by years of combat and quest. Instead, they had opted for a life of quiet discipline and training to hone and heal their minds, bodies and spirits. Abelard had been to the monastery many times, and counted it's Abbott, Huridin Mascus, among his oldest friends, having been on campaign together in decades past, and having been particularly concerned about Ren's well-being in recent days, offered to accompany him on the journey into the mountains.
When they arrived at the Monastery in the early afternoon, they received a somewhat more curt welcome than they anticipated, as the monks appeared to be preparing for defence and combat. They were told, as they pitched in their hands to help assemble the defence, that the monks had been besieged after nightfall on Lastday of each month for the past three months, by a small force of Acarnax accompanied by a massive, mangy black direwolf covered in sores and scars. The monks had lost 6 of their number in these nocturnal raids, and had recently sent word to the Baron in Charligan requesting aid. They had yet to receive a response.
Lastday, 30th of Gabri YotC 2267
“I might have known better than to seek wisdom from warriors and mercenaries. Retired though they may be, they have no greater peace to offer here than that ineffectual Baron who ignores their pleas and leaves them to be maimed and destroyed. Once again, desperation turns peaceful men to violence and destruction.
Abelard and I will do what we can, of course. But perhaps we can not stop so fitting an end for those who ‘lived by the sword.’ Perhaps this is the only balance that the Framework can offer.”
Abelard and Ren unhesitatingly offered fist and steel to help the monks repel the forthcoming assault, and waited dutifully for night to fall. Sure enough, when the cauldron fell behind the western horizon and darkness descended, the cursed pack fell upon the walls with fierce, unmitigated violence. The barricades were breached, but with the addition of the two heroes in their midst, most of the Acarnax were felled and the day was won. The giant wolf, however, fled into the night after their defeat, bearing a host of grievous wounds. Unfortunately, Ren himself was also badly wounded, a nasty slash across his abdomen which left a brutal scar, even after the ministrations of both the monks and Abelard. After receiving thanks and rations from the monks, they decided to head back to Northwall.
The mood during the 5 hour trip back to town was sombre, and quiet, with Ren's mood seemingly growing more sour by the minute. It finally culminated in an embarrassed apology after he snapped rudely at Abelard when his horse drifted "too close" to Ren's. Abelard has concerns….
Firstday, 1st of Jurni YotC 2267
“I have my answer, then. The Framework is composed in the language of violence and betrayal. How many times will I be brought back from the precipice of death? Direwolves, vampires, and depraved ‘lords’ - theirs is the only manifestation of power that seems to change anything in our Ardaine. If the void wants me so badly, let it take me. All that lies before me is ruin. Even the strongest bonds, the mightiest towers, the greatest armies will crumble and become dust. All gives way to destruction. Perhaps I judged Callie’s conclusions too harshly in my belief that they required justification. Maybe if we had just listened, she would have taught me again. But Cei wouldn’t have let her….”
After they reunited with their friends, Ren's mood swings were even more profound. He did not admit it to his friends, but even he was surprised by the ferocity and frustration he felt inside. After a round of annoying and agitating questioning by Cei, he snapped at her, surprising everyone with his vitriol, and stormed away. Lyra came after him, with patience and kindness, and helped to soothe his restlessness. Then Cyrus came with food for them both before taking his leave. Lyra let him simply be, and kept him company until sleep finally took him.
During a restless, fitful night, he was plagued by horrid dreams, indistinct flashes of brutal violence, perpetrated by his hands against innocent folk....and then, in the final act of the dream, he stalked an unknown innocent through city streets, his hands and face covered in blood not his own. He could FEEL the desire to kill within him.When he finally cornered his prey in a blind alley, shot through with ominous, almost spectating shadows, he pounced upon her, fists flying in unmitigated rage. When he finally regained primacy over his seemingly limitless anger, he saw that his victim had been Callie, bloodied and mangled by his fists, gasping for ragged breaths through broken nose, jaw and teeth, with a look of betrayed shock and surprise on her face.
He woke with a start to Cei gently rousing him, and immediately felt anger and confusion. He was shocked and horrified when he realized that his first impulse was to leap on her and throttle her until she finally shut up, and he just silently choked it down with the bile he tasted in the wake of his nightmare.
Cei proceeded to apologize for interrogating him the previous night. He felt intense guilt for what he had said to her, but even more so for those blackest of feelings he had experienced, even though his friends didn't know and couldn't understand.
He was exhausted, and felt ill inside, and he could only imagine how he looked. He felt disoriented and distracted, had trouble focusing on anything. Cei inquired after his well being, and he heard a voice, clear as day, telling him that "she was always such a nosy bitch", in reference to the Inquisitor General. Cei made him reveal the nasty scar left by the Wolf, which wouldn't heal properly, despite divine magic. The voice kept whispering to him, a stream of honey-tainted venom toward the Inquisitor and her inquiries. At first, he thought the voice was without, but he soon realized that it was Callie's voice, speaking into his mind, full of love for him and bitterness for the others....those who had murdered her without a second thought. "I know your pain, my love...you've carried me with you since long before I forced you to set me free. Our "friends" feel nothing. No remorse, no regret....they were glad to be rid of me, as they were the first time. But you know me like they couldn't. You LOVE me like they couldn't".
"Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!", Ren screamed, seemingly at no one. Cei knelt beside him, touching his arm. Her fingers felt cold against his skin. He struggled to get up into the rough bed. People were talking, voices like lead covered in wool: Cei, Lyra, Abelard, Cyrus....he thought he heard Bartholomew's voice through a fog....but he couldn't piece it all together.....he could see her now, Callie, there in his mind's eye: clear as day. The same sweet smile, the same sweet sadness, the face of innocence laid bare before a cruel, heartless reality: abandoned, abused, maligned, ostracized.....she was such a beautiful soul, and she tried so hard to see the beauty in the world, even though she had lived through such UGLINESS. Ren had held her hand through the worst of it. The others couldn't understand. They couldn't EVER understand. Huddled together under docks to stay warm and dry when the rain came, facing hunger and want with hope and faith, watching over each other when they did whatever ghastly task that survival on the streets of Bridge Burning demanded. And yet he also remembered her beyond the harsh, painful memories: dancing by the riverside on warm summer nights, playing hide and seek in the downs with their friends, chasing butterflies in Nigel Caddock's garden while Beatrix prepared dinner for all the children, the delicious taste of the honey candy Nigel made. And he heard her voice again: "The memories are sweet, my love....cherish them, as I do." And then, a face, beautiful and smiling, shining like the sun, through blackened eyes and bloodied nose, the shattered jaw, the terrible ruin of his own hands etched upon it. "And remember that I love you...I will always love you, no matter what....you freed me. You are my river, the river that I sail on. Your veins are the tributaries that unerringly steer me towards your heart".
And then he began to weep....sadness so black and deep and wide that he couldn't see the other side. And below it, RAGE. The reddest rage. Red like dusk. Red like blood. Red like flames never-ending.
Darkness. The kind that the light of the Cauldron never touches. There are caves in the mountains, so deep and winding that they are absent of light, wind, and soil. There is no fullness there, no sounds, no life.
The church has no dominion there. There is no Aeo there, no archons, no angels, and no outer dark. There is no violence, no oppression, no desperation, no poverty.
“How did I get here?” Ren asked suddenly. His voice was the only movement, and he was answered immediately by echoes. The bare skin of his feet scraped against jagged rocks. He was walking, but nothing visible betrayed his surroundings.
“Ren.” The voice was clear and bright, but quiet. The sudden sound didn’t frighten him - it never could. There was only peace in that voice. Warmth, acceptance, understanding…. Why was it so quiet? Why did it sound so familiar? It was a woman’s voice, clear but distant.
“Where are you?” Ren called out. “I’ve lost my friends, and I’m looking for my way!”
“Ren.”
“I… I can’t see you, and I’ve lost my flint.” Reaching into his pocket, he felt something delicate. A bit of string or lace maybe?
“Reniel Rivers, don’t make me wait a second longer!” A joyful laugh excited the air all around him. Ren turned, and as his foot slipped on something suddenly slick. In the darkness, an arm caught his and his other hand clapped onto a shoulder - small but strong. “I didn’t think I’d find you here so soon.” Ren could hear the smile in her voice.
“Callie-” Her name erupted, halfway between a question and and a declaration.
“What are you doing stumbling around in the dark, you almost took us both over!” There wasn’t a whisper of criticism in her voice, only humour.
“I… I slipped on something. Callie, what are you doing here?”
“It’s the clay. When it gets wet, it turns into a real mess. Don’t worry though, just lean on my shoulder and I’ll show you the way.” Ren’s shoulders relaxed as they began stepping through the darkness.
“But you died... I thought you died.”
“I did. We all did, a little. But I only died once - you have a much higher tally.” The clay was loose as they moved forward.
“I really miss you. Cei and Bart too - they’re going to be so excited when they find out you’re okay!”
“Ren, what do you mean?"
“Callie, everybody thinks you died! They.. they thought they had to stop you. Everybody was so worried, and you had this knife… and and Lyra and Cyrus-"
“You know Lyra and Cyrus?” She asked, joyfully.
“Well, yeah - we met when…” Ren stopped himself. “Callie, what’s going on? Why did you leave? Why are you back?”
The thick soupy clay was getting harder to move in. With each step Ren seemed to sink a little lower. The air was warm, and so was the clay as his next step unexpectedly sunk in halfway up his shin.
“Careful, you knucklehead - I don’t want to get it in my hair. You move like a new calf! How on earth did you survive on a ship?”
(Interaction- Cei wakes us up on the floor of your room. Lead up her asking what happened to you; your exhaustion about running around killing things, being in battle, and running into the demonic.)
“Oh, boats are different - and if you can see the water, it’s easy to predict how they’re going to move. Maybe I got too used to it. How much further till we’re out?”
“We’re not going out, silly. Why would we go out?” Callie paused. “Stop.”
Morning came. Ren and Lyra woke, still seated cross-legged on the floor of the inn, Ren’s partially eaten plate of food still in reach. A knock at the door produces Cyrus, Cei, and Abelard.
Cei is the first to break the morning’s silence. “In Aeo’s name, Ren - what has happened to you?”
The two came to a halt, and only then did Ren come to the realization of how loud their steps had been through the thick muck. Silence.
“Nothing.” Ren opened his eyes and stared deeply at Cei. “And for what its worth damn your god!” “Yes.” Callie’s voice chimed in, “Damn him!”
“Isn’t it peaceful?” She asked. “Isn’t this what you’ve been looking for?”
“Damn him to this very hell! If there was any justice in the Framework, his punishment would be to inhabit this place, to take part in his creation, dwelling in the vice and misery he’s created for the rest of us!”
“He did this to me!” Ren pulls up his shirt, revealing the red, swollen scarring across his lower abdomen. It takes all her energy for Cei to resist the impulse to gasp. But she can’t afford the luxury of accessing her emotions, everyone is counting on her - and the stakes are too high. She begins a more careful examination of his belly and and the wound, with more questions. But Ren either can’t hear her, or doesn’t care. Callie’s voice cuts into the moment. “She was always such a nosey bitch.”
Somehow Ren feels aware of Cei and Lyra fretting and fussing. They’re close, but somehow they feel far away. Callie seemed to have a better hold on the conversation. “Look who’s talking! She’s the ill one” “I’m just so tired. I had a nightmare last night. I didn’t sleep well.”
It was peaceful.
“Yes, rest now love.”
It didn’t feel eery, or uncertain. The echoes were softened by the clay, the dark soothed the ache of years of waking doubts and fears. Respite and release. In the stillness, Ren began to see movement. Not with his eyes, but with his mind.
“What can you see?” Callie asked, suddenly more serious.
“Ren, who are you talking to? Who's voice do you hear?”
“It’s Cei again.” Ren answered. “She and Lyra are worried. Bart too. Cyrus-”
“Get rid of her. Just tell her what she wants to hear and be done.”
Callie cuts Ren off, “Cei doesn’t surprise me, but it’s not like Bartholemew to get so squeamish.” The sound of Callie scraping into the thick mud made it harder to hear. “That’s so funny that you know Lyra and Cyrus, I got them some really lovely gifts you know - they’re going to love them! How did you say you met?”
“Its Callie. Its always been Callie. But not just today, since the day we left Bridgeburning. She’s always with me.”
The digging stopped, and suddenly the SCHLOCK of something large dislodging from the clay wall of the cavern.
Perched on the side of his bed, Cei’s worried eyes search Ren’s face for signs of lucidity. The others have already left - gone to seek the assistance of the Circle - except Abelard who stands guard at the door. Muttering a silent prayer, she takes his hand - where words fail, perhaps a reassuring touch will provide a measure of comfort.
“Ren,” she began.”Tell me what you remember about Callie. A happy memory, one of the moments that make you miss her the most.”
“Well, back in Bridgeburning, when we stopped you they-“
“Ren.” Callie whispered. “You didn’t stop me. Nothing could have stopped me. I’m right here.”
“She doesn’t want to know, Ren.” The rest of Cei’s muffled speech felt distant, as if lost in a fog.
Suddenly, the bright flash of tinder illuminated the cave.
“Callie always loved butterflies, like they held some special magic for her.”
A second strike, and Callie stood before him with a rudimentary torch.
“She and I used to travel together to the western bridges to watch them on cool autumn nights. Once, I stole paper from my father so Callie could draw them. She had a beautiful talent. It was well-worth the beating I received for stealing the paper.”
The damp, clay walls around them seemed to have no entrance or exit. In truth, Ren wasn’t looking for one. There was no part of him that wanted to separate himself from that moment.. She was right, there really wasn’t a reason to leave.
“She doesn’t want to know. Cei could never understand what we had to do to survive. To keep each other alive.” Cei expressed being unsure where those drawings would be now. Tears streaming down her cheeks.
With the light finally illuminating her face, Ren settled into the peace he felt around him.
“Do you know what happened to those drawings? That evening the guards stole them and threw them into the ditch before bringing me back to the orphan asylum. The sisters beat me near to death. You saved me that that time.”
The space seemed to be shrinking as they sank deeper into the soft, warm clay. But that feeling was not paired with anxiety. Ren welcomed it, and moved closer to Callie.
As Ren tries to speak, his face and body contort, as if in pain. “She was more my protector than I ever was for her. She oriented me in a whole new world. The real world. She became my sister, my partner, my closest friend. And she had no reason… she didn’t know me. I had nothing for her. We had never even met before that day.…”
Callie’s voice cut through the pause. “I would have never made it without you.” “That’s not true.” Ren coughed.
Except for his stumbling, they hadn’t touched each other - but now Ren lifted his hand to her shoulder.
“I would have never made it without you Ren.”
A wave of warmth and acceptance shuddered through him.
She was real.
Cei asks Abelard if she had ever told him how she met Ren. That she and her brother had snuck out and unknowingly went to a shadier side of town. Ren had lightly grifted them, but did show them around and explored with them.
THIS is real.
“Rest now my love.”
It’s not a dream.
She’s not a ghost.
This isn’t an illusion.
This is home.
Ren pretended not to fidget. “It’s so hot Cei, would you get me some ice?” “Of course, Ren.” She stood, and stepped first to the window, pulling up the sash and swinging it open to let in the fresh air and the morning breeze.
"I want you to stay with me Ren.” Callie reached up and let her and settle on the nape of Ren’s neck, her thumb just below his ear.
“I don’t think I can lose you a third time.” Ren answered.
ENTRY, AUGUST 9th 2026
In that moment with the window open Ren breaks his hand away and runs out the window. Jumps on the roof. Rolls down, and falls off onto the street below, he is winded and injured.
As Ren and Callie sunk deeper into the clay, suddenly Ren felt his feet break through and become free beneath the clay, which was now up to his chest. The sudden jolt was the first real sense of unease since Callie found him in the dark. Sensing his shock, Callie just smiled. “Do you trust me?”
Ren’s calm immediately returned. “Always.” The hole around Ren’s feet opened wider and swallowed both of them. Callie’s makeshift torch extinguished in the damp clay and Ren felt himself weightless, as wind rushed past his ears.
As he falls Lyra, Cyrus, and Bartholomew turn down the street to see him on the ground. Cei comes out on the roof and with a prayer shoots a gust of wind down on Ren. Lyra runs forward and hold Ren down and secure, trying to showing care to make sure to cause him no pain, asking him if he should come back to bed. Though he fought her it was unsuccessful, he is not himself. Abelard jumps down landing in full armor on the street. Bartholomew plays a lullabies, encouraging Ren to sleep.
The noiseless fall continued. In the dark, it was impossible to know when the fall would end - but the rising wind was warm and comfortable. “Callie?” Ren called. “Where are you? It’s so dark.”
When the answer came, it seemed to come from all around him. Low vibrations that he could feel in his chest shook his body as the voice spoke. “I’m here.”
As Ren is carried in safely, Lyra and Cyrus tell Cei that they set up a meeting with Valen and Jocasta to figure out what was happening with Ren. That we needed to head to the Manor in the city. Ren is tied up for his own safety, and though they are stopped by guards on the way who are easily waved off; they make it safely to the manor.
* * *
Cei addresses the Magus present, I owe you a debt, if anything has changed my views more its these people, no more then Reniel. A she begins to pray the 3 mages surround Ren, and begin a ritual. Removing the glow from him, they begin to chant and weave the energy before them. As the white mage chants blood pours from her eyes, The black mage laughs loudly. Ren who is twitching, arching and thrashing on the table.
The fall went on quietly for what felt like days. Dark and weightless, Ren found it impossible to orient himself even with the passing of time. But as suddenly as his decent began, it ended. It didn’t stop, exactly - in one moment he was falling, and the next moment, he simply wasn’t falling anymore. There was no impact, no landing, just falling until... stillness.
His feet were on solid, smooth ground. He stepped forward, still covered in clay. In the distance, a dim orange light illuminated a small table.
Callie’s voice came again, paired with the deep thunder that shook around him. “Keep going Ren. It’s just ahead.”
Ren picked up his pace and moved more quickly. As he got closer to the dim light, details emerged from the darkness. It wasn’t a table, it was an altar. Ren slowed as he approached the pure, white stone. On the top of the altar, a familiar dagger gleamed in the light of a single candle.
Then a sudden stop. Rens body still. He sits up eyes wide, red eyes; hands clenched.
“Take the knife, Ren.” The voice shook dried clay from Ren’s hair, face, and clothes.
The white Mage pulls out the holy symbol chanting. The black mage forms a cage of black veins around Ren. Something with a spiritual dead comes out of Ren hitting the cage around him.
Joining the chants are Valen, Cei, Abelard, Lyra, Cyrus, and Bartholomew supporting the mages. The air pressurizes and unpressurized around them, blood bleeding from the white mages eyes and ears. Around them swirls screams and cry’s to “not let her go”
“What will happen?”
“Everything, Ren. Eternity in an instant, the end of madness and chaos.”
Above the chorus of chanting come Abelard’s voice, “its time to let her go, son.”
In the distance behind him, a bright snap of lightning fractured the darkness. Ren
whirled around and saw… a door, but not a door. Light spilled onto the impossibly
smooth stone floor from a crack in.. nothing?
“Pick up the knife, Ren. We’re running out of time.” The voice sounded calm, even though the words did not.
Ren looked at the dagger, the altar, and the candle. He turned to look at the crack, and to his surprise he saw… his friends. Abelard, Cei, Bart, Lyra, Cyrus, and Severa. Visible concern marred their usual confidence.
“Callie, they’re here! Cei! In here!”
“They can’t come in Ren.”
“What do you mean?” The confusion in his voice was obvious. “Callie - it’s Cei! She’s going to be so excited to see you! You guys, I’m in here!"
“Ren, they CAN’T. It just doesn’t work like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t build a future if you’re not willing to lose your past. They can’t come where we’re going Ren, they don’t quite understand.”
“I’m… I’m going to lose them?”
“You will lose them, yes. But sometimes we must sacrifice the things we love.”
“I…” Ren’s voice trailed off as he gripped the dagger tightly in his hand. Callie’s voice suddenly changed, and her characteristic calmness was suddenly replaced by desperation.
“Quick, Ren! Drive it into your chest! There’s no time to explain, you HAVE to trust me!”
Ren, stunned looked back at his friends.
“They’re already lost Ren, I can’t lose you too!”
I can’t lose you too.
Ren looked down, and was surprised to see the point of the dagger aimed at the center of his chest.
“Callie….” Ren started to weep.
His fist tightened around the hilt of the dagger.
I can’t lose you too.
Ren looked back.
“I’m sorry." Raising the dagger above his head, he plunged the full length of the blade into the top of the while altar with a rush of wind and flame.
Everything went black.
An explosion blasts back, knocking over many. From the blast come a horrifying spectral figure resembling Callie. She screeched when seeing Cei, pointing her spectral figure at Cei “YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!”
Before attacking. Neverender shoots straight to Bartholomew’s hand as he uses it to cast haste on the group. With a swirl of Grand Master Jocasta hands everyone became rearmed, as Valen shoots silver daggers straight out their hands striking the wraith before returning to their hands. Cyrus collects energy and shoots a large blast of plasma at her. Abelard lunges forward taking his sword and plunging it through her heart. She explodes again leaving a shadow across the ground below.
Ren laying on the table began to wake, looking much better physically, but heavy with sadness. Cei runs to hug him. Ren embraces each person individually. Abelard embraces Ren while weeping silently, “you made the right choice. I hope I can be so strong.”
What happened Ren? “I had to make a choice. Choose to loose her, or choose to loose all you.”
The Miracle
The day that Purifier-General Lyonel Havikar witnessed the miracle, his mind was not on the divine, but rather on paperwork.
Paperwork in truly enormous quantities; a plague of paperwork, perhaps, or a trial of paperwork that Aëo sent to test the mettle of only his most stalwart (and masochistic) faithful. It seemed that a caravan of tithes and tributes, intended for the Campus of St. Michael, had been diverted to the family estate of a particular priest of the Clerica Ecclesiastica. “For its own protection, owing to a most regrettable abundance of brigands infesting the road to Charligan at this time of year,” the good Father claimed. And, in a deeply predictable turn of events, several sacred relics, valuable items of silver and gold, and casks of sacramental wine, had been unloaded and delivered to the premises, “for safekeeping”. It had fallen on Havikar to pore through the piles of manifests detailing the caravan’s inventory and reconcile them with the version detailed upon arrival in Charligan, because numerous high-ranking members of the Clerica were embroiled in some petty feud that sounded comically close to a full Church schism. The losers of the feud, including, evidently, the covetous priest in question, were demanding that some party who was non-involved and even non-clergy, but of high enough rank to be credible and above reproach, reconcile the documents.
So, instead of rooting out diabolists with the keen eye and silent claws of a stooping hawk, Havikar had been hunched over piles of paperwork in his office all day, deciphering the wobbly penmanship of some arthritic clerk, in an attempt to ascertain the location of the priceless reliquary of St. Urmath’s Blessed Molars or Aëo knows what else. The bells had finally rung vespers, freeing him from this punishment, and before his assistant could breathe a word, he was out the door, on his horse, and cantering into the woods of the northernmost preserve behind Saint Yeshuel’s Academy.
Havikar was exceedingly fond of the preserve. Unlike the mercilessly groomed and manicured gardens of the Ordo Contemplata’s compounds, the preserves were left as Aëo created them– towering oaks and elms, dappled shafts of evening light slanting between them, babbling creeks and a few spots where a man could crouch in wait with bow drawn for the passage of a pheasant or white-tailed deer. He gave the horse its head and it oriented, as always, to a faint game trail. Its terminus was a lovely clearing with tall sweet grass and a stump perfect for resting one's rear on, smoking a pipe, and pondering.
Moments later his rear had achieved blissful communion with the stump, and pipe-weed smoke was curling into his lungs. Thank Aëo for small blessings, he thought, and permitted himself to relax, as much as he ever did.
Perhaps even such a trivial allowance was a mistake, because he heard a twig snap and didn't even turn his head. By the time he smelled the sharp stink of sulfur, it was too late. The ice-cold and deeply violating touch of demonic power coiled a crushing tentacle around his chest before he could reach for his sword or his holy symbol. It thrust an unseen fist into his mouth, gagging him and tasting of rot and rust, preventing him from crying out. Immobilized, he felt himself lifted off the ground; he dangled from an invisible pressure around his neck as though from a noose, and he knew he had mere moments before he suffocated.
“Hello, Havikar,” came a voice from below, one that sounded like the rustle of dead leaves on stone. The tentacle of power held his neck fast and his face pointed at the evening sky; he could not see his captor. Rage and sheer animal terror mingled in him, and he managed to gasp a few syllables.
“You… dare…. Come here…”
A malignant chuckle rasped across the clearing. “Indeed I do. You wouldn't remember me, as I was but a child when we last met. You were the one who dared, back then. You– just a Purifier back then, not the Purifier-General– came to the village of Ten Larches. You dared to pass judgment on the villagers for doing what they had to survive.”
Oh, Archons. That… was not his proudest moment. The villagers had sent to Charligan for help with a vicious and powerful bandit lord plaguing their lands. The Ordo Hasta could not assist, as they were engaged in putting down a minor armed insurrection in the southwest. An Imperial warden was dispatched, but too late. It seemed that the villagers bargained with demons of the Utterdark, hosting them in their own flesh in exchange for the power to defend themselves from the marauders. The bandit lord and all his followers were torn limb from limb. As was the Imperial warden when he arrived.
The worst part, though, was that this demonic protection has been bestowed upon the older children as well as the adults. Havikar had led a force of Gladium Aëo to Purify the village. An Aëo-forsaken mess, it had been. The villagers could assume a guise halfway between human and the enormous timberwolves of the region. Many of the Gladium, good men he'd grown to rely upon, met an undeservedly brutal end at their claws and jaws that day.
The monsters, once slain, recovered their human forms in death, and Havikar and the other survivors found, to their horror, children as young as twelve or thirteen among the corpses.
As though sensing his thoughts, the voice rasped, “I was only ten. I did not receive the Dark One’s blessing. But my sister was twelve. I wept over her and my parents' bodies, rent apart by Purifier blades. Ten years I waited, eating shit and garbage in the alleys of Charligan. But the Dark Ones were still there when I begged them for help in my quest for vengeance. Again they were there when Aëo and his Imperial lackeys were nowhere to be found.”
Dark spots swam in Havikar’s vision, and the sound of the thing’s voice seemed to come from far away, an impossibly long hallway filled with darkening water.
Not long now. May Aëo receive my soul. May He not find the works of my hand wanting…
And then he heard another voice. Small. Soft. Quaking with fear. Female?
“In the Holy Name of Aëo, I invoke the Keys of St. Gabril and the Church’s authority and I bind each and every demon in and around us…”
Laughter, riotous laughter. “By the Maelstrom itself! What have we here?! A nun? Quite the brave little thing, aren't you? And what's that you have there pointed at me? A… a pruning knife??!”
Howls of incredulous laughter sawed across the clearing. “Aëo really is weak and desperate, isn't he? He sends a child nun with a gardening tool to defend his most sadistic servant from being brought to justice. Havikar, you really must see this.”
An agonizing wrench, and his head jerked downward.
Oh, Aëo. He was hovering suspended a few feet off the ground. In front of him stood a truly horrific abomination–seven feet tall, a fusion of wolf and man, like his sorry kin, and not a happy one. The voice rasped from a misshapen muzzle-face, from which three eyes glared, a preternatural green with a dim glow; mangy tufts of fur sprouted willy-nilly from scabrous human skin. Grotesquely muscled limbs poised at strange angles, and barbed spines that belonged to neither wolf for man sprang from its extremities.
Just behind it stood a girl. Young, still in her teenage years, clad in drab linens– the raiment of an initiate; she likely hadn't taken her Ordo Solatium vows yet. Her frame was tall, girded with the muscle of one who hauled a great deal of water and shoveled a great deal of dirt on the convent grounds. A wimple covered her hair, and her pale face might have been thought pretty with her hair in ringlets, rouge on her cheeks, and a taffeta gown on her person… until one saw the dour cast of her mouth, and her eyes. There lived in those eyes only a strange, unsettling intensity that dispelled any such thoughts from Havikar’s head.
And indeed, she held a dented iron pruning knife pointed at the demon, still probably wet with dew from trimming the Contemplata’s rose bushes.
Well, Havikar thought, maybe the demon's right and Aëo's giving up on me, if an insane teenage nun really is who he sends to rescue me. Ah well, I'll be sure to ask Him in person shortly…
But the girl's prayer continued, her voice steadying as she continued, her gaze unwavering. “In the Archons’ name I bind them all, and I bind any demons supporting them, their evil leaders, and any minions of the Utterdark. I render them all deaf, dumb, blind and powerless…” It raised in pitch and volume, even as the demon’s cackles filled the clearing.
“Enough, I tire of this, Havikar. Time to return to the Utterdark carrying your head as a trophy and wearing this little whore’s face as a codpiece.”
And then the pruning knife in the girl’s hand began to glow. Brighter and brighter and brighter until the dusk-shadowed clearing was as bright as noonday. Havikar squinted. The demon hissed in pain.
…And its power wavered. The tentacle of force suddenly vanished. He hit the ground like a sack of turnips, winded and gasping.
“Oh, you meddling little cunt. DIE!”
Before he could blink or breathe or struggle to his feet or unsheathe his sword, the thing lunged at the girl, a dark blur almost too quick to behold. But the glow from the knife intensified till Havikar's eyes streamed tears from the pain of remaining open. Lightning forked through her hands, through the knife, and as it touched the knife, its silhouette moved, flowing like quicksilver, assuming a new form, longer, broader, beautiful. A longsword. And even as the thing’s claws raked the girl, a horrifying diagonal path splitting her from left shoulder to right hip, and she screamed as they rent her flesh, divine lightning of a white so pure it hurt to look at, blasted through the blade of the sword, blasted the demon into pieces.
It was over in moments. Silence. The stench of rot and sulfur. The purple of twilight. Ash, the greasy ash of burnt flesh, fell like snow.
_________________
“Praise Aëo. Oh, praise the Emperor. Milord Purifier! She's awake!”
The girl’s eyes opened. Even unfocused and half conscious, the fierce strangeness Havikar remembered from the clearing still smouldered. Now that he was close enough to see, they were hazel, almost amber in the afternoon light from the window. A clucking coterie of Ordo Solatium descended on her and commenced fussing frantically.
“Where am I? What happened?”
Her voice was oddly calm, about a half octave deeper than one might expect, her accent central Hyorian, and her diction that of one who studied under fine tutors. A young noblewoman, perhaps? Gone to the nunnery after being caught in the woodpile with a stable boy? The convents surely recruited half their ranks from such…
“The sisters tell me your name is Ceonred, an initiate on pilgrimage from St. Eirene’s. Is that correct?”
She nodded. “May I please have some water?”
A plump Solatia– Sister Ermendine was her name, and filled with Gabril’s own fire was she — barreled past Havikar, ewer and cup in hand. “Oh, lamb, please forgive the Purifier-General’s gruffness. He's barely left your side for three weeks, and he's told us all of the miracle–”
The girl struggled to sit up, and just as quickly fell back. “The what?”
The scene replayed itself in Havikar’s mind; he was not a man given to softness or whimsy, but he would remember it until called to Aëo’s company. “The demon’s claws had rent your chest, your heart and lungs. I believed you to be dead; none could have survived that. But the knife in your hand– I watched it turn into a longsword, and as I approached, I saw it to be made of solid tytonium. It began to glow again. The glow suffused you, and I watched it close your wounds. The Solatium’s healers still had to labour day and night to save you, and you will bear scars to rival the most seasoned veterans of the Hasta. But…” He lowered his voice. “I saw you restored from beyond the border of death itself.”
His eyes closed of their own volition. In truth, he was not a terribly devout man. But in that moment, divine revelation surged through him like Aëo’s own lightning through the girl’s blade. He’d looked at her, barely more than a child, and a girl! ... and then at the priceless tytonium relic that had previously been a bent tool for trimming garden weeds…
And such is the power of Aëo, that through Him, even the humblest and lowliest of tools may be transformed into a fearsome instrument of His will, and His might.
“The sword, I am afraid, was claimed by the Clerica Ecclesiastica for study. They have deemed it a most sacred relic; they call it the Thunderhead of Saint Claria or some such. I am sorry, Ceonred– it should be yours, by rights, but it is unlikely to ever be.”
The girl's face was unreadable. He suspected that to be its default.
“We must speak, though. We can wait until you're feeling well, if you prefer.”
She shook her head. “I am well enough.”
“Very well. I have questions for you. As you slept, myself and others examined you. You carry no trace of devilry, but neither do you have the abilities of one destined for the Circle of Thorns. How did you know to find us? Why did you intervene?”
She fixed him with her uncanny gaze. As a child he'd had a cat with eyes that colour, and the same midnight-black fur to match her hair, to boot. A mouser of prodigious, silent ruthlessness, it had been. “I felt its evil. I could follow it. Like a bad smell. We were praying vespers and… the stench came upon me and I could not bear it. I had to find it. I… have encountered that stench before. I had to do whatever I could to stop it.”
Havikar exhaled slowly. “As the good sister said: I did indeed witness what I believe to have been a miracle, by any definition of the Church, worked through you. But that aside– you saved my life, from a demon, and laid down your own.” He lowered his voice. “I am grateful, I shall always be grateful. Ask of me any boon within my power to grant, and it shall be yours.”
And she did not need to mull it over, or hesitate for even a breath. “I want to be a Purifier.”
He sat back, startled, even as the hairs on the back of his neck tingled as surely as they did in the clearing: this is the will of Aeo, there can be no denying. He barely heard the nuns clucking that surely she should take her Solatium vows instead and leave the purifying to the menfolk. She continued, undeterred.
“There was a demon cult in our town. My friends and I found them. My brother… he was killed. A Purifier came. He was too late to stop them. But he avenged my brother. I saw it happen, I saw him strike the cultists down. All of them, just him alone. Ever since, all I have wanted is to become a Purifier.
“I… I know women aren't Purifiers. But one of the oldest nuns at St. Eirene’s told me she had heard of one, just one, a very long time ago? So I thought… maybe there was some chance… I understand if this is beyond your power to grant, Purifier-General. But I had to ask.”
His skin continued to tingle. And such is the power of Aëo, that through Him, even the humblest and lowliest of tools may be transformed into a fearsome instrument of His will, and His might. Aëo himself had transformed the sword. It was Havikar's duty as his servant to transform the girl. He knew this, somehow, surely as he knew his own name.
His face creased into what could be considered a smile. “I actually think it has quite a ring to it, don't you? Purifier Ceonred.”
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