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.