Gabe, for some reason, is invested bringing back sun spirits. After all, you can't have shadows without the light.
Approaching Samen and Quzz, "So last time we entered tunnels under an Elder, it required dying. Last time we left the tunnels, it required some sort of great magic to move us. Given that both of those are either not desirable or out of reach, how would we get under the ground to see what we can find?"
"Not so deep (as) Heap. Maybe only requires dying a little?" As if their shifting form and lack of verbs is not enough, the myco's casual attitude toward death is a constant reminder of their alienness.
Benedetto, true to your prediction, the Military district is sparsely populated at the moment. You see evidence of a hasty mobilization at the sudden threat of the Dark, some heading toward the walls, others scouting, and the rest rushing to the Temple and the surrounding streets to help with any remaining danger or wounded civilians.
At a likely-looking training quarters, you see an old ifrit codger watching over several younger trainees sparring in the yard. Despite his age, he seems observant enough - he notices the presence of an unfamiliar armed el immediately, and waves at you. "Any news from the Temple? They've got me watching the bambinos because old and young are equally worthless." He smiles with tobacco-stained teeth to lighten the joke.
"Getting out shouldn't be a problem, I can teleport us out. If we're going to start at the elder's roots, I'm sure a path will open up for us."
"It was the strangest thing," Benedetto replies. "Blobs of darkness that killed if you attacked... but we figured out if you instead healed, it dispelled the darkness, revealing... humans."
He shakes his head. "Every time I think I've gotten my head wrapped around everything that's happened, something even stranger comes along. At least it's all over now, though there were a few casualties before we learned not to attack."
He pauses briefly, then lays a hand on Drook's shoulder. "This is Drook, my squire. Could he join the other trainees for a little while?"
"It was the strangest thing," Benedetto replies. "Blobs of darkness that killed if you attacked... but we figured out if you instead healed, it dispelled the darkness, revealing... humans."
He shakes his head. "Every time I think I've gotten my head wrapped around everything that's happened, something even stranger comes along. At least it's all over now, though there were a few casualties before we learned not to attack."
He pauses briefly, then lays a hand on Drook's shoulder. "This is Drook, my squire. Could he join the other trainees for a little while?"
He nods along with your story, listening and saying nothing. When you introduce Drook, his eyes widen in recognition. "Ah, the squire and the phoenix knight! You must be that Sir Benedetto fellow, si? Sure, come and join lad." He points behind himself with his thumb, and Drook eagerly runs into the training yard.
The old el smiles at the eagerness of youth, then turns back to you. "Call me Vecc. You have other places to be, si? I can watch your squire if you have other callings." He looks at you closely, trying to get the measure of you as a person; he's obviously heard rumors of you.
Samen and Gabe, as you talk and make your way to the Elder, you see a procession of oreads leaving the Stems, the neighborhood surrounding the great tree. They have the look of scholars, softer than the typical oread warrior. You hear them talking excitedly about the appearance of the yellow light in the Sky, and wonder what new plants could grow under the influence of such healing energy.
Qizz (follows) too, somehow still (pulling) cookies from various places on their person.
He steps down among the crowd, meeting their eyes, speaking with conviction.
"You, who have toiled under ash and fire, you who have kept the forge of civilization burning - know this: I do not ask you to turn your backs on the Volcano. I ask only this: Stand with me and look upward? Will you see what has been hidden? Open your hearts, not in rebellion against the order of the land, but in wonder of new things to come? Right now we're at the edge and we can choose. The choice is simple: fight against the change and weaken both Volcano and The Couple from the Above for the benefit of The Moon and The Dark. Or embrace the change! We all had to endure and we did it! After 5000 years, after countless deaths, fights, endless conflicts.
Archpriest Palazzo has made his ungainly way down from the Temple, now that the danger has passed. With an expansive gesture, he seems to greet your words with open arms. "Of course, we shall examine these miraculous events from above with every intention of finding the truth of matters. I have long pondered, myself, if there was a more Heavenly aspect of Volcano, that has been shielded from our mortal eyes by the Dark."
Too quickly to allow you to respond to this implication, he smoothly continues, "We welcome all who fight against the Dark and its many dangers; we welcome our brothers and sisters who have been freed from it; and we will usher in a new age of wonders!"
Benedetto grins a little uncomfortably. "I still haven't gotten used to people actually having an idea of who I am. I am Benedetto, yes, and I would be grateful if you'd keep an eye on Drook. He's a good lad, very earnest and hard-working, though he's got about the same problem with not paying enough attention to his footwork while swinging a blade around as every other young elen with a sword," he says.
He sighs and looks back the way he came. "It seems like, ever since... well, ever since I decided I had to do more than just save myself when the madness struck Light, really, I've somehow always had too much to do. But..."
He shrugs slightly. "I can't bear to leave any of it undone, so I have to do it."
He pauses. "I really need to work on getting some people I can trust to delegate to, don't I?"
Vecc's gaze drifts back to the squires' practice to make sure they are staying on task while he listens to you, once more saying very little. The young els seem well trained, not prone to pushing their sparring into petty fighting. They have welcomed Drook into their midst, a smaller boy already helping him pick out an appropriately-sizes wooden sword.
He scratches the day old ash-white stubble around his bony chin, and says, "Finding people worthy of trust, si. that's the trick, isn't it?"
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Aisling does not let the moment slip from his grasp. He steps forward, his expression calm, but his voice firm, carrying the weight of the revelation that has come to pass.
"The truth has already revealed itself, Archpriest. Five thousand years of shadow, and yet today, the Sky has returned to us—not as another face of the Volcano, not as another flickering ember of the fire, but as itself. The Sky, the Sun, and the Phoenix have come not to be folded into old names, but to stand as what they are.
This is not the time for careful examination and delay, for time is no longer on our side. The Dark has already answered our light, and it will not wait for scholarly debate or measured words. If we do not act as one, we invite division, and division is what the Dark craves most."
Aisling turns, looking not at the priest now, but at the crowd—the people who have seen the Sky, who have felt the Sun's warmth, who have been freed from the Dark's grasp. His voice rises, clear and certain.
"Let no one say that I seek to cast down the Volcano. It has been our shield. But the shield alone cannot win the war. We have fought too long in isolation. Now, the Sky returns. The Sun rises. They do not seek to replace the Volcano, but neither will they be bound in chains of misinterpretation. Call them what they are. Honor them as they deserve. To do otherwise is to refuse the gift we have been given—and to do so would only strengthen the Dark."
Then, finally, he turns back to the Archpriest, meeting his eyes.
"This is the choice before you, before all of us. Do we move forward, standing together as we are meant to? Or do we delay, squabbling over names while the Dark gathers at our doors? The time for words is ending. The time for action is now. We are on the edge under the eyes of the Lord of the Edges"
He waits - letting the silence hang, letting the weight of the moment settle. Because now, it is Palazzo who is on the spot.
- hopefully with some circumstance bonuses :p
Palazzo looks at the crowd, then up at the Sun, and then gives a brief backward glance to Volcano, dim in the distance. His tone is conciliatory; he knows how to read a changing wind. "Of course. We have new gods among us, and new races, and, dare I say," he waves to Samen and Gabe as they exit the Courtyards toward the Elder, "new magicks as well. Ahem."
The issue dealt with, the crowd seems mostly satisfied, and everyelen returns to their errands. Life never stands still, after all. After an awkward pause, the Archpriest waves his arms about in an elaborate shrug, his fine silk robes fluttering. "Well? What are we doing first, Sky Priest?"
"Thank you for your understanding, High Priest." Aisling humbly thanks him, bowing, giving him opportunity to show leadership in front of everyone.
"Your experience in leading the church would be invaluable. And whatever time and resources you can spare for teaching me wisdom will be cherished."
Aisling straightens up
"Right now, we need to integrate these new humans fostering acceptance of their new circumstance while still checking that some of them aren't with The Dark. It would be insidious to free dozens of innocent people with few bad apples among them, but we cannot afford inquisition on all of them, that would just make them enemies. If you can, have paladins scan everyone for corruption. If not, Sir Benedetto will do it in time."
He thinks for a moment
"You were gracious in allowing small wing of the temple for my church, if you have time, I'd share my vision for the future, one where we have multiple gods without clear domination, where Volcano shares the followers rather than lose them. You know you took hit with the latest subversion of one of the aspects. Let's talk."
Vecc's gaze drifts back to the squires' practice to make sure they are staying on task while he listens to you, once more saying very little. The young els seem well trained, not prone to pushing their sparring into petty fighting. They have welcomed Drook into their midst, a smaller boy already helping him pick out an appropriately-sizes wooden sword.
He scratches the day old ash-white stubble around his bony chin, and says, "Finding people worthy of trust, si. that's the trick, isn't it?"
Benedetto hesitates a moment, then sighs. "Not exactly easy, is it?" he says, moving to take a seat for a moment. Something about the way the old elen had talked before...
"You've probably seen a lot. Any advice for a younger paladin in over his head with sudden leadership responsibilities?"
"Just how many cookies did you acquire Quzz? A never-ending supply it seems..."
Seeing what appears to be non-combat oriented Oriads, Gabe decides to try his luck asking questions. "Um, excuse me. You seem like the type to know things... you wouldn't happen to know of any old stories about mysterious objects hidden among the roots of the elder do you? Or any rumors of anything like that? Some weird passage that nobody wants to traverse?" Gabe observes the Oriads with what he hopes is a friendly expression. Or at least as friendly as one with blacked out eyes can look.
Benedetto hesitates a moment, then sighs. "Not exactly easy, is it?" he says, moving to take a seat for a moment. Something about the way the old elen had talked before...
"You've probably seen a lot. Any advice for a younger paladin in over his head with sudden leadership responsibilities?"
The old el laughs, the sound as tobacco-stained as his teeth. "Not laughing at you, just the idea of anyone asking me for advice. Been awhile." Vecc scratches his chin, then pats his front shirt pocket. "You mind?" he asks, though like with most ifrit smokers, the question is perfunctory. A quick snap of his fritan fingers gets a flame going, and he inhales and sighs.
"Ok. Two rules. Act confident, but be open to others' ideas and corrections. And don't give an order that has any chance of being refused. I've seen enough people destroy their own authority by either having no confidence, never accepting advice, or barking out orders like the Cauldron Lady herself." He shrugs. "The rest comes naturally. People learn to trust you over time, as long as you don't blow it to pieces, si?"
"Just how many cookies did you acquire Quzz? A never-ending supply it seems..."
Seeing what appears to be non-combat oriented Oriads, Gabe decides to try his luck asking questions. "Um, excuse me. You seem like the type to know things... you wouldn't happen to know of any old stories about mysterious objects hidden among the roots of the elder do you? Or any rumors of anything like that? Some weird passage that nobody wants to traverse?" Gabe observes the Oriads with what he hopes is a friendly expression. Or at least as friendly as one with blacked out eyes can look.
Qizz simply smiles a blue-gas grin at you and winks.
One of the taller oread scholars furrows his brow, and says, "And what is your interest in lost passages of the Bland Fey? Is that what you are referring to?"
Aisling gets busy over the next few days. He runs himself ragged between looking for seamstresses and artists to develop symbolism, scribes to write holy books from the lost tomes he found, the develop new books as soon as possible to distribution. He involves Benedetto to pick his brain about Phoenix and his knowledge of this new entity and to present united front against the constant threat of Volcanites.
He tries to run errands for Dove too, but that takes form of 'It is on my way anyhow'. He also does some evangelizing, some intrigue and some insinuations at the right places.
Hidden knowledge
The library was quiet, save for the whisper of turning pages and the occasional drip of melted wax from a low-burning candle. Aisling traced his fingers over the spines of ancient tomes, some warped from heat, others stained by the soot that clung to Hearth’s every corner.
"The histories here are… curated," murmured the librarian, a rail-thin man with ink-stained fingertips. His voice was careful, but Aisling heard the unspoken truth. Curated. Controlled. Censored.
Aisling offered him a knowing smile as he laid out a book of his own. Not an ancient text, but one newly bound—copied from his own knowledge and findings. A tale of Sky’s sorrow, of Sun’s fall, of the Raven who gathered the lost. A version of history that had been buried beneath centuries of ash.
"This is blasphemy," the librarian whispered, glancing toward the heavy doors.
"It is truth," Aisling corrected. He flipped a page, revealing an illustration—not of the Phoenix in golden flame, but in black feathers tinged with red, its wings half-spread in an ascent not yet completed. "And truth has a way of finding its way into the hands of those who seek it."
The librarian hesitated. Then, carefully, he took the book. Aisling knew he would not place it upon the grand displays where the Council’s scribes would see. No, it would find its way to the quiet alcoves, to the desperate students who sought something more, something beyond the Volcano’s sanctioned history.
That was all he needed. A seed, planted in the ashes. In time, it would grow.
Creating a temple from nothing, even worse, from the fane of another dominant, powerful temple is hard work. Yet, with some donations from the wealthy and volunteers, he managed. Somehow. Being called to the council for Palazzo's intrigues and subversion was just par for the course. He couldn't afford to alienate the powerful priest.
The balancing act
Aisling stood before the grand stone table of the Hearth Council, the minor sun above casting long shadows across the chamber. The air smelled of sulphur and burning incense, a reminder of who truly held power here. Archpriest Palazzo sat at the head, flanked by robed figures, their expressions ranging from wary curiosity to outright hostility.
"The Council recognizes your...accomplishments," Palazzo said smoothly, folding his hands. "A temple to ‘The Sky and The Sun’ is no small undertaking. What is it that you seek?"
Aisling had expected this. They would not stop him outright - that would turn him into a martyr - but they would try to fold his faith into their own, smothering it with careful praise and convenient reinterpretation.
He bowed slightly, adopting a posture of respect, but not submission. "I seek to share what has been returned. Just as the Volcano shelters, but also burns, so too does the Sky watch over all, but can strike with lightning anywhere. And just as fire needs air to burn, so too can faith be strengthened by new understanding."
Palazzo’s expression did not change, but a murmur ran through the council. Aisling pressed forward. "I do not ask for the Volcano’s blessing - only its acknowledgment. The temple will not stand against Hearth, but with it. Let the flames rise, let the winds carry them high into The Sky, through the Dark above."
It was a careful game. He offered no insult, no rejection of the Volcano’s power, yet he made it clear - Sky and Sun were not just aspects of the old faith. They were something else entirely. And they were returning.
Palazzo studied him for a long moment. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he leaned back. "Very well," he said, voice measured. "We shall see what this wind brings."
Aisling knew that was the best he would get - for now. But the temple would rise, and with it, the truth of the Sky and her Children.
Temple opening
After careful design and deep thinking, creating appropriate banners was almost anticlimactic. But opening of the temple and unfurling them for the first time was anything but.
The temple space was still under construction, but already, the banners had been raised. The first depictions of the Phoenix gleamed in the light of the minor Sun above - Aisling’s gaze was drawn to the new banners, the ones whose designs had only just been stitched for this occasion.
Black wings, feathered instead of fiery, spread wide against a blue sky. A single eye, open, observing visible on the turned head. Red streaks bled through the black, like embers glowing beneath soot. The transition. The moment before flight. The Phoenix, but not yet aflame.
The gathered followers, new converts and curious onlookers alike, murmured among themselves. Some whispered of change. Others of confusion. A few Volcano devotees watched with arms crossed, waiting for something - perhaps a misstep, a sign of outright rebellion.
Aisling stepped forward, raising his hands in invocation. His voice rang through the open air.
"The Phoenix is a child of the Sky and the Sun. It is transformation, rebirth, renewal. But even fire is not born burning - it must be kindled, shaped. The Volcano burns, the Sun shines, but what carries the flame? What lifts it higher?"
He turned, arms wide, gesturing to the banners.
"Before the blaze, there is the ascent. Before the fire, there is the wind. And it is in that moment, in the transition between what was and what will be, that we rise! This is the moment we dreamt for all those thousands years from the Sky fall. This is the moment of change! Embrace it! The change must come for elen to be free of the Dark. The old lore, almost lost, was found, the ancient gods through extinct raise again. Once again the mighty elements of our souls will combine, wind raising the power of the volcano as the embers burn hotter in clean air, earth keeps being foundation of everything and water flowing everywhere, easily moveable and transformed from life giving liquid to scalding steam. Honour the Sun, honour the Sky for these are ancients just as The Elder and The Volcano. All elements! As one! Let's win this fight the right way! Together! "
The crowd stirred. Among them, a young acolyte of the Volcano frowned, his fingers clenching at his robes. But his lips moved, barely audible - whispering the words Aisling had spoken.
The seed had taken root. The idea had been planted.
For now, it was enough.
One of the taller oread scholars furrows his brow, and says, "And what is your interest in lost passages of the Bland Fey? Is that what you are referring to?"
"It might be... I'm not entirely sure. Is that what the tunnels under this Elder are called? My myconian friend here used to live under a different Elder but they called their home after their... ummm, never mind that part. Anyway, it was called Heap." No need to mention other deities right now. There's already enough turmoil with Sun and Sky "Actually, I've had some experience with the fey before. Now, I'm curious to learn about them in the equal plane and how different they are away from Uknukhiphidwala. But you said the Bland Fey. That doesn't sound pleasant..." Gabe casually drops the fact that he's interacted with fey in their home hoping to show he's not *just* a tourist.
"It's like a Fey cemetery. Which coincidentally is exactly what we're looking for. Preferably a human cemetery, but if we go down enough layers, I bet they're at least coterminous if not right on top of each other."
The old el laughs, the sound as tobacco-stained as his teeth. "Not laughing at you, just the idea of anyone asking me for advice. Been awhile." Vecc scratches his chin, then pats his front shirt pocket. "You mind?" he asks, though like with most ifrit smokers, the question is perfunctory. A quick snap of his fritan fingers gets a flame going, and he inhales and sighs.
"Ok. Two rules. Act confident, but be open to others' ideas and corrections. And don't give an order that has any chance of being refused. I've seen enough people destroy their own authority by either having no confidence, never accepting advice, or barking out orders like the Cauldron Lady herself." He shrugs. "The rest comes naturally. People learn to trust you over time, as long as you don't blow it to pieces, si?"
Benedetto nods, thinking of his own experiences, even as he watches the young elens practicing. "I think I know what you mean. I suppose I have to quit reminding myself I don't know what I'm doing and just... do it."
He looks to Vecc again. "Thank you, that does help. Anything else I should be thinking about?"
Ousting of The Dark
Aisling crouched atop the crumbling archway above the old granary, his silhouette swallowed by the endless shadow that stretched from the cult’s stronghold. The building - a repurposed granary - had no visible entrances left unguarded. Stone walls reinforced with iron spikes, a single heavy door locked from within, and sentries with eyes trained on every approach. Infiltration was impossible. For most.
Dove had called this a test. "If you want to work with me, prove you can do what others cannot." Aisling had simply smiled.
The cult of the Dark Below hid their secrets beneath the earth, their sanctum spiralling down through layers of tunnels and chambers. They gathered in the depths, where the Dark whispered loudest. If Aisling wanted to open the way for Dove’s agents, he needed to slip past the layers of fanaticism and fear without a sound. Luckily, the building itself was above the ground as was the entrance. The coordination, the timing was everything.
He exhaled, feeling the weight of his cloak against his shoulders. A reminder of what had been lost. Of what was returning. He took a deep breath and quaffed a potion. Negate aroma was essential to prevent eventual beasts of detecting him. Hopefully, there will be no undead that can detect life force. "I need to work on that too." he thinks grimly before focusing back.
Then he leapt.
The wind caught him, twisting around his form as he pressed his body into a silent dive. For a moment, he was free, as his ancestors had been before the Fall. Then, with a slight flare of his wings, he guided himself toward the open ventilation shaft at the top of the granary’s ruined roof. It was barely wide enough, but he twisted mid-air, slipping through the gap and landing in a crouch on the platform some 20' above the ground. Stairway opening was just visible, but so were few sleepy elen.
The air was thick with incense and candle smoke, the scent masking the decay of old grain and something fouler. Aisling remained still, letting his senses adjust. Below him, hooded figures moved in the dim firelight, their voices murmuring, soft snoring audible from one wall.
He moved like a shadow, skimming across beams and ledges, keeping to the rafters. There were no maps for this place, no reports on its hidden pathways. But Aisling had no need for either. He read the structure itself - the flow of air, the faint traces of light from cracks in the wood. He found himself above the spiral staircase leading downward. Drinking another potion, this one of invisibility, he slipped onto staircase as one cultist passed under him, matching the rhythm of their steps with his own.
Deeper still, past the midlevel where robed figure knelt in prayer to an unseen master. Until at last, he reached the inner gate - an ironbound door reinforced with spells, bolted shut from within. And with a bored guard half-asleep on the inside. The cultist Aisling followed continued down into the tunnels leaving the invisible rogue to consider the guard. Unfortunately, no easy way to open the gate without killing him, the risk of someone else coming down was too great and he couldn't get the keys until the guard fell asleep. If he did. Sliding behind the guard, Aisling hit him several times in quick succession from the back, trying to minimize the blood from the front. Regrettable. Still, he still had to open the door.
Aisling pressed a hand to the lock, feeling the mechanism within. Simple, but well-kept. Too obvious to tamper with directly especially given the tell-tale signs of magical ward. Hopefully not alarm especially not from this side. Instead, he reached into his pouch and withdrew a thin vial of consecrated oil and another of acid. With a careful touch, he let a single drop of oil slip into the keyhole.
The result was almost immediate. The Dark did not tolerate the presence of purity. The enchantments recoiled, fraying at their edges. Not enough to break, but enough to enable him access to the lock.
Acid and his skill did the rest. He reached for the bolt. Then paused. Behind him, a whisper of movement. A shifting of air. Someone was watching.
His hand flicked out, fast as a striking hawk, and caught the wrist of the unseen observer starting the deadly dagger thrust. A startled gasp - a child, barely into adolescence, her face pale beneath a hood too large for her. A recruit? A captive? Not a recruit, bare feet, dirty rag for clothes. Not another death.
She opened her mouth to scream. Aisling acted faster, the dagger across her throat.
"Shh." His voice was barely above a breath. He held her gaze. "Do you want to stay in the dark forever? Help is just outside."
A pause. A single, terrified shake of the head. He let go. She did not scream.
The bolt slid free. The heavy door groaned open, revealing the night beyond. Two confused guards turned to look at him and silently fell as readied bolts found their targets. And waiting in the darkness, Dove’s agents moved like falling leaves, silent and swift.
The cleansing had begun.
The Dreaming
Aisling sat cross-legged within the circle of smouldering incense, the air thick with the scent of burnt sage, myrrh, and a sharp metallic tang from the alchemical tincture resting in a small, shallow dish before him. The laboratory-turned-sanctum was quiet, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight against the chalk-drawn sigils encircling him.
This was not prayer. This was not faith as clerics would describe it. This was chemistry, will, and knowledge intertwined-an ancient method of thinning the veil, of slipping between the layers of waking and dream. The alchemical solution, a precise mixture of tinctured Zephyrite and powdered Tears of the Sky, shimmered with an iridescent sheen. Too much would drown the mind in meaningless visions. Too little, and he would slip into only ordinary sleep.
Aisling dipped his fingers into the solution, tracing the sigil of a feathered eye upon his brow, then lifted the dish to his lips. The liquid burned as he swallowed, and the world around him tilted, his pulse thrumming loud in his ears as he lay back upon the cold stone floor.
The dreaming took him swiftly.
---
A sky stretched infinitely above, neither bright nor dark, but a vast storm-lit expanse of shifting grey. Feathers drifted like dying embers through the wind, vanishing before they could touch the unseen ground. Aisling stood upon nothing, weightless, his breath misting in the strange half-light.
And before him, rising from the endless horizon like a monolith of shadows, was The Rookery. A tower of bone-white stone and twisting blackwood, its peaks swarming with a thousand unseen wings.
Aisling stepped forward, though there was no ground to step upon, and yet the distance closed. He had come with purpose, and in dreams, purpose was movement.
At the threshold of the Rookery, a voice whispered through the shifting winds.
"Not yet."
Aisling stiffened. The presence was near, vast yet distant, watching from the perches above. A weightless dread pressed against him - not of fear, but of judgment. He had been noticed.
"When?" His voice barely carried through the storm, but the winds caught it, lifted it, brought it up to the unseen figure in the heights. "When can I call you by name? What must be done?"
Feathers swirled around him, a slow cyclone of motion, as if considering.
Then in overlapping voices, like multiple birds or even whole flocks speaking at the same time:
"The city does not yet know its need."
"The flocks are scattered, and the winds still shift."
"When the black and red burn side by side, when the lost return, when the silent sing - then you may speak, and I will answer."
Aisling’s mind struggled to hold onto the meaning, but the dreamscape shuddered. The sky darkened, the winds hissed with something unnatural. And then-a new presence. A low, crawling hum, like the murmur of carrion flies over an open grave. A shifting shape, something bent and broken yet grinning, moving through the storm in twisting slithers and starts. Night Carrion. The usurper. The would-be god of dreams.
Aisling felt the weight of its regard, an intrusion like oil poured into water. The feathers in the sky darkened, turning slick and heavy, falling like dying embers smothered by tar. He had to wake up. The tower began to split. Aisling clenched his fist and willed himself free - willed his mind to break from the dream’s hold. The presence of Night Carrion surged forward, a mass of writhing, feathered tendrils, reaching, reaching... And then Aisling fell.
He hit the stone floor of his sanctum with a gasp, body drenched in sweat, lungs dragging in cold air as if he had been drowning. The candles had burned low, leaving only embers. The taste of iron and smoke clung to his tongue. The dream was gone. But its meaning remained.
The time had not yet come. But it was close.
One of the taller oread scholars furrows his brow, and says, "And what is your interest in lost passages of the Bland Fey? Is that what you are referring to?""It might be... I'm not entirely sure. Is that what the tunnels under this Elder are called? My myconian friend here used to live under a different Elder but they called their home after their... ummm, never mind that part. Anyway, it was called Heap." No need to mention other deities right now. There's already enough turmoil with Sun and Sky "Actually, I've had some experience with the fey before. Now, I'm curious to learn about them in the equal plane and how different they are away from Uknukhiphidwala. But you said the Bland Fey. That doesn't sound pleasant..." Gabe casually drops the fact that he's interacted with fey in their home hoping to show he's not *just* a tourist.
Qizz (deflates) just a tiny bit when they hear Heap. (Miss) Heap. (Miss) Learningto.
"It's like a Fey cemetery. Which coincidentally is exactly what we're looking for. Preferably a human cemetery, but if we go down enough layers, I bet they're at least coterminous if not right on top of each other."
The scholar nods, appreciating a fellow devout lover of knowledge. "Precisely! Are you also a..." He seems to notice Samen and Gabriel's faces for the first time, and trails off. "Oh! You're the humans, aren't you? Can I ask you questions about the 'human' experience? I'll show you where the passages are. I...am not comfortable with going in, however."
Benedetto nods, thinking of his own experiences, even as he watches the young elens practicing. "I think I know what you mean. I suppose I have to quit reminding myself I don't know what I'm doing and just... do it."
He looks to Vecc again. "Thank you, that does help. Anything else I should be thinking about?"
Vecc quirks an eyebrow at you, and says in a deadpan tone, "Rule three: Don't be a stronzo." He laughs, the grainy texture of his voice almost like a cough.
Samen nods in understanding of his hesitance. "Out of respect, or fear? Any place touched by the Fey, even a graveyard, can have unexpected lurking dangers. Should we be concerned?"
Vecc quirks an eyebrow at you, and says in a deadpan tone, "Rule three: Don't be a stronzo." He laughs, the grainy texture of his voice almost like a cough.
Benedetto chuckles along with him. "I don't know, that one might be hard for me," he jokes.
After a moment he sighs. "I really should get back to it, though. Show them some confidence, get them all pointed in the same direction. Thank you, Vecc. Let me know if I can help sometime."
With that, he heads back to the many responsibilities he's accumulating.
Samen nods in understanding of his hesitance. "Out of respect, or fear? Any place touched by the Fey, even a graveyard, can have unexpected lurking dangers. Should we be concerned?"
"It is uniquely toxic to oreads. I'd imagine humans would be no more effected than an ifrit or a sylph." He shrugs. "For other races, it is unpleasant and fearful, like a bad dream, but tolerable for most."
His companions motion for him to hurry up - they apparently have somewhere they need to be. "Well, it was nice meeting you. Just continue down, always take the left most choice in the forks, and you'll reach an uncharted place where things start to...change."
Walking away now, "[/b]Look for me in the Small Library on the ground floor of the Elder sometime soon, if you've a mind to share your thoughts. I could be the biographer of the first reborn human!"[/b]
He runs to catch up with his friends.
Benedetto, as you walk over to the Hall of Contrition, several phoenix chicks land on your head and your shoulders. They are light and fluffy and they sing, to-weep? to-weep?
***
Kallik drifts away from Qizzlvutz for a time; after all, she is Blessed, and her ties to the city are strong (in spite of her dislike of it). She watches in utter amazement as Aisling does all the things that she herself failed at: she was not diplomatic enough to ever get the Council's help; she choose violence against her enemies, rather than building bridges; the subtle blend of guile and honesty that achieves so much more than her blunt anger...
She only wonders about the true nature of this Raven Prince...how Aisling sometimes hesitates, as if about to utter a name he dares not say out loud...
She shakes her head. Doubts like this are always what have kept her from growing, and trusting. She's glad that Qizzlvutz is so innocent. She hopes they stay that way.
***
Dove wonders what to make of this sylph evangelist. Long has the cagey Captain Dove kept his true opinions to himself, but in the dark moments of early morning when he has time to contemplate the empty Dark that once was Sky, he is an Unbeliever. No gods are worth the cheap paper their scripts are printed upon. He rationalizes this by thinking he is a Sylphist --- one who thinks Sylphs should move out of ifrit cities and learn to be self-sufficient-- but he cannot explain away the pit in his stomach as Sky returns, just as sylphs were attaining some level of independence in Light. Perhaps in two more generations...
Ah, well. He would not sabotage this new movement. It is too clearly a good thing. An el of logic cannot be ruled by pride. He will back Aisling, even though Dove hates the gods.
**
No longer Sunlord, no longer shouting ; They let Their light speak for itself. This new being is simply Sun, and a new day is dawning. This new priest pleases Us.
**
Ol' Osna is a ghost of a dream...or a dream of a ghost. He can never remember which. He can touch things in the real world now and then, but it's come and go, it is. Patience, bird. Patience.
This dreamer better watch 'is self. People who worship dreams don't tend to stay sane, in the long view o' things.
Benedetto, as you walk over to the Hall of Contrition, several phoenix chicks land on your head and your shoulders. They are light and fluffy and they sing, to-weep? to-weep?
Benedetto stops dead in his tracks in surprise. After a few moments he breaks out into laughter. "Well, hello there, little ones," he says, wondering at them. "You seem to be doing... well?"
He holds still for a long moment before continuing, "So... what am I going to do with you all? What do you eat, anyway? And why am I talking to you like you can understand me?"
The ifrit chuckles again and shakes his head--slowly, so as to not dislodge the chicks on his head. "Well, maybe we should see about getting you something to eat..."