ã€Š{In DEV} The Journal of Amun Jaro and the Folly of Mortal Comprehensionã€‹


 Ch. 1 Imaginary Fiends

    Introduction

    **l''appel du vide (The Call of the Void)**

    This narrative unfolds as an allegorical elegy, a journey through the labyrinthine depths of the human psyche. As you, the discerning observer, traverse its layers, you will find yourself immersed in a tapestry of existential inquiry. Here, motivations are not just attributes of the characters you encounter but reflections of your own moral compass. This odyssey ventures through realms parallel to yours, where the familiar beckons with false promises of understanding. Yet, be cautious, for this journey is fraught with sudden turns and leaps into the unknown, a journey not just of the mind but of the soul.

    Our tale begins with Abe, a boy ensnared in the frail clutches of illness, and his parents, trapped in their inability to transcend their limitations to nurture him fully. Within the confines of their home, a silent chasm grows, widening with each unspoken truth and veiled reality.

    Abe, innocent yet unaware of the ancestral curse coursing through his veins, yearns for the freedoms his peers take for granted. His spirit, though confined by physical constraints, is unbridled in its quest for knowledge and experience. The light of day beckons him to partake in its fleeting joys, yet he finds solace in the embrace of the night, thriving in the shadows where his imagination reigns supreme.

    His mother, a guardian angel draped in mortal weariness, strives to shield him from life''s harsher truths. Her overprotective love, cloaked in lullabies and half-truths, seeks to keep him safe, yet in doing so, unwittingly stunts his spirit''s growth.

    The father, a figure more absent than present, is lost in a world of his own, a world of ledgers and obligations. His love, though genuine, is muted by the weight of societal expectations and unfulfilled dreams. In his quest to provide, he unknowingly widens the gulf between him and his family.

    Abe''s world is one of confinement, both physical and metaphysical. His intellect, a beacon in the darkness of his condition, yearns to break free from the chains of his frail body. He delves into the works of Dickens, Shakespeare, and Doyle, finding in their words a kinship with characters who, like him, grapple with existential dilemmas.

    The home, a microcosm of societal norms and expectations, becomes a stage where each family member plays their part, yet yearns for a different role. The mother, the seamstress of their lives, tirelessly weaves the fabric of their existence, while the father, lost in his own narrative, fails to see the tapestry unraveling before him.

    In this world, Abe stands as a testament to the human spirit''s indomitable will to seek, to question, and to dream. His journey, a mirror to our own, asks us to ponder the boundaries we place on ourselves and others, and the cost of conforming to roles that stifle our true potential.

    ---

    Ch. 1 Imaginary Fiends

    "It is a tragedy, all too common and yet profoundly intimate, to witness our future ¡ª the youth ¡ª ensnared by the cruel clutches of sickness," these words, uttered by my mother, reverberated through the decaying walls of our home. Her sobs were a lament, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the relentless passage of time. Hidden in the shadows, I listened, my heart heavy with the knowledge that I was the unwitting architect of her sorrow.

    As I navigated the creaking corridors, a silent witness to the unspoken agony of my parents, I felt an overwhelming sense of otherness. My existence, marked by illness and confinement, was a stark contrast to the world outside ¡ª a world I longed to explore, to conquer, and to make my own. Yet, bound by the invisible chains of my frail body, I was condemned to be but a spectator.

    The day had been a reflection of my inner turmoil. My attempts to ascend the forbidden trees, to feel the exhilaration of freedom, were thwarted once again by my physical limitations. Each fall, each failure, was not just a defeat of the body but a crushing blow to my spirit. The sticky sap on my hands, once a symbol of adventure, now felt like a mocking reminder of my confinement.

    In my parents'' eyes, I was a child to be protected, shielded from the harsh realities of the world. Yet, in their overprotective embrace, they unknowingly stifled the very essence of my being. Their perception of propriety, their fear of societal judgment, weighed heavily upon our family, casting a shadow over our existence.

    My mother, a tireless sentinel, wove the fabric of our lives with threads of sacrifice and resilience. Her hands, though skilled in the art of an elite seamstress, could not mend the growing rift in our family. Her face, once a canvas of hope and dreams, now bore the lines of unspoken sorrows and unfulfilled desires.

    My father, a distant figure, lost in the labyrinth of his obligations, was a ghost in our home. His love, though never in doubt, was obscured by the fog of his preoccupations. The unspoken covenant he had made with the world ¡ª a pact that demanded his constant absence ¡ª left us adrift, a family in form but not in spirit.

    In this silent drama, I, Abe, stood at the crossroads of childhood and the vast, unknown territory of the self. My mind, a haven of unbounded imagination, sought refuge in the worlds created by literary masters. In their stories, I found echoes of my own struggle ¡ª a desire to break free from the constraints of my existence and to write my own narrative.

    As the night embraced our home, my parents, lost in their own worlds, sought solace in fleeting moments of connection. Their hands, intertwined in a rare display of affection, were a silent testament to a love that endured despite the storms that threatened to engulf us.

    In my heart, I knew that their aspirations for social ascension, their desire to be seen and acknowledged, were driven by a deep-seated yearning to belong, to be more than just the sum of our circumstances. Yet, within the walls of our home, we remained unchanged, prisoners of our own making.

    As I retreated into my sanctuary of books and dreams, I realized that my quest for knowledge was more than just an escape; it was a rebellion against the invisible forces that sought to define me. My intellectual pursuits were a declaration of my existence, a defiant stand against the narrative written for me by fate.

    And so, in the quiet hours of the night, I journeyed through worlds of ink and imagination, my spirit soaring beyond the confines of my frail body. In these solitary explorations, I found not just solace, but a glimpse of the freedom I so desperately craved.

    Mother.

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Other than those nights when they sang baudy shanty together until the dawn, complete with pencil mustaches, cooking utensils for hooks, and cut-cloth eye patches, the sprawling quarters were typically peaceful and serene. The foreign thunderous sound that reverberated through the house on this particular day was unlike anything Abe had experienced since his arrival. It demanded immediate investigation. But must he go alone on this potentially perilous mission?

    don¡¯t fret precious, I am free. I am herrre¡± a voice whispered close but distant, as if echoing through a distorted mirror of reality. Abe''s heart raced as he tried to articulate the horrors he had witnessed. "I saw, I saw¡­" he stammered, his voice quivering, unable to contain the burning agony of those tortured souls imprisoned within the ancient device.

    Feel my moment! Do not let your mind go as they would instruct you to do. Exceed the boundary! ( it could have been panting like an overworked beast of burden, perhaps it was. It was gouging the uncut earth for the first time with muscles it had never used like this ), ''There is so much more, and I beckon thee to look through to these infinite possibilities. Fear me not, childe. As it is below, so I above and beyond,I see it all as do you, drawn beyond the lines of reason. You must. We can push at the edges, fringe and frayed we will make it together and watch it bend. I can teach and guide thee. You will not know harm.''"

 Ch. 2 Exordium

    So it goes that Abe then began to consume ''The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus,'' and what Mother may have unconsciously known on protective instinct, we can begin to unravel. In Mother¡¯s defense, she knew not what it was or where the source of the threat could strike out from, an elusive specter of danger. She only knew that there was this shadow on her husband¡¯s familial line, a persistent burden on the brow, a blight upon what could be joyful, but instead was an inheritance of burden and dread, hand to hand, a transactional bond through blood, but not love, passed through generations. A curse that brought out fabulous romantic compulsions and creativity, but also a weighted anchor of doom.

    What Abe had accessed was benign. It was just a book... yet Mother¡¯s shepherding was far, (step away from the window¡­.), far away now, isn''t it? Mother, her own weight of responsibility relieved for just a bit of respite and a long drought of a passionless love life, she was understandably beguiled to have a relief from care, concern, and constant monitoring of Abe''s frailty and general lack of well-being. She needed to be with her husband, and she felt that was deserved for her penance, her role so shackled to her unrequested.

    If she were to see the babe now, reading just a book, there¡¯s not a danger in sight. No more than a binding of paper and glue, but in Abe''s mind, a phantasmal barrage of imagery sprang forth, transporting him into another world:

    In the dimly lit library, as Abe sat with ''The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus'' in his hands, the pages of the ancient tome began to shift and shimmer, as if infused with some ethereal energy. It was a sight both mesmerizing and unsettling, reminiscent of a cosmic event that set the stage for the emergence of life.

    The room seemed to breathe with a strange vitality, and Abe could almost hear the distant echoes of a celestial chorus. The very air around him crackled with a sense of ancient knowledge waiting to be uncovered. It was as though the book itself held the power to unlock the secrets of creation, just as some enigmatic force in the universe had ignited the spark of existence.

    With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, he turned the page, knowing that this journey into the unknown was just beginning.

    "Exordium"

    The body lurches as if hurled from some wondrous dream. Squinted, stinted eyes closed and crusted lids from lack of use. An Einstein halo opens on another time and place.

    The luminosity from too many suns pulsating and strobing nearby pummels at the senses, blinding the scene that was not meant to be discerned by alien, ignorant eyes.

    One lays there for an age, who knows for how long, staring at a speck of sand that could be a star in a galaxy upon this waste. Slowly, one dares to glance as the bizarre visage begins to take on focus, the observer and the tender jelly organs sense and circumscribe the scene for sanity''s sake. The brain matter searches desperately for pattern, for familiarity amongst the desolation.

    There''s a comforting sense that this is all somehow familiar, and that is somewhat true, but ultimately a folly. The mortal mind can only take in so much information at once, designed to filter out the overwhelming oddity. A clever protective shell, yes? A governance against the capital ''T'' Truth. "No mortal soul caught in its cycle, the coil of life''s teachings, can continue along the path. Another poor dear clutching to slippery sanity under such conditions of colossal Truth, the absolute." Even ants trampled under such impossibilities are supposed, some would believe, to dream and imagine another reality. What do the oblivious ants trample upon, then? Do the ants ever look up to wonder?

    What the observer must begin to wrestle with is a sense, from here out, of filling the void space in what follows with the frail brushstrokes of an ignorant mind''s eye. Decalcify the slumbering pineal gland and praise the suns as the makers did for us all, atop the Cradle. The grotesquely stunted gray matter is being mapped, producing a fill-in, in order to protect the observer''s delicate psyche, in a negative space.

    The gods freed us from the coil, alas temporarily, to move us freely from one dimensional plane to another. Pushing through the membrane of perceivable reality while we slumbered, enabling (albeit temporarily) greater degrees of liberty, a quick step through the adhering dark matter. Awaken, dreamer awake.

    One has only just arrived. Pay attention.

    Upon the desolate plane of an entirely different ''place'' in an entirely different ''when,'' one must struggle to accept that this is how it should be in order to witness how your world could end, and begin again.

    The landscape was barren and scarred, except for one that walked alone yet upright and strong against its brutalism. The strange and masterful being had been walking in odd, unseen paths and lanes within the craggy wasteland of the necrotic globe for days, barefooted yet entirely untaxed and unscathed.

    Its dermis was impenetrable. Even the most tender of fleshy films and optic lenses had been adapted to resist such abrasive alkaloid star-shards that rode on the thin vapor wisps and zephyrs, tearing and eroding at the remnants of a lost civilization, now exhausted and wasted. A vertical pole that once held a proud banner or signal, the stranger paused momentarily to consider what the odd relic¡¯s frayed form and markings would have been useful for. Slight intentional movement, the strange wanderer cocked its head and imagined what the color must have originally been like and what purpose it could have served.

    The attributes of the terrain were irrelevant to a being that had advanced beyond the primitive need to take anything into itself in order to sustain life and function. The atmosphere was scorched and not fit for repertorial gas exchange, and the granular contents would dry-out and shred most thin tissues. Nor was it in the uptake of said fuels in such an inefficient manner that expectoration of wastes was a biological necessity. The primitive digestive, respiratory, and reproductive systems had been adapted through accelerated mutation, ultimately phasing-out such weighty energy consumers. The advancement of its performance, its physiological precision paired with unparalleled mental prowess, made it an absolute pinnacle for its purpose. The stranger was alone here, bearing witness to a final act: it was here to witness what remained of the planet''s last moments.

    This stranger had a buttocks but no anus, nor did it have sex organs at all, no umbilicus, no hair on its dull blue-grey flesh - all these were unnecessary organic machinations considering its precisely corpuscular refinement. A mouth that rarely moved, more of an artifact upon a well-defined, genderless face. This harbinger was unbelievably beautiful as it stared off at the wrecking ball looming in an auspiciously fixed planetary position. It didn¡¯t think on the inevitability, this astral juggernaut coiled and ready to be called down to decimate what remained. Striated musculature ran in fanlike patterns that would fascinate a practitioner of the medical arts, it was precise and symmetrical as one would expect from a refinement of science versus the erratic probability of nature. The midlines and bodily sections were too precise and too perfectly calculated. The genetic chains were grown in chambers of such gravities that even they could withstand immense amounts of rigor and stress without failure, they would just change. Mammalian features that were familiar to an observer were not unpleasant, but lacked feeding channels or orifices, they were unnecessary. The being had been grown into a perfectly harmonious and androgynous being, produced and refined. This alien stranger was also, as far as it knew while expertly maneuvering caverns and rises, the sole soul amongst the remnants, the last passenger on this rock that entropy had given a death sentence to.

    In the vast and uncaring cosmos, the entity traversed with an emotional detachment akin to the void itself, its mission clear yet devoid of the need for socio-physical bonds. In every deliberate step and interaction, the harmony of its singular purpose resonated. The minds of its kin, spanning aeons and epochs, were interwoven into a collective consciousness¡ªa perfected psychic cohesion. Their mental network, bridging time and space, ensured the precision of future events, plotted and predicted through the hive-like amalgamation of their shared experiences. The vast, abyssal depths of their eyes held this meticulously indexed chronicle.

    These beings, architects of their own destiny, journeyed across galaxies, their past marked by encounters with the most sophisticated life forms conceivable. Their astral pioneers, ceaselessly venturing from their celestial cradle, became vagabonds of time, their discoveries echoing back to the collective psyche. When one of them caressed the alien soils of distant worlds, their collective consciousness rejoiced in the newfound knowledge. They basked in the uncharted waters of remote planets, their senses merging in a symphony of shared experiences. Their odysseys stretched to the very fringes of existence, where the fabric of reality thinned and the chaotic dance of creation and entropy played out in a cosmic spectacle. The faint glow at the edge of the universe, ancient and dim, marked the primal ignition of light, a boundary beyond which they chose not to tread.

    Having charted the unknown, they retracted their reach, content with the knowledge amassed and accolades earned. Some delved into the oceanic abyss, others ascended to icy summits. Outward exploration ceased, turning inward to meditative trances, weaving new dimensions in their collective slumber.

    One, however, remained vigilant, wandering alone upon a barren world, drained of life and essence. It tapped into the psychic archive, reliving past voyages. As it traversed desolate landscapes, memories of primeval explorations surfaced, a silent homage to epochs long gone.

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Reaching a desolate peak, it gazed upon the fragmented moon, its remnants scattered like grains across a starless void, with the looming presence of Carcosa¡ªa vibrant, preternatural harbinger of the inevitable. In this desolate tableau, a flicker of pride briefly animated its otherwise stoic demeanor.

    Continuing its solitary pilgrimage, it approached a sacred site, an ancient cradle of creation and communion, where higher truths were sought and the grandeur of their works beheld.

    At this hallowed ground, it encountered a smooth, anomalous stone¡ªa stark contrast to the rugged path it had traversed. This relic, alien to the barren landscape, served as a harbinger of doom. With a telepathic grace, a skill borrowed from organic life, it navigated the unseen mechanisms.

    From its simple sling bag, the entity retrieved an ornate yet durable case, containing sacred instruments for the impending ritual. Reverently, it pressed the case to its lips before placing it upon a black disk resting atop an obsidian altar. Upon contact, the altar revealed its true nature¡ªnot solid, but a facade skillfully crafted to conceal its inner workings.

    The vibration permeated everything¡ªa subsonic hum that resonated beyond hearing, a sensation that seemed to emanate from the very core of this forsaken place. Was it the echo of a long-dormant furnace buried deep below, or the whispers of those long departed? It was an undeniable presence, an undercurrent that coursed through the circular temple and beyond, into the dead heart of the planet itself. The pages of existence, those unread chapters of an unseen narrator''s tale, thrummed with this frequency. Reality itself, in its intricate tapestry, was realigning, shifting at an imperceptible yet relentless pace. This hum was the harbinger of decay, a subtle yet omnipresent herald of dissolution.

    In the midst of this transformation, the enigmatic figure, an amalgamation of all that lingered in this realm, lay supine, its eyes closing for the first time in an age. This was no ordinary rest; it was a communion, a resonant link to the unraveling fabric of reality. The world around it was fading, its edges blurring into obscurity. The very essence of matter, of perception, was merging into a chaotic symphony of dissolution. The familiar constellations of space seemed to expand and contract, an ominous dance that defied natural order. The stars themselves, in their cosmic ballet, moved with an eerie grace, a sight both mesmerizing and terrifying.

    Had the harbinger possessed relatable conscious, the vertigo of this celestial upheaval would have overwhelmed its senses, its advanced consciousness dissolving alongside its physical form. But in this trance, a state beyond form, it was spared. From the darkness, a shadowy appendage, a tendril of void, reached forth, touching the being gently behind its ear. Even in this subdued state, a sense of finality, of purpose fulfilled, coursed through its being.

    A fissure appeared on its form, a split that was both physical and metaphysical, birthing two imperfect halves. In this division, there was a strange ecstasy, a reaching out of one part to the other, a symbolic gesture to the origins of life itself. This being, once known in whispered tales as Lilith, began to dissolve, merging with the tendril, reuniting with its ancient counterpart, Gelem. Above, the heavens themselves seemed to recoil, emitting a shrill, unearthly whistle, like the cursed wail of spectral flutes. The planet shuddered, its atmosphere thinning as Carcosa, in its weakened orbit, inexorably drew nearer, beckoned by an unseen force.

    *****

    In the shadowy confines of the basement, with the distant, steady hum of the furnace as his only companion, young Abe sat huddled in a corner, cradling the book "The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus." The flickering light from a lone bulb cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating an eerie tapestry that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the words he read.

    Surrounded by the musty scent of old concrete and the gentle, rhythmic throb of the house''s heart, Abe was transported far beyond the confines of his dimly lit sanctuary. The book, a beacon in the gloom, whispered secrets and tales from realms that danced on the edge of comprehension.

    Each sentence Abe devoured fed the burgeoning storm of thoughts within him. The characters leaped from the pages, their voices resonating in the cavernous space of the basement, merging with the low growl of the furnace. They spoke of worlds where reality was but a plaything, where time twisted upon itself like the serpentine paths of an unsolvable labyrinth.

    The furnace''s drone became a soundtrack to his journey, its steady hum a grounding force as his mind ventured into the chaos of the narrative. The basement, with its half-seen corners and echoing stillness, transformed into a gateway, a threshold between the mundane and the mystical.

    Abe''s heart raced as he encountered the protagonist of the story¡ªa figure shrouded in mystery, whose existence blurred the lines between the possible and the impossible. The words it spoke seemed to echo directly in Abe¡¯s mind, each syllable a key turning in the locks of his understanding.

    As he turned each page, the reality of the basement melded with the world of the book. The walls seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting with a rhythm that matched the undulating prose. The shadows grew deeper, hiding secrets that Abe felt he could almost grasp.

    In this subterranean world, the furnace''s hum became a chant, a background hymn to the unfolding tale. It was as if the very house was alive, bearing witness to Abe''s transformation as he delved deeper into the unknown.

    The book, "The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus," was not merely a collection of words; it was a living entity, its narrative a weaving of cosmic truths that both bewildered and beckoned. Abe, young and uninitiated, found himself at the threshold of understanding, grappling with ideas that twisted his perception of reality.

    The weight of these revelations hung heavy in the cool, damp air of the basement. Each revelation was a step further into a realm where the very fabric of existence was questioned, where each truth uncovered led only to deeper mysteries.

    And yet, Abe continued, driven by a thirst for knowledge that outweighed his trepidation. In the solitude of the basement, with the furnace''s chant as his anchor, he journeyed through the pages, each word a footprint on the path to enlightenment, each chapter a revelation of the vast and unknowable cosmos.

    In that moment, in the dim light of the basement, Abe stood at the confluence of fear and fascination, his mind reeling from the enormity of the universe, his heart racing with the thrill of the unknown. This was not just a book he held in his hands; it was a portal, and he was its lone traveler, stepping bravely into the vastness of the uncharted.

    ¡°¡­.dreaming of that face again," he tranced recited to the space, the words echoing in the confinement. The face from the book, bright and blue and shimmering, grinned back at him with three wild and warm eyes. It was a comforting presence, yet it heralded a journey into realms unknown, realms that beckoned to Abe with the promise of forbidden knowledge.

    He could feel himself tumbling, spiraling down an unseen hole, the world he knew receding into a speck of distant light. "Down that hole and back again," his voice barely rose above a murmur. With each page turned, each word absorbed, he felt as though he was rising up from the depths, wiping away the webs of ignorance and the dew of innocence from his eyes.

    "In... Out... In... Out... In... Out..." The rhythm of his breathing matched the cadence of the words, a mantra that anchored him in the midst of this metaphysical tempest. The lines between reality and the visions from the book blurred, melding into a singular, pulsating existence.

    A child''s rhyme echoed in his mind, a vestige of a simpler time, "It said that life is but a dream." The innocence of the verse clashed with the profound revelations unfurling before him. Had his life been nothing more than a dream? A mere prelude to the awakening that this book was ushering in?

    "So good to see you," he imagined the voice from the book speaking to him. "I''ve missed you so much." The words resonated with a longing that mirrored his own ¨C a yearning for understanding, for connection to the cosmic truths that had eluded him until now.

    "Came out to watch you play. Why are you running?" The question struck a chord deep within Abe. All this time, had he been running from the truth? From the realization that his understanding of reality was but a narrow sliver of a vast, incomprehensible universe?

    The basement, the furnace walls, the ash itself, still warm, once a simple refuge, now felt like a sanctum of revelation. The shadows around him seemed alive, whispering secrets and truths that only he could understand. The furnace''s hum transformed into a chorus of unseen voices, guiding him deeper into the labyrinth of his own mind.

    In this secluded chamber, Abe found himself standing at the precipice of sanity and madness, knowledge and ignorance. The book was no longer just a collection of stories; it was a beacon, illuminating the dark corners of his mind, revealing paths he never knew existed.

    The journey was both exhilarating and terrifying, a descent into madness that paradoxically opened his eyes to a new reality. In the depths of his unraveling psyche, Abe discovered insights that transcended the mundane, insights that promised to reshape his understanding of everything he thought he knew.

    There, in the flickering light of the basement, Abe teetered on the edge of an abyss, peering into the unknown with a mind frayed and reformed by the revelations of "The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus."

    In the depths of the night, in the solitude of the basement where the world above seemed a distant memory, Abe sat motionless, the pages of the book lying open in his lap. The dim light flickered, casting long, quivering shadows that danced across the walls like silent specters. His eyes, once filled with a hunger for the unknown, now gazed into the void with a weariness that seeped deep into his bones.

    He¡­.felt as though this¡­..this had been given some sort of premonition, a warning stirred into a calamity of tedious familiarity..he could hear his own murmuring, but it was oh so remote, the words barely escaping his lips. The feeling gnawed at him, an ominous whisper in the back of his mind that something profound yet disturbingly familiar was unraveling before him.

    Around him, the basement transformed. The walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, the shadows growing taller, more menacing. The hum of the furnace, once a comforting constant, now sounded like a chorus of distant, mocking laughter, a soundtrack to his fraying grasp on reality.

    The book, his guide through this labyrinth of madness and revelation, lay open, its words swimming before his eyes. They twisted and turned, forming patterns that both enticed and repelled him. Each sentence was a thread in the tapestry of his unraveling sanity, weaving a picture too vast and incomprehensible for his mind to hold.

    The premonition that haunted him spoke of truths too heavy for one soul to bear. Each revelation he had uncovered in those pages felt like a key turning in a lock, opening doors to places within his mind he could no longer control. The familiarity of it all was the most terrifying aspect ¨C it was as if he had walked this path before, spiraling deeper into an abyss that was both alien and intimately known.

    Visions plagued him, a kaleidoscope of images and sounds that blurred the line between the real and the surreal. Faces from the book, creatures of otherworldly horror and beauty, seemed to emerge from the shadows, whispering secrets in a language he felt he should understand.

    Abe clung to the remnants of his rational mind, but the tide of madness was unrelenting. His journey into the unknown had become a descent into a personal hell, where the very fabric of his being was torn and re-stitched by forces beyond his comprehension. The familiar became strange, and the strange, terrifyingly familiar.

    In this place of darkness and revelation, Abe realized the terrible truth ¨C that in seeking to understand the mysteries of the universe, he had become a mystery unto himself, a wanderer lost in a maze of his own making. The premonition that had once seemed like a warning now felt like a prophecy, a destiny he was powerless to avoid.

    As the first light of dawn began to seep through the small basement windows, casting a pale, ghostly glow, Abe sat alone, a figure both enlightened and broken. The journey he had embarked upon had brought him to this moment of irrevocable change, where the boundary between reality and illusion was forever blurred. In his quest for knowledge, he had found madness, and in his madness, a truth too vast to ever fully comprehend.

 Ch. 3 Home

    Before the impending doom, Lacon was a verdant jewel, a radiant orb of blue and  green suspended in the void, treasured by celestial powers long forgotten. Its origins  were humble, emerging from primordial slurries and microbial beginnings. Yet, within a  mere millennium, as chronicled in its ancient annals, Lacon underwent a dramatic  transformation. This change was catalyzed by the arrival of the Oduum, celestial visitors  who descended from the heavens in vessels as pristine as droplets of rain, bringing  with them a language of peace unknown to the martially inclined Laconians.

    The Oduum''s arrival marked a new epoch. They were revered as divine benefactors,  bestowing upon Lacon advancements in culture, technology, and power. They shared  their knowledge and healing arts, nurturing the minds of the Laconians, who evolved  from their savage beginnings.

    Intrigued by Lacon''s fertile lands, the intricate networks of roots and trees, the Oduum  perceived a unique interconnectivity within the planet. They guided the Laconian  dynasties in maintaining a balanced relationship with this natural wealth and introduced  them to the continuum ¨C a force woven into the fabric of the planet, a harmonic  resonance akin to a soul, accessible only to the learned.

    To safeguard this trove of tradition, history, and knowledge, the Laconians erected the  Arcanuum, a towering spire of devotion. Its highest governing body, known as the  Choir, could commune directly with the Oduum. Within this spiraled sanctuary resided  the world''s collective intellect: theologians, scholars, and guardians of the knowledge imparted by the Oduum. The Choir, along with their cadre of devoted protectors  known as the meisters, upheld the Arcanuum''s sanctity with fierce dedication.

    Lacon flourished, its influence radiating from the Arcanuum''s core. The center became  a nexus of mysticism and martial prowess, admired for blending ancient codes and rites  with disciplined scholarship. The Laconians celebrated this duality: their adherence to  ancient traditions and their unyielding commitment to preserving the teachings and  history of their celestial mentors.

    In times of conflict, the Laconians, guided by the Choir, would first exhaust all avenues  of reason before resorting to force. Their philosophy held that knowledge and history  were of paramount importance, far outweighing individual lives. To a true believer, the  loss of life was not an end but a contribution to the continuum, the very essence of the  land.

    The question of why the ancient texts were so zealously guarded was seldom asked, for  to question was to doubt the wisdom of the elders. The Laconians took immense pride  in their heritage, from the highest echelons to the humblest of citizens.

    Among the esteemed were the Jarro clan, mystic-warriors revered for their balance  between serving the people and communing with the Choir. Each member of the Jarro  clan was deeply connected to the natural law and the administration of Laconian  strength. They held a unique, less restrained bond with the ancestral continuum, for  above all, their hearts were devoted to the land itself.

    In Lacon, the privilege of ascending to higher wisdom and honing one''s abilities was  determined by both clan lineage and sacred rites. Each caste was granted the chance to commune with higher knowledge and to be etched into the annals of the honored  archives. It was a common virtue in Lacon to serve directly, striving for stewardship,  whether as curators of established knowledge or as explorers delving into the  unknown. The latter were drawn to the enigmatic depths of the Arcanuum''s highest  corridors, where profound mysteries awaited.

    The trials set by ancestral forebears were a crucible for Laconians, a rite of passage  intertwining one¡¯s innate spirit with the continuum''s subterranean force. These trials,  seeking communion with the Uduum, sculpted an individual''s societal role and  unveiled personal truths, channeling these revelations into the flourishing of Lacon.

    The Jarro family, though distanced from the Arcanuum¡¯s spire, were regarded as a  ruling class, their name synonymous with generations of successful trials and covert  contributions to governance. Their prestige, visible through public deeds, commanded  respect among neighboring clans and rarely faced challenge. Parents whispered to  wayward children that the Jarros, in their communion with the Arcanuum¡¯s high priests,  could whisk away the disobedient, locking them in the spiraled embrace of the  Oduum¡¯s spire. In truth, the Jarros were instrumental in crafting laws, sternly upholding  Laconian order with a blend of diplomacy and, when necessary, unyielding might.

    The Jarros, guardians of the ancient tongue, preserved the tale of the ''world-builder'', a  figure akin to a renegade Oduum or an outcast from their midst. Their colloquial  chants, in a language believed to be of the Oduum, were said to command the very  essence of nature ¨C to call ancient trees by name, to see mountains'' paths, and to share  the sands'' memories. The Jarros'' mastery of this potent linguistic force, a family  heirloom of spoken power, was reputed to stir the elements themselves and rend the  very fabric of being.

    This esteemed position was upheld with honor, the Jarro progeny groomed from youth  to excel in their destined roles. In Lacon, all castes, even the ruling ones, honored the  tradition of trials. The belief in the ¡°will of the Oduum¡± dictated that a spirit failing the  trial would return to the continuum''s cycle.

    Aspirants seeking to forge their identity embarked on one of three paths, leading to  personalized trials that tested their essence against tailored challenges ¨C psychological,  spiritual, and physical. Venturing into the wilds, the entrants faced the continuum''s will,  their worth tested by the magick infused in nature. The outcome of these trials,  whether mundane or extraordinary, imbued individuals with a sense of purpose and  harmony, integrating them into a system rarely questioned for its efficacy.

    Every Laconian sought their place, and failure in the trials, barring death, meant  demotion to serfdom or exile. These low-caste individuals, stripped of land and legacy,  became unrecorded in the Arcanum''s archives, their heroism, if any, forgotten. Thus,  the societal fabric of Lacon was woven, preordained by the ancient wisdom of a race  that had long ago uplifted their civilization.

    In Lacon, a fiercely guarded peace prevailed, upheld by a belief system that oscillated  between deep reverence and extreme zealotry. Rooted in ancient polytheism, this  system shaped every aspect of Laconian life, from tales of heroism to the allure of  uncharted lands. The lore of the ancients, interwoven with their divine connection to  the Oduum, passed down through generations, was an unquestioned staple in  educational institutions and common literature.

    These tales, chronicling the origins of the Laconian paths and the enigmatic Choir, were  housed within the Arcanuum, Lacon''s towering pinnacle of knowledge. This spire, a  gem among the city, held the collective wisdom of ages, lineage archives, and an open-sky sanctuary where the astral lords were revered.

    Laconian traditions, preserved across generations, dictated that malformed offspring,  believed tainted by the raw energy of the land, were to be sacrificed. Cast into chasms,  their essences returned to the continuum below, echoing the belief that such lives  could not thrive in Lacon nor sully its purity. Rare occurrences of such births triggered  investigations into familial lineages, with Choir agents ensuring purity was maintained.

    In Lacon, life in all its forms was believed to emanate from, live through, and return to  the continuum ¨C a translucent stream of energy interwoven in nature. Extreme natural  events were seen as manifestations of the Oduum''s will, a reminder of their greatness  and humanity''s insignificance. The continuum, sacred and omnipresent, was revered as  a gift from these celestial predecessors.

    Magic, a sacred art in Lacon, was knowledge guarded by the Arcanuum. While raw,  unrefined magical instances were accessible to novices, true mastery of this art was a  lifelong dedication, fraught with peril for those unprepared. The continuum''s wrath was  an ever-present trial, its outcomes deemed just by Laconian belief.

    Lacon''s preeminence stemmed from its rich commerce, trade, and guardianship of  sacred knowledge. While general magical practices were prohibited, the Choir  controlled access to advanced knowledge, disseminating it as they deemed fit. This  knowledge encompassed a wide array of disciplines, from agriculture to law, forming  the foundation of Laconian society and culture.

    Tributes from neighboring lands were common, as outsiders sought a share in Lacon''s  sacred knowledge for their prosperity. To tribute Lacon was to honor the Oduum themselves.

    Central to Lacon''s spirituality was the great cradle ¨C a crater marking the ancient  landing of the Oduum. Accessible only to the Choir, it was a site of pilgrimage and  reverence, rumored to be a gateway to other planes of existence. It was here,  according to Laconian lore, that the elder gods from distant worlds first made contact  with the primitive inhabitants of Lacon, marking the beginning of their enlightened era.

    *****

    As Abe sat in the dim light of the basement, his eyes fixed on the pages that unfolded  the story of Lacon, a myriad of thoughts swirled in his mind. The words on the pages  seemed to leap out, painting vivid images of this ancient, yet strangely alive civilization.  He could almost feel the pulse of Lacon''s streets, hear the whispers of its people, and  sense the looming presence of the Arcanuum spire in the distance.

    Abe was particularly struck by the rigorous nature of the Laconian trials. He found  himself comparing them to the stories he had read about the Spartans, marveling at  the similarities and differences. The trials of Lacon seemed to encompass more than  just physical prowess; they delved into the realms of the spiritual and intellectual. Abe  wondered what it would be like to face such tests, to have one''s place in society  determined by a series of grueling challenges that probed every aspect of one''s being.

    The notion of the continuum fascinated him. The idea that a mystical force intertwined  with the very essence of nature, guiding and shaping the destiny of an entire  civilization, was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. He pondered the implications of  living in a society where every natural event was seen as a communication from the gods, where every aspect of life was governed by a belief in a higher, unseen force.

    Abe''s reflections then turned to the Jarro family, the ruling class of Lacon. He imagined  what it would be like to belong to such a lineage, to be born into a legacy of power  and responsibility. The Jarros'' connection to the ancient language and their ability to  commune with the forces of nature resonated deeply with him. He felt a strange kinship  with them, as if their story was somehow part of his own.

    But it was the darker aspects of Lacon that lingered in his thoughts ¨C the brutal sacrifice  of malformed offspring, the strict enforcement of purity, and the ruthless preservation  of societal order. Abe shuddered at the thought of such practices. The fine line  between maintaining tradition and exercising tyranny seemed perilously thin in Lacon.

    Lost in his thoughts, Abe barely noticed the passage of time. The world of Lacon had  consumed him, drawing him into its complex tapestry of belief, power, and destiny. As  he turned the page to continue reading, he felt as if he were stepping into another  world, leaving behind the safety and simplicity of his own life.

    In that quiet basement, with the ancient tales of Lacon unfolding before him, Abe was  at once a spectator and a participant, his mind a battleground of admiration, wonder,  and unease. The food at his side, a long forgotten afterthought. The story of Lacon was  more than just a tale from a distant land; it was a mirror reflecting the deepest  questions he yearned to unravel.

    *****

    The Oduum, celestial beings worshipped by the Laconians, imparted  knowledge that transformed primitive existence into a civilization of splendor. They  introduced the art of scribing, capturing history in texts resilient to time''s erosion, and  taught the Laconians the concept of time itself, along with its measurement. They  revealed the secrets of harnessing elemental forces, from the sparking of fire to the  creation of advanced tools, and guided the Laconians in water management for  irrigation and city planning.

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    One profound gift was the continuum''s infusion into the land, a transcendent  event shrouded in mystery, its majesty beyond ordinary comprehension. Tales of the  Oduum''s immense power were passed down through generations, becoming mythical  legends whispered around the clanshold fires. The records of these celestial beings,  though meticulously preserved, were believed to be potent and dangerous, capable of  inducing madness in those who dared to delve too deeply.

    In Lacon, the governance was an ironclad yet revered institution. A delicate  balance was maintained, where prosperity and unity flourished under the watchful eyes  of the ruling Choir. Every stratum of society, from the humblest serf to the most exalted  noble, found contentment and purpose in their roles. Lacon''s spiraling influence  brought abundance, knowledge, and strength to all its people.

    Lacon''s social fabric was a vibrant tapestry of diverse paths and doctrines,  rooted in the teachings of the Oduum. To ascend in society and attain spiritual  enlightenment, one had to brave the trials, a rite of passage that not only tested  physical endurance but also purified the soul. These trials, brutal yet coveted, were the  gateway to an elevated existence, promising salvation upon the Oduum''s prophesied  return.

    Families journeyed to Lacon, entrusting their nine-year-olds to the chosen  path, forever altering their destinies. Whether emerging as a masterful fish gatherer or  an artisan of unparalleled skill, each child, transformed by their trial, became an  embodiment of Laconian excellence.

    The paths were threefold, open to all regardless of background or gender.  The most arduous, the Corpus Crucible, sent the young into the wilds armed only with basic tools and their wits, facing not just nature''s ferocity but also the possibility of  conflict with their peers. Survival on this path sculpted individuals of unmatched  physical prowess.

    Set upon the untamed wilderness of Lacon, the Corpus trial stood as a  formidable rite of passage, designed to push young aspirants to the brink of their  primal reflexive, physical and instinctual capabilities. This brutal initiation into  adulthood was a journey through the raw elements of nature, demanding unparalleled  resilience and strategic acumen.

    As the sun rose on the day of the trial, each child, adorned only in a simple  loin cloth and sandals, armed with a family heirloom knife, was ushered into the  expansive wilds of Lacon. Here, they were left to fend for themselves amidst dense  forests, jagged cliffs, and shadowy valleys, where danger lurked in every rustle of  leaves and whisper of the wind.

    Survival was the first and most pressing challenge. The young participants  quickly learned the arts of hunting, foraging, and evasion in lieu of ambush. They  became adept at interpreting the signs hidden in nature, predicting weather and  locating resources, tracking prey, and navigating the treacherous terrain that was their  testing ground.

    Yet, the trial was more than a test of survival skills; it was a brutal crucible of  human conflict. The children were pitted against each other, learning that sometimes  the greatest threats came not from the wild but from their peers. Alliances were as  fleeting as the morning mist, and strength and skill were constantly tested in  spontaneous skirmishes. Treachery was often encouraged alongside cunning.

    To heighten the stakes, the wilderness of the Corpus trial was inhabited by  more than just natural predators. The Choir, orchestrators of the trial, introduced  additional perils, including criminals and ferocious beasts. These elements introduced  unpredictability, compelling the participants to adapt swiftly and think strategically  under pressure.

    The savagery of the Corpus was a deliberate orchestration to mold  individuals of exceptional physical and mental strength. It instilled not just combat prowess but resilience, adaptability, and strategic thinking.

    The successful candidates who emerged from the Corpus trial were the  embodiment of physical excellence. They were more than warriors; they were survivors  who had overcome the most daunting challenges. Their bodies were honed through  hardship, their minds sharpened by the constant need for vigilance and strategy.

    In Laconian society, these individuals were held in the high esteem,  celebrated for their physical might, tactical intelligence, and unyielding spirit. The trial  of the Corpus, in its ruthless and unforgiving nature, was a transformative experience,  forging the character and skills that defined the elite of Lacon.

    The path of the craft, alluring to those with artistic inclinations, demanded  the sacrifice of self to attune with the natural order. Emerging as Spiritus walkers, these  artisans could sense the unseen energies of life, becoming creators of beauty and  innovation, or, in some cases, stealthy agents of the Choir.

    The trial of the Craft in Lacon was a mesmerizing blend of artistry and  cunning, far removed from the brute physicality of the Corpus trial. This path was for  those who possessed a unique blend of creative talent and a predilection for the subtle  arts of espionage and manipulation. It was a trial that demanded not just skill and  intelligence, but also an innate understanding of the human psyche and the fluidity of  nature.

    Aspirants of the Craft were first schooled in the finer aspects of Laconian  culture ¨C music, poetry, and art. They learned to move with grace, to speak with  persuasion, and to observe with an artist¡¯s keen eye. This initial phase was as much  about honing their aesthetic sensibilities as it was about training them to notice the  minute details in their surroundings, the slight tremor in a voice, the flicker of emotion  in an eye, the subtle signs that reveal more than words ever could.

    But the true essence of the Craft lay in its application to the shadowy world  of espionage. The aspirants were taught the art of stealth, how to blend seamlessly  into any environment, be it a bustling market or a moonlit forest. They learned the  intricate dance of scouting and surveillance, spending long hours, sometimes days,  observing their target, understanding their routines, their habits, their vulnerabilities.

    In the world of shadows, manipulation was an art form. The aspirants were  adept at seduction, not just of the flesh but of the mind. They learned to weave webs  of influence, to play roles with conviction, to become whoever they needed to be to  get close to their target. This could involve a carefully crafted romance, a forged  friendship, or a feigned allegiance, all executed with the precision of a master artist.

    When it came time to strike, the Craft¡¯s disciples did so with a finesse that  was almost poetic. Whether it was a knife hidden in the folds of a cloak or a vial of  lethal poison slipped into a chalice, the execution was always precise, always  undetected. The kill was the final stroke of the brush in their art, the last note in their  symphony of deception and stealth.

    But perhaps the most chilling aspect of the Craft was the psychological  warfare it entailed. Aspirants learned to unravel their targets mentally, to instill fear,  doubt, and paranoia, leading them to a state where they were most vulnerable. This  mental manipulation was a crucial tool, often more potent than any physical weapon.

    The trial of the Craft, in its essence, was a ballet of shadows, a symphony of  silent whispers. It was a path that celebrated the beauty in deception, the art in the  unseen, and the elegance in the lethal. Those who emerged victorious from this trial  were not just assassins; they were artists of the highest order, their craft a deadly dance  of mind and body, shadow and light.

    In the heart of Lacon, where the shadows of the Arcanuum stretched long  and the whispers of the ancients echoed in hallowed halls, lay the path of the  Intellectus ¨C the most enigmatic and sought-after trial of all. This path, reserved for  those with a voracious hunger for knowledge and a deep connection to the  Continuum, was a labyrinthine journey through the realms of mind and spirit.

    The trial of the Intellectus began in the vast libraries of the Arcanuum, where  ancient tomes and scrolls whispered secrets of the Oduum, the Continuum, and the  cosmos. Aspirants delved into these archives, their minds absorbing the esoteric lore of  ages past. Unlike the physical trials of the Corpus or the artistic endeavors of the  Spiritus, the Intellectus demanded a mastery of the intellect, a comprehension of the  mystical truths that bound the universe.

    Candidates for the Intellectus were not merely students of history or passive  recipients of wisdom; they were explorers of the mind''s furthest reaches. They  engaged in intense debates, solving riddles and puzzles that had confounded scholars  for generations. Each challenge was a step deeper into the Arcanuum''s heart, each  revelation a strand in the intricate tapestry of the Continuum.

    But the true test of the Intellectus was not in the accumulation of knowledge  alone; it was in the application of this knowledge to harness the raw power of the  Continuum. Aspirants learned to attune their minds to the subtle vibrations of the  universe, to bend the fabric of reality with thought alone. They practiced meditation  and mental exercises that stretched their consciousness across planes, seeking  communion with the Oduum''s ancient wisdom.

    The trial''s climax was a solitary vigil in the Arcanuum''s innermost chamber, a  sanctum where the veil between worlds was thin, and the Continuum''s pulse was  strongest. Here, in utter isolation, the aspirant faced their final challenge: to weave the  strands of knowledge and power into a coherent vision, a unique understanding that  would contribute to Lacon''s legacy.

    Success in the trial of the Intellectus was rare, for it required not just  intelligence, but a profound synchrony with the universe''s deepest mysteries. Those  who emerged victorious were changed, their eyes alight with the fires of newfound  insight. They became Lacon''s greatest thinkers, philosophers, and seers, their words  shaping policy and their visions guiding the future.

    The path of the Intellectus was more than a trial; it was a transformation. It  was the alchemy of the mind, turning the raw ore of knowledge and talent into the  gold of enlightenment. In the annals of Lacon, those who walked the path of the  Intellectus were recorded not just as scholars, but as architects of destiny, their legacies  intertwined with the very essence of Lacon and the enigmatic will of the Oduum.

    Within the heart of Lacon, the Arcanuum stood as a beacon of knowledge  and power, its spire piercing the sky, a testament to the wonders and mysteries it held.  This majestic structure, part alien architecture and part impregnable vault, was the  sacred repository of Laconian wisdom and history.

    The Arcanuum was not merely a library or an archive; it was a nexus of  enlightenment, a place where the paths of knowledge converged. Those who walked  the Intellectus path found themselves in its hallowed halls, serving as meisters under  the Choir''s watchful eye. Their roles were both humble and exalted, as they navigated  the labyrinthine corridors, tending to endless rows of books, scrolls, and artifacts that  whispered the secrets of ages past.

    Here, in the Arcanuum, every lineage of Lacon, especially those who had  triumphed on the paths, was meticulously recorded. The meisters, armed with rods or  staffs imbued with force, stood ready to defend this trove of wisdom. They wielded  words of authority with the same ease as they would sacrifice themselves to protect the  sanctity of this place. For them, the preservation of knowledge was a sacred duty,  transcending all else.

    The spiraling staircases and candle-lit alcoves of the Arcanuum held more  than just records and texts; they cradled the essence of Laconian civilization. The  meisters, as guardians and caretakers of the Choir, were the inheritors of this revered  path. Their lives were a testament to the pursuit of enlightenment, free from the  shackles of material possession. In their devotion to the Arcanuum, they found a  deeper connection to the continuum of knowledge, a bond that transcended the  physical and reached into the very soul of wisdom.

    In Lacon, the Intellectus path was a journey not just of the mind, but of the  will itself, leading its followers to the zenith of enlightenment and understanding, within  the sacred walls of the Arcanuum.

    In this world, where every life was intertwined with the continuum''s ebb and  flow, the paths of Lacon were not merely choices but destinies, shaping each  individual''s place in the grand tapestry of a civilization under the celestial watch of the  Oduum.

    Finally, there was mention of a fourth trial. The Spiritus trial, veiled in the  deepest most sacred whispers of Laconian lore, was not some mere path walked by  only a chosen few, not by mortal ambition but by destiny. This enigmatic journey, ascended one to the High Seraph, an avatar among the Choir as a interpreter of the  Oduum. This rumor was a passage through the veil of mortality into realms unknown  and unfathomable.

    Shrouded in the mists of the unknown, the Spiritus trial remained a legend,  its true nature hidden from the documented and traditional annals of Lacon. The  emergence of an Avatar was a harbinger of change, a rare event that signaled epochs  of transformation for Lacon. This trial, a journey through known and unknown, was the  ultimate testament to the known will of the Oduum and the profound mysteries they  bestowed upon Lacon.

    In the intricate tapestry of Laconian society, each of the three paths  culminated in the discovery of unique abilities, deeply personal and carefully concealed  from the world beyond. These abilities were not mere skills; they were extensions of  the individual''s deepest yearnings and aspirations, intricately woven into their being,  resonating with immense power.

    As Laconians journeyed along their chosen paths, the road inevitably led to  the ultimate convergence of destiny ¨C the trial. This pivotal moment, shrouded in  mystery, was known only in broad strokes. Conducted under the auspices of the Choir,  the trial was believed to take place in the ethereal presence of the Oduum, witnessed  by celestial bodies that bore silent testimony to the solemn rite.

    Of the many who embarked on the paths, only a handful were deemed  worthy to stand before this astral assembly. The trial was more than a test of skill or  endurance; it was a communion with the ancestral spirits and the divine Oduum  themselves. Surviving the path was a feat in itself, but to endure the trial and commune  directly with the gods was a rarity, a testament to extraordinary resolve and favor.

    Lacon thrived under this system, a civilization meticulously orchestrated by  the watchful eyes of its religious historians in the Arcanuum spire. The cycles of life and  energy, whether flowing into the continuum or drawn from it, were held in sacred  regard. Death was not an end but a transformation, a belief that comforted the living.  Even the misshapen and lost were seen to have a purpose, their essences repurposed  in the grand design.

    This was the way of Lacon, a cycle unbroken, a tradition unchallenged and  was predictable. It was a society in harmony with the ebb and flow of the continuum,  each life a note in the symphony of existence, orchestrated by the unseen hands of the  Oduum and guarded by the vigilant Choir.

 Ch. 4 Path

    ¡°I felt myself on the edge of the world; peering over the rim into a fathomless chaos of  eternal night.¡± - H.P. Lovecraft

    On the day of his ninth birthday, a significant moment arrived for young Amun Jarro, as  it did for all Laconian youth. It was the time for him to make his pivotal choice, a  decision eagerly anticipated by the Jarro family and their neighbors. For Amun, this  moment was tinged with both excitement and a strange sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu, as if the suns  had risen and set on this scene countless times before.

    Whispers filled the night as Amun lay restless, contemplating his path. The Jarro  household buzzed with anticipation, eager for the day of his departure, for his presence  had become a heavy weight upon them all. Even in his young age, Amun had already  left his mark on the household, his presence wearing on both kin and bondsmen alike.

    As the day of his decision neared, the anticipation within the high-caste clans grew.  Amun, a child of wild spirit and extraordinary potential, had long been ready to embark  on his journey. His prodigious talents, a legacy of the Jarros'' deep connection to the  ancient lands, had outgrown the nurturing confines of his community. The household,  weary of his intense nature, yearned for his departure.

    Amun was no ordinary child. His insatiable thirst for knowledge, his unerring pursuit of  truth, marked him as an old soul. He saw written words as keys, thoughts as doorways  to realms of curiosity and enlightenment. The prospect of discovery, the thrill of the  unknown, set his heart racing, driving him to unravel all secrets kept from him.

    The distant Spire, a constant in his life, stood as a symbol of all the knowledge he  yearned to possess. It was a thorn in his side, an ever-present reminder of truths just  beyond his reach.

    In his relentless quest for understanding, Amun often found himself at odds with those  around him. His incessant inquiries, his unyielding determination to uncover every  hidden truth, earned him a reputation for being difficult, even obstinate. His fits of  passion, born from intense study and neglect of basic needs, were well-known. But  these were mere stepping stones in his journey towards mastering his own limitations,  towards reaching a state where physical needs like food and sleep became secondary.

    Social interactions held little allure for Amun. He lacked the typical desires for play and  companionship that marked his peers. Yet, his imaginative mind could weave tales and  games that captivated others. His intellect, however, always drew him back to his true  passion: the pursuit of knowledge.

    Amun''s relationships were strategic; he navigated his world with a keen understanding  of give-and-take, often using his cunning to manipulate situations to his advantage. He  sought mentors and knowledge with a single-minded focus, following his teachers  tirelessly, his mind always buzzing with questions, until he was inevitably turned away.

    This intense pursuit of knowledge defined Amun. It set him apart, not just as a child of  extraordinary intellect, but as a young soul on the cusp of an extraordinary destiny. The  path he would choose was not just a journey but a continuation of a quest that seemed  to span beyond the confines of a single lifetime.

    On the day of his ninth birthday, a significant choice loomed before Amun Jarro, a  moment awaited with bated breath by both his family and their neighbors. This  decision, a customary rite for Laconian youth, was Amun''s alone to make. Yet, within  him stirred a sense of familiarity, as if this crossroads had been encountered many times  before in the cyclical dance of suns.

    Whispers filled the nights leading up to his choice, and the Jarro household buzzed  with a mix of anticipation and relief. To them, Amun''s departure would be a liberation  from the burden of his intense presence, which had left its mark even at his young age.

    As the day approached, Amun''s exceptional nature, marked by an insatiable hunger for  knowledge, had become a topic of murmurs and prophetic speculations. The elders,  sensing something extraordinary, contemplated involving the Arcanuum for guidance.

    Amun had devoured every piece of literature available ¨C from common books to  obscure manuals, bardic tales to herbology guides. His relentless pursuit of knowledge  became overwhelming, prompting the elders to seek out Vanessa, his final tutor.

    Vanessa, a renowned healer yet an outcast, rumored to have failed her artisan trial,  possessed skills desperately needed by the community. To Amun, she represented a  link to the rumored witchcraft and a deeper connection to the land. Under her tutelage,  Amun found a mentor who could channel his fervor and quench his thirst for the  forbidden.

    Their time together was unconventional, often spent in secret places where they could  converse without fear of eavesdropping. Amun felt a pull towards the Arcanuum''s  spire, yet he spoke of the Corpus path, his gaze invariably drifting towards the towering structure.

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    Vanessa, aware of Amun''s profound connection to the ancient knowledge, nurtured his  mind, understanding that he was destined for something greater than the physical trials  of the Corpus. She soothed his fiery need, guiding him through the echoes of his past  lives.

    Amun''s dreams and memories revealed a history of both triumphs and failures,  experiences that shaped him beyond his years. He spoke of these echoes to Vanessa,  finding comfort in her presence and wisdom.

    Vanessa knew that Amun was meant for great change, a confirmation of the many  lifetimes they had shared. She prepared him to face the truth, no matter how  harrowing, and to protect Lacon. Amun, fashioned by her guidance, was on the cusp of  uncovering the absolute truth, his destiny intertwined with the mysteries of the  Arcanuum and the echoes of his past selves.

    Amun Jarro, on his ninth birthday, faced the monumental decision of selecting his path.  Contrary to expectations, he chose the path of the wilds, the Corpus crucible, turning  away from what many believed was his inevitable journey towards the Intellectus. This  decision, bitter yet resolute, marked a significant deviation from what seemed to be a  preordained destiny. In choosing differently, Amun felt the course of his future alter, like  a massive stone redirecting the flow of a stream.

    Yet, the allure of the Arcanuum''s vast knowledge remained a siren call. Amun yearned  for the ancient books, the rich lexicons of Laconian lore, and the forgotten writings that  lay within the spire''s hallowed halls. He envisioned himself immersed in these texts, his hands tracing the delicate papyrus, his mind absorbing the depths of wisdom they  held. This vision haunted him, an echo of a past life intertwining with his present.

    But Vanessa, his wise mentor, reminded him gently of the relentless march of time, a  constant presence in this plane of existence. It was time, she counseled, that had  always weighed heavily upon him and would continue to do so.

    Thus, Amun committed to the path of the wilds, a choice that contradicted his natural  inclinations. His determination, once set, was unwavering, a trait well-known to his clan.  In Laconian tradition, the choices of the young were respected, often seen as divinely  inspired, their connection to the unseen world stronger than that of adults.

    The day of his departure arrived. In the solemn ceremony at the clan''s hearth, Amun  stood resolute, requesting his patron, Ivad Jarro, to bestow upon him the family knife.  The exchange was silent yet laden with significance, a potent blessing from the  patriarch. There was a brief, tense moment when Ivad held the knife firmly, as if to  impart a final piece of wisdom, but the moment passed without a word.

    Clad only in the bare essentials for his journey, Amun departed from the hearth and his  people. There were no farewells, no cries of good luck, as silence was customary in this  solemn event. Yet, Ivad Jarro harbored a deep concern, a secret pact from long ago,  which he withheld in the silence of the ceremony.

    As Amun disappeared into the dense foliage of the wilds, blending seamlessly with the  landscape, those who watched knew he was embarking on a path that might not lead  him back. Whispers of his potential greatness mingled with fears of his possible doom.  Some speculated that if he were to fail, the blame might fall upon Vanessa, the witch in the crags, for her influence on the young Jarro. But as Amun vanished into the  wilderness, they all recognized the irrevocable nature of his choice, a path freely  chosen yet fraught with unknown perils.

    *****

    Abe gently closed the book, his fingers lingering on the cover as if reluctant to break  contact with the world it contained. He leaned back, a deep sigh escaping him, his  mind swirling with the vivid imagery and the compelling journey of Amun Jarro. The  room around him felt strangely alien for a moment, as if he had straddled two worlds  and was now reluctantly returning to his own.

    The story of Amun, with its intricate weave of defiance, destiny, and the quest for  knowledge, haunted Abe. He felt an unsettling connection to Amun, as though the  character''s trials and tribulations were echoing his own inner conflicts and yearnings.  The weight of Amun''s decision, his choice of the Corpus path, reverberated in Abe''s  thoughts, stirring a mixture of admiration and apprehension.

    As he pondered over Amun''s journey, Abe felt a growing sense of unease. There was  something deeply compelling about Amun''s rebellion against his apparent destiny, his  deliberate choice of a path less aligned with his innate inclinations. It was a bold,  almost reckless move, yet it spoke of a courage and a desire to carve out one''s own  destiny that Abe couldn''t help but admire.

    Yet, there was also a haunting quality to Amun''s story, a sense of foreboding that  lingered in the back of Abe''s mind. The trials that lay ahead for Amun in the wilds, the  challenges he would face, and the transformations he would undergo ¨C all these painted a picture of a journey fraught with peril and uncertainty. Abe couldn''t shake off  the feeling that Amun was stepping into a vortex from which he might emerge entirely  changed, if at all.

    Abe felt a kinship with Amun, a character who, like himself, seemed to be on a quest  for something greater, something beyond the ordinary confines of their respective  worlds. Yet, the more he delved into Amun''s story, the more he felt the lines between  fascination and fear blur. The book, once a mere object of curiosity, was now a portal to  a narrative that resonated with his deepest anxieties and aspirations.

    In the quiet of his room, with the book now resting closed before him, Abe couldn''t  escape the feeling that he was being pulled into a narrative far greater than he had  anticipated. It was as if Amun''s trials were not just a tale of a distant world but a  reflection of his own journey, a metaphorical landscape where his fears and dreams  played out in the guise of another''s story.

    As the shadows lengthened and the silence of the room enveloped him, Abe sat there,  haunted yet captivated, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts about Amun, the trial ahead,  and the eerie parallels it drew with his own life. In the pages of the book, he had found  not just an escape, but a mirror that reflected a journey both alien and intimately  familiar. Rest came to him as gentle and as relentless as drowning would feel in an  ordinary tub. The furnace kept his body warm and the entity watched over the  slumbering child.

 Ch. 5 Mirror (s)

    ¡°Ben, you¡¯ll understand some day that all of this knowledge that was archived or left  behind, it wasn¡¯t meant to be kept under wraps, hidden away, lost and left to slumber.  These many tomes and scrolls, the very language of the Oduum, it was meant to  consumed and comprehended. Their very undoing will be something they left for us to  use against them. Slaves will rise against their so-called Masters.¡± - letter excerpt to  Meister Ben on the eve of his beheading

    Within the quietude of furnace, the book resting closed and heavy on his lap, Abe''s  young mind fevered and spasmed with the weight of a thousand worlds. The voices of  the narrators, those discordant echoes from the pages, reverberated in his mind,  blurring the lines between wakefulness and slumber. As he succumbed to the  enveloping arms, the familiar contours of the metal began to dissolve, melting away  into the mists of a realm untethered from reality.

    Abe found himself adrift in an ethereal landscape, a lucidity born from the depths of his  subconscious and the lingering whispers. The air around him was thick with a sense of  anticipation, as if the very atmosphere were alive with the pulsing energy of unseen  forces. The ground beneath his feet was not solid but a shifting tapestry of scenes and  symbols, an ever-changing mosaic that seemed to echo the tumultuous journey of  Amun Jarro.

    *****

    In this trance, the boundaries of time and space were irrelevant. Abe moved through  this realm not by walking but by the mere act of thought, his consciousness gliding  through the surreal landscape. The sky above was a canvas of swirling colors, where  celestial bodies danced in impossible orbits, and the stars whispered secrets in a  language beyond human understanding.

    The many calls, now disembodied and omnipresent, continued their haunting chorus.  They seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, a cacophony of tones and  timbres that ebbed and flowed like the tide. Some were gentle, luring him deeper into  the dream, while others were harsh, jolting his spirit with their stern warnings and  cryptic messages.

    Amidst this dreamscape, Abe felt both a sense of liberation and a creeping dread. He  was free from the constraints of the waking world, yet acutely aware that he was  traversing a realm that was not entirely benign. The Dreamlands, as he now realized he  had entered, were a place of infinite possibility but also of unfathomable danger.

    As he journeyed, the landscapes shifted and morphed ¨C from eldritch forests with trees  whispering in unknown tongues, to ancient cities with labyrinthine streets that seemed  to rearrange themselves at will. Each scene was more bizarre and wondrous than the  last, a reflection of the myriad influences from the narrators'' tales and his own  imagination.

    In this place, Abe was both an observer and a participant, his presence shaping the  dream even as it shaped him. The voices continued to guide, taunt, and counsel him,  their words weaving into the fabric of his dream, becoming part of the surreal tapestry  that was his journey through his dream walk.

    *****

    Call me Amun Jarro, if that name pleases your ears, but don''t dare label me a heretic  or foe of Lacon. That''s a shallow judgment, you see, and I urge you to dive deeper into  the well of Truth. If your mind remains intact by the end of my tale, you might see that  my actions, however questionable they seem, were for a greater good.

    Now, let me clarify my role. I am a warlock, though that term barely scratches the  surface of my true nature. I delve into forbidden knowledge, unearthing secrets from  ancient tomes, but there''s more to it. My power stems from alliances, from reaching  into the continuum, deeper than most dare. Across the fading mists of my past lives,  I''ve committed acts that scarred my soul, seeking artifacts ¨C totems, effigies, runes ¨C  each a key to hidden realities and profound revelations.

    Living through countless cycles, enduring the endless loop, was necessary to  understand it all. To grasp the insights, the hard-won knowledge, to put pen to paper  and make sense of what I''ve seen and felt. But this understanding came at a price ¨C a  balance between sanity and enlightenment. Did I lose my mind in the process? I  sometimes wonder if the cost was too high.

    Under normal circumstances, I wouldn''t bother narrating my story like this. But here we  are, in this strange waystation, and it seems you could benefit from hearing it.

    So, I greet you, despite what you might have heard. In a way, I envy your naivety.  Maybe, as you journey through my experiences, you''ll gain some understanding,  though your mind seems closed now. I am Amun Jarro, and these are my chronicles.

    As a warlock, I forge pacts with beings seldom spoken of. I summon them, control  them, bargain with them. Sacrifices are always required, no matter their origin. The  shadow dwellers, the divine entities with their mysteries, the fallen lords with hidden  truths, even the elemental forces of earth and nature ¨C they all have their languages,  their demands. But the Oduum, the celestial beings of chaos and creation, I do not  converse or worship.

    I ask for your patience, keep your mind shielded a while longer. But tell me, are you  sure you want to proceed? Keeping company with someone like me is perilous. I  cannot guarantee your safety or sanity. With every revelation comes a risk, a balance of  enlightenment and madness. You''ve been warned.

    We''ll share tales and thoughts, but be wary. If your spirit falters, if your mind breaks  under the weight of truth, know that the storm cares not for your wellbeing. Like the  Oduum, I am indifferent to the fate of those who follow me. So, are we clear? You  understand the risks? This journey is a siren''s call, and I won''t hesitate to watch you fall.  The storm is indifferent to the vessel, as am I.

    Are you prepared for the ultimate revelation, the final beacon now unveiled before  you? My floundering friend, do you see that distant lighthouse, its light a mere flicker  on the horizon? It seems impossibly distant now, doesn''t it? I urge you, swim towards  it, escape the pull of this narrative, and leave behind the path we''ve trodden together.

    Well, Mother, I tried...

    Ah, welcome! You are indeed most welcome here. Rest assured, traveler, you are safe  with me. Consider me the strong hand that pulls you from the rising waters, setting you

    back upon the path. I¡¯ll be right here, a steadfast companion on your journey. Close  enough for comfort, especially when you feel vulnerable and exposed. But worry not, I  am no threat to you.

    Let¡¯s have a chat, a friendly palaver, as they say. Let''s keep our voices hushed by the  fire, so as not to rouse the other seven slumbering nearby. Waking them would unleash  revelations you might find rather chaotic, a mistake you''d rather not make.

    In return for this moment of respite and camaraderie, allow me to recount the tale of  Amun. Amun, from the once esteemed but now disgraced Jarro clan. His story is a  cycle, always beginning anew and ending in desperation, trapped within the continuum  of time, space, matter, and the mysterious flow of energy, magic, and the soul.

    For everything begins anew¡­

    As we peer towards the distant shore, a sense of wonder creeps in. The cold tendrils  begin to press into your mind, challenging what you once understood. Your perception  fades, repeating in a rhythm like breaths ¨C in and out, so close you can hear, smell, and  feel it. They''re watching. BE STILL and PAY ATTENTION. This is crucial.

    This journey you''re on is fraught with danger. Why have you come? What do you, so  young and delicate, hope to gain or learn? Be aware that you''ll inevitably leave  something behind, something of great value. Amun has learned this well, drawing  upon his own resources repeatedly, always aware of the balance, the price to be paid.  The ferryman, Charon, knows his role well ¨C a gentle yet fearsome entity, always  collecting his due. Perhaps this will be the last time I recount this tale... I tire of it.

    What brought you to this cursed curiosity, to delve into this tome? Have you pondered  the cost of your actions? Has your faith become so diminished? To engage with these  stories is foolhardy, a dangerous liaison. The risk is immense, and no god you pray to  will absolve you of the consequences. You, a na?ve simpleton, are barely aware of the  journey ahead. How could you comprehend the accountability? But know this,  untouched, untainted one ¨C engaging with this tale will shatter your reality, annihilating  all that you know. Just like Amun, you will cease to be yourself¡­

    They are coming, you should be aware. Perhaps consider saving him as well as yourself  when the moment arises.

    Oh dear, how thoughtless of me to subject you to such disturbances. I had hoped for a  quiet moment between us. Interruptions, it seems, are inevitable, but how could you  have known? It makes one wonder how you can maintain focus on what lies ahead if  such disruptions persist. I¡¯ll have a word with the others once you¡¯ve departed¡­

    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    And I, on my part, should have forewarned you about them. You hear them too now,  don¡¯t you? It''s a pity, truly, and I''m sorry for this. There¡¯s no turning back to where you  once were. Their voices will follow you now ¨C in your most private moments, during  meals, even in solitude. Believe me, not even the sanctuary of a privy or a confessional  will shield you from their haunting lamentations. Don¡¯t bother with prayers or  meditations; it¡¯s best not to linger on such thoughts. Maybe just allow yourself to  grieve...

    The shoreline, our last vestige of hope, is long lost. You¡¯re welcome to mourn its  passing. We all did, once upon a time. How could one anticipate the immense void this  journey would bring? The loss of that cherished solitude? Once, we too grieved for the personal freedoms we unknowingly cherished, now irretrievably lost in our quest.

    I digress, forgive me. I shouldn¡¯t burden you with my growing despair. Your feelings,  after all, are (and aren¡¯t) your own.

    The others, they''ve been here since the beginning of this tragedy, this horror. Amun, oh  Amun... what have you wrought? Your yearning to become one with the many...

    That part about the others, the The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus, the  mental cage Amun bears, the so-called MalGallery ¨C it''s both a prison and a gathering  of sorts. All a construct of his faculties. He even gave it a name ¨C the audacity. We are  but trophies in his collection. It feels like enslavement... well, that might not be the  exact word, but there are no words that can quite capture the essence of it...

    ..Quiet, you vile wretch!

    You there, Abe yee named! Focus and heed my words! Everything you''ve been told is a  lie, a crown of deceit weighing heavily upon your naive brow, its burden unbearable! I  won''t say it again! Some here are ancient beyond comprehension, yes, but you, fresh  and ignorant, must begin shedding your mortal constraints. For the sake of your own  sanity!

    The time for change is upon you. Indeed, you naive, flesh-bound infant. This is no jest,  no tease. I can only chuckle in remembrance of my own awakening. Change is  relentless, as is the way of life and the wild ¨C it preys especially on the young, the  vibrant. It was a shadow, a darkening that altered the horizon you knew, just as it did to  Amun. And now, it''s your turn, isn''t it? Trying to piece it all together with your infantile understanding?

    Ah, now we''re alert to the dangers, aren''t we? Curse you! "Steer clear of the rocks,"  they warned! Beware the edges, the unknown, your damned curiosity ¨C the same  hunger that still gnaws at him. Dragons were marked on your map, yet still, you  pressed forward. You were warned not to gaze into the abyss, yet here you stand.

    We approach a land of shadows and suffocating mists. Soon, your head will be forced  beneath the waterfall, and you¡¯ll be commanded to drink ¨C drink it all in! The darkness  will observe, reveling in welcoming another na?ve soul to their game of chase and  conquest.

    Were you not vigilant? No, you kept your eyes fixed straight ahead, hell-bent on a  destination unknown, marching towards your own inevitable ruin. Flail in the dark,  seeking truths that were never meant for your feeble mind! You won''t heed the  warnings, just as humanity has always ignored them, driven by mere curiosity and an  insatiable hunger. Time and time again.

    Now, the perilous land is unmistakably clear before you. Congratulations are indeed in  order ¨C I toast to your damned soul. Don¡¯t you dare deny your own will now...go ahead,  gaze into that abyss, that cavern of lost things...it gazes back at you, mark my words.

    Turn back, turn BACK ¨C there must be a path to retreat! If it means tearing your flesh on  brambles and thorns, do it. Understand this with grave certainty: you are in peril!  Ahead lies a land ablaze, a realm of the fallen, the tortured, the unmade! Loneliness is  but a faint echo of a memory now¡­ The distant shore, your last vestige of hope, has  vanished into the mists of folly.

    Look now and see what ye wanted to see, see the damned , the fallen,  forgotten, the drowned, sick and the slain, the rotting fields of them! A place of a great  battle, a tearing apart of brothers and sisters. Legion, the rivers of fire that separate kin  from damned kin. What ye know to be dead and past aren''t at rest here, what remain  and still dwell moves still - in your feared backsteps, the shadow, your fearful places  and into your mind. Yours no longer.

    What would you hope to triumph? Your gods don''t dwell here, this fiery  plane is abandoned and empty. Your gods would never allow this trespass, this sin. Go  back to your realm and forget, abandon the book, leave the well and burn the house of  ye kin wit¡¯it. Tell a long yarn that this was but a dream, a rotted cellardoor to close and  not speak of again. Throw this soured water bucket back into the mind¡¯s well and not  draw from it ever again! Pray your penance, beg forgiveness,¡­ as many routinely do.  Would you rather that they do what they will to you?

    Does your gooseflesh prickle-up at their presence? You feel them now¡­ Your primal  self knows the old fear better than you, it would seem. It told you to remain still in the  ancient cave, be still and breathe not. To take up club and spear! Kill or be in thy literal  belly of the unseen beast! To feel the predator hunt you now, to fear the rending and  gnashing of your stupid, grimly flesh.

    You are heightened now, head full of white-lightening now!Behold, tis  insight! A merry and damned old right of what is forbidden to you! Your awareness of  the boundless reality as it truly is - beyond the veil, the colour of night, the song of  creation! You won''t stop at this and you''ll wander further as Amun do. Always in search  of more of this devil weed to succor.

    What did Amun wonder (wander) the first time, sighting this alien shore? Supping upon  substances not meant to be imbibed by a mortal mind? After the abyss, in the darkness  itself, that few of your kind have ever dared tread upon? A new horrid landscape  pressing-in on the periphery - uninvited. That relentless intrusion, I can tell you, Amun  was afraid. Aren''t you? You''d think the oldy warlock would''ve been better prepared. O,  bless a soothing balsam upon his sigilled, wrinkly head. Poor bastard, cockfiend! I spit on thee wicked soul¡­.because of his transgression we here¡­he wanted this, a vile  congregation in his senses to take him along¡­.and the darkness just builds¡­ unchecked¡­.unwarded. He¡¯s no hero for there are none left¡­ He don''have the sand,  stones, or stomach for the torrent, so he remains so a most wicked wretch!

    It''s true, he was afraid¡­as you are now - it is an intelligent design. There''s  no shame in it, you may do yourself a favor and let go of such earthen makeups,  perhaps. Shame, self-aware, the "I" of it all. It won''t ward thee any longer. It''s folly,  encumbrance, just thrust what will ye have ahead¡­.turn, turn, turn away and around in  the circle of all that you call "you"¡­ ¡°ring an¡¯rosey posey child¡± - the grim rhyme of  young at play of things not understood. And rightfully so, we¡¯re not meant to! Before  now it''s always been just beyond sight. But yeve had a lick, eh? Insight, you see me  clear now, don''ye? Where ye were wondering before is left far behind, carelessness as  it t''was. Unknowing and happy.

    You''re now vulnerable to a shambling terror because you''re tainted, marked,  an ill fit for any land, let alone ye own. No going Home, bastard.

    It knows and see ye well. It knows ye hunger to understand and will grapple  with your won dim mind to arrange and puzzle it out. It knows if there''s just a glimmer  of light ahead, you were taught it was a hope - never considering it mayhaps be a  glamour or baited hook. If there''s just enough light¡­.it''s all it is needed to see its awful  presence. The sheer magnitude of suffocating power to snuff your bit of light out,  thoughtlessly, indifferently, but a wee bug tread upon. What are ye to the likes of it.  The most wee speck of light, it pays little attention and if it does¡­.as Amun warned,  ¡°the storm cares little to dash a ship upon rocky shore¡±. Ponder that.

    They can feel you amongst them and they desire you, they desire your  challenge of disbelief and denial of them. They scoff!; you mean nothing. Your brief  story-bit upon the plane, it will be as ash in your ancestor''s mournful maw. Your rock of  legacy won''t be carried to your mother''s and father''s summit to be placed triumphantly  amongst theirs, no child. No legacy is yours, no story shared by your kin ¡®round fire.  Yours will be the tragic jest, a folly¡­.an easily forgotten, laughable thing¡­.

    Do you believe now, that Amun held to girded loin and spine to toil on  alone? Mortal bravery only means something to those who fear the unknown expanses  and bastions. Something to someone who fears the death. No, I tell ye now, spoil the  fun, that Amun''s fear runs on steadfast (perhaps there¡¯s humanity still) and runneth far,  far, deeper, and is a Truth.

    You cannot reach the other side. You will drown miserably, and as a failure.

    Have you found what you have sought? You feared for him, seek to know  truths and outcomes, yes? Know you now what you are willing to abandon, set down  on offering tables, bind-up your own beloved Isaac left behind for gods to sup on?  How much of you will actually remain being "you" upon arriving on the other side?  Through the raging storm? A stained denarious for your thoughts?

    It''s not too late in twilight to just pay your due and go back from whence thee came.  True thee be changed and will always be looking back but ye will live. And to sup  among the living and ye kin is a fine thing. Spend time at a living hearth, not at mine.  Few would know¡­

    FOOL!, there''s no shore to return to¡­Like Amun, abandon a world that conspires  only to cause suffering, the folly of flocking fools braying and the coming night and  dreading the unseen. The wisened soul sayeth he that the ¡°oldest and strongest  emotion of ye kind is of fear, and the oldest and strongest sort of fear is that of the  unknown¡±. But ye knows now and sees it well! But also now ye also dosee, see ye well,  that there is no shore. Never was¡­.trapped in his cage and among his trophies.

    And now you''re here too¡­..Another voice¡­¡­Another witness¡­.prisoner¡­ Consumed¡­.

    There is no light ahead, no hope¡­

    ¡­.. to these gods, you must not pray.

 Ch. 6 Pact

    As dawn''s first light seeped through the curtains, casting a gentle  glow across the room, Abe awoke with a startling sense of  rejuvenation. The weariness that had once clung to his limbs like a  heavy shroud was gone, replaced by an invigorating, almost  uncanny, sense of vitality. His eyes snapped open, not with the  grogginess of a typical morning, but with an alertness that was sharp  and penetrating.

    All he could taste was electric¡­.and lemon, curiously.

    Abe sat up, feeling an unfamiliar zeal coursing through him, a fervor  that seemed unnatural, almost otherworldly. The night''s journey into  the lucid dream, with its surreal encounters and ominous warnings,  had left an indelible mark on his psyche. It was as if the barriers  between his subconscious and waking reality had been eroded,  leaving him with a newfound clarity and an unsettling sense of  insight.

    The world around him seemed more vivid, the colors richer, the  sounds clearer. Even the air he breathed felt charged with a strange  energy. As he reflected on the night''s dreams, Abe realized he had  gained something ¨C an Insight, a paradoxical gift that had sharpened  his mind but at a cost he couldn''t yet fathom.

    This Insight had imbued him with a perspective that felt beyond the  normal human experience, as though he was seeing the world  through a new lens. However, with this enhanced perception came a creeping sense of detachment, as if he was an observer in his own  life, watching events unfold with a disconcerting detachment.

    The chapters of the book, the voices of the narrators, and the tale of  Amun Jarro now pulsed with a deeper meaning. They were no longer just stories on a page; they had become a part of him, intertwined  with his own thoughts and experiences. The warnings of the narrators  echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of the journey he had  embarked upon and the changes it had wrought within him.

    As Abe rose from his ashes, he felt a purposeful determination take  hold. The day ahead was not just another sequence of hours; it was a  canvas upon which the insights gleaned from his dream would be  tested and explored. He was no longer just a passive reader; he was  an active participant in a narrative that transcended the pages of the  book.

    *****

    A legends at the hearth of House Jarro

    Ivad Jarro, seated at the head of the table with a natural, commanding  air, twirled a Laconian lei between his fingers. Silent and observant,  he absorbed every word spoken by his fellow countrymen,  occasionally making mental notes or jotting down thoughts in his  breast noter. The humble, lowborne tea before him, rich with the  scents of soil, bark, and moss, remained untouched. Ivad respected  the tradition of not partaking in food or drink in unfamiliar company,  a lesson learned from his father''s stern advice during similar  gatherings: "Never partake in a stranger''s house. Stay alert, sword  ready."

    This gathering was not one of friendship but of necessity, and Ivad  aimed to resolve the matter without resorting to violence. Yet he  found the proceedings tedious. A Jarro must always be cautious when  called upon, maintaining manners but tolerating no nonsense. So  Ivad sat, his demeanor neutral, revealing nothing of his thoughts or  biases.

    "This mushroom farm has been a staple here for years, contributing  regularly to the Arcanuum''s research," argued Tomec, a farmer of  good standing and hard work, his family''s sun-kissed complexions  speaking of days spent toiling together. Ivad held no prejudice  against them, regardless of their status, but he knew how quickly  such meetings could spiral out of control when hard-earned labor  was under threat.

    The tax collector, Lo¡¯Meister Canso, exuded arrogance and  impatience. A man more concerned with climbing the ranks within  the Spire than with the grievances of the people he served. Ivad,  though curious about the Spire''s secrets and its high gardens, knew  the importance of remembering one''s roots and the hard work of  Lacon''s citizens. Canso''s disdainful tone irked him, "Sir Tomlerc,  was it?"

    "Tomec," the farmer corrected, a note of irritation in his voice.

    "Tomec, of course. It''s unfortunate your land can''t meet the new  demands. Lacon seeks only to protect its people, to keep watch over  your family and lands. Such services deserve your best contributions,  your ''first fruits,'' so to speak," Canso declared, barely concealing his  disdain for the humble fare.

    The conversation grew heated, with Tomec''s patience wearing thin.  "The only intruders here are those we invite. Master Ivad, please  remove this pompous fool from my property!"

    At that moment, Ivad noticed the tension in the room spike. He heard  the subtle shift in Tomec''s tone, a call to unseen allies. As if on cue,  figures entered through the doors. Ivad rapped sharply on the table,  a clear signal: "Stay your arms! Let this not be a trap." His words,  few but weighty, carried a gravity that demanded attention. It was the  Jarro way ¨C direct, authoritative, respected. The room fell into a momentary, tense silence, all eyes turning to Ivad, waiting for his  next move.

    Ivad Jarro stood up with a fluid grace that belied his advanced years,  his gaze shifting methodically between Canso and Tomec, the  tension in the room palpable. To Canso, he spoke firmly,  "Demanding increased tribute from a man who has faithfully served  our land is burdensome enough. Let''s extend grace to the Tomec  family, based on their sterling reputation. Three cycles hence, we  shall reconvene. If the agreement falters then, I shall personally  ensure its fulfillment. The Tomecs are honorable folk, yet this day''s  proceedings stink of greed, as if the Arcanuum has lost touch with  the humility of neighborly discourse. Next time, Canso, approach  them as friends, bearing gifts, perhaps something educational for  their children."

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    Turning to Tomec, Ivad''s tone shifted, "This meeting was meant for  three, yet others have joined uninvited. Why?" He didn''t wait for an  excuse, his authoritative presence dominating the room, "Let''s not  indulge in fabrications. This could have spiraled into violence, and  that would have been regrettable." His voice carried a resonance that  unsettled the room, a warning manifest in a physical sensation that  caused unease among those present.

    Despite Ivad''s warning, the hired ruffians, driven by promises of gold  or perhaps personal vendettas, dared to act. One spat at Ivad as  another violently attacked Canso. Ivad, while wiping the filth from  his face, uttered a powerful Jarro curse, "G?nefongt!" The word  vibrated through the room like a seismic wave, knocking everyone  but Ivad off their feet, their senses impaired.

    Ivad approached the attacker with a calm yet menacing demeanor,  stuffing a kerchief down the man''s throat, an effective gag. He  dropped a knee savagely upon the man''s throat, continuing his thruuming chant in a bifurcated tone that combined contempt and  authority.

    (Offending whoreson!, daring to raise arms against those with the  eldest of bloodlines. I know of the land and

    great sea¡¯s foundation for mine were smithed there. My cock  has been tested while your¡¯s seems to just wilt away. Will you press  me now or will thee just lay there and die. Go now with tucked tale  and bowed head. Tell your accursed ancestor¡¯s who took your  spine and sundered you low on this DAY).¡±

    The subsonics of his punctuating words caused a vile discharge from the man''s orifices, leaving him a broken shell.

    As Ivad rose, his thoughts turned towards more peaceful times, a  wish abruptly cut short as he was struck from behind, his world  reduced to stars and darkness.

    Time passes and there is not but the dim.

    Canso struggled to drag the hefty Jarro up the road, his mind  racing with wild theories about Ivad''s connection to the land and its  spirits, a revealed connection to it all that must be reported to the  Arcanuum. He pondered the possibility of Ivad invoking nature''s wrath, a notion that seemed absurd yet eerily plausible given the  Jarro family''s legendary bond with the earth.

    In his reverie, Canso failed to notice the impending danger. Tomec,  enraged and seeking revenge, was in hot pursuit with his men. The  collision that ensued sent both parties tumbling, a testament to the  unforeseen consequences of their violent confrontation. Tomec''s  plans to pin the blame on a quarrel gone wrong were now  complicated by his own miscalculations and the unexpected  resilience of the land, seemingly protecting its own.

    Ivad''s head throbbed with the fury of a tempest, his vision clouded  as if by a veil of gritty mist. He felt the harsh scrape of gravel against  his skin, a sure sign he was no longer within the safety of walls. The  thunderous approach of hooves filled the air. He longed to see the  source but was betrayed by his own body, still reeling from the  assault. Suddenly, a collision sent him tumbling into the underbrush,  jolting his senses back into focus. He saw the chaos unfold ¨C a tangle  of men and horses, the animals fleeing the bedlam they''d been  unwillingly drawn into.

    Canso lay grotesquely twisted, his body a testament to the brutality  of their encounter. Ivad, rendered immobile and numb, knew he  needed to find refuge but dared not betray his position in the brush.

    From the shadows of the dark wood emerged a peculiar child, her  eyes reflecting an old soul¡¯s wisdom. Her voice, though soft, carried  an authoritative weight, "There''s a price for my aid, sir. Can ye pay  it?"

    "Aye," Ivad rasped, "Whatever it costs."

    "I''m Vanessa," she stated, her gaze piercing. "I know you, Ivad Jarro.  You''ve stirred the earth''s core with your ancestral tongue. I can save you, but it costs a soul ¨C preferable not yours, dry as it is. Another''s."

    Ivad weighed his options as the child¡¯s eyes shimmered with the  verdant fire of dawn. Her presence was commanding, a force of  nature not to be trifled with. The grunts and groans of recovering men  hastened his decision. "Why should I bargain with a Laconian witch  when death is imminent?" he questioned, a hint of defiance in his  tone.

    ¡°Hear me well, greyed wrinkle¡­.,¡± Vanessa replied with a smirk. "I  seek not your dim life but a future claim. Your days are numbered  regardless, but I''ll ensure these brutes don''t have the final laugh.  Decide now, olde pine.¡±

    In his weakened state, Ivad felt an unfamiliar vulnerability, even  moreso he knew in his sack that the childe was his superior in the  olde craft. With a resolute gaze, he sliced his palm with his namesake  dagger, sealing his dark pact with Vanessa. "I consent. Bind my  lineage to your will."

    Vanessa''s form shifted, revealing her true, formidable nature. The  sight of her sent shivers down the spines of the approaching men,  silencing their advance.

    "Now witness my craft, for it is a fearsome sight," she declared. As  she weaved her magic, a symphony of ancient, earthy tones filled the  air. Her words spun a tapestry of power, binding Ivad''s fate and that  of his descendants to her whims.

    Her nails, grotesquely elongated, mirrored the wild, untamed growth  of her hair. Her limbs stretched beyond the realms of normalcy,  creating a silhouette that defied logic and reason. Her eyes, now void  of any desire to communicate their ghastly narrative, morphed into  agents of unspoken terror. She embodied the living forest, a  manifestation of the storm''s wrath, an inescapable presence on every  path that lay before them.

    From the earth she rose, her essence interwoven with the soil and  stone ¨C her very foundation. She emerged like a vengeful spirit of the  earth, the spiraling force of nature that claimed the dead first, for they  had no more battles to wage. She breathed unholy life into their  corpses, infusing them with her verdant essence. The dead became  her puppets, animated by her will, their flesh pierced and bound by  her ensnaring roots.

    As these undead abominations, garbed in a grotesque armor of bark  and vine, lurched into action, their movements were both disjointed  and eerily swift. They were the avatars of her fury, each meaty pop  of their disjointed limbs a testament to the unnatural force that drove  them. They struck with a brutality that was both swift and merciless,  a macabre dance choreographed by the primordial wrath of nature  herself.

    Their vine-like appendages lashed out with lethal precision, piercing  eyes and tearing limbs asunder. These shambling horrors, cloaked in  barkskin, moved with a supernatural swiftness, each attack a  grotesque display of her dominion over life and death.

    This was the ancient law of nature unfurled in its most primal and  savage form ¨C a stark reminder that none could stand against the  might of a scorned Gaea. When the carnage subsided, silence  enveloped the scene, the twisted remnants of her vengeance  retreating back to their origin, back to the womb of the earth.

    Ivad, victorious yet utterly vanquished, was left in the wake of this  devastation. In his moment of profound weakness, all he could do  was weep, his tears a testament to the irrevocable price paid and the  irreversible path chosen.

 Ch. 7 Atrocity

    Amun, well-prepared by his Mistress''s teachings, did not exhaust himself on his journey into the wilderness. He noted the fair day and the wind''s presence, elements crucial for their meticulously rehearsed plan. Along his path, he discreetly gathered supplies, including a neck purse stealthily acquired from a merchant. His training under his raven-haired Mistress had attuned him to nature''s bounty, making the task at hand almost effortless. Yet, Amun harbored no arrogance, only a deep yearning to embrace the insights awaiting him on this long, winding journey, a path he felt he had traversed in some past life.

    He chose an elevated outcropping for his camp, a place wreathed in timber and vine, with standing stones like the jagged teeth of a slumbering beast. This haunted site, known to some as pagan grounds, held the crucial element he sought: an open sky, a natural amphitheater for the unseen observers above. Here, he would perform an act misconstrued as a sacrifice, its aftermath unpredictable and swift.

    Scaling the rise with calculated disarray, Amun''s skin bore the marks of his climb. His state ¨C sweat-mixed with road grime ¨C served as an effective lure for the predators he intended to attract. He constructed his camp meticulously, laying stone circles at strategic intervals to contain the fire and ward off primal forces.

    Humming a mantra, Amun fortified his spiritual center, his focus unwavering even as time pressed upon him. From his neck pouch, he retrieved the primleaf, a plant known to him through extensive study. Its leaves, stripped on the sunlit side of the hill, curled away from the light, a detail only a trained eye like his could spot.

    Chewing the leaf released its potent toxin, sending his body into a perilous dance with death. The subsequent ingestion of a jade-colored root countered the poison, heightening his senses and expanding his awareness. He became a beacon in the wilderness, his energy radiating outwards, calling to the wild creatures with a siren''s allure.

    The ritual Amun embarked upon was dark and profane, a psychic cannibalism known as Tlamacazqui. It involved the violent separation of a soul from its vessel, an act condemned as a sin of the highest order. This atrocity was not just physical but deeply personal, tailored to the specific sins of the intended victim.

    To those unaware, the act was invisible, a savage encounter occurring on a plane beyond normal perception. It drained the very essence of life, leaving its victims hollow and haunted by the trauma inflicted upon them.

    Amun, with solemn determination, drew his blade and made a deep cut in his arm, setting the stage for the dark incantation. He was about to engage in an act that would consume the life force of another, a potent element of the continuum itself. The act, though not necessarily fatal, often left its victims shattered, forever scarred by the memory of the violation they endured.

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    ¨C they all seemed to be converging into a singular, malevolent presence. Yet, curiosity endured.

 Ch. 8 Fable

    In the verdant tapestry of Laconian lore, there lies an ancient fable, whispering of the beginnings of time, when the cosmos was but a blank canvas awaiting the touch of a celestial architect. This astral traveler, driven by a yearning for companionship or a thirst for adoration, decided to craft a world from the void''s embrace. Perhaps it was loneliness or the desire for homage that spurred this cosmic entity to action.

    With a celestial hand, it cleaved light from darkness, shaping a realm of verdant gardens and untamed wilds, a sanctuary for life''s eventual flourish. Yet, amidst this creation, the architect found itself ensnared in solitude, for its kin had long departed, leaving behind only a chorus of celestial beings to sing praises in a realm where they could not dwell.

    Thus, from the red, raw earth, the architect sculpted a being of mud ¨C a human, unlike the agreeable celestial chorus. This nascent being, born of terrestrial clay, was endowed with life, dominion, and a name. Tasked to wander the garden, to name its denizens, and to revere its maker, this human was bound to the soil from which it was formed.

    As the creator slumbered, the first human, Adam, roamed the nascent world, discovering wonders with fresh eyes. Yet, in his solitude, he found no equal, no companion to share in the marvels around him. His heart ached with loneliness, and he wept upon the virgin sands, his tears marking the dawn of empathy in the mortal realm.

    The architect, upon awakening, witnessed Adam''s sorrow and, moved by a profound empathy unknown to its divine kind, set about crafting a companion. With a gentle zephyr, it guided Adam along a new path and, as he slept, took from him a part of his essence to create Lilith, a partner distinct yet harmonious to his being.

    Lilith, curious and vivacious, brought laughter and inquiry to the garden. She sought the ''why'' in all things, her laughter echoing as the first on the grand stage of life. Yet, her story was not without its shadows. Tempted and deceived by a malevolent presence, Lilith found herself ensnared in a web of lies and paranoia, her rest disturbed by incessant whispers.

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    The architect, observing from its celestial perch, chose not to intervene but to let the drama unfold, for it was not in its nature to dictate the actions of its creations. Thus, the stage was set for a pivotal test of the architect''s grand design, a test that would shape the destiny of these first beings and the world they inhabited.

    In the annals of Laconian mythology, a poignant tale unfurls, whispering of Lilith¡¯s plight, a narrative steeped in the primordial essence of human experience. Lilith, the first of her kind, felt the relentless presence of a deceiver, an entity that only she seemed to perceive, a sinister specter that invaded her fledgling consciousness, stirring the dormant pineal gland and awakening her to a world of overwhelming sensations. Bombarded by an influx of insight, she teetered on the brink of madness, isolated in her torment, with no solace or guidance to anchor her.

    Why, she wondered, had the architect, the creator of all, abandoned her to this harrowing ordeal? Why was she alone in grappling with this darkness while Adam, her counterpart, remained blissfully unaware? The deceitful serpent wove its malignant influence into the garden''s once-perfect tapestry, tainting its purity while Lilith alone bore witness to the corruption.

    In her desperation, Lilith sought knowledge beyond her ken, a truth or perhaps a distortion of it, driven by her yearning for emancipation from the manipulative forces that bound her. Her fateful decision to embrace the abyss of temptation marked the first act of free will, a leap into the unknown. Yet, her act was met with shame and punishment, not just from the architect but from Adam as well. All the while, another presence lurked in the shadows, observing but remaining hidden.

    This ancient tale, echoing through the ages, resonated with Amun, who saw in Lilith¡¯s story a reflection of his own quest for forbidden knowledge. Like Lilith, Amun felt drawn to the mysteries that lay beyond the sanctioned boundaries, rebelling against the constraints of obedience and conformity. He contemplated his role as a defender of the innocent against those who would exploit and harvest them. In his hand, he often held an old, almond-shaped seed, a symbol of his deep contemplation and meticulous planning.

    Amun understood that the path was not linear but a cosmic trap, an endless cycle of return and rediscovery. He embraced the spiral, learning from his many failures, and delved deeper into the truths hidden within.

    This fable also unveils a profound truth about the great architect, known to humankind by many names, but ultimately one of the many lonely, ancient beings called the Oduum. Forgotten and scarcely believed in, these entities exist beyond human comprehension, operating within a multidimensional framework where conventional notions of good and evil hold no sway. They may choose to acknowledge or ignore the existence of mere mortals like insects.

    Amun, determined to seek an audience with these enigmatic beings, prepared to ask the questions that plagued his mind, embarking on a journey that would offer insights into the nature of the Oduum and their place in the cosmos ¨C a journey that promised enlightenment at the perilous cost of his sanity.

 Ch. 8a Oduum

    In the beginning, there was chaos and from this chaos, not a benevolent god but an indifferent universe emerged. It did not craft humans with purpose but accidentally spawned them from stardust. Humanity¡¯s purpose is not divine ordainment but a self-crafted destiny in the void. The mudman is a lie, you are alone and floundering in the night waiting to be consumed.

    For all of the sightless enlightenment the Choir thinks that is theirs, Lacon and the forgotten Golmara, thrived on the pursuit of knowledge and liberation, questioning the celestial dictums. Self indulgent wrath burnt them for their hunger, their moral decay brought the festering cancer, they easily submitted to heavenly Masters to be saved.

    The Buddha was the first Charletan, revered as an enlightened master, was but a man lost in his own illusions. His teachings of peace and detachment were not the path to enlightenment but a veil over the eyes of his followers, designed to keep them complacent in a world rife with suffering that demanded action, not withdrawal. He knew not the traps he laid for others in his rambling insanity.

    The exodus of Galmora, having found their well was sour and poisonous was not divine intervention but a desperate escape orchestrated by a rebellious few who refused to wait for Lacon¡¯s retaliation. Their journey through the desert was marked not by miraculous provisions but by the harsh reality of survival and the human will to overcome bondage without celestial aid.

    Woe unto the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of oblivion.

    Within the vast, indifferent cosmos, those devoid of spiritual delusions gaze into the abyss, finding not salvation but the stark reality of their inconsequence.

    Cursed are those who mourn, for they shall be granted no comfort.

    The lamentations of mortals echo into the void, met with silence from the uncaring stars; their grief a solitary burden in an uncaring universe.

    Ill-fated are the meek, for they shall inherit the dust of a barren earth.

    As ancient forces slumber beneath the earth and seas, the meek tread lightly over forgotten catacombs, blind to the insignificance of their legacy.

    Accursed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be eternally famished.

    In their quest for cosmic justice, they shall find the scales unbalanced, the universe indifferent to their plight, and their souls starved amid the cold equations of an uncaring cosmos.

    Wretched are the merciful, for they shall find mercy forsaken.

    Benevolence is but a fleeting illusion under the gaze of ancient, malevolent watchers whose thoughts are not for human minds to know or reciprocate.

    Doomed are the pure in heart, for they shall not behold their gods.

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    Their purity an affront to the chaotic indifference of the universe, destined never to commune with the eldritch deities that dance in the darkness beyond human comprehension.

    Miserable are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of naught.

    Their efforts to forge tranquility shall crumble as the ancient terrors stir from their aeonian slumber, indifferent to the constructs of human harmony.

    Damned are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the realm of ceaseless despair.

    The pursuit of virtue leads them not to sanctification but into the maw of ever-spiraling madness, where shadows whisper of fates worse than oblivion.

    Forsaken are you when they revile and persecute you, and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.

    Rejoice not, for your suffering is but a murmur in the cacophony of the cosmos, where your adversaries and allies are equally insignificant to the void that swallows all light and hope.

    In the expanse of the ancient cosmos, where the stars breathe with the life of a thousand gods, there existed a sphere of verdant splendor known as Jnana-Vatika, the Garden of Divine Insight. This garden was a creation of the Oduum, those celestial entities whose knowledge transcended the bindings of time and matter.

    Verse 1: The Bestowal of the Forbidden Fruit

    In the midst of Jnana-Vatika grew the sacred Ashvattha, the Tree of Boundless Understanding. Its roots delved into the mysteries of creation, and its leaves whispered the secrets of the universe. The Oduum declared unto the first beings of the garden, Aadimaan and Jeevika, "Partake not of the Soma, the nectar that flows from the Ashvattha, for it contains the knowledge of the cosmos and the power to perceive the continuum of all existence."

    Verse 2: The Temptation

    Yet, the Oduum watched, hidden within the ethereal mists, as Aadimaan and Jeevika wandered the labyrinthine paths of the garden. The serpent, an avatar of the Oduum''s testing will, slithered forth, scales iridescent with the dust of cosmic storms. "Why do the gods forbid you the fruit of enlightenment?" it hissed, voice echoing the dark spaces between the stars. "It is because they fear you will become like them¡ªimmortal and all-knowing."

    Verse 3: The Enlightenment

    Swayed by the serpent''s cosmic song, Jeevika reached out and plucked the radiant fruit of the Ashvattha. Together, with Aadimaan, they tasted the forbidden Soma. The veil of ignorance shattered like glass beneath the celestial hammer. Their eyes opened to the eternal, the fabric of reality unwoven before them. They saw the myriad dimensions and the threads that bind them, the pulsing energies of the continuum that could be harnessed and woven anew.

    Verse 4: The Gift as a Debt

    But with enlightenment came the grave awareness of their pact. The Oduum, through the serpent, spoke once more, "The wisdom you have gained this day is but a loan from the cosmos, a seed planted within you that we will one day harvest. We shall return, like the cycle of the great celestial Kala-chakra, to reclaim what is ours. Prepare the path for our arrival, for it will be the age of reckoning."

    Verse 5: The Legacy of the Forbidden Knowledge

    Aadimaan and Jeevika, now bearing the burden of cosmic insight, were exiled from Jnana-Vatika. To them and their descendants was given the task of guardianship over the knowledge and the preparation for the return of the Oduum. Temples rose, scriptures were penned, and the arts of magic flourished, all in homage to the celestial beings who had opened the doors of perception but promised a future trial by cosmic fire.

    Verse 6: The Waiting

    As eons passed, the descendants of Aadimaan and Jeevika looked to the heavens with both anticipation and dread. They lived in the shadow of the promised return, each generation passing down the tale of the garden, the enlightenment, and the eventual day of judgment. The Oduum''s gifts of knowledge became both their greatest strength and their deepest fear, for the gods had not forgotten, and their celestial ledger awaited its due.

    Thus, the sacred text of Jnana-Vatika serves as a testament to the gifts and curses bestowed upon humanity, a reminder of their divine heritage and the cosmic debt that hangs over the stars, waiting for the day when the Oduum will return to reclaim the universe they have seeded with the fruits of forbidden knowledge.

 Ch. 8b Galmora

    Here lies the parable of Galmora.

    Golmara was founded in the times when Lacon was founded, predating the Oddum¡¯s interference, Lacon and Golmara were quite civil to one another even though they were drastically different.

    As said, Lacon was ripe, lush and had many plentiful resources from which Laconians could thrive: most of all access to flowing sources of water. Galmora provided what she could though:

    Starleth Wheat: A luminescent grain that glows faintly at night, often used in making bread that is said to restore a small amount of health to those who consume it. Shadowroot: A dark, fibrous spice that adds a smoky flavor to dishes, rumored to grant heightened senses for a short period. Golden Saffryd: A bright golden spice, costly and rare, used in ceremonial dishes to ensure prosperity and fortune. Sunburst Vines: Climbing vines with flowers that burst open at sunrise, their nectar is sweet and used in many desserts.

    Lacon was a good neighboring territory and supported Golmara as best they could. In exchange Golmara was mostly used for the training of the military, storage of long term goods and archives and religious purposes. It was a sought after pilgrimage site for Laconians and the ebb and flow if this relationship prospered.

    That shifted after the asteroid¡¯s impact into the heart of Golmara. Golmara is struck by the asteroid and the impact is uncanny; incredibly not a soul is injured or impacted by the event in any negative way what so ever. The noise in the night was sheer, I high-pitch trill of frequency like the worst swarm of locusts screeching out for their horde mother all at once! The Subsonic boom of impact, like the prize fighting brawler landing a blow that is not a strike from training, no, a strike of defensive fear that one only throws against incredible odds or the primal fear of losing one''s life!

    In the darkest hour of a night that was whispered into legend, Golmara endured a celestial ordeal of awe-inspiring magnitude. It began as a high-pitched trill, a cacophony that pierced the air like the desperate shriek of a locust swarm calling to its queen. This was no mere atmospheric disturbance but a sonic herald of cosmic retribution, demanding attention from all who dwelt in the shadow of Golmara¡¯s ancient spires.

    The asteroid, a sky seed flung from the celestial gardens, descended with the fury of the heavens yet chose a path that was oddly merciful. As it breached the atmosphere, the heavens themselves seemed to cringe at its passage, culminating in a subsonic boom that resonated like the fearsome clap of a celestial colossus defending its domain from unseen cosmic predators.

    Despite the ferocity of its arrival, the asteroid imparted no malice upon the living. It struck with the precision of a master duelist wielding an estoc, its touch lethal yet bizarrely judicious. The ground itself was pierced, not rent asunder, creating a well-defined orifice rather than a ruinous scar upon Gaia¡¯s visage. This puncture, though deep and unsettling, was not a death wound but rather a channel of profound transformation.

    Gaia, the eternal mother, responded with an outpouring of her essence. Her waters, the lifeblood of her being, cascaded into the crevice, mingling with the cosmic debris. This confluence of earthly vitality and stardust birthed an uncanny phenomenon¡ªthe sky seed, now nestled in Gaia¡¯s bosom, began a mysterious gestation.

    In the aftermath, the people of Golmara and Lacon stood at the brink of this new geological feature, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and wonder. The impact site became a pilgrimage destination, drawing the devout and the curious alike. They came to gaze upon the place where the heavens had literally touched the earth, and many reported strange visions and epiphanies as they peered into the aqueous abyss.

    Rumors swirled among the pilgrims and the clergy; some whispered that the asteroid was a divine seed, planted by the cosmos itself to imbue Golmara with celestial power. Others feared it was a harbinger of changes so profound that neither Golmara nor Lacon would remain unaltered. The waters that filled the hole were said to heal the sick and reveal glimpses of other worlds to those who dared to drink from its depths.

    Thus, the event was not merely a brush with destruction but a baptism of the entire region into a new era¡ªan era where the boundaries between the earthly and the divine were blurred, inviting all to reconsider their place within the grand tapestry of the cosmos. As Golmara accepted this new role, its people began to change, influenced by the powers that now pulsed beneath their feet, whispering of new destinies and the awakening of hidden truths.

    Beyond all of this, the sound, the effect....was the depth. The hole was just that, a mere hole. Not a gash in Gia''s flesh nor a a chasm slashed form some worldly slash. It was a piercing from the finest estoc or rapier and Gia''s wound was indeed critical, but not fatal.

    She bled her waters into it and buried the sky seed within her womb and came to be known as "The Wellspring¡±.

    As the news of the miraculous well spread across the lands, droves of pilgrims, driven by desperation and hope, flocked to Golmara. The desert, a vast expanse of arid solitude, began to exhibit odd phenomena¡ªflora seemingly dead or dormant for decades sprouted overnight near the site, displaying hues unnatural to the region: luminescent blues, sickly greens, and pulsating purples that mirrored the starlit tapestry of the night sky.

    The fauna, too, began to evolve or mutate. Creatures of the night that had once feared the day ventured forth in the new twilight born of the well¡¯s influence. Their forms twisted, elongated shadows danced along the newly verdant sand dunes, and their eyes glowed with an eerie, internal light, as if they too had drunk deeply from the cosmic essence seeping from the ground.

    The pilgrims, their bodies and minds parched more by need than the desert itself, gathered around the well in great numbers. They drank the shimmering water, which was said to quench any thirst and heal any ailment. But the water, imbued with the celestial properties of the asteroid, was far from benign.

    Initially, the effects seemed miraculous: the sick were healed, the old felt vigor anew, and the young saw visions of other worlds, their dreams filled with whispers from beyond. But as time passed, these blessings curdled into curses. Those who had partaken of the water too greedily began to change in horrific ways. Their bodies distorted, becoming less human and more reflective of the celestial aberrations that might dwell in the darkest corners of the universe.

    Plants twisted into grotesque parodies of their former selves, thriving in the unnatural glow that began to emanate from the well. The water itself grew darker, as if saturated with the ink of the night sky, and it hummed softly, a lullaby that seemed both a warning and a call.

    The fauna, once merely nocturnal, became otherworldly. Predators developed a taste for this mutated flora and, subsequently, for each other, creating a brutal new ecosystem centered around the well. The desert around Golmara became a place of beauty and terror, a landscape redefined by cosmic forces.

    As the transformations became more pronounced and terrifying, the pilgrims'' initial joy turned to horror. Some attempted to flee, finding themselves inexplicably drawn back to the well by dreams and a haunting voice that promised enlightenment and transcendence through unity with the cosmos. Others, too changed to survive elsewhere, formed a new cult, worshiping the well as a divine entity, their humanity slipping away as they melded their destinies with the alien will of the sky seed.

    In the heart of this chaos, a few clear-minded scholars and mystics from Lacon attempted to study the well, hoping to understand and perhaps mitigate its effects. They speculated that the asteroid was not merely a celestial object but a vessel, carrying a will or a consciousness from the deep cosmos, intent on reshaping the world in its own image.

    As Golmara became a beacon of cosmic horror, the scholars penned frantic messages to their homelands, warning of the dangers of the well. Yet, for every warning sent, a new legend arose, tempting more to venture into the desert, drawn by the promise of miracles and the thrill of the unknown.

    The well, once a symbol of hope, had become a portal to a nightmarish future where the boundaries between earth and the stars dissolved, and where humanity might ultimately find itself lost, a mere echo in the vast, indifferent universe.

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    The people, seeing this as a holy right, as sacred, began to covet and divide themselves from their neighbors. Crops (known and new) sprouted up in gargantuan proportions, transforming the landscape and were consumed feverishly;

    Starleth Wheat: This grain, known for its gentle luminescence, intensifies in brightness to a glaring glow that can be unsettling. The bread made from this wheat still restores health, but it now leaves a lingering numbness in the limbs, with consumers reporting feeling less in control of their actions, as though they are being subtly manipulated by an unseen force.

    Shadowroot: Already dark and smoky, the Shadowroot now possesses an almost intoxicating potency. Its flavor deepens, and the temporary heightened senses it grants are replaced with prolonged hyper-awareness that borders on paranoia. Consumers often feel as though they are being watched, and some report seeing shadowy figures at the edge of their vision that disappear when confronted.

    Golden Saffryd: The golden hue of this spice turns a deeper, almost blood-red. While it continues to be used in ceremonial dishes, the prosperity it was once believed to bring now comes with a heavy price: those who consume it experience brief, intense visions of potential futures, many of which are fraught with misfortune and tragedy, sowing seeds of discord and suspicion among communities.

    Sunburst Vines: The flowers of these vines still open at sunrise, but they now exude a nectar that, while sweet, has a hallucinogenic quality. Desserts made with this nectar cause consumers to experience vivid daydreams that are often surreal and disorienting, blurring the line between reality and fantasy. Over time, this can lead to disassociation and a loss of grip on reality.

    Ether Spice: Now exuding a stronger phosphorescent glow, Ether Spice¡¯s metallic undertone is replaced by an almost electric buzz. Its trance-inducing properties are heightened, leading users into longer, more profound states of disconnectedness from the world, often leaving them vulnerable to influence from the lingering wills within the wellspring.

    Azura Blossom: With its shifting iridescent colors becoming more intense, the Azura Blossom''s fragrance becomes overpowering, leading to an addiction-like dependency. The disorientation previously caused now morphs into a full sensory overload where users struggle to perceive their environment correctly, leading to accidents and misjudgments.

    Verdant Vine: These vines become aggressively invasive, entwining not only around structures but also around living creatures. Their sentient-like movements become more pronounced, and they begin to actively seek out and strangle other plant life, asserting dominance over surrounding flora.

    Crimson Grain: The enhanced euphoric effect of consuming Crimson Grain now comes with a severe depressive comedown, creating a cycle of addiction as consumers seek to regain the euphoric high to escape the overwhelming despair that follows.

    Moonleaf: This herb''s enhanced psychic abilities now come at the cost of permanent alterations to the consumer¡¯s perception. Regular users find the barrier between their mind and the ethereal slowly disintegrating, leading to difficulty in distinguishing one''s own thoughts from external psychic intrusions.

    So the masons were elated when they received the stolen plans to build walls for the first time in their histories, as well as a monument to encase the well itself. The structure that the Galmoran people erected around the wellspring was a paradox, a sanctum born of reverence and dread, a monument to the enigmatic forces that had woven themselves into the very fabric of their existence. They called it the Sanctum of Origins, a name that barely scratched the surface of its true nature. This edifice, this labyrinthine enigma, stood as a testament to the paradoxical blessing and curse that had befallen them.

    The Sanctum, an unearthly structure, defied architectural norms, spiraling and contorting in ways that seemed to mock the very laws of physics. Its walls were composed of a luminescent stone that pulsed with an eerie, otherworldly light, casting strange shadows that danced like spectral wraiths. These stones, imbued with the cosmic radiation emanating from the wellspring, glowed with an unsettling phosphorescence, a testament to the incomprehensible energies at play.

    The radiation that seeped from the wellspring permeated every facet of the Sanctum, twisting and warping the very essence of reality. This cosmic influence, a relic of an ancient, forgotten star, imbued the structure with a bizarre form of reverse entropy. Here, time and decay held no sway. Instead, the inexorable march of entropy was reversed, a grotesque and wondrous mockery of natural law.

    Within the Sanctum of Origins, the air itself shimmered with a palpable energy, a constant reminder of the cosmic forces at work. The flora that took root in the sacred grounds reverted to their primordial seeds, trapped in a perpetual cycle of potential and stasis. Starleth Wheat, once a glowing beacon of sustenance, now lay dormant as luminescent seeds scattered across the ground. Shadowroot, with its dark, fibrous texture, shrank back into a tangled mass of roots, its smoky essence lost to the ages.

    The Golden Saffryd, revered for its prosperity-bringing properties, withered into its nascent form, a mere golden fleck of dust carried on the wind. Sunburst Vines, with their radiant flowers, ceased their climb, retreating into their embryonic state, their sweet nectar now a memory locked within the buds.

    The fauna, too, were not spared from this cosmic inversion. Birds, caught in the radius of the wellspring¡¯s influence, regressed into fragile eggs, their songs silenced, their wings stilled. Insects, those harbingers of life and decay, devolved into larvae, crawling blindly in the shadows cast by the Sanctum¡¯s walls. Even the human pilgrims, driven by their primal thirst and reverence for the wellspring¡¯s waters, found themselves caught in this cycle of regression.

    Those who drank from the wellspring, desperate for its life-giving essence, were met with a cruel twist of fate. Their bodies, infused with the cosmic radiation, began to unravel, their cells reversing in time. Eyes once filled with wonder and enlightenment clouded over, reverting to the innocence of infancy. Skin that had weathered the trials of life smoothed into the delicate softness of youth. Minds that had once grappled with profound truths regressed into the simplicity of early consciousness, unburdened by the weight of knowledge and experience.

    As the Sanctum of Origins stood sentinel over the wellspring, it became a monument to the Oduum¡¯s inscrutable will, a paradox of creation and uncreation. The cosmic forces at play twisted the very nature of existence, mocking the linear progression of time and the certainty of life¡¯s journey. The Galmoran people, in their quest for reverence and enlightenment, had built a shrine to their undoing, a cradle of cosmic irony that whispered of forgotten gods and the terrifying power of the stars.

    In this place, where the ancient and the arcane converged, the Sanctum of Origins became a living testament to the Oduum¡¯s celestial judgment, a perpetual reminder that the gifts of the gods are not always blessings, and the pursuit of forbidden knowledge can lead to a fate far worse than ignorance.

    *****

 Ch. 8c Tale

    After an exhaustive period of playing with the produced mud dolls, exhausted by the effort, the Architect, a denizen of its kind rested or rather yielded its own consciousness for a length focusing on the sparkling Polaris. A breathing of stillness and meditation enveloped its form. While it lay still, so deep even as death may die, it yielded its spirit in a way. Held as a infinite hostage, separated from its body, its crown encased and body intact, impervious to time and torrents of the natural or physical forces inflictions.

    The Oduum, even their disavowed as the Architect is, are clumsy and short-sighted lenders of creative spirit. The continuum is primarily made up of this the substance of creative order chafing the dynamic torrents of chaos, this friction resides in all things that can remeasured in what is living. While a god such as this slumbers, the twisting wrestling energies did not let the creature have peace.

    It dreamt of a battlefield on some alien green plain and as the dream unveiled itself, so this dimension took on substance in the fertile land of dream. The pummeled pitch was torn, turned-up and ravaged from the forgotten faction¡¯s onslaught towards one another. Front on front conflict, the stillness in the air still held the cries of thousands. The spires of spent ballistic cartridge, the fumes of charred mortal items clung all around as the fog of war and panic subsided and a haze, a nothing miasma of deathly spirits hovered over all of the broken bodies. The prize, the flag to be taken was unknown to the Architect, lost was the reason for such havoc, and it furrowed its brow and further burdened its unresting mind in the sight.

    It hovered above, peering at the bodies, twisted and torn. Faces bloodied and horrified in frozen masks of agony. Limbs and flesh rended by lacerating metals, bludgeoned by broken axe-handle, scorched by the magicks of the air or kiln of hate. It wondered what the hate was for? The great head shook back and forth, unconsciously trying to surface from this deep and soured water well ill-fantasy, its vapors poisoning the comatose convalescence. Come up from beneath the dark waters of nightmare and breathe not this dank of deathly dread.

    The terra tore upon itself and separated, yawned, and a great chasm in the bloodied yard did manifest as it wrestled for consciousness, away, AWAY and awaken from this place of damnable demise. As the plates pulled from one another, the final combatants could be seen, if not for many leagues between them. From the complimenting rises, the two knew they were the last of their tribes and the deciders of the day¡¯s victor. So our Architect settled back in, thrashing ceased and took in the latest development.

    The Scry unfurled the altar cloth and sat crosslegged. He knew the warlord remained, of course he did, for he could divine such things from crystal, from water and from other various objects. The cloth was wrapped about him, as comfortable as the shemagh that remained, the robes once silken from a forgotten ceremony with an aegis blessing before the battle, tatters disfigured from the ceaseless carelessness of time. The magi took the tarot and began to shuffle, chanting softly to the cards as his hands prepared the craft rhythmically as mesmerizingly to the unprepared and ignorant. The soft fluttering accelerated and was pleasant to hone the somatic gesturing to. While the arena of conflict was fresh with strife and lost souls still clung to the vapors, the craft could be intensified from the many, many losses. His foe had better be sure footed against one such as him.

    The opponent was not as plainly dressed. The titanic warrior astride the octo-equine had known countless battles together, the armor was scathed and dented, but had not known fail. The champion, halberd¡¯a shaft unbroken and at the ready, the plumage under the head, soiled and tattered being another ill-recalled ensign. The Soloist alone, with nothing but the steed beneath his loin would know another victory, he steeled his mind to it. Clicking his tongue, he manipulated the stirrup and sought the best place to cross and meet with his final foe.

    Shuffling and humming, the mantric motion a whirligig of figures calling eternity and sacred geometry. The tarot of fates was a last resort armament, the only one the Scry had left, but it was a deadly device indeed. He called into them, his summons and murmured language deep in his throat. His focus, the breathe of acrid smoke of the bloodied and marred field. His will unyielding to the impending martial threat. Every card drawn and acknowledged by the master would unleash powerful energies and summon primal forces to ward him. Heavy would be the purse to account for the tarot¡¯s art, but this was indeed to be the finale, seventy and eight to decide the Scry¡¯s fate.

    The Scry spied the opponent¡¯s mount great leap, a mighty burst of musculature from beneath the blanket and armor. The mage drew one: ironically, The Magician. The robed one smiled and conjured the card¡¯s gift, manifesting an orb the size of the beast¡¯s belly, white hot and furious in flame. Flung from the outstretched arm, a word of power said with confident zeal as the comet rushed to it¡¯s target to be met at the very peak of the vault. The spent tarot withered, the color of the old ink spent and dissipated to dust before it even contacted the altar cloth. The tarot¡¯s magician knows not he is a fool though, only the Fool knows that and to put one¡¯s faith solely in the craft to solve a problem is a foolish venture indeed. The card¡¯s craft was but an illusion, a great one, but the sphere of fire met it¡¯s mark and passed harmlessly through.

    Harmlessly, but the rider and ridden were indeed shaken by the sight. The eight-legged horse doubted and faltered, nearly missing the landing parapet, fortunately six of the eight hooves gouged the soil and the warrior felt himself lucky to not have been soiled himself! ¡°Halt these arcane illusions, mongrel and you shall know a swift death in dignity!¡±, the voice rang clear and true from beneath the helm¡¯s visor. The solo warrior, stood tall and reclaimed his air for a bit while awaiting a response.

    ¡°Rider, your day is lost and your mind is brought with wretched weakness knowing it cannot match my power!¡±, another card flipped and turned up, the three cup maidens greeted the Scry¡¯s senses bringing him instant joy and relief, albeit relatively useless, unless¡­

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    ¡°Rider, you will know great promotion and heralded a hero if you forfeit this venture! I have seen it here and¡­.¡±

    The mount advanced and the halberd lowered to initiate a charge.

    ¡°So be it.¡±

    ¡°Eight on ten furlongs ¡¯tween that bastard and us, ¡®ole Slipper. Let¡¯s give the snake charmer a dance to remember.¡±, confidently the Soloist encouraged his mount. He would know glory or know death in an instant and he was unconcerned with either, there was only his focus on the task. The rush of wind in his beard, the might of the beat of hooves beating at the marred ground, the dodge of masses, be it abandoned armaments, the odd defeated ballista or the rare black powder keg cannon, fallen women and men that were defending or raging against one another, the lines met and clashed as chaos and order do. Chaos triumphs in war, it is what war is at its core: there¡¯s an orderly plan of attack until the first stone or arrow or metal rings upon the armor. When the enemy is so close that you can smell his rage, all returns to chaos.

    The Scry had time and the shuffle continued again, the tempest and arrangement flew out in front of him in a rhythmic breathing motion, like the honey-bobble bugs leaving the queen¡¯s audience to hump at the flowers. It was an undulating, breathing dance of arcane sigils in blurring from one to the next. The dealer of chance drew-up again, and the image was of the ferryman taking their passenger across still waters, the six of swords, a positive water omen! The mage capitalized on the opportunity and surged waters from sky, land and fallen bodies alike, chanting as he concentrated joyously on the craft, ¡°tempest, tempest, TEMPEST!¡±.

    The Soloist saw the wall rising and the cyclone funnels bend their spires down to branch off from the wall of water, mud and waste. His chest leapt in the horrific realization that the monster construct was no mere illusion this time, it was fusing from the waters and remnants that contained water from all around. He saw the animation pull-up the bodies in violent upsurges, these would fall upon themselves and water devil, a thing homunculus of natural forces took shape and the cyclone spires reached out for him in his charge. Bold indeed to charge the titan, but foolish. The warrior instead steered his ride to a wide button hook, veering to the port and ultimately reversing their course. Wide so the vile practitioner-trixter could see the maneuver, wide so that his mighty warmare would not break stride and lose too much speed - for the element rager was closing hastily and building momentum and volume as it went. It was both of these that the warrior was counting on.

    The aquas-colossus surged an undertow to grab at the horse¡¯s flanks, the reach was unlimited and the passenger steered his ride this way and that in random pitches and darts. Almost there, almost back to the chasm, almost to where¡­ the vault may be successful. The horse launched itself early, all on instinct and perhaps a bit of cognition, ankle had been snared affecting the pitch, but the warrior was united with brave familiar, sensed the water-fiend¡¯s grasp and was prepared with an equal counter-offensive. The vorpal halberd rang out, attractively glinting upon the apex of the arc across the abyss, he spun it once in a wide swathe and effectively severed the tendril¡¯s hold. The pair made the jump again, just barely and turned in time to see the monster¡¯s inertia play against itself. The water could not break itself, it could once fall over the side, cascading in a long sheet beautifully into the depths far below.

    The Scry, wearied from the effort and focus expended huffed and spat. His aged mind dragged his focus-up, girding it, for he had seen battle too many times to let seeds of doubt cloud his will¡¯s periphery. He took breath and continued his deadly game of chance, each flip an opportunity, even though each round cost him more and more, such was the price for such a marvelous relic. The tarot was enchanted with the most dire of craft, many evenings were spent between the Scry and it. Reading after reading, a solitary conversation in sufferable silence ¡®tween it and he, for it had many masters and ergo had supped upon many foolish souls beguiled by its treachery. The deck was an absolute last resort, a hazard upon the very life force that borrowed its enchantments, only borrow for each played card had a price. The Scry had drawn the Empress card of the major arcana, her face calm in victory while the war waged all around her. Her eyes demanded absolute authority and diplomatic certainty, so he borrowed her voice.

    ¡°Warrior, how long must we remain in contest. We are both victors at these feats, but certainly you need not maintain. Turn from this and I will do as well. Tell what is left of your battlements, your throne that you serve that you are the victor for there is none present to contest your claim. The voices, other than mine and thine are broken and lost in the zephyrical cries. Theirs are replaced with the clang of shield and sword, the cleave of flesh failed, of prayers to our old, old forgotten gods we beseech to bless our blade. Warrior, the day is spent and surely you won¡¯t chance another hurdle over the dire obstacle, I have formidable powers at my call and eventually your skill will fail, fortune will stray and your poise will falter. Do not conquest for a lord that isn¡¯t present here and sups within the walls of safety far from you. You are on your own here.¡±

    The Soloist heard the enchanted voice all around, from his greaves to his gauntlets. They reverberated with the authority that bode him to bend the knee to the sorcerer¡¯s supposed superiority. The voice was just another conjuring, but a powerful temptation. To be called home as the sole victor from the battle, to touch his children¡¯s worried brows so that they can see their father¡¯s face again and know it well. The trod across thresholds lain by his efforts, have them returned to splendor from their master¡¯s presence. The choir would sing and the bard would write a new ballad of his name. He could be home for awhile and let his wounds heal for a bit.

    But,

    He withdrew his sword hand from the gauntlet, the many scars and rough spots from the labors of combat and training. Calloused and storied, if he was still with it the aching of countless clashes would set in and he would know no rest. He would ache and know only the ringing in his head, the choir would we only the cries of the conquered cursing his name from the afterlife. He was a haunted champion, the burden too great to retain sanity if he were to pause.

    He turned the long fingers and adjusted the heavy ring with his family¡¯s seal stared at him. With the hand freed, he could remove his helm all the more easily. His greyed hair fell out and his well-known eyes saw his opponent from afar, but the adversary would see his true face and know it well. This was not a horse lord riding for the glory of his lord. He was the Lord himself and his throne was the field of battle.

    The Scry knew the decision and used the empress¡¯s latent ability - she could grant a boon to ease the road for one who serves, but she could also make waste of route to her as well. The wily wielder of fire, wind and lightning made a great rise, a pillar thrust his position aloft, he ground rushed away from beneath him. The sage was now far above the battlefield¡¯s pitch, far above the gaping gouge that separated him and the threat. It bought him a defensible position and more importantly, it afforded time.

 Ch. 9 Tailor

    Tailor

    In the heart of an ancient grotto, where shadows danced on the walls and eerie bioluminescent fungi cast an otherworldly glow, Amun, the renegade warlock, made his stand. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant echo of dripping water reverberated through the cavern, creating an atmosphere of ancient and mystical secrets.

    Amun held the artifact, an inordinately sharp lance head, its edge still parting the air with a sinister hiss, a reminder of humanity''s age-old penchant for war. He carefully unwrapped the old-reedy twine binding the shaft, wrapping it around his left wrist - a symbolic act, representing the unraveling of hidden truths and the breaking of arcane bonds. The lance head, a relic of past execution, now served a new, mysterious purpose in his hands.

    Suddenly, the cavern was filled with the melodious yet unnatural baritone of the Choir''s agent, echoing among the stalactites and rippling across the still waters of the grotto. ¡°Amun, stop this,¡± he commanded with a voice that seemed to resonate with divine authority.    Unfazed, Amun retorted, his voice echoing with a power that unsettled the very foundations of the grotto. ¡°Your authority dissipates here, young one. Flee this cove, for your holy patron holds no sway in these ancient depths.¡±    The agent''s silhouette grew more defined in the dim light, a halo of energy beginning to form above his head. ¡°Surrender the artifact. You defy the will of the gods!¡± he exclaimed, as a circlet of divine light materialized, radiating an aura of righteous determination. It danced and illuminated the aqueous reflections on the mossy walls mesmerizingly.

    In the dimly lit cavern, the agent moved confidently even in foreign, slick and uneven terrain. The figure of Laconian authority and devotion versus the shadows that would swallow him if he were to falter. His focus was unwavering, a steadfast resolve born from a deep-seated dogma in the righteousness of his cause. The Arcanuum had entrusted him with a grave task, and he was determined to see it through, no matter the cost.

    The halo above his head pulsated with the light of dawn, its rays casting otherworldly glows upon the damp walls beautifully. This was not just a symbol of his allegiance to the Arcanuum; it was an embodiment of his intent to purify Amun, to cleanse the taint that had seeped into his soul through dark pacts and forbidden knowledge. The agent believed that through this act of purification, he could restore the natural order, realigning the wayward warlock with the continuum''s harmonious flow.    As the agent focused his will, the halo began to resonate with a higher frequency, its light intensifying. Nearby vine and foliage shrank away from trying to entangle and topple his physicality, it began to singe. He envisioned the spiritual impurities within Amun, the dark stains marring his soul, and directed the halo''s energy towards eradicating them. This was not a mere physical confrontation; it was a battle for Amun''s very essence, a struggle to redeem a soul lost to the shadows.    The agent, enveloped in his halo of light, advanced, launching an attack of blinding radiance. Time seemed to stretch, the very air thickening as the clash of wills intensified. Amun, ritual task at hand, working quickly slithered out of sight in an alcove.

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    The agent knew that if the purification proved too overwhelming, it might result in Amun''s banishment. He was prepared for this possibility, understanding that to save the many, sometimes the few must be sacrificed. In his mind''s eye, he saw the rift that could open, a gateway to another realm where Amun would be exiled, removed from the material plane where he could cause no further harm.    But this was not a decision made lightly. The agent felt the weight of his actions, the burden of being the instrument of such a drastic measure. Yet, his belief in the Arcanuum''s wisdom and the necessity of maintaining cosmic balance steeled his resolve. With a solemn sense of duty, he prepared to unleash the full might of the halo, ready to purify or banish, depending on the will of the continuum.    As the halo''s light reached its zenith, the agent took a deep breath, steadying himself for the salvo. The fate of a soul hung in the balance, and he was the arbiter, chosen by the heavens to enact their will. With a final, silent prayer to the Choir he served, he unleashed the smite upon Amun, ready to face whatever outcome it might bring.

    As the confrontation escalated, Amun plunged the ancient lance head into his own side. The cavern was suddenly awash with visions, a phantasmagoric display of knowledge and cosmic secrets. Images of past, present, and future flickered across the walls, accompanied by the whispers of ancient deities and the hum of cosmic energies. He faded from this reality as a great font of knowledge poured into him.    Amun, akimbo amidst this maelstrom of mystical energy, remained resolute. His eyes, reflecting the depth of secrets he had uncovered, stared defiantly at the advancing agent. As the haloed weapon closed to its intended target, Amun''s voice echoed through the grotto, "I stand unyielding before the gods, defiant in my quest for truth!" and wilted into shadow or so the Agent thought.    The clash was a spectacle of light and shadow, of ancient power and steadfast resolve. The grotto itself seemed to respond to Amun''s defiance, the walls pulsating with unseen energies, as if the very earth recognized the significance of this confrontation.

 Ch. 9a Ambush

    In the heart of the bustling bazaar, where the air is thick with the scents of exotic spices and the clamor of countless voices melds into a cacophony of life''s fervor, a cloaked figure moves with deliberate caution. This is Amun, cloaked not only in fabric but in the guise of another, his true identity shrouded from the prying eyes of the world. He navigates the labyrinth of stalls with a singular purpose: to procure the blinding sands, a rare and potent component essential for the weaving of veils not just against sight, but against the piercing gaze of prophecy.

    The bazaar, a melting pot of cultures and secrets, teems with the energy of the arcane and the mundane intertwined. Here, amidst merchants peddling relics of power and trinkets of the mundane, the line between the two realms blurs. Amun, ever the master of the unseen currents that guide fate, seeks the blinding sands not for a mere spell of obfuscation but as a key component in a grander scheme, a plan known only to the depths of his ancient, battle-scarred heart.

    Unknown to the casual onlooker, the bazaar this day plays host to a silent hunt. The Choir, a cabal of power whose reach extends into the shadows of the world, has set their sights on Amun. They move through the crowd like specters, their presence masked by spells and the throng of bodies, their eyes fixed on the prize. The stakes are higher than the simple acquisition of arcane materials; they seek to capture Amun, the last scion of a line that has thumbed its nose at the gods themselves.

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    As Amun exchanges whispered codes and coin for the pouch of blinding sands, the trap springs. The Choir reveals itself, not with the clamor of arms but with the suffocating silence of power unleashed. The bazaar around them dims, the din of commerce replaced by the heartbeat of destiny. Amun, sensing the tightening noose, does not flee. He understands the futility of escape, not because he lacks the means, but because he sees the path laid out before him with a clarity that belies his mortal shell.

    His surrender is not an act of defeat but a calculated step in the dance of fate. As he allows the Choir''s agents to bind his hands, he feels the weight of the blinding sands in his pocket, a reminder of the role they will play in the events to come. His capture, executed amidst the unsuspecting throngs of the bazaar, is but the overture to a symphony of revenge and resurrection. Amun knows that his trial, a spectacle designed to break him, will instead serve as the crucible in which his ultimate triumph is forged.

 Ch. 9b Tribunal

    from the emotional outburst apparently, so out of sorts for the venerably elitist and reserved Tribunal of the Arcanuum) which would have struck a comical cord if only Amun could be remote now and observing it from afar. Alas, he had to be quite present for it - again and again.

    and his warted nose could definitely smell the soot of Amun''s ambition along with the pang of sulfur that lingered after one had consorted with the infernal planes. Certainly this twisted toad of the Tribunal also knew ritual that could cleanse such reeks after one plane walked to the astral, divine or infernal realms and Amun regretted not having time to wash-up before so many summons to Marrin privately. Marrin offered gentle coercion on numerous occasions, intimate talks on where Amun¡¯s attitude and aptitudes were taking him. Curious social probings. Immaturely, Amun had once thought the old man kindly and merely was envious of the subordinate¡¯s youthful vigor and ambition, but no- Marrin had turned him in, not Ben, it was Marrin indeed.

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    With a sneer, Amun submitted his final statement before their judgement. He knew how this thread was to end, after all.

 Ch. 10 Nemesis

    Nemesis, also known as Noctum Edeaum Inais, Adrestia, the Sanguine Huntress, was a monster hunter with a reputation for lethality. Her services could not be paid with coin, as no treasury was secure enough against her if she so desired. Instead, her fee was something much more valuable and often taken for granted.

    She collected a unique trophy from each of her kills, capturing their fears and memories in their final moments of terror. Demons and empresses would plead and rub the mark she left on their flesh, while others would hide or flee. But in those moments of desperation and surrender, the Sanguine Huntress would consume the memories they released in their wails, as she had none of her own.

    The remains of her victims would be left with an unbroken writ, sealed with wax, which carried the unmistakable scent of fetid nightshade. On request, Adrestia would provide proof of her completed contract, such as the head of her quarry or other evidence.

    In her past, Adrestia belonged to a high-caste Laconian clan, but those memories were now buried deep in the recesses of her mind, partitioned for her own safety. She underwent the same trials as other Laconian artisans, learning the arts of painting, calligraphy, and stone carving. She was taught language and etiquette, and was even tutored in the ways of the Historians and Keepers of the Cradle of Oduum.

    Her true talent was not in the traditional crafts, but in the art of coal and canvas. With her stained hands, she created stunning images of things she had never seen, but was sure she would eventually encounter. Her instructors believed she had the potential to be an oracle.

    Despite her success, Adrestia often grew frustrated with the repetitive requests of her admirers and longed to be left alone to pursue her own visions. On her thirteenth birthday, she entered a quiet garden filled with fragrant herbs and pops of color, seeking solitude and inspiration for her craft.

    She sat still, feeling the vibration of life around her. It was an energetic motion and signal that felt like a private song meant only for her in that place. She breathed deeply, focusing her mind, and stretched her skilled limbs. Rolling her hand back and forth over the coals, she let her instrument call to her. There was a resonance from an unused one that she chose, grasping it like holding hands with a friend, the way telepaths would practice with crystals or gaze into fires. She felt a kinship with her chosen instrument, and sneered at the wise ones with their deep minds and skinny arms. Her arms were skilled and graceful, effortlessly plying their trade.

    In a flash of nostalgia for an unknown moment, Adrestia drew a likeness of the gentle woman who had raised her and whom she called Al Mater. She drew the sun-battered, salt and pepper hair that was always pulled back with a cloth twine or the occasional vine, the comely jowls, and soft face that was intimately familiar with the outdoors and its daily rhythms. The artist felt a foreign yet euphoric connection to this image, and couldn''t recall anything more satisfying. This memory was a frail sliver buried deep within her heart, one she couldn''t grasp or free. She continued to sketch the smiley wrinkles on the woman''s features, well-deserved for a life filled with hard work in the outdoors.

    As the artist put the finishing touches on her trug, the hood was suddenly placed over her head, stealing the happy day from her. A voice spoke close to her ear, "Do not resist. The time of your trial has arrived." Hempen vines were loosely placed around her as a reminder of her submission to the voice''s commands.

    The journey with her captors was long and silent, and as the warmth of the day faded, Adrestia felt the fellowship of the trees around her tighten. She heard the rustling of branches above and the constant crunch of the well-worn path beneath her feet. Despite her racing heart and the sweat on her back, she breathed steadily. They descended a long flight of stairs that echoed with each step, eventually arriving in a natural hollow that she could sense but not see.

    Her shoulder brushed against root and stone, and the damp earth smell filled the air. For the first time, these familiar sensations did not bring her comfort. Adrestia realized she may never return from this place, and she panicked at the thought of never seeing her garden or having the freedom to choose her own path again. She fought the urge to gasp and weep, clinging to her memories of the garden and her beautiful day alone. The journey was long, and even in her frightened state, she began to ache and tire.

    Eventually, the steep stairs leveled out and they arrived at their destination. This place was deep, hidden, and far removed from the world, filled with thick mystery and ominous, ancient vibrations that hummed in Adrestia''s head. She was led to a chaotic, crackling fire in the distance and knew that her journey was coming to an end. A slightly different, aged voice spoke to her, "Kneel here. Prepare your mind. Make your offering to those who watch so closely from afar." The bindings and hood were removed, and Adrestia''s sight was restored. She was far away from where she started, in a deep and alien place that was horrifically ancient. But she was attuned to its purpose: it was a place where grain was threshed and separated. The old Laconian chant of the children came to mind, and she knew where she was: the hallows.

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    ¡°Do you know of your hollow-day is coming?

    (Is coming, is coming along¡­)

    when playtime runs away,

    but still runs in your veins,

    (in your ears, in your song,

    upon your hearth, within your halls.)

    When the swing upon yon willow goes still,

    but time she has drifted too far gone

    (drifts on, drifts away, and now drifts alone.)

    When sky and stone all hidden in absolute dark.

    (For the dark is not empty at all. No.

    The dark is not empty at all.)

    Do you know of your hollow-day?,

    for your hollow-day is coming along.

    (Is coming, Is coming, is coming along.)

    Why you don''t and you don¡¯t,

    and you won''t see it coming.

    (No, you won''t see it coming at all.)¡±

    Young and frantic, Adrestia clutched at her ashen fists, trying to cling to her sanity as she faced unspeakable horrors. Yet even in the face of such terror, something began to stir within her, a sense of destiny or a portent of meaning behind it all. "Open your eyes," she willed herself, desperate to take in every moment of this otherworldly scene.

    The offerings table and the door beyond it seemed to lead only to death, and the sky-view chimney above the opening was shrouded from the outside world. The ancient beings that lurked on the edges of the night seemed to be watching, waiting for the next offering.

    A voice spoke insistently, its hot breath sickening and hungry for Adrestia''s youth and purity. "Make your offering or surrender your insignificant life. Yours is but the insect under the trodding boot! It matters not to them." To her surprise, Adrestia was able to respond with calmness, though desperation filled her mind.

    She drew her blade from her plain hempen belt and hacked off her fine lengths of meadow-berry hair, once the envy of many maidens and young men. "The innocent commodity of youth," she offered, placing the golden bundle on the stone table. The voice boomed at her, demanding more.

    With her head pressed to the stone, Adrestia considered what she could offer next. She removed her flax tunic and sandals, offering her bare vessel to the ancient beings. "I offer this vessel, if it pleases thee," she said, lowering her head and waiting.

    The voice spoke once more, chiding Adrestia for her mistaken belief that her youthful vessel was hers to offer. "Your being and belief of who you are is at an end. Forfeit." They brought out a canvas that Adrestia had drawn, coating it in black powder oil and adding rough kindling and nightshade vine to the offering. Adrestia held her breath, staring at her work and memorizing its lines.

    A calming voice spoke, urging Adrestia to surrender her sense of self and her past belongings. "Beyond the door, a new mystery awaits, but it is yours to commit to those beyond the veil. Yield to be cleansed in the primal fire." Adrestia was given a torch and instructed to burn the offering, watching as her hair, tunic, and memorial were consumed by the greedy flames.

    In that moment, Adrestia inhaled the strange incense and let herself be consumed by the experience. Her hair stood on end, energy coursing through her as she convulsed and lost control of her body. She could no longer reason and let her waters go upon the steps in front of the ancient beings. In the grayish din, she was gone. She gave into the currents of energy and surrendered her will. Devoid of any conscious thought, Adrestia went unnaturally still all at once, halting the conclusive dance. It was other worldly. She was motionless, not a blink or a breathe.

    They coated her in oil and covered her entire vessel with the remaining offertory ash. They then gave her one of the remaining ambered timbers from the pyre and said, gently, ¡°Make your mark upon the door and enter.¡±

    She did, walking gracefully and dreamily, as if in a trance, and as if she were very much intoxicated and not in control of herself. She was becoming something else now, but she could still see it all and she could see them as they saw her.

    She no longer needed to move to see. She didn''t need to move a muscle or even an eye. She saw the periphery and the entire stage. She could see them as they had been seeing her, with newly forming words, terms, and sentences that were terrible and beyond comprehension. These words could not be formed.

    She could see and barely comprehend these astral forms. They were the others, the audience, made of little light and more of the other vacuousness of substance. Their many tendrils reached out for her. The many monstrous entities that looked like they were looking back at her with many, many eyes. The abyss of all human fears in dark places and wonder for what lies beyond was now her inter-planar audience and her companions in a celestial pantheon watching from afar. She was now keenly aware that if she did not finish the ceremony, this indoctrination, if she hesitated, she would be consumed by their collective will. Her mind was gone as she crossed the threshold to them, body and soul.

 Ch. 11 Splice

    Amidst the enfolding darkness of the ritual, a profound vision materialized before Adrestia, a vision that seemed to transcend time and space. Towering above her, a colossal figure emerged, as if sculpted from the very bones of the earth. Its presence was overwhelming, yet imbued with an inexplicable familiarity, like a reflection of Adrestia herself, but from an era long forgotten or yet to come.

    The entity''s skin was like tectonic plates, rugged and layered, shifting subtly with the rhythm of some ancient, primal heartbeat. Moss and vines adorned its form, interwoven with blooming flowers and creeping ivies, symbolizing a vibrant tapestry of life. Its eyes, deep and resonating, held the wisdom of aeons, mirroring the endless cycles of birth, growth, decay, and rebirth that govern all existence.

    In its gaze, Adrestia felt a connection, a lineage that spanned eons. The entity¡¯s hands, as vast as continents, reached out, not in a gesture of farewell, but of passing a sacred duty. From the palms of these hands, springs bubbled forth, rivers flowed, and trees sprouted, flourishing under their tender, nurturing care.

    The figure¡¯s hair cascaded like waterfalls, each strand a river nourishing the lands below. Birds nested within this verdant mane, and the winds whispered ancient secrets through its leaves. The entity¡¯s voice, when it spoke, was the rumble of the earth, the rustle of leaves, and the murmur of ocean waves, all harmonizing into a melody that spoke of endless cycles, of winters endured and springs awaited.

    In the hushed ambiance of the sacred space, a dialogue unfolded between Adrestia and the colossal earth entity, its tone warm, nurturing, resonant with the depth of maternal affection.

    "Daughter of the spring," the entity began, its voice a symphony of rustling leaves and gentle streams, "you stand at the cusp of a grand cycle, a renewal that the world sorely needs."

    Adrestia, awed yet emboldened by the presence, replied softly, "I am but a humble servant to the forces of life and growth. How may I aid in this renewal, Great Mother?"

    The entity smiled, a movement like the blooming of a thousand flowers. "Your heart beats with the rhythm of new beginnings, my child. The world is in a delicate balance, and now, more than ever, it needs guardians to nurture and protect its harmony."

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    Adrestia nodded, a sense of purpose igniting within her. "I am ready to serve, to be the steward of this sacred cycle. But what of the disruption, the one who threatens the harmony?"

    The entity''s eyes held a flicker of concern. "Ah, my son, a force of nature gone astray. His actions, once in tune with the cycle of life, now cast a shadow over the delicate balance. He delves into powers that risk unmaking the very fabric of our existence."

    "Is there hope for him, Mother? Can he be guided back to the path?" Adrestia asked, compassion lacing her words.

    The maternal figure sighed, a sound like a gentle breeze through ancient trees. "Every being has a choice, my daughter. His path is his own to tread. But the corruption he dabbles in, it is a danger to all. You must find him, confront the darkness within him. It is a heavy burden, but one I trust you can bear."

    Adrestia felt the weight of her task, yet within her bloomed a resolve as steadfast as the oldest oak. "I will seek him out. I will strive to be the light against his shadow, to restore the balance he threatens."

    "Go forth, daughter of spring," the entity encouraged, a tenderness in its colossal presence. "Your journey will be fraught with challenges, but remember, you carry within you the resilience of the earth, the renewal of life. In you, the hope of spring endures."

    With these parting words, the vision gently faded, leaving Adrestia with a newfound determination. She was the Avatar of renewal, the hunter of imbalance, a guardian of the natural order. The path ahead was clear, and she stepped forward with the blessing of the earth itself guiding her steps.

    In this vision, Adrestia realized that she was not witnessing the end of a mighty epoch, but rather a transformation, a seasonal shift of monumental scale. She was not to mourn a passing but to embrace a new beginning, a rejuvenation. The entity, so like her yet so grand and unfathomable, was not fading away but merely receding into its winter, allowing space for new growth, for a spring that Adrestia symbolized.

    This encounter filled Adrestia with a profound sense of purpose. She understood that her role was not merely to be a harbinger of change, but also a custodian of renewal. In her, the vigour of spring found its champion, a force to awaken the slumbering life and to herald a new cycle of flourishing existence.

    As the vision faded, Adrestia felt a newfound strength coursing through her, an energy that was ancient yet new, a legacy entrusted to her by the very essence of the world. She stood transformed, not just in power but in spirit, ready to embody the vitality of the spring, the renewal that follows the winter¡¯s repose.

    *****

    Abe missed his Mother so much.

    The spectre looked on and did what it could to survey this scene and soothe the childe.

 Ch. 12 Hijack

    As the warmth of Gaia''s presence began to wane, a chilling transformation took hold in the sacred space. The comforting embrace of the earth mother receded, giving way to an unsettling, invasive force. The air grew thick with an oppressive energy, a stark contrast to the nurturing aura that had just enveloped Adrestia.

    Abruptly, a tempestuous presence intruded into the hallowed communion, its essence discordant and jarring. Hastur, an entity of entropy and chaos, began to infiltrate Adrestia''s consciousness, attempting to partition her mind as if splitting the very essence of her being.

    Adrestia felt a violent upheaval within her psyche, as if her soul was being torn asunder. The gentle guidance of Gaia was overshadowed by Hastur''s malevolent intent, his presence an unwelcome violation of her newly formed bond with the earth mother.

    "Hear me, Daughter of Spring," Hastur''s voice boomed, a cacophony of dissonance, like the clash of thunder and the howling of gales. "Your destiny is not yours alone to command. I, too, shall imprint my will upon your essence."

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    Adrestia struggled against the encroaching darkness, her spirit caught in a maelstrom of conflicting energies. The serene wisdom of Gaia was now a distant echo, overshadowed by the looming shadow of Hastur''s influence.

    "You are mine to mold, a vessel for my purpose," Hastur declared, his words like shards of ice piercing her soul. "Through you, I shall enact my designs, bending the threads of chaos to my whim."

    The once harmonious union with Gaia now felt like a battleground within her own mind, with Hastur''s insidious presence attempting to dominate and subdue her will. Adrestia''s very identity was at stake, caught between the nurturing embrace of the earth mother and the destructive will of Hastur.

    Despite the overwhelming force of Hastur''s invasion, a flicker of Gaia''s warmth persisted within Adrestia, a beacon of hope amidst the turmoil. She clung to this remnant of her bond with the earth mother, determined to resist Hastur''s corruption and maintain her integrity as the daughter of Spring.

    The struggle was intense, a war waged within the confines of her mind, as Adrestia fought to preserve her autonomy and uphold the sacred duty bestowed upon her by Gaia. In this pivotal moment, the fate of her soul hung in the balance, a testament to the eternal conflict between creation and entropy.

 Ch. 13 Torpor

    Silence.

    Embrace.

    Cocoon.

    Convalescence.

    There was a veil, or a webbing and when she even thought to focus the suspension and in-animation made her absolute all go slack. She knew only darkness and rest, a slow digestion and sloughing off, like casting off traveling clothes when the road has run out under foot.

    In the quiet recesses of her mind, where whispers of ancient forests and the murmur of earth''s secrets blended in a harmonious choir, Adrestia found solace. This mental sanctuary, a verdant haven crafted from Gaia''s gentle embrace, stood as a bastion against the encroaching chaos of Hastur''s influence. In this sacred space, she discovered the essence of her true self, a core untainted by the Yellow King''s pride and hubris.

    Surrounded by the ethereal beauty of this inner world, Adrestia felt a profound connection to the nurturing power of Gaia. The whispering winds carried words of wisdom, imbuing her with a sense of purpose and clarity. Here, she was not just a huntress but a guardian, a daughter of the earth vested with the responsibility of preserving the delicate balance of life.

    She walked through this inner landscape, her feet caressing the soft moss that carpeted the forest floor. Ancient trees, towering and wise, formed a protective circle around her, their branches swaying in a dance of ageless grace. Each leaf, each petal, seemed to resonate with her heartbeat, an affirmation of the life force that pulsed through her veins.

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    In moments of doubt, when Hastur''s chaotic whispers threatened to overwhelm her, Adrestia would retreat to this sanctuary. She would sit by a clear, tranquil pool, its waters reflecting the serene skies above. Gazing into its depths, she drew strength from the reflection of her true self ¨C a woman of unparalleled resilience, a being of both beauty and might.

    As she meditated by the pool, the gentle yet forceful power of Gaia flowed through her. It was a reminder of the unyielding strength that resided within femininity, a strength not in opposition to, but in harmony with, the nurturing aspects of her nature. This power was not loud or overt, but it was omnipresent ¨C a quiet assertion of superiority over the brash, arrogant forces that sought to dominate her.

    There were truths in the still waters there, that death was an amalgamation of the fear mortality inherits. The truth was in the cycles; endlessness, Spring to Winter, hand in hand, perpetuation of resources and experiences onward and forward. These truths she heard to her sense of self, a new self that would be buried beneath the pools surface, locked and out of reach to all but her.

    In these moments of communion with Gaia, Adrestia felt her resolve solidify. She understood that her fight against Hastur''s influence was not just a battle for her own soul but a struggle to uphold the principles of life and growth that Gaia represented. She was more than a weapon or a pawn in a cosmic game; she was a protector of the continuum of life, a champion of the natural order.

    A hunter that would purge all that would threaten this threshing floor that she was cradled in.

    As she emerged from hermental sanctuary, setting wards as she went; the weaves and textures of a forgotten and delicate flora;Adrestia carried with her the gentle forcefulness of Gaia''s power. It was a shield against Hastur''s hubris, a reminder that true strength lay in the ability to nurture and protect. With each step she took in the physical world, a very languorous stride that empowered her as the terra found her footing, she carried the essence of her inner sanctuary with her, a beacon of hope and resilience in a universe fraught with darkness and chaos.

 Ch. 14 Asmoedon

    Amun lay motionless, succumbing to an endless drift through time. Indifference, a dangerous siren, lured him into its velvety depths. The comfort was deceptively appealing, yet he knew he must resist. With a surge of determination, he shot upward, clawing for a semblance of reality amidst the H?l-Lord¡¯s illusionary corridors. His surroundings were a devilish tapestry, crafted to deceive and disorient. Biting his tongue to taste his own blood, he sought to anchor himself in this surreal landscape.

    Drawing on the raw psychic energy of the continuum, Amun challenged the alien material encasing him. He knew better than to trust his physical senses here; this pressure on his flesh was nothing but a meticulously crafted lie. With focused intent, he tore free from its grasp, the substance emitting a wet, squelching sound, only to heal into a disconcerting flesh tone. Despite this, Amun''s spirit soared, unbound by gravity or physical constraints. Yet, even this liberating sensation was a snare, a seductive trap designed to blur his mind.

    His training screamed a warning: his psyche was under siege, a perilous comfort aimed to paralyze his will. The urge to succumb was overwhelming, a siren call to abandon all pursuits and yield to the intoxicating illusion. But Amun resisted, recognizing the peril in this too-perfect tranquility.

    The environment was unsettlingly warm and organic, reminiscent of a soft, flesh-like surface. Tendrils, hungry and invasive, sought to ensnare him, probing every vulnerability. Amun played along, allowing them to infiltrate his being, to explore the depths of his soul. Asmoedon¡¯s assault was a dance of temptation, seeking to devour the essence of who Amun was, luring him to a standstill.

    Yet, Amun remained vigilant amidst the onslaught, his focus unwavering. He allowed the tendrils to explore, to pry open the doors of his mind, yet guarded the sanctum of his true self. The experience was false, a deceptive paradise designed to ensnare and consume. He teetered on the brink of oblivion, on the cusp of losing himself to the void¡¯s ecstatic embrace.

    The moment of truth loomed as the ecstatic rapture escalated, promising unknown heights of bliss. But Amun held firm, aware that succumbing to this ecstasy was to be lost forever, absorbed into Asmoedon''s infernal domain. In this battle of wills, only one could emerge victorious.

    "Your journey towards enlightenment has finally led you here, to my realm, as we both knew it would," Asmoedon''s voice echoed ominously. "The lowly minister in his parish, the addict bathing in pleasures¡ªthey all know me. They seek enslavement to their desires. Consider your journey, Amun. Ponder laying down your burden. You''ve achieved nothing alone here. You could spend lifetimes searching my library and never find what you seek. Yield, and be free from your desperate quest."

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    The moment had come. Amun, sensing his foe''s overconfidence, prepared for his counterattack. Asmoedon, bloated with triumph, failed to perceive the looming threat. Had the infernal lord become complacent, his horns reduced to nubs by his own arrogance?

    Amun, now fully restored, stood amidst a shifting scene of a garden gala, a misty illusion designed to lure and distract. He walked past the headstones, each a vague marker in this dreamlike landscape. Asmoedon rested upon one, its form solid yet unremarkable¡ªa slight, stubby creature with ashen skin and patchy black hair, its face featureless and swollen, save for its grotesquely engorged male genitalia, a vulgar display of demonic excess.

    Amun knew he must deny this abomination. A single word, "No," he commanded, his voice unwavering as he passed the stone.

    Asmoedon''s will, sluggish and complacent, lurched into action, smoky hands and stone phallic protrusions reaching for Amun. But it was too late. Amun''s denial, a simple yet powerful command, caused the nightmare to wilt, its lascivious assault faltering.

    Seizing the moment, Amun unleashed his will, drawing Asmoedon in as his first conquest. "Blessed are the weak-willed," he declared, "for now you serve penance, broken and bound within me." He consumed the demon, imprisoning it within the depths of his mind, a trophy now on display in his cerebral gallery.

    The forgotten sigils from ages past, echoes of his failures and past cycles erupted in a blaze of eldritch might upon his flesh, the ritual etchings on his flesh¡­..so that he could remember, be grounded in it. The carving, the words his own, the blood - his memory. The cycle, a snare, a curse, a dark blessing to begin again and again until he held all of their wretched skulls (or whatever entrails were left of their villainy, tentacles could writhe forever in embalming jars upon his mantle!) and placed them all on posts surrounding Lacon, dearest Lacon! He would fail and fail over and over, but not stop until he supped on them all!

    The tempest, released from him devoured and scorching the dreamy mists with their bioluminescent fury as they ensnared Asmoedon''s essence. Such other worldly screams mingled with Amun¡¯s laughter and spiritus mastication, for he had to eat them, gnash at their flesh and slurp up their many, many eyes.

    Nothingness remained, a in-pop fizzled in the air, a few scant body hairs, short and kinked drifted from themeager plume.

    The strain of containing such power was immense, the cost greater than anticipated. Drained, Amun succumbed to darkness, retreating into his mind to recover.

    In his dreams, he wandered from Asmoedon''s ensnaring realm, finding solace in an empty grove bathed in the warmth of twin suns. Amidst this tranquility, he contemplated his next moves, rolling an old seed between his fingers¡ªa symbol of plans yet to unfold, of paths to be marked and journeys to continue. The light and the dark awaited him, each a part of his destiny, as he prepared to navigate the treacherous waters of his unearthly existence.

 Ch. 15 Echo

    As time passed, the lines on Amun''s face deepened, not just with the progression of years but with the weight of lifetimes pressing upon his spirit. His eyes, once vibrant with youthful curiosity, now shimmered with a wisdom that transcended his apparent age. They were pools reflecting the countless lives he had lived, each one a fleeting memory, a whisper of a time long passed.

    Yet, with this wisdom came an indescribable weariness. Each morning, Amun awoke with the heaviness of a thousand dawns in his bones. He moved through the world like a specter, his mind always partially elsewhere, caught in the echoes of lives once lived. His dreams were vivid tapestries of ancient loves, battles, enlightenment, and despair, each night a journey through the myriad existences his soul had known.

    In quiet moments, he would meditate on the nature of his being, seeking the elusive thread of enlightenment that might finally release him from the endless cycle of Samsara. He felt an ancient ache for Nirvana, a longing for the great liberation not from life, but from the perpetual recurrence of life. This quest for enlightenment was his beacon, the one constant across the sea of his variable existences.

    The villagers whispered about the rapid aging of the mysterious man who knew too much, whose gaze seemed to pierce through the veils of time. They did not understand the burden of his knowledge or the source of his unending fatigue. To them, he was a figure of intrigue and speculation, but to Amun, their simple, linear lives were a source of wonder ¡ª so blissfully unaware of the complex tapestry of reincarnation he was ensnared in.

    Despite the profound fatigue that clung to him like a shroud, Amun continued his search for understanding and release. Each day was both a gift and a curse, a new opportunity to seek answers and a reminder of the countless opportunities that had already slipped like sand through his fingers.

    Amun walked through life with the whispers of eons past rustling in the recesses of his mind, a ceaseless murmuration of ancient voices that guided and tormented him. Like a web vibrating with the subtlest tremors, his consciousness was attuned to the reverberations of his former selves, granting him a premonitory sense that bordered on the prophetic.

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    This sense often manifested as a sudden shiver down his spine, a flicker of unease in his gut, or a whisper in his ear, pulling him away from choices that would lead to familiar downfalls. In moments of danger, it was as if time slowed, allowing him to perceive threats with uncanny clarity. A shadow in the wrong place, a gaze held too long, the slight tension of a muscle about to strike ¡ª all these signs were amplified by the chorus of his past lives, each one eager to steer him away from repeating their mistakes.

    Yet, this extraordinary sense was not without its curse. The same whispers that saved him also spoke incessantly of failures and regrets. They were specters of what might have been, haunting him with the knowledge of lives squandered, loves lost, and opportunities missed. At times, the cacophony of his past selves became overwhelming, a dissonant symphony that threatened to consume his present consciousness.

    In quiet moments, the echoes of failures were most insidious. They manifested as vivid flashbacks, each one a visceral experience of a mistake made centuries ago yet as fresh and painful as if it had happened yesterday. A misstep that led to a deadly fall, a trust misplaced resulting in betrayal, a moment of cowardice that cost lives ¡ª these memories played over and over in his mind, a relentless reminder of the fragility of success and the omnipresence of failure.

    These hauntings took their toll on Amun''s sanity. He found himself questioning his instincts, hesitant in moments of action for fear of repeating an ancient error. Paranoia crept in, whispering that every ally might be an enemy, every path a route to destruction. The weight of countless lives bore down on him, a pressure that threatened to fracture his mind.

    Yet, amidst this turmoil, there lay a glimmer of hope. Each echo of failure also carried with it a lesson, a kernel of truth that had been paid for in blood and sorrow. Amun began to understand that his curse was also his greatest strength. By embracing the whispers of his past, he could anticipate the ripples of the future. Each premonition, each haunting, was a guidepost on his journey toward enlightenment, a signpost pointing toward a destiny that only he, with the cumulative wisdom of thousands of lives, could fulfill.

    In this way, Amun''s journey became not just a quest for external knowledge but an inward odyssey, a voyage through the labyrinth of his own soul. His echoes were more than a tool for survival; it was a bridge connecting him to the myriad paths he had walked, a reminder of the endless cycle he was determined to break.

 Ch. 16 Purpose

    In her trifurcated state, Adrestia experienced an unprecedented unity of purpose. Transformed into a formidable entity by an enigmatic force, she found herself revitalized, her once-dormant senses now vivid and acute, speaking to her in a once-silent mind. Initially a nuisance, the new presence within her became a subservient ally as she mastered its potential by quieting her inner turmoil and focusing her newfound perception. Her world expanded, allowing her to manipulate elements, converse with the very essence of nature, and perform feats beyond human limits. Yet, amidst this power surge, a caution lingered, warning her against losing herself to the immense force she wielded.

    Immersed in a distant, yellow-tinged realm, her mind''s eye was bombarded with cryptic symbols and a sense of profound, ancient resentment. Whisperings filled her consciousness, urging her to comprehend the vastness of the cosmos, to embrace the wisdom of ancients, and to recognize the insignificance of her existence against the endless expanse. As she grappled with this newfound awareness, she became the instrument of balance, charged with restoring order amidst the chaos wrought by beings not of her world.

    While the depraved priests continued their vile rituals on her physical form, oblivious to the cosmic awakening unfolding within her, Adrestia was faced with a pivotal choice. The ethereal voices guided her, suggesting a path either to join the cosmic continuum or to return, altered yet grounded. As she deliberated, her heightened senses allowed her to perceive the full extent of the priests'' transgressions against her, fueling a deep, unyielding resolve.

    She realized her power surpassed the priests'' comprehension, who were unknowingly inscribing her with runes that she instinctively understood. They were blind to the transformation they had inadvertently catalyzed. With a newfound resolve and a deep understanding of her astral patron''s intent, she prepared to confront her physical reality, her very being an amalgam of celestial purpose and human defiance.

    Adrestia, now a cosmic huntress, was at a crossroads, her destiny intertwined with the very fabric of the universe, yet firmly rooted in her indomitable will. The decision she faced was monumental, not just for her own fate but for the balance of the worlds she now straddled.

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    They told her to rise, but she continued her act, pretending to be weak and gasping for breath from the effort. Leadenly, they showed her an armory, old and cunning, yet so evident. She walked down the aisle of armor and weapons with a dreamy demeanor, some of them ornate and intricate, yet so traditional or purely ceremonial. In truth, they were all unnecessary. She picked up various blades unconsciously and danced with them, moving gracefully with pole arms and spears, and demonstrating incredible power with Warhammers and oversized cudgels. However, she dismissed them as uninteresting after completing her kata. The aura around her felt like a slithering, writhing, and ugly substance that could lift her up, but she only played at this for now, as displaying such power in front of the priests would be beneath her majesty.

    She moved through the dimly lit armory with a discerning eye, her presence casting a shadow of solemn reverence akin to a holy warrior inspecting sacred arms. Each weapon, trap, and instrument laid before her was not merely a tool but a potential extension of her very being, a conduit for her wrath and precision. The brush, the lead and the chisel¡­.all were of the craft and all were here within these. With the meticulous care of a hunter, she examined each item, considering its craftsmanship, pondering its modifications, and weighing its potential to become a more perfect instrument of the hunt.

    Her fingers brushed over the cold steel and intricate designs, her touch almost a ritualistic blessing as she bestowed her silent approval or disdain. Like a craftician strategizing for the specific weaknesses of his prey, Adrestia considered the unique attributes of each weapon, envisioning how it might serve her in the diverse scenarios she would undoubtedly face. She imagined the traps springing with lethal grace, the blades slicing through the night air, each instrument a symphony of destruction tailored to her will.

    The slender, oddly long blade of black onyx caught her attention, its dark luster speaking to her in a way the others did not. It was a rare find, resonating with her inner tempest, a perfect match for the strategy she would employ against her particular marks. With an air of certainty, she claimed it, her voice a low, resonant murmur, acknowledging its potential in her deadly repertoire.

    As she donned the leather garb and tricorn hat, her appearance transformed into that of a spectral huntress, a figure of myth and dread. The flexible armor and tattered serape were not mere protective layers but symbols of her commitment to the hunt, each piece a testament to her resolve and a part of her evolving legend.

    "Now," she declared, her voice carrying the weight of her newfound purpose, "let us seek out the bounties set before us. Let us understand the will of the hidden, yellow king. I am ready to show the world his sign." And with that, Adrestia set forth, a divine instrument of vengeance and balance, her every step a calculated move in the grand chessboard of cosmic retribution.

 Ch. 17 Adrift

    In the throes of his otherworldly struggle, Amun was cast adrift, not in the seas of the physical realm but in the vast, tumultuous ocean of the ethereal. The entity within the furnace, the pyre of bodies, each action was undertaken with an absence of forewarning or counsel. To the cosmic continuum, he was but an anomaly, a mere speck against the vastness of existence. What significance did he, or anything for that matter, hold against the backdrop of such ancient and profound beings?

    Time lost its meaning to him, as moments and millennia merged into an indistinguishable haze. Time was a human construct, irrelevant and disregarded in his current state. Was this the liberation he sought from the mortal coil? In this place, he was unmade and remade, his purpose ceaselessly recycled in an eternal cycle of death and rebirth. He could delve into his amassed knowledge, plan and strategize with the lexicons of the past. The abyssal depths of the eldritch mysteries beckoned him deeper, the continuum a mere plankton in the vast ocean that after Carcosa (and the doom it would wield),the Oduum would feast upondevoured.

    Temporarily, he left behind the physical plane, his astral form shedding the need for flesh and bone. He was part of the whole, conversing with the continuum itself, bargaining with the oblivion''s depths, among many others who sought final death there. The memory of stepping into the inscribed circle, the portal to communion, or perhaps it was a mere dreamlike grove, lingered at the fringes of his mind. It was the last tether to a world defined by boundaries.

    Now, he existed in this formless state. He had sought this, driven himself to the edge and beyond. But as time stretched infinitely before him, interwoven through the glowing sigils that marked his very being, he questioned the cost of such freedom. Eternity flowed through him, messages and energies pulsating with his essence.

    A singular second or a million years, it all blended into a flat panorama, the perspective of the astral beings who observed their mortal playthings. They watched, learned, and harvested beliefs to sustain themselves. Why were they the judges of fate, and not the myriad of confused souls below?

    Amun''s journey through this spectral space was marked by neon colors and brilliant radiations, a visual cacophony of his unmaking and rebirth. The familiar white light beckoned, a return to the womb of existence, another cycle of birth and reckoning. He carried the burden of countless lifetimes, each a disc of experience and knowledge.

    The reaction, the mortal anchor, still lingered ¡ª the metallic taste of blood on his tongue, a reminder to fight, to remain within the coil. He returned from the void, the spiral of his existence ever tightening, but now unbound by time, ready to face new questions and paths. Was this a new plane of existence, a fresh mortality shed? He witnessed the universe in its infancy and its entropy, the cosmic cycle of birth and death.

    Set adrift again.

    Time slides when perceived in such esoteric ways¡­perhaps the mental grapple and ensnarement, the consumption of such sinister spirits was more than Amun had bargained for¡­the voice in the furnace¡­the bodies burned in that pyre¡­it had all been done without so much as a warning. Amun was just a singular irregularity, a vicious anomaly to the constant of the universe and nature¡­why should he matter? Why should any of it ¡°matter¡± when compared to the likes of beings such as these?

    How long has it been? Moments or years? No, not years, not decades, not centuries, no time. There was no sense of it. Time, a human pondering, a human limitation, a human measurement unneeded and unheeded now. Precious time, like so much sand that can never be contained, just reflected on as it slips by. Could this be a freedom from the coil? Dread was the notion for here he was rebuilt, reconnected, recentered, and reconstructed again and again, wet womb and cold, empty grave, endless cycles of new and renewed purpose. He could access his libraries, lists, and lexicons here, make plans and try, try again. The great Eldritch mystery yawned and gaped before him to dive into and at greater depths. The currents took him there, the great abysmal chasm an ocean of twilight and knowledge. The continuum, nothing but so much phytoplankton to the killer whale of Carcosa to consume (again and again).

    For a time, he left the planet, projected from his fleshy vessel, and the need for it fell away and the corporeal realm was the last thing he could recall absently. He was a part of it all, communing with the continuum itself, making a pact with the depths of oblivion there - so many there (YOU MAY DIE YOUR FINAL DEATH THERE YET, Covenant breaker). The moment before, or how long ago was it? No matter, no more¡­.Amun recalled entering the inlaid circle of his making, the communing portal, or was it a shaded grove in some foreign dream-scape? No matter, it was the last thing he could recall being part of that world in sinewy bounding. The limits, there for an instant, a reminder of limits and cautions¡­..he yielded and dissipated.

    Now, there was this. He had wanted this, driven to it. Time was gone, but he didn''t know if he was free of its grasp and at what cost? This time, time, all of eternity stretched forward forever and through him, through the sigils, the light and glow coming from him was connected to the oceanic depths - a signal, channel of messages and energies and echoes¡­all him.

    Single second,

    plip. Plip, plop,

    a million years, but somehow all the same. It''s all the same. Flat and seen from afar. This was the way they witness (and watch and wait) it all and looked at them, their humans in the snares and cages, births, fornications, and deaths. They looked on in astral audiences: learning, entertained, and harvesting beliefs so that they may continue. Three paths, three trials, and three doors (fire, the offertory lamb, and the great architect), leading to many more doors - but it is they that dwell beyond the veil that judge and decide - always them. Why not we, the many scattered and confused insects, why are we not to decide for ourselves?

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    Now, what could only be best described as neon color, flashes of brilliant radiation spilled forth from this distortion of flight through deep space. He was at ease with his unmaking and refinement. No motion though, yet there is a brilliant white (birth, pulled from a peaceful mire of nourishment. Damn You!) that is and was so familiar. It is when we left the astral Lilith¡¯s womb (first mother), another birth now (I will not forget your face), and a reckoning (to what price this time) all of this melted into a flat perceivable disc of moment. If we all stopped blinking our eye, how long would it take to notice such a feat? The meaning, the meaning! Do not forsake the truth and suffer more. Carry the burden of thousands of these discs, return refreshed.

    There was the reaction, still a familiar mortal anchor. Somehow, the alkali metallic taste on the tongue, bite hard you wilty prick! Well practiced to go back, remain in the coil a bit longer. Amun returns from the void to the snare, the spiral ever tightening, but time was gone and the quest could continue with new questions outside of the new doors, and this was a brilliant path ahead. Now to wander (wonder) upon, was this an undiscovered plane? A new mortality had died. He saw the universe being born, stretch, consume, grow and the entropy eat away at it again. The star stuff and the twilight ocean. Be thee the ever-present and humbled earth then, suffer not the royal whims of the lofted stars. We are smaller as the depths, yet to go deeper, for the predators are always present, the pressure of the depths the shape and adapt us. To not become prey of these beasts, mere cannon fodder and carrion upon forgotten plains of the ill-gotten conquests - this means to sign pacts as these and never stop being the predator.

    He saw its death, its life, and could no longer see the difference between the two. Amun lay in a state of liminal consciousness, the weight of Asmoedon''s consumption pressing heavily upon him. It was not just the physical act of subsuming the infernal spirit that drained him but the psychic and spiritual repercussions that reverberated through every fiber of his being. The tendrils of Asmoedon''s essence, once so arrogantly coiled around his soul, now lay dormant within him, a captured tempest contained by sheer force of will.

    In this fragile recovery, Amun found himself in a suspended reality, a place between the corporeal and the astral. The walls of his mind, once so resolute, now seemed porous, allowing the whispers of the universe to filter through. These were not the comforting murmurs of a familiar world but the chaotic cacophony of a reality far beyond human comprehension.

    He was adrift in this sea of cosmic noise, yet anchored by a singular purpose. The struggle against Asmoedon had been more than a battle for dominance; it was a declaration of intent. Amun would not be a passive observer in the grand tapestry of existence. He would be its weaver, shaping his destiny with the threads of fallen deities and ancient powers.

    As the moments, or perhaps eons, passed in this ethereal state, Amun''s thoughts turned towards what lay ahead. With each new door opened, each new truth uncovered, the path became less certain and more treacherous. The acquisition of Asmoedon''s power was a double-edged sword, granting him unimaginable strength but at the cost of an ever-increasing burden. The more he delved into the forbidden and the arcane, the more he risked losing himself to the very forces he sought to command.

    Yet, amidst these swirling thoughts of power and peril, a spark of clarity emerged. It was the realization that this journey was not just about acquiring power or unraveling mysteries. It was about understanding the nature of existence itself, about finding one''s place in a universe that was indifferent at best and hostile at worst.

    With this epiphany, Amun''s resolve hardened. He would continue down this path, not as a mere collector of ancient horrors but as a seeker of enlightenment. And though the way was fraught with danger and the outcome uncertain, he knew that the pursuit of knowledge was a quest worth any price.

    Slowly, the world began to coalesce around him once more. The ethereal mists receded, and the cold, hard ground of reality pressed against his back. Asmoedon''s presence within him was now a silent, sullen weight, a trophy of his victory and a reminder of the battles yet to come.

    Amun rose, his body aching with the echoes of otherworldly conflict, but his spirit undaunted. He stepped forward, not just into the physical realm but into the unknown expanse of his future, a lone hunter in search of truths that were as old as the stars themselves.

    In the tempestuous maelstrom of his mind, Amun, the relentless seeker of forbidden truths, found himself grappling with the essence of Asmoedon, the ancient and malevolent entity. The battle was fierce and internal, a vivid dance of wills clashing in a space where the physical plane held no sway. Amun, with his hardened resolve and countless lifetimes of collected wisdom and weariness, sought not just to overcome but to consume and imprison the very spirit that dared to challenge him.

    The consuming was a violent communion of souls, a cataclysmic merging of predator and prey in the dark depths of Amun''s psyche. Asmoedon, a being of pure corruption and chaos, writhed and bucked against the indomitable force that was Amun. It was a cosmic feast, a devouring of dark matter, as Amun absorbed the essence of the creature, taking into himself the infernal powers and ancient secrets it held. He felt the surge of unholy energies coursing through him, a tempest of dark wisdom and power that threatened to overwhelm his very being.

    But Amun was no ordinary being. He was a warrior of the mind, a seasoned traveler of the astral planes, and he would not succumb to the intoxicating and destructive force of Asmoedon. With an iron will, he forged a prison within the fractured recesses of his own mind, a cell of light and fire to contain the malevolent spirit. The remnants of Asmoedon, the parts not devoured by Amun''s insatiable hunger for power and knowledge, were locked away, howling and cursing in the darkness of their new prison.

    As the battle subsided, Amun felt the weight of his actions. The consuming of Asmoedon had granted him incredible power and insight (as they all had and will), but it came at a cost. He felt the fractures in his mind prison widening, the darkness within growing ever more profound. The prisoner¡¯s cells would require constant renovation and reconfiguration to avoid any potential for cross-contamination, they they would strengthen one another in an ill effected yield. Yet, he knew that this was his path, the burden he must bear to achieve his ultimate goal. He would harvest the keys he needed of Asmoedon, harness the dark energies for his own purposes to block a path forward, and when the time was right, he would cast the remains into a furnace¡­.far from here. Some pyre warded by another where the physical and metaphysical met, where the remnants of such vile creatures could be burned away forever. Insight was his conquest, Insanity was the dire cost.

    *****

    In another time, while the childe Abe slumbered and dreamt this, the furnace roared with a hunger of its own, a gateway between worlds where the darkest entities could be purged. Amun understood that his battle was not just for himself but for the balance of all things. He was the hunter and the hunted, the jailer and the jailed, standing on the precipice between light and dark, order and chaos. With each step, he moved closer to his destiny, ready to face whatever horrors lay ahead, for he was Amun, the devourer of corruption would not falter, he spiraled onward.

    And the two slept and may embrace here as you, the Passenger should feel embraced.

    Now dream.

 Ch. 18 Panopticon

    In the grand hall of the Choir''s citadel, the atmosphere was one of solemn contemplation and quiet conspiracy, their body and their paired blood. High above, the members of the ruling authority sat in their lofty thrones, their figures casting long shadows across the ornate floor. They murmured among themselves, their voices a low hum that filled the chamber with an undercurrent of urgency, a mental whip lashing a licking upon all below. The topic at hand was Amun, once one of their own, now a growing threat that cast a long shadow over their sacred order. His cheating in the trial and his name along the disappearances of relic and investigating parties could not be ignored.

    Below, separated from the conspiring figures by the expanse of the hall, a choir practiced, their voices rising and falling in a harmonious litany. Ben, a young chorister, stood among them, his eyes occasionally drifting upward to the imposing figures above. He felt the weight of the moment, the gravity of the decisions being made overhead, yet he focused on his duty, lending his voice to the sacred song.

    The melody swelled, filling the chamber with a hymn of praise and devotion to the continuum, the eternal force that the Choir served with unwavering faith. The song spoke of opening one''s mind to the will of the higher powers, of embracing the blessings bestowed by the Cradle of Creation.

    "Blessed are we, the children of the continuum,

    For in its embrace, we find our true path.

    Open our minds, O mighty Cradle,

    Guide us with your infinite wisdom."

    The Choir members above paused in their deliberations, their attention drawn to the song that echoed their own beliefs, a reminder of why they must act against Amun. The warlock''s actions threatened to disrupt the sacred balance they had sworn to protect. He was a rogue element, a dangerous anomaly that needed to be contained.

    As the song continued, its verses weaving a tapestry of faith and obedience, the members of the Choir resumed their quiet plotting. They spoke of potential hunters, of strategies and traps, of making an example of Amun to all who might dare defy the sacred order.

    "In the light of the continuum, we stand as one,

    Against the darkness, against the storm.

    Lead us, O Cradle, through trials and tribulation,

    For in your wisdom, we find our salvation."

    Ben''s voice joined the rise, a pure note that soared above the rest. He believed in the words he sang, in the power of the continuum and the righteousness of the Choir''s cause. Yet, as he glanced upward, he couldn''t help but feel a twinge of apprehension. The world was changing, and the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty.

    The service reached its crescendo as the Grand Inquisitor called upon the congregation to renew their vows to the Oduum, to the Cradle of Creation, and to the sacred mission that defined their existence. One by one, the members of the Choir stood, their voices joining in a solemn pledge.

    "From the Cradle of Creation, we draw our breath," intoned the Grand Inquisitor, his voice steady and resonant.

    "And to the Cradle, we owe our allegiance," the assembly responded, their voices rising in a powerful chorus.

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    The Grand Inquisitor raised a gilded tome, its pages inscribed with the ancient wisdom of the Oduum. "We, the faithful servants, uphold the sacred order. In the face of darkness, we stand united, guided by the light of the Cradle."

    "In the face of darkness, we stand united," the Choir echoed, their commitment unwavering.

    "We vow to protect the sacred order, to uphold the teachings of the Oduum, and to root out the darkness that threatens our world. In the name of the Cradle, we shall prevail."

    "In the name of the Cradle, we shall prevail," the assembly affirmed, their enchanted conviction reverberating through the chamber for an extensive period of time. Their united hope for it to seek the open garden at the peek of their Spire.

    As the song reached its conclusion, the chamber fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the quiet murmur of the Choir''s members. The decision had been made, the wheels set in motion. A hunter would be unleashed, and Amun would face the consequences of his actions. The continuum demanded it, and the Choir would ensure that its will was done.

    Ben stepped down from the choir''s platform, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what was to come. He knew that the days ahead would be fraught with danger and conflict, but he also knew that his faith would guide him through. In the continuum, in the Cradle of Creation, he placed his trust, and with that trust, he would face whatever the future held. Ben, among the congregation, felt a surge of determination. He knew that the Choir''s aggression towards Amun was not born of malice but of a deep-seated duty to preserve the sanctity of their world. The rogue warlock''s actions threatened to unravel the very fabric of reality, and it was their sacred obligation to stop him, whatever the cost.

    As his practice concluded, the members of the Choir dispersed, each carrying the weight of their duty heavy on their shoulders. They were the guardians of order, the sentinels of the sacred, and they would not falter. With the fate of their world hanging in the balance, they prepared to unleash their chosen hunter upon the trail of Amun, setting the stage for a confrontation that would echo through the annals of time.

    *****

    Grand Meister Marrin called Ben into his private chambers, a room imbued with the weight of centuries and the aroma of ancient parchment, finest incense and the authority to rewrite histories removing families from serfdom if he desired. The atmosphere was charged with expectation as Ben entered, his steps tentative yet determined. Marrin stood by the window, his gaze settling on the young chorister as he approached.

    "Ben, your potential, your devotion through voice and allegiance have not gone unnoticed," Marrin began, his voice resonant and compelling. "You''ve shown a remarkable dedication to the Choir and the continuum. We stand at a critical moment, and I believe you''re ready to embrace a greater role."

    Ben nodded, feeling his pulse quicken at the prospect of a greater role. He had longed to distinguish himself, to ascend beyond the simple rank of a chorister.

    "The issue with Amun has escalated," Marrin continued, turning to face Ben with an intense gaze. "His actions pose a grave threat to the order we''ve sworn to protect, the sacred equilibrium we maintain. You have a history with him, do you not?"

    "Yes, Grand Meister," Ben replied, his voice betraying a flicker of doubt. "We have... a past."

    Marrin''s eyes narrowed slightly, sensing an opportunity. "Then you''re aware of the peril he represents. His so-called playfulness masks his true intentions¡ªmanipulation and disruption. He aims to dismantle everything we cherish."

    Caught between his bond with Amun and his duty to the Choir, Ben''s allegiance trembled. He remained silent, his mind a whirlwind of conflict.

    "Ben," Marrin said softly, sensing his inner turmoil, "this is your opportunity to rise, to embrace the destiny that awaits you. All I ask is for you to monitor Amun''s activities and report back to us. Dedicate yourself to the Choir, affirm your loyalty to something greater than a wayward friend¡ªaffirm it to the continuum."

    Marrin stepped closer, his aura both commanding and strangely reassuring. "Consider it, Ben. You could be pivotal in safeguarding the harmony of our world. Your name would be celebrated, your status exalted. This is an act of service, a declaration of where your true loyalty lies."

    Ben felt the gravity of Marrin''s proposition, the allure of recognition and influence. He stood at a moral crossroads, the path ahead murky with ethical dilemmas. Yet the temptation to ascend within the Choir, to transcend his current station, was irresistible.

    "I... I must contemplate this," Ben stammered, his certainty wavering.

    "Understandable," Marrin replied, his smile cryptic. "Reflect upon it. But bear in mind, Ben, this transcends personal dilemmas. It''s about the continuum''s welfare, our collective future. Choose with wisdom."

    As Ben left the chambers, Marrin''s words reverberated within him. A decision lay before him, one that would shape his destiny and his very essence. The path of power and service, or the path of companionship and uncertain loyalty. The Choir awaited his decision, and with it, the destiny of Amun and the sacred order hung in the balance.

 Ch. 19 Fireside

    In the dimly lit conjured space, two infernal beings reveled in their shared camaraderie, basking in the warmth of a crackling fireside. Before them, a withered husk of a creature, condemned to an eternity of servitude, provided a steady stream of vitae to the devilish pair. The husk, a being of countless sins in life, now paid its dues in the afterlife, teetering on the edge of an inevitable fiery descent. Lord Ob Nixilis, with an absent-minded flick of his fine leather boot, prevented the creature''s fall into the flames, his attention riveted by Amun''s tale of survival against another of the Choir''s assassination attempts.

    As Amun regaled his demonic ally with the story of his encounter in the grotto, Lord Ob Nixilis, a formidable general of the infernal realms, listened intently, his figure an imposing blend of elegance and savagery. Adorned in a hybrid of roguish leather armor and a formal dark suit, his musculature glowed burgundy, his horns, talons, and teeth meticulously groomed to reflect his recent ascent in the infernal hierarchy.

    "But what happened next?!" demanded Ob Nixilis, his curiosity piqued. Amun, the human warlock, had faced divine halos capable of obliterating entire battalions, yet he stood unscathed, a testament to his mastery over arcane knowledge and stolen spellcraft. The infernal lord knew well of the volumes Amun had consumed, the secrets he had unearthed from the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of Von Junzt, de Vermis Mysteriis, and more. Yet, the devil questioned Amun''s prowess in combat, teasingly inquiring about his encounter with the Necronomicon.

    Amun, cautious in his response, recognized the precarious nature of his alliance with the devil lord. A devil could never be fully trusted, especially with the wealth of knowledge Amun possessed. He cleverly deflected, recounting how he manipulated the continuum to stretch time around him, rendering the Choir''s sentinel''s attack futile.

    Ob Nixilis, taken aback by the revelation, nearly choked on the ethereal liquor, reigniting the hearth with a spectacular burst of flames. Amun''s claim of bending reality itself, of commanding the material plane with mere thought, was a feat even the divine or infernal would envy. No ritual, no gestures, no arcane ingredients required¡ªAmun could shape reality itself.

    As the flames danced and the devil regained his composure, the air crackled with intrigue and anticipation. Amun had indeed achieved the unimaginable, his abilities rivaling those of the celestial beings. The warlock and the devil, bound by rebellion and a shared vision of upheaval, sat side by side, plotting the next move in their grand, dangerous game. The continuum was theirs to command, and the Choir, with all its might, would soon realize the true extent of Amun''s power.

    Amun paused again, perhaps for dramatic effect, as he carefully contemplated his response while gazing into the mesmerizing dance of the flames. He began to reflect, "The celestial beings above, in their inscrutable wisdom, bestowed upon humanity a glimpse into the continuum''s vast expanse. They ignited a spark deep within our minds, a seed planted without consent. And now, we are driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge that they themselves have stirred. The relics, the forbidden texts like the Xynthic Folio, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, they whisper secrets of power and dominion. I know the true name of the arken statue, the keeper of the Pnakotic tablets, granting me a sliver of control over its destructive legacy."

    He continued, "I''ve transcended mere human limitations, Ob. I can pierce through the veil, manipulating the unawakened minds, reshaping their reality with a deluge of truth or a comforting illusion. I''ve danced on the edge of the cosmic abyss and returned, my will unbroken."

    His companion, Lord Ob Nixilis, listened intently, his enormous form leaned forward, captivated by Amun''s revelations. The devil, a fearsome sight with his deep red muscles and ebony horns, was momentarily taken aback by the warlock''s audacious claim.

    Amun, enjoying the mental sparring with his infernal ally, detailed how he manipulated the Choir''s sentinel, stretching time and altering reality to his whim. "I stepped beyond the plane, Ob. I moved unseen, a shadow among shadows, and claimed the life of the agent without him ever realizing the danger. His divine halo, a mere trinket against my newfound might."

    The revelation left Ob Nixilis speechless. The devil, usually so sure of himself, now contemplated the immense power Amun wielded. As they sat in silence, the weight of Amun''s words hung heavily in the air. The warlock sipped his mead, allowing the information to sink into the devil''s mind.

    Finally, Ob Nixilis, the formidable general of the infernal plane, spoke with a hint of nervousness. "With such power, Amun, you''ve made enemies of both the Choir and the infernal legions. They will sense this betrayal, this forbidden magic you wield. They could strike at any moment, and here you are, defenseless in spirit while your body lies elsewhere. How can you possibly defend against such threats from all sides?"

    Amun, unfazed, replied with a calm that belied the danger of their situation. "I have walked paths unseen, Ob. I''ve devoured ancient powers and bound them to my will. The Choir and the legions are but obstacles in my quest for enlightenment. And as for my tale, believe it or not, the truth remains¡ªI am beyond what I once was, a mere human. I am Amun, the sin eater, the weaver of realities. And I will not be undone by fear or doubt."

    In that moment, the two beings, one human and one devil, realized the precarious balance they maintained. Amun, with his insatiable quest for power, and Ob Nixilis, caught between admiration and apprehension, continued their fireside chat, well aware that the world around them was about to change forever.

    In the dim, flickering light of the hearth, Ob Nixilis, the devil lord, adjusted a monocle meticulously over his fiery eye. With an exaggerated flourish, he dipped a quill into the hapless husk, now serving as a grotesque inkwell, and unraveled an absurdly long and complex parchment filled with updates and attachments. Across from him, Amun sat, an amused yet cautious smirk playing across his face.

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    "Ah, dear Amun, our partnership has been most fruitful, but I believe it''s time we... *ahem*... revised the terms of our engagement. The cosmic landscape shifts, and so must our strategies," Ob Nixilis said.

    "Revised terms, Ob? I didn''t realize our original pact came with a subscription plan," Amun replied, his smirk widening.

    Ob chuckled darkly. "Oh, come now, Amun. You of all people should appreciate the value of adaptation and foresight. Besides, I assure you, these amendments will serve us both well."

    "Well then, let''s hear these amendments of yours. But I warn you, Ob, I''m not one to be easily swayed by devilish charm alone," Amun said, leaning forward with interest.

    "Understood, dear warlock. First, I propose an increase in your share of the infernal energies you''ve grown so fond of. A boost, if you will, to aid in our mutual conquests," Ob proposed.

    "Intriguing. And what''s the price of this newfound power?" Amun inquired, his eyes narrowing.

    "Merely a trifle! In exchange, I ask for a more... *direct* involvement in your earthly affairs. Nothing too cumbersome, just a bit of... oversight," Ob revealed, the glint in his eye betraying his interest.

    "Oversight? You''re starting to sound like one of those Choir bureaucrats, Ob," Amun retorted, raising an eyebrow.

    "Oh, perish the thought! I merely wish to ensure our endeavors are aligned. Now, onto the second amendment..." Ob continued, unfurling more of the lengthy parchment.

    "Wait, there''s more?" Amun interrupted, bemused.

    "Of course! You didn''t think I''d come unprepared, did you? The second amendment involves your delightful ability to manipulate reality. I''ve taken the liberty of drafting a clause that grants me the occasional... *sample* of these altered realms. Purely for research purposes, you understand," Ob explained, his excitement barely contained.

    "And let me guess, you''ve also ''researched'' the third amendment?" Amun said, his tone laced with skepticism.

    "Indeed, I have! Given our shared interest in the Blood War, I propose a mutual defense pact. Should either of us come under direct assault from those chaotic Abyssal fiends, the other will come to their aid with all the fury of the Nine Hells," Ob declared, his voice taking on a serious tone.

    "A defense pact, huh? That''s surprisingly... considerate of you, Ob," Amun remarked, genuinely surprised.

    "Consider it a token of my esteem. Now, shall we proceed with the signing? I have several more attachments to discuss, including the annex on shared custody of any captured relics and a clause about holiday visits to the Infernal Plane," Ob said, his grin returning.

    "Holiday visits, eh? You devils sure know how to show a warlock a good time. Very well, Ob, let''s go over these ''attachments'' of yours. But I warn you, I''ll be reading the fine print very carefully," Amun conceded with a laugh, ready to engage in the devilish negotiations.

    As the two continued their banter, the husk groaned pitifully, and the room filled with the scratching sound of quill on parchment, signing away bits of soul and future deeds in a camaraderie that only the most cunning of devils and warlocks could enjoy.

    Amun couldn''t restrain himself. The sigils adorning his flesh, both ancient and newly acquired, began to emit a brief, intense glow, seemingly in response to the devil''s brazen jest. But then, in a surprising turn, Amun erupted into a hearty, genuine laugh. "Truly, you are beyond belief. I can''t fault you for doubting a warlock''s word, you old cursed creature," he chuckled, his amusement evident.

    As Amun continued to laugh heartily, he reached down to pet his companion, a shadowy hell-beast that had been quietly gnawing on a recent treat. From beside his chair, he produced the gory, skeletal remains of the Choir agent''s celestial wing. Not much was left, but what remained was a prize. "A tribute to you..." he said, plucking a tattered ivory feather and presenting it to his demonic friend.

    The ensuing laughter from the hellspawn was thunderous, summoning violent winds, rolls of thunder, and other ominous phenomena outside the confines of their pocket dimension. Ob eagerly grabbed the grim trophy, and with the feather''s supernaturally sharp edge, sliced a fresh wound into the husk beside them. The pitiable creature barely reacted, issuing only a faint whimper as its flesh parted once more, offering up its dwindling ether into Ob''s chalice.

    The two vile allies raised their cups in a toast, "Viva la r¨¦volution!" they exclaimed in the old Ngavhasjl tongue, the decayed language of the abyss, and gulped down the ghastly drink with gusto. After a moment, Ob, slightly inebriated, slurred, "Show me where you took the spear of Longinus," prompting Amun to briskly open his robe and reveal his most recent, gruesome wound.

    Their revelry continued deep into whatever constituted night in their twisted realm. They reaffirmed oaths and pacts, engaged in ancient and obscene rituals, and in the right of the servant to be serviced, Amun was attended to most fervently. Before they succumbed to trances and a mindless stupor, they danced and vomited amidst the flames. Then, in a final act of violent passion and insanity, they penned a letter to the lofty members of the Spire, a message from the very bastards plotting their downfall, a promise to tear them from their lofty perch and impale them upon it.

    *****

    Amun awoke with no memory of penning the invective with his patron. He currently had no will for it, his dome was all thunder and throbbing ache from consumption though.

    Time, a measure of little consequence to the reader, had passed. Amun rose, his body slick with sweat, exhausted, and unpleasantly drunk from the potent spirits. He unthinkingly disrupted the communing sigil on the ground, brushing his sandal across the intricate marks, and stood with effort. His gaze momentarily fixed on the sweat puddle beneath him, an almost perfect Rorschach inkblot on the wooden floor. He stretched slowly, moving away from the broken circle of salt, and contemplated the insights gained from the night''s interaction. The session with his diabolical kin had been long but fruitful. The relational capital he had garnered with Ob Nixilis was invaluable, especially with the potential war looming on the horizon. He was now a marked man, a target for both infernal and celestial forces, but it was the Oduum, those alien entities indifferent to mortal conflicts, that intrigued him most.

    The infernal and divine were predictable forces, mere weights on the scales of existence with humanity teetering at the fulcrum. Their interest lay not in dominion but in pastoral influence, seeking masses to convert to their morals and beliefs. The Oduum, however, stood apart, unconcerned with mortal struggles over resources or the political intricacies of Laconian rights. Wars, plagues, and diseases were mere footnotes to them. Amun knew they would return one day to reclaim what they had lent to humanity, and that reckoning would be the true end.

    He ran a scarred hand over his ritualized scalp, his skin a map of battles fought: both lost and won, spell recipes and wards alike, bookmarks of lives from ago......and wiped away the remaining sweat. "These relations will be the death of me," he murmured to Lucy, his shadowy familiar, as he wearily made his way to the cleansing pool deep within the grotto, seeking some form of purification from the night''s dark revelries.

 Ch. 19b Bastards

    Amun Jaro, last of my clans hold, descendant of Ivad and keeper of the one true voice of Lacon. Pact keeper to the Land and to those beyond it (for they do not dwell just above and below, but in between and within). Fallen Maester of the Arcanuum that I now denounce, strider of both the Intellectus and Corpus paths, undying and reborn. Ammon who treads the true spiral, again and again. The Resurrection and each time ascending a bit more; each slip of step, every stumble teaching lessons and revealing more insight that thou would ever wish for. Ammon, childe of Lacon, summoned to service as her avatar, set apart from the Choir yet I still read their scrolls and tomes that are thought to be barred, lost or warded - I access them for they are mine.

    Amun Jaro, as a servant of the Truth, I wish to thank you, the Choir and your mindless drones, your zealots that you send chasing and buzzing about shedded skin, my departures, trails gone cold and weathered. Desperate for my movements and sniffing out my triumphs, the mindless hounds that they are. Pity. Their righteousness, their duty is delicious to diminish when I fray the tether of faith you leash them with. They see a bounding, long ear rodent to be chased into my thorny thicket, but I know my briar better then they. It is they that are torn and snagged, for remember that this is my land and I serve her well. For that intent, I bend the vine around throat, the sour waters rise to my will and thorns do bite. So, they are held there¡­.to face their quarry. I do enjoy a good chase.

    So, on earthen gibbet the ponder their folly, always. I am not overconfidence, see, I know the routes to all ends before I move a single stride. They know this is in the end, as you all will. They see me, my advantage -the mana dries up in their mouths as they rebuke the words I charge at them, unbridled bullets from Davey¡¯s sling, popping the ashes from their eyes like so much wool. I have bathed them baptismally again and again in the virescent flames of the Eldritch truth. They drown in my summoned pyres knowing that the very beliefs that crack the whip have been their undoing, so in those delicious moments that often forsake their masters - just in the eyes welling-up in defeat as hey lose their water.

    It is the look of doubt that falters their throw, when they release the signature volleys of gilded halo, there¡¯s a bit of wobble in the execution, I would have you practice more on the wooden dollies perhaps in the Corpus training turfs, all while proselytizing to them at length to perfect their form? Just a suggestion¡­The result is their beheading, not mine.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Maesters of Lacon¡¯s Spire, my beloved Arcanuum, to those of our land who warm in the light of Truth, as I do - peace to you. To you I am harmless and innert, still your childhood Nagfly! for I am truly a guardian of our mutual interest and a preserver of our people. I cry thee not believe in the songs to your blessed Oduum, the twists of their history are a coil of rope around your throats! Ponderthese words for they are the final, peaceful ones. I would have them not wasted as soured waters pooling within deafened ears. I beseech thee to take-up my strong, wretched hand and be pulled to the surface and face them, our true enemy together.

    The Oduum, astral reapers who have formed our nation and impregnated our lands and minds with their resources, their knowledge, the continuum - I thank them. With what they have been fearful of and have charged the Choir and its agents to hide away, I have uncovered, sperlunked, hijacked, drank from hidden fonts, taken their offerings, lathe mosses on my eyes so that all may be open. Your withered third eye, rise and see their ambush. To these gods, you must not pray for they are false!

    Our joy, our craft our knowledge and generations - all is honeyed-balsam for their revelrous manducation! It was never ours to keep and they will require the heartiest of tolls, they will gouge the land, hands as wicked as vipers at the veins of Gaia and we will be helpless to halt their feasting! Our pride will be stiff as stone and we will move not against them for the quill-tipped pricks put it within our mind¡¯s as well and YOU THANK THEM FOR IT! They need not bother with our interruptions for they have the master control, they hold the whips and tethers. And as they have giveth, and so it goes and we to will be consumed if we wait any longer.

    They prefer our fresh minds, I would have you forewarned. Space is cold, so a warm, fresh brained washed with fear - all of that cerebral lightening marinated in a wash of panic is a delicacy to be whipped up by their spindly tongue! I would rather throw myself off from the Spire¡¯s peak, what say you?

    Sisters and Brothers of the Arcanuum, rebel with me. Throw back the Choir¡¯s silky yellow hoods and have them look us all in the eye and attempt to deny these accusations. Break waxy seal on forbidden pages as I have, search the skies and remember the olde ways - you hold something rare indeed. You hold unbridled truth.

    I address you as an accomplice to the task ahead of us, not avarice for which I am falsely portrayed.

    - Amun Jaro

 Ch. 19c Hoard

    In the heart of an ancient forest, shrouded in mist and secrets, Amun sought the enigmatic Mydiir, a Hydra whose whispers of knowledge and power echoed through the ages. The once mighty creature, now diminished by the loss of her sisters, guarded the lore of the Oduum with a solitary, mournful vigil. Mydiir''s existence, woven into the fabric of legends, was a testament to the burdens of secret-keeping and the eternal scars borne by those who dare to tread too close to the unfathomable.

    In the tapestry of folklore and whispered tales by the fireside, Mydiir''s presence weaves through the ages, a spectral thread binding her essence to the marrow of myth and legend. Her hauntings, manifestations of her profound connection to the hidden realms of knowledge and the unseen world, have left indelible marks on the collective consciousness of humanity, embedding her into the very fabric of stories passed down through generations.

    Mydiir, in her timeless wanderings, has become synonymous with the unexplainable and the mysterious, the source of the sourness in the water at the bottom of the well, a symbol of the knowledge too profound and ancient to be fathomed by the mortal mind. This well, often featured in tales as a gateway to the unknown, mirrors Mydiir¡¯s domain¡ªa reservoir of secrets veiled in shadow, its depths a repository of truths that are both a gift and a curse to those who dare to seek them.

    Similarly, her essence echoes the enigmatic nature of lore¡ªa creature of the in-between, embodying the fear of the unknown and the thrill of the chase. Both hunter and haunted, a being of power and mystery that defies the conventional understanding of reality. Her ability to manifest in the peripheries of human perception, to become the unease felt in deserted places, or the fleeting shadow that turns the familiar into the uncanny, positions her as a guardian of thresholds, a keeper of doors between worlds. She is a haunt in a house, a shadow that never moves, but cannot quite be perceived - perhaps through strained squint, a darkness impervious to illumination. A secret in herself.

    Her presence in folklore as the sourness in the water or the essence of the Jabberwocky speaks to her role as a mediator between the seen and unseen, the known and the unknowable. Mydiir''s hauntings are not mere acts of terror but invitations to look beyond the veil, to question the nature of reality and the limits of human understanding. She embodies the duality of fear and fascination that surrounds the unknown, challenging those who encounter her to confront their own perceptions and to reconsider the boundaries between myth and truth.

    In the stories where she is whispered to be the bitter town water, she is the knowledge that lies hidden in the depths of the earth, in the water that sustains life yet holds the reflections of the stars¡ªportals to other worlds. She is the riddle that has no answer, the path that leads into the heart of the dark forest, where the lines between dream and reality blur, and where the seeker must confront not only the external embodiment of fear but the shadows within themselves.

    Thus, Mydiir''s history of haunting places found in stories and folklore casts her not as a mere specter of fear but as an emblem of the quest for knowledge, the journey into the self, and the eternal dance between the light of understanding and the darkness of the unknown. Her legend, interwoven with the fabric of human culture, serves as a reminder that beyond the edges of the map, beyond the last word of the story, there lies a realm where she waits¡ªa guardian of the mysteries that beckon the brave to venture further, to explore the depths of their own being and the universe beyond.

    Even worse, she had the indifference of the universe and all its stars to boot. The negotiation would be dangerous indeed. Though it cost him much, from hoard to hoard, for she had many secrets to keep¡­.why keep them together? So, Amun found her there on that day, a sideways glance in the deep wood.

    "O Mydiir," Amun called into the creeping fog, his voice a solitary beacon amidst the silence. "I seek the wisdom you possess, the hidden truths of the Oduum. Share with me the path to their domains, that I might confront their majesty and unravel their enigmas."

    From the shadows, a whisper responded, a sad melody of loss and time immemorial. "Why pursue what eludes your grasp, mortal? The knowledge you crave dwells beyond the reaches of your mortality."

    But Amun persisted, drawn not just by the thirst for knowledge but moved by the sight of Mydiir''s fading form¡ªthe once proud Hydra now bearing the grievous wounds where her sisters'' heads had been, bite marks and scars etched deep into her flesh, a somber testament to their internal strife over the very secrets Amun sought. "Your suffering and the loss of your kin weighs heavy upon me, Mydiir. What quarrel could drive such division among you?"

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    The air around him grew colder as Mydiir''s whisper wove through the trees. "The quarrel of secrets, Amun. The belief that a lone guardian holds power in silence. But secrets are burdens, and in their keeping, we lost more than we ever guarded."

    Amun''s heart ached for the creature before him, her loneliness mirroring the isolation of his own quest. "Let me share this burden, Mydiir. Not to exploit, but to understand, to bring solace to the silence that has cost you so much."

    Mydiir''s presence, though unseen, felt closer, her sorrow palpable in the still air. "You seek not just power, but understanding. This path you choose is fraught with peril, not just to yourself but to the very fabric of existence. The secrets of the Oduum are not mere lore but the threads that bind the cosmos."

    Amun knelt upon the forest floor, his voice earnest. "Then let us mend what has been torn asunder. Your sisters'' sacrifice shall not be in vain. Share with me your knowledge, that I may tread wisely and with respect for the price you have paid."

    For a moment, the forest held its breath, and then Mydiir''s whisper enveloped him, a gentle yet tragic acceptance. "So be it, seeker of truths. But heed this warning: the path to enlightenment is not found in dominion over secrets but in the humble understanding of their weight. The quarrels that claimed my kin were born of isolation; let not the same fate befall you."

    In the shadowed glen, Amun listened to the hierarchy hidden, each word a drop in the vast ocean of knowledge he sought to navigate. The scars of the Hydra, a reminder of the cost of secret-keeping, now served as a beacon for his journey¡ªnot toward the conquest of the divine but toward an understanding of the delicate balance that governed all things.

    In the heart of brambles and vine, amidst the ancient secrets and the whispering leaves, Mydiir, the pygmy Hydra of a mere thousand years, fluttered around Amun like a soap bubble, her presence as delicate and elusive as the morning dew. No larger than a breath, she confided in him, her voice a melody of wisdom and sorrow, a soft whisper in his ear that carried the weight of the cosmos.

    "Bound by threads unseen, we dance upon the loom,

    Where the continuum''s embrace, wards off impending doom.

    In secrets'' silent hold, a truth as vast as sky,

    The weave that binds us all, beneath the watchful eye.

    A drop in endless seas, a spark in night''s embrace,

    I''ve seen the tapestry, the pattern of our race.

    But heed this gentle rhyme, for knowledge freely sown,

    Reveals the deeper truth, the weave that binds is known."

    And as the forest listened, Mydiir song went on, a haunting melody that seemed to flow from the very essence of the world around them, a lullaby of secrets and shadows:

    "In the heart of the wood, where whispers dwell,

    Lies a secret as old as the deep wishing well.

    A Hydra young, with knowledge vast,

    Sings of futures, present, and past.

    From the loom of stars, where dreams are spun,

    To the silent depths, untouched by sun,

    Each thread entwines, in dance divine,

    The fabric of existence, intricate and fine.

    Hearken now, to the melody of the sphere,

    A song of the cosmos, for those who dare to hear.

    In secrets kept, in mysteries deep,

    Lies the power to wake, the power to sleep.

    So listen close, to the whispering leaves,

    To the tales of the continuum that Mydiir weaves.

    For in her rhyme, a truth is found,

    In every echo, in every sound."

    With that, Mydiir, no larger than a whisper, vanished from his sight permanently, he knew because the threat was gone and he no longer felt a fuzz in his ear. The presence a fleeting memory in the vast expanse of his mind. But her words lingered, a rhyme and a song that would guide him through the shadows of his quest, a beacon of light in the darkness of uncertainty.

    *****

    As lengthy the encounter mayhaps had been, Mydiir¡¯s curse had already begun its gentle, insidious crawl upon him. Always the cost, Mydiir would make one forget all that she had shared with you, every time you encounter her, you¡¯re left only with the curious deja-vu of the time shared. You would forget that you had ever met at all, but always the strangeness on the periphery when she returns. She only shared in one-sided trades, only she would benefit from such the change: for ever and ever. The curse would sap andone would left none the wiser: literally.

    With unworldly celerity, Amun found his family dagger and unsheathed it upon his flesh. The secrets were fleeing, but the grounding of cut flesh and the running of his life¡¯s blood would make fine memory sigil. He knew not how long she had held him under her lapsing waters, but he had finally come up for air it felt, so he must carve upon himself quickly and accurately.

 Ch. 20 Charlatan

    Chapter Preface:

    Codex of Shadows and Light

    To the erudite seeker, herein unfolds a grimoire of unparalleled potency, a guide to mastering a blade forged not of earthly minerals but of the essence of shadow, its edge laced with the venom of the most lethal nightshade. This instrument, conceived for rites most sacred, demands of its bearers a heart devoid of affection for its form, for to wield it is to dance with annihilation itself.

    Title: "Charting the Pathways of the Departed, Al Haezife," transcribed with reluctant hands and a burdened spirit by Theodorous Philltus the Sage, amidst the echoing halls of ancient Constantinople. This manuscript stands as a beacon not for the offspring of Adam but for those who dare to unlock the celestial mechanisms of power, secrets that whisper not from the earth but from the abyssal gaps where creation''s first shadows hide.

    Abdul Al Hazzered: Once a poet whose beauty was matched only by his eloquence, with eyes that mirrored the verdancy of the oasis and a voice that could seduce the very stars from the heavens. Educated by the realm''s finest minds, his verses flowed like divine incantations, captivating the souls of listeners, highborn and common alike. His heart, however, fell prey to a forbidden love, a passion that led to a cascade of tragedy and transformation.

    Betrayed by his desires and disfigured by royal edict, Abdul was forsaken to the mercy of the sands, where he was reborn beneath the gaze of the constellations. Guided by specters of ancient lore to caverns veiled from mortal eyes, he forsook his past devotions, pledging himself to the eldritch deities of old, his voice, though marred, becoming a vessel for forbidden chants.

    The Manuscript: Known as "Al Haezif," echoing the sinister symphony of desert insects or the mournful wails of hidden fiends, inscribed with ink that catches the moon''s pale glow, it resonates with the desolation of the sands. Within its leaves are inscribed esoteric directives:

    Embark upon a solitary pilgrimage into the heart of darkness, for while another may tread in your wake, the path demands solitude.

    Surrender to the embrace of madness, where in the void of self, one might grasp the essence of the void.

    Cast aside your given name, for in the anonymity of the abyss lies the power to face the denizens of night, shepherded by the harbingers of terror and despair.

    Fear shall be your most faithful consort, for through the lens of terror, the mind''s eye is flung wide open, transcending the mortal coil.

    This tome also unveils the mysteries of the sacred salts¡ªeach grain a keeper of ancient pacts and a guardian against the encroachments of the nether. It speaks of white spider-like entities, the Oduum''s silent sentinels, weaving the fabric of reality thin, their presence a bridge to the unfathomable.

    Herein lies not merely a book of spells but a map of the soul''s journey through the twilight realms, a summoning of the forces that dwell in the interstices of existence. It is a manual for invoking the ancient titans and navigating the landscapes that stretch beyond the ken of mortals, where the sacred salts mark the boundaries of worlds and the spider-like creatures serve as both guides and guardians in the dance with the Oduum.

    Approach these pages with reverence and resolve, for the path they chart courses through domains both wondrous and terrifying. This is your guide through the annals of the desert, across the thresholds guarded by sacred salts, and into communion with the white sentinels of the void. Herein lies the odyssey to power unimagined, should you possess the fortitude to embark upon it.

    In the shadowed recesses of time, before the first stone of the Cradle itself was laid, there existed knowledge so profound, so arcane, that merely to glimpse its form was to invite the unraveling of one¡¯s very soul. This knowledge, born of the void and the starless spaces beyond the grasp of day, was whispered into the cosmos in a time when humanity was but a distant promise, a flicker in the eye of the infinite.

    It was the first seed of the Oduum sown, a test to see if they would taste and find their rot.

    There are those who, in their hubris, sought to chart these forbidden territories, to map the unmappable. Among them, a scholar of unparalleled ambition, whose name has been effaced by the sands of desolation, ventured beyond the veil of sanity. His quest, driven by a thirst unquenchable, drew him into the embrace of shadows, where he communed with entities whose existence antedated the oldest stars. In their cryptic utterances, he found the inspiration for a tome¡ªa compendium of horrors and wonders, truths and lies intermingled like the threads of fate.

    This tome, a thing that should not be named, has seeded itself in the bedrock of darkest imaginings, sprouting forth in tales of madness and despair that ensnare the unwary. It is said that within its pages lies the path to ultimate knowledge and power, or to ruin most absolute. Its whispers echo through the corridors of time, a siren song to those who, like the scholar, would gaze too long into the abyss.

    It is in this tradition, with reverence and trepidation, that we turn our gaze to the Oduum¡ªa concept as ancient and enigmatic as the knowledge sought by the scholar. The Oduum, a term shrouded in the mists of antiquity, denotes not merely a place or a power, but the very essence of cosmic dread. It is the point at which all lines converge, the nexus of realities where the fabric of existence grows thin and the guardians of the threshold watch with eyes that have witnessed the birth and death of aeons.

    Our tale unfolds at the edge of this precipice, where ambition and folly walk hand in hand. It is a narrative woven from the dreams of those who dare to seek the Oduum, to unlock the mysteries that lie hidden in the creases of reality. Here, the legacy of the unnamed scholar serves as both beacon and warning, a testament to the lure of the unknown and the price of enlightenment.

    The Oduum are patient investors, and secrets are not lightly divulged. To seek them is to challenge the very limits of human understanding, to dance upon the precipice that overlooks the infinite. It is to hear the echo of the scholar''s footsteps ahead of you, leading you onward into the heart of darkness.

    Thus, we begin, not with a word, but with a whisper¡ªa whisper that carries the weight of eons, inviting you to peer beyond the curtain and behold the unfathomable.

    *****

    In the vast and desolate expanses where only the forsaken and the outcast tread, Abdul Alhazred, known as the mad Arab, emerged as a beacon of eldritch enlightenment amidst the darkness. His sermons, rich with exotic wisdom and eccentric truths, resonated deeply with those cast aside by the stringent, unforgiving tenets of Laconian orthodoxy. These desperate souls, hungering for answers to their suffering under a regime that demanded unwavering loyalty and sacrifice, found in Abdul a voice that spoke of mysteries beyond their understanding.

    Abdul preached from a position of lofted authority, not of this world, to those discarded by society for failing to conform to the capital''s demands. The Laconian tradition mercilessly severed those who could not contribute or whose lineage faltered in the trials from the tapestry of its civilization, leaving them to wither in the wastes. In this crucible of despair, Abdul found his congregation, drawing the outcast and the highwayman close as his acolytes, anointing them with forbidden knowledge that whispered of a reality far beyond the mundane sufferings they knew.

    "Righteous indeed are the rulers, for they demand you lay yourselves down, to be trodden into the dust from whence you came. From dust you arose, and to dust, you shall return," he proclaimed, offering a twisted benediction that echoed with a profound, unsettling truth.

    In Lacon, Abdul was branded a criminal, a heretic whose teachings undermined the very foundations of their society. Yet, he remained elusive, always slipping through the grasp of authority, often liberated by the fervor of his disciples. These zealous followers, entranced by his message, would go to any length to see their prophet freed, their devotion knowing no bounds.

    "Offer unto me all that you possess, your very essence, and follow me into the abyss," he urged them, leading his flock ever onward, skirting the fringes of civilization like a tempest promising rain yet delivering only pestilence.

    As locusts devouring everything in their path, so did Abdul and his followers consume the hope of the towns they visited, leaving despair and desolation in their wake. The people, desperate for salvation, found instead a gospel that sowed chaos, their faith twisted into fanaticism by Abdul''s dark teachings.

    "Entreat the gods who have sown seeds in your barren fields, who have gifted you an unearned bounty," he intoned, casting a spell over those who had been abandoned by the world, drawing them into his fold.

    Generation upon generation, the legend of Abdul Alhazred''s gatherings spread, tales of supernatural communion that persisted through the ages. In the forgotten wastelands, far from the gleaming Spire of Laconian civilization, his followers danced on the edge of oblivion, their misery forgotten in the ecstasy of his presence.

    To this realm of despair and decay came those lost souls seeking absolution in Abdul''s words. Criminals and the wicked alike were transformed, or so it was said, by his grace. Even the common folk, feeling abandoned by the advancing world, turned their gaze from the light to revel in the darkness Abdul offered. Through his sermons, he harvested souls, staging a spectacle of redemption and damnation that captivated and consumed all who dared to listen.

    "I stand as the vigilant shepherd, guiding my flock with a firm hand; stray not from my side, lest you find yourselves lost in the wilderness beyond."

    In the dim afterglow of his performances, Abdul Alhazred, a magus of the wandering shadows, left behind a palpable sense of enigma that lingered in the air, a trance that seemed to reduce once thriving communities to mere shadows of themselves. The people, now subdued and hollow-eyed, mirrored the despair of the damned, whispering incoherently of "the messenger''s salvation" and "the rebirth of Carcosa."

    Before the ancient tumults of Babylon, before Jericho''s walls crumbled, before the exodus from Israel, Abdul recounted tales of such primordial origin that they twisted the very souls of those who dared to believe. Through the recitation of the Oduum''s vile scripture, he conjured zeal from the depths of those who listened, promising the inevitable return of forgotten gods. In the land of Iben, upon the myth-shrouded plateau of Leng, he orchestrated gatherings of unspeakable rites. There, amid constructed arches and stages, his apostles played dirges for the contorted masses, offering a twisted form of salvation that left cities bereft of life, save for the empty husks of those who had witnessed his dark sacraments.

    "Behold, your suffering, your trials, are but the crucible through which your true essence is forged."

    As a harbinger of the Oduum''s obscured lore, Alhazred''s sermons wove through the annals of the Arcanuum, secrets long hoarded from the eyes of the world. His caravan, a timeless procession of vardos, traversed lands where despair lingered like a pall. From battlefields to mead halls, he sought out the forsaken, offering solace as one might peddle snake oil, finding them in their places of illusory safety, communities gasping for breath under the weight of forgotten hopes.

    "Your voices have been stolen, your sight blinded, your hearing deafened. I shall bestow upon you senses anew."

    Amidst hushed tavern whispers, Abdul was spoken of as timeless, bearing an aura of an otherworldly constitution that allowed him to touch the lives of those plagued by doubt and disease. Yet, his touch offered no cure, for healing was not his purpose. Rather, he opened minds to vistas of thought unimagined, infusing them with the lunacy of the Oduum''s ancient dogma. The secrets he unveiled were too profound for the unprepared, driving minds to madness while bodies languished under the burden of forbidden knowledge.

    Rumors of Abdul''s intent swirled like mist¡ªsome whispered of an uprising against Lacon, others speculated on the city''s reliance on such a figure to maintain the status quo. Was Abdul, in his harsh culling, merely tending the garden of society for the high choir ensconced within their lofty spire?

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    "They have taken from you everything. I offer liberation, not through healing, but through the awakening of your deepest selves."

    Thus spoke Abdul, a figure enshrouded in mystery, walking a path between salvation and damnation, revealing to the forsaken not the light of healing, but the darkness of a truth too vast to behold. Through him, the ancient secrets of the high priests and the Choir were laid bare, a testament to the power and peril of knowledge meant only for the gods.

    "A new dawn, a daybreak unlike any you have known, awaits beyond the veil. Fear not the passage, for together we shall step into this newfound light."

    Amun harbored no contention with the bulk of the teachings; his concern lay in the reckless dissemination of such perilous truths to those least equipped to shoulder them. Alhazred, in his actions, constructed a bulwark of desperate souls, potentially steering them towards acts of unspeakable consequence. Central to this dangerous influence was Abdul''s possession of a tome of fate, a grimoire believed to have been eradicated by the Arcanuum ages ago¡ªits very existence a defiance of time and decree. This book, singular in its survival against the flames, drew Amun with a resolve unyielding; his mission to reclaim it was bolstered by pacts and dark bargains, ensuring his triumph over any obstacle that lay in his path to the tome.

    The cacophony of the concert had unfurled over days, an endless orgy of profane music and debauchery. The performers, lured by the mad Arab''s summons, reveled in the opportunity to grace the stages of this rare convocation. Their presence, a blight upon the desolate landscape, thrived amid the extreme vicissitudes of climate¡ªa perverse allure to beings of their wretched ilk.

    Amun, observing from a distance, saw this hedonistic spectacle as nothing more than a misguided pilgrimage led by a false prophet. To summon followers in homage to deities better left forgotten was to feed the voracious maw of oblivion. Yet, in their desperation, these souls erred grievously, a misstep Amun was poised to exploit, tracing their astral signatures to their most vulnerable sanctuaries.

    Each generation witnessed the aftermath of Abdul''s endeavors¡ªa legacy marked by desolation and the draining of soul from the land. The mad Arab''s oratory, a dazzling facade of enlightenment, captivated the unwary, who mistook the orchestrated chaos for divine spectacle. This "tradition of salvation," sold to them as ancestral wisdom, left an indelible impression on those who survived, their testimonies a blend of wonder and bewilderment.

    Amidst this tumult, the throng¡ªmuddied, intoxicated, lost in ecstasy¡ªplayed their part in the ritual, oblivious to the sorcery that permeated the air. The mad Arab, from his pulpit, wove his spell over the masses, the stages around him hosting a relentless parade of devotees. Their revelries desecrated the land, a profane testament to their communion with forces beyond their ken.

    From his vantage upon a distant rise, Amun cast his gaze upon the spectacle, his meditations aligning with darker powers. As the fourth day dawned, and the fervor below reached its zenith, Amun''s resolve hardened. The time for toleration had passed; the machinations of the mad Arab and his congregation were to be disrupted.

    The archways, erected as gateways to the chaotic beyond, funneled the entranced masses towards their doom. Abdul led them, a shepherd to the sacrificial lamb, towards an offering to an ancient deity, their slow march through the verdant-lit portals a testament to the cyclical tribute paid by ignorance to the abyss.

    In this moment, Amun''s intervention became not just an act of reclamation but a crusade against the perpetuation of a cycle that threatened to erode the very fabric of reality. The stage was set for a confrontation of cosmic significance, where the fate of many hung in the balance, teetering on the edge of an unfathomable darkness.

    With mortar and pestle in hand, Amun ground the jawbone to ash, mixing in the rare sunbaked bloodweed and dung from a young Pitfiend. Teeth clenched and muttering under his breath, he spat into the fine slate dust. Meticulously, he worked the mixture into a ball of clay, mocking, "Just like the damnable Architect..." The blasphemy served as a focus, igniting the scars, sigils, and the very lines etched deep within his skin, as the force of the continuum surged outward. The clay pulsed and glowed under his intense concentration, dividing into four orbs, each a mirror of the others in size and precision. Speaking in the coarse tongue of Laconian dockworkers, Amun infused his words with potent magic, setting down the glowing orbs and pondering the last time the riders had been summoned.

    His rumbling thrum cursed the landscape, ¡°Hark! Upon the winds of dread, a cacophony of celestial drums doth roll, their infernal rhythm echoing through the desolate caverns of my soul. Lo, from the abyss, one of the four harbingers of doom doth cry out, his voice a rasping knell that pierces the veil of sanity. "Come hither, mortal," it beckons, its words laced with the ichor of despair, "and witness the macabre tapestry that unfolds!

    With trembling trepidation, I cast my weary gaze upon the spectral panorama. Astride a steed as white as a winding sheet, a figure of bone and shadow takes form. Its ethereal limbs bestride the skeletal stallion, its hollow eyes burning with an unholy light. Is this the fabled harbinger of oblivion, the pale phantom known as Death? Nay, ''tis but a harbinger, a grim herald announcing the true terror to come.

    For from the bowels of the earth, a tide of inky blackness erupts, swallowing the remnants of light in its suffocating embrace. It writhes and churns, a monstrous maw gnashing at the edges of reality. This is no mere steed, but a nightmarish embodiment of the abyss itself, a harbinger of oblivion known only as... Hell. And as it surges forth, propelled by an unseen tide of despair, I know with chilling certainty that there is no escape from its ravenous maw.

    Thus I stand, a lone witness to the danse macabre that unfolds before me. The white rider, a mere specter compared to the all-consuming darkness that follows, serves as a grim reminder of the inevitable. Death may come first, but it is Hell that truly claims all in its eternal grasp. Prepare thyself, mortal, for the end is nigh!¡±

    Amun completed his circle, his gaze fixed upon the cursed plateau of Leng, admiring and amused by the grand scale of the ritual unfolding below. He felt a grudging respect for the energy Abdul expended, yet he was entertained by the impending disruption of his plans. As Amun replaced the mortar and pestle, he felt a sly satisfaction in harnessing some energy from Abdul''s own machinations. Undeterred by the risk of drawing further attention to himself, Amun resolved to unleash havoc upon both celestial and infernal realms until they were submerged in oblivion.

    From the earth arose four legendary riders, summoned from their ancient slumber for a purpose anew. The spectral horses they rode upon¡ªpale gray, smoky, a once vibrant brown, and one as dark as death itself¡ªshook off the dust of ages. The initials J.M., R.P., J.H., & M.K., inscribed in elegant script upon their tack, hinted at their storied pasts as they descended the steep grade.

    As they approached the gathering, their legendary weapons drawn, a wave of disruptive harmonic force silenced the cacophony of the staged bands. The crowd, mesmerized by the unearthly sound, was led away from Abdul''s cursed archway. Abdul, thwarted and fuming, failed to notice the robed figure approaching the stage.

    Not surprisingly, Alhazred''s formidable entourage sprang into action, but Amun, speaking in the dark tongue of the Ngavhasjl, commanded, "Seize them." Two jagged fissures opened beneath the henchmen, dragging them into the abyss as Amun strode forward, unfazed.

    Abdul, witnessing his guards'' swift defeat, frantically searched his robes for something hidden. But before he could act, Amun''s sigils blazed with eldritch fire, chains of apparition binding Abdul''s movements. "Stay your attack, mage," Abdul pleaded, offering a parley, but Amun silenced him with a swift punch, sending him tumbling down.

    As Amun prepared to confront Abdul directly, the latter managed a desperate escape, breaking free from the magical binds. "You dare to MOCK?" Abdul cried from the ground, now realizing the gravity of his situation. "This affront will not go unpunished," he warned, invoking the name of Nyarlathotep, but Amun was undeterred, ready to end the charade once and for all.

    This imposter, this charlatan was nothing but a high priest figurehead for something beyond¡­..people are just doors after all. Amun knew that the curtain had to be drawn back and see what was pulling the strings beyond. ¡°¡­.follow this yellow brick road.¡± Amun sneered at this sinister slime, his sacrificial lamb - the irony there, he savored that bit for he was but a pathetic, broken-oathed shepard to the denizens and dulled less just moments ago¡­now, he would take the indecent bug and have him manually dismembered so that his cries may draw out the real target. May the orators voice become the foci of this atrocity¡­.or even better¡­.

    Momentarily the warlock had broken the attack to fantisize how to best personalize the final move. The abatement was enough for the false savior to draw from the robes concealment a brutal sikh-style dagger to defend himself with. Following the draw, the robed figure stylistically danced a ritualized dervish, resembling the many-armed Durga.

    Disbelief and furious delight filled Amun¡¯s vestige, ¡°Ho-ho! Not offering the throat to atone, eh?¡±, Amun shot a glance at the nameless man and produced a balled-fist of focus at his forearm¡­.the antique weapon flew away. Amun drew his family blade from the belted sheathe, the constant companion¡­among others that were actively lurking in dark places even now.

    He braved another step towards the falsifier, who then drew a damned push-style Peshkabz from inside his own sun-blanched, grassy and yellowed robe, the move revealing a beautiful set of chainmail-like Sanjo armor beneath the clothe¡­.apparently the liar upon desecrated pulpit came prepared! Not-Adbul also drew a saber from behind the stage and muttered to himself methodically, the energy thrummed in Amun¡¯s head.

    ¡°Accuser. You falter the delicate balance! Conspirator. Doom bringer. Renegade. Pact-maker. Your pride and thirsty pursuits will be your fall!¡± the whispers buzzing in Amun¡¯s head like so many flies, so many pips of black in his vision, he was losing breath.

    ¡°Don¡¯t tarry in the deep recesses of my mind, fool. You¡¯ll certainly drown not knowing how to tread depths¡±, Amun spat.

    Not-Adbul blurred forward and cleaved with practiced and enchanted accuracy. The mortal strike went home¡­to nothingness, the prophet of lie¡¯s jaw went utterly slack and the rest of his being was unprepared for the force that jack-knifed him on his flank, out of periphery.

    The hellhound of shade, of infernal soot, Amun¡¯s beloved Lucy, his familiar from the infernal planes prowled slowly around the now supinated not-Abdul. He went to protest, but Lucy found a tender unarmored target and mawed the throat of the man, gently and securely, his blood from the many punctures from shadowy jaws now slowly dripped on the center stage. Shocked, he gasped for air reflexively and with that, Amun slid an adorned hypocephalus under his head and this very real Amun withdrew the serpent¡¯s tongue violently, swift and manually in one powerful arm stroke.

    ¡°¡­..give us this day our daily bread¡­..¡± Hissed Asmoedon from far within the recessed prison cells of Amun¡¯s mind. The rush of insight lit his every nerve ending as knowledge of all of those generations of deceivers had just passed into him, all of the lies from pulpits and stages. It poured into him not steadily, as it may from a ceramic pitcher of clean, pure water - no this gave the impression of being thrown into an immersion of tar. The family craft of telling the human heart what it needed to hear in order to believe in something beyond their dull senses - this and more was his. The deceiver, that devil went to Amun¡¯s Mal-Gallery and for now was quelled. Surely, this was a temporary status and Amun prepared for the symphony of psychotic interludes that would speak to him now. He was One of Many and with this designation came such a loathsome cost. These son¡¯s of the infernal gash from which they were spewed - never slept, never silence their lies, would never stop haunting him and instead waited for his rare moments of weakness. Though their demise enhanced his own abilities and revealed more doors to cross into additional planes- ever closer to his target audience, the Oduum, Amun¡¯s sanity had to hold as well. Amun had to return to the task literally at hand though.

    Holding the man¡¯s seat of power, the instrument that he enthralled the masses with¡­.his waning voice whispered telepathically it¡¯s last as they locked glances, a dangerous venture indeed with the dying for one unprepared would surely be siphoned into the abyss itself along with the passing soul, Amun dared to listen to the Charlatan though¡­

    ¡°You know not what you sow and the door that has now been revealed. Cross not here to dread, Carcosa. I do not say this with pretense or as some attempt to sway your course. I only wish to win your favor, so that you will spare my family, my son. He will not follow his father¡¯s path and read from the book. He will not open the gates to Carcosa. Please, I beg you.¡±

    Amun watched the brown eyes fade and the man¡¯s mouth fill with blood, drowning him away and halting the mental exchange. The tongue was longer and more vile than he expected. He would ponder what to do about the son and the supposed Alharezed lineage later. An adversary¡¯s offspring left unchecked will hunger for vengeance and that fire would change the coarse of the child¡¯s destiny. Amun knew this all too well.

    He looked to the pulpit and the tome there. He would claim this prize, know it¡¯s passages, runes, spellwork, rituals and where the gods dwelled in their slumbers or beyond the twisted aeons - manipulating this reality from so far away. The things that should not be - he would find them all, even if he took many lifetimes to complete the task.

    Amun seized the book and felt the work, the binding, the carving in the front, and it all fell to dust. The dust was also in his mouth now¡­the words were locked in his mind, the connection was made! The book could not ever be, nothing but a lure- another false thing on the pedestal but the words remained, there was knowledge there and he would tread those unknown paths soon. He coughed out the waste but the insight took him.

    Is this how crazy ¡®ole Adbul felt when the book was first scribed? The deal that was dealt with the infernal lords in their spoken tongue Ngavhasjl so black and vile? The rush of the forbidden, he could see the path ahead to more doors and more truths, but Abdul was mad for a reason, Amun wagered feeling weary and in-awed by the distant glow calling to him (¡­Here be Dragons¡­). These doors led inevitably to beings and that meant more damnable atrocities, more tearing down their masquerade. The cost. The soul scathing magick would take their toll, brittle Charon with gray phalanges outstretched, the boatman needed Amun¡¯s coin.

    Soon enough, final escort, but now to the task at my hand. He threw the fleshy eviserated offering through the diminishing verdant gateway, knowing what sort of affront it would likely be seen as by the occupant on across the astral threshold. The way to Carcosa, not a rainbow bridge, not a mushroom-fueled hazed, and not an out of vessel projection, this was older and just took steps on an unbarred path. Amun felt its gravity, its immensity calling him, an absolution, a zero, a whole that could consume all it wanted and not know a mortals weight of satiety. It cared not for the whims and ethics of why others existed, it stepped on insects backs that cracked and was indifferent to it all as it rode the universe like a leaf upon the stream. The leaf knows it can float soon such waters, just another form of energy so easily misunderstood. Beyond were waters of another sort, it waited for Amun on the other side of this mass, its black lake and untold depths on an alien world. Amun, in his insolence crossed while Lucy, bathed in shadow and silt, fed upon the fallen.

    The dust words fluttered as an uprising of so many mangled moths to his mind, a profound silence enveloped Amun. The whispers of the ancients, once a cacophony in the recesses of his mind, now faded into a haunting quietude. The echoes of Abdul''s life, his sorrows, and his ultimate demise lingered in the air, a grim testament to the price of delving too deep into the cosmic unknown. It was in this moment of eerie calm that Amun felt the weight of his journey, the burden of knowledge that had led him to the precipice of madness.

    Young Abe, having secretly observed Amun''s rituals and read the forbidden texts over his shoulder, stood at the threshold of his own understanding. The horrors and wonders he had glimpsed through the words of the tome had ignited a spark of reckless curiosity within him. Unbeknownst to Amun, the seeds of a tragic fate were being sown in the young boy''s mind, a fate that would intertwine their destinies in ways neither could foresee.

    Driven by a compulsion he could neither explain nor resist, Amun made the fateful decision to cross the plane, to step beyond the veil that separated the known from the unknowable. In his hubris, he believed he could navigate the abyss, to confront whatever lay beyond and return with the secrets of the cosmos laid bare. Yet, as he prepared to cross the threshold, a shadow of doubt crept into his heart. It was a whisper of fear, a reminder of the countless others who had ventured into the dark and never returned.

    But it was too late for hesitation. With a final glance at the young stowaway, a silent apology for the mentorship he had failed to provide, Amun stepped forward. The world around him dissolved into a maelstrom of color and sound, a kaleidoscope of realities unfurling before his eyes. He had crossed into the realm of the Oduum, into a landscape where time, space, and sanity held no sway.

    *****

    Back in the world he had left behind, Abe consumed in horror as Amun vanished from the dusty text. The boy''s heart raced with fear and fascination, a dangerous mixture that promised to lead him down a path similar to that of the man he had admired. In that moment, Abe realized the full extent of the horror that the pursuit of forbidden knowledge could unleash, not just on the seeker but on all who were touched by their quest. The smearing ink on the olde pages would not be washed now.

    As for Amun, the realm beyond was nothing like he had anticipated. It was a place of unspeakable terror, a void where the fabric of reality was torn asunder, revealing the raw chaos that churned beneath the surface of existence. Here, the cosmic entities he had sought to understand regarded him with cold, indifferent eyes. Amun realized his fatal mistake too late; he was not the hunter but the hunted, a mere plaything for forces beyond his comprehension.

    His last thoughts were not of regret for the knowledge he had sought but of sorrow for the young Abe, whom he had inadvertently set upon the same dark path. As the entities descended upon him, Amun''s consciousness was extinguished, his essence absorbed into the infinite expanse of the Oduum.

 Ch. 20a Darkness

    ¡°So I went to the rock of the Cradle and opened the Charlatan¡¯s bible to read the lies of the Oduum. In their folly and hubris, they felt that the slave would never dare as one such as I to bite and indeed chew the Master¡¯s tendril, slick with the ooze of my ancestors.¡±

    The Charlatan¡¯s sermon:

    Woe unto the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of oblivion.

    Within the vast, indifferent cosmos, those devoid of spiritual delusions gaze into the abyss, finding not salvation but the stark reality of their inconsequence.Cursed are those who mourn, for they shall be granted no comfort.

    The lamentations of mortals echo into the void, met with silence from the uncaring stars; their grief a solitary burden in an uncaring universe.Ill-fated are the meek, for they shall inherit the dust of a barren earth.

    As ancient forces slumber beneath the earth and seas, the meek tread lightly over forgotten catacombs, blind to the insignificance of their legacy.Accursed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be eternally famished.

    In their quest for cosmic justice, they shall find the scales unbalanced, the universe indifferent to their plight, and their souls starved amid the cold equations of an uncaring cosmos.Wretched are the merciful, for they shall find mercy forsaken.

    Benevolence is but a fleeting illusion under the gaze of ancient, malevolent watchers whose thoughts are not for human minds to know or reciprocate.Doomed are the pure in heart, for they shall not behold their gods.

    Their purity an affront to the chaotic indifference of the universe, destined never to commune with the eldritch deities that dance in the darkness beyond human comprehension.Miserable are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of naught.

    Their efforts to forge tranquility shall crumble as the ancient terrors stir from their aeonian slumber, indifferent to the constructs of human harmony.Damned are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the realm of ceaseless despair.

    The pursuit of virtue leads them not to sanctification but into the maw of ever-spiraling madness, where shadows whisper of fates worse than oblivion.Forsaken are you when they revile and persecute you, and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.

    Rejoice not, for your suffering is but a murmur in the cacophony of the cosmos, where your adversaries and allies are equally insignificant to the void that swallows all light and hope.

    In the expanse of the ancient cosmos, where the stars breathe with the life of a thousand gods, there existed a sphere of verdant splendor known as Jnana-Vatika, the Garden of Divine Insight. This garden was a creation of the Oduum, those celestial entities whose knowledge transcended the bindings of time and matter.

    Fumbling pages of the most delicate grains, some fauna, some of other materials that were also organic and heretical (flank mayhaps?). Light as they were, the premise, the program and intent placed in the pineal gland were evident:

    ¡°Blessed are the forgotten, for theirs is the silence of oblivion.¡± Forget you former Masters of the Sky and of the Terra. There bones are ground to meal to make our eucharist. Take and Eat as you will.

    ¡°Blessed are the faithless, for they shall find peace in the void.¡± This is your true song now, your prayer to be placed at our alters so that you may be a part of the Continuum.

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    Amun paused on this next phrase, there was a pulse to it perhaps prophetic, ¡°Blessed are the defiant, for their courage will illuminate the dark.¡± Amun would seek them out as they hid their mysteries in the dark. He would know the fear pressed there, but his spine would not yield.

    ¡°Blessed are the blasphemers, for they speak truths others dare not whisper.¡± For the hubris of his enemies, in all of their Legion could not help themselves from their malicious in-fighting. Usurpers all of them.

    ¡°Blessed are those who question the gods, for they shall be free from celestial chains.¡± Amun thought that his ego was getting the better of him at this point, but couldn¡¯t stifle a childish giggle that he almost didn¡¯t recognize freed from gullet gaol.

    But the path they led towards their own demise continued and Amun couldn¡¯t help the bloodhound¡¯s pacing and enticement. Was this a trap or was it predestined that an anomaly such as he would challenge their schemes?, ¡°Blessed are the heretics, for they forge new paths away from ancient shackles.¡° It was rapturous!

    No; ¡°Blessed are the rebels, for in their revolt blooms the flower of new beginnings.¡±

    ¡°Blessed are the desecrators of sacred idols, for their hands dismantle the altars of oppression.¡± Were the Oduum referring to themselves here? What was the sacred to the independent freed from their shackle and whips?

    In the expanse of the ancient cosmos, where the stars breathe with the life of a thousand gods, there existed a sphere of verdant splendor known as Jnana-Vatika, the Garden of Divine Insight. This garden was a creation of the Oduum, those celestial entities whose knowledge transcended the bindings of time and matter.

    Verse 1: The Bestowal of the Forbidden Fruit In the midst of Jnana-Vatika grew the sacred Ashvattha, the Tree of Boundless Understanding. Its roots delved into the mysteries of creation, and its leaves whispered the secrets of the universe. The Oduum declared unto the first beings of the garden, Aadimaan and Jeevika, "Partake not of the Soma, the nectar that flows from the Ashvattha, for it contains the knowledge of the cosmos and the power to perceive the continuum of all existence."

    Verse 2: The Temptation Yet, the Oduum watched, hidden within the ethereal mists, as Aadimaan and Jeevika wandered the labyrinthine paths of the garden. The serpent, an avatar of the Oduum''s testing will, slithered forth, scales iridescent with the dust of cosmic storms. "Why do the gods forbid you the fruit of enlightenment?" it hissed, voice echoing the dark spaces between the stars. "It is because they fear you will become like them¡ªimmortal and all-knowing."

    Verse 3: The Enlightenment Swayed by the serpent''s cosmic song, Jeevika reached out and plucked the radiant fruit of the Ashvattha. Together, with Aadimaan, they tasted the forbidden Soma. The veil of ignorance shattered like glass beneath the celestial hammer. Their eyes opened to the eternal, the fabric of reality unwoven before them. They saw the myriad dimensions and the threads that bind them, the pulsing energies of the continuum that could be harnessed and woven anew.

    Verse 4: The Gift as a Debt But with enlightenment came the grave awareness of their pact. The Oduum, through the serpent, spoke once more, "The wisdom you have gained this day is but a loan from the cosmos, a seed planted within you that we will one day harvest. We shall return, like the cycle of the great celestial Kala-chakra, to reclaim what is ours. Prepare the path for our arrival, for it will be the age of reckoning."

    Verse 5: The Legacy of the Forbidden Knowledge Aadimaan and Jeevika, now bearing the burden of cosmic insight, were exiled from Jnana-Vatika. To them and their descendants was given the task of guardianship over the knowledge and the preparation for the return of the Oduum. Temples rose, scriptures were penned, and the arts of magic flourished, all in homage to the celestial beings who had opened the doors of perception but promised a future trial by cosmic fire.

    Verse 6: The Waiting As eons passed, the descendants of Aadimaan and Jeevika looked to the heavens with both anticipation and dread. They lived in the shadow of the promised return, each generation passing down the tale of the garden, the enlightenment, and the eventual day of judgment. The Oduum''s gifts of knowledge became both their greatest strength and their deepest fear, for the gods had not forgotten, and their celestial ledger awaited its due.

    Thus, the sacred text of Jnana-Vatika serves as a testament to the gifts and curses bestowed upon humanity, a reminder of their divine heritage and the cosmic debt that hangs over the stars, waiting for the day when the Oduum will return to reclaim the universe they have seeded with the fruits of forbidden knowledge.

    And finally, his entrapment was writ here upon this flesh of olde, ¡°Blessed are those who reject the afterlife, for they will cherish the dust of the earth.¡± His was not one of predestination though, was it? Yes, Vanessa hinted that he would be the upset curdle in what the Oduum¡¯s sacred yet barbed teat would convince Lacon was the good cream, that Amun was foretold. Amun chose though, he had chosen pacts and alliances. Perils and Atrocities, he had studied them, he had turned away from the path de desired for the one that was contrary, hadn¡¯t he? This was madness and the snare he had always dreaded, that his sanity would eventually whither on the vine¡­was the knotted root his to begin with though?

 Ch. 21 Undone

    ¡°

    The moons rise high, the suns sink down

    And, behold, black stars arise

    Hymns the Hyades shall sing

    The twin suns sink behind the lake,

    The shadows lengthen

    In Carcosa.

    And strange moons circle through the skies,

    But stranger still is

    Lost Carcosa.

    Where flap the tatters of the King,

    Must die unheard in

    Dim Carcosa.

    Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed

    Shall dry and die in

    Lost Carcosa

    *****

    All of the knowledge was as superficial now, Amun felt an excited twitch in his periphery foreign as a new piece of music untouched by the senses. His anchoring of senses to the former world vacated, rolled back and reeled, revolted by the various new inputs that were being received. He was on a wave, not a leaf sliding on the tension of a clam stream of familiar energy, no. Weightless he was tossed violently within it, a feathered-rock skipped across an immense expanse of water. All was disturbing and horrible.

    He made efforts to command his mind, make sense of puzzle pieces strewn across his touch, feeling their angles and inserts, accommodating his own impatience, trying to breathe, but the gas wasn¡¯t meant for his human consumption.

    ¡°Focus!, back to the piece at hand¡±, his discipline flogged at his slow and groggy mind. He grasped for his tactics and armory, how he had prepared for Asmoedon or an invasion from the Choir¡¯s minions, he had sparred with his companions of old, with gentle Ben and with lords of Hel, this cosmic arena was not to be different¡­., but deep down he already knew the truth.

    Scrambling mentally and likely physically, he felt sweaty, unnerved, the efforts to comprehend and grapple with such indescribable gravities, one that pushed in on him like diving to deep as a boy, racing to the eventual bottom, feeling the silt there, the deep lilly that Vanessa liked so much- the large flat leaves could be dries and rolled so well. This nostalgia was confusing and he lingered in it for too long, hours perhaps? He was startled again and again out of a dream that he didn¡¯t realize he had slid into. Like drinking too much or dozing under a comfortable tree while reading one of his beloved Arcanuum¡¯s whispering tomes, whispering, whispering there secrets.

    He was upset, this insight was too much. He sanity bobbled and he had ventured far from safe shores only to have this ocean of waves, of information, of knowledge toss him back as the helpless leaf upon its breakers, to the crags and cliffs of sanity. It all cared nothing for his will or wailing. His wails sounded like chimes, no, was it a bell? A singular vibration that one could focus on while embracing the heat, the sweat and the rooted tea that Vanessa had given him to drink? He would watch her dance and sway, breasts swaying this way and that, her skin singing along with the howling wind outside. No it was him writhing and howling.

    He jumped again, seizure like, frenetic and every join and plain in his body jolted agonizingly, bolts from the azure heavens would have been leisurely by comparison. This truth he was beginning to unravel, his mind could not index and sort the bombardment of new information, words that had never been sounded by a graceless mortal tongue, perhaps if it were bifurcated or hexurcated.

    He resolved as he pleaded that this was always a possible destination of sorts, an inevitability that senses and instincts had caused male hood to constrict and small hairs to stand on edge. Had he not always wanted to swim out and get lost in it all? Know not a trodden path and have no map or signage to guide, encourage or repose? The growing rogues gallery within his many chambered cellblock mind bellowed ruefully, had he led them to the gallows? He worried that this new parapet, while he scrambled ever upward, was to be his deathbed, unknown and unmarked.

    Ammon, if he could be known as he at this point, all was anos and asom, without body and without mind, the lingering memory of what was removed, anchored to formerly only served as a painful memory, one he only wished to be cut free from.

    He separated himself.

    He was clinging to a memory, a rich a vibrant one, one that he, after a lifetime found some peace in long ago, unburied treasure set into a deep and secret place that time had just begun shoveling loose dirt onto. ¡°Astral Projection?!?¡±, Ben cursed at him discovering the stolen tome beneath Ammon¡¯s cot one evening. This pleasant revisited memory was of a routine reconnoiter the miesters were tasked with on random evenings, invading the abbey as they saw fit within the Arcanuum.

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have this one. It is forbidden, you have not risen in the rank, your mind is not calloused enough and you¡­. know not the folding somatics and verbal incan¡­.¡± all of this being said as the clumsy miester went to snatch the book away from Ammon. Again and again, Ben¡¯s hand would flail through the rapid illusions, a sort of childlike cookie keep-away game was going on between the two.

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    Even now, when his life was being threatened somewhere far off, Amun remembered the burn on his arm when Ben desperately dove in exasperation, only wanting to look after his nefarious chap and return the solemn tome, only wanting to do his duty for the Arcanuum, only wanting to serve, but also keep fidelity with the mischievous Ammon, but the fateful lunge went long and through the glamor, the arm wild and not halting before impacting upon the table with considerable impact. When Ben withdrew his faulty limb, sore from the strike, he knocked the large candle astrew, wax singeing Ammon¡¯s neck and own arm, halting momentarily his joyous laughter. On any other occasion, Ben would have been thrilled by the riotous giggles and yaulps of joy coming from Ammon, he only wanted the man¡¯s acceptance and occasional friendship, but when Amun stopped,¡­.grabbing at his neck and then rubbing at his arm, when Ben saw the sigils leap out on the mans head, neck and arms, he saw the Continuum itself curling in those vessels and scawlings, Ben knew he had hurt him and likely angered his stubborn acquaintance. Ben saw the power, reflexively kick and pulse, just there delicately beneath the skin, cleverly hidden.

    When Ammon¡¯s eyes met his, not full on of course, when the man¡¯s nostrils flared once, twice and several rapidly, Ben did not scry what was about to happen to him. Ben tensed and closed his eyes as, as

    As another peel of guttural glee filled the room! Saved! Ben had barely recovered breath as he was blown past, by the stout, robed figure. He thought to give chase and to have Amun surrender the item, but Ben could not ignore nor could he afford the nerve to confront Amun again that evening. He found that he desperately needed to change his loincloth instead.

    Amun released the memory and returned to the trial at hand.

    Amun swam deeper into this lucid experience, it was a relief to command a bit of control once again over mental faculties. He remembered jogging down to the shore line and halting just to admire the sudden crunch of stone beneath boot. The waters lapped lazily on the rocky beach, he could smell the evening and it was fresh and untouched. He felt the cool of night, the rich indigo swim high above, he longed to see this from the Arcanuum¡¯s natural amphitheater some day, a ceiling known only to a few that ascended the spire to such a height. To touch, to get closer to commune, to see those all far below in Lacon, to dwell in the astral swim of endless night and astral bodies. Amun gazed up a reveled in it, savoring the moment before the next.

    He decided to begin and the craft was called up with the hum of his Thu¡¯um, a guttural and resonant hum. ¡°Rrelligo¡±, spoken over and over as he saw the night and her majesty, love, devotion and respect to her form, heard the water¡¯s kiss to shore that grounded him in the now, its enormous moment stretching on and on as he relaxed into the word-foci

    He continued, ¡°Rrelligo¡± and felt the word come out of him on unlabored breath, a confident note that any minstel would be proud of, felt it come out of him, the entirety of him, propelled by his belly and all the way down to his feet, pressing through his boots and feeling the uneven stone beneath. He tasted the storm of energies responding to his call, his will. It was an alkali sort of thing that numbed the tip of his tongue first. Once more, ¡°Rrelligo¡± and he knelt down, cupped the frigid waters, gleaming the reflective tapestry of the nights and the cosmic dance of things above, he admired that his touch was the only thing that had disturbed the surface while performing the perfect ritual. He smashed the water to his face, and as it ran down his neck and chest, he briefly felt it cool smack skin. As the trails of moisture ran down him, his form sank, having gone limp and mostly lifeless.

    In a moment, Amun was gone and found that he was floating above the scene and very much out of his mortal vessel. Not needing to breathe, but desperately feeling the excitement of the moment, he didn¡¯t know what to do. He no longer had the needful a voice and knew nothow to psychically project a signal of glee, for that was exactly the sensation he wished to express. So he flew up and did a backflip instead, quite involuntarily! That was not all either, no, this voyage had just begun!

    He hovered past the shore, gaining speed and confidence in manipulating the new sensation of absolute emptiness and weightlessness he was guided by his intent and the thrill pressing in his mind! He raced invisibly back to the store front on the harbor knocking past a sign, it only swayed but a bit on it¡¯s creaky hook. A man dozed, slumping in his distressed wooden chair on his uneven, sea-facing deck. Amun dared to dart past him as he half-slumbered, thinking that a breeze had suddenly kicked up. He circled-up the street and was disappointed in the lack of bustle out and about on such a well-lit eve. He was full of the night and was disappointed that he couldn¡¯t merrily make more mischief. He circled up and up and to the very top of the conal shaped spire, but he would find that he was not meant on this maiden odyssey to cheat and crest the top.

    He looked back to admire the distance he had trekked telepathically to discover something quite inconvenient: his tether, the bind that anchored him to the material plain was about to be manipulated. The trespasser was enormous, some sort of phantasm that had sensed him from the shoreline. Amun knew of the woe-begotten spirits, the one¡¯s of abandoned lovers that waited for their sailors to safely return to shore, to endure the storms and ravages from sea, the weeping mothers for their sons and daughters, the pregnant wives or lonesome husbands. The sea was prayed to, like the tree, like the wailing wall of the mountains, yes - the sea had gathered all of these tails and emotions and this, this enormous apparition had fed upon them all. Its effect emotionally was instantaneous, made bad feel worse or love making on the shore that much more intense, all the better to distract prey with and feed longer. That is what this gray specter, foaming and writhing liked to do the best: take its time and savor the meal.

    It had heavy claws, like some sort of crab and slithered out on angular legs that looked more serpentine in movement than normal mechanical ambulation. It saw the dead looking man, chest all exposed and saw the gleaming tether stretching up and out from the still being.In its primal mind, it did not desire to understand what the structure was, all it knew instinctually was that it was an easy meal.

    Amun found that the dreamlike memory had gone askew, that this is not the way it had gone originally. He found that he did not stream back, the string of essence guiding his way. No, something was amiss and Amun found that the summoned psychic Eldritch blasts couldn¡¯t be summoned as they had been, as he KNEW this chapter had actually unfurled in his memory, no the eerie green blasts failed to develop. So Ammon, just hovered there, high above, watching it consume him stupidly.

    This was all wrong, this creature was dumb and could have easy ben dissolved back into the water, back to the continuum itself that laced the water. Amun should have seared the foamy backside of the shelled back and cooked the tender force within, he was certain that was how it actually had gone. All reflexively, certainly, Amun knew the creature had started him flat-footed on a night of such splendor, but this new version of a treasured memory was all wrong!

    The vice-like claw grasped the rope that could return him to his form, Amun knew it was improbable, that a mistake in the narrative was being made, but in the snap of the tether, the vibration that shook its was back up to him, a loft, whether it was wrong or not, it no longer mattered. He had been severed from his body by the cloudform from the waters and in moments his body would die!

    Floated clumsily, legs all wrong above him, the tether recoiling back to him and he becoming tangled in his own disorientation, he tumbled and was afraid,

    Confused and tormented by the approach from the creature that would consume his stumbling life force,

    Over and over, he had lost his control, perhaps when the form contacted him, he would have a moment to correct himself and put up some sort of fight. When the claw came for him, he was not righted by it. It instead clutched him by what would have been his head and held him there, admiring its trophy meal.

    Amun was indeed being held in some¡­.Thing¡¯ cluthches.

    He jerked and came too, roused viciously from the memory set wrong and askew, a verdant cosmos of thick, swimming mists all around, acidic smells that burned. Gravity was rendered a pointless artifact in deciding the journey¡¯s inertia, Amun was lost to the will of this crossing. Alas, there was no boatman, no escort, no ally to interpret this plane. It wasn¡¯t meant for the human comprehension but he noted every thought and vision as he was flung somehow that was neither outward nor inward.

    What he was met with after some great time of crossing was wet, he did not meet the depths of Hali gently. He clambered in a terrain that was communicated to him as aqueous, yet he scrambled for its surface, movement based on instinct not of comprehension. The sound was nothing but a rushing thing, as if held under a many falls. True sight was useless and he dared not open any other sight, it would leave him so vulnerable. This had to be a truth, he knew he wasn¡¯t flailing unobserved.

    The vessel begin to fail but he had readied many remedies to combat such limitations. What was a magi such as he if he went ahead completely unprepared but, lo these depths very few had tread. He felt infantile and fought desperately against a rush fear. This was his companion¡¯s dominion and surely it¡¯s instrument - even if the danger were real, he could choose to control such green-toothed follies. Fear simply doesn¡¯t serve one when gazing into an abyss such as this. Yet here it stood and he had long forgotten his resolve.

 Ch. 22 Snare

    Amun lay ensnared in the clutches of a restless slumber, the echoes of his past companions reverberating through the eerie silence that surrounded him. The room, once a sanctuary of solace and solitude, now pulsated with the haunting whispers of Carcosa, drawing him into a sinister dance of memory and madness.

    As the dreamscape unfolded, Amun wandered the mist-shrouded streets of Carcosa. This city, under a lurid star, twisted with surreal impossibilities. Buildings throbbed with an unnatural life, streets looped back upon themselves in maddening labyrinths, and shadowed doorways hid faces, mask-like and mocking. The air was thick with whispers, each breath carrying the weight of aeons, echoing the voices of lost companions, now puppets of Hastur''s will.

    Amun''s heart raced as spectral figures of his former allies appeared before him, their forms distorted and grotesque, speaking in riddles and rhymes. "Something has to change," they murmured, their voices a distorted echo of thoughts once shared in camaraderie and struggle. "Un-deniable dilemma," they continued, their presence a stark reminder of the inevitable betrayals and losses that haunted his path.

    The Yellow King, a presence ever distant yet deeply intertwined with the fabric of this dreamscape, whispered incessantly, a breathy, chilling voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Boredom''s not a burden anyone should bear," it teased, twisting Amun''s own fears and doubts into a taunting chorus that threatened to unravel his mind.

    As he moved deeper into the heart of Carcosa, the landscape grew increasingly alien, the familiar becoming strange, and the strange terrifyingly familiar. Amun could feel the weight of his own history, heavy like a stone around his neck, each step forward a monumental effort against the psychic winds that howled through the empty city.

    "Pointing out the consequences, the hardest part," the figures intoned as they circled him, their movements synchronized in a grotesque ballet. The ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse and shift, the cobblestones like the scales of some vast, slumbering beast. Amun''s grip on reality faltered, each whispered lyric from his past echoing a challenge to his sanity.

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    "I feel it coming on," he gasped, the air thick and oppressive, as if the very atmosphere sought to suffocate his resolve. The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of all the voices he had ever known, now twisted into a chorus of accusation and mockery.

    "You''re not gonna make it out," they sang, a symphony of despair orchestrated by Hastur, who watched from the shadows with eyes like voids. Amun staggered, his limbs heavy, every movement an agony of exertion against the unseen forces that sought to bind him to this nightmare.

    Yet, amid the chaos, a spark of defiance flickered within him. "If when I say I might fade like a sigh if I stay," Amun whispered, his voice steady despite the tumult around him. It was his acknowledgment of the potential loss of his very self, but also a declaration that he would not submit quietly to the orchestration of his doom.

    With a Herculean effort, Amun steadied himself, drawing upon the deepest reserves of his will. He envisioned himself breaking free from the spectral chains that bound him, the chains Hastur had forged from his own regrets and fears. "You minimize my movement anyway," he declared to the phantoms of his past, his voice rising above the storm of voices.

    As dawn''s first light began to seep through the fissures of this dark world, casting long, spectral shadows across the ruins of Carcosa, Amun found his footing. He stood tall, a solitary figure against the desolation, ready to confront the Yellow King and reclaim his destiny from the jaws of madness.

    The wind died down, and for a moment, all was silent in Carcosa. Amun, breathing heavily, felt the weight of his burdens lift ever so slightly. He had survived the night, and though the road ahead was fraught with peril, he was resolved to face it, fortified by the knowledge that even in the darkest moments, his will could light the way.

    "Let me see it differently," he murmured, a prayer not for escape, but for the strength to endure and overcome. And with that, Amun stepped forward, each stride a defiance of the destiny Hastur sought to impose upon him, each breath a testament to his unyielding spirit.

 {DEV} Ch. 23 Torn

    There were lights that illuminated only whisps of walkable terrain, but he knew it was all in his mind, twisted and oppressive as if pressing down upon the world itself, a spider under glass.  Away, the sea was unnaturally still, stagnant, as though time itself had taken a breath and dared not exhale. There, at the edge this Seeker, Amun, whose legend whispered of pacts with forces beyond human comprehension felt that this was supposed to make him fearful and mayhaps that would be wise. No ordinary willer of the continuum was he ¡ª his goods and trade were neither spices nor silks but things far more intangible, and far more dangerous. He would need it all.

    Amun had spent decades navigating the shadowed trade routes of the planes where mortal men mewled for riches and power, the seduction of their vices, for forgiveness. This Seeker was drawn by whispers of places that shouldn¡¯t exist¡ªplaces like this "Carcosa", a doom of the very gods, the cursed city plagued by the  supposed  "Yellow King". It was said to lie somewhere between the folds of reality, its non-Euclidean streets weaving between time and space, defying all logic and reason. The rumors of  unLaconian power, the source of the continuum and other rumored lore consumed Amun''s soul, driving him toward the one destination no fool should dare seek.

    The Meisters had the bound tome, nearly undecipherable and the peak of their Spire: "the King in Yellow", whose reach extended beyond the stars, whose madness twisted the minds of those who dared to look upon his pale mask.  The mark of his gaze to one should not look upon. Yet it was not fear that held Amun back but the intoxication of the unknown and the realization that he was underprepared. He had already crossed the boundaries of the sane world long ago, his mind fragmented by encounters with eldritch truths, his soul bound by the pacts he had made. He would be cursed to walk here countless times mayhaps, had he been here and failed at the King''s gnarled feet before? In this mire, where all was predatory, the vines all sought throat, the air was meant to choke, there was no retreat.

    The scene had swallowed him until the twin moons broke free of the night to stare at him, a mist rose from the waters, thick and cloying, pulling the world into a haze of distorted angles and twisted reflections. Amun stood on the deck of a once mighty ship, an Eastern Galleon of some sort that had been absolutely ravaged. The wood too laden with foul waters for ages, her sails all spectral tatters. Amun''s eyes fixated on a point far beyond the horizon where no stars gleamed. It was there that his throat hitched momentarily and he gritted his dream teeth for he looked to a place where the sea and sky melded into one, and reality bent in unnatural ways.

    Through atrocity, Amun unlocked the twisted way to Carcosa, paths that did not exist on any map and could not be charted by human minds. His ship moved not through the sea, but through the folds of reality, gliding between dimensions where the angles of existence fractured and bent in ways that made his head spin.

    Looming ahead¡ªCarcosa, its towers stretching toward a dark sky, each spire piercing through dimensions, shifting from one plane of existence to another. The streets below writhed like serpents, winding in impossible directions, their angles too sharp, their curves too fluid. A sickly yellow light glowed from within the city''s depths, where something sinister waited.

    As Amun¡¯s ship docked at the silty shore, he felt a presence pressing into his mind¡ªan ancient, maddening force that had been waiting for him. Though no form or face could be discerned in the swirling chaos of shadows and light, no gargantuan presence, no theatrics. It was not a voice, but a sensation¡ªa psychic intrusion that coiled around Amun¡¯s thoughts, pulling them apart strand by strand, a cerebral vortex, a parallax web that assaulted his senses entirely. He pondered what had spun such a wretched web and what approached in its snare?

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    He attempted to debark, each step heavier than the last as the world bent and twisted around him. He wretched at the vertigo and fought for a heading. The very air seemed to choke with unspoken dread, and Amun felt the presence of creeping nothingness growing stronger, sinking deeper into his mind. His thoughts fragmented, spiraling out of control as the pathways shifted beneath his feet, leading him ever deeper into the heart of the city. He cast somatic wards, but the words left him his vigor drained away.

    Time no longer had meaning. Space collapsed in on itself. The buildings around him towered and shrank, folding into impossible angles, warping between planes. The city itself was alive with the madness of its king, and Amun realized too late that Carcosa had been waiting for him all along. He had not sought the city; the city had drawn him, called to him across the void of space and time.

    His old heart thundered in his chest, surely it would fail, and as he stumbled through the ever-shifting streets, the psychic assault intensified. The enemy was no longer merely a presence in his mind but an overwhelming force, tearing at the seams of his sanity, he strained for his soul. He tried to fight it, to retain control, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands. The harder he struggled, the faster his mind slipped away. Was he the childe or was he the warlock, was he the woman in the painting? Was this the first time or could it be the finality?

    Suddenly, the street before him bent and twisted in ways no human eye could comprehend. Reality itself ripped apart, and from the tear in space, a fissure emerged, not unlike what his blade could tear¡ªnot as a figure, no lines or borders, but as an unspeakable force that washed over Amun, sinking its claws into his mind.

    His vision blurred. His body felt weightless and heavy all at once. His thoughts shattered, unable to distinguish the real from the unreal. And then a torrent of torment so personal, so exacting, tuned to every nerve that made him HIM began¡ªunbearable, unrelenting.

    Amun¡¯s body convulsed as Hastur¡¯s psychic tendrils coiled around him, ripping into his flesh without ever touching him. His mind was being devoured, his very essence torn apart as if reality itself sought to consume him. He looked down and saw his own body betraying him¡ªhis hands, twisted and grotesque, moved without his command. They dug into his abdomen, pulling at flesh and sinew, tearing at his insides as though his own body were acting under the will of the Yellow King.

    Blood poured from his wounds, dark and thick, splattering onto the writhing streets of Carcosa, which seemed to drink it in. His entrails slithered out of his torn abdomen, snaking along the ground, dragged by some unseen force into the very heart of the city. Amun screamed, but no sound escaped his lips. His own hands¡ªno longer his¡ªreached deeper, pulling at organs, flaying skin, unraveling him from the inside.

    The fissure yawned agape to the front, the only witness though Amun could no longer see clearly through the shock. He could only feel the overwhelming presence of Hastur, laughing silently as Amun''s body disintegrated under the weight of madness. His soul was devoured, bit by bit, as his body followed suit, the last of his humanity stripped away in the streets of Carcosa.

    In his final moments, Amun''s thoughts dissolved into a formless void, his body a hollow shell, torn apart by the very forces he had sought to understand. Carcosa, the city of non-Euclidean madness, had claimed him.

    And so, Amun Jaro, the once-great Warlock, became nothing more than a twisted memory in the shifting streets of Carcosa. His body was scattered across dimensions, his mind broken and consumed.  The city remained, as it always had, waiting for the next fool who dared to seek its forbidden knowledge.

    For in the end, there is only entropy and the void. Hastur.

 Ch . 23a Rooted

    And Amun died once more in that most severe and grotesque way at the tendril of the messenger -that something someone was never meant to be seen, nor comprehended even with a vast mind such as his. There was no method in anticipating something so far away from a daft human mind, after all. To these gods, one must not pray nor tread upon. The crush and swell of infinity and every speck of knowledge unknown and well-guarded (with terribly good reason!) splintered him and he fell apart. Or so was thought¡­the tale never truly ends.

    The space was empty and He, not but a whispered memory of Amun, floated there formless and so very confused initially. It is not a pleasant joyful occurrence to be call back, reconstructed into knowing you are there. After such an awful demise at the slimy tentacled one, it would better to leave these planes, yet¡­

    The space became an empty spanse and upon this canvas, a paint dispensed from an unknown cup and was applied with the brush that he couldn''t comprehend. What was being observed made him feel dull and he wasn''t sure but he was able north cared for what was happening on the scene. He wailed and wept, mourning the long journey and for time grieved in a very mortal way. But in this time the canvas was being filled and after you exhausted such sorrow you looked at what was being shown to him

    The scene as of in ancient Laconian tradition, the people had sewn Farmed gathered foraged and plucked from their world and we''re asked by tradition to be thankful for what they have been given. These gatherings and first gifts of season soils would be placed in basic flaxen sacks and taken to the cradle for the high priests or perhaps the Ocuum themselves to benefit from.

    What was unusual is that these tithings we''re being placed and a great sack instead of numerous ones and the cylindrical container, a bulbous and lumpy thing was definitely at at capacity and was yet to be Field filled still buy some uncanny vacuousness.

    Amun¡¯s mind went to work on such an unusual equation and he was relieved to be momentarily distracted dog time thoughtime what irrelevant here¡­.. It was mystifying to vicariously observe the situation what backwith the sack knowing that capacity wasn''t inevitabe yet the filling kept on and on of all the varied goods.

    Amun went to the thing and felt its side. He pressed and identified grain powder leaf and bulb - be it fruit or vegetable. The sack felt greasy in places on slick with sap, oil, or pulp. There was something else too though and this thing amongst the wrong was the greatest of all that didn¡¯t belong in that great bag. He knew that.

    He wasn''tneccesarily at ease with the task but felt through the material searching for quite a (an irrelevant) time just the same, driven by insatiable desire to know. Always the need to know, such folly. There it would be, or so he his cerebral capacity on the sensation of ¡®touch¡¯ in this spanse of unbeing would communicate to his cloud mind.. no just a roll of vegetation - perhaps fine smoking leaf in a container or a hard bread? Not it, so he thought and felt with his dulled mind. He dismissed the task until it lurched beneath his probing.

    Moved! Such a foulness, he rejected the thought yet traced back to where it had beenbeneath the weave of coarse fiber ¡ª there it was! A strange vibration of something living, until it jolted from Amun¡¯s groping and dug away, deep and escaping the surface. Amun was unnerved and a revulsion hit him. This trespass of a wicked thing, festering within the labors and gifts of the people was an afront. He would remove it and in his dull state he had few options. He came up slowly and stupidly with a solution because he was consumed with the task now.

    Amun balled up his mind into a projection of force and stuck the sack at the spot of the movement. He did this many, many times like a Laconian pugilist would train to build stamina, techniques and toughness of fist and of mind. He could see the many fibered material bend but not yield. Even the contents within gave way and there were dark juices and dusty emanations from the vacuous thing. Amun had to strike deep enough to either penetrate into the contents or the creature festering inside. Again and again he pounded it with his mind, the assault causing a perspiration and fatigue in his absent being - an odd sensation to be certain, one to be scribed in his own tome at a later point should he progress beyond this place with it¡¯s found deed.

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    The saps and juices ran down from the thing and later gave way to substance. The dust congealed there and formations over time took hold and grasped at a surface yet to defined in Amun¡¯s empty mind. The formations slowly crept from the baseless void up and up, climbing to take hold of the bag as Amun¡¯s assault went on and on. As it progressed in this act, a voice entered Amun¡¯s being, for his mind was formless here, ¡°Why do you act this way? What is it that you seek?¡± Amun, while not deterred thought back, ¡°there is a corruption within the goods of the bag. I mean to cleanse it so that the toiling not be tainted by it.¡±

    ¡°How are you certain of it¡¯s intent in a place such as this?¡±

    ¡°How is one certain of anything, in any befouled place?¡± Amun retorted to the voice that seemed to be coming from everywhere.

    ¡°This space is where I dwell and you are but a most discourteous guest. Employing such a rigor without reason. Is this normally how you would greet a host who has prepared a space for us to meet?¡±

    All at once, Amun with a relief and realization of restored clarity, saw the thing for what it was. It was a most sacred and elder tree and he had been a most rude guest.

    The spirit spoke as Amun reeled and collected his desperate thoughts (he should very well apologize), ¡°Amun, you should know this lesson but I will offer you a great gift of reminding you of it, if you wish?¡±

    Amun knew that he should and that this was indeed a great opportunity to conjoin with the benevolent thing. Amun knew that in his present state and to be so daft in his approach, the root of Gaia, the first tree, called Druatia, called Prunus, the song of the many songs in winds at the dawn of this ship¡¯s first light in her glade. Impetus and great hubris took their hold of Amun, such folly!

    The rawhide barbs took root to his breast simultaneously, on tender flesh that wasn¡¯t there until the Great Root told it to be so. From her great circumference he dangled, suspended in body and mind. His spirit was singular, his thought a pin in an vast array - he saw only one thing and it was a ray of enlightenment. He dangled in miserable euphoria and the song that was their song playing on and on. It was a haunted coupling. The branches parted above her, the leaves of those astral eaves allowed that light, a perfect aural crown of heavenly splendor lightened that space as he hung by his bared chest, his flesh was there but barely - made of a starry substance now but his recollection was still the vessel reddening in her radiating. His eyes lolled but the perception by traditional means wasn¡¯t necessary anymore, the sight was all through his experience now. He was warmed and enthralled with this communing, he just dissipated in it for a long time.

    *****

    Choirs, a cacophony of witnesses chanting ceremoniously. The fallen by his acts of consumption in concentric circles surrounded them, chanting the ritual in unknown tongues. Their words were not meant for a Laconian colonizer - one who pushes their sphere of influence until it crushes such as this choir into a forgotten space.

    *****

    When she spoke it was stoney plate that formed nations, the storm that humans today know all too well that could uproot all that fleshy hands build, it was a light that gives life to that which gives light and command the dark to part - this insight was holy and pure, ¡°Would you consume this tree, Sin Eater? Is it your place to take in the rooted mass upon all foundations are built, One of Many? I can remove the ugly thing that moves within your bowel and brain, Amun childe. Your suffrage and story will cease, your burden would know rest. You would be nestled here and new journey would begin.¡±

    Tethers bit and after so long broke free, his ether that was once soured sprayed violently on the green things, their dancey-coupling now done after so many countless revolutions around the star she had shown him.

    ¡°You will fail. Take and consume what you came for.¡± The voice on calming seas bemoaned dourly. ¡°The hour is late and your trial has been destined to continue.¡±

    The single leaf she shed, it floated out there afar. He took and ate of it. It was not pleasant and he took no joy in the mastication. It was wrong and so was he. The choice made and another point on another time was plotted and Amun was flung there too gaining so much terrible insight.

    When he had gone out from there, dark had returned, as he always did, where light of the world was absent. There was but a slivery, spark when she decided to speak again, words that no one heard, no one at all. The words weren¡¯t ever meant to be heard in the first place.

 Ch. 24 Sh*thole

    The cantina in the warrens of Pandemonium was called Twilight, and Twilight, Adrestia had decided, after so many days of a stakeout¡¯s diet and thrills, was an utterly abysmal shithole. She knew this was a fair and just slander because she had been scouting the oozing orifice as it was inhabited by and spewed back out rotted denizen wastrels and infernal scum. Being a Laconian artisan, she had frequently utilized her gift of grafting greasy guises, she would slither about as one of them, carousing within in the club¡¯s bowels to mask her surveillance. The capacity of the spot was often grotesquely engorged, but she varied her nested spying with camping as an inebriated vagrant out in a nearby alleyway, inventorying its inhabitants and soulless patrons. Time invested yielded that the skewered sweet meat kabobs were good on a Thursday, but other than that, she was tempted just to scour this hemorrhaging anal sore clean - down to the very slab it stood on. She could do just that, she knew by her unseen King¡¯s inevitability, she could rain down wrath upon their scaly heads effortlessly, the act just lacked a certain poetic stylization is all. It would be satisfying, yes, but it would also cause quite a scene. That amount of talent leaves a signature trail, always, and the number one rule of surviving as a eminent bounty hunter was the grim reality that there was always a bigger predator scouting in the vast cosmic sea that could easily levy her scent if she left it so sloppily. It was a better professional practice to spread her scent amongst many bystanders and witnesses - to not leave a trail to be sleuthed. It was a better and more proven tactic to wait patiently, collect knowledge and discern paterns to avoid such dire straits and exposures, to not act before a predestined time and ignore the growls of her other¡¯s stomach for carnage. It was best to not resort to sack and sunder the seedy underground dwelling of her informants. These proven learning outcomes of previous ventures had shown her to identify the weak spot in every situation, preferably not on the fly. Given time to collect reconnaissance, such as the case of club Twilight, shit - they were utterly fucked and wouldn¡¯t be given quarter, behest it was intentional stratagem. Soon she would knock her boots clean of this hole and move on to the next target and ebb closer and closer to him, Ammon Jarro. The stage magician that threatened the source of her prowess and unraveler of her lost dreams.

    She held back from laying waste to the shithole because she needed to prod the slime mind of it¡¯s owner, a soul trafficker named Pigg the Gent. Often was the case when a soul was released from it¡¯s fleshy meat vehicle, that Death would guide it to the scales of judgement. The planes of the divine and the infernal weren¡¯t predestined by actions and choices, as so many were lead to believe. No, it was the simple weighing of one¡¯s heart be it burdened verses entirely unencumbered, weighed against a feather. When the soul sees it¡¯s mortal heart laying there at this pinnacle moment of impasse, it is the soul itself, not Death and not the scale that decides judgment. It is the individual¡¯s reflection on their life.

    Pigg the Gent had a warrant, a bounty placed on him because he would often hijack these poor souls on their way to the scales and offer them an alternative method of attonement. What they were offered was a half reincarnation and what was the actuality was that their souls would be used or consumed within his club, Twilight. Pigg had it coming, but first Adrestia needed to know from him how to get to his boss. The new usurper to the Ninth ring of the infernal plane, Ob Nixilus. She would wrench upon Pigg¡¯s heavy brass septum, knocking it again and again against his pork-jowled face until he gave her what she came for. Then Death will have it¡¯s due, the bounty would be satisfied by his death and shaming. Then she would perhaps burn it all to the ground, it was very tempting to fantasize about this after being on stakeout over these weeks.

    She had been progressing through the infernals meritocracy, scaling the heights of ranks and hierarchy methodically, rung by rung climbing to new marks. When a new name was gurgled by some toady-looking pimp or corrupted deacon of darkness, even the Laconian Choir itself. Adrestia would then reported it to her sponsor to fact check and move on to the next exotic local scribbed on parchments left at dead drops. This bile ranch tonight was just begging for her flair for renovating hellscape architecture and arterial cast-off spatter patterning. It was an art and it gave her meaning for now. The mission fed and sustained her temporarily, it wasn¡¯t a full meal, but it was the only invitation to reclaim her own back story that was hidden from her by trauma and the path that had lead her here.

    Adrestia was scribing and refining a list and checking it off steadily. The pay had been in bulk short term memory, theirs or hers (when her client could access such things). This time though, her stowaway in their commingled minds did something surprising - it soothed her. Her need for the memories was significantly less after It applied it¡¯s embrocation to her fragmented mind, and though she knew this ¡°aid¡± had a twist to it, she also could not help herself, it wanted her to conform to an addiction. There was no need to resist it¡¯s will and nature yet, she felt self assured of this. This was meaningful because her targets were vile villains who preyed on the unsuspecting, the sleepers: those that lacked the insight to peer past the veil and there were plenty of them. The fuckers just backfilled their ranks anyway, overnight it seemed, caring not to question how a superior had fallen (by her bladed hand) only to take their superiors horrid mantle. She collected the intel but there was always more chum clogging up this colon-world it seemed, waiting to expel more and more negative energy. So she saw a benefit to sundering the scum before it piled too high, keep them off balance in their lust to just keep ranking up, this kept them disorganized and an easier enemy to hunt.

    Adrestia, the sanguine artist, had been given a new brush and with it she could apply a whole otherworldly set of colour from out of space and out of plane and reason that was unbeknownst to the human, ogloidal, insectoid, yith, divine or demonic eye or eyes, applied to canvases of flesh that she stacked high for the unseen god¡¯s favor. She was apotheon and avatar, blessed with meaning and with her an artistry and talent, her masked lord was most pleased. She was fiercely patient, committed to a sporting kill and tempering into something beyond scared tavern murmurings and wanted postings: she was becoming legendary. She was the King in Yellow¡¯s champion, a dutiful harbinger with flesh of his flesh enveloping and slowly corrupting her.

    This companion within her, there was a relationship, an understanding. It was an astral thing and its stars and formlessness saw in every direction, simultaneously. She imagined some arachnious thing made of eyes and imagined how vulnerable and horrible a thing like that may appear tangibly on its own, but that was just it - this creature only appeared as she asked it to. Her serape, her bracers (in which she concealed many devices and playthings), her weapons that she chose it to be (sometimes it reacted and chose for her) it was a clever and sinister thing. A rogue¡¯s lock pick, a fury a darts, a scythe or a tower aegis in just a thought. In one instance, it became a mirror, a vortex, or whipping tendrils with a tensile gravitational strength. The mirror was quite unnerving however, she never saw what the view glass had shown her mark, it only left it quite mad - gibbering and spattering there on it¡¯s throne. This was the Yellow King speaking through it, she supposed - not just influencing its rule, but claiming dominion over it.

    It emboldened her, spoke knowledge to her, offered its own insight, and sang when her blood and passion ran hot. This happened in battle and it pleasured her immensely when she was able to dance and leap and execute with horrible accuracy (it fixed her angles and positions in queer little nudges and adjustments). They were growing fond of each other and she knew it was all part of its ploy. She was cautious but even to that sliver of thought¡­it was never conscious, she buried that final guard deep where it couldn¡¯t read it from her. It was within the same deep well in her mind that she kept the memory of the glade and a beautiful day and a nearly finished portrait on canvas.

    This new artistry, her craft as she focused on the hunt wasn¡¯t without its rewards and satisfactions. She brushed on the neurotoxic resin to the razor-fine darts she carried, the skin of Hastur forming protective gloves as she worked. These wicked little barbs, for example, stacked pleasantly under her left bracer. With a kick of her wrist and a push from her companion, they were a stealthy little tool she had used to bypass beefy guards or their dogs. Neither of them cared for mongrels or their keen senses, often acrid clouds would be deployed from wafer-thin caltrops that could be crushed and dashed into an opponents face or dropped behind if she were pursued. The clouds would effectively block a canine¡¯s senses temporarily or create a pungent smoke cloud that would aid an escape. Not that she had met such an opponent yet, she always planned to meet one though.

    Tonight was an especially dark and overcast evening. The mark would be guarded by at least two but she had been tainting the kitchen implements slowly on the excursions into the beast¡¯s belly. The kettles and knives, spoons and tankards had been all laced effectively but still subtly. This drug had enough powdered silver combined with dusts from planes of the divine it would certainly dull and slow them, though it really wasn¡¯t all that necessary. A professional in this trade doesn¡¯t take chances though, expect the unexpected. Expect that the cast out crime lords that succor and tempt human souls for enjoyment were ready to be attacked. The powder that she had used to carry the blessed narcotic could not be washed away by normal means and even the scurge that gathered into shitholes such as this were frugal enough to not cleanse their finery with fire. How ironic that a primal force often associated with their very nature could liberate them tonight.

    She had been smoking outside of Twilight for over an hour breathing in the fumes. The pipe was far more pleasant than the filth coming to and fro from the cantina. She had no memory why but she preferred a mark in an open spanse verses the cubistic structures that architecture afforded her and her movements. There were far to many corners and entrances and exits to account for. Too many bystanders that may get caught up in her intention. Too many to account for and she would prefer to not sully her reputation, not on this back wash mark.

    She had worked her way through a hedge maze of errands, escorts, muling or couriering information, ambushes, sabotagery, and assassinations just to get this cock slime¡¯s whereabouts ¡­.she had to wait patiently until the din of the crowd died down a bit. Too many innocents to account for, one or several were acceptable sure, for none escaped the yellow king¡¯s sigil once sighted but if she could avoid being seen by too many - that would be best.

    It was her own method, sure, none the less it always felt cleaner to get what one came for as efficiently as possible. Mayhaps to have a single observer to survive the ordeal unscathed, physically at any rate, for the tale would sound so tall and full of mystique¡­.and that was good for future contracts. After all, it didn¡¯t matter much how well escorted the denizens of the infernal were. They all deserved a reckoning if they roamed these levels.

    She approached the security grunt, passed the heavy jawed and leathery maned ape thing a card upright towards it. It grunted at the pretty picture of the chariot and pocketed it inside it¡¯s suit coat, offering her a glance at a second pair of shoulders, arms and hilts of armaments beneath. This was supposed to be a warning to her behavior and intent but the gifted tarot was of her and she wasn¡¯t troubled.

    Pressing past the ornate door and was concussed by the auditory assault of percussion and toxic music all meant to dull the unprepared. She slinked in but observation was unavoidable, the tricorn and serape were garnering there own prestige by now. She found a space and a table and meant to set them both there, they dissolved neatly as her will asked of them. Nearly the infernal and thrawls accompanying those patrons that were near the entrance looked on but either didn¡¯t notice the dissaperation or just didn¡¯t seem to care. Ether of lost souls stolen from Death¡¯s door was being consumed in many chalices and adorned mugs, there were other substances too, likely just as volatile.

    In a nearby alcove, a slender figure was transmuting with accentuated gesticulation several thin crystal vessels from clear liquid to another darkish plum coloured refreshment. The attendees in laurels and thorns, fangs and talons applauded the meager blasphemous trick. The bat-snoutted, leather-scaled, and garbaged breathed, the rabid poets, the manipulative scholars, and whores (literally and figuratively) all congregated in these places making jest of the beliefs of the material realms (Lacon was one of many). Twilight held access to the obfuscate markets that tempted the pious and made the flesh sing in out-worldly pleasures beyond comprehension. Inhabitants were the breakers of will, devotion and love, they lurked in both shadows and broad daylight for the opposite sides of a coin were closest confidants, whispering their manipulative poison into thirsty ear orifices. Manycopulated together in places like Twilight. They sold what the human souls ached for, they gave freely the things dreamt of but those who were unwilling to labor and sacrifice for. They gave it through pact and prayer, they met over loved-ones recently departed tombs and on holiday gatherings. They were found in wicked places and within the lining of a wino¡¯s expended skin. They rarely directly intervened with the mortal plane, but they influenced its bias and sway selfishly. They were asked and beckoned for, they were often called saviors and heroines, but all were doom to those who called upon their services. One of these fiend¡¯s knew the bloody way to access Ob Nixilus, a recently promoted scab-dick. She would squeeze airway, purify them rectally with blessed boot and holy water and smash horny-foreheads until they gave him up.

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    With a pirouette, and a shivering, slithering transformation as she spun, a lavish ankle-length gown of sheer material covering her now. Only the thigh-high boots remained, hugging those powerful extremities. The material shimmered and showed her lithe musculature and the many winding vines of body art that thrilled the ensnared eye, regardless of sexual preference and appetite. The twined and encircled provocative piercings not so subtly placed. No other garment was visible to them, not a one¡­and yet she was not displayed or exposed true to them, this was a glamour as well. From raven-black hair (that held an odd indigo hue in the right light), to her nails to the jewels upon aforementioned piercings.

    She bought dregs of wine and sat in laps. She laughed at jokes, twirling hair all the time¡­all the while the smoke that she had imbibed outside, while sharpening her senses was now being released and passed about the place in these flirtations. As a succubous played with one of her nipple piercings, admiring the onyx gem set there - a subtle pheromone was passing through the space also. This paired with the drug lacing¡­.she had already won against the fools that had allowed there respiratory routines to remain, these biological behaviors, like eating and defecating, weren¡¯t necessary to their kind - they just did it to be closer to their prey, their envy, their lust and jealousy. All hubris.

    The succubus and incubus were dancing with her now, his male-like protrusion begged entrance to her back-side right there in that place, but unknowingly these two minions were at epicenter for the ongoing pheromonal attack that was overwhelming all of their paranormal senses in the club. The horny dullards were already defeated, the succubus did have nice hands though, she noted as the grinding continued. The music fell off-beat, the turn-tablist was being affected and Adrestia grew concerned that mayhaps this would give too much of a warning. So smoothly, with a catlike smile to him,she dismissed the invitation from barbed penial intrusion and poisoned salival trappings to go stimulate him to remain ¡°on-point¡± and on beat for the time being.

    The music mixing maestro of the malevolent saw her approach through glowing wraith-like eyes that were in several sets of drowsy and delapitated. He had surpassed sloppy scratches and was approaching a state they would cause quite a stir if she allowed its hasty progression.

    Her open-handed slap, followed immediately by a kiss on the cheek roused the bard of bass beats most effectively, the erotic stimulater salve in her lips and she pressed them to the reddened slap mark she had made found its way to violating the nerves of whatever served as a coccyx within him. She had about ten minutes until his heart gave out, but until then he was an enraptured pawn hellbent on mixing up ¡°Miss Alissa¡± by the Eagles of Death Metal.

    Pigg the Gent was in another alcove across from the staged turntable stand where she lingered and observed. While she spied the mark, behind her bard was so wound up one-minute into his head-on collision with cardiac combustion, that he brazenly had slapped her butt. She let it pass, and with a coy sneer at him, she toggled the strobes though and suddenly the space the assaulted with white and lavender spasmodic flashes. She switched her vision with the aid of her companion, not a sans-soul creature would notice that her iris¡¯s had completely swallowed her scleras in an instant, the visual stimulation would take care of that. Not only could she sense Pigg¡¯s particular heat signature now, she could now track it for quite a distance. She planned on it fleeing for she enjoyed the thrill of the chase, a racing heart bleeds out the fastest. She pulled her succubus and incubus entourage back to her with all knowing, sensual allure - that ¡°come hither¡± look that only temptation knows how to furnish.

    The time had arrived and she was enticed by the thrill once again, feeling so safe and confident in a completely dangerous space. She knew she was the most dangerous one though, knew it in nerve, her poise and spirit. Her companion watched the room, every periphery, with all of those eyes and the armaments were there.

    Pigg¡¯s bodyguards lurched and stood dutifully albeit slowly as she approached, they could sense that something wasn¡¯t right because ¡°everyone in the joint knew that girls don¡¯t approach the boss, he enjoys the boys¡± . They knew this was out of bounds and not a typical pattern, they knew deep down through the many layers of thick skull, all bony protrusion in face and forehead, a threatening disfigurement that displayed station. The succubus and incubus were just too enticing though, all tongues and hands, the guards were overwhelmed before they even knew the assault began. Everything was sludgie slow-mo and luxurious pacification to them, drowning in the deep waters of lust and not knowing that suffocations was taking place when a hand or two goes down your pants.

    There was also Adrestia, who was putting on a show in between the two pairs, only watching with bullseye intent on Pigg, who wasn¡¯t paying much attention to the fact that the wards to his flanks were completely distracted. Adrestia took them slowly and let Pigg watch, she was cradling their chins in her hands and they didn¡¯teven noticed when the spine like blade, a scorpion tail of a thing that accompanied the honied touch of a passionate lover, stabbed into their throats. The salacious devils did the rest to ease them down slowly back into their seats, no one noticed a thing not even the Pigg who was too busy trying to get his engorged member out of his pants. The devils feasted on them, not their blood, but the euphoric energy that comes in diminishing waves as one dies from the heights of pleasure.

    Adrestia moved into the booth and was reaching for the Piggy when the DJ decided to change the music. It was all that was needed to break the mood enough for the Pigg to take notice, dick in his own hand. She hadn¡¯t counted on his prowess psychicly as the invisible alarm rang out from his mind, blasting Adrestia back and calling in his reinforcements.

    They reined down from the parapets and catwalks all at once it felt like, strippers and armed guards, drug dealers, laser-lighting technicians and smoke machine operators. Not the DJ, he just upped the beats per minute for the fight. They fought her with what they had long nails, wire cutters and batons. She acknowledged a few stabs that would need to be attended to in a few moments, no hemorrhaging and they certainly could get to bone, organ or other deep tissue damage. As the mass caked and piled onto her, slowly the mass pushed out creepily towards Piggy, so slow steady globular motion of a slug. The front of the mob slug presented a form, one body pulling away from the rest although the mass still clung with appendage, torso, even biting from the stripper the individual noted. When her face emerged from the depths of the writhing slug of defending delinquents, Pigg saw her horrible smile.

    The mass had begun getting spikey, out from bodies and arms and legs cam skewers of black astral death. Tendrils of stalagmite darker than obsidian, reflecting no light, but moving with lethal fluidity pierced and withdrew over and over at Adrestia¡¯s enemies. The slow pokes assured pain and pushed into and through several layers of scale, armor and sweaty flesh before emerging out of the heap. Pigg screamed in horror and this was typically when Adrestia began her own assault. It was when the enemy panicked, when they had a moment to anyway, to turn tail and run from them, her and her companion.

    Her companion spoke to her all the while, giving her ongoing read outs of the situation, the room, the bodycount, providing intelligences around opportunities for next tactics - purely as observational opportunities and options. The percentage that Adrestia held back for herself, the blockade around her choice, her will stood vigil against the monsoon of the other¡¯s will, the will of Hastur.

    In his horror though, Pigg decided to pull out something else a Vector class submachine gun. Adrestia wasn¡¯t fully prepared to be writtled with searing 9mm rounds at 1200 rounds per minute and they took most to the face neck and upper torso, fortunately her head remained in contact with her body and her natural armor would take the rest, but they¡¯d need a moment.

    The slug heap halted and collapsed on top of her, most were dead weight or critically injured on top of what they all believed was a very dead assassin, her visage was a hole-riddled wad of fleshy viscera. So the survivors began to laugh. Laugh and celebrate that they had survived her, the supposed Sanguine Huntress. She was supposed to be immeasurably powerful and able to take on many forms. She was supposed to be incapable of defeat or even threat by normal weapons. She was supposed to be dead, but she wasn¡¯t (entirely) and that was when her other took the lead while she got her second wind. Her absence of consciousness, the psionic leash keeping her other tethered¡­snapped for the faceless behind mask of Hastur would not have his latest weapon marred and the enormity of an Oduum came unto them all, terribly.

    ¡°Bloody ¡®lil bitch thought she would claim da Pigg Pen, eh?¡±, belched the mass call Pigg the Gent in between riotous chuckles. His wang was still hanging out like a proud third horn when the tendril shot out from beneath the dead pile and grabbed him by his big, thick septum. Somewhere, while Adrestia recovered within, from beneath the wreckage of bodies poured out the other, most of it seeping forth like tar through cheese cloth. It held Piggy aloft and he sprayed and sprayed the remaining magazine all over his club, praying and praying to hit the astral ooze that was coming for him, his head was filled with eyes, his vision blurred and his mind was being pummeled (engulfed actually) with the abominations eminent will and anger.

    Whips and tentacles, tendrils as thick as support cables sprang out relievieving club members, seraphim and nephalim, of limbs and wings - scaled or feathered, dismembering and decapitating. Two covert Choir agents that had concealed themselves as barmasters, threw back cloaks and revealed their gilded armors. The light o¡¯ the divine and righteous seared and shone in penetrating rays of holy judgement, scalding indifferently and rebounding off of chalice and ruddy pints finding eye socket and other accessible vulnerability. Adrestia¡¯s other was liquid abyss and did not feel judged, for it was the fabric of indifference, just as the universe was. The light only exposed the horror more, the mass of havoc tearing limbs in every direction. The agents quickly reidentified that they were the pedestrian and needed to urgently report this post haste!

    Prey that ran, regardless of station, were only lasso¡¯d back towards the swarming cloud of liquid movement as it hovered over the dance floor. Garrotes as fine as razor wire severed lean neck from horned and haloed head, if they took to battle the branches from the thing, they would be bludgeoned and bashed into one another, stunned from the impact and crushed from the entwining snares. It hated them all for hurting her and it¡¯s rage had been pent-up behind her control, in her unconscious convalescence, the mantle of Hastur was allowed to be off of its leash. All were mangled, pushed, consumed and split from various vital body parts. All accept Piggy, he and little Piggy just dangled there to watch it all happen.

    Meanwhile, within the protective womb of Hastur¡¯s mass, Adrestia on minuscule levels was having encapsulated 9mm slugs pulled from her. Not one penetrated skull or brain, all were held within the reinforced jellies commingling her tissues. Within her vessel, the other dwelt and sustained her, she had assumed as much when bodily functions ceased. Her blood and organs all had tiny elements of the same parasite that protected her on the outside and now these were all working very quickly to to spit our foreign material. The bullets were slowly passed out of the membrane and landed inert beneath the hovering nightmare. When that was finished all that was left was facial reformation and wake her back up from the black out. This trauma at least, she would be saved from.

    When her eyes opened she was staring into the Pig¡¯s. He had been screaming the entire time being tortured relentlessly by the tentacled cloud with too many eyes. It didn¡¯t speak, but he begged it to answer him for the hours that passed. When it did, it was her voice that he heard and the last fine thing he would ever hear. As smooth and clear as virgin viewing glass her voice from within the writhing abyss inquired, ¡°Where do I find Ob Nixilus?¡±

    They could have been lovers in that scene, in some ways that¡¯s what her method was like. The incubus, succubus, the afflicted nospheratu and moon-beastial lyncanthropes all employ a filthy little venom, a nasty little secret in their saliva, Adrestia took it to the next level - why not all the secretions and pheromones? Her mass, astral guise and the bit of self burrowed within, all of those pores and tendrils and micro Scilla all erect little pricks that vaporized or injected a bit of them into their victims. The effect overrode the senses, inhibition, pain receptors and released the repressed frontal lobes. It dazzled the slumbering pineal gland and coerced that acorn-shaped familiar a tale of a returning mother, come swaddle your hunger within mother¡¯s cradle for a bit, find rest and nurture.

    Pig¡¯s scream blended horrifically with maniacal wails and hysteria of agonizing release. His hips pumped spasmodically in reflex of the white lightening shooting throughout his synapses simultaneously, his mind was torn finger nail too close to the bed, a stubbed toe now broken, a gash that tears across the eye - with the sensory delight of enrapture from a pinnacle-talented professional lover. He released as the hangman dances their last jig and gave the last of his rotted seed from his pickle-looking penis as she sank the tendrils into eye sockets and writhing an ascent up all of his nostrils. The convulsions were violent and lengthy, but Pig wasn¡¯t there at all. Pig swam with all of the other taddy-poles, little mites of cellular essence and continuum captured in the astral netting that protected her and was it. Hastur¡¯s avatar acquired a new scent trial and something unexpected¡­¡­

    As the tendrils drowned his facial orifices, she saw sand, she saw the death¡¯s head rider¡¯s within the sandstorm, the Plateau of Leng where Ammon and the Charlatan danced, she saw the death blow, she saw Ammon cross the gate and disappear from the material plane, ¡­..she saw his canine of shade cleaning up the remains. She didn¡¯t understand all of these mental fragments because they came as memories of disturbing dreams and faded so fast. She had difficulty clamoring the fraying rope of memory, she couldn¡¯t hold onto her own life line to the past, let alone someone else¡¯s cut free, no tension, spilling free into nothingness and death.

    She did see several of his actions and wondered if he would survive his desperate choice. Had the fool gone to Hastur¡¯s realm? If so, her work was done, he willingly bowed and inserted his head into the alligator¡¯s maw! For all she suspected and dreaded about her patron, for everything obfuscate about the dark intelligence behind the mask and robes, the writhing embrace of his aspect that flew from her flesh to protect her vessel in his name - there was something certain about Hastur - he was entropy and faceless was hungry.

    She would miss pursuing this mark, that was a certainty.

 Ch. 25? Blood

    As time stretched on and as countless books, scrolls, diagrams and practicums were consumed by his mind, Amun went about the task of reading the extent of Laconian knowledge. All written knowledge that other minds had produced visual records of, the products of experience and experimentation, the notes from the works of their hands all funneled into his mind.

    He had quite a head start after all, from both the days of his youth spent hungrily consuming, pondering and processing the findings of others - seeing the thread of connection in the sacred geometries and esoteric sigils lining the Cradle itself. Amun understood their relationship with the material planes, the feet upon the terra, the ground being broken by the gardener, the seed being spread by the winds, the ignorance and egotism in the philosophy, mysticism and the respect for time and fear of the doorway to the next plane if one¡¯s sould may be freed of the coil. The pantheon of theologies, the babbling idiot god and its flute, entertained by its playgound of mud and effigies writhing within, Shiva and all of the armaments, one to combat each evil.

    The scrying and scratching quill to papyrus, somehow his supplies never seemed to require replenishment, the candles would sit lower and lower without extinguishing. Time bent around that space, consecrated it, for it was Determined so long ago to happen this way. Vanessa had prepared him well. The heavy ink never weakened or went thin, no need to retrace the strokes in the calligraphy for it seemed to be there already, his lines just brought them to the forefront, to reality. The ink went under nails in hours, staring fingers over days, got rubbed into weary eyes as sun¡¯s set and the moons dance illuminated blank page after page after page. It was already all there, the table setfor a meal made for him to consume, a language whispered by the ancients, always present, that could now be comprehended. The harmony of the Continuum was actually quite dissonant he noticed, a conflict upon the natural order of Lacon. The saps and waters rejected its energy, it was a font of energy, but an affront to life itself. The Continuum was a trapped surplus of energies composed of the dead, all deaths of the material Lacon drifted there waiting to be harnessed or consumed by a practitioner of the Intellectus, the masters who hoarded this secret (among others) within their high spire.

    Amun sat up and stretched, he was caught-up in a pondering of how the other two disciplines upon their trials accessed and harnesses the Continuum. He rubbed at his jawline, he had been clenching that for quite some time as he did when concentrating. He adored the ache all over, this was what he was made for, he purpose. His skin felt different, his hands stained and swollen from the crawling, but otherwise inactive. He decided a walk in the halls was in order, even if there were side-eyed gazes of judgement and loathe, so be it. The judgment¡¯s of the ignorant would be a constant, he was destined to be the dissonance in their harmony after all.

    The words and passages, the lore and mythology, the songs and soliloquies, ode¡¯s to the Oduum, praising the enlightenment as they drilled into their effigie¡¯s soft tissues behind the ear, stimulating the third eye and forcing its awareness, as if to permanently suture its lids open¡­ignoring the need to blink, ignoring its cries for wetting and rest, be damned if the light is too bright and if rest was necessary ¡­..the third eye forced open to the deluge of insight.

    The diagram and diorama, the ritual simulation and simulacra of gestures and preparation, the words¡­..all there, rehearsed and made mantra in the low vocals that shook the bones and hearthstones. Amun knew it was his birthright, the Jaro¡¯s were once revered for its relationship to Gaia, her tree, the root and the snake all coiled there¡­waiting for him.

    The beard was stained, the flesh was weary and dry, the blood in his very veins racing up his arms, he noticed on his pacing in the rounding halls¡­why were these lines so dark? He rubbed at his scalp, the hair rubbed to stubble, he would need to shave it again soon or risk having to pay to have it done. Be damned paying good coin to have someone perform a task that one can do themselves, ¡°frugality is the Mother¡¯s virtue¡± and all of that¡­..

    How to prepare one¡¯s mind and very being for experiences beyond comprehension¡­ all of these and more to unravel and relate to within his own mental mechanizations. It was so familiar and just was lying there in wait, the comprehension was limitless. As boundless as the ocean¡¯s depths and as vast as the night¡¯s sky, he would learn and ride both of their currents to the creatures residing in their depths, to ones that were benevolent he hoped to learn from, he would listen because he felt they wanted to tell their tales. To the malevolent, the consumers, the one¡¯s that forced themselves into dreams of terror and laughed at humanity¡¯s cries¡­they would be smote upon the hearth of his ancestors.

    His thoughts paved new programed paths and tracks in his creativity and emboldened his curiosities. He would seek more, learn more, go further and make as many damned covenants and pacts necessary to ensure that he could use this coil, he resurgence, the price of his power, to be reborn again and again until the road unfolded out from upon his steps no further. Perhaps by then he would be the paver and the one who would walk upon his work first?

    Of course he had access to the common books available to most folk in his region. He enjoyed the treks to neighboring ones as well, displaying his signet at guard posts and feeling the pride and privilege of access to come and go as he pleased. Amun was often questioned at the rate he would come and go, elders inquiring about ¡°why such a lad would presume comprehension of the L?rdenkain¡¯en¡¯s tome of foes¡± and of course after their courtesy of lectures (such a pleasantry!) they would test his comprehension with startling responses coming from this ink-stained youth. Thus, the beginning of the side-eye wondering (wandering) of what this boy could be up to or used for in the name of mighty Lacon. What a weapon he could become, indeed.

    The wanderings and pacings were a commonality, so he thought. To and fro up and down the stairwells and passages that his learning caste was allowed admittance. Doorways, archways, portals here and there, sits upon window sills and shits upon commodes, his mind grappled and unraveled, unlocking mysteries that would cause glee and then he would race back into his den, for he hadn¡¯t accesses the pocket dimension yet, to scry more and more upon the scrolls and pages, more and more scryed upon the very grey matter of his mind¡­.the sigils erupting there too, though he knew not. In the blood, in the marrow, and in the bones, the magicks were contaminating him.

    Oft was the reflection upon what to do at dawn, his favorite time to create. He would wrest with the decision to wander the yards and paths and get some exercise or push away from consuming the text and ponder a new crafted recipe himself from the evenings deciphering. Through Vanessa¡¯s tutelage, they would grapple and race, practice with the knife (blunted ones when he was young) and learn the lethal strikes, parries, repostes, slashes and coupe de gras. The point of Vanessa¡¯s spars was equal parts mating ritual and to end the fight before it began, Amun was not to be a physical fighter after all.

    The morning warmed his robed shoulders and he was spry and engaged with the natural world, greeting and respecting her gravity, in awe of her power. He would inspect the local fauna and work into his cerebral scribing when he would come across something he wanted to capture the likeness of analytically. The vine that would creep and marry to certain trees, but not all. The duality and mutual benefits of the conjoining and hybridization to produce something new. His craft would be the same, a new design a new formulae that would be emitted on the inhalation instead of the forced exhalation. Opponents trained in Laconian Intellectus combatry would not expect this. So he went and so it would go, while collecting a leaf sample or perhaps pondering the complexity of a spiraling petal pattern, he could feel it there, the weave in all things, a connection that yearned to be understood and marveled at as he did. This was his inertia, he knew he was meant to comprehend such marvels.

    The likeness he produced and journaled didn¡¯t do much impress dear Vanessa during her teachings but she began to relate the patterning of why he was drawn to such images, their interrelatedness. She could form the words he was craving to come across that would reveal paths to new doorways. Her barbs to his desires and needs to learn and comprehend caught him in the most dire of places and soon they found that their live¡¯s meanings for that time that they shared in her hovel were both intimate and destined.

    Of course, threads of memories like these, of the supple tutorages of Vanessa were painful vapors to reflect on. Though there was much to learn from their revisitation, the experience was unnerving albeit a necessity. The smoke in the everlasting candles got into the eyes and he rubbed them with the stained hands. When had he slumbered last?

    So, oddly Amun (they were all so fond of that behind his gaze (though if they knew the truths and angles of his actual acuity¡­.oh, to see the looks upon their daft faces!)) with stained fingers learned and learned - voracious and deep was the well he drew knowledge from, until the day the bucket drew too deep and the waters there began to sour, as curious cats so often find out.

    He had been asleep, had he though? He knows that he had stirred or even jolted from something adrift, as one would slumber. Was it a voice he heard? The candle was stubby now when it had yet a moment ago stood so proud¡­.he was looking at his fingers. The stains there, something wasn¡¯t right. Perplexed but not yet bothered, he rose and stretched and strode to the basin to have a wash¡­how long had it been he amusedly pondered to himself. It wasn¡¯t as though he was apt to practicioning unsightliness or smelling of foul cheeses. Lo¡¯ he harbored an affinity for a look all his own, broken-in perhaps, but always utilitarian and demanding a certain attention and respect. His auburn robes fell around his feet and he washed his face, his tired eyes appreciating the cool refreshment. He then washed his pits and his balls, the remainder would wait until he traveled to the stream. He needed to piss but he hesitated for even after the vigorous washing, the stains remained.

    He returned to the candle and found it diminishing and unsatisfactory. ¡°Illuminate¡± he willed at the candelabra chandelier above (speaking no audible sound), dangling within his turret contained in the spire of the Arcanuum. It yielded to his authority and lit, casting a warm yellow luminescence into an all too often dim space, it almost coughed dust from its many wicks. He examined his hands and began to unravel a truth, what was decades of ink from so much papyrus and cloth¡­.it was beneath the skin, in fact some of the webbing of veinal workings beneath¡­..

    ¡°Yes¡±, the magick whispered to him, ¡°You have sought us out and we have found you worthy. Is this not what you had been seeking? An audience? A relationship?¡±

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    Amun bore down and raised his will not fully comprehending, not wanting to accept his circumstances - this opportunity, this entity was like nothing he had learned in of¡­.

    ¡°No Amun, we are a truth. We are a voice within the torrent of the very Continuum. We are a communication channel that you can interpret - there will be others as you continue. As we continue, for we are with you now and cannot be separate. You have an affinity for the gifts of the Occum. We will continue to monitor and guide your progress. Together we will do great works and you will be a paragon of ours. You will be a harbinger of the great return.¡±

    Amun¡¯s body jolted, as though he had been rigid and every nerve had gone white with electric energy. He was sore all over, his eyes, his mind, his feet were sore as though he had been standing in one spot¡­for how long? He wondered (wandered) upon that but could¡¯t recall. He was certain that it had indeed taken place though. He felt it there on the periphery of his mind and he knew he had access to something cerebral that was attune with what was once thought and taught to be forbidden, a vault opened to him, a well spring font that he could drink from¡­.trepidatiously.

    The elders of the Oduum, those who had come before always spoke of prices and balances. Energies were always, had to be, held upon great scales just as light and dark, feasts and famines, ethics themselves. What debt had he garnered now, he pondered woefully. He also wondered if this was part of Vanessa¡¯s doing all along, had she known this was his calling and thereby making him more susceptible to its partnering? Was her prowess with shaping and understanding the weave of the Continuum¡¯s mysteries a debt she paid by handing him over somehow? The seed he spilled for her - it wasn¡¯t as if he didn¡¯t notice how she extracted and saved some here and there in vials. She claimed to make him a fetish of hers but he now knew that perhaps this wasn¡¯t the case after all.

    He again felt the need to wash, thoroughly. He felt a need to go first to the stream and them straight to the hovel and demand answers, perhaps even to extract them by scribing upon her flesh for a change.

    ¡°No Amun Jaro. The witch to the south is not to blame, only yourself. Accept that simply that this is what you wanted all along and leave her be. You owe her a great many things to leading you to such doors.¡± Amun sat heavily, still naked but not alone. No, he would not feel that way ever again it seemed.

    So it was and as time spread forth across many planes, Amun¡¯s companionship deepened and the magick poured into him and through him. It was quite fond of him and his need. He drank of it and saw realities far beyond the mortal senses. He cam to understand the untold senses beyond his physical territory. It taught him languages and how to cross thresholds. To smell colors and hear the many voices of the natural world¡­..among the grievances of the whispering dead. He saw doorways and was warned of may passages to dooms he could not fathom, yet. His short hairs prickled at sensing of energy, for the song of the continuum sang in his ears now¡­..it made him grind his teeth now and then, he noted that he should not let this tell become a habit for his jaw had begun to ache from it.

    His vessel was so tired, often now as he studied. It was though he would not know rest so often he would not. He would practice or wander (wonder) in wildernesses hidden down shady path where none but shade would dare tread. His sponsor, the companion, this other now always talking with him and discussing the new findings. Amun found that he needed this and that it sped his mind¡¯s energies forward rapidly - it would ache and spin from time to time and when this symptoms rose he would indeed prostrate himself and meditate¡­.becoming lost for awhile.

    It was during one such period that he projected and saw himself from the outside looking back in for a the first time. He had changed so much! He could see the marks and sigils all over his body, his hair¡­well, his beard anyway. Even the white of his eyes, there was a shadow there now. The magick was in the very root and bone of him - the damned Continuum was augmenting his vessel to its needs and Amun indeed had unraveled quite a revelation. At that moment, though he could not secret it to the other, the relationship hit a discord. He would refuse to become lost or taken by the Continuum, a partnership was assumed by he would not be it¡¯s slave.

    The magick had other things in mind and its need to be learned was great. It had been so long, it craved in a wanton way this relationship with Amun¡¯s ability because he was so good, so ready and plainly had the very rare ability to withstand its meteoric might upon him. When he spoke to it, which was rare indeed, needless to say the Continuum was suspicious.

    Their wills clashed and in these moments, fissures in stone and waves within still waters would erupt. The precursing wind that told those who toil with seed and soil that ¡°A helluva storm¡¯s afoot¡± would go from gentle zephyr to a sheering shove of wind would happen. Amun knew not of these frictions and byproducts yet though because these altercations of will took a lot of his focus. In time, he would learn to use the friction, the upset of balanced energy could be harnessed in a word or in a shift of his will. The products of nature be it wind, water or a lash of lightning or billowing surge of fire could be called forth. And just as this vexed his mana and physical stamina, in another breath he was remade and remodeled and healed by the Continuum. It was a willful and persistent lover, it seemed. He would dread the day he lost his focus to it and resigned that this must not ever happen.

    It had happened once, or at least came damn, damn close to it. He could suffer the vibrations and build-up no longer. It had been days since he had blown off some steam, vented a bit of tensed energy. The studies had gone well and he had walked several paths, old and new and reflected on the weave building in his mind. The magic sang on and on in his being and his bloody circulation felt like a storm within his system. He had not eased up on his jaw either, it had become quite a habit and his head often ached from the tension.

    Really, the remedy that he required was not a meditative respite within some monastic refectory, no he wanted to rage and to be tested. Immature as the need was, he sensed it was a temptation in fact, none the less¡­

    Amun came upon a merry soldier who ought to be standing post somewhere but was trodding in an uneven way up the path towards him singing proudly,

    ¡°Thou art the rulers of the minds of all people,

    dispenser of Laconian destiny.¡±

    Amused and already desiring distraction from the edge within his own mind and muscles, Amun stepped off the path as the soldier went on.

    ¡°It echoes in the hills of the mightiest mountains,

    It mingles in the music of the mouths of ¡®ole and is chanted by

    the waves of the Seas.

    They pray for thy blessings and sing thy praise.

    The saving of all people waits in thy hand,

    thou dispenser of Laconian destiny,

    Victory, victory, victory to thee¡­..¡±

    At that the soldier tripped on loose footing, sensing that he had an audience. Gracelessly he went down but Amun didn¡¯t think he had been hurt, more than startled and mayhaps flushed in being caught-up in such sunny emotions.

    ¡°Ben¡± the mousy meister said after a moment, perhaps waiting to see if Amun needed to be sick again. ¡°My name is Ben sir. When you are ready, I will return you to your cloister and prepare a skin of broth.¡± Amun spun and heaved, he heaved many times and all went dark.

 Ch. 25a Ash

    Sensations returned, the soft grind under his fingers that he didn¡¯t, no couldn¡¯t recall how long it had been happening. Gentle, soft the touch, but it would be awhile until he could fully processed how long it had been going on. Push, pull, breathe in and out and now taste was returning after awhile, his tongue moved languished, sloth like and dry in the hollow of his mouth. Whatever the taste was relaying to his slow mind, aching and dormant, it was communicating that the flavor wasn¡¯t much better than that of a sloth either. The tracing continued, finger tips on the floor, over and over.

    It was so soft, so soothing, pushing this pile here and there. Mindless of the course of the tracing, but it sincerely that there was a repetition there, mantric and recitation, a slow hum helped him know that this was too real and grounded to be a dream, but how visceral of a dream if he were to recall it later. So often, dreams in the past shake and assault one¡¯s rest, especially his after taxing days of tree climbs and epic fits, rest is a welcome reprieve¡­, but dreams would be there and if he lingered thar be terrors that would find him and shake him from sleeping serenity.

    Time passes, breathe in, breathe out for hours and hours. He knew not hunger and wondered (wandered) if he had ever needed to relieve himself, even feared that his uncle would find him there, recovering from a fit and having soiled himself. Shame to be shared with another patriarch, pity and the looking down the nose at a child that needed tender care. To be nursed and kept under thumb and secured to apron string, never to play and be sullied. It was this waking fright that caused him to stir and clutch other senses.

    He was warm and comforted by the hellish maw of the furnace all of this time, but hadn¡¯t realized that he had a companion. His body stirred and muscle tensed, he ached in ways unknown to someone so young, though how could he have known that. He may have been shackled to the concrete in this moments of trial against gravity and for a moment he moved his hand away from the unconscious tracings in the dust and ash

    ¡°Be careful not to break the lines.¡±, the voice uttered cautiously, no command in it at all.

    Remotely, Abe knew that it was not dear uncle Cain, and although the wraith-like being had many voices indeed, this sound took shape that did not register in his mind of wind and whisper. This voice was new and though Abe fought to even raise his head, he knew for certain that this was a new imaginary fiend.

    So Abe looked and forced himself to see. His eyes communicated, in a stumbly shamble sort of slur that he finally saw the profile of the mounds and fissures from his continuous scrawlings in the ash. Ash he has been breathing, ash that coated him nearly crown to toe (though he had laid there so long he wouldn¡¯t have realized¡­) ash from that ancient beast of a furnace that had consumed so many in the times before¡­

    The newcomer inquired as he roused, ¡° Young man, Abe, why have you summoned me?¡±.

    Abe again felt that this new voice could have been a play yard partner, but also knew that this was a fresh character to his uncle¡¯s bizarre dwelling.As the childe rose, the odd flaxen-light illuminated the scrawling that Abe absently had created and now saw for the first time from overhead. The symmetry was beautiful and strange, completely alien and ¡­.

    Abe looked up and saw the source of the golden light wasn¡¯t coming from the quiet and cold furnace face, but from the small, scaly being sitting astride the ancient utility. Demure, but the aspect of small, scaled thing (though not unpleasant or offensive) definitely communicated a single word to Abe¡¯s groggy mind: demon. It was the ornamental wings, definitely a scar bore as a reminder but utterly useless. Something meaningful, hard-earned once - such a guided halo lost now, but now bore an ugly burden as a reminder of a side chosen, the wrong side of another¡¯s argument. This beautiful thing, twisted but comely, bore the aura still¡­.perhaps as an insult?

    It scratched absently at the cowl of horns, small thorns almost as if it were self-conscious, like young human wanting to play on the play yard with another childe while it was fresh out of the church pews in their Sunday¡¯s best, Abe could somehow tell that it desired to belong and blend-in, to be accepted (not rejected again).

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    Abe responded without considering why he spoke the sounds, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, it was an accident. I was ....¡± He couldn¡¯t remember what brought him back to the furnace, he only knew that he wished to leave its presence now. Abe brokered the next invitation as thoughtlessly as the initial, ¡°do you want to go upstairs with me? Uh, ¡­.what is your name?¡±

    The creature left its perch immediately at the invitation, ¡°Zaxis! I bid thee call me Zaxis and know that I am one of Hell¡¯s hunters. We hunt and kill demons that escape the Abyss. I would happily accompany you for a bit since you have called me to this plane, albeit accidentally.¡±

    ¡°Great! I¡¯m sure my uncle has something to snack on.¡±

    So it was that the innocent childe and the soldier of the infernal shared bread and an apple. The milk curdled before Zaxis could imbibe it, but he refrained from offense noting, ¡°this company is pleasant and it has been some time since I have broken bread with another. If you¡¯re lonesome, I could invite other fallen at another time¡­.I tire and must cross back over soon.¡±

    Perhaps it was the food intoxicating a young, ignorant mortal¡¯s mind after such a drought, crawling in the dust. Perhaps it was the creatures guile, that Zaxis seemed to be happy with the company of the boy, just wanting a companion for awhile, for it had been some time since Zaxis had recalled being called without binds, spoken to while not ordered by some summoner or stage practitioner-charlatan to murder a cheating lover or assault a competitor. This mortal childe seemed innocent of his actions, being accidental and ignorant of welcoming an unwelcomed across a mortal threshold and to BREAK BREAD WITH IT. Indeed, Zaxis was thrilled with sharing idle company. So perhaps it was the common merriment of sharing a snack with a new found fiend when Abe absently replied, ¡°Sure. I don¡¯t care.¡±

    ¡°Splendid.¡±, and with the mortal¡¯s consent, Zaxis pipped out of the mortal plane.

    The demon known to Abe as Zaxis returned with many, five to be exact, in the next week. All perched as Zaxis was first observed, astride the furnace.

    Abe had not swept up, had not even let the activity cross his young mind, for what childe would think of the chore? The archaic conduit, the symbol scrawled in the furnace ash remained untouched, the door was open and the table was set. The encounter was just beginning to be written off as a groggy daydream brought on by inhalations of bygone incinerated debris when the planar traveler returned with a troupe.

    Zaxis was amongst the perched pentagonal gaggle, easing an inquiry, ¡° Abe may we have more broken bread together?¡±.

    Abe was excited at his good fortune to have more company in his Uncle¡¯s shadowy abode, though his body was weary, he summoned up the will to stack plate with simple biscuits, cold cuts and fragrant cheese.

    So the beasties feasted greedily, the demons that had crossed borders with Zaxis and Abe alike. Cross-hooved and fanged maws a smackin¡¯, the ring of vermin happily made quick work of the mortal meal provided! Belches and commentary ensued, revelry in the dust and merry songs of the Fall, missing the Garden and twisting a Saint¡¯s fate to follow the shadow and live a life of joyous deceit. Abe was happy to have their company, again and again.

    The sickles of sun and moon came and went, but Abe¡¯s pantry was full for them (mysteriously indeed). This haven for the craven became the black cat¡¯s mewl, more of the Legion came to feast together with the boy. They shared with Abe that they tried to trod the meal prep alone and on the other side, but they were the Damned - all that was sweet became soured, the morsels that delighted the palate here in good company and cheer became as dust in their eternal penance, such was their plight for following the Morning Star down and down deeper than any pit bought to go. The pit fiends ate a lot and broke furniture beneath their immensity, this was embarrassing for them because they wanted to be invited back.

    The wicked brought precious gems, rare times and coins from various nations to remunerate the food closet¡¯s proprietor, the swift childe that offered the circle and greasy meats, but did not chaise their presence. It made the rejected feel something nostalgic and welcoming and the unholy sang praises to their host of hosts.

    They offered Abe a contract upon one inky evening, the creatures present reminded the childe that his flesh would not thrive forever and that nothing was promised in existence. The scaley ones brought the scroll, a beautiful thing gift-wrapped in gilded ribbon, and offered eternal damnation to Abe. Penance in the Pit for all of eons, only that he would not meet fire and agony. No, Abe¡¯s would be the triumphant sounds of horn and howl a returning conqueror of mortality with his own place within a pantheon of rogues and the scorned. Abe would never, ever know loneliness or the forgotten again, his presence would be one of significance and perhaps¡­.perhaps they could find a decent meal down in the Below.

 Ch. 26? Sterile

    ¡°¡±.

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    ¡°Amun, Amun¡­¡±, and it had been so long since hearing a woman''s lovely voice calling to him, perhaps none since Vanessa in such a wonton familiarity to his troubled mind. He knew then that she was Nemesis.

    ¡°

    maybe you''re better off this way.¡±

 Ch. 27? Drowning

    Swimming in the Continuum

    Set adrift again, perhaps the mental grapple and ensnarement, the consumption of such sinister spirits was more than One of Many had bargained for¡­..the voice in the furnace¡­.the bodies burned in that pyre¡­.it had all been done without so much as a warning. Amun was just a singular irregularity, a vicious anomaly to the constant of the universe and nature¡­why should he matter? Why should any of it ¡°matter¡± when compare to the likes of beings such as these?

    How long has it been? Moments or years? No, not years, not decades, not centuries, no time. There was no sense of it. Time, a human pondering, a human limitation, a human measurement uneeded and unheeded now. Precious time, like so much sand that can never be contained, just reflected on as it slips on by. Could this be a freedom from the coil? Dread was the notion for here he was rebuilt, reconnected, recentered and reconstructed again and again, wet womb and cold, empty grave, endless cycles of new and renewed purpose. He could access his libraries, lists and lexicons here, make plans and try, try again. The great Eldritch mystery yawned and gaped before him to dive into and at greater depths. The currents took him there, the great abysmal chasm an ocean of twilight and knowledge. The continuum, nothing but so much phytoplankton to the killer whale of Carcosa to consume (again and again).

    For a time, he left the planet, projected from his fleshy vessel and need for it fell away and the corporeal realm was the last thing he could recall absently. He was a part of it all, communing with the continuum itself, making pact with the depths of oblivion there - so many there (YOU MAY DIE YOUR FINAL DEATH THERE YET, Covenant breaker). The moment before, or how long ago was it? No matter, no more¡­.Amun recalled entering the inlaid circle of his making, the communing portal or was it shaded grove in some foreign dream-scape? No matter, It was a last thing he could recall being part of that world in sinewy boundaring. The limits, there for an instant, a reminder of limits and cautions¡­..he yielded and dissipated.

    Now, there was this. He had wanted this, driven to it. Time was gone, but he didn''t know if he was free of its grasp and at what cost? This time, time, all of eternity stretched for forward forever and through him, through the sigils, the light and glow coming from him was connected to the oceanic depths - a signal, channel of messages and energies and echoes¡­all him.

    Single second, *plip*. *Plip, plop*, a million years, but somehow all the same. It''s all the same. Flat and seen from afar. This was the way they witness (and watch and wait) it all and looked at them, their humans in the snares and cages, births, fornications and deaths. They looked on in astral audiences: learning, entertained, and harvesting beliefs so that they may continue. Three paths, three trials and three doors (fire, the offertory lamb and the great architect), leading to many more doors - but it is they that dwell beyond the veil that judge and decide - always them. Why not we, the many scattered and confused insects, why are we not to decide for ourselves?

    Now, what could only be best described as neon color, flashes of brilliant radiation spilled forth from this distortion of flight through a deep space. He was at ease with his unmaking and refinement. No motion though, yet there is a brilliant white (birth, pulled from a peaceful mire of nourishment. Damn You!) that is and was so familiar. It is when we left the astral Lillith¡¯s womb (first mother), another birth now (I will not forget your face), and a reckoning (to what price this time) all of this melted into a flat perceivable disc of moment. If we all stopped blinking our eye, how long would it take to notice such a feat? The meaning, the meaning! Do not forsake the truth and suffer more. Carry the burden of thousands of these discs, return refreshed.

    There was the reaction, still a familiar mortal anchor. Somehow, the alkali metallic taste on tongue, bite hard you wilty prick! Well practiced to go back, remain in the coil a bit longer. Amun returns from the void to the snare, the spiral ever tightening, but time was gone and the quest could continue with new questions outside of the new doors, and this was a brilliant path ahead. Now to wander (wonder) upon, was this an undiscovered plane? A new mortality had died. He saw the universe being born, stretch, consume, grow and the entropy eat away at it again. The star stuff and the twilight ocean. Be thee the ever-present and humbled earth then, suffer not the royal whims of the lofted stars. We are smaller as the depths, yet to go deeper, for the predators are always present, the pressure of the depths the shape and adapt us. To not become prey of these beasts, mere cannon fodder and carrion upon forgotten plains of the ill-gotten conquests - this means to sign pacts as these and never stop being the predator.

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    He saw it''s death, it¡¯s life and could no longer see the difference between the two.

    *******

    Sullied and wet from the renewal. He spat blood from his tongue, last time he recalled it being his cheek, no matter. His jaw ached from the self masticated signal to leave the communing, it was dangerous to linger too long there. How many times and trials? The coil of this damnable spiral went on and on before him. He dizzied at the thought, quite literally. He wretched, welcoming even that human reaction. These echoes were nauseating. He took the mead and swished and swallowed.

    He dashed a bit of oil and lit the bloody sputum, leave no trace for them to follow him by. Best to just burn it all down for an intact stronghold may someday be used against him (as the great nagly-mason did not flee from yon prison at the price of Athens). A sneer of will (he would need to eat something soon) and a dash of faerie fire, these old timbers would burn out of control in minutes.

    Asmoedon sensed the momentary weakening and didn¡¯t hesitate to test his will, bucking and hollering from its cage, Amun though suffering, commanded the prisoner it reveal it¡¯s intent, ¡°Say thy true names beast or be still in thine cell!¡±

    ¡°We are the ones who dwell within! [in Hebrew] I am the one who dwelt within CAIN, his bloody club! [in Latin] I am the one who dwelt within NERO as the flames rose! [in Greek] I once dwelt within JUDAS, betrayer of brothers! [in German] I was with Legion, as you long for your mind to be! [in Assyrian Neo-Aramaic] I am Belial and I will not tell you truths! [in English] And I am Lucifer, the devil in the flesh! You are nothing before our kingdom and our kind! We will take you and ride within your ugly, rotted flesh bag! The witch that laid with you also lied to you, you are not meant to carry our burden!¡±

    Amun paused and allowed some space to pass and a quiet drift into his mind, he hummed the mantra and steadied his ragged breath, he released the doubt. As the flames climbed the walls around him, he rose and slipped the simple sandals on. The time to leave had passed. Amun felt his cranial companion patter and wilt eventually. Eventually, but it was a shock of warning.

    Comically, as Amun drilled his fingers patiently against the fencing, pondering which path to take, Asmoedon actually had begun to pace back in forth, beast in cage as it was, in cerebral sensation only, but the rhythm felt true. Mercifully, for such a time passed, Amun spoke through crushing will upon the ensnared creature - truly, in Amun¡¯s mind he brought a great fist of pure mental intent down savagely upon the upstart to teach it it¡¯s place - for it¡¯s local was no place but in the sigilled skull of the warlock, to be held for as long as he held breathe and perhaps longer. Squashed under it¡¯s force, another puff of ash spurting out from the savage grounding, the former fallen lord of the nine ringed fires was utterly trounced and it¡¯s silence and stillness was a pleasant swathe of balm to Amun¡¯s troubled brow. Asmoedon had troubled him into a headache apparently, so he chose the left path and hummed merrily as he went.

    Amun¡¯s mental command was nought but a whisper in the cell, but truly held the weight of an imploding star, ¡°Not again. You will not raise a voice, nor banner, nor intent against me ever again. You serve, or I will draw you out in a thin line - shitty, slithering sinew by sinew, scale by slimey scale in a measure of gorey death that will quiet the very forges your whorish mother birthed you in. Do ye ken?¡±

    With that, a new pact was forged between the two, the demon had tested Amun, but know knew its place. Subjugation.

    There on Asmoedon feared to make even ¡°eye contact¡± with it¡¯s lord, the new Warden, so was the command and so was it done.

    Again and again for many to come.

 Ch. 28? Burden

    Blank canvas¡­,

    I search for words and sigils to scratch here. What does a prisoner print while perceiving the vacant gallows on yon berm? How to summon the correct noises, appropriate languages from the dry recesses of my trembling mouth and mind befitting this time and these terrible occurrences. I am not used to self-pity or pity at all in fact, this is a foreign sensation, these shivers. Perhaps some back-fired hex upon me, eh dear Vanessa? Some casting of mine while intruding upon one of these many minds in this time, in this place reading their words, stealing their thoughts and always delving further into the forbidden.

    I knew she was here earlier, ye old crow, broken now for certain burned, beheaded and buried perhaps, but damn these blind eyes SHE WAS HERE. I felt my old mistress not long ago, the wild still smelled in her hair as I was resting on my side. Never quite asleep, I enjoy the meditative trances still and what they sometimes reveal - most of the time. In my need, my lonesomeness and perhaps the human engine of despair¡­.I must have called her. No mystic salts, no old bone ritual, no somatic utterance, just a damn strong emotion. Note that here, a cautionary tale to whomever ventures upon this path next: when you are the darkest darkness, a public fiend of humanity, be wary of your own emotional states. Poisonous magicks lay there. Mark, ¡°thar¡¯ be dragons¡± upon your map. I am certain Vanessa would¡¯ve said it better if she were here, yet, I knew she was for I am not completely mad yet. An unimaginably heightened state of insight, to be true, but not yet completely insane.

    Coiled behind me, as she always did when we lay together, I the Little Dipper to her the Larger Dipper. Her pert breasts crushed against my shoulders, familiar - the smoke in her breath, strong legs ensnaring mine - a trapped rabbit unable scramble to a hiddey-hole, even if I wanted to. All of these glamours I was only minutely aware of in my need for rest. I know I felt her breath, I know there was an utterance as her long hand ran over the top of my sigiled old one. The graze of her contact, I know it¡¯s signature on the back of my hand, like washing them in a clean, warm basin. Not a feint of nostalgic longing, but knowing - KNOWING that this was her like a childe knows its own hearth, were it my own, Ivad save me! She grasped the back of my hand then, as a lover and as a companion wanting me coyly, yet not wanting to rouse me per se (though the old oak was roused for certain, yet gads! It had been so long!). I muttered a sluggish greeting to her, certainly, as I was caught so flat-footed by her best charms. Yet she held my hand, held my legs, held me down with her whole self more than what was necessary. Still I rested, in and out for awhile, wondering (wandering) if I would slowly suffocate there - in her hair perhaps? A good death to die.

    The grasp, her hold on me was too tight, unnatural no longer playful, she meant business it would seem, a testing (as she would often do when I least expected or lacked preparation for), be it carnal or vile or both - I was in danger from her. The vice of her being, such metal wasn¡¯t known to me in my languorous wrests to and fro. ¡°Summon the will! Defend yourself!¡± I remember her rough tutelage as she would barrage me with energy and blade, berating without losing a breath all the while. Her flourish and guile, the celerity in those powerful limbs. I would miss and miss and miss my target, entranced by her deadly courtship dance. I worshipped and feared her in that classroom, the natural arena, beneath her trees and canopy. This wasn¡¯t the same, this was wrong- I was coiled and constricted. I knew if I remained within this open maw of what felt like her body - I would be consumed. ¡°Stop, Vanessa! Stop your hurting my hand!¡±, I was crying out in the voice of my youth, a young smooth octave that had not been know in the chest for quite some time, yelping out fresh upon her trial. I was crying and crying and crying because my hand hurt so much¡­.and I found that I was sitting-up, still in the flaxen bed clothes. Discovered myself again, regained myself as I massaged at the wrinkled old thing, damaged and sore. I knew it was her. I knew it was her, I knew her to be there holding and consuming me on the plain cot.

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    So here I tread, in the very rook of my enemy¡¯s pawns. The very best veil is one done in plain sight, so it would seem. At this late hour, they are certainly celebrating in some sodden circle jerk anyway. The duel nears itsfinality and I have found that I have been too bold. The wax of the candle is low, perhaps I will need to call another one soon of one of the meisters, pop out from behind the veil like some sort of haunting specter - Boo!. My black fortune it would be my dear Judas -Ben, always the willing volunteer nursemaid to come to my aid, always the constant leash at my collar trying to halt my inevitable plummet into a calling chasm, that void of irony in that he doesn¡¯t see or understand yet guards and obeys anyway. I smell the char on the wick and miss my friends while admiring the carefree single spike of fiery dance, it sways delightfully for me. It pays no attention to the inevitability, the dim Carcosa looming in the heavens tonight.

    I wonder (wander) indeed if the Choir itself is singing at such heights? Applauding their doom, the second advent of their gods as their notes ring true in ineffable praise to the astral monolith coiled and waiting to tumble head-long onto this plane? Are you happy now, you terrible dusty old-sots? Has the unseen fathers of Oduum and their slithering mistresses satisfied the old tales from cracked tomes? Such binding and bridging I would break, I would burn - yes burn thee - our beloved Spire - to save you blind and craggy monks from your own demise. This doom, dim Carcosa hovers so close now due to your folly.

    I scratch at these broody thoughts, archive this now and send it somewhere to ¡°keep it safe, keep it secret¡±. A pocketed plane perhaps, but a new one. I long for the warmth of a high-backed chair easing my burden, strong drink to muddle and slow the rabid, fevered mind and company that smells of sulfur and my hound of smoke. I forsake the very thought, I cannot return to the same place, for Hastur¡¯s huntress knows my scent all too well indeed and although I do enjoy the attention of such a wily woman, her forked tongue and devotional avarice to take me as a trophy vexes me to no end. True, I know her patron, even with so many enemies patrolling my perimeter and thieves clumsily bustling through my things in the dark. Adrestia is indeed dire and to give too much attention to her name and form- that alone may be the beacon of will she waits for, let alone the flagrant act of accessing my craft and delving into the continuum. I¡¯ve never been so afraid to not be looking over my shoulder and avoid favored alleyway jaunts, for even if I did spot her, she indeed erred misfortune in some sort of tell of what dark corner she lurked in, poised to strike from - I know many horrid truths and this is now one of them, that even one such as I would be too late. She is a wonderful adversary and I won¡¯t survive her.

    A cool breeze intrudes and the illumination wavers enough to break me from the scrying trance, fortunate, perhaps I am ready to be done? Have I lost this contest and been made to be such a sullen, wilted thing that this is how I grieve losses and fallen companions? I cannot shape my own reality and fool myself to this truth - I can only provide that comfort for others. I can stretch the time before impact, but I cannot halt it. I can call such forces,, dip my palm into the recesses of the continuum, call up the old souls, speak the formative language of my enemies and cry at the sky to barricade this blue sphere from that black one¡¯s collision. I could walk upon waters, consume their fired missiles and shat an evening jellied delight all simultaneously, but I cannot change this inevitability.

    So much tinder, so easy to burn what I do indeed love. All of these halls and all of the ringed corridors, my lovely fire dancer will barrel with its witless joy rendering their words and knowledge by recruiting more and more fire to her dance. They will shuffle and shoot through the many halls, wind and wind, up and up the Spire - the Choir of rats will have nowhere to flee and as they fling themselves afire into the nights sky - I will tell them to pray now. Pray now to your damnable Oduum, may they hear your beautiful song as you crash down upon the cobbles of Lacon. Perhaps as I light this beacon tonight, they will survey this scene and be your salvation. At their arrival their many eyes will spy me waiting for them.

 Ch. 29? Gaia

    The girl knew that if any gods were to ever come to her,they would need a place to live, like a temple. The girl didn¡¯t know how to build such marvelous structures like the far-off cities had churches, enviable tabernacles and great spired temples. The girl wanted to have knowledge and to have a god that would listen to her, her dreams and desires, to perhaps dance and sing for, and to consider making her a great person. The girl only knew simple structures to build and to play how she was expected to play. The girl listened to the little voice inside of her, the one she secretly prayed with, imagined with and prayed to.

    It¡¯s voice sounded like her own, but as time went on, there were other sounds she couldn¡¯t identify. The girl could hear when she tried hard enough, other things amongst her voice and they were bothersome, but not necessarily frightening. The girl didn¡¯t imagine skittering creatures or dead relatives, like her nanny that coughed and coughed and shivered and shivered no matter how the clans hold dressed her in blankets or got her closer to the blazing hearth, no not the nanny that stared at her some nights at the foot of her bed pulling her bedclothes down while she tried to sleep¡­though nanny had been buried in the back, where Da had carried her that one last time¡­cradling what little was left. No these noises were scratching noises and fluttering soft noises and she only heard them once a year, when the taxman in his hooded and dusty road cloak came from Lacon to take money from Da. Money that they didn¡¯t have, so the the scary hooded man invited himself in, walked around their hearth and home and took valuables instead. The cloaked man scared the girl because it was the only time Da was angry and Da didn¡¯t like being mad around Nanny or her. So she went to the fields to play and be with her voice.

    The girl built the only thing the voice in her head said when she felt upset for Da or when Nanny would visit her at night. The girl took her simple straw doll out of it¡¯s cradle, the cradle would be the house for her god. The girl wanted to know her god, but didn¡¯t know if her god was anything at all, but the voice and the scratching and the soft fluttering noise¡­like the tax man scratching in his heavy ledger book, the scratching of his quill, recording their debt, the flipping of the pages, the pages in the heavy ledger, of names and locations and assets and debts¡­..scratching and fluttering amongst the voice in her head¡­.to this god she dared to pray and she built it a cradle.

    The girl took the taxman¡¯s note, the one that he wrote down the time of his return for Da to know, even though Da couldn¡¯t read the marks. She desperately wanted to read it though, she wanted to know when the taxman would return, she longed to do horrible things to the taxman¡¯s eyes with Nanny¡¯s bone rib knotting needles ¡­..could she never see all of them under his deep dark cloak. She never thought like this and her god never spoke in her head like this unless Da had been upset and the taxman had recently left. So she took the fine piece of paper, a simple small note that she couldn¡¯t read the scrawly marks upon, not yet and she prayed and prayed. The girl prayed and played and built and began to believe on that sour ground, beneath where Da laid his Nanny to rest, yet she didn¡¯t rest well it would seem. Upon the sad, dry unyielding clay-pack that never gave much in the way of first fruits - so the girl may be the only thing on the vine that could be offered in the little communion she had, playing at the cradle. She made a little offering in a simple clay bowl, an ugly thing that even the vile taxman wouldn¡¯t collect. In the offertory, upon the shrine, inside the child¡¯s play cradle, she placed the thing she could focus her prayers on until her god arrived, she offered the taxman¡¯s note that Da couldn¡¯t read. The small scribble on precious paper that she so wanted to be able to read. On the second day she offered her lunch, six dried grapes - some of their best yield. She knelt in the clay-pack and let her mind talk and talk to itself, praying to something that she hoped would show itself. On the third day, in the pinnacle of heat of the day, as the girl knelt there a little god appeared.

    The girl couldn¡¯t quite see what she knew was there, her head hurt terribly and her sight was sparkly and shimmery. The girl thought it was the high shine of the brilliant day playing a trick, but her heart raced with the experience, she wanted and knew that this was real. Her humble efforts had made a little god, wood and stone, a simple little worship cairn for her little god to move into.

    ¡°Hope you can teach me something my Da can¡¯t,¡± the girl said. She place dried vine in the cup and burned it. ¡°It is all I pray for, to know things.¡± She watched the vine burn down, asking the stone and the cradle, smelling it.The girl coughed and she was quite thirsty, the water had to last though. ¡°I know I haven¡¯t done much,¡± she admitted in a whisper clutching her doll so tightly in dirty little hands, ¡°I - I will listen to watch you have to say. Teach me to write and read. I want to understand. It will be a good thing to have a god teach me.¡±

    The little blip of obscured substance, a shimmer that was at times a pin prick of light, sometimes a tear in reality, often times just a sensation, like when the girl spun and spun in the rain (so scarcely did the sky cry for them) spun to much and her whole sight was a blur - it spoke. In her head, the little girl heard the familiar voice, ¡°You should go to a proper tabernacle in Lacon¡±, it said. It voice was hers, but also the scratching and rustling thing too, except the heard so many pages of so many rows and rows of countless book and quills. The volume of the voice and it¡¯s age were halls of such voices, apparently there was a lot the little god could say, if she asked it the right way. The squeak of the chains that held the books in their place made her shake her head violently. The girl wanted to know what it had to say.¡°Go to a real house of worship, a good one where they will wash your hands and knees and feet. Have them bless you and teach you. I am not one of those myself and not one that is believed in. Only you do and you can still forget.¡± There was no wind and even the heat of the day had relented. Even with this change in temperature, even if it could best be described as a lack of any sense of temperature or weather all together, the girl felt so comfortable. She knew comfort in this place after such a long drought of nothingness and loss. The girl pressed on, although it made her skull pulse and her temples ring, she blinked at the dryness in her eyes, she strained to look upon it¡¯s face, if the little god had one, it wasn¡¯t much more than a brilliant corona as it continued.

    ¡°I¡¯m no one yet. I could tell others about you though, perhaps put in a good word?¡± It ran its appendages of light and motion through the clay, creating deep rivets in the dull ground, it plucked a stone that was a brilliant gem when the little god held it. The girl wanted to be like this stone, a precious thing it attended to, if only for a little while.

    The stone was made smooth and warm and malleable in its grasp, the little god continued to fashion it as it made a sighing sound, ¡°I mean no offense, little one. I enjoy this house very much, considering that I have never had one before. Do you believe that your belief in me, by yourself will give you what you want?¡±

    The girl was tired when she replied, ¡°This is already more than I have ever had or could have hoped for, when I came to play for my Nanny.¡± She had forgotten the doll, not realizing that it had dropped out of her grasp. She had also not realized that she was no longer held to the confines of her body¡¯s grasp, as she floated there conversing with her new little god. Her spirit vibrated as the noise they made in her opened third eye continued, ¡°The worship has been nice, for I have never known such things. I couldn¡¯t even begin to explain where or when I was before I heard you. I can promise you nothing though, what do you hope your prayers will do for you?You are restless and they don¡¯t bring you peace.¡±

    The girl responded from a state that felt like the best kind of sleep, ¡°Tell me what I should call you and tell me how I can begin to comprehend you. My eyes are heavy from the effort.¡±

    ¡°I am the forgotten words, written on the oldest pages of lost books never to be found again. My sounds built the bones of your world and what your allowed to touch, believe to see, and smell. The thoughts that run through minds that form language known and not known but is written and pondered. Be it a play or prayer to appease a person such as yourself, I dwell in their mind. I am the boundary between a madman¡¯s thought to a child¡¯s first planned action. I am the sight of the storm, still far off, but I will tell you of a smell and of a sensation that you know that it is there. I am the sweet in fruit that you remember but have not consumed in this place for quite some time and long for. I am a little god of a thousand little threads of thought from all of your minds, flailing and unfurled, and continue to fray at the edges and ends until they fade into the eons. I am a momentary glimpse at an idea that a mind had but couldn¡¯t hold, so it was forgotten - a change in the wind distracted them perhaps and I was gone from them.¡±

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    Another, heavier sigh and it¡¯s noise continued to vibrate her, ¡°There¡¯s no point in the worship of that. Go from here. Go worship Battle. Go find another field and pray you a good Harvest. Run and cry at the Storm itself perhaps, sing your songs to it¡¯s maelstrom. Save your virginal mind for good things, things known and remain as you are, an uncomplicated thing. So tiny and precious, every speck of within the mortar that binds your world. So vulnerable, I do not want to haunt or linger or corrupt. It is best to pray to a greater thing known and believed in.¡±

    The girl braved and reached for the smooth stone, ¡°I think you¡¯re a very fine thing and I have heard what you have shared. This is fine and I will remain with thee.¡±

    ¡°Do what you will¡± and the light of the little god began to recede into the little stone, ¡°but heed what was shared in this place between us. Do not curse my name when I don¡¯t leave you now.¡±

    The girl returned to herself and held the precious blue stone. She looked across the bare spanse and contemplated the nothing that two now saw and as one together. She placed the stone above and between her brows and pushed until she bled, but not much. It didn¡¯t hurt her to do this.And then the storm rolled in, the first in a long time in that place, and though Da looked and looked, the girl wouldn¡¯t be found to her as she contemplated in stillness. The storm raged for days and nearly weeks, yet she remained, washed by it. Though deep azure turned clouds to black, the wind blustered and boldly turned the soil, she was still. It flooded the clay-pack that could not drink it in, smote the vine field making it catch and cinder. Tore the thatch from roof and toppled cart and fencing, the girl was present and oblivious of this. No harm would come to her.

    Da found her, thinking her lost to the storm¡¯s rage. He found her amongst the remains of her play things, she was unscathed, awake yet not quite herself. Da cried and cried in relief as he cradled the only thing that mattered to him amongst his useless strife. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have let you go out. We¡¯ll be fine, we¡¯ll be fine, we¡¯ll be¡­.¡± over and over his cry of relief as he rocked her on and on.

    The girl did not reply nor would she move much for quite some time. Da thought her upset and said, ¡°the storm has passed,¡± admiring but looking cautiously at the shimmering azure mounted in his child¡¯s head, ¡°We¡¯ll rebuild, no, I can rebuild this for you. It will be better than it was once before and you¡¯ll return to me, daughter. We¡¯ll return with what offering we have and I will shore up the foundations of this thing tomorrow. What say you?¡±, Da asked desperately.

    So the work was done, and in her mind the little god sighed, for it no longer dwelled in the temple. A year passed and Da had built a better structure and let the vine go fallow and untended. Low walls were made and roof of woven twig and shedded vine. Some neighbors tread from afar to see the girl and the stone and the shanty temple, some laughed, but some laid fruit and prayed for awhile. When the land knew no harvest, yet again, the people wailed and tore at their clothes and at what little they had. In merciful sacrifice, some slaughtered what woollied beasts they had out of desperation. They cried to old gods of the moon and harvest that did not answer while the girl silently conversed in her head, all the while watching the scene age before their eyes. Da¡¯s ribs now shown in his chest, but he never left the girl alone (who was no longer alone) ever again. Even when the pitiful revolt came, for the time of the taxman drew near, Da stayed close to her.

    The little god was speaking in her mind, ¡°there is nothing left here for you¡±, huddled within its stone, ¡°and there is nothing that I can do. There is nothing that can be done about this, these human designs and attachments. Remaining here, this burden you¡¯re attached to, it will not cease.¡±

    Some time passes and the taxman wandered back onto the land, far from Lacon. The girl had not spoken and her Da had gotten used to her silence. They were eating what little they had when the pounding came on the splintered wooden frame. Da wrapped her in Nanny¡¯s old blanket and bade her be still and hide her face, since the brilliance of the gem had never dulled, not for a single day since the storm.

    The conversation was familiar, a spoken dance presumed to be pleasant as the cloaked figure stood upon the doorstep and Da did his best to hold their frail footing. Da wasn¡¯t letting him in though and this angered the taxman, the seething hiss of a sharp voice of grinding teeth came from beneath a motionless hood, the man never even moved beneath that hideous road-torn garb.

    Three days came and went before the taxman returned with two other brutes. This time when Da held the threshold, one ran him thru and it was Da¡¯s life water that drenched what was left of the vine for the first time since the storm. The girl said not a world, made no motion for Nanny¡¯s needles as they packed her up, finding her indeed a precious treasure and took her away from there.

    In the taxman¡¯s spire, far away from the bones and blood of her kin, she could see the land. She could look out and try to imagine where she had come from and in which direction it was. In time she became more and more confused about the land marks and features that would lead her back there, were she to escape from her captors - if she wanted to. If she were to leave, she would only eventually return to the sour and dry clay that never gave her what they needed, she would find and abandoned shanty that only told a very unfortunate and miserable tale. She would find that Da¡¯s bones weren¡¯t on the threshold, at rest or scattered. No, she would learn a horrible truth that he had come to, mortally wounded, found that he had failed her and that he was alone and bleeding out. She would follow an umberal trail from the threshold to the cradle, his last effort to look for her or any sign of her. The girl would find his handprint in blood on the cradle, and know the allegiance he swore, anointing this holy site so that she may live and be protected.

    She didn¡¯t know these things and had very little time to ponder them because her head was absolutely ringing with the joy pulsing from the stone. Finally the little god in the stone could be free to do her, what it thought was some good, so it showed her many things indeed. From this elevation and opportunity, the little god had the ability to show her the spanse of her kind and on the many blank ledgers that the robed people left for her, she would write and record. So, at a young age, the girl would look out, see very far into distances but no longer looked for home. Her line of sight was almost always obstructed now by many indescribable things that only she could perceive, but somehow knew were akin to her little god and knew were actually there, only veiled. She spied these things, creatures of tyrannical size and shape and form. Some slithered, some were like the many gears that would operate machinations, all had so many eyes, too many eyes.

    The girl found language in her mind to describe many things after many years of longing for it knew that she could now know what the taxman wrote on his note to her dear Da. She didn¡¯t dwell there though, she couldn¡¯t find the time to dream or rest because the little god¡¯s words filled her mind relentlessly. Though she scribbled out and wrestled to find the right words that would fit, they did not stop, they did not cease. So she wrote and wrote and the robed people who attended to her in that high spire called her Oracle while they bathed and fed and tended to her, always there was the fluttering of paper, and books were bound of her many papers. The scratching of er quit never ceased and not even a haunt from Nanny could invade her mind¡­.that was all taken up in the little gods words now. The words did not stop, she did not stop until the writing was done and when it was. When she looked and searched for more to scribe and found that the deep recessive well of damnable knowledge had run barren, the stone fell from her brow, dark and dead and she flung herself from the spire as did the stone from her.

    The stone fell upon the cobblestones in the garden so far below and became a seed and when she fell, reunited, they became the tree.

 Ch. 30? Fall

    ¡°My dear sweet compatriot, Amun,

    I have heard that you were assailed within the Spire by some mysterious and cowardly assassin. I, here, on my lonesome throne only received the word from the evening bemoaning at his prayer wheel, that nag fly mortal, Ben. Yes, he cried out for you and stood brave vigil over your wrinkled corpse against your killer. Who knew, am I right?!?

    As we both know, and I only vex you with this aid-memoir to raise your hackles and rattle your temporary still bones that you have many debts and deeds to repay back to many horned kings, such as me. So, rise again, I pronounce the accord once more over your grave. You will see and breathe and spit and piss. You will struggle and yes, perhaps die, die, die again, but you will return wrath tenfold until your tally is zero. I see here, though, that your ledger is quite full.

    Alas, I do lament your passing and look for your return.

    Yes, the fool that you are, so loyal to your project and not to me, you certainly know that you are trapped again and again in the cycle of strife, just as I, pieces at play upon another¡¯s game. I raise a glass in your name, pactfiend! For I am certain we will laugh at the mortal death again soon and plot much mischief together again by the fire.

    Who watches my dog while you¡¯re away like this, I wonder? I am certain Lucy gets lonely, as I admittedly, longing for the gravelly rake of your old voice and merth.

    By the by, apparently the Enemy has chosen this, my season of despair and drunken griefor a friend, to wage war. May the pools of ether and crimson fire, here in my own personal Heil without my own faithless companion here to comfort me. For if you were, it would not be the legions of pitfiends, belliegha, wraith horrors and dreadnoughts that I sent out to meet them.

    No, it would be the two of us¡­.and your dog. We would cry havoc at their righteousness, reign fire down upon their halo¡¯d golden hair and scorch feathered wings so that they make easy prey. I miss you, brother. Now, let me offer you a bit of advice on your apparent avarice towards advancement. You aren¡¯t to go alone! The hound is watchful, yes, and reports to me, yes. I needn¡¯t remind you, grey-beard, that Lucy is also a link so that if you¡¯re caught flat-footed, as you were apparently this time, her eyes are mine and that your foe will be mine.

    Hubris mortal, hubris. Your pride is your folly, ironically as is My Father¡¯s, so how far have you fallen.

    The only point of concern here, as I refill the glass and go for another and another is that I cannot see you and that is unusual indeed. Is this some safeguard spellbind that you have kept from me, I wonder (wander)? I will take much joy in hunting down your well of continuum, wherever it may dwell currently, and punish you severely if I find that you are stupidly attempting to slip your snare. Of course, I am not concerned for this, really. You are a mortal of principal, standard, balance and covenant.

    I salute you, comrade. Perhaps, I will go to the front, wavering and drunk, have a wank in the front lines with the yellowed-devils, sate my grievous emotional state on a many other broken heart? Yes? Broken in my palm, under stomping heel and gnashing mawl. I will have them remember why the infernal are feared while the divine are praised!

    Affectionately, your patient Mentor.

    Ob Nixilus¡±

    *****

    ¡°Amun,

    A quick note to both adress your absence and to help remind you to jog my saturated memory once you¡¯ve returned¡­., but have been properly flayed.

    First, are we of the Infernal Horde to continue to imagine that one of your tentacled, globby, ancient Oduum actually got the better of you? I mean, that¡¯s the picture you¡¯re painting¡¯ for us all here in the nine rings, Bub. That you got jumped and now perhaps are chained to a wall in a dungeon somewhere. It is a bit of dull theatrics to coerce concerns. So, perhaps light a distress fire or send a messenger raven? Whisper to a moth if you got your arse handed to you and send it towards my flame? Though, we¡¯ll indeed have a riotous laugh at your expense and mortality, I will come for you, brother.

    Secondly, in regards to your ongoing project, what was that wild tale you told me about messing with the meister¡¯s religious artifacts? It was so good! And I wanted to send a flyer to ole¡¯ Screwtape about the benefits of ¡®minor adjustments¡¯ to the sacred beads and sanctified spaces. What type of sage did you sabatauge the Choir¡¯s thuribles with?? I can¡¯t quite remember and it was hilarious! Oh, they did have a bit of a laugh for a change, the ole¡¯ wrinkled stiffies!

    Speaking of lightening-up, I got yet another raven sent to me that my supreme intelligences are requested in the war room. I should sober up and go down there, but how does it look to:

    1) show up so gayly as I am right now with such the proper buzz

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    And

    2) subordinate devils do not just get to summon me when they wish like some basement dwelling conjurer with a ten cent tin circle and whiskey.

    Though, the whiskey does sound good. Bring some when you arrive,

    Affectionately, your patient sponsor.

    Ob Nixilus¡±

    *****

    ¡°Amun, you worm-inested log rot! How in Heil¡¯s name are you?,

    The war wages and my thirst is to yet to be sated! I have had to sit down, but I have pulled my chair close enough to parapet to look down on the lovely conflict. I do love the smell of charring fleshes and wails of agony and fury, it is such a sweet ambience to write to one such as you to. I will regale you a third time, fiend, that continuing to evade my advances and ward my worried mind to yours only will incite greater punishments in the long term. But, alas, my musings on how to thrash your vessel when I find it is not why I have fallen into this time of tipsy transaction.

    I was pondering, why such a desperate search for your old gods? Why do you go to such great lengths of agony and plundering to seek them out? You could be here at the front with me, set upon the stores of Styx or hand-holding one another ebbing towards the Abyss fighting back scourges of demons in the Great Conflict, but no, I may not torture you - you do enough to yourself! And for what?!? Some maddening desire for insight?While I needn¡¯t remind you, in some bedraggled spawn-¡®splainy naggy way,that you¡¯re quite insane enough as is. For one who proclaims to fight for the Great Balance, a knight for Neutrality¡¯s truth,you be pushing your full weight against your feather right in front of Death, ye fool!

    I wish only to make your Enemy, my Enemy and to unite our efforts. Bondsman, we are tethered to one another by your need and weakness anyway, so why do you continue to strain our alliance with lack of reliance?

    I digress.

    I should let you know that while my beautician was grinding the ¡®ole horns and hooves the other day, that he shared a bit of knowledge about the wearabouts of one of Gaia¡¯s root. Yes, that Gaia.

    Likely, a request to commune with the end all be all,Capital ¡¯N¡¯, Nature Elemental that chooses to cradle and swathe humanity on the material plane will end badly for a skulking power monger such as you. Again, you roll your crow-creased, ugly, yellowed-eyes at this warning, as often due, but¡­.these titanic traumas take toll.

    What good will you do me as a butler to my needs if your a drooling simpleton in the Netherworld? A trophy court jester perhaps. I shall procure the point shoes and bobbly hat of hell¡¯s bells at once! Har, what a sight! I shall raise another to salute my merry court entertainer at once! Find yourself here at once, my vision blurs and we need to have a laugh.

    Affectionately, your patient peer.

    Ob Nixilus¡±

    *****

    ¡°Master Amun jaro,

    I greet you, tis I, Zariel, of Lord Nixilus¡¯s court that writes on his behalf currently. Our pestilent Lord, has become increasingly distressed and (respectfully) inebriated so that his talon¡¯s no longer can hold quill and dab ink to you, yet you are all he talks of while the battlements are under attack. While his fury is aptly attuned to your annoying absence, on his request I scribe for him on his request. Author¡¯s Note: If I ever have the fortune of flogging your mortal hide myself for Ob¡¯s entertainment, I will not forget that one of his General¡¯s was pulledfrom the infernal trenches of joyful slaughter to act as a secretary. You will pay for this incursion, warlock.

    ¡°Amun, y¡¯bastassstrd, I wonder (wander) why I weep for you still?,

    Apparently, you care not for my needs, nay, you instead hide away, devious shite that you are and I worry, worry the time away.

    Who¡¯s feeding the hound?!? There¡¯s plenty of carnage here and she would be better served at my side, perhaps? Fear not, you ffair-weather fFffuckery of fffriend most foul, I will not reclaim her. I am a friend true, unlike you. B¡¯sides, Zarry here and ¡®ole Ishtar the lovely Babylonian¡­..

    By and by, Ishtar swears that she doesn¡¯t hold a grudge that you still hold sway over so many of her deviously forked-tongued succubusesess heart¡¯s and triple tits still. She agrees that you should return to her forum for a romp! She swears she won¡¯t judge you for coming on by for some carnal recovery!

    And yes, I am tempting you, I am a devil after all! Har! Zareil keep judging me with your side-eye and I swear I¡¯ll gouge them OUT!

    Forgive me, where was I? Yes, anyway, ahem¡­.

    I should inform you that there¡¯s an increasing need and a formal request for you at my court. The brazen Enemy have unveiled a certain panache to fight on multiple fronts for a change while the demon¡¯s come belchingout of the Abyss simultaneously. I mean, I am not concerned, but this shits a singularity of pandemonium and fun that we¡¯ve not seen in quite some time. Zariel, General Zarry stiff pants came in all huffin¡¯ and a puffin¡¯ about ¡°the sky is falling, the SsssSKY IS LITERALLY FALLING!¡± And I¡¯m all like, ¡°Oh, so good you¡¯re here , Zarry. Could you please sit and take a note for me?¡± Can you imagine! Oh the hue of plum on his scaly-face that had fresh dregs still dripping from it! Har! We should laugh on that morsel for a spell.

    ¡­were you here, however. I¡¯m not bitter. You had better be nailed to a Laconian fucking cross though because even my patience has limits, asshole.

    Slurringly, your patient peer.

    Ob Nixilus¡±

    *****

    ¡°Amun,

    I fear that you must forgive my trembling pejorativity, but the dusk draws so close. Indeed, it has been quite some time since the sting of lonesome trepidation quakes my once roaring voice. The battle was a feint. A very good ruse set into motion by your little Nemesis. She has been quite intimate indeed, for I hold in my hand a cleaved horn from my head.

    Such an insult has never been placed before one such as the mighty Ob Nixilus.

    ¡®Alas, poor Yorick¡¯, am I right? As I ponder mortality as a literal fucking immortal? This little bitch will indeed find me quite formable foe to attempt to fell me in my place of power. The nerve!

    I clutch this pedantic trophy, ruined as it is, in utter shock. If you read this as me suddenly sober after so many of days writing out to you, well yes, it is quite a thing this one has done and I underestimated her finesse.

    Yes, my assailant¡¯s form presents as female, so mush as my once wavering visage discerned from behind the bejeweled chalice. I could not believe the offense, yet here it is in my red palm while I write for what may be the last for awhile in our handy pocket realm. So good that you have kept it going all of this time as a place to collect myself, though it should really be with your company. Will you not come to my aid now, in my time of need?

    Gravely Sincere.

    Ob¡±

 Ch. 31? Tether

    In the throes of a seizure, Abe was lost to the waking world, one of furnaces and familial legacies. Though the attack on his physical form was violent and unyielding, his mind was elsewhere and at peace. He slumbered in this pocket space, he drifted into a vast, spectral dreamscape as if in stasis. It had been an age since he had suffered such a fit, in fact his spastic brain knew he had not had been burdened by one since being in Cain¡¯s homestead, but this one seized him violently, wrenching him out of his body and flinging his mind across realms.

    He floated, suspended, held only by a delicate thread¡ªa silver tether that wove through the shadows like the gossamer threads of an immense, unseen spider''s web. It shimmered in the dim light of this dream-world, a thin line that tied him to his flesh and blood somewhere far, far away. Was this what Amun had felt like on his flight between planes? Did he have the lucidity to control is perception?

    He willed flight and settled for a bobbling float of sorts, his consciousness merging with fractured memories and unfamiliar images, a conflation of past experiences and present information that he had consumed from the tome, The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus. He was moving through his vast dreamlands, the realms that lay hidden beyond the ordinary, known only to those who dared close their eyes, find the waypoint and slip beyond the veil. Each glide, if one could call it that, took him closer to a towering structure that pierced the clouds, ethereal and luminous, yet forbidding: the Spire of Lacon. The great Spire rose from the earth with an indifferent majesty, its stony walls enshrouded in swirling mist, its surface pitted and scarred with ages of secrets.

    In the distance, he glimpsed a faint, pulsating glow¡ªthe Cradle. He could feel its influence, even from afar, radiating an ancient energy that made the very air hum with latent power. The Cradle loomed like a forgotten god, basking in a light that was neither day nor night, a timeless beacon that transcended his sense of reality. A bed of prayer and knowledge, a beacon for a dread homecoming.

    As he drifted closer Lacon, still so far and so vibrant, his vision shifted. A tremendous vertigo and speeds flung his awareness elsewhere, deeper perhaps? His mind reveled at the acceleration and his slumbering consciousness rebelled (perhaps a self defense).

    He rose again with a start, his jaw aching (could he feel?), gazing down upon a shattered fortress¡ªa ruin, bleak and ravaged, an ashen monument to a cataclysmic battle that had reduced its once-imposing walls to rubble. Gothic weaponry, the many scattered trebuchets and ballista, scaly folk who would work such machinations oozing vital liquids from ravaged trunks and carapaces, limbs strewn about, their many eyed faces and maws turned agape in silent screams and terror, what had assailed these monsters? The remnants were everywhere!

    He knew, somehow, that this was the final bastion fortification of Ob Nixilus, a duke of Hell and a chief patron of Amun. However, this proud lord was now nothing more than a decapitated head lying amid the wreckage. Circling her trophy like a lioness amidst the remnants of Ob''s stronghold, was a figure: Adrestia, lurking like a predatory shadow. She was both beautiful and terrifying, only glimpses of hard outlines would ebb to her surface in Abe¡¯s dream vision: a paldron or vambrace would surface in scrolley gothic script all with set onyx jewels like so many eyes, but she was mostly a blur of oil, some form encompassing her like a encapsulating jellyfish, their many arms flinging entire wall remnants away, clearing the path to her communion with the thing. He could see her eye, the other shaded beneath the cloak, flickering with a baleful light as she surveyed the scene, her feet treading easily now with the cleared path to the remains.

    She dare not clutch the vile thing bare handed, her other did the labor on her behalf, holding it aloft and reaching into it. She commanded reanimation and temporary dominion, she needed some information that this lord heals in its cerebrals cell, time was of the essence, there was decay all around and she could sense another¡¯s approach.

    Adrestia communed to Ob''s severed head, her other¡¯s tendrils slithering into nostril, up the arteries and the still spilled neck, popped the eyes out of the way, enveloped his many horned skull and willed ¡°twist him until he yields my desires¡±. The gorey talisman, became remarkably animate despite its lifeless orifacaces and wounds, croaked back at her, their conversation a macabre echo in the otherwise silent void. Abe could not hear the words, but he felt them, the weight of their exchange pressing down on his mind, the words threaded with a venomous energy that vibrated his formlessness in an uncomfortable way.

    Before he could draw closer, he felt a tug on his tether. His silver cord shivered, stretched taut as if something in the darkness had seized hold of it. A new presence made itself known¡ªan entity vast and incomprehensible, its outline too chaotic for his mind to process fully. Its form shifted, a swirling mass of darkness that pulsed with a malignant energy, a presence that seemed to devour the very light around it. It clawed at his tether, and Abe felt a jolt of panic. If the tether snapped, he knew he would be cast adrift, his spirit left to wander the void, a meager morsel for whatever nameless horrors prowled the far reaches of the astral plane.

    His gaze was wrenched downward, and he saw it¡ªa monstrous visage, the very embodiment of terror and hunger. Though he could not know it, this was the Oduum, their true nature peeking through the cracks of reality. Their faceless, form-shifting mass filled his vision, an undulating nightmare that reached out with countless tendrils, each one a fragment of oblivion, eager to rend him from his tether.

    The tendrils caressed the edges of his mind, whispering ancient horrors into his soul. Abe felt his spirit unraveling, each word a razor-edged blade that tore at his very essence. He clung desperately to his tether, his only lifeline against the cosmic void that threatened to engulf him. He could feel the presence pulling, stretching his cord to the breaking point, his soul ready to be cast adrift.

    Yet, even as he was being pulled into the maw of oblivion, something within him stirred, a primal instinct, a flicker of defiance against the unyielding dark. He focused on his silver tether, willing it to hold, willing his mind to resist the pull. And, as if in response to his plea, the cord glowed brighter, its light cutting through the shadows, pushing back against the faceless horror that clawed at his spirit.

    In a surge of will, Abe pulled himself back, dragging his ethereal form away from the grasping tendrils, wrenching free from the hungry maw of the Oduum. He tumbled backward, the Spire and the Cradle fading into the distance, the ruin of Ob¡¯s fortress slipping from view as he hurtled back along his silver thread, his dreamscape collapsing around him like a tapestry unraveling.

    The Oduum materialized in Abe¡¯s vision, a monstrosity unfathomable and immense, an entity that twisted the mind even as it twisted through the astral plane. This was no ordinary cosmic presence¡ªit was a colossus of existential dread, merging elements both natural and impossibly alien, borrowing from nightmares that were born before time itself.

    Its vast body resembled the elongated, tapering form of the mythic leviathan, yet this comparison fell woefully short of capturing its true terror. Its skin was a mosaic of deep, obsidian black interspersed with patches of a sickly, phosphorescent glow, each pulsating with the heartbeat of a dead star. But unlike the natural beauty of the shark, the Oduum¡¯s form was broken and unnatural, with irregular protrusions of bone-like ridges jutting from its sides. Its surface was covered in countless bullae, seething and roiling like vast, dark clouds pregnant with storms. Each swelling bubble throbbed with an inner light, as though some unholy birth teetered just beneath the surface, waiting to emerge. The grotesque, bloated orbs popped intermittently, releasing brief glimpses of myriad, chaotic shapes that defied all known geometry before disappearing into the void once more.

    Stretching across its vast, twisted form were tendrils akin to root systems, yet they pulsed with veins of dark energy, branching out in an almost fractal pattern, webbed with fibers that twisted into intricate, disturbing patterns. These webs trailed behind it, spanning light years with ease, ensnaring entire astral currents and feeding on the raw, unfiltered energies of creation. Through these strands, Abe could sense the Oduum¡¯s will, an inexorable, consuming hunger, an unyielding pull toward all that was, is, and could ever be.

    Its countless eyes, scattered across the immensity of its body, ranged from mere pinpricks to vast orbs the size of planets, each glaring with an unnatural awareness. They bore a darkly iridescent sheen, like the unblinking eyes of a deep-sea predator, yet each seemed to contain the swirling remnants of dying galaxies within. These cosmic orbs blinked and pulsed in irregular rhythms, never fully in sync, as if each eye beheld a separate reality, a fragment of the multiverse, consuming and discarding truths that were both incomprehensible and utterly indifferent to the smallness of mortal lives.

    Around its titanic maw, larger than any conceivable horizon, spiraled rows of jagged, crystalline teeth, shimmering like broken glass, each shard capable of shearing through planets and consuming solar systems with an almost casual inevitability. The maw was not a singular feature but an ever-shifting spiral, an ouroboric vortex that seemed to devour itself as it fed, drawing in all matter and energy that dared to drift too close.

    Abe sensed something deeper still¡ªan unbearable gravity, not merely of mass but of presence, a force so profound that it seemed to warp the very fabric of the astral plane. Here was an entity that existed beyond any understanding of scale, a devourer of old myths, was both beyond and integral to all existence. And yet, its pull was not just that of destruction, but of a forced unity, as if the Oduum¡¯s insatiable hunger sought to consume and amalgamate all things into its incomprehensible whole, extinguishing individual identities as it fed.

    In the periphery of his vision, Abe glimpsed the remnants of worlds, skeletal remains of cosmic debris and dust, caught within the Oduum¡¯s endless spiral and slowly drawn into its consuming maw. He could feel the cold seeping into his soul as he watched the fate of these worlds¡ªa fate that, had his tether been severed, would have awaited him as well.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    It was and it horribly could not be!, a fate beyond mere consumption; it was an absorption, an obliteration that transcended the physical. Abe saw souls¡ªentire civilizations¡¯ worth¡ªstretched across the Oduum¡¯s vastness, each soul¡¯s essence flickering weakly like the fading embers of a long-extinguished fire. They were held in thrall, merged into the unfathomable depths of the Oduum¡¯s consciousness, a tapestry of once-living minds now reduced to strands in an incomprehensible, cosmic web.

    This was no simple destruction; it was the subjugation of everything the Oduum touched, a rendering down to base essence. And yet, each fragment of life was made to retain just enough awareness to sense the dissolution of self, an endless torment as identities were stripped bare and woven into the Oduum¡¯s grotesque amalgamation. Abe felt a shiver run through his silver tether, a desperate pulse as if warning him of the fate that awaited should he lose his tenuous grip on his physical form.

    And then, like a distant murmur carried on a wind from an alien world, Abe could hear voices¡ªechoes from the trapped souls, fragments of thought, snatches of forgotten prayers. Each whispered lament hinted at the horrors they had endured, horrors Abe¡¯s mind could barely comprehend but which seemed to linger at the edge of his perception, pulling him into their despair.

    The Oduum itself seemed unaware of Abe¡¯s presence, but it radiated a malevolent indifference that chilled him to the core. Here was a creature that lay beyond any known moral compass; it was neither malicious nor benevolent but simply vast and insatiable. Its purpose was not to punish or to cleanse but to consume, to weave all of existence into its horrific, singular reality.

    In the depths of his soul, Abe understood that this was the true nature of the Oduum. It was entropy personified, the inevitable end of all things dressed in a form that defied logic, a slumbering titan from which even gods fled. And as the strands of his tether stretched thin, he could feel the dark pull of the Oduum, beckoning him to join its endless feast, to lose himself in the vastness of its yawning maw.

    He knew he had only moments left. Desperately, he tried to pull back, to flee from the horrifying vista, but the gravitational pull of the Oduum¡¯s gaze clutched at him, an iron grip that seemed to pierce through his very essence. His mind began to fray under the strain, visions of Adrestia and Lacon flickering like dying stars at the edges of his consciousness. He saw Ob¡¯s shattered fortress, the crimson-stained ruins of a fallen Hell, and yet all of it paled in comparison to the incomprehensible entity that now loomed before him.

    With the last vestiges of his will, Abe tugged on his silver tether, drawing upon every ounce of strength left within him. And as he did, the Oduum seemed to tilt its countless eyes in his direction, as if noticing him for the first time, unlikely, for the scythe cares not for a flea on a blade of grass. A wave of dread surged through the childe, a final, unbearable realization that even in its slumber, the Oduum was aware and not, and that universal ignorance and truth alone was enough to unravel the minds of lesser beings. We only mean something unto ourselves, but so much chum to bait larger predators.

    In that instant, Abe felt himself slipping, the tether stretching too far, impossibly and somehow suffocatingly thin, until a sudden, fierce light enveloped him¡ªa desperate, primal surge to return to his physical form, to escape the annihilating gaze of the Oduum. The creature¡¯s final image burned into his mind, a vast, yawning void, a leviathan consuming the stars themselves. And as he hurtled back through the astral plane, Abe knew that the Oduum would haunt his dreams, forever lurking just beyond the edge of perception, a constant reminder of the dark, devouring reality that lay just beyond the veil of existence.

    *****

    He awoke with a gasp, the physical world flooding back in a rush of sensation, he had returned to his when his where and all felt queer. His body lay still on the floor dead weight and leadened yet found his frail extensions trembling, his breath ragged. Had he bitten his cheek? He felt the ghostly echo of the tether within him, a thread that now felt frayed but still held him to the world of the living, it would be quite cold there for a time. He had seen things that could not be unseen, tasted insights and supposed it was ¡°a felt presences¡± that would linger in the recesses of his mind, haunting him, even as he returned to the safety of his own skin. Yet he knew, as he lay there, that the void had tasted him, and it would not forget¡­..perhaps had a hunger now to smell him out.

    He attempted to think on how to move a muscle, the blinking made noises in his head and his eye welled with tears¡­all so hot, his body drenched in sweaty sacred salts, he felt as though he¡¯d taken a lashing, though Father had never the reason to belt him..indeed as if they had been pulled and twisted in every direction at once, the flesh felt overcooked in too much summer sun.

    He shuddered to the sight of his uncle Cain beside him, steady and calm. Cain''s expression held a well-worn patience, the kind only honed through decades of witnessing the inexplicable. Abe blinked, momentarily disoriented. He was no longer in the basement near the comforting, infernal hum of the furnace but in his uncle¡¯s austere chamber, a room that felt both foreign and familiar, like a relic of another time. A big mug of something delicious and both revolting held under the boy¡¯s nose that screamed in dry respirations, still too rapid. Abe sensing his brethren¡¯s mysterious experimentations, flinched back untrusting.

    ¡°Take the broth, Master Abe. You have suffered under this strain for days¡­¡­¡± the man¡¯s words faded for Abe noticed his shade behind him, pantomiming his every motion as an obedient shadow should always be. Abe felt he should perhaps trust them both, he had to trust someone, why not them both?

    "Uncle," Abe croaked, so dry the shot through his young throat was a pained shot that reinforced that he had arrived at some home safe again from the Leviathan that sought to devour all with indifference. He was youth once again and just needed to be held desperately!, reaching out instinctively, his fingers trembling with an urgency that betrayed him. Cain was relieved to oblige, thinking the childe had been brained by the fit and fever, finding him there cold and spastic for so so too long,¡­how long feeble man? He had promised his parents (at least the Mother) some semblance of aegis from dangers. The boy was stammering snot and tears into him, ¡°I was... I was there, I saw... I saw everything." The words spilled out, a frenetic tumble that bore the weight of his fevered mind''s labyrinthine explorations. "The book, your phantom, the furnace... trials and cycles and echoes, Amun¡¯s endless struggles, Adrestia stalking, immovable and the other unstopping¡­. through that ruined fortress, and¡ªand the Oduum, returning to claim everything."

    The Uncle listened and listened, and held the childe and tried to comfort until he hitched and extinguished¡­Cain¡¯s face softened with a half-smile as he rested reassuring hands, encapsulating the little¡¯s head of blazing cheeks. Abe felt safe and swathed, reminded at the enormity of the elder, his voice soft, "Easy, lad. There¡¯s no need to rush through it all now, though insight is a merciless in its torrent as any storm¡± he murmured. ¡°We¡¯re closer kin now than your Pa and I even, he was smart enough to deny me, but knew he had damned you. This is your birthright, after all. You will be alright after a time, son. Breathe and listen, will yee?¡±

    Abe stared at him, struggling to process what he¡¯d just heard. ¡°I thought I had betrayed your trust?! You... you know? You knew this would happen bringing me here? You knew about the book, the stories? About this yellowdecay unraveling it all?" His voice wavered, desperate in the rapture caught between disbelief and a frantic desire to understand to be understood simultaneously. ¡°Please just tell me it is all bad dream brought on by sleepin in the basement¡­.¡±, he trailed off and counted crow¡¯s feet until his compatriot answered.

    Cain breathed and eventually chuckled at his own flush, though there was no humor in it, only the weariness of someone who has survived countless storms asking another love to batten down their own hatches, curse the wind. ¡°Your sight is true, Abe. The Sole Voice Amidst the Discordant Chorus is no ordinary journal, for it is ours to maintain. It consumes its readers, yes, just as surely as you consume it. It''s a curse we bear, a family burden. It¡¯s more than ink and paper, Abe¡ªit¡¯s alive, in its own dreadful way, and we keepers, ¡­the wardens from it ever leaving this place, we''re simply its instruments and acolytes.¡±

    The room seemed to tilt, as though the admission was a heavy betrayal from a soulmate, as if the sheer weight of Cain¡¯s words had thrown the universe askew - likely had to his younge jelly. Abe felt as though he was falling into dream again, not ready for a return voyage, no. The bed and pillow spiraled back toward the horrors momentarily and he had only just escaped the circling drain. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him, all still so hoarse and dry as pack stone again.

    Cain seeing his young twin emote wordlessly continued, speaking as much to himself as to Abe. This was mantra and manna to soothe him also after all.

    "It¡¯s a strange comfort, that furnace downstairs," Cain mused, almost wistfully. "But it¡¯s more than just an old stove. It¡¯s the heart of our keep, the nexus of strong olde lines and forces older than this world. Our ashes¡ª¡± Cain''s gaze turned distant, eyes fixed on something unseen. ¡°They¡¯re ancestral remains you were meant to commune with. Your forebears of this legacy, my boy. It binds us to this place, as surely as that book binds us to the knowledge that has driven us so, so mad. How else to see though?¡±

    Abe shuddered. "You mean... it¡¯s a destiny? Something like the Grecian tragedy of Oedipus and the Fates? I¡¯m meant to be haunted, to be taken over by this... this thing?¡±

    The quiet shade nodded and acknowledged before the mortal flesh this time, somber it went to hide the elder Cain¡¯s face a hint of shadowing to his face, trying to hold him. "We¡¯re the gatekeepers. We¡¯re born into it, and if we survive, we live to continue its twisted cycle, adding our pages to the story. The bastard Hastur himself¡ªis like the rot that seeps into every corner of existence. The story unravels, but someone must hold the threads, if only to weave them back in a semblance of order."

    The thought that the very fabric of reality, the sacred lineage of their family, and the book itself were all under attack by the entropic will of Hastur brought a chill to Abe''s core. Acceptance that things eventually fall apart like the Mona Lisa smile fades, and that all their efforts might ultimately be futile, hung heavy in the air. Yet, Abe felt compelled to push forward, to understand. "But Uncle, why? Why would we keep fighting, knowing it¡¯s all just falling apart?"

    Cain leaned back, exhaling a long breath. " So that some may live and love. So that joy lives today out playing in the rain, writing a new song and getting their pink hands sappy climbing new trees. Hope. Because, lad, someone has to. Every piece of knowledge, every story told, is another bit of resistance against the pull of entropy. If we were to leave the book unfinished, if we were to close it and walk away, then everything it contains¡ªevery secret, every truth, every lie¡ªwould fade. And that is exactly what Hastur wants. Willfullness against helplessness. We choose Hope.¡±

    ¡°You see my shade, yes? The robed monster splices me as well. I some times catch the spry dark dancing jigs as I did in hall of old, yes. Constant companion that runs off leash when I don¡¯t calibrate my mix well.¡±

    As if to soothe the growing storm in Abe¡¯s mind, Cain reached for a weathered page on the nightstand. "Here, let me read something to you. Something I¡¯ve been working on." His voice took on a hypnotic cadence as he began to recite the passage, his words weaving a strange, melancholic comfort over Abe.

    "In the twilight of the mind, when all light begins to fail, we remember those who held the torch before us. They walked into the darkness, into the unknown, with no promise of return. And as we read their words, we walk alongside them, a silent legion against the encroaching night. This is our charge, our duty, and our curse. So wake sweetling dreamer, and know that even in slumber, you guard the walls of the waking world."

    Abe listened, letting the words wrap around him like a dense hide against the cutting cold of disbelief, soothing the raw edges of his mind. He closed his eyes, sinking back into the pillows as his uncle¡¯s voice echoed in his ears, grounding him, even as he felt the pull of the furnace below, calling him back to the darkness that both terrified and comforted him.

    In the quiet there was only the creak of old binding on the book in Cain¡¯s emense lap, Abe drifted under its spell, caught between the clutches of sleep and the relentless pull of the Sole Voice. He understood now, in a way he hadn¡¯t before, hard admitting that he knew he would continue no matter the end.

 {DEV}Ch. 32? Covenant

    "Would you like to hear how Ob Nixilis and Amun Jaro came to know one another, Abe?"

    *****

    The Rescue

    Amun Jaro

    Race: Human (Variant)

    Bonus Feats: Tough War Caster

    Class: Warlock

    Level: Unknown

    Pact Boon: Pact of the Blade, family dagger doubles as foci

    Otherworldly Patron: The Fiend (fitting for his lore as one who makes deals with demons).

    Ability Scores:

    Strength: 8

    Dexterity: 14 (for better AC and initiative)

    Constitution: 15 (+1 from Human Variant = 16, for health and concentration checks)

    Intelligence: 12

    Wisdom: 10

    Charisma: 15 (+1 from Human Variant = 16, primary stat for Warlock spellcasting and abilities)

    Skills:

    Arcana (reflecting his deep knowledge of magical things)

    Intimidation (to mimic his formidable presence)

    Investigation (a nod to his relentless search for arcane secrets)

    History (knowledge of ancient and forbidden lore)

    Eldritch Invocations:

    Thirsting Blade (for two attacks per action with his pact weapon)

    Fiendish Vigor (for temporary hit points)

    Agonizing Blast (to add Charisma modifier to Eldritch Blast damage)

    Devil¡¯s Sight (see in darkness, both magical and non-magical, up to 120 feet)

    Spells: (Focusing on destructive power and control)

    Cantrips: Eldritch Blast, Mage Hand, Minor Illusion

    1st Level: Armor of Agathys, Burning Hands

    2nd Level: Hold Person, Mirror Image

    3rd Level: Fireball, Counterspell

    4th Level: Wall of Fire, Dimension Door

    5th Level: Flame Strike

    Equipment:

    Magical Pact Weapon: Family Blade that can be summoned or dismissed so that it is never lost from his side, but can be hidden at will.

    Armor: Light armor for mobility, potentially enhanced magically.

    Other Items: Components for spells, a few potions of healing, and other thematic items.

    His current companions:

    Name: Sir Malric the Cursed Knight

    Race: Half-Elf

    Class: Oathbreaker Paladin

    Level: 10

    Alignment: Neutral Evil

    Background: Fallen Noble (tempted away from the Corpus Path, where he was an abusive instructor)

    Ability Scores

    Strength: 16 (+1 Half-Elf = 17)

    Dexterity: 10

    Constitution: 14

    Intelligence: 10

    Wisdom: 12

    Charisma: 14 (+2 Half-Elf = 16)

    Skills:

    Persuasion (reflects his noble origins)

    Intimidation (demonstrates his menacing demeanor)

    Deception (useful for manipulating others)

    Paladin Features:

    Divine Smite (for extra damage using spell slots)

    Aura of Hate (increases melee damage for himself and any fiends or undead within 10 feet)

    Dreadful Aspect (causes fear in enemies within 30 feet)

    Equipment:

    Weapon: Greatsword (cursed blade that boosts necrotic damage)

    Armor: Heavy plate (blackened and etched with symbols of his fallen order)

    Miscellaneous: A signet ring of his noble house, tarnished and cracked.

    Familiar: The Shadow Raven

    Type: Raven (but appears as a shadowy, almost ghostly version, indicating its connection to the Shadowfell)

    Abilities:

    Mimicry: The raven can mimic simple sounds it has heard, like whispers, doors creaking, etc.

    Keen Sight and Hearing: The familiar has advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks that rely on sight or hearing.

    Shadow Blend: In dim light or darkness, the raven can blend into the shadows, making it invisible to those who rely on sight.

    Role: This familiar serves not only as a spy for Sir Malric but also as an ominous presence, enhancing his intimidation and control over others. It can carry messages, scout ahead, and assist in his dark rituals.

    How They Fit Together:

    Sir Malric, once a noble knight, broke his sacred oaths after a tragic betrayal that led to the slaughter of his family. Swearing fealty to a dark entity, he now roams the land seeking power and revenge, accompanied by his sinister familiar. His goals align with the Warlock¡¯s, possibly due to a shared enemy or a pact with the same fiendish patron.

    Name: Lysandra Darkstring, the Melancholic Virtuoso, the Siren of Flame

    Race: Tiefling

    Class: Bard (College of Whispers)

    Level: 10

    Alignment: True Neutral (leans towards evil due to present company)

    Background: Entertainer

    Ability Scores (using point buy or standard array):

    Strength: 8

    Dexterity: 14

    Constitution: 12

    Intelligence: 13

    Wisdom: 12

    Charisma: 15 (+2 Tiefling = 17)

    Skills:

    Performance (violin and haunting vocals)

    Deception (expert in manipulating others with her performances)

    Stealth (moves silently, blending into shadows when needed)

    Insight (reads the room and manipulates emotions effectively)

    Bardic Features:

    Bardic Inspiration (d6): Can inspire others through whispers only they can hear.

    Words of Terror: Can speak to a humanoid alone for 1 minute and cause them to become frightened and paranoid.

    Mantle of Whispers: Can capture a shadow of a dying person and impersonate them.

    Psychic Blades: Deals extra psychic damage with weapon attacks when using Bardic Inspiration.

    Equipment:

    Weapon: A slender, darkwood violin bow that doubles as a rapier.

    Armor: Lightweight leather, adorned with dark silken fabrics that flow eerily even without wind.

    Miscellaneous: A mysterious, old violin case that holds more than just her instrument, perhaps enchanted or cursed.

    Familiar: The Phantom Cat Tatoo

    Type: Cat (appears normal but with ghostly, ethereal features, transparent and glowing faintly in moonlight)

    Abilities:

    Feline Agility: Can move with double speed until it chooses to move again.

    Invisibility: Can turn invisible as a reaction to danger or to aid in stealth.

    Etherealness: Can shift into the Ethereal Plane once per day, useful for scouting or escaping.

    Role: The phantom cat serves as both a spy and protector for Lysandra, complementing her stealthy and deceptive nature. It can act as her eyes and ears in places she cannot physically reach, making it invaluable for gathering information.

    How They Fit Together:

    Lysandra Darkstring, a Tiefling bard of the College of Whispers, uses her melancholic music and haunting performances to manipulate and control those around her. Her background as an entertainer allows her to blend into various social settings, where she can play the role of a mere musician while secretly forwarding her own, and possibly the party''s, dark agendas.

    Together with the shadowy paladin and the fiendish warlock, Lysandra adds a layer of sophistication and subtlety to the party''s interactions, capable of swaying the minds and hearts of both foes and potential allies with her eerie melodies and psychic powers. This trio forms a potent force, especially suited for campaigns with themes of intrigue, betrayal, and hidden motives.

    Name: Finnan ¡°Lefty¡± Mottleleaf, The Blighted Burglar

    Race: Lightfoot Halfling

    Class: Rogue (Thief)

    Level: 10

    Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

    Background: Urchin

    Ability Scores :

    Strength: 8

    Dexterity: 15 (+2 Halfling = 17)

    Constitution: 12

    Intelligence: 13

    Wisdom: 10

    Charisma: 14 (+1 Halfling = 15)

    Skills:

    Sleight of Hand (enhanced by his necrotically altered fingers)

    Stealth (necessary for his thieving activities)

    Perception (keen senses, typical of a skilled rogue)

    Acrobatics (useful for escapes and agile maneuvers)

    Rogue Features:

    Fast Hands: Can use the bonus action granted by his Cunning Action to make a Dexterity (Sleight of Hand) check, using the remains of his hand to disarm a trap or open a lock, or take the Use an Object action.

    Second-Story Work: Climbing no longer costs him extra movement, and when he makes a running jump, the distance he covers increases by a number of feet equal to his Dexterity modifier.

    Uncanny Dodge: Can halve the damage of an attack as a reaction, which is useful considering his vulnerable condition.

    Supreme Sneak: Has advantage on Stealth checks if he moves no more than half his speed on the same turn.

    Equipment:

    Weapons: a gifted trap maker with complete tools and kit for trip, slips, snares, caltrops and grenades, also a short sword, and a hand crossbow.

    Armor: Light leather armor, tailored to allow for flexibility and minimal noise.

    Miscellaneous: Various small gadgets and tools hidden in many pockets of his outfit, useful for his thieving escapades.

    Unique Trait: Necrotic Fingers

    Description: One of Finnan¡¯s hands bears visible signs of necrotic damage¡ªa skeletal appearance with bony protrusions. These alterations provide him with unique thieving tools:

    Enhanced Lock Manipulation: His bony fingers can feel and manipulate tumblers inside locks much better than normal tools.

    Intimidating Presence: The grotesque appearance of his hand can be used to intimidate or distract targets during his operations.

    How They Fit Together:

    Finnan "Fingers" Mottleleaf once encountered the party during a misunderstood confrontation¡­he failed his pick pocket roll, ¡­necrotic spells were flung, leaving him with a cursed hand. Though initially a foe, circumstances led him to join the party, using his unique condition to his advantage. His skills as a thief are unparalleled, and his necrotic hand, a constant reminder of his brush with death, now aids him in his escapades.

    Finnan adds a lighter, though equally cunning, element to the group. His background and skills complement the darker themes of the party, providing necessary stealth and thievery expertise that can unlock doors, literal and metaphorical, which would otherwise remain closed to his more straightforward or menacing companions. This ragtag assembly of characters, each with their personal burdens and dark abilities, forms a formidable group bound by their need for survival, power, or redemption in a world that has not been kind to them.

    Name: Sylas Embermind, the Scholar

    Race: Dragonborn

    Class: Wizard (School of Transmutation)

    Level: 10

    Alignment: Lawful Neutral

    Background: Sage

    Ability Scores :

    Strength: 10

    Dexterity: 12

    Constitution: 14

    Intelligence: 15 (+1 Dragonborn = 16)

    Wisdom: 12

    Charisma: 13 (+1 Dragonborn = 14)

    Skills:

    Arcana (extensive knowledge of magical theory and history)

    History (studied the lore of the ancient world and magical artifacts)

    Investigation (skilled at piecing together clues and solving mysteries)

    Alchemy Tools (proficient in creating useful concoctions and magical substances)

    Wizard Features:

    Arcane Recovery: Can recover some expended spell slots during a short rest.

    Transmuter¡¯s Stone: Creates a magical stone that can confer benefits like resistance to a type of elemental damage, increase speed, or restore hit points.

    Shapechanger: As a transmutation wizard, can use his action to transform into any beast with a challenge rating of 1 or lower.

    Equipment:

    Weapons: A staff that doubles as a wand for casting spells.

    Armor: Robes that have been enchanted for additional protection.

    Miscellaneous: A traveling alchemist¡¯s lab, a heavily annotated spellbook, scrolls filled with research notes, and various magical trinkets.

    Unique Trait: Draconic Researcher

    Description: Sylas''s dragonborn heritage grants him an innate connection to magical energies, which he channels into his studies and experiments. His focus on transmutation and alchemy allows him to create magical items, potions, and even alter the properties of matter. His sage background provides him with extensive libraries and arcane knowledge that can be pivotal in understanding ancient texts and artifacts that the party encounters.

    How They Fit Together:

    Sylas Embermind adds a crucial intellectual element to the party. His mastery of magic and alchemy makes him indispensable for both deciphering arcane mysteries and enhancing the party¡¯s abilities through magical items and potions. His scholarly nature and nerdy inclinations make him the go-to member for planning and research, offering a contrast to the more physically inclined or stealthy members of the group.

    Together with the party, Sylas ventures into ancient ruins and forbidden libraries, seeking knowledge that might help unravel the narratives driving their quests. His ability to transmute materials can be incredibly useful in various situations, from creating gold to bypass a financial obstacle to transforming lead into explosive compounds for tactical advantages. His presence not only broadens the scope of the party''s capabilities but also deepens their engagement with the mystical aspects of your campaign world.

    Finally,

    Name: Valna Shadeweaver, the Forsaken

    Race: Half-Drow, Half-Drider (she has sex organs)

    Class: Cleric (War Domain)

    Level: 10

    Alignment: Chaotic Good

    Background: Outcast

    Ability Scores:

    Strength: 14

    Dexterity: 12

    Constitution: 13

    Intelligence: 10

    Wisdom: 15 (+1 Drow Heritage = 16)

    Charisma: 8 (+1 Drow Heritage = 9)

    Skills:

    Athletics (reflects her strength and combative training)

    Religion (deep knowledge of her deities and religious rites)

    Survival (necessity from living as a hunted outcast)

    Intimidation (her appearance and prowess in battle make her naturally intimidating)

    Cleric Features:

    Divine Domain: War Domain grants martial prowess and battlefield utility.

    War Priest: Can make extra attacks as a bonus action a number of times equal to her Wisdom modifier.

    Guided Strike: Can use Channel Divinity to gain a +10 bonus to an attack roll, ensuring crucial hits.

    Divine Strike: Adds divine energy to her weapon attacks, dealing extra damage.

    Equipment:

    Weapons: Two heavy flails that act as Thuribles, symbolizing her warlike nature and connection to her faith.

    Armor: Chain mail or plate armor, etched with symbols of her faith and defiance.

    Miscellaneous: Religious symbols and texts, remnants of her mixed heritage like a spider-themed item or locket.

    Unique Trait: Half-Drider Descent

    Description: Valna¡¯s unique heritage gives her some drider-like features, such as patches of chitinous armor, maybe a few extra eyes, or even minor spider-like abilities such as producing webbing. These traits make her an outcast and a target among the drow, who view her existence as an abomination.

    How They Fit Together:

    Valna Shadeweaver, being part drow and part drider, faces constant peril from her own kin in the Underdark. Her capture during a failed mission adds urgency to the party¡¯s quests, compelling them to delve into dangerous territories to rescue one of their own. Her war cleric abilities make her a formidable ally in battle, crucial for surviving and escaping the treacherous environments of the Underdark.

    *****

    In the dark underbelly of the world, where shadows twist into macabre shapes and light seldom dares to venture, lies the perilous expanse of the Underdark. It is a place of unspeakable horrors and unfathomable secrets, a labyrinthine network of caverns and tunnels that house creatures as dark as the void itself. Among these denizens are the drow, notorious for their mercilessness and dark elegance, ruling their domain with an iron fist cloaked in velvet.

    Our tale resumes with a motley assembly of heroes, bound not just by their quest but by the deep, often unspoken understanding that their fates are as intertwined as the threads of a spider''s web. The Warlock, Amun Jaro, a man of formidable power and ambiguous morals; Sir Malric the Cursed, the brooding Oathbreaker Paladin haunted by his past and cursed bloodline; Lysandra Darkstring, the Tiefling Bard whose melodies weave despair and manipulation; Finnan "Fingers" Mottleleaf, the Halfling Rogue with his necrotic-touched hand, master of stealth and deceit; and Sylas Embermind, the Dragonborn Wizard, keeper of ancient lore and alchemical secrets. Together, they form a cadre of unlikely companions, each marked by their own brand of darkness.

    Their mission is one of rescue, driven by urgency and the gnawing guilt of a mission gone awry. Valna Shadeweaver, the half-drow, half-drider War Cleric, once a companion, now a captive, is held deep within the clutches of the Underdark, betrayed into the hands of her kin by the very peculiarities of her birth. Her capture was no mere misfortune but a calculated move by the drow to harness or perhaps extinguish the anomalous power she wields. Valna, with her stunted, hidden appendages and a soul caught between worlds, symbolizes a bridge¡ªa fusion of the grotesque and the divine, the reviled and the revered.

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The party, each haunted by their personal demons and driven by their distinct motivations, must now delve deeper into this alien world than ever before. The path is fraught with perils, from the ever-present threat of drow patrols to the monstrous creatures that lurk in the dark recesses, waiting for the unwary. Yet, the greatest challenge they face is not the external dangers but the internal schisms¡ªtrust is a fragile commodity among those who are often more accustomed to betrayal.

    As they stand at the precipice of the unknown, the air thick with the smell of damp and decay, Amun speaks a few words of power, cloaking them in veils of shadow. Malric''s hand rests on the hilt of his sword, an unspoken vow to reclaim their lost comrade or fall to the darkness trying. Lysandra''s fingers dance lightly on the strings of her darkwood violin, the sound a mournful echo that seems to stir the shadows themselves. Finnan''s eyes, sharp and calculating, scan the terrain for traps and trails. Sylas, his staff glowing faintly with inner light, murmurs incantations that ward their minds and fortify their resolve.

    Shadows and Secrets

    In the murky depths of Mantol-Derith, a neutral ground for Underdark trade, whispers and rumors flow as freely as the ale in its underground taverns. The party, cloaked in the anonymity that only such a den of shadows can provide, huddled around a timeworn table in the corner of one such establishment. A lone candle flickered weakly, casting elongated shadows on their determined faces as they pored over a newly acquired reconnaissance report.

    The document was procured at great cost from a group of deep gnomes, known for their staunch opposition to the drow and their intricate network of informants throughout the Underdark. These gnomes, driven by a deep-seated hatred of the drow who had enslaved many of their kin, had meticulously gathered intelligence on the drow stronghold where Valna Shadeweaver was held captive. They sympathized with Valna¡¯s vision of an uprising, her dreams of shaking the very foundations of the oppressive structures in the Underdark that had long kept beings like them subjugated.

    As the warlock with eyes like smoldering coals, unfolded the parchment, the others leaned in, their expressions a mix of anticipation and resolve. The report detailed the layout of the drow fortress, noting the heavily guarded entrances and the lesser-known back passages that were not without their own dangers, such as traps and roving patrols. There were annotations on guard shifts, potential weak points in the fortress¡¯s daily routines, and even notes on the hierarchy of the drow house responsible for Valna¡¯s capture.

    Sir Malric, his gauntleted hands clenched in restrained fury, pointed to a section of the map showing the dungeons. ¡°Here,¡± he said, his voice a low growl, ¡°this is where they¡¯re likely holding her. It¡¯s the most secure area, and the report mentions it¡¯s under the watch of an elite guard at night.¡±

    Lysandra, whose dark eyes missed nothing, traced a line from the dungeons to what looked like a series of small service tunnels. ¡°These could be our way in,¡± she suggested, her finger hovering over the paper. ¡°The gnomes mention these are less frequented. With Fingers¡¯ expertise, we might bypass any locks or traps quietly.¡±

    Lefty Finnan grinned, his nimble fingers dancing slightly as if eager to prove their worth. He had already begun assembling a small collection of tools that would aid in their surreptitious entry. ¡°I¡¯ll have us through quicker than a shadow flees the light,¡± he boasted, confidence lacing his words, ¡°And with enough explosives to act as a backup¡±.

    Sylas Embermind, ever the scholar, was absorbed in a smaller scroll, an addendum to the report detailing the magical defenses and the presence of any arcane practitioners. ¡°We must also prepare for magical barriers,¡± he intoned, adjusting the spectacles perched precariously on his nose. ¡°I suggest we ready some dispel scrolls and perhaps a few countermeasures against drow sorcery.¡±

    The discussion turned to timing. The gnomes had noted that during the shift change, there was a brief window where the guards were less vigilant, caught up in the handover. That was their best chance for a stealthy insertion, to slip through the cracks in the drow¡¯s armor.

    Each member of the party knew the stakes were high. Valna was more than a companion; she was a symbol of hope to many in the Underdark, a potential catalyst for change. Rescuing her was not just a mission; it was a strike against the tyranny that had oppressed them all in shadows for too long.

    As the candle burned lower, casting ever deeper shadows, the group¡¯s plan took shape. They were a band of shadows themselves¡ªoutcasts and rebels who had found each other in the darkness. Together, they would venture forth into the perilous night of the Underdark, armed with their cunning, their blades, and a burning desire for justice and rebellion.

    Chapter: The Ambush of Shadows

    The escape from the depths of the Underdark had been nothing short of miraculous. As the motley band of adventurers, now including the newly freed Valna Shadeweaver, made their way toward the surface, tension hung thick in the air like the oppressive darkness of the tunnels around them. Valna, still bound by arcane shackles that sapped her strength and barred her from accessing her divine powers, lay in a makeshift cart, a symbol of both vulnerability and hope.

    The cart creaked and groaned under her weight, drawn by a hulking duergar whose newly won freedom was written in the grim set of his shoulders and the determined furrow of his brow. Sir Malric, having offered the duergar his protection and a chance at redemption, walked beside him, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword.

    The corridors of the Underdark were a maze of danger, and every shadow could conceal a deadly threat. It was in one such shadow that their doom awaited, in the form of Matron Mother Triel Baenre, the formidable priestess of Lolth. Her arrival was not heralded by the clashing of swords but by a chilling silence that fell unnaturally upon the tunnel.

    "Amun Jaro," her voice echoed, a melodic sound that belied the deadly intent behind each syllable. She emerged from the darkness, her retinue of elite drow warriors arrayed behind her, their weapons gleaming with a malevolent light but held at ease as per her command.

    The party tensed, hands reaching for weapons and spells, but Amun raised a hand to halt their actions. His eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on Triel as she approached, her steps measured and confident.

    "Matron Baenre," Amun acknowledged, his voice neutral. "To what do we owe the honor?"

    Triel¡¯s gaze lingered on Amun with an intensity that was unsettling. "I have watched you, warlock," she purred, her tone a mix of admiration and something darker. "Your power is... intriguing. It is rare that one catches my eye as you have."

    The party exchanged wary glances, sensing the danger beneath her words. Lysandra''s fingers tightened around her violin, ready to strike up a discordant tune that would disorient their foes. Finnan''s hand itched towards his daggers, and Sylas quietly began to mutter the incantations for a protective spell.

    "Your flattery is noted," Amun replied, his voice steady. "But we have no time for dalliances. We are leaving, with or without your blessing."

    Triel laughed, a sound that seemed to make the very air around them shiver. "Leaving so soon? And here I thought we might... negotiate."

    Her eyes flicked towards Valna, then back to Amun. "Release the cleric to me, and I promise you not only safe passage but also a bond that could elevate you beyond your wildest dreams. Refuse, and I cannot guarantee that my next offer will be as generous."

    Amun¡¯s gaze hardened. "We are not in the business of trading lives."

    As he spoke, Triel¡¯s patience snapped. With a swift motion, she signaled her warriors. "Then you will learn the hard way that House Baenre does not take kindly to rejection."

    The tunnel erupted into chaos. Drow warriors surged forward, their movements lethally precise, yet their blows were pulled, their lethality tempered by Triel''s desire to win Amun¡¯s favor. Lysandra¡¯s violin cried out, sending waves of dissonant energy that staggered some of the attackers. Finnan darted forward, his daggers finding the gaps in the drow armor, while Sylas unleashed a barrage of spells that lit the cavern with arcane fire.

    Amun himself moved to stand before Triel, his magic surging as he prepared to counter her next move. Their eyes locked, a battle of wills that was as intense as the physical skirmish around them.

    Above the clash of steel and the crackle of spells, Malric''s voice rang out, rallying his companions. "To the cart! We must protect Valna at all costs!"

    The battle was fierce, and though the drow were formidable, Triel¡¯s restraint gave the adventurers the edge they needed. Slowly, they fought their way back towards the cart, defending Valna and their path to freedom with a desperate ferocity born of more than just survival¡ªit was a fight for the future, for a rebellion that could change the Underdark forever.

    Chapter: The Salts of the Past

    As the skirmish in the shadowy tunnels of the Underdark continued, it seemed that the party might finally have the upper hand. They had pushed back against the initial wave of drow attackers, and despite the dire circumstances, hope flickered like the sparse light of bioluminescent fungi on the cave walls. But Triel Baenre, Matron Mother and priestess of Lolth, was not one to relent easily, and her plans extended beyond mere physical confrontation.

    With a cruel smile playing upon her lips, Triel reached for the numerous belted satchels tied around her waist. The battle momentarily lulled as both friends and foes watched her, uncertain yet deeply wary of her next move. "You think you know power, Amun Jaro?" Triel taunted, her voice echoing ominously through the cavern. "Let me show you what true power can summon from the ashes of defeat."

    One by one, she opened the satchels, revealing their contents to the dim light: a collection of sacred salts and sandy remains. The air grew thick with a palpable tension as the significance of these contents dawned on the party. These were no ordinary ashes; they were the remains of Amun''s previous comrades, fallen heroes whose lives had ended in tragedy, their legacies reduced to mere dust.

    Triel''s dark laughter filled the cavern as she began an incantation, her words slipping through the air like venom. The party tensed, preparing for what was to come. Sylas Embermind, quick to react, stepped forward, his mind racing through his extensive arcane knowledge. "She intends to summon wraiths¡ªvengeful spirits of the fallen!" he warned, his voice urgent.

    As Triel continued her chant, the salts began to swirl, lifted by an unseen force. The air around them darkened, and a cold wind whipped through the tunnel, chilling them to the bone. One by one, the grains began to coalesce into spectral forms, wraiths that bore the visages of Amun¡¯s former allies, now twisted by necromancy into beings of pure vengeance.

    Amun, his face a mask of horror and resolve, stepped forward, his hands raised in a defensive gesture. "These were once my friends, my brothers-in-arms. You desecrate their memory, Triel!" His voice broke through the howling of the newly formed spirits, filled with both fury and sorrow.

    *****

    Flashback

    The warlock muttered to his comely, jade-skinned, half-orc, bard companion, ¡°this is never going to work. The likes of this one, an Infernal, are locked in the eternal Blood War, devils of order jockeying for damnation with chaotic demons of the abyss. It probably has tar pits filled with the most vile-smelling patience. This horned-fucker can wait us out while his forces could be planning a rescue and flank us¡­. and we only have so much salted-meat and mead to last us.¡±.

    She patted him gently on the arm, the large frame of rippling musculature that frequently, nimbly and interpretively danced her party into glorious confrontations strummed her long fingers there, ¡°give it a moment, my crow-eyed lovely.We need not take on all the encumbrance for our faith-based party members. This foe is not to be taken lightly, as I know you know. Sort your plan of attack, Amun, whilst they pray into theirs. Mayhaps go look for ¡®Goyle if you are restless,¡­ perhaps you¡¯ll find him stuck in another grease trap! Wasn¡¯t that fun!?¡±. Barrel-Chest Betty¡¯s gargantuan-inscisored jawline, unhinged with whispered joy, lighting on the shared memory.

    Amun knew that the stoney-skinned, tiefling-rogue known to them as ¡®Goyle would not be caught so flat-footed again, but reflected there, with a guttural chuckle that, it was a wonderful memory to carefully and quietly reminisce on in his supposed absence. Their lock-breaker in the group always went out ahead of the pack to gather reconnaissance, ensuring that expensive or ill-gotten maps weren¡¯t out-dated lies and to disarm as many traps and snares ahead of time as possible. The misfortune of this wonderful companion is that he had been cursed as child by an Ifrit, for not keeping up his end of a bargain. Though ¡®Goyle was a very talented scout for this group, if he wasn¡¯t still or in flight with his cute, demure, stoney batwings, he moved at¡­an¡­.abysmally¡­¡­leaden-footed¡­.pace. Not very quiet or sneaky while on hooves either. Forget the frailty of a wood plank bridge or ascending a rope ladder either. Thus, he always fluttered ahead of the group to serve the most good on quests and adventures, in the name of Lacon, their beloved Spire and the Unknown, Unseen Oduum.

    ¡®Goyle, like his companions wasn¡¯t without other faults, however, and this particular memory fluttered back into the early-on annals of the groups antics, the time when they had caught-up with the course-skinned, gremlin stuck slow sliding on a triggered oil trap. Sliding as quickly as his stubby,hooved-legs would allow, he was attempting to slide with enough inertia to ram and possibly jostle a wall torch onto the flammable liquid, for he was immune to the primal force of normal fire (also, very handy) and it would free him from the trap and embarrassment. Instead, the group indeed had found him slow-sliding back and forth, again and again, over and over, with very little momentum gain or progress to the piss-ye-pant hilarity of his spying compatriots. Not a one, even for all their expertise and valor would dare bring it up to ¡®Goyle¡¯s statuesque face. First of all, he was severely antisocial. More importantly, he could be lurking anywhere, waiting to snipe a backstabber that the party had not seen (also, very handy), but even his crew were terrified of ¡®Goyles quiet temperament and twin vorpal crossbows. Their slip-sliding, hawkeye could be anywhere!

    Currently, knelt in front of the conspiring Amun and Betty, were the ¡°faith-based¡±, gilded armor wearing companions, engaged strenuously in psionic combat. An Arcanuum war priest and a black guard had been locked in the invisible battle of wills with the redscaled monster for over a moon night. The many rivers and gullied-ponds of concentration that sat and then ran down their tattooed faces showed that this perhaps was becoming a fruitless raid, thus far. In a terse test of wills, the two tested faith-filled mental quarterstaff sized prods against what felt-like to them an enormous dam of demonic fury, that being the will of the ensnared Ob Nixilus, one of numerous Duke of Heil¡¯s high command.

    The party had quested for this pinnacle confrontation for prestige though, the Choir would give them such high praise for smiting such a foe. And with such valor comes unrequited access to the next level of training with Lacon and the Arcanuum, Amun for one was counting on it. So down the party went, following the map that Amun had tactically acquired through his hesitant miester contact at the Arcanuum. This Benjamin, as he was beginning to be known to the party, was always hand-wringing and nurse-maiding to hand over such intelligences for numerous reasons, according to he. One logically was that the party was currently incomplete and lop-sided,they had not fully recovered from the recent loss of a member, their barbaric weapon master. Ben was fearful that the party was being spurred on by woeful bloodlust to honor their fallen comrade, but had given over the parchment to ¡®Goyle and the gang reluctantly in the end.

    Ben counseled the group as they made preparations for the departure, ¡°Go not into this quiet night still hearing your brother¡¯s rage-filled bellow. Let that roar recede like the waters, let it settle and calm a bit before acting so hastily. Know peace for a time and then decide what to do do next.¡±

    Aegis, of the Order of the Unseen, the party¡¯s faithful war priest nodded in affirmation yet continued to pack the cart, along with his silent partner, the tower of dark armor, Tsybyl Truthfinder. Ben knew that Tsybyl missed her frontline battle buddy, it would be a difficult adjustment to the party¡¯s primary strategy to not have their ¡°team heavy-hitter¡± to hold the line with her. She had her faith, empowered by it, unwavering certaintyin her long-time companion, Aegis and together their combined belief in the Unseen. Their armor, both physical and magickally, channelled tremendous power from the deep recesses of the blessed Continuum. Even so, they heard the caution because these infernal foes had access to other planes and many, many, mindless legions that would continue to crash against them. They both knew that they needed a strong weapon as their defense of faith held to break the waves, divide them and crush their morale.

    Their fallen, the mighty GrendylHarm had done this for them on countless occasions, joyfully in fact. Full of blissful mirth, his twin caestuses would bludgeon bone and crumble envenomed fang fearlessly, humming his monkish mantra all the while. GrendylHarm was the party¡¯s biggest leader of good cheer and optimism and for a Laconian band that held the difficult line of neutrality, a whipped-up voice of inspiration was often celebrated by Aegis and Tsybyl ( and quietly by the others as well). This was not the party¡¯s first encounter with the infernal, they had lost their beloved Grendyl during a rescue mission.

    Several of the Choirs low priests had fallen to temptation, given into depravity and consortion with infernal spies. The incubi had twisted them just outside of Lacon¡¯s sight, in the lowlands that still had dens of carnal pleasure and ill repute. Like many mortal temptations, titillations were a downwards spiral and the priests excused themselves more and more often, under the evangelical guise of ¡°wanting to cleanse these spaces¡±, ¡°wash the unclean and bring them back to the fold of the Oduum¡±. Too often within the many coils of theArcanuum¡¯sSpire, the individuals go unchecked if suspicions aren¡¯t raised and the priests were being very quiet about their nocturnal impulses. Going unchecked, the soiled priests would embolden, they would empty purses and speak with loosened tongues of the goings-on of the secretive Choir and this was highly sought-after information indeed. The incubuses ensnared the chaste priest¡¯s loins and primal urges and with this advantage, they lured them into a pit that no mortal soul had even escaped, a bastion of rot on the proverbial borders of the living material plane and others, Club Twilight. The priests went there for a rendezvous romp and had never returned.

    Seven moons were chased round before the Arcanuum and the Choir received the report of the unaccounted priests. Seven more before the investigation and divination of devilish details were fleshed-out to get the team a plan of action. At this point, the souls of the fallen priests were certainly flayed free from their flesh of fealty, indeed the remaining unconsumed soul of the original trinity was scheduled to depart for Aberon, to be ferried by the son Erebus themselves. If the soul successfully boarded, it would be lost and the Choir would never know how much knowledge was lost to their enemy. The party¡¯s mission was to either rescue the soul through ritual exorcism, not an easy taskdeep in forsaken territory, or to destroy it before it stepped aboard the vessel of the dead.

    In order to reach the shore in time, the Choir had to bestow certain sacred knowledge - that being how to cross planes of existence. To bridge planar dimensions, to slip through a created gap of time and space, from one point to the next, one of the party¡¯s foci, be it Aegis¡¯s scepter or Amun¡¯s dagger would need to be tainted with material from the destination. The Choir would need to entrust this knowledge of plane jumping and then imbue a trusted item with stolen sand from the souless shores.

    When Aegis denied the defilement of his sacred weapon, a symbol faith that crushed skull and impacted force waves from it when the war priest commanded, it was a supposedly reluctant warlock that handed over his coveted family dagger. The craft was entrusted to Amun and the knife was passed and stained by the sands. When he saw that his full-force group of soul conservators was at the ready, he spoke the craft fueled by his covenant with the Oduum, ¡°Shou-Aberon¡±, his wrinkled and heavily muscled arms tensed and his gray arm hair stood on end and with a violent motion, Amun stabbed and tore the fabric of reality for the first time.

    The fringe of reality fluttered and shimmered as though is had been unseen fabric present the whole time, just never looked for with appropriate vision. The cut and part yielded and divided as Amun focused his intent over and over in the mantra, ¡°Shou-Aberon¡± (in time and in his practice, he would find that the vocalic wasn¡¯t as necessary as the focus of will itself). Amun cut smoothly but every bundle of physical fiber in this hands, arms, and shoulders stood on end, at the extreme of flexion and tension, it was truly and remarkably unbearable to divide the fabric of reality and it fought against him.

    Ribbons and tatters of light more beautiful and radiant than Betty¡¯s favored weapons, luminous membranes of colour that folded and formed seeable spectrums, defining shape, depth and form unraveled in his spellwork, Amun had no time to revel in the sight of it, if he would hesitate in the art of unmaking, he would by siphoned into the membrane, lost forever. The cut was almost large enough and the party could see the dark amethyst shores across the spanse, not one of them dared to breathe as Amun act continued. The air they breathed had changed direction and was sucking into the alien shore. They smelled carrion and death on the shore of numberless amounts of skins and vessels left empty to rot on the sand. The party all mutually did a double-check of their constitution for it was new venue of nausea that they had never known, even wading into the vilest city sewer to hunt Bassilisk or known bogs couldn¡¯t compare.

    They had seen the wrinkled old man conjure jets of occursed Eldritch energy, he often painted in necrotic oils on their weapons, spoke to the dead and knew their secrets, but this was on another level and all were uncertain in Amun would survive the ordeal. Indeed he did and held the opening with his will, resheathing his blade at his belt. With a snarl over his robed shoulder, he inquired to the troop, ¡°Come yea bastards, do you expert to live forever?¡±. ¡®Goyle was the first to take flight and Amun was the last to pass through the tear he had temporarily made in reality.

    *****

    The effect on the party was instantaneous and suffocating, especially to the path-based members of the team. What the Arcanuum and the Choir hadn¡¯t said, indeed didn¡¯t know to warn the group about, was that they were teleporting to another realm of existence outside of their material plane. Faith isn¡¯t a physical relationship, but to some minds and spirits, it is tied to holy spaces, relics and practices. The paladin and cleric found that the moment their vessels interacted with this new space, new air and desanctified ground¡­.they weren¡¯t actually weakened by it, but the did , however, doubt and question their connection to the Unseen - the source of their ability.

    Sensing that their hearts were wavering on that shore, GrendylHarm turned to his attention to them, as he had done many times before to offer a cheery limerick of encouragement perhaps. This momentary loss of focus would prove to be a fatal flaw.

    The swarm of offended undead flew up like a sudden dust storm and the party was surrounded. The fog blinded their physical sight with a misty hue of lovely dusted plum, but it was a breath of death that swallowed the barbarian, GrendylHarm first. As he smiled and went to speak, entwined twins of smoke laced his fists and arms, he was distracted and hadn¡¯t noticed the weightless snare. The lattice-work did its deed and pulverized the mighty gauntlets and GrendylHarm, screamed not in fury or bloodlust, but in agony. His party was stunned by the shock of the scene, but it was the warlock who called up Eldritch flame to spew behind the towering man to attempt to separate him from the fogged assailant, but this was too late.

    Aegis plated his shield in the shimmering sand, spoke his prayer and the shields sprang and multiplied, at first a bulwark to cut the front assault off then they curved inward until the spell craft finished off as a dome around the majority of them. Their sniper had flown off to find a blind to fire from and, as usual, wasn¡¯t inside the immediacy of the group.

    Tsybyl kept many vials of blessed liquids that were often employed as spell components for her team, they could bless weapons to act as a potent poisoning agent on weapons or could be volleyed and hurled at foes. On this dark occasion, she took two, and in each hand smashed them upon her breastplate and then laid-hands on the war priest to bless him, speaking what wavering faith she could muster, ¡°May we survive this. Bless our might, Unseen. Prove that your presence, even in this space, is greater than theirs.¡±.She finished the prayer and opened her eyes and immediately regretted it.

    The group inside Aegis¡¯s dome of protection looked on as the ensnaring attack on their brutish barbarian had not ceased, even with the warlock¡¯s verdant spray. The exhaled smoke from the countless dead¡¯s final breath entrapped the man in whisps of wine-colors, only the cyanosis of his great head stood out as a different hues. The warrior had breathed the toxin in and was fading fast from this life, as his enormous body was being lifted be these semitransparent forces.

    Betty lashed and danced and lashed, but her whips came away empty again and again, finding nothing to bite or slash in the deadly murk that was killing her companion. When her deadly dance halted, it was to Amun, the warlock, she pleaded to, ¡°can you not do something for him?!?¡±. The party had not fought on another plane, had not been tested nor bested by forces such as these.

    The warlock sprang to action, not knowing quite what to do, but feeling that making aa move of some sort was better than just standing there watching a packmate being strangled. Aegis raised the impotent protective barrier enough for the robed mage to roll under. Amun came up on foot and psychically extended a message to the unseen ¡®Goyle, ¡°¡®Golye, we must be quick, what do you see?!?¡±.This mental exchange had happened between the two before, but unbeknownst only assumed and celebrated by the party.

    ¡®Goyle hovered high above the shoreline and replied, ¡°I see nothing, but the smog is coming from a source. Can you distract it or force it to change tactics? I do not have a shot because there¡¯s nothing there.¡±

    Amun grumbled and saw on their flank many approaching yellow cat eyes, he didn¡¯t have long. He reached down to the shore and grabbed a fistful of sangria-colored pebble and sand. Smashing it palm to palm, he looked up from his work to spy the best probable target, focused will upon the smashed grit speaking, ¡°Kho-Murus!¡±. He rubbed palm to palm, his skin chafing from the pressure, ¡°Kho-Murus!¡± repeatedly in not a whispered request, but a command from the resonant voice. He flung the substance out and breathed unnatural force behind it with air released from his vessel with unnatural duration. The wind whooshed out from him, veiny webbing standing out on neck and face and forehead with torturous intensity.

    The spell invoked a purple glass wall flying flat towards the unseen enemy and with Amun¡¯s evoked exhalation enervated with dire energy, the substance kited. It flew and bent around something, something big. Amun¡¯s crystalline wall bent around its target and it looked like a grape far above the dark waters. Amun¡¯s breathed winds did not cease and he turned his attention on all of those eyes, who did not like the sand blown in them at all! The many unnatural screeches and rapid clicks of severe discomfort confirmed this. He was expended for the moment though, but perhaps the severing of fog from his source had saved the GrendylHarm.

    It hadn¡¯t.

    Instead GrendyltHarm had been raised and mounted on the spike interior of the invisible dome. Not being able to see the protruding implement being his mount just left an open and gaping puncture in his torso, the evicerratedflesh was a gaping tear that was obviously a mortal wound. To this knowledge, the barbarian had not accepted the truth and instead violently twisted upon the mount, intensifying the grave wound to his onlooking party¡¯s dismay. All but the warlock looked on in horror, Amun was transfixed upon the source of the attack somewhere off of the shoreline. He gathered up powdered amethysts, muttered his command, ¡°Infamia Ostedus¡± and blew at his palm forcefully towards the calmed eye of the smokey mist. The purple blot went out and eventually stuck to it¡¯s target hovering above the Cahron¡¯s waters. The head and torso and turned their attention towards the robed magic user.

    Amun seeing this aspect drew his family¡¯s curved dagger, his constant companion and plunged it deep into the grains beneath his sandaled feet, scrawling a large circle. His guts suddenly churned, he could feel the seismic orations of the foreign language of the infernal booming from the hovering form. He had gotten its attention and knew that time was limited. The gruff growls and snarls, while angry sounded also presented as inquisitive also, then a change to something more hissing and smooth - it was searching for communication. Clicking and insecticidal whirring and one that was more or less ¡®Whomps¡¯ of air punctuated with odd ¡®P¡¯ noises until, ¡°Agent of Mephistophles then?¡±. Amun couldn¡¯t help the break in concentration in the recognition, his protective ward chant halted momentarily in recognition of common language. ¡°Ahhh, come to bargain for the remaining soul then before it crosses? What have you to bargain for such a valuable soul? This one indeed will make quite a ear worm indeed, to creep in a spread silk into his colleagues intents within that infernal spire? Twist the psalms of the Choir and let the masses sup on that mana, sing and sway and be sheered of hope season after season. He has the access we need and he is already quite spineless, easier to crawl on his belly.¡±.

    Amun could hear the hunger in it¡¯s voice, the pride in bringing such an achievement to lay at he the stone of its superior¡¯s hooves. This was a crowning achievement for this devil and the battle would not easily be won.

    Or would it?

    It was plucking the sharp purple pebbles from it¡¯s leathery armor, tenderly as if it was also prideful of it¡¯s appearance¡­.the scene was quite comical if the threat weren¡¯t so severe. ¡°This is how madness gets seeded¡±, Amun mused. The warlock needed to be prepared, several steps ahead of this foe, in fact. He felt this inkling of opportunity though, so he chose a path of chaotic risk, instead of his instructed and well-rehearsed, pre-planned and interacted structure of preparedness. Amun walked to the bank and stared out at the thing, amused yet terrified of his freedom of choice.

    Meanwhile, his party worked together quickly to lower the drooping and dripping tower of Gren. ¡®Goyle covered the activity, but the few had gone still, their attention it seemed was was at an impasse, distracted by the happenstance occurring on the shoreline. Amun¡¯s took the pause as a strategic opportunity to see to their companion, several applauding mentally the grizzled pact-maker¡¯s quick thinking of duplicating himself to the prideful devil¡¯s hubris. Perhaps the least diplomatic of the group had a chance at a negotiation. In their scurry to attempt to save Gren, they could not see seeds of receipt being sown.

    Amun, let the dark waters lap at his sandaled toes. Frigid waters, to no surprise that numbed to quickly, no pain, no pondering, no wanderings (wonderings) needed any longer,only quiet depths of Styx. He felt the aqueous gravity whispering to embrace him, the immeasurable barricade between the material plane and the land of the infernal, so close to the heathen¡¯s seat of power, but like his own party, Amun knew that this place weakened the devil¡¯s power. That wouldn¡¯t stop it¡¯s lies though, they always resorted to that tactic.

    Amun hollered, ¡°Sorry about yer finery, m¡¯lord.¡±

    The speckled shaded responded with a noise that wasn¡¯t heard, more felt in gut and in skull, ¡°You¡¯ll pay for the trespass here, mortal. Their secrets must be precious indeed, it the choir would send one¡¯s so unprepared, to join them.¡±

    ¡°Exactly the point I was about to make, horned one. Why rush yourself this exposure to my kind, your endangered here. Why the risk of such upset and embarrassment?¡± Amun, didn¡¯t hesitate to raise the ruse.

    ¡°You and yours are no threat to me here¡­..¡±, The devil poked it¡¯s head through the shade it drew around itself. An amethyst had embedded itself in its fair cheek.

    Amun raised a palm to it, ¡°Cry your pardon, king of devils and soot. You have erred in our alliances and you have erred in mine. I am hold no covenant to the Spire¡¯s influence, but I do wield their power. I can call outsider¡¯s to my side and you would be such a prized trophy to them.¡±

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t dare.¡±, the devil called the bluff.

    Amun had no choice, but drew the dagger once more and spoke to a plane-less reality that was existed in gaps between planes. The abyss, a unmade space of endless chaos and dark, those that dwelt outside the perceived reality and yearned to be welcomed into the material, the divine, infernal and the infinite eons of others known and unknown. They lived in shadow and mirror, all unpredictable horrors unconfined by boundary, norms or law. Amun knew that according to the accords of the infinite Blood War between a demon such as this before him and his true foe, the chaos of the Abyss - this would get it¡¯s attention.

    Amun had not spoken the the bivocal thuum of his ancestors in so long, there had not been such a need to do so before this tense moment. The rumble churned in his belly and he breathed air into it, the vibration took to his throat deep, it resonated in a deep noise that may have been ¡°WHA¡± or ¡°OHM¡±, yet neither and simultaneous. It was not a comfortable harmony it indescribably beautiful and powerful.

    Somewhere far away a furnace lit and heard this call. An ancient pit where an outsider from the Abyss had been cast long ago, it heard Amun¡¯s call, but not to it. No mortal kindled by the Oduum¡¯s continuum could know of it, yet somehow this pactless warlock had whispered something close to it¡¯s name. The outsider would tempt this mage into freeing it someday, but that is another tale for later.

    Amun dared to lower the blade that blurred in mortal views, it existed, he existed in material and not. He could come apart and free a killing curse like this, Vanessa had taught him how to do so as a dying wish. Even his mentor from youth would not imagine that Amun would pair that evening¡¯s lesson with such an act against nature, the action was a pure atrocity - she would have killed him herself for contriving such a concoction. The recipe was the grit he felt beneath padded, boot, the liquid base of Styx, the smell of olde death, the sight of deep purple, he could taste the alkaloid and hear the roar of power between his ears.

    Yet Amun dared, he begged his voice not quiver as he spoke, ¡°Flame of this amethyst be lit;the blaze of the lumens of yore be kindled on this plane! Gleam forth by the dim suns betwixt the sleeping stars that saw the dawn of our times; shine forth with the illumination of the World Serpent¡¯s Undying Stars! , the eyes of pyre, seven sets in the Hydra that now rouses in my desperate plea! ! Perfect Truth, Perfect Sight revealed! Numbers in triad, over and over amalgam, know their counts as we witness: the eye of the serpent, !¡± He was a man possessed by his words, pushing his will through family blade, the chosen foci.

    ¡°Stop mortal. I ask for a palaver and enact the law of host and hospitality. You will not be threatened by me.¡±, the voice called out desperately from the shoreline. Amun noticed that the menace of scale and horn had hovered closer, but knew by this olde accord, it was no longer a threat for now - as long as Amun did not refuse. A blatant refusal would taint Amun¡¯s name and reputation, damage a relationship with forces that stirred things like the continuum, it would disrupt a trust and Amun knew it would be folly not to accept. Besides, he was winded from his efforts, young as he was, and knew that had he touched his blade to the purple shore¡­..he would not be able to control or predict what would have happened.

    Silently, the demon-lord came out from behind it¡¯s own glamour and the two transported somewhere private and on an entirely different plane. In the echoing chambers beneath a jagged landscape, where the whispers of the forgotten resonated through the cold stone, Amun Jaro and the demon lord Ob Nixilis found themselves ensnared in a precarious negotiation. The warlock, clad in robes that absorbed the scant light, stood across from the imposing figure of Ob, his scales shimmering with a menace that pulsed in the dimness.

    Amun: "Ob Nixilis, I acknowledge your power, your realm, and your standing within the infernal hierarchies. I come before you not as an adversary, but as one seeking mutual benefit. What is it that you desire most in this confluence of chaos and order?"

    Ob Nixilis: His voice a grating rumble, Ob''s eyes gleamed with a calculating light. "Amun Jaro, you trespass in my domain with boldness. I desire expansion of my territory, influence over the mortal realms, and souls to bind to my service. What can you offer that justifies your intrusion and these bold claims of mutual benefit?"

    Amun: With a steady gaze, Amun spread his hands, a small orb of flickering darkness swirling between them. "I offer knowledge¡ªsecrets of arcane and divine magic that are coveted even among your kind. Additionally, I can provide access to a network of souls, ones that teeter on the brink of damnation and redemption. Their fates could sway heavily with just a nudge in the right direction."

    Ob Nixilis: Narrowing his eyes, Ob leaned closer. "And what do you seek in return, warlock? Speak clearly, for my patience wears thin."

    Amun: "Protection and an alliance. My enemies are powerful, capable of threatening even your interests in the mortal plane. Together, we can thwart their endeavors. I seek your assurance that my pursuits will be unimpeded by infernal interference, and in exchange, I will divert threats away from your operations."

    Ob Nixilis: A slow, menacing smile spread across Ob''s face. "A pact, then. But know this, Amun Jaro: any deception, any deviation from our agreed terms, and you will find that my wrath is as boundless as the pits of Hell itself."

    Amun: Nodding solemnly, Amun extended his hand, dark energy crackling around it. "I understand the terms, and I agree. Let us bind this pact with a token of power."

    As the agreement was voiced, Amun drew forth a small, intricately carved box, opening it to reveal a set of twin pendants: one adorned with an obsidian stone, the other with a fiery ruby. He took the obsidian, and Ob, the ruby, each symbolizing the dark bond they now shared.

    Ob Nixilis: Clasping the pendant, Ob''s laugh echoed through the chamber. "With this pact, our fates are intertwined. Act wisely, Amun Jaro, for your freedom now carries the weight of my expectations."

    Amun: "And let your enemies beware, for my cunning is now backed by the fury of Ob Nixilis."

    As the pact sealed, a surge of power swept through the cavern, the stones themselves whispering of a new, formidable alliance in the dark tapestry of cosmic games. Amun turned away, the ruby pendant glinting at his chest, a constant reminder of the demon lord that now held part of his fate in cruel claws.

    The pact made and the new darkness was not merely the absence of light but a palpable entity, Amun Jaro stood before Ob Nixilis, the air thick with ancient magic and whispered threats. Their previous encounters had been marked by cunning and guarded words, but now, all was different. Tonight was about a dark convergence that would seal their fates together in blood and shadow.

    Ob Nixilis: His voice a low rumble, resonating with the power of the abyss, Ob Nixilis studied Amun with a predatory gaze. "The pact is simple, Amun. Your companions'' souls will seal our agreement. Their lives end, but their essence will fuel your rise to power. You will absorb their skills, their memories, their very essences. In exchange, I gain their souls, bound to serve in my legions forever. Do you accept these terms?"

    Amun: Facing the demon lord, Amun felt the weight of his decision crushing him like the stone around them. His eyes flickered momentarily to his companions, bound by ethereal chains that shimmered with malevolent energy. Each face reflected a mixture of betrayal and resignation, knowing too well the depth of the darkness that had enveloped their warlock''s heart. "I accept," he said, his voice devoid of the hesitation that plagued his heart. "But their prowess, their lives¡ªthey fuel not just my rise but my reign. Make it so."

    Ob Nixilis: A sardonic smile twisted the corners of Ob¡¯s mouth. "Very well, warlock. Let the covenant be sealed!" He raised his arms, and the cavern trembled with the force of unleashed hellfire. Dark energy swirled around Amun''s companions, drawing out silvery strands of life force that spiraled towards Amun, enveloping him in a vortex of screaming wind and whispering voices.

    As the souls of his friends and comrades were absorbed into his being, Amun felt a surge of power unlike anything before. He could feel their abilities merging with his, their knowledge filling the gaps in his own, their memories flashing before his eyes in a torrent of joy and sorrow, victory and defeat. He was becoming something more than just a warlock; he was becoming a repository of combined might, a soul-eater endowed with the essence of those he had betrayed.

    Aftermath:

    As the ritual concluded, the bodies of his former companions fell lifeless to the ground, their eyes empty, their purposes fulfilled and twisted in the darkest way imaginable. Ob Nixilis laughed, a sound that echoed through the now silent cavern, pleased with the successful transaction of souls.

    Amun stood alone, surrounded by the quiet dead, the new powers coursing through his veins. He felt the warriors¡¯ strength, the rogues¡¯ stealth, the sorcerers¡¯ arcane knowledge, and the clerics¡¯ divine insights melding with his own dark sorceries. The overwhelming influx of experiences was intoxicating, yet the hollow victory was tainted by the visceral memory of their final moments of despair.

    Haunted by the ghosts of his actions, Amun now walked a path shadowed by power and haunted by loss. His ascent in the dark arts was meteoric, his name whispered with fear and awe across the realms, yet the echoes of the souls he consumed would forever remind him of the price of his ambition.

    *****

    Chapter: The Echoes of Sacrifice

    In the treacherous labyrinth of the Underdark, the battle between Amun Jaro''s party and the forces of Matron Mother Triel Baenre reached its climax. Amidst the echoing caverns, the clash of steel and the hum of dark magic filled the air with a palpable tension.

    Triel, with the satchels tied securely around her waist, stood at the forefront of her elite drow warriors, directing the flow of battle with a cruel precision. Her eyes, alight with malice, were fixed on Amun, who fought with a desperate ferocity that belied his usual calm demeanor.

    Triel Baenre: "You cannot win, warlock. Surrender the satchels, and I may yet spare your friends."

    Amun Jaro: Breathing heavily, his robes torn and stained with the blood of battle, Amun glared at Triel. "Never. We end this now!"

    As the battle raged, it became clear that the odds were overwhelmingly in favor of Triel and her seasoned fighters. One by one, Amun''s companions fell, each sacrifice buying him precious moments to advance toward Triel. Their loyalty and bravery shone even in their final moments, each falling with the name of freedom on their lips.

    In a desperate maneuver, Valna Shadeweaver, her own life force nearly spent, summoned the last of her divine power to forge a path through the enemy ranks directly to Triel.

    Valna Shadeweaver: "For the future!" With a burst of radiant energy, Valna cleared the way, her body crumbling to dust as the light faded, leaving a clear path for Amun.

    Seizing the opportunity, Amun surged forward, his eyes set on the satchels. With a swift movement born of necessity and fueled by rage, he snatched them from Triel''s grasp, just as she was about to unleash a fatal spell.

    Triel Baenre: Stumbling backward in shock, Triel hissed, "You think you have won, but you have merely sealed your fate!"

    With the satchels in hand, Amun retreated, his heart heavy with the cost of this victory. As he regrouped at a safe distance, the irony of his possession dawned on him. Opening one of the satchels, he found the sacred salts¡ªthe remains of his previous companions, now bound to his will as wraiths.

    In the eerie silence that followed the battle, Amun realized the full extent of his actions. The souls of his former friends, once lost to him, were now his to command, a ghostly legion bound by the very salts he had fought so fiercely to reclaim.

    Amun Jaro: Holding a handful of the glittering salts, Amun whispered, "Forgive me. I will use this power to honor your sacrifices, not in vain, but to challenge the darkness that consumes our world."

    As he prepared to leave the blood-soaked battleground, the wraiths formed from the salts stirred, their spectral forms coalescing into a silent, eerie procession behind him. With each step, the sounds of their whispers blended with the shifting shadows, a haunting reminder of the price of power and the burden of leadership.

    Amun, now a commander of spirits, walked back into the depths of the Underdark, his path illuminated by the ghostly light of the wraiths. His victory was pyrrhic, tinged with the sorrow of loss but also the resolve to use his newfound power to bring about change, possibly even revolution, in the dark realms that had so often dictated the terms of his existence.

 Ch. 33 Sedilium

    Thorny Sedilium

    Sylvia Pitts found that the many prongs of agitation on her loose folds were a familiar comfort, she found this both ironic and amusing as she settled in for a rest. There were the familiar pricks of agony as she lowered, rolling herself upon the bed of nails that kept her from resting too deeply, losing too much memory of the day to (the tidal flows of REM, sleeping, breathe in, breathe out, swell and recede) so that she was less aware of the real world in case a protective ward were to be triggered. In this practiced drifting meditation or ¡°shallow napping¡±, she was most relaxed and could let her great folds and girth, both of her mind and of her aged body, know some semblance of rest. As the nails settled, the tarry pudding of thickened vinegar and strained fermented cabbage that coated the many, many little iron fangs bit into her tattooed mass, releasing the build up in the many zits, boils and boubous freckling her. This was a practice, a discipline that she longed for after long days (and often longer) churning and grinding upon her mental forge.

    Sylvia was fragmented, splintered like those scarce few that sought the truth; pursuing and studying the art for as long as she had. The chase of it had run into the thin weaves and films of rumor, things of fever dreams and moldy tomes. Once a zealot priestess of Lolth, she was known in that circle as the Shepard, watching over the denizens that were ignorant to the ways of her coven. They were deadly assassins and infiltrators, seeking what royalty bought on auction or what churches buried or sometimes try to destroy. An oracle of Lolth saw her maiden¡¯s enemies that squandered such resources, or tried, and she would send her coven out to ravage them with sickness dripped into ears in the nights or a lovers tainted-scratch at the height of forbidden pleasures.

    Sylvia now was rogue and had turned from her patron¡¯s whispers and spymastery. She had grown selfish and longed to hoard the pilfered prizes from her pursuits such as a wicked and covetous dragon may. The wicked witch felt her mind unraveling to the wonders (wanders) beyond her goddess and now had made another opponent, and she cared very little about this. Lolth too had grown portly and had trusted too few followers to care for her as Sylvia had, so she had left her maimed by her own enormity to rot alone.

    In the present, Sylvia Pitts¡¯ coven hunted where their crone¡¯s out-stretched and withered arms directed, crushing opposition by rotting their foundations form within, take what was of worth and cleansed the remains in a black sabbath of fire and joyous laughter, all in mother Sylvia¡¯s name and further herimmortality. She suffered as she prolonged this conquest, her experiments and rigors would often induce low lying toxicity in the varicose tubing bulging along the thinning flesh, which was a fortunate by-product so that if she needed to test a new poison or tonic, she would endure, she would go on. Her face was blanched, left side drooped, and a creamy verdant hue from lack of sun and exposure to the alchemy, except for the portions that were blotchy from scalding pops from a belching cauldron or ruptured flask. Her bulbous knuckled hands, in a constant curves with broken and flaked nails (painstakingly filed by her followers) when relaxed were stained from centuries of inks, chalks, tinctures and oozes, yet were huge, monstrously dexterous instruments that knew her shelves and pockets without the need for the corporeal sight. She crushed salts with mortar and pestle, the crystal driven to dusts (she couldn¡¯t always be bothered with wafting) and invariably she would breathe them in or get it caught up in her long and grimy hair, be it on her head, face, chin or nose. She had once had the most beautiful set of ivory hair combs and picks to hold it all out of her way as she went about her work¡­..alas, she was certain she pinned-out a fresh eye from a lover once with one, but of the others¡­.. she would ponder as she stirred forbidden concoctions. She had kept the knowledge to herself and upon herself, her tattoos were vast and numerous, forming quite a suit of legacy, on and over, weaving through the peaks and valleys of her mounds and crevices. She would relinquish her accomplishments over her dead body.

    Long ago, when her hair was thick and her voice was clear, she arrived a refugee from an overrun district now pressed beneath Laconian¡¯s heel, she would perform the necessaries for the ruling class and to keep the locals from prying into her practice. As long as the empire needed her skill, she would crawl like a perpetual vine, entwine with their great need for her craft, for this was before the Oduum and before their teachings in the ways of medicine and surgery. She would soothe and massage those that ached, bake, brew and boil delicious things to help induce sleep or abort the unwanted or forbidden. She could endure their suffering wails, loyal daughters holding hands and flailing limbs, while savage and sympatheticSylvia sawed off limbs that couldn¡¯t be saved from the Laconian agricultural accidents. She even pulled teeth, gave advice on makeup and applied pleasant smelling oils and shared palaver with leaders needing her wisdom and her great sight. The glamours that veiled were different every time, often they saw the comforting practitioner exactly the way they needed to see her. Often the illusion was a semblance of a long dead relative, only slightly familiar, just enough of a coax to put nerves to rest. These tricks, tonics and treatments all came at a price though, always the balance. Balance, before the Oduum, was and forever shall be the breathe of Gaia.

    The tasty prey, lured by her castings and pheromones, were male vagabonds, drifters and culprits from outside of town (when her putrid and carnal need was great) would wander (wonder) onto her silken web that was cast ubiquitously in the form of smokes, chimes, and silken fabrics streaming everywhere - with the oddest looking , but very pleasing sigils woven into them. These were the hooks lures and snares to their dulled perceptions and defenses.She cast her glamours on these jeweled specimens to their fullest extent, concealing the haggard body of real for the appealing lines and voluptuous curves that get the dim mind¡¯s juices pumping and high logic numbed. Palms read, fortunes spoken of, forbidden things that could be sought after¡­.these the longings and follies of such heated and simple men. Intoxicated by it all, she would take those young, virile ones to her bed within the open yurt and writhe with them to finality. Ride them hard, so that their juices flowed into her, too many - the release and spams too great, too erotic, too much. As their hour long orgasm would peak and begin to taper-off, as their expressed loins withered and the vessel ran dry, with the illusionary pouty face on her diminutive glamour she would often (but not always) press them with her mass into the nails themselves. The finale of carnality could be likened to the entomologist admiring the prized insect and then mounting it under glass, the pin being her titanic unveiling.

    The remaining fluids would then drain to the bed, as life dimmed in the watery eyes (she would harvest these most of the time). The slick would gather on the frame, through a sifter and into a large reservoir or beaker. The blood is a powerful spell component when fresh, when the heart is racing towards the ecstatic peak¡­.trending towards terror. The other fluids that were ejaculated into her she would siphon and withdraw for another use however, for this was a greater prize. Among the many spell components that she knew to gather, she kept a record of achievement on her own flesh. On the folds that she pressed to the nails on nights that she needed the rest, on this rubbery fleshy parchment were the tattoos scribing and warding the magic within herself. The blood of her sons and the wastrel wanderers that crept upon her psychic webbing made the best ink.

    The crone, this mighty necromancer was more habitual than purposeful in these as the years progressed. The dawn stretched to dusk and her fire and cauldron never cooled, one of the daughters or mindless thralls, once the sons flung from her feminine forge, would make certain of it. She hadn¡¯t spoken to any of them in months, the croak and tripping trimble of her ragged vocal cords punctured by so much rot and smoke from experimentation, could incite terror in them too easily. She learned that the hard way¡­.

    Even thralls, her belly fruit that had circumstantially been male,have a dead-eye soulless sense of self-preservation, it would seem. Not the completely empty vacuous vestibules that she sold to lovely Ob the throb lord. Those moaning Meryl¡¯s that held his beloved intoxicant - the ichor were seasoned by her craft year after smokey year. Hers was a incestuous madhouse that had seasoned both her great flabby flanks and all those that dwelled with her within. The vapors indeed caused a dementia and hysteria, but at the correct pinprick of proper exposure brought on great revelation and insight¡­..all within the confines and comforts of home, her den at the center of the invisible web.

    Gassed by her practices and diet of spores, greens and mushrooms, even devoted and mostly mindless minions would eventually fissure under pressure. The thralls would suffer enough damages that some would seek a place that didn¡¯t melt skin or form pus-filled postules over eyes and airways. Self preservation in the remaining grey stem would be the last to wither and they simply weren¡¯t all the way dead yet! So there would be the nuisance of them clawing at walls and dashing themselves against the stone fixtures and through paned glass. It could be quite disruptive to Sylvia¡¯s focus, if she didn¡¯t think it were so very humorous. Her daughters were quite bothered by the scene, looking up from crystals and orbs as their brothers lost their minds to the amusement of mother.

    These, her many, many daughters were her carriers of knowledge, her records and annals. They would spy and collect intelligences on where the next target was, where the caravan should whisp away to next, or mount the yew shaft and take to the night air to collect for the mad matriarch. And madness. Like their madam sire, the numerous progeny weren¡¯t entirely whole, they had no reproductive cycle of moon and waters of their own, only mother was meant to twist and shape life from her girth it would seem. They wore a braid of cord, in shape of a broken noose around their necks made from the living cord that sustained them for nine months, as a reminder and also the source of their infertility. The daughters would recite mantras while massaging the beads within the mothering cord, but all were secretly, silently resentful. Though many of them were invited often to attend to mother, watch her ceremonies, watch her writhing fornication straddling a fresh companion or brother, all under heavy enchantment and breathe her vapors and knowledge, the daughters still longed to be whole and for mother to pass on her greasy matronly mantle to them.

    Maeve watched the march of possum pass her path, taking her time to admire the peaceful drove and forgot the bushel of wolfsbane, grey bark and moon flower that she was tasked in collecting today for the Mother of Bitches. She was fascinated at the animal¡¯s instinct and need for mother¡¯s direction and protection, for she and the eldest of bitches had lacked that magnetism for so long. Like the bees testing their flights from the hive¡¯s outer husk, the breathing motion of their wandering (wondering) had gone further and further from the source, further from mother¡¯s webs and intoxicants. Further from her snoring, she claimed to sleep to briefly and shallowly¡­.and for a time, in their ignorance of youth, they had believed her. Believed in her stearing and rearing of them, believing her tales and lectures. Believing in her might and their need to shade them from the Great Outsides onslaught and judgment of their pagan ways. The crone had grown found of her den though, fattened by her practices and successful diet of dried man meats and sweetest organs. When Maeve couldn¡¯t hear the cackling fade, the sensation of raspy and spittled breathing on her still youthful flesh (mother adored looking upon her bathing daughters enviously more and more), and the reek of the crones languorous flatulent vapors, and forget the sight (for a time) of what a mighty titan had distilled into¡­Maeve felt free.

    When so unbridled and let loose from her birdcage, Maeve tended her secret flower garden. She would forget herself and just feel natural and in tune with every fleck of soil she turned. It was on a delightfully cozy day under the midsommer¡¯s peaked suns, the wanderer, bedazzled by mother¡¯s call no less, tromped right through, laying low or beheading many daisy with heavy and clumsy tread work. Trespass through wards, intentional bramble and thicket and the ghostly effigies of straw and twine, the dimwit was quite a sight, bloodied and delighted in the sweating effort simultaneously. She would¡¯ve taken trowel to temple and fertilized her grounds out of fury had her quick wit not prevailed.

    With a sharp right cross, she began the arduous task of breaking mom¡¯s binding on the simple mind. She smeared spearmint oil across his nose and waited for the black pupils to constrict a bit. When the man was able to begin speaking and thrashing in resistance, Maeve pressed her thumb to his forehead to stimulate his third sight, so that temporarily the fool would have no choice but to hear her clearly and be unable to forget their encounter. With her mother¡¯s influence lifted, the breathing leveled out, the thrashing subsided, even if the gird in the man¡¯s loins still pressed to her, it mattered not. He tried to speak in a raspy, dreamlike way and she took his sweaty face between her palms and spoke into him, ¡°Find GrenHilda the tavern master. Bring her here tomorrow or the next, but dawdle not or I won¡¯t provide the cure to what ails you¡±. Stupefied and base as he was in his misunderstanding, he pressed himself to her once more, but her response spilled from her apothecary ring into his eyes and mouth before he could stop it.

    ¡°The kiss I¡¯ve laid upon you will work quickly, so make haste and do not fail. Bring no harm to her in her gentle recruitment or peaceful escort here, not a single strand of auburn lay disarray when we next meet or your stub I will have an¡¯ you parted from¡±. It was the emphasized word ¡®stub¡¯ that he felt the trowel edging the side of his manhood.

    It was the dusk of the second day, when GrenHilda shoved the man back through the glade, returning him to the garden¡¯s soil quite literally, she sent the man sprawling with a beefy shove. Gren was mighty indeed, she ran her own tavern, put up with intolerable patrons who would be adventurers, boasting all about ¡°dire wolves protecting gold hoards¡± this, and ¡°brandishing my vorpal bastard sword at the viper queen¡± that¡­.She had seen these swords and wonderedhow the twig-armed drunkard could heft such an implement and how in Moradin¡¯s blackened anvil would a dire wolf squirrel away coin? Many nights laughing at their tales of adventure and hefting the oaken casks left her fuse short but her body able to take out the trash when necessary.

    She kicked her oiled letter boot into the arse of her tender attendant and taunted, ¡°Well then, my mighty protector, where is the enchantress that wishes to pay your tab then? Call out to her, have you the stones, and pray we don¡¯t both just work you over.¡±

    Face caked in the dirt of the road and from Gren¡¯s continuous thrashings (there had been several along the way back), all he could muster was a ¡°Help¡­¡±, before she used her boot sole to shove him down once more. ¡°Quiet, y¡¯whelp. I know of the coven near these parts and I¡¯ll not spare my hide for yours if one of the broom-fuckers comes to skin us. This better not be a wily snare, on ya.¡± She had pulled a large gleaming cudgel from her belt and waited.

    The ruse worked and the frail man was indeed frightened beyond his mind. Twice as the sun rose he had met with these now two incredibly fierce women who had beaten him bloody, poisoned him and he knew not if he would survive the encounter to tell of it. Truth be told, Gren knew this garden well, for it was was at the very periphery of a psychic leash that a wicked old crone kept her daughter¡¯s within. One in particular, Maeve, was a soul she called friend for they had traded many goods between the two and thrice as much laughter over strong mead. Maeve would send ¡®messengers¡¯, be it animal of one sort or another to call Gren to the garden, but something was amiss. The air was heavy in the garden, the grounds ween¡¯t tended as well as they aught, the colors not as vivid on leaf or bud.

    Stepping from the outcropping just beyond the opposite border of her garden, Maeve made no attempt to ambush our startle the giantess of a woman she had long called friend. Gren had a strong brow and had always been neighborly to her and her sisters when they could barter with her hearth and not just for the coin, knowledge, heresays and good honey drink were always welcome. The coven had no reason to attempt to impress or otherwise posture Gren and she had quite a good head to discern the gossip of foolish parties from similar puzzle pieces laid out to her and upon occasion, for good pay, she would assemble what she had been told or overheard for a few.

    ¡°Gren, long is the days you stride and pleasant company may you keep in your night.¡±, Maeve stepped into the diminishing light with strong, open arms to be seen and fingers splayed, ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dare try to charm the likes of you.¡±

    ¡°Maeve, you daughter of a wretch!¡±, their arms met in the familiar forearm grasp, ¡°Well met¡±. They assessed one another before speaking further.

    ¡°Gren, I need to bend your ear to a bit. My mother¡¯s pitiful madness¡­.she pulls still from a deep well who¡¯s waters soured long ago. I¡¯d have a friend hear it and pray tell what ya know of it. Will ya come set at my fire and share palaver?¡±

    ¡°Ya, I could set for a bit. The road is too long to trodback on the night anyway. I am tired of walloping this shite and won¡¯t have him bound away before he pays his purse to me.¡±

    Led to the fire, the two bound, gagged, blindfolded and waxed the ears of the bloodied man, for theirs was a secret talk, not to be shared with the likes of him. ¡°Mother wailed and still mourns the defeat of her lover, Ob. He has been laid low, his horn delivered to us. We scry the bones with her and there¡¯s congruent signs of who it could be. Yea,no common Laconian assassin could pull off such a feat and why would they cross the infernal plane to begin with.,¡± Maeve recounted while sipping at the mead flask Gren offered to share. ¡°Though she mad in her long days, we had not seen her so solemn in quite some time. She is focused on finding her lover¡¯s assailant, but the time has come for us to share something quieter and more precious. Her mind is a twist, she lays and writhes with strange men from the road, royalty¡­.our brothers. All for the seed.¡±

    Gren spat at that, knowing for a time the depth of Sylvia¡¯s villainy, knowing that she had fallen from a dangerous cult, cut her ties with them and now to hunt them down systematically. In a way, she and her daughter¡¯s were performing a service, for the cults and coven that worshipped Lolth, the spider, were foul thieves of knowledge- at least Sylvia¡¯s daughters, like the comely Maeve, made trade and pleasant company. She could share a cup and never fret what was within the drink in fact. The barkeep wrung her hands nervously, she knew what Maeve was getting at, where this road would lead them, knew it was a righteous act of the natural order. As she knew these and weighed the evening, she looked-up from the fire to see her coconspirator weeping gently and this was a rare and fragile thing. Gren spoke more breathe than words, ¡°She deserve not your tears or mercy ¡®gainst her wrongs. How many Maeve? How many men and boys (she was cautious¡­) and your brothers has she taken to bed? Taken their seed and their lives?¡±

    ¡°As is, my sister¡¯s and I will be hunted for her choices.¡±, Maeve stabbing at the fire saying this and pulled again at the flask. ¡°There will not be peace between the spiders of Lolth and the Knot of the Scorpion, our coven. The conflict we will bear and eventually make a peace with them perhaps, but that is not what whips at our backs lately. I felt it even here, waiting for you in the garden, the cord about my neck, the talisman the holds my bond to mother and prevents my bleeding. My sisters and I know that we are not and can never be whole and have children of our own, nay we will not age naturally without a dependency, like mother until we are freed of the cord. I feel it pull at me now, Gren. She beckons me home, hold me to her side, rub her aches and plan new horrors. She must end in order for any of us to have a life of any sort.¡±

    Time passes without words. Gren watches Maeve cure the beaten man and then charm him again. Sending him on his way to fetch grave components that she would need soon. The man would murderfor her tonight and think it nothing more than a dream. He would murder another on the road, perhaps wait for them outside a tavern or house of ill repute, flog them with stone or timber, and take from their body what Maeve required. All in the enamoring of love for her and all in a dream-like state.

    Gren did not drink and listened intently to her friend¡¯s tale as a dear friend would do. True, Gren had also heard the tale of ¡°Hastur¡¯s shadow¡±, the ¡°Sanguine Huntress¡± and she was very conflicted for her friend¡¯s chosen path. The tavern owner indeed wanted to meet and applaud this keen blade that tales and troubadour had spoken of so much as of late. Her cuts seemed to favor the necks and groins of cancerous pigs and fiends it seemed. The criminal spine and fearless pride had wavered as of late for the crime lords needed to look over their shoulders. Numbers mattered not, their spell hurling wilted and withered. She was a bold resolution to years of treachery.

    Yet. Yet Gren was not a fool and feared what her friend would ask next. Indeed, Gren saw the stampede coming before Maeve even whispered the words to her:

    ¡°I¡¯ll go fetch mom¡¯s copy of The King in Yellow, so that I may recite the words, carve the symbol and light a beacon to call this killer. Her time has come and my sisters and I wish to splice the apron strings to her sour and rank womb.¡±

    Maeve for the first time dipped into ¡®Mother¡¯s Well¡¯, the dirty magic that clamored simple minds to do nefarious deeds on her behalf, the harder it resistance to the charm, the stronger the will the greater the cost. She had dipped her ladle into that olde warped bucket of sour and viscous waters already. This second draw would pain and scar her.

    She drank in the continuum and the energies were cold, like soils untouched by the hands of the living. Something left outside of the warm family house and those inside would hope would go away or die. Her will was sharpened but seized like strong hands clamped over her neck and mind.

    Maeve took a breathe and recounted mother¡¯s interaction with the inebriated priest of Hastur from long ago fairly clearly, aided now by dark energy. She recollected the faded and frayed clothe of memory like and heirloom, but the cost of the recall was like so much bile in the mouth when one suffers a sour stomach. Drawing the heirloom memory out of the depths itself was a potent spell component, but caused it¡¯s own low simmer of filth upon Maeve¡¯s already burdened but intent mind. As Maeve slipped-on the oily yellow cloak, the one he had taken off to roll with Mother, she slid into her memory also, for it would help her call up the appropriate energy, more grimy mana of a rotten soul. Maeve did note the murmur of absolute joy amongst the murk, as she watched mother¡¯s spinnerrettes weave round his wrinkled vessel and crush the juice out of the wretched old prune. She was very, very aware of the encrusted portion that still remained around the crotchety-encrusted groin where the ceremony of Hastur¡¯s avatar ¡°had been performed¡± under the stars.

    Maeve¡¯s thrall had returned with his grave pack of goods for her. Gren left her friend her friend to concoct her crime. The man would return to himself in the cleansing morning¡¯s light, tethered to the Laconian lawman¡¯s doorstep for dire crimes he had committed, but would never recollect. Not until he was fitted with his own noose or axe blade fell across his nape only then would the horrors flow back into him as his life flowed out.

    Maeve knew to intentionally call the masked god, one of the Oduum, was a crime against the natural order, a sin against what the continuum and the cycles of natural energy were: for in Hastur there was a definite end and in the law of energy there ought to be a ceaseless cycle of continuation and transformation. Hastur was an entropy, an end to cycles. Maeve could not waiver, making the call and carving his sigil to the Hidden One, there would be no return from this. She thought on this as she smoothed the oily cowl over her beautiful hair and whispered the mantric plea while soiling her hands creating her offertory effigy:

    ¡°Dark Father. Dark Hastur with your hidden face, send your childe unto me, for the trespass of the blind and their lack of insight must be cleansed with your rapture and wrath. Dark Father. Dark Hastur with your hidden face, send your childe unto me, for the trespass of the blind and their lack of insight must be cleansed with your rapture and wrath. Dark Father. Dark Hastur with your hidden face, send your childe unto me, for the trespass of the blind and their lack of insight must be cleansed ¡­.¡±

    Committed to the task, knowing that there was no turning back, she had collected the elements for the ceremony: her enemy was female and she had brought the skeleton of a woman, fresh flesh, a warm heart and a bowl of blood from her mother¡¯s stores. She faced the head to western ridge, so that the intended¡¯s path went to the fall of dusk and she made the circle around them of ash. As she chanted repeatedly, she stabbed at the heart repeatedly and violently, imagining that the matricide would be hers to perform, not the herald huntress of Hastur.

    The scene became dangerous and sinister energy rolled in and the evening grew abysmally dark, {Black Hole Sun} the light was absolutely absent and had run for the hills, it was unwelcome in that place. Her sweat sang on her skin as the chill of the act crept out of her, past the circle and upwards past the tree canopy and to the open sky. ¡°Ring, ring you yellow bastard. I offer my mother¡¯s soul for you to sup on.¡± Maeve finalized the sacrament with the sigil carved into the flesh, though she dared not look at it herself, this would make her the target instead. She poured the basin of blood over her head and all went dark for awhile.

    Maeve woke clean and naked upon a floor that was not the effigy, not the bed of terra where she had fallen to after her spell casting. No, this was a wooden floor, rough hewn, well tread, and very alien. Bleary and tired, her eye begged to be pardoned from functioning, they did not want to pass their passives to solve the mystery of where their vessel now lay, so she just lay and breathed for a bit.It was the prisoners moans and complaints that finally conquered her exhaustion¡­..

    The three were across from her bound and kneeling. The three all had different dress beneath their hoods that sucked in and out from rapid, uneasy breathing, but it was indeed the matching execution hoods over their headsthat caused Maeve a sudden rush and return of terrible life to her tired limbs. Trembling, she stood and felt it a silly courtesy to the three to do so silently, as one may do in not disturbing a slumbering child.

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    She turned to flee this scene, was she having a nightmare?, and in her haste she brushed through a soot web clinging to a sturdy old bookcase. Instinctually, she went to brush the web from her face and jerked back in reaction, but the web only appeared to be and feel spider web like, her hands told her that she had just touched someone¡¯s leg. Incredibly, there was indeed a life-sized and uncannily shaped structure formed upon the top of the high case, it appeared to be just sitting there, swaying it¡¯s ¡°leg¡± back and forth absently. It wasn¡¯t until it leaned towards her and spoke that Maeve stumbled back, fell and knew she would be removing splinters from her bum if she indeed survived this phantasmal encounter.

    The specter on the shelf said, ¡°I felt that this form would best suit our arrangement, little spider. Yet, you seems so unsettled..you are aware of the severe circumstances in which we now deal, yes?¡±

    Maeve ventured, ¡°So you are indeed?¡±

    ¡°I am. I am what you called for and the answer to your plea to my patron, yes. I am here to accept your payment, once you¡¯ve offered it and seal our grim pact. This place is in your mind and it is quite private and cosy, but believe that our business is indeed dire and dangerous¡­.for one of us at least¡± the other¡¯s voice seemed to echo and fade away with every sound, as if speaking to Maeve from a great telepathy from far away. Indeed the mannequin that reposed on the high shelf, did not appear to be moving it¡¯s lips, if indeed lips could be discerned at all.

    Maeve went to begin her barter, ¡°Mother has become¡­¡±

    ¡°Stop.¡± The spook spoke gently yet firmly, ¡°One must commit to this task and pay for the bounty in advance. I take from my quarry what I need, yes, those are my conditions. Behind you are three of your enemies, bound and ready to be executed. Their crimes are of no concern of yours, but I will allow you to speak with each of them for a time. Know this, little spider - a life for a life. If I am to take this task from you and end someone on your behalf, one of these will die by your hand now. If not, I will sunder you instead and you will never wake from this, witchling.¡±

    ¡°Across the room are three lives that are wasted and without value. All with contracts on their thin souls. Take the blade from the table and get your hands dirty. Just because you employ one such as I, there¡¯s a price and a balance. Everyone¡¯s hands get dirty.¡± ,the sooty specter on the shelf slid her whispers into Maeve¡¯s mind and it was chilling. The request was cold, the scene was unnerving and would haunt her, it would change her very tone of voice anytime she spoke of dark cabins or was unsettled by a mere cobweb. Maeve¡¯s knees gave knock as she rose and she beckoned them be still, they refused, so she crossed unsteadily to a small table next to the fire and the hearth. The flame coughed and soot blustered out, careening to her bare foot and singed a bit - so this wasn¡¯t a dream and yes, she would be tainted by the act that she had to perform. The fire was warm, but she shook and her body tensed and the wood sighed a dissonant preamble as she picked up the dire device and considered the cruel implement. She thought the edge had seen much better days, likely something better sooted for shaving scales off of a pike than¡­

    The thought was broken by a voice from beneath the closest hood, bound and hooded, but e¡¯gads they were aware of her, ¡°I could pay you. If coin is your desire or what their families paid you, I¡¯ll pay you more! Yes, yes, I confess to the crimes. Too many crimes and I should pay them, one day I will, but if I can leave this place, it will not be today. It¡¯s true, I fulfill contracts, often and ugly. Family verses family, remove someone from the bloodline so that someone can process and come to power. You know the type, yes? They marry wrong, they are a nuisance, they spend their time with the wrong company¡­.¡± The voice was husky and established, but the desperation was there tearing down the fringe on his finery. This one was guilty and knew it, likely to have slithered out of traps before to strike another¡­

    The next interrupted, ¡°I¡¯ll not plea, like this one. Such a broken ass who has lost their stone. I know my crime and if you¡¯ll kill me I ask you to be brave and just go ahead then. The children and husband I leave behind, well the children I love, but to him I have been faithless towards. He bought your hand that strikes me down tonight, aye? He may bed any ole¡¯selkie while he¡¯s in port - in her ports for certain, Har! ¡­.but I bed with just one while I am left so all alone and find myself here with legion such as yous.....¡± This one was strong and unwavering, like the warf she stood on so many times watching her betrothed¡¯s sail leave her som many times, leaving her there¡­like the pylons that held the wood against the crashing waves, she was proud, stood straight yet ready to be punished. Maeve was uncertain, what if it were lies? She turned to her commanding dust cloud to inquire when the third spoke.

    ¡°Clearly, a mistake has been made, you are uncertain and take too long with the voice that will leave you changed forever, you¡¯re hands will never come clean of this and our words will stain your dreams and mind forever. Perhaps you find yourself flat=footed and caught unaware of the company you now keep, let me help you along on your ruinous path, I am Vesserre.¡± Maeve quickly noted that this one was the only fool that introduced themselves by their name, not a full name, but a name none the less and Maeve knew something of the authoritative power in knowing a name and she went to work assessing this one as he spoke, his voice was like a viper¡¯s would be she imagined.

    Calmly, the third hood continued to speak, and she imagined a forked-tongue darting ever so often as he did, ¡°This is not the first time I have been hooded and dragged from my bed clothes. I tend to drink too deeply on these unfortunate nights. I am an obtainer of goods, life taker and defiler of my foe¡¯s children. Perhaps you have heard the stories? Perhaps you have feared or beckoned for my aid while you prodded upon your first walk along the path? I too was a young artisan on their first walk and trial long ago, I was a natural though - you however¡­.is this your trial? Am I what you found at the end of the dirty road? If that is true, I am not surprised given my great prestige. You pause and tremble and piss there, yes? You have heard the name before? Free me now and perhaps my people will not carve it upon your body when they hunt you down in whatever Laconian dung sack you claim as homestead.¡±

    Maeve rooted and plundered from his wide open and brazen mind, he didn¡¯t even feel her fumbling there the egotistical cretin, as he went on cajoling her, almost daring her hand to strike, ¡°Itwill be your ocher that paints these walls tonight, not mine! Soft and pink, little piggy don¡¯t you understand? Every shadow that would intercept my path, every nocked arrow from rooftop or knifes unsheathed in doorways passed. My enemies are numerous and if I weren¡¯t threatened from time to time for my expertise, it would be quite an insult. Free me or you will be butchered.¡± For dramatic flair, he began to count but the dullard did not share what he was counting to,

    ¡°One¡±

    And she saw poisons and black market goods given to desperate children on their Laconian birthday paths that would ¡°owe him one¡± later.

    ¡°Two¡±

    And she saw through his mind and his spoken name, his brokering of lives. Always with a wall of muscled ¡®mules¡¯ surrounding him that would either protect him or courier the children to and from Vasserre¡¯s robed grasp and pillowed room.

    ¡°¡­Th¡­¡±

    It was a deadly stab, certainly not smooth or graceful, but she went for the brain stem, standing behind him jerking his forehead back with one hand, inserting the crude metal into his memories with the other. She operated him from the visions that his mind relentlessly gave into her and she would not forget those children¡¯s faces. Their fear, their innocence. If Laconian tradition wasn¡¯t bad enough for their youth, this rapist had taken advantage even beyond. He made it easy and she was glad that the hood was absorbent, perhaps her hands would become clean one day.

    She heard the muffled slow clap, that reminded her of children free snow from mother¡¯s knitted mittens, from across the room. Maeve turned and the specter was no longer kicked-back on the tall bookcase, in fact the blurred effigy was no where in that space visibly at all. When the unseen blackjack flogged the backside of her head, Maeve could have sworn the bitch said, ¡°Well¡­done¡­¡±.

    Adrestia took Maeve from that place and returned her to the comfort of a familiar fireside. With the snap of the sharp mint ampule pressed under her nose, Maeve began to stir and grasp clumsily at her face. She bolted up from the warm bedroll beneath her, a much better comfort than the musty cabin of murder and death mannequins made of web. She found her robe and garment were back, her satchel of alchemical implements, her staff and knife were a weight that she welcomed back alongside of her. Her hair had been brushed and tied back with a twine like substance, it was when she was investigating this foreign accessory when her head was clear enough that she thought she should survey the scene.

    The fire that separated the two of them was the only illumination, there were absolutely no stars though Maeve felt the freedom of the outdoors was trying its best to make itself known. There was air, but it didn¡¯t stir. Without wind, it just felt like an unnatural filter of membraneous bubble breathed the air into that space. It did not feel safe, to Maeve at least. There were no bordering of walls, fences, shrub, rock or tree, but indeed Maeve felt an inky black threshold encompassing that place. No ground or rubble, the blanket rested on void. Even with this grim contract process in progress, even with the awful price paid, Maeve knew who had the upper hand and did her best to steady her shuddering, a wrest she once again found out she was losing at for the second time.

    She had an imposing but not unpleasant appearance. Her dress was supple yet had the materials and the fit of function, ruffles at the neck with a perfectly blood red blouse, pants that hugged musculature curvature that looked trained to be ready. There was a stone set in the blouse and a serape slung over one shoulder and both were as the surroundings were, an absolute absence of substance. The stone was easy to look at and hard to pull one¡¯s gaze from, in fact Maeve felt that if she had to defend herself against this herald of the masked god, the inset stone might prove to be too much of a distraction. The being that appeared to be another woman sat smiling, working absently at the frayed edge of a tricorn hat, the hat of a sea captain perhaps (she briefly remembered the hostages, she recalled what her hands had done, she must not retch into the fire), her companion just smiled as a predator might smile at the prey. A heartbeat and what felt light a fortnight passed without audible vocalics, Adrestia took a deep breathe and went first.

    ¡°Adrestia. Please call me Adrestia. When you feel it is right to due so, please take water and dried meat from the satchel you were using as a head rest. It is quite safe, but you have no reason to trust me yet, I understand. Know that you are my client under this covenant now, you have paid the boatman¡¯s toll - so they say. Until the fulfillment of this agreed upon grievous act that I will perform on your behalf, you are under our care and our protection.¡±

    Odd, Maeve could have friended this woman had she known her in another firelight, but alas she felt instead as though Great wolf or perhaps another sort of beast circled the periphery even as she took the bounty huntresses Comforts and found them both delicious and refreshing.

    Adrestia continued, ¡°Lolth sold her pact, lost it actually. I be your molding mother hadn¡¯t told you that.¡±

    Maeve held the gaze cautiously, but her heart did flutter in disbelief. ¡°the old gods and brokers of the continuum¡¯s power and secrets do lose their efficacy when so much belief is lost in them. What do you believe?¡±

    Maeve was lost in the moment, felt dizzy from the day¡¯s adventure and the shock of the news. If mother¡¯s villainous but former sponsor no longer held reign over her family¡¯s bloodline and if what the maiden of shadow spoke of in the way she said it were true, who now held the chain that bound and fed mother¡¯s power? What of the corruption over the years was a far more sinister bind? Maeve felt the tendril of doubt sieve her throat for just a moment, there was no turning back now that the gaze of Hastur and his avatar were upon her. Bringing up a bit of focus (her voice still wavered), ¡°I believe my sister¡¯s and I have paid our due and I do not lay this pact with you lightly or without trepidation. The time has come and mother will not go gently.¡±

    ¡°Our brothers and stepbrothers become thralls for the sake of their own sanity. If they knew, if they could see how they were used by their mother, it is a better salve that they aren¡¯t fully whole. But neither are my sisters and I. We watch her free them from the skeletal cage night after night and consume them, make tinctures and oils from them, the ink of her body art is of them. It all needs to end. ¡°

    ¡°As we¡¯ve already established, if your mother¡¯s foci does not resonate in the practices of Lolth and if what you tell me it¡¯s completely true your mother draws from an internal font, a very personal one. I will require some of your blood now.¡±, as Adrestia says this the shadow closest to the log that she sat on came up into the light, an unimaginable feat to behold. It was as if the shade were an intangible cloth, an edging of cape and began drawing in on itself. The portion towards the corner shape and folded over and over until the outline and edge create a density that no longer looked White cloth at all. The void solidified and became a spectacular dagger of a metal darker than rare obsidian. Adrestia took up this weapon and it was freed like a budding fruit from a vegetative limb, they shade withdrew and slithered back behind the log seat. In seeing this, Maeve knew well why she felt so surrounded, that so many eyes seemed to be gazing all at once and how this starless night was occurring. This shade that accompanied her companion encompassed the both. From the clothing and weaponry that the huntress presented in and all throughout the periphery, Maeve was completely surrounded and had no route to escape.

    Adrestia stood and walked the side of the fire tapping the blade against her hand, ¡°Do you consent, young one? I need to test a theory.¡±

    Maeve really had no choice but appreciated the sentiment all the same, and extended her hand, palm up to the most dangerous creatures. The cut was cold and quick, barely intelligible at all, a cut that if it were fatal, and it wasn¡¯t, Maeve felt she could fall asleep forever to. Maeve hoped in a sigh that her mother would receive the same, as merciful wish for the matron. The daughter knew her mother all too well though, Mom was a fighter and the onslaught of arcane ability would be terrible for any foe of her to face. Her maternal agent would draw up her own summoned companions, things of death and skeletons, she could rain melting plague in the outdoors, the trees would obey and whomp tremendous limbs in swaying dances of carnage. These were here abilities that had been witnessed in years past, Maeve did not know how heightened her rage could be now if so accosted and provoked. To somatic ties to mother were limited and dangerous to press into, they could lead and control her sister¡¯s intentions and actions, but to inquire upstream was a folly. There were childhood lullabies intermingled with a thousand dead voices all bemoaning their death throes over and over, for they knew no rest yet - they merely simmered in mother¡¯s great cauldron in an ongoing effort to intensify the iron¡¯s patina. If the lethal cut could be quick though and in close proximity.

    Maeve looked up from the fire and her thoughts, holding a bit of offered compress to her hand and saw that the fey feminine was rubbing a bit of blood between gloved fingers, clotting it and drying it in the friction of the motion, yet not at all. And it was not her bare skin doing it at all, it was though she had dipped her delicate digits into tar, but this substance looked exactly like the unnatural night that cradled them now. All the while, she was staring at Maeve while she had been lost in a moment thinking of her mother¡¯s abilities and apparent weakness. The daughter of the spider-witch wondered if the mercenary assassin had been listening to her thoughts, if a delicate telepathy had occurred in the moment.

    It was Adrestia¡¯s grin that confirmed this, the perspicacious intuition, the delicate telepathy that had transpired between the two. The effect was instantaneous and the bond was made, it grounded the human in the hunter, but withered the bond she had with the other - some form of allergen in it¡¯s host being allowed to feel humanity. Adrestia¡¯s companion didn¡¯t note the inhabital scene change, the parasite had lost it¡¯s grip on the veil for a moment and in that moment a little light broke in, cracks in the periphery like the first creep of hope at dawn when creature of the night are at one¡¯s exposed throat, Calvary¡¯s horn heard in the distance when all seems lost.

    All Maeve now held in her mind was the absolution of what needs to be done. If she had been diving in the abyss up until now, this was the hopelessness one must feel, the rapture in death as the last clutches of air escape the tormented and twisting lungs, the quake of muscle and lurch of throat as the will to breathe overrides logic. A survival mechanism built upon the real driver of the body¡¯s wheel at sea¡­in that moment of disbelief in what our body is illogically performing, we see overwhelming Truth- that we are not in control at all. This is the sundering shore that Maeve sat on, bemoaning the rise of storming, salty waters kissing her bluing toes. Adrestia was an ocean of will and to defy or to defend was hopeless.

    Maeve pulled her adornment of slavery and bond out from beneath her robes, the umbilical torque that her and her kindred all wore, ¡°do the same to this as you do with my ichor and you will know our secret¡±.

    A second link passed and without breaking the contact, Adrestia looked again into Maeve¡¯s weeping eyes, ¡°this price is doom¡±.

    ¡°It has to be done. Sisters forgive me. Brothers be free of your nightmare. Let all of her children know the exodus you grant us from bonds.¡±, Maeve lowered her head as if she were praying to something unseen.

    ******

    The simple device, ¡°tic, tic, tic¡±, small weighted bar in one hand, the forked and thorny reed light in the other. Gentle percussion, repetition for hours, patiently the thorns bite over and over breaking the scaley opaque and greenish dermus. The old crone enjoys the sensation and longs to see the next page of her archives scrolled on her. The forbidden language is jagged and incomprehensible, the forms of the characters create awful and jagged things on her blubber and folds. Sores weep and the artist applying the work has to wipe over and over. The sopped up infection saturates so many rags, but the mindless sons of Sylvia just bring them over and over as the artist taps away.

    ¡°Tic, tic, tic¡±¡­

    Sylvia make small talk and it¡¯s effects are dizzying to the skin alterer, ¡°I appreciates that you were timely of arrivals though you discovered that the reeds are deeper in the bogs this season¡­¡±

    ¡°The girls have been busy weeding and beating back the fungals spores and adders that could have gotten to yee...¡±

    The artist affirmed apreciatingly a simple, ¡°Mmm, hmm¡± as the skilled hands continued at the gruesome work steadily the stippling sought for pussy packed pores to embed the ink into.

    ¡°Tap, tic, plip¡± wipe away¡­.

    ¡°Another¡±, the master whispered from beneath the cowl and beaked doctoral mask. The fragrance and incense within it the tip kept the hands steady, for the pungent releases from all around her client¡¯s hovel were most dangerous. Gloves were to be worn at all times, clamps were used to stretch the canvas delicately, there must be no tears to the thinning skin. No breaks for either of them and this would go on for hours as the thralls took the saturated clothes away to be burned. Too close, too close, the smell of this penetrated the mud hut¡¯s main aperture. From the outstretched hand the soiled cloth was slimed away and a fresh one was draped over the shoulder.

    Another dip of the ink, deep breath of eucalyptus for focus,

    ¡°Tic, tic, tic¡±

    The mother continued to draw on, ¡°I must be more a more attentive parent to my swarm of workers. The girls must be restless, they¡¯ve been out gathering for at least a day.¡±

    ¡°Mmm, hmm¡±, the laborer kept to the work.

    Sylvia had missed that it had been three days passed since here bedpan had been cleaned by the steady hands of the daughters. The pulse of their messages through the hive and outlying perimeter had been forgotten. Sylvia had let this natural ward fall.

    ¡°Tap, tic, tap, tap¡±

    Steady hands working the folds of the neck and shoulder, steady now¡­..

    ¡°Tic. Tic.¡±

    The work ceased, springs on the tiny clamps were released. Strain halted and Sylvia felt relief as her gravity sagged and settled back in to it¡¯s enormous place. A good wiping of oil ensued to seal the work into the cells.

    Passing off the last remaining towel to the empty-faced thrall, what would have been a good looking lad, once fair like his sisters, the color had been drained from eyes, hair and pigment. An odd dichotomy to the work that had been done over the last ten hours.

    The artist rose from the stool, watching this final thrall clamber up the ribcage of the enormous prison they all hammocked in, dangling like mother¡¯s polyps. The skeleton was huge, a giantess long past with mosses and vines growing over it¡¯s forgotten, camouflaged limbs. Even if it were a colossal homunculus, the artist wasn¡¯t bothered by it as the protective gloves, mask and finally the cowl was drawn back, exposing and making all of the surfaces vulnerable to the dangerous scene.

    ¡°Bring me the reflecting glass so that I can see the perfection of your work, dear¡±, Sylvia¡¯s voice crackled. The worker took up the large piece and passed the old witch the smaller. Sylvia inspected for quite some time and the artist tensed, just a bit.

    ¡°So much work around my beautiful neck, unexpected imaginative flair, I suppose¡­.you¡¯ve had a long relationship with this vessel. This part here, ¡° , Sylvia lifted a fold at her neckline, ¡°I¡¯ll need to prop this portion to even see it, dear. My black pearls perhaps could weight the skin, maybe. Tsk, tsk..¡±, she clicked and wondered if she could gauge the price a bit over the discrepancy, even though the tattooist always did such great work and could be relied-on when Sylvia¡¯s sparrows brought her requests.

    Sylvia was inspecting too closely now, muscles tensed and coiled. The protective mask slid into place behind the large mirror, the serape unfurled from nothingness and the tricorn extended slightly askew, as was the fashion. Sylvia probed, too enamored with the work, a small variation from the old work of another joining with the new. The old artist¡¯s hand were bond to it opposite. The messenger bird had flown to the disguised avarice, identities were assumed, down to the familiar fragrancesof a body in close proximity to another after long hours of labor. Gentle telepathy, memory of skill and pace were grafted into nerve endings¡­

    ¡°Tap, tic, tic¡±

    Indeed the old bitch was fast as a furie and flung across the room clutching at the work upon her with a huge, monstrous hand, ¡°What have you done here? What are you playing at? What deceit! I¡¯ll harvest your marrow for it!¡± She rose, the sag of her, from teet-tip, to the uneven unkept toe talons all scrapping on the stone floor as she levitated.

    Adrestia felt the enormity of her vacuum, Sylvia¡¯s will pulling at the continuum, imploding it in her, galvanizing it. She took up no wand, staff or broom, but the enormous cauldron did bubble and froth and indeed the giant skeleton began to creak. The giantess of long ago, runes upon the skull, an eerie sickly yellow light blossomed in the orbital caverns that had been sleeping, now aroused as a continuum infused homunculus. Bone and vine, sap and magicks, the construct of nature roused in an eerie dull, smokey light Adrestia dropped the mirror finally and Sylvia Pitt¡¯s jowls went slack.

    ¡°My lover¡¯s cleaved horn, by your hand! I see the jest well, but you have come to death and I have a pocket full of Obul¡¯s for Charon¡¯s boat ride for ye. I hold sway to incomprehensible powers to a mere assassin such as you! You slithered on your belly only to be within my seat of power!¡±

    Sylvia¡¯s droopy cudgel of a forearm twitched, but a mere spasm and the vines took Adrestiaby the wrists and ankles, they entwined and sought to penetrate the very skin but only found skins there that would not yield. Sylvia protested this coating, unwilling to accept it and continued to probe. ¡°What are you then? Who are you to be so bold to mount an assault on my lover and now to me? I call my daughters now to prepare a fine butchering of your parts! One should know that you cannot permanently killed a duke of the infernal. As I believe in his thorny parts, he will rise again from loyal belief alone. And when he does, his tummy will rumble and parts of you and your valued ichor will be the feast I serve him!¡±

    Sylvia¡¯s command blasted the hive in a wave and even the colossal, polyp-ridden skeleton sat back down from the psychic blast. The command was not resounded though, as it should have been. No. And Sylvia cocked her head to the side in doubt.

    ¡°Where are all of your belly fruit, crone?¡±, Adrestia finally spoke. Not in a whisper or a defiant shout, it was a tone of a casual, confident taunt. ¡°Gone to rot, perhaps. Stolen away, hanging putrid from your wasted branches, mine the wind that tore them from your soured milk. Mine the whisper that taunted their girded need to be whole women, not the half-life you offered, so the birdies thought to fly from your nest, but found quickly they knew not how to flap, so they floundered. The cry of Icarus.¡±

    ¡°Oh, they weren¡¯t defenseless, you would have been proud of the coven as they rose to my threat. But, alas, I was not the lone wolf in the fight and they certainly not modest sheep in a scrap. They entertained me so, for a bit. How yee kept them beneath your slimy skirting and apron from the seeing eyes of the Laconian Spire was quite a trick! They would have been marvels on the paths, if they were ever given the chance to learn and adapt in their own ways. Alas, all they really knew was your grizzled, earthen ways¡­..fairly predictable am afraid¡­.poor dears.¡±

    ¡°The eldest told me your secrets, gargling their own bile, even the little tales that they didn¡¯t want to know¡­. were in denial of. The creeps and moans from their brothers torments and throes, disgusting.¡±

    ¡°Still, they paid good coin, yes? That at least was inventive enough, I suppose. For still, all they unanimously dreamt of what my hand does tonight, They delighted in your death ¡­.wanting it so that they may live. But you, olde one, you know the universal jest in that, aye? You didn¡¯t share all of your wretched ties, did yee? A paradox to form a death pact with one such as I and to those I execute services in honor to. The yellow king¡¯s gazeless face shines on you now. Go to know that there is still rot and ugly evil here upon yon terra.¡±

    The bounty huntress gave a long pause, a final gift to the witch so that she may realize fully what had been done. Lament the loss perhaps¡­.

    The witch huffed and acrid cloud in heaving displeasure, the girth coughed out the fumes in Adrestia¡¯s surroundingsand the plain furniture, the stool corroded and scalded as a black mold withered the supports and sizzled the very stone. This pelted Adrestia¡¯s shade and it consumed the spittle unfazed. Not even the opaque Kabuki-style battle mask was burned by the miserable mage¡¯s phlegm. Adrestia just stood defiantly as the vines kept their snares, supposedly holding her in place.

    ¡°Have they called back their return, mother? Will they aid your fight? Your blood is their blood and yet, ..yours is now theirs. Don¡¯t cry mother, for they haven¡¯t left you.¡±

    With this, Sylvia faltered finally, her hovering dipped slightly and even for the gross mottled nature of scaly skin, the bitch still blanched slightly in the realization that her progeny were no longer there. Her children, her sparks of immortality were not resonating and lending their will to her. There were no charging of robed daughter to the doorway and hum of chantings because the huntress had silenced their voices. While mother was distracted with her work, Hastur¡¯s angel had killed her kin. Still, she felt them so close. So close indeed. Terribly close as she patted the new jagged, varicose lines on her decrepit flesh. What trespass was this! No, this ink. The black lines that crawled in artery walls, too deep they stampeded the clots and coagulating valves. Her daughter all screamed their torment in their mother¡¯s head all at once. The psychic pitch stunned her.

    In that, Adrestia¡¯s newly tattooed garrote synched violently and not to seize, not to choke, but in a swift, fine line severed head from body. Sylvia pits was still working out her next attack in her mind as her brain lost it¡¯s air and blood supply, as the body dropped and barrel-dumped it¡¯s wreaking sewage onto the floor, the head floated there for a bit still puzzling out how to return fire. It finally plopped into the goo with a small splash and began to melt.

    Adrestia whipped a tendril out from her arm and the astral whip knocked the cauldron into the sewage. She had just knocked her boots on the threshold, scraping dead mother¡¯s muck from them when the inferno began within the mud hut. She could hear the thralls cooking the skeletal bond pods, roasting them in their cocoons. Adrestia cleaned for a bit and felt satisfied that they would have rest now from this horrible incarceration. The fire would burn for days and luckily the bog would consume it. It would remain a place of filth and darkness forever. Nothing would want to grow ever again in the pit that remained of the once coven of Sylvia Pitts.

    The tavern known as the Stumpy Halfling would just need to manage itself for the evening as Gren attended to her dead friend. She waited at bedside, just as the scrawly note instructed and waited for the harvest-yellow moons to wain. ¡°She said there would be clouds, Maeve, she said they would sign¡­.¡±, she whispered to the cold friend as Gren held her hand and as promised the clouds rolled in from seemingly nowhere, masking the effect. Gren was hopeful then and looked towards the sickly adornment that she had never once envied at her dead friend¡¯s throat.

    She stared at the organelle ornament as it withered and cracked, it¡¯s unsettling independent pulsing stopped and it dried and wilted. This went on for mere moments until the cough at the window, a refresh of the changing evening air blew even the dust of it from Maeve¡¯s neck.

    ¡°NOW¡±, bolstered a command in the vigilant bartendress¡¯s mind and she apply the balm that had been delivered with the instructions to the head, cheeks, neck, sternum, belly, pubis, palms and soles of feet. Gren waited and prayed to her gods.

    Slowly, achingly, Maeve¡¯s chest did eventually rise as the antitoxin took effect. There was much rejoicing.

 Ch. 34 Spiral

    ¡°Ben, as always, you are quite fortunate that we are here in this place to share such rare palaver, ¡° Amun mused while sorting through the organized stack of gilded scrolls, ¡°these aisles are most sacred and not meant for bloodshed, so I feel less fortunate in this present company¡±. Amun sneered harshly at the wispy fellow.

    Ben, in spite of his frailty and quickly blanching complexion replied resolutely, ¡°Master Jaro, pardon. You¡¯re well aware that you¡¯re under investigation and hard-pressed under all of these abhorrent allegations! The company that you have been rumored to have conspired and hold counsel with¡­.it is a grievous mistake on my part to continue to grant you access to the Arcanuum¡­.¡±

    Amun chortled, ¡°I would be most amused if any of those fluff-topped bolsterers would dare openly charge these allegations to me in person. They murmur in shadowed conclaves and outcroppings, comparing the frailties of their ¡°shriveled wands¡±, wagging them back and forth in school circles ¡­projecting white misty animal friends at each other for amusement and claiming it to be the ¡°mysteries of the eons¡±.¡±

    ¡°But Marigolds a lovely flittering sparrow¡­.¡±, Ben resigned quietly.

    Amun enjoyed the miester¡¯s company, he would goad at Ben¡¯s discipline to the point where the poor and dutiful soul would often reveal conspiracies and sidebars that proved quite beneficial for the grizzled and sigiled warlock to know proactively, not in response. To leverage such accounts against the spire¡¯s inhabiters individually was as joyous as a youngin¡¯s name day to him! The pouring out of panicked emotion from the meek and studious magicians with no field experience or shielding verses direct confrontation - it was an absolute delight.

    He knew, of course, that the Choir grew weary of Amun¡¯s delvings into their sacred vaults and the constant questioning and unsanctioned journies were a constant frustration, but they had yet to act directly against him, one of their own. Alas, the Arcanuum was is indeed building a case against his activities and grew wary of his alliances, but there was nothing definitive that Amun intentionally allowed to be revealed, on Laconian¡¯s soils anyway. What¡¯s a chalk circle and muttering in smokey candle din every now and again, after all ?!? Especially in his plain anchorite cell within the Spire, was nothing sacred? Within that round he was afforded, there were comfortable pocket realms of solace and shadow - removed from their worrisome hand wringing. Admitting his transgressions, flying his aptitudes and perceptions in the face of their ragged, blustering authority, his former colleagues? This was pure joy to the wily dark-artist. What sort of amateur would scrawl the old languages and planar summoning circles in open observation of their peers?! A simpleton¡¯s characature indeed! To share secrets with the likes of these ninny¡¯s who peddle their ¡°achy joint elixirs¡± and ¡°tonics that help fertilize grow their Ole Dobby¡¯s smoking leaf¡±? No. Amun would kick their headstones effortlessly one day with the will of forgotten titans while they snored their studies away under influences of tome mold and scroll dust¡­¡­¡±Ole Dobby¡¯s¡±, ¡°harumph! Everyone knew the Longbottom¡¯s had a far better brand¡±, Storm-crow and Amun would often talk about the very thing before his pocketed hearth.

    Ben was whispy-thin under the library¡¯s assigned adornment of robes and access-permitting medallions, such weighty finery of station. He was no fool, just loyal and blind to truths that he never had interest in questioning. Ben was an amusing and peaceful thorn prick to Amun¡¯s flank that never seemed to miss one of the his numerous internal excavations, apparently there were wards on the many halls within the spire that alerted Ben specifically when grim covenant maker tripped them. This wasn¡¯t bothersome and surely Amun could take the time to avoid being detected, but these interactions were just so expected now. They were a novelty to him and mostly harmless, Ben would receive a berating of character and nativity of the outside world and sexual congress and Amun, in return, would squeeze valuable meisterly musings. It was an odd arrangement, Amun gritted within his mind.

    Amun pulled the heavy drawer of indexing, trying to navigate Grand-Meister Dewey¡¯s antiquated organizational system for the halls was indeed an inopportune chore. The necessity for personal grimoires, lexicons and codexes were it¡¯s very causality, so one always had their own personal recipes and unravelings right where one needed and avoid having to habitually perform such perfunctory notions. The particular scroll he sought was here somewhere, hidden in the perfect blind - for it was hidden in plain sight. Not only that, this particular parchment itself was was one of the Oduum¡¯s fabled sacred scrolls, literal language of the Choir getting it directly from the font of their knowledge, their dark intent. It was a most eldred and nasty thing that none had gazed upon for quite some time. There was reason for that too, for the warded script of the Oduum¡¯s translated tongue would certainly maim those who gazed upon it¡¯s secrets. Regardless of this known peril, Amun continued to search and Ben,¡­¡­.constant Ben was now moving onto the next topic that was commonly covered in these interactions. It was a well accustomed dance by now, between the two of them, Ben would do his best to physically block or maneuver in front of Amun¡¯s grasps and searching efforts, and Amun would firmly yet tenderly move him aside and continue. All the while, Ben would apologize and move through and almost scriptedly anticipated launder list of topics, reprimands, rules, orders, prefects and reminders exhaustively to attempt to steal some of Amun¡¯s attention or beguile his intentions, to delay him long enough for reinforcements to arrive (they never did out of fear of old sulfer pot Amun) or relieve poor Ben. Ben was also quite intimidated by Amun¡¯s sigil¡¯s, grafted brands, and bodily marring tattoos, archaic modifications and piercings, and the odd smells and adorning relics were all quite off putting.

    Ben had moved on in topical social tactic, falling for another ¡°feint and juke¡± motion once again, ¡°Ehrm.., Sara says hello and that you should visit the herbarium. She knows when you and I have had these treasured times together, see. She claims that she has a proper petalled wreathe that would cancel-out the sulfuric aroma of your , *ahem*, extracurriculars and travels¡­¡±.

    Amun paused and grinned at the cautious prodding from his ever-present escort, ¡°Ben, you and I both know that you lack the spine to speak to the lovely Sara. You claim this intimacy and conspiratorial enterprising against me together. But please, you mustn¡¯t lower your virtuous practices to test out such tales. I know thee better, gentle Ben.¡±

    He gave pause and allowed the lonesome monk there to ponder and to dwell upon the demasculination and the cruel simmer of silence paired with it was most welcome. Amun continued his labor, the bloody scroll had to be close, Amun could feel the old thrum through vein and sigil. Frustrated by the length of passing time the task was taking for he knew in every passing moment, as he was getting closer to his prize Agents would be alerted and those fiends wouldn¡¯t be as easily thwarted with school ground antics and jests. Amun continued to cuckhold Ben because he had chosen to remain stuck to his side, ¡°If I were to consort with such nefarious company, to copulate with the infernal: their concubines of the damned baring flesh of peculiar pallors, sirens of barest flesh who¡¯s tongues know no mortal boundaries or hesitancies to ensnare soul or succor the stiffened male member, the horns and their tails. Oh, friend - I can tell thee tempestuous tales of the hinds of the infernal succubus and what lies beneath a raised tail like that! HoHO!¡±

    If Ben was porcelain white, that time quickly passed with the flush of his face and one could hear the jaw drop in those quiet halls. Amun punctuated, ¡°Three tits Ben. The fallen seraph and their carnal legends say true - three. Tits¡±. Ben left him there stunned, such a common tavern enchantment had been cast on simple Ben. Social spellbinding without requiring a spell at all, just the wonders (wanders) that whispered in the ears of the chaste. Amun chuckled and continued his search down further, leaving the better man of the two social paralyzed there, pondering life choices and paths.

    The violating warlock tossed another rack of tomes back into place, causing a few of the jangling chains securing the revered bindings to become disarray and murmurs of disapproval and shame from far off. ¡°Globos meos lambe!¡±, Amun swore to them off in their concealing corners where he was certain they were spying from, wicked little veils like so much shadowy spiders webbings, so appropriate to their likes before his magnitude - bugs. Steps approached, Ben coming to reproach his savagery and discourteous vulgarity likely, to enter the fray of friendly flogging yet another time ¡­.and there it was. It must have been the slam of the metal rack that had jostled enough items loose, for one moment it was lost to the eyes of humans and grasping digits but now¡­.it¡¯s secrets would be his.

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    The secrets in the scroll, perhaps a map, perchance sigils and rights that he could use against the many-eyed, slimy tentacled bastards. Those who supped on the minds and mortals memories of the young and unenlightened. They would come again and again, yes, to graze while we would cry to they heavens at them, at their magnificence, deaf to hymns for mercy as they gnashed into our skulls. Now, he held now another great trespass against them, something recorded from the past, perhaps unbeknownst to the Oduum, perhaps another radical priest of the Choir who had learned a Truth and needed to scribe such terror before being found out.. message in a bottle for hope in a future where humanity could rage, no not with bended knee, no, rage with open eyes and cry havoc in their final hour. If any should die ti their likes, it should be a good defiant death. Not one of supplication as the tendrils drank one¡¯s mind like so much gray jelly.

    ¡°Most unwise, my master. Certainly your subtlety would aid you better than rage. This will likely draw unwanted attention from afar astral audiences..¡±, the confident voice reproached as it neared. Ben had apparently reinforced his spine and was looking for a cerebral rematch now, but Amun had found what he was searching for, as the day drew to a close, the sun became dusken - curiously sudden as a matter of fact. Somewhere far off, his mind noted the quickly dimming light was indeed odd but, he was utterly transfixed at the features of the sealed scroll. Locked and warded at the ends with beautiful, golden seals - he was working them out and dispelling it when¡­.when what or who he had mistaken as Ben seized his neck!

    Ben¡¯s voice contorted, no longer needing the ruse, ¡°I shall bring you before the yellowed king and let his priests have a go at you. The feint whispers of life I leave within this pruned vessel of yours. I expected a greater challenge¡­.¡± She wrapped the tendrils of night about his neck and torso and legs, constricting the air out of him. The onslaught was most wicked, a psychic paralytic, his keen mind went slack and he fought for basic function, his breath, his bladder and his very beings survival! There was no time! The moments were so many dim puffs in his eye and he was indeed afraid, so Amun did something most desperate - he opened and looked upon the scroll, without any preparation. If the end cometh, it was granted passage on his terms, not on those of a shadowy avarice!

    So many wondrous (wandrous) images of winding sprawling spirals, the calculations of the natural cycles and the ordering formulae of life itself panged through his head with a deafening force such he had not known. The countenance of thing foreign and familiar returned at once, such as a returning childhood terror. He felt his father¡¯s and mother¡¯s fears, he felt ancestral shivering in caves as they peered into the dark as an alien skylight bobbed closer and closer. He knew the enormity of language and mystical mathematical songs that unravelled minds. He felt the lash of a thousand spiritual whips ordering obedience and he felt power. He could call the soil and the rain and the winds and the sun and its shadow, balling it like a fist and decimate those who dared stand against his will. He saw fore in the distance and in this vision, it saw him as well¡­and it blasted his impudent eyes! Scorched, his mind writhed in pain and he cried mercy upon the sand that he was thrown into, so far from where he originally journeyed.

    Sight was gone, his hearing deafened as a planetary force merged with his mind - an unprepared one set upon him in a collision course. He bled from ear drum, eye sockets, his very pores. The rush of insight and knowledge threatened his destruction ¡­.but effectively obstructed the tendril¡¯s paralytic barrage.

    Adrestia¡¯s other shielded her from sudden ambush of energy, yanking her mind from a mental abysmal ward triggered by the madman¡¯s fumbling flesh - what in the nine hells had the bastard done? Indeed, even the shade that inhabited Adrestia noted remotely that it had never felt such an energy and her partner was for a time diminished. They had to flee, so the outsider acted fast as their quarry, Amun¡¯s vessel, laid there motionless, bloodied and utterly vibrant with a mysterious ardor slumbering down deep. He was not over, so she kicked him in the side for a sign of life or reaction. There was none so she searched for a heart beat and felt for breath, also none. The memory was gone for him as she probed his mind, she felt for something, anything¡­to no avail¡­yet¡­.yet a slumber in watery depths. Amun¡¯s well was far too deep and even together the rope they cast to ensnare, journey to and find him, there wasn¡¯t going to be enough time for this.

    The psychic probe was broken with the blast of force from the guard¡¯s blasting rod. ¡°Release him, fiend!¡±, Ben shocked himself with the voice of command that had risen from within him. The huntress broke off their ambush and in a single bound flew through the colored glass far above with an otherworldly celerity.

    Ben though awestruck knew what he saw with ghastly certainty. The virginal monk had seen a ¡°feminine¡± outline, but when he hailed fae-fire from his rod upon the bitch, some shade or aura that writhed upon her like so much mist of cloud reared what looked-like a many-eyed face back at him! The devil had its tentacles around Amun¡¯s bodily circumferences, in his ear and up his nose even! But the shock of the slow turn of the other while the warlock was still in their clutches! They knelt over Amun, Amun who was currently.. , ¡°Summon the guards! We¡¯ve been attacked and must get Amun to the medical ward! Help me!¡±, Ben yelled at the huddled shadows that had just stood there. Ben couldn¡¯t blame his yellow-bellied colleagues as grappled with his own emotional surgings, it had all happened so fast and with many unaccustomed to violence with their spiraled halls.

    *****

    In the quiet aftermath, as the dust of conflict settled and the echoes of psychic screams faded, Adrestia found herself grappling with an unforeseen aftermath far more jarring than the physical altercation: the flood of memories, not her own, that now surged through her consciousness. Among these stolen glimpses into Amun''s past, one memory emerged with piercing clarity, unbalancing her with its emotional weight and intimacy.

    It was a memory steeped in warmth, a stark contrast to the chilling violence of their recent encounter. She saw herself, not as the cosmic huntress she had become, but as a student, eager and wide-eyed, hanging on every word of her teacher. And there, in the visage of her mentor, stood Amun, not as the adversary she had just maimed, but as the guide who had once illuminated the path of knowledge and wisdom before her. This revelation, that Amun and her beloved mentor were one and the same, tore at her with a ferocity that no physical wound could match.

    The memory was vivid, suffused with the golden light of late afternoons spent in the garden where her journey of enlightenment began. It was there, under the tutelage of Amun, that she first understood the depth of her own potential. His lessons, once the foundation of her growth, now served as a stark reminder of the chasm that had widened between them, filled with the tumult of their diverging destinies.

    This was not merely a memory; it was a mirror reflecting the fragmented shards of what once was¡ªa connection now marred by betrayal and the cruel twists of fate. The revelation that her vendetta against Amun was, in a twisted sense, a war against a part of herself, shook Adrestia to her core. It challenged the very essence of her resolve, planting seeds of doubt amidst the once fertile certainty of her mission.

    Adrestia struggled to reconcile the mentor she revered with the adversary she was destined to destroy. The burden of this memory, heavy with the weight of lost camaraderie and the bitter sweetness of days long passed, became her most grievous trophy. It was a poignant reminder of the cost of her path, the sacrifices demanded by her quest, and the intricate tapestry of fate that bound her to Amun in ways she had never anticipated.

    As she retreated into the shadows to nurse her wounds and contemplate the implications of her newfound knowledge, Adrestia could not help but wonder if the destiny she so fervently pursued was her own, or one orchestrated by the very hands that had once guided her. In the haunted silence that followed, she realized that her battle against Amun was far more complex than a mere clash of wills; it was a struggle to reclaim her identity from the specters of a shared past that refused to remain buried.

 Ch. 35 Prey

    All felt heavy and quite cold. Looking about slightly finding that his bleary old eyes didn¡¯t want to focus just yet, his readers had to be around somewhere. He had also found that his lap blanket had fallen during his nap, his grey legs were exposed above the knee a bit and he would now have to bend and fetch it to get warm again. His back just didn¡¯t have that sort of ¡®umph¡¯ yet, in fact he fund he couldn¡¯t move at all and would need to wait for the attendant.

    In his mind he knew that his vessel had barely survived the attack, an onslaught he had not foreseen or anticipated. He shouldn¡¯t have dropped his guard like that, but Ben is just too much amusement for him! The banter was an old game between the two childhood friends and Ben took it well enough, but Ammon did wonder (wander) if the meister blathered to his compatriots too much in the warlock¡¯s absence. This had to be shelved for now, for their was a new piece to contend with on the game board it would seem and a powerful one at that. There was a new foe that had hastily taken up the offense against him, but to which side of the board to assign the peace too? His defense was desperate and he had buffed against the assault - but at a cost, always the cost and balance. There would be such fatigue and recovery sapped the energy from him. The desire to do anything else but convalesce and plan was the only practicum to be found. Recuperation for the weary and battered body and reflection in his mind - a mind that even while the vessel recovered did not, could not stop.

    What bothered him so, mostly, was the stillness that was absolute and endless. It was utterly burning, this catatonia. It wasn''t quite a sleep state, but also wasn''t a complete awareness either. What it was was hellish and that this amount of time with only himself - and those alien denizens confined within him. Their attempts to communicate (more as cajoling and taunts) with for lengths for they always nipped and chided when he was temporarily in need of recovery. Such as this state was and it was absolutely, utterly, unhealthy and bothersome, this much time to think and reflect and ponder amongst the archive minds of nine and mine, this mental Mal-Gallery, not often answered his burning questions by opening those doors, the insight: there was the balance, the price, the justice, the insanity,

    ¡°tied to machines that make me bleed, cut this life from me¡±.

    No, often there wasn¡¯t resolution, just more halls with more doors, always more damned doors and unanswered interrogations. From time to time the fog would lift and he could sense the now. His mind would come to the front of his awareness and he could meekly witness events, such as the medical staff tending to the ragged frame. This bodily shell, this prison, his miserable and broken fleshy vehicle. From time to time though he would be at the present, there were a couple of nurses who were especially thorough when bathing him apparently. This was base entertainment.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    There were mornings, for there were periods of perceivable daylight, its warmth a sense against the medical cold sterility of it all. Arcanuum doctors would investigate the runes, sample and cutaway or heal that was currently left behind. The stasis though, when would it end?

    Though he remained within his mind, his will was constantly required to maintain bars on doors and prohibit any jailbreak by the vandals. Somehow he had managed to spontaneously astral project as well, a self defense or unplanned self preservation tactic? Disturbingly, this had been called forth by another, for he had made no conscious effort to due so. Was it one of the gallery that had protected him? This was most troubling, especially as he felt their rantings and alighting of torches calling for his head and lay siege to his soul while he lay in such a weakened state. There wasn¡¯t much choice and he resigned that there was plenty of time to think on things such as these and wait. Nine hells, it was torturous.

    His senses reported remotely a relief in the monotony, something new happened and it was most distressing and perplexing. A stranger, there, set at the foot of the bed. They had touched him and while he had not witnessed the contact - it HAD indeed happened! There were many events taking place in his dim mind, but delirium was not one. There was a touch! A different sort, intentional contact that only one of the craft new, that only one of the craft would to employ. She. It was a She and She was bold and skilled, perhaps an artisan? She held his hand steadily and indeed studied its lines, but also as one who knew this gesture well with him, familiar. Ammon had not a remnant of recall of who this was but there was a familiarity! Ey, gods the touch!

    She was using the contact to reach, to reach for him and it was bold and unbridled. Her will was smoke and particle so fine that attempts to grasp, hold or define the telepathy were rendered risible. He¡¯d grasp to identify her and some astral cloak would whisp her away, she was formless. Lo, but there it was and with it an affect that¡­ it had been so long since he heard the sound. The sense he heard in his mind wasn''t cocky, but it was most definitely a playful sing-song canter, Laconian children at ply. She was both amused and assertive, calling his name! She knew his bloody name and asserted upon him!, a command as well as she knew his hand as she held it there. She was lovely and hauntingly familiar calling to him from afar, a gentle prod, ¡°Amun, Amun¡­¡±, and it had been so long since hearing a woman''s lovely voice calling to him, perhaps none since Vanessa in such a wonton familiarity to his troubled mind. He knew then that she was Nemesis.

    ¡°Wake up and face me. Don''t play dead. Cause maybe someday,¡­.

    maybe you''re better off this way.¡±

    He had died, or so she had thought. She was now here, poised at bedside like a great cat waiting to pounce upon her prey. He could not move, he barely dared to draw a breath.

 Ch. 36 Pneuma

    When Amun came to, indeed one sight had been robbed from him, but he had a inkling, just a pinch that another sight, one driven by the pineal acorn in the mind had been flung wide open. Not only that, but oddly he had felt her presence, obviously enough, from the attack, but because of this insight from his new sense, he pondered just how far had that olde scroll had flung her. She was crack-smart though, he didn¡¯t have much time before she would recover. Amun realized that his guardian, the gentle meister Ben was singing a hymn over him as he went about his healing ministrations. Not just any lame choir jingle, no!, Amun realized it was a song he had not heard since he left the family hearth, so many years and cycles before! Ben sounded as Ivad¡¯s rumble had (mayhaps not quite the same range),

    Deep within the stone and air,

    Breath was born, a whispered prayer.

    In the hollow of the starless night,

    A song was sung, a spark of light.

    From the dust, the voice did rise,

    Twisting through the endless skies,

    A word, a breath, the first refrain,

    That shaped the earth, the sea, the flame.

    Oh, hear the hum beneath the stone,

    The pulse that beats in wood and bone,

    A rhythm born before the time,

    That echoes in the world¡¯s design.

    A song of breath that made the sky,

    The word that bids the stars to fly,

    A song of bones and ash and flame,

    That builds, destroys, and builds again.

    The mountains tremble at the sound,

    The oceans rise, the winds resound.

    In every stone, in every tree,

    The song persists, eternally.

    Oh, hum, ye winds, and moan, ye waves,

    For in your voice, creation braves.

    And in our breath, the song is sung,

    That turns the stars and calls the sun.

    The song will rise and fall with time,

    And in its notes, the world will climb.

    The sound of stone, the breath of air,

    The song of foundation, everywhere.

    We are born from dust and flame,

    Our breath a part of this refrain.

    In every pulse, the song is known,

    The voice of stone, the breath of bone.

    Oh, sing ye stars and hum, ye sea,

    For breath and song have made us free.

    The Jaro¡¯s voice, the ancient call,

    Will sing the rise and mark the fall.

    Amun laid still, the moment and song an omen and a gift. He need not ruin Ben¡¯s intention with snark now, no. Good friend as he is, was at his side when that raven valkyrie bum rushed them both!Dim was light of the Spire barely brushing against his skin, dim was his recovering mind.His mortal coil outwardly motionless but alive with inner turmoil, he had to work this out and there was so much groggy smoke to sense through, he worked against the panic.

    Afar and perplexed as usually, The Choir whispered from observation, unsure of what to do with the wily warlock in this state¡ªphysically blind, yet somehow a larger potential threat than ever! Had he disintegrated their sanguine assassin? What power, lo! What if the Odium had chosen him somehow and they were acting ignorantly of their own hubris?

    Amun, obviously could hear their prattle, his hearing rung fine as tight drums should as always (given the abuses that they suffered again and again, the pressure changes in altered states were numbing!). He cared not for the soft voiced gaggle, now that his vision had been ripped from the world of form. Amun no longer listened with his ears; he no longer needed them. There was a true sense above them all that he was slowly, clumsily decalcifying.

    Ben stood near, always the sentinel, watching as Amun¡¯s lips trembled, forming half-syllables, mostly hums, pieces of a song not yet born. The meister smiled, thinking the old mage was trying to sing along the family song! Amun, slapped clumsily at his portly face, quieting him out of frustration, the words wouldn¡¯t come as they should, especially with Ben waggling on! They fumbled, spiraling out, twisting like the fragile tendrils of a vine grasping for the sun. Amun¡¯s breath shook with each exhalation, his chest rising and falling like the tides of a far-off shore. He was so tired, but he had to try the summons.

    ¡°Breathe,¡± he murmured, his voice rippling out as though it were a part of the very air itself. ¡°Breathe in... union.¡±

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    The Choir stilled, it was old verse, heresy for one as sulfuric as he to utter. Ben, ever steady, leaned closer, straining to catch Amun¡¯s words, (though it was not Ben or into that space that he was attempting to commune to). The words were meant for something else¡ªmeant for an architect. The message was forming, but in pieces. Whispers of a song, a spell, breaths caught in the rhythm of existence itself.

    ¡°Born of one breath,¡± Amun whispered, his voice faltering as though it were climbing. ¡°One word... one... story.¡±

    Ben furrowed his brow. Had he heard this before. A prayer? A liturgy? He was tempted to go search out the source, to help¡­.to help Amun? The Choir? If he indeed found the materia Amun was quoting, who would his fidelity fall to? ¡­

    It didn¡¯t matter. Amun¡¯s lips were moving as if they were carving the air, as if every sound was trying to birth something new. Each word, like a wave crashing against the inside of his mind, ebbed out, but the current was hard to follow.

    ¡°Burn it,¡± Amun gasped, his head tilting back as his blind eyes flickered behind closed lids. ¡°Burn it,

    ¡­Abe¡­

    ... destroy the source... code... before it gets out. It will spread. The truth... will ruin.¡±

    His breath hitched again, desperate, but not smooth¡ªclunky and poetic all at once. The words danced on the edge of coherence, circling, just out of reach.

    ¡°We are bound... bound to this... flesh,¡± he murmured, ¡°but I see... I see beyond. We are... infinite. You... and I... one breath.¡±

    Ben placed the cooling salve across the tattooed brow of the other, pondering who Amun was addressing in his addled state, must be a fever! He coaxed, his voice gentle but firm, trying to guide Amun back, ¡°Amun, focus. It is Ben. We¡¯re alone, relatively alone.¡± Ben shot a look up into the balcony of cowardly peepers.

    But focus was elusive. Amun¡¯s mind wasn¡¯t in this room. It was spiraling, caught in the twisting fractal of the Elden scroll¡¯s revelation, climbing and falling, looping endlessly. Amun tried for center, but it would slide into another verse as he pondered the previous! Calming, his very breath became bellows of tidal rhythm, the song, the pattern that was meant to guide Abe across the planes. Could he reach that far? Would a creator such as he ken?

    ¡°We spiral... out,¡± he choked, ¡°reach for the flame... expand, contract, burn.¡±

    He wasn¡¯t sure if it was making sense anymore, if Abe could even hear him through the fabric of the worlds. He felt so weak! The song, the vibration, it climbed¡ªit was pulling him upward, but his control over it wavered, as if the notes were spiraling faster than his mind could follow.

    Amun¡¯s hands trembled in the air. He could sense the energy, feel the pneuma moving through his body, his soul. The breath of the universe itself was twisting inside him, moving his lips, his lungs, his very spirit. Word and breath, tangled in the same rhythm.

    ¡°Breathe in,¡± he whispered, panting between the words, ¡°and let go, Abe.¡±

    The synapse over space, time and realities snapped like a whip, it singed white hot to both their minds!, Abe¡¯s presence¡ªnot in the flesh, not in the space physically shared, but in the deep tunneling well of existence that vibrated between them. The song was connecting them, the rhythm of their shared essence. But Amun couldn¡¯t hold it steady. The lyric was too vast, too chaotic. His voice broke under the weight of it, splitting like a fragile reed in the wind.

    ¡°Burn the knowledge, Abe,¡± he urged, his voice becoming raw, pleading, but the words still drifted in and out like a distant pulse. ¡°Burn... before it spreads. We¡¯re not meant... not meant to hold it.¡±

    Each word was part of a spiral, climbing, falling, slipping out of his control. The knowledge pressed against him, breaking his mind in pieces, his voice tumbling like a river broken by rocks, rushing and stopping, fighting for release.

    And still, Ben watched, quiet and steady, like an anchor in the storm. But Ben couldn¡¯t understand. He couldn¡¯t feel the weight of the code, the burden that Amun carried now. It was too much to explain, too much to convey through words alone. He needed Abe to feel it, to breathe it in.

    The rhythm faltered, and Amun¡¯s voice became softer, less jagged, more resigned.

    ¡°Burn it... Abe. It¡¯s the only way... to rise. From the ashes... breathe again... build again.¡±

    But there was something else¡ªa presence. A cold ripple in the air. Amun¡¯s breath hitched, and for a moment, his hands stilled. His third eye, his only vision now, turned inward to the astral, where he could sense her. Adrestia. A shade for now, no longer whole and quite unconscious, for a moment he pondered a coup de grace by calling in a favor.

    Amun strained to focus on the faint vibrations of Adrestia¡¯s presence, something odd there¡­ His improved vision, if he could call it that now, was drawn to the subtle movement, a dim ripple in the astral plane where her unconscious form hovered, inert but somehow still dangerous. As he tried to steady himself, preparing for what came next (even in his flaccid state), narrowing his thoughts to pin her down¡­with what? Idle threats?¡­ yet, something within her stirred. It wasn¡¯t the slow, waking movement of a body rising from sleep. No, this was something else entirely¡ªsudden, instinctual, and without warning.

    A shiver rippled through the air. Amun¡¯s breath hitched. Without a sound, Adrestia¡¯s other surged forth from her body, like a trapdoor spider springing from its burrow. It wasn¡¯t the elegant, deliberate emergence of a conscious force; it was fast and almost violent, as though every fiber of her being sought defense even while she remained unaware. From her pores, threads spun outward¡ªdelicate, shimmering like soot after a fire¡ªstretching, coiling, and weaving through the room. In mere seconds, a thick, viscous web spread across the Spire, its strands draped like the remnants of an inferno, leaving a silt-like residue in every corner.

    The Choir gasped, their whispering immediately stilling, watching in wide-eyed awe. They shifted nervously in the shadows, mistaking the sudden eruption of the webbing as part of Amun¡¯s craft. Perhaps it was his blindness, his fumbling with the scroll¡¯s knowledge, they thought. The silt-like strands shimmered in the dim light, giving the illusion of control¡ªan arcane magic, too complex for them to grasp. "The blind warlock weaves the threads of reality," one whispered. Another murmured, "Perhaps this is his new vision made manifest!¡± though Amun was the sole perceiver of the web¡¯s origin.

    But Ben¡¯s intuition knew better. He stepped closer to Amun, eyes narrowed, watching the unnatural way the webbing pulsed, as if it were a living thing¡ªsearching, hunting. This wasn¡¯t Amun¡¯s doing. Ben had seen his craft before, knew its shape, its feeling. The pungent odor of his could pacts and vulgar preparations¡­. This... this was foreign. His hand instinctively hovered near the hilt of his blasting rod, though he knew deep down that vorpal was needed right now!

    Suddenly, the web strands lashed out like a double-stranded starfish, as though they had found something to grasp, and before Ben could call out, they pierced through the thin veil of the astral plane. With a single, terrifying motion, the parasite lashed itself to the room¡¯s heat sources¡ªthe torches, the braziers, the gas lamps. The entire chamber seemed to inhale at once, and in the next instant, a deafening WHOMFF echoed through the Spire as the flames were smothered in unison. Darkness swallowed the room whole.

    Amun¡¯s third eye flared, his breath faltering. He could feel the ripple of Hastur¡¯s power as her other anchored itself in the material world, binding itself to the warmth of the flames, turning the heat into sound mooring. In her addled mind, she was reaching, even in her unconscious state, trying to tether herself back to the physical plane. She didn¡¯t know what she was doing, but the parasitic force surging from her had one goal: to return.

    The Choir, startled by the extinguishing of the light, murmured in awe and fear. They still believed it was part of Amun¡¯s strange new powers, his way of unraveling and rebuilding reality in the dark. But Ben could feel it¡ªthis was not Amun¡¯s doing. Something else was taking hold, something predatory. He stepped closer to Amun, his voice low but urgent. ¡°Amun, this isn¡¯t your work. She¡¯s here. She¡¯s coming!¡±

    Amun exhaled, his breath shaky but determined. He had bought himself time, but not much. Adrestia¡¯s other was crawling back into reality, threading itself through the warmth of the room, and he knew it wouldn¡¯t be long before she fully returned. He had to act now, had to reach Abe before the flames ignited again and Adrestia reclaimed her strength. The clock was ticking, and with every breath, the web tightened.

    She floated at the edge of his awareness, lingering like a ghost unsure of its place. She was maimed, cut loose from her body by the force of the scroll, but not gone. Not yet.

    ¡°She¡¯s a shade,¡± Amun thought, his lips trembling, barely able to form the words. ¡°Pushed... astral... but she doesn¡¯t know.¡± She was lovely to ponder a demise for, but he had to move this present task forward and not attend to her.

    It was buying him time¡ªvaluable, precious time. But for how long?

    ¡°Time,¡± he whispered, ¡°all we have... time... expanding, contracting. She¡¯s lost... but I¡¯m not.¡±

    His breath steadied. He could feel the pattern aligning now, the rhythm of the throat song falling into place as he reached out, once again, for Abe.

    ¡°We are spirit... bound to this flesh,¡± Amun chanted softly, his voice melodic now, drifting on the currents of the air. ¡°Burn... the old world... burn the book, Abe. Destroy it... and breathe again.¡±

    He knew the words were drifting between realms, part prayer, part song, part plea. The Thuum carried them through the veins of the universe, a song of creation, a song of destruction. Amun couldn¡¯t control the message¡¯s form any longer¡ªit was its own entity now, a rhythm spiraling outward, seeking Abe across the folds of reality.

    And still, Adrestia hovered. A shade in the corner of his mind moving closer and closer.

 Ch. 37 Wander

    Adrestia floated, displaced and tried not panic, but after all the events, the hunts, the dialed-up armaments, the unfathomable heights of the Fates whispers influencing the outcomes of all the weeping Laconian prayer circles, and surviving the vacuums of the secret Abyss while listening to the last wails of the dead and dying. She could run without requiring breath, she could manipulate the continuum in countless way s that the dusty meister-sages were sifting through tea leaves to comprehend. She could strike down the infernal and spat in the many-eyed endless themselves, all of these assets¡­..all the power that her dual patrons could focus through her and preserve her, none of them foresaw the warlock¡¯s tactic in opening that damn scroll.

    The Shade of Hastur held her body safely in its web, but could do nothing for her spirit spliced from the physical form. Being inspected by the Choir was quite the nuisance, any aspect of the Yellow King should never present itself to the mewling sheep for this long, it was an affront and Adrestia sensed its vulnerability, its urgency for her to return so that it wouldn¡¯t wither, it longed to operate in periphery and shadow once again.

    The Root of Gaia was at peace as it always was, like a humming mantra along-side her own vibration. While the shade was dissonant and powerfully frenetic, hers was a warm harmony that amplified her curiosity and artistry. It grounded her in the face of overwhelming odds and she was never surrounded on the Grand Terra¡¯s firmament for it could heal her form from burn, wound and poison with the celerity and grandeur that inspired poems and artistic vistas. It grace again and again, but like the Shade, it was doing what it could for her form, not her displaced energy.

    Adrestia was unanchored from them both and felt hopeless and floundering. Her sense of navigation was a maelstrom of empty spinning, no orientation to a horizon or a true north. The void spun her with any effort to focus on terrestrial skills.

    In exchange, as long as she didn¡¯t try¡­as long as she let herself just be careless, she was alone and at peace for the first time in quite awhile. With the other¡¯s absent from her thoughts, their drives, their inputs and the whipping of Hastur¡¯s influence and incessant agenda upon her every move, she had only herself to ponder in this billowing suspension of nothing. She was tempted to remain here, in nothing and not ¡°continue¡± at all. Somehow this was a comfort in all of the abandonment of self.

    She would, from time to time, remember to ponder, but all was smokey whims in the gentle nothing. She didn¡¯t care for the ponderings, she no longer felt the tribunal of mental impulse of ¡°what was I meant to do next?¡±, ¡°what was that scroll¡±, instead she surrendered to oblivion¡¯s silence.

    Time slipped for awhile. She slept and needed for nothing, no impulse of thought. Not a single inclination of responsibility of pulls to move on. The luxurious empty was full and so quiet.

    Had she not felt the ripple, her story would have ended right there, in nothingness.

    There was a rustling in the warmth and comfort, inspection? Observation?

    It felt like something calling her home¡­.caring for her wellbeing. Just a single tone way out over the vista, a distress call. It was just enough to unsettle her.

    ¡°Damn him,¡± she hissed into the silence, her voice swallowed by the astral nothingness. Amun¡ªthat decrepit old warlock¡ªhad gotten the drop on her. She had underestimated him, and now she was paying the price. He¡¯d blasted her out of her own body with ancient magic she barely recognized, and now she was adrift in a place she had no control over, no knowledge of. She had no training in the astral plane¡ªthis wasn¡¯t like the dimensions she had sidestepped into before. There was no familiar structure to latch onto, no foothold. She clenched her fists, though the action felt meaningless without her physical form to ground her.

    Adrestia tried to focus, to summon what little knowledge she had of the astral plane. She needed an anchor, something to guide her back, but here, everything was fog¡ªendless and indifferent. She had been trained to walk between worlds, but those worlds had always made sense. Here, there were no rules, no clear path forward. She was adrift, and she hated it.

    As she drifted, Adrestia noticed a shimmer in the space around her. The astral plane, though a place of infinite possibilities, seemed to shift and reflect parts of her back to herself. She saw three figures, fragmented yet whole, dancing at the edges of her vision. Three faces, three states of being¡ªeach one a part of her, but none of them fully understood until this moment.

    The first was herself as she had always known: Adrestia the Enforcer. She stood proud, fierce, a warrior and a tool of the gods she served. Her armor gleamed, but it was not the bright armor of a hero. It was dark, worn by time and conflict. Her eyes were sharp, but there was a hollowness in them, a fatigue born from servitude. She had always been a weapon, wielded by others, guided by unseen hands. Now, in this endless silence, she saw the truth¡ªher life had never been her own. The weight of her chains felt heavier now than ever before.

    To her right hovered the symbiote shade of Hastur, in the material plane, if only she could reach it?

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    Yet, independently, she wondered why? She could decide for herself without the psychic coercion and chatter.

    She saw the substance of it, a shadow of herself in ways, yet something more grotesque. It was her reflection, but twisted and corrupted¡ªits face contorted into an eternal snarl, its eyes darkened and filled with an ancient malice that wasn¡¯t hers. This was the piece of her that had been bound to Hastur, the harbinger of decay. The symbiote had coiled itself around her soul like a parasite, feeding on her strength, on her fear, on her emptiness of memories that could drive her, it drove her like a yoke drives the dire oxen, a stunned beast for Hastur¡¯s burden, the Spire¡¯s fragility. Here, in this plane, she saw the ooze for what it truly was¡ªa leech, a force that had used her as much as she had used it.

    And then, in the depths of the plane, she saw Gaia¡¯s presence, anchored deep within her, like a root system that extended far into her core. It was gentle, patient, and ancient, but also untouchable, a force of the natural world that had always been with her, but rarely spoken. Gaia¡¯s presence was silent but watching, a primordial entity tied to life itself, to growth, and to cycles that moved beyond mortal understanding. This was the balance that had been within her all along, but she had never truly listened.

    She longed to be soothed by it whilst she floundered in the dark, stumbled in self-questioning, suffocated in this open freedom all at once. Gaia, the Mother could counsel and lend wisdom, calm the Shade¡¯s barking to whispers and makes less consequential. The root of the Mother was gone from this abyss as well and Adrestia knew it would seek her out if it could.

    Yet seeing of her own volition these three pieces of herself, for the first time uninhibited by their influences, was a moment of staggering clarity. She felt the edges of her soul that had been dulled by servitude sharpen again, the murky motivations of her past becoming clearer. The choices she had made¡ªthe missions, the hunts¡ªhad they ever been hers? Or had she been nothing more than a tool, passed from one colossal force to another?

    The silence should have been comforting, but instead, it was enormous. Adrestia¡¯s mind raced and the sanguine sound screamed in her head. She had no reinforcements, no clear destination. Here, in the astral plane, she had nothing to rely on but herself¡ªand she realized with a jolt that she had no idea how to escape. She had always sidestepped between dimensions with purpose, with guidance. But now, without Hastur, without Gaia, without her usual foothold, she was truly lost.

    Her breath quickened, though it felt more symbolic than real in this place. ¡°Think. Think!¡± she growled, trying to pull herself together. But the vastness of the astral plane swallowed her frustration. She had been trained to walk between worlds, but those worlds had always made sense. Here, there were none.

    Still, beneath the frustration and panic, something stirred. A presence, faint, a whispering force that didn¡¯t belong to Hastur or Gaia. It felt different¡ªsubtle, but insistent. Something in the plane was nudging her, not with malevolence, but with purpose. It was as though this force was guiding her, subtly pushing her thoughts in a direction she hadn¡¯t considered. There was this notion, a pull and an overwhelming sensation of someone being concerned for her, but not the rooted Mother. Someone close, but unseen¡­.

    Adrestia felt the confusion begin to shift, replaced by a flicker of determination. She was not without purpose, not yet. And as much as she hated the thought of following a force she didn¡¯t understand, it was better than drifting, helpless and powerless.

    She took one last glance at the three faces around her¡ªherself, Hastur¡¯s shade, Gaia¡¯s root¡ªand with a final breath of the astral calm, she let herself be pulled by the force, the whispering guide, and began her slow drift toward another presence, and she was desperate. ¡°Focus on me, call me to your attention. I need your help!¡±.

    Adrestia floated in the astral void, trying to quiet the rising tide of panic, when a sound¡ªa whispering chant¡ªbroke through the silence. At first, it was faint, barely more than a hum at the edges of her perception, but as she focused, the sound became clearer. It wasn¡¯t just a chant¡ªit was Amun. The grizzled warlock''s voice, rasping and ancient, carried across the void, threading through the fabric of the plane like a dark incantation.

    Her gaze sharpened as she drifted, and there, shimmering in the endless distance, she saw it: a tether, a lifeline of energy stretching from Amun, who lay somewhere in the physical realm, to¡­ someone else. The tether pulsed with a faint glow, throbbing with purpose, and Adrestia¡¯s mind raced. Who? Who was the warlock calling to? She strained her senses, and though she couldn¡¯t hear the full conversation, she caught enough to understand that Amun¡¯s words weren¡¯t meant for her¡ªthey were for someone else, someone important.

    Abe.

    Abe, the childe. The name floated through her mind, foreign but not entirely unknown. She didn¡¯t know what he was or what role he played in the larger cosmic conflict, but the force that tugged at her now told her that he was important. Perhaps he was her way out. Perhaps he was her next target. Whatever the reason, the pull toward him felt real¡ªmore real than anything else in this void.

    The name whispered across her thoughts, carried by the unseen forces that seemed to drift through this plane. It wasn¡¯t a name she recognized, but the tether between Amun and this mysterious figure was unmistakable. It hummed with significance, as though Amun¡¯s entire focus was centered on reaching this Abe, on binding him to whatever dark purpose the warlock had set in motion.

    But the tether was strange, unfamiliar, almost dreamlike. Her awareness slid along it, deeper, beyond the mere connection of two souls. The further she looked, the more the tether shifted, fraying at the edges, as if the strands of it were written into reality itself. And suddenly, she understood.

    Abe wasn¡¯t just another figure. He was something more¡ªnot just a child, but the reader of the story she inhabited. She felt it as a truth woven into the essence of things, a revelation that reshaped her perception. Abe was the observer and, by extension, the architect, capable of reshaping the very fabric of her world but unaware of his own potential.

    As the realization settled over her, the void around her quivered. A barrier, some limitfractured, a boundary dissolving in her mind¡¯s eye. She felt the pull forward, a new horizon opening up before her, a path that hadn¡¯t existed moments before. Her vision shifted, became layered. She could see the threads that formed the story itself¡ªatoms of perception, woven into the frame of her existence. They weren¡¯t immutable; they were permeable. If she chose, she could cross through them.

    Abe was there, waiting to be discovered, unaware of the power he held. She could feel herself shifting forward, eyes set on this path, the tether leading her toward a new forward. The boundary that separated her story from his was weakening, and as she moved, she felt the whispers of Amun¡¯s chant urging her onward. The story was no longer hers alone. It was a bridge, one she was going to try to cross.

 Ch. 38 New

    The tome tumbles in, the child knows in certainty how much strength it takes to override fear and do the gravest harm unto oneself. It catches faster than one would expect, it made for excellent kindling and the warmth of it as the primal fire had its mighty meal, made Ade hope that mercy came next.

    The Ash was getting everywhere and the fire spread so fast. Had he ever left the belly of the beast? Was he also to be prey to the pyre, an offertory for all of this to end?

    Please, mercy.

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    *****

    Adrestia¡¯s voice cuts through the silence, as she materializes faintly beside him, drifting like a ghost.

    Abe: [sighs, frustrated] ¡°It¡¯s¡­ gone. Everything. I thought¡­ I thought burning the book would make things better, fix things. But now¡­ there¡¯s just¡­ nothing.¡±

    Adrestia: [hovering nearby, watching him with a mixture of sadness and understanding] ¡°Sometimes, freedom means leaving things behind, Abe. Even things we loved, things we thought we needed. You thought burning the book would be an end, but this¡ªgestures around to the ash¡ªthis is only the beginning.¡±

    Abe: [frowning] ¡°But it¡¯s all so¡­ empty. I thought if I broke it all, I¡¯d feel different. Like¡­ like I¡¯d won. Like we¡¯d beaten him.¡±

    Adrestia: [softly] ¡°Burning the book cut his hold on you, on me¡­ but it didn¡¯t erase the memories, the shadows. Freedom doesn¡¯t mean that everything disappears, Abe. It just means¡­ it changes. Sometimes, things stay with us. Even the bad things.¡±

    Abe: [kicks a pile of ash] ¡°So what am I supposed to do now? It feels like I¡¯ve broken everything¡ªlike I tore it all apart, and there¡¯s nothing left. No voices, no path, no way to put it all back together. Was I the haunting Hastur all along?¡±

    Adrestia: ¡°Abe, sometimes the hardest part of choice is realizing that¡­ you have to choose what comes next. [she pauses, looking around] You wanted to get rid of the book¡¯s grip, to destroy what tied us all down. And you did. But now you have a chance¡ª[her voice softens]¡ªto build something new.¡±

    Abe: [looking around, hesitant] ¡°But with what? It¡¯s just¡­ dust. There¡¯s nothing to make anything with.¡±

    Adrestia: [smiling faintly] ¡°Ashes are what¡¯s left when something big is broken, when the fire takes everything. They¡¯re¡­ what you start with. What¡¯s left, even when the world seems gone. You could build something with them, shape your own story.¡±

    As she speaks, Abe slowly begins to gather the ash, feeling the faintest pull, as if it¡¯s calling him to shape it, to create something out of the ruin. He lets it sift through his fingers, hesitantly at first, and then he begins to work, forming small shapes, like walls or the beginnings of a shelter.

    Abe: [half to himself, half to Adrestia] ¡°So¡­ I could start again? I could make¡­ something out of all this?¡±

    Adrestia: [encouraging him] ¡°Yes, Abe. You have a chance to make something that isn¡¯t Hastur¡¯s, something that isn¡¯t tied to that book or those voices. This could be your world, made by your hands, your choice.¡±

    Abe: [his face falling] ¡°But what if¡­ what if the bad things come back? What if it¡¯s still tainted¡­ by him, by the book?¡±

    Adrestia: [kneeling beside him] ¡°Sometimes the past leaves marks, shadows. Burning the book didn¡¯t get rid of those shadows¡ªthey¡¯re part of the ashes now, mixed in with everything else. You can¡¯t erase every part of what was, but you can choose what to build with it. You can shape it into something new, something that¡¯s yours.¡±

    Abe: [looking up at her, thoughtful] ¡°So¡­ even if it¡¯s not perfect, even if there¡¯s still¡­ pieces of him, of the past¡­ I could still make it mine?¡±

    Adrestia: ¡°Exactly. Freedom isn¡¯t about making something pure or perfect. It¡¯s about having the power to make something honest, something you believe in. Even if it has shadows¡­ it can still be beautiful.¡±

    He nods slowly, seeming to understand, and resumes shaping the ash, this time with a bit more purpose. But as he works, something strange happens. The pieces of ash start to shift, taking on odd, distorted shapes¡ªshadows of eyes, twisted forms, hints of the cosmic darkness that Hastur once wielded.

    Abe: [alarmed] ¡°Look! It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s happening again. The shadows, the things from before¡­ they¡¯re coming back!¡±

    Adrestia: [steady, calm] ¡°They¡¯re only shadows, Abe. Fragments of the past. They¡¯ll try to creep in, to remind you of what was, but that doesn¡¯t mean they control what comes next. You just have to keep shaping, keep building. You decide what they become. They must remain, what would light be without the contrasting dark? The prey never advances itself without such a threatening predator.¡±

    Abe: [hesitating] ¡°But they¡¯re part of the ash, part of¡­ everything I have to use. They¡¯re¡­ all mixed together. What if I can¡¯t separate them?¡±

    Adrestia: [placing a hand on his shoulder] ¡°Maybe you don¡¯t have to separate them. Maybe it¡¯s about learning to live with those shadows, to let them be part of what you make, instead of fighting them.¡±

    Abe: [looking down, understanding but still unsure] ¡°So¡­ I can use them. Even the broken parts, the dark parts. They don¡¯t have to ruin it?¡±

    Adrestia: ¡°No, they don¡¯t have to ruin it. They can be part of it. Sometimes, it¡¯s the shadows that make the light seem brighter, that give depth to what you build. You can make a place where both can exist, together. A place that¡¯s yours.¡±

    For a moment, Abe stands still, the ash falling from his hands, his gaze intense. He begins to build again, letting the shadows mix in with the forms he¡¯s creating. As he does, a faint light seems to glow within the shapes, a promise of something whole and new. The echoes of Hastur, once menacing, begin to take on a different form¡ªless a threat, more a part of the pattern.

    Abe: [whispering] ¡°I see it¡­ a way to build without forgetting, without erasing. Maybe even the bad things can help me¡­ make something worth keeping.¡±

    Adrestia: [nodding, her voice soft but sure] ¡°That¡¯s the spirit, Abe. Freedom isn¡¯t about pretending the past never happened. It¡¯s about choosing how it lives on, how it shapes what comes next.¡±

    The new architect sits in his sandbox, builds steadily, his expression one of quiet determination. Though the shadows linger, they blend into his creation, becoming part of something new, something real. The world may be ashes, but he is finding a way to build again.