Those bearing the mark of Eminence stepped forward. Most of them were those members of Pahoran’s family that Talon had personally marked not that long ago. There were others however, some of the older lived among the Knights of the Dawnmartyr. A few elves, some dwarves and a handful of others. Each of them bore a mark gifted from Arcas. They joined Pahoran without question and without hesitation. Each of them revealed their marks where they could and each of them came to kneel and begin praying to their patron. A silent vigil meant to send strength and invigoration to the reborn Arcas.
Though there were ceremonial oaths and rituals observed, to commune with one’s patron deity was a personal matter and was something best expressed in a way that meant the most to the individual. Some of those who began their vigil remained silent. Some murmured softly to themselves, touching upon their emblem. One of the elves, a Hytori, began to sing softly. Another joined them. Before long, several voices were singing softly in a melody that spoke of the beauty and peace of the rising sun, the Light of Dawn, and the Hope it brought to the world.
Those Dawnmartyrs who did not bear emblems joined in as well. Some sang. Some remained silent as they concentrated on sending their prayers through the aether.
Time passed. Moments turned to minutes. Minutes turned to hours. Not a single knight faltered as they waited and prayed for something. They had waited this long. They had come this far. They had started to rebuild with the hope that their patron had finally returned. Simmering beneath the surface of that silent vigil was an anger, a quiet yearning for Justice. It was almost desperate with a need and desire to believe.
Pahoran’s emblem was the first to glow. The silver-white of Dawnfire blossomed gently around his mark. It grew and spread. The fire was warm and banished all shadows that it touched. It spread to Rickter, whose marks illuminated softly at first but then grew in intensity. More and more the Dawnfire spread, touching all of those who were pouring their faith into that moment. Eventually the Dawnfire spread until it filled the temple. None were burned nor harmed but the light continued to grow and grow until it was blinding in its intensity.
And then…
----
A scene stood before Pahoran and Rickter. One that was eerily familiar to Pahoran. A dream from winters ago, where the world had been ruined and covered in a blanket of fog and grey misery. The dense mist covered the world, creating a haze that made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of oneself. Vaguely, distantly, the voices of others could be heard whispering in the mists. A gentle tugging came from the emblems that both men bore, guiding them in a southward direction. Walking through the dense fog, the immediate surroundings were not clearly discernible except for the occasional structure that jutted out as they wound their way through the landscape. Eventually they passed through a wall, the size and scope of the structure it was attached to was unclear and only partially visible.
But upon passing through this wall, a grim sight awaited them.
In front of the two was a chamber with only a single source of light. Moonlight filtered down upon a figure that was hunched over on his knees. The moonlight came from a great glass window. The interior of the chamber appeared to be some manner of dark cathedral. Aside from its monolithic stone pillars and the great glass window however, little else was clear about its features.
---
His head hung low, with arms suspended in the air and his wings allowed to spread out behind him. His breathing was labored, chest rising and falling as he struggled between fending off pain and the need to breathe. Every inch of his body shivered with pain. He barely had the strength to lift his head after the brutal day of emotional torture and the binding he had been subjected to. He was tired. So very tired. His head was still spinning from everything that had happened. He could still hear the panic. He could still hear the screaming. He could still see his father’s face as the life drained away from his eyes.
Today had been a challenging day. His fury had been so clear and blinding that he had completely burned away the markings that they placed upon him. He had broken the chains binding him but in the end…it had not been enough. The Kathar had immediately acted. The great sigil that served as his prison had activated and the Inquisitors had come. Unleashing magic that challenged even his mighty will, they had subdued him, invading his mind and restraining him. With Aoren too weak to help him, the protection of the Core Bond had offered no aid. He had been thrust back into a state of dormancy.
Now he was awake. Wrapped around his arms and weighing down his wings were new chains. These were heavier than the ones before. Carved into his skin were new pictographs, freshly bleeding and not yet healed, these marks had been cut deeper into his flesh. They had taken their time to ensure that each one had been remarkably painful.
It was in between moments of lucidity that he heard the distant hush of voices reaching out to him. At first, he thought it was the Archbishop, returning to admonish him for attempting to ruin their accommodations but it was soon clear that it was not him. He then thought that perhaps they had begun another broadcast of his husband’s suffering. But he would recognize Aoren’s screaming anywhere. It was not him. He blinked and a hazy figure took shape in front of his eyes. A shaft of moonlight that allowed him to see clearly for one brief moment. His eyes felt heavy with exhaustion. He was pale with weariness and pain. He looked up and locked eyes with his observers for a single moment. The haze in his head and in his vision cleared as he focused on them. He saw them and for a moment, for a very brief moment, he felt such hope.
He did not feel the stinging slice of the knives cutting into his skin. He did not ache with the yearning to comfort his tortured husband. He did not shiver with the exhaustion of trying to fight against the control pressing upon his mind.
And then they were gone. He was left alone. With only the caw of ravens and the quiet breathing of the Kathar keeping guard over him to join him in the silence. The haze began to crowd his thoughts again. He could feel it dragging him back into a state of docile meditation. With his last clear thought he sent the only thing he could feel in that moment; a cry for help.
Please…
---
The light of the Dawnfire blinked out swiftly and suddenly, leaving behind a cold vacuum in its place.
The vision of Talon had revealed little to nothing of where he was but it was clear he was weary, suffering, and in pain. What was most clear however was this:
They were already running out of time.
Though there were ceremonial oaths and rituals observed, to commune with one’s patron deity was a personal matter and was something best expressed in a way that meant the most to the individual. Some of those who began their vigil remained silent. Some murmured softly to themselves, touching upon their emblem. One of the elves, a Hytori, began to sing softly. Another joined them. Before long, several voices were singing softly in a melody that spoke of the beauty and peace of the rising sun, the Light of Dawn, and the Hope it brought to the world.
Those Dawnmartyrs who did not bear emblems joined in as well. Some sang. Some remained silent as they concentrated on sending their prayers through the aether.
Time passed. Moments turned to minutes. Minutes turned to hours. Not a single knight faltered as they waited and prayed for something. They had waited this long. They had come this far. They had started to rebuild with the hope that their patron had finally returned. Simmering beneath the surface of that silent vigil was an anger, a quiet yearning for Justice. It was almost desperate with a need and desire to believe.
Pahoran’s emblem was the first to glow. The silver-white of Dawnfire blossomed gently around his mark. It grew and spread. The fire was warm and banished all shadows that it touched. It spread to Rickter, whose marks illuminated softly at first but then grew in intensity. More and more the Dawnfire spread, touching all of those who were pouring their faith into that moment. Eventually the Dawnfire spread until it filled the temple. None were burned nor harmed but the light continued to grow and grow until it was blinding in its intensity.
And then…
----
A scene stood before Pahoran and Rickter. One that was eerily familiar to Pahoran. A dream from winters ago, where the world had been ruined and covered in a blanket of fog and grey misery. The dense mist covered the world, creating a haze that made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of oneself. Vaguely, distantly, the voices of others could be heard whispering in the mists. A gentle tugging came from the emblems that both men bore, guiding them in a southward direction. Walking through the dense fog, the immediate surroundings were not clearly discernible except for the occasional structure that jutted out as they wound their way through the landscape. Eventually they passed through a wall, the size and scope of the structure it was attached to was unclear and only partially visible.
But upon passing through this wall, a grim sight awaited them.
In front of the two was a chamber with only a single source of light. Moonlight filtered down upon a figure that was hunched over on his knees. The moonlight came from a great glass window. The interior of the chamber appeared to be some manner of dark cathedral. Aside from its monolithic stone pillars and the great glass window however, little else was clear about its features.
---
His head hung low, with arms suspended in the air and his wings allowed to spread out behind him. His breathing was labored, chest rising and falling as he struggled between fending off pain and the need to breathe. Every inch of his body shivered with pain. He barely had the strength to lift his head after the brutal day of emotional torture and the binding he had been subjected to. He was tired. So very tired. His head was still spinning from everything that had happened. He could still hear the panic. He could still hear the screaming. He could still see his father’s face as the life drained away from his eyes.
Today had been a challenging day. His fury had been so clear and blinding that he had completely burned away the markings that they placed upon him. He had broken the chains binding him but in the end…it had not been enough. The Kathar had immediately acted. The great sigil that served as his prison had activated and the Inquisitors had come. Unleashing magic that challenged even his mighty will, they had subdued him, invading his mind and restraining him. With Aoren too weak to help him, the protection of the Core Bond had offered no aid. He had been thrust back into a state of dormancy.
Now he was awake. Wrapped around his arms and weighing down his wings were new chains. These were heavier than the ones before. Carved into his skin were new pictographs, freshly bleeding and not yet healed, these marks had been cut deeper into his flesh. They had taken their time to ensure that each one had been remarkably painful.
It was in between moments of lucidity that he heard the distant hush of voices reaching out to him. At first, he thought it was the Archbishop, returning to admonish him for attempting to ruin their accommodations but it was soon clear that it was not him. He then thought that perhaps they had begun another broadcast of his husband’s suffering. But he would recognize Aoren’s screaming anywhere. It was not him. He blinked and a hazy figure took shape in front of his eyes. A shaft of moonlight that allowed him to see clearly for one brief moment. His eyes felt heavy with exhaustion. He was pale with weariness and pain. He looked up and locked eyes with his observers for a single moment. The haze in his head and in his vision cleared as he focused on them. He saw them and for a moment, for a very brief moment, he felt such hope.
He did not feel the stinging slice of the knives cutting into his skin. He did not ache with the yearning to comfort his tortured husband. He did not shiver with the exhaustion of trying to fight against the control pressing upon his mind.
And then they were gone. He was left alone. With only the caw of ravens and the quiet breathing of the Kathar keeping guard over him to join him in the silence. The haze began to crowd his thoughts again. He could feel it dragging him back into a state of docile meditation. With his last clear thought he sent the only thing he could feel in that moment; a cry for help.
Please…
---
The light of the Dawnfire blinked out swiftly and suddenly, leaving behind a cold vacuum in its place.
The vision of Talon had revealed little to nothing of where he was but it was clear he was weary, suffering, and in pain. What was most clear however was this:
They were already running out of time.
