Worn to a Shadow

[Florian]

He could hear the annoyance in Killian's voice, but Florian's knowledge of this eternal, divine divide was limited. Florian's education, led primarily by his mother, was specifically and explicitly lacking in stories of the gods. He did not know their names, he did not know their domains, and he certainly did not know the history of and between them. It took some time for him to realize the mistake he had made. But even if Killian seemed annoyed, he still did as he requested.

Florian observed what he saw, quietly and in moderate disbelief. There was some difficulty in truly understanding what was happening, and he coped by way of not thinking about it too hard. But this was a step above what had happened before with this god — who could be nothing else — and the Lysanrin did not express his confusion, even as he felt it. But, he realized, it was not as much confusion as it was awe. He did not understand what was happening, but he was amazed by it.

After an earthquake of an eternity, Florian opened his eyes as he was instructed to. Killian's annoyance was very clearly sourced, now; Talon was not just a god, but a god of light — as he was the god of shadow, they in turn snuffed and burned each other out. He didn't recognize the runes on the doors, but he approached them, his head turned from the bright light.

"Sorry, Killian. This seems to be the last place you wished to visit. But...where are we?" he asked. Maybe Florian would have been more satisfied to bring his killer to justice. But this, the ramifications were so much more immediate — and with the land they traveled, they were not in Zaichaer. He was not a prisoner of Zaichaer. Florian did not know the cityscape or directions they had traveled. He felt nauseous with anxiety about his choice, as if he were to be a voyeur to something he should not have ever been allowed to see. And yet, he was.

Florian reached for the door and pulled on the handle.

[Paragon]

“A prison. Though I doubt it will hold much longer.” Killian eyed the shadowy runic markings on the door. Each of them was slowly being burned away, wisps of smoke trailing up from their forms. It was not a quick process but it was there. Undoubtedly the markings had to be reapplied many times over.

“As for where?” He shrugged a shoulder, attempting to appear nonchalant about the matter. “Somewhere in the Imperium, I gather.”

As Florian stepped up to the door, Killian called after him.

“Know this, Florian. This place is a reflection. The people and places it reflects are real, very real. Most you cannot speak with, only observe as one observes a reflection in a mirror. But you have sought audience with a god.” Killian brought up a hand to rest upon the door. He stroked his thumb over the door. His expression was distant, thoughtful.

“A chained god, but a divine nevertheless. If no one else can see you…” Killian dropped his hand. “...he will.”

With that, the shadow god stepped back. He rest his hands at the small of his back, watching as Florian opened the door and stepped into the chamber. To Florian’s eyes, it was a cathedral of immaculate proportions. Everything was a stark white edged with shadows that were pushed back to form just a thin outline around all the objects and people in the room. The iconography etched into every surface had avian architecture built into it. Ravens that were ever watchful of the floor below. Grand columns rose high to the ceilings and standing between each column was a heavily armored knight who stared onward with barely any movement. Each one was a winged Avialae whose color was whitewashed. Their eyes were all black, as were the collars around their necks. They made no movement as Florian stepped into the chamber.

Carved into the floor was a sprawling labyrinthine pattern from which rose wisps of black smoke. More arcane markings designed to contain a single being.

Talon.

He was on his knees. His arms pulled to the sides and bound by chains that also emit that wispy black smoke. His torso was bare and carved into his skin were more markings similar to all that Florian had seen thus far, also emitting that slow, rising black smoke. Around his head was a nimbus of divine power, several points of light forming symbols that evoked feelings of righteous fury, resplendent fire and finally the faintest whisper of hope. The light that had pushed back all shadows and caused the whole of this dark world to become a stark plane of black and white, emanated outward from him in an aura that should have been blinding. His eyes were closed and his head hung low. The rise and fall of his chest seemed slightly labored as though he were in a great deal of pain. Perhaps he was. And then his eyes opened.

Two pools of mercurial silver light blinked into existence. Silver-white fire burned within them. There was pain. There was suffering. There was a fury so pure and raw that were it not for the powers that restrained him, there was no doubt that it would have reduced an entire city to mere dust and ashes.

Those eyes stared at Florian. There was no mistaking that Talon was staring right at him.

[Florian]

The Imperium. No wonder Florian did not recognize any pieces of this place, and why they had traveled so far. He had heard of collared Avialae kept by the Imperium, their pride and joy, their elite guard. He wondered how they felt keeping watch over another of their kind, if it were voluntary, if they were so grounded by their patriotism that they didn't care what they had to do. As far as he could remember, all of the guards that had kept him prisoner had been human. And humans, Florian thought, did not care about anyone except themselves.

The world felt almost flat, as if it were pen and ink drawn on a sheet of white paper, with sharp black outlines on every surface. He stared at the guards as he walked towards Talon, but they did not notice him. His gaze shifted to the chained god, and he was still some distance away when their eyes met. Florian stuck his hand in his pocket as he approached. He had a casual gait, despite the overwhelming thoughts and questions that arose from this. He did not have to ask what they would want with a captured god. He could conjure a million and one ideas about what they could do with him, and the why was not a mystery, either. He did not need an education in the divine to know that they were powerful.

One of the emotions that scratched at his throat was guilt. It surprised even him. His part to play in this was not high, but he had benefited substantially from this attack. He wondered if Talon had even seen him at the wedding. He certainly did not know who he was, but that didn't matter. Florian's thoughts drifted to Brenner for a fraction of a second, if the man knew where Talon was, if the plan had been to give this god to the Imperium the entire time. But why? Why would Zaichaer go to the effort just for the Imperium to stay neutral in the ensuing war? He was no tactician, and he was barely a politician, but it did not add up.

Florian realized he had been staring wordlessly for at least a minute, lost in thought. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it without saying a word, and started walking closer to the man. They could see each other, and then perhaps they could hear each other. He took a deep, counted breath and pushed his nerves into the pit of his stomach instead of the back of his throat.

"I am not blameless, Talon." He started speaking, his accent clearly Zaichaeri. Florian looked almost pained. He did not consciously know what else he wanted to say, but that did not stop him from speaking. "War has broken out over this. Over you. But it's so far away... I didn't think you would be found here."

[Talon]

T A L O N

The pain was blistering. It ate at him with the gnawing teeth of a ravenous beast that threatened to send him spiraling into a blackout. They had cut him deeper than usual that day. Perhaps they were worried that the scripts were not holding him as effectively as they were at the start. Perhaps the archbishop just wanted him to feel more pain. In the days of late he had been given a great deal of time to think to himself. Between the brutal conversations that he had with the archbishop and the intermittent screams of his bondmate, all he had to keep himself company was the resounding silence and the steady breathing of his ever present guardians.

He had abandoned the efforts to overtly defy his captors. That only caused his beloved more suffering. He winced as he thought about it but it only gave him more resolve to be defiant in other ways. He was meditating then. More specifically, he was meditating on the runic markings that were etched upon his skin and scrawled across the surface of the floor. He could feel their oppressive presence working to counteract his strength, to sap his power, to keep him contained. Over the days, he had been slowly testing the limits of what he could do. It had led him to a few conclusions.

The first was that the pictographs were altered ever so slightly from day to day. From his understanding of pictography, while not being as extensive as the likes of Lyra, he could see that they were made primarily to counteract the raw power at his disposal as a demigod. He could make out the patterns meant to activate and absorb the rise in power and reflect it back at him. Gleaning what he could from such a carefully constructed setup, he gathered that the more force he unleashed against the bars of his prison, the more of his own power would be redirected at him. It was not foolproof. He had nearly broken free once already. That told him there was a threshold to how much the wards could withstand.

With so much effort going into keeping him contained at such a large scale however, he had found that he was able to accomplish more subtle things. He could not access any of his runes of magic. All of them were being blocked specifically. He surmised that was because they had examined his body thoroughly and discerned the nature of each rune he carried. He could not conjure the silver-white fire of Dawnfire to burn away his restraints, at least not without great effort. The incredible strength that was his to command was being counteracted by the chains that wrapped around his arms. So he was forced to examine different ways to use the powers of his godhood. Powers he had slowly come to realize he remembered. The first instance of this use had been recently during a conversation with the archbishop. He had considered it an injustice to lie to him. So he had focused on the man’s words, listening for things that the man knew were false. To his surprise he had been able to pick up a hollow ringing in some of the archbishop’s words. Though rare, he managed to pick up that this was his what told him that he was being told a lie. It was quiet. It was subtle and it inflicted nothing upon the one who spoke.

Most importantly, it had slipped by the wards unnoticed.

Today, he was meditating on another of his domains. Light. As it stood, he had only called upon the powers of light in the ways he knew to be most familiar to him. The ways of a warrior. Fire to burn and banish things that were dark and threatening. But light was more than just a weapon. It was illumination. It granted sight upon that which it touched. So he followed that train of thought. He reached into himself and found the Light that shone inside of him. He had used it before. He had used it to free Rickter from the darkness that had swallowed him. He did not try to harness the Light to unleash it, he merely explored it. He touched it as though it were a physical thing. He followed it until he felt like he could walk it as though it were a path strewn out before him.

He opened his eyes and beheld a world of stark white and blacks. Everything around him was cast in a harsh white light edged with shadows. He could see each of the Kathar guards standing vigilant over him. But he could also see another. A Lysanrin man with a thin frame and troubled eyes. At first he was surprised but then the Lysanrin was speaking. His accent distinctly Zaichaeri and he felt a fury build up inside of him at the mention of war and blame.

“War.” He could still hear the gunshot. He could still see his father’s face. He could still see Aoren being taken down by attackers. “You must be a fool if you think that I, alone, am the cause of a war in the Northlands.”

[Florian]

"No, I never thought you were." Florian replied, quiet. "But there is war, and your kidnapping is a part of it. Your father's death, too. But you can't really blame the dead man keeping the peace and the kidnapped god." He walked closer to Talon, still completely ignored by the guards, and he sat down in front of him, cross-legged. His free hand lingered on the carved runes on the floor.

"I never thought I'd relate to a god. To have a parent murdered and to never have time to process it. To be stolen, imprisoned, and tortured for a cause beyond yourself that you do not want to see to fruition. To have your agency taken away." Florian shrugged. "I don't know who knows where you are. Judging by the war, and the Imperium's still-neutral stance..." He let the sentence hang.

"But now I know. Maybe I'm the only one who knows." Florian stood up and meandered over closer to some of the guards, admiring their wings. A thought caught him, but he still needed the moment to feel it out before it could be revealed. "When I escaped, it was because I had made friends with those who were imprisoned with me. People who cared, and who were strong enough to help."

He turned back to Talon and held his one hand behind him, in the small of his back. Florian did not care — or, more correctly, he should have not cared. He had been ranting about the man's circumstances not too long prior. He had teamed up with one of the men who had caused this. Some of it was guilt, but new thoughts surfaced with the clarity that he had buried for so long under rage.

"For my entire life I have been crushed underfoot. I have fought for myself. I have found no peace. I would like to crush everyone who believes they are fit to rule by birth or might or shadowy maneuvers in the night. I wish them to suffer like I have." Florian sighed. "For some time I wished for you to suffer, too."

Florian paused. He may have waited a touch too long to continue his thoughts, but even if Talon started speaking in the pause, he would interrupt him. "Tell me who your people are. Your people who care. Your people who can save you, and I will help them. I will tell them where you are. Tell me what to say to them, and it will be done." Florian smiled faintly. "It will be done, but I ask only one thing. Will you match your fury with mine?"

[Talon]

T A L O N

He listened to the apparition of the Lysanrin speak. Was he a ghost? Was he a creature from beyond the Veil? He did not know. But what did it matter anyways? This lost soul was speaking to him with more humanity than any had thus far. He looked to the stoic winged Kathar, ever silent, ever unmoving, when the Lysanrin spoke on receiving help from fellow prisoners during a time of his own imprisonment.

“They cannot help me.” His eyes fell to the collar upon the neck of the nearest knight. He knew nothing of what these men thought. He knew nothing about their lives or if they were even aware enough to know about their own lives. He wanted to be angry with them for their apathy but there was the part of him that recognized they, like him, had no choice in this circumstance. They were as much prisoners as he was. He listened as the Lysanrin spoke about suffering. When he confessed about his wish to see him suffer, the silence in the chamber was interrupted by the crackle of a broadcast. It made his stomach drop. He closed his eyes, jaw flexing as the sound of a man's agonized screams began playing in the silence of the cathedral. The source of the pained suffering begged for it to stop. His voice was hoarse from screaming and strained with a desperation that clawed at him. The broadcast fizzled and crackled before going silent again.

“You got your wish.” His head drooped. He did not think he would ever be able to forget the sound of his husband’s broken cries. Powerless to stop it. Helpless to help him. It broke his heart and it got worse every day. He said nothing in the silence that followed. What was there to say? When the apparition spoke his proposal however, he lifted his head and stared blankly at him. Part of him thought that this might have been some trick. Hope was a dangerous thing. For the first time in weeks however, he felt it.

He rose to his feet. His legs felt as though they were going to give out beneath him but he managed to risk nevertheless. Stepping forward he moved to the very edge of his runic prison and raised a hand until pressed against the edge of the great circle. As soon as his hand tried to cross the threshold, it was met with a crackling force that prevented him from crossing it. He kept his hand raised and focused on the Lysanrin in front of him. Extending his senses he tilted his head slightly until he took hold of the shafts of light that touched all that he could feel. He reached out to the burning flame of the Lysanrin’s soul as he could perceive it and with the barest brush of his divine power, he touched upon it and imparted to the man a vision of what he saw. Carefully he manipulated his perception until he could bear witness to everything around him as far as he could until he felt the weight of the prison’s wards bearing down upon him.

Bringing up one of his wings he pulled a feather from it and then pushed through the barrier holding him, straining with all his might to extend the feather to the Lysanrin. He could feel the flesh of his hand and arm sting and burn as the field of powerful magic crackled around him. Into the feather he poured what he could perceive with all of his will. He imbued it with his gift of Light. Upon being grasped, it bestowed a vision of what he saw.

The whitewashed world would expand as Talon's focus on his domain of light grew. Wherever the light touched was within his influence, and now he was able to fully realize what that meant. It was not quite a vision, but something more than mere impression as Talon felt his gaze expand beyond what was in front of him. He could see the bricks of his prison, the chains that held him... but then he could see the door outside his chamber, the delicate runes etched there illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Further and further his sight would expand until he could see out beyond the window to the black metallic walls of a great spire that stretched high above. His vision became blurred the further down until the tower was consumed in darkness, creating a sphere of insight roughly 100 meters in diameter, with Talon at its center.

Within that sphere, he could see what the lights of the tower fell upon. A candle flame showed a man hunched over a desk scribbling notes methodically, chains around his wrist and beard unkempt. There was a large room with bunks lined in neat rows, a large window with no glass allowing the light from outside to spill through and show a legion of Kathar sleeping or preparing for their next shift. A small slit in a wall cast a faint line on a dirty floor covered in straw. The bars of a cage could be seen, followed by a flash of golden feathers as chains were pulled taunt and the sound of furious screeching as something tried to break free.

Beyond the sphere the world was darkness, beyond his sight as the more he pressed to see the stronger the runes etched in his body began to glow to suppress him once more.

When it was over, he let out an exhausted gasp, his legs wobbling and he fell to his knees, panting. He snatched his hand back, cradling it against him. Fine tremors of exhaustion shook his form.

“Seek the Black Wolf of Maze. Seek the Lady of Whispers. Tell them to save my heart. For while it is shackled, I will always remain a prisoner.” He met the Lysanrin’s eyes. He studied the man for a moment. Perhaps these were all just mad ramblings but…but what if they were not? He drew in a deep breath.

“They took my father from me. They slaughtered innocent people. They have chained and tortured me. They have tortured the man I love.” The light dimmed. The chamber rumbled and the runic wards binding him flared to life as he let the fullness of his fury be known. The markings upon his body all hissed and popped as they burned away. His flesh healing as his nature as a demigod purged the foul sorcery from his body. The Kathar in the chamber all suddenly came to life, each of them turning to look at him for the first time since this whole ordeal began. Hands flew to swords and several stepped forward, ready to carry out their orders if he managed to break free.

“I shall bring more than fury, mortal.” He narrowed his eyes. For the first time, he truly embraced all of who and what he was with the distinction of what being a demigod meant. He was not mundane. He was not just an Avialae prince. He was not just a powerful sorcerer. He was a Divine.

“I shall bring Justice.”

-----------

The world went black and suddenly Florian had hands grasping his shoulders as he was yanked back.

The walls of Florian’s office in Zaichaer greeted him.

Killian stood with a steadying hand upon Florian’s shoulder before stepping back. There was a sheen of sweat upon Killian’s brow. When he was certain that Florian would stay upright, he went over to the nearest sofa and plopped down, looking tired. The tiger padded up to him and leaned her head against his thigh before resting it in his lap. He pet her gently. Out of lidded eyes, he spoke.

“Did you see everything you needed to see?”

[Florian]

The screams that echoed through the chamber were an uncomfortable reminder of the times that he had screamed until he could not scream any longer. The screams did not sound like Talon, and Florian did not want to think about it much more. It seemed they had many avenues of controlling the god beyond just the wards and restraints.

Florian watched as Talon approached, almost worried he had said the wrong thing. But that was not the case. His own vision blurred, and the bright white room was replaced with a vision of the spire and flashes of scenes within it. He did not understand all that he saw, but he understood enough — Talon was in a spire in the Imperium. Wherever that could be would be found out, but with a vision of his prison, there was a clue.

Florian knew the Lady of Whispers. Lyra. The sheer chance that the Lysanrin had met and allied with her before any of this had happened — she had her own plans for Zaichaer, but he wondered if her loyalty outweighed her personal schemeing. As for the Black Wolf of Maze, he did not know. If Lyra knew him, however, then it would only be a matter of finding him. There would be a hundred thousand little matters after that, but to climb a hundred thousand steps you had to start with one.

For the first time, Florian did not feel shackled by circumstance. Restrained by the past. It was a slow realization he could not change what had happened, but now he was given a chance to pursue a future. A future of his choice.

"You're lucky I already know Lyra." It was the last thing that Florian was able to say before everything went black.

Florian stared at the wall, and took a few steps backwards once he was steady. Killian seemed exhausted by the ordeal, and the Lysanrin felt tired, too. But also some part invigorated. He had made a deal with an enemy of the state, and he was all the more pleased for it. He was going to actively work against an ally of Zaichaer, and he was excited.

"I think I did," Florian started, as he continued to stare at the wall. "I think..." He abruptly turned, and then sat at his desk, immediately resting his chin on his hand as he stared at the papers that lay on it. "I think that I will finally be able to enact the vengeance I desire."

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

Killian drew in a deep breath. He leaned forward, hoisting himself to his feet. Running a hand through his hair he rolled his shoulders and stepped forward.

"You never cease to surprise." A smirk touched the shadow god's lips. "That makes for a great deal of fun."

The tiger stood up, walking up to Florian to allow him one final pet across her great head. She then padded up to Killian's side. He threaded a hand through her fur.

"Until next time, young rebel. And remember, you've a friend in dark places." The shadows in the room darkened until it was pitch black. When they cleared, Killian and the tiger were gone.

All that remained of the ordeal was a silver feather that seemed drawn to the light, glinting with a purity that was almost unreal.

[Florian]

Florian moved his hand to pet the big cat. He did not think too much about what Killian meant by what he had said about his making a great deal of fun. A friend in dark places was comforting, however, but now he had promised to wander into the light.

He focused on the feather, now laying on the desk, the feather offered by Talon. A divine feather, a relic of a god, seemingly magical on its own. He grabbed the feather and with nowhere else to hide it, tucked it into his shirt, away from prying eyes. Anyone could look at it and tell it was not normal, and he did not want to be questioned.

With that solved, Florian returned to his writing practice, as if nothing of note had occurred, though with the added difficulty of racing, distracting thoughts. He had offered the glint of salvation to a god, as if it were something he could remotely begin to offer.

But that, he mused, won't stop me now.

[Paragon]

R E W A R D S

Name: Florian
XP: 15
Requested Lore: +15 Lores of your choosing. These can include the vision of the location Talon is being held in.

Name: Talon
XP: 15
Requested Lore: +6 Lores of your choosing. These can include the vision of the location Talon is being held in.

Note(s): +1 Divine Silver Feather to Florian.

A radiant silver feather that glints softly in the light whenever it is held up. Light from all sources seem to seek it out, whether sunlight, candlelight, or others. The feather will even emit a soft light when in a dark place, a light that will extend from it in a radius of 5 ft. To hold it is to feel as though one is capable of enacting great Justice in the world, to be filled with righteous conviction and a sense of hope that anything is possible.