Are You on the Level? [Æros]

[Pharaoh]

Are You on the Level?
21 Ash, 122 Steel
Mid-Afternoon directly pursuant to the events of A Game of Confidence

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Quitting the chamber where he’d treated with Arcas, using his glaive as a walking staff, Phocion waited for Æros to follow him through the arch and for the attendant guards to shut the door. Once it had clicked shut, he shuddered as if overtaken by a sudden chill. There was much for which to rejoice, but uncomfortable compromises withal.

He gestured for one of the cloaked Sentinels to approach, and leaned forth to whisper instructions. The veiled Vigil answered the bare-faced Vigil with a nod, and manipulated the æther between them to build a gate through the slip space.

“Come, Æros.” He bade, as he stepped from Red Rock Citadel directly into the Solunarian Umbrium. As the half-Fæ followed, he might be surprised to find that he had not stepped into the Vigilia Argenti Prætorium, but instead he found himself in the great hall of the Templum Mediæ Matris Noctis.

The grim grey stone was a far cry from its lustrous counterpart above, where Æros had attended Radiant Mass that morning.

“I know it is early to make our Waning Prayers in honour of Æquinox, but this is a long day and will be longer still as I navigate the aftermath of what we’ve just learnt and established.” Phocion looked not unlike one of the dark priests who attended this spartan temple, as he stalked slowly toward the great statue of the Mother of Chains and her blood altar where silent devotees felled animals in her honour.

“I do not know you, Æros, and your behaviour within the chamber was… concerning. A loyal Solunarian with Arcas’ trust could be a boon to the realm, but if the bond that ties you twain is heedless self-interest, you could be a liability. Thus it is that I feel obliged to assess your devotion…” He trailed off, and pauses beckoning to one of the priests.

“Clear the hall.” He commanded blithely. The priest gestured to an acolyte who rang a great bell and the worshippers promptly collected their intended sacrifices and quit the massive, ancient chamber as the knell echoed for some time after. The priest nodded to Phocion, then beckoned for the others of his order to leave as well. After a few moments, Phocion and Æros were alone before the altar, and Varvara’s silver eyes looked down upon them as they spoke.

“Your loyalty to me is of no concern. I am a sentinel. A grain of sand in the vasty desert. But She…” He turned to face the statue, and shut his eyes taking in a slow inhalation as he basked in the silver light of his own devotion. No, Arcas. Not all light is yours, he thought, but after a moment he spoke on.

“She of the Scourge is whom I would have you think on, as you embark upon the next steps along your journey at the side of Her greatest foe. We are all of us slaves to something, Æros. Whose creature are you?” To punctuate the question, he stepped back and lowered the head of his glaive until the heat emanating from its blazing blade was gracing the starlit nose of the half-Fæ.

[Aeros]

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Well, ultimately he’d hoped that today would’ve gone different but what was there to be done? Out of his depth, he was. Æros imagined that Phocion wasn’t his biggest fan and though the feeling was mutual, their interaction would yet extend, much to the Færie’s disappointment. One could argue that it was his own fault for acting the way he did, but in truth, what would one really expect from somebody who’d had very little training in either politics or diplomacy? What would one really expect from somebody that was perpetually cross-faded? From the very beginning, his instinct was that involving himself with Dæmon was a mistake, and yet, he ignored it and walked ever forward anyways. So here he was– a fool reaping the consequences of his own actions.

Following Phocion in silence, the two men approached another Vigil and with no words exchanged, a portal was made. Going through it, their end location was not actually what he had expected. From what the other had said, he’d assumed that they would end up in the Vigilia Argenti’s Prætorium, but such was not the case. Looking around, he realized he was faced now with the dim, magically lit stone walls of Templum Mediæ Matris Noctis. For why, exactly? Of course, Æros wasn’t completely clueless, he could concoct a plethora of possible reasons…but not knowing much about Phocion, he wouldn’t be able to pick any one of them with any degree of precision.

Keeping a bland countenance, the half-elf listened in grim silence as the other spoke. Nothing the dusky elf had said was in any way threatening or strange, it was just that he simply did not want to be here. Not with Phocion, at least– he had wanted to make the evening’s procession for Domina Varvara, but he was unsure if he would make it at this point. He was not sure of anything, really, at this point.

When Phocion claimed his loyalty was not his concern, the Starborn knew that to be false; as a loyal adherent of Varvara, he was correct in the fact that he was enacting her will…but when one falls beyond a certain level of devout, Æros did not see it as possible to avoid burdening oneself with the selfsame concerns of one’s patron deity. It was cute that he pretended to have any semblance of humility, however.

And to his question, “Deus Aværys.” There was little hesitation before he spoke. Continuing now in clear Vallenor, “...though unfortunately, I cannot claim to be a true apostle of the Cursus Aureus– I’ve yet to finish fully reading Scripturam Integram for the second time, and I cannot call myself truly devout until I've achieved greater heights in my understanding, no? That…is…something I intend to accomplish in the future, however.” Well, it was. He had intended to do so. Before he, well, fell apart. But suppose it is not too late to correct the mistakes of his past few years, no? Get back on track and the like…

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'Thoughts'

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Pharaoh]

"Yes." Phocion sneered, "I am certain Aværys the Avenging is quite impressed with your... aspirations."

Was it a trick of the light, a trick from the Sentinel, or did the silver eyes of the statue seem to flash with icy illumination at the answer Æros offered. Phocion sneered faintly, otherwise unmoving.

"Still it is funny..." He tilted his head, "You have such an Umbrian look about you for one who purports to favour the sun."

The glaive remained where it was, though his hand fell away from it- Remaining aloft as if of its own volition and in spite of all laws of physics. Phocion stepped away from the polearm and from Æros, as he slowly stalked closer to the altar, inspecting the grooves and spillways down which blood so often poured. Just moments ago, a goat went from bleating to bleeding on its surface, but now it was clean and dry. He circled the altar until he was standing directly in front of the statue, his eyes so very like those that peered from the unmoving silver simulacrum.

"No matter. If that is your preference, we will make do. You may make your pledge to Aværys, Mighty in Majesty..." He glanced up from the altar to the statue, "...but the arbiter overseeing this covenant?" His eyes turned to meet those of the half-elf, "Shall be Varvara, She of the Bound and the Binding. Rather fitting for oaths, I think. She will be watching, but you will be His to punish, if you fail our Realm."

The glaive drew back, so the handle was no longer arcing at a diagonal toward Æros, but standing vertically. Seemingly as a cavalier afterthought, Phocion added:

"Or His to reward, if you serve us well. Come hither, Æros." Phocion beckoned with a gloved hand, which then stretched toward the glaive, which darted promptly into his grip.

"We will pray together, you and I." He tsked, "Though in my haste I afforded you no chance to collect a sacrifice to seal it. Alas." He lifted his hand to his mouth and bit the fingers of his glove to tug it free. Collecting it in his now bare hand, he tucked it away into a fold of his uniform.

"We shall have to use your own blood." He turned the glaive horizonal and parted his fingers. The weapon hovered out over the altar before them and spun around so the back of the blade was facing them. This looked to be cold steel, unembellished by the magmatyte that hummed at the front of the blade.

"Let a vein. And be certain you use the steely part of the blade. We wouldn't want you cauterising your wound before She has had her tithe..."

[Aeros]

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Æros quirked a brow at Phocion’s response, though he was immediately distracted by the flash of light from the statue’s silvery eyes. He blinked, as if utterly shocked. He'd not seen it react before.

Recovering from his surprise as the other elf spoke, “I-...yes. And, aesthetically, I do appreciate the Umbrium and Domina Varvara’s overall nature…but the draw of Majesty is impossible to deny. Striving eternally, endlessly, for power, for radiance, for opulence– a voracious hunger that’ll last until the day I die…now that? That is what aligns more with the way in which I desire to live and to serve. Do you not think the stars can be blinding in their brilliance? As if pieces of the sun itself, they are.” His passion was clear as day when he spoke, devotion reverberating through each word. It was an ardent sort of fervor he hadn’t felt in a very long time…but such renewed vigor was so deliciously revitalizing.

To what Phocion said next, Æros simply nodded, though of what reward he spoke of? The Fæ was unsure.

However, to the implication that letting his own blood be a daunting task? Funny. Who did he think he was? Wordless and lacking in hesitation, Æros outstretched his arm towards the blade’s silver steel, and when it kissed luminous skin, the wound rent flowed red– vibrant and free, spilling into the altar below. The Færie did not react; pain like this was of little consequence for him. Eyes of black gold held still as his gaze was left transfixed on his own sanguine essence. It reflected the light of his coruscant stars in the darkness, falling in an almost ethereal sort of cascade from his flesh.

Æros stood in silence until the laceration naturally reached hemostasis, and once it did, he tilted his head towards Phocion. “Using one’s own blood often feels cheap with how easy it is…but you are right; there was no time to prepare.” His speech was monotonous, but there was slight disappointment in his voice, eyes drifting back to the coagulating blood on his arm. To give of oneself always felt...insufficient.

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'Thoughts'

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Pharaoh]

"That is the point of Majesty, yes. To command..." Phocion replied with a flat tone to match his flat expression, "Attention among other things." He arched a brow as the mixed blood spoke on, as if pleading a case to Aværys in the House of Varvara. Perhaps the mixed blood boy felt the force of the Founders present in this old place that predated the first footsteps of any human or elf on the sands of Atraxia. The mysteries of this old temple were manifold and it was deeply tied to the reason the Founders found apotheosis at all.

"When were you last blinded by the stars, Æros?" The Sentinel mused, "Dim and distant as they are?" He sounded genuinely earnest in the question. Perhaps testing, but certainly not mocking.

"They are pretty, but I've not been blinded by nor felt a lick of heat cast off of them. They are not what I would call 'radiant'..." He searched Æros' eyes, curiously. He hadn't anticipated this little tangent, but it might be useful. If the man had something to prove to the gods, or rather to one of them, that might be exploited.

As Æros' blood began to pour, creating a direct conduit between his pulse and the altar, the spillways seemed to draw it in several directions counter to what natural physics would suggest.

"Perhaps if you are miserly with your offering, but if you give copiously... if you give all of vitae, it seems to me..."
Now the grooves and rivulets all ran crimson toward a whirling pool at the centre of the altar. The eyes of the statue now glowed lunar white and Phocion looked up, his own eyes matching those of his ancestor. The voice that completed his thought was not his own,

"...the greatest treasure you might offer." It was a chorus of hisses. The spillways on the altar flooded with blood. Too much and more than Æros had offered. Shadows stretched from the corners of the room, and void black umbra subsumed the grey stone walls until there was nothing before Æros, except for the altar, the statue and Phocion with glowing eyes and hair floating as if underwater, though black as it was it was scarcely visible in so much shadow. His pale skin, however, was luminescent. Slithering chains that looks half silver, half smoke snaked around his form and dragged him off the ground until he was transfixed above the altar. Spillways now flooding with Æros' blood.

"Now then..." The chorus of hisses emanated from all around him, as if he could feel the breath of a whisper or the flicker of a serpent's tongue gracing every inch of his starlit skin.

"Tell ussssssss of Arcasssssssss."

[Aeros]

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Phocion had missed the point? Or had Æros mispoken? He had not indicated that such a thing would ever rival any other celestial body. The intention was that he, as a mortal, was a singular light in Solunarium's chorus offering whatever effulgence he could muster. He never thought to imply a challenge to Aværys' divine radiance, His Majesty, by what he'd said. At this point, Æros had to wonder if the other man was simply being obtuse for the sake of condescension.

The Færie really had no desire to argue with somebody so irascible, and thus he would keep his reply cordial as he could. "Even a cluster of mortals lack the power to rival our Founders; though we may try, voracious for power of our own, what coruscant light we may offer will always pale to His and Hers. The point is that we strive ever forward, no matter how distant the concept. That being the case…we have our own brilliance when compared to one another. Some stars burn brighter, far larger, and much longer than others. We may render one another blind. Hence, we are as distant stars– He is our radiant sun and She is our luminescent moon." Perhaps it was that he spoke clumsily with his initial recitation of the metaphor, but this time he felt he was both amiable in delivery and clear in meaning.

Phocion spoke again, obnoxious with his implications as he always was. He had no desire to skimp on his offering; it was just that one's own blood is far easier to acquire than another's, so why would it have comparable value even in large quantities? Perhaps Æros was simply mistaken about how much Varvara valued self sacrifice; that, of course, was a possibility. Bloodletting to a point where his head went light and body felt cold was not something he considered to be that much of a risk, ignorant to how dangerous such a thing really was. In his youth, his family encouraged him to drain himself in this way, believing the Starborn in him was something Domina Varvara would appreciate...so he did. So it was normal. The elf was more than happy to let his vitality flow forth, deep as his self-inflicted wound was, until the bleeding had staunched on its own.

Yet to his utter shock, the statue's eyes lit once more, this time maintaining their bewitching glow. Far more blood than he expected filled the altar as deep red rivulets bloomed towards the centre well. It did not look…as he remembered, but it was so gorgeous and mesmerizing he didn't at all question his vision. This couldn't be all his, could it? What else...?

Mid sentence, Phocion's visage bore a moonstruck expression and his gaze shared the luminous glow of the statue. The man whose countenance had grown to vex him so greatly in the span of an afternoon was reduced to but a shell before him, naught more than a vessel. Ink-black tendrils slithered through cracks in the stone, liquid shadow encroaching upon the room by the second as an ætherial glow lit the possessed elf from within. He spoke, but the voice was not his, nor was it singular.

A sonorous song of sibilant voices spilled from his lips, hissing like serpents in unison. By the time this first utterance reached the pointed ears of the Star-crossed Fæ, the room had been engulfed in a thick, abyssal blackness. Standing in this void, there was comfort to be found in the darkness, eldritch as it was. The statue, Æros and Phocion were the only sources of light that remained, yet it almost felt as if the shadows themselves were actively trying to blot away that which they produced.

Dazed, the half-blood said nothing until the vessel before him spoke once more– haunting, outré whispers filling the space around him, yet it was not just sound...he felt breath against his body, the flick of serpentine tongues against celestial skin. Eerie as this all was, he did not feel in danger. They gave but one command: tell them of Arcas.

Baffled, he blinked, freeing himself from his spellbound state. "Domina…Varvara…?" Awestruck, he didn't know how much information was desired. Should he start at the beginning? "I…he…found me in the desert; I thought him a strange beast of a man at first…" he paused, struggling for words. "But then…once we'd agreed to work together, he began to exhibit skills I thought astounding for a mortal man. When I confronted him at first, he denied me. I was hesitant about believing him and unable to test with my Mesmer, but I had no real proof…I opted to extend grace to him and give him the benefit of the doubt." As he spoke, he regained composure.

"Still, the man was not subtle. I tried to enlighten him about how to act among our people, yet he didn't seem to grasp it. He wielded both magical and martial prowess that rivaled creatures of legend. I confronted him again, yet still did he lie to my face. At this point, I knew he was beyond a standard mortal– but I didn't think him to be divine, nor did I imagine he would be Arcas of all souls," Æros sighed.

"I was unsure of what I was dealing with. In my ignorance, I wanted to wait, to see if I could gather information more concrete than simply my intuition. I…didn't want to cry wolf. In my curiosity, he fascinated me. I wanted to learn, to grow. In my naivety, I trusted the empire built around me to have safeguards in place, ones that would prevent a being such as Arcas from sneaking around unchecked for long. Which, blessedly, we did. Knowing the chosen path, arenas, are so heavily watched by our royalty, I'd put faith in my people that should ought run awry, we would see through him. We did. He caught eye after eye, and finally, we peered through his veil." Here, the Starborn sounded markedly more anxious.

"Once detected, he realized he was a poor liar. I recounted my tale to the body you currently possess, and, at that point, Arcas realized he must speak lest he be spoken for…and so he did. He told us that he is fettered. Bound by a mysterious sort of armor, he is. He has a master, though we do not know whom. My best guess would be a foreign power…of which I am uncertain. Your vessel indicated a guess, though it remained unspoken. Arcas himself was muzzled and could not say."

"He told us this master sent him here on a mission to…stop a calamity. He recited an ominous prophecy." Æros blinked, lips slightly parted as he attempted to remember. After a beat, "In the…in the lands of realms…divide…divided? Maybe a realm divided?" The wording of this phrase made little sense to him grammatically when he'd heard it, and being unsure, he didn't feel confident in his recitation thereof. "...a conflict kicks the dragon's tail. The sun's light draws toward the horizon, silver chains dragging it from the heavens toward a stone cage. Purity is lost when the marks of the divine are stolen by the…shifting tides of change." This was not exact, of that he knew, but his memory was not a perfect thing. "He claims he doesn't know what it means."

"He claims he cannot return to whomever has him yoked until he prevents this…calamity. Yet, at the same time, he has no idea what to do or where to start. I wanted to suggest we never leave Arcas unattended; that we always leave a watcher at his side to offer warning should anything go awry. The vessel you possess, instead, dismissed my potential input. I…understand trepidation as my name is not well known, as I have made mistakes. And yet, his course of action came across as…reckless and arrogant while I would have wanted caution."

"He proceeded to offer Arcas a deal. He readily handed Arcas a citadel to use as a base of operations, gifted him free reign of the surrounding desert while he worked to prevent this ominous calamity and granted ample use of our resources on top of that. Your vessel believes that it is not possible for Arcas to lie to him, and thus, he afforded him such…a luxurious deal. Afterwards, he proposed we let Arcas fly back to his master with whatever knowledge or resources he'd collected, still fettered and enslaved by an unknown entity who may mean us harm. Arcas himself is either unaware of or unable to divulge whatever his master's intent truly is."

"I did not think such a proposition from your vessel to be wise, but he believes his judgment beyond question. He believed this was worth it, though Arcas would yet be free to return any time in the future, unknown to us. Arcas, however, did not want to leave with his fetters, so instead, he gave us a counter offer: break his chains and he frees our twin Founders. That is where we are now. Your vessel took me here immediately after their covenant was agreed upon and he claimed to, after this, meet with the royalty to relay his plan and seal it with them." Every word he said was laced in a sort of dumbstruck awe, bewildered as he was.

All the same, he sounded nervous. Any time he had offered eithet twin sacrifice prior, they remained inert. No flickers. No glints. Nothing. He kept at it for a time...until his collapse, really. His devotion had waned greatly, though he hadn’t shed his faith entirely. He couldn't. He couldn't have willed himself not to show at the radiant temple above this morning and it would’ve hurt to not have dipped down here. This was...edifying. A blessing he never would've dreamed of, especially given the last few years.

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'Thoughts'

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Pharaoh]

Whether Phocion was satisfied with Æros' clarification or merely felt he had gleaned all that was worthwhile from this exercise of theological analogy, he engaged no further with their celestially-themed discourse. He now knew more of the younger man's motivations. His relationship with the Founders was his own to forge, and the Vigil's primary concern was simply that Æros was committed at all. The details of that devotion were immaterial.

Silently, Phocion's form hovered, wrists and ankles bound, arms and legs extended as if being stretched by the barely tangible tethers with their grey smoke. The eyes of the statue and their smaller simulacra on Phocion's face regarded the mortal, and listened with patience before asserting in their serpentine chorus.

"We see thine heart." Silver eyes flashed gold, momentarily. "Litigate not thy faults and failures to us. Our judgement need brook no testimony." As he proceeded on to speaking on the matter of the prophecy, Phocion's head tilted in sudden interest. It only lasted as long as the recitation of omen, and soon faded as Æros launched into a tirade of criticism for his social better.

"Child of the Winter Wild who dwelleth Desert Climes..." The silver gaze narrowed and the hissing grew louder all around him and a rumbling, perhaps from the unseen walls, began to quake the surroundings. "We ask of Arcas and hear more of thee. We know thy place. Dost thou?" A snarl curled the lip of the Vigil,

"Learn it or earn a better one. Cast chaos and disorder from thine heart and lay it bare before the blazing sun or the subtle moon. Serve Us well and obey thy betters that you might join their ranks. You are Ours and shall serve Us, whether thou willst or næ. But woe betide Solunarium if We return and find the hierarchies We took pains to erect be so far eroded that this display doth stand as archetype." The chains began to lower Phocion's form, his legs going slack.

"You give Us thy blood." Slowly he sank down to the floor behind the altar, which was now erupting like a volcano of blood. More than Æros could have possibly let and still lived.

"Now yield up thy pride and perhaps We will cast Our eye upon thee again. Until then, seek Us not. We shall find thee by and by..." The rattling of the chains ceased, and the eyes of the statue went black.

"Æros?" As the half-elf blinked away, he would find his head in the lap of a kneeling Phocion, patting his cheek to stir him with a gloved hand. The Sentinel looked mildly relieved and withdrew his hand from the face of the dancer. His wound had been bandaged and they were on the floor before the altar. Again the walls were visible and grey, and the dim lights illuminated languidly once more. The spillways of the altar were dry and clean with no signs of Æros' blood. The sacrifice, it seemed, had been accepted.

"The altar... It drew a great deal of blood from you very quickly. You went catatonic, but your eyes were aflutter beneath their lids. It felt... passing potent. Did They speak to you?"

[Aeros]

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From the response he received, Æros could tell he had overstepped. He blinked quickly, still bewildered, wanting to say something, anything to save face– yet he held his tongue in silent understanding as he watched Her fade from Phocion's form. When darkness began to recede, he felt both abject horror at the situation and some strange level of serenity. For as much as he had been rebuked, Varvara’s words held a great deal of meaning to him and, for once, finally, he felt like he had something akin to a goal. A purpose to live for. No longer did he wish to simply fade away; he'd hit the bottom and instead of breaking once more, he'd bounced. Now, his plan was to rise. The question now, then, would be thus: how will the rest of his story unfold?

As light once more flooded his eyes, the whiplash of now being on the floor struck him. Over him knelt one familiar face of a dusky elf and it took nearly all of his self control not to recoil in disgust at the other's touch, though he did succeed. The only expression he wore was a hollow sort of exhaustion, as if he weren't all there. Which, in this scenario, this was quite apt; Æros had lost a great deal of blood and stood on the razor's edge of consciousness.

There was a certain sincerity in the way Phocion spoke when he posed his question. Through half-lidded eyes, the Færie finally met the elf's gaze, expression much softer than he'd ever worn prior when looking at the other. "Yes. Well…no. One of them, I, er…I think. It was just Domina Varvara. She spoke to me, asked after Arcas– I promise I told her everything I am aware of. She knows." Of this, he spoke with great emphasis. There was a passion in his voice greater than he should've been capable of mustering in this state.

"I know not what She will do…but I can hope that my recitation of the prophecy will serve both Her and Deus Aværys well…I only wish I had more to say about Arcas, yet the man speaks precious little. Maybe I can pry free yet more words…" He spoke with a sort of forlorn tone and the slightest quiver of sadness to his voice, a bitterness on his tongue, words not more than a murmur towards the end. The reason was twofold– one, that he had made so egregious an error. Two, that he hadn't had any additional actual insight to have imparted onto Her. "If it pleases you, I'd love to use my position at Arcas' side to siphon what I can from him. I desire nothing more than to help you, and in doing so, serve Them." His tone was markedly more respectful than prior.

And yet, She did say She knew his heart. In a roundabout way, this inspired hope within. If in the future more did he learn, he vowed to bleed once again in penance and offer Her the conveyance thereof along with any insight he could offer. Then, unless asked of him, naught any more would run his mouth.

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'Thoughts'

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"

[Pharaoh]

Phocion's eyes widened visibly, and he searched Æros' face for signs of veracity. The trained spy and diplomat was well trained and practised in reading people, even those who had skill in subterfuge. Æros would sense not incursion of Mesmer nor Semblance into his æther, but that might have simply been due to the many offsetting wards Sentinels tended to don. It was hard to tell with the way they were forged and scrivened. After looking to the face of the fæ upon his lap, Phocion looked up to the statue, his long, pale neck extended looking almost swanlike from below. Again the statue's eyes flashed, as if to confirm the words spoken by the mortal.

"Fascinating." Phocion whispered tensely, and moved his gloved hands to the shoulders of the youth, urging him to sit up. He would guide him to use the altar to prop himself, if need be, but that was as much of comfort as the Vigil was willing to confer, at the moment. He rose to his feet.

"We did not get to forge the covenant I sought to broach with you..." The moonborn elf noted with a faint grimace, "But it seems Her Argent Austerity has bound you toward a deeper understanding." He extended a hand over his garment and the grey dust that had collected whilst he knelt was blasted away by an unseen force, leaving the black fabric pristine once more.

"Do as you say, serve the Realm well, and the Sentinels may have further use of you, yet. I shall cast no further shadows on your day, Æros." He extended one hand to the glaive, which leapt to meet it. The other he jutted upward toward the ceiling and the thunderous knell of the temple bell sounded once more. Doors opened instantly, as priests and acolytes guided devotees back into the great hall.

"The clerics will help you to recover, if you cannot walk." Phocion paused,

"When next you speak with Dæmon, and all times thereafter, report to me directly with a detailed account of the interaction." He started to stalk away, the base of his glaive clicking against the ground in rhythm with his boots, but over his shoulder he added a call to which Æros would have responded with 'Eos alit!' hours earlier at the Radiant Mass they'd both attended.

"Sicut Domina imperat."

[Aeros]

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Moving in this state was…unpleasant. It made his head spin, and even the act of lifting it when he was shifted to sit up gave him some semblance of vertigo. That being the case, he was easy to manipulate up against the altar, not wanting to linger in particularly close proximity to Phocion. Æros didn't have to like him, but now, he realized that he did have to respect him as a vessel of Varvara’s– the soul within the body notwithstanding. His devotion, if absolutely nothing else, was admirable.

Whether they saw eye to eye on certain decisions would likely vary as time went on, but he could at least trust that the other had motivations which ultimately aligned with his own, if a different shade. Both wanted to serve and revitalize the twin gods, to bring Them back one way or another. And thus, Æros did not see the point in continuing to bicker with somebody who was ultimately on the same side as him.

Phocion spoke while the star-crossed Fæ sat in a daze, trying to regain his senses. He gave the other a quizzical look at the notion of a covenant being forged between the two of them, but ultimately said nothing. Broaching the subject was not something he wanted to do since binding himself in any formal fashion to Phocion was not an idea that appealed to him. While the Vigil continued to speak, Æros held his gaze upon the other's face, though not necessarily holding direct eye contact.

The ring of the bell above the two of them likely would've caught him off guard were he more of sound senses, but he barely reacted even as doors opened and figures began filling the room once more. When given instructions to report whatever he found to Phocion, he very shakily rose to his feet and offered a small nod.

"Sumus ad idem." Though his voice had weakened, he was no less audible than before.

And in response to the other as he left, "eos alit."

Once the Vigil had left, he was approached by priests offering him assistance. Æros wanted to decline, and he tried to, but they were insistent that he at least eat something before they allowed him leave. Once freed, he began a slow trek back to his demesne. The mixed elf could barely think, but at least the Umbrium's winding passages were etched into his mind such that returning home required little thought, if any.

He very much wanted to seek out Khy, unsure of the time now, but any excess exertion on his end would likely result in a loss of consciousness. Æros did not want to find himself awakening on the ground somewhere, and so he took his time on his way back, not wanting to tire himself any more than he presently was. Once returned, he immediately moved to lie down, though he did not neglect to refresh his vices lest he wake up in immense discomfort.

- - -

'Thoughts'

"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"

"Vastien Tongue/Speech"

"Valasren Tongue/Speech"

"Common Tongue/Speech"