Legend of Ransera

As Dæmon spoke the binding words of his coveted assent, the Aura of the eldritch armour shifted before the glowing eyes of the Twins, as slender silver chains wound about not the metal itself but the energy that made it restraining. The chains tightened enough to create gaps through which the demigod before them might shine more liberally.

“Then we are resolved.” Varvara turned Phocion toward Vrædyn and Aværys leaned forth to cup his cheek with the palm of the other prince.

“Anon, Sister Spouse, shall we revel as in days of old… with fire in our flesh as we imbibe to surfeit the sweet succour of Sacrifice.”

Phocion’s head tilted sidelong and coy eyes darted to meet Dæmon’s.

“Until the Hallowed Hour is at hand, Lightbringer. Seek us at Kaladon’s Maw and let ancient grudges be sacrificed in favour of greater accords.”

The cousins drew together in an embrace forged in the hunger of millennia spent with their souls together but their physical forms rent asunder by the nature of their imprisonment. As their lips met, the chain and the leash began to recede. Vrædyn’s arms tightened around Phocion’s slimmer form, as if trying to pull them into a single form. They writhed, one against the other, until their tethers had pulled back to the chalice, at which point the golden leash and the silver chain abruptly lost their light and fell from midair and from the wrists of the two cousins, revealing themselves for what they were: Blood.

As their sanguine sacrifice splashed onto the floor, the two cousins crumpled onto their knees on the tile. The two moonpale elves no longer glowed with ethereal light, though their fair forms were yet lit by the moons looming large behind them. As the cousins regained control of their senses, they were clearly confused to find themselves nude and indeed aroused. Stumbling away from each other, they grasped their bleeding wrists and both looked confused, angry…

“What is the meaning of th-…” Vrædyn halted his question as Phocion shifted his head sharply to take note of Dæmon. They were not alone. Vrædyn quickly located his discarded clothes and wrapped himself in a cloak, as he glared at Dæmon, demanding:

“What hast thou wrought?”

Phocion was not as modest as his cousin, though one might argue he might have had more cause to be as the scrawnier of the two. Dæmon's Sembling eyes would see through that intentional feint. Now that the cousins were stripped of their obscuring cloaks, their Auras were plain to see. What the Moonborn son of Phædryn lacked in physical brawn, he more than made up for as a Kineticist of unusually potent prowess. There was something about this diplomat that seemed much more a soldier- One more prone to execute the terms of an agreement than one who negotiated them.

Vrædyn had already displayed his aptitude in the discipline of Mesmer, and with his Aura laid as bare as his pale skin, Dæmon would recognise that the prince even exceeded the Sentinel who'd attempted to dip into his Symphony back at the Fortis Lacerta Arena. Unlike those ill-fated Vigils who had devoted themselves to the study of a single Rune, both cousins were multidisciplinary mages with one particularly powerful Rune each, and mastery or expertise in several others. Both scions of the Founders seemed naturally adept as well as very experienced in their magicks.

Phocion's lips parted as he regarded Dæmon in his glory, and those portentous words were uttered. Did his eyes, bleary from the blackout, deceive him? Or did the deific nimbus glow brighter than it had when last Arcas appeared before him in glory? Although Phocion was not keenly aware of the details surrounding the eldritch armour, its effects upon the demi-deity before him having relaxed, there was a sense of awe that had been lost on him in the prior presence. And if that awe weren't potent enough, Arcas' words invoked She of the Scourge, and Phocion understood.

"Vrædyn Princeps..." He could see in his periphery that his cousin, now in the presence of unmasked divinity, was stricken as well... More so. He had not been present for the forging of their accord, and so this was his first time. "I believe our Sacrifice has been accepted." Phocion glanced over his shoulder to the chalice filled with the comingling blood of the cousins, and the rivers of their essence that trailed in lines from the vessel to the elves themselves where they knelt. Phocion rose, as the light of Arcas dimmed around Dæmon, and padded to get cloths for Vrædyn and himself to staunch their bleeding wrists.

As Dæmon bade his farewell to the descendants of the Twins, Phocion would glance up to meet Dæmon's and, for a brief trice, his eyes were not his own- flashing once again with Her regard. Perhaps Dæmon would note that both of the young elves were subtly changed in the aftermath of their possession. Or perhaps he was too concerned with the gravity of his task to concern himself with the cousins, now branded evermore with sigils upon their souls... souvenirs of their stints as vessels of their patron and matron gods.

Lore: 8.

Experience Points: 15 (I think you're maxxed out on the applicable magicks, but correct me if I'm wrong)

Injuries/Ailments: n/a

Loot: n/a

Notes: A Divine Covenant has been forged between Arcas and the Solunarian Founders promising the sacrifice of Rebellion to the Mistress of Chains. Perhaps old grudges will give way to novel symbiosis. In the aftermath of their possession, Phocion and Vrædyn have unwittingly been left marked by their spectral guests.