Legend of Ransera

“Your Divine Radiance,” Low did Phocion bow, “Your Serene Highnesses.” He stood upright black-gloved hands clasped in front of his black Sentinel robes. Silvery white eyes scanned the assembled princes of the Regium Concilium, lingering for a moment upon his mother, before beginning his address.

“As the Vigilia Magna has doubtless already indicated, I have been able to identify the entity at Fortis Lacerta as none other than the avatar of blighted Arcas reborn.” There was a reflexive auditory response from several of the council, though notably the Solar Sovereign and the High Sentinel Cithæra were silent and stoic.

“Commendations are due to the stalwart Gens Danann-Sol’Aværys, who were thorough enough to examine this threat and to Vyxis Dux who alerted the council in haste so that our order might act efficiently to contain the threat to our sacred capital, lest it be further corrupted by his cursed presence.”

“Deus vult!” Called the Princeps Legatus, and her sentiment was echoed by several others, including Drævyn, who was Paterfamilias of the house being commended by the Sentinel.

“Indeed.” Phocion continued, “Without tipping my hand to much that isn’t common knowledge, I was able to ascertain his methodology, his intentions and to secure a binding agreement that he should not enter the sacred city but remain confined to the distant desert sentry village of Red Rock.

“In some regards, he was every bit the Arcas of myth. Misguided and self-righteous. A creature of potent power and no clear focus toward which to direct it, thus an unintentional agent of chaos. Death has not matured him toward considering the consequences of his actions, as proven by his reckless display in the arena during a period when he was attempting subterfuge.”

“To the point, Sentinel. Let’s not make a meal of the theological implications, hm?” It was the husky voice of the Sovereign delivering his chastisement.

“Of course, Divine Radiance…” A smirk painted his moon pale face, “This is all to say that I believe wholeheartedly that he is incapable of oath breaking. Of course we will observe the usual customs of the covenant, but I am confident that he will stand firm to our understandings…”

“Which are?” Thalya IV arched an eyebrow,

“In exchange for his compliance in staying outside the city, we will offer assistance in the execution of his goal here. This is where the Arcas of today differs from that of scripture… Arcas is bound in service to an unnamed master abroad.”

A clamour answered this revelation, and Phocion held up a gloved hand.

“I understand the implications, and already have certain suspicions as to who might hold the leash. But according to Dæmon, as he so artlessly self-identified, his aim here is to thwart a calamity of some kind. This is the edict of his master and it comes with a prophecy. It seems a simple thing to help him decode this bit of verse in exchange for the safety of our society and for circumventing the woeful drain on resources and lives that would be required to fell him.”

“And yet, Sentinel…” The other moonborn prince present rose from his seat at the table, “As Princeps Pontifex, I must remind you that our duty to the Founders who bless our blood, is in avenging them. As our lustrous Lord said in the Radiant Chronicle, ‘When we cannot countenance Justice, we must not shun its counterpart:"

“Revenge.” Vrædyn and Phocion spoke the word in tandem.

“Yes, I am familiar with scripture, Serene Highness. And yet, as Varvara said in that self-same tome, ‘Patience is as sister to Success. Let not thine ire cool, but churn volcanic toward eruption’s pyre. Strike not ere thine blade doth blaze.’” Phocion cocked an eyebrow up, “Our blades are yet sheathed, cousin, off at Kaladon. And what I have arranged, could see them drawn in righteous fury’s flame.”

For the first time, a crack showed upon the Sovereign’s stoic visage: concern.

“What means this, Vigil Phocion? Set purple poetry aside and speak as plain as a zenith in Searing.”

Phocion would oblige, though not without internally noting her own florid prose present in the command.

“If we will sever Talon’s tethers, he will sever those Arcas inflicted upon our Founders. He will release our gods.” This revelation, unlike the others, was met not with gasps or exclamations, but with stone cold silence. Slowly all eyes turned to the queen, who was staring intently as if through Phocion.

“I am loath to enter into any agreement with so vile a figure. I would spit at his name, but for the Vastian nomads who might mistake the gesture for a display of respect.” The Sovereign began, cool and soft. “Why should we trust this assessment? Are you so arrogant as to believe that a god in his own right, however wretched, has not the capacity to deceive you?”

“Alas, Divine Radiance, he is no god of deceit. Our Lady of Chains teaches us that nothing that lives is wholly unbound, and even gods are confined... by the lofty concepts they represent. He who claims dominion over Light cannot brook shadow with ease. He who claims to be Justice, must stand firm to an oath, or be himself unjust. This being said, I informed him that I would require the authority of the Crown to enter into such a covenant. The rest of the terms are settled, but this matter demanded due diligence.” He bowed in deference.

Thalya IV rose from her high-backed, golden seat and stalked away from the table, considering the implications.

“Arcas bound…” She muttered, “And you would have us set him free?” The weight of that was lost on no one in the room, and a deathly silence pursued the question. After a pregnant pause, it was Cithæra who spoke up.

“He is bound by another, Your Divine Radiance. One with no allegiance to the Crown of Solunarium. At best they are indifferent to our wellbeing, at worst their goals conflict with our own. I would warrant that Arcas is more dangerous as the weapon of an unknown force than he is as an independent agent. And what we would gain, Divine Radiance…” Passion began to swell in her voice, “Two gods unbound in exchange for one. We forfeit not the revenge of our Founders. We merely delay it so that we might confer with Them directly. Let us not guess at Their will, when we might know their minds from Their own tongues.”

The Solar Sovereign placed her hand upon the back of her chair, still facing away from the council, her golden eyes cast toward the window that overlooked her great and ancient realm. She had ruled over it for just shy of a century, and in her hundredth year the boon of the ages might fall into her lap. Why had it not waited a generation? Why had she been allowed such potent power for so many decades, only to be asked to give it up and set aside their age-old pretenses of divinity in the face of the real thing. Thalya IV Imperatrix was not so sure they would look favourably upon her works. But, like the gods themselves, she was reined in.

“Very well, Sentinel.” She replied in a whisper so soft it would have been inaudible, if not for the anticipatory silence and stillness that such a lofty moment demanded. “Prince Vrædyn, as our Keeper of the Faith, will join you and make certain that we commit no heresy in creating this covenant. Vrædyn? Tarry a trice. The rest of you may quit our presence.” She waved a dismissive hand and stalked over to the window, where her moonborn grandson joined her.

Phocion watched the pair confer, unable to discern what they were saying over the general hubbub of the room. They were smart enough to turn at an angle where he couldn’t read their lips.

“Very well done, Phocion. How quickly our Waking Prayer has been answered.” Cithæra drew up to her son, smiling and placing a hand on his back, urging him toward the exit.

“All the more reason to offer formidible sacrifice for the Waning. What do you think they are discussing?” Phocion wondered aloud.

“Were I to guess,” The High Sentinel began, “I would imagine they are pondering the quandary of what becomes of a reigning queen, when the lords of old return to roost. Beware of sabotage, my son. There are those who revere the Founders for whom Their return is a woeful inconvenience.”




A servus rapped upon the door to Dæmon’s suite at Red Rock.

“Your Highness!” The young human called from the other side of the door, “Representatives from the capital have arrived and await you in the conference room.” The slave would await a response from within and, whenever he was ready to depart, he would be led to the same room where he’d met with Phocion three days earlier. The table that had housed the refreshments then, was now being stacked with old tomes by figures in purple robes and near the window, the familiar figure of Phocion would be seen conversing with a taller Elf, less narrow of face but similar in complexion. Upon his arrival, they would pause their exchange and Phocion offered a cordial, if faint, smile.

“Ah, Your Highness of Kalzasi. Allow me to introduce His Serene Highness, Prince Vrædyn of Gens Vlahos-Sol’Aværys.” The taller elf would offer a nod of acknowledgement to the still significantly taller demigod.

“Let us start digging into this prophecy of yours, shall we?” Phocion suggested, moving to personally pull out a seat for his cousin of Vlahos. Who moved to claim it with a grunt of gratitude to Phocion.

“So tell us.” Prince Vrædyn sat straight-backed in his chair and tilted his head, “What have you gleaned thus far from the verse? How do you interpret it?”

Mathias did his best to sound out the Vastian being repeated as Talon eavesdropped upon the Regium Concilium. Though the scrawling would be completely illegible to a Vastian-speaker, Mathias might be able to read back his phonetic transcription to a native to glean greater details about the events of the meeting, but between his lack of comprehension and inaccurate pronunciation, the magicks infused in their jewelry were not enough to translate. It would require the assistance of another. What he was able to set down is as follows:


Vrædyn grimaced at the vague response. Though he'd been briefed that Dæmon was outfitted with accessories enabling him to speak Vastian, the Princeps Pontifex spoke Common. Unlike Phocion, who spoke in a contemporary Kalzasern dialect, Vrædyn's accent would be unfamiliar to Talon, though perhaps not to Arcas. It was not a simple Vastian accent applied to Common words. He spoke perfect Common, it was only that it was a very, very old dialect, likely dead elsewhere in the world. It displayed that he'd mastered the language academically, but that he rarely had cause to use it. There was pointed intention behind this.

"Fie! Be not coy. Surely a creature of thy potency hath greater wit than that. If thee and we are to align ourselves toward this common purpose, we must wax more candid. Surely thou hast found aught that doth resonate with thee within yond text. Speak thee first, and we would fain complement thine interpretation with Solunarian wisdom."

Phocion took a breath through his nose.

"Perhaps it would help to review the contents of the prophecy once more. I shall call for the transcription." Phocion sat upright and called toward the door leading out into the corridor.

"Subvigil!" A veiled, black-clad man broad of shoulder with pale features visible beneath the lace of his face covering entered. If Talon used his talents to look beyond the trappings, he would note the familiar figure of Finn the Minstrel.

"Bring forth the text, if you would?" Phocion extended a gloved hand toward the young human.

Vrædyn and two of the veiled Sentinels standing sentry in the corners of the room, took sudden, sharp interest in Finn. Phocion’s attention was a milder thing and, though his gaze danced between Dæmon and Finn, there was nothing severe behind his pale gaze. Vrædyn narrowed his eyes at the subsentinel, as if in warning, before casting the same glare toward his cousin. He had not been warned about this apparent ploy, nor did he understand the purpose of the endeavour. That would be something they would need to discuss in private at a later time. For the nonce, the prince would focus upon the task at hand.

Vrædyn considered the recitation of the prophecy as Dæmon gave it voice. His eyes trailed down to the pitcher, as the demigod plied his Craft of Kinetics. Smiling to himself, as the pitcher slid back into place, his pale gaze darted to a slave. Suddenly, the young woman sprung forward under the compulsion of Vrædyn’s Will and reached across the table to pour a cup of water for the prince.

“Indeed.” He nodded, “This is the sort of candour I sought and it seems thou hast come to many of the same conclusions as we withal.” He extended his hand and the cup of water was placed into his grasp. He paused to take a sip, then placed it down as the serva returned to stand by the wall.

“Thou speakst of the Zalkyrian Dynasty. Offspring of the Atraxian Crownwyrm, Zalkyrion, Æternal Burneth His Flame…” His expression darkened, “With whom thou wast in antiquity acquainted.”

Vrædyn arched a dark eyebrow as Dæmon projected a notion intended for the subvigil whose arrival had surged something in both the human and the demideity. Vrædyn had been briefed on the incident at the arena, and was already exercising the caution Dæmon bade of Finn. It brought to mind a question he’d been pondering these past few days. The Princeps Pontifex was no reluctant servant of the Faith. He was a curious student of theology for whom this uncomfortable meeting presented unique opportunities. Arcas may not have been a god with whom he’d ever hoped to treat, but a god he was.

“I do wonder…” Vrædyn began, “Hast thou, who claimeth justice and light as his demesne, any concern for the Sentinels whose minds thou didst rend for naught but serving their function? I understand thou hast not deigned to inquire after their well-being. They were assessors, not aggressors and did serve the Crown in hopes of protecting our people from unknown threats. Does it seem just to you that their minds should be hobbled for working to defend our innocent citizens, or are these dedicated servants beneath thine high-sighted regard?” With that question posed, the prince returned his focus to the task for which they’d actually gathered.

“As for the ‘Marks of the Divine’…” The prince regarded Phocion coolly. “I suspect it refereth to the Talismans of Yore. Recovered long ago from Kaladon, the Crown keepeth the Eye of Aværys, and the other amulet, that of Varvara, is in the Keeping of Phædryn’s line.” A snarl curled his lip as he glared at his cousin.

“I fear me that this prophecy doth betoken Immaculist treachery. They have hidden the relic away for untold years and do defy the command of Her Divine Radiance to produce it.”

“It is ours by right.” Phocion protested. “A gift bequeathed us for sacrificing our right to stand in the line of succession.”

“A sacrifice your grandfather did seek to forswear. For that alone is thy right to this ‘gift’ forfeit.”

“My grandfather paid for that choice with his life and our reputation. We would be passing foolish to yield it up now, when you and yours seem to hold us in such contempt.” Vrædyn parted his lips to speak, but to his shock and chagrin, Phocion held up a halting hand to silence him. “Let us not rehash this dispute in front of our esteemed guest. I know that yours is a zealous heart and faster to fire than your Umbrian complexion might suggest. It is a great boon for your role as Keeper of the Faith. I am ever your lesser at Radiant Mass, but I hope you will defer to me in this subtle craft of diplomacy.”

“Very well, Sentinel.” Vrædyn replied, forcing a flatness to his tone though he was clearly seething behind his stoic expression. “But what if these hallowed, holy relics are truly at the heart of the prophecy? We can delay the argument, but long is it overdue. The talismans belong together and should adorn the bosom of our Solar Sovereign, rather than having half of the twain locked away in whatever shadowy vault thy matriarch doth keep to house it..”

"...Birthed of Fury and Flame." Prince Vrædyn replied in answer to Dæmon's utterance of the name 'Zalkyrion'.

"...Risen in Vengeance and Vindication." Phocion added, a moment later.

"He liveth on in the potent progeny of His blessed blood." The Princeps Pontifex noted, casting a glance down toward the table. His gaze lifted as Dæmon began his reply.

"Thou mistakest me, Highness. I am a theologian. The preeminent cleric in our Holy Faith, with the arguable exception of Her Divine Radiance. E'en so, it is not oft that I confer with deities of... other domains. My interest is genuine. Though, yes, apparent contradictions are of particular interest to me, I am not seeking to paint you as a hypocrite. My cousin seems to believe your ilk are incapable of hypocrisy and, if he is correct, then thine elucidation might pave a means for we of Solunarium to better serve our own Gods." With that, he sat back and allowed Dæmon to explain, thoughtfully.

"An intriguing question, Highness." Vrædyn tapped his chin, and repeated it as he pondered his reply, "'Does the soldier curse the sword upon which he dies, or does he recognise that every battle could be his last?'" He pursed his lips, "I would say in most cases, both. The sword upon which he dies is likely that of an enemy to his cause, and thus he would curse having failed the cause for which he now gives his life. But, I wonder... Doth this question imply that a soldier, in knowingly putting his life at risk for a greater cause, deserveth no justice?" He arched an eyebrow, and drew his hand from his chin as the foreigner spoke on.

"Mmm." It was Phocion who now interjected, "With apologies for the pedantry, Highness, the Sentinels had already embarked upon their work before you... sort of half-uttered a warning that was too late for them to possibly heed. As for your other suppositions, a bit of clarity there- To your first point: Anyone who attended your gladiatorial bouts knew that you were no ordinary man but an extraordinary one. The purpose of the meeting our cousin arranged was to assess whether you were safe enough to present as a contestant in an exhibition fight for Her Divine Radiance's jubilee. To your second point... Well. His Serene Highness the Princeps Pontifex can speak to that better than I..."

"Indeed..." Vrædyn scowled, "There was... something of an... enigmatic warning." The prince seemed to find this subject difficult to impart for some reason. There was a discomfort- as if his skin was crawling with revulsion. He glanced about the room to the attending Sentinels, before leaning in to whisper-hiss the words: "...from the Orkhan." The word, which already rather sounded like an onomatopoetic descriptor for vomit, sounded particularly grotesque on Vrædyn's tongue.

Phocion seemed amused by the other elf's discomfort, but concealed it somewhat as he gathered æther to pour himself a cup of water across the able, and draw the drink close enough to grasp.

"I see." Vrædyn pursed his lips at Talon-Arcas' icy summation of the incident at the arena. "Then perhaps you will be disappointed to learn that both agents have recovered."

"Somewhat." Phocion added over the rim of his water glass, just before tipping a sip between his lips.

At the end of the prior exchange between the cousins, Prince Vrædyn, still staring down his Sentinel cousin, suddenly shifted his white-blue gaze. Though his face remained still, his eyes darted to look at the human subvigil, clearly known to both Phocion and Talon-Arcas. His cousin was vexing, haughty, condescending and any number of other things Vrædyn regarded as faults, but he was no fool. He would not have brought his creature in to pass middling, cryptic messages under the nose of the Princeps Pontifex, knowing Vrædyn's capital discipline. Was this some sort of distraction? Was this boy some sort of sacrificial lamb to dare play at practising his Craft upon princes, as if he would brook no reprimand? Were it not for the presence of he who represented a remote and foreign notion of 'Justice', the Sovereign's grandson might have executed the Solularian counterpart upon this presumptuous human peregrinus.

Looking back to Phocion, he caught a glint of a wry smirk in an even paler eye than his own. Even with his potent, princely puissance, Vrædyn knew he could not glean an accurate reading of Phocion's Symphony, while his cousin donned the obscuring, enchanted garb all princes and most Silver Sentinels did, but still, there was something there. Even after their conflict, Phocion was trying to communicate something. The Prince looked from the Vigil to the Subvigil to their guest, and it clicked. Phocion had brought in a Mesmer who was familiar to Talon, knowing the two would likely endeavour to communicate via that medium. Vrædyn had learnt the lesson of the other Grandmaster Mesmer who had suffered for their efforts to delve into the Symphony of Talon-Arcas without permission, so he would not venture anything so perilous as that. To piggyback via the Symphony of a lesser Mesmer for whom the dæmon had a soft spot, however... He would not smile in approval of his cousin, lest he give up the game, but instead would ætherically eavesdrop, and likely glean more specificity from the exchange than either the Subsentinel or the demideity.

"Very well." Phocion turned his attentions back to Dæmon, "But I am not being coy in confessing that this will likely soon overperch my frame of knowledge. The Phædryn amulet is not in my keeping, nor ever has it been. That is the jurisdiction of a higher power."

"He meaneth his mother." Vrædyn noted, dryly. Then his Runic sense were perked to an ætheric protuberance. The subvigil was attempting to broadcast something into the Symphony of Talon-Arcas, and Vrædyn would play subtle stowaway in hopes of gleaning privileged intelligence. Such a sweet, light Symphony this human had. That alone spoke volumes of his foreignness, but perhaps it was why he was able to make incursions into Talon's Symphony that had driven others mad. Whatever the reason, it afforded Vrædyn access to Talon's response, or rather... No. Not Talon's. Vrædyn's eyes danced down to the bracers, and he leaned close to Phocion's pointed ear.

"Recte vos." He whispered in Vastian, "Is ab Imperio Geleriano possidetur." All at once, Vrædyn and several of the attending sentinels jolted- a shiver coursing through their bodies. Two guards rushed to the prince's side, as he glared at Talon-Arcas. They helped him to his feet, and rushed him from the room as Phocion scowled after him.

"Mm. It seems we needs must recess for a moment." He held his hand up as if to wave farewell to Vrædyn, but it just froze there for a few seconds. After a few more beats, Phocion muttered, "Fæx." And leaned forward bodily to reach for the apple he'd been trying to draw forth with his Kinetics. "You'll find most of my cousins mislike being severed from their magicks. I'm certain he shall return shortly." He took a bite, and gestured to a slave and then tapped at his cape. The servant rushed over to remove it. "Afferte mihi aliam." He instructed, calmly.