Legend of Ransera

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.

"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..."

"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."

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?"

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."