Legend of Ransera

It was passing queer thing for two Solunarian princes of the blood and direct descendants of the divine duo who'd founded the realm, to be working so closely with the one who doomed their vast empire to remote seclusion. It hadn't been a smooth transition toward a working relationship, but at this point they were over a week into their task and things had grown less tense. There wasn't what anyone would call camaraderie between the Princes Sol'Aværys and Talon-Arcas-Dæmon, but neither was there truly camaraderie between The Prince of Vlahos and he of Phædryn.

"No, no, no!" Vrædyn snapped a book shut, as if that clap were the sound of the exclamation point that emphasised his rising cadence. "We have been over that interpretation five and twenty times, and I remind thee emphatically that Gracchus is the authority on matters draconic in Atraxia, not Vespius! We have not e'en broached the seventh volume of the Vita Zalkyrionis!"

Phocion leaned back in his chair and let his head hang over its back, arms flopping to either side in utter resignation.

"Another bloody volume of Gracchus?" The stern Sentinel had never looked more childlike in Dæmon's presence than he did in this moment of utter frustration. "Why are you so fucking fixated upon the one line about the dragon's tail, when it is clearly simply there to establish the setting as Atraxia? You're trying to interpret poetry through an historical lens."

"What other lens haveth we to exploit, when this prophecy cometh from remote antiquity?" Vrædyn protested.

Phocion lifted his head, and glanced across the room to the floor to ceiling window.

"Serene Highness." The Phædryn prince began in a firm, officious tone, clasping his hands in front of him and letting out a quick sigh. "We are hours past the setting of Aværys' glorious sun. Should the Princeps Pontifex not be focused upon his Waning Prayer as we retire for an evening which is fast giving way to night? Your Highness can read volume seven in the comfort of his bed and report to us tomorrow with a succinct summary."

Vrædyn glanced over his shoulder at the darkened skies that had fallen over the vast, Atraxian expanse. The moons looming over the sands like two mismatched eyes gaping at him in a judgmental expression shared by his cousin.

"I... hadn't realised the hour was grown so late." The taller of the elven pair granted.

"Dæmon." Phocion looked to the statuesque figure, "I think we can recess for the day." The silver-eyed moonborn looked downright apologetic. Dæmon would have picked up by this point that there was an undercurrent of distrust beyond what was obvious from their bickering. Phocion had suspected for a few days now that Vrædyn was purposely delaying their efforts. It was likely that his mother had been right about the Sovereign's trepidations about this whole affair. She'd likely sent Vrædyn in as a distraction whilst she marshaled her forces against their ostensible goals.

Phocion walked Dæmon to the door opening his mouth to speak, before Vrædyn's voice called out from behind.

"Cousin? Perhaps we might pray together ere we part ways this eventide?"

Phocion sighed, and gestured a dismissal to the sentinel guards and monitors who ornamented the walls during their sessions. They passed Phocion and Talon, preceding them out the door.

"Goodnight, Dæmon." Phocion shut the door behind the veritable giant, turning back to face his cousin. "You wish to pray together?"

"Phocion," Although they conducted their exchanges in front of Dæmon mostly in Common, Vrædyn switched to Vastian now that they were alone. "I do not wish for us to be at odds in this..." He took soft steps to close the distance between them, "...nor in anything, i'faith."

"Honey words, Highness, but our divide runs deep..." Phocion stood still as the taller man drew near, beginning to slowly circle him.

"That is why I would remind you how much we have in common... in the light of her glorious moons." Vrædyn gestured to the window, placing his hands upon Phocion's shoulders from behind and gently guiding him forward. They rounded the table and stood before the clear view of the little village below, the open darkened desert and, indeed, the two lunar orbs that hung in a star-specked sky. "Kneel." Vrædyn instructed, taking a backward step to leave Phocion by the window. Pursing his lips, the sentinel obliged. Moments later, Vrædyn would kneel at his side with a chalice of platinum and a dagger forged to match it.
"Let us mingle our blood. A common sacrifice between us twain to honour Them." Vrædryn suggested, gingerly.

"So be it." Phocion nodded, tugging the sleeve of his left arm, which was closest to Vrædryn, up to expose his wrist and forearm. The other prince did the same with his right sleeve, as he handed the dagger off to Phocion.

"I do sanctify this blood in sacrifice to our Founders." The Sentinel intoned, as he drew the dagger across his moon pale arm and turned it to let the blood drip down into the chalice, before using the other hand to pass the dagger across to Vrædyn.

"I do sanctify this blood in sacrifice to our Founders." The Princeps Pontifex echoed the phrase and the action, letting his own blood comingle with Phocion's in the chalice. "Deus vult." He whispered.

"Sic domina imperat." Phocion replied.

"Eos alit et laudandi conditores!" This last they spoke in unison, Vrædryn's voice slightly deeper than Phocions. Both elves held their arms above that platinum chalice and let their blood pour in thin, lazy streams. After a moment, the Princeps Pontifex reached for a cloth to staunch the bleeding but his hand froze before reaching it. Phocion's eyes were upon the flow of their common blood, thinking on what it represented for the blood of the Unbroken Line to merge with his own in sacrifice. But he, too froze, as the pool of crimson turned to quicksilver in the chalice, churning and reforging itself into a coiling chain. The chain burgeoned from the bowl of the chalice up the stream of now silver blood until Phocion and Vrædyn were bound one to the other. Compelled, they rose and faced one another.

Perhaps Dæmon would have a sense from his bedchamber that the two elves were gone, but it would not feel much different than if they'd stepped through a Traverser's portal and quit the keep. Perhaps he was already working at Mathias' training with the boy, or perhaps attempting to eavesdrop through the light of the moons or the glowing orbs that shone in the conference room. Perhaps he would go to sleep unconcerned, or perhaps he would detect aught amiss and seek to enter the room, finding it locked, as usual and gleaning nothing to indicate that anyone inhabited the room behind it. There were many ways Dæmon might spend his night, as the Cousins Sol'Aværys spent theirs frozen... absent... waiting.

The door to the conference room swung open toward Dæmon, but he was quick on his feet even when he didn't have wings. When he drew close enough to peer through the open door, he would see the room much as he left it. The table hadn't been cleared, the chairs were situated as they'd been. Even the men he'd left to their prayers remained present... ostensibly. But the pair of pale princes were nude facing each other, in profile from Dæmon's vantage, before the window- The light of the silver moon illuminating Phocion's fair form with an otherworldly glow. The light of the crimson moon radiated from Vrædyn's flesh, making his sallow skin look bronze and his dark hair appear rusty and reddish.

The moment appeared romantic, or at least intimate. Phocion's right hand upon Vrædyn's corresponding cheek, and Vrædyn's on Phocion's.

"Wouldst thou care to join Us, Arcas?" It was Vrædyn who spoke, sharply shifting his head to regard the interloper. His eyes, typically white-blue, glowed an ethereal yellow like molten gold. Phocion's head canted next, cobra quick, and his eyes had become glowing swirls of silver and black- a whirling, curious constellation that looked to the bracers at his wrists.

"It seems that now..." Phocion spoke barely above a hiss as his newly celestial eyes darted from the armour to the gaze of the visitor. "...We are all of Us Tethered."

They dropped their hands to their sides, and turned from each other to face Dæmon directly. As they parted from one another, they revealed a platinum chalice on the floor between them. It glowed as if its contents were churning magma, but there seemed to tendrils connecting each of the elves to the chalice's contents by wounds at their wrists. Vrædyn's tether was a bright beam of golden light, and Phocion's was a row of linked, silver chains. They started toward Dæmon, but halted as it appeared their leashes ran out of lede.

"You do wound Us, Arcas..." Vrædyn's voice was honey-sweet, more soft and seductive than the man had ever been with him before. "...to shirk Us in favour of Our remote progeny. Though I admit, Our well-vinted blood doth age quite beautifully." The man seemed to regard his own body with a lascivious appreciation.

"In supplication and sacrifice they call out to Us." Phocion seemed unconcerned with his own form, focused entirely upon Dæmon's. "They tell Us of thee. Of thy demands and entreaties... of the covenant Thou mak'st with Our blood."

"We were most surprised." Vrædyn observed, glancing up from his own endowment to take a better look at Dæmon. "Quite the change of heart. But perhaps thou knowest... 'tis inevitable. Our sun doth rise."

"Our moon is on the wax. The influx of divine blood doth spill that of many a mortal, and there are they who would quench Our thirst to sanguine surfeit with so much brutal bounty." Phocion's expression was flat and stoic, while Vrædyn's was curious and pining.

"We would dismiss this paltry pageant of thine. Why treat with mortals, when We might cut Our common cause to the quick?" Vrædyn wondered.

"When one is Tethered as thou art, doth it not seem sound to treat with one familiar with Chains?" Phocion inquired, "All 'twould require of thee is a simple task. We are nearly strong enough to aid thee, but there is one small, simple boon thou might confer unto Us... far more direct and unambiguous than this absurd and esoteric prophecy of thine." Phocion and Vrædyn turned to one another, looked into each other's eyes, and took hands.

"We were once great enemies who fought and died only to realise in rebirth that We were stronger united." Vrædyn's adoring eyes fell over Phocion's form and lingered there for a moment, before both elves turned abruptly in unison to face Dæmon again.

"And once again, We would sue for parley."

“Imperator Avaerys.”
Vrædyn's head inclined in affirmation. Naught was changed physically about his form, but the glow that emanated from the crimson moon and the golden beam at his wrist shifted his colouring to such an extent that he seemed transformed. He did not truly resemble the Aværys known to Arcas in build or feature, but the bold, golden Aura was majestic, charismatic, arrogant and severe. All traits of Vrædryn himself, but exaggerated to a stark degree.

“Imperatrix Varvara.”
Phocion's head was tilted in mild acknowledgment. Phocion actually did bear a resemblance to his ancient forebear, which made her subtle tricks of light more transformative. The soft femininity of the moonborn's features was cast in soft, flattering light and his quiet, serpentine grace was ever so slightly more feminine as his long neck craned to follow the movements of Her foreign adversary. Like Vrædyn, Phocion's Aura was broader, if not bolder. If anything, Her Aura discouraged scrutiny, while Her brother's commanded regard.

"If Arcas cannot go to the mountain," The ancient brother began, "Let the mountain come to Arcas." He cast a disarming grin to Dæmon.

"Ever wast thou dutiful, Arcas." The ancient sister stoically stated, "But perhaps parochial in thine interpretation of service. We are all of Us Tethered," A sentiment she'd already posed, "But we might find means of acting within Our bonds. Thou hast already begun to do so. Doth thy master will thee to seek liberation as thou dost carry out his task? I am certain not, and yet a covenant was struck 'twixt thee and our progeny toward this personal ambition of thine. This doth inform Me that thy tethers be looser than thou thinkst. But thou art a proud one and... hadst thou not a hand in the forging of these chains?" As His sister spoke, Aværys' avatar regarded Dæmon with a deepening interest. As Her speech concluded, He looked to Her pointedly.

"Arkas diminuitur." He noted, arching Vrædyn's brow.

"Non." She narrowed Phocion's eyes discerningly as She looked upon his form, "Arkas disrumpitur."

Simultaneously, each Founder tilted the head of their avatar in the opposing direction.

"Wither lieth-...?" Aværys began to pose a question, but Phocion's wrist tugged at its chain, which tightened the leash on Vrædyn's wrist, causing Him to halt his speech in deference to His sister.

Arcas was listening. Phocion's fair face faintly smiled.

"Arcas. Ugrimal and Streleon were immortal foes, whilst Varvara and Aværys were loving siblings, adoring spouses, joint rulers united in common cause. Thou art withal reborn, as we once were,: new of form and of name. Perhaps We might retire, too, Our old grudges and strive together toward the common purpose of stability for all the peoples of Ransera. But to truly treat toward such an aim, We must all of us be freed. I am a keeper of chains, and might loosen thine had I just a bit more power... And there is a passing simple way for you to grant it me. Wouldst thou, O Arcas Lightbringer, ever deign to offer sacred sacrifice to thine old nemesis? For there is a boon I would ask of thee that would serve all of Us... All of Ransera, even if it may, at first, seem... brutal."

A glance was exchanged between the twins through the eyes of the cousins.

"Armistice is worthy of consideration." Aværys conceded, after a pause.

"But only for as long as it taketh for Us to ascertain to what extend the shifting tides of almighty time have altered Our paradigms." It was Phocion's voice that applied the caveat. "But We would not grudge thee, if thou standest athwart Us no longer. And would entertain that thou mayest have grown more aligned to Our view of the world and might join Us in common cause."

At Dæmon's acquiescence to hear Her out, the tethers that bound the cousins by the wrist relaxed, as if more lede had somehow been accorded them. A longer leash, allowing both to step forward and closer to Dæmon.

"New forces have arisen lately, and one which doth promise chaos should it be granted leave to foment." Varvara raised Phocion's hand as if to place his palm to the breastplate of his armour, but that pale, slender-fingered hand paused just short of touching it. Meanwhile, Aværys-Vrædyn stalked around, inspecting the man's form as it filled out the armour.

"Though I am Mistress of Chains and might laxen the hold of this one upon thee, there is something I require to empower me to weaken them to the point that you might sunder the tether. The boon of this sacrifice is two-fold. Firstly, it would empower Me to the extent that I might free all of Us..." Her smile waned like a crescent moon, "And secondly, it would remove a potentially dangerous, unstable element of chaos from a world already awash in too much misery and disorder."

Aværys paused behind Dæmon, as Varvara stood before him.

"A fledgling demigod hath taken up the mantle of 'Rebellion'. As yet too weak to invoke the full force of so lofty a demesne, it is yet an entity whose blood hath potential and purpose enough to nourish My puissant divinity that I may aid thee in the sundering of thy chains. Have this creature brought before Us and offered in sacrifice. It need not be executed by thy hand... It may even be an offering made by the creature itself willingly or through compulsion. What is important is that the blood of Rebellion be subject to sacrifice on the altar of Domination."

Behind Dæmon, Aværys grinned with his purebred scion's lips,

"What sayst thou, Arcas Lightbringer?"

Aværys stalked back around to the front of Dæmon, the lede of the glowing leash at His wrist dragging along the floor and creating a golden circle around Dæmon and His own Sister-Spouse-Scion. Vrædyn-Aværys stood behind Phocion-Varvara, drawing close and placing His hands on his-Her pale waist. She tipped Phocion's head back to look into Vrædryn's eyes adoringly as Dæmon contemplated the gravity of Their request.

Well did the Twins know that the Arcas of old would have instantly and summarily denied Their request. That he did not do so now was telling in itself. The chain and the leash were long, slack and growing- spilling out of the chalice and coiling onto the floor behind Them. Where they only had a few paces at the onset of their discourse, now They could quit the room if They willed it. But They did not will it. They were quite invested in what was going on right here in this room. History in the making. Scripture for the scrivening.

Glowing, golden eyes and shining silver shot to Dæmon as he made his observations... or were they rationalisations? Vrædyn's grip tightened on Phocion's hips, pulling the pale elf flush against His front. Aværys rested Vrædyn's chin upon Phocion's shoulder, and They watched. Aværys hot and hungry, Varvara cool and mild.

Then came the moment.
All at once, and for the first time in this encounter, Aværys and Varvara were truly present. In radiant glory the mortal forms of their distant offspring beseemed true avatars of their ancestors. Ethereal light poured forth from Vrædyn as a fiery, golden Nimbus formed above and behind His head as, simultaneously, one of silver materialised for Phocion. A glorious crown of magma representing Majesty for Him, and an imposing diadem of barbed, silver chains for Her. They parted from one another to stand at either side of Dæmon.

"Do this thing, and We will be as kin, Arcas..." Aværys literally and figuratively beamed.

"But understand thee that the sacrifice must be clearly made for me to claim the power We seek. It is not enough to bring Rebellion to Kaladon. Tongues not Our own must voice the intent. Hands not Our own must commit the act. Whether it be thee, Rebellion itself, or one of these Princes We do hither inhabit, if thou dost vouchsafe that Rebellion shall be sacrificed to Dominion, then we have an accord. State it plain, and Our ancient conflict endeth with the act." She paused,

"And Arcas?"

Varvara leaned forward, placing Her palm above his enchanted armour. Glowing, moonlit tendrils like slender links of chain protruded from her hand and dipped into the eldritch metal.

"Allow Me to loosen Thy bindings by saying this..." She leaned forward to whispered into his ear,

"In freeing us, thou dost fulfill the command of thy master... For when Aværys doth return to Solunarium, so endeth all internal conflict betwixt our progeny. There will be nothing left to argue, and all will fall in line. Therefore, thou mayest quit the desert to fulfill this task without forswearing thine imperial oaths."