Frost 14, 119
The earth was dark and wet, oppressive with the distinctive scent of grave musk. Loam, of course, but also the distant septic scent of decomposition and manicured grass. Unlike the cold, impersonal rocks of the passages leading into the Warrens, this stairway had been hewn by human hands, dotted with wooden supports and lit by hand-strung electric light sconces.
The young witch tried to keep her face impassive as they descended, but she could feel a tightness in her chest, and the pounding of her heart vibrated through every extremity. She was not going to show any fear. This was all absolutely routine.
Well, one of those things was certainly true, and so she tried to keep it in mind as the shadows deepened around her and her guide. The Grimalkin, as the de facto leaders of Zaichaer’s mystic and spiritual lives, often requested assistance from the other great covens of the region. Those requests were always granted.
Still, this was only the second time Imogen Ward had ever visited the Necropolis, and it was the first time she was going alone. It had been a very different matter to descend these stairs behind her father, feeling at every moment the quiet strength and confidence of his presence. It was… important, to have someone you could put your faith in, like that. Something solid, a point in the world to affix yourself to. An anchor.
This time, she would have to anchor herself.
"...do we go much further down?"
The witch walking in front of her paused at the question, tilting her head. There was no way to enter the Necropolis without the aid of a Grimalkin witch; even the Railrunners couldn’t, or at least wouldn’t make the attempt. In fact, as far as Imogen knew, it was the only center of a Coven’s power which the Order actually knew the location of. It simply didn’t matter.
“Hmm-mmm.” the witch hummed in response, “We’re nearly the-ere. Don’t be nervous, Imo-gene.”
"Nervous? I’m not-" It was the wrong thing to say, and Imogen fell quiet rather than complete the obvious lie. To her guide’s great credit, she did not laugh.
“You’re here for a week, ye-es? I’m sure by the time it ends, the caverns will feel just like ho-ome.”
The Sunsinger doubted that very much.
The Necropolis was, perhaps, the holiest place in the City of New Atheism- but appropriately enough, not for the veneration of any god.
That wasn’t to say no gods were venerated here. Wraedan featured prominently in the depths of the earth below the High City. Wheresoever Imogen looked were little votive shrines, featuring candles watched over by effigies of the God of Death, little talismans and slowly-spinning mandalas reciting prayers to him. Nevertheless, it was not specifically veneration of the Lord of Endings which had hollowed this land.
No, the light burning high above the city and rendering invisible the roof of the cavern was a great gestalt construct, a storm of souls gathered and maintained by a dozen generations of necromancers.
There was no way to gauge, from here, how many souls were contained in that vast communal phylactery. There was also no way for Imogen to gauge while up close, but she presumed that a Sembler (with great patience), might manage it from there. It was certainly a lot.
Her duties, as expected, had been light. The Grimalkin were a powerful coven–perhaps the most powerful coven–and they did not need her assistance in dealing with monsters. Their wards, likewise, were as effective at barring evil spirits from the world above as they were at deterring members of the Order of Reconciliation.
The Sunsingers, however, had one magic at which they were simply unparalleled, and that was the destruction of curses.
For several days, Imogen had spent much of her time in vaults throughout the Necropolis, waiting as the witches and their servants brought her various items:
Imogen had simply plunged her sword into a barrel of these, letting the silver fire wash through the buttons. They melted down, of course, as the fire slowly expunged the minor ills, but the melted brass could be returned to the forges in the world above.
These had to be stabbed, one by one, and consumed with fire. Most of the little effigies didn’t have enough power to complain- some shrieked as they died. One managed to actually stumble backwards, but was unable to evade the Sunsinger’s blade in the end. Imogen almost felt bad for the little things.
“Don’t pity them.” her guide sighed, “Harmless they se-em, but let them fester and you’ll be sor-rey.”
Each of these, she crushed to powder before bathing in the sacred fire, turning dust to smoke, and smoke to ash. She wound a cloth around her mouth to avoid inhaling any smoke, though there was probably not enough left from her first strike to matter.
These required a bit of finesse. The Grimalka stood behind her with a fetish of wood and vermin skulls, in case she missed. Imogen never missed. As the doors formed and opened, the shadows began to spill out in all directions, hoping to juke her- but they were unprepared for her wide swings, wielding nova-fire like a flamethrower. Each shade burned in turn.
In the depths of the catacombs, Imogen sat by herself for a few precious minutes. Really, the work had not been hard, not by any stretch of the imagination. She’d spent quite a bit of time waiting to be shown to the next, listening to careful descriptions of the next trinket she was about to exorcise… but not one of them had required any real skill.
The witch tried to amuse herself by manipulating the novaflame, but she was no elementalist. She didn’t even really understand, as such, how the nova magic functioned. It was simply… in the blade, and she called it out as best she could. Still, she was getting better at getting it to come out of the sword in various ways, from one side but not the other, or so on.
It got old kinda fast.
So she sought refuge now in meditation, or at least that’s what she called reclining on a stone bench and staring into the dark caverns beyond. It was a hell of a sight, at least. The whole Necropolis was swathed in shadow, of course, the kind of shadow created only by soft light cast into an ocean of darkness. A gloaming.
For all her order was dedicated to the sun and its fire, there was no particular enmity with darkness. What would be the point, really? It would be like declaring war upon the sea. No, the soft dark beyond the reach of the lanterns and crystals of the Grimalkin was not threatening–certainly, it was less foreboding than the great lamp of souls the necro-coven had accumulated over the ages–it was, if anything, restful.
From time to time, people in Zaichaer (witches or otherwise) petitioned the Grimalkin to let them come here to commune with their ancestors. It was said that if you waited down here, the shadows of those who had come before you might appear, to grant you wisdom or blessing.
No ghosts came for Imogen Ward, though. The great bulk of her ancestors had died beyond the great southern sea, far from the reach of the Grimalkin wyrd. She’d thought that perhaps her grandmother’s shade might appear, but she had spent most of her life in the kingdoms of the south. Why would her spirit consent to remain here, in the dark and icy north?
As the witch ruminated upon this, something moved in the darkness. It appeared, to her, as if it were light, yet it illuminated nothing. The young Ork blinked, fascinated, as the discolored apparition slowly gathered strength, taking shape just on the other edge of the canal, just beyond the coven’s light.
Imogen found herself holding her breath, waiting to see what it coalesced into; only to let out a long hiss as elven features began to appear. This was not some departed ancestor, nor indeed any manner of dead friend.
The witch found herself on her feet, grimacing. "You!"
Across the canal, the Hytori ghost she’d inadvertently freed in her ill-fated delve with Carina and Angela floated, looking decidedly pained. It was only partially manifested, more mist than man, and had his eyes locked on Imogen’s face. Silently, it beckoned to her.
Reluctantly, Imogen approached the edge of the water, and there she stopped. It wasn’t a matter of fear, precisely, though she’d thought this particular wandering soul extinguished back in the Warrens, when she cleft it in twain with nova fire. It was rather that she knew such creatures bore various subtle powers, unsuitable for her magic to fight. She did not fancy being drowned down here.
"By every god and devil- what do you even want? Didn’t I loose you from that trap?" Come to think of it, it had clearly been a Grimalkin fetish she’d blundered into destroying. Had the Elder Coven caught this thing to begin with? But why lock it up in that cavern, rather than simply obliterating it? They’d the necromancy for the task, to be sure.
The ghost did not respond, but beckoned once more. She did not move. "Absolutely not. You won’t catch me outside the wyrd and wards. State your purpose or leave, and trouble me no further."
The wan, ghostly Hytori face looked at Imogen, sadly… and then she found herself stumbling, falling downward. There was a splash, and Imogen realized she was underwater.
Illusion! the witch realized in panic. The ghost had somehow spelled her so that she saw the canal further away than it was, so she would stumble into the water. The Sunsinger began to kick back towards the stone lip of the stream–it was a shallow canal, after all–only to feel a sudden tug as something gripped her ankle. She glanced back, and saw again the sorrowful reflection of that Hytori face.
In a contest of raw strength between Orkhan and Elf, the victor was usually clear; few living Hytori could overpower an Ork. But this elf was not alive, and his grip carried with it the cold and inexorable touch of Wraeden Himself. Imogen managed to break the surface once or twice with her thrashing, but found the light being wrested away from her.
The Sunsinger manifested her Pact sword, bringing it down through the chill water, but it passed through the ghost without effect. A chill deeper than the cold water rushed through Imogen as she realized the ghost had planned this; a method of catching and killing her where she could not bring the silver fire to bear. She would drown down here, unable to fight the incorporeal creature she’d accidentally unleashed.
From above the surface of the water, one sees reflections as light strikes liquid and bounces off, creating blurred and incomplete images in motion which grow clearer when still. From below, one sees only the blurred light and shadow intermingling, dancing. Yet… when the girl looked up, she saw her reflection, being drawn upward as she was being drawn down. She looked back at herself with eyes that had no pupils, but were an unbroken sclera of black and white, shifting ceaselessly.
Then there was a break. It felt like her heart had skipped a beat, and all the universe had skipped along with it, and the Ork found herself at the top of the water, on the lip of the canal, peering down at her reflection. She scrambled backwards, gasping, and she felt water drain from her nose and ears.
Imogen wanted to work out what had just happened, but her legs would carry her no closer to the water. She pushed herself to her feet, feeling herself sway. Had she just imagined that near-drowning? She raised a hand to pinch herself, but there was no need- her skin was yet wet, her clothes heavy with the cold waters of the canal.
Without warning, the form of the ghost slid out of the water, the Hytori’s features contorted with fear. The insubstantial creature’s passing did not disrupt the surface of the water at all, but its graceful rise was halted suddenly as part of its misty leg became stuck within the water. The ghost reached down and tried to yank itself out, to no avail.
Unsure what had happened, the witch gave into her first instinct. She summoned her Pact sword to hand, and it flew out of the canal and caught fire at once, silver light limning it. Imogen caught the sword’s grip and let it carry her hand back before bringing it down, bisecting the struggling spirit. The ghost obligingly disintegrated into silvery mist as the sword cleft it in twain, dissipating with a sigh.
The witch stood there for a moment, breathing hard, silver blade in hand. When she finally gathered her courage enough to approach the edge of the canal, she saw only her own reflection, looking entirely as was to be expected.
There were footsteps on stone behind her, and Imogen turned to see her minder running down the stairs, looking quite concerned.
“Miss Ward? Is something the matter?” She sounded a little winded, though probably less than Imogen herself felt right at the moment.
"...I’m okay. I’m fine." Her voice was a little strained, but the words somehow managed to comfort her. The other witch seemed uncertain, but relaxed after a moment as nothing unusual seemed to happen.
“...of course. Only, you’ve drawn your swo-ord? Did anything- happen?”
The witch opened her mouth to answer, then paused, looking unsure. She tilted her head from side to side, considering what to say.
"...I’m… not really sure."
The earth was dark and wet, oppressive with the distinctive scent of grave musk. Loam, of course, but also the distant septic scent of decomposition and manicured grass. Unlike the cold, impersonal rocks of the passages leading into the Warrens, this stairway had been hewn by human hands, dotted with wooden supports and lit by hand-strung electric light sconces.
The young witch tried to keep her face impassive as they descended, but she could feel a tightness in her chest, and the pounding of her heart vibrated through every extremity. She was not going to show any fear. This was all absolutely routine.
Well, one of those things was certainly true, and so she tried to keep it in mind as the shadows deepened around her and her guide. The Grimalkin, as the de facto leaders of Zaichaer’s mystic and spiritual lives, often requested assistance from the other great covens of the region. Those requests were always granted.
Still, this was only the second time Imogen Ward had ever visited the Necropolis, and it was the first time she was going alone. It had been a very different matter to descend these stairs behind her father, feeling at every moment the quiet strength and confidence of his presence. It was… important, to have someone you could put your faith in, like that. Something solid, a point in the world to affix yourself to. An anchor.
This time, she would have to anchor herself.
"...do we go much further down?"
The witch walking in front of her paused at the question, tilting her head. There was no way to enter the Necropolis without the aid of a Grimalkin witch; even the Railrunners couldn’t, or at least wouldn’t make the attempt. In fact, as far as Imogen knew, it was the only center of a Coven’s power which the Order actually knew the location of. It simply didn’t matter.
“Hmm-mmm.” the witch hummed in response, “We’re nearly the-ere. Don’t be nervous, Imo-gene.”
"Nervous? I’m not-" It was the wrong thing to say, and Imogen fell quiet rather than complete the obvious lie. To her guide’s great credit, she did not laugh.
“You’re here for a week, ye-es? I’m sure by the time it ends, the caverns will feel just like ho-ome.”
The Sunsinger doubted that very much.
~~~
The Necropolis was, perhaps, the holiest place in the City of New Atheism- but appropriately enough, not for the veneration of any god.
That wasn’t to say no gods were venerated here. Wraedan featured prominently in the depths of the earth below the High City. Wheresoever Imogen looked were little votive shrines, featuring candles watched over by effigies of the God of Death, little talismans and slowly-spinning mandalas reciting prayers to him. Nevertheless, it was not specifically veneration of the Lord of Endings which had hollowed this land.
No, the light burning high above the city and rendering invisible the roof of the cavern was a great gestalt construct, a storm of souls gathered and maintained by a dozen generations of necromancers.
There was no way to gauge, from here, how many souls were contained in that vast communal phylactery. There was also no way for Imogen to gauge while up close, but she presumed that a Sembler (with great patience), might manage it from there. It was certainly a lot.
Her duties, as expected, had been light. The Grimalkin were a powerful coven–perhaps the most powerful coven–and they did not need her assistance in dealing with monsters. Their wards, likewise, were as effective at barring evil spirits from the world above as they were at deterring members of the Order of Reconciliation.
The Sunsingers, however, had one magic at which they were simply unparalleled, and that was the destruction of curses.
For several days, Imogen had spent much of her time in vaults throughout the Necropolis, waiting as the witches and their servants brought her various items:
Odds and ends, charged with nightmares collected from the city above. These had each been totems in minor spells meant to absorb tiny, flickering shadows, the smallest manifestations of dark energies, and improve the mood and luck of inhabitants. Most of these were buttons-painted, once, or shiny brass. When each button grew completely corroded and black, the spell faltered and they could no longer be used.
Imogen had simply plunged her sword into a barrel of these, letting the silver fire wash through the buttons. They melted down, of course, as the fire slowly expunged the minor ills, but the melted brass could be returned to the forges in the world above.
Dolls, faceless and primitive. These were totems the Grimalka had fashioned to capture the gremlins of the forest which stole into the bedrooms of children and brought them disease and bouts of madness. These were collected before they came to contain too much mischief, too much hurt, as the dark spirits within would eventually learn to move about and cause trouble once more.
These had to be stabbed, one by one, and consumed with fire. Most of the little effigies didn’t have enough power to complain- some shrieked as they died. One managed to actually stumble backwards, but was unable to evade the Sunsinger’s blade in the end. Imogen almost felt bad for the little things.
“Don’t pity them.” her guide sighed, “Harmless they se-em, but let them fester and you’ll be sor-rey.”
There were a handful of soul gems, though whatever was in them didn’t look like souls. They were red, for one thing, which was atypical though Imogen couldn’t have explained why. They swirled, also, shadows swimming through the crimson light like fish in an aquarium glass.
Each of these, she crushed to powder before bathing in the sacred fire, turning dust to smoke, and smoke to ash. She wound a cloth around her mouth to avoid inhaling any smoke, though there was probably not enough left from her first strike to matter.
Finally, there were the rooms with shadows in them. These were entire chambers where a spirit had been captured, tricked into a space without windows, without vents or even the spaces between floorboards through which they could trickle like water.
These required a bit of finesse. The Grimalka stood behind her with a fetish of wood and vermin skulls, in case she missed. Imogen never missed. As the doors formed and opened, the shadows began to spill out in all directions, hoping to juke her- but they were unprepared for her wide swings, wielding nova-fire like a flamethrower. Each shade burned in turn.
~~~
In the depths of the catacombs, Imogen sat by herself for a few precious minutes. Really, the work had not been hard, not by any stretch of the imagination. She’d spent quite a bit of time waiting to be shown to the next, listening to careful descriptions of the next trinket she was about to exorcise… but not one of them had required any real skill.
The witch tried to amuse herself by manipulating the novaflame, but she was no elementalist. She didn’t even really understand, as such, how the nova magic functioned. It was simply… in the blade, and she called it out as best she could. Still, she was getting better at getting it to come out of the sword in various ways, from one side but not the other, or so on.
It got old kinda fast.
So she sought refuge now in meditation, or at least that’s what she called reclining on a stone bench and staring into the dark caverns beyond. It was a hell of a sight, at least. The whole Necropolis was swathed in shadow, of course, the kind of shadow created only by soft light cast into an ocean of darkness. A gloaming.
For all her order was dedicated to the sun and its fire, there was no particular enmity with darkness. What would be the point, really? It would be like declaring war upon the sea. No, the soft dark beyond the reach of the lanterns and crystals of the Grimalkin was not threatening–certainly, it was less foreboding than the great lamp of souls the necro-coven had accumulated over the ages–it was, if anything, restful.
From time to time, people in Zaichaer (witches or otherwise) petitioned the Grimalkin to let them come here to commune with their ancestors. It was said that if you waited down here, the shadows of those who had come before you might appear, to grant you wisdom or blessing.
No ghosts came for Imogen Ward, though. The great bulk of her ancestors had died beyond the great southern sea, far from the reach of the Grimalkin wyrd. She’d thought that perhaps her grandmother’s shade might appear, but she had spent most of her life in the kingdoms of the south. Why would her spirit consent to remain here, in the dark and icy north?
As the witch ruminated upon this, something moved in the darkness. It appeared, to her, as if it were light, yet it illuminated nothing. The young Ork blinked, fascinated, as the discolored apparition slowly gathered strength, taking shape just on the other edge of the canal, just beyond the coven’s light.
Imogen found herself holding her breath, waiting to see what it coalesced into; only to let out a long hiss as elven features began to appear. This was not some departed ancestor, nor indeed any manner of dead friend.
The witch found herself on her feet, grimacing. "You!"
Across the canal, the Hytori ghost she’d inadvertently freed in her ill-fated delve with Carina and Angela floated, looking decidedly pained. It was only partially manifested, more mist than man, and had his eyes locked on Imogen’s face. Silently, it beckoned to her.
Reluctantly, Imogen approached the edge of the water, and there she stopped. It wasn’t a matter of fear, precisely, though she’d thought this particular wandering soul extinguished back in the Warrens, when she cleft it in twain with nova fire. It was rather that she knew such creatures bore various subtle powers, unsuitable for her magic to fight. She did not fancy being drowned down here.
"By every god and devil- what do you even want? Didn’t I loose you from that trap?" Come to think of it, it had clearly been a Grimalkin fetish she’d blundered into destroying. Had the Elder Coven caught this thing to begin with? But why lock it up in that cavern, rather than simply obliterating it? They’d the necromancy for the task, to be sure.
The ghost did not respond, but beckoned once more. She did not move. "Absolutely not. You won’t catch me outside the wyrd and wards. State your purpose or leave, and trouble me no further."
The wan, ghostly Hytori face looked at Imogen, sadly… and then she found herself stumbling, falling downward. There was a splash, and Imogen realized she was underwater.
Illusion! the witch realized in panic. The ghost had somehow spelled her so that she saw the canal further away than it was, so she would stumble into the water. The Sunsinger began to kick back towards the stone lip of the stream–it was a shallow canal, after all–only to feel a sudden tug as something gripped her ankle. She glanced back, and saw again the sorrowful reflection of that Hytori face.
In a contest of raw strength between Orkhan and Elf, the victor was usually clear; few living Hytori could overpower an Ork. But this elf was not alive, and his grip carried with it the cold and inexorable touch of Wraeden Himself. Imogen managed to break the surface once or twice with her thrashing, but found the light being wrested away from her.
The Sunsinger manifested her Pact sword, bringing it down through the chill water, but it passed through the ghost without effect. A chill deeper than the cold water rushed through Imogen as she realized the ghost had planned this; a method of catching and killing her where she could not bring the silver fire to bear. She would drown down here, unable to fight the incorporeal creature she’d accidentally unleashed.
From above the surface of the water, one sees reflections as light strikes liquid and bounces off, creating blurred and incomplete images in motion which grow clearer when still. From below, one sees only the blurred light and shadow intermingling, dancing. Yet… when the girl looked up, she saw her reflection, being drawn upward as she was being drawn down. She looked back at herself with eyes that had no pupils, but were an unbroken sclera of black and white, shifting ceaselessly.
► Show Spoiler
Then there was a break. It felt like her heart had skipped a beat, and all the universe had skipped along with it, and the Ork found herself at the top of the water, on the lip of the canal, peering down at her reflection. She scrambled backwards, gasping, and she felt water drain from her nose and ears.
Imogen wanted to work out what had just happened, but her legs would carry her no closer to the water. She pushed herself to her feet, feeling herself sway. Had she just imagined that near-drowning? She raised a hand to pinch herself, but there was no need- her skin was yet wet, her clothes heavy with the cold waters of the canal.
Without warning, the form of the ghost slid out of the water, the Hytori’s features contorted with fear. The insubstantial creature’s passing did not disrupt the surface of the water at all, but its graceful rise was halted suddenly as part of its misty leg became stuck within the water. The ghost reached down and tried to yank itself out, to no avail.
Unsure what had happened, the witch gave into her first instinct. She summoned her Pact sword to hand, and it flew out of the canal and caught fire at once, silver light limning it. Imogen caught the sword’s grip and let it carry her hand back before bringing it down, bisecting the struggling spirit. The ghost obligingly disintegrated into silvery mist as the sword cleft it in twain, dissipating with a sigh.
The witch stood there for a moment, breathing hard, silver blade in hand. When she finally gathered her courage enough to approach the edge of the canal, she saw only her own reflection, looking entirely as was to be expected.
There were footsteps on stone behind her, and Imogen turned to see her minder running down the stairs, looking quite concerned.
“Miss Ward? Is something the matter?” She sounded a little winded, though probably less than Imogen herself felt right at the moment.
"...I’m okay. I’m fine." Her voice was a little strained, but the words somehow managed to comfort her. The other witch seemed uncertain, but relaxed after a moment as nothing unusual seemed to happen.
“...of course. Only, you’ve drawn your swo-ord? Did anything- happen?”
The witch opened her mouth to answer, then paused, looking unsure. She tilted her head from side to side, considering what to say.
"...I’m… not really sure."