No Expectation of Leaving Alive [Lyra]

[Imogen]

Ash 61, 124
The Pfenning Theater [Underground]

In old Zaichaer, the Pfenning Theater had been the nonpareil of entertainment in the city. The working man and well-to-do alike had thronged to the cheap seats when they could get them; high-ranking officers and nobles of the old order had paid top dollar for cherrywood boxes and seating in the gods. She'd worked there for many happy years, cleaning up for the patrons, keeping the brass and balustrades shiny as a button, occasionally manhandling drunken patrons out the doors and tossing them into the alleyways...

But the Theater had suffered badly in the catastrophe two years prior. It was far enough from the blast zone around the Presidium that it had mostly escaped serious structural damage, but the interior had been trashed by the transmutation of many of its patrons. Even after killing the thing they had become, Imogen Ward had despaired of ever seeing the grand old theaterhouse restored to working order.

It looked much better now- there were fresh posters on the streets outside, and the superficial damage to the interior had been patched up while more long-term work could commence. Doubtless it was once again full of folks entirely ignorant of the real purpose of the institution, actors and workers and accountants all acting as the busy fingers of the Railrunners without ever knowing it.

That original purpose was why the witch had returned here, today. Sans Carina, she had little interest in staying just to watch whatever new plays and operas the new government of Zaichaer had approved. Instead, she had made her way to the deep rooms beneath the Pfenning, the labyrinth of windowless, doorless chambers, utterly disconnected from any way back up to the surface world. This had been a storehouse for the coven, once, where great quantities of illegal magic could be kept and transported, directly through the city's heart. Thick layers of workings and stone meant that one of the Order's inspectors could stand directly atop the Pfenning's stage, and not one of his inspection glasses would pick up a hint of the magic underground.

Imogen stood in the middle of the largest of those shielded storerooms now, having pushed what remained in it to the sides. Here, in a chamber surrounded on all sides by shadow and stone, there would be absolutely no chance of any outside force interfering with her work. She wore the black-and-gold uniform of her order; an unusually formal choice, but she found that such affectations helped clear the mind and clarify the spirit in times like this. Once everything was moved, and there was a large enough space to satisfy her, she got down to the real work.

The first preparation was a simple magic circle. Even a novice witch could have drawn it from memory--even Imogen could probably have done it--but she brought a book with her and kept referring back to it anyway. The kind of magic the Sunsingers preferred was not finicky, it could usually be done even if you made some minor mistakes in the scrivening... but the whole purpose of this ritual was to make a very specific mistake in a very specific way. Additional fuck-ups couldn't be tolerated.

She drew the circle out to a space of ten paces; more space than was optimal, but her handwriting was a little over-large, and making the symbols any smaller was just asking for trouble. Once it was done, she permitted herself a nervous moment to inspect the work, then moved on.

For her second move, she deposited the vessel. She wasn't sure if it was best to have the ranseur's point facing upwards or downwards, or if that mattered at all, but she soon discovered that it was a lot easier to stick the tip a bit into the living stone beneath it than it was to balance it on the ferrule, so blade-down it was. It would have been entirely too embarassing to have the attempt ruined because the spear fell over.

The next bit was her favorite, in part because it was not a technical requirement of the rite and therefore couldn't really be done wrong. She'd been taught to incorporate certain symbols and flourishes into her spells, not so much because they did anything to shape the aether directly, but because they helped focus the caster and unify the participants, if there were multiple participants. She pulled a compass from her black coat, squinting at it in the storage room's dim light, then walked to the north of the circle.

”In the north, I place Agst'rasera.”

Imogen didn't have the World Tree on her person, at present, so instead she put down a symbol- a potted dwarf spruce, borrowed from the galleries upstairs. North was the wrong direction for it, but that was the point.

”To the south, I place the tower.”

Again, nothing of the sort was going to fit in this basement. Instead, she manifested her pact staff, the long bronze-clad rod glowing faintly as it floated upright to the southern end of the circle, adding some illumination to the room.

”To the east, I place the Marshal, Witch of the West.”

The stand-in for Marshal Gregoire was, of course, her Pact sword. First of her weapons and symbol (to her, anyway) of her devotion to the coven, it was a worn and undecorated thing, a great two-handed blade meant to do just one thing. It erupted into flame as she placed it, as it was wont to do.

”In the west, I place what should not be.”

She dumped the water out the jar she'd brought, letting the ancient fragment of hytori abmetal fall to the ground. Even with such a little bit, she could immediately feel a shift in the atmosphere, a sense of wrongness in the air.

The decorations done, she drew the next set of symbols. These were as simple as the circle itself- a Scrivening meant to draw aether from outside, down the line of symbols. She drew them carefully, four lines spiraling inward until each touched the tip of the vessel she'd prepared.

The witch had worked up a sweat at this point, and she stopped a moment to wipe her brow. Thankfully, her last bit of prepwork was almost done. Exerting her will, she drew Ysandre's Smile from the air. The contours of the scattered boxes and crates came into sharp relief as sunlight flooded the room, radiating in all directions from the luminous bow she'd obtained from the Mountain. Imogen moved back to the western end of the circle, behind the abmetal, and sighted upwards, aiming the empty bow over the ritual space. After taking a moment to steady herself, she fired, an arrow of pure sunlight coalescing upon the bow in the instant she released the string. She waited until the arc reached its zenith, then cast her hand up, gripping the arrow with Elementalism and holding it in place. She placed the bow aside, taking a moment to admire the shimmering gloaming of dancing shadows and light it created in the chamber.

”The king made the sun, and the sun made light-
And the light, cut in two, was day and night.”


The shimmering ritual circle did not answer, of course. It was merely meant to focus her mind as she walked forward, careful to avoid stepping on the circle itself, and began the actual ritual. She laid her left hand on the ranseur, closing her eyes.

”The king had a dream, and the dream came true-
And the dream, cut in two, was me and you.”


She poured aether through the Rune of Reaving, then, and it ran up her arm and into the vessel. She'd claimed Pact weapons many times before, so there was no surprise as her mind seemed to expand, filling the confines of the weapon. Her spirit suffused the metal, which began to vibrate, humming slightly. Now the process had begun in earnest- and if she screwed it up, she might gain another pact weapon, but she would surely die.

[Lyra]

There was no true cycle of day and night within the Nyxus. The world was always cast in darkness, a haze of shadow which somehow did not obscure one's vision. At times there was a light of sorts, cast in blue flame which gave off no warmth. There was also a great black orb in the sky which never seemed to move from its zenith, like a perpetual eclipse as rays of darkness were cast from it on the lands below. Sometimes there were storms as well. Mist Storms were far more common here than in the Prime Material Realm, Lyra had found, and when they came they flooded the surroundings with mists and violent energies which lit up the void like nothing else. Lyra had begun to enjoy such storms as they were a familiar thing, and reminded her of what it was like outside her prison, outside of the Void.

She found herself in the mirrored city of Zaichaer as she did most days now. It had almost become a routine for her to wander the streets, looking for new alleyways she had not explored and checking for new spawning pits from which she could draw out more shadows. Today she was also accompanied by Et'vaaran, the Void Beast which was her constant companion ever since she had first crossed into the Void itself since her imprisonment. His large muscular body moved with a savage grace, muscles rippling powerfully beneath black fur streaked with stripes of shifting shadows. He did not usually show interest in what it was Lyra was doing, but his quiet company had become a source of both comfort and strength for Lyra during her imprisonment. He was also a surprisingly good source for information despite his inability to speak. The tiger had a way of conveying information, through actions or expression which Lyra could understand. When he was near the other shadow spawn kept their distance, except for the Lurker.

Even now Lyra knew it was there, just out of sight, in the corner of her eye, around the next bend. After days of exploration she had never gotten a clear look at the creature, but she knew it was there. Et'vaaran reacted to its presence, ears flicking toward their stalker though the tiger's hackles did not rise nor did he show signs of agitation. Whatever its intention, the Lurker seemed content for now to simply be an observer, watching her... But Lyra did her best to ignore it when possible.

Lyra had just finished feeding one of the fresh blob spawns, the little shadow wiggled franticly as it sprouted several arm like appendages and scurried away. Et'vaaran had pounced on one of the newly infused spawn once, nearly crushing it as it played with it in very cat-like fashion. He seemed unconcerned by Lyra's scolding, but did eventually let the thing go with a huff. This time Lyra watched the tiger closely as she shooed the spawn away, sensing as it quickly increased the distance between them.

"Leave them be." Lyra told the cat for probably the dozenth time, "They serve an important role to me, and I will not have you killing them for your own amusement."

The tiger wasn't listening. He was sitting on his haunches, cleaning a pawn without a care for what Lyra had to say. Lyra shook her head, beginning to say something else when she felt something odd.

It was like a soft breeze had caressed her soul, so small she might not have noticed it were she not in the Void. Much like wind in a cave, the sensation was so unexpected she immediately took notice and delved inside to find its source. It was not long before she found it. There, within her soul space, was a series of floating glyphs each of which represented a soul she had touched. Normally these glyphs were inert, simply a representation of a connection which Lyra could call on when she wished. What she felt now was like a vibration, as if someone held the other end of a string and was steadily tugging on it. She had felt something similar before, and though she could not discern the details, Lyra knew that someone was attempting to tamper with their own soul.

At first Lyra merely scoffed at the foolishness of the person who would directly tamper with their own soul. Souls were sturdy things, but it took an expert to directly tamper with one without risking catastrophe. Depending on what one tried to do they could easily cripple themselves, sever a piece of themselves forever, lose memories, and a host of other negative and potentially life threatening conditions. Normally Lyra might have mused after their intent and written off their actions as a consequence about to be earned... but this time was different. From the resonations Lyra realized that the person was close, very close, just on the other side of the Veil.

With that thought Lyra did not hesitate. This was the first opportunity to create a connection to outside since she was imprisoned. She motioned to Et'vaaran, who seemed curious and quickly followed her as she spiraled as a stream of smoke into the air, flying toward where she felt the soul she was linked to resided.

---

A short time later as the ritual was starting...

---

Lyra had quickly found the place, the Pfenning Theater as it was called. She had never been there herself, but she could recall Brenner speaking of the plays held there. It had been one of the places she had intended to visit before. She followed the sensation down into the underground portion of the theater, to a room that was completely barren on this side of the Veil. Standing near the wall, Lyra placed a hand on one of the formless shadows which linked back to the Material Realm, and with a small infusing of aether she used Vide to peer into the material realm. What she saw puzzled her.

She looked through a shadow behind Imogen, and it took a few moments to realize who it was. The odd ork who could speak with bones. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, pausing briefly over the scrivening circle before flicking up to the sparkling arrow of light that hovered in the air and then down at the witch and the weapon at the center of the circle. She also looked at the items at each of the four cardinal directions, her brow furrowing at their placement.

Was she forming a new pact? Though she did not know much of Reaving, she could recognize the basic purpose of the scripts used in the circle's formation. Aether was drawn toward the weapon in the center, and the fluctuations from Imogen's soul, which were reflected in the now shifting lines of the soul glyph in Lyra's soul space, indicated something likely related to the magic. For the moment Lyra waited, watching carefully but not interfering as she was not certain what the actual intent for this ritual was.

[Imogen]

Pact Binding was, of necessity, the most basic function of the Rune of Reaving- but that was not to say it was an easy or safe process. To proceed, the Reaver had to join their soul to the weapon, transforming it into an extension of the self, taking the material into their own being and making it anew. Noviates spent days studying every last part of the weapon, probing it with their fingers, then their mind, before finally joining it to their spirit. Even then, the rate of failure was atrociously high- and of course, if an initiate fumbled their blade in the process of forming a Pact... that failure could consume their entire soul.

Imogen Ward was an expert Reaver, and in no danger of losing her soul to the binding... under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances.

Nevertheless, it all began in familiar fashion. The witch held her palm to the vessel, letting her aether slowly build and flow into it. Over the course of minutes, the spark of life built slowly within the ranseur, suffusing it evenly. After a few minutes of communion, the weapon was literally glowing. The traditional next step, of course, was to take up the weapon and enter battle, and the reason was quite simple- it was only in the midst of battle, of real combat, that unification of wielder and weapon could truly, truly occur. To let go of the weapon now was to squander the whole effort.

Imogen let go of the weapon.

...except that she did not. As her hand fell away, a streamer of light remained, flowing from her palm to the impaled weapon like a ribbon. The ork breathed deeply, in and out, and took a few steps backward, out of the circle. Now, for the next step-

The witch stumbled, as she felt a weight against her leg. She looked down to see a small black jaguar, staring up at her with huge, golden eyes. It mrowled at her, then looked off towards the wall.

”Kitty, shhh shh shh! There's nothing there. Don't interrupt me, this isn't as easy as I make it look.”

"Mrr!" the cat insisted.

”Nobody's watching, you've just got nerves, alright? A master mage couldn't sneak a Window past the wards here. Don't worry.”

Imogen used one leg to scootch the protesting familiar off to the side, then refocused her attention on the ritual. What came next? Ah, right. The witch reached into the vessel... and turned it transparent. The modulated aether discorporated, losing opacity as it began to transition from a material object to a spiritual one, preparing to sublimate into Imogen's soul- then stopped, as she held it there, between states. Imogen slowly adjusted the vessel, a change reflected only in sudden reflectivity.

The witch waved to her side, which was suddenly occupied by a floating round shield almost as large as the Ork herself. It was made of silvery material, except for the veins of golden metal shooting through it like some crazed kintsugi vase. Imogen turned to the shield, and addressed her own reflection.

”I'm ready. Please adjust the reflection to extend the spiral inward.”

A disturbance like static passed through the cavern as Master Gerhard's aidolon responded, reversing the reflection of the vessel. Where it had once shown the circle around it in reverse, it now showed a perfect duplication. The spiral of glyphs leading into the spear now connected to reflections of those glyphs upon the spear's surface- and those reflections, in turn, to a reflection of the reflection of the spear, which reflected the spiral of glyphs...

The air in the cavern began to stir as the scrivining was virtually extended into the partially-dematerialized vessel. Where before, ambient aether had run down the circuit to the surface of the spear, now it was pulled deeper and deeper into the weapon's shaft. The sudden vacuum of power began tugging gently at everything in the storehouse.

Imogen reached to the side and grasped a short sword, which had appeared and offered itself to her in the instant her hand reached the right point in the air. She brought it forward and cut herself across the palm connected to the ribbon of light. Blood began leaking from her hand- but it did not fall. Rather, it began to slowly flow through the connection, towards the pact weapon, polarized between the two segments of Imogen standing apart in the room.

The witch raised her bleeding hand towards the vessel and resumed the process of bonding- but began to push a specific part of her being forward. Streamers of darkness joined the ribbons of blood and aether as the energy embodying her affliction began to join the portion of her soul already resting within the ranseur. The interrupted Pact bonding resumed, sweat pouring down Imogen's face as she fought to adjust the portion of self suffusing the spear.

”Raxen, guide this one-” she prayed through gritted teeth, ”Ysadrin, watch over me. Vhexur, please be otherwise occupied.”

[Lyra]

The ritual seemed to be related to a pact of some sort, at least Lyra suspected she was. There was something odd about the process. The symbolism of the objects at the four cardinal directions likely meant something, but the scrivening itself was... simplistic. In truth Lyra did not know what went into forming a pact with a weapon, as her only experience with the magic was usually on the other end. She knew it required remaining in contact with the weapon, however, and for whatever reason Imogen had already abandoned that part of the process.

"Perhaps it is another sort of magic?" Lyra mused to the Tiger who was curled up at her side. He seemed uninterested in the entire situation.

Lyra saw the little black cat shortly before it noticed her, but she noticed that the creature seemed to see her through the shadows themselves. Tilting her head Lyra smiled, motioning at the thing which, much like the larger one at her feet, seemed uninterested in interacting with her. It went toward the orc, who shooed it away with a foot.

She had not considered it before, but it made sense that there were things which could see into the void even on the Prime Material plane. These were likely darkness or possibly shadow aligned beings, of which Lyra herself had seen few. The little kitten was perhaps one such creature. Could she use this information? Lyra was not sure, but she did file away the knowledge for later study and refocused on the ritual.

The steps which occurred next were confusing, to say the least. There were the bones of order within the steps that the orc took, but each part of the process somehow felt off. It took some time before Lyra realized why. The order and intent of each step did not directly align with the scrivening itself. This conclusion was difficult to come to, due to her lack of experience with reaving, but the more she studied the simple glyphs and watched the woman's actions Lyra became more certain. At each of the cardinal directions something was place as a stand in for a concept, yet there was a disharmony there, as if the improper item was placed in certain positions. Her eyes were also drawn to the metal, which she recognized but could not say from where... but she had little time to consider the objects origin.

Leaning closer to the shadow and squinting her eyes, Lyra traced the lines of the ritual again and again, her confusion growing by the moment. It was almost as if the ritual were MEANT to fail, but that couldn't be. When the blood was spilt Lyra could feel the resonating of Imogen's soul with the weapon at the center. Then she saw the darkness flowing from within Imogen, and several things clicked into place. The ritual was meant to fail.

"Foolish child." Lyra began, leaning back and tapping her chin. She was uncertain what she should do. It was clear that the orc knew, to an extent, what she was doing. The ways in which the ritual was failing were specifically designed to fail in such a way, but the risk was great. Normally a pact weapon would form a permeant link with the reaver's soul, allowing them essentially make it a part of their soul itself, calling it from the depths whenever they had need. The link was a form of bond, not too unlike the bond between Kathar and their bond mates, but far less refined. It was a one way connection, almost like a subjugation of the physical weapon to the Reaver's will, and as such it required the reaver to remain in control of the magic throughout the bonding process. If they did not they risked their soul being drawn out and trapped.

Based on what she saw, it seemed as if this was partially what the woman intended. What was more concerning was the shield. Lyra had noticed when it was brought forth, and when it began to reflect the scripts in its surface. It served to amplify the ritual further, likely in an attempt to ensure that whatever it was Imogen wished to accomplished occurred... Or the more likely scenario, it would cause a catastrophic ripple that may endanger more than just Imgoen herself.

On one hand, the orc seemed intent and driven to do what it was she was attempting. Lyra saw the darkness being drawn from her and into the blade, which was likely the intent. Without studying the thing, Lyra could not be certain, but it seemed some form of soul bound curse, or perhaps parasite? She had not seen any such thing so far, but given her own abilities it seemed plausible. The question was, should she interfere? From what she could tell, whatever it was the woman was doing wouldn't work. Though she was experienced with Reaving, made obvious by the ease with which she controlled the flow of the magic forming the pact, the scrivening was insufficient. It was like trying to hold together a house with string. Perhaps if it were small, too small to live in of course, it might work for a short time, but the aether which was already beginning to build and cycle through was beginning to wear away at the glyphs. Pictographs made for novice spells simply could not handle the work of master level magic. It would fail, and likely not in the way intended.

The two of them did not know one another beyond a passing discussion years ago. She'd accepted a boon from Lyra, but beyond that single conversation they shared nothing in common with one another. Lyra owed this woman nothing. Yet still, she could not help but think of others in her life. They would have reached out to aid, and expected nothing in return. Lyra was not so kind hearted of course, and a part of her was already wondering what she could draw from this woman as payment. After all she still had no means to reach outside the Void.

That was the other issue. Even though Lyra could see the material world through the shadows, she could not leave the void herself. The moment she did she would be drawn back into her prison, and likely alert her captors of her recent escapades. She could not afford that risk. She thought she might be able manipulate the shadows outside to an extent... but there was a dramatic loss of efficiency when manipulating shadows when on different planes. To put it simply, she did not have the aether to do much of meaning on the Prime Material realm.

Lyra glanced down at the feline at her feet.

"Et'vaaran..." she purred, kneeling down and petting the beast who opened one eye a crack to look at her, "Could you aid me, just a little?"

The tiger slowly closed its eye, turning its head away. Lyra sighed and continued to pet it, scratching behind its ears and running her long nailed fingers down its back. She knew that he liked it, as he gave off a deep purr of his own.

"The one across the planes, the orc woman. Her ritual will fail, and likely kill her." Lyra continued to pet the tiger as she spoke, "Without a bit of help her fate is unknown, but if I were to step in..."

She paused her petting and floated to the other side of the cat, gently scratching under his chin until he opened his eyes to look at her.

"You are powerful. You belong to him, the master of this place. Can you bring them into the Void?"

The tiger flicked its tail and yawned, rolling away from Lyra and closing its eyes once again. Once again Lyra flowed over to his other side and began to pet, scratching all of the places he liked.

"I do not ask this for free. I will reward the efforts you make." The tiger opened his eyes, searching Lyra's expression. There was a question in the way his ears flicked, and Lyra sighed and nodded, "Yes, I will let you play with some of the spawn I create. I shall even shape them to your whims if you wish."

There was a long pause as the tiger seemed to consider the offer, and then it stood, stretched, and turned toward the shadow that lead into the storeroom where Imogen and her ritual was taking place.

---

In the Prime Material Realm

---

The air in the storeroom grew unnaturally cold, a chill which sank into the bones. The shadows of the room seemed to darken, condensing to something more pure than black, and like ink on a page began to stretch unnaturally long. They pooled at the corners and crept toward the center of the room where the ritual took place, seeming to ignore the lights by which they should have been cast. The light of the luminous arrow above began to dim, growing fainter as the very light of its magic was consumed by the spreading darkness.

At the center was a growing mass of shadows which became a pool of darkness. A ripple of movement disturbed the stillness of the void, subtle at first before it began to boil violently. The darkness rose up, and within it shown twin amethysts flames. A large paw broke free of the abyss first, followed quickly by a large head that bared its fangs at the Imogen and the room as a whole. Et'vaaran's enormous frame slid seamlessly from shadow. His fur was darker than midnight, a black so pure it seemed to devour the light around him. Shifting stripes rippled across his body, fluid and hypnotic and glowing with a faint violet energy.

As he fully emerged the room seemed to shudder. Crates raddled and their contents sloshed and clattered together. His tail lashed out once, and the shadows in the room flinched as if alive, recoiling from his power.

The tiger paused, his amethyst eyes narrowing as he took in the room. Then, with a low grow he planted one massive paw down, and the ground beneath his pads blackened. Streaks of inky darkness spiderwebbed outward. Shadows surged, consuming the lights of the material realm as the tiger breathed out a rumbling growl.

The air grew colder then, and a deep hum of power filled the room. Where the shadows touched the world shifted, walls flickering and warping as though reality itself were struggling to hold itself together. The web of inky blackness spread upward, connecting with the shadows and tearing great rifts in the world as it passed, and then all at once everything went black. A roar rippled outward, and the sound of shattering glass and the room around them seemed to fall to pieces. Shards of the realm they had once been in cascaded to the ground, disintegrating as the world resolved itself once more.

They were in the storeroom, but it was different. The crates and items were gone now, and the room itself was slightly off. Twisted in odd ways, and a dark gloom filled the air as the cold of the void pervaded everything.

The tiger snorted, shaking its head and turning to walk toward Lyra who stood in her physical form not far from the center of the room now. She looked similar to when Imogen had last seen her, just more... withered. Her hair flowed around her as if caught in a wind, but instead of the normal lustrous silver it was closer to grey. Her skin was cracked and pulled tight over her bones, and her cheeks were sunken and she possessed dark circles beneath her golden eyes. Though she had managed to feed more often, Lyra was still quite starved of blood and her physical condition reflected as such. There were still hints of her original eldritch beauty, but the toll of her imprisonment was obvious to those who knew what to look for. Inky black lines traveled up her skin, a living tattoo that moved on its own and she had draped herself in a cloak of black smoke to partially hide her nakedness.

The moment they had arrived within the Void lines of black ink had surged forth from where Lyra stood, forming a network of lines which encapsulated the scrivening Imogen had done, retracing the lines in living black ink and expanding upon them. She did what she could to capture the wild magics as they were brought into this place, wresting control where she needed to in order to keep the ritual from spiraling out of control if Imogen lost focus throughout the transition.

"We meet again, bone talker." Lyra said, her smile wan. She hovered closer, still spinning webs of glyphs which she built around the entire ritual, steadily reshaping and stabilizing the magic. Glyphs of smoke began to rise into the air as well, expanding the ritual circle further until it almost began to layer upwards into the air.

"What is it you seek to accomplish?" Lyra asked, turning her eyes on the orc, "As to me it seems as if you wish to end your life."

[Imogen]

Everything had been proceeding according to plan until the fucking tiger showed up.

Imogen's eyes widened as the shadows yawned around the room, darting between the enormous beast and the fading arrow, wincing as its light flickered and guttered out, consumed by the superior element. Well, that wasn't quite a disaster, but she couldn't let the light fade just yet. Thinking quickly, the Sunsinger turned to look at the bow she'd fired the arrow from, lying on the table in front of the oncoming shadow, and jerked head at it. Ysandre's Smile drifted upwards off the table and into the air, floating serenely into place where the arrow had been hanging. Imogen could feel the airs of the shadow rift pulling at the weapon, but she trusted that it would last longer.

”You're... a bit early.” she told the divine beast, bizarrely. There was a bit of strain in her voice, but not as much as one might have expected- after all, she was very used to splitting and directing bits of her being like this. She showed no fear at all of Et'vaaran's fangs- to her, it bore all the hallmarks of a Primal, one of the godlike elemental beasts of Ecith, and she'd faced down four of those now. More, if you counted each one of the Silent Fisher's attempts to murder her.

Kitty seemed quite a bit more alarmed by the sudden intrusion of the tiger. All of his fur stood on end and he quickly backed behind his mistress, panting with terror. This made sense, she supposed. It surely reminded him of the void spirit which had dominated his dame, and turned his entire species into slavering killers until she had freed them. Or maybe he was just freaked out by the appearance of something he could not plausibly hide from in Imogen's shadow?

It was too early in the rite for her to fight the tiger, but thankfully it showed little interest in the prospect. She felt the world shift around her as it- pushed? It seemed like it was pushing the entire space out of Ransera entirely. The world dissolving into another... that could almost have been Traversion, except she couldn't feel anything unusual in the veil at all, nor did they appear to be traveling through Slipspace. It was more like the transition between waking and sleeping.

Meanwhile, more of her aether slid across the gap and into the ranseur. She could feel the rite working, but there was no way for her to tell how much was left to go before it could be completed. After all, she didn't know how much of the affliction there really was. Concepts were weird like that.

The witch's attention was wholly captured, however, by the appearance of the wraith-woman in the center of the room. She glanced at the lines on the floor, alarmed to see them twist and mutate into glyphs she didn't even recognize. Still, more alarming than the woman's appearance was her voice- though she hardly recognized the smoke, the voice she did recall.

”You?” Imogen asked, trying not to let her mind start racing and disrupt her concentration. She had to buy herself time to finish what she could.

”End my life? Well, there's certain death and uncertain death, ain't there?” Imogen held up her hand, gesturing to the streamers of darkness running out of it, slow as molasses. ”That's certain death.” Imogen nodded at the vessel. ”'n that's uncertain death.”

The witch grunted--the talking was distracting--but she didn't seem to have any choice to ignore the wraith. If she broke the circle now, even if Imogen survived, it wouldn't help with removing the Aether Creep and she'd be counting the days. So she hastened to continue:

”Pact of Seperation.” she said after a moment, ”The Binding Pact causes the Rune of Reaving to sublimate the aether of a weapon, adding it to an aperture within the soul. First you suffuse the weapon with yourself, then it dissolves into you. If you bypass the Rune's safeguards, you can add something from yourself to the weapon being transmodified, and sort of... shuffle it around. Stupid magic, but it did work once. Everything is everything else, after all...”

Imogen was overcome by a sudden coughing fit, which caused her to double over in pain- but notably, the line of power running to the vessel did not falter, nor did any of the various weapons floating around the circle budge an inch. The witch was used to maintaining her concentration while dying.

”Couldn't find a way to cure the Aether Creep anywhere on three continents.” she explained, hoarsely, ”So I'm putting it in there.”

[Lyra]

Aether Creep. So it was a curse of some kind, a realization that came both from the explanation Imogen provided and the context clues Lyra had been steadily piecing together. Now that they were physically near one another Lyra could better see the situation for what it was. She floated closer to the circle but did not cross its boundaries, but instead shifted her attention past the veil to look directly into Imogen's soul. While she held a representation of the orc's soul within her soul space, it was merely that, an imitation which could not capture the greater nuisance and details of the soul itself. Certain lines were fuzzy, or easily misunderstood if one did not know what to look for, but now with the soul in front of her much became clear.

"A transference ritual." Lyra said. She waved her hand, fingers marking patterns in the air which glowed faintly before new glyphs of smoke flowed down to connect with the steadily rising series of circles around Imogen.

In essence, what the orc was seeking to do was sound. There was something which clung to her soul, which Lyra could see clearly now as dark lines that twisted within the structured lines of Imogen's essence. The ritual, the Pact of Separation as it was aptly called, was being used to extract that foreign aether from the soul, and then bound within the vessel at the center of the circle. It was a simple enough concept, but it was rare that theory so seamlessly translated to practice. The fact that the ritual had gotten this far was a testament to the woman's talent and abilities, not to the ritual itself.

"I suspect if any other attempted this, they would have already had their soul stripped from their body." It wasn't meant as a compliment. To Lyra's eyes the procedure looked like a child using a knife they had no training in. They knew the motions, and what the intended outcome was, but the blade was too heavy and their handling too clumsy. In this case it was not the magic itself, but rather the supporting scrivening which was causing the most problems. Everything seemed to hinge on the idea that the curse, which Lyra now thought it must be, could be extracted fully from the soul. Unfortunately it was not that straight forward.

As she observed Lyra had continued to weave glyphs into the air, building upon the layers below until the ritual circle had become a three dimensional sphere of shifting lines and pictographs. Yet despite their complexity, they still followed a familiar pattern. Energy was drawn from Imogen, and funneled toward the vessel. Lyra had even accounted for the reflections in the mirror, which had become equally convoluted as the layers of glyphs were repeated time and time again. Only when she had finished the ritual diagrams did Lyra cross the barrier of scriptures and enter the ritual itself, but there was not even a ripple in the aether when she did so. She had made a path for her to get closer to Imogen, and she now hovered at her elbow, looking at the stream of darkness that was funneling into the vessel still.

"This curse, the Aether Creep you call it." Lyra began, turning her head so she was looking at the Orc once more, "It is twisted like thorny vines deep into your soul. If you continue as you are, you will tear away a part of yourself with it."

[Imogen]

”That's right.” Imogen said, breathing deeply to steady herself.

”The Rune of Reaving joins things together, it can't separate them,” she explained, ”To transfer the curse to the vessel, the vessel must become part of me. And then...” The ork grunted, then proceeded in a sing-song voice:

”Scar the body, sear the soul,
Nothing less will make it whole,
Patch it up with faith and ire,
Place your heart within the fire.”

It took her a moment to catch her breath again, to continue.

”The circle's going to explode, I think, but that won't end the process unless I lose consciousness because the underlying procedure is written into the Rune. Once the vessel is fully ensouled, I will sear the channel closed with Novuril's fire and reabsorb it, which will give me leverage to resist the affliction. As always, the rite concludes with a battle, which... I thought was what the tiger was for? Unwinnable battle, style of thing, the final perversion of the ordinary parameters of the Pact Binding.”

She judged the physical risk of the meltdown as very minor- the room was an enclosed space, but large enough that most of the actual force would be shunted away, and her Pact Shield was capable of protecting her physically. The energy she'd placed in the vessel was far inferior to the energy which had once broken her shield, requiring the Court of Metal to reforge it; though the pain of that impact, combined with the backlash of the sudden shifting of aether involved in the ritual, risked sending her into shock and breaking her concentration. If that happened, then, yes, there was a very real risk that her entire soul would be transferred into the vessel and she would join so many others in that horrific fate.

Well, she didn't intend to let that happen.

”I grant you that this is a lot of risk, but I've consulted two flights of dragons, Galetira's Seers, the Dawnmartyrs, the Kindred, and the lingering fragments of twenty generations of alchemists and not one of them had a better idea. As a result, I think I must respectfully ask you what you're doing with the runes over there... or else I'm going to need to start the baptism of sunlight early.”

In the air over the vessel, Ysandre's Smile shifted, the bow-made-of-light sighting downward, bowstring drawing back. The sunlight within it intensified as it generated another arrow of sunfire, this one limned in the silver flame of Arcas.

[Lyra]

Lyra tilted her head as she listened to the explanation, her face impassive while internally she questioned the sanity of reavers as a whole. A magic which required one to subject themselves to an 'unwinnable' battle was, in fact, the definition of insanity in her mind. It was here again that Lyra wondered why any would seek after more runes, when there were other magics which did not require the risk of one's life to acquire. The scripts, for instance, were a foundational magic and the key to understanding the whole of all phenomena in the known worlds. Yet despite its importance in time past, it had fallen from favor in the recent years in favor of more runes, more wild magics which were difficult if not impossible to control. Yes a part of her could understand the alure of the danger these other magics offered along with their power, but the more sane part of her would choose a world magic over another mark on her soul. The irony of that thought was not lost on her, and Lyra smiled.

Lyra gestured toward the glyphs she had been stabilizing, her shadowy claws trailing faint wisps of smoke. The symbols glowed faintly, their intricate patterns weaving together like strands of a tapestry. They did not relieve the burden off of Imogen, but they did smooth out the flows of power. If she relaxed her focus, the entirety of the ritual would not unravel, and it was not in danger of imploding. It could not complete without her efforts, but it was as if the ritual were being slowly guided down a more winding path, taking new turns which adjusted the speed and strength of the magic at different bends as it was passed and refined by the many layers of pictographs. It meant the process was not so difficult to maintain, but could not function without her remaining focused.

"These runes, as you called them, are stabilizing the overflow of aether caused by the use of your magic in a way it was never intended. Think of it as a wall to hold back the flood gates, and the channels by which the water is guided to where it is meant to go lest it overflow and destroy the lands beyond." As she said this her eyes traced the flowing scripts and leveled on the vessel, "Then you goal is to trap this Aether Creep curse within the vessel there... And you knew it would claim a part of your soul in the process."

She seemed to consider a moment, "No... Not quite. The curse will remain within your soul, but sealed within the part governed by your magic of Reaving."

Her expression betrayed what Lyra thought of such an approach. "You are clever, courageous even, to force your magic to do what it was never meant to. But cleverness often dies in the face of arrogance, and I sense you’re treading the razor’s edge of both."

Lyra tilted her head, a sardonic smile touching her lips. "Seers, dragons, alchemists... It is quite an impressive list of advisors. Her tone was that of quiet amusement, "Yet their wisdom seems to be wanting."

She stepped closer, golden eyes gleaning in the gloom of the void, "Fortunately for you, I am neither so limited nor so ignorant as those you have sought before. They could offer you no better because they do not understand the nature of what you are attempting... but I do."

Lyra reached forward, her hand touching the center of Imogen's chest before she plunged her fingers directly into the woman's breast. It was an instant, with no pain save for an uncomfortable sweeping cold and the sensation of something being pulled away. As quickly as it happened Lyra was already floating back, holding something clutched within the palm of her hands.

When Lyra opened her hands a small glowing orb appeared. At first it was difficult to make out, but resolved itself into a small flickering flame. It was yellow in color, ringed with shimmering lines that when observed resolved into pictographs which shifted the more one looked. What's more, the orb itself was made up of layer upon layer of glyphs, runes and sigils, each overlapping in complex patterns which defied comprehension. The perfection of the small flame was broken by strands of darkness, like black strings that wove between the lines of the glyphs that made up the orb.

"The soul is a complex thing." Lyra began, spreading her arms, and as she did so the yellow fire. It became as large as a bolder and hovered within the circular ritual formation, and at this size the overlapping lines and patterns that made it up became clear. The glyphs were not true pictographs, or any runic language any scholar of the current age had ever seen... yet if Imogen looked, she would begin to see parts of it resolve itself to meaning to her and her alone. Lines which reminded her of past memories, shapes which expressed parts of her personality, and she could pick out where her runes of magic were woven into the tapestry of her soul. The lines which were just thin threads before now were thick black vines with jagged edges which tore into the smooth shapes of the glyphs that made up Imogen's soul. The curse wound itself deep into the orc's very being, tying itself to key parts of her, her personality, her motivations, and touched on far more than one might expect.

"And this curse is quite insidious. See how it has threaded itself within your soul, digging its thorns in deep. It is strangling you from within, truly a parasite and just as difficult to remove." Lyra again looked at the vessel and at Imogen, "It is likely too entangled with your own weaves to be excised and isolated at this point. Perhaps when it first occurred, before it had time to spread as far as it has."

Lyra realized they were conversing within an active ritual, while Imogen herself was attempting to break several laws of her own magic to bring a curse to heel. She was not what one would call a kind person, but even Lyra felt a form of compassion from time to time. She knew what it was to face an unfair fate, to have her sense of choice ripped from her and to be left with sheer desperation. In a way, Lyra felt sympathetic to the orc's current plight as it mirrored her own from ages past... But again, she was not a saint nor one of the noble dawnmartyr.

"I can aid you in this. Already I am doing so, but you require more if you are to succeed. This curse needs to be unwound and extracted from your soul, piece by piece. Once enough of it has been removed, only then will your method work... maybe." Here she paused, her eyes glowing a soft gold that only served to further exaggerate her gaunt features, "But my aid will not come without a cost. Should you accept, know that I will expect something in return once this is done.

[Imogen]

Imogen Ward prided herself on being well-travelled, well-informed, and generally cosmopolitan. She'd seen master mages of every stripe (or so she reckoned), fought with ancient dragons, bargained with gods, dueled Primals, and a dozen other impressive-sounding things. More importantly, she'd spent most of her life in the company of the Zaichaeri Covens, and therefore was quite acquainted with the powers and limits of their workings. Though she was infamously bad at Scrivening herself, she had seen it done first-hand by masters many times.

And so she knew that what this wraith was doing was totally impossible.

”Wh-w-huh?” she sputtered, as the strain of the rite dropped precipitously--well, not the strain of the rite, exactly, but of keeping it held together--and the shadowy glyphs began to twist and multiply before her very eyes. This was complex spellwork, of the sort she'd seen done only once before.

Frankly, even the idea of scrivening so quickly seemed preposterous. The witch had met mages who prided themselves on their ability to draw glyphs so quickly they were usable in battle, but that meant they could construct basic arrays within the space of a minute, or more complex procedures while an hour-long battle raged around them. Dragging someone into another dimension and altering a rite you'd never seen before as it was being enacted? The notion was frivolous, disregarding the fact that it was apparently happening right here and now.

Brave and reckless Imogen might be, but she was getting a sneaking suspicion that she was in somewhat over her head, here.

As she was still taking in the wraith's words, the apparition approached her with startling speed. A moment later, she felt a sudden pang of loss, something deeper and more terrible than mere pain- but also something she'd felt before. The icy grip of some specter which was not death, but death's kin, a nightmarish spirit of life-in-death. And there, in the specter's hands-

Well that couldn't be her soul, could it? Just floating there like that? Except of course that she could could feel what it was. To Imogen's eyes, the glyphs were almost imperceptible; she saw it as a knot, the intersection of a thousand golden strings which reached off into the darkness. Some did not go far at all, wrapping themselves around her Pact weapons scattered throughout the room, or touching on Kitty (who was presently cowering underneath the table), or spinning off into the darkness, and into the worlds beyond to the people and places to which she'd tied it.

And there, of course, was the vine. A black vine, covered in thorns, grown in and around the rest of it. And like an aggressive vine, it was eating the yarn around it... well, okay, the validity of the metaphor suffered there, somewhat. But she understood what it meant well enough.

She was tempted to try to retaliate, to take it back- but the wraith hadn't threatened her, threatened to take it, or any such thing. Plus, even if she could strike the apparition down and somehow continue the ritual, what would happen to her soul? She had no way of knowing. Only one thing was very clear- this phantom was something much more dangerous than she'd given it credit for.

"You can do this?” she said, at last. It was halfway between disbelief and pleading. Even the Grymalka, the arbiters of souls and guardians of the dead in Zaichaer had no such capability. But then, they couldn't remove a living soul either, nor suspend an ongoing ritual on a whim. But Imogen had never bought into the idea that things were impossible simply because they had never been done.

"If you can really do that-” Zaichaeri legend was absolutely full of situations like this, where someone in a bad spot found themselves offered some hope by a power of darkness and came to regret it. It had happened to her once before, and she'd chosen to die rather than bargain. But she had things to do before she was prepared to accept death willingly. "-then you may name your price, if it does not run counter to my Coven's oaths. I cannot offer more than that, not even for my life.”

[Lyra]

"What I would ask will not harm you, nor any of your covens." Lyra said, "In fact, it may well be a boon to you and your kin, as I am not one to forget favors done for me."

She looked up at the soul construct and traced a few lines of glyphs with a long nailed finger. As she did so those parts of Imogen would flash, bringing to mind sensations or memories in relation to that part of the soul which Lyra touched.

"I am... trapped here." she began, motioning to the place where they stood. Not the storeroom, but rather the realm into which Imogen had been summoned. As she said this Lyra's eyes flashed with sudden anger which cooled as quickly as it had come.

"I was captured and imprisoned by the Dornkirk brother, deep within one of his labs. As I am now I cannot escape, nor can I reach beyond the Void or step into the Prime Material realm. It is quite limiting, as I am sure you can imagine."

She turned her full attention on Imogen once more, "I do not seek release, not yet at least. Such a request would be premature and... impolite, given the delicacy of your situation. Instead I would ask for something much simpler."

She floated around the soul, though one hand trailed along its surface as she made her way to stand directly before Imogen once more, "As you can see, my state is quite unbecoming. I require something which is quite rare within the Void. Blood."

Lyra paused to let the request sink in, "You need not sacrifice large swaths of innocence in my name, but it need be fresh. If such is difficult for you, then dragonshards of any type will be acceptable as well."

To Lyra it seemed a perfectly reasonable request. A simple exchange of goods for services, and surely either blood or dragonshards would be within the Coven's power to gather without much effort. The truth was that the greatest wall in Lyra's escape was resources which were simply not available within the Void. She had yet to find a reliable way to purpose shadow spawn to gather what she needed outside the Void, so if she could get a coven of witches to do so for her then it would be all the better. And this particular coven had made a deal with her in the past, to offer refuge to her daughter at the time. Perhaps that past relationship, however fleeting, might garner her some sympathy now.

Lyra glanced at the glowing soul construct, her gaze lingering on the black vine that twisted through it. "If you refuse, I will not force you. You may yet succeed without my aid, though I cannot say at what cost. With my guidance, however..." Her hand swept through the air, leaving a faint trail of smoke that coiled into shimmering pictographs before dissipating, "You will almost certainly survive, and perhaps be better off than you were before."