Post by Zola Rhomdaen on May 5, 2022 15:45:00 GMT
It is a good moon tonight. A waning crescent hangs high above, surrounded by large splashes of glittering stars across the dark sky, and not a spot of grey clouds anywhere in sight. It is, by all accounts, a beautiful night.
They are camped one day’s march away from the gates of Daring Heights. Marto, Sorrel, Velania, and Snowey have all gone to sleep, exhausted from days of long and hard marching from the Sunset Spines. Even The Jackal — gruff, hardened warrior as he appears to be — seemed to be thankful for the respite once his watch has ended and is currently snoring away. The only other beings awake with Zola at the moment are Cor’Vandor, grazing peacefully nearby, and her watch partner, Kháos, who took their post at the other side of the camp, not speaking to her, telepathically or otherwise.
It is a silence Zola is quietly grateful for.
She has been buried in thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts all throughout this journey into and out of the mountains. Regrets and longing and meditations on fate and fatalism.
Mostly though, she can’t get him out of her head.
But she doesn’t want him to leave it either.
Kháos and The Jackal had brought them to visit an oracle in the mountains. Themis. A tiefling woman who leads a tiny sect (or is it a cult?) of Shar and Selûne worshippers who believe the war between the two Sisters of Night should continue into eternity, and that means perpetuating the prophecy of the Unending Word for both sides of the conflict. (The Jackal called it “stirring the pot”.) They call themselves the Unending Ones.
Themis, seated cross-legged on a carpet laid on bare, rocky ground, cocked her head towards Zola, her unnerving, milky-white eyes staring right into her. “And that one is crooked.”
“What are you trying to say?” asked the drow, impatient and cautious at the same time.
“I’m saying that good things come in pairs.”
It was then that Zola realised the oracle was looking at her empty sword hand. She had lost one of her twin curved longswords to the caustic blood of the half-man, half-scorpion fiend they fought outside the Unending Ones’ encampment.
Themis pulled out a long wooden box from behind her, unlatched the lock, and opened it. It had a rich, red velvet lining; there is one empty hole in the outline of a sword and next to it, a beautiful longsword — its silver blade thin and curved like a scimitar, and so lustrous it almost appeared to be glowing with moonlight or starlight.
This had to be it — the final artefact.
“This is Castor, one of The Twins,” Themis explained as Zola beheld it with great wonder. “We gave its pair to the other side when they came. Now, for balance, we will give you this one.”
Zola snapped out of her admiring trance and looked up to regard Themis with widened eyes. “Who took the other one?” she asked, even though she dreaded the answer.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
The tiefling’s white eyes continued to gaze through her. “I believe you call him ‘the Vain’.”
Zola’s breath seized in her throat.
And her hand reached forward to grip Castor and lifted it out of the box.
Zola cannot, even in her wildest imagination, understand why the Unending Ones believe what they believe, why they feel the need to continue this cycle of violence just for the sake of it, or why they think the rift between the Sisters cannot — or should not — be mended. Themis had no interest in explaining her reasoning or her faith. She had given the Heralds of Blade and Ash a prophecy when they visited three days prior to their own visit, and then — for the sake of fairness, she claimed — she gave the champions of Selûne the same.
Finally, she showed them a vision of Daring Heights in current time: Rahmiël, in the guise of the acolyte Melissa, driving a knife into Rholor Vuzehk’s spine as he was distracted by a commotion outside the temple.
And that is why they are rushing back to town. Regardless, by the time they arrive, Rholor would already be long gone. The only thing left to do will be to rest and prepare for a journey into the Nine Hells.
All the roads they have taken have led to this. Phlegethos is where it all ends.
Or is it? The Jackal and Kháos said it is their aim to break the cycle of the Unending Word. All this time, Zola thought they had a grand plan to do just that, until the changeling admitted to her a few days ago that they just…don’t. They are hoping against hope that doing things slightly differently from their predecessors would do the job. But how that will prevent yet another wave of Sharran zealots from carrying out Sabaoth’s prophecy two or three centuries later, she does not know. Her faith is waning.
She unclasps Castor from her belt and slowly unsheaths it, the flat surface of the blade facing skyward. The steel is so burnished that it reflects her eyes and the moon and stars in the sky almost like a clear mirror.
“It doesn’t matter, dear. We’re all going to die horribly anyway,” a familiar voice, sounding flat and resigned, echoes faintly in her mind, as if from a dream.
Ophanim…
A single drop of water drips onto the surface of the blade, distorting the reflection of the moon. Zola’s hand goes up to touch her cheek and feels wetness.
That he took the other Twin proves it — the two of them are bound together by the chain of fate. If there is a remote possibility that she can save one life, break him out of this cruel cycle, then she has to try, or regret it forevermore.
Zola stays up to watch the sun rise above the eastern horizon, the same as she had done for one year in order to become a sword dancer of Eilistraee. Ignoring the exhaustion set into her bones, she stands tall and faces the dawn with determination.
May the Dark Maiden watch over us both.
(Continued in Cosmic Love.)
Artwork of The Twins by Lykksie.
They are camped one day’s march away from the gates of Daring Heights. Marto, Sorrel, Velania, and Snowey have all gone to sleep, exhausted from days of long and hard marching from the Sunset Spines. Even The Jackal — gruff, hardened warrior as he appears to be — seemed to be thankful for the respite once his watch has ended and is currently snoring away. The only other beings awake with Zola at the moment are Cor’Vandor, grazing peacefully nearby, and her watch partner, Kháos, who took their post at the other side of the camp, not speaking to her, telepathically or otherwise.
It is a silence Zola is quietly grateful for.
She has been buried in thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts all throughout this journey into and out of the mountains. Regrets and longing and meditations on fate and fatalism.
Mostly though, she can’t get him out of her head.
But she doesn’t want him to leave it either.
Kháos and The Jackal had brought them to visit an oracle in the mountains. Themis. A tiefling woman who leads a tiny sect (or is it a cult?) of Shar and Selûne worshippers who believe the war between the two Sisters of Night should continue into eternity, and that means perpetuating the prophecy of the Unending Word for both sides of the conflict. (The Jackal called it “stirring the pot”.) They call themselves the Unending Ones.
Themis, seated cross-legged on a carpet laid on bare, rocky ground, cocked her head towards Zola, her unnerving, milky-white eyes staring right into her. “And that one is crooked.”
“What are you trying to say?” asked the drow, impatient and cautious at the same time.
“I’m saying that good things come in pairs.”
It was then that Zola realised the oracle was looking at her empty sword hand. She had lost one of her twin curved longswords to the caustic blood of the half-man, half-scorpion fiend they fought outside the Unending Ones’ encampment.
Themis pulled out a long wooden box from behind her, unlatched the lock, and opened it. It had a rich, red velvet lining; there is one empty hole in the outline of a sword and next to it, a beautiful longsword — its silver blade thin and curved like a scimitar, and so lustrous it almost appeared to be glowing with moonlight or starlight.
This had to be it — the final artefact.
“This is Castor, one of The Twins,” Themis explained as Zola beheld it with great wonder. “We gave its pair to the other side when they came. Now, for balance, we will give you this one.”
Zola snapped out of her admiring trance and looked up to regard Themis with widened eyes. “Who took the other one?” she asked, even though she dreaded the answer.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
The tiefling’s white eyes continued to gaze through her. “I believe you call him ‘the Vain’.”
Zola’s breath seized in her throat.
And her hand reached forward to grip Castor and lifted it out of the box.
Zola cannot, even in her wildest imagination, understand why the Unending Ones believe what they believe, why they feel the need to continue this cycle of violence just for the sake of it, or why they think the rift between the Sisters cannot — or should not — be mended. Themis had no interest in explaining her reasoning or her faith. She had given the Heralds of Blade and Ash a prophecy when they visited three days prior to their own visit, and then — for the sake of fairness, she claimed — she gave the champions of Selûne the same.
The time of blades and ash is come
The High Diviner will be lost
Deceit will befall him
And only when he is in utmost peril
Can he be truly protected.
The time of blades and ash is come
The Twins will cross
The Sisters will dance once more
On the banks of the Azellah.
The time of blades and ash is come
Souls will be torn in two
Flesh made solid at last
As the zealots bleed in the Fourth.
The sky will tear under great, beating wings
The fallen ones will rise
Rise higher than ever before
In the time of Blades and Ash.
The High Diviner will be lost
Deceit will befall him
And only when he is in utmost peril
Can he be truly protected.
The time of blades and ash is come
The Twins will cross
The Sisters will dance once more
On the banks of the Azellah.
The time of blades and ash is come
Souls will be torn in two
Flesh made solid at last
As the zealots bleed in the Fourth.
The sky will tear under great, beating wings
The fallen ones will rise
Rise higher than ever before
In the time of Blades and Ash.
Finally, she showed them a vision of Daring Heights in current time: Rahmiël, in the guise of the acolyte Melissa, driving a knife into Rholor Vuzehk’s spine as he was distracted by a commotion outside the temple.
And that is why they are rushing back to town. Regardless, by the time they arrive, Rholor would already be long gone. The only thing left to do will be to rest and prepare for a journey into the Nine Hells.
All the roads they have taken have led to this. Phlegethos is where it all ends.
Or is it? The Jackal and Kháos said it is their aim to break the cycle of the Unending Word. All this time, Zola thought they had a grand plan to do just that, until the changeling admitted to her a few days ago that they just…don’t. They are hoping against hope that doing things slightly differently from their predecessors would do the job. But how that will prevent yet another wave of Sharran zealots from carrying out Sabaoth’s prophecy two or three centuries later, she does not know. Her faith is waning.
She unclasps Castor from her belt and slowly unsheaths it, the flat surface of the blade facing skyward. The steel is so burnished that it reflects her eyes and the moon and stars in the sky almost like a clear mirror.
“It doesn’t matter, dear. We’re all going to die horribly anyway,” a familiar voice, sounding flat and resigned, echoes faintly in her mind, as if from a dream.
Ophanim…
A single drop of water drips onto the surface of the blade, distorting the reflection of the moon. Zola’s hand goes up to touch her cheek and feels wetness.
That he took the other Twin proves it — the two of them are bound together by the chain of fate. If there is a remote possibility that she can save one life, break him out of this cruel cycle, then she has to try, or regret it forevermore.
Zola stays up to watch the sun rise above the eastern horizon, the same as she had done for one year in order to become a sword dancer of Eilistraee. Ignoring the exhaustion set into her bones, she stands tall and faces the dawn with determination.
May the Dark Maiden watch over us both.
(Continued in Cosmic Love.)
Artwork of The Twins by Lykksie.
