Chapter 27: The Descent

"Downward spiral."​

Pews overturned at your back— shards of stained glass littering the floor— you tear away from the house of your Goddess. The thin soles of your shoes scarcely protect your feet as you sprint over the painted hazards littering the ground.

Demons crawl into the abandoned Church of Mercy from gaps in the second floor, while the entire lower level becomes overrun.

Your distraction seems to have worked for only a split second. There must be twenty enemies within plain sight— but they rapidly fade from view as you flee into the halls of Ostedholm.

The screams of demons echo behind you. Through a haze of exhaustion and bliss, you agonize over the volumes of architecture that Spirit instilled in you.

Clinging onto your shield for dear life, you set off into a labyrinth of lost knowledge with the most complicated path possible.

The destroyed church is left quickly behind with your rapid steps and pounding heart. The gold coating your eyes lights up at myriad hallways, rooms for study, progressively narrower paths, and away from your pursuers.

As fast as your legs can carry you, you wind away from the narrow halls of the library, and into grotesque hideaways. Small rooms, countless unlocked doors, and every shortcut you can fathom takes on the screams of the damned. Insane men and women waste away within darker wings. They are a promise of what awaits— but only if you allow yourself to linger.

Utterly distracted by the humans on the periphery of your vision, you practically crash into a stone wall. It's your primary shortcut to descend into the underbelly of the city.

An enclosed, and impossibly narrow space drops down before you. You don't hesitate, and utter your thanks to Agriculture as you practically slide down the tight, spiraling staircase. As the flight warps and twists into a smaller and smaller space, the sound of imps overtakes the shrieks of mad humans in the dark.

You push yourself even harder— moving as fast as you're able through the pitch-black staircase— and ultimately reemerge into the light of Mercy.

The clamor of demons echoes from above, from before you, and even further down below. Their cries are nearly as intense as the agony all throughout your limbs as you struggle to reorient yourself below Ostedholm's stairs. Your heart nearly stops.

It's as if you had emerged into natural daylight. The architecture that supports Ostedholm makes even less sense than the city's own structure. Stairs lead out in every direction. They drip from countless openings, and reach far below your sight. Webs of stone bridges connect the seemingly endless expanse of steps and rails. Gray marble adorns most of the intact structures, though a few connecting bridges have crumbled with age. Before you lies more intact sets of stairs— and no sight of your friends.

​

Breaking once more into a run, you desperately look for your allies in the vast stone expanse. The sound of demons dulls by the second. You strongly suspect that the imps you encountered are beholden to a greater demon within the upper levels— and this area must be the domain of something more terrible still.

Unfamiliar ruins loom and leer around the steps you traverse. They cast a surreal light over the nearest bridge. You slow your steps, and realize that the sound of your pursuers has finally stopped.

I've lost them.

Exhaustion looms. Looking for something to hold onto (your mace is long gone), you take hold of your holy symbol, and cling onto Mercy's blessing for dear life.

Every fiber of your being aches, burns, and begs for rest. Her caress keeps you willing to move and endure— but you sense that even Mercy has Her limits.

The frantic search for any sight of Celegwen, Ofelia, or Ray takes you to a blue handkerchief. It's one of Ofelia's, and hangs off the edge of the steps.

You pick up the cloth— body screaming from the overwhelming motion— and have to close your eyes. The fabric in hand is a fine alternative to keep you grounded— either for long enough to look for a message— or for any sign that your friends are alright.

Thorough examination of the cloth and the surrounding area reveals nothing.

I was the only one crazy enough to bring pens into the ruins, after all.

Teeth grit, you look down the staircase at your feet. It stretches on so deeply that you cannot see the bottom.

Mist looms.

Darkness prevails.

You have a single torch remaining.

Your heart goes out to your friends. As you clutch onto Ofelia's handkerchief, the slight tension shoots a wave of exhaustion, agony and bliss through the limb.

Your vision swims. You try to focus— to stay in the moment— and remind yourself of what's at stake.

There's too many risks to list, and too many people you actually want to see again to not continue now.

Never one to hesitate— especially in the face of the unknown— you turn from the last of the city of lights, and begin to descend. Your friends could be in danger.

You are in danger. You sleep like a corpse. There's no telling what might happen if you were to rest now.

The stone steps before you are slick, smooth, gradually spiral, and are nearly as wide as you are tall. You find uncertain footing, as the slivers of glass embedded in your shoes crunch while you plod forward. There's no hesitation in your procession— but you do glance behind you.

Eyes glowing with divinity, you see up and away into the base of Ostedholm. There's hardly a whisper of the imps that were pursuing you. They were frightened of something down here— or someone. A chill runs down your spine. The sweat from your brow, neck, and newly-scarred back cools rapidly.

The air grows cold.

Within no more than half an hour, the city is shrouded from your sight. You must have been pursued for hours— maybe more, as you ran through the library— but there's no telling how warped this space is. The presence of so much Magic is unfamiliar to you, but you can recognize the inconsistency of this architecture. Something feels wrong. It intermingles with the searing pain of your overworked muscles, your fresh scars, the sensitive and tortured flesh...

It's enough that you push forward— despite all danger.

Each step is more excruciating than the last.

Mist shrouds your vision as time wears on.

Terrified of falling off from the winding steps and into the abyss— you can't help but eventually slow your pace. You lean into Mercy's light, and reach out to the Goddess to guide you.

You do not see with your own eyes as darkness looms. You need only trust in Her.

In the utter silence of fog and night, only your unsteady footsteps and the pounding beat of your heart can be heard. Every breath in your lungs and each step that you take hits you with a new wave of agony and euphoria. You've never stayed with the Goddess for so long. You're barely held together by Mercy, and struggle to keep yourself grounded— to not become utterly consumed by Her light.

Raw from the pain and pleasure of the Gods working through you, you scarcely recognize your own voice while communing with Mercy. It's all you can do to try and retain your sanity. There's no nerves or timidity in your tone while speaking to the Gods.

It's another story entirely when They speak through you.

"We will find our purchase. We will not falter. Through Mercy, we will enter the unknown. No darkness can obscure Her light—! We will show unto Her our devotion— our conviction. Our love. The Father has looked upon Her works—! Its majesty had struck us with greater fury than the might of Storm. Its halls untouched by the power of Time— its design more complex than any of Spirit—! You have gifted the Father with reprieve— with the strength to endure—! With light, with Mercy—! We feel You—! Aah—"

Your breath catches.

The descent momentarily stops.

Gasping, you take hold of Her holy symbol and want to take a knee.

Every last nerve in your body wants a break from sensation.

Abject devotion and euphoria has you reeling with Her warmth, Her love, and ecstasy.

You can practically see the gold seeping from your scars and from the cracks in your soul.

You can't keep talking.

The struggle to stay grounded is a losing battle.

It's hard to think of anything— or anyone— but Mercy.

Still, there is a cloying, aching thought in the back of your mind: to rest is to surely die. You are pressing on for a reason. You have to find your friends.

You press on into the darkness.

A glow pours from your connection to the Goddess. She keeps you aloft.

"Mercy. In our darkest procession, guided by Your hands We— aah—!"

She makes sure that you can endure the pain.

"Thank you. The Father has felt you."

You relish every single one of the hundreds upon hundreds of steps that you take.

"We have seen Your works. We ask that You do not leave us. That we remain together. Oh, Mercy..."

She ensures you do not falter— even hours later.

"Your gifts transcend the most unutterable temptations of this world—! We look upon Your light. We feel you. Blessed be the Goddess, for She is Merciful— aahh—"

The pain of pushing yourself so far borders on ecstasy.

Your steps falter for the briefest of moments.

You stagger, tense, and barely stop yourself from falling into the abyss. Agony blossoms forth from the effort. You pause a moment— completely overwhelmed— and look out into the darkness.

Another hour must pass by as you press on. Gasps and praise falls from you like rain.

"Thank you. Thank you. Your compassion will be heralded. Your praises will be sung from the lowest depths to the furthest— ahHn— to the furthest reaches of the sky! To the moon— and stars...!"

Your mind and soul are stretched to their limit.

"Aaaahnn, Mercy—"

A faint light eventually emanates from below.

The gold and heat throughout your sight locks onto the bottom of the stairs.

You've reached the bottom of the ruins.

Worship blends into obscenity as the last of your restraint slips away.

"We will deliver unto You— aaahhh— That which You seek! That which You ask of the Father—! Your blessing— Your gifts— are more— nnn—" You can't imagine searching for your friends in your current state. "More than we can stand—! More than we can give!" Not through the stress that's on your soul and sanity. "We give to you our body, our mind—! Glory and worship is unbefitting of the Goddess—! We will be— nnnn— Merciful..."

Through a haze of heat and madness, you see at long last through the mist.

"Oh, Mercy—"

Staggering off from the steps, you fall to one knee on smooth stone. All the gold in your eyes lifts to the caverns of Ostedholm. A massive network of rock and stone reaches up and beyond your sight. A veil of mist obscures the city above. Higher than the smooth stone you kneel upon— between endless rows of caverns— stretches archways comprised of enormous, bleached bones.

These caverns cleave so deeply into the earth, not even the gifts of a Goddess can see beyond the horizon. There's no seeing into any one of the caves that extends from your vantage point either, but you can make out the start of damp and coarse rocks within the caverns themselves. The library's archives were incomplete. This is uncharted territory.

You drop your shield, clutch onto your holy symbol with both hands, and bask in Her radiance.

There is light on the horizon.

There is Mercy.

​

The looming threat of collapse, the abject agony that your body is in, and what may happen when you part from Mercy is beyond terrifying.

Parting from Her is unthinkable. You still need Her.

You have to find your friends.

Your mind flits to the countless humans that have been lost in the city above. Those who have not yet become demons, but have fallen into madness. You have faced so many monsters— but you have heard so many more still. Were you to lose yourself in the darkness, you know exactly what lies in wait.

Fear cannot grip you. The soft edges of the Mother hold you, and keep your pain at bay. Your eyes cloud over with gold.

Taken by Her radiance, flooded with heat, and captivated by pleasure, you can scarcely speak. It's a struggle to even think. Your fractured mind struggles to wrap around what could possibly grant you sight.

In a moment of clarity, you remember who could make you see.