XVIII. Beast and the Harlot

A warm breeze blew in off the sky-blue waters of port Nassica, her temperate beaches were world renowned, the entire coast of Elysia was a jewel of white sand and sparkling sapphire waters. As Goldsun neared its close, the flora had reached their pinnacle of beauty, flowers dotted the cliffs with brilliant white and pastels speckled the hills. Leucetius wound his way through the huddled masses of traumatized citizenry as they attempted to collect the remains of their shattered lives. Only the city itself marred this otherwise picturesque summer scene. Black plumes of smoke rose sporadically, as if set randomly and without forethought.

He marveled at the architecture, mostly untouched by the invaders. The stone and marble open-aired villas, shops, homes and offices of city officials gave the city a grandiose feel, mirroring the palaces and temples in design. It had been many years since he had last walked the city and was dismayed to find it in such a state of disarray. Entablature was sculpted with emblems of the Realm of Dawn and gargoyles in the form of creatures long since banished from the world. Bodies slumped from soot blackened second and third story windows, the same windows that still had laundry crisscrossing the avenues.

Osric’s army had swept in like a hurricane and left in the same fashion. Leucetius pressed himself against the wall to make way for militia of private citizens running towards the next emergency. Their armor was scavenged from the dead, their ranks filled with those too old and too young, men and woman alike. City guards and army were no more, and Xanavene had left no garrison to prevent the looting and pillaging that now ran rampant. While he had anticipated such single mindedness, it was still disheartening to see the suffering upon the faces of those left to pick up the pieces. The remnants of Elysia’s army were scattered about the country, and only now slowly trickled into the capitol, those who had not deserted at any rate. They were all a mess, rudderless and disorganized, if the city were to come under attack again by even the most insignificant of forces, all would be lost.

As Leucetius wound his way through the streets towards the city center, citizens asking for his blessings and to heal family members beseechingly fell to their knees before him. He obliged out of duty. Anything he could offer was a godsend and served to aid the reconstruction efforts. His concerns for time however, prevented him from lingering as long as he would have liked.

* * *

Well after noon, Leucetius breathlessly mounted the stairs of the temple acropolis. The district bustled with activity as priests and monks attempted to fill the void of power left when the upper echelon fled the city with the High Priestess Renata. The Order had also become the de facto leader of the secular side of government as well; he had been able to confirm that the empress and her senate were now dead. The state of Elysia was destined to collapse; the only men who remained in Nassica had been sycophants of the powerful, the incompetent. Some, the young and the naïve, were earnestly vested in ensuring the health and wellbeing of the people. The last group, while likely the worthiest, often lacked that certain something, a willingness to go the distance to be effective rulers. At least, that was his experience. Hopefully, if all went according to plan, they could keep their naïve optimism.

He slowly made his way up the one thousand steps to the temple complex, pausing at the summit to catch his breath. Statues of heroes and saints encircled the complex, casting a solemn gaze towards the western horizon or dutifully upon the city below. The temple of Saint Cecily the Blind had been turned into a field hospital with wounded Elysian soldiers sprawled out upon the lawn awaiting healing.

Leucetius made his way to the archives and was greeted by a massive statue of Renata the scholar, cradling a stack of books in one arm and holding aloft a torch in the other. The inscription upon the pedestal read “Praecipe dicens transibitis per tenebras facem scientiae patitur ignorantiam” in the ancient tongue of the gods.

“Allow the torch of knowledge to cut through the darkness that is ignorance.” He said under his breath. “Let us hope you are correct dear Lady.”

He made the sign of the Dawn and continued through the complex. Fortunately, it had been mostly bypassed, though there were signs of battle that had yet to be scrubbed away, the temple had been spared the destruction and looting seen elsewhere in the city.

The archival libraries rivaled the extravagance of the Temple of the Dawn. Two aisles and a forest of columns with another statue of Renata the Scholar, credited with building the archive, in the apse, flanked a great nave. A squad of wounded soldiers stood guard as a weary monk provided healings at another makeshift infirmary. Leucetius took time to aid the grateful brother before he set off again, towards the archive’s basement levels.

“Pardon me brother,” he gently tugged at the sleeve of a passing monk. “I need access to the libraries.”

The young man gave him a curious stare and adjusted the load of bandages he carried. “The libraries are always open Your Grace, but we could use the aid of a healer more than a scholar if you’ll forgive me for saying.”

“Not at all, not at all.” He replied with a jovial grin. “I agree and will offer my services once my task is finished, but it is of utmost importance that I complete it before anything else. I’ve been dispatched here all the way from Catharone, you see.”

The monk nodded, though still not fully comprehending. “Very well Your Grace, the archives are located in the south wing just past the cloister.”

Leucetius smiled and slowly shook his head. “No, my friend, I fear I was not clear, I need access to the libraries.”

“Your Grace, surely you know, just as I, that that section is off limits except for Cardinals and above. Envoy from Catharone or no.”

Leucetius removed his ring and handed it to the now very antsy monk, who took it with an annoyed huff. Upon recognizing the symbol, his face paled and he quickly stammered out an apology. He fumbled his load and hastily passed off his bundle of bandages to a passing child and ushered the bishop to the rickety elevator that accessed the lower levels. During the slow ride down the hand-cranked lift, he attempted to pick the monk’s brain for any news in hopes of gleaming some previously overlooked detail. The monk was unable to tell him much more than he already knew, but word was being sent that Nassica was the rally point for all remaining soldiers to be redirected for constabulary duties.

* * *

Dust motes danced in the light of his staff as he walked the narrow corridor. It was evident by the two sets of footprints in the carpet of dust, that the archives had been visited recently. It was most likely Osric, who appeared to have taken several tomes with him, as there were quite a few empty slots upon the shelves. Unfortunately, the curator was no longer alive to tell him which tomes were taken, assuming of course that he knew. Very few had reason to step foot in these forgotten crypts, housing works from the time before the collapse. While most of the text from that era was written on glass tablets powered by lightning, there were still some printed books that had managed to survive. It was anyone’s guess as to what they said, as the languages had evolved considerably in the nearly three thousand years since the first end of the world. A warm wet feeling from his nose caused him to pause, the air in the crypt was artificially kept bone dry to preserve the text and prevent rot. He embraced the source for a brief moment to staunch the bleeding and continued.

His arms loaded with the texts surrounding the empty slots, Leucetius made his way back to the bank of desks and tables at the front of the corridor. He tapped the orb on the desk with his staff; it illuminated and hovered overhead as he lit his pipe and blew several rings of smoke. He lay three piles of tomes and scrolls that dated back centuries or more upon the table. A cursory glance showed much of the text to be illegible, due to a sloppy or rushed hand, age and corrosion or a combination of both. He sat in silence for several moments, unsure of where to begin and how.

He knew of men in the swamps of Asketill that could reanimate the dead, and he was well aware that one of them played a part in the incident in the Wraith Wood. The soldiers they encountered were a scouting party all right, but they were not looking for any nun, there simply was no way for anyone outside of Marquez even knowing of her existence. If Laelianus had not bungled things with Clarissa, he might have been able to trail them. No doubt, the young King delegated the task to that fool Lucien who delegated it again to some sell sword. Then again, if it were not for Clarissa, he would not have even been in the wood. Hopefully those two Hillman he hired would be able to find the Princess, if Laelianus proved uncooperative she would be instrumental in changing his tune or replacing him as the case may be. He pinched the bridge of his nose and massaged it, he had not slept in over a day and his faculties were beginning to suffer. This could all be a windfall or an end to decades of effort.

Before him was a stack of papers, mostly unintelligible, and his eyes began to lose focus. Some appeared to have notes written in Xanavien, others were ancient and written in Elysian. He sifted through a stack of the ancient texts; they were oddly shaped scraps of various papers and badly aged. A strange bent clip of metal held the old parchments to a slightly less worn one. The text on the old pages was sloppily written and in an old form of Elysian, the attached pages seemed to contain a translation. He picked one at random and began to read.

Book of the Dawn 6:13 - And Abigor looked upon the void and ever-singing world of Dawn with both rage and envy. For his domain in the realm of twilight unending had emptied, making that foreboding a place all the more so his prison. His envy stirred in his black heart a desire to destroy the Dawn and its youthful choir, to put a swift and terrible end to the arrogant life forms that had sprung up and now thrived on his tool of wrath. So great was the demon’s agony and hatred of that hallowed realm, that his spirit grew a thousand-fold, encompassing Silex with his malice.”

“As that poison slowly crept into the hearts of mortals, the races of man and elf upon Silex expanded their great empires, going so far as to inhabit the outer spheres of the void, travelling its expanse in great sailing ships of the stars. As the goddess Nyrtia worked her loom, weaving the fabric of space and time, the spirit of the Beast that permeated the atmosphere of Silex became a great miasma, filling the already impure hearts of men to brim with malevolence and greed. The children of the Dusk, wielding the magic of mathematics, chemistry and engineering, warred with the Eloi’s progeny, the elves, over depleted resources and land.

Using the power that fueled Lior, son of Uriel and Silex’s guiding star, they destroyed themselves in warfare that spanned the globe and encroached upon the heavens. The Eloi, in their infinite wisdom and mercy, interceded, taking the gift of knowledge and the magic of science from the immature and petty creatures unworthy of such power. The races of Men and Elf were left in darkness and despair as Abigor’s army of demons freely roamed the world, amassing power to break the gates to the sacred realm. Fearing such invasion, the Eloi destroyed humanities gateway to the Elysium Fields and severed their tie to sweet Dawns embrace leaving twilight’s taint upon Silex and Abigor’s Fury.

Leucetius chuckled and tucked the pages into his satchel, it was a pleasant, if not unexpected find. They were lost chapters cut from the Book of The Dawn ages ago; it was believed they were lost. He wondered how long they had been buried down in the basements of the temple, and who had drug them up. If it was Osric, then why? He turned next to the stack of books he had retrieved; perhaps context would give him an answer. He arbitrarily flipped through one of the ancient tomes, stopping on the tale of Avamecia, a sylph sorceress who froze the Sea of Sorrow to walk across to the isle Therion. It was a story known to few outside of the Aes Sidhean Hills and Asketill. He was tempted to put it back, but something about it urged him to continue.

Thirty vessels I chartered, thirty vessels I sent to their doom in the unforgiving depths. Always at the point where land can no longer be seen and the sea surrounds in its infinity, a swarm of stinging flies o’er takes the crew as a great glass eye upon a metallic stalk rises from the depths to leer upon our vessel. Upon finding no child of the mariner state, it released its spawn, which smote our vessel in fiery inferno. Each time by lights grace, or perhaps curse would be more apt, I wash up on the shores of southern Sorn to be plagued but once again by visions of a terrible yet grand civilization. A place where men maim and kill at great speed and distance, where cities towered, scratching the belly of the sky with their spires.

Communication was instantaneous; men in Marquez could easily speak to men in Rhodundal with ease and engines of war rivaled even Rhode’s fury. In my visions, I am a mother of two in a grand city of what could only be in the lands of Sorn; the trials of modern housewives were greatly diminished as I went about my mediocre life, carrying on the humdrum of domestic living. Howbeit, upon my awakening, I long and ache to return to this life, feeling I will die if I cannot. To imagine, I would be willing to give up all my power and wealth for something as trivial as a family? All reason inside me scream out at this absurdity, yet still these visions are more intoxicating than the poppies milk and sweetest wine combined. It is only near the isle of the beast that my visions linger. It beckons me, and I dare not disobey its call.

Upon crossing the ice flow, she collapsed in a coma at the temple gates, her reasons were always considered madness or some form of dementia, this was the first he heard of these visions. Avamecia was considered the greatest witch to ever walk the lands, second only to the goddess of death and winter herself. Assuming there must be more to the story, he continued to scan the following pages.

—plagued by visions most queer, of a vast metropolis on the snowdrifts of northern Thiudoricus.

He skimmed the page; it was about a priest in Nassica, set one hundred years before Avamecia’s crossing.

My class and trade is that of a merchant, my manner of dress is most queer, but though other men and women wear similar attire, I know that mine is superior. My work goes everywhere I do, from a slender black rectangle that shines as polished obsidian I carry in my pocket, to the portal that sits atop the desk in my workplace amongst the clouds. I know not what wares I peddle, but the colored lines and columns upon the portal tell me I do quite well. And in an instant, it is over, my reverie destroyed by the bells of Morning Prayer. Surely this life is not meant for me, why else would I see such visions?

He flipped through the pages, intrigued but impatient. He searched for more about the visions, as it appeared to be a reoccurring theme.

—they became intoxicating. I sought means to bring about these visions, eventually resulting in my defrocking. However, it mattered not. The visions of my life in this strange realm seemed more real than my meager existence in Elysia.

The priest eventually left Nassica, headed for Thiudoricus. He found that the visions decreased in frequency the further he was from Elysia. He committed suicide in southern Ithania, from what he wrote, it appears that the author threw himself into the scar. Throughout the tome, the story was the same. Strange visions and those afflicted seeking to live in their dream worlds, always ending in suicide or death. The theme of the isle Therion was also reoccurring, as if it was the source of the visions. These visions often prompted irrational behaviors or outright madness, though there was nothing by the way of even speculation of the origins of such visions. It could have been a simple case of coming under a fey’s glamor or something far more sinister. He set the books aside in a pile to be taken with him.

He opened another tome; it was a history of Arlien.

—exiled to the region between Silver and Tear under threat of death should he ever return. The love child he planted in the priestess Renata—

Apparently, the founder was exiled for having relations with the Priestess. He found such a punishment strange; no one seemed to follow the rule of chastity anymore it seemed. It was a rule that was seldom enforced outside of vindictiveness and dirty politics, even if a child was the result. He personally knew a priest of Catharone who raised an illegitimate family with several mistresses. Several of the high priestesses even had rather large families, Renata the Caring was said to have walked around publicly while very visibly with child.

—secreted away shortly after birth.

He dumped his pipe and replenished his tobacco.

Death was swift, an apparent murder-suicide, the Priestess and her Chief defender were found in the other’s embrace; bathed in blood and cloaked in the sin of their illicit union. Keeping the incident from the public eye was of utmost priority, as was keeping the continuity of the Priestess role. Fortunately, the child bore uncanny resemblance to her late mother, and disaster was narrowly averted. How or why the two lovers came about the talisman and placed it into the wretched gate at Therion eludes those privy to such details even now. It had been a mistake to keep such artifacts -clearly from that dreaded realm- together to begin with, yet none stepped forward to accept the blame. It was as if the piece manifested itself without anyone’s knowledge.

The love child is quickly consecrated as the successor to the title of Priestess. Arlien is cited as her birthplace, and later, incorporated into Elysia as a protectorate. Previously a nation of barbarians and Aes Sidhean Exiles, many were opposed to the annexation of such a land, and many more opposed to the Renata it had birthed.

Cetius closed the book, leaned back and scratched his chin. The records of the events he had just read had been destroyed several hundred years ago. The only way that even he knew this was because the author had been tried and executed for the murder of the Priestess, and heresy by means of some ridiculous tale he had spun. His was often used as a cautionary tale regarding the danger of lust and obsession.

The events of the book were said to be lost, most likely destroyed. He searched the pile again. He stopped at a heavy leather-bound tome, its text so perfect in spacing and lettering so consistent, it was impossible to have been done by hand. The glossy pages were in nearly impeccable condition, the first of which was an illumination of a woman in black beneath a dead tree in winter. He turned the page and found the introduction, identifying the tome as a copy of the original handwritten work, as well as the name of the person who had transcribed the journal of an unknown woman into the volume he now held. It was the story of a female necromancer sold into prostitution to pay off her dead husband’s debt. Upon fighting her way free, she made her living as a clairvoyant. It was mostly the personal musings and complaints of a young woman’s life, and he was tempted to discard it, if not for the dates of the final entries, six hundred and sixty ATC.

Oh, how I have searched for thee my husband, traversing the cold and colorless plane between ours and the Dawn, going so far as the black gates of Niflhel itself if only to catch a glimpse of you. How I miss thy touch and reassuring words…These fools all fear me and my power; coming to me like thieves in the unholy hours, begging use of my sight to hear word of their departed. We are all the same, aren’t we? So foolish we mortals are, both enraptured and terrified by our own mortality. I still keep your bones, dear husband, and sleep with your skull on the shelf by my bed. Each morning I wake to its hollow gaze, and each morning I cry, for until I can find your soul, you will forever remain outside my waiting arms.

The next several entries were rather mundane, interspersed with complex necromantic diagrams, incantations and notes about how to best preserve dead flesh in the margins. One entry however was particularly interesting, if not disturbing, and consisted of the words gone, gone, lost forever written over and over in increasingly sloppy handwriting. The following entry was a bit more coherent, and he read on.

I returned home to find my miserable hovel sacked and the name of that scorned sister, the goddess of death and winter herself, painted above my door in the blood of some poor beast. The fools discovered my failed experiments, and before I could gather my meager belongings, they drove me out. Idiots. They don’t even follow the old ways, let alone remember the proper wards against she that is the winter star. How is it that our race reacts so counter intuitively to that which they do not comprehend, and by extension fear? Would not the wise course be to allow one you suspect of being the very embodiment of death to continue on in peace? As I am low on ingredients, I am left with no recourse but to harvest them from my former neighbors.

The next entry was several years after.

I apologize, my beloved, for taking so long an absence. I had always felt as if I were speaking to you directly through these pages, but after…I dare not even put it to the page. Yet I rejoice! For you have returned to me, if only in that temporary realm between waking. And you bring visions! Oh, sweet husband, how wondrous and grand these glimpses of a lost epoch are! Still homeless and an outcast, but each night I lay my head down with joy, sustained by the hope that you will visit me once more! But I must confess my beloved, while the sound of your voice is mellifluous, I long for you to call me by my name. I fear I have wandered these lands in a daze, each town branding me Morana, I have forgotten what I was once called.

Cetius skimmed the pages and found more of the same.

—Elysium is a fallacy! Oh, how my breast swells with pride and amazement dear husband. For in deaths embrace, you gained newfound knowledge and sparked within me that very same resolve! I have come across priests and priestesses that failed to attain its respite. We live as cursed, hoping for what will forever remain out of reach for our mortal grasp. If we are to obtain the fruits of our labor, reward for our faith, then it must be done so by force.

He skipped further; the dates were too close for it to be a coincidence, six hundred sixty-three.

—Increase of queer visions upon crossing the Tear, could it be my lost love? I have not heard from you, dear husband, in so terribly long. Have I offended you? Has the passion we once shared failed the test of time, despite transcending death herself? I’ve come so far, my dearest, so far as to have forgotten whence I came, following the trail of visions like breadcrumbs. However, what I see is like nothing before!

The fool Drogo visited me once again in his spectral form, imprisoned as he is in that cave, one would think he would be eager to mette out swift vengeance to the gods that so misled and duped him. In communing with the dead, a voice calls out to me, beckoning me. I follow his voice in a hypnotic trance, half of my soul in in the frigid land of mist, the other in the world of my visions. I feel I’ll be lost for eternity if I don’t reach him.

Cetius leaned back and smoked as he tried to digest the tale. It seemed to be nothing but ramblings, despite the dates, it did not seem likely that the journal belonged to who he thought it had. He was ready to move on to the next book when a familiar name caught his eye.

— Renata the benign, loved and adored by all. Fools. If only they knew the lies and ignorance their love for her perpetuated. The previous priestess was upon misty lands just a year before her own ascension, yet I cannot find her in that misty vale between. Please, dear husband, return to me, hold me once more and offer me answers to these mysteries!

Leucetius did a double take at how abruptly the tone and content switched between the entry he had just read and the next.

My love came to me once more, his face gaunt with hunger and grief. He cried out for her, to feast upon her flesh and sip upon her blood. Who was I to deny? He has sent me such knowledge! Of what was and what could be! If only our fates weren’t in the hands of children, fearful of their offspring’s potential to surpass them, we could be together once more.

He turned several pages, confused by not only the tale but also its similarity to the others.

—slit the bitch’s throat and let her blood flow up the cracks of the gate. My husband’s army of undead and fiends made their way from Yggdrasil, carrying his living anima. Soon I’ll be in his embrace and the tyrant’s dominion will be at an end. The world of my visions will soon come to pass once again.

Cetius turned the page, twenty-nine Frostmoon, six hundred sixty-six after the collapse.

Damn that Cecily! She has no idea what it is she is undoing! No matter. She is but one against many. It is said that she has seen the true dawn, which robbed her of sight in this dark world of ours. I should like to ask her if it was worth it before feeding her to the elder folk.

Cetius briefly flipped to the back, but the last few pages were blank, so he read on.

—the spirit of my love in Yggdrasil, his revival already commenced, shall soon be dead and I with him. I refuse to exist in a world ruled by imbeciles and the tyrants of Elysium. No curse is suitable to express my hatred! My loathing and disdain boils over for those sycophants and cowards, the fools who happily remain under Eloi dominion. I pity you reader, for you no doubt remain under their oppressive rule, ignorant and blissful. Until you sit atop the Gojira peaks and watch the subsequent rise and fall of the grandest civilization ever known, you could not possibly hope to comprehend.

With his children imprisoned with his remains, I am left to my fate, the flesh of my body rent by the light of that blind bitch. I only hope I can find a peaceful eternity in my love’s embrace. But should you encounter me in the realm of mist, please recount this tale to me so that I may claim my vengeance against Ai—

The text abruptly ended at that word, or more likely, half a word. He flipped through the rest of the book; it was filled with what he assumed were spells and diagrams of vivisection. There was no mistaking it now, this was the journal of the only woman to venture to the Realm of Dusk and attempt to bring back The Demon. Cetius knew of the stories, how demons and monsters once walked the planet, but The Order either denied or attributed their disappearance to Saint Cecily the Blind. If Osric were after the army that was said to be trapped in the realm of Dusk, then the question is why? His current force was more than sufficient to demolish the armies of Runandia and Briternica.

Each of the text concerned these visions, with hardly a mention of the Black Gate. The meticulously organized archives had remained essentially untouched for centuries. Could Osric suffer from the same visions, delusions, mentioned in the texts? Leucetius rubbed his eyes as he wracked his weary mind for some sort of connection. He felt it was tantalizingly close; he just could not grasp it. The visions and the gate were connected; that much was fairly obvious, though how, remained a mystery.

He pulled a rope that hung nearby; it would alert someone upstairs that he needed assistance. He hated to pull anyone away from the recovery effort, but circumstances pointed to this being of greater concern. He had figured Osric to be nothing more than a madman with a vendetta against The Order, if he was driven by forces of The Dusk, then it could seriously complicate all he had set into motion. No longer was this a matter to be settled with a concerted military strike, and with the Legions of Dusk roaming the land once more, this could very well be the precipice of another age’s fall. Cetius massaged his temples as he dumped his spent tobacco. This could still work to The Order’s advantage; he just could not see it yet. He would need to gather the leaders of Briternica together and push his timetables ahead a bit, but there was still hope for The Order yet. He would look forward to little to no sleep over the next few days.