Event (Empire!6): The Dawn Council

[Ausar]

The Dawn Council

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Bridges of living wood painstakingly grown out over the dark, turbulent waters of the Straumr permit passage into the outer Fiodh. Guides await, a line of Castainn & their animalian charges leading deeper into the twisted, ancient forest. The creaking and groaning of the old trees is unusually loud, and the roots that normally choke all paths seem to be most reluctantly withdrawn. Finally the sky is visible once more as Fiodh gives way to Widhu, the fertile centre of Bhaile-Koma. Through streets of oiled planks and dirt lined with living dwellings towards the towering terrace of the Green Fields, footsteps take you up a winding avenue that ends at an overgrown wall. Two Deru, enormous 70ft Fuinn, guard the entryway, parting to permit passage. The avenue opens into vast fields of soft grass, dotted with gardens filled with a riot of flowering blooms. Ahead lies the Caretaker's Hall, fronted by a stone statue of Ells Ogra. Esfrey and Onfroy stand in full battle dress before the hall, welcoming and thanking all comers, before ushering them into the grand council chamber. Leafhair, now beginning to show his age, stand with the aid of a staff just within the hall, in a simple councillor's robe. Asha-Shuran & Norren put the finishing touches on a living wood table grown to display the coastline of Bhaile-Koma, with painted wooden banners representing the forces of the Deru arrayed in three contingents. The 8 Branches of the Deru each have a representative at the council, as do the 13 oldest clans of the Illians. A notched stump marks the passage of time, with the sun's rays creeping closer to the centre. The council begins in earnest at noon.

[mystic1110]

Four feathered creatures walk in a line towards the gathering, sordid and unclean feathers coloring them grey beneath the gloomy canopy of the deep wood. The harpies wear copper collars, one even wears a copper muzzle, and are connected by thin chains which are held by hooded Goliaths. The grim Goliaths also hold in their hands thick hemp rope by which they drag along two young boys, one human and another a young Goliath, and two girls, both Goliaths, each meek and in bondage, the rope twisted around their small frames, leaving red welts beneath the dirty linen frocks. Despite the dirt, the entire group wear glorious wreaths of colored flowers, even the hoods of the Golaiths do not hide the petals the crown their heads, the children wearing red hyssops, and in such a manner they approach Esfrey and Onfroy.

The first harpy, the leader of this band of tattered dancers, kneels upon sight of Onfroy, ignoring his sister. Spreading her wings, her feathers dragging along the dirt the rest of the procession follows suit, the children struggling to their knees given the ties that bond them. Speaking into the dirt in front of Onfroy the harpy speaks.

Lord Thorn Knight we low priests are here on your behalf. For we cannot hope to promise to call upon our lord we might hope light a beacon to draw his interest. Some nightmares need to be taught that darker dreams exist.

[Ausar]

Onfroy fought back the urge to flex his thorns through the traditional Illian battle dress his sister had insisted he wear. "Good." He smiled. "The merest mention of our lord in ritual ought give these monsters pause, but to ask his aid? Our forces' strength of arm will barely be required." Onfroy whistled, a mournful keening sound, and stepping out of the statue's shadow is Alhambra. She's changed since the duel, just a little. Faint traced roses on her cheeks are masked by a thin scarf, and her spear is wrapped in thornless red roses. "Where?" "Sanctum." She turns to the priests and their charges. "There is a place for your ritual. I will show you."

[mystic1110]

The priestess drags her feathers against the dirt as she rises up to meet Alhambra's gaze. The other priests also rise, as well as their so called Goliath handlers, ever silent. The bound girls and boys struggle to their feet, but do so with a strange dignity, almost as if this role was an honor. The priestess shifts her wing as she bends over so its underneath her chest - a sort of theatrical bow.

Mistress of Roses lead the way.

As they begin to leave towards this promised sanctum, the priestess remains behind so that she is the last of the procession to leave the gathering at the entrance to Caretaker's Hall. As she heads out, looking back at Onfroy, the priestess lowers her head and her eyes, but not quickly enough to hide her jealousy as she asks the young man the following question in a hoarse whisper.

Lord Thorn Knight . . . how did the berry taste?

[Silent_Interim]

The Scrim have never been close with the Deru, but always they have held a certain special respect for them, even if their dealings have been few. Trees, after all, are some of the most diligent architects of stone. Roots push as surely as a river, splitting the very ground apart as they quest hungrily into the surface. And though no tree lasts forever, it can seem to stone as though they are the only solid thing made of water as small things scurry to and fro. Thus, the Deru might be as close as a speaking thing not of stone might come to understanding the nature of the Scrim.

For whatever reason, the Thunspeaker has chosen this occasion to come out to meet other representatives from Mamut, emerging from the city of Thun for the first time in years. The choice of timing is perhaps odd, as Thun endures weather that seems almost unnatural, but tools of travel more typically needed in the Northern climes where The years have hardly touched their features, and walking past the statue of Ells Ogra, one might note the resemblance, though Nithor's face is carved from a much earlier point in her life. Further dampening the resemblance is that Nithor is dappled with emeralds, encrusted tastelessly across the whole of their body at regular intervals. Accompanying them is a small honour guard, some assorted retainers, and two non-Scrim of note.

The first is a human, a man starting to age past his prime but still in sharp fighting condition, who Nithor introduces as Warspeaker Arman. His long hair is beginning to fade from brown to white, his pale skin lightly tanned. He walks on the right-hand side of the Thunspeaker, who towers over him but seems to lean down to listen whenever he has something to say. He wears little clothing, only what decency demands- even so lightly dressed, he seems uncomfortable with the warmer weather of the Southern climes.

The other is of a race not seen before in wider Mamut, though they bear a resemblance to the Risasno, albeit considerably smaller. <Steady-Hand-Spills-Black-Blood-On-White-Snow>, or Steady-Hand for short, is one of the strange and silent Watchers that normally reside in Thun's northern holdings. Finding communication with others difficult, even with the aid of the Truthseers, it is rare to see one of the Watchers outside of their homelands, let alone beyond the borders of Thun. Nonetheless, one is here, seven feet of white fur over lean muscle, using her spear as a walking-staff, with an axe on her belt and a falcon on her arm, currently hooded. She stays close to Nithor, and though she tries to remain relaxed, her body posture speaks to her nervousness at the sheer number of strange and unfamiliar sights around her.

Upon reaching Esfrey and Onfroy, the group comes to a halt. Nithor bows to each of them in turn, and the rest of the Scrim entourage follows suit, Steady-Hand a little more slowly than the others.
"It is our honour to join you on this day, esteemed Deru. I do not know how much aid we can offer you this day, but I hope that your troubles pass soon, and what is within our power, I hope I will be able to give to you."

[Ausar]

Red is the Rose

Alhambra shivers as she hears the priestess ask, quickening the pace a little as she does. Mercy, my dear, she thought she knows not what she asks. Around the Hall she leads the procession, along a path tread frequently but by very few. The land behind the Hall drops steeply off but the trees below rise to meet the cliff edge. An ocean of canopy stretches ahead, as if one could step off from the stone and walk on leaves into the horizon. Onto a ledge just wide enough to countenance crossing, down a series of roughly hewn steps and on towards a small stream flowing down the cliff face. Alhambra reached the water and turned, gesturing towards a crack in the stone three feet wide and seven tall. "Here. The garden awaits."

Within, small-bore holes, cracks and crevasses allow light and trickling water down into a grotto. Flowers have overgrown their terraces, a small lake pooling in the centre of the space that flows out to join the stream outside. The smell of sweet blooms mingles with the faint scent of rot and decay. The source becomes clear as the procession moves further in. The terraces are dirt faced with rock, filled with bulbs and blooms, a riot of colour, but interspersed with the remains of the living. Flowers blossom through eye sockets, vines snake through ribcages, and dirt half-obscures thigh-bones. At the centre of the pool is a small platform, nine feet square, channels running through in the shape of rose petals, with lines leading out to the pool itself.

"Behold the sanctum of the Temple of the Rose." Alhambra's voice is soft but the slightest sound echoes throughout the chamber. "Let your preparations begin."

As the priestess speaks Onfroy's smile freezes for a moment. In an instant his mind replays that night, the despair, the fear, the longing. He steps up to the priestess and takes hold of her jaw, raising her face to stare directly into her eyes. His own begin to swirl with colour, red to green to a deep purple, a clear blue, settling at last into a deep crimson. "Imagine the thrill of the chase. You hunt, and are hunted, fleeing for your life towards prey that flees for its own. The perfume of sweet lillies, the scent of fresh blood, a feast freshly prepared. Sweat, fear and anguish. Imagine the scent of a thousand fresh corpses, and a thousand blooming roses." His smile unfroze and widened. "Then let it rot for a century. A man eats that rot out of desperation and terror and begins to die. His body dies too, and in his last moments he vomits, expelling dying organs and a stomach lining mixed with excrement. That is the taste of your salvation." He released the priestess' chin and turned away, moving to rejoin his sister who was balancing atop the plinth of the statue squinting out towards the shape of the approaching Scrim. "If you need anything more for your ritual, ask my Lady. She will know where to look."

__________________________
Honourable Honoured Guests

Esfrey & Onfroy bow in turn to Nithor and her entourage. Esfrey smiles. "The honour is shared, venerated Thunspeaker. The doom that nears our shores will soon be butchered and we can all get back to fighting each other! Or so my court assures me." She laughs, a full-bodied rich sound, and Onfroy forces a smile. "The threat will be dealt with, this much is certain, but many will die and more will be hurt during the fight. Any aid that might lessen that pain and death is most welcome, and you can be sure we will not forget such kindness. Please, join us inside. Such discussions are best held in shade. Tell me, how fare the Scrim? We have heard of troubles in the north to rival our own, blightspawn and war alike." As she turns to follow Onfroy inside, Esfrey rolls her eyes. Death and pain and harm be damned,she thought, there is always more fighting to come. She threw a remonstrative glare at Onfroy. How am I meant to see the Ko coming from in here?!

[mystic1110]

The priestess shudders with what could only be described as disgusted ecstasy. She looks into Onfroy's eyes as the crimson seeps into them and draws close, her pointed teeth biting her lower lip and drawing blood with anticipation. The Thorn Knight turns away to head back to his sister and the priestess exhales to follow the others being led to the Sanctum by the Mistress of Roses, her lips red and wet.

Entering the garden, the procession snakes around the flowers and the square dais. The priestess enters last, the copper chain that protruded from her collar, slack and useless, held by a silent Goliath that is clearly in her thrall. The priestess gazes over the roses and the bones and is reminded of home, the rituals in the night. She nods at the other priests and they and their handlers move to position the children on four edges of the platform.

Three of the children seem to be brave, they walk as they are directed and stand diligently with their chins held high. Their eyes are frightened but clear-eyed, they seem to treat this as a holy task and they are up to the challenge. The fourth child however falls to her knees with a shrieking cry. The sound pierces the ears of those in the garden but the woods and flowers drink up the sound before it can travel further.

The priests and the other goliaths let the child cry.

The priestess stalks towards the child, again dragging her dirty wings through the soil. Before reaching the hysterical girl, who is now thrashing against her bonds – pointlessly as the rope that ties her is held in a hooded Goliath’s unbreakable grip, the priestess looks towards Alhambra.

Mistress of Roses, are you a believer?

The question is asked almost as an afterthought, almost but not quite. The priestess is clearly envious of the woman’s closeness with the Lord Thorn Knight, a person chosen by her own god.

We would be honored with your assistance.

[Silent_Interim]

Honourable Honoured Guests

Esfrey & Onfroy bow in turn to Nithor and her entourage. Esfrey smiles. "The honour is shared, venerated Thunspeaker. The doom that nears our shores will soon be butchered and we can all get back to fighting each other! Or so my court assures me." She laughs, a full-bodied rich sound, and Onfroy forces a smile. "The threat will be dealt with, this much is certain, but many will die and more will be hurt during the fight. Any aid that might lessen that pain and death is most welcome, and you can be sure we will not forget such kindness. Please, join us inside. Such discussions are best held in shade. Tell me, how fare the Scrim? We have heard of troubles in the north to rival our own, blightspawn and war alike." As she turns to follow Onfroy inside, Esfrey rolls her eyes. Death and pain and harm be damned,she thought, there is always more fighting to come. She threw a remonstrative glare at Onfroy. How am I meant to see the Ko coming from in here?!

"How do we fare? Well enough, well enough. The affair with the Blackfire Incursion is well past now. A spot of inclement weather is impeding matters some, but it is no great worry. And, of course, the loss of the old Warspeaker has been... damaging to morale." Arman looks sharply across at Nithor at that, but says nothing. "Still, it is our way to persevere, no matter the trouble. Yours, too, I think. Though I have little to complain of at this moment. We bide our time, and I have many visions of grandeur for our future. Yes, many visions indeed..." They trail off, mumbling in deep, rocky growls incomprehensible to most.

At that, Arman sighs. "You will have to forgive my love for this. Ever since they spoke on the Orrery Stage, they've been prone to... whatever this is. They will recover in a minute; until then we will look after them. If you have further need of us, please do not hesitate to seek us out." Gently, Arman begins guiding the Thunspeaker, still muttering in Thun-tongue, to find somewhere out of the way for them all to rest.

Steady-Hand turns to Arman as soon as they find somewhere suitable, her hands moving rapidly as she signs to Arman. <I still do not understand why I am here.>

Arman's reply is a little slower, a little clumsier. <Your charge must sometimes attend gatherings like this. So, you must learn how to tolerate gatherings like this.>

<I do not know anyone here except you. I do not like this.>

<You are not here to like it. You are here to fight for your people, or at least to show your willingness to do so.>

<My people do not care about anything that happens this far south, and there is nobody here I need or wish to fight.>

<Are your people the Watchers, or the Scrim?>

She stares at him with an expression he's learned to recognize as a mixture of disgust and contempt. After a few moments, she turns and stalks away, looking for somewhere absent of people she might lurk in.

Sighing at the conduct of one of his companions for the second time in as many minutes, Arman beckons one of the retainers over. "Follow her, and make sure she doesn't get into any trouble, or start any trouble. And translate for her, if she needs it. I'm still not sure if the Watchers can't talk or just won't, but either way she'll need help if she's going to communicate with anyone." Inclining their head, the Scrim peels away from the group to follow Steady-Hand, albeit at a short distance.

[Ausar]

Red is the Rose

Alhambra carefully sets aside her spear in a small alcove shaped for the purpose in the rough wall of the grotto then turn towards the priestess. Emerging from the shadows she lowers her scarf, revealing the rose markings - red, raw, imperfect. Inscribed in haste, but with a fierce passion. She rolls up her loose sleeves to reveal vine patterns of thorn-marks, puncturing the skin, leaving a similar deep red in their wake. As she steps into the rays of light filtering down from above the patterns hiss and bubble, turning a deep purple.

"The honour is mine."

[mystic1110]

The priestess nodded at Alhambra, eyes still full of misplaced possessiveness, and presented her with a clay pot, slightly warm, and directed her to follow her lead. The priests’ handlers, those silent Goliaths, took out large wooden stakes, moved towards the children, and tied the ends of the ropes that bound them to the wood and struck the stakes into the soft ground of the garden to nail the children into place. Throughout this all, three of the children stood still with their heads held high, fear making their eyes glisten but pride refusing to let the tears fall. The fourth child, a young Goliath girl, wailed, providing a mournful song to the dawn ritual.

Once such nailed and bound, the priests advanced, the three priests and Alhambra substituting for the priestess herself. The priests and Alhambra carried the clay pots towards each of the children, Alhambra being assigned to carry her clay pot towards the crying girl. Uncorking the pots the priests poured their contents on top of their respective children – the contents come out slowly like molasses, for it was honey mixed with wine and spoiled milk. The concoction in between solid and liquid, undetermined, sweet and sour. As the other priests poured the mixture on the children, the children struggled to breath as they were coated this the pungent potion.

Alhambra stood over her own charge with the clay pot still corked. The priestess looked from across the garden at her with almost savage glee. Alhambra knelt towards the crying girl, placing the clay pot on the ground. She took the child’s cheeks into her palms and stared her directly in the eyes and told her to be quiet – mercy was not the way of the Thorns nor Roses, neither was compassion – and so these words were said without patience and instead irritation. The bluntness made the girl choke back a sob, but she quieted long enough for Alhambra to stand back up and pour her own clay pot onto the girl’s head.

The children coated as such, the Priestess moves into the center of the dais and raises her feathered arms. Already some insects had begun to take notice of the prepared feast – the buzzing of bees and flies producing a low whine as they began to swarm towards the four children who struggled against their bindings, the crying girl once again emitting a shriek, though now one of pain instead of just fear. The priestess swirls her feathers on the dusty platform, forming a grey circle and begins to recites the liturgy.

How sleepless the dying berries that fall from the face of the blameless, shall give birth to the seeds of the never-born to share with the moths that gather in the night to suckle honey from the teat of the mother and entomb the land with the marrow from their bones while the starless temples of faraway lands that only exist in the minds of those who could not think and will not think wait with baited breath on those thoughtless dreamers.

From the second line, another priest joins the recital.

The dark precipice of the cliff with the moon shining as the only light at day, those flowers shall come bloom and in the blinding light that is dark as pitch shall reveal the pollen that holds the truth of the lethal suppleness of the soil.

The third line, another priest joins the concert.

The rich juice of nightmares are the wine of florets that shall take root within the throats and enrich the songs beyond what any woman can sing, and whether such singers rot and give themselves to the mushroom caps or have their bones given to the birds that never land upon the ground, the song shall bring the admission to all in the knowledge of the dying berry and the faces of the blameless shall light up with joy, for all their hidden sins will be borne anew like fruit in spring, given life by the soil fed by the dead.

Onto the fourth line, the last priest add his voice to the chorus.

The planted flowers, their inflorescences rising to the midday moon shall blossom black roses and their lips shall kiss the singers who will bear the message of the passing of a dream, and that which wakes shall still know life beyond waking for decay is but passage back into the lands of vision and such visions shall remove the stain of knowing and lead those who listen to the realm of ignorance and the flames that know the names of the blameless, those liquors that pour forth from the dying berries shall engulf each part of them that remains.

Finally for the fifth line, the priestess looks towards Alhambra, who matches her gaze with steely repose and completes the liturgy without missing a beat.

Soil for the flower, water for the flower, blood for the flower.

Silence comes after the last line. They stand there for who knows how long, nervous priests among children covered with flies.

Imperceptibly the light dims in the garden and a certain heaviness creeps in from the vines and flowers growing along its edges almost as if one could feel that the petals had opened and released their long promised pollen to the wind, the mushrooms, latched onto the stones beneath the moss and leaves, opened up and expunging their spores. There is a certain moistness in the air, the weight of the memory of decay of cycles long repeated and long past due to repeat again bears down on those encircled by the bloom.

A moth lands on the crying girl’s honey and milk laced face. The moth sticks its barbed tongue past the offered sweets and into the girl’s tear duct, drinking the salt instead of the honey or the soured milk. The girl cries out in pain and the moth seemingly startled flies away. However, as it does, the dawn light seems to have been entirely drained away, leaving the garden in unnaturally monochrome. The roses are entirely black, the soil bone white. The priestess caws and raises her wings in victory.

The two bound boys, each on either end of the platform, unexpectedly fall to the ground – they thrash violently against their bounds, and the few insects that had come to eat the mixture on their bodies had fled for what was to come. The boys open their mouths but instead of sounds locusts and bats fly out like bile. Along with these creatures, the smell of rotting corpses seeps into the garden to replace the scent of roses. The stench grows stronger as the boys exhale more vermin and such vermin swirls coalesces to become the nightmare itself, the locusts and bats merging with one another like moss and lichen attaching to a tree – the creature stands taller than the Goliaths, Adonis built body and instead of a head an enormous terrible flower. In one of its hands, a black fruit slowly pulses with malign intent.

All those present fall to their knees save the crying girl, who stares wide eyed and open mouthed – the honey and milt that covers her dripping in, but she does not care. The creature seems to take notice of her and advances towards her. He stands over her now, his massive frame even more of a contrast to her tiny body. She quivers, expecting his harsh unrelenting judgement. She was an offering – he was the one she was offered to.

Yet, the creature does nothing, it merely stands there in the black and white garden – the priestess looks confused. Two of the sacrifices remain. They summoned their God, but how did they beseech it for a boon? Another priest speaks first:

My lord, we thank you for heeding our call . . .

He could not finish, for like lighting the creature was upon him. Lunging forward with two finger extended the creature plunges the fingers into the priest’s open mouth and curls them upwards to pierce his eyes from inside his own mouth and ripping off the man’s face in an explosion of blood.

The sudden violence done the creature flexes its shoulders and bends its back as it extends its hands outwards seemingly palm up in what could be seen as a greeting of welcome in the Targiz, one hand holding the dire fruit the other stained black with blood. The creature’s flower rustles in the wind and one could imagine a silent roar.

The creature explodes into locusts and bats, which fly outward from the garden in an expansive wave instead of a single organized swarm, leaving the rest of the gathered alive after their divine encounter: thankful, confused and only hopeful that their plea will be answered. The priestess learned one thing – Her God does not heed anything. It entertains only its own mysterious will.