A Sacrifice Too Great

[Amen]

Closed to Ataraxis. This thread follows and directly references the events in Dawnbringers

A monster filled the room with its ethereal girth, a thing of such twisted malevolence to afflict hardened devils with a lifetime of recurring nightmares. Its torso was reminiscent of a man’s, twisted by unholy psychosis and made flesh, and said torso rested upon a body of six crooked legs. Its face was horrible in its relative simplicity: bald, eyeless, split by what passed for a mouth.

Xem'zûnd himself defied the ceiling of the chamber, and from beyond death his voice rent the hearts of his enemies.

"I…" he boomed, "am weary."

Even as he spoke, The Necromancer’s form began to lose definition. The horror faded, became a darkling silhouette, and then was lost amidst a misty cloud that churned upon itself, and then recoiled from the walls and corners of the chamber that housed it. The cloud gathered densely at the center of the room, and then swirled downward and clockwise like a furious hurricane in miniature. In time, the cloud was gone, consumed by a pool of bright blue liquid that gradually came to a rest.

The liquid began to emit a serene blue light, which revealed the silhouettes of twelve men seated in a circle around it.

After a long moment of silence, one of the silhouettes spoke. “Grandmaster,” he said, “we have not forgotten what it is we fight against. Why would you show us this again?”

A thirteenth silhouette approached, once concealed in the dark recesses of the chamber, and the pool’s light began to illuminate him. His eyes smoldered like golden sparks, and he came nearer to the pool than any of the other men dared, and crouched at its edge. He was close enough now to the source of the glow that the basic details of his face were discernable: he was very old, and his thin white facial hair contrasted to the clarity and intensity of his eyes. He was ancient and weary in body, but his mind was as sharp and robust as it had ever been.

“The Necromancer has been dead before,” the Grandmaster said, staring down into the scrying pool. “These images don’t tell us how it is he fell this time, if he did truly fall at all. Brothers, we can’t risk the possibility. We all vowed that nothing like him would rise again – we cannot ignore the possibility that Xem'zûnd, himself, could still be the world’s undoing. It wouldn’t be the first time our Brotherhood failed. I won’t permit it.”

“What are you proposing, Grandmaster?”

The ancient knight sighed and lifted his cinder-eyes, examining the faces of each of his fellows in the dark. “Our heroes have not yet sacrificed enough,” he said.

With that, the Grandmaster rose to his feet and began to step away from the pool. A quiet susurrus played across the liquid’s surface, and then the scrying water began to turn again, ever faster, until a whirlpool of remarkable speed formed. From it arose the thinnest wisp of steam, which coalesced in the air above and thickened, and it became a churning storm cloud complete with flashes of light within its nebulous depths.

The cloud expanded then, filling the far corners of that mysterious chamber, until the chamber was replaced by a scene from a different time and place: deep beneath Raiaera, where a trap had been set. A brazier there burned, calling out to the enemies of Xem'zûnd, summoning them to what should have been their demise.

One by one, the unlikely heroes of Raiaera – indeed, of all of Althanas – began to appear. When they numbered six, the flame was extinguished, and The Necromancer laughed.

“Stop,” the Grandmaster said, and the laughter faded. The scrying mist churned and slowly, very slowly, the brazier’s glow filled the chamber again, illuminating the faces of The Six.

The Grandmaster materialized amidst them, and his movement disturbed the mist, causing the scene to ripple and shift – revealing it as little more than magically colored smoke. He walked amidst the assembled heroes, disturbing their images and making them ethereal and misshapen.

“We know some of these,” he said as he walked. “This man, for example, is Godhand Striker. He is confirmed dead. And this one calls himself Blueraven in the recording. We’ve since confirmed that name. We’ve tracked down all of them, and even now our knights watch for any sign of unholy corruption in them. All but one.”

The Grandmaster paused next to a small, pale girl, barely out of girlhood or so it seemed. Her eyes were wide, blue. She was what one would expect from a girl of her age, modest and perhaps a bit timid. She was incredibly out of place.

The paused recording began to play again, set back a few moments before The Necromancer sprung his trap. The girl moved as one would expect her to move, showed fear, hesitance, but she was resigned to the grisly fate that surely awaited her and those gathered around her. “I’m Lillian,” she said, and her voice echoed eerily in the vaporous reenactment.

Once again the scene was jarringly frozen.

“Until now, that’s all we knew about her,” the Grandmaster said. “She’s in Ettermire. A cell of scribes caught wind of some exciting goings-on there involving unknown parties. The details are still fuzzy, but the Aleraran army was brought to bear against what sounds like Valinthe survivors. It’s unimportant. What caught our attention was that a girl was described in passing. Pale, small, dark hair, blue eyes, unassuming, easily forgotten – except that she was so out of place.”

“Why does she interest you so, Grandmaster?” came the voice of one of the other knights, obscured by the image they were all witnessing.

Without a word, the Grandmaster faded beneath the scene again, and it played out for them just as it always had. Xem'zûnd sprung his trap, and a battle ensued. Death was narrowly avoided at every turn, great magic was summoned up, and their heroes began to do the impossible – kill the dead.

Only once again, the scene paused, and the Grandmaster emerged from a place behind the veil. He crossed the dark chamber, stepping through slung spells and the risen dead, until he was once again beside the pale girl. The recording shifted in such a way that every stomach of the men there assembled turned, and their heads reeled. When the recording once again settled, the girl called Lillian was as massive as The Necromancer’s true form had been. She was a giant, leering down on them despite her narrow frame and small stature.

And her unmoving face chilled every heart.

Lillian’s eyes were no longer blue, but black and glossy and consumed with undeniable darkness – darkness that seemed to reach from heart and mind. In the sight of any paladin, black magic collected around her small, pale body like unholy dew. To that council, the sight was as troubling as looking upon the Enemy’s true form: something of equal malevolence, but hidden.

“We must assume nothing,” the Grandmaster said softly, “but nor can we risk everything. I don’t know what this means. This may be Xem'zûnd's newest face, and if so we must destroy her before it can be made so. If it isn’t, the answer is the same. I don’t know who or what this girl is, but if she does not die, one day she may be the death of us all.”

The scryed recording dissipated for the second time, but no less dramatically as the first. When at last it became the calm and familiar blue pool, and the silhouettes were the room’s only inhabitants again, the Grandmaster scanned their faces.

“The months since The Necromancer’s death have been trying for us,” he said at last. “In some ways, biding our time in secret was easier. But now we must act, to prevent the need to hide again. No one must become as powerful and threatening as Xem'zûnd was. Never again. We will crush down even the smallest threat, excise the cancer before it grows. Who will kill this girl?”

There was a pause of no more than fifteen seconds, and then one by one every man there offered to take up the challenge. In the end, however, the Grandmaster chose only one.

“Ivan Amalthis,” the Grandmaster said, looking upon his chosen man. “Go to Ettermire in Alerar armed with your best. Watch the girl, learn about her. In time I will send support to you and on the day of their arrival…”

The Grandmaster nodded, his mouth becoming a grim line. “Kill her.”

[Ataraxis]

Plumes of smoke and steam drifted from the city’s myriad chimneys, soaking in the gold of dusk as they brushed across the dying skies. The soot-stained bricks and mansard rooftops of neighboring buildings were painted a gentle shade of sunset, taking on for this transient spell the noble hues of copper and bullion. Even under the tote awning of the café’s veranda, Lillian could appreciate every detail of that scenic canvas, from the restful warmth of the pervading sunlight to the games of shadow it played upon the terracotta tiles.

It was strange, how differently she saw Ettermire on this day – how much hidden majesty she could suddenly find in a city that had once been nothing but dark smog and dull stone. The caustic odor of polluted air, the occasional wafts of chemical fumes, even the harsh smell of slag from nearby blast furnaces seemed to shy away, replaced by an orchestra of subtle aromas that had so far gone unnoticed. Wafts of citrus emanated from the passersby, their eau de cologne forming the head note of the strange perfume, while the exotic tinge of roasted beans from the coffeehouse formed the heart. Lastly, the base tone was composed of incense with a tint of patchouli, burned by nearby stores to offset the industrial reek with its smoky fragrance. It was such a novel bouquet, and it was not long before Lillian found herself breaking down its myriad layers with unwonted focus.

“Sir, miss, your coffees,” the clerk announced in a voice trained to be upbeat, trawling Lillian from the depths of her aromatic dissection.

The girl blinked thrice before picking up the vacuum flask from the wooden counter and taking a whiff of the heady steam. She smiled in satisfaction, and reached for the coin pouch in her bindle purse before she felt the halting warmth of a hand on her shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat, and she looked up to see a maroon pair of smiling eyes. After a moment, Lillian nodded silently, and the man next to her gave the clerk his thanks and a handful of copper coins.

“You know, the point of this outing was to thank you for your help,” the young man began as they walked down the terrace’s stairs, both shielding their eyes from the setting of the sun. “I thought it was implied that I would be paying for your drink.”

“I’m sorry!” she replied hastily, not realizing that her apologetic demeanor had left the man bewildered. “I-It’s just that I’ve never really done this so I don’t know the all the social protocols and-”

Lillian heard the light ring of his laughter, and she clamped her mouth shut in a surge of self-consciousness. “It wasn’t my intention to put you on the spot like that, Lily,” he reassured her, and at that the girl cycled air to calm her nerves. Seeing this, he evinced the ghost of a mischievous smirk. “Although, I’m glad I didn’t repay the favor with dinner… you’d be so wound, you could spring to the moon.”

Lillian said nothing, but she could not hide the foolish smile that was curling upon her lips. As they walked down the bustling thoroughfare, she would give cursory glances to her companion as if to study the strangest of specimens. Though obviously youthful, she could find grey strands in the unruly shock of his dark brown hair, and there was a transparence to his skin that bordered on the sickly. Even in the heat haze of summer, he was dressed in a dark frock coat and loose trousers – he even and sported a red and beige scarf of tartan design around his neck. Despite his bohemian style, however, he chose to wear a pair of hobnail boots worn by weather and use, adding to his general look a strangely militaristic contrast.

They had known each other for almost a week now, but beyond the glib and trivial, her knowledge of Daen Vormund was almost non-existent: beyond his scientific field of predilection, he remained a complete mystery. He had mistaken her for a employee at the library of Ettermire, having seen her guide more puzzled visitors in one day than all the reference librarians put together… granted, she had become a living fixture of Ankhas over the past few months, and actually had gained an officious position on the library’s staff due to her prodigious skills in book-keeping. He was seeking information on the extinct sub-cultures and branches of Aleraran ancestry for his studies in biological anthropology, information that Lillian had been able to provide en masse: she even went as as helping with the redaction of his thesis on the ‘Evolutionary Implications of the Etheric distributions and Anomalies in the Fields of Khu’Fein on Extinct and Surviving Cultures of Elven Ancestry’.

In the intellectual haven provided by Ankhas, they had discussed these subjects at length without ever suffering a lull in their conversations, and the girl had thought that she had finally grown out of her pathological awkwardness with similar-aged members of the opposite sex. Now that they ambled so far away from her comfort zone, however, Lillian could not help but review her every word with maddening scrutiny. She was painfully aware of her body language, of her posture and of the expressions on her face. Worse even, she did the exact same with his words, his stance and his countenance. ‘Is he hiding anything from me? Am I showing anything I don’t want to show?’

“You’ve been strangely quiet,” Daen remarked, and clear on his face was a disarming look of genuine concern. “Is there… anything you want to ask?”

“N-No… not really,” she lied.

Daen smiled, as if sensing her fear of prying into business that was not hers. “Well in that case, do you mind if I asked you a few questions? Nothing too personal.” Though taken aback by his sudden interest, Lillian merely nodded in approval; she had realized for the first time that he knew as little about her than she did him. “I know you don’t actually work at Ankhas now, and I’ve heard from the other staff members that you help out whenever you’re in town. I guess my question is… what do you do when you’re not?”

“Oh, I…” Lillian hesitated at that, feeling an altogether different sense of unease. Lilywhite fingers curled tensely about the silk strap of her purse, and she recalled the golden brazier and the cavernous chamber, recalled the creature neither man nor beast that nested within, a colossus of twisted flesh and sickly tendrils… recalled the summons across the ether that had lured her and five others to the Necromancer’s final trap. Then, only death, rot and decay.

“I… travel,” she continued after a moment, her tone soft but wistful. “To see the world, and sometimes to find some… atypical work.”

“Oh, where did you travel last? And was it business or pleasure?”

“Raiaera, and….” Her expression darkened. Deep within her mind, she could hear the echoes of the Necromancer, bellowing in his death throes. “I guess that would fall under business.” Lillian clutched tightly onto her purse, struggling for steady her hands. The memories of that day only served to remind her she would never live the normal life of a girl her age.

“You used to wear a backpack,” Daen stated out of the blue after a long lull. Lillian looked up in confusion, unsure what to make of the non sequitur. “You traded it in for that purse?” he asked, pointing at the crocheted bag of marigold.

“Oh… yes. I made it.” Lillian expressed a wan smile despite herself, feeling some sense of pride for her lace-work. “I was told the backpack made me look like an elementary schoolgirl.”

Daen laughed at that. “Well it’s pretty,” he went on, fiddling playfully with the large cobalt button on its front. “Suits you.”

Upon hearing this, Lillian rushed ahead of Daen by a few steps before resuming her pace. Her head was down, as if to hide her face behind those long strands of silky black, but a stray breeze had let him see a dollish smile playing upon her lips.

“About tomorrow,” he said at last, after taking a sip from his flask of cooled coffee. “The Festival of Industrial Art starts at noon…”

“Festival of what?” Lillian asked as she spun to face him, her tone genuinely baffled. Daen scratched the back of his head before sweeping his arm across space, presenting the entire street they were on from brick wall to brick wall. Her eyes followed the motion curiously, only to realize the sheer number of flyers and poster stapled and pasted in every available space. What is more, only now did she notice the bustle of preparation as workers hammered away at wooden stages and hung great banners over the city from their three-story ladders. “Oh.”

“You can point me to the most obscure work on osteology in Ankhas, which hasn’t been consulted by anyone else in centuries, but you never noticed the posters and billboards for an important event that’s been advertised for the last three weeks?”

“I always walk home with my head down,” she answered with tremulous honesty, holding her purse against her heart.

“Well…” Daen began after a helpless sigh, still grinning from the pleasant ache in his chest at the endearing sight of her candor. “I’ll help you catch up.”