Gnostic Mass

[Erirag the Poet]

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Every man and every woman is a star.*

Liber AL vel Legis, Chapter 1, Line 3
*Note - excludes orcs.

"Kitot mir floug. Kitotat hoshat vadokan gologri. Kuli nagraufrom; Sapat ashtri armaukob. Hiz mubullat mabus udri nagirishiz plak gijakob."

Erirag sat on the mountain pass that overlooked Knife's Edge, peaceful in the still night. The sky was alive with stars, each one as crystaline as the glitter that danced along the top of the snowfields. The only thing marring that perfect surface was the deep rutting road that had been cut through the valley, leading into the city. The buildings were reaching up, frosted like cupcakes, with the exception of the Church. The Eternal Sway's spires were untouched by the snows, and the darker silhouettes they cast among all the snow-capped rooftops held Eri's interest. A few ringing notes called out as her strong fingers plucked at the lute she held, and she continued her poem, the focus changing to this new development.

"Raum biz nan prosi zotan-lufutatarob orratuurz. Erirag gimbri mirul."

Eri paused, setting her lute on her lap. It wasn't what the cold was doing to her tuning that caused her pause. Instead, it was more of the fact that she felt Mir hadn't been the right word. Instead, she thought, she ought to have used Namatug, for that was far more true.

"Erirag gimbri namatugul." she revised, smiling to herself over the new sentence and casting her eyes against this new infatuation again. They were enchanting. There was something about how they loomed, more shaded and gritty than anything else in the snowy night. She wanted to touch those walls, see that grit close up. Slowly, the leviathan stood, stray stones crunching under her bare feet as she stared down from her mountain ledge. The moonlight caught the red in her hair, muting it to a bruising purple. Her pale green skin was turned to teal, and in that moment, she was both terrible and beautiful.

Much like the towers that had caught her eye.

City sleeping good. City silent as dead elves. Towers rise; baskets of dead baby bones. Dark shadows drown streets in colors of old blood.

Newness falls under blades of darker warlords. Erirag finds them good.

Erirag finds them enchanting.

[Slayer of the Rot]

The heat of a million wretched bodies pressed in upon him like an invisible hand, making the air, already foul with the thick stink of sweat and copious amounts of blood, thick and difficult to breathe. The atmosphere was engineered specifically to drive a man insane; even someone in the throes of madness could find no rest here. The air pressed against the eyes, driving heated, imagined spikes deep through Dan Lagh'ratham's brain, and as the last dregs of sleep left his mind, and he became aware, his lips drew back from his bladed teeth. Above, his eyes perceived nothing; not the hope of the blue sky, nor even the twinkling that usually rested in the pitch black that hung hopelessly. His own nude body was slick, with a stinging mixture of sweat and blood; his scars had become weeping wounds, forever bleeding. The ground at his feet was uneven; beneath his left foot, a twitching torso, with a single arm remaining, gripping his calf, and beneath his right foot, a severed head, it's lipless teeth digging deep into his flesh.

"I am not amused," the demon growled, stomping his foot and shattering the jaw of the head, and reaching down to shatter the forearm of the clinging hand with a quick twist of his wrist. He had been drug into this realm once before, upon the verge of death, with orders from the half deity Zovus to prove his worth to the Thayne, Hromagh, in order to break the seal pressed into his flesh by the Wilmhearst. The Great Nether was just as he'd seen it originally, packed tight and cramped with droves of wicked men, open wounds and sores pocking their miserable bodies, constantly warring with each other. The curse of his past stubbornness was visited upon him here in the form of a stump upon his right shoulder, where his arm should be. He was jostled, to the left and the right as he waited for whatever business he was summoned here upon, the soles of his feet town and punctured dozens of times on jagged bones, rocks, teeth.

Above the roaring din of the melee, several dozen shrill screams tore through the oppressive air, and the bloodied, cursed men and women scrambled to get out of the approaching figures way. It was tall, and fatally thin, a wisp of a being. Heavy adamantine locks and dragon hide straps bound it's arms, and a thick band of hide hid the being's eyes, though it was not visible at the moment, for a curtain of it's long gold hair fell in it's face. "Zovus, the Bound," Dan said with a hint of exasperation in his voice, addressing the half deity. "Former master of incantations, you sought immortality and the true power of the Thayne, but your ambition drew the scorn of Hromagh. And now, you stand before some hulking wretch, a mere servant of the Thayne, bound so your power may not be used without permission. Did I get all that right?"

"You forgot to mention my mastery of seals but yes, that is indeed correct. I see your memory is just as sharp as that axe you've become so fond of." Zovus lifted his head, his long ears, as sharp looking as any dagger, appearing as his hair spilled away from them. The half deity was a mess, skin so pale you could quite literally trace the veins of his body, a train of his aurous hair following in his footsteps. One could almost call him pitiful, if they did not take into account the scores of the damned writhing in unnamed pain around the armless demon and the half deity.

"You've spilt enough blood to fill rivers, Daniel Lagh'ratham. The rage that burns through your muscles has marked you as one of Hromagh's greatest sons." The demon shook his head, giving Zovus a dismissive wave with his only hand.

"Don't butter me up with compliments. I was on my way to Alerar, to attempt to steal a supply of the gunblades they forge. If you've business to discuss with me, lay it out now." He settled his hand against his hip, his posture oozing authority and menace, his behavior certainly not befitting of a man in the presence of a being who communed with the Thayne themselves.

"We broke your seal. And now, it is time for you to do something for us. Show us your appreciation in blood and cleaved flesh. Hromagh demands sacrifices; he wishes to see how well your wrath matches his own." Zovus didn't flinch a single inch as the demon raised his foot and stamped upon the skull of a prone woman, writhing in pain as agony wracked her body from the half deity's spell. He scowled as the headless body still continued to live, fingernails carving angry red lines across her breasts.

"Very well. But I'll need my body back." He paused, glancing towards the stump at his shoulder. "Primarily my arm."
_____

Frost traced complicated and beautiful designs across the surface of his glassy black armor. A pleasant heat washed him, accompanied by the glow of numerous torches muted with opaque glass hoods. The scent of burning incense permeated the air, and stung at his sensitive nostrils, though to a normal man, the scent would perhaps be only slightly unpleasant, at it's worst. His breath smoked in the cold wind that drifted in through the open door he made no effort to close, fluttering the long, charcoal gray cape at his ankles. A young boy perhaps of fourteen rushed from the east side of the church, in a hurry to shut the door tight to ward of Salvar's bitter cold. The boy, clumsy with puberty, thumped soundly into the tall armored man.

"Oh! I-I'm so sorry, sir!" He bowed his head in apology, his shoulder length hair fluttering into his face, edging away to close the door. He approached the demon once the cold was shut out, a nervous smile on his unmarred, youthful face. From the peripheral of his vision, he wondered what it would look like, smeared with blood...

"May I ask what brings you to the Church of the Ethereal Sway, sir?" He could see how bad the little choir boy wanted to please from the pleading light in his eyes, but Dan Lagh'ratham's heart had collapsed many moons ago.

"I come for mass," he answered flatly, his gaze unflinching.

[Dark Temptress]

Mass was going to start soon and A’rai found herself wondering just why she was here. After recent events she should be staying as far away from the cathedral as possible and yet here she found herself in their most magnificent of structures. It could very well be that somewhere in this very building A’rai would be sentenced to death along with every other member of Kings and Shadows. It could also very well be that no one will ever know it was them and they could go on freely living their lives with none the wiser. How naïve of a thought that was, especially coming from her and a surprise at that. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at the world through such rose coloured glasses. Perhaps it was just a small amount of hope trying to wriggle its way into her mind and take root. Shame she had always been a pessimist. Hope be damned, she trusted in her own abilities, not hope. It had never done anything to her and for her.

“Oh, Markus… what have you done?”

It had been a week since the last time Kings and Shadows had gathered, since they’d summoned a Shadow Demon to do their bidding. She hadn’t talked to Markus since then and had no intention of calling upon him any time soon. Men were fools. They thought irrationally and often dug themselves further and further into their graves by their own doing. But Markus was not going to drag her down with him; the only problem was she had yet to think of a way to stop him from doing just that. She hated to admit it, but she was unfortunately only a woman and that did mean something in this world. She had less power then men and relied on her father for her safety and well being. If she had the power and status of a man it would be different. Everything would be different.

A’rai clenched her white gloved hands into tight fists as she felt her anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Quickly, she reined it in and back under her control. There was no need to let her emotions get the best of her here or anywhere else. If she could manipulate and control men then her own emotions were but a paltry, simple task.

A rush of cold air snaked passed the layers of material that made up her dress and brushed against her spine, creating a wicked shiver that danced down her back. Turning her head slightly from the pew she sat in, the summoner glanced behind her to the open doors of the Cathedral. A rather strange looking man stood there, clad in dark armour and covering half of his face. He was a warrior; any idiot could have noticed that. But he also looked dangerous; there was something that just radiated death from him. Intriguing, but he was of no concern for her.

Standing from her pew, A’rai moved towards the ornate altar set against the back wall. In the silence of the Cathedral, her tapping of her boots on the marble floor and the ruffling of her skirts seemed unjustly loud. She could watch her own reflection approach the altar. All behind it were stained glass pictures with various priests and saints all depicting great moments and achievements for the Ethereal Sway. None of which she cared about. Not even the altar, with it’s magnificent detailing done in gold and silver meant anything to her. This was all just another show as she performed what she should.

She knelt. Her long grey cloak a trail behind her. Her skirts out around her body as she bowed her head and pretended to pray to something she didn’t believe in.