QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 3: Deluge]

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Beneath the sable robes of the cultists who had captured Florica one might have expected ghastly visages, the kind with glowing red eyes and rotting heavily scarred faces; not unlike that of the creature that had grabbed her. This was not correct. Given a second guess one might have concluded that they would be the kind of people who made their already pale skin ashen white through generous application of makeup, with dark bags painstakingly pencilled around their eyes and their lips painted black, or perhaps a dark purple. This would be equally wrong. With their hoods down it was clear to see that they were fairly ordinary looking as cultists went. They were the kind of people someone might instinctively call ‘the salt of the earth’; hard working, honest and who looked like they had done more than their fair share of hard days working. The one who appeared to be in charge had a thick beard and the look of a factory foreman.

There had been something of a lengthy discussion when Florica was brought aboard. Of course, she did not care to listen, she let her mind drift blankly, unconcerned about the world that she occupied and the peril she was in. After some discussion the foreman, drew a dagger and approached her, but even at this juncture, with the threat of the cessation of her existence made loud and clear, her mind was not brought to sharp focus on the situation she was in. She felt hollow, vacant, absent and indeed she might as well have been. Another of the cultists interrupted, waving the equipment she had seen them use upon the battlefield in her direction. Further discussion stemmed from whatever that equipment had shown and the potential repercussions thereof. Eventually the foreman’s dagger was sheathed and the truck rumbled on towards its destination.

The destination as it happened was the High Temple of Inderigo. It was heavily guarded by all kinds of creations manufactured from the bodies and souls of the undead. It would at this point be easy to conclude that Inderigo was a god of death whose goal was simple death and destruction. This would be once again incorrect. The high temple belied his true nature; a massive factory pumping forth pillars of dark black smoke. Inderigo was the god of Industry. Of course when the war had come, it had been necessary for his followers to improvise. Their creed that every available resource ought to be utilised was what drove them to necromancy. There were so many deaths; so many corpses. They were the one resource that was always guaranteed to be in abundance in a battlefield.

And so it was that the temples of Inderigo had been put to such unpleasant use. Machinery that had once manufactured goods people might have needed in their everyday lives now tore apart the bodies of those people and refashioned them into things. Things that were fast, or things that were strong. Things that were adept at moving in the shadows. It was a grisly business and not everybody was in favour of it. High Priestess Scinda might have said in private that they simply did not have the stomach to do what had to be done, but in public she labelled them blasphemers and called for their death; more grist for the mill. It was not that she was not sympathetic. In any other situation she would have never condoned such behaviour. This was a war that they had not asked to get caught in the middle of, but if they were to survive, if Inderigo was to survive, there would have to be some sacrifices.

The high priest herself had not survived; she was fatally wounded by a gunshot from the wife of one of the 'blasphemers'. The decision to retrieve Scinda's spirit and animate it inside a corpse had not been taken lightly; in this time of crisis there was no way to undergo the sacred rituals that would determine a new high priest or priestess. They needed Scinda's mind, one that could guide them through this turbulent time, and well, they already had the technology... It was the rationale that it was better to survive by any means necessary rather than perish with your morals in tact, more than anything else that led this church now. Scinda was reanimated, currently in the body of a priest of Raxis as her own body had grown too rotten for her to use. Scinda felt that the priest's body was a nice touch; a little something that would hopefully intimidate their most dangerous enemy.

The high priestess was knelt at the altar of Inderigo, being the god of Industry this was located upon the factory floor; surrounded by noise and activity. All around her more creatures were assembled for this damned war. It was difficult to pick out any specific noise in the chaos of the factory and it was not until Archdeacon Juba cleared his throat that she was aware that he was there.

“Blessings of Inderigo Juba.” She greeted him without turning around or straightening up. “How went the collection?”

“More than adequate, High Priestess.” Juba replied. “We believe we have captured an enemy spy.” A sombre pause; their move to necromancy was drawing more attention than Scinda had expected. With news of every spy captured she wondered if she had made the right move, or whether they would have been better waiting out this war as they were. Her head told her that yes her logic had been sound, but her traitorous heart was heavy with regret.

“Whose?” she asked.

“We don’t know.” Juba replied. “We don’t recognise her vestments and she has not said a word.” It was only then that Scinda rose, upon feet that were not her own. She turned to look at her trusted Archdeacon and the spy that couple of acolytes were holding upright. If she had not been told otherwise Scinda would have thought they had brought her a corpse. The only indication that she was still alive was the slow rise and fall of her chest.

“Maybe she’s one of Obscura’s?” Scinda said thoughtfully. “Or more likely that fool Vocatur.” After a moment’s contemplation she nodded to herself as though this was the case rather definitively closed. “This body is wearing thin.” She added with a glance down at the muscle-bound arms that did not belong to her. “Kill her and prepare the body for me.”

She was about to return to her prayers when Juba continued. “High Priestess, if I may.” She turned back in his direction expectantly. “One of the initiates noticed something odd about her.” At this point one of the initiates that had been standing patiently nearby produced a piece of apparatus and demonstrated what he had found. Scinda frowned for a moment and then collapsed. Or more accurately the body of the Jaxisian priest now devoid of an occupant collapsed. The spectre of Scinda stepped forwards into Florica’s body.

For Florica it was a moment of relief as her troubled mind was muted. While her consciousness busy with stressful thoughts about battles to the death and beings that she could not even begin to fathom did not vanish entirely, it dimmed. It was like an anaesthetic for the mind. She was, in the very vague way she could be anything while she was hardly there, pleased. As was Scinda. She spent perhaps the best half of a minute simply adjusting to the feeling of being alive again; being back inside a living body. She stretched and flexed Florica’s limbs, as though she was awaking from deep sleep.

“Call a mass; I want to make an announcement.” Scinda smiled faintly. “I… I am born again.”