Re: QUIETUS [S!5] [Round 1: Godsworn Valley]
08-04-2012, 10:26 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.
A sound rang out across the Godsworn Valley; the thunderous report of a titanic gong. It was a noise unheeded by mortal ears, for which it was not meant, but amidst the conflict and the chaos that had subsumed this holy place, it reached the ears of the gods of this world. Slowly, one by one they made their way towards the heart of the valley; some did so with a sense of trepidation, others a sense of weariness and obligation, while yet others approached with enthusiasm; their curiosities piqued by the call from the gong that had long since fallen silent. Though some had to make excuses to get them out of immediate obligations, and many were not happy that they were doing so, all of them made their way home to Malhalven.
Viewed from outside Malhalven was an unassuming structure, short and squat and seemingly of little consequence, located amongst the thickest section of a sprawling woodland. Inside its lobby all you would find would be a deep hole and a winding passageway leading downwards, deeper and deeper into the earth. That gentle sloping passageway was decorated with elaborate sculptures of the many gods of the pantheon; the sculpture of Obscura was constructed from dark stone and from the corner of a viewer’s eye it would almost seem to be ethereal, in danger of dissolving into mist at a moment’s notice, the sea god Ceraceros rendered in perpetually damp coral, Frigidus’ likeness captured in ice that remained blisteringly cold no matter the temperature outside. Someone descending the passageway would notice that Inderigo’s statue, once a finely crafted marvel of machinery had succumbed to rot and to rust, but nobody descended these passageways any more, the gods did not need to and mortals had not been allowed to for a long time.
At the bottom of that hole, at the end of what seemed to be an endless passageway, there stood the Deep Court; an enormous room carved out of the earth itself. Here and there long roots protruded from the wall and wound their way down and across the floor. There was a table in the centre of the chamber and an enormous gong covered in the symbols of the various gods, which took up the entirety of the far wall. The room was lit from above by a stupendous chandelier filled with hundreds of self-replenishing candles. Standing at the table was the god of truth, Desolo. Being as pragmatic as he was, Desolo had never seen fit to waste his time and his energy upon such useless fripperies as a physical appearance. He was essentially information; the unquestionable truth that that which stood before you was the god of truth Desolo. He was at that precise moment the only one there, but not for long.
The first to arrive was Raxis herself. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had already removed his helmet, which otherwise hid his only distinguishing characteristics, it would have been all but impossible to tell he was in his female aspect. That said with the cut short hair and stern features that decorated both his male and female countenances, it was often difficult to distinguish them anyway. Her skin was near jet black and her eyes blood red and oddly feline in their shape. She was dressed in sleek black armour that was almost identical to that of her followers, save for the lack of helmet and her own insignia. It might have been expected that a god in physical form would have armour adorned with fancy ornamentation to make themselves stand out, to reinforce their position. Raxis would not hear of such a thing, he was a soldier as much as his followers and he marched into battle alongside them, sharing in their conquests and their defeats first hand, relishing the battle from up close amongst the blood and the violence.
“What is it Desolo?” Raxis demanded, taking her place at the table. “Why have you torn me away from battle?”
“I will explain when everyone is here.” Desolo said plainly. He spoke only in truths, hard certainties that could be backed up with evidence and he wasted no time on social niceties. He would explain himself once, when everyone was here to hear him. Raxis knew from experience how pointless it was to try to coax information from Desolo before he was willing to give it and so she let it go, and waited impatiently for the others to arrive.
They did so with little fuss or incident, save for Ceraceros whose arrival was heralded by the sound of water streaming down the twisting passageway. A tidal wave gushed forth into the Deep Court, carrying Ceraceros and his unicorn steed to their place at the table. However despite the spectacle nobody was impressed; the mood was too foul and they had seen such extravagances before. The atmosphere was frosty, no more so when Frigidus arrived and for a moment it seemed as though he and Raxis were about to launch into battle and take their frustrations out on each other there and then, but each restrained themselves and all that came of it was the mood became just that little touch more hostile. It was difficult to believe that the gods gathered here had once been a cohesive pantheon, closer to one another than family. That was of course before war and betrayal had torn them apart. Only the thin veneer of ceremony kept everyone in check. It seemed Visindi was to be the last to arrive, making excuses as he did so that he had been in the middle of an experiment and had been loathe to leave before he saw it to fruition.
“We’ll begin now.” Desolo said, though four of their number had yet to show. That Zoo, Tawn and Vocatur were missing was of no surprise to anyone. Zoo had never been the most social of gods even back before this grisly business, Vocatur was unlikely to be welcomed with open arms even if he had managed to find his way to Malhalven, and Tawn, the God of Love and Peace, had gone into seclusion when this war had started in earnest. Though Raxis, her counterpart and former lover, had sent many envoys and missionaries to her temple none had ever returned. The message had been quite clear; that Tawn wanted no part in this war and, for the moment at least, she had gotten the peace she wanted. The fourth was Inderigo, the God of Industry and as one god gossiped, the would-be God of Death.
“Well?” Kedemonas asked. “Say your piece factsayer; I tire of this pomp and circumstance.”
“At approximately eight minutes past four this morning a comet with a peculiar golden trail was observed in the skies over our valley.” Desolo said and around the table brows furrowed. This was hardly the subject matter that the gods had expected that they had been assembled to discuss.
It was sort of pointless to try to scrutinise the reaction of the God of Truths given that he didn’t ever seem to have one, but the statement was odd enough that Obscura felt inclined to give him a metaphorical poke anyway. “An unusal omen to be sure…” she said, a stare affixed to what would be Desolo’s face if he had troubled himself to make more than the idea of a body, though there was of course no tangible response.
“Yesterday at noon exactly in the town of Felholm a fountain briefly flowed with an unexplainable blue flame before rapidly freezing to a solid block of ice.” Desolo said. “One week previous to this in the village of Malz a farmer reported that an entire crop had rotted and died in the space of one night. Thirty one days ago there was a reported rain of cats in the-”
“Is this really happening?” Visindi interrupted incredulously. “Are we really having a discussion of rumours, superstition and gossip chaired by the most obnoxiously pragmatic god that our pantheon has the foul luck to contain? I think I must have accidentally gotten a lungful of some kind of hallucinogen in my last experiment because this is quite frankly ridiculous.” Visindi had never liked Desolo but it was less for his matter of fact attitude than for his complete lack of any imagination.
Desolo didn’t ignore Visindi as such. He stared unblinkingly in his direction as he expressed his disbelief at this meeting, listened carefully to Visindi’s question, scrutinised it and decided that there was nothing of value to be gained from reply to a question with such a self-evident answer and he opted to continue his list of observed omens; “Thirty one days ago there was a reported rain of-”
“Perhaps your time would be best served telling us what you believe these omens mean, rather than listing them off one by one?” Raxis suggested impatiently.
“Two days, seven months and one hundred and sixteen years ago, the Nightwatcher wrote a prophecy.” Desolo said. Traiya, the Nightwatcher, had been the Goddess of Sight, or to give her her full title; The Goddess of Sight into Hidden Matters and Things Best Left Unseen. She had never had many followers, and when the war came, though her insights were able to give them tremendous tactical advantage, they simply couldn’t stand up to the numbers that the other gods commanded. She left no corpse just a lingering memory of a god who was once but no longer.
Obscura laughed; “You expect us to believe that Traiya entrusted her insights to you over her own sister?” but the jollity was quickly gone as Desolo produced a worn and weathered scroll covered in Traiya’s distinctive chickens’ feet handwriting. It was replaced with a sense of hurt, and a rising bile of anger at the God of Truths.
“The Nightwatcher did not intend it as a slight to you; she claimed that only I could be impartial in the matter that was to come.” Desolo said. “The omens she listed have been observed with increased rapidity and if her prophecy is to be believed a time called the Unravelling is now upon us.”
“Which is what?” Ceraceros enquired. While the prophecies had served to draw the attention of most of the gods, this intrigue was far too slow paced for the sea god’s taste.
Desolo unrolled the scroll and read from it. “A time wherein the wellspring of our godly power should spring a leak and those who feast upon it should find themselves diminished, emasculated from immortals who time itself cannot touch, reduced to the thin temporary life of mortals inevitably to be snuffed out like a candle lit. A time where gods are men and divine blood shall be spilled like so much water; for though the wellspring may run low it shall stop short of being stoppered entirely and one god or two might never know the transient embrace of mortality should they be all that remains of a pantheon long since torn to shreds.”
There was the briefest moment of silence as the gods attempted to process this. Visindi was the first to break this, irritably snatching the scroll from Desolo’s hands with a muttered “Let me see that.”
“Which when stripped of Traiya’s flowery language means what exactly?” Kedemonas seemed relatively calm in the wake of the prophecy. “Upon the surface it sounds grim, yes, but the Nightwatcher had a talent for adding a sense of moroseness to even the most pleasant of circumstance.”
“It seemed plain enough to me.” Frigidus replied. “This Unravelling comes to pass and we all die.”
“My interpretation of the text indicates that this is not necessarily true.” Desolo said. “It suggests that the Unravelling is an event that weakens the source of our powers and that as things stand we would be reduced to mortals and eventually die one way or another,”
“This is as I said.” Frigidus interrupted.
“but if there were only one or two gods remaining, and the rest of us were dead, there would be enough power that those gods could remain immortal.” Desolo said. “Not all of us have to die.”
“Just most of us…” Raxis muttered under her breath. If there was a tension in the air before now, it was nothing to the atmosphere as they came to realise that it was now every god for him or herself. Raxis and Frigidus were gone before any further developments could emerge.
In a darkened corner of the Deep Court, hidden from and unheeded by most of the gods assembled there, Inderigo felt the familiar sensation of his high priestess beseeching him, desperately seeking his blessing. The God of Industry made his exit, with only Obscura any the wiser that he had ever been there.
--------
It felt strange to be alive again. For longer than she cared to remember Scinda had been either incorporeal or alternately at the helm of a walking corpse. It had been surprising just how invigorating life felt; the sensation of blood pumping through this body (her body she mentally corrected herself; she was finding it difficult to stop thinking of herself as separate from the flesh she inhabited), the twinge of every sensitive nerve. She felt as though there had been some barrier between her and the world and it had finally been lifted; sensations were that much more intense, colours were that much more vivid. She took the time to indulge herself, and to take a steaming hot bath to cleanse this body of the dirt and grime that encrusted it. She tied her long black hair up into a respectable bun and adorned herself with robes befitting a high priestess; fresh ones that did not stink of rotting corpses. The rags that it had been wearing were disposed of, as were the surprising number of cheap daggers and knives that were found upon it.
Her congregation were waiting for her, but she found herself knelt before the altar of Inderigo again. Though the factory floor was now empty of people, the machinery rattled on, relentlessly transforming dead things into weapons. In the middle of the noise and the stench, which she could experience now with more clarity than ever before, Scinda prayed. She prayed to a god who had long since stopped answering her prayers. She thanked him for his Machinations that had led a new body to her, despite that she no longer really believed that he had an interest, let alone a hand, in what happened to his followers. It was almost an empty gesture, continued because it was the thing to do, because it was her role to seek the guidance of Inderigo whether he chose to give it or not, but perhaps some small spark of hope had yet to be extinguished.
And then Inderigo materialised before her. He towered over her, his form somehow flickering between a human shape and one that was better described as some kind of enormous and intricate piece of machinery with plumes of acrid black smoke issuing forth from it (it should go without saying that his time lurking in the darkness at the edge of the Deep Court was spent in his less conspicuous human form). His mouth was an open furnace pouring forth heat and the sound of his machinery whirring back and forth drowned out even the ceaseless machinery of the factory.
“Inderigo – I mean My Lord.” Scinda quickly corrected herself.
“Your lord?” Inderigo demanded. “I believe you must be mistaken.”
“But My Lord, I have prayed to you every day.”
“But look at what you have done to my temple!” Inderigo bellowed. “That you have profaned it so is unforgivable, that you have done it in my name is beyond any blasphemy I might have imagined.” At his first appearance Scinda had been struck with joy that her prayers had finally been heeded, now all that was left was abject terror as the God of Industry towered over her. “You do not worship me here any more. You worship death and decay, nothing more than natural processes to facilitate the end of life and yet they are venerated here in my halls. Or mayhap you worship yourself; your power to twist the words of a god, your power to defy death itself, your power to make me into a mockery amongst my own kind?”
“No, I…” Scinda mumbled, her ability to coherently reply long gone.
“Silence abomination!” Inderigo snapped. “You have brought shame upon me and murdered anyone who believed in what I stood for more than appeasing you. If you had a shred of decency about you, you would end your existence for good and let another take the helm, one who would lead my people properly… but of course it is too late for that now.” Inderigo paused and the anger and indignation seemed to leave him. “I don’t want to fight for my existence, not if this,” and with this he seemed to glance over the factory around them, “is who I am now… Do what you will abomination, it does not matter.” And then he was gone.
Scinda remained where she was for some minutes; she had scrabbled backwards as the god loomed over her and now she was in a position somewhere between kneeling and sitting, her heart pounding fast and her body slick with sweat. Slowly, as she gathered herself together she began to find a sense of resolve. It was not Scinda who had chosen to plunge them into this war, Inderigo had made his position clear and then they were expected to do the hard work; the fighting and the dying. And other gods, when their priests had prayed for an edge, they had been gifted mythical creatures, or tactical information. Inderigo had given neither. Scinda had done what she had thought was best and in return she had gotten a lecture that it was not acceptable. And just what exactly had Inderigo done to help them that he could come here and berate her like she was a child?
High Priestess Scinda climbed to her feet and dusted down her robes. The gods had never done anything for her, all they had done was take and take and spit in her face when her best was not good enough. Without a word she turned and made her way towards where her congregation would be waiting. She would be pushed around no longer; she would lead her people against those who deserved it most, not the poor victims of some other god, but the gods themselves.
--------
“Hold on,” Visindi said, “this says that the first omen is the death of a god.”
In the minutes that Visindi had been perusing the prophecy, the Deep Court had all but emptied, with gods hurrying off to their armies, either to launch attacks or prepare defences. Only Desolo and Obscura remained, the latter of whom was there simply to ensure that she didn’t miss any important information that might yet be made known about this bleak circumstance.
They both knew which death the omen referred to without having to ask Desolo to clarify. It meant the death of Kohl the former Sun God. He had been the heart of the pantheon until he had been murdered. Things had turned ugly as accusations were made indiscriminately, true colours were shown and the pantheon had never been the same since. Though the killer had been found, the damage had been done; the gods had gone to war and had remained that way ever since. It had been an accident, or well, not an accident but not intentional. Vocatur had been drunk and high on several different substances. He had no idea of what he was doing or what he had done. The God of Hedonism had been banished from Malhalven, though nobody could hold it against the pathetic wretch of a god, nobody could see to forgiving him either.
“And this last omen.” Visindi continued. “That hasn’t happened.”
“It can only be a matter of time.” Desolo said. “By that point I believe it will be too late to do anything about it.”
“What is it?” Obscura glanced over at the scroll, trying to find the part which they were referring to.
“The final omen shall be when humans turn upon their gods and take Malhalven from us.” Desolo said.
A sound rang out across the Godsworn Valley; the thunderous report of a titanic gong. It was a noise unheeded by mortal ears, for which it was not meant, but amidst the conflict and the chaos that had subsumed this holy place, it reached the ears of the gods of this world. Slowly, one by one they made their way towards the heart of the valley; some did so with a sense of trepidation, others a sense of weariness and obligation, while yet others approached with enthusiasm; their curiosities piqued by the call from the gong that had long since fallen silent. Though some had to make excuses to get them out of immediate obligations, and many were not happy that they were doing so, all of them made their way home to Malhalven.
Viewed from outside Malhalven was an unassuming structure, short and squat and seemingly of little consequence, located amongst the thickest section of a sprawling woodland. Inside its lobby all you would find would be a deep hole and a winding passageway leading downwards, deeper and deeper into the earth. That gentle sloping passageway was decorated with elaborate sculptures of the many gods of the pantheon; the sculpture of Obscura was constructed from dark stone and from the corner of a viewer’s eye it would almost seem to be ethereal, in danger of dissolving into mist at a moment’s notice, the sea god Ceraceros rendered in perpetually damp coral, Frigidus’ likeness captured in ice that remained blisteringly cold no matter the temperature outside. Someone descending the passageway would notice that Inderigo’s statue, once a finely crafted marvel of machinery had succumbed to rot and to rust, but nobody descended these passageways any more, the gods did not need to and mortals had not been allowed to for a long time.
At the bottom of that hole, at the end of what seemed to be an endless passageway, there stood the Deep Court; an enormous room carved out of the earth itself. Here and there long roots protruded from the wall and wound their way down and across the floor. There was a table in the centre of the chamber and an enormous gong covered in the symbols of the various gods, which took up the entirety of the far wall. The room was lit from above by a stupendous chandelier filled with hundreds of self-replenishing candles. Standing at the table was the god of truth, Desolo. Being as pragmatic as he was, Desolo had never seen fit to waste his time and his energy upon such useless fripperies as a physical appearance. He was essentially information; the unquestionable truth that that which stood before you was the god of truth Desolo. He was at that precise moment the only one there, but not for long.
The first to arrive was Raxis herself. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had already removed his helmet, which otherwise hid his only distinguishing characteristics, it would have been all but impossible to tell he was in his female aspect. That said with the cut short hair and stern features that decorated both his male and female countenances, it was often difficult to distinguish them anyway. Her skin was near jet black and her eyes blood red and oddly feline in their shape. She was dressed in sleek black armour that was almost identical to that of her followers, save for the lack of helmet and her own insignia. It might have been expected that a god in physical form would have armour adorned with fancy ornamentation to make themselves stand out, to reinforce their position. Raxis would not hear of such a thing, he was a soldier as much as his followers and he marched into battle alongside them, sharing in their conquests and their defeats first hand, relishing the battle from up close amongst the blood and the violence.
“What is it Desolo?” Raxis demanded, taking her place at the table. “Why have you torn me away from battle?”
“I will explain when everyone is here.” Desolo said plainly. He spoke only in truths, hard certainties that could be backed up with evidence and he wasted no time on social niceties. He would explain himself once, when everyone was here to hear him. Raxis knew from experience how pointless it was to try to coax information from Desolo before he was willing to give it and so she let it go, and waited impatiently for the others to arrive.
They did so with little fuss or incident, save for Ceraceros whose arrival was heralded by the sound of water streaming down the twisting passageway. A tidal wave gushed forth into the Deep Court, carrying Ceraceros and his unicorn steed to their place at the table. However despite the spectacle nobody was impressed; the mood was too foul and they had seen such extravagances before. The atmosphere was frosty, no more so when Frigidus arrived and for a moment it seemed as though he and Raxis were about to launch into battle and take their frustrations out on each other there and then, but each restrained themselves and all that came of it was the mood became just that little touch more hostile. It was difficult to believe that the gods gathered here had once been a cohesive pantheon, closer to one another than family. That was of course before war and betrayal had torn them apart. Only the thin veneer of ceremony kept everyone in check. It seemed Visindi was to be the last to arrive, making excuses as he did so that he had been in the middle of an experiment and had been loathe to leave before he saw it to fruition.
“We’ll begin now.” Desolo said, though four of their number had yet to show. That Zoo, Tawn and Vocatur were missing was of no surprise to anyone. Zoo had never been the most social of gods even back before this grisly business, Vocatur was unlikely to be welcomed with open arms even if he had managed to find his way to Malhalven, and Tawn, the God of Love and Peace, had gone into seclusion when this war had started in earnest. Though Raxis, her counterpart and former lover, had sent many envoys and missionaries to her temple none had ever returned. The message had been quite clear; that Tawn wanted no part in this war and, for the moment at least, she had gotten the peace she wanted. The fourth was Inderigo, the God of Industry and as one god gossiped, the would-be God of Death.
“Well?” Kedemonas asked. “Say your piece factsayer; I tire of this pomp and circumstance.”
“At approximately eight minutes past four this morning a comet with a peculiar golden trail was observed in the skies over our valley.” Desolo said and around the table brows furrowed. This was hardly the subject matter that the gods had expected that they had been assembled to discuss.
It was sort of pointless to try to scrutinise the reaction of the God of Truths given that he didn’t ever seem to have one, but the statement was odd enough that Obscura felt inclined to give him a metaphorical poke anyway. “An unusal omen to be sure…” she said, a stare affixed to what would be Desolo’s face if he had troubled himself to make more than the idea of a body, though there was of course no tangible response.
“Yesterday at noon exactly in the town of Felholm a fountain briefly flowed with an unexplainable blue flame before rapidly freezing to a solid block of ice.” Desolo said. “One week previous to this in the village of Malz a farmer reported that an entire crop had rotted and died in the space of one night. Thirty one days ago there was a reported rain of cats in the-”
“Is this really happening?” Visindi interrupted incredulously. “Are we really having a discussion of rumours, superstition and gossip chaired by the most obnoxiously pragmatic god that our pantheon has the foul luck to contain? I think I must have accidentally gotten a lungful of some kind of hallucinogen in my last experiment because this is quite frankly ridiculous.” Visindi had never liked Desolo but it was less for his matter of fact attitude than for his complete lack of any imagination.
Desolo didn’t ignore Visindi as such. He stared unblinkingly in his direction as he expressed his disbelief at this meeting, listened carefully to Visindi’s question, scrutinised it and decided that there was nothing of value to be gained from reply to a question with such a self-evident answer and he opted to continue his list of observed omens; “Thirty one days ago there was a reported rain of-”
“Perhaps your time would be best served telling us what you believe these omens mean, rather than listing them off one by one?” Raxis suggested impatiently.
“Two days, seven months and one hundred and sixteen years ago, the Nightwatcher wrote a prophecy.” Desolo said. Traiya, the Nightwatcher, had been the Goddess of Sight, or to give her her full title; The Goddess of Sight into Hidden Matters and Things Best Left Unseen. She had never had many followers, and when the war came, though her insights were able to give them tremendous tactical advantage, they simply couldn’t stand up to the numbers that the other gods commanded. She left no corpse just a lingering memory of a god who was once but no longer.
Obscura laughed; “You expect us to believe that Traiya entrusted her insights to you over her own sister?” but the jollity was quickly gone as Desolo produced a worn and weathered scroll covered in Traiya’s distinctive chickens’ feet handwriting. It was replaced with a sense of hurt, and a rising bile of anger at the God of Truths.
“The Nightwatcher did not intend it as a slight to you; she claimed that only I could be impartial in the matter that was to come.” Desolo said. “The omens she listed have been observed with increased rapidity and if her prophecy is to be believed a time called the Unravelling is now upon us.”
“Which is what?” Ceraceros enquired. While the prophecies had served to draw the attention of most of the gods, this intrigue was far too slow paced for the sea god’s taste.
Desolo unrolled the scroll and read from it. “A time wherein the wellspring of our godly power should spring a leak and those who feast upon it should find themselves diminished, emasculated from immortals who time itself cannot touch, reduced to the thin temporary life of mortals inevitably to be snuffed out like a candle lit. A time where gods are men and divine blood shall be spilled like so much water; for though the wellspring may run low it shall stop short of being stoppered entirely and one god or two might never know the transient embrace of mortality should they be all that remains of a pantheon long since torn to shreds.”
There was the briefest moment of silence as the gods attempted to process this. Visindi was the first to break this, irritably snatching the scroll from Desolo’s hands with a muttered “Let me see that.”
“Which when stripped of Traiya’s flowery language means what exactly?” Kedemonas seemed relatively calm in the wake of the prophecy. “Upon the surface it sounds grim, yes, but the Nightwatcher had a talent for adding a sense of moroseness to even the most pleasant of circumstance.”
“It seemed plain enough to me.” Frigidus replied. “This Unravelling comes to pass and we all die.”
“My interpretation of the text indicates that this is not necessarily true.” Desolo said. “It suggests that the Unravelling is an event that weakens the source of our powers and that as things stand we would be reduced to mortals and eventually die one way or another,”
“This is as I said.” Frigidus interrupted.
“but if there were only one or two gods remaining, and the rest of us were dead, there would be enough power that those gods could remain immortal.” Desolo said. “Not all of us have to die.”
“Just most of us…” Raxis muttered under her breath. If there was a tension in the air before now, it was nothing to the atmosphere as they came to realise that it was now every god for him or herself. Raxis and Frigidus were gone before any further developments could emerge.
In a darkened corner of the Deep Court, hidden from and unheeded by most of the gods assembled there, Inderigo felt the familiar sensation of his high priestess beseeching him, desperately seeking his blessing. The God of Industry made his exit, with only Obscura any the wiser that he had ever been there.
--------
It felt strange to be alive again. For longer than she cared to remember Scinda had been either incorporeal or alternately at the helm of a walking corpse. It had been surprising just how invigorating life felt; the sensation of blood pumping through this body (her body she mentally corrected herself; she was finding it difficult to stop thinking of herself as separate from the flesh she inhabited), the twinge of every sensitive nerve. She felt as though there had been some barrier between her and the world and it had finally been lifted; sensations were that much more intense, colours were that much more vivid. She took the time to indulge herself, and to take a steaming hot bath to cleanse this body of the dirt and grime that encrusted it. She tied her long black hair up into a respectable bun and adorned herself with robes befitting a high priestess; fresh ones that did not stink of rotting corpses. The rags that it had been wearing were disposed of, as were the surprising number of cheap daggers and knives that were found upon it.
Her congregation were waiting for her, but she found herself knelt before the altar of Inderigo again. Though the factory floor was now empty of people, the machinery rattled on, relentlessly transforming dead things into weapons. In the middle of the noise and the stench, which she could experience now with more clarity than ever before, Scinda prayed. She prayed to a god who had long since stopped answering her prayers. She thanked him for his Machinations that had led a new body to her, despite that she no longer really believed that he had an interest, let alone a hand, in what happened to his followers. It was almost an empty gesture, continued because it was the thing to do, because it was her role to seek the guidance of Inderigo whether he chose to give it or not, but perhaps some small spark of hope had yet to be extinguished.
And then Inderigo materialised before her. He towered over her, his form somehow flickering between a human shape and one that was better described as some kind of enormous and intricate piece of machinery with plumes of acrid black smoke issuing forth from it (it should go without saying that his time lurking in the darkness at the edge of the Deep Court was spent in his less conspicuous human form). His mouth was an open furnace pouring forth heat and the sound of his machinery whirring back and forth drowned out even the ceaseless machinery of the factory.
“Inderigo – I mean My Lord.” Scinda quickly corrected herself.
“Your lord?” Inderigo demanded. “I believe you must be mistaken.”
“But My Lord, I have prayed to you every day.”
“But look at what you have done to my temple!” Inderigo bellowed. “That you have profaned it so is unforgivable, that you have done it in my name is beyond any blasphemy I might have imagined.” At his first appearance Scinda had been struck with joy that her prayers had finally been heeded, now all that was left was abject terror as the God of Industry towered over her. “You do not worship me here any more. You worship death and decay, nothing more than natural processes to facilitate the end of life and yet they are venerated here in my halls. Or mayhap you worship yourself; your power to twist the words of a god, your power to defy death itself, your power to make me into a mockery amongst my own kind?”
“No, I…” Scinda mumbled, her ability to coherently reply long gone.
“Silence abomination!” Inderigo snapped. “You have brought shame upon me and murdered anyone who believed in what I stood for more than appeasing you. If you had a shred of decency about you, you would end your existence for good and let another take the helm, one who would lead my people properly… but of course it is too late for that now.” Inderigo paused and the anger and indignation seemed to leave him. “I don’t want to fight for my existence, not if this,” and with this he seemed to glance over the factory around them, “is who I am now… Do what you will abomination, it does not matter.” And then he was gone.
Scinda remained where she was for some minutes; she had scrabbled backwards as the god loomed over her and now she was in a position somewhere between kneeling and sitting, her heart pounding fast and her body slick with sweat. Slowly, as she gathered herself together she began to find a sense of resolve. It was not Scinda who had chosen to plunge them into this war, Inderigo had made his position clear and then they were expected to do the hard work; the fighting and the dying. And other gods, when their priests had prayed for an edge, they had been gifted mythical creatures, or tactical information. Inderigo had given neither. Scinda had done what she had thought was best and in return she had gotten a lecture that it was not acceptable. And just what exactly had Inderigo done to help them that he could come here and berate her like she was a child?
High Priestess Scinda climbed to her feet and dusted down her robes. The gods had never done anything for her, all they had done was take and take and spit in her face when her best was not good enough. Without a word she turned and made her way towards where her congregation would be waiting. She would be pushed around no longer; she would lead her people against those who deserved it most, not the poor victims of some other god, but the gods themselves.
--------
“Hold on,” Visindi said, “this says that the first omen is the death of a god.”
In the minutes that Visindi had been perusing the prophecy, the Deep Court had all but emptied, with gods hurrying off to their armies, either to launch attacks or prepare defences. Only Desolo and Obscura remained, the latter of whom was there simply to ensure that she didn’t miss any important information that might yet be made known about this bleak circumstance.
They both knew which death the omen referred to without having to ask Desolo to clarify. It meant the death of Kohl the former Sun God. He had been the heart of the pantheon until he had been murdered. Things had turned ugly as accusations were made indiscriminately, true colours were shown and the pantheon had never been the same since. Though the killer had been found, the damage had been done; the gods had gone to war and had remained that way ever since. It had been an accident, or well, not an accident but not intentional. Vocatur had been drunk and high on several different substances. He had no idea of what he was doing or what he had done. The God of Hedonism had been banished from Malhalven, though nobody could hold it against the pathetic wretch of a god, nobody could see to forgiving him either.
“And this last omen.” Visindi continued. “That hasn’t happened.”
“It can only be a matter of time.” Desolo said. “By that point I believe it will be too late to do anything about it.”
“What is it?” Obscura glanced over at the scroll, trying to find the part which they were referring to.
“The final omen shall be when humans turn upon their gods and take Malhalven from us.” Desolo said.
Spoiler
Heaven Help Us | Make Room!!!! | I'm Not Okay (I Promise)
Hang 'Em High | The Only Hope For Me Is You | Zero Percent | Early Sunsets Over Monroeville | DESTROYA | Demolition Lovers | To The End
Surrender The Night | Disenchanted | The Ghost Of You | Party Poison | Vampires Will Never Hurt You | The Jetset Life Is Gonna Kill You
Hang 'Em High | The Only Hope For Me Is You | Zero Percent | Early Sunsets Over Monroeville | DESTROYA | Demolition Lovers | To The End
Surrender The Night | Disenchanted | The Ghost Of You | Party Poison | Vampires Will Never Hurt You | The Jetset Life Is Gonna Kill You