Whisper of Darkness, Taste of Sin | | [Vinaein & Ether]

[Etheria]

. ༻༺ . ༻༺ . ༻༺ . ༻༺ .​

Soft flickers of light swept across the corridor, whispering in rose gold hues atop pristine marble. The gentle glow bloomed throughout the halls, stretching from its frescoed ceilings to the tiled flooring. She'd travelled these passageways thousands of times, and yet still they were a marvel at night. The temple was known for its elegant, muted gleam- always lit as though it were sunrise. Though the moon's inescapable glare poured through every tall glass window, the calming shimmer of rosy light remained. It was a far cry from the castle walls she'd known as a child, and perhaps for that she should have been grateful.

Images of her homeland skirted her mind as she veered left of a column and into another hallway, this one bypassing the ground's cleansing pools where priestesses would prepare for worship and narrowing to a single pair of inverted doors.

There was no warmth in Grivka. It was laden with the cold. And though she still never saw torchlight, the warmth of the Goddess was palpable in the temple. Comfort was to be found in serving Azmora. Here, her subjects were absolved of title or fated expectations. Commoner, noble, and mortal alike could be redeemed with purpose. It didn't matter what she was, or who she was-

She was simply a priestess of the Goddess Divine. At least, within these walls.

"Maiden, what are you doing this late?"

As were all the women in this inner chamber of the temple. Including the tall-statured elf that had called out to her. Eyphah's back bristled, her footsteps slowing only a few feet from the doors at the end. A hand reached up to tug at her hood, the act almost habitual as she inspected to see no hair was peeking out from underneath her robe.

"Priestess Ilanthe," she said as evenly as she could manage, slowly turning to meet the lilac-hooded figure staring holes into her back. She wore the same robe, but it draped over her generous physique differently. With the angle of the light, she could almost see the sweeps of red hair beneath her mantle.

"Can't sleep again, Maiden?"

Ilanthe always made a habit of calling her that. It was not as if they ever referred to each other by name. They were shed of those confines, any hint of title or status, when they chose to serve the Goddess. Only, Ilanthe had at least several millenia on her- and she was but two centuries young. The elder Priestesses of the temple were often lucky enough to be bestowed with a name. A new name, by the Goddess Azmora herself. But most of their like still went by Priestess.

Maiden, was a way to refer to younger priestesses- often ones in training. Though she'd graduated from it almost a century ago.

"Um, yes. Something like that." Eyphah replied, shuffling awkwardly against the tile in her slippers.

The elf gave a short sigh, unfolding her arms and gesturing back in the direction of the cleansing pools. "To think that you are so addled with nightmares that you wander mindlessly."

A series of night terrors had been plaguing her for months. On and off, she would dream of terrible fates. Violence, fire, priestesses being murdered- war. Artifacts being stolen. She glanced back down the corridor, her eyes brushing with the spot she'd halted at in defeat. So close. She'd been seconds away from the doors. Not that they opened.

"You would've smacked face-first into the north wing doors." The Grand Priestess shook her head. "Any more of this sleep walking and I'll have to start praying to the Goddess for you to sleep through the night."

The inverted doors opened only one way. Inward. And they were locked. Should anyone manage to break that fortified magical barrier, they'd be stuck inside like a sitting duck. Hence why it wouldn't be too suspicious for her to be caught near them. No one could enter without Azmora's delegation. At least, not by normal means. But Eyphah had a little trick.

"I've been trying to fix the ailment, Priestess, I assure you. I'd just lost my way to the cleansing pools before bed." Eyphah's lips curled at her own little lie. They weren't supposed to lie at all. She told herself it was a necessary one; a white lie.

Ilanthe paused as they neared the trickling sounds of the fountain that accompanied the pools, running a cursory glance over the courtyard. Her violet eyes returned to Eyphah's fractured gaze. "It's… odd for you to be bathing at night. But if you must." After another slow scan, she bid her goodnight and stalked off around the corner.

Eyphah released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her rigid spine relaxing as she crept back towards the forbidden wing. Ilanthe didn't question her bathing at night, because it likely answered the question of when she chose to purity bathe. Eyphah was never seen bathing with the other priestesses in broad daylight. It would require her to remove her robe, and her gloved right arm. Her hair was an obvious hint to her past, but even more so was the mar on her hand. As far as anyone knew, she was simply a halfling- or a young fae. No one had ever seen her ears, anyway.

As she reached the solid cement doors, her gloved hand skirted one of the gilden knobs. It was now or never. She'd dreamt of fire and anguish, but little compared to the single nightmare that drew her to walk these halls each evening. The north wing was a sanctum of holy artifacts, confined by the Goddess. Priceless, but no average thief would even dare near this chamber. Not knowing the horrible threat that slumbered within.

Her hand curled around the knob, willfully, this time. She needed this to work. For the past seven days she tossed and turned over lucid visions of an artifact being stolen. Not just any dusty book or encrusted staff. It haunted her very bones.

Sweat beaded below her brow as she strained to dip into the small handful of tricks she carried. It required her to dig deep, drowning out all noise. All light. All, but her labored breaths and the night. "Please," she whispered, squeezing her eyes tight. The world groaned and shifted, bent in nauseating ways that tugged her to the core. It felt as though she were being split in two, doused in the space between her segments, and smushed back together. An altogether unpleasant experience.

But then she was on the other side. Staring at foreign quartz flooring and a musk filling her nose. She did it. She winnowed. "Goddess above," she breathed, taking in the towers of tomes and ancient technologies that lined the space. And then her eyes met the very thing she'd been sure would be missing. She'd expected relief to swell in her chest- only to find a growing chill as she laid eyes on the jagged piece. Suspended by plumes of smoke the color of midnight, it sat upon an understated dais- resting on a pedestal constructed of the same quartz as the floors. Despite being an inanimate object, it existed with the most foreboding, wicked glint- glowing some shade of frosted emerald.

Curiosity drew her closer, to the heirloom that was capable of reckoning entire planes of existence. Crux of Chaos, it was often called. Sometimes, Crux of Hades. As if to insinuate that it would bring about Hel. It held her there, the sheer notion of impending doom drugging her into a trance. Some say it could tempt onlookers into power. How nice would that be. To return what once was. The glory of her power- her Fray…

A prickle inched up her spine, so vivid that it crawled beneath her robe. It was not the same enigmatic whisper as the artifact offered. This was different. The hairs on her neck rose. Warmth, almost like flame, licked roughly up her calves. She could sense something. Watching from the shadows. Someone.

Her Fray was damaged, but she could still tell when someone was lurking where light did not linger. The shadows were the edge of her fingertips. Small and distant, but warning her with muted senses. She felt heat like a torch in frigid air. Gods, she hadn't even felt firelight in decades.

Something was here. Watching her, watching for the moment that her nightmares teased about morbidly. Anxiety wracked her stomach, her eyes darting towards the left end of the room. She'd love to kick herself if she was being paranoid. It would've been a better alternative than the reality she dreaded had arrived. "Show yourself," she demanded, her voice coming out smaller than she'd intended. Her teeth grit, partly to stop them from chattering out of fear. Warily, she turned halfway towards the corner she'd suspected- studying to see if she could make out any shapes.

To her horror, she did. All at once, she could feel it, see it. The outline of something wicked and deadly. Her knees buckled, but she refused to give way to her stance- attempting to appear taller by raising her chin. "You weren't welcome in my dreams, and you're certainly not welcome here." She sneered, something more animalistic taking hold. Perhaps it was the adrenaline pumping through her veins, but it elevated her just enough to push past that fear. She couldn't let what she'd seen come to pass. She wouldn't.

 

[Vinaein]

Out of his origins in the dark and shadowy forested land of Grivka, the man who had once been a soldier walked. His booted feet trampled down upon the ancient dirt, throwing up light motes of dust as he walked. Lucian Aeviras, once of the Land of the Forgotten, kept his eyes focused ahead as he forged ahead, an unreadable expressipon remaining upon his face as his heart beat within his chest With each step it pulsed, a reminder that when he walked, he walked on with ghosts and with wrath.

He threw a hand up at a branch, the mailed glove snapping aside the low-hanging wood to the side. A light shower of leaves formed a portal to him to bypass. He reminded himself what he might expect at the crossroads he would find himself. His dark eyes narrowed, his face bearing the mark of several days without shaving. His rough, handsome features gazed ahead, his body wrapped in a spun black cloak that gave the impression of a crouching bat with furled wings. Upon his back, the hilt of a great sword poked through. The hilt was wrapped in a dark leather, ending in a dark pommel set with a red stone.

It was a reasonably decent day, he supposed. But then he had seen a number of decent days in his many years upon the earth. What had the old Baba used to say? Ah, that was right. "Never forget to cherish the day you find yourself in, sweet little Lucian. You never know whence may be your last."

Lucian had gone hunting earlier, and had thus had spent the majority of the morning cleaning his shining blade of ghoul guts, cleaning his armor and cloak as well to his satisfaction before returning to hos path with the voice of his Patron, Avernus within his head. He had hunted, managing to bring down a stag which he had taken the meat from, leaving the rest behind. It had brought him into the swamp, with its thick mud and fetish air and a swamp was never his favorite location to hunt. Thick, dark, full of mud to limit mobility with little telling of what may be lurking there. This would at least take him to a place where he could freely move, even as mud sloshed under his boots he thought.

And that had been before the Bog-Hag had leaped up from the mud, clawing and seeking fingers and drooling lips aiming for him. It had damn near gotten him, but he had not lived as long as he had by carelessness. Dodging back, he carried the monster with him. Its nails clutched for him, once, twice...

Then the sword was out. And it was all over. One burst of speed, one strike and a head tumbled into the waters, the body joining it a moment later. At least his training had not been dulled, the wandering warrior thought. That was one thing that hadn't been wasted. And it had sated his wrath. In truth, Lucian almost hoped he would be attacked. By monsters. By bandits. It was all the same, really. A way to feed the burning sensation within him, the pulse of dragon fire that marked him as the chosen of Avernus, Lord of the House of Wrath.

He briefly contemplated to himself how long he'd walked this path. So many endless years now, since the agony that had seen him reborn, the gifting of the 'glorious' path he now walked by the old witch of Grivka, before there had been a land to forget in the old forests, the life that kept him hunting beast after beast, servitude to the ancient demons and separation from his brothers in blood and arms. That kept him hunted them them in turn. His he opened his traveler's cloak, hand going tot he hilt of the greatsword on his back as he flicked his eyes about him.

The city was ahead and his own hidden order had told him that his mission was to acquire something within the Temple of Azmora, dedicated to the goddess divine and Her loving servants. It had been a while since he had worked as nothing but a thief. He far preferred life as a soldier.

But then, the army had once been good to him, had it not? Quite the emphasis on past tense. In the old wars, in the conflicts...he had been Lucian the Great, a leader of men. A leader who had refused impossible orders, who had decided the only way to win the grim game was not to play it. Ah, what did that gain him except to see the face of his gods turn from him and sneer? To leave him accursed with none to turn to save the ancient voices of Grivka's woods and forests?

And then the demons. He and his brothers, so betrayed, turning to the most ancient of races, those who had dwelt in the temporal forges of created before there was a mankind, though not before magic.

An hour of travel brought him from the damned bog, to the crush of soft green grass. Lucian stood at a crossroads, picturing nothing so much as a reaching hand stretching underneath the land towards a mighty church, with the mocking fates bellowing in a chorus of laughter at him. He could hear Avernus in his mind, whispering as the demon often did, pointing the way to the Temple of Azmora.

The sky was rich overheard now, the colors of a dim twilight and Lucian stopped to prepare himself a dinner. Roasting stag meat over an open flame, he took time to eat delicately for a time, resting with his sword down. He was not far from the city now . Good, he thought. That was a sign he could relax. But never with the sword anywhere but close at hand. He could never afford that level of complacency. He, Lucian, the chosen of Wrath as he had been known. He, the cursed, the lost and damned...set to travel forth again and again without country, kingdom or creed. Nothing save a demon to serve, a dark fraternity he was ostensibly champion to.

And yet far from being their champion, he served as little but their lapdog, to perform his role for the demons in what ends he could only guess at. But then, he had so disappointed his old Baba, had he not? The choice in Grivka had been his and he had chosen in a way to bring calamity unto others....

Until all was forgotten, as it ever was in Grivka. He had chosen to follow the demons with his brothers after they had been used and betrayed, he continued on now, breathing heavily as the immortal heart beat within his chest.

Lucian walked on for days. He hunted and drank as he felt he had to. He could feel the pulse of great energy, as if he had been drawn across to something he did not truly understand. And in the distance was the church. Proud, jutting forth from the ground like a spike driven through it by a mighty hammer. After so long, walking on, he could see it and somehow he knew to step forward even more.

He entered the city, remembered the associations as he saw all those about him. A smith battered at the metal upon his anvil, vendors sold fresh bread, meat and fruit, cheese and wines. Services of all kinds were offered from men and women alike...and there were the priests.

As if seeking a salvation, he continued onward, waiting to stand within the shadow of the church. Hearing the chuckle of the demon in the back of his mind, Lucian blended within like a shadow unseen...

Seeking his quarry as he crept through the halls. Flowing through there, unseen until he reached the room, feeling it. He felt what his Patron wanted, calling him...

And then...

"Show yourself." He heard a woman's voice, his eyes widening in surprise. It couldn't be, he couldn't be seen. His mouth was dry, his body suddenly sliding from the shadows to stand there, as he wondered what he should do. He fought down the anger in him, the dark and burning wrath to face her...

"...I don't suppose I can persuade you to step away from there, can I?"

 

[Etheria]

The shadows oscillated for a moment, the silence trickling down in an uneasy thick trail. Like grime slithering down a wall. Her breath was heavy, her toes curling in the thin silk slippers she wore on her feet. Straining once more, she attempted to discern whether she'd begun hallucinating false threats. Maybe the nightmares truly were messing with her head. Experiencing such vivid carnage each time she shut her eyes was bound to incite some unseemly side-effects. She could even blame her lack of rest. But the licks of flame did not wane, swarming around her ankles with singeing insistence. The sensation was so clear, yet she saw no heat source from where she stood.

"I don't suppose I can persuade you to step away from there, can I?" A resounding hum penetrated the chamber, dragging her eyes to rake from her unnerved, prickled skin- to the alcove she'd be scrutinizing.

She felt as though she had to swallow her heart back down into her chest. Goddess, there was someone in the sanctum. Eyphah sank her teeth into the plush bed of her bottom lip, worrying it into a bruised petal shade. Part of her wished she could rejoice at her newfound affinity for visions. But horror held her there, at the glaring truth that was mere feet before her. He was here to steal the Crux of Hades.

"No," she whispered- flashes of lilac robes drenched in blood whirling through her head. The pristine, healing walls of the temple- coated in red. The only peace she'd ever known would be soiled with unimaginable pain. If she screamed loud enough, could she warn her sisters? At least one priestess should be able to hear her. But then they'd be slaughtered. One way or another. Either by the beast in the shadows, or some other sick twist of fate.

Oh, how fate had abandoned her. The Norns had turned a blind eye as they did now, sniggering as they weaved their broken cursed webs. She could have lived with being stripped of her title, and even the shame of living as a hollow shell of what she was born to be. But this, this was something she couldn't live with. Azmora gave her refuge without judgement. She'd redrawn her life with purpose. Sweet, simple purpose.

Calling for help was out of the question. Her eyes bridged across a tinge of metal. A longsword, inscribed with the elder etchings of a young Solomon goaded in the moonlight. Anyone with combat prowess would be sleeping on the opposite end of the grounds. No warning would carry far enough to reach it.

She shuddered at her line of thinking, knowing well that her options were limited. Her left hand twitched towards the weapon out of the corner of her eye, telegraphing her next move. She wanted to fight this. Whatever messed up sense of humor the purveyors of fortune held, she would not allow them to enact what she'd been shown. Biting back the panic anchored in her belly, she snatched the sword from the nearby shelf.

It was obvious with the way her hands curled around the cool metal that she didn't know how to hold a sword. Let alone wield one, as she was struggling to keep it upright. Her knees pivoted inward, making her look as though she'd lose her balance and topple over from the weight of the blade. Eyphah yanked her gaze from the subtle tremor in her hands towards the alcove again. She didn't want to believe it was real. The voice that which fell upon her ears with such dreamlike resonance, despite how unearthly it sounded, was very real. She could no longer pretend that the darkness held no visitor. Denying her fray offered her no solace. No matter how fractured her power was, she'd always been apart of the shade. It was an extension of her existence, the source of her being. And every surface it blanketed was hers to behold. Try as she had, she could not shield herself from the presence before her. So she held her weapon, willing it steady as she allowed herself to truly see. Her pupils dilated, her frantic pants grew quiet, and the darkness thrummed. She could see him. Broad, metal-adorned shoulders and a towering frame. But not enough.

"I'm not letting you take it." Eyphah spoke to him, stating her resolve. Her bone-knuckled grip on her sword was unconvincing. She was no swordswoman. When she was younger she'd been rather proficient with throwing knives, but nothing of this caliber. It was the poorest choice of weapon she could've possibly taken. If she were going to win this fight, she'd have to exhaust every tool in her arsenal. Including the cobwebbed and somewhat defective fray that hibernated there.

The silken lilac hood slipped into a crooked posture as she stepped forward, strands of ashen hair tickling her cheek. Sweat pooled down her clavicle, her shoulders sore from brandishing the boorish piece of steel. Goddess help me. For the second time that night, she dipped. Hurdling towards the apex of her being with desperate reach. She yanked at the rusted chains encapsulating the last vestiges of her fray, swaying as the energy was sapped from her bones. And with a labored breath, she commanded the shadows to move. Moonlight flooded the alcove, unveiling the threat that flaunted an easily more impressive sword. She felt like a fool trying to hold up the weapon she'd chosen, seeing how expertly he held his with preternatural stillness.

All self-admonishments faded then. They slipped away, as if they'd never existed at all- her ability to form thought melting into oblivion as her eyes locked with a pair of vile amethysts. Fire. Heat seared into her flesh, wretched and unyielding. It crunched and howled, wrenching at the insides of her veins- as if her blood were torched alight. The sword tipped forward and in an effort to keep her balance she jerked it backward, sending her clattering to the floor along with the blade. Her hood crumpled around her shoulders, her haunted expression shone in the night's gleam.

"I will put a price on anything in this room except the Crux." Eyphah gasped, heaving the words as if the wind were knocked from her lungs. Her panic was alive now, crackling and stirring shadow with a familiar cast. Her heart was thundering, the blood in her body unable to move fast enough. Shadow ebbed and receded, spindly tendrils snapping at the space between them. Her fray was coming undone. Seeping out the cracks of its broken shell and shattering the solid quartz steps she'd landed herself upon. She'd hoped that the display of power would thwart him from making his next move; send him to reconsider. But this was a lapse in control.

The artifact behind her hissed, responsive to the tumbling slivers of chaos pouring out from her unfinessed power. This was bad.

"I will take us both down into the seventh circle of Hell if you so much as try and take it." It was a lie. She didn't know if she was capable of controlling it at all. He was some familiar, terrible pyre that stoked the doused coals she'd been certain would never ignite again. Not like this. For all she knew, she'd bring the ceiling down. But there were worse fates. How the Norns must have been grinning with vicious beaks. The Crux was rattling its pedestal, sucking in inky shadow as if it'd starved for millennia. Judging by how long it'd been in residence- it had.

Chunks of quartz stone keeled over the steps, narrowly avoiding her sides as she gripped onto the short lip of the bottom ledge. "Anything. You can take anything but the Crux if you just go."

 

[Vinaein]

For the briefest of moments, Lucian could feel the world stop. In this pristine, shining temple of Azmora, the champion of the Devil of Wrath could only stare in dumbfounded silence at the woman before him.

He could hear no footsteps from without.. There were no shouts of desperate guards. The area surrounding them in this temple was naught but stone, as barren and lifeless as a particularly shining graveyard. Tendrils of shadows encircled him as he stepped out from the penumbras in the room, for it was ever the way of sorcery and monsters to conceal themselves within the shadows, even when the light burnt brightest. He had left Grivka and the forgotten land, with its ancient ruins and crumbling castles so long ago. He had walked so many lands from story and myth since, from the vast forests of Caravia with the decadent aristocracy of the undead who seemed disinclined to separate themselves from such places, the reflection of their crumbled and dilapidated souls...the great, fiery lands of Valatar with the ancient dragons hidden in their mountains of flame. He had seen kingdoms rise and crumble to ashes.

But this temple was different, perhaps because of what was known as the Crux before them It pulsed with power, seeping into the air all about it. It lent an oppressive pallor all through the surrounding region that set even Lucian's hair on edge. His eyes were narrowed as he walked closer.

And there was the woman. She looked wary, but there was no aggression in his sight when he saw her. Her expression indicated only surprise as opposed to belligerence. If she wished to fight, he would accommodate. But it was not his first instinct, far from it in fact. He doubted she was a weakling, however...he could feel magic about her, magic and the crossroads of destiny flitting about as she locked her eyes to his own. "I would really prefer you step away.

It was the unvarnished truth. He didn't want to fight and slake his wrath on an innocent. He had no wish to strike her down where she stood. He had hoped this would be easier. Get in, get out and damn all else....by the time anyone would notice the cursed thing was missing, he would be long away.

He must look a terrible fright. Perhaps she might even sense the darkness he brought with him. She might see her fate if she tried to oppose him, one he would deal, though not gladly. He watched her, careful to keep his violet eyes emotionless. The old baba had had told him before that he wore his heart upon his breast for all to see.

But that had been a long time ago. Now he was someone else, someone different, he might daresay someone attuned at shutting out all emotions. He could feel Avernus behind him, the mighty demon of wrath chuckling delicately as it beheld them. His patron did not want her dead. Perhaps it wanted to see the result of this out of simple intrigue...

He did not put a hand near his sword. Even when she seized a blade herself. One she clearly had no idea how to hold, let alone wield. His eyebrow lifted, the smile that crossed his face not cruel. It was one of surprise, sheer and utter mystification at this. He took a step forward, seeing her panicked before him. Enough to risk her life. His head cocked curiously through it. Well, this was interesting and not at all expected. "What are you doing?" He asked gently. "You've never touched one of those, have you? You're not holding it well. Put more weight to your leg, your stance is all off. You wouldn't last long if I did attack." He tried not to look at her condescendingly. He was making an effort to be friendly-

And then the shadows moved. A thick stream of moonlight rained down upon them, illuminating Lucian before his would be enemy. He watched her, calmly through it all, interested in how she might attack.

And then the weight of the sword brought her down. He didn't laugh as bizarre as it may have been. She was doing her best, after all.

"I will put a price on anything in this room except the Crux."

Well, that was a shame, as the Crux was what he was there for. A low sigh escaped him. "You can't even lift that sword. Think I'm going to believe you could hurl us down to the hells?" He heard Avernus chuckle. "I know quite a bit of hell. I may not be what you're expecting...

He decided to ignore her paltry attempts and he began to walk to the Crux. "Don't blame yourself for this," he said, not unkindly. "The fact of the matter is there was little you could do to prevent it. He neared the crux, trying to give her no second thought...

He failed. Instead, he turned to look at her. "Why would you even try to fight me, if you know how far apart in strength we are, priestess? Surely Azmora cannot be worth so much to you?" He was unclear why he was offering even this at the time. She had to know by now he was far from the norm and he had to flee soon or risk there being problems for him.

And yet...

"Have you a name, brave priestess?" He reached out for the Crux, ready to take it for himself. Or, more accurately, for Avernus.