Skylar looked deep into the surface of the liquid as the votes flooded in -- for some reason, it seemed like there should be a reflection, but it was as smooth and blank as the sky on a starless night. Makes sense. If I'm seeing with some kind of magic vision, maybe it doesn't use light, so there's no photons being reflected back at me off the surface. Or maybe the surface isn't smooth. Or maybe this universe doesn't even have photons. Whatever, time to get culty. For a moment, his grip trembled on the stem of the chalice, and a wild urge to throw it into the chasm gripped him; but he mastered himself and brought the thing to his lips.
Great idea, genius. "Here's incontrovertible proof that I'm a cultist, even if I'm actually not!"
I don't know that we're gonna like the answer to this one, but this bodes well for me if they were telling the truth about 'claiming no dominion'; maybe it'll just be magic superpowers, with no strings attached. But even if it's not, I can't take that risk; the Devari aren't kidding that I'll die real fast without some kind of power.
Skylar Kass drank from the chalice.
As the liquid spilled through his parted lips and onto his tongue, he braced himself for any number of unpleasant tastes and textures; he was in particular expecting half-congealed blood, gelid dusty putrescence, or perhaps the festering lymph of cockroaches. But the liquid was smooth and strangely warm, and it tasted intensely of many things -- chocolate, cedar, almonds, even onions and plums -- all of which were pleasant, if a bit strangely mixed. A tentative sip became a gulp, then another; and before long, the chalice was empty. Setting it back down on the altar, he braced himself for a rush of pain or other unexpected sensation, but there was nothing; he merely felt warm, satiated, and vaguely snacky. It'd go well with some chips or crackers or something.
The voices, which had risen to a clamor during his imbibing, had fallen abruptly silent; he glanced around, confused. "What? You guys bored of talking to me now that I did what you wanted?"
I didn't think he'd drink the whole thing,, marveled the feminine presence silently.
It is unexpected, agreed the lordly Devari. If he survives, of course.
"If I survive?" Skylar asked, abruptly breaking out in a sweat. "What do you --"
Then it hit him.
It felt like his organs were black holes; as though his bones were made of neutron stars. The sheer force and weight of it brought him to his knees; he tried to scream, but his lungs were full of lead and venom. He was choking on rage, gasping for air through a throat which was full to bursting with secrets; his eyes bulged from his skull, sightless with dark visions, and he would have clawed his throat open if his hands hadn't weighed more than the temple around him. He couldn't even fall forward; the weight of his ponderousness anchored him where he was, every atom of him trembling on the urge of collapse under its own gravity.
Remain calm, human, thrummed the analytical-sounding un-voice. You were ill-prepared to consume so much of Father's essence so quickly. Meditate on darkness and calmness; if you panic, you will die here.
Skylar fought down the screams within, wrestling for control over his own shrieking mind; a grim amusement suffused him for a moment as trollish comments bombarded him through the stream, asking if they could have his stuff after he was dead and similar boorish sentiments. Think of it like holding your breath after an exhale, he told himself, desperately grappling for self-control. It seemed impossible at first, but after a moment, Skylar's morbid curiosity asserted itself; Well, if I am gonna die, I should pay attention to how dying works.
Timorously, but with purpose, he began to concentrate on the sensations overwhelming him; what had at first felt ruinous slowly became merely strange, deep and vasty beyond human understanding. With deliberateness, he acclimated himself to it, and it began to reveal something of itself to him; it was solid and yet fluid, unknowable and yet full of knowledge. Being submerged beyond all hope of daylight within the essence of the Dark God was a bit like drowning in crude oil, he realized; if he struggled, it would pull him under -- but if he relaxed, it might buoy him up.
So Skylar Kass stilled his flailing mind into calmness, and simply bore up mindlessly under the weight of all darkness in the universe for a time; it crushed him, but it couldn't crush him into any shape that wasn't himself. It flattened him, immobilized him, but he wasn't going anywhere anyway; it flooded his mind with dark whisperings and screams, but he stilled his own thoughts and allowed the pandemonium to pass over and through him without paying it any attention. And thus, when the tide of infinite darkness receded, Skylar regained control of himself and flopped forward onto the stone floor of the temple, trying not to throw up. "God needs therapy," he muttered to no one in particular; the Devari palpated the darkness with their amusement, like rowdy children beating a drum.
You have no idea, the rumbling, earthy presence agreed; Skylar was surprised to hear an undertone of sadness within it. But you have no time for self-flagellation, newest disciple. You must return to your companions before you are missed; and the structure of this temple was not ready for so much of Father's elan to be removed. This place will rejoin the shadows beneath soon.
Alarmed, Skylar whipped his head up to see that the Devari was telling the truth; chaotic, fitful fibrations had been rocking the stone pedestal upon which he knelt for some time, and large cracks were beginning to creep up the walls from out of the stygian pit below. Weakly, he wrenched himself out of stillness and tried to grab for the iron ladder, but he stumbled and fell again; his body was too soaked with darkness to move more than weakly. "Skek," he muttered to himself.
Fear not. Cold, jet-black tendrils shot through the gloom, connecting him to the ladder like the strands of a spider's web; Skylar jolted and lolled, fighting for consciousness, as the night surrounding him came alive and yanked him to the ladder's base. Numbly, he levered his foot up on to the bottom rung and watched dreamily as the stone he had been standing on fell away into the darkness.
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Climb, human, the lordly voice boomed in his inner ear. Climb, or perish.
Then, suddenly, the lassitude that had infused him was gone, as suddenly as it had submerged him; he jolted into full alertness and yelped "Fratz!" as the platform beneath him broke apart and melted away into the infinite night below. Desperately, he clung to the ladder, but worrying tremors began to vibrate through his hands almost immediately. "Sorbnek it!"
With the strength of panic, he clawed his way upwards; his new, youthful body responded perfectly, hurling him up through the trapdoor with an acrobat's grace just before the ladder came free and tumbled into the oubliette below. Skylar, knowing a theme when he saw it, wasted no time sprinting back the way he had come; he heard and vaguely glimpsed stones and furniture grinding against each other as they cascaded down into the depths of the earth behind him as he ran.
When he ran back up into the trapped area he nearly had a nasty accident, poisoned spikes leering up at him from within a pit that beckoned; but he remembered where all the traps were, and his legs and arms responded like a dream of motion, throwing him over and around dangerous hazards at speed while the dungeon collapsed around him. On and on he ran, black god-power filling his veins and sparking on his tongue as he gasped for breath; weighing him down like irons, it suffused him with useless extravagance that threatened to drag him down to his doom.
Then, at the last, he saw salvation; the door to the stairway through which he'd entered. He threw the bolt wide, kicked it in as he leapt forward, and took the stairs three at a time as he ducked under blades and vaulted over pits and false stairs. Up, up, up to freedom he raced; fingers outstretched, aching to be free of the suffocating shadows surrounding him.
And he almost made it, too -- he was less than a foot short of the entrance when the roof caved in on him.
"I think the cultist was down there," a grumbling voice said.
"Good," sniffed a woman's voice, disdain infusing her words. "One less prisoner to drag back."
"Hold on." There was a rumbling, a shifting of weight; heavy stone moved reluctantly. "There may yet be hope." With a groan, Skylar realized that he was going to survive; awesome. Just what I wanted for my birthday.
The argent light of Aymon's lantern filtered through as the few inches of rubble covering him were shifted away; Skylar coughed, his black hair stained a mottled gray by dust. "Another five minutes?" he joked weakly up at the others' faces; Reine and Levan scowled, but Aymon's stoic visage betrayed what might have been a half-smirk.
"You are fortunate to be alive," the elf reproved him, helping him up; Skylar shook himself, grateful for the heavy coat that had blunted most of the impacts. "What were you doing down there, anyway?"
"Probably sinful rites," Reine asserted, crossing her arms and staring down her nose at him. "No doubt this place is a fallen temple to the sinister god he worships."
"Sure," Skylar grunted, "if that's what you want to call 'taking a dump'. I was just finishing up when the roof fell on me; what did you guys do to make that happen?"
It was a joke, a throwaway jest, but he could immediately see that he'd struck paydirt; Reine's gloating expression turned abashed, and she looked away angrily. "Nothing of consequence. Did you clean yourself, or must we endure the stench of your ordure in addition to your standard miasma?"
"Hey, I smell great," Skylar objected. "Better than your crusty elf brux." Reine's eyes glowed with anger, but Levan stepped between them again, shaking his head ruefully,
"Children," he admonished no one in particular, "play nice." Turning to Skylar, he sized him up; internally, Skylar cringed, wondering if the residue of the chalice's contents might still somehow be visible on his person, but the Loathborn merely nodded in mild satisfaction. "Looks like you're in one piece. Anything hurt?"
"No," Skylar shook his head, "which is crazy, considering that cave-in should have killed me. I think maybe the coat protected me; it seems to absorb force sometimes."
"A useful accoutrement," Aymon agreed, "for one who is often threatened with bodily harm." He chuckled. "I hope you are not under the impression it would withstand a shai'jara's claws, however."
Skylar rolled his eyes. "No, Dad, I don't think I could beat you up." He stood, stretching; is it my imagination, or am I slightly taller? Then Levan stepped in front of him, and he realized that the Loathborn was still the same relative height as he'd been before; nope, just extra stretch height. If my genetics are the same, though, I should end up slightly taller than him when my body is older -- assuming I live long enough to grow up again. "But thanks for rescuing me," he added quickly before the Loathborn could scold him. "I didn't mean to make trouble for you guys."
Levan squinted at him, then shrugged; Skylar could see he'd made the right choice. "It's not like you planned to have the building fall on you while you were pooping."
Skylar repressed the urge to make a smart remark and nodded back. "So, what happened? A storm or something?" He regretted the words the instant they came out of his mouth; just my luck if this world doesn't have storms or weather or anything. They'll execute me as an Incursor for sure if that's the case.
Fortunately, however, he didn't seem to have blundered this time; the others shook their heads, and Reine tried hard to look nonchalant. "I was scouting the interior and triggered a trap. A common experience for any traveler within ruins." She tossed her golden hair over one shoulder artfully. "If you think about it, the fault really lies with the builders."
A common experience if you suck at spotting traps, maybe, Skylar didn't say; he smirked to himself, but tried to keep a straight face and nodded obediently. "Sure. Sorry that happened to you or whatever." He shook more dust off his coat and began the laborious process of trying to get the rest out of his hair. "You find anything good?"
"Not really," the Justiciar replied, moving away to be out of range with a wrinkled nose. "This place appears to have been deserted for a while."
"At the least, then, we are less likely to be ambushed by beasts from within while we slumber," Aymon observed. "I think we may count it fortunate that this stairwell is closed off as well, lest any beast have been lurking down there."
"Right, yeah, yay team." Skylar shoved his hands into his pockets. "So what now?"
The huge bearded elf patted him on the shoulder. "We must rest until moonrise; Reine will watch over us. But for now, take ease where you may -- tomorrow is likely to be strenuous at best and fraught with danger at worst." Taking his own advice, the Ilkon lumbered away, curling up like a hound near the lantern.
"I'm gonna build a fire," Levan decided. "The lantern's nice and all, but there's no heat, and it's gonna get cold once we settle in. Normally I'd worry about the light attracting trouble, but the walls should keep most of that from being an issue."
Reine nodded. "We're well-defended here, too. Seems a good place for it."
Hmm. Maybe I can earn some brownie points. "You need help?" Skylar offered. "I could try to find fuel or tinder."
"Already got some," the Loathborn demurred, "but could always use more. See if you can find a broken chair or something."
Skylar did as he'd been asked, lurking and scouting around the interior of the great hall for anything flammable; there were no chairs or other wooden furniture, but he did come across a web-encrusted tapestry that he thought might burn well. Doing the world a favor, judging by the artist's work, he thought to himself, gazing upon the mural it depicted -- a chariot full of shining elves, being cheered on by other shining elves. This is more self-indulgent than a Furry OC.
Grunting under the hanging's weight, he managed to struggle his way back to the campsite; Levan had already piled up a few broken pieces of what looked like a bookshelf, and Skylar heaved the tapestry atop them with a grunt of exertion. "Here you go. Need help lighting it?"
"Nah." The Loathborn cupped his palms and whispered something spidery into them; a small flame, like a flickering insect, came to life in his hands before being tossed cavalierly atop the small pile of tinder he'd arranged at the base of the kindling. "I got a few tricks."
Skylar blinked. "Is that an Art?"
"Yeah. I'm from the bloodline of Virsus, who has dominion over fire." The Loathborn eyed him, waiting for him to make a snarky comment, but Skylar had no such intention; he kept his expression attentive, and the Loathborn settled back onto his haunches with a grunt. "I don't like to use it, especially around Lucians; I'd use flint and tinder instead if I had 'em."
Skylar marveled at the difference a few pieces of information made in his understanding of the situation; Virsus must be one of Gram's Devari, maybe even one of the ones that talked to me back in the temple. And since those are his ancestors, everybody probably assumes it means he's in league with or at least sympathetic to Gram; using it would lend credibility to that claim. "That sucks," he offered lamely. He opened his mouth to console the other man, but thought better of it and withdrew; I don't know him well enough yet to try that. At least he's not scowling at me and threatening me right now, so I'll quit while I'm ahead.
As he watched, Levan and Reine settled in for the evening; he knew he'd have a hard time sleeping on the stone floor, and wasn't in any hurry to get started. I need more information about Arts. But who do I ask? And how do I do it without making them more suspicious I'm an Incursor? Any ideas, chat?
WHO CAN I GET TALKING ABOUT ARTS?
