Knights of Anathaeum Council of the Dead

[Abalon Shallows]

The first night, Abalon, ossified of skin and wreathed with moss, did prepare the ground with burning sage and charged stones of morbid energies, glittering amber under muted starlight as deeds were provided in slow reverence. Smoke twisted and spiraled in wild abandon to the winds that carried such purification, howling through the forest and snaking around the ritual area. His staff did draw sigils in the ground as the air was purified and the ground grew more enticing to the spirits that would come in the grand communion, a grand circle set about a pile of tinder and dead wood that stood high and proud. The stones were buried in exact points to the sigil's expectation some feet away from the circle, the first audience members to this performance. Bargains with the dead were soon to be made, benign words of non expectation, benign words that promised communication instead of the typical necromancy practiced by those who weaved that of death and dying power. Those who raised the spirits to serve them in body were a cruel sort, Abalon believed. Those who drew spirits to serve their intent in life with but messages to the living was a far nobler pursuit, Abalon hoped.

And so, Abalon pursued that aspect of death that served the living in such degrees of beneficiary.

This area of the glade was less bountiful in verdant nature than the rest of the forest, for the ground was seeped in the languid death energies that collected and pooled by the willingness of the dead to speak once more to their living brothers and sisters of sworn oath. The trees did creak in the low wind that carried through, almost warning Abalon of the perils of what he committed with ritual and intent. A single mote of a firefly did shimmer about and rest near Abalon as he meditated in the final hours of the night, to be greeted by day and further reflection. It faded and departed as sunlight struck in dazzling purity.

As the day continued, he sat resting against a stump of a tree, which thrummed in the spectrum of magic that did flow here communicated warnings to the common that were heeded by the masters of death. The stones did breathe in shuddering embrace of the earth as they sapped the unliving energies that flowed as a languid mist across the layline that lay crooked and bled out such energies at this time of year.

The charged stones were a common item that Abalon created, things of death magic, things that could draw necrotic energy away and into themselves. They protected those who wore them from the touch of baleful necromancers. But their purpose was not to protect, but to harness this day. Harness the howl of the distant wolf that mourned their dead, harness the dying embers of the fire smothered, harness all manner of ghoulish things that nipped and snapped at the fabric of reality on any giving day or night. And bid them protected welcome for one specific audience with the living.

The second night approached. Shadows grew longer and steadily absorbed into the black.

Abalon rose from the tree stump, the mana that had gathered from his meditation fuelled what was to be done now. Precious time was to be spent in the dark of night drawing intricate sigils in the ground with the end of his quarterstaff, placing palm upon the circles and patterns created that sealed them in the mana gathered by Abalon in his effort to commit such a ritual.

Self inflicted treason against the living was the whispering temptations of darker spirits that observed the process, a process that was so commonly committed towards foul intent, a haggling, a bargaining with the spirits of the dead.

Already Abalon was not alone.

Shades of life clung to trees and watched with ruby slits for eyes high above the pursuant of death. Things swaddled in evil magic and cruel intent. Things that would haunt the living in future times, and had chosen this moment to attempt to beleaguer this committed one of death magic.

Abalon drew breath and spoke.

“I will not parlay with you. Begone and be still, this prepared place is for the departed that served us true, not the fallen facsimiles of flesh and soul, you are unwelcome, you are bid begone.”

His eyes shone with sinister energy all his own, and an open palm prepared with charcoal and proper pattern did banish the apparitions with a surge of necrotic energy that lashed out with precision that inspired whatever came close to self preservation to those manifest of the dead.

Simple white sage was not enough to be rid of such things. One had to contest the hallowing earth with creatures that might use such a thing as a portal. And so Abalon did burn more white sage and frankenscence as was required after lashing out at the lurking dead. Things that were not welcomed yet drew close to such a maw of power. The mage bolstered the artefacts that were strewn about with proper courtesies to the living that would gather.

Abalon knew that many knights refused to engage in such a ritual's conclusion. To speak to with the dead, to know their wisdom, to know their regrets, to know their portents. But he performed this service to those who might seek something from the dead without endangering themselves. Better that he, a Pursuant of Death in complete dedication and understanding, risk such an endeavour than the sorrowful be tempted to deal with such shades that were banished by his open palm and assured voice.

This was not a ritual to be performed by those uncertain of their willingness to have their departed back. Abalaon Shallows had seen what it was to approach such a ritual with an unsure heart. Worst things than shades could be resembled in the half way place between life and death, the intermediary between animation and damnation.

Abalon fended off the pyre that had been created from those who sought an audience and tempting word with the mage of death. Shades, horrors and languid breaths of the scornful dead. Beckoned close by the nature of the ritual, banished by the integrity and mastery of Abalon. He was well versed in such exchanges and found the usual struggle to be an edification of all he practised and all he believed.

And so the third day entered into being as darkness gave way to light, and once again Abalon rested upon the stump and drew mana into himself. His eyes remained upon the pyre, for even in light could some manner of dead thing make their entrance into his mind. Now approached the most dangerous point of such a weave of magic, for the things that approached during day had enough power to make themselves manifest in more physicality than their comrades of the night. Such was the way of the ritual.

Abalon entertained no quarrel with the dead that approached during light hours to such a now enriched place of necrotic energies, but rather a firm hand and firmer voice. These things that approached during the day were observed and were banished in turn. Three times did Abalon cast out his own powers as he rested against the stump. So the spirits that were not invited were sent away, their words falling on loyal ears before being silenced.

Finally, all spirits knew and understood that this man of ossified flesh would not be misguided.

The third night approached.

The moon was at it's peak above the place of the ritual, gleaming, full and providing solace against the black. Such was inferred from the star charts Abalon had studied, the map makers who were sympathetic towards his purpose.

He tread carefully upon the ground, adorned with amber stones and swirling patterns that would host the guests that were to be drawn.

“Let us gather,” Abalon spoke, his voice carrying to the trees and beyond the veil.

Abalon summoned a small disc of shimmering black to raise him to the proper elevation above the pyre which stood as high as a man, the wood now enriched by the energies that had been denied to the things that had approached on the second day. The pursuant of death bid his shadow from the moonlight upon the centre of the pyre, and there, for but a moment, a mass of blackness did coil and writhe under the protection of darkness that Abalon provided. A perfect thing of necrotic energy that could coalesce here. This was the kindling of the dead, a pure thing that could be harnessed for great evil, yet, to Abalon, this was the raw fuel that was required for the nobility of seeking closure, council, comradeship and confirmation of stories that could only be spoken by the departed knights of Anathaeum. Abalon floated, his eyes staring into the blackness he had created at this proper time of year.

Abalon had one person in mind to communicate with, but would first allow anyone else who had been granted permission to attend such a ceremony space. And with a word that was thrice laced with proper respect to the arcane, the dead, and the living, the pyre did ignite into intense neon green flame that rose high, threatening to consume Abalon as he floated above it.

The pursuant of death quickly bid himself away from the flame, descending to the ground as the flames threatened to take him into a world not his own. But unlike others that might have taken precautions against such a thing, Abalon was revitalised by such a close proximity of death. An effect of his curse, to find no sustenance from the healing energies of the living, but to find solace and succour from the domain of death. The final gift of his former master in death.

The flame rose high and green and did signal the others to approach by virtue of the smoke that rose through the clearing of the forest, by those who had been informed by Abalon and the superiors that would invite particular people to seek council from the departed. Abalon waited, and would bid them gather around the flame, and protect them from harm. Their questions would be answered should the spirits deem it proper. The knights of anathaeum would speak to their fallen, and find what answers they might from this ritual.

Abalon would make sure of it.

He waited to greet the first to approach, his eyes glowing purple from the gathered mana, his white robes illuminated by his own willpower made manifest. He peered out and waited for his brothers and sisters of the Order to make their questions to the flame, so that the appearance of the fallen dead might manifest within those green flames to provide their council. The flames did rise and dance, awaiting the souls that would be summoned by name.

 

[Elinyra Derwinthir]

A full moon was presiding in the late-autumn sky on the third night of Abalon’s ritual. Most of the forest’s deciduous trees had already cast off the passing year’s leaves, creating a carpet on the forest floor that rustled and crackled with each step through groves of naked pale trunks shining bright in the moonlight and dark pools of shadow between the everlasting boughs of conifers. The moist scent of decomposing leaf litter rose gently into a breeze edged with the bite of coming winter.

The druid had seen the pillar of smoke rising in the clearing from her camp on a nearby ridge. She’d been apprised of this sign of invitation before the ceremony and now made her way towards the ritual space across withering and dead meadows with her own solemn appreciation for the powers that manifested during this time of year. Elinyra had asked to participate in this ritual in order to learn; she had only recently come into the company of the Knights, and was still unsure of their order as a whole. Mainly, the pursuant of death’s path was in some ways a darker side of her own, and she thought it might be enlightening to experience the end of the year’s cycle from a different point of view.

Samhuinn was close – the winter wolf nipping at the rabbit’s heels. The druids of the Falwood venerated this festival of winter’s coming with somber ceremonies and introspective celebration. Elinyra reflected on this time of remembrance, honor for the ancestors as the veil between the worlds of the living and dead grew thin; the time for letting go of the year’s sorrows just as the trees shed their leaves in preparation for winter’s rest.

Though she would perform her own ceremony in her own time, she had dressed for the occasion – wearing her much-patched green robe, a wreath of mugwort on her brow, carrying a small offering of bread and wine – and as always, her yew staff.

She had kept a moderate pace through the quiescent woodlands, but slowed as she came into the clearing where Abalon’s ceremony was taking place. The eerie, green flame from the pyre cast surreal light and dancing shadows on the surrounding trees and the white-clad figure waiting there. The power that had gathered here was palpable. A sacred space, though one that made some part of her soul flinch in discomfort.

Elinyra came to a halt outside of the boundary of Abalon’s ritual space.

“I have come to take part in your ceremony,” she announced and raised her staff in greeting. “May I enter?”

Abalon Shallows​

 

[Abalon Shallows]

With open palm that faced the ground Abalon did feel the surging energies that were bid welcome to grow in power and wilfulness by his direction and preparations. The wind carried the scent of white sage, but more overpowering than that purifying scent was the texture of the fabric of magic. It greeted newcomers as pressure about the temples. It made the hairs stand upon end for a moment as one might approach, and cloy the senses at first as the mortal frame lingered close to the essence of death. What else could be inferred was down to each person approaching and their familiarity with the truth of what was being wrought.

The threads of magic were well anchored and interlinked. Well woven to carry out the ceremony's complete purpose, shimmering and pulsing in frequencies of possibility and channelling. Dark fabric that could not manifest alone or without great will. This was the material of the unliving, the spirits that lingered beyond their tether. The material of magic wrapped like a constricting snake around the area of the campfire. Were it not for the sigils and amber jewels that were placed perfectly, it might tighten and choke the life out of those who would approach in a sudden surge of willful coalescence. As it remained, it merely performed the ouroborus that did not sink fangs into anything other than itself nor gained progress with it's meal.

Abalon had been the one holding the arcane needle at the final moment of the three day and night ritual, and so had much responsibility before he cut the cord and allowed the creation to be free from him. But that moment might be long into the night. Abalon's hand remained still as it felt that fabric that hung heavy with rich possibility and dark splendour. His fingertips danced across that fabric and sensed much.

It was akin to placing one's hand within an uncertain pool of water that might resemble stillness in one moment and then a swirling whirlpool the next. At the presence of this blighted elf the necromantic energies did shift ever so slightly to grow curious and full of wanderlust. Left unchecked without his attendance to the ritual, the energy might manifest into something hostile and harmful. But this was nothing that Abalon had not prepared for or accepted as his duty are caretaker. The jewels did guide the energies to swirl on around the green flame that licked up towards the moon, as if the energies were dancers to a rhythm that only those deeply entrenched in death magic might appreciate. To others it might be akin to the growing sense that something may rip itself out from the soil to claw at one's feet. Perhaps to drag one down. Or perhaps to carry one into the eye of the vortex, to become part of the green flame in all it's combustion.

Aware of this sensation being uncomfortable and fearful to those who might approach, Abalon pressed his fingers upon the fabric of magic as to calm this overtone. The beat that the magic danced to grew less suggestive of doom. More akin to a heartbeat that reminded one of who was still alive and belonging in this world.

This matter attended, Abalon took a step forward towards the newcomer and appraised them. They were the first. Perhaps the only one. It mattered not to Abalon the number of people who might approach the realms of death with questions, or mere curiosity. He himself would have purpose for the flame and spirits. He did not seek power. He sought to serve. His purple eyes flickered with green magic for a moment as he went through the precautions he expected of himself. This was a mortal. Afflicted, yes. Much like himself, there was a curse to be contended with. But mortal all the same.

Abalon's voice came through over the sound of the fire, clear, certain, authoritative, yet compassionate. It was an odd blend of taking responsibility for the newcomer, and ensuring they might not thwart the safety of this place, witfully or otherwise.

“Approach and be known to this space. I, Abalon, greet you, and bid you welcome to this hallowed ground. I shall guide and protect you from what has been willed into this night. You are safe, so long as you practice mindfulness and respect to what has gathered here to serve both families, the living, and the departed. This ceremony is for all the living who might learn from the passing from living to dead, and the spaces in between which we inhabit beyond ourselves. This ceremony is for all the dead who might impart their wisdom and benevolent intent. Such has been rendered true. I see you bring tribute.”

He breathed in and sensed the mood of the energies gathered. He looked up, nodded, as if hearing something, and returned his gaze to the newcomer.

“It is accepted gladly. We thank you. Place it near the fire. If you seek an audience with the spirits, speak a name, and I shall will the flames to illuminate that soul before us, as an echo through the veil. Hold the person within your mind and think of them, and they may appear. Or, perhaps, someone else with message concerning them. Some are too deeply entrenched in the sleep of death to be stirred by this ritual. Such is the way of death. Such is the way of the living seeking the council of the dead.”

Abalon did take a step to the side, and gestured for Elinyra to approach.

Elinyra

 

[Elinyra Derwinthir]

Sacred sites. Ritual spaces. Hallowed ground. Whatever names they were given, these places where the world’s energies pooled each held their own unique mysteries. Elinyra had visited a few such places in her life. She was acquainted with the power they could emanate, the feelings they could evoke in those sensitive enough to the spirit realms.

In the span of only a few seconds, Elinyra felt as if she was submerged into the leeching cold of the Void. The stars shone like frigid diamonds locked in a sea of black ice, all the nwyfre – the life force – drawn into the baleful knowledge of the otherworldly pillar of fire before her. It was such a foreign energy and yet, some part of her afflicted self knew its identity well.

With Abalon's guidance, the magic receded back into the earth, leaving only a gentle pulsing energy and the scent of sage in the crisp night air.

Reflections of emerald flame flickered in the druid’s eyes as she stepped into the circle. She set her offering near the pyre per Abalon’s direction, her gaze caught in a different fire from her past. A village flashed by her mind’s eye, a place of death and sorrow that stabbed into her heart again like a knife in the dark.

She hadn’t known any of the damned souls of that village, but she’d known their end. She’d seen Death reach out from beyond its demesne one cold and spiteful night. Deep down, she still mourned for all of the souls lost.

No, she hadn’t known anyone in that village. But she remembered.

“Jarendale,” the name haunting her mind seemed to say itself.

Abalon Shallows​

 

[Abalon Shallows]

With the utterance of the word did set the weave of magic shudder into motion, a pull of soul energy about the pyre lurched further into existence as the orbiting power was given gravitas by means of context, of command, of wishes and desires to see something beyond the veil. The surroundings became more illuminated by the green fire that burned intently and wildly at the utterance. Abalon blinked heavily and extended his own awareness onto the arcane pull. This whirlpool of energy would be wielded to the effect desired. Abalon would make sure of it.

“Jardendale,” Abalon said as he pointed his staff into the heart of the flame. He drew closer to it, and pressed the tip of the staff into the heart of the flame. Now came a moment of damnation should his attitude be poor. He firmed his grip, firmed his jaw, and began his utterances to sift through the souls that might meet upon the firmament of reality.

“Jardendale,” Abalon repeated, this time his voice harder, with more authority, as if calling at a dog that had it's teeth bared and flexing all manner of hostilities freely. Indeed it was so of the energies, the connection between the staff, the fire, and his own mortal soul was a moment of trepidation. The amber that he wore and was adorned with shuddered as it absorbed some of the lashback of soul energy, a well understood phenomenon yet one few guarded themselves adequately from. The damage from leaving such forces untempered by protective sigils and adornments could shave morality from one's soul. Fortunately, Abalon had seen much of that failure to protect oneself in his colleagues, and refused to allow such an oversight be suffered.

The fires calmed. They rose in a single column which was as if funnelled by intense airflow, which then parted into two, revealing a gateway into something which was not quite memory, not quite a soujourn into the afterlife, but a blending of the souls that had been lost at Jardendale's will, intent, last moments, eternal sorrows, and thankful episodes of life.

“See then, the denizens of Jarendale, on this most auspicious day,” Abalon whispered, and cracked the staff into the center of the fire.

The pyre slowed, slowed further, froze in place and obeyed. The flames were arrested in their leaping to the sky, a still painting to which now hosted the vestiges of the dead.


Silence...


And then voices that would speak, held in check and allowed to communicate and show their visages to Elinyra in ghostly form, kept from unleashing malice, but kept in calmness in understanding that this was a two way window. The living might seek comfort and solace, the dead might have some company for a time to understand the living better. This was not the place for the hungering dead who were jealous of the world. This was a place of understanding and communication. Or so the thoughts went, and Abalon did set this entire arcane ritual to bring about.

The endeavour would be up to Elinyra to hold sway over the dead that she wished as audience. They had been summoned. And in tones of shadowy blue did they rise from the space between the fire's motionless tendrils. Abalaon's eyes glowed purple as he did work his craft, and he hoped that he had done enough to protect her from whatever baleful thing that might sieze upon this moment.

@Elinyra

 

[Elinyra Derwinthir]

Elinyra held a breath as she stood before the frozen flames, staring into the portal Abalon had opened. It was an eerie thing, quite unlike the symbolic doorway the druids opened in Samhuinn rituals every year. There was no joy of temporary reunion with ancestors who’d moved on into the next coil of existence. The Crone of Winter did not wait on the other side, stirring her cauldron. Rather, a dark corridor seemed to stretch into another time and place – or a place where time no longer had meaning.

An apparition appeared in the fire-framed darkness, at first only a vague humanoid figure outlined in deep blue. A male voice called out in lament:

“Jarendale was our home. Our home... undone.” Half of the figure’s features manifested into that of a burly human man. The other half swirled fluidly like shapeless mist. Elinyra recognized him as the man who’d led a threatening mob against her and the nordenfiir who’d been investigating the village’s troubles. In his anger, the nordenfiir had cut the unfortunate man in two, to the horror of every observer – Elinyra included.

“I remember you, elf,” the apparition said in that same sorrowful tone. “You came with the one who was to help us. The one who-” part of his misty half shifted, as if there was a hand there he was touching to his missing cheek. “The one who killed me.”

Elinyra’s blighted hand was burning as she spoke to the spirit; as she recalled her own anger and grief. She opened herself to that feeling, not just in her hand but in her mind. To re-open it here and now let her hope that it could finally heal.

“Much injustice was done on that day, and on days before,” she agreed. She couldn’t have controlled the nordenfiir’s actions, but she regretted that her own had not granted the village peace. Regardless of the evil inflicted by some, an entire village of people didn’t deserve that death sentence. She still didn’t believe that everyone there had carried equal guilt.

“T’was my price to pay. ‘Tis my price to pay still. I convinced my neighbors – my friends – to defend a liar and a murderer. I stood by while innocent people were put to the flame; I was a liar and a murderer. Their deaths still hang heavy on my soul: the merchants we set afire... the townsfolk who lost their lives because I was a coward.”



Despite the evil this man had inflicted in his life, Elinyra felt a shred of sympathy for him. The suffering his soul inflicted on itself was palpable, his regret as heavy as stone. Did it mean that a soul could change, even after death?

“You feel regret?” she asked. The word seemed to hang in the air for a moment.

“Regret eternal...” his disembodied whisper echoed through the portal.

Perhaps it was the voice of Awen that flowed through Elinyra in that moment, for it seemed that a wisdom beyond her ken replied,

“You have moved beyond the petty judgments of mortals now. Only the gods beyond may see fit to require penance from you, or grant forgiveness. Grant the latter to yourself, and you free yourself from regret. Go in peace, spirit.”

Peace…. It floated in the portal, as light as a feather, and the spirit dissipated back into the void. Elinyra noticed that the pain in her hand lessened a bit, as it if too felt the lifting of a burden.

“Peace,” another voice spoke, this one young and feminine. The apparition of a human girl, no older than eight or nine, appeared. Her translucent eyes gazed at Elinyra with a haunted sadness although she smiled with an innocence that even Death itself could not tear away.

“I remember you!” she said brightly, as if they’d been lifelong friends. “Papa said you and the big angry man made the food go bad. Mama told me to hide in the pantry when she got the torches.” She frowned, her vision looking somewhere distant. “They were scared – scared of you and the man and the monsters nobody could see. When the monsters and the fire came, I was scared too. I hated you and the man for hurting mama and papa and me.

“But I know the truth now – the others told me.” The girl smiled again gently. Elinyra had one hand to her mouth, as if to hold back the well of sorrow that was threatening to overwhelm her. “I know you tried to help us. The grown-ups didn’t want to see it, and that’s when the bad things happened.”

She shrugged and extended her hand towards the barrier of the veil, as if to comfort the druid. “It’s okay. Bad things happen sometimes. But it’s warm here, and nobody’s hungry, and I have mama and papa. No more monsters.”

The girl smiled one last time before her image waved and dissipated into nothingness. Elinyra remained speechless, lost in a haze of both grief and hope.

“Monsters.” The thought reflected in the rattling hiss of dry leaves around the periphery of the ritual space.

“I… remember… you…” the third voice scraped the air like claws across steel. Within the portal, Elinyra could barely make out an arcane blue aura around a shapeless darkness. The ground shuddered as the entity slammed against the veil. She backed up a half-step, startled. Her inner blight, which had been pacified in the little girl’s benevolent presence, seemed to awaken suddenly. She gripped her staff tighter in a mental battle for control over herself.

Abalon Shallows​

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon watched as the first humanoid figure approached. He tempered his arcane wit to wrestle with the demands befallen to him. Demands to weave the fabric of magic so as to allow such communication to be rendered completely without it sullying his soul, without the act compelling his own soul from it's moorings. Necromancy was not a predilection for the faint hearted. One had to stare into the void of death, accept the hazards, and step through and beyond what was possible. Upon this auspicious day did Abalon work his pursuit into the world, for good or ill, he served both the living and the dead. The living in what words they might hear from those departed. The dead in their need to gain their own closure over the circumstances of their death, and the place it left them in the cosmos. And what more besides.

The stress that the first spirit was manageable, well prepared for and given all patience as Abalon performed as sentry to both the living and the dead. He had seen stranger things than the dead speaking to the living. One such time had been the living lashing out at the dead, a paladin who's only cause was to vanquish instead of heed those they felled.

That had been a foolish day, he thought.

Abalon listened to the call of the void. It was the endless crashing of the dead ocean of time, a sound that was at once beautiful to the arcane ear and dreadening to the engine of life that was at base cause afeared at the prospect of such a negative space. He listened to the words exchanged. The troubles of the villagers. Their thoughts and feelings, how they accepted things, and let others accept the way of the past it seemed. This was the true purpose of such a ritual. This way of giving closure to the living, this council of the dead.

The benevolent and hard slaughtered made their entrance and their return to the fold of deathly black and blue. Abalon gave a small smile as the druid provided her wise words, and felt a kinship in this moment. But this was not to last. The flames grew colder yet more intense in their luminosity.

The acrid smell of sulfur began to creep into the material space, and at once Abalon's eyes flared at the sound did invade the space. The fire did flicker, Abalon stepped closer to the elven druid, and felt the tremor of trepidation tempt his soul to panic at the sound of another unwanted thing.

Such was the risk of dealing with the dead. They were endless, as varied in circumstance as they were in ambition. Some, like the ones before this source of consternation, had some measure of peace about them. Some, like the one who dared make approach, had far more sinister intentions.

Such was the hazards, and Abalon stepped forth to oppose it's will despite such risks.

All fear was banished, replaced by action and refutation of the insurgancy of the dead. Abalon stepped closer and extended a palm raised upward, a symbol to halt the figure. A warding thing of deathly magicks. He spoke with assurity, yet with all politeness, firmness, yet all understanding to both sides of the portal's concerns.

“Spirit, I am guardian to this space. Speak, and be known, but act not in violence or malcontent, or be dismissed, nay, quenched of all power you possess by my hand. Death holds you, and undeath shall not grip you should you step forward. Only total dissolution, should you invade. Speak, and be known, but respect my whim and power, or suffer a fate worse than you inhabit so readily in shape and form. Take heed. Know of my power, and, of my benevolence to allow this corridor to allow passage of thought, but not your power here, spirit. Speak and be known, to the living from the dead, and to the dead from the living. Speak but do not tread beyond!”

 

[Elinyra Derwinthir]

The spectre ended its assault of the portal at Abalon's demand, though its hatred was as tangible as the grip of deep winter on bare skin. For a few moments, the amorphous entity only hovered like a shred of void in the world, rasping wordlessly. Elinyra took a deep breath and steadied herself against the moment of madness that had tried - and failed - to overtake her.

"They had some wares comin' 'round..." the spirit said at length in a voice that quavered with fear. "...didn't have enough to pay, all of us..." It took a moment for Elinyra to make any sense of this jumbled phrase. Digging through her recollection of the events in Jarendale, she remembered who had said these same words.

"Your name was Paul in life, wasn't it?" she asked. It was a guess, but she felt confident it was a correct hunch even though the spectre made no immediate response.

"They 'ad a carriage you see- we didn't know 'bout their families in there till we set fire to it..." the voice was strange, more like a recording of the past than someone speaking in the present; still carrying the same fear and guilt from the moment when Paul had made his confession.

"So judge us if y'will, bloody knife-ear. As if your friend 'ere 'asn't slit a few throats 'imself!" the echo continued. Elinyra came to the realization that this spirit was trapped in its past, repeating what it had once said. Now that Abalon had tempered its initial reaction to her presence, it seemed not to notice either of them. Perhaps it was because of the man's violent demise at the hands of a monster as evil as he was, or because of the weight of his ultimate guilt from what he'd done during his life.

Elinyra turned to Abalon. "Could you -"

"Elinyra." The druid felt a chill spread through her bones. She lost her breath before she could finish her question. The spirit had spoken her name, without a doubt, but its voice grew deeper, stronger: someone else's voice. And it said her name not like someone who'd overheard it from another, but like someone who knew her. It was not a feeling of kinship that the tone invoked.

"Who... are you?"

The spectre twitched as if someone had prodded it with a hot poker. "Submit," the voice spoke again. No... commanded.

Elinyra steeled herself, although part of her suddenly felt like she was trapped in that nightmare again. Her cursed hand was no longer burning. Disturbingly, it felt better than ever.

"WHO ARE YOU?" she demanded.

"Submit." It echoed through the spiritual corridor as the spectre continued to convulse and dissipate before their eyes, like a piece of fabric caught in a hurricane.

Abalon Shallows

 

[Abalon Shallows]

These words so delivered gave rise to concern within the Pursuant of Death, this ceremony was quickly becoming less about communication and more about compelling each party to their respective wishes. Such was the trappings of each party, he thought, the living demanded answer, the dead demanded allegiance to their cause in this instance. Whatever that might be. Abalon could not say he understood the gravity or the meaning of the situation, that context was required to glean the truth of it. This was to be a council of moments, spread between each other as to preserve the intention of it entire. To heal and to bridge the gap between those departed and the living. Not what it had by flared temper had become something else.

And so Abalon decided to provide some respite to both parties. To buy some time by practising an infusion of loch and death into the ceremony. There were only two living here right now, so such indulgences could be allowed Abalon thought.

Abalon raised his hands and performed three snaps of necromantic gestures, gestures that by their nature would catalyse the air into performing an act of time dilation to the unfurling of messages and magic. The spectre slowed, the spirits would be denied quick communication, for the arbiter of the powers at force did command it so. He breathed a ragged breath from the exertion, and spoke with ice coldness to begin with, being so close to the hub of energy and denying it's turn.

“Enough,” Abalon breathed.

“Enough, for now,” Abalon continued and drew close. The stilling of the image that the portal provided set his nerves to calm, for the air had grown tense with the passage of communication. Much had been said. Considerations for morale and the psyche should be considered.

“Breathe. I can seal this off, or, you can continue. You risk much by continuing in such a state. The dead are endless, some as you have found compel much from the living. But you must know that the answer to your questions may have a higher price than what you have paid so far."

He paused. Allowed the words to permeate. "I can..." a moment as the strain took hold upon his frame, but Abalon kept it in check with two more gestures to secure the time dilation. He continued.

"I can help you in your pursuit of answers. But it would be a far more focused thing. Do you want a moment to recover? To talk about what it is you found here this night? Speak true, and with the spirit of learning. This much I ask before I aid you further. Speak, and let me know how you wish to proceed.”

Elinyra

 

[Elinyra Derwinthir]

Elinyra was still staring breathlessly at the spectre slowed to a crawl by Abalon's magic. Something in its words, or its voice, or the black shroud of its being - triggered something in her memories. A shadowy figure creeping across moonlit woods, a dagger in the dark, that horrid hissing noise: they all returned with such force that Elinyra was nearly knocked from her feet. She tried to will the scene away, as she always did when it came to haunt her sleep, but this time it refused to release its grip. This time she thought she heard something she hadn't noticed before - the hissing was not just background noise, but a series of inscrutable whispers.

She'd come all this way for answers. Left behind home and kin. Had begun to wonder if she was becoming a monster or losing her mind. It was so close, she could feel it - but Abalon was right. The price was too high.

"Seal it off!" she pleaded with the pursuant at last. She forced her gaze to her feet, to the mugwort leaf that had fallen from the wreath on her brow and fallen there. Breathe.

She'd have her answers another day. For now, she had to take a step back and find her center. Clear her mind. Leaning heavily, wearily on her staff, Elinyra would retreat to the edge of the circle and sit silently for Abalon to tend to other matters.

Abalon Shallows