The Syzygy The Long Dark

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Ruslan Gildal

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In Gild they called it "the Long Dark". Scholars and travelers from other Campanian kingdoms, nations, and city-states had returned with the name bestowed upon the upcoming celestial event by leading figures of Elbion, the Triennial Syzygy, yet by then the simpler name had become entrenched. Gildan and other Campanian astronomers knew that an eclipse was coming, and they knew also that this one was to be no ordinary eclipse, as when Lessat, according to its habit, caught the sun. No, this particular eclipse would last longer, much longer: three days of total darkness. And what was worse? Though local astronomers had foreseen and predicted the eclipse itself, they could not have predicted its accompanying effects. News of this spread through Campania only when those scholars and travelers returned.

For the Kingdom of Gild, the Senate issued an urgent decree just days before the Long Dark descended:

All rural Gildan citizens were advised to seek shelter within the walls of the city, or of the nearest walled town. An emergency levy of troops was to be held to maintain maximum manning of the walls and vigilance of the city, these troops to be commanded by both consuls and the nobles they appointed as subordinate commanders. All Praetors not fallen ill with the effects of "eclipse sickness" were to augment the manning of the walls and patrols of the city. A hospital for Penitents suffering the effects of "eclipse sickness" was to be established within the Temple of the Everburning Flame. And finally, all non-Gildan people who sought shelter within the walls of the city were to be welcomed, provided for, and billeted in the Templar Barracks; magic-users were to be given Provisional Clemency in this regard and, so long as they abided the laws of Gild, were also to be provided for during the period of the Long Dark.

All these preparations had been made when, at last, the moment came when the light of the sun would disappear and not be seen again for three whole days. And to the south, coming up from the Anatol Sea, a massive mundane storm, birthed further out in the waters of the Asherah Ocean itself, was on its approach to batter Campania and Gild alike.

The Long Dark had begun.
 
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THE WESTERN GATE​


Two figures rode on horseback in the encompassing dark. What scant light from the stars from above had been squelched by the thick clouds, yet all was not completely pitch: for the two figures had lanterns they held aloft, those precious flames therein protected from the rising winds; ahead, all along the walls of Gild, fires stood sentinel alongside the soldiers—human, dwarven, ogre—who kept their watch against what terrors might lurk outside; and, to the south, the sky was alive with constant crackles and flashes of blue and white, lightning ceaseless in its sundering of the storm clouds which carried it.

The two figures approached the Western Gate. Heavily manned, and the lanterns of the riders clearly visible, they had been spotted long before they came within shouting distance. A guard in the fortifications above of the gate itself called to them: "HALT! Who goes there?"

The two horses stopped. Their riders remained calm.

The first of them pulled down the hood of his cloak. And then did he call out, "Praetor Ruslan Gildal, son of Kadir Gildal, inheritor of the lineage of King Andreas Gildal!"

His Gezi was over, and at long last...

"I am coming home," he called to them, and this with a smile which in that moment could know no greater satisfaction.
 
THE WESTERN GATE​


The second of the riders pulled down her hood, and similarly did she call out, "Praetor Anfisa Ironhammer, daughter of Gogrun Ironhammer, forged of the bronze of the Beyars!"

Great commotion from above. The guards could be seen hustling through the gaps in the fortifications, and the enthusiastic shout of "Open the gate!" could clearly be heard.

As this was going on, Anfisa glanced to Ruslan. Said affably, "We almost made it on time."

"I would say we arrived at no better time." He pointed his chin southward. "We could have arrived drenched and storm-battered, quivering like hounds rescued from a freezing cold deluge."

Anfisa bristled. "Perish the thought!" Gah, mayhap she had grown quite accustomed to the warm waters of the Great Bath, all her time spent "roughing it" out on the road during her own Gezi notwithstanding. Some amenities, she supposed, were just too good to give up easily, even when one's intent was to foster a better endurance and robust austerity within oneself. Cold streams just couldn't compare, let alone the downpour of some gigantic storm!

Then, with no greater impetus than the familiar sight of home before them, the journey's end at hand, Anfisa asked of her companion Ruslan, "Did you find your Gezi to be pleasing in its insight of the world?"
 
THE TEMPLE OF THE EVERBURNING FLAME​


Emergency hospitals had been set up in both the Southern and Northern Refectories in the Temple. All of the dining tables and chairs in each of the large rooms had been pushed to one side, and cots set up all throughout their length. Gild's Penitents, magic-wielding citizens and immigrants alike who sought the salvation on offer from Jura, had been the bellwether of the coming havoc of the Long Dark before the first tales of a "Triennial Syzygy" had even made it to Gild. Initially it was feared that a plague had crept into the city, invidious in its selection of victims. But then some Praetors, too, began to show signs of this same fever-like sickness, and all the while not a single man nor woman of common blood—that is, without magic or Praetor powers—fell ill with this sickness.

Information all converged roughly at the same time: the sickness, the Long Dark eclipse, the travelers arriving back from Elbion with news of the Syzygy. Thus was the decree of the Senate quickly issued.

Priestess Marta Maisal had taken it upon her own initiative to aid in the establishment of the emergency hospitals in the Temple and, further, to provide care for the ailing Penitents. She had felt only mild symptoms of the so-called "eclipse sickness", and thus thought it her duty as Priestess therefore to do everything she could for those suffering in these times of tribulation.

And thank Regel, she was not alone.

Presently, Marta was cleaning up some vomit from the floor beside the cot of a Penitent who was suffering terribly. He apologized profusely, but Marta would have none of it, telling him not to worry himself.

"Grigori," she said, as her fellow Praetor came up behind her. "How do our stores of herbal remedies fare?"
 
THE TEMPLE OF THE EVERBURNING FLAME​


Grigori crouched down beside Marta, setting down a bucket of water and soaking a rag in it and wiping the floor that had been cleared of the more substantial parts of the vomit.

"Poorly," he said. "I think we will need to make another round of requisitions from the apothecary shops." He smiled thinly. "Preferably before the storm comes upon us."

Grigori, like Marta, had not been so heavily affected by the eclipse sickness. In truth, he had not been affected at all. Mayhap this was due to his being a Null, mayhap he, like some other Praetors and Penitents, had merely been lucky. And so he, using his strength, had gone with Marta prior to the Dark to aid those who were so beleaguered with weakness that they were not ambulatory, carrying them to the Temple and to the emergency hospitals therein.

These acts of service to the Community helped invigorate his spirit. And as it had been during the Westlurch Pass incident, Grigori found increasingly in Marta a light to fill the void left by the loss of his wife and daughter. As then with Westlurch, she gave him purpose. Meaningful purpose.

What better way to weather the Long Dark and its attendant storm than by her side, allowing the glow of her faith and optimism to continue illuminating—remedying—his own long dark?
 
THE SANCTUM​


Headquarters of the Regulators, the Sanctum, found on the grounds of the Temple of the Everburning Flame, was its own little fortress within the city much like the Citadel found within the Krala Ait. And today, on the first day of the Long Dark, the Sanctum was locked down under heavy guard. Troops, a good number of them veteran ogres, stood vigilant about its walls and about its interior. The Sanctum, therefore, would be among the most secure locations in all of Gild during the Long Dark (in keeping with it being such during normal times, as it were).

This was for good reason. Many of Gild's Regulators were also Praetors, possessed of anti-magic ability, and thus were many of them struck down by the eclipse sickness. Mundane Regulators could still render their service to the Community, providing security during this frightful event (indeed, many Regulators had taken to calling the Triennial Syzygy the "Vampire's Delight" in apprehension that those bloodsucking jins of the dark might take advantage of the circumstances to prey upon the unsuspecting). But those who were Praetor and Regulator, those afflicted by the eclipse sickness, needed to be cared for and tended to.

And the Regulators took care of their own. Thus were their fellows housed within the safe and secure walls of the Sanctum. There would they endure the Long Dark, the monstrous storm on approach, and their own crippling illness.

Boesarius Terral, a fearsome Regulator in his health, happened to brought down the lowest by the sickness. Utterly bedridden was he, and compared to the likes of his fellow Regulators, Praetors, and even the similarly afflicted Penitents next door in the Temple, he seemed to be suffering the worst of all. Sweat constantly coated his brow and his body, his fever ran high, his weakness crushed him, and he teetered on the edge of delirium.

But he was in good hands.
 
THE SANCTUM​


"Here, allow me to sit you up," Leah said as she kneeled beside Boesarius's cot. She received no protest from the man who was her Regulator mentor. Extra pillows had she brought along with her, and she stacked them such that Boesarius could sit up against them and against the wall where his cot was adjacent. His own strength wasn't much help in the effort, for the eclipse sickness had been in his case an effective thief.

"I brought you some soup," she said, holding up the bowl for him to see, smiling genially. "It is, perhaps, of a character you should be able to stomach." Boesarius had been unable to keep much of anything down, and Leah, in her attempts to provide him with sustenance, found it to be something of a matter of trial and error.

She herself had been blessed by Regel. Hers was but a mild discomfort, the eclipse sickness in her hardly more ravaging than a mere cold. Could it be any more clear, then? Her purpose, her place in the Long Dark, had been revealed by this very fact. While plenty others provided vigilance over the city and protection for the Jemaat, hers was to be an affair defined by the care of her ill Regulators.

And happy, quite happy, was she to render such care for Boesarius.

Leah held the bowl out for him as he, with hands trembling with the fatigue which beset them, nevertheless made the effort to pluck the spoon in the bowl and feed himself. She knew that, so long as Boesarius had even the slightest capacity to do so, he would do for himself everything he could. The debilitating effects of the sickness, she surmised, had to be a devastating blow to his sense of pride and independence. But on this she would say nothing...even if she was happy for the chance to perform for him these acts of kindness.

After a few spoonfuls, Boesarius said in a haggard voice, "Leah..."

"Yes?"

He looked at her, dark eyes half-lidded and weighed down by tiredness, and said quietly, "Thank you..."

And Leah smiled. "It is my pleasure, Boesarius."
 
THE TEMPLAR BARRACKS​


Irene Savashal did not like the practice of Clemency. The only times she even attended the Council of Praetors, even participated in politics, was to speak out against it. But hers was a battle which likely would see no resolution within her lifetime, for the practice of Clemency had endured for centuries. Was the Templar Barracks itself not proof of this? From the earliest days of Gild's history, from the Clemency given to some Templars (and foreign mercenaries) during the Second Curite War, the practice had firmly established itself.

The Westlurch Pass incident, however, had given cause for Irene to revisit her distaste of Clemency. Still overall she did not like it, yet she could not deny that the Keepers of Oath, the Templar Chapter which had aided Gild in that harrowing battle, performed admirably. Without their valor, without their sacrifice, she and every other Gildan present at Westlurch might not be alive today.

Had it not been for them and their stellar example, Irene wouldn't be here in the Templar Barracks now, preparing to ride out the Long Dark and the coming storm with magic-using shelter seekers. But the decree of the Gildan Senate had been issued, and non-Gildan citizens within the territory of the Kingdom, be they magic-users or not, were to be welcomed and housed with the Barracks. On one account, and one account alone, was Irene happy: she was pleased to ensure that order would be maintained within the Barracks, and to that end would she do her duty and do it well.

The Templar Barracks, presently, had a large capacity of foreign shelter seekers within it. Gildan troops, even now in the last hour before the ravages of the storm engulfed the city, were bringing supplies—food and water—to the Barracks to accommodate everyone.

Irene was going from bed to bed, followed by her close friend Mogrin Dhuumal, checking in with the shelter seekers. Hers was not the most...friendly of natures, but she kept her sternness to a minimum.

"What is your name?" Irene asked of one shelter seeker who, by the look of her robes and other possibles, was doubtless a mage. A young one at that.

The mage stiffened with a timid nervousness. "Oh, oh, um...my name is Claire Juniper, m-ma'am."

Irene shook her head. "There is no need to call me ma'am."

"Y-Yes, ma'am." Claire's eyes were cast just beyond Irene. Above Irene, actually. Frightened tremendously by who accompanied her.

"Are you from Elbion?" Irene asked, doing her best to be charitable and even-toned.

But Claire was dumbstruck. Her eyes were fixated upon...
 
THE TEMPLAR BARRACKS​


Mogrin knew that look in Claire's eyes. Ogres weren't particularly a common sight in civilization, and many of the tribes throughout Arethil were harbingers of destruction and conquest, his own ancestors, until the intervention of Andreas Gildal, among them. Orcs, Mogrin was told, often were regarded in a similar manner. But orcs were also not as massive and as physically imposing as ogres. The effect wasn't as pronounced.

Mogrin stepped forward, in front of Irene and more directly before Claire. The young mage shirked back, a shivering gasp escaping her lips. But Mogrin slowly offered his hand, his open palm, as a kindly gesture. "You do not need to be afraid, Claire. You have nothing to fear from me."

Claire looked from the towering height of his gaze down to the offered hand. "Oh..." Unsure of what exactly to do, she poked at his palm with her finger, like a woman dipping her toe into a pool of water to test its temperature. She poked it again, and then a third time, and then she pressed her hand to his. Mogrin, in firm control of his own strength, gently closed his hand about hers, engulfing it whole, and shook it: a friendly handshake.

"And we are well met. It was just that easy," he said, offering a reassuring smile.

"I'm...wow...I've never shaken hands with an ogre before..."

"Now you can tell your friends back in Elbion."

"O-Oh! I'm actually not from Elbion. I'm from Alliria. From one of the schools of magic there. I couldn't make it back in time before...the Dark..."

Mogrin's brow narrowed in puzzlement. "Were you traveling alone?"

"No, actually no, I wasn't. I...oh gosh...I got separated from my class when a storm...a-a smaller storm...swept across the Delta up north. We were all heading back to Belgrath, to use the Portal Stone there again, but..." she blushed red with embarrassment, "...I got lost."

"You certainly did," Mogrin said. "You wound up several hundred miles south of where you were supposed to go."

Claire's embarrassment only got worse. "I know. But, by the time I realized how far I had drifted, I figured I could just...ride back to Alliria. It's not really that far." Both Mogrin and Irene stared at her in disbelief. And then Claire really started to doubt herself. "...is it? Isn't it...not that far?"

Mogrin had to take a moment. He was more than just a little stunned. The poor girl, from the earnest look in her expression, actually and truly believed that the distance from Gild to Alliria over land was not so far, that, for her, it wasn't too much of a difference to travel it on horseback rather than get clear directions to Belgrath and, as the rest of her class did, use the Portal Stone there.

"I think...you will need some more help, once the Dark passes."
 
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The Templar Barracks​

Kurabh had traveled the lands of men, going about in search of new things to bring home that he might make his claim in life.
Cities were not something he found himself particularly comfortable in but the alternative was that great storm and whatever it carried with it. As he was ushered to the Barracks as a foreigner he gave some brief objection. Surely this was only going to get more people sick, in times of sickness people needed to separate and even isolate. The idea of being in the cramped space and narrow streets was hardly appealing to a son of the open steppe. The Barracks was full of the lost and the ignored it seemed.
He recognised the trappings of magicians, wizards and sorcerers but did not see much in the way of practically minded people.
"My ladee?"
He addressed Irene when she passed close to him.
"Furgive may. I am straanger heer and I du nut understaand. Why aar wee heer in thees plaace?"
His solitude had not given him much chance to practice his common languages. He hoped he was saying it all correctly.

Irene Savashal
 
THE SENATE HALL​


Shame that Boe was out sick for this. The Long Dark proved to be the perfect cover for a little domestic task Pontifex Elissal had planned for his gang of Devils; the first of many great things to come.

See, certain Senators—nobles known as the Fathers of Gild—might well be against the great war the Pontifex wanted to start in Campania. These Senators had grown complacent and content with the peace of the Armistice, each for their own reason. Now, three Senators wasn't a lot compared to the whole hundred, but...who was to say they wouldn't be able to sway other Senators to their line of thinking with a few eloquent bits of oratory? Pontifex Elissal would rather be certain that these Senators cooperated...willingly, or unwillingly.

The Senate, obviously, wouldn't be in session during the Long Dark, most of the Nobility as a whole retiring to their homes in the Krala Ait unless they had military duties elsewhere. The Senate Hall would be mostly empty, save for small detachments of soldiers to secure the entrances. Thing was, there was more than just the ground entrances, if one happened to get...creative.

And so Castulo and Nemeska were close to the Senate Hall, hidden in an alleyway between adjacent government buildings and further concealed by the darkness of the eclipse. Castulo unshouldered his pack, took out a pair of grappling hooks and set them on the ground, then took out the key to Nemeska's anti-magic anklet and tossed it to her.

She missed the catch, and the key clattered on the ground near to her.

"Hey, Nem," Castulo said. "Are you feeling alright? You up to this?"
 
THE SENATE HALL​


God and Saints damn it all, she dropped the bloody key. Nemeska sighed in minor frustration. This was something that lesser magic-users should suffer. The so-called "Syzygy" ought to ravage them, not her. She was too good, far too good, better than the typical drooling idiot who by sheer chance had been gifted with magic, to be afflicted so. Where, oh where, was the justice in the universe, if she should suffer and some lucky rube of a Penitent elsewhere in Gild, or some flunky with an evacuated skull in the College of Elbion, or some spoilt brat smelling of gaudy perfumes from Alliria, happened to endure this Syzygy with nary an effect to hamper them?

"I'm fine," Nemeska said peevishly to Castulo. "I will not allow this...this freak happenstance of celestial misfortune to weigh upon me. My father expects this to be done, and I will see it so."

Nemeska, with a renewed resolve, scooped up the key in the dark and unlocked her anklet. Normally, the rush characterizing the return of her magic would have been exhilarating, but today, in the midst of the Syzygy, there was nothing more than the release of the anklet's metallic grip and the loss of that by now familiar encumbrance on her right leg.

She tossed the anklet to Castulo, who stuffed it inside of his pack.

Making up for the tone of her earlier comment, which had displeased her, she said with a more confident and collected tone, "And if I fall, then you'll just have to catch me. Consider it a happy turn, my sweet Castulo, if my grip should fail and by consequence I should end up in your arms."
 
THE TEMPLAR BARRACKS​


Irene and Mogrin moved on from Claire. The girl, in addition to being geographically deficient, had other problems which plagued her after a short conversation brought them to light. Apparently, the "school of magic" she was attending in Alliria catered to those of lesser means. Catered? Inaccurate language. More appropriately, it seemed to prey upon those who could not afford more expensive colleges, and in turn offered a shoddy, even dangerous, curriculum of learning. Still, in Irene's opinion, Claire's "school" was not as bad as Althhaven.

Irene and Mogrin came next to a man, middle-aged, with a rugged appearance. He addressed her first, and his grasp on Common was tenuous at best; this in combination with his attire made it obvious that he was from even farther afield than Claire had been. It was not entirely clear if the man was a magic-user or not, and at this Irene felt some irritation with the Senate; it would have been better to billet mundane foreign shelter seekers in one location, and billet magic-using foreign shelter seekers in another. Yet everything had been done in such a rush, even though there had been some spare time for extra measures and precautions. Alas. Irene would deal with the situation as it happened to be.

"'Lady' is no title of mine. Irene will do," she said, again keeping herself cordial and even-toned. She was far more of a warrior than a diplomat, but at least she had Mogrin, a warrior and a passable diplomat, here to assist in that regard.

His question, though it seemed odd to her that he didn't know (had he simply been herded into the Templar Barracks by Gildan troops acting hastily and rashly?), she answered simply, "We are here for two reasons. First, to take shelter from the coming storm. Second, to endure the Long Dark until it ends."

Taking in the whole of him, Irene had to ask, "I've not seen garb of your like before. Where are you from?"

At least with Claire she could make an informed guess. This man? Irene simply did not know.

Kurabh
 
"I aam Kurabh, of The Taagi Baara Steppes."
Kurabh stood a bit taller to introduce himself. His garb was indeed blatantly foreign and he made no bones about this to any that asked, despite some unwarranted suspicion. Taking hold of his staff he used it to gesture to the others about them.
Some looked scared or sickly and despite being new here he was quickly learning that this was no ordinary storm coming.
"Wee will bee saffe heer?"
He asked the question with some disbelief of the idea.

Irene Savashal
 
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THE TEMPLAR BARRACKS​


Irene's stern and professional demeanor softened just a bit, eyes opening ever so slightly in receptive surprise, when Kurabh said that he was from the Steppes. The people from whom present-day Gildans were descended, the Turkal people, originated in the Steppes, so all the histories and tales went. Irene herself was not from the Turkal stock, lacking as she did their deeper complexion, darker hair, and other features, but was instead from one of the many immigrant families who heard of the sanctuary offered by Gild from the ravages of magic upon Arethil. Still, despite the association of the ancient Turkal people and the Steppe being quite diluted by the long march of time and change, it remained, however thinly.

His question, then, and Irene offered her reassurances, "The structures of Gild are the sturdiest constructions that dwarven and ogre hands can build." A rare smile then, one born of an inexorable pride for her homeland. "You will find no better refuge in all of Campania."

Kurabh
 
THE TEMPLAR BARRACKS​


Mogrin, too, had a change in demeanor when he heard of Kurabh's origin. Distinct from Irene, his surprise and receptiveness did involve his own people, the Maulgar. Ogres were dotted about in Arethil in a few different locales, and not always did these disparate tribes see eye-to-eye, but curiosity nonetheless came to him.

"You are from the Steppes, you say?" Mogrin said. "I have always wondered of the Steppe ogres, of their customs and their ways. Are you familiar?"

Kurabh
 
THE WESTERN GATE​


"I have learned much," Ruslan said to Anfisa.

And he most certainly had. His travels had begun heading up north, till the familiarity vanished from the roads and the mountain paths. He had gone to Belgrath to visit the dwarves from whose stock came the ancestral Gildan dwarves. He had sailed down the Wda River and to Bhathairk to see a land sundered by the ravages of a Great Dragon and the fearsome magic that creature wielded. To the Taagi Baara Steppes he went next, to pass through the old lands the Turkal people, they who would travel to Campania and become Gildans in the present day, once called home. To Alliria, Falwood—where he had met a woman, Maranae, with a troubled past who made for a reluctant fighter—and back to Alliria. From there he sailed through the Strait and to Elbion, where one Zael Castomir, an Anirian, had aided him in a cultural inquiry. Brief stops in both Dornoch and Oban on the seaborne route back to Alliria, then through the Reach he rode, and at last he met with Anfisa once more, and together they crossed the River Galacon and returned to Campania.

And now here they were before the gates of Gild, each with a broader view of the world. But perhaps, more importantly...

"But nothing more so than the affirmation of my love for Gild, and that I should be here, among my family, among my people. There is no substitute for the land to which you belong."
 
THE WESTERN GATE​


"I'll second that," Anfisa said.

In her own Gezi, she did not travel as widely as Ruslan did in his own. Though they had left together, she parted ways with him before he crossed through the mighty gates of Belgrath—such a place as that was not for an Ironhammer of the Gildan division to be, not by herself, no. One day, perhaps, the Ironhammer Clan would be united again.

And so Anfisa made many wanderings around Epressa, never quite crossing over onto Liadain. Other dwarven holds she was fine to visit, and so she did, and a great deal of her Gezi was spent beneath the mountains in them. What a perspective, to live for a time as her ancestor Arragoth did, to inhale the earthen air dwelling in the vast underground reaches of the Spine. She felt as though she had gained a certain hardiness in those depths which simply could not be acquired while basking in the glow of the sun. Maybe the Gildan dwarves could build their own hold or holds, for purposes of defense or mining, where the borders of the Kingdom touched with the mountains of the Spine. Maybe.

The Gates were opening before them. Now was the time to mention that other thing—the little surprise she thought Ruslan would enjoy.

"I sent a letter ahead before we crossed the River Galacon."

Ruslan looked to her. She looked to him. Smiled.

"Our fathers wish to welcome us home."
 
TEMPLE OF THE EVERBURNING FLAME​


Marta stood with Grigori at the precipice of the Temple's grand front doors. Outside awaited that foretold Dark which had swallowed the sun and denied them the day, those flames and their attendant lights as could be seen from the frames of windows—the spectacle of powerful lightning to the south as well—providing any challenge against the supremacy of the midnight black (midnight in midday, more like!). The heavy scent of rain was in the air, available for the nose to sample even as the winds were picking up in intensity. The storm from the Anatol Sea was close, the downpour imminent.

"If we hurry," said Marta, "we might just return without being made soaking wet for our efforts."
 
TEMPLE OF THE EVERBURNING FLAME​


"Then with all haste," Grigori said, both he and Marta venturing out and down the Temple's steps and into the courtyard.

"Do you have a particular place in mind? One that is close?" Grigori asked as the two of them jogged. "I am not so familiar with our resident apothecaries."

Not that he was wholly ignorant—he did have a few options—but Marta, given her practices as a Priestess, would indeed have better knowledge. That the apothecary needed to be close was critical, but also did it need to have the supplies they required, and Marta would have the best idea as to the stock of the apothecaries closest to the Temple.
 
TEMPLE OF THE EVERBURNING FLAME​


"I do." A somewhat guilty smile came across her mien, and she added then, "Last I recall, the apothecary in question is locked and secured, its owners having retired to their home to weather the storm. I believe we shall require your strength to breach the doors."

Just a tiny nagging detail, that, but one which made Marta feel—even though it was for a good cause—that she was taking advantage of Grigori. A feeling that had no true home in rationality, yes, but she felt it all the same.

All of this was terribly last minute, and with no better option, it had to be done. The Church could see to the reimbursement for damages incurred in this effort.
 
TEMPLE OF THE EVERBURNING FLAME​


At this, Grigori smiled.

"Those doors will not keep us long," he said, speaking confidently. Marta seemed a touch regretful for making the suggestion, but how could she know that this was the kind of endeavor Grigori was all too pleased to offer himself for? A thing of simple, unquestioned good.

Together they jogged, their pace brisk and gaining speed in proportion to the perceived lack of time, and they made for the apothecary of Marta's choosing.
 
THE SENATE HALL​


True to her word (the persevering part, not the falling into his arms part), Nemeska was able to scale the walls and jump between the rooftops and climb the outside of the Senate Hall's massive exterior and match Castulo's pace up to the high window that was to be their entrance. All this in the dark, no less. Alright, maybe there was the flashing of lightning here and there, but what's a little lightning between friends? A feat was a feat.

"This the one?"

Nem confirmed it. The Devils had an inside man in the Senate; whether it was Nemeska or Pontifex Elissal himself who had conscripted this inside man was a mystery to Castulo, and hell, he didn't need to know. All that needed to happen was for this window to be unlatched on the inside. And it was unlatched.

Castulo pulled it open and both he and Nemeska slid deftly into the upper floors of the Senate Hall. Big building, the Hall, enough to accommodate the main Senate Floor, chambers for each of the Senators, all the rest of the necessaries. Tonight, Castulo and Nemeska had a few chambers to visit, a few choice pieces of potential "evidence" to plant to get this blackmail ready to be leveraged...if such leveraging was called for.

Darkness again pervaded, interrupted by the blue reflections of lightning from the outside. A meager source of light for them to guide themselves, but for the most part Castulo stuck to the wall, Nemeska stuck to him (he wasn't complaining), and they felt their way through the Hall and to their destinations.

At the third and final one, things took a turn for the worse.
 
THE SENATE HALL​


Nemeska felt it building and building. Her head swooned, faintly at first, then massively, as if some terrible vertigo from looking down at a great height had made her ill and lightheaded. A flash of lightning illuminated the office chamber, bringing to light Castulo only a few steps away, planting the evidence in the secret pre-arranged spot. A few steps away...yet it might as well be the gulf between the eastern and western edges of the world.

"Cas..."

At last Nemeska's legs gave out, strength all at once departing from them, and she tumbled to the floor.

The last thing she heard before she fainted, Castulo, his worried voice: "Nem? Nem!? What's wrong? Talk to me, lovely, just talk to..."
 
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