Knights of Anathaeum The Tools of My Enemy

[Helena]

​

---

Mission: Starless Night
Priority: Critical
Rank: Sworn
Operatives: Pursuant Bebin Theros, Pursuant Oliver, Sworn Knight Faramund, Sworn Knight Castor Vega

Objectives: Infiltrate the Sightless base of operations, Umbral Mount, amidst the Starpiercer range of the Spine. Retrieve the Trinemorro child, Mina and recover whatever intelligence is possible.

Briefing: The captured Sightless Seer, Kasparian Velt, has relinquished his secrets. Vital intelligence regarding the whereabouts of Sightless cells, and the names of Lords and Barons who may have capitulated to the influence of the Sightless.

One name seemed to echo there, in the Loch of his mind. Umbral Mount.

After repeated delves into the Loch, our Mind Divers were able to ascertain the whereabouts of Umbral Mount, as well as what may lay there in.

It is a workshop of some sort. Connected to the constructs that have harried our number. But more importantly, The Trinemorro child is believed to be held there. The very same soul lost whence we faced the Glorphain, nigh a year ago. Her name is Mina. She must be retrieved, at all costs. Whatever her condition may be.

Our forward scouts have found an entry point amidst old dwarven ruins, marked on your maps. You've been granted special requisitions from the Armory Arcanum.

Retrieve the child. Return to the monastery.

Good Hunting,

Captain Helena of Dawn

---

Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Oliver]

The past months had grown long, the nights dragging on even as they grew lighter. It was time to get back out, even for himself, it felt like.

Something old was coming to a head. He had the gist of it, the bigger picture, despite not having been there for the rest. Not that he’d required it, necessarily — there were things needed doing yet and he could’ve well done with just knowing what. He’d trust both Syr Theros and the Captain enough to question none, lending them thousandfold what he hadn’t been able to extend himself in turn. For a time, now.

In the dim indoors of the pursuants’ quarters the plate, painted dark for the occasion, seemed a void. Barely reflective, swallowing the candlelight and warping to one with every shadow. Just as it was meant to, the effect made eerie by how little sound it made. Bereft of the customary click of joints and rivets, a constant companion dismissed with a spell. Even the pointed, almost cozy creak of the visor had been spirited away, taking a certain joy out of the whole motion.

But it had to be done. He cast a dark look downward, inspecting the buckles about his belt for one last time. The hammer was in its loop, the reagents of a prepared spell he but knew the words for in a pouch next to it and on the opposing side—

What to him at first glance had appeared a puzzlebox — a long cylinder with a row of buttons and an embossed pattern that ran the length, a shooting star terminating to a clear crystal sphere at the end. Roki had yet been mulling over a proper name for the device, amidst lamenting the design wasn’t quite there, not ‘cool enough’ and incomplete as for all the features the lad had planned, but it was better than whatever spells he couldn’t cast.

A little light, they’d chosen to call it. Despite the premise of the mission, how it was to be conducted, he’d rather stray with means to see and to banish whichever darkness than without. Provided the interlocking parts wouldn’t jam, in case it all went—

Well, it wouldn’t. Everything would be just fine. They’d be fine.

He resisted testing the device out, closing the cap on the holster and tapping it for effect. The soles of his shoes were the only sound in the room as he moved about to pick up the rest of his things, making to finally depart.

The saddlebags were slung over one shoulder, helm placed underarm. Gloved fingers pinched out every flame. The ajar door was drawn open and closed again, grim stare taking in both ends of the hall before he set down it for the stables.

It’d be fine.

Bebin Theros Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

So, this was it. The past coming back to haunt him.

Sat atop the Eldyr's Lookout, face turned to the missive in his lap, Syr Faramund of Dawn read and reread the orders scribed there. Retrieve the Trinemorro child, it went, recover whatever intelligence is possible. Four names, two objectives, but only one that really mattered. 'Mina...' Grimacing, Faramund read the name aloud, picturing in his mind's eye the face of the child he had surrendered to the enemy.

Rather, given away.

How long now? He wondered. Months? Years? What's happened to her during that time? Do I really want to know? Folding the parchment neatly in half, Faramund tucked it away in the sleeve of his gambeson. Such questions had a habit of answering themselves, he found, and even if these ones didn't, they were sure to find answers to a few at the Umbral Mount.

Until then, he would just have to live with the guilt.

Standing, he turned to descend the Lookout. Behind him, beyond misty mountains and vales of green, the sun was just starting to rise. Lazy, it had barely peaked the distant horizon by the time Faramund made it down to solid ground.

From there, he made his way back to his shared quarters, where the majority of his kit had been stashed away, ready. Readily available.

Syr Breklinn caught him on the final turn, appearing from around the loch-lit corner, a ghost in mail and fur-lined wool.

'Going somewhere?' She asked, forcing him to draw up short. Veiled eyes appraised the tall dawnling's garb, passed judgement. 'Skulking? At this hour?!' She snorted. 'Who's the lucky lady?'

Mina, thought Faramund.

'Your mum!' He replied, brushing past the dusker, a grin plastered across his face. 'Though one does wonder what it is you are doing up this early,' he said, counter-punching. 'Who's the lucky lady?' Laughing, the dusker made an obscene gesture. 'Wouldn't you like to know, big guy!' Smiling, Faramund disappeared inside his room to find Jarro asleep on his cot.

Then, the pieces clicked together.

Oh! He thought, donning his sword belt and cloak, and a bandolier of vials and clay vessels. How... nice!

Bebin Theros Oliver Castor Vega

 

[Castor Vega]

A single flame flickered its ominous last as the knight exited his room and then the remainder of the Sworn's barracks. His preparations had been made as well as they could even if he suspected they'd ultimately be insufficient. He'd learned through many battles that no plan could truly sustain its original form. Let alone one's that involved sneaking into the heart of enemy territory. The Sworn nearly choked upon seeing the orders for the first time. Other names listed did bring a measure of reassurance but time was needed to truly digest.

A luxury the Knights of Anathaeum could rarely afford.

Thus Castor of the mostly-sunken-sun made his way to the monastery stables without complaint. For there was an eagerness in him, despite all his other anxieties. The Sightless owed him a debt, the only true price a person could pay. Blood. Much grief had they caused him in those northern forests. Much pain had been wrought upon his companions.

An answer was due.

So Castor of Dusk stood ready next to trusted steed. He checked his equipment once more. His slate-gray armor barely visible but recently mended. Longsword sharpened and grimoire compiled with all he knew and more. Syr Grimstone had generously suggested a few additions, though they remained unpracticed. Luck would see them cast successfully, greater luck would be to not use them at all.

One item was not of his usual kit. A dagger of unassuming hilt, but close inspection would show the blade etched with runes. Senara's Barb it was called. A requisition from the Armory Arcanum. He admired the blade a final time as he awaited the arrival of the others.

Oliver Bebin Theros Faramund

 

[Bebin Theros]

"First to arrive them?" he said to Syr Vega. A nod, something like approval behind the glint of his eye. His pack lugged over his shoulder. Supplies more for the road, than for the mission itself. "One wonders who will be the last to depart," he said with a grin as he came to stop at his horses gate.

With effort, he heft the pack up onto the saddle. Began to make quick work of the tying down.

"You ever had Sereti Chai?" he asked the man, idly. "Sweet as sin," he huffed a laugh as his hands pulled tight one of the leathers. "But it is the spices that give it its complexity," another tie finished.

A quick rifle through the odds and ends. Tactile memories committed to the end of gloved digits, and well of broad palms.

"The process that gives it its richness," he let his hands fall from the kit.

Checked over the fit of his belt, the count of his quiver. Before he put that too onto the saddle.

"Suppose I can make us some, before we range out too far," he said easy, and worked himself up onto his saddle. "The others near," he said as he settled into his seat.

---

One Week On the Trail, fast approaching Umbral Mount

Bebin pulled his knife from the man's heart. Stared down at the Sightless, with no warmth in his eyes. Eased the pressure of his hand away from the mouth, and lift his gaze to the wilds about him as he wiped clean the blade.

The flicker of a fire's light, there in the near distance. The soft whisper of leather as the knife went back into its sheath. The sounds of men and women about the warm glow. So near, their conversations sounded like any other. Worries of what would come tomorrow. Complaints of the food they had had to endure, all these weeks on their rotation.

Bebin let them talk as he strung his bow. Fell beneath the cover of his mirror-silk cloak.

It would be the false song of a nightbird that would tell his comrades.

In position.

---

Oliver Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Oliver]

A breath echoed within the bevor, pleasantly warm in the dropping temperature of the highlands’ night. His look scanned the thickets and twisted, stunted evergreens they’d left behind, the soft sway of their limbs the one discernible movement against a whole lot of stillness. Too much of it, his anxiety told him, if not sufficiently enough that he might stop on his tracks.

It couldn’t be long now. Keeping low, they’d advanced slower as the glare of fire had begun looming, marking an expected watch and wherein patrols possibly convened. Ones they’d managed to avoid to this point, or dealt with quietly and hidden away, as was the more secure method. Hopefully, they’d not have to linger long enough for their absence to be noticed too soon. By the entire Sightless base anyway.

As for whom awaited not far ahead, was it all to go as planned, they were about to be relieved from the chance of noticing much else, but their own quick dispatchment. Despite his Kin having fanned out, he could yet pick out Syrs Faramund and Vega from betwixt the gnarled tree trunks and rocks, wherein position was sought. He met eyes with both, marking, as the signal was sung. Gaining certainty and intent in his step, he made advance the rest of the way, visor of his helm coming down. The hammer came off his belt, gripped tight.

At will.

The dark plate about him reflected nothing, turning firelight to a discordant shimmer on the dense shadow that would leave his shelter. A set of eyes turned to him, all too late as a forehand swing saw the sharp end of the warhammer deposited into a skull, through the temple.

Bebin Theros Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

The Watcher's listeners were removed from their posts, one by one. Slow going, thought Faramund, wrapping the corpse at his feet up in a bloody cloak before dragging it deeper into the shadows. Better slow than exposed. They still had some ways to go, some ways to climb.

Staring up at the heights above, Faramund paused, glanced around. His brothers three were out there, somewhere. Close, but not too close.

Glimpsing the ghost of Oliver, the dawnling refocused, edged his way up, towards the glow of a watchfire. He could see the cultists gathered there. Sitting at ease, they chatted and bantered and laughed, unaware of the wolves in their midst.

Faramund hated them. But not nearly as much as he hated himself.

Hearing the birdcall on the breeze, he flitted right, looping around the flame-bound guards, and avoiding their attention. He knew the game Bebin proposed, knew just as well how to play it. One slip and they could all kiss their arses goodbye. Not that it would come to that. There was more at stake here than just their lives.

The dawnling felt his growing cheaper by the minute.

Moving low and fast, he got in behind the group. It put him in the path of Bebin's arrows, but that was a risk he was willing to take. Waiting, watching, he let the others know he was in position.

It was over in seconds.

Leaping from his hiding place, he opened the first man's throat from behind as he made to rise. A second, sitting close by, turned, fear writ plain on their face. The dagger in Faramund's hand licked out, cutting off their air before they could shout. He heard more than saw the others butcher their marks.

Wiping his dagger clean on a dead guard's tunic, he slipped it away. 'Not bad,' he remarked, eyes up and scanning. 'Be a while yet before they send anyone down to check on this lot. Gimme a hand arranging them. Lazy bastards have drifted off to sleep.'

Castor Vega Bebin Theros Oliver

 

[Castor Vega]

"Can't say I'm overly fond of sweet things, but I'll try anything once," replied the Sworn with a shrug. All this complexity and process had Castor wondering if they were still talking about tea. Figured it was better to just let it lie. It was nice to have something to look forward to, beyond just a reasonably-high chance of death.

A week later he found himself ensconced behind of copse of gnarled trees. The going up to this point was thankfully uneventful, though a sneaking suspicion suggested that wasn't to last. They'd cross that bridge when the time came. For now they remained unnoticed and the element of surprise was an exceptionally potent weapon. One which the knights used to great effect.

Signal given, Castor dashed from cover with a dagger in hand. The cultist turned just in time to see a glint of steel being buried in her throat. A shuffle of movement caught the knight's attention. Another Sightless stepped from the treeline, likely returning from taking a piss. Shadowed hand conjured from darkness clamped down hard on cultist's opening mouth. Castor pulled blade from throat and flicked it towards his stifled foe.

Dagger was retrieved from fallen corpse not long after.

"What I wouldn't give for a proper night's rest..." mused Castor as he set about helping his fellow Sworn with the bodies.


Bebin Theros Faramund Oliver

 

[Bebin Theros]

The violence was quick. Measured. Without mercy or hesitation. Dulled thrums from a silenced string saw arrows streak to bring down one that had threatened Faramund.

Another that broke away from the black pitch sun, who had come cracking skulls like a revenant made real.

Half a scream ripped through one man's throat, until a heavy hand sealed it shut, and a thrown blade sunk deep.

Stillness. The rustle of branches in the late-night breeze. The uncaring crackle of flames, still eating away at their fuel.

The sound of a body dragged. Heels scraped against gravel and soil. A grunt, and a hard thud. Dust plumed from the big man's corpse.

"No time for rest," the pursuant gave, most his frame a shimmer with the darkness of the forest, draped in mirror silk as it was.

Castor pulled his knife from the still-warm-dead.

"Castor, Faramund," Bebin sounded. Looking down at the mounting collection of cultists. "You two will be our infiltrators," he nod to a couple of the bodies laid at their feet. "Seeing as these two here look about as ugly as the two of you,"

Scraggle bearded men, wide of frame. Sandy of hair, and black of hair.

He bent down to one knee. Pricked his own thumb with the point of his dagger. Smeared a red eye there betwixt his brows. A sigil of seeing. Closed his eyes as he let his breath out.

"Get to changing," his eyes came open, and they were traced by the starry silver of loch's light. "We find their trail, and move towards the next node in this web,"

He pressed his blooded thumb against one of the dead's brows. And all the world seemed to bleed away from him.

Castor Vega Faramund Oliver

 

[Oliver]

From him came but a metallic hum as Faramund’s suggestion was heeded, the three of them immediately at the carnage making short work of adjusting its appearance to something less suspicious. Provided one didn’t stray too close that was, but it was better than nothing one had to figure.

In time, Syr Theros strayed from the blackness, the mirrorsilk rendering him nothing short of an actual ghost.

Keeping his silence he merely peered impassively through the slit in his helm as next steps were laid out, towards which he had neither addition nor correction. He reflected this in a singular nod, settled to standing and watching as the rest prepared. A spell was cast, firelight on the dagger and slick dark of blood that formed a picture, something to see with. Whether he watched it with interest or unease was veiled even from himself.

Bebin Theros Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

The dead were laid out in repose. Sleepers eternal, they did not hear the words shared between brothers. Castor's comment solicited a wry chuckle from the dawnling. 'Ain't no rest for the wicked,' he replied in turn, removing his mask, the thin layer of ash and mud pasted there, around the eyes and nose where the sweat collected. Soft parts, shiny parts.

The Pursuant's order was received with a nod. Stooping, Faramund stripped his man of his clothes and talismans.

A lone eye, red, on a chain of silver, sat snugly in his upturned palm. For one singular, solitary moment, Faramund felt something behind his eyes wriggle and root. A brief ringing in his ears as a wave of dizziness overcame him.

Then, the sensation passed.

Sniffing, Faramund looped the talisman over his head so that the eye sat atop his breast. It was how the cultist had worn it, before. 'Any idea where the girl is being held?' He asked innocently. All present knew of the day where their Order had done battle with the Glorphain, how he had "failed" to rescue the girl. And the rest? The story hadn't ended there. Not for Mina, and most certainly not for him.

Bebin had slipped beyond the reach of his words by then, into the deep loch where nary a soul treaded lightly.

Grimacing, Faramund finished putting on his disguise, bade rise as Castor did the same. The irony of being ordered to infiltrate was not lost on him. Blending in is the wylder way, he told himself, recalling his Path's teachings.

'Luck to you, brother!' He bumped fists with Syr Oliver in passing. 'Keep an eye on this one, yeah? We'll be back shortly,' he smiled, the rest going unsaid.

Castor Vega Bebin Theros Oliver

 

[Castor Vega]

First 'wicked' and now 'ugly', he thought knights were supposed to be nice. Castor, like Faramund, did his best to replicate the cultist's attire. There was always something strange about wearing a dead man's clothes. Almost as if stepping into the skin of another. A troubling thought when that person was deranged follower of an iniquitous god. Castor usually avoided thinking too deeply on such matters as it just made the job harder. Yet in the shadow of the Mount, his thoughts were ever dark.

Castor sensed he was not alone in his heavier sentiments. He cast a glance towards his Sworn peer. The man seemed unusually distracted, though it was well-hidden. Just small oddities over the course of their long but uneventful journey here. The man handled business earlier so Castor's worries were looking increasingly unwarranted.

"Look's like we're doing this the hard way." Bebin had delved and who could say when the Pursuant would surface. He tossed a lazy salute towards Syr Oliver and headed further into the Umbral's embrace.

"Any thoughts on our approach? I figure we either find the next camp and see if we can't talk our way into a more specific location. Or-" he paused to scratch his beard a moment. "Could try to make our way as close to the Mount as we can and go for the classic lost child routine." Both would probably get them killed, but that was the sort of mission they were undertaking.

Bebin Theros Oliver Faramund

 

[Bebin Theros]

There in the dark waters betwixt life and death. Those moments where the mind still raced, though the heart had stilled. A shell within a shell. The last storms of life that raged before the final night. Bebin could see the many ripples of moments shimmer across the swell of waves that surged towards their terminus.

How the light died there.

Bebin could not ponder.

Amidst the shore of the crumbling scape, the vortex of existence and void. He stood atop the black mirror, a pale ghost of himself. An echo, reflected across the waters of the Loch.

Who felt the winds howl all the more, there in that swirling end. Sanity's silk, a thin line of star light which traced behind him. He would have to dive deeper still. And had little time to do it.

---

About the scene. Just ahead of the infiltrators. The rustle of movement. Chatter from a patrol. Voices.

---

Oliver Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Oliver]

As time elapsed in their preparations, he upturned the visor from narrowing his observance, attention torn betwixt his shuffling companions and the surrounding dark that begged to be kept an eye on. From it, his dark look bounced to Syr Faramund as the man extended a gesture upon his gauntlet, the metal giving not the slightest rattle at the impact. But it was felt, firmly, the only confirmation it had happened at all.

His mouth remained a grim line as he merely nodded, despite the feeling he should’ve said something in turn. A little joke or any response really, similar to the lighter tone that came off Syr Faramund so effortlessly. Since when had he been unable to spare such a thing, in a parting as theirs was now?

Uncertain. He’d be damned to let it show, expression not flickering as he stared into the two Sworn’s wake, all too aware of the empty space they left behind, how the fire seemed to dim and the dark clutched tighter whom remained. With the men, had gone the chatter and residual ease therein, the fragile present where all were yet alive and well.

As far as he was concerned, they ought to stay that way. Yeah, you’d better come back, or I’ll kick your arse.

He shifted with discomfort in the descending new silence, supposing the simple task of standing guard whilst his fellow Pursuant dwelt where he couldn’t follow. His eye lingered on the man, watching for— he wasn’t entirely sure what. Was there a way for the Loch to claim a man? Or for the Everwatcher to do so by it?

Fuck if he really wanted to know, bent already to worry overmuch with the little he had learned of it all. But—

Green in the desert. Trust, fool.

Bebin Theros Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

'I think we're fucked no matter what we do.' Faramund said with a smile. 'But, if it were up to me, I'd avoid talking to this lot unless I had no other choice. One wrong word and suddenly it's blades bared.' And we both know how that would go. No, they would have to be subtle and smart with it. Stick to the dark places and move with confidence. Hadn't that always been the way?

With Castor by his side, Faramund moved towards the Umbral, sure his pounding heart would give them away at any moment. 'Eyes up,' he said, noticing a patrol coming down towards them.

Sniffing, Faramund made small talk with Castor as they walked, each step bringing the enemy closer and closer. The half-light worked to their advantage, backs to the fading sun, bearded features shrouded in shadow. One of the passing cultists called out to them in passing, speaking in a strange language that Faramund didn't understand.

His tongue moved of its own accord, helping articulate words he had no way of knowing the meaning to.

The patrol wandered on by, unfazed. A few even laughed. Blinking away his own confusion, Faramund turned away from Castor, his dark brown eyes scanning the crags and ruins of a place marked by time's passage. Despite the chill in the air, the dawnling felt himself beginning to sweat.

Castor Vega Bebin Theros Oliver

 

[Castor Vega]

"You're the expert. I'm just here to make sure you don't die alone," quipped the knight sarcastically. Morbid humor was a staple in their line of work. There was an inherent need to acknowledge the dangers of their undertakings. Had a way of keeping one grounded, focused. It could alleviate the burden of their responsibilities yet reaffirm the consequences all at the same time. Or it may just be that Castor was a salty, unpleasant bastard; difficult to say really.

They'd pressed deeper into the shadow of the mountain, avoiding any patrols for some time. Yet inevitably voices were heard and with it the knight's first true test. Their whole mission could unravel right here before it truly began. Castor readied himself for a glib response but words died in his throat. The cultist spoke in an unfamiliar tongue.

Fuck.

His mind raced like a runaway wagon as he desperately sought for a solution. Then he heard the strange language again, but not from the lips of cultists but rather Faramund. It took all of Castor's nearly four decades of poise to keep his expression neutral. And just like that, their crisis had been averted. Silence hung heavy between the two Sworn. The Dusker knew better than to ask just exactly what in the hells had just transpired.

Castor'd received a special briefing before setting off on this mission. There were a few pertinent details including the unusual 'disposition' of his fellow Sworn. Frankly, he hadn't the time to properly digest all that he was told. Castor simply figured he'd trust the man. Until he couldn't.

Minutes turned to hours as they carefully continued towards the Mount. It was as they closed in that Castor began to notice oddities in various ruins and stone outcroppings. These imperfections did not seem the result of time's ambivalence. He was slowly beginning to recognize patterns, markings...signs. So they followed until finally they stood before an innocuous stoneface on the mountainside. Castor normally would have thought nothing of it but something felt off. He studied the wall closely and noticed that everything seemed almost too smooth.

An illusion? Yet the dusker sensed no traces of magik.

Despite himself, Castor looked to Faramund expectantly.

Bebin Theros Faramund Oliver

 

[Bebin Theros]

Still in the dream of a dying mind, Bebin stood still in the waking world. Bent low to the fast-dead man. Finger pressed betwixt their brows where a third eye might open.

Breath calm. Rhythm steady. His own eyes closed to the waking world, though the light of Loch traced and shimmered cross the veins of lucent lids.

Moments within minutes.

---

There before the churn of surf, as phantom feet found purchase across rippled muck. Cold against the pads ands toes. Firm for but a breath before weight and push of bone's memories turned the ground to billowing curtains that trailed tall behind him. The Pursuant of Loch trekked across a land of mirrors, whose shattering grew nearer with each step taken.

Pools of times past, there in the wells of mud. Records of wakes long washed away. Each shimmered and and waved with winds unseen.

A life before it all. Green and golden. Warm as sunlight. Heavy as stone. Dry as dust. Until those eyes did open. Through their lids did see. Robes and ceremony. Knives and pithings. Pinkrose. Constructs.

The Mount.

---

From the cold dark distance beyond the Silent Sun, the sound of chatter. Common tongues. Common words. Filtered there through the shadow and thorns.

Closer the voices come, with each breath. Clearer their words sound with each pound of the heart.

Oliver Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Oliver]

It was a waiting, until it wasn’t. In the cooling mountain night voices traveled, from somewhere in the dark wherein he would peer, looking for movement. The fire made it hard to see anything beyond flicker of shadows, naught but harsh edges dancing on treetrunks and rockfaces, gently asway. But someone was approaching doubtlessly, with company, a casual chatter growing ever more clear against the silence of death about the guardsite.

His stare sought again his fellow Pursuant, more urgent now as his look bore into the figure hunched in the ground, yet deep in a solitary quest. Or so he had to assume.

A part of him wanted to reach out, shake the man back to the present and the pressing. But weren’t there a rule to not wake whom walked in their sleep, for should one do so, they’d risk having them come back wrong. To awaken, changed forever, fragmented as a piece was left behind to some void.

And weren’t there parallels betwixt the Loch and the Dream? The uncertainty was enough to stay his hand, though he made to quickly if carefully adjust the man’s mirrorsilk cloak in a feeble attempt to better camouflage him. All that did was leave the outreached arm and head exposed, the reflections on the silk so convincing the bodyparts appeared to be suspended from mid-air.

It was a rather ghastly sight, really, and that was without considering the eerie stillness and symbols drawn with blood. He shuddered giving a little parting salute, adjusting the grip on his hammer as he finally turned away. Words were distinguishable now, footsteps sharp with how close they were. He counted three.

Any moment now, Syr Theros, if you will.

Only the branches crackled as he went, swift in his step as he sought who yet dared approach. There was laughter and he picked out the figures no sooner than as light caught them, none of them ones he could recognize, as such—

” Hey— ” Spoke one, elbowing his companion in the ribs. There was wariness in the gesture and the standstill therein, but the other one went ahead regardless, overtly weary.

” What is this— a fucking sleepover? You drinking on guard again— ” A hand reached out to one of whom Oliver knew to be a corpse. But where was that third person, he could’ve sworn—

” Fuck— Look! ” The one having staid behind pointed at something. He didn’t have to guess what, bouncing out of his hiding in an impulse. The hammer swing missed as the man startled, turning and dropping his posture reflexively. So Oliver put his shoulder to it, pauldron colliding with the man’s sternum and sending him arse first into the dirt.

Bebin Theros Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

Faramund returned Castor's look, shrugged. 'It's not an illusion, that's for damned sure.' Staring up at the rockface, the dawnling sniffed, took a step closer. The ground leading up to it had been worn down beneath a hundred bootheels, and there were slight grooves where something heavier had been dragged through.

Definitely a door. But what's the key?

Reaching out, Faramund ran a gloved hand over the stone. It felt warm to the touch, almost as if it was a living, breathing entity. Blood, a voice interrupted his thoughts suddenly. Friend. Kindred. Blood. Sacrifice. The thing behind Faramund's eye squirmed in pleasure, and the big dawnling shivered as something coursed through him.

'I think-' He took a step back. 'I think the door requires blood to open. A sacrifice, if you will.' So very fitting. 'Don't s'pose you'd like to...?' Turning to Castor, the dawnling sighed.

Peeling off the glove on his left hand, Faramund drew his dagger, laid the blade to palm. There was a quick, sharp tug.

Blood pattered against his boot as he pressed his hand to the entrance. For a moment, nothing happened. Then...

'We're in!' Grinning, Faramund bandaged his hand as the "door" rumbled open, hidden mechanisms pulling it up into the roof of the tunnel beyond. A draft of hot air hit them both, sulphurous and foul-smelling. 'Like Hell's hungry maw,' he remarked, easing his sabre in its scabbard. He glanced at Castor, grinned.

'After you!'

Castor Vega Bebin Theros Oliver

 

[Castor Vega]

"Bloody cultists," the Sworn swore. Always lacked imagination. There's a reason the knight had several vials of blood at his side even if most wasn't his own. He made to say something but Faramund already removed his glove. Better that he save his party tricks for later. Who knows what they would encounter within the bowels of the Mount. Something told Castor simple steel would not suffice.

"Ever the gentleman." A sardonic sigh followed before the Dusker delved into the dark of the mountain.

He tried his best to walk normally as his eyes adjusted to the limited light. Guards were not outside but who was to say the same was true within. A cry of alarm never came but the knight's vigilance remained staunch.

Paths were many and their knowledge was nil, yet Castor continued forth confidently. The pair smoothly slithering through corridors with preternatural knowledge. Experience and instinct played no part.

Voices. No, chanting? A low hum became a fervent echo with each encroaching step.

Castor turned to confer with Faramund but froze as another shadow flickered in the candlelight.

"Only Seen are allowed to witness."

Fuck.

Bebin Theros Oliver Faramund

 

[Bebin Theros]

In the mind, at the Mount. The edges blurred. Splintered and washed away, ever just, as each waning pulse, ebbed and ebbed with the last bolts of life that stormed there in the grey.

Ate away at the vision.

Halls of cold stone. Metal twisted about the paths. Wrought into hinges and locks that never opened. Always closed. What laid inside. Clicked and clacked. Like needles against glass. Gears turned the more as the glass at the vision's terminus cracked. Crumbled. Eaten away by waves come the more quick.

A wheel turned. Arms of iron shift and locked. Hinges cried with rust. There in the maw of opened gate. A prison.

From the vessel of the dying man's memory the Basilisk broke away. Flung free from that mirror's depths, the phantom of Bebin's mind landed back upon the falling shore. Coild and knelt upon the sands, so sucked away by death's desire. His eyes wide, his heart's memory fast as he looked unto that growing abyss. And all the worlds that fell into the black heart.

He rose again. And knew, he had no heart here. He had no flesh here. But those things waited for him again. At the end of his Sanity's Silk.

---

In that dreaded hall, beneath the Umbral Mount, the voices grew the louder.

"Only the Seen! Are allowed to gaze!"

Those voices cried out in ecstasy. "Chosen!"

"We are chosen!"

"His people!"

"Only the seen!" cried the voice of a Seer. "Are allowed to bare that light which passes!"

"His light!"

"The Star Eater!"

"The Everwatcher!" they cried and moaned. Their shadows long and dark against walls that glowed a ghostly blue ahead.

A blue so familiar. Painted across the night's sky. Painted in the mind's eye. Dreams. Hopes. So distant they begged to be reached out to.

"And yet they are out there, oh faithful, they are out there who would take that light ye have given so much for, oh Sightless!"

---

Lungs filled full of hard drawn breath, and eyes came open. Wide and full of fainting. Bebin's mind, so flooded with dreams.

"Oh fuck! Oh fuck!" a young man, hardly old enough to have hairs on his chin stuttered as he fumbled for his club. "It's them!"

Another gave a shout and rammed his weight forward. Desperate as he slammed against the sunless sentinel.

"Petri! Petri go and warn the others!" a malnourished looking dwarf said. A scythe that would do him hardly any good against full plate firm in his hand.

Petri stood stock still. Just a boy really. Pissing himself too.

"Petri, go!"

Bebin settled his heart. His bleary eyes focused on the dead man beneath him. He let his thumb come free of the crown, and picked up his bow. Set arrow against wood with a quiet knock. Though blood ran warm stream from his nose. Dripped down unto the earth.

How the soil drank it up.

Oliver Faramund Castor Vega

 

[Oliver]

Them. Like some fabled Death.

A body collided against his, the metal mute at the impact that affected his balance not at all. The hammer swept retaliation, hungry for blood and flesh and all too hasty for it, falling mere inches clear off the mark. A suit of steel was a lot to face, so it befell him to be eyed and measured for opening, the long blade of a scythe having it in for the gaps in armour.

There were a select few. At the edge of firelight and slipping away from it, one had begun running for help. One with a name and a boy’s temperament.

A shame, really. He could probably yet catch him, if he just—

In a leap and a sidestep he closed the distance to whom was circling him — to buy time? — and swung the hammer again. The scythe blade clanged against shinguard, an agonized roar leaving one as blunt weapon cracked bone.

Faramund Bebin Theros Castor Vega

 

[Faramund]

"Only Seen are allowed to witness.'

Turning slowly, Faramund held steady as the guard slid from the shadows to bar their way. Bald and broad-shouldered, the man had all the complexion of a corpse, and not a very handsome one at that. 'Only Seen are allowed to witness.' Again, he spoke, his voice like gravel, rough on the ears. Small, and yet oh so loud, the sound hid well the second guard as he stepped from the shadows at their backs, like a ghost.

A ghost bearing shimmering blades.

Drawing aside his cloak, hands drifting to the twin hilts hidden there, the first guard asked; 'Why are you here?' His eyes, dark as sin, bounced from Faramund to Castor and back again, as if casting judgement.

'We are here to see the Shaper.' Blinking, Faramund listened to himself speak, a prisoner in his own body. The guard stared back, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. Something shifted in the knight's periphery. 'You bear the mark?' The guard asked. Faramund nodded. 'Show me!'

Unwinding the bandage around his hand, the dawnling showed the guard his wound.

Inky blackness fell across Faramund's vision. Blank, he stood there as the two cultists finished their inspection. 'All is in order,' the death-rattle voice said. 'Proceed.'

Replacing the bandage, the doppler stalked past his brother-in-arms. The gathered procession remained focused on the Seer as they skirted the wide room exposed to the stars above. 'The Workshops are this way,' said Faramund, sure as sure. When he turned, his eyes were brown... and black.

'Coming, brother?'

Castor Vega Bebin Theros Oliver

 

[Castor Vega]

Two guards with twice the number of blades. If the knights drew steel here, that was the game. He sensed that glib excuses would likely just get them killed faster. These guards were different from the normal rabble and paranoia ever haunted the higher hierarchy. Castor mentally braced himself for the inevitable final stand, yet just as before, it never came.

He watched the conversation with feigned indifference. Questions arose and the Sworn shoved curiosity aside each time. Trust remained but Castor would be lying to say he wasn't uneasy. The terms that Faramund used were worryingly specific. Was he simply more familiar with the structure of the cult's organization or did the knowledge come from elsewhere. Castor wasn't sure he wanted to know at this point.

"With the greatest alacrity, brother," was his genuinely sincere reply.

Castor said nothing more for awhile, still unsure of who may be lurking in the shadows. Eventually he fell in step with the other Sworn and made sure to keep his voice low. "Quick work back there. Glad you seem to know where we're going, but, uh, what exactly are these Workshops?" At the cuff, it didn't exactly seem the type of place to hold a prisoner. Also whoever this Shaper was, they sounded like bad business. Castor had yet to encounter a Named of the Cult and from what the others told him, he was damned lucky.

Importantly though, his tone was not accusatory. He just wanted to know what in the hells they were about to walk into.

Bebin Theros Faramund Oliver

 

[Bebin Theros]

It was a dull sound that thumped the wind. A sharp whistle as arrow and shaft split the air.

A punch through cloth and leather hard enough to tear through flesh. One man fell.

The one with broken bones screamed. Cold horror mixed with the fire to fight as he stumbled away from the Sunless Sentinel. Soundless and silent as the horror was. Arm bent all wrong.

To live. Eyes so wide they were but whites. Hand so tight about his scythe, the knuckles yellowed in bloodless fury.

Along the curve of his scythe's blade, purple runes came to life. Line by line. The scripture, so engraved in the metal, fed on the fear. Fed on the mists of blood that bloomed from each arrowhead buried through each body.

Another dull thump. Another arrow plunked in to end a life.

"Petri!" The scythe holder cried out. Half a cry of sorrow. The rest all growl and hate as he threw himself at the Sunless Sentinel. Only one good arm, and a scythe full of purpled magicks that would be felt through any armor.

---

Beneath the stone. Within the halls of their enemy. The walls grew the stranger with the warped voices of the masses come bounce along the timeless rock.

Whispers and hisses. Streams and rivulets of sound, far from the mouths that spoke them into being. Far from the throats that pushed them out into the world.

Within the Workshops, a horrid glow, pale as twilight, painted the walls. Columns. Pillars. Of stone. Of metal. Of ice. Gleamed and misted about. Forms. Disfigured. Unnatural. Trapped within windows that glowed between bones of twisted architecture.

"Incomplete," came a voice, low as smoke languid in its roll from on ahead. "Imperfect," a clatter of tools. Metal against metal. Like claws come against glass. Sounds small and sharp and all at once in flurries like the skitter of legs across a surface. "But maybe, maybe it will do,"

A robed figure, bent and hunched over an altar. Upon which rest the object of his works. His mutterings and miseries.

"It will do it will do," he laughed to himself as his shadow danced and stretched across the bend and span of that most strange workshop. Stillness gripped him. "Hm?" he sounded as his head bobbed up. His neck stretched up, unnaturally long, and he turned his red face toward the two knights. "Oh," he said softly as the red mask, draped by white wisps of ancient hair hung high above them. "Oh," he said with a joyful shake. "Oh!" he said as he turned whole body and stepped towards Faramund. "My son," he said as his head came low, and he reached out an old and shaky hand. His bony fingers out stretched. Long as crab legs. "My son has returned," he sounded to choke back tears.

The Shaper.