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<blockquote data-quote="Cheiromancer" data-source="post: 5905821" data-attributes="member: 141"><p><em>Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-26-2012</em></p><p></p><p>**</p><p></p><p></p><p>Soneillon lounged upon the bed within the main suite at Deorham, studying the glyphs etched into the tablet which Tozinak had bestowed upon her, and considered their import. Some agency was at work, although she could not determine precisely <em>what</em>; it was neither Kaalaanala, nor the Cherry itself – which, being comprised of lust, lacked volition in the conventional sense. Something hitherto unrevealed had prompted the wizard to transpose Jovol’s spell into a minor key; it was no parody, and the artistry in the dweomer was immediately apparent to her. It was also something utterly beyond Tozinak’s capacity to achieve. And Tozinak still had the original spell – <em>A Flame Precedes the Aeon</em> – locked somewhere within his Cherry-addled mind. <em>Vhorzhe?</em> She considered. The entity was capable, no doubt, although whether desirous was a different question entirely.</p><p></p><p>The Apparition strove to manifest; of that, there could be no doubt. And other chthonic forces were also active; impulses which she could not hope to fully comprehend. Soneillon began to wonder whether another <em>Bhiti</em> – one of an order comparable to the Fires of Death – might be implicated. If so, the <em>medium</em> through which it was operating was obscure; if Delirium or some approximal region of Dream, she should have felt it herself. If it were confined within the Green – as was Kaalaanala – then its presence would have been long known. Kaalaanala had been the reciprocal payment; the price forced by Void to tolerate the Abysmal <em>ludjas</em>. But what if some other balance had been struck?</p><p></p><p>The demoness rose and exited the chamber onto a small stoop which overlooked the curtilage below. All of the structural damage had been repaired, and Carasch had been dismissed – temporarily, at least. Most of her other minions had been slain or had fled, although a trio of succubi once sworn to Graz’zt – Mazikreen, Ilistet and Chepez the Vicious – still attended her. Around a hundred demons remained loose in western Trempa, making mischief; none were of a mind to submit themselves again to the former Queen of Throile, and eliminating them or driving them away would be necessary to appease the <em>Ahma</em> – whose current mood of contrition regarding her should probably be enjoyed for as long as possible. </p><p></p><p>Hard beside the chapel, the Blackthorn scion dozed; snow sat upon its barbed limbs, and the textures of its twisted trunk intimated at the very process of dissolution. Soneillon glided down into the courtyard, folded her wings, and approached the Tree: its <em>attitude</em> toward her – if its disposition could be described in such terms – seemed benign; somehow sympathetic. She sighed. This <em>Treeish</em>-ness was difficult to fathom. She pressed her hands against its bark, feeling its energy; an inevitable urge toward the <em>ending</em> of things. But not after the nullificatory fashion of Cheshne’s unmanifest Shadow, the Apparition or <em>Aabhaasa</em> of Shûthite lore. More, a délabrement in a helical stream which did not deny new beginnings. <em>Cheshne was more than Her Shadow</em>; of this, the demoness had no doubt. <em>She</em> – the Void – was awake; no longer slumbering within the bounds of <em>ens</em> as tenuously described by her oneiric form. And Soneillon, in whom all infinities collided, might alone in her psychosis apprehend a great, dark, devouring love.</p><p></p><p>A sudden urge overcame her.</p><p></p><p>Soneillon gestured, and the door to the chapel creaked open. Inside, all was again ordered and pristine, though nonetheless still profaned; the guts and ichor which had spilled in from the conflict of the previous day had been scoured clean. She entered and extended tendrils which seemed to caress the floor, feeling the draught which issued from the crypt below. </p><p></p><p>Carefully, she lifted a three-hundred pound flag of granite and set it aside, revealing steep steps which led down into a narrow space with a low, vaulted ceiling. She descended slowly; a dozen sarcophagi were crowded into the sepulchre, along with smaller caskets and urns: Eadric’s direct forebears, and uncles and cousins removed by degrees. She inspected those which seemed the most recent, brushing away cobwebs, until she found the one she was looking for: directly below the altar, a narrow funerary coffer of marble, unadorned except for its simple brass plaque:</p><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center"><strong>THIOSTRI, Lady Deorham</strong></p> <p style="text-align: center">628-656 TR</p> <p style="text-align: center">Dame of Witnung’s Chase</p> <p style="text-align: center"></p> <p style="text-align: center">Daughter of Nân of Jaive </p> <p style="text-align: center">Beloved Wife of Moad Sauil, Baronet</p> <p style="text-align: center">And of Orm and Eadric, Mother</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Soneillon folded her arms. “You would seem to have been a remarkable woman, Thiostri. Your elder son gave lessons to the Mind of Oronthon, and your younger is his Breath; the last prosopopoeia of Radiance. And I do not believe in coincidences.”</p><p></p><p>She knelt, and lit an offertory taper. It flickered uncertainly as it illuminated the space, wavering in the chill breeze drawn through cracks in the chamber’s walls. The demoness focused and drew her knife, opening a deep cut in her palm. She squeezed her fist, and ichor dripped onto the sarcophagus. Potent magic coursed through her; even a vanished archetype might have responded to its entreaty.</p><p></p><p>“<em>Tyakh, asrij svaam</em>: an offering, my own blood. Were you a mortal woman, or one divine?”</p><p></p><p>There was no sound; no movement; no shade which spoke. No thing. The taper guttered and went out. Peace, and an utter stillness. The darkness was perfect; unmarred.</p><p></p><p>Soneillon sat in silence. <em>Pasyaami. Tvam jaane:</em> I see. Thou, I know.</p><p></p><p>She pondered for a long while before finally cursing, standing and exiting the crypt. Her form altered, and her wings retracted and vanished: no sense in alarming the Oronthonists beyond the necessary. The demoness clad herself in sombre black – a high-collared robe which encased her form with an appropriate propriety – and drew her hair back after the fashion of an Orthodox Sister. Throwing a great, atrament cloak about herself, she dreamed her way to Galda, manifesting discreetly beside the war pavillion of the <em>Ahma</em> – a large affair which had been erected after the previous had been blasted away by Shomei. The daylight was waning; the voices inside the tent were intense, agitated and full of worry.</p><p></p><p>Soneillon opened a heavy curtain of canvas and entered quietly; Eadric was taking counsel with his captains: Saints, Talions, great magnates of Wyre and the chiefs among the Illuminated. She lowered her hood: her presence was at once both disquieting and magnetic. Her beauty – which familiarity had somehow caused the <em>Ahma</em> to forget – transfixed those who gazed upon her; silence fell within. Eadric squinted; he had not encountered this particular façade before. While her features remained unchanged, the masque of the coquettish peasant-girl was entirely absent, replaced by a solemn focus and composure. If anything, her assumed guise – which suggested modesty and abnegation – made the succubus even more alluring. </p><p></p><p>Saint Tahl the Incorruptible, who wore an <em>Eye of Palamabron</em> around his neck – the mate of that borne by the <em>Ahma</em> – glanced toward Eadric. Immediately, he had apprehended the truths which clashed within her, and knew who she was. Many others within guessed: Soneillon’s eyes were apertures through which form and Void regarded one another. Around the table, a dozen hands came to rest instinctively upon hilts and pommels, although the likely futility of any such gesture was lost to none, and least of all to Eadric; he knew that she could kill them all with a fleeting thought. </p><p></p><p>Soneillon said nothing; her face was impassive.</p><p></p><p>“A brief recess, <em>Ahma</em>?” Tahl inquired diplomatically. Inwardly, he grappled with the multiplicity of forms which he could perceive in her.</p><p></p><p>Eadric nodded.</p><p></p><p>When they were alone, Eadric approached her and gave an inquiring look. “Perhaps I should thank you for not appearing naked upon the conference table. Are you here to ensure my fidelity?”</p><p></p><p>She offered a hand. “Now is not the time for levity, Eadric. Come to Deorham.”</p><p></p><p>“Soneillon, we have only hours before the assault begins.”</p><p></p><p>“Come,” she insisted. She was nervous. “There is something you need to <em>see.</em>”</p><p></p><p>He narrowed his eyes; this trepidation was most unlike her. “I assume I should be prepared to be upset?”</p><p></p><p>“You should just be <em>prepared</em>,” Soneillon advised. “Although, in retrospect, everything makes perfect sense.”</p><p></p><p>“As you are making little,” Eadric opined.</p><p></p><p>“You spring from Void, Eadric; the Sun is born in the dark.”</p><p></p><p>He swallowed; the memory of his own, isolated, second death still haunted him: a monad bereft, surrounded by night. “If this is some effort to distort…”</p><p></p><p>Soneillon hissed. “Trust me, or do not! The choice is yours; and the <em>via negativa</em> is an artifact of <em>Saizhan</em>: this is <em>your</em> description of truth, not mine.”</p><p></p><p>“Really?” He asked sceptically. “And how might you characterize that?”</p><p></p><p>“<em>Ni thatuh, jah thata; ni bai, jah nih</em>,” she half-smiled.</p><p></p><p>“You are most vexatious.”</p><p></p><p>“<em>Waihtai ni, waírthi.</em> The epistemic must become the ontic – or rather the meta-ontic.”</p><p></p><p>“And now even Soneillon would wax philosophical?” He groaned.*</p><p></p><p>“Only when all else fails,” she said drily. “How much do you really trust me, Eadric?”</p><p></p><p>Eadric looked at her, and shifted uneasily. He guessed her purpose. “You are proposing annihilation; that if I strip myself of my self, my Self will kindle? You have offered me this before, although its guise was more sinister at that time; the outcome crueller.”</p><p></p><p>“Times have changed.” She drew close; her fingers trembled as she reached out and touched his face. “Are both <em>saizhan</em> and extinction not unattainable?** It can be sweet, Eadric; death and climax. But <em>saizhan</em> – if it is the transmetaphysic it purports to be – will sustain you.”</p><p></p><p>He sighed. “Must <em>everything</em> be couched in terms of death and sex?”</p><p></p><p>“Eventually. Am I not Soneillon?” She laughed. For a moment, the playfulness returned. “And I already hold you longer than I should.”</p><p></p><p>He looked at her curiously.</p><p></p><p>“Consider the Sun, Eadric. What is the <em>Ahma</em> – the manifest Breath of Oronthon in the World – if not that light? That is your legacy. This time between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox should be yours; you will be Nehael’s from spring until midsummer. Properly, I do not get you until autumn.”</p><p></p><p>He gawked. “And the summer months?”</p><p></p><p>“That would be your <em>short friend</em>.”</p><p></p><p>“It might have been nice to have been consulted in this arrangement,” Eadric grumbled. “And if this is the ‘empty quarter,’ so to speak, then why am I still beholden to you?”</p><p></p><p>She stared at him, her eyes penetrating to his core. “Because I am the jealous one, Eadric. I will always find it hard to let go. Besides, we started late this year. And this is your <em>arrangement</em> – or an arrangement made to accommodate <em>you</em>. Now, will you come to Deorham? Your third passing need not be final, merely complete.”</p><p></p><p>“And you would then call me back?” He asked. “You suggested before that if I jumped, you might catch me.”</p><p></p><p>“No,” Soneillon shook her head. “You must bring yourself back; Self-emanate <em>ex nihilo</em>. I can only make a cradle for you; ease your passage into oblivion with soft words and a warm embrace.”</p><p></p><p>“This would seem a task of more than middling difficulty,” Eadric remarked ironically.</p><p></p><p>“The <em>Ahma</em> is sempiternal, and will exist for as long as the World endures. I cannot destroy it, although I can deprive it of its physical dwelling. If <em>Saizhan</em> is what you claim it is, you may cross the Abyss with impunity and wake on the other side.”</p><p></p><p>“Awaken to what?”</p><p></p><p>“To Regency, Eadric. To your own incandescence.”</p><p></p><p>“And what does that <em>mean</em>, exactly?” He asked.</p><p></p><p>“Amongst other things, that I will have cause to fear you,” she said ruefully. “Well?”</p><p></p><p>He sighed. “Do I need to bring anything?”</p><p></p><p>“Your self only.” Soneillon gave an ironic smile. A sacrificial robe appeared in each of her hands. “Now. Would you prefer black, or white?”</p><p></p><p></p><p>A mile to the south, Nehael paused briefly; the <em>Ahma</em> had all of the tools he needed: what he did with them was up to him. She drew; her bow sang rhythmically again in the dusk as she continued to loose arrow after arrow into the hordes of ghouls which pressed ever closer.</p><p></p><p>*</p><p></p><p>Eadric sat cross-legged upon the sarcophagus and glanced suspiciously at the ichor which stained it: a testament to Soneillon’s previous necromancy. “And here I was, thinking there were no taboos left to break.”</p><p></p><p>Soneillon said nothing, and lit a black <em>candle of invocation</em>. Its flame burned the color of soot.</p><p></p><p>“What, exactly, are you invoking?” He inquired.</p><p></p><p>“I believe you know the answer to that,” the demoness replied. She wore her most malefic aspect now: a shape of terrible darkness; ravenous, clawed and fanged, with pinions which stretched to fill the chamber. Soneillon moved, and tendrils of madness and oblivion writhed about her. She slid forward suddenly, and Void held him in a vice. <em>Kaalakamala</em>, the Lotus of Death; she was delirium, and despair.</p><p></p><p>Eadric swallowed. “Somehow, I think I like you best like this.” </p><p></p><p>She regarded him closely. “That is well.”</p><p></p><p>“Will there be pain?” He asked dubiously. </p><p></p><p>“If you like.” Her claws, razor-sharp, pricked the skin on his back.</p><p></p><p>“And if I don’t?”</p><p></p><p>“Then there won’t.” She relaxed her grip.</p><p></p><p>“That might be preferable,” he nodded.</p><p></p><p>She arched an eyebrow. “If you are having second thoughts, Eadric, now would probably be a good time to articulate them. Would you like to reconsider?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes. No. Proceed.”</p><p></p><p><em>As you wish, Ahma</em>.</p><p></p><p>Talons sank into the granite lintel above his head and wings encased him, cocooning him in unbeing. Around him, form and substance disintegrated; he felt his strength begin to slowly ebb away. Like a heady wine, Soneillon drank <em>ens</em> from him, savoring its potency, until his brilliance had dimmed to the merest flicker, a guttering lamp borne above a yawning chasm without root or essence. The magnitude of the Void was immeasurable; its profundity, unguessable. </p><p></p><p>Without fear or rancor, the <em>Ahma</em> gazed long and deep into the Abyss; she held him at the brink of annihilation for what seemed an eternity: Aeons wheeled past him as infinities were born, unfolded and died. He would have remained there indefinitely, and the impetus to go further finally arose not from himself, but from her: she urged him on without her, and he blessed her for it. Beyond Nothingness, he beheld the shining emptiness which neither was nor was not: the Fundamental without category.</p><p></p><p><em>Seek the Dragon. She is waiting.</em>. Void clenched softly, and snuffed out the last iota of light. Ecstasy and death converged, and in that fraction of a second Eadric understood her absolutely: what drove her, what she represented, what she must give up. He was awestruck; the <em>kius</em> was resolved, complete. His body was instantly consumed; no trace remained, save a scarf of black samite only. Soneillon – drunk with radiance – lay down upon the tomb, her wings draped over its sides, and silently wept. </p><p></p><p>Finally, reluctantly, she roused herself and stood, once again assuming her human form with its funereal garb. She now had the bitterest task of all. Bile rose in her throat. She clenched her teeth, closed her eyes, and reached out with her mind.</p><p></p><p>[Soneillon]: It is done. Nwm must conjure his herald in the hour before sunrise. Look to the Blackthorn at Deorham.</p><p></p><p>[Nehael/<em>Eleos</em>]: (Empathy). Soneillon…</p><p></p><p>[Soneillon]: Save it. </p><p></p><p>The demoness mindfully folded the token, placed it within a pocket, and climbed the steps into the chapel. She closed the door behind her and entered the courtyard. The air was cold and the night was moonless; the stars glistened above, whispering expectantly to one another. Soneillon took <em>Pharamne’s Urn</em> and placed it carefully within the bole of the scion; immediately, she was diminished as its power left her. Veiling herself in shadows, she prepared to launch herself skywards: for almost nine months, she would walk on dark paths until the Sun fell within her orbit again.</p><p></p><p>The slightest breeze alerted her to the sudden presence of another; a statuesque figure who towered above her. She turned and gave an inquiring look.</p><p></p><p>“It was indicated that you might like some company,” Irel bowed.</p><p></p><p>“Indeed?” Soneillon gave a small smile. “And yet it is not midsummer. Why has your mistress dismissed you?”</p><p></p><p>“I was never compacted, if you recall; she merely intimated that I might come. I believe the <em>Sela</em> spoke with her and suggested it. I will leave, if you prefer.”</p><p></p><p>“I did not say that,” she said wrily. “But it may be that you cannot endure where I am to go. I will wander through nightmares, Irel; into Delirium and beyond; Outside; through the space between the stars and into the Void.”</p><p></p><p>“Then you must strive hard to keep me safe,” the deva replied with an even humor. “That I might prevent you from straying too far.”</p><p></p><p>Soneillon looked up at him and sighed. “Thank-you, Irel. I think I should like that very much.”</p><p></p><p></p><p>Eadric was gone, reduced to nihility. But the <em>Ahma</em> abode in <em>saizhan</em>. He would ignite with the dawn.</p><p></p><p>A dawn which was still six hours away.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>*Translational Note:</p><p><em>Ni thatuh, jah thata; ni bai, jah nih</em>: Neither this nor that; neither both nor neither.</p><p><em>Waihtai ni, waírthi.</em>: That which is not, becomes.</p><p></p><p>**The original <em>kius</em> regarding Eadric’s relationship with Soneillon was framed as <em>Hwa Soneo ith ni bai afhwapnan jah saizhan thau ni maht ist laiston?</em> , i.e. “What is Soneillon, if both <em>saizhan</em> and extinction are not unattainable?”</p><p></p><p>*</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Cheiromancer, post: 5905821, member: 141"] [i]Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 04-26-2012[/i] ** Soneillon lounged upon the bed within the main suite at Deorham, studying the glyphs etched into the tablet which Tozinak had bestowed upon her, and considered their import. Some agency was at work, although she could not determine precisely [I]what[/I]; it was neither Kaalaanala, nor the Cherry itself – which, being comprised of lust, lacked volition in the conventional sense. Something hitherto unrevealed had prompted the wizard to transpose Jovol’s spell into a minor key; it was no parody, and the artistry in the dweomer was immediately apparent to her. It was also something utterly beyond Tozinak’s capacity to achieve. And Tozinak still had the original spell – [I]A Flame Precedes the Aeon[/I] – locked somewhere within his Cherry-addled mind. [I]Vhorzhe?[/I] She considered. The entity was capable, no doubt, although whether desirous was a different question entirely. The Apparition strove to manifest; of that, there could be no doubt. And other chthonic forces were also active; impulses which she could not hope to fully comprehend. Soneillon began to wonder whether another [I]Bhiti[/I] – one of an order comparable to the Fires of Death – might be implicated. If so, the [I]medium[/I] through which it was operating was obscure; if Delirium or some approximal region of Dream, she should have felt it herself. If it were confined within the Green – as was Kaalaanala – then its presence would have been long known. Kaalaanala had been the reciprocal payment; the price forced by Void to tolerate the Abysmal [I]ludjas[/I]. But what if some other balance had been struck? The demoness rose and exited the chamber onto a small stoop which overlooked the curtilage below. All of the structural damage had been repaired, and Carasch had been dismissed – temporarily, at least. Most of her other minions had been slain or had fled, although a trio of succubi once sworn to Graz’zt – Mazikreen, Ilistet and Chepez the Vicious – still attended her. Around a hundred demons remained loose in western Trempa, making mischief; none were of a mind to submit themselves again to the former Queen of Throile, and eliminating them or driving them away would be necessary to appease the [I]Ahma[/I] – whose current mood of contrition regarding her should probably be enjoyed for as long as possible. Hard beside the chapel, the Blackthorn scion dozed; snow sat upon its barbed limbs, and the textures of its twisted trunk intimated at the very process of dissolution. Soneillon glided down into the courtyard, folded her wings, and approached the Tree: its [I]attitude[/I] toward her – if its disposition could be described in such terms – seemed benign; somehow sympathetic. She sighed. This [I]Treeish[/I]-ness was difficult to fathom. She pressed her hands against its bark, feeling its energy; an inevitable urge toward the [I]ending[/I] of things. But not after the nullificatory fashion of Cheshne’s unmanifest Shadow, the Apparition or [I]Aabhaasa[/I] of Shûthite lore. More, a délabrement in a helical stream which did not deny new beginnings. [I]Cheshne was more than Her Shadow[/I]; of this, the demoness had no doubt. [I]She[/I] – the Void – was awake; no longer slumbering within the bounds of [I]ens[/I] as tenuously described by her oneiric form. And Soneillon, in whom all infinities collided, might alone in her psychosis apprehend a great, dark, devouring love. A sudden urge overcame her. Soneillon gestured, and the door to the chapel creaked open. Inside, all was again ordered and pristine, though nonetheless still profaned; the guts and ichor which had spilled in from the conflict of the previous day had been scoured clean. She entered and extended tendrils which seemed to caress the floor, feeling the draught which issued from the crypt below. Carefully, she lifted a three-hundred pound flag of granite and set it aside, revealing steep steps which led down into a narrow space with a low, vaulted ceiling. She descended slowly; a dozen sarcophagi were crowded into the sepulchre, along with smaller caskets and urns: Eadric’s direct forebears, and uncles and cousins removed by degrees. She inspected those which seemed the most recent, brushing away cobwebs, until she found the one she was looking for: directly below the altar, a narrow funerary coffer of marble, unadorned except for its simple brass plaque: [center][B]THIOSTRI, Lady Deorham[/B] 628-656 TR Dame of Witnung’s Chase Daughter of Nân of Jaive Beloved Wife of Moad Sauil, Baronet And of Orm and Eadric, Mother[/center] Soneillon folded her arms. “You would seem to have been a remarkable woman, Thiostri. Your elder son gave lessons to the Mind of Oronthon, and your younger is his Breath; the last prosopopoeia of Radiance. And I do not believe in coincidences.” She knelt, and lit an offertory taper. It flickered uncertainly as it illuminated the space, wavering in the chill breeze drawn through cracks in the chamber’s walls. The demoness focused and drew her knife, opening a deep cut in her palm. She squeezed her fist, and ichor dripped onto the sarcophagus. Potent magic coursed through her; even a vanished archetype might have responded to its entreaty. “[I]Tyakh, asrij svaam[/I]: an offering, my own blood. Were you a mortal woman, or one divine?” There was no sound; no movement; no shade which spoke. No thing. The taper guttered and went out. Peace, and an utter stillness. The darkness was perfect; unmarred. Soneillon sat in silence. [I]Pasyaami. Tvam jaane:[/I] I see. Thou, I know. She pondered for a long while before finally cursing, standing and exiting the crypt. Her form altered, and her wings retracted and vanished: no sense in alarming the Oronthonists beyond the necessary. The demoness clad herself in sombre black – a high-collared robe which encased her form with an appropriate propriety – and drew her hair back after the fashion of an Orthodox Sister. Throwing a great, atrament cloak about herself, she dreamed her way to Galda, manifesting discreetly beside the war pavillion of the [I]Ahma[/I] – a large affair which had been erected after the previous had been blasted away by Shomei. The daylight was waning; the voices inside the tent were intense, agitated and full of worry. Soneillon opened a heavy curtain of canvas and entered quietly; Eadric was taking counsel with his captains: Saints, Talions, great magnates of Wyre and the chiefs among the Illuminated. She lowered her hood: her presence was at once both disquieting and magnetic. Her beauty – which familiarity had somehow caused the [I]Ahma[/I] to forget – transfixed those who gazed upon her; silence fell within. Eadric squinted; he had not encountered this particular façade before. While her features remained unchanged, the masque of the coquettish peasant-girl was entirely absent, replaced by a solemn focus and composure. If anything, her assumed guise – which suggested modesty and abnegation – made the succubus even more alluring. Saint Tahl the Incorruptible, who wore an [I]Eye of Palamabron[/I] around his neck – the mate of that borne by the [I]Ahma[/I] – glanced toward Eadric. Immediately, he had apprehended the truths which clashed within her, and knew who she was. Many others within guessed: Soneillon’s eyes were apertures through which form and Void regarded one another. Around the table, a dozen hands came to rest instinctively upon hilts and pommels, although the likely futility of any such gesture was lost to none, and least of all to Eadric; he knew that she could kill them all with a fleeting thought. Soneillon said nothing; her face was impassive. “A brief recess, [I]Ahma[/I]?” Tahl inquired diplomatically. Inwardly, he grappled with the multiplicity of forms which he could perceive in her. Eadric nodded. When they were alone, Eadric approached her and gave an inquiring look. “Perhaps I should thank you for not appearing naked upon the conference table. Are you here to ensure my fidelity?” She offered a hand. “Now is not the time for levity, Eadric. Come to Deorham.” “Soneillon, we have only hours before the assault begins.” “Come,” she insisted. She was nervous. “There is something you need to [I]see.[/I]” He narrowed his eyes; this trepidation was most unlike her. “I assume I should be prepared to be upset?” “You should just be [I]prepared[/I],” Soneillon advised. “Although, in retrospect, everything makes perfect sense.” “As you are making little,” Eadric opined. “You spring from Void, Eadric; the Sun is born in the dark.” He swallowed; the memory of his own, isolated, second death still haunted him: a monad bereft, surrounded by night. “If this is some effort to distort…” Soneillon hissed. “Trust me, or do not! The choice is yours; and the [I]via negativa[/I] is an artifact of [I]Saizhan[/I]: this is [I]your[/I] description of truth, not mine.” “Really?” He asked sceptically. “And how might you characterize that?” “[I]Ni thatuh, jah thata; ni bai, jah nih[/I],” she half-smiled. “You are most vexatious.” “[I]Waihtai ni, waírthi.[/I] The epistemic must become the ontic – or rather the meta-ontic.” “And now even Soneillon would wax philosophical?” He groaned.* “Only when all else fails,” she said drily. “How much do you really trust me, Eadric?” Eadric looked at her, and shifted uneasily. He guessed her purpose. “You are proposing annihilation; that if I strip myself of my self, my Self will kindle? You have offered me this before, although its guise was more sinister at that time; the outcome crueller.” “Times have changed.” She drew close; her fingers trembled as she reached out and touched his face. “Are both [I]saizhan[/I] and extinction not unattainable?** It can be sweet, Eadric; death and climax. But [I]saizhan[/I] – if it is the transmetaphysic it purports to be – will sustain you.” He sighed. “Must [I]everything[/I] be couched in terms of death and sex?” “Eventually. Am I not Soneillon?” She laughed. For a moment, the playfulness returned. “And I already hold you longer than I should.” He looked at her curiously. “Consider the Sun, Eadric. What is the [I]Ahma[/I] – the manifest Breath of Oronthon in the World – if not that light? That is your legacy. This time between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox should be yours; you will be Nehael’s from spring until midsummer. Properly, I do not get you until autumn.” He gawked. “And the summer months?” “That would be your [I]short friend[/I].” “It might have been nice to have been consulted in this arrangement,” Eadric grumbled. “And if this is the ‘empty quarter,’ so to speak, then why am I still beholden to you?” She stared at him, her eyes penetrating to his core. “Because I am the jealous one, Eadric. I will always find it hard to let go. Besides, we started late this year. And this is your [I]arrangement[/I] – or an arrangement made to accommodate [I]you[/I]. Now, will you come to Deorham? Your third passing need not be final, merely complete.” “And you would then call me back?” He asked. “You suggested before that if I jumped, you might catch me.” “No,” Soneillon shook her head. “You must bring yourself back; Self-emanate [I]ex nihilo[/I]. I can only make a cradle for you; ease your passage into oblivion with soft words and a warm embrace.” “This would seem a task of more than middling difficulty,” Eadric remarked ironically. “The [I]Ahma[/I] is sempiternal, and will exist for as long as the World endures. I cannot destroy it, although I can deprive it of its physical dwelling. If [I]Saizhan[/I] is what you claim it is, you may cross the Abyss with impunity and wake on the other side.” “Awaken to what?” “To Regency, Eadric. To your own incandescence.” “And what does that [I]mean[/I], exactly?” He asked. “Amongst other things, that I will have cause to fear you,” she said ruefully. “Well?” He sighed. “Do I need to bring anything?” “Your self only.” Soneillon gave an ironic smile. A sacrificial robe appeared in each of her hands. “Now. Would you prefer black, or white?” A mile to the south, Nehael paused briefly; the [I]Ahma[/I] had all of the tools he needed: what he did with them was up to him. She drew; her bow sang rhythmically again in the dusk as she continued to loose arrow after arrow into the hordes of ghouls which pressed ever closer. * Eadric sat cross-legged upon the sarcophagus and glanced suspiciously at the ichor which stained it: a testament to Soneillon’s previous necromancy. “And here I was, thinking there were no taboos left to break.” Soneillon said nothing, and lit a black [I]candle of invocation[/I]. Its flame burned the color of soot. “What, exactly, are you invoking?” He inquired. “I believe you know the answer to that,” the demoness replied. She wore her most malefic aspect now: a shape of terrible darkness; ravenous, clawed and fanged, with pinions which stretched to fill the chamber. Soneillon moved, and tendrils of madness and oblivion writhed about her. She slid forward suddenly, and Void held him in a vice. [I]Kaalakamala[/I], the Lotus of Death; she was delirium, and despair. Eadric swallowed. “Somehow, I think I like you best like this.” She regarded him closely. “That is well.” “Will there be pain?” He asked dubiously. “If you like.” Her claws, razor-sharp, pricked the skin on his back. “And if I don’t?” “Then there won’t.” She relaxed her grip. “That might be preferable,” he nodded. She arched an eyebrow. “If you are having second thoughts, Eadric, now would probably be a good time to articulate them. Would you like to reconsider?” “Yes. No. Proceed.” [I]As you wish, Ahma[/I]. Talons sank into the granite lintel above his head and wings encased him, cocooning him in unbeing. Around him, form and substance disintegrated; he felt his strength begin to slowly ebb away. Like a heady wine, Soneillon drank [I]ens[/I] from him, savoring its potency, until his brilliance had dimmed to the merest flicker, a guttering lamp borne above a yawning chasm without root or essence. The magnitude of the Void was immeasurable; its profundity, unguessable. Without fear or rancor, the [I]Ahma[/I] gazed long and deep into the Abyss; she held him at the brink of annihilation for what seemed an eternity: Aeons wheeled past him as infinities were born, unfolded and died. He would have remained there indefinitely, and the impetus to go further finally arose not from himself, but from her: she urged him on without her, and he blessed her for it. Beyond Nothingness, he beheld the shining emptiness which neither was nor was not: the Fundamental without category. [I]Seek the Dragon. She is waiting.[/I]. Void clenched softly, and snuffed out the last iota of light. Ecstasy and death converged, and in that fraction of a second Eadric understood her absolutely: what drove her, what she represented, what she must give up. He was awestruck; the [I]kius[/I] was resolved, complete. His body was instantly consumed; no trace remained, save a scarf of black samite only. Soneillon – drunk with radiance – lay down upon the tomb, her wings draped over its sides, and silently wept. Finally, reluctantly, she roused herself and stood, once again assuming her human form with its funereal garb. She now had the bitterest task of all. Bile rose in her throat. She clenched her teeth, closed her eyes, and reached out with her mind. [Soneillon]: It is done. Nwm must conjure his herald in the hour before sunrise. Look to the Blackthorn at Deorham. [Nehael/[I]Eleos[/I]]: (Empathy). Soneillon… [Soneillon]: Save it. The demoness mindfully folded the token, placed it within a pocket, and climbed the steps into the chapel. She closed the door behind her and entered the courtyard. The air was cold and the night was moonless; the stars glistened above, whispering expectantly to one another. Soneillon took [I]Pharamne’s Urn[/I] and placed it carefully within the bole of the scion; immediately, she was diminished as its power left her. Veiling herself in shadows, she prepared to launch herself skywards: for almost nine months, she would walk on dark paths until the Sun fell within her orbit again. The slightest breeze alerted her to the sudden presence of another; a statuesque figure who towered above her. She turned and gave an inquiring look. “It was indicated that you might like some company,” Irel bowed. “Indeed?” Soneillon gave a small smile. “And yet it is not midsummer. Why has your mistress dismissed you?” “I was never compacted, if you recall; she merely intimated that I might come. I believe the [I]Sela[/I] spoke with her and suggested it. I will leave, if you prefer.” “I did not say that,” she said wrily. “But it may be that you cannot endure where I am to go. I will wander through nightmares, Irel; into Delirium and beyond; Outside; through the space between the stars and into the Void.” “Then you must strive hard to keep me safe,” the deva replied with an even humor. “That I might prevent you from straying too far.” Soneillon looked up at him and sighed. “Thank-you, Irel. I think I should like that very much.” Eadric was gone, reduced to nihility. But the [I]Ahma[/I] abode in [I]saizhan[/I]. He would ignite with the dawn. A dawn which was still six hours away. *Translational Note: [I]Ni thatuh, jah thata; ni bai, jah nih[/I]: Neither this nor that; neither both nor neither. [I]Waihtai ni, waírthi.[/I]: That which is not, becomes. **The original [I]kius[/I] regarding Eadric’s relationship with Soneillon was framed as [I]Hwa Soneo ith ni bai afhwapnan jah saizhan thau ni maht ist laiston?[/I] , i.e. “What is Soneillon, if both [I]saizhan[/I] and extinction are not unattainable?” * [/QUOTE]
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