Shemeska
Adventurer
One hour after peak was early for Clueless to be both in bed and asleep. Rather than sleeping, his time was more often spent drinking or bartending, carrying on conversations with dozens of late night regulars at the Jammer or his own companions up late. More than that, the fey-blooded bladesinger was not in the slightest bit averse to "entertaining" either with a particular and particularly non-exclusive Sensate, anyone else that caught his eye, or both. Lately however he'd been keeping to himself and brooding over certain and certainly darker things he'd learned below the streets of Sigil. This latter topic more than anything else he'd kept absolutely to himself, not trusting his revelations and self-revelations to any of his companions, regardless of their shared experiences.
At the moment however, Clueless was fast asleep, his feet free of the covers and his right hand under his pillow, tightly wrapped around Razor's grip like a Baatorian steel extension of himself. His sleep however was fitful, and a blizzard of concerns spun through his dreams. Toras claimed to have been killed by Alisohn Nilesia, a 'dead woman' if ever there'd been one. It would have been easy to dismiss the fighter's claims as mistaken identity, a doppelganger, or an illusion wrought to sow discord in the City of Doors. Those slain by Her Serenity uniformly did not return from their brutal, horrific, and typically public death. It should have been easy to dimiss, except for Fyrehowl's encounter with the risen Nilesia. She hadn't seen the ex-Factol amidst the haze of a burning building and through eyes dying from a blade through the heart. No. The lupinal had seen Nilesia face to face, spoken with her, heard her voice, seen the contempt in her eyes, and it was her even though it couldn't have been.
Maybe.
She'd been subtly different, physically so, more half-fiend than tiefling, but she'd spoken with an intimate knowledge and personal memory of past interactions. She recognized Fyrehowl and she stayed within the burning library longer than she should have in order to try and kill her.
There was however the issue of time. Fyrehowl had fought Nilesia at nearly the same time as Toras had been stabbed to death, almost two wards away. Clueless wasn't entirely sure how to get around that issue of distance, and more so the very non-random connection between the locations that she'd been: a library and scriptorium linked to the Fraternity of Order. Toras described it as if she'd been looking for something, tearing the place apart searching for a specific volume or record. Fyrehowl though had seen the same but also seen Nilesia with several volumes in hand and the fires started to destroy the evidence of her theft.
Beyond how she was inexplicably risen from the dead, why had she returned to Sigil and risked the Lady's wrath? What was she searching for and what had she found? Was it connected to the apparent assassination of the Guvners' factol in Mechanus? It had to be.
Looming on Clueless's dreaming mind was also a question that had gnawed at him since the start: why had he and his companions been blackmailed and forced into recovering Nilesia from slavery in Acheron only to have her arrive in Sigil, insane and raving, there to be slaughtered without effort by Her Serenity? What reason did the Marauder have to do that? Simply to give Nilesia hope and watch with amusement as she destroyed herself with mad ambition? It was plausible of course, but with Nilesia seemingly risen from the dead and looting not one but two Guvner storehouses in Sigil? There was something deeper going on, and the 'loth was at the heart of it, pulling string as she always was.
How it all fit together was a great Gordian knot that spun and twisted in his mind, perpetually shifting form and shape, revealing more snarls and tangles, seemingly tighter than ever before, even as he thought he'd managed to figure out the form of the knot in the first place. Be that as it was however, what spun above the slumbering bladesinger at that very moment however was distinctly absent from those slumbering thoughts.
"Greetings!"
Drifting several feet above the sleeping bladesinger, the faint blue-white glow of the Cheshire Fiend's projected avatar smiled with its self-satisfied greeting and announcement of its presence. Of course its presence was greeted only with an abrupt mumble, turn from one side to the other, and a snore.
The fiend cleared his throat but gained no reply save for another snore. The illusory grin frowned. F*cking mortals.
"HEY! WAKE UP!" The 'loth barked out, finally garnering a reaction and a hell of one as Clueless bolted up and promptly skewered his projected avatar with Razor's tip, albeit to no effect.
"Well that wasn't the response that I expected..." The Cheshire Fiend proceeded to nibble upon Razor, showing no apparent ill effect. "Still, long time no see Clueless. It's good to see you again!"
His eyes marred by stress, too many unwisely taken shots of fey-wine only hours before, and fitful sleep afterwards, Clueless stared at the illusory ‘loth with confusion and distrust.
"What the f*ck are you doing in my room?!" Clueless nearly spat, not moving Razor in the slightest and fully prepared to cast if needed, despite being tangled in bed sheets. His patience with anything ‘loth was sorely thin given the events of the past twenty four hours and frankly the past year and a half before that. A smiling ‘loth was still a ‘loth.
"Trust me when I say I'm not here to stare at your naked flesh.” The Cheshire Fiend looked down at the bladesinger’s form which would have made many a Sensate happy, and occasionally made one Sensate very happy. “Many would be happy as I understand such mortal concerns, but for a 'loth like myself, the notion is... disconcerting."
"You're not my type either if that helps..." Clueless frowned and lowered Razor down to the mattress, though pointedly, his hand remained upon the blade and his stance only partially relaxed. "So to what do I owe this honor? It's been a long time, for better or for worse."
"For better or for worse indeed, yes..." The Grin drifted backwards slightly and turned to examine the bladesinger’s room. “I gather that your business here seems to be doing rather well, and I’m to understand that your lupinal companion came rather close to gaining a seat on Sigil’s council. Bravo.”
The fiend was taking its time to actually get to the point of why it was there, something that Clueless inwardly frowned at.
"Thank you, and as for yourself, I trust you're doing well?" The bladesinger asked, not truly expecting or desiring an answer compared to the lingering question of what the illusory fiend was doing in his room at that hour. Given a chance to talk about himself though, the chatty fiend gave an answer nonetheless.
“Oh I’ve been doing quite well for myself as it happens, thank you very much. My status as the Keeper’s favored servitor has personally profited me to quite an extent in Gehenna. Unless of course I’m in the Waste. Or Carceri. Or Acheron. Or wherever else I happen to be. The use of a planar projection makes my existence ooooh so much easier, even if it does have me as something of a favored errand boy for the Keeper of the Tower.” The Cheshire Fiend shrugged, as best as an exaggeratedly comic smile without eyes or any actual body either tangible or representative could express.
“I wasn’t trying to spark small talk, I was just being polite.” Clueless smirked and motioned for the fiend to get on with it. “Spit it out. You’re not here to make random chitchat. What's up?”
The corners of the Cheshire Fiend’s cartoon grin moved in their best impression of an apologetic shrug.
“I’m here to deliver a message to you and your companions, though mostly to you.”
“To me? Why?” Clueless raised an eyebrow.
"Consider this a parting gift and bit of professional courtesy among former compatriots from Helekanalaith the Keeper of the Tower, most recently in residence in a minor portion of your parietal lobe."
Clueless grimaced at the fiend’s mention of the Keeper who’d stayed within his mind as a passenger long after he’d promised to leave. “F*ck him.”
"Another thing I'm not inclined to pursue, but if that's your thing, please see to your dreams and aspirations. Your fate is likely better than with the options here in Sigil that have expressed their interest in you in the past."
With the last mention, a faint swirl of cartoon razorvine spiraled atop the Cheshire Fiend’s avatar before vanishing as the ‘loth made a point of sticking its tongue out.
"Get to it." Clueless grimaced as well, rapidly losing his patience.
"As I said, this is a professional courtesy from the Keeper constituent to your original agreement, which is now void for reasons beyond his control."
"..." Clueless took a deep breath, knowing what the fiend meant even before it was plainly stated.
"Shylara the Manged is free from her stony confinement and released to pursue her own affairs and whatever the Oinoloth has tasked her towards."
"F*ck!" Clueless knew the day would eventually come and complicate his already dangerous life, but as the fiend supplied the revelation, he pointedly slammed his fist into the wall, ignoring the pain before finally stopping and trailing off into a string of curses.
"F*ck indeed, for more than just yourself though.” The Cheshire Fiend lamented, “I've rather enjoyed the status quo for the past year. I also had a deep and abiding appreciation for the awkward snarl she had on her face in the corner of my patron’s office the statue resided in.”
“I’m sure you did…” Clueless ignored the ‘loth the room as his mind spun to what the Overlord of Carceri might do in the coming days.
“We dressed it up, decorated it, gave it new and awkward poses from time to time.” The ‘loth beamed a smile, “It has been a delightful distraction and I must thank you for putting it into the Keeper’s hands in the first place.”
“He never gave me any other option…” Clueless smirked, “But now that you’ve let me know, which I do appreciate, don’t get me wrong, is there anything else you want? Or can I get some sleep or just go try very hard to get drunk?”
The Cheshire Fiend paused and stared at Clueless for a moment before asking a question:
"If you don't mind me asking, how did you manage to get the Keeper out of your head?"
Clueless grimaced and considered saying nothing, but the fiend clearly knew so there wasn’t any point in denying it, though just how much it knew was an open question, "You knew about that?"
The Grin paused, taking it's time for the response, measuring what precisely to admit to or not, "I suspected. My being here rather than a mental projection by Helekanalaith himself settled the issue for me. So how did you? I'm exceptionally curious. Though the Keeper said nothing to me, I expect that he was not pleased by that turn of events."
Inwardly, Clueless smiled, enjoying a profound moment of schadenfreude at his possession of knowledge that the secrets greedy 'loth did not. Outwardly his feelings manifested to mirror his inward smile as abruptly he smirked, "Yeah you can keep guessing as to the why. I'm keeping that one to myself."
"Well that's no fun..." The Grin frowned, giving as best of a pout as it could without an actual lower lip. "You're just going to make me watch you now from time to time and try and puzzle this one out. I do like puzzles."
Wanting to get the fiend away from the notion of following and watching him, Clueless changed the subject. "So what do you think the Manged is going to do now?"
"Whatever she's told!" The Grin quipped, "She'll likely be on a tighter leash with the Oinoloth directly dictating her actions." The Grin flickered, indicated a blink as it turned to the side and softly chuckled, "She'll probably like that."
"How worried should we be that she'll try and take revenge on us?"
"Not really all that much I suspect. Not immediately at least," The Grin did its best to shrug. "She'll want to absolutely, but the Oinoloth likely considers this whole situation her own f*ck up and frankly is likely to not allow her to take revenge so as to make her suffer as punishment for that. But... if you attempt to directly stymie anything that the Oinoloth has tasked her with, He will take interest and the b*tch is liable to be unleashed to do as she wishes. Do beware of that."
"So where do -you- stand within all of that? Clearly you don't like her, but what about the Oinoloth's goals... whatever the hell they are?"
Clueless raised the one question that had hung over their heads since their first encounter with the Oinoloth’s surrogates and co-conspirators, and for himself a situation that had been with him and actually firmly lodged in his ankle well before any of that. While the ‘loth wasn’t likely to tell him anything, it was worth a try.
“Ah yes… that…” The Cheshire Fiend paused its slow meander about Clueless’s room and gave an exaggeratedly slow, sly smile, "I do believe you said it best my mortal friend: 'I'm keeping that one to myself!'"
Then, without any further commentary the illusory grin winked out of existence, leaving Clueless now awake and with a deep sense of foreboding for the future. A bottle of fey wine seemed to be in order, even if he had a hangover at the Council Meeting the very next day.
"F*cking 'loths..."
Panic and horror welling in her eyes, Shylara’s screaming abruptly ceased as the Oinoloth gazed down and thrust a clawed finger to her neck directly atop her carotid artery. Neatly pinching off the blood-flow to her brain, the Ebon sneered.
“You awaken only because I still have need of you, worthless, ragged tool, not because of your having earned any sympathy from me.”
His finger firmly in place and unwavering even as his consort shuddered and began struggling, he snarled and glanced derisively at her body, the fur patchy and marked by open sores and scarring from her incessant itching, unhealed despite the passage of the past year in her comatose state.
“….” Shylara gasped, her reply incoherent and gargled, even as her eyes remained locked upon the Oinoloth somewhere between horror and rapture.
“You weak and foolish wretch! Did I make a mistake in giving you power Shylara?” The Oinoloth mused, “Should I have taken another as my consort? Another child of the Tower unworthy of my attentions but useful nonetheless such as yourself? Should I watch you die here and now?”
“….” Again the Manged gave an incoherent bark, her struggling increasing as her starving brain fired and overrode nearly all rational, higher thought with only a primordial desire for survival. Wriggling in place, held down by a single finger like a butterfly pinned alive to a collector’s glass plate, she frantically, erratically slapped at the Oinoloth’s arms and shoulder to no avail.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve watched you die of course, nor the first time it has happened at my hands.” Vorkannis sneered, ignoring Shylara’s flailing, “This time it won’t be at your begging request though, nor will it serve to advance your caste and station.”
Sparking sudden recognition and a long-buried memory clouded by agony, Shylara looked up at the Oinoloth and slowly moved her hands to embrace his and dig his claws deeper into her flesh. Even as her eyes began to bleed from retinal hemorrhage and her limbs grew weak she looked up and began to smile.
12,900 years before the present, Carceri’s first layer of Othrys:
“Shylara Akt’Atarm, stand before your betters and present your request to us.” The sterile, dispassionate telepathy of thirteen ultroloths echoed within the skull of the one there to petition them for promotion.
The nycaloth who bore that name and the ultroloths surrounding her stood within a copse of withered trees transplanted eons ago from the Waste to mark out a place of importance there upon Carceri’s first layer of Othrys. One day the ‘loths would control the plane in its entirety, but at the moment that rule was disputed and their infection of the plane with their essence was paltry at best, though their plans for the Tower of Incarnate Pain would make their rule undisputed. The nycaloth smiled with the self-assured knowledge that she of course would be a part of that plan.
“I stand before you my masters, my betters, Shylara Akt’Atarm servitor of the Tower of Incarnate Pain, butcher of gehreleths, and 1st among the scouts of Her Majesty Cholerix.” Shylara’s eyes were closed as she announced herself, and then as she gave her request, she opened them to see herself surrounded by a circle of glittering, multicolored eyes. “I am here to present myself for your judgment and gain promotion from nycaloth to arcanaloth. I must know. I must understand. Teach me. I demand this. Break me. Remake me greater and grander.”
Her bravado belied her worry, both at her impending rise in station, but also the unique nature of the ceremony compared to what she knew of such things. The standard ring of security normally found at such an event was non-existent. All such ceremonies occurred within the Tower’s foundations, with the ultroloths opening up a gate to either Gehenna or the Waste, with the broken forms of the worthy hurled into the Forges or the Pools respectively below the great Tower of each plane; but not this time. Shylara’s ceremony occurred far from the Tower of Incarnate Pain, out in the wilds of Carceri, beneath the unblinking gaze of the crimson pearls strung overhead like so much bloody garland, below the limitless void and the chiming of the Othrys Bells, out in the wilderness, inviting, even goading the attentions of Carceri’s first and arguably current masters the gehreleths.
Shylara Akt’Atarm towered a half-dozen feet above the heads of the others gathered there to judge and then either promote her or destroy her. A nycaloth, lean muscle rippled with her every motion like waves of insects wriggling beneath her grey-green hide. At her back a pair of powerful, membranous wings lay folded and relaxed except for a periodic jitter to reflect her nervous mood. Of course she wore no clothing, her body exposed without shame to symbolically reflect that her mind, her memories, her actions, her motivations, and her past record of success and failures were all open for review.
She took a breath, baring jagged fangs set within a vaguely canine maw, brilliant green eyes flickering with a flame of intelligence well beyond the standard for her caste and a furious current of perhaps reckless passion that underlay it. Despite the flawless, muscled physique she presented, despite her accomplishments in service to Cholerix, and despite her pride, she was terrified of what could come given where she was and who set their gaze upon her.
The lords of the Tower of Incarnate Pain had assembled there to oversee and approve her promotion from nycaloth to arcanaloth. There was no other reason to find the entirety of Bubonix’s cadre of ultroloth advisors to be present, -physically- present there in the Tower’s distant shadow but to bestow upon her their approval.
Despite her bravado she struggled not to tremble. More than twelve millennia in the making on her part as a nycaloth, in the past century she had gathered the attention of an arcanaloth willing to serve as her sponsor for promotion, one of the chief advisors to Bubonix the Lord of the Tower of Incarnate Pain.
“Who is here to sponsor you Shylara Akt’Atarm?” One of the ultroloths telepathically asked, its voice giving the impression of hammer-blows upon a petitioner’s bleeding and pock-marked flesh.
“Vorkannis the Ebon, chief advisor to Bubonix,” Instinctively the nycaloth bowed and inclined her head and suddenly wide swept wings to the arcanaloth who stood next to her and who had walked in silence to lead her there into the foothills to the place where she would be judged. “He believes I am ready to join his caste.”
In contrast to the dull black and gray robes of the ultroloths that ringed them, Shylara’s sponsor wore robes of deep, cobalt blue that flickered with silver patterns of runes that seemed to change as the light hit different angles of the fabric. Unlike the ultroloths who wore precious little finery, the arcanaloth’s head was ‘crowned’ with a trio of glimmering blue Ioun stones which zipped about in erratic orbit of his head. His fur jet black and his eyes a lambent, sickly shade of albino pink, Vorkannis was nothing like the ultroloths that stood –as Shylara believed– ready to pass judgment.
“If he,” Shylara’s voice was firm and strong as she resisted begging, “Your peer amongst the advisors to the altraloth lord of the Tower of Incarnate Pain believes that I am ready, surely I must be.”
Her head bowed and her body abased before her judges, Shylara never saw her sponsor’s reaction to her words. At the word ‘peer’ he openly smirked, disgust and derision playing across his muzzle even as the ultroloths gazed down upon the nycaloth and him.
“Shylara Akt’Atarm,” The principal ultroloth, Vozrikirn ap Pluton ‘spoke’ once more, “You are judged and we find you worthy of promotion.”
Shylara gasped, momentarily losing her composure with giddy, giggling, selfish glee, her fists clenched tight enough to force her claws completely through her palms to leave a pool of blood upon the ground below her. In her masochistic joy she never saw that with each telepathic word from the ultroloths, Vorkannis moved his mouth, mouthing each and every word a split second before his ultroloth puppet ‘spoke’.
“In this place we will promote you, the first of your caste to be granted arcanaloth status in Carceri.” The ultroloths spoke as a whole, “We will flense your flesh from your bones, carve words of power upon them, and then drag you back to the Tower still conscious, covering your dying corpse with the dust of this plane before we hurl you bodily into the Reflective Chasm, there to gain your new and deserved form.”
Shylara’s eyes bulged and her patron smiled as he produced an obsidian blade, stepped forward, and handed it to Vozrikirn. For the first moment the nycaloth’s brain buzzed with the notion that her sponsor was more than he appeared or claimed. He should have been whimpering before the ultroloth council, he should have been on his knees, but no, he walked amongst them watching and observing as if their positions were entirely reversed and they abased themselves in deference before him. But the thoughts that proved her worthy of promotion were swift to fly from her brain as the principle ultroloth placed the cold and razored tip of an obsidian dagger to her chest.
“Prepare yourself child, the coming agony has no parallel.” Vozrikirn’s eyes flickered their hypnotic multitude of colors as high above the Bells chimed long and clear.
“Please.” On her knees, the nycaloth now begged openly, her four hands trembling and smearing her face with mud formed from her own blood and the dust of Othrys. “I am ready.”
“Suffer and by suffering learn.” One of the ultroloths took two of her arms and held them over her head while another took the other pair and did the same.
“Suffer and be remade.” Another of the faceless masters gazed down with multicolored eyes and pushed upon the nycaloth’s forehead, pushing her down to the ground, prone and helpless, eager and awaiting the horror that would come.
And then the thirteen ultroloths were upon her, holding her down as Vozrikirn pressed the obsidian dagger to her flesh, just a thumb’s spacing below the breastbone and made the first incision. The nycaloth only smiled and gave a stuttering exhalation, bliss and need on her face as the blade sliced deeper still and the ultroloth began to skin her alive. Her stoic silence did not last long.
“Suffer for me,” Smiling and watching, Vorkannis closed his eyes, perking his ears and listening to the first of his pupil Shylara’s horrific screams as if they were music, “Now and forever after, suffer for me.”
Through it all as the hours stretched on interminably, the nycaloth would inexplicably never notice the glowing shards of rune-covered crystal stabbed into the heads of each and every ultroloth that pinned her down, each taking their turn to slowly flense and dissect her, preparing her to become an arcanaloth under the intimate direction of their ostensible inferior in Bubonix’s service, Vorkannis the Ebon. Her sponsor was not her sponsor, but the director of the event in minute, exacting detail. Every slice of the blade, each incision, each carved character upon bone or cartilage was at his direction, and eventually once she lay there, her flesh removed except for her face, he would wave the ultroloths away and take part in Shylara’s promotion himself.
“You are ready,” The future Oinoloth smiled as reached down to gather one of the nycaloth’s tears upon a claw. Behind him, Vozrikirn approached and handed the arcanaloth the obsidian blade the ultroloths had used, but the albino-eyed fiend held it for only a second before smirking and dropping it into the dirt at his feet. He would need no exogenous instruments for this, his claws and teeth would suffice.
High above the Othrys bells chimed, faint and seductive as a single farastu gehreleth moved swiftly and silently over the crest of a nearby hill. The tarry substance that leaked from its pores served to match well with the underlying black rocks that broke through the ruddy soil that predominated most of the infinite spheres of Othrys. Black eyes glinting, its ears twitched and its lips moved into a soft but soundless snarl as it heard once again the screams of the nycaloth in the vale below.
The scout of a much, much larger force of gehreleths assembled dozens of miles away, the farastu was prepared to learn as much as it could of the edges of the yugoloth fortifications at the borders of their so-called Tower of Incarnate Pain. It would learn and it would relay its information to the shators waiting miles back, giving that information to Apomp’s generals even if it would die in the process. What the farastu found however was not at all what it expected.
Creeping forward to watch the assembled yugoloths below, the creature snarled in disgust and confusion as much as feeling a genuine sense of dread and fear at what would surely be its imminent death. Standing alone and without any visible accompanying guards were fully thirteen ultroloths standing around and encircling a prone nycaloth and a black-furred arcanaloth atop it, aggressively copulating.
Creeping forward still, morbidly, disgustedly curious about the blasphemy watched by and allowed by so many of the highest yugoloth caste, the farastu’s eyes went wide. His robes cast aside to the ground, the black-furred arcanaloth held the nycaloth’s heart raised up in his hands, the organ still beating while below the nycaloth’s chest cavity was torn open, the muscles flensed and the ribs pulled back and carved in ornate scrimshaw. Illuminated by the multicolored radiance of the ultroloths’ eyes, the two ‘loths rutted in time with the rhythm of the empty but yet pumping left ventricle as it gasped for blood but drew only the cold and bitter air of Othrys.
The arcanaloth softly smiled and never looked up, concentrating on his actions through clenched teeth. The ultroloths were silent and transfixed upon the blasphemous promotion ongoing below their glittering eyes. None of them made any reaction to the approaching gehreleth, so intent were they upon their blasphemous ceremony, but as the intruder drew within striking distance, one of them spoke.
“I’ve been waiting for you to make an appearance…” Vorkannis said between measured inhalations.
Noticed and realizing that its chance was then or never, the gehreleth snarled and leapt forward, claws extended and fangs bared, but it never reached its target. Midflight it simply stopped, suspended in mid-air with the casual flick of the arcanaloth’s hand, pinned in place. The gehreleth screamed in fury, clawing at the air and drawing the casual attention of the seemingly hypnotized ultroloths before they returned to watch the arcanaloth rutting atop the mangled nycaloth, the former of which hadn’t bothered to pause.
“Interlopers! Intruders! Traitors!” The ‘leth screamed out, furiously trying to reach out and strike any of the yugoloths there. “Make an appearance? We will kill you all! We will drive you from Othrys and burn your tower to the ground as we have before! We will…”
Rolled his eyes, Vorkannis took one hand from Shylara’s beating, shuddering heart, and raised two blood-slicked digits to the air, gesturing and pinching off the gehreleth’s windpipe to silence the creature.
“I’m not talking to you puppet, nor to your shator commanders who have the vain and grossly inflated hopes of razing the Tower of Incarnate Pain to the ground as they have before. Divest yourselves of that notion now that I am here and have replaced Bubonix and his pet in all but formal position…” The arcanaloth’s albino eyes twinkled with delight at a moment long in the making, “I’m not talking to you nor to them, or frankly in any way concerned with such petty things. No, I’m talking to your maker. An old acquaintance of mine you might say. We have our differences, oh yes, but I expected at least a little ‘hello how are you doing?’ well prior to today.”
The ‘leth’s confusion was obvious, but immediately blossomed into pain as the ‘loth addressed not him, but the godlike entity looking through the farastu’s eyes, speaking in a language that set its limbs alight with agony and caused its ears to run with a mixture of blood and clotted tar.
As the gehreleth’s eyes glittered a reflective, mirrored black, Vorkannis looked back, his own eyes lambent and sickly pink, still continuing his actions below for the sake of his new audience, even as Shylara’s death rattle made it apparent that the ceremony was complete and he and the ultroloths could proceed to hurl her mangled corpse into the Reflective Chasm to burn away her physical form and usher in the final phase of her promotion to arcanaloth.
They would finish that act later, after a conversation was had.
“Hello Apomps,” Vorkannis smirked, “It has been such a very, very, very long time now hasn’t it?”
At the moment however, Clueless was fast asleep, his feet free of the covers and his right hand under his pillow, tightly wrapped around Razor's grip like a Baatorian steel extension of himself. His sleep however was fitful, and a blizzard of concerns spun through his dreams. Toras claimed to have been killed by Alisohn Nilesia, a 'dead woman' if ever there'd been one. It would have been easy to dismiss the fighter's claims as mistaken identity, a doppelganger, or an illusion wrought to sow discord in the City of Doors. Those slain by Her Serenity uniformly did not return from their brutal, horrific, and typically public death. It should have been easy to dimiss, except for Fyrehowl's encounter with the risen Nilesia. She hadn't seen the ex-Factol amidst the haze of a burning building and through eyes dying from a blade through the heart. No. The lupinal had seen Nilesia face to face, spoken with her, heard her voice, seen the contempt in her eyes, and it was her even though it couldn't have been.
Maybe.
She'd been subtly different, physically so, more half-fiend than tiefling, but she'd spoken with an intimate knowledge and personal memory of past interactions. She recognized Fyrehowl and she stayed within the burning library longer than she should have in order to try and kill her.
There was however the issue of time. Fyrehowl had fought Nilesia at nearly the same time as Toras had been stabbed to death, almost two wards away. Clueless wasn't entirely sure how to get around that issue of distance, and more so the very non-random connection between the locations that she'd been: a library and scriptorium linked to the Fraternity of Order. Toras described it as if she'd been looking for something, tearing the place apart searching for a specific volume or record. Fyrehowl though had seen the same but also seen Nilesia with several volumes in hand and the fires started to destroy the evidence of her theft.
Beyond how she was inexplicably risen from the dead, why had she returned to Sigil and risked the Lady's wrath? What was she searching for and what had she found? Was it connected to the apparent assassination of the Guvners' factol in Mechanus? It had to be.
Looming on Clueless's dreaming mind was also a question that had gnawed at him since the start: why had he and his companions been blackmailed and forced into recovering Nilesia from slavery in Acheron only to have her arrive in Sigil, insane and raving, there to be slaughtered without effort by Her Serenity? What reason did the Marauder have to do that? Simply to give Nilesia hope and watch with amusement as she destroyed herself with mad ambition? It was plausible of course, but with Nilesia seemingly risen from the dead and looting not one but two Guvner storehouses in Sigil? There was something deeper going on, and the 'loth was at the heart of it, pulling string as she always was.
How it all fit together was a great Gordian knot that spun and twisted in his mind, perpetually shifting form and shape, revealing more snarls and tangles, seemingly tighter than ever before, even as he thought he'd managed to figure out the form of the knot in the first place. Be that as it was however, what spun above the slumbering bladesinger at that very moment however was distinctly absent from those slumbering thoughts.
"Greetings!"
Drifting several feet above the sleeping bladesinger, the faint blue-white glow of the Cheshire Fiend's projected avatar smiled with its self-satisfied greeting and announcement of its presence. Of course its presence was greeted only with an abrupt mumble, turn from one side to the other, and a snore.
The fiend cleared his throat but gained no reply save for another snore. The illusory grin frowned. F*cking mortals.
"HEY! WAKE UP!" The 'loth barked out, finally garnering a reaction and a hell of one as Clueless bolted up and promptly skewered his projected avatar with Razor's tip, albeit to no effect.
"Well that wasn't the response that I expected..." The Cheshire Fiend proceeded to nibble upon Razor, showing no apparent ill effect. "Still, long time no see Clueless. It's good to see you again!"
His eyes marred by stress, too many unwisely taken shots of fey-wine only hours before, and fitful sleep afterwards, Clueless stared at the illusory ‘loth with confusion and distrust.
"What the f*ck are you doing in my room?!" Clueless nearly spat, not moving Razor in the slightest and fully prepared to cast if needed, despite being tangled in bed sheets. His patience with anything ‘loth was sorely thin given the events of the past twenty four hours and frankly the past year and a half before that. A smiling ‘loth was still a ‘loth.
"Trust me when I say I'm not here to stare at your naked flesh.” The Cheshire Fiend looked down at the bladesinger’s form which would have made many a Sensate happy, and occasionally made one Sensate very happy. “Many would be happy as I understand such mortal concerns, but for a 'loth like myself, the notion is... disconcerting."
"You're not my type either if that helps..." Clueless frowned and lowered Razor down to the mattress, though pointedly, his hand remained upon the blade and his stance only partially relaxed. "So to what do I owe this honor? It's been a long time, for better or for worse."
"For better or for worse indeed, yes..." The Grin drifted backwards slightly and turned to examine the bladesinger’s room. “I gather that your business here seems to be doing rather well, and I’m to understand that your lupinal companion came rather close to gaining a seat on Sigil’s council. Bravo.”
The fiend was taking its time to actually get to the point of why it was there, something that Clueless inwardly frowned at.
"Thank you, and as for yourself, I trust you're doing well?" The bladesinger asked, not truly expecting or desiring an answer compared to the lingering question of what the illusory fiend was doing in his room at that hour. Given a chance to talk about himself though, the chatty fiend gave an answer nonetheless.
“Oh I’ve been doing quite well for myself as it happens, thank you very much. My status as the Keeper’s favored servitor has personally profited me to quite an extent in Gehenna. Unless of course I’m in the Waste. Or Carceri. Or Acheron. Or wherever else I happen to be. The use of a planar projection makes my existence ooooh so much easier, even if it does have me as something of a favored errand boy for the Keeper of the Tower.” The Cheshire Fiend shrugged, as best as an exaggeratedly comic smile without eyes or any actual body either tangible or representative could express.
“I wasn’t trying to spark small talk, I was just being polite.” Clueless smirked and motioned for the fiend to get on with it. “Spit it out. You’re not here to make random chitchat. What's up?”
The corners of the Cheshire Fiend’s cartoon grin moved in their best impression of an apologetic shrug.
“I’m here to deliver a message to you and your companions, though mostly to you.”
“To me? Why?” Clueless raised an eyebrow.
"Consider this a parting gift and bit of professional courtesy among former compatriots from Helekanalaith the Keeper of the Tower, most recently in residence in a minor portion of your parietal lobe."
Clueless grimaced at the fiend’s mention of the Keeper who’d stayed within his mind as a passenger long after he’d promised to leave. “F*ck him.”
"Another thing I'm not inclined to pursue, but if that's your thing, please see to your dreams and aspirations. Your fate is likely better than with the options here in Sigil that have expressed their interest in you in the past."
With the last mention, a faint swirl of cartoon razorvine spiraled atop the Cheshire Fiend’s avatar before vanishing as the ‘loth made a point of sticking its tongue out.
"Get to it." Clueless grimaced as well, rapidly losing his patience.
"As I said, this is a professional courtesy from the Keeper constituent to your original agreement, which is now void for reasons beyond his control."
"..." Clueless took a deep breath, knowing what the fiend meant even before it was plainly stated.
"Shylara the Manged is free from her stony confinement and released to pursue her own affairs and whatever the Oinoloth has tasked her towards."
"F*ck!" Clueless knew the day would eventually come and complicate his already dangerous life, but as the fiend supplied the revelation, he pointedly slammed his fist into the wall, ignoring the pain before finally stopping and trailing off into a string of curses.
"F*ck indeed, for more than just yourself though.” The Cheshire Fiend lamented, “I've rather enjoyed the status quo for the past year. I also had a deep and abiding appreciation for the awkward snarl she had on her face in the corner of my patron’s office the statue resided in.”
“I’m sure you did…” Clueless ignored the ‘loth the room as his mind spun to what the Overlord of Carceri might do in the coming days.
“We dressed it up, decorated it, gave it new and awkward poses from time to time.” The ‘loth beamed a smile, “It has been a delightful distraction and I must thank you for putting it into the Keeper’s hands in the first place.”
“He never gave me any other option…” Clueless smirked, “But now that you’ve let me know, which I do appreciate, don’t get me wrong, is there anything else you want? Or can I get some sleep or just go try very hard to get drunk?”
The Cheshire Fiend paused and stared at Clueless for a moment before asking a question:
"If you don't mind me asking, how did you manage to get the Keeper out of your head?"
Clueless grimaced and considered saying nothing, but the fiend clearly knew so there wasn’t any point in denying it, though just how much it knew was an open question, "You knew about that?"
The Grin paused, taking it's time for the response, measuring what precisely to admit to or not, "I suspected. My being here rather than a mental projection by Helekanalaith himself settled the issue for me. So how did you? I'm exceptionally curious. Though the Keeper said nothing to me, I expect that he was not pleased by that turn of events."
Inwardly, Clueless smiled, enjoying a profound moment of schadenfreude at his possession of knowledge that the secrets greedy 'loth did not. Outwardly his feelings manifested to mirror his inward smile as abruptly he smirked, "Yeah you can keep guessing as to the why. I'm keeping that one to myself."
"Well that's no fun..." The Grin frowned, giving as best of a pout as it could without an actual lower lip. "You're just going to make me watch you now from time to time and try and puzzle this one out. I do like puzzles."
Wanting to get the fiend away from the notion of following and watching him, Clueless changed the subject. "So what do you think the Manged is going to do now?"
"Whatever she's told!" The Grin quipped, "She'll likely be on a tighter leash with the Oinoloth directly dictating her actions." The Grin flickered, indicated a blink as it turned to the side and softly chuckled, "She'll probably like that."
"How worried should we be that she'll try and take revenge on us?"
"Not really all that much I suspect. Not immediately at least," The Grin did its best to shrug. "She'll want to absolutely, but the Oinoloth likely considers this whole situation her own f*ck up and frankly is likely to not allow her to take revenge so as to make her suffer as punishment for that. But... if you attempt to directly stymie anything that the Oinoloth has tasked her with, He will take interest and the b*tch is liable to be unleashed to do as she wishes. Do beware of that."
"So where do -you- stand within all of that? Clearly you don't like her, but what about the Oinoloth's goals... whatever the hell they are?"
Clueless raised the one question that had hung over their heads since their first encounter with the Oinoloth’s surrogates and co-conspirators, and for himself a situation that had been with him and actually firmly lodged in his ankle well before any of that. While the ‘loth wasn’t likely to tell him anything, it was worth a try.
“Ah yes… that…” The Cheshire Fiend paused its slow meander about Clueless’s room and gave an exaggeratedly slow, sly smile, "I do believe you said it best my mortal friend: 'I'm keeping that one to myself!'"
Then, without any further commentary the illusory grin winked out of existence, leaving Clueless now awake and with a deep sense of foreboding for the future. A bottle of fey wine seemed to be in order, even if he had a hangover at the Council Meeting the very next day.
"F*cking 'loths..."
****
Panic and horror welling in her eyes, Shylara’s screaming abruptly ceased as the Oinoloth gazed down and thrust a clawed finger to her neck directly atop her carotid artery. Neatly pinching off the blood-flow to her brain, the Ebon sneered.
“You awaken only because I still have need of you, worthless, ragged tool, not because of your having earned any sympathy from me.”
His finger firmly in place and unwavering even as his consort shuddered and began struggling, he snarled and glanced derisively at her body, the fur patchy and marked by open sores and scarring from her incessant itching, unhealed despite the passage of the past year in her comatose state.
“….” Shylara gasped, her reply incoherent and gargled, even as her eyes remained locked upon the Oinoloth somewhere between horror and rapture.
“You weak and foolish wretch! Did I make a mistake in giving you power Shylara?” The Oinoloth mused, “Should I have taken another as my consort? Another child of the Tower unworthy of my attentions but useful nonetheless such as yourself? Should I watch you die here and now?”
“….” Again the Manged gave an incoherent bark, her struggling increasing as her starving brain fired and overrode nearly all rational, higher thought with only a primordial desire for survival. Wriggling in place, held down by a single finger like a butterfly pinned alive to a collector’s glass plate, she frantically, erratically slapped at the Oinoloth’s arms and shoulder to no avail.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve watched you die of course, nor the first time it has happened at my hands.” Vorkannis sneered, ignoring Shylara’s flailing, “This time it won’t be at your begging request though, nor will it serve to advance your caste and station.”
Sparking sudden recognition and a long-buried memory clouded by agony, Shylara looked up at the Oinoloth and slowly moved her hands to embrace his and dig his claws deeper into her flesh. Even as her eyes began to bleed from retinal hemorrhage and her limbs grew weak she looked up and began to smile.
****
12,900 years before the present, Carceri’s first layer of Othrys:
“Shylara Akt’Atarm, stand before your betters and present your request to us.” The sterile, dispassionate telepathy of thirteen ultroloths echoed within the skull of the one there to petition them for promotion.
The nycaloth who bore that name and the ultroloths surrounding her stood within a copse of withered trees transplanted eons ago from the Waste to mark out a place of importance there upon Carceri’s first layer of Othrys. One day the ‘loths would control the plane in its entirety, but at the moment that rule was disputed and their infection of the plane with their essence was paltry at best, though their plans for the Tower of Incarnate Pain would make their rule undisputed. The nycaloth smiled with the self-assured knowledge that she of course would be a part of that plan.
“I stand before you my masters, my betters, Shylara Akt’Atarm servitor of the Tower of Incarnate Pain, butcher of gehreleths, and 1st among the scouts of Her Majesty Cholerix.” Shylara’s eyes were closed as she announced herself, and then as she gave her request, she opened them to see herself surrounded by a circle of glittering, multicolored eyes. “I am here to present myself for your judgment and gain promotion from nycaloth to arcanaloth. I must know. I must understand. Teach me. I demand this. Break me. Remake me greater and grander.”
Her bravado belied her worry, both at her impending rise in station, but also the unique nature of the ceremony compared to what she knew of such things. The standard ring of security normally found at such an event was non-existent. All such ceremonies occurred within the Tower’s foundations, with the ultroloths opening up a gate to either Gehenna or the Waste, with the broken forms of the worthy hurled into the Forges or the Pools respectively below the great Tower of each plane; but not this time. Shylara’s ceremony occurred far from the Tower of Incarnate Pain, out in the wilds of Carceri, beneath the unblinking gaze of the crimson pearls strung overhead like so much bloody garland, below the limitless void and the chiming of the Othrys Bells, out in the wilderness, inviting, even goading the attentions of Carceri’s first and arguably current masters the gehreleths.
Shylara Akt’Atarm towered a half-dozen feet above the heads of the others gathered there to judge and then either promote her or destroy her. A nycaloth, lean muscle rippled with her every motion like waves of insects wriggling beneath her grey-green hide. At her back a pair of powerful, membranous wings lay folded and relaxed except for a periodic jitter to reflect her nervous mood. Of course she wore no clothing, her body exposed without shame to symbolically reflect that her mind, her memories, her actions, her motivations, and her past record of success and failures were all open for review.
She took a breath, baring jagged fangs set within a vaguely canine maw, brilliant green eyes flickering with a flame of intelligence well beyond the standard for her caste and a furious current of perhaps reckless passion that underlay it. Despite the flawless, muscled physique she presented, despite her accomplishments in service to Cholerix, and despite her pride, she was terrified of what could come given where she was and who set their gaze upon her.
The lords of the Tower of Incarnate Pain had assembled there to oversee and approve her promotion from nycaloth to arcanaloth. There was no other reason to find the entirety of Bubonix’s cadre of ultroloth advisors to be present, -physically- present there in the Tower’s distant shadow but to bestow upon her their approval.
Despite her bravado she struggled not to tremble. More than twelve millennia in the making on her part as a nycaloth, in the past century she had gathered the attention of an arcanaloth willing to serve as her sponsor for promotion, one of the chief advisors to Bubonix the Lord of the Tower of Incarnate Pain.
“Who is here to sponsor you Shylara Akt’Atarm?” One of the ultroloths telepathically asked, its voice giving the impression of hammer-blows upon a petitioner’s bleeding and pock-marked flesh.
“Vorkannis the Ebon, chief advisor to Bubonix,” Instinctively the nycaloth bowed and inclined her head and suddenly wide swept wings to the arcanaloth who stood next to her and who had walked in silence to lead her there into the foothills to the place where she would be judged. “He believes I am ready to join his caste.”
In contrast to the dull black and gray robes of the ultroloths that ringed them, Shylara’s sponsor wore robes of deep, cobalt blue that flickered with silver patterns of runes that seemed to change as the light hit different angles of the fabric. Unlike the ultroloths who wore precious little finery, the arcanaloth’s head was ‘crowned’ with a trio of glimmering blue Ioun stones which zipped about in erratic orbit of his head. His fur jet black and his eyes a lambent, sickly shade of albino pink, Vorkannis was nothing like the ultroloths that stood –as Shylara believed– ready to pass judgment.
“If he,” Shylara’s voice was firm and strong as she resisted begging, “Your peer amongst the advisors to the altraloth lord of the Tower of Incarnate Pain believes that I am ready, surely I must be.”
Her head bowed and her body abased before her judges, Shylara never saw her sponsor’s reaction to her words. At the word ‘peer’ he openly smirked, disgust and derision playing across his muzzle even as the ultroloths gazed down upon the nycaloth and him.
“Shylara Akt’Atarm,” The principal ultroloth, Vozrikirn ap Pluton ‘spoke’ once more, “You are judged and we find you worthy of promotion.”
Shylara gasped, momentarily losing her composure with giddy, giggling, selfish glee, her fists clenched tight enough to force her claws completely through her palms to leave a pool of blood upon the ground below her. In her masochistic joy she never saw that with each telepathic word from the ultroloths, Vorkannis moved his mouth, mouthing each and every word a split second before his ultroloth puppet ‘spoke’.
“In this place we will promote you, the first of your caste to be granted arcanaloth status in Carceri.” The ultroloths spoke as a whole, “We will flense your flesh from your bones, carve words of power upon them, and then drag you back to the Tower still conscious, covering your dying corpse with the dust of this plane before we hurl you bodily into the Reflective Chasm, there to gain your new and deserved form.”
Shylara’s eyes bulged and her patron smiled as he produced an obsidian blade, stepped forward, and handed it to Vozrikirn. For the first moment the nycaloth’s brain buzzed with the notion that her sponsor was more than he appeared or claimed. He should have been whimpering before the ultroloth council, he should have been on his knees, but no, he walked amongst them watching and observing as if their positions were entirely reversed and they abased themselves in deference before him. But the thoughts that proved her worthy of promotion were swift to fly from her brain as the principle ultroloth placed the cold and razored tip of an obsidian dagger to her chest.
“Prepare yourself child, the coming agony has no parallel.” Vozrikirn’s eyes flickered their hypnotic multitude of colors as high above the Bells chimed long and clear.
“Please.” On her knees, the nycaloth now begged openly, her four hands trembling and smearing her face with mud formed from her own blood and the dust of Othrys. “I am ready.”
“Suffer and by suffering learn.” One of the ultroloths took two of her arms and held them over her head while another took the other pair and did the same.
“Suffer and be remade.” Another of the faceless masters gazed down with multicolored eyes and pushed upon the nycaloth’s forehead, pushing her down to the ground, prone and helpless, eager and awaiting the horror that would come.
And then the thirteen ultroloths were upon her, holding her down as Vozrikirn pressed the obsidian dagger to her flesh, just a thumb’s spacing below the breastbone and made the first incision. The nycaloth only smiled and gave a stuttering exhalation, bliss and need on her face as the blade sliced deeper still and the ultroloth began to skin her alive. Her stoic silence did not last long.
“Suffer for me,” Smiling and watching, Vorkannis closed his eyes, perking his ears and listening to the first of his pupil Shylara’s horrific screams as if they were music, “Now and forever after, suffer for me.”
Through it all as the hours stretched on interminably, the nycaloth would inexplicably never notice the glowing shards of rune-covered crystal stabbed into the heads of each and every ultroloth that pinned her down, each taking their turn to slowly flense and dissect her, preparing her to become an arcanaloth under the intimate direction of their ostensible inferior in Bubonix’s service, Vorkannis the Ebon. Her sponsor was not her sponsor, but the director of the event in minute, exacting detail. Every slice of the blade, each incision, each carved character upon bone or cartilage was at his direction, and eventually once she lay there, her flesh removed except for her face, he would wave the ultroloths away and take part in Shylara’s promotion himself.
“You are ready,” The future Oinoloth smiled as reached down to gather one of the nycaloth’s tears upon a claw. Behind him, Vozrikirn approached and handed the arcanaloth the obsidian blade the ultroloths had used, but the albino-eyed fiend held it for only a second before smirking and dropping it into the dirt at his feet. He would need no exogenous instruments for this, his claws and teeth would suffice.
****
High above the Othrys bells chimed, faint and seductive as a single farastu gehreleth moved swiftly and silently over the crest of a nearby hill. The tarry substance that leaked from its pores served to match well with the underlying black rocks that broke through the ruddy soil that predominated most of the infinite spheres of Othrys. Black eyes glinting, its ears twitched and its lips moved into a soft but soundless snarl as it heard once again the screams of the nycaloth in the vale below.
The scout of a much, much larger force of gehreleths assembled dozens of miles away, the farastu was prepared to learn as much as it could of the edges of the yugoloth fortifications at the borders of their so-called Tower of Incarnate Pain. It would learn and it would relay its information to the shators waiting miles back, giving that information to Apomp’s generals even if it would die in the process. What the farastu found however was not at all what it expected.
Creeping forward to watch the assembled yugoloths below, the creature snarled in disgust and confusion as much as feeling a genuine sense of dread and fear at what would surely be its imminent death. Standing alone and without any visible accompanying guards were fully thirteen ultroloths standing around and encircling a prone nycaloth and a black-furred arcanaloth atop it, aggressively copulating.
Creeping forward still, morbidly, disgustedly curious about the blasphemy watched by and allowed by so many of the highest yugoloth caste, the farastu’s eyes went wide. His robes cast aside to the ground, the black-furred arcanaloth held the nycaloth’s heart raised up in his hands, the organ still beating while below the nycaloth’s chest cavity was torn open, the muscles flensed and the ribs pulled back and carved in ornate scrimshaw. Illuminated by the multicolored radiance of the ultroloths’ eyes, the two ‘loths rutted in time with the rhythm of the empty but yet pumping left ventricle as it gasped for blood but drew only the cold and bitter air of Othrys.
The arcanaloth softly smiled and never looked up, concentrating on his actions through clenched teeth. The ultroloths were silent and transfixed upon the blasphemous promotion ongoing below their glittering eyes. None of them made any reaction to the approaching gehreleth, so intent were they upon their blasphemous ceremony, but as the intruder drew within striking distance, one of them spoke.
“I’ve been waiting for you to make an appearance…” Vorkannis said between measured inhalations.
Noticed and realizing that its chance was then or never, the gehreleth snarled and leapt forward, claws extended and fangs bared, but it never reached its target. Midflight it simply stopped, suspended in mid-air with the casual flick of the arcanaloth’s hand, pinned in place. The gehreleth screamed in fury, clawing at the air and drawing the casual attention of the seemingly hypnotized ultroloths before they returned to watch the arcanaloth rutting atop the mangled nycaloth, the former of which hadn’t bothered to pause.
“Interlopers! Intruders! Traitors!” The ‘leth screamed out, furiously trying to reach out and strike any of the yugoloths there. “Make an appearance? We will kill you all! We will drive you from Othrys and burn your tower to the ground as we have before! We will…”
Rolled his eyes, Vorkannis took one hand from Shylara’s beating, shuddering heart, and raised two blood-slicked digits to the air, gesturing and pinching off the gehreleth’s windpipe to silence the creature.
“I’m not talking to you puppet, nor to your shator commanders who have the vain and grossly inflated hopes of razing the Tower of Incarnate Pain to the ground as they have before. Divest yourselves of that notion now that I am here and have replaced Bubonix and his pet in all but formal position…” The arcanaloth’s albino eyes twinkled with delight at a moment long in the making, “I’m not talking to you nor to them, or frankly in any way concerned with such petty things. No, I’m talking to your maker. An old acquaintance of mine you might say. We have our differences, oh yes, but I expected at least a little ‘hello how are you doing?’ well prior to today.”
The ‘leth’s confusion was obvious, but immediately blossomed into pain as the ‘loth addressed not him, but the godlike entity looking through the farastu’s eyes, speaking in a language that set its limbs alight with agony and caused its ears to run with a mixture of blood and clotted tar.
As the gehreleth’s eyes glittered a reflective, mirrored black, Vorkannis looked back, his own eyes lambent and sickly pink, still continuing his actions below for the sake of his new audience, even as Shylara’s death rattle made it apparent that the ceremony was complete and he and the ultroloths could proceed to hurl her mangled corpse into the Reflective Chasm to burn away her physical form and usher in the final phase of her promotion to arcanaloth.
They would finish that act later, after a conversation was had.
“Hello Apomps,” Vorkannis smirked, “It has been such a very, very, very long time now hasn’t it?”
