Torchbearers
Well that was different, Ward said in surprise. Rhea’s mouth twisted in revulsion.‡
“So, shall we go back?” Marweg asked.
Rhea steadied herself. “I’ll just have to do a couple trips again. God, that was disgusting.” She checked her belongings and then settled her pack, satisfied that everything was in order. “I’ll take Ward back first, just to ensure that he can actually be brought back as he is.”
I don’t see why I shouldn’t, Ward replied. I think I’m still me, just not corporeal anymore. But I could wait around?
He was overruled and departed with Rhea, leaving Marweg and Winstead behind.
The Blue sun brought immediate relief to Rhea’s lungs as the environment lightened and the humid oppression lifted, like being relieved of a forgotten backpack. All the darkness and foreboding of the nightside was removed, lending the whole world a light and airy brightness. The sky was clouded but not dark, promising a sunshower.
Hey, look, that cloud looks like Donkey, Ward commented. And that one is like people walking out of the Skytower. Hey, apparently you can float here too.
Rhea looked down. Her feet dangled over empty air, no ground in sight. A moment of intense panic was swiftly replaced with gleeful curiosity.
Do you have the epistle I was supposed to bring? Nightside had the wrong temple, and I would really like to get it delivered to the Cathedral properly this time.
“Marweg’s got it, but first I need to find the Warden. We have to make sure we can get to Indigo.”
Maybe try over there? That building’s not made of clouds.
Rhea looked toward the architecture indicated, its massive form stubbornly ignoring gravity. The moment her intention was clear, she found herself soaring toward and then through the archway.
If they hadn’t just crossed a threshold, she would’ve sworn she was still outside. Every surface was lit as though in full sun, though tinted ever so slightly blue. A bright hall opened onto a chamber where a woman lay stretched out in stillness on a chaise in the center of the floor. Her dress draped her in contrasting shades of twilight blue and dawnglow yellow, showing bangles on her ankles where the fabric fell away and strings of pearls spiraling down her arms, which lay crossed upon her chest. Her dark hair spilled over the chaise, white at the edges but trailing away into deep, deep blue-black smoke with stars speckled throughout.
She did not move as they approached, but as Rhea drew near, a voice spoke in her head.
[Please do not wake her.]
I doubt I could if I wanted to, Ward replied.
Rhea stopped walking. “How may we pay the toll to leave?”
[Marra asks that you return a forgotten thought to its rightful owner in Satyrine,] the voice said to Rhea.* To Ward it said, [As for you, spirit, you must bring a premonition of war to Mysyrant. This may be found in a memory cache here on the Blue sun.]
What’s this? Ward asked. Rhea turned and saw a crystalline orb sealed with silver. It flashed with a current of light as though the smallest bit of lightning had been bottled up inside it.
“My price to leave,” she responded. She took the orb. It felt cool to the touch, smooth and polished.*
[Commit to this, and you are welcome in and through this realm.]
“May I go get my other friends and return?” Rhea asked.
[You may.]
Rhea thanked her, and they left the room. The body on the chaise barely stirred.
As they floated out again, Rhea turned to where she thought Ward was. “Don’t go anywhere. I need to make sure I can find you again when I get back. You going to be okay?
I think so. You go ahead and get the others now. There’s no telling what sort of trouble Marweg’s gotten into by this time.
“Winstead, grab the leash!” Marweg threw the rope over while Donkey pulled away.
Winstead grabbed it. The strain nearly pulled her off her feet, but she planted herself and hauled Donkey back into Marweg’s circle of protection from green.
The floral lion paced the circumference, staring hard at Donkey, its body low. Marweg remembered the spell Gorgoroth had taught him.†† The lion growled and lunged at Donkey, but the back leg tripped it. On the second try it spun around and landed heavily on its side. The third time it couldn’t even orient itself, its hobbled gait forcing it to turn in circles to keep balance.
Winstead gritted her teeth and held firm against the panicked hexacrix. “Get rid of it!” she snapped.
Marweg called over, “Perhaps there is an alternate meal to be found?”
The beast veered left, turning around itself again. “I’m hungry, but I’m even more confused. What is happening to the ground?”
“Ah.” Marweg cleared his throat and responded in its language. “You see, this creature whom you’ve been stalking has caused the ground to be unsteady. It’s a miserable experience. I’ve developed some immunity to it, but please believe me when I say you wouldn’t want to eat this. Both it and this other one here,” he said, gesturing to Winstead, “would be horribly poisonous to you. Cancerous, even.” He shook his head. “I should leave well enough alone.”
“Is that what happened to your claws?” it asked. “Did you lose them from their poison?”
Realizing ecstatically that he was being mistaken for another of its kind, Marweg hastened to answer. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly it. They fell off, I have to wait for them to grow them back.”
The creature snapped at its back leg in frustration.
“At any rate, I can’t leave this spot yet. I’ll need some time.” Marweg gestured back the way they’d come. “However, there was a meal back that way, I think.”
He helped the creature along but refused to release control of the leg until it was out of sight. The lion’s lopsided gait would have been comical if Marweg hadn’t been so terrified.
Rhea reappeared. “Are you all ready to go?”
Winstead shook some feeling back into her hands and arms. “Definitely.”
“And quickly?” Marweg added, soothing Donkey. “Please?”
“Okay, who’s going where?” Rhea asked as she left Marra’s presence a second time.
I still need to go to the Cathedral before we go to the memory cache, wherever that is, Ward noted.
“I need to deliver something for Ward,” Rhea repeated for the others.
“I’ve got some sort of message to give to a satrap at the Court of Nous,” Winstead volunteered. “Kind of over that way, I think. At a place called the Seer’s Glass”
Marweg swiveled in place, a finger wavering in front of him, until finally something stopped him. “That way,” he said simply. “It feels more exciting there. Less sadness. That’s the direction. Not that I’m eager to learn what a feral dream-spirit is.”‡
That’s near-ish to where I need to go, Ward told Rhea. Same quadrant, anyways.
They tried to gauge the distances as they floated forward. It was strange, seeing Blue on its sunward side after having first experienced its nightside. Everything seemed cleaner, fresher, a little ephemeral and slightly out of reach, like a name on the tip of a tongue.
“I need to go a little further forward,” Marweg announced after getting a sense of their momentum. “Winstead’s is a little more that way.” He pointed. “And if Ward’s directions are accurate, then we’ll easily be able to swing by the Cathedral en route to our other destinations.” He looked at Rhea. “How does he feel about dealing with the missive first?”
Rhea cocked her head to one side for a moment, then nodded. “He says that’d be fine. He’ll tell me how to get there.”
It was an impressive building. Its paneled wood and stone exterior shone with a rose-gold sheen. Bereft of any specific artistic expression, its austerity became its artistic vision, its simple lines and the gentle curvature of its pathways showing a peaceful and welcoming facade to the travelers who graced its doors.
They entered together, Winstead holding Donkey’s lead. The figures surrounding them, overwhelmingly human, wore robes with hints of gold that gleamed in brief flashes as they caught the light. Ward pointed Rhea in the direction of the receptionist, but a man and woman in the garb of the Cathedral approached them first, their faces showing concern.
“Pardon me,” the man asked Rhea, “but are you aware that there is an unaccompanied spirit with you?”
“He’s not unaccompanied. He’s with me,” Rhea replied.
They looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed. “Is there a reason he’s loose?”
“We had a recent incident.”
It’s an unfortunate development, Ward said. The figures gave no indication of having heard.
The woman spoke an unintelligible phrase. Ward recognized it as a passphrase, and, feeling like it didn’t much matter whether he passed on Cathedral secrets now that he was dead, told Rhea the accompanying response. The pair’s expressions broke into smiles of relief when Rhea relayed it.
“Please, what may we help you with?” the woman asked Rhea. She looked to Marweg and Winstead. “Are these new initiates as well?”
“What? Oh, no, they were just traveling with us.”
The man nodded. “Welcome then, travelers. I am Fra Artem, and this is Fre Aurem. You are welcome to explore the grounds. There is a garden, a cafeteria, and also a library that is open to the public. Feel free to make use of it.”
Fra Artem had barely finished speaking when Winstead handed Donkey’s lead off to Rhea and followed Marweg in the direction of the library. “We’ll just be looking up spirits and the Court of Nous,” she called back. “Find us there when you’re done.”
“Would you like some tea?” Fre Aurem asked. Rhea said she would, thank you, and Fre Aurem went to fix it.
After the others had left, Fra Artem gave Rhea his full attention. “What is the problem? Has he been noncompliant?”
Rhea shook her head and laughed. “No, no, not at all. See, he’s actually an initiate himself, and he had a message to deliver to a… Curate Wallace? I’m helping him deliver it now that he can’t do it himself.”
Fra Artem raised his eyebrows. “Then I’d best go fetch the curate at once. Please, come with me.”
He called another robed figure to look after Donkey and then led Rhea into the building and through an open back corridor into a more private room. While not technically closed off, the angles inside created a cozy meeting space. Rhea took a seat as Fra Artem went to find the curate.
He returned shortly with an older man dressed impressively in elegant robes with finely embroidered details. “You had something for me?” he asked.
Rhea took out Ward’s epistle and presented it with as much grace as she could manage. He accepted the scroll, then turned to Fra Artem. “Is there any reason we are letting the uninitiated into this place now?”
Fra Artem stuttered a confused apology.
Curate Wallace stared at Rhea. “I think it’s best that you show yourself out.”
“I’m sorry, I was just trying to help my friend out,” Rhea said. “Of course we’ll go now, if we’re not supposed to be here.” She turned to leave, Ward in her wake.
“No, not you,” Curate Wallace pronounced. “Just her.”
Ward stopped. I guess he can see me, he told Rhea. Maybe go wait with Donkey, I’ll be back soon.
Curate Wallace pulled up a chair and sat down. He rested his chin on his fingers, staring at Ward.
“It’s not that your being a spirit is necessarily a problem,” he began, “although it does diminish the number of vessels we have to house the spirits we serve, not to mention increasing their numbers as well.”
I’m sorry, it kind of happened on the way here. I was bringing that missive to you, but there was this fungus on Nightside Green and, well, it sort of killed me.
Wallace pursed his lips. “Where is your home temple?”
Lower Taverswood. It’s Curate Ceugant in charge there.
“Yes, I know him.” His voice took on a more consoling tone. “There is a path to healing that you may be able to take. Curate Ceugant could help you undertake this journey. However, it is both long and painful, a sort of purgatory in making your way back to the living. But you might be up to the challenge. It is clear to me that you are a most earnest devotee if you were entrusted with the delivery of this epistle.
“There is also the prospect of placement,” he went on. “Fra Artem is currently empty. If you were willing, he might take you all the way to Lower Taverswood, perhaps farther. But you would not be permitted to retain his services for long, for I require his assistance here.”
Thank you, that would very helpful, Ward answered. But many of the spirits that I have housed had to move on the Pale after their housing period ended. Do I have to go there when Fra Artem’s time housing me is completed?
Curate Wallace shook his head. “You are vislae. The rules do not equally apply to you on this subject. If it was your desire to continue on to the Pale, you would of course be permitted to do so; you retain some agency. In addition, as I’m sure you know, there are contingencies in place for our more prestigious donors so that they need not move on immediately upon exiting.” He looked at Ward expectantly. “Do you wish for healing or placement?”
If it’s all the same, and Fra Artem is willing, Ward replied, I wish to take placement now and healing later.
“I will serve, by your pleasure, curate.” Fra Artem offered.
Curate Wallace blessed them with a slight nod. “Fare thee well.”
Ward tried to settle himself into Fra Artem but found his host stuffy and restrictive. The fra obviously expected to shepherd spirits rather than relinquish control. He dictated the actions of the body and permitted Ward to do very little. Still, it was wonderful to speak again when they returned to Rhea, who was drinking her tea.
“We’re ready,” Ward told her through the fra.
“Oh, you get to be on the receiving side of it this time?” Rhea asked, putting down her teacup.
“Yes, but you’ll mostly interact with me.” Fra Artem clarified. “I will bear your friend back to Satyrine.”
Dream spirits are consistently inconsistent. The residual fragments of dreamings, they flutter in and out of the Deeps of Sleep, untethered from both the dreams from which they arose and the constraints of physical laws. Those that turn feral—perhaps a misleading term—impose themselves disruptively upon their surroundings. Marra insists they submit, be forcibly returned, or be unmade.‡
Marweg’s target, a dragonfly with a body of a key, was undoubtedly feral and had unleashed mayhem. Nearby doors were newly and irreversibly locked. The bystanders were unhelpful; some struggled to regain access to their mouths or eyes, which had been closed off; others appeared to lack access to recent memories or essential facts, or even their names. They all expressed interest as Marweg tried to converse with the keyfly.
Marweg’s companions watched his face shift from focus to puzzlement to bewilderment and frustration. “It’s not responding to me!”
The keyfly buzzed and flew up to face him. Marweg felt a wash of magical intent flow toward him and shook it off easily, stepping forward to keep its attention. With a motion now becoming familiar to the others, he gestured and a large seed, the size of a walnut, appeared in his hand.†† He held it out to the keyfly, but it didn’t react. He gestured at the locks on the doors and mouths around him and willed the keyfly to understand that this was not acceptable behavior. Its attention wavered, and it seemed it might fly away again.
Finally, he set the seed on the ground. Almost at once it shot out tendrils, growing quickly into an unusual orchid. A curiously shaped lock lay in the center of the flower, and the keyfly settled on it. For the first time, it appeared to be at ease.
Marweg spoke to the flower, relieved to have a proper conversationalist again. “Are you by any chance able to communicate with this creature?” he asked.
The flower’s response felt like a petal’s velvet. “We were made for each other, and it desires to be with me.”
“Then I need you to tell it that it’s in great danger.” Marweg informed it. “Its actions have upset the ruler of this realm, and she demands that it be brought back into line.”
“I don’t understand,” it replied. “What is the danger?”
Marweg gesticulated at the seals surrounding them. “It needs to return to the Deeps of Sleep, lest it be unmade. Before it leaves, it must free what it has bound. Can you tell it this?”
The petals raised and closed around the keyfly, which nuzzled them before flying up and away, its movements sure and determined.
“It will release what it secured,” the flower assured Marweg. “Please know the locks were well-intended.”
“Will you join it in the Deeps of Sleep?” Marweg asked.
“We will go there together. Thank you.” The scent of its perfume wafted up to Marweg’s nose in gratitude.
“You mean you’ve never left Blue before?” Rhea asked incredulously.
Fra Artem flushed. “No, I’ve had the privilege of serving all my life at the primary Cathedral. It is a great honor to be stationed at the center of our order—”
“Yes, of course, but you’ve never really traveled! Oh, there is so much that we are going to have to show you in Satyrine when we get back there, it’s going to be a wonderful time!” Rhea gushed.
“I really don’t know that we’ll have a lot of time for frivolities,” he protested feebly.
“Oh c’mon, live a little! You’ve never even been to Indigo. We can’t let your first impressions of the place go to waste.” She nodded like it was already decided. “It’s going to be an awesome trip, you’re going to learn so much over there…”
As Fra Artem’s protests fell on deaf ears, Ward directed him toward the memory cache. It presented as an ancient obelisk weathered by the ravages of deep time. Excusing himself from Rhea, Ward had Fra Artem kneel at the base of the obelisk and meditate, hoping to receive some indication of what he was to do.
The obelisk sat unchanging, and Ward’s mind soon wandered. Distracted by stray thoughts, he struggled to remain attentive. It was the fra who steadied him. The cleric’s mind was patient and clear, anchoring Ward. Mimicking the cadence of the fra’s breath, Ward felt his senses expand.
The impressions were swift and jumbled. Marching troops. Death masks. Unsettled spirits. Banners with the heraldry of the Empress of the Pale. Resentment, a confinement long endured. A hunger to submit other suns to the rule of the Pale.
Ward imprinted the loci and felt a wash of clarity. “I’m not going to be able to finish here,” he informed the others with Fra Artem’s voice. “Mysyrant isn’t on Blue anymore.”
The Seer’s Glass was well named. It was a lake, perfectly still and glassy, reflecting the images of the pavilions that skated in slow, wide arcs just slightly above its surface, and the people following in their wakes.
The palatial Court of Nous could be seen on the far side, seemingly under the surface. As they moved closer, they realized the Seer’s Glass must be subtly convex. Royally arrayed sphinxes floated gently before the entrance.‡
Winstead approached. The solemn figures had human faces with intricately beaded beards. Their heads were adorned with ceremonial modii, the tall cylinders gleaming with gold. One tilted precariously, its wearer slumbering peacefully, its hooves crossed. The other sphinx arrested her with a gaze of cryptic intensity. Eventually, it spoke.
“You are either an umbrella or a cake,” it decreed. “You are not an umbrella. Therefore, you are a cake.”
“What does my being a cake have to do with anything?” Winstead asked.
"You asked a question,” it responded. “Your question was ill-posed. You do not understand what you ask."
“Am I able to speak to the satrap?” Winstead asked, attempting to wrest a semblance of normalcy from the nonsensical exchange.
The sphinx’s voice betrayed a hint of smugness. “You ask to see the satrap. You ask this of the satrap. You do not know the satrap.”
“No, I don’t. That’s why I asked. Could you please enlighten me?”
“Enlightenment requires capacity. It seems you lack capacity. Therefore, you cannot be enlightened.”
“All right, how could I gain this capacity?” she challenged.
The sphinx sat in silence, unblinking. Winstead sensed no hostility, so she tried another tack. “I have a message for the satrap.”
“There are many,” it replied.
“Mine is important,” Winstead retorted.
“The Satrap of Syllogism,” Rhea supplied.
“Speak.”
“I was told to give a message, but I don’t know what it is,” Winstead confessed.
The sphinx frowned. “You were sent to deliver a message. You were not given a message. What you were given was an impossibility.”
Winstead set down her pack and fished around for a parchment and the quill that refused to lie. She cleared her mind and without thinking let her hand write. The nib traced out, There are two sphinxes before me. The first sphinx is a satrap. The two sphinxes are of equal standing. Therefore, the second sphinx is also a satrap.
She presented the document to the sphinx for inspection. It read the words and smiled. “You lack Marra’s seal. You have sought the Court of Nous. Therefore, Marra is in our debt.” It inclined its head to her slightly in acknowledgment. “Farewell, cake.”
“What was that?” Rhea asked as they left.
“The Satrap of Syllogism, a member of the Court of Nous,” Fra Artem replied.
“I gathered that,” Winstead noted, “but what does that mean?”
Fra Artem shrugged. “Each used to be a mortal, but they transcended, bypassing the tendency to become ghosts or spirits. Each represents, or perhaps personifies, a certain concept or form of thought. Ostensibly, they claim authority over all thoughts in all realms as a collective entity,” Fra Artem said dismissively as Rhea prepared to pathwalk again. “In practice, of course, no one minds them at all.”
The evening air in Gatesmithe shivered. Four silhouettes appeared on the broken pavement.‡
“Pardon me,” said Fra Artem, looking around with a distinct unease. “Where are we?”
Donkey gave a stuttering bleat.
“Oh, we’re back in Gatesmithe, an old section of Satyrine,” Marweg informed him. “We just need to take the rotfire to destroy the hate cyst now.”
“Destroy the what with the what?” the fra asked uncomfortably.
For the next few minutes Ward, Marweg, Rhea, and Winstead talked over each other, trying to explain the purpose of their trip. With each sentence, each correction, and each new revelation, Fra Artem grew more pale, until he could’ve passed for a ghost himself.
“And so,” Marweg concluded, “we just take the rotfire and burn the whole place down. Of course, we’ll make a firebreak to keep it from spreading.”
“We’re not actually that far,” Winstead noted. “The warehouse should be a couple blocks west of here.” She turned to point, and started. “What the hell is that!?”
Crawling down the wall of the building nearest them was a bulbous creature that teetered on far too many spindly limbs. About five feet tall, it moved using its rear ten limbs; the front two ended in hands that looked very human. At the front of the thorax, where the mandibles and multiple eyes should’ve been, protruded a human face with an inhuman predatory expression. Its gaze seared into Fra Artem, and with a sudden motion, it snagged him in a jet of webbing and pulled him toward that awful face.‽
Fra Artem, too stunned to resist, began to babble about the pleasant experiences the other members of the Cathedral had related about their trips to Indigo and elsewhere. The maddening inanities grew higher and higher in pitch the closer he got to the creature’s grinning face.
Rhea sprang forward, gripped Fra Artem’s arm, and dug her heels into the ground in a desperate bid to pull him back. With a snap, the tether gave way and they tumbled backward as a swell of running water walled off the hideous sight. Rhea looked back to Winstead thankfully, then helped the fra up.
Marweg had assumed control of the creature’s two right forelegs and made it shred its own webs, and he was now focused on trying to make it trip and fall.
Donkey started wandering toward the webbing. “Come back, Donkey!” Marweg called out in concern. Donkey gave a loud and disoriented snuff but turned away. The diplopoda lunged at Donkey with arms outstretched and mouth split unnaturally wide. Marweg encouraged the leg to stab its owner instead of Donkey and missed both.
“Run!” Winstead cried out, and together they dashed through an alley, further into the ruined neighborhood.
I’m sorry your first experience here was so intimidating, Ward apologized to Fra Artem, but it’s more exciting than the temple, right?
Fra Artem did not dignify the comment with a response.
“Keep going, just in case that thing found a way through,” Winstead advised.
The area looked just as dilapidated as when they had last seen it. “There’s a bright side to all this ruin,” observed Marweg. “We won’t even need the firebreak. There’s scarcely anything here to consume.”
“That’s a relief,” Rhea agreed.
“How are we going to release the rotfire?” Marweg asked. “I will go in, of course, but Fra Artem will have to come in because Ward’s the only one who knows how that thing works.”‡
Fra Artem shrank back.
“And Winstead, you know the area better than anyone, you’ll have to make sure we’re heading in the right direction.”
“Ward, couldn’t you just possess him and do things yourself?” asked Rhea.
“It might actually be best if you did cede control to Ward for this task; he made the device,” Marweg said.
“Cede control to a hosted spirit?” Fra Artem, offended, echoed in disbelief.
Marweg continued, oblivious. “The container holds a substance that will destroy the hate cyst, but only Ward knows how to remove it safely. I don’t, Rhea doesn’t, and Winstead doesn’t.”
“I could let him collaborate,” Fra Artem protested. “but it’s not proper to just let him take over.”
I think collaboration should work, Ward said privately. I designed it to be really simple to operate, and I can explain the workings to you once we’re inside. “I think we can make that work,” he said out loud. “I’ll just coach him through it on the way. Ready to burn this place down?”
With a collective deep breath, they approached the door to the warehouse. Marweg strode with them bravely, but his soul was miserable that he might be about to destroy the only pushmi-pullyu habitat he’d ever find.
The medium-sized room was mostly empty. The window along the entry wall was boarded, and the wall was uncovered brick. A few wooden crates were carelessly stacked against the right-hand wall, while a tall mirror hung opposite, showing their dingy reflection. A sunken mattress sat off-center on the floor. Another door nearly opposite the entry stood closed.
Marweg marched straight across and opened the door. He paused at the sight of the hallway beyond.
“This,” he said, “isn’t what I remember seeing before.”
“More illusions?” Rhea asked.
Marweg shook his head. “I think— I think this is what’s really here.”
They propped the door open with a box and coaxed Donkey through, careful not to jostle the rotfire. The hallway led to a warehouse room the size of a hockey rink, open and empty except for a table in the center, benches for seats, and a throne presiding over all. Nyx was nowhere in sight. Instead, all surfaces before, above, and below them glistened with the slick, viscous ooze of the hate cyst, its bloated and dark fleshy appearance more pustulent than they remembered.
Fra Artem pointed to the table, loathing evident on his face. “Ward says we just need to add fuel to the rotfire to upset the equilibrium,” he told them, beckoning Donkey toward him. “It should consume this awful thing and then burn itself out.”
“How far does this hate cyst extend?” Marweg asked Winstead. “Are there contiguous buildings? Squatters? We don’t want to destroy anything more than necessary.”
Winstead shook her head. “No buildings for a couple blocks, really. And nobody lives here.” She glanced back to the first room. “Not even me, anymore.”
“We should still check for squatters.” Rhea turned back to the hall as well. “Better to be safe than sorry. Demons aside, I don’t want anyone to die today.”
Winstead led them through the warehouse, ending back in her old room, having confirmed her initial estimate. They were alone in the building.
“Satisfied?” she asked Marweg.
Marweg didn’t respond. He stared into the mirror with a look of horror. Winstead followed his gaze and saw the demon king’s reflection standing in the room behind them. Refusing to believe her eyes, and filled with dread, she turned to see unwelcome occupant, unmasked and casually menacing.
Nyx raised a finger. “And where might you be going?”
“By your leave,” Marweg stammered, “we were merely looking to see if you had other guests.” Behind him, Winstead muttered a phrase and made a subtle motion with her hand. She faded quietly out of sight and mind.
Inspired by his experience inside his own corpse, Ward willed disease and ruin upon the demon. A sickly power moved through Ward to his target, but Nyx seemed unaffected.
“I have very few guests here tonight.” Nyx laid a hand upon Marweg’s shoulder. “Come.”
Pain surged through Marweg, and he felt a cruel pressure behind his eyes.* His stomach heaved, and sudden fever wracked his body. Shivering, teeth chattering, he followed Nyx back to what had been the throne room. As he tottered through the hall, the image before him wobbled, swam, and finally congealed into the pristine throne room as he had once known it. The thought made him want to vomit.
He knew better than to trust his senses this time. Marweg recalled an incantation that he had received in meditation. Through the blaze of fever, he realized its potential and focused on its qualia. He envisioned a noose materializing from above, slipping over his captor’s neck and jerking up. As within, so without. The mental image manifested, and he felt his symptoms lift as the demon’s resisting form rose into the air. Having followed Marweg, Rhea signaled to Fra Artem to release the rotfire. Under Ward’s guidance, the fra set the container down, its flame and fuel in perfect equilibrium. He threw in a chair to upset the balance, then ran for the exit.
With a roar, the rotfire blossomed into a pillar of dancing black and green. It howled, sucking in the air from the whole room, and jumped out of the box, tongues licking the ceiling and lunging across the floor like an oil slick.
The noose disappeared, and Nyx fell to the floor, dead. The body had barely settled before the flames crawled over it in a gangrenous tide.
Donkey tripped over its own legs as the sticky surface pulled at its feet. It howled in fear and pain as the rotfire swallowed it whole.
Rhea and Winstead were already halfway down the hall. Fra Artem grabbed Marweg and, with an adrenaline-fueled heave, thrust him out of the main room after them. Marweg stumbled out like a drunkard on a bender, weaving his way through the straight hallways of the building.
“Go,” the fra wheezed to Ward. “I can’t make it.” Ward felt himself expelled from his host, and he breezed past the others helping Marweg through the door. As they stumbled down the steps and scrambled away, he turned and watched his workmanship with a detached sense of satisfaction and regret.
Walls split open before jets of moist heat. A horrible chemical smell accompanied gouts of belching smoke roiling across the floors. The roof blew up in splinters, and the warehouse flared like an evil torch, suddenly and completely deep green. The flames shot up into the sky, seeking something, anything else on which to feed.
But they found nothing. The old warehouse collapsed in on itself, pieces of the roof never even making it to the ground before they were ash. It burned and burned until all that could be seen was the slowly dissipating tarry smoke that hovered near the ground within a ring of scorched pavement.
The three corporeal figures panted, leaning on each other for support in the sudden darkness. Ward floated next to them in solidarity.
It worked, he marveled. We destroyed it.
“That’s nice,” Rhea said, then coughed at the acrid smoke. “Now I want a drink, some emotion leaves, and a week of sleep.”
‡ Grey Sun, Looming Shade
* Rhea gains her Grey Sun forte ability.
* GM Note: This later resulted in a continuity error. We just forgot, and retroactively changed it to Rhea discovering it in Satyrine instead of here.
†† Limb Possession
‡ Red Sun, Swan
‡ Gold Sun, Imperator
†† Exiguous Appeasement
‡ Invisible Sun, Empty Gallows
‡ Silver Sun, Forbidden Game
‽ Cyst Spawn: Dessid, Teratology pg. 65
‡ Green Sun, Hidden Moon
* Two damage and a scourge