Baptized
From Echoes of Darkness
Baptized by the Abyss is a story related to Olorae_en'Eveil, written by Jay Koster and set in the time immediately following the emergence of Gracia and the Kamaloka.
Contents |
Chapter One: The Prophecy
The Celebrant sat back and rubbed her eyes before stretching her arms out to the sides. Several days on end spent researching, and so far she had nothing to show for her troubles but an ache in her neck and circles beneath her eyes.
Dark whispers flitted through her mind, chastising her for a lack of progress and for the mortal failings of the body that drove her to set her research aside. Pointedly, she ignored them, standing and moving across the lavish study, ignoring the piles of books and scrolls that had claimed all the available flat space.
She stood at the window, looking out at the darkened harbor village. It was quiet outside: guards stood at their posts, lazily searching the edge of the lantern light for any sign of trouble. She was surprised at how quiet Gludin had become, even as a war raged nearby.
But then, it was not as nearby as she liked to imagine. A great distance separated Gracia from Aden, spanned only by magic. She knew the fight raged on, however, for the watch captains were constantly seeking soldiers to send to the fight. The Kamaloka, Shilen’s creations and servants, had seen to it that many would never return.
A smile crossed her face as she turned away from the window and back to the scroll unfurled on her desk. The reported find on the far coast gave her hope, inspiration that, while imprisoned, Shilen was still growing in power.
She walked back to the desk and sat down, looking over the passage once again, in hopes that it would make more sense this time.
Distant currents, deep water, drifting shadow. A mother’s kiss, pallbearer’s tears. Flowers fade, sun grows cold, empty meadow. Fire comes, faces turn to hide their fears. Twice damned, twice pardoned, baptized in loss, The daughter awakens.
At first, she had paid no attention to the old human’s ramblings, content to pass by the beggar as she would any other. When he had flung himself upon her robes, clutching to her and babbling the same words over and over, she had thought only to slit his throat and be done with him. It was the look in his eyes, however, that stayed her hand. The man had the hollow, vacant stare of the dead, but in those dull eyes she saw the reflection of an endless sea of dark, churning water. In his eyes, she saw the Abyss.
Chapter Two: The Prophecy (Part 2)
“Do you think she has any idea of the significance?” “No, Lord Tetrarch, she appears to be as clueless as the rest of the Celebrants.” “Let us hope she remains that way. We must ensure that she not fulfill the prophecy. Our positions could be jeopardized. She already deposes us openly.”
“Should we send Kreed to deal with her?” “No. She’d expect that. Send… the new girl. This will be her test.” “Yes, Lord Tetrarch.”
--
The Celebrant sat in shock, staring at the yellowed, dry parchment in front of her. It had been excavated from a ruin in Gracia, and she had paid well to be the one to receive it. It spoke of the Children of Shilen, of their exile to the far continent and the shadow of the Hammer, of their efforts to subvert the war brewing there to release the Mother. But there, in little more than a sentence, sat the words that called out to her:
Blessed by holy rage, the Inquisitors of old will lead us to victory.
‘Inquisitors?’ she wondered aloud. The last inquisitors she had encountered had not been keen on leading the Children. No, they had seemed bent on destroying the Cult once and for all. Clearly, the parchment referred to another force, a force loyal to Shilen. Who were the Inquisitors? Where had they been hiding? Could she harness their power?
She leaned down again to study the faded words, eyes scanning each letter as if one would reveal all the secrets she yearned to know. More writing about Kamaloka, of the demons that the Cult had awoken, and of their actions in Gracia: nothing about the Inquisitors, nothing of importance to her.
--
Days passed, and the Celebrant pored through the many ancient scrolls and texts she had acquired over the years, a woman possessed. Her fingers, smudged with ink, scribbled words as she came to them, though the result was something that would make sense to no one.
The Inquisitors were Celebrants of power, born of noble blood, chosen to defend the faith with the blessings of the Goddess, a fire born of Her perfect fury. They acted against Her enemies, granting purity and death.
Ancient times reborn, war breathes anew.
Light against dark, death against life.
Water begets fire, balance held true.
Armies march, heralding the piper’s fife.
Distant currents, deep water, drifting shadow.
A mother’s kiss, pallbearer’s tears.
Flowers fade, sun grows cold, empty meadow.
Fire comes, faces turn to hide their fears.
Twice damned, twice pardoned, baptized in loss,
The daughter awakens.
She had found the full prophecy hidden in an ancient text describing the War of the Gods, the events following Shilen’s fall from Glory. Overshadowed by the armies of dragons, demons, and angels, it had long been overlooked by the historians as the ravings of a madman.
Chapter Three (The Price)
The brightest flame burns quickest,
So too those that wake.
Power beyond dream imagined,
The price: a thirst to slake.
Fury born and Fury bred,
Theirs is duty divine.
Tasked with never-ending vengeance,
Fire burning; body dead.
The verse had been written not in a parchment or a tome, but in a painting. She had nearly missed it, walking through the temple’s halls after the Rite of Purity and Reunification. It was a painting of an ancient Celebrant, from the days before the war with the orcs of Elmore, one of the first to wear the title of Saint.
She had stopped to admire the portrait when she saw the scroll painted on a table behind him. The writing was at an odd angle, too small to be read clearly, but when she returned with a seeing glass, the verse leapt out at her and quickly joined other scribbled writings in her journal.
More and more, the evidence of the Inquisitors was coming to light. With each additional piece of knowledge, the Prophecy was beginning to make more sense: These were the times that would see the return of the Inquisitors, blessed in Holy Fire and ready to fight for Her in the growing chaos.
--
As the Celebrant slipped into the reading room, she knew immediately that something was wrong. There was a tension in the air all too familiar, and it set the shadows about her into a near-frenzy, their ghastly whispers rising in a chorus of discord, their chains rattling in a chaotic fury.
She rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the dart that thudded into the door frame. Coming to her feet, she caught just a glimpse of the figure diving through the window, followed by the crackle of energy that she could only assume was an escape scroll, likely blessed by some priest or another. Taking the dart, she secreted it away in a pouch and handed it to the nearest shadow.
“Find out what you can,” she ordered, and it hissed its assent and vanished, leaving the room just slightly brighter.
Composing herself, she continued through the reading room and out to the garden, where the two bladedancers awaited, putting on a smile
“Shall we?” she asked, gesturing to the road back toward the village.
Chapter Four (The Dream)
“So she knows?” “I think so, Lord Tetrarch.” “Damn. What of the assassin?” “Failed, but it does not appear she associates the attempt with her research.” “At least we have some blessing in that small fact. Keep her out there, hopefully she’ll succeed this time." “Yes, Lord Tetrarch.” “And bring me Kreed.”
--
The Celebrant was dreaming, which was in itself a surprise. She had not remembered having any dreams for decades, long before the attempted usurping of her position, before she had been abandoned, before she had truly come into power.
Tonight, however, she dreamed of white-hot fire, pouring out the windows of churches across Elmoreden. She heard the screams of the dying, of Her enemies, but it was not enough to know cloister and cloth burned. She desired more, she craved the death of not just priests, but of the goddess herself.
The Celebrant saw the clouds part as the magnificent temple in Aden fell inward upon itself, white marble stained with blood, burned black with flame, and the Celebrant looked upon the face of the Hypocrite. Einhasad’s anger at the death of her worshippers was a palpable force in the air, but the Celebrant did not cower, for the fury of the Mother, born of betrayal, roiled from her skin, purging her of fear.
Raising her hands toward the face of the goddess, the Celebrant began to intone ancient words, in a long-forgotten dialect, willing the flame from her body into the clouds.
Betrayal repaid, Ancient secrets undone, Hatred’s vile seed has been laid, Love grown to fury, death comes to One.
With a sharp gasp, the Celebrant sat up in her bed, reaching to her brow where the symbol burned, white-hot to the touch. She let out a scream, waking both the blade dancers in her company, but she was oblivious to their presence; all she felt was the pain, the loss, the betrayal.
Just as suddenly, the symbol faded to just ink, and she fell back to the pillows, unconscious and bathed in a sheen of perspiration. She slept again, as sound as a newborn babe, untouched by further dreams.
Chapter Five (The Best Laid Plans)
The assassin relaxed onto the wooden beam, easing herself into position. It had taken weeks to figure out where the Celebrant would be most vulnerable, and it had taken more than a substantial amount of adena to bribe her way into the building, but now she was ready; the Celebrant would not escape this time.
She sat and waited as others came and went, remaining silent and observing them as they bathed, unwilling to reveal herself until the perfect moment. All her training and a little luck went into staying hidden, but it would pay off, and she would become a legend. She would be the one successful in slaying the thorn that had been lodged in the Tetrarch Council’s side for so long.
--
The Celebrant closed the door behind herself, making her way to the bath. She’d had it prepared to her liking – a hint of jasmine and lilac in the water – and warmed just enough. She looked around, confirming the safety she knew she had in this room. Shadows stationed outside the door would prevent all but two from entering, and a cursory sweep of the bath chamber revealed it empty. She could finally relax, finally let her guard down.
--
The assassin tensed, watching the dark elf below. She froze as the other woman’s eyes settled on her – had she been caught? Had all her planning been undone? It would appear not, however, as the Celebrant looked away after what seemed an agonizingly long moment.
Waiting for the woman to begin moving, the assassin slipped the poison-coated knife from its sheath, silent as silk over steel. Confirming she remained unseen, she shifted into a crouch, ready to drop as death from above, but was thwarted as the door opened.
--
Immediately, the Celebrant pulled her robe up to cover herself, reaching for the sword hidden within its folds, a precaution she could ill afford to forget. Seeing the blade dancer, however, she relaxed and laid the robe aside, slipping into the water.
The two began to speak, conversing in private, hushed tones, though the armored woman seemed agitated, continually glancing around the room despite the placations of the Celebrant.
Something was wrong, but she just could not put her finger on it.
