Forged like the saber in the fires of death, Brothers All.
UK Hollow men temple op. Beltane 2008.
OOC: Credit due to Bex for the write up!
Beltane; the start of summer. A day of celebration and hope, a day to drive
out the winter's dark.
A brave band of Britannia's Awakened travel to the country's South Coast, to
a site of death and corruption old as perhaps the Fall. This day is fated
to bring confrontation and challenge, the setting right of ancient wrongs;
dangers lurk in the twisted tunnels of an ancient shrine, both long-hidden
and newly spawned.
The site of today's task is accessible only from the sea, a rocky inlet cave
on the coast not far from the tourist town of Southsea. A creeping sense of
the nearness of the Abyss, of emptiness and desolation, spiders out from it
across the waves, bringing shivers to even the most hardy Awakened heart.
Doc and Smith have prepared all for this mission well, and the traps that
thwarted so many on their visit here a year ago pose little threat today.
The group know what they face, in terms of this place's structure at least.
Others have prepared well, too; the skies are peaceful over the South Coast
as the day dawns, but they darken as the morning goes on. By the time the
mages approach, a storm rages over Southsea and the nearby coast, dark with
rain, the wind buffeting back the sea. Weatherman has done his job well.
The party arrive at the site in two groups; the first, the Arrow's combat
elite, arriving via helicopter generously provided by Emeritus - a
helicopter that flies in silent as a dream, unharmed by the savage storm -
and rappelling down smartly and efficiently to the water at the mouth of the
shoreline-cave, ready to begin the strike. As they secure the cave's
entrance, a second group draw up in a small, rented boat, riding the choppy
waves with ease; both Elias and Codex have protected these methods of transport from predictive scrying and onslaughts of ill-fortune, and the
party have surprise on their side, for now at least.
And so, the group begin their quest; Peace, Hierarch of the South, a leader
with a quiet authority about him. As ever, he works calmly to organize,
takes his cues this time from those who know this place better than he.
And those who know this site best are his Order-fellows Smith - a tough and
well-armored professional determined to see this job done, and done well -
and Doc Spartan, stocky, bearded, a quiet hero. Their leadership on this
mission is clear, their careful reconnaissance of this location essential to
all of those gathered here today.
Kael is another obvious leader, here; well built and tall, with short cropped hair and loose, comfortable clothes. An air of quiet confidence and calm surrounds him, and his focus is undeniable.
Many of those at work here are Arrow, and Lathe, efficiently ensures that
all are armed as they should be - flamethrowers are a choice weapon, it
seems, as reconnaissance work has proven. Simply dressed, her long, dark
hair secured back, she wears a Japanese sword on her back, a weapon of both
deadly and elegant.
Demolitions - blond, tall, wiry and dressed in worn fatigues - knows that
his task today is to see this wretched temple forever destroyed, and as
ever, he secretly relishes the moment of explosion, of cleansing fire.
Griffin, tall and lithe, with sky-bright blue eyes and tousled dark blond
hair, bears the insignia of his RAF unit on his long-sleeved tee, under a
worn flight jacket, wears practical combat trousers and boots. Clearly
confident with this rugged kind of expedition, he works with a small smile.
August is small, young, sun-bronzed, another Arrow who knows well the
outdoor life. Her long red hair is braided back sharply, and she wears
black combat gear over her body armor and dry suit. Around her neck, she
wears a ring and a crucifix on a chain; perhaps small protections of her
heart and soul.
Scooby, of the South, is a tough-looking young man tensed for the ongoing
battle; he too, is clad in combat gear and a caving helmet, looks worried
but ready to fight.
Others have come to assist here, too, though; Ishtar, a slight, attractive
woman who many may recognize from her stage career, dressed with far more
restraint than usual, though armed with her slender sword-cane.
Codex, Hierarch of London, stands, tall and slim, his eyes taking in everything around him in a calm way, his dark hair neat and short. His usual
black-shot shirt is done up tight under a black leather jacket, a small
backpack with a leather-bound notebook sticking out, within hand reach, as
is a durable torch. Unusually, he's wearing jeans, rather than his customary smart-casual suit.
Weatherman carries an air of pride about him, clearly a man of means. His
brown goatee is neatly cropped, and his head is shaved. He is dressed formally in an expensive yet understated grey suit cut in a Victorian style,
a waistcoat complete with watch and chain beneath it. Against the elements,
though they are friend to him, he wears a long black coat, and he carries a
simple black cane.
In sharp contrast, in dress style at least, is Talks-With-City, Shaman of
London. Scruffy, somehow rat-like in manner, he comes to stand with his
Consilium-mates and battle the forces of the darkness.
Emeritus, armed with a sword-cane and an archaic elephant gun, and his
sister, Ayr, a calm, studious young woman with long dark hair, stay close
together; a flicker of concern crosses Peace's face when he sees the young
woman disembark from the boat, as if he hadn't expected - or wished - to see
her here, in danger.
Clearly, efficiently, Doc and Smith brief the group on the mission ahead, on
the traps and adversaries they should expect to encounter. Weapons are
readied, and final spells cast - and the journey into the darkness begins.
The reek of the Abyss is strong here, seems to be growing stronger almost by
the moment; this is a tainted place, where the corrupt have long come to
worship.
Those with such senses active can feel both magical and insect life ahead,
in the twisting tunnels, and deep within, at the labyrinth's heart, the
familiar death-taint of the lost Ark of the Damned makes Awakened senses lurch.
Talks-With-City shudders; this place is achingly devoid of spirit activity,
and its Shadow is a blasted, corrupt wasteland.
The team enter, cautiously, Doc and Smith taking the lead; behind them, the
others follow. Though not all are known for their combat finesse, each one
is a capable mage, and each has a part to play here.
Doc and Smith, the front line of the group wield flamethrowers, sturdily
constructed by Lathe.
The group approach the inner entrance of the cave system, leaving the stormy
sea and the last glimpses of sky behind, already feeling the sickening effects of the old and tainted magic within. Those who are less hearty feel their stomachs turn, but none turn back; those who have come here today are determined to end the dark dreams of the Hollow Men.
At the rear of the inlet cave, a small crawlspace awaits; the entrance to
this site. Known as the Shrine of the Lost, it has long stood as temple for
the wretched and Abyss-serving, and debasement is just a part of the hard
journey to reach its heart. Deep breaths are taken and courage readied, and
one by one, the party make their way through the tight entrance. Those who
are taller, broader, carrying much equipment, find the squeeze difficult and
uncomfortable; only the smaller and more slender of the group fit through the gap with ease.
For all, the feeling of discomfort at a level almost soul-deep becomes more
powerful as the Shrine itself is entered; even those most in control of, in
tune with, their bodies begin to feel short of breath and nauseated, and a
handful of those less physically adept gag, even vomit. The taint of the
Abyss is strong here, along with magics to strike disorientation and discomfort into those who'd enter without true darkness in their hearts, and
the gut-wrench of corruption only becomes more painful as the group travel
deeper into the caves.
As the last of the group make their way through the crawlspace opening, the
party find themselves gathered - uncomfortably, cramped together close - in
a larger cavern.
The walls are wet, and the air reeks of sea-salt and decay. There is an odd
sense of spatial distortion, of the walls closing in or becoming impossibly
far apart.
A feeling of mental discomfort, of spatial disorientation, strikes all, too,
a part of this wretched place; quick and clever castings with Mind and Space
magic by those who can protect themselves and others hold this back substantially, but an odd sense of disorientation and spatial 'wrongness' still remains, nagging at the senses.
For those using their skills with Matter and Space magic or their arcane
knowledge of such locations to analyze and observe the complex in which they
now stand, this temple, though corrupt, may hold fascination. It seems to
be carved out of the coastline itself, though reinforced long ago with magic.
To collapse these tunnels completely would likely bring down a substantial
part of the coastline above - or at least make it very unstable - where the
homes of Sleepers stand on the hills above. Better, then, to cause more
contained damage and fill the location than to cause such blatant destruction, to use cleansing magic to heal this site.
Those seeking to find such things out can tell much about this place; that
many have died here, over the years, and that powerful Death magic has been - and is today - a key part of this site. The remains of bodies, human and otherwise, are scattered through the tunnels ahead, and many have met their doom or destiny here.
The cavern is dark, but the party have thought well ahead and are well-equipped with lights; or with magic to see through dark tunnels and paths. Ahead, minds and magic can be sensed, the deep trance of long ritual; and the corrupt resonance of the Ark. Ahead, too, are the scuttering insect-patterns of those creatures the more knowledgeable might identify as Hunt-Spawn, chittering and brutal.
However, knowledge, as ever, comes at a price, and using Mind magic in particular to survey or investigate the site leads to a violent increase in
the feeling of mental discomfort the party's members are already experiencing, will make even the most self-assured mage feel vulnerable and
uneasy. Oddly, there are no ghosts here, nor are there spirits; the location seems void of these presences even in Twilight, perhaps deliberately so.
Scrutinizing the resonances of the Shrine is uncomfortable, due to the
powerful level of Abyssal taint, but the following qualities are strong and
pervasive; a sense of concealment, of loss, a strong sense of fear and greed, passion invested in this location, an over-riding feeling of blasphemy. This, then, is a corrupt temple, where Abyssal mages worshipped many centuries ago and do so again, today.
In the shine of torch-light, the true entrance to the Shrine can be seen at
the cavern's rear, where heavy rocks have been moved aside. Doc and Smith
beckon the others forward, whispering caution, towards a stone archway worn
with time and tides, carved with old runes spelling out a command to turn
back, turn away.
Castings of spells giving spatial awareness are quickly bolstered; and the
twisting labyrinth first spied beyond the archway resolves itself into one winding path Even with the spell laid into the doorway - perhaps to protect
the unwary traveler, because the runes here show no sign of Abyssal corruption - thus beaten, though, the journey onwards is still unpleasant for all.
The passage ahead is dark and wet, with smaller, inaccessible tunnels snaking off it, like the bore holes of innumerable floods. The smell of salt water is still strong, through the rock beneath the mages' feet becomes more smooth and dry as they venture in, and eventually becomes paved with fine sand, crumbled from the walls of the cave. The fragmented remains of dead things - perhaps human, perhaps not, but all very, very old - are scattered from time to time across the floor.
The walkway is narrow, fitting only one person of medium build, and again,
many of the group's mages find themselves uncomfortably cramped. The sounds
of the location are eerie, the silence that marked Smith and Doc's last trip
replaced by the hushed breathing of the party of mages behind them, the
distant chittering of insect-beings, the soft, almost dream-like chanting of
the Abyssal servants far ahead.
The group approach the first trap; all have now been briefed by Smith and Doc on how to surpass this, and the answer is remarkably simple. A simple Death enchantment to suspend life lies in the passage ahead, appearing to 'kill' any who step into it, and, of course, eventually perhaps doing so should they be unwary or alone by rotting their flesh to the bone.
As the group approach the trap, the walls become dry and rocky, with the remains of ancient carvings upon them. Perhaps the carvings on the walls were once runes, perhaps the shapes of nightmarish creatures; it's impossible to tell. The walls do appear to have been deliberately cut from the rock, and tunnels becoming created rather than natural.
Ahead of them lie the heavy pieces of a shattered door hewn from the rock,
the carvings on it fragmented but oddly untouched by age. The shattered door has a residual magical glow to it, and many can identify a very small amount of Thaumium threaded through the rock of the door, in an intricate and almost natural pattern; barely a few grams in total.
These carvings, if pieced together in any way, become quickly painful to behold, seeming to twist the eye and the mind horribly. Something deep and
abiding about them makes them almost blinding in a conventional sense, and
the runes are corrupt, the magical speech of the Abyss, but the meaning is
clear, as if burned into the Awakened observer's mind with needles and fire:
PASS NO FURTHER, FOR THE WAY IS BLOCKED TO THEE, UNWORTHY ONE.
LEAVE, BEFORE THE GODS STRIKE YOU FROM THE WORLD.
Beyond the door, the walls grow dark and close, and there is a ten-feet-long
passage littered with bones; this, then, is the first trap.
Mages are resourceful, as individuals and as a group, though, and a convenient and practical solution is soon created between the party, using
just a little Forces magic, and a rope and a tough inflatable life-raft from
the boat.
Doc and Kael, using the powerful physical gifts of their Legacy, leap across
and easily clear the cursed passage, momentum carrying their temporarily 'dead' bodies through before any damage can be done, the rope tied around Doc's waist and, at its other end, securely to the life-raft.
Weatherman, not a combat magician but more than skilled with Forces magic,
uses his gifts to smooth the friction between the ground and the raft, making it even easier for Doc and Kael to pull each individual across the passage quickly - and gentler on the raft's underside - in the raft, launching it asily back across for the next mage to get in until all are safely through. Luckily, the danger of Paradox doesn't strike him, this time, and for the two Perfected Adepts this is an easy task.
For the others, though, the experience is less pleasant, even though the
time they remain corpse-like for is only seconds. Those who haven't protected themselves with shields against magic find themselves injured by the journey through, slightly but painful; Talks-With-City, Emeritus, Ishtar, Demolitions, Ayr, August and Scooby all suffer unpleasant, suppurating wounds which seep with decay, even after their brief moments 'dead', but there are plenty of medics on hand to assist in healing their injuries.
Smith, Peace, Griffin and Doc Spartan are all more than able healers, and
see that none has to suffer their wounds for more than a few moments; and
then the party travel onwards, into the darkness.
At the cursed passage's end, the tunnel narrows once again to a tight, dank
crawlspace, and from the light of the party's torches - and by the magic sights some have active - the crumbling remains of images of debasement and
strange, blasphemous rituals can be seen carved into the walls. All the mages are forced to travel this passage on their hands and knees, some gagging at the scent of the filthy ground beneath them so close, thick with
excrement, unidentifiable as belonging to any mundane animal, neither mammal
or insect.
All begin to feel increasingly nauseous and uncomfortable, despite even the
strongest of magic protections, and each mage present has to draw on his
force of will to keep from succumbing to sickness and terror. This place is
not merely claustrophobic, not just trapped with mind and body affecting magics, but horribly tainted with the touch of the Abyss.
Emeritus lets out a sharp, panicked gasp; it's almost a yell, but Ayr, beside him, manages to silence her brother. The fear on his face is desperate, and for a moment, the line halts as Ayr seeks to comfort him, bolster his will.
The chittering of the insect-creatures, the soft drone of chanting ahead;
these things will haunt even the staunchest mind for nights to come; even since Doc and Smith's last visit here, this site has grown more tainted by
the Abyss, and today, as each Fate magician within the party knows, a point
of crux will be reached here. The future rests in the party's hands, and
this knowledge rests heavy in the hearts of Ishtar, Codex and Weatherman most of all.
Eventually, the tunnel widens into a larger chamber, with smoother walls and
a flat ceiling, above head height for all but the most unusually tall. The
area now appears to be more carefully shaped and designed, to be the anteroom to the Shrine's heart. Where the tunnels so far have been worked out of rock, the group find themselves now entering a constructed and decorated area, though the decoration is very worn with age.
The more academic of the group perhaps look around, take notes; though this
place is painful to observe for more than a few moments with an untainted
eye.
The walls of this chamber are patterned in black and white waves whose curves suggest runes - again, runes of Abyssal magic - but the shapes don't form anything that can be determined. Rather, after a moment of surveying their near-hypnotic patterns, both mages realize that the patterns are, in fact, a distraction, drawing the mind and eye away from the trap ahead.
Again, Smith and Doc have briefed the group on the trap ahead; the floor is
made up of square blocks, in thirteen neat rows that span the room. Every
second-then-third line of blocks, however, has a trigger mechanism beneath
it for the entire row, sensitive to footsteps.
Each time weight is placed on one of these trigger stone, a mechanism holding the ceiling slab in place is loosened a little; it will take ten triggers for the ceiling slab to come crashing down to crush the unwary. The floor creaks a little as the party make their careful way across, avoiding the trap, all crossing safely but slowly.
At the end of the room, there is another archway; again, this is sculpted
and decorated with what seems to be the remnants of corrupt runes. Those
who look ahead through the arch see that the room beyond is large, and seems
to have the remains of some kind of containment pens in it; fragments of bone, animal and human, are scattered around.
Some of these remains seem recent; the charred corpses of two insect-creatures lie at the chamber's far end, burned beyond even decay. This chamber smells strongly of decay and corruption, a strong, animalistic smell which seems to echo the chittering sound that grows ever closer; though a faint smell of gasoline - of flame-thrower fuel - is also present. And yet the sound of insect-chittering rises, ever more steadily, as if the beasts here have spawned time and time again.
The room is easily passed through, and narrows into a flight of stone steps
heading downwards, at the bottom of which a large, carved door waits. One
wall of the stairwell seems to bear a macabre decoration; something that looks, at first glance, like five small black stones set into the wall, as
if the fingertips of a spread hand. Examination reveals that these are
human bone, burnt and fossilized into the rock, long ago.
Further analysis reveals that within the wall, there are the partial remains
of a man; the charred and ancient bones of part of his skull, torso and one
arm. His position and localized disruptions in the rock indicate that he
was blasted here from standing at the door as intense heat destroyed him; perhaps a brutal Forces effect or a bomb of some kind.
It is impossible to tell exactly how long he has been here, but the bone
seems to be at least ten thousand years old. Even the remaining bone is
shot through with tiny holes, as if the blast was incredibly powerful; and
indeed, a strong Forces spell lies ahead, along with Space magic.
At the bottom of the steps, the large, carved door stands, hewn from heavy
rock. It seems sealed into the stone arch in which it stands, but in the
center is a carved shield, with the faint impression of a human left hand
upon it.
The door resonates with powerful magic; an ancient Space Ward and Ban, and a
strong Forces spell to attack any who attempt to break through. It seems that the magics cannot be dispelled without many hours work, but a way through has already been prepared, and Doc and Smith have briefed the team
on this.
To open the door, a visitor must place their left hand in the carved shape
on the door; doing so will allow the door to open, giving access to the
final chamber beyond, allowing the Shrine to accept the visitor as a Nameless Acolyte. An easy way in, then, should the visiting mage wish to become in any way an Abyssal servant, but none present would ever choose to walk that cursed path.
Instead, a false hand has been prepared, created from dead bone and sculpted
in a Demesne by Smith into a left hand to open the door with; no traps or
warnings will be triggered this way, he explains, and no harm done to the soul of any here to fight.
But all here are readied, too, for the battle to begin, here; Doc and Smith's
briefing - and the visions and predictions of those Fate and Times mages in
the party, just as valuable - has prepared them all for the deadly entities
that wait ahead, and, indeed, as the door groans open, the soft chant of the
Hollow Men ahead, still deep in ritual, echoes.
For those here who have, before, experienced the Hollow Men's dark song - in
visions, in dreams - who have heard the twisted tongue of the Abyssal towers
calling, sleep will not come easy for a good while; many of even the bravest
mages gathered, making their way to the complex's heart, shudder, pull their
clothes tights around them against a chill soul-deep.
The sound of insect-chittering and the stink of shit and rot grows stronger,
the taint of Abyss and the sickening ache in their minds and bodies becoming
increasingly hard to bear for even these strong men and women.
Ahead of them, a short and narrow corridor snakes forwards, with walls of
black stone. A final trap - a path of Abyssal servitude, of kinds - lies
ahead, and all, too, have been made aware of this.
At each turn of the narrow passage, there is a life-sized carving of a man
on the wall, worn with age but not so badly as to be beyond definition. At
the first turn, the man, robed, is bowing.
There are slots in the walls here at upper chest height visible with a little examination and caution; the floor before the carving is a trip mechanism. Should a less wary traveler step on this section of floor and not bow, they will be rewarded with two blades in their upper chest.
One by one - reluctantly, but knowing that to break or stop the mechanism
will give warning of their approach - the party of mages bow, pass through
this trap unharmed and journey on.
At the second turn, the wall bears an image is of a man crawling, on his hands and knees, and just beyond it lies another trap, like the one before,
only with the blades positioned appropriately lower.
Crawling, fighting back nausea as they approach the central chamber, the train of mages pass through safely, come to the final trap. Now the reek of
the Abyss is undeniable, and many are retching; but the battle must go on.
At the third and last turn, the man portrayed is lying flat, and there is a
trap again, with blades positioned at a level only those belly-crawling can
avoid triggering. Nameless supplicants, then, seem to have been forced to
crawl flat into their temple; to degrade themselves utterly before the Abyss.
Crawling flat not in supplication or debasement but so that they might all
stand proud against the darkness, the party pass through this final trap carefully, the largest of them squeezing tight their bodies against the cold
floor.
The first to reach an arm through, Doc, throws in a grenade, and a flat bang
echoes out in the darkness; the rest of the party behind him are strobed, for a moment, in the fragmented light.
Insect screams, and the stench of burning carapace and bug-flesh, and all
wait. At last, the clamor dies down, and silence is ahead; and the party
proceed. But the chanting of the Hollow Men still echoes, echoes, though
even the first to enter the last chamber see none in sight.
Peace follows Doc in, with the frontline of the Arrow - Smith, Griffin,
Demolitions, Kael, Lathe - while the others of the party wait behind, combat-sharp before the passage's last trap. For a moment, the little group of warrior-mages is silent, stands cautiously in the final chamber, in a mess of insect-remains and acrid blood, weapons at the ready. Areas of unnatural shadow shift at the chamber's edges, from which a unearthly chittering sound still emanates, louder and louder.
Peace gives the nod, knows this is the moment, just as a swarm of awful, bug-like creatures burst forth from the dark corners that don't seem quite like corners at all, surrounding the gathered mages - but the party are ready, with flamethrowers, with guns. The creatures snarl savagely as they attack, six-limbed and chitinous, skittering and jumping, bodies sectioned like a mantis of horrible size.
Their carapaces are barbed and brutal, and to fight them close without great
skill is to be torn to shreds - not just by the barbs of their shell but by the vicious scything front limbs and mandible jaws that exist to rend and
devour their prey.
For those with Mind magic active, the hunger in these creatures, unceasing,
is tangible, horrifying; they exist, breed, only to devour all in their path.
The Arrow act more than fast, most at preternatural speed; flamethrowers blaze, and gunshots ring out. The dark room becomes a frenzy of blood and
insect ichors, and spells are fired off with passion and fury; the light of
Demolitions' Nimbus filling the chamber for just a moment with the unbridled
awe of primal fire, as Forces magic shreds attacking claws.
Peace seems a very different man, in the heart of this battle, rifle raised,
his movements fluid and powerful; Smith's flamethrower blazes, rends monster
into corpse. Kael works skillfully, lethally, managing what only a select
few could; to fight the Hunt-Spawn with brutally elegant martial moves,
without being torn apart himself.
Lathe fights with a dancer's grace, praying softly even as her sword flashes
and slices; beside her, Doc wields not, for once, his staff but a flamethrower, just like Smith's, burning beyond repair the bug-creatures
that seek to devour, to destroy.
The fight is furious, yet somehow the actions of this group of Awakened are
touched with beauty; these are skilled warriors, fluid and elegant in their
action.
Griffin's gun flashes bright, and he moves fast, gracefully but insect jaws
tear into him, and he falls to the ground. Smith drops his flamethrower,
the tank done, and quickly unsheathes his sword, drives the blade through
the skull of the creature about to devour, pulls the younger man away from
the clamor of beasts.
And, at last, it is over. The seven Arrow are left in the bloodied chamber,
the hot scent of burning blood and insect-meat all around, charring bug-bodies surrounding them. All are bloodied, but their wounds are only
minor, save Griffin's; Doc kneels to heal him, and after a few moments, he
rises, with a shaky smile.
The insect-sound is gone; even the darkest corners hide no secrets. And, at
last, the rest of the mages who have come to fight here today make their way
through into the room. All reach the last room unharmed, but there is no
time yet for satisfaction.
Instead, there are soft murmurs of concern, as bloodied friends are seen,
and caution still reigns, here; those who know destiny's paths are aware
that the fight is far from over, yet.
Because. All the time, the soft echo of the Hollow Men's chant, of the words that have brought horror and darkness not just to Britannia but to the Fallen World itself, goes on, somehow just out of reach, a skin-crawling shadow of a song.
The gathered mages survey the room around them; a darkly elegant chamber with black and white rock walls, an almost beautiful abattoir. The carvings here are strangely and startlingly beautiful, though twisted and corrupt; scenes of violence and sacrifice, of decadence and depravity, rendered with great talent.
The room has the feel of a corrupt church; fairly spacious, but empty, a
ceremonial gathering place, with the remains of black iron scones on the walls. The altar at the far end is obscured once more, by a rune-woven golden curtain, now ragged and bloodied.
On the walls, carved words and sigils seem to resolve themselves in an Abyssal corruption of High Speech; the blood-splattered floor is tiled in black and white, creating mesmerizing but senseless patterns, hard not to look at without exerting one's force of will. The walls are oddly plain, lines of black and white stone now streaked with smoke and carrion.
The pool of blood where Idris died, by the altar, is lost in the carnage, now. The mages ready themselves for action, once again; and the air shifts somehow, like storm-static, and something changes. Not magic, but something like it, something dark and so very wrong.
Suddenly the curtain is pulled back, from behind. A single figure stands behind the altar, behind the glistening, slick box that now once again holds
its place; the Ark of the Damned. The man - or perhaps it was once a man,
or once a woman, now near-featureless with bottomless black eyes, it is impossible to tell - raises a hand, as if to cast.
Scooby, Talks-With-City and Ishtar all react quickly, ready to counter the Hollow Man's spell; Peace shoots, an easy, fluid motion, and the Hollow Man
drops, head coming apart. Blood sprays, across the altar, across the Ark, and the echo-song stops, dead.
Time seems to stand still for an instant. All is silent, the awful calm at
a hurricane's eye, the stun-shock after a bomb blast.
And the Ark - or perhaps the world around it - unfolds, in a screaming void-spiral; souls trapped for decades, centuries tear out into the world in a howl and dissolve into the dark, and then, the churning begins, like the
wet, raw cogs of the world coming apart, like the chatter of a million insane minds. And where the Ark stood, a hole black-blossoms and grows outwards, into a place that is no place, where there is no reason save the clamor of emptiness, and no sense but nonsense.
The Abyss is opening. All around, the minds of the gathered mages fill with
horror, with madness. But from the back of the chamber, a quiet voice speaks, the voice of a man who walks worlds within worlds.
Talks-With-City chants softly, his hands raised, no weapon in them. Reality
seems to shudder, twist, and for a moment, nothing is certain; all present feel a sense of being watched, but by countless small and curious eyes, and
a chittering and soft claw-scratching rises, the sound of rats in the walls.
There's the sight-out-of-sight of dark little bodies moving, the musty scent
of abandoned buildings claimed by the city's wild; and the Verge snaps closed, back in on itself. Is gone, with the Hollow Men's song, with the insect-whine of the void.
Ishtar, Codex, Weatherman speak, almost in unison, because they know. It's
over. This battle, for Britannia, is over, for now, and this wretched place, though sick with the taint of the Abyss, will never see dark ceremony again.
It's over. And it's time for the cleansing to begin.
As the realization spreads, weapons are downed. The Prime mages within the
group - Talks-With-City, Scooby, Ishtar, Lathe - work together to cleanse the taint from the site, to banish the traces of the Hollow Men and the darkness so long served here from this place, while the rest protect them, just in case.
They do their job, and do it well; by late in the evening, the site is clean, feels clear. And while they work, Demolitions sets up a careful array of charges around the chambers and tunnels, designed to collapse the temple in on itself, without damaging or risking the area around. This is his area of expertise, and by morning, this site will be rubble-blocked and forever destroyed.
He works cheerfully, humming to himself, as he sets the charges; from time
to time, Codex walks with him, pointing areas of Abyssal script for particular destruction. All seem determined that the Nameless and their distant kin will never rise up again, here.
All evacuate the Shrine safely; from the boat, as the sun begins to rise, Demolitions triggers the charges - 'Fire in the hole!' - with his smile wide.
None see the ancient stones shatter and fall within the tunnels, but there's
a white-topped wave-surge and a dull boom, and the boat bobs gently on the
morning sea.
Everyone has survived, and the sun is shining. The end of winter, then, at last.
Nightmares will come later, but, for now? This battle's over.
It's going to be a lovely day.
In the days and weeks following the op, D didn't sleep much. He knew why - you couldn't go through what he'd just been through without any side effects or backlash, but the knowledge that the enemy no longer had a holy site and would never be able to use it again sustained him. The op was a success. Nobody died except the enemy.
Those moments were to be savoured and remembered whenever they happened.
OOC: Credit due to Bex for the write up!
Beltane; the start of summer. A day of celebration and hope, a day to drive
out the winter's dark.
A brave band of Britannia's Awakened travel to the country's South Coast, to
a site of death and corruption old as perhaps the Fall. This day is fated
to bring confrontation and challenge, the setting right of ancient wrongs;
dangers lurk in the twisted tunnels of an ancient shrine, both long-hidden
and newly spawned.
The site of today's task is accessible only from the sea, a rocky inlet cave
on the coast not far from the tourist town of Southsea. A creeping sense of
the nearness of the Abyss, of emptiness and desolation, spiders out from it
across the waves, bringing shivers to even the most hardy Awakened heart.
Doc and Smith have prepared all for this mission well, and the traps that
thwarted so many on their visit here a year ago pose little threat today.
The group know what they face, in terms of this place's structure at least.
Others have prepared well, too; the skies are peaceful over the South Coast
as the day dawns, but they darken as the morning goes on. By the time the
mages approach, a storm rages over Southsea and the nearby coast, dark with
rain, the wind buffeting back the sea. Weatherman has done his job well.
The party arrive at the site in two groups; the first, the Arrow's combat
elite, arriving via helicopter generously provided by Emeritus - a
helicopter that flies in silent as a dream, unharmed by the savage storm -
and rappelling down smartly and efficiently to the water at the mouth of the
shoreline-cave, ready to begin the strike. As they secure the cave's
entrance, a second group draw up in a small, rented boat, riding the choppy
waves with ease; both Elias and Codex have protected these methods of transport from predictive scrying and onslaughts of ill-fortune, and the
party have surprise on their side, for now at least.
And so, the group begin their quest; Peace, Hierarch of the South, a leader
with a quiet authority about him. As ever, he works calmly to organize,
takes his cues this time from those who know this place better than he.
And those who know this site best are his Order-fellows Smith - a tough and
well-armored professional determined to see this job done, and done well -
and Doc Spartan, stocky, bearded, a quiet hero. Their leadership on this
mission is clear, their careful reconnaissance of this location essential to
all of those gathered here today.
Kael is another obvious leader, here; well built and tall, with short cropped hair and loose, comfortable clothes. An air of quiet confidence and calm surrounds him, and his focus is undeniable.
Many of those at work here are Arrow, and Lathe, efficiently ensures that
all are armed as they should be - flamethrowers are a choice weapon, it
seems, as reconnaissance work has proven. Simply dressed, her long, dark
hair secured back, she wears a Japanese sword on her back, a weapon of both
deadly and elegant.
Demolitions - blond, tall, wiry and dressed in worn fatigues - knows that
his task today is to see this wretched temple forever destroyed, and as
ever, he secretly relishes the moment of explosion, of cleansing fire.
Griffin, tall and lithe, with sky-bright blue eyes and tousled dark blond
hair, bears the insignia of his RAF unit on his long-sleeved tee, under a
worn flight jacket, wears practical combat trousers and boots. Clearly
confident with this rugged kind of expedition, he works with a small smile.
August is small, young, sun-bronzed, another Arrow who knows well the
outdoor life. Her long red hair is braided back sharply, and she wears
black combat gear over her body armor and dry suit. Around her neck, she
wears a ring and a crucifix on a chain; perhaps small protections of her
heart and soul.
Scooby, of the South, is a tough-looking young man tensed for the ongoing
battle; he too, is clad in combat gear and a caving helmet, looks worried
but ready to fight.
Others have come to assist here, too, though; Ishtar, a slight, attractive
woman who many may recognize from her stage career, dressed with far more
restraint than usual, though armed with her slender sword-cane.
Codex, Hierarch of London, stands, tall and slim, his eyes taking in everything around him in a calm way, his dark hair neat and short. His usual
black-shot shirt is done up tight under a black leather jacket, a small
backpack with a leather-bound notebook sticking out, within hand reach, as
is a durable torch. Unusually, he's wearing jeans, rather than his customary smart-casual suit.
Weatherman carries an air of pride about him, clearly a man of means. His
brown goatee is neatly cropped, and his head is shaved. He is dressed formally in an expensive yet understated grey suit cut in a Victorian style,
a waistcoat complete with watch and chain beneath it. Against the elements,
though they are friend to him, he wears a long black coat, and he carries a
simple black cane.
In sharp contrast, in dress style at least, is Talks-With-City, Shaman of
London. Scruffy, somehow rat-like in manner, he comes to stand with his
Consilium-mates and battle the forces of the darkness.
Emeritus, armed with a sword-cane and an archaic elephant gun, and his
sister, Ayr, a calm, studious young woman with long dark hair, stay close
together; a flicker of concern crosses Peace's face when he sees the young
woman disembark from the boat, as if he hadn't expected - or wished - to see
her here, in danger.
Clearly, efficiently, Doc and Smith brief the group on the mission ahead, on
the traps and adversaries they should expect to encounter. Weapons are
readied, and final spells cast - and the journey into the darkness begins.
The reek of the Abyss is strong here, seems to be growing stronger almost by
the moment; this is a tainted place, where the corrupt have long come to
worship.
Those with such senses active can feel both magical and insect life ahead,
in the twisting tunnels, and deep within, at the labyrinth's heart, the
familiar death-taint of the lost Ark of the Damned makes Awakened senses lurch.
Talks-With-City shudders; this place is achingly devoid of spirit activity,
and its Shadow is a blasted, corrupt wasteland.
The team enter, cautiously, Doc and Smith taking the lead; behind them, the
others follow. Though not all are known for their combat finesse, each one
is a capable mage, and each has a part to play here.
Doc and Smith, the front line of the group wield flamethrowers, sturdily
constructed by Lathe.
The group approach the inner entrance of the cave system, leaving the stormy
sea and the last glimpses of sky behind, already feeling the sickening effects of the old and tainted magic within. Those who are less hearty feel their stomachs turn, but none turn back; those who have come here today are determined to end the dark dreams of the Hollow Men.
At the rear of the inlet cave, a small crawlspace awaits; the entrance to
this site. Known as the Shrine of the Lost, it has long stood as temple for
the wretched and Abyss-serving, and debasement is just a part of the hard
journey to reach its heart. Deep breaths are taken and courage readied, and
one by one, the party make their way through the tight entrance. Those who
are taller, broader, carrying much equipment, find the squeeze difficult and
uncomfortable; only the smaller and more slender of the group fit through the gap with ease.
For all, the feeling of discomfort at a level almost soul-deep becomes more
powerful as the Shrine itself is entered; even those most in control of, in
tune with, their bodies begin to feel short of breath and nauseated, and a
handful of those less physically adept gag, even vomit. The taint of the
Abyss is strong here, along with magics to strike disorientation and discomfort into those who'd enter without true darkness in their hearts, and
the gut-wrench of corruption only becomes more painful as the group travel
deeper into the caves.
As the last of the group make their way through the crawlspace opening, the
party find themselves gathered - uncomfortably, cramped together close - in
a larger cavern.
The walls are wet, and the air reeks of sea-salt and decay. There is an odd
sense of spatial distortion, of the walls closing in or becoming impossibly
far apart.
A feeling of mental discomfort, of spatial disorientation, strikes all, too,
a part of this wretched place; quick and clever castings with Mind and Space
magic by those who can protect themselves and others hold this back substantially, but an odd sense of disorientation and spatial 'wrongness' still remains, nagging at the senses.
For those using their skills with Matter and Space magic or their arcane
knowledge of such locations to analyze and observe the complex in which they
now stand, this temple, though corrupt, may hold fascination. It seems to
be carved out of the coastline itself, though reinforced long ago with magic.
To collapse these tunnels completely would likely bring down a substantial
part of the coastline above - or at least make it very unstable - where the
homes of Sleepers stand on the hills above. Better, then, to cause more
contained damage and fill the location than to cause such blatant destruction, to use cleansing magic to heal this site.
Those seeking to find such things out can tell much about this place; that
many have died here, over the years, and that powerful Death magic has been - and is today - a key part of this site. The remains of bodies, human and otherwise, are scattered through the tunnels ahead, and many have met their doom or destiny here.
The cavern is dark, but the party have thought well ahead and are well-equipped with lights; or with magic to see through dark tunnels and paths. Ahead, minds and magic can be sensed, the deep trance of long ritual; and the corrupt resonance of the Ark. Ahead, too, are the scuttering insect-patterns of those creatures the more knowledgeable might identify as Hunt-Spawn, chittering and brutal.
However, knowledge, as ever, comes at a price, and using Mind magic in particular to survey or investigate the site leads to a violent increase in
the feeling of mental discomfort the party's members are already experiencing, will make even the most self-assured mage feel vulnerable and
uneasy. Oddly, there are no ghosts here, nor are there spirits; the location seems void of these presences even in Twilight, perhaps deliberately so.
Scrutinizing the resonances of the Shrine is uncomfortable, due to the
powerful level of Abyssal taint, but the following qualities are strong and
pervasive; a sense of concealment, of loss, a strong sense of fear and greed, passion invested in this location, an over-riding feeling of blasphemy. This, then, is a corrupt temple, where Abyssal mages worshipped many centuries ago and do so again, today.
In the shine of torch-light, the true entrance to the Shrine can be seen at
the cavern's rear, where heavy rocks have been moved aside. Doc and Smith
beckon the others forward, whispering caution, towards a stone archway worn
with time and tides, carved with old runes spelling out a command to turn
back, turn away.
Castings of spells giving spatial awareness are quickly bolstered; and the
twisting labyrinth first spied beyond the archway resolves itself into one winding path Even with the spell laid into the doorway - perhaps to protect
the unwary traveler, because the runes here show no sign of Abyssal corruption - thus beaten, though, the journey onwards is still unpleasant for all.
The passage ahead is dark and wet, with smaller, inaccessible tunnels snaking off it, like the bore holes of innumerable floods. The smell of salt water is still strong, through the rock beneath the mages' feet becomes more smooth and dry as they venture in, and eventually becomes paved with fine sand, crumbled from the walls of the cave. The fragmented remains of dead things - perhaps human, perhaps not, but all very, very old - are scattered from time to time across the floor.
The walkway is narrow, fitting only one person of medium build, and again,
many of the group's mages find themselves uncomfortably cramped. The sounds
of the location are eerie, the silence that marked Smith and Doc's last trip
replaced by the hushed breathing of the party of mages behind them, the
distant chittering of insect-beings, the soft, almost dream-like chanting of
the Abyssal servants far ahead.
The group approach the first trap; all have now been briefed by Smith and Doc on how to surpass this, and the answer is remarkably simple. A simple Death enchantment to suspend life lies in the passage ahead, appearing to 'kill' any who step into it, and, of course, eventually perhaps doing so should they be unwary or alone by rotting their flesh to the bone.
As the group approach the trap, the walls become dry and rocky, with the remains of ancient carvings upon them. Perhaps the carvings on the walls were once runes, perhaps the shapes of nightmarish creatures; it's impossible to tell. The walls do appear to have been deliberately cut from the rock, and tunnels becoming created rather than natural.
Ahead of them lie the heavy pieces of a shattered door hewn from the rock,
the carvings on it fragmented but oddly untouched by age. The shattered door has a residual magical glow to it, and many can identify a very small amount of Thaumium threaded through the rock of the door, in an intricate and almost natural pattern; barely a few grams in total.
These carvings, if pieced together in any way, become quickly painful to behold, seeming to twist the eye and the mind horribly. Something deep and
abiding about them makes them almost blinding in a conventional sense, and
the runes are corrupt, the magical speech of the Abyss, but the meaning is
clear, as if burned into the Awakened observer's mind with needles and fire:
PASS NO FURTHER, FOR THE WAY IS BLOCKED TO THEE, UNWORTHY ONE.
LEAVE, BEFORE THE GODS STRIKE YOU FROM THE WORLD.
Beyond the door, the walls grow dark and close, and there is a ten-feet-long
passage littered with bones; this, then, is the first trap.
Mages are resourceful, as individuals and as a group, though, and a convenient and practical solution is soon created between the party, using
just a little Forces magic, and a rope and a tough inflatable life-raft from
the boat.
Doc and Kael, using the powerful physical gifts of their Legacy, leap across
and easily clear the cursed passage, momentum carrying their temporarily 'dead' bodies through before any damage can be done, the rope tied around Doc's waist and, at its other end, securely to the life-raft.
Weatherman, not a combat magician but more than skilled with Forces magic,
uses his gifts to smooth the friction between the ground and the raft, making it even easier for Doc and Kael to pull each individual across the passage quickly - and gentler on the raft's underside - in the raft, launching it asily back across for the next mage to get in until all are safely through. Luckily, the danger of Paradox doesn't strike him, this time, and for the two Perfected Adepts this is an easy task.
For the others, though, the experience is less pleasant, even though the
time they remain corpse-like for is only seconds. Those who haven't protected themselves with shields against magic find themselves injured by the journey through, slightly but painful; Talks-With-City, Emeritus, Ishtar, Demolitions, Ayr, August and Scooby all suffer unpleasant, suppurating wounds which seep with decay, even after their brief moments 'dead', but there are plenty of medics on hand to assist in healing their injuries.
Smith, Peace, Griffin and Doc Spartan are all more than able healers, and
see that none has to suffer their wounds for more than a few moments; and
then the party travel onwards, into the darkness.
At the cursed passage's end, the tunnel narrows once again to a tight, dank
crawlspace, and from the light of the party's torches - and by the magic sights some have active - the crumbling remains of images of debasement and
strange, blasphemous rituals can be seen carved into the walls. All the mages are forced to travel this passage on their hands and knees, some gagging at the scent of the filthy ground beneath them so close, thick with
excrement, unidentifiable as belonging to any mundane animal, neither mammal
or insect.
All begin to feel increasingly nauseous and uncomfortable, despite even the
strongest of magic protections, and each mage present has to draw on his
force of will to keep from succumbing to sickness and terror. This place is
not merely claustrophobic, not just trapped with mind and body affecting magics, but horribly tainted with the touch of the Abyss.
Emeritus lets out a sharp, panicked gasp; it's almost a yell, but Ayr, beside him, manages to silence her brother. The fear on his face is desperate, and for a moment, the line halts as Ayr seeks to comfort him, bolster his will.
The chittering of the insect-creatures, the soft drone of chanting ahead;
these things will haunt even the staunchest mind for nights to come; even since Doc and Smith's last visit here, this site has grown more tainted by
the Abyss, and today, as each Fate magician within the party knows, a point
of crux will be reached here. The future rests in the party's hands, and
this knowledge rests heavy in the hearts of Ishtar, Codex and Weatherman most of all.
Eventually, the tunnel widens into a larger chamber, with smoother walls and
a flat ceiling, above head height for all but the most unusually tall. The
area now appears to be more carefully shaped and designed, to be the anteroom to the Shrine's heart. Where the tunnels so far have been worked out of rock, the group find themselves now entering a constructed and decorated area, though the decoration is very worn with age.
The more academic of the group perhaps look around, take notes; though this
place is painful to observe for more than a few moments with an untainted
eye.
The walls of this chamber are patterned in black and white waves whose curves suggest runes - again, runes of Abyssal magic - but the shapes don't form anything that can be determined. Rather, after a moment of surveying their near-hypnotic patterns, both mages realize that the patterns are, in fact, a distraction, drawing the mind and eye away from the trap ahead.
Again, Smith and Doc have briefed the group on the trap ahead; the floor is
made up of square blocks, in thirteen neat rows that span the room. Every
second-then-third line of blocks, however, has a trigger mechanism beneath
it for the entire row, sensitive to footsteps.
Each time weight is placed on one of these trigger stone, a mechanism holding the ceiling slab in place is loosened a little; it will take ten triggers for the ceiling slab to come crashing down to crush the unwary. The floor creaks a little as the party make their careful way across, avoiding the trap, all crossing safely but slowly.
At the end of the room, there is another archway; again, this is sculpted
and decorated with what seems to be the remnants of corrupt runes. Those
who look ahead through the arch see that the room beyond is large, and seems
to have the remains of some kind of containment pens in it; fragments of bone, animal and human, are scattered around.
Some of these remains seem recent; the charred corpses of two insect-creatures lie at the chamber's far end, burned beyond even decay. This chamber smells strongly of decay and corruption, a strong, animalistic smell which seems to echo the chittering sound that grows ever closer; though a faint smell of gasoline - of flame-thrower fuel - is also present. And yet the sound of insect-chittering rises, ever more steadily, as if the beasts here have spawned time and time again.
The room is easily passed through, and narrows into a flight of stone steps
heading downwards, at the bottom of which a large, carved door waits. One
wall of the stairwell seems to bear a macabre decoration; something that looks, at first glance, like five small black stones set into the wall, as
if the fingertips of a spread hand. Examination reveals that these are
human bone, burnt and fossilized into the rock, long ago.
Further analysis reveals that within the wall, there are the partial remains
of a man; the charred and ancient bones of part of his skull, torso and one
arm. His position and localized disruptions in the rock indicate that he
was blasted here from standing at the door as intense heat destroyed him; perhaps a brutal Forces effect or a bomb of some kind.
It is impossible to tell exactly how long he has been here, but the bone
seems to be at least ten thousand years old. Even the remaining bone is
shot through with tiny holes, as if the blast was incredibly powerful; and
indeed, a strong Forces spell lies ahead, along with Space magic.
At the bottom of the steps, the large, carved door stands, hewn from heavy
rock. It seems sealed into the stone arch in which it stands, but in the
center is a carved shield, with the faint impression of a human left hand
upon it.
The door resonates with powerful magic; an ancient Space Ward and Ban, and a
strong Forces spell to attack any who attempt to break through. It seems that the magics cannot be dispelled without many hours work, but a way through has already been prepared, and Doc and Smith have briefed the team
on this.
To open the door, a visitor must place their left hand in the carved shape
on the door; doing so will allow the door to open, giving access to the
final chamber beyond, allowing the Shrine to accept the visitor as a Nameless Acolyte. An easy way in, then, should the visiting mage wish to become in any way an Abyssal servant, but none present would ever choose to walk that cursed path.
Instead, a false hand has been prepared, created from dead bone and sculpted
in a Demesne by Smith into a left hand to open the door with; no traps or
warnings will be triggered this way, he explains, and no harm done to the soul of any here to fight.
But all here are readied, too, for the battle to begin, here; Doc and Smith's
briefing - and the visions and predictions of those Fate and Times mages in
the party, just as valuable - has prepared them all for the deadly entities
that wait ahead, and, indeed, as the door groans open, the soft chant of the
Hollow Men ahead, still deep in ritual, echoes.
For those here who have, before, experienced the Hollow Men's dark song - in
visions, in dreams - who have heard the twisted tongue of the Abyssal towers
calling, sleep will not come easy for a good while; many of even the bravest
mages gathered, making their way to the complex's heart, shudder, pull their
clothes tights around them against a chill soul-deep.
The sound of insect-chittering and the stink of shit and rot grows stronger,
the taint of Abyss and the sickening ache in their minds and bodies becoming
increasingly hard to bear for even these strong men and women.
Ahead of them, a short and narrow corridor snakes forwards, with walls of
black stone. A final trap - a path of Abyssal servitude, of kinds - lies
ahead, and all, too, have been made aware of this.
At each turn of the narrow passage, there is a life-sized carving of a man
on the wall, worn with age but not so badly as to be beyond definition. At
the first turn, the man, robed, is bowing.
There are slots in the walls here at upper chest height visible with a little examination and caution; the floor before the carving is a trip mechanism. Should a less wary traveler step on this section of floor and not bow, they will be rewarded with two blades in their upper chest.
One by one - reluctantly, but knowing that to break or stop the mechanism
will give warning of their approach - the party of mages bow, pass through
this trap unharmed and journey on.
At the second turn, the wall bears an image is of a man crawling, on his hands and knees, and just beyond it lies another trap, like the one before,
only with the blades positioned appropriately lower.
Crawling, fighting back nausea as they approach the central chamber, the train of mages pass through safely, come to the final trap. Now the reek of
the Abyss is undeniable, and many are retching; but the battle must go on.
At the third and last turn, the man portrayed is lying flat, and there is a
trap again, with blades positioned at a level only those belly-crawling can
avoid triggering. Nameless supplicants, then, seem to have been forced to
crawl flat into their temple; to degrade themselves utterly before the Abyss.
Crawling flat not in supplication or debasement but so that they might all
stand proud against the darkness, the party pass through this final trap carefully, the largest of them squeezing tight their bodies against the cold
floor.
The first to reach an arm through, Doc, throws in a grenade, and a flat bang
echoes out in the darkness; the rest of the party behind him are strobed, for a moment, in the fragmented light.
Insect screams, and the stench of burning carapace and bug-flesh, and all
wait. At last, the clamor dies down, and silence is ahead; and the party
proceed. But the chanting of the Hollow Men still echoes, echoes, though
even the first to enter the last chamber see none in sight.
Peace follows Doc in, with the frontline of the Arrow - Smith, Griffin,
Demolitions, Kael, Lathe - while the others of the party wait behind, combat-sharp before the passage's last trap. For a moment, the little group of warrior-mages is silent, stands cautiously in the final chamber, in a mess of insect-remains and acrid blood, weapons at the ready. Areas of unnatural shadow shift at the chamber's edges, from which a unearthly chittering sound still emanates, louder and louder.
Peace gives the nod, knows this is the moment, just as a swarm of awful, bug-like creatures burst forth from the dark corners that don't seem quite like corners at all, surrounding the gathered mages - but the party are ready, with flamethrowers, with guns. The creatures snarl savagely as they attack, six-limbed and chitinous, skittering and jumping, bodies sectioned like a mantis of horrible size.
Their carapaces are barbed and brutal, and to fight them close without great
skill is to be torn to shreds - not just by the barbs of their shell but by the vicious scything front limbs and mandible jaws that exist to rend and
devour their prey.
For those with Mind magic active, the hunger in these creatures, unceasing,
is tangible, horrifying; they exist, breed, only to devour all in their path.
The Arrow act more than fast, most at preternatural speed; flamethrowers blaze, and gunshots ring out. The dark room becomes a frenzy of blood and
insect ichors, and spells are fired off with passion and fury; the light of
Demolitions' Nimbus filling the chamber for just a moment with the unbridled
awe of primal fire, as Forces magic shreds attacking claws.
Peace seems a very different man, in the heart of this battle, rifle raised,
his movements fluid and powerful; Smith's flamethrower blazes, rends monster
into corpse. Kael works skillfully, lethally, managing what only a select
few could; to fight the Hunt-Spawn with brutally elegant martial moves,
without being torn apart himself.
Lathe fights with a dancer's grace, praying softly even as her sword flashes
and slices; beside her, Doc wields not, for once, his staff but a flamethrower, just like Smith's, burning beyond repair the bug-creatures
that seek to devour, to destroy.
The fight is furious, yet somehow the actions of this group of Awakened are
touched with beauty; these are skilled warriors, fluid and elegant in their
action.
Griffin's gun flashes bright, and he moves fast, gracefully but insect jaws
tear into him, and he falls to the ground. Smith drops his flamethrower,
the tank done, and quickly unsheathes his sword, drives the blade through
the skull of the creature about to devour, pulls the younger man away from
the clamor of beasts.
And, at last, it is over. The seven Arrow are left in the bloodied chamber,
the hot scent of burning blood and insect-meat all around, charring bug-bodies surrounding them. All are bloodied, but their wounds are only
minor, save Griffin's; Doc kneels to heal him, and after a few moments, he
rises, with a shaky smile.
The insect-sound is gone; even the darkest corners hide no secrets. And, at
last, the rest of the mages who have come to fight here today make their way
through into the room. All reach the last room unharmed, but there is no
time yet for satisfaction.
Instead, there are soft murmurs of concern, as bloodied friends are seen,
and caution still reigns, here; those who know destiny's paths are aware
that the fight is far from over, yet.
Because. All the time, the soft echo of the Hollow Men's chant, of the words that have brought horror and darkness not just to Britannia but to the Fallen World itself, goes on, somehow just out of reach, a skin-crawling shadow of a song.
The gathered mages survey the room around them; a darkly elegant chamber with black and white rock walls, an almost beautiful abattoir. The carvings here are strangely and startlingly beautiful, though twisted and corrupt; scenes of violence and sacrifice, of decadence and depravity, rendered with great talent.
The room has the feel of a corrupt church; fairly spacious, but empty, a
ceremonial gathering place, with the remains of black iron scones on the walls. The altar at the far end is obscured once more, by a rune-woven golden curtain, now ragged and bloodied.
On the walls, carved words and sigils seem to resolve themselves in an Abyssal corruption of High Speech; the blood-splattered floor is tiled in black and white, creating mesmerizing but senseless patterns, hard not to look at without exerting one's force of will. The walls are oddly plain, lines of black and white stone now streaked with smoke and carrion.
The pool of blood where Idris died, by the altar, is lost in the carnage, now. The mages ready themselves for action, once again; and the air shifts somehow, like storm-static, and something changes. Not magic, but something like it, something dark and so very wrong.
Suddenly the curtain is pulled back, from behind. A single figure stands behind the altar, behind the glistening, slick box that now once again holds
its place; the Ark of the Damned. The man - or perhaps it was once a man,
or once a woman, now near-featureless with bottomless black eyes, it is impossible to tell - raises a hand, as if to cast.
Scooby, Talks-With-City and Ishtar all react quickly, ready to counter the Hollow Man's spell; Peace shoots, an easy, fluid motion, and the Hollow Man
drops, head coming apart. Blood sprays, across the altar, across the Ark, and the echo-song stops, dead.
Time seems to stand still for an instant. All is silent, the awful calm at
a hurricane's eye, the stun-shock after a bomb blast.
And the Ark - or perhaps the world around it - unfolds, in a screaming void-spiral; souls trapped for decades, centuries tear out into the world in a howl and dissolve into the dark, and then, the churning begins, like the
wet, raw cogs of the world coming apart, like the chatter of a million insane minds. And where the Ark stood, a hole black-blossoms and grows outwards, into a place that is no place, where there is no reason save the clamor of emptiness, and no sense but nonsense.
The Abyss is opening. All around, the minds of the gathered mages fill with
horror, with madness. But from the back of the chamber, a quiet voice speaks, the voice of a man who walks worlds within worlds.
Talks-With-City chants softly, his hands raised, no weapon in them. Reality
seems to shudder, twist, and for a moment, nothing is certain; all present feel a sense of being watched, but by countless small and curious eyes, and
a chittering and soft claw-scratching rises, the sound of rats in the walls.
There's the sight-out-of-sight of dark little bodies moving, the musty scent
of abandoned buildings claimed by the city's wild; and the Verge snaps closed, back in on itself. Is gone, with the Hollow Men's song, with the insect-whine of the void.
Ishtar, Codex, Weatherman speak, almost in unison, because they know. It's
over. This battle, for Britannia, is over, for now, and this wretched place, though sick with the taint of the Abyss, will never see dark ceremony again.
It's over. And it's time for the cleansing to begin.
As the realization spreads, weapons are downed. The Prime mages within the
group - Talks-With-City, Scooby, Ishtar, Lathe - work together to cleanse the taint from the site, to banish the traces of the Hollow Men and the darkness so long served here from this place, while the rest protect them, just in case.
They do their job, and do it well; by late in the evening, the site is clean, feels clear. And while they work, Demolitions sets up a careful array of charges around the chambers and tunnels, designed to collapse the temple in on itself, without damaging or risking the area around. This is his area of expertise, and by morning, this site will be rubble-blocked and forever destroyed.
He works cheerfully, humming to himself, as he sets the charges; from time
to time, Codex walks with him, pointing areas of Abyssal script for particular destruction. All seem determined that the Nameless and their distant kin will never rise up again, here.
All evacuate the Shrine safely; from the boat, as the sun begins to rise, Demolitions triggers the charges - 'Fire in the hole!' - with his smile wide.
None see the ancient stones shatter and fall within the tunnels, but there's
a white-topped wave-surge and a dull boom, and the boat bobs gently on the
morning sea.
Everyone has survived, and the sun is shining. The end of winter, then, at last.
Nightmares will come later, but, for now? This battle's over.
It's going to be a lovely day.
In the days and weeks following the op, D didn't sleep much. He knew why - you couldn't go through what he'd just been through without any side effects or backlash, but the knowledge that the enemy no longer had a holy site and would never be able to use it again sustained him. The op was a success. Nobody died except the enemy.
Those moments were to be savoured and remembered whenever they happened.