[Geist] - Ashes to Ashes
Blood and incense in an immaterial cave; the smoke fills the small, stifling space, and the blood which falls on the brass is mine.
Ghosts howl around me, some hungry, some angry, but they all hang back.
I begin the chant.
Melt, beat; draw the brass into a bar, almost as thin as a wire.
The Krewe is gone, but I call on the four who guide anyway.
I found him, at last, six months ago. Phoenix was the key, of course; necromantic services to the organised criminal fraternity is a specialised field and there was a good chance he would know who might bind a ghost for profit.
"I call upon The Saint of the Streets! Watch over this soul, weak from imprisonment, that she might grow strong once more."
He came home to find me waiting, but showed no fear. He drew a blade from within his walking stick.
"I call upon the White Lady! Guide this soul and light her way, that she might not be lost to the darkness."
I parried a thrust, the steel of my cutlass sparked on the steel of his foil.
"I call upon the Serpent Woman! Judge this soul and show her mercy, for she has suffered."
In the time I had been there, I had more than enough time to fill the building with gas from his cooker.
"I call upon the Angel of Death! Blind your eyes to this soul and grant her wings, that she might leave behind her pain."
Untouched by the flames, I watch him burn, the necromancer for hire.
I reach out with the hand of the Angel and pull the ghost from the brass disc of the Amulet.
Iron, carburised with cremation ash; a steel to equal any of Damascus or Toledo. Brass, fashioned from the pendant.
"Sol," she says softly.
"Rain," I reply, but I don't hesitate. This is all that is left of Theresa Kemp, my murdered bride-to-be, and she will not spend a moment more in this hellish place than she must.
Twisted together, beaten and welded, the individual rods become a single blade.
I ring the bells, Saraneth and Astarael, the one to bind me down, the other to send her on. I think I see a smile as she passes beyond this harsh world into the next, the unknown.
I hope that I will see her again one day, when I am beyond days.
I name the sword Sepulchre. It's mottled blade seems to ripple in the light, like sun on the pavement after the rain.
Ghosts howl around me, some hungry, some angry, but they all hang back.
I begin the chant.
Melt, beat; draw the brass into a bar, almost as thin as a wire.
The Krewe is gone, but I call on the four who guide anyway.
I found him, at last, six months ago. Phoenix was the key, of course; necromantic services to the organised criminal fraternity is a specialised field and there was a good chance he would know who might bind a ghost for profit.
"I call upon The Saint of the Streets! Watch over this soul, weak from imprisonment, that she might grow strong once more."
He came home to find me waiting, but showed no fear. He drew a blade from within his walking stick.
"I call upon the White Lady! Guide this soul and light her way, that she might not be lost to the darkness."
I parried a thrust, the steel of my cutlass sparked on the steel of his foil.
"I call upon the Serpent Woman! Judge this soul and show her mercy, for she has suffered."
In the time I had been there, I had more than enough time to fill the building with gas from his cooker.
"I call upon the Angel of Death! Blind your eyes to this soul and grant her wings, that she might leave behind her pain."
Untouched by the flames, I watch him burn, the necromancer for hire.
I reach out with the hand of the Angel and pull the ghost from the brass disc of the Amulet.
Iron, carburised with cremation ash; a steel to equal any of Damascus or Toledo. Brass, fashioned from the pendant.
"Sol," she says softly.
"Rain," I reply, but I don't hesitate. This is all that is left of Theresa Kemp, my murdered bride-to-be, and she will not spend a moment more in this hellish place than she must.
Twisted together, beaten and welded, the individual rods become a single blade.
I ring the bells, Saraneth and Astarael, the one to bind me down, the other to send her on. I think I see a smile as she passes beyond this harsh world into the next, the unknown.
I hope that I will see her again one day, when I am beyond days.
I name the sword Sepulchre. It's mottled blade seems to ripple in the light, like sun on the pavement after the rain.