The Cult of the True Prophecy

Part 1: Archal's Folly

For steadfast loyalists of Necrucifer, a number of omens fortold the hopelessness of their god's return.  Carrionmaw devoured the last remnants of Necrucifer, and was reborn, the umbral progenitor, Drakkara's Draco Dei.  Symantha was uplifted as Drakkara's High Priestess.  The Sanctum of the Shadowknights was severed from the abyss, and floated upon the umbratide.  New, umbral magics were unleashed through the sanctum, some of them gifted to all the dark to use.  Drakkara was ascendant, and the time for dissidence had passed.  Most holdouts took Drakkara's mark, and even today new ones emerge from the wilderness to accept Her ways.  Some consigned themselves to oblivion alongside their erstwhile master.

A desperate few took to desperate acts.

Cut off from the Sanctum, in denial about the umbratide which rose around them, they lashed out in futile anger, murdering guards, Petitioners, and Aspirants of Storm Keep.  In blood they left their mark, the symbol of Necrucifer, the phrase "Necrucifer lives!"  In quiet fury, High Mystic Archal Kayen and Field Marshal Maccus Kesepton conducted a series of raids upon these cultists.  Find, fix, finish, exploit, analyze, disseminate.  Legion Knights and Shadowmages tore through cultist ranks, determining along the way that these cultists were not embroiled with the Warp, saboteurs bent on sowing chaos, but angry Shadowknights unwilling to accept the failings of their dead god, or of their own.

A plan was devised to tempt the cultists into a trap, one it was believed would prove too tempting for any of the cult to miss.  Even their leadership would be present, for a chance to exact their revenge on those who embody Drakkara's ascendency:  The High Priestess and the Draco Dei.  The event stalled.  The bait went stale.  The cult, already diminished, slowed its activities.  After some time, reviewing troves of intelligence gathered from the various camps and hovels where hidden cultists had scratched out their continued existence, a sharp analyst pieced together disparate parts of a single ritual.  Perhaps the true leadership of the "true" prophecy would be revealed.

By now, the Field Marshal had retired, but a particular Supplicant of the Legion was  showing promise, and needed testing.  Ostrim "Bearhide" was tasked with preparing the ritual, and leading a cadre of fellow Supplicants and Dark Knights, did so effectively.  The High Mystic, however, conducted the ritual early, alone, in pursuit of personal power, and with the aim of testing Bearhide's reactions in a crisis - manufactured, or so Archal thought...

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[ 87] Archal: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Ritual of the Apostate

Tue May 20 19:07:18 2025

To: all Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )

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Archal would do the ritual himself.  Confront Apostus, himself.  There is

too much to learn, too much to be gained, he couldn't wait and couldn't ask

the demon what he needed to know with others present.  With Bearhide

present.  His heart raced in anticipation.  

He scribbled off a note for Ostrim and instructed one of his assistants to

see that the Supplicant found it.  The Supplicant was his second in all

matters pertaining to this ritual, and if this did not go well..  

He gathered the materials he had stashed away himself, what he interpreted

from the ritual instructions.  Words from the Demon Lord echoed in his mind.

"We shall see how the outcome serves you.  Or me.  " 

It was nearly 3am when Archal strode into Dnoutrar's throne room.  The Lord

of Hunger lounged across his throne, and glared balefully at the High

Mystic's approach.  The demon was clad in his characteristic vest and shield

of black bone, his sword leaning precariously against the throne.  

Archal acknowledged Dnoutrar only by returning his gaze, before donning the

ritual garb, discerned from intelligence pieced together by the Gray Robes,

intelligence that had been gleaned from the various hovels and hideaways of

the cultists of the so-called true prophecy, as they had raided each in

turn.  

The Crown of Evil, from this very temple.  The weight of it seemed to crush

his temples.  The unholy robes, from the High Priest of Hell, and his

hellstone.  Archal felt himself warming from the inside.  A black dragon's

eye, whose umbral light would be too much to bear for any of the untrue

faiths.  The dagger of dark enchantment, which vibrated in his hand, humming

with potency.  

3:00am.  Archal spoke into the darkness.  

Overlooked and underappreciated,  the hellstone in his hand grew hot.  

Cast me from the priestly nation.   So hot it was glowing.  

Drag me below, enslave me in fire,  the hellstone burning openly now in his

hand, searing his flesh.  

Archal thrust the dagger of dark enchantment forward as he began the next

line, and the air in front of him resisting, then flaring, tearing a hole. 

Open the door 

He carved the pentagram, a glowing wake of fire behind the blade.  To

Necrucifer's ire!   He encircled the pentagram, creating the pentangle, and

it it flared brightly, along with the hellstone still burning his hand. 

Both disappeared, leaving a gaping black doorway in front of him.  

He stepped through. 

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[ 88] Archal: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Entering the Basilica of Apostus

Tue May 20 19:09:32 2025

To: to all Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )

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Archal was hit with an unmistakably sulphuric blast of hot air.  He shed

the vestments of the ritual.  A facade of cinnabar stone, reddish brown,

towered above him to the west, if he could trust his orientation.  To the

east, behind him, a trail wound away and upwards through rock much the same

as the facade, lit by a magmatic glow which permeated the area from below. 

Enormous curved doors of ebony swung out towards him, and he entered what

appeared to be the narthex of some unholy basilica.  

He found himself inside a low vaulted narthex and surrounded by whispers,

though he saw nothing to explain their issue, nor could he make our their

words.  Their sibilance reminded him of more words from the Demon Lord. 

Naamitsa had hissed at him.  "You have much to learn of souls, mortalkin. 

They are currency within the Abyss, power that gives one rise, such as I. "

Feed me,  the thought entered Archal's mind.  He felt it coming from the

west, and crossed the narthex into the nave.  Great cinnabar columns rose in

rows in front of him.  The nave was short, squat, the transcepts close

ahead.  The basilica seemed empty.  Archal proceeded.  

FEED ME.  The thought returned, demanding now.  Stronger.  Archal approached

the choir now.  It was long, and empty, and the whispers were louder here,

the echos of an unholy chorus.  At the far end of the long choir was the

altar in the apse.  Archal could see nobody, but he could feel the demon

there, his manatonic mind searching and feeling for his presence- 

And then Archal was standing in the apse.  He had no memory of walking

there.  Behind the altar was a figure of melted flesh, a hideously distorted

face glistening and slick.  ARCHAL KAYEN, YOU WERE HIS, the thoughts came

into his mind, invaded his mind, and he tried to shut them out but could

not.  NOW YOU WILL BE MINE.  FEED ME.   

Archal wrested his thoughts away from Apostus, the demon's psychic screaming

nearly overwhelming.  He felt the thing's hunger, intense hunger, and batted

it down, swatted it away.  "I am not yours, demon",  Archal hissed through

clenched teeth. "I am not His any longer.  She-" 

YES YOU ARE.  YOU ARE HIS.  THE TATTERED ENDS OF YOUR SOUL STILL CRY OUT FOR

HIM.  FEED ME.   

"The /tattered ends/",  Archal spat, dangled after the failed god for years. 

"Drakkara claimed them, and you have no po-" Archal stopped short, for he had

been unconsciously advancing on the blob of face-flesh in his aggression,

and found himself bound instead.   

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[ 89] Archal: The Cult of the True Prophecy: The point of no return

Tue May 20 19:10:53 2025

To: all Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )

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YES I DO.  YOU WERE OF HIM.  I FEED ON HIS FAITH.  WHY ELSE DID YOU COME?

FEED ME.   

Archal gulped air as he regained control of his body.  Naamitsa's words

flooded his memory again, words that followed his promise of caution.  "Wise

and efficient, if you are of stronger mortal mind and actually heed the

words. " 

"I came to learn your secrets, Apostus.  Tell me.  How did you ascend into

His service?  How did you earn your transformation?" 

The sibilant sounds seared his ears as Apostus hissed and gurgled with

laughter, psychic and real, and the absent chorus of whispers joined him. 

YOU SPOKE THE WORDS TO GET HERE, KAYEN.  DON'T YOU SEE?   

Archal didn't, and he knew the demon could sense his answer.  The demon was

still in his head.  I DID NOT ASCEND, YOU FOOLISH MORTAL.  I DID NOT RISE TO

HIS SERVICE.  I FELL INTO HIS SERVITUDE.   More hissing and splashing as the

decaying head of Apostus laughed mirthlessly.  NOW I MUST FEED UPON THE

REMAINS OF HIS SERVANTS 

Archal felt something then, as Apostus uncoiled himself within Archal's

mind.  Tendrils wrapped themselves around his thoughts and being.  A sucking

feeling gnawed at the edges of his soul.  He began to walk back towards the

narthex, but it was not him.  His mind was screaming but his body no longer

obeyed.  His mind recoiled in impotence, in horror.  FEED ME his voice

croaked.  Just inside the nave, Archal sat at a pew, his back towards the

narthex of Apostus' unholy basilica.  A moist blob of face-flesh covered his

head.  

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[ 90] Ezrianne: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Questions (I)

Tue May 20 19:45:49 2025

To: all Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )

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Ezrianne had heard the High Mystic speak a hundred times.  His voice

always held a calm tenor, layered with command, with purpose, with an

unshakable calm that made it easy to follow his orders.  

But this time - this time was different.  

Archal clans 'FEED ME'

Maccus looked up from the missive in his hand, his brow furrowing.  Ezri

caught his eye, the unspoken question already passing between them.  She

closed her journal slowly, hesitating.  

The voice was Archal's.  It sounded like the High Mystic.  But it was wrong.

Beneath the familiar cadence, something else had taken root.  Not a voice,

not truly - more a rasping slither, too thin, too slick.  It didn't speak; it

invaded, like bone dragged across slate.  It curled through her ears and

coiled at the base of her skull, sending a shiver through her.  

Ezrianne clans 'High Mystic? '

No answer.  No clarification.  No jest.  Only silence.  

Maccus lowered the missive without a word, his head tilting like a hound

catching a sound no human could hear.  The firelight threw golden bars

across his giant form as he took a step toward her.  

But Ezri was already gone. 

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[ 91] Ezrianne: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Questions (II)

Tue May 20 19:57:37 2025

To: all Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )

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Ezrianne bolted from the desert, racing for the Keep, shouldering through

the Thalosian market crowds with no apology.  

She passed through the arched gates with her jaw clenched and fingers

flexing at her sides.  The guards saluted; she barely registered them. 

Something was wrong.  Subtly, maddeningly wrong - like a tapestry hung

askew, like a spell missing a single syllable.  

The itch crawled across her senses, something tapping past the limits of her

humanity - stirring the draconic perception buried deep beneath, where

ancient instinct and ageless wisdom coiled in waiting.  

Bootsteps echoed as she strode deeper - past the hearth, the armory, the

shined marble staircase she'd mopped this morning.  

Nothing appeared out of place in the first three rooms she checked, the most

obvious places she could think of to find him.  And yet, the air felt too

still.  Heavy.  Unmoving.  

Down the corridor in the library, a few Petitioners lingered, murmuring over

books.  She scanned their faces - carefully checking for anything off.  

'The High Mystic.  Where is he?  '

Someone looked up.  'Haven't seen him today, Supplicant.  '

Ezri nodded once, but the knot in her chest pulled tighter.  She turned

sharply toward the High Mystic's office.  

Her hand hovered on the latch, and she opened it without knocking.  The door

creaked.  

Inside, the office was still.  No incense.  No flicker of candlelight.  No

scent of sage, vellum, or ink.  Just stale air, thick as wool - like a tomb

sealed too long.  Her eyes swept the room with practiced precision.  But

there was nothing.  No sign.  No trace.  

There was nothing left to find, so she started back home, to fill Maccus in. 

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[104] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: The Ritual I

Thu May 29 09:38:23 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )

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ONE MONTH AGO

'Get to the portal and don't look back!  ' yelled Ostrim as the crew of

Shadow soldiers ran towards the umbral ring which allowed their escape from

the Abyss.  Ezrianne held in her hands a robe stitched with infernal runes

that had not been given freely.  In fact, it was the reason why the denizens

of Hades were behind them, let loose by the High Priest.  Stewart had the

front, weapons clanking as he ran, his role was to get people through. 

Ostrim, since this was his first command, held the rear.  Taeborlin, his

breath ragged, was between Ezrianne and Ostrim.  

A demonic claw swiped at Ostrim's cloak but didn't find purchase.  With a

wild yell, Ostrim slashed out with his blade taking flesh and viscera with

it.  Turning back, he saw Stewart breach the portal and reach a hand out to

Ezrianne.  Grasping it, she was pulled through.  However, the terrain of

Hades is rocky and bleak.  Taeborlin fell prey to it's jagged stone and

tripped right in front of Ostrim.  With a cry, 'Stewart, get him in!  '. 

Ostrim sheathed his Kayen blade and unstrapped the Jovir sword from his back

as he stood in front of the prone warlock.  

'Alright ya gits, let's see wot ya got!  ', challenged the barbarian as the

flames and dark energy pulsed from the giant's blade.  Two demons launched

themselves and were cut down quickly.  Stewart, having gotten Ezrianne

inside, assisted Taeborlin across the breach.  As the armsman reached out a

hand, the ground began to tremble.  The lesser demons moved aside as a large

one horned monstrosity bellowed a challenge and stomped its way for the

gate.  

'Bloody 'ell.  '

'Stewart we good?  '

'Almost, sir!  '

The demon was picking up speed and lowered its horn down like a charging

rhino.  

'Uh, lad....  '

Silence from behind him.  

'STEWART!  WE GOOD?!  '

The demon roared as Ostrim decided perhaps this is where he died.  At least

the hellstone and robes were in Archal's possession.  As he prepared for the

blow to come, a chain whip lashed out around his waist.  With a sudden pull,

Ostrim was off his feet and rocketed through the portal.  

'NOW!  ' yelled Stewart as Taeborlin closed the umbral portal.  In the

chamber of rest, Stewart, Ostrim, and Ezrianne laid on the ground having

just yanked their commanding officer to safety.  

'Roight, I'm just going to lay here a moment.  '  

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[105] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: The Ritual II

Fri May 30 15:52:47 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )

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SEVERAL WEEKS AGO

"Now, do not speak unless addressed by the Enchantress. She can be

unpredictable at times.  Keep your composure in the face of any questions or

comments.  She has been known to test her guests.  I will lead this

discussion so all you need do is carry the container and keep it secured. 

Understood, Supplicant?  ' asked the High Mystic.  

Ostrim nodded as he held an iron strongbox.  The gates to the Enchantress'

tower were made of a metal he could not identify.  They glittered in the

Tropica sun with frames that twisted and turned like vines.  Behind them

were a cadre of guards dressed in red and black robes.  Surrounding Ostrim

were four shadow mages, hoods covering their heads and faces with hands

folded into the arms of their robes.  They neither made a sound nor seemed

to suffer in the heat.  

A guard dressed in plate exited the basalt tower and made their way to the

gate nodding to the guards as he passed by.  He took out a silver key and

unlocked and opened the gates.  

'High Mystic Kayen, the Enchantress welcomes you to her abode and requests

that you ascend the stairs up to her private chambers above.  Your soldiers

can wait below with the other guests.  '

'With all due respect to the Lady, my soldiers are carrying an item that she

requested and must remain with me.  I can assure the Enchantress that they

will pose no problems and will keep to themselves.  ' responded Archal, his

gray eyes impassive and cold as they took in the guard.  

There was a moment of hesitation and then it seemed the guard was listening

to something far away.  With a nod to himself, he returned to the group.  

'Of course, your soldiers may enter as well.  '

With a bow from the guard, the Knights ascended the tower.  Archal led the

soldiers up the stairs, two shadow mages behind him, then Ostrim, and then

the other two.  Ostrim carried the square iron box before him at all times

as instructed.  The guard lead them to the top of the tower and an iron

bound oak door.  Warding glyphs outlined the doorframe and pulsed with red

and purple energy.  

The guard knocked twice upon the door and it opened slowly and silently.  On

the other side was the Enchantress' salon.  The Lady of the tower stood on

the other side in robes of purple and black, violet eyes glittering at the

Knights with interest.  

'Lady, I introduce the High Mystic of Storm Keep, Archal Kayen and his

knights.  ' bowed the guard.  

'How delightful, on time and I see with a gift as discussed.  I do so love

this new phase of our relations after your God's fall.  Such a happy family

are we.  Do come in.  ' and the Enchantress motioned for Archal to enter.  

'Please leave the box by my desk and then I believe the High Mystic and I

have things to discuss in private.  ' 

Archal nodded to Ostrim who placed the ironbox down, 'Supplicant, wait

outside for me.  '

Ostrim exited the room as the guard closed the door, keeping the Enchantress

and Archa's conversation a mystery.  

The five soldiers and the guard waited several minutes until nearly half an

hour has passed before the door opened again.  

'So lovely to see you again, High Mystic.  I do hope this is a sign of more

visits to come.  ' grinned the Enchantress with perfect white teeth.  

Archal tiped his head in respect and now carried a silver gilded box under

his arm.  

'A pleasure, Lady.  The Knights of Storm Keep thank you for your hospitality

and dedication to the cause of Drakkara.  ' Archal proceeded to turn and

walk down the stairs without comment.  The five other soldiers took

formation up around him.  

Ostrim sensed that this was not a time to ask what happened but wondered how

Archal was doing.  A crack broke through the High Mystics normally stern

visage showing a hint of concern with what had occurred.  Perhaps a

conversation for another time.   

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[106] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: The Ritual III

Fri May 30 16:26:41 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )

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TWO DAYS AGO: STORM KEEP LIBRARY

Archal Kayen had laid out all the items they had gathered over the last

month.  Hellstones, infernal robes, dragon eyes, daggers, and a crown were

the keys to the upcoming ritual.  Ostrim stood beside him as they looked

over their trove.  

'All is prepared Supplicant.  As discussed, you will be my second if

anything goes wrong.  My research into the cult has paid dividends as I now

have the chant required to open the portal.  Apostus and his machinations

will be ended soon.  The ritual must take place within the ancient Temple of

Evil, that I have also deduced.  Prepare yourself well, Ostrim.  The time

has come to rid ourselves of this cult.  ' 

'Ser, are you sure you wish me to be your second?  Perhaps another of the

Keep?  A Knight of the Sanctum?  Surely they offer more than I?  ' inquired

the Supplicant.  

'My orders are not to be questioned, Supplicant.  My second you will be.  Do

as I have stated, clad yourself in Her relics.  Your faith will be your

salvation.  Rest now.  ' and with that, Archal wrapped up the items in a

velvet cloth and left the library.  

Ostrim watched the High Mystic leave but something nagged at the back of his

mind.  

THIS MORNING

'Supplicant Bearhide!  Wake up!  ' yelled the sergeant.  

'By the Empress, wot the 'ell is it?  ' replied Ostrim as he cleared his

eyes.  

'Letter from the High Mystic.  ' responded the sergeant as he handed over

the vellum letter and left.  

Ostrim picked up the letter and read it, then widened his eyes as he read it

again.  He got dressed quickly and shoved the note into his pocket.  It was

at this moment that a cry rang out.  

'FEED ME' was the bloated voice of the High Mystic.  

Ostrim froze in place.  Other soldiers buzzed about thinking perhaps it was

some new shadow mage experiment.  Gathering his equipment he ventured to the

High Mystic's quarters.  He knew what he would find but he went anyway.  As

he did, he passed Ezrianne in the hallway.  The door was open, the room

undisturbed.  Ostrim pulled the paper out of his pocket.  

'Bearhide, 

I could not wait.  I am going to attempt the ritual, get a sense of what's

in store for us, and then I'll await you in Dnoutrar's throne room to face

it with you.  Details of the ritual are below, so you can follow me if I

lose track of time inside.  Clad yourself in your faith, Bearhide, it's time

to reckon with the past.  

-AK

-don the eye, crown, robes 

-grip the hellstone in one hand, the dagger in your other

-speak the words of the ritual

-carve the pentangle in the air in front of you while speaking the final

line.

"Overlooked and underappreciated

Cast me from the priestly nation.

Drag me below, enslave me in fire,

Open the door to Necrucifer's ire!"'

The Dark Lord needed to know what happened. 

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[116] Ithelim: Cult of the True Prophecy: Experimental Forms

Sat Jun  7 10:10:18 2025

To: Shadow All Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm )

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Ithelim stood once again in his Umbral Solarium, lips pulled back into a

thin smile.  Once more he would be able to experiment with the Umbra's

influence on the Material realm.  Beside him Eustace stood, waiting

patiently with a pair of delicate pruners.  

'We will need a large amount of the ink.  I think half of...  Everything, my

good sir.  '

Eustace looked up at Ithelim for a moment and raised an eyebrow, 'Sir... 

Are you sure?  '

Ithelim nodded.  "This will be more than just making a single tether.  Three

will be going in to obtain a fourth.  I just hope that the amount is enough.

Make sure you bring me the petals after you're done.  I will be in the

library with our guest.  '

Eustace nodded and turned to the precious flowers, and with a brief 'Yes,

sir.  Consider it done.  ', began the delicate process of removing the

petals from their stems, one flower at a time.  

Leaving the Solarium, Ithelim walked through the dining room and into the

kitchens where a large pig slowly turned on a spit over a fire.  Martha was

at the counter covered lightly in flour as she kneaded the dough for breads.

"G'day, sir.  Dinner's coming along for your guest.  So no worries here',

she said through a genuine smile.  

Ithelim nodded his acknowledgement, eyes lingering on the spitted pig for a

moment before turning back to the dining room where more servants were

setting the table for the future dinner and making sure that everything was

polished to perfection.  As he headed to the foyer his head butler, Claude,

appeared almost as a shadow.  

'Everything is on track for tonight.  The library is set up for your

experiments once more.  Though I might ask sir, do we need to remove the

stones from the relief?  ' he asked as he matched Ithelim's pace.  

'Just the one.  They were put there as an emergency and rescuing the High

Mystic is an emergency if there is one.  I blame myself for taking my rest

for so long and not warning them of the implications of entering the Umbra

without a tether.  '

'No need to blame yourself.  Mortal's like to mess with things they cannot

begin to understand.  Sir.  '

Giving a small chuckle Ithelim reached the fireplace and ducked down into

the pit and looked at the relief of his true form, the stones in the eyes

gleaming a particular shade of unholy light.  With a slight sigh he reached

up and removed the middle umbral stone, leaving behind an empty socket.  

Standing up out of the fireplace he looked down at the small stone and then

back at Claude, 'I shall be in the study for when our guest arrives.  Do see

them to me.  '

Nodding, Claude turned and continued his direction of the other servants,

allowing Ithelim to make his way to the library where the experiments would

begin.   

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[121] Archal: The Cult of the True Prophecy: A mind astir

Sun Jun  8 16:28:55 2025

To: Shadow all Ostrim ( Drakkara Naamitsa Imm RP )

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Archal awoke in a sea of anger and bitterness.  His mind awoke, at any

rate.  His body was still not his own.  The sea he floated in felt like the

mind of Apostus, who he could feel still covering his head, even as he could

not do anything to move it.  

He was still seated in a pew, back to the narthex and entrance behind him. 

He had fallen asleep - lost consciousness, more apt a phrase - once he had

wrapped his mind around his current situation, of Apostus being wrapped

around his own mind.  In command of his body.  He had fought the panic,

swallowed it down even as it formed a lump in his throat (all figuratively,

of course, but Apostus had noticed anyway.  He had felt the mockery of his

fear in the demon's mind.  

But the mockery faded as the long night of waiting ticked on, the repetitive

mantra of Apostus' obsessive thoughts a swinging metronome.  It should have

been me,  he would complain.  Necrucifer lives,  he would insist.  I should

have ascended,  he would lament.  The whore is false,  he would opine.  A

woman cannot possibly lead an entire pantheon,  he would assert.  Variations

on the theme.  Endless looping anger and bitterness that the world had

changed and left him behind.  

When he awoke, he felt small and isolated, but not panicked.  He still could

not move, and the demon's mantra was still humming like a highland drone,

and Archal decided it was best not to distract him from it.  Or, rather, let

him stay distracted by it.  Apostus had control over his body, but only

access to his mind, not control of it.  Archal's was not a layperson's mind.

He would have closed his eyes, if he could, but instead he did his best to

dissociate from his view of Apostus' basilica.  This did not call for an

explosive or an expansive foray into the ether, but a whisper thin probe

that might go unnoticed by the parasite enclosing his thoughts.  Softly,

gently, Archal pushed into the mind of Apostus.  Archal Kayen, High Mystic

of Storm Keep, Shadowknight of Drakkara, manatonic thaumaturge, yet had ways

to fight.  

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[125] Zorreau: Cult of True Prophecy: Between Gods and Ghosts

Wed Jun 11 04:58:11 2025

To: Shadow All - Archal Ostrim ( Drakkara Necrucifer Imm RP Tritoch Cayenna )

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The rain touched the tall glass windows like memory - soft and

persistent, neither storm nor drizzle, but the kind of steady, timeless

patter that seemed less to fall than to settle upon the world.  In the

western tower of his manor, the one rebuilt stone by stone upon the crumbled

bones of older vows, Zorreau de la Vega sat in solitude within the deep

embrace of a wingback chair, its dark leather worn by years and shaped to

the weight of him.  The hearth nearby cast a dim glow across the room,

illuminating the panelled walls, the shelves of leather-bound volumes, and

the quiet watch kept by his armour, which stood upright on its stand like a

sentinel from another age.  

On the low table before him lay an opened letter, the wax seal - emblazoned

with the sigil of Storm Keep - cracked and curling at the edges.  The

message within bore no surprises.  It was a record of careful plans, lists

of names, the architecture of a rescue mission intended to reclaim Archal

from the demons grasp.  There was mention of tethers and circles, anchor

teams and sacrificial steps, all spoken with the clarity of command.  Yet

nowhere in its length did his own name appear, and he had not expected it

to.  

Still, beside the hearth, the armour had been made ready.  A travelling

cloak had been folded with precision, provisions secured, blades cleaned and

sheathed, their edges tested and true.  The preparation was not made in

anticipation of orders, nor from any misplaced need to prove his relevance. 

It was simply the habit of a soldier whose instincts ran deeper than thought

- one who had, across long years and longer silences, learned to be ready

not for the call, but for the absence of one.  

In the great bed across the room, Nimiane stirred faintly, her breathing

steady beneath the velvet weight of the covers.  He did not glance toward

her, though he noted the sound with the same quiet attention that he gave to

all things in this hour.  Her presence, like the rain, like the fire,

grounded him.  Yet even she, who had pledged herself in name and bond, could

not draw him from the spiral of his own mind tonight.  

Once, he would have led this charge.  Once, the names inked upon that page

would have followed his into fire.  Once, the voice of Necrucifer had burned

in his blood, and all who heard it in him had obeyed.  But that voice was

silenced now.  The god he had served had been unmade, cast down by the very

goddess who now claimed dominion over the dark.  Drakkara had taken

Necrucifer's place upon the throne, and the Keep - his Keep - had sworn anew.

They served Her will with conviction, as did he.  

Yet still, She had not called him.  

He had knelt.  He had obeyed.  He had waited, and waited still.  

Another sip of the whiskey brought smoke and shadow to his tongue, rich with

the burn of age.  It was a drink meant to mark the end of things, or the

beginning of something weightier still.  The fire cracked softly, a single

ember falling in the grate.  The missive remained on the table, its contents

unchanged, yet heavy with implication.  The officers were remaining behind,

lending their strength to the anchoring.  Others - fresh voices, unburdened

by the weight of long history - would cross into the abyss.  

And Zorreau de la Vega, once Dark Lord, twice commander of the Keep, now sat

in a room half-lit, his armour idle, his name unspoken.  

He had seen empires fall and rise again.  He had built thrones from rubble,

only to watch them splinter beneath the weight of time.  And now, when all

the banners had changed and the prayers had shifted, he remained - not out

of defiance, nor confusion, but from the simple, unadorned truth that he had

not yet found what must come next.  

Not for Storm.  Not for the Keep.  But for himself.  

He watched the fire until the flames lost shape, until the soft percussion

of the rain overtook the sound of the room.  He did not speak.  There was

nothing left to say.  The armour stayed packed.  And outside, the rain

continued. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[158] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: Preparing the Way

Mon Jun 16 13:55:55 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ostrim marveled at the food prepared for him within Ithelim's manor. 

Roasted pig, bread, fruit, and wine were all available at the table. 

Servants hovered over him, however Ostrim's appetite was lacking thinking

about the High Mystic's fate.  Archal was trapped in the manse of Apostus

and who knew what was happening to his mind or soul.  He pushed those ideas

down so that he could feed his body.  He would be no good to the High Mystic

if he didn't eat or see to his own needs.  

'The Master will see you in his study when you are done.  ' spoke Claude as

Ostrim finished his meal.  

'Thank you, Claude.  Did the items that Kirkland and Melchaleve deliver get

received yet?  ' asked the Supplicant.  

'Indeed, sir.  Sir Arden's shields were received this morning and the

Supplicant's amulets arrived by courier this afternoon.  All has been

brought into the Master's study and are under the watchful eye of Eustace. 

' responded Claude with a tip of his head.  

Ostrim nodded and then followed Claude towards the study doors.  

TWO DAYS LATER

Ostrim wandered into the Keep having spent several days in the Manor with

Ithelim.  His mind was reeling from all that they had discussed and

researched.  He needed a break and was entering the Eclipsian Watchtower

when the guard on duty stopped him.  

'Supplicant, there is a message from Supplicant Scott that she had some

things for you.  She asked you meet her when you can.  ' 

Ostrim nodded, 'Thank you for that, I will find her in the Keep proper.  '

The guard nodded and Ostrim proceeded into the Watchtower and through the

portal to Storm Keep.  Having been away for so long, Ostrim was hit by the

Thalosian heat as soon as he stepped through.  Travelling from the wooded

area around Verminasia to the desert was a shock to the system even though

most Knights became accustomed to it as they went about their duties. 

Ostrim however began to sweat as soon as he was inside the recesses.  

He searched the Keep and found the skald in the Library.  

'Greetings Supplicant Scott, I heard you had some things for me?  I

apologize for being delayed.  ' smiled Ostrim.  

Ezrianne turned her small form in the chair and her green eyes appraised him

for a moment.  Ostrim felt a power behind the eyes that betrayed the human

form before him.  

'Indeed, I have gathered a multitude of potions and other balms that will be

useful for your trip.  Please follow me.  ' responded the Supplicant as she

stood and walked down to the storage rooms.  

Ezrianne went over the various potions and their uses with him and he

thanked her for the effort.  

'If there is anything else I can help with, please let me know.  We are all

worried about the High Mystic.  ' offered Ezrianne.  

'Of course, thank you again, Supplicant.  As soon as I know of anything more

and a date to get him, I will let everyone know.  ' responded Ostrim.  

She nodded and left to return to her duties.  Ostrim itemized everything and

put it in his footlocker with the other relics and items required for the

ritual.  He then climbed into his bunk and thought about the last few days. 

'Demons, vampires, and dragons, why can't it ever just be an overzealous

paladin?  ' sighed Ostrim as he tried to find sleep.  

Sleep would find him with dreams of nebulous figures and the haunting cries

of someone saying, 'FEED ME' 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[160] Kirkland: Cult of the True Prophecy:  The Time Approaches

Mon Jun 16 20:53:44 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Ostrim Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kirkland wiped his blade across his pants, the smell of lightning and

smoke permeating the room, as he walked away from the enchantress's body and

headed back down the tower steps.  

Time had been moving fast as of late.  Once the plan was set it motion,

everyone dispersed to their roles, and they needed to be ready for anything.

The High Mystic's life was at risk.  Or worse, his soul.  

His new guild was filling him out nicely.  His senses were already improving

with such close combat, and the fine motor skills already in fine form.  He

found himself idly tossing and catching shuriken and daggers rather than

bouncing a leg or tapping his chin.  And...  Well...  His armor and array of

weapons were taking on much more time than he realized.  He was still too

messy, not yet refined enough.  

There would be more time to hone his craft.  After.  If there was an after. 

While the plan was for him to stand on the safe side of the portal to help

pull them through, he'd already been working on and planning several

contingencies if and when things turned sour.  And many of those included

diving through the portal itself, either as distraction or direct aid.  He

was not nervous, but instead just a sense of seriousness.  Of resolve.  

Failure here could not be an option.  

He quietly made his way back to the Keep, making sure the amulets and

shields were packaged for transport, before finding an open cushion and

kneeling down upon it.  He solemnly gave his prayers to the Mistress before

sitting down, and getting back to work.  

He continued sewing and preparing his disguise throughout the night.  

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[173] Ezrianne: Cult of the True Prophecy: Preparing the Way (Ezrianne)

Fri Jun 20 11:16:05 2025

To: Shadow Verminasia Archal Telthian Symantha Daizi ( Immortal RP Drakkara All )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air in the room was thick with the scent of oil, metal, and the

slow-blooming perfume of spell reagents.  Ezrianne moved through the armory

like a woman possessed, with purpose.  The mission to retrieve the High

Mystic wasn't just another every-day skirmish; it was high stakes, delicate,

and there would be no margin for oversight.  

At the alchemy bench, her fingers worked fast, nimble despite the sweat

dripping from her, caused by the fire in the stuffy room.  She checked an

double checked each potion she'd chosen for Ostrim, making sure they were

all accounted for in the correct quantities, and then that each was

stoppered appropriately and marked in such a manner he wouldn't have to read

labels and fumble in the heat of bedlam -- color codes were her choice this

time.  

None of Drakkara's gifts were bestowed upon the Barbarians, no natural

tether to the weave, no patron-given tricks to twist fate.  But this was her

best effort to help lend Ostrim a margin as he lead their party against the

powers of a Demon with a grudge, and a situation no one could accurately

predict before jumping head-long into the fire.  

Next she prepped the gear that had been passed over to her for inspection

before they departed: every helmet was examined, every leg plate checked,

every shield inspected and banded anew.  She moved among each piece,

checking gauntlets, tightening buckles, testing straps.  Leather was oiled

supple, and chain mail adjusted in tiny amounts with a small armor hammer in

places it was stiff from use.  

By the door, everyone's packs were laid out, each carefully laden with

rations, staves, scrolls.....  Whatever she could think of the team might

need for the task.  Her own satchel, and Maccus' next to it, were loaded

with the necessities of the Skald and other items she'd though useful for

their assignment as back up when the proverbial poop hit the proverbial

ceiling fan.  

A final check of blades - oiled cloth drawn lovingly down steel, whetstone

applied as needed.  Then she glanced around the room, her eyes catching on

each piece, each preparation.  

Although they were unsure of what awaited them at the other side of this

portal, they would not go in blind.  They would not go in weak.  And

Drakkara help the Demon that underestimated what Storm Keep was capable of.  

Ezrianne tied her hair back into a messy bun at the top of her head, and

slung her satchel over her shoulder.  

'Let's go get our High Mystic back.' 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[174] Melchaleve: Cult of the True Prophecy: Preparations for Madness

Sat Jun 21 06:25:10 2025

To: Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Melchaleve was once again within the Library, he had several notes laid out

across the table. Notes of ages past, notes on abberant events, notes on the

realm of the endless. Notes detailing items that had any connection to the

Mistress.

"You won't see me getting possessed by a damn Demon, my mind is my own!"

Thud.

"Do you enjoy his migraines?  I always found them sufferable.  Predictable."

Thud.

Closing his eyes and rubbing his head with a hand, his other drifting back to

his freyed sword sheath, stroking it for comfort.

"My mind is my own."

Melchaleve began to pack his gear in preparation for the supplicants work. A set

of shackles, should the High Mystic need to be restrained for an excorcism, the

shield of black magic, imbued with the Mistress's protections. An amulet of the

Mistress, and an amulet of the Lord. The lance of the hemskoen, which the High

Mystic had given to him. The shard of distortion, to provide perspective.

Thud.

"You will need to figure that out...what was his is now mine..."

Thud.

"My mind is my own."

"The journey into the abyss is not mine to take. I must keep myself anchored. I

must remain as a strong link of the chain for the supplicants. We must pull them

home when the time comes."

Thud.

"..And you will find, that they drive you mad."

Thud.

"My mind is my own."

Tucking a sprig of scented lavender into a pouch, Melchaleve began to

pack his work, set his bag near the supplicants and head to out for his next 

patrol.

Ambactus a Caligo 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[210] Archal: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Invasive Thoughts

Mon Jun 23 20:21:21 2025

To: all Shadow Ostrim Ezrianne Kirkland Ithelim Melchaleve Zorreau Telthian Symantha Naamitsa ( Carrionmaw Tritoch Imm RP Storyline )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You are around three feet tall, hellishly red of skin, and a little

scamp.  Your name is a series of emotions - not the names of the emotions,

but the emotions themselves, and you're usually feeling some or all of them.

Right now that includes a nosy greediness, envy of greater power, pleasure

in others'  misfortunes, and greed, again.  You like jumping about within

the hellish planes from this spot to that, and today you've landed in the

realm of Apostus - a caged-in space of sulphurous stone and a jumped up

basilica filled with delusions of grandeur and self-importance.  

You absolutely delight in the self-torment of Apostus, and so you're quite

happy to have landed here today.  You, you once heard a pair of dwarves

arguing the point, are (or are not) a Class IV Demonic Presence.  Of course,

if the other dwarf was to be believed, that's just made up hooey and the

first one didn't have a clue what he was on about, but the first one

insisted that Demon Lords are class I demonic presences, lesser demons are

class II, minor demons, of the sort who infect souls for a bit of time on

the material plane, are class III, and YOU are a Class IV Demonic Presence

(imp).  

Like most demons, you have a touch of telepathy, and today you feel

something different.  But before you have a moment to think about that, you

spy a curious little hole in the realm of Apostus.  Demonic realms aren't,

generally speaking, meant to have holes in them, so this immediately grabs

your already dubious attention, and you get right up close to it.  It's

tiny, but you can press your eye right up and see..  Nothing.  

At first, anyway.  But your eye adjusta before long and you realize you're

looking into a void.  A celestial void, by the looks of it, with faintly

glowing dots and nebulous clouds of colour.  Idly, you wonder if the

scholars of the material plane have a name for this, never guessing it's,

indeed, nebulae.  

You think it's odd that the infernal abyss seems to have a hole into the

cosmic abyss, but you stop thinking about it altogether when you panic -

specifically because your eye is gently but insistently suctioned to the

hole it's plugging and you're pret-t-ty sure it pulled out of its socket as

you pulled away in aforementioned panic, before snapping back into place

with what you're sure would be a comedic popping noise, if you were watching

instead of experiencing it first hand.  

You waste no time putting distance between yourself and that little hole,

not at all noticing it grow the tiniest fraction larger as you do, and

remember the odd feeling you had before that unpleasantness with the hole

you'd rather not think about again.  

There's two minds here, today, and you're certain you felt one gloating,

just a tiny bit, before it quieted itself.  Amidst, and unnoticing, the mind

of Apostus cycles through its anger and anguish and self pity that normally

so delights you.  But now, your insatiable greed for gossip has you

wondering just what this other mind is about.  

                                   -----

Slowly and carefully, Archal made his way within the mind of Apostus, which

was too busy maintaining control of his body, and churning through impotent

rage, to notice.  Archal began the subtle art of coercion. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[213] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies in the Arcane I

Tue Jul  1 14:48:32 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ostrim's last week had been spent in various parts of Ithelim's estate. 

For all its luxury and comfort, the lack of sunlight had been slightly

oppressive for a soldier trained in the Thalosian desert.  So, when there

was a break in their work, he decided to take a stroll in the streets of

Verminasia.  His brain was a mixture of arcane runes and odd recipes.  For a

man used to bashing things or stabbing people, the idea of the arcane caused

him headaches galore.  Finding himself at a modest inn, he decided to have a

bit of lunch outside and a fresh pint.  He took out his journal and reviewed

the plans laid out by the resident demonologist....  

---Four Days Ago---

Eustace entered the study where Ostrim had been trying to trace the runes as

shown to him by Ithelim.  His hand had begun to cramp so he laid down the

quill and flexed his fingers lightly.  Over the last few days, she had come

to inspect his work while her master was busy with the larger rituals and

construction required for the tether.  She also did not seem to enjoy being

Ostrim's nursemaid overseeing the training of his work.  

'Better but only marginally so.  While the body of each rune is much more

defined, you are still sloppy at the points.  They must be crisp and clear. 

You'll never manage a true rune with such penmanship.  Ten more may suffice,

we'll see.  That said, the Master requires the blade to be used for the orb

of location.  Give it to me.  ' she asked holding out a hand.  

Ostrim frowned and went over to his sword belt that leaned against a trunk

behind him.  The blade, Kayen forged, had been imbued with the unholy

empower of the High Mystic.  Within that unholy blessing may reside a

connection, a spark of Archal's essence, that could be used to locate and

remove the knight from Apostus.  It was perhaps his most prized possession

and Ithelim could not guarantee that the process would not damage the blade

itself.  With a sigh, he handed the scabbard to Eustace.  Words began to

form on his lips but he remained silent.  

Eustace appraised him for a moment, 'The Master is well versed in many

magiks, Supplicant.  You can believe that this blade will be returned to

you.  Of that, I have no doubt.  ' with a nod she turned and left him alone.

It was perhaps the closest to a kindness Ostrim had received from her. 

Taking a deep breath, he returned to a clean sheet of vellum, dipped the

quill in the ink and began tracing the symbols once more.  He was determined

not to let either Ithelim or Archal down.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[215] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies in the Arcane II

Tue Jul  1 16:04:59 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ostrim sipped from his pale ale, a seasonal import from New Thalos.  It

was refreshing with a bit of citrus to it, not so bad on a hot summer's day.

As he drank, he flipped a page in the journal.  The wind picked up and blew

another page over revealing a piece of parchment that was loose from the

other pages.  Quickly he snapped up the note before it had a chance to blow

away.  Upon the vellum was a diagram depicting a jeweled compass like

device.  Sketched out was an ornate piece of jewelery made of thin pieces of

metal forming a circular web like enclosure.  In the center of it was a

black orb.  Another piece of metal, this one a shade in between the orb and

the metal frame, ended in an arrow like point and had indications that it

moved to various points upon the enclosure like a dial.  Words, scribed in

the finest calligraphy, were written below the illustration.  

'Supplicant, I am glad the sword survived the retrieval process.  Included

here is a sketch of the 'soul compass'.  The black bead in the center is the

concentrated unholy essence of Archal Kayen extracted from your blade.  This

device is attuned to his spiritual energy.  I find it amusing that a being

without a soul created a relic to find and extract a soul.  Humor aside, the

compass will point towards the location of the High Mystic.  Once you have

found him, the compass can be used to tie the umbral tether to him however

this will consume the energies of the bead.  It can only be used once.  If

anything breaks the tether, he will need to get himself out.  If possible,

return the device intact.  It may be useful in the future.  '

Ostrim tucked sheet of paper back into his journal.  Flipping to another

page, he looked over the runes he had perfected.  He smiled for a moment

before inspecting his injured left hand.  It was still wrapped in gauze but

the healer had said it was doing well..  

---Two Days Ago---

Prior to Knight Arden's retirement from enchanting, several shields had been

animated to float about like spinning black wards.  Ostrim was supervising

their placement within the courtyard to see how they would stand up to

attack.  This animated shield wall was going to provide defense to those who

would stay behind and secure the tether.  The group was composed of Ser

Arden, Supplicant Scott, Knight Kesepton, and the Dark Lord, who would

ensure that if something went wrong then they could be rescued.  It also

protected the ritual room from anything that might come through the gateway.

Especially a demon who could possess those linked to Necrucifer's influence.

'AGAIN!  ' yelled Ostrim as another volley of magic was unleashed upon the

shield wall.  Fire, lightning, and ice were hurled at the shields and Ostrim

stood behind them to see just how much protection they would offer.  The

shields, their black wards glowing with reinforced umbral glyphs, spun and

deflected the magical attacks successfully.  Truly it seemed the only way to

counter Drakkara's power was with Her own.  Stepping out from behind the

wall Ostrim called a halt to the test.  However, an errant fireball cast by

an energetic Gray Robe bounced off the shield striking Ostrim's outstretched

left hand.  

'Bloody 'ell!  ' cried the Supplicant as his hand was scorched.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[217] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies on the Arcane III

Tue Jul  1 21:19:55 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky was getting cloudy with dark rain clouds forming on the horizon

foretelling a summer storm.  Ostrim reviewed the journal one last time. 

Tether, Compass, shields, supplies, everything was coming together.  It was

time to get the troops together however something tugged inside his head. 

The Dark Lord had said this was something Ostrim had to do, something Archal

had entrusted him for and he still didn't know why.  He needed perhaps one

more boon and he had an idea.  He paid his tab and walked briskly towards

the manor.  Reaching it just as the rain started, he was escorted in by

Claude.  

'Claude, could you tell Eustace that I'd like to speak with her please?  '

asked Ostrim.  

'Very good sir, can I ask what it pertains to?  ' replied the servant 

'I need help with runes again.  ' smiled Ostrim.  

Claude nodded crisply and left to fulfill his other duties.  

----------

'You want to do WHAT with a rune, Supplicant?  ' exclaimed Eustace.  

'Tattoos are historically used by many cultures so why can't we add a rune

to my skin?  ' winked Ostrim.  

'It is possible but...  What rune?  Where on your body?  This is irregular

Supplicant.  I must also tell the Master, clearly.  ' frowned Eustace.  

Ostrim smiled an impish grin.  

----------

Ostrim had taken all his belongings from the Manor and hauled them back to

his cot and trunk in the barracks.  Gently he placed all his equipment away

wincing as he reached down.  The bandage on his back was large and the blood

had pooled up within the gauze forming a broken outline of some glyph. 

Having settled his things, he took quill to parchment.  

All was arranged but a chance meeting with the Warder Kesepton reminded him

that a backup plan was needed.  Maccus had wondered what if the tether

failed?  So Ostrim needed a second option.  The rescue group needed a second

way to stay connected to the material plane.  Time to think....  

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[212] Ezrianne: Cult of the True Prophecy: Back Up Plan

Thu Jul  3 14:34:15 2025

To: Shadow ALL Telthian Symantha Archal ( Drakkara Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ostrim Ithelim Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With her soul still officially claimed by Necrucifer, Ezrianne had been

relegated -- politely but firmly-- to the backup plan committee.  They were

dealing with a demon that fed on Necruciferian souls, so the front line

wasn't the best place for her, after all.  

The others would handle the main event.  Ostrim led the charge, flanked by

Kirkland, Ithelim, Melchaleve, and Taeborlin.  They would open a portal to

wherever this demon had taken Archal - their High Mystic, and someone

Ezrianne had come to respect deeply - and do whatever it took to get him

back.  Steel and spell, brute force and cleverness.  

If the main plan soured, if something failed or cracked or something they

didn't know they didn't know took place.  Then it would fall to Ezrianne and

Maccus to salvage whatever they could from the wreckage.  

Maccus brought up the idea of some type of tether and then questioned if she

could use her skills as a spellcrafter to pair it with muscle gems.  She

wasn't sure, but she ran with it, and set off to do her research.  

What she found was a gnome.  

Ezri didn't catch his name.  He offered three, and none of them sounded

real.  She called him Clank because he rattled when he walked, his back

loaded with tools, scrap, a portable anvil, and what looked like a bronze

crab with a monocle.  Clank was one of those mad little artisans who

wandered the edges of the world perfecting his work: smelting in volcano

forges, carving jewelry from glass-stone pulled from glaciers, claiming he'd

once fixed a dwarven war-crown with nothing but wire, ore, and spite.  

He wasn't impressed with Ezrianne Scott, Supplicant of Storm Keep.  

But he practically vibrated with excitement when she let him see what she

really was: a blue Firstborn dragon in human skin, old magic woven into her

bones.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[213] Ezrianne: Cult of the True Prophecy: Back Up Plan (II)

Thu Jul  3 14:47:41 2025

To: Shadow ALL Telthian Symantha Archal ( Drakkara Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ostrim Ithelim Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Clank jumped back as the magic swirled around her in a fog, and then out

stepped Sidorinath.  

'That,' he said, blinking fast, 'that I will work for.  But it'll cost you!'

They negotiated a cask of aged fig brandy -- Sassy Blue's finest cask -- and

a favor he could collect at any time; the details of which Ezrianne would

keep snugly under her chain mail helm.  

What he built was a beast.  

It took several days, but the chain gleamed like liquid moonlight.  Arcanium

links thick as a warriors thumb, each etched a with socket for a muscle gem,

which she'd spent another few nights crafting.  She poured the essence into

amethysts and hoped the mid-tier gems would work.  They pulsed with power,

warm and thrumming.  Then she embedded them into the chain's lattice without

shattering a single one.  Not easy.  Not cheap.  

She tested it by tethering herself to a horse, scaring the beejesus out of

it with a rowdy skald song too close to its ear, and letting it bolt.  She

woke up in the dirt with a mouthful of grass, ribs sore, one knee out of

place.  The horse was two hundred yards away, frothing and trembling, its

saddle in pieces.  But the chain had held.  

She wasn't satisfied, so she tested it with the strength of a Firstborn,

next.  

Ezri wrapped one end of the chain around the oldest rock outcropping she

could find, shifted into dragon form, and launched herself into the sky with

every ounce of her might.  The chain screamed.  Magic flared white-hot

across each link, and a mighty roar tore from her throat with the effort of

her straining - but it held.  It anchored her with a teeth-grinding jolt,

and stopped her mid-ascent like a divine hand on her tail.  She spiraled

back to the earth in a distinctly clumsy attempt to right her balance and

her wings, but triumphant just the same.  

With any luck, the chain would do what they needed it to, in the event they

had to rely on it.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[195] Telthian: Cult of the True Prophecy: The Blood of Apostates

Sat Jul  5 09:58:09 2025

To: Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Beneath the dim canopy of black-pine and ash-oak, a column of armored

riders moved in formation, hooves crunching the bone-dry needles carpeting

the forest road between Verminasia and Arkane.  The Knights of Shadow rode

in number, cloaked in Umbra, the darkmoon's malicious glow casting a

watchful eye.  

They rode with purposeful intent, donning crimson tabards and flying their

banners high for this was to be a message, an example made for the time of

clemency had ended.  At their head rode the Dark Lord and High Priestess,

their destination lay in the shadow of Mount Levinox: a once-holy place

occupied by pale-robed pilgrims who still knelt to a god long dead.  It was

an archaic place, lacking the refinement of temples of the modern era but to

those bloodlines steeped in tradition, their ancestors had once prayed here.

The forest grew thicker as they approached, the leaves whispering like

witnesses too frightened to speak.  Telthian raised his fist and the column

halted.  Through the undergrowth ahead, flickers of candlelight marked the

temples outer cloisters.  The pilgrims paid the approaching knights no mind,

unaware of the encroaching doom, chanted a funeral liturgy in old

Verminasian, words once meant to honor darkness now hollowed by the echoes

of treason.  

They were no innocents, not that it would have spared them.  Peaceful though

the pilgrims were, these were the last children of Necrucifer, and a veneer

behind which their masters in the Cult hid.  To the devotees whose hearts

still bled, the knights would grant their wish and reunite pilgrim and

cultist alike with their dead god.  

Telthian dismounted his felbeast. 'All of them. Let none survive,' he

said, his voice cold as the waters of the Umbratide.  Symantha's eyes

darkened with malice, lips curling in a cold, heartless smile as she raised

a black-gloved hand toward the sky, her fingers curling to pluck the strings

of the void above.  And with a sound like iron shrieking in a furnace,

umbral meteors tore through the firmament, trailing violet fire as they

screamed toward the earth to rend her enemies in shadow and flame.  

Knights surged forward, shadows cast by fire and shadow licking across their

blades.  Some pilgrims tried to flee into the forest.  Others stood, arms

raised, chanting louder, even as steel tore through them as they called down

the dead gods last curse.  Yet even that was swallowed by the disciplined

cruelty of the Shadow Knights.  They butchered a bloody trail up the stair

toward the temple gates, where Magisters and agents of the Crimson Rose slid

from Umbra and shadow to slit the throats of the gateguards, leaving the

temple's interior exposed and vulnerable.  

Telthian advanced like a storm of dark fury, his cloak swirling with the

weight of as he met a guardian rushing to defend the entryway before

Necrucifer's ancient altar.  The cult-guard lunged with a warcry, sword

thrust straight for Telthian's heart, but the shadowknight turned the blade

aside with his shield, letting the weapon slide past as his pike found the

seam above the guards breastplate.  There was a gasp, wet and sharp. 

Telthian uttered a word shaped in the tongue of the Umbra, and shadows

poured into the mans veins like molten night.  The guard crumpled in

silence, his body devoured from within, armor dimming as the last flicker of

his soul was consumed by the shadowknight's torment.  

Drakkara's knights would shatter relics, tear open tombs, and desecrate what

had once been sacred and was now twisted and profane as the Cult of the True

Prophecy clung to a hope that would be forever extinguished.  

Ahead lay the inner sanctum beneath a dome of bone and glass, and the

threshold to Apostus' demi-plane.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[201] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: Assault 

Sun Jul  6 11:53:09 2025

To: Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                   Blood

The stones of the temple steps ran red and slick from the blood pooling down

them.  Black scorch marks could be seen on various pillars and in gardens

from the High Priestess' spells.  Beside him were his fellow Supplicants. 

They worked as one moving through the fray.  The Dark Lord stood ahead of

them cleaving a path that they followed both physically and morally.  

They all knew that though this was for Archal, it was more than that.  It

was to put down the last vestiges of an ancient idea and to build something

new upon its bones.  In all his time as a mercenary, Ostrim had never felt

such purpose.  

'Watch it, Bearhide!  ' yelled Ezrianne as he was distracted for a moment. 

Returning quickly to the task at hand, Ostrim's blade worked left and right

while his shield defended the Gray Robes that stood behind him.  

The morning would be long but Ostrim could see the shadowed inner sanctum

and felt assured he would see his mentor before the evening came.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[204] Symantha: Cult of the True Prophecy: Crimson Wake

Mon Jul  7 03:44:53 2025

To: Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The High Priestess followed in the wake of the Dark Lord's fury but it

was the aura of the circlet that progressed first.  Fel and pervasive, she

spied two pilgrims back away into the shadows only to be slaughtered by the

men and women of Storm slipping through umbral darkness.  

There was purpose in all that she cast her gaze over.  She watched the

Supplicants span out, set to their bloody task.  Felt the resonance of faith

as it swelled, carried like a storm in the souls that whirled like a

hurricane around Telthian's merciless advance.  

A stone in the mind; the weight of the Cult had grown over the years it had

taken to establish all that had come to pass.  To find that it was Apostus

at the root of this...  

It wasn't surprise she felt but rather, a circle drawing full.  

The umbral scar grew hot on her palm while gloved fingers hid the pulses of

divine power along fingers and hands.  In this den of apostasy, her own

purpose could not but be jarred to burgeoning.  Confidence met animus as she

drew her naginata to address the fanatical advance of a cult-guard who had

thought to catch any stragglers.  

The long bladed instrument, crackling with latent umbral lightning, caught

the swing of the weapon.  The metal clash thundered through the near shadows

and then she swept the blade down to take his feet out from under him.  His

sword clattered off into the dark, the shield broke.  

"No mercy!" She called out, her voice a cascade in the acrimonious temple,

echoing the orders of the Dark Lord.  As the cult-guard managed to get to

his knees, he began to chant their blasphemy once again but she would not

suffer it.  

The High Priestess took hold of the guard's face with her right hand, the

power in her scarred palm - even gloved as it was - no less potent for the

durable fabric layer, and uttered aloud the same prayer the Dark Lord had

invoked recently.  

"Dark Queen give us the conviction to hate: for mercy is a weakness and

pity" - she paused, voice growing colder yet as she stared into the eyes of

her victim - "a sin."

He could not scream as she let the hunger of the moonstone reach out to

consume all that he was.  Dark indigo fire ate through him as if he were

made of paper and she felt the soul devoured.  Another for the soulsteel.  

She let the remains flutter to the ground like so much ash and followed the

now crimson river that the forces of Storm had unleashed ahead.  

There was design in this.  Tempering between anvil and hammer.  In every

blasphemous cultist lain low, in the dedicated faith rooted in the heart of

the Goddess' new dark order.  In the men and women who would embody that new

order.  Drakkara's Legion - their purpose was great and would evolve into

greater things yet.  

Apostus, and his cult, would not escape final retribution.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[230] Melchaleve: Cult of the True Prophecy: Spirits Divide

Mon Jul  7 20:02:29 2025

To: Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the knights marched grimly up the steps of the temple of evil, Melchaleve took

a moment to appreciate the raw power of the High Priestess's meteors. As he watched

them smash into the steps he took a moment to set the corpse of a werewolf down in

front of him, drawing its spirit out.

The wolf howled, and looked to its master.

Resting his hand upon a drake from the Basilica, he pointed towards the temple.

"Feast."

The wolf howled again and began to charge into the falling meteors, savagely tearing

into any unfortunate that got in its way.

Mounting the drake, he patted its neck affectionately. It had been some time since

he had been able to commune with the majestic creature.

"Time for us, as well. Leave none alive."

Drawing his crystallized blade of umbral essence and his shield of black magic 

he checked himself over once more. The amulet of the Mistress upon his neck, and a 

sprig of lavender tucked into a pocket.

"My mind is my own."

As reality began to fuzz around the edges, he could see the different paths of battle.

He could see what would happen should he go down the western path. He could see the cult

members cowering down the central hallway. He could see the creatures lurking along the

eastern wing.

Laughing maniacally, Melchaleve urged his mount forward to enjoin the fray in earnest.

Calling out as needed to his fellow knights as needed to warn of incoming danger.

"The Storm Comes!"

As Melchaleve dove into the frey, he began to chant a spell. One which would turn the

weather to the worse.

Slowly, clouds coalesced in the skies above and lightning began to build, streaks could

be seen lancing through the clouds. The air became heavy, the thrum of electricity could

be felt building within the body.

"Ambactus A Caligo!" 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[235] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy: The Sacrifice and the Ritual

Wed Jul  9 12:05:24 2025

To: Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'FOOLISH KNIGHTS!  I allowed Kayen to enter into my sanctum out of

respect to his line but this defilement will not stand!  ' roared Dnoutrar

as he stood.  The demon's emaciated form was not the pillar of strength it

once was.  The loss of his infernal patron and power had diminished him to

but a fraction of what he once was.  Yet his blade was still strong and the

power granted to him by the clerics of Apostus sustained him enough to pose

a challenge.  

Telthian stood at the entrance, his umbral blade casting shadows that sought

to grasp at his enemies.  The plate mail he wore was now both red and black,

stained with blood of the fallen.  Beside him, Symantha, chin raised in

defiance and command held no weapons.  Her hands were wreathed in the power

of the Mistress and black with the ashes of her enemies.  To the other side

of the Dark Lord stood Maccus, the skald had cleaved his way across the

Temple like a dervish.  His battle chants echoing across the stones of the

Temple.  

Behind the three stood the Knights assembled: Ostrim, Ezrianne, Kirkland,

Melchaleve, Ithelim, Taeborlin, and others.  They waited like a pack of

wolves about to pounce upon their prey.  For a moment there was quiet after

the demon's challenge yet an energy hung in the air, quivering with

anticipation.  Then after a moment, the Dark Lord answered the demon in a

voice that resonated across the room.  

'Dnoutrar, for centuries we served together, this I recognize.  In alliance

we wore the bridle of Necrucifer's power, symbol of both our authority and

binding ties to His will.  Yet through Drakkara's new promise, I have

scattered the remnants of my chains and created a greater bond still.  A

power that WILL cascade across this realm like an umbral torrent.  You, old

ally, have become twisted and tangled within yours without Him, bound now to

Apostus and his machinations.  And so, as one final mercy to which you are

owed, I will free you from those binds.  Knights, cut him loose!  ' ordered

Telthian.  

From behind the trio, the soldiers charged with a rally cry upon their lips.

They fell upon the demon like wolves upon an injured bear.  Swords and

shields collided some soldiers met horrible wounds from the demon's blade. 

However, no mercy was given and when the deed was done, silence was all that

was left within the sanctum.  

'Bearhide, it is time.  Cast your ritual and let us retrieve our absent High

Mystic.  ' ordered the Dark Lord.  

Ostrim cleared away the stone floor and placed the ritual items in the spots

as he was trained.  He took out the worn letter that had been sent to him by

Archal with the words of the ritual upon it.  He nodded to Kirkland and

Taeborlin who took up spots beside him.  Novices of the Legion brought in

three thick chains, creations of Supplicant Scott, who took them and

attached them to her fellow Supplicants and then to those who would stay

behind.  Ithelim then came forward, he spoke mystic words as umbral tethers

were woven into existence attaching to the three like cold grasping hands. 

One tether stuck to the soul compass making it glow with a faint purplish

hue.  

Ostrim looked over his shoulder at his old friend Melchaleve.  They had been

Petitioners together but now Sir Arden was managing the defenses of those

who remained behind.  His spirit animal stalking the chamber waiting for a

threat.  There was a nod between the two and Ostrim turned to the ritual

items and began reciting the words from the note.  

A dull hum resounded in the air and the temperature rose with each

incantation until there was a horrible crack.  The veil between realms was

torn and a blast of infernal heat battered all within the room.  The portal,

like a cat's eye, opened before them leading into the Manse of Apostus. 

Ostrim took out the compass in one hand and sword within the other. 

Allowing himself a breath, he walked into the portal with the two other

Supplicants behind him.  The chains rattled upon the stone as the remaining

Knights looked through the window into the ruined landscape of the demonic

realm 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[173] Archal: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Awareness

Sat Jul 12 06:06:45 2025

To: Shadow All Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Carrionmaw )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Archal's focus was on a razor's edge.  His thauma strained, he was inside

the mind of Apostus, a pinpoint counterincursion into the mind that

enveloped his own and controlled his body.  

Three things were immediately apparent to Archal.  First, this was, on a

fundamental level, the mind of an angry child.  Archal was swimming in an

ocean of entitlement, anger, and self-pity, the youthful cocktail of feeling

that accompanies the spoiled brat who is denied a sweet roll.  A thread of

emotion, occasionally plucked, insisted Necrucifer deserved to die for

passing him over and elevating Telthian, so long ago.  

There was a shred of self-awareness - he knew his desecrations were wrong -

but this thought induced such a chasm of vulnerability within him that it

was immediately filled with the entitlement, anger, and self-pity which seem

to buoy his self-image, even as it reinforced the cage of his own

demi-plane, trapped here as he was.  

The second thing Archal noticed is that his senses had deceived him -

Apostus had deceived him - from the moment he arrived.  He was indeed still

sat within a pew inside an enormous cinnabar stone basilica, the mercury and

sulphur mineral polished to a blood-drop sheen, but the whispers of absent

voices were not whispers, nor absent.  

Apostate Cultists chanted beyond them, deeper within the Basilica, the

elongated choir of the building filled with their discordant voices.  No

unity bound them in rhythm or tempo.  Instead, each seemed to compete with

the other, a desperate cacophony of individuals trying to rise above the

next, burying them all in noise.  

With this sensory reintegration, through Apostus, Archal could now feel the

parasitic presence of the demon, whose own self image had not managed to

overcome reality - Archal's impression of a melted blob of face flesh was

accurate enough.  Still covering his own head and face, Apostus glommed onto

Archal like fleshy moss.  

Longer tendrils invaded every orifice - his mouth, his ears, nose, and

throat.  Through his tear ducts and behind his eyes.  More than this,

however, smaller, rhizoid protrusions of Apostus meat insinuated themselves

into every open pore, anchoring him in place, and drinking every drop of

sweat and effluent that routinely cycle out of the human body through the

skin.  This was more than normal human perception, the manatonic awareness

gulping down the information it had been denied while bottled up by Apostus'

desecration of Archal's autonomy.  The demon had invaded him physically,

impressed his face upon Archal's own, a moist, macabre, monster mask of

madness meat.  

Archal fought down the horror and revulsion that threatened to break

through, threatened to warn Apostus of his presence and his growing

awareness.  He needn't have been concerned, however, because Apostus was

focused elsewhere.  Worried.  Confused.  Outraged and fearful.  The third

thing Archal had noticed resurfaced.  Something was wrong in the realm of

the Apostate.  

Archal pitted his manatonic mind against its own exhaustion, stretching his

thauma even further, pulsing a telekinetic nudge to a nearby candelabra.  It

wobbled.  Apostus didn't react.  Archal began to take stock of every

tendril, every moss-like grasping root of Apostus flesh invading his own. 

Preparing to rip Apostus off his head when the moment presented itself.  

Apostus stood Archal's body from the pew, shuffled awkwardly to the aisle

(is there any other way to exit a pew?) , And turned to face the narthex,

beyond which the enormous doors of obsidian were swinging open, their creak

and screech the groan of a demon chorus.  

At the far end of the realm of Apostus, nobody noticed the slow but steady

expansion of a hole, a coin-sized rift into the celestial void now much

bigger than the beady little eye of a minor imp.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[176] Ostrim: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Tendrils of Fate

Mon Jul 14 09:03:42 2025

To: Shadow All Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Ithelim Melchaleve Carrionmaw )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cinnabar stone, reddish brown, laid out before the trio as they stepped

through.  A basilica built of the substance stood to the right, black basalt

doors opening before them.  A barren plain of rock stretched north and south

while to the east the stoney landscape rose into a craggy hill with a trail

slicing through it's top.  The sky billowed with smoke and ash but behind

the sulfurous clouds was an expanse of the same color that made sky and

ground blend together on an unending horizon.  

It took the trio a moment to adjust to their surroundings but the doors were

their clearest point of interest and so they walked carefully towards their

invitation.  The ceiling rose up into a low vaulted narthex, ornate frescos

dotted the walls, and demonic statues watched from on high.  As Ostrim

looked at the frescos, the images depicted the Prophecy of Necrucifer.  The

creation myth, the work of Malcom, all of it stretched before him on either

side.  The frescos moved or did they change?  In each painting the classical

visage of Necrucifer would warp into the twisted abomination of Apostus.  In

this telling it was the Demon who would create the prophecy and not is old

master.  

However, it was the pews that finally drew Ostrim's attention.  There,

seated on the cinnabar stone, were multitudes of cloaked individuals. 

Shadowy tendrils reached onto each and into them.  Their orifices invaded

yet instead of screams, what came out was a cacophony of whispers.  Some

were in thrall, some in pain, some as though their voices were pulled from

their lungs.  They all travelled back, a multitude of twisted strings, to a

figure in dark robes.  As it shuffled about the pews, the strings of smoke

moved with him and through the others, like a twisted spider with many legs

checking on its webbed food.  

Ostrim wondered how he would find Archal in this mass of beings when he

remembered the soul compass.  Taking it out, the black dormant bead within

the bronze device now pulsed with a purple light.  The dial twisted to the

left and right before pointing in a northwesterly direction.  Ostrim

unsheathed his longsword.  It was time and with that realization Ostrim got

cold in his soul.  It was as though things had come into focus, like some

purpose gave him clarity.  With the umbral tether of Ithelim pulsed upon his

back, the arcanium chain of Ezrianne grounded him.  He moved forward towards

the direction the compass pointed.  His stride long and the chain grinding

upon the stone has he did.  

Yet in the din of the whispers, in the hiss of the chain, a new voice arose.

From the Kayen forged blade a new melody was added to Apostus' discordant

choir...  

'If my blades whisper in the dark, it is only Drakkara's power seeping into

the world.  '

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[165] Archal: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Incursion (I/II)

Tue Jul 15 14:02:30 2025

To: Shadow All Ostrim (Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Carrionmaw )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Archal felt Apostus' awareness shift to him, and he emptied his mind lest

Apostus notice the shape of his incursion.  He could feel Apostus gloating. 

With his sensory reintegration, albeit through Apostus for the time being,

he could also feel something else.  A gentle worrying of the flesh, like

maggots eating the rot from a wound, but..  Not flesh.  Internal to his body

but not corporeal at all.  

Apostus' attention switched again, accompanied by a cascade of emotions, and

Archal cast his own awareness wide, an otherwise reckless action rendered

prudent, if not entirely safe, by the apoplectic chaos and confusion of his

parasitic host.  Archal knew a number of things at once.  

Celestial bodies had ravaged the steps and approach to the hidden temple of

evil.  The temple itself was awash in blood, blood which mingled traitors

and apostates with simple pilgrims, innocent of anything but completing the

pilgrimage, or novitiates who simply tended the memory of Necrucifer.  But

each had fed their divine offerings to Apostus, some unawares, many as

members of the cult.  The cult of the so-called true prophecy.  Apostates of

Apostus.  

Dnoutrar had fallen.  Pitifully, only absent any kind of sentiment like

pity.  Apostus was weakened his tether to Algoron a thread which was moments

ago a thick rope of desecrated fidelity, and until moments ago, he had

expected more followers of Necrucifer to arrive, lured by the presence of

the Shadowknight.  The Kayen.  Even those who had embraced the ascendence of

that woman Drakkara (a special bitterness inflected Apostus' thoughts on

Her), even they had ragged edges and loose tethers of the soul that still

sought, still craved their old connection to the unholy divine of

Necrucifer

It was that which had given Apostus complete control over Archal (he doesn't

know!) , Those ragged edges which helped sustain him as devotion to

Necrucifer waned and the divine energies from prayer grew thin, like stock

from twice boiled vegetable scraps and bones long bleached and leeched of

any value.  Apostus couldn't eat Drakkara-bound soul, and not even Dnoutrar,

demon of hunger, had been able to help him overcome this failing, and by

now, Archal's soul had been picked clean.  No amount of chewing and gnawing

(that maggot-cure sensation) could clean another morsel from it.  Apostus

needed more to feed from.  

And the three who stood before him now, these three would have to do. 

Apostus reached out with his mind to grasp their souls - and found himself

repulsed.  The hum of the black moon amulets around their necks stepped

down, thrumming with power as it protected the ones who bore them.  At the

same time, runic wards tattooed on the lead figure flared, producing a

lambent, umbral glow in the air between them.  He tried again, another,

focusing his efforts on one in the back, one whose soul yet emitted the

cloying aura of his affinity, Necrucifer.  His amulet throbbed even lower,

began to warm, but Apostus was stymied again.  Growing frustration and anger

welled up within him on a rising tide of self pity.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[166] Archal: The Cult of the True Prophecy: Incursion (II/II)

Tue Jul 15 14:06:55 2025

To: Shadow All Ostrim (Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Carrionmaw )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An indecipherable stream of whispers joined the sibilant choir of

cultists with the weight of the black moon.  It reverberated through the

demi-plane of Apostus, the gravitational shockwave of two black holes

merging.  Archal, his manatonic mind still wide open to the universe,

absorbed this notion without understanding it.  The whisper of the sword

reverberated still.  

A hush fell over the Basilica, leaving only that whispering sword.  The

cultists all turned to face Ostrim, as Apostus did, each face a mimetic mask

of their master - open mouthed astonishment, perplexity, and horror.  Archal

seized his moment, thrust himself into Apostus' consciousness, coercing

Apostus to croak in Archal's own hoarse voice, "If the blade whispers in the

dark, it is only Drakkara's power seeping into the world.   ' A confused

Apostus panicked, just for a moment.  

It was enough.  Archal seized control of his mind, expelling Apostus in a

burst of thauma that left him entirely drained, but himself again.  Except

for Apostus still physically masking him, choking him now that the

autonomic processes of each were separate again.  The cultists began a

shambolic advance towards the incursion at the narthex, and Archal felt the

eruption of heat as Apostus invoked a cavalcade of fire and brimstone at the

Supplicans there.  The runic wards pulsed again and Bearhide bore up his

Shield of Black Magic - the fire parted around them, a scornful rebuke of

the abyss by the umbral power of an ascendant Drakkara's faithful.  

His body starved of oxygen with Apostus still covering his face, still

plugging every hole and pore of Archal's head, and Archal's thauma too

depleted to quench the need for air, he felt his consciousness begin to

slip.  His hand reached up to the moist flesh of Apostus and with a final

effort, he began to peel the demon from his face.  He felt the flesh begin

to slide up his throat, out of his ears and nose, even the tear ducts.  He

felt every little rhizoid intrusion resist their tug from his pores, immense

relief as each one let go.  He flung Apostus back, towards the advancing

herd of cultists, even as the demon cast more brimstone towards the

supplicants, whose protections began to heat up, even as they held up.  

Archal barely felt the tickle in his sinuses, where a little worm of Apostus

flesh dug in, weathering the convulsions and expulsions of a body then

blacking out.   

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[174] Ostrim: The Cult of the True Prophecy:Purpose I

Wed Jul 23 08:08:35 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ostrim had begun to move in the direction the compass pointed when the

forms around him shifted and began to shamble in the direction of the trio. 

An ooze like thing was thrown from one of the shadowed figures and to

Ostrim's disgust, a face seemed to quiver within it.  He had but a moment to

spare as he dropped the compass to bring up the shield from his back and

deflect a blast of hellfire.  However when the smoked cleared, there was an

odd aura that emanated from the amulets that Ostrim, Kirkland, and Taeborlin

wore.  So too did the runic shield of black magic resonate in response to

the hellfire.  Again, fire rained down on them but it was deflected.  

The jelly like demon moved forward and was going to cut Ostrim off from

Archal when Taeborlin threw a gourd that cracked like thunder across the

basilica.  The deafening sound caused ripples across the demon's surface and

every fresco showed an image of Apostus crying out in pain.  As if they were

connected to their infernal master, the acolytes also staggered briefly. 

This allowed Ostrim and the team to push in towards the now slumped over

figure of Archal.  However, in all the fighting, the soul gem had been

broken and the compass was now unusable.  Ostrim decided this was where the

back-up plan would be used.  

Disconnecting the chain from his waste, he wrapped it quickly around

Archal's.  Dragging him from the pew, he pulled three times on the chain

letting the guardians on the other side of the gate know to begin pulling. 

As the vibrations from the thunder died down, Apostus' forces renewed their

attacks upon the Supplicants.  Taking positions around Archal's body, they

fended off the onslaught of acolytes while the body of the High Mystic was

slowly pulled down the aisle towards the end of the pews.  However, Apostus

would not let his prize go easily, this was his domain and he would not be

denied.  

'CRACK!  ' went stone as two gargoyles broke free from the columns above

them and jumped down.  Ostrim had to think fast as these two new adversaries

launched themselves at the trio.  

'Kirkland, protect the High Mystic on his exit!  Taeborlin, I hope you have

something for these two!  ' ordered Ostrim as he parried a stone punch with

his shield.  

As Archal's body was dragged slowly towards the basilica doors, Kirkland

hovered over him defending his prone form from the apostates that sought to

reclaim him.  While up the aisle, Taeborlin and Ostrim faced off against the

stone gargoyles who's entranced had broken some of the stone pews and a

couple unlucky clerics.  From his satchel, Taeborlin threw a gourd and a

pair of vipers lashed out at one with little effect.  

'Well, not that one!  ' cried out the warlock as he reached in and threw

another gourd.  

*POOF*

There are few things that surprise Knights of Storm or even demons, however

where once stood a stone abyssal gargoyle was now a frog that croaked

angrily.  There was a pause for a moment as everyone looked at this toad now

trapped within the demonic manse of Apostus.  Not questioning his luck,

Ostrim gave the gargoyle in front of him a shield strike to the head then a

strike to the midsection causing large cracks in the stonework of the beast.

Roaring like a lion, the gargoyle swiped at Ostrim but his claw was too

slow.  

'Follow Kirland!  I'll cover our escape!  ' ordered Ostrim.  Taeborlin's

brief amazement was interrupted as he nodded and threw a few stakes at those

who would try and get within range.  Turning back to his opponent, he

realized that Apostus hadn't really thought about movement when he had

created these beings.  Their legs did very little to hold up their larger

body and using this to his advantage, Ostrim struck out with his shield in

order to trip the demonic gargoyle.  His strike was true, and the creature

toppled over sprawled out on the ground like some angry turtle.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[192] Ostrim: Cult of the True Prophecy:Purpose II

Wed Jul 23 14:11:06 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ostrim smiled and looked back, the path was clear as the Supplicants

picked up Archal and ran towards the awaiting portal home.  He turned to

check any threats and as he did the ooze like form of Apostus lept at him. 

There was only Darkness.  

-------------------

He was falling but unsure for how long.  It felt as though things were

grasping for him, like branches or webs.  He was falling because they could

find no purchase.  Yet something tickled at his mind, a probing thought,

"Where?"  The word was repeated as Ostrim continued to fall.  

'Where?  '

'Levanox'

Ostrim thought about Levanox, the Mountain he had visited as part of his

Novice tasks.  He remembered climbing it's rocky trails and reaching the

battlefield above.  

'Where?  '

He remembered the vision he was given of a great ursine figure with purple

runes of the Mistriss within it's fur and upon it's face.  He remembered the

wolves that attacked it...  

'Remember!  '

He remembered the war to come, the war between the wolves..  He remembered

the fury of the bear as it fought the pack.  Their teeth and claws tried to

tear it down but the bear would not bend, would not submit, it was fury.... 

It was Her fury.  

'WHERE?  '

As the visions came to him, Ostrim stopped falling.  His feet found the

support he needed, as though the memories were his anchor.  From out of the

darkness came that same runic bear, it's eyes blazing purple fury and from

its mouth a feminine voice rang out, 'Do you not recall My anger then

Ostrim?  I told you there would be challenges, that you would have to fight

but here you have fallen.  Archal gave you the key but you have yet to

realize it.  Telthian reminded you but still you forget.  You came to ME for

answers, and I gave them to you.  So tell me, Ostrim Ulvarde, what HAVE YOU

LEARNED?  '

Another voice screamed at him, 'WHERE?!  ', it was the voice of Apostus.  He

was looking for something...  No, Apostus was looking for something IN him. 

The tendrils of the demon reached and grasped but could find nothing to grab

onto.  Ostrim wondered why Apostus couldn't latch on or drain him.  Was this

why Archal had chosen him?  Why was he immune?  Why was he special?  He had

no powers, no magics, no mental abilities.  He remembered his talk with the

Dark Lord on the irony of a barbarian who served Drakkara.  

'What use is arcane power, of clerical grace, without the fist to wield it? 

Strength comes in many forms, I showed you this.  NOW REMEMBER!  '

------------------------------- Ithelim's Manor

'So, this rune.  What exactly am I carving into your back, Supplicant?  '

asked Eustace in a monotone voice.  

'Strength.  I think if all goes to 'ell, I'm gonna need a bit of a boost.  '

replied Ostrim.  

------------------------------

Ostrim realized that it was the very lack of power that made him dangerous

to the demon.  There was nothing for Apostus to drain, nothing to feed

himself upon.  Had Ostrim been devoted to Necrucifer, there might have been

something for the demon but even that was denied him.  As Ostrim knelt in

the darkness, his soul assaulted, he responded with a war cry that echoed

from his very soul.  

'HERE!  ' 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[193] Ezrianne: Cult of the True Prophecy:Purpose III

Wed Jul 23 15:29:30 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ostrim Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The signal came without fanfare, just a sharp tugging motion, and Ezri

moved instantly.  The chain looped around her shoulders and the bodies of

several fellow supplicants strained under the weight of whatever lay at the

far end.  She planted her feet shoulder-width apart, at the front of the

pack, spine stiffening as she grabbed hold and pulled.  Her arm muscles

protested and her pectoral muscles clenched.  

The first jolt nearly took her clean off her feet.  

She staggered and caught herself, gritting her teeth hard enough to hear her

jaw pop.  Her chain and leather gloves were the only thing saving her from

losing skin from the vicious drag of metal through her fingers and palms. 

The iron bit into her grip with cruel tension, and the weight on the other

end wasn't passive; it fought, like some unwilling beast refusing to be

dragged from its den.  

Ezri leaned back with all the might in her little body, thighs shaking,

every muscle flaring in her stocky frame as it was pulled to its limit. 

Four feet and eleven inches of /anything/ just weren't built for this kind

of brute, muscular labor but gods, she was tenacious.  Her knees locked. 

Her arms shook, the tendons in her elbows screamed.  The line between effort

and agony blurred.  

Another sharp tug from the other side yanked her forward a full foot, her

boots scraping against the stone with a noisy clatter of protesting

chainmail links.  She gasped and cried out harshly, her breath punched from

her chest.  Still she didn't let go.  

A strangled curse tore from her lips in Draconic - half-guttural,

half-liturgical, all ages-old, and she spat each word with the force of her

hot-headed anger.  She swore again in Elvish, and then again in Dwarvish,

and doubled down.  Desperation clawed at her ribs, but so did fury.  

She NEEDED to hold.  The stakes were too high, too much depended on this

chain working, too many people she cared about were on the other end.  She

NEEDED to hold: and, gods damn it, SHE WOULD.  

The chain groaned as it was worked from both ends.  Metal scraped stone. 

Somewhere behind her, one of the others cried out and fell, leaving Ezri to

bear more of the load.  Her shoulders dipped with the added weight, eyes

wild, teeth now bared in a snarl of blinding pain and effort.  

Still, she shoved her entire (inconsiderable) weight backward, and pulled

against the force tugging forward.  

Whether by command of Drakkara, sheer stubborn will, or hard-headed refusal

to fail, she hung on.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[194] Ezrianne: Cult of the True Prophecy: Purpose IV

Wed Jul 23 15:52:16 2025

To: Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ostrim Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She didn't hear anyone approach, not over the clang of chain and the

blood pounding in her ears - but suddenly, he was there.  

Maccus.  

He moved like a shadow cast by some mountain, sudden and overwhelming.  One

moment Ezri was alone with the impossible burden in her hands, and the next,

he was wrapped around her, massive and immovable.  

His chest pressed to her back first, a wall of heat and power that swallowed

her trembling form.  Then came his arms, huge and sure, his giant hands

closing over hers with a force that threatened to crush her fingers if it

hadn't been so exquisitely measured.  His palms enveloped hers, pressing her

smaller hands flush to the chain, absorbing the jarring weight that

threatened to tear her arms clean from their sockets.  

He didn't shove her aside.  He anchored her.  

His biceps flexed around her arms, hardening into steel bands that caged her

against him.  One of his thighs slid between hers, bracing her stance

without question, adjusting her posture with a subtle press that brought her

center of gravity back into alignment.  His other leg flanked hers solidly,

locking her in the perfect position to withstand the tension now redirected

through his monstrous frame.  

His stomach pressed to the curve of her spine, hard as armor.  He bent at

the knees just enough to match her height, to mirror her angle, to wrap her

in his strength completely.  His breath was warm against her ear, controlled

and close, but he said nothing -- only grunted low in his throat as he took

on the full force of the chain.  

The momentum changed in an instant.  

With Maccus' bulk added behind her, the chain no longer yanked inward.  It

gave.  Just a little, then more - sliding outward, groaning as it moved

against the stone.  A shift in gravity, a shift in power.  Ezri felt it like

lightning through her bones.  Her own strength trembled inside his greater

one, dwarfed and cradled all at once.  Her knuckles ached.  Her body still

burned.  But now, now she wasn't breaking.  She was held.  

Fast, tightly, firm.  

With Maccus behind her like a force of nature, they pulled.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[195] Ostrim: The Cult of the True Prophecy:Purpose V

Wed Jul 23 16:23:55 2025

To: Shadow Archal ( Tritoch Telthian Symantha Ezrianne Kirkland Melchaleve Taeborlin )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Basilica of Apostus was quiet, even the frog-oyle stood silent as the

demonic blob covered Ostrim's head.  Knelt upon the ground, his arms limp at

his side, Ostrim was prostrate to the power that sought to control him and

feed from him.  The frescos, their faces flickering from the painted visage

of Necrucifer to Apostus' human form, watched as their master scoured the

man for anything it could feed upon.  So consumed was the demon that he no

longer paid attention to the retreating Supplicants as they left the blasted

hellscape through the portal with their precious cargo.  

---------------------------

It began with the dust stirring around the armored figure, a vibration that

built up and outwards.  A purple light pulsed from beneath his plate mail and

up through the veins of his neck.  His hands, no longer limp, were clenched

into fists.  The remaining clerics, broken from their trance, looked around

to see what was causing this reverberation.  Until, in a single blast of

power, Ostrim's war cry forced the demonic ooze from his head to splatter in

all directions like a burst bubble.  The concussive blast knocked everyone

off their feet and the frog was sent careening into a wall where it was

transformed back into it's stoney form.  

Purple light streamed from Ostrim's eyes and mouth, pouring the essence of

Drakkara into the confined space.  The blast turned over pews and rocked the

very ceiling of the basilica causing stones to crumble down onto the mosaic

floor.  However just as quickly as the power came, so too did it diminish

and fade, like the far-off echo of a war horn.  For a moment there was

complete and utter silence.  Ostrim shook his head and looked around. 

Destruction and waste were strewn about him.  Seizing this reprieve, he

gathered his sword and shield and hobbled towards the doorway and the portal

home, drained of all his strength.  

Limping through the cinnabar stone landscape, he crossed the threshold into

the Temple of Evil.  

----------------------------

'...  The seraph felt the clash of our forces against the Cult's and decided

to take advantage of the situation much...  ' Telthian stopped speaking to

Taeborlin and Kirland as he turned his gaze upon the figure that stepped

through the portal.  

The scene within the chamber was a greater mess than before.  The bodies of

multiple seraph, powers from the Aurora to the north, lain strewn about. 

Their feathers seemed to float on some fel wind.  Ostrim immediately broke

the summoning circle to close the portal he had just entered from.  His face

was a mask of pain and exhaustion.  The High Priestess was tending to the

needs of Archal while the others stood in various positions.  He met

Ezrianne's gaze and gave a smile and a nod to the chain that laid by her

feet.  

'Bearhide.  ' spoke the Dark Lord.  One word with a weight of meaning within

it.  His arms crossed and his form posed as if waiting for something.  

'Aye, ser.  It's done, let's get 'im home. ' ordered Ostrim, the last

command he would give for this quest.  

'As the Supplicant states, Storm, we march for home!  ' replied the Dark

Lord.  

-----------------------------

Within the basilica, the droplets of Apostus began to writhe and fuse

together.  He took silent stock of his domain.  All of it could be repaired,

other followers gained, and there were still shadow knights who clung to the

old ways.  He would bide his time again.  Drakkara could not touch him here,

he would have his revenge.  The frescos on the walls nodded and swayed, each

picture a homage to the dead God of Darkness.  Yet as the demon collected

himself into his natural form, the face that was no longer a face gazed up

upon the ceiling and screamed silently.  For there, dominating the roof, was

a new fresco.  Painted in similar fashion to the walls, it showed the death

of Necrucifer and the rise of Drakkara.  The demon was now cursed to suffer

Drakkara's smile for eternity.   

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[170] Kirkland: Cult of the True Prophecy:  Purpose VI

Wed Jul 30 13:17:46 2025

To: Shadow Archal ( Tritoch Telthian Symantha Ezrianne Ostrim Melchaleve Taeborlin )

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It could have been a log.  Or a rock.  A corpse.

What they hauled across the wasteland of a basilica that was surrounding

them was simply an object.  Thrashing demons, corrupted souls, all vying

to prevent them from their goal:  A simple pinprick of darkness where the

chain disappeared.  

His training to this point in his life had prepared him for moments like

this.  Where his duty and focus would need to be applied beyond any

contestation.  There was no point in worrying about Sir Kayen, his wounds,

his mind, his soul.  Kirkland knew getting through that portal was the

goal that must be achieved before all else.

One hand gripped on the figure, and the other an absolute blur of a darkly

glowing blade, sometimes acting before his eyes could even meet the target.

They all slowly made their way through the chaos of battle, battered

moreso by wails and screams and roars.  Blood and spit and pus that only

this place could exude, light a rain in battle.

His only glance back saw Ostrim kneeling before Apostus himself, before

the extraction group of fellow clansmen were surrounded by a swarm of

beasts like no other, stalling their push to escape.

"Drop him and clear this path!"

Like a sack of potatoes, they dropped him to wield new fury.  Kirkland

and two others keeping one foot on a Kayen limb, as to not lose feel of

their precious bounty.  Archal barely inched along the ground from the

slowed pulled of the chain, while battle cries and commands made their

ways through the clash of weapons on demonskin.

Losing one Novice in the process, the swarm finally weakened to their

retort.  They picked the Shadowknight back up, hauling him over the

corpses of those who tried in vain to stop them, the chains speed now

seemingly coupled with their own confidence and resolve.

Time to go home.