Chapter V - Brimstone

[TennyoCeres84]

"Thankfully, I know who's steering my son's body. Now, all is needed is to find his spirit at some point..." Meris pinged in response.

As for the fussy Void Weaver, her shade held up his hands appeasingly, his voice was steady, his head bowed slighty. "Chamberlain, nobody here is countering the Mad Ones' superiority or Their hand in our existence. The source of this debacle lies on Arkham's shoulders. For the time being, he is, at least, an anomaly or, at worst, an apostate. Our deepest apologies for any misunderstandings while discussing the issue, but it is through these discussions that we might delve more into why Arkham is the way he is."

[IamLEAM1983]

Chambers took half a step away from the group, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his posture being one of appraisal. "I can concede that point," he said, nodding. "We couldn't carry out our handiwork without some allowances for the laws of the material plane - most of which are implicit. I know the more uncompromising ends of the faith can lead to more difficult efforts on our part; but theirs is the ideal, after all."

He stepped slightly aside, inspecting one of the bookshelves as he did. "Our sacrifices are literal, after all. There isn't a day that goes by without our own Augur reminding me of the dangers of falling prey to the surface world's wiles. Compromises lead to comfort, and comfort leads away from Them. It's the faith's death by degrees and inches."

"Horace" gestured at his twitching arm. "I think I speak for everyone here if I say we know a thing or two in the art of being uncompromising in our beliefs. You would be pleasantly surprised."

Christopher observed the Cosmic Machinist and then lightly puffed out his tentacles in allowance. "I suppose you do. In any case, gentlemen," he said, looking back to the others, "I've kept you away from your work for long enough; I have to meet with the Speaker in another construct."

He nodded at the group. "Shadows shroud you, fellow Prelates. We might meet again, the Gods willing."

[TennyoCeres84]

The three disgused women respectfully bowed their heads to the Chamberlain. Still, it was Meris who told him goodbye, an approving smile behind his tentacles. "May the Gods shroud you in return for the many, faithfully-done duties you provide, Chamberlain. With Their sway, perhaps we will."

She turned away from the departing Void Weaver and ventured to a nearby shelf. The group of companions were allowed to hear her mental mutterings. "Hopefully, none too soon, you incorrigible bastard."

Once the offensive shade was gone, Neasa mentally asked her grandmother, "Does the Chamberlain have any such weaknesses?"

The Archmage scoffed. "Apart from those blasted Montecristo cigars, I could only guess it is his own life."

She then gave them a private glimpse of her last encounter with the Chamberlain. They would see a newborn Archmage hovering over what had to be a partially burning corsair's ship and a smaller ship of her own. Her pirate's garb was tattered and bloodied, as though she hadn't had time to change following her Ascension. The sky thundered and rumbled with a vicious lightning storm, ominous clouds billowing around her. Below, there was what must have been the brutally electrocuted bodies of former Arbiters littered around the deck. At the ship's edge, they would see a scurrying Chamberlain, fearful as he realized the new immortal was preparing her aim. Perhaps the Others had been favoring him in that moment, but he still opted to jump overboard and seek escape in the salty sea, her arc of electricity following like a bloodhound.

"Either way, he might have died, but I suppose instinct pushed him to rush for the perceived safety of the ocean. Perhaps it was chance or the Others' will, but he is a tough son of a bitch to kill."

[IamLEAM1983]

Cuthbert grunted thoughtfully and said nothing for a few more seconds, until he was sure they were out of earshot of the Chamberlain. "Zealots of any creed tend to have a surplus of willpower," he said. "You could argue that I'm a zealot myself, as I've pushed past injuries that left other Knight Commanders ready to turn in their swords and cloaks. I've met many who shared the same characteristic, even if they were motivated by nefarious ends. Assuming your arcs found their mark, Meris, the amount of healing required to restore the Chamberlain to the man we've met would've been astronomical. I'm sure you at least pushed him into clinical death for at least some amount of time."

Archie gave the alcove's attending corridor a wary glance. "Which begs the question: what if Amaxi had decided to reward our friend for his efforts? After all, if Nereus' state has deprecated and the Chamberlain's remained stable, isn't it reasonable to assume that this damnable goddess has elected to shift the burden of Her favor onto someone else?"

Three pursed his lips together. "I think we all know the answer to that question. I know I do, based on the letters he sent me. Chambers is the doer in the cult, all Nereus has to do is play his part and stave off his own death."

The shade of the Augur's resolve stood up. "In any case, we're about to make some progress. I'll signal for the Curator; remember the passphrase."

The false Nereus stood up and found a corner of a shelf that was freed of all books, housing what looked like a small bell hanging from a wrought-iron bar bolted into place. He rang it with one tap from a knuckle, the sound echoing luridly through the Black Library's halls and joining other similar chimes and tones.

At first, the Prelate who came forth left Drake feeling a bit dubious, with its hurried pace, pince-nez glasses, slightly accusatory glance and arms laden with scrolls and tomes. The shade had mentioned that they might be meeting someone peculiar, and the current responder felt all-too commonplace for this to be the right man.

"I see how it is," he started, his tone rather uncharitable, "some surface-born armchair scholars coming in for a quick cramming session before they meet the Speaker… Well, gentlemen, you'll find I'm not here to make it easy on-"

He didn't have much time to finish, as a strangely iridescent and… polymorphic hand reached out from behind him, even as another voice rang out. Again, it felt strangely nondescript. Not like it was the product of some voice synthesis construct, but more as though its user couldn't seem to focus on anything resembling gender, tone or pitch. Add a smidgen of playfulness to it, and you had a decidedly odd auditory concoction.

The shimmering hand seemed to cycle between all possible Void Weaver skin colorations at once, the fingers going from long and thin to plump and short from moment to moment. "Sorry, old geezer," cheekily added the newcomer, "looks like you're due for an unscheduled break! Let's knock you down a few pegs, eh?"

Immediately, the first Prelate crumpled into a snoring mass on the floor and exposed the newcomer in the process. There wasn't an inch of him that wasn't protean, like he'd been stuck in a sort of body-wide slot machine loop; waistline going from rail-thin to grotesquely obese and back in a second, shifting between leaner or muscular in-betweens at random; eyes always mismatched, tentacles curling and uncurling as they grew in length or number, or lost digits and shrank down. Still, it always remained legible. They'd be able to see it grin.

"Sorry about that," said the Curator, as he bent down to put the sleeping Prelate in a nearby chair, "this place is theoretically infinite, there's a finite number of Curators covering the aisles and walkways for all of that massive infinity; and I can't be everywhere all at once even if I'm a little savvier than the rest, when it comes to getting around in here!"

The Augur's shade didn't seem pleased. "You'd agreed with Nereus, Curator. When the day and date would've come, you'd be in this exact alcove, waiting for us!"

The Curator grinned again. "Hello, Fake Nereus; I see you left your sensitivity in your psyche's other pocket! You'll have to forgive that lapse, my usual corner was unusually packed today. It always happens whenever the Chamberlain plans a visit; all the sycophants crawl out of the woodwork and try and dish out obscure trivia in the hopes of attaining the Gods' favor," he explained, rolling his particolored eyes. "Nice work, useless speck," he said, aping the Others in a forced stentorian tone, "you remembered that Amaxi likes Chipotle's tacos the most - here's a meaningless promotion to a slightly-less-dreary corner of the world."

Three blinked. "Even the stay-at-home Squids know about Earth culture?
- Well, I wouldn't call Chipotle culture, myself, even if Lucian Rothchild will swear up and down that every little aspect of surface culture needs protection from our native corrosion - but yes, we do. It comes with being able to fashion 4K cable boxes out of thin air. Dalarath's a lot more… lit, to borrow from the kiddies, than when Meris here first fled. Oh, it's all Black Speech and all very noxious, but we've proven to be slaves to Consumerism, just like the rest of you. Also - hello, Aidan. Near-perpetual bewilderment is a hard trademark to shake off. I'd shake your hand, but I don't even know who I am, so…"

Three shook his head, choosing to ignore what sounded like an unconsciously-delivered barb. "Why would Dalarath adopt the surface's culture and technology if it's ultimately working to destroy it all?"

The Curator shrugged. "Ask the Goths why they let their women try out Roman fashions! If something's going to be raped and torn asunder, then who's going to complain if you use it for its intended purpose for a while? It's not like Respite Point or the Gentlemen have been complaining; having actually developed sciences to lean on serves as a viable alternative to the Mad Arts."

[TennyoCeres84]

The protean Void Weaver reminded her of spirits in the Shadowlands who had forgotten themselves and were in an odd sort of flux between standard and increasingly unnatural forms. Not knowing of how the Curator came to be here, she wondered if he might be a similar case.

She then turned back to Aidan and shrugged as well. "Hypocrisy as usual. When I left, braziers were starting to become less of a novelty in the lower households, but now you could probably find even a smartphone in the lower ranks of Prelates. Once a Void Weaver has an idea of how something modern looks, he can simulate it, even if it couldn't feasibly function in a city at the lowest point in the ocean. It doesn't even need to run on the same kind of energy; it just is."

At the mention of the Chamberlain again, Meris' nose wrinkled lightly in distaste, but she spoke softly, "It's entirely plausible he is garnering her favor more than Nereus is. From what I could see in his mind, he had pictured the Chamberlain with a duplicate figure of me, only it was Amaxi Herself. It very may be that the Chamberlain is deluded enough to think She cares for him in such a fashion."

Reminding herself that they need to stay on target, she then focused her attention on the newcomer and requested, "Curator, we require books on the Tenth House of Dawn."

[IamLEAM1983]

The formless Weaver grinned again. "Yeah - Aidan here clued me in. I know you're not impostors, no matter what Mister Petrified Sense and Strategic Wherewithal here has to say about it. Still, I appreciate the attempt at being thorough! Stay all menacing and broody for a bit, if you don't mind - we've got a bit of a ways to go, first."

A loud snort made the Curator look at the sleeping librarian in his chair. "Speaking of, I better put on a face, if we're headed for the vaults..."

He reached out and touched the snoring Weaver, his features rippling until they had settled into an exact duplicate. The only thing that wasn't up to snuff was the amused and frankly cheerful glint in the doppelganger's eyes. Even his voice was identical, if still tuned by an obviously congenial nature. He paused and crossed his eyes, lightly hummed in surprise at the sight of the small pince-nez glasses that rested on the ridge below his eyes, and then seemed to dismiss the matter.

For once, Three wasn't the one with more questions. Delmar seemed a bit puzzled. "Why isn't our friend here waking up in the real world? If you wake up from the Darkhallow, you wake up wherever it is you left your body. Well, usually."

The Curator waved that aside as he made his way down an attending and less traveled aisle. "I just gave him the Inception treatment, is all. A dream within a dream. I like to keep things nice and disruptive for the most part. That fella back there? I usually called him Ike, in the back of my mind. His real name's all portentous and mind-rending, natch, but - yeah. Ike's devoted, the Black Library's administrators aren't big on promotions, pleases and thank yous, so I figured I'd make a few cracks in that zeal while we're at it. Pleasant ones, of course!"

He rolled his wrist, a sort of slight bank of colored fog appearing in front of them and somehow staying a few paces ahead. Colors swirled and settled into a semi-opaque reproduction of the Black Library's hallways, Ike the Void Weaver acting rather dumbstruck while wandering through them, as Prelate after Prelate stopped to land encouraging remarks or compliments. Suspicion gave way to pleasant surprise and then to rising joy, as an avuncular figure who looked like the genetic pairing of Lucian Rothchild and Christopher Lee suddenly broke out of its graven countenance to excitedly hand Ike a Magnum-sized bottle of Dalarath's prize-winning 1998 moss wine to the finally-recognized and hard-working expert in book-keeping and classification systems.

"By Amaxi's Breath, High Prelate Ikanath, I've scolded myself for years for failing to recognize and celebrate your due diligence! I've spoken to the Speaker, and you are to have front-row seats for next week's homilies! Let us conjure a table and seats - we must toast to this!
- B-But I've never taken off days for the Midwinter celebrations before!
- Then, with the Brothers as my witnesses, you shall now!"

What followed could only be described as the result of an abused and repressed mind suddenly being given free reign. Ike more or less managed a bodily pounce on his boss and... took things in a direction that left Cuthbert signing himself, Archie to send an uncertain glance at Crystal while covering Anjali's eyes - and Delmar to reconstruct his fedora if only to lower its brim past his eyes. The Curator laughed as they walked on, Three looking both amused and deeply disturbed.

"I thought Squids hated it when you pulled on their tentacles...
- I'm almost sad about our coming into the open," joked the Curator. "We've spun surface-world pornography in all sorts of ways, to the point where we'll end up giving your fetishists more ammunition than they'd know what to do with."

They left the fog projection behind, Ike's boss in the dream fervently demanding that the glorified library tech shove its eggs down his throat. The Curator sighed almost happily at that.

"Everyone needs a little love, I always say... Except, this is the first time I've said that. I think."

[TennyoCeres84]

The display left the younger roane awkwardly looking away at the sight, unsure what to think about it. The werewolf coughed politely and also contributed to covering Anjali's eyes, glancing away too.

Meris had an odd expression on her created face. Her blue tentacles were flushed pink, while she ran a hand over her face and eyes. It seemed her mind was swimming with conflicting thoughts. It seemed she was somewhat embarrassed and also not surprised by what she saw, letting out an exasperated, little groan. Perhaps there were also some stimulated memories filtering in as well.

"This doesn't seem all that strange to you, Meris?" Crystal asked.

"No, not really. The Prelate couple I was erroneously sold to, through the Chamberlain's meddling, wasn't shy when it came to those types of things. Void Weavers hate it when you pull on their tentacles in a fight, but that's a whole other matter when it involves coupling."

She quirked a brow at the Curator. "Even with all fetishists, love doesn't necessarily look like what they were up to or something from the Dream of the Fisherman's Wife, after all," she admitted. "That's the tactile side of it, and it plays some part, but it's the deeper connections that make it last past the carnal aspects. Unless something drastically changes for them, all Ike could do is give his throat a sound rub after waking."

[IamLEAM1983]

Awkwardness kept the others mum for a few moments, before Three's curiosity took over again. "So... Void Weavers have hectocotylus arms somewhere in there, right?" he asked, gesturing to his own mantle of tentacles, which left the Curator to grimace slightly.

"Not exactly, no. We all have an extra tentacle that's usually kept outside-in and that usually sticks to the throat's lining without getting in the way. Arousal pushes that extra tongue right out and gets us to try and slip it down our partner's throat sac. Popular consensus says, erm, that, er, everything else we've got going on below the waist is an add-on of Amaxi's, so we'd better infiltrate communities and give birth to acclimated agents ripe for the nasty business of tearing your minds apart from the posture of a friend or boss or, you know, whatever. The Speaker has webbed fingers after Meris, for instance, with operatives that have had a foot in human communities usually developing tolerances to lowered levels of salt in their diets. You've seen it yourself - we're surprisingly adaptive. The Middle East's lot of operatives probably come with an increased appetite for salt, for the sake of added water retention in desert environments."

Anton opted to close the matter with Science's provided cold, rational shower. "We're technically agender, Aidan. In a society where everyone is male, then nobody is. We never codified couples the way humans or anthros have - some temperaments are more nurturing, others are more dominant - what matters is there's enough social cohesion generated to keep Dalarath or even this place from falling apart. Cross-species pairings are a notable exception: we're usually more comfortable adopting a masculine role in these cases. Even then, the way Miles and Ingram proved, there's always exceptions."

Three frowned. "Bert and Dave seemed to be on equal footing to me.
- Oh, come on. You haven't noticed Miles' worry-wart tendencies? The way he fidgets, looks back to his Labrador beau for reassurance?
- You're projecting," denied Three. "Miles was abused before leaving Dalarath, it makes sense he'd adopt a more skittish or vulnerable attitude when faced with people like us. We aren't his usual LARPers or cartoon fans - we're not harmless. We're his friends, but we're capable - and Bertram's record with capability is kinda spotty. I'm not going to demean a friend's relationship or reduce it to him being a sub or a dom, Anton. Get your head out of your ass."

Nereus' shade looked none too pleased, however. "Can we please make some headway, Curator?!
- Yeah, yeah," impatiently grumbled the protean Squid, "I'm just trying to make sure we'll take off from a spot where I know you'll stick the landing and not just wake up with your psyche's guts splayed across this place's marble flooring! You can't just fall down a corridor anywhere you damn well please, Nereus!"

Vernon blinked. "Did you just say Fall down a corridor? How does that make any sort of sense?!"

The Curator looked back at the disguised Winter Lord and grinned. "It doesn't make a lick of sense, Vern ol' buddy. Nifty, huh?"

The Dickensian Weaver huffed out a breath and glanced at his fob watch in what seemed like a reflex action. "This'll have been the worst siesta ever," he muttered.

[TennyoCeres84]

"It's certainly not your typical REM cycle," Meris chimed in. "However, think of yourself as Alice when she first fell down the rabbit hole, in this case."

"Only there's no rabbit or living cards," Crystal joked to lighten the mood after the awkwardness.

"And we're eventually going to find a way to cut off the Bitch Queen's head, instead of vice versa," Neasa noted.

[IamLEAM1983]

For once, Delmar was the inquisitive one. "I'm sorry, Curator, but I'd expected someone who'd be more in tune with the requirements of the job. Someone... stealthy, to be entirely honest."

The Curator shrugged as they approached the last corridor bend. "I came to here I don't know how many centuries ago. I'm basically your average feral child, except I got raised by books written about the surface world on top of the usual Others-worshiping bollocks. I was sentient from the get-go like a lot of other Squids, my actually learning to speak and stand up and everything was all stuff I picked up from the Black Speech versions of a good two or three dozen anthropological textbooks on Humanity. All I know is I don't have a body to return to, so all that hubbub about hunger or exhaustion is kind of odd to me. I eat what I want when I want, drink what I want when I want, and I'm not kidding myself like all the other morons who trawl those halls. I'm not packing fake muscles on top of rail-thin builds or massive chunks of flab - I don't need to.
- And the Speaker hasn't tried to uproot you?"

The Curator puffed out a dismissive breath. "Why would he? I can't be killed, I'm not nearly powerful enough to be a serious nuisance, and the whole amnesia thing makes my being a threat something of a hard sell. A lot of people think I'm just some bookworm who dug around too far for too long, the mind of some half-insane Squid that forgot to wake up and perform all that icky... body maintenance stuff you people have to do."

He cackled, the sound suggesting a smidgen of sunny, willing and gleeful madness, or perhaps eccentricity. "I don't mind; if it keeps the idiots off my back and my little nook safe! Besides, I'm the only Squid in town with enough of a loose self-image to manage stuff like this..."

The Curator seemingly grew and swelled out, Ike's rail-thin robes following along, a long groan of effort turning into a bodybuilder's bicep crunch that left Cuthbert with raised eyebrows. As he now towered over the group at close to eight feet tall, the Curator then bent down and picked up two stacks of discarded books that would've been too heavy for the entire group to lift together. The pince-nez glasses turned into black Ray-Bans, and he spoke with a forced Austrian accent.

"All mistakes in the Library's sorting systems will be... terminated."

Three scoffed in amusement. "Great - we stumbled into Dalarath's living cartoon character. Robin Williams' ghost would probably sue you if it could."