Chapter VII - Healing Pains

[IamLEAM1983]

The stage was once again cleared, safe for the ruins of earlier, which seemingly were built back up as time flowed in reverse. The scale-model rendition of Dalarath they'd seen during Nu's scene was effectively recreated, the parody versions of Black Speech inscriptions resolving into what felt like entirely sincere words in the uncorrupted idiom. The exact opposite to the Black Books' usual effect could be felt, as if those now-pristine and white collumns held up the laws of Physics themselves. In the back of Marius' mind, the Noise would momentarily be muffled by a wave of meditative stillness - as if those new glyphs held the power to impose not madness, but a brief moment of mindfulness upon those who glimpsed them. Three reacted to it by suddenly drawing a breath and closing his eyes, while a brief spike of emotional tension traversed Nereus, before seemingly carrying away the dregs of the performance's other transports. The former Augur looked serene, and in that instant, only his weight seemed to separate him from Nu's suggested kinship.

Helena returned to the stage, still as Nu. "Thousands of years had passed," she said. "Hundreds of generations had followed in my wake. I had found my rest in our sacred dark, in my return to the womb of the mind - but still kept my watch. I do so still, or else these words would not be there to be spoken by another. I beheld only peace on the level that which interested us. The Young God's creation was safe, the evils of Humanity could not yet endanger its fabric - and so we remained cloistered in this, our Holy of Holies. Our Light was only occasionally allowed to shine upon their shores, when some figment of the Architect's envious rivals managed to make itself manifest. Mud in the water, for centuries on end. Trifle threats, but threats that still demanded vigilance."

Around her, the scale-model of Dalarath shifted, until the stage seemed to stand next to the first of the Word Houses. All of the surrounding buildings' windows glowed with a gentle golden light, but the windows on this one's last floor were lambent with menacing and sickly-green tones.

"Vigilance requires research," Helena-as-Nu explained. "Most amongst us preferred to further the glories of the Architect, to build in lines of force and sing in gravitational eddies, to forever improve on the dam we continuously erected around the Garden. Some unforeseen, if pleasant coincidences arose, namely in the coalescing and formation of Faerie. The further away and the more securely we built our watchtowers, the more the energies of a fourth, seemingly untouched plane of existence came to gravitate around the laws of our own. In protecting the material plane, we allowed for the Realms of Seasons to grow from the simple wishes of the still-enslaved Dragonborn into a tangible reality. Some of my prouder scholars maintain that we created Faerie, while I and many others have held that Nature simply abhors a vacuum."

On cue, apple and maple trees were seen sprouting around the model of Dalarath, sunlight shyly reflecting in the lake and birdsong dancing in the air. The faint suggestion of a winter gale could be felt, like the crisp scent of snow in places like Frosthall or Eien-no-Yuki. Nu's expression turned somber.

"While we sang and built, others made necessary sacrifices and gazed deep into places where the envy of the Dead Ones could be felt. Not for power or for desires of fealty - but to study our enemy. Unfortunately, coursing the Void through to Amaxi's baneful gaze requires a degree of submissiveness to Her cohort's selfish desires. Try as He might, the Architect never succeeded in giving us glimpses into His envious scholars on His own accord. In the gods' realm as in your own, well-kept secrets are difficult to pry away from those who hold them dear. The only way any practitioner, yours or ours' could have gained a glimpse of Their hatred..."

Nu sighed, as if ashamed. "...was to dedicate themselves to Their mysteries. We learned much, and for a time, these Dark-Delvers were an essential component of the Prelacy. Clothed in baneful robes and requesting tithes of flesh from our fishermen's catches, they spied into Amaxi and Dar-Larath's respective domains and were unaware of how sagaciously Harrogath kept his own defenses down. Either out of Godly obliviousness or shrewd complicity, we gained foresight and power; learned to destroy as well as we still created. Hate would come later, however. We had knives, now, lancets of force or poisons strong enough to kill harbingers of deeper, Cyclopean untruths - but no hate in our hearts. Our language could now become one of righteousness, of self-serving pride or dangerous hubris - but our intentions still guided us.

They would guide the most of us still, if Amaxi had not taught Arnoth the Usurper the art of Sundering - but we had darkened already. Our forms were changing, our offspring born closer to the myriad forms found in the surface world's sapient beings. Our skins changed, our gait wavered. We thought ourselves beautiful and covered ourselves in gold and fineries beyond anything the earlier centuries had allowed us to do. We sought out wordly pleasures and for a time, perhaps came to inspire those who would eventually speak of Alexandria or Rome."

Around the speaker, the model of Dalarath grew taller and more detailed. Its outline came to match what Nereus and Meris might recall, if only grander still, and pitted with age. The slave markets were still missing, but the sounds that rose from their general location left little to the imagination: houses of pleasure had been built there. Before cruelty and enslavement, the Squids had begun by falling closer to Harrogath's intentions for the world. They sampled its beauty, could be heard laughing drunkenly or moaning in release in the surrounding alleyways - and for now, at least, loved without restraint. Some of these courtesans and concubines' descendants would have been born and raised in the cave - and would eventually have been born not to the respect due to a lady-in-waiting in a well-tended brothel, but to a generation of slaves. There was decadence aplenty to be seen, of course - but also hints of what might arise. Embraces promising love, or a bloodline of initially-staid Augurs developing increasingly personal and intimate homelies, sprinkling the humour of bon vivant types in matters of faith.

A voice not unlike Nereus' was heard in the air, even if it was a smidge deeper than his, as if coming from a relative.

"...and so I took my leave from Lady Raissa in the Pleasure Houses, and made it a point to walk my way back home, dear friends, instead of calling for my palanquin. I had spent the day knowing love and bliss and after giving in to Crafty Harrogath for a few hours, knew I was called to the ironclad virtues of Honor and Moderation - Architect be praised - and figured I had better let out my supply of belches near the docks before my dear old Chamberlain heard me."

Polite laughter followed, after which the speaker cleared its throat. "We leave an era of absolutes, my dear friends. Custodians of the Real we still may be, but this world, this Garden, was not made for us to simply bend down to clip a few dead weeds from time to time - no! We are humbly entitled to a few of its fruits, as well! Not in excess, as we share in this Garden with everything else that walks this Earth - but as a celebration of our eternal duties. What harm could there be in our walking the paths above, under sunlight, just a little more often? What beauty could we behold, what tales of courage and bravery couldn't we hear from other throats than ours?"

Another voice issued a lightly teasing challenge. "I'd say you're likely to challenge Roman and Egyptian scullions, Your Eminence - everyone knows you're more one to taste than to kiss outright."

The past Augur chuckled good-naturedly. "The Architect forgive me, my will is weak," he said. More laughter followed, a bit like what you'd hear out of some Jesuit priests or Anglican pastors around a spread that maybe was a tad too richly-appointed to suggest self-sacrifice.

Three frowned slightly as he considered the implications. "Some good did come out of the Squids' lowering their guard, then," he mused.

Tom didn't seem surprised. "Compassion isn't too tactically demanding - any leader can draft up aid programs while still waging a war - but love asks for something more. A kind of abandonment, maybe, something the earlier Void Weavers probably didn't really want to allow themselves into. Attachment makes certain choices difficult."

Helena-as-Nu nodded. "Love can illuminate golden paths - or blind those who should have seen clearly."

[TennyoCeres84]

The shift in the writing on the pillars initially caused a brief tension, followed a sense of ease on the Archmage''s mind. She peacefully closed her eyes and sighed lightly. During these moments, she lightly rested a hand on Nereus' before returning it to her lap, watching as Helena resumed her role as Nu.

As Helena-as-Nu explained the creation of a fourth plane of existence, Faerie, was possibly the creation of the Void Weavers, Aspasia quizzically raised an eyebrow at this. Perhaps it was them or perhaps it was Nature filling the space, as the actress had suggested. In any regard, she mused that the Fae and any of the Wyldfae born from its creation had more influence over it than Squids or natural processes did nowadays. Of course, there were probably Void Weavers who would squabble it belonged to them.

As Helena's monologue explained the shift toward decadence, worldly tastes, and vulnerability that occurred, she listened to Aidan and Tom's observations concerning the role of compassion, love, and attachment. The dual path that love offered was true, but there were still nuances to that the selkie thought should be noted.

"Attachment may make some choices more difficult to decide, but that attachment may also give people a reason why something is worth protecting beyond a divinely-given duty. That's where some of the Architect's moderation might've come into use, but one can only see so far down either path and plan accordingly against obstacles," she quietly said before letting Helena-as-Nu continue.

[Karl the Mad]

Marius and Charles both had attentive, somewhat anxious looks on their faces as the play went on. They had both been impacted by the machinations of the Weavers, at some point or another. Charles had had most of his questions answered eventually, regarding Azardad and Gabriel and all that, but Marius was still in the dark.

He still had to know, who had afflicted the Black Speech onto his psyche? when and where did it happen? why did they think they had done so, and how had they managed to infect him without rendering him a stammering moron, had in fact given him the potential for power to rival that of other Weavers and archmages? He was starting to get a sense of some vast conspiracy, that would make his own malignancies look like tepid children's drawings. But who was behind it?

That's what he really wanted to know, he thought, leaning forward to watch more closely. Who thought they had the right to fuck with Marius Vlastos for so long?

[IamLEAM1983]

Helena stepped slightly aside as the construct of Dalarath swept in closer, pulling in towards the Word House with its single, green-lit window. Their view eventually passed through it, then plunging down to the atrium below, normally packed with other Prelates and now presented as vacant. A great brazier burned with an unnatural emerald sheen, in the center of the room, and a single Prelate clad in dark robes vocalized and gestured before it, the Squid's features taut with rapt focus, eyes afixed on something only he could see inside the green flames. Nu's personification obviously hadn't brightened up, in the interim.

"I wish I could say the Usurper was born evil, the result of some tragic flaw in the Garden's makeup. I wish our research had shown prior planning, or some detectable will in the Dark-Delvers to abandon our sacred office and swear themselves to the Others. It would be easier. We could console ourselves with the possibility of isolating a precise foe, rest easy in our perceived righteousness, and simply move on. Perhaps we did, in ages past."

On cue, the Word House's double doors were slammed open, two burly Arbiters shouting for Stone and Silence in the Black Speech's initially pure form. A look of surprise and rage froze on the Dark-Delver's face, and the keepers moved in to apprehend him. They faded out of view, however, soon replaced with another black-robed Squid chanting in front of the same brazier.

"The Usurper," Nu said, "robbed us of this knowledge."

Not wanting to impose this role on anyone, Lucian had clearly opted to create an illusory character out of whole cloth. That Squid wasn't in Penfield's group, he hadn't been with Jubal Whitney - he was new, and apparently terrifying to Nereus, who gripped his armrests tightly, eyes wide.

"Yes," the Squid said, speaking in English for the audience's benefit, "there it is - the key, the everlasting key to our salvation!" he noted, his tone feverish and impassioned, not unlike what you would've heard out of mages or certain scientists wedged deep into their research of choice. He spoke to no-one in particular, voicing his process aloud for his own benefit.

"With this, we shall lock the Others away, sate all Their desires for good and finally present to the Young Creator a secure and inviolable demesne, the safest of all canvases any deity could ask for! Nothing will be left but God's own precise applications of chaos and entropy, and - "

He paused and chuckled disbelievingly. "No. N-no, this can't be right! All my hymns and calculations, all the rites of appeasement, how can They still ask that we-"

Something caught in his throat as his gaze seemed to be pulled further and further into the flames, his tentacles turning taut, almost as stiff as stalactites, and his breath accelerating. Horror was rising forth, casting pinpricks of sweat on his ashen features. The illusion shifted, as though the stage were a camera, and the Prelate soon turned gigantic, maintaining a frozen look of decaying mental fortitude from a dramatically down-shifted angle - as if the audience itself were some object of Eldritch dread. The illusion's view then swung away, exposing what the Prelate was apparently witnessing - which had to be an artistic rendition of a minuscule fraction of the Others' aberrant hatred.

The sickly greens of the Darkhallow stretched out for all to see, immense black tendrils rising forth out of some unpreceivable depths, furling and unfurling into a feverish kaleidoscope that somehow communicated cold, calculating malice beyond all measures. Something of Amaxi's nature unfurled before the hapless researcher, the voice that was being conjured covering both sibilants and infrasounds. If the laws of Physics could be broken like a tangible object, and if someone or something could destroy them before the natural end of the Universe, their shattering would've probably sounded like this.

"TO END US, TRIBUTE MUST BE PAID. OFFER US THE PRIZE AND WE WILL GRANT YOU DEATHLESSNESS."

Various images were superimposed over the scene in short flashes, from the East Coast's skyline weeping blood under pitch-black skies to dark-clad Prelates being led across blasted streets on palanquins pulled by nightmarish agglomerations of the human form. Fineries were pulled over bombed-out buildings and women and children were paraded around as slaves, their features twisted and reformed by Squids that openly reveled in their dark powers. The infection of the Void Weavers' madness spreading like rot out of the ocean, engulfing Europe and advancing on North America for all of its efforts - until all that remained were the pinpricks of a billion billion fires raging, and screams of insane rage and glee dopplering out of hearing range.

The view pulled back, showing the cult of the Others engulfing Luna's colonies, the Martian holds and all of the empty reaches of space before Saturn - rot touching the fabric of the Real and spreading exponentially fast. As it happened, the gazing Prelate's features began to twist, going from terror to anxiety to barely-contained insane glee - and finally to hoots and shouts mixed with obscenities.

"END IT ALL," screamed the Usurper with horrendously misplaced joy, "DOUSE THE STARS WITH THE ICE OF THE LAST DAYS, TIE GRACE ITSELF TO THE BEDROCK OF A THOUSAND BROWN DRAWVES AND RAPE HER UNTIL BEAUTY ITSELF DIES! I DIE AND DIE AND DIE AND DIE AND AM REBORN IN MY FILTH, THE DUNG OF AGES REFLECTING HATE ABUNDANT!"

He canted his head back and seemingly tried to add something in the then-still-sanitized Black Speech, but the words caught in his throat. By now, the same doors that had been thrown open easily by motivated Arbiters were being pounded on without success, glowing and twirling lines of force having been enchanted into place against the entrance, to serve as a doorstop no Squid could've easily bypassed.

Cackling now, the Usurper began tearing at his clothes, and his eyes began to change. They lost the almost human softness they'd initially displayed, and turned to oddly-shaped blobs that shouldn't have allowed him to visually process his surroundings. They began to shake and tremor as well, possibly the first pair of eyes to ever show signs of the Others' indoctrination in recorded history. He grew uncomfortably quiet now, pacing before the brazier as his corrupted mind set to task in trying to figure out what was the first tribute the Gods That Were could have been expected out of a former servant of the Architect's.

"My mind is already yours, Demiurges," he muttered, "what else is there for me to offer? The hour is young, my eyes were just opened - a sacrifice would only snuff out the light I was given! Pass on the light, I must pass on the light of Her loving contempt - but how? How must I give You their minds? I cannot reason with them, they will see me for what I am the moment I unfasten those doors!"

That same voice from earlier had turned sibilant now, hissing out of the brazier's crackling coals. Out of the flames also rose two black tendrils that slowly quested for the Prelate.

"Give me thy tongue," moaned a voice, in a tone that left little to the imagination. However, considering the Others, odds were Amaxi wouldn't have been bothered by the idea of ripping out the tongue of her one and only steward. Shivering with anticipation, the Usurper approached the brasier and the waving tendrils. Outside, shouts in the Speech's lexical component could be heard, Arbiters realizing they needed physical acumen as well as their own grasp of the Speech, and calling for someone to find something big enough to ram the doors through - and quickly. Other Prelates were heard suggesting novel prayers for temporary flight so the windows could be reached, while more concerned ones shot the last ones' ideas down out of practicality.

Finally, another Augur's voice rose, the same one Meris had heard coming from Merath's companion, long ago. "Brother, please! Stop this now, while you still can! Douse this brasier - some depths are not meant to be charted! Think of your choir, your friends! Nothing could be worth what you are being fooled with!"

The only response Merath's consort would receive was a slowly rising and blood-curdling scream. Inside, the tendrils had immobilized the Usurper and punctured his temples, possibly through to the brain. His eyes were rolled back and the scream he'd let out was soon dying out into incoherent gurgles. He didn't quite collapse, however, but instead caught himself on the brazier. He didn't react as his hand sizzled, and instead looked down at the burned appendage with bestial glee.

The words he used weren't exactly those Marius occasionally employed, but the healing effect that had been desired did take place. Instead of fixing the underlying issues, however, the Usurper had simply bullied his flesh into righting itself, leaving him with a badly-scarred right hand.

Finally, the Word House's doors were opened by just a crack, a few fingers wriggling through as Cuthbert's equally-burly predecessors resolved to try and pry the doors open the old-fashioned way. By mistake, one of the Arbiters locked eyes with the Usurper, while they strained. Grinning far too tightly, the black-clad Squid raised a hand and spoke the first clear word of the Black Speech's known history.

"Break."

Such a simple word, but the commands contained within were numerous. First came immediate surrender as Amaxi's engineered madness spread to its second host, then followed by the compulsion to Break anyone nearby.

Screams rose outside, even as the servants of the Architect were Broken by an exponential wave of madness that surged through the cavern. The camera pulled back and out of the Word House, leaving the Usurper to his peals of maniacal laughter, allowing the assembly to almost visually track how the uninfected quickly retreated both to Respite Point and the Augur's palace, the healthy quickly applying vows of deafness upon anyone not showing signs of infection. What they couldn't hear couldn't reach them, obviously. They'd hoped this new plague of the mind couldn't be spread through other means.

Nu reappeared onstage. "The healthy ones remained quarantined for a few weeks, hiding away in the Augur and his concubines' respective chambers while below, the city was consumed by madness. It didn't take long for Dalarath to become a city of two Augurs, one relentlessly singing Creation's praise and the other spending weeks trying to unmake the world on his own. The corrupted ones' faith in the Others was unshakeable, but they'd lost the wisdom needed to understand that something as complex as Creation could not simply be unmade - it could only be allowed to run its course."

Helena sighed. "They outnumbered the healthy three to one, and were growing. Amaxi's ambition had instilled in them a restlessness of sorts, a refusal to content themselves with their numbers. They controlled the docks, and so had little trouble in preparing teams of slavers. A few families survived unscathed only by virtue of aping the infected. House Lulroth, unsurprisingly, is one of them. A few centuries later, even the uninfected simply were not aware of how lucky they were. Life was worship of the Others, and worship of the Others kept them alive - so they kept vows they didn't believe in. Who could blame them?

In the end, it came to my descendant - Merath, and her Consort, Triton. Them and a scant few hundred souls, only some of them trained in the arcana of Speech used to draw blood. The few of them, against thousands of lost souls. Poets and playwrights, men of faith and light, lovers and devoted husbands - forced to take up arms for the first and last time."

Helena bowed her head for a moment, with only keen eyes being able to spot the genuine tears that slowly made their way down her tendrils. "Our only solace was the hope that the game the Architect, God and Harrogath played had been planned for a specific goal, to bring about exactingly-chosen pieces. Only Merath had the luxury of giving her life knowing how Fate would give her a second chance; many more would die never knowing of their children's children, of cousins thought lost to the curse of Madness, somehow carrying the exact genetic sequences required to bring about our final weapons; quirks of the blood and flesh found in others - acting in Madness' name and redeemed through grace and effort."

Two stylized armies clashed like wispy clouds, the surrounding cityscape turning vaporous and the vague forms coalescing into DNA helixes. Behind one, a slab of pitted stone once belonging to the Library of Alexandria. Another one matched the tattoo on Three's back, a third one was backed by the Jenkins' heraldry and the fourth, an engraving of a diving seal.

"We never placed Fate in your paths," stated Nu. "We split the atom of Creation millions of years ago, and watched as a chain reaction of hope and woe alike shaped ourselves, and the world alike. If we had never studied our enemy, Amaxi would never have seen us, or known where to strike. We never would have gone mad, and no lesser Choir would have attempted to curse one of the Blood of the Dragon, still so young and malleable, with our knowledge. Those who oppose the Mad Ones would never have unlocked the means to render a surface-dwelling mine immune and inured to the Black Speech, to harness through biology what survived in escaping selkie concubines that reintegrated Orcadian life generations before Meris' birth, that mitochondrial gift hidden away in seven selkies, only to bloom on its own in the descendant of only one."

Footsteps sounded, and out came Lucian, wearing the same outfit as usual safe for his flat cap. "Friends," he said. "Saviors. Victims. Enemies. Lovers. Blood-brothers. Soulmates. Allies. Pillars of strength and judges-in-waiting. Names are what you seek, and we have none to offer besides our own. I know not who seeded Anton Azardad with his hatred of us, who killed his beloved Eithne. I know not who cursed you, Marius Vlastos, nor the depths of malice that drove them to condemn you to such woe. They are dead to the world, retaken by Amaxi, born Mad, living Mad and dying Mad, to be sure. I know not whose flesh is conmingled with yours, Aidan Drake and Charles Jenkins."

He turned to Meris. "We know nothing of who bedded your ancestors in our time of decadence, Meris, nor why they were simply released to Orkney. We found nothing to explain how seemingly pureblood selkies could carry our mark for generations to finally give birth to your exquisite mind. It may be that like Alexandria, proof and substantiating tales have been lost to time."

Lucian slightly bowed his head. "I speak for all of us freedmen of the Architect in saying we humbly bear the burden for all faults perpetrated upon you all. Our addled compatriots never will claim responsibility, but someone has to. Your suffering must end, and for all of you to fight with our gifts well in hand, true healing must commence. At one point of your choosing, the gods' game must end - and the Plan must begin. Harrogath's Craft has ended in bitter success and now, the Design's pieces are laid bare for those who can see."

The Architect's envoy raised his head slightly, casting a humble gaze on the surroundings. He stopped at Marius, arguably the one in them all who'd suffered most.

"Marius Vlastos of Alexandria - would you permit us to Sing in atonement?"

[TennyoCeres84]

Upon seeing Nereus' frightened behavior, Meris gently rested her hand on top of his. "It's okay, Nereus," she whispered reassuringly. "It's a piece of fabric in the shape of a Void Weaver. It can't hurt you, and I'm here."

The scene of the Usurper's origin and betrayal made her heart sink into her stomach. Her lips pursed tightly, the muscles in her abdomen tightening. Frustration marked her features, as even with the infamous Squid couldn't be wholly blamed. Nobody could, really.

She thought back to Merath's words of forgiveness. After so long, that was the solution to it all. So simple, yet it was unclear how it could actually be done to sincerely and efficiently solve the problem with the Others.

The Archmage understood that the Usurper's pursuit of protection and perfection had made him vulnerable to the Amaxi's' machinations and the infection that followed. She was like a virus of sorts... Also, the Usurper's characterization recalled her own days of intense study. She was nowhere near his intense focus, but she realized that sort of hyper focus would put anybody on the brink.

As for the chain reaction that led to her birth, Meris felt no anger. With the realization of her being Merath's reincarnation, she had mostly come to peace with the fact. Her ancestors had given her a foundation that would continually shape her dedication to the mission, to ensure that this long-standing War would eventually end.

The selkie regarded Lucian's explanation and collective call for healing with a somber and accepting expression, with a light bob of her head. She looked from Lucian to Marius, curious to hear his response to her friend's query.

[Karl the Mad]

These were the answers he had sought for so long, and yet they weren't. The idea that whoever had inflicted the Madness on him had simply been obliterated by Amaxi upon their death was... impersonal. He didn't like it much.

As well you shouldn't, the Noise hissed. What manner of vengeance is that, to simply shrug and let annihilation be the end of it?

The vengeance of the sane, he realized in that same moment. Lucian was right. He could wallow in despair and confusion for the rest of time and miss his chance at breaking eternity, or put it all aside, accept the Song of Atonement and move forward with purpose. Not to mention make lots of progress on his "recovery" that he could report back to Cate and Enlil about!

Pleased by his own petty logic, he smirked and nodded. "By all means, Sing your hearts out," he replied, leaning back in his chair.

After a moment, Charles also nodded, though he still looked troubled at the thought of how meddled with his life was. It was something he'd get used to, but not without protest.

[IamLEAM1983]

Lights came on in what had to be an elevated space usually reserved for lighting technicians, Penfield and his quintet visible through a large slit in the domed ceiling's decorative margin. Lucian took a step back, bowed his head, and slipped his hands behind his back. Then, he and the quintet both raised their heads, tendrils barely moving as their more human-like vocal folds did most of the heavy lifting.

The language that was being sung was ostensibly the Black Speech in that Meris, Three, Charles and Marius would recognize it, but it took the timid creative workshops of both herself and Nereus to new heights: this was as close to the lost idiom of Merath and Triton as Jubal's teams of linguists had likely managed to go so far, and the result already spoke volumes.

Somehow, syllables that normally evoked terror, pain or madness danced in new graceful combinations, permeating the attendance's minds and bringing images forth without prompting. They would see a finally-rebuilt Hope shining in what looked like springtime glow, the last of the Brimstone deposits gone and the ordinary ebb and flow of life around looking almost serene, in the moment. Peace didn't have to involve idyllic scenes of renewed vows or expansive shows of trust between allied comrades. Sometimes, peace looked like the noontime throng in Renton. It sounded like a loose collection of car horns and Internet radios, and tasted like someone's to-go Chai-and-milk as it wafted in the air. Sometimes, peace felt like the quiet gratitude you could feel, in realizing you effectively existed as a part of it all - an active participant.

The White, or Clear Speech, as some more racially-conscious researchers in the Gentlemen called it, could still carry mental or emotional components. The catch was that the Squids had never intended to bellow madness in someone's ears, not when they'd been made to whisper inspiration or support. Aidan felt a sudden tug in his chest as he latched onto this sense of gratitude and, surprising himself, managed to find an accompanying tone to maintain. He started to hum along - quietly at first, and then with increasing confidence. He didn't sing outright, but it felt as though the Ensemble and Lucian knew how to welcome new voices - even inexperienced ones - and how to harmoniously find them a place in their melody.

One by one, the circus performers and attendance joined in, as if pulled into the melody. Nereus could handle the accompanying lyrics and their associated complexity, but the Clear was an entirely new dialect to him. As with Aidan, Nereus realized Lucian and Penfield had integrated even his first few clumsy hums into the overall structure, and provided correctives gracefully and unobtrusively. With his tongue and tendril placement fixed, Nereus gained in confidence and began to sing louder and louder, like a Gospel choir's lead. Swap hallelujahs for praises for unwavering atomic bonds or the surety of purpose of all forces tended to by the Thrones, and you'd sense that the Squids' apology wasn't a simple plea for forgiveness, so much as a graceful and wizened abdication before the combined forces of Civilization and Nature - a recognition of the Void Weavers' true place in Creation. Its Eldritch components unfurled like overlapping symphonies never devolving into cacophony, thanking Marius for his humility and restraint and recognizing his efforts, promising honor and glory to all of those of the Jenkins bloodline or telling Abraham that no matter what unsavory details might lie in his ledger, what mattered most was that he was here, now - with those who depended on him and those he could depend upon, if need be. The song enveloped Meris and Nereus, thanking them for their patience and their efforts, bemoaning the bloodshed they'd been forced to perpetrate without accusation, knowing that either of them would have preferred any other outcome. It promised rest and repaste, food for the mind and heart - and the quietest, humblest of all victories. Their billowing gestalt even managed to work in Archie's stiff, if impassioned delivery of an old 1812 Imperial chestnut, The British Bayoneteers, and only started to wind down once the Prince of Pride's Mantle could no longer be contained, the song having stoked it to the point where Herbert shone like a white phosphorus flare, his sense of pride in everyone involved expanding like the heat corona of a suitcase nuke - thankfully without the damage incurred.

The resulting cocktail was intoxicating and, in some sense, wasn't too different from the most noxious of the Chamberlain's old sermons - if the entire thing had been flipped on its head. As Arthur responded to the song's end by aggressively dipping Alana and kissing her the way only an undead freed of the need to breathe could, Three felt himself clapping so hard his palms began to hurt and eventually moving to a single "FUCK YEAH!" that ripped giggles out of Grimley's troupe.

For once in a long time, Marius would feel like something had managed to completely supercede the Noise. Nobody here had any ulterior motives: they'd been led to the safest place anyone in their group would've known in months, and had just received a gift the likes of which few people ever so much as managed to even give on their own. If honesty was a weapon, it had just landed a solid blow on the Noise, enough perhaps to send it recoiling a few paces away into the back of his mind, possibly humbled for the first time in a long while.

Ah, but the Ordo Dracul hadn't received their gifts from Lilith for no good reason, however, and that need of his instincts to step aside to let the man he'd always been feel more openly might push Marius into going over the last few minutes, to find out who exactly had contributed what to the symphony - and who might've settled with lip service in the face of something so overwhelmingly earnest. As the Noise might've picked up on something, the man himself probably would need a little while to sort out his own intuition from the crashing waves of inclusion he'd just endured.

He'd have no doubt that the Squids probably could be more sedate in their displays, but this likely was the culmination of thousands of years of pent-up regret and gratitude combined. The next few ones, if any did arise, might be easier to parse. This was likely the entire species' first uncorrupted hymn in millennia, so you had to forgive them a certain lack of subtlety, let's say.

As for Meris, that very fact would be obvious to her, thanks to her own experiences. Nereus' first few Darkhallow-powered romantic nights out had usually climaxed into dramatic earnestness, until experience finally allowed him to realize there was more to a couple's night out than holding onto your loved one for dear life and spending several hours finding synonyms for I love you. The last time they'd managed to go out without being too concerned with their escape plans, Nereus had been as natural as they'd come, having eventually figured out how to swap impassioned pleas for soft glances, smiles beneath his tendrils or his sneakily finding out her preferred wine in their future timeline. He'd always have a certain "religious" quality, no matter which god he'd end up serving, and had managed to show just how you could take the Augur out of Dalarath, but taking Dalarath out of the Augur would still be a tad dicier to manage...

[TennyoCeres84]

The younger selkies, like the rest of the attendance, joined in with the melody that swept over them all. They brought their own starting hums that eventually evolved into youthful singing. They added in their own responding chorus of "FUCK YEAHs!" to Aidan's, fists pumping into the air.

Aspasia and Miranda were also able to blend their singing seamlessly with the everyone else's. The older Fauness' seemed like a commander rallying her comrades in a morale raising song after a hard-earned victory. Miranda's voice came in higher tones that followed along with her mother's.

Eyes alight with passion, Alana returned her dark beau's kiss and wrapped her arms around him in a fierce embrace.

The form of Clear Speech likely resembled that of Merath and Triton's caused Meris' heart to surge with inspiration. She listened to the perfomers' melody to feel where she fit in, understanding it wouldn't be difficult for them to weave her into the arrangement.

She started with a simple hum and a light tapping of her foot to keep the rhythm. Over the course of time, the unabashed joy and promised respite made her Epiphany seemed stunted in comparison, how this pure feeling of happiness allowed her creativity and inspiration to well forth. It struck at her nature as a cantor. The Archmage let the pure emotion of it flow through her, the strongest of songs passing through her lips. Her song didn't take over the main singing group's efforts; instead, her efforts only intensified them.

Eyeing her husband with sheer joy, she sang her gratitude and the wonder she felt through this new form of expression. He might recall her own exuberance in the Darkhallow, how she had shown her overwhelming love for him and the eventual mellowing out of it. If he would always retain a certain religious quality to himself, Meris still had that caring, regal feel to her she had centuries ago.

[Karl the Mad]

Marius was quick to add his own voice to the Song, after all it wasn't his first time Singing with a choir of Weavers. He was happy to let the Noise be pushed back, to allow his own feelings to be drawn forth so he could sing them outward. On one level he was looking around at the other singers, noting who joined in and who merely played along, and he knew the Noise was marking it too, though for what self-serving reasons he surely couldn't fathom right then.

Those were thoughts for later, of course. For now, there was a Song to sing.

Charles was one of the last to lend his voice to the symphony, the usual hesitation to let the Black Speech loose around respectable crowds holding his tongue. And he knew that's what it would be, too, no matter the sensation of fresh ideas in his head. He recognized the sounds, somehow, and was filled with wonder at how this word or that particular tonal construct could have been warped into the harshness he was familiar with.

Eventually he shrugged and took a deep breath, reasoning that whatever damage he might do, there were few in the city better equipped to deal with it and repair it than the present company he was in. Beside him, Abraham covered his ears out of habit, though he didn't stop contributing to the song. "Here goes nothin," he muttered, closing his eyes and letting the Song wash over him, and then he joined in with the familiar ugly snarls...

[IamLEAM1983]

Strangely enough, Charles would realize that his supposedly ugly snarls weren't ugly if they served as a bass line in the Song of Atonement. He'd realize that while not clearly audible - and consequently, made as harmless as the others - they all could still make out his varying pitch and tone and worked them into the total composition, in the same way Otto Geier's Old High German snarls might've seemed disquieting only to those unaware of their intended purpose. If the melody above him suggested release, atonement and the clear intent to move forward, his provided backbone felt like a stern reminder of sorts: to forgive does not imply forgetfulness. He was part of a whole now, of a family that would come to his aid if anyone so much as attempted to shape him like Gabriel and the Squids once had. If Charles Jenkins the Third ever had to change to develop a new skillset, it would be out of his own volition - and with a healthy support system standing at his back.

As for Nereus, Meris' regal history didn't matter in the moment. He hugged her fiercely for a few moments and then slowly pulled himself away, keeping his hands on her shoulders, as if to take her features in. He didn't speak as the Ensemble closed out the Song, his big, brown eyes all but screaming everything the circumstances didn't allow for, a soft smile waiting behind his tendrils.

Silence settled in, Lucian being seen gesturing to allow the less-attuned ones in the audience a moment to gather themselves. The Draugr head of Wyvern Holdings had his jaw set at a stern angle, arms crossed against his chest, but the posture didn't so much look closed as it indicated approval. Magnus nodded in approval.

"If I may," he said, raising his voice slightly, "the skalds of my clan would approve, and the Dragon's Roost itself approves. If we stood on Orcadian soil, my people's mead hall would open to you all. I know without a doubt now that Aldergard Kuhn has stood before the Alfather and has spoken of your great deeds - of all of you men of arms and seidrmadr. Some of you call Him God, many amongst you answer to the Architect - but in my heart of hearts, it is Odin Alfather himself who smiles upon us."

Something seemingly made the dessicated vampire smirk. "From now until, well, Ragnarok's second-best shot, it seems, and perhaps longer, judging by your respective qualities - Kraketoppen's halls, libraries, weapon stores and shelters are open to you. It seems to me like it might be Aldergard's will that you-"

The rear stage's drapes were pulled open by a hand, a light too bright and natural to belong to the lighting system shining through, as if the curtains opened directly onto a blazing noontime locale in Midsummer's grasp. In stepped Gabriel, who looked as though he'd cleaned himself up but still seemed a tad dishevelled. He was seen smiling as he whispered something to someone kept out of sight by the drapes.

"I'm, uh, sorry to barge in like this, but while the lot of you are making the fabric of Reality hum like a Stradivarius, some of us with a pair of wings are doing the same up in Heaven - for the first time in I don't know how long. Singing is commonplace over there, but singing for Humanity - all of it, in all its facets? That's been rather rare, over the past centuries. This is a first in a long, long time, and the problem is it sort of forces a different sort of tactics-related concerns on me..."

Smiling, Gabriel arranged his court uniform and managed to both stand ramrod-straight while looking entirely casual. "The first of the swipes at Planar conventions happened once my superiors deemed Anjali Bhatia couldn't be forced to remain away from the only person she'd known in her brief life who'd shown her kindness. I don't think I need to give names, but there were a few sticks in the mud who disapproved of transsubstantiating a freed soul. I told one of them I would jeopardize all that there is if it would bring joy to a single deserving mortal soul."

The Archangel paused, as a bit of emotion forced him to recompose. "There's someone with me today who's part of a more sustained wave of returned souls. The Anjali Test, as it were, was a success. Creation apparently has enough elasticity and give to tolerate the concept of a deceased soul being shifted to flesh and blood, and the energy expenditures involved seem to be barely more elevated than the sorts of background concrete and etheric radiation traditionally living beings emit. We, however, hold that Creation's liminality matters as far as notions of closure and reward are concerned, so only expressly permitted souls will be allowed to journey back to the realm of the living, to exist wholly and corporeally. Resurrection - and Ascension - are exquisitely rare events in their own right, and cheapening them won't be advisable until we have further concrete data. I understand you nearly all lost someone in the past. In time, we might interview applicants in Heaven and see for ourselves how truly ready your own lives are to handle one of the Soulborn. Finding Anjali again nearly destroyed Archibald Holden, and the man he seems to be building himself back into deserves our praise."

Even if Archie couldn't produce tears anymore, he absently raised a finger to the edge of one of his optics, drawing in a big and endearingly obvious steadying breath. The android then noticed how Gabriel's gaze was moving to find Aidan.

A new kind of terror seemed to bloom in the young man's features - fear, elation and exhilaration combined, along with what probably smelled to Marius like a big helping of anxiety-induced denial. Standing up, Aidan gripped the backrest of the seat in front of him as though he wanted to break it in half, his jaw taut, his eyes two reddening pools.

"Aidan," started Gabriel, his own voice choking, "we..."

He drew in a breath. "I'm sad to report that the Loyalists did indeed consume the minds and souls of your unit."

An agonizingly pregnant pause, borne out of both men's sensitivity to the issue.

"I don't have the specifics and I'm told the Loyalists did everything they could to obfuscate her and keep her soul out of all Planes, but..."

Unable to finish, Gabriel settled with stepping aside and gesturing briefly, then hunching himself down to contain his own mixture of guilt, empathy and fierce joy. His wings became visible, if translucent around his arms and back - draped around himself like a blanket, as if he needed to soothe himself by some measure.

The young woman who stepped onto the stage might've been in her mid-to-late twenties, close to Aidan's own age. Puerto Rican features - dark eyes and a slightly darker dusting of freckles over a soft mocha sheen, gave the group a nervous, if amused glance. She wasn't wearing anything particularly fancy, suit-fit black jeans under a form-fitting graphic tee that was covered up with a woman's suit jacket. Like Anjali, there was something of the supernatural to her, if expressed differently than the Fae or vampires - like a supplement of life-force, or a supercharged version of mortality. It felt like a soft, almost imperceptible glow behind the leathery richness of her skin, the unspoken promise to all blood drinkers that her essence would be like slamming down a shooter of concentrated Espresso for a mortal. She still had the musculature and posture of a soldier - although one who now was at ease - and looked like someone Aidan could've justifiably followed the orders of. She looked made of slightly sterner stuff than the young man - a tiny bit more self-assured, a tad more measured. She had the eyes of someone who'd clawed her way out of a tougher upbringing than Three's and who'd perhaps found happiness somewhere in-between Army postings. If Aidan could've spotted sightlines in the dime museum if given a few moments, Carrie Silva looked like she'd had the place's subconscious and tactical measure from the moment she'd stepped onstage.

She raised a hand in a bit of a nonspecific wave at everyone, and then settled on her old point-man.

"Holà, jarhead," she started, likely using an old tease at Aidan. "Kind of a shit job you did, keeping the apes in line while I was out..."

Aidan parted with a tearful chuckle and then stepped past the seat he'd been behind of. "Sorry, ma'am, screw you, ma'am!" he said, the term sort of disposessed from its military rigidity and coming close to Silas' own occasional jabs at Aspasia. Carrie's teasing smirk melted down to a grimace of rising sorrow even as Aidan's own face decomposed, and they soon embraced with quiet, restrained sobs, exchanging a quiet, almost prayer-like flurry of Spanish-English pidgin. Carrie apologized for not calling for backup the moment they'd spotted the village where their lives had effectively ended, Aidan apologized for not being more of an argumentative asshole and for failing to actively disobey her.

"Where'd they find you?" was the most they'd clearly hear Aidan ask her. "I'd heard so many warnings, but I didn't even know where you were, even once I knew how to look for you!" Understandably, Carrie looked just as distraught.

"I don't know," she said, "some sort of pocket world, like a dimension of sorts - a sandbox. The fuckers ran me through enough Milsim to kill me a handful of times; they did things to me... I was a mess, Aid, when some - angel, I think? - dropped me off someplace important, up with the Celestials. They couldn't let news about me break out, didn't want to give Uriel an excuse to lose it, so they brought Seducers up covertly, had these... women, I guess, rebuild my mind piece by piece. I had to relive everything, process what had happened, hear about you and everyone here while you saved the world twice... Now I'm here, and half of what's happened to me's redacted to even Gabriel; I-"

She gripped Aidan's head. "I don't think... I don't think I'm the same girl you fell in love with, Sherlock."

Three's breath was heated. "Does it look like I give a shit?"

He kissed her, whatever reluctance the new Soulborn might've had dissipating instantly. She pushed against him as he did against her, looking for all the world like they couldn't hear the renewed handclaps, the shouts or the taunting whistles; as if the entire world had shrunken down to their lips and their hands on one another's necks and jawlines. As he parted from her, a strange certainty made him smile as he probed the base of her neck.

"They made you like me," he said, breathlessly. "Like me, like Charles, like Marius. You can speak Squid, can't you? Did they let you try?
- I watched you," she said, between liplocks. "You taught me. Squids didn't teach me shit - acted like I was broken or defective. I picked it up once I reached Heaven, once they let me see down here to you. It was all whispers and shadow-play, up until Gabriel realized I could do good around the globe while you took care of Hope, kicked the Goat's culo for the rest of us."

Three looked equal parts exhilarated and confused. So did Carrie, understandably enough. "I don't know if this is hot as fuck or scary as shit, Car!" he joked, sniffling as he did.

Silva grinned, her features looking tailor-made for defiance, for stubborn life, fierceness - and perhaps just a smidge of misspent youth. "Me neither," she admitted, hugging the soldier. "So much of it is still fucked up, still wrong - but we're here now."

Three laughed, the sound of it weak for a few seconds, before he found the nerve to point at Carrie over her shoulder, as if signalling Meris and Archie.

"Fair warning, guys," he said, raising his voice, "she was my C.O.! Meanest lady out of Twentynine Palms, bar none!"

Staying in the hug, Carrie raised her own voice. "Don't listen to him, I'm only ever mean to well-meaning idiots!
- Says the Unit Commander who ignores fraternization rules to play Super Street Fighter II with one of those idiots while everyone's asleep!" shot back Aidan.

The couple then parted as they moved closer to Aidan's former seat. Nereus couldn't help but grin as Aidan called Carrie Chun Li and told her she was dead meat, and the young woman rolled her eyes in amusement.

"Whatever, Mister Spamming Blanka's Shock Attack to Win, I bet you were too busy saving the world with your pals to keep up with your SNES controller."