Drip Fed Pt 11

The Long Way Prologue 1 -- The Doubtful Blessed

The presence of the divine was everywhere on Sanctuary LXIV. It weaved through every stone that made up the Cathedral Leaf. As the name implied, the entirety of this world was one large place of worship, dedicated to the 33 originals and all that had followed their example. Every blessed brick that made up the superstructure was crafted by a god, a work of art and a mark of their existence. The unfathomably gargantuan structure was unified in its colours. White, the colour of the Progenitor God, was the most prominent, with silver, the colour of the Omniverse, being the second most common. The colours of the other seasons, red, green, brown and blue, were steadily present as well.

This place was created by the Divinity Beckons Art of the Progenitor's Chosen, the head of the Church, her holiness Liberia Justitia Amenia the First and Only. By her request, the Progenitor God itself had made this Leaf in the image of his season. Sorcia, the season of magic, in which the weather was an unchanging tranquil and the air became enriched with a steady flow of new mana.

Mana, the magical resource that the Omniverse created from the void that surrounded it. Its divine presence flowed through the stone. It flowed around the trees in the forest that filled one of the endless courtyards of the cathedral. It played with the leaves, permeated the soil, made it incredibly easy for the Druids and Priests to convince the fields to produce food. Without magic, the supermassive structure would have been unsustainable in terms of food. With magic and those who could wield it, it was a paradise of learning.

Mehily stood in a corridor, her hands resting on the stone railing that separated her from the drop into the courtyard. Desperately, she tried to perceive colour. She assumed the trees were green, but was unable to verify for herself. For all she knew, every one of those trees, bearing multiple kinds of fruits, could have been tiny representations of the Omniveserse itself. The magic that played around them certainly indicated as much.

No matter how much she tried, no matter how much she attempted to even be sure of the shape of the trees, she saw nothing but the magical outline of them all. The properties of the Leaf made them rather obvious. Other worlds would not give her as much of a luxury.

"Attempting your best, as always," a voice filled with unwilling respect reached the blonde's ear.

Mehily opened her eyes and turned towards the speaker. Not that this made her perceive the other in a greater fashion than before, it was simple etiquette and a habit that she retained from a time, not terribly long ago, before that which filled the sockets in her skull were pale blue spheres of glass.

"Lord Inquisitor Lars," the blonde bowed her head before the man. She couldn't really make out his features, only the mana coursing through him. It was filled with divine purpose, outlining the fibres of muscles and the position of his bones. His sex was apparent not only from that revealed build, but from a lack of seedbed in his lower torso. A woman's womb was a highly concentrated nucleus of the soul. A man was more evenly distributed in that regard. "I greatly value your respect."

"As you should, priestess," Lars almost spat out the last word. He and the other Inquisitors on the Leaf, established or in-training equally, never tired of reminding her of what she was. They taught her to see like an Inquisitor, but she never had the convinced zealotry nor the stoic character to actually become one. Mehily was a Priest. "You carry the eyes of one of my pupils and I will not let you waste them."

"I will not disappoint you," Mehily promised, still keeping her head lowered. That the glass of her eyes originally came from Evmaria was a situation she was never going to fully come to terms with. She and the Inquisitor had never been on friendly terms. Regardless, her death was a great loss. That it came at Reysha's claws made things even more complicated.

Lars clicked his tongue, as if Mehily could not possibly succeed with that promise. "What do you see?" he asked.

"Shapes," she responded. "Outlines, veins, cracks. Attributes, to a lesser degree, density, the difference between organic and inorganic. Souls, the presence of Divine Sparks, but little more."

"Do you see the gardener with the hoe?" Lars asked.

"Yes, Lord Inquisitor. His heartbeat is accelerated from the heavy swings."

"How about the nun carrying a basket of apples?"

"Yes. She is with child."

"...Indeed..." Again, there was the tone of hesitant respect. "And the man walking across empty handed?"

Mehily's eyebrows furrowed, as she concentrated to find who Lars was talking about. The range of her perception increased as her focus intensified. Suddenly her sight was illuminated by a brilliant soul. "...a Cardinal?" she whispered.

"...No..." Lars responded slowly. "Anohal Victor. He is a personal assistant of Ecclesiarch Melawa. Your mistake is understandable. He has the power of a Cardinal, but not the rank of one."

"The Omniverse is too large to be overseen by only thirty-three Cardinals," Mehily said. "Does his presence here mean that...?"

"Yes, word of your report has finally reached Illumia," Lars scoffed, a shade of red tinting his soul. That was the only place Mehily had found to reliably see colour. "Her supreme holiness should reconsider the proposal of the First Inquirer. 162 days for a message of this importance to come to the attention of the Blessed Council. A streamlining of the bureaucracy is clearly in order."

'A streamlining under Inquisitorial oversight,' Mehily thought the quiet part and kept her lips sealed. As much respect as she had for the militantly faithful, allowing them to dominate the Church's daily affairs would lead the holy institution to become something wholly different. The current divide between Priests and Inquisitors and the further break-up along sect lines served to keep the entire structure from becoming a hardened monolith. Had it been such when Mehily's faith was at its most shaken, it would have shattered at the purity required to be accepted into the Church.

Even now, she had her doubts. Were the mortals truly deserving of the freedom to choose their own path if monsters like Apotho were created from it? If they could execute a creature like Apexus merely for failing to understand what it was? In Jersoja's teachings, she found her answers to the questions of discipline and self-improvement, but not the whys and hows of the Omniverse. The libraries of Sanctuary LXIV offered the words of other Cardinals and the tenants of other gods to research. Much of that had been enlightening.

Those libraries, she did not trust the Inquisitors to oversee. She had an inkling that more fundamental texts would become all that was easily available. The Inquisitors wouldn't dare to burn the other sacred texts, certainly, but those that didn't fall into the rigid understandings of the most zealous would find themselves sealed in some hidden away vaults. Even now, such a thing happened occasionally.

"Then it is time to act?" Mehily asked.

"No, it is time to catch up," Lars told her. "I've come to bring you to Anohal. He wishes to speak to you personally."

"It will be my honour," the blonde Priest said in a steady tone. She so clearly remembered the awe she felt when she first spoke to Remezan. At this moment, she felt not even an echo of it. The splendour of the Cathedral Leaf had made her grow accustomed to intense divinity. More than that, the chain of events that had ultimately brought her to this place had taught her that the wisest men could be fools.

They descended into the forest through a flight of stone steps. Mehily's bare feet felt grass. She was trying to hone her sense of touch as much as possible. Here on Sanctuary LXIV, she could see a good hundred metres with her Inquisitor's eyes. Through the sacrifice of other things, she could perceive so many tiny details. Once she left this place, it would be more difficult. Few Leaves were as drenched with magic and divinity as this one.

"Anohal Victor," Lars called out.

"Ah, no honorific, as usual of you," the same responded in a soft voice. Now that she was closer to him, Mehily perceived Anohal in more detail. His build was quite effeminate, long, slender limbs, a bone structure on the androgynous side, and a thin torso was densely packed with muscles that looked unimpressive.

"You are an assistant, you have no honours to your name," Lars remarked.

"Quite," Anohal chuckled. "Lord Inquisitor, you truly live up to the title." While his tone was amused, a multitude of complicated colours flared in his soul. It was a spectacle of light and emotions.

"How I loathe you worshipers of Hashahin," Lars confessed. "Blessed by the God of Arts and Actors, but your double-faced nature is infuriating."

"I'm certain it confuses your uncracked eyes," the effeminate man laughed, moving one hand to his mouth to hide his smile. The sound of bells rang out as he moved. "What do you think about what you see, Mehily?"

"I do not understand it," the blonde responded earnestly, looking into the flares of emotion inside Anohal. There was a pattern to it, manifesting in a mandala of repeating colours. "I can see control, but I can make no sense of it. Whatever you feel, you do it with chaotic deliberation."

"I dance to the greatest of tunes," Anohal said and opened his arms wide, "and I have come as quick as I could to this place."

"162 days," Lars growled.

"Did you truly keep count?"

"As best as our state of information allowed me to. This is no laughing matter, Anohal Victor."

"That purely depends on your stance on joviality and your state of sanity," the follower of the Great Actor giggled. "Either way, you must admit that I came here quickly."

"Half a year -- is that what the sacred administration calls quickly nowadays?"

Anohal's tone suddenly swung into earnest scolding. "When responding to the matters of the endlessly sprawling creation, I would assert this, yes. What do you expect, Lord Inquisitor, that the news of a Warlock sends the gods themselves into motion?"

"A Warlock?" Lars growled. "We are talking about a Master of the Roots who saw the Core of Creation and who lost his Divine Spark in the process."

"A Warlock," Anohal waved off, "of considerable power, yes, but just a Warlock. Fallen adventurers are hardly something new. Someone of his power will burn a Leaf or two before we can stop him, rather than one or two cities before the local government does it. The stakes are different, but the play is going to continue according to the plan. Just as it always does."

"Your arrogance will be your undoing," Lars stated.

"Is that an Inquisitorial prophecy, I wonder?" Anohal hummed.

"A statement of fact, Imk be my witness."

"Swearing on our Lord of the Compass? You truly must despise me." Although she couldn't see it, Mehily knew the man was smiling. "Then I swear upon Hoard that I will give some more to charity this year. That should certainly delay the dark fate in store for me."

"Swear to that selfish Kobold entity all you like."

"Selfish or not, he is still a divine. I thought you respected all matters sacred deeply, Lord Inquisitor."

"Excuse me," Mehily spoke up, "but is this truly necessary?"

Her question was born from two factors. For one, this was a waste of her time. There was much she still had to learn, to understand, before she could head back out into the world. More importantly, the dismissiveness with which this man treated this whole affair bothered her. She still remembered the horror of the Deathhound. The silence of Heralry was carved into her ears. The darkness that accompanied her all the way to this Sanctuary. Confusion as she was transported, days spent sleeping in avoidance of trauma. Reclaiming the ability to see.

"Necessary for my entertainment," the follower of the Great Actor told her. "Does it offend you, perhaps? I must apologize. It is true that Apotho breaking free is a concern slightly above average. My master has even deemed it necessary himself to see to the matter."

"...Your master only?" Lars asked. "Must I repeat myself? We are dealing with a Master of the Roots here, Anohal. The Progenitor's Chosen herself must attend to this issue."

"And she will, she certainly will, once we make her aware of Apotho's location," Anohal hummed. "Until then, our highest lady has to deal with more important issues. You will have to agree that a Leaf-Eater is of a higher concern than an adventurer enslaving a few thousand people, yes?"

To that, Lars had no response. Yet, Mehily was shaking. "You see this as an ordinary affair?" she wanted to know.

"It is an ordinary affair," Anohal responded, flatly. "I understand that, from where you are standing, Apotho is a threat like no other. As difficult as it may be for you to believe, him breaking out is a catastrophe of the level that, to me, merely means that this is a day that ends in Y. The humanoids of the Omniverse strive for divinity. Those unfit to reach it fall to basic pleasures. The pursuit of basic pleasures leads them to egotistical cruelty and corruption. The humanoids that still strive for divinity, or are simply decent, ultimately remove them through much hardship. The play of history unfolds over and over again. This is just another curtain rising."

Mehily calmed herself. 'Think of the teachings of Jersoja. Freeze your emotions and only assert what is virtuous to feel.' "Then what do you need to know to make this curtain fall swiftly?" she wanted to know.

"Primarily where he is. Personally, I also have a moderate interest in where the trio you mentioned have gone," Anohal tapped his foot in a steady rhythm. "If Apotho let them live, they will either know something or he will come to seek them sooner or later. The villains can never help themselves. When power becomes the lens through which one views the world, cruelty becomes a sport."

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The Long Way Prologue 2 -- The Certain Desecrators

Tehomeia, that was the name of the Paradise Leaf.

The season of magic impregnated the air with boundless energy, roiling forests of crystal-leafed, silver trees covered hills and mountains with their brilliance. Between them played the animals. Albeit predators needed to hunt the less fortunate members of the ecosystem, when there was no hunger, there was peace between all of them. They were brilliant beings, evolved to blend into the fantastic landscape. Silver sparkling scales and fur, teeth like gemstones, eyes that saw the flow of magic. The animals were well-nourished and happy, the plants practically shot out of the fertile soil, and the oceans were overabundant with the fruits of the sea.

The local population of humanoids knew little of shortcomings. Certainly, they experienced the ups and downs of life, death, drama, love, care, friendship, betrayal, injustice, and family, but the hardships which nature usually piled onto the sapient experience they were spared. Outside problems, they encountered rarely. Few people could step into the thick magic unprepared and survive for long. What the inhabitants of the world had been acclimated to from birth was a deadly miasma to most beings. So concentrated was the power.

In that isolated garden of divine creation, full of brilliance, in a flat valley between black mountains covered with white snow, festered a scar. Silver wood and crystal leaves, the colour of the four regular seasons, were scattered about. Hacked into pieces by thralls, the magically rich material was tossed into massive furnaces. Blood red fire consumed them, boiled chunks of the mountains and turned it into proper Blackstone.

The ash spewed forth from the chimneys settled in the exposed soil, tainted what once was fertile brown a leaden grey. Infused with hellfire, the ash sent out sparks of blood red and bright green whenever disturbed by the thralls that stomped eagerly from one point of the scorched earth to another. The grey scar grew, made larger by the endlessly falling ash and every tree chopped down to fuel it.

At the centre of the scar, toiled yet more thralls. With metal and magic, they fashioned blocks from the Blackstone. Each was a work of art, the surfaces carefully smoothed and polished. Runes, sigils and decorations were chiselled into the hard stone. Each block had its place and mistakes were unforgivable. The master's house could be nothing short of a monument to his glory.

A crowd of fervent worshippers were granted the tiniest pause, observing what was happening on a podium near the centre of the scar. A man was on his knees, tears streaming down his ash-covered face. He begged for another chance to be useful. That he regretted rebellion. That he should have never raised his hand against her master's work.

Above him stood the empress of this place. A beauty above all beauties, beyond compare. Her alluring figure was covered by black satin. Not a speck of ash or dust dared to settle on her hourglass figure. Auburn hair framed her gentle face, each feature aligned with perfect symmetry. Most outstanding of all were her emerald green eyes. They gazed at the man with deep vice. Five slender fingers and a warm palm were gently placed on the rebel's head.

With the ease an adult would have torn paper with, the Empress of Blood tore open the top of the man's skull. Pain and doom dominated the consciousness of the man in his last moments. His screams were drowned out by the crowd. Adoring, with voices deep and ecstatically shrill, they shouted her name: "Jolene! Jolene! Jolene!"

The local population of humanoids had known little of shortcomings. Certainly, they had experienced the ups and downs of life. Now they no longer cared for them. They were truly free of all worries of nature, even their own. They were nothing but thralls to the whims of their empress. The whims of the empress were in service of her master.

While the empress relished in the blood dripping from her hand, while the crowd worshipped her, around the execution stand the work continued. With rope, wheel, crane and magic, they moved the finished Blackstone blocks to the centre of the scar -- the very centre of this world.

Bit by bit, they erected the master's house. The mansion was finished, a luxurious and cyclopean, circular structure, but it was a mere base for what he needed of them. A tower, tall enough to part the clouds, that was what he needed. The centre of a summoning circle that would span the entire world.

From the third and uppermost floor of this mansion, Apotho looked down at the execution. Jolene looked up to him, waved innocently with her bloody hand. The Warlock made a gesture with his head, commanding her return to the insides of the house. She nodded and started to move. Apotho turned away from the filth outside and faced the clean luxury of his home.

He was dissatisfied with the current state of affairs. They had running water, heat and energy for their operations, all drawn from the enriched air and soil, but the state of decoration wasn't enough for him. Blackstone, good as it was as a conductor, was hardly pleasing to look at on its own. The Deathhounds had been sent out to slaughter nearby wildlife to fill the rooms with furs and other trophies. Something to break up the black and decorate the walls with splendour befitting of their master.

The room he was currently in benefitted the most from these developments. It was one of the many bedrooms and the one he currently preferred to use. The mountain of cushions and furs didn't meet his standards of a bed, but it was a start. Once they had properly established themselves here, he could send out raiding parties to bring him what he deserved.