THE COMET'S REBUKE

[Xarkly 17299]

 

 

ISSUED BY THE

ON THIS 14th DAY OF TOV & YERMEY OF 535 E.S.

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

In northern Aevos, a wind stirred in the Karenina Mountains.

 

Across the miles of snowy ridges and pine glens did that wind blow, until the star-studded night sky vanished behind a pall of churning storm clouds. What little moonlight filtered through that shroud still reflected resplendently against the snow as the Karenina’s most jagged cliffs thrust towards the continent’s northern coast.

 

The wind whistled around the spires and haphazard towers of Castle Black, domain of the scions of Vukosav’s vampyric court, before it snaked along the steep slopes of the cliff upon which the Castle was situated, stirring loose snow like a white haze as it went. It traced deep ruts in the snow, where something enormously heavy had been dragged, before it careened over the icy waters of Aevos’ northern sea. The wind found a gap in the cliff-face, flanked by two enormous statues of a Gravelord who had once been called Kryndomere, and whistled inside the deep mountain harbour of Murkwater.

 

The wind sighed through the dark-stone complex built beneath the mountain, where Kryndomere’s inheritors had embedded themselves, and echoed through the gatehouse - its doors creaking as they hung from broken hinges and smashed locks - and the gaping portcullis, opened from within. The last vestige of that wind carried the mountain chill deep into Murkwater, over upturned chests and pilfered barrels, until its final touch graced the shattered mound that had once been a Menhir, beside a glowing, thirteen-foot golden cross that was no longer there.

 

As the torchlight glimmered on the glossy green stones of the Menhir - nor longer possessed of its ethereal glow - a dagger was plunged into the stub of rock that remained.

 

On that dagger, there was a message.

 

 

 

 

 

Hark, ye of Murkwater, and hear me - for I am the Patriarch Villorik of the White Comet.

 

You know well the sting of our bite, for you felt it during our maiden strike when the vampyre Daazhukt faced the Light’s justice; you felt it during our forays to Castle Black, where the snows were reddened with those we have taken; you felt it when we bloodied your lord Kryndomere himself in an ambush upon his own ramparts; you felt it the banners of King Ivan and Pontiff Caius were joined to repel you from your own castle; and so it is that you have felt it today.

 

You have placed a bounty upon my head, but I grow weary, for I know I wait for assassins of the Shadow that will never dare to come; irrespective of what form it may take, those of the Shadow are always cravenous. They might possess the power to return from death a thousand times over, and yet they tremble at paltry humans nonetheless.

 

And so, I deliver this message as rebuke to the bounty upon my head, for what you had done to the soul of Serwa, and for the Blessed Cross of St. Dimitri that you have stolen from my lady niece’s keep of Morteskvan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We have retrieved the Blessed Cross of Saint Dimitri that you have stolen. We have destroyed one of your fell artefacts, and pilfered others for study. Four times, now, have we penetrated to the depths of your den; it is by some chance fate that there have been none of your progeny there to slay.

 

Alas, the world is gripped in chaos as our generation’s flagship battle in the War Eternal looms. The servants of Azdromoth think themselves empyreal champions after their bestial master’s victory over the fell Aengul Xan; the west remains harried by the forces of the Hexicanum, championed by the nigh-invulnerable Gashadokuro; and the Shadowspawn uprooted by the Church’s inquisition now scatter to new lands, and must be squashed.

 

The White Comet must now join its brethren proper in more pressing battlefields, for Murkwater is now little more than a fly in the periphery. All the same, I know well you will be inclined to seek retribution by preying upon some unaware traveller in the small hours, and so I impart to you a simple message by which you might stay your hand, and wallow silently in inequity.

 

 

 

 

If ever your trace is found south of the Karenina Mountains again, then the banners of Canondom will be called to give patronage. An army under Ser Caspian Colborn shall march beneath the banner of King and Pontiff, and they shall rend Murkwater to rubble. Every last trace of the Shadow shall be expunged from the north, be they vampyre, necromancer, or Frost Witch. 

 

If what you told me of your ultimate goal is true, loathsome Sermi, then you will not find purchase in further crimes against the innocent, and those weak enough for you to enact your fickle wrath upon. 

 

If ever you step into the Light again,

Murkwater will fall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Credit @Limmz for screens.

 

[satin 7600]

Serwa, with half a soul, gazed at the rising sun. She was content. Sermi had stolen her humanity from her, her emotions and feelings, but she was content. 

 

It was often said that zeal dwelt in the deeds, not the words, of men. But Serwa knew this to be untrue. She would never say it, but Sermi had achieved a small victory over her: without an acceptance of what could be, without a willingness to walk blind into the unknown, she could never truly bear the Canonist faith. She bore no more pious zeal - no more piety to begin with. Zeal resided in the heart and the soul, both things which she now lacked.

 

But it didn't matter. If the faith was true, she would circle back around to it anyways... or maybe she wouldn't. The logic of reason grasped her mind, and pointed it: surely God was whatever won. Surely the God was the most powerful of all beings! At least, any God worth worshipping was. Not the minor Aenguls, or Daemons: The God. 

 

Power. Power was the mark of transcendence. What did it matter if it was diabolical, or divine, or even mortal? So long as it was greater.

 

God is whoever wins.

[Reckless Banzai Screamer 15456]

“**** em up, Villorik - the opposition is in shambles!” Shugo Kato continues to poke buttons and grief various do’badder onmyoji sects at war with one another across the continent. Like a wave though they would be washed by virtue’s high tide when least expected.