A short, swarthy man stood in a dank, gloomy cave, lit only by the occasional torch, as well as the one in his hand. He walked down, down into the abyss. His breaths were ragged and blew fog: for whatever reason, the deeper one travelled in The Pit, the colder it became. And it was cold. 

His name was Nixus, a Pit Guard. And he was on a holy mission. Not the general mission of his order, the Pit Guards, who held prisoner the gods themselves in the name of the Godmother; no, he had another entirely. Taking heart in his righteous cause, he pressed on, ignoring his growing fear. 

He was descending the Spire, the staircase that connected the castle with the levels below. It was very old, as old as The Pit itself. They said that the Children of Aton themselves built the complex, brick by brick. Though he doubted they would deign to do so personally, he could not help but feel the same awe as he always did as he descended that massive staircase, wide enough for a dozen men to walk down side by side. 

“You alright, Koyati?” the man next to him, Caeman, asked. “You haven’t said a word for an hour.”

Nixus looked at his fellow Pit Guard, as if noticing him for the first time. He’d forgotten completely about the former nobleman as his thoughts went round and round. He’d have much preferred doing his rounds alone, but orders were to patrol in pairs. 

“Because I don’t want to hear your ugly voice,” he answered coldly. He disliked Caeman, as much as he disliked all the others. They were all highborn, sons and daughters of senators or legates, and Etruscan to the bone, wheareas his own mixed heritage showed in his dark skin color. They called him “Koyati” mockingly, but he took pride in the term. He was one of the last true followers of the old ways of his people, after all.

“Well, there’s no need to be like that. Pull the sand out of your ass already.”

Nixus went back to ignoring him, noticing the bricks on the walls give way to sheer, hewn rock. They had arrived at the lower levels. The staircase came to an end at a great bronze door; automatically, they lifted the fortified oak bar which kept it shut, struggling under its weight, and opened the doors. 

The walls here were strange. Their architecture was almost alien, the walls, floor, and ceiling forming a perfect square, smooth beyond what mortal tools could accomplish. A faint mist covered the floor, the temperature now downright chilly. And a vague sense of [i]wrongness[/i] gripped him. This was not a place for mortals. But mortals they were, and their duty was to walk this hallway. After a moment’s hesitation, the same hesitation which gripped them whenever they walked this route, they pressed on. 

It was pitch black in the hall, which was only illuminated by the torches in their hands. As they walked, he could make out alcoves in the walls, passageways near as massive as the hall itself. They were covered in clouds of darkness that even their torches could not pierce, however, so what dwelled within, he did not know, nor did he want to. All he knew was the stories passed down amongst the Guard, and the inescapable feeling of being watched he always had when he passed them. As he passed one such alcove, he thought he could see eyes glowing with malice within. No doubt just his imagination. Still, he instinctively brought his free hand to the hilt of his blade and sped up his pace, Caeman likewise.

Finally, they reached the end of the hall, an arch blocked by two other men, their tabards similarly emblazoned with the dark sun of their order. The senior amongst them nodded, allowing them to pass. They entered the penultimate chamber of The Pit, and the most closely guarded secret in the entire Republic: The Chamber of the Gods.

For such a grandiosely named place, it was fairly underwhelming, barely twice as large as the hall leading up to hit, its circular walls bare of any decoration or ornament. Two guards stood within the chamber at opposite ends, looking bored after many hours of tireless watch. But despite the mundanity of the room itself, what was at its center was breathtaking: A great stone bowl, as tall as his waist, surrounded by the gods themselves.

They were breathtaking to behold, both beautiful and terrible to behold. They simply stood motionless around the bowl, still as statues, but at the same time so very alive. Some, such as the huntress Aylin, were human in appearance, albeit still intimidating by their legendary deeds, while others, like the Pallid One, were horrifyingly inhuman. And there was of course Therelon. Looking at the Keeper of Knowledge, his resolved hardened.

“Alright, we’re done here, let’s get going already...” Caeman was starting, but Nixus payed him no mind. Throwing caution to the wind, he broke into a run, making for the gods and the bowl as fast as his legs could carry him, drawing out his knife as he did so. He could vaguely make out the other guards stepping forward in reaction, but he wasn’t worried.

For so long, he had been living under a pretense, to the point where he had almost forgotten himself. To the world, he had been Nixus, loyal Pit Guard of the Republic. For nearly twenty years he had served, bled, and killed for their cause, all to get where he was today. To make them forget that he was really Nix an-Dur, the last of a proud line dating back to the Dawn. Seeing the Keeper of Knowledge in the flesh, he was reminded of that truth: that he was not a Pit guard, he was a Devoted. The last remainder of his order after a thousand years.

He slammed into the bowl, pain echoing through his ribs. But even as he was winded he raised his dagger. Behind him the others were drawing their weapons and moving to tackle him, below him was a pool several feet deep of a liquid which seemed to have no color or viscosity. 

He brought down the knife without a second’s thought, gouging a hole through his palm. The agony was unspeakable, and he almost passed out, gasping as a torrent of blood sprayed from the wound, falling into the pool. A moment later, a blade burst out of his chest, one of his former comrades having impaled him from behind. But it was too late for them. The liquid in the bowl was now becoming thick and crimson. 

The blade was pulled back from his chest, and he fell to his knees, his hand still dipped in the bowl, which had now begun to shake. He raised his eyes to meet that of the Wise One, Therelon, still immobile “Glory… to… the...” he everything went black, and his head dropped into the pool. Glory to the Devoted. Glory to Therelon. Glory to the People. He had done is duty and had his vengeance.

When the bowl ruptured, sending flying shards across the room and pooling the tainted fluid onto the floor, he was already gone.

[center][b]*     *     *     *     *     *[/b][/center]

Some thirty kilometers away, in the great golden palace of Analos, Eyra, Seer and Godmother, awoke from her sleep with a start. Her heart was hammering away in her chest so strongly she thought it might burst out. A mortal of her age would no doubt fear a heart attack, but she was a Child of Aton, and immune to such maladies of the flesh. She knew what she had seen in her dream, that it had not truly been a dream... and what the sudden, minuscule yet quantifiable, rush of power into her signified. 

The dam had broken. The gates were smashed. The Children were free.

[hider=The Situation]The Children are all in the dephts of the Pit as this starts. The Angels are surrounding the now shattered Bowl, able to move again for the first time in a thousand years, while the Demons are in their individual prisons, which have also been shattered. The only way out is up the staircase, through the castle, and into the world.

Have fun.[/hider]