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The elaborate skull-painted face of Cold And Silent Longing stared up at the huge golem that had just greeted her. She glanced at the expectant congregation of devotees behind her, all dressed in black robes and godbone ornaments, and shrugged. Nothing for it, then.
“Hello. You have a rare opportunity to partake of the truth of the Dead And Undying God and the First Necromancer. Would you like to?”
The towering steel thing stared back at her silently for several seconds, tightly gripping a large halberd in its right hand. "I apologize," it said, the noise echoing from seemingly nowhere in particular on the golem's body, its facial features hard and unmoving.
"-but I do not understand. I am incapable of complex reasoning beyond my set imperatives. A delegation will arrive to speak with you shortly." It continued, incandescents filling the sky high above a canopy of twisted, writhing trees, each seemingly a new shade of unnaturally bright colour.rees.
“...I see, a servitor. Very well. I await your controller most eagerly.” She turns to her congregation. “Let us pray.”
The black-glad gathering of necromancers- a couple dozen, in all- begins to incant a low, grim prayer together, led by Cold and Silent Longing. “We pray that the bones of God are generous. We pray that the sanctity of the deeper layers be ever kept. We pray for the health of the saints, and all those who have passed into the secrets of the Barathron, and we pray that we are found worthy in their sight. We pray that our descendants keep well our bones, as we keep well the bones of our ancestors…”
They continue like this for some time, until, finally, their prayers are intercut by the sharp *snap* of holes being torn in reality, twisting, dull blue swirls of arcane energy conjured into being a mere handful of feet away from them, on the very same granite platform.
From each, out stepped a towering form, tan, pointy-eared beings formed of toned, rippling muscle, their bodies sculpted to impossible perfection, clothed by little more than thin strips of cloth that offered the most basic notions of modesty. (INSERT BIG SEXY ENBY ELF DESCRIPTIONS HERE)
"Greetings," the elf-blooded beings echoed, bowing in perfect, synchronized unison. "On behalf of the people of this realm, we, the guardians of this Rift, welcome you.”
Cold And Silent Longing finishes the current line of her prayer, and closes with “In the name of the God who is dead, but will not die, and the First Necromancer, amen” before turning to the arriving elves. She inclines her head. “I greet you. I am pleased to see that the knowledge of the Rifts has endured as well here as it has in the Tomb of God. I am Cold And Silent Longing, tenth Saint to serve the God Undying, adherent of the method of devotion, student of She Who Kneels Among Ash And Bone, and keeper of the mysteries of the Barathron. I have come in the hopes of sharing the truth that can be found only in the Holy Corpse. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
The graven, dignified tones of Cold And Silent Longing were undercut slightly by her chosen form, which was frail and all of four and a half feet tall (though admittedly, the many bones that adorn her simple black robes almost gave her back a touch of gravitas.)
The controllers, at least, show no disrespect for Cold and Silent Longing's height, even though they did tower over her.
The leftmost of the identical elves proudly smacks a hand against their chest, just above where their heart presumably was. "I am Rhistalyar," they say.
"And I am Ankhael,"
"And we are the stewards of this rift, on behalf of the floating city of Astralus." They proudly exclaim, speaking in perfect, practiced unison. "If you are friends, then we are here to welcome you."
"If you're foes..." Rhistalyar begins, interrupted by an awkward shrug from Ankhael.
"...Well, that should be obvious, I think."
The necrosaint raised both eyebrows. The action stretched the pitch-black circles painted over her eyes. “Do you often have foes who patiently wait for a delegation to arrive to speak with them? If so- you shall have to introduce me to your enemies, for they are suicidally polite and I wish dearly to meet them.”
"Actually, yes. A handful of fiendish things." Rhistalyar says.
"...Devils, the old records call them. A handful of their ilk are so driven by arbitrary rules that they will, in fact, patiently await delegations before trying-"
"to enact bloody murder. They stopped being terribly effective after long, though, as you'd probably guess, necromancer."
“Fascinating. I stand by my words, but that is not the purpose of my visit here. God is dead; but God is undying, and the wisdom of God remains in the Holy Corpse. By this wisdom are the bones of our ancestors stirred to aid us, by Its secret truth do we work godbone into form, and by Its highest art am I given life eternal, a testament to the divinity that is dead yet living. I am here to share this truth with those who are ready to receive it, and to extend to any who wish to make pilgrimage an invitation to the Corpse That Is The Tomb. What do your kind worship? I shall require an understanding of the cultural context for my work.” A long stylus of bone extends itself from Cold And Silent Longings finger, and the skin of her left forearm tears itself from the muscle and extends into a scroll of vellum.
"Us?" The twins both say, glancing at each other with curious expressions.
Rhistalyar brings their hand to their chest, once again resting it over their heart. "Nothing and no-one. If you'd desire to hear why, we could explain it, but this is hardly the appropriate place for such conversation, is it?"
"I find it quite comfortable." Ankhael beams.
“Tch! That you feel you have a reason bodes ill for your spiritual health.” The tiny necromancer scowls. “As for material circumstances, they matter little to me, and my congregation’s fortitude is only slightly less. Explain to me briefly, then, why you would prefer to bleed your spirit dry then acknowledge your dependence, and to what extent your society shares your benighted opinion. Then we may proceed to this… floating city.”
"It's quite simple, really." Rhistalyar nods, their expression unflinchingly friendly.
"We have thrived without masters, owing allegiance only to each other - our kith, kin, and community..."
"So why swear allegiance to something else? We are quite content living freely, as we are, with the power we have cultivated from the world and ourselves. Our existence is happy and fulfilling, just as I'm sure yours is..."
"Uniquely fulfilling." Ankhael sharply interrupts their sibling, holding up a hand. "As for how we arrived at this contentment? We were slaves once, you see, to mages that called themselves gods. Perhaps they were."
"And yet, they died all the same. Their bones make useful reagents, at least." Rhistalyar scoffs, lazily rolling their eyes.
"...And drinking implements."
“My condolences.” The small priestess nods, her face taking on an expression of genuine sympathy. “At the hands of false gods, your people have suffered a profound wound, and been deprived of your birthright of spiritual health. My relationship with the Dead And Undying God is symbiotic, not servile- familial, not slavish. I serve It as a faithful daughter, and It cares for me as a father. To come to know God is not a matter of swearing allegiance to some alien overlord; but an achievement of understanding your relationship with It. I shall have to correct this injustice posthaste. Will you permit us to establish a congregation among your people?”
"Perhaps," Rhistalyar replies, idly rolling their shoulders. "Once your intentions can be judged."
"We aren't all that familiar with the intentions of unexpected visitors in bone paint," Ankhael says, turning to weave their arms through the air, as if sketching out some sort of invisible design.
"but we can surmise a few things. A dead god? Our own necromancers would be deeply curious, surely,"
", though we must ask, for your own safety,"
"Your eyes aren't used to the light, are they?"
“I can add a translucent layer to my corneas. My congregation are not all so talented, but prepared themselves for hardship when they volunteered to carry the Undying God’s message afar. Unless you are concerned they will be wholly blinded?”
"No, they shouldn't be, but I would suggest they close their eyes as we pass through-"
"-this portal," Ankhael said, just as a wound opened in reality in front of them, a bluish mirror-pool which they stuck their hand through. "It will be much akin to being bathed in light, in this specific instance. So close to a point of instability - this rift - an impromptu portal must be heavily reinforced with power to prevent unwanted guests from following us through." They explained, pulling their arm back from the portal, revealing it to be entirely intact with a deft wiggle of the fingers.
"Shall we?"
The necrosaint nodded silently, and her congregation processed through the portal, pulling black veils over their eyes.
A bright flash of purple-blue light followed - then darkness, specks of orange light, and the noise of thousands of voices.
"You can remove the veils now, if you wish," Rhistalyar said, spreading their arms wide.
"It is nighttime here, as we have willed it."
The space they stepped into was enormous - a massive gold-domed structure held aloft by eight featureless statues of black stone, sconces containing glowing gemstones on either side of each. Further, between each statue, was an open archway leading into a street bustling with life, and the energy of hundreds of thousands of people drinking, eating, and enjoying the night.
“...hm.” Cold And Silent Longing stares at the agglomeration of people, and the vast, open-air space. Awed muttering passes amongst the congregation as they observe the crowds, each larger than an entire Church community. What’s more, the vast and open spaces are utterly unfamiliar to them- having grown up in the labyrinthine depths of the Body of God. Semi-consciously, they draw closer together, eyeing the new environment suspiciously.
“Your city is… very different from what I’m used to.” She pauses for a long minute before she remembers her goals here. “You mentioned something about discerning our intent before permitting us to establish a ministry.”
“Rarely do people concentrate in such numbers,”
“And even more rarely do they claim to serve a dead god.”
As one, the twins turn to face their guests, each holding an arm out to the side. The motion, in the darkness, carried with it a faint, purplish glow - raw power, released from their limbs by mere movements.
“While we welcome you to the city...” Rhis begins as Ankhael tilts their head to one side.
“..We must make certain that you mean our people no harm. We must understand you. Get to know you.”
“See your magic, perhaps, in a duel? Perhaps even enjoy the intimate company of a few of your number.” Ankhael giggled playfully, only to be silenced with a sharp, angry glare from their sibling, subsequently rolling their eyes.
“As I was saying, we must know what your words mean. What your faith is. Over refreshments, perhaps?”
“What manner of refreshments? I… dislike strong flavors.” The bone-clad woman furrowed her brow.
“Cold, purified water? Few fleshy things can manage to live without that.” Ankhael offers snapping their fingers. Into their hand appeared a ceramic jug, filled with chilly, crystal-clear water.
“That will be fine. And for my congregation? It would be profoundly unkind of me to partake without them.”
“Noble of you to say.” Ankhael nods. “Will the same suffice for them? We can provide all manner of things. Tea, hot cocoa.. That one is my favourite,” they said, licking their lips greedily.
Cold And Silent Longing’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the mention of tea. She grits her teeth and presses on. “Perhaps you could provide a small selection and allow them to make a decision?”
“We could... A selection, yes. There are many dozens of teas we can provide, or a number of sweet drinks, like fruit juices, alcoholic brews...” Ankhael sighs wistfully, remembering a particularly delicious concoction.
“...Or water. Dozens of varieties, even - the water of a living mountain’s springs, that which is simply conjured... Perhaps some allowed to intermingle with citrus?” Rhis continues, interrupting their sibling. “We have had many, many centuries to find ways to entertain and refresh ourselves, especially those of us who choose not to age.”
“Those of you who choose not to age. Ffffascinating. Can this state be sustained outside of this region? I’ve observed that the local thanergy blooms are drastically larger than expected.”
"It can be. This place - the Font - is infused with raw, arcane power. We have learned to... Channel it."
"To store it inside of us, and to become one with it. With effort, anyone can become like us, and achieve total control over their own bodies." Akhael says, conjuring a floating ceramic cup in the space in front of their guest.
"Ah! Speaking of - may we have permission to read the thoughts of your congregation, for the purpose of providing them proper refreshment?" Rhis asks, as Ankhael moves to pour water into the floating ceramic.
Cold And Silent Longing scowls. “You may not. I know only one other mind-reader, and I trust her as I trust a serpent. Either provide a menu, a buffet table, or mineral water for all present.”
"We are former slaves. We understand your caution, and apologize for any offense we have caused." Ankhael says, respectfully bowing their head. With a flourish, streaks of arcane power shoot out from their hand, and where they land on either side of the congregation, two long tables piled with veritable cornucopias of refreshments appear. Colourful fruits, carefully prepared meats, and, of course, several varieties of mineral water.
The congregants of the necrosaint eat and drink lightly, staying away from the stronger-smelling substances and meats (though several of them pick the familiar mushrooms from some kebabs that are on offer.) Cold And Silent Longing watches them for a short while, making sure they’re handling the new circumstances, before turning to her hosts. “How total is this control? Could you survive if your heart and brain were badly damaged, or become, say, much larger than you currently are?”
"We can, and more. The brain is... Useful, but it is not the only way for a spirit to command a body, and when a body is full of magic..."
"It is much easier for us to alter it," Ankhael says, floating the cup of water toward their guest with the flick of a hand - a hand that was suddenly covered in thick, shimmering scales.
The necromancer nods approvingly. “We have knowledge of similar arts. You had questions for me, though? Proceed with them. I wish to move forward with my holy mission.”
"Questions, yes." Rhis nods, smiling gently. "The first: your name, what is its significance, as it relates to your faith?"
"Ours were simply chosen because we liked the way they sounded."
She answers with the practiced cadence of an oft-recited prayer. “I am a Saint. My name is scripture. The significance is more manifold than one could fully grasp in a century of contemplation. It was given to me by God, and reflects It’s recognition of the particulars of my devotion, and It’s acknowledgement that I have become something other than what I was.”
The saint’s tone shifts back into her normal register.
“Practically speaking, it also means that none know the original identities of the Saints… though pilgrims often enjoy speculation.”
“None - including yourself?” Ankhael asks, their head slowly tilting to the other side like a rusty seesaw.
“...Excluding myself, and my fellow necrosaints. There are eleven of them, plus me.”
“Eleven... Saints.” Ankhael nods. “And your God-”
“; how did they give you your name? Through visions? Scripture? Both?”
“Neither?” Ankhael interjects, conjuring up a mug of piping hot cocoa to sip away at.
The necrosaint rubs the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb, and sighs in the exact manner of a schoolteacher asked a particularly stupid question. “You are asking how I commune with the Dead And Undying God. You realize that if you understood this process in full, you would by definition be a necrosaint? These are sacred mysteries, and they can only be understood by pilgrimage- in which I invite you to partake, if you are truly interested in the answer to your question.”
She adjusts herself and launches into a brief sermon. “The scripture of the Undying God is written upon It’s body- that’s metaphorically written, not literally written. Though it can be spoken of, it cannot be spoken. Though it can be discussed, it cannot be known except through experience. Experience comes with pilgrimage- descent into the deeper layers of the Body Of God.” She clears her throat. “That’s the actual, literal corpse of god, to be clear. We live there. It is unfathomably large.”
“Well... Rhetorical question or not, no, we did not realize this. We are just as familiar with your Dead God as you are with our city, or the walking mountains...” Rhis shrugged.
“Or any number of the mysteries of the Font,” Ankhael muttered, biting their lip as if biting back words.
“Yes. Our questions are honest, not meant to cause offense. But the corpse of a God...”
“We are anatomists - we must admit, we are full of questions. Like this: this divine body that is unfathomably large. It is so large, we gather, that it has not been fully explored?”
“Your curiosity does you credit. It is natural to be driven to investigate the Body of God. As for your question, you are correct- it has not been fully explored. Though we know enough of the general layout of the divine corpse to sort it into nine layers- epidermic, dermic, subdermic, muscular, skeletal, organotropic, nervous, nootropic, and barathron- there are many oddities within it, and no reason to believe that many more are not undiscovered. My sister saint Ivory Star Of Cancerous Bone has a particular interest in that field. If you have interest in visiting the Body of God, you are welcome to- the contemplation of the Body of God is a holy task that we would joyously share.”
"Perhaps we will share it. The body of a God, we imagine, is an experience we know will change us."
"Perhaps not. Perhaps our curiosity would kill us, or worse."
"The electric currents alone..." Rhis clicks their tongue, shaking their head.
"Barathron - what does this word mean?" Ankhael asks. "We share many of these terms, in description of the body, but not this one."”
“It means, roughly translated, ‘abyss’ or ‘deepest pit’. The word is ancient. Those who reach the Barathron layer, and return alive, are the necrosaints. It is the deepest place in the Body of God. To say more would be to betray the secrets with which I have been entrusted.”
"We see."
"We understand," Rhis nods. "None have returned without becoming necrosaints, then. Not unsurprising, we suppose..."
"After all, the body of a dead god..."
"...Must be a life-changing experience."
"And thanergy - this is some sort of death-energy, yes? But few of our people are dying, for we would sense if they did..."
"...So it must also be the energy the things within them release when they die and undergo apoptosis?"
“Of course it’s a life-changing experience. That’s the point . As for thanergy- it’s released upon any tissue or cell death, with a much larger blossom occuring at the moment of apopneumatism- that’s when the soul departs the body.”
"Fascinating. Our necromancers primarily animate the bodies of beasts, though we must admit, they are a..."
"Small contingent. We prefer artificial constructs, you see - things of steel and stone, rather than bone and dead flesh. Living flesh, on the other hand..."
"...Is easier to work with. For us. More efficient." Rhis said, emphasizing their point by sproiting a seat of pristine, feathered wings from their back, stretching them with the casual ease of limb they'd lived with their whole life.
"Most prefer the power of lightning and steel, however."
“Living flesh is simple, if it’s the necromancer’s own. And steel and stone cannot regenerate or replicate with the simple elegance of necrotic tissue. Far easier to make a shard of tibia grow itself into a servitor than to shape a body for the purpose. But we are not here to discuss the particulars of my power, are we?”
"We are not. You seem reasonable - caring of your people, at the least - but this other mind-readers of yours. She worries us." Rhis says.
"Worries us for the safety of our friends, more importantly," Ankhael sighs, narrowing their eyes. "We must inquire of them, so that our fellows can be adequately informed of what they would face, should they choose to follow you."
“The Lady of White Glass And Fire, keeper of the Inquisitorial Method. Do you wish me to tell her she is not welcome here? We don’t get along.”
"If she is one who goes about reading - or worse, altering - the minds of others without their express consent..."
The twins say as one, turning to look at each other, then back at their guest. They nod in perfect unison. "Then yes."
Cold And Silent Longing nods pleasantly. “Very well. I’ll pass that on to her. If she does pass through, you will know her by her extraordinarily sour demeanor. Her preferred form is a tall, middle-aged woman with pale pink hair.”
"Good. We appreciate your understanding. Our detection systems, at least, should have no trouble spotting her... Unless she is adept at hiding herself? We assume that it is relatively easy for one of such power to take different forms." They both say, once more in unison, quirking the same.
“She could pose as a clump of nerve cells in someone else’s spine, if she felt the urge. Or a small animal, or a shard of godbone, or any other form composed of biological matter that you care to name. But I do not think she intends to come here.”
"We will prepare, regardless, and we appreciate your-"
"-honesty. What of the other Saints? Our society, you see, is lead not by leaders, but by the will of its people - but we would understand who leads you."
The bone-painted face of the Saint calms as she slips into the practiced cadence of prayer. “I pray for the Testament Of Flesh Made Steel, and the gossamer sharpness of his blade, and the cleaness of his cut. I pray for the Lady of White Glass And Fire, bane of the heretic, salve to the faithful, and her implacable mercy. I pray for the Gilded Skull With Jeweled Eyes, and all the delights offered by their faith. I pray for the Most Patient Keeper Of Skin-Bound Tomes, and his flawless and eternal confession of the creed that binds us all. I pray for Warden Of Revealed Truths, who has forever sought knowledge over solace in lies. I pray for the Bloodstained Rose Of Holy Martyrdom, the Rose Unblown, and the hand of the clock eternally poised at a moment to midnight. I pray for A Burning Soul Hurled As A Spear, though she knows only the prayer committed with the body and mind, not with the lips and tongue. I pray for She Who Kneels Among Ash And Bones, bride of the Undying God, and the stygian depths of her communion. I pray for The Princess Crowned With Many Crowns, who has exalted herself, and the unspeakable joy contained in her smile. I pray for Cold And Silent Longing, bride of the Undying God, and the stygian depths of her communion. I pray for Speaker of Controversies, and the sharpness of her tongue, and the violence that she subsumes with the sword of her mouth. I pray for Ivory Star Of Cancerous Bone, youngest of the Saints, who wanders far and alone in forbidden places, and for her succor far from congregation and community. I pray for the Necrosaints, and for the First Necromancer, and for the God who is dead but cannot die, who lives but does not wake, who stirs but does not dream. I pray for their communion with our home, for the sacred rest of our forebears, and for the gifts of the faithful necromancer. Amen.”
She clears her face of the rapturous expression that has crossed it. “Does that answer your question adequately? If not, I can provide you with reading material.”
"Reading material-"
"would be appreciated." Rhis nods, calmly evaluating Cold and Silent Longing with... A suitably cold gaze, neither angry nor pleased with her explanation.
"We are a people of learning, after all, and as much as we deeply enjoy acquiring knowledge, we enjoy giving it, too.
“Excellent. Drusilla? Patience’s work, I think.”
One of the congregants carefully removes a heavy, leatherbound book from her satchel, and offers it to the two elves.
“A copy of the History of The Tomb Of God, as recorded by Most Patient Keeper Of Skin-Bound tomes. Traditional skin binding. It is the most directly informative and least metaphor-laden of our holy books; I think it will be most suitable for your introduction.”
"How did you-"
-acquire this skin?" Ankhael said, blinking in confusion.
“The inside front cover briefly details his life. The august Pelate Helverfere, faithful servant of the Most Patient Keeper Of Skin Bound Tomes in life, honored guardian of his words in death. Is that… unusual, for you?” She also blinks, confused.
"Unusual, yes..."
"We bind out tomes in the hides of animals, in materials made from wood pulp... Not skin, though, but-"
"As long as it was acquired with the person's consent, we see no moral qualms to be had. You bind all your tomes in skin?"
Bones clink against bones in her outfit’s adornments as the necrosaint shakes her head. “Only copies of holy books. Others are bound in necromantically produced hide. The pages, also, are not human vellum- that is reserved for first printings and original copies.”
"I... See." Rhis says, chewing their lip.
"This is all very interesting - we never encountered a society that survived solely using necromantic magic, nor did we comprehend how such a thing could be possible. We are..."
"Used to having access to many kinds of magic. One must, after all, in a place such as this."
"Are there other forms of sapient life in the corpse - that which thinks and feels?"
“The Dead God thinks, and the Dead God feels. It was still and quiet before we arrived, however- so far as I know, nothing else there is sentient.” Something hangs unsaid for a moment before the Saint proceeds. “The notion of ‘other kinds’ of magic is… unusual to me. Necromancy is the only kind of magic I’ve ever practiced. What kinds do you have?”
"Necromancy, of course." Rhis says.
"Transmutative magic is one we commonly employ. For example..." Ankhael said, tapping a finger against the jug they were holding. A pulse of golden light flowed through it - and suddenly, what was once a clay pot is suddenly transmuted into pure, shining gold.
"Evocation is another - in our terminology, this is to induce something to happen to another thing; specifically, it means to create raw elemental forces or to alter the elemental properties, rather than to bring something concrete into being, or to use magic to teleport it."
"Categories like these," Rhis explains, "...describe what spells do, but there are different ways to obtain the power necessary to cast spells."
"We draw it from our blood, our living flesh, our souls - from our selves."
"Others manipulate the fundamental nature of things using formulae..."
"...And yet more tap into the natural power in the world." Ankhael smiles, gesturing to one of the towering statues holding up the dome behind them.
"...And others use contraptions and devices where they lack natural ability to artificially create or alter the flows of magic. A handful, even, use sheer force of will to make reality obey their whims, and many combine several disciplines."
“...I see. The Warden will surely want to discuss this with you. So. On to my actual goal here. I wish to establish a ministry here, to invite and persuade your kind to make pilgrimage to the Body of Guide. I have answered all your questions.” A spark of ire enters her voice as she stares up at the elves. “May I do so now?”
"You may - but you, and the followers you have brought with you."
"Anyone else that wishes to must seek approval separately, and you will be kept under watch." Ankhael says, smiling warmly. "In time, that too may change."
“Tch. Acceptable enough.”
A collab between myself and Akrasia