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Post by Èdan on Feb 8, 2020 13:38:07 GMT -6
The knight stands at the base of the great structure and takes its measure. Well, he could hardly be disappointed with the scope and grandeur of the place, even if the décor settles heavily on the mind and heart as to what exactly brought him here. At that particular point it would be all too easy to just turn around, walk away and forget he ever had the idea.. except he did, it led him here and there wouldn't be anything 'easy' about it.
His gaze wanders upwards, to where the top is barely seen and back down. He breathes in, out and swings the glaive with a sudden motion, doing a small twirling swoop before upending it and slamming the blade into the dirt to stand on its own. The books had been rather specific about the process of nodes, but it had been somewhat less specific on these 'keepers' or 'speakers' to said gods. And somehow, he didn't think they were the kind to appreciate seeing weaponry at their altar.
. 1 .
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Post by Èdan on Feb 8, 2020 13:44:25 GMT -6
Leaving the glaive behind, he begins to climb the steps. Even before making it up a substantial way its apparent the stairs would have been infinitely better to climb without armour on. But the temple was in the middle of the City and there was no way to make it to it without being seen, so Sarv had to be worn once more. Some passer-by may have questioned what a lord's knight was doing at such a dark place, but lords came in all sorts and kinds, and most of all in types that would have more than readily had their subservient workers go through the whole 'sacrifice' process while they reaped the rewards. Sarv wouldn't put it quite so bluntly if anyone asked, but it would have been pretty plain to see.
He just had to hope the process could conclude in a fashion where he would still be able to walk home on his own two feet. The pictures lining the columns on the way up of quite the bloody fest of a business going on at the altar didn't help towards that concern, but he pushes on.
. 2 .
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Post by Èdan on Feb 8, 2020 13:57:29 GMT -6
Halfway up the steps, the pictionary of the columns begins to lose its charm, in large part because the closer the altar gets, the more incessant the realization its just this now. No turning around, no walking back down, and certainly no letting some random gruesome drawings made by crude artists be let to get the better of him. The brave fear not the dead. He's crossed oceans, walked endless plains and frozen mountains, trekked through deserts and swamps and landed here, in the City. It's not all or nothing, at all. It's all or something. He needs to remember that.
The last steps are taken slower than all the others, mostly due to the armour feeling heavier and heavier as he gets closer to the top (at the very least the temple has the decency to stand in perpetual shade, otherwise to have a sun bearing down across your back the whole climb up would have made the trip three times worse). He pauses just before the edge of the platform, takes a breather and composes himself, before climbing the last of the stair to the altar proper.
. 3 .
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Post by Èdan on Feb 8, 2020 14:09:23 GMT -6
Cresting the edge brings into full view the altar itself. He steps up onto the platform, solemn and silent, straight-backed but not threatening. The décor here takes the message of the columns and puts another notch on top of it as he briefly glance to the piles of bones in each corner. Failed supplicants.. or failed offerings? Knowing how the world works, it could be just as much for the impression as for purpose. The pale blue eyes land on the three seated figures, taking in the appearance of each, such as it can be seen. For ascetic servants of gods, they sure could afford good dyes for their robes.. but those kinds of thoughts do not belong here, and he guards them carefully.
Stepping up to the stone slab, he gives a small, respectful bow. "I bring an offering to the gods," he states, in the slow drawl of the knight, even if, for the first time, the knight forgoes the 'my lord'. One has to be careful with their choice of words before the gods, and somehow he gets the distinct impression these priests could care less if he was human or the devil itself.
. 4 .
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Post by Èdan on Feb 8, 2020 14:28:17 GMT -6
A pouch is retrieved from the belt and the contents carefully taken out to be placed on the slab. It took a fair bit of search and no small amount of business negotiations with some strange folk to get all the pieces of this arcane key needed, some of whom may be owed a favour or three in future, but if worst comes to it, Sarv can simply be made to disappear. He carefully arranges the crystals on the slab and places the round one in the middle. Reaching up to his helmet, he hits a latch near the cheek and the faceplate comes lifted off to reveal the lower half of the face. There's a pensive pause then, as he stared down the crystal arrangement and the knife so close by, its edge seeming to tug at his essence even from a distance. The simple mortal instinct tells him to run. Another part keeps whispering promises of destiny, in a voice long forgotten, so long ago. Could they but see him now, what would they think?
No, the time for thinking has passed. He takes the berry and bites down on it, a sweet ichor of taste and summer-in-winter filling his mouth, before he eats it all. Then, he pulls off the leather glove to reveal a dark clawed hand (counter to every instinct in mind) faintly shimmering in hues along the darkest parts. If they priests notice the inhumanness, they seem not to care. He picks up the knife and feels a thrum of.. something.. run through the arm as he brings it closer to the skin. The exposed hand turns to face down and the knife resolutely draws a line across the top of the forearm, dark blood welling to the surface (all warriors knew: only morons would slice the nerves of their palms). The pain causes a clench of the jaw, but it is not excessive. Not nearly. The arm then moves across each stone and crystal, letting blood drop to each ingredient from the blade still held in the wound, for the warmth of the berry fights to close it. When the circle has been made, the objects coated he finally pulls the blade back out.
The sense of warmth stays inside, summer-in-winter, a sweetness.
And then, no breath, no light, only the coldness of the dark as a piece of him was ripped away.
The knight collapses to the flagstones of the altar in a clamour of armour.
. 5 . (counted)
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Post by Renathan on Feb 9, 2020 1:25:04 GMT -6
Order Node - Success! Next Attempt - 02-08-2021
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