Sarye and Imtithal 4

[leticia]

At last, their exaltations. Honestly, even though I ran it, I thought this was the most awesome scene ever.


Sarye and Imtithal have just killed a poor defenseless man in his bedroom, and are stalking on to kill more people. Sarye is expecting at least 7 more - 6 more rank and file cultists, and one more deadly, be it thaumaturge or demon. The first room was desecrated; the second and third emptied of all their adornments, burnt into unholy symbols on the floor.

Sarye was stamping out the unholy symbol as fast as he could, and looking for another exit.

Like all the rooms so far, strung like beads along this spiral, there is another entrance at the far end of the room, the exit ramp curving up to the right.

Sarye nods to Imtithal slowly. "Can you cover me to the next room?" he asks softly. "And from there on-- I will be moving in, and moving back if there is a threat, to let your arrows through."

Imtithal smiles dryly, nodding, the light of her lantern bobbing slightly as she moves - not really needed here, with the great crystals overhead lit, but their light is uncanny and her lantern is a true flame; she feels more comfortable with it lit.

Sarye walks slowly and cautiously towards the exit, sword and shield at the ready for instant use. His eyes are bright in the darkness, and his righteous wrath barely contained in catlike movements even more feline than his simhata mount.

The two explorers wind their way slowly up through the devastated manse. They pass more rooms, cloisters for the guardians of the temple, always built towards the outside of the spiral. This room was clearly a sanctum for the meditation of the holy order that dwelled here. This one appears to have served as a training hall - the remains of some of the training dummies are defiled, and 'crowned' with brass in mockery, extra arms from other dummies crudely attached. It is a long climb, and so far, they have seen no sign of the remaining cultists except the trails of disturbed dust that wind upwards. The room they are currently passing through must have been a library once, but the shelves are broken, and the books that have survived without theft or destruction are piled in corners. More ash indicates that some of the books were simply destroyed.

Sarye bites back an anguished cry, which turns into a snarl of anger, as he sees the knowledge lost. He _will_ have vengeance for that which was stolen-- and he will lead his people back here to clean the place from top to bottom if he must. His hunt continues; he _will_ find them-- and he will end them.

Sarye is at full war alertness, and it pays off. He can hear voices arguing in the next room. They are speaking flametongue, if, perhaps, a different dialect than his.

The argument, between a rough, deep male voice and a harder higher voice that is probably female, with occasional interjections from another man, seems to be mostly about how to mix a particular alchemical brew correctly.

Imtithal doesn't seem to have heard a thing.

Sarye gestures with his sword in the direction of the door and whispers, "Thaumaturges. A rush?" and nothing more-- only soft enough for her hear him, and then he slowly nods, then shakes his head-- hoping she'll realize to respond the same way-- less words, less chance of being heard.

Imtithal hesitates, her face suddenly dubious, but she swallows and shrugs after a moment's delay, and inclines her head forward, pulling another frogcrotch arrow onto her bow.

Sarye moves as quiet as he can; he's more used to hunting on the sands than in man-made corridors. Still, there is always some similarity. He moves as close as he dares without becoming louder than the conversation or entering the light. When he reaches the extent of either, he rushes in as hard and fast as he can, hoping to catch them unawares.

As Sarye bursts through the flimsy, makeshift door, he's in a room that surely was the temple's infirmary in days gone by. The workroom has been made over into a dark thaumaturgical lair; the beds at least are empty, but four beings that look human enough at first glance are standing in various places working. Nearest the door, a tall woman and a broad shouldered man about the same height are still arguing over a small, carefully heated beaker. At a workbench about ten feet further down, there's another woman, ignoring them both and patiently stringing various components onto wire. The fourth is another man, who's sketching diagrams onto a piece of stretched out fresh hide of some kind, using an unpleasantly red ink in a shallow bowl, held over a flame.

Sarye leaps into the room like a simhata pouncing. He moves like death on the wind-- but it is a clean death, unlike that of Adjoran's. His is the death of the swiftest sandstorm, and his blade poised to carve life from bone -- or head from shoulders-- in a terrifying whirl of speed and steel. His tip goes straight for the heart of the tall woman, but he does not stop, does not cease. Born on by his holy rage, he flicks the scimitar from its attack on the woman to go straight for the throat of the broad man arguing with her-- and he does not cease his moment until he has crossed to the far side of the room, leaping off his feet to strike the blasphemous ... calligrapher in the chest with a leaping jump kick.

Imtithal's arrow is on the string and waiting as Sarye bursts open the door. She has selected another of the cruel, tearing frog crotch arrows, trusting that thaumturges rarely wear heavy armor. As Sarye leaps in and clears her field of vision, she cooly picks her target - and given her earlier fright from the wire-traps by the entrance, her choice is easy. The arrow soars cleanly through the air on a high arch, somehow less touched by the strange light than the rest of the room until it reaches the back of the unexpecting woman.

All three of the ones attacked with lethal force promptly die.

The man mutters a curse, thrown against the wall by the force of Sarye's kick. His ink is upset, the clotting substance flowing across the table and floor. He flings the quill, still in his hand, at Sarye's face, and turns to run for the far door.

Sarye is still moving-- he never ceases while in combat-- and he raises the shield to casually batter it aside. As he does, he moves his body between the man and the door-- and his scimitar's blade between himself and the man's throat-- but does not strike. Louder, perhaps, than necessary, he says in Flametongue, "You will be useful. Or you will burn."

Imtithal already has another arrow on her string and she moves into the room cautiously, checking the corners for any hiding cultists. As Sarye blocks the passage of the injured man, she moves her aim away from him and goes to check the interrupted projects to see if anything holds imminent danger of a tangled ritual.

Sarye moves the scimitar down from the man's throat towards his belly, and begins to move forward slowly, forcing the man back. "You are a blasphemer. I am F'meeqi. You will die; this is simple." He lets the name sink in for a moment; if it does not register, he will continue anyway. In either event, he says, "You can die fast, like your fellow accursed, or you can die slow-- my sword in your gut and then I burn you alive with holy oil. Choose swiftly, or the choice will be taken from you-- as I account you of no use."

Sarye has no troubles outpacing the badly wounded man. His face is pale as Sarye threatens - all his skin, except where the blood spilled over it. "You're doomed," he laughs. "You can get no use from ME that will save you from HER."

"Of course not," Sarye says calmly-- and flicks the scimitar, carving a long, painful, but not lethal line across the man's forehead. "I have other sources for that. Sources you profaned too casually. So. Before you bluster again, understand that this is personal. Tell me of her-- or the next slice will be of your belly. This is your final warning."

Imtithal looks up from the alchemical potion, which she's dumping some grey powder into, giving Sarye a very disturbed look, but saying nothing.

The man shrieks a little as he is cut. "What do you want to know, you doomed fool?" he protests. "How many pieces she will cut your liver into? What she will do with your eyes when she's done playing with the rest of your disembodied head? What colonies of unholy vermin she will breed in your corpse?"

"Ah, demons," he says, as though he fought them every day. "You give away more than you know. I do hope that you have not promised your soul to her-- or you are already in danger. So tell me more. What is her breed, then? Or are you too piss ignorant and unworthy of even unholy attentions to tell?"

The man laughs harshly. "What harm in telling you ANYTHING? She is a great artist, you know. When she is finished with you, she will take the last scraps of your rotting flesh and knit them into a slave to be sacrificed in her victory."

"Neomah, then. You are very stupid, to risk gut-wounds over things you cannot hold secret." Sarye raises the sword and stares coldly. "Two last things. First, how further in does she dare to creep?"

The man laughs. "Do you think me stupid? I am dead anyhow. Pain now, pain later, but at least perhaps my soul will watch your suffering." He smiles cruelly, swabbing blood from his forehead cut. "You will find her and your doom before the final doorway. She just needs a little more power to open the hearthstone room; go, hurry and give her your life too, fool."

"So that leaves one last question. Do you repent?" he asks quietly. "It may help, when you see Lethe. Otherwise, even without an oath, she may have some claim on you."

The man laughs and tries to spit in Sarye's face. "I have nothing to repent. I die loyal to my mistress, and she will reward me if her plan succeeds. Hurry now! Your life will give her power!" His aim is terribly off, no doubt because of the knotting pain where Sarye kicked him, and his spit mixes with the clotting blood on the floor.

"Too bad," Sarye says calmly. "Learn better next life, if you can," he finishes with regret, and flicks the sword forward, fast, hard, and true, directly for the man's eye, cutting straight through to the brain, seeking an instant, painless death as was promised. Once the man drops, Sarye moves slightly back and to one side to avoid the mess and shakes his head. "Demon-cultists. Fewer than one in five repent; it is a shame." He stands for a moment, shaken; his eyes show no pleasure, not even battle lust at the act. He cleans his sword quietly.

Imtithal relaxes slowly as the man falls dead. "You tortured him," she says, her tone not -quite- accusatory, but reasonably shocked.

"To an extent," Sarye admits. "Not clean, but otherwise, we would walk in blind." He looks wearily over at Imtithal. "Neomah breathe fire and hurl poisoned hairpins." He blinks for a bit. "Though the legends say they are bald, but..." He shrugs. "Others include bottle-bugs that can swarm into the body; elementals of vitriol, and worse things. We needed to know, and I spared him the traditional death. Some of my teachers would not have approved, but I have never found burning a tainted soul alive worth the taint it leaves on one's own soul."

Imtithal shakes her head silently.

"Perhaps it would be better to just leave," she points out after a moment of poking at the rest of the thaumaturgical supplies and half finished rituals." She rolls the woman she shot over , making a face. "Not recovering this arrow easily," she sighs as she finds the head protruding from the other side, distending the flesh oddly. Curiously, she pulls back the woman's robes. "Same brand," she comments.

Sarye shakes his head in return. "She's outside the hearthstone room. That gives her access to Essence, and whatever power she can take here-- a demoness flesh-weaver on the edge of your ancestral lands," he points out as he finishes cleaning the sword, and begins to gather up as many of the blasphemies as he can to pitch into the various fires available. "And whatever magic this Manse-- for it is now named-- had perverted to her purposes. We are committed now, for better or for worse."

Imtithal makes a face at Sarye. "I don't like this," she says. "How are we supposed to survive a demoness that breathes fire and hurls poison needles?" She shakes her head slightly - and at least at the moment, she's keeping a physical distance from him. She gives up on the arrow, letting the woman's corpse fall back to the ground. "Wouldn't it make more sense to go tell the Realm representatives back in Chiaroscuro?" She sighs. "Which probably means we won't get a blasted thing from here, but better that than dead or demons everywhere."

"By sword and blessing," he says quietly. "They can be killed for a time. I do not know the science of it-- but I know the danger here. All she needs to do is shatter the hearth-- and she will have mutant energies to draw upon to make all the blasphemies she wishes. This place is a fortress; it will be under siege for a long time, before it is broken. And they would be no kinder to it than she."

Imtithal laughs. "You think if we can get in, Dragon-blooded CAN'T?" she says, and closes her eyes for a moment, gathering thoughts. "If we go on, and we die, as seems likely, then there will be no one to alarm anyone in Chiaroscuro, and she will have this base, only two days ride from the city, and no one even knowing she is here."

"We got in once. And she did not have control. By the time we get back, she will." He tilts his head to the side, and his veil rustles softly. "Scion of the Radeen, there is no _time_. More will be hurt by waiting. We have killed five of her followers; you can put arrows in the throats of any left, especially if we come from ambush. Demons can die-- and will, if we come on her from surprise. Give her time to gain control of this place?" He shakes his head. "It is time to be Delzahn." And then he shrugs, having finished his job. "As for me, I will be-- alone or with you at my back. It is your choice whether to be or to flee."

"I am a woman," Imtithal snaps. "Not a warrior."

She sighs, and closes her eyes for a long moment. "Fine. I'll go on for now, but I reserve the right to flee if we actually encounter this demon. Perhaps she will be elsewhere."

Sarye only replies, "You are what you choose to be, Diamond of the Desert," and then he walks on, silent as death, deeper in. Despite knowing where the demonness should be, he continues to search for the other two cultists, hoping that they will be found-- and thus be killable-- on the way.

Imtithal is silent for a while as they walk - not quite sulking, but her expression is similarly sullen; the woman may be bold in most things, but she seems quite unhappy about the idea of facing death. After a while, as they're going through another arm of the spiral - no further cultists found to slay yet, she says, "I have no antidotes to poison. Perhaps we should have stopped see if I could have brewed one from the alchemy supplies back there."

Sarye stops-- frustrated. He wants to be on with the hunt -- to kill or die. But better to kill than to die. "You are correct," he says firmly, not letting his frustration get in his way. "I might be able to whip up a prayer or two over the ashes," and at this he gives a grim look, "They may even count as a sacrifice-- a cleansing of this long-tainted place.

Imtithal looks relieved. "I am not much of an alchemist," she says. "But I at least think I will know if I have brewed healing or poison." She smiles slightly, and begins retracing her steps.

Sarye follows Imtithal, working in his head a prayer to dedicate the still-burning remnants to the Unconquered Sun. He'll have to add more of the precious oil; he would not dare dedicate leavings to the most High. But perhaps, clear sign of his intentions can aid with the sacrifice.

In the Old Realm that is most proper-- and, coincidentally, which Imtithal cannot speak, Sarye prays over the pile of burnt blasphemies. "We are mortal, most High," he says, "And have need of your power. We are mortal," he repeats, as he begins to pour the scented oil into the orange flame, "But we will strike, with or without blessing. We are mortal, but we bring a cleansing; yours is the highest cleansing of Creation; yours is the flame that struck through human hearts to rise against them in the First Age. Yours is the flame that tolerates not the dark; yours is the light that penetrates the shadow." He bows his head as the flames rise ever higher. "I would borrow this, for myself, and the archer beside me, that whatever of your light you may lend, in this place that was once your own, we may wield against them."

His voice grows fierce, drawing upon the anger he feels. "Let us cleave the demon and her cultists; let her poisons and flesh-craft be burnt! Let us embody your spear, and cast us into the face of those who would dare rebel against what you have appointed for the world!" he cries. "Lord of Light-- Unconquered Sun-- I draw my own light from hiding, the better to call to yours! Let us strike, and lend us the striking!"

Imtithal's face is set as she steps past the smoldering remains to the workbench. The toxic brew the two dead cultists were working on has solidified in its vial thanks to the powder she added, sealing the compound harmlessly in the glass; she moves the vial aside and rubs her hands together, appraising the ingredients. "I can not create the greater antivenoms," she says, "that would purge poisons entirely. But I can give us more resistance, I think." She sniffs at some of the ingredients. "At least we know what poison we will be facing; aconite."

She closes her mind for a moment, recalling books of lore. This will be the first time she has brewed this potion; what reason before? She has studied long, though, of occult and lore, and the theory is sound. Cautiously she selects an oil to base her ointment on, rubbing a bit on the back of her hand to assure that it is fully inert before proceeding. Crushed leaves of cleansing mint follow, and, measured with a careful hand, a few grains of white jade ground into fine powder from a very small and carefully sealed jar. ("I'm glad I'm not paying for this," she murmurs, with a slight smile.) The base thus built, she searches the jars and bags and bins around the alchemy station carefully, and finds at last what she's looking for - a small jar of dried monkshood. "Perfect," she murmurs, crushing the flowers into the brew and lighting the candle beneath it, crouching near the bench to watch closely the color of the brew. The ingredients are not enough; as they begin to cook together, she moves gnarled roots of medicinal plants to surround the beaker, arranging them so that the living essence of the still vital tissues focus on the brewing potion. And then, she waits, eagle-eyed watching her potion.

The fire flares as Sarye finishes his prayer, and the manse's light orbs overhead briefly flick to the golden light they /should/ be shedding. As the fire dies again, the remains of the blasphemies - and blasphemers - are nothing but clean white ash - the sacrifice of cleansing accepted.

Imtithal doesn't remove her eyes from the potion even to glance at him - brew it wrong and it will be as toxic as the poison it is meant to prevent. But finally, she pulls the vial from the flame at the perfect moment. "There!" she says, fanning some of the vapors to her nose. Idly, she cuts a strip from one of the roots and begins chewing on the pungent substance as she waits for the potion to cool enough. "It worked!" she says, somewhat surprised by her own success.

Sarye smiles. "Excellent! Is it a curative or a preventative?" he asks, curious, before adding casually, "The price has been paid, and accepted. What help it will be-- only time can tell."

"Preventative," she says. "Which is just as well. Most the cures are almost as bad as the poisons at first." She smile slightly. "You anoint it on your skin - which we should do as soon as it cools, to be sure it has virtue when we encounter this... demon." She slows as she finishes the sentence, but swallows and focuses to prevent herself from panicking.

Sarye nods. "Shall we take it with us as we start out while it cools, or wait here for it to finish, do you think?"

Imtithal shrugs. "It's stable enough to move." She wraps the base of the vial in cloth to make it safe to carry, and grasps it in her free hand. "We might as well go die."

Sarye nods, and brings his sword out again as he quickly retraces the route to the room-nexus just before the one he explored last-- he'll re-check that one first while the potion cools, to make sure that no ambushes have been placed.

Imtithal lingers a little behind him, not wanting to spill her brew in case of an ambush; for now she's even placed her bow back on her back, beside her quiver.

The room is still empty, save for broken furniture. By now they've climbed quite high in the spiral, though there's no sign of the surface.

Sarye nods to Imtithal once he's checked the place out, and begins to stalk forward. With the same painstaking care, he scouts forward, and to any sides, deeper and deeper-- painfully slow, for he dares not leave her time to enter the hearth, but he dares not leave any daggers at their back-- waiting for the cooling of the potion.

It is not too long - Imtithal made little more than an adequate dose for them both - before Imtithal waves him back to her. "It's still hot, but it won't burn the skin," she says. "The sooner it's on, the more likely it will be effective, so long as our need for it is less than a full day away."

"I do not think we have a day's worth to finish," he says, carefully leaning the scimitar, point on the ground, against a wall, unsheathed as he strips first to the waist and removes even his veil to prepare to slather the stuff on; he will, however, keep his pants on and pour it in. But modesty must fall to the needs of preparation for battle. He is a fairly handsome man, all things considered; not as handsome as Imtithal is beautiful, but well-shaped, muscled but not bulky, and with a well-trained, elegant form. His previously unseen face is handsome-- a strong jaw, and curving lines out of it that lend character to the whole of his face without being soft. Wordlessly, he prepares to rub the stuff onto his skin, turning away from Imtithal to grant her her privacy.

Imtithal politely averts her eyes as she realizes that he is removing his veil, looking down at the vial to pour some into her hand, then turns away, dabbing the clear oil with its imbued virtue onto her soft skin. She does not remove her robe, but she loosens her sash and pulls her arms within to apply the potion more thoroughly.

Sarye applies the potion to every portion of himself he can reach-- and he's fairly agile indeed. He does not expect honor from a demon; indeed, from an expert in biology such as a Neomah, he expects the worst possible places to strike. When he is satisfied he is as protected as he can, and none of the vial wasted, he slowly begins to wrap his clothing around himself once more.

Imtithal is a little embarrassed as she tries to rearrange her disturbed robes without fully untying them, tugging the front wrap back close and tightening the sash again. She rubs the last of the oil off her palms into each other, and then corks the vial, sticking the drops that remain into her belt pouch. "We are, I suppose, as ready as we will be."

Sarye hands his vial back to Imtithal, and if he is embarrassed, his eyes do not show it and nothing else is visible once more. He rubs his own hands until he is certain that they can safely hold sword and shield once more, and he raises both in a salute to her efficacy. "To the hunt once more, and may the spear that strikes down the unrighteous be with us this day," he says, and stalks forward now- faster, hungrily-- ready for war.

Imtithal follows Sarye, the bow nocked again as she follows him. She's still sticking to the vicious frogcrotch arrows, and now, though she appreciates the clean light of the flame, she closes the shield around her lantern to almost completely covered, to give less sign of their coming.

The spiral is almost completed. These were the holy rooms for the highest of the priests, sanctuaries for the elect, not the common. Their decorations were more elaborate, but stripped and defaced no less. The next corridor does not appear to be slanted up.

Sarye holds in the berserker rage that such things would call in him, honing it, focusing it-- channelling the energy like Essence and Will being sent to his god. He is here to put an end to evil, and blind rage will not help him as he cautiously moves towards the next room.

There is neither curtain nor door on this entrance. The lights - strange and purple - are brighter in the next room, and as Sarye moves around to be able to see along the level hallway, he will see the demon - a Neomah, truly; his victim did not lie - performing a ritual.

This room, unlike all the others, has not had the openings towards the central of the spiral bricked in. Golden light flickers out of the heart of the constrained demesne, a roaring inferno of Solar light entering a well in the surface f the mesa and redoubling within. Broad openings lead out into the empty, light-filled shaft, and one door - barred, and solid - seems to lead to a bridge that crosses that gulf. It is before that door the Neomah stands, her expression dark as she chants foulnesses, trying to breach the door. One of her surviving cultists helps her, kneeling behind her and chanting his own dark prayers. The seventh is also visible, but not currently a threat - she has already been sacrificed for the energy her death could provide, and blood runs deep in this room, which was once a holy sanctum for meditation and prayer.

Neither of the living beings in the room seem to have noticed you yet, focused as they are on the door they seek to open.

Sarye trembles with suppressed fury, and must take a breath to clear his head of red rage. But it is clear, and at his will. He gestures once to Imti, then to the cultist; then again to her lantern, and the sacrifice. Perhaps Imti can put a flaming arrow to it and disrupt. He tenses, waiting for Imti to get clear sight and prepared-- and then, moving once more with sirocco swiftness, he hurtles out of the corridor, the battle cry of "FANG AND STEEL!" on his lips, followed by a Delzahni war-hymn as he streaks towards the demoness, his shield in front and his guard high and ready to deflect darts-- if he can.

The neomah is taken only slightly off guard; she did not expect a mad mortal human to charge her just now, but her stock of charms is quite adequate and she has no intention of getting struck by him. It is a near thing; at the last moment, she is just shifted to the side a little. He has, however, disrupted her focus, and for the moment she has stopped her chanting. The demoness is naked completely, and smeared with blood, the same sigil she branded all her cultists with inscribed on her chest with the blood of her sacrifice.

The living cultist, however, has his robe, and is slow to react as the two attackers burst into the room. The dead cultist doesn't react at all, and is stripped completely naked, the brand showing below the bloody gash in her throat.

At the same instant, Imtithal fires her bow, and again, the two "SNAPS" of her string punctuating Sarye's battlecry, behind and before. The first arrow flies clean and true towards the back of the chanting follower, the second one, with oil hastily poured from the lantern onto it, burns as it flies to sink into the corpse; a normal broadhead arrow, to cause it to lodge firmly and stay upright in her target.

The demoness screams in rage as the arrows fly. "I will curse your souls to the worst slavery of Malfeas," she hisses, pulling small bronze pins from her flesh. "After you serve in the place of those you have slain!" She lashes out with the pins in her hands, trying to stab Sarye with a pair of attacks, her motion only somewhat charm fueled.

Sarye deftly maneuvers himself backward, using the shield to cover most of his body as his acrobatic maneuvering keeps his target profile as low as possible. His glinting blade dances in the holy light surrounding them, and cleaves for the demoness' pins, trying to force them onto the thick wood of his shield.

Sarye stifles a cry when the poison bites into his flesh, but concentrates his will against the foulness, taking strength from the purifying presence of his god's energies.

The crusading F'meeqi bites down to avoid the pain; the blessings of the Unconquered Sun have spared him the bite of her poison, at least, and may be enough to guide his hand here. Despite the pain of the nerve-punctures of the single pinstrike that passed his guard, he has closed with his foe, and against her, he unleashes two broad strokes of his blade, dodging in and out of the rays of holy light, trying to dazzle her with their brilliance-- and holy fire.

The Neomah's face is set, and focused; she is not a warrior demon, but she IS a demon, and thus an essence wielder. Between her essence and her willpower, she once again escapes his blades, ever so narrowly.

Imtithal's face is pale, especially as she sees her formerly invulnerable, untouchable protector hit, but her potion seems to be good, for he is not sweating or paling from the effects of the poison. She edges unhappily into the room and, even as the seductress demon turns to strike her F'meeqi guardian again, launches a single arrow at the wicked being's back. The demoness is naked, so the young archer uses one of her cruel frog crotch arrows; somehow, at this moment, she isn't concerned with the pain it might cause. "Ayyyyyyye," she shrieks as she fires, attempting to distract the demon from striking Sarye again.

Apparently the shriek was a bad idea, for the Neomah has no trouble sidestepping the arrow, which skitters across the stone floor, bounces out one of the wide windows into the central shaft, and plummets into the depths of the manse.

She ignores the weaker threat for now, focusing on removing the mortal with the sword whom she has barely avoided so far; leaping back as far as she can from his sharp edged blade, she opens her jaw unnaturally far and spits a burst of fire at him.

Sarye has a healthy respect for those potent little pins. He may have evaded their poison once, but he has no way of knowing he will do so a second time. He continues to flow and slide around her, drawing strength past his own pain through the glittering holy light. Moreover, he flicks his blade this way and that, seeking not merely to dazzle but to channel-- to throw holy patterns of light in rejection of the tainted essence the demon wields against him.

Sarye manages to distract the demon sufficiently to swat the fire out as it toasts his shield, but he takes advantage of the moments of diversion to swing his sword high and fast, taking a horrible risk-- she is faster than he, and he knows it. But in that moment of simultaneity, he stabs three times towards the neomah's head, aiming for the throat/jaw area and each eye in turn. Indeed, he accepts the moment of the strike as an opportunity-- offense met with offense, his determination full to strike down this terrible being with everything that he is.

The demon's eyes are narrow, angry slits. "I will cook your eyeballs above a fire kindled from your bones," she promises, "And feed them to the twisted creature I knit from your dead flesh and my own," As she speaks, she's readying another pin, leaping suddenly to try to strike him with it.

Imtithal focuses, focuses, following the demon's motions and predicting her path. For one tick, she holds her fire, making sure she has her target in her sights. She drops to one knee, slowing her own escape if need be, but ensuring her bow will be steady. And then she pulls back the string, bites her lip, and screams, "For all Delzahn and my father's honor!" as she releases one arrow then another, then another, her eyes wide and her whites showing like a horse just shy of spooking - but determined not to leave the already injured Sarye to face the demon alone.

Though Imtithal's first arrow strikes, it barely grazes the demoness' shoulder. She twists unnaturally, and avoids both the other arrows.

Sarye continues to bob and weave in and out of light and striking. He sings, and continues to sing; when the Delzahni battle hymn runs out, he begins to sing an old F'meeqi warsong, calling to the spirits of the simhata to grant him swiftness and sure striking. Despite his wounds, his voice is sure and true, and he moves with the song, relying on its obscurity to grant him rhythm and moment-- and using the chorus defensively-- to spin round and round the demon like a dust devil himself, thrice more slashing across the enraged cult-mistress. With each strike, he channels his rage, imagining each blasphemy on the flesh of the neomah, striking out with the rage he felt the first time he saw the defacement of the temple fane, the strength in his arm driven by the urge to cast out her defilement with every stroke.

As she recovers from the shots, the demon laughs harshly, though without her focus, the baneful light of the corrupted crystals is being overwhelmed by the golden solar radiance from the central shaft of the manse. Again she tries to stab Sarye with one of her pins, the fine tip glinting faintly with blood already, where she has drawn it from her much pierced body.

Sarye is at the end of the fury he can sustain; his is a mortal body, no matter whether or not the Unconquered Sun's dreams look upon him with favor. His last attempt may be just that-- his last-- for he was forced to leave himself open. Instead, then, he allows the demonness to push him back and back again, giving ground. However, he does not give ground for only the purpose of getting room between him and her malfean reach. He backs away from the hatred of her strike-- leaving the only way to strike him directly moving through the holy radiance of the Manse's solar energies.

Sarye cannot open his guard again; no matter the strength in him, he does not have the will to keep up such a battle. Drained of his fury and his holy wrath, he instead relies on who he is-- swordsman and priest. Without restraint, now, he sings in Old Realm of Sol Invictus, of the Unconquered Sun, of the Holiest of Holies. Certain that he will die, and die soon, Sarye dedicates his attack to a swift feint and a swifter single slash, coming up and under the agile neomah-- hoping to gain enough time and inflict enough damage so that Imtithal can finish their attacker.

Imtithal's eyes are narrowed, and she bites her lip in anger. "Be careful," she yells, uselessly, to Sarye. She knows she can kill with her arrows; she's done it before. Focusing, she remembers the feel of aiming at her brother's throat, the way she pulled back the string, the snap and the crack as the bow responded and the tension released. And as she draws on her memories, she fires again, trying with one deadly shot to overcome the foul creature's defense.

The Neomah has no trouble dodging either assault, and she laughs again. "I will create a flesh golem wearing your face," she promises the swordsman, "and it will serve me as I build a new cult to worship the true owners of the world, here in this broken ruin; look on the light and then fall into dark." As she makes this promise, she strikes twice, with a pin in each hand, aiming for his eyes.

Sarye deflects each strike in turn, casually turning aside each strike. His veil moves with him, so it is impossible to see his smile, but it can be heard; he sings louder and louder to his master, each verse renewing praises of the Unconquered Sun and his dedication to striking down the profaner of the most High's temple. He spins and whirls around the Neomah, continuing his deadly dance without fear. Even death-- even the defilement of his corpse-- is meaningless, for he will not surrender, and his soul is with the pure.

The neomah snorts. "He is blinded, boy," she snarls, casually sidestepping the attack. "Do you think ANY of them care anymore? About little dirt-eaters like you?" She lashes out viciously, as she says this. "They will sleep as Creation returns to its proper lords." The pin flicks savagely towards Sarye's arm.

Imtithal simply waits, holding her arrow ready to the string. She has failed -- again, again, again, to be any help to Sarye, and she will wait her chance.

"Yes," Sarye sings-- a yes with the fullness of his heart as he bats aside the neomah's strike, _still_ holding, still hoping for an opportunity. When everything he has is given, all he has left is hope-- hope and patience, seeking a clue within the unnatural stride of his opponent. He sings of the yes, of the shine of the sun, of the blessing of light given to all-- even the heat and warmth of the sun for the blind-- and takes a moment to let his sword strike hard and fast for the demoness's arm, seeking to injure it against reply.

Imtithal finally releases her arrow finally just a second after Sarye's strike is avoided. "Die," she screams, taking a step forward as if she could make her arrow fly more true by following it with her body and guiding it to rest. The twin tips of the arrow gleam dully with moisture, where Imtithal has anointed them with some of the antivenom she brewed earlier, more as an act of defiance than in any true help it will aid. Her soul is weary, but she still will not leave Sarye alone.

"You keep trying," the demoness laughs, "but you are both mortal, and feeble, and weary. Yield. Rest. You may yet serve me and earn some measure of reward before you die." She follows through on that promise by attacking Sarye with both her held pins again, stabbing them together towards his throat to tear it open if she may.

Sarye continues to sing against the demon's rage. There is stalemate for now, and he knows how to use stalemate in a desert. He may not have the endurance of Corona, but his agility-- and the lightness of his wondrously constructed and blessed armor-- allows him to keep light on his feet, using his motion conservatively-- but forcing more of the unnatural movement out of the neomah. If he can keep her at bay long enough, he may be able to weary even one of her long-lived race and harry her down. Her imprecation do not still his song-- there is no yielding. She has not the power to call his soul back from it's chosen course-- and it is opposed to her in every step.

Sarye's dance keeps his sword between his body and the demonness' deadly brass pin. His own blade dances as well, slightly off-- a little ahead, a little behind-- of his own movements so that the one is not predictable by the other. He moves from light to light... and then switches, ending with his feet outside the ray of energy in an abrupt burst of movement, slicing his sword in a downwards, reflecting strike, channeling the solar force towards the demon with the blaze of his sword.

The demoness screams as she's wounded again. "Arrogant little son of WORMS," she screams. "I will meld your flesh with that of a flea-ridden cur, and breed it to one of your people's precious horses." Very well; the mortal wishes to play in the light, let him. She steps forward into it, only wincing slightly, trying now to force him back to the open shaft down which Imtithal's arrows have already flown several times. Lest he dare look behind him and see a danger, she keeps attacking, ripping motions with the points of her sharp poisoned pins at his face; she need not strike deep to wound severely.

Imtithal grits her teeth, biting her lip until it bleeds. She has arrows yet, and she will not stop /trying/, no matter how many times the demoness avoids her, until her quiver is empty. No insults, no words, just cold, focused deliberation, arrows flying with stead rhythm, one after another, three more of her dwindling supply of frog crotch arrows.

"Actually," Sarye says cheerfully, breaking his song for a moment, "We breed simhata. You know, the legends do say they are better mounts than anything that the entire neomah race has ever managed to produce since your demon king was broken in surrender," he says in the sudden silence, and suddenly breaks into a raucous, amazingly dirty song about the simhata, their breeding habits, and lonely-- and to the simhata, tasty looking in more than one way-- herd animals. He has hope; even if he dies now, he has struck mighty blows, and with that, he commits himself to another series of strikes. This time, though, the hope carries him through-- and he strikes again and again and again, his sword lashing through the air like rays of sunlight themselves, as fast as he can, sparing as little as he can for defense and trusting only to his shield to save him.

The neomah is distinctly angry and still trying to crowd Sarye backwards; if she can force him to flinch enough times, her most obnoxious obstacle will remove itself, and she can attend to the little archer at her leisure; her ineffective arrows will be no concern. Again and again she stabs, aiming for sensitive points on the Delzahni warrior's frame; now aiming for the tender webbing inside his elbows on each side.

Imtithal takes another step into the room; coward heart she may have, but she can still hope to outrun the demon, and Sarye has defended /her/ before. She aims her arrow swiftly and releases, hoping to narrow the distance and give her anger-wrapped missiles the edge she needs to actually wound the unholy fleshcrafter before her. Too, her Delzahn soul is offended by being so ignored by an enemy; she /will/ make the demon take heed.

"I am going to peel your hide from your face," she promises, "and hang it on the altar of the true masters of creation that I will build on this spot. Your eyes I will mount in the entrance, so that your spirit may eternally watch and despair as all Creation returns to the rightful rule of my masters!" With that, the neomah lunges for him, striking at his chest twice with both pins, blowing almost all her remaining essence on an angry attempt to finally remove this cursed obstacle, or at the least, force him off the edge.

The demoness' first strikes are blocked, but, smiling sadistically, she sinks one pin to the round knob in Sarye's flesh. For a moment. As he teeters on the edge of the vast shaft that rises the entire height of the mesa filled with unchanneled Solar Energy, the hell-tainted pin stuck in his chest seems to melt, the cursed metal dropping to the floor and pooling between his feet. There is no wound left behind, and for a moment, Sarye thinks the voice he hears is only in his head; it's a familiar voice, known only from prophetic dreams and his most ecstatic prayers. "Be strong," it echoes in his head. "And cleanse this place to be sanctified again." It is then that Sarye will realize that Imtithal and the demoness heard it as well. Imtithal's eyes are wide as saucers, and the demoness is flinching back from him, giving him room to stand free of the risk of falling.

"I am watching," says the Voice, and is silent. Sarye feels the a deeper rage than his own settling over him, the pain of his earlier wounds fading to a dull throb and troubling him no more, and in the light of the approval from his deity, finds his will renewed; fill all channels and willpower, and remove all health level penalties - though the wounds remain.

Behind him, what he can not see, but Imtithal is watching with shock, a hazy eye has formed out of the roiling heat of the column of solar fire... watching. Imtithal also regains her willpower and channels; the neomah, however, does not.

Sarye's eyes roll back in their sockets for a moment. pure ecstasy envelopes him as he feels that which all of his kindred long to feel throughout the generations. A blessing that has not been felt since before the F'meeqi were known as the F'meeqi of the Delzahni; since they were the Fem-Ee-Qi, the chosen people of the Sirocco of Song. This is what he has waited for, and after that timeless moment, snaps back into the present with a cry of thanksgiving and welcome for the moment and movement of battle. He spins away from the neomah, back to the wall nearest the door she was trying to press him. His boots leave the ground and bounce onto the wall; he spins off instantly and drives the full weight of his body-- and the full wrath of his heart-- directly at the neomah, slashing and hacking at her body with no thought to his own safety. His soul is not only fully engaged in the battle, his mind is free of worry-- he _knows_ that the Unconquered Sun himself has judged this F'meeqi worthy of their ancient charge. Four times he reaches out with his blade in the passing of a heartbeat as he launches himself upon her, four times in praise for each of the four arms of his god.

Sarye's devoted onslaught pays off, and his blade strikes true - again, and again, and again. Over extended in her last attempt to slay the mortal, she had not counted on the depths of his devotion and the rewards of his faithful prayer. Her body is utterly destroyed, and the eye shifts, as if tracking something.

Imtithal is staring, with her face pale and her bow dropped to the ground beside her, at the vortex of energy at the heart of the manse.

"She will not leave," booms the voice. "You must finish what you have begun." Now it has a direction - behind Sarye, from the heart of the manse.

Sarye listens to the voice and towards the eye, staring in wonder at the miracle before him out of the flames. He is struck dumb for a moment, but bows his head and sings in deep reverence, searching with his very soul to find the direction that the Lord of Light-- that the Unconquered Sun-- will send him to destroy the blasphemy in that holy name.

The Voice is speaking at once in Old Realm and Flametongue, the two languages that Sarye knows overlaying each other in his mind; Imtithal also seems to understand the words. "Sarye!" the Voice demands, "Son of Elrayir, child of the F'meeqi, heir of eons of patience!" There is a thunderous silence, a moment of deafening quiet as the Voice pauses, leaving ears empty where it had filled. "You would have paid your life to cleanse my holy place! I accept your sacrifice." Before Sarye can wonder at the meaning of the words, or the acceptance, the light from the central shaft swirls around him, wrapping him in light, which after a moment seems to be emanating from his own robes and skin. Seems to, and is; like a blossom of light, Essence is unfolding within him, opening his mind to the thrum of the manse's energy, and the near blinding glory of Sol Invictus' almost-physical presence. The power opens the eyes of his mind; if he takes his eyes for even an instant from the manifestation of his deity, he can see the shadow-form of the Neomah cowering in a corner of the room, but somehow unable to flee.

"Sarye!" the Voice demands again, "I affirm you as my priest, and choose you again to serve, and cleanse all that is holy to me!" And the transformation is complete; Sarye is no longer mortal... and the Eye's gaze moves steadily towards Imtithal.

Sarye's jaw drops, and though he does not cease singing, it may be said that there are more than a few strangled notes. He recovers, tears streaming down his face as he drops to his knees-- still holding his weapon and shield, of course-- and his song has no words, only heartfelt praise and the purest notes that he can exact from his throat as he becomes a channel for the holiest Essence.

Imtithal, for all her cowardice, does not quail before the terrible gaze now falling upon her; she is too transfixed by the glory to more than tremble from the awe. And the Voice does not miss her. "Imtithal, daughter of Ha'lad! You are the daughter of a warrior people, and you have proven yourself willing to do what you find necessary to defend those who look to you. You have served as a righteous warrior, and as one of my own I know you, though you do not know yourself. Bring my light into the dark places you must sojourn in; be vision for my priest, and a bold mirror for my gaze into the shadow."

As the light reaches out to wrap Imtithal too, the arrow she still holds slack in her hand as she stares, stunned, begins to glow, the light all but disintegrating the common arrow. But the Voice is not through with her. "Shoot, my Dagger. Begin as you have begun before."

Imtithal, moving like one in a dream, picks back up her bow, nocks the glowing, barely substantial arrow to the glowing string, and fires, turning smoothly towards the Neomah. As she does, the arrow's last physical substance crumbles into dust that rings musically on the stone floor, and a bolt of light continues on its path, striking the immaterial demon through the heartless chest, and causing her to vanish in a spray of Essence.

And with that, the Voice is satisfied, and the Eye melts back into the pillar of flame. The door, which had held the Neomah at bay so long, swings open with a near silent click, and Imtithal and Sarye are left staring at each other and glowing golden pillars through the roof.

Sarye finishes his song as the Voice and the Eye dissipate, joy in his song and eyes and heart. And as he does so, he removes his veil once more and bows deeply Imtithal, pinning his veil back against his robes for the moment. "I... welcome you, my sister," he says, tears still causing his eyes to mist and blink. "I welcome you, and thank you a thousand times over for bringing us together for this miracle!"

Imtithal looks dazed still, her eyes still lit by the reflected glory. "We..." she pauses, and laughs raggedly, dropping the bow again. "Your people are his worshippers," she says. It's not entirely a question; she's gotten enough hints, and she's no longer worried about offending him by exposing something he kept secret. "Did you know this would happen?" That's not a complaint; it's said with a tone of wonder.

Sarye shakes his head, staring off in wonder. "Who could know? Who could hope?" he responds to her question with a question. "They were a small tribe, when the Dragon-Blooded rose up, and they have not returned before in the songs of all my people." He gives her the full, broad smile that is hid behind his twitching veil usually, answering her questions in reverse order. "Indeed, we are; we have kept faith for generations uncounted, before there even were Delzahn. How could we not? The inspiration was always there, even in our dreams." His eyes grow wide, "And I can carry the fire of waking back to my _people_..." He stares at Imtithal for a moment. "Sister-- these are your lands. But this is a temple-- my whole soul cries out to tend to it. May I bring my people here, to cleanse it, and tend to it?" he begs, treating her as a full equal.

Imtithal hesitates. "The desert here is barren, and I do not know how much it can support of your tribe," she says. "But how could I forbid your kin to visit?" She smiles. "I already told you that you could bring whatever helpers you wanted to clean it, and now... more so. She bows her head slightly. "We have come a long ways, Sarye, and faced dangers. Shall we finish our exploration now?

"Indeed!" Sarye says cheerfully, and cleans his sword carefully before sheathing it. He slings his shield back over his shoulder, and leaves his veil pinned back. Imtithal is his Circlesister, and he has no need of modesty with her. With that, he smiles and shakes his head, still in wonder, before heading into the hearth room proper.

Imtithal leaves her bow on the ground for now; she doesn't expect to need it in the next few minutes, and her arrows are scattered across the ground from her shock, anyhow. She follows the Zenith into the room.

It is a tall room - very tall. Through the haze of Solar Essence that roils around them, so intense as to be visible even without the essence sight that is slowly fading from them both, the blue desert sky above can be seen, but there is no sight of the bottom. For a few levels down, the crudely bricked in and covered open windows are visible.

The door leads to a bridge, which arches out without visible support to the center of the column of light, where an empty pedestal should hold a hearthstone. The bridge widens there to a wide platform - easily five yards across - and arranged around the edges are armor and weapon stands, holding the very ancient treasures that Sarye and Imtithal started out to loot - and now have full right to, by their election.

To the left, 90 degrees off from the arching bridge, a full suit of incredibly fine orichalcum battle armor rests. The missing hearthstone is not hard to find; it glows, throbbing with renewed power, from the socket in the chest of the armor. More than just armor, runes and tubes mark essence flows and further refinements and powers beyond 'mere' warding in combat. Clockwise of the armor, at its right hand, is a long, beautiful sword, not curved like the traditional Delzahni weapon, but straight and dual-bladed; like the armor, it is crafted of pure orichalcum; it rests upright in a stand. At the armor's left hand, a stand holds a solid looking shield, also orichalcum, pure and as holy as the site in which it rests.

Directly across from the golden armor, on the right side of the platform, another armor stand holds a much less intimidating set of armor; elegant silk, untouched by time or the bleaching effects of so much Sun, drapes between armored plates designed to fit to knees, elbows, face, shoulders, and chest. The silk is pure white. To the right hand of the silken armor, two cunningly crafted flamepieces rest together, matched atop a podium; to the left, a cloak of white cloth embroidered with gold drapes; like the silken armor, it seems unaltered by time, the fabric still sound.

Sarye shakes his head in wonder. "To think I thought to find a few pieces of orichalcum, perhaps a ritual dagger," he says, voice a little weak. "These are arms and armor..." He trails off and shakes his head again, still stunned. "We are blessed-- and triply so this land that she did not get her hands on them to corrupt them." He looks over at Imtithal. "You have some experience with thaumaturgy-- can you identify these?"

Imtithal nods slowly, and moves into the center. "Celestial Battle Armor," she says, her tone soft and almost reverent. "Crafted to the specifications of the Solars who commissioned it. I do not recognize this particular suit to know what features it has, save to say that they are undoubtedly impressive." She gestures back to the other side, her tone admiring. "Armor of the Unseen Assassin," she observes. "Not as directly defensive as the Celestial Battle Armor, it is nonetheless extremely potent, but designed less for outright combat, and more for stealth. In full use, it is incredibly hard to locate its wearer."

The young woman turns back to the left. "The shield is a thunderbolt shield. It will virtually move itself to catch blows. The sword is a Singing Crystal Cutter. It is inactive now, but it has spines that will spin in combat to catch weapons and add more power to its blows, greater even than a the orichalcum version of the common jade daiklaves so many Dragon-blooded use.

And again to the right. "The flamepieces are plasma tongue repeaters, if I am correct. Orichalcum versions. I am not completely familiar with how they differ from a common plasma tongue repeater such as one could buy even now in a Chiaroscuro market, but I assume they shoot further and with more force, at the least." She moves, letting her fingers touch the cloth of the cloak gingerly. "And these ... are a Wings of the Raptor." Her eyes glow as she glances back at Sarye. "Flight," she says, brushing it again.

Sarye grins broadly. "I think we have found our division of loot, you and I," he tells her with a laugh, eyes twinkling over that expressive smile of his. "I wonder if it was always held by a Golden Bull and an Iron Wolf," he says, thoughtfully, running his hands appreciatively over the sword, and looking over at the armor with just a little bit of greed.