It had been hours perhaps since pale sunlight had been abandoned for the sake of shadow. In the bowels of the earth, the air was stale, yet somehow still salty, balancing a constant threat of suffocation to the tresspasser. No matter how unwelcoming though, the path had clearly not been uncharted. The creaking of a wooden ramp, not far from rot after its constant exposure to brine, was the very evidence of activity. At times, it was traded for slippery rocks, only to be found again.
Webs of the rippling water's reflection were cast onto the stone walls, on which brown seaweed was growing like uneven ivy. Upon reaching it once for support, Celysiel decided on a firm aversion for it, the slimy sensation which it left at the tips of her fingers. Thus she tried to keep contact with the environment as limited as possible, her lantern held high, though its light did not stretch far.
A glance in the shadow was spared for the guide who would not take lead, yet the black veil did not reveal him. It did not cause the elf's certainty to waver. There was no doubt for his presence.
"I had not expected you to survive." she admitted. "Nor this place. I had not expected you to stay."
"It called." The voice was weak in the background, somewhat hoarse, broken. The whisperer in the dark did not approach the light, though his steps echoed, somewhat drawn. "Echoes of what oncee was. Perhaps my former brothers and sisters will once seal this place, should they dare brave the depths ever again. And by then, I will be long gone and they too late."
Celysiel turned her head forward in an attempt to ignore the ominous feeling that cryptic voice inspired. That sense of all-knowing, defying eternity. Had it not been the same when they first met under rain and by ancient stone's song?
"You speak of echoes." she uttered.
"They led you here." came the response from the dark. "Whisper to yourself all you like that you are here to ensure a nightmare's end. We both know the truth of the mortal soul. The insatiable desire to prolong it."[/font]
The ramp shook as the guide drew closer, ever mindful of the lantern's pale light. Celysiel felt the shifting weight on the wood, noted the ruffling edge of a robe's dark cloth as a slightly hunching silhouette finally brought itself to her front, making a descent. At long last, slender fingers of a bony, calloused hand graced the dim light. She took it, no stranger to the cold temperature of the wet skin against her own.
As she landed below, a squealching noise graced her ears, making them pull back. Dread met anticipation, a primal sense of excitement even, her expression lit by a flare of purple darklight born from her locket's sudden awakening. They were here.
The figure retracted his hand, turning around to lead her past a narrow passage on the wall. His features were more prominent now; tears and dirt marred his once amethyst cloak, now greying, discoloured. The hood was pulled up, concealing what of his features did not leak out. He had always seemed weak, but now his gait nearly gave the impression of someone suffering the terminal stage of unforgiving disease. Yet his face kept being hidden by shadow as the march continued.
Though Celysiel followed, now more than ever she did not dare touch the walls. The hem of her gown floated in shallow water, the disgusting wet echo of her steps ever present. They took a turn, while wandering eyes tried to take in what they could, noting holes in the stone like windows, filled by long, weaving masses. As they stepped out, she realised that water reflected itself upon stone no more. A tremble of her hand shook the lantern as she raised it to shed more light in the chamber into which they had stepped, well aware of what awaited.
She beheld the remnants of a God.
Right above them, exposed to the elements, the kraken head carved on the mountain shielded the ancient Shrine of the Storms, home to the tidesages and their Lord's treachery. Never had Celysiel forgotten the siren call of the temple, the voices of madness radiating from the sea and island alike. Yet her eyes had never graced the source of it all, though its identity had always been known. Now that the time had finally come, what remained of N'Zoth's husk was empty and blackening, as wasted as the memory of the Old One's influence.
It was said that Azeroth's potency had burnt the infection of the Old God from the world's body, a fate more final than any other of the beings to once rule the Black Empire. Evidence of it could now be seen, as the massive tentacles once embracing the cave chamber sagged, drained of vitality. No foul amber light of various eyes pierced the darkness. N'Zoth was forever gone, each promise sealed.
So why was her hand still shaking?
She had not heard the shuffling nearby, not noticed that same hand reaching for her own until flesh, as cold as that clinging on the walls, steadied her grasp. "Do you remember" asked the raspy voice, "my first words to you when I found you troubled by that slope?"
Celysiel's eyes focused ahead, where blackened tumours now appeared ready to fall off the surface they masked. "You wished to know whether I believe." A pause after, the lantern was lowered, the touch of the wrinkled hand abandoned. "Or whether I usurp the power which flows through me."
The nod was slow, deliberate. Something wriggled at the place of a beard as the hunched man stepped towards the chamber's heart.
"Those who curse the shadows have long blinded themselves to a truth that we, the banished, the forsaken keep alive as we suffer their contempt. Above the surface, the ignorant, unfaithful, fancy themselves as children of the Titans, protectors of this world. They rush to forget what the Titan truly made.
'Constructs. Machines of inconsiderable emotion to safeguard a future they usurped. It was not until those we are taught to scorn gave us freedom that these times ended."
He looked at his wrist, shoulders quaking. "They call it the Curse of Flesh. The ability to feel, shape, create, live a true life, for the very fact that it is linked to mortality. Those were our chains, undone by the Old Ones, for we were formed in Their image. And a part of Them will always reside within us. It cannot be denied."
Unsteady steps led the man towards the wall, spread, long fingers reaching for the growths sprayed with salt water. For months, their pulse had ceased. "In our rituals, we bleed to honour this bond. To give back what we were gifted. Yet in the moment of our patrons' greatest glory..." A tremble erased the voice. A deep breath followed, edging a cough. "The sea will speak to me no more."
It was the image of a man mourning, slowly sinking in the wrap of vindictive rage not yet realised. He was not without a plan, Celysiel could see this. Even bereft of their Gods, the servants of Old would never be deaf to the whispers.
Her gaze wandered across the wall again, to the fallen lid, the gap on the greying flesh. An eye beneath the tides, timeless, all-seeing. A well of Void to erase all wrongs. A warped sky.
The hood on the man's face moved slightly as he turned to look at her, a revelation of orange eyes piercing the shadows. Instinct alone pushed Celysiel a step back, but no - this was not the reality she feared. The dreams, she corrected herself. For reality had ended in her favour.
Had it not?
What was in her favour?
As if sensing the doubt within, drawn like a moth to flame, the cowled figure approached the lantern, ever mindful to keep a fine distance from the circle of light. His was a dance where sight could not reach. "Which decisions do you regret the most?" his voice was heard again again. "Those which guide you towards shadow, or those which guide you towards light?"
The elf shook her head, snowy locks painted purple behind the locket's rising vapours. "I do not know what is real anymore." Celysiel uttered. "How do you? The Gods are no more. You are a priest of dying faith, Brother Cedric."
The wriggling only became stronger as the man raised his hand, seeking something underneath his robe. The item was of a fine size, a wooden eye framed by flailing tendrils. Perhaps it belonged on a staff once, now severed by the rest of its body. It followed the simple fashion of tidesage designs, with the difference of the rune carvings upon the iris. Scribblings, creations of a madman.
"A God may be dead," he spoke calmly, "yet the Void can never die. All light shall be consumed. An end of one era is but the beginning of another. You know this. It is why you have come here. You have come to harvest. A scavanger collecting from the Old One's corpse while the eyes of the world turn North."
"It may be so." Celysiel's fingers embraced the locket, denying her guide its call. She convinced herself of a certainty she lacked, averting her gaze from the cursed man's scrawny silhouette. "The sky is fractured, like a broken mirror and we do not know what is beyond. With all attention directed there, the memory of the Black Empire will slumber, but this time, should it do so, it will never awaken again. You, as you creep and hide in these caverns, will surely perish. And I..."
Her voice faded, for she yet again engaged in that battle of shoving in the darkest corners what was not allowed to arise. A realisation. She had after all seen an impression of this chamber before.
The man stalked closer to the lantern's light, now daring to step under it. For all the malice they held, his eyes' colour seemed washed out away from the shadows' cradle. "It took your all." He realised, delight painting his broken voice. "The Sleeping City. Ny'alotha."
Even after N'Zoth's fall, Celysiel shuddered at the name. She turned to look at him, while the Heart's beat pulsed against her palm.
"Echoes... Echoes is all I need. You made an offer once. Is it too late?"
The low humming emitted by the tidesage almost rang like laughter. Others would have extended their hand, cast a lure into the darkness, yet he only stepped towards it, becoming but a cowled figure, insignificant by a God's burnt corpse. The eye of the splintered staff which he carried flared, ill red light giving life to the rune onto the wood.
"We give blood..." he uttered, hand surrendered to the ill glow; upon the splinters the guide cut himself, drawing a black liquid, encouraging it to fall upon the fleshy cave floor. He washed the salt with it as he fell on his knees, smearing the essence of his life upon what once was. It would not bring what was gone back to life, yet something shook Celysiel's ear, a nightmare. She held her breath.
"... Blood to give back to Those who came before us. Those who shaped us. The Forgotten Ones, now Lost Ones. For we are Their flesh and in us lives their memory. Fssh qam ak'agathShi Fssh qam h'iwn."
The walls did not tremble, N'Zoth's shut eyes did not open with orange light. Yet the atmosphere turned, like voices carried by a breeze, the remnant of a power ever out of reach, begging to find awakening. A link. If once it led to the seas, to the Old One's prison, now it stretched far beyond Celysiel's awareness. The Heart's beat hastened.
"Cast away your light, little elf." Brother Cedric - once of the tidesages, now bearing the gift of the k'thir- whispered. "It will not serve you here."
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