Post by Heron on Feb 17, 2019 0:42:51 GMT
Veridanza ducked her head beneath a stalactite and kept walking, waving the fog of her breath out of the path of her lantern’s light. Her boot heels clicked on the stone floor, occasionally crunching through the thin layer of rime that had settled.
She had not the means to divine by what magic the preservation cavern was kept at such a frigid temperature. It was fascinating, truly it was, but she would come back later for the purpose of study. That was not her purpose this day. Night. Whatever time it was above ground.
What brought Veridanza to the preservation cavern was the large blue cadaver respectfully laid out as neatly as something ungainly as a dead dragon could be.
Nobody had quite known what to do with Lorimath’s corpse. Generally speaking, dragons who died went between. Blue Lorimath had been knocked out and had crashed down on a broken tree. The trunk had punched neatly through his chest and then through his spine, killing him on impact. Lorimath had never had the chance to go between. The Queens’ Wing might have honored him by dropping him off there themselves except for one complicating factor.
Mila, Lorimath’s rider, was still alive.
Nearly walking dead herself, lost and dragonless, but alive. And nobody could truly blame Mila her inability to let go of Lorimath. Nobody who had ever Impressed, anyhow, and that was what brought Veridanza to the preservation cavern and to Lorimath.
Veridanza felt no guilt and very little remorse for Lorimath’s death. She had tried to prevent the attack, she had tried to mitigate it. She had lost a battle but she had fought it. And Lorimath had been killed by one of his own allies. But Veridanza had had the graced fortune to Impress beautiful golden Kalynath, and that had dramatically altered her perspective. Who would she be if it was Kalynath in this cave right now? What would that feel like?
Silently, Veridanza hung her torch on a hook on a support pillar -- they were scattered about the cavern to prevent a collapse -- and unshouldered her bag of supplies. First, she needed a thick stub of charcoal. The Triune was a little touchy about being pestered with blood magic, so it was with charcoal that Veridanza drew the ritual circle around and beneath Lorimath’s body, older than her Kalynath but still so much smaller.
Next, the offerings. At the apex of the triangle within the circle, golden wine and marigolds for Solandar. Next, a swatch of spidersilk and an hourglass for Inokhne the Weaver. Finally, milk and honey for Va’aada, lord of the Underworld. The wine and milk both sloshed sluggishly in their containers, nearly frozen by the cold of the preservation cave.
“Rexat Triumvirae helasylae ayrdirylae,” Veridanza murmured, kneeling before dead Lorimath to light a candle. “Rexat Triumvirae Solandarae, Rexat Triumvirae Inokhneae, Rexat Triumvirae Va’aadaae, moarync’lyth helasylae ayrdirylae.”
Usually Veridanza was known for casting her spells in her cult’s native tongue, but this was High Cant, known only to the most powerful priests and priestesses of Kassan’ha, those entrusted with the names of the Triune gods and the rituals of resurrection.
Far away, three gods heard their names whispered in supplication. They considered the source. Inokhne favored granting Veridanza’s request, because it was rare for one of the Withered Mask to ask so politely for something so...unselfish. Va’aada came to the conclusion that Lorimath had been taken before his appointed time of death, and so must be granted life. And that was when Solandar slammed down a hard NO and Veridanza was blasted back away from the candle she had lit as Solandar’s wrath threatened to set her on fire too.
Solandar will not help you. I will.
The blank, feelingless female voice held no inflection, nothing beyond the simple being of existence.
Nahirue.
Veridanza groaned, pulling herself up to a wary crouch, inventorying her potential injuries, but the second groan was not hers. Something shifted against cold stone floor, and Veridanza looked up from exploded offerings to see Lorimath, still quite greyed from death, beginning to experimentally twitch his limbs. His wound still gaped tremendously, a gorey hole straight through him, but he existed once more.
The Voice of the Deadwalk had made him a zombie.
The long-overdue post-Last Stand return of Lorimath to the world of Teragaia! Yay, Mila doesn't stay dragonless forever! But uh-oh, things are now slightly complicated. Lorimath's going to need some, er, cosmetic treatment. Maurice will walk him through
it.
She had not the means to divine by what magic the preservation cavern was kept at such a frigid temperature. It was fascinating, truly it was, but she would come back later for the purpose of study. That was not her purpose this day. Night. Whatever time it was above ground.
What brought Veridanza to the preservation cavern was the large blue cadaver respectfully laid out as neatly as something ungainly as a dead dragon could be.
Nobody had quite known what to do with Lorimath’s corpse. Generally speaking, dragons who died went between. Blue Lorimath had been knocked out and had crashed down on a broken tree. The trunk had punched neatly through his chest and then through his spine, killing him on impact. Lorimath had never had the chance to go between. The Queens’ Wing might have honored him by dropping him off there themselves except for one complicating factor.
Mila, Lorimath’s rider, was still alive.
Nearly walking dead herself, lost and dragonless, but alive. And nobody could truly blame Mila her inability to let go of Lorimath. Nobody who had ever Impressed, anyhow, and that was what brought Veridanza to the preservation cavern and to Lorimath.
Veridanza felt no guilt and very little remorse for Lorimath’s death. She had tried to prevent the attack, she had tried to mitigate it. She had lost a battle but she had fought it. And Lorimath had been killed by one of his own allies. But Veridanza had had the graced fortune to Impress beautiful golden Kalynath, and that had dramatically altered her perspective. Who would she be if it was Kalynath in this cave right now? What would that feel like?
Silently, Veridanza hung her torch on a hook on a support pillar -- they were scattered about the cavern to prevent a collapse -- and unshouldered her bag of supplies. First, she needed a thick stub of charcoal. The Triune was a little touchy about being pestered with blood magic, so it was with charcoal that Veridanza drew the ritual circle around and beneath Lorimath’s body, older than her Kalynath but still so much smaller.
Next, the offerings. At the apex of the triangle within the circle, golden wine and marigolds for Solandar. Next, a swatch of spidersilk and an hourglass for Inokhne the Weaver. Finally, milk and honey for Va’aada, lord of the Underworld. The wine and milk both sloshed sluggishly in their containers, nearly frozen by the cold of the preservation cave.
“Rexat Triumvirae helasylae ayrdirylae,” Veridanza murmured, kneeling before dead Lorimath to light a candle. “Rexat Triumvirae Solandarae, Rexat Triumvirae Inokhneae, Rexat Triumvirae Va’aadaae, moarync’lyth helasylae ayrdirylae.”
Usually Veridanza was known for casting her spells in her cult’s native tongue, but this was High Cant, known only to the most powerful priests and priestesses of Kassan’ha, those entrusted with the names of the Triune gods and the rituals of resurrection.
Far away, three gods heard their names whispered in supplication. They considered the source. Inokhne favored granting Veridanza’s request, because it was rare for one of the Withered Mask to ask so politely for something so...unselfish. Va’aada came to the conclusion that Lorimath had been taken before his appointed time of death, and so must be granted life. And that was when Solandar slammed down a hard NO and Veridanza was blasted back away from the candle she had lit as Solandar’s wrath threatened to set her on fire too.
Solandar will not help you. I will.
The blank, feelingless female voice held no inflection, nothing beyond the simple being of existence.
Nahirue.
Veridanza groaned, pulling herself up to a wary crouch, inventorying her potential injuries, but the second groan was not hers. Something shifted against cold stone floor, and Veridanza looked up from exploded offerings to see Lorimath, still quite greyed from death, beginning to experimentally twitch his limbs. His wound still gaped tremendously, a gorey hole straight through him, but he existed once more.
The Voice of the Deadwalk had made him a zombie.
The long-overdue post-Last Stand return of Lorimath to the world of Teragaia! Yay, Mila doesn't stay dragonless forever! But uh-oh, things are now slightly complicated. Lorimath's going to need some, er, cosmetic treatment. Maurice will walk him through
it.
