ItTakesTwoToTrump[Continued from Dead Mans Hand] The meeting with the Queen was brief, tearful, and reeked with an air of finality. Beside Gillian, Rhea walked with long, quick strides, trying to cover as much ground as possible through the halls of Castle Amber. To her credit, she got all the way to the Library before she paused, stumbled, and then leaned heavily against the wall. She wiped away the wetness at the corner of her eyes, frowning angrily. “Killing Rinaldo was one thing,” she said. “It was visceral. Substantial. Logical. Bloody. “But this… We’re fighting ghosts aren’t we? Shadow-boxing with the devil.” She looked at Gillian, “How have you done this for so long without going mad?” Gillian gave Rhea a wry smile as she reached forward and pulled a strand of hair away from Rhea's face. "Who says I'm not mad?" Then she chuckled and shrugged. "I suppose I've had longer to come to terms with everything. This is my second apocalypse, you know. After surviving one, another one doesn't seem to faze me as much." Rhea laughed, nodding. “Yeah, I guess this is old hat to you.” She pushed away from the wall, walking passed the Great Library and toward the stairs. “So, I’d like to hear your personal thoughts on the Hanged Man. You seem really nervous about it. Do you know thing we don’t? I mean… you drew it. Sorta." Gillian fell in beside Rhea and was silent a moment before answering, weighing her words. "It's strange. When I look at the trump I see myself in one orientation and Seabhac in the other and both of us are in a lot of pain. It's...unsettling. "Yes, Cybele's memories are now mine, but I still don't think I really understand the primal forces the true trumps tap into. They're something apart from the Pattern and the Logrus. I think it's kinda like electricity--we can create things that know how to use it, so we regard electricity as a tool and we consider ourselves its master, but we don't really understand how it works. Not really." She hugged herself, suddenly chilled. Rhea nodded, "I've been around the Family long enough to realize they might think they know everything, but really... they're just making $hit up as they go along." She smirked softly, hoping to get at least a snicker from her companion. Gillian smiled. "If the Trump is a Primal Force, then there's really no sense worrying about it. It's going to do what it's going to do, and we'll just go along for the ride. Think of your first time on the Pattern. I'll bet the last thing you were thinking was, 'Gee, I wonder how all of this works.' At least, that was the farther thing from my mind. "All I could think of was, Please don't let me die out here. Because I want all of this, whatever it is." "Yes," Gillian nodded. "It's...like a surrender. You give yourself over to the experience and trust it will all turn out okay. Rhea, do you believe in fate? Or a higher order or whatever guiding our path?" Rhea smiled faintly, "I suppose I'd have to. Because there's no way I'd fall in love with Cole by mere chance. I mean that ~had~ to be Fated. Because he's... well... Cole. "Why do you ask?" "I don't know. I suppose I find some comfort in the thought that this is all happening for a reason. Because otherwise things like what Rinaldo did to your mom can happen anywhere at anytime, and that unsettles me. I want to believe there is more goodness and order than there is chaos and evil. It helps me not go running screaming into the night." Rhea nodded, "That I can understand, all too well. There's a underlying current to things. Sometimes we see it. Most times we don't. But, I believe there needs to be a Purpose in..." She paused in the doorway to the outside, frowning. She began rubbing her shoulders. "I think someone just walked over my grave." Gillian felt the chill slither over her like an invasive tongue, finding secret and horrid places and corrupting them. She'd felt it too often, too many times to have forgotten it. The Dark Hour. But no. That was a pale reflection of this... presence. This aura so like the approach of some vast, inescapable storm. Gillian turned to Rhea. "It's time. She's coming. Take my hand." Rhea shivered, fear painting her features. This disconcertion didn’t last. A stony resolve erased it, revealing the true princess of Amber. “Yes,” she said firmly, taking Gillian’s hand. Gillian established a mental connection to Rhea through her physical touch, enhancing the process by also creating a trumpish construct of Rhea in her mind on the fly. She did this reflexively, almost without thought. Connection established, Gillian then brought up the Pattern and sent the Lens from their presence to skim through the Castle Walls and over the trees, giving them both a bird's-eye view of Amber Castle, the Ruins, and the position of Amber's forces. <There> Gillian thought, when she'd found the bunker where she and Rhea would join Pelegeya. She transported Rhea and herself there through the Lens. As Gillian engaged the teleportation, she found herself and the world slowing down- time distilling to a trickle. If felt like being encased in ice, cold and perfect stillness. She'd never experienced this before, not even in the Old Days. But she still recognized it as some form of deep magick. She instinctively adjusted Reality, allowing her to slip by this snare and materialize in the bunker of wood and dirt. "It's us!" Rhea said sharply, speaking to someone else. Gillian turned to see Prince Martin, pointing a wicked looking rifle their way. He breathed out, lowering the weapon. "That's an amazingly efficient way of getting yourself killed, sis." The sword at his side glowed in Gillian's advanced Sight - subtle waves of banality coming off it, dulling passions and emotions. "Prince Martin," Gillian acknowledged with a nod toward the man while managing to not take her eyes off his sword. "I'm pleased to finally meet you, though I wish the circumstances were substantially less apocalyptic. I hope you've had a lovely day so far." Martin grinned widely, all sparkling teeth and awesomeness. "The pleasure is mine, Lady Gillian. I've heard a great deal about you. And would like to know more, if we live through the night." He turned his head, sensing movement. A figure was coming up the sloped hill. The elegant figure striding quickly up the hill turned out to be Pelageya, heading unerringly toward Gillian, Rhea and Martin. "No doubt" she said once she was within hailing range. "You've felt what I did. The time is here." Gillian nodded. "There is already a strange magick in the area, one I don't recognize. It tried to stop Rhea and I from using Pattern to teleport in here. Be wary." Martin blushed, "Probably my fault, miss. The Fair Lady here provided me with some Chaos Magick." He gestured to Pelageya with respect. "I'll allow her to explain it, as I'm sure she can explain it better. But I believe it'll help buy us enough time to do what needs to be done." Gillian looked back at Pelegeya and raised an eyebrow. "I had an inspiration," she said with a smile. "I created a spell based on Martin's blood for him to unleash, to counter the Nyx's aura based on his connection to the Order of the Pattern. I have one of my own that requires a pentagram of candles to create, a sanctuary creation spell." Far above, the sky flashed - the five spheres atop Castle Amber blazing to life. Rhea turned, staring upward. "Dad must be activating the Defense System." "Alright, so here's the plan again so we're all on the same page," Gillian said, her eyes skyward. "Temnal is going to bring the Broken Jewel to mind and connect himself to it. Somehow he's going to let us know he's accomplished this and then Rhea and I will trump him--or he'll trump us. We were a bit fuzzy in nailing down all the details. Anyway, once Rhea and I are connected to the Broken Jewel through Temnal, he's going to feed the Jewel to the Nyx and thus we will have a trump connection to her and I can activate the Hanged Man trump. The hope is that the resultant BOOM will either wound her enough or sate her enough that she retreats back to Achlys and sleeps it off. While all the trumpish stuff is happening, Pelegeya and Martin will be protecting Rhea and me because our attention will be elsewhere. "Any questions?" "A point," Pelageya said. "I will also be, as possible, offering up intelligence to Benedict via--" she looked upward and smiled as the Dragon flew overhead. "But that's the opening moves, and what you describe," she said, "is our midgame and endgame. I, and Etrosk, will be here." "You will owe him some bear claws, if this all works," she added to Gillian. "I'll find him his own damn shadow filled with bear claws if this all works," Gillian smiled back grimly. Martin and Rhea nodded in kind, moving closer to one another. They briefly touched hands, smiling - sad but encouraged by the other’s presence. They shared a thousand words without speaking. The King’s voice echoed over the battlefield, bringing an air of security to the bleak landscape. From their heightened position, the group could see the positive effect it had on the troops - rallying them into a cohesive group. Above Amber, the skies boiled and churned with angry green and grey clouds. In every ward, every district, city life slowed to a halt. People of every rank and file communally raised their heads, confused, worried by this eccentric weather phenomenon. In a land of clear skies and gentle rains, this brewing storm couldn’t be ignored - as magical as it was unnerving. And, in each heart, something stirred. A darkness within, known or unknown, heard or unheard,whispering, muttering. Calling. Summoning. One and all. The promise of oblivion worming its way through their souls. Far too many recognized this Call, and were already lost. They simply didn’t know it yet. Time slowed. Silence fell over Amber, as if every person was holding their breath in anticipation of… something… A flash of brilliant gold and silver light flared over Castle Amber like a minor sun. This brilliance pushed back the oppressiveness in waves of glorious light. A divine voice accompanied it, soothing and calming as a father. “People of Amber,” King Random said. “Long have we been the Light in the Darkness. A beacon of hope. A bastion of civilization. We accept all, protect all. Even now, our former enemies stand with us, ready to face the challenges to come side by side. People come to us from throughout Shadow to seek sanctuary, to find greatness. Even with infinite possibilities available to them, they seek the future here. In Amber. Where we strive and flourish, not as individuals but as a people. And we are all the better for it. “We’ve endured many hardships together. War is no stranger to us. We’ve suffered loss, one and all. The Interregnum. The PatternFall War. The Long Night. But a few of the tragedies to befall us. To steal our dreams and our lives. But in the end, we remained standing. We’ve picked up the pieces and not simply moved forward, but prospered. We’ve united together and grow. For we are Amber. We are one. That has always been our finest strength. “Tonight is no different. Our greatest challenge lays before us. An ancient threat has risen from forgotten antiquity. An adversary that wishes to rob us of everything we are. Of who we are. It has destroyed civilizations. Extinguished countless lives. It is immortal. It will twist our hearts and fill us with hopelessness. It will turn brother against brother, lover against lover. It has no name, no face, no soldiers. It is Evil, pure and true. It is the Darkness. “And yet we shall prevail. For it has never met the might of Amber. It has never witnessed our strength. It has never felt the fury of our hearts, or the greatness of our resolve. We are the Light, people of Amber. We are the eternal beacon of hope. There is nothing we cannot accomplish. There is no enemy we cannot overcome. We are Amber. We are the Light. “Even in this darkest hour, the dawn shall come again. And we shall greet it together.” A cheer rose like thunder, tens of thousands of voices joined as one. It was the sound of hope, echoing, rising… Only to be silenced by the bellow of some great animal; a deep, resonating scream that rang on and on. Above the ruins of First Amber, the clouds began to spiral and twist, draining away into a growing darkness. Across Amber, the lights dimmed, colors dulled, life and beauty surrendering to the call of entropy. Ichor bled from ground and brick, ash fell like snow turning all it touched grey. All that was gold and silver faded. In Death Alley, a man called Gustav stared up at the spiraling clouds. He’d spent most of his life surrounded by squalor and hate. He’d killed the innocent and guilty alike, for money, for love, for the joy of it. He’d never known beauty or happiness. But in those strange, twisting patterns, Gustav discovered ecstasy - a pleasure deeper than he’d ever felt between the thighs of any whore. He moaned softly, reaching upward, upward, grasping for the sky. His back opened in a wet tear, shadowy wings ripping free… only to collapse and melt in inky droplets… followed by the rest of his flesh and bones… liquifying into a spreading puddle that laughed and laughed. In Flag Hill, a woman called Rebecka gazed into the maddened sky. Her lips curled back in an idiot’s grin, her green eyes shining like polished onyx. All her life she’d swallowed her anger, her hatred. Of her husband, of her family, of her hollow life. A life of soulless people and empty smiles, of backhanded compliments and bitten tongues. Beside her, the man who’d trapped her in this life gibbered at her, monkey sounds that made her anger boil. Her hand snapped out, seizing his tongue with curled talons and yanking it free of its moorings. The splash of dark blood, so much like the beautiful clouds, urged her on… and she fell upon him, tasting freedom for the first time. In Five Corners, an artist named Narin, wept dark tears as he bared witness to a beauty so profound his heart swelled and burst. With every ounce of strength he possessed, he averted his gaze long enough to view the blank canvas before him. His hands, guided by divine inspiration, reached for a brush holding it so tight the knuckles turned white. With two sharp, thrusts, he blinded himself with the pointed end - vitreous humor and blood filling his ink pot. He began working on his masterpiece, for in this new world, one did not require eyes to paint. Beneath Castle Amber, a soldier name Isika, found herself back in the Arden - the flames of War licking at her flesh, the screams of her brother louder than even her own. The pain consumed her, ravaged her. She failed and thrashed, hacking and slashing at the flames desperate to be free of this agony, to embrace the cool balm of peaceful oblivion. She murdered three of her friends before the rest of her squad finally down her. And by then, only a burnt husk of bone and steel remained of the woman she’d once been. Across Amber, men and women of many names feel to similar fates - all terrible, all tragic. And they were only the first. When the clouds shaped into a vast staring eye of glass and steel and darkness, even more followed. The Nyx had arrived. The Fall had begun. Martin pulled out [his] sword and tested its weight, “Don’t worry. Whatever comes, I’ll deal with it. Just do your magic, no matter what you see.” Rhea smiled at Gillian, “Any idea on how Temnal will signal…” Her question was cut short by an inhuman bellow from the ruins. They saw a hideous shape towering over the stones - fifteen feet of muscle and hatred. A minotaur shaped from steel and sharpened bone. Martin blinked, “Please, tell me that’s part of our plan.” "Time and tide, he's become hers," Pelageya gasped. Gillian slammed her hands down on the stone wall in front of her as she glared down at the ruins. "I don't know. I don't think so! Sand warned me... I think Temnal has succumbed. Hopefully he managed to connect to the Jewel before he turned. Rhea, lend me your strength..." Taking Rhea's hand in her own, Gillian added the girl's power to her own. She created a trump of Temnal in her mind and tried to establish a contact. Rhea's hand tightened around Gillian's, sending a heady rush of power into her. She could sense the woman's thoughts, laid bare to her. Her fears, her hopes, her strength. Unlike any Trump contact before, the pair became one, their minds and personalities meshing at the edges of consciousness. But they had little time to explore - savor - this strange intimacy. Temnal's image refused to appear in their thoughts. They fought and strained to shape it, but 'Temnal' simply didn't exist anymore. A stomach-twisting dread settled in them both. Something more than the transformation into the Blind Bull was at work. Rhea hissed through the struggle, "Focus on Temnal... on who he is, not what he looks like." They pushed harder, reaching not for the 'image' of him... but the Truth of him. Gillian had been inside his skull enough times to know his thoughts, his essence. That connection served her well, allowing her to guide their perception forward, not across the battlefield to the ruins... but up... up... toward that hideous eye. And finally, they found purchase... a burning man standing against a great void beginning to take form. If Temnal had been no more than the son his mother bore, the initial inrush of the Blind Bull entity into his body and spirit would have snuffed him out. If he had been no more than the rebellious fugitive who had found refuge in House Chanicut, the rage and terror the incursion woke within him would have seduced him into unity with it. But he was more than that now. He was melded with a Prince of Amber, perhaps the greatest Patternmaster of his generation; a man who, like Temnal himself, had always sought outward -- for more experience, more capability, more knowledge. All that was threatened if he didn't get out -- now. The prickle of Pattern that he'd sensed earlier as a discomfort now became a net of power he could latch onto with immaterial hands, and pull. Harder. Harder. Harder. Tearing loose from his swollen usurped body was inexpressibly painful -- like ripping hair out by handfuls, magnified a thousandfold, screaming nerves and rending muscles and shuddering bones trying to hold him back. In response he wrapped the silverflashing bluefire Pattern around him. It burned, but it was a clean transforming fire. The final alchemical process began as he traced its intricate lines, as they were traced into him. Darkness, fear, anger, sorrow, pain, death, rescue, love ... he experienced them all again as they burned from black to red to green to white-hot. Nigredo, rubedo, viridis, albedo... Destruction. Transmutation. Renascence. We are one. We are the quintessence, the elixir, the Philosopher's Stone. We. Are. Free. He stood in the center of the Pattern, a figure made of golden light. From here, he could go anywhere... ... and yet, he found himself on a barren plain of grey stone stretching outward in every direction. Beneath his feet, the Pattern spiraled and twisted like a beautiful fresco. Against the featureless landscape, it shone like sunlight through diamonds, pressing back the oppressive... nothingness. He sensed something stir in the distance, a cyclopean mass of shadow so large he couldn't begin to guess how far away it actually was. Miles? Tens of miles? In this realm, where Time & Space meant little, his mind struggled to give it shape and form. The darkness split open - thick tendrils of rot and decay stretching like cobwebs. A rush of stale air struck him with hurricane force, nearly throwing him from the relative safety of the Pattern's golden path. His mind registered 'red' as the wall of color behind, yet he knew such concepts did not belong here in the truest void. The wall filled his vision, a great spire of hideousness and impossible life. He sensed no malice, no 'evil' intent; only pure, savage indifference. The Eye of the Nyx was upon him. A nagging, gnat-itch began crawling through his mind. Intruding with keen desperation. A Trump contact. Wishing urgently to reconnect with his companions, Temnal opened himself to the contact. The twin presence of Gillian and Rhea greeted him. <I'm here. I'm out of there. Destroy that thing!> There was an instant of surprise as Gillian registered not only where Temnal was, but specifically where Temnal *was not*. <Come through and we'll do it together.> She held her hand out to him. He reached to touch only the tips of her fingers as he stepped through. Even in that minimal contact she could feel the crackle of Pattern energy -- rather than any palpable flesh. His golden-light form was still largely Temnal-shaped by his most recent memory and self-image, but its "clothing" flickered confusingly between ghostly armor and the outline of a school uniform and basic unadorned robe or tunic. [Pelegeya] turned her back on [Gillian and Rhea] and put herself between them and the ruins. Clearly, Temnal had to be fought. The desire in her blood to face him raced through her veins, but her promise to guard the three of them kept her from loping toward the ruins to see combat with what Temnal had become. Pelageya reached out for the dragon, to make sure he was still free, to learn what he could see. Etrosk's pain flooded into her skull like a hot knife. The dragon dropped through the clouds, spiraling, flailing, slashing at the beast of wings and rusted knives hacking its way through his scales and flesh. Before she could even respond, he stole enough of her strength to focus his thoughts - tucking his wings in, arching his body into a desperate glide. For a terrifying moment, it appeared that he'd crash headlong into the Great Stair, but instead he arched his sinuous body. Like a shipwright removing a barnacle, he used the rock to scrap the squealing beast from his back - its body coming apart like jelly. Even so, the damage had been done. He couldn't pull out of the dive - only turn it into a control impact. The dragon came rushing out of the night, crumpling into the side of the hill in a blast of dirt and pain. Martin swirled around, "What the bloody hell?!" Pelageya managed not to crumple under the searing pain from her bonded companion. That the Nyx would attack Etrosk was undeniable, that the pain that she would share with Etrosk was more than she could imagine, and the strike against the hill greater still. Hot tears filled her eyes, temporarily blinding her. Main will alone kept her from losing herself to the pain, shunting it, dulling it as best she could. "Etrosk?" she called. She sent concern, trust, and love through the contact, reassurance. The impact could not have been good...but he was the last of the Nine, was he not, not a wyrmling. Surely? He raised his blunt head, spitting out blood and dirt. "Alive and feeling rather mortal," he replied. He tried to rise, only to howl in agony. One of his wings lay twisted on the ground, obviously broken. He struggled to tuck it close to his body. "I doubt I can fly, but I'm still ready to help how I might." Martin lowered his guard, thankful that he wouldn't be fighting a dragon. He turned his head back toward the ruins, biting back a curse. "That Bull thing looks might pissed off. You might want to patch your dragon up and get ready." "I'm on it," Pelageya said. She took a loping gait to where Etrosk had crashed. Her mind formulated the parameters of a spell as she did so. She might not be able to heal the broken wing, but she could aid the Dragon's pain (and her own) and make him combat effective. Pelageya, once she reached Etrosk's crash site, put a hand on the Dragon's hide. "If you can't fly, you can still be fearsome on the ground." She unleashed her spell, drawing on the power of Chaos, to shunt the pain of the broken wing away for now. Healing it fully would come later. "Let's get ourselves between them and the incoming forces," she directed. "Side by side, they shall not pass us." Behind [Pelegeya], Gillian held out her hand to empty air, as if ready to grasp something as yet unseen. Temnal felt the shared power of Gillian and Rhea - weaving his fingers into theirs. Behind him, the Nyx reached out, trying to draw him back into her abyss. Tendrils of invisible power wrapped around his essence, flooding him with biting cold. His fiery body began to turn to hoarfrost. Pieces of it dropped away, shattering like crystal on the grey stone. Rhea hissed, pulling, yanking, lending all her strength - physical and mental - to the tug-a-war they now found themselves locked in. Both Temnal and Gillian knew they were losing him... and without a true physical form, he'd have difficulty manifesting again. For the moment, only the 'Trump' image they'd constructed gave him substance. He grabbed onto that with his mind, calling on his own awareness and ability to conceptualize himself in the terms of Trump ... a living Trump ... the blended whole he knew himself to be, though it might never yet have been drawn in physical form. Though the True Deck Gillian held might indeed contain all things.... Through their connection, Gillian saw in Temnal's mind how he had torn himself away from the Blind Bull and recreated himself on the Pattern. <You are at the Center. You can teleport away!> A flicker of amusement. <Silly me.> From the center, and zeroing in on their Trump connection, he flashed to Gillian and Rhea's location. Another flare of agony ran through Temnal, and into Gillian and Rhea through their shared connection. His bones and flesh stretched and shrank in a dozen directions at once. The arcane form he’d taken solidified into something more… mortal. Something better suited for the limitations of Reality. The man that emerged from the Trump contact was in his middle-ages, a pepper of grey at the corners of his hair; ash blending with a red-gold like flame. His skin was deep cinnamon now, his eyes molten gold. Years had etched Temnal’s face, matured his body. A wand had found its way to one hand, while a ring settled upon the other. Gillian had seen the image before on her Trumps: The Magician. Gillian didn't let go of his hand as he passed through the connection. She blinked in surprise. "Temnal?" <It's me. It's still me ... us. What you get when the principles merge.> He used mindspeech still, partly because it still seemed more natural to him, and partly because it was at once more private and more open. Mind to mind, you couldn't hide who you were. The pain subsided, followed by a cold wind that chilled their bodies. As the moments passed, they could feel everything they were, everything they could be, slowly draining away - stripped away like an onion. They had the tiger by the tail - the Nyx was still connected to them. And once it consumed the Broken Pattern, they’d be next. Gillian set her mouth in a determined line and regarded Temnal and Rhea. "This is the really dangerous bit coming up. Activating the Hanged Man trump means that we need to be in mortal danger, but together we can help one another persevere through anything the Nyx throws at us. I welcome either or both of you staying in contact with me, but if you want to disconnect, that's okay too. Now is the time to decide." Rhea laughed, a hint of madness in her voice. "Exactly how much more peril do you need, for Unicorn's sake?" As if sensing her trepidation, the air before them began to rupture - splitting and folding in on itself. Both of them suspected it was some form of Gate - but certainly not Trump. The Nyx's hold on them was taking physical form. <I'll stay.> Temnal's mindvoice was determined. <Listen ... my idea from the first was to draw the Nyx into the Hanged Man by merging with it ... and then slipping out the back once she's snared. Can it be done, do you think?> Gillian considered things. Quickly. <As long as I'm the one activating the Trump--I don't think that would turn out well for you. This plan definitely puts you in the Middle Of It All, because you're the one with the connection to the Nyx. Rhea and I are just connected to you.> The unspoken question was there: Do you want to stay there, or pass the connection off? Temnal nodded sharply, in agreement. <Right. You activate the Hanged Man, I step into it, the Nyx follows me in ... then when she's entangled with it, I'll grab a thread of the Magician and dissociate from the Hanged Man, leaving her inside it.> Rhea blinked. <Is that exactly wise? You'll be in the cage with the tiger so to speak...> She hissed as another strong mental tug resonated through the mental contact. <I don't think there's anything else we have that would sufficiently bait the Nyx,> Temnal replied. <Wise? Probably not. Necessary, to accomplish our goal? I think so.> Memories and thoughts began stripping away under the Nyx's influence. An alluring need to simply let go began worming into each of them, lulling them down, down to final sleep like a slit wrist. <No,> Gillian thought firmly, refusing to succumb. It scared her how enticing the offer was, to simply give up and surrender. The time to act was now or never--they may not be able to resist again. <Not a chance,> Temnal echoed her. After the achievement of transmutation, there was no way he was going to let that go. In preparation for luring the Nyx, he raised his hand. The ring on his finger became the Broken Jewel, linked to him because he had made it. It gleamed red, enticing. The wand he kept in reserve... [Gillian] brought the Hanged Man to mind, activating it.... Time slowed; color and sound leeching away to distant memory. A glacial stillness encased them, blocking out the battlefield, removing them from Creation. They were linked in that moment, that second. Temnal, Rhea, Gillian, the Nyx. All One. And then Temnal felt the truest form of ecstasy - where pain and pleasure were indivisible. His body and soul were melted, forged, melted, forged, and melted again. His essence tempered in the forge of Trump Magick, transcending into a new state of existence. His perceptions stretched outward into Shadow, flooding him with imagery and memories of Sacrifices - countless lives and souls given in the name of Transformation, of Ascendance. And with each death, each suffering, he transcended into a weapon against Oblivion. He felt himself pulled toward his Duty, slipping from Reality into Achlys - the Nyx's dead heart. And Gillian could feel him slipping too, their connection muddied by the sheer energies coursing through her. If not for Rhea, she doubted even she could be Temnal's anchor, his conduit to the Real. All three were slammed by a hurricane force, a blisteringly cold wind of banality that thrust them back into the here and now. The Gate between them and the Nyx widened slightly; the Primordial trying to physically manifest. Gillian's mental grip on Rhea and Temnal tightened. <Stay with us! STEP INTO THE TRUMP,> Gillian entreated Temnal. <I'm on it.> One step forward, and he merged with the universal image. His senses spun 180 degrees as he found himself suspended head downward. Into the Image he began to pour everything that must be sacrificed, that had to die before rebirth could happen. Half-truths, ingrained habits, fossilized attitudes, old regrets. Fear ... existential angst ... hatred ... accidie ... Unless a seed fall to the ground and die... Temnal felt the Power flare within him, shaping his Will into Form. And with it came the pain of sacrifice, emblazoned upon his soul like acid. He embraced the pain, knowing from his earlier transformation that pain was purification ... and as long as he could feel, he was not nothing. The Nyx fed deeply on this pain, drinking it down, glutting herself on the endless reserves of Possibility. But the process began stripping away his humanity, shaping him more and more into the Persona of the Hanged Man. Memories and thoughts blurred as the energy flowed through him. Only his anchors preserved the essence that was Temnal. The knowledge of his one other escape route he had deliberately buried deep, so that it might neither be detected or stripped away. The Nyx lashed out again. And again. Trying to open then Gate inch by inch. But as its hunger was answered, its strength waned imperceptibly. Although people were dying by the scores around them, they recognized the Nyx's widening influence had slowed. Close by, Martin shouted in shock and pain. His body slammed against the bunker's wall; ragged slashes bleeding all over his chest. Gillian saw a canid monstrosity standing over him, long chains with hooks hanging from its supplicated flesh like tentacles. The prince slashed widely with his sword; the hell hound carefully, menacingly pacing away from his strokes. She realized he couldn't see the creature. Or the ones to join it at the edge of their shelter. A deep dread boiled in her stomach as she recognized the creature - gwyllgi. Hell hounds. Visible only to those touched by the Wake. Rhea's concentration broke at seeing her brother's struggles. "What's happening to him?" "Hell hounds. Invisible," Gillian hissed as she passed the Hanged Man trump into Rhea's hands. <Rhea, you MUST anchor Temnal. I will be back in the connection as soon as I can.> Turning to the hound attacking Martin and using her knowledge of Rule Fire, Gillian created fire deep within the hound's body and burned it from the inside out. One of the Hounds cried out, its fiery interior transforming into a conflagration. It howled and rolled and thrashed on the ground, its metallic and flayed skin rupturing and spilling flames. It died a few seconds later, leaving little more than a burnt husk behind. Gillian felt a euphoric rush pass through her as the creature expired; the scent of brimstone and cooked metal filling her head. Reality here had shifted; the paradigms altered by the Nyx. Destructive magicks were now empowered, and tantalizingly easy to cast. Another of the creatures screeched and fell - itsbodies torn by some incredible force. A few seconds flowing each death, she heard the loud report of a rifle. Someone was laying down suppressive fire. Gillian looked around wildly, seeking for the source. If they could see the hounds then it would have to be someone touched by the Wake, one of her fellow Scoobies. The Hounds realized this too, retreating down the hill's edge to hide from the shooting. But she knew they'd find a way back soon enough. Martin collapsed, bleeding - large chunks of meat hanging from his ruined armor. He stubbornly kept slashing at the air. Behind her, Temnal and Rhea began to fade - their bodies becoming ghostly and incorporeal. She turned back toward Martin. "You!" she shouted, pointing at a nearby soldier. "Help Prince Martin and see him to safety!" The frazzled soldier called over a compatriot; the man and woman moving to the Prince's side. From their faces, his injuries were grave. She'd done what she could. There was no time for healing magicks. She needed to return to the contact. Gillian took ahold of both Rhea's arm and Temnal's, re-establishing the mental connection they'd previously had. And yet, her hand simply passed through them... their translucent limbs chilling her flesh. She realized they were out of phase, lost in a limbo between the Time & Space, locked into whatever state of existence the Nyx dwelled within. If anything, it reminded her of the Time-lost specters of the Ghost City, reflections of reflections. The Trump Gate, however, remained very real - the smoky air falling into its infinite darkness. But it had not widened further, its progress temporarily halted. "NO!" Gillian shouted, and stamped her foot in frustration and anger. Slogging up out of the mud and gore, Malachi slew a hound, twisting his spear to end its struggles and trudged up to the crest of the ridge. The big man's clothes were stained a dark crimson above his muddy boots, but his fierce smile demonstrated that he was not seriously harmed. His looked at Gillian and the fading images of Rhea and Temnal with some relief. "Good to see you, Miss Gillian," he said, barely breathing hard. "Looks to me as though you could use a little help?" [Continued in As the Worm Turns] |
