The Truths We Create

[Serena]

== Cotard’s Solution (Anatta​/​Dukkha​/​Anicca) ==

A strange nightmare.
This was what the cycles following the return to Sigil with Maraphiel had felt like: a vivid, unescapable nightmare, worse than the ones he had ever been used to. Probably because this one wasn’t just in his head. This one was real.
And he was the one who caused it, long before he even knew.
Or did he?
Had he really been so oblivious, or was it just convenient to pretend to not see?

It was a good deal.
He had asked for it, afterall. But back then, he had failed to notice the bigger picture, the implications of his request.
She didn't, of course.
And even when he eventually did realize, he didn't give it enough importance: he figured he could afford letting her try, he thought it was meaningless. He wasn't threatened by her dubious "self-improvement" speeches.
But this wasn't a self-improvement speech, this was on a whole new level. And he hadn't even seen it coming.

The conversation with Dace came back to mind, and he had to repress an almost hysterical, desperate laughter, fingers pressing over his eyes as he rested on the floor of the bathroom.
He should be thankful there were people who gave him more credit than he really deserved… or did they?
Which one was worse, at the end of the day, being taken for a fool who had let a devil play with him, or being the one who had laid the cards for them without even being asked to?
Being the one everyone believed was losing control, or being the one willingly heading straight toward the edge of the cliff?
But was it a cliff, even?

In his head, Alecto's mocking sneer stirred his anger, and the pressure on his eyes grew until pain brought a sliver of clarity back to him.

That wasn’t right. He needed to get his act together, his life depended on it.
Of course, it was easier said than done. He had to not strain his mind, but he also had to worry about his safety, all of that while also making sure he was relaxed enough to not allow any weakness to be exploited.
A piece of cake.
This time he did laugh, although the sound came out faint and distant.
How come it always sounded as if he was finding excuses?


Still, the words from the fiendess kept replaying in his head over and over, leaving him unable to not think about them.

What if she was right? What if he was just delusional, thinking that somehow he would be able to change his life around? And even if he managed to, what for?
What if it was really just who he was.
Was a life, half of it, enough to make up for everything? Was half a life enough for someone to become so drastically different to be able to give up everything that had defined them until then?
And did he really want something like that?


What if he was just allowing her to mess with him.

What if he already had lost.



He slowly ran his hands through his hair and finally closed his eyes, exhaustion dangerously taking its toll.
It's times like this that made him wish that-

[Serena]

[Serena]

== Mr. Capgras Encounters a Secondhand Vanity: Tulpamancer’s Prosopagnosia​/​Pareidolia (As Direct Result of Trauma to the Fusiform Gyrus) ==


He wished he could say rest had brought a more profound clarity with it, but it would have been a far-fetched truth: the lucid dreams he had been experiencing since all that mess had started, while not being threatening or malicious in nature, had added more questions to the long list of issues he needed to deal with...

The few hours spent in the night of Karasuthra had at least helped him ease his mind, as they always did in the past, but even in that familiar comfort, he hadn't failed to notice how his perception of the Plane seemed to have... changed.
In the back of his mind, a sense of uneasiness, a muted pulsing threatening to blossom at any time in discomfort, not unlike the one he experienced in some of the other planes. It didn't yet, but it was there, and he couldn't help but ask himself whether it was real or he was just imagining things. Was it the other passenger's displeasure reflecting on him?
Was it his mind playing tricks, had he finally become unable to tell apart the truth from the deception?

With a deliberate effort, he pushed the thought away calling forth his resolution.
In all that confusion he couldn't start doubting himself, he needed to remember who he was: someone who had always only lived out of spite. And that could not change now, of all times.


The portal came to life in front of him, opening on the street he was so familiar with, and he stepped through it and into the smoggy air of the Cage again.
He knew he could not waste time, the momentary quietness wasn't going to be long lasting: the conscience of the spirit trapped inside him had been hampered by the brief permanence in the Beastlands, but he needed to make good use of the time at his disposal to start studying his situation before she showed up again. She had ben too loud, the night before, too bold. He had given her means to be so, and weakness was something he could not afford.

Whatever his final decision was going to be, he was never going to let her get him alive.

[Serena]

Calmness.
It had taken him almost four cycles to eventually be able to regain his focus, and only now that his mind was again in the right place he could realize how debilitating it had been for him, to let all those issues go to his head.

No, he hadn’t taken any decision on the -real- problem, that much was true, and he knew it was still something he needed to address soon enough.
But once the more drastic option he had considered in his previous state of mind had been discarded, only the logical course of action remained for the situation: safeguard the sigil and understand how it worked.


Finally able to think with more clarity, he had used the first hours after antipeak to carry out a brief experiment, heading past the portal in the Barracks with the intention of venturing into hostile territory: surprisingly -or perhaps not so much- the trapped fiendess became almost immediately opinionated, screaming in his head what was clearly concern for their safety, to the point he was almost certain she might be able to take over, had him put them in mortal danger.
It was a good answer, better than the one he could have gotten by asking directly, and it had proven him something valuable: if he was to die, she was going to be done for.

Sure, there was that little issue of not knowing yet what was going to be of his soul, should that happen, but…. luckily, he was not planning a suicide. Not anymore, at least.




He quietly shifted his gaze from the window to his left down on the piano, the spectral light of the astral giving the ivory keys a faint blue shimmering.
How long had it been since he last played? Months? A Year? He couldn’t really recall, and he wondered if he still remembered how to do it. It had always helped him relax, and Powers knew he needed that right now.
He moved a hand across the keyboard welcoming the familiar touch before he attempted a note. Just one at first, then another, and then one more, until the melody started taking shape, dubious at first, as he tried to remember, and then slowly picking up as everything fell back into place without effort.
Soon it all felt familiar once more: the resistance of the keys under his fingers, the sound coming from the strings, each sequence playing in his head before it went to fill the cold room.
And as muscle memory took over, his mind started working again, free of the emotions who had sidetracked him until then.

He knew every information Maraphiel had given him was true, but that didn’t take into account omissions, or the fact that information would always be a means to her purpose, and he had to be careful to take them as such at all times. However, while she deliberately put him in that situation, what to do with the knowledge gained from it was a decision that still rested on his shoulders only.
Eventually, he started going through what he had gathered about the ancient seal, planning what to do next, considering how to go about creating a possible additional binding, and soon his perception of time faded, his fingers indulging on the same sequence over and over until his mind was lost in thought, unaware of the endless repetition.
He had almost forgotten all about not being alone, until new, alien memories started adding up to his more conscious thoughts, as if the almost meditation-like process had given him access to bits of the mind of his now silent guest.

Tainted.
There was no way for him to quantify to what extent that situation bothered him: being forced to share his mind, the only thing he ever had of value, with some random fiend. Being bothered even in the sole place he could really call his own.

His hands indulged a bit longer on the keyboard, the mindless repetition finally over as he performed the last part of the melody to its end. He couldn’t let this bother him, he needed to take advantage of it. It wasn’t going to be forever, all he had to do was hold on for long enough.
As always.

The clock on the wall announced to him it had been more than four hours he had been sitting there, and he sighed lightly as he closed the lid over the piano.
Now there was one last thing he needed to understand, and he knew he shouldn’t be postponing that experiment any longer, even if he was almost certain he was not going to like the result.
Sleep had brought him visions and imageries that didn’t belong to him, but he still wasn’t sure what they actually meant and why he was seeing them. The World Serpent, the Galleon Nebula… Mystryl? All kept pointing in a way or another to Toril, including the old Netherese ritual. He knew he could find more about all of that, but first he wished to know what kind of process was prompting him to gain access to that information. Was it the Dream realm, or was it something else?

That was why, now that his body had fully recovered, he was going to return to his previous practice of Reverie: if those were some sort of memories he was accessing, then he’d have an answer, but if they proved to be dreams as they seemed… well, he had a different path to take.

[Slayer of Love]

Karasuthra Dreaming


You remember little from the dream that came to you in Karasuthra - or perhaps it was you whom came to that dream - and it is neither because your memory is somehow troubled, nor because the sensations were not as vivid as your last few dreams; it is because nowhere in the waking world there are words remotely scratching the surface of attempting to describe the logic-defying phantasmagoria you stood witness to. One thing you can say for certain is that the bewildered nature of the plane had exerted its influence on where, if it even could be a place, your mind treaded in your sleep.

It starts at one point, in a dream as indistinct as they have always usually been; majority of which your subconscious has already forgotten, as it always usually has, save for the moment where it ends. You are in a bleary, dim room, a kitchen or perhaps a living room; you see there in the darkest corner of the walls a baleful, violet light. As you gleam upon it you recognise the abhorrent, recurring theme - the seal; it is blurred, weakened. And although you feel detested with its insulting presence, you sense its fascinating, mysterious power; you feel somehow mystically drawn to the dark secrets it must behold. The loathsome, revolting fear you seem to be harbouring for these abhorrent symbols, and the awareness that you must avoid contact with the seal, lest you are to break the barrier that keeps your opponent in constant check; they stand in great dissonance to the bewitching fascination that strangely you find in yourself for the seductive mystery shrouded beneath that border's obscurity. This conflict fills you momentarily with anger, in its maddening outburst you knock over cupboards and dish cabinets, tossing them on the seal to cover its hideous gaze; and as (click) masses of glass shatter loudly into pieces, so does the dream reality around, in weird, otherwordly, synthetic noises. All form and shape fracture at once and, bizzarely, geysers of blatant, rainbow colours erupt from these cracks, pulsating vibrantly in a hypnotic, opiate rhythm. All shape and form, for lack of a better description, becomes fluid or gasseous mixtures of colour pools; yet, oddly, with distinct edges outlining ever-changing patterns, separating these colour pools that swirl around you in a maddening circular fashion. All shape and form ceases to have any permanence one would expect from reality, any continuity is simply no longer valid; they are in a state of constant change, irregular yet strangely rhytmic fashion. The walls flow to sides and become pink, gold and blue trees, and no second passes when blue lianas grow from them in all directions, morph into abstract, calleidoscopic shapes, only to in one sudden change into seeping vapour; and the next instant they are distilled into an entire river of eerie red, flowing up to the very horizon through vast, picturesque vistas of purple and yellow leaf jungle, where monkeys, exotic birds of impressively grown decorative features, wobbling snakes and other odd animals you would struggle to name, or even focus on any particular one long enough to recognise the shape. You look to your hands, at first they seem ghastly, like there is just an incorporeal layer of an astral substance holding together a luminous emptiness beneath. Then there grow on them bright indigo leaves and exquisite flowers, they resemble more a two-dimensional drawing than actual objects. Together with your hands they morph fluidly into a glowing as though under full sun waterfall, that merges with the winking into existence abudant with crab and fish rivers, that flow out of the background vistas. Then together they become triangles that are rectangulars that are circles, whilst the water fauna launches out of the rivers and become glittering stars and colorful mushrooms. Wanting to wake up from this reality-less phantasm, you struggle against the dream, and you toss a couple dishes from the room that was there before it all started. You hear them shatter but they just dissolve into the rhytmical, rainbow-coloured, ever-changing wilderness, becoming part of it. You hear a disembodied, female voice, strained and barmied from the rhythm, rambling panicked somewhere in the background. It sounds like Alecto's voice, though it is odd, for you cannot sense her presence near, not like you always do even if she is dormant buried in the murkiest of depths of your subconscious. You see one or two others like you, luminous phantoms shaped like men, humanoidal dreamforms, different and relatively to the rest of the environment more permanent; they are watching this maddening realm with fascination, and dancing to the hypnotic, opiate rhythm, chanting a tribal mantra. When you walk, surf, fly, drift, run, fall, vaporise and otherwise move to them, they appear introvert, failing to or maybe denying to acknowledge you, submerged entirely in their insane trance. When you protest long enough, one of them points you to a nearby pond of glittering in colours of rainbow water, and in there you behold a most twisted reflection of yours.






You're not sure how long it lasted, but once you wake up you feel the devil's presence strongly diminished, and for a moment after waking at least, your emotions oddly cleared of the burdens.

[Slayer of Love]

Of course, the deviless won't make a statement that is technically false, but Maraphiel wouldn't be one if she didn't have ways around that. It's all in the delicate phrasing, suggestions spoken and not, play on expectations, fears and desires, and indeed, vagueness and omissions. When Rhistel asks her of the weird, vivid dreams that he has been having, ones that do not seem actually his, she does it again. It is true what she tells him, that the dream world is not exactly her domain. It is true, in the figurative sense; it's probably what he would expect knowing devils need not, unlike mortals, put themselves to sleep and dream regularly for their minds to function healthily. It is also true in the literal sense, for her "domain", as a creature of belief, is tied to the many sins that blossom darkly in Baator, and little do they have to do with the dreams. But there is more under this believable and logically valid phrasing, under apparent lesser certainty, in how she talks of the artefacts of the dream world, and in her neglecting to elaborate on a few darks she does happen to know. For neither it is true that devils never sleep, nor that she has no degree of understanding of both the dreaming world and the cause for Rhistel's odd condition, nor even that it is completely benign - the sages will say that the dreamers sure cannot be hurt in the waking world as a result of their dreams, but only so long as they are theirs, and his accounts do not point to that being the case. Maraphiel knows Rhistel would want to know all of this, and would not appreciate much her not sharing these darks. She has her reasons to play it like this, and though they might no seem as such, they do not stem from malignant intentions. First is a matter of nature of creatures such as she. Often they will refrain from direct interference in earthly affairs of simple mortals, even those chosen for their particular interest. They will guide those chosen and put them through trials that shall decide their worth and reveal their heart. And Rhistel has more than enough clues and resource to work it out on his own. It does not make her content, seeing him like he's been these last days, so close to breaking. Yet, to the deviless, even though charity such as handing these answers on a silver platter could ease Rhistel's burdens, it would not lead him to forge his strength on his own, and through such prove his worth. Unlike much of the talk of self-improvement, this exercise is not going to be as easy to dismiss. Second reason to keep darks to herself then stems more out of pragmatism than principle, for studying the realms of dreams could take entire lifetimes, and she suspects revealing this information would only lead to Rhistel being distracted from the real test at hand - the seal that binds Alecto within him. He should know this ought to be his priority, for the dreams started ever since the possession, and could be deduced to be a by-product of it. But with his compulsive obsession with controlling everything no matter how unattainable, there is no need to lead him away from the problem that matters more. No judging there. She is the last one that should lecture anyone on being too controlling. Last issue stems from anticipation of Rhistel's reaction. Every action generates reaction, and reaction to her sharing would be resistance. Whatever solution she advocates, whatever advice she gives him, he is going to be distrustful about, and the more advantages she presents to him, no matter how benefitial, he is going to question and interpret as her trying to sell her agenda, even if genuine, selfless help was all it was. Another unnecessary distraction.

Of course, it would not all be genuine, selfless help. Like in everything she does, there is a driving purpose to it all, an endgame that she plans for Rhistel steps ahead of dilemmas that blight him currently. Yet, her motive is not an ulterior one, at least not fully - she has laid it out before him with, she'd hope, sufficient clarity, and it seems this much he understands. And even though the deviless does not enjoy Rhistel having second thoughts about exercising his own wish, even though it was not easy at all to arrange, even though there were ways to fulfil his exact wording that were much cheaper and far less pleasant, even then it will be all ever more meaningful if the decision is not imposed on him but stems solely from his will. It is thus she resolves not to press too much, for now, and leave him a little bit of space to figure some things out on his own.




* * *



When Rhistel indulges in reverie, rather than typical sleep, he finds the vivid visions haunting him do not come to him that night. The exercise proceeds without any interruptions, largely as he would expect it to be, confirming his suspicions. There is only one subtle quirk, not so obvious to make out even after completing the procedure. It is the memories that the elven trance brings forth. They tend to be of the darker sort. Not necessarily painful from Rhistel's perspective, at least not all of them, some even satisfactory or otherwise enjoyable. Some others not relating to anything bad in particular, only having to do with some moments in Rhistel's life that were structured, organised, orderly. None seem particularly connected one to another. It is the devil inside him. It is her that lures from the past these moments that were vaguely connected to law and evil side of things.

[Serena]

“I am here because I want to know how much the conscience of a man is worth.”

It had been years but he still recalled that scene as if it had happened the day before: the humming of the insects in the damp, cold night air, the silhouette of the man in front of him lightly illuminated by the endless starry sky above: he even tried to deny it, at first, as if he really was convinced he had no fault in what had happened, as if he hadn’t done anything. But he had seen all of it, his opinion on the matter was strong, and the man’s unwillingness to acknowledge his responsibilities in the face of truth only made him angrier.

“You do not want me, the cambion is the one you’re looking for,” he had argued, and he could hear himself snapping back at that, the animosity in his voice now obvious, enough to prompt the other figure that had been hiding until then to materialize out of the fog and get a hold of the unfortunate man, trapping him in a vicious headlock.
“You have no idea what I want”

There was what could have only been described as a sort of affection toward the huge armored vampire that was now threatening to choke the target, but that didn’t stop him from being deeply irritated by his intervention: the feeling of being constantly coddled, treated as someone who was too weak to take care of his own business…
But he knew that was not the time to argue, not in front of their victim.

Suddenly finding himself in what was clearly a dire situation, the man had blurted out the information they needed without any second thought, and his sudden capitulation had only increased his disgust for him.
“This is everything I know, what else do you want?!”

Before he had time to answer, the deep voice coming from under the helm of the armored man commanded the other to apologize for what he had done, trying to make him repent for his actions.
But that was not the point. He didn’t need his apologies, and he didn’t need him to be sorry: he had no use for any of that. If possible, seeing the guilt that had seemed to haunt the man the entire time only made him loathe him even more.

How could he be sorry about something he had willingly done? How could he dare give him the “I had no other option” speech and hope he’d take it?
He’d have respected him so much more if he had simply admitted he had done what he had done only to avoid retaliation from the other Aanarchs and save his own life, without that sugarcoating and the sob story. But there he was, the brave leader who had held captive a single, unarmed girl, only to hand her to a psychopath, stating he was sorry and that he couldn’t do anything different. The fighters for freedom.
Was this what people hid behind, when the consequences of their actions came hunting them down?
Pathetic.

He heard again the words coming out of his mouth as he got closer to the man.
“Life is made of choices. You were just left with two bad options apparently.”
Wrong.
“I told you everything you wanted… Is there any chance you'd let me go?”
The audacity.

He saw himself reach for the dagger at the belt and look at the vampire for a moment: again, the warrior mistook his hesitation for weakness, while all he hated about that situation was being treated as if he wasn’t able to kill someone that wasn’t being held steady for him.

“Consider yourself lucky. Your boss would have killed your friends too. I am not the entirely worst option you choose.”
Wrong, again. He didn’t choose shit.

What came next was no surprise to anyone, the blade drawn across the man’s throat causing a gush of warm blood to hit him across the face.
It was as the other gurgled to his death and the memory started fading that he found himself thinking.

Should have told him his friends were going to be next, instead.


---


His eyes regained focus from behind the half closed eyelid, and the ceiling of the bathroom welcomed him through the light distortion of the water covering him.
It wasn’t the same, he could tell by just realizing how cramped his legs felt from being in there for so long, but at least the Astral was silent and empty enough to make up for the lack of a better pool of water.
He reached up, getting a hold of the edges of the tub, and pulled himself up and through the surface until he found himself sitting in the water, the wet shirt sticking on him as well as his hair, that he went to comb back with a clumsy gesture of his hand.
How ironic that he had to be presented with that memory right now... ironic, but perhaps not surprising: he could recall only a few occasions in which he had felt as unbalanced as he was right now, and that was most certainly one of them.

He couldn’t help but ask himself if he was at least learning from his past mistakes.


With the trance of the meditation fading, the cold settled in again, and he found himself shivering and hurrying out of the tub, reaching for the towel on the side and wrapping himself into it.
Regardless of the memories, the reverie had still given him the answer to his question regarding the weird dreams he was having lately: if they were memories, “whoever” they belonged to, he was not accessing them normally… and since he knew very little of the Dream Realm, he was going to tread carefully with them. He had other things to worry about, so for now he could only try to keep in check all the side effects his current condition had brought.
Still mulling over it, he sat in front of the fireplace to let the warmth from the flames soothe him, leaning a little against the small table before reaching for one of the cookies he had left there, munching on it absentmindedly.
Of course he knew that in his current situation he could not avoid traditional sleep for too long, which meant that once in a while he was still going to need to set aside the reverie and deal once more with the strange visions.
This only gave him one more reason to focus on the sigil -not that he didn’t have enough reasons already- and his mind went back to the first information Maraphiel had ever given him on the subject, after they fled from Malbolge.

Dace had inquired as to why he didn’t ask the deviless directly about the sigil and how to get rid of Alecto, and for a moment he hadn’t been able to answer him. Not only because he already knew what her “plan” partially was, but mostly because the question itself was… absurd to him.
Had he ever doubted, even for a second, that she knew quite well all there was to know about the sigil and the ritual behind it?
Of course not.
Did he ever think about asking her what to do about it?
Hell, no. That had never been how things worked.
Even when he was working on things that interested her directly, where additional insight would have only benefited her, she had never shared any of her information beside the ones she’d slip in his visions. There was no way she was going to now, while she was trying to give him some sort of life lesson.
And he never had intention to ask her either.

It was following this train of thoughts that he knew the mention of the Nibiru’s Tablets was not just a coincidence, something she casually thought at the time.
He still wasn’t sure if it was something she planned to tell him, especially so soon: she might have done so only to try and placate his mind, even if it didn’t work that much, back then. But he had paid attention, even if he hadn’t made it obvious.
And he had started researching, even if he didn’t feel the need to update her on his progress.
Not that there was much to update her about, in any case, those items seemed to be mostly unknown and the closest thing to the runes of the sigil he had managed to find were references to the kind of writing used in old Nehterese Scrolls… which he couldn’t help but notice were also called the Golden Skins of the World Serpent.

He slowly made to stand up, dropping the towel on the bed and heading to find dry clothes to wear. His library had given him everything it could on the matter, now it was time to spend some time searching around other sources.

[Slayer of Love]

The first search concerning any scrap of information relating to the name Nibiru proves difficult. No lexicon of known people, geographical landmarks, cities and nations of inner, outer, transitive or material planes, held in the Hall of Infrormation and few other all-purpose lore libraries, contains a single mention of it. Considering that the symbols engraved in the detestable mark, burned magically into Rhistel's chest, resemble vaguely the runical writings known from the famed Nether Scrolls, as well as bear certain similarities to the High Magic of torillian elves, Rhistel can deduce some connection to Toril and narrow down his search to sources relating to ancient torillian history. Even then he finds the lexicons, the encylopediae, the maps and other registries - the sources that can be considered most reliable and factual - fail to account for the term "Nibiru". There is in Sigil a vast amount of lore references regarding to the subject, however, brought likely by the numerous planewalkers born of the magic abundant prime. At one point, dulled from the lack of results within the sphere of most reliable sources, Rhistel can step back and consider reluctantly referring to accounts less grounded and factual, such as poems, paintings, novels, mythos - works of art and religion, less trustworthy, but possibly spanning much wider subjects. It is then that by chance he discovers there is a display of ancient torillian artifacts in a museum in the Civic Festhall, and there happens to be a "Tablet of Nibiru" on exhibition. When he visits he finds in there a fragment of a piece, set in marble stone, engraved in cuineform resembling a lot the symbols that form the seal of his own.



The language is obscure, and the tablet marked with wear of time, damaged in many places and fractured, resulting in it being incomplete. Translating it should take some time. But even now Rhistel can recognise arcane runes in a ring, different to his burden, but clearly the same, obscure, old magic. This must be it. Beneath the piece there is a museum note.

"Tablet of Nibiru"
Sphere: Realmspace
Age: est. c. 40,000 turns
Source: donated by an anonymous planewalker

Rare fragment of an artifact left by an extinct civilisation from the prime world Toril, found by the donator in the ruins of a curator order known to have kept it for centuries in custody. Originally discovered in ruins of a temple of a crashed flying city of the sarrukh, considered to be the progenitors and creators of all reptillian races of the world. The runes contain early, powerful arcane lore relating to handling, protecting from and binding energies of Outer Planes from within material spheres.

Nibiru meant "The Odd Star" in the ancient sarrukh language, it refers to a singular celestial object, believed in the sarrukh mythology to be a home of Powers.

[Serena]

Being able to find a fragment of the tablet so easily, so close to him and after only a few cycles of researches, inevitably triggered some of the half drow paranoia... perhaps because he had never been that lucky, but things never fell off the sky for no reason, in his experience.
Of course, he also knew it wasn't something worth worrying about right now, especially after figuring out those tablets were probably key to understanding the sigil: this is why he had decided, for now, to see this unexpected turn of events as an opportunity and nothing more, and to make use of it as such.

He spent a good part of the cycle at the exposition, his attentions divided between three-four different but equally interesting artifacts, since he really didn't care for anyone to know what he was really after. He took his time to gather small tidbits from the museum personnel, like how long had the objects been in the Society's possession or whether they planned to hold an exposition about Krinn in the future, and after that, he simply kept it to himself, penning down notes and accurate sketches of the items as they were.

It was a pity the tablet was not only so ruined but also fragmented, and he couldn't help but wonder whether the sample was going to be enough for him to decipher the old language... still a good start, anyway: he had translated with less in the past, and this was more than he could have hoped for, for so little effort.
There was also the description under it, which just put in context his odd dreams even more, even if it didn't really help shedding light on the sources they came from. His mind toyed with the idea they might still come from the deviless herself - after all, she was the one who had directed him toward the Nibiru's Tablets first, and even if he had no idea of the details at the time, it did look like the dreams themselves were trying to point him in that same direction...
Once more, though, he decided that wasn't something he wished to focus on.
It had been several cycles he hadn't seen or heard from Maraphiel, which could mean she had done everything she needed to and had moved on to something else, but he was still left with the mess to take care of, and it required his full attention: he was going to worry about the dreams next time he was forced to sleep, but until then, he had a piece of tablet to decrypt.
And possibly... more to find?
Because it didn't remain unnoticed to him that having been in contact with one of the pieces might actually allow him to track down the other fragments, which was an option he should not dismiss.
Sure, it would require divination, and by now he knew how messed up it might turn to be... not to mention, he didn't even know if the seal would prevent Alecto herself from meddling with his business. But if it meant possibly getting his hands on more samples of that old language, then he was going to give it a shot: he only had to use something powerful enough to not be so easily swayed, like a Discern Location, and perhaps pick a suitable place as to make sure his other passenger was silenced and numbed. Like Ysgard.
Oh, she was going to love that place, just as much as he loved it.

All those plans aside, however, he now had something concrete to start working with.
The next few cycles were going to be exceptionally long...

[Slayer of Love]

"Nonsense! You can't allow him to treat you like that. And this guy, oh, can] you believe this guy? So easily is swayed the will of this pathetic, blood-sucking maggot, it sickens me with disgust. And the impudent mouth of him! 'Spare me! Spare me!' Now he begs for it? NOW?!"

Shrouded beyond the farthest veil of conscious thought, there, where wizard's awareness dares not cross, still replays a faint shade of his memory. There in the darkest corner of Rhistel's dreamscape, unbeknowestly submerged in the long forgotten mud, obscured by indistinct shrubs, beneath inconsequential stones, there lurks the devil. The lingering echo of a past strong belief, so much like hers, so close to what she embodies, draws Alecto to relive mesmerised this, and scenes like it, over and over.

"Stick it down his throat! Splice those lying, pathetic guts! Stab him, wound him, take his life! Yes... yees.. slower! Turn the dagger, paint the place red! Aahhahaha...!"

Yet something pierces at last the shut down beneath consciousness fiend's isolation. A strong sensation, not of the dreamscape; a rare glimpse of the real - an intent she'd strongly contest. It spawns a dilemma for Alecto, on one hand the less fruitful his research, the better is her chance of claiming the vessel for herself; on the other, it is in her host's interest to find a way to release her too, and that happens to be her exact desire also. But such windows of opportunity are not common, so she must act quick. What if he is smart enough to see through it? "Then I shall have to do it smart" she resolves.



* * *



"::: You don't want to do it Rhistel.... :::"

Alecto's voice gets through, when Rhistel heads for the portal to Ysgard, and he can hear her voice at the back of his head.

"::: This place is not for mortals, you're going to hate it, it's just sickening gold glitter, and bad manners, and sweaty, bearded grunts; basically a bunch of animal savages thinking themselves better than everyone. And the climate! Yuck. And the speech? It's like dogs trying to bark insults in cow :::"

As her trying to talk Rhistel out of it bears no fruit, and he is just about to pass the gate, she appears more vulnerable if not panicked about it.

"::: No, no. Come on there buddy, seriously, this is madness. Is there really need for that? Let's just.. step back and .. ahm....agh... YOU'RE GOING TO REGR-urgGGH... AWWWRRRRaawghhhhaa STOP!!! GET BACK! GET BAAAaaaaa~~~~ :::"

The moment he passes the screaming escalates to such a deafening, unbearable cacophony, like at once there wailed tens of whales and mammoths being bloodily slain, a hundred trains of iron clattered mechanically breaking on rusted rails, a thousand chalks screched abysmally scratching a thousand creaky blackboards. The horrid clamor haunts him for about a minute when he's in the plane and, suddenly, it dissipates, and there are only sounds and sights of the blissful fields of Ysgard before the wizard.



* * *


When Rhistel eventually calls upon the divination, he hears a disembodied magical voice, discerning before him the lore he demanded.

"::: Outlands. City of Doors. Clerk's Ward. Civic Festhall. Museum of Material Plane. Exhibit #983 :::"

There is a pause, but before Rhistel concerns himself with the result being, while expected, not particularly useful, there resounds again that voice.

"::: Realmspace. Orbit of Chandos. Lady's Charm. Navigator Cabin. Safe behind the portrait. :::"

There is another brief, silent pause, and then the serene, disembodied, magical voice, devoid of emotion, speaks once more. Only this time, at first, for a mere moment Rhistel thinks he hears an odd distortion in the sonorous voice, like it was interposed for a fraction of a second with a strange rattling of chains, heard from a distance, miles beneath a sea's surface.

"::: Baator. Avernus. The Maggot Pit. Level 549. Heresy Departament. Vault CCLXXIV. :::"

And then there is silence. The spell is complete.