With the Naesarpe above him, he is certain he will not fail.

He holds the squalling young of a deer beneath his paws, hoping the allure of youthful blood will draw forth the spirits. They will be minor spectures, of course, nearly as unimportant in life as they are in death, but still, he needs them. His attempts to summon the ghosts of Mamă and Mătușa have failed thus far. He is too inexperienced. He thinks he has yet to bring an offer worth their attention like a lion, and so he must settle for lesser beings.

The bleating of the creature irritates him, but he cannot sacrifice it yet. First, he must pray. Mamă, mătușă, ascultați-mă, he thinks in silence, Mother, Aunt, listen to me. He continues, praying that they may allow a lesser spirit to speak on their behalf, that somehow the path to their connection will become clearer. Să fie așa cum mă rog, he says, putting more pressure on the fawn’s throat as he does. Let it be as I pray

With that, he bends down and tears his fangs into the throat of the young animals, silencing its cries once and for all. Then, with a careful paw, he uses the flowing blood to paint sigils onto the makeshift rock alter where the body still lays. Up and down and curve and—

There is noise behind them.

Then rage.

Out! You will ruin it, prostule! Idiot.

+5 Hold a small ritual (less than 5 lions)
+5 Meditate or pray on your own or with someone else
+5 Sacrifice an NPC creature

@Radahn

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cut my own throat / close my own wound / wear my own nightdescended blood

---

He lurks like a ghost, because he knows little else.

He is agonizingly cautious of his own time, entirely too-aware of his surroundings. Where once he would have welcomed the challenge of the unknown, he now regards everything with careful scrutiny. He is an island in a sea of doubt, and he is searching for solid ground where none exists. He knows better, now—he knows there is nothing unless he makes it.

The passages of the labyrinth were often secluded and unexplored, uncharted depths yet still unexplored despite their years of residence. Every now and then, he passes through a break in the rockface, where it spills into the empty sky and the valleys where it was nestled. From this height, Radahn could see the vast expanse of Amaryllis. But he would never linger long, preferring the endlessness of the labyrinth.

It should come as little surprise that he runs into someone eventually, but it happens upon Radahn long before he realizes.

Out! You will ruin it, prostule!

At first, he freezes. The voice echoes off the walls with such a sharp ferocity that, at first, he cannot place its origin. But as his half-blind gaze scans the alcove, he can just barely catch sight of a silhouette against the dim light.

Then, the overwhelming smell of blood hits him. He sees the blood smeared on the rocks in intricate patterns, and the crumpled form of an animal beside it. Had Radahn not recognized the careful attention to the little details in the blood or the methodical cut at the deer's throat, he might have relegated this scene to one of passionate carnage; but he knows better.

Pitiful, is all he says.

@Bastille has yet to know that the Gods don't exist.

If they did, they never cared.

He cannot recall ever being disrespected in this manner. Most are wise enough to avoid the scent of blood and the beasts who are attracted to it are just as quickly turned away with tooth and claw. Which this man is ultimately does not matter. He is an interloper in a holy rite. He should have been torn apart for it. Outsiders are not welcome in Devorre practices but the insult piques his curiosity.

Yes, he supposes it is pitiful that he can only offer a fawn. Perhaps the lion he desires to offer instead stands right before him…

Bastille turns to face the intruder, head tilting in a manner most condescending. You do not know what you speak of, străin. Outsider. His tone is almost amused. He is certain, of course, that none but the Devorre know their rites and this străin clearly did not know them. At least, he is sure of that truth for now. It is possible, he supposes, that this outsider is not one at all. He does not look Devorre, but perhaps he is familiar with their customs, odd as that may be.

He decides to test this before tasting flesh.

Tell me then, străin, since you seem to possess such knowledge. What am I doing? What makes it pathetic? The answer, though likely insulting, will tell him everything he needs to know.

@Radahn

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i

cut my own throat / close my own wound / wear my own nightdescended blood

---

Once, he had been on the other side. Desperate to appease whatever higher power might deign him worthy enough to listen, to feel their power course through him and know he was their conduit. He'd once swore he could feel it once or twice, but when reality had come and swallowed him and spat him back out, he realized it was nothing more than a trick, an illusion, some far-reaching grasp of his imagination that was desperate for glory.

Radahn was no savior. He was not there to coddle or persuade or attempt to change minds.

He only knew what he was looking at because he was once the same.

Tell me then, străin, since you seem to possess such knowledge, the boy begins, looming like an eager predator. What am I doing? What makes it pathetic?

You're wasting a decent meal, he snaps in reply.

@Bastille's kill would be forsaken to nothing more than maggots and worms, and his prayers would fall upon ears that never cared to listen. Radahn felt a hungry curl in his stomach, an agonizing reminder of his own demeanor—unkempt, too skinny, roguish. He's spent his days mulling over returning to the Summit, or continuing this strange life half-steeped in death, and picking fights he was too worn to win.

The interloper continues to spew his ignorance and quite suddenly, Bastille feels a deep hunger stirring in his belly. Lionflesh is a far more appropriate offering, he thinks. Lionflesh will garner him the attention of those he seeks most. But he does not lash out, seeking to sink his fangs into the throat of the ignorant. The place has already been desecrated. Killing the man now will not restore it.

He lives only for this reason.

The intruder's answers are as disappointing as he expects them to be. Clearly, he knows nothing of Devorre or their customs. That should not have mattered, however. For what possesses an outsider to spew such derision in the face of another who would not have noticed him otherwise? Now, the boy is curious. He takes a step forward, as though he is reconsidering allowing the other to live.

No, he corrects, tone as sharp as the teeth he imagines are sinking into the blasphemer’s face. I am feeding the greatest among my family.

He watches @Radahn closely as he continues. Be silent and learn.

With that he turns away once more, facing his offering.

Taint will not stop his offering.

In silence, he guts the fawn, finishing the sacrifice swiftly. Then, he lifts his head towards the ceiling and prays once more. Veniți, strămoșii mei și mâncați. Come, my ancestors and eat. He hopes, even tainted, they will find the meal pleasing, if only for its innocence. With the blood, he writes a completing rune and the ritual is finished.

+5 Hold a small ritual (less than 5 lions) (2/2)
+5 Meditate or pray on your own or with someone else (2/2)
+5 Sacrifice an NPC creature (2/2)

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You know there is no return,
I will make you burn inside

Purgatory is a realm of dreams. This perhaps is the true afterlife, that one which is drenched in memories, wants, losses and victories, those which have and have not happened. In the muddling it is like a river through which the intangible flows, time unending and unbeginning, no place there for the awful drone of some midnight chime. And too like being woken from a dream, the wake from that slumber is a sudden but lagging pull like drawing an anchor from the depths of muddied waters.

Like wading through thick mud she sloughs to re-existence – or what is left of it, for it is nothing grand. It is like arriving in tatters and dusty bones, no matter how well Valereia wears the regalia of the dead just as well as she had in life. Reignited by a forgotten prime, she opened her sore eyes to the gaping maw of darkness.

Not the cold of the Wastes. Not the howling gales of the wretched tundra of this forsaken island. Here, again. In the damp, drip-drop muck of caverns.

She is not grateful for re-animation, torn away from dreams of slaughter and laughter and the hearty indulgence of her black heart’s content. A growl ripped from her jaws and through its echo she heard a peculiar noise that cut the low rumble short. A prayer. And one of a tongue that is not sullied by the fumblings of commonspeak. A rattling cry of anger followed, and then the quiet of unintelligible mumblings.

Come, my ancestors, and eat. Clear as the toll of a bell, clean and decisive.

Whether it was that reprehensible pull again or the mild interest prickling at the back of her un-skull she moved, drawn to its source.

At the foot of a boy, a fawn laid out like that of an offering to the dead. An interesting hieroglyph rested at its side, feeding the earth in its etched ichor. The smell rose freshly and invigorating, igniting her memory of hunger – but oh how it is more hollow than ever. There is no warmth reaching up the walls of her belly or a quiet gurgle of discontent. There is only more of a disgruntled growl that resonates in her throat, vexed and warning. Though one of them knew the words of her kin, there is no familiarity in their faces, an odd but ever-fine dialect to the smoothed syllables, and there before her stands no wisened, hardened cleric of her clan.

Only two boys. Two young, tender swaths of cuttable meat.

To them both her eyes lingered, commanding and weighted. Cine eşti? her voice in its remembered timbre swelled in the walls of the cavern, queenly and curt.

And impatient.

@Radahn, @Bastille
Romanian: Who are you?

I show no mercy
You know I know no other way _{BG — REF — CODE}

i

cut my own throat / close my own wound / wear my own nightdescended blood

---

He senses he is in danger.

But Radahn is a dangerous man. He may not have strength or experience but he has nothing to lose, and has found death as equal of a mercy as living. He no longer lives to appease any God, and he's long disappointed the family that so believed in him, the family that was more used to his absence than his presence.

So, when @Bastille looks at him as if he may devour him, Radahn does not flinch.

But when he takes a step forward, Radahn takes a step back. His one, grating weakness; the one part of him he could never simply grow out of. Radahn could not fathom the idea of the boy growing any closer, for taking up any more of the space the bedraggled Skagos was desperate for.

No. I am feeding the greatest among my family, he declares, and Radahn's lips pull into a firm, thin line. Be silent and learn.

He feels the familiar relief of pressure in his chest as he exhales his held breath. Bastille turns and focuses his attention on his pyre, affording Radahn the clemency of space. And though he gives his silence and attention, there is an air of frazzled indifference.

@Valereia arrives quietly, as much mortal as she is immortal.

Her face twisted with callousness, as he might be were he wrenched from whatever oblivion awaits them after death. She speaks in a language he does not understand, but is it resonant and elegant and familiar to the way Bastille speaks.

She is magnificent; some mix of corporeal and celestial, tethered and commanded by something he couldn't understand but something he was familiar with. This was the same electrifying intensity he'd felt when his mother was revived, and the kind that constantly radiated from Saskia whenever he was near.

So you've summoned a ghost, he laughs, But this is no God. It cannot strike me down.

He does not expect it to work.

For until now, all of his attempts to summon his godly ancestors have proven futile. He thinks he is too untested, too new to the craft to understand its intricacies or, more likely, his offerings are too meager to convince one of them to grace him with an appearance. But it seems he is wrong, for no sooner has he spoken the summoning words, did an ancestor come forth.

He does not recognize her but the same could not be said for the growl that echoed off of the walls.

There is much he wishes to ask, but he cannot, for the interloper is there, laughing. The prince snaps his head towards the one he has so graciously chosen to spare and hisses. Your ignorance continues to show itself. Clearly, this blasphemer knew little, and even less the danger he is in, continuing to provoke him as he was. What you call a ghost, I call my family. There is a warning in his growled words. Through great acts, the strongest among us come forth in this form—as Gods. Able to pierce the veil of death at our choosing. She has transcended glorious death and won the right to walk in both realms. You will show respect.

Quickly, he turns back to @Valereia and slightly bows his head. Strămoașa, Ancestor, he greets. Eu sunt Bastille din Clanul Devorre, fiul lui Gauthier Devorre, nepotul lui Adalia. Te chem să-i arăți acestui străin marea ta putere. El nu știe ce spune. I am Bastille of Clan Devorre, son of Gauthier Devorre, grandson of Adalia. I call you to show this stranger your great power. He doesn't know what he says.

He glances back @Radahn for only a moment—

Aștept judecata ta. I await your judgment.

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