Philosophy's Heart
Sometimes, a quiet and shady meadow is something a mortal hopes for. More broadly, that same mortal wants a feeling of peace, quiet, and serenity.
Unfortunately, Aren Nightbow wasn't feeling peaceful, quiet, or serene in any possible manner. When one is currently being jumbled about in a leather rucksack, not even sure of where they are going, it can create a feeling of irritation. That irritation can lead to immense anger and a general grumpy mood. Bumpy as the ride was, Aren closed his eyes and tried to recall how he was even kidnapped in the first place.
Aren was a hand-for-hire, a mercenary. When a populace needed a mob of kobolds flushed out of a nearby settlement, Aren was on the job. Goblins? Well, sometimes, a larger piece of flushing equipment was necessary, though it still got the necessary objective accomplished. His last assignment, though, was more difficult. He was called upon to remove a group of cultists that were operating nearby a local town, kidnapping inhabitants, never to be seen again. Taking on the assignment, Aren decided to start by a forest to the east of the settlement, a well-hidden place to operate a cult. No sooner had he traipsed up to the forest edge, that cultists ambushed him and easily defeated him. Still furious with himself, for being overtaken, Aren was in his current predicament of being lugged about in a rucksack.
Having gone over his recent memories, Aren once again relaxed, to gain some rest before the cultists did the deities know what.
Aren's eyes snapped open as he surveyed his new surrondings. The good news, he was out of that gods-forsaken sack. The bad news, he was lying on an altar. From what Aren knew, waking up to find yourself on an altar wasn't a pleasant circumstance, especially since the being on the altar rarely ever lasted long. Aren thus decided he'd prefer not to end up like many previous victims of altar sacrificing and tried to roll off of the accursed thing. Sadly for him, he couldn't bring himself to. In fact, when he willed for his body to move, it didn't respond. Great, he was glued to the altar by a spell. A chortle made him look about and he realized that there was someone in the room.
"Ah, I wouldn't try that. The more you struggle to escape, the more likely you'll tear off your own limbs. "
The voice was distinctly feminine and Aren quirked a brow at her. He tried to speak, but found, too, that his lips were sewn together by the same enchantment. The cultist noticed this and stifled another laugh.
"Don't worry, it's only temporary."
Temporary? Why would she tell him that if he was going to be sacrificed to an evil deity, maybe even a demon or archdevil. The cultist managed to detect his confused visage as well and continued to chatter on.
"No, you're not going to die. And, no , I'm not telling you what's going to happen to you," the woman answered in rapid succession, the second answer being in response to the light of hope streaking across Aren's features.
"In the meantime," the cultist carried on, "Have a look at your surroundings. I'm surprised you didn't notice them immediately."
The thought dawning on Aren, he glanced about, his eyes being the only things that were in complete function. Dozens upon dozens of gems were imbedded into the walls, ceiling, and floor, giving off a disturbing red aura. Aren's gaze flicked back to the cultist, who managed to keep an indifferent expression on her features. Instead, Aren glanced about at the other parts of the room, noting every detail in his mind, the red satin carpet leading from the altar to the double oaken doors. The structure of the room itself was cavernous black, the cultists probably not bothering to make it anything like a regular room, just carving another large gap in a tunnel network.
It was at that moment, the double doors of the room were thrust open, a man in sanguine colored robes striding into the room. Unlike the shadowed cultist, the features were clearly visible, a wispy snow-colored beard forming on his chin, storming gray eyes, and he could see the front of the man's hair. Aren decided to mentally nickname him "Gray". Several other cultists trailed behind him, one that was slightly hunched over, trying to get the lead cultist's attention. The hunched man had no facial hair, but had emerald eyes and neat, brown hair that was covered for the most part by his hood, just like "Gray". The other man that caught Aren's attention was constantly whimpering and moaning under his breath, his hands shaking constantly, and jumping whenever anything louder than a breath caught his ears. His features were hard to place as he darted towards the shadows, clearly not wanting to be seen. All of the other cultists were wearing gray metallic masks, the "features" of the masks twisted in a visage of despair, not unlike some disturbingly familiar theatre masks.
"Are you sure it should be today? " The hunching cultist exclaimed at the leader.
"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't be doing it, Yago, " 'Gray' calmly replied.
"Listen, Cyor, this isn't just anything we are doing. This is- " Yago started to speak, but was cut off by the approach of the female cultist.
"If I may, I am sure Cyor knows what he is doing, Yago," she calmly stated, though a hint of contempt was laced within her voice.
"Stay out of this, Irenna," Yago shot back, irritation clearly brimming in his eyes. Aren noticed there was an obvious rivalry between the two. Cyor, on the other hand, sighed as he clapped his hands together.
"Enough, you two. Take your positions at the semicircle. Morgenth, quit cowering at the sidelines. Your part is special in this."
Reluctantly, Morgenth slowly eased his way out of the darkness, while Yago shot one last furious look at Irenna, before taking his position.
"I can assume, you have the artifact, Morgenth? That is the reason your wretched hide is present at this glorious moment," Cyor stated, his gaze fixated on the trembling being.
"Of course, I have it. Why else would I be standing in your presence?"
Instantaneously, a rod materialized in Cyor's hand, expanding until it was a gray staff. Cyor regarded the staff with approval, before planting it into the stone beneath him. The other cultists raised their hands above their heads and began a unanimous chant. Cyor, too, began a chant of his own. Aren simply waited for something to occur.
A faint crimson glimmer appeared in the air above Aren, slowing increasing in size as the chanting continued. Accompanying the chants, a humming sound began to make itself known as the rift increased still in magnitude.
A crackling sound ripped through the room, as a rusty colored tendril shot out of the vortex, reaching desperately for something to grab. Instinctively, Aren tried to edge away from it, though the spell was still in place. The vortex by now had widened into a full circle, the height of a man. Roughly eleven tendrils now were flailing about, though none seemed able to latch onto anything. With a final shout, Cyor slammed his staff into the ground once again.
Crimson energy shot out of the vortex, lacing itself into the cultists' masks. Strangled cries emanated from them as they dropped down onto the floor. Morgenth stepped back and whimpered at the turn of events, and even Yago was reconsidering. Irenna had taken a few steps back as well. Only Cyor remained where he was, laughing aloud as the gems in the room began to hum too, their glow increasing. The crystals exploded in a sheer blast of power, and Aren blacked out from the events.