Quest 09: Our Spirits, Kindred
Chapter 1 - Grip of the Gods
When Ariane is kidnapped and the signs point to Sliske, Jahaan is forced to confront the Mahjarrat once again. But this time, things take a turn for the twisted, and Jahaan uncovers the truth behind Sliske's obsession with him. Can Jahaan survive Sliske's games? After all, broken bones heal faster than a broken mind...
High above the clouds, Armadyl and his avianse were housed in a temporary cloud fortress that they had erected upon their return to Gielinor. The Empyrean Citadel was unsuitable for housing their numbers, after all. That, and it had been tainted by Sliske's presence. So, they had to build themselves temporary lodgings, for you can't exactly spread the avianse across the bed and breakfasts of Misthalin. It helped that the avianse were known for being skilled carpenters. One wouldn't think that upon looking at them, but never judge a book by its cover.
Looking out towards the horizon of a new dawn, Armadyl stood in quiet contemplation. He'd been trying to work through the turmoils of the last few years in solitude, taking to meditating at the break of day. While doing this, he'd organise his current stresses and plan ways to deal with them by prioritising the most pressing issues and working backwards. He didn't want to worry his generals by showing just how much it was eating at him to be back on Gielinor. When they'd first arrived on Gielinor in the Second Age, they were escaping their homeworld of Abbinah, looking for peace and community in a pure world that was rich in resources, a world that would allow them to prosper without the threat of constant storms and hurricanes raging above, a world that didn't require ritual sacrifice of the elderly to relieve the burden on the young.
Gielinor was that perfect world.
Now, it was being ravaged by war, just as it was many centuries ago. Those who forget the past were doomed to repeat it, and Armadyl was not going to let what happened to his avianse on that fateful day ever happen again.
Now, new issues had arisen, namely his 'prize' of inheriting the vast majority of Bandosians after he'd slain their god. Honestly, he didn't expect that to happen. Not that he didn't welcome the challenge of teaching a new group that there was a way of life beyond war, a way of life instead driven by peace and justice. But undoing eons of Bandosian indoctrination had left him with his hands full. Understaffed and unprepared, Armadylean forces had been stretched thin.
And then, Armadyl had heard about the fate of the Dorgesh-Kaan.
The guilt of being unable to prevent this genocide, one execuated in his name, was clawing at his heart.
Kree'arra entered onto the balcony, tentatively calling out, "My lord?"
Shuddering, Armadyl tried to briefly take the Dorgesh-Kaan out of his mind. Turning to the general, he attempted a warm smile. "Come, Kree'arra. What news do you bring?"
"Nothing positive, my lord," Kree'arra regretfully admitted. "The situation in Ardougne is growing worse by the day, and our scouts are no closer to finding Sliske and your Staff."
Armadyl wasn't disappointed. Not really, anyway. In both matters, he'd expected as much. The reports had plateaued, and he didn't expect much of an improvement anytime soon.
"Kree'arra," Armadyl's tone was resigned, yet resolved. "If the situation here on Gielinor continues to deteriorate, I am not putting my people in harm's way by remaining. We shall depart this world and find somewhere else to nest, with or without my Staff. Power is nothing if my people are lost, like I thought they were all those years ago."
"But where would we go, my lord?" Kree'arra asked, softly. "We cannot return to Abbinah."
"Of course not, but I have an idea… it may be a long shot, yes, but we might be able to save those left behind on Abbinah, and create a new home for all of the avianse. Say, Kree'arra… what do you know of Tarddiad."
Furrowing his brow, Kree'arra replied, "The homeland of the elves? Little, my lord. It is known as a land covered in trees."
"And mountaintops, waterfalls, lush vegetation…" Armadyl added, growing in excitement. "I have a plan. Seren cares a lot for her elves - she's a compassionate being, kinder than all the other gods I have encountered. Our people are skilled craftsmen and healers, so we could help her people in numerous ways. If I can persuade Seren to share the skies of Tarddiad with us, we needn't ever want for resources or stability ever again. We would be safe, Kree'arra!"
His frown deepening, Kree'arra averted his gaze from the diety's. Armadyl had always been a dreamer, but Kree'arra found himself to be a pessimist by nature, always hating to ground the idealistic musings of his god. "That would be wonderful, my lord… but do you really think Seren would give up part of sovereignty over Tarddiad to us?"
"It would take some convincing, yes," Armadyl accepted. "But I shall discuss the idea with her upon our next encounter. Hopefully she will see the merits in my proposal."
Turning back towards the horizon, Armadyl's tone was wistful, yet determined, as he said, "I will find a home for us, Kree'arra. I will save the avianse…"
It was a dreary Essianday in Lumbridge, but as Essianday was the Saradominist holy day of the week, church was in service. Father Urhney, an irritable priest, was leading the congregation. Never in a good mood, the wild-haired priest detested being back in the town of Lumbridge, having moved into the swamps to the south not so long ago in an attempt to spend two years in silent meditation and prayer. However, every time someone bothered him with conversation, he forced himself to start over. Hence, he was a rather grumpy fellow.
Since the end of the Battle of Lumbridge, the town's residents - usually devout Saradominists - had been attending services less and less, meaning that the coffers at the front were a lot lighter than usual. Considering this was how the priests gained an income in the town, it was a worry for them all, even those who had isolated themselves in a swampy shack.
The reason for the drop in attendance was due to a rise in Godless and Armadylean supporters who had turned from Saradomin after the Battle of Lumbridge was concluded. Turns out, not many people care to have their town demolished and the deity they pray to walk away without so much as an apology.
The priest that usually ran the quaint little service was Father Aereck, a frail and subdued man, who was not well equipped to deal with the challenge of regaining Saradominist support in Lumbridge.
Because of this, Father Urhney forced himself from his little shack and ventured back into the town to take over regular services. Today was his first one, and word had gotten around about his return, so the church was a lot fuller than normal. It turned out that a lot of people had questions they wanted answered, and Father Aereck was not doing the job for them, so they made the most of utilising Father Urhney's time.
But upon hearing the white noise of chattering, questions, demands and a few stray insults, Father Urhney regretted his life choices. Irritably shaking his head, he raised his hands in an attempt to calm the congregation.
This achieved nothing.
Gritting his teeth, he squinted his eyes tightly and exclaimed, "Please, one at a time! Saradomin only has two ears, and so do I."
Fortunately, that was enough to subdue them, but it wouldn't last long. So, capitalising on the silence, he motioned to a man in the front row, one of the rowdier members who was chomping at the bit to speak.
"Why should we follow Saradomin anymore?" the man asked, a loaded question if there ever was one. "He left our town in ruins. I heard about this Armadyl guy - he seems to be a stand up fella, preachin' justice and peace and all that."
"He went to war with Bandos in open conflict," Father Urhney countered, rolling his eyes. "Not very peaceful if you ask me. But yes, before you say it, Bandos was a threat that needed to be neutralised. He's dead now. Zamorak is still out there, causing chaos. He's invaded Ardougne! Where's Armadyl now? He's left those people there to fend for themselves, whereas Saradomin has sent his forces to battle the dark Zamorak head on. Peace can only be achieved once Saradomin takes his rightful place as the only god in Gielinor. There is a pattern to the ascendance and collapse of civilisation - a cycle of tragedy. Saradomin has the knowledge to break this cycle, and most importantly, the will to lead everyone forwards. Gielinor, and other worlds, would be brought into a new age. A utopia. Other gods can claim this, but only Saradomin has the experience necessary to make it happen. Alas, utopia must sometimes be built on bones, so let the lesser gods be the foundation. Then, Saradomin can lead everyone to a glorious future!"
"Lead? You mean, he wants to control everyone?" a disgruntled man in the second row called out, earning a few concurring nods and mumbles from the rest of the attendees.
Father Urhney tried his best to keep his tone measured as he replied, "You say that as though it were a bad thing. People need governments, leaders and structures. Just as freedom doesn't mean anarchy, control doesn't have to mean slavery. Saradomin offers guidance and leadership, law and order. Under his 'control', people could thrive. Everyone would have the reassurance that they know where they belong and how they should behave. Deep down, everyone wants to know where they sit in the world. What you call control, I would argue is true freedom. Freedom to know how life should be lived and how to fulfil one's potential."
"I heard from my niece in Ardougne that there's a Mahjarrat-y fellow running around with one of them there elder weapons! He's gonna use it to destroy everyone!"
This statement came out of nowhere, interrupting the contemplative quiet that had arose following Father Urhney's response. For all his personal foibles, Father Urhney was incredibly devout and the conviction from which he spoke could turn even the most stubborn of heads.
But now, that peace had been ruined, and naturally, the congregation went into panicked uproar. Some of the Lumbridge folk were rural and quite traditional in their beliefs, but they knew enough to decide that the Mahjarrat were bad, and one having an Elder Weapon was worse. Of course, this was a gross oversimplification, one that a lot of Mahjarrat would take umbrage to, but the public perception was hard to change, and Sliske running around with the Stone of Jas was doing little to help matters.
The lack of Saradominist Mahjarrat didn't help either.
Having heard Brother Samwell's tale of Sliske, Icthlarin and the Empyrean Citadel, Father Urhney was a lot more knowledgeable on what was really going on in the world in comparison to his congregation. Deciding that giving at least a little bit of context could assist in both settling the nerves of the churchgoers and prove that he and his fellow priests were in-the-know, Father Urhney once again silenced the crowd and said, "Calm down, everyone. If you let me talk, I can quell some of these exaggerated rumours. Now, firstly, yes, there's a Mahjarrat who has the Stone of Jas, and-QUIET! For Saradomin's sake, can you let me finish?! Yes, the rumours are true, but Saradomin is fighting to get the Stone back into his safekeeping, and he WILL succeed. He will take the fight to all the other gods, and this Mahjarrat, and the Stone will be his once again. That's why he needs your support!"
"Why Saradomin?" one of the men at the back piped up, pushing off from the wall he was leaning against. "Why not another god, or heck, how about NO god?"
"The Stone will fall into someone's hands, it cannot simply go no-where and belong to no-one," Father Urhney grumbled, shaking his head with an irritated sigh. "Saradomin has wielded the Stone before, wisely and with care, and he shall do so again. Can you say such of the others? The dark Zamorak would use it to destroy the world; Zaros would enslave it to his will, and grow more dangerous than ever; Armadyl has no idea what to do with such power, and would destroy himself with his naivety; and Seren would use its power only in support of her precious elves. Saradomin, on the other hand, will use its power with wisdom and compassion, for the betterment of ALL life on Gielinor. Now, are there any more questions?"
Once he saw almost every hand in the room shoot up, it took everything in Father Urhney's power to not storm out and end the service early.
The dragonkin were a race of powerful and intelligent dragon-like creatures that originated from the previous cycle of the universe, a handful of them having survived the revision of the universe by hiding in the Abyss. The surviving dragonkin sought out Jas for mercy or retribution, only to end up being bound to her Catalyst - the Stone of Jas - and were tasked with protecting it at all costs. When the Stone was used by a being other than Jas, they were cursed to feel great pain and suffering that could only be eased by violence and rampage. Thus, tales of the dragonkin speak of a malevolent and dangerous species.
There were two factions of the dragonkin on Gielinor. The first, the Dactyl dragonkin, who repress the urge to cause destruction and kill 'False Users'. Instead, they undertake research and perform experiments in an attempt to sever their connection to the Stone of Jas. The other faction were the Necrosyrtes, a war-like faction comprised of those who have given into their urge to cause destruction. Kerapac belonged to the former, and had dedicated his life to ridding the dragonkin of Jas' curse.
On this night, Kerapac was found huddled over one of the journals he was writing, locked inside his cramped and dimly lit study. He and his fellow draginkin had been forced from their home at the heart of Daemonheim when Bilrach tunnelled deep into its depths. Realistically, they could have fought off any intruder, but were against revealing themselves to the world at such a time. In fact, if Kerapac had his way, they would still be an unknown presence in Gielinor. Unfortunately, Sithaph and Strisath had taken matters into their own hands, succeeding at retrieving the Staff of Armadyl (momentarily) but falling short of safeguarding the Stone. After all, they didn't have the power to teleport the Stone to safety by themselves. They were brutes, weaklings - kath, as they were known in the dragonkin language. And thanks to them, the world knew about the existence of the dragonkin.
Kerapac had self-proclaimed himself as the 'Observer', watching over the affairs of Gielinor with patience and detachment. Until now, that is. With Sliske's slaying of Guthix and bringing back the gods to Gielinor, the world was in upheaval, and Kerapac could sense the disturbance beneath him. The Elder Gods would awaken soon, they would hatch their spawn, and so the universe would restart once again, just like it did eons ago. Kerapac sensed it then, and managed to hide some of his people away… but he knew he would not be so lucky this time.
But while they were still bound to the Stone, there was very little the dragonkin could do.
Kerapac knew that the time for observation was over, and he formulated a plan. Many plans, in fact - Kerapac was not a being to leave much to chance. If successful, this latest idea would leave the Elder Mirror in his possession. The Elder Mirror was used by the Elder Gods for large-scale creation, being able to create copies of things. Currently, the dragonkin had tracked down its location to a being known simply as 'V', the god of the Fremennik people.
As of now, V had kept to himself, choosing to isolate himself and his people from the current affairs of the other deities, along with the chase for the Stone of Jas.
Kerapac had no qualms about killing him. He'd slaughter civilisations if it meant his fellow dragonkin could finally be free.
Other such plans had yet to return positive results; no dragonkin had managed to locate Sliske, as of yet, and the search for the other Elder Artifacts wasn't going so well. Twelve were known, but only a handful were even obtainable. The Siphon and the Catalyst - colloquially known as the Staff of Armadyl and the Stone of Jas, respectively - were in Sliske's possession. The Locator, also known as the Crown Archival, was able to find other Elder Artifacts, though only ones of considerably less power. It would prove incredibly useful to any deity, and indeed to the dragonkin, but it was currently held by Saradomin, who Kerapac knew had too much power and support to take on directly. Others, such as The Kiln, were useless to the dragonkin, only used for creating TokHaar workers to shape the world. And then there were the artefacts that were lost to time and space, those that may not even be on Gielinor, such as The Codex and The Template. Kerapac only knew of their existence due to his past proximity to the Stone of Jas, something that granted him knowledge most mortals could only dream of.
So many artefacts, so many gods, so little time.
But for now, Kerapac kept writing in his journal, documenting his work to save his people from the curse brought upon them by a being as old as the universe. If it meant killing a god, or numerous gods, he would do so. If it meant challenging Sliske directly, he would do so. If it meant laying down his own life so that his descendents could live without suffering, he would do so.
The small study Sliske had carved out for himself was dimly lit in the glow of only two candles. It made the knife-work he was undertaking much more of a challenge, having to refrain from slicing off his own fingers with the sharp blade, but this helped him focus more, to concentrate on the task at hand instead of letting his mind drift to unwanted realms. Unfortunately, that suffocating feeling always managed to creep inside, rattling with voices that were always his own, always familiar, yet simultaneously alien.
The voices had been there since he was young, and he'd managed to keep them a secret from the rest of his tribe. Except from his brother, that is, who was the only one he could confide in at such a young age. These voices didn't worry him, and from what he'd gathered from his time amongst humans, many of them were subject to the same conditions.
Perhaps Mahjarrat are susceptible too? Perhaps I'm not the only one?
He didn't know, and venturing such a notion would have led him down a rabbit hole, perhaps even to the Marker.
So, they were kept a secret.
Well, for the most part; Relomia - Sliske's emissary, someone who often lurked in Sliske's lair whenever the Mahjarrat would permit company - had often heard her master mutter to himself when in the depths of deep thought, conversing with himself like he wasn't the only one in the room. It troubled her, to hear some of the things her master would say, but she didn't dare confront him, for he might not take too kindly to the notion she had been eavesdropping all this time.
Whittling wooden masks was Sliske's favourite way to de-stress; whenever he felt overwhelmed by anything and needed to clear his mind, or simply narrow it enough to fix a troubling part of a plan, he would take a knife and carve theatrical masks. Some of them he would enchant, for the humour in it, but the vast majority he would burn.
There was never much subtlety or nuance in Sliske's masks. For a being that prided himself on being unreadable, his wooden creations undercut that entirely. Sliske had already carved eight masks this evening alone and was working on his ninth. This mask, however, was blank. Not that he had yet to carve an emotion into it, but the mask itself portrayed emotionless.
"You've been waiting for this your entire lifetime," Sliske growled lowly to himself. "If you don't act now, it may be too late. Gods know you have a target on your back…"
"You shouldn't have told him. You should have known he would betray you."
"Why did you tell him? Why did you think honesty would get you anywhere? It never has and it never will."
"He went behind your back. He was never going to fulfil the agreement."
"Why did you think he would be any different?"
"You thought you could reason with him? Bargain for something so precious? You fool."
"What is wrong with you?" he hissed with disgust, causing his knife hand to slip and accidentally slice his into his thumb. The wound wasn't deep, but claret still trickled across the mask's face, dripping through the eyehole and into a small puddle beneath him. "He wouldn't be persuaded so easily. Be reasonable. Plan A was a longshot - you knew that. So, you'll just have to do things the hard way..."
After a few more minutes of bloodstained whittling, Sliske held the mask up to admire his handiwork, though instead regarded it with nothing more than a heavy glare of disinterest. He tossed it into the corner.
Rising to his feet, he walked over to the pile of masks he'd accumulated over the last few months. It took up a fair bit of space; Sliske was holding off on burning them until he could justify a bonfire. "Everything is ready. Soon, he'll be ready too. A few hours and it'll all be over. You'll be safe, forever. It's what you've always wanted. Immortality is within reach, so don't let those ridiculous notions of yours get in the way. After all, you'll forget him in time."
He reached among the pile and found a mask with a wicked sneer carved into it. Holding it up to his face, he mimicked the expression inside the mask. "Yes, it won't be long now…"
DISCLAIMER:
As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.
