Adrestes makes sure that the five ascended he has with him are well armed and quick-witted. He tells them that the forsworn are a concern, as they do not know when or where they may next strike. He tells them that they are making certain that the Temple of Loyalty will have enough resources for the injured who have been brought there, and that the Archon wishes for him to speak with Devos about her security, to make sure all is being done to keep everyone safe.
The warning and precautions prove necessary.
They are almost to the temple when they are blitzed. One of his ascended is taken out before they even see the forsworn—he does not know how they manage that. The skies were clear, his people were careful.
He was careful. He made sure to take a route that would not allow for hidden foes below, and that had clear skies in every direction so that they would see them coming.
And yet they did not.
They are attacked by over a dozen forsworn, who easily outnumber them and isolate them in the air.
Adrestes takes out three in rapid succession before a sharp kick between his wings nearly knocks him out of the sky. He turns, a fraction too slow, and can see the mace swinging toward him. He braces for the hit.
Only for a javelin to slam into the mace at just the right angle, knocking it away. He takes advantage of the moment to get the upper hand, sending his assailant falling from the sky with a swift blow to the head.
Even as he tries to ready himself for more, Devos shoots past him. She catches another of the forsworn as they nearly take out one of Adrestes' ascended. More from the Temple of Loyalty are with Devos, and as soon as the odds are turned, the forsworn retreat, disappearing as quickly as they came, leaving Adrestes baffled as to how they are seemingly teleporting out of the realm with ease.
Devos calls for her disciples to search for the enemy, to gather the bodies.
Looking down at the plateaus below, Adrestes' stomach lurches. He has lost four of his ascended. There are nine of the forsworn downed with them. He descends quickly, landing beside one and removing their helm.
He recognizes her. She is a disciple from the Temple of Purity.
That makes him pause.
Devos lands beside him. "Are you hurt?"
"I will be fine."
"That is not what I asked."
Adrestes dares a glance at himself, inspecting himself briefly to see if any of his aches might be more than he's realized. "I'm fine." He darts over to the next nearest fallen, removing their helm as well. She is the last one to have attacked him, the one that Devos struck down.
"Andromede, what have you done," Devos murmurs. She kneels beside him, inspecting the fallen forsworn. Then she rises and snaps out orders. "Gather these bodies and take them to the temple. I want them identified."
The ascended who came with Adrestes lands near him, a little shaky on his feet, but no worse for the wear over all. "Thank you, paragon."
Adrestes echoes the thanks as well.
"I'm curious about what brings you out this way," Devos says. Her tone is a little harsher than usual.
"Two reasons," Adrestes says, saluting her properly. "To bring you supplies in case you need them after taking in survivors from Courage and the attack on your temple—"
"Near it," Devos corrects. When Adrestes tilts his head, she appraises him, frown in place. "Please tell the Archon that I misspoke earlier. What happened earlier was similar to this." She motions to the remnants of the fight. "A patrol was caught and then we were scouring the area for signs of any who might have escaped. I did not mean to set my temple's troubles on par with that of the others. We were not ransacked as they were. I will ask her forgiveness in person later." Even as Adrestes nods, she motions to him. "And your other task?"
"The Archon requires some of the anima stores," Adrestes says. "Bastion requires new ascended."
While Adrestes did not think Devos' frown could go any deeper, it does. "We hardly have any we can afford to use. Especially when this drought shows no signs of ending."
Adrestes mirrors her expression. "Forgive me, paragon, but the Archon was not asking. Our army was nearly wiped out—if not for the news about those Maw creatures, we might not have any—" He cuts himself off.
If not for the mortal's story that he brought to the Archon, the Temple of Courage would have been far more relaxed when the attack came. They would have been training, yes, but they would not have had so many armed, so many ready to fight. Their small number of survivors would have been even fewer were they not actively preparing to deploy.
It is beginning to dawn on him just how fortuitous the Maw Walker's arrival was.
"Be careful of that mortal, polemarch," Devos tells him, seemingly reading where his mind has gone as she kneels and scoops Andromede's body from the ground. "Her timing has been a bit too coincidental for my liking."
As she turns to go, Adrestes thinks he sees Andromede's fingers curl, ever so slightly.
"Paragon," he says before he can stop himself. She looks back at him, notices he is watching Andromede.
"I will see if there are any memories I can gather before the last of her anima dissipates," Devos says. "I will come to the hold to discuss what can be done in regards to anima for the Archon once I have handled this."
"Thank you, Paragon Devos," Adrestes says, bowing. He tries not to take his eyes off of Andromede, but Devos has turned away and he can only see a few black feathers hanging limp before she takes off in flight.
A hand comes down roughly on Adrestes' shoulder, and he turns to see Lakesis standing just behind him. He offers Adrestes a grim smile. "It is fortunate that Devos came when she did." He holds Adrestes gaze a moment longer than is comfortable.
"I know," he replies.
"I hope you do," Lakesis says and then takes to the air. "She has always thought highly of you."
His words feel more like a warning, and Adrestes stares up at him, surprised that he does not head after his paragon.
"Come, We'll see the two of you back to the hold."
Adrestes cannot help but feel that he has no choice in accepting this escort, and so he nods to the ascended who surround himself and his remaining companion, and allows these guards to fly them well away from the Temple of Loyalty.
As soon as he is back, Adrestes goes to the Archon's Rise, thinking to talk to the Archon about what he has seen. About how many of the forsworn seem to be tied in with the temple of Loyalty, about the movement he could swear he saw from the forsworn Devos had supposedly saved him from, of Lakesis' odd countenance.
There is much that does not sit well with him, but when he gets to the rise, he finds Devos and Thenios are already there.
The Archon's anger seems to have dissipated, at least a little, as she discusses what is going on with them, and Adrestes is dismissed almost immediately to go check on the other temples, with the Archon explaining that Devos has already informed her of the attack and given her a list of names who were among those who attacked Adrestes. They come from all over the realm, and among the nine, only Andromede is from the Temple of Loyalty.
It throws off Adrestes' theory, and he knows it will be harder to argue his evidence later.
The Archon sends him off with the list of those from the other temples, tasking him to talk to the other paragons and those under their care, to see if they can figure out when these ascended turned from the Path, to see what caused it.
Chyrus is the closest, and three of the fallen were disciples of his.
It is strange to come to Humility and see that it is intact, that the aspirants and disciples move around the temple as though nothing is particularly amiss in the realm. They are a bit busier than usual, preparing healing tonics and bandages and other supportive items to send to the temples in need, and there is a triage unit set up near the center of the temple, with many displaced from the Temples of Courage and Purity being treated.
But even with that, it is so peaceful here. The bells chime gently and the wind is a soft caress, almost enough to soothe the unease that has taken root in Adrestes' gut.
Thanikos is there with another high-ranking disciple and Voithe, working out the logistics of tending to their wounded and still maintaining some semblance of an army in the realm.
"Xandria has stayed near her temple," Chyrus says, joining Adrestes where he hovers, high enough to get a good view of the entire temple. "Thanikos just arrived from Wisdom. Apparently Apolon is in charge of those taken there, and Artemede is here. Thanikos is playing go between."
"Has he been to those in Loyalty?"
Chyrus seems curious of the question. "I do not know."
Adrestes is frustrated, because he is growing more and more suspicious that no one outside of Loyalty has been inside the temple of late.
"You are troubled."
"Is it so obvious?"
"Tell me," Chyrus says. It does not feel like a command, though Adrestes knows better than to ignore it. He hesitates then, and looks around. "Is there somewhere more…private we can speak?"
They fly to one of the outermost platforms high in the sky, one that gives them a good view of the temple and the land that stretches out around it.
Of the paragons, Adrestes has always felt most at ease around Chyrus. Perhaps it is because he knew him before he was a paragon, though he knew Xandria before her rise in station as well. They have been friends for longer than most in the realm have existed.
With their roles within the realm, they do not get the chance to talk as often as either would like, but their comradery has never wavered. It has never had a reason to, as Chyrus has never been the kind to lord power over others, and has grown into his as paragon with unerring grace and—quite fittingly—humility.
Never-the-less, Adrestes intends to keep himself guarded, to not say too much, nothing that might make it back to Devos or the Archon, but as he starts talking, Chyrus is simply too good of a listener. He does not dismiss Adrestes' growing fears or simply tell him to mind his place.
Instead, he listens to all that Adrestes has to say, about the bitterness he has seen in Devos, of the mystery that the Temple of Loyalty has become, of the way Loyalty seems deeply entrenched in what is going on. He tells him how he thinks Andromede may not be dead.
"Were all of your attackers from Loyalty?"
"No," Adrestes must admit, and he feels his feathers tighten in his wings. "Just her." He pauses, feeling foolish. "That is why I am here." He takes out the list he has been given. "Three of the attackers were disciples of Humility."
Chyrus takes the list, looks over the names, frowns. "If Devos is using this to point the finger elsewhere, then she is not doing a good job. Two of these are disciples of mine who were soulbound with disciples of Loyalty. I know because they both," he taps the paper, "came to me asking leave to go there. They came separately, but around the same time, each said her soulbind was suffering, having doubts." He looks at the list, at the last name, "And this one should not even be in Bastion right now. He should be on assignment, bearing souls." He is quiet for a spell. "You say they fell fighting you?"
"Yes."
Sorrow flickers over Chyrus' features, and he does not bother to hide it. "I had not realized they had fallen so far that they would turn away from the Path." He looks at Adrestes. "Will you promise me something?"
"Of course."
"If you feel yourself slipping, do not keep it to yourself. We are all here to help one another, my friend."
Adrestes is surprised by the offer, but he bobs his head in a quick bow. "Thank you, Chyrus."
Chyrus rises from where he has sat at the edge of the platform. "I will look into these three," he says their names slowly before handing the list back to Adrestes, "and see what I can find. Perhaps they confided in friends or colleagues about their own fears before they left. Come back by when you have finished speaking with Xandria and Visephone."
Adrestes nods and waits until Chyrus has taken to the air before he follows suit. As Chyrus descends, Adrestes starts toward the Temple of Purity.
Already, the narrative is shifting. Already, it is not ascended from all over the realm, but at least a third who were tied to Loyalty. Chyrus is right to say that if Devos is attempting to cover her tracks, she is doing a poor job of it.
If she were really involved with what is happening, wouldn't she have done a better job distracting? She could have claimed she couldn't identify some of the bodies—though that wouldn't have worked. The Archon would have requested the bodies be brought to Elysian Hold for identification.
Perhaps…she had no choice?
"Mind your right!"
Thanikos' voice calls him from his thoughts, and Adrestes looks to the side to see the Hand join him. When Adrestes starts to slow, Thanikos motions ahead, for them to keep going. Adrestes resumes his earlier pace, with Thanikos matching it, and the two fly in silence.
Despite the peaceful scenery that plays below, Adrestes is glad to have someone with him. The last attack came out of nowhere, and he can't help but wonder if there will be another. He realizes abruptly that he should not have headed off alone as he did, from Humility or the hold.
He will need to reconsider some of his other routes as well, and make sure that patrols double up, in the event of more surprise attacks.
There is so much that needs to be done.
Upon reaching Purity, Visephone greets them. When she sees the list, it is as though her heart breaks all over again. There is only one from her temple, but that is hardly a comfort. "I had hoped there would not…" Visephone takes a moment to compose herself. "She should not have been in the realm," she says, as she considers it. "She is not set to come back for…" She starts to turn as though to go check her scrolls for assignment lists, and then stops, staring at the temple with an empty look.
It doesn't take much for either Thanikos or Adrestes to realize that the temple's archives have been ransacked along with the rest of it, and it will not be some simple task to look up the ascended's schedule.
"We will need to check the others, too," Visephone murmurs. "To find who is missing from their posts."
Adrestes' heart sinks.
The sheer number of worlds, the number of ways that bearers can go to bring souls through the veil…
It is going to be a logistical nightmare to find out just how many of the bearers are missing.
"I will take what I find to the Archon," Visephone says, voice hollow. Her shoulders slump a little before she catches herself and resumes her usual posture.
"I can see if I can find any records about this ascended," Adrestes says. "I do not want to burden you with more than you have."
For a moment, he thinks she will dismiss him anyway, but instead, she nods. "Thank you. Much of what we have here was burned or is missing, but if you can find it, I would appreciate the help."
As Adrestes turns to leave, he pauses, "Paragon?" When she looks at him, he motions to the paper in his hand. "Do you know if she had a soulbind?"
"No," Visephone says. "Eridia might, or she might know who would. I'll send her to you."
She does not wait for a response or a thank you before lifting higher in the air quickly.
Adrestes watches her go, wishes he could have brought her good news instead. He tells himself that he will strive to find something positive, something uplifting that can be brought to the temple to help. Not just the paragon, but all who are here.
The air is surprisingly quiet—most of the bells were ruined in the attack, and he decides perhaps he gather a few to be brought by to the cleansing pools for a time, to help create an illusion of normalcy, if nothing else.
Another matter that will have to wait until he can get to it. His list is getting long enough that he may need to start taking notes soon.
Thanikos goes with Adrestes to the temple's archives and both of them balk at the condition it is in. There are a few aspirants and ascended already there, trying to make sense of the mess.
"This is…" Thanikos has no words for what he sees, and Adrestes feels that emptiness acutely.
"I imagine you don't have the time for this," he says, realizing a little late that he has volunteered the Hand to help when he likely has other places to be.
"I was hoping to get a look at those names."
"There's one from your temple," Adrestes says, holding it out. As he hands it off, he takes flight to help a nearer ascended try to rehang one of the bookshelves. Somehow, the spell is not taking, and the shelf has nearly crashed into the ground twice.
Thanikos follows him up a moment later.
"He was on loan to Wisdom," he says. "He had a soulbind there. I'm not sure the details, but I know Xandria approved him going. Not long ago, either."
Adrestes frowns, finishes with the bookshelf, and takes the list back. "Was he having trouble?"
"Not that I ever saw," Thanikos says. "He's a senior ascended. He's been here longer than I have. He never seemed to have doubts about the Path or…" He shrugs. He drops down to bring up a box of scrolls. He holds them with one hand as two other ascended flit to and from him, taking the scrolls and returning them to where they should be on the newly anchored bookshelf.
Adrestes makes sure none of them have to do with duties and then gets directions to where those scrolls would be. He gathers the intact ones from the cracked bookshelf that lays on the ground, passing off the damaged scrolls to aspirants who are assessing what repairs are needed and taking them to be re-penned, if they can be.
In the end, there are no recent scrolls regarding duties or assignments anywhere to be found, not even among the charred scraps. The more recent lists of inductions into the temple are missing as well.
Adrestes grimaces, and wonders if perhaps this was the intent of the attack, rather than actually destroying the temple itself or even killing Visephone. The attack caused plenty of damage, has thrown the whole realm into chaos, but the more they look at what was done, the more deliberate the chaos seems to be.
The more organized it is.
The more he sees what the forsworn have done, the more he agrees with what the Maw Walker said when she first spoke to him.
This faction has been around for a while.
An ascended calls to them shortly, tells them where they can find Eridia. He and Thanikos head over to one of the less traveled corners of the temple, where the Hand is busy gathering broken bits of bell and tile from one of the higher platforms, careful not to let any of it sweep over the edge to rain down on those below.
When she turns to see them, it is obvious she has been crying. Before she can even try to school her expression, Thanikos grips her in a tight bearhug. She returns the hug, squeezes him tightly, feathers ruffling into a mad fluff as she presses her head against his shoulder and tries to stay calm.
Adrestes stands back respectfully, bowing his head a moment.
"Did you catch her yet?" Eridia asks, voice shaky. When neither respond, she adds, "Lys—Lysonia. Did you…" She trails off, eyes bleary as though she may cry again.
"Not yet," Adrestes says.
"I don't think…" Eridia stops, looks down. "She led them, but she did not come up with this."
"I know," Adrestes says. "She was following someone else's orders."
"She was so sure." Eridia's brow pinches, she holds her hands up, like she might try to conjure something out of the air. Answers, maybe. "She was so resolute. Even when I was looking her in the eyes, she was so sure. Had I not seen what she was doing, I—" She cuts herself off, stares into space, into memories that are haunting her. She looks at Adrestes. "I never…I never even felt her fall." She looks down at her hands. "I should have felt that. There were doubts, more in recent times, but…" She stares blankly, shakes her head. "I should have felt her fall."
Thanikos catches her in a headlock, knocking back her hood, and ruffles her hair. "It's not your fault."
"Thanikos!" Adrestes snaps. He helps Eridia escape her fellow Hand, and lightly grips her by the shoulders to make sure she is alright.
The sorrow in her is deep enough that no simple antics will banish it, but she does have a shadow of a smile when she reaches up to try to fix her hair, pausing to pat Adrestes' hand. "I'm okay." She pauses, looks to Thanikos and then Adrestes, gives them a more resolute nod. "I will be okay."
Even as they nod to her, she straightens a little, schools her expression and her feathers. "I'm sorry, you came here for a reason, did you not?"
Adrestes tells her the name of the fallen disciple. "I'm trying to find out if she had any soulbind or someone who might have known more about what happened with her recently. If there are answers as to what pushed her to fall."
Eridia considers it. "I'm not certain—but I don't think she had a soulbind." She pauses, thinks back. Her shoulders droop a little. "No. No, she didn't. She had asked someone just a little while ago, and they turned her down. I know that hit her hard. She didn't talk to me about it, but Lysonia found her—" Eridia's expression stalls and then drops. It's like Adrestes can see her heartbreak all over again. "Lysonia found her crying near one of the pools and offered to take her under her wing. I thought she couldn't get a better mentor."
She is not the only one to struggle with the idea that Lysonia has strayed as she has. Not even a week ago, Adrestes was asking the fallen Hand about when next they might play cards. Lysonia had smiled at him then, told him she was too busy, but that it would be soon. That she missed schooling him.
Adrestes wonders if that was some sort of double speak.
Before he can start to think back to any other comments, Eridia motions to them. "Do you know what they're going to do to her? And the others? When they find them?"
Thanikos starts to say something, but stops himself. Instead, he crosses his arms, lowers his head, stares at his feet. "I imagine the Archon will handle that herself."
"I hope…" Eridia hesitates for just a breath. "Do you think someone who's fallen can come back to the Path?"
Thanikos' knuckles turn white for a moment, where he has curled his hand into a fist near his other elbow. "If they can, I'm sure we'll find out."
Eridia nods. "If I think of anything else, I'll let you know."
"You've already helped tremendously," Adrestes assures her. He pats her shoulder, and she puts her hand on his, holds his hand there a moment before nodding and letting him go.
"I won't hold you up then."
When Thanikos and Adrestes are just beyond the temple's grounds, Thanikos abruptly stalls in the air. He swears, looks at Adrestes. "Lysonia was at our temple just before the attack. Artremede saw her. She thinks she signaled the Maldraxxi."
Adrestes stares at him, hard. "So the forsworn and the madlraxxi are working together."
"I don't know," Thanikos mutters. He pauses, glances back toward where they left Eridia. "But I don't see the Archon being gentle with anyone who facilitated these attacks. Even if they were ascended at one point."
Glancing back as well, Adrestes can understand why Thanikos bit his tongue earlier. He's thankful for it, too. That the love of her life is likely going to face a god's wrath is not something Eridia needs to hear right now, even if some part of her has to already know that.
It awakens a fury inside of Adrestes just to think about. He knows these people, these forsworn. He knows them. So many of them.
And worse, they know who they are attacking. They are raising their weapons against friends and lovers. How Lysonia could even think to lead an attack against the temple… That in itself is horrifying enough, but that she could even lead forces against the place where the one person she was closest with resides…
How could she have fallen so far?
How did she hide that from Eridia?
For an instant, he wonders if perhaps it wasn't as hidden at all, though as soon as he thinks it, his mind conjures up Eridia's face, the tear streaks on her cheeks, the way she looks like a solid wind might make her crumble in a gust.
And anyway, Eridia's wings are still white.
"We shouldn't tarry," Adrestes murmurs, taking back to the air.
The Shadowlands is more of a clusterfuck than anything Azeroth has been through, and it still has a sword sticking out of it.
It's bad enough that Bolvar is angry that in all Liila's 'bargaining' with the Archon she 'forgot' to mention that their leaders need rescuing from the Maw. To Liila, that is such an insignificant thing, considering the dead are crushing through the many, many, many still back on Azeroth, fighting to keep even more innocent lives from suffering because of it.
For her, if they can stem the Scourge's newfound reinforcements, if they can coral it back to where it was before the sky was split open, then that will be enough of a victory. If a handful of people are lost in the meantime, then it shouldn't matter who they are. Leaders can be replaced. They are not infallible.
And as much as Liila wants to save those she left behind as well, she knows that they would be outraged and indignant if she put them above saving their entire world.
The priority should be closing the veil and stopping the Scourge. Rescues can come later.
Rescues will come later.
Bolvar does not agree.
She knows he is seeking the aid of others, especially since she told him to go talk to the Archon himself.
Speaking of, she half wonders if she should do the same.
The Primus was not waiting for Liila as the Archon promised he would be. There was no antidote to send back with which to fulfill Liila's end of their deal.
The Primus is gone, and so is the House of Plagues, and Liila has been told in no uncertain terms that what is ailing Bastion right now was likely created by them. Without them, there will be no reversing it, but the survivors of the house are so scattered that it will be impossible to make a nullification agent for it for the foreseeable future.
Liila does not like writing that letter to the Archon. A part of her is afraid because if she cannot hold up her end of the deal, what reason does the Archon have to hold up hers? Will Azeroth get the help it was promised? Or will this failure on Liila's part—regardless of how much control she has over it—be seen as a breach of their agreement?
She knows well that gods can be fickle creatures, and she does not know enough of the Archon to know where she will fall on the spectrum.
At first, it seems like that will be the worst thing she must deal with in Maldraxxus.
And then she reaches the House of Constructs.
When she has to dig her way out of a pile of corpses, she is brought back to memories that she had hoped she had buried deep enough to forget.
And yet they are still there and only too happy to bubble back up, to mix in with the present and make it hard for her to focus, to stay grounded. Hard for her to tell what is real and what is not.
She wishes Haa'aji was here. She wishes anyone was here.
Like Polemarch Adrestes.
He had a way of settling her nerves. She can't explain it—she barely even knows the man, hasn't said more than a few sentences to him—and yet merely thinking of him helps. But she needs more than thoughts. She needs someone here. Someone to ground her, someone to distract her from all the carnage, past and present.
Aspirant Thales is a godsend, whether he knows it or not.
He tells her, more than once, how grateful he is to have her around, to have help. By the time she has gotten there, the kidnapped kyrian have made two attempts to strike back and break free, and they are suffering more after each attempt. They will not go down without a fight, but they are going down.
And the constructs and stitchmasters alike seem to find it a good show.
That is, until Liila and Secutor Mevix are able to help the kyrian turn the tide. It happens by inches. Eleven of the kidnapped die in the time that it takes them to weaken the house enough to get the prisoners out.
It's not right.
That she was able to help them, get them out of their cages, off the racks they were thrown upon, only for them to fall because she cannot move fast enough.
Thales assures her this is not her fault, that there is no blame toward her. That they are grateful.
Nothing he says helps with that guilt, but she is still so glad just to have someone she can reach out to, someone who is clearly not part of her past, who can help her remember where she is.
And then she finds a deceased ascended, partially hidden behind some rotten mushrooms, clinging to a hastily scrawled out note. Despite it all, this ascended's expression is peaceful. Liila takes the note, thinking to see it delivered to whoever it was meant for.
But it's not meant for anyone she can ever find.
It talks about a love that should have been forgotten, a love that gave this dying creature comfort in her final moments, even as she wondered if being dragged to Maldraxxus is some kind of punishment for betraying the Archon, for keeping this one simple memory of a love so deep and true.
Hipokos and Thales find Liila crying near the body.
The more she learns about the afterlives, the more she starts to wonder if she even wants to come here. That maybe her curse actually is a sort of gift.
Except that it will keep her going until well after all her loved ones have perished, and that each death will put a little more strain on her soul, wear her a little thinner. And when she is old and gray, what of the deaths that should come naturally? How will they play into this curse that keeps her moving?
It is too much to think about.
She tucks the note into her robes, and they resume their efforts.
By the end of her time in Maldraxxus, Liila is starting to feel numb. It has been years since she felt like this. It took years to come out of this, and she does not want to slide back into it, but at the same time, she cannot take all the cruelty, all the heartbreak.
Her heart is frailer than she's realized.
In the end, she and the more valorous of the necrolords get as many kyrian and stewards away from the constructs as they can. They get them first to the Theater of Pain and then to the Seat of the Primus, where the constructs cannot reach them. Grandmaster Vole even helps them, recruiting his best gladiators to escort the injured to their new haven.
Liila wants to stay with them, to help them, to fix the missing limbs and parts, though she cannot heal what is not there. Even so, she feels like she can make things better, if she can just have the time to work with them.
However, there is no time. Everything that is going wrong seems to be accelerating. The Jailer's plans have been carefully laid out so that as they start to come to fruition, they all start to come to fruition together, in such an exponential way that it seems there may be no stopping him.
She finds the Primus' message and is off, once again, to another realm. One of the kidnapped ascended who is not too injured takes the Primus' message to the Archon while Liila heads ever forward and onward.
As Adrestes and Thanikos approach the Temple of Courage, he is appalled by what he sees. The entire temple looks like some sickly, twisted ghost of itself, pocked with plague that he can feel well before he could see it.
Xandria flies overhead, and there are almost a dozen ascended flying over the temple as well, most a bit higher than one would normally go. One flits up to Xandria. Adrestes is still too far to hear what is said, but he does hear the bellow that escapes the paragon, and can only watch as she whirls around and throws her triton into the plague-riddled ground below. It hits like a thunderclap of righteous fury, and for a second, the ground covered in brilliant light.
It is gone far too quickly, and as Adrestes reaches the paragon, he can see that the triton below is being corrupted itself, with what looks like vine or veins crawling up and over it, extinguishing the holy light held within it.
When she sees Thanikos and Adrestes, he is glad that looks cannot kill, for her scowl is the stuff of legends.
As they offer her salutes, she looks at Thanikos. "I want the names of every able-bodied soldier we have. And names from anyone who can be spared from the other temples. The maldraxxi will pay for what they've done in blood."
"The Primus is supporting this?" Thanikos asks, taken aback.
"The Primus," Xandria hisses the name, "is gone."
Adrestes brow pinches. Thanikos' words catch in his throat, come out incoherent, half-formed.
"The Maw Walker works fast, I'll give her that," Xandria murmurs, her tone lower. Adrestes is surprised by the pride that wells inside him at the praise toward the mortal, and he forces himself to ignore it rather than muse as to why. "The Primus is gone and there is no help coming to rectify this…" she motions below them, searches for the word, finds her vocabulary wanting. "Justice will be done."
She gives Thanikos a pointed look and he takes off, to gather the information she has demanded. Xandria fumes for a moment in silence before looking at Adrestes. "What do you require, polemarch?"
"Your knowledge," he says, not wasting his breath on pleasantries. Even if she weren't in so foul a mood, Xandria has never been one for idle banter. It's one of the many things he respects about her. He shows her the paper, explains the meaning behind the name.
Xandria's face contorts with rage for a moment before she is abruptly calm. That is far more terrifying than anything else he has seen. "I gave him leave to go to Wisdom." Even as Adrestes nods, starts to say Thanikos told him, Xandria adds, "He never reached it. I asked Thenios about him, about whether he was carrying his weight around the temple, and apparently his soulbind told Thenios that he was coming here. Thenios said he would look into where they'd run off to. At the time, it seemed like little more than some foolish endeavor to overcome busy schedules and gain some time to themselves."
Adrestes considers it.
Andromede, a disciple taken in by Lysonia, two who went to their soulbinds in Loyalty, an ascended who lied about where they were going, and a rogue bearer.
And then the three who came from Wisdom. He does not have their names.
This does not look good for Devos.
That alone almost makes him wonder if perhaps she really has nothing to do with this. Perhaps someone is trying to set her up, point the blame at her so that they can continue to work from behind the scenes.
Who, he cannot imagine, and he thinks to the soul mirror again. He does not see Lysonia taking orders from anyone but her paragon.
Though, if this is tied into forces from beyond the realm, who is to say that the Maldraxxi are the only allies the forsworn have?
"Thank you, paragon," Adrestes says, saluting her.
Xandria barely affords him a nod. "If you can spare anyone, I need more people to secure a perimeter around the temple's edges. The spread is slowing, but I want to make sure no one shows up to…" she curses under her breath. "I don't even know what I'm trying to prevent, but I need more people to do it."
Adrestes nods. "I will do what I can."
"You always do," Xandria says. She flies further into the temple, still keeping a healthy distance above it, as though she is trying to find some weakness, some spot that has not yet been sullied.
Adrestes head back to Humility. He is tempted to ask one of the ascended nearby to come with him, in case the forsworn show up again, but he doubts Xandria will appreciate him taking away who little she has. Instead, he keeps his route over the roads, to Hero's Rest and then beyond, so that if he needs help, they will be able to see him easily and reach him quickly.
As he goes, he replays what he has learned, what he must do. The people who will need to be moved around, the patrols that will be called away and which areas they can afford to abandon, at least for a few days. He thinks back to Xandria, to something she said, so flippant in passing.
The Maw Walker works fast.
She has been gone for a little over a day now, and he finds himself oddly anxious as he considers that she has yet to return. He has heard about her mission to bring aid back to Courage. She should have been back by now. Surely she understands that a mission ordered by the Archon is not something to take lightly.
Though, if the Primus is gone, then perhaps whatever she walked into in Maldraxxus is just as dire as what is going on here. Perhaps she cannot do as the Archon has commanded, or not easily.
Perhaps that is why she has yet to return.
What bothers him most, however, is not the idea of any failure to follow orders on her part, but rather that it matters to him as much as it does. When he thinks of her, he is anxious just considering that she may not be safe, that she is beyond his reach.
It is unsettling, and it makes it hard to concentrate on keeping an eye out for forsworn, when he cannot stop his mind from trailing back to her, and wondering if she is alright.
There is a notion in the back of his head that whispers he will never seen her again, and that idea in itself is oddly terrifying, though—again—he cannot place why.
In the end, he dismisses his curiosity about her as the novelty of having a mortal in the realms of the dead and nothing more. He's not sure why it feels like a lie, but he hardly has time to think about that, not when it is so clear that Bastion is being sabotaged from within.
"How can he simply be gone? He is a god!" Xandria's voice is a knife in the silence in the smallish chamber in the back of the Archon's Rise.
For they are not meeting where just anyone could happen by, where someone might skip up the steps and hear part of a conversation not meant for them.
Adrestes guards the door, even the safeguard that none will bother the Archon when she is otherwise occupied.
He is not a part of the conversation, but he can hear it well enough. They make no attempt to hide it from him.
"What we are seeing now are the Jailer's machinations in action," the Archon says, voice even, though it is impossible not to feel the anger emanating from her, even from where Adrestes stands.
He does not know what to make of this.
The stories have always been that the Jailer cannot leave the Maw, that he is trapped there, forever.
And yet, more and more they are coming to realize that the Jailer's reach extends far beyond the confines of his chains.
Adrestes is sure that this uptick in fallen kyrian, these forsworn, are the result of some nefarious plan the Jailer has set into motion. He is certain that the Arbiter's inaction, the souls going to the Maw, the Maldraxxi infighting, the souls going back to Azeroth…
That part makes less sense.
He can understand the Jailer wanting to fiddle with the realms within the Shadowlands. He can understand wanting to sow the seeds of chaos throughout their realms to make them too preoccupied to rise up as one against the Jailer when he makes whatever move he must be planning.
But why attack the realm of the living? And why Azeroth of all places?
Why not some minor world that would not have the strength to fight back, not have the caliber of heroes that are so durable?
For Azerothian heroes are renowned throughout the Shadowlands to be durable.
Especially in recent years, with all the tragedies striking their world one after another.
If Adrestes was planning an attack, he would not wish to garner the attention of such adept fighters unless it was absolutely necessary.
So why is it?
What does Azeroth have that the Jailer needs?
Again, Adrestes is stumped. If the Jailer wants a way into the living world, it would make so much more sense to tear the veil over a minor world. Then the Jailer could slip through to the Living side of the veil with few being the wiser.
Perhaps it is something about Azeroth itself?
And if the veil is torn asunder as the Maw Walker says, why hasn't the Jailer already left his realm? Why stay in the Maw when he has a way to freedom there before him?
Unless whatever he wants is within the Shadowlands themselves.
Such musings are for people far above Adrestes' station, but he cannot help but wonder.
The paragons behind him debate what is going on, much the way he does in his head.
Xandria is wanting to send scouts to other realms to find out how many are being affected by something the Jailer has set in motion. However, the only way to get enough people to do something like that would be if they called back all bearers and forsook their most sacred of duties, and of course they cannot do that.
"I wonder about this drought," Thenios says, and the chamber falls silent.
"You think the Jailer is causing it?" Visephone asks.
"I think with all the souls going to the Maw, his realm alone likely does not suffer from it."
Adrestes stares out, straight ahead.
The drought is miserable. It has made all the inner workings of Bastion grind to a halt. He has wondered, as it draws on, how smaller realms are faring, if any have crumbled in wake of the loss of anima—or if any have been demolished by displaced devourers seeking food. It is not his place to wonder, and most of the time he does not, but every so often, he has a moment where his mind goes to those who are not directly under his care.
He thinks of the people who have been sent to those realms, of the connections they have with others beyond. Of how some of the aspirants and souls waiting at Olympic Village may have loved ones who are perishing as they sit here, lamenting that their trials are on hold.
He wonders what would happen to the aspirants and souls if they found out how far the drought extends, if they knew where all souls now go.
He does not doubt that there would be even more chaos than there is now.
Even more forsworn.
The Shadowlands is supposed to be a well-oiled machine, but the parts are stuck, and as one falls short, the rest of the gears are coming undone.
He has not had to bear any souls since the attack on the Arbiter, but he does not look forward to knowing where he will be sending the ones he gathers, should his next assignment come up before things can be sorted out.
He knows that bearers are struggling with the knowledge of what they are doing. Even if they are not meant to judge, most of them can tell if a soul is meant for the Maw.
And most of the ones now going into that downward spiral are not.
It's little wonder that there are so many winged forsworn. It is hard to trust the Path and the Purpose when this is happening.
If Adrestes were not privy to the conversations behind him, to knowing all that is being done to try to avert this disaster, he hates to think what might become of him. He does not feel he would ever fall from the Path, but at the same time…
The more names he gets of those who have fallen, the more he wonders. So many were so true, so loyal.
One small solace he has is that he is certain that the forsworn may be a result of the Jailer's actions, but they cannot be part of any actual plan.
Because even if the forsworn no longer wish to walk the Path, there is no way that good people could ally themselves with the Jailer.
Surely…
He thinks of Devos.
Adrestes has told the Archon all he knows, shown her all he knows.
The Archon has thanked him for his vigilance, assured him he need not worry. The Archon has talked with Devos in private. If the Archon has any of her own doubts about Devos, she has not shared them with Adrestes. All he knows is that he is to treat her the same as he always has, as the revered paragon that she is.
And despite his suspicions and her poorly concealed anger, Devos does still seem to care immensely for her people. And she did save him.
That is supposedly why she has been so reluctant to part with the anima at her temple, especially now that they know the Jailer is involved. She does not want to use their stores only for the drought to wind on an age or two more. She does not want to see Bastion crumble away to nothing.
Adrestes wishes he believed her.
While he is not certain he trusts Devos, he does trust the Archon, and he puts his faith in her rather than the paragon.
The Archon has never failed her people, and he must trust that she is not about to.
Lists are coming together for aspirants who will perform their final test to become ascended. There is concern that the aspirants will fall if they see where all the souls are going, but the Archon is certain that it must be done.
They have nearly lost their entire army, and their numbers are dwindling in such catastrophic speeds that there is no other way. Even if the forsworn and Jailer were not threats now, there will be a struggle in the coming years to keep up with the number of souls who need to be ferried across the veil.
The only thing stopping the final rite from going forward now is the need for anima, and Devos is the biggest voice against the Archon, though Adrestes knows that Thenios has been talking to her, working with her.
They will have the anima, soon. If not from Devos' temple, they will find it elsewhere.
After all, the Archon wills it.
It's not until Liila is denied an audience with the Winter Queen in Ardenweald that she realizes that the fates are truly dedicated to being absolute bastards, just like they've been during every other apocalypse she's been through.
This one feels a bit worse than the last few, though she can't place why. Perhaps because she is heading things by herself.
Or because it is more than just her world or all worlds. It is all reality that is teetering on the brink of nothing.
That is a bit much to think about, considering that she is but one lonely mortal. That anything she does could actually affect the outcome of something so monumental is…taxing to think about, to say the least.
So she doesn't.
Instead, she focuses on the small tasks at hand, the message she must deliver, the Primus' warning that his brother is doing the unthinkable, whatever that may be.
Certainly, no one has stopped to explain it fully to her.
Perhaps that is for the best. If she fully understood what was going on, she might not be able to force herself to focus on the simple tasks, might not be able to keep herself from falling prey to panic and despair.
During a fleeting night's rest in Tirna Vaal, she takes the time to write out letters to those she feels will need it most. Bolvar will be sending out a call to arms soon, if he hasn't already. She starts with a report to him, about her speculations about the kyrian and maw creatures, and about how there is chaos in Bastion, but the Archon is willing to help them, once her realm can be brought to order. She goes into more detail than the callous words she has thrown at him in passing the three times she has been in Oribos since her initial arrival.
Then she explains that there is also chaos in Maldraxxus and that Maldraxxus is likely the realm that would put a stop to the evil spirit healers, if they weren't murdering themselves at the moment. She doesn't mention Ardenweald because it doesn't relate to anything Azerothian. At least not that she can see as of yet.
She makes sure that that one is taken away first before sitting down to write the harder letters. Her friends Whisper, Shadow, Blood, and others are still trapped in the Maw. She's been back once and rescued Darion Mograine, but she has no idea where the others are, and doubts finding them will be easy. And so she writes the hardest letters of her life to their families. They are updates, she tells herself, and she is sure that there will be more to these stories.
And that is why she tears them up in the end. She can't tell Whisper's mom or Blood's ex and children that their loved ones may never come home. Not when she doesn't know yet. If she has to tell them they have fallen in battle, so be it, but they don't deserve the anxiety that comes with them being 'missing'.
She's not even sure if Whisper's mom knows that she became a death knight. Voluntarily. In light of the sky being torn open.
The fact that only Liila and Darion have survived, as far as she knows, is something she isn't ready to deal with.
The others have to still be out there.
Whatever they are going through is likely terrible, to be sure, but so long as they are still going through something, it means they can still be saved. They may not feel it now, know it now, but there will be a future for them. There will be.
Liila has been there, long ago. When she was a prisoner of the Scourge, tortured to extremes by a sadistic bastard who loathed her for reasons she can no longer remember. She had given up on things like hope and happiness and a will to live.
And then Shadow had come, and he had done what he could to save her. If not for his actions, his knocking out her tormentor cold and then running with her, Liila doesn't know where she would be. Likely an empty husk, devoid of emotion and striving for a lack of conscious thought.
Shadow is the reason she has her freedom, the reason she was able to cross paths with Haa'aji, the reason she has friends she would do anything for.
That he is likely being held somewhere, tortured…
She will do everything in her power to return the favor he granted her. To save him as he did her.
It occurs to her finally that perhaps that is what drives Bolvar to push her to find help for the leaders who have been abducted. Perhaps he is not the arrogant prat she considers him, but he is concerned for friends, frustrated that she can go where he cannot…
After all, she would like to save Anduin and the others, as well, if only for the fact that no one deserves to be abandoned.
Still, she must keep her priorities in line. The time for heroics in saving lost individuals will come later.
But for now, she needs to get help for other, bigger matters.
That is what finally makes her write. Not to families, but to friends. Haa'aji, Howl, Lash, Mitchell. There are dozens of names that come to mind, that she wants to ask for help, but she settles for these four. She hashes out what she knows of the Maw, what she knows of the afterlives, and she tells them that if they can, she needs them.
When she goes to send the letters, however, she ends up sending only three. She keeps Haa'aji's. If she asks, he will come. He is her best friend in all the worlds—all reality, really, and they have always been there for each other. Haa'aji is her miracle, the surest thing in her whole world.
Long after Liila has given up on the infallibility of things like the Light and gods, she believes in the infallibility of Haa'aji.
That is why she can't ask him to come.
Because he will. He will drop everything and be there at her side in an instant, cracking jokes and causing chaos as they save the world together.
But she can't just think of herself anymore. It's not about what she needs. Not when Chi'rhi and Hezzak the others are involved. They need him so badly, as badly as she needs him, and she will not take away their papa.
Howl and Lash will be leaving behind families, too, but—terrible as it is—they aren't Haa'aji. They won't drop everything without a thought to who else might be hurt, and so in a way she trusts their judgment more. If they come out here, they will not take the same risks as Haa'aji either, keeping in mind the ones they have left behind.
Once her letters are sent, she goes to pack up her things and finds that she has a single piece of parchment left in her bags. If she leaves it, it'll end up wrinkled or torn, and then she'll be too annoyed to use it.
She thinks through the others she knows who she might be able to write to, and she finds herself surprised that despite it all, despite the dozens upon dozens of people she could send word to, her mind keeps going back to Polemarch Adrestes.
Liila barely knows him, and yet…
And yet she can't help but wonder how he is faring. How Bastion is faring, she tells herself, though she knows that is a lie. While she does care about what is going on in Bastion, it's the polemarch she's actually interested in.
Thus far, she has sent three letters to Bastion since her departure. The first was to the Archon telling her of the Primus' disappearance and the state of the House of Plagues. The second was to Paragon Xandria, with a list of names of survivors, as well as a very brief explanation of what the House of Constructs has done and how it is at odds with other houses. All of Maldraxxus is not against the kyrian.
It does not occur until afterward that she probably should have sent that message directly to the Archon, too. She hopes sending it to Xandria is practically the same thing.
Surely the paragon will share it with her god.
The last message she sends is to the Archon again. It is a more formal letter, again explaining that the Primus is missing and then detailing what has happened in Maldraxxus and how the houses are at war with one another. She relays the promises that what has happened to Bastion will not happen again, but Liila is honest when she says she does not know how well the Army of the Dead can keep the larger portions of the realm in line, when they are fighting for their very existence.
Now, as she sits there staring down at this last piece of parchment, there is no real need to relay any information. What she's doing now will be irrelevant to Polemarch Adrestes, irrelevant to Bastion. Would he even care if she sent him something?
And why is it that when she considers sending anyone in the worlds and all reality a message, he's the one to come to mind? She puzzles over it, staring off into space. She can see him so clearly, his lips dipping into a frown, his hood covering the rest of his face and making him completely unknowable.
Despite that, she feels like she knows his hair is cut short, like Pelagos'.
How she would know that…
For an instant, her mind conjures the image of an ascended in casual robes that she has not seen any wearing, standing in the distance, watching her. The wind ruffles his short-cropped hair, and his gaze meets hers.
In a blink, the image is gone, and Liila is left staring at the dark forest around her, her heart beating erratically.
After that first day in Bastion, her déjà vu had settled down. The temples and Locus had not felt familiar, nor had meeting the Archon or anyone beyond that initial village, and there had been no nagging sensation that there was something there, just beyond her reach.
Except when the polemarch was around. He stirred something in her. More than those little snippets of memory, it was like some inexplicable draw. Before she even knew he was around, her gaze had been drawn up to where he was overhead during the fighting both in the temple and at the Locus. She half thinks that perhaps he was there in the village that first night, that he was what she was drawn to, though she never saw him.
And more, when he had been there in front of her, she had been overwhelmed with the urge to reach out to him, to take his hand in hers, to lace their fingers together and just…exist. Side by side, hand in hand.
Like some great magic would happen if they touched.
It is a ridiculous notion. One that still makes her bristle now, as she thinks about it. She's met so many people in her life, even longed for one or two, but she's never felt…this.
She doesn't even know the words for it.
As she considers how unsettled the polemarch will be if she sends him a letter saying how desperately drawn to him she is, she realizes that she has already written on her page. It is just his title and name, but it is enough to make her set her quill down to make sure she does not unwittingly do anymore.
She frowns at the paper. Now it really is wasted.
Unless…
After a brief back and forth in her head, she finally scribbles out a quick message inquiring about how Bastion is faring and expressing that she hopes things are going better.
It is stupid and an utter waste and will probably come across as her wanting to know if the Archon is actually going to do anything about Azeroth's problems, but she sends the letter, promising the irked faerie who takes it that, yes, this is the last one.
By morning, she is full of regret and is half tempted to try to track the damned thing down before it can reach its destination.
But she can hardly do that, can she? She's here for an audience with the Winter Queen, to warn that even worse than the drought is coming, though she doesn't fully understand the message. She pushes the idea from her mind as she focuses on her current task, trying her best to forget that she has done something uniquely stupid.
She remembers, however, each time she gets a new letter, and has to force herself to fight down the odd anticipation as she retrieves her mail, wondering if the polemarch has written her back.
He does not, however, and by the time she is heading to yet another realm, she has given up on hearing from him.
It was a foolish endeavor anyway.
Despite the extra guards Adrestes sets up around the wards, the one protecting the Temple of Loyalty is deactivated, somehow.
The Forsworn do not do too much damage, but they do make off with ample amounts of anima.
According to Devos.
Arios helps survey the damage. He can confirm that the stocks have been dwindled substantially, that there has clearly been fighting. He identifies some of the dead attackers.
And when he has a chance to talk to Adrestes alone, his first words are chilling. "It felt staged."
Adrestes is confused.
"Thenios has worried something is amiss with Devos for a while now," Arios whispers. "She hasn't been herself…not since a particular soul, an Uther Lightbringer, came under her mentorship." He ruffles his feathers a moment and then lets them smooth. "Thenios has been trying to walk her back to us. I am not supposed to know that."
But of course he does, because he knows every bit of gossip in the realm, because he hears half of it before he takes it to Thenios. There are no secrets in the realm that he cannot find the source of.
"Do you think she's involved with the forsworn?"
"I think there are very well placed glamours around the Temple of Loyalty, or at least there were when I went through. Things were hidden from me, though I cannot say what."
Adrestes frowns. "Forsworn?"
"Perhaps," Arios shrugs. "Thenios may know for sure. He's barely at our temple these days, instead either speaking with Devos or the Archon, trying to get some kind of resolution to something I have no information on."
For Arios to be in the dark is… that feels impossible.
Adrestes crosses his arms, considering it.
"Is there anywhere else in the realm that the forsworn could be hiding?"
"It depends on how many of them there are," Arios says. "I've found signs that some of the smaller caves throughout the realm may have been occupied by larger numbers recently, especially a few near the Temple of Purity. But I fear that we're going to find that there are many of these forsworn hiding in plain sight."
"You think they can hide that they've fallen?"
Arios's mouth is a thin line. "I won't be surprised if they can." He pauses. "There have been whispers about you being one."
Adrestes' feathers bristle. "What?"
"I put a stop to them whenever I hear them," Arios assures him, reaching out and patting Adrestes' shoulder, as though so simple an action can help with the fact that there are those who think he is a traitor to the Archon.
"Thank you." The words come out mechanically, and even Adrestes frowns at how insincere he sounds.
"I think the forsworn see you as a threat," Arios says. "I think they're trying to discredit you, throw suspicion on you so that attention is not on them."
"Have you told the Archon?"
"I have told Thenios. I'm sure he has relayed the information."
Adrestes wants to scream. These forsworn…this doubt…it is poisoning the realm and making it hard to see who can be trusted.
As he wonders how many of his own soldiers may be looking to him with doubt that he is even on their side anymore, he can't help but think of Devos.
Is he the same to her as others are to him? Are his suspicions unfounded?
After all, despite everything, he has no proof that Devos has actually done anything to harm the realm. And she has helped. She has taken in injured from the Temple of Courage, she saved Adrestes when he was attacked near her temple…
It is with shame that Adrestes wonders if perhaps he has been closer to falling from the Path than he realized.
"Are you hearing the same rumors about Devos?" he asks quietly.
"Doubts about her? Yes," Arios looks grim. "Doubts are rising and running rampant, though most are not sticking. There are doubts about Xandria and Thanikos, Thenios and myself. Doubts about the Archon and the path." He pauses as Adrestes shakes his head. "Most tie back to little things, small actions, perceived moments that are out of character."
"What do you think of it all?"
"I think that Devos is hiding something," Arios says. "Whether it's that she's involved with the Forsworn or just that she knew of Lysonia's fall but had hoped to draw her back into the fold before things got too far…this far, I don't know." His feathers ruffle. "But the truth of it is that she knows something, and she is guilty of something. We just don't know what and to what extent."
"The Archon will not let things escalate further than they already have," Adrestes murmurs.
Arios' wings puff for a second before smoothing again. "If the Jailer is indeed involved, she may not have as much say in the matter as we'd like to think."
Adrestes shifts, uncomfortable with the idea. It is bad enough knowing there are traitors among them, and he does not want to be trapped in this limbo, where he does not know who to trust. He wants to think of something else.
Anything else.
And, as it always does of late, when he tries to let his mind wander to something more pleasant, it goes straight to the Maw Walker.
It goes to her easily enough on its own, but now she's written to him. He spent longer than he should have debating if he should even open the letter, wondering if whatever draws him to her is some kind of trap. If the letter is a trap as well.
With everything going wrong as it is now, it feels like anything could be a trap.
In the end, he feels foolish. He finds nothing damning in the letter, just a quick query to how things are going.
He is surprised how disappointed he is that the letter is so impersonal. It is not as though they are friends. They are barely acquaintances.
And yet he feels like he knows her. Like he's always known her.
It makes no sense, and it is just one more unknown that interrupts the routines of his day that he is used to, that he likes.
He wishes he could simply cleanse her from his mind, forget her. But then, she is likely going to be coming back. The Archon has already spoken to him about her return, for the Archon is confident that she will. If he forgets her, it will be inconvenient should there prove to be any future interactions between them, so he will have to allow for this inconvenience, at least for now.
After all, the Archon is never wrong, so the Maw Walker will be coming back.
Liila's time in the afterlives is a blur. She's certain that she only spent two days in Bastion. Two exhausting days, but only two. Maldraxxus was longer, she's sure, but they do not have a notable night and day cycle that she could really grasp, so she's not sure how long she was there. Maybe three or four days? A week at most?
She ends up being in Ardenweald for roughly the same amount of time as Maldraxxus. Again, it is hard to keep track, as the weald is always steeped in shadows and night.
In all, by the time she makes it to Revendreth, she thinks she has been in the Shadowlands for roughly two weeks. She is not sure, and she does not want to ask.
Time moves so strangely here.
Revendreth is no different from any of the other realms. She is thrown into chaos as soon as she arrives, having her carriage kidnapped and dropped, getting roped into doing tasks that she can't help but feel shouldn't be designated to outsiders.
Sire Denathrius is one of the most terrifying creatures she has ever met, in that as soon as he sees her, he gets this look—one he allows to linger just long enough for her to see—that says he knows something is terribly off about her. He makes a subtle remark about one of the death runes of her curse—one that shouldn't be visible to anyone unless the curse is activated, unless it has just raised her from the dead.
But he can see it with ease.
And he makes sure she knows it, right before suggesting she help quell the Accuser's rebellion.
More than that, when he mentions it, it itches, almost like something is calling to it, teasing it to activate, to show itself to everyone.
It is then that she considers that having a death curse is likely not something she can hide from the gods of death.
She wonders if that is why the Archon looked at her so strangely when they spoke. If that is why the Winter Queen regarded her silently for a miserably long moment when they finally met before addressing the reason Liila was there.
These gods recognize what is on her, what was carved into her so many years ago, and they understand it as easily as they breathe.
A part of her wonders if she can ask them for help, if it is possible that she has finally found someone who can remove it.
But she is not about to ask Denathrius for such a favor. Even if he weren't terrifying, even if his horns and legs did not remind her of Varimathras and every other dreadlord she's had the misfortune of meeting, there is just something about him that says any aid he might offer would be far out of what she can afford.
And there is something about him that says that she will not be getting the anima for the Winter Queen.
She wishes she was not always so good at reading people, especially when the god shows his true colors. While the Accuser throws her accusations and Denathrius tells his underlings to kill them, he gives her a look that says she is lucky he does not do it himself, and she can feel every rune that has ever been carved into her itch the same way that first one did.
Even the ones that should be no more.
For her curse is not the beast it once was. As much as it still pains her, she has done what she can to mitigate it, to make it more manageable. Parts have been dismantled, some completely removed—or so she thought—and Blood even altered it with runes of his own to make dying less painful and to allow her body to mend with dark magics while she is in between life and death.
And this god who has barely glanced at her can see all of it as though she stands naked before him.
Liila does not like Revendreth.
By the end of her first day in this miserable realm, she is back in the Maw.
By the end of the next, she is back in Revendreth.
At least she returns with hope. In freeing the dark prince and his allies, she has found one of the many death knights who has come through with her, a human man named Shawn. She's never known him well enough to get his last name, but he has been a good friend to Shadow and Blood.
He does not know their fates, but the fact that he is still alive, even in the worst part of the Maw, gives her hope that she may yet find them. Perhaps even those leaders can be saved, if she ever gets the time to be able to truly explore Torghast and its ever-shifting halls.
The dark prince rallies his forces to fight his father. Liila is amazed at how stupid a creature he is, for the forces he summons are little more than a handful.
She cannot help but think, however, that perhaps this prince is a demi-god. Everyone calls Sire Denathrius his father, so perhaps he is stronger than Liila can see and perhaps he is smarter than she can tell.
They go to fight Revendreth's maker, and with a single curl of Denathrius' fingers, Liila is down. Her curse hurts—it always hurts—in new ways, in new places. She knew going into this that to fight a death god would be foolish, but this…
She fights it, much the way she used to fight her tormentor. It is a battle of wills. With her tormentor, she could trick him, make him think that she could not feel what he was doing any longer, that there was nothing left inside of her that he could reach to torture in any meaningful way.
Denathrius knows that it is a ruse.
It is as though he can see past her flesh, to her very soul, see all she has done, all her endeavors, all her poor decisions, all her guilt.
Denathrius leaves them alive because they are so far beneath him that they are not worth killing.
The last thing she sees before she passes out is the asshole who threw her carriage off a cliff peering into her face, his lips moving to ask something she can't make out.
When Liila wakes up, she is in Oribos.
Her body feels somewhat better, but those deep aches, the ones her spells cannot reach, are worse than they have ever been, and they do not ease, no matter how she moves.
"It's about time," comes a familiar voice from her right. She opens an eye and finds Mitchell Ohara sitting beside her, flipping through a few papers. He is forsaken, though he looks almost intact enough to be human. His eyes glow yellow, his hair falls flat around his sallow face. His skin is gaunt, but it is intact, even on his boney fingers that drum idly against the back of the stack of papers he holds. "You should know that you're stupid," he says not looking at her. "Who fights a god with such a small party?"
"You heard about that?"
"Everyone has," Mitchell says, still inspecting the papers.
"Who is everyone?"
Mitchell finally lowers his papers enough for her to see that they are tailoring patterns that he's been studying. "Everyone everyone." He motions about vaguely. "That giant angry gargoyle has told everyone here about what happened, and Shawn briefed Bolvar and anyone else who will listen. Chatty bastard." He drops his patterns into his lap, motioning another way, like Liila can see the death knight in question through the walls. "Like telling me he dragged your barely breathing ass away from a bored death god is supposed to make up for…everything? He didn't even do anything. He was turned into a ragdoll just like you were." Mitchell starts to lift his patterns again, only to drop them once more. This time, one slides off his lap. "Why would you even save him? Of all the death knights, that's the one you save? Him."
"He's the only one I found," Liila says, frowning.
Shawn is the man who killed Mitchell, who raised him into the Scourge, before he was able to break free. Despite Shawn's attempts at righting the many, many wrongs he committed while he was under the Lich King's control, Mitchell is not one to forgive.
Liila doubts he ever will, and she has always felt she is in no place to lecture him otherwise. After all, if she were asked to work with her killer, no amount of good deeds would make her tolerate his presence. In that way, she thinks Mitchell is a stronger soul than she'll ever be.
"We'll find the rest of them," Mitchell says, changing his tune. He pats Liila's hand and then bends down to pick up his fallen pattern. "Or they'll find their way here. They're not exactly damsels."
She can't help but smile at that.
It's true enough, and she would love to see that. The attendants going about their business when all of a sudden more Maw Walkers emerge, a bit battered, but still standing. It's such a tempting thought, she almost wants to go sit by the platform she first arrived on to wait, because surely…
"If you're well enough to walk around, Howl would like to talk to you."
Liila figures she could spend an eternity lying down and still never be well enough rested, so she swings her legs off the bed she's on and stands. The world teeters a little, her aches shift, but she is fine.
Well enough to walk, as he said.
The walk is not a short one. Out the inn, across the central chamber past the souls freefalling to damnation, and out to the outer circle that encompasses the city. As they pass through the city, Liila sees that it has already changed. Denizens from all the realms she has been to are present, some talking in small groups, others hurrying to and fro with whatever tasks they have.
They are almost to a hall leading outside when Liila feels that strange pull that has not pestered her since Bastion. Glancing back, she finds the polemarch. He is flanked with ascended, striding in the opposite direction that she is going, heading for the Enclave. She almost turns around to go talk to him—as though she has something to say other than to ask if he got her letter—but Mitchell catches her hand.
"Come on."
Polemarch Adrestes is turning—likely to address one of the ascended with him—when she gives up and follows Mitchell out.
There is a breeze, though Liila doesn't know where it comes from. Beyond that, beyond the in between or whatever it is called, lies the Maw, dark tendrils stretching up and seeking to consume everything.
Liila is certain that it was not as large, as reaching when she first came to Oribos.
The stream of red anima from Revendreth has likely had something to do with its growth.
However, she has little time to think on it.
Lash, Howl, and Shawn are there, watching the Maw with a few others—it's a paltry number of adventurers compared to the numbers she has seen in other times, against other foes. Perhaps too many have grown weary of the fight, or perhaps they are all back in Icecrown and along the fringes of the lands that have contained the Scourge for so long, still battling the undead.
Howl Bonecrusher greets Liila first. The orc is starting to get a few gray hairs, but he still has plenty of years to go, plenty of fight left in him. He thumps his chest with a fist, and she salutes him back in the same manner. Several others follow suit. His wife, a draenei priestess named Veena, offers a warm smile instead.
Lash is another orc, once the youngest member of their guild, back when they fought the first Lich King and his forces. He has made a name for himself over the years, Gorelash Bloodeye, but he will forever be Lash to Liila. His saber cat, Duskeh, sits next to him, waiting patiently for whatever is to come.
She scans the small crowd, counts heads. She looks for Haa'aji.
He's not there, and she is both relieved and selfishly disappointed.
"They are saying that there is too much at stake, too much wrong here in the Shadowlands for us to commit to any more than one realm," Howl says, voice carrying easily. "There are going to be representatives from the realms to tell us all their woes and all the reasons we will make good allies to each other, but we thought it would be better to hear it from someone with bias in our favor." He winks at her.
Liila groans. At least this isn't a speech, but a briefing. Anything else, and she might have to kick Howl off the ledge. He might even humor her and take the fall, knowing she'd catch him and drag him back up with a spell.
Liila tells them what she knows about each realm, about how they factor into everything. She tries to be neutral, tries not to let her own traumas get in the way of explaining the good that can be found and done in Maldraxxus and Revendreth.
They talk. Some adventurers break off to go find their fates.
In the end, it is just the six of them—Lash, Mitchell, Howl, Veena, Shawn and Liila. Howl asks Liila where she will go.
Her first thought is Revendreth. She will not set foot back in Maldraxxus unless she must, and Ardenweald makes her uncomfortable because she feels like she should be meeting people she knows there, but they are absent, and she is afraid to learn that they are some of the many who have been sacrificed to save 'more important' souls.
The notion of going to Bastion whispers in the back of her mind, and she does find herself more drawn to that idea, but she does not think she will be welcome back in Bastion without a cure for the plague at the Temple of Courage.
And anyway, Revendreth needs help, more help than most, considering its god is not just missing but actively sabotaging its purpose and creating the drought that hurts all the other realms.
Even so, she does not actually want to go back to Revendreth.
Lash must see some indication in her face that she is going to make a choice that does not sit right with her, because he interjects. "I'm going to Revendreth. Howl and Veena should come with me." When they all look at him, surprised, he motions to Shawn and then Liila. "Shawn was telling us how easily Denathrius neutralized the both of you. My guess would be it has something to do with the death magic cast on you, so death knights and forsaken—and you—would do well not to go to where a god can easily and likely will actively want to manipulate or kill you."
It's a good point.
If Liila does go to Revendreth, the second she's deemed an actual threat, Denathrius can just take her out of the picture with a flick of his wrist. She would do better to keep her distance.
There's no proof he can do the same to Mitchell, but it's better not to risk it when there are living mortals who are willing to go instead.
Shawn nods. "I suppose I can go to Mal—"
"I call Maldraxxus," Mitchell says in single exhale. He makes a point of not looking at Shawn, instead inspecting his nails. "I'll get set up there and then come check out that temple that got plagued," he looks at Liila. "Or you can get me a few samples and I can see what I can do about it."
Liila nods, despite herself. Mitchell is both a tailor and an alchemist, after all. And she's an alchemist too. Perhaps if they work together with Plague Deviser Marileth, they can figure something out. Perhaps the plague deviser can be given permission to come inspect the temple grounds and he will be able to recognize whatever concoction was used to create the plague in question.
"Then I'll head to Ardenweald," Shawn murmurs, nodding to Veena, Howl, and Liila before dismissing himself.
Mitchell spits after him, though Shawn doesn't react to it.
"Ohara," Howl snaps.
Mitchell merely rolls his eyes, arms crossed. He was seventeen when he died, and while Liila's not sure exactly how 'young' seventeen is for humans, based on the way other forsaken treat him, she assumes that he died before reaching adulthood or just on the cusp of it. Despite insisting that he is a grown man now, even if his body can never age, he still acts like a bit of a child from time to time.
It is as the others start to make their way back into the city that Liila realizes she has been allotted Bastion, if they are splitting up the realms among themselves.
Her steps falter.
Mitchell glances at her. "You coming?"
"In a minute," Liila murmurs. She considers it. None of the other realms felt familiar. There were a few souls she recognized here and there, but there was never that miserable feeling of déjà vu. Granted, that had stopped after that first day in Bastion. Part of her still insists it was some strange effect from being in the Maw, but then she has returned to the Maw twice since and not had it happen again.
More likely than not, it is Bastion itself that wants to be remembered, ironic as that is.
If she goes there again, will she again start feeling like she's been there before? Or perhaps it is just the Olympic Village area that feels familiar? After all, the temples did not nag at her. If she avoids the place where souls stay, perhaps…
What of the polemarch?
Liila walks back to the inn slowly. Her muscles still have a few aches in them, and she casts a renew on herself to handle that. The other aches will persist, of course, but she can ignore them well enough. She has a high pain tolerance, after all.
She considers the number of people who were present to listen to her explanation of the realms. About thirteen. Surely some of them will choose the realm of the spirit healers. If nothing else, some will be curious to know more about the mystical beings that allow souls to return to their bodies, for many of those here have encountered at least one in their time fighting the good fight.
And Liila still doesn't have the anti-plague agent she was supposed to get. Will returning with plans to get one really be enough?
She returns to the inn and gathers the belongings she has left in her rush to follow Mitchell. As she does so, she pauses to check the mail. There is a letter from the Brewfest Club—how they managed to find her all the way out here is beyond her—and one that makes her stop in her tracks. The penmanship is incredibly neat, her name written in ink that shimmers faintly.
It is from Polemarch Adrestes.
She checks the date on the envelope, but it is meaningless. It is some kyrian method of keeping track of the days and years, not anything Azerothian. She sits on her bed and opens it, unfolding the crisp paper to see that the message is short.
To Liila Dragonlily,
I thank you for your interest in our realm's safety. There have been no further major attacks as of now and the contaminant at the Temple of Courage is currently contained. It is most unfortunate that the Primus is missing.
We are looking into where these forsworn and your mawsworn come from, and if there is the connection between the two, but there is nothing to report at present.
In honor,
Polemarch Adrestes
There's a small stamp below his name and Liila pulls the letter closer to read,
This letter is and all of its contents are the sole property of the Archon.
She's surprised how disappointed she is. While she hardly sent him a love confession, she had hoped…
She is not sure what she had hoped for, and as she tries to remember what she actually sent to him, she figures that his response is in line with the tone she set.
Still…
She wishes he might have talked about something more… Maybe a tug that he, too, felt? It would be nice if this strange draw is not one sided. If it is something they could laugh about the bizarreness of it all.
For a moment, she is sitting by a small pond, and she can see the polemarch dipping his toes in the water, flexing them lazily from time to time as he talks and listens. She reaches toward the water itself—it looks cool and soothing—and her fingers go through it without so much as making a ripple.
Liila blinks.
That…definitely never happened.
Gods help her, but this is a mess.
She gathers her things and heads to the enclave where Tal-Inara and the others have delegated tasks before. She has a feeling that that is where she will need to go to speak with Polemarch Adrestes.
When she enters the yawning room, she finds small clusters of adventurers talking to familiar faces. There are noticeably less people near General Draven and Secutor Mevix, and that almost makes her reconsider.
But then she sees Polemarch Adrestes. He is so tall that he easily looks over the mortals he is talking to, and she is certain that he looks at her, impossible as it is to tell with his visor in the way. He offers her a small nod and she thinks a slight beckon with his chin before he looks back down to the two in front of him.
Liila comes to stand behind the others, not bothering to squeeze closer.
Adrestes is fielding questions and looks like he is not particularly enjoying it, though he responds quickly and professionally to every one of them. Mostly it's questions about the winged creatures that are plaguing the fields of battle in Icecrown and whether the Ascended could do two prong attacks. It is clear that those here are primarily interested in how to garner aid for themselves, which should be no surprise.
Liila tries to think of something fun to ask to interrupt the monotony of it all, but she can't think of anything that would be remotely appropriate, and she doesn't know the polemarch well enough to ask anything inappropriate. Especially not in front of an audience.
As she listens, her gaze wanders to the two ascended who stand behind him, on guard. She recognizes one from the Temple of Purity. They offer her a faint smile and a nod, which she reciprocates.
The conversation winds on a little while longer before Polemarch Adrestes explains that more details can be given in Elysian Hold. Perhaps he is just trying to dismiss those present, but it works.
The duo offer salutes and goodbyes before heading off to see their first afterlife. Liila considers how lucky they are to have not had to trudge through the Maw first. Though…if they do end up going there, they will be all the happier that they picked Bastion to aid when they get back.
Liila turns to go.
"Maw Walker, a moment."
When no one else turns at the title, it occurs to her that of the mortals present only she and Shawn have actually walked the Maw thus far. And only she has proven that she can come and go from there as she wants. She has no doubt that will be put to the test soon, and that the title will no longer be exclusive shortly thereafter.
And if it stays exclusive, gods help her because she has a feeling the other realms will be calling on her for favors every second she is not actively on a task for Bastion.
She waits quietly as Polemarch Adrestes gives a few short orders to the ascended who stand with him. Apparently, he is not going to be a permanent recruitment officer here in Oribos. It makes sense. While Liila doesn't doubt that more people will make there way out here, there will not be some steady stream that requires higher officials from the realms to stand by, ready to snap them up for their respective realms.
With a glance, Liila sees Lady Moonberry across the way. The fairy waves at her and then sticks her tongue out before flitting out of the room. The vorkai who has been left behind simply sighs and smiles and offers a small salute to Liila.
She sees no harm in returning to gesture.
As she lets her hand fall back to her side, she notices that Adrestes is watching her, expression impossible to read thanks to that hood of his. She wonders if that's the point of that style of hood, considering there are definitely others that do not block view of one's eyes.
"Shall we?" His voice is detached, professional. And yet, Liila would give anything just to get to sit in a room with him and listen to him talk. Or read. She thinks he could read anything and make it sound pleasant.
For a moment, she is worried when they begin to walk, because it seems like it will be a quiet one. Their walk to the teleportation pad that leads to the upper level of the city is so painfully lacking in conversation that she half wonders why he stopped her to begin with.
However, when they're about halfway to the flightmaster, he stops. There are far fewer people up here, and most of her fellow mortals have already headed out to whatever realm they have decided to assist.
"Thank you for reaching out about the realm's status."
Liila blinks and stops as well, turning to face him. "Of course."
He nods, stands there, crosses his arms. "And I am relieved to see you return to us. I have only been here a short time, but I have already heard about some of your endeavors in the other realms. It seems you've been busy."
"Yes," Liila nods. "At least I had the last…" she realizes she doesn't know how long she was unconscious after her fight with Denathrius. She'll have to ask Shawn the next time she sees him. "I've had a bit of a nap, so."
"To stand against a god," Adrestes says, notably frowning. "I cannot decide if it is foolishness or courage."
"Idiocy," Liila replies, her smile thin. "And something I would rather not repeat." Even as she says this, she considers that the problems everyone is having come down to Denathrius and the Jailer and that she is likely going to have to face one or both of them in the future.
Assuming she even can.
Another thought strikes her, rather abruptly.
If Denathrius could take her down so easily, why didn't the Jailer when she first made her escape?
The more she thinks about it, the more it feels like he let her go.
That…does not bode well.
"I am glad you recognize your limits," Adrestes murmurs. There is a hint of a smile there. "There is still much you can do, of course."
Liila nods, straightens up a little. "I have a friend who is willing to help with nullifying the contaminants at the temple of Courage. He'll need samples though."
Adrestes smile is gone. "We will get him whatever he needs."
There is an awkward pause.
Liila chastises herself silently for wanting to reach out and touch his hand. He is clearly not here because he wants to be. She wants to ask him why he wanted to talk, if he wants to tell her to not write to him again unless it is necessary or…
"We've sent a scouting party to Azeroth, to inspect the tear in the veil and see if we can't get a better look at the creatures bearing souls back. The scouts have been gone longer than they should have, though, so I am not sure we will have answers for you quickly." He pauses.
Liila nods, hesitates, remembers. "What about Devos?"
Adrestes cocks his head, appraises her. Then nods once. "I gave the Archon the soul mirror. She said she understands why you are so mistrusting of the paragon, but that it is not something we need to worry about."
Liila is oddly comforted by that 'we'. She nods.
"I hear you gave her quite the hard time, when she came to help at the Temple of Courage," there is a quirk in his lips now, one she is sure she's seen before, somewhere.
"If she's involved with the forsworn, I wouldn't want to send anyone injured to her. Who knows what she could have done to them."
"Well, those who went to her temple are recovering well," Adrestes assures her. "Lysonia is still missing. I believe she must be outside of the realm, at least for now."
Liila nods again. "With our luck, she's hiding in Azeroth."
Adrestes lets out a soft hmph that could be a laugh or just disapproval that she is making such flippant comments about the matter. "We will find her, and she will answer for what she's done." He hesitates. His hand comes up, almost as though he is about to offer it to her. Instead, he lets it fall to his side. "Thank you, for the aid you provided us. I did not have time to offer my thanks before. Disease is a uniquely mortal ailment that we would have struggled to handle on our own. Our healers are growing accustomed to the spells you left for them."
"Of course," she says again, feeling like she should say a million other things, though nothing comes to mind.
"I must get back to Bastion, there is much to do, and you are expected." When Liila doesn't hide her surprise, he flashes her a quick, confident smile that makes her melt inside. "The Archon knew you would return to us."
She doesn't tell him that she almost didn't, that it was someone else's choice that led her back to him. To Bastion. Instead, she offers him a curtsey. He takes flight, through the gateway, and she heads to the flightmaster, wondering what would have happened if she hadn't met the Archon's expectations.
In the end she dismisses it, and instead tries to brace herself for whatever may come next. She hopes at least some of it will be pleasant.
