Legend of Ransera

Arvælyn held tightly onto a pair of the Crownwyrm’s spikes as the massive dragon lumbered into a large corridor. He had not anticipated an extended stay in the Thalamum Draconum. He didn't even know it was physically possible for a mortal to withstand, given the supposed proximity to the volcanic core of Mount Sorokyn. He wasn't an Elementalist, like most of his kin apparently were... at least not yet, so perhaps the dragons were protecting him with their own magicks or whether this part of the subterranean complex was far enough from the fiery core that it was endurable. It was, after all, of far greater magnitude than he'd imagined. He’d expected the ‘Dragon Chamber’ to be, well… a chamber. Instead it was a large network of tunnels with various caves and caverns that one might deem chambers.

It felt surreal to sit astride the massive Crownwyrm as his steps thundered and shook the very ground. It felt like a dream, and the fact of his probably delirium only added to the fantastical wonderment that swirled in the mind beneath his golden locks. He wished he were in his right mind… undistracted from being present in this majestic moment. It had been a childhood dream to ride a dragon- One he shared with many, if not most, children. Here he was doing just that, but all he could think about was whether it was really happening or whether it was a trick of Masquerade afflicting him with a false reality.

"I feel... as though I'm walking through a dream, Your Exalted Majesty." Arry mused, and Zalkyriax craned his long neck to cast the gaze of one massive, fiery eye toward the small creature on his back. "I remember the first time I ever saw a dragon... It was many months ago, and it was you." He smiled faintly... weakly. "I heard a clamour on the deck of the ship that conducted us from Ailizane to Ecith as we were drawing close to the harbour at Tertium. And there you were soaring through the skies. It seems almost silly, but I thought you looked right at me."

"I recall the day." Zalkyriax gnarled, "It had been many years since I hunted the Eastern Seas. I craved the fatty flesh of a whale, and lo, I did feast well that morrow."

"We saw..." Arry chuckled softly. "It was... You were majestic. I can't believe I'm meeting you... I can't believe you're helping me. It's like..."

"Walking through a dream." The Crownwyrm completed his thought with an amused glint in his eye. "You mentioned." The dragon paused, before attempting to speak on more pertinent matters.

"In antiquity we derived methods we shall exploit to your benefit." Zalkyriax boomed, "Your condition is not a curable one, but the worst of the symptoms may be balmed and your pains, to some extent, assuaged if we tend to it in time."

"Might I die?" Arry asked, surprised at his own calmness in so inquiring. Perhaps it was the recent trial of Aværys and Varvara during which he'd resigned himself to the necessity of death and made the mortal choice to sacrifice himself in Finn's favour. Or perhaps it was just the murkiness of his mind, at present, that softened the notion of a fatal outcome.

"Næ." The Crownwyrm replied, "It shall go hard, but you shall endure."

“But I might go mad, you said? Become dangerous? I would hate to hurt my amatus…”

“We will see that you do not.”

“You mean you’ll kill me, if I lose my mind…”

“Yes.” The dragon replied somberly.

“I want to see him… My amatus.”

“You cannot. He would burn here.” The dragon marched them out of the corridor and into a far larger space.

The term 'dragon chamber' had brought to mind a large, but limited cavern festooned with stalactites and stalagmites. Perhaps the ground would be littered with gold and jewelled treasures- a suitable hoard to serve as cache and camouflage for the gold and silver brood of Zalkyrion the Mighty. What he found upon being led deeper through the network of caves and into the so-called 'chamber' was an expansive space that appeared to be at least as big as the Umbrium itself. And, like the Umbrium, the foundations of an ancient and mostly forgotten city sprawled out before him. Unlike the Umbrium, however, the remains of this city had not been restored for modern usage. They'd been ruins and they remained thus. Surrounding the city was a great, blood-red river… perhaps the source of the smaller stream that had bisected the chamber in which he, Phocion and Hilana first met Zalkyriax.

Arvælyn gazed forth in awe.

"A great many dragons once dwelt these halls." Zalkyriax noted, lifting his eyes up to where two of his siblings soared beneath the high ceilings of the colossal chamber. "We are but five now, and yet... Your companion's tidings presage a potential shift from present paradigms."

"The Founders suggested that a lot is poised to change." Arvælyn observed.

"If... Their questionable reliance upon Arcas proves fruitful." The Crownwyrm snarled. "Now. The ceilings are high enough here that we need no longer walk. Hold fast."

Arry had ridden a few wyverns by this point, but this was another matter entirely. The Crownwyrm spread titanic wings and leapt forth with his hind legs to take to the air and soar above the ruins below. The two dragons overhead screeched their salutations and swept alongside the flanks of their liege lord, assuming a V formation as all three made their way toward the summit of a subterranean mountain to the Southeast. The mount was the largest in view and brought them closer to the ceiling (and presumably the Umbrium) than any other point visible in the topography. As they drew nearer, Arry's wide golden eyes caught sight of some ancient temple. He'd spent enough time in the Umbrium to know that its architecture predated Solunarium. It must have been constructed during the era of Streleon and Ugrimal, before their war ended in the death of two gods and the extinction of two civilisations. The temple atop the mount was in better shape than any of the other buildings Arry had seen amongst the ruins below.

Zalkyriax alighted, with his two siblings at his sides.

"Vandrakainyn." The Crownwyrm boomed, "Kairyndralok. Meet Arvælyn: Descended of Aværys and Chosen of Varvara." The two metallic dragons inclined their heads in greeting.

"Well met." Replied Vandrakainyn, and "Greetings, Arvælyn Elvenkind." responded Kairyndralok.

"I am honoured to make the acquaintance of Your Hallowed Highnesses." Arry replied, recalling his mother's response to Hilana's question about behaviour in the draconic presence. They'd addressed him directly, and so he was at liberty to respond.

"He is afflicted with Limen Maiorem Languorem."

"Greater threshold sickness?" Arvælyn translated in his head and aloud at the same time. "Is it because of my emblem? Will it be worse than my arcane initiations?"

"It will. By far." Vandrakainyn replied.

"He will undergo the Rituale Magicum Sanguinis." Zalkyriax informed the assembled.

"That should ease the transition." Kairyndralok noted, sagely.

"What should I expect?" Arry furrowed his brow, frowning. The aching in his bones was getting worse, as was the pounding in his head. He ought to have been gaping in reticent awe at the majestic figures speaking to him as if he were worthy of such lofty attention. Instead, he could focus on little but the throbbing pain. Zalkyriax frowned as he replied:

"Your Runes are poised to turn against you. The Divine blood you inherited from your mother made your past dalliances with the ætheric Threshold comparatively moderate. Now you must face far worse versions of each initiation, and what is worse- You must face them in tandem. They will strike, not as single spies, but in a pernicious triumvirate."

“Come.” An ethereal light began to shine from Vandrakainyn as the massive draconic form diminished in mass and shifted in shape. Seconds later, Kairyndralok did the same and where once two great wyrms stood, now were the slender forms of two beautiful elves with pale skin and platinum hair, one female and the other male.
Zalkyriax, still a colossal winged reptile bedecked with gold and silver scales, regarded the smaller three ostensible elves.

“I leave Arvælyn in your keeping. Aværys has need of us anon at Kaladon and I must prepare.”

“He summons us? After all this time?” Vandrakainyn furrowed her pale brow.

“For now, tend to the boy. Later, I shall gather all scions of Zalkyrion to a conclave to brief you. There are matters both promising and concerning, but it is passing clear that we must answer the call. They will stand face-to-face with Arcas and a fledgling who claims the mantle of Rebellion.” He lowered his great head to the small, shivering form of Arvælyn who was looking worse and worse as the minutes passed. “Be strong, little one. We shall meet again when you are through the worst of it. Vale!” And with that, he whipped around and bounded toward the edge of the cliff to soar off over the sub-Umbrian chamber. The two dragons in elven form took Arvælyn by the waist and draped his arms around their shoulders, as they led him into the temple.

The building was elegant without and within- all marble with gold trimming. High imposing columns guarded the entrance at the top of the large staircase, and the ceilings were so high they seemed to meet the top of the cavernous chamber that housed this forgotten subterranean city. As they passed through the columns and into the temple proper, they would find a large, open space in which their footsteps resonated as they fell.

Arry lifted his gaze to regard the coffered dome ceiling above, with a central oculus through which a dim light was cast. Directly below that central point in the dome was a marble altar, simple by Solunarian standards though not so spartan as what he’d seen at the Temple of Midnight’s Mother in the Umbrium. The top of the altar was a large bowl of smooth-hewn stone- a basin of marble, but the surrounding base was carved on all sides with some manner of ancient runes.

“We will help you disrobe.” Vandrakainyn instructed, as they drew up the altar.

“What? Why?” Arvælyn grimaced.

“You must be bathed.” She replied.

“Baptised.” Kairyndralok appended. “It will ease your transition.”

“...To the other side of the threshold.” Vandrakainyn emphasised.

“Fine.” Arry began to unfasten his belt, and the two beautiful pale elves who were not elves aided him in the removal of every article of clothing. He reached for his neck, forgetting the necklace he’d worn since adolescence was no longer there… It had been his first sacrifice to the Founders. Little did Arvælyn know, the absence of its protective magic was the very reason he found himself in this weakly state. Now completely bare, his draconic attendants ushered him to the edge of the altar.

“Into the basin with you.” Kairyndralok instructed, offering his hand in aid.

“If you’re planning to sacrifice me, you should know I’ve already offered my life to the Founders.”

The dragons chuckled.

“Næ, child. You are not the subject of sacrifice. You are the object.” Vandrakainyn explained.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Arry inquired, even as he consented to accept their help up into the bowl of the altar, wincing at the chill of the cool stone.

“Sacrifice is involved, but not yours.” Kairyndralok responded, as the half-elf settled onto his back and let his head rest against the cold, unforgiving marble.

“Do I need to do anything? Do I just lay here?” The golden boy asked of the platinum pair, but just as the words passed his lips he started- wincing at the feel and taste of something that had fallen into his mouth from above. It was a droplet of warm liquid, vaguely familiar at first, then more so as his mind wrapped round the mineral flavour upon his tongue. Blood. More droplets were drizzling down from the oculus above and alighting on his bare flesh and the marble slab upon which he lay.

“The blood of Master Mages.” Vandrakainyn explained. “Practitioners of the same runic Crafts for which you bear Cardinal Runes. Their vitæ will mitigate the symptoms to come as your flesh absorbs their sanguine essence.”

“Finn would fucking hate this.” Arvalyn sniggered grimly, as the drizzling blood became a downpour.

“This temple lies directly beneath that of Midnight’s Mother in the Umbrium. The spillways of Varvara’s altar pour blood into our realms. This is but one of the outlets.” Kairyndralok exposited.

“Surrounding our realm there is an entire river of blood, fed by the endless parade of sacrifice demanded by the Varværyn Faith and preserved by Sorokyn’s rich mineral and magical reserves. It is not the Founders alone who benefit from mortal sacrifice, we too reap its boons.” Vandrakainyn noted.

“We need never thirst.” Kairyndralok added.

Arry shifted, squirming a bit as the basin in which he lounged began to collect enough of the red rain that he found himself in a literal bloodbath. He wondered how many mages had to die for so much sanguine succour to assuage his ails.

This felt stranger and stranger. He felt like a child or a pampered nobleman, being bathed by attendants, but there were ancient dragons playing nursemaid to him. It seemed as though Varvara’s mark had potent benefits indeed. His mind wandered to Finn and how he wished his amatus was there, even though Finn the Majestic would have been aghast at this red remedy. But then Finn was there. He reached his hand up to take hold of the minstrel’s.

“Is this the ‘Finn’ of whom you spoke?” The male dragon wondered.

“Yes…” Arry confirmed, smiling up at the handsome human, but Finn did not return the smile. His blue eyes were narrowed in disgust.

“Then the Masquerade begins. Steel yourself.”

Finn’s arm shot forth and his hand gripped Arry by the throat, lifting him bodily from the bath until he was held vertically aloft in midst of the blood shower. The dragons exchanged a glance, recognising the Rune of Kinetics was also engaged. It was no mere illusion- the half-elf was actually being lifted as if by the hand of his illusory amatus.

Finn’s eyes had a mania about them, a wilder look than Arry had ever seen in the human’s typically adoring gaze.

“Of course.” Finn snarled, “Of course your comfort comes at the cost of mortal lives… human lives! I thought you could change, but you won’t, will you? You can’t…”

“I have changed! I am better for knowing you! You are my conscience!”

“Then I am failing! Look at you. Awash in the blood of innocents.”

“I didn’t kill them!”

“Yet, because of you, they are dead. Would you stop their murders, if you could? Knowing that their blood is your restorative?”

“Yes! …Well, no! Without this treatment, I would go mad.”

“So, what?”

“So, if I go mad I’ll never see you again! Or worse, if I did I could hurt you… kill you!”

“I would die for a multitude. Would you?”

“I would die for you.”

“Good.” The false Finn hissed, and sent a surge of bliss through the half-elf’s Symphony, which tipped his head back. He reached to brush a bloody strand of hair out of Arry’s eyes and it actually moved.

Kairyndralok glanced to Vandrakainyn. “Fascinating… The Masquerade allows us to see this Mesmer-born hallucination, and Kinetics have given the illusion actual, physical form.”

Arvælyn’s pleasure was ephemeral, and soon gave way to pain. His skull was pounding and his back ached like it would be torn apart, as the False Finn lifted him by the throat out of the basin albeit still in the stream of raining mage blood. The half-elf loosed a rasping gurgle that would have been a scream if not for the tightness around his airways.

Vandrakainyn extended her influence to explore Arvælyn’s Symphony, and her eyes widened.

“His Symphony is split in twain… It’s as if the illusion has its own.”

“Then soften it, Sister, before it slays him! I shall ease the rival motifs back toward concordance.” The two dragons wove their Mesmeric influence into the single boy with his two Symphonies and the mage blood eased the effort, which might have been a great struggle. In addition to exceeding mere mastery over Mesmer, he had the nascent power of Varvara’s Mark woven into his æther signature. Vandrakainyn was able to ease the False Finn enough to release Arry and warm to him, as Kairyndralok carefully guided the discordant Symphonies into cohesion and, eventually, reunification. The False Finn faded and Arvælyn slowly descended back into the basin with a groan, and then lost consciousness as the rain of blood began to taper to a drizzle.

Sighing, Kairyndralok approached the blood-soaked youth and ran a hand through his matted hair.

“Rest easy, Little One.” He frowned, “This but begins your woe.”

Arvælyn:
Lores: 6
XP: 8xp (Masquerade, Mesmer or Kinetics applicable)

Injuries/Ailments:
Arry learns that his affliction is known as Greater Threshold Sickness, which seems like the aetheric equivalent to an autoimmune disease.

Loot:
A bloodbath to ease the symptoms of his melding runic abilities composed of the essence of master mages of those disciplines.

Notes: It seems the altars in the Temple of Midnight's Mother feed directly into the Thalamum Draconum, which is far more expansive than the mortals of Solunarium believed. Perhaps larger than the Umbrium itself.