JONAS
In terms of all the locomotion Jonas had ever to experience, the spider should rank quite highly. Fast, safe and — surprisingly — smooth. Of course, there are plentiful reasons against; fangs longer than his legs; venom that can incapacitate with the faintest drop; and, of course, the tiny hairs that tickle his back.
The ritual-area, which has no better name known to him, is made up of three blocks of similar wood; almost entirely identical to the previous save for the extended use of gold.
In the centre, however, there is a massive, almost surreal, metallic bowl — the only thing Jonas had seen in a while made from steel and steel alone.
If greed itself could manifest in humanoid form, it might make the bowl its throne; for from the rock above drop small flecks of liquid gold, which join with their brethren inside the steel basin akin to a broodmother birthing its young.
Each elicits an almost imperceptible clap of noise with every drip.
It is not near-imperceptible because of how loud it is, but for the sound that surrounds it. As’tiki, more than he had ever seen in one place, surround the bowl.
They chant, they sing — in chirping tones and spoken, understandable As’tiki alike.
It feels like he is getting half of the conversation. But the words that come to him carry the tone. Sacrifice. Betrayal. Sworn. Death. Gold.
That’s all he can understand over the beat of As’tiki drums. They look to be made of gold, but only have a thin sheet supported by decent wood.
Small and large dimples, tapped by long wooden sticks with flat teeth of disparate length, are tapped to create the ringing, singing sound.
Standing torches are alight with open, blazing flame; enough that the heat wafts up to Jonas as the spider drops down from the traversal bars and cuts open its own silk with a long leg, freeing Jonas from his arachnid prison.
He drops to the floor, the true scale ramming itself into his mind. The bowl had looked large before, but now it looms ahead of him, at least five times his number in height.
The As’tiki swarming it dance in mesmerising waves of coordinated, fluid movement. He has never, ever seen an As’tiki dance before; especially not conjoined by a single, long-braid of silk that no As’tiki ever removes from their grasp for longer than a second.
Jonas smiles, then frowns as his eyes look further. It would be a beautiful sound, a monumental sight.
A wonder, even, worthy of retelling in years to come — only to find that written word would fail to capture the majesty; that even in spoken conversation to his children, old as could be, would he be unable to describe it.
Were it not that Grug hangs from his neck, a rope of tight, strong silk of multiple layers wrapped around it. Jonas sees the beauty; the occasion, for what it truly is.
An execution.
Not just that; but they celebrate an execution. Two guard stand with the slighty-swaying troll, suspended upon wooden planks until halfway to the centre of the bowl, armed with long pikes that drip a gleaming substance.
Jonas’ eyes alight with horror. Fire burns beneath the bowl. The gold is being heated.
Before he can even begin to process, a large body of steel is ahead of him, and takes his shoulder in its hand. Jonas has never seen an As’tiki in armour; nor an As’tiki so large.
But when it talks, the As’tiki is known. Vaastilimi stands stoic, a glass-panel mask blacked out. Burgundy-coloured steel coats his entire body, head to toe.
The As’tiki warmaster moves in contrasted movement to his dancing brethren; harsh lines, stuttered shakes and ungraceful clomps. But the As’tiki has his shoulder, and the grip is as the armour’s composition.
“Jonas of Volos, Son of Honoured Damien of Volos, you will come with me.” He speaks, the voice coming filtered through a few inches of steel until it sounds more like a Virikia than a living, breathing being.
Vaastimili offers no room for objection, pulling Jonas around and pushing him forward. Through rogue stragglers — disattached from the silk rope — and guards that march around the bowl in circular fashion.
He can’t rip his eyes away from Grug. The troll hangs above the rapidly-heating gold, unmoving. Spared the pain of the heat upon his burns; lulled to sleep with whatever coats the blades of the guards aside him.
At least, if the worst should come to pass, it would not be painful. Jonas’s hand crams itself into a tight ball, the claws digging into his palm. He will not let that happen. Father and himself owe Grug. Father will know what to do.
He’s just about to turn, as Vaastilimi instructs, when he notices the troll’s eyes. They dart randomly, as if they were woken from deepest sleep just a moment prior.
They only cease when they lock eyes with Jonas. They widen as one of the As’tiki stab out, piercing Grug’s shoulder and leaving it stuck long enough for the troll’s regeneration to cover it entirely.
Then the As’tiki rips it out. Grug’s eyes say it all; they weave a tapestry that master writers would fail to conjure. A tapestry of pain.
The other, on Grug’s left, repeats the stabbing as the first pulls a curved leather sheathe, lowers the pike down, and rubs it inside the sheathe, returning its glisten. Poison.
Grug is awake; he is conscious — of every stab, every wave of heat… and of his impending death.
Jonas had liked the As’tiki. Strange, but nice. Respectful. Now his head is filled with thoughts the likes of which he had never thought before; of actions he would never do.
To ram that pike up the guardsman’s ass, to kick the other into the molten gold. To see them scream and inhale; to suffocate and burn and die. He has rarely felt such rage. Such anger… such hatred.
He is taken away from Grug. Turned forcefully into one of the wooden buildings — the centre of them. From there, Vaastimili opens a door of stone. The only stone Jonas had seen the As’tiki use.
Father lies in chains on the ground, legs under him. Five As’tiki stare down at him, awaiting patiently for something or other. Most look the same to him, but he notices one, distinctly.
Gaem’a; the architect responsible for much of the modifications upon the Vessel. Metallic rings are wrapped around one of his arms, glistening with blue runes.
One other is known to him, Asritareen, the Caretaker of the Hall of Lost Memory.
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The few times the As’tiki had allowed Father or Jonas to read from their archives, it had been Astritareen who had watched over to ensure we did not damage nor disrespect their gifts; to reclaim it when they were done or she believed the time was right.
It had been an almost oppressive atmosphere. Trying to read as fast as possible while she stared down, waiting like a lynx in a tree ready to pounce down at any moment.
“Father!” Jonas shouts, and the Voidorne turns his head.
“Jonas! You… are alright!” He speaks, seeming tired, seeming slow. Something isn’t right.
Jonas addresses the five As’tiki, sitting on chairs of different make slightly raised above the rest of the chamber. “What are you doing to him?”
Vaastilimi stomps away from Jonas after closing the stone door, standing at the side of the room. “Your father faces The Judgement of the Council. Do not approach, or I will cut you down.”
One of the As’tiki ’council’ stands up. This one has a bronze skin, yellow-green sight nodes, and a stubbed tail. “Vaastilimi, you go too far. The Honoured are no threat to us.”
The armoured As’tiki cranes its head up to meet the gaze of the councilman. “He—“ the As’tiki shouts, pointing a sharp, metallic finger at Jonas. “—is not Honoured.”
“I thought we were dead — I thought you were dead.” Jonas spills, unable to contain his thoughts. “I couldn’t stop the blood, I didn’t know how to speak with Grug. If you hadn’t written that book—“
“It’s alright, son. We made it…” He speaks, then stops abruptly, as though he were about to say more.
“Are you alright, Father?” Jonas asks. Father doesn’t respond.
Vaastilimi puts his hands up, the armour giving a mechanical whirr in response. “Do you see, Councilmen? They have the name of the Sworn; they know enough of its language to teach it.”
The As’tiki walks over to Father, towering over him, and puts a hand on his head. “This one, this ’Honoured’, deserves none of our aid.”
A burning rage passes over Jonas, and he puts a foot forward only for Vaastilimi to look at him and quell the tide of anger with a blade of fear. He is so small, so weak. Not like Grug.
“Vaastilimi, you will cease this or you will leave. Your behaviour is not fitting of a Vahum.” Gaem’a speaks, standing as his rings blaze with blue light. “You attack an Honoured — one that has been so before you were born. You have donned the Swornshield without permission. You have—“
“What would you have me do, Councilman?” Vaastilimi asks, rounding on the council. “Should the sworn wake? Would you fight it? Would you then, and only then, give me permission to don the armour as our kin die in the wait?”
Vaastilimi pivots, looking down at the two voidorne, addressing them. “You are infected; coated with the stench of the Sworn.” He proclaims. “There should be no trial for these traitors. I should strike you down for even attempted to bargain for the troll’s life.”
The hairs on Jonas’s neck raise. There’s a sound like a thunderclap; a sizzling in the air — a crackling line of energy sweeps through the air and slams into the back of Vaastilimi, who falls to a knee.
One of the councilmen, perhaps the oldest from the way it moves slowly, stands on the second step down from the rest of the chairs.
An open portal to the material realm is besides him, shimmering with silver and gold around a slightly ovular window to another reality entirely. Through it, a hand reaches; entirely made of metal.
Yet, as it twists around, it seems just as flexible as a normal limb. Between thumb and finger, a small arc of lightning sparks and flashes. “You will stand down, Vahum. If you must wear the swornshield to feel complicit in your duties, so be it. But you may do it outside. You are barred from entry until this sentence has been pronounced.”
The Vahum rises to stare one last time at the council, finding no ally, then leaves. Father speaks, his voice hoarse.
“Please, Eldest, you must listen to me. I had no knowledge of your hatreds. I did not intend to bring a Sworn to your home. And—“
“Yet, you have done so. Vaastilimi’s anger is ours; but not his judgement. You have brought us a misfortune beyond reckoning. There is no precedent to what punishment must be made.” One of the other councilmen declares, as the lightning-slinger sits back down upon his wide throne.
“I, Amalkka, herby vote to rescind the status of Honoured from Damien of Volos.”
Amalkka looks to Jonas. “And thus, his lineage. The As’tiki shall return to themselves. Outsiders are not to be trusted.”
Gaem’a stands up, then, to the shock of the rest of the council, spits on the ground. “This is beyond reprisal! Damien of Volos is Honoured; our saviour. None else came! All else fled! I will not stand for this.”
Asritareen stands, and Jonas’s heart flickers. “I am in agreement with Amalkka. Our home should never be open to outsiders.”
The lightning-slinger looks to the final As’tiki on the far right, who rubs its hands on its face. “We must look at intent. Damien of Volos did not have the knowledge of our sworn. We cannot judge him as though this were intentional… but as an accident.”
The oldest of the As’tiki nods. “There are two votes for, and two votes against. In the event of a tie, the Vahum is able to vote.” The oldest looks around at the councilmen. “Do any here doubt that Vaastilimi would vote in favour?”
None declare it.
“Then three are in favour. As Arbiter of the Council, I declare the following. Damien of Volos is hereby rescinded of the title Honoured.” The Arbiter speaks in a strong tone, but then shifts to something more calm. More like a friend.
“I am sorry, Damien, but the new must be allowed to make choices that might damn them. I will not forget your aid. You are no longer honoured. For your sake, I will have other As’tiki escort you from our home, rather than have Vaastilimi let loose upon you.”
“Bullshit! Why?” Jonas shouts “Why the fuck do you do this?”
“Jonas—“
“No, Father.” Jonas cuts. “I want to know why. I want to know why they intend to destroy my friend.”
The Eldest look at one another, none daring to tell. Until Gaem’a walks down the steps until he is face to face with Jonas.
“I will tell you, Jonas of Damien’s Fruit.”
“You cannot—“ “It is forbidden—“ “I do not vote for this—“
Gaem’a wipes the words away with a flash of his hands. “Before we were As’tiki, we were nothing. Before a god played with our souls, we were underground creatures. We fed upon crops, long before humans even began to exist. We would swarm; we would devour. Then, we would be killed. Primordials are what the humans call things that came before them. Thinking things. Among these, and among those that ate us, were the Sworn. Trolls.”
The Arbiter speaks carefully. “Gaem’a.” He says. “You do not speak to Honoured; and even that would be treason. Speak more, and you shall be banished.”
Gaem’a clears his throat. “When we were uprisen, our souls in unison, we Swore to despise trolls — and other predators. We named them Sworn. You have brought one to us. You have led predator to prey.”
Asritareen snarls. “We are no prey. The Sworn is incapacitated. Soon to be destroyed.”
“If you are not prey, then why do you shake upon the very sight of the Sworn?” Gaem’a asks, not even turning to address the councilwomen. “Why do you fear it, why dose it with poison to make it sleep? Why seek to destroy it… unless it is predator.”
Jonas has had enough. Every moment spent here is another moment Grug is in agonising pain.
“He is not asleep.” Jonas shouts, and the room grows quiet. Fear erupts in their eyes. “He is awake. Conscious. Watching. He saw me when Vaastilimi took me in here.”
Asritareen scoffs. It is a strange, sharp chirp accompanied by guttural almost-cough. “Impossible!” she screeches, speaking in both chirp and tongue. “Impossible. The Hall of Lost Memory speaks to the ingredients. Speaks to the volumes. It is impossible.”
Gaem’a finally turns, looking upon his peers. “Or perhaps, Asritareen, the Hall of Lost Memory is wrong.” He pounces on the new information. “We have found it more and more. It also spoke that the trolls are dead. That they would never return. That they are not even worth speaking of.”
He points out the door, towards the ritual bowl. “Yet, here one is.”
Amalkk laughs, a sneering, mocking laugh. “What do you suggest? To simply let it free, to slaughter us? To make us prey?”
“No.” Gaem’a speaks, expression changing in an instant. “But to speak to it. To take the word of our Honoured. For what reason does Damien of Volos have to lie? For his Fruit to lie?”
Gaem’a turns sideways-on to Father, allowing the council to look at him. He is covered in bandages that cover stitches. “You have all seen, or heard, of his wounds. You have felt his mind weaken. For what reason would the Sworn not simply devour him?”
“Vaastilimi spoke of the Sworn’s movements. It was injured; to sought shelter — and in doing so disturbed the ancients.”
Father snaps. “The troll is a child! It has the mind of a child. It is a simpleton to a level you could not comprehend. It have only seen it attack once — for the sake of food, yet it abandoned that the moment we were in danger.”
The councilmen don’t speak, if if they have never heard Father shout before. “It was hungry, yet it came to us. We are a light snack; something consumable in a few seconds. It did not need to run nor hide to eat us. You cannot see past your Lost Memories, you cannot see that the troll is different.”
He points a finger to the Arbiter. “You are connected to the material realm. So is Grug. It’s one of the best connections I have ever, ever seen. It can make planks from the smallest of wood. You are—“
Vaastilimi rushes in, moving past Jonas and Father in an instant, addressing the council directly. “This meeting must stop!” he shouts, the sound muffled and hollow through the mask — but undeniably full of fear.
“Vaastilimi!” Asritareen shouts. “You are forbidden to—“
“WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!”