"Amun Jaro, last of his Father's line, you kneel before the Elder Clanshold to defend accusations brought against you as follows:
Being found attending, during the sacred Reaping Sabbatum no less, a hallowing space where the trail ends and the old tree does grow to commune with the infernal and falsifiers. Vile outsiders that only want to tear at Laconian borders and traditions. The olde rights; forsaken and unsanctioned rituals performed by one such as you are a massive transgression against the betterment and teachings of your elderfolk in host for this trial. The knowledge to perform these and the murmurings of your fornications and most foul of studies. Your dabbling in beliefs outside the focus of propriety and protection of this fellowsh…."
Amun muttered, “Rejecting their ancient beliefs does not make them false. Merely forgotten and waiting below.”
The tribunal's hall was high within the coil of Arcanum's spire, too high for the landborn mortals to know how to breathe at its heights, and this was one (as there were many) intentional wards against the commoners prying eyes and ears. Many things were needed to be discussed openly in such trials as Amun’s, but the it was a necessity to be able to interrogate their depths openly and yet remain safeguarded from those who lacked the appropriate insight for these appointments.
Conflicted, Amun refused to accept that he had been brought to such wondrous heights under such deplorable of circumstances. Such a trial from the tribunal wouldn’t end well, but still this hall had never been shared with him before (yet, so many times before) now and it was quite marvelous (yet again). So much lustre and wonderful architecture dedicated to the entombment and secreting of precious knowledge. It was an odd ache to at once feel at home in a place and also to be so scrutinized for one’s beliefs. If only they, any of them could see the Truth, or the closing upon the Truth. In this alternate fantasy, perhaps only his grumbly disposition would come under ridicule, har.
The uniform, tall and dark furnishings were staged and elevated in intentional ways to make those in the center stage feel insignificant and targeted. The only available corridor of light, again the psychological effect pointed upon the charged, but also to disable clarity and see where the voices were coming from but feel the intensity of judgmental gazes from all around. The high backed chairs appeared to be some form of dark burgundy with deep iron finishes. The stage Amun knelt upon, however, was not as lavish.
The stage was adorned with only an old sweat blemish and the savage manacles. These foul binds were made from a damnable metal called dimeritium, it silenced his and all those of the crafts, spell and abilities as long as they bit his flesh. They also vibrated constantly, an annoyance that hampered both his focus and engagement with the continuum. Certainly, there were skills and pact-mates he could call upon to aid him, but by doing so openly against his kin was not meant to happen in this cycle, in this wondrous place and against his own cohort. Amun had brought this upon himself, as it was meant to be. He had seen no other outcomes.
The elder father Marrin rose from his seat quite vigorously and in such anger fast enough that even Amun thought it was a wonder that it didn't sound like a thousand twigs snapping and leaves crunching within the old sack of a man, "Any further uncalled-for retorts and you will be gagged as well as bound. Perhaps the bite of the metal through your tongue and it wringing your thick skull with set your course straight! ”
Silence filled the forum-style hall and only the flame's crackling could be heard for several moments from the sparse torchlights. There was ragged breathing wheezing attempted to be stifled, Amun conjectured silently. Perhaps it was Amun's own breathing? - no it was Marrin's (from the emotional outburst apparently, so out of sorts for the venerably elitist and reserved Tribunal of the Arcanuum) which would have struck a comical cord if only Amun could be remote now and observing it from afar. Alas, he had to be quite present for it - again and again.
Marrin was quite old indeed and knew (not suspected, KNEW) the damned knowledge Amun sustained himself on, the old crotch knew, KNEW! the pull down shadowy corridor and unforgotten tunnels in that damnable spire. Marrin indeed had heard the whispers coming from the Cradle when many zodiacal alignments returned seasonally. Maarin and his warted nose could definitely smell the soot of Amun's ambition along with the pang of sulfur that lingered after one had consorted with the infernal planes. Certainly this twisted toad of the Tribunal also knew ritual that could cleanse such reeks after one plane walked to the astral, divine or infernal realms and Amun regretted not having time to wash-up before so many summons to Marrin privately. Marrin offered gentle coercion on numerous occasions, intimate talks on where Amun’s attitude and aptitudes were taking him. Curious social probings. Immaturely, Amun had once thought the old man kindly and merely was envious of the subordinate’s youthful vigor and ambition, but no- Marrin had turned him in, not Ben, it was Marrin indeed.
Marrin cleared his gravely croke, "If I may continue then. Amun is charged with conspiracy. Once trusted by this Council, Amun Jaro had be assigned with maintaining the integrity of the Archives themselves. He alone has committed atrocities against flesh and soul for his own gain, chief architect of this intended revolution and author of this insidious plot to establish a new order amongst us. With himself as absolute Orator of the Choir…..”
Amun noted the moment, the rise of oration, the rise of the room's frenetic, collective energy. Even with the land's allegedly most dignified and refined minds, even with the high-logic and the palatable curiosity- he now knew this had to have piqued in a few of those familiar with his work their combined intention was clear - the removal of him as a threat.
This was all as it should be, and he knew where this path lead. Amun had planned for it accordingly, for he had made such dastardly pledges in order to garner clear foresight to the many types of minds and possible outcomes – the dusty minds of skinny scroll scribes were most unsurprising.
Broker had charged a hefty sum indeed for the boots and harrumphed through his mighty, sooty yet still impressively golden-amber beard with the act of disgracing his handiwork with Amun's requested modifications. They worked through the night ( if that sense of time really meant anything to those who were cursed to course downward the coil ) on the sigils and wax that would maintain the levitation incantation while avoiding detection.
Broker protested that "the Æsir themselves would have never disgraced imbued leatherwork craft in such a way" but Amun just chuckled that the boastful god wasn't known for his guile. Zeus came to shore as a white bull once to fornicate with a mortal woman! That beguiling bully is just as base and even more mortal than the mythos token credit to. That would be the chained demigod Prometheus’s gift, and Amun enjoyed that one's company and story's best. “Ole skull-splitter, I outta check in on him.”
The enchanted boots had worked (of course) and Amun raised only the slightest suspicion in his complete surrendering to the summons escorts. The choir's vanguard had not expected such physical passivity when they found him in the hallowed grove after the encounter (and consumption) of Asmoedon. He was still recovering from the ordeal and had they searched him, had he fought, Broker’s and his lengthly labors could have been expropriated. His vessel was taxed from the mighty soul-consumption, but to play possum to the ignorant escort was a ruse he had to employ.
The boots, pairing with the newly scribed sigils, were all he needed and he was prepared to die again a better death. It was a good day, after all.
Marrin and the tribunal passed sentence and Amun was silent to them (though he muttered the hexing mantra unintelligibly to them all the while, he wouldn't dare break the discipline). Amun was certain that he was asked if he had anything to add in his defense and he was certain that an order of his execution was ordered and a reaction from him was expected. There was none that they chose to perceive. He had risen above their dated ranks, they knew that he was a threat to their order and the pickaxe to sandstone foundations. This nag fly had to be swatted though ironically they were going to vivisection him instead for public inspection, such hubris. Such folly.
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Amun reached with his mind ( and that of his newly formed partnerships with others ) and took hold of the near frenzied energy in the room: the racing pulses, smell the sweat on brow, back and wrinkled old arse, drink the hate and envy - so human, so unrelenting that they were blind to his funneling into a psychic maelstrom. As those wisened ones assigned to be wary of his very sort of foulness looked on for any signal of resistance, Amun drank in the lack of poise from them all, their numbers vicariously desiring his blood, his severed head, to be relieved of his threat to their normalcy, the primal sense of their victory for their unseen gods in lofted forum, the lust for bloodshed though they the refined highbrows spoke and scribed and abolished such open acts of savagery in the common land. Hypocrites, all of them. They lacked the breadth and width of insight and they knew not what was in store in this life (or his next). He took it all in and memorized it as much as he could hold, their breath, their contempt for unlocking what they had worked so hard to hoard away…… for what day? What rare cosmic judgement had been averted by keeping the Truth secreted away? These gods, these beings that they worshipped and kept so holy….they were deaf to our many songs and praises. They returned as we cried as loud as we all can at them, wanting some sort of renewal an accounting of our deals on their behalf. These beings care not for any of that, yet they were on a collision course to end all of this. End all of what we deemed so sacred and important to the standards of the Oduum. He held their gazes, every last one, Oduum and corporeal so that they would see what came next so clearly.
With a sneer, Amun submitted his final statement before their judgement. He knew how this thread was to end, after all. The room fell silent and Amun, the final voice of House Jaro, his eyes gleaming with an intense fire, hummed in defiance. He raised his voice, his words dripping with venom and menace.
"I am the monster, a homunculus of your own creation. You thought you could bind me, mold me into your obedient spire of conformity, but I have never played the part of a petty pawn, nor have a been on the play board. No, read your secrets and I have tasted what you have trade for your shallow purse of power, the darkness that lies in your hearts, and I will not rest until it is purged from this world."
He paced back and forth, his movements graceful and deadly. "The masses that witness me tearing down your tyranny, your paper towers and ripping your chains do not throw flowers and palms at my feet! No, I tread on your bone and ash! I call your sun and stars because they are my own and accept my path that is on a collision course with your schemes!"
He paused, his eyes flashing with fury. "You thought you could silence me, lock me away in a cage of your own making. But I have broken free, and I will not be contained. I am your worst nightmare, the shadow that haunts your dreams. I am the one who will bring your downfall, who will tear your world asunder."
His voice rose to a deafening roar, and he spread his arms wide. "So come at me, if you dare. But know this: I am your undoing! I am the one who will strike you down, who will leave nothing but ruin and destruction in my wake. And when the dust settles, when the smoke clears, you will see that I am the one true master of this world!"
They led him out of the subterranean cell at dawn and he was relieved to be away from the stone and breathed in the open air, to hold such a battery was a piss he longed to be relieved of. The levitation boots were just enough to forfeit the full circuit conduction of the restraints. Though the vibration was vigorous to hum through and maintain his focus, it was just enough to empathetically absorb the frenetic energy from his trial the evening before. He had to be, naturally, relieved of Broker’s waxen boots and they conducted their final promise of returning to their gnome cobbler. The foot attire disintegrated to dust in the hands of any other than their owners (as far as they knew). The looks on their faces were priceless.
Dawn had been struck and Amun knew the grove well, where it led, the large stump that laid silent at the end of the path. The gardener that tended this gladed garden had wondrous enchanted devices to make the flora and fauna leap forward to the suns joyfully and beautifully. The sights and smells of this place were a glamour, foreboding for the keeper used a most vile fertilizer, his scythe and axe never dulled or sullied from their ordered toils. They gleamed with a wicked solvent that enabled the cut to be done most keenly, so at least that was a virtue of the coming act.
They parted Amun's old, tattered, beloved deep amaranthine robes. Removing sash, jewels, and his rings – all of course vanishing to Ob Nixilus’s keep far, far, away. His bared chest open the evening air showed little age though his groomed white/grey beard nearly touched it's center, he would have to remember to groom it back, when another time than this one allowed. The body art writhed and coiled around his physical architecture - coils here, a massive shield of scales, savage scarification - this mage’s vessel had seen battle and had many stories to tell at bloody hearths! Yar!, but he had not a friend here to tell the tales to.
Dearest Vanessa, his wicked mistress, flung out in a smear of shadow and ribbons of black light. Pale Vanessa, taker of Amun’s young seed so that childe may challenge the dark spire and may not be so vexed with visages so horrible, so that the premature man-ling would learn certain truths from her craven lips and hips - rose in dawn light (that diminished in her wild hair all around her) from the wings of the garden, unseen and waiting ( as the walkers of the artisan path so often do) - calculating a perfect moment to shatter a weakness in a brazened mark’s defenses. Shapely and yet so haggard Vanessa raised a column of fire from beneath flat-footed feet, lazy fat-headed, dust sacked magi of the Arcanuum who dared to lay hand or mortal steel upon the One of Many’s vestige. Wicked, wicked Vanessa cried fury as her form was missed time and time again, their armor failing, her necrotic attacks in nails, in glass-like knives, in her whipping follicles often would not pierce or slash skin, for this damage was immediately felt in withered organs and fleshes beneath, criticals dealt to souls themselves. As she transformed, their robes and armors were shredding and sundered and ended with her poly-morphed talon and beak strikes! A feather would fall here and there and these would diminish into nothing, their strikes often missed the marks (sending more blinds of feathers to the air!) but no, not Vanessa’s. Pagan Vanessa danced her bloody dance and as the sticky ichor flowed and ran up her limbs, she would belt out another forgotten warsong joyously and spired vines would shoot from befriended tree to puncture distracted orbitals in thick skulls of her enemies, Amun’s oppressors. The juicy spray of spittle and pink mist highlighted the garden.
Amun saw this and did nothing. He watched her dance, like he had so many times yet stayed his hand, calmed his mind, held the battery as planned no matter the eventuality. Nubile humanoid, blood-smeared old croney seer or her raven-like warrior fury….she was all of these now. Desperate as she was and her skills never failing, her focus was a dance; rhythmic, beautiful, devastating and predictable….Amun knew the oppositions assassin that waited for her lapse, for she lacked his damnable foresight. Amun knew it was coming and would honor her by not looking away. Perhaps if he did fail he would find a way to save her or redirect her. To use her narrative to change outcomes but truly he knew that this was the right choice for what he was meant for. Gorey Vanessa had told him so, so many times on his name day as she straddled and writhed upon him - scribing her work upon him, her fleshy grimoire. Goodbye ole’ girl….
The bolt flew out at precisely the right moment to catch her eye and quite literally put it out. The crossbow was tooled to penetrate steel plate, it had no problem driving through eye jelly, gray matter, then skull - finishing its fatal flight into the (just moments before) enchanted tree being her. All glamours faded suddenly and the days light shown fully once again, the bodies she left behind all fell simultaneously from the split-second onslaught as she exhaled her last, pinned several feet from the ground, the feathers all continued to fall and the tree slowly embraced her.
She would hate that the most, Amun reflected, his captors held him even though he moved not a muscle, he mentally remarked that the old oracle that was appearing before them all now….all magicks melting and returning to their source….she would have hated to not have landed in the grass - to feel its embrace, if not just for one last time. A woman of such renowned savage beauty, a mind of the olde kind that knew the crafts that healed and birthed babes, how to stimulate the third eye, and an unconquered spirit that fought oppressors to it’s last, wasn’t meant to be pinned-up and be on display. So the tree embraced her and took her in, her entombment would be another great encircling ring that wouldn’t forget her tale, though she had been banished from Laconian history long ago.
Not much later, the scythe split the corporeal tether to this world, severing the sigil encircling Amun's neck, he felt not but a feather passing over the flesh as he stood, nothing but a gentle breeze, the cut was true as the rumormongering had always whispered in the dusty taverns, and that hexing battery that was held there was finally relieved. When the hexed mark broke a fiery ring passed out from the slumped and broken vessel. Not a drop of his life blood passed but the severed head laughed and laughed hideously as they all looked upon the scene. The hideous joy rang out as did the witch-fire ring, a death curse, spread and spread outward. The gardener removed his executioner's hood and tapped his forehead in reverent way to attempt to block the black magic. The ring spread through guard, attendants, the grounds, every damned continuum-suckling creature that hated him on that day felt the shiver linger and not pass by for days, for no fire would help while it tainted them, yet doing no perceivably lasting. The craft passed the wards of the spire and all within. Not only was a new tome scribed of it that eve, every other one within the Arcanuum's halls – and their number had long been forgotten...had a new seal set upon them. Every last one. To the living, a dread omen now passed, but the garden would thirst not receive blood on that day.