Acacia Chronicle

Meanwhile, within the inner sanctum of the Heavensward Shrine…

Amidst the stench of rotting meat and blood, elven bodies of all sizes hung upside down from the darkened ceiling, their raw and skinless flesh held by the edges of iron hooks crusted with blood. They bled, most dead and some barely alive as a large vat beneath collected their lifeblood, filling up like a sanguine well. Where around it, was a magic circle glowing crimson within the blackness of the darkened interior with runic etchings written in Enochian, the language of the gods.

“By blood… by Elicia… a vengeful god…”

Orcus, the man who was once Ser Solus de Sina, said those words as he knelt in the darkness before the magic circle’s crimson light. Kept away from the rest of the faithful on the pain of death, the runes written in Enochian had once been nothing more than the words of Sophia, a dead goddess who the elves of old had abandoned for the eldritch rites of the Hellbourne. Carved upon the cold stone floor like bloody scars unto flesh, they were similar to Elicia’s runes, for reasons even he knew not why.

Not that it mattered. What mattered, was the blood. The blood of the dead goddess’s beloved ‘children’, blood that was said to be holy and sacred. Especially that of the Wild Elves. The latest bounty had proved most fruitful, and as more and more of their blood fed the great vat, the crimson light grew stronger and stronger. And as his prayers resonated with the desecrated runes, the darkness took on a bloody hue, as though the room was bleeding crimson. That the Blood Shield would be born, the great beast of mortal lifeblood as dictated by the writings of the ritualists of old that he had salvaged and stolen over the years of his exile.

“Their blood… it is cursed…”

Exile, indeed. Even now, he remembered so vividly, the Excommunication dealt to him by none other than the lady he once loved with all his heart. She, with such beautiful golden eyes, who was to become the next Ecclesiarch, fabled in myth as an incarnation of one-half of Elicia’s fallen light. He remembered the weakness in those eyes when she looked at him one final time in silence as he left the life he knew behind forever, a life where the Elician magics of the Central Church deigned to answer the call of his sigil, where he once served Lyra de Escaflora, his lady’s predecessor. They had every reason to kill him, and yet, they chose Excommunication. And he hated her for it, as well as each and every last one of them.

“And by my hand, it spills forth to wreak terrible vengeance…”

With a grunt, he got up. The weight of his ramshackle armour pushed uneasily upon his body as his large figure cut a blackened swathe into the crimson-hued darkness of his inner sanctum. Such was the lasting effect of an Excommunication, as it could ever be for any of the Lightsworn. Having been reborn and remoulded in the shape of the holy magics so jealously guarded by the Central Church from the rest of Elicia’s Archons, being cut off from it had left him wishing for a quick death. And it had been a most earnest wish, left ungranted by the vagaries of fate despite him praying for it night after night ever since that fateful day, that his quest might finally end.

But not anymore. Not for a long time. And perhaps, dare he say it, never again. He watched the collected elven blood swirl and coalesce within the enchanted stone vat, and he allowed himself a smile. His revenge on the Central Church would soon come to fruition. First for the Excommunication, and second, for their protection of the elven scum. That they could not understand what he felt, that they and their living god had abandoned the ways of old that made humanity the supreme power upon all Melodia.

He then turned to face the elven scum known as Akasha Ayan, who lay slumped against a wall. The corpse of the little vermin she so lovingly called Isha Ayan lay right beside her, cradled within her arms while her lips moved ever so slightly with the faintest whispers of what sounded to him like a lullaby. It was a song with lyrics he had heard more times than he would have liked, about a goddess of happiness and the dreams she would have. And in silence, he knelt before them both, placing his hand upon Akasha’s chin while he looked into the blueness of her eyes, reddened and raw as they were as she averted his gaze in favour of whispering softly to Isha's corpse, that faint lullaby about that accursed goddess and her damned dreams.

And it was then, in this moment like so many that had come before, that he felt himself waver. Away from his conviction against the knife-eared monsters that had, so many years ago, left him hiding beneath the bloodied floorboards of his home while his parents lay dead just a few steps away in the same room. Like the rest of his village that burned to ash in the cold, uncaring night. That perhaps, the bloody oath that he swore that very night, the bloody oath that he had given up everything to fight for, had been nothing more than a lie made in grief.

But why? The elves were monsters and vermin. This, he knew. And yet, she was beautiful. So beautiful, as she lay shrouded forevermore in the colours of the night, despite the blood and the bruises and the scars. Especially those blue eyes. They were beautiful, like those golden eyes of the lady he once loved, radiant like the tide by the seaside with the sun high in the sky as he remembered it when his father took him out to sea to fish. And her smile, it was beautiful was well. At least, the smile that he could picture in his memories when he first spotted her with her daughter in the frozen woods. He had yet to see it ever since.

And perhaps, it was better that way. These feelings, whatever they were, they were evil. He had seen them happen over the years, taking root in the hearts and minds of his faithful to drive otherwise stoic warriors to sin when dealing with the elven vermin. It was like a virus, and of those that he had to publicly execute lest they betray him and taint the rest, he felt only pity. As one would, putting down a diseased animal. And ever since he met her, he knew this disease was upon him even if those outside dared not question him. Especially now, with the sorrow of her eyes in his gaze, where he so badly wished to reach out to her and hold her in his arms. To embrace her as tightly as he ever could, and tell her how he truly felt. It hurt to not say it, hurt far more than Excommunication ever could. And every time it hurt, he hit her. Over and over, until the aching in his heart was stilled, if only for a time.

Truly, a part of him feared the whispers of his mind. It was because of her, that he knew that his heart had wavered from his bloody oath, that he no longer saw in his dreams, the open graves of dead vermin he had promised his family when he buried them by the ruins of the village that was once his home. But instead, a life with Akasha Ayan and Isha Ayan, growing old together in a quiet little cottage in the icy forests far beyond the lands claimed by Elicia. Of what could be, and yet, could never be. And because it could never be, a part of him had hoped that by killing Isha Ayan, he would steel his heart and forever put an end to such evil temptations.

It had not.

And he feared it all, perhaps worse than death itself. And he knew, being any sort of a man, that the next most merciful thing he could do was to draw his blade and plunge it painlessly through Akasha's neck, that she would be another bladder of blood to feed his Blood Shield. But in this deed, rightfully as it ever could be, his blade felt heavier than ever before. It was simply impossible, and he hated himself for it. Hated himself, so very much.

But then again, there was still one recourse. A way to reconcile everything, that he might finally lay the pain in his soul to rest. The Blood Shield required a living host, one whose mortal form would be forever consumed by its potent magics to become a living avatar of the dead goddess. Like the elven priestesses of Sophia at the height of the war against their elven brethren and their Hellbourne masters, centuries past. Where one amongst them, pure of heart and pure of spirit as dictated by the holy texts, was chosen to bear the blood of her brothers and sisters to become their Shield in their time of need.

It was with this in mind that he looked at Akasha Ayan, allowing himself a smile as he took out a gem stored within a little pouch attached to his wretched armour, revealing the purple light of the elvish soul imprisoned within. And as he watched her silent defeat turn to tearful despair, he was sure she knew what he wanted from her, and what was within his grasp that would make her obey his every command.

That with this, all three of them could be together, forever.