The Eye of Anubis: Book Eight

[yalenusveler]

Andre set about wandering to look for something of use himself. The fact that he'd probably come to the same stack as Charles eventually was really of little concern. It's just well..he was an overly pedantic scholar who had just relatively recently discovered the joy of people skills. Of COURSE he would want to browse the library for more than insect limericks.

OOC:taking 20 on a search for a 36

[NeoTiamat]

The Library, The Monastery of Stilled Nightmares, Sebua
July 17th, 761, 3:07 PM; Day 122 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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You found it, eventually, on the top shelf of the bookcase closest to the fireplace, nestled between an old history of Nova Vaasa and what seemed to be a book on applied thaumaturgy. You probably wouldn't have found it at all if it didn't feel so different from the others. It felt very... at home. And very old.

It certainly didn't look like much. A small, slim manuscript, its pages yellowed by time and crumbling around the edges. The handwriting was disjointed and barely legible, but somehow enthralling in its own way, something beautiful in the rich, dark-brown ink. There was no cover, and the pages were held together by a length of twine that had nearly fossilized with time.

In fact, the only hint that this was a book and not a collection of notes was the first page. There, written in a larger, much more elegant hand, almost calligraphic, was a title.

• Derry Hazel
  497-521 bc

The rest of the pages of the little book had even less organization. There was considerable rhyme, but a decided lack of reason in their layout, just a mad assembly of pages of feverished scribblings. And yet... you kept reading.

• Who doth judge the flesh of man?
  
  For there is no art in the judgment, no compassion, no intelligence, no meaning.
  
  How many men can be stacked in the sea? I know the truth of it now; I have stared into the deep abyss. I feel the dreams of flesh descend upon me once more. The abbot suppresses them but cannot remove them; he cannot strip away reality, though he tries, like a knife peels flesh, it compresses on me like a vice. The art is in my blood, like the blood of the drowned men of the island, dragged under the waves by the blood of the other: V'hu-ehn n'kutgnath, fha'gnu n'aem'nh. V'naa-glyz-zai v'naa-glyz-zn'a cylth. I'a rhy'gezengrho.
  
  He took the cow, took the calf
  took a butcher and a half
  took the church, took the steeple
  took the priest and all the people
  cow and a calf
  ox and a half
  church and a steeple
  all good people
  but he cannot reach here.
  Am I cursed? If the art is in my blood, blood will drag me down. It flows clearly here. I bled the art
  
  loose but the abbot forced it back into me. The blood is in him too, but it is not my blood.
  they are waiting for me
  they can see me
  
  …
  
  …
  
  If on cold winter's longest night,
  You seek the king of madness and might,
  If your feet are nimble and light,
  You'll find your way by candlelight.
  You'll come across three strangers,
  Upon a road of brass.
  One is deaf and one is blind,
  And one is broken glass.
  
  And with them stands a figure blinding bright,
  Enthroned on frozen throne of blue and white,
  Who strips from you all grace and hope and joy,
  All meaning doth he ruin and destroy.
  Shed thy cold beams into my feeble mind,
  And raise my thoughts, too broken and too blind,
  To look upon the future, black and vile,
  The folly and despair of all mankind.
  
  Now I walk forth to the City of Dread,
  East North-East West South-West North do I tread,
  Don your cloak and your habit, says the god of the abbot,
  With what are you laden? asks the green maiden,
  You love her and kill her, says the King Silver,
  You'll soon be my servant, says the red serpent,
  Come forth to our feast, says the great faceless beast,
  Now come to the pass, says the shadowy mass,
  And bring me a book to read in my bed,
  And bring me a dagger to clear out my head,
  To write and to weep until every man's dead.
  
  …
  
  …
  
  Along the sand the nightmares snake,
  The twin god lives behind the break,
  The shadows lengthen in Kamarn-Quse.
  
  Strange is the night where black stars rise,
  And strange moons circle through the skies
  But stranger still is Great Kamarn-Quse.
  
  Songs that the priest-lords shall sing,
  To bloody virtues of the King,
  Must die unheard in Bright Kamarn-Quse.
  
  Song of my soul, my voice is dead;
  Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
  Shall dry and die in Dread Kamarn-Quse.
  
  …
  
  …
  
  I take my place in the great ritual and place my book upon the altar.
  The actors take the book from me and perform their roles to arrive at the finale, predetermined.
  What do they see in the labyrinth of cause and effect?
  Do they see the fatal lies weaved around them?
  Do they see the fake lies they were led to see?
  Do they see the bright shining lies that must never be seen through?
  The roles of the play keep shifting and changing.
  My role is the guide. My role is destruction.
  I take this role because none else desire it.
  Their role is that of mere pawns.
  That is why they are free.
  The clock ticks because it is fate. An inevitable destiny predetermined by the world.
  Which way does it tick? To the past or to the future?
  
  The beauty of the world is only skin deep.
  It is a stage set.
  The abbot still bleeds from his severed feet.
  His feet would shatter the glass stage he stands on.
  Those who leave this place will perish, clinging to their illusionary world, with fake smiles upon their faces.
  And yet I cannot escape this fake prison that consumes me.
  I am too afraid to look beyond it.
  But I shall destroy the boundary between eternity and fantasy.
  This is my role.
  If they desire it of me, a clock will tick to the past, filled with hate and love.
  If they desire it of me, a clock will tick to the future beyond this world.
  
  The clock is broken.
  
  There was a young poet
  And nothing he had,
  And so this young poet
  Was said to be mad.
  He'd nothing to eat,
  He'd nothing to wear,
  He'd nothing to lose,
  He'd nothing to fear,
  He'd nothing to ask,
  And nothing to give,
  And when he did die
  He'd nothing to leave.

[Rock of the Fraternity]

"The dreaming lord ..." Lia says, hesitantly, after reading the text in the slim volume. "The dreaming lord is ... Anuberith? The twin god of Menetnashte? Or possibly only the demon named Berith?"

[Nathan of the FoS]

"Obviously the product of a deranged mind," Charles says wryly after perusing this astonishing collection of...memories? Poems? Automatic writing? "Believe me, at this point I can sympathize. My own guess about this Anuberith is that the demon Beyrath co-opted the worship of the cult of Anubis by declaring itself some kind of alter ego or avatar of the god Anubis and encouraging the worship of this new synthetic deity. In which case Anuberith and Beyrath are one and the same."

Shrugging, he continues, "The dreaming lord might well be this Beyrath, or Menetnashte--or perhaps the demon possessed its erstwhile servant so completely that they too are one and the same."

[Rock of the Fraternity]

"A deranged mind, yes," Lia agrees. "But after what we just read about the Jackal Wars, I think it prudent to wonder: what was it that drove him insane? If it was true contact with some of the horrors he describes, and if we may assume this person lived here, then -"

Lia's voice trails off suddenly, and she muses: "Speaking of those not entirely in touch with our reality ... Where is professor Devereux?"

[yalenusveler]

"Devereux's problem isn't being out of touch with reality, Lia." Andre said, still trying to roll the whole sanitized history vs insane ramblings debate through his mind. "He's firmly in touch with it. The problem is, none of us are. We have the cold kindness of ignorance."

Andre started into one of his paces, going back to the book of lascivious limericks about insects for a moment, then putting it down, and returning to the rambling madman's journal. "V'hu-ehn n'kutgnath, fha'gnu n'aem'nh. V'naa-glyz-zai v'naa-glyz-zn'a cylth. I'a rhy'gezengrho. Or, to put it in the vernacular, In thy name let us behold the father. From the depths of the darkness I come, And from the depths the Shadowed Ones also have come. Hail to the ancient dreams." Andre swiveled to look at the others "Now, there are two reasons why this is bad. One, because of the insinuations that the same "blood" is in the Abbot, or at least similar. Two, because I have no sodding clue why I can speak that, or even what language it is."

Andre sighed and began to rub his temples "I need to speak with my patroness. She may know enough of the history of this place to offer us more insight. I know some of you dislike her, and if you have any objections, I'll take them under advisement, and then promptly ignore them." Andre then set off to find someplace comfortable to pray, because where better to pray to the Oracle than in a repository of learning?

[The Whistler]

Otto was never much for poetry, no matter the quality of the verse--never much for fiction at all, come to that. In his experience, at least, real life tended to be too interesting to embroider overmuch. Still, when it was poetry that possibly held the key to a centuries-old religious war...

The gunsmith peered intently at the text, casting about for a less-psychedelic bit to anchor his mind upon. "I am *hoping* that the middle portion is not intended as a how-to-do instruction...however... Hm. 'East North-East West South-West North...' Rather specific, yes?"

He perks up as Andre states his intention. "Ach: doubles, sir. If you are not minding accompaniment, it is the safer choice to have it in this place--I shall be undisruptive, yes?"

[DocBeard]

Tomas was about to say the same thing, but Otto beat him.

So instead he says, "Well, as far as dark blessings from the impossible nightmares of the Far Realm-addled mind, a linguistics course sure beats, like, a tentacle face or a second head growing out of your stomach."

[yalenusveler]

The grand expedition to a place to pray turned out to be simply to a rather less cluttered portion of the library. Not quite the sort of trip requiring bodyguards, but then again, one could never be certain in a place where reality and fantasy decided to swap roles for a time.

Though Andre's reaction to Tomas' commentary about there being worse blessings...drew a likely unexpected reaction. Laughter, possibly one of the richest and most natural laughs Andre had given in a long time. "Tomas..what gives you the idea that what you see right now is my real face? Oh, and when I invoke my patroness, no insults, no sass. I'd hate for there to be unfortunate consequences due to compatriots being unable to keep a civil tongue." It wasn't quite a threat, but likely not the most comforting statements to make.

Preparation was surprisingly an uncomplicated affair, Andre retrieving a small bowl from his pack, and adding water from his waterskin to it. The drawing of his dagger to add a drop of his own blood was mildly unsettling, but not entirely unexpected. And the chant that followed was thankfully not in any pre-human language that caused listeners ears to bleed, or their eyes to open to alien vistas they were never meant to see.

But it did have power to it, power that hung in the air like a morning haze, Darzegal invoking his mad goddess with words that had not been spoken by mortals in a VERY long time.

[NeoTiamat]

The Library, The Monastery of Stilled Nightmares, Sebua
July 17th, 761, 3:18 PM; Day 122 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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But the prayer did have power to it, power that hung in the air like a morning haze, Darzegal invoking his mad goddess with words that had not been spoken by mortals in a VERY long time.

A single, solitary drop of blood should have dispersed instantly in the bowl of water, turning it into a vaguely pink soup. It didn't. Rather, it stayed together, a single ruby bead floating upon the surface of the water bowl, in glaring defiance of all conventional rules of physics and chemistry. Then it began to swirl, to churn through the little bowl of water as Darzegal chanted old words and older desires, racing through the bowl and raising up a fine mist.

The mist spread out from the bowl, swiftly, a grasping, clammy vapor that made the clothing stick to your skin and made you shiver slightly, even in the desert heat. The faint mist quested through the room, growing steadily thicker and more grasping, until there came a moment when you couldn't even see the hand before your face. Just the chilly, damp mist.

"It has been... very long... since I last visited this charnel house." A breathy, whispering voice murmurred, enunciating each word with precise, academic care. The mist faded, or perhaps it coalesced, and suddenly you saw a familiar figure reclining on the over-stuffed armchair.

The Lorelei was a beautiful woman, that was certain. Pale-skinned and petite, a demure figure in a shimmering gown of dark blue-green. The Lorelei wore no mask, now, and her face was pretty in a classical way, with a cute, button-ish nose and large, soft eyes of deep brown. If not for the fact that fresh dew covered her skin and gown, and for that matter most everything around her, it was almost possible to forget just what she was.

"Good night, sweet Darzegal..." The Oracle of the Waters breathed, ignoring the fact that it was at best mid-afternoon. Casually, she picked up the writings of the late, demented Derry Hazel, glancing at them dismissively. "It seems my priest and his companions have... found themselves in another situation..."

"Little toys of fate... dragged hither... and thither... and yon... by the strings of dark destiny... to inevitable damnation." The Lorelei smiled winsomely. "Well, Darzegal, Charles... Tomas... how can I help you to your destination?"

[Nathan of the FoS]

Charles bows very low; when he straightens, he gives Andre a significant look. You're the one she likes, old man, you'd better ask the questions.

[yalenusveler]

"Good morning, Oracle of the Waters" Darzegal said, ignoring the fact that it was past noon, from a bow which was appropriately obsequious considering the status of their new guest, and the rather..interesting..entanglement that had developed.

"My companions and I have gotten into a rather difficult situation. First, the Dreamlord Night Terror sends his regards. Apparently, soon the barrier between waking world and dream will break down here, and I seek your guidance on what should be done, if anything, about it. Secondly..one of our number, Professor Pelletier..has been murdered, though by dream or waking word, we are as of yet unsure." Darzegal sounded almost as if he could be reading a morning broadsheet.

"As you are elder and knowledgeable, it was my hope that, if it pleases you, you could help us with some of the information we've come to possess about this place, but unfortunately lack context for. Some of which we've learned in this library, and other bits from conversations with those who dwell here..and Charnel House?" he asked, eyebrow lifting ever so slightly

[NeoTiamat]

The Library, The Monastery of Stilled Nightmares, Sebua
July 17th, 761, 3:21 PM; Day 122 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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"Sweet Terror... always a dreamer..." The Lorelei smiled sadly, shaking her head. She rested a single, black-nailed hand on the nearby book, tracing the lettering of Derry Hazel's name. In a way, aside from her perpetual covering of morning dew, her nails were the only way to tell that the Lorelei was something other than a run-of-the-mill human. They were long, and painted matte black, and as Charles had learned to his misfortune, quite sharp.

"Still, I fail to see the... problem... in your situation. The Dreamlord's plans shall not come to fruition for some... weeks, after you are long gone, and in any case, neither Night Terror... nor Ronoph... is foolish enough to challenge me without cause." The Oracle smiled daintily. Placed against the razor-clawed, four-armed, gargoyle beast of yesterday, she didn't look very intimidating. Look being the operative word there. "I am certain I can ask them... nicely... to leave you be."

"As for Pelletier... well... he was not a very important man... nor a very sane one... so your concerns are unfounded." The Lorelei said softly, in her breathy, yet strangely precise voice. "His murderer shall soon cease to be a concern of yours for... some time."

"Your safety is assured." The Oracle's smile hovered knowingly about her lips. "Of course... for most this would suffice... for you..."

The water-fey said no more. By now, you knew how the rules of this game were played.

[Rock of the Fraternity]

'Curse it all,' Lia thinks, sighs quietly, then steps towards the little group gathered around the Lorelei. "Good day to you," she says to the Fey. "Will you hear my words, or am I intruding?"

[NeoTiamat]

The Library, The Monastery of Stilled Nightmares, Sebua
July 17th, 761, 3:24 PM; Day 122 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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"I am old... but not... I think... deaf." The Lorelei said softly, putting down the little book. The water-faerie turned to gaze at Lia with a faint smile on her lips, reclining in the chair and playing with a stray lock of hair as she spoke, curling the damp, dark-brown strands around her finger. "Feel free to cause any trouble you like."