S120 Recap: The Mockery of Love's Grief | Ep.63
General Summary
Two Hours. Of rest, of stress. Two hours of dread and anxiety. A Haunting Melody Plays In Your Ears Like Wind Through A Canyon… Your Hearts Drop. The Sky Goes Dark And A New Song Plays; Heralding Death. The Time Has Come…
"Welling up and overwhelming your entire body is a rage and hatred you have not felt in months, have not been capable of feeling since you returned from death.”
As you all rush outside instantly the gravity of the situation falls heavy on your backs but none more so than upon Isati, who can feel the divine fury and distress of Aphrodite channelling through her so fiercely it threatens to burn.
“Where once in the sky flew a gargantuan roc there is now an even more massive, colossal black swan.” The rage of Aphrodite harboured within Isati cries against the divine restrictions preventing her from directly interfering in mortal conflicts. Instead she fills Isati's mind with knowledge that what's before them is the desecration of her beloved Diomedea –a mockery of her grief– that now blots out the sun over the city of Shasta. The swan's once hallowed hollow bones now grafted with the miasmic flesh undying of the greater hydra used to spread this plague and shrouded in gloaming feathers of deathfright arcane. And in her heart Isati knows that it is she who must be the one to right this wrong. That she's the only one who can.
But in the panic and helplessness before them it is Scribius who takes the leap of faith. Scribing into the air the true name of Aphrodite. Defining not only her essence but calling on specific titles of her domain to better channel her aid; “Areia” the warlike, “Melaenis” the black of night, “Nikêphoros” bringer of victory, “Peithô” persuasion incarnate, and finally “Diomedea” to return that which was sacred to its rightful place at her side.
Pulling on the chaotic tides of dreams and offering sevenfold libations of liquid love, The Caller Succeeds. From the holy scripture an avatar of Aphrodite manifests for but a passing moment, blessing armaments with holy might, each champion a means of swift flight, and appointing celestial guardians for the swaddled sleeper. And all this before addressing her oracle aspirant,
And with that waves of seafoam break over the party, instantaneously transporting them into the fray…
If not for the favour of the gods and a final gift from Aphrodite to Agapea allowing her song to bolster the minds of her allies far more would've cowed to the oppressive aura of the deathfright feathers. As it was, half those present succeeded against all odds and in doing so revealed sweet Elpis within the pithos. For each rebuke of wicked Deimos drove a wedge between the nightmares and the magic that bound them to Diomedea. And from this wedge it was effortless for the ravenous inkcat and gluttonous quill to rend them asunder for to feast. And for each such consumption, the dreadful plumage which prior contained a blackness of shifting horrors of the dark is thus replaced with the starry black of night.
Through these patches of night doth the blows of Aphrodite's chosen strike true for time and again did Aphrodite Areia grant her blessing as a goddess of war. With holy light did the mounted archer's bolts eradicate twain the ninefold heads of the plagued flesh undying. Scattering their miasma harmlessly into vacant surroundings as the rider's noble steed calls her pride to bear. Form hence forth banishing any bane upon her without fail, be it miasma, fright, or the harrowing of the soul.
But within Deimos' cruel grip, not even the ferocity of the felidar form they wore was enough to allow the demigod's attacks to find purchase in the object of their terror.
Once more the mark of Arete upon her nape floods the prowling huntress with courage until such emotion surges with unbridled magia just as it had surged upon arrival to these dark skies when first the dread miasma fell upon her and hers. But where before the unfettered power had only fractionally swelled her in size, now it pulled her into the plane of dreams through void left by her reflection's predation upon the nightmare rebuked. Now within a territory most familiar, the inverted panther had access to the unprotected echoes of the blasphemous nightmares and with each attack devoured more and more of the unholy shroud. Gloaming winds upon her fangs fueled by the very prey they fell.
But in the instant following the three's swift onslaught did the retaliation fall heavy upon all but the one yet still out of reach up among lofty Hypnos. Those still cowed by the deathfright aura wither under an agonizing horror when once more the desecrated swan's mournful song rings out like a dirge, harrowing the souls of all who hear. Next did the grafted flesh snake forth with sevenfold maws of gnashing teeth, fetid and rotting they may be, to take their own turn in feasting upon the foes before them.
What was once nine became seven and now becomes six as the raging trickster lunges forth in a boring flight of radiance, relishing in Aphrodite Areia's blessing even as the miasma found purchase in his lungs. But on granted ambrosial wings he doth opened the penultimate rift in the shroud of nightmares for the prowler and scribe to feast and thus open the way for the dreamer.
But in the shroud's deaththroes the dreamer is momentarily awash in fear, able only to convert their feast to fuel and rely on Tyche's fickle whims for aid. As it would have it, Lady Luck saw fit to summon a rat. A rat that immediately fell from the sky to the ground 400 feet below. At least twas not another rhinoceros…
But the limitless dreamer in this moment took heart! Drawing up the courage that lives free within all kin of grain at Arete's behest, the dreamer drove the final rift between fright and hexcraft; finishing at last the feast of the inky gluttons.
The plumage once rife with horrid shifting echoes of the Epiales now a gentle night sky, where still the darting form of a constellate panther can be seen striding towards the silken seer. Even now with her hearts and mind free from the aura's pressure, the young kin of silk struggles in her flight. While gone now, each and every affliction of that aura up till now was an act so cruel that the singularity of emotion within her could not help but pull the excess unto itself in hopes of easing the weight to fall upon those near to her. But just as she was warned, such overwhelming amounts threaten now to crush her beneath their mass. And Yet Still She Endures.
With the will of Aphrodite flowing through her and the aid of allies both within and without, the Bastion of Kindness takes the cruelty and malice and integrates it into her very own soul. A soul that, as of being imperfectly raised from death a hundred and fifty eight days prior, is incapable of hatred and malice. And so in such integration all malice has no options but oblivion or redemption and with each redemption the gravity of the Bastion's soul pulls stronger on the hearts of those around her. But not yet. First the bleeding heart sets to removing as much of the malingering hex that remains on the Cursebone Desecration.
The Dove of Sorelusia evokes a final burst of bardic aid to conjure mantle of divinely granted beauty, reinvigorating her allies but still dread crawls back upon us. For their haste to strike first our heroes left no staggering of their moments of rest– like the jarring silence of an entire chorus out of breath. But with undying disregard for rest or breath, The Mockery of Love's Grief looses forth an onslaught of its own. A deathly toll first tears through the dreamer as four gnashing maws rip into those closest but making sure she who's light would wash away their curses does not go unbitten. Next comes a beating of skeletal wings, still shrouded in force enough to let loose fierce and buffeting winds that send flying the child of mountains and would so too cast off the waifish acolyte if not for once more did her faerie guard with blessed strength fly swift to her side, absorbing the brunt of the grim tempest to shield his ward from harm.
But still more in thine lull of rest hath the plagued fangs of this mockery tear at thy hearts and flesh! For by the will of divinity unknown a wargod's blessing alights the lengths of miasmic fangs that sink deep in the flesh of the tale keeper, rendering his body listless but kept aloft on borrowed wings— moved not by the keeper but by the will of his benefactor.
And so finally thine breath is collectively drawn and once more your chorus belts loud to its second round. With three strikes twice–blessed between the gallant sniper and his noble steed, threefold heads of grafted flesh doth were purged from ill undeath, leaving last the final maw.
Twas not for a finishing blow that They of Lion's Blood broke further through the bounds of their form to a more powerful state. No. Twas for love. As their celestial leonine shape shifts around them The Golden Beast closes the distance betwixt them and thine beloved and with that love pulls the dreamer from his dreamless sleep with a healing touch.
One however still now stalks among dreams, pushing through the astral boundaries to aid her own paramour before her return to Gaea. And to act in love for Love's dear chosen, what result could possibly await but victory? But the Morai are fickle mistresses, for as reward for these acts of love once more doth a song of death cry out and death it doth herald indeed...
Doth the dreamer rise from wounded slumber in time for but a word of thanks before the reaper claimed its harvest on the harrowed soul of the burdened healer and sundered them their health. The once massive golden beast in an instant returned to their tyrian truth and in that same instant drop from on high.
Try as the limit breaker might, Atlas he was not. Without might enough to hold back Ouranus' desperate push to embrace his wife, the young lover saw no choice but to cradle love in tight embrace to share in their fate. And So They Fell. Megalê Thea doles no mercy to those who fall and no such exception was made as the couple entwined dashed aground the painted streets; neither sparing the mosaic's tiles a shattering all their own.
Far above, the cries and tears resound from all but with pained heart the wrathful guardian lays waste to last of the flesh undying, purging not only the unholy grafting from defiled bones but unknowingly so too the hold its miasma exerted over those afflicted with it's foul contagion. And knowing of what's to come once more, he shores a defensive between the Cursebone Desecration and his starlight ward while the sworn redeemer does her best to aid her love in washing away Diomedea's curse.
With this aid and a final pulse of cleansing starlight, twas not but the final plea to be made… The thrice damned curse brought low such that the light of redemption might yet glimmer true in Elpis' warm embrace. But still yet we must look low to despairing depths where the final cruel herald's song now completes its harvest. As swift may race the form of the horse king's kin, there was naught the horseman could do but through eyes sharp from moonlit hunts, watch a life's true finale.
There is dignity to be found in those who face The Western Gate with hearts resolved. To know one's time as come and embrace the guides with open arms and obol under tongue. Such was the dignity of the Venerable Skald. Last of his sounder. He who hath survived in guilt and in struggle, in oath and in pride. Who passed on the history of his sounder to the next generation ensuring shared survival through tradition eternal. So upon the sight of one such youth of the next generation falling from on high –struck low by the foe that the old orator himself had let loose in dispelling the great spell that warped its shape to hide its foul truth– the grizzled orc could see no better honour for The Fates to place before him.
Haggard from exertion and magesong far beyond the bounds of a body afflicted such by thine hateful Geras, the grand old boar dragged himself on traitorous legs through the streets to the bloodied youths layed low among the bricks. With panicked scrawl the wildborne spirit begged for aid, thrusting forward with hands of ink the lustrous jewels of Plouton's toll. For there below the elder bard lay the cruel scene of a young storyteller who even in unconsciousness, clings tight to his lover's shattered form.
Gentle is the feeling of a butterfly upon one's brow. But no excess of gentling can abate the disorientation of those pulled suddenly from life. It is here that the child of lions lays eyes upon High Divines once more. In the center stands an impossibly handsome seasoned man with wings of night and skin as pale as bone while to either side tower massive matrons of Burning Radiance and Endless Void. Before the young hērōs nomioi lay the gods and gate of the dead.
“I have seen this tragedy far too many times already,” as now the word of healing resounds through the dreamer, awakening them to a peaceful smile and familiar, beautiful voice, “I am not going to let you watch the ones you love die.”
The gentle sorrow of a man. “Hey don't cry. I'm an old man and there's no better death I could ask.” The gentle satisfaction of a man who raised children and grandchildren alike making sure that even one less parent need outlive their own as hath endured…
A pleading word for a father —long since parted from their side— is all that did escape thon violet lips before a large, leathery palm clasped down upon their shoulder, pulling back the beloved child as a kind but knowing smile graces the bearded face of the god of death. And from that same smiling god do words ring heavy with true finality,
A Light! Sound, touch, pressure, and pain. All these things return to The Life Restored, cradled in tearful embrace as there beside them both lay an old bard, now serene in tranquil rest. But As Above, So Below. For as the fallen was pulled from death through sacrifice, so too was the cost of victory true. In final stand against The Mockery of Love's Grief, The Bastion of Kindness and her beloved companions fly in unified formation. Shielded in love and starlight, the bright silken star doth once more take darkness into her heart such to spin three and seven threads of shining fate to weave amongst the heartstrings of whomst she'd see redeemed. With arms unfolding the bastion embraces unhallowed vertebrae magnitudes greater in size than she and in her compassion speaks for what she holds to be no lesser a truth than the existence of breath itself,
But love for Diomedea alone was not enough. For even all the might of Aphrodite could not return her to life when first she fell millennia ago as none then would afford help to what they judged inessential. The love of One, no matter how divine, is of little power where none exist to share in it. So it was neither Luck nor Fate that would provide the final push. The Day She Died She Changed A Man. The Day After She Did It Again. These building blocks of devotion pile higher, one after the other, into a foundation of mutual support such that The Changed Man did not hesitate for even a fraction of an instant when it came to choosing to help her no matter the cost. Nary a thought to leave anything to chance for nothing was worth the risk of not being there to catch her when she fell. Such Was His Conviction. “Eighteen bards of different kin streak forth from the silver mithral blade, of which only one you recognize. There in ethereal glory shines the grand majesty of The Prismatic Lady, who preserved her spirit in the sword of myth before condemning herself to damnation among the devils of Baator,” —another such act done for the love of another; for a child much alike The Changed Man in many ways— “And these spirits join the bastion in her healing embrace, inspiring and speaking the tales of the swan's hallowed history and every evidence of love to be found in each such tale.” As the sword burns with heat so great The Changed Man has no choice but relinquish it to the winds below he knows that never again shall he wield that blade but not for a moment does he regret that choice. All of the starlight that now envelopes what once was shrouded in vile hexcraft begins to condense. Grouping and gravitating towards she who rests at the center of it all, wishing desperately that even as she bends fate in ways no mortal should be able that she could do more. And that she can't? It fills her heavy heart with a grief near matched to what was channelled through her in every moment since Aether's bright mists were blotted out yet only a minute prior. The Changed Man, his role fulfilled, lets melt his waxy wings such that he might fall, not to sea unforgiving but tides of love and grief, with no will to wait even a second longer for the consolation of his betrothed. And with a fall once fatal shrugged off as not even harm enough to break the fog obscuring reason from his mind, he does indeed find swiftly the noble rose to crush him in Cura's strong entwinement. Tis now that the fury that coursed beneath the buttressed carapace of the seer–to–be is allieved in full, a resolution achieved; one far greater than any could have hoped without each and every string of fate that was woven in the wake of seven serendipitous saviours. The Goddess of Love descends once more to the plane of Gaea, the bonds of Salles' restrictions lifted with said resolution. For now tis time for the saviours to see the fruits of their labour, as if the restoration of Diomedea's sanctity was not already a reward all its own. As Above doth the goddess grant her full blessing and thanks to her newly anointed oracle,
So Below does she express her deepest gratitude for the part The Changed Man played in this blessed restoration,
As Above the goddess doth vow of wrath to come,
So Below does she vow to repay the sacrifice made for her cause, even if not done in her name,
But now this day's long tale draws near to close… With each involved having love to share in troubles with, we can speak of all that which they shall do in days to come later. The Changed Man will yet delay his proffered reward and his once prized blade is lost to the wind, nowhere to be found to his quiet relief. But if there is any words to take from this triumphant tale with tho on thy trials to follow let it be thus–
S120 Crit Count: Serenas Nat20 initiative, Nova Nat20 initiative, Nat20 wis save x3 (Serenas, Romad, Corayas), Serenas Nat20 Attack, Kirin Nat20 Wis, Horse-Faelyn Nat20 Wis Save & Nat20 Death Save, Romad Nat20 Con Save, Nat20 Attack Serenas, Nat20 Con Save, Isati Nat1 Bastion check, hydra Nat 1 attack, Romad nat20 Strength save, Horse-Faelyn nat20 strength save, another Nat20 Strength save, hydra nat 20 attack, Serenas Nat20 attack, Horse-Faelyn Nat20 attack, Nova Nat1 Death Save, Horse-Faelyn Nat20 Death Save, Romad Nat20 Wis Save | #CritCount24 #GoodCrits21 #BadCrits3
"Isati."
"This should be impossible."
"Welling up and overwhelming your entire body is a rage and hatred you have not felt in months, have not been capable of feeling since you returned from death.”
“I've not long here or else I would do more but if you are to what needs be done than I ask you to try and spare her ancient bones all possible harm. And endure, my seer foreseen. The weight to come will feel greater than any before but you must carry it with your strength alone. For the path you have chartered will lay burdens upon you so heavy that you shall be crushed beneath if you can not overcome this trial before you. So go; free her from this mockery of my grief! And become my seer such that together we shall see the end of whoever dares desecrate my beloved Diomedea!”
And with that waves of seafoam break over the party, instantaneously transporting them into the fray…
Fear.
”A Peaceful Death, Your Soul Is Mine To Claim.”
A Light! Sound, touch, pressure, and pain. All these things return to The Life Restored, cradled in tearful embrace as there beside them both lay an old bard, now serene in tranquil rest. But As Above, So Below. For as the fallen was pulled from death through sacrifice, so too was the cost of victory true. In final stand against The Mockery of Love's Grief, The Bastion of Kindness and her beloved companions fly in unified formation. Shielded in love and starlight, the bright silken star doth once more take darkness into her heart such to spin three and seven threads of shining fate to weave amongst the heartstrings of whomst she'd see redeemed. With arms unfolding the bastion embraces unhallowed vertebrae magnitudes greater in size than she and in her compassion speaks for what she holds to be no lesser a truth than the existence of breath itself,
“It's alright— You Are Still Loved, and you always will be.”
But love for Diomedea alone was not enough. For even all the might of Aphrodite could not return her to life when first she fell millennia ago as none then would afford help to what they judged inessential. The love of One, no matter how divine, is of little power where none exist to share in it. So it was neither Luck nor Fate that would provide the final push. The Day She Died She Changed A Man. The Day After She Did It Again. These building blocks of devotion pile higher, one after the other, into a foundation of mutual support such that The Changed Man did not hesitate for even a fraction of an instant when it came to choosing to help her no matter the cost. Nary a thought to leave anything to chance for nothing was worth the risk of not being there to catch her when she fell. Such Was His Conviction. “Eighteen bards of different kin streak forth from the silver mithral blade, of which only one you recognize. There in ethereal glory shines the grand majesty of The Prismatic Lady, who preserved her spirit in the sword of myth before condemning herself to damnation among the devils of Baator,” —another such act done for the love of another; for a child much alike The Changed Man in many ways— “And these spirits join the bastion in her healing embrace, inspiring and speaking the tales of the swan's hallowed history and every evidence of love to be found in each such tale.” As the sword burns with heat so great The Changed Man has no choice but relinquish it to the winds below he knows that never again shall he wield that blade but not for a moment does he regret that choice. All of the starlight that now envelopes what once was shrouded in vile hexcraft begins to condense. Grouping and gravitating towards she who rests at the center of it all, wishing desperately that even as she bends fate in ways no mortal should be able that she could do more. And that she can't? It fills her heavy heart with a grief near matched to what was channelled through her in every moment since Aether's bright mists were blotted out yet only a minute prior. The Changed Man, his role fulfilled, lets melt his waxy wings such that he might fall, not to sea unforgiving but tides of love and grief, with no will to wait even a second longer for the consolation of his betrothed. And with a fall once fatal shrugged off as not even harm enough to break the fog obscuring reason from his mind, he does indeed find swiftly the noble rose to crush him in Cura's strong entwinement. Tis now that the fury that coursed beneath the buttressed carapace of the seer–to–be is allieved in full, a resolution achieved; one far greater than any could have hoped without each and every string of fate that was woven in the wake of seven serendipitous saviours. The Goddess of Love descends once more to the plane of Gaea, the bonds of Salles' restrictions lifted with said resolution. For now tis time for the saviours to see the fruits of their labour, as if the restoration of Diomedea's sanctity was not already a reward all its own. As Above doth the goddess grant her full blessing and thanks to her newly anointed oracle,
“You have done everything I could have ever asked of you, and for that I grant you this gift of wisdom to aid you in what you shall come to face.”
So Below does she express her deepest gratitude for the part The Changed Man played in this blessed restoration,
“Everything you have ever done, you have done for love. So, in some ways, that means you have done so for me. For this you have my gratitude and I bid you know that I do not take lightly your devotion,”
As Above the goddess doth vow of wrath to come,
“Her defilement was the crux of this cursed disease and when I learn for sure that the one who haunts you is responsible for this, she and any other involved— There Will Be A Price To Pay.”
So Below does she vow to repay the sacrifice made for her cause, even if not done in her name,
“ You have sacrificed more than anyone has ever asked of you. For this, and to protect my seer; What Would You Ask Of Me?”
But now this day's long tale draws near to close… With each involved having love to share in troubles with, we can speak of all that which they shall do in days to come later. The Changed Man will yet delay his proffered reward and his once prized blade is lost to the wind, nowhere to be found to his quiet relief. But if there is any words to take from this triumphant tale with tho on thy trials to follow let it be thus–
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