[LOG] What Happens in Cibloa Stays in Cibola
Setting: Cibola
Dramatis Personae: Beatrice, Benedict, Heulwen, Lucretia, and Cyrus
Beatrice's player logged and posted the whole scene. The following snippets are from the temple portion of the scene and were, for the most part, only experienced by Cyrus. Think of this as a Special Feature.
All references to whispering between Beatrice and Cyrus are making use of a bit of Chantris sorcery which allows them to send words on the wind to each other.
The goat creatures carry Cyrus deep into the jungle; when he awakes, he is in a large stone room, shirtless and bound to a slab of marble. Above him there is a large statue of an immense being, half-goat, half-woman, with yellow agate eyes and onyx skin. There are no windows, but torches burn in sconses upon the walls. From somewhere there is the low and constant drone of chanting.
Via Whisper to Beatrice: Cyrus's voice is muffled but the whisper comes through. It says, "Bea? I'm hurt but alive...Oh, just *great*. Another altar...
Cyrus tests the bonds as a matter of course more than as an expectation that they will give. He tries to piece together the chanting almost by reflex.
To Cyrus, Beatrice's voice comes when the breeze allows, "Can you tell us what is inside the stone structure waiting? How deep in you are?"
The bonds are straps of leather reinforced with copper wire twisted in and through and around like thorns. The chanting is rhythmic, and repeats itself frequently; it also seems to be getting closer. "Hail, Mother of Despair, She who walks upon cloven feet; hail!"
Cyrus cannot see all angles of the room equally. There are, however, at least two entry-points; one more or less past his feet, one to his right. The room is large enough to hold at least five hundred grown men. In addition to the statue, there are colourful mosaics on the wall, but they seem to blur and shift when he looks at them. They are scenes of unspeakable horror, and his head swims and aches the longer he looks.
To Beatrice, Cyrus whispers, "Big room...huge. I'm alone but there's chanting. I'm right in the middle and there's one...no, two exits. Maybe momre."
To Cyrus, Beatrice whispers, "Keep me informed if things change."
To Beatrice, Cyrus whispers, "still tied up..."
The chanting gets louder, and louder still. There is the sound of footsteps - many footsteps. Robed and masked figures flood into the chamber, but none approach the altar - until one does. The robe is slid off, revealing a nubile female form, skin pale as moonlight and tattooed with a dark script as if a living book that subtly changes meaning with every breast. She wears a mask of a goat's face and she approaches the slab, robe falling behind her. "Hail, chosen of She! I am She, and She moves through me, the thousand thousand yet to be born!"
To Beatrice, Cyrus whispers, "Footsteps coming...lots of company now...Uh, oh...High Priestess!"
The woman calls to the congregation as she pulls herself up onto the slab, staring intently down at Cyrus through the slits in her mask. "You who are chosen, be grateful, for you are spared the horrors that await the world! Do you give yourself to me?" Though it is a question, it has the ring of formula, and she does not appear to expect coherent reply.
In the distance comes the sound of high pipes in mad tunes.
Cyrus answers anyway. In fact, he uses the priestess's own language to do so. "Um...no? I mean, my girlfriend's gonna be real mad and you don't want to get on her bad side."
To Cyrus, Beatrice whispers, "Have encountered shoggoth-thing. On our way."
The woman rears back. "He speaks the sacred tongue!" she gasps. "Who are you, that you speak the holy tongue of Rea'lih?"
Cyrus stammers at first but recovers quickly enough to ask, "Who else could I be?" in as authoritative a tone as he can muster.
"The Nameless One!" It's wailed from the audience, and there's a frenzied murmur - the priestess holds up one hand in authoritative gesture. "If you are truly the Nameless One," she tells Cyrus sharply, "then you will know me; you will know the ancient words. Say my name, and claim your due!" The black letters ripple upon her skin invitingly. Like the mosaics, it hurts to look too long at them - and yet, they begin to grow distinguishable.
Cyrus keeps his eyes on the swirling runes as long as he is able. Straining to discern their meaning.
The priestess says, "Where the stones have been set up thou shalt call out to Rea'lih, and unto he that knoweth the signs and uttereth the words all earthly pleasures shall be granted. When the sun entereth the Sign of the Ram and the time of night is upon ye turn thy face to the North wind and read the verse aloud : Hail! Rea'lih! Bridge of He Who Must Not Be Spoken Of, Great Black Goat of the Woods, I call thee forth! Answer the cry of thy servant who knoweth the words of power! Rise up I say from thy slumbers and come forth with a thousand more! I make the signs, I speak the words that openeth the door! Come forth I say, I turn the Key, Now! walk the Earth once more!"
Cyrus summons every ounce of volume he can muster and uses a touch of Chantris sorcery as he shouts, "HALT! THE STARS ARE NOT YET RIGHT!" in the dialect of the cultists.
The priestess is still straddling Cyrus; she does pause, however. "The sun has entered the house of the Ram!" she protests. "She moves through me; the words are upon my skin. If you are He Who Must Not Be Named, then it is my duty... who are you!"
To Beatrice, Cyrus whispers, "Priestess...knife...knife!!"
To Cyrus, Beatrice's whisper is breathless, "Running...."
Cyrus looks around desperately for a word or a name to shout. Finally he looks once again to the priestess's skin and unfocuses his eyes, allowing it to speak to him.
Beatrice and Heulwen charge into a large chamber filled with robed cultists, easily one hundred of them, though the chamber is large enough for five hundred. They are masked, the women wearing masks to look like goat's heads, the men wearing faceless black masks. Murals upon the walls hurt the eyes with their bright colours, the scenes seeming to change and shift the more they are stared at. One woman is without robes; she straddles Cyrus, demanding something of him in strange words. Her skin is pale as the moon and strange black letters writhe upon her skin, across her naked breasts. Now she reaches for a dagger, lifting it high in both hands over her head as she demands something of Cyrus.
The tattoos 'speak' to Cyrus: The Nameless One takes She to wife; Rea'lih, wife of Hastyr. Say his name thrice, and he shall walk once more.
Cyrus strains against his bonds and fixes the priestess with a crazed glare. He shouts a single word. "Hastyr!" It seems to cause him pain and he gasps, falling back onto the slab. The sound of his head against the stone rings through the room. He inhales slowly and deeply as if to shout again.
"Ahhh!" The shout is led bythe priestess, and she lifts her hand to her head. The crowd goes wild. Not just wild, but really wild. This is rugby match, teams tied for hours, just scored the winning goal wild. It is just one shout; and then they go silent again. The knife drops from the woman's hand, and she places both hands on Cyrus' chest, remonstrating with him, imploring.
The priestess shouts, "Bring him to us! We beseech thee, call Him!" She bounces on Cyrus, less as if trying to arouse him and more as if in frenzied demand.
Heulwen appears to be ready to charge in and start fighting but she hesitates as Beatrice pulls out her bow waiting for an order that she might, under other circumstances, resent.
Beatrice warns Heulwen, "Get ready," under her breath as she readies and aims are bow. Aim. A whisper.
Beatrice whispers to Cyrus, "I have her in my sights. Fire?"
Cyrus whispers to Beatrice, "Yessss"
Beatrice fires.
Cyrus takes another ragged breath and shouts "Hastyr!" a second time. It comes out as a ragged bark.
A fighting, furious small mass of raging Rebman girl, Heulwen seems prepared to do her best to be bait launching into the room of followers in what could only be a bad decision. With a small knife blade in one hand and fists and sharply filed fingernails, she strike out at random at whomever gets into her path. She seems willing to take the beating that will follow. "Come get me!"
There is a scream from the priestess as an arrow buries itself between her shoulderblades. She falls forward from the force of it, on top of Cyrus.
Beatrice has her sword out and lets her bow go in one gesture, to fight her way in if she must.
The priestess shudders. "They have come for us. You must defend us," she whispers weakly. Her fingers claw at the clasps of the bonds holding Cyrus in place. "You must call Him... you must defend ... us. Summon Him, become Him, He Who Must Not Be Named... my husband..."
The priestess scrabbles at Cyrus' wrists, then slumps, falling to the side, off of the slab. The cultists are in a state of shock; they are unarmed, and unprepared for this. They are, however, at least prepared to try to defend themselves. Some try making a break for it; others try to defend the approach to the altar. There are about twenty between Beatrice and Heulwen and where Cyrus has been bound.
Heulwen continues with THE PLAN where THE PLAN is to be loud and violent and cause as much mass distruction and bloodshed as possible and take whatever beating follows from it.
Beatrice is not so much interested in cultists for cultists' sakes. What she is interested in is her cousin's position, and anything that gets in her way is going to feel her blade, feet or both. She fights, physical as before. Efficient. Blazingly so.
Cyrus rolls off the altar and falls to the floor. He attempts to stand but his legs give way and he collapses.
Cyrus uses his position on the floor to start cutting ankles and calves. He can feel the forbidden name welling up in his throat but he tries to keep his mouth clamped shut against it.
With their priestess dead, the majority of the cultists seem to find the desire to flee possessing them. However, there are still four faceless cultists focusing on Heulwen, shouting in an unintelligible language. Beatrice seems to have a knack for fighting her way through, but it helps that the cultists around Cyrus shriek and fall as tendons are hamstrung.
The priestess is not dead. Only almost. She grips Cyrus' hand. "My ... love," she breathes, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. "Come to me. Kiss me once, ere I die..."
What's life without a few beatings? Heulwen charges the four cultists as if she were a whirling mass of blades, death and destruction which she is NOT. She gets knocked down but she get gets up again. Trying to keep them off her until she gets a chance to beat one down. Already redness and bruise patterns are starting where she has been knocked about by cultists.
Cyrus allows himself to be pulled towards the priestess. He brings his face close to hers and closes his eyes just as he tries to push his dagger into her throat.
Beatrice gracefully skirts the slab to find her cousin on the other side of it. "Cyrus," she breathes, grateful to find him alive on the other side of it. Keeping her sword arm ready, she bends to help him up with the off-arm.
The dagger goes in; she was clearly not expecting it. The mask falls off, and her face is revealed to be a twin to that of Dulcinea's in the dying light.
Cyrus lies sprawled against the priestess in what at first looks like a passionate embrace. He rolls to the side to reveal his dagger embedded to the hilt in her throat. His entire right arm is covered in blood.
Beatrice's eyes shine as she tries to help Cyrus up. "If you're quite done with your girlfriend there?" Her tone is fond, still strains of worry.
Continuing to take and deal out damange, Heulwen's white shirt is so damp with blood and sweat at this point it would be impossible to tell how much of it were her own. Her light hair while tied back in the scarf is damp with the spray of blood. She snarls and moves toward a cultist as if she were prepared to bite a piece of flesh out the creature. It seems she has found an outlet for her angry rebel girl frustrations.
The majority of the cultists by now have fled. There's one desperately trying to get away from Heulwen; if it could speak Thari, likely it would say 'get it off me, get it off!'
Cyrus grabs Beatrice's arm with his non-bloody hand and struggles to his feet. He remains silent. In fact, his jaw is clenched shut as if he's trying to keep something in.
Heulwen slashes at the one that may be trying to get away but leaves the cultist alive but brandishes the short bloody knife in the direction of the cultist in a manner suggesting 'bring it on'.
Beatrice drinks in Cyrus's demeanor as she helps him to his feet. The triumph at having him in one piece fades a touch in favor of deeper concern, but she turns to help him out. "Heulwen, you are a wonder."
The cultists have fled; the last one, bleeding and howling as he goes. The chamber is now empty, save for the three.
Cyrus leans on Beatrice. His strength returns slowly.
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OOC: Everything from this point matches Beatrice's log of the full scene. Many thanks to everyone who played in the scene and HUGE thanks and kudos to Lucretia for running it.
Dramatis Personae: Beatrice, Benedict, Heulwen, Lucretia, and Cyrus
Beatrice's player logged and posted the whole scene. The following snippets are from the temple portion of the scene and were, for the most part, only experienced by Cyrus. Think of this as a Special Feature.
All references to whispering between Beatrice and Cyrus are making use of a bit of Chantris sorcery which allows them to send words on the wind to each other.
The goat creatures carry Cyrus deep into the jungle; when he awakes, he is in a large stone room, shirtless and bound to a slab of marble. Above him there is a large statue of an immense being, half-goat, half-woman, with yellow agate eyes and onyx skin. There are no windows, but torches burn in sconses upon the walls. From somewhere there is the low and constant drone of chanting.
Via Whisper to Beatrice: Cyrus's voice is muffled but the whisper comes through. It says, "Bea? I'm hurt but alive...Oh, just *great*. Another altar...
Cyrus tests the bonds as a matter of course more than as an expectation that they will give. He tries to piece together the chanting almost by reflex.
To Cyrus, Beatrice's voice comes when the breeze allows, "Can you tell us what is inside the stone structure waiting? How deep in you are?"
The bonds are straps of leather reinforced with copper wire twisted in and through and around like thorns. The chanting is rhythmic, and repeats itself frequently; it also seems to be getting closer. "Hail, Mother of Despair, She who walks upon cloven feet; hail!"
Cyrus cannot see all angles of the room equally. There are, however, at least two entry-points; one more or less past his feet, one to his right. The room is large enough to hold at least five hundred grown men. In addition to the statue, there are colourful mosaics on the wall, but they seem to blur and shift when he looks at them. They are scenes of unspeakable horror, and his head swims and aches the longer he looks.
To Beatrice, Cyrus whispers, "Big room...huge. I'm alone but there's chanting. I'm right in the middle and there's one...no, two exits. Maybe momre."
To Cyrus, Beatrice whispers, "Keep me informed if things change."
To Beatrice, Cyrus whispers, "still tied up..."
The chanting gets louder, and louder still. There is the sound of footsteps - many footsteps. Robed and masked figures flood into the chamber, but none approach the altar - until one does. The robe is slid off, revealing a nubile female form, skin pale as moonlight and tattooed with a dark script as if a living book that subtly changes meaning with every breast. She wears a mask of a goat's face and she approaches the slab, robe falling behind her. "Hail, chosen of She! I am She, and She moves through me, the thousand thousand yet to be born!"
To Beatrice, Cyrus whispers, "Footsteps coming...lots of company now...Uh, oh...High Priestess!"
The woman calls to the congregation as she pulls herself up onto the slab, staring intently down at Cyrus through the slits in her mask. "You who are chosen, be grateful, for you are spared the horrors that await the world! Do you give yourself to me?" Though it is a question, it has the ring of formula, and she does not appear to expect coherent reply.
In the distance comes the sound of high pipes in mad tunes.
Cyrus answers anyway. In fact, he uses the priestess's own language to do so. "Um...no? I mean, my girlfriend's gonna be real mad and you don't want to get on her bad side."
To Cyrus, Beatrice whispers, "Have encountered shoggoth-thing. On our way."
The woman rears back. "He speaks the sacred tongue!" she gasps. "Who are you, that you speak the holy tongue of Rea'lih?"
Cyrus stammers at first but recovers quickly enough to ask, "Who else could I be?" in as authoritative a tone as he can muster.
"The Nameless One!" It's wailed from the audience, and there's a frenzied murmur - the priestess holds up one hand in authoritative gesture. "If you are truly the Nameless One," she tells Cyrus sharply, "then you will know me; you will know the ancient words. Say my name, and claim your due!" The black letters ripple upon her skin invitingly. Like the mosaics, it hurts to look too long at them - and yet, they begin to grow distinguishable.
Cyrus keeps his eyes on the swirling runes as long as he is able. Straining to discern their meaning.
The priestess says, "Where the stones have been set up thou shalt call out to Rea'lih, and unto he that knoweth the signs and uttereth the words all earthly pleasures shall be granted. When the sun entereth the Sign of the Ram and the time of night is upon ye turn thy face to the North wind and read the verse aloud : Hail! Rea'lih! Bridge of He Who Must Not Be Spoken Of, Great Black Goat of the Woods, I call thee forth! Answer the cry of thy servant who knoweth the words of power! Rise up I say from thy slumbers and come forth with a thousand more! I make the signs, I speak the words that openeth the door! Come forth I say, I turn the Key, Now! walk the Earth once more!"
Cyrus summons every ounce of volume he can muster and uses a touch of Chantris sorcery as he shouts, "HALT! THE STARS ARE NOT YET RIGHT!" in the dialect of the cultists.
The priestess is still straddling Cyrus; she does pause, however. "The sun has entered the house of the Ram!" she protests. "She moves through me; the words are upon my skin. If you are He Who Must Not Be Named, then it is my duty... who are you!"
To Beatrice, Cyrus whispers, "Priestess...knife...knife!!"
To Cyrus, Beatrice's whisper is breathless, "Running...."
Cyrus looks around desperately for a word or a name to shout. Finally he looks once again to the priestess's skin and unfocuses his eyes, allowing it to speak to him.
Beatrice and Heulwen charge into a large chamber filled with robed cultists, easily one hundred of them, though the chamber is large enough for five hundred. They are masked, the women wearing masks to look like goat's heads, the men wearing faceless black masks. Murals upon the walls hurt the eyes with their bright colours, the scenes seeming to change and shift the more they are stared at. One woman is without robes; she straddles Cyrus, demanding something of him in strange words. Her skin is pale as the moon and strange black letters writhe upon her skin, across her naked breasts. Now she reaches for a dagger, lifting it high in both hands over her head as she demands something of Cyrus.
The tattoos 'speak' to Cyrus: The Nameless One takes She to wife; Rea'lih, wife of Hastyr. Say his name thrice, and he shall walk once more.
Cyrus strains against his bonds and fixes the priestess with a crazed glare. He shouts a single word. "Hastyr!" It seems to cause him pain and he gasps, falling back onto the slab. The sound of his head against the stone rings through the room. He inhales slowly and deeply as if to shout again.
"Ahhh!" The shout is led bythe priestess, and she lifts her hand to her head. The crowd goes wild. Not just wild, but really wild. This is rugby match, teams tied for hours, just scored the winning goal wild. It is just one shout; and then they go silent again. The knife drops from the woman's hand, and she places both hands on Cyrus' chest, remonstrating with him, imploring.
The priestess shouts, "Bring him to us! We beseech thee, call Him!" She bounces on Cyrus, less as if trying to arouse him and more as if in frenzied demand.
Heulwen appears to be ready to charge in and start fighting but she hesitates as Beatrice pulls out her bow waiting for an order that she might, under other circumstances, resent.
Beatrice warns Heulwen, "Get ready," under her breath as she readies and aims are bow. Aim. A whisper.
Beatrice whispers to Cyrus, "I have her in my sights. Fire?"
Cyrus whispers to Beatrice, "Yessss"
Beatrice fires.
Cyrus takes another ragged breath and shouts "Hastyr!" a second time. It comes out as a ragged bark.
A fighting, furious small mass of raging Rebman girl, Heulwen seems prepared to do her best to be bait launching into the room of followers in what could only be a bad decision. With a small knife blade in one hand and fists and sharply filed fingernails, she strike out at random at whomever gets into her path. She seems willing to take the beating that will follow. "Come get me!"
There is a scream from the priestess as an arrow buries itself between her shoulderblades. She falls forward from the force of it, on top of Cyrus.
Beatrice has her sword out and lets her bow go in one gesture, to fight her way in if she must.
The priestess shudders. "They have come for us. You must defend us," she whispers weakly. Her fingers claw at the clasps of the bonds holding Cyrus in place. "You must call Him... you must defend ... us. Summon Him, become Him, He Who Must Not Be Named... my husband..."
The priestess scrabbles at Cyrus' wrists, then slumps, falling to the side, off of the slab. The cultists are in a state of shock; they are unarmed, and unprepared for this. They are, however, at least prepared to try to defend themselves. Some try making a break for it; others try to defend the approach to the altar. There are about twenty between Beatrice and Heulwen and where Cyrus has been bound.
Heulwen continues with THE PLAN where THE PLAN is to be loud and violent and cause as much mass distruction and bloodshed as possible and take whatever beating follows from it.
Beatrice is not so much interested in cultists for cultists' sakes. What she is interested in is her cousin's position, and anything that gets in her way is going to feel her blade, feet or both. She fights, physical as before. Efficient. Blazingly so.
Cyrus rolls off the altar and falls to the floor. He attempts to stand but his legs give way and he collapses.
Cyrus uses his position on the floor to start cutting ankles and calves. He can feel the forbidden name welling up in his throat but he tries to keep his mouth clamped shut against it.
With their priestess dead, the majority of the cultists seem to find the desire to flee possessing them. However, there are still four faceless cultists focusing on Heulwen, shouting in an unintelligible language. Beatrice seems to have a knack for fighting her way through, but it helps that the cultists around Cyrus shriek and fall as tendons are hamstrung.
The priestess is not dead. Only almost. She grips Cyrus' hand. "My ... love," she breathes, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. "Come to me. Kiss me once, ere I die..."
What's life without a few beatings? Heulwen charges the four cultists as if she were a whirling mass of blades, death and destruction which she is NOT. She gets knocked down but she get gets up again. Trying to keep them off her until she gets a chance to beat one down. Already redness and bruise patterns are starting where she has been knocked about by cultists.
Cyrus allows himself to be pulled towards the priestess. He brings his face close to hers and closes his eyes just as he tries to push his dagger into her throat.
Beatrice gracefully skirts the slab to find her cousin on the other side of it. "Cyrus," she breathes, grateful to find him alive on the other side of it. Keeping her sword arm ready, she bends to help him up with the off-arm.
The dagger goes in; she was clearly not expecting it. The mask falls off, and her face is revealed to be a twin to that of Dulcinea's in the dying light.
Cyrus lies sprawled against the priestess in what at first looks like a passionate embrace. He rolls to the side to reveal his dagger embedded to the hilt in her throat. His entire right arm is covered in blood.
Beatrice's eyes shine as she tries to help Cyrus up. "If you're quite done with your girlfriend there?" Her tone is fond, still strains of worry.
Continuing to take and deal out damange, Heulwen's white shirt is so damp with blood and sweat at this point it would be impossible to tell how much of it were her own. Her light hair while tied back in the scarf is damp with the spray of blood. She snarls and moves toward a cultist as if she were prepared to bite a piece of flesh out the creature. It seems she has found an outlet for her angry rebel girl frustrations.
The majority of the cultists by now have fled. There's one desperately trying to get away from Heulwen; if it could speak Thari, likely it would say 'get it off me, get it off!'
Cyrus grabs Beatrice's arm with his non-bloody hand and struggles to his feet. He remains silent. In fact, his jaw is clenched shut as if he's trying to keep something in.
Heulwen slashes at the one that may be trying to get away but leaves the cultist alive but brandishes the short bloody knife in the direction of the cultist in a manner suggesting 'bring it on'.
Beatrice drinks in Cyrus's demeanor as she helps him to his feet. The triumph at having him in one piece fades a touch in favor of deeper concern, but she turns to help him out. "Heulwen, you are a wonder."
The cultists have fled; the last one, bleeding and howling as he goes. The chamber is now empty, save for the three.
Cyrus leans on Beatrice. His strength returns slowly.
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OOC: Everything from this point matches Beatrice's log of the full scene. Many thanks to everyone who played in the scene and HUGE thanks and kudos to Lucretia for running it.