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Helias Artista stands in the endless chamber, perusing his work. The two stone pyramids float in the darkness, as thousands of ghostly figures work on them, checking the masonry, adding material where it was needed, refining the angles, and building the armillary circles around them, white and blinding, held together by an infinity of crafted shards — only tasseled tetracerarmide would be strong enough to withstand the ungodly energies he had been working with, and something in his molten figure stirs as he glances at the fruit of six hundred years of efforts.
All helped by his beloved wife, of course.
Working on his lonesome the Etemenanki might have never reach completion, not if he had two eternities.
Instead, in just a matter of centuries, look at the level of progress.
He owes her so much. Luckiest husband in the history of the world. This, and all the others out there, just out of his reach — for the present.
A smile dawns on his liquid face, his golden eyes glowing like candles. He picks up the small model of the entire apparatus — the six white circles enveloping two black pyramids, touching at the tip. Feeling grateful for his wife’s support, he gives it a little spin, the two pyramids floating up in the air.
“Honeymoon in Paris. In fifty more years… sixty at a maximum,” he mumbles, then sets the model down and addresses one of his wife’s contracted souls. “We are ready to try out one of the containment circles. Spread word we will be doing a trial run with one of—” His voice trails off as he feels her presence. “Nevermind,” he says waving his hand and turning to greet his wife.
She is back sooner than he had hoped — at least she ought to have gotten rid of bad thoughts, coming back in high spirits.
But when he turns to her, it is anything but.
“What happened?” He floats towards her, pulling the Stilladìa into a soft embrace, his sheer-black arms enveloping her alabaster flesh. Her crimson gaze is hollowed out, and she looks at him with a hesitation he had seen rarely in the last few hundred years, maybe only after the first time she lost one of her scuffles with Carnaval. “Lithala,” he calls her, rubbing his palm against her cheek. “Talk to me. Was this silver-haired Knight so terrible?”
“Ah,” she blinks, and tilts her head to look at him in the eyes. “Nay. I forgot about that. Helias…” she hisses, pulling him into a desperate hug. “The Worm has been resurrected.”
He stiffens, holding her even tighter.
<span class="mu-i">Oh.</span>
Not the kind of news he expected.
“We will—” he tries to reassure her, but she cuts through, her voice a sorrowful hiss.
“We are at war again.”
>Please roll 1d100-12, Bo6; this will be a measure of how well Argia manages to recover as you four climb out of the Temple.and so here we are. the truth is about to come out at last. wonder how will your friends react? Thanks for playing! 