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“I think we should go to Siegfried House first,” you decide, “Right now, we don't know much about this Albershot Lodge. I'd prefer to know what kind of place we're walking into at the very least.”
“I guess,” Ariel concedes, “I'll be honest, I've never even heard of it.”
“That's because it's where they carry out all their secret tortures and executions,” Juno replies, letting out a curt laugh, “I'm kidding. I don't actually know what it's like either, so I suppose it'll be a nice surprise.”
“I don't like surprises, nice or not,” you insist firmly, “And that's why we're going to do our research first.”
This isn't a debate.
-
A tense mood hangs over the carriage as it rattles towards your destination. Despite her laudable attempts to hide it, you can tell that Ariel is nervous. While that's understandable enough, you can sense a faint unease coming from Juno as well. Maybe it's just the awkward silence that's getting to her – it's certainly starting to grate on your nerves. In search of a way to pass the time, you take out the book Juno gave you and start to read.
You open the book carefully, holding it with all the caution of a man clutching a poisonous snake. As for the text itself, the writing is dense and difficult to read, often wandering from one subject to another or spinning off on strange diversions. A discourse on the nature of Calamity, Kalthos has collated a number of myths, legends and theories, grouping them into three general categories – the idea that Calamity originated from the Godhead itself, that Calamity originated within mankind before passing to the Godhead, and the suggesting that Calamity originated from outside somehow.
To this last point, he cites an old folk tail about a great white serpent god – the serpent came into the world and taught men how to do evil, and so Calamity was born. Kalthos is vague as to what the serpent might have been, his explanation wavering between an allegory for human will to the manifestation of some divine will.
“If the Godhead is capable of sending an avatar into our world,” Kalthos writes, citing the Nicean Prophecies, “Could the same not be true for other gods, gods that may be sympathetic to mankind?”
You go back to that passage time and time again, reading those terribly suggestive words until they're engraved onto your memory. It's exactly the kind of wild pagan delusion that the church has tried so hard to stamp out, so you shouldn't be surprised to find it in a book penned by a Tomoe. Yet, here you can sense something that goes beyond the petty rebellions so common to the Tomoe. Something else, something far older.
“Get your head out of that book,” Ariel whispers, leaning over and gently poking you on the arm, “We're almost there.”
[1]
