Chapter Text
Water drops down from a stalactite. A long since putrefied body of a man clad in armor makes a shortstop in its patrolling and lowers a heavy sword on bloodied rubble with a dull creak. Perturbed by the echo, a cave gnome flies off a nested stone with a husky croak. A ghost of a warrior passes through a corpse, fastening its decay if only by chance. With slithering sounds, a night lurch roams the caves.
In the midst of what one would call a macabre hellhole, a human figure erupts from the pitch black. Following the old railway through the narrow corridors of the caves, they walk around a rusty minecart full of stone and rubble with their free arm outstretched. No one has given it enough thought to move it in the last decades; the person doesn't mind it guiding them, either.
With a calm heartbeat, a single wicker basket, and a light robe for armor, they come through an arc of doted wood that marks the entrance to the mines. With an uneven wing beat, a cave mother flies over their head, giving the human no other indication of its attention as they carefully pass its many eggs with abominable life beating inside.
Giving a moonless wolf an affectionate petting on their way, the person confidently steps on a rickety bridge across a chasm. It swings dangerously under their weight; still, they don't mind when the wolf steps on it as well, escorting them and gently pushing their basket as the two go. With a ripple of airy laughter, they take out a piece of dry meat the moment they put their feet on solid land. The small treat earns them a lick of a rough tongue from a toothy maw and a satisfied ventral growl.
In a spacious room of the underground, thin fingers trace flowers and a face carefully carved out of stone. A colossal statue of the Old Goddess is hollow; the presence of the gods is fading. Still, its curves direct the wanderer. Rare pillowy moss growing on top of the stone floor tickles their bare feet.
Ahead, a massive metal structure catches stray light from somewhere far above. It reflects in the carefully crafted golden eyes of the person. They make out the silhouette of the mechanism in the dark like a cat would. A creation of the last centuries, its form strongly reminds them of a birdcage.
With the person putting all of their weight on a lever inside the mechanism, it starts moving. Swinging in the air as it goes up, it soon delivers the person to a world of flesh. The blood pit is a place that fully deserves its name; layers of meat inlay the floor here, sagging under the human’s feet and making pools of foul bodily fluids where they step.
Finally, dry rubble — as delightful as it is solid — replaces soft and wet flesh. They push iron bars to make their way into a chamber with all sorts of torturing contraptions.
Light from wall torches draws out the person’s delicate features. They don't give a hint about the person's gender; instead, the looks of the seemingly human figure betray something ethereal about them. Something about their stature seems almost otherworldly or ancient. The color of their skin easily blends in with the color of the stone walls of the fortress; only their eyes — glinting golden in the uneven light of the torches they pass — stand out on the pensive face. A long light robe of a simple cut comes down to their feet, muffling their steps; it still is nowhere near the length of the person’s white — almost to the point of being translucent — hair, it appears, as they let go of it after leaving the Blood Pit. Now, it flows freely behind them, dragging on the floor; safe from soaking in the grime of countless corpses. A nice basket, now partially filled only with herbs, swings as they walk through the long corridors of a prison. There, they choose their path, avoiding rooms where tortured screams come from.
In the inner hall, there is a massive statue made of dark stone. It depicts two figures joined together as two halves of one, almost like a product of Sylvian’s marriage, but not quite. Neither of the figures resembles a human as well; instead, they remind the person of statues placed deep underneath the prison, in the labyrinth leading to the Ancient City. One of the figures also evokes a familiar feeling in the watcher, with its scalp missing and its brain matter showing. The statue is surrounded by a wall low enough to easily step over, but not high enough for the blood to overflow. Its main purpose as a sacrificial structure is only made clearer by the looks of the people walking around it in preparation. With their faces covered by veils, as black as the rest of their outfits except for the yellow accents in the waistband and stitching on the top and bottom of their robes.
A couple of dark priests cast curious glances at the person who replies with a polite smile, both parties keeping their distance. One watches the stranger’s movements over an old book, which seems familiar to the wanderer; another is busy burning incense in a corner, practicing Pyromancy Trick in the process. Seeing as the lone human of unusual looks is not trying to get in the way of them working, the servants of the Old Gods let them pass without initiating a conversation. It is something their kind always does.
Heavy metal doors give way with a loud groan. The light robed person doesn't ask the dark priests for a helping hand; both because the priests never assist others for free and because they look even more physically weak under their dark robes than the wanderer.
Bright light immediately assaults the person’s eyes as they step out of the shadows. It takes a few moments to get used to it before they put a foot on the green grass outside. Fresh — if only dampened by the corpses of men hanging from the many gallows in the courtyard — air is unusual for them as well. They take a deep breath, savoring it. Watching it closely, they notice how the mist there twists into curious shapes.
A man of heavy build approaches them, his footsteps easily heard from the other end of the hallway. Small eyes glint from under a visor as well as his many double chins; wielding both a sword and a morningstar mace, he makes a rather profound impression. His voice, however, is halting when he asks, “Who are you? Where are you headed?”
Looking up at the elite guard, the person speaks, “My name is Nosramus. I am an alchemist from the underground of this prison. You see, I think I am a bit lost. I was looking for the current captain’s office. Would you be so kind as to give me directions?”
“Ah, another cultist,” the man tosses both weapons in one hand to point the free one to the way the alchemist has been walking before, “Captain Rudimer is down the corridor. A room with our flags — you won't miss it.”
“I see. Thank you,” Nosramus nods at the man who stumbles, “No problem, er… you.”
A couple of Rondon’s flags do, indeed, mark a room with no door further down. Nosramus stops before entering.
There are voices coming from the inside. One, low and rough, spits excuses; another, deep and tired, lectures the other on the severe condition of the prison and the need to turn away the arriving cultists in bunny masks, even if they are ladies wearing nothing but their masks.
Nosramus waits for the conversation to stop, with the second voice giving out commands. As heavy steps draw closer to them, the alchemist hears a concerning sound, reminding them of someone hitting a wooden table with their head.
A man three heads taller than them comes out of the office. Nosramus carefully observes the guard: a great mass of muscle protruding from under the thick rondonian-pale skin; coarse features with overhanging eyebrows and a jutting chin; bright eyes betraying no excessive thought process behind. Naturally, there is a sword in the visibly strong hand. The alchemist nods to themselves, finding the man fitting for the work.
Upon noticing the unfamiliar face in the shadow that naturally forms around them, the man sends Nosramus a confused expression, “Are you lost?”
“No, but thank you for asking,” they reply with a polite smile, seeing no need to be rude in response to simple solicitude.
After their short exchange of civilities, the guard awkwardly moves aside for Nosramus to come into the captain's room. It takes him a few moments of mutual observation to notice that they are headed the way he just came from.
There, a man sits behind a table buried with paperwork, surrounded by bookcases and more rondonian flags. His eyes glint sickly in the light of the wall torches. The man’s exhausted face contorts into a guarded expression at the sight of a new visitor. He eyes their basket suspiciously.
They don't take too much time before introducing themselves, “Hello. I am Nosramus, an alchemist living and working deep in the Dungeon under the prison.”
Instead of replying in a similar fashion, the man sighs heavily and buries a hand in his hair. “An alchemist, huh? First there are dark priests, now you…”
“Excuse me, but I believe I was there first.” Nosramus doesn’t lose a chance to correct who they assume is the current captain of the prison.
The man gives them an unfriendly look from under his brows. “Fine. I'm Rudimer, the captain of this wretched place. So what do you want, … lady?”
“Alchemist,” Nosramus brushes off the mistake, “I would like to borrow a few of your men. There is work that requires heavy lifting, and three or, perhaps, four guards would do nicely.”
Rudimer chuckles humorlessly. “Borrow, you say? As in, they will return to their duties after doing whatever it is you need? Alive, not as ghouls?”
“Yes. I, personally, will make sure that nothing harms them.”
“You?” Rudimer restrains himself from laughing with visible effort, his spoiled teeth showing from under his cracked lips. “Are you saying you can ensure the safety of my people in these catacombs?”
Nosramus remains patient. “Yes. I have been working there for a long time now.”
Perhaps, it is the whimsical play of light in their golden eyes that makes the captain take the alchemist's words seriously. Perhaps, it is the fact that they haven't blinked once since entering the room; the fact they made their way from the deep dark to the prison; or, maybe, the air of otherworldliness surrounding their figure.
“Hmpf. This prison needs all the men there to be at their posts and not elsewhere at all times. Perhaps, I can make an exception for one or two, if your situation is just this dire. What do you have to offer, alchemist?”
“Healing herbs and mixtures. Also bread, water, and wine. Your men may take as much as they can bring.”
Rudimer casts a mistrustful eye on the alchemist.
“You aren't going to offer gold at all?”
“You must be confusing me for a coiner of false money. Mind you, I can make genuine gold out of a metal, but I’d assume it's provisions that you would appreciate more.”
The man bites his teeth into his lower lip, seemingly contemplating the offer. Then, he gets on his feet, towering over Nosramus. With a dirty look that hasn't left his face, he scalds them with a stale breath, “And what do you have to prove you’ll keep your end of the deal?”
Nosramus doesn't raise an eyebrow. Instead, the flames of the torches in the room all shoot up in the air at the same time, causing Rudimer to back down and away from the weirdest visitor he’s had so far. As fire licks the stone ceiling all around them, Nosramus simply states, “You have my word for it.”
Rudimer audibly clenches his teeth.
They agree on four guards.
————————— Guards’ POV —————————
Eight arms hold a weight that is rather heavy even for them. Careful not to brush the four stone figurines’ heads against the ceiling or walls, they follow the latter visitor of Captain Rudimer. Despite the sweat rolling down their faces, the four of them keep silent, having been told to listen to the cultist — or the alchemist, whatever their deal is.
The tiger-eyed person, fragile yet somewhat ancient and ethereal, was waiting for them when they got out of the captain’s office, having received their orders. From the moment they pointed to the statue they wanted to be moved, the alchemist has been watching it closely, every now and then checking its state in the guards’ arms.
In the dark corridor of the prison where they found it, the statue didn't look like much except for its great size. Still, this person, Nosramus, had their eyes fixed on it as the guards laid their hands on the massive foundation and lifted it on the count three.
Toughening their muscles to the maximum, they struggled through the first few steps. Adjusting their hands under the stone leviathan to not drop it as they go, they nearly knocked a torch off the wall. That earned them all a concerned side eye from the alchemist. One of the guards was almost certain he saw Nosramus make the sign of the cross in the air at their travail.
Now, they slowly pass the corridors of the prison, moving to where the guards know a dead end is. Still, the alchemist seems confident in their steps, as if led by the sixth feeling. Almost petite in comparison to the brawny guards, in light robes — like they are some kind of an Alll-merian priest for Old Gods know what reason stuck in the hellhole of Fear and Hunger — Nosramus leads four men through the dark corridors, holding a torch in their lady-like thin hand above their head. The long white hair trailing behind them like a bride’s veil doesn't help the bemusing impression.
That hair is also one of the reasons why, from the men’s point of view, it is hard to see what exactly Nosramus does with a door in the prison’s corridor when steam suddenly rises up from it. When they are done, the alchemist opens it and commands in that soft voice of theirs, “Come in here. Careful, please.”
The guards diligently squeeze themselves and the weird statue through the door frame before lowering their burden on the floor. Inside, there is nothing much; just some circular drawings on the floor.
Stretching his back, one of the four assigned men let his eyes wander. Now, in the well-lit room, they finally have a chance to take a good look at their burden. It really does depict four people: three men and a rather pretty woman with her breasts out, the guard immediately notices.
Another one of the four asks, having looked around, “What now?”
“A second, please.” The reply comes in a somewhat melodic unemotional voice.
The guards shrug to each other. Under their confused eyes, Nosramus proves the men’s general opinion on them being some sort of cultist: holding the long sleeve of their robe, they cut their arm above their elbow while standing in the center of the drawing. Blood drops on the floor, but instead of staying there, it rises up in the air, forming a circle on the alchemist's eyes' level. Dark, almost black inside, the blood portal grows until it reaches the height and width of the bigger men in the room.
“Now, we go in,” Nosramus says, turning to the four men. There is no more blood coming from their wound; moreover, there is no longer an open wound on their graying skin, only what looks like rows of old scars. Those disappear under the sleeve falling into place. Strangely, there is also no knife that the alchemist must have used in the vicinity.
A guard backs away from a floating black hole in the air. “Are you joking? Go first on that thing.”
With a sign, Nosramus steps over the lower edge of the portal and is soon standing on the other side of it, glancing at the guards from the other side, waiting. With the last strand of their hair crossing the portal, the flame of their torch lights up a cave somewhere deeper in the Dungeon where neither of the men had ever been to.
Another guard voices the question lingering in the back of all four, “Is going back safe too?”
With a blank expression, Nosramus steps back out in the room on the first level of the prison. With the guards finally convinced, the procession of five and one heavy statue soon walks into the mines.
The alchemist leads them with surprising confidence. Their bare feet don't step down from the line of the rails despite the torch in their hand producing more than enough light to see everything around them clearly.
Upon noticing the procession, a spectral figure of a knight stops in its pacing. Instead of attacking, however, it chooses to walk straight into a wall, disappearing. Its look gives a scare to the men nonetheless; despite their guide’s calm exterior, they hastily put the statue down to ready their weapons — suspiciously resembling butcher’s cleavers — at the first sight of danger. The only thing it earns them, however, is a detached “Careful” and an unimpressed look from the alchemist.
The situation repeats at least a few times on their way to the alchemist’s abode. Unfortunately for the guards’ egos, it quickly becomes apparent that all the ghosts haunting the mines let them pass at the sight of their leader, not theirs’.
As a seemingly decrepit wooden door rises before them, another partially translucent silhouette appears in the way. This one doesn't leave, however; judging by the movements of its head, this one looks the men up and down and turns to the alchemist, as if asking an inaudible question.
“Let them come in,” Nosramus unwary throws at the intimidating figure, seemingly disregarding all danger of the sword the knight proudly holds in his hands. As if fully aware of his surroundings — unlike the rest of the ghosts in the mines — the old knight nods and follows right after the alchemist in the room as they push the door open and make their way inside. This way, he stands a ghostly barrier between Nosramus and the guards as if guarding his master.
Inside, the men are met with an astonishing sight; there, deep in the Dungeon — cursed, as they all have heard at this point — stands a whole alchemical laboratory. Candles burn all around, making the laboratory so much more cozy than everything they had seen in the Dungeon, the kitchens of the prison where they work included. Despite all common sense, their flames only go higher as the owner of such a mysterious place walks deeper inside. It takes the guards a little while to get used to the light. When they do, they notice rows of bookshelves as well; those hide stone walls — not piles of rubble. All around, there are robust tables covered in all kinds of glass and clay objects of intricate design; their purpose remains unknown to the prison guards, but it only adds to the miraculous look of the room.
A massive stone stove occupies a corner of the room; beside it, there is a free space. The alchemist — must really be some kind of a magical scientist if that is where they live — points at that free space, “Here.”
When it takes another moment for the guards to process that, they add, sounding more concerned than before, “Put it here, so the people face the room, not the other way.”
The guards obey and put the statue of four people — whoever they really are — there. When one of the guards turns to meet Nosramus’ unblinking stare, they nod to him affirmatively.
“Good. Now, please, do not attempt to steal anything here. I will not stop my friend — or the others here, for that matter, — from attacking if you do.” Nosramus drops over their shoulder as they walk off to what resembles a small kitchen in the laboratory. As if to confirm their words, the old knight turns his head in their direction, dangerously squeezing his formidable weapon in his hands.
Scratching the backs of their heads — they do that simultaneously, amusing themselves with their shared way of thinking — the men look around, avoiding the translucent knight’s figure. Despite not being fully there, a ghost, he seems to be watching their every step in the room. Luckily. the alchemist's ethereal voice calls out to them soon enough.
Nosramus stands there in front of a table, filling bottles with crystal clear water one by one. It flows as if summoned from thin air, pouring from an open palm straight into the bottle neck, until, satisfied with their work, the alchemist replaces it with the next bottle. Near them, where there was nothing just a minute ago, now are many loaves of bread. A guard touches one carefully; as if fresh out of the oven, it is soft in his massive hand.
“A piece of advice: I wouldn't touch food with dirty hands if I were you.”
Not putting much attention to the alchemist’s words, the guard lifts the bread in the air, weighing it. He eyes the mage suspiciously. “Is this real?”
The other three find that a reasonable question.
“I can take a bite of any of these to prove it.” Nosramus replies in an idle tone with a deadpan expression, as if internally stopping themselves from rolling their eyes.
The guards exchange glances. As if they simultaneously come to the same idea, they nod to each other. “You sure can, but what about us?”
“Help yourself.” The alchemist shrugs without looking up at them.
Grinning, the four men each tear a piece of a loaf of bread and put it in their mouth, smacking their lips as they eat. One of them asks with his mouth full, “And we can take as much as we can carry, yeah?”
Nosramus nods, finally casting a somewhat top down smile at them, “Yes.”
When the mighty men all start filling their hands with provisions, the alchemist turns some of the water inside the bottles into wine. A counting-out rhyme decides which one of them tries it; he nods at the others with a smirk afterward, “Good.”
Another bumps his friend into the broad shoulder, “Hey, alchemist, where did you get all that stuff?”
Nosramus raises their eyebrows at that, bemused. “You have just said it yourself; I am an alchemist.”
The four share a laugh. This time, surprisingly, Nosramus giggles* behind their hand too.
When the guards are done stuffing their hands with food and drinks, the alchemist leads them back to the portal. This time, a walk doesn't take as much time as before, with the men’s hands full of food and drinks and not stone. The ghostly knight follows their procession, too. Stray ghosts keep their distance again; they also bow at the alchemist's right-hand man.
Before they part, the alchemist says to the guards, “Do not seek me out in the Dungeon. You will only find death if you go there by yourself.”
They bid their goodbyes before closing the portal after the four guards. “Thank you for your service.”
—————————
Carved out of stone, the old friend stares into the room blindly. She holds her hands in front of her, fingers intertwined just under her chin. The sculptor must have had the idea of her praying for everyone in mind when making her statue.
Nilvan’s eyes almost shine brighter when Nosramus removes the dust with a cloth. It must have been clogging her delicate features for dozens of years.
Her form is hard and cold; still, she looks at them with that warm smile she used to have before giving a soft hug, and it makes the alchemist's heart ache.
The only thing that seems out of place on her stone face is the look of unabashed serenity.
It always felt like having an evening sun beside you with her. Caring about every little creature they came across in their travel to the Cradle of Gods, she was like no one else. Endless soul, she would always be there for others, ready to offer her thin shoulder, just skin and bone underneath.
The exhaustion after years of hard work, sleepless nights, and busy days never left her face. In life, she never looked this tranquil.
Nosramus has her tired, open face enshrined in memory.
Ronn’s bare muscles glisten in the light of candles. His sinewy arm is almost as wide as the alchemist’s torso. Sadly, the statue can't share their laughter about it like the real Ronn would always do. They would sit in front of a fire, cooking dinner for everyone; as the stronger one, he would cut the meat, and Nosramus would prepare the herbs for it.
Nosramus can almost feel their friend’s hand on their shoulder as he would hold them, so they don't fall into the fire, having tripped on their robe. A truly terrible choice of clothes for travel, but the alchemist — the priest back in the day —didn't have anything else to choose from.
Now, Ronn’s face is stripped of all definite features. Not even his ears are on his head anymore. Despite the twisted, tormented form he took as a New God, as a human, he was a good listener. That was what made him a great poet, after all.
Now, Chambara’s skinned form looks painful and agonizing. Nosramus tries not to press on it more than absolutely necessary before reminding themselves — not for the first time — that stone doesn't feel. Still, a stain looks like a tear trailing from his empty eye socket. Nosramus hastily wipes it off, immediately apologizing. Poor Ronn.
Valteil’s constant frown is more evident than ever with the stripes going down on his forehead, defining the missing eyebrows.
“A little smile wouldn't hurt, you know.”
Pointing it out is a force of habit. Not that the other priest ever smiled at that; if anything, when the other four joked around, Valteil only scowled at them. He hated walking, and their trip through what was practically a barren desert wouldn't lift his sour mood.
Stubborn man, he was. Still is. Some things never change.
Nosramus rolls their eyes, save from shame for that in only their friends’ company.
The Virtuous Knight lifts the jar with water for them to wash the cloth. The alchemist had to get up on the statue’s base to reach the top of Valteil’s spiked hat.
“A show-off of a dark priest is what you are, brother.” Nosramus puffs, standing on their tiptoes under the worried eyes of their undead companion.
Francois’ mustache and beard are a nightmare to dust. His armor is no better. Still, he gives Nosramus an encouraging — and chuffed, of course — look as they carefully remove all the dirt from him.
The alchemist can almost hear the old war dog’s boasting about his physique.
Finally done, Nosramus steps back to appreciate their work.
Their friends blindly gaze somewhere behind them; following their eyes, the alchemist only sees a wall of their laboratory.
It’s not like having them here, in the same room, at all.
In a way, the statues are a memorial to what they all lost. The friendship all five of them used to have is still alive in Nosramus’ memory; if anything, they want to carry it through the years. No matter what the New Gods say, the old alchemist still cherishes the way they all were once.
The thought saddens them. Coldness pierces Nosramus’ shoulder; it is the Virtuous Knight. It’s impossible to see his eyes behind the helmet, but they know he is offering them his eternal devotion and support.
Nosramus sighs. Looking at the statues, they feel old. Well, at least they still have their ghostly friend to be old together.
After all, the statues don't reflect the people; their cold stone reflects the New Gods. And it is a great pity.