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Imogen wakes to darkness, as she always does. The air is thick with moisture and the familiar scent of incense. Though she can’t see them, she feels the weight of eyes upon her. Waiting.
Orym, the scribe assigned to help document and decipher her visions, breaks the silence.
“Did you…See anything?”
“Real nice choice of words, Orym.” Imogen points to her eyes, milky white with swirling flecks of blue. Completely clouded over with cataracts. She lets Orym stammer apologetically before she cracks a smile. “I know what you meant. My dream was the same as it always is.”
“Nothing new? Unusual?”
“Darkness, ravens, and that strange lullaby. That’s all.”
Orym hums to himself, quill scratching against papyrus. “Thank you, Miss Temult. Do you need any assistance getting back to your chambers?”
Imogen scoffs a laugh. “I have lived in the Temple my entire life, I can get around just fine.”
“I know you can,” Orym sighs. He nudges her in the hip with the head of her staff before placing it in her grasp. He continues, “Go get some rest, you’ve earned it.”
Using her staff as leverage, Imogen stands. She counts the tiles beneath her bare feet as she makes her way to the doorway, pushing the wooden door open with a shove, and exits the Ritual Chamber. As she enters the main corridor, her foot is suddenly coated with a warm, thick substance. She dabs some onto her finger and smells. Metallic.
A cry echoes throughout the hall, much like the raven of her vision, only more guttural.
Imogen stands frozen until someone, or something, grabs her arm and tugs her back into the Ritual Chamber. The door slams shut and the lock clicks.
“Orym?”
“Miss Temult, we are under attack,” Orym mutters, guiding her by the arm to the eastern corner of the room. “And you need to leave.”
A thud reverberates throughout the room. Something is banging on the door.
He lets go of her arm. The harsh sound of wooden furniture scraping across stone floors echoes in the chamber. Papers rustle.
“Leave? To where?” Imogen had never left Marquet. Had scarcely left the Temple grounds.
“Gwessar. This teleportation circle will send you to the Temple of Ioun there, you should be safe there.”
There’s another thud at the door. Louder.
Imogen reaches her arms out wildly, grabbing Orym by the shoulder, fingers clutching the soft linen of his robes.
“Are you not coming with me?”
“My place is here.” Orym places a hand atop Imogen’s where it rests on his shoulder. He gives it a squeeze before nudging it off. “Your Mother made me swear an oath to protect you. I intend to uphold that.”
“You knew my mom?”
Another thud, followed by splintering wood.
“Yes, I did. And so did High Priestess Keyleth. She’ll tell you everything, she’ll take you to Her. We’re out of time.”
Before Imogen can respond, the air surrounding her suddenly grows cold. The smell of salt floods her nostrils. There’s a thunderous crack as the stone tile beneath Imogen’s feet trembles. Then, the world goes quiet. No Orym. No thud. No cries of pain. Just her own haggard breathing.
And then, music.
Lilting and languid. Melancholy and hopeful. The words aren’t familiar, but the melody is. It’s the lullaby from her dreams.
“High Priestess Keyleth?”
Keyleth doesn’t respond, and the music stops. An eerie silence fills the room.
“I know someone’s there,” Imogen calls out, sweeping her staff in a half-arch ahead of her as she takes a tentative step forward.
“Stay where you are.” A voice shouts. “Don’t…don’t come any closer.” The voice lacks any semblance of sternness now, growing thin with fear. “Please.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten anyone,” Imogen stays rooted to the spot, raising the hand not on her cane in surrender. “Orym sent me through The Circle. The Smouldercrown Ziggurat is under attack.”
Silence.
“He said that you would help, and that you knew my mother. My name is Imogen. Imogen Temult.”
A gasp, and a strange skittering sound. “Imogen? The Imogen?” The skittering gets closer, approaching Imogen. “I can’t believe it’sss really you.” The voice is awestruck, with the slightest lisp. It almost sounds like a hiss.
“Have we - have we met before?” Imogen asks, growing increasingly apprehensive. She clutches her staff tighter, gnarled wood digging into her palm.
“No, but I’ve seen you.” As the woman speaks, Imogen quickly realizes she doesn’t have a lisp at all. The hissing sound is something…else. “You’re painted on almost all of the vases here. You’re prettier in the flesh.”
Imogen subconsciously takes a step backwards, bumping into the corner of a table and mumbles out a curse.
“It’s true, then, that you’re blind?” The voice calls out again, closer still. “You really can’t see me, can you?”
There’s nothing taunting about the phrase, whispered in disbelief. It almost seems hopeful.
Imogen simply shakes her head, grips her staff even tighter. “I can’t.”
“Wonderful news. That means I can help.” Imogen scoffs, but the strange woman continues. “Your Mother? Liliana? I know where she is.”
“Why should I believe you? Where’s Keyleth? Where are the other priestesses?”
“They were gone when I found this place. I swear.” The woman vows, sighing at Imogen’s nonresponse. “You were born in Marquet. You were raised by the Temple. You have been blind since your birth. Your father is a humble farmer. Your Mother is an exalted Seer, serving as the Vanguard of the Vault of Ioun in Vasselheim. Born under the blood moon of Ruidus, powerful potential thrums in your veins.”
“How did you…”
“I’ve been here for weeks. I’ve read through a fair bit of the scrolls laying around and you are quite the popular subject.”
Imogen hummed to herself. “I want to believe you. And I want to hear everything it is that you’ve read here. But first, can you answer me a question?”
“Ask away.”
“Why have you been hiding here? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m…I’m a monster.”
“A monster?” Imogen hadn’t heard of a monster that could speak in proper sentences. “You sound human to me.”
“I was. Until she turned me into this sss .”
A series of agitated hisses broke out in front of Imogen, seemingly from every direction. A cold hand clutched her wrist, and gently tugged. With bated breath, Imogen let her hand be guided upwards. Something touches her skin: feather-light and flickering. There and gone again. Then, something cool and dry bumps into her palm. No bigger than a gold coin. It all clicks for Imogen, then. The snakes let out another bout of hisses, as if to confirm her suspicions.
“You’re Medusa?”
“That’s what they call me.” She grows stiff for a moment. “I was called Laudna, before .”
Imogen doesn’t need to see her gesture at the locks of writhing snakes atop her head to catch her meaning. Something twists in her stomach. The thought of having a before , something better to yearn for. Something to miss. Something that she’d do anything to get back. An idea blooms.
“Well, Laudna, I have a proposal. You tell me everything that you read about me and my mother and help me make the pilgrimage to Vasselheim, and I will help you get rid of this curse.”
“You will? How?”
Imogen shrugs her shoulders. “If I’m as big of a deal as you make me out to be, I figure I’ll have some leverage. There’s bound to be a holy person who can help in the Cradle of the Faith.”
***
Ioun foretold of a legendary Seer
Borne of the Sighted, born without sight
Surrounded by adders, the babe showed no fear
Alone on the Altar all night
Raised by the Maven, Reared by the Mentor
In the den of the Serpent she nestles
For the Raven she bleeds, For the Mistress she speaks evermore
Her heart is the Vessel
***
The Isle of the Satyr, and Cyclops, the Minotaur and the Labyrinth, and other myths surrounding Imogen and Laudna’s journey the Vault to be included in the upcoming anthology: Voyage to Vasselheim.
And so Imogen and Laudna embarked on their journey to Vasselheim. Laudna: covered in a cloak, eyes turned down. Imogen: arm looped through Laudna’s, unseeing eyes turned forward. After months of grueling travel, danger and diversion, and far too many brushes with death, the pair finally arrived at the gates of Vasselheim. An upturned cloak and the wood-carved sunglasses gifted to Laudna by one of the Satyr Fearne’s “favorite pets” helped stave off most suspicions as they wound their way through the city, towards the Vault: the holiest Temple of Ioun.
The Vanguard of the Vault consisted of Three High Priestesses of Ioun: Otonia, Deliah, and Liliana. When the girls arrived at the Temple, the council was already convened. The moment Imogen came into view, Liliana rushed to Imogen’s side, approaching a state of mania in her disbelief and overwhelm. The other two Priestesses approached Laudna. Using the familial reunion as a distraction, Deliah tore the hood from atop Laudna’s head, knocking her glasses loose as Otonia struck at her with a sickle. Crying out, “Imogen!” as the priestess attacked, the serpentine head fell off in one fell swoop. Though not before the Medusa had seen her own reflection in the shined metal of Otonia’s ornamental breastplate. Or before Otonia herself had looked into the Gorgon’s eyes.
In the stuttered heartbeat it took for Imogen to reach Laudna’s headless and half-petrified body, High Priestess Deliah had already secured the Head of Medusa and disappeared into the ether. Imogen clutched her partner’s lifeless body and wept. They say her cries were so mournful, that even the gods atop the Heaven’s Stairs were moved to tears. She cried for days, as the heavens released rains across the surrounding Timberland.
When at last her eyes grew dry, she stumbled out of the Vault and wandered the city. Alone. Guided only by the distant call of a raven and a desperate prayer, Imogen entered the Duskmeadow District. Despite her grief-stricken daze and blindness, she managed to climb the stairs to the Raven’s Crest. The Temple was silent as she entered. The metallic scent of blood stung Imogen’s nostrils.
She followed the scent to the Crest’s central chamber, where a massive stone basin stood. Upon entry, Imogen realized the pool was filled with blood. But this blood was cold. Like Laudna’s torso had been. Desperately seeking guidance and without much to lose, Imogen sank below the surface, allowing her mouth, nose, ears and eyes to fill with the substance.
***
The dusk sky above is midnight blue.
Clouds dappled crimson the only remainder of Pelor’s light.
I wander through a field of overgrown grass.
Seeking.
A lullaby in a foreign tongue floats on the evening breeze.
A grass snake licks at my heels. It burns.
I look down and it is not a grass snake, but a viper.
Wrapping itself around my ankles, slithering up my calf.
Another joins it. Another.
I try to run, but their writhing bodies trip me.
I fall.
The lullaby stops, interrupted by the cry of a raven.
More and more snakes erupt from the ground beneath me.
They hiss, Zehir, Zehir, Cloaked Serpent of Darkness
They constrict around my chest.
They cover my eyes.
I cannot breathe.
I cannot see.
The raven cries once more.
***
When Imogen emerged from a basin, blinking the blood from her eyes, she could see. For the first time ever, Imogen was able to truly See. In the dark crimson reflection of the pool, Imogen noticed a pair of raven wings had sprouted from her shoulder blades. Guided by Ioun’s wisdom, Imogen returned to the Smouldercrown Mountains, made swift by the Duskmaven’s gift of flight.
Imogen entered the temple of her raising, devastated at the sight of the complete destruction the Cultists of Zehir left behind all those weeks ago. Determined to avenge the fallen and defeat the evil priestess Deliah, Imogen ascended to the Ritual Chamber.
The lifeless body of Orym, her scribe and sworn protector, lay by the broken teleportation circle. His blood long dried, the hilt of his sword still stuck in the shattered stone.
Atop the central table, the head of Medusa lies in a circle of Arcane scrawlings. The great Necromancer Deliah stood above her, uttering incantations until the etchings began to glow a faint purple. Imogen grabbed the remains of her protector’s sword and threw it at the witch. The broken blade sunk in between her eyes, killing her instantly. The Arcane glyphs surged brighter for a moment, and faded.
Averting her gaze, Imogen grabbed the head of her fallen friend and flew back to the Vault, where her mother helped her prepare the Ritual of Resurrection. Imogen descended into the depths of the Hells and wandered through the Fields of Asmodeus. Seeking. Fighting off the forlorn souls stuck in Tartarus as they clawed at her feet. Until finally, she found Laudna. As she was. Before .
Chestnut curls and rosy cheeks.
In the Fields of the Asmodeus, where the undead and untethered await purgatory, Imogen offered Laudna a coin and a choice. She could pay Xandis to take her to Elysium. The land of without sorrows. She could leave her life behind, living forever as she once was. Or she could come back to the Material Plane with Imogen. Where sorrows know no bounds.
And yet Laudna chose to live. Despite the certainty of pain, of loss. She couldn’t imagine a world before Imogen, just as Imogen couldn't imagine a life before Laudna.