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Magistrate, Legion,

Kanon Hray 28th, IY 7788

Soldier: Rhuk Nor
Location: Plaza, before the gate to the Krak des Roses
Payment Offered: 1250 Coins
Payment Accepted: 1250 Coins
Payment Balance: 1250 Coins
Notes: No issues. A receipt of the transaction was provided by the Soldier.

-Merilithe

What has this one surrounded herself with? What great and powerful and horrific powers orbit around her?

Law. Faith. Bureaucracy. Divinities. Things impatient. Things willing to wait for natural ends to come. People driven by virtues. The combined petty ambitions and greed of so many mortals.

A miserable existence yet where she needs to be.

Magistrate, Legion,

These letters serve as a record of payments (or attempts made) towards the fine owed by this one: Merilithe.

Kanon Hray 27th, IY 7788

Soldier: Rhuk Nor
Location: Plaza, before the Pilgrim
Payment Offered: 700 Coins
Payment Accepted: 0 Coins
Payment Balance: 2500 Coins
Notes: Upon request for a receipt Soldier Rhuk's cordial demeanor changed and he refused to accept payment, stating the amount was too small and that he needed to attend a debate being hosted by the Tower of Q'Tolip.

-Merilithe

A money counter. A banker. A merchant. A shark.

Despite the ostentatious clothing. Despite the well-guarded manor. Despite the wealth he has surrounded himself with. There is nothing that can hold back the ill will of all of ones victims.

A cloth was wrapped around his mouth by surprise. The guards just outside the room on the other side of the door could hear nothing. Not his quiet pleading noises. Not his desperate sobs. Not the hired blade whispering the names of those who hired them. Not the embarrassment, shame, and regret building as the man learned who and how many hated him so.

In a room full of gold and silver. In a room scented with frankincense and myrrh. Death arrives to take away another. Just as it does any where else.

Silence.

Since the final beat there has been nothing but silence. A tranquility. Peace.

A divinity of the old world is remembered but it is a memory of something gone and dead and powerless.

Power abhors a vacuum. In this place, this world, something else has taken up the mantle. Possibly many things.

The vessels must be sought.

. . . ! . . . ! . . . ! . . .

It beats like a heart. The sound. The word. The name. Unknowable, undiscernable. Sound in the form of fog and mist.

Silence. Silence. Silence. Beat... Silence. Silence. Silence. Beat... Silence. Silence. Silence. Beat...

It beats loudly within the ears. A drum ringing through vein and arteries.

. . . ! . . . ! . . . ! . . .

And as the moment came closer and closer. The heart beats louder and louder. Every degree of the swing closing, the beating heart sounded louder and louder. It became deafening. Mind-numbing. Apocalyptic. The sound of the world being dashed into oblivion.

. . . ! . . . ! . . . ! . . .

And then the blade connected.

And flesh was cut from flesh.

Bone from bone.

Life to death.

. . . ! . . . ! . . . ! . . .

And the beat was heard one final time.

One final time.

And it was clear. And heard. And fully known.

. . . ! . . .

. . . B H A A L . . .

Slipped beneath the door of Zina Zizzo's office is a simple note.

There are words that need to be shared in person.

-M

Mother. Coddling. Gentle nobility that raises lambs.

Warrior. The glory hounds and the desperate. Seeking meaning through the application of violence. Truth is secondary. Action is preeminent.

Magi. Intellect has purpose and place. Unfocused. Woolgathering.

Wyld. Less kind, more practical Mother.

Sabotage. More indulgent, self-amused Magi. An affinity for knives.

Wanderer. Noble purpose as a pretense to excuse the natural.

Martyrs. Desperately making the inevitable purposeful. Hope for meaning beyond truth.

Wroth. Excuses and justification for what is right.

The truth exists and yet none fully grasp it. The Wheel turns. Spinning, always moving, because none of the spokes grasp true enlightenment. Perhaps another vessel might bring clarity but none have yet done so.

There are other divinities which may comprehend truth as it is. They must be sought.

There is something else remembered from the old world. A name. Perhaps. Or is it a word? A sound.

It repeats, over and over, at certain times.

When the heart is pounding. When blood courses through artery and vein like the strikes of a hammer. When sight is hazed by a red hue. It repeats.

Over and over. A single name. An isolated word. A lonely sound. Over and over.

It is remembered but it is not known. It in indescribable, indecipherable. It is palpable but not understood. Not with clarity. It is primal. Inherent. Divine. Integral to existence.

Unknown but sought. The blade needs to hunger for blood less. The mind and soul needs to find more truth.

The divinities of this world are still alien. Truly. A glance over them reveals things base and simple and generic. This world lacks a certain precision and specificity that the old world held.

The sound. The name. The word. Is it something that will guide to the truth? Is it the truth being sought?

It repeats. Over and over. Calling.

Aching joints. Burning muscle. Searing lungs.

Blood fills in the cracks. Blood seeps into the tears. Blood soaks the burns.

New bone. New flesh. New life.

This world is a struggle but slowly one grows in resilience. Patience and dedication goes far. In the future comes a point where faith takes one further.

Aching joints. Burning muscle. Searing lungs.

The wetness of blood and viscera upon the senses. The blood and viscera clumping upon the sands into a sickly paste.

Piles upon piles of bodies. Corpses. Flesh and bone hours away from decomposition. Meals for the vultures and other scavengers.

Blades through the guts. Bludgeons to the head. Axes to the ribs. Knives to the throat. Swords through the heart.

So many came to an end. A sudden end. A slow end. An end of clear relief. An end of torturous suffering.

A fortress citadel full of life now lies quiet. Death having visited and taken its pick amongst the herd.

The entire ordeal was disgusting and horrifying.

And reverent.

This world is steeped in something sinister. A poisonous tea that can act both slow and swiftly. Quickly can one's importance rise and fall. Quickly can one go from arrogance to humility.

A body centuries old, worn of muscle and bone, feels as frail and weak as it was first born. The sudden change requires acclimatization yet no leeway is given. Growth is required of a body already weary and tempered by age.

The disc is not welcoming. But neither should it be. This new world is very much the same as the old.

A guard. Patrolman. Sergeant. Captain. The exact rank is obscured and blurred.

A simple man. But simple is just an outwards projection. Beneath lies and secrets are sins and vices known only to whom holds them. And the victims the simple one have deeply harmed.

Who did he harm? Who did he cross? Did he owe money? Did he hurt another? Slight another? Break a contract? Snuff aside social etiquette?

Whatever he had done, it was enough for his end to be demanded. A quick end. A quiet end. A knife thin enough to slide between ribs but deep enough to cut through the heart.

A quiet end. Mostly. There was, just barely, a gasp of surprise. And pain.

And then nothing.

A name is not known. But a name was asked, less no sending chit would be given. A kitschy symbol of membership within this place. A useful tool of communication. A reminder that one is not of this place.

A name was long forgotten. This was not the first time a name was forgotten. Though, the first name was, perhaps, more violently erased than the one or ones that came after.

This new world cares not for old names. Whatever new name is chosen cannot be compared to old names. There is no method of verification. No need for veracity. New world. New start. New name.

Any name would do.

So one delved into the foggy memories for a name that could be used. Any at all. It took time to dig through the mist and clouds. But a name was finally remembered. A name remembered between screams of torment and wails of despair.

Merilithe.

A name attached to a nightmare. A person desperate and pleading and begging. For what? Mercy? Survival? Life?

It is felt that whoever Merilithe was--long ago, far away--they died a horrific death. The memories are vague but the smell of blood is clear. The gurgling death rattle echoes with clarity.

Merilithe had their life taken from them. What does it matter if their name is also stolen from them?