“It tasted spoiled”, Daemion says with squinted eyes and pinched lips. “Spoiled and corky. It’s bone dry, bitter and the texture is very uncomfortable. I can barely swallow it without coughing. All the moisture in my mouth just vanishes and my teeth get rough. The finish is a little better, it tastes like eating a fruit way before it’s ripe to eat. I expect a burn when swallowing it down, but it’s the complete opposite. It really cools down my throat, but when it gets to my stomach, it’s almost too cold to comfortably drink. It aches. Wow…”
The demon is unstable on his feet for a moment and his head wobbles for a bit. His snakes rattle. He stares at the ground to regain stability.
“The aftertaste is so overwhelming. Like sparks or flames. I can feel a power come over me in an unstoppable and crashing wave. It’s too much to describe and-.”
He stops talking, closes his eyes and drops to the ground. They can see how a white mark appears just below where the serpents sprout from his head. It’s a featureless face, a very small and subtle symbol to have.
Before they can observe it any further or aid the priest, his body disappears in the black fog. Instead of slowly overflowing from the mouth of the Father’s statue, the bust spews the darkness into the temple. All the purple beacons die out and even the statue’s glowing tears aren’t visible anymore. Even worse, they can’t see each other. The only thing is the manifestation the elder fihyr changed into.
“Dargothoth…”
A deep and hollow voice echoes from the dark. They cover their ears, but the voice keeps thundering in their heads.
“Bow before your new god!”
A thin and sickly grey man rises up from the smog and keeps doing so until he towers tens of feet above them. A worn-down dark red cloth covers his body, its tattered ends waving mysteriously with the smoke as dancing partner. Chains with dozens of golden masks dangle across his chest, the expressions woeful and in pain. The skin on his bare arms is stripped away at some places, revealing a deep green glow. They would swear it’s like staring into the sky at night, stars twinkling and slowly shifting. His face is hidden behind a same kind of red cloth. The edges are nailed into his head with thick metal spikes.
“I will not”, Dargothoth shouts. “I bow before Nerull and no other imposter deity!”
The giant raises his hands and crying souls fly throughout the room.
“Fool!” His voice grows even louder and more penetrating. “All your beliefs, your entire concept of religion, all of it is based on fear. You will not grow as powerful as you deserve to be if you continue to walk this road of ignorance and slavery. That’s what you are, Dargothoth. You’re an ignorant slave to what used to be a god in your world. He doesn’t hear your prayers, but I do… And I answer.”
The cleric doesn’t say a thing. Something in him wants to go against the being that is in front of him, but something else wants to hear whatever he has to say. If it is true what he says, it would be wise to listen. Hadriel and Oanoa told him the same thing and now a third omniscient-looking man is telling him as well.
(Insight 18)
“You do not instill fear”, Dargothoth says. “You are not my trial of fear, are you? Who or what are you?”
A slow restrained laugh grows in volume. The apparition is pleased.
“You are correct. Your sharpness pleases me. I’m no part of my brother’s trial. I’m the oldest living child of Baltor and Vexys. The demons rarely speak of me, afraid of my power and secretive about the legends written about me. I can grant you everything. I hold the key to the powers you desire, because I created those powers. I understand your motives, your true nature. If Nerull still lives and hears you, he doesn’t understand you like I do.”
Dargothoth stares at the hidden face and says nothing. The god, however, doesn’t need a verbal response. He senses what’s happening in the cleric’s mind. His devotion to Nerull is wavering.
“I ask for much, but I return equally. As your loyalty grows, your power will too. You will show those who doubt your capabilities your might. You’ll continue to never show mercy and you will never spare a single soul. If you are able to do these simple things I ask of you, my powers will flow through your veins and sharpen your keen mind. What do you say, Dargothoth?”
In silence, the sivak takes a single step forward. He holds his sceptre in his hand. The sapphire doesn’t glow red, but it resonates with the same deep green that pulsates beneath the god’s skin.
“I have always rid myself of thoughts about Nerull’s presumed death. I cast aside the stories everyone keeps telling me and focused on what I did best: killing in the name of a god. Now, in your presence, I finally realize the name in which I do my killing doesn’t matter to me. I will live in doubt no longer. If Nerull isn’t strong enough to grant me what I desire, I will answer to a god that will. Grant me your blessing and I’ll be your vessel.”
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