Crimson Court

The Chosen Few

She heads toward another wooden bridge, panting. The paths branch and spread like webbing in a complex and perilous network built for miners to transport ore. The adrenaline of fear compels her down a second spire, and then a third, both purposefully identical until it begins to feel like deja vu. Every sound from a prisoner raises the hair on her nape, as if she's running in circles for the wretched man's amusement. But below her, a vast subterranean lake extends into the rippling void.

The crimson lake's depth is obscured by perfectly still, tenebrous waters. A smattering of ruins indicate it was flooded; high arches and decorative stone windows reminiscent of a religious heritage as old if not older than Aldwynn. The fang-like ends of the spires catch the red shimmer of water against its damp rock.

Jocasta continues downward, slowing her pace as she catches up to a procession of similarly dressed figures. They each wear a cloak of different material, some elaborately tailored, others stitched out of moth eaten sacks. The last among them turns toward the sound of her approaching footsteps, lowering their hood in recognition.

"Jocasta?" the woman asks out of earshot from the others.

"Yes?" Jocasta halts mid-stride, muscles taut as she peers into the darkness.

"It's me, Liliana. Oh, seeing a familiar face brings me much ease," she says, her features vaguely illuminated by firelight.

"As for me." The tension in her shoulders drops at hearing a sane voice. A gentle voice, from a woman who also lost her husband to the Old Coalition. But while Jocasta at least has Ada, Liliana has no one. She harbored more sin than Jocasta, ignored by most, or mocked in hatred by others. Jocasta wouldn't be talking to her if not out of some sense of kinship in this moment of shared discomfort.

"It's good to see you again, Liliana, despite it being in this... strange place." The lack of masks puts Jocasta's mind at ease, chalking up the old man's words to the ravings of a senile lunatic. But she can't shake the image of the eye, how it looked at her, almost with a sentience to it. She wipes her hand on her robe, trying to cleanse the sensation of saliva off her palm.

"Come, if we lose sight of the others we'll be lost down here forever," Liliana says with an encouraging smile. Jocasta peers past Liliana toward the line of robed people continuing around the bend of the spire.

They move steadily, with wary flicks of their heads looking off toward distant echoes. Idle chatter mostly points out unstable ground or jutting steps. Together, they walk toward a pulley-operated elevator, and all seven of them squeeze in. From the darkness, she feels the resonance of massive wooden cogs turning, fueled by the engine of human muscle. It growls like the appetite of some demonic creature.

Within the sprawling depths of the cavern, the lone elevator delivers the last of the congregation upon an islet enveloped by the ruby mirror. On one half of the shore, magisterial seats are arranged in a crescent upon elevated stone. As Jocasta's group steps onto the sand, three figures appear; two inquisitors - the zealous hand of the Ailtire's religious sect, donning crimson armor with flared shoulders, tattered skirts as dark as night, and halberds of deep black that absorb all light - and a priestly figure with bone-white robes paired with a red ecclesiastical stole. All three of them wear a golden mask under a hood. Red, black, and gold, symbolic colors of the Black Citadel, has everyone looking up at them in awe. The priest lifts his arms for an address with a resounding voice that carries through the deep.

"Welcome brothers, sisters. I'm sure the journey has been perilous for many of you. The city has been driven into a frenzy by those condemned to die, and those who would deny us the chance for salvation. We all hear the screams of murder every night - a symptom of the lack of guidance that once shepherded Aldwynn toward the Ailtire's light. These are lost souls, yes, but fear not! You stand within the last bastion of worship, untouched by the Old Coalition and their heretical new order. Here, you are found. Here, my brothers and sisters, you will tread the same path as the founders of Aldwynn. For there is no fate worse than death." Solemn nods of agreement ripple among the hooded heads. Liliana looks at Jocasta with a relieved smile, and Jocasta can't help but do the same.

"In being here, you have gained favor of the Ailtire. The progenitors of Aldwynn, who judge us from their seats within the Black Citadel, are not driven by desire or petty vendettas like we depraved creatures. No... They have ascended beyond base instincts that consume us. They are pure, and everlasting. Free of sin. And it is to them we pray for salvation. Now, join me."

A chorus of voices recite the mantra in unison. Jocasta stutters along with a delay.

"Mortality is the maelstrom into hell. A crucible of the Ailtire to cull infidels whose devotion is found wanting. Without their salvation, we are destined to die. To die is to be condemned to eternal suffering. No fate is more vile. No fate is more absolute."

"May the chosen few defy death."