Agony in Light

See Agony in Light in the Lore Graph

“She forgets herself,” Vynnset said under her breath. “For now there is only Blasmophet’s hunger.”

Vynnset understood the excruciating pleasure one felt from a bond like that. Nasreth had been her patron for her entire adult life, and still she couldn’t wait for the Embra to arrive; for it to heed her chanted summons.

The Demonastery’s horde poured after Levia into the city – shambling corpses, howling horrors from i’Arathael, and all the other monstrous soldiers in their army of darkness.

Vynnset turned to her Disciples, and over the din of battle she shouted, “In Shadow, we serve! Liberate their pain!”

Her Disciples echoed her cry as she led them through the breach across paving stones that already ran with the blood of the slain.

The Iron Maiden unchained her Flail of Agony from her metal mantle. Many a Solanian would feel its exquisite caress before this day was done.

“Brace!” Boltyn ordered. His soldiers answered with a unified clang of steel on steel as they formed their shield wall with disciplined precision.

“You have trained them well,” said Dorinthea as they both admired the seemingly impenetrable barrier.

“Well enough, I hope.”

Monstrosity swelled in the street ahead and surged towards them, a tide made up of a hundred different horrors.

“Blessed Bellona,” Boltyn prayed, “no matter the price, no matter what stands in my way, I swear to uphold the Light.”

“The Archangel is with us?” asked Dorinthea.

Boltyn could see the doubt weighing on her shoulders. “Always.”

He drew Raydn from his scabbard. From hilt to point, Raydn radiated with the Light of Sol, a beacon of faith against the encroaching dusk.

The flood of darkness struck, sweeping Boltyn and Dorinthea apart to crash against the shield wall. Monsters fell shrieking, impaled on Solanian spears, cut down by Solanian swords. Yet for every dozen creatures destroyed, the horde took a faithful soldier with them.

Boltyn held his ground, slicing through monstrosities with Raydn. The Breaker of Dawn lived up to his reputation, becoming an island of courage to which his soldiers gathered. A vanguard formed behind him, and when he decided it was strong enough, he charged with them deeper into the fray.

Together they broke through that first wave, only to be greeted by a second. These creatures were different; humans, for the most part, armored in sleek black metal, armed with cruelly curved blades that glowered with eldritch runes. Their leader was statuesque, clad head to foot in runic plating. She glided across the battlefield, and though her empty eye sockets wept tears of blood, Boltyn felt her chilling gaze sweep across his face.

Vynnset led her Disciples further into the city, stopping only when a gleam of Sol’s Light touched her awareness.

She heard a phalanx of knights spread out to block the promenade. They marched towards her, accompanied by the heavy clatter of their armor and weapons.

“The faithful will suffer,” said Vynnset, and with her Runeblades flanking her, she rushed towards the zealots of Light, twirling her Flail of Agony gracefully at her side.

At her command, barbs burst from the handle of her flail and bit into the palm of her hand. She laughed as her blood seeped into the weapon and out through its whips and rune-marked hooks. She lashed out at the nearest knight, plain as day to her by the clanking of his armor. The jagged hooks found their way into the meat hiding between metal. The knight let out a tortured scream as flesh was torn from his body. The flail drank in his pain, drawing a runechant with it like a scribe with quill and ink. With a word, Vynnset launched the runechant at the knight, blasting him free of her flail so that he spun like a rag doll through the air and crashed, lifeless, upon the cobblestones.

She sought her next flagellant without hesitation, listening for his fast-beating heart. She swung her flail, unleashing the man’s agony, all the while relishing the pain as the barbs needled into her hand.

Raydn illuminated the beshadowed battlefield as Boltyn cut down one of the Demonastery’s blasphemers. Yet his vanguard was outnumbered, and beyond the immediate fray he could see more of the Shadow horde pouring through the breach. Could they repel so many?

He touched a trembling hand to the golden talisman at his throat and prayed to his beloved Eirina. Light kissed his soul like sunrays breaking through a mantle of black clouds. The shades of fear fled as courage ascended within him.

Boltyn charged towards a knot of fighting, two of his knights surrounded by Runeblades, runechants suspended, ready to strike his men down. He broke through the blasphemers and bore the brunt of their arcane assault. The runechants shattered against his luminous armor.

He thrust Raydn towards the blood-red sky and shouted, “Courage in the Light!” His knights responded with a ragged cheer and fell in to flank him.

Together they sliced through the Runeblades, baptizing the desecrated soil of Solana with the blood of heretics. He sensed Bellona’s presence now, as if her angelic wings beat at his back, driving him onward.

Ahead, moving through the throng of violence, Boltyn saw the ironclad maiden, her armor now undulating with dark arcanity, her face twisted in warped satisfaction as she twirled her bloodied flail in the air. One of his knights stumbled into her path, and Boltyn watched her raise her weapon to lash out again.

“Mighty Bellona,” he prayed, “lend this Hand your wings.”

The Wartune answered, appearing over the Warrior just as Vynnset’s flail bit through her armor to taste the flesh beneath. Bellona’s shimmering wings beat once. Light washed over the stricken knight and soaked into the flail. The radiance drove like a blade into her palm. She released the handle of her weapon with an unholy shriek.

Vynnset gasped. The Light had numbed her hand; had stolen the pain from her tortured flesh. Around her, the surviving Hands of Sol were taking advantage of her moment of disgust, routing her Disciples; a few of the bravest even closing in to surround her.

Their commander stalked towards her, the badge of Inquisitor bright on his breastplate, his radiant sword raised.

“I now walk in the dusk of absolution,” intoned Vynnset. “Embraced in night, I rise untold, to deny the break of dawn!”

They must pay the tithe, answered Nasreth, a blood-moistened whisper in her mind.

Vynnset snatched up her flail and swept it around the circle of knights, sketching raw lines of agony for her patron. Some turned to run, only to be flayed across their backs.

Each strike evoked a runechant. A haunting dirge filled the air as her flail scrawled the sixth. Vynnset bared her teeth and called forth her patron.

“Nasreth! I give these sacrifices to you. Know them by the agony I have harrowed from their souls.”

Nasreth took shape among the Hands of Sol. The Embra’s long arms reached out and hauled them into her exquisite embrace. The cries of fear soon turned to shrieks of mindless pain.

The last of her Disciples rallied to Vynnset, awed by the power at her command.

Boltyn stopped to behold Nasreth, his face a mask of zealous rage. “You are children, willful and ignorant! You play with powers beyond your comprehension!” He gripped his gleaming sword in both hands and turned to Vynnset. “You shall follow your demon into the Abyss.”

Vynnset could hear the beating of angelic wings behind him; could feel the insidious radiance numb the pain from her body.

“Sol blinds you with pride, Inquisitor.” She gripped her Flail of Agony, willing the barbs to sink deeper into her hand. “Let me teach you the error of your ways.”