Absolom stubbornly hobbled near the back of Titus' company, a newly-assigned cleric hovering a mere pace away. The healing the Arch-mage's clerics had wrought on him had been enough to replace the majority of his skin, but not enough to repair the actually damage done to his flesh. Beneath the puckered swaths of scar tissue Absolom's formed looked ragged and misshapen, stripped so close to the bone that he really did look like a skeleton. Moving was painful, and all but impossible without his cane. That he had kept up with the Legion this long was a testament to his willpower, and to the resourcefulness of the woman who Malik had assigned to watch him like a hawk.

The clerics had wanted to keep the Skeleton in triage, claiming that there was a chance they could repair his broken body with a little time. Absolom had known they were bullshitting at best; in all likelihood they wanted to use him as a test subject for some of their more clandestine side-projects, or work at removing the soulsteel mask that was now permanently fused to his face. He told them as much as he had indignantly marched out of their tents, clothed only in his mask and new skin. One of their tactics for keeping him there had included denying him clothes to replace those seared off. They had not banked on him having no sense of shame. Malik had not been happy, but then again the man didn't really seem capable of the emotion. 'Mildly less annoyed' was about as close as he ever got.

The... incident at Talara had left the Arch-mage leery of dealing with the Skeleton. A spellcaster who survived a brush with the Warp was a touchy subject. There were two parts of the other side of the Veil; the Other Side, and the Warp. The Other Side was the classic depiction of the afterlife, grey and formless. It was almost like an ocean in the wake of a storm. Souls that went here were drawn from the stock of the common man, those who had not actively weighed down their spirits with murder and hate. The Warp on the other hand was the domain of the darker side, a churning abyss of every negative facet of life. Where the Other Side was populated with will-o-wisps, the Warp was infested with the daemonic predators of the afterlife. A spellcaster could draw a bit of power from the Other Side, reaching out to borrow some of the immaterial. There was no risk to it, but the power drawn was negligible. Most didn't bother with it, at least until the strain of spell casting began to age them and they realized the cost.

Drawing from the Warp was another matter.

To touch the churning madness was to risk being burned. To channel it was to invite in the devil. The predators of the Warp could piggyback the flow of a spellcaster channeling the chaos in order to reenter the material world, albeit limited to possessing the offending spellcaster. These were the Daemonhosts. They were humans within whom a daemon has nested a portion of its being and power. Like a vile growth it would grow in potency and influence until it overwhelmed the unfortunate human, and then the daemon would be born into the physical world in a birthing of pain, horror, and shattered dreams. This process of gestation, from infection to the daemon being unleashed from the fetters of the vessel’s flesh, wass a long battle of wills in which the daemon’s nature began to subsume that of the human vessel. Eventually, the daemon broke down its vessel’s will until there was nothing left that wass human except, maybe, the tiniest mote of consciousness screaming endlessly and silently in pain.

How a daemon found a human vessel was a matter of chance and opportunity, but always began with contact between the vessel and the power of the Warp. It could be a glance into a cursed mirror, a wound from a daemon sword, a stray daydream of power and ruination in a profane temple. However, no matter what it was, once the daemon has its barbs hooked into the flesh of a warm human vessel, the road to a tragic catastrophe had begun. Once the seed has been planted, it could take some time for the human vessel to realise what had happened to him. Strange occurrences and the spontaneous manifestation of unnatural powers together with a growing malignancy of being would lead him eventually to realise what was happening to him, what he was becoming.

During this time of sublimation, a human vessel would often try to resist the onset of the daemon’s power, or he believe that he could control it and bend it to his will. Indeed, many who became vessels to daemons could suppress or unleash the power of the daemon, but to hope that they could truly control the abomination that was encysted within them was a wishful lie. Every attempt to leash the daemon within would bring its time closer and all that was certain was its time will come. Over time the power of the Daemon Vessel would grow, and the humanity of the vessel withered faster and faster while the daemon within bubbled to the surface more frequently and potently. At the last, when there is no will left to stop it, the daemon would rip into existence with an exultant cry and be free to wreak unmeditated and unrestricted havoc in the realm of matter and flesh.

There were processes that could save a Host from their fate, although the salvation came at a steep cost. an Exorcism was a brutal process of ritually casting out a daemon, unclean spirit, or warp entity that has taken possession of a person, place, or object. People who have had their body and mind slaved to a thing from beyond —and then had that parasite ripped from them— were left with the withered remnants and deep scars in both mind and soul, and were never the same again. Many died from the shock, and more took their own lives shortly after rather than live with the relics of the possession. However, those who did survive being exorcised and could endure the scars they bore were steeled against the corrupting influences of the warp, their minds and bodies fortified against further posession. Many who had been exorcised claimed to be able to see the smeared traces of corruption around them, to feel the ebb and flow of the warp nearby, and to hear the thoughts of daemons as maddening whispers in their minds.
The process of exorcism was not one commonly undertaken. Instances of full bodily possession were usually so dangerous and potentially corrupting to others that the possessed was simply executed. The exorcism itself was a ritual in which the exorcists commanded the daemon to leave by the power of the gods, and compeled the daemon further by naming it with its true name. It was an undertaking fraught with risk to both the exorcists and the possessed subject: the daemon within would use any means to prevent being cast out, and many who had attempted an exorcism of a powerful daemon had perished or been possessed themselves in the process.

Even if the exorcism succeeded, the host could still die from the shock of the daemon’s withdrawal from his body, or be so broken in mind and spirit that he was granted the final peace. A few managed to regain their humanity and sanity, but once you have been possessed by a daemon, you are never quite whole again. Most rational authorities would shrink from even allowing an exorcised person to live, and most would advocate confining them for the rest of their lives, but the effectiveness of a one-time host and vessel for a daemon in the battle against the manifold enemies of mankind was without doubt. Cold and disconnected from empathy or emotion, an exorcised human was disturbing and ruthless as well as being highly resistant to the influences of both the warp and magic.

Subsequently, Absolom's brush with the Warp pointed down a dangerous path. The Arch-mage had given the Skeleton a tentative clean bill of health, but the young cleric now assigned to him was capable of both watching him through deathsight -although the clerics referred to it as Astral Vision- and killing him with a well-placed dagger. Absolom knew her by reputation; the girl was looked innocent, but in another life she had been a fixer for the local gangsters. Her common refrain was 'I'll kill you before you even realize you're dead', and as cliched a line as it was Absolom actually believed she could achieve it. Her Banner was terrifying. At the least she had kept his pain from overwhelming him, dulling the agony whenever he began to stumble.

And he stumbled often. The Skeleton knew that he should not have ventured out with the main force, he was going to be a liability. But he could not bring himself to remain behind. Something drove him to follow the Legion, to delve into the dark corners of the world. It was a gnawing hunger, chewing at the edge of his consciousness. He had fought with every fiber of his being to be allowed to march, although it had only been when Caine had pulled Inquisition authority again that Command finally acquiesced. Not gracefully either.

Caine was an odd addition to the Legion. She was an unsettling point of calm in the tumult beyond the Veil, lulling the magically uninclined into a kind of hypnotic congeniality. Aside from their basic distaste for POGs, most of the Legionnaires treated her better than then did each other. The magically inclined on the other hand found her unnerving, a dead zone for their powers. Absolom found the spiritual calm rejuvenating, but that was simply the manifestation of his recent trauma. He didn't know what Titus thought of the Inquisitor's minion, but the assassin-cleric at his side kept muttering profanities.

-----

After hours of marching, the XIV entered a vast cavern. Smooth-walled and illuminated by a venerable forrest of gargantuan luminescent mushrooms, the entire structure was peppered with thousands of slim bolt-holes and passages. Absolom growled uneasily, glancing to the Cleric at his side.

"Sister Emi, please get those daggers you're so fond of ready. I'm having an uneasy flashback to my childhood. And that ended with a great deal of explosions." He shuddered.
"Oh Dad. I've found you're damn cathedral to the Great Mushroom. I am sooooo glad you're not around anymore."

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YEEEEEEAH!

The Legion stopped dead in its tracks at the sight of the cavern. Forested terrain and an abundance of spider holes didn't exactly scream 'march right on through'.

'Ambush?' the First Centurion asked.

'Ambush,' chorused the rest of the Legion's officers.

Lucibius nodded and, at the Legate's word, began the task of setting up a temporary camp. Even with something like this, the Empire had trained its forces to prepare for the worst. Line troopers carved out trenches in the surprisingly pliable soil at the forest's outskirts, directed by the tent group leaders and optiones. Skeleton legionnaires and the skirmisher auxilia established a perimeter at the forest's edges, ready to intercept any potential threats that might appear. All of this occurred under the oversight of Lucia Cornelia, thanks to her years of siege experience. Under her leadership, the men and women of the Legion worked like a well-oiled machine, setting up a network of punji pits, pitch-lined trenches, and other traps, as well as a palisade fashioned from the mushrooms' stalks. Within a few hours, a fully-functional outpost had been built. The Legion's shortage of earth mages was keenly felt, however, and many dearly wished they had a few of those around to fashion stone walls. As it was, the men left the cavern walls untouched for fear of compromising its structural integrity. Even the XIV was above a death as ignominious as a simple cave-in.

Titus stood at the walls with the First Centurion as they surveyed the scene. Glowing spores floated lazily in the air, casting the camp in a teal light. A haze shimmered over a few of the holes, indicating potential gas pockets. The Legion had to rely on magelight and blades here. If it came down to a siege, the Ancient's incendiaries would be sorely missed.

Unlike Absolom, Titus had the luxury of working with divine magic. Though it required regular and genuine homage to one's patron deities, it had few negative side-effects as long as one remained in favor. The only problem was power. The arcane sphere of magic was, for the most part, consistent source of magical might. Arcane practitioners could draw from a steady source of energy and achieve predictable results each time. Followers of the divine had to rely on the power of their own patrons, who were fed by worship. As more faithful knelt at the altar of a particular deity, so too did said deity's might wax. Magic became easier to call on and more efficient to cast. Titus, however, had come from an old family, one that had worshiped what the people now called the Old Faith. It was a dying church, its temple fires kept lit only by a few devoted pilgrims and priests now. Most Imperial citizens worshipped the gods of the tribe from which the current dynasty had been birthed, a wholly separate pantheon from that which Titus' family paid tribute to. He had made peace with this a long time ago, and was content with simply serving as one of the last remaining knights of She Who Sleeps. While Her favor lasted, he would spread Her light wherever he went.

'You know, Optio, this is actually pretty nice country,' said the First Centurion.

'Except for the Deep Ones.'

'True, true. I suppose we'll just have to make it nicer.'

The skirmisher auxilia had scouted ahead, checking the holes and mapping the area. They were supposed to return one hour ago. Strange. Skirmishers were trained to be among the hardest, most disciplined of the Legions. While the XIV's were barely restrained mad dogs, they were still Legion. They should have reported back or at least fired off a flare. The skirmisher auxilia had one set of signal flares for every ten men. Surely an emergency would have forced them to fire one off.

Lucibius noted this as well. 'Titus, take your tent group and check on our auxilia. Move light. Non-formation kit, so leave the tower shields and spears behind. If you don't find anything in three hours, come back and we'll do this the old-fashioned way.'

The paladin nodded and descended the palisade, making his way to the troops under his command. 'Our recon boys have gone missing, folks. Ready up, we're going on a field trip. Skirmishing loadouts, folks. Bucklers, swords, and ranged only. Dump your boards and spears. You too, POG.' Cain wordlessly gathered her own equipment, a tad miffed at the moniker she'd been given.

Titus turned to the Legion sorcerors' tents, motioning for Absolom. 'No need for your services yet, Sister. Just our unfleshed friend over there.'

He didn't wait for a response. Drawing his blade, Titus led the second venture out into the grove, all too aware of the unnerving silence beyond the safety of the wall.

Sister Emi bit back a retort, her delicate features souring at Titus' blunt orders. There was defiance in that look, and a little bit of wounded pride. She glared at Absalom as the Skeleton hobbled out after his commander, as if the Sister blamed him for Titus' brisk manner.

"I'd be a bit more polite to that one boss." Absolom puffed, struggling to keep up with Titus' long strides. "She kills more easily than we draw breath, and she gets to say whether I live or die. Plus, I think she has a crush on you. Or at least is unused to anyone not paying her a second glance."

The Skeleton took a moment to glance around, warily surveying their campsite as best he could with Deathsight.

"Describe this place to me, old friend. Hell, describe Caine to me. This mask is playing havoc with my vision and no one back in tents will talk to me other than to utter monosyllabic orders. I can make out a bunch of big freaking mushrooms, enough to make an underground jungle. How on earth is this stuff growing so thick?" He paused for a moment, lost in thought.

"Did I ever tell you about my Dad? The man was a lunatic. Proclaimed himself to be clergy of the Faith of the Great Mushroom. He claimed that the hallucinogenic mushrooms that grew down here were gifts from the universe’s demiurge, and that to consume them was to commune with that underlying cosmic force. Eventually he started to clash with the peacekeepers, but there wasn't enough membership in his faith to cause them much of a hassle. If he'd known about this place I don't know what would have happened.

"But enough of my rambling. There's been a problem I take it?"

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Titus spat a wad of dust-ridden phlegm. 'We're Legion, brother. Legion officers, no less.' He glanced at the sister. 'We're professionals. I might have time for silliness like that when I'm old and feeble and retired. Right now, though, we've got work to do. We always have work to do. Our recon boys went missing. They're long overdue to come back, so it's our job to track them down.'

The paladin paused to adjust his scarf, a standard-issue piece of kit meant to prevent armor and the surface's sand from chafing at the neck. The collar of his chainmail had gotten under it again. 'Right now, friend, it seems like we're in a whole different world, doesn't it? I can't say much more than you. This sort of thing wasn't exactly explored in detail by the textbooks.'

Dropping his claw-scarred tower shield atop his bedroll, Titus switched it out for the smaller buckler clipped to his travel pack. 'Natural rock formations beyond the scope of any caves we've seen before, crystal growths the size of the Imperial Quarter back in the capital, and pools of bioluminescent creatures. Probably Deep Ones all around, too. As for the POG, I can't say much. Passed basic with good scores. Mental fortitude higher than XIV standard, but that should be no surprise. Untested in combat. As it stands, she might make a good backliner, but I wouldn't trust her at the shield line just yet.'

The other legionnaires followed him inside the tent, making their own pre-mission preparations. 'And there's all the gods-damned dust!' complained one of the men. 'All this glowy spore crap, gets in our armor and packs and boots. Chafes like a bastard.'

'Least it smells nice,' replied another.

'Only because you'd snort this rubbish if you could, man.'

Titus rolled his eyes and stepped out, waiting for the others to get ready. 'Well, turns out sometimes, the crazy folk are right. I'm guessing your dad would be laughing his ass off, eh, Ab?'

He drew his combat blade, a gladius freshly sharpened, its sheen dulled with a bit of dirt and leather polish. The camp gates creaked open, revealing the silent jungle in all its eerie beauty. He turned to regard the soldiers assembled behind him.

'From now on, we're going to earn our stories, boys and girls.'

Absolom snorted, secreting a myriad of knives into the various pockets and sheaths of his leather armor as he spoke. "He'd be laughing his ass off alright, although I'm sure the mushrooms themselves would be providing more to that bout of insanity than the actual discovery of the 'Cathedral Bōlētus'. The Cornicen is right though; it does smell nice. Kinda like that pine wood they import from up North -Gaella maybe?- mixed with that lemony spice from the East. You know, the stuff that the headmaster used to put on his duck at the feast day banquets. Best thing we ever stole, huh Optio?"
He chuckled quietly to himself, stiffly leaning on his cane as the group advanced carefully into the fungal forest.

---------

Their progress was slow, hampered by strange, twisted roots and clinging, choking vines. Though the floor of the cavern was a hard, barren rock, the mighty mushrooms that rose from it seemed to have lain down roots as easily as if the granite was putty. The great fungi had also taken the liberty of dusting the floor with their spore, leaving a soft blanket that both dulled the ring of legionnaire boots and obscured the occasional grasping root. More than a few soldiers were now smeared with spore warpaint from their unfortunate encounters with those hidden natural tripwires, their faces glowing a faint, eerie blue. All stood at high alert, marching in wedge formation in utter silence but for the occasional hushed order that a simple hand gesture could not encompass. There were strange murmurs among the trees, whispers and hisses intermingled with the occasional distant primal roar.

Movement was slowed further by the simple fact that the Optio had chosen to bring Absolom along; in the best of terrain he would have been hard-pressed to keep up, but these was hardly the optimal conditions. His cane caught regularly, and his overly-sensative scarring seared at every possible jar and stumble. Further, the Skeleton was one of their primary means for tracking in this wretched place, his deathsight providing insight into where the more dangerous flora and fauna regularly plied their trade. For the past hour now the Skeleton had hobbled beside Immune Cathak -their tracker- supplementing the faint and well-disguised trial of the skirmishing party with the faint whispers of the ether. Death had been in this place recently, a foreign death that had only recently exacted it's toll. Absolom's blunt declaration of such had set a somber mood, the poisonous surety that they would not find all their wayward comrades in one piece seeping in to stain moral.

Progress ground to a halt nearly two hours into the hunt. The trail they had so diligently been following had lead the legionnaires straight to the sheer wall of a cliff, over which a waterfall tumbled. Although the water seemed pure enough, the fine skein of spores that bobbed at the surface dissuaded most from sampling. Absolom and Cathak spent a few futile moments searching for a trail, but found nothing. It was as if the skirmishers had simply stepped into the cliff face, a tribute to the gods of the deep. Even Absolom's sense of recent death availed them nothing, he felt it emanating from within the rock itself.

As the Skeleton kicked angrily at the chalky white pebbled that littered the riverbank, one of the junior legionnaires pipped up
"Optio... You don't suppose there's something behind the waterfall? I mean, it's kinda cliched, but..."

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Titus rolled his eyes. No. That would be st--Okay, yes, the cliche was probably the way to go. He turned to the group's tracker.

'Head back to camp. Let the First Centurion know what's up. Meanwhile, we'll check out the waterfall.'

The soldier saluted and set off in the direction the group had come. Titus trusted him to make it back on time. They'd blazed their own trail on the way here, cutting aside vines and roots and carving telltale markings into the mushroom stalks pointing back in the direction of the next nearest marker. After the initial stumbling, any of them could have easily made the journey back.

Titus dipped his gladius into the pool at the waterfall's base. The water level reached about halfway up the blade when he hit ground. Thankfully, the water was also transparent, once one stirred up the coating of spores on the surface and swept it aside. No aquatic threats, then, except if one got a foot stuck in the pool's small exit, which presumably led to a stream underneath.

Satisfied that nothing horrible would jump out at him from the depths of the shallow pond, Titus led the way. As it turns out, there was indeed a cave behind the waterfall--an artificial cave, at that. Carvings lined the walls and ceiling of this curious cave, most too weathered from age and water damage to be legible. Those that remained intact depicted strange, often horrific scenes. One carving depicted a stepped ziggurat, at the top of which lay an altar. Bipedal figures knelt on each tier, prostrating themselves as another figure at the top ate the entity which lay on the altar. Another showed more of those people in a circle around what appeared to be a burst of light. The one closest to the burst of light was engulfed in flames, while its peers seemed to be dancing. Titus got the feeling that the burning one's back was arched, not in pain, but in pleasure. Every few meters, he passed a sconce on the left with a torch of sorts, its head wrapped in a cloth covered with the glowing mushroom spores. He had no idea what it would have taken to keep such spores preserved and luminescent for so long in such a seemingly ancient place. And then he found them.

Titus stepped into a wide, tiered circular chamber, reminiscent of the great amphitheater of the Imperial capital. While the walls outer floor appeared to be of the same stone which made up the cavern outside, the amphitheater's tiers were smooth obsidian, intricately carved with hieroglyphics. Deep grooves ran down, down, down, into the impossibly distant floor at the bottom of the chamber, filled with what Titus belatedly realized was freshly spilled blood. He found the skirmishers. Every single one of them lay dead, arranged at even intervals, face-up, their legs straight and arms folded over their chests. Cold, dead hands gripped daggers while deep red blood flowed from slit throats. There were no signs of struggle. Around the pit, Titus saw the bones of visitors from stranger, older aeons, their skeletal structure strangely piscine, their poses in death eerily identical to those of the newly dead.

What the hell had happened here?

Absolom stumbled to the side, retching as he fell to his knees. The psychic stench of death had been apparent, even before they and approached the profane alter. But the moment the Skeleton had set foot within the boundaries of the hieroglyphics something far worse had assaulted his senses, something borne from neither the dust this world, the currents Other Side, nor even the churning depths of the Warp itself. The sensation was primal, alien, beyond comprehension. It was older than Time yet had never felt it's passing, kindred to Death itself yet never fearing the scythe. Absolom could feel madness pressing in upon him form all sides, whispers and lunacies swarming across his psyche like untold swarms of Things that Lurk in the Corners. They told him of the world beyond the world, of reality without Shinma, of geometry that had been rejected in the foundation of creation. They spoke of stepping sideways to enter the realm of Dreaming, to where the Unshaped dwelt and where all that is gossamer is reality. They called him to the cold depths, where a city that housed dead dreaming gods waited for the day they would awaken the master whose house this was. Absolom was sure he would have been driven truly mad, SHOULD have been, if not for the bleak voice that hissed back at the Thing from Beyond.
This one is MINE, Lord of Canaan. You may batter and beat the form, even break it, but I shall not relinquish this mind and soul to one of the Old Ones. You have your fish Dagon, return to whence you came! Leave me in peace!

The Skeleton scrabbled his way back across the border of the amphitheater, barely able to make sense of what he was doing for all the voices clamoring in his weary skull. The bleak voice screeched profanities and spat obscenities into the gale of otherworldly torment, drowning out all coherent thought but the instinctive drive to escape this horrible place. As he heaved himself off of the obsidian in a final burst of strength, the Thing from Beyond sent a final psychic assault against the bleak voice that defended his mind.

I. WILL. BE. FREE.

The voice uttered some hideous combination between shriek of anger and defiant laughter, subsiding as the gale abruptly shut off. Absolom looked about him, his throat raw. The whole while he had been screaming in abject terror, interspersed with the occasional gut-churning retching. Though details were as vague as they always were, he could tell that the rest of the party was looking at him like he was a madman. None of them seemed to have been affected by the assault, or even aware of the profane nature of the place.

As he struggled to calm his erratic breathing the Skeleton heard one of the Boots mutter in fascinated disgust. "Sick! Is the mask crying blood?"

Caine quickly smacked the offending grunt upside the head, striding over to where Absolom lay curled and whimpering.

"What did you see spellcaster?" She asked, propping him against the tunnel wall and gingerly dabbing with a bundle of moss at the sanguine tears that streamed down his Foci.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nfah Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn." The spellcaster muttered, clutching desperately at the POG as if to assure himself that she was real.
"Something dwells here. Trapped before the mountains were born. It's hungry, and it wants out. We need to leave. NOW!"

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YEEEEEEAH!

Titus fought to push the lancing head pains away as he made to order the tent group to leave. And then it hit him, too. He saw not a chamber of dust and hieroglyphs. He saw not the legionnaires of the material plane or the solid stone of the underworld.

He awoke in light.

His entire body burned, set ablaze by a terrible, divine radiance. With melting, ruined eyes, he looked up to behold that which descended upon him.

I KNOW YOU

It felt as if every fiber of his being was at once being disassembled and reassembled a billion times over, remade and remade and remade in some hellish mockery of life's genesis when Time was young. He wanted to scream, but the air in his lungs burned with him. He knew not what he saw in his last moments. A plateau of white marble with ivory pillars. Millions upon millions of unblinking eyes. A great womb. A light. A star.

I KNOW YOU

I AM YOU

AS YOU ARE ME

AS I AM ALL

AS ALL ARE ONE

IN WAKING DREAMS MY LIGHT SHALL SPRING

AND IN WALKING SLEEP THE WORLD SHALL WAKE

IN LIGHT THEY SHALL SPEAK MY NAME

IN LIFE THEY SHALL RISE ANEW

THE BIRTH OF THE WORLD

THE DEATH OF A STAR

MURDER AND NURTURE

ALL ARE ONE

ALL SHALL BE ONE


The fire overtook him. He could not scream as that abominable light engulfed his still-conscious husk.

Titus Scipio awoke in light. He turned his head to look upon the distant floor of the amphitheatre. From it sprang a great pillar of un-light, and in that un-light he saw a city. A silent city, of geometries he dared not attempt to comprehend, of stone millennia old, overlooking a black shore underneath a bone-white sky and black sun. The last drop of fresh blood dribbled upon the ancient fane, bled from the throat of a dead legionnaire.

It flowed down, down, down, into the space where the sanguine pool once sat, and the vision ended. He saw only an amphitheatre and the dust of aeons. He propped himself up using his sheathed blade and rose wordlessly. They had to warn the Legion.

The tent group moved quickly, maintaining a brisk and silent pace through the somber halls of the paynim barrow. Caine, Absolom and Titus brought up the rear of the subdued band, the POG and Optio helping the Skeleton to stay on his feet. His throat was still ragged from his bout of wailing, his scars burned as if freshly opened, and the blood that had wept from his Foci seemed to have been drawn from within his veins. Lightheaded and stumbling, the likelihood of him ever making it out of the barrow without assistance was approximately nil.

"It's strange." Absolom finally rasped, gasping for breath as the party pressed on through tunnels that seemed to lengthen with every step. His companions glanced at him quizzically.

"I remember all these passageways. We did pass through them. But we also should have come out by now. I'm sure we didn't travel for this long the first time around, and that there were a lot less turnings. We've come to nearly a dozen intersections, but before we only had to pass through two."

He drew up short, pulling the POG and Titus back a few steps from the still-advancing party.

"And that place was sacred to the Deep Ones. They sacrificed our men to that thing - Dagon, Cthullu, whatever the hell it's name was. This whole barrow should be swarming with them, or at the very least have a few fishes skulking in the corners. And yet we've gone unmolested for nearly an hour."

Palid eyes narrowed behind smokey chips of glass, gaunt lips drawing back in a snarl.

"Commander, can you still feel the presence of your god? Because I cannot feel the Veil here. Even in Ms. Caine's presence, that should not be possible. She merely stills it, she does not destroy it."

Caine grimaced, tugging Absolom forward.

"Whatever the case, let's keep moving. Don't want to be lost in this place with just the three of us now do we?"

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Titus had long since given up attempting to mentally map the maddening labyrinth. He was too distracted by the eerie silence. It was not just the physical silence of this barren tomb, either. The aether had simply gone. The veil and that which lay beyond seemed to have vanished entirely, and the distant rumblings of his divine patron had been quieted. He reached out with his will and found nothing, but it was a different nothingness from that which Absolom felt. The folds of heaven in which the goddess slept were still there, but the warmth and psychic signature were absent. Was She dead? Or was the truth behind her curious absence even worse?

Armored boots trod on ancient stone. Their brains perceived the passage of hours, maybe days, but their bodies did not. The lost host knew not hunger or fatigue, but it did know fear, for what sane man could travel into this strange realm without trepidation? At times, they walked in stone halls, the ceiling and walls beaded with cold condensation. At others, they walked across bridges through a void the color of bleached bone, slowing their march lest they fall and discover what lay in that void. All around, something scratched at the edges of their perception--ghost movements in peripheral vision, the passing whiff of rotten fear, the dreadful skittering of unseen creatures just behind those walls, the loving caress of some invisible companion. Titus had to intervene twice to stop attempted suicides.

At last, after what seemed like weeks of nonstop marching, the Legionnaires came to a change in scenery. At the end of a long, straight hallway, the stone floor gave way to ancient wood planks. The hiss of waves crashing upon rocks echoed in their ears. Stone walls terminated suddenly, leaving the soldiers in the open, utterly silent air. When he looked back, Titus did not see a twisting series of stone tunnels, bridges, and floating stairs. He saw only a hole in reality--an empty square of brick suspended in midair, and within it, the barrows that they had just navigated. At the end of the wood bridge lay a pitch-black island and on that island lay a ruined building. When the world was younger, the building might have been beautiful. Marble columns, arthritic and weathered, held up a ceiling of coral, and hunched, bipedal statues flanked the facade like faceless sentinels. Titus stepped into the inky darkness that lay within, taking note of the beams of un-light that seeped in from the cracks in the roof. Dusty, threadbare rugs lay neatly arranged in rows along the bare floor, and in front of each rug stood a squat wooden pedestal. At the end of the chamber stood an idol, its features worn smooth by the passing of millennia. A temple, then? Prayer rugs, laid out before pedestals on which to mount this dead faith's holy texts?

The paladin took a step forward and saw that they were not alone. Kneeling before the idol was a piscine figure, its build more slender and elegant than the brutish, bestial forms of the Deep Ones he knew. It stood and turned. Four glowing red eyes regarded the unannounced visitor. The merman seemed half-real, flickering between translucence and the solid opacity of a material, living being. As their eyes met, Titus' mind witnessed a rapid-fire series of sensation, images, and ideas. Subconsciously, he translated them, uttering their meaning aloud in hushed tones. He knew not their significance.

'The Last Church. We stand within the Last Church.'

Absolom hissed, recoiling from the presence that stood before them. In that slight figure there stood an embodiment the Spellcaster could barely begin to describe, it's nature too vast to understand. He gazed upon it with his Deathsight and saw only a hole in reality, a gateway to something akin to the Veil. The closest he could come to rationalizing the fundamental paradox of the piscine creature was that it embodied a microcosm, a preserved fragment of a civilization long ground to dust. Within it's untold fathoms dwelt the memories of a race long forgotten, of a species that now only existed as degenerate beasts. The shade stood as a last will and testament to gods long dead, a warning to those who would come after. It was an epitaph of the damned, the little black box of Those Who Came Before. From it's form streamed an infinitesimal swarm of gossamer strands, each touching a Legionnaire and imparting... something. Knowledge. A warning. Few would understand what they were seeing, but some -Titus, Ajax, Jax, and perhaps Eli- might comprehend fragments.

Cain looked between the Skeleton, the Legionnaires, and the Shade uneasily, her arm still wrapped around the hobbled spellcaster. They two alone stood unaffected by the unseen strands, and Cain had no Deathsight with which to see the cause of the sudden catatonia among the troops. Warily, she drew her blade and trained it on the ghostly figure. The action seemed to weigh down heavily upon her, her every movement slowed as if dragging her limbs against an unrelenting current.

"Who are you? What are you? What is this place?"

"And where has the Veil gone?" Absolom muttered quietly, clumsily drawing his own blade from it's cane-scabbard.
It has gone where all things must go, and from whence all things come. Do not trust this creature. Do not tarry. The Last Church is a testament to all that is wrong with you mortal races, to why you all must be purged.

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YEEEEEEAH!

He could scarcely comprehend the voices and images running through his mind. He saw visions of death. Visions of fire and ice and poison, of twisted abominations formed from races known and unknown. A phalanx of orc warriors stood against a horde of winged monstrosities. The Imperial Capital sank as a great flood claimed the desert. A cloaked figure took the sun, and with its fire, made a spear, which it used to pierce the heart of the world. From the world's sundered core sprang a plague, which twisted human, elf, dwarf, orc, kobold, and dragon. A millipede with wings of light and a sword of sable terror descended upon the land, and with its blade, culled all, turning the floodwaters red, even as a pillar of flesh rose from the tides of blood.

SA TASH WEJ HAJ. The old tongue. The speech of Titus' own sect. How did it-- DO NOT BE AFRAID. THE END IS NIGH. YOU, AS WITH ALL MEN, SHALL BE PURGED. IT IS THE WAY OF NATURE. TO MAKE WAY FOR THE NEW RACE OF MAN, THE OLD MUST PASS.

WE AWOKE IN LIGHT.

Titus recoiled as if struck, so powerful was the creature's psychic presence.

WE WERE THE FIRST MEN. CHILDREN OF WATER, AS YOU ARE CHILDREN OF EARTH, AS THE LAST WILL BE CHILDREN OF AIR.

His vision swam, replacing the sights of impending doom with images of past glories, never to be realized again. He saw great cathedrals carved into cliffsides. Great, ichthyoid sentinels lumbered across a snow-capped mountain, bearing a palanquin, on which sat a golden-armored form, the lamellar scales arranged in a perfect copy of its own real scales. Towering coral spires jutted from the ocean, sung into existence by piscine serf-engineers.

WE LIVED IN GLORY. WE SAW THE BIRTH OF TIME AND SPACE, EVEN AS WE AROSE FROM THE EUPHOTIC CHAOS. WE SPRANG FROM THE FIRST GODS' LOINS, AND WE FED THEM WITH WORSHIP. THEY ARE GONE NOW. ONE ROSE ABOVE ALL IN LOVE AND WORSHIP, FOR SHE WAS THE MOTHER. SHE TOOK A LOVER, A MAN FROM OUTSIDE. HE SPOKE IN HER EAR AND CORRUPTED HER. SHE TURNED AGAINST US AND WE FOUGHT HER ALONGSIDE OUR GODS. HER POWER WAS GREAT, AND THE OTHER GODS FELL. SHE SLEW US ALSO, FOR WE THREW OURSELVES UPON HER LIKE CRASHING WAVES. OUR WARRIORS BOUGHT TIME. OUR PRIEST-KINGS JOINED AND, WITH THE LAST OF OUR STRENGTH, THEY SEALED HER AND OUR GREATEST CITY AWAY. WE PASSED. THE WORLD MOVED ON, AND THE AGE OF WATER BECAME THE AGE OF EARTH. SHE MADE NEW LIFE FROM STONE AND GAVE THEM FIRE.

SHE SLEPT, BUT NOW SHE WAKES, FOR OUR NUMBERS DWINDLED. THE FIRST MEN BECAME TWISTED BY THE NIGHTMARES OF THE SLEEPING MOTHER. ONE BY ONE, THEY TURNED. NO LONGER COULD WE MAINTAIN THE VIGIL. THE UN-MEN OVERWHELMED US. I AM THE LAST. I SPEAK FOR THE DEAD, AS I SPOKE FOR THE LIVING. I SPEAK NOW. THAT WHICH SLEEPS NOW WAKES, AND SHE WAKES TO BRING A NEW AGE. SHE FINDS ALL WANTING, AND SEEKS TO REBUILD. THE END IS NIGH.

THE WORLD SHALL DIE AND BE REBORN.

THE MOTHER AND HER SERVANTS RISE.

DAGON.

CTHULHU.

HYDRA.

LEVIATHAN.

BEHEMOTH.

'Which one is the mother?' Titus muttered aloud, his eyes focusing once more on the present as the visions ended. The Speaker looked at him and spoke. Its voice was tinged with both sorrow and wounded pride, the arrogance of an ancient race wounded by the traumas of an apocalypse.

'None of those. Her name is known to you, Servant of the Euphotic.'

Further queries along those lines were met with the same response. He failed to understand what it meant by telling him that he already knew. He tried another approach. 'What happened to the aether? Where is the Veil here?'

'That which you call aether is absent in this realm,' it rumbled. 'You are beyond the reach of space and time. You are in R'lyeh, the City Which Sleeps, and the City has begun to wake.'

"What woke it?" Absolom hissed, drawing himself -and subsequently Caine- forward. The movement drew them through a knot of the phantom threads, which rewove themselves around Caine as if she was a rock in a stream and recoiled violently from the Skeleton. The Speaker turned slightly, regarding the two with a bored expression.
"What woke this place, and how can it exist beyond Space and Time? Is this where Dagon, Cthullu, whatever assaulted us dwells?"
I told you to leave! This pace will be your doom, and I will not be thwarted by one of the Shia'gul!

The Speaker continued to regard the Skeleton dispassionately, speaking as if to a small child.
"You woke it. All of you. This place exists in a fold of That Which Was Before, the fabric from which the universe was cut. It has not known the concepts of Time and Space since it was sealed here, since the Saigoth Gates were closed. Your coming here reintroduced those concepts, along with the tether of Divinity and the veil of the Arcane."
A begrudging sigh escaped The Speaker's lips.
"To be fair, you could not have entered here had not the degenerated remnants of my kind weakened the barrier. But this was all they could do - wear it thin. They cannot enter, for the time of Water has passed. Only one of Earth or Air could have passed through, and you have done just that. So in the end, it is still your fault."
Water, Earth, Air... What of Fire Shade, what of Fire?

"Our fault?!" Caine snarled, pulling away from Absolom and leveling her blade beneath The Speaker's piscine chin. Absolom stumbled, struggling to keep his drained legs steady.
"Our fault? Blame the Deep Ones that killed our citizens, and sacrificed our brothers! All we did was hunt those abominations, and happen across their temple! I say it's your fault; your gods are the ones that went mad, you're the ones whose empire collapsed, you're the ones whose children are animals!

The Speaker idly leaned forward, its immaterial flesh passing through Caine and her blade like a mirage. Locking eyes with Absolom, the Shade continued it's bored drawl.
"Kindly control your Blank, Sworn-To-Madness. I know the skum tarnishing at your soul must be clouding your judgement, but such dangerous weapons should be kept in line."
IT KNOWS! QUICKLY MINION, EAT IT!

It turned back towards Titus, even as Caine grasped in surprise and stumbled backwards. She crashed into Absolom, sending both sprawling on the cobblestone floor.
"What am I saying. Of course you must be the handler for these two. Even your civilization cannot be so primitive as to allow one possessed by the Warp and a psychic ghost to govern one another."
Now that blasted paladin knows I'm here...

...As do you. Blast. I AM JUST A VOICE IN YOUR HEAD. I AM NOT A DAEMON. WoooOoooOOOOooOOOOOOo.

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YEEEEEEAH!

Titus heard every word of the exchange, but he had more pressing matters at hand. He would question Absolom and Caine later.

'A poor choice of words,' hissed the Speaker. 'I do not berate you. I commend you. When they wake, the world shall once again be clean, and the ultimate race of Man will rule. It is as it should be. Your end must be embraced.'

Titus drew his blade and took another step towards the creature. '"Embraced"? You want us to welcome the apocalypse?'

'Yes,' it said bluntly. 'I, like you, serve a greater power. I know my place, as must you. The world must end. It is the will of the gods. It is destiny.'

Titus spat. 'Destiny is the excuse of the weak. We make our own destiny. To hell with your gods--we will stop your apocalypse, one way or another.'

'No, Euphotic. You will not. For you and your comrades shall be its catalysts. A man of faith, to break and shape. A hellish husk, to shatter and unleash. An aether-wound to silence the world. Just as I Spoke, so shall you Act. It is destiny, and it shall be fulfilled, one way or another.' The Speaker faded, its image dissolving into nothingness, along with the walls of the Last Church. Slowly, they were replaced by the stone of the tunnels from before, and Titus once again stood at the bloodied amphitheater. 'Remember that R'lyeh does not permit departure so easily. In time, its waves will claim all who see them. I shall wait, and it will be I who welcomes you to the currents of fate.'

The paladin shook his head and sheathed his sword. The Legion had to know. Nay, the continent had to know. He had the word of twelve other soldiers to support his testimony. The evidence would be undeniable. 'Legio Mortis, prepare to march. We have work to do. Aulus, carry Absolom. Caine, get some rest and take his place in formation. I get the feeling we'll have a long march ahead.' He took another look at the wall-carvings and shuddered. He would make sure to question the priests of the Old Faith when this was all said and done. If the Speaker was correct, then they and the Goddess would have much to answer for.

As the Legion of the Dead marched from the Land of Dreams, the Legion of the Damned stood besieged at the mouth of Hell. Their minor encampment was under attack, piscine claws scrabbling and gnawing at the mushroom-stalk barricades. The Deep Ones swarmed about the clearing like flies on a fresh corpse, rope-muscled warriors surging amidst the fresh stumps that squat oracles used as thrones. Oracles were rarely seen outside of the deeps, the closest thing to ‘intelligent’ life that the species seemed to have. They spoke in something resembling language, a echoic bullfrog croaking that they used to drive their entourage on. Some were even refuted to cast spells, but for the most part this seemed to be laymen misinterpreting the fish’s pagan rituals.

Titus’ detachment heard the sounds of battle just as they reached the ‘tree’ line, the carnage of the Deep One offensive laid bare before them. From where they stood, the handful of legionnaires could see that the offensive was reckless, without any regard for tactics or casualties. The Fish simply poured from the bolt holes along the walls, an unending tide of foul seafood. Arrows from legion bows felled them in the hundreds, but for every one that fell a dozen filled the space. Spearmen held the few places where piscine claws had broken through, their armor and weapons stained with ichors and gore. Dozens of smoldering corpses littered these beachheads, salmon fillets char-broiled by the Legion’s few mages. Absalom could smell them from here, and his hollow stomach rumbled.

“Mother-frakker!” cried one of the boots, drawing his weapon and making a start towards the fray. Caine uttered a wordless shout, grabbing for him, but the soldier was already sprinting towards the nearest Oracle. Aulus nearly dropped Absalom, the broad-shouldered spearman scrabbling for his shield. Absalom’s boney arms nearly choked the man, gripping as tightly as he could to stop from crashing to the spore-covered floor.

“Put me down, put me down! We’re gonna need some spells!” the Skeleton’s metaphysical net was already casting wide, seeking any errant souls that swam before the veil. “Orders, sir!”

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YEEEEEEAH!

Legion earthworks were nothing short of engineering genius, but even those would struggle in the face of an enemy that knew no fear, fatigue, or pain. Even as dozens of deep ones bled to death in spike pits or beneath the gaze of the palisade, hundreds more marched forth to be cut down by Legion blades. It was attrition warfare, something at which humanity's armies usually excelled, but what could the XIV do against an enemy that outnumbered them so terribly?

Aulus had left Absalom propped up against a rock as he joined Titus and the other soldiers of the expeditionary party. When the errant recruit charged forth, Titus knocked him back with an elbow.

'Wait. They haven't seen us yet. They don't know we're here.'

'Optio, we must help the Legion! Don't you see--'

'Oh, I see the monsters, all right. Hard not to.' Titus took a knee and spared a moment to observe the field. There had to be something directing the creatures. Something had to stir them up to arrive in such large numbers so suddenly. Was that--?

An upright piscine form, slender and almost mannish in its build. It stood atop a rock outcropping, translucent and seemingly unnoticed by the Legion's warriors in the rear of the monster horde. It seemed to be not all there, the cloth of its ancient vestments billowing in some phantom wind. The tides of battle rose and fell, but Titus knew a commander when he saw it. The enemy's movements always seemed to work in relation to its position, as if it was the center point of their existence. If they could disrupt that thinking, perhaps the Legion would have a better chance of beating the deep ones back.

'There. That creature. The Speaker from before. We make for that.'

Aulus scratched at the stubble on his chin. 'It doesn't look tangible, Optio.'

'No, it doesn't, but we have two spellcasters here, remember?'

'The mage is injured, Optio, and you yourself tire easily with spells, even when your Goddess' power waxes.'

The paladin raised an eyebrow, distinctly feeling the pain in his tired, burnt out limbs. 'Do we have any other options? It's that, or we dive in and die glorious, stupid, pointless deaths.'

'Point, sir,' grunted the other.

Titus turned back to the others. 'Alright, here's the plan. Anyone with a proper shield arm, with me. Absolom, POG, stay well back and hidden. We need you two alive as support if things go south, so I won't waste you two on this fool's errand. Everyone else, drop your packs--we need to be light and fast if we want to have a hope of getting past the rearguard. Our target is the Speaker on that rock. If we punch an opening, I should be able to pull together enough aetheric energy to take it on, if only for a few moments. Meanwhile, Absolom, you need to put together a few illusions to help us get past the regular fish, if you can muster the energy. Something to help us sneak or fight--whichever you think will put the least stress on you. But don't push yourself. If things go south, you need to keep enough left to let Caine and yourself escape.'

'It's a long shot,' said Caine. 'For all we know, that thing could crush you all with a thought. You might not have enough power left in you to take it on for more than a few swings.'

'I know,' Titus said, 'but again, it's all we have. It looks like it's controlling the deep ones via a psychic link. The translucency tells us it's not fully present, which means it can't be controlling things through pheromones or biology. If we can distract it for even a split second, that could be enough for the Legion to turn the tables.'

'We could all die banking on this suicide run.'

Titus drew his blade and channeled a small mote of his reserves through it. The heat of an infinitesimally small star ran along the edge, causing it to glow red-hot. It wasn't much, but anything that helped him cut through the chaff would get him to their true target faster.

'We're Mortis. Every run is a suicide run.'

There were two kinds of Necromancy known to Mankind - Ebony and Ivory, black and white. 'White' Necromancy was using magic to repair flesh, more often referred to as Healing magic to avoid the stigma the word Necromancy tended to incite among the more superstitious. 'Black' Necromancy was the stereotype of the art; raising corpses to fight and serve at the caster's command. Legal Black Necromancy was mostly used by the Legions, to construct Honored Dead or raise temporary work forces in the wake of a battle. Some of the more enterprising Legions even carried the bones of their dead with them, to be temporary raised as a workforce as needed. Such bones were treated with great respect -polished and treated to endure the tests of time- which went a long way towards keeping Legion Necromancers from being burned at the stake for the desecration of corpses. It could even be used in combat, to forcibly rip energy from the living and souls from bodies.

On the other hand, Black Necromancy took a heavy toll on the caster's body. It fragmented the mind, throwing the barest slivers into each Risen. When the spell was terminated the sliver would return, but the metaphysical fracture never healed properly. Those who stole energy would find fragments of their victims lodged in their psyche, a constant whispering in the back of their minds. Practitioners often became sallow, unhealthy and erratic, which was why Necromancers were often stereotyped as lunatics with poor hygiene. Not that Absolom really did much to dispel that stereotype, but still.

Absolom rarely utilized Black Necromancy - he preferred to work with living flesh. It was a more pleasant sensation to repair damage and feel life returning to a damaged form. Still, he knew the basics. Enough to bolster the ranks with some meat shields. The temperature about him dropped abruptly, the half-dozen souls netted from the field below roiling around the gaunt spell-caster. Curling his hand into a claw in the direction of one of the nearest Deep Ones, Absolom barked a curt word in a blasphemous tongue. The Deep One screamed in agony, it's eyes erupting in a misty white light. A moment later the creature collapsed, it's sockets charred to oblivion. Swiftly, the soul was stripped of it's energy and cast into the Veil, while the stolen power was filled with a fragment of Absolom's psyche and inserted back into the corpse. A moment later, the Deep One rose again, barreling into the cluster of fish nearest to the Tent Group. Another fish went down under the Risen's claws, and was promptly raised. And another, and another.

"Get. Moving." Absolom snarled through gritted teeth. The sensation of Black Necromancy grated at him, an unpleasantly oily texture that wrapped itself around his mind.

Next, the souls in his net gave their power towards a bank of mist to cover the group. It functioned identically to the fog he had cast over the troops at Talara. They could see out with more ease than the foes could see in, and the clinging tendrils would hinder enemy movement. Gasping with the effort of his spell-casting, Absolom fell back to a knee.
Overexerting yourself? Didn't your commander tell you NOT to do that? The voice uttered something between a snicker and a sigh. Well, keep at it. You might survive at this rate, and my brethren will feast well this eve.

Caine meanwhile had taken position between Absolom and the battlefield. His soul-rending had not gone unnoticed by one of the Oracles, who had begun to advance on them. Flanked by a pair of particularly hulking Deep Ones, the Oracle didn't even bother to redirect any of it's troops. Caine drew her short sword and unslung her shield, striking a defensive pose.

"Think you can muster some spells on these three, Skeleton?"

"We'll see." Absolom snapped, making another sharp gesture at the trio. The Oracle screamed, eyes burning, but the hulking beasts simply charged the moment their master began to writhe. Absolom swayed forward, catching himself a few inches from the ground. New whispers swirled in his head, the croaking tongue of the Deep Ones joining in a maddening chorus. The symphony almost dulled the presence of the Daemon, but made concentrating on his spells all the harder.
"Nope. You're on your own now."

Caine cursed, sprinting to meet the two behemoths, She ducked under the first punch, drawing a deep gash along the offender's ribs. The creature howled, lashing at her with a powerful backhand. Caine ducked low, causing the blow to strike the other Deep One. The Deep One was effectively cold-clocked, stumbling back a few steps form the POG. Rolling over, she stabbed upwards, burying her blade deep into the attacker's armpit. By some feat of strength and speed she tore it back out, rolled behind the monster, and embedded her blade to the hilt in it's back. The behemoth toppled over, ichorous blood pouring from the wound as Caine yanked at her sword. Behind her, the second Deep One was regaining it's sense.

"What use are you, you damn walking warp-conduit!?"

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YEEEEEEAH!