It was always cold in Gaol.
Heat rises after all, and there are few places lower than Gaol. So logically, Father Pontimulos Brimstone was in a perfectly reasonable situation. Of course he was, this was the same situation he was in for four years.
He glared at the pile of roots in front of him, snapping his fingers, trying again to will out Justari’s fire into his fingertips. As logical as the cold, it failed. Sure the sparks formed, that was a simple consequence of impaling steel in your middle finger and flint in your thumb. But the magic, the heat wasn't there and the spark always died in the cold. Realistically, he must’ve done something wrong to end up down here. But even if it WAS a mistake the sheer celestial distance would require a investiture on his gods part to eeke out even the smallest spark all the way down here. As usual, the logic was as comfortable as the cold was. Brimstone tried again, the effort did not bear fruit but the sound served a purpose in drowning out the wails of the cowardly squire bemoaning their ill fate. Idiots, only idiots chose life over honor, the Grey Man could only take one of those after all. In his day, the warm days, such sinners would burn. He had it to an art. He made the groves himself, they were his pride and joy. Hickory for the fire and scent. Hemlock for the post the profligate were lashed too. That way you could reuse the same post over and over. If you wanted to make an example it NEEDED to last after all.
Idly, a hand rubbed at his tie, the rope tie, bound into his skin as an eternal wound from when his neck snapped right under his hemlock tree. His students didn’t even burn him, that's how he really knew he failed them. Treason was treason and a mad teacher was as worthy as the torch as a traitorous acolyte, but if he WAS a heretic to Justaris name he would’ve burned in it. To show a so-called sinner mercy… it was obvious they learned nothing.
What a waste. His finger snapped again, another failure. How very fitting. All those years trying to teach them how all are redeemed under Justaris light, and they mistook that as some metaphor. Only Aurorans get those. Mortals had to make their own light, and that light is flame. But he had to die quickly, and in the cold. Just like today. Just like every day.
Well, not like EVERY day. Thin lips tilted upward at the memory of that flayed angel, the one who fell so low as to wind up here. A fitting end for Calladan, but, well he escaped it in the end. As he always did. Still, at least some of them were worthy of the torch, and he helped those torchbearers with that quest of theirs. Surely that counted for something.
He snapped his fingers, and then, a flame. A mere candletip at best, far from the blazes he used to command. But, it was warm.
With a well practiced flick of the hand, Pontimulous Brimstone cast the flame into the bundle of roots, and watched it slowly, ever so slowly, burn. Brimstone watched the flames dance, eating the offered hellwood. It was only the smallest spark, but that’s how fires start don’t they? A lot of preparation, and just the tiniest bit of prepared chaos. Brimstone watched the smoke rise up, joining the billowing clouds of the higher layers of hell. And for once, Brimstone didn’t think about his situation. Or the past.
For one blissful hour, Brimstone didn't think of anything at all.
~~~~~~~
Priva- apprentice Jonas Starblade wiped his dagger on his apron. Another failure. Idly, he kicked his failure into the pile with the rest of the heap. As Master N’s apprentice there were certain expectations. Jonas would have been find with simple manual labor but, well you cant serve a creation of some entropic god TWICE and not expect some overlap.
Which would have been easier shoes to fill if the shoes were there TO fill. There was something off about the void here, quite unlike his old one. Or the one that was in every other dimension he invaded on his tour. Back in the era of conquest the void was like a lake. You cut it, drained it, and reaped the spoils. Flooded a field or two, bathed in the success, move on. Suddenly that lake was gone. Everything was gone. Last he was around the invasion of Chimeron was a low risk procedure determined primarily due to its proximity to the road he and the rest of the grunts had to drive through the local faerealm. Then a star attacked him and he was trapped in hell. Worst, it was their hell. After all those years praying to the Fallen King, his service wasn’t eternal after all.
Then again the King wasn’t either apparently. How long had he been dead? It should have only been nine years…
Of course there was a void here too… but it was violent and hateful and recoiled at his touch. The last time he tried to spin it he almost lost his arm. And not in the way he used to as an apprentice spinner, rather than infecting his arm, the void spun backwards, trying to swallow him whole. He was already lucky to be alive, he did not need to test that luck so often… but what else did he know? Road work? Since when did nobility care about that? Well, unless they needed to invade somewhere.
Rather it would be easier to just spin something else. Hence the knife, hence the mistakes. The lastest, death spinning, had a more interesting result. The body shifted, eating the elemental offerings, and then attacking. Much more formed then his previous efforts. Perhaps there was a history with the necromantic arts in this realm?
Hardly worth showing the master at the moment. But well its like his mentor always said. A little bit of effort and a lot of hate could carve mountains. Well, Trystwater always did leave a little lie in his lessons, his ratios were never accurate, but the ingredients were sure to get him through the day, and the next one. Until it worked, until it warred. And then… and then what? Did Master N need a army of unmakers? Gi certainly always needed more fodder for the blenders, but WAS his new master at war?
With a shake of his head Jonas dispelled the silly notion. Of course he needed a army, of course they were at war. This was existence. There was always war. Since the named times, since the dragon, before the king, and even though he never thought he’d get to prove it, after the king. It was not a soldiers job to question the general, just to march. N will figure it out.
And if not, Stonewood was probably hiring. Hopefully. Hope got him this far, it’ll get him a little bit further.
