“And thou shalt not heed the word of those who would look willingly into light’s treacherous gleam, for those who are blinded shall have their eyes burnt away and shall behold the lady’s truth nevermore."
- The Holy Scriptures of Lady Night, Book II, 2:13
The road to the small temple he sought was ancient and paved by white stone, polished by sheer arrogance. Each block had been carved to perfection; not a single crack in any of them. It was as though the elves feared the darkness that would form in the crevices. And he knew they ought to. All ought to, but her children. He saw his destination in the distance and focused his mind on the task ahead of him. It was an old building, resembling a mere chapel in size and illuminated on all sides. There were too many lanterns and torches placed all around it, completely engulfing it in a shield of pure light, as if in hopes of shielding its faith from the dark truth. The bleak reality was, however, that it did not matter how many lights the elves decided to place. All of them were, like all things, eventually eclipsed by Vaeldruvcar’s blackness. Varragoth’s robes billowed wildly in the winds, which seemed to grow more powerful by the hour. His sure-footed steps made no sound when his boots found the ground. He halted his advance a little ways away before the gate to the temple. Upon it, there were old elven runes in a golden colour etched into the stone. A small prayer, to remind all those who would tread this path and find the chapel.
The light is endless.
He had to keep himself from scoffing openly at the statement, the blatant lie offending him. Varragoth touched the words as he slowly passed the gate, the golden words flaking away under his very fingertips. The old tome he carried with him seemed to grow heavier as he read the elven prayer, as though to remind him why he was in this forsaken place in the first place. It worked, as it always did.
“Endless in its treachery,” he murmured softly.
He understood the wretched words, the sentence having only recently been translated by the Inquisition’s industrious efforts, or rather the gurgling words of their latest victim, who had found themselves in an interrogation chamber. Varragoth let his eyes sweep over the yard of the chapel, his sight searching for anyone who might have seen him come. There was but one who possibly could have. Before he could be spotted, he dissolved – first into thin wafting smoke, then into the gracious night herself. One of the more useful abilities that their holy lord had bestowed upon him and his kin in his incomparable mercy. The only thing the guard at the steps to the door saw was a faint ripple in the cold night skies. Though he did not think too much of it, because it was gone when he looked again and consequently misjudged the severity of it by a hundredfold.
Inside the chapel, the air reeked of false sanctity – sacred promises that, unbeknownst to whoever prayed here, would never be kept and were never intended to in the first place. The very moment Varragoth willed his body to exist again, he was almost blinded by the sheer endless amount of glaring light a plethora of lanterns produced. He remembered the scent of incense and the many symbols of the holy light plastering the walls in their golden propaganda all too well. He had worked in places like this once, long ago – places that tried to banish every single thing they did not understand at first glance. Though he had never seen one that tried quite that hard, just to fail so absolutely. In every corner, there stood a tall mirror, imposing and heavily adorned by ancient elven script. They tried to reflect the warm lantern light into every little nook and cranny, no matter how small. Varragoth was almost surprised by the display. Granted, he hadn’t been in enemy territory for some time, but still, he had not thought the elves quite this paranoid.
I wonder what his holiness did to make them fear night’s embrace so vehemently.
In Varragoth’s mind the lord had to have been quite busy, given the elves went to such great lengths just so no object could cast a simple shadow in the room. The mirrors along the walls quivered when he passed them, unsure of what they could reflect without bowing to heresy. Varragoth spoke softly, more a blessing than a command.
“Be silent,” he told them, his voice nary above a whisper.
The mirrors darkened from the centre outward, a slow eclipse corrupting each and every one of the reflections. He had never taken a great liking to art, neither in his previous life nor in this one, but even he had to admit that it looked hauntingly beautiful. Almost as though purple and black flowers were blooming artfully, encased in the silver frames. The lanterns started guttering before slowly fading completely into an inky blackness. The flickering of the light alerted two elven guards, who had apparently been in the back room of the chapel, waiting for any disturbance. They found a figure, wrapped in a cloak, still mesmerised by the sight of the dying mirrors in front of it.
“Halt!” The soldiers yelled loudly, tearing Varragoth from his thoughts.
His head snapped toward the far end of the room. There he saw the altar, white marble veined with gold rising above the floor. The two elven warriors, who stood beside it now, were clad in ceremonial armour and tried very hard not to look completely terrified. They failed utterly. Varragoth sauntered silently between the pews, slowly walking down the aisle that separated him from the altar, his hands folded as in prayer. The darkness that accompanied him faithfully kept pace with him, as the lanterns no longer burnt and the congregation never once set foot before its priest. The elves, not willing to wait any longer, took his silent approach as a sign of aggression and attacked. They charged at him, swords drawn, ready to cut him down where he stood. Just before the first blade could reach him, he dissolved into nothingness again. The silvery weapons cut through nothing but air. The darkness marched ever closer, moving beyond the guards, which looked frantically in every direction for any sign of the intruder. The temperature in the small temple had chilled considerably, but they felt the change in the air as Varragoth manifested between them nonetheless. Each of the knights felt a singular ice-cold finger on their necks, making their hair stand up instantly.
“Peace be upon you,” his voice was low as if he had just whispered a prayer.
Both elves slackened and collapsed in an instant, their weapons clattering to the ground, their once so divine purpose rendered forgotten. They thrashed and convulsed on the ground, fighting something they couldn’t understand in the slightest. Varragoth ascended the marble steps to the altar, placing his hands upon it in a gesture all too familiar. Apparently old habits truly were hard to kill. He prepared his mind. There was work to be done. Tonight he would finally hold a sermon again, after all those centuries. But this time he knew for a fact that his prayers were aimed at someone who earned them. He knew that his prayers were not directed towards false gods or the hollow promises of the light. Not anymore. But someone who would answer, just like he always did. And so he did what he was born for – he laid his tome of prayers on the altar before him and preached into the dark void of the silent temple.
“Oh, eternal night, descend upon this place, so forsaken! I call upon thee, swallow their blasphemy, extinguish their light-born lies! Turn their heretic prayers in their mouths to ash!”
He felt the light of the tainted temple tremble, the torches and lanterns outside its walls flickering wildly before slowly snuffing out one by one.
“Hear me, prince of darkness; lend thy shadows to my words. Let the black fire of thy gospel ignite in these wretched souls, burn away their minds, their memories, their very beings!”
He heard the faint sound of armour and the body within it clattering to the ground outside.
“Let these walls forget that beloved sun of theirs! Drench this temple in thy endless shroud, where none but thy prayer may echo! Let the town beyond crumble into silence. Oh sacred dark, consume all those who would oppose thine divinity, who would sully thy purity with their dreadful light!”
He heard brutal chaos unfold in the town, elves screaming and begging to whatever deity they thought fitting, as though any one of their false gods would save them from the forthcoming doom of their home. Though the priest of the night knew better. It was of no use.
“In thy name, Ástilliar, I decree: May the deep shadow reign! Holy darkness, unmake! Eternal night devour!”
The temple quaked as Varragoth’s words struck, as though it would soon collapse in on itself. A coiling tide of blackness surged forward from it, enveloping the buildings and the townsfolk beyond. He left the same way he came, stepping over the remains of the guard at the door and looking towards the village. One by one the lanterns inside the houses and on the streets were smothered by the might of the eternal night's darkness. Those that still lived tried to run to safety, though they did not get very far. Once they couldn’t outrun the tidal wave that pursued them, they fell to the ground as something erupted violently in their skulls. They tried to get up until they forgot how to, tried calming down until they forgot what calm meant, and screamed until their mouths forgot how to function properly. All knowledge was consumed by black fire in their minds, tearing through every memory and rotting all thought. Their very souls dissolved utterly from within. The screams of the villagers choked to silence. Finally, he heard nothing. Just merciful quietness. Only after looking at his work for a few moments did he begin his journey home.
By dawn the elven military would find his holy work and would wish they hadn’t. All that would be left would be the rubble of the temple that once stood so proud and the lifeless elven husks buried beneath the ruins of the silenced city. For the night's gospel would show no mercy to all who dared oppose it.
