Nichomedes
Expert in Existential Crises
Gods Below
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A crescent shaped blade clattered upon the table, raising nearly every eyebrow in the room. Despite its elegant shape, it possessed a crude, rough-hewn surface that reflected little light. In fact, it almost seemed to cast a shadow in the very air, emitting a disquieting aura of darkness.
Its former wielder, Lucifer du Matin, sank back into his seat, looking relieved to be rid of the thing.
“Ultimately Rolf Osmund did perish in the assault,” he continued his report, “but Rune survives. Thanks to Rolf’s sacrifice, the enemy was felled, and this was recovered from its corpse.”
Soft light filtered in from the colored glass windows, the panes textured to prevent anyone from gazing into the room. As if anyone could, at this elevation. The council chamber sat perched atop one of the highest buildings in Algiers, a fitting place to convene and hold discussions concerning the Triumvirate Gods and their devoted city.
At the head of the table in the center of the room, the long, aged figure of Aesir Halfgood rose with measured grace. He made a gesture, and the other half-dozen men obediently passed the blade in his direction–save one black-haired individual, who sleepily gazed elsewhere as the weapon passed in front of him. He scarcely paid attention as Halfgood lifted the item and felt its heft in one hand.
“Very good,” came the reply, which was more noise than words. Turning the weapon over, he gazed at his lack of reflection in the blade. “Yes. This will make a suitable gift to Io. Pitiable business about Osmund. Send his family my regrets with a small stipend. Write up an award for the brother.”
“Of course.” Lucifer scribbled a note to himself. “There is one final matter: Rune brought someone back. A survivor wandering in the desert.”
An uncomfortable beat of silence filled the round room. Someone cleared their throat. Everyone but Halfgood and the black-haired man shuffled in the growing tension of an expected reply. Finally sensing something amiss, the head of the table briefly flicked up his attention.
“Mn?” Halfgood was too busy turning the artifact over in his hands to grant Lucifer the favor of maintaining eye contact.
“A survivor of what?” Another councilmember asked, feigning concern out of vicarious guilt for Halfgood’s apparent indifference.
“That’s still to be determined, exactly,” Lucifer replied readily, nodding his secret thanks to the side of the table. “Young man, looks about twenty. His clothes were singed and his face was cut. Right now our physicians are caring for him at the infirmary. He’s been given food, water, and—”
“And what?” Halfgood’s eyes angled up from under his bushy brow. “What use is any of this to the city? Or the gods?”
Lucifer swallowed his annoyance and glared down at the table. Instead of saying what he wanted to say, he inhaled and dug his fingernails into his palm. After chewing on his lips for a moment while he crafted his answer, he looked up at Halfgood.
“In his interview, he mentioned a staff.” Lucifer shook his head, still filtering through the information Halfgood might find relevant. “From the description, I think it may be another artifact. He said it can convert sacrifices into boons.”
For the first time, the black-haired man brought his attention to the table. His lone, gray eye seemed to resist the colors from the windows and remained gray as he focused on Lucifer.
“Sacrifices?” Halfgood was barely interested.
“Souls,” Lucifer amended. Then he rolled his hand. “Or something along those lines. I’ll question him personally tomorrow, after he has had some time to rest and recover.”
Halfgood nodded. The motion seemed as much assent as it was a command for Lucifer to stop talking.
“Very good,” Halfgood noised again. “Update me if you uncover the whereabouts of this supposed object, if such a thing actually exists. Should you find out what exactly he survived, perhaps we’ll mount a scouting party.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The young man.” The black-haired man finally spoke, turning the heads of the other council members. He reached up and adjusted his eyepatch in a short pause. It was difficult to determine whether it was the accessory or the attention that made him uncomfortable. Or annoyed him. “Does he have a name?”
Lucifer suppressed his smile of relief at this soothing show of humanity.
“Ambrosia,” he replied. The name that followed was pronounced with some difficulty, unwieldy and unfamiliar as it was. “An… Antarias Ambrosia, if I’m not mistaken.”
The following morning began with a soft knock at the door.
Lucifer du Matin entered a moment later, without waiting for an invitation. The sunlit room met him handsomely as he strode in, well dressed in a sharp-shouldered, brocade coat. He looked about a half-decade from thirty, with bright blue eyes, clean face, and wavy golden hair. An ornamental dagger with a filigreed ivory sheath was fastened to his white belt.
Since entering the city, this was not the first man Antarias had encountered wearing a weapon. Many individuals in the City of Algiers seemed to be carrying an arm of somesort, usually a sword or dagger. This had seemed threatening at first, but such items appeared to be more accessories conveying status than actual tools of war. The more intricately patterned, the higher the station of its wielder.
Judging from this man’s weapon, he quite outranked everyone who Antarias had met so far.
The infirmary where Antarias had been brought had been at the base of a towering structure in the center of the city. It was an odd building, with walls comprised of smooth, seamless sandstone. Like an artificial cavern or a large sculpture made of plaster. He’d been provided a small room with a singular, round window, and a triangular cot in the corner. A pitcher of water and a cup sat upon a nearby table, along with a plate of remains from the guest’s last meal.
“Good morning, Mr. Ambrosia,” Lucifer began. He placed a hand upon his chest as he stopped midway through the room. “My name is Luc du Matin. I’m an official representing the interests of the Gods Council here in Algiers. I’ve been briefed about your arrival here in our city. My deepest sympathies for what you’ve gone through. I was hoping we might talk a moment. How are you feeling?”
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