47th of Ash, Year 120
After the other man had accepted his proposal: that any such magic would innately be tied to a sworn vow, the Argent Knight brought him to a place of sheer isolation. It was a small Covenant outpost -- a barracks adorned with a few beds and a charming hearth -- in the middle of the snowy wastelands, tens of miles away from any significant portion of civilization. He often came here to practice magic, to relax, to focus and read -- and he would need all of the focus he could acquire in order to complete this task. It was monumental, and in effect he was doing all of this to benefit a stranger. Still: he wanted to expand the Remedy's foreign ranks, and finally he could. Risk was required.
The young mage had removed his coat and shoes, only wearing a pair of linen trousers and an open vest. He was barefoot and his weapons were mounted upon a wooden table by one of the beds, though a few of his accessories like his necklaces and his tooth-shaped earring still dangled from his neck and lobe. The mage was dressed oddly casual for what they were about to partake in, largely because it was not a feat that could be battled with by swords or other tools. He needed to explain well, to do it right, and to hope that Aldrin did not cull the aspiring mage the moment he looked into the depths of his soul.
"The chances of you surviving this night are next-to-nothing," he said. "You must be strong of will, capable of enduring great pain and duress, lucky, and morally virtuous. You must swear fealty to me and the Remedy -- as you already effectively did -- the moment after I initiate you, so that Aldrin witnesses your oath. If he believes you will abuse this power or be a liability, he will destroy you where you stand. In all likelihood, he will approach me and ask why I am initiating you, and -- to be honest -- I don't have an incredibly compelling reason. I figured it's time to add to our numbers, and you seem as good an option as any. I can't afford to get to know each prospect for ten years before hedging my bets; we'll be wiped out before then. That's all I can really say to him," he explained.
"Now -- for the process itself. I need to enter the Dead Realm with... my soul. My soul itself will search for a new Beacon, which I will bind to your soul after discovering. The Beacon is the conduit of Malek's purifying powers -- it is an augment of the soul, and a channel from which we summon Shrivenflame. It is the component within the Black Sigil - the Rune - that makes it all work. It is also from where all of the... risk comes," he began to explain. "If the Beacon does not bind properly to your soul, it will burn you from within, or sit on the edges of your soul and graze it with Shrivenflame. Aldrin, my Lord, can choose to make it unable to bind, condemning you to death like I said before. I need you -- while I commune with him -- to reach out to the Beacon with your soul and become one with it, to focus as much as you can on aligning the two spheres. Or you will quickly die."
Stephan sighed, beginning to focus his aether. He felt the ruminations of his own Beacon; the sort of... pulse it had, like a second heart. For the longest time, it had lived within him as a core aspect of who he was. Another life within his own, a life that he shared with in longevity, pain, and meaning. To give a Beacon was a gift, he had always thought. His occupied a burnt vessel, a Famished soul -- but that wasn't the fault of the flame, but the man who had given it.
"First, before any of this, I will paint the Black Sigil onto you. The Beacon will make it a true mark, sealing it onto your skin and flesh. It is a necessary component for the Binding to work. For the purpose of that, I ask: where would you like me to draw it? It is a large symbol; anywhere I put it, it will be noticeable. Most put it on their chests, backs, and so on. Mine is on the back of my neck, though it's mostly concealed by my hair, particularly if I let it grow out," the Argent nodded. He always said that -- as if to help defend his stupid decision to put the Rune in such an obvious place.
"Once I bring the Beacon to you and begin the initiation, I need you to recite the vow of the Ebon Knight. It is:
From Oaths, Order.
Order is my commitment. Strength is my tool. Belief is my weapon.
I am one blade among a million, pointed to the forms of our slavers; meant to drive through their necks. To rectify their scourge.
I am the Cleric that will cure the land. I am the Wraith that will cull the deathless. I am the Revenant that will hunt them beyond the grave.
From Oaths, Order. With Order, Strength and Belief, we will be free."
Upon reciting his words, he gathered a pen and quill from his satchel, so that he could ink on the Sigil. It would have to do. "You'll say those words so that Aldrin doesn't smite you. I must inform you that this is a serious vow you are undertaking: I will be obligated to hunt you if you betray us, and if you yourself become a Dranoch, the Beacon will purge you. So long as we are in contact, you will be my protégé in the Black Remedy, and I will be your Commander. Are you certain you really care all this much? Enough to condemn yourself to immolation?"
It was a reasonable question, he thought. Stephan couldn't imagine many people outside of Sil-Elaine being willing to risk death to this degree. Even if all they wanted was power. "If you truly feel as passionate as you claim, you will surely survive. If you are lying to me, though -- or yourself -- Aldrin will obliterate you. I cannot plainly enough describe his sheer absence of mercy."
