9th of Frost
Earlier in the day, Arkash had asked Fayeth to retrieve some oil for him. It was nothing special or rare, just some bog-standard lamp oil that would have otherwise been used to light the way for the citizens of Nivenhain. Of course, she'd thought he meant to use the oil for the burning of the nameless corpses, but that wasn't quite the truth.
He meant to experiment with the oil, to discover the property of combustion, and apply it to his Blood Magic. Why? They'd spent the day prior gathering bodies of the nameless that were killed in the butchering. Sure, they couldn't find or recover all the bodies of everyone that perished in the attack, but they recovered enough to fill the first floor of a dilapidated house in the street.
Arkash claimed that the fire was for the purpose of ensuring the streets stayed clean and free of disease, but it served another purpose. The pillar of smoke the burning bodies would release would draw the Argent and Chevalier back to the streets of Lower Nivenhain. It was then that Arkash would guide a small platoon through the sewers, to Outer Nivenhain. With the lax guard on the streets, they would be able to raid a few stores for food, medicine, bandages, alcohol, and hopefully hit the weapons manufacturer to acquire guns for their cause.
There was a problem, though. Arkash had told the nameless that they could return to the streets after they'd finished cleaning them. He feared a lot of them would disband, and his goals would fall apart. So, he had to address them at the pyre, explain his plans, his goals. He had to convince as many of them as possible to follow him, or all was lost. What was lost? Arkash was unsure, but a tug on the fiber of his being pulled him in the direction he was hurtling toward. It was a scratch to an itch on his brain, a longing he couldn't so easily explain being satisfied.
So why the oil? Why the risk of blood magic? The bodies had been left in the snow for a day and were damp and frozen as a result. Burning them wouldn't be easy, even if he doused them with lamp oil. So, he needed to make the blood in the bodies combustible. Why couldn't he wait for the ice to thaw or the bodies to dry? The nameless were dropping like flies in the sewers. They needed those supplies that night, or even more of them would perish.
To manage such a feat, though, he needed more ether. He had no bodies to sacrifice, and the blood of the bodies before him was dirty, already decomposing; he couldn't leech from them. Arkash had little choice but to sacrifice his own blood, but doing so would leave him weak in the raid to come.
He'd spent the morning experimenting with the oil, igniting little pools he poured on the grimy sewer floors. Eventually, he found that the flammability of the oil was because of all the energy packed inside the fluid. If he ignited the energy of the compound, it broke down and converted the material to something else with far less energy inside. In the case of the oil, it was smoke. He didn't fully understand the nuances of the process, but he knew the basic concept. That was enough.
So, Arkash had brought all the nameless to the surface as dusk approached. The last embers of sunlight licked at the horizon as the sun steadily disappeared from view. It hadn't snowed that day, so all packed white beneath the nameless' feet was nearly completely compressed to ice. Asmodei and Fayeth waited with the people and prevented their entry while he 'doused the bodies'. Asmodei and Fayeth didn't know of his blood magic, and he had no intent to share with them the truth.
In the dark of the house rife with black mold and vermin, Arkash hid from the view of the windows, and ducked low as he drew his knife. There, he looked at his palm and flexed his claws.
Sacrifice was a simple spell. Similar to the oil, blood was packed with energy, but of a different kind. It was rife with magic, and he could convert it to blight. His own blood was even more potent, he knew. One cut to his palm would be better than cutting the throat of his opponent, but it would leave him with a weak, even frail hand for some time. It wouldn't heal for some time.
Arkash pulled at his bandages, then hissed at the sting of his burn wounds before he lowered the knife to his open palm. He didn't believe that he'd ever be fine with harming himself, but he had to make some sacrifices if his followers were to survive.
So, Arkash pressed the blade of his knife into his scalie palm and dragged, but failed to cut himself. The rathor began to breathe heavily and slapped himself on the side of the head. "Don't be a pussy," he muttered in vithmi, then bared his teeth before he gripped the blade of his knife tight. He could feel the bite of the metal in his scales. The sensation only made the next step so much harder. With his teeth bared, the rathor pulled at the handle of his knife in a quick slash and split the scales of his palm and fingers alike.
A squeak of surprise escaped his lips as burning pain took his hand, but he had no time to spare. He cast sacrifice in the slash, and the wound burned and fizzled with energy. With all the additional energy ready, he focused on the sources of blood all around him, and burned his own ether in tandem with all his gathered blight. His cut palm clenched a fist, and his whole arm flexed as the bodies around him shifted and contorted as their contents were converted to combustible blight. Arkash bared his teeth as he worked his way through all of them. His head shook, and Strain began to wrack his form, but he didn't quite reach the point of bruising from his reckless use of the magic.
Soon enough, it was done. Every other body's blood had been made combustible. Arkash fell to his good hand and held his head with the other. Blood smeared into the bandages that wrapped his head, but he didn't care. His brain hurt. He wouldn't be able to use his blood magic on the raid unless he found someone's throat to cut, but that was hardly even an option in front of all his followers.
Unsteady and exhausted, Arkash spilled the oil on the mound of bodies in the middle of the room without care, then stepped back and wobbled to the door before he strained up to catch his breath. He couldn't appear before the nameless weak, he had to show strength. So, he fought the crushing pain in his head, exhaled through his nose, and took a step out of the house. His yellow eyes watched the gathering with a stern seriousness as he walked by them all.
Some were taller than he was, some were shorter. It didn't matter, all eyes were on him and his two companions regardless. Using both his claws, he climbed atop the wooden crate that had been set before the dilapidated home and was allowed to stand at eye level with some of the Ashen Elves of the gathering. The weakness in his right palm had already begun to set in, or were those just the complaints of his chest wound? Either way, he paid them both little mind.
"We've all achieved," he spoke to address the crowd. "Befaw 'ew all," he spoke with a gesture of his claws to the building behind him, "is th' fruits of 'ew laba'; sure, 'ew didn' save up enough for 'at fancy new 'ouse, an' didn' tempt 'at Lustrian int' marriage or nuffin; we wasn' meant for 'at life." His yellow eyes looked about those gathered while he fought the urge to sway in his lightheadedness. "But 'ew've gone an' made Lowa' Nivenhe'n safa', faw all of us. There's 'ope to return to ou'a 'omes wivout risk of disease an' plague..." he paused, and the gathered began to weakly cheer and whoop, all born of their pride which he helped to enforce. As the sporadic claps settled, he spoke "...But 'at doesn' mean we's saef," he continued as he looked to Asmodei with a nod.
The Velsign took his lamp, opened the cage, and threw it through the door of the building. A bright red flame quickly engulfed the bodies in the middle of the room, which burst outward and built into the upper levels of the broken home with a fierce red glow. The gathered fell into silence at the display, and a scrawny man spoke "Why not 'en...?"
Again, the rathor gestured to the building behind him. "I told 'ew already," he began, then looked to ensure that they were all looking at him. "In there's 'ew brotha's, sista's. 'Ew motha's an' fatha's, even 'ew children. Entia' fam'lies lost ova'night." His gaze continued to look about them as he built his tone to combat the roaring, bursting fire, as it grew with each body of combustible blood it burned through. "If 'ey was born Celebrant, 'ey'd be th' talk o' th' town, an' justice would'a been served wivin 'ours... But they's not. We's naemless," he continued.
"No one's gonna stand up faw us, there's nuffin to in'ibit anova attack liek 'at; If th' Argen' want, 'ey can come down 'ere right now an' kill th' lot of us an' no one'll bat an eye." Their faces were grim, scared. He had their hearts. They knew his words to be true, they all knew they had no rights, that they were despised by the country. The anger in his tone receded as he exhaled, then shook his head dismissively. "But I said 'ew can all leave once we've cleaned th' streets a bit, an' I'm true to my word." he gestured to the open, blood-stained snowy roads, a darkened silhouette in the burning amber of the flame. "So, go. If 'ew'r fine wiv lettin' 'ese people, related to 'ew or not, be lost to 'istory as pest control, then leave."
They remained frozen in place, a few were hesitant and shuffled awkwardly in the snow, those were the faces that he recognized as cowards, people who'd rather not be there, but didn't dare step out of the herd because of their own fear. The nameless were without courage, and he manipulated that as best he could.
"No one?" He asked as he straightened his back. Finally, a couple broke away; a few of the weaker and more feeble hung their heads as they began to disperse. Among the crowd, there were whispers and hisses, scoffs of disgust. "Settle down," he spoke with a wave of his claws. "Ou'a world needs strength, not everyone's got what 'ew do." he looked about those that remained; most of them were thuggish looking men with a few exceptions; some elderly, some scraggly women, and children both. "Wot's the rest of 'ew still 'ere for, 'en?" he asked. Those gathered began to look at each other, some whispers followed. "'Ew wan' PEACE?" he asked, and the whispers fell quiet as all eyes returned to him. "'Ew wanna crawl back in 'ew ghettos an' 'ide from th' law?!"
A series of refusals followed, some lifted their clenched fists into the air. "NO?!" he called like a spark to oil, and they returned his energy with an explosive, enthused, resounding 'NO!'.
"You'a all SEETHIN'?!" he called with a reptilian hiss. More resounding affirmation; he had them on the ropes, putty in his claws. "THEN 'OW ABOUT SOME FUCKIN' JUSTICE, EH?!" he practically roared; the crowd's energy was contagious. Again, they met his volume and raised as they made their anger and hate known. He'd found their uniter. His gaze looked to Fayeth and Asmodei, who watched the crowd before looking to him with pride and admiration in their eyes. Arkash bared his teeth in a broad smile, then returned his gaze to the crowd. "THEN LET'S GET SOME!!" he roared again, then threw his clenched fist into the air, the palm he'd sacrificed to make the night.
Again, the gathered, radicalized nameless met his energy and raised it tenfold. They were practically foaming at the mouth, empowered by their numbers. It was infectious and spread through their ranks like wildfire. The fire behind him was a beacon that declared their unity in hate and rage, a darkened pillar of smoke that raised into the sky and made their will known to all, including the argent who watched from the dividing wall.
