Ventidius defies Aelish

A pleasant tingle travels down your spine as ghostly fingertips brush against the side of your neck 

and for a brief second you catch the whiff of...

*Rushes to Drocilla's Fulcrux*

You say, "My Lady, if you hear me, please, a sign. I knew it was a lie, all this time."

The Fulcrux of Drocilla.

A comforting feeling of privacy pervades the area. This wide, open antechamber bespeaks elegance and refinement while leaving no room for boorish austerity. A sleek, slate grey floor adorns the fulcrux, crafted from the finest quality stone with a smooth and silky texture that barely hints of softness beneath bare feet. Hundreds of exquisitely adorned iron sconces illuminate the room in pale candlelight, the flames of which flutter strangely in concert with some unheard tune. Dense walls of blackened ravenwood soar majestically to the domed ceiling above; a vast mural depicting a twisted rendition of the Trial of the Twelve looms down upon the room with each of the True Gods looking smug as They condemn depictions of collared Elders to the Void. Large, ornate windows outlined in burnished gold provide vision into a colourless, inky black vista dotted by glittering starlight. The darkness outside seems to ripple, the stillness of the void outside disturbed by shifting 

shadows as haunting cries wail on the edge of perception. Upon the edges of the wall are lines of 

silver and gold that opulently trace intricate designs, lending a regal finish to this regal 

enclosure. A large, circular portal of molten gold swells in smooth waves that ripple out from its 

centre.

You see a single exit leading through a mysterious portal.

You sit yourself down.

Silken clouds of incense billow across the antechamber, tracing helixes in the air as they spread a 

scent that you can almost, just barely make out, even if not name.

You say, "Yes I knew it. I am an artist of the Enchantress. I reject what I see, I have no need for 

dreams. I have the Lady Drocilla!"

The blackened ravenwood covering the northen wall ripples as if the very reality was unravelling, 

right where a portal into the darkness once led above the mastershrine.

Reality straightens out, as if corrected, and the mirage clears, leaving the antechamber cold and 

empty as before.

You shout, "Do as you will False Gods, I defy your false vision! Praise be to the Enchantress, 

praise be to the real First World!"

Dazzling light obscures your sight as Aelish, the Creator descends to the ground accompanied by an 

angelic choir.

Softly, Aelish, the Creator says, "There is naught for you here, dear child. Begone from this dead 

place."

Ecclesiar Sincho Morwellan, Neophyte of Revelation shouts, "Praise be to the Elder Gods, who still 

reach out to us in spite of the efforts of the False Gods. Praise the Navigator! Praise the 

Thousandfold. And praise to the mortals who work together to bring an end to this Dream."

You say, "She has done so much for me, I won't abandon Her."

You say, "All we have suffered is fear and pain."

His voice losing all warmth, Aelish, the Creator says, "She is dead, and I have been naught but a 

benevolent Creator! How ungrateful you are, vermin of this land."

You say, "The Necromentate is gone! Hallifax is gone."

You say, "If we are Nothing, how can we be grateful?"

Eyes blazing with power, Aelish, the Creator says, "What use have you for Hallifax? Why would you 

care, Magnagoran?"

Coldly, Aelish, the Creator says, "Come to Celest if your heart is so pure and you will back in My 

protection."

You say, "Hallifax may have hidden from the truth of the Taint, but their city was beautiful, a legacy 

of two Divine."

You say, "I'm sorry, but i won't lie and act like i am faithful to you."

Laughing, Aelish, the Creator says, "What use was it if it disobeyed? There is no room for 

disobedience in My new world order. We have saved you from sure destruction and you are ungrateful and rebellious. Little wonder your gods are dead."

The ethereal notes of a quiet, lyrical nocturne summoned from the strings of a viola drift upon the 

air, evocative of eventide marvels.

Aelish, the Creator says, "Scurry like a rat, little one, and be silence lest I urge the Iron God to 

destroy your city too."

All warmth is drained from the area as Aelish, the Creator glides away upon ethereal wings, the 

light and hope He imparted with His glorious visit lingering within your heart