Stabilising the staff

It was time to tinker with his creation. It still wasn't perfect. Something was off, the spirits infused within the staff were working in disharmony. Which meant that it drained far too much power to keep going. He had managed to open up a stable portal to scare off that girl but... he couldn't exactly pursue her with how tired it had made him.

The staff now lay on a work bench before him, the previous metallic head of Demicles was removed and instead a skull lay nearby, removed from the top for now. Beneath it, red mana flickered and poked at the runes and mechanisms beneath, the air reeked of depraved sin from Gorandis' ministrations and the very air was thick with a crimson glow.

Just below the head of the staff lay three crystals each a differing colour. They shimmered in the dim light. The top of which was red and sparked with hellstorm. The second, silver crystal, pulsed gently and exuded the faint sense that ether magic had to it. And an orange crystal sat below that, gently giving our heat. Within the crystals, occasionally, tortured faces flashed by the surface.

But they should have been working perfectly and the frustration it was causing was enough to soak the area for nearly miles around in the thick sense of wrath. Gorandis was very close to just smashing the entire thing.,, And above all that he was still expecting a guest. A Neries of all things. It probably wasn't going to go particularly well.

But things rarely ever did once Gorandis got himself involved. He shook his head and returned to his work, occasionally looking at the open door to the building and peering at any motion that occurred beyond.
(Gorandis)

From the safety of Nostvale to the lands that had once tried to snuff his existence, the venture is one that is unquestioned. Discretion had been advised, and once feet had trod upon Northern soil the Neries is careful to navigate the canopy of Wychwood.

The juxtaposition from West to North is jarring; from scorching sunlight and blistering Prairie's to the terrible battering of wayward tempest. The Imperfect's effect reached further than he had remembered, though the city - part prosperous and part desolate - was a terrible reminder of his time.

Loyalty offered to a treacherous, gluttonous Queen. The betrayal had been agonising.

When Nerebian energies collide with Sinful essence, the arrival of one unnatural being to the other is known. Twisted and foreign, it beats like the faintest ripple upon calm waters, alerting The Herald momentarily of his targets presence.

The household, tucked away on the outskirts of Loranthis, is breached. Torchlight is broken by the unnatural glower cast by crystals, varying shades of energy whistling and thrumming about their catalysts in a lovely shower of light. Those are heeded for a soft moment, before a citrine gaze - harsh and calculating - is met with the infamous Sin of Wrath.

"Greetings," Aamon begins, his tentative entrance met by the sickening, warped energies of Wrath. He is careful, then, not to suckle on such violently powerful energies, lest his being be stripped of sanity and his mind melted to mush through the transition from Neries to Apostate.

"I am Aamon. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

It is met with a swift bow - quick enough not to grovel.
(The Herald)

"Aamon... Yes you must be the Herald then. There aren't enough Neries around for you to be confused for anyone else anyway..."Gorandis gave him a brief look as the bow was performed before moving back to working on the scattered staff before him. The skull was replaced on the top of the staff, covering the mechanisms and resealing itself completely as more crystals grew out of the base to secure it.

"So. You wish to summon Nethradin? It is not an easy task, not if you want to do it correctly. They are not like the undead, they do not follow commands blindly and you have far less control over them then you would possibly like. But if you treat them right then they will follow your commands regardless. And by treat them right I don't mean with sunshine and happiness."

"They understand strength and they understand fear..." Gorandis looked up again at the Neries and scanned him quietly. "And perhaps you can muster up that much personality to actually have them listen... but there's your first lesson before we've even done anything. 'Don't be an idiot or you'll be regretting it as the summoner becomes the hunted'..."

"Still, you had other questions, yes? About my motives as well as about the 'daemons' themselves."
(Gorandis)

The initial reaction is one of calm, and with does the Neries take the opportunity to venture further into the abode, door lightly closed and latched in passing. It would not do for a passerby to report sighting of a Neries within the boundaries of Loranthis. Given his crimes and notoriety within the city, confrontation of any description was best avoided past the Sarab checkpoint.

"I have been hunted a great many times. This is of no concerns to me," Eyes fall upon the grand staff, its intricate workings engaging for a short moment. Powerful and potent, its mechanisms and design were considerably more impress than the great, cumbersome Onyx Greatsword boasted by the lesser Neries.

"My concerns lay with your motives. I am capable of adamantine loyalty, given reason. I fought the legions of the Allied Forces blindly in the name of her success, foolish as it was. You are a Sin of Wrath, rejected by even the lifestream.

Why, then, do you seek to teach another these arts? A hobby? A greater purpose? These are the things that intrigue me before I commit to such a thing. I am reasonably cautious and curious, I hope."
(The Herald)

"Mainly for cover." The staff is lifted into the air and twisted around as it was inspected, the hidden runes could barely be seen glowing a thick, deep red as the sinful mana poured into them. Though given the nature of the artifact itself, it would likely still bleed wrathful mana even without it being his own. Perhaps that could be tested n the future...

"If I am the only one that can conjure these creatures then whenever they are found on their own then they will be instantly linked back to me, one of the most wanted men in the east. But, if others with allegiances varying wildly across the country can conjure them? Then my creations can move much more freely and they can do their jobs all the better..."

"Simple as that. A smokescreen through sheer numbers. Make it the norm so that no-one will question it. Granted it is going much slower than I had hoped and likely wont even be achieved within my lifetime." He shrugs and brings the base of the staff to tap against the wooden floor. "But I'm still going to do it. Because the risk is very minor and the rewards vastly outweigh it."

"But, I now have a question for you. Why do you wish to learn it?"
(Gorandis)

"A cover?"

The thought hadn't occurred to him. In hindsight, it was a smart endeavour for a man of such notoriety. Discretion was something he rarely had to worry about, given the Hirano Queen's unwavering affection for his supposed obedience.

Had had used her as she had used him. His continued survival was a mere matter of intelligence and forward-thinking than sheer ability.

"Smart. Necromancers of old did the same and now it's a commonplace ordeal. I am, however, surprised that so few seek tuition towards such a unique magic from a Sin Mage."

Aamon veers closer, gaze taking in every inch of the home. Was it Gorandis', or simply an impromptu workshop he'd claimed recently for his modifications? These were parts of Loranthis he'd spent very little time exploring in days gone by.

"I pursue these teachings because I am one of the last of my kind. Unhindered by a bitter Goddess no longer, I care little for what humanity I maintain if the alternative is far greater. I care not for my people any longer - they have failed, and once I crushed the coward 'Vindicator' Zurie, I have little more interest and pursuing their goals.

I seek power and uniqueness and a means to crush the unworthy. It is no secret that my peoples were and continue to be deprived of most magical affinities. I have crafted and honed the art of summoning out of necessity. This seems to be the true, natural progression in my ascension."
(The Herald)

"Good answer. Though perhaps a little too pandering I must admit. However, the art of summoning the Nethradin is much more complicated than summoning human spirits. That's main;y due to the mindset differences between the two races. Human spirits naturally wish to help in order to move on from the spirit realm and finally find peace."

"The Nethradin however... They simply wish to further their own goals and they use you just as much as you use them. Though there are certainly layers of intelligence out there. The current two that i have under my command are not the most intelligent nor the most conniving. But they do their jobs well enough and one of them has even managed to disrupt things in the east for me."

"But, enough about that... First, there is something I wish to do. It will make things all the easier for us." From his robes he pulls out a pendant. It radiates a warmth from it that can be felt even from the large distance between Gorandis and Aamon. "This is a little trinket given to me by Dumuzid for my help with his own project."

"It doesn't look like much, does it? But it is something similar to my own arts. Crystallised spirits in the form of amber. From what I've been able to carve off they are from the whispering willows far to the south east. They are quite benevolent and even kind in some ways. But, I am not someone who is particularly kind in return."

"In order to command Nethradin you must be willing to be ruthless and cruel when needed... Would you like me to show you some of my art? Not quite to the point of binding the Nethradin but... I can show you how I manipulate spirits to my liking."
(Gorandis)

The warmth is palpable and scolding, permeating through layers of Nerebian armour and cloak. It phases him less than the twisted, Depraved energies that unabashedly intoxicate the interior of this homestead and the surrounding city through the Sin Mage's sickly presence.

For a Neries, it was akin to traversing through smoke, careful not to breathe the fumes. A slip upon his hold of the usual reaving and suckling upon the forces of nature would almost certainly propel him into a frenzy.

"Of course, then. I would like to see. All I've heard are rumours and stories. I have yet to witness them."

There is a secondary focus upon the shimmering amber, tainted by the occasional wisp and vortex from the spirits trapped within.

"What is the purpose of the trinket, if any?"

Aamon steps ever closer, curiosity alone compelling him to venture ever deeper into the nest of a Magi far superior.

"There are few who favour the art of summoning outside of simple Necromancy. I am intrigued to see what other feats you have managed through it."
(The Herald)

"The trinket itself was created by the spirits it is composed of in order to empower someone... I haven't been able to find out more and i have yet to ask the imperfect where he got it from... Though that hardly matters any more. Not with what I am going to do with them." The still amber began to shudder and crack, before spilling out into a thin golden orange mist.

And from beneath his robes thick, languid tendrils of deep purple began to squirm and rise into the air, clutching lightly at the mist, collecting it and herding it into a more condense orb that floated in the middle of the room. It gave off depravity but it wasn't unpleasant. Far from it infact, Gorandis' talk of benevolence was not unfounded, the spirits that composed it were kind.

But again, that mattered little the sin of wrath.

The staff came about and the skulled tip was pushed deep within the mist. The purple tendrils expanded and surrounded everything from the staff to the mist. And it began to descend and shrink, turning two into one and binding the power of the spirits into the staff itself. And, hopefully, solving the problems that he was having with it at the same time.

"The amber crystal wasn't one of my own creation. It is actually just coincidence that it exists... But there are certainly others that I have forged myself." The thick cloud of purple receded and the staff was revealed in its place. A thick string of amber connected the skull to the rest of the staff in a crescent shape. And beneath the base of the skull the three crystals were presented.

"Each of these crystals was once a person. The silver one you might find to be of particular interest. Considering it's Nerebia's Archbishop."
(Gorandis)

"You managed to trap the spirit of the Archibishop within a gem?"

The Neries is not immediately angered. There is underlying frustration that bubbles and pops, but not through any fault of Gorandis' actions. The existence of the gem was proof of false beliefs: if the spirit of the Archibishop remained, there was neither Dream nor Nightmare.

At the point of death, there was no salvation. There was cleansing and rebirth, just as the Valmasian-born suffered. It is a nauseating revelation.

"The Gem's we are granted work similarly. At one point, they were a means through which Nerebia might communicate with us and see as we see. They were a means for Her to feed us the gifts our kind is notorious for. Simple crystal containing fragments of her energy, I suppose."

Upon an extended palm sits a pale moonstone. Not the one he was born with, for that had been devoured by Dumuzid long ago; this was of the Judicator's Warden, and it thrums still with Nerebian essence.

"The fact you have achieved such a thing makes Nerebia's supposed gifts seem like utter fallacy. The other two gems - who are they."
(The Herald)

"The Red one was a magi from Nostvale named Alfarez Vichenstein. He died to my hand some years ago after Nahele had pushed me into a rather sorry state. The man was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Of any of them, he is probably the one I come the closest to regretting." His gaze lingers on the gem for a moment longer leaving unspoken words lingering in the air.

"The Orange one was Daran Lakewater. A member of the Viridian Legion. I killed him in the middle of New Alteros. I never had anyone do anything about that. Perhaps they were too scared to try and speak out. But, the boy was a decent fire magi and he had crossed me often enough in the past. So his spirit is put to good use."

"There are others I have collected over the years but I have other plans for them and some I have already gifted off to others. Lives to toy with and do as I please. Perhaps your gems did work in the same way but I care little enough about them to investigate... And the spirit of the Archbishop is not trapped within the gem, it is the gem."

"His whole life crystallised into a single solid object that is now used to power whatever I wish... But enough about all of that. I think it's about time I showed you what you wanted to learn." The staff comes down and hits against the wood. Runes fire up beneath the skull once more and the red mist begins to gather, pooling out of the eye sockets and mouth of the secured bone.

The air besides Gorandis split with a flash of white before settling into a doorway of sorts. One that showed a dark, cold land beyond. The land of Helheim. "This is where the Nethradin come from, would you care to take a look?"
(Gorandis)

The Neries, perhaps foolish, proceeds with little hesitation. Fear had been strictly warned against, after all, and actions governed by mere curiosity were rarely halted. Thus, with slow steps is the distance between two closed, and the unnatural gateway that separates the fabrications of Reality peered upon.

The canvas is distorted by the energies that maintain it, but to peer upon the Rift is like peering through frosted glass. It was a world so bare and dry, and even to approach the doorway casts a terrible chill to evanesce the former, Depraved warmth.

Through desolate, bare land, a single, humongous river cleaves carefully through the centre, twisted and wound throughout the land of Helheim. Even from a distance, it flows like mist, its tranquil, untouched surface containing all manner of spirits beneath.

"What is this, some manner of Riftmancy? How does one even discover the means to traverse the Spirit Realm."

A citrine gaze falls upon Gorandis carefully. He was unsure as to whether the two would breach the Spirit Realm, or merely observe.

"How many of them reside within Helheim? Hundreds? Thousands? An infinite number?"
(The Herald)

"It is similar to Rift magic in some aspects yes. Most of it comes from Demicles though I have been modifying it to be far more capable... And it seems like my efforts have come to fruition." After all, he didn't even fatigued from opening and maintaining this portal. "The spirits entwined into the staff are used as a way of 'getting into' the spirit realm."

"They belong there, not in our realm. And so there is a very subtle tug between them and the next realm. A pull and can be inversed and amplified through the right spell work. Spell work that I have done. And so now, stable rifts are formed. But, when I said to look at it, I didn't mean from such a great distance." The staff is held firmly and the end is used to slowly usher Aamon towards the portal.

Which Gorandis steps through and into the dark lands beyond. The first to hit him was the cold and it was quickly followed by the spirits that lunged at him. But they didn't seem to do so for long and to Aamon who was still on the other side of the portal they would look like they just ran off in fear. But those within the realm of Helheim can feel the power burning off of Gorandis.

Power that would hurt any that tried to covet it. But, the sin magi turns to face Aamon proper and beckons to him to cross the threshold.
(Gorandis)

There is neither hesitation nor argument. A few final steps meet him with a particular tug, like a gust of wind heaving him forth. Hastened steps guide him through the threshold, where the warmth of the homestead is abandoned in favour of the terrible chill that nips upon cheeks. A chill that grows greater and more harsh with every subsequent step into the depths of Helheim.

The Realm of Helheim spans endlessly in every direction, obscured by a light fog at a point, and seemingly torn apart endlessly by the slow creep of the Styx. From within, the light mist that seems to wallow beneath the surface is given character; the light shimmer of faces, specifically, pulled beneath the depths for reasons unknown to the uninitiated Neries.

"How insipid. It is no surprise this Realm produces Daemons. But --" Aamon turns, slowly, to peer in all directions. Pale fingers touch upon the mask that usually obscures his features, and with a tug, it is removed. Silver flesh has fallen a sickly grey, cracked and fissured, and beneath sit terrible, darkened laylines, as though oil were being pumped throughout. Corruption had taken its whole.

"It is huge. How would one even begin to breach these Realms without having previously visited? Isn't the entire premise of Riftmancy based upon an infallible knowledge of the location you wish to travel to?"

A few steps draw him further into Helheim, tugged by some underlying weakness.

Guilt, was it?

"Are the Nethradin the only spirits that populate this realm?"
(The Herald)

"The principle of the portals works on 'returning' the spirits to the spirit realm. They intrinsically know where the spirit realm is and that 'memory' is used to direct the magic. As I said it's not entirely rift magic. It's slightly less and also slightly more complicated." The staff hums within his grip and the crystals covering it begin to glow with their respective colours.

"And as you can see, the spirits wish to escape, as they always do. But even here, I have all the power over them... and as soon as I am finished, whomever holds the staff will be the one that has the power over them..." He begins to pace, staring up at the sky. Stars dot it, stars that are not too dissimilar to the ones back on Valmasia.

"The Nethradin exist to torture the lost dead. Torture them until they become like them. The spirits that are here are not all Nethradin. But it's only a matter of time until they are." Gorandis let out a sigh as he stared around at the environment. This was only the second time he had personally come here and the red brand on his chest began to ache.

He still needed to find that Nethradin... But not now. "Come, let us return to our own land. before we attract anything i would rather not deal with. And you should put your mask back on..." A tight lipped frown was all that could be seen before Gorandis turned to re-enter the portal, disappearing through it back to the house on the otherside.

For a moment he contemplated closing the portal while they were separated...
(Gorandis)

For that very reason, The Herald is quick to follow, swift steps carrying him towards and into the warmth of the portal, despite the terrible guilt that willed him to venture further into those desolate lands. Boots step from dusted planes to the solid creak of wood, and where chill is left behind, the Depraved warmth once more greets.

And he, the Neries, is silently grateful to have made it in and out without trouble, whether from the Sin Mage or otherwise.

Obediently, the slab of empowered porcelain, imbued with the energies of the fallen Judicator, Selvia, slots once more upon his face, concealing the imperfections that had come with the thrall of Depraved that hung upon him since the fall of Nerebia.

It takes a few moments of composure before any manner of words meet Gorandis.

"I presume even if these teachings of yours had garnered as much interest as you'd anticipated, it would not simply be dispensed to anyone and everything.

What, then, are the conditions of your teachings? You have shown me, and I remain no less intrigued. What manner of test must I endure before you are content I am capable of this magic?"
(The Herald)

The base of the staff raps against the wood and the portal snaps shut leaving white embers floating down to the wood where they died out dully. The test was a success at least and the staff was ready. Well, almost ready. It did need to be enchanted for general usage... He didn't want all of his work to be undone as soon as someone else took it to the spirit realm.

But, that was for later, for now he had the Neries to deal with. "The conditions? Hmm, I assumed that you're already accustomed to summoning 'regular' spirits are you not? Hmm... I have a better idea. Summon up your strongest spirit for me so that I may inspect it. If it's good enough we might be able to make some use of it..."

"If it isn't then we'll have to do this the hard way. I started off just summoning regular humans but... well I found them to be lacking any good qualities and so I simply used him in an effort to attract a swarm of the Nethradin before plucking one of them out of it... It was a decent plan for the time but... with what I know now, there is so much more that can be done."

"But only if the spirit you can conjure is strong enough... consider that your test for now." In all actuality, Gorandis was simply using this as an effort to test one of his own theories.
(Gorandis)

"As you wish."

There is a boon of energy among the Sin Mage's own, where tendrils of silver, translucent energies briefly strike upon some unseen entity. They whip and hook, and after a few moments they retract, tugging within them slight flecks of mana, carefully plucked from the midst of the Sin Mage's own.

With a brief beckon, the wisp condenses into a single entity, feeding upon the mana of its surroundings in its forced formation.

Reality distorts at first, twisted and blurred, and when it does settle and the process of the wisps growth is complete, a shade lingers; no more than a shadow at first, it begins to take shape. It is bound to mortal planes by means of mana.

Between the two, silently, a potently Exorcistic spirit lingers; clad in robes of white and red, its appearance is pristine and radiant, armed with a brilliant golden Crosier that twirls into a horned holder atop, home to a lightly resonating orb. The fallen warrior of the Order of Light lingers, its energies called upon a thousand times since its initial binding.

"It is, perhaps, the peak of what I might have managed without venturing into the Depraved. It is resilient and strong and has remained bound for some time. It is not good enough."
(The Herald)

"No, it isn't good enough. But it can certainly be made good enough... Diving into summoning Nethradin is stupid and dangerous and I should not have done it the way I did... But you can do so in a much better way." Gorandis begins to pace around the spirit, measuring it up and, well, plotting about it. "We can easily turn him into something more useful."

"After all, those spirits that stay in Helheim become Nethradin eventually. And so... You will work on strengthening your control over the spirit and then binding him to Helheim until he warps and shifts and changes. It will be the ultimate death of him as he morphs into something else but... It will be all the better for you to do it this way."

"Crafting your own creature rather than casting a wide net and hoping for the best... I've been wanting to try this is one of the spirits that I collected but... well we can kill two birds with one stone this way can't we? I wonder if it will keep its exorcistic mana after it changes... something to find out I am sure..." Gorandis reached into his bag before pulling out scraps of blank, worn paper.

He flicked though each of them, burning a pattern into the surface of them with Hellstorm magic, the pattern of runes. "Here, these will be exactly what you need to bind the spirit to Helheim. Getting a greater control over it is your own doing however. I suppose it is better to say that that is your test. Because if you fail, you can be sure that your spirit will seek vengeance."

"So you will make him unable to resist first..." The slightly warm pages were offered out for the Neries to take. "Do try to succeed in this."
(Gorandis)

They are taken, and only a few moments of observation are allowed before they are carefully folded, and placed carefully within the small bag that sat carefully upon his waist. There is a moment where his gaze lingers upon Gorandis, vaguely untrusting, but not willing to voice concerns.

These runes might have had any degree of effects. Without prior knowledge, he could not confidently distinguish their purpose or effect. It was blind faith, in the end.

"Then I shall break it before I bind it. My gifts should, at the very least, make the process a tad easier."

He hesitates before turning to depart.

"Once this is complete, I shall return. Have you any use of me in the meantime? This should not be without equal give and take."

The Spirit fades, its ghastly appearance evanesced once more. The Lifestream seeks to devour it, but is unable, for this fallen warrior is tethered, for a time - bound to the planes of Valmasia by the Neries who used it as a tool. At a moments notice it would be conjured with others.

"Have you need of me? I am a trusted aide to the Queen of Nostvale, after all."
(The Herald)

"No, I have nothing I really wish to task you with. Don't die and don't spread my knowledge without my approval. Because I will know that it was you and that will not end well for you... The only thing I can ask for is just for you to send me letters detailing on what is going on in Nostvale as of late. A small bit of spy work, that's all. Not much knowledge manages to seep this far away."

"There is another around these parts who seek the same knowledge as you. His name is Ivan, he's a doctor and for now I've simply given him one of my Nethradin to keep him company and slowly teach him. If you come across him know that the pair of you do have that in common at the very least." The staff was flexed in his grip.

One final change and the staff would be complete... "So you are free to go, free to get started on conquering your spirit. There are many ways you can achieve it, sheer force of will seemed to work the best for me... But given the way your skin has cracked I fell your mind might be soon to follow. DO try to not shatter yourself through the effort."
(Gorandis)

"Spy work? How terribly exciting."

The acceptance of his request is wry. Gorandis' taunting is heeded, but the Neries is careful not to react. Though there was calm now, he was terribly aware of the consequences of angering this particular individual. Thus, slow steps draw him towards the door through which he had entered.

"My body suffers. My mind does not. Do not worry about my ability to perform."

Thump, thump, thump - he is carried to the door, and where one hand sets upon the handle, the door seeks to raise his hood high above mask and horns. There is one final glance upon the Sin Mage.

"I shall report back to you soon with anything of interest. Perhaps I will seek out Ivan at some point, too. Farewell for now, Sin of Wrath."
(The Herald)

Gorandis: Goodbye, Herald