Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Lutetia City: The Veres Manies

Marc listened to the two as they explained the situation. "That's concerning that our supply is so low," Marc said as he seemed to pause mid-thought.

"Well given that we aren't at a point where we can synthesize and mass produce bloodbane for an extended period of time, the only option would be to obtain more of the required ingredients for a new batch." He said.
 
"Precisely," Golmen took another sip, "the fact is that we need bloodbane, and we need it quickly. The usual avenues of procurement would be far too slow and dangerous - I cannot trust this task to some shipping company or trade caravan." He sat back and smiled. "But neither can I simply dispatch a squad of paladins to take care of this - formidable warriors, certainly, but more familiar with using bloodbane than creating it. Too much rides on this expidition to risk it all on one of our paladins making even a small error in the procurement of the right ingredients."

The Ecclesiarch gestures to Marc. "Simply put cleric, I need someone with a mind for this sort of thing to lead this mission. Someone who is loyal to the church, can hold his own on the fight, but can ultimately still tell real vampire blood from a red corn syrup and vodka cocktail."
 
Marc nodded, "Yes this is a delicate matter." He said as he did some calculations in his head.

"So it seems to me we have two options. We find a Caer target and eliminate them for their blood this will provide us with a temporary solution to our problem."He said, "But what if we didn't kill a target but took them, prisoner? A new living subject would be invaluable to our research efforts and if we could find a way to extract blood from a living specimen..... " He seemed to trail off as if lost in thought before settling his eyes back on the two."If we are unsuccessful we can always kill them later and extract the blood we require from the corpse."

Then Marc turned to Chatillion "Master, would your paladins be up to the task of detaining and transporting a Caer?" He asked.
 
“What heals the spirit? Assuredly it is the Light of God. From the Light comes fullness. From the Light comes mending. From the Light, perfection.”
-120th Bayt Shaear of The Song of God (Kalimat Allah)​



7th Day of Aurellae, the Genarium.

Ringing. Ringing and dust encompassed the world as far as Ambroise was concerned. In the earth shaking explosion he’d been knocked off his feet and his glasses sent careening into some filth covered gutter, lost to him as he lay on the cobblestone street. The pungent smell of chemicals mixed with the dust of obliterated stone bricks and fixtures further muffled his senses. Even through the veil the elderly man could sense death around him, a presence he was all too familiar with.

It took every ounce of strength he had left in his body to simply stand up, and even then he feared he couldn’t after a bolt of pain shot through his leg. Age had not been kind to him. Stumbling, he meandered, desperately gazing through the haze of his vision and the smoke and dust lingering in the air.

The ringing was dying down, replaced now by screams and pleas for help. Through the smell of dust and debris the odor of death began to creep through. The metallic twinge of blood and the sharp bite of other bodily fluids grew as the man stumbled closer to the chaos, confirming what his otherworldly senses were telling him.

“Help, help, please, anyone,” he cried out as well, turning his head away from the epicenter of the explosion.

“Get the police, get the Order, get an-”

Something caught his foot as he shuffled in his semi-confused state, nearly sending him tripping over what lay before him. His gaze fell as he pushed against the object, feeling it give slightly. Haze and dust obscured it, but the form was clear enough that he knew it was a body. Falling to his knees he leaned closer to bring the child into focus, a blonde haired girl.

“Be okay, be okay” he whispered, hands moving over the young girl’s body. Dampness touched his fingertips as he placed his hands against her cheeks, drawing red lines down her face as he moved to check a pulse. He couldn’t feel it, but he couldn’t sense the presence of death around her either, leaving him to suspect her pulse was just too weak.

“I don’t know what to do, what do I do,” he muttered, fidgeting nervously over her limp and weak body.

“Take her to the Verre Maines.”

He didn’t question the voice or the idea, or even wonder who had spoken the words. If any place had gone untouched by the chaos it’d have been the citadel of the faith.

Carefully, though with haste, he scooped the little girl in his arms, cradling her as he shuffled down the thoroughfare, strength renewed with the duty of save such a young life..

As he grew closer to the center of the district he noticed that the crowds had grown thicker and thicker. The injured and those helping them lined the streets within a block of the mighty cathedral. There was an air of fear about them, but rather than being overtaken by a riotous panic they were subdued, calm in the face of danger.

“Help, help, she needs help,” he pleaded with one man who stood with his family huddled in his arms, presenting the fading child. There was no response, just remorseful and somber glances from the family, save for one child.

“The man, he can help her,” the young boy exclaimed, pointing towards the square just around the corner. His father hushed him quickly, but didn’t chide him as they watched the elderly necromancer shuffle off.

The crowds grew thicker and thicker, finally turning into a throng as Ambroise entered the square of saints. The mass was huddled around a central figure whose height and position up the cathedral steps rendered him still visible even across the cobblestone and statue filled expanse of the square.

Ambroise had never been a man of faith, though like all good and old Lutetian families his had been part of the church faithful, and so when news of a strange man speaking of a different god had made a scene he’d marked it off as a curiosity at best. Now in the throes of chaos he felt a certainty, a distant hope built of a need for faith, that this alien man could help- that he had to help.

“Please, please let me through, she’s dying,” he shouted as the masses grew thicker and thicker. The sea of bodies was slow to part, but not so dense as to keep him from making his ascent. Even with people standing shoulder to shoulder he saw a number of other stricken and injured residents of the Saintly district had also come to find aid and healing. Some had not made it in time, and he could sense death hidden amongst the crowd, from those who’d passed before reaching the center of the gathered crowd.

“Come on, just a bit further,” he pleaded to the girl in his arms. He clutched her tightly as his gaze focused on the hooded figure tending to the crowd around him in his singsong voice.. “He’s right there, almost there.”

Then the stench of death finally reached his nostrils, and realized the presence he’d feared had been tugging at his soul. He’d been so focused on getting her to the center that he didn’t notice she’d passed in his arms moments ago.

The world crashed around him for a second time, and with a loud cry he clutched her tightly to his chest, this girl who should have meant nothing to him, this girl who deserved better than him. Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes, streaming down and washing small streaks of dust off his cheeks, and with that cry his brief blessing of strength faded.

“No, not again, no, no!” He screamed as his leg crumpled, and he started to slip, falling towards the steps- unwilling to let go of the girl to stop his fall.

“De qalbik yabki , li'ana alhuzn hu alhabr aldhy yabni ealayh al'iiman.” A firm grip held onto him, keeping him from his fall, as the hooded figure supported him. The words struck a chord in his heart, though he did not understand a single syllable.

“I.. I don’t... understand, she’s gone, she’s gone, she’s dead,” he whimpered, staring up at the figure he’d dismissed just a day ago. “I can’t do anything, you can’t do anything.”

His tears surged again and he sobbed openly as he looked down at the lifeless body. He’d not dare to let her go, even as the foreigner lowered him towards the concrete steps, cradling him almost as he did the child. A gentle hand reached up and brushed the tears from one of his cheeks.

“Laysat qawtuna hi alty tunqidh aldaeif , 'iina allah hu aldhy yaemal min khilal khidamih , fa'ant 'adatih.”

“I’m not a healer, I’m anything but, I can’t bring her back” he whispered still not understanding the comforting words spoken to him, and looking over the girl’s pale face, “it’d be an abomination.”

“Yumkin 'iieadat tashkil 'adat , tulad mn jadid , yjb ealayk qabul hdha altaghyir , waihtidan alhibat alty 'aeutaak allah 'iiaha.”

“Please, I’ll do anything to bring her back.”

The smooth, gloved hand that had wiped away his tears caressed him one more time, holding a broad palm against his temple while a firm but gentle thumb pressed against his forehead- anointed with tears and soot. His eyes went wide for a moment as if curtains had been drawn back to reveal a blinding light.

“Then rise and she shall rise with you.”

***​

The masses stirred before the ever enigmatic figure. The crowd now sprawled across the full length of the saintly square, from the Vere Maines to the Palaise des Saints. Some were there out of survival, clinging together in a place seemingly untouched by the attack. Others, those closest to the red robed figure, sought peace of a different sort. As the hours went by, more and more of the former joined the latter- hearing the chorus of joy and praises of miracles.

“The sea surges before the storm, there is more to come, more to do before the Whirlwind is upon this world.” The figure spoke in a much softer tone, with his attention on those closest to him.

“Blessed Pilgrim, I will do anything for you, say it and I’ll carry it out.” The response came from the man closest to the foreigner, his head buried in the scarlet robe like a child seeking comfort from a parent. Not a moment had passed that he was not at his savior's side, and it showed on his dry, cracked lips.

“Those before us have found their way, washed upon our shore by these tribulations, but there are others still adrift, go, and guide their way.”

Long, gloved fingers cupped the old beggar’s chin, tilting his head upwards.

“Go forth, Servant of God, go forth and forget your name, for your path is now God’s path, and you shall be The Guide to the Right Path.”

The beggar's lips parted, raspy and silent for a moment before he repeated his new name.

“Ar-Rashid”
 
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