A Question Echoes In Sigil
Posted: Tue Aug 30, 2016 12:00 am
He is a lord of the hunt and he has chosen them well: weak willed victims. The childish bullies of the Hive and Lower wards. The rich school kids of the Lady's and Clerks Wards. The prostitutes who have lost the spark in their eyes and the drunks of the taverns.
He only chooses the ones who have no sign of magical knowledge. No way to be cautious of the charms he uses. He has woven himself in the magics of persuasion, he has sung the rites of Omi's Ewa, the rites of beauty.
He approaches calm and friendly. His voice is hypnotic, his eyes, his eyes are wells to fall into. He weaves about each victim a state of total submission. When he leaves, they remember nothing about him, just as he said they would.
Little in their lives has seemed to change, except that each now has a morbid fascination. Each now keeps an ear out to listen to every conversation. School children spy on their teachers and parents. Prostitutes ply their patrons for answers, pretending to be interested in exploits and deeds of horror or valor.
If ever they get an answer to what they are seeking they find themselves writing it down on a scrap of paper and leaving it in the forgotten places of sigil: deep cracks in the walls of neglected alleys, beneath ivy covered benches in old forgotten gardens, under the doors of back rooms in old abandoned buildings.
No one remembers why this compulsion has driven them. No one remembers that they were instructed to come to these exact places.
He chose them well. People with weak wills. Easily suggestible. Easily forgettable, and now all obsessed with just one question.
"What do you know of the Blood Lotus?"
He only chooses the ones who have no sign of magical knowledge. No way to be cautious of the charms he uses. He has woven himself in the magics of persuasion, he has sung the rites of Omi's Ewa, the rites of beauty.
He approaches calm and friendly. His voice is hypnotic, his eyes, his eyes are wells to fall into. He weaves about each victim a state of total submission. When he leaves, they remember nothing about him, just as he said they would.
Little in their lives has seemed to change, except that each now has a morbid fascination. Each now keeps an ear out to listen to every conversation. School children spy on their teachers and parents. Prostitutes ply their patrons for answers, pretending to be interested in exploits and deeds of horror or valor.
If ever they get an answer to what they are seeking they find themselves writing it down on a scrap of paper and leaving it in the forgotten places of sigil: deep cracks in the walls of neglected alleys, beneath ivy covered benches in old forgotten gardens, under the doors of back rooms in old abandoned buildings.
No one remembers why this compulsion has driven them. No one remembers that they were instructed to come to these exact places.
He chose them well. People with weak wills. Easily suggestible. Easily forgettable, and now all obsessed with just one question.
"What do you know of the Blood Lotus?"