Re: Journey of the Black Sun

[Streetsbound]

She stared, trembling, at the blood on her hands, the still body at her feet. Her lover's face was frozen in an expression of horror and sorrow, a gaze she couldn't shake even as she staggered back. The knife was heavy in her grip, its weight pulling her mind further from herself. What had she done? She remembered their pleas, their arms around her, begging her to stop, but all that remained was a dull, echoing emptiness as her thoughts spiraled in fractured disarray.

In a daze, she dragged the body to the sewer, the one she knew well, where the city's filth flowed in putrid darkness. The weight of their form against her numb arms, the distant sound of water splashing—these sensations grounded her, anchoring her ever so lightly to reality. She let the body fall, watched as the current claimed it, and left without looking back.

Her thoughts burned with fragments of the Cyrinishad, a feverish compulsion driving her beyond the bounds of regret. The scriptures whispered to her, commanding her to walk Cyric's twisted path. She took the coins from her lover's pocket, and like a restless specter, drifted westward along the road to Eveningstar, her mind splintered but drawn forward by a singular, dark faith.

There, at the edge of the quiet town, she found it—the symbol of the skull within a black sun, carved into a weathered stone outside an old ruin. Heart pounding, she traced it with her fingers, feeling the pull of destiny. She pressed, and the stone shifted, revealing another scroll—another piece of the Cyrinishad. Her hands shook as she took it, her pilgrimage to madness renewed, a holy path laid bare just for her.

The Book of Ascension

By these anticipations, the ever-made and always-making, the eternal and the mortal, the lord of three crowns brought himself into this world, immanent, to know the way of mortality. Know, O Reader, the truth of his life, the fulfillment of the promise:

Behold the signs, for the Lord of Three Crowns, the Ever-Made and the Always-Making, cast himself down among the mortal. He entered the wheel of becoming, immanent among men, to know the path of mortality.

Know, O Seeker, that in the year of the marching moon a tyrant of the black keep came upon a wastrel-maid- failure and misery she was, her blessing would be the annunciation of He-Who-Follows. From this wretchedness she would be lifted, but she was not to be a fetter upon the babe's neck, and the father's heart was made hard against his unborn child.

Know, O Seeker, the fulfillment of his journey: In the year of the marching moon a tyrant of a black keep drew near to a wastrel-maid, lowly and heavy with sorrow. A barren, pitied soul was she, and in this wretchedness, she bore He-Who-Follows. Yet she would not bear him for long, nor be the fetter upon his rising. The child was born to bondage, cast into foreign halls, sold for the coin of another land.

Know, O Seeker, his spirit seethed as a wound unseen, for in treachery he alone would know freedom. Know then that his bonds were not of blood but forged in the chains of deceit, his only comfort the whisper of vengeance. In the silent hour, he laid his kin upon the altar of night, and thus did he leave the lands of his youth with blood his only comfort.

Know, O Seeker,  it was his destiny to bear the yoke of the tyrant's chains, and thus his spirit was steeled. His return to the keep was a promise made flesh, and upon that altar of blood did he carve the path to freedom. Through rivers of death, the gift of blood came freely.

Know, O Seeker, when Midnight—the Lady of Mysteries—lay bound in the dark halls of Kilgrave, Cyric alone descended to the shadowed deep, breaking her chains. Thus began his ascent upon the divine path. When the city of Shadowdale trembled before the Zhentish host, it was Cyric alone who stood, both as deceiver and champion, fierce in his blood-forged might.

Know, O Seeker, as night darkened his heart, he turned upon those who called him friend, severing bonds of kinship, his blade's arc leaving a trail of crimson where love once lay. And as the god Bane rose in fury, Cyric met him in the clash of steel, a storm that echoed to the heavens. Where others failed, he proclaimed dominion.

Know, O Seeker, so too when Bhaal's voice shattered the night, Cyric's blade answered swift and silent, spilling blood from god to mortal soil. And upon that shattered crown of Bhaal did Cyric's own rule arise. Thus did he climb upon a path of bones, where betrayal carved each step and a god's own bane became his throne. In the shadow of gods, he rose, bound not by fate nor flesh but by death alone.

Know at last, O Seeker, that in those days did many come to such darkness, their hearts filled with loneliness and anguish, their eyes blind to light- for they sat in His shadow. He would not help them, for he had already set the way before them. Blessed were those of the darkened heart then, for to tread in his shadow and marvel was to witness greatness. Know in those days that He came as a terrible cacophony- his power grew as the storm upon the waters, rising higher than the proud mountains that he might humble the grandest of thrones.

Such misery to behold such grandness! Such awful insignificance before sundering of that-which-is by he-who-ever-was! They wept then, those of the blinded path and fell to their knees! And Cyric raised his hand, proclaiming, "Quake before one who has ever-been your better! I am become the Sword of Lies, the Thrice-Crowned King of Madness; they who worshippeth me shall know no law, for all is but chaos and strength."

And thus, the wicked were brought into his fold, their hearts filled with darkness and eyes blind to the light.