Section 1: Normalcy
Durloque shoved his right hand harder into the pocket of the lead-lined overcoat that weighed heavily upon his broad shoulders. He ran his eyes over the paper – the real paper – in his left hand, struggling to decipher the arcane symbols scrawled across its surface. He knew it was writing, of course, but among the lowly worker caste, reading was as uncommon as the paper he held. He peered queerly at it with apparent suspicion, identifying only the entry-sigil of the Opulent Hollow before sighing and turning his eyes skyward.
Above him, the typically polychromatic sky was occluded by one of the massive Carcosan spires; large structures that loomed like indecipherable obelisks over the city and countryside of the Realm. Why they sprang up that way was a distant memory, but each of their adamant black summits contained a bizarre, doubtlessly hedonistic setting. Each was said to be its own type of paradise, but Durloque didn’t rightly know the truth. Unlike the Uppers, who lived in the spires and were aloof and distant to the point of almost being mythical, Durloque was a Lower, one of the worker caste who lived in the sprawling cityscape about the towers and engaged in the industry and maintenance of Carcosa that ensured the unfailing paradises above.
As he studied the almost organically smooth side of the void-black tower, with its pus-like secretions that dribbled silently upon the black-marble street below, he heard the thump of approaching footsteps. Another worker in a heavy overcoat.
“Spireling,” she greeted, gaining Durloque’s full attention. Each of Carcosa’s workers wore their rank upon the cowl of their heavy coats, and the worker parties were almost an extended family to others of the same rank. Durloque examined her carefully – the dirt that caked her face, the short-shorn hair, the sharp eyes. She was short, likely a tunnel-hrud.
“Cyren,” he offered in return, studying the sigil upon her own cowl. “She’s drooling,” he added, nonchalantly, raising his right hand from his pocket and pointing it at the sky and the massive tower above them.
“She always does,” the Cyren responded, struggling to not betray her interest in the paper he held. “What’s your name?”
“Durloque,” he offered her, holding the paper close to his chest like a precious gem. “You?”
“Siânet,” she said, pronouncing it almost like a very sharp ‘Janet’ with an ‘SH’ sound. “What’s that?” she asked, stepping closer.
“A summons from the Tower,” Durloque guessed, gesturing up at this specific tower.
Siânet nodded. “Can’t read?” she asked, hearing the tone in his voice. “Neither can I, but it certainly looks like a summons. But… a summons, on paper? It’s exciting. I got one through the ususal methods,” she said, waving the grime-covered realm-wafer she’d slipped from her pocket, which seemed to shimmer with the magic of the bound message.
“Yeah, seems official. I wonder what it is? Could it be from an Upper?” Durloque speculated, falling in at her side almost expectantly.
“Could be. Either that or govvie,” Siânet replied, using slang for the mortal authority apparatus of Carcosa, entwined with but distinct from the Uppers.. A word that hadn’t existed until the death of the Hecatomb and the rise of the Queen in Yellow four generations ago. Before then… well, the history of Carcosa was shrouded in myth and legend, though it was said to have descended from a place known as the Dawnlands. “Either way, ‘s important. C’mon,” she intoned, thumping down the marble street past Durloque, headed for the entrance to the tower under which they’d both stood.
Durloque hesitated briefly, furrowing his brow at the mysteriously-sigiled paper that idly flexed in his hand, blown by the tower’s scented breeze. He finally turned and followed her forward, stepping down the path toward the open square immediately before the main entrance. He could see others already gathering there, and still more overcoated workers approaching. Never before had he seen such an assembly of what amounted to foreigners to him – no other Spirelings, but many Cyrens, as expected, and a smattering of others. An Rapturist, a Luridite, even a Joissant. He briefly wondered how to address these strangers, but his reverie was shattered as Siânet grabbed his hand and tugged him into the growing crowd. Soon enough, the tower’s dark facade split and opened into the antechamber…
Section 2: Reality
The antechamber was already paradise, to Durloque. Golden runners and handrails encapsulated the mysterious metal floor, preventing anyone from wandering where none belonged. Lithe and strong pack animals, the conveyances of Uppers and govvies alike, dotted the various handling-areas of the antechamber: some small, some large, and all far more well-cared-for and more beautiful than anything Deloque had even dreamed of touching, let alone owning.
Siânet and the other Lowers seemed equally mystified, staring about in gawping wonder. The anteroom’s interior entrance loomed over them with massive doors, a stylized face grinning happily down at the Lowers from the rose-quartz-trimmed marble portal. The group of Lowers shuffled awkwardly toward the doors, making halting progress as each new wonder fell into view of the group, which grew increasingly huddled as gasping awe turned into hushed anxiety, as if the luxuries around them would crumble to dust at the merest glance from an unworthy Lower.
The abrupt sundering of the nervous silence nearly slew Durloque with sheer startled surprise. The huge doors reeled open, whining in protest as if complaining about having to admit Lowers. The hall inside was white – whiter even than the marble doors – and lined with more gold. Green jewels glinted every few feet, like eyes in the walls, and the red carpet that led down the long hallway before them was accented on either wall by strange paintings that depicted myriad and uncountable scenes. However, what gained the attention of the Lowers was a sight entirely unrelated to the hallway or its furnishings.
“Come in,” lilted a voice, with an almost otherworldly tone and accent. A nearly naked man stood before them. He wore a golden belt that held up a skirt short enough to show his thighs, and his form was almost Herculean, rippling with corded muscle under perfect skin. His face, however, was hidden by a leering, terrifying bronze mask that bore the visage of what could only be a demon from the ancient myths, bronze tongue sticking jaggedly outward between fanged lips as he spoke from behind it. “You are all expected. Welcome to Elhalyn,” he said, his voice so pure and perfect that it stung Durloque’s ears.
“Elhalyn?” Siânet whispered, accompanied by a murmur from the crowd around Durloque. “Is that …” she trailed off.
“This place… this Tower,” whispered a Voxigian nearby. “But with an Upper name? Hm,” he mused, as the group lurched back into motion, following the enigmatic bare-chested hulk before them. After some time walking past many doors and branching hallways and corridors, the group turned, still led by their Adonic guide. Eventually, Durloque caught a smell – something almost sickly sweet, that seemed to pervade his nose. The other Lowers seemed to notice too as the murmurs rose, the smell utterly unlike the moist smell of the atmosphere outside the Towers where the Lowers did their filthy work. Sound, too, assailed them; the gentle twinkle of gorgeous notes entered their ears, rising in volume as the smell intensified with each step.
Even as Durloque finally began to grow accustomed to the strange scent and catch the complex rhythm of the transcendental music, the group came to a dimly-lit room and began to spread out. Others in bronze, leering masks were there – some men, some women, all as scantily clad as possible. Still more wore leathers and chains – as an aesthetic choice, apparently, since they were gorgeous in form and lithe in motion, unencumbered by their accoutrements. The Lowers stood silently in a half-huddled clump that spread gradually like a stain among the undulating dancing of the strange, nearly-naked Uppers that writhed together in the room. It was intoxicating, and the heat of so many bodies was oppressive. First one, then nearly every Lower overcoat hit the floor with a lead-weighted thud.
Only after shedding his overcoat did Durloque notice where the music was coming from. A stage was on the far side of the darkened room, and upon it was a gaggle of figures. They seemed apart from the other Uppers in the room – mostly clothed, even armored like the govvies, though even their armor showed too much skin to be truly useful. A band was set at the back of the stage, fingers whirling across foreign instruments that Deloque had no hope of recognizing, or even perhaps comprehending the operation of. But what attracted his attention the most upon the stage also seemed to draw him closer.
It was a massive golden brazier, from which the sickly-sweet smell seemed to emanate in visible skeins of roiling, white smoke. It glowed with a dim, purple light that cast the entire room in an eerie violet effulgence that highlighted every golden, brazen, or white surface in a stark hue, including the naked and nearly-naked dancing Uppers. Above it, metal-taloned gloves curled and writhed in tune with the music, seemingly disembodied – at least, until Durloque was drawn closer. A woman in all black was the owner of those curious hands, though Durloque nearly fell to the ground in fright at the glimpse of her face. Or, rather, her mask.
For unlike the leering demoniac grimaces of most of the other Uppers, this strange woman wore a plain white artifice, sculpted or carved in the manner of a normal (if uncannily beautiful) human face, with a texture that seemed to be almost shining porcelain. In this room and context, however, the stark angle of the purple light from below caused the carven lips, nose, and eyes to cast horrifying and utterly inhuman shadows across its simple flawless form. The edges of the mask were starkly delineated by a hood as black as everything else the woman wore. Behind him, he heard Siânet swear audibly at the sight.
Durloque continued to approach the stage, pushing through dancing bodies like a bulldozer shoving inexorably on. His passage seemed to go unnoticed, the dancers merely incorporating the shove into their undulations like water rippling at a pebble’s passage. He finally got close enough to overhear snippets of the conversation.
“Of course, Calliope. The Mihalic Condottieri will support you; the Azyrites have long let us languish. My staff and I agree that we should simply take part of all that Carcosa has to offer, while we are here.” A man’s voice, deep and martial, with an entirely Chamonic accent.
“Good, Commander. Your little army could have been the greatest obstacle to what I have planned; I am pleased that the chaos of the current situation in Chamon has cleared your mind. I trust, of course, you’ve heard the news about the Realmgates?” An Upper voice, a woman – presumably this Calliope.
“Yes, yes, yes. The destruction of our access home.” the Commander grumbed, irritably. “I suspect that’s why our messengers to home never returned. Perhaps they didn’t believe in the power of these Carcosan spires, eh, Queen?”
Calliope forced a laugh. “It isn’t the Towers that I am putting my faith in. There are other powers in the world, Commander. Powers that do more than simply protect and govern – powers greater in reward and ability than your Sigmar. But-”
That was all Durloque heard. Suddenly, the music abruptly stopped, although the dancing around him did not. He was briefly confused and lost, looking down at the paper as if it offered some form of respite from the mystery around him. With the music gone, he could hear chanting – chanting which made his spine tingle and ears ring.
“Yolona Oss, the Silent
Lissara, the Sensual
Abraxas, the Secret
Cassilda, the Striving
Helecaraxë, the Sybaric
Anchyche, the Symphionic
Czumneth the Twice-Thrice Loved
Yolona Oss, the Silent…”
On and on the chant went, but it all faded into the background as Durloque began to dance. It was a clumsy, fumbling gambol by comparison to the sinuous Uppers around him, but he couldn’t help himself. He was happy. Truly happy, so very happy – because as he peered at the paper, he realized one thing:
He could read!
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By specific instruction of Her Majesty the Sybarite Queen of the Carcosan Pleasure Cults, Calliope, you are cordially invited to an evening of Edification, Exultation, and Ecstasy in praise to our Lady of Carcosa, Czumneth Ereshkigal, whose revelry, love, and joy shall bring us light in these dark times…
