Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.7

Canto XX, wherein we see a glimpse of what else is going on in Eura.  As always, you can catch up or re-read by following the “Oscambria” labels or by clicking here. 

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XX.
While the Hero and his gang made their way westward,
Toward the faraway city of Feoga,
Back in Athins darkness was afoot.
In the Courte du Gods a meeting was taking place,
the kind of meeting that only ever happens in the dead hours of night,
And as such, it just so happened to be those hours
(sometime between II and III).

There were four of them in the Altar Room,
All garbed in the outfits of their Order.
The room was dim,
Lit only by the weak fires from the sconces.
“It is happening as we hoped it would,”
hissed the Oracle of Demtia,
her face hidden behind a bird-like mask.

The others nodded.
“As it happens here,
it also happens on Gastron,”
added the sooty Oracle of Rone,
his voice harsh,
his robe charred and blackened.
His eyes flashed orange in the light of the room.

“What about the child?” asked the Oracle of Lahk,
disguised as a regal Oracle of Lawes.
“His soul is as insatiable as his fathers.
His desires will be made known soon.”
The Oracle of Demtia cackled maniacally,
a twisted smile beneath the plumage of the mask. 
“Oh, yes.  I agree with the One of Rone.  The boy is eager to go.  Go go go!”

The fourth one coughed and they all turned and hesitantly looked at him,
The one who had yet to speak.
He was dressed entirely in black,
From his robes to his underclothes.
His cowl was down, revealing a corpse-like face,
Tattooed white and grey like a skull,
and covered with barely enough flesh to give shape.

He made them uncomfortable,
But he made everyone uncomfortable.
Such was the life of an Oracle of the Twins.
A bearer of the Death Curse, he was used to it by now.
“Then all is on schedule,” he said simply,
studying each Oracle intently,
holding their eyes until they nodded their agreement and looked away.

“Excellent.  Soon the war will come,
here and in the heavens,
and there will be nothing that can stop it.”
He held his scarred hand out,
The dagger already sliding across his open flesh and bringing blood,
dark crimson on the pale skin.
“Let us remember our roles and pray the gods will have their way.”

Each one took the blade and made the cut,
as they had every time before.
Once again they bound themselves by the blood-oath,
The sacred vow of service.
Nothing more was said as they separated,
Each leaving in a different direction
And out into the empty streets of Athins.