Page 17 of Beast Worship


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The Choir Causeway stretches before me like a tunnel carved from the throat of some ancient beast, its walls lined with hundreds of open mouths carved into the stone. Each mouth is perfectly rendered—lips parted in eternal song, teeth gleaming white as pearls, tongues frozen mid-note in what might be ecstasy or agony. The craftsmanship is breathtaking and terrible, each face unique, each expression caught at the moment of releasing some perfect, silent note.

The water here vibrates with anticipation, as if the very liquid waits for me to make a sound. I understand instinctively that this is a test of a different kind—not of strength or cunning, but of pure vocal control. The carved mouths seem to watch me with eyeless sockets, waiting for the slightest waver, the smallest mistake.

I study the passage carefully, noting how the mouths are arranged in precise patterns along the walls—bass notes carved larger and deeper, soprano mouths small and delicate, with tenors and altos filling the spaces between. This was once a place of music, I realize, where the living dark elves came to practice their choral arts before death claimed their city.

"I must hold a single tone while crossing," I murmur to myself, understanding the trial without being told. "Any waver, any break, and those stone teeth will become real enough to bite."

I position myself at the entrance, feeling the weight of the shell-bell around my wrist and the blessed warmth of Eurydice's presence somewhere beyond this trial. The winter stag's blessing still flows through my veins, and I draw upon that sacred strength as I fill my lungs with the strange, breathable water of this drowned realm.

I choose my note carefully—a deep, resonant bass that will fill the entire passage without requiring me to strain. The tone must be pure, unwavering, sustained for the entire length of the causeway. I think of the great bells of Milthar's temple, how they ring out across the harbor with voices that never crack or falter, and I let that image guide my choice.

Taking the deepest breath I can manage, I begin to sing—not words, but a single, perfect note that emerges from my throat like liquid bronze. The sound fills the causeway instantly, and I see the carved mouths respond, their stone lips moving slightly as if trying to echo my tone.

I begin to swim forward, my powerful strokes carrying me through the water while that unbroken note pours from my lungs. The mouths on either side of me seem to lean in closer, their carved features becoming more animated with each passing moment. Some begin to harmonize with my bass note, adding their own stone voices to create an otherworldly choir that reverberates through the passage.

Halfway through the causeway, a powerful current suddenly buffets me from the side, threatening to knock me off course and break my concentration. The water slams into me like a physical blow, and I feel my note waver for just an instant. Immediately,the carved mouths snap to attention, their teeth gleaming as they prepare to become something more than stone.

I close one nostril with my thumb, using an old sailor's trick to deepen my resonance and strengthen the tone. The note becomes richer, more powerful, filling the passage with such authority that the hostile current seems to recoil. The mouths settle back into their stone silence, satisfied that my voice remains true.

As I near the end of the causeway, I catch sight of something that causes a flood of joy—a flash of red ribbon caught in a crack in the wall, bright as a piece of captured sky against the dark stoneEurydice's festival ribbon, the red silk she threaded through my mane with whispered wishes, somehow torn free and lodged here as a sign for me to follow.

I want to reach for it, to press it to my face and breathe in her scent, but I dare not break my tone or alter my course. Instead, I smile without opening my lips, letting the warmth of recognition fill my voice with new strength. The note grows even more stable, more beautiful, and the carved mouths seem to sigh in appreciation of such perfect control.

I swim past the ribbon, noting its position so I can retrieve it on my return—for I will return, I tell myself, and when I do, it will be with Eurydice at my side. The thought fills me with such determination that my voice takes on an almost supernatural power, the single note ringing through the causeway like the voice of the sea itself.

As I reach the far end of the passage, I let the note fade gradually, diminishing it with the same control I used to sustain it. The last echoes die away, and the carved mouths settle back into eternal silence, their test completed and passed.

I turn back briefly to look at the causeway I've conquered, and see the red ribbon still fluttering in its crack like a flag of victory. "I found your sign, my love," I whisper to thewater around me. "I followed your voice and found your heart's message. Nothing will stop me from reaching you now."

The passage ahead opens into deeper chambers, and somewhere in their phosphorescent depths, I can hear Eurydice singing our lullaby with renewed strength, her voice calling me home through the halls of the drowned.

20

EURYDICE

The solstice bell tolls somewhere far above, its bronze voice carrying down through layers of water and stone to reach the deepest halls of the necropolis. The sound is different from the warm, welcoming bells of Milthar—this one rings hollow and hungry, marking time not for celebration but for something darker. Each toll seems to leach more warmth from the water around me, and I feel the kelp chains responding to its call, tightening with each resonant note.

"Time grows short, little surface-child," the priest-shade hisses, his skeletal form becoming more solid with each bell-stroke. "The longest night reaches its peak, and you must choose—join our eternal choir willingly, or be dragged into it screaming."

The chains around my wrists and ankles pulse with malevolent life, and I can feel them drawing something essential from me with each heartbeat. My breath comes shorter now, each inhalation requiring more effort than the last. The strange honey-salt water that sustained me before grows thick and bitter, coating my tongue with the taste of despair.

But I refuse to give in. I press the blessed shell to my lips, feeling its smooth surface warm against my skin. The symbols carved into its surface pulse with gentle light, pushing back against the creeping darkness that wants to claim me. When I breathe across its opening, it produces a soft, clear note—not loud enough to challenge the priest-shade's power, but pure enough to remind me of what I'm fighting for.

"Hold on," I whisper to myself, the words barely audible above the tolling bell. "Hold on to the warmth. Hold on to the light. He's coming."

The priest-shade circles me like a carrion bird, his burning blue eyes fixed on the shell in my hands. "Such a small thing to pin your hopes upon," he sneers. "A trinket given by a dead child who no longer remembers her own name. Do you think such baubles can stand against the weight of centuries?"

I think of the little girl who pressed this shell into my palm, her pearl-black eyes bright with something that might have been hope. She remembered warmth, remembered the taste of milk and honey cakes. Even here, even drowned and lost, she held onto fragments of joy.

"You're wrong," I tell the priest-shade, lifting the shell higher. "She remembers. They all remember, deep down. That's why you have to work so hard to keep them silent—because love doesn't die, even here. It just sleeps, waiting for the right song to wake it up."

The bell tolls again, closer now, and I feel something shift in the water around me. The priest-shade's form wavers, becoming less solid, and for a moment I see through his intimidating facade to what lies beneath—fear. He's afraid of what I represent, afraid of the crack I've opened in his carefully constructed world of eternal sorrow.

A low shanty begins to rumble through the stone around us, deep and resonant, growing stronger with each note. I know thatvoice, know the rhythm of those words even when I can't make them out clearly. Theron has passed another trial, overcome another obstacle, and he's singing his way closer to where I wait.

The priest-shade spins toward the sound, his robes billowing in agitation. "Impossible," he breathes. "The Choir Causeway should have silenced him. The stone mouths should have devoured any imperfect note."

"He's a sea-captain," I say, pride warming my voice despite the cold chains around my limbs. "He's spent his life reading currents and weather, timing his voice to guide ships through storms. Did you really think your carved stones could break him?"