It is not known which metals triggers the psychic delusions known as 'Communions', dubbed such by many cults on the continent, but it always involves some kind of intoxication. Ixchel's particular brand of metal has been fading in human culture, as did her influence. Her metal do reflects her status as Goddess of Love, however. Ingesting it feels excessively sweet to the tongue before the metal taste comes in, mimicking the insidious way in which Her love gradually takes you whole.
***
Alba followed closely after Valor as the child asked questions about his origin.
There was probably not much to say, usually, except that his noble house had him expelled after he dropped out of the Marine Forces.
But today, he had even less to say, as even those memories became fuzzy after he…
Wait, didn't he feed those to Ixchel? What a foolish pact, now that he thought about it.
He had very little control over his memories now, for what he gave up on he had forgotten, and thus couldn't confirm what she had exactly done.
Valor seemed content enough that he was willing to answer, and Alba could feel that he didn't have much people to talk to, usually.
They were alike in many ways.
This maraj girl has you doing her biddings, it seems, Ixchel said in his mind. She has just sent you to your demise, once again, yet you stand here, smiling and… Trusting.
While Alba became comfortable enough to answer Ixchel even in the child's presence, a group of Valor's people quickly interrupted them.
Two short boys and a girl, the other scouts, with two taller men rocking patchy stubs and green rose tattoos proudly displayed over their bare shoulders.
They raised an eyebrow at Valor's explanation of the situation and still insisted on searching him.
They patted and groped around, finding no value in Alba's clothes and pack, except for the empty bottle of Defrutum of course.
"You drank this?" The most haggard of the tall men said as he approached. Alba recoiled a bit as the cultist came close enough to sniff out his breath.
"Every last drop," he admitted, "I didn't intend to, originally. The bottle is yours to take, if you wish to get it back."
"Hmm," the man grunted in response, putting the empty bottle back in his pack. "The elders will see for themselves. Walk."
The men stayed at a safe distance of Alba, keeping even Valor from getting too close.
They also didn't speak a word to him, and surrounded him in a square formation with three both in the front and back, and one on each side.
He hadn't seen clothes like theirs in nearly a decade, thanks to his seclusion in Little Argiscio, but the way they adorned those feathers on the hems of their hefty—and quite solid-looking thanks to the strange metal plating on the surface—sarouels.
They had hair mostly on the back of their heads (making for a sizeable forehead), styled either in ponytails or long braids.
Only the adults in the group had the green tattoos on their shoulder; perhaps the result of a coming-of-age rite?
Ixchel interrupted his thoughts once more.
Every time she really wanted him to listen, it was as if she seized his brain with her own two chilly hands.
I won't have you dying so soon, she said, as if she planned to have him dying later. Once we get near to this 'Elder', you'll follow my lead, understood?
Quite commanding for some useless deity haunting a failed marine, he thought.
Not that he didn't trust Cartha, but, well, he didn't trust Cartha, and also enjoyed having a contingency plan in case hers happened to be, unsurprisingly, catastrophic, so he nodded, and the weight of Ixchel's presence disappeared.
Perusing their surroundings, Alba couldn't perceive even a hint of Cartha following them. Since she definitely was, it had to be a good sign…right?
Once his escort got him to the village's gates, he noticed how on edge the guards were, instantly blocking passage with their spears as soon as they noticed him.
"This one had a Communion and lived," the haggard man from before said to the guards.
They eyed him, then Alba, then him again and finally lowered their weapons.
After they knocked on the wooden gates, they slid to the sides, revealing a chaotic encampment.
Empty cauldrons lay or rolled on the ground; splinters of wood and broken spears protruded from the walls of their tents and the thatched roof of their houses.
Cartha didn't mess around…
There weren't many people roaming about, only armed militias and what seemed to be the remaining troop of scouts.
With the night approaching, Alba could see firelight coming from all the tents and house's windows.
Whatever was about to happen, civilians had been given orders not to go out.
The scouts stayed behind as Alba's escort, now only comprising grown men and women warriors of Irshya, guided him into the biggest tent.
It had a ceremonial feel of course, surrounded as it was with subtly lit pyres, and boasting a fiery red and brown whereas all the others were only one or the other.
It must have been their "central temple", in a sense.
They stood for a second before the tent, and someone pulled open the tent flap and let them in.
Inside, Alba expected someone such as Horatio posing as the 'Elder'.
Someone old, wise and knowledgeable, and with a knack for solving conflicts.
He didn't know about the second part, but the Irshya's 'Elder' looked like a wildfire of a woman.
For one, he somehow could glean from her indecent attire that she only had these bandages over her otherwise bare-chest just so that it would hold her breasts together.
Also, she sat just like a man, with her legs proudly sprawled open on her makeshift throne.
She wore the same steel-plated sarouels as her kin, but adorned black feathers not only on what would be considered her belt but also as a feather-cape over her back, covering a set of green tattoos on both her muscular shoulders.
As far as Alba was concerned, she looked like a dangerous, elegant bird, not with a knack for solving conflicts, but rather, with a tendency to create them.
Outfitted for utility and might, the only show of supposed vanity that slipped through the cracks were the white paint on her lips and a dark necklace inlaid with a single, gleaming green gem.
As expected, Ixchel said. I remember this one and expected she had survived my ordeal. I'm sure she will kill you no matter what once she gets the answers she seeks. Jealousy, when it comes to pactbound mortals, is worse than any hate you've ever experienced.
"Elder Zenobia, of Irshya!" she exclaimed as she shouldered the long glaive resting on the side of her throne. The escort stood aside, getting away from Alba as if they knew things were about to go south. "You claim to be our champion now, yes? I'll first hear your name."
"Alba Constance Prudenzio, lone heir to the Palazzo," he replied. It had been a while since he had given his full name to anyone, let alone presented himself in such a courteous way.
Zenobia quietly whistled as she stood from her throne and approached with frighteningly loud steps.
"A noble from the lagoon, I see. It is strange, that tendency you guys have to think yourselves chosen."
Alba couldn't argue with that.
Dilmun's haute[1] became the congregation of the worst of humanity after the Duke went to Eredelsol.
They were all about names and titles with little substance behind them, and all claimed godly lineage as though they weren't just born lucky, in a rich enough family to afford a Palazzo.
Zenobia approached further, displaying how tall she was compared to the short Alba. It was more of a face-to-tit than a face-to-face.
"Wouldn't you become suspicious," she continued, "If the frailest among us all claimed to have been chosen as champions by the Gods?"
"Perhaps I would," Alba replied, "but it is currently of no concern to me. I've been deposed from our defunct Palazzo long ago. It is only in the harshness of isolation, and of the cold, that the Bountiful found me."
"Where's the Defrutum?"
Alba produced the empty bottle from his pack. The once immaculate white-cloth covering the label now had a few dots of wet purple on its surface.
"And you wish for us to believe that you, and your frail body, consumed her essence and still stand? Do you realise I could crush your head between my thighs easier than I could a watermelon?"
A strangely erotic metaphor for a distinguished 'Elder'.
"What makes you think might alone—"
"Silence!" she shouted as she slammed the butt of her glaive on the ground. "We're Ixchel's chosen, we've experienced her like no other people have, FOR EONS! What's an outsider like you to understand about our faith? You, who steal without grace, who lie without shame."
"I-I haven't lied once in your presence, nor did I steal anything from you."
"You mean to put the blame on the maraj girl, and I could have believed you, if you weren't both cowardly snakes."
With a snap of her finger, Zenobia summoned the outside guards inside the tent, and they then threw to the ground an unwelcome surprise.
It wore a tattered white conventical robe and looked at Alba with a smile.
"Care to tell me why you let the girl that murdered Her people walk, let alone tail and follow you? Don't play dumb with me or I'll have both your heads displayed on my walls tonight."
"I came to apologise, I swear!" shouted a tied-up Cartha at Elder Zenobia.
Sometimes Alba wished he could just make her shut up.
He had very little time to dwell on his hatred of the girl, however, for his heart beat a little too fast at the moment.
"I don't know what to say, frankly," Alba said. "I only told her to stay around, not to sneak inside your walls. Wouldn't you do the same in foreign territory?"
Zenobia just ignored his plea and walked towards Cartha, glaive in hand. For once, he saw a Cartha that wasn't smiling as she looked up at the tall woman.
"I'll have you prove your worth, if your words have any truth in them, little Prudenzio," she said as she walked past him. "But for now, your friend has to answer to me for her actions." And somehow, he knew she wasn't talking about a fair trial in court.
Listen, idiot, Ixchel said as if she could hear the incessant beating of his heart against his chest. I don't have time to explain much that you would understand, but what I need is for you to trust me.
It would have been a hard ask, usually.
Since he had lost his friends, his family, and was stuck with the mischievous Cartha for years, he had very little trust in anyone but himself.
Yet he stood in hostile territory, unarmed and surrounded, while a mountain of a woman trailed the ground with her glaive, walking towards his only friend.
The situation only escalated as Cartha drew out Alba's sword from her throat and quickly sliced through her bonds before jumping on her feet and chopping off her two captors' arms, blade held in between her pointy, sturdy teeth.
Zenobia praised the girl and mimicked a clap of hands as Cartha fought off and repelled the Irshya warriors before her.
She had a strange way with the sword; it was as if she was unaffected by momentum and moved with erratic cadence, in-and-out, instead of flowing into the swings.
Despite being out-ranged and outnumbered, she slid under thrusts and cut the spearheads, or stood, dangerously, in between the warriors and had them scared of piercing into each other.
She had spent way too much time on the roads—and in fights—that much was clear.
Her speed seemed to rapidly decrease however, as it was unlikely she had already faced such odds.
"Quick then! Tell me what to do," he murmured to the goddess.
The necklace—we have to retrieve it. With it, you'll easily fend off those lousy warriors, but for you to go through their defence, I'll have to act, Ixchel said. If you trust me, then relinquish control of your body.
Of course.
Of course, the devil would wait for such an opportunity to dangle hope over his head so that she could get full control.
Zenobia finally entered the fray and, with ease, sliced a deep cut in Cartha's cheek.
Unlike her warriors using spears with poles made of wood, her glaive had nothing but metal from butt to blade.
That explained the beefy muscularity of her arms, as the weapon must have been terribly heavy.
I cannot bear your plane's pressure for too long anyway, Ixchel added. You have nothing to fear from me.
But you poisoned me, Alba thought. Threatened me, held me hostage.
How could he ever trust someone like her?
He held his head and nearly pulled out his hair as he thought the situation through. Fuck!
Think fast if you don't want her to die, Ixchel calmly said. All you've got to do, for but a moment, is to let me in.
[1] nobility