Interlude Seven - Lord of Death
General Summary
The manor leaned.
It hadn’t always. Once, it stood like a conqueror—white stone gleaming, marble arches and blood-red banners snapping in Tymon’s wind. But now? Now it leaned like a drunk waiting to fall. Half the second floor had collapsed, and the great window—Raknian’s window, the one where he used to watch the city burn with life—was gone. Shards of it littered the floor like jagged snow.
Outside, Tymon was dying.
The sky sagged under a sun too dim to help, casting no warmth over a city eaten hollow. Streets cracked like old skin. Buildings slouched. Wights passed through the streets like smoke, snapping at the throats of the last survivors who hadn’t figured out the world had given up.
Loris Raknian stood in the heart of his ruined home, motionless among the ruins. What little light that made it through the choking gray gleamed off his armor, blackened like charred bone, edges chipped and cruel. Smoke curled from the seams, slow and lazy, like the armor itself hadn’t quite finished dying.
He waited. And then—reality folded.
Not with noise. No bang. No boom. No trumpet. Just a gentle hush, like silk sliding across a throat.
A man-shaped shadow stepped from the fold.
He had no scent. No heartbeat. No face.
But the mask—that mask—gleamed, iron-smooth, featureless but somehow accusatory. Eyes that weren’t eyes watched from behind the slits, patient and cold.
"Welcome back, Director," said the Faceless One. His voice was oil. Thick. Impossibly calm.
Raknian said nothing for a moment. The breeze through the broken window made the banners flutter—what was left of them. His hands remained behind his back, gauntleted fingers clicking against one another like old bones.
"Don’t call me that." He turned. "I’ve had many names. Champion. Director." A pause. "But now… there's only one that matters." He stepped forward, boots crunching glass. His voice dropped, low and slow. "I am Loris Raknian. Lord of Death."
The Faceless One watched him. No shift in posture. No tension. Just stillness, like an eye in a hurricane. "A grand title," he said finally. "One that suits your ambition."
Raknian smiled. There was no warmth in it. Just teeth. And power. "Ambition had nothing to do with it. It was age. Weakness. The cracks. You saw them. Smelled them. You knew."
He moved closer now, enough that the smoldering stink of scorched armor hung between them. "I spoke with Talabir before all of… this. He’s a wizard. A friend. I told him about my symptoms—the bleeding. The pressure. He told me what it was. Sangromancy. Blood magic."
Raknian’s voice dropped to a growl. "You tried to chain me. Tried to make me dance. But here’s the truth, O Faceless One." He lifted his gauntlets, spread them wide. "The blood is gone. The leash is gone. This power-this immortality-is everything you promised. And more."
The mask tilted, just slightly.
"You’re no master of mine. Not anymore." Raknian turned, slowly, surveying the crumbled ruin around him. "I serve no one. Not the Triad. Not you. I serve death. And death wears my name."
There was silence. Not the silence of respect. Something deeper.
Then the Faceless One laughed.
Low. Like an echo off a deep cave wall. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t scorn. It was acknowledgment—the kind a wolf gives to another wolf before the fight begins.
"Good," he said. "Death should have teeth."
He stepped forward, gliding across the ruin like gravity had given him permission. "But allow me to clarify something, Lord of Death." He turned his mask, just slightly, like a spotlight sliding across a stage. "You no longer serve me. You serve Him. Kyuss Descimus. The Wormgod. The Living Decay."
Raknian’s voice cracked like a whip. "I don't bow."
"No," the Faceless One said softly, "You crumble."
And the world changed.
There was no wind. No transition. One moment, Raknian stood in his home. The next—he was falling. Falling into a space that wasn’t a space. Colors inverted. Time collapsed. He landed in silence, knees cracking stone. The floor was a mosaic of himself—a million versions of Loris Raknian. Some standing proud. Others kneeling. Most screaming. Armor rusted. Eyes hollow. Voices gone. He stood—and laughed. He thought he was immune. He believed blood magic had failed to chain him. But that immunity was a door. And Kyuss—watching, waiting—stepped through. A shape bloomed above him. No form. No flesh. Just mass. A god-worm, infinite and blind, blinked into the sky above. Its body was a corridor of screaming stars. Its mouth was the slow unraveling of law. And its voice was the breaking of time. "THERE IS NO CROWN AT THE END OF THIS PATH." Raknian raised his head, defiant. The stars peeled back his memories. His first kill. His mother’s voice. His final moment before undeath. Gone. Eaten backward. He roared. Nothing came out. His sword rusted in his hand. His shield flaked into rot. He stumbled. The floor became blood. Not hot. Cold. Clotted. Old. He became aware of every piece of himself as his flesh fell away, becoming a mockery of what he once was. Dead flesh, but still painful to lose. So painful. But Kyuss was not done. Not yet. The god spoke again. "YOU ARE NOT LORD. YOU ARE REMAINS." And Kyuss reached in. Not with talons. With thought. With hunger. And he *consumed* what was left. The pride. The ambition. The soul. Raknian did not scream. He *was* the scream.
He woke in the manor, back in Tymon. But he was on his knees. The tiles below him had cracked in a perfect spiral. His blade lay nearby. Ash clung to his shoulders like a funeral shroud. The Faceless One watched from the shadows, untouched. Not gloating. Not cruel. "Now you understand," he said. Raknian didn’t answer. His face was still his—but wrong. His eyes moved like worms beneath flesh. His breath carried the stench of graves. His voice, when it returned, was not entirely his own. "Yes." "Good." A long beat passed. The wights howled outside. "Let us begin the next phase of our work." The Faceless One turned. Began to walk. "Come, Lord of Death." And Loris Raknian followed. Because now, he was no longer merely Loris Raknian. Because now, Kyuss was walking Golarion.
There was no wind. No transition. One moment, Raknian stood in his home. The next—he was falling. Falling into a space that wasn’t a space. Colors inverted. Time collapsed. He landed in silence, knees cracking stone. The floor was a mosaic of himself—a million versions of Loris Raknian. Some standing proud. Others kneeling. Most screaming. Armor rusted. Eyes hollow. Voices gone. He stood—and laughed. He thought he was immune. He believed blood magic had failed to chain him. But that immunity was a door. And Kyuss—watching, waiting—stepped through. A shape bloomed above him. No form. No flesh. Just mass. A god-worm, infinite and blind, blinked into the sky above. Its body was a corridor of screaming stars. Its mouth was the slow unraveling of law. And its voice was the breaking of time. "THERE IS NO CROWN AT THE END OF THIS PATH." Raknian raised his head, defiant. The stars peeled back his memories. His first kill. His mother’s voice. His final moment before undeath. Gone. Eaten backward. He roared. Nothing came out. His sword rusted in his hand. His shield flaked into rot. He stumbled. The floor became blood. Not hot. Cold. Clotted. Old. He became aware of every piece of himself as his flesh fell away, becoming a mockery of what he once was. Dead flesh, but still painful to lose. So painful. But Kyuss was not done. Not yet. The god spoke again. "YOU ARE NOT LORD. YOU ARE REMAINS." And Kyuss reached in. Not with talons. With thought. With hunger. And he *consumed* what was left. The pride. The ambition. The soul. Raknian did not scream. He *was* the scream.
He woke in the manor, back in Tymon. But he was on his knees. The tiles below him had cracked in a perfect spiral. His blade lay nearby. Ash clung to his shoulders like a funeral shroud. The Faceless One watched from the shadows, untouched. Not gloating. Not cruel. "Now you understand," he said. Raknian didn’t answer. His face was still his—but wrong. His eyes moved like worms beneath flesh. His breath carried the stench of graves. His voice, when it returned, was not entirely his own. "Yes." "Good." A long beat passed. The wights howled outside. "Let us begin the next phase of our work." The Faceless One turned. Began to walk. "Come, Lord of Death." And Loris Raknian followed. Because now, he was no longer merely Loris Raknian. Because now, Kyuss was walking Golarion.
Report Date
11 May 2025
