Psychopomp

Color presents itself abundantly here in the Gatea District. Partitioned from the rest of the Ward by a wall through which the only passage is a vine-wrapped and lantern-lit gateway, every person must present acceptable ID to enter. The peacekeeper that examined Ewain and Anaxander’s confirmed for the Psychopomp that, yes, an incredibly attractive red-haired woman did pass through numerous times in the past month or so. Her pass gave a purpose of the Nuvaunte, as requested by its owner and theatrical director, Harvey Engels.

Shades of the loveliest marigold and ginger bathe the purple, blue, and green buildings just enough to lather their pigments for the eye. Though limited, people move about without worry, to the many dim-lit restaurants and rooftop eating coves, to stores entirely of smooth stucco and glass, and social halls where banisters and columns take the sensuous curves of nymphs in their form and their modesty given only by weaves of blue-speckled juniper and flowery vines. Soft melodic jazz wafts between and throughout, from radio and small bands.

People grow quiet and look upon the two men with wonder and dread as they pass. Perched quietly above in a feathered black cloak, avian eyes observe them meticulously.

“When you confronted me over Mr. Swann,” Anaxander begins with a tidy baritone voice, “You said to keep my threats unspoken unless I wish to witness yours. I am curious, what threats would you give me? Non-lethal ones, I presume?”

“Non-lethal does not mean non-deleterious,” Ewain replies without inflection.

Anaxander smirks and smooths the dark beard around his thin lips, “Precisely. Help me understand your Order, Psychopompos. All Vesperterrans, even us Krypteians, bringers of fear into the hearts of so many, acknowledge you Psychopomps as the pinnacle of combat. A thousand years of training, knowledge, refinement, and technology we will never know to create a body capable of Demichorian feats. Worshippers of the God of Death, capable of countless propagation of it, yet by oath you are sworn to never kill. As you said, though, this does not restrain your ability to render harm. What, then, would you do to me?”

“Harm you,” Ewain says simply, his eyes looking about the district.

“To what extent? You initiate combat with a Krypteian, the Krypteian’s honor dictates to end it by death. Trained and armed as you may be, I push your abilities, threaten your life, what then?”

“I would have no choice but to incapacitate you. Disable your arms, your legs.” Ewain says with doubtless confidence, as if his words alone guarantee its accomplishment.

“But leave my life intact? My consciousness still functioning?”

“So long as you simply breathe, you are considered still in life.”

Anaxander speaks with further wonder, his words seemingly absent offense, “So long as that distinction is kept, you do not violate your oath? What is the line, then? One can wreak much ungodly suffering without sowing death.”

“Virtue requires temptation. Something untested has no value,” replies the Psychopomp, “If a man can overpower another without consequence, no altruistic force to supplement the weak, what stops him from doing so? His compulsions must be tempered by virtue.” His words vocalize with echoes of a past not to be forgotten. Solemnly now, with intonations of personal meaning, he finishes, “Beasts wreak wanton suffering, indulge temptation. The Ichorians welcome no beasts Beyond. Being at the pinnacle, as you say, we resist much temptation. A principle I advise you to practice.”

“Is your Order familiar with the teachings of the Ichorian Jadovan?”

“Any entity or agent with the tutelage of violence should be,” Ewain replies.

With a nod, Anaxander concurs and recites, “’Violence is the primordial language we bestow upon this world, one every creature will understand. The force that rules the world, the sharp edge behind every word, the axe behind every law.’” He pauses in thought. “Mr. Swann thrived on spoken language, could weave quite the labyrinth with it no doubt. Yet even he understood the truth on a subconscious level, hence why his tongue straightened. I am not a beast, Psychopompos, just a fellow linguist.” Anaxander grins. “Only when the Great Traitor overwhelmed their strength and dwarfed their capacity for it did the Ichorians leave and abandon their children to this world. If only the Great Traitor had the virtue of a Psychopomp or Ichorians the training, eh?”

Ahead an extravagant building looms, with a portico held by lavish womanly ivory pillars and walls covered in painted portrayals of an ancient past. In elegant calligraphy gifted with Midas’ touch, letters in the triangular crown of the building announce its name. Nuvaunte. Inside the portico, where spheres of glamorous gold glow hover throughout, lingers an ecstatic saturation. An enigma wet upon the skin and through its osmosis excitement burrows deep.

An open archway tall enough for the ancient titans beckons all forth with inaudible yet undeniable whispers that lurch from its dark. Faint applause and resounding drums echo and upon the flanks of the archway are canvases just as tall. Painted upon each with rich detail and seductive splendor is a nubile woman wrapped in form-fitting yet concealing robes of black, with just the smallest exterior of her waist and hips peaking through. Sapphire gems peer through tight lids of the eerie mask upon her face, the lines of its cheeks, nose, and lips filled by gold. Voluminous sunlit hair wraps back behind and upon her head and beneath her bare feet form the angular, primitive letters of the ancestors.

Nyphone.