Moonrise - Act 3

A series played using Anamnesis. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.

Shadow: The Moon (Anxiety, Illusion, Intuition) 

ACT 3: CUPS

SCENE 1: TWO OF CUPS

Shaken by the memories of accusations, I made haste along the boulevard. Hateful, treasonous, words echoed in my mind and my body reacted to their memory by taking flight from danger. My path was eventually blocked by a large pair of iron gates, an unfamiliar crest emblazoned across them. A featureless lock held them shut, though when my fingers made contact with it lines of sigils lit up and flowed across its surface. With a dry, rusted, creak the lock disengaged and the gates swung open. Lights alongside the path beyond lit up in pairs, moving forward from the gates to the palace ahead. As I walked along the path I heard the gates close and lock behind me but I was too distracted by the towering edifice before me to be concerned. In contrast with the buildings outside, the palace had rough stone walls fronted with colonnades and topped with cupolas. Alcoves vied for space with each other and within each was a extravagant figure, each face stirred distant memories that remained out of reach though I saw a clear family resemblance among them all. I pushed open the ornate doors, carved with bouquets of flowers and swooping birds, and entered the halls of the palace.

In contrast with the exterior, the interior's decadence had been violently rebuked. Frescoes were smashed from the walls and lay in piles of rubble, statues had been dismembered and scattered, heaps of broken furniture were piled as kindling. The palace had clearly been attacked but only inside, I wondered how this could have come to be as I crept through the chambers and passages of this once grand building. As I went I saw frequent signs of habitation post-assault; tapestries bundled into crude nest-like beds, the bones of small animals strewn across the floors of some rooms, and at every barred window were deeply gouged scratches. Eventually, at the far end of a vast ballroom, I found them. Close to a dozen withered, partially mummified, bodies huddled in a corner behind an overturned table. They held each other in their stiff arms, as if comforting each other in the face of some great tragedy. Or perhaps just the quiet end of a once great dynasty now fallen so low. I crouched beside my family and for what felt like forever I held their hands and mourned with them.

SCENE 2: SIX OF CUPS

I made my way up the vast central staircase as it wound it's way around the edges of the central hall, passages branching off and burrowing deeper into the vast mass of the palace. The weight of the cracked opulence now weighed on me as heavily as the sheer volume of stone and metal of its structure. One corridor in particular drew me along it, something about the way the shadows fell across the faded and torn tapestries perhaps? As I padded along the carpeted length my hand traced a line along the hall, my fingertips feeling the cracks and scratches that pitted its surface. I came to a halt in front of a large set of wooden doors which I felt certain barred the entrance to my personal chambers. The doors held firm despite the damage about them and I wondered if even in their madness and despair my family had spared this room out of some sense of respect. I pushed against the doors and they reluctantly gave way with a dry groan, revealing a room filled with dust, cobwebs, and discarded objects that clamoured for attention in my memory.

Louder than the rest was an iron orb resting atop a pedestal. It sat in a shaft of light from a high window, dust motes danced about the orb like an entourage, flickering away as my hand reached out to pick up the object. Much like the crown in the cave, the orb was wrought iron inlaid with gold. The gilded patterns formed whirls and spirals that my eyes struggled to follow, the effect was almost hypnotic. As I turned the orb over in my hands I saw that, as with the crown, the surface was marred with bloodstains. I froze the weight of the iron sphere threatening to slip from my hand as I recalled the moment I had pried it from my father's hand. My hands were awash with crimson though enough time had passed that they were now merely sticky as opposed to slick. The marks on the orb and crown were my own fingerprints, left when I stole them from the dead king's throne room.

SCENE 3: KNIGHT OF CUPS

The orb still in gripped tightly in my hand, I staggered across the room to the grand fireplace. It had stood cold for many years and held none of the comforting warmth and light it had once offered me. As I gazed into the ashes in the grate, I noticed that it was slightly askew and that there were the faintest finger marks in the ash around it. I knelt and with my free hand I brushed the ash away from the edges of the grate which I then slid aside. In an alcove beneath I saw an ornately carved wooden box. I knew that this box was unusual as unlike nearly every other object I apparently owned this was not carved with birds and flowers. Its surface was covered in geometric patterns of overlapping triangles and scattered, solid circles. As I ran my fingers over it I felt a shudder of anticipation and the box almost seemed to hum with the dormant power of forgotten meaning. I set the orb down beside me and used both hands to lift the box from the fireplace and rested it in my lap.

The lid slide softly aside under the gentlest of touches and heard the barest hint of a sigh as if an airtight seal had been broken. Inside the box I found a sheaf of papers covered in strange diagrams and scribbled marginalia. I recognised some of the notes as being in my own handwriting but had no direct memory of writing them. I spread the pages across the floor in front of the hearth and began the laborious process of deciphering them. They hinted at some kind of ritual or perhaps alchemical operation, a working that would present a body in a state of deathlike sleep and preserve it for generations. A partial page, apparently torn from a diary, weighed doubts about the safety of the procedure but ultimately dismissed them as being worthwhile in the face of brewing rebellion. I found no traces of concern for my family's safety, either in the pages or the embers of my memory.