Prophet and Plague

"There was only one ship," replied the Councilor, his testimony hewed through four serrated mandibles. He stood stoic before the raised dais of the Contemplarium, steeped in a dense plainsong that summoned a chill out of some deep and reverent past. The habituated warrior rested a clawed hand upon the unpowered hilt of a plasma sword at his hip. His pearlescent white plate armor glowed under the lights of this opulent auditorium.

"One? Are you sure?" interrogated the Attendant from the proscenium. He shared the Councilor's snub-nosed crocodilian features and warrior's poise. But the Attendant's combat harness was the sapphire blue of an inferior tenure, and devoid of ornament.

"Yes. The others were not reclaimed." The Councilor shifted his weight as he explained, "The Cathedral dammed a flood. When it broke, death fouled the mire, soil, and air. Every third warrior was seized, then consumed by the deluge. As the Deacon foretold."

Unlike the design of the rest of the battlecruiser, the interior architecture of this sanctum made obvious allusion to the cultural and artistic heritage of the clergy-caste prophets. It was subdivided into tall, narrow, and rectilinear rooms that confined without oppressing. Every wall was draped in a pastel purple poplin. And a cool atmospheric mist blanketed the floor like that of the jungles of the Prophet's home world.

The auditorium featured ceilings three decks tall and standing room for this small, exclusive audience. It was flanked by a port-side parlor, itself connected to an upper-deck sanctuary by a meandering stairwell and a second-floor gallery that crossed the auditorium where the saurian warriors conversed.

The Attendant retreated from the approach of his charge; the proprietorial Prophet who hovered forth from behind the dais to assume a more direct interrogation. "And what of the conscripts?" he drawled. "The Deacon and his people, where are they now?"

The Prophet had the temperament and likeness of a beakless vulture. He was draped in a tunic resembling crimson contours and golden down, and crowned at the nape with a tall, pronged ruff of polished brass set with amber. The feeble creature sat upon a hovering throne. His gaunt arms folded inward with palms pressed together. A wattle of skin drooped from the chin of an aged ovoid head, itself hung heavy at the length of his hunched serpentine neck. The only vivacious features of the Prophet were his bulbous emerald eyes which leered down at the Councilor.

"The Deacon's transport was burdened by the deluge and crashed in the swamp. It did not carry weapons," the Councilor continued. "The Deacon and his people are assumed dead."

At the private momentary consult of his Attendant, the Prophet retreated behind the dais and beckoned the two warriors to follow.

Once again speaking for the Prophet, the Attendant solicited, "Regale us again, Councilor, the events of the Interred Cathedral." Then, with feigned sympathy inquired, "What went wrong?"

🌌

The Councilor ferried thirty warriors in three troop transports. They hovered nearby a swamp outpost downspin from where the Prophet's battlecruiser made ringfall. He was greeted by the Deacon at the threshold of the Cathedral's brutalist narthex which descended sharply into the mire.

The Deacon was an almost arthropodal creature with a squat gait. He wore monastic robes of muted magenta draped over the methane tank secured on his back. His stammered greeting was drowned out by the clattering of the crosier he dragged across the floor beside him.

The Councilor overlooked the clergyman who scurried after him. They both descended the ramp into the Cathedral while the Councilor issued preliminary commands to his warriors to moor the transports, secure the perimeter, and assume operational control. It was only after the warriors began to carry out their orders that the Councilor acknowledged the Deacon's presence.

"Deacon Dadude, you really need to hasten your concerns. I do not have all of time," pressed the Councilor. "Why have you summoned me?"

"Yes, Councilor. With haste," the eager Deacon replied. "I am the minister of those stationed here. By decree of the Prophet, we secure this Cathedral. Shipments come in, and we store them inside. But this place hides secrets; terrible secrets, as I have studied."

"I fear the Cathedral. We mustn't tamper with this place," professed the Deacon with unexpected reverence and clarity. "My people are in danger."

The incongruous pair stepped onto a hexagonal elevator platform at the center of a vaulted vestibule. The Deacon scurried ahead to the elevator controls and began gesturing across its interface.

"What danger does the Cathedral hide, Deacon?" The Councilor pressed, short of patience.

"I will show you! This way. This way," the Deacon replied like an eager hatchling as the platform descended into the abyss.

The Councilor followed his diminutive escort through the circuitous corridors of the Cathedral. He observed the Deacon's people; the conscripts stationed there. They aimlessly shuffled supply crates around rooms until the Councilor's warriors systematically relieved them of duty.

As they navigated the labyrinth, the Deacon would stop periodically to pray over the Cathedral's engravings. He explained the meaning of these symbols to the Councilor. Meanings such as: restriction, regulation, and quarantine. The Councilor felt a growing sense of restraint; increasingly concerned the Cathedral was built by the gods to hide something, or bury it.

"Here!" exclaimed the Deacon as he scurried across a hard-light bridge and through the door on the other side. Again, he repeated, "This way! This way!"

As he approached, the Councilor noticed the sigils that glowed upon the lintel of the door frame. They boldly warned: Containment.

Inside the door, a dimly lit hall was bisected along its width. A short walk around the partition revealed a wide observation window overlooking a chamber beyond. The partition itself housed a stairwell leading down into that chamber.

Built like a bunker, the chamber was reinforced with angular struts. An upper-level catwalk crowned the perimeter, leading to the emergency exits that flanked the elevated observation window. On the ground, two terraces with transparent platforms peered down into the unexplored depths of the Cathedral. And around the perimeter wall were several sealed doors.

Escorted by the Deacon, the Councilor walked down the ramp, into the chamber, and around the perimeter of the room. He studied the five doors, each sealed with a pale glowing sigil.

Through the small viewport of each door, the Councilor discovered a small room filled with what looked like the fruiting vines of a silver tree. He studied the farthest room while he waited for the diminutive Deacon to catch up.

"Open it," commanded the Councilor.

Hesitantly, the Deacon complied. He prayed the incantations and gestured the somatic commands to unseal the hushed casket. The cool white sigil then burned red before the door yawned.

The Councilor stepped into the enclosure and the Deacon carefully followed. The tree he had observed through the viewport was now clearly a tangle of conduit sprouted from the floor of the enclosure. It was bound together at the center, then split and arced into long weeping branches. And at the end of each branch hung a glassy bulb with the shape and color of a rotting pear.

Carefully, the Deacon used the crook of his crozier to pull one of the bulbs close for inspection. Its outer surface was transparent like glass, but it's interior was coated in a thick green mucus.

"You see? You see?" the Deacon pleaded as he lifted the fruit of the vine up to the light. He could see a writhing mass behind the veil of mucus. "This place dams a flood! If it breaks, death will foul the mire, soil, and air! Every third warrior will be inundated! Consumed!"

The Councilor noticed one branch of the tree did not bear fruit. He palmed the barren conduit and inspected it. Then, looking around the room for the missing ornament, he caught the glint of tiny particulates that littered the floor. Bending down on one knee, he pinched a grain of broken glass between his claws.

"We must leave the Cathedral," begged the Deacon as he carefully released the bulbed vine. "Please Councilor, let my people go from this place."

Obscured by the Deacon's desperation was a faint pattering like that of a small animal. It skittered up, across, and through the branching conduit. Glass bulbs clattered against one another alarming the Councilor of the tumorous thing—or things. The very moment the infernal parasite was visible between the vines, it leapt toward the Deacon's face.

The infector pod was a swollen, blistering mass of flesh carried by an array of spiney tentacles tipped with red veiny cilia. It moved with impressive speed and leapt a great distance to grapple the breathing mask of the Deacon. The clergyman barked and whimpered in response, but the tentacled parasite only tightened its grip. The Deacon toppled over as he backed out of the enclosure. A small deluge of these creatures washed over him as they too fled the room.

With a depressurizing whine and crack like that of a snapped tree limb, the Deacon managed to remove his face mask, and the creature along with it. A flutter of autumnal-colored breathing filters celebrated the success even as the Deacon gasped for methane.

Concurrently, the Councilor rushed to close the door to the enclosure and limit the escaping infectors. The incubator inside, the weeping silver tree, now danced with shadows of flesh and tentacles.

Once the breach was contained, the Councilor then collected the fallen facemask of the Deacon and proceeded to claw and shred the parasite from it. He returned the facemask to the Deacon while ordering, "Seal that door! Then you may collect your people from this Cathedral."

As he made his exit, the Councilor could hear the overwhelmed Deacon replace his mask and take several frantic breaths.

The Councilor retraced his steps from the chamber back through the labyrinth. He found his warriors enduring the outbreak. Every third warrior fell prey to the parasite. It grappled their necks, burrowed into their chests, and steered the freshly assimilated bodies toward more potential hosts. But with so few numbers, the escaped parasite was manageable. The Councilor's troops collected only what supplies could be carried and ascended the winding corridors of the Cathedral to the troop transports waiting to receive them outside.

Upon resurfacing into the swamp, the Councilor climbed into the cabin of the first troop transport. His warriors loaded the vessel to the gills with cargo before themselves climbing into the second transport. Both ships closed their hatches and burned their engines bright against the fog of the swamp forsaking all of the inundated conscripts that still poured out from the Cathedral.

The Councilor caught sight of the Deacon who ushered his people onto the last troop transport, but it had been encumbered by those who remained. The overflowing vehicle was incapable of closing its doors and struggled to lift off as it was swarmed by the conscripts and parasite alike. The transport was airborne for only a few moments before it crashed bow-down in the swamp laid up against the trunk of a tree. The occupants tumbled out from the troop bays and scattered across the muck.

As the two airborne troop transports climbed above the canopy, all the Councilor could see was the frantic flash of light and fire until the whole swamp went dark.

🌌

The parlor of the Contemplarium was separated from the main hall by a descending, curved corridor. Three platinum, prismatic plinths sat in the ground fog at the center of the room. The Prophet settled upon one in a meditative posture, while the Attendant and Councilor kneeled upon the remaining two.

"The second ship was shot down by human air defenses nearby their encampment on the mesa," the Councilor summarized. His steady tone veiled his shame. "The warriors aboard are assumed captured or dead."

When the Councilor finished his report, the Attendant questioned derisively, "Do you believe your mission a success?"

The Councilor searched carefully for his response, "The weapons were retrieved. I contained the breach and resealed the Cathedral."

"Contained a flood, did you? You withheld the tide by your command?" The Attendant's words dripped with condescension. "At what cost? Warriors and weapons sacrificed? All the while as we battle humans!"

"Exalted—," the Councilor pleaded over the Attendant and directly to the Prophet.

The Prophet commanded silence with a wave of his hand and interrupted, "The flood demanded attention, and may yet still."

The Attendant leaned toward the Prophet on his plinth and once again exchanged private murmurs. The Prophet nodded in apparent agreement with the whispered suggestion, then portended, "Unfortunate."

The Attendant rose to his feet. He locked the gaze of the Councilor while sidestepping the perimeter of the room. Both warriors knew what came next.

The Prophet pressed his palms together and closed his emerald eyes as if in prayer as he decreed, "By your example I will demonstrate the price of failure." And the tension of the room broke like the dam within the Cathedral.

The verdict was punctuated by the awakening crack of energy blades. The Councilor palmed the hilt of his weapon and conjured from it twin-talons of electro-magnetically stabilized plasma. His opponent, the Prophet's Attendant, brandished two wrist-mounted daggers of similar design.

Without honor or ceremony, the Attendant made swift, successive preemptive slashes against the Councilor. Defending himself with tempered skill, the Councilor parried and dodged the incoming flurry of blows with agile riposte.

The warrior pair clashed in a series of feints and counterattacks. They grappled and struggled against the might of each other at arm's length. Their blades hummed with radiant energy.

On the far wall of the room was a ramp that turned upward out of sight. Clearly outmatched by a blade master, the Attendant took his first opportunity to disengage and retreat from the parlor. He dashed up the curving stairway to the elevated gallery that crossed the auditorium.

In a blind rage, the Councilor pursued his fleeing opponent. They met again at the center of the gallery, underlit by the glowing ornate engravings on the elevated walkway. The Councilor swung his blade wide, but the Attendant stepped back and struck his opponents blade with a dagger.

The Councilor attempted an explosive lunge at his opponent. The Attendant sidestepped the attack and used the Councilor's momentum to trade places. He spun in a swift, circular motion, arcing a dagger downward across the gallery floor.

The Attendant's plasma blade burned a laceration clean through the walkway. It shifted suddenly downward under the weight of the warriors until the cut edges caught against their mate.

The Councilor was distracted by the sudden movement of the platform. It caught him off guard when the Attendant grappled him for one last time. He shoulder-checked the Councilor in his gut, forcing him to drop his sword. Then, with his arms wrapped around his opponent's midsection, the Attendant lifted the Councilor off his feet and slammed him spine-first into the compromised platform.

The center third of the gallery buckled and collapsed under the impact weight of the Councilor. It split into two jagged pieces when it hit the fogged floor of the hall below. The Councilor barely caught himself within the grasp of a single hand on the exposed sharp rebar of the broken walkway.

Satisfied with his achieved advantage, the Attendant approached the ledge where the Councilor struggled to hang on. The warriors locked eyes while the Attendant palmed the hilt of his opponent's plasma sword.

The will of the Prophet was punctuated by the thud of the Councilor's body. It impacted the floor of the Contemplarium forcing the atmospheric mist to retreat momentarily before returning to cover the body. The Attendant remained upon the broken gallery, satisfied that he still held the now severed head of the Councilor.

🌌

The forsaken conscripts of the Interred Cathedral found themselves trapped between the mire and the surging flood. Darkness closed in around their huddled mass. The Deacon prayed for his people; he prayed for exodus.

Suddenly, the fog around them burned in bright streams of orange light. Humming shadows flew overhead and rained fire on the parasitized corpses, passing over the cowering conscripts.

The Deacon seized this reprieve and guided his people through the chaos harmed by neither the flood nor the heavenly fire. When they reached the outer banks of the swamp, the Deacon turned to ensure everyone had followed. All the while he watched the fog flash and shadows dance behind them.

The forsaken people wandered deep into the jungles of the ringworld. They sought refuge in the wilderness and never returned to the familiar chains of their conscription. The Deacon had saved his people, at least for now.

Prophet and Plague, a #Wayfinder story and #fanfiction exploration of the #HaloCE multiplayer map: #ChillOut.

Written and narrated by Alessandro Marino (vigg.substack.com).

Audio and visual effects captured from Halo: The Master Chief Collection on #XboxSeriesX.

#Sangheili Language designed by David J. Peterson (artoflanguageinvention.com).

Based on characters and events written by William C. Dietz (williamcdietz.com).

Based on the #Halo Universe, a property of #Microsoft Corporation and #HaloStudios.

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