#archy v

@are-you-dreaming-of-stars asked:  “appease the monster” for the Architect from Gredal

The Architect looked over the—he didn't want to call the boy a "captive", not theirs at least, but someone had and decided to hand him in to him. Why, was beyond him. The boy was too young to make a decision in an offer Cyril generally gave those who came this way, however, he may already be infected with the Blight now that he's around them. There's a chance he would be fine, but who's to say?

The surfacers' cult that worshiped the Blight being the likely culprit was Cyril's guess.

If he released him and sent him back to the surface, however, and it turns out that he was infected, well, it could slowly trigger the process of conversion without surfacers having a say in it.

He'd rather it be a consensual transition but...mortals didn't always know what was best for them.

He looked familiar, but wrong. Even by the Architect—Cyril's—standards, the one before him looked very off. Red that hummed and sick. Nothing like Cyril, nothing like the one other of them he'd seen ages before. "You're nothing like me, or like the Augur."

What was her name? He couldn't remember that; he knew her title, who she served, but her name. What was it?

Unimportant, for the moment. He’d try to remember later. Maybe.

Still, the one before him was one of them, was one of the old followers, though he couldn't put a name to the face, to which of the gods he served. He knew him; he knew that he knew him.

“What happened to you, brother? You’re ill,” he murmured cautiously.

The blighted Magister slowly but surely made his way to the mage, watching as he searched for something. Not yet seen, not yet recognized.

Why here? Did he not know it was unwise to visit this place? Although...he smelled familiar. Close. Kin? Yes? He knew the scent, the presence, but he couldn’t quite remember where. Warden. Former? Still?

It made the emissary’s head ache, and he finally spoke from behind him. “Turn, young one, so I may know your face once more.”

Cyril wanted his body back, sort of. It would be easier to persuade people to his view with a less "monstrous" form. He had served the god of beauty—vanity sometimes came with the territory. Quite frankly, he actually enjoyed this form. It was...a little more graceful, and stronger. Grotesque? Yes. However, the benefits outweighed the cost.

A devotee of theirs, someone who came to the Darkspawn seeking whatever power they believed they had, was a perfect sacrifice. Willing, if believing the lie that this is how one was made into a Darkspawn counts as being willing. Magic...rituals...well, rules can be broken depending on the circumstances, and this counted.

But he heard something, something that made this wrong.

The ritual could wait. "I suggest revealing yourself, lest you be forced to join us."

//After much deliberation, Archy. The guy hasn’t had a proper bath in centuries…probably.