Three of Wands
A period of expansion
and exploration,
where opportunities await,
often linked to travel or ventures
Chapter XXV
Distant Plans
Virtue
The powerful fire understands its responsibility
Ayesha's voice, usually a sharp blade, faltered, a guttural click catching in her throat as her gaze locked onto Jim. The urge to unleash her fury, to lash out at the audacity of these interlopers, warred with a gnawing, insidious curiosity that coiled deep in her gut. A tremor, born of something ancient and unknown, vibrated through her. Before the weight of her discovery pressed too heavily, before she could betray the fragile truth to Dagon, she commanded the magistrate, his face a mask of bewilderment, to depart.
"Follow me," she hissed, the command laced with a magnetic pull that drew the trio into the heart of the temple compound. The air thickened, charged with a palpable tension. The hushed reverence of the crowd fractured. Stunned whispers rippled like poisoned darts. Their High Priestess, the untouchable Ayesha, was embracing these strangers, her movements betraying an astonishing intimacy, as if they were long-lost kin. The sacrilege, the vile blasphemy they had uttered against their city god, still hung heavy in the air, a foul stench in the sacred space, yet she ushered them into the sanctuary. Panic, sharp and cold, spurred some to flee, their feet pounding on the stone, racing to the palace to warn Dagon. Surely, Ayesha would not betray him.
Yet, the ancient scrolls spoke of Artemis law, of Qblh's absolute command, a power that bound Ayesha, forcing her to comply. The trio, cloaked in the divine shield of Isis, demanded a status that transcended mortal understanding.
"You are no mere mortal," Ayesha breathed, her voice a low thrum against the stillness. "You are not of this earth, nor of woman born as we know it. You claim Artemis as your home. My heart aches to believe you, for none have ever reached that celestial realm. Its location is a whispered myth, a stardust dream. If truth resides in your words, illuminate this chasm of disbelief within me. My mind reels. Isis, yes, I recall her bestowing the title 'Qblh' upon someone, but his visage... it eludes me, yet there is a haunting familiarity. I dare speak no more. These fragments are secrets so profound they could shatter worlds." The words left her lips like forbidden offerings, raw with a yearning she could barely contain.
Jim’s voice, a resonant hum that vibrated in her very bones, cut through the charged air. "Ayesha, I will guide you to Artemis, but only if you can convince this island's souls to flee. We hail from the Sirius constellation, and it was Isis herself who bestowed upon me the mantle of Qblh, just last week."
Ayesha staggered, a gasp escaping her. This man, this enigma, was offering her the impossible, the burning ember of her deepest desire. How could he dare? Yet, every fiber of these strangers screamed of the extraordinary. He offered a dream, not merely a promise, but a profound understanding of her soul's silent ache. But the cosmic tapestry, woven by the empire of Isis and the iron will of Venetia, held clear directives for the priestess covens. A tremor of this ancient knowledge ran through Ayesha, and sensing the precipice, the intoxicating possibility of Ayesha surrendering to him, Antiope and Helen, their eyes sharp with an unsettling intensity, moved to intercede, their presence a subtle shift in the balance of power, adding more trials to Ayesha's already fervent initiation.
"So it is you?" Ayesha whispered, her voice thick with awe and a nascent tremor of fear. "From the stars, and but a week ago? Only *he* could speak such truths and still breathe. You… you can take me there?"
A sharp, cutting sound, like the snap of a dry twig, pierced the charged atmosphere. "Don't listen to him, Ayesha," Antiope’s voice dripped with a dangerous sweetness, her gaze piercing. "He whispers honeyed lies to every receptive ear. Yes, he'll take you to Artemis, darling, but don't expect him to ever bring you back. He's tried to shed us, both of us, a dozen times, but we've always clawed our way back, keeping him tethered. He’s a savage beast to manage, and it takes the combined strength of two to even hope to contain him." The unspoken threat, the raw power in Helen’s accompanying silence, added a chilling counterpoint to Antiope’s venom.
​
“You would *take* me to Artemis?” The question, laced with a desperate hunger, hung heavy in the air, a desperate gamble tossed into the oppressive silence.
The voice that answered was sharp, like the glint of a obsidian blade. “He *can* take you. But *we*… we have no thirst for that ancient dust. Earth’s embrace is warm, its chaos… familiar. And you, Helen? Do you still yearn for the celestial winds?”
Helen’s laughter, a brittle, dangerous sound, scraped against the nerves. “Artemis? Oh, Ayesha, by all means, *go*. Let him lead you. Perhaps he has more to offer than just passage. Perhaps he can even… *bless* you with a child. Believe me, the agony, the sheer *effort*, will be a symphony you’ll never forget.”
“But you cannot keep him,” the first voice, a low growl, insisted, a thread of unease weaving through the menace.
Ayesha’s gaze, previously a cool, dismissive flicker, now burned with a feverish curiosity. Jim. The name itself tasted of forgotten starlight. Artemis… it had been an eternity. The tale spun by these beings, these whispers from a forgotten age, sounded like the fever dreams of a dying god. Yet, the impossible… it echoed. They spoke of truths scrawled on scrolls forbidden even to Isis, truths seared into her memory like brands. And *him*… this Jim, their servant, so utterly devoid of the crushing aura of dominion. So unlike *Dagon*. Dagon, who had once roared with a pride so vast it consumed galaxies, who had dared to crown himself a god, who had, in his megalomaniacal echo of ages past, dared to name his dominion Atlantis, a hollow monument to Pharos long turned to sand.
Atlantis… a city state, like so many others, nestled under the suffocating wing of the Cretan Empire. Its veins pulsed with the lifeblood of trade, snaking through Avaris in Egypt, another jewel in Crete’s crown of “protection.” Avaris, a crucible of culture, a vortex of commerce, the very heart where the arcane arts of Egypt—the delicate dance of medicine, the rigid structure of mathematics—were painstakingly distilled. Its people, a riot of cultures, worshipped a pantheon as varied as their lineage. The priests, however, hoarded the true knowledge, keeping it shrouded in temple mysteries, accessible only to the chosen, the initiated. Pilgrims flocked to Avaris, their eyes wide with awe, yearning for a glimpse of Egypt’s marvels, a stolen secret. Years, an ocean of study, were the price of entry into the priesthood, the brutal crucible that forged those who dared to seek the hidden. Two scripts, intricate and demanding, were the bare minimum, a testament to the city’s mercantile heart and the terrifying political power that pulsed beneath its gilded surface.
And then, the thunderclap of revelation. The High Priestess, Anat, a creature of ambition forged in the fires of Artemis, a lioness of Amazonian descent, Dagon’s mother. She was not only the mother to Salitis, the Pharaoh who wielded Avaris like a scepter, but *also* his mother. An impossible lineage, a chilling testament to forbidden power. Sobekhotep VIII, his teeth bared in defiance, refused to bow to Isis, refused to bend to Salitis. His gaze was fixed on a single, burning star: the restoration of Egypt's shattered military might. His fury at Anat, for the viperous Salitis who had already coiled around the Lower Nile and now plotted to swallow Upper Egypt whole, was a palpable, suffocating miasma.
​
The air crackled with the divine arrogance of Salitis, a man who dared to claim godhood as his birthright. He was a tempest of ambition, a general whose strategic brilliance was matched only by his ruthless execution. The entirety of the civilized world cowered before his might, as he plotted the dominion of Upper Egypt, the ashes of Avaris still clinging to his boots after he had ripped it from the grip of its former masters. Every nation, desperate for a sliver of his burgeoning empire, choked out tribute, craving a foothold in his unparalleled trading nexus. Those who dared resist his will were broken, their spirits extinguished, their bodies yoked into perpetual servitude. Within Avaris itself, a chilling tapestry of subjugation unfolded; only the hallowed few, the privileged elite, stood as free beings amidst a sea of groaning slaves. Yet, Avaris was not entirely alone in its might. Bound by a pact of blood and steel, they stood as an unbreakable fist with Minos, a shield forged by the formidable Minoan navy and Salitis's own unyielding legions.
But the true engine of power pulsed elsewhere, in the heart of Atlantis, where the hum of ingenuity resonated not from Minoan hands, but from Egyptian-trained artisans. These were not mere smiths, but a fiercely independent cohort, entwined with the mysterious Amazon priestesses. Together, they had sculpted a technological marvel, a community whose wealth flowed from the fiery crucible, their dominion cemented by the mastery of refining metals, copper a shimmering testament to their power.
In the depths of that volcanic isle, the pyramid builders, with an almost alchemical touch, had conjured a labyrinth of cooling tunnels. These serpentine passages, a testament to their profound understanding of the earth's fiery heart, tapped directly into the molten core. They danced with the very fault lines of the mountain, their designs a symphony of geological wisdom. Their expertise, however, extended far beyond mere excavation. Masters of mineralogy, their minds honed by the colossal furnace of the mountain, they possessed the terrifying knowledge of explosives. Geometry and detonation were their languages, the very bedrock of Kuftia echoing with the thunderous might of their tunneling and mining prowess. Yet, the raw, primal danger of their craft was not ignored. The Amazon priestesses, keepers of ancient, whispered wisdom, decreed strict exposure limits, a few precious hours a week the maximum any miner could endure the subterranean inferno. Once the earth was rent asunder by their explosive artistry, scalding seawater was unleashed, a torrent of fiery fury to scour the newly carved passageways, washing away the debris. What remained was a potent effluent, meticulously filtered, the extracted rock then pulverized and transformed in their relentless pursuit of perfection.
Across Luftia, colossal forges roared, their infernal glow painting the night sky. The unfortunate souls, the prisoners and the downtrodden, bore the grim burden of hauling raw materials to and from these blazing caverns, their lives a constant, arduous pilgrimage through the suffocating heat. Even the task overseers, bound by the same occupational exposure limits, endured these infernal conditions for only fleeting moments, their presence vital to orchestrate the delicate ballet of refinement. The Amazon descendants, however, wielded a far more chilling prerogative. They held the power to select any male, their choice a silent decree, for sacred, terrifying rites. The temple priestesses, their faces veiled in an enigma of tradition, guarded the true nature of these sacrifices with an almost fanatical secrecy. And over it all, the ancient, unyielding authority of Dagon presided, his unspoken command the very pulse that drove this immense, awe-inspiring, and deeply terrifying enterprise.
​
The suffocating dust and gnawing chill of the mines were anathema to the priestesses. They recoiled from the raw earth, the clang of hammers echoing like death knells. Their sanctuary was the temple, a perfumed haven of silken cushions and sun-drenched gardens, where the air hummed with a languid, otherworldly peace. Here, within these gilded walls, the high priestess and her chosen few, creatures of flesh and fury, were born of a forbidden union – human and Amazon. A lethal grace pulsed within their veins, a primal danger that rendered the mortal male their unwilling prey, their only means to procreation a blood-soaked sacrament. A scarcity of males meant these extraordinary beings were a precious, fleeting commodity.
Anat, a force of nature in Amazonian form, was the primal dam from which both Salitis and Dagon sprang. Yet, a more unsettling truth clung to Dagon's lineage: he was also the seed of Salitis. This apparent web of incest, a grotesque bloom in the shadowed halls of power, meant nothing to Salitis, an Edomite prince whose ambition was inextricably bound to the iron fist of Babylon. Anat, bound by ancient rites, demanded the ultimate sacrifice to forge life. The Babylonian Empire, in its zealous devotion to Baal, readily offered their sons upon the altar, a grim tithe to appease the gods. A king’s desire burned to replicate his own formidable power, and in the Amazonian bloodline, he saw a potent key to forging superior progeny. The very genetics of these hybrid beings offered an amplified chance for a male heir, a perfect echo of the king's own might. Thus, Dagon was born. Salitis, though a reluctant consort to his own mother, found himself endowed with an intoxicating, terrifying power.
The machinations of Anat and the ascendancy of Salitis cast a long shadow, forcing Sobekhotep VIII to subtly diminish the revered stature of Isis. His ambition was a roaring fire: to reclaim Egypt’s sovereign glory, to rebuild a dynasty forged in the image of men, not these ephemeral, perfumed women who had sapped its strength and left it vulnerable to foreign ravishment. He would tear down the delicate facade, reasserting Egypt's dominion, crushing the outsiders beneath its heel. But Isis, in her own inscrutable wisdom, harbored a darker design. She would unleash more of these potent Amazonian witches, a future generation that would include the formidable Hatshepsut, to twist and reshape the world once more.
Dagon, though his blood pulsed with Amazonian fire, bore no trace of royal Amazonian lineage. Anat, in her pride, claimed a distant kinship with the sorceress Morgana. Jim, a man of keen discernment, scoffed. Morgana, in his estimation, was a pale imitation, a shadow compared to the raw power embodied by Antiope or Helen.
Yet, Dagon possessed a singular resilience, a primal fortitude inherited from his Amazonian mother, that allowed him to survive the intimate embrace of a human-Amazon hybrid. And, with a primal hunger, he could also sow his seed with mortal women.
​
Ayesha’s voice, a low, predatory growl, snagged at Jim’s awareness. “If Dagon hears you can… *breed*… with an Amazon and walk away breathing, he’ll rip you to shreds. Can you? I suspect your blood sings with a forbidden rhythm. Let’s not dance around it, shall we? Survive me, Jim, and I’ll cast Dagon aside like a broken toy. My legions will swear fealty to you. But fail, and your fate is sealed.”
Jim’s gaze flickered to Helen and Antiope, their laughter a bell-like chime that nonetheless carried a wicked edge. They were practically vibrating with anticipation, their eyes urging him forward, daring him to seize this moment. Ayesha, a queen of subtle power, made a barely perceptible gesture to her captains.
Antiope, her movements fluid as a predator’s, glided towards Jim. Her voice, a silken caress laced with something ancient and potent, wrapped around him. “It’s the very core of my being, darling, this… *possibility*. And you gave your word to sate my deepest hungers. *Qblh, Yoni her.* Let the primal forces witness. Isis herself would smile upon this union. And Helen, ever obedient, echoes my will. We answer to our Queen, and as her sworn agents, we command you to fulfill her desire. Ayesha, we offer you Qblh, our most prized possession, a slave to be your own until the moment you renounce Dagon. Your answer by the next feast. Is that enough time for you to truly consider the precipice you stand upon? Ayesha, do you grasp the chilling truth – that if your lineage is not of our sacred blood, then you will **perish**?”
Ayesha’s response was a raw, defiant challenge, her gaze locked on Jim. “Only **he** will perish, if our bloodlines do not run as one.”
Antiope’s eyes, sharp and knowing, softened into something akin to awe. “Then blessed be your joining, sister.”
With a regal nod, Ayesha turned, her presence a tangible force drawing Jim into the hushed, perfumed sanctuary of her private chambers. The air crackled with unspoken promises and the scent of danger.
​
