[Ahriman: Unchanged] The Court of Change
One of my favorite glimpses into the workings of Chaos; contradictions everywhere just as Tzeentch loves.
>The Fortress where they gathered did not exist and could not be understood. If a mortal mind had perceived them - the gathered creatures, the chamber, and the being at its heart before which they bowed - that mind would have collapsed into insanity before it could begin to describe what it had seen and heard. Had such a mortal lived long enough and been strong enough to speak it might have spoken of a library and of creatures with feathers and wings, and a vast pillar of mouths and light. If such a mortal had spoken, all its words and screamed description would have been a lie, for no mortal could perceive the Court of Change or the Changer of Ways. But in the Realm of Chaos a lie served as well as a truth.
>'He must continue!' hissed one of the throng.
>Feathers ripped, and beaks clacked in dissent. Sparks of blue and pink snapped through the chamber. The web of stairs shifted. Blue figures screeched and ran as columns of paper shifted and collapsed. Sheets of undiscovered lore exploded and began to fall upwards and downwards, burning to ash or folding into birds. The throng of the court ignored the disturbance. It might portend the death of worlds or the fall of endeavours long in the making, but all of it was insignificant compared to the argument at hand.
>'He does not acknowledge his place in the greater designs...' spat a figure.
>'Worship is worthless,' replied another.
>'Only the unworshipped say so.'
>'His ignorance is a greater delight than the possibility of his acknowledging the truth.'
>'He is dangerous.'
>'He is weak, a failure at every turn.'
>'Is that not because it has been ordained that he will fail?'
>'Nothing has been ordained on the matter.'
>'You are sure?'
>'It is a matter of paradox.'
>'Platitudes are not wisdom.'
>'Wisdom holds no truth.'
>'He has served us.' The voice ended the babble. High in the reaches of the Library, the imps of knowledge hesitated as the silence fell. It was never silent in this place.
>The throng of daemons crouched in cowed terror.
>Above them, the being which they were both a part of and utterly removed from stirred in its wrappings of light and lightning. Mortals in their ignorance called it a god, but it was no god. It was something beyond gods and prayers. Magic and fate coiled around it like fog winding around a tower. Countless mouths opened and closed across its skin. Tongues licked lips. Fangs glistened. Beaks snapped at the air. Far out, in the infinity of paradox which stretched from the Fortress, the silence of the Changer of Ways sent daemons scurrying in fear. The greater daemons and princes of the Court of Change waited. They could feel destinies rolling over and threads of existence snapping as the god of magic and lies - which was a god only by theft - contemplated the fate of a lone mortal.
>'He has served, and served well,' said the god. Each mouth spoke the same words, but each used a different language and intonation. 'He has earned the reward he deserves but does not crave. That reward will be his.'
>A ripple passed through the Court of Change at the pronouncement. On the shelves and tiers of the library the blue daemons hissed to each other behind their hands.
>The God - which was only a god in the sight of mortals - shifted and spoke again.
>'Bring the Thief of Faces.'
>The greater daemons glanced at each other, trying to think how to obey or twist their master's command. They all knew the being which the Changer of Ways had summoned, but none of them knew where it was or how to bring it to them. That was its nature, to be unknown.
>'I am here,' called a voice, and the throng of daemons parted around a lone member of their gathering. It grinned at them with its flayed vulture face, and then that face was gone. A new creature crouched in the air before them. Soft, blue silk hung across its body, and it had no face, just a black space beneath its hood. The other daemons hissed at it, but it bowed its cowl very slowly, like a wading bird dipping its beak into still water. Like all of them it had many names and titles, but to the mortals who were tormented by knowledge of its existence, it was the Changeling, and only the god - which was greater than gods - knew its true name.
>'You will go to Ahriman,' commanded the Changer of Ways. 'Walk the subtle paths. Your presence must not interfere with his undertaking. You must arrive only at the end. Not before. Not after.'
>The Changeling bowed low.
>'And once I have reached him?'
>'He will have given all he can, and danced his last. Give him my gift in payment for his service. When it is over I will release him.' A murmur of ran through the court; no pawn in the Great Game had ever been set free from its bonds. Even in death, the souls of the deluded and the damned served the Great Conspirator. But the god spoke on in one voice. 'Give him the gift of oblivion. When all is done, Ahriman will become as dust. He will become nothing. That is my gift, from my hand to yours, from yours to his.'
>'It will be,' said the Changeling to the god.