A Gamer's Guide 226 (Patreon)

The chamber of penance, despite the grandiose name, appears more like the torture chamber of a medieval castle than anything of religious connotation. Neither the floor nor the walls have been tempered by dragon fire, leaving them rugged and harsh as opposed to the smooth, ornamental architecture I’ve seen so far. It doesn’t even smell like dragon in here, or even like anyone has been in here for months, for that matter. It’s cold, dry, and the only scents of note are that of rocks, water, and what I think might be smoke of some sort.

It doesn’t smell like much of anything. Not even the chains hanging from the ceiling or the various tools strewn on top of stone work-benches smell like anything. It feels muted. The dim lighting doesn’t help.

As we enter into it, Ymir casually lets down Fr. Moonlight. Neither of them seem to view this dimly lit torture chamber of a place as anything less than normal. I’d almost think the same of Kempt, if it wasn’t for the faint trace of fear I can smell on him. He’s hiding it valiantly with that stoic expression, but it comes out in the tightness of his wings and the stiffness with which he walks.

Goss, on the other hand, makes no show of hiding how horrifying he finds the room. Gaping wide, he moves his head and neck about, trying to take in everything he sees, from the massive metal contraption in the middle of the room to the obsidian altar close by it. I pat him on the head in an attempt to keep him calm, but it isn’t really working.

Ymir turns to his small comrade. “Father, do you…?”

Fr. Moonlight shakes his head and points to the metal contraption in the middle of the room. “You know how to use it, my friend.” Waving to Kempt, Fr. Moonlight briefly continues. “Kempt, will you please help him get into the bindings?”

“Yes, Father,” Kempt says, radiating resolve that I can’t smell on him. Despite his words, he hesitates for a moment before striding up next to Ymir. Together, they move the ends of several chains closer to the center of the room. In total, I count over two dozen chains, all of them made of a BLACK, dull metal that scrapes along the ground as they drag them over.

With nothing better to do, I move over to help them, only for Fr. Moonlight to put his hand on my chest, stopping me in my tracks. “Leave them to it. I’d like you to help me, instead.”

“Ah, uh… Alright, Father.”

Goss looks down at us anxiously, pacing where he stands. “Um, Father… Is there anything I can do to help?”

Fr. Moonlight returns his gaze, thinking it over a moment before finally saying, “Assist Kempt as best as you can, and try to put the order of the chains to mind.” His tight expression of unease briefly mellows into a smile. “Who knows, one day you may be the one to assist me in this gruesome task?”

Nodding dryly, unable to respond with words, Goss lumbers away to go help Kempt.

As for me, with a single gesture, Fr. Moonlight encourages me to follow him, which I do. In silence, he leads me over to one of the walls, where I find something I hadn’t noticed before: a door. Pulling a small bundle of keys from within his robes, Fr. Moonlight unlocks it, opening it for us to enter. I hunch down and follow him inside the pitch-black corridor. To make sure I’m still following him, I put a hand to the wall, only to recoil back as I feel not the coarse texture of barren stone, but rather the smooth, glossy surface of what I think is obsidian. This entire wall… No, this entire corridor is made of obsidian…?

Fr. Moonlight’s footsteps suddenly stop ahead of me and I snap out of it in time to not collide with his back. I look around us. I can’t smell anything aside from us two. It’s terrifying. For all I know, this darkness that surrounds us could continue for miles and miles, never stopping. Sheer emptiness.

I can feel my heart beat faster at the thought and I reach out, desperate to feel something real, something that isn’t cold and smooth, my hand fumbling through the air, fingers groping for something to touch, anything, and eventually finding…

My hand touches the hem of his robe. Soft. “Is everything alright back there, Kitty?” he asks, his mere voice filling the darkness with warmth.

I take a few deep breaths, calm and easy. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m okay.”

“Good. Because I’m about to show you something only formers have had the pleasure to see.” Within the endless darkness, I hear him draw in a breath, filling his lungs, inhaling the cold and the darkness and everything else, deeper and deeper and deeper, until I think his chest surely can’t hold any more, and then…

He lets it out. Particles of light flow from his lips, like the breath of a dragon in the form of an aurora borealis, bright, beautiful light, shining up the world, allowing me to see that I’m not looking at his back, but rather his face—his calm, aged face. And then I see it. The particles, all floating in the air like dust caught in a sunbeam, bring light to the room. The walls of obsidian show our reflections, mirrored endlessly, around and around and around, but even more than that…

Atop seven pedestals, within crystal cases, each leaned on a small velvet pillow, are seven branding irons.

Not asking me to release my hold on his robe, Fr. Moonlight moves through the particles to the first pedestal, from which he removes the first of the seven brands. He hands it to me, and I take it, even though I almost expect it to scald my skin. It doesn’t. It’s cold, and so is the next one he gives me, and all the rest, too. After less than a minute, he’s given me all seven of them, smiling at me like a parent who’s finally figured out how to best let their toddler help them bake.

I smile back at him, because I don’t know what else to do.

“Come,” he says. “It’s time to fulfill our duty.”

Not questioning him, I follow him back into the darkness of the tunnel, unable to watch as the particles fade fully. Still holding on to Fr. Moonlight’s robe, it feels a lot less scary this time.

We emerge into the comparatively lighter chamber in time to watch Kempt and Goss affix a thick metal collar around Ymir’s neck, one of two, the other collar clutched around the base of his chin, keeping his head in place using four different chains. All and all, Ymir is strung like a Christmas ham ready for the oven, chains keeping his wings, arms, legs, body, neck, and tail fully immobilized. It’s kind of relatable, now that I think about it. Except, unlike my brief stint in a similar cage, Ymir is completely unable to move. Not that he seems much perturbed by it, mind you.

Fr. Moonlight watches him with a wry expression as we approach, motioning for me to put the brands on the obsidian altar in front of the aged dragon. I put them down in what I think is the correct order, though I really don’t know.

“My friend,” Fr. Moonlight says, craning his neck to take in the full size of Ymir. “Shortly, we will begin. I know that you are ready, and have been for many years now. Nevertheless, I will say that it pains me to see you here, and I hope that the virtue you hold may rouse pity in the Goddess of Law.”

Ymir can’t respond. His mouth has been bound with a strip of metal as thick as I am tall, keeping him muzzled. I can’t help but wonder if it’s for him or us that he’s tied up like this. Probably both.

Nevertheless, his eyes speak enough for Fr. Moonlight, who chuckles. “You are quite right—it is ironic. I will not prolong your suffering with needless trivialities. Let us begin.” He holds out his open palm to me. “Kitty, would you please give me the brand of gluttony?”

The brand of…? I turn to the altar, scanning for whichever one could possibly be—oh, it’s the one with the teeth, isn’t it? I grab the one I spotted and hand it to Fr. Moonlight.

“Thank you,” he says, accepting it. Then, a little louder, directing his voice to Kempt and Goss, “Will you please raise his chest and lower his stomach?”

Not asking for any further directions, Kempt and Goss do as asked, chains rattling as they pull them into place, Ymir’s body being moved like a puppet on a string into the position Fr. Moonlight designed. In the meantime, holding the brand in both hands, Fr. Moonlight recites a prayer to the goddess of law. Then, he presses his lips against it, and appears to feel exactly nothing as the brand instantly heats up enough for me to instinctively back off despite being several meters away.

Holding the brand tightly, Fr. Moonlight approaches Ymir until he’s close enough to touch the skin of his underbelly. Lifting the brand, he lets it hover close to the dragon’s stomach, his voice echoing through the chamber as he says, “In the name of the God of Multitudes, I forgive you,” and presses it against Ymir’s skin.

Ymir’s eyes flare open and he begins to thrash in his chains, pulling against the groaning metal and whipping his head back and forth, his screams silenced by the muzzle and his hyperventilations only able to huff through his nose, snot and mucus webbing across his face.

Fr. Moonlight pulls the brand from his stomach, walks back to me, hands me the now-cold brand, and asks me for the next one. I give him the brand of greed. Ymir is pulled to the floor, thrashing and heaving, unable to even make a single sound aside from muffled grunts and snorts escaping through his nostrils as huffs. Fr. Moonlight says a prayer, kisses the brand, and then presses it against Ymir’s right palm. Flesh sizzles and burns as a plume of steam and smoke rises from the hand, each finger tied down so that he can’t even ball it into a fist of pain. Ymir’s neck bobs back and forth, his eyes wide and unblinking as his jaw fights against the groaning metal muzzle.

With the brand of greed done, Fr. Moonlight hands it back and asks me for the brand of lust. He says the prayer, kisses the brand, and presses it against the back of Ymir’s right hand. The brand doesn’t go as deep this time, only barely scalding him, though it still makes him jerk in pain, chains clanking against each other as he draws in a rasping breath through his nose.

Next, the brand of wrath. Ymir’s body is lowered, the two whelps struggling to bring down the massive, thrashing beast. His chest is presented, and Fr. Moonlight presses the brand against it. The skin around the area bursts into flame. Skin is cooked instantly, his legs kicking in their reigns like the movements of a dead animal, tears of pain streaming down his wide, unblinking eyes. His chest and stomach spasm, agonized snorts displacing little air as his windpipes fight between hyperventilating through his nose or attempting to scream through it instead.

It takes effort for Fr. Moonlight to pull the brand from the cauterized skin. Once it’s been dislodged, he pauses a moment before grabbing the next one. Standing close to Ymir, he puts his hand on the brand. “May the God of Pain be kind to you.”

After a few seconds, Ymir calms down again, though his body still twitches with every stuttering breath he takes.

At Fr. Moonlight’s order, they bring him down on the floor fully. Taking the brand of sloth, he climbs atop Ymir’s back, to the same place where I’ve seen him sit many times. Accompanied by a small prayer, the brand is pressed into the spot right in between Ymir’s wings, Fr. Moonlight retaining his balance even as Ymir once again begins to thrash and fight. Climbing back down, he asks for the penultimate brand—the brand of envy. I give it to him.

Still pushed into the floor, Ymir’s head and neck are pulled down as well until they’re both laid flat against the cold stone. His trembling nasal breaths kick up dust, his eyes moving back and forth erratically, unable to settle on anything or anyone.

With the second-to-last brand in hand, Fr. Moonlight moves closer to Ymir until he reaches his neck. He says a prayer, and presses the brand to his skin. The flesh sizzles and crackles, his neck twitching and his entire body jerking. The little movement his neck is capable of is enough to lift his head an inch and then slam it back into the floor, thump, thump, thump, over and over again, the chains clattering around him. “Kempt, Goss, hold him down!” Fr. Moonlight barks, the two whelps quickly cooperating to bodily subdue the larger dragon, struggling as they keep Ymir from hurting himself any more.

Fr. Moonlight steps away from Ymir. “The final brand,” he asks of me. I give him the last brand—the brand of pride. As Fr. Moonlight steps up to Ymir’s tightly restrained head, he speaks softly, saying, “Doubtlessly, you can no longer hear me. I know this, yet I still need to ask you to steel yourself. For all dragons, pride is our greatest sin. This will hurt more than the others. Should you die here, I will not blame you. Still, if only for the help you wish to grant Goss, I ask that you be strong. Have courage.”

The brand in his hands grows hot, soon turning a bright WHITE. I touch a hand to my chest.

Climbing on top of Ymir’s neck, he brings himself onto his head, until he’s standing right atop his forehead, in between his wide, staring eyes. Holding the WHITE-hot brand like a sword, he plunges it into Ymir’s head. The skin at his feet bursts into flames, the area next to the brand charred into coal as the tears streaming down the dragon’s face are instantly turned to steam. Ymir doesn’t move an inch. His eyes stare at the empty, BLACK ceiling. Blank and lifeless.

Then, they close.

Goss and Kempt breathe heavily.

A rare look of hope shines through Goss’ eyes. “Is—is he…?”

A deep, snore-like breath drags itself through Ymir’s nostrils.

The look of disappointment on Goss’ face is matched by equal despair on Fr. Moonlight’s face. “No, he is not. Though, for the moment, we will let him rest as though he was.” Stepping down from atop his friend, Fr. Moonlight stumbles, though I’m quick enough to catch him, letting his listless form fall into my arms. He smiles up at me, eyes half-lidded. “It never gets easier,” he mumbles—maybe to me, maybe to himself. “It never does.”

To that, I have no response.

While Ymir slept, we undid the chains and applied a soothing cream to the brands, which would probably have been very nice to have had close to a year ago. While he slept, I cobbled together some sandals for Kempt, who had apparently forgotten that he can’t stand in the killing pit with his feet bare or the gods will smite him. When I called it the killing pit, Fr. Moonlight scolded me, and said that it was disrespectful for the deceased to call it anything but the chasm of absolution. However, ‘chasm of absolution’ is really long to say, and ‘killing pit’ is both more fitting and funnier.

We had to wait close to an hour for Ymir to wake back up, which he did by thrashing, fighting, howling in pain and whipping his tail all over the place. It took everyone present to get him to calm down, and even then, he wouldn’t stop shivering, every movement he made causing him to twitch in pain. It was a pathetic sight, but more than that, I pitied him.

“Yeah, these brands… Hurt like a bugger, don’t they?” I say, trying to relieve the tense mood somewhat. It doesn’t work. Nobody’s having any of it, and I feel silly for making the effort. Speaking of feeling silly…

I tear off my clothes. They were tight, constraining, and did not breathe whatsoever. With them off, I’m left slick with sweat, which is even less enjoyable. Ugh. Either way, our small band sits for a few minutes, relaxing as the time ticks by. I think the reason was something in regard to keeping Ymir calm and allowing him to collect his spirits before we get to the whole killing thing. I don’t really get it, though. He’s going to die anyway; what’s the point in postponing it?

I’d almost call it infuriating if it wasn’t for the fact that Goss obviously enjoyed it. No longer trembling as badly as Ymir, he’s instead sitting nice and relaxed, the tip of his tail thumping nerve-wrackingly against the floor.

Sometimes, I wonder what’s going through that kid’s head.