Aɴɴᴇᴠᴀʀ Tᴇʟ'ᴇᴛʜɪʀ

So one of the two has been a resident of Vaald for a long time, and the other had just recently come to the capital. She sized the two; Anne already had a very good opinion of Dodger in her mind, and with him having lived in Vaald for the longest of the two, he was bound to know one or two things more about the city and it's denizens. Especially about the Dreamers, Anne felt that the ones appearing in the Lunar Festival would certainly not be the only ones. There were bound to be more, preferring to remain hidden between the shadows of the capital. "Gnara's teachings should reach those unfortunate souls as well..." Anne sighed inwardly as she shook hands with Isyph, who then promptly walked towards the exit of the Guild Center. Be it because she was distracted by her thoughts, or because she had simply gotten used to getting stared at, Anne did not notice Isyph's eyes lingering on her for a moment.

"The temple to Gnara should be by the Serene Pools if I remember right. We should get headed there, soon," Isyph said. Anne paused for a moment, thinking of something, before nodding in approval. "Let us be on our way then," she said and strolled right outside.

---

On the way to the Serene Pools, Anne asked her new friends a lot about the city and whatnot. Since she was new in town and would certainly spend quite some time in the capital, at least until all of the festivities and rituals were over, Anne was eager to know more about Vaald.

"So, I presume the two of you have known each other for a long time, right? When I entered the Guild Center building searching for information, I noticed that you were sitting on the same table," Anne said curiously. "You were quite engrossed in your reading those papers, Isyph. What were you doing, If I may ask?" she added, opting to use a more informal tone with the two, much like how Isyph had previously done.

Dodger found a small victory in the look on Isyph's face when she reacted to him smiling at her. A face like that was usually made by someone who had been caught slightly off guard. It was also a face that looked incredibly cute on Isyph in Dodger's opinion.
"I haven't been in Vaald, long, Anne" Isyph admitted in response to Anne's question "but I'm getting my bearings, the longer I have to hang around...". The tinge in Isyph's mood has similarly tinged her voice. Dodger picked up on it, but he had trouble deciding whether it was bitterness or relief. Either way, Dodger also noted the way Isyph's eyes were roving over their elven acquaintance. Elven women like Anne always had a tendency to attract attention from almost anyone, Dodger and Isyph were no exception. "The temple to Gnara should be by the Serene Pools, if I remember right" Isyph said "We should get headed there, soon".
"Let us be on our way then" Anne replied before heading out of the Guild Center with Isyph in tow.

Dodger followed close behind and drew level with Isyph as she began the descend the step with a confidence she had lacked during the climb up. Anne asked plenty of question about the city, to which Dodger was more than happy to provide answers. But then Anne asked the only question that had actual meaning to the plot. "So, I presume the two of you have known each other for a long time, right?" Anne asked curiously "When I entered the Guild Center building searching for information, I noticed that you were sitting on the same table. You were quite engrossed in your reading those papers, Isyph. What were you doing, If I may ask?". Although Isyph made a commendable effort to hide the borderline startled sound she made behind a muted cough, Dodger was fairly certain that wasn't a cough. Dodger looked at Isyph just in time to catch her checking him out the same way she was checking out Anne. Dodger looked away before Isyph could realise that she'd been caught.

"Not in truth, Anne" Isyph replied as she almost choked on Anne's name "I've only known Dodger for a few hours. He's a been a great help, though and I like to think of him as a friend I don't really know that well. He found me sitting around, singing one of my songs and...I'm not sure, thought that it was a good reason to talk to a lonely girl? Anyway, we talked about Guilds and things for a while, this is relevant to your question, so don't worry, and how I thought I'd end up having to head back to Silverbrook, where I'm from in case you're wondering or I didn't say...or if you already knew. So, eventually the idea came up that I'd make a Guild".
"Apparently I'm a genius 'cus o' that idea" Dodger chimed in briefly.
"What you saw was us fussing over the Starless Partners" Isyph continued with a broad smile "It's a Guild we made...for irregulars".
"Irregulars bein' ladies 'n' gentleblokes what can't get inta any o' them prim 'n' propa Guilds, in case ya didn't know" Dodger added.
"I've decided, though I don't know what Dodger really thinks about it, to help people with this Guild" Isyph concluded "To do something that will make a difference in Delad".
Dodger spared those last words no comment. He was too busy examining the contents of a hefty coin purse he'd taken from a passing Merchant's Guild Member.

Dodger tossed the purse behind a nearby barrel to send it into Loot Space as he and his present company arrived at The Serene Pools.
"The temple should be opposite this side of the pool" Isyph said "I think you can see it around Belme's hip. If you want, I'd love to see what's going on in there...".
"I wouldn't mind a little look around either, luv" Dodger said, sensing an opportunity to get his hands on some valuable Relics of Gnara and some of the more attractive Priestesses of Gnara that the temple had to offer.

The ancient aqueduct was thankfully somewhat spacious; the ponderous confines stretching for leagues below and around the city, built long before the birth year of even most elves, built during a time when the whole of Delad as a country had been younger and Vaald was smaller.

These days, new sewage tunnels had been erected, smaller, but more efficient, leaving these aqueducts to slowly dry up.

The entrances to the underdark were completely sealed off as soon as they were elected to be abandoned, so that those of lesser intentions could not use them as easy refuge; their length was often reinforced with solid walls of steel encased in stone and plaster, to support the streets above them with little need for maintenance.

Much of the time, the abandoned aqueducts were, in a word, innocuous. The worst they could host was the homeless who managed to pick away at the bricks, and all manner of rodent and insect.

In a twist of irony, three knights of the Order of the Fervent Meridian found themselves investigating the aqueducts.

Moritz Schmidt figured that this was a form of drudgery, all this walking. Not pointless drudgery—there were people to be saved and his own bills to be paid—but it was drudgery nonetheless. And by the Galgan Knot¹ was it cold.

It was the dawn of the year's autumn. The blistering heat of summer had finally become little more than an unpleasant footnote in the past, giving way to much more welcome, mild, temperate autumnal weather that left one pleasantly comfortable as they milled about their daily business.

Or at least — That's how it should be.

Moritz and Luisa, along with their assigned leader, Adira, were a good few days into the frigid depths below Vaald. Underground, with the rats and roaches, chasing ghosts that may or may not even exist.

“Suppose we’ll find anything, Lu?” Moritz mused to the female knight behind him, idly tapping the basalt brick wall next to him with the crossguard of his sword.

“I’ve hardly any doubt whomever left those corpses behind did so without reason,” Luisa answered. It was their first time talking for what was probably hours, though she was quickly growing weary of her companion’s same-ish question.

“We’re fresh out of food, too,” Moritz chimed with a slap to the rucksack behind him. Empty canning jars jingled within. "Good on lantern oil, though."

“And you didn’t make a note of this last meal!?” Luisa snapped.

“Didn’t think we’d be down another six hours," he joked, "It’d be the Knot if we ran into something now, on an empty stomach, wouldn’t it be?” Moritz let out a muted laugh, pulling a scoff out of Adira ahead.

Vexed by her partner’s incredulousness, Luisa pulled her travelling cape tighter over her shoulders and adjusted her lamp. There was little to see down in the ruined aqueducts, little to do and not many directions to go. Just endless walking forward or backward through the basalt-lined corridors and over centuries old dried-up muck.

Luisa turned her gaze forward, noting the warm vapor exuding from her companion’s mouths and noses, and pulled on her cloak one more time. Her nose scrunched a little every time she inhaled, the air was sharp in its coldness, and it pained the lungs just to breath in; it smelled, too, not really of aged feces and urine and stale water like she expected, but an odd and unnatural smell, burnt and faintly metallic, similar but also unlike the stifling air that followed the magic of the Drakenforged leader up in the front.

Up ahead, Adira let out a long sigh, choosing not to engage in the unavailing conversation with the two behind her. Her breath visibly trailed out from her nostrils, long and vaporous.

The tunnels ahead were disquieting, gloomy, and carried an unknowable hint of malice. It disturbed her, slightly, that the supporting embrasures doubling as barriers to the aqueducts were dubiously absent, smoothly hewn concrete remains stuck out in places to mark where they had once been.

But the saboteurs of the barriers were mysteriously absent, and little else than the unnatural and rapidly increasing cold gave her a hint of a direction to go in.

Adira’s heart began to grow heavy with displeasure the more she thought of it; just how much longer would she and her companions have to be down here, navigating its smooth and stony innards without any end in sight? Should she call it off, now that their provisions were running empty?

She sighed again, just as they came to a cistern in the Aqueducts, the answer to her looming question silently approaching directly from behind.



Every so often, new technologies sprouted from gifted minds of alchemists, artisans, and architects, bringing new ways to move waste and bring fresh water to the increasingly growing city. These systems usually were built ad-hoc, rooted under houses, temples, and buildings alike so that the vital fluids could be supplied more directly. The undercity of Vaald played host to the occasional abandoned aqueduct beneath its streets, unknown and uncharted, left to history and prayed for that the aged permanence of the supports built into them would keep the roads and passageways aloft.

It was fact that these aqueducts rarely ever collapsed. It was a distant and removed idea to most.

“Get in there! Festival’s coming and we’ve got no time for this gnome’s business,” bellowed Moresby commandingly. The guards under his command followed his order without argument. “And make sure you’ve got your wards on!” he added, checking the rune-encrusted metal brooch pinned to the tabard of his armor.

A rumbling had been reported some days earlier, followed by a sudden collapse of a road accompanied by sparse reports that the sudden maw had some form of aura of insanity to it. Guards were sent to investigate the disturbance, orders given to merely investigate and report their findings.

Moresby Crux, or Mor, as he liked to shorten his adopted human name, was a guard veteran of several decades, his appearance putting him on the better side of fifty years old. He was stocky and short accounting for his race, built like an ox despite his feline ears and scruffy, thick hair, a proud former member of the feline Asmerakan tribesmen, though removed from their often frowned upon near-worship of the long deceased King Ragar.

He took a deep breath, feeling a strange tinge of coldness on his skin. After his men, he went down into the yawning hole in the road.

Mor and his troopers found themselves in what seemed to be an intersection for the old aqueducts, possibly a cistern of some sorts, several paths out of the room opened up in every possible direction, stifling, inky darkness looming within each one. The room was cylindrical in construction, and the architecture consisted of masterfully smoothened stone bricks and cements. It was surprisingly clean, save for the rubble and dust from the collapsed street.

Inside rest several corpses laid upon hastily made tables, all once human, their flesh was splayed open to display dried contents. In some places, skin was flayed from muscled like some insane display on human anatomy. Mor reeled at the sight of them, his time as a city guard only barely preparing him for the grisly sight; he clenched his teeth and urged himself to inspect the corpses further, shaking off the chill he was feeling as a figment of his imagination. Some paces away, inadequately prepared for the sweet smell of death and insane visage of the corpses, a different guard failed to stymie his urge to vomit.

Scrying the dead, surveying them for more answers, he found that several pieces of the anatomical architecture were missing in various places of the bodies, torn out with precision very much unlike the gruesomeness that the displays had initially exhibited.

Mor scoffed. By Stieg’s comatose testicles, had the Alien menace made it underneath the city to exact their cruel experiments upon the populace? Vaald was sprawling, massive, ponderous. Vaald was the seat of civilization, more populous than anywhere else in the entirety of Aedrasil. An incursion of the Llangeli scum beneath Delad’s beloved capital would be catastrophic. This had to be investigated further.

“Gods curse the scum!” Mor cried out in indignation at the unseen assailants, eliciting a start out of his other companions. The Lunar Festival approached, and soon the Guard would be busier than next to any other part of the year. “We’ll have to leave this up to the guilds,” he called out to the other guards, “Festival’s about here. A detour to investigate this further just isn’t possible.”

A guardsman cast a furtive glance in his commander-companion’s direction, then returned to staring at a corpse, he spoke out, not quite in objection, but rather in sincere inquisition, “We can’t be spread that thinly, could we be? Uh... Sir.” The voice came from a younger recruit. He was still unaware, still innocent and young, the terrors and complexities of the Vaald’s more heinous hosts had yet to make themselves known to him. Mor shook his head.

“Every last one of us from every station will be needed for the security of the ‘scratches’ last days, and every other celebrator, and temple-goer,” Mor answered, “We are stretched that thin.”

The Guard of the city was often at the mercy of numbers, their stations stretched to limits that could only be supplemented by the commission of guilds. Despite the Deladish ways of proactiveness and peacekeeping, pockets of truly peaceful communities were veritable treasures.

Mor took a last, disconsolate glance at one of the corpses, this one with its face still intact. He swore internally, and looked back to his men, “We can at least personally get these poor sods to a burial grounds where Stieg can properly look after them.”

A chorus of acknowledgements followed. Just then, as if confirming the course of action with an unseen smile, the air seemed to warm up just a little.

---

¹ The Galgan Knot is, for lack of better word, Hell to an Aedrasilan Mortal, where souls on their route to Stieg become lost in a void of eternal darkness and cold, their sins in life make the journey through the Knot much longer or shorter.

Fifty silvers seemed like a pitiful haul for any job of the caliber he had just completed. Indeed, if one were to look at only his coin purse they would assume that Irenaeus had been scammed, swindled, and otherwise led astray. The cargo he had been charged with protecting was a shipment of Fantasia di Maiale, one of the most expensive imported wines on the continent. Those fifty coins he earned even included the bonus he had received for fighting off the goons of a rival company who had caught word of the shipment.

Those with very keen powers of observation might, however, notice the glass he carried in his left hand as he made his way down the streets of Vaald. Those who possess both those keen powers of observation, and were connoisseur of wine across the continent would note that the red liquid contained within was none other than Fantasia di Maiale. Furthermore, those with the entire story of his previous job would be able to conclude that such liquid was the last glass of an entire bottle of the famed wine, valued at no less than one hundred gold disks. As such, though the Iath was poor compared to many of those around him, he and his tongue felt rich as kings.

He sipped the wine slowly as he walked, savoring every drop even though he knew that time was against him. The heat of the day would ruin the precious liquid before long, and if he dallied about the task of finishing it then he may as well spill on the ground. As such he quickened both the pace of his walking as his drinking as he let his nose guide him down those familiar streets to his favorite spot of relaxation: The Serene Pools. The smell of the plants was unmistakable, even several streets away as he was. The closeness to nature, the surrounding water, and the idle chatter of those who passed through all combined to fill him with the feeling of serenity that his years as a wanderer granted him. Today he planned to relax, and reflect amongst the pools on the fortunate times in his life. That is, at least, until the day's 'festivities' began.

Irenaeus lifted his head to meet the warmth of the sun's rays as the shadows of the city streets fell behind him. He made no effort to sort through the myriad of conversations taking place around him, instead choosing just to enjoy his arrival, and the sensations that accompanied it. Deciding to make his way over to his favorite spot, he began to raise the glass to his lips once more when his foot caught a crack in the ground below him. He tripped, without grace or ceremony, and the earth greeted him with both pain and the sound of shattering glass.

He laid there, motionless for several moments, his dead eyes blinking as if they too could not believe the sight in front of him. Fantasia di Maiale, spread upon the ground instead of in his stomach. In the short time he had known the liquid it had become one of his most prized possessions, a sign that his life was beginning to look up once more. Comfort, in the world of darkness he inhabited. He always knew he would outlive the drink, but even being robbed of those precious few minutes they had left together felt... heartbreaking. With a resigned sigh, he slowly picked himself off the ground and set about the task of forgetting his misfortune. Primarily, he accomplish this by involving himself in the problems of others, and began trying to sort out the conversations taking places around him.

"... the Scratch, in his delirium, is planning something malicious."

His sword hand twitched in anticipation, but he ignored it. No way was he going to involve himself in that variety of trouble. He was a hundred years past being a fool, no reason to break that record now. Still, after the speaker's footsteps stopped in front of the temple of Gnara he couldn't help but hear the conversation that she, too, was listening in on. Again, he tried to ignore it. Waraz was a name that promised to bring much more trouble than good. He would rather avoid the possibility in getting caught up in that situation entirely.

He then caught a much more interesting conversation taking place. An... Iath? Ranting at the statues of Belme and Gnara. It didn't last for long though before she apparently joined another group who was discussing... absolutely nothing of importance. Gravity had already decided to ruin his plans for relaxation that day, and he was in no mood to involve himself with trouble involving Waraz. As such, his choice of what to do was a relatively easy one: Go bother the people least likely to lead him to trouble.

He contemplated approaching with his hood up, but could not think of an adequate excuse for it with the day's weather. That, and he had no plans to explain to another Iath why he wouldn't proudly display the traits of his race. Instead, he merely adjusted the smoked glasses in front of his eyes before moving towards the group. His left hand, now free, rested upon the pommel of the sword Arielle, clearly where it felt most comfortable. As he passed in front of the temple of Gnara he gave a small wave to the hidden speaker from earlier, unsure if she was even looking in his direction. He did know, however, that she had not yet moved from the spot.

"I've never had much luck getting answers from statues either, personally. Just a stony gaze and concerned looks from passerbys."

Irenaeus scratched the back of his head, almost in apology for intruding on the conversation, offering a grin to the group.

"These ears of mine tend to pick up more than they should and I'm afraid my curiosity's gotten the better of me this time. It doesn't sound like too many of you are from Delad..."

He turned then, to look at the temple of Gnara. He had heard it was a sight to behold, naturally being part of the capital city, but he himself could only go by rumor on that assumption.

"Is this some sort of pilgrimage to the temple? Or perhaps you've traveled to see the... affair that will take place later?"

Aɴɴᴇᴠᴀʀ Tᴇʟ'ᴇᴛʜɪʀ

The half-elf walked along with the duo, listening as Isyph narrated how Dodger and she met. Anne found it quite fascinating how two people that had known each other for mere hours could build up the necessary trust it takes to engage in such a complicated matter like creating a Guild. Anne knew that she would certainly not be able to do that. At the thought, her face gave out a hint of unexplained loneliness, contrasting her usual behaviour. However, she quickly composed herself, hiding the sadness behind a smile.

"Starless Partners? A very... fitting name If I say so," Anne commented. "Although in my opinion, we all have unique quirks and irregularities, even those members of top Guilds'..." she added, her look as if half questioning Isyph's opinion on the matter. "However, making a difference is a lovely cause. People who think like that are rare and hard to find in this day and age..." Anne mumbled in a low voice.

"The temple should be opposite this side of the pool. I think you can see it around Belme's hip. If you want, I'd love to see what's going on in there..."

Anne snapped back into reality by Isyph's words. She looked around, taking in the surroundings and registering for the first time that they had arrived at the Serene Pools. "I knew that I felt something familiar..." Anne said and took a few steps forward. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, before exhaling. Her face donned a peaceful expression as she turned around and walked back towards the duo. "Gnara's warmth permeates this place. It seems that the Vaaldian priests are doing a wonder-" Anne was cut off by a sudden loud voice. Not knowing if the local priests went by the name of a Druid as well, Anne also turned around in case the voice was actually calling out to her. What greeted her was the spear-wielding figure of a female cat-kin, an Iath. Anne's face wholly betrayed her thoughts at that moment, from surprise to excitement, and to even outright curiosity. In the end, Anne brought her hands together in front of her, and she smiled, opting for a simple welcoming approach.

"Of course, Tempa. We can talk," Anne told her, with an understanding look. At first, Anne did not know the reason why the Iath would approach her, but the moment Tempa walked closer to the trio, Anne's eyes caught the purplish patch of skin on her breast, poking out from her blouse. In an instant, she understood, and at the same time was overcome with grief. Anne knew how debilitating and cruel the sickness was, and when she looked again at Tempa, she couldn't do anything but imagine how much suffering she had gone through. Of course, Anne didn't know if the sickness had awakened recently in Tempa, or if she had been carrying it for long. Anne turned around towards Dodger and Isyph with an apologetic look on her face.

"I'm sorry, but my duties oblige me to answer to the ones in need of help," she told the two and bowed slightly. "Please, stay for a while, or at least until I finish. I would love to continue with our little chat," she added before turning back to Tempa. That was when she noticed that a man had approached and had been speaking to Tempa. The man's earlier words were lost in Anne, as she had been talking to the duo at that point. She did, however, catch his last sentence. "I wouldn't call it a pilgrimage per se... I don't know about my friends," Anne said pointing at Dodger and Isyph, "but I am indeed here because of the Lunar Festival."

"Now," she told Tempa, "I suppose you'd appreciate some form of privacy?" Anne gave Tempa a meaningful look and walked towards a relatively remote area of the garden.

I walk on, once again, down these corridors, through these halls, these galleries, in this structure of another century, this enormous, luxurious, lugubrious palace, where corridors succeed endless corridors--silent deserted corridors overloaded with a dim, cold ornamentation of woodwork, stucco, moldings, marble, black mirrors, dark paintings, columns, heavy hangings, sculptured door frames, series of doorways, galleries, transverse corridors that open in turn on empty salons, rooms overloaded with an ornamentation from another century, silent halls...

Between these walls covered with woodwork, stucco, moldings, pictures, framed prints, among which I was walking--among which I was already waiting for you, very far away from this setting where I now stand, in front of you, still waiting for the one who will no longer come, who will no longer threaten to enter these halls. These halls, these galleries, in this structure of another century, this enormous, luxurious, lugubrious palace, where corridors succeed endless corridors…

Are you coming?

“The Prophet?!” A voice called to him, rousing him from his flurry of thoughts. “Ser Grey, by th’ gods! I ne’er thought I’d see th’ o’you here.” Alyosha Grey tore his focus away from the gloomy, centuries-old painting of an impossibly aged man; a painting of a notorious mage in his prime, before madness had consumed him. Alyosha hated being torn away from his musing. He turned to face the approaching guard. Before Alyosha could correct his mistaken identity, the man continued: “You must be here on important business, else you wouldn’t’ve come s’far!” The Son of the Prophet shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, the movement veiled by his mask and hood. The guard pressed on: “How’d you get in here, anyhow? Must’ve been in all th’ chaos, preparing for th’ festival.” Grey raised his hand with a gesture to silence the man, but he was ignored with enthusiasm. “That must be wh’ brought you here! Come, come! I’ll take you t’ one o’ the counsel.”

The guard indicated the direction of the Hall of Counsels with a gauntlet-clad digit before setting off in its direction. Finally, Alyosha was able to interject. “You are mistaken, Vem Kuniv, patrolman of the Thirteenth Regent Guard of the Vaaldian Palace.” The footfall stopped suddenly, and the guard cast him a weary glance. “I am the Son of the Prophet and the Faceless Mage, Alyosha Grey, Oracle of the Seven Swords and future-...”

“Son o’ th’ Prophet, eh? I haven’t heard o’ th’ Prophet having any sons…” A mixture of confusion and thoughtfulness contorted Vem Kuniv’s face. “But you do know my name, w’out me telling you about it… Unfortunately, son or not, I’m afraid I have t’ take you into custody. Tresspassing ‘n all.”

“I am here to see Crosos Granz, Golem and Knight of the-...”

“I know who he is, Son o’ th’ Prophet.” There was an hint of mockery in the guard’s voice, or perhaps disappointment. “Policy is policy. If it were up t’ me, you could waltz in ‘n out o’ th’ place ‘til your heart’s content but if th’ Captain found out, well…”

"Then it's a good thing the decision is out of your hands, Kuniv...as well as the Captain's," came the Golem's echoing rasp, from a short way down the hall, along with a few nigh-thunderous footsteps. His eye lingered over them each, for a bare moment, before he continued. "Resume your rounds. If the boy has business with me, I'll tend to it personally." Crosos Granz sent him along with a wave of his hand, meeting little resistance. If he had to wager on it, Kuniv would be running to inform the others of what just happened; regardless of how minute it was. Such was the way of the Vaaldian Palace. Such was the way of life.

"Alyosha Grey, eh?" The name Grey was not uncommon in Deladish borders, when one considered things, but there were only a couple who bore it with the same air of mystery and aloofness as the Prophet. The Golem could see where the patrolman could have made his mistake; but the height difference between the two was immediately apparent, the difference in their voices, their stance. Granz had met with the Prophet, Savian Grey, more than a couple of times and had come to marvel at the things he had been told. "Seems to me like a son of the Prophet would do well to avoid being caught in places like this," a lopsided grin accompanied the words, "but you carry the air of your bloodline about you, that much I can see."

The Lunar Festival was fast approaching, but Granz could not bring himself to turn aside the Prophet's son; he had, after all, been warned that such an encounter would be inevitable. "Come, I've preparations to make and a fiendishly hungry god to appease," the lopsided grin scraped against itself as the Golem let his face settle back into normality, "souls to send and a show to put on. I get the feeling that's why you're here." He led the way slowly, heading towards the quarters he had been granted long ago.

Alyosha dipped his head in gratitude, folding his hands neatly in front of him, smiling underneath his mask. “Your presumption is mostly correct… As for being caught, well… You’re here exactly now, are you not?” His father had sent him here to honor the Lunar Festival, to bear witness to the Silver Glint; however this was also the beginning of a new chapter in his life. He longed to meet and guide heroes toward their Fate, to follow in the footsteps of his parents--both of them. It troubled him that their journeys began with the death of a hero: an ill omen to be certain. “I have come to experience the unveiling of the tapestry here, to bear final witness to Elise, the Silver Glint, and…” Despite the amount of stoicism his mask entitled, he sounded distantly forlorn. “To bid farewell to my former mentor.”

He narrowed his eyes toward Granz thoughtfully, noting the golem’s lengthy, metallic stride and wide sauntering gait. Alyosha allowed them to walk in silence for a few moments; the air seemed to vibrate with information unsaid. Voices mumbled in the back of his mind, their voices just loud enough to hear but not understand. Inky secrets swirled at the corners of his vision. Blood pumped through his ears, tension swelled in his temples. A touch, a shiver, a whisper. ...enormous, luxurious, lugubrious palace, where corridors succeed endless corridors--silent deserted corridors... Alyosha closed his eyes. ...pictures, framed prints, among which I was walking--among which I was already waiting for you…

A hypnopompic jerk jolted him back into the present, chasing away visions that scrambled like spiders from a flame. Grey realized he had stopped, and took a few hurried steps to catch up. “Ser Crosos Granz, were you aware that we are the same age? Forty-nine summers we’ve shared.” He offered up the fact, hoping the golem might offer a hand in conversation.

Crosos did not turn at the cessation of following footsteps, that much he had distantly expected. Clairvoyants were always a bit off when it came to their social dealings, but the Golem would not fault him for it. Granz himself was something of an oddity in conversation, after all. "You owe her that much," he turned a looming eye to the Oracle of Seven Swords as he started catching up, "as do the others." The last held true to the tone of the first, but the melancholy of day approaching night had metamorphosed into a muted dread. He was to swing the blade. To swing the blade and run.

He let silence linger after Alyosha's question, "We're all saying goodbye, in our ways," the Golem folded his arms and kept his stride even, "She taught you to swing a sword, yes? I imagine that would be quite a feat." More probably mostly true presumptions. It mattered little, any conversation was light compared to the churning thoughts of Elise's final moments. "I've heard it said you wield them differently. That I'm curious to see." He smiled, albeit with wan effort, having an idea already of what that display would be like; and decided to quickly move on. Thankfully, the nigh-endless corridors of the Vaaldian Palace were fairly sparse with guard or passerby.

"You know enough to come here, to seek me out. You know what awaits The Silver Glint. You already know that I am the one to be her executioner. In all my forty-nine years, I have never had to kill someone who is a part of me. Maybe the impact of death is meaningless for a creature made of metal. Perhaps it is by the grace of all the damned faces that I stand here. " The Golem had not raised his voice, but there was a pain that coursed through the words. "I do know that you intend to help, at least in what capacity you deem fit. You're here to guide-" he considered his choice carefully, "us," it was an uncertainty, but one that felt it appropriate, "on the path that lies ahead."

in collaboration with @Crumbs

“It’s like waking up into a terrible, shared nightmare: Tens, hundreds of souls clamor for ‘completion, completion, completion’.

You, too, know what they yearn for. You too, know their hunger. You too, are unwhole. Your body is not your own, you do not see what you wish to see.

All that is left, all that you know: only the Master’s will.”

— Unknown, A Lich’s Memoir

Sudden fatigue washed over the Aqueduct Subjugation Party like one of the many Tidal Surges between Tantas’ Claws.

Moritz was first to be brought low by the ever-increasing fatigue, his mind whirling, sense of balance shot, and a light pain throbbing in his temple. Luisa followed shortly after bumping into the felled Moritz, bouncing off of him with the sound of armor clacking against armor, and sprawling over the floor as if she had been mauled in the head by a club, nauseated and reeling. Only Adira remained standing, clenching her teeth and gripping tightly onto her mace’s handle and shield’s grip.

The whole of terrible, normal gravity burdened upon them, and they felt as if they had been on a forced march for several weeks, rather than a trek for several days. Their lungs strained for air, and hearts beat within their throats.

As if it too were affected by the fatiguing affliction, their lanterns simultaneously snuffed into darkness, whiffing out in a puff of burnt wick and vapor without even the glow of embers to light the cistern. The darkness washed over the party like spilled ink on a parchment, consuming them and bringing confusion. Luisa let out a little yelp, and Moritz cried out for her in concern.

“I’m fine!” she strained, “I was just surpr-”

Then came the headache, stronger than any earlier throbbing. It threatened to sunder the fused sections of their skulls and expose their gray matter to the inky air.

The sound of a lantern shattering on the ground followed, then another. The trio groaned in unison, and the sound of metal scraping across the solidified muck on the floor echoed through the cavern as Luisa writhed on the ground and Moritz let out a loud moan of pain, pure pain.

A seemingly eternal moment passed, there was the sound of a spark, and Adira’s lantern burnt anew, conjured back into life by her magic. The suddenness of her action caused Moritz and Luisa to reel away from the light, the force of their migraines amplifying the change in luminosity tenfold.

“A li’l warning before you do that, Adira! I feel like I’m going blind on top of this gods damned headache!” yelled Moritz. He was about to continue before he caught sight of Adira.

“My apologies, Moritz,” she said, eyes winced into squinting, expression pained. She remained standing, if not slouched when compared to her normal proud poise. Moritz was awestruck, struggling just to stay on his knees and talk. Luisa, at some point, had fainted.

Adira removed her gauntleted hand from her mace to grip her head, futilely massaging the leather inner glove over her temples, mind reeling over what sorceries were ailing her. “We’ve made it to one of the cisterns,” she started, “There’s an exit right above us.” she raised a finger from her temple and pointed upward, lifting her shield and its attached lantern to light up a section in the brickwork, a rectangular metal cover laid over it, and a crude metal ladder stapled into the wall beneath it.

Moritz struggled to give a nod and barely managed one before unceremoniously, he began to vomit, the pain in his head overwhelming his senses; he continued as much until he broke into dry heaves. It took a few moments to control his breathing.

Adira in the meanwhile made a struggling effort to walk to him, making one stride, two strides before she tasted iron and felt warmth and liquid from her nose. She looked to Moritz, then to his wife, and saw blood sluicing from their noses as well.

She chose to ignore it and began to help Moritz from the ground, before strange sounds reached her ears from behind, further down the unexplored reaches of the cistern.

It began as a sigh, a rush of air from taxed lungs. It was wet, labored, and hollow. It was as if something decided to wake up, its first breath of a new day a gurgle of activity.

The sigh was followed by the scratching of claws against stone, in an inhuman, gargantuan stride. Adira could feel the gruesome weight of the stomping gait beneath her feet, rattling the stone with each fearsome step. She looked behind herself, and noticed footsteps imprinted in the ground, footsteps she hadn’t seen previously.

Closer and closer, the creature barreled toward them, closer, the sounds approached with increasing volume. Then, they stopped— Entirely, as if the whole thing hadn’t happened. Moritz held back a pathetic laugh before his face mutated from jest into surprise. Along with the sound, so too did the headache cease to exist, and it felt as if his vigor had also been returning. Adira, feeling the same, looked to him inquisitively; when Moritz gave a look that he was okay, wiping fresh vomit from the side of his lips, she dropped him like a bag of bricks.

“How unkind of you,” he said, giving off one of his signature grins. The knight rose from his feet before he remembered that Luisa was still on the ground. He knelt once more and ducked down to pick up his wife, an action that ended up saving his life.

There was a chatter of claws against stone again, and a rush of cold, moist air from just behind Moritz coupled with that damned gurgle of a wet sigh once more. Just in front of him, he saw the heel of Adira’s boot’s surge with electricity, the dry crackle of magical plasma turning the oxygen around it into ozone. In a surge of motion, Adira spun around with a kick, pivoting on the axis of her unenergized heel.

A crackle of discharging electricity followed suit, along with a deafening roar of impact and the wrenching of metal violently meeting metal, then the sound of something meatily smacking against the wall and an animalistic, almost human, almost pathetic yelp of pain.

All sound ceased to exist, for a moment, his ears rang loudly from the discharge of electricity and the impact. The world shuddered violently. If Moritz hadn’t already emptied the contents of his stomach, he most certainly would have after that.

When it all calmed down, a second later, Moritz felt motion above him, and the patter of broken brickwork hitting the ground and lightly smacking into his face, then the sound of clamoring footsteps running away. Adira settled back into a combat ready stance, tapping the ground lightly with her sizzling boot.

“We’re getting the both of you out of here,” Adira said, her face grim and serious, “Now.”

Without a moment to reply, Moritz was picked off the ground along with Luisa. Thankfully for his pride, the guildsman was only picked up to be placed on his feet. His wife was slung over Adira’s shoulder.

Moritz gave a hesitating glance behind him. The ground was split in places, treacly lantern oil seeping into the cracks and crumbling rock. There was a clear fissure in the wall where that creature had made impact, the originally straight tunnel section giving way into two cleanly stepped slabs and fine dust falling from the ground above.

Adira made her way to the exit and placed Luisa and her shield at the base of the ladder. Deftly making her way up, she pushed on the exit hatch. Lightly at first, then puffing out a breath of exertion.

The ceiling shuddered, imposed upon by the sudden stress of Adira’s pushing. The sound of stones cracking and pavement breaking was dulled out by the dirt, followed by a screech of metal as the hatch heaved open.

Adira hopped off the ladder and motioned for Moritz to get up first, to which he obliged.The Drakenforged then helped Luisa out of the cistern with Moritz’ help, leaving some final words before she closed the hatch, “Bring Luisa with you if you can’t find help. This message takes priority:

Inform the Temple of the Gnara and the Town Guard, Undead beneath the city. I’ll deal with it as best as I can.”



A coldness consumed him, enveloped him, embraced him. All around was dark grey blurs, boring into his eyes. Not even the damned tinnitus that plagued his older years touched his ears. It was silent, maddeningly silent.

He was sure he was dead, his soul given to Stieg for the long slumber. So why?

Eternity passed. Cold, empty, mind-breaking.

Then noise. A roaring clamor of voices, biting at him, grabbing at him. They all cried for the same thing, simultaneously calling:

“Completion. Completion. Completion.”

He held onto that word, made it his own. He too felt the yearning for it, he too felt the need to be complete again.

Again?

He realized then that he too, was incomplete. Something, some time, the very fabric of his being had been sundered. He held onto that feeling of needing to be completed anew, felt it burning from within, threatening to tear itself from out of his grasp. He needed that feeling, it was the only thing that kept him as himself.

All around, he could feel the others with him. Sinking, thrashing, becoming lost in this black domain. He swore he would not be like them, swore to himself to stay afloat, swore to make himself whole again.

After all, that’s what she promised him. Memories and a will that was not his own surged through him. Who was she? Who was he?

He could at least answer one thing: She was the Master. Her will was his will. By her will, this nightmare will end and he’ll be complete again.



Alone in this ancient maw of society, Adira exhaled, leaving behind a puff of vapor as she picked up her shield. The lantern oil gently sloshed inside its glass container as it swayed with Adira’s motion.

Adira turned her eyes toward where she last saw the earlier creature depart toward. Strangely, for the lantern’s burning light, the darkness of the corridor seemed all but tangible, the inky precipice all but ate up her lantern’s light, as if a solid curtain.

She pressed forward, stepping into the curtain to find that it wasn’t solid at all. Further inside, her lantern still worked, as if the curtain were a glamour to turn away all light, screaming to the world that it was no place for creatures that depended on light to see.

Further forward, and Adira stopped.

A yawning abyss stretched out before her, an expanse in the earth torn out from beneath the neat basalt bricks that composed the aqueducts, thousands of measures deep. The even-footed passageway surrendering itself to a stairway of crudely placed steps fashioned from rough-hewn stone, descending further into the pit.

It was coldest, here, in this underdark, as if she had stepped straight out of Tantas’ Palm and onto one of the very tips of its northernmost claw. Frost crept in icy veins across the walls, and an unrelenting shiver assaulted Adira.

Below, the lofty chamber ever so faintly glowed under the light of hundreds of dancing flames, ensconced within green and red glass lanterns.

Adira grimaced, holding fast to her shield; the stench of death lingered strongly, sweet and nauseating to her nostrils. A low, purring hum played ponderously in her ears and at the back of her head, accompanied by a strange swishing sound—like the tinnitus sound of blood vessels pumping their vital humours when one covered their ears.

But other than these unnatural, maddening thrums of sound, nothing else spoke, nothing so much as whispered. The rats, too, ever present earlier in the aqueducts, were entirely absent. Death truly had a hand in this cold place, and not the soft slumber given by Stieg.

Stopping herself short of the steps down, the Drakenforged exhaled in length, a thick plume of vapor exuding from her nostrils and mouth. She took several more breaths and jumped up and down, literally shaking off the frosty grasp of the chilled air.

With no further hints of hesitation, she pressed downward, the sharp echo of her footsteps taking seconds to return to her, giving a grasp of just how titanic the craven wound in the earth had been.
Adira tugged out the conviction in her heart to crush her enemies down below, she finally understood the face of her enemy to be, the menace to the city whose foul sorceries were discovered just three days prior.

Moments more and Adira made her way to the end of the crude stairway, the bottom of the steps evened out into beaten down ochre soil and sparsely laid stones. Adira raised her shield and the lantern with it, pointing it about.

The cavernous expanse was supported by pillars made of the Aqueduct’s bricks, and the abyss itself was large and sparsely lit enough that she felt it hard to glean where the walls and ceiling were.

Ahead were many totems, their forms had been invisible from above, but they were well apparent now that they were before her: cruel, towering structures of cleverly piled bones and skulls rising out of the soil, blackened splatters between them marking where there had once been innards, used for mortar to bind the objects of dark worship.

Unlike the haphazard of architecture in the surroundings, these were well maintained, cared for. Adira reckoned that if the place were better lit when she viewed the room from above, the totems would have been arranged in some symbolic, eye-wrenching pattern, in reverence of the energies the enemy worshiped.

Still left without an enemy, Adira proceeded through the forest of totems until she reached the very center of the room.

Here was a tower unlike the others, rectangular and monolithic in structure and made of smoothly polished slabs of ebony stone. The monolith, as she could see it, was inscripted in an eye-aching and faintly phosphorescent red, the layers of plaster embossing upon the monolith symbols of an ancient, vast, and unknowable nature.

A moment of looking at the horrific thing made the back of Adira’s eyes throb, too long gave her a splitting headache. Even as she looked away and the pain ebbed, she couldn’t help but feel a chillingly cold sweat drip down her brow.

Just being in the presence of the strange monolith caused the Drakesworn to feel edgy and distracted, uncomfortable and unnerved even in the sanctity and calm of her stalwart armor, as if maggots had burrowed into her very flesh and begun crawling around.

Adira unclipped her mace from her belt in a single, swift motion.





Adira sat attentively at the front and center of a sparsely populated classroom, her face attentive, inquisitive, youthfully curious. Most seats in her vicinity were empty, and the other students sat toward the center or rear, more bored looking than anything else.

The lecturer, one Master Ferdinand Seppel, violently smacked a meaty palm upon a black box, startling more than one of the less attentive students. Adira could only grin.

“NECROMANCY!” Seppel’s voice was harsh but passionate, the definitions of stern and commanding, “The most vile of the cursed sorceries. To step on the blessings of Gnara, to deny Stieg’s slumbering companionship.” There was a pause. One trainee murmured a brief prayer. “Now, someone tell me. Can just anyone commit the blasphemy of necromancy? Jenner?”

“Yes!” Jenner snapped into attention at the calling of his name, Seppel raised his eyebrow. “I mean no, Sir. To turn away from the blessings of the gods requires a severance from their light.” Jenner nervously recited what he remembered from the required reading, “You swear dark oaths to fight the gods, and only Ashtus, in his humors, will show any mercies for the use of his power to reanimate the dead from their fragments.”

“Good,” Seppel rasped, he tapped the box once more, rasping a meaty finger on a hinged clasp.

Adira raised her hand, and spoke upon Seppel’s nod, “Master Seppel, I’m sure we’re eager to know what is in the box?”

“Ah, Bat’Amira. Your curiosity is noted,” Seppel tapped the clasp once more and unlocked the box. Before he opened it, he fastened a Ward to his shoulder. Some students, Adira included, caught on and produced similar metal wards from their desks.

From inside he produced a skull. Fused into the bone was a metal mask, segmented at the jawbone and divided by cruel ripping teeth. On the mask were etched the symbols and figures of necromancy.

Immediately, the nose of an unwarded student spurted with blood, another began to retch, and yet another broke out into spontaneous prayers and litanies, looking away and quickly fastening their ward. Adira, unprotected but closest to the skull, lightly pinched her nose, a trickle of blood seeping between her thumb and forefinger. Primordial fear prickled the entire class.

“Necromancy is an encroaching, corruptive darkness… Finish it.” he said.

Seppel looked at Adira expectantly, staring into her eyes, beckoning her to finish his statement.

Adira lost her smile and tried not to shrink away from Seppel’s scrutinizing gaze, “By stitching together the vestiges of a body past any ability for Gnara to breathe life back into it once more, the sundered fragments are pieced together into a mockery of a living being,” she gulped, finding it hard to speak when under the fearful cursing aura of necromancy, “Even after the necromancer has died, their very willpower and commands will linger after their death and bounce to the strongest of their servants, turning them into a Lich.”

Seppel smiled and nodded, very much pleased. The skull seemingly twitched and quivered in his hand, active in its undeath. He quickly placed it back in the box, to the relief of all those around. The instructor then looked at another student, “And the only way to end the shambling curses of undeath?”

His gaze found a young Moritz, the boy grinned and spoke, “You give ‘em a good smacking?”

“Technically correct, Schmidt, and?”

Moritz struggled, hesitant, “You destroy the masks of control, destroy the bindings of steel, and remove the symbols of power.”

Seppel cracked a smile. Moritz was a lazy one at the worst of times, but he had it in him to summon the courage and correct answers when needed.

He was right. For the undead, total purgation was the only answer.





Adira’s mace sparked into life in her grip. Electricity bounced between the flanges, soft wisps of vapor rising from its energetic conversions of oxygen into ozone. Tendrils of lightning crept along the ground beneath her weapon.

She raised Moroa overhead, poised to strike at the cruel artifact in front of her. Blood wet her lips as it trickled down her nose, and her eyes wept for every moment she looked at the monolith. Hairline cracks began to form on the crystalline ward affixed to her pauldron.

One step forward, heel dug in, the other foot sank back to prepare for a powerful swing forward. Her body set itself in motion for the downward smash.

Then the singed smell of burnt flesh reached her nose and she was yanked backwards. Adira snapped her gaze behind her and managed to pull her weapon free from the thing that grabbed it.

It was huge and armored, covered in sheets of battered and rusted metals, the plates all engraved with the same horrific and terrifying runes of a Necromancer’s hands. It towered above Adira, twice her height and thrice her width.

Strangely, it rasped breaths through its long-dead lungs. The tinnitus-sound of blood rushing was louder than before. Adira held fast to Moroa and braced her Voltaic Shield closer to her body.

“How rude, for a guest to this honored garden to try to deface it.” the voice was omni-present, harmonious. It was as if a choir sung in unison, boring into the back of Adira’s skull. The creature in front of her moved its hinged metal jaw to the words, but the gruesome thing was not the only one to talk to talk.

It mocked, its voice strangely different, for a moment, “Aren’t mortals supposed to disfavor such unwarranted violence?”

The very air around Adira sighed, as if exasperated by her actions. She felt her innards churning within her involuntarily, disgust coursing through her mind. Fear of the abomination lightly prickled at the edges of her mind.

She fought back, humoring the towering Necromantic construct, “And all the mortals your craven heresies have extinguished to create this? Back to the grave is the only answer, for your filth.”

It laughed, a raspy, hollow, a sickening and off-key chorus, “The Gods train their pets well. What was it, ‘Respect Life and Honor Death’? A complete farce. I challenge their status quo with this most limitless of possibilities. A means to change their negligent rules, to make the mortal immortal and lead all of existence into true ascendancy.”

Another cackle, this time more lively, but all the more disgusting to Adira’s ears, “True power. Revenge on the gods using the power of the gods. I could share this power, these gifts of my garden, you only need to beg.”

Adira took her turn now to laugh, she quoted a verse of one of her favorite books “ ‘Give any man the power of a god, and you better hope he’s got the wisdom and morals of a god to match.’ Though honestly, I see nothing but pathetic filth playing at being a god. Ashtus would be disappointed at your wasted potential. I’m disappointed that a fellow mortal cursed Life for this measly ‘garden’ ”

“How very disappointing,” again, that different voice. Again, the air sighed.

Adira adjusted her ward, sparks trickling between her hand and the crystals. Their hue changed and the cracks fused together. She bought herself some extra time to work without suffering the truly gut-wrenching effects of necromantic energy.

In response, the thrumming and hum in the air intensified in volume. All around, the skull totems began to shatter, hundreds and thousands of skulls clattering to the ground, and grotesque forms crawling out of the once neatly stacked mounds.

Their scent caught in Adira’s nose before their visages reached her eyes. The foul, sickeningly sweet stench of things that only took on a human’s form.

Hushed whispers played in her ears, low and clipped, in a language she knew was not that of the living. The veins inside her ears throbbed at the very sound.

Thirty, sixty, perhaps even one-hundred of the abominations surrounded her, in addition to the gargantuan copy of their form at their lead. They were abominations of melded flesh and bone, and grafted steel. Mockeries of the mortal form, created to be as vicious as they were obedient— the perfect soldiers, provided their master was fully willing to step on the graces of Gnara and risk the jealousy of Stieg to facilitate their creation.

Unlike the giant, they were unarmored and barely clothed, with only the additions of engraved steel struts jutting out of their extremities and the hinged metal masks protecting their faces and giving them motivation. Their movements were jerky, shambling, twitchy. A husky moan exuded from behind each of their masks, cold and without life.

Adira’s mace crackled with reinforced vigor, and she narrowed her eyes. They all moved in for the kill at once.

Snapping into motion, Adira swung her shield with a punch, instantly decapitating one of the beasts. She crushed its head underfoot like a child stomping on a bug. The lantern swung off its hook and she punted it into the face of the giant, staggering it backward.

The next three were taken out in a flash of voltaic energy, their arms extended to grab at Adira, to subjugate her and bring her down for a feast. Adira’s Voltaic Fortress zapped them into ashes and ozone.

She barreled forward into another, tackling it down with her shield and smashing its head with her mace. The crunch of metal against metal reverberated through the floor and lightning exploded out from her mace when it hit the ground. Several other ghouls were shocked, the tendrils of electricity arcing into their metal frames.

Adira took this chance and spun on her heel, the other foot tracing a circle in the ground. Several more heads were smashed in the violent pirouette.

Then suddenly, the air parted loudly and Adira looked at the source.

A gargantuan sword impacted against her, clanging into the plates protecting her inner shoulder with a veritable roar of sound. Sparks flew from the friction of the cleave and the inertia carried through Adira’s arm, chattering her teeth, shaking her bones, and knocking Moroa out of her grasp. The mace lifelessly clattered away on the floor.

The Ashtan armor creaked at the joints, and Adira struggled to stay on her feet. She raised her arm to grip onto the crude piece of metal, seeing that it was thick enough to sever a cow in twain.

Adira’s taxed muscles screamed at her in protest, and her gums whitened as she clenched her teeth. With a grunt, she managed to shrug off the crushing blade, using her shield to ensure that it slid from her shoulder without biting beneath her pauldron. The ground beneath fissured with hairline cracks and ochre dust puffed into the air as the impossibly large slab of metal bored into it.

She let out a frustrated bellow at the armored giant and charged, heedless of picking up her weapon in the distance. The Drakenforged barreled through two of the ghouls and reached the behemoth — Its mask seemed to be smiling, reveling at the violence.

By now it had recovered from its crushing swing. With deceptive speed it once again lifted its sword overhead and struck down at the woman, stomping at the same time. “Stormclad and fleet of foot, I’m untouchable,” she whispered. Pieces of her armor disappeared into nothingness. Her legs and lower arms became unprotected, but she gained much in the way of speed.

Quickly, she sidestepped the giant’s stomp and smashed shield-first into its other leg, tripping it.

A storm of ochre dust billowed into the air. Then all the hairs on Adira’s body stood on end as electricity crackled below the beast. There was a small explosion at its shoulder, violently tossing it from its face and onto its back.

More lightning, a lance of plasma formed at the tip of Adira’s raised fingers. Like a soldier throwing a javelin, she threw the lance of energy at the gargant. It impacted with a loud zap and the sound of fusing metal and blood instantly evaporating into vapor in phreatic explosions. Around the beast, a few more of the ghoulkin exploded under the electric hammerblow. One expedient one had clambered over the beast, and melted into its white-hot armor for its efforts.

Still the beast howled, unfinished. Adira had missed the mask. With a ‘tch’ of dissatisfaction, she tapped the ground with her heel and a lightning zap tossed her mace to her hand magnetically. In the same motion of catching it, she punched off another ghoul’s head.

Adira marched forward, hopping up on top of the beast to stand on its chest, the searing hot metal not affecting her in the least. In protest, it wrapped its fingers around her in an instant, squeezing at the Drakenforged with the intent to crush her like an overripe fruit.

Adira’s eyes glowered a burning, magical crimson as she glared defiantly down at the giant’s mask. A truly terrifying frown carved itself across her lips, and she growled, “For all that is living, desist”

The beast’s arms exploded in a shower of singed gore; useless, smouldering stumps fell to the side and a raspy sigh exuded from behind its mask. Adira’s mace glowed white hot, the power of a storm wreathing the head as a blinding white glow. She struck down and the beast’s mask and head turned into nothing but ashes. Finally, it ceased to move.

Finally, she hopped off of the dead beast. All the other ghouls seemed hesitant, even reverential. Adira was not going to be the facilitator of the stitched abominations’ completions. She was not prey to be consumed.

There was even a terrified yelp from one of the ghouls, before a clamor of tearing metal reached Adira’s ears. She turned around to hear something… Someone flee at great speed. Behind her, the giant’s form was crumpling into itself, its flesh boiling into putrescence and a great hollow in its chest and armor making itself evident. Adira frowned again and struck at the monolith.

The strike was strangely metallic, like the clunk of a thin sheet of metal being punched through by an arrowhead. There was a hiss of sound and strange sparks flew out of the gaps between its constituent stonework. That’s not normal. Adira thought, tilting her head.

She re-equipped the whole of her armor and started to run away, too.





Moritz Schmidt ran through the streets, his face fearful and dried vomit caking his armor. It would have been a bit of a funny sight, had it not been the Lunar Festival, and had it not been for what he was crying: “THE UNDEAD!!!” he yelled, “UNDEAD BENEATH VAALD IN THE AQUEDUCTS!”

He reached a strange gathering near Belme and Gnara’s fountain. A short haired Half-Elf, an Asmerakan—there was a tail—so an Iath, two hooded figures of unknown race, and a human in green.

Moritz took a brief moment to catch his breath, mistaking the Half-Elf Druid for one of the local priestesses, “Gnara… Gnara’s blessings are being blasphemed upon… Right… Haah.” Another moment, he held back from retching, this time from fatigue, “Right underneath here.”

Strangely, he pointed straight down, “Me, my wife, and another of our knightly order ran into them. Orders were to retreat and draw attention. When I got to the surface, I realized how close we were to these fountains…! Look, I know how terrifying Necromancy can be, but someone’s got t-”

Fortunately, most people had already left for the main festivities of the Lunar Festival.

The ground beneath the Serene pools shook violently, like a small earthquake were underway. Marble, granite, basalt, and other carefully laid brickwork buckled and suddenly exploded into the air, sending stones high into the sky to plummet into the ground.

An aftershock reverberated through the area, more intense than the last explosion. A pillar of light rose into the sky, followed by an awe-inspiring shockwave of force, knocking Moritz down, and a deafening roar smashed into the eardrums of everyone nearby.

It rained water and fragments of bone in an unreasonable and sudden downpour as the fountain and some of the surrounding pools detonated. Gnara and Belme’s statues barreled into the air before landing on the ground nearby, strangely intact.

Fear grasped at Moritz’s entire body. Were they already attacking? Was there going to be a battle for the city on this day of festivities?

The ground in a fifteen meter radius around the fountains gave way into a substantial crater, rubble and the skulls of mortals sat at the bottom, only a few measures deep.

An emaciated, rotten hand gauntleted by thin metals burst out from below the rubble, and a single ghoul crawled out from beneath. It was singed all across its form, with pieces of its body missing and fetid innards hanging out from its stomach cavity.

Nearby rest a small girl with her father, having been knocked down but not taken out by the explosion. The girl screamed and covered her eyes, crying, blood already rippling out of her nose. Her father seized up in horror, seemingly unable to move, wailing as he began to retch, writing on the ground from the sheer undiluted aura of the ghoul.

It seemed poised to strike, before there was a rush of air and a deep, guttural roar. The ground shook for a third time in a span of moments, dust and chips of stone pavement engulfed the child and parent. As it settled, they beheld a dragonkin, a wyvern wreathed in jet black scales as thick as an adult's arms.

The Wyvern roared again, a fetid liquid spurted gingerly from beneath one of its feet. The beast hopped off, disinterested with the wretched thing it just turned into glop, and made a stride to the crater where it nudged the rubble with its snout.

From within popped Adira from under the now reduced-layer of rocks atop her. She looked better for wear than most mortals would have any right to look. The Drakenforge slouched, a little, visibly weary from the fight she had just gone through. Her lips moved in an unknown whisper, and the majority of her armor shed itself into thin air; she brushed off some dust from her tunic and looked about herself.

For a moment, Adira looked up at the Wyvern and it gazed back, she seemed slack jawed, surprised. With a sigh, she waved it off as if it were a pest rather than a nearly divine creature. Surprisingly, Jouee obliged, plunging into the air with a great flap of its wings.

The familial pair from earlier were lifted from the cursed aura and crawled away with a small yelp of thanks to Adira and to the sky. They looked vacant, their minds already working to forget the sudden terror.

Adira, in the meanwhile, walked up to where the group was, locking eye contact with Moritz as she scratched her cheek, “I uh… Dealt with the undead.”

Overhead, Jouee the Wyvern circled and performed acrobatics in the sky, seeming to do a curious and impatient sort of aerial dance.

One of Irenaeus' feline ears twitched in contemplation as the Firebrand spoke to him. It was not the first time he had heard his native language since leaving home- indeed the pride inherent to the Iath often meant any he met in his travels would default to their native tongue when possible. What better language was there, after all? To those of his homeland, that answer was clearly none. Still, as a greeting it struck him as odd. Was he so absorbed by the cultures of Delad that he somehow looked... foreign to his own people? Regardless, he obliged the woman with the only answer that was required.

"Bel'kostna."

It was a single word, but much could be gleaned about Irenaeus from it's utterance. The accent he unconsciously slipped into spoke of the coast, with a harsh and quick rasp rarely found closer to the heartland of Kyir. Furthermore, the clear and formal manner in which he replied spoke of a refinement that would not be found in those without wealth or power amongst their people. More informative than either of those things though was the word itself. Bel'kostna roughly would translate to "Unborn" or those Iath who had not stepped foot upon Kyir. More accurately, those who had not stepped foot on Kyir yet, for there was little doubt to any native Iath that there were those of their kind who would choose to shun their homeland. It spoke of the pride, or rather arrogance, so often associated with his people.

He focused his attention then on the young Uquii, trying to retain all the information she was throwing at him. Primarily he focused on three points: His glasses, Silverbrook, and his identity. Two at least of which he was happy to oblige her with conversation about. Tracking down the merchant for another pair would be a pain in the ass, but maybe that job The Five Roads had done to get the glasses would end up paying dividends today, if the Uquii had the money to do business that is.

"Well, let's see..."

He began, removing the glasses and holding them up in the air, towards where the sun was presently located. Irenaeus stroked his chin as if deep in thought for a moment before placing them in front of his eyes once more and turning to the girl.

"These glasses were made by Alfonso Padovano himself back when the Padovano family were artisans of glassmaking and not the cheap mass production oriented sellouts his great great grandchildren have become. Not factoring in an added charge for being an antique, these were purchased over one hundred years ago, in bulk, back when few had even heard of the things, let alone specialized in making them. Then factoring the fee to transport these through customs across the border, and paying the well compensated guards for the shipment... Adjusted for more than a hundred years of inflation..."

He stopped once more, this time actually lost in his own thoughts rather than putting on a show for theatrics. This wasn't a number he had ever tried to calculate before, although having a successful merchant of a mother meant his education in financial matters was anything but lacking.

"About eighty gold disks would be appropriate. Although I could knock off a good ten percent if you happen to have some Bear's Rest honey with you. I never traveled to Silverbrooks, personally, but as I recall the two are only a few dozen miles apart. I've never had a better tea in my life than what they served me there with a bit of that honey mixed in, with the smell of Moondrop flowers enriching the evening air.

He sighed then, the memory decades gone filling him with contentment. That and it gave him time to stall and think of an alias. Truthfully the thought of ignoring the question of his identity altogether and hoping it got lost in the shuffle of conversation occurred to him, but that could come to bite him later if he was asked when ill prepared. Shouting caught his ear in the distance, but he tried to ignore it for the moment. There were always shouts somewhere in the city.

"As for who exactly I am-"

"THE UNDEAD!!!"

Ignoring the shouting no longer, he whipped his head towards the speaker and his voice turned to a growl. Irenaeus' knuckles turned white on the hilt of Arielle, and he felt the hairs on his tail begin to puff outward. He hated the undead. One mission with the Five Roads was enough to instill that hatred in him for a lifetime, and not only because they were sick affronts to life and nature. Put quite simply: They were unpleasant in every way to deal with. Bone and metal weren't exactly the best materials to attack with a sword, and on top of that the aura of necromancy was enough to ruin the memory of a day forever.

"- a soon to be a dead fool."

He finally answered, removing his hand from the hilt of Arielle and placing it under the crossguard of his well worn longsword. He readied himself to draw it by the blade, and use the hilt as a makeshift hammer if he couldn't find a club or some sort of blunt weapon before the fighting began. There was no doubt in the Iath's mind that Arielle would be sufficient to hack through most of the undead, but it would be an insult to the sword to force it into such a filthy task. No, that would be a last resort. With his mind set, he took a step towards the knight who was engaging Annevar in order to offer his services when all at once his afternoon was ruined.

Firstly, Irenaeus' sensitive ears were left ringing and he was nearly knocked over by the eruption of the fountain next to him. Secondly his right hand, the only free one as his left had finished drawing his sword by reflex, was completely numbed by the large stone he had plucked out of the air before it could hit one of their group. Thirdly, in spite of his traveler's cloak he was soaked to the bone by the explosion of water that resulted from the fountain's demise. Irenaeus despised being soaked. Fourthly, and worst of all, he felt that necromantic aura wash over him like a tidal wave of filth mixed with bad memories. Blood mixed freely with the water coating his face and his stomach began a fierce battle with his willpower to empty itself over the ground.

He would be damned if he wasted the Fantasia di Maiale he'd actually managed to drink that day though, and fought back the urge to vomit. Instead he tried to get his bearing on exactly what the hell was happening. An explosion, screaming, the beating of wings, a squish, a whisper, and now footsteps with a gait that spoke of something that wasn't a corpse. Then a voice spoke which sparked more pleasant memories in his mind, a small compensation for what he had just experienced. Arielle had always spoken in a similar manner, he'd wager a hundred gold disks that they were from the same area.

"I uh… Dealt with the undead."

Fifthly, he was forced to experience all of the above and didn't even have a chance to work out the itch in his sword hand and earn some compensation. With a sigh, he sheathed his sword and let the rock drop from his hand, flexing his fingers to try to work some feeling back into them. It was the sort of bad day that only occurred once in a century, maybe two. One that he would try, and fail, to forget for many decades to come. Worryingly, there was still plenty of time left for even more to go wrong.

Once tingles of pain began to answer his flexing, he ran a hand through his hair and scratched behind his ears, wondering what he should say in the face of the insanity he just experienced. There were plenty of questions which the ability to see would have easily answered for him, but people had a habit of talking and he was sure he would find out before long. Instead, turned to the woman who approached them and offered a small smile.

"Thank you for saving me the trouble of having to fight with the abominations."

He began in simple sincerity, without a trace of bravado in his voice, before tugging on his cloak and adding:

"I suppose I'll forgive you for the soaking wet entrance in exchange."

It was the sort of casual and self confident talk that a life of surviving danger instilled in a person. Still, in spite of the humor he was far from relaxed. His sword hand once more rested on Arielle as the ringing is his ears began to subside. His attention was almost entirely focused on the new hole in the ground, searching with his ears for any sound of movement. The woman claimed the undead were taken care of, but it would be a careless mistake to drop his guard because of that. Almost as an afterthought he turned his head to the rest of the group and added in:

"Are any of you hurt?"

Dodger just stood there for a moment, transfixed with shock at what had just happened in front of him. A nearby fountain had literally exploded and a ghoul had climbed out of the wreckage only to be crushed by Jouee's landing. Needless to say, Dodger was having trouble taking in all that had been happening at the Serene Pools, let alone remembering it. It was then that words finally returned to Dodger's throat. "Bloody Nora" Dodger said to himself.

"Are any of you hurt?" Dodger heard Irenaeus ask.
Dodger looked in the Iath male's direction and proceeded to say something that could only be said in a serious manner by someone as deep in shock as Dodger currently was. "I'm fine meself, mate" Dodger said "But wot 'appened ta you? I'm fairly certain you was a woman when ya 1st arrived". Dodger vaguely recalling at least 1 Iath approaching Dodger and company before every thing else happened and even more vaguely remembered that the Iath in question had purple breasts. It was at that point that Dodger realised he would need a 2nd opinion on what just happened. "Could someone fill me in on wot just 'appened?" Dodger asked "I'm 'avin' a bloody 'ard time believin' wot I just saw and rememberin' tha stuff wot I would believe. I mean, did that fountain really just blow up? Did a walkin' dead man really just crawl out o' tha rubble?...An' is...is that really a bloody dragon flyin' round up there?"

As Anne walked towards a more secluded area of the Serene Pools, she once again sensed her surroundings and the magical essence that was permeating the area. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, before exhaling. Having settled her mind, Anne wore her trademark smile and was about to turn around and call on Tempa when she heard hurried footsteps right behind her. She continued to draw distance from the rest of the group as she walked, keeping a leisurely pace, and waiting for Tempa to catch up. The moment the Iath appeared next to her, Anne looked over at her and asked. "So, what exactly did you want to talk about, Tempa?"

Tempa followed along a few paces behind, letting her thoughts roam. Approaching the devout of Gnara would certainly help placate the unease that seemed to linger about...even in a place so supposedly placid as the Serene Pools. The rest of the group was left behind, in a short moment, the Firebrand lengthening her strides to match the Druidess. She was given a smile and a question; one she had been prepared for, but a little hesitant to be forthright with.

"What do ya think about death, Druidess?" she paused, a brief frown settling in."Not to be rude or nothin', but what's ya name, anyway? Ya know mine..."

It would be an understatement to say that Anne did not expect that sort of answer when she mouthed her question. All the signs were there: the fidgety stance, the trembling voice that also hinted in a certain amount of annoyance when Tempa first called out to Anne, all were signs that the Iath had gone through a lot. Anne blinked a couple of times and looked at Tempa. She studied her face, and the most strange of feelings passed through her mind. She felt a peculiar sense of familiarity, a kind of feeling that someone only gets when they meet another who has experienced the same kind of pain they themselves have. Yet, Anne could not grasp the reason she felt that way.

The sudden surge of emotions caused her left eye to twitch slightly, but nevertheless, her face remained the same smiling face she always had. Anne realised that she had probably been staring at Tempa for more than a moment, and quickly averted her gaze, and instead looked forward, her face donning a thoughtful expression. "My name is Annevar Tel'ethir, but you can call me Anne if you want. As for what I think about death? Death... is a complicated matter, even for me to explain. I have, however, thought about it from time to time, and have come to the conclusion that regardless of the way someone returns to the embrace of Stieg, it is the way in which they live their life that shapes how they will be remembered. Only by living life to the fullest and enjoying every moment of it could then someone, on his deathbed, be able to confidently say 'I have lived'.

Tempa stared back as Anne undoubtedly observed her, yellow eyes meeting silver. She had thought before compassion was plenty among those devout to the gods, but empathy was something she had rarely been the recipient of. It brought a smile to her face, crinkling the edges of a couple of scars; a smile that persisted while the Druidess spoke. Relaxing, she shifted Alacrity from her shoulder to behind her neck; draping her arms over each end as she listened and reflected.

"Alright, then, Anne it is. Nice to meet ya!" there was a genuine pleasure in her tone, despite the inherently macabre beginning of their conversation, "I agree wit' ya, for the most part. I guess the thing that's been eatin' at me is more than the idea of 'havin' lived'. I like to think I lived a lot more than most people are ever gonna, but my...my actions probably won't get me a lotta respite, in the end." Her smile waned, a little, and her eyes dropped to her feet. "Ain't all about me, though. I'm in Vaald to see a friend off, this Festival."

Tempa didn't have the strength to say Elise's name, but her tone well conveyed the sorrow of a long-dreaded parting. She bit her lower lip, shifting on her heels before carrying on. "I'm more worried about her, really. More worried about how my world is gonna change without her..."

As the Iath warrior-lady spoke, Anne could obviously sense a faint aura of sadness emanating from Tempa. Anne began to speculate the reason why, and she thought back to the fact that Tempa was actually one of the Afflicted. The half-elf's eyes inadvertently fell on Tempa's chest once again, and on the purple mark that poked out of her garment. However, when Tempa mentioned that she had actually come to say goodbye to a friend of hers, Anne had been shocked inwardly at first, before she too, slowly looked down at her feet, not knowing what to say. A few moments passed in which nothing but the sounds of their surroundings could be heard. Anne then suddenly thought about something, but right as she made to speak, a sudden voice was heard coming from behind the two girls, the desperation evident in its tone.

"THE UNDEAD!!!" it yelled, "UNDEAD BENEATH VAALD IN THE AQUEDUCTS!"

A myriad of expressions appeared on her face as the armoured man's words came out. With each word came a huff, with each sentence completed, he panted, and with him, Anne started panting as well. She slowly turned around to face the man as he explained how undead were found beneath the city, in the aqueducts, and how he and his other fellow knights had apparently retreated immediately. She had half a mind to berate the knight on the spot, "What kind of knights are you that you retreat without even fighting!?" she mentally shouted, but could not actually do so out loud.

Then, the ground shook violently. Anne had a split second to protect herself as various marble statues crumbled before a massive explosion rang out, shooting stone and marble alike in the air and creating a shockwave that pushed everything that had been in the vicinity of the explosion outwards. Obviously, Anne managed to somehow avoid the direct brunt of the explosion, but the shockwave sent her shooting backwards, like a kite with its strings cut. She opened her eyes, only to see herself heading right towards a large tree.

More explosions rumbled behind her, and a pillar of light suddenly shot upwards, followed by a deafening roar. However, Anne could not even spare a moment's time to look at what was happening. She glared at the tree in front of her and her eyes emitted a faint green aura as she exercised her powers over plants. From the tree suddenly grew countless branches, from which an enormous amount of leaves sprouted that, when Anne slammed onto the tree, cushioned her, absorbing most of the impact.

Anne slid off the leafy cushion and fell on the ground. She groaned and rubbed her head and back as she struggled to sit up. She leant her back on the tree and looked towards the origin of the explosion, her eyes blurry as they welled up with tears. After rubbing her eyes, however, she stared with shock at the figure of the ghoul that had appeared. It's not that Anne had no knowledge about Necromancy, of course, she knew. Her master had made it sure that she knew of each and every school of known magic there was, even on a superficial level, before allowing her to embark on her little trip. However, just because she knew what a ghoul was, it did not mean that she knew how to fight it. There were no ghouls on the southern edges of Tantas, and especially inside the Rhiadan forest where she grew up. Thus, she had no previous experience in dealing with ghouls or undead creatures in general.

As Anne racked her mind to find a way to deal with the ghoul, she suddenly thought about the rest of the group and Tempa. However, before she could stand up and have a better look, another deafening roar sounded out and from the crater that the ghoul had presumably climbed out of, a giant, clawed hand reached out and smashed the unfortunate ghoul to a pulp. The creature then pulled the rest of its body out of the crater, causing Anne's eyes to widen in disbelief. "A dragon!" she exclaimed.

It was only when the massive creature landed, and it's rider dismounted it that Anne noticed the, petite when compared to her partner, knight. "I uh… Dealt with the undead."

"You certainly did..." Anne mumbled as she thought back to everything that had happened, trying to comprehend it.

A low, distant rumble punctuated the conversation. Alyosha closed his eyes, contemplation distorting his features beneath his porcelain mask; the thrill of finally meeting Crosos Granz gave way to the weight of their condition. ”The Serene Pools have exploded. The situation… Does not require our immediate attention.” Sympathy welled in his gut for the golem. Even if he was an amalgamation of twisted metal, his soul was forged of the Unsung. Executing the Silver Glint was tantamount to matricide, and The Oracle of the Seven Swords did not envy his situation.

”You know of my powers for foresight. Of course I have come to guide you, to the best of my ability…” Grey glanced up and down the lengthy, vacant corridor, making certain that no one would overhear him. ”It is certain that the Silver Glint will die, and we will bear witness. However…” He paused, wary to admit that his clairvoyancy had such troubling limitations. If his gift was so easily thwarted by an unseen enemy, what benefit was he? ”I am blind to the exact circumstances of her death. As much as I wish to bestow comforting platitudes--’Her death will be swift and painless,’ ‘There is no one better suited for the task than one so noble, so close to her,’ ‘It will be an honorable end to a honorable life’--I cannot, in good conscious, speak what may or may not be.”

Discomfort gnawed at the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside, struggling to stay in the present. Crosos Granz was a friend to his father, his mother, a knight which most would daydream of calling a comrade. The Prophet was meant to help shoulder the burdens of heroes, to prepare them for the road ahead, and to do so with poise and tactfulness. Alyosha prayed silently that he might fill his father’s shoes. ”Ser Crosos Granz, not another soul--man or beast or construct--would be equipped as well as you are for this. My only fear, given the chaos unfolding throughout the town, is that you will not have the chance to see it to completion.”

Alyosha gripped tightly the stone around his neck. ”We have much to discuss, and little time to discuss it. Is there someplace private we can go?”

"Of course," the Golem Knight responded, lifting a hand and pointing down the corridor they currently inhabited, "my chamber is just ahead.” He, too, had felt the not-so-distant rumble and fought back the urge to investigate; if the Prophet's son had not deemed it necessary, Granz believed the information would soon present itself. That did little to ease his mood, but it meant, from his view, that the things at hand took precedence. "Might I say, Alyosha, you've a gift for oration. I'll not choose to argue with what you've said. It would be foolish...and all in Vaald know that Crosos Granz is only a fool when it suits him best."

The matter of Elise's uncertain death was a strange salve to him. Mayhaps he would not be the one to sever her head from its perch; but that was a small comfort, given the questions it brought to mind. Instead he continued his steps, subdued thunder echoing throughout their vicinity. A wooden door, chipped and worn with age, sat before them; situated in an alcove to their right. He pressed it open without pause and held it, motioning slightly for Alyosha to enter. "Apologies, you may find it to be a bit stark." A slight grin accompanied the words.

Inside his chambers was, indeed, bleak to most, but he had always found it to be more comfortable. A bed sat in the far corner, sunk in near the middle from his weight. Two tables, one small and one large made up most of the remaining decoration. Close to the window, where the smaller table sat, there was a prickly plant basking. Nef he had decided to call the cactus, after an old friend. One chair sat before Nef and two arranged opposite one another at the larger table. Granz made another motion, shutting the door behind him; his single eye resting on Alyosha.

"We may speak freely here."

Alyosha Grey nodded, inspecting the room. It was certainly utilitarian; bare with the exception of minimal furnishings and a small, spiked plant. He found it queer that the golem slept, but not so strange as to comment--it was common that constructs would imitate life. Admittedly, the foreign cactus was what drew from him the most interest. “You named it.” The Oracle took a few strides across the room, tapping the needles of the desert flora. ”Nef,” he commented. “How… Paternal of you.” Alyosha smiled dryly beneath his mask at the irony.

He turned back to face Ser Crosos Granz. “I am grateful for the privacy. Now then...” He surveyed the room again, selecting a open space on the floor, and sat down. “My powers of foresight are limited in this state.” He pulled out one of the Seven of Eight, inspecting it. The Oracle polished it free of any dust from his travels, scraping away a smear of dried blood embedded between the hilt and the blade. “I do, unfortunately, have… ‘Blind spots.’ Moments in time where the outcome still swings by a thread…” He sat the sword down and moved on to the next. “Or a powerful magic has been used to veil the truth…” The Son of the Prophet frowned slightly, buffing away grit until the sword’s blade reflected light like a brand new mirror. He unsheathed another and began his work. “Distractions will tempt us in the city, but we must not take our eyes away from the truth.”

Seven swords were neatly laid out on the floor in a row, each scrubbed of imperfection, each buffed clean of the past. He stood and stretched. Alyosha raised his hands. The air grew cold, his breath came out in a puffy cloud of vapor from beneath his mask; the hair on the back of his neck rose; goosebumps spread down his arms and legs. A touch, a shiver, a whisper. The swords began to quiver. Metal clanged gently against the stone floor, scraping upward as each one started to float. “Ser Crosos Granz, come with me. Gaze at the truth.”

Paternal was not the word he would have chosen, but the Golem didn't feel it necessary to tell the Prophet's son exactly where that particular barb had been aimed; nor did he feel it proper to feign being startled by this unspoken bit of information. More pressing were concerns about what was going to transpire before his eye. Both in his desolate chamber and once he took up the mantle Serpera had offered to him. "Privacy is no trouble. I tend to favor it, if you couldn't tell by how ill-prepared I am to receive guests." Granz had moved while Alyosha spoke, departing from the door and taking up a spot near the window. "Your blind spots are no trouble either, fledgling Prophet. If one were to see the future fully, I daresay they would experience something short of a fulfilling life."

He had no true gauge for the validity of his statement, speaking mostly from a nervous agitation, but felt there was truth in the idea of it. Even the greatest diviners of fate were often limited in their access to concrete visions. So far as Crosos Granz was concerned, there was little in the way of solidity in clairvoyance; all results stemming from the actions of those involved. Some would argue the fact that those actions were taken at all to be fate, but the Golem often questioned the existence of such an implement. To him, understanding the future was simply seeing the choices and their consequences splayed-out; a more mundane form of foretelling, if one was accurate. Of course, what transpired before him was far from mundane.

The swords had begun to float. Chill settled in around him. Something filled the air that did not feel entirely like magic. An implacable, distant pressure settled in on the Golem; something at odds with his Core. Something that vibrated with a sense of driven and bitter agelessness. His eye lingered on the hovering swords, jaw-plate scraping quietly as he contemplated what exactly the truth was. He moved closer, lowering himself to sit; nodding a brief affirmation to the Prophet's son.

"Very well, Alyosha Grey. Let's see what these flying daggers can do."

The Son of the Prophet merely nodded in response, his focus needed instead for the ritual. The Seven of Eight continued to rise, now hovering above them with supernatural splendor. The silver and steel blades aligned themselves in a ring around Alyosha Grey, their points aimed straight down, and began to circle him. The Oracle of Seven Swords placed his hand on Crosos Granz’s shoulder--a gesture to both steady himself and to help channel his visions for the golem as well.

One… “I summon thee into this place,” A sword dropped onto the stone floor with a loud, stannic clatter. Two… ”To usher out the murk of night.” Three... “Lead these blades I use to fight,” Four… “And guide me about time and space.” Five… “Cast out the shadow with thou light,” Six... “To award me thou future sight.” Seven... “An act we make in grace.” The final glaive landed amongst the others, completing the invocation.

Smoke curled up from the blackened ground before me. Screams of terror punctuated the ashen evening air. Wraith-like winds and serpentine undulations of fire dispersed the hot ashes, a bittersweet melody lost in the rain. No... No, don’t leave… I wept, grasping at the cinders. It was futile; the embers slipped through my hands like water. Nothing remained.

Nothing but a cloaked figure. It had come to reap their spiritual energy; I could see the souls of my beloved swept into a quivering mass. What are you doing? You can’t take them. You can’t take them from me. A hot, malevolent gust of air swept back the creature’s cowl enough to reveal a mask; it shone, glossy and sinister, in the fading orange glow of the flames. As quickly as they had died, the souls were sundered. Their essence forever destroyed and their energies harvested. Was this truly my fate? Would my soul be forever annihilated? I won’t die without a fight. I won’t succumb without vengeance!

The cloaked figure sent an umbral sphere hurling toward me. I stood in shock. Before I could react, the shadow made contact with my gut. It ripped through me like a cannonball through a wet scarecrow. My body hit the ground with a dull thud.This is it, this is over. Ashes landed like snow on my cold skin.

Alyosha Grey awoke with a jolt. Pain seared in his chest as if he had suffered the fatal wound himself. His gloved hand tightened its grip on Granz’s shoulder. “By the dreams of Steig…” A bleak horror ruminated in his bust, spreading through him like a venom. A draft of cold air snuffed out the candles in the room. Frost formed on the thick glass of the window and curved edges of Crosos’s armor.

Blood dripped down the fuller of a long dagger. The sound of grinding, tearing flesh echoed in the chamber. A small gasp of pain. Heavy breathing. Gritted teeth. Shadows seemed to dance chaotically around the room. A grunt of abject terror escaped as I twisted the blade, pushing it deeper into her gut. Purple venom glinted from the razor in the waning light. Drip, drip, drip. Crimson vitae splattered the floor of the room. The smell of fear, the taste of death, the caress of revenge. I savored the twisted grimace of agony on her features. Sweet convulsions of pain wracked her body, sweat beaded on her brow and white hair caked to her skin. My mouth watered. Succulent, agonizing lacerations gushed.

I was already waiting for you, very far away from this setting where I now stand, in front of you. I was already waiting for this moment. Waiting for the final piece, waiting for the satisfaction, waiting for you. You have it. You think yourself so brave? The dagger returned to its sheath, blood bubbling forth from the wound, a macabre font of dissolution. Warmth of the wound surrounded my fingers, pulsing in vile suffering, hemorrhaging around my skin. Hero Jezebel, death is too kind a mercy.

Footsteps.

Are you coming?

In collaboration with @Crumbs