Compared to the assemblies of days prior, with their restless moods and competitive atmospheres, where all present either listened in anxious silence or strove to drown out the words of everyone else, today's meeting went as smoothly as the proverbial well-oiled machine. So low-key had the proceedings been, in fact, that the director could hear the rain pattering against the roof of the Inquisitional College with no strain at all. This all made sense, of course; today's was the final gathering of the minds, and instead of a debate, it was more of a last-minute checkup. Everyone knew their place. The outlandish proposal had completed its evolution to primary course of action, and in very short order, the ambitious woman's brainchild would begin. In the end, the idea condemned by some of her peers had been remarkably simple. Once the professors agreed to open the Vault, and put an effort into understanding the city's treasures accumulated therein, it had been smooth sailing. Felicity Wernicke, former head of the College's exploration department and now the director of the tournament, liked to think it was meant to be.
The sound of table legs dragging across the ground stirred her from her reverie. She gave a pointed glance at the culprit, a certain Professor Barnaby, whose excess weight bore down upon his seat as he scooted backward from the table to depart. Giving an obfuscating smile, the red-bearded man shuffled toward the exit after the others. He was one of the last ones to go, leaving Felicity alone at the great oval conference table. Knowing that she couldn't delay getting started any longer, she stood up with sudden speed and made her way toward the exit. She only paused to glance out the softly-lit room's northern window, with the rain streaming down its face, at the murky outline of a city in the distance. “Soon,” she murmured, “Your secrets will come to light.”
Once out of the room, she found herself flanked by college personnel on each side, and without skipping a beat Felicity made haste down three flights of stairs to the College's sublevel. Bit by bit, her entourage split off, until the director stood alone before a reinforced sliding door with nobody at her side but every eye upon her. She could feel the pressure enveloping her, and couldn't help but swallow as she swiped her ID card in the door's console. Like the door of an ancient, cursed tomb, the barrier fell away with ominous slowness, and Felicity made her way inside.
In the middle of the blackened room, a pedestal stood by itself, and wreathed on all sides by silent dark a ledger sat alone upon it. A single theatrical light shone down on it from above. Felicity strode toward it, her subconscious keeping her footsteps muted even though this artifact had been proven time and time again to be harmless. Gingerly, she plucked the booklet from the pedestal, and adjusted her glasses to better read in the insufficient light. Only a few days ago, thirty-two blanks had adorned its face, but now each line was filled. The Lady in White. The God Hand She scanned farther down. Fin, the Cop. With a delicate index finger and thumb, she peeled the first page halfway back, revealing information on the so-called Lady in White written in a plain, formal hand. So these were the ones. “You've made your choice then, Ghostwriter. Your task is done, and the preparations are made. Now it is time to act.” Felicity tucked the ledger beneath her arm, turned on her heel, and vacated the room with a purposeful stride. She winced to be back in the brightly-lit corridor following the almost tangible darkness of the now empty room, but when her eyes adjusted, she was greeted by the sight of sixty-four of her coworkers. Some were young, some were old, some tall, and some short, but all, be they new employees or members of the College since before its official founding, were on board for the task at hand.
One by one, she tore the pages from the ledger, handing them to the pairs that had formed before her arrival. “Once you have your page, proceed out of the building,” she commanded in a clear, authoritative voice. “Take one lantern per pair from the table we've set up by the main door. The storm around the College will have reached its peak intensity. Walk into the storm unafraid, and on the other side, you'll find someone we're looking for. The chosen few have been selected based on the strength of their desire, and should not be difficult to persuade once you reveal you know their deepest desire. Keep in mind that the lantern will help compel them to follow you, but it is your logic or charisma that must bring them through the storm back to this island. Understood?”
The staff voiced its collective affirmation, and got to work. Ledger in hand, Felicity followed them back up the stairs and to the College's front door, then stopped to watch them. One after another, the pairs disappeared into the deluge. Felicity looked behind her, toward the atrium where, in short order, the magic would happen. Perhaps more remarkable, though, was the beat of her heart. Despite her old age, it seemed, she could be moved to near-giddiness by excitement, even if her mature composition managed to cover it up. So much work had been done to lay the foundation for this tournament in which history would be made. This competition—the Crucible, which like its namesake would serve as the iron cauldron where all the different elements, full of ambiguity, would be melted down and recombined into something new.
Location: Malingurd Perimeter - Wall Exterior
Another boring, uneventful afternoon.
Aside from the odd deer, rabbit, or raccoon, nothing stirred in the woods and meadows beyond the stone ramparts on Malingurd. Guard duty, particularly when alone, never failed to elicit groans from the brave men of the city's militia, but not so for Cyril. Leaning back against the wall, with nobody around in either direction for hundreds of meters, and with the wilderness stretched out before him, Cyril felt at peace. So what if guard duty was boring? He would rather spend a hundred days straight on this patch of earth just to be sure that there was no trouble rather than be called to quell some sort of gang war within the city, or to march out to fend off monsters or bandits attacking a nearby village only to arrive too late to do anything but bury the bodies. These were no mere thoughts, either; danger was a constant reality. This was, beyond all doubt, a cruel and hostile world. Cyril agreed with the scholars who postulated that the world's perils had kept civilization from advancing, but there was nothing to be done. So long as humanity remained disunited, where new technological and scientific discoveries were often lost as soon as they were discovered, the sorry state of things would remain.
His spirits had lifted after the rain started at about three. The rain would help the farmers and stimulate the rivers, turning the waterwheels that powered some of the machines. More monsters might come out under cover of rain, but they were just as likely to hide themselves away in their holes, and vagrants were unlikely to venture out across the muddy roads. To Cyril, the gentle pattern of rain became a soothing drone, and as he sat on his stool with his shield above his head to keep dry, he couldn't help but to let his eyes close for a few moments. Far above, the sky grew darker, its leakage coming down harder and faster, and Cyril stared outward into the gray distance, unmoving. Through the deluge, he did not hear the sound of footsteps until their owners stopped only a few meters away to stare at him. Cyril's eyes blinked open, and with some surprise he spotted two strangers in pale green cloaks. “What Who goes there?”
The smaller of the pair spoke. “Hold on a moment, do not fret. We are travelers, and I have something for you that I'm sure will catch your interest.” He reached into a pocket. In the dim light, Cyril craned his eyes to see. He couldn't get an idea what it was until it glinted in the half-light. With a yell, the knight lowered his shield to cover his face, and the traveler -robbed of his target- changed direction mid-throw to hurl his knife at Cyril's foot instead. The weapon, possessed of an unusual gleaming blade, pierced his boot and stuck in his foot. Suddenly awash in pain and struggling to shrug off his sleepiness, the knight gripped his halberd with both hands and swung. From parts unknown the other stranger had produced a buckler, but instead of trying to block the weapon he dodged backward, and with his foot sent up a splash of mud. The miss did not go unnoticed. Reasoning that the knife-thrower would be able to dodge out of the way as well, Cyril halted his weapon mid-slash and thrust outward instead. Expecting to rush in after the dodge and clean up with another knife to the throat, the vagrant found the halberd head buried in his sternum, and with a surprised gurgle dropped on the spot. The wound to Cyril's foot plus his weapon getting stuck plus the rain meant that Cyril's halberd slipped out of his hands, leaving him wide open to the second, hatchet-wielding marauder. He edged backward, evading the first swing by an alarmingly minuscule margin, and raised his shield arm.
A new noise cut through the rain—a ear-rattling blast, and no sooner did Cyril hear it than his remaining assailant flop to the ground, blood streaming from an ugly hole in his head. Still panicked, Cyril searched his surroundings, but turned up only a light in the rain. He noticed after a moment that it was growing closer, and another few seconds later another pair of strangers emerged from the downpour. This pair wore odd black coats and carried umbrellas as well as a lantern, the glow of which Cyril found a welcoming fight. From their faces the knight could glean nothing—they looked normal enough, yet the portly, red-bearded one without a lantern had just extinguished a life with the smoking metal device he clutched in one hand. Cyril's eyes widened a touch, and he demanded, “Who are you? Rival band? Vigilantes? You don't look like militia.”
The man with the gun had already put it away, and he replied, “No, we're not from this place. Good thing we happened along in time, eh? Another moment and you would've been kindling.”
Cyril scowled. “Oh, alright. If you say so, Sun Tzu. Nevermind the fact that the next second I would have been up against the wall and used its hard surface to jump off and rip that fool's head off with this.” With a smooth roar more like the song of glass than a motor, the saw in his shield span to life, and Cyril reached out with his right hand to grab the lantern-holder by the shoulder. “Do you think I'm some green stripling? Where the heck did you get a gun, and what are you doing in Malingurd?” His shield span threateningly, its moving edge a ring of brilliant light in the dreary day.
Holding up his hands, placating, the man intoned in a powerful bass, “Hold on, Cyril Boniface, soldier of misfortune! We mean you no harm. We've come from a place called the City of Echoes to offer you an opportunity. There is a tournament being held there, and the prize is one wish.” He rummaged in a pocket.
In a second Cyril whipped toward him. “Easy! You put one finger on that gun, and you'll be a lot shorter.” He gave a derisive snort. “Feh! A wish. A child could have come up with a better lie. How do you know my name?”
“We've been watching you, Cyril. We know you long for a better world, one without fear and tragedy, a world where people can live in peace, free of any evil.”
Despite his best effort to hide it, Cyril flinched. He didn't dare believe what his ears told him, but somehow, these people knew the fantasy vision that dwelt in a tiny corner of his mind. His voice, however, remained steely as the teeth of his saw. “Right. And you'll just magic it all away.”
”Yes.” The man's voice struck Cyril as oddly intense. “If you win the tournament, a machine will grant you your greatest desire. Cyril, you are a brilliant and brutal fighter with a good heart, but you know you can't make a difference in this world alone. What I'm saying is true, but even if it isn't, could you really take that chance, knowing what technology can do?”
For the first time, the knight really felt the cold of the rain running down his back and making his shirt cling to his chest beneath his armor, but it wasn't the only chill that plagued him. No doubt helped by the pain in his foot, the world looked to him like it was swimming, and a dozen inner voices assaulted his mind. Part of him wanted to attack these people on the spot for knowing too much about him, or for trivializing the world's suffering by suggesting there might be an easy cure, but some insane part of him told him to listen. This man spouted nonsense, but could Cyril really take that chance? He found himself staring at the lantern light as though it were a crystal ball in which he could divine the answer. Deep breath. Deep breath. He took several, then stared the bearded man straight in the face. All common sense told him to say no, but long ago he had believed in heroes, and even if he stopped believing, for a man who wanted to be able to say he always did the right thing, there was only once choice. “Show me.”
The man smiled. Cyril bristled. As genuine as this fellow looked, something about that smile put him off. It didn't say that what he was peddling was a lie, but rather than the truth might not be what Cyril expected. “Good. My name is Edward Barnaby, and this is my wife Dr. Raleigh Barnaby. Please follow us.” They turned and strode fearlessly into the storm, which if anything had grown even thicker. What, they were kind enough to set up this tourney in walking distance? Cyril followed, quickly forced to use the lantern to make them out in the pounding rain and violent wind. He stooped to remove the knife from his foot, causing a fresh blossom of pain, but the knight grit his teeth and powered through it all.
Without warning, the storm let off. Visibility returned, but Cyril, who expected to see a stretch of grass or a couple of trees, almost jumped out of his skin to find himself standing in the center of a paved courtyard in front of a huge, unfamiliar-looking building, with the silhouette of a massive city on the horizon. “...Whoa.” Up ahead, the Barnabys were waiting, and all of a sudden rather inclined to believe in magic, Cyril took a deep breath and marched forward into the foyer of the Inquisitional College.
The sound of table legs dragging across the ground stirred her from her reverie. She gave a pointed glance at the culprit, a certain Professor Barnaby, whose excess weight bore down upon his seat as he scooted backward from the table to depart. Giving an obfuscating smile, the red-bearded man shuffled toward the exit after the others. He was one of the last ones to go, leaving Felicity alone at the great oval conference table. Knowing that she couldn't delay getting started any longer, she stood up with sudden speed and made her way toward the exit. She only paused to glance out the softly-lit room's northern window, with the rain streaming down its face, at the murky outline of a city in the distance. “Soon,” she murmured, “Your secrets will come to light.”
Once out of the room, she found herself flanked by college personnel on each side, and without skipping a beat Felicity made haste down three flights of stairs to the College's sublevel. Bit by bit, her entourage split off, until the director stood alone before a reinforced sliding door with nobody at her side but every eye upon her. She could feel the pressure enveloping her, and couldn't help but swallow as she swiped her ID card in the door's console. Like the door of an ancient, cursed tomb, the barrier fell away with ominous slowness, and Felicity made her way inside.
In the middle of the blackened room, a pedestal stood by itself, and wreathed on all sides by silent dark a ledger sat alone upon it. A single theatrical light shone down on it from above. Felicity strode toward it, her subconscious keeping her footsteps muted even though this artifact had been proven time and time again to be harmless. Gingerly, she plucked the booklet from the pedestal, and adjusted her glasses to better read in the insufficient light. Only a few days ago, thirty-two blanks had adorned its face, but now each line was filled. The Lady in White. The God Hand She scanned farther down. Fin, the Cop. With a delicate index finger and thumb, she peeled the first page halfway back, revealing information on the so-called Lady in White written in a plain, formal hand. So these were the ones. “You've made your choice then, Ghostwriter. Your task is done, and the preparations are made. Now it is time to act.” Felicity tucked the ledger beneath her arm, turned on her heel, and vacated the room with a purposeful stride. She winced to be back in the brightly-lit corridor following the almost tangible darkness of the now empty room, but when her eyes adjusted, she was greeted by the sight of sixty-four of her coworkers. Some were young, some were old, some tall, and some short, but all, be they new employees or members of the College since before its official founding, were on board for the task at hand.
One by one, she tore the pages from the ledger, handing them to the pairs that had formed before her arrival. “Once you have your page, proceed out of the building,” she commanded in a clear, authoritative voice. “Take one lantern per pair from the table we've set up by the main door. The storm around the College will have reached its peak intensity. Walk into the storm unafraid, and on the other side, you'll find someone we're looking for. The chosen few have been selected based on the strength of their desire, and should not be difficult to persuade once you reveal you know their deepest desire. Keep in mind that the lantern will help compel them to follow you, but it is your logic or charisma that must bring them through the storm back to this island. Understood?”
The staff voiced its collective affirmation, and got to work. Ledger in hand, Felicity followed them back up the stairs and to the College's front door, then stopped to watch them. One after another, the pairs disappeared into the deluge. Felicity looked behind her, toward the atrium where, in short order, the magic would happen. Perhaps more remarkable, though, was the beat of her heart. Despite her old age, it seemed, she could be moved to near-giddiness by excitement, even if her mature composition managed to cover it up. So much work had been done to lay the foundation for this tournament in which history would be made. This competition—the Crucible, which like its namesake would serve as the iron cauldron where all the different elements, full of ambiguity, would be melted down and recombined into something new.
Knight Sylvestre
Location: Malingurd Perimeter - Wall Exterior
Another boring, uneventful afternoon.
Aside from the odd deer, rabbit, or raccoon, nothing stirred in the woods and meadows beyond the stone ramparts on Malingurd. Guard duty, particularly when alone, never failed to elicit groans from the brave men of the city's militia, but not so for Cyril. Leaning back against the wall, with nobody around in either direction for hundreds of meters, and with the wilderness stretched out before him, Cyril felt at peace. So what if guard duty was boring? He would rather spend a hundred days straight on this patch of earth just to be sure that there was no trouble rather than be called to quell some sort of gang war within the city, or to march out to fend off monsters or bandits attacking a nearby village only to arrive too late to do anything but bury the bodies. These were no mere thoughts, either; danger was a constant reality. This was, beyond all doubt, a cruel and hostile world. Cyril agreed with the scholars who postulated that the world's perils had kept civilization from advancing, but there was nothing to be done. So long as humanity remained disunited, where new technological and scientific discoveries were often lost as soon as they were discovered, the sorry state of things would remain.
His spirits had lifted after the rain started at about three. The rain would help the farmers and stimulate the rivers, turning the waterwheels that powered some of the machines. More monsters might come out under cover of rain, but they were just as likely to hide themselves away in their holes, and vagrants were unlikely to venture out across the muddy roads. To Cyril, the gentle pattern of rain became a soothing drone, and as he sat on his stool with his shield above his head to keep dry, he couldn't help but to let his eyes close for a few moments. Far above, the sky grew darker, its leakage coming down harder and faster, and Cyril stared outward into the gray distance, unmoving. Through the deluge, he did not hear the sound of footsteps until their owners stopped only a few meters away to stare at him. Cyril's eyes blinked open, and with some surprise he spotted two strangers in pale green cloaks. “What Who goes there?”
The smaller of the pair spoke. “Hold on a moment, do not fret. We are travelers, and I have something for you that I'm sure will catch your interest.” He reached into a pocket. In the dim light, Cyril craned his eyes to see. He couldn't get an idea what it was until it glinted in the half-light. With a yell, the knight lowered his shield to cover his face, and the traveler -robbed of his target- changed direction mid-throw to hurl his knife at Cyril's foot instead. The weapon, possessed of an unusual gleaming blade, pierced his boot and stuck in his foot. Suddenly awash in pain and struggling to shrug off his sleepiness, the knight gripped his halberd with both hands and swung. From parts unknown the other stranger had produced a buckler, but instead of trying to block the weapon he dodged backward, and with his foot sent up a splash of mud. The miss did not go unnoticed. Reasoning that the knife-thrower would be able to dodge out of the way as well, Cyril halted his weapon mid-slash and thrust outward instead. Expecting to rush in after the dodge and clean up with another knife to the throat, the vagrant found the halberd head buried in his sternum, and with a surprised gurgle dropped on the spot. The wound to Cyril's foot plus his weapon getting stuck plus the rain meant that Cyril's halberd slipped out of his hands, leaving him wide open to the second, hatchet-wielding marauder. He edged backward, evading the first swing by an alarmingly minuscule margin, and raised his shield arm.
A new noise cut through the rain—a ear-rattling blast, and no sooner did Cyril hear it than his remaining assailant flop to the ground, blood streaming from an ugly hole in his head. Still panicked, Cyril searched his surroundings, but turned up only a light in the rain. He noticed after a moment that it was growing closer, and another few seconds later another pair of strangers emerged from the downpour. This pair wore odd black coats and carried umbrellas as well as a lantern, the glow of which Cyril found a welcoming fight. From their faces the knight could glean nothing—they looked normal enough, yet the portly, red-bearded one without a lantern had just extinguished a life with the smoking metal device he clutched in one hand. Cyril's eyes widened a touch, and he demanded, “Who are you? Rival band? Vigilantes? You don't look like militia.”
The man with the gun had already put it away, and he replied, “No, we're not from this place. Good thing we happened along in time, eh? Another moment and you would've been kindling.”
Cyril scowled. “Oh, alright. If you say so, Sun Tzu. Nevermind the fact that the next second I would have been up against the wall and used its hard surface to jump off and rip that fool's head off with this.” With a smooth roar more like the song of glass than a motor, the saw in his shield span to life, and Cyril reached out with his right hand to grab the lantern-holder by the shoulder. “Do you think I'm some green stripling? Where the heck did you get a gun, and what are you doing in Malingurd?” His shield span threateningly, its moving edge a ring of brilliant light in the dreary day.
Holding up his hands, placating, the man intoned in a powerful bass, “Hold on, Cyril Boniface, soldier of misfortune! We mean you no harm. We've come from a place called the City of Echoes to offer you an opportunity. There is a tournament being held there, and the prize is one wish.” He rummaged in a pocket.
In a second Cyril whipped toward him. “Easy! You put one finger on that gun, and you'll be a lot shorter.” He gave a derisive snort. “Feh! A wish. A child could have come up with a better lie. How do you know my name?”
“We've been watching you, Cyril. We know you long for a better world, one without fear and tragedy, a world where people can live in peace, free of any evil.”
Despite his best effort to hide it, Cyril flinched. He didn't dare believe what his ears told him, but somehow, these people knew the fantasy vision that dwelt in a tiny corner of his mind. His voice, however, remained steely as the teeth of his saw. “Right. And you'll just magic it all away.”
”Yes.” The man's voice struck Cyril as oddly intense. “If you win the tournament, a machine will grant you your greatest desire. Cyril, you are a brilliant and brutal fighter with a good heart, but you know you can't make a difference in this world alone. What I'm saying is true, but even if it isn't, could you really take that chance, knowing what technology can do?”
For the first time, the knight really felt the cold of the rain running down his back and making his shirt cling to his chest beneath his armor, but it wasn't the only chill that plagued him. No doubt helped by the pain in his foot, the world looked to him like it was swimming, and a dozen inner voices assaulted his mind. Part of him wanted to attack these people on the spot for knowing too much about him, or for trivializing the world's suffering by suggesting there might be an easy cure, but some insane part of him told him to listen. This man spouted nonsense, but could Cyril really take that chance? He found himself staring at the lantern light as though it were a crystal ball in which he could divine the answer. Deep breath. Deep breath. He took several, then stared the bearded man straight in the face. All common sense told him to say no, but long ago he had believed in heroes, and even if he stopped believing, for a man who wanted to be able to say he always did the right thing, there was only once choice. “Show me.”
The man smiled. Cyril bristled. As genuine as this fellow looked, something about that smile put him off. It didn't say that what he was peddling was a lie, but rather than the truth might not be what Cyril expected. “Good. My name is Edward Barnaby, and this is my wife Dr. Raleigh Barnaby. Please follow us.” They turned and strode fearlessly into the storm, which if anything had grown even thicker. What, they were kind enough to set up this tourney in walking distance? Cyril followed, quickly forced to use the lantern to make them out in the pounding rain and violent wind. He stooped to remove the knife from his foot, causing a fresh blossom of pain, but the knight grit his teeth and powered through it all.
Without warning, the storm let off. Visibility returned, but Cyril, who expected to see a stretch of grass or a couple of trees, almost jumped out of his skin to find himself standing in the center of a paved courtyard in front of a huge, unfamiliar-looking building, with the silhouette of a massive city on the horizon. “...Whoa.” Up ahead, the Barnabys were waiting, and all of a sudden rather inclined to believe in magic, Cyril took a deep breath and marched forward into the foyer of the Inquisitional College.
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