Curse

Unreal Cyn · Mar 28, 2007, 04:18 PM // 16:18

Well, here it is then, Chapter 9! Please enjoy!

Many Paths to Madness

The warrior trudged on before them, unarmed and moving as though each step brought him ever closer to some terrible doom. Farrion walked beside him, carrying the warrior’s heavy sword, his arm muscles straining from the effort. Farrion’s state of mind was more composed now, his thinking clearer, and the threads of a desperate plan were beginning to weave in his mind like the spells that he was so accustomed to casting.

Tsuki and Heavens – somehow able to leave behind his very strange game – brought up the rear, their shuffling footsteps and ragged breaths an ever reminder of the condition that they and Farrion were in.

Undead. The Mesmer could hardly believe it, even now that the proof was comprehensive. Undead and in the Underworld. Where did Tsuki find that damn signet? How could it do this to us? Farrion shook his head and sighed. Questions for another time. The one thing that he had to keep in the forefront of his mind was getting out of this bleak vista, back into Tyria, back to Karak and Cyn.

“How much farther. Far-Far?” Heavens cried from behind.

Farrion did not answer him. After all, he had no idea himself. He nudged the warrior with the hilt of the sword, “You heard him.”

“I…um…about four, five miles, I guess. I’m not sure. We were hunting in here for a long time!” he replied nervously.

Farrion gave the man a good long look. Like the landscape around him, the warrior’s face seemed drained of colour and life, and his eyes were small pools of horror and pain. With his round face and slight features, Farrion thought that the man would have made a better monk than a life-stealing warrior.

“I hope you’re right.”

The warrior shuddered and quickened his pace.

They had been moving for the better part of an hour, and in all that time the landscape had changed little. There was a low rising of tumbled hills far to the east, sweeping across the landscape and branching out towards the north and south like a crescent. Every now and then short mesas and weathered ravines split the landscape, but still there was no life to be seen.

“What do you plan to do?” Tsuki asked as she walked up beside him.

“It’s a gamble, but this warrior’s group came in here through the avatar of Grenth’s portal. It’ll still be open.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I’ve never been here before, but I’ve been to the Fissure, and the same principle works in both places. You come in through a portal and leave through that portal, unless everyone in the group that came in dies. If that happens the portal closes.”

“Can we leave if we find this portal?”

Farrion glanced across at Tsuki and sighed, “Hopefully.” I don’t know what I’ll do if we can’t get out of here.

They passed another crumbling mesa and the loud sound of marching feet swept down on them upon a rare breeze. They stopped suddenly. What?

“What was that, man?” Farrion asked the warrior, poking him with the sword.

“I…I’m not sure! Sounds like an army…but I’m not sure!”

“An army? In here? An army of what?”

The warrior finally looked around to meet Farrion’s dead gaze, “An army of things like you.”

A slight shiver rippled through Farrion’s body, but he tried to dismiss it. They stood in a wide open plain, with the only feasible hiding places being the cracked mesas. And hiding seemed the best option for them – at least in Farrion’s opinion. He was not eager to meet anymore undead, especially if they were all as unpredictably insane as Heavens and Tsuki.

“Back behind this mesa,” Farrion whispered fervently, “Out of sight, and keep quiet! Come on!” He manhandled the warrior as best he could as he turned him around, back towards the mesa. The warrior was still the bigger man, and it was only abject fear that kept him in check. In a world of illusions, that will have to be enough.

The mesa shielded them from the roving eyes of the oncoming armada, and they hid themselves amongst the crumbled rocks and debris. Farrion kept the sword resting on the nape of the warrior’s neck, and kept his eye on Heavens, who seemed calmer, but still distant and possibly prone to further madness.

And they waited.

The racket of the marching rose ever steadier, sending tremors through the bleak earth that shook Farrion down to his bones. Drum…drum…drum…drum… Farrion guessed that the army approaching and now passing them numbered in the thousands, or at the very least, the many hundreds.

“I think we should go out to them!” Heavens whispered suddenly to Farrion.

“Are you out of your mind?” It was a rhetorical question, but Farrion felt the need to ask it anyway.

“They are like us! They can help us!” Heavens was suddenly becoming very agitated. His manic eyes jumped as though disconnected from his head, and his entire body shook with barely restrained anxiety. He seemed ready to jump out from the mesa at any moment, giving them all away.

The sound of the marching filled the whole stagnant air, drowning out Farrion’s voice as he tried desperately to calm the disconcerted elementalist using every method he knew short of murder.

“We have to go, Far-Far! We have to!”

Farrion moved across next to the elementalist and grabbed his arm, “Relax, Heavens. For Dwayna’s sake, relax. We’re not going anywhere. Just sit tight. I beg you, man. Take it easy!”

“No!” the boy screamed, so loudly that if the sound of the marching boots hadn’t muffled it, the whole army would have heard the noise.

Farrion let go of Heavens and then struck him across the head with the hilt of the sword before he realised what he was doing. He struck him again, and then a third time, in rapid succession; oblivious to all else. A mad rage blinded his vision, and all he cared to hear was the splintering of cranium bone beneath the steel hilt. He would have hit him yet again if Tsuki had not grabbed his sword arm in a fierce grip.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

Farrion caught himself and realised what he had done. Heavens lay sprawled in a heap just before him, shivering and weeping. The side of his head had been bashed in, and liquid puss oozed from the rift in his undead flesh.

Grenth take me, what have I done? What the hell am I becoming? I didn’t mean to do that!

“Oh gods, Heavens! I’m so sorry!” Farrion dropped the sword and moved to help the elementalist, but Tsuki held him back.

“Don’t go any nearer to him, Farrion.” Her quiet voice, one that could be lost and forgotten amongst a sea of other more pronounced vocals, now epitomised a queer, ice-cold authority. Her dark eyes glittered with anger. “You don’t want us, so we’re going to them. You can’t accept what you are. For a moment I thought you really cared about our state, but look at what you did to him! Look! We don’t need this from you!”

Farrion could feel the blood boiling in his veins. Never in his life had he been able to get this angry so quickly, but it felt strangely good. He wanted more of it. Needed more. The sensation made him feel uniquely powerful, more out of control than he had ever been. Even now the tendrils of a massive spell wove together in his mind with more speed than he had ever been capable of before.

Oh gods. Dear Lyssa, what is ––

“We stick to my plan.” Farrion brought himself to say, his teeth grinding out each word like a machine. “It is the only way.”

“What’s the matter with you? What has gotten into you? You’ve never been like this since I’ve met you!”

Farrion’s vision swirled for a moment as every sense in his being trembled with rage. Why could they not see that he was the leader? Their only hope of getting out of this barren Hell? What in Dwayna’s name did they expect him to do? Just lie around waiting for something to happen? To go mad like Heavens? Couldn’t they see that Karak needed his help? Couldn’t they damn well see?

“What’s gotten into me?!” Farrion jumped to his feet and such mesmeric energy bristled from him that both the warrior and Tsuki backed away from him, staring at him through eyes as wide as a dolyak’s nostrils. “I’m dead, you bitch, and you ask me that! Well let me just show you what has gotten into me!!”

Farrion flashed out his arms towards the monk, the final weavings of that massive domination spell – elaborate in its construction, barbaric in its power – upon his lips. And a bony, gauntleted fist hammered into his neck from behind, sending the whole world into nothingness.

Sk8tborderx · Apr 01, 2007, 06:09 AM // 06:09

Great work, I can't wait for the next chapter.

Unreal Cyn · Apr 21, 2007, 05:59 AM // 05:59

Greetings once again everyone! I do apologize for not posting anything for the past three weeks or so, but man, I had quite a few assignments to code and tests to write that I barely had time to sleep far less write anything worthwhile. It's so bad that I swear if I see another If-Else statement I'm going to do something rash, the details of which I'm not going to post here

. I've been seeing some fresh new stories on the forum and I'm hoping that we'll see more of them this coming summer. Anyhow, where was I? Right. Chapter 10!

The Forlorn Sands

The sky was a dark ocean of black ink; glittering stars rippling along its surface like waves. An ever present easterly wind still held, though weakly, bathing the travellers in what felt like icy water. Before them, as far as the eyes could see, lay miles upon miles of unbroken, featureless desert.

To Habib, the desert reminded him of an ocean as well, a calm firmament undisturbed by time, yet changing with every breeze, every storm. A place of contradictions, the desert – so beautiful, yet so deceptively deadly. The heat of the day had long since leached into the night sky, remaining only deep down beneath the sands where the lizards lay.

Habib and Big Charr had shed their armour before starting out, packing up whatever supplies they still had in a few large bundles and strapping them to a makeshift sled they had created from the bleached bones of some huge desert minotaur. They had been taking turns between pulling it and guarding Karak ever since, and Habib despised both jobs.

The only sound now was the soft crunching of crystalline sand beneath boots and sled. The calm and quiet let him think and reminisce like never before. And for the second time in as many days, his mind went back to the acres of tall corn amidst freshly ploughed earth, and the modest homestead that lay at their centre.

How he could never forget that place. The place he had built with his own sweat, blood and tears, the place he had settled down to raise a family.
Habib had been a young man then, big and strong as the wildest bull. Unafraid of anything and so determined to make things work that he could have even made crops grow in the desert. And full of love. People used to say that his wife had tamed him, kept him in check for all those years. Him and eventually their two sons and daughters.

All of their faces coalesced before his waking vision, laughing, smiling, and calling his name. Coalescing like mist, but never really solidifying into distinct pictures. Gods, my memory’s going. Those years had been the best times of his entire life; years he thought would never end.

But end they did.

“Habib.” Whispered Heather as she fell back to walk beside him, “Do you want help with that sled?”

It had been the first time she had said anything since leaving the cave, and her sudden friendliness along with his musings did much to catch Habib off-guard. He blinked and looked across at her pale face, illuminated in a ghastly radiance by her swirling cloud of misty light.

“No. I’m quite alright.”

A short, uneasy silence passed between them, as though Heather were struggling with herself to say something.

“Look,” she started finally, “I just wanted to say sorry for acting the way I did.” She sighed, “I…I know you were trying to keep the peace, and I let my emotions take over. Will you forgive me?”

To say that he was shocked would be an understatement. Heather had never struck him as one who would forgive anyone, far less ask for it. But this would not be the first time he had been wrong about someone, and most certainly it would not be the last.

“It’s alright. I forgive you.” He grabbled up the ropes for the sled in one hand and hugged her with the other one. It was an impulsive move, but he felt that he had to do it.

The young woman did not flinch or pull away as he though she would; rather, she hugged him back with even more gusto. “Thank you, Habib.” She whispered again. “I don’t want you to be angry with me. I feel that we share something, you know. You, me and Karak. I don’t know why, but I don’t want anything to get between us, okay?”

You feel that we share something, eh? You’re a strange young lady, Heather. Are maybe you’re a strange old lady? I wonder how long you have existed.

“Alright.” Habib replied finally, squeezing her small shoulder.

“I heard Normire saying that Karak was possessed.” She didn’t sound too surprised.

“Yes. You knew this already?”

She shrugged, “Before we blasted our way into the cavern I felt this other presence coming from his body. Each person’s body acts as a container for their soul you see, and usually there should only be one soul per body. I’ve never known it to be different. But Karak now… I felt this other presence, this other soul, in him. His was still there, but this other one….” She sighed and shrugged again, “It was the soul of a woman. One that I felt he knew. But he said that he was alright and we never spoke of it again.”

Habib frowned deeply. There was much he did not know, but there was something about what Heather was saying that unsettled him greatly.

“How the hell did it happen?”

“I’m not sure. You were with him longer than I was.”

Habib thought on that. Karak had not been all that strange when he had first met him, lying half-dead in a bed of bloodied sand back in Amnoon. Habib remembered the long-legged Mesmer woman, whom Karak had been talking to pull a knife on him, slicing his neck. He did not know why she did it, but Habib had not waited around to ask questions. An arrow through the chest was conversation enough.

But as his memory cleared and came back to him, he realised that he was missing something very important. The Mesmer woman was doing something to Karak back then; her wrist pressed against his bleeding neck. Did that have anything to do with the warrior’s current state?

Habib doubted it. He needed more time to think that theory through.

“I don’t know either. We may have to ask him when he comes back around.”

Heather shook her head, “He might not have the chance to come back around, Habib. With every passing moment, whatever is inside him is rooting itself even deeper. Soon there won’t be any Karak left.”

“Oh, Gods, there’s always something isn’t there?” Habib said, glancing back at Karak on the sled. The big warrior suddenly pulled up short and almost tripped over his own feet.

Karak was gone.

~ * ~

Have to get out. Need to get out.

He pushed himself harder and harder, falling over his feet as much as over the sand dunes in the silvery night. His breath was erupting from his chest in painful, shallow gasps, and his every muscle and sinew felt frozen. Yet his shirt was soaked with sweat, and rivulets of the salty fluid streamed down his forehead and legs.

“Have to get out. Need to get out.” He croaked, each word burning his throat as though laced with pepper. “Have to get out. Need to ––.” His legs gave way once again, throwing him flat on his face in the blinding sand.

Slowly, painfully, as though his very limbs were trying to refuse his commands, he crawled back to his knees. For a moment he looked out across the barren waste, seeing nothing moving. He must have finally lost them after all.

He grabbed his head between his hands and squeezed as hard as he could. Nothing he did could quieten the bloody voices shouting in his mind; arguing, fighting to take over. He thought he knew how they came to be there, but with every passing second what he thought was usually the thoughts of one of the voices in his head.

“Why are you doing this to me?!” he screamed, his voice echoing over the lifeless plains like the shriek of a ghost.

“I’m sorry, my love, I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen.” He screamed again, this time in a voice not his own. “We must keep fighting…we have to ––.”

“Silence, bitch. He is mine. Now and evermore.” Spoke another voice that was as harsh as sandpaper on the ears.

Karak could not remember when he had started hearing that other voice, that harsh voice. He did not know why and or how any of those voices came to be in head. All he wanted was for them to go to get out. Strapped to that sled had been torture, those voices confusing him and Karak powerless to do anything about it.

Not that what he was doing now was making any bloody impact either, but it felt better than doing nothing at all.

In the distance some miles away towards the eastern horizon there exploded a plume of bright blue light, which bathed the desert like the light of a false dawn. It rose far into the night sky, almost like a beacon to folk on another world. But as suddenly as it had erupted, it was gone, sinking back into the sands like a mirage.

In that brief light Karak saw the remains of a village far to the east; in the direction of the source of the blue light. The roofs and walls of the place were clear to him, but no fires burned within its walls.

“A city! Maybe they can help me, maybe they can help me!” Karak could not think straight. The cold air felt like many fingers grasping his arms and legs and his sight fluttered between light and dark. “The city-folk will help me. I know they can.”

“You’re soon mine, Karak. Just like all the rest. All the rest. For all the world’s a stage, and all men and women, merely players; puppets. I shall be master!”

That voice spiked through his head like a hammer-driven nail, and Karak grabbed his head anew and screamed from his gut. His wail echoed back and forth across the void of the desert night, until it slipped into silence.

shadow-violet · Apr 21, 2007, 05:26 PM // 17:26

Keep up the great work, I hope the next chapter won't take as long =P

Unreal Cyn · Apr 24, 2007, 05:01 AM // 05:01

Thanks for the comment shadow, and I hope that I won't take that long to get the rest of these chapters finished. Here's Chapter 11, please enjoy!

Not Only the River Thirsts

Their carriage pulled into the sparsely populated camp on the brink of nightfall, with the stars already out and glittering on the clear desert sky. The voices of the merchants, peddlers and adventurers mingled in the air; coming and going like the ghosts that walked amongst them. The River gurgled to the east, so quiet was the night that the sound of barely moving water was as clear to the ear as a scream.

Cyn stepped out the wood coffin that they called a carriage and gave the camp a quick evaluation. There were less people here than the last time he had been through; trade routes had opened to Elonia and Cantha, drawing thousands across the seas. Now the only thing that kept the small camp at Thirsty River alive was the River itself. It was the only source of water in the western Crystal Desert, and so drew many to its banks.

Which was another thing that was different since the last time Cyn had been through here. Back when he was seeking ascension and killing minotaurs, the Thirsty River had been just that – thirsty. A contradiction. Barren. He was wondering where the locals had found the water when a soft but steady hand grabbed his arm and the woman it belonged to stumbled unduly out of the carriage.

“Frig, that first step is a motherf**ker isn’t it?” Jala said as she steadied herself. She looked around at the darkening camp and sighed, “Ah, well we finally made it sweetheart.”

“Yeah.” Cyn wrapped an arm around her as a biting breeze clutched past them, “This place has changed a lot since the last time I visited. The River’s running again, but the camp feels so…dead.”

“Well, you know how it is. Times change, people move on or get crushed.”
Cyn shrugged. There was that feeling of wrongness about again, but he ignored it. “Let’s get down there and get something to eat.”

When he was still in the throes of his transformation into the new being he had become, Jala had managed to get a hold of a band of five desert-going adventurers. Cyn had no idea how she had convinced them to escort her and Cyn to the nearest camp, in a carriage too no less. But it would be difficult for lesser men to resist the compulsions of Jala.

Those adventurers now…. Cyn had found that they moved as silently as ghosts themselves, and in their eyes was a distant, almost lost look. They had not complained or objected to anything he had asked of any of them, and their answers to his questions about their pasts were evasive at best. And the way they looked at Jala, almost with expectation.

That feeling again worming his way into his system. This time he found it impossible to ignore. He tried anyway, biting his lip and sucking on the blood as he inadvertently sliced the flesh. Jala asked two of the adventurers to stay with the carriage as the rest of them went towards the camp.

The five of them attracted many glances as they entered the camp; Cyn and Jala strolling hand in hand with the three adventurers trailing behind and carrying a few items of trade like furs and bones and teeth and of course sleeping bags for when they decided to hit the hay, or the sand in this case.

The dusty path beneath them widened into a courtyard of sorts just up ahead, where the light of the bonfires crept out towards them. On either side of the path rose the half-crumbled remnants of sun-blasted buildings, buried in sand and with their wooden beams and steel infrastructures piercing upwards from the brick flesh like the bones of a hydra long dead. Shadows clung deep within the ruins, and the whisper of an occasional breeze shook the shutters of the old windows.

They passed through a narrow passage in the cleft of the desert rock, where the remains of a wooden ship hung on its side above them.

“Greetings, young master!” cried a man who half-leapt out at them from his perch on top a short shelf of bleached stone, which lay just above the path. The man was dressed in a long, rugged travellers’ cloak and bore a smile that covered nearly half his face. “I can see that you’re the travelling sort. Might I interest you in something? I have artefacts from all over Tyria and even some from the far, exotic realms of Echovald Forest and Istan!”

“I’m good, thanks.” Cyn replied as he moved on.

“But, my good man!” the peddler hollered after him, “Perhaps some jewellery for the lady? Or some clothes for the servants?”

Servants?

Cyn stopped so suddenly that he tugged backwards on Jala’s hand. Servants? He turned and glanced back at the three adventurers. By Melandru, they do look like servants.

“What’s wrong?” Jala asked, massaging her wrist, “Finding it hard to ignore that peddler’s adolescent voice? I’m sure that our friends here can deal with him.”

With not so much as a nod of the head, or even a flick of the hand, one of the adventurers – Jeremy, Cyn thought he called himself – dropped his things, drew his sword and moved against the peddler. The whip-thin peddler back-peddled so fast from Jeremy that he tripped over his own feet and went down sprawling onto the sand.

Cyn blinked and shook himself. “It’s alright. Leave him alone. Let’s go and find something to eat.”

And with that, Jeremy was sheathing his sword and once again shouldering his packs. The man never uttered a word, not even a grunt during the whole scenario. The peddler lay on his haunches, eyes wide open and panting. He had surely seen his own death in the eyes of Jeremy.

But Cyn’s mind was not on the peddler, but on Jala. In the deepening shadows it could only have been a trick of the light, but he thought that her eyes glistened for a moment, like cat eyes, or those of a snake. Her lips were compressed in a tight smile, barely revealed in the shadows, and her gaze was fixed on Jeremy and the others.

“Jala.” Cyn grabbed her shoulder and shook it gently.

She looked back at him and her smile broadened, “What?”

What the hell did you just do? “I said let’s get something to eat.”

She shrugged and took his hand in hers, “Then what are we waiting for then? Let’s not bother ourselves with these lesser animals. They’re only good for carrying our luggage and worshipping at our feet.”

Cyn raised an eyebrow at the adventurers behind them. They were within earshot of what Jala had just said, but they seemed unfazed. In fact it seemed as though they had not heard her at all. He could not read their eyes in the darkness.

Three large bonfires illuminated the place, throwing jagged tongues of light into the liquid of shadow that pooled around the camp. The scent of roast Minotaur flesh hung thick in the air; the smokes of several spits spiralling towards the heavens. At each fire Cyn could make out a band of ragged travellers – brown and beige-clad adventurers and merchants who sat playing dominos, drinking beer or chatting. By their faces and accents the ranger guessed that many, if not all of them hailed from Tyria.

A tall man dressed in the flowing beige robes of a desert dweller approached them as they passed the first bonfire. Only his eyes peeked out at them from between the slit in his linen headgear and the light played at the dark lines and angles that creased his forehead. At his flanks were two similarly dressed men, both shorter, but with their hands on the hilts of the swords strapped to their waists.

“Welcome to the River, travellers.”

Cyn and Jala stopped, the ranger looking over the three men. They seemed like hardened adventurers, refined and burnished by many years in the desert sun. The robes did not reveal much about their physique, but the way they carried themselves suggested that each man was powerful and deadly in his own right.

“Is there a problem here?” Cyn asked.

“Hopefully not. Just a warning, traveller. This camp is under the protection of the Scarabs. By coming here you will agree to follow our rules: no fighting, no murder, and no abuse of our environs. We have done a lot of work here when no one else would, and we do not wish to see our investments drain into the sands.”

“We agree. We won’t be here for too long in any case.”

The man nodded, and his gaze settled on Jala. To Cyn it seemed that it lingered there for many moments too long. “Enjoy your stay.” He said finally. The three men turned and headed back past the bonfire, towards a large, low tent that occupied a rocky outcrop higher than the rest of the camp.

“That was interesting.” Jala said, more to herself than to him.

Cyn thought so too and glanced once more at that low tent. There was a fire burning within its thin-minotaur and hydra hide, and at its doors stood two armed men, garbed in the same fashion as the three desert men. And although he could not be entirely sure, Cyn thought that the eyes of those men were fixed on him, studying his every move.

Scarabs they call themselves. Cyn thought to himself. Yet another guild I’ve never heard of. Wonder why they would bother with this place anyway?

Jala directed the three adventurers in setting up their camp, not too far away from the furthest bonfire, but still far enough away to give a sense of privacy. It was in the shadow of a well-preserved ship, which looked ready to sail just given water. In moments they had a small fire going and were off looking to buy foodstuffs with the tradable items.

Cyn found himself alone with Jala yet again, who had made her way up a short dune and now stood staring off into the desert waste to the west.

“Homesick?” He asked as he walked up beside her.

She sniffed, “I know you’re kidding, sweetheart. I would never miss leaving that prison.” She turned and gave him another one of her broad smiles, one that matched her perfect features like a hand in glove. “I’m glad to be with you, now that you’ve come round to your senses.”

“Me too. It was my destiny to be at your side, even from the beginning. I now realise that. Things have a way of catching up with you. But now that we’re together and we more or less know where we want to be, how do we get there?”

Jala sighed and eased closer to him, “It’s simple, really. I’ve thought about it for a long time. There’s something big stirring in the world, it’s on the air even. I could feel it through the walls of that prison. Coming from over there,” she turned and pointed east, where the desert ended at a series of steadily rising mesas beyond the River, “in Elonia. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but we have to be a part of it. Chaos will erupt soon enough and we must be there to take advantage of it.”

Cyn realised that Jala had answered his question without really answering it. She wanted to go to Elonia. She told me that before. This is nothing new. But Cyn let the matter pass. One step at a time. The world shall be ours soon enough.

“But there’s something else, Cyn.” Jala whispered. Her voice took on a chill edge, and when Cyn looked at her he found that she was staring back off into the desert like before.

“What?”

A blue light suddenly shot up out of the horizon, rising hundreds of feet into the air like a towering pillar of diamond, shimmering with light of its own. The desert lit up for miles in a ghastly blue twilight, and a cold wind rushed towards them, engulfing Cyn and Jala momentarily in a blinding cloud of dust. When Cyn blinked and rubbed the dust from his eyes the tower of light was gone; sinking back into the desert.

“What by Melandru was that?”

“A beacon.”

“A beacon? For whom?”

“For fools.”

Unreal Cyn · May 03, 2007, 05:47 AM // 05:47

Hey again everyone, hope things are cool with you guys. Middle of exams over here for me but there's still a story to be written. I hope you continue to enjoy it!

Calling to the Night

“How in blazes could he have gotten loose?” Big Charr grunted hysterically, “I tied those cords my bloody self! There’s no way he could have gotten loose!”

“Settle down, Charr,” Habib sighed. When it ain’t one thing, it’s another. “We can’t worry about how he managed to get loose right now. We have to focus on getting him back.”

“Any idea where he went?” Normire asked.

Habib glanced at him, strangely relieved that the necromancer had a calm presence of mind and a forward thinking attitude. He hoped that he was not making a mistake by allowing him to come along, for like Cyn, Habib had seen Normire dead. But Karissa had somehow managed to resurrect him. And resurrections always have their price. I wonder what Normire had to pay. Or has to pay, eventually.

“We didn’t find any tracks in the sand.” Heather replied, clipping each word. Despite whatever she had said about her emotions, they still seemed very raw towards Normire. Habib wished that he had the time to find out just how far those two went, but he dismissed the idea.

“No tracks? How is that bloody-well possible? Are you trying to tell me that he what, untied himself even though his arms and legs were bound three and four times, and what, floated away?!” Big Charr settled into cursing and grunting.

Heather shrugged, “Your nose is bigger than mine; maybe you can sniff him out.”

She had obviously never spoken to a Charr before, so Habib realised that Heather would not know that telling a Charr anything about his nose was derogatory at best.

“Do I look like a f**king dog to you?” Big Charr snarled in that unnerving way that sent shivers up Habib’s spine.

“She meant nothing by it, Charr,” Habib interjected, resting a hand on the Charr’s hariy shoulder, “take it easy, big fella.”

“That’s true. I apologize.” Heather added quickly.

Big Charr sighed deeply and massaged his long snout and floppy ears. “What…what’s the plan, Habib?”

Habib gazed around at the dark landscape, seeing nothing but rolling sands. “He couldn’t have gotten far, not in the state he was in. I think we all know that something’s very wrong with him, so we have to be careful now that he’s loose.” For some reason, Habib’s eyes were drawn to the eastern horizon. It looked no different than anywhere else in this gloom, but something felt strange over there.

“What the hell is that?” Heather whispered as she turned and followed his gaze. “Where is that coming from?”

“What?” Habib asked.

“Can’t you hear it?” she looked back at him and raised her eyebrows. “It’s calling your name.”

“My name?”

There was a sudden flash of blue light and when Habib looked back towards the east he could see a giant pillar of light arcing into the sky. For a moment he thought that it was the result of some aeromancer’s spell, but that blue light looked too solid to be any lightning bolt.

“What in blazes?” Big Charr cursed.

The pillar of light reached its zenith and suddenly dissolved, vanishing back towards the desert. In seconds, only the memory of it remained.

A bout of silence passed amongst the company. Habib’s throat felt dry and his muscles shivered of their own accord. He had not heard anything calling his name, but the fact that Heather did was enough to further unsettle him. Why would something be calling my name out here?

“I don’t think anyone answered my question just now,” Big Charr snarled, “What in blazes was that?”

“Looked like a pillar of light to me,” Karissa offered, which got her a nasty glare from Heather and a raised eyebrow from Normire.

“There’s a town down there,” Heather began, stepping away from the company and looking out towards the east, “I saw it in the light. Looks deserted…but maybe that’s where Karak is headed. It’s the only feature around here for miles.”

I didn’t see any town. Maybe that’s because I was so focused on the light itself. A town eh? I don’t ever recall a town being out this far into the Arid Sea. Must really be a ruin.

“We’ve still got many hours of night left. Let’s investigate it. Does anyone object to that?” Habib said.

No one objected, but maybe that was due to the way Heather glared at them. Without another word she was moving down the slope of the sand dune, heading towards the seemingly dead town. Her glowing mist moved with her, and again Habib wondered if everyone’s choice to come along stemmed from the fact that if they didn’t they would be left alone without light.

The silence held until the dark shapes of what could be walls and buildings materialised out of the gloom up ahead. The breeze that had held from the west dropped to a whisper, and as the party drew closer to the town, it died altogether. Habib had no good feelings about this place, and he did not need to hear the several alarms that went off in his mind to tell that something was not right here either.

“Look,” Heather whispered to him, “Boot-prints.” She motioned to the sand just before them, where a pair of boot-prints abruptly began, as though the owner of those boots had fallen out of the sky.

“Stop here,” he commanded, rummaging through the supplies on the sled, “Big Charr, let’s suit up before we head in there. I have no happy feelings about this place.” I still can’t forget that hall with the zombies, or that portal room with the dryders. Both death-traps.

Big Charr nodded and grabbed for his armour and sword. In moments the two warriors were dressed, Habib wielding his rapier in one hand and his heavy buckler in the other. He watched as Big Charr clasped the cape of the Wraiths about his neck and smiled. He hasn’t given up on the Wraiths yet, eh? Even with Bones, Heavens and Tsuki dead. We’re all that’s left, now. Tears sought to well up in his eyes, but Habib fought them back. Now was not the time for regrets and sorrow. Before he moved away from the sled he found his own cape and clasped it on. He was not going to mourn the guild. He was going to cherish its memory.

“Keep on your guard, ladies and gentlemen.” He turned to Heather, “I want a lot of light in there – as much as you can give us. And keep an eye out for anything, people! I’ve lost too many group members for my entire lifetime. I won’t lose anymore.”

Normire fetched his staff from the sled and nodded at Habib. “You won’t.” There was a strange glitter in his dark eyes and chilling note of finality in his voice that for some reason gave Habib a measure of confidence. Maybe he had been one hell of a guild leader after all.

It was decided to leave the sled outside, with all of the supplies not needed for any sort of assault. Habib took the lead, with Heather and Karissa at the centre and Big Charr and Normire holding the rear. The curling lighted mist of the mutli-talented Heather spread out for many yards around the party, illuminating a bright white circle in the gloom. Even so, the rearguard held aloft a torch each, which burned fitfully in the still air.

From what Habib could see as they passed the crumbling walls to either side of the main road into the town, the place really was a ruin. Abandoned buildings two and three floors high bracketed the road, their roofs long gone and their windows gaping open blindly.

The sand beneath their feet gradually faded to bleached cobblestone, and the remains of once lush gardens and towering trees were revealed in the passing light; memories of a time that was no more. Wash-lines still hung between posts in the old backyards, and here and there Habib could make out the decaying remains of what used to be merchant stalls and shops by the side of the road.

The party kept moving and no one said a word. The shuffling of their feet and the crackling of the torch-fire seemed muted; swallowed up by the silence of this place. The silence had an almost living quality to it, actively hushing everything that made a sound. After a time, Habib had the unsettling feeling that many eyes were upon him, staring at him from a doorway over there, or a dark window up there, but whenever Heather’s light reached the place, nothing revealed itself.

It was then that the warrior realised that this place was not just an abandoned town. It was a graveyard. Almost immediately after that thought passed through his head did Habib regret having set foot in this place. It’s another death-trap. Oh Balthazar! I walked right into it! Karak! Did he set us up somehow?

But it seemed as though his fears were misplaced, for nothing assailed them as they worked their way even deeper into the gut of the town. Nothing but the eyes of the hidden watchers.

“Well, this looks like a central plaza,” Normire said from behind as the party stopped where the main road merged into a large square. “If Karak is in here, he’s being amazingly quiet, which would be totally out of character for him. It’s so quiet here I could even hear an ant fart.”

“There’s something up ahead, Habib.” Heather said, pointing towards where the front-most edge of her circle of light dissolved into darkness. “It’s not moving.”

Habib tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword. “Together, company. Ready now!” he whispered fiercely.

They inched forwards, and the silhouette of a person came into view. Whoever it was sat backing them, huddled on the ground with their knees drawn up to their chest. The person was bareback; unlike Karak was when he left the party. And that, coupled with the rake-like quality of the person led Habib to realise that whoever this person was, it wasn’t Karak of Egilos.

The company came within two feet of the huddled man and still he made no move. Habib signalled for them to keep an eye on their environs and moved closer.

“Hey, sir. What are you doing here? Are you in some sort of difficulty?” the warrior asked, stopping an arm’s length away from the man.

Still, there was no reply.

“Sir?” Habib nudged the man’s shoulder with his buckler and he suddenly jumped, and rolled onto his side.

Habib back-peddled instantly, but froze as the lighted mist settled about the features of the man. In that washed glow the man’s face was chillingly clear; gaunt, all lines and creases of thin, leathery flesh that just seemed to be tightly stretched over bare bone. His mouth was frozen in a silent wail, and his eye-sockets held nothing but pools of shadow.

The man was dead, and rigor mortis had long since set in; his stature frozen in the foetal position as though the last thing he did was to hide from something horrible. Habib glanced over his shoulder at the rest of his company, noting the shock on their faces.

“It’s fresh.” Normire was the first to speak, easing next to Habib and staring down at the dried husk of a corpse. “This man was alive not less than two nights ago.”

“How can you be sure of that? He’s got rigor for the gods’ sake.”

Normire shrugged, “I’m a necromancer.”

That was not the answer Habib had sought, but he let that pass as well. The corpse before him was too much of a reminder of those zombies in that hallway, but at least this corpse was not moving. Not yet at any rate.

“Do you know what killed him?” Habib asked again as he stared out past the corpse into the darkness. He could still feel many eyes on him; of invisible watchers keeping silent vigil in the night.

The necromancer bent down low over the corpse and laid a hand on the head. After a moment he looked up and sighed, “I don’t know. Fear, most likely. There’s nothing else but fear radiating from him – an echo of the thing that was possibly pursuing him.” He turned back to the corpse and fingered the dark holes where the man’s eyeballs should have been, “I can’t really tell, but it looks as though these wounds were self-inflicted.”

“He gouged out his own eyes?” Habib’s voice fell to a whisper, “You’re trying to say that he gouged out his own goddamn eyes?”

Normire rose to his feet and shrugged. “Fear, Habib. Fear would make a man do anything. But for him to blind himself – I’d hate to meet the thing that frightened him so.”

Normire continued talking, but Habib suddenly realised that he could not hear what the necromancer was saying. All around him the little sounds died, and filling the void came the cries of many voices, some clear, others far distant, every one gaining in intensity. They reached a crescendo, then fell away, back and forth until one voice dominated the rest, filling his ears as though the speaker was right there standing next to him.

“Daddy.”

Habib twirled round, assuming a defensive stance automatically. There was a rummaging of feet and shuffling of armour as Big Charr, Normire and Heather followed suit in a protective circle around Karissa.

“What is it big man?” Big Charr snarled.

Habib’s heart was hammering on the inside of his chest plate, as though seeking freedom from the heat that was rushing through his veins. The warrior was breathing frantically, and he tried desperately to regain control, to settle down. But that voice echoed through the long caverns of his mind, calling and answering itself; a voice he had never hoped to hear again in this world or the next.

The voice of his daughter.

Sk8tborderx · May 03, 2007, 07:11 AM // 07:11

Great stuff, can't wait for the next chapter.

mister pister · May 04, 2007, 05:58 AM // 05:58

It's good to see you're still writing, man. Keep it up! Your writing just keeps getting better.

Oh btw, as you probably know by now, I have given up on GW for the time being. College is killing me with work and, well, I just don't have time anymore. Hope everything is still going well over there at hop.

Unreal Cyn · May 16, 2007, 06:19 AM // 06:19

Well guys exams are finally over for me and I can finally enjoy a couple weeks of rest! Been a hectic time but I thank you for your views and for your comments Sk8t and Pister! Man, I'm not even sure how things are going with hop either - I haven't actually played GW seriously for months now

. But don't let the work kill you Pister - school-work isn't worth losing your life over, if you catch my drift. But on another note, here's hoping that I can catch back up, both in-game and with the story. Please enjoy Chapter 13!

Second Passage

“What’s the matter, Habib?” Heather asked again, shifting her stance slightly to look over her shoulder at him. “Did you hear something?”

Habib said nothing but trained his ears on the environs, trying – possibly even hoping – hard to hear the voice again. But there was nothing now but the empty void of silence and the soft drumming of his heart. The warrior sighed, but the tension did not drain from his muscles.

“It was nothing. Just my imagination.”

Heather holstered her daggers and moved over to him, “What did you hear?”
“I told you – it was nothing important.”

Her blue eyes scanned him intently and she looked about to speak, but she only nodded and moved onto the dried corpse. For a moment Habib thought that she could read his own thoughts; know exactly what he had heard. It was only my imagination, though. That could not have been her. Not out here.

The big warrior shivered when Big Charr’s large, meaty paw rested on his shoulder. “You’re crying, big man.”

Habib straightened and rubbed the end of his cape over his face, erasing the traces of tears that were gently streaming down his chiselled face. Gods in the Mists. Why did you have to take them? He nodded at the Charr, “Thanks. Now take up your positions, everyone. We move on to the northern walls of this place, but please be careful. Enter no building alone, not even if you see an orgy of beautiful women through a window.”

Normire laughed heartily – a strange sound coming from a necromancer – and leaned on his staff for support. “By the Gods, Habib, you’re one hell of a comedian.”

Habib frowned. He did not see any mirth in what he just said. “Just stay close people.”

Leaving the corpse behind, the company moved on through the plaza. The now mostly-bleached stones beneath their feet still held traces of colour; reds and blues and gold, which, in this town’s prime must have made for a spectacular sight. Dead trees, petrified and bleached by the sun, grasped towards the sky like jagged splinters of bone, and further back, out of the range of Heather’s stable light, Habib could still feel the eyes of a thousand watchers.

“Something is coming.” Karissa said suddenly as soon as the company reached the terminus of the plaza.

Before them stood a massive building complex, built from large, heavy blocks of what looked oddly enough like limestone. Large windows with wrought-iron grills stared down at them from three floors up and the main door hung slightly open. That feeling of being watched intently was the most prevalent here, and for a moment Habib had a mind to turn and get the hell out of this place.

The company formed a tight defensive circle and stared out into the darkness all around. “What is it?” Habib asked.

“I don’t know. Forget it. I’m sorry I spoke.”

“Say what you have to say goddamn it. This isn’t one of your f**king games!” Heather hissed, turning on Karissa with daggers in hand.

Habib grabbed the small woman and locked her arms behind her in a vice-grip. “And this is no time for murder either, Heather!”

“Maybe it is, friend Habib.” Normire said, so casually that Habib thought that the man was talking about the weather.

And that was when the night erupted in chaos.

A score of crystal-bladed arrows swept out of the night, drizzling the company in a rain of death. Habib barely had time to raise his shield, shove Heather behind him and stoop closer to the ground before the arrows pummelled into it. Crystal slammed into wood with such an increasing fervour that the warrior felt himself being pushed back, and his shield-arm growing numb.

In moments he felt Big Charr’s hairy mass beside him, his tower shield before him like a wall of steel. Normire and the ladies were pressed behind them both, sheltering desperately under the shields. Heather chanted something intelligible and suddenly the air around them bristled with invisible energy. Habib sighed in relief and allowed his mind to settle down and focus. Balthazar lend me strength. We have to get out of here. We should never have come here!

“How long will your protective shield last, Heather?” he cried over his shoulder. The arrows had stopped raining down on them – the protective shield above them resisted them instead.

“As long as we need it.” Her voice sounded unsettled and steady as though the shield was not really in fact anything major.

“What the hell is firing at as, Habib? I can’t see a thing out there.” Big Charr growled.

“Death, dear Charr. Whatever those things are out there, they have not drawn breath in many an age.” Normire said in his easy-going manner. Habib could not help but feel that nothing could surprise the man.

“Undead? Out here?” Big Charr sounded mildly scandalised. He had never been to the desert prior to this, and he always associated undeath with the swamps of Kryta.

“Forgotten.” Karissa whispered, “I don’t think we should enter this building!”

“Do you see somewhere else to bloody-well go?” Heather hissed.

“We must stand and fight. We must not do as they want.”

“We? You mean us. You do nothing but stand and stare, you useless bit ––.”

“Enough Heather!” Habib shouted impatiently. The wheels of his mind were spinning violently, now. Could they dare stand and fight the Forgotten? How many were there? If that feeling of being watched by a thousand unseen things was any indication, then they did not have much of a chance, if any. And this building behind them…. Habib turned and beheld the complex once again.

No windows on the lower floors. Door virtually wide open. Walled fence surrounding the environs, vanishing into the darkness from whence more arrows still erupted. The company was surrounded, and the only escape really was through that building.

The straight, narrow corridor filled with zombies and dryders came back to Habib’s mind, and for a moment his heart sank. I’ve led these people from one death to another. I’m too old for this, now. My senses are failing.

“I think we should haul some serious ass through that building, Habib.” Normire said from behind him. The necromancer was now rising to his feet and straining to see whatever had massed in the darkness before them.

Habib and the others rose and the warrior went over to him. In the necromancer’s eyes burned a cold fire. “It is a trap. You must know this.”

Normire turned to look at him, “Yes, it is. But sometimes the only way to escape a trap is to walk right through it with eyes wide open.”

Maybe he really was one hell of a guild leader.

“Very well.” Habib sighed, “Back now, everyone! Towards that building behind us! It must have a back exit.”

They formed up another defensive circle, Habib taking the lead with the others pressed close around him. Slowly they retreated to the building, with Heather’s light illuminating more of the place and its bleached environs. The barrage of arrows from the darkness intensified as they neared the building, striking and fizzling on the invisible protective shield like a million buzzing insects.

Habib eased through what remained of the door and as Heather’s light swept through the room, he sought for a barricade. He and Big Charr found an old cupboard near the door, empty now except for a few antique plates and wares, and slid it snugly into the doorway. It worked better than Habib had expected, but something in the back of his mind told him that the door would not need any barricade.

He could hear the arrows still raining down on the front of the building, effectively pinning the company inside and forcing them to find another way out. He turned and scanned the room.

It was wide, broken by tall doorways and sparsely furnished. A thin layer of sand draped everything and there was an intangible feeling of emptiness that lurked in the air. Old paintings of faded scenes lined the walls, but to Habib they felt more like staring eyes, watching and considering. A circular staircase wound up to the second floor, and on a brighter day Habib would have thought that the staircase was a spectacular work of design.

“We shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t!” Karissa moaned, wrapping her arms around herself and staring about the place furtively.

“There was nowhere else to ––.” Normire trailed off and turned to look behind him, eyebrows raised. “Did anyone else hear that?”

“No.” Heather snapped.

“What was it?” Habib asked. He had not heard anything else either, but something suddenly felt more out pf place than things usually were.

“Nothing. My imagination. I thought I heard the voice of my…. It was nothing.” The necromancer replied, but when he looked at Habib their eyes locked for a short moment and the old warrior suddenly realised what was going on.

And like fog dissipating in the sunlight, Heather’s light vanished entirely and Habib felt darkness itself wrap around him like so many cloaks, choking and blinding. There were muffled sounds of curses and struggle from all about him, and just there beneath the racket Habib thought he could hear the gentle hiss of many snakes.

Forgotten!

He sought to lash out with his sword but felt his arms being thrust behind him and bound with wire. He could not breathe. It seemed as though the darkness stole into his lungs like some poisonous gas, displacing his air and filling it with a void.

“Gods!” Habib cursed with his failing breath, “Gods!”

Before his lungs gave out and his muscles failed Habib thought he could hear the gentle laughter of many voices. “Fools,” they said, “Debt must be paid.”

Unreal Cyn · May 21, 2007, 03:39 AM // 03:39

A long installment to hopefully keep you busy for a while. I'll be bringing these myriad plotlines together in short order. Enjoy Chapter 14!

For Tomorrow

“I wonder who this Cyn was?” Vinessa murmured beside him.

“Probably a demon.” Heli replied, although he doubted it.

The two of them sat together in a small, windowless room; the only light coming from a few sputtering torches that only had a few more hours left in them. The place was as quiet as a tomb, but it was warm and there were only five other hapless souls in the room with them.

Vinessa leaned closer to him and pressed her lips against his ear, “Are you planning to escape?”

“If we get de chance. And even eff we get de chance….” Heli whispered and shrugged. He did not think that they were going to get that chance, and even if they did, there was no where else to go in this barren waste all around them. But hey, what’s the point in being depressed?

They had not left the room save for short walks through narrow corridors to the bathrooms, and with the lack of windows Heli had no idea what time of day it was, far less how much time had passed since they had been here. But the Charr had not starved them at any rate, and if Heli did not know that they were prisoners probably waiting to be sacrificed, he would have thought that they were actual guests at a one star Charr hotel.

“Well, as my dad used to say ‘if it ain’t one thing, it’s a next’. But what do you really think is going to happen to us if we don’t get that chance?” Vinessa whispered again, glancing across at their nearest roommate.

The woman’s eyes were open, but they were unfocused and mostly unseeing. The poor lady had already given up the will to live and only now waited for the inevitable. She was a crumpled heap of rags and flesh, lying unmoving save for the rise and fall of her chest, by the door. Heli averted his eyes from her and sat back against the wall.

“The truth of de matter is dat we might be sacrificed. Dat’s the only reason I can see fuh why dem spare we in the first place. But I’m not sure. Dem could be planning something else.”

She squeezed his arm and rested her head on his chest. “It really doesn’t matter.” Her breathing slowed and deepened and within moments she was fast asleep.

Heli held her close and sighed. I feel damn tired myself. But he could not bring himself to fall asleep. Vinessa had not realised it yet, but Heli had not slept for more than two hours a day (as far as he could reckon) and then not deeply. There was something about this place that offset him; something about the way the Charr treated them that suggested something other than sacrifice.

He searched through his memories for anything that strange Charr he had met years ago might have said. Anything that could lend some light to this predicament. But there was nothing. Why would they keep us alive if not for sacrifice? Why would they keep us alive at all?

“She’s a pretty girl.” Whispered a voice.

Heli turned to his left and found a small man leaning over him, his dark eyes fixed on Vinessa’s sleeping form. The man was balding, with scars all over his palish, weathered body. Heli could not remember hearing him speak before.
“Yes she is.” Heli replied, “And she’s trying to get some rest.”

The man grinned and sat back on his haunches, “I need a woman before I die. Don’t you? We can share her, if you like?”

Heli’s eyes strayed around the room and he found that the eyes of the other men – three of them – were staring at him. They looked steadier than he had remembered seeing them before, and for a moment they reminded him of a pack of wolves perusing its prey.

“She,” the man motioned to the woman by the door, “She’s too far gone for my liking. I need some warmth. Now her.” He motioned to Vinessa with a spindly arm, “She’s only a woman, and we’re all going to die anyway. Let’s have us some pleasure before the end, eh? The Charr are going to get us all eventually!”

Heli smiled. “How about this? You get the f**k away from me.”

The man reared up onto his feet like a wolf onto its hind legs and actually bared his teeth. “Fool! The bitch’s not worth it!”

He flung himself headlong at Heli, who caught him by the throat and snapped his neck like a twig. He crumpled into Heli like a broken doll and with his free arm Heli chucked the body off to the side.

The men at the back of the room were gaping at him now, all of their resolve and plans evaporating into nothingness. One of them was about to speak but Heli cut him off.

“Don’t be afraid of the Charr, gentlemen. Them does kill to please them gods. I kill to please meself.”

Vinessa squirmed in her sleep and muttered, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, go back to sleep.” Heli whispered back, his eyes never straying from the other men.

The Charr came for them the very next afternoon.

Heli and Vinessa were strung together by cold chains that dug into the flesh of their wrists, with their remaining four cellmates linked behind them. The body of the dead man brought nothing more out of the Charr guards than a mere grunt, and after prodding him and eventually throwing him into a corner of the room, they seemed to forget about him entirely.

Vinessa had wondered how he had died, and Heli had told her that he had died in his sleep. That did not explain the broken neck though, but Vinessa did not press the matter so Heli did not bring it up. No need to bother with all the unimportant little details.

As they trudged through the close but tall corridors, Heli tried to form a mental map of the place. But try as he might, every cell they passed looked almost the same, and all the branching corridors that their guards led them through were enough to throw his every sense of direction off completely.

Eventually the maze of corridors gave way to a long courtyard on the outside. Pristine breeze whipped into them as they emerged from the underground, both chilling and refreshing Heli’s senses. The sun was nearing noon, and the light it cast was very nearly blinding to his eyes that had become accustomed to the twilight of the cell. Hundreds of Charr were about the caldera, many dressed in colourful sashes and the headgear of large skulls. And a cacophony of voices beat into the air; growls and chants from a hundred throats that at once chilled and awed.

But his attention was riveted to the large, flat-top pyramid that dominated the caldera. At its summit stood a dozen or so Charr shamans – identified by their tall staves – and at their feet knelt five of the other prisoners Heli and Vinessa had been brought here with. Their hands were bound and their eyes seemed blindfolded, but Heli was too far away to make anything out clearly. Ah, we’ll soon be up there in any case.

He saw Vinessa shiver before him. He knew what had to be going through her head – it was never easy to face your death, even if you knew it was coming from one hundred miles off. Gods. I wish I could hold her again. I wish I could tell her that I would get us out of here. The ranger sighed and tried to look around the area, anywhere but up at that pyramid.

Listen to me though. Wishing things could be different. Ah, the folly of it all. Why should I go on hoping, eh? We were lucky to get here in the first place. It would take more than luck to get us any further. A miracle, perhaps. Shit, it would take Dwayna herself.

The guards led them up a series of rising wooden ramps to the top of the pyramid. Below them the Charr and the entire mountainous vista spread out like features of a chess board; the Charr seemed like so many ants. Their voices deafened Heli even from at this height, and the thin air did nothing to help his presence of mind.

The other prisoners already on their knees really were blindfolded. And they were shivering too, though not entirely from the chilling breeze that blew at this altitude. The Charr, on the other hand, were absolutely trembling with exuberant pleasure and an almost insane zeal. A shaman was chanting – or he could be speaking, Heli could not tell the difference with all of those grunts and curses – at the crowd, which responded with a massive roar that shook the pyramid down to its very foundations.

“Oh gods, Heli.” Vinessa whispered as she looked out over the crowd. “It’s almost like a dream. Some horrible nightmare. But…but I don’t feel afraid anymore. It’s strange, don’t you think?”

“No.” Gods, just to hold her this one last time. “It’s being brave. There’s a place in the Mists for you, Vinessa.”

She tried to turn around to face him, but the chain went taut and kept her facing forwards. “There’s a place for both of us, my love.”

Heli wanted to say something more, something firm and brave, but found that he could not. There was nothing else he could say. There was nothing else he could do for her. For a moment he wondered how they would go. Would the Charr torch them alive? Impale them on stakes? Behead them? Images of Vinessa’s suddenly headless corpse bounded unbidden before his waking vision, and Heli snapped his eyes shut. Yet still the image remained, Vinessa being pinned up on a stake, being set ablaze, screaming her heart out as the fire tore off her flesh….

Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. All other sound seemed to have vanished when Heli opened his eyes again.

Two of the earlier prisoners had been driven against two long sharp pikes – one on either side of the platform – and now the frenetic Charr shamans were dousing them with hot oil. The oil seared off hair and flesh, but even that was only a prelude. With a sharp, guttural cry and before Heli could avert his eyes, one of the shamans caught fire to the two men with a torch and watched them burn.

Raucous music of a sort Heli had never before heard lifted up out of the crowd below, and as he looked down on them in horror he realised for the first time that the statue of the strange man called Cyn stared straight at the pyramid, facing the sacrifices. By the gods, the Charr were sacrificing to the man. If man he was. The only Charr gods Heli knew about were Titans, and he had never come face to face with one before.

With the two prisoners screaming, even as their flesh popped and sizzled, the shamans called for another pair. This pair was of two women, who had to be dragged like worms before the crowd.

The shamans chanted some other verse at the crowd, before each lifting blood stained daggers and slitting the women’s throats, letting their lifeblood spill out down the stepped sides of the pyramid. With more grunts and curses, the shamans flung the still convulsing bodies down the pyramid. Bouncing and splintering against the stone steps they disappeared amongst the mass of Charr hair and flesh at the foot of the pyramid.

“Oh f**k.” Heli gasped to himself. He had seen many things in his life, but never had he witnessed Charr sacrifice firsthand. It was not an opportunity he relished.

The shamans grabbed the last of the first set of prisoners to his feet and held him over a pedestal of sorts, which rose to his midsection. They unceremoniously beheaded him right there and then, blindfold and all.

Heli felt nothing. His senses were numbing to the grisly scene around him; even the sounds and music from below, so loud only seconds ago, felt like nothing but mere whispers. All of the sacrifices before had just been an introduction. Mere foreplay to arouse the crowd. As one the shamans turned to Vinessa and released her chains.

“No.” Heli gasped. His voice suddenly felt very hoarse and very swollen. “No, take your hands off her, goddamnit!” He tried to move but the chain went taut behind him, keeping him fixed in place.

She glanced at him as they led her to the edge of the platform overlooking the crowd. There was no fear in her eyes, this time. No look of despair.

Racket saturated the air, but when she spoke it seemed as though her lips were pressed against Heli’s ears. “The blue skies covered by dark clouds. The sun eclipsed by the dark moon. Hope is still alive.”

The shamans thrust her over the pedestal, chanting a different set of verse directly at the statue of Cyn. Another shaman unbound Heli and pushed him behind her, queuing up to die. And even though Heli had expected it to end this way, suddenly he felt different. Not this way. My brothers fought valiantly and saved Tyria. And now all I’m to do is to die as a sacrifice to this Cyn?

Dark clouds, pregnant with fresh rain, were gliding across the sun, draping the environs in an ever-darkening haze of gloom. The Charr had unbound him from the others, but still Heli’s arms were bound together and so were his feet. But he could still do something…couldn’t he? I have to stop this. We don’t deserve to die like this. Not Vinessa.

He jumped when a freezing droplet of water slithered down his face. He glanced at the sky even as one of the shamans raised his sword over Vinessa’s neck. The entire sky was a patchwork of black and grey, with the sun itself dimming with each passing second. The sun was not full as Heli had last seen it, but something seemed to be eating away at its eastern edge, slimming the sun to a crescent and then to only a slither.

It’s an eclipse. By all the gods that should still be months away!

He had not realised that the Charr all round had fallen silent. He looked back to where Vinessa lay over the pedestal, fearing for a moment that she had already been forced into the Mists. But there she still stood, with the Charr’s blade hanging over her neck.

All eyes were on the statue of the man called Cyn. And on his arms as they reached towards the pyramid. Towards his sacrifice.

Sk8tborderx · May 21, 2007, 09:43 PM // 21:43

I must know what happens next, the story just keeps getting better.

Koross · May 22, 2007, 09:54 AM // 09:54

Awesome story telling man. At first I was confused with the events entertwining and being told in different chapters but as it progressed, I started to understand the general direction.

Again, awesome story telling. Now, the next chapter please.

Unreal Cyn · May 28, 2007, 06:19 PM // 18:19

Greetings folks! Thanks for the kind comments Koross and Sk8tborderx! It's nice to hear a little feedback and I'm glad you're enjoying the fic so far. I was going to finish and post this chapter a while ago, but a lot of work suddenly came up and shafted me and my weekend plans. Anyways here is Chapter 15, please enjoy!

A Quest

“Daddy, why is the sun so dark?” the little girl asked. A small thing she was, moving about on spindly legs with the speed of a will-o-the-wisp.

“Don’t look at it sweetheart.” Daddy replied, turning her away from the sky. “It’s a solar eclipse. Happens when Grenth gains a little advantage and overpowers Dwayna in the Heavens. Doesn’t happen too often or for too long. The Goddess quickly regains her power.”

“Wow. Do the gods really fight like that?”

Daddy shrugged and smiled at the little girl. I guess we all have mortal origins. Even the gods. “Nah, it’s not really fighting. Just friendly sport and banter. Like how you play with your brothers.”

“Oh. But they are so unfair!”

He laughed and lifted her up into his arms. Her bright eyes were like the sun itself, illuminating his existence, “All’s fair in love and war, sweetie.”

“Why don’t you two come inside, eh?” A woman called from the door of the cottage.

Daddy turned and his smile broadened. “We just were, dear. Just answering some deep questions.”

With that Daddy and the little girl headed back inside, out of the gloomy twilight of the eclipse and into the bright light of many lamps. The kitchen smelled of baked lamb and stew, with just a hint of the aroma of pineapple sweet potato pie.

“Listen to this mommy!” the little girl laughed, “Did you know that Grenth is beating Dwayna?”

“Is he now?” Mommy shook her head, “Go and find your brothers. Time for lunch.”

“Okay.” She replied as she bounded away and into another room.

“Filling her head with that nonsense again?” Mommy smiled at Daddy.

His eyes lit up with mock surprise. “Nonsense? What nonsense?”

“Come here you buffoon.” She said as she embraced and kissed him. “It’s pretty early this year, don’t you think?”

“I’m not the ranger, sweetheart. You have to tell me.”

“Well…it should be weeks away. But hey, maybe Grenth couldn’t wait that long to get at Dwayna.”

“You’re such a good sport. Did you know that I love you?”

“Of course I do. You never let me forget.” She laughed; the air filling with the sweet, melodic notes of her voice.

“How does the lamb look? Smells good enough to die for and that pie…goddamn.”

“See for yourself!” Mommy said triumphantly, opening the oven door.

Daddy bent to look at the meat and as his eyes came upon the juicy, cooked flesh he licked his lips. “Gods in heaven. That looks almost as good as you do.”

Daddy started to grin and say something else when suddenly the lamb flew out of the oven at him, latching onto his face like a hand and burning his flesh. All feeling vanished from his senses as he tried to get a hold of the damn thing and tumbled onto his back. The heated flesh burnt his face, and the tasty gravy seared and blinded him.

Daddy. He heard a voice say. He did not know whether it came from his head or from the lamb that was assaulting him. Daddy…Daddy…Daddy…Dad…dy…

“Dwayna’s grace!” Habib cried; bolting upright on a hard floor shrouded in darkness. His voice echoed cavernously and answered itself several times before fading to silence.

He glanced about, to his right, his left and behind him, seeing nothing and hearing less. His heart thrummed behind his chest-plate, knocking against the bone as if trying to wake him up from some deep slumber. Habib’s muscles felt tight and sore, and when he touched himself he realised that his armour was gone.

He sat in only his boxers in a place devoid of light. What in hell happened? He quickly remembered being beset by unseen but not unheard Forgotten in the front room of the abandoned building. After that was anybody’s guess. Balthazar give me strength. Am I still alive?

He certainly felt alive, and until he saw Grenth himself smiling at him he would keep thinking that he was so. Have to find out where I am in this place. He staggered to his feet, still looking around and still seeing nothing. Where are the others? By all the gods! Don’t let them be dead! Not again!

“Art thou afraid to die, human?” Whispered a voice from the darkness.

Habib glanced about, straining his eyes to make out any strange form in the void around him but failing miserably. “Who am I speaking to?” he answered.

“Art thou afraid to die, human?” The voice whispered again, tonelessly.

Habib ambled to his feet and assumed a defensive position, more out of habit than practicality. He could see nothing, negating any defence he could muster. What sort of place is this?

“Art thou afraid to die, human?” The voice whispered once more.

“No.” Habib replied, still straining to see.

The old warrior waited for a reply, but none came. Silence caved in upon his psyche like an avalanche and suddenly Habib felt more alone than he had ever been in his long life. And then the moment passed and he sensed a presence near at hand, hidden in the darkness.

“We have a task for thee. One of our…experiments…has been released. We need it back. Dost thou agree?”

Habib turned slowly on his heels, still seeing absolutely nothing in the dark. The voice sounded close – very close – yet nothing materialised before his eyes. Who the hell is this talking to me? I can’t place the voice…I can’t even tell the gender!

“Dost thou agree?” the voice pressed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, goddamnit.”

Suddenly the world before him changed, the black void erupting into many shades of colour and sound. Habib blinked and turned around and all about him spread bountiful grassland, sprinkled with blooming daffodils and dandelions. Scented breeze fondled his bare flesh and stirred his boxers and the soft cries and warnings of faraway birds nipped his ears. The sun hung near high noon, yet no heat radiated from it, only soft light. Everything seemed so natural, so right, but Habib sensed something deeper and darker at work.

The sound of humming came abruptly from his right and when Habib turned he found a striking woman sauntering towards him. Her long flowing robes seemed woven from water, spilling over her breasts and about her feet as though alive. It seemed to capture the light of the environment, shifting between hues of orange, green and brown.

Her beautiful sienna flesh was completely unblemished, and her face seemed to have been moulded by Lyssa herself. But it was her eyes that held Habib rooted to the earth like a tree. They shimmered almost like jewels capturing sunlight.

Habib recognised her. After all, how could he forget? Suddenly appearing and vanishing into nowhere with the man he had tried to save like some nightmare.

“Ah, oh my.” She started in that husky voice of hers, “You seem familiar. What are you doing here?” Although her full lips were curved into a curious smile, Habib thought that she looked surprised.

Habib did not know what to say. He did not know how, why or even when he got here. Maybe he could bullshit his way through the conversation. Maybe he could learn something.

“We know where you are. We are coming for you.” He said evenly, meeting the woman’s gaze unflinchingly.

She cocked her head and her eyes seemed to darken. “Are you now? What a pity. I was just enjoying myself with my man. You want to spoil our pleasure? You? An ignorant human worm?”

“I see you’ve never learnt your histories. Humans multiply and rule wherever we go. Demons may rise from the depths, but they are found and banished. Mostly by those same humans. And we humans continue to rule.”

The woman placed a finger against the side of her lips and her smile tightened. “Such pretentiousness. I like that. You will serve me well.”

“I don’t think so. The only thing I’m going to do to you is kill you.”

“You speak like a fool, boy.” She stretched out her arms, “Does this deceive you? Give you false hope? You should know to whom you speak!”

The grassland vanished in an instant, and about Habib spilled a barren waste straight out of a nightmare. Twisted corpses filled the grey, fire-blasted plains, their moans and guttural weeping churning in the air under a sunless sky swirling in impossible colours. The woman before him had also changed. She stood as tall as a small mountain, but all beauty was gone.

What stood before Habib was a horrible creature – indescribable, blazing with hate – the one right from the pages of that book he had compiled for Bones back in Amnoon. Such a fear gripped the old warrior that he threw himself to the ground and before he could stop himself he was shivering and praying to all seven gods.

“Know who you threaten, worm! Know who ––!”

Silence.

Habib opened his eyes and realised that the darkness had returned. He was alone yet again. He rose to a seated position and buried his face in his hands. Shame consumed him. Gods. I fell on my face before a demon. I’m not fit for this. Maybe I never was!

“We need it back. Dost thou understand? Dost thou agree?” spoke that hidden voice once again.

“How can I possibly get to her, far less capture her? It is not possible! You must have seen how powerful she is…. I cannot stand up to that!” Habib shouted. He felt angry – not at the voice – but at just how inadequate that woman had made him feel. He felt his age.

“Thou shall try. Thou shall capture her and thou shall deliver her to us at a place of our choosing. Thine method shall not matter, so long as the end is achieved.”

“Who the hell do you think you are? If I ever live long enough to get to that demon, the only place she’s going is straight to Hell.”

“Thou dost not understand. Thine companions are in peril. Thine daughter even more so.”

Habib’s heart skipped a beat, and then another. “My daughter!? You have my daughter? She made it…? Where is she, you bastards?!”

“We have not your daughter. She is in peril. But we shall save her, if you agree. Dost thou agree?”

They know where she is. Gods, can she still be alive? Can these people be playing with me? Can it all be just another trick?

“I would do anything to see my daughter again. Anything you bastards!”

“Then we shall bring her hence, once thine task is complete.”

Before Habib could reply, he felt the presence close to him shift and suddenly vanish. There was a tingling on his skin, and the darkness fell away.

When he blinked again, he was staring into Heather’s panic stricken face. She helped him to his feet wordlessly and after he got his bearings he realised that he was back in the front room of the abandoned building. He was dressed once more, but the armour felt heavier. No sound of arrows came from outside now.

Everyone else was staring at him and one another with expressions of fear riddling their countenances.

“Alright, since we all seem to be on the same page, I have a question. What in bloody blazes just happened?!” Big Charr growled. Habib had never before seen a perturbed Charr, but he was seeing one now. And it was not as amusing as he thought it would look.

“I told you we should not have come here! Now we are bound to this place! Bound to them!” Karissa shrieked, collapsing. Normire grabbed her before she met with the floor.

“I had the strangest experience.” The necromancer said, looking across at Habib.

Habib had no explanation for anything. My daughter is still alive! Or was it all a dream? “So did I, Normire.” He said at last, “So did I.”

Unreal Cyn · Jun 11, 2007, 09:48 AM // 09:48

Hey everyone, I'm back (finally) with the next chapter. Some things came up these past few weeks that I had to sort out and only yesterday was I able to write anything worthwhile. So, here is Chapter 16! Please enjoy.

Demon Dreams

He felt as though he were falling through space. Wind rushed past him, brushing against his skin like a thousand tiny fingers. He thought that he would fall forever; consumed by the nothingness for all eternity. At that moment his mind fluttered and his senses almost failed. Suddenly he found himself in a happy place, bursting with flowers and dense trees deep in the forest of Regent Valley. He drifted through the forest, visiting old haunts that now no longer existed. It was all so good; he wanted to stay here forever. Worries and thoughts from life did not touch him here.

And then he woke up. For a moment he felt displaced; out of sorts, but then the warmness and stillness of the room brought back the memory of where he was.

Cyn sat up on his wide, deep bedroll and glanced around the inside of the gloomy tent. The minotaur-hide roof hung low, seemingly pressing down on him. It was thick, and little wind disturbed the half-open entrance flap before Cyn. A light scent of something like incense hung in the air, just teasing the ranger’s nostrils.

A soft grunt and movement brought his attention on Jala as she slept fitfully beside him, half-naked under the thick blanket. He gazed down at her, remembering vividly the passion they had shared a few hours ago. From here she still looked flushed, and small beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. Cyn shuddered at what she could be thinking. She’s like an animal. He thought to himself. A perfect, limitless animal.

He drew his hand through his hair and over his face and it came away slick with sweat. He did not feel the warmness of the tent that keenly; he felt ice cold, in fact, so cold that it felt as though his innards were buried in Shiverpeak snow.

What’s happening to me? What am I doing? Strange thoughts whispered into his ears from unseen throats. Cyn shook himself and pushed their voices out of his mind.

“I am Cyn Eaver,” he whispered to himself, “Soon to be god of this world.”

Murmured voices from beyond the thick tent walls drew his attention to matters outside. As abruptly as the voices started they were gone, now only memories. But they had sounded close and somewhat strained.

Cyn slid out from under the blanket, trying not to disturb Jala, and eased over to the entrance flap. A draught of cold wind rushed in at him, but the immediate environs were devoid of life and movement.

The bonfires had been extinguished hours ago, but a slither of moon in the ink sky washed the camp in a silvery twilight. In that light Cyn could make out the shapes of the other tents, and of the ancient bones and bleached ships that adorned the sands. Even now the soft trickling of water caressed his ears. But other than that, no other noise could now be heard.

Still feeling warm, Cyn sighed and rose to his feet. Maybe I need a walk to clear my head. With a last glance behind at Jala, the ranger strode out into the silvery camp, seeing nothing moving and hearing nothing speaking.

Outside was colder than the tent, so Cyn went back for a blanket and swept it over his shoulders. Walking down a sandy path past the two tents of his camp, he made his way up a stone hillock that overlooked most of the Thirsty River camp. Strangely enough, his memories ventured back to that dark day when he and his guild-mates had finally breached the defences of Komalie and rid the world of the Lich.

Back then, Cyn had thought that he could never meet anyone as evil or as twisted as that magician. Back then, of course, he had not known that he had once met Jala, or that Normire was who he really was.

A movement of shadows snapped Cyn from his memories and sent his eyes flicking over to the main camp tent on its perch on the other side of camp. Light still glowed from within, but the flap had momentarily opened and what looked like a pair of darkly-clad persons had darted out, into the camp proper like wraiths.

He was not sure why, but a sense of anxiety and wariness settled about Cyn, heightening his senses. Quickly he went back to the tent and found that Jala was awake.

“Taking a walk?” she asked huskily, rising unsteadily to her feet and picking up some clothes.

“I was.”

“What’s the matter, my love?” she asked again, as she slipped into a vest and a light pair of long pants, “Seeing ghosts?”

“Maybe.” The ranger grabbed up his dagger from his bundle of supplies. “I saw two men fly out of that main tent. They had an ill-look about them.”

“An ill-look?” Jala chuckled, “They looked sick, you mean?” she laughed again, “No, no, I get what you mean, my dear. Why all the vagueness though?”

Cyn was about to reply when a cold wind rushed into the tent and the two persons he had seen earlier appeared in the place. They were armed and before either Cyn or Jala could do anything, long blades were at their necks.

“Is this a robbery?” Jala laughed, not seeming to feel the gravity of the situation. “For I can see no other reason why you two would disturb us.”

“You are to come with us, now.” One of the persons commanded. The voice sounded male.

“Why?” Cyn asked.

“You will find out when you get there.”

“Is that a fact?” Cyn swallowed the bile that slithered up his throat, “I don’t think so.”

The man exchanged a glance with his partner and the other person began to speak. “You have been summoned by our lord. He demands audience with you.” This person also sounded male, though somewhat younger than the other man.

Cyn raised his eyebrow and glanced at Jala. The woman was actually smiling now, as though the sword against the side of her neck was nothing but a feather.

“Let’s find out what he wants, then.” She glanced over at Cyn and winked at him.

The two men escorted Cyn and Jala from their tent and up the hill to the main tent. They had not sheathed their blades, but they did not keep them pressed against their backs either. Eventually the sandy path gave way to hard rock, and the main tent opened up before them. Guards posted at the entrance opened the flap for them, and they were ushered inside.

At first Cyn thought that he had walked into some palace. Trinkets of gold and platinum adorned every wall and even the roof. Tall, exotic lamps spewed clear light from their posts in the corners of the tent, and about them stood small statues of foreign creatures. A blood-red carpet spilled over the sand, printed with esoteric designs and symbols. Groups of lavish couches were scattered throughout the place. At the back of the tent was an ornate oak desk, behind which sat a tall man with round features and a bald head. About him to his right and left stood or lounged about two score men and women, all silently perusing Cyn and Jala.

The pair approached the man behind the table and he smiled deeply. His hard face was softened by a solemn gaze. Cyn detected something wrong about him almost immediately; the way he smiled, the way his eyes moved, even the scent of his flesh smelled strange. It smelled like burning ash.

But he was very well-dressed, in a shirt with wide, baggy cuffs and pants that bagged around the tops of his boots. A golden chain wound its way thrice around his tanned neck. Whoever he was, he looked to be very important. Possibly even the leader of the Scarab guild.

“Welcome, guests of the camp. Here I am called Sultan, but you may address me as Pister, if that strikes your fancy.”

“Pister? What the hell is the meaning of this, man?” Cyn commanded.

The older man’s smile deepened, if at all that was possible, and he rose to his feet. “I am a man with many connections. You two seem as though you’re running from someone…something. I can give you the aid you need to flee the continent.”

“Why would we need your help, servant?” Jala asked. Cyn grimaced at her lack of deference and glanced about, hoping that they would not be beset by the whole godforsaken army in here.

But the man seemed unfazed. “Let me just say that we have things in common. Similar interests, if you may. I am looking to enter into a partnership with you two, one that is sure to profit both sides.”

“I don’t think you’ve answered my question. And quite honestly,” she turned and gazed around the tent, “I would rather have all these trinkets and charms for myself than bandy words with the likes of you.”

That brought a grunt from their escorts and a creasing of the forehead from the man called Pister. This is going to degenerate to fighting very soon if Jala does not control her f**king tongue!

“You misinterpret me.” Pister pressed, “I said we have things in common. Would you like to know what?”

“Tell us, goddamnit. I grow weary of all this.” Jala sighed.

“Does this man look familiar to any of you?” Pister snapped his fingers and two men who had been lounging in the arms of a triad of voluptuous women darted to their feet and out of the back entrance of the tent.

In a moment they were back, dragging a bound prisoner with a beige crocus bag over his head. The man was dressed in only his boxers, and scars and crusted blood zigzagged across his chest and abdomen. They threw him down on the floor at Cyn’s feet and took off the bag.

Cyn almost dropped in surprise. The man’s face was bloodied and bruised; he looked out at the ranger through dazed, half-open eyes. But even so, Cyn still recognised him. Years of fighting alongside someone had a way of etching their faces in your mind.

He was about to say something when Jala coughed. He glanced at her and met her frown. Then he turned his gaze back to the Pister man. He was still smiling.

“Isn’t he familiar?”

“Not to me, he isn’t.” Jala snapped. “May we leave, now? You are useless to us.”

Pister locked gazes with Cyn and the ranger realised that the question was meant for him. Damn. How did this man get a hold of…Karak? Does that mean he also has Farrion? F**k! What’s all this about?

“Why should he be?” Cyn asked finally. He thought he heard Jala grunt in displeasure, but for now all his attention was riveted on Pister.

“Ah. That’s strange. Well you see – we found him wandering through the desert. He attacked one of our caravans, and we had to…subdue him. He said that Cyn Eaver would save him from us, that Cyn Eaver was his god.”

That strange feeling suddenly spiked through his system, but this time Cyn knew what it was. Fear.

“Suh…Cyn?” Karak croaked, hawking and spitting blood. “I’m…I’m so sorry.”

Cyn’s heart and stomach sank. He did not know what game this Pister man wanted to play, but on his journey to deification he had not wanted those he had known in his past life to become involved. Such hopes were now out through the damn window.

Jala laughed. But it was less of a laugh and more of a banshee-like shriek; which rent the air like a knife. All eyes swept to her and for a moment Pister himself took a couple steps back. When she stopped she smiled and sat on the man’s desk.

“You are a terrible negotiator, Pister. And a horrible liar. You don’t want any partnership with us – you want some thing from us. Now, name it quickly before I kill you.”

The sound of swords being drawn throughout the tent shoved Cyn’s heart further down towards his boots. Karak. What the hell is wrong with you?

Pister’s smile had vanished. Anger hardened his features and his muscles throbbed with barely restrained rage. “I want this continent of Tyria for my own. For that, I will give you access to fleets and armies for your passage to Elonia.”

Cyn was shocked. How does this man know what we’re about? How could he know? Just who the hell is he?!

“You make such interesting boasts. Fleets and armies? RED ENGINE GORED ENGINE GORED ENGINE GORED ENGINE GOing amazing.” She turned to Cyn, “See, sweetie? These human dogs even throw themselves in servitude at our feet. Our divine presence compels them to worship.”

Cyn probably should have been happy, but all he felt was deep, sinking sorrow. Destiny was calling his name, but he did not like how things were turning out. Now that he would have armies and men to fight and kill in his name, he would make his mark on the world soon. Soon he would be Cyn the Conqueror, Cyn the God.

But deep down inside he wished that he was still dreaming.

Unreal Cyn · Jun 23, 2007, 08:53 PM // 20:53

Talk about slow going, eh? My apologies, had other more pressing demands this last fortnight. Anyway, I hope everyone is enjoying their summer, and here is Chapter 17. 13 more to go. Or is it, really?

Godforsaken

When Farrion came to he almost wished that he had fainted again. His back was shuddering against something; his teeth jarring and his bones shivering. And as his senses sharpened around him he could begin to hear the sound of marching boots and a cacophony of loud grunts and hollow curses. The smell of sweat and decay hung thick in the air, cloying in the Mesmer’s nostrils like wet clay.

What the f**k just happened?

The last thing on his mind was the intricate weaves of a massive domination spell, aimed at the monk. Aimed at Tsuki. What the hell was I thinking? What’s getting into me? Farrion blinked, saw nothing and blinked again.

This time the unchanging grey sky of the Underworld came into focus, obscured somewhat by airborne dust and gravel. Farrion realised that he really was lying on his back, and when he turned his head to the side he could see wooden rails like those of a flat-bed carriage.

Grunting, Farrion attempted to rise to a seated position and was thrust backwards by a skeletal foot. A tall silhouette of a half-rotted man came into view before his vision, and two gleaming pink eyes shone down on him.
“Ah, the Mesmer wakes. Keep very quiet now, sonny boy. Wouldn’t want the Mistress getting a banged up piece of merchandise, aye?” The thing’s voice was hollow and of a rasping quality, like sandpaper grinding against hard wood.

“Who the heck are you?” Farrion grunted, glancing around the carriage. There was no sign of Tsuki, Heavens, or that warrior.

“I suppose you deserve at least one question. Well, I am dead. I used to be a soldier, once. For Kryta, I think. Maybe even for Orr. So long ago now the memory fades. Doesn’t matter now. I serve the Mistress, and she will be most pleased with my find.”

“Mistress? What’s going on here? Who’s the Mistress?”

The dead man waved a finger down at Farrion. “Your one question is up. Can’t say you used it too wisely aye?”

Farrion eased up onto his elbows and hardened his gaze. His blood suddenly felt hot, and spells of intricate mesmeric power swirled through his mind, unorganized though they were. “Answer my f**king question, prick.”

“Ah, feisty, are you?” The man pulled a long-sword and drove it through Farrion’s belly all in one smooth motion.

The attack brought a gasp from the Mesmer, and he lost his focus. Spells slipped through his fingers, but he was still dead and still had feet.

Farrion rocked onto his back and brought his leg soaring up between the legs of the man above him. With the other leg he caught the man’s left foot in a vice and hurled him to the floor.

The Mesmer pulled the sword from his belly and jumped to his feet. Vertigo caught him for a moment, and through swirling vision he saw the man rising to his bony legs with a steel glare masking his features. But Farrion’s gaze did not remain on the man for long.

Around him on both sides rose the sheer walls of a massive fortified complex, and above him yawned the iron teeth of a great portcullis. He and the carriage were in the midst of a sizeable army, and they were streaming into the main courtyard of this fort. In front of them some ways off was what Farrion could only consider to be a castle; all bedecked with massive colonnades, towers and spires that seemed to pierce the clouds above.

Besides that, the castle was built in no clear order. Wrought from dreary grey limestone and flint, it seemed as though insane architects had come together to build a stone masterpiece in madness. Rising towers suddenly gave way to spiralling walkways leading to nowhere, and Farrion could make out several doors that opened into space no less than thirty feet above the ground.

Farrion did not notice the man driving a fist towards his face. The Mesmer took it right in the nose, and he heard the snapping of gristle as he was thrust backwards and almost over the damn rails. Farrion flailed the sword at the man, but his line was far off and the dead man brushed away the strike and sent another fist into the Mesmer’s belly.

The loud racket of grinding machinery filled the air, and the portcullis began a laborious fall to the earth. Farrion gasped for breath and struck out yet again with the sword.

The blade caught the dead man unawares, slicing off his right hand just above the wrist. He recoiled like a snake and actually hissed at Farrion. His eyes were windows to a blazing furnace. From the belt pouch around his decaying waist he drew a long dagger; glowing with a pale incandescence not unlike the moon.

“Mynde wracke de la memm!” Farrion hissed, releasing his rage in the form of domination magic.

The spell grabbed the man before he could react and his eyes bulged as the sound of splitting bone reached Farrion’s ears.

He had no idea what to expect, but when the dead man’s head split open like a ripe walnut, spilling maggot-infested brains about the carriage floor, Farrion felt a strange sense of satisfaction.

Mailed arms grabbed him from behind, breaking his grasp of the sword, and a black bag was thrust over his head. Farrion felt himself being hauled off the carriage before he could fully understand what was happening, and for a moment he lost all sense of direction.

Can’t target what I can’t see! Dammit! Where are these bastards taking me? What did they do to the others?

Grunts and guttural curses filled his ears, all underscored with a light, maniacal laughter that reminded him of that one time he had been to the Sardelac Sanatorium back in desolated Ascalon. He had been with Karak then. He had been younger, fresher, more intent on exacting revenge for the deaths of those he loved. Time and experience had tempered his desires, and even though the world had changed, Farrion felt no closer in achieving that goal to avenge his family.

And now he was dead. But still he intended to fight on.

A jarring shock threw tiny sparks of colour before his vision, and he felt his feet giving way beneath him as he was dropped unceremoniously to what felt like a marble floor. Someone or something was binding his arms behind his back and all around him Farrion could hear the whispered chants of hollow voices.

He felt a solid shield of energy descend upon his mind, and all spells froze in his throat. Gods, not again! Not again! I can’t let these things take me…I’ve got to get out! The Mesmer tried to continue casting, tried to break the spell-breaker, but still it remained and grew ever more powerful. He convulsed with sudden panic and tried to get to his feet.

Strong arms held him pinned to his knees, and the binds around his arms were so tight that he could no longer feel anything in his fingers. Like the dissolution of mist at the onset of morning, someone removed the bag from over his head, and the inside of a small round chamber materialised before his vision.

The first thing Farrion noticed was that the curving walls were lined with hooded individuals, two lines deep. Their hands were clasped around long staffs held before them, and each one was muttering a strange chorus that resonated throughout the room. The air here smelled relatively fresher, but sickly, like the inside of some infirmary. He tried to look over his shoulder at the things restraining him, but all he could see were the giant, steel-plated boots of his captors. And if they were any indication, the things they belonged to were enormous. He looked back around.

Diffused light filtered through tall, barred windows set in the walls, throwing multiple shadows of everyone across the floor at impossible angles. Farrion could not be sure, but he felt an ethereal quality about this place, almost as though it was a dream from which he should soon wake.

The sound of heeled boots, ringing out purposefully against the marble floor, brought Farrion’s attention to the area directly before him. In the far wall now stood a door where there had not been one before, and after a moment it opened inwards, rocking on hinges that puffed dust and squealed like a dying man.

Two thickset individuals strode out through the open doorway, and at a glance Farrion could not determine what they were, far less their gender or race. But the Mesmer’s eyes were drawn to the person whom they escorted; it looked to be a woman, but as she neared Farrion realised that she was nubile, yet more of girl, fresh out of her teenage years. Or she should be fresh out of her teens. If she weren’t dead.

Her long, flowing pants hid her feet in drooping pools of silk, and it rested low on her abundant hips. Her diving neckline should have revealed more than an ample amount of cleavage, but several colourful scarves were wrapped about her person, only leaving patches of her flesh exposed. Her brown braids were also tied up in a tall scarf, and in her eyes Farrion could make out colours that almost could not have been natural.

She halted just before him, and the scent of spiced jasmine and what Farrion figured to be incense rushed into his nostrils. Then, to his surprise, she sat down before him, crossing her legs underneath her body and resting olive hands that were covered in small nets of jewels on her lap.

“I am the Mistress.” She said simply. Her accent sounded strange in Farrion’s ears – not Canthan and certainly not Ascalonian, but there was a hint of Krytan pronunciation. But the girl looked like no Krytan Farrion had ever seen.

“What the hell is this?” Farrion breathed. He tried to jerk free an arm and almost ended up snapping his wrists. “Why are you doing this to me? What are you doing to me?”

The Mistress considered him for a long moment before replying, “I think this must be Fate. And,” she motioned to the hooded persons lining the room, “they are here as a precautionary force. You almost decimated one third of this army. I don’t think I should take many risks with you.”

What the heck is she talking about?

“You’ve got the wrong man. I did nothing to your damn army.”

“That’s why I said ‘almost’. We felt your…spell-weaving, and my brave general managed to stop you from causing harm.” She looked at someone behind him and smiled darkly.

That cheap blow to the back of my head! They felt my spell-weaving?!

“Just what the hell are you talking about?” Farrion growled. Beads of sweat slid into his eyes and he blinked them out furiously. He was growing more impatient by the minute; even desperate. He had to get out of this place. He had no time for anymore delays!

“Calm yourself. And tell me what you’re doing in this place.” For a dead person the Mistress looked quite healthy, and Farrion was almost tempted to think that she looked pretty as well.

“Calm myself? Calm myself! I wake up in some shit-hole to realise that I’m dead, along with two of my companions. They’ve both gone crazy and I’m here trussed up like some Winterseve turkey!” He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself under the woman’s constant, unblinking stare. “I don’t know what’s going on. I just want to get out of here.”

She sat there for a moment, seemingly considering what he had just said. “Then it would seem as though the both of us have the same goal for now.” She clasped her bejewelled hands, “My master requires us to leave this domain. And I think I would like you to come along, fellow Mesmer.”

Shock kept Farrion from replying immediately. He knelt there blinking in that ethereal place for what felt like hours before his senses returned and he snapped out of the daze.

“What did you say?” he replied finally.

The Mistress smiled, motioned to someone behind Farrion and rose to her feet. The Mesmer felt himself being pulled to his feet and the presence of whatever was holding him step away. The binds remained on his arms, but he was free to move his feet. For a fleeting moment he considered glancing back at the thing behind him, but reasoned that he would sleep better if he did not.

“I honestly don’t know how you died, but the power I sense coming from you is amazing.” She licked her lips slowly and rolled her eyes, “Like brown sugar, man. Never felt anything like it before.”

Farrion could still feel the shield of the spellbreaker on his mind, and although no one made a move, he was beginning to feel increasingly threatened.

“Something about this place is affecting my spells. Affecting me goddamnit.”

“Aye. That. Yes, so it makes sense then.”

“Not to me.” Farrion took a deep breath, “Now, I demand to know where my friends are.”

“You are in no position to demand things of me, man.” Her tone did not change, but Farrion felt a feeling about her that refused disrespect.

“Alright then. Sorry. But look – I need to know where they are. I’m…I don’t think I can leave without them.”

The Mistress shrugged easily and frowned. “It’s ironic you’d say that. Your so-called friends left you behind when my general got to you. A squadron was sent after them, but no news yet of their trail. Some friends you have, aye?”

They…left…me?! Farrion breath caught and he almost fell to his knees in despair. He remembered with a sinking heart the cold look in Tuski's eyes and her angry words after he had attacked Heavens. Why won’t this horrible nightmare end?!

Just barely, almost on the periphery of his senses, Farrion could feel the gentle weaves of a Mesmer spell probing his mind. It was not unlike what he used to do back in the Jade Empire to his enemies, just before he unleashed an illusion on their minds.

But he was powerless against whatever this new power was. But the way the Mistress was staring at him…

He was about to lash out at the Mistress with everything he still had when a sweet sensation spiked through his mind, filling it so completely that it spilled out into his outermost parts. In moments he was enveloped in such a bath of euphoric energy that he fleetingly thought that he was on another world.

“Feels sweet, doesn't it? Not many Inspiration Mesmers back home now, aye? No, they wouldn’t be. Only bones now. Drowned souls.” The Mistress began thoughtfully. But in his daze Farrion could barely hear what she was saying, “Now, Master Mesmer, it is time we re-enter the realm of the living.”

Sk8tborderx · Jun 23, 2007, 11:39 PM // 23:39

Keep up the great work.

Unreal Cyn · Jul 02, 2007, 02:29 AM // 02:29

Another one for ya. Please enjoy chapter 18!

Flowers for Lucretia

Farrion sighed very deeply as the giant doors that had appeared from nowhere slammed closed behind him with a reverberating clang of finality. A little to his left and right stood two of those hooded, darkly clad and staff-wielding individuals, whose scent of decay was beginning to upset Farrion’s stomach. A little ways before him walked the Mistress – as she had called herself. Her aroma was a welcome relief to the Mesmer’s nostrils.

Whether by luck or design, the big thing that had bound him in the rotunda before had not been asked to accompany them to wherever it was that they were going. For some reason Farrion could not bring himself to look at the individual. It could have been fear, but the Mesmer figured that it had to be something more complex than that. I can’t put my finger on it.

But at least there was a sense of happiness and satisfaction that he was going somewhere. Just a few hours ago – or it could have been days, he was not sure of the time that had passed since he had been laid flat and woken up – Farrion was worrying himself about getting out of this hellhole of a dimension, but now he was getting a free ticket.

But why would an army be leaving the Underworld? Whatever the reason it can’t be good for Tyria. Who was this master this Mistress was talking about? Are they rallying to Ja’al? Oh gods, am I too late to stop the demon and save Cyn?

He shivered at the thought and realised that the Mistress had turned to look at him.

“You look dishevelled. You would like some tea, aye?” Her curiously coloured eyes travelled across Farrion’s undead body slowly, taking in every detail. “In fact, you look like hell. Terrible, even. Ghastly.”

Farrion did not deign to reply.

“We have a spell-breaker on you, man, not a word-breaker. You are not one for conversation?”

“As my brother would say, this is no time for talk. Only action.”

“Then you brother is a crazy man. There’s always time for talk.”

“Don’t diss my brother.”

“Easy, Mesma’.” She flashed a smile at him and Farrion realised that it was probably the first genuine sign of joy he had seen since…since a long time ago.

She motioned to their escorts and the small company was off, walking casually down a long, wide hall lined with strange statues and twisted paintings that hauntingly reminded Farrion of the picture of Ja’al in Habib’s book.

A curving stair jumped out of nowhere to materialise before them, and the Mistress, seemingly unfazed by its appearance, started climbing. Farrion took one look at the escorts, tested the spell-breaker and found it still in tact, and followed. After two landings they arrived in another rotunda, smaller than the last. The Mistress turned abruptly to her left, opened a door that seemed to have no substance, and walked through into a spacious and lavish room with walls that were embellished with gold and platinum.

Farrion followed her inside tentatively and gazed around. The place was bedecked with every sort of ornament the Mesmer could think of, from statuettes to strange, long masks and ceremonial weapons. Flowers were everywhere, in pots hanging from the roof, bursting out of holes in the walls, and growing out of the ground as though it were soil. They were of every kind imaginable; daffodils, purple and white vincas, red hibiscuses and rich honey-suckle. They were the first splashes of colour Farrion had seen since waking up in the Underworld.

On the walls were etched pictures and arcane hieroglyphs which brought back images of the room where Farrion had met Heather.

For a moment his other thoughts halted, and the images of that eccentric woman flooded his vision; a stream of moving pictures whose flow Farrion did not want to stop. Heather. I wonder what’s become of her. His heart thudded strangely for a moment, and then the sensation passed.

“Mesmer.” The Mistress’s voice snapped Farrion from his thoughts, breaking the stream of images. Farrion almost became angry at that.

“What?” he found her relaxing in a double recliner, staring hard at him.

“Sit with me awhile. We must talk of these friends of yours.”

The hooded escorts remained at the door as he went and sat down on the recliner attached to hers and backed her. Then, thinking otherwise, he turned and put his feet up and looked across at her. The smell of exotic spices was thick in this room and coupled with the fragrance of all the flowers Farrion found it rather intoxicating. And being this close to the Mistress meant being entirely enveloped in her unique aroma, and for some reason Farrion was finding it increasingly harder to focus.

“We here base position on power and ability. Since you’re quite gifted – seemingly – in both respects, it would put you rather high among us dead folk.” Her face softened, “And you’re the only Mesmer around here besides me. To tell you the truth I was beginning to get lonely.”

The change in subjects caught Farrion totally off-guard. He blinked at her in silence before trying to respond. “I thought you wanted to talk about my friends?”

“I did? Aye. Right.” She sat back and played with her bejewelled hands in her lap. “Who are they? And why were they travelling with you?”

“They’re my friends. They were travelling with me because they’re my friends.” Farrion snapped. He did not want to be here answering stupid questions. He wanted to get up and go – face the Ja’al creature, kill it, and be done with this shit.

The Mistress reached across and patted his leg. “Don’t become angry with me, man. Now let’s start this over. What’s your name?”

“Farrion Neightswift.”

“Well, my name is Lucretia. That is a beautiful name?”

Again the change in subject stilled a sudden response. Must be this spice aroma. It’s clouding my damn mind.

“Yeah, unusual, but I think it sounds very beautiful.” Farrion responded eventually. He was not sure he meant that, but at the moment he did not give a damn.

“Very pleasant of you to say so, Farrion.” Her smile brightened her entire face. It was a beautiful, yet ironic sight, really. Such a smile in such a dreary place.

It was then that Farrion realised just how badly the Underworld had been affecting him. I attacked and cursed my friends. I killed human beings…in bad ways. Gods…have I been going insane? Have I been going crazy and not even known it?

“My father named me, you know. I was born on the day of a solar eclipse, and he named me after the happy goddess of darkness. Ironic, aye?”

“Never heard of a goddess called Lucretia.”

“You wouldn’t. That was an ancient pagan cult practiced by a sect of misguided early humans. It perished when they did. My father did not practice it, but like many things he respected it. He always had an affinity for the arcane. We were poor growing up, me and my sibs, but our father taught us many things. Back then I used to think that he was the smartest man in the world.”

Farrion suddenly had the desire to know who her father was. He could not be sure where it came from – he just had to know.

“Who was your father?”

There was a pause. “I…I can’t remember. I can’t remember his name. I can barely remember how he looked.” She smiled weakly and gently knocked her head. “The good memories are all fading.”

For the first time Farrion allowed the tension to leave his body, and he fully relaxed on the recliner. He had felt no anxiety or fear radiating from this woman before, and he was not feeling them now. Yet he had considered her an enemy on sight. What was happening to me? When did I forget who I was? Merciful Dwayna, hear me. Don’t let my good memories fade. Then I shall surely go mad.

“So, Farrion. You would like to tell me what brought you to this godforsaken realm?”

The Mesmer massaged his face and tried to remember the events as they had played out in that dark portal-chamber beneath the desert. He remembered waking up to Heaven’s madness; his talk about meeting Tsuki and using some accursed Resurrection Signet on him. Farrion told the Mistress, and her eyes narrowed with interest.

“A Resurrection Signet? Indeed they are strange artefacts. When you die your soul hovers for some while in the ether, just between here and the Mists. Those Signets are designed to pull it back from there, and right back into your shell of a body.” She frowned and glanced over at a set of large black masks close at hand. “They all have their prices. Debt must be paid.”

Debt must be paid. Why does that sound so familiar?

“What do you think my debt is, Lucretia?”

She shrugged, and her captivating eyes locked onto his, “No one knows these things. Usually it’s something immaterial. Something you may end up doing in normal, everyday lif––existence. Like relieving yourself in the bushes, or combing your hair. In your case it might be something more complex. Aye?”

“Aye.”

“Mistress?” A soft voice called.

Farrion and Lucretia turned and the Mesmer saw a tall woman standing in the middle of the room with a grand bouquet of strange multicoloured roses in her arms. Farrion had no idea where she had come from or how she had gotten there so quickly. Lucretia, however, looked as though she were expecting the woman.

“Yes, dear?”

“You have flowers, sent to you by the Master. I must add that his taste in flowers is impeccable. I wonder where he managed to get a hold of these in that desert he’s in.”

“Bring them.” Lucretia ordered. She took the bouquet from the woman, studied them and took a deep breath of their aroma. “These are desert roses.”

“Of course. I shall leave now.”

“Thank you, dear.” Resting the roses on a small black-lacquered table close at hand, Lucretia turned back at Farrion. “He always sends me flowers. It’s good for him that I love them, aye?”

“Who, exactly, is this ‘Master’ of yours? What does he want with an army in the desert?”

She took a teacup from the air before her and began sipping gently, “There’s not much I can say about him. He is a Ritualist, very powerful. Not to be confronted on any terms. I won’t say any more. As for his army,” she shrugged and the teacup vanished, “it’s anyone’s guess. Possibly he’s ready to wage war in Tyria.”

Wage war! Farrion’s muscles tightened. By Lyssa I can’t let that happen! But…but this is the only way out for me now. I have to play along for now. Only long enough to get out of this godforsaken place.

Lucretia’s eyes had never left Farrion’s face, and for a nerve-wracking second the Mesmer thought that she could read his mind. She was a Mesmer, after all. And even though he had never before heard of any Mesmer reading someone else’s mind, he put the thoughts of his plans out of his mind.
Farrion looked back up to find Lucretia fingering the petals of the desert-roses on the table close at hand.

“Aye, but he does send me nice flowers.” She said.

Pericles · Jul 02, 2007, 04:19 PM // 16:19

I find it incredible that you make u this all up, you have a lot of phantasy.
I've only read 2 chapters but it's nice to see how you incorporated all the professions in the story. Keep it up, so more can enjoy your stories

Storm Crow · Jul 03, 2007, 12:06 AM // 00:06

"Aye, but he does send me nice flowers."

That's the only part I read, but it's too cute! I really would read this, but I'm currently working on some stuff myself, and I don't want anyone else's ideas to interfere with mine. You understand.

Keep it up!

Unreal Cyn · Jul 23, 2007, 03:56 AM // 03:56

Thanks everyone for your comments and views! I know its been a bit since I last posted something, but I've been busy with work and revising for this exam I got later tomorrow. But anyhow...here's Chapter 19! Please enjoy!

Through the Rift

Heli had only seconds to gape in awe before he lurched forwards towards Vinessa. The chains around his feet went taut at the last moment, and he crashed into the woman; sending them both careening onto the ground.

His senses swirled like a churning river, muddied by dirt and grit. He was a ranger, in tune with nature and with Melandru, and even down in the Charr prison he had felt close to her, and close to the land. Now, all sense of intimacy fled far away, and a strange sensation overcame him.

Something was not only wrong with the eclipse, something was wrong with the world.

Time itself seemed mired in clay as the massive hand of the strange statue glided past and over them. Heli turned and to his horror saw the hand close around a fellow prisoner, who was stiff and wild eyed with shock. The man screamed at the last minute, but his cries were cut abruptly short by the crushing hand.

The sound of splintering bone and bursting blood vessels whispered across the top of the pyramid.

Full eclipse had now descended, and to Heli it was the darkest eclipse the world had ever seen. The environs seemed drained of any colour; every contour and shape merging with the darkness that seemed to emanate from the sun itself. Only a faint light remained, which barely illuminated the dark outlines of buildings and individuals. The battered ranger had no clue of what was happening, but the only thing on his mind was escape. But with all those Charr out there…

“Stay calm, Heli. Everything will be alright.” Vinessa whispered from close at hand.

Heli turned to face her, unable to mask his outright shock at her words. Stay calm?! How the f**k can I stay calm? In the poor light her eyes seemed glazed and far away, as though she was watching the world through mystical glass-balls. Heli wondered fleetingly if the Charr had somehow slipped some marijuana into their drinking water.

“What are you saying? What’s going on?”

“A gate is opening, Heli. Can you feel it? The dead are coming.”

She’s gone off! She’s isn’t thinking straight anymore!

“Let’s get the hell from here, while that godforsaken, demon-infested statue is doing all sorts of shit.” Heli pressed. His nature senses continued to reel, throwing off even his basic notion of direction. No longer could he tell north by intuition. He was not even sure he could find a good tree to urinate by.
An agonizing screech of pain reverberated across the ravine as the massive hand of the statue found another victim.

“No. We must stay. The time for running will come soon enough.”

Full darkness rushed in after her words, and all vision was stripped from Heli’s eyes. The desperate plans and notions of escape died with the onset of the darkness, for now there was no way to see how to get away. And running around blindly on a pyramid almost three hundred feet in the air was suicide.

So Heli huddled close to Vinessa behind the evil altar and waited.

~ * ~

A rare breeze rushed past Farrion as he stood on the balcony overlooking the central square of the massive military complex. Before long the breeze faded to a zephyr and then faded utterly. It was not fresh, but brought the undead stench of rot and decay from miles away.

In the large central courtyard below there was amassed several battalions of undead soldiers, their spears and swords bristling in the unchanging twilight. A company of what Farrion assumed to be commanders inspected the battalions, shouting words of encouragement that sounded garbled from Farrion’s perch. Even louder and more garbled shouting came from the soldier’s throats in reply.

He heard Lucretia’s voice behind and when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the strange woman about to join him on the balcony. Scarves of all sorts and colours rippled about her person in a nonexistent breeze. The silk and gossamer cloths covered her face from the nose to the chin, and some that were wound around her arms trailed behind her as far as three or four feet.
Farrion felt a weird feeling in his belly, as though some winged insect had taken flight and was fluttering about there, but it vanished quickly and he attributed it to some side effect of actually being undead.

“Farrion. You are enjoying the view?”

Of what? “Why, yes, Lucretia. Would be nice if you had a lake or a forested mountain though.”

Farrion could not see her smile, but the flesh around her eyes crinkled subtly and he could tell that she was amused.

Lucretia joined him at the rails and stared out across the compound, out towards the distant, bleak horizon.

“My necromancers are opening a gate, and they are being helped from the other side by willing – and maybe not so willing – associates.” She sighed disappointedly. “Looks like we’re not going to joining my Master in the desert after all. We have work to do in the North.”

Somehow, the notion of ending up in the Charr-infested lands in northern Tyria unsettled Farrion more than arriving in the desert. A bigger plan than he could now see was being unfurled, like some enormous flag about to cover the whole world. I have to find out what it is. I have to stop Ja’al!

“Have you found my friends, by the way?”

Lucretia’s eyes narrowed. “Not yet. We have searched far and wide and still no sign. Your friends are good at hiding, aye?”

There was something in her voice that told Farrion that she was keeping something rather important back from him. Was it in the way her accent changed, ever so subtly? Or how her eyes seemed to flit away from him for just a second? He was not sure, but the sign was there.

“Despite what may have happened before between me and them, I care for my friends. Please, I would not want any harm to come to them.”

Lucretia looked away and said nothing. For a time they remained so: Farrion staring at Lucretia, and she looking towards the horizon.

A loud sizzling noise broke Farrion from his stupor and he followed the woman’s gaze. About a quarter of a mile away from the castle stood a vertical line of light, shimmering in and out of reality like an apparition. My Goddess, that looks like the beginnings of a portal.

“Ah, here we go at last.” Lucretia said, confirming Farrion’s suspicion.

Far below a column of more darkly attired and staff wielding individuals streamed out of the main entrance, striding purposefully towards the birthing portal. The battalions of undead parted before them, and the shouting faded to an ethereal silence.

I wonder what it takes to create a portal from the Underworld. I didn’t even think that was possible. By Lyssa, imagine the power! What could have such authority to break through the Underworld into our world, if not a god? A demon? Dawyna have mercy.

The vertical line was beginning to widen now, as the staff-wielders took up positions along the castle battlements facing it. From his vantage, Farrion could hear their hollow chants; calling the portal into being from mere ambient energy.

His hair pricked along the length of his skin, and his sensitive mind become vividly aware of the massing energies forming at the portal. Most of the power seemed to be coming in through the portal; only to be formed and redirected by the undead necromancers. It was all a very elaborate synergy of talents, this weaving and redirecting, and for a moment a bout of fear settled upon the Mesmer.

If the undead can perform this sort of magic….

He half-jumped out of skin when Lucretia’s hand grabbed his arm.

“Let’s go down.” She said.

Farrion followed her down another eerie route to the castle’s courtyard. Undead battalions were presently streaming out through the main gates, heading towards the portal that was now widening exponentially. Through it Farrion could now see the shape of what appeared to be a flat-top mountain, with several narrow steps carved into its sides. A strange dark aura seemed to about that place, but the Mesmer attributed that to some trick of the light.

He blinked and where there was empty space before him now lay a tall, covered carriage, with supports on either side to be hefted by men. Lucretia headed into it, and with nowhere else to go, Farrion followed her.

“Where are we going?” he asked as he tried to figure out if the carriage was real or simply some illusion.

“North. Not sure exactly where.” Again the subtle change in voice. “We’ll soon see.”

Farrion sat back and did not press the matter. I’m finally leaving this godforsaken place. Oh, but Tsuki and Heavens… Dwayna protect them, wherever they are. I hope they got out with that warrior. But I can’t waste time worrying about them. I’ve got to stop this demon at all costs!

He felt the carriage being lifted and loud shouts filled the still air. A series of rocks and jerks and then the carriage was on its way, leading a mass of at least five thousand undead soldiers from the ravines of the Underworld.
Amidst the chants of the soldiers Farrion thought he could hear one distinct phrase being repeated again and again: The dead are come. The dead are come. The dead are come for the Master.

Farrion tested the spellbreaker and suddenly realised that it was gone. Energies that had felt muffled before now came to him clear and hard, grating against his senses like knives. He jumped involuntarily and cast his gaze upon Lucretia. The woman was staring at him curiously, and still her scarves rippled about her person like living things.

He was just about to ask her why she had freed him of the spellbreaker when he felt his body being ripped to its smallest units and time and space fled far away.