beyond black doors

Act 3: Forgotten Sacrifices

2005-01-25T01:04:00.000+08:00

I. "Careful, beloved."

The voice was silent yet it echoed through the vast empty cavern, mixing into the quiet cadence of their feet before both sounds faded into the depths. It was dark; only the ghostly magelight from her Sight illuminated their way, revolving around them like a miniature satellite, casting dancing shadows upon the granite walls. No wind blew through this man-made cavern, yet she shivered. Not the natural cold of a winter night; no, this was different. With it came another feeling, a mixture of dread and solace, which she knew her companion couldn't feel.

Only mages would, she thought to herself. She felt each descent they made upon the wide carved steps. She was coming home. Soon, she would do what must be done. She reviewed her plan, going through it mentally like she had since the crisis started. For the thousandth time, she tried to find an alternative solution, and for the thousandth time, came to the conclusion that there was none. She sighed and looked sadly at her companion. Her beau.

He looked her way and smiled. "We'll be there, soon," he said, patting the hand she was resting on his gauntleted arm, before turning his head forward, his strong jaw set determinedly, peering into the darkness beyond the revolving magelight. He broke taboo in accompanying her here. Swordsmen dared not set foot here against the council's decree and even mages shunned this cavern, so deep below the Magical City. The wellspring was here, the source of Power, both Life and Death.

He doesn't know what I plan to do. She felt like screaming at the thought of hurting him. By the time he found out, it would be too late, but magic would be saved.

The stairs ended at last and the cavern rose and widened around them. She gasped and almost tripped at the sight. The swordsman caught her in his arms, steadying her with his strength. All around them, the twisted trees grew, clawing like skeletal fingers at a sunless sky. The wellspring nourished these trees like the sun, slaked their thirst like the rain. Now, however, golden leaves lay decaying upon the rocky floor.

"This isn't the changing of seasons," she wailed. She looked at him despairingly. She longed to tell him. But she knew he would not consent to what she planned. "They are dying."

"Don't worry, beloved," the swordsman said, drawing the katana from its sheath across his back. "We'll find the wellspring." His blade shimmered coldly, as if a howling blizzard was locked inside, but a determined fire raged in his eyes.

Maybe that's why I love him so much, she thought. These humans...they are such simple creatures and yet therein lies their own charm.

They walked through the dying forest of oaks, trees that had been here even before the humans covered it up and built the Magical City above it. She remembered running through it long ago, in another time. She had no care in the world, then, and laughed freely, dancing among the pools of sunlight streaming through gaps in the verdant foliage. But the humans came and the elves vanished, conceding the land to the younger race. It had been decreed by greater powers, her father had told her, that the elves journey to a faraway land where the gods slept. Now the elves are but a fleeting memory of a mythical past. A few chose to remain, to subtly guide the younger race of man, no matter how thankless a task it would be. She was one of those few.

Soon the trees gave way into an uneven clearing. Age-old stones carved with runes of power framed the wellspring, and motes of flickering magelight danced a slow, rising spiral upon its mouth. The aura was overwhelming here, almost tangible, welcoming her into its loving arms, yet threatening to consume her with its purity. And underneath everything was that...rot. That was what she came here for.

The sudden chorus of high-pitched whining almost caught them by surprise.

"Whispers!" she warned her companion who was now raising the ice katana in a stance she had come to know so well. "Wait till they enter the magelight's radius."

One by one, the white whispers began to appear, her magelight forcing them to drop their cloak of shadows. Looking no more than sheets of cloth hanging in mid-air with wild spinning holes for eyes, whispers were the souls of magic. No mundane weapon could touch them.

The swordsman leaped forward, shouting as he brought his sword down on a whisper, slicing it into two. The fabric floated to the ground, lifeless, the edges rimed with ice. He smiled at her and winked, "I'll take care of these. Go do what you must." And he was already upon the nearest ghost.

She ran towards the wellspring, one whisper floating after her. She heard the swordsman shouting again behind her--"Hey, you! Over here!"--and her pursuer stopped and charged back towards the swordsman.

She reached the wellspring, its aura caressing her. Now the cause of the rot was visible. Shadowy tendrils like the roots of some dark tree plunged into the wellspring itself, leading away past the stones and into a shimmering portal, a rectangular Door set in mid-air. She knew it was a Door through reality, leading past this plane of existence and into the Beyond. She looked back at her beau, fighting the whispers, his cold-bound blade flashing expertly through the ghostly sheet bodies. Torn cloth from slain whispers littered his feet.

"There's no other way. Goodbye, beloved," she said quietly, dropping a rolled-up scroll upon the ground.

Her magic carried her voice to her beau's ear. As the remaining whispers circled around them, emitting their high-pitched whines, he looked at her. Their eyes met. She nodded once. His eyes widened with realization and he mouthed out "No!" She turned away.

Three loud blasts exploded behind her as the swordsman dispatched the final whispers with successive Magnum Breaks. She could not hold back the tears now. She jumped through the Door before she could hesitate, afraid that she would stop herself if she did. Magic must be saved, she told herself.

A huge worm lay beyond the Door, on a lifeless plain of cracked earth. The tendrils were attached to the worm's body, writhing slowly as it fed on the magic of her world. She must stop it before her world's magic completely dies. She began to recite the Ritual of Closing. Sparks flew all along the Door's outline as it started to close.

Through the Door, she could see her beloved running towards her. She shook her head at him as she finished the short incantation. She could barely hear him, through the closing portal between worlds, but it was clear that he now realized what she had planned all along. She saw him hurl himself upon the Door futilely, saw him bounced back by the force of magic.

She held up a hand, palm touching the invisible barrier erected by the Ritual of Closing. It hurt so much, betraying him like this, but there was no other way. He put up a hand upon the barrier, touching hers, but they were worlds apart now.

"Listen, beloved..." she began.

"Why didn't you tell me?" came his anguished reply.

"You wouldn't have allowed me otherwise," she said, trying hard to stop her voice from quivering. "Now listen, the Door is closed. Magic is saved. All we have to do now is safeguard it so it won't happen again."

He tried to slice through the barrier with his katana, but he only broke the icy blade.

"Listen, beloved. I've dropped the Scroll of Summons behind you. Use it."

"No...." he cried feebly.

The Door was smaller now, only half the size it was before.

"Three drops of your blood would be enough. Then break the seal."

He nodded his head slowly. The Door was shrinking faster now; only his head and the hand he held to hers were visible.

"I love you," she breathed. "I'm sorry...."

And the Door finally sealed shut.

***

"I love you, Geffenia," he replied. But the Door was now gone, and his beloved with it. He stood there for the longest time, shoulders hunched in defeat.

Slowly he turned, picked up the Scroll of Summoning, and sliced open a finger upon his broken blade. Three drops and then break the seal, those were her instructions. The parchment unrolled when he broke the arcane seal, revealing a cutout figure of a man. The paper doll fell heavily to the ground like it was made of denser material. Then it began to grow. Flesh filled out the paper form, followed by clothes. Its features rippled like the surface of a pond, as they began to take shape.

He watched the summoning unfold before his eyes, a cutout doll becoming real. Somehow, he thought the man before him was familiar. It opened its eyes. They stood face-to-face, mirror images of each other.

"I am Doppleganger," the summoned creature said, in a voice so much like his own.

No, he corrected himself, it is my own voice. "Guard this wellspring."

The creature called Doppleganger surveyed its surroundings, the gnarled trees, the wellspring itself. Eventually, it returned its gaze upon him and nodded. "Magic flows from here and into the rest of the world. I shall serve to the best of my ability, master."

"See to it that you do." And with that he turned away.

He made his way out of the cavern, through the city, and past the east gate, ignoring the questioning looks of people. His gripped his broken ice blade firmly in his hand, looking straight ahead. He walked on into the wilderness until his legs gave out, and only then did he cry.

Lude went on to become the greatest swordsman of his time and instituted the swordsman training school in Prontera. But the elven magess Geffenia always stayed in his heart. He died of old age, under an autumn sky, in a newly-formed port town along the coast southeast from the capital city.

It was said that his last words were "Do you think she's there, waiting for me...?"

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking XVI

2004-12-11T01:26:00.000+08:00

XVI. "Calm down. There's nothing to gain by panicking."

Laire Allicran's voice was strong and firm, the perfect tone for commanding men. This was what he was good at, quelling doubt and uncertainty in times of trouble. And this was certainly such a time. He stood facing Chief Adviser Kurt, and two other advisors whose names he could not place at the moment, in the King's private apartments.

He walked over to the bay windows along the north wall, floor-to-ceiling panes of glass overlooking a garden of topiaries below. The early morning sunshine had barely cleared the high walls around the garden, and most of the sculpted bushes were still in shadow, the monster they represented seemingly asleep. The knight ran his hands through his hair, feeling the start of a migraine.

And I woke up feeling really good too....

With a sigh, Laire turned back to Kurt, his mind already laying out the plans. "Okay. What time was the King last seen?"

"Well, the maid sent to wake up the King this morning reported his absence," Kurt, usually self-assured, stumbled over his reply. "That was the first we knew."

Laire muttered a curse under his breath, "And the suspects? Have they been questioned?"

All three advisers nodded, but it was Kurt who voiced a reply. "They know nothing. The chief cook, a maid, and one of the guards...all three have been found dazed and claimed no memory of what had happened. They're in the hospital wing right now."

"Kidnapped...." Laire said. It's the only logical thing, of course. Someone had the gall as well as the skill to penetrate the Castle's defenses and take the King out unseen. "I expect we'll be contacted with a ransom demand soon," he finally said. "Until then, keep all this under close wraps."

Kurt nodded and started giving out instructions to his two assistants. The two men--Tieran and Eltor, Laire now remembered--bowed and took leave of them, their purple robes of office swishing across the carpeted floor. Kurt remained, waiting for Laire.

"I want to talk to the three." Not waiting for a reply from the advisor, the knight commander swept out of the chamber. The advisor followed close behind him.

The palace staff continued about their business normally, Laire noted, as they made their way through the castle. The advisers had done a good job in keeping the incident as secret as possible. Still, Laire knew that the walls have ears everywhere, and it would be only a matter of time until the vultures got wind of the situation.

Syn's Sword of Guidance would be back today, and Valcrist's Valor would arrive within the week, Laire thought, Those companies, along with my Sword of Virtue could surely hold the crown safe from any usurpers. But civil war must be avoided at all costs, until we can get the King back.

They stepped out into the main hall of the castle, and a blue object collided with Laire, bouncing harmlessly off his steel breastplate.

"You didn't catch it, Uncle Laire!" cried a disappointed little voice.

Laire saw the voice's owner standing a few feet away, her pet poring contentedly bouncing around her feet: Princess Tara, only heir to the throne of the Commonwealth. She would be too young to accept the crown.

"Oh, good morning, Little Princess!" He forced a smile as the Princess gleefully leaped into his arms, planting a kiss on his bearded cheek with a loud smack.

Princess Tara leaped back, laughing. "Yay! You're having breakfast with me and Daddy again!"

"Uhuh!" Laire smiled again. His head ached with a dull pain that throbbed against the inside of his forehead.

"Race you to the table!" Princess Tara, a veritable ball of energy in a bright blue dress. "Come, Peery!" she called to her poring companion, who was only to happy to bounce along with her.

Laire stooped to pick up the blue ball that had rolled behind one of the potted plants along the hallway, watching the princess disappear around the bend in the corridor.

She has to be protected at all costs. It's what Tristram would have wanted.

"Adviser Kurt," he began, his eyes looking straight at the purple-robed man beside him.

He paused.

The other Sword commanders would probably support him. And this appears to be the only way he can protect the Crown and the welfare of the Commonwealth in this time of crisis.

Chief Adviser Kurt Fenwick was waiting for what he had to say. And his headache was getting worse.

"How do I assume stewardship of the throne until such time as the King returns or Tara is fit to rule?"

Laire didn't notice it, but Kurt's eyes misted over tearfully as he nodded his understanding, and then launched into a droning monologue.

end of act two. please stay tuned as act three starts!

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking XV

2004-12-08T15:43:00.000+08:00

XV. Electic brushed a stray strand of hair from his face as the wind blew strongly at him, almost threatening to blow him off Hell Vortex's deck. The gargantuan airship was crossing the territory of Al de Baran towards Geffen. Beyond him lay what seemed to be an endless expanse of green spotted with blue lakes that mirrored the clear sky.

The High Wizard had just told him and Hesper that they should go on standby should they get more reliable leads that could guide them to Laeveteinn's door, and Hesper took that as permission to go tarry around Rune Midgard with the Hell Vortex.

That man just doesn't take this all seriously, Electic thought as he watched a flock of birds fly in an almost perfect V-formation near the aircraft. I'd think he thinks this is all just for fun, but....

Patting his almost flat side-pocket, Electic remembered why he was emptied of his allowance in the first place: he secretly slipped his money pouch inside the window of a shack--which seemed to house a family of at least ten.

Well I don't think it's fun, but....

He sighed, shielding his eyes as the clouds uncovered the sun, its immensely bright rays almost blinding him. The arc wand nestled in his left arm brought him an odd comfort despite his slight misgivings about his occupation.

I don't think it's right either. If it weren't for my father....

"Ah there you are, kiddo. I thought I'd find you here," Hesper said, emerging from the metal sliding door. He stretched his strong limbs, yawning as he did so.

"So where are we going next, Hesper?" Electic asked, his gaze trailing the swiftly shifting view of the river below him.

"I was tempted to make a stop at the machine city," Hesper murmured as he settled down by Electic's feet, back leaning against the safety rails. "Maybe upgrade Hell Vortex for a bit--"

"But we can't do that now, we'll be seen," Electic cut in with his high-pitched voice. "Besides, Al de Baran's too...happy...." His voice trailed off.

"What do you mean, 'too happy'?"

Electic shook his head. "Nothing."

"I don't know what you're onto kid, but if you're going to get all moody and gloomy right now, it just makes sense. You're your father's son after all. Heh." Hesper laughed ruefully, as if he had said a bad joke that was actually funny. "Though sometimes I don't know how you can be his son," he muttered under his breath.

Electic turned sharply at him. "I'm not my father, Hesper!" he said, paling. "I'm not someone who--hey!"

The boy was cut off from his retort when Hesper roughly tore the arc wand from his hands.

"Stop talking like that or I'll break your staff myself," he said, tone grave. "Being in the Black Circle requires total commitment." He narrowed his eyes. "Not that I care about what you damn think, I just don't want a cowardly little runt hanging around me when I'm doing my business. Got it?" So saying, he thrust the staff back into the stunned boy's hands and turned away.

Pale and furious, the young boy clenched his fists, seething silently.

I'm not a coward...!

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking XIV

2004-12-07T14:24:00.000+08:00

XIV. Interlude: Doorspawn

It was alone.

Part of an immaterial collective consciousness, it had passed through the open Door and into this world of flesh. The humanoids were frail, but they served their purpose. The collective needed material hosts to interact with this new world, to pave the way for his coming.

Interfacing with the humanoids was imperfect at best. Most tried to resist and damaged their minds in the process. Others unconsciously rejected the union with their bodies, and suffered disease. Yet it and its companions made do. They were establishing themselves, preparing to multiply, waiting for the time when the last Door would open and he would come onto this plane of existence.

It had felt the pull, an intense compulsion that called them forth. At first, the collective thought it was him. But it was just one of the fleshies, holding an intricate silver medallion. Like some mystic magnet, the medallion was beckoning them closer. It had answered the summons--there really was no choice--and its companions came, too. And with them they brought their lumbering fleshy puppet-hosts.

The command grew. It was engulfed and it knew, through its link with the central consciousness, that its companions were feeling the same thing. They were being commanded to abandon their hosts. It reluctantly pulled its flagellants from the core of its host and left, its cloud-like body oozing forth.

Its companions were swirling around the medallion now, whirling around and around. It began to whirl with them. But then it hesitated.

What are you doing? came the collective thought from its companions. Come join us.

It hovered just beyond the vortex of its companions, transparent clouds with whip-like appendages, now being charged with cerulean lightning from the medallion.

It isn't him, it thought back at the collective.

What do you mean? Can't you feel it? It is calling us. We must obey.

No. It held back. How could the consciousness not see? Its companions were being consumed, deceived by this powerful command. It isn't him!

They were creatures from beyond the material plane, composed of metaphysical ether, completely devoid of feeling. Yet something quivered through its amorphous body, and its dozen gaseous tentacles twitched, as it watched its companions vanish into the consuming blade held by the fleshies. The net of woven magical force was shattering the laws of the universe, reweaving it into the essence of this fleshy's blade. And still it just watched. It never joined its own companions.

There were a lot of explosions next, bits of matter hurled through the air, and still it just hovered there, the shockwave passing over and through.

It isn't him, it communicated. But none received its message. The collective did not exist anymore. It was alone.

As the surviving fleshies dug themselves from the rubble of Hell Vortex's assault, it drifted away.

The collective was no more. It was alone.

Through the streets of Prontera, it drifted, an unseen vagabond. The inhabitants of this world were made up of all elements, as the world itself was an amalgam of the same building blocks of reality. The ethereal creature flew through the city, unhindered by neither wall nor wind.

The collective was no more. But Laeveteinn would soon awaken. It must be ready.

***

It flew through the stone corridors, passing the coats of arms of various prominent guilds, uncaring. This opulent palace was nothing to it. These fleshies would never know the immaterial beauty of its own home beyond the Door, the immaculate bliss of the collective's communion. Yet even both home and collective exist only as random synapses in its cloudy core, memories of things that are now no more.

As if to assure itself, it flew down into next flesh-creature it saw: a rat. These creatures were smaller and had proportionately smaller brains than the dominant two-legged fleshies it and its companions had chosen as hosts. It was easier to control this creature, this rat, and it drove the host through the castle, scampering through tiny holes that led into unknown tunnels in the masonry.

It emerged into the kitchens where dinner was being prepared and it sniffed at the glorious aroma that wafted from the ovens. It had no need to eat but derived some vicarious pleasure in the sensations its host experienced.

It considered getting some food for its host but was cut short by a sudden wooden implement that crushed its host's tiny skull.

***

"Darn rats are everywhere," Pietro muttered tossing aside the broom and stooping down, hindered by his massive gut, to pick up the dead rat by the tail. It held it up, wincing. "You'd think this wasn't the royal palace!" he clucked.

He tossed the rat into a nearby trashbin and began to wash his hands at the sink, whistling gaily. Tonight's courses would be marvelous. But he still had a lot to do, ice the cake for one. The little princess loved cakes.

He turned towards the table where the dishes were all laid out, wiping his hands on his white apron. He adjusted his chef's hat, checked to see that his cooks are doing their work, and began to work on the cake.

Icing squirted uncontrollably as he convulsed, his core wrapped by the unseen creature's tentacles.

It was to the whole kitchen crew's chagrin when the chief cook staggered out of the Royal Kitchens, drool dribbling from one side of its mouth.

***

Like with all its previous hosts, it immediately set about finding out what its host can do. It delved through the hapless chief cook's mind, unearthing deep memories. Foremost on its new host's mind was the preparation of Lutie Christmas Cake, something that it cannot find practical use of.

It limped through the corridors, still wrestling with the cook's will. It passed by other fleshies--servants, soldiers, children--with looks of puzzlement and alarm on their faces.

Finally, it was convinced this host was useless, and immediately prepared to disembark to find a worthier one. It needs a powerful host, if it was going to continue the collective's function single-handedly.

***

Emerald strolled through the royal palace, a smile plastered on her face. Merton was meeting her tonight! She giggled as she remembered their last tryst in one of the vacant room of the palace, remembered the guard's strong arms around her.

She had first arrived last year, here in the Castle of Prontera. Coming from a lower class family of farmers from the eastern Pronteran estates, her parents hoped she'd catch the eye of a knight. Merton was just a palace guard, but she didn't care. She loves him.

She made her way past several stairs and into the eastern wing, towards the room where Merton was waiting, her heart beating loud.

The sudden appearance of the head cook, eyes glaring madly, from behind a pillar startled her, but her scream was cut short when the tentacles tightened around her mind, subduing her will.

***

Merton De Galde whirled around when he heard the scream, the high Pronteran Guard cap he wore almost toppling from its perch atop his head. He hurriedly picked up his halberd from beside the bed and peered into the empty corridor outside.

"Emerald?" he asked tentatively, looking down both sides of the torch-lit corridor

Someone was sobbing further down the bend to his left.

"Emerald?" he called out again, passing several paintings of scenery as he nervously made his way towards the corner.

Holding his halberd at the ready, he peered around the corner. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the girl in a maid's outfit.

"Hey, Em!" he called out, stepping into the branch corridor. And then he froze. Something was wrong.

Emerald was hunched and lurching as she walked. Behind her, sobbing was one of the cook's from the kitchen.

"What the--?" he managed to blurt out before he felt the ethereal touch of the Doorspawn.

And his mind knew no more.

***

"I'll have to commend the two priests then. Maraksus and Dylan, is it?"

King Tristan III stood in front of a window overlooking the palace gardens, topiaries of various monsters standing in the deepening gloom of early evening. He was glad that the "plague" in the slums had been solved.

Behind him, Laire Allicran, commander of the Sword of Virtue, bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty. May I suggest Golden Eagles? For their dedication to the city of Prontera," he said. "I'm afraid I must cut this visit short, Your Majesty. I have other things to see to."

King Tristan turned from watching the dusk outside. "Now, now, Laire," he said, "don't be so formal. We're friends long before you came to serve me."

Laire smiled as he executed the knight's salute sans sword, his sword arm crossing over his breast. Then he turned snappily on his heels.

"Well, then if you really must go...oh, don't forget. Breakfast tomorrow in the north gardens?" King Tristan reminded the knight. "Tara says she misses her godfather a lot."

"I'll be there, Tris," Laire answered, still smiling.

As the door closed behind the knight, the King turned once more towards the topiary on the garden below his window. There was a couple of porings, a thief bug, a lunatic, a couple of pecopecos...King Tristran idly thought about his favorite pecopeco, Equestre. He and Laire had done their fair amount of adventuring way back. I bet I can still throw a mean Grand Cross....

"Forgot something, Laire?" he asked as the door opened again.

He looked to see that it wasn't Laire. It was one of his guards.

"Oh it's you, Merton," he greeted the guard, noting the limp in the man's walk. "What is it?"

Merton suddenly collapsed and the King ran forward to see what was wrong with the guard. Merton immediately gasped, "No! Get away, King Tristran!"

"What's wrong, man?" Tristan asked as he knelt beside the guard. "What--"

His question was cut off when he felt the tentacles tighten around his mind, breaking his will.

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking XIII

2004-12-06T16:55:00.000+08:00

XIII. A hand stuck up through the mountain of rubble, immobile for a moment, a grotesque monument of Hesper and Electic’s rather violent wake; then, with much effort, it moved—grabbing support for the whole body to pull itself up. Maraksus Aralnae’s beaten-down frame rose from the debris, broken-down asphalt, cement, and rock rolling down to the base of the wreckage, eventually creating a revolting landslide of earth and flesh as some unconscious—maybe dead—peasants fell down with the earthen avalanche.

Maraksus coughed as he struggled to free his legs from the heavy debris, frantically looking around for his companion. All four of them might still have the protection of Kyrie Eleison shielding them from the rather crushing weight, but he was aware that time was running out and the holy barrier would eventually disperse.

“Dylan? Dylan!” Maraksus shouted, hoping to get some response from his partner. “Dammit, you shouldn’t be knocked out—!” The sight of the unmoving people at the foot of the pile was rather discomforting despite the protection he had quickly cast while the strange ship blasted the area down.

A soft coughing came from the wreckage. “Gah, stop yakking Maraksus,” Dylan’s weak, muffled voice grumbled from somewhere within the rubble pile. “Help me up, these stones are going to break my back any second now.” The badly disheveled priest eventually found his partner and pulled him up, further upsetting the rocks around them.

It was fortunate, for the rocks rolled off Fynn Elenium’s heaving torso. “I can’t believe I’m still alive,” he mumbled, slightly dazed with shock. “Where’s Sevrin?” he asked weakly as his eyes searched for companion, panicking.

“Don’t fret your head too much Fynn,” Sevrin’s barely audible voice was heard from the other side of the wreckage. The three hurriedly moved to see where she was, only to find her kneeling beside an unconscious urchin. “These people still have breath in them,” she said, looking up to Maraksus and Dylan. “You think you two can do something?”

“No problem,” Maraksus said as he jumped off, landing onto firm ground. “Dylan, time to cast the Sanctuary.”

***

“I see no reason why you two can’t stay for the night,” said Galen to Fynn upon their return. “The Mother Superior in charge of the Abbey is not here, though I know that if she were she’d gladly take you both in.”

“Thanks,” Fynn said, grateful that problem of lodging has been solved, and it seemed like they were going to get it for free as well. “We are entirely in your debt.”

“In behalf of St. Capitolina Abbey, I say don’t sweat it,” Galen chuckled as he locked the gates behind them. “We also are grateful for your help.” He whistled happily, twirling the ring of keys around his finger. “Whoo-hoo, another job well done. Thank Providence.”

These people act as if the return of their brethren with tattered and bloodied clothes is a normal occurrence, Fynn thought as watched the acolyte guard climb his guard post. Not unlike the Temple of the Assassins, then.

“Hey, Mister Assassin Dude,” a voice suddenly piped up behind Fynn, almost making him jump. He turned around to see who it was, only to see Mirielle with her large spectacles, the lens gleaming with what Fynn fancied as a crafty look. “Your lady friend is sitting all alone by the cliff. Aren’t you going to wrap your arms around her like you’re supposed to?”

Fynn only looked blankly at Mirielle, and then felt a painful twinge of jealousy as he remembered what he had overheard from Sevrin and that other knight’s conversation.

"Now, now, is that a way to greet a former teacher and lover?"

Fynn hastily excused himself, traversing across the grounds with heavy steps as he looked around for Sevrin. As Mirielle had said, Sevrin was indeed sitting by the cliff, perched on the marble stage’s stairs, looking pensive as she stared at the setting sun.

“Zeny for your thoughts, Sev?” Fynn dared to speak out loud as he approached her, interrupting Sevrin’s brooding. He settled himself upon a step by her feet.

She only looked up at him. “Nothing, Elenium. Nothing.” Saying that, she sunk into her thoughts again, absently fingering the hem of the well-worn cape lent to her by Valcrist.

Fynn contented himself with just sitting beside her, witnessing the play of colors before him as the sky turned from orange to pink and finally into violet, the sea mirroring it.

All of a sudden, Sevrin mumbled, “I can’t believe Hesper’s involved.”

Hesper. Fynn finally found the strength to muster all of his resolve in asking the question that was eating him ever since he heard the other knight’s words. “Who is Hesper?” He clenched his jaw, fearing for the worst.

“He was my tutor in Swordsmastery,” Sevrin said numbly. “When I was enrolled in Midgard Academy.”

“I see…” Fynn’s voice trailed off. “I think I understand your pain, having to face your mentor in battle.” But he mentioned him being her lover…?

Sevrin laughed bitterly. “Don’t go spouting off things like you know everything, Elenium. Those lessons came with a price,” she said coolly. “He got to do me almost every night afterwards.”

Fynn paled, his hand tightly clenched, mulling over what he heard Hesper say ever so snidely to Sevrin: "Do you really want to fight here? Or shall we get a bed somewhere?”

“Do you know what Hesper’s sword is, the Haedonggum?” Sevrin asked casually. Without waiting for him to answer, she continued, “That cursed sword can control minds. He never used it on my training, but he did like to put me under its spell to make me lust him too.”

Fynn could not find his voice, his mouth dry. Oh gods, Venris… He could not help but feel rotten despite himself; all the years that have passed ever since he left Alberta have been spent obsessing over Venris, and have already marked her as his.

He never imagined that in all the nights he spent thinking about her, somebody was taking advantage of Venris. My Venris, he corrected himself, as he looked sideways at the morose Sevrin, his jaws clenched. If someone were going to take Venris for himself with her full consent, it would have to be him.

“What, cat got your tongue?” remarked Sevrin snidely. “I hope learning that small fact would change your mind about wanting to get to know me better. That would certainly serve my purpose,” she said breezily as she stood up and walked away, probably into her own quarters.

Fynn was left staring at her back until she disappeared from his sight. At present, the sun had sunk fully, and the deep violets have cast their shadows on the surroundings, somehow giving the deep gnawing in his heart an ideal place to breed.

The full moon cast looming shadows on Fynn as he left the edge of the cliff. Jealousy and hate towards the man she called her tutor rooted into Fynn’s heart. The Doors had nothing to do with his growing hate for the man whose loins unrightfully claimed Venris, and that, Fynn knew very, very, well.

***

“Have you taken into account the markings of that ship, anything?” Laire Allicran asked the next morning, calmly sipping his coffee. Across the table in front of him, Dylan looked as if he was going to nod himself back to sleep, while Maraksus’ face was threatening to sink into a plateful of food.

“It was black, no markings whatsoever,” Maraksus said as he yawned, fighting off sleep rather badly. “But that ship’s going to be easily identified with that helluva number of guns and firearm thingamajigs.”

“We’re no experts in aircraft identification, Sir Allicran,” Dylan said hollowly. “But that ship doesn’t look like anything we’ve seen so far, not even remotely close to Kafra Corp.’s new models.”

“Probably a prototype then,” Laire said as he gave them both a pitying look. “Look, I know you two were pushed to the brink this time,” he said as he watched Dylan almost upend his water glass. “But rest assured King Tristram will learn of your great and useful efforts.”

“Naw, dontcha worry Sir Allicran,” Maraksus said, a loopy grin on his face. “We had help and—”

A sudden movement from under the floor stopped the priest in the middle of his sentence, making Laire suspicious that somehow, someone stepped on Maraksus’s foot rather deliberately.

“Don’t you mind him, Sir,” Dylan said, looking as if jolted awake. “I think Maraksus’ dreaming already.”

But the meaningful glance between the two priests did not go unnoticed.

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking XII

2004-12-05T23:43:00.000+08:00

XII. The winds picked up, scattering pieces of trash and detritus across the asphalt lot. The Door glimmered faintly, a metaphysical outline branded upon the ground.

Fynn Elenium stood waiting, his entire body coiled tight like a spring as he studied the two men. One of them, with brushed-up black hair, was holding out a silver Door Charm, his oily goatee framing a malicious sneer. The other, shorter and definitely still in his teens, stood a couple of paces behind the first, leaning upon an oaken staff.

The first man lowered the Door Charm and chuckled, "Not that it'll work anyway. This Door's a failure. Here, let me show you." And with that, he raised the silver amulet. Magical energy coalesced upon the charm, arcing along the man's metal arm.

Fynn braced himself. If this one functioned like his did....

But it did not.

The charm's dancing light faded as the man lowered it. "See?" he said, "no spawn for it to summo--!!"

The shanties around them suddenly burst and half a dozen people swayed out of them, zombie-like. It was horrifying: here, an old man, shambling along, drool hanging like a sticky rope from his mouth; there, a woman dressed in rags, moaning as she jerked awkwardly forward as if she was just now learning how to walk; and a couple of dirty street urchins whose eyes blazed with an inner malevolent light.

"Zombies?" Fynn asked, puzzled, as he took a step back from the advancing mob. His hands reflexively shot towards the handles of his twin katars, ready to defend himself. He noticed that the steel-armed man was just as surprised at this sudden turn of events.

"Not undead," said Dylan, laying a steadying hand upon his shoulder. "They're...possessed."

Beside him, Maraksus knuckled his forehead. "Of course! The absence of monsters emerging from an open Door, the mysterious appearance of an incurable plague that turns out to be possessions!" said the silver-haired priest in a torrent. "Dylan...."

"I know," Dylan said simply.

"Well, whatever they are, here they come," warned Fynn, crossing his twin katars before him in battle stance. He mentally prepared for the coming fight. The Assassins of the Temple were trained to flow through combat, their consciousness flying free as their bodies did. It was like a dance.

"They're possessed, assassin," Maraksus said urgently. "Do not hurt them."

"Huh?" Fynn snapped back from his killing stance.

"Yes, we'd need a couple of minutes to complete the ritual," Dylan said as he circled around the oncoming mob.

"I'll take care of Hesper," Sevrin suddenly whispered to him as she passed, her claymore in hand.

"Who's Hesper?" But Sevrin just shook her head, as she started to sprint towards the metal-armed man. She moved with blurring speed, whipping her blade up and around as she leapt at the man--Did she call him Hesper? Fynn thought. Sparks flew as Hesper turned Sevrin's claymore aside with his metallic palm.

Fynn turned his attention on the possessed mob, ducking and weaving through their attacks. They carried no weapons, but Fynn staggered as one of their flailing arms caught his side, knocking the air out of him. Damn, he cursed mentally, they're strong!

He backpedaled nimbly away, turning to see one of the priests gesturing past him towards the far end of the lot. Glancing that way, he saw the young mage, staff held before him, an arm across his forehead, and eyes closed in concentration. He felt the hairs on his nape rise as static from a revolving arcane circle charged the air around them.

"We're the targets!" he cried. "Everyone, scatter!"

With that, he dived away; the slow-moving possessed tried to claw at him as he rolled back to his feet outside the casting circle. The priests had not budged an inch.

Maraksus was smirking at him, hands on his hips. "Really, now. There's no cause for panic. The kid won't complete whatever blasted spell he's trying."

Sure enough, the young mage had stopped casting, his hands clutched his throat as he tried to mouthed out words. But no sound came from his frantically working lips. The revolving arcane circle had also vanished. Good thing these priests are good for something.

"Keep 'em busy, assassin!" Maraksus gestured at him. Fynn felt his body go light, his movement faster. Priests were invaluable in battle because of this. Their prayers increased a combatant's performance and such support could well provide enough advantage to win a fight. In this case, Fynn evaded the four possessed attacks much more effectively with his increased speed.

Dylan's right hand extended towards Fynn. "Kyrie Eleison!"

And Fynn felt an invisible barrier sheathing his entire body with warmth. Fynn returned his attention towards the mob too late. The drooling old man has just delivered him a powerful uppercut. Fynn flinched reflexively but found that he was unhurt. The barrier had absorbed the brunt of the punch. Fynn crouched and spun, catching the back of the man's legs with his own and taking him down. He dove sideways to avoid the stumbling woman's haymaker. As he regained his feet, the pair of children tried to claw ineffectively through his barrier, causing a gritting noise like nails scratching a blackboard. Fynn gagged as he retreated: the mob's odor was overpowering as if they had not bathed in days.

Across the lot, Sevrin was fighting her own battle. Hesper had drawn his own weapon, Haedonggum, a one-handed sword with a long slim blade. The air around the sword seemed to hum, and Sevrin knew that the sword was said to control minds to a degree. She herself had fallen under the sword's thrall several times in the past.

Sparks flew once more as their blades met and slid down against each other, finally locking at the hilts. For a moment, Hesper stared into her eyes, and then there was recognition.

"Why, Venris Dastonia," he exclaimed, "of all the places to finally meet again!"

Sevrin pushed, separating their locked blades. "Damn you, Hesper!" she screamed, twisted her grip on her two-handed sword, and brought it down in a mighty downward swing. Almost idly, Hesper crossed his metallic arm across his face, blocking the claymore's descent with a bone-jarring clang.

"Now, now," Hesper admonished, "is that a way to greet a former teacher and lover?"

Sevrin staggered back, breathing hard. Her arms hurt from the elbows. She eased her grip on her claymore, flexing her arms. She would not let Hesper get to her. Anger clouds the mind and loses the battle, that was another of Sir Valcrist's standby sayings for the Sword of Valor. Yes, she definitely does not want to lose this one. The man practically raped her during their sword-fighting lessons and for that, she cut off his arm when she has had enough.

Hesper saluted her with Haedonggum, touching his forehead to the upright blade. He held the sword in his good right arm, leaving his metallic left arm free to fend off attacks. Like a shield, Sevrin thought. Only the arm seems to be made of tougher material than a normal shield, else my claymore would have battered through it. She brandished her claymore once more, leveled the point at Hesper.

"Really," Hesper taunted. "Do you really want to fight here? Or shall we get a bed somewhere?"

Sevrin's cheeks flushed scarlet and she was thankful for the iron cain she wore across the lower part of her face. Taking quick light steps, she advanced on Hesper, swinging her claymore again and again. Hesper began to fall back as he fended each ringing blow with his metallic arm.

Hesper started to laugh as Sevrin pressed her attack on. "I'm sure you miss me as much as I do you."

That was the last straw.

Sevrin yelled out as she released her most powerful strike, and Hesper's steel arm was thrown aside with the impact. She stepped inside the opening, her claymore arcing from the side. She felt her blade's contact with his chest.

Hesper slid across the lot, his silk shirt ripped open. He dug his metal arm into the ground, ripping out slivers of asphalt as he stopped his slide.

"That's new," Hesper said as he shrugged off his torn shirt, revealing the silver chainmail shirt he wore beneath. "So you're a knight now. And you've learned the quickening aura."

"Just shut up, Hesper," she suggested, leveling her claymore once more at the knight. "Or better yet, tell us what you know of the Doors." And she launched herself towards him again.

But this time, Hesper did not block with his steel arm. Instead, his Haedonggum clashed with Sevrin's claymore, steel angrily scratching against steel. With a twist, he drove both blades to the ground. Before Sevrin could pull her weapon free, Hesper's steel arm came flying in, knockng the wind out of her. She landed in a heap a few paces away.

Through the cloud of pain, she was thankful to feel that her grip on her claymore had not been broken. Hands began to pull her up.

"Sev? Are you okay?" came Fynn's voice, tinged with worry. "The priests, they freed the possessed...."

Dazedly, she stood, supported by the assassin's strong arms.

Hesper was leering at both of them, leaning casually on his fencing blade. "So they did," the knight said idly, eyes flicking towards the area where the two priests were helping the four newly-exorcised people. "But I'm sure there are more." He was raising the Door Charm and it was starting to shine with light.

Sevrin felt Fynn release his hold on her, and in an instant the assassin faded from view. Another moment passed before she heard the faintly whispered word "Grimtooth!!", which was immediately followed by stone spears erupting from the ground, piercing a spiky path towards Hesper.

"Oh, please," Hesper muttered lightly. He drove his metal fist into the ground as the stone spikes rushed at him. The shockwave spread outward from the knight, cracking the asphalt pavement. The earthen teeth shattered as the smashed against the rippling ground. Hesper still held the Door Charm, and lurid light was streaming from it. "Come, Doorspawn!" he cried. "Come and destroy my enemies!"

From the twisting streets around the lot came a collective roar like an army of thousands called to battle. The inhabitants of the slums, fallen prey to the invisible possessing Doorspawn of the Pronteran Door, now swarmed into the lot from all directions.

"He's summoning every possessed victim!" cried Maraksus, hastily taking his place on the ritual circle, which was still glowing faintly with mystical might.

"Assassin!" Dylan shouted over the sudden noise of the summoned crowd. "The ritual is still in effect! Lure them inside the circle! We will maintain the exorcism!"

Fynn and Sevrin dashed towards the nearest throng of possessed. There were so many, clawing, biting, punching at them. But as each victim stepped into the priest's ritual circle, he or she collapsed and recovered control of his body. One by one, the possessing Doorspawn was driven out of its host, shrieking as it fried in the purifying light of the Magnus Exorcimus.

Hesper watched with interest. His summoned army would eventually lose. Already, recovered people were staggering out of the lot and the more able-bodied ones helping Sevrin and the assassin push more possessed into the circle. His partner, Electic, was standing useless beside him. Damn kid, he cursed as he tried to think of a way to win. The actual Doorspawn possessed victims....

Yes! For the third time, he activated the Door Charm, not to summon the possessed--for every one of them were now here--but to force the Doorspawn out of their hosts. And then, I'll command them to possess these meddlers!

Energy from the Door Charm crackled down the length of his metal arm as he forced his will on the Doorspawn. Moans poured forth from the crowd as the Doorspawn left their respective hosts. They were not invisible now, as they hovered, charged up by the energy from the Charm. Hesper could faintly see hints of tentacles from the formless glowing clouds that began to mass above him. And then the amulet in his hand shattered, exploding with such force that took him off his feet. He recovered just in time to see the glowing Doorspawn diving for him.

Instinctively, he tried to fend them off with Haedonggum, which was also glowing. Strange, it never did that before. The Doorspawn were now upon him. Nooo!

To his amazement, the mass of cloudy Doorspawn merged into his glowing blade, as if Haedonggum was absorbing each and every one of them. He watched in awe as each Doorspawn was sucked into the blade until finally none was left. Spidery cracks now appeared upon the slender blade. Pieces of metal began to peel off, clattering to the ground, leaving a glowing blade of energy in its place. Within this blade of pure energy swam the horde of Doorspawn he had summoned.

An immaterial blade! he thought wildly, as he felt the sword send alien thoughts into his mind. It felt like a few drops at first, then immediately become a torrent. Only his sheer force of will prevented him from going mad then and there.

"Electic," he managed to gasp, crawling over to where the young mage stood. "Call Hell Vortex. We must escape."

Fynn Elenium, Sevrin Astergarden, Maraksus Aralnae, and Dylan Garwood, along with the newly-exorcised crowd--all of them were swallowed up by massive explosions, as the airship Hell Vortex dropped its cloaking and brought its cannons to bear upon the slums of Prontera. Buildings collapsed, burying everything in chunks of masonry.

Electic helped Hesper up the ramp and into Hell Vortex's loading bay. As the hatch closed, Electic wondered if anyone survived Hell Vortex's onslaught. He shivered. This was his job, as a wizard of the Black Circle, but why did he suddenly hate himself?

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking XI

2004-12-04T21:24:00.000+08:00

XI. Interlude: Sevrin Astergarden

Sevrin and Fynn finally stood in front of the intimidating ornate wrought-iron gates of St. Capitolina Abbey, the magnificently embellished building looming over the two. The silence that greeted them was deafening, and for a moment Sevrin even thought that the clergymen had taken a vacation of sorts if it were not for the gatekeeper who peeked out of his stone guardhouse and welcomed them.

“Greetings, Sir and Lady”, the guard in acolyte’s robes said, without making any move to let them in yet. “What business brings you to the Abbey?”

Judging by the way the gatekeeper regarded them, Sevrin knew that he was more than wary of knights and assassins coming to the Abbey. With the emphasis on the assassin.

“We seek assistance regarding some relic that is related to the Door phenomena,” Fynn answered, taking off his sakkat and holding it to his side.

Mr. Lizard, who was lounging on Fynn’s wide-brimmed hat, jumped off and crawled up his hair to content itself on its beloved Master’s head.

Fynn pretended not to notice as the acolyte gatekeeper stifled a laugh. “All we need is a fraction of time with someone who is knowledgeable with these things.”

Sevrin, still guarded with the possibility of recognition, did not remove her helmet and the iron cain covering the lower part of her face.

“Heh…erm of course. I’ll refer you to Sister Mirielle,” the guard smiled, lifting the latch of the gate, swinging the huge metal entrance inward—the hinges creaking horribly—to let them in. “Hmm…she’s in the—”

“No need to elaborate, Galen,” someone behind him piped up. Shoving the guard aside, a short girl with large swirly glasses reached out her hand towards Sevrin. “Name’s Mirielle Widdershins, Gadgetry Apprentice. Pleased to meet you.”

Sevrin took her hand and shook it firmly. “Pleased to meet you as well,” she said as she let go.

“Er…I didn’t notice you were there, Sister Miri,” the gatekeeper called Galen said as he closed the gates. “What are you doing?”

“You mention relics, I’ll be there. You mention gadgets, machinery, gears, nut, bolts…!” Mirielle sighed dreamily. “…I’ll be there....

“So what do you want from me?” she said finally, her hands on her hips, in a business-like manner.

Fynn rummaged in his pockets, producing the broken Door Charm. “We need your help with this, Sister Mirielle. My Assassin-brother handed this to me, saying that it has the power to summon the Doorspawn.”

Mirielle brought her hands to her lips. “My goodness! Doorspawn you say?” Before she could act more surprised, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That’s a pretty outrageous claim you’re making, assassin.”

“Please, we have names.” Sevrin interjected, voice monotonous. After she told the acolytes their names, she added, “Outrageous it may seem, it would help us all if you’d look over it.”

“Well, forgive me for doubting Mr. Elenium here with the frilldora on his head,” Mirielle muttered, gingerly taking the Door Charm from his hands. Squinting at the badly damaged artifact, she cluck-ed irritably. “Magical artifacts should be handled with care—that’s a Golden Rule! In fact, that’s even stated in the first chapter of the….”

As Mirielle droned on and on about the care of magical artifacts Fynn turned to Sevrin. “Can’t I take this stupid lizard off my head?” he hissed. “It’s destroying my credibility!”

Sevrin merely looked at him sideways. “That’s your problem,” she whispered back. “Not my fault it likes you more than me.”

“Sevrin, if this lizard doesn’t leave my head right now, I’ll—”

“You try anything and I swear my blade will go through your—”

“Are you even listening to me?!” Mirielle demanded in a loud voice, making the two jump, looking incredulously at the both of them. Behind her, Galen just shrugged apologetically, apparently embarrassed with her eccentric behavior.

“Er, yes, yes. Go on,” Fynn quickly said.

Mirielle shook her blond curls and hmph-ed. “Next thing I’ll see are flying pigs,” she said, looking pointedly at Fynn with the sleeping lizard on his head. “Very well, come with me to my workshop and we’ll see what I can do.”

“Hey Miri! I saw a flying pig once!” Galen shouted after them as the three walked across the wide grounds swathed in grass, on their way to Mirielle’s basement workplace. “It was Brother Demetrius’ pet hog wearing an Angel Wing!” After that, he let out a loud laugh.

These people need a vacation, Sevrin noted, taking in the scenery around her. Give them another year of being hermits and this Abbey will turn into a loony bin.

The Abbey was a huge complex of stone buildings, bearing a mark of ancient architecture. Besides the interconnected whitewashed buildings, stone arches with rose vines wrapped around them were predominant in St. Capitolina Abbey’s grounds. There were also floral beds scattered around the wide carpet of grass, with inviting benches put strategically beside them. Being set by a cliff overlooking the sea, the grounds afforded a very beautiful view of the wide expanse of the sea off to the Abbey’s left side, and the people who maintained the place took advantage of it by setting up a marble stage near the cliff’s edge, with flowering vines and rose bushes decorating it. It was fit for celebrations.

Nice place to get married.

“You go in here,” Mirielle said as they reached a side door of one of the smaller buildings. “Just grab a torch by the entrance, and proceed to the very bottom of the stairs. I’ll just get some of my tools from the library.” She then marched off, her feet pitter-pattering on the stone pathway.

Sevrin opened the wooden door, revealing a rather dark entrance to a stairwell going down. “With them staying in these kind of places, I’m not surprised that most of them have their hinges loose,” she remarked as she grabbed a torchlight, her voice resonating in the rather cramped granite tunnel going downwards. Holding the steel railing delicately, she descended the somewhat tall staircase.

Fynn followed her after he closed the door behind him. “So…finally interested in making small talk with me?”

Even if Sevrin didn’t turn around to look at him, she somehow felt that he was smiling.

What was once a gentle hold on the railing was now a hard, knuckle-whitening grip. “I only speak when I deem it necessary.” She proceeded to stomp her way down the stairs, mood darkening. The nerve.

“But you’ll be stuck with me, Sevrin. Like it or not,” Fynn said as he followed her, his steps quieter. “I’ve taken a liking to you,” he added softly.

Finally setting foot on the bottom floor, Sevrin rounded on Fynn, her eyes cold. “Don’t get fresh with me, Elenium. I’m here with you because you’ve blackmailed me,” With a huff, she went through the small rickety door leading into what was probably Mirielle’s workplace. “Maybe I should expect getting raped in my sleep sometime.”

“I’m not like that!”

“Really…like I expect you to….” Sevrin’s voice trailed off, leaving out what she was saying. His voice is all too familiar, she realized, frustrated that she hadn’t given it a hard thought until now. But who?

She looked surreptitiously at Fynn as she untied her sheathed blade and leaned it against a wall, studying his face, which was previously covered when she first encountered him in Morroc. After that, she mostly avoided his gaze, and she ended up not having a good look on his features even after he had removed his mask as soon as they left the oasis city.

If Fynn knew that he was being watched, he did not show it, making himself comfortable on a stool as he looked at one of Mirielle’s strange contraptions that graced the numerous shelves lining most of the wall space.

He isn't a relative, of that I’m sure, she thought, taking in his facial features, the long dark hair that went to his back, and even Mr. Lizard who was now stirring on his head, Frill-ing softly. I know I’ve seen him somewhere—

The door banged open. “Here I am!” Mirielle announced as she went in, tools gathered in her arms. She probably felt the tension, as she asked curiously, “Did I interrupt something?”

“No,” Sevrin answered. “Nothing.”

“Rrrrright,” Mirielle said as she peered suspiciously at them. “Anyway, give me a few moments to take a look at this baby.”

She proceeded to set up her equipment on the centermost table, running tests like what Mathilda did previously in her home in Sograt Desert. She would occasionally let out small yelps of delight, apparently due to some new discoveries about the strange Charm, and also some groans whenever she could not figure out something.

Mirielle’s testing went on for almost an hour when she finally breathed a sigh of relief. “This is all I could do, folks,” she said finally.

Fynn, who took the liberty of taking a short nap while leaning against a shelf, sat up straight. “Did you manage to fix it?” he asked as he approached Mirielle, taking a close look on the Door Charm.

“Well, I’m not sure since this is very ancient,” Mirielle said, “But I did figure out some things about it. I tried to fix it thoroughly but its missing some parts,” she looked crossly at Fynn. “Obviously.”

“I can’t help it, it was already damaged when it was handed over to me…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mirielle said, waving her hand breezily. “Anyways, I do believe that it does summon Doorspawn. These jewels are imbued with concentrated elemental energy….”

Before she could go on and on about technical things Sevrin cut her off. “Do you know anything about the Pronteran Door?”

“Er…yeah, that Door’s opened days ago but nothing came out…and it has already closed too.”

“Could you lead us to it?” Fynn asked, taking the pendant off the table and putting it into his pocket.

Mirielle laughed. “What, you two are trying to stop the Doors from opening?” She shook her head. “I don’t know if you two are some sort of special bounty hunters, but the Sword of Virtue has already cordoned off the site. Besides, not even most of us could go there, I mean…many acolytes who were tasked to heal the people who went nuts there had gone bonkers as well. It’s an epidemic.”

“What do you mean…?” Sevrin asked, strapping her blade to her side. “An epidemic?”

“The Door is located in the slums,” Mirielle said. “If you need to go there, go to Dylan Garwood and Maraksus Aralnae, they’re the guys taking care of it, though they don’t care much for the defunct Door anyway.” Mirielle again pushed up her heavy-looking glasses, which seemed to keep on slipping down her nose. “They’re more concerned with healing the... er, sick.”

As Sevrin and Fynn walked up the stairs outside Mirielle’s workshop, she called out, “Hey Mr. Assassin! You look ludicrous with that lizard on your head!” With a laugh, she closed the door behind them.

She’s also hit by the epidemic she’s referring to, Sevrin decided.

Following Mirielle’s directions, they proceeded to the two priests' office located in the Main Building of St. Capitolina’s Abbey. As they went up the first flight of stairs Sevrin espied Sir Allicran going off to the other side of the corridor, and she quickly pulled Fynn along with her to get out of the commander’s sight before their presence would be noticed.

“Why?” Fynn asked, as Sevrin dragged him off into a corner, confused.

“I don’t want Sir Allicran to see me,” she answered, craning her neck to make sure the knight didn’t see them, and proceeded to continue her walk as if nothing happened. “Let’s just say that he…hates the Sword of Valor.”

“I think we’re here,” Fynn said, stopping before a white door, a duplicate of the many other doors that lined the bright corridor. He was about to knock when he heard some voices from the other side. Instead of knocking, he leaned towards the door just slightly, to listen in furtively at the voices.

“Who the hell pasted this stupid bandage on my nose while I was asleep?” one irate voice demanded, voice muffled though the door.

“But you were bleeding too much!” another said, and afterwards said profuse apologies.

And yet another one said wryly, “Falling facedown, its not a surprise.”

“Does my nose look crooked?”

“They’re having strange problems, for a bunch of priests,” Fynn finally said, as he stopped listening in and rapped on the door. “You’re right, they are a bunch of loonies here,”

The door opened suddenly, a white-haired priest peeking out. “I heard that,” he said sarcastically. “So, what do you want? We’re pretty busy people here, despite of…” he threw a sharp look at Fynn “…us being loonies.”

Maraksus looked up and up at the both of them, his gaze stopping on Sevrin. “Don’t you have manners, girl?” he said, noting her helm and iron cain covering her face. “Didn’t your mum—”

“Let them in, Maraksus,” Dylan said behind him tiredly. “A knight and an assassin…strange visitors in an Abbey.”

Why do I have the feeling I’m getting déjà vu? Sevrin thought ironically as she and Fynn went inside their study.

Unsurprisingly, the study hall was lined with shelves full of books and scrolls, one of the mahogany bookcases almost blocking on of the windows, darkening the study somewhat. The one thing she would expect to find least in the study was the map of Rune-Midgard laid out on the center table.

“This better be good,” Dylan said, arms crossed, as he faced the two of them squarely and brusquely introduced himself and Maraksus. “As he have said, we are both busy men nowadays.” He sounded calm despite of him appearing stern and edgy. “We are in a middle of a mission to exorcise the spirits ailing the people in the slums.”

“I’m Fynn Elenium of the Temple of Assassins,” Fynn said with a short bow, “The knight here is Sevrin Astergarden, of the Sword of Valor.”

“Previously of the Sword of Valor,” Sevrin corrected. “Newly knighted by Sir Valcrist Lenneth.”

“Oooh…Sword of Valor you say?” Maraksus asked, intrigued. “Did you happen to bump into Sir Allicran?”

“No,” Sevrin said matter-of-factly. “I managed to save myself from a minute of having spit sprayed on my face,” she shrugged, remembering the times when Sir Allicran would pull them aside and give them uncalled-for litanies that would end with him giving out threats to Sir Valcrist.

“Eheheheh…cheeky.”

“We need to check on the Pronteran Door,” Fynn said to Dylan, as he showed him the Door Charm. “This pendant has the ability to summon Doorspawn in the vicinity, and Sister Mirielle confirmed it. She also fixed of it what she can.”

“Sister Mirielle?” Dylan murmured as he took the charm and examined it. “Then your claim is true, Mr. Elenium,” he sighed as he handed back the pendant to Fynn. “However, the Door is already closed and we have no time to entertain people who wish to see it,” he said firmly. “I am sorry.”

“We merely ask permission to examine the Door,” Fynn said, trying his luck to get through the priest. “And for some directions. That is all we ask.”

Maraksus absent-mindedly scratched the bridge of his nose, which looked slightly swollen. “I don’t see what’s wrong with letting them check, Dylan.” To Sevrin he asked, “You just arrived from Morroc right? You were with the Sword of Valor when the Morroc Door opened?”

Sevrin nodded.

“That’s good enough for me,” Maraksus decided. “You two can go with us to the slums, and we’ll part ways when you reach the site. However,” he warned, tone grave, “We can’t guarantee we can heal your minds should you become possessed like the others. Our biggest problem now is how to perform mass exorcism on hundreds of people. Exorcising only one acolyte already gave me—” he pointed to his nose, “—this.”

“Do you still wish to go there?” Dylan asked, an eyebrow raised. “Maraksus has already warned you of the dangers, which cannot be dealt by bloodshed.”

Fynn, after a moment’s thought, finally said, “The Temple sent me to look upon this Darkness that is terrorizing Rune-Midgard. It's my will to deal with the dangers first-hand.”

“And how about you, Lady?” Dylan said, nodding to Sevrin.

“I just have to do something.”

“Very well, that’s settled. In a few minutes' time we head out to the slums,” Dylan said in finality.

***

True to his word, Dylan made sure that they did arrive in the slum area as soon as possible. In front of them, in lines already faded and thin, lay the closed Door etched in the vacant ground of broken and cracked asphalt, littered with trash. It was surrounded with numerous shanties that seemed to be ready to fall down any minute from that moment.

“Good thing we made it before the markings are all gone,” Fynn murmured, surveying the lines that marked a Door. “I wonder, why were there no Doorspawn when it opened?”

“Beats us as well,” Maraksus remarked. “Maybe the gods favor Prontera so much and did not let any disaster happen.”

“Before Maraksus and I leave both of you,” Dylan interrupted, “why don’t you try on the Charm first? I am rather curious as to what it could do.” Despite his earlier claim of him believing Fynn, his tone now said otherwise.

“Very well then,” Fynn said as he took the pendant out of his pocket. Slowly, he held it out towards the Door.

At first nothing happened, until a brief flash emanated from the Charm and Sevrin felt an unmistakable pulling sensation, which almost dragged her to the Door. Even the other three experienced it, with Mr. Lizard holding on to Fynn’s sakkat for dear life.

“Frill!!!!”

“Holy…!” Maraksus exclaimed, holding on to his biretta. “Is it supposed to summon the Doorspawn to us or the other way around?!”

Then the pulling abruptly stopped. Sevrin and the others ended up sprawled to the ground with the momentum. “Are you alright?” Wincing, she rubbed her bottom, which bore the brunt of her impact to ground.

Dylan groaned, rubbing the back of his head. “Yes, yes. I don’t doubt that thing can communicate with the Doorspawn, but I definitely doubt it could summon Doorspawn to us.”

Someone in the background tsk-ed. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

That voice! Sevrin turned around to see who it was, wishing that she had heard wrong. Her gape would be visible if it were not for the metal coverings on her face.

I can’t believe it…Hesper Silberhof.

Hesper grinned as he stood there, a few paces away from Sevrin and the others. He flexed his metallic left arm, bringing it down in such a force no one would doubt could effortlessly crush a human skull.

Beside him was a wizard who was too young to even be a mage, holding a long staff ready in both hands.

“That junk can’t do anything anymore,” Hesper murmured, eyes trained on the Door Charm lying on the ground, useless. Chuckling, he pulled out a chain from his armor and produced another Charm, a more polished duplicate of what Fynn had possessed, and held it out towards them. “This will work better.”

Despite herself, Sevrin clenched her teeth, paling.

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking X

2004-12-03T21:27:00.000+08:00

XI. Maraksus looked up from the rolls of parchment he had been reviewing, notes about the ritual that he and Dylan were about to perform.

They had both warped back with great haste to St. Capitolina's Abbey as soon as they were outside Irka's abode. The ritual of exorcism, Magnus Exorcimus, was complex and very taxing, and neither Maraksus nor Dylan specialized much in it. Most of the few masters of the ritual were off in Glastheim, trying to keep the Dark Lord from breaking out of the ruined city.

"Oh, we can do it ourselves," Dylan had said in reply to Maraksus' reminder that neither of them was really trained in the ritual. "Unless you want to wait for an exorcist to return."

Maraksus had clamped his mouth shut then, gritting his teeth. His partner was correct, of course. Exorcists rarely returned to the Abbey; they were few enough already and a post in Glastheim could rarely be abandoned.

And so, they had spent each day and even most of each night since then in the great library of the Abbey, studying the ritual. Now, after almost a week, they were ready to attempt it.

He watched as Dylan straightened from perusing the symbol they have etched onto the floor with diamond dust. Within it, surrounded by lines that glinted by torchlight, crouched their first subject. The slavering wild-eyed man kneeled upon the cold granite floor, wrapped in a tight white straight jacket. Maraksus could hardly recognize the man as one of the acolytes, a promising young healer called Shift. He was a Geffenian by the looks of it, with the blond hair and blue eyes common in that part of the Commonwealth.

Outside the circle, two acolytes walked swaying small braziers of incense from thin silver chains. Smoke from the burning incense filled the room with the soothing scent of sage. This was one of the deepest rooms in the Abbey, carved directly from the foundation stone ages ago when the Abbey was erected.

"I think we're ready to begin, Marak," Dylan said as he approached the table.

Maraksus looked over one last time at the various charts on his notes, making sure he had everything memorized. It wouldn't do to fumble this ritual. Too much was at stake. Looking back at his companion he nodded.

"Ready when you are, Dylan."

"Vangel, Krest, that'll be enough, thank you," Dylan said to the two acolytes who walked to their places around the circle. Silver-haired Vangel Mystic, hair almost the same color as Maraksus' but shorter, stood on the west side of the circle. The other acolyte, Krest, whose robes couldn't hide his stocky well-muscled build could, stood on the east side, directly in front of Vangel.

Maraksus took his own position by the west side. Dylan walked around the circle to take a position on the east side, facing Maraksus.

Two acolytes and two priests, occupying the four cardinal compass points, with the gibbering possessed inside the circle. The ritual was starting.

Catching Dylan's eyes, Maraksus launched into the prayers sung in an ancient tongue, his companion priest joining in the chanting. Almost instantly, an ethereal glowing pattern began to revolve between them, a shining disk parallel to the floor. It spun slowly, and as both priests raised their hands in unison, the first in a series of complex gestures.

The pattern superimposed itself upon the symbol, fusing into the stone floor with a flash of light. The symbol was glowing bright gold now and a vortex of magical wind was whipping the two priests coats about, drowning their chants. But still they continued the ritual. The acolytes stood on, trying to keep their feet as the winds picked at their robes, and the two braziers hanging from their hands began to sway violently in the cyclone.

Atop the roar of the winds, and the drone of chanting, mad Shift began to cackle, adding a counter tune to the cacophony.

Sweat began to flow freely into Maraksus eyes, clouding his vision. The strain of the ritual was getting to him. Across the verdant light, his companion was obscured but he knew that Dylan was trying just as hard. He struggled to continue chanting.

It was nearly done.

He heard the twin shouts of "Ruwach!" as he ended the chant, falling to his knees onto the cold floor. The acolytes had followed their instructions with precise timing.

The symbol exploded now into a shaft of golden light, a scintillating pillar that reached up to the ceiling far overhead. A green globe of light circled around each acolyte, their arcs taking them into the golden pillar of light.

Within the pillar, all they could see was the dark outline of the mad acolyte Shift, and all they could hear were his shrieks of pain. And then a cloud of darkness seemed to detach from the acolyte's form, dissipating in the revolving pillar.

It was done.

The sudden dimness of the room almost blinded Maraksus. Across him, Dylan was standing up on shaking legs. Dylan was smiling at him.

"We did it," he heard his friend say. "By the gods, we know how to cure the plague!"

Maraksus felt all his strength drained and it was all he could do to return Dylan's smile.

"Uhuh. We're not the Abbey's most powerful pair for nothing," he managed to mutter wryly, and then he was falling facedown onto the floor.

The stone was cold and hard, but Maraksus thought it was the most comfortable bed in the world.

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking IX

2004-12-01T22:53:00.000+08:00

IX. The old building was crumbling, like everything in the slums of Prontera. Rotting wooden planks had been hammered into the windows with rusty iron nails, replacing glass panes that had probably been shattered or stolen long ago. Up above, gray clouds heavy with rain were darkening, and a brisk wind whistled through the rutted alleys, scattering bits of paper and ruffling the soiled flag of Prontera draped above the entrance of the building.

Dylan Garwood stared at the tattered flag where the Pronteran eagle soared upon a field of purple. The building must have been a government building once, abandoned like the rest of the quarter when progress expanded the capital city to the bustling metropolis it was today. Dylan wondered what office the building once held. From his earliest schooling, he had been fascinated by history, by the story a certain place tells as the years pass. It was a pity that the King had let this quarter decay.

Beside him, his partner, the priest Maraksus Aralnae stared with distaste at the building's condition and uttered a non-committal sigh. "I still think we're wasting our time here, Dylan," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Oh, just humor me, Marak." Dylan knew Maraksus was in a contrary mood, more so than usual. And he had been like that since he returned from his walk last night. But then, this strange incurable plague bothered Dylan as well.

After Dylan had finished praying the last rites for the child last night, he and Maraksus had warped back to their sanctum in St. Capitolina's Abbey and promptly slept. He was tired from an entire day of running around the slums, trying to cure the sick and the mad, trying to learn more of the disease. But he had lain in bed for hours, pondering, until the first light of dawn began to creep across the ceiling. That was when he fell asleep. But was woken a couple of hours earlier by the acolyte Vangel for morning mass and breakfast. And then it was back to the investigation, back to the slums, to follow up on the one lead they had, given by a dying child.

Now, about an hour past noon, as far as Dylan could tell with the sun obscured by the heavy clouds, they stood in front of Irka's house. She was popular with the other residents of the slums, as some sort of witch doctor, whose weird concoctions, they swore, were sovereign cure against household ailments. Not to mention she could foretell the future. A cure for anything and a promise of the future--no wonder she was welcome here. The poor residents of the slums had no zeny and much to hope for....

Dylan's heart sank when he suddenly realized it: the witch had no cure for this plague. Otherwise, it would not have spread like it did. Still, this was their last option, short of giving up. And Dylan could not give up.

He walked up to the door made of battered hardwood, raising a hand to knock. Before his knuckles even touched the wood, the door swung inside unsteadily, half off its hinges.

"Who comes to Irka?" came a voice from out of the gloom behind the door. The voice crackled like dry twigs.

Recovering momentarily from his surprise, Dylan replied, "Two priests from the Abbey, wise one."

There was a long silence. Dylan and Maraksus both peered into the darkness of the interior from the threshold. They could see nothing.

Maraksus finally fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot into the other. "Well, what now?"

"I have no idea," Dylan could only shrug helplessly, smiling sheepishly at his companion. "Maybe we can enter now?" He took a step into the house, his nose immediately assailed by a pungent smorgasbord of scent: incense, sweat, and others he cannot readily identify. Behind him, he heard Maraksus exhale sharply.

He stopped after a few steps, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It was not a big room as far as he can tell. "Mistress Irka, we come to consult you," he said uncertainly into the darkness of the room.

Still, there was no reply.

Then the door slammed shut with loud bang, plunging the two priests in darkness.

"What the--!?" muttered Maraksus somewhere in the darkness to Dylan's left. A string of curses followed the exclamation.

"Do be quiet," Dylan hissed at his companion as he edged nervously forward in the dark.

The sudden lighting of a hundred candles almost blinded him. Dylan saw ragged curtains hung about the room, covering the boarded-up windows. Candles were situated everywhere they can be placed: in the hollow of a wooden post, atop a skull on a table, in a stained brass lamp. At the far end of the room, surrounded by a circle of candles, sat Irka, her hair a tangled white medusa's crown obscuring her face. Her eyes peered through the tangle, wide orbs covered by the milky white film of blinding cataract.

Dylan stopped; the hag's eyes seemed to bore into his own, despite the fact that she must be quite blind. It was just like the child's stare last night, before she died. When she told him about Irka. Behind him, Maraksus had stopped cursing, but was shifting nervously.

"Irka sees them," came the cackle from the blind hag. "Come to hear Irka's tale about the madness plague, have you not?" Beneath her shock of hair, a mouth opened to reveal teeth rotten with age.

"We seek a cure, old one," said Dylan simply. The room made him uneasy, this old woman made him uneasy. It would be good to get this over and done with as soon as possible.

"Ah...the priests do come finally to seek my wisdom," cackled the old lady once more, wheezing with obvious mirth, her tangled hair swaying as if it was alive. She stopped abruptly, adding, "something that cannot be cured may not be a disease at all."

"Gah, tell us what you know! Stop it with all this riddle nonsense!" Maraksus suddenly spluttered.

Dylan squeezed his partner's shoulder.

"How can a plague not be a disease?" he implored.

"When it isn't."

Dylan fought back the anger welling up inside him. Like his partner, he was incensed at how this old woman was treating them. It was quite a blow to him that his faith in the gods could not move this particular mountain. But he needed to know how to end this plague. Before more deaths occur. He fell back to the more obvious question, what they should have asked her first.

"What do you see?"

The old woman started back at the question, cocking her blind eyes as if to look at Dylan more closely. "Everything," she said silently. "Irka sees all. Irka sees them. Irka looks at you and sees your brilliant golden spirit, your friend's shiny silver spirit, all around. Yes. But the plague-ridden...."

Dylan waited for the old woman to continue but she seemed lost in her own thoughts, her unseeing eyes turned inwards. She must see something wrong with the disease victim's spirits--probably their auras. Of course! Dylan smacked his forehead mentally. We've overlooked the obvious, thinking this is all what it seems on the outside.

The old woman gestured and he heard the door swing open behind them. Her eyes focused on him. "Yes," she muttered, "you...understand? You still can cure them. Free them." She hung her head low, as if spent.

Dylan nodded slowly. Free them. Yes, that was the correct term. He bowed to the wise hag. "The Abbey thanks you, old Irka," he said. "Is there anything we can do to repay you? Perhaps we can cure your eyes...?"

Irka waved him away. "Irka sees more now than when they were well. Go, free them."

He bowed again reverently. Then began to pull Maraksus towards the door.

"Err..." Maraksus lifted a finger confusedly as Dylan dragged him. "What was that all about?"

The candles dimmed as they reached the door, plunging the room into darkness once more. They stepped outside into sunlight, the door swinging shut of its own accord behind them. The sun, shining through a break in the clouds, was halfway down its daily journey west.

Dylan turned toward his confused partner, smiling.

"Magnus Exorcimus," he said.

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking VIII

2004-11-30T13:36:00.000+08:00

VIII. The dark, dank overall atmosphere of the dilapidated Mt. Mjolnir laboratory sent Electic to a mild cold, making him sniffle every now and then, wiping a sleeve to his nose should the need arise. Around him three iridescent orbs orbited slowly, a physical manifestation of a wizard’s Sight. There probably were not hidden thieves or monsters to concern themselves with, but they did need the light afforded by that magic to illuminate their path.

There was not much to look at around them. Currently, they were enclosed in a long corridor, the metal sheets eaten by rust, exposing tendrils of what were once multi-colored wires. A faint drip-dripping from a far end of the hallway punctuated their footfalls.

The knight at least slowed down his pace, letting the young boy catch up with him. Electic could feel tension wires working all around Hesper, who was lost in his own thoughts. He knew better than to question the brute about it, and had clamped his mouth shut for the past few hours except when the other asked him questions. But one particular question had nagged Electic for some time now.

“What does the High Wizard want us to do here, Hesper?” Electic asked, risking a snide retort from the knight. “I mean, shouldn’t we watch over the Door we just opened in Prontera…?” He twiddled his fingers, nervously anticipating a scathing reaction from Hesper.

But instead of what Electic had expected, Hesper only shrugged and answered, “He told us to search for a possible lead to the existing Save Point that little bitch lost years ago.”

“Here? In this place? But how?” Electic pointed to a non-working terminal dark red with rust in a nearby corner. “He hopes to use any of these junk?”

“I hope not.” Wordlessly, Hesper pulled Electic aside, gesturing for him to flatten himself against a wall.

Why? Electic wanted to ask, but he knew Hesper needed him to be absolutely silent. He gripped his Arc Wand tightly, hoping to get a sense of security with his trusty staff within his hands. The glowing orbs of Sight whirled gently around him, like guardians protecting their young ward.

With absolute silence Hesper slinked into the corner, his Haedonggum at the ready. Somehow the knight sensed something amiss that could not even be picked up by his spell of Sight. The Sight could only uncover objects, people, or monsters concealed by magic, but not those who are hiding by conventional means. Eventually he got out of Electic’s scope of vision, far into an intersecting path.

“Ah-hah! Got ‘im!” An unfamiliar voice suddenly shouted from around the corridor where Hesper went.

“Whoo-yee! Lookit dat shiny plates he be wearin’!” Another gleefully interjected, then added softly, “Wer’d ya git 'em duds, me man?”

“These duds are mine, Goblins. Leave us be,” Hesper coldly said, his frosty tone piercing the silence long gone. With an afterthought, he added nastily, “No wonder you’re all wearing those flimsy underwear. All of you must be performing abysmally in your…job.”

Not long after Electic heard ear-splitting cries of Ai-yeeee! Ai-yeeee!, the Goblin tribe’s war cry. Goblin tribes?! Alarmed, he un-plastered himself from the wall and ran helter-skelter to Hesper’s side. “W-what are they doing here?!” he asked, panting.

“What are you doing here?!” Hesper spat. “These people can tear you limb from limb!”

It was only then that Electic took a focused look at the enemies before them. There were six Goblin warriors, their almost-naked bodies slathered with black paint, faces hidden behind Goblini masks—masks bearing different facial expressions.

“Well I can’t just leave you here!” Electic said, raising his staff. “Besides, I don’t want to be alone back there.”

“Fine then, suit yourself.”

“Ahhh…wat be dis wee li'l lad be doing, ya?” The Goblin warrior with the angry mask asked, his axe glinting dangerously, reflecting the light from Electic’s Sight. “Heheh. Heh.”

“Gah. I have no time playing tricks with you!” Hesper abruptly charged, the sharp, thin blade of the Haedonggum slashing at the nearest Goblin’s torso, blood spluttering out. Undeterred, the Goblin warrior retaliated with a swing of his huge, heavy axe, only to be effortlessly blocked by Hesper’s metallic left arm. “You can do better than that, Goblin!”

With a bone-chilling laugh, Hesper lunged at his opponent, plunging his sword right in the center of his belly. As he roughly pulled it out, there were still bits of the Goblin’s guts plastered on the bloodied blade.

“Oooh…the bitty lad is afreed,” another Goblin taunted behind his grinning mask, him and other two warriors closing in on Electic, their knives glittering.

“Is not.” Instead of cowering, like most children his age would, Electic just stood there, grinning. “My Sight isn’t for naught,” he said, as he swung up his staff. “Sightrasher!!” The three Orbs of Sight flung towards the approaching Goblins, sending them crashing against the walls, knocked unconscious.

“Don’t leave anyone alive, kid,” Hesper said to Electic as he faced the remaining two Goblins. “Now, what can I do for you?” Brandishing the Haedonggum once again, Hesper looked menacingly at the warriors bearing a mace and a sword each. “Hmm….”

Slowly, he swung the Haedonggum from one side to another in front of them, in a fluid motion. Hesper was pleased that the Goblins eyes were trained at the intricate design molded into the hilt-guard, allured by the enchantment of the mind-controlling sword.

Pity the sword could not perform an all-out hypnosis, he thought in regret. I could have played with them for as long as I wanted.

“Tell me, why are you here?” Hesper asked in a soft voice, careful not to break the fragile hold the sword had on their minds.

“Home,” one said in a flat voice, his arm bearing the mace frozen in mid-air, like his companion.

“Nice,” Hesper said. “You made this your home then. Not a threat at all.” With one wide swing of the Haedonggum, he chopped their heads off. He watched impassively as the headless bodies fell down, twitching on the blood-drenched floor. “Not needed, too.”

Meanwhile, Electic was done concentrating his full strength into his staff, his clothes and hair fluttering about as winds around him picked up and encircled him. “I need a full-blown blast, I need…” he muttered to himself as his eyes were shut in concentration. “I—winds of Mjolnir, hear my voice and come to me…Thunder Storm!!”

At Electic’s command an electrical storm amassed itself all around the three sleeping warriors, several vicious lightning bolts blasting down on the unconscious men, eventually blasting their limbs apart. When the spell was done, the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air, overpowering that of the smell of fresh meat emanating from Hesper’s kills.

“It’s done then,” Electic breathed, looking down at the charred bits of the Goblin warriors. Gingerly, he picked up a sad Goblini mask, surprisingly intact. “At least, they were asleep when that happened.”

Hesper walked up to him and peered into the mask he held. “If only they were made of the same material as those stupid masks, they would have lasted for a few minutes more.”

“I guess so.”

“Damn it. We’ve tarried too long,” Hesper said, sheathing his Haedonggum. “We’ll have to get back to Prontera at once…this puny sleuthing could wait until we feel like it. Good thing we have the Hell Vortex.”

“I hope the High Wizard doesn’t kill you for this, Hesper.”

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking VII

2004-11-28T15:14:00.000+08:00

VII. "She sees them, Father...."

The child's voice was weak and rasping, but it was enough to jar Dylan Garwood from his meditation. He opened his eyes to find the child sitting upon the pallet of rags, her eyes clear and looking straight into his own. Moonlight slanted into the room through a couple of windows paned with shattered stained glass. Dylan shivered, feeling the cold that seemed to have suddenly encroached while he was waiting for Maraksus.

"Who, little one? Who sees what?" He was sitting cross-legged, facing the child's pallet on the other side of the room. Between them, a small crate set on its top held the flickering candle that illuminated part the room but cast the corners in deeper shadow.

The child could not be more than ten years old, he reckoned, maybe not even more than eight. And here she was, dying, Dylan raged inside. All the power of my faith was suddenly useless in the face of this new disease. We better figure this out before this spreads beyond the slums. Before more children die.

She had fallen silent again, but her eyes still held his, as if they were the only part of her frail frame that were now cured of the plague that was killing her slowly.

Dylan crawled towards the bed of rags, pulling the threadbare blanket around the child's shoulders. She was burning up and it was a wonder she could even sit up straight at all. Gently, he pushed her back on the bed.

"Don't strain yourself, child. You need rest." Maybe she was dreaming? It could be the fever. He knew it makes people see things.

She lay back down covered in the blanket. Her eyes were closed, her breath ragged and troubled. Dylan set his palm against the child's forehead and channeled his faith. But even as he felt the warm wave of curing power flow from him and into the child, he knew there would be no effect.

Why?

The child suddenly sat bolt upright, startling the priest, her bony hands gripping his shoulders hard.

"Irka sees them, Father!" she cried, half-shriek, half-wail.

And just as suddenly, she slumped back into the bed, muttering feverishly as she closed her eyes.

Irka? Was that the name she said? Dylan knew it could be her fever but he was getting desperate. Maybe he and Maraksus could check it out?

He noticed the sudden silence. The child was still, and she looked like she was just sleeping, her drawn face finally eased into a comfortable rest. Dylan's tears began to fall but he fought them back. Now wasn't the time to cry. There'll be enough for that later.

He felt so tired, the day's work finally catching up with his body.

Before more children die.

As the candle spluttered through its final inch, he began to recite the prayer of the last rite.

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking VI

2004-11-26T01:30:00.000+08:00

VI. It was night, and unlike most nights that come and go during a priest’s lifetime, it did not bring repose. Maraksus could not help but feel restless as his partner carried on with their investigation of the slums, their hours—as they have expected—stretching out into midnight. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Dylan laying his hand upon a scrawny child’s forehead, his prayers breathing strength into the child’s emaciated body. It was only a passing gesture for Dylan, and sure enough, the older priest straightened up and walked away as if nothing happened.

As if he doesn’t feel anything odd, Maraksus thought irritably. Lost in thought, his fingernails dug deeply into the quite unstable wooden street post he was leaning onto, the sudden sharp pain that eventually shot from the tips of his fingers finally making him let go.

Excusing himself from the others, he wandered off on his own and not long after he found himself in a deserted, decrepit alley not unlike any others one would see in that particular corner of Prontera. The crunch of crumbling asphalt marked his every footstep, stacks of useless old junk piled high on either side of him. There were windows, but most of them were dark. No one in this side of Prontera could afford enough oil to illuminate their hours of darkness.

A wispy, white cloud of breath signaled the sharp drop of temperature. Maraksus jammed his hands into his pockets for warmth. Just one more minute and I’ll go back, he promised himself. One more minute.

He walked further into that alley, his shadows lengthening as he passed by the last working streetlamp. It was approaching pitch-black when he heard a soft humming from the far end of the path. A woman’s humming. Curious, the priest picked up his pace, going straight to the end of the alley. The thickening fog obscured his vision, showing only a silhouette of a woman walking slowly away from him.

What could someone be doing out here in this hour? Maraksus wondered. A shrill cry of a demented from inside one of the tattered houses punctuated his thoughts. Especially in this situation? “Er, excuse me?” Maraksus said as he approached the woman whose back was towards him. There was no response, and the woman continued humming. “What are you doing out here in the dark? Don’t you even realize the gravity of the—”

“Situation?” The woman murmured as she turned around, her eyes reflecting scarlet. “A good evening to you, Father.” Kurosawa bowed her head stiffly in cold greeting.

“What—” Maraksus bit his lip, stopping the outpour of questions that flooded into his head. What is she doing in here? Wasn't she one of the acolytes who were dispatched here earlier? Is yes, then why wasn’t she…? He instead looked at her from head to toe, looking for any signs of abnormality or sickness. None. Even her acolyte’s uniform looked immaculate and crisp in the scant light afforded by the distant streetlight. Very suspicious.

“You’re not affected,” Maraksus said finally, his eyes narrowing at her. “What are you doing here, Sister?” It turns out I’m right in suspecting her after all.

“Doing what a woman of the Faith should do, Father Aralnae.” Kurosawa answered, her lips pursed. “Is that wrong?”

“Is walking around alone at the witching hour one of our duties, Sister?”

“No.” A flip of the hair.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I know where you’re getting at, Maraksus Aralnae,” Kurosawa said in contempt. “You sought for assistance. I did not give it. Now you’re suspecting me of something. But you will not prove it.” She chuckled derisively. “Some agent provocateur you are.”

The priest looked at her in disbelief. “Now how—”

Kurosawa started to walk away into the fog. “I have my ways.”

Impulsively, he grabbed her arm, not letting her go. “No, you’re coming with me for further interrogation.” He was about to pull her with him when he felt a foot kicking at his shins. “Ow!!”

“Let Sister Tomoe go!” a child’s voice cried out.

“Huh?” Confused, Maraksus looked around, until he saw the child who tried to get between him and the acolyte. The little girl was hugging Kurosawa’s waist protectively, her eyes throwing daggers at him.

“Let her go! She was helping me get my baby brother to sleep!” The girl was pointing to an infant’s basin a few paces away from them, lying on the pavement. “Don’t hurt Sister Tomoe!”

“Uhm…” Maraksus raised his palms, giving up. He looked incredulously at Tomoe, still perplexed with the turn of events.

Kurosawa crossed her arms. “Answered your question, Father?”

Maraksus bit his lip. “Gah.” In defiance he pointed his finger threateningly at Kurosawa. “You may have gotten away this time, Sister. But mark my words, I’ll be watching you if I can help it.” He finally turned and walked away, face reddening, leaving Sister Kurosawa and the children behind.

Why do I get the feeling I’ve been humiliated?

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking V

2004-11-25T09:29:00.000+08:00

V. The two priests stood before the stone archway that led into the slums of Prontera. The capital's indigent quarter lay beyond this open gate, walled away from the rest of the glittering city. Here, old abandoned buildings squatted on rutted roadways. Patchwork houses made from whatever materials were handy sprang up like mushrooms, sad tributes to mankind's resourcefulness. Indeed, the sparkling colors of the capital stopped here, and beyond the gate, only a desolate gray palette touched the streets.

Beside the archway, swordsmen bearing the coat of arms of the Sword of Virtue--Prontera's elite company--commanded a checkpoint. None were allowed entrance or exit until the nature of the mysterious plague was known.

Maraksus Aralnae snorted indignantly as the guards began to frisk them. The swordsmen of the Sword of Virtue insistd that it was Commander Laire Allicran's direct command that everyone passing through be inspected, official business or not. A quick glance around told him that the knight was not present in the area.

A pity. He had a few choice words to say to him right now. Oh, yes.

His companion, Dylan Garwood, stood beside him with hands folded over a bible, serenely submitting to the swordsmen's inspections. Maraksus grumbled even more; it annoyed him the way Dylan acted so...unflappable. But, of course, he knew why his partner was quiet. He was trying to analyze the situation.

It baffled Maraksus, too, this affair of the unknown plague. But he had sorted through what they were told, which wasn't much--that there was a plague in Prontera, that a team of acolytes was dispatched to solve the problem, that the team failed, that they went back mad--and he couldn't make any sense out of it. Prayers of curing did not drive anyone insane, much less the clerics themselves. There was definitely something strange going on here. And Maraksus irritably put off analyzing it until he had more information.

This had been their major function ever since attaining priesthood: troubleshooters, sent in whenever there's something the church needed to smoothen out. And that was why they were here at the archway into the slums.

"You may pass freely, fathers," said the Swordsmen of Virtue almost in unison.

Maraksus wondered briefly if Laire had trained them to do that. He wouldn't put it pass the knight parfait, to nitpick about every little thing. "Why, thank you, swordie. I thought you'd never get it over with," he said scathingly as the two swordsmen bowed to them, touching hand to heart, before retreating to the shade of the outpost.

"Here we go, Marak," said Dylan as he caught his eye. A flu mask of white cloth covered the tall priest's nose and mouth.

Maraksus nodded back, fumbling inside his coat for his own flu mask. It offered questionable protection against whatever plague infected the slums. But at least, he thought in consolation, it lessened the odor that pervaded this quarter of the city. It didn't help that the slums were also the city's trash dump.

As he put on the mask, Dylan closed his eyes in prayer, channeling divine power. For an instant, brilliant golden light shone around the two of them and the enchanting voices of angels rose in song.

Flu masks may not protect us against disease, but the divine might of the gods will.

And the two priests passed through the archway and into the slums of Prontera.

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking IV

2004-11-23T15:25:00.000+08:00

IV. “Don’t tell me you miss teaching.”

Hesper Silberhof stirred, shaking off his pensive air. He swung off his feet over the railings of the Observatory Deck over the abandoned Kafra Research Laboratory—situated in the peaks of Mt. Mjolnir—giving one last longing look at the spectacular view of the thousand-foot drop below them, where thick cold mists partly covered the dots that were Mjolnir’s famous chemically and magically mutated gigantic flowers. He then finally turned away to look at the young wizard who spoke, and let out a throaty chuckle before answering, “of course, I do. Even I had my soft moments.” He suddenly found his thoughts wandering to a certain heated memory. “Oh yes. So soft…” His voice trailed off, momentarily forgetting the biting cold which threatened to freeze their insides.

Electic looked at him strangely, yellow fringes obscuring his eyes. “Er…right, whatever you mean,” He then twirled his staff like a baton, playing with it. “Anyways, we have to deliver this time. Mistress Fiorenne failed, and I don’t think the High Wizard is too happy with it.” He eventually stopped whirling his Arc Wand, gently tapping Hesper’s forehead with it. “Bang,” he whispered softly, then acted as if he was shot down to death. “Ugghhhh…nooo….forgiiiiive me…..”

After a few seconds of writhing on the stone flooring of the high Observatory Deck Electic straightened up as if nothing happened. “That is what would happen to us if we failed.” Tipping his head to one side he looked earnestly at the former instructor. “Right?”

Hesper clapped lifelessly, the cold wind seeping into their insides punctuating the dead of the mood. “Heheh. You amuse me kid. Although I doubt the High Wizard would get our hides for failing, since even he doesn’t know where Laeveteinn is. We’re just feeling for clues.” Absent-mindedly his hand rubbed his titanium-alloy arm, a gift from the Black Circle upon his joining. The word “feeling” left an empty pit in his insides. The fact that he lost his arm—eventually replaced by the un-feeling pure-metal mechanical appendage—was his bane for quite a long time now; and the reality that the perpetrator was still alive filled him with a desire for retribution.

I’m going to make you suffer.

“Hey, you’re spacing out again,” Electic said, peering into his face. “Do you have a problem?”

Irritated, Hesper stood up from the badly-rusted railings, looking down at the 12-year-old prodigy who barely even reached his waist level. “Yes, I have problems, young one, and if you’re not going to shut up I’m going to add you to them.”

“Err,” Electic murmured, cringing, as Hesper swatted him aside to make his way towards the Control Room entrance.

“Better get ready, boy,” Hesper said over his shoulder as he strode through the dreadfully corroded doors of the laboratory. “In a few hours’ time we’re due southwest.” Then more to himself, he muttered, “I can’t believe we even wasted our time here. What was he thinking?”

“Hey watch it!” the boy whined, dusting his robes with his palm. “You almost made me trip over my robes! Hey!”

Too late. Hesper, grunting, pulled shut the sliding door behind him already, apparently forgetting deliberately that the door had difficulties opening from the outside.

Electic banged his fists against the fiberglass sheet fiercely as Hesper walked further away into the defunct facility. “Don’t leave me here, Hesper!” the boy-wizard wailed. “It’s cooooold! Not again!”

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking III

2004-11-22T14:07:00.000+08:00

III. Kurosawa Tomoe put a hand over her forehead, breathing deeply. She gave a quick once-over towards the two priests seated across the table in the sitting room of her small rented apartment, situated in the fringes of Prontera. Her hooded eyes gave away only a flicker of a crimson shimmer unique to her eyes.

“I do not feel anything amiss in the waking world, Fathers,” she said in her soft yet steely voice. “Forcing me to close my eyes and sleep while sitting upright would not do wonders.” Her hands were folded in her lap, her expression guarded.

“I’m sorry, Sister,” Dylan said contritely. “It is only now that we have dealt with someone of your Gift—”

“This is not a gift, Father.”

Maraksus tsk-ed. “With all due respect, Sister Kurosawa, we are sorry for any misunderstandings we might encounter from now on, but could you let us just shove it aside for later and try to help? You’re not going to do this for us, or for the Faith.”

“We ask you for your help in behalf of the whole of Prontera, and possibly of Rune-Midgard,” Dylan finished for Maraksus. “Well?”

Kurosawa stared at the two of them with hooded eyes, seemingly to assess their worth. “Very well then. I trust Sir Allicran has mentioned to the both of you about the nature of what you call my Gift,” she said, voice clipped. “What did he tell you?”

“That you dream certain events happening related to the Doors phenomena, before they even happen,” Dylan said. “Most notably, the infestation in Morroc.”

“That is close enough,” Kurosawa remarked as she shook her head, her raven tresses moving with a shimmering sheen. “But not quite. I dream about events. Yes.” Her lips curved in a secret smile, whose meaning could not be deciphered by anyone but herself.

“And—?” Maraksus’s voice trailed off, looking at the dark acolyte, waiting for her to expound.

“And nothing more,” Kurosawa said curtly. “I believe you have overstayed your welcome, Fathers. Good day.” So saying, she stood up and walked over to the front door of her small apartment, opening it.

Taking cue, the two priests left the table and started to leave, Maraksus muttering something about “bitches” under his breath. They were just about to through the doorframe when Kurosawa called their attention.

“A black mist will cover Prontera not long from now,” Kurosawa murmured, looking at them sideways, half-hidden behind the door. “But tell Sir Allicran that he could not do anything about it.”

“What—what do you mean?” Dylan asked, alarmed. The acolyte did not show any inclination to answer, prompting his companion to demand.

“What is this? Do you even care about what happens to the whole of mankind?” Maraksus spat. “Or are you one of those who are responsible?!”

“I am merely speaking the truth, because I know,” Kurosawa answered coolly, closing the door shut in front of them.

The two priests were left standing, staring at the door dumbly for quite a long while. “That was cold,” Maraksus finally said, his brows raised, breaking the momentary silence.

Dylan snorted, then chuckled as he turned and walked to the paved main street. “Don’t tell me she piques your interest.”

“Wait—hold that thought,” Maraksus said, looking as if a most brilliant idea occurred in his head. It did. “You…you’re brilliant, Dylan!” he said, eyes gleaming. He quickened his steps to catch up with his partner, and looked behind him briefly to make sure Kurosawa’s apartment was well out of earshot.

“Do tell.”

Maraksus smiled, licking his lips. “Does the term agent provocateur ring a bell?”

“Uh-oh.”

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking II

2004-11-21T01:23:00.000+08:00

II. He watched his daughter, the princess-heir Tara, play among the sculpted bushes, kicking a shiny red ball, her pet poring bouncing along beside her. He couldn't help but smile as she gleefully rolled her ball across the grounds bathed in clear afternoon sunshine. A refreshing summer breeze caressed the green leaves of grass and tree and shrub alike, like the touch of a loving mother.

His daughter's joyful cries offered fanfare that made him want to just laugh out loud, the responsibilities of kingship forgotten if only for awhile. But of course the servants were watching and it would not do to have them think he'd gone mad. Without turning his head, he glanced at the retinue of servants waiting under a nearby shade, an entire flock of mother geese looking out for a single gosling. He turned his attention back to his daughter who was now running up to him, poring pet skipping along with her.

"Father! Father! Did you see what Peery just did?" the breathless princess asked as he gathered her in his arms. The poring Peery stood in front of him, its round gelatinous form jiggling, lop-sided smile plastered on its face as it watched him with beady eyes. A backpack was strapped to its back, like a grade-schooler ready for school, of all things.

"It fetched my ball!" gushed his daughter, hugging his neck and leaping down to take the shiny red ball from the poring's backpack.

He laughed good-naturedly as the princess held the shiny ball in his face. "Well, you've been training him well! Any other tricks he can do?"

"Still working on it!" was her only reply. She threw the ball across the grounds again, running along after it, her pet in tow.

"Good luck, my little Tara!" he called after her. "But come back soon for a snack! Little princesses and porings get hungry quite often." He chuckled and nodded towards the princess' head nurse, who in turn started to instruct her retinue to set up the afternoon refreshment here on the lawn.

Liveried servants brought out folding chairs spaced around a table upon which was spread pristine blue cloth, striped with the purple and gold that were the colors of the Royal House of Prontera. One of the handmaidens began to slice pieces out of a large round Christmas Cake, Princess Tara's favorite food from far Al De Baran. Apple juice in transparent fruit-shaped bottles lay chilling in a bucket of ice near the table--Peery's pet food and the Princess' beverage of choice as well.

More of the princess' nurses stood in a nearby shade, like an entire flock of mother geese watching out for a single gosling. Past them, he saw his chief advisor striding across the lawn towards him, a stack of rolled-up parchment in his arms.

He sighed. The gods forbid he tackle affairs of state on a glorious summer afternoon such as this. But there was no helping it. The Commonwealth prospered well under his rule, but if he slackened, everything might come tumbling down again. He could never forgive himself if he failed the people's trust.

"Your Majesty!" Chief Advisor Kurt Fenwick bowed as he reached the King. "I've prepared the reports for the day."

King Tristram III nodded at his chief advisor, smiling. Tufts of graying hair barely covered the top of his advisor's head, giving an overall impression of untidiness that clashed with the snappy way he carried his crisp robes of office. "Very good, Advisor Fenwick," he replied. The man had been his advisor since he ascended the throne many years ago, but they have been friends for many more.

He watched his daughter as the Kurt droned on, reading off various reports that dealt with the Commonwealth's economy and general well-being. He nodded and gave his decisions on a few key points, which Kurt scribbled down on a large brass-bound tome. The adviser has commandeered nearly half the Princess' picnic table with his rolled-up scrolls and books. Princess Tara joined them before they were done, to eat some of the Christmas Cake and drink apple juice with Peery the Poring.

"...And, Majesty, Sir Valcrist of the Sword of Valor is happy to inform you that the Morroc Incident has been well taken cared of," Advisor Kurt was saying, as he forked a piece of Christmas Cake into his mouth. They had passed from economic issues to the current goings-on. He chewed thoughtfully for a while. "It's weird though."

First, Payon, then Morroc, and now Prontera. These strange phenomena still baffled the mages of Geffen. They called it Doors, extra-dimensional gateways that spewed forth monsters. The Payon Door spawned a huge monster that would have leveled the Forest Village had Laire Allicran and the Sword of Virtue not been quick to respond. Valcrist Lenneth and the Sword of Valor was dispatched just as quickly when reports of the same phenomenon flew in from Morroc. Last week though, a Door had opened right here in Prontera, in the slums district, and Syn Laelithar's Sword of Guidance was assigned to handle it. What his chief advisor commented on as strange was the fact that the Pronteran Door did not spawn any monsters at all.

"Syn reports that the site has been cordoned off from the public and his best swordsmen are on duty around the clock guarding it. It's been almost a week since it opened, Your Majesty," Kurt informed him.

"This Doors Phenomena, Kurt...do you think it's Ragnarok?" King Tristram said in a low voice, glancing to make sure his daughter did not hear. Little Tara was busy spooning so much Christmas Cake into a purring Peery.

Chief Advisor Kurt stiffened visibly. "Oh...ah, uhm," was all he managed to splutter.

"Never mind, Kurt." Ragnarok lay heavy in each man's heart in Rune Midgard. The Final Battle, the destruction of Rune Midgard, was something everyone would rather forget. But King Tristram thought the affair of the Doors was somehow connected to the twilight of the gods. "Anything more?" he asked quickly, trying to ease the advisor's discomfort.

"Ah, nothing more, Your Majesty. Just another minor thing: reports of a plague running through the slums of Prontera. But I've informed St. Capitolina Abbey, and I'm sure they'll be able to sort it out." Advisor Fenwick's relief at the change of subject was obvious.

The King nodded. Plagues were a thing of the past now with the superior healing powers of the priests of the Abbey. Still, his heart filled with dread that it might spread, that Tara might...no, that was silly. The slums lay in the far southeastern corner of Prontera, the only part of the Shining Capital that literally did not shine. And he had faith in the priests' powers.

His reverie was shattered by a sudden sound.

"Oh! Daddy! Did you hear that? Peery burped!" cried Princess Tara happily.

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Act 2: The Mindbreaking

2004-11-20T02:32:00.000+08:00

Act 2: The Mindbreaking

I. The sudden shimmer in the corner of the study hall startled an acolyte, making him drop the book he was reading. Scintillating waves rose vertically from the half-drawn circle, which was slowly completing by itself. The two lines met, completing the circle, the vertical glimmer that rose from them growing more vivid in a flash, and disappearing just as quickly, leaving in its place two exhausted priests.

“Greetings, Father Maraksus and Father Dylan,” the acolyte said in greeting, politely bowing—picking up the dropped book in the process—and smiled primly.

The silver-haired priest sighed and massaged his temples. “Greetings, Vangel. Are there any news…?”

“Gah. Don’t ask anyone about work after we’ve arrived, Dylan. I thought we agreed on that,” sniped the other priest, his biretta sliding from head, threatening to cover his eyes. He irritably pushed it up, but instead of putting it back in its place it just dropped onto the carpeted floor with a thud. Muttering curses that could make his superiors suspend him upon hearing, he bent down to the floor, putting the biretta back onto his head, and forcefully pushed it down to make sure it would not slip again. “Goddamn thing’s too small for me. Is the Abbey too—?”

“Oh, for godssake Maraksus, will you shut your mouth?” griped Dylan as he plopped himself into a nearby chair, legs splayed and arms dangling from the armrests, sinking himself as deep as he could into the cushy chair. “We’re both drained and you’re there yapping your mouth off. Who cares if your hat is small? I don’t think your ladies would like you less for that.”

“And will you stop inquiring about work when we’ve just arrived here? Unlike you, I don’t think we’re walking white potions.”

The acolyte politely coughed. “Erm…”

The two haggard priests shifted their attention away from their usual tiff. “Well, Vangel?” asked Dylan, on which Maraksus shot the other priest a venomous glare.

“Sir Laire Allicran just wanted to confirm Morroc’s current state. And nothing more.”

Maraksus put down his bible and sat himself on the windowsill, staring out into the glaring white streets of happy Prontera. “Can’t he just ask Sir Valcrist?” he asked Vangel, looking at him with a languid eye. “Oh, those two are the best of friends…”

“Well…”

“Vangel, could you do us a favor?” inquired Dylan, propping his chin on his palm, looking like a limp doll. “Make Mister Sourpuss here happy and tell Laire Allicran that we’re too tired to arrange any appointments?”

The door banged open.

“Too late.”

Striding through the door in all his regalia-laden glory was Laire Allicran, his heavy footfalls muffled by the carpet, swinging his sheathed claymore as he walked. “I’ve waited for too long for you gentlemen, and I expect some decent report from you.” He finally paused by the fireplace, leaning his back against the mantle. “Well?”

Maraksus’ brow rose almost imperceptibly. “Since when did the Prontera Chivalry gain power over St. Capitolina Abbey?” Despite his relaxed position he stiffened, mood further soured by the raven-haired knight’s presence.

“Ever since St. Capitolina Abbey pledged its services to the good of Prontera and the whole of Rune-Midgard,” Laire snapped, then regained his cool composure again. “But that is beside the point.” He turned to Dylan, hoping for a more reasonable dialogue with the level-head priest. “What is Morroc’s current state, Father?”

“Total carnage, Sir Allicran,” was all Dylan could say, then in an afterthought added, “We learned that the Sword of Valor did its best to suppress the infestation, but still…”

Laire snorted. “Heh. The Sword of Valor’s a bunch of goofballs anyway, thanks to that no-good Valcrist. Anyway, there is a reason why I came here.

“The Doors,” Laire continued, walking over to the table between the window where Maraksus sat and Dylan’s chair, “are detected nearby our beloved city. Southwest to be exact.” Taking a map from a nearby open drawer he spread it over the smooth varnished surface of the mahogany table. “See here?” he traced a path from Morroc towards Prontera—a diagonal path that went Northeast—as he beckoned for the two priests to come closer. “A vein of unidentifiable energy has been sensed…so strong that it were the scientists of Geffen, no less, who felt it firsthand.”

Maraksus whistled over Laire’s shoulder, surveying the path Laire traced out for them. “Geffen, huh?” He gave a once-over towards the spot where Geffen lay, and compared the distance between Geffen and between Prontera and the desert regions. The distance was significant, at least. “A force to be reckoned with.”

“Well yes, there is the path between Morroc and Prontera, Sir Allicran, but what does it mean?” Dylan inquired, fishing out his reading glasses and pushed it up to the bridge of his nose.

Laire took a deep breath. “I do not know either. But the scientists have explicitly mentioned to give attention to the paths between the sites where the Doors opened—chronologically. They say there could be an underground vein involved.”

“Well why didn’t they try and take a look in it after the infestation of Morroc?” Maraksus asked.

“Because, Father Aralnae, the nature of the sand does not permit it. Unless you want our men to be swallowed up and drowned in the sand? You didn’t hope to dig in there, did you?” Laire said, rolling his eyes. “Really.”

“Erm.”

“So…you’re planning to investigate that angle further now that it's approaching the more solid grounds of Prontera…” Dylan murmured. “Not all of it though…almost one-half still lies in the desert sands. You can’t look into it completely, obviously.”

“Yes.”

“What does this have to do with us men of the faith, though?” Maraksus looked at Laire inquiringly. “Do you expect us to dig in there?”

“No, Father Aralnae. Only that I need you two to keep a close watch over Prontera. But I am only acting on a hunch. A woman’s hunch, in fact.”

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Act 1: Random Encounters XXV

2004-11-18T23:57:00.000+08:00

XXV. Finale: Fiorenne, Dark Flame of Twisted Heart

Fiorenne Dastonia stood in the shadows of an alley, watching the short sakkat-wearing man and his lady knight companion leave the inn where the company of Swords from Prontera stayed.

It's him, she told herself. Even with that phantom mask on, she could recognize him, remembering him from their brief encounter two years ago in that warehouse in Alberta.

She admired the man's lithe form moving with the grace of a cat. He would be good in bed, she thought maliciously, I wonder if that knight had ever screamed out beneath him? She suddenly felt hot deep inside, and briefly wondered where Rinaldo could be. Why hadn't he captured Diradem yet?

She jumped as someone moaned behind her.

"My...Lady Fi-Fiorenne..." came the weak voice from somewhere back in the alley.

She headed for the sound and found Rinaldo crawling towards her, bleeding from several nasty cuts.

"Good thing I found you..." Rinaldo moaned out, trying to drag himself up.

Fiorenne remained standing a few paces away from the struggling bard. She made no move to help.

"You failed me, Rinaldo," came her cold reply.

The bard looked up at her with hurt eyes. "There was...an assassin...but I...survived...please, I need help fast...if you really love me--"

She broke the man's stuttering sentence. ""Love? Don't be a fool. Men certainly have their uses, but they're fuel for the flames afterward."

"Please...."

She looked down contemptuously at the fallen bard, taking out her skull-tipped wand. "You are of no use to me now. Certainly not like this."

She began tracing the wand through the air.

"Flames of passion! Flames of lust! Flames around the City of Brass--"

"No, lady! Please!"

"--raise before me a consuming wall! Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!"

The wall of flames erupted from the ground, rising up high above, and filling the alley from side to side. In the midst of it, Rinaldo of the Albertan Shadows screamed as the magical fire incinerated him.

High with pleasure, Fiorenne inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of cooking flesh. She watched for a moment, smiling. Burning men to death is almost as good as sex. And then she turned away, activating an amulet that was clipped to her left wrist.

"Teleport." She uttered the command word quietly.

Dark tendrils of magic wrapped around her shapely form, whisking her away.

end of act one

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Act 1: Random Encounters XXIV

2004-11-17T23:49:00.000+08:00

XXIV. Morroc in the aftermath of the hellish incident could be likened to a fallen Doorspawn: lifeless, an empty shell. A strong current of grief may have permeated the once-festive air, however a heavy blanket of disbelief and numbness covered them all; the majority of the survivor’s faces emotionless. They never knew what hit them; and they may never want to.

Could this be Their way of reminding us what the Festival of the Dead really means? Valcrist thought as he surveyed the areas, walking through the streets at a slow yet steady pace; assessing the total damage Morroc has suffered—or at least its center. An arm wrapped around his torso, supporting his deep wound whose bandages were slowly coming off. He was lucky that he got never hit by one of the Doorspawn; the adrenaline rush he had—as well as his innate survival instinct—sent him on a killing rampage that brought down almost twenty of the hideous creatures, wounded or no.

“Emerester, how is your sector?” Valcrist called out as he caught sight of one of his Swords, looking weary and old despite his fifteen summers. Emerester Valeforth seemed to have put on ten years with the mask of exhaustion marring his youthful appearance, with his almost-permanent crestfallen façade and blood streaks splattered all around his figure. The boy, upon hearing his name, looked up and glumly flashed the thumbs-up sign to his dear commander, signaling that so far all was right in the area under his command.

“All of the survivors found are out of the critical condition,” he reported, his voice monotone as if reciting a lesson. “The acolytes from St. Capitolina Abbey are to be credited for it, though.”

“I see. And who is the priest in command?” Valcrist asked as he eased next to his youngest Sword, grateful for the break from the spell of loneliness he had suffered while he inspected the streets of Morroc alone. “I would like to personally thank him, or her.”

Emerester sat on the wooden space beside his commander, resting his steel blade by his lap. “The pair of Prontera’s best healers, I heard. Maraksus Aralnae and Dylan Garwood.”

Valcrist started, looking at Emerester with incredulity. “Both of them?!”

“Yep,” the boy nodded. “They already left however, though they did make sure all of the survivors...well, survived,” Emerester chuckled weakly, faintly amused by his pun. “You should have seen what they did, the street literally glowed green—” he broke off mid-sentence, staring almost dumbly directly in front of him.

“Sevrin!”

Valcrist looked towards where Emerester did, and a grin slowly crept his face despite himself. “Girlie!” he exclaimed, as Sevrin and Fynn approached them. “We were worried,” he stated, checking himself, trying his best to keep his stoic face.

“Thank you, Commander, but the assassin should take credit for my life,” Sevrin stated simply, cocking her head towards Fynn’s direction. It was obvious to the men that she was not exactly happy with the admittance; Sevrin Astergarden mostly thrived on her pride after all, and had worked hard to deserve that kind of hard-earned pride. Having her life saved by one whose profession is to snuff lives on a whim was not exactly a source of dignity for one such as her.

Valcrist wordlessly nodded towards Fynn, then after a moment, sighed. “I know you want to say I told you so, Mister Elenium, and I know I deserve it,” he muttered, voice clipped. His look wasn’t of contempt however, but of grudging respect.

“I wasn’t going to anyway,” Fynn answered simply.

The two men looked at each other wordlessly, tension between them taut. Eventually Valcrist held out his hand to the assassin, which was firmly received.

“The Assassins have just earned my respect. Tell them that.”

“You can be sure your words will reach them,” Fynn assured him as he let go.

Valcrist then turned to Sevrin and Emerester. “I’ll be in charge of handling things here,” he told the two Swords. “However, the Sword of Valor will return to Prontera to commence with their duties there,” he sighed resignedly. “There’s no need for our presence here, Geffen and Alberta had already sent most of their workers. I was assigned Supervisor though, so I’m staying here.”

“But who’s going to be our commander in your place?”

“Erm. Laire Allicran.”

“WHAT?!” Sevrin and Emerester both exclaimed in unison.

“What’s prissy boy going to do with us, then?”

Sevrin however, was not interested in their fate in the hands of Sir Valcrist’s rival. “Wait a minute. So you are saying we don’t have a hand in this matter anymore?”

“You are absolutely correct,” Valcrist admitted.

“Then I quit.”

“I quit,” Sevrin repeated quietly. “If my duties as a Sword of Valor would impede me from doing something about all these, then I am going.”

Heavy silence fell upon them. Valcrist paled, seemingly at a loss of words. He was fingering a loose end of his bandage, his lips partly opened as he looked contemplatively at Sevrin, his expression oddly blank.

“You’re joking, aren’t you, Sev?” Emerester whispered hopefully, words painfully drawn out despite his seeming disbelief. Sevrin tried to give him a sympathetic look, but failed. She was too riled up in her indignity in the fact that she did poorly in her mission and someone from the Temple Assassins got to be the witness of her failure. The fact that he even saved her life was a swift blow to her ego.

All Sevrin could muster for Emerester was an unconsciously pitying look, and needless to say Emerester got hurt.

“Well…it sure would be more fun dealing with Sir Allicran if you were still around,” the boy said plaintively. “But I understand. Everybody needs a Sword of Valor to get things done!” Emerester exclaimed, a grin haphazardly pasted on his face. Sevrin knew that he felt otherwise, and that hurt. She wanted to pat his head and tell him that everything would be alright, that they would all wake up to Valcrist’s heavy gauntleted hand banging against their doors, that they would snooze on their breakfast....

But she was going, and Valcrist was sending them home without him, sending them off to be under his rival’s tutelage (if it could be ever called that), and the future truly was bleak.

“Yeah, one of us indeed should,” Sevrin said weakly, trying to play along the charade. “What say you that I’m going to be the one doing it for all of us?”

“Erm, it’s fine. Whatever.” Somehow, either Sevrin hit a really painful nerve, or Emerester suddenly decided to drop his mask. The swordswoman felt even more rotten than ever, and she wanted nothing else than to sink into a cool, soft bed.

“You can’t go.”

Sevrin turned to face her commander, expression disbelieving. “What? Am I bound to—”

“Yes, you are bound to your oaths that keep you in your place as a Sword of Valor and that it!” Valcrist cut her off sharply. “You think that your term here may seem to be only an on-the-field training, but you have a responsibility, Astergarden. The fact that almost all of your peers look up to you as their leader—are you really willing to let them down by carelessly breaking the oath you recited to become a Sword?”

“To be the herald of the Elements, to be the Sword that is the harbinger of peace, to be the Sheath of Protection by making the lives of others my Responsibility,” Sevin recited, the words rolling off her tongue fluidly despite of years not saying it. “I have fulfilled my duty, Sir Valcrist, and I would like to think that despite my leaving the Sword I am still living by the Code.”

“Wrong,” Valcrist retorted, yet keeping his tone in check. “You’re not doing you responsibilities. It’s whatever you’re doing for personal reasons…that’s what foremost in your mind right now. You intentions are wrong, girl. And that makes a big goddamn difference.”

“But—” Sevrin futilely tried to explain. What is there to explain? He is right and you know it.

She threw a bitter glance towards the assassin, who didn’t seem to notice. If only he did not save her, she could have ended up in the hospital bed, and the pain she would undoubtedly suffer would be much better than alienating and disappointing her mates. Truth was, she did not expect that trying to leave would have such an impact for all of them. It was too late to take her words back however, and there was no way to go but forward.

If only he did not show up in the moment of my greatest failure, Sevrin thought bitterly. Goddamnit.

“So you want to do something about this whole mess, Astergarden?” Valcrist asked, his voice weak and disconsolate. “Kneel.” He drew out his Claymore, the brown-red stains marring its moonlight glitter. With a sigh he laid its blade on one of his palms as he held it by its hilt with the other hand. The scarlet ribbon wrapped around its hilt had its loose end fluttering in the wind.

The assassin seemed to be alarmed by what he had just said. “What? Sir Valcrist, what are you…”

Valcrist threw him a scathing look and thankfully the assassin had the grace to shut up. Then he turned to the matter at hand once again. “Well, Astergarden? What are you waiting for? Kneel in front of me. Now.”

The woman’s eyes were uncertain, and she had paled, as if she had misinterpreted his words grossly. Damn, I hope she doesn’t think I’m going to make her do that, he thought derisively. But he didn’t care. He stopped caring the moment he lost faith in his decisions, and now, when he lost faith in the one he depended on.

Despite of her apparent discomfort Sevrin did as she was told and gingerly knelt on one knee and bent her head. Once again silence upon them, and Valcrist was growing aware of the stares his little assembly was getting from the weary and grieving passers-by, yet he was secretly and somehow nastily indulging himself with pulling the tension as taut as he could manage.

With a sigh, he finally let go. Valcrist brought the blunt edge of his blade to the surprised Sevrin’s shoulder and spoke, “With the power vested in me, I, Sir Valcrist of Lenneth, Commander to the Sword of Valor, and a Knight of Schwarzwald,” he lifted the blade from her shoulder and laid it gently now on her other, “do hereby proclaim Sevrin Astergarden, Swordswoman and Knight Apprentice under my guidance, as a Knight from hereon, on this day, and beyond her death.” So saying, he gently touched Sevrin’s helm with the blade and offered his free hand to her, pulling her up as she took it.

“Now, Lady Astergarden, you are now a Knight and thus free from your duties as a Sword of Valor,” Valcrist said dully. “I hope it serves your purpose.”

Before Sevrin could speak, Valcrist turned away, motioning for Emerester to follow him.

“This shouldn’t be, I didn’t mean....”

Sevrin put a hand to her lips, tears threatening to spill. No, I will not cry, I will not...she told herself, putting into her mind that Fynn had already seen enough of her true incompetence and she wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She bit her lip hard in order to stop herself from weeping, hard enough to draw blood from her bottom lip.

Fynn attempted to break the awkward silence as Sevrin continued to stare at the direction Valcrist and Emerester went. “You’re a knight now. What are you going to do then?”

So callous.

“What I am going to do? For your information, Mister Elenium, I’m going to go away far from civilization and find myself, and all that other stupid clichés,” she spat bitterly. “Even from you, and I would really appreciate it if you’d just go away and leave me alone.”

Silence.

“Heh. I’m afraid I can’t,” Fynn said, cruelty suddenly edging his voice. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go that easily, Venris Dastonia.”

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Act 1: Random Encounters XXIII

2004-11-17T01:35:00.000+08:00

XXIII. Interlude: Rinaldo

He walked briskly through dark, lonely streets heading towards the celebration in the south. Most of the Doorspawn had been attracted there, drawn by the cheery warmth of the revelers. He could hear screams and sounds of fighting ahead of him, but here, in the northern residential quarter, all was quiet. Gas-lit lamps shone atop posts at each corner, lonely oases of radiance in a vast desert of darkness.

Rinaldo thought back to the fiery Fiorenne. She was, so far, the greatest perk he had ever had on an assignment. Admittedly, though, his expertise lay in the subtle and the not-so-subtle manipulations of courtly politics. But the Albertan Shadows have changed leadership, and with the new management came a new agenda. This affair with the otherworldly Doors seemed to be a prime element in their new agenda, so much so that they had to cooperate efforts with the mystic cabal known only as the Black Circle.

He smiled inwardly. This was turning out to be the greatest concert in the history of Rune-Midgard, and he was playing the front act.

Rinaldo and Fiorenne were both assigned to the task of finding the right Door, the so-called Door of Laeveteinn. It would have been an easy task if they had the Artifact. But, as it was, a defecting thief named Diradem Tarkis had stolen the Artifact two years ago.

Unconsciously, Rinaldo whistled through the unbarring octave, rehearsing the mystical melody that would paralyze everyone within earshot. He would use that when he found Tarkis. His best bet was the celebration. Afterall, the Day of the Dead was what brought the man here.

"I smell blood."

The sudden whisper gave Rinaldo a start. He looked around, but found noone. The street was empty as far as he could see. He was alone. Must be his imagination, then. He shrugged, laughing nervously, and continued walking. He couldn't help but finger the silver medallion that hung around his neck. As long as he had the Door Charm, he was safe from Doorspawn.

He turned around a corner, giving furtive glances behind him. Beneath the gaslight, he paused, breathing in the desert air. A cool breeze passed him by, but for only a moment.

"Remember South Hold," whispered the breeze.

Startled he spun around, but there was noone there. He summoned up his concentration--something he learned to do in his younger days as an archer. But still he couldn't find the source of the whisper.

It did say South Hold. He was assigned there, many years ago, his first missions as a bard. The lord of South Hold and his family had committed suicide after Rinaldo's smear campaign destroyed the lord's reputation and riches. It was a particularly skillful manipulation, and he prided himself with that accomplishment. But he worked behind the shadows then and noone, but the Albertan thieves' guild and him, knew who pulled the strings then.

He walked faster now, fear driving his quickened steps. He was almost at the bridge, one of only two in the city, which spanned across the aqueduct circling the central quarter. The quiet gurgle of the water below was calming to his nerves, and he breathed a sigh of relief. His breath caught when he saw what was on the other side of the bridge though.

Standing below the pool of light cast by a gas lamp was a tall, slim man, wearing a tight-fitting suit. Bands of cloth were wrapped around his arms and legs and torso. His head was bowed and the bunny ears that crowned it were motionless. His arms were crossed across his chest, holding a pair of jurs. The exotic blades caught the light on their emveretarcon-sharpened edges, and glinted like stars on a dark night.

The man raised his head, and Rinaldo could only see the man's eyes; black cloth masked the man's lower face. Even from this distance, the eyes shone with anger.

"Rinaldo, Aria of Deception, of the Albertan Shadows?" the man asked with a quiet voice.

"W-Who wants to know?" Rinaldo tried to reply firmly, but his voice broke. He cursed himself inwardly. Whoever this bunny-eared man was, he could take him. Hopefully.

"Heh. You will know by the time we're done." The bunny ears bobbed as the man brandished his twin blades. And then he was off, sprinting fast towards Rinaldo.

Rinaldo hastily pulled his lute from his back and plucked out the chords to the unbarring octave. His cape flared out as he poured his spirit into the melody. But it didn't stop the man, who was now halfway down the bridge. No, he was now only a couple of feet away from him!

Rinaldo dived to the side to avoid the two thrusting blades, wincing as he felt one of them connect, slicing through his side. He rolled back up to his feet, leaning on a bridge post to support himself. The fine leathers he wore were ripped along his side, and a growing crimson spot was starting to soak his white undershirt.

The bunny band assassin pressed his attack, whirling like a desert dervish. His double jurs seemed to dance in the air before him. Rinaldo tried to block with his lute, but more cuts appeared on his jacket's sleeves. He could feel the stinging of a hundred slices along both of his arms.

He leaped aside as the assassin thrust both jurs straight at him. Friction sparks flew as the blades buried into the stone bridgepost behind Rinaldo.

"Heh," said the assassin, trying to pull his weapons free.

Now's my chance.

Putting some distance away from the bridge's edge, Rinaldo ripped the Door Charm off his neck and held it aloft.

"Hear me, spawn of the Other World. Hear me and obey!"

For a moment, everything was still, save for the assassin tugging at the jurs stuck in stone. With a jarring sound that caused Rinaldo to clench his jaw, the blades finally pulled free.

The bunny band assassin examined the blades a moment, then turned back towards him. Rinaldo would have thought the bunny ears absurd, but the assassin's eyes more than made up for the lack in menace. "They now call me Skeptic. But once, long ago, you destroyed my former self."

It was then that the bard's summons was answered. First came the howls. High-pitched and blood-chilling, the howls echoed in the desert night. Finally, the shadows materialized around him, four hunched forms shaped and sized like bull mastiffs; their bodies black pits that swallowed all light, their eyes blazing like the fires of a hundred hells, their teeth bared in maws that were unnaturally large.

Once more, Rinaldo gestured with the Door Charm, and the four shadowy mastiffs shot off, circling the assassin, growling deeply. The bard could play, to enhance the Doorspawns' fighting abilities, but he needed to hold the medallion to maintain control.

One of the dogs made a sudden leap for the assassin's throat--

He'd seen them in action many times before, of course, but Rinaldo still marveled at their speed. Almost as if they weren't constrained by this world's time.

--but Skeptic was faster: he ducked beneath the slavering jaws and gutted the creature. No actual guts poured out, nor blood. The gutted dog just plopped down on the ground, failed to get up as its legs buckled, and began to fade, leaving only some shadowy residue behind.

The three remaining Doorspawn continued to circle the assassin, who held his jurs crossed against his chest, trying to keep them in view all at once. Skeptic glanced at Rinaldo, fixing his eyes on his. Then, charged at the bard.

Instantly, the trio of Doorspawn leaped at him, sensing primitively that the assassin has dropped his guard. But the bunny band assassin was no fool. He launched himself into the air, doing a perfect somersault that took him outside the canines' circle. He leaped again as he landed and Rinaldo suddenly couldn't see him. Even the Doorspawn were puzzled, sniffing the air in between growls.

"You used this to summon them? Very nice. Heh," came a sinister voice behind him.

Rinaldo hastily turned around and found the assassin a few paces behind him, examining the Door Charm in one hand. How did he--?

Even as he wondered how Skeptic got the silver medallion, he watched as the assassin threw it down on the ground and punched a jur through it. Black crackling energy shot out from the destroyed charm. Skeptic looked back up at him.

"Hmm. Watch your back."

Without the control of the Door Charm, the shadow dog pack flew into a rampage, attacking the nearest victim. Which, in this case, happened to be Rinaldo.

The bard spun just in time, his fingers dancing desperately on the strings of his lute. The melodic strike caught the lead shadow dog in midair, knocking it down to the ground. He aimed two more sonic blasts on the other two, dropping them as well. They lay whimpering, fading back into insubstantiality.

He exhaled hard and then remembered the assassin behind him. But he was too late. His left arm went numb and his lute fell, unsupported. Then his left leg gave as he turned, and he spilled over his fallen instrument. Splinters from the broken instrument dug into his back.

Looking down his legs, he found his hamstrings cut, blood pooling under it. His back felt wet too. The assassin must have severed some nerve there too.

Shuddering, he looked up, eyes wild with fear and tears, at the approaching assassin. The white bunny ears were soaked with crimson.

"Don't you remember my eyes?" The question held menace beyond measure, even muffled by the assassin's lower facemask.

Rinaldo searched the man's steel grey eyes. They were cold and hard. He shivered, but couldn't place the man anywhere. "Remember? I don't even know who you are!" Rinaldo managed to choke out. Blood was filling his lungs; he could taste it in his mouth.

"South Hold," the assassin said simply, as if that was enough answer.

"The Lord of House Entraedi killed his own family before he took his own life! None of it was my doing..." Rinaldo sobbed, feeling his life ebbing away.

"One escaped his father's madness."

Rinaldo's eyes widened. "Can't be. You're...Entraedi's son?"

"Heh. I've tracked you all these years, Rinaldo. I've pieced it all together." The assassin looked down at him, pulling down the facemask to reveal a bitter smile. "My only regret is that killing you won't change anything."

"No! I--"

"Hush. You won't die just yet," Skeptic said, as he carefully sliced open the bard's chest. "You will suffer first."

Rinaldo blacked out from the pain, welcoming dark oblivion.

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Act 1: Random Encounters XXII

2004-11-16T01:34:00.000+08:00

XXII. "You're...Venris Dastonia."

What the..?!

"You...must be mistaken, my name's Sevrin Astergarden. Currently serving under Commander Valcrist of the Sword of Valor."

The assassin finally nodded at her explanation, and Sevrin let her tension dissipate.

Damn it, that was close.

Sevrin eyed Fynn critically, taking in his lithe, shorter-than-average form, before nodding in acquiescence. It’s not for naught that Assassins are well-known for their efficiency—despite their lack of morals, Sevrin thought resentfully. Like it or not I may be well able to find out how abysmal the Sword of Valor’s performance is compared to these band of killers.

“It’s further north,” he said as he tried to keep up with her stride. Despite the added weight of Valcrist’s chain mail and hefty cloak Sevrin’s discomfort around the assassin made her unconsciously want to get away from him as soon as possible. “The aura is stronger in that direction—if you’ll notice, the Door you and your company had dealt with earlier is also way up North, out into the desert. The Door in here and the one you closed, they may be connected via veins…”

Sevrin unconsciously stifled a yawn as the assassin droned on. She caught herself, however, when she noticed Fynn cut his speech short. Probably because of her yawning.

“Erm, please excuse me,” Sevrin muttered in apology, unfocused. “It’s just that I’m a bit tired.”

Despite his mask Sevrin somehow knew that Fynn now had a questioning look in his eyes behind the covering. “Aren’t your senses even quickened with all these—” he gestured towards the bloodied and mangled bodies strewn all over the street they were tracking “—activity?”

“Is all but one to me,” Sevrin remarked, distracted. “A job is a job. Nothing special. People die.”

“Are you all right?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Gah. Yes, of course I am. You saw to it. Why are you so damn concerned with my welfare?”

Fynn was clearly taken aback by her distracted rudeness and apparently kept himself in check. “Oh. I apologize, Lady Knight. I will keep quiet now.”

Moments later in their tracking Sevrin spotted Astalanth Halenor, bent over the empty shell—the residue—of a door-spawn. He seemed to be inspecting something on the filmy and brittle transparent material, his fingers rubbing on a piece of epidermal shell. His brows were knitted in concentration.

“Astalanth!” Sevrin called out as she approached him, Fynn in tow. “You found something?”

The Sword of Valor shook his head. “Door-spawn are supposed to be made of wraithlike material, right? I wonder how they manage to leave this residue behind…They’re supposed to be immaterial ghosts.”

“Probably because they need to assimilate into some sort of material body in order to be able cause havoc on this plane,” Fynn observed. “Astute observation—Astalanth, is it?” Fynn looked up to see the boy nodding his head. “Under normal circumstances, they would have existed here as mere immaterial ghosts, yet some force has given them the ability to wear shells…”

Astalanth sat up, alerted by the scent of conspiracy. “You mean, somebody’s behind all these?”

“Yes.”

Sevrin watched the exchange with hooded eyes. This Fynn Elenium sure knows his subject, she admitted unwillingly to herself. And if Sir Valcrist doesn’t shape us up, Astalanth would probably leave us without notice to join the Assassins.

“There may very well be a contrived plot behind all these,” Sevrin pointed out, “but your exchange won’t change the fact that there’s a Door waiting to be closed.” She turned her head towards the direction where the dark, heavy aura characteristic of an area situated by a Door concentrated. There she felt the hairs on the nape of her neck standing, and she shivered, making her cross her arms. “If you ask me I’d rather have this be dealt and done with.”

“Agreed,” Fynn nodded as he strapped his katars onto his wrists, blades glinting in the fire and moonlight.

Astalanth was about to make a move to join them but Sevrin stopped him. “No, Astalanth…you’d best be taking care of the survivors along with the others.”

“But Sevrin—! You always have all the fun,” Astalanth whined, though Sevrin knew that he was only acting. Astalanth and the others knew that Sevrin, because of her uncanny expertise in swordsmanship gained under Hesper Silberhof’s tutelage, tended to take care of the more delicate assignments.

“Oh yes, hack and slash is fun.”

“Yes it is!”

Sevrin grinned languidly, then ruffled Astalanth’s—who was just a couple of years younger—head. “Quit it, Astie. Be careful, now.”

Astalanth blushed slightly at Sevrin’s rare show of affection being directed at him. “Well yeah, you too, Older Sis Sev.”

Unbeknownst to the two, Fynn couldn’t help but almost give in to the sharp pang of jealousy gnawing deep in his gut. He cleared his throat. “I think it’s about time we close the Door. Sevrin?”

“I agree.” Sevrin unsheathed her bastard blade and carried it over her shoulders, the blunt edge of the blade leaning on a shoulder guard. “Take care, Astalanth,” she said as she and Fynn started to continue the tracking.

Sevrin and Fynn were already a number of paces away when a piercing shriek nearly made the swordswoman jump in surprise. Quickly, Sevrin turned, trying to locate where the dreadful sound came from.

“All but one, eh?” Fynn chuckled as he adjusted his sakkat, readying himself for the imminent action.

“Do shut up.”

They walked a few paces more and after walking around the bend there it was, the Door they were searching for. It was on a rooftop, about three floors above ground, yet the purplish aura visible against the dark of night gave it away.

Without a word Fynn grabbed hold of the piping of the nearest building and nimbly started to leap to the rooftop, grabbing hold onto anything he could and leaping upwards, clinging onto another handhold, doing it repeatedly until his feet touched the terracotta tiles of the rooftop.

Sevrin could only stare blankly as he made his way upwards. How the hell does he do that?

“What are you waiting for, Astergarden? Go up here now!”

Sevrin muttered several invectives as she kicked the door of the building open and charged into the almost completely unlit lobby, wicker lamps scattering eerie shadows and scant light, a negative chiaroscuro if there ever was one. It was a play not of light, but of shadows. A scent of undistinguishable perfume permeated the stale air within the building, and of…sex.

Sevrin could never forget how that smelled. Years being under Hesper Silberhof, literally and figuratively, imprinted its scent into her memory so deep there was no hope in her erasing it from her mind. All she could do was to try and overwrite the memory with new ones, and she was doing exactly that with her exploits alongside the Sword of Valor.

But there were still nights when his rough touches haunted her, making her lose her sleep....

She shook her head. Now isn’t the time to dwell on it, it’s not like I need the sex… But she found herself staring at the bed off to the far side of the room, with its extremely rumpled sheets. Either the owner tends to be very frisky while sleeping or had company.

“Sevrin!”

Her head snapped up at the assassin’s voice calling for her to hasten her way up to the rooftops. Sevrin immediately ran to the staircase by the corner and climbed up to the almost pitch-black room filled with the same thick, cloying scent as downstairs, only stronger. But she had no time to take further notice, the scuttling heard through the roof was disturbing; it was apparent that someone or something was getting killed at that very moment.

There was no visible passageway up to the rooftops. Except for the window, Sevrin thought, as she shuffled her way blindly towards the faint moonshine streaming from the opening lined with lace curtains. Finally peering out and up the window Sevrin put her foot on the windowsill and groped for handholds outside the window.

“I’ll be there…ah…”

Hauling herself, armor and all, up to the terracotta rooftop’s surface she was greeted with the sight of Fynn trying to skewer the Door-spawn with his twin blades, his fists thrusting towards the monster’s exposed flesh at his neck.

The Behemoth of the Door was slightly different from what Sevrin and the Sword of Valor had dealt with earlier; this particular one, while less bulkier, was taller and more sinuous in form, thin, its carmine limbs apparently made of elastic material, cartilage maybe. It was snapping its surprising swift arms like whips at Fynn; the assassin bore red welts on his arms where he was struck by the Door-spawn.

He was not concentrating in this match though, Sevrin could tell it; his eyes were frequently darting towards the gradually fading chalk imprinted upon the tiles, outlining a pentagram.

“Sevrin, I need to take a closer look at the—uff!!” Fynn wheezed as his short moment of distraction cost him a swift blow to the stomach, sending him to his knees.

“Leave it to me!” Sevrin said aloud as she calmly approached the beast, her sword at the ready.

“What the?! Don’t just walk in front of it!” Fynn cried out, still clutching his stomach. His warnings went unheeded as the monster shifted its attention towards her, and snapped one of its limbs at her—

—but Sevrin merely sidestepped, put an arm against the limb which tried to strike at her, her sword-arm lashing at him in reflex. With a howl, the beast tried to whip her again, but just the same Sevrin merely evaded it, grabbed hold of its arm with one hand, and striking back in the same instant.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fynn swiftly running towards the Door: he traced his fingers along the chalk markings and sniffed the residue. Be quick, Sevrin wanted to tell him as the monster tried to lash her into pieces, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he was needed.

Finally, he was apparently satisfied with his observations, and with a high leap—katars glinting bloodily in the moonlight—plunged his twin blades into the back of the monster, where its skin seemed to be thinner and transparent.

With an agonized howl the monster’s body twisted and shimmered, dissipating, eventually leaving the mere shell that served as its vessel in the mortal plane.

“Shall we party, then?” Fynn remarked casually at the awe-struck swordswoman.

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Act 1: Random Encounters XXI

2004-11-14T23:25:00.000+08:00

XXI. Interlude: Rinaldo

"Almost...there!!"

Her desperate cry rose as she broke over the edge, shuddering against her lover. Below her, Rinaldo's eyes were screwed shut. They moved against each other for a few more delicious moments, then she collapsed upon his chest.

She rolled over beside him, and they lay there, in the darkness, tangled in white sheets, savoring each other's warmth, breathing hard. Then she reached over him to the small table on the bedside and took out a pack of slim cigarettes.

Her eyes reflected the bright crimson ember at the end of the long stick of tobacco. She stared at the ceiling, absently blowing circular puffs of smoke in the room's still air. Watching them coalesce and then fade into wisps. Like Doors, she thought.

"Do you think we got the right Door?" Rinaldo broke into the silence.

"Highly unlikely," she sighed, then continued irritably, "damn fool wizards keep insisting we run through the list when the device could pinpoint Laeveteinn's Door faster."

The bard turned to her, nestled her head on an arm, and nuzzled her neck. "Well, if Diradem Tarkis hadn't taken the device--"

"You don't have to remind me!" She pulled away from his embrace, fixed him with a burning gaze. "That damn thief will burn when I see him."

"He's in Morroc now."

"What?"

"He is in Morroc. Entered the city via the south gate, just before noon." Rinaldo took his lute in his hands. He began tuning it, head cocked, adjusting the tension on the strings as he tested the tones.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The bard shrugged, still tuning his stringed instrument.

"Capture him," she commanded in a firm tone.

Rinaldo stopped in mid-strum. His moutache-framed mouth broke into a confused smile. "Huh?"

"Capture him, Rinaldo." She was standing now, hands on her waist, the cigarette held forgotten in one hand.

"What? You mean right now?" The bard chuckled.

"Yes. Now."

Rinaldo stared at the naked wizardess before him. He knows her enough to know she meant the command. He shrugged and stood up, looking for his leathers. There was nothing to do but obey. Fiorenne was fire personified and he doesn't fancy getting his hide burned.

They both dressed in silence, left the bedroom in silence. At the stairway outside, he pulled her in for a kiss, but she averted her lips from his, and he let her go.

She really must be in a foul mood. The bard knew better than to push her when she's like this.

He watched her climb the stairs to the roof, the twisted symbol of the Black Circle looking back at him from where it was emblazoned on her long cloak.

And then Rinaldo the Bard--Rinaldo of the Albertan Shadows--climbed down the stairs, his quiver of arrows slapping against his thigh, his lute slung across his back. He could still taste her on his mouth, smell her scent in his nostrils. Of all the women he had had, she was the best, and he'll do anything to taste her again. Oh yes, he thought, anything. But, she sure is a brat.

The bard made his way down the street, whistling, making for the center of the city where screams can be heard.

He didn't see the man cloaked in the shadows, didn't see the man's smirk as he waited for the bard to pass, didn't see the white rabbit ears bob as the man left the shadows to follow behind.

As the bard hunted for Diradem the Thief, so did Skeptic hunt Rinaldo, like the endless cycle of nature's predators and prey in the Sograt sands.

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Act 1: Random Encounters XX

2004-11-14T04:50:00.000+08:00

XX. Fynn skipped across the rooftops of the houses of Morroc, tracking the source of the Doorspawn. The ongoing carnage in the streets below led him on. The shadowy monsters were multiplying in number, and diversity: aside from the scythe-armed humanoids he fought earlier, there were also huge four-legged monstrosities that gored through the crowd with black tusks. He kept to the rooftops; this was the only way he could cover ground faster.

People were dying below him. But he couldn't stop and aid them. There were just too many monsters and too many people in the streets. The Sword of Valor better handle those monsters; that's what they're here for anyway. He would concentrate on the mystery of the Door itself.

As he leaped across a narrow alley, there was a sudden flare of crimson light from below, followed by the piercing shout of someone unleashing spirit power.

He glanced down, in mid-air--

--saw the scene at the bottom of the alley: a lone knight was thrusting her blade through a huge Doorspawn beast. Behind the knight was a second monster, poised to strike. His eyes widened; the knight wasn't aware of her back--

--and then he hit the opposite rooftop--thankfully a flat one. Still, he stumbled, rolling across the roof. He got to his feet and crawled back to peer at the alley below.

The knight's Magnum Break had ignited the rubbish piled along one side of the alley, and the alley stood out in the flickering firelight. He saw one of the monsters puff out in smoke, apparently slain, but the unseen monster now struck with its blunt forelimbs, hurling the knight almost fifteen feet to the far end of the alley. The knight sprawled across empty crates, his helm thrown off.

Her helm, Fynn corrected himself mentally, for he can now see the long platinum tresses and delicate features of the female knight.

The Doorspawn began to lumber heavily towards the woman, who was now crouching and looking around for her bastard sword. Fynn saw the blade, lying in the midst of the burning rubbish. But the monster was between her and her weapon.

"Damn it," he muttered, then gripped the side of the roof and launched himself into the air. He landed on his feet in a crouch. He reached into the fire and pulled the bastard sword out. The monster was nearly upon the unarmed knight.

With his other hand, he picked up a stone from the ground and threw it at the Doorspawn's head. These extraplanar monsters seemed to share the same vital points as more natural monsters, and he hoped this one would be no exception. The stone flew in an arc, and the monster collapsed, stunned.

"Here, lady knight!"

The knight caught the thrown sword with one gauntleted hand. She stood up into her fighting stance.

"My thanks, whoever you are," she saluted over the monster's prone form at Fynn. "You can run along now. I'll be fine."

The monster started to stir, raising itself up on its huge arms. It rumbled, as it rose, blocking Fynn's view of the knight.

"Are you sure?" Fynn asked, fingering the worn handles of his katars. "This one looks quite strong."

"I don't care," the knight said curtly. "I'll bring it down."

Fynn was about to climb back up to the roof when he heard the knight: I don't care. He stopped. Something about the way she said those three words nagged at him. Someone said the same thing to him two years ago--a lifetime ago--and with very much the same tone. She had the same platinum hair, too.

The monster nearly filled the alley and was almost ten feet tall; Fynn couldn't see the knight's face clearly.

The knight charged at the Doorspawn, once more sliding her blade along the walls, building up the heat for another Magnum Break. Fynn held up his hand instinctively as the flaming shockwave impacted upon the giant monster.

The monster stood its ground, not minding the flames now licking along its bulk. It reached out a huge hand and caught the knight's head, lifting her up in the air. Its other hand pulled back.

Fynn ran at the monster's back, whipping out his katars in either hand. As he came within a few feet, he leaped and bounced off the wall, propelling himself at the monster, his katars held crossed before him. He felt the twin blades bite and dig into the monster's tough skin, severing both flesh and bone. The monster roared, an unearthly sound that shattered the night. The knight fell back to the ground, choking, throwing off the monster's severed appendage.

He dragged the knight up and out of reach of the Doorspawn's remaining fist. She shrugged his hold on her arm, and brandished the bastard sword. And charged the maimed monster again.

Fynn sighed. He somersaulted behind the monster and spun around, slashing at the monster's back just as the knight's bastard sword clove through the monster's shoulders, nearly severing torso.

Emitting one final roar, the Doorspawn dissipated.

He put his katars away, and regarded the knight closely. His eyes widened behind the mask he wore. "You're...Venris Dastonia."

The knight jerked stiffly as she wore her helm back on. "You...must be mistaken," she replied with a scoff. "My name's Sevrin Astergarden. Currently serving under Commander Valcrist of the Sword of Valor."

Fynn didn't know what to say. But it is her. She's just like the way he remembered her. Except for the armor. Unconsciously, he pulled back into the shadows. He still wore the phantom mask; she won't recognize him.

"I'm Fynn Elenium of the Temple Assassins. I've been assigned to work with your company."

"Uhuh. Well, then. I've got to find the Door," she said, pushing past him towards the alley mouth.

"It's near here," he called out at Sevrin's back. "I've been tracking it as well. You want to travel together?"

She stopped, turned towards him. "I can handle myself, Fynn Elenium."

"I didn't say you can't," was his quick reply. "Come on, we're on the same side."

She scowled at him, but finally nodded grudgingly.

"It's further north," he said.

As they made their way through the blood-soaked streets of a monster-infested Morroc, Fynn thought of only one thing.

This time, I won't run away, Venris Dastonia.

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Act 1: Random Encounters XIX

2004-11-12T21:14:00.000+08:00

XIX. Interlude

“What the HELL?!”

Valcrist, clutching at his bandaged sides, limped towards the windows and could only watch as lurid flames engulfed the Morrocan night sky, with screams of death and destruction making him almost anticipate fire and brimstone of Ragnarok.

He looked around wildly, trying to see if there were any Sword of Valor munchkins running about in the vicinity. But all Valcrist could see from the windows were panicking people, gruesome beasts and the occasional dismembered body.

This isn’t happening. No.

“GODDAMNIT!” Valcrist pushed himself away from the window. Grimacing with pain from his still-fresh wounds he hastily donned his vest and armor—sans chain mail; that was with Sevrin—and limped out to the door.

“Sir Valcrist! Don’t go outside, you can’t make it!” a terrified tavern-maid shouted out from behind the bar where she hid herself. Pale and horror-stricken, it was only seeing her that Valcrist fully realized just how grave the situation was, oh how grave it was.

And then he remembered the troubleshooter the Temple of Assassins had sent, Fynn Elenium. Valcrist almost wanted to weep with frustration and anger at himself; if only he heeded the man’s advice, this could have been prevented.

But those were weak words. Could have been were not powerful enough to convey Valcrist’s utter regret and shame at himself. Set with grim determination, he went through the door, entering the fray, disregarding his wounds.

And I swear in Baldur’s name, I will right this.

“Sir Valcrist, no! Please...!”

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Act 1: Random Encounters XVIII

2004-11-11T18:58:00.000+08:00

XVIII. Apparently no one expected an attack would happen that night. People ran around screaming as hordes of unknown monsters suddenly appeared out of nowhere within Morroc, effectively ripping to shreds the overall sense of frenzied contentment that blanketed the oasis city.

Still frenzied, yes. For Sevrin, who struggled to keep her wits about as she unsheathed her bastard blade, it was like the fabled Ragnarok—the End of Rune-Midgard—only that there was nothing mythical about this. There was nothing magical with the sound of bones being crushed as they were being gnawed on by monster’s jaws; nothing fairytale-like about the children’s screams of terror.

As she ran, she stepped upon a discarded Smiley Mask, crushing it with her heel, and one could say that the resulting damage it had caused to that porcelain mask, now smeared with mud and with cracks spreading across its visage, could very well be an apt parallel to what was happening.

A scream.

Sevrin immediately turned and craned her neck to try and filter out the source of a woman’s terrified shrieks, though in the midst of the pandemonic ruckus—people running around screaming…monsters swaggering about making their way into the horrified throng like tanks…and houses and establishments all ablaze—it was quite hard to do.

Yet she managed to discern where it came from: an alley nearby. Without any hesitation, she ran full-speed, toppling over tables and tripping two people in the process.

The alley was pitch black; yet a woman’s frightened sobs and slithering of slick flesh was all Sevrin needed to visualize the situation at hand. She bit her lip; wishing that she wasn’t too late. There are times when the victim could still be heard crying yet with limbs torn apart....

“Show yourself.” Sevrin mouthed the words solemnly as she held out her bastard sword in front of her.

A stirring. “PLEASE! PLEASE HEL—“

Crunch.

“Damn it.” Knowing that there was no more victim to save, that there was no reason for her to take caution, Sevrin charged ahead blindly in the darkness, her blade leading the way for her. She would eventually hit flesh.

And she did. She felt hot liquid splash and pass through the slits of her helm’s visor and of her iron cain; Sevrin bit her lips close, not willing, in any way, to taste the warm fluid running across her face and lips.

Hiss.

The unseen monster was still alive; despite Sevrin’s twisting her blade in its flesh. She quickly pulled out and poised for another attack, her other four senses struggling to compensate for her lack of vision. The rhythmic patter on the seemingly cobble-stoned ground indicated that the beast she was dealing with probably had clawed feet; and her uncannily sensitive touch told her that this particular beast was not driven to kill by instinct; Sevrin felt pure menace oozing out of it.

Her mind was screaming for her to move, now!

Not a moment to lose! Sevrin quickly swung her blade in the widest possible radius she could manage, trying to feel for bare walls. Cobblestones were no use if she was aiming for a powerful Magnum Break; she would have to hope for brick walls....

The sparks emanating from her blade told her she had hit gold; gathering her strength, she swung her blade around, this time with force applied on the hilt, charging her Magnum Break with more friction.

The flame trailing the tip of Sevrin’s bastard blade illuminated the scene—which for the moment shook her—yet her quickened instincts pushed her to plunge her sword into the monster....

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