Unclenched

[Chanticleer]

PROLOGUE: THE PORTAL

Previously:

For months, the group of sometimes adventurers, sometimes outlaws known as the Emerald Fist assisted the librarian Semidar in gathering four ancient seals linked to the mythical Titans: Hydros, Lithos, Pyros, and Stratos. But Semidar lied; he was never going to safeguard these artifacts, he planned to use them to summon an army from another world and conquer Sosaria. Upon their discovery of his betrayal, the Fist battled against his horde, creatures made of air and earth and fire and water, before confronting and slaying the librarian. This failed to destroy the gate, however, and the danger of further attacks remained imminent. It was then the Fist made their final group decision -- some of them would enter the portal with the Titan Seals and attempt to destroy it from the other side ...

********

Excerpt from A Fistory, Author Unknown:

“ ... amongst those who stayed the ambivalence was practically palpable, guilt and regret and perhaps even a small hope for survival. Somehow, these sentiments overwhelmed the acrid taste of burnt magicks and destruction that permeated the hot, thick air of their jungle surroundings. Semidar had carefully chosen that clearing west of Papua for its isolation, and now it was littered with stains of ash and moist and rubble, the remnants of his broken plans. The uncertainty of expectation had offered a distraction to the remaining members of the Fist as they awaited a sign of their companions' success or failure. When the portal suddenly vanished without their reappearance, they truly understood victory's cost …”

********

Years ago ...

Upon concluding his farewells, Chanticleer Reich approached the portal, his war axe raised and his shield at the ready. He was pleased they remained in working condition, a claim that could not be made about his chainmail tunic and leggings, which were torn in more places than they were not. The tall, proud warrior had also failed to recover his metal helmet after it was pulled from his head by a particularly imposing earthen creature, and a small scowl marked his disapproval of these facts. Cold suspicion was typical for his dark brown eyes, but his long, similarly shaded hair was tangled and matted with the sweat of battle, pieces of slain elementals, and the blood of a treacherous librarian.

“Foul sorcery,” Chanticleer muttered, near-silently, as he stood before the portal. The chaos of battle and its aftermath had precluded an earlier examination; now, it was barely an arm's length away. With a shape akin to the moongates common to Sosaria, its crimson surface appeared rife with instability and pulsated with strange, dark energies that hinted at a more sinister destination -- a world that birthed the monstrosities the Fist had only just defeated. It angered Chanticleer, the ease in which Semidar had deceived them into gathering the artifacts required to summon his intended army. This very outrage, coupled with the obligation created by their folly, had informed his agreement to bring the Titan Seals into the portal and end its threat from the other side.

The warrior was tempted to steal a final glance at his companions, but cast aside such thoughts. As always, his concern for Leigh outweighed all else, including any lingering feelings for those he left behind. The dark-haired half elf was the first of their group to depart, eagerly leaping into the magickal gate with her usual reckless abandon. He still loved her, despite the many reasons against, and he would not allow her to face whatever awaited them alone. So without further consideration, Chanticleer Reich stepped forward and vanished inside of Semidar's portal.

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

PART ONE: WELCOME TO EVERYWHERE

When finally he did awaken, Chanticleer was fully determined his eyes would remain shut. He was tired, and in that empty darkness, none of it mattered. Not the intensity of the midday heat glaring at strips of his exposed flesh; nor the jagged stone and dead grass rough against his face and nipples and finger tips; nor the taste of stale dirt inside his mouth and nostrils. Surrender was justifiable, a reasonable cowardice inspired by what occurred inside Semidar's portal, and the small discomforts of his current whereabouts seemed welcome in comparison.

A voice suddenly made itself known. “I do not mean to offend, my friend, but shit would be a polite way to describe your current appearance.” Then it spoke again, persistent and intrusive. “Can you hear me? I know you yet live, the dead are hardly capable of such snoring.” The voice was male and almost familiar, although the proud warrior would have struggled to recognize his own mother's at that moment. “Open your eyes, you are safe ... or reasonably so.”

... The world beyond Semidar's portal was no world at all, but a narrow earthen bridge linking the magickal gate from his Sosaria to the magickal gate leading to the unknown home of the elemental invaders. Its length was nearly five hundred paces of precarious terrain covered in loose rocks and crooked stalagmites that protruded at random from its surface, while it was barely a dozen paces across at its widest point. Yet at least the ground was solid; on all other sides the Emerald Fist was surrounded by an endless void of that resembled the night's sky, and Chanticleer strongly suspected that might indeed be their current location. He was also reminded of the recently-discovered Malas, a fractured and deteriorating landmass inexplicably enclosed by a starry sea. At the opposite end of the span, a small army was gathered, their numbers increasing by the minute as more of their kind emerged from the other portal. Retreat was not possible, so the would-be defenders of Britannia charged forward, their weapons and their spells and the four Titan Seals at the ready ...

“Are you thirsty?” There was a suggestion of genuine concern in the question. “I have water a-plenty to share. I swear there was some ale, but I must have finished it myself. Although, you hardly seem in a state for drink.” His words were followed by a high-pitched, girlish giggle, an indication that the voice had a companion. “Little one, I have told you on various occasions -- if you intend to laugh at the misfortune of another, do so behind his back. This one is much larger than you and I am far too lazy to come to your defense.” In response, there was the sound of tiny hands clapping.

... They were nearly half-way across the narrow bridge when it began. First, it was wind, frantic and harsh as it clawed and snapped and slowed their pace to a crawl. Next, it was water, bitter and sharp as it stung at their eyes and ears. Then, it was fire, bolts of blinding flame that burned and melted their clothing and armor. Finally, it was earth, waves of rocks and dirt that pelted their tired bodies, alongside tremors that eroded their footing. Too late, the Fist realized that the Titan Seals were the intended targets of their unknown opponents. In succession, each seal shattered as they came into contact with the very powers they embodied. Stratos, next Hydros, then Pyros, and finally Lithos. And each explosion only served to further separate the warrior from his companions, and it was during those moments between the destruction of Pyros and the destruction of Lithos that Chanticleer was struck with enough force to knock him from the earthen bridge and down into the endless, starry void ...

“Water ... yes,” the warrior responded, his thirst having inevitably overwhelmed his self-imposed defeat. With a loud and frustrated grunt, he sat up and opened his eyes, dark and bloodshot as he slowly regained his bearings. Dry and barren plains covered in nothing but a gray-green colored grass stretched in every direction, and the twin suns that prominently occupied the cloudless skies above confirmed he was no longer in any Sosaria he recognized. His immediate vicinity offered the only deviation to the ugliness of the surrounding wastes, a small area covered in scattered and broken stone, traces of an ancient settlement or fortification that no longer existed. At the center of these ruins was a large, dull granite arch, fully intact and as tall as five strong men and nearly a quarter of that in width. Resting comfortably within its shadow were two figures, an elderly man and a young girl, along with packs that appeared to contain the various necessities for their survival. Their facial features were obscured by the glare of the twin suns, but there was something about them both that struck him as familiar.

... As Chanticleer fell he searched for her, his blurred vision grasping at one last glimpse of Leigh. Briefly, he was almost convinced by the sight of a tiny form engaging the approaching elemental hordes. But at his rapidly increasing distance, it could easily have been any of the others. It was likely he would never know for certain ...

“What ... is this place?” The warrior asked, his still-irritated eyes narrowed in a reflection of his confusion.

“Welcome to Everywhere,” the old man said with a slight and amused smile. As he spoke that word -- Everywhere -- the girl grew excited, repeatedly slapping the palms of her hands together. “Now and most likely for-ever!!!”

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

It was nighttime in Everywhere, or at least what seemed to pass for such. One of the twin suns had vanished completely from the sky, while its accomplice still lingered at the edge of the horizon. This left the vast barren plains covered in a constant twilight that lasted until the other sun's morning return. According to the old man, a pact existed between these two and every night they would trade places, with one sun resting and the other sun keeping a watchful eye on the world below. It was an ancient and epic tale, but the old man did not know any of the details, only that the story was most likely true and that it explained why the twin suns acted as they did, at least in this part of Everywhere.

"They behave ... different ... elsewhere?" A puzzled Chanticleer asked.

"Yes," said the old man, "the nature of the suns depends upon where their story is being told."

"How is this possible?" The warrior asked in response.

"I do not know," said the old man, "I have yet to visit these places or hear their versions of the tale."

The old man had experienced at least sixty winters, his long gray hair and full beard speckled with their original black. He was thin and shorter than Chanticleer, but not significantly so, and his mouth was prone to frequent expressions of amusement. His clothing was unremarkable, a plain dark tunic and leather leggings and cheap-looking boots, and they gave little insight into his station or chosen profession. The young girl was only a handful of years old, and while the old man claimed her as a daughter, the warrior believed that granddaughter was more feasible given their difference in ages. Their features did denote an obvious kinship; she had the same dark hair and eyes, the same pale skin, and the same slight frame that he did. Her ears were the most obvious deviation; they were pointed in the manner of elves and some of the other inhuman races. She never spoke but often laughed and the quality of her dress was the same as her caretaker's. Inexplicably, the warrior felt an odd comfort in their presence, which caused him to speak more freely than he would have preferred.

No names were offered or requested. After treating his wounds and providing him with sufficient food and water and a bedroll to rest, the old man asked only for his tale as payment. With a loud grunt, Chanticleer acquiesced and then attempted to summarize the events of his recent years into a series of abruptly delivered statements: The contest between the Time Lord and the Dragon. The rebellion against the Chancellor of Britain and the formation of the Emerald Fist. The threat of the Emerald Entity and the assassin Podrugviati. The final destruction of the demon Abbadon. The witch Iliana Stower and her wicked descendants. The fallen knight Neville Holden and his political conspiracies. The Winterfelons, the Black Rose Society, the Shadow Clan Orcs, the denizens of Necropolis, and all the other he battled against. And finally, the treacherous Semidar and the Titan Seals. Certain facts were withheld, but only those that might be used against him.

Throughout his telling, the two others refrained from any interruptions. Once he was finished, the old man's expression grew curious. "Did you fall ... or did you leap?"

"Pardon ... ?"

"During the battle inside the portal." The old man watched him carefully. "It is strange you were the first to fall. Certainly you were not the weakest of your companions ..."

"You ... dare?!" The warrior did not understand why the suggestion had so offended him. But it did.

A slight smile crossed the old man's lips as he repeated the question. "Did you fall or did you leap?

Chanticleer felt his fists tighten. An overwhelming urge to seize the other man's throat. But then he noticed the young girl, wide-eyed and an innocent smile, and he knew he could not be the one to rob her of her ignorance. Somehow he also realized the world would soon accomplish this on its own. His hands slowly unclenched and he allowed himself to disregard the insult, and their conversation moved on.

In addition to sharing their supplies, the duo provided him with replacements for his tattered chainmail and the weaponry he had lost -- a full-suit of studded leather, a norse helm made from shadow iron, a round-shaped bronze shield, and a war axe finely-crafted from agapite. The warrior's suspicion was instantaneous; the armor proved a perfect fit for his height and build, and the war axe was his weapon of preference. When he questioned how they came to be carrying these items, the old man stated that coincidence was one of Everywhere's few constants.

On their third night together, they shared a supper consisting of dried jerky, fresh bread, and carrot stew. Following this, the old man sang a song about a gypsy girl that he claimed he may have written long ago. And then their discussion turned to the granite arch that hovered above them, and how it remained intact unlike the ruins it inhabited. "This is one of the few entrances to Everywhere," he explained, "it does not change in the manner of the surrounding lands."

"Elaborate," said Chanticleer, his interest suddenly aroused.

"Everywhere is largely unknown outside its borders," said the old man, "and the very nature of its four kingdoms shift and bend to the whims of those who hold power over them."

"Tell me of these four kingdoms," said the warrior. "Tell me of those who hold power."

"Very well," nodded the old man, as if this had been expected. "The west is controlled by the Twilight Juvenalia, a secretive group that only recently took charge there but claim to have been here forever. They are focused primarily upon trade, although their women possess a reputation for ... er ... pleasurable pursuits. Their men as well, if you are so inclined. They are far different from the Alliance, that much is certain."

"The Alliance ...?"

" ... of rival, powerful kingdoms," the old man continued. "The Alliance dominates the east. It is said that they often fight amongst themselves but are always unified against the intrusions of outsiders. As for the north, this is the home of the most powerful kingdom of them all, the Kingdom of Britannia."

"Britannia?" Chanticleer asked in confusion. "I am of Britannia. I am aware there are many false versions of my world. I have even encountered some of their inhabitants. Their strange counterparts. Yet my understanding that each mirror Britannia existed within a mirror Sosaria. This Everywhere seems ... far different." He narrowed his eyes in thought before continuing. "Who rules this Britannia you speak of Is it yet another counterpart of Lord British?"

"No," the old man shook his head. "This ruler of Britannia is ... someone else."

"I see. And what of the southern kingdom?"

"I am not certain," the old man furrowed his brow. "It is said those who venture there do not return."

The warrior emitted an irritable sigh. "No matter. I have never heard of this Alliance. Nor of these Twilight people. While I fail to understand how any Britannia is part of Everywhere, it is still the only one that seems even remotely familiar. I must discover the fate of my companions and return home. Perhaps this Britannia holds some answers for me."

"Perhaps," said the old man, his tone more subdued than normal. Then he glanced at the young girl, already fast asleep inside her bedroll. "The hour grows late and you have made your choice."

In the morning, the old man and the little girl were gone, which surprised Chanticleer little. Except for the equipment and meager supplies they had gifted him, there was no other evidence of the encounter. Using some of his supply of water to clean his face and hands, Everywhere's newest arrival gathered only what he could carry easily and walked north into the barren flat lands, and towards his intended destination -- the Kingdom of Britannia. As he moved past the spot where he had first awoken, the warrior failed to notice them. Four small and broke pieces lying among the shadows of the ancient ruins. Hydros. Lithos. Pyros. Stratos. The final remnants of the now-shattered Titan Seals.

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

Time passed, and Chanticleer stumbled out of the barren plains. During his journey north, he encountered no other living creatures, not even the smallest of insects. His only distractions from the endless sea of dull, gray-green grass were his efforts to anticipate the movements of the Twin Suns, but they somehow defied any semblance of predictability. There were days that lasted a handful of hours; there were days that felt as long as a fortnight. His patience, like the food and water supplied to him by the old man and the young girl, had dwindled to almost nothing, and at his most trying of moments the warrior imagined those Twin Suns conspiring from above to drive him into madness.

The northern border of the wastes was marked by a narrow, grey-white cobblestone wall, nearly as tall as Chanticleer with no apparent cracks or gaps along its surface. Across the wall was a large road paved with matching cobblestone, and the two ran parallel from east to west as far as his eyesight could reach. Due to its vast width and well-kept condition, he assumed the road was a highway of importance, but there were no signs indicating where either direction led. As he scaled the barrier, the warrior noticed the sky was darker here, a true night rather than the perpetual twilight of the flat lands to the south. This was the first that he noticed Everywhere's single moon, which exceeded the size of his native Sosaria's Trammel and Felucca combined, though its cratered, brown-red surface lacked their luster.

With a tired grunt, he completed his ascension of the wall, pausing atop to survey his new surroundings. On the other side of the road lay a large field, and beyond that a thick forest. Under the light of that enormous moon, the trees and other vegetation seemed healthier than the sickly grass of the plains. Yet Chanticleer was no naturalist; it was the collection of tents, horse-drawn wagons, and campfires at the woods' edge that seized his attention. A caravan, but it was too far away for him to discern its purpose. He counted the silhouettes of at least twenty guards, more than he could contend with at his best, and his travels through the wastes had made certain he was not. After a few minutes, his hunger and thirst prevailed over caution, so he slid from the top of the wall and proceeded towards the camp.

Upon noticing the warrior's deliberate and obvious approach, one of the sentries reached for the broadsword sheathed at his belt and pointed at him with his non-weapon hand. "Halt!!!" The guard was an older man and wore a full-suit of shadow-iron chainmail and a dark tunic that displayed an unfamiliar crest: a lone dark tower surrounded by a circular red field. At the sound of his command, half a dozen similarly-garbed men turned from their positions along the encampment perimeter of and advanced towards their comrade with their weapons at the ready.

Chanticleer raised both of his hands to demonstrate his peaceful intentions. He stood at least twenty paces from the other man, an acceptable distance if it became necessary for him to flee.

"Who are you!?" The older guard took a single step forward as he asked. His fellow soldiers quickened their pace and were soon flanking him. "What business have you here?!"

The warrior coughed quietly to clear his throat. He had not uttered a word since that last night at the ruins with the old man and the young girl, and his throat felt uncomfortable. "I ... am a traveler. I require supplies."

"Where do you hail from?" The older guard watched him with suspicion. "What is your destination?"

"From ... the south," Chanticleer said with a slight frown. "I seek Britannia."

The guard briefly glanced at his comrades, all of whom shared the same incredulous expression. "A Britannian?! By the Imperators, how did a Britannian survive the Barren Plains?!"

"With ... some difficulty," the warrior half-rolled his eyes at them. "Will I receive aid or not?"

"That's for the Baroness to decide," said another of the guards. "But first, drop your weapon and your shield."

In response, there were no words, only an irritable scowl.

"Only the Baroness can grant your request," the older guard spoke now. "But you will not meet her until you are unarmed. If you attempt to harm to her or the children, you will die."

"Children?" Chanticleer narrowed his eyes as he considered their demand. Once again, the rumbling of his belly and the dryness of his mouth forced him into a decision. "Agreed." He loosened the war axe hanging at his side and unstrapped the shield from his back, and casually tossed them both to the ground. "Escort me to your Baroness."

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

At center of Everywhere, surrounding the ruins that served as its most common place of arrival, were the Barren Plains, a vast region of flat lands covered in pallid, gray-green grass that stretched for days in every direction. Devoid of any signs of life or sustenance, these wastes were bordered by the world's four central domains: the Kingdom of Britannia to the north; the Twilight Juvenalia to the west; the Alliance of rival, powerful kingdoms to the east; and the Lands of the Unknown Despair to the south. And deep within the heart of the Twilight Juvenalia, where the River of Tears flowed closest to the base of the Jagged Peaks, was its capital, the city of New Umbral, a large and prosperous city, and the envy of all who passed through one of its four well-defended gates.

The city was organized into several walled districts, each efficiently named to reflect its primary purpose. There was the Market District, which was built around the renowned Rue de Marche, a wide and winding avenue, almost serpent-like in shape, that featured bustling shops selling various goods of the highest quality. There was the Manor District, littered with grandiose mansions inhabited by the most influential and wealthiest of New Umbral's residents. Then there was Shadow Hill, the highest and center-most point of the city, and the location of the Forever Tower, an imposing and near-impenetrable fortress named for the lone shadow-stone constructed spire that ascended from its middle. From within, House Blandinus ruled over the Twilight Juvenalia.

On the second floor of the Forever Tower was its throne room, recognized as the seat of kingdom politics and noted for its decorations, which exceeded any acceptable level of extravagance. Lavish portraits of alluring men and women and rare paintings of exotic scenery and mysterious cities, wall-length tapestries depicting strange gods, epic battles, and hard-won orgies, and an assortment of ancient-looking, abstract sculptures, all were dedicated to the honor of House Blandinus and glory of the Twilight Juvenalia. Although large enough to accommodate at least two hundred, as midnight drew close on that particular evening, only three were present. Two of these were guards men stationed at the chamber's doors, which was constructed with lumber from the nearby Bloodwood Forest and reinforced with ore from beneath the Jagged Peaks. They were armored in black chainmail and their surcoats and shields were emblazoned with the crest of House Blandinus, a lone dark tower imposed over a red, circular field. A third man was perched on one of the twin ebony and ruby-encrusted thrones situated upon a medium-sized royal dais at the opposite end of the room. He was handsome and finely dressed, and his shoulder-length blonde hair, clever and deep blue eyes, and prominent, perfectly-shaped nose possessed an ageless quality, just as his fancy clothing reflected his royal standing. At full height he was six and a quarter feet tall, with an athletic build that hinted at his great physical strength and swiftness. The contemplative wrinkle that occupied his brow was the only blemish in his otherwise flawless and unusually pale skin.

"It's time," he suddenly spoke, his voice confident and commanding as it brought an end to the long silence that dominated the great hall. Then he looked across the room to the other men and said, "Guards, bring forth the first of my witnesses ..."

********

"Child, do you know who I am?" The handsome man asked from his ivory throne, its counterpart to the left still empty, addressing the young boy now before the royal dais. The two house guards had resumed their posts, the door tightly shut to prevent any unwanted interruptions.

The boy scuffed his feet awkwardly against the expensive looking rug beneath his tattered peasant shoes. He was small for six years, and his unkempt red hair fell past his forehead, half-concealing his tiny, nervous eyes. "Y-ou're ... the king?!"

The handsome man shook his head. "We have no kings here." Then his tone changed as he proclaimed. "I am Lord Marcus Blandinus, High Co-Consul Imperator of the Twilight Juvenalia." After pausing to observe the boy's astonishment and deeming it sufficient, he asked. "And where is it you're from?"

"Uh ... 'lliance ...," said the boy, before looking to Blandinus for confirmation, " ... Mister Blandy?"

"Young one," the Imperator said with obvious annoyance, "You're a guest in my home. You've come to my lands seeking refuge. You will address me properly, as 'my lord' or 'High Imperator.' Do you understand?" When the boy gave him an embarrassed nod, he continued. "Now, how my people came to find you?"

"Uhm ..." The boy's face flushed bright red and his lips began to tremble.

Blandinus sighed as he touched the index and middle fingers of his right hand to his right temple. "I'm told that you're from a small village near the Alliance's west border. It was destroyed in a battle between two rival Alliance factions after one side unleashed a dark and magical mist against the other. You and some of the other children were the only survivors. My people heard of this and found you, and they promised you a home here in my kingdom. Does that sound right?"

"... yeah ..."

"Very good," the Imperator offered the boy a warm and reassuring smile. "Here in the Twilight Juvenalia, there are many options for a young orphan. But understand, not all of these options can be considered equal. Just as I rule these lands and other men are my servants, you could stay here, playing all day long with all the sweets and toys and pets you desire. Or you could end up in another boring village, forced to do chores from morning to night. Which would you like?"

The boy seemed horrified. "... here!!!"

"Only special boys and girls are allowed in the Forever Tower," said Blandinus, his smile shifted into a harsher expression. "If you wish to stay, then you need to prove you're deserving of it. Do you remember the night of the fire? My guards told me you were sneaking around the Baroness Marney's tent right before it happened. Tell me what you saw and heard. Tell me what you know of the man who attacked her. Tell me everything you know, and you can live here forever."

The boy's face grew fearful. "The n-nice lady ... "

"Baroness Marney. As I said, titles are important."

"The n-nice Bareness," the boy stopped for an anxious breath of air. "She made us sleep in day not night like at home! And I was always hungry at old breakfast time and she give me snacks and stuff. She was so nice!"

"And the night of the fire?" The Imperator asked patiently.

"The Sword-Men were so mad and yelling 'cause of Stranger Man," the boy said excitedly. "And Bareness said he was our friend and smile lots. He didn't wanna smile and Rose said it's prolly 'cause he's hungry and she's prolly right 'cause I don't smile when I'm hungry! And then Bareness and Stranger Man go to bed." His telling increased to a frenetic pace. "And then I was hungry again and my belly make a noise and Rose said I fart and the others laugh but I don't farted I was hungry. So I went to Bareness' tent and she was laughing and I heard Stranger Man laugh too. And then one of the Sword-Men said go back to sleep and I said I'm hungry so he gave me an apple and I go. And I was sleep and there was yelling and the fire and --"

"Enough," Blandinus interjected sharply, which caused the child to go silent. "Thank you, young one." Then he turned to the guards across the room and commanded. "Guards! I'll see the next witness now."

As the two guards approached, the boy stiffened with apprehension. "Uh ... Mister Imperator? C-can I live with you now?! I don't wanna do the boring chores, I wanna play all day with lots of toys and sweets and pets!!! Can I?!"

********

"First Centurion Atilius of the Fifth Crimson Legion," As he spoke, the veteran soldier was kneeling before the steps of the royal dais, his head lowered respectfully and his downcast eyes never leaving the floor.

"The Fifth Crimson Legion?" High Imperator Blandinus asked, his eyes expressing genuine interest. "Were you at Londinium during the Draconis Rebellion, First Centurion? If I recall correctly, the Fifth Legion fought well during those long, terrible nights."

"Aye, High Imperator," said Atilius, his upper lip twitching with a hint of pride.

"You may rise, First Centurion." The Imperator waited until his command was obeyed before continuing. "I'm most curious how a veteran of such a distinguished campaign was assigned to one of the orphan caravans. It seems beneath you."

"Baroness Marney requested me personally, High Imperator," the First Centurion said rather matter-of-fact. "As you know, the Fifth Legion has engaged in numerous skirmishes with the Alliance factions. She thought my insight might be useful traveling through their lands." The middle-aged soldier was not even six feet tall, but he had a muscular build and presented an imposing figure when wearing in his suit of shadow-hued chainmail. A norse-style helmet denoting his rank covered his clean-shaven head, and his unflinching stare and near-perfect posture came from his years of military obedience.

"This proved a correct assumption," Blandinus sneered, "given that the troubles you faced didn't come from the Alliance." He paused to allow the look of humiliation to disappear from the other man's face. "As the senior-ranking Legionnaire, you were responsible for protecting the Baroness and her caravan. From what I understand, however, the blame is not yours alone. For the survival of our kingdom, it's necessary I learn exactly what occurred the night of the fire. And as always, your loyalty will be rewarded, and any lies will be punished. Severely."

" ... aye, my lord."

The Imperator gestured to the First Centurion with a small wave of his hand. "Then tell me what you know about her attacker."

Atilius nodded slowly, his mouth once again displaying a crack in his well-honed stoicism. "The man introduced himself to us as 'John', High Imperator, but I have my doubts about the truth of it. My men encountered him as he approached the camp; he claimed he was a Britannian from the Barren Plains and asked them for shelter and supplies. They followed procedure, confiscating his arms and notifying the Baroness. She was ... more than receptive to his request."

"More than receptive? How so?" Blandinus asked, his right eyebrow slightly raised.

The First Centurion slowly exhaled. "Against my advice, the Baroness informed him of our mission. She then gave him a personal tour of the camp and introduced him to the children. And then she ..." Atilius hesitated again, but only briefly. "She invited him into her tent. To wash in her personal tub and to dine at her table. I voiced my objection to this but was ignored. She said I needed to be more compassionate, and that not only the orphans were deserving of kindness. I had no choice to obey, but she could not stop me from posting additional guards around her tent. And then shortly after dawn, the fire --"

"Was she trying to fuck him?" The Imperator casually interrupted.

"... my lord?!"

"Come now, First Centurion," Blandinus said in an oddly encouraging manner. "We've all heard the rumors about her appetites." When the veteran soldier was unable to restrain his shock, the Imperator smirked, despite himself. "She's a cock-hungry whore; everybody knows. Was she trying to fuck him or not?"

"...aye," Atilius half-whispered, theslump of his shoulders further sullying his impeccable posture. "I believe this was the Baroness' intent."

"What about you? Did she ever extend you the invitation?" At this, the First Centurion's jaw nearly fell from his face, and he struggled to regain his composure. This caused the Imperator to chuckle in amusement. "It wasn't a serious question. We both know that's forbidden, and you are clearly a man who knows his place." With his gaze still focused on Atilius, he beckoned towards the two guards at the front of the throne room. "I appreciate your candor, First Centurion, this has been most enlightening. But dawn is almost here, and my investigation is incomplete ..."

********

After escorting the final witness to the royal dais, High Imperator Blandinus nodded to the two guards and pointed towards chamber doors. "Leave us and see that we're not disturbed." They nodded and walked away in silence, and the Imperator turned to one that remained. More than a foot shorter than he was, the lone figure's face and body were concealed completely by a finely-made dark purple hooded robe, even the hands and feet were covered by cloth gloves and leather boots of matching color and similar level of craftsmanship. At the sound of the bloodwood doors closing behind the departing guards, Blandinus rose from his throne and strode towards the front of the platform, his every step deliberate. He peered down at the hooded witness with a hint of pity in his eyes and calmly asked. "How serious are your injuries?"

In response, both gloved hands grasped at the dark purple hood and pulled it back to reveal the face of a woman. Once her beauty might have been considered exceptional; she was still young, with emerald green eyes, a delicate nose, enviable cheekbones and thick lips. But now the surface of her flesh was covered with severe burns, her long eye lashes and carefully shaped eyebrows were no longer, and significant patches of her strawberry-blonde hair were missing from her head. Upon seeing the look of disturbance that flashed across the Imperator's face, she lowered her chin. Her subsequent sobbing was pathetic and unrestrained.

Blandinus quickly regained his composure and descended the dais steps. "My daughter," he spoke softly as he wrapped his arms around her smaller robed form, gently pushing her head into his chest. During the nearly twenty minutes that followed, he withheld his numerous questions and allowed her this desperate display, waiting patiently until her crying subsided. Then, still holding her body close to his own, he said, "Tell me what happened, Marney."

When she was finally able to reply, it was in a unfamiliar voice, raspy and unpleasant. "There ... was a man ..."

"I'm well aware of that," said the Imperator, somewhat irritably. "Since learning of your attack, I've thought of nothing else. I've reviewed all of the reports, I've personally interviewed the more knowledgeable witnesses, including the First Centurion Atilius. But I still don't understand what possessed you to put yourself at risk, not only inviting this man John into the camp, but into your personal tent!"

"Not John ... Chanticleer," Marney stared at Blandinus' chest as she tried to answer. "His name ... Chanticleer ... new to Everywhere ... traveler to Britannia ... I wanted ... to recruit ... thought him useful ... invited him ... only to bathe and eat ... but he ... he ..."

"What did he do, Marney?!"

The Baroness sniffled a few times. "His friends ... a woman he loved ... a half-breed ... all dead now ... tried to comfort with words ... but wasn't enough for him ... he tore my dress ... the red one you and mother had made ... covered my mouth so I couldn't scream ..." She then choked back another wave of tears. The Imperator tightened his embrace and she snuggled up against him before continuing. "I tried so hard ... father ... I fought ... as much as I could ... but I remembered the rules ... didn't let him find out ... I even begged ... then he stopped ... 'Don't want you pregnant ... high-born bitch' and then he ..." Marney grimaced at the thought of it. "When he ... was done he turned ... I grabbed a knife and ... but I was too weak ... a candelabra on the table ... it fell over ... the flames spread too fast ..."

Blandinus stroked at the middle of her back, his right hand moving over and over again in a circular, comforting motion. "My poor daughter, you didn't deserve this." Then he sighed softly and asked. "I'm loathe to ask, but did this Britannian suspect anything?"

"... no father ... I swear it."

The Imperator nodded. "Your mother is in the southern province dealing with an incursion from the Unknown Despair. Marauders, I'm told, nothing to worry about. After Pomponia returns, you'll have the full support of both High Co-Consul Imperators." He reached for her chin and lifted it until their eyes met.

"Father ...please ... " Tears began to cloud her eyes again. "I'm ... so hideous now ..."

Blandinus shook his head with a sad smile. "When your mother and I first adopted you, you were the most beautiful little girl we had ever seen. You grew even more beautiful once you became a woman." His eyes suddenly narrowed. "Those who have wronged you will pay. The soldiers who failed you will be reassigned to the mines. I'll personally remove Atilius' tongue for his slanderous words." The Imperator emitted a low growl, almost like that of an animal. "And this 'John' or 'Chanticleer' or whatever he calls himself, he'll die a brutal death for what he's done to you."

"... thank you ..."

And then father and daughter kissed, and it was hours yet before either emerged from the throne room.

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

By the second day, Chanticleer began to suspect they were no longer in pursuit. As the flames that consumed the Baroness Marney's tent spread towards the rest of the camp, the Twilight Juvenalia guards were focused predominately upon protecting her and the orphans, and only a few had followed the fleeing warrior into the forest. On the third day, there were no further sightings of black-clad soldiers trampling carelessly across the forest, no more cries of "By the Imperators!!!" every time they stumbled ineptly over another half-concealed woodland obstacle. When finally convinced he had eluded them, Chanticleer slowed his pace to a steady yet comfortable march as he made his way north to the Kingdom of Britannia.

Due to the abruptness of his escape, the warrior was forced to abandon most of his equipment. He was barely able to recover his agapite war axe and his studded leather tunic, and now he wore shadow-hued chainmail leggings and boots taken from one of the Twilight Juvenalia, whom he surprised and overpowered as he escaped the burning camp. Chanticleer had recognized him as the first to demand he surrender his weapons, a younger man with harsh gray eyes and a prominent chin. So he knocked him to the ground with a two-handed shove and then calmly slit his throat with a carving knife he had wrestled away from the Baroness during their struggle. He found that death gurgle oddly encouraging, a small victory in the face of all his recent humiliations; Falling from the narrow bridge beyond Semidar's portal; nearly dying to the Barren Plains; foolishly handing over his weapons for a few scraps of food; and then betraying Leigh's memory by lusting after Marney inside of her tent. The knowledge he was responsible for that half-naked corpse lying in a pool of its only blood, that in this place his actions still yielded consequence, enabled Chanticleer to forget his present circumstances, if only for a few moments.

After the bleakness of the wastes, the Wandering Woods seemed almost pleasant to traverse. There were no roads, but the forest was covered in a number of worn paths and hunting trails, and even the occasional wooden signposts that marked their direction. Everywhere's twin suns and enormous moon also behaved far less erratically here, and a more predictable cycle between day and night followed. Food and water were plentiful; while he was poorly equipped for hunting small game, the forest was abundant with various types of berries growing upon bushes, refreshing freshwater streams, and the rare fish that proved vulnerable to a well-timed blow of his war axe. The warrior was born on the island of Magincia, a magnificent sandstone city populated by a proud and often idle nobility, and his upbringing favored books and etiquette and numbers over more mundane pursuits, such as cooking or fishing. Those tasks were usually reserved for servants employed to facilitate a Magincian's way of life. But he had picked up certain survival skills during his time with the Emerald Fist, as their many conflicts led them to places far from any civilized conveniences.

Chanticleer attempted to avoid any travelers he happened upon in the Wandering Woods. There was much he did not understand about these lands, and he did not want a repeat of his mistakes with the Baroness. It was on his fifth day that he spotted them, a trio of robed women that were unarmed, on foot, and beset by a large, troll-like creature with vicious fangs and a thick, misshapen tree branch for a weapon. He nearly ignored their plight, until he was reminded of Ellin Lionsden, one of his former companions in the Fist. She was a time-lost monk from the ancient Land of the Feudal Lords, born centuries before the coming of the wicked sorcerer Mondain. When Ellin arrived in present-day Sosaria, her faith was tested after she learned that the over-sized Emerald worshiped as an oracle by her people was actually the prison created by the so-called Time Lord to trap a powerful and deceptive Entity. But this discovery did not break her; she remained a kind and trustworthy ally, and even her brief marriage to the barely acceptable mole* Ssin'Urn did not alter his perception of her. And so Chanticleer acted, rushing the beast from behind and felling it with three quick and efficient strikes to the head.

Once rescued, the robed women did not hesitate to express their gratitude. They invited him to share their campfire and offered him food and coin, but the warrior declined any form of compensation. Due to their persistence, he finally agreed to partake in a loaf of raisin-baked bread they purchased in the nearby village of Paws. At their mention of this place, his eyes narrowed in confusion. He knew of Paws, a small mainland settlement located north of Trinsic, as he was equally aware that it was destroyed by orcs decades before his birth. Yet somehow, it still existed here.

"Britannia. How much farther?" They had moved a short distance off the path to a small grassy clearing centered around an ancient Yew tree. Its massive branches and thick foliage extended over much of the immediate area, and the comfort of the resulting shade was complimented by a cool breeze that gently drifted past. Chanticleer sat stiffly on a lichen covered log, watching the women carefully as they reclined lazily upon the dew-covered forest floor. As they spoke, they shared the Paws-made bread, each one tearing off a suitable piece before passing the remaining loaf to the next.

"North through these Walking Woods," all three answered in unison, a habit that he found somewhat irritating, "and then you've reached Britannia." By his measure, none of the women had reached twenty years, and except for the variations in the color of their hair -- one was dark-haired, one was fair-haired, and one was red-haired -- they could have been mistaken for sisters. Yet despite the same almond-shaped blue eyes, the same short and pointed noses, and the same thin lips, they denied any blood relationship between them. They were dressed in loose fitting, dirt-brown robes and sandals, and matching amulets adorned all three necks. These amulets were fashioned from copper and depicted identical, flaming twin suns joined together, side-by-side.

"Where is your destination?" Chanticleer asked after swallowing a well-chewed piece of bread. Each bite had contained a hint of cinnamon. "It seems you travel opposite to me."

"We're traveling south," said the three, "to the Lands of Unknown Despair."

"The southern lands?" The warrior did not bother to hide his puzzled expression. "Why? I have been told that none who journey there ever returns."

"That's what is said."

"Then why?" He asked again with a slight frown.

"Because," they said, all three grasping at the their amulets, "we've seen the signs."

"You ... worship the suns. " Chanticleer nodded slowly and gazed upwards. Although the ancient Yew obstructed much of his view, one of twin suns was visible, slowly making its way westward. "I have heard a little of the tales. Their behavior is dependent upon one's location. I have witnessed this for myself. Do you believe they possess some form of ... sentience?"

All three shook their heads. "There's only one tale. It's the tellers and the listeners who change things. We don't worship them, we follow their path. We follow their path, we've seen the signs. The signs tell us change comes to Everywhere." Then they paused to lower their hands from their amulets. "It begins in the south."

"Ah, I see." He said unconvincingly. The warrior was in no mood for a debate, so he shred off a final piece of bread and handed the rest to the dark-haired woman. The taste of cinnamon was more obvious now. "I find religion foolish. I hope your signs do not guide you falsely." Then he stood suddenly from his log and looked down at them. "I should resume my journey."

The three robed women smiled brightly and waved at him. "Thanks again for saving us, John. Good luck in Britannia!" Long after Chanticleer had vanished back into the forest, they continued their relaxation, enjoying their loaf of raisin-baked bread beneath the shade of that ancient Yew tree.

To Be Continued ...

*'Mole' is a commonly used synonym for 'dark elf'. It's true, look it up!

[Chanticleer]

One more week, and Chanticleer finally arrived at the Kingdom of Britannia. Approaching the edge of the Wandering Woods, with the Twin Suns brilliant and steady in the skies above, he noticed subtle changes in his surroundings. Trees and other plant life were smaller and not as plentiful; sightings of woodland creatures were less frequent; and the narrow dirt path he followed widened into the beginnings of a proper road. A chance encounter with a traveling Britannian wine merchant and his guards confirmed that the village of Paws was reachable by nightfall, causing the warrior to double his marching pace.

North of the Wandering Woods, there was a vast expanse of grassy meadows in every other direction. Unlike the pallid flatness of the Barren Plains, the terrain here was hilly and uneven, and the vegetation was green and vibrant. The road traveled north for a couple of miles before turning north and east for a few miles more, leading to a village situated upon the shoreline. Presumably, this was Paws. Beyond this settlement, the road then continued north as the coast ran north-eastward, making it difficult for Chanticleer to discern the size and nature of the body of water that so dominated his eastern view. Was it the sea or merely an gigantic lake? And to the west, the grasslands stretched even farther, eventually ending at a range of mountains in the distance.

Up ahead, where the highway curved towards presumably-Paws, a small guard tower stood adjacent to the road. A lean yet sturdy three-level stone structure, with soldiers patrolling the roof and perimeter. Two identical banners adorned the walls above the entrance, nearly half of the tower's height in length and depicting a curved silver-colored serpent on an all-gray background. This was the symbol of Lord British, the near-immortal ruler of Britannia. A slight smile appeared on the warrior's face, countering his usual scowl of disapproval. It might not be his Britannia, but it was still a Britannia, and he welcomed any return to the familiar.

"You!" A voice cried out, destroying his moment's calm. "Come here, now!" Chanticleer pivoted to his right, angry at his own carelessness. So distracted by the allure of Britannia, he failed to pay heed to the immediate. Less than a hundred paces to the east, and partially- obscured by the trunk and branches of a large oak tree, was a stationary wagon resting at the boundary of the woods and the meadow. Painted bright red, its four wheels and edges colored in a shiny gold, the medium-sized wooden carriage was of the kind often used by the gypsies of Sosaria. His concern, however, was with the five men gathered halfway between himself and the gypsy wagon. All five possessed a similar appearance that denoted a shared affiliation; their hair was dyed the same unnatural icy-blue, their robes were shaded the same medium-blue, and the tear kite shields strapped to their left arms were the same azure-hue. They also wore the same insignia upon their robes and shields: a tight fist enclosed by a dark blue flame.

"Last chance," one of the blue-men shouted and stepped forward. His companions quickly flanked him, two on either side. As the speaker remained calm and unmoving, the others started to make wild gestures with their hands.

The warrior grunted in annoyance at the sudden manifestation of their spell craft. Not only were they freakishly garbed, but the blue-men were capable of foul sorcery. A particularly loathsome combination. He judged his chances of escaping unscathed as non-existent, so he lowered his hand to the war axe hanging from his belt and slowly approached. Each of his steps was deliberate and confident, his dark-eyed stare arrogant and unflinching. When he reached the group, their speaker nodded and his fellows began to circle Chanticleer with military-like precision, the tips of their fingers still crackling with magickal energies.

"Now answer our questions," said their leader with an obnoxious smirk, "or die at the hands of the Moonshade Tactics Squad!"

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

For a band of freakish sorcerers, the Moonshade Tactics Square proved a vaguely tolerable lot. After their initial threats and posturing, the blue-men invited Chanticleer to join them for a quick meal before resuming their quest. He knew the mages could easily overpower him if they intended harm, so poisoned food or drink seemed unlikely. As the warrior carefully consumed the dried jerky, fresh bread, and red wine they offered, he tried to conceal his disdain for their strange appearance. Up close, their bizarre-colored hair and too-blue uniforms seemed were deserving of mockery than fear, and potential insults crossed his thoughts at a rapid pace. Still, seated near the gypsy wagon beneath the shade of that large oak tree, Chanticleer somehow found their company crude yet acceptable.

"So's ya set tha' bitch on fire?!" One of the magic-users asked with a wide, delightful grin. He was the loudest of the five; a tall, scrawny youth with a mostly shaved head, his remaining strip of hair sculpted into a thin, improbable mohawk. His name was difficult to pronounce due to an absence of discernible vowels.

"Yes," the warrior said humorlessly between bites of bread. Each piece was chewed methodically, twenty times on the left side of his mouth followed by twenty times on the right, until it was compressed into an unrecognizable, flavorless pulp that he eagerly swallowed. After more than a month in Everywhere, Chanticleer knew that the opportunity for sustenance was never to be taken for granted.

"Impressive," said Nezzz, a cross-eyed mage with abnormally large ears and a serious demeanor. "The Mage-Lord would probably give you a medal. He hates Marney more than he hates Marcus or Pomponia. Every time she steals our children, he rants endlessly about transforming her into a pig and sodomizing her."

"To be fair," interrupted Raeff, their commander, "there's not many the Mage-Lord wouldn't pig-fuck." This elicited bursts of laughter from his companions. Even the warrior conceded an amused smirk, despite his objection to the offensive language. Raeff was a short, stocky man with a round, friendly face, a full beard dyed icy-blue, and an agreeable disposition. The two other members of his group were called Mendak and Laroo, but they mostly kept to themselves and contributed little to the larger conversation.

During their meal, Chanticleer attempted to learn as much as he could about his new acquaintances. They were part of the ruling faction of Moonshade, an island located off the eastern coast of Everywhere, among the most prominent of the Alliance of rival, powerful kingdoms. In Moonshade, worth was commensurate with magickal ability. Those who possessed it were part of the elite class and recruited into the ranks of the Moonshade Tactics Squad, and the strongest among them competed for the title of Mage-Lord, the city's supreme leader. Those lacking such talents were considered lower class and were limited to positions of servitude. Moonshade reminded the warrior of Britannia's Moonglow, though a twisted and corrupt version that lacked Lord British's virtues to keep them honest and compliant.

For months now, Moonshade had been at war with the Dark Covenant, a rival kingdom bordering the Barren Plains. Following a decisive victory, the Mage-Lord had dispatched this particular band of blue-men to survey territory captured from their defeated opponents. They soon discovered that the Baroness Marney had once again ventured into their lands and taken away the surviving children of the village of White Hill, which had been destroyed in the fighting between Moonshade and the Dark Covenant. Despite their various and often violent disagreements, the rival, powerful kingdoms were united in their opposition to the Twilight Juvenalia and their orphan-stealing ways. This hatred was deep-rooted and so ubiquitous that the forces of the Forever Tower were banned from entering their lands, and most of the Alliance was content with attacking them rather than uncovering why House Blandinus required so many of their children.

Upon hearing of the Baroness' latest incursion, the current Mage-Lord of Moonshade became so enraged that he immediately issued new orders, commanding Raeff and his unit to recover the stolen orphans of White Hill. The harsh phrasing of his missive made it clear that success was expected, and as a consequence, Chanticleer's burning of Marney had earned him the blue-men's respect.

When their food was done, the five magic-users began to prepare for their departure. "You're sure about the details?" Raeff asked as he performed a last minute check of his reagent supply. "You're still new to Everywhere."

"Yes," the warrior nodded without uncertainty. "Nearly two weeks ago. Directly to the south. Where the woods and the wastes and the highway converge. A field filled with the ashes of her tent."

"Too long ago," Nezz sighed, both of his eyes glancing towards his nose. "By now, they are already be back in New Umbral."

"Then we follow the trail until their border," said the commander in a reassuring tone. "Then we report back to the Mage-Lord, he threatens to turn us into pigs, and then he lets it go. He didn't send enough of us to storm the Forever Tower."

"Aye," the mage with the all-consonants-name flashed an enthusiastic grin. "Home in time fer Winter's Fest, lickin' fine Moonshade wine off a big ole pair of Mundane titties!!!

"How pleasant," Chanticleer muttered, mostly to himself, as he gathered his own belongings.

"Sure you won't come with us, John?" Raeff asked. "You'd get another chance at the Baroness, and there's plenty of opportunities in our city for a good Mundane. Britannia's a waste of your time. Lady British is useless, too busy hoarding her power and preaching her virtue shit."

"...Lady ... British?" The warrior asked, his narrow-eyed expression betraying his sudden surprise.

"Queen of Britannia," said the blue-men's leader. "She's popular with her people, but not outside her lands."

"Ah, I see," Chanticleer nodded grudgingly at the explanation. "Regardless. I must refuse your offer. It is appreciated but Britannia most likely holds the information I seek."

"Okay," Raeff said and then cocked his head towards the bright red wagon. "One more thing, don't you bother with her. Even for the most powerful mages, scrying for the future's an unreliable art, and most of the gypsies I've ever met are illiterate thieves and swindlers. A couple hours with you gave us more than any of her so-called fortune-telling. She's lucky I didn't slit her lying throat." Before taking his leave, the mage commander gave the warrior an affectionate and reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Good luck, my friend."

"Fuckin' Twilights!" The loud, mohawked mage grumbled as he and his fellow blue-men entered the forest.

"It could be worse," said Nezz, with an uncharacteristic hint of amusement. "Tork and his unit were sent to investigate those rumors of cat-people coming from the southern lands."

"Bah! No such a thing as a talkin' cat!"

Once he was alone, Chanticleer paused to weigh his options. Presumably-Paws was close, and the Twin Suns were beginning their descent. There was also the gypsy wagon. Raeff had advised against, but Raeff also blindly followed the commands of a mad and foul sorcerer who transformed people into pigs for purposes of unnatural fornication. The warrior was skeptical about claims of gypsy gifts, though he did not see any harm in the attempt. So he slowly circled the bright red carriage, examining it carefully for signs of anything untoward or nefarious. Nothing. Upon completing his second loop, he stopped before the curved, five-step wooden ladder leading up to the wagon's only entrance, a windowed door painted in gold and constructed so that the top and bottom halves could open independently of one another. As he lingered on the first rung, Chanticleer felt a warm, tingling sensation at the base of his neck. And then the the top half of the wagon's door swung open, and from inside a woman's voice calmly spoke:

"You may approach, o' seeker."

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

"Who are you, o'seeker?" The gypsy fortune-teller asked in a voice that was more authoritative than inquisitive. Seated behind a small table, she was a handsome and thin middle-aged woman, with long and thick black hair scattered with streaks of gray, small yet clever dark eyes, and tanned skin. She was outfitted in a manner that was common for her people; a purple scarf wrapped tightly around her head, a matching peasant-style dress, and large hoop-shaped golden earrings. Only the silver-hued ankh amulet dangling from her neck failed to meet his expectations.

"You may call me John," said Chanticleer in an decidedly unenthusiastic tone. He stood impassively by the entrance of the wagon. "Who are you?"

"I asked not your name, o'seeker," she said with a thin smile, "I want to know who you are. As for my name, much like yourself, I have been known by many. Malifora. Margareta. And even Morganna." Then she paused to consider her next words. "Aye, it is Morganna that I will be known as today."

Morganna's abode held few surprises; the interior was split into two sections by a thin red curtain that stretched the entirety of its width, completely concealing the wagon's back half. In the center of the front room was a round-shaped table covered by common green linens and a large, ornate crystal ball. With near-perfect posture, the gypsy occupied a short wooden stool, her back to the makeshift red wall and an empty seat waiting across from her. Antique bookshelves lined the length of the two remaining walls, their dusty shelves filled with an assortment of elixirs and herbs; old leather-bound books devoted to various subjects; and a collection of trinkets ranging from the banal to the bizarre.

"A most ... curious thing," the fortune-teller said to the warrior, carefully scrutinizing his presence with her dark gypsy eyes. "You are unlike any of the others I have encountered. The path that you walk suddenly stops, only to resume once again before it ever begins. How is this possible?"

"It matters not," said Chanticleer, his thoughts flickering to a single, all too familiar phrase: Time-Lost.

"It matters so," Morganna countered with a contemplative quirk of her right eyebrow, "but not for the now. Are you another would-be hero answering the call of Lady British?"

"Lady British? No. I know of the name but little else."

She paused a few moments to measure her words. "Lady British ... is the ruler of Britannia. She is the daughter of our absent Lord British, who vanished may years ago." Her expression then darkened. "Our kingdom suffers from a plague, an illness striking not at the physical body, but at the spirit. We call it ... the Black Weep. A terrible, corrupting force that turns us from virtue and fills them with hatred, fear, and deceit. It began in Skara Brae, some months ago, and the island is now under quarantine. There are reports that it has surfaced elsewhere. In recent weeks, Lady British has called for heroes to discover a cure for the Black Weep ... before it is too late."

He shook his head dismissively. "I am a recent arrival to this foul place. I care not for its problems. My only concern is returning home. And finding my companions."

"An unfortunate and selfish choice, one you may come to regret," said the disappointed fortune-teller. "Yet I see it, as plain as the Twin Suns above. Your path leads to her."

"Her? Elaborate," the warrior gruffly demanded.

"Never will you return home, until you have met with Lady British," she explained patiently, despite the harshness of his request. "Of course, there are many paths to your destination, some long and treacherous, others much less so. As is customary, when a Stranger enters Britannia, a reading determines the path he will follow."

He grunted irritably. "I have no interest in gypsy trickery."

"Yet, this is the way of our Britannia," Morganna reiterated her statement. "A reading determines the path you will follow."

Chanticleer emitted a defeated sigh. " ... very well." A pointless exercise, but he might learn something.

A strange look of satisfaction flashed across the gypsy fortune-teller's face. "Then sit, o'seeker, and let us begin ..."

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

Chanticleer stirred, an act that he immediately regretted. First, it was the scent of urine that permeated the stale air; next, it was the harsh cold stone against his bruised and battered skin; finally, it was unimpressive size of the dimly-lit room. A prison cell, by all appearances. The warrior scrambled through disoriented thoughts to explain his predicament, his body tensing at his most recent of recollections.

Morganna!!! A gypsy most foul.

He had assumed his place at the small round table, his tall and medium build an awkward match for the short wooden stool beneath him. Chanticleer ignored his discomfort, focused instead on the fortune teller seated across from him, cautiously observing the shuffling of cards between her skillful fingers, long and thin. There was a subtle power to each movement, a hint of something existing beyond his limited understanding of such things.

Morganna reached past the ornate crystal ball situated at the center of the table, setting two of the cards in front of her guest. They were larger than those typically used for games of chance, one was red and one was black, and each depicted symbols connected to Lord British's virtues: an upright, bloody sword and a simple shepherd's crook.

"Although a teacher of music," said the gypsy, "you are also a skillful wrestler. You have been asked to fight in a local championship. Do you accept the invitation and valiantly fight to win, or humbly decline knowing you are sure to win?"

"A ... teacher of music? Can you imagine me as such? Preposterous."

She exhaled a quiet breath of air. "The question is necessary for the reading."

"Foolishness," Chanticleer countered with a half-roll of his eyes. "Why refrain from victory assured? Also, humility is a false virtue. Lord British only named it one as an insult towards Magincia."

Iron shackles covered his hands and wrists, linked to chains secured to the walls. No matter the force exerted by his sore and tired arms, the warrior was unable to move from his position.

Two more cards followed: blue and orange, an open palm and a single tear. "You and your friends are valiant but penniless warriors," the fortune teller began. "You both go out and slay a mighty dragon. Your friend thinks he slew it, you did. When asked, do you truthfully claim the gold or allow your friend the large reward?"

"I care little for the coin," said the warrior, dismissing her question with a brief shake of his head, "but why encourage such deception? If I called this man friend, why not share in the reward? A dragon is no easy kill. We both would have contributed to its demise, no matter who landed the killing blow. An equal share is appropriate."

His vision slowly adjusted to the darkness. The only source of illumination originated from outside the tiny cell, slivers of light that slipped through narrow cracks along the edges of a solid steel door.

"You believe that virtue resides in all people," she said, gesturing to the two newest cards. The first was green and depicted the scales of justice, and the second was entirely white except for the image of a golden ankh. "You see a rogue steal from your lord. Do you call him to justice, or personally try to sway him back to the spiritual path of good?"

"Yet I do not believe virtue resides in all," argued Chanticleer. "I have encountered many who prove me correct. All of these questions are pointless. Nor do they offer answers to my own. Where are my companions?! How do I return home?!"

An exasperated sigh came forth from the gypsy. "You, o'seeker, are the worst stranger I have encountered." Then she tapped the crystal ball with two fingers of her right hand. "If you but allow me to finish my reading, and determine your true path in Britannia, I will use my gifts to search for the answers you desire."

"Guards!" He shouted, his throat dry and strained. "Why do you hold me?! I demand release!" There was no reply, at least not in words, only the sound of hurried footsteps retreating from his cell.

Morganna's dark eyes tightened in concentration, her fingertips pressed against the flawless orb. At her touch, a murky mist filled the translucent crystal. The fog initially consisted of eight distinctly hued sections -- blue, yellow, red, green, orange, purple, black, and white -- but they gradually merged into a bizarre coalescence of color.

Suspicion crossed the warrior's face, but he remained silent as he watched her work her sorcery.

She leaned closer, peering deeply inside the crystal. As if reacting, the mist shifted in appearance again, splitting back into its original divisions of blue, yellow, red, green, orange, purple, black, and white. The fortune teller scanned the resultant hazing, carefully searching for the imperceptible within its depths. "I see ... mad eyes ... a man who dreams he is a woman." Her tone grew quiet and uncertain. "A prison that cannot be breached ... a demon's tongue defiles its child-bride .... a town of emeralds ... a one-eyed mechanical monstrosity ... a clash of elements ... an inverted ankh ..." The gypsy swallowed hard, her expression becoming pained. "War comes to Everywhere ... a gem made from the stars ... and with it, comes change and destruction."

"More words that lack significance." His mouth twisted into an obvious scowl. "You are unable to answers even the simplest of questions. The blue mages were correct. Your supposed gifts ... are a lie."

Following long minutes of silence, he heard the footsteps returning. But now, there were more of them.

"Fool of a man!" A harsh glare had replaced Morganna's typically calm, reserved demeanor, indicating that her patience was at an end. "I thought to spare you, but you mock that which you can never comprehend!" She rose defiantly from her stool. "You will encounter your friends again, old enemies as well, and you will come to regret both!" Her angry fist slammed down against the surface of the table, causing the crystal ball to slide towards her visitor. "You will return to your home, but never again shall it be as you remember it! Time will always and forever pass you by!"

"Do you attempt to frighten me?" Chanticleer asked with an amused smirk. "This is not so easily accomplished."

"I speak only truth, o'seeker," the fortune teller practically sneered. "You are but a pawn!"

"Elaborate," he demanded as he stood, his hand grasping for the war axe hanging from his belt.

"I think not," said the gypsy, her lips bent into the cruelest of smiles, "for now, your path begins." A recitation in a strange and unfamiliar tongue was accompanied by the erratic waving of her slender hands. In response, the now-empty orb discharged a white and brilliant light, which rapidly consumed the wagon's interior. The warrior attempted to shield his eyes in vain, until the brightness suddenly vanished. His sight was too blurred and spotty to discern anything, but the air felt different and he somehow knew he was elsewhere. And then a woman spoke, and it was not Morganna.

"Guards! We have an intruder!"

Boots rushed noisily against a hard floor. Metal gauntlets pulled at his limbs and knocked him down. Blunt force rained from above until his consciousness was no longer.

With a loud and echoing click, the solid steel door was unlocked. As it was opened, fiery torchlight penetrated the dark and tiny cell. Chanticleer squinted slightly but refused to avert his gaze.

"I would have privacy with the prisoner," said a voice, the very same one that had called for the guards. "Do not fret, he is hardly capable of posing a threat to the ruler of all Britannia."

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

"In Lor!"

A magickal glow spread across the tiny cell, relegating the darkness to shadowy flickers along its periphery, and Chanticleer, nude and shackled to the wall, was finally introduced to Lady British, the ruler of this Kingdom of Britannia. The young queen was an impressive figure, tall and properly curved and long of leg, her features were noble yet alluring, an almost unrealistic balance of womanly perfection. She wore flowing royal robes of dark blue, a magnificent platinum, sapphire-encrusted crown rested atop her head, plain gold rings adorned her well-manicured, feminine fingers, and matching of jewel-covered bracelets decorated her thin and delicate wrists. Most prominent was the amulet that hung from her pale neck, a circular-shaped piece with an unusually large red-ruby affixed at its center.

"What have you to say for yourself? To so brazenly appear in my private council chamber, and through the use of such obviously potent spell craft." Following this question, her full lips, further thickened by a coat of blood-red lipstick, were pursed together in anticipation of his response.

"Lady British," the warrior lowered his head in deference, "there is a ... misunderstanding. A gypsy employed foul sorcery to send me here against my will. Her name is Morganna. She dwells at the border of your lands. Along the northern edge of the Wandering Woods near presumably-Paws."

"Aye, I know well of this gypsy woman," Lady British's too-blue eyes tightened with suspicion, "and she is well-known as a friend to my kingdom, often sending to us heroes in our times of troubles. Such as now, while we suffer under the threat of the Black Weep. Do you, sir, seek to aid us in this?"

In response, he emitted an irritable sigh. "No. I am a recent arrival to Everywhere. You may call me ... John. I wish only a return to my own Britannia."

"Your lies reveal your treachery." Her statement contained a hint of bitter resignation. "I know well your name, Chanticleer."

"... how?" Chanticleer blinked in surprise.

"You are Chanticleer Reich," began the queen, rather dispassionately, as if she reciting a shopping list to one of one of her many servants. "Born into a Magincia family of noble blood, you are the son of Emma Reich and a father whose identity has always eluded you. You are also Time-Lost, sent to a Britannia years before your own birth, along with a number of others, unwilling participants in a contest devised to resolve an impasse between the Time Lord and the dragon Drakaro, a would-be usurper to his power and title." Her expression then twisted to disdain. "Yet at the end of the competition, you chose not to return to your proper time, instead joining the Emerald Fist, a band of chaotic outlaws with a thirst for violence. You found love with your fellow Time-Lost, Leigh D'arc, who was revealed to be your mother's half-sister. This failed to stay your loins, however, and your incestuous coupling continued. Finally, when a portal to the world of the Titans threatened your Britannia, you and others of the Emerald Fist attempted to close it from the other side. This is how you came to Everywhere."

"How is it ... you know of such things?" The look of shock had yet to vanish from his face.

"Because, I am the ruler of all Britannia." Her tone became cold and arrogant. "It is my place to know of such things. You are Chanticleer Reich the Destroyer, the gravest of threats to my kingdom and to all of Everywhere. I was warned of your coming."

"By whom?!" He snapped at her. "Elaborate!"

"An intriguing coincidence," Lady British disregarded his question with a thoughtful smile, "but in truth, I originate from the very same Britannia as yourself, though my departure occurred many years prior to your birth. At my lowest, when I had all but surrendered to the inevitability of my ... flawed existence, I encountered your grandfather, a most amusing man." Her smile quickly faded. "Apparently, I am destined to meet with him again, if I prove unable stop you in the here and now."

The warrior narrowed his eyes in confusion. "But in my Britannia ... Lord British had no daughter."

"Here in Everywhere," she proclaimed, so haughty and self-assured as she tightly fingered her red-ruby necklace, "I am now, and always have been, Lady British, daughter of the absent Lord British, the heir to his throne."

"Everywhere ... what is it?" He asked, his scowl obvious. "This world is freakish and makes little sense."

"Everywhere is ... it is a shield, a barrier created to protect the truth, that which was supposed to be, at least until ..." The queen then paused, dismissing the notion with a small wave of her hand. "It matters little, I need not make you understand. Our purpose here is to decide your fate, not provide a lesson in history."

"Then send me home. The foul gypsy claimed you were capable. Are you not?"

Her right index finger thrice-tapped the red-ruby of her amulet as she considered his request. "Such a thing might be a possibility, but only at quite the significant cost to myself. Nor would it serve to safeguard my kingdom permanently from the dangers you pose. No, I must refuse."

"Then kill me," Chanticleer said plainly. "For I desire nothing but to leave this mad world of yours."

"I could have you executed," Lady British nodded. "I was urged to do so by the one who told me of your threat. Yet, I am also capable of mercy. This is why I have yet to grant Ambassador Ormondo's request to extradite you for your crimes against the Twilight Juvenalia"

He laughed sharply at this. "I committed no crimes. They are liars. And stealers of orphans."

"They are our allies, far more compliant than those of the Alliance. I cannot so easily ignore such a request. As a compromise, the Tech--, rather, the envoy we were meeting with when you trespassed into my castle, has graciously offered to take you with him to his own lands, and present you to his prophet as a gift from both Britannia and the Twilight Juvenalia. This would enable me to avoid offending House Blandinus."

"What lands are these?" The warrior asked. "I know of only three kingdoms. And the uncharted south."

"Again, this matters little." She shook her head. "You will not be executed, nor punished by the Twilight Juvenalia, nor sent away as a gift. I am queen here, and you are my burden alone." Her mouth curled into a slight frown. "You will be sentenced to the dungeon Wrong for the rest of your days. I am not certain this is a mercy. Wrong is the worst of my prisons, reserved only for the most wicked, a place from which none have ever escaped."

A prison that cannot be breached. He suddenly recalled the words and could almost hear Morganna whispering them into his ear. Chanticleer started to speak and then stopped himself. As his captor had repeatedly reminded him, it mattered little. Perhaps not at all.

"We will never meet again," said Lady British, before turning from him, darkness returning to the cell in the wake of her departure. "Guardsman! I am done here!" She called out. The steel door was opened but briefly, and then the ruler of this Britannia was gone, leaving her prisoner to his fate.

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

Three Years Later ...

It was long past midnight at the center of Everywhere, the ancient ruins blanketed in dim twilight as the Twin Suns hovered stubbornly at opposite ends of the horizon. Nothing stirred amidst the tall, dull granite arch and scattered, broken stone, and the surrounding flat lands were barren and devoid of life as always. The only movement was a quiet breeze that wandered aimlessly across these remnants of that which once was, lazily caressing dead grass and debris.

Until the portal appeared.

A low humming sound filled the summer air, resembling the gurgles of a starving man's belly. Miniature bolts of crimson lightning struck crackled indiscriminately and smelled of burnt hair. The gate manifested directly beneath the granite arch, rising from the uneven ground in a rectangular shape until it was large enough to accommodate even those of an unreasonable height and girth. Its crimson surface was permeated by tiny ripples of energy that were in constant flux, hinting at a lack of stability. And then in quick succession, seven individuals emerged from within.

Their leader struck an impressive figure, clad from head to toe in a silver-hued platemail, wielding a mighty broadsword and a triangular shield emblazoned with the image of a silver serpent. Four of his companions were similarly garbed and wore that same symbol of the Kingdom of Britannia. Three were female and the other was male, and all five of these knights seemed survivors of a recent battle, their weapons chipped and bloody and their armor dented and scratched. Of the two other arrivals, the first was a young and balding scholar with thick black spectacles who carried a thick tome resembling a book of spells, while the second was obviously their prisoner, a tall and lithe woman in dark and tattered robes, her arms bound with rope behind her back and a thick black hood tied over her head. Except for their captive, all six immediately paused to watch the portal expectantly. Yet nothing occurred.

After a few minutes, the leader slowly removed his helmet with a loud grunt. He was handsome and in his early forties, with well-groomed dirty blonde hair and a thick and prominent moustache. "It is time," he turned towards the scholar, his tone sharp and authoritative. "Close the portal, librarian."

"Nay, Lord Holden," one of the female knights said, swiftly maneuvering in front of the magical doorway. "Sir Danforth and the others, they may yet still live. We cannot so callously abandon them."

"They're lost to us, Deniah," the male knight said gently, "it's not possible they survived. Those damnable sorcerers ... their foreign spells ... and their demon pets ..." Then he quietly sighed. "If the sorcerers were able to make it past Danforth and the others to rush us as we made our escape, it means they're gone."

As the two knights exchanged saddened glances, their commander pointed at the one he called librarian. "My order was issued, Relvinian, and you have yet to obey. We cannot risk the Pagans following."

"Y-y-es, Lord Holden" the spectacled man nodded. He flipped to a certain page in his oversized spell book, tucking it beneath his right armpit as he waved his hands in a circular pattern. "An Kal Vas Rel Tym Por! An Kal Vas Rel Tym Por!! An Kal Vas Rel Tym Por!!!" The crimson gate swelled until it looked fit to burst, which caused a shared sense of unease amongst those present. There was a loud POP, and the portal then collapsed upon itself into nothingness.

Following a full minute of silence, Sir Deniah tentatively posed the question. "What now, my lord?"

"Now?" Lord Holden said with a self-assured smirk as he addressed his subordinates. "Many of our order have fallen this day, our brothers and sisters who were good and loyal and virtuous, and we shall honor their sacrifice, always. Do not consider, however, whether their deaths were in vain. For our mission was success!" He stepped towards the prisoner and placed an armored gauntlet atop her covered head. She did not react. "You ask of me, what now? Now, in our hands we hold the key to victory. Now, we are finally able to fulfill the prophecy of the Lost King and restore order to our Britannia. Now, we have the means to gather what remains of the Titan Seals." And then, with only a small amount of effort, he ripped the cover from her face. Long black hair twisted into twin braids that fell past her thin neck. Long, pointed ears that denoted elven blood. Big, dark brown eyes brimming with mischief. "Is that not so, Leigh D'arc?

END PART ONE

[Chanticleer]

PART TWO: PRISONERS OF BRITANNIA

Excerpts of reports written by the Overseers of Wrong to Lady British, ruler of all Britannia:

Overseer Ranken:

Day 7, Month Ten, Year Three of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... acknowledgment of the crown’s orders regarding this new prisoner. Henceforth, he will be known only as ‘John’ in all of the official records of Wrong. None of my subordinates will be aware of his true identity. Further, as requested, Your Majesty will be kept apprised of his circumstances and interactions, on a regular basis, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Of course, this prisoner will be treated with the utmost compassion, as are all of residents of the dungeon Wrong, and in accordance with Your Majesty’s philosophy regarding the treatment and rehabilitation of prisoners. ‘Reform Through Repentance’ …"

Day 25, Month Eleven, Year Three of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... the prisoner John has been sentenced to the Solitary Cells for a period of no less than thirty days, on account of his continued refusal to perform his work duties in the mines. Per the orders of Your Majesty, he will be spared corporal punishments, yet his rations will be reduced …"

Day 14, Month One, Year Four of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... acting Overseer of Wrong until a new one is chosen. I did find Your Majesty’s orders regarding ‘John’ while sorting through Ranken’s things after his unexpected demise. So far, the prisoner’s life has been spared, despite the brutality of his actions, but I respectfully plead Your Majesty to reconsider after hearing the details.

Confined to the Solitary Cells these past two months, ‘John’ did demand to meet with Overseer Ranken, and he did claim he knew of a cure for the Black Weep that ravages our kingdom. He then was escorted to the Overseer by two of our veteran guards. ‘John’ did temporarily overpower them, and before they could react, he did grab a quill pen from the the Overseer’s desk, and he did then stab the tip of said quill pen through Ranken’s eye with enough force to puncture his brain and kill him instantly …"

Overseer Finer:

Day 23, Month Two, Year Four of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... mine appreciation and gratitude for your majesty’s appointment of me to the post of overseer of the royal prison wrong. thou beest aware, the peculiarities of the deviant mind hath long been mine field of scholarly pursuit, with thine guiding philosophy of ‘reform through repentance’ being of relevance particular to mine works. regards to john the prisoner, he wilt remain confined to the solitary cells for his murder most foul of the overseer ranken …"

Day 1, Month Seven, Year Four of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... didst implement mine plannings to organize the inhabitants criminal of wrong into groups distinct in identity and duties and goals. rewards and punishments both wilt be bestowed upon the whole for the behaviors and acts of the singular to teach responsibilities to a society.

john the prisoner hath been released from his solitary cells and didst vow cooperation to fulfill his work duties and as part of this system newly implemented …"

Overseer O’Riordan:

Day 25, Month One, Year Five of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... riots have finally ended and I finished my investigation into their cause. After reviewing facts, I blame Overseer Finer’s foolhardy system of organizing prisoners into work units and treating them like citizens of the kingdom. One of these work units, calling themselves ‘The Pride of Wrong’ were rewarded with some privileges for achieving their group objectives, and they abused this freedom to trick the guards and breach the top levels of the dungeon. It is good they could not make it past the mechanisms responsible for Wrong's reputation for being impossible to escape. They were able to capture Overseer Finer, who was killed in the fighting to recapture them. In total, we lost a total of fifteen guards and forty prisoners because of this incident.

I have ended Finer's work unit system and all prisoner privileges have been revoked. 'The Pride of Wrong' are all dead, except for one of their leaders, Your Majesty’s prisoner-of-interest ‘John,’ who hasnow been returned to the Solitary Cells. While I would never question Your Majesty’s orders, I ask if I am not allowed to execute him, the crown will at least lift its restrictions placed upon physically punishing or harming him …"

Day 13, Month Eight, Year Five of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... the repeated punishment of starvation, dehydration, and daily sermons on the benefits of the Eight Virtues that Your Majesty approved were a success as the prisoner-of-interest ‘John’ has been out of the Solitary Cells for more than three weeks without any incidents …"

Overseer MacGowan:

Day 28, Month Twelve, Year Seven of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... with a heavy heart I’m writing this. Before being promoted, O’Riordan told me about Your Majesty’s special prisoner, this man John, and to tell the crown if anything changed. Before this last week, I’ve had no complaints about the man. Until the survivors of the Dainty Virgin arrived.

Now, even here in Wrong, we’ve heard about this Stranger from another world and this quest to cure the Black Weep. Adventures that are the stuff of legends, a true hero to our kingdom. So I don’t doubt anything I’ve heard about the battle of Buccaneer’s Den, how the Stranger slew the infamous pirate-lord Hawkins in one on one combat, or how the hero and companions sunk Hawkins’ flagship, the Empire, and burned most of his fleet. Now, maybe this is unvirtuous of me, and I ask that Your Majesty forgive me, but why couldn’t the Stranger also have killed Morchella McPry? Of all Hawkins’ lieutenants were bad, Captain McPry and the crew of the Dainty Virgin were the worst to ever sail the seas of Everywhere. Because they chose surrender instead of the violent deaths that ended their fellows, they’re my problem now.

From what my guards said, John’s anger at their presence exceeds reason and he’s made a lot of threats. Knowing Morchella’s reputation, this won’t end well …"

Day 4, Month Seven, Year Eight of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... body of Heftimus McPry, Morchella’s first mate and husband, was found deep inside the mines. His head was missing and hasn't been recovered and John was standing nearby with a bloody shovel. I’m sorry to report that John has been returned to the Solitary Cells after a harsh flogging …"

Day 17, Month Four, Year Nine of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... that left the supply room a mess, and two of my guards and three of the Dainty Virgin’s crew are dead. Details have been scarce except it's clear John's only still alive because my guards interfered. Many of them are unhappy at his continued special treatment. I don’t blame them, any other prisoner would’ve been put to death for half the things he’s done. I’m trying my best to calm them down while also keeping Your Majesty’s confidence. There’s also rumors that one of those involved was violated in a sexual way, but I don’t know if John was the one responsible or he was the victim. Both John and Morchella were sent to the Solitary Cells …"

Day 1, Month Ten, Year Nine of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... it important to tell Your Majesty that John was seen a few times speaking to recent prisoners who came from the Alliance lands. They’re part of a faction called the Dark Covenant, the ones who were captured trying to raid Paws. So far, there’s been no problems but I'm keeping a close watch on them.

I also wanted to share something the Dark Covenant prisoners told me. When they first arrived, they protested their sentence and claimed they only attacked Paws because Britannia attacked their own lands. Some half-elf sorceress and a band of knights wearing the symbol of the silver serpent have sbeen rampaging across Alliance lands, looking for some kind of rare magical artifact. While all of it sounds improbable, I thought Your Majesty should know …"

Day 19, Month Two, Year Ten of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... the Dark Covenant prisoners are all dead. All of them. For months there have been tensions between them and Morchella, and these finally exploded into a violent confrontation. Rumor is that John is somehow involved and was responsible causing their hostility, but there isn’t enough proof to act …"

Overseer Fearnley:

Day 2, Month Five, Year Eleven of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... Praise be to Lady British! Praise be to the Avatar, once known as the Stranger, for curing the Black Weep that has threatened the Kingdom of Britannia for so long!

It is unfortunate, of course, that the Weep spread to Wrong before it was finally thwarted! Alas, poor Overseer MacGowan, tainted with spiritual sickness and freeing many of our prisoners before attempting to depart. His obsession with this prisoner known as ‘John’ and his taking of him hostage by holding a dulled bread knife to his throat. A thing most odd, how ‘John’ did not resist, as his penchant for violence is known well. Perhaps he held hoped the Overseer’s madness offered escape, yet Wrong has once again proven that it is inescapable. He has since been returned to his cell, and I am dutifully following the crown’s orders concerning his treatment.

Your Majesty was most merciful towards Overseer MacGowan, pardoning him and permitting his return to Britain unscathed. I will do my best to honor all of the trust and confidence Your Majesty has placed in me by naming me to this most important of positions …"

Day 11, Month Eleven, Year Eleven of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"… under forcible techniques of interrogation, the would-be assassin eventually admitted his true identity as that of Atilius, a disgraced former soldier of the Twilight Juvenalia. Upon investigation, it was revealed further the documentation sentencing him to Wrong had been forged. His claims that he acted alone and without knowledge of his kingdom are highly suspect, particularly since his target recognized him from an encounter occurred years ago involving the Baroness Marney of the Forever Tower. Most unfortunately, nothing else will be yielded from questioning Atilius, for he has since taken his own life by a most gruesome method of smashing his skull repeatedly against the stone walls of his Solitary Cell.

Apparently, the guards were informed of Atilius’ intentions by Morchella McPry, from whom he attempted to obtain assistance in his intended crime. Briefly, I held hope this might mark the end of the long-standing antagonism between her and ‘John,’ but it appears that she was motivated only by the desire to kill ‘John’ herself, rather than any virtuous enlightenment …"

Day 6, Month Six, Year Twelve of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... most disturbing about this secret distillery discovered deep within the mines was that a handful of guards were partnering with Morchella McPry in this endeavor most unlawful. Only a small supply of the contraband was actually found to be sold within Wrong, and these unfaithful guard were smuggling the remainder outside our walls. They, of course, have been arrested with trials pending in Yew, the distillery has been dismantled, and Morchella McPry has been sentenced indefinitely to the Solitary Cells. For his part in revealing this conspiracy, ‘John’ has been duly rewarded with a new job assisting the librarian in the upper levels of the prison …"

Overseer Stacy:

Day 22, Month One, Year Thirteen of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

“... Overseer Fearnley’s retirement. He left me an easy transition.

All in Wrong is currently under control. No problems to report.

After reading crown’s orders for the prisoner John things make sense. As a guard I did not understand past Overseers’ leniency. Now they do.

No troubles from John for many months. Seems satisfied with library assignment. A few threats from Morchella’s crew but he ignores. Will keep her in the Solitary Cells for as long as can but it is difficult to justify given her good behavior. ‘Reform Through Repentance’ and so on …"

Day 12, Month Ten, Year Thirteen of the reign of Her Majesty Lady British:

"... John??? His behavior is good. Library work keeps him satisfied. Nothing to report except this new prisoner. Female. Convicted of abusing magic. Destroyed a farmhouse in Skara Brae. Killed animals and serious injuries to farmhands. Claimed to be an accident. They always claim that. She is possibly crazy but John seems to like her. He spends a lot of time with her lately and keeps her safe from other prisoners. Don't know what Your Majesty knows of her. Her name is ..."

To Be Continued ...

[Chanticleer]

"Reform Through Repentance."

It was an oft-repeated phrase. A small hope constantly dangled in front of the inhabitants of Wrong. During his ten long years of imprisonment, Chanticleer had experienced many things -- cruel or inept overseers; the Solitary Cells; pirates; tortures and riots and starvation; corrupt and blood-thirsty guards; more pirates; the Black Weep; Twilight Juvenalia assassins; even more pirates -- but redemption was something he had never witnessed in that place. Nor salvation. Nor freedom.

Only death.

"I's yer fookin' time, John-boy!" Morchella McPry bellowed. Her harsh, guttural voice was easily recognizable as it echoed into the chamber from outside. Her heavy, troll-like footsteps, followed by a series of lighter ones, indicated that she was not alone.

From their current position, crouched behind a three-legged table overturned against the back well, the warrior's view of his pursuers was obscured. He had chosen poorly, an abandoned storage room at the dead end of a long corridor, filled with nothing but broken furniture, dust and empty barrels. They should have fled below to the mines. Within those vast caverns, amongst the rusty mining equipment and side tunnels and piles of unrefined ore. And a forgotten shovel or pick axe would have served as a better weapon than the wooden barrel lid resting between his fingers.

The sound of their leather boots against the thick stone floor grew louder. Human-shaped shadows, twisted and elongated by the flickering torchlight, crossed the threshold of the open doorway.

"I do not wish to die," his companion suddenly spoke up. "This ... was not foretold."

"Cease," Chanticleer growled sharply, refusing to look at her. "Keep your focus."

"Gun'ta cut off yer pecker!" The former pirate captain shouted from the hallway. "Gun'ta mak' ye ate it an’ shite it an’ ate it agin!" She and her minions laughed in unison. "An' den, John-Boy, me men'll rape yer lil friend! Gun'ta rape her lil cunny fells off!"

"No!" The girl gasped fearfully, reached for his arm in a panic. "Chanticleer, the prophecy states that I must remain untouched.” Her grip tightened as she pulled at him desperately. “Do not allow them to violate me. If they do so, the demon triumphs." Then, her manner of speech shifted, becoming far more pronounced and dramatic. "Once womanhood achieved; yet still untouched by man --"

His shoulders tensed as he continued to avoid eye contact. "... Celestia."

" -- her spirit cleansed before; she makes the final stand."

“Focus!” Without further warning, the warrior casually backhanded her across the face. The blow was soft, particularly for him, intended to shock as opposed to injure. Still, Celestia burst into crying, so he reluctantly turned away from the doorway and back to her.

Except for a small red mark on her cheek, there was no sign of harm, yet tears flowed from her intense, differently colored eyes, one blue and one green, and her lips quivered at the perceived betrayal. She was a young, not quite a woman, with a tall and slender dancer’s build. Her thick red hair, forcibly cropped short upon her arrival in Wrong, accentuated her soft, otherworldly features.

Despite her obvious freakishness and an aversion to meeting her gaze, Chanticleer was oddly fond of the girl, willing even to risk his life for hers. "Do not forget," his tone softened as he pointed to the leather pouch she held in her free hand. "If you do, they will violate and murder us both."

She swallowed her final sob and nodded. "I promise you," she said calmly, her mismatched eyes filled with an uncharacteristic confidence as she clutched his tiny gift to her chest. "I shall forget not ..."

“Yer a fookin’ dead man!!!”

To Be Continued …

[Chanticleer]

“Now!” Chanticleer shouted as the four pirates passed through the doorway and rushed into the abandoned storage room. To coerce his companion into obedience, he leaped out from behind the safety of the broken table and charged forward, his barrel lid at the ready.

With a nervous sigh, Celestia also stood to her feet, untying the small leather pouch she held and quickly removing a small scrap of paper from inside. “In Ex Grav!”

Her words of power manifested as a magickal field in the center of the chamber. Razor-thin, yet more than five paces in length, the barrier consisted of a blue, wave-like energy pattern that was constantly in motion. The moment that Morchella McPry and her three minions unwittingly came into contact with it, they were completely immobilized by its power.

“Well done,” said the warrior. All four of their foes wore the chainmail of the dungeon’s guards, which left him wondering whether their armor was obtained by theft or bribery; both were far too prevalent in Wrong. The nearest of them was the foul-mouthed and malodorous former cook of the Dainty Virgin. Chanticleer struck hard with his makeshift weapon, the wood shattering into three pieces as it caved in the man’s face. Blood and brain and chips of bone splattered liberally, and the corpse dangled in the magickal field before crumpling to the ground.

“Kal Vas Flam!” There was a puff of smoke and a noise not unlike flatulence.

“Celestia!” He glared back at her, reminded of how they had traded half of their past month’s rations to persuade that fat, insipid mage to inscribe those scrolls.

"Kal Vas Flam!!!” She chanted again. One of their attackers burst into flames, a tall and burly fellow covered in a number of intricately rendered tattoos dedicated to the naked female form. He shrieked in high-pitched agony as his body was transformed into mostly ash.

The warrior moved to his next target, a thin and weasley navigator with a well-groomed goatee. He recalled him from that awful room five years prior, licking his lips and salivating as he eagerly demanded his turn. “It is your turn now,” said Chanticleer, amused at the horrified, panicked expression elicited by his words. Then he shoved the biggest splinter of barrel lid into the pirate’s open mouth, forcing it down until it jammed in his throat. His opponent fell, struggling in desperation to dislodge the wooden fragment as his breath failed him.

As Celestia’s field of paralysis faded, only Morchella remained. She was a large, massively built woman, with a height exceeding even the warrior's six feet and three inches, grotesquely muscular arms, and a neck so thick it could hardly be called a neck at all. Her hair was a tangled, curly mess of blonde, and her blue eyes were her only feature that might possibly be considered pretty.

“Troll,” said Chanticleer with a slight smirk. “Your crew is dead. You are next.” Then he raised both of his fists and assumed a boxer-like stance.

The pirate narrowed her eyes. “Yer gun’ta pay. Fer me Hefty an’ fer our boy an’ fer me whole fookin’ crew.” She reached for the crudely-made knife at her belt.

“Halt!!!”

Before they could react further, the storage area was flooded by more than a dozen men wearing the uniform of the prison’s guard Except these were the genuine guards of Wrong, and at their head was Overseer Stacy, recently promoted from within their ranks. He was a short, humorless man with a thin moustache and a preference for blunt weapons. His men quickly surrounded the surviving combatants, forcing all three face-down against the cold stone floor. Their hands were bound behind their backs and their ankles shackled with metal chains.

“The others are dead, sir,” one of the guards said after inspecting Morchella’s minions. “One skull-crushed, one burned by magic, the other .... choked with wood?”

“Answers now,” the overseer said plainly. “McPry?” He asked as he approached her.

“Fook off ye pig-shite!” She cleared her throat and spit at Stacy’s boots, an act that earned her a swift kick to side of the head from one of his subordinates.

“Celestia?”

She glanced upwards, her mismatched eyes confused. “Our battle ended, victory; the darkness it has lost; yet sacrifice surrounds us; and we have borne the cost."

“The troll.” The warrior sighed irritably. “She attempted harm. We but defended ourselves.”

“The bodies are her men,” Stacy crouched down in front of the prone Chanticleer, his disdain obvious. “I remember Ranken. An eye, a mouth, that’s your kind of work.” He motioned to the girl. “Magic fire? She’s the only mage here and does what you tell her." Then he stood to his feet. "It’s the Solitary Cells for you both.”

“Is there no justice in Wrong?!” The warrior angrily gritted his teeth. “The troll did this!”

“She’ll join you in the Solitary Cells. For the stolen uniforms and her part in this,” said the Overseer. He folded his arms at his chest and sternly shook his head. “Don’t talk about justice. For years, you’ve run rampant. Turned this prison into a sick joke. A place I swore an oath to protect. Anyone else would be executed. But not you, John.” The way he spoke that name was clearly intended as mockery. “Her Majesty’s pet prisoner. I can’t kill you but I can punish you how I want. So it’s the Solitary Cells until you're dead. If Lady British doesn’t like it , she can get off her ass and free you herself!” At these words, his men began to applaud, and their typically stoic commander was filled with pride and cracked a small smile.

As the guards dragged the three prisoners off to the Solitary Cells, perhaps for the rest of their days, Celestia briefly caught Chanticleer’s gaze. She nodded sadly at her protector, and then said to him, “I weep not for the world that is; but for the world to come.”

To Be Continued …