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Post by Chanticleer on Dec 26, 2016 19:47:52 GMT -5
On Overseer Stacy’s orders, Chanticleer, Celestia, and Morchella McPry were taken directly to the Solitary Cells, situated on the the dungeon’s fourth underground level, at the end of a long, dimly-lit corridor. Entrance to this sector required passage through a series of five portcullises, their access controlled by a complex pattern of button and lever movements disclosed only to the assigned guards. Beyond the last of these valorite-crafted gates, there was a guard station and barracks sizeable enough to accommodate a dozen men. The number of guards were dependent upon the number of prisoners; there were always at least four on duty, patrolling the chamber and carefully monitoring the activities of all forty-eight cells.
Unlike the rest of Wrong, occupants of the Solitary Cells were denied the most basic of amenities. Each cell measured a mere twelve feet in length, ten feet in height and width and was secured by a solid steel door. Thick, damp stone walls were covered in moss and slime, while flimsy mattresses and thin, tattered blankets adorned cold stone floors. In winter, prisoners wore cheap-quality wool tunics and leggings that scratched at their skin; in warmer months, they were stripped naked, even of undergarments. Feedings occurred twice daily through eye-level, sliding hatches that also served as their only source of light. Waste buckets were changed every week or so, extra water and slivers of bathing soap were offered just as frequently, so the tiny rooms were never free of the stench of human sweat and piss and shit.
The warrior had spent many months of his decade-long imprisonment within the Solitary Cells, but for Celestia, it was a difficult adjustment. During the day, the girl would weep incessantly, eliciting verbal reprimands and beatings from their keepers. At night, her behavior was subdued, calmly reciting passages from her purported prophecy. "Days to weeks, months to years; then signs begin to tell; once more it stirs in hunger; from where demons dwell."
There was much about the girl that disturbed him. They had met shortly after her arrival in Wrong; she was a stranger who claimed to know him, and he readily dismissed her as insane until she used his true name. Upon further interrogation, it was apparent that Celestia hailed from a Sosaria not his own. Although he did not approve of such things, Chanticleer was intimately aware of ‘shard theory’ -- the existence of different versions of his world and some of those who populated it. He had offered the girl protection because he assumed all of his counterparts also possessed good judgment, but over time the warrior genuinely grew to care for her.
"Yer alls fookin’ dead!!!" The former captain of the Dainty Virgin's violent threats and foul language were a near-constant, and the guards took advantage of every justification to inflict harm upon her. Even Chanticleer grudgingly admired her refusal to grant them the satisfaction of her screams.
Several weeks into their stay, the warrior’s hot and miserable slumber was interrupted by excited laughter. Initially, he attempted to ignore it.
"The watch commander sent me." The voice was female but did not belong to Celestia or McPry. "Think of me as a … gift. A reward for your hard work."
“Aye?” It was one of the guards. “What sort of reward?”
With an exhausted grunt, Chanticleer stumbled towards the front of his cell, his bare feet numbed by the chill of the stone floor. Through the hatch, he observed them, two of Wrong’s protectors and their whore, scantily clad in a pink leather bustier and matching leather skirt.
"Which one gets you first?" The second guard asked.
"Who said you had to take turns?" She giggled as she stepped into the warrior’s line of sight. He could see everything but her face. The woman had lightly tanned skin and stood less than five and a half feet tall, with a thin build and large, bold breasts fit to burst forth from her top. Her long, strawberry blonde hair was tied into two braids that reached halfway down her back.
The woman smiled as she slowly unlaced her bustier, teasing their anticipation for her breasts. Once her leather top was off completely, she lifted her leather skirt at a equally deliberate pace, enjoying their reaction to her lack of undergarments. When she knelt down to pleasure them, Chanticleer noticed the image of a small emerald tattooed upon her right hip. He found this an odd coincidence, considering his past membership in a group called the Emerald Fist. But their impending fornication pushed aside the thought, and he turned away from the hatch.
"Vas Zu!" She chanted words of power. Two loud thumps as armored bodies struck the ground. The warrior quickly peered back through the hatch. He saw nothing and heard angry shouting. "Kal Vas Xen Corp Ylem!" More of her spells. It was followed by sounds of a struggle, metal against stone, and then there was only … silence.
She reappeared a few minutes later, a whore no longer. Her new attire was hardly modest, a suit of tight dark leather armor and a fancy red hat pulled down to conceal the top of her face. In one hand, she carried a book of spells, in the other she dangled an iron ring filled with keys. "Don’t worry, Chanticleer," the mage approached his cell with a smirk, "I’m here to rescue you…"
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Dec 31, 2016 0:33:56 GMT -5
"Auntie Jo!" Celestia’s high-pitched shriek of excitement echoed throughout the chamber. The naked girl leaped up from her shoddy straw bed and rushed the entrance of her cell, tackling their rescuer with enough affection to knock her fancy hat from her head. "I missed you!"
"I … missed you too." The blonde-haired mage responded with an unenthusiastic half-hug and a pat on the back, before pulling away and wrinkling her nose in disgust. "You stink badly, Celestia … you both do."
Without the headpiece, her entire face was visible. Intelligent, light blue eyes; soft and appealing features; a distant demeanor that no doubt called forth the sort of attention she sought to avoid. Her age was difficult to discern, but Chanticleer guessed at least thirty years. He was surprised this had not aroused the suspicion of the guards, they preferred their whores far younger.
After she had retrieved her hat, ‘Auntie Jo’ pulled down the brim once more. "We need to move before they find us. I don't feel like killing more guards."
Her words were not an exaggeration. The mangled bodies of the two whore-mongering guards decorated the otherwise empty floor of the central chamber. Four more corpses were inside the wreckage of the guard station that led to the corridor beyond. There was also the splintered remains of wooden doors; shards of broken glass; dents and chips from the dungeon walls; and haphazardly discarded items all about. The warrior recalled the cacophony of the unseen battle -- stone clashing against steel -- and wondered at the foul sorcery responsible for all of this.
"Mage. How do you propose we escape?" He asked suspiciously. "Wrong is the prison that cannot be breached. I have attempted for nearly a decade without success."
"I have a spell …"
Chanticleer laughed contemptuously. "More Spells? This is no simple task." He moved closer, hovering over her. "We lack the combination for the gates. There are three more levels above us. An entire keep above that. Even your foul sorcery has limits."
"My name is Jolicia,” she glared up at him. "Not mage, not foul sorceress, none of that." She pushed past him. "We don't need to go anywhere, I can cast my spell right here."
The warrior followed as she walked towards the middle of the main room. “I do not trust you. You have already demonstrated your skills at deception. How did you even know to find us here?"
"I'll explain once we’re safe …"
"You will explain now!" Both of his fists clenched tightly.
"Wait!" Celestia grabbed at his right arm from behind. "We can trust Jolicia. She was one of my mother’s closest friends, she protected us from the demons." The girl maneuvered herself in front of him, their mutual nudity causing him to shift uncomfortably away from her. "Judas, Aingeal, Faeryl, Lucas, Deraj, Renthar, and all of the rest, I miss them all. But it is Elendome I miss most of all. She was my best friend before I met you …"
"Judas? Renthar?" He scowled disapprovingly. "One useless, the other despicable."
Jolicia sighed as she knelt. "Not the ones you know, the ones from our Britannia." She began sorting through one of her belt pouches. "You should go find some clothes." With an amused smirk, she pointed at his exposed member. "Unless you just feel like hanging around."
Chanticleer reluctantly grunted his agreement. When they returned a few minutes later, he wore the norse-style helm, chainmail armor, and thick leather boots of Wrong’s guardsmen, a steel club in one hand and a pack filled with supplies in the other. Celestia was far less fortunate, the closest to her size was a scratchy wool prison uniform and her feet remained bare. The blonde mage noted their approach with a nod. In her hand she held a strange, thick piece of chalk the color of blood, and she was in the midst of sketching a large pentagram on the floor.
"Foul sorceress!" His eyes narrowed with rage. "Now you consort with demons?!"
Jolicia exhaled impatiently. "We don't have much of a -- "
From within one of the nearby solitary cells came a deep and bellowing voice. "Tha' fook ye's oop'ta?! Gun'ta 'scape wit'oot me, ye fookin' shite-niblets?!"
"What … is that …?" The baffled mage asked in response.
"A dead troll," the warrior growled, tightly squeezing his weapon.
"That is Morchella McPry," said the girl, her mismatched eyes growing fearful, "once she was the captain of a pirate ship called the Dainty Virgin. She has been … unkind to us."
"I see," said Jolicia as she considered something. "Is she good in a fight? We might need … help where we’re going. How many people are here?"
"I refuse to consider such," the warrior shook his head disapprovingly.
"Jolicia knows of what she speaks," Celestia urged him again. "Please, trust her?"
Following a search, the trio discovered six more prisoners in the Solitary Cells. But after briefly questioning each, only three were deemed suitable. Mayer, a horse thief from Minoc, preferred to remain; Harne, a bandit of the Deep Forest, was a drooling idiot from too many beatings; and Crable the Cherry-Pick, a prolific rapist of children, was burnt to ash by the blonde-haired mage the moment she learned of his crimes. This left Morchella; Wilfred, one of the guards arrested when Chanticleer had informed on McPry’s hidden distillery; and ‘The Smith,’ a blacksmith who refused to disclose any details about his past. All three were released from their cells, provided with wool tunics and leggings, and then escorted to the center of the room.
"It’s pretty simple," Jolicia slowly circled the three prisoners. "If you come with and survive, you’re free to go. If you piss me off, I’ll set you on fire. Do we have a deal?"
"Aye," said Wilfred.
'The Smith' silently nodded.
"Ye cross me, I's cut oof yer titties fer a pilloo!" The pirate shot her a dead-eyed stare. "Ye ask John-Boy ain't noothin' scares Morchella McPry," She cleared her throat and spit out a mass of saliva and phlegm, barely missing the mage’s feet. "Yer big titties dint scare me!"
Jolicia affected an unimpressed yawn. 'I don't scare you, you don't scare me … fine. But if you keep up the attitude, we're done. So what's it going to be?"
" … fookin'...," Morchella muttered. "Aye, ye’ll git yer deal."
"Troll. Are you certain?" Chanticleer stepped forward, his tone uncharacteristically subdued.
"I’s fookin’ says aye." She grudgingly met his gaze.
"Allies then," he said and extended his left hand to seal their agreement.
"Hoo'da thunk et?" The pirate grinned, almost sheepishly, as she gave him a firm handshake.
Without another word, the warrior pulled her forward, swinging the steel club with his free hand and slamming it into the side of her head. There was a loud cracking sound, and before she could react, he shoved Morchella away from him, causing her to lose her balance. A swift kick to her stomach caused her to fall onto her back, and then he was on top of her, straddling her chest while pinning her arms down with his knees. Chanticleer heard the shouts and screams of the others, but he ignored them as he repeatedly struck at her face with his weapon. Eventually, the blood-soaked warrior paused to survey his work. The pirate was dead, twitching yet no longer breathing, everything above her thick neck pulped into a red, unrecognizable mess.
Then he glanced back at them. Wilfred looked at the ceiling, pretending not to watch, ‘The Smith’s’ mouth was wide open in horror, and Celestia sobbed uncontrollably, her arms wrapped tightly around the other woman. "Are you done?" The mage asked with a casual indifference. "We're trying to escape, not murder people until the guards show up."
"As I said. A dead troll." Chanticleer scowled irritably at her. "Never expect me to compromise."
Jolicia rolled her eyes at him. "What about common sense? We could’ve used her." Then she crouched to finish up her drawing of the pentagram. "I just hope we don't pay for your stupidity. You have no idea how dangerous the Infernal Path is going to be ..."
To Be Continued ...
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Post by Chanticleer on Jan 2, 2017 12:31:35 GMT -5
"Mage, halt! I demand answers."
The abruptness of Chanticleer’s words caused Celestia, 'The Smith,' and Wilfred to pause and exchanged confused glances, but Jolicia ignored them and continued moving. Like the warrior, the others were sore and starving and exhausted. They had been walking for hours, ever since they first emerged from that fiery portal summoned by the blonde-haired mage’s pentagram. The ambush was almost immediate; they were unprepared for those shrieking, bat-like monstrosities, a quarter the size of a man with long, leather wings, and blade-sharp talons. After a brief battle, they realized it was hopeless and fled into the wilderness.
"Mage! We walk no further!"
Jolicia spoke without stopping, her forehead wrinkled in annoyance. "If we stop, we die. We're still too close to our point of entry. We'll stop soon, I promise."
"Chanticleer," said Celestia, gently touching his arm, "we can trust her."
The warrior reluctantly grunted his acquiescence, and their march resumed. He was still puzzled by the nature of this Infernal Path; a bleak and sprawling landscape inhabited by creatures that were both strange and unsettling. Even the less demonic ones, the harmless birds and lizards and small mammals, were twisted counterparts of the familiar, with their unnaturally colored flesh or fur and their missing or mismatched limbs. A thin film of ruddy dust permeated everything, the craggy, uneven ground beneath their feet; the gaunt, ugly trees and skeletal bushes that served to exaggerate the inhospitality; and the thick, hazy air that obscured the skies above. Indeed, it was a hellish place. Finally, after several more hours, the mage indicated it was safe for them to rest.
"It has been far too long since those were changed," Celestia pointed at Wilfred’s bandaged right shoulder. The winged abominations had targeted the former guard first, rendering his sword-arm useless with their claws. Chanticleer had argued this made him useless and they should abandon him, but the others disregarded his suggestion. "Please, come with me."
Wilfred nodded and followed her to a nearby log. He was a tall man of average appearance, less than thirty years of age with long red hair he kept secured in a pony tail. Amongst the guards of Wrong, he was hardly memorable, so his involvement in Morchella McPry’s alcohol smuggling scheme and subsequent punishment was merely an afterthought to most. Once they were seated, the girl carefully unwrapped the bloody dressings and he winced in pain. "It smarts ..."
'The Smith' hovered awkwardly at the edge of their campsite. A short, swarthy man of at least four decades, he was bald with thick, powerful limbs. When he noticed Chanticleer approaching Jolicia, he said to no one in particular, "I’ll see about supper," and slipped away.
The mage was perched at the base of a nearby rocky outcrop, sorting through various scrolls she had laid out around her. As she heard the warrior stomp aggressively towards her, she briefly looked at him, her light blue eyes weary and frustrated. "What is this?" He gestured to the piles of parchment.
"Maps, notes." Jolicia examined another of the documents. "Finding the best path out of here."
"I demand answers," said Chanticleer, his eyes narrowed into an angry glare. "This foul place. Where have you taken us? How did you know to rescue us? Why did you?"
With a heavy sigh, she turned back to him. "What do you know about Everywhere?"
"What I know and what I am told are separate," he frowned slightly. "I know it to be a foul. freakish place. But what am I told?" He shook his head disapprovingly. "I am told it is always changing. I am told it is a shield. I am told it protects the truth. Since my arrival, no one has offered me a sensible explanation. Only the nonsensical followed by the ridiculous."
The mage chuckled at his words. "Honestly, I don't understand all of it either. From what I was told … Everywhere is a lie. It only seems old, but it's not."
A small scowl crossed the warrior’s mouth. "Elaborate."
"Some years ago, there was an … incident, and it changed the entire course of our universe." Her brow furrowed with her explanation. "Things that were meant to happen never happened, and no one knows who did it or why." She lay back against the rock, propping herself up by her elbows. "This incident also created Everywhere … retroactively? But somehow Everywhere also preserves the way things were supposed to be."
"Foul sorcery."
"Is that your favorite thing to say?" Jolicia half-smirked. "You're … a lot like my Chanticleer, you know. Both of you are pains, but I'm starting to think he’s the nicer one." She waited for a response that never came and continued. "Everywhere doesn't have moongates like in Sosaria. There aren’t many ways to get around quickly, and the Infernal Path was the best escape without being followed. It's like a shortcut through a secret passage. Except this secret passage is through Everywhere's underworld … and filled with demons."
His glower became more pronounced. "Your justification make it no less despicable."
"I'm not … happy either," she said solemnly. "I've had some bad experiences with demons."
"I care not," Chanticleer held up his hand dismissively. "You have yet to explain why."
The mage exhaled a slow, heavy breath. "My friend and I recently made some … new friends. Maybe allies is a better way to put it. You’re important to them, and to our mutual plans."
"Who? What plans?" His tone was far more suspicious than curious.
She shook her head. "It's better they explain it … you wouldn't believe me anyway."
"As you say," the warrior nodded impassively. "What of Celestia? What is her role in this? It is no coincidence you know her. Or come from the same Sosaria."
"From all I’ve seen," a third voice interrupted them. "Everywhere’s got a lot of coincidence." It was 'The Smith.' In each of his enormous hands, he carried the corpse of an animal. They were like rabbits in shape and size, with thick green coats, three-legs, and long, stringy rodent tails. He grinned, holding up the bodies for their inspection. "Supper, unless there's a better idea. Could use help, if you're done talking." He then left them to rejoin the others. Celestia had already finished changing Wilfred’s bandages, and the two were gathering wood for a campfire.
Chanticleer wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I … suppose we should aid them."
"Wait,” said Jolicia. She slid off the rock and onto her feet. “The reason for all this … we're trying to save Everywhere."
He laughed sharply at her. "Everywhere is a pit. I care not for its fate."
"Because," she took a tentative step forward and calmly met his gaze, "Everywhere's important. If it falls, do does the truth. Also, it's Lady British we're trying to save it from. That … woman has a power she shouldn’t. She needs to be stopped, and …"
"And …?"
"We’re not sure why," the mage carefully measured her words, "We have a few theories. Maybe it’s because you're from the same Britannia. Maybe it's because you're a time-lost. Maybe it’s because you're an ass. But for some reason, the only thing Lady British is afraid of … is you."
To Be Continued ...
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Post by Chanticleer on Jan 12, 2017 17:01:36 GMT -5
With one last crack of his steel club against its long, savage snout, the beast fell. "Foul pig-goblins," remarked Chanticleer, surveying the three corpses at his feet. He did not know whether 'pig-goblin' was their proper classification, but nothing more appropriate came to mind. They were five feet tall and stocky, with yellow-green colored skin. They were dressed in animal hides and wielded blades of bone. They possessed swine-like features, from their tiny beady eyes to their large floppy ears to their little curly tails. They even smelled of mud and feces. Clearly, they were pig-goblins.
His allies were similarly victorious. A well-aimed fireball to the face finished the last of Jolicia's two opponents. Wilfred and 'The Smith' stood back-to-back, having slain five of the creatures with hatchets fashioned from wood, stone, and three-legged rabbit intestines. The former guard, his right arm still bloody and bandaged, proved adept at off-hand fighting, and the armorer appeared satisfied by the quality of his makeshift craftsmanship.
It was their third day of traveling the Infernal Path, but only their second battle since escaping initial ambush of bat-like monstrosities. Their first was the day prior, on a bridge made of human skulls that spanned a river of steaming, bubbling lava. A three-headed ettin, orange-hued and fiery-haired, charged them as they were nearly across. Immune to the blonde-haired mage’s preferred spells, she summoned a mystical colossus made of stone as a distraction, allowing the rest of the group to flank and kill it. These pig-goblins were easier for the warrior and his companions to contend with. Poorly organized as they struck from behind the half-cover of the shrunken, emaciated trees that populated the surrounding forest, the creatures were dead within a few minutes.
Once the fighting was done, Celestia appeared, her body shimmering with magickal energies as she emerged from the protective concealment of Jolicia's invisibility spell. Chanticleer was pleased by the girl’s obedience; her intentions were superior to her combat skills. "My heart is glad all of you are safe," said Celestia, her mismatched eyes lingering upon Wilfred in particular.
"Pig-goblins," Chanticleer grunted, mostly in disapproval of her interest in the former guard.
"This path infernal is filled with dangers, we should always --" The girl’s strange eyes widened and her expression grew vacant. "Instead salvation born; from parents of tragic ends; a girl named for the heavens; and defended by her friends. Without father or a mother; another will have to guide her; To teach her of our ways; And all the magicks inside her."
Wilfred tilted his head in concern. "Celestia …?"
Celestia then stumbled forward and onto the ground. Wilfred was the first to react; by the time the others reached her, he had carefully shifted her onto her back and cradled her head in his lap. She was breathing regular, with no apparent injuries except for a few scrapes caused by her fall. After a minute, the girl slowly opened her eyes and blinked up at them. "Is there water? I feel thirsty …"
"Smith?" The former guard asked helplessly. The armorer nodded and handed over the group’s sole water flask, and Wilfred frantically opened it and pushed it to Celestia’s lips.
"Mage," Chanticleer glanced at Jolicia and gestured for her to follow him. She nodded, and they walked deeper into the small forest, until stopping in front of a rot-covered oak tree. "Celestia and her prophecy. What do you know of it? For months I thought her merely mad. But no longer."
She raised her right eyebrow questioningly. "If you think she's crazy, why help her?"
He half-shrugged. "Answer me."
"Maybe you're only half the ass you pretend you are," the mage smirked at him in amusement. “But the prophecy?” Her expression darkened. "It's all true, as much as I wish it wasn't. We first learned about it when Alisiea was pregnant. She’s Celestia's mother, and her father was … Paine?"
"Paine …?"
"He told us lots of stories," she rolled her eyes dismissively. "The First Vampire, soldier of Mondain, a monster hunter. It's … hard to tell which was true. He's probably the father? Or maybe it was Wolfwood, who was a different Paine from another Britannia?"
"I … have no response to this."
"Try living it," Jolicia rubbed her forehead for extra emphasis. "According to the prophecy, there once was an ancient and powerful Demon-Lord. It was beaten many centuries ago by the old kingdoms of Barataria and Rondorin, and it's supposed to return to threaten Sosaria again."
“Why always Rondorin and Barataria?” The warrior groaned.
She ignored his question and continued. "The only one who can stop the demon is Celestia. The most confusing part is there was … another Celestia before ours. She was being trained to fight the demon but was killed. Then her role in the prophecy somehow passed to Alisiea's unborn child. We protected Alisiea from the demon's servants, and after Celestia was born, they continued to come." The mage then pointed to where the others were tending to the girl. "She looks sixteen but was only born last year. It's … not natural, she used her own magic to age faster."
He narrowed his eyes in thought. "How did she arrive in Everywhere?"
"I … don't know," she said with a frown. "I don’t know if this is even the one we knew, or if it's just the universe's way of making sure there's a Celestia around for the prophecy. Like how Alisiea's child replaced the first one. When we were planning your rescue, my friend discovered a Celestia was in Wrong too. That's one of the reasons I was sent to get you, in case she recognized me."
"For what other reasons were you sent?" Chanticleer asked suspiciously.
"Wrong might be secure, but it's men are still men." Jolicia raised her hands to her chest, briefly cupping her leather bustier before letting her arms drop to her sides.
“Perhaps," he conceded a slight smile. "I remain curious about your co-conspirator’s identity. Do you refuse to name him still?" After a few unresponsive moments, he asked. "Assuming it is truth. What must be done to protect Celestia from this prophecy? From this demon?"
"There's a lot we don't know,” she shook her head, “but I think we have a bigger prob --"
There was a loud shrieking noise. The warrior and the mage quickly turned, his club and her spells at the ready, only to see the subject of their discussion madly hopping up and down in place, Wilfred and 'The Smith' helplessly watching on. "The walls begin to crumble; Weakened at their base; Doors with neither lock nor key; That move from place to place."
"It's the Infernal Path,” Jolicia lowered her gaze and sighed regretfully. "I think that's why she's been acting this way. I think it might be connected to the Demon-Lord's realm. And if I'm right, then it also means the demons know she's here …"
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Jan 17, 2017 20:35:58 GMT -5
“Chanticleer?” Jolicia’s voice was uncharacteristically sensual. “Are you awake?”
Before he could to react from the haze of broken slumber, Chanticleer felt soft fingers gliding up his thighs. For reasons unfathomable, he did not resist as they grabbed hold and maneuvered him onto his back. When he opened his eyes, the warrior saw her crouching over him. She was naked and smiling, her large breasts close enough they nearly touched his face, and she yanked his chainmail leggings down to his ankles. “Mage. Cease this.”
Her hands found their way between his legs. “I’ve seen the way you watch me.”
His body tightened as she touched him there, and he leaned back, shifting his weight down onto his elbows. “I … think not,” said Chanticleer. Yet he made no effort to stop her.
She cupped it firmly with both hands and began to stroke up and down. “It sure doesn’t feel that way to me. All those years in prison … it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
It was more than ten years, he admitted silently. More than ten years since Semidar’s foul portal. More than ten years since … Leigh. His expression grew distasteful at the thought.
“Poor thing.” Jolicia leaned forward until his nose was comfortably inside her cleavage. With a playful grin, she slid her breasts down his body, finally stopping where her eyes met his waist.
The warrior stiffened with expectation, despite himself. “What of … the others?”
“I sent them to hunt up some breakfast.” Her breath was warm against him. “It’s just us.”
His gaze shifted from the voluptuous form kneeling before him. A quick look around the small forest clearing confirmed her statement. But for the deformed, shrunken trees, they were alone.
She flicked her tongue against him. “I want you inside me. Do you want me too?”
Chanticleer grunted as she lowered her mouth onto him. “ … yes.”
“You’re so strong.” The mage raised her head but her grip stayed tight. “Not like the others, they’re weak. I’ve been thinking. If we abandon them, we might actually survive this.”
He narrowed his eyes in surprise. “But Celestia … the demons …”
Her tongue swirled around him. “What about her? You’re Chanticleer Reich, heir to one of the greatest noble families of Magincia. Power and strength is in your blood. You should be ruling over lesser men, not wasting your life here.” She bobbed her head up and down. “And you could be fucking me. Whenever … however you want.” She repeated the motion. “Or, if I’m not enough for you? My friend can send you home. After everything, you deserve it all.”
His body twisted wildly as she resumed. “Mage … Jolicia …”
“It’s all yours,” said Jolicia. “Abandon Celestia, and it’s all yours.”
“But …”
“Chanticleer? Chanticleer?!” Her tone seemed different. “Chanticleer!!!” She repeated his name, though her lips did not stray from him, and the movements of her mouth became far more frantic. “Por Corp Wis!” A piercing, inhuman howl immediately followed.
The warrior blinked, and everything was different. They were still in the small clearing, but they were alone no longer. Celestia, ‘The Smith,’ and Wilfred somehow had rejoined them, and they appeared startled from their slumber. Jolicia was sprinting furiously towards Chanticleer. No, not towards him, towards the blue-skinned creature that hovered above him. A demon, yet also a woman. Fangs overfilled its murderous mouth, large bat-like wings sprung from its back, and a pair of twisted horns adorned its head. Its others aspects were far more appealing, particularly the female ones that were fully exposed by its lack of any clothing.
It was one of these that Jolicia targeted, punting the beast between the legs and knocking it away from its intended prey. “Thanks for that one, Judas.” Before it was able to recover its footing, she was already hurling more spells. “An Ex Por! Corp Por!! Kal Vas Flam!!!” And then the demon was dead, its agonized screams faded into the ashes of it burnt carcass.
“What foul sorcery?!” The warrior demanded as he stood over the fallen creature.
The mage sighed in annoyance. “I’ve met this one before, or one just like her. We called her the ‘Lady in White.’ She serves the Demon-Lord, always chasing after Alisiea and Celestia. She kept trying to control my friends through their dreams. It was annoying.”
Chanticleer nodded. “It must fear us greatly. To attack so cowardly through our dreams.”
“No weird dreams for me,” said ‘The Smith. “I was dreaming about cheese. Expensive cheese.”
“Nor I,” said Celestia calmly. “I had no dreams to speak of.”
“Me either,” said Wilfred, his eyes lingering awkwardly upon the strange-eyed girl.
Without speaking further, the red-faced warrior stormed off from their camp. More than an hour later, Jolicia located him on the outskirts of the skeletal woods. He was seated on a tree stump, his attention seemingly focused on a small range of mountains to their west. Between the forest and the mountains, there were miles of hilly terrain, open and free of obvious threats.
“Don’t feel bad,” she said as she approached from behind. “That’s what the ‘Lady’ does. I’ve seen her do it to some of the best people I knew. Even Judas …”
“Again, Judas.” Chanticleer said derisively. “You mentioned him earlier. I knew Judas. He was weak and irrelevant. I only aided him for Leigh’s sake.”
“You knew a different Judas.” A sad smile crossed the mage’s face. “My Judas … I mean, the one from my world, his intentions were always good.” Minutes passed before she spoke next, and she spent the silence watching him. “There’s something I want to ask you.” When he failed to respond, she continued anyhow. “Do you know Aria … Trulacci, I think was it? A few years ago, we met her at the Salty Dog. She said she knew a Chanticleer, but not our Chanticleer. I’ve been wondering if maybe it was you she was talking about.”
Of course, he thought to himself. Aria Trulacci was one of the Emerald Fist, a fellow Time Lost, and a friend. She was always clever and curious, it is not surprising she might eventually travel to another Sosaria. Instead, all he said was, “Perhaps.”
Her brow furrowed contemplatively. “We should get back to camp. See those mountains there?” She pointed at two in the middle of the semi-distant range. “There’s a narrow pass in-between, and according to my maps, our exit back into Everywhere’s on the other side. In less than a week, we’ve traveled what would normally taken months to do.”
“These maps,” the warrior said as he rose from the tree stump. “How did you obtain them?”
Jolicia grimaced as she turned back to the forest. “Trust me, you don’t want to know …"
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Jan 21, 2017 17:00:06 GMT -5
Everett Whitethorn and the Path Infernal: "My name's Bartholomew Dragonbane III, firstborn son and heir to the Dragonbanes of Trinsic. Except everyone calls me Bottoms, on account of the fact that the the further you go down, the bigger I seem to get. But my real claim in life's the fact that I'm the best mate, closer personal adviser, and all around support to the famed Everett Whitethorn, also known as the boy hero from Britain. When we were younger, we shared many a grand adventure together, usually alongside our good friends Celestia, the apprentice-sorceress-in-training, and Mooky the Talking Mongbat Minstrel. This is one such tale..."THE STORY THUS FAR...It was a week before graduation day at the Serpent’s Hold training academy. Everett Whitethorn was expected to finish first in his class, while his best friend Bottoms was being held back due to failing Sir Dudley’s advanced melee combat class. Poor Bottoms, swordplay never was his specialty! When he first learned the news a month prior, Bottoms had fled in embarrassment, so distraught he even missed his supper(s). "Worry not, Bartholomew," said Everett when he discovered Bottoms consoling his woes with a pile of fresh pastries. "You will graduate soon enough." "But I don't want us to be apart," said Bottoms, in-between bites of a particularly tasty cheesecake. Everett smiled encouragingly. "We shall always be the best of friends." On the day in question, the two were with their closest of companions, Celestia and Mooky the Mongbat. Together, they were traveling to Serpent’s Hold from Ilshenar, after visiting the sorceress’ mentor, Balric of Barataria. He did not look it, but Balric was many centuries old, and because of his great age, he was also very grumpy, always lecturing them about the dangers of demons and prophecies. But he only did so because he worried about properly preparing Celestia for her important destiny. An ancient and powerful Demon-Lord would soon return to once again threaten Sosaria, and she was the only one capable of defeating it. Somehow, the foursome had taken a wrong turn at the Spirituality moongate in Ilshenar, and arrived in a valley they did not recognized, encircled by a large range of mountains. The air here was thick and hazy, and everything was covered by a thin layer of reddish dust, even the grass rotting beneath their feet. "Mesa no likesa these place!" The mongbat was the first to voice the thought shared by them all. "I agree," said Celestia with a frown. "It is most peculiar." "I w-want to go home," Bottoms added. "We might starve to death." "Be strong my friends," Everett said, unsheathing his blade. "The virtues shall guide us." Two hours later, after many more complaints from Bottom about their dwindling food supply, they discovered an exit: a narrow pass between two of the smaller mountains. With Everett leading and Bottoms guarding their rear from a comfortably safe distance, the group continued walking for a number of miles. To help the time pass quicker, Mooky took out his mongbat-sized lute and entertained his friends with a song: " Once mesa a swords, mensies year goes; Mesa blades was broads, mensies year goes; Wornsa lotsa pride into battles mesa rides at warror’s sigh; And mesa cuts an mesa kills an mesa lost inta feels; And mesa rustas an mesa becames dustas; Oh mesa!!!"* "I'm not certain I like that one," Bottoms shuddered. “It's quite depressing.” "Usa grumpy cuz usa soooo fats an hungries," Mooky cackled in response. "Mooky, that was most unkind," Celestia scolded at the mongbat. "Indeed. We judge not upon exterior," Everett reminded their small friend, "but for the person inside." When they reached the other side of the narrow pass, they were met by travelers coming from the opposite direction. This group numbered five in total, three of men, one woman, and a girl on the verge of womanhood. Of the men, the first was a warrior whose brown eyes were judgmental, the second was a quiet man with orange hair, and the third was dark skinned and muscular. The woman had blonde tied in braids and carried a book of spells, but it was the girl that most unsettled the four. Except for her mismatched blue and green eyes, and her bloodwood colored hair cut short, she could easily pass for Celestia’s twin! "Mesa no unstand!" Mooky shouted. "Mesa sees two Celestia!" "Aye," Celestia furrowed her brown. "I have noticed this as well." "I’m frightened," Bottoms' lower lip quivered in fear. "I'm frightened and I'm hungry!" "Fear not," Everett fingered the ankh pendant hanging from his neck. "Have faith in the virtues, and they shall protect us from any evil magic we encounter." "If foul sorcery is present," the judgmental warrior scowled back. "Then you are the source." "Shit," muttered the blonde-haired mage. "That’s Everett Whitethorn and Bottoms. They were friends with that other Celestia … this must be her?" "You claimed her dead," said the judgmental warrior. "Demons, clearly. Shall we attack?" "Your true natures are revealed." Everett unsheathed the long sword at his belt. "Only villains speak so base and cruelly." With that, the battle began: Everett’s blade against the judgmental warrior’s steel club; Celestia’s sorcery against the blonde mage’s spells; and Mooky’s claws, songs, and wings against the two other men. Only Bottoms and the false Celestia refrained from participating. After the fighting continued for another ten minutes, she stepped towards him. "Only you can end this," she told him. "D-don’t hurt me!" Bottoms tried to run, only managing a few paces before he tripped over his feet and fell down. "Go away!" "Bottoms, you must remember all that which occurred." Her tone was calm and understanding. “Blackwell the vampire murdered Celestia, and then she transformed Everett into one of her kind. He was in turn destroyed by the people of Ashencrosse for his crimes. You went looking for Mooky, but it was too late. His uniqueness had earned him too much interest, and he is now a trophy adorning the walls of a Vesper nobleman’s mansion. The demons were hunting you, you had nowhere else to turn, and when you realized how alone you truly were --" "No! Stop it!" Bottoms cried, flailing his arms as he lay there on the ground. She grabbed at his hands and squeezed them tightly. "When you realized how alone you truly were, you flung yourself from the walls of Serpent’s Hold. You are of the dead now." "No! You're a liar!" Bottoms struggled to escape her but lacked the strength. "Look upon me," said the false Celestia. "Look upon me, and you shall know the truth." "No, I --" His eyes shut tight as she hugged him. When they opened again, they were streaming with tears. "None of it's real, is it?" As these words were spoken, Everett Whitethorn, boy hero of Britain, Celestia the apprentice-sorceress-in-training, and Mooky the Talking Mongbat Minstrel suddenly vanished mid-fight, leaving their opponents bewildered. "I -- I wanted things to stay the same. Everett and Celestia, and even Mooky, they were my best friends. Our adventures were the best times I've ever had. The best times that anyone ever had." With a heavy sigh, he pulled away from her embrace. "Why can’t they stay the same? Why do things change?" "My dear Bottoms," the other Celestia smiled sadly. "Thus are the ways of this world." Panic crossed his chubby face. "Oh, Celestia, I’m so very sorry! I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to -- !” Before he could continue, Bottoms disappeared as well. "I know," she nodded slowly, and then she too began to weep. "What is amiss?" Chanticleer asked as he approached, with Jolicia, Wilfred, and ‘The Smith,’ close behind. "For what did the fat boy apologize?" "Blame not Bottoms," Celestia said as she wiped her eyes with her rough wool sleeves. "The demons forced him into despair and he took his own life, and then his poor, tortured spirit became their slave.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arms. “All of this was a distraction, meant to delay us from reaching Everywhere. And now it is too late for all of us. I can feel them drawing closer, I can feel it in my blood and bones. The Demon Prince and his armies … they now are here.” To Be Continued …*With credit (and apologies) for this butchery of “Stone” by Ronnie Lane and the Faces.
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Post by Chanticleer on Mar 20, 2017 18:51:40 GMT -5
The minions of the Demon Prince were as numerous as they were diverse. They were large and they were small; they were humanoid and they were amorphous; they were shades and hues of all kinds. Some had fangs and some had claws; some had tentacles and some had horns; some were made of flesh, some were made of bone, and some were made of both or neither. There were balrons and succubi; there were molochs and imps; there were types of demons that had never before been witnessed or encountered by mortal eyes.
When first they appeared, these unnatural creatures surrounded them on all sides, so Chanticleer raised his steel club and turned to his companions, demanding that they fight. Wilfred was in agreement, Jolicia suggested caution, Celestia grew fearful, and 'The Smith' offered no opinion on the matter. After the warrior and the former guard were convinced by the blonde haired mage at the hopelessness of their odds, the group went willingly, allowing the howling, snarling horde to escort them west through a narrow pass between the mountains.
They marched through a winding, narrow ravine, and eventually arrived at a wide, hilly valley deep within the rocky range. The entire area was covered in dead grass and the same layer of red dust that permeated the rest of the Infernal Path, and at its center awaited the Demon Prince.
An impressive yet disturbing being, he was nearly ten feet tall and grotesquely muscular, his skin leathery and black, and a pair of feathery wings sprouted from the center of his back. With the exception of his enormous crimson eyes that lacked both pupils and irides, and the curved horns that extended from either side of his forehead, the monster’s face was strangely man-like, almost handsome, particularly his prominent nose and strong jaw-line. Sharp talons covered the tips of the four fingers on each hand, and his feet strongly resembled the hooves of goats. He was also bereft of clothing, and his lengthy, thick member dangled lazily down to his knees.
Nor was he alone; on either side of the Demon Prince stood two of his servants. On his right was an imposing figure in a full suit of ancient, rusted platemail armor, metal gauntlets wrapped tightly around the shaft of a similarly-old looking halberd that was held at the ready. There was something about its stance, unbreathing and unmoving, more reminiscent of the dead than of the living. On his left was a man, markedly different from the rest of his master’s servants by the distinct lack of wings, fangs, or horns. His appearance was quite unremarkable, he wore simple gray robe and a sizeable amount of curly, red hair adorned the top of his rather plain head.
Yet it was this man, rather than the armored figure, that elicited an audible gasp of surprise from Jolicia when she recognized him. "… Garrott?!"
"Memories, when you least expect them," he stepped forward, a wide grin spread across his ordinary face. He waved slightly to the demonic army, and they responded by herding their five captives and leaving them in front of their master. Then they immediately dispersed and changed formation, until the horde completely encircled the Demon Prince, the armored figure, the robed man, and their unwilling guests. "It's a pleasure to see you too, Jolicia."
"I thought you hid from demons now," said the blonde-haired mage, her initial surprise replaced by an accusatory glare. "I warned Shelly and Judas … I knew you’d never change."
"You're a fine one to speak of changes," Garrott gestured dramatically, his lips twisting into a subtle pout. "I'll have you know, my attempts were sincere. Until your lover Judas … or I guess it's your former lover Judas now … sabotaged my protective wards. Thanks to him, they found me, and they killed me." He then looked back at his master reassuringly. "Fortunately, after no small amount of punishment, my transgressions were eventually forgiven, and I was restored to my former position as his 'Left Hand,' for which I am most grateful. I do hope you recall his 'Right Hand' as well, because Khal Ankur definitely remembers his past encounters with you."
With that, the armored figured raised his halberd and pointed it menacingly at Jolicia.
"Yes, he definitely does," the robed man chuckled. "But before he commands your slaughter, my master is curious about a few things. Since you're not gifted enough to speak his tongue, and he won't lower himself to speak yours, I'll act as his interpreter."
Chanticleer narrowed his dark eyes in disgust. "Puppet. We have no words for your master."
"Quiet, Chanticleer," said Jolicia, "I'll do the talking here."
The Demon Prince then spoke, his words unknown to human ears, and Garrott nodded and said, "My master knows you for one of those who destroyed his kin, the mighty Abbadon, some years ago. You're fortunate he hasn't ended your existence for this, and he has a question."
"Let him remain curious. I do not answer to demons."
"My master wishes to know," the robed man asked regardless. "During your travel to the world of the Titans, when you were separated from your friends, did you fall or did you leap?"
The enraged warrior charged forward. As his steel club struck, there was a loud cracking noise, and Garrott's head was left drooping awkwardly from his now-broken neck.
Yet he did not fall, and after a few moments, the robed man opened his eyes, grabbed the sides of his skull, and with another uncomfortable noise, twisted his neck back into its previous position. This act, along with the disgusted reaction of Chanticleer and his companions, caused all of the demons, except for Khal Ankur, to erupt into a chorus of amusement “Did you miss the part that I already died?!" Garrott laughed along with the others. "Such a nasty temper you have."
"Foul creature," Chanticleer growled. "I will remove your head entirely."
"That's enough," Jolicia pushed her way past him. "I said let me do the talking here."
"Please listen," said Celestia, gently touching his arm. "Jolicia knows what she does."
"She's right," added Wilfred.
'The Smith' simply nodded his acquiescence.
"Fine," the warrior half-grunted. "But one more foul word …"
Satisfied, the mage turned to the Demon Prince. "I want a deal."
There was another demonic utterance. "Why would he deal with you?" The robed man asked on behalf of his master. "At first, we thought you might be here to fulfill the prophecy, but Celestia clearly isn't ready yet for that. You don't have any advantages to bargain with."
"First of all," Jolicia then paused, attempting to address the Demon Prince directly. "… I know your true name."
"We find this ... unlikely." Yet Garrott's mouth twitched slightly, betraying a lack of conviction.
"I can prove it if you want," she defiantly smirked, "or maybe you can listen? The same friend that figured out your true name also realized … you can't touch Celestia directly. That's why the Lady in White and all the others always tried to get us to turn on her, or get her to come willingly. She's the one thing that can destroy you, and you're powerless to hurt her.”
There was a long silence, and then the Demon Prince proclaimed something unintelligible. "But not against you," said the robed man. "The rest of you can still die here."
"That's also true," the mage said in almost too agreeably. "So why not hear me out? You let the rest of us leave here, and in the future, I'll get unlimited and unrestricted access to the Infernal Path, so I can use it to transport myself and whoever I want across Everywhere."
"Ambitious," Garrott said quietly as he considered. "What is it that you offer in exchange? Your soul? Or what little's left of it, as the case might be? Every offense intended, Jolicia, but you've been up to no good, and you were never all that bright and shiny to begin with."
Unfazed, she shook her head. "You forget the prophecy has another ending." Jolicia then looked back to the others behind her. “Isn't that right … Celestia?"
"A-auntie Jo?" Her mismatched eyes widened, and there was a palpable tremble to her voice.
Concerned, Wilfred quickly moved to console her. "Celestia? What is it?"
"Enough!" Chanticleer demanded, impatient and loudly. "Cease this secrecy!"
Celestia slowly exhaled a weary breath. "Of this one last conflict; My vision, imprecise; But to achieve this victory; Her life must sacrifice." She paused, swallowing hard. "Yet I see another version; One wicked and obscene; Here child taken young; Raised as the demon's queen; Savior not, destroyer; Her power turns the tide; She pleasures in her role; As damnation's bride …"
"So let me understand it," the robed man's tongue flicked against his upper lip. "In return for your life, and use of the Infernal Path as you described … Celestia will give herself to my master?"
"Our lives," the mage corrected him. "Me, Chanticleer, 'The Smith,' and Wilfred."
"Even hiiiiiiiiiiiiiim?" Garrott whined half-heartedly as he fingered at the warrior.
"Especially him."
The Demon Prince spoke and his words were repeated thus. "We have ourselves a bargain."
In response, Celestia began to weep, Chanticleer and Wilfred defiantly raised their weapons, and 'The Smith' fixed his gaze upon his feet, letting his makeshift hatchet to slip from his hand.
"It's the only way, Celestia," Jolicia calmly urged the girl, her expression absent of any emotion. "If you don't, they'll kill the rest of us … and you'll be alone again.”
Celestia's lips quivered with uncertainty and her tears continued.
"Foul sorceress! Was this always your intent?!" Angrily, Chanticleer rushed to attack.
"An Ex Por!" The mage's disappointment was obvious as she froze the warrior in place with her magickal energies. Yet Wilfred was not so easily evaded, as he bashed his small stone axe down against her right shoulder and sent her reeling. Before he could strike again, Khal Ankur was suddenly there, the wooden butt of his halberd slamming into the former guard's stomach and knocking him to the ground. The creature then swung the blade of his weapon down, holding it against his target's throat to prevent any further resistance.
As the action unfolded around her, Celestia cried out. "Please … everyone, please stop!"
"You're the only one who can," said Jolicia once she had recovered her footing. She then slowly circled the girl until she was behind her. "Don’t you trust me?"
"I am frightened, Auntie Jo. I do not wish to surrender myself, nor to be his bride."
"… I understand." She gave Celestia's shoulders a gentle, comforting squeeze. "And I’m sorry." With a wistful sigh, the mage pushed the girl forward, away from her defenders and Garrott and Khal Ankur, until they stood before the Demon Prince. Jolicia then shoved the stunned Celestia one final time, forcing her to collapse at his hooves. "She's all yours … I give her to you freely."
"You really have changed." The robed servant seemed pleased. "I'm impressed."
"Go fuck yourself." She tightened her fingers as if to cast another spell. But instead, she lowered the brim of her hat and retreated back towards the others she had betrayed.
"Celestia!" Chanticleer and Wilfred simultaneously shouted her name, the former still struggling against Jolicia's spell and the latter failing to squirm away from his armored opponent.
As everyone gathered (but Jolicia and 'The Smith') watched on in either horror or enjoyment, the Demon Prince eagerly reached for his prize. Talons grasped the girl's arms, causing her to recoil in revulsion and tightly shut her mismatched eyes. Next, he lifted up Celestia, dragging his wet, forked tongue across her terrified face.
"I will kill you all!" Chanticleer shouted as the paralyzing magicks begin to fade.
"Don’t be stupid," the mage said harshly, her hat obscuring much of her face. "We didn’t make it in time … this was our only escape." She opened a pouch hanging from her belt and removed something from it, slipping the hard object inside the waist of his chainmail leggings. "The only way to win this." Then Jolicia reluctantly cast another spell. "In Zu!"
Despite the violence of his rage and the piercing screams of Celestia's protests against her fate, he was instantly forced him into a deep sleep. There was no sensation of time passing, yet when consciousness returned, Chanticleer knew he was somehow elsewhere. He felt the soft comfort of fine blankets around him, the support of a firm mattress beneath him, and the breath of true air untainted by desolation of the Infernal Path, and he slowly stirred.
"Chanticleer? Do you hear me?" The voice was welcoming and familiar.
Impossible, the warrior told himself. It cannot be him.
"Good, you're finally awake, we've been worried.”
Chanticler slowly opened his eyes, still unconvinced at what awaited him.
"Hello, old friend."
END PART TWO
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Post by Chanticleer on Mar 28, 2017 15:53:25 GMT -5
PART THREE: MEANWHILES
Meanwhile ...
Once, long ago, and in a time yet to come, there was an island floating lonely in a sea of stars. And on this island, there stood a fortress made of stone, impenetrable to all who sought to breach its mighty and impressive walls. And within this fortress resided a mad yet powerful Emperor, his six offspring, and his legion of followers, knights and mages and soldiers that were loyal to him unto death. But this was long ago, and in a time yet to come; for now this fortress -- made of stone that stood on an island floating lonely in a sea of stars -- was abandoned. Or mostly so.
There was no day or night in that endless sea of stars; time held little importance there, and thus the particular hour and minute of Jolicia’s arrival was both irrelevant and impossible to discern. One moment, the courtyard of the fortress’ central keep was devoid of all life, and in that next moment, the blonde mage was present, filthy and battered from her journey along the Infernal Path. As she paused to reclaim her labored breath and calm her overburdened senses, Jolicia was able to briefly enjoy the quiet and isolation of her new surroundings: a large, paved garden filled not with flowers or plants, but huge emerald statues crafted in various sizes and artistically questionable shapes. Then, the moment after that, she was no longer alone.
“Mistress, you’ve returned.” These words came from high above the mage, a woman positioned atop the dozens of stone steps that marked the keep’s front entrance. Jet-black hair tied into a ponytail, tan and flawless skin, and a toned and curvy figure barely covered by strips of leather armor. A tattoo of a deadly, crooked dagger adorned her left hip.
At the sight and sound of her, Jolicia felt her neck tense. “I’ve told you all ... don’t call me that.” She turned to ascend the stairs, every step slow and deliberate. “Is he here?”
“No,” she shook her head . “Master left a few days ago on business.”
“Don’t call him that either.” When she reached the top, the mage disregarded the other woman walking towards the keep’s large wooden doors. It was only after she had pushed them open and was nearly inside that she half-turned. “Which one ... are you again?”
“I’m Dezera Number Nine.” Her reply was calm and matter-of-fact. “We’ve spoken before.”
“Oh,” Jolicia shrugged uncomfortable. “I ... need a bath.”
“Do you require help to draw your bath?” The Dezera bowed her head deferentially.
“... no.”
The mage immediately regretted her stubbornness Her shoulder was still sore from the blow of Wilfred’s crude axe, and the rest of her ached from days of walking and resting dead, uneven ground. But instead of asking for assistance, she chose to rely upon her spells, summoning a creature of stone to carry buckets of water from the keep’s magickal well to the copper tub located inside the small chamber located next to their bedroom. Jolicia suspected the gargoyle natives of Ter Mur never intended their magicks for such frivolous purposes, but she also wagered that hygiene was never a priority for those demon-skinned creatures.
She submerged herself entirely, her eyes closing as the warm water eliminated all traces of the Infernal Path’s ubiquitous red dust from her body. True relaxation, however, proved elusive.
“You really have changed. I'm impressed.”
She never would have conceded the point to him, but Garrott was not entirely wrong. During the past five years -- Jolicia of the House of Draven, then Jolicia of Ashencrosse, and finally Jolicia of the Emerald Trading Company -- none of them could have predicted the Jolicia she now was.
“Foul sorceress! Was this always your intent?!”
This Chanticleer possessed a suspicious and paranoid mind, more so than even the Chanticleer of her own world. How he would react once he became aware of their plans?
“We can trust Jolicia. She was one of my mother’s closest friends ...”
Necessity had triumphed over guilt and survival was foremost. Jolicia lamented Celestia’s fate and wondered how harshly their mutual friends would judge her actions. Judas, Alisiea, Aingeal, Lucas, Faeryl, Deraj, and all of the rest. Especially Judas.
“Tell me you will be happy there. Lie to me.”
Poor Judas; he wanted her to stay, but it was already too late.
“I'm staying. I love you, but I love him more.”
Her own words and in her own voice, yet they somehow no longer felt right.
“I understand, Jo Jo. I understand ... but I can’t abide.”
His outcome was always inevitable. She knew better now.
“Jo Jo?”
Then she saw him standing there, watching her warm, wet body soaking in that copper tub. Tall and black-robed, strange eyes peering down from the darkness of his hood. “... Renthar.”
“Is there room for another?” He asked with a curious grin. “My journey was long and hard.”
“I ... don’t know,” the mage smiled coyly in response, splashing bath water at him with her foot, purposely revealing more than her legs as she did so. “It’s a tight fit.”
“That’s exactly how I prefer it,” said Renthar, and he began to disrobe.
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Mar 31, 2017 11:32:05 GMT -5
Meanwhile ...They numbered ten in total: Prince Orian, the last surviving scion of House Flamestar; Raeff, the Mage-Lord and commander of the Moonshade Tactics Squad; King Wyllt and Queen Charity, the lycan rulers of Talon’s Crag; the beautiful, wise and near-immortal Vanima, Empress of the Elves of Lunar Forest, and her prince-consort and bodyguard, the elven paladin Sir MIKE; Lord and Lady Wenderford of the prideful Consortium of New Fawn; Duncan MacConnor, the valiant and hairy chieftain of the Highlanders of Justice; an unnamed emissary from the lands belonging to the Order of the Automata, a race of mechanical, unliving golems; and ‘ ’, the mysterious and powerful leader of the equally mysterious and powerful Chaos Cabal. One by one by one, they were led into the vast council chamber, those leaders of the factions that made up the Alliance of Rival, Powerful Kingdoms that so dominated eastern Everywhere. Their escorts, who once wore the fire-blade insignias of House Flamestar, now displayed the Silver Serpent, as they grudgingly guided these visiting dignitaries through the halls of Castle Holden, until recently known as Sanctum Keep, once the seat of power of the Holy Kingdom of Sanctum. Inside the room, its walls adorned with decorative tapestries dedicated to the glory of the castle’s former residents, there was a man seated at the head of the large, rectangular stone table. He was Lord Neville Holden, a tall, well-groomed knight in his late forties, with light blue eyes, receding blonde hair, and a thick and prominent moustache. Except for his uncovered head, he was clad in a suit of fine silver-white platemail, the symbol of the Silver Serpent emblazoned on his light gray tunic and matching cloak. Behind him stood three individuals: a female knight, who was armored similarly to her lord, her features concealed by her close helm; a nervous, bookish man with thick black spectacles; and a tall, lithe, dark-eyed woman of elven-blood, wearing dull red robes, her hair twisted into long, twin braids that fell past her shoulders. The knight did not rise to greet his guests, he waited until they sat themselves, and then, with a slight sneer, he addressed them. “Those of you I have gathered here today are amongst the most prominent of the Alliance of rival, powerful kingdoms, and during the past years, all of you have sought to oppose me, in one form another. And all of you have failed.” He paused to assess their reactions, which ranged from muted to blatant disdain. “Yet I am not an unreasonable man; I am a strict adherent to the eight virtues of my now-departed King, and I look to the principles of Truth, Love, and Courage to guide my every choice.” “Ye soun’ loik uh fewkin’ Brit,” said Duncan MacConnor with a wry grin. “Because I am Britannian, and as the victorious in our recent conflicts, you will stay silent until I permit otherwise.” Holden’s expression was impassive as he continued. “Originally, I hail from Britannia, although a vastly different Britannia than the one here in Everywhere. There, I was a knight of the Order of the Silver Serpent, devoted to my liege unto death. Until Lord British did abandon his kingdom, letting it fall to chaos.” His moustache twitched to mark his disapproval. “There were those who sought to take advantage, while those who desired a return to order soon learned of the existence of a certain prophecy. I will spare you the specifics, but it involves a descendant of the Lost King of Sosaria, destined to rule once British was gone, through the use of four artifacts known as the Titan Seals. They were hidden away, and various groups vied for their possession. Eventually, they were taken from my world, and their remnants of the seals are now here in Everywhere. As you may have surmised, the blood of the Lost King flows through my veins, and I intend to fulfill the prophecy and return to my home as its king.” A wary Lord Wenderford of New Fawn slowly raised his hand, waiting until he was recognized before speaking. “How is it … the Alliance may serve you, Lord Holden?” “Thus far,” said the knight. “I have collected two of the seal fragments, Hydros and Lithos. The first was held by the former Mage-Lord. He refused my request, threatened to transform me into a pig and violate me.” He nodded at the blue-haired Raeffe, who acknowledged with the knight with a smirk. “This is why he is Mage-Lord now. The late King Flamestar held the second, and he also proved unwilling to compromise.” He nodded at Prince Orian, who was far less amused than the Mage-Lord. “This is why he, along with his Queen, and all their children except for this one are now dead. The other two artifacts, Pyros and Stratos, continue to elude me. They will be located, but in order to eventually return to my home, there is one final obstacle.” He then turned to the spectacled scholar behind him. “My librarian Relvinian will explain further.” “ Relvianian?!” Empress Vanima frowned, the lines of her small mouth creasing her otherwise impeccable elven skin. “Thou art a Britannian who hast dabbled in matters of demonology.” “N-n-no,” the anxious librarian emphatically shook his head. “I can a-a-assure you, it’s merely a coincidence. We share a common name … maybe a common ancestor, that’s all.” He coughed loudly, clearing his throat. “Even once we have the seals, we’re still trapped here. All of my research indicates that it’s Lady British who controls people from leaving Everywhere.” “That will be all, Relvinian,” Holden turned back to his guests. “None of you holds any love for Lady British or her allies, House Blandinus of the Twilight Juvenalia. In the south, the Lands of Unknown Despair are an untouched resource, and the probable location of at least one of my missing seal fragments. This is what I offer to you. The Alliance will come together, under my leadership and in disregard of past differences, and in exchange, I will give you Everywhere.” The responses from those gathered were both loud and mixed. Some were angry or offended, some were curious or excited, and some did not demonstrate their opinions at all. Holden allowed them another half-minute of bickering before interrupting. “Silence! You have no choice in this; those who refuse will be slain, their more compliant successors chosen by me.” He then motioned to the knight and half-elf at his rear. “Allow me to introduce Sir Deniah, my second, and Leigh, my attendant. They will now take your oaths of fealty.” Sir Deniah and Leigh approached Raeff first, and the knight addressed the azure-robed mage while the elf stood quietly aside. “Do you swear to serve our Lord Holden, the rightful King of all Sosaria, and obey his word as the leader of the Alliance of rival, powerful kingdoms?” Before he could answer, Leigh whispered something to herself. “I already committed when he killed the last Mage-Lord and named me his replacement,” Raeff shrugged, “but I’ll do it again. I promise my loyalty to Lord Holden, now and forever.” “Very good,” said Sir Deniah. She briefly glanced at Leigh, who replied with a small nod. The two then proceeded to take the oaths of King Wyllt and Queen Charity, Chieftain MacConnor, Empress Vanima and Sir MIKE, the Automata emissary, Lord and Lady Wenderford, ‘ ’ of the Chaos Cabal, and then finally, Prince Orian. “I ... do swear it,” said the Prince, his face flush with discomfort. “Again,” Leigh spoke suddenly and for the first time, surprising nearly everyone present. The knight repeated her question. “Prince, do you promise to serve Lord Holden, rightful King of all Sosaria, and obey his word as the leader of the Alliance of rival, powerful kingdoms?” “I swear it,” Orian sighed in annoyance. “I swear it all on my honor as a Flamestar.” “He’s lying,” the dark-haired elf said plainly. “He’s a liar.” “How dare you accuse me of such?!” Both the Prince’s tone and demeanor became offended. “ An Quas Lor. Hear Truth.” Leigh calmly looked to Holden, who had not moved from his seat. “He’s lying, Lord Holden. So are the puppy people and the pretty elves; I think they’re all in it together. Maybe the chaos mage too, but it’s hard to tell. I think he makes his own truth.” “Quite the disappointment,” her lord sighed, almost sounding bored. Frantically, Orian tried to rally the others similarly accused. “Friends, we are known! We must defend ourselves! For House Flamestar!” Then, with a skill honed through years of training, he drew Blaze, his family’s honor-sword, and he thrusted at the dark-haired elf. “ Flam Por.” Leigh vanished in a flash of fire, reappearing nearly instantly at Holden’s side. Sir Deniah struck next, and a quick slash of her long blade rendered the Prince a bloody mess on the floor. In the skirmish that followed, the Mage-Lord slew Sir MIKE with a combination of the explosion and energy bolt spells, and Lord Wenderford fell to the claws of Queen Charity, who like her husband, had shapeshifted into a human/wolf hybrid creature. Eventually, the rulers of Talon’s Crag, the distraught Empress Vanima, and the magic-wielding ‘ ’ retreated to one side of the room, while the others assembled on the opposite end. “A battle to the death,” snarled Queen Charity. “Survival belongs only to the fittest.” “What are your orders?” Sir Deniah asked, her voice urgent and her weapon at the ready. “Keep safe our loyal allies,” said Lord Holen. “ Leigh will attend to the traitors.” “Tha’ wee twig o’ an elf lass?!” Duncan MacConnor asked in utter disbelief. “ Was Hur Por.” Leigh jumped into the air, eight feet upwards and twenty feet across, landing at the center of the stone meeting table. “ In Sanct An Jux.” “What kind of magic is that?” Raeff asked, perplexed. “I never heard those words of power.” “Weakling prey!” King Wyllt charged forward on bestial legs, leaping at the dark-haired elf with his canine claws unsheathed. But he never reached her, instead slamming into the invisible barrier of hardened air that protected her. Dazed, the lycan monarch could not prevent his intended victim from grasping both sides of his wolf-like visage “ In Flam Ylem.” “My love!!!” His wife screamed in anguish as King Wyllt’s head burst into flames. “ Quas An Lor.” Leigh chanted the words and immediately faded from sight. “O’ death, I am prepared for you!” The hooded ‘ ’ shouted. “You shall all perish with me!” He cackled madly, his fingers forming arcane gestures. “ Vas Kal An Mani In --” Before he could finish, Queen Charity pounced swiftly, knocking the Chaos Cabalist down onto his back. “Fool! You would cast Armageddon and doom us all?!” She crouched down, slicing her sharpened fingernails across his throat and thus ending his life. “ Rel Sanct Ylem.” Leigh emerged nearby from her spell of concealment. “ Empress!” The female lycan called to her collaborator. “We can defeat her!” “ Aye,” Vanima nodded slowly, wiping tears of grief from her flawless face and reaching for her leaf blade. “Mine beloved Prince-Consort, Sir MIKE and thy Husband, good King Wyllt. Their lives shall not be wasted. The Alliance will not fall to these outsiders!” Together, the Queen and Empress acted, but the dark-haired elf’s body deflected their attacks, as if her skin was somehow reinforced by the earth itself. “You cowardly bitch!” Charity shouted. “Face us without your magic!! Face us as true warriors deserve!!!” “ Kal Vas Flam Corp Xen.” A fiery conflagration exploded all around her, consuming that entire side of the chamber. Within a few moments, the fire was gone, and only Leigh was still alive, unfazed amidst the ashes of her opponents. Her magicks burned so intensely, scorch marks had replaced the wall tapestries, and half the meeting table was charred or melted. “ Flam Por.” With those words, she transported herself back to Lord Holden and the rest. “It’s done.” “As always, you have my gratitude,” the middle-aged knight smiled graciously, before returning his attention to the surviving Alliance leaders. “Come, these accommodations are insufficient, and there is much for us to discuss. We have a war to win.” To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Apr 6, 2017 16:01:16 GMT -5
Meanwhile ...
Everyone knows of the Avatar! The stranger from another world! The hero of Britannia! The one who mastered the path of the Eight Virtues, attained enlightenment, and saved the kingdom from the plague known as the Black Weep! But where is it the Avatar comes from, if not one of the four kingdoms of Everywhere?! Rumor has it, the Avatar actually hails from another land known as Earth, summoned here by Lady British in our time of greatest need! But who is the Avatar exactly?! The Avatar is you, the Avatar is me, the Avatar is all of us, the very best we strive for, the ideal we can only hope to someday achieve! But what does the Avatar look like?! Is he tall or short?! Is she man or woman?! Is s/he a great warrior or a powerful mage?! The Avatar is all of these things and more! But how is such even possible?! Because this is Everywhere, my friends, and here in Everywhere, everything is possible, and then some!!!
It was more than two years since the Black Weep was cured, and during that time, the Avatar had traveled all of Britannia. Accompanied by the brave and stalwart Dupray the paladin, Shamuno the ranger, and Yolo the bard, they spread the Eight Virtues to the populace, not by word but by deed, putting right any wrongs that they encountered. Until one day, word reached the group that Lady British again needed their assistance. But the Avatar was never one to leave a matter unconcluded, and the three companions journeyed to Britain while their leader completed their quest to restore the eight runes of virtue to the cities they were stolen from.
When the Avatar finally arrived at Castle Britannia, it was a promising spring afternoon, and the warmest of greetings were offered by those encountered. The hero was then escorted directly to the throne room, the most impressive of its kind in all of Everywhere. More than two-stories tall and large enough for hundreds of guests, the room’s walls were covered with the symbols of the Eight Virtues, the heraldry of the kingdom’s loyal cities, and most prominently, the crest of the Silver Serpent. A purple-red carpet with gold trims ran the length of the floor, from the entrance all the way to the royal dais, and seated upon the throne was none other than Lady British. On the wall behind her were two portraits, one of the queen herself, and one of her absent father.
“Arise, Avatar,” said Lady British with a slight wave of her slender fingers. She was dressed in long violet robes, an amethyst-encrusted platinum crown, and as always, her red-ruby amulet.
Her heroic guest obeyed, rising from bended knee. “Thanks, Your Majesty. It’s good to be back in your presence.” The Avatar wore a simple red tunic emblazoned with a large golden ankh, a suit of silver-colored chain mail armor underneath, leaving only the head and face unprotected.
“The gratitude is all mine, dear Avatar, for all you have done and continue to do for us.” A warm smile dominated the queen’s face. “Your decision to remain after curing the Black Weep, rather than returning to your homeworld, was quite the selfless one. Just recently, I heard tell of your conflict with the Black Knight, who did cruelly steal away the eight runes of virtue.”
The hero of Britannia frowned in disappointment. “It’s unfortunate he escaped in the end.”
“Aye, yet I have no doubt you will thwart him once more, should he make due on his threats to punish the mayors of Britannia for assisting you against him,” she said encouragingly. “But it is not the Black Knight that concerns us today, but new dangers.”
“Are you talking about that breach at Wrong?” The Avatar asked with a suggestion of subdued remorse. “I heard about it, but we were too busy with the Black Knight to investigate.”
The queen’s pursed her thick, purple-glossed lips. “Do not worry about Wrong, this discussion pertains to another matter. Britannia is safe and prosperous, but there are stirrings outside our kingdom, in other parts of Everywhere. In the past, have I told you of the Technocrats?”
There was a small nod in response. “Your hidden allies that live in the south.”
“Not entirely so,” her blue eyes glanced about suspiciously to ensure their privacy. “It is more accurate that their lands are only accessible through the Lands of Unknown Despair. While they are mostly at peace, they do have a persistent problem with rebels, including the Meer and Juka, two races native to the realm of the Technocrats. During your time here with us, you must have heard of cat and lizard-people being sighted in the wilderness. These are Meer and Juka.” She sighed quietly and continued. “Our covenant with the Technocrats requires Britannia and the Twilight Juvenalia to restore any such escapees to their home, or slay them if they resist and make it impossible. It is difficult to explain, but the very existence of Everywhere requires us to act so. Which is why it troubles me that there are recent reports of dealings between these rebels and a new settlement in the southern lands, a place called Emerald Town.”
“I gladly will go south, if that’s your command.”
Lady British replied with a slight shake of her head. “Nay, it is merely something of concern. As does news that the Alliance to the east has united under a new leader. An outworlder, such as ourselves, and one who also claims the silver serpent as his symbol.”
“How dare he?!” The Avatar, and not calmly. “Who is this pretender?!”
“Neville Holden,” said the queen, her expression uncomfortable at the mention of his name. “He hails from a … lesser version of Britannia. One I hold some familiarity with. His intentions are unknown, and thus I have tasked Dupray, Shamuno, and Yolo to seek an audience with him on behalf of Britannia to ensure peaceful relations.”
“At least we have House Blandinus on our side,” the hero of Britannia said encouragingly.
“Of this, I am no longer certain,” she said with a hint of regret. “While Marcus and Pomponia do possess significant resources, they hoard it and are hesitant to commit to open conflict. I find it troublesome that Ambassador Adam just notified me that he has been recalled to New Umbral until the spring comes. Ostensibly, it is so he and Baroness Marney can adopt another orphan for their ever expanding family, yet I have my suspicions.”
“I understand completely,” said the Avatar. “I’ll do whatever I can to keep our kingdom safe.”
“My thanks,” Lady British stretched her delicate mouth into a wide smile. “For now, it is best that you stay at my side, here in Castle Britannia. While our kingdom is stable, our world is not. There are various factions that vie for control, and the very nature of the land means it will shift and bend to the strongest of wills.” As she spoke, she stroked at the red-ruby around her neck. “This must always be me, for if Everywhere falls, then all else is lost ...”
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Apr 12, 2017 14:55:01 GMT -5
Meanwhile ...
Le Chateau Malas rested on the eastern banks of the widest part of the River of Tears, at a point midway between New Umbral and Londinium. High, thick walls of shadowstone protected the splendorous mansion, reinforced by powerful spells that made them unscalable and impervious. A single road, a little traveled branch off the Imperial Highway, passed the entrance of nearby Fort Remus, which quartered more than two hundred centurions, ensuring that no one unwanted ever ventured close. Nor was the surrounding Bloodwood Forest unpatrolled; at all times it was guarded by loyal scouts adept at moving stealthily between its trees.
“Have we met before?” Baroness Marney asked their escort as the trio approached the front gates of Le Chateau Malas. She peered closer with her emerald green eyes, which tightened slightly as she struggled to place his face. “You look familiar, but I don’t know how.”
“My name’s Carlen ... Baroness,” said the short guard, nervously adding her honorific almost as an afterthought. He wore a full-suit of shadow-iron chainmail and a dark tunic that displayed the image of a single dark tower encircled by a field of red. Although his scalp was covered entirely by his chainmail coif, a strand of thick red hair had somehow escaped, and now rested against his freckled forehead. “It’s been more than ten years, but I was one of the orphans that survived the war between Moonshade and the Dark Covenant. I know you’ve rescued hundreds just like me, so I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure if you remembered me or not.”
“No, I ... remember.” Her subsequent frown creased her normally soft features.
The other member of their group reached for her hand, embracing it tightly with his comforting fingers. “Honey, you’re my wife now and don’t have to worry about that again.”
“Adam, are you so sure with recent news?” Marney squeezed his hand in response, despite her incredulous tone. “Part of me wishes we could just return to our southern estate. It’s so pleasant in Moi’ami in the summer time, and I feel so safe when we’re there.” She glanced at Carlen, who seemed uncomfortable with the exchange, and changed the subject. “I’m glad you did well for yourself, Centurion. How do you like being in my father’s service?”
“I’m so grateful for everything that House Blandinus has given me, Baroness.” Carlen bowed his head deferentially. “I was lucky to be placed at the Forever Tower and recruited into the High Co-Consul Imperators’ house guard. I’ve even been told that after I’m fully grown, if I continue to show my loyalty, I’ll have a chance to become one of the embraced.”
Past the gates, the red-haired centurion bid them farewell to return to his duties. Neither Adam nor Marney minded, both were familiar with the interior of Le Chateau Malas. They had spent many months there as children, running through its lavish halls and playing in its exotic gardens, and after they were chosen as full-ranking members of House Blandinus, they often visited to engage in more pleasurable forms of relaxation with the rest of their family. Minutes later, they walked the mansion’s corridors, exchanging fond memories as they did so.
This digression into things nostalgic quickly faded as they entered the private meeting chamber. Unlike the rest of Le Chateau Malas, this room was sparsely decorated to reflect a more practical purpose. The walls were entirely bare except for an old painting of the Forever Tower, and the only furniture was an oval table made of sturdy oak and matching chairs. Marius, tall and blonde and regal, and Pomponia, raven-haired and beautiful stood there examining a large map that covered most of the table’s surface,their brows burdened by worry.
“High Co-Consul Imperators.” Adam’s phrasing was respectful and formal.
“Mother! Father!” His wife, however, practically shrieked in delight.
“My two favorite children,” Pomponia’s face softened considerably, and she stepped forward to wrap her arms around them, pressing her slender yet curvaceous body firmly against theirs.
“It’s good to have you home,” said Marius, though his expression did not match that sentiment.
“Father, what’s wrong?” Marney inclined her head questioningly.
Pomponia sighed softly. “Then you haven’t heard the news? According to our spies, Britannia and the Alliance are preparing for war. The fighting will begin any day now.”
“What?!” Adam was in shock. “But everything was okay when we left Britain last month!”
“From what we’ve learned,” his mother explained, with no small amount of distaste, “the Alliance have finally put aside their differences and united under the leadership of Neville Holden, this knight who claims to be from another world.” She scoffed derisively. “As if such a thing was so easily done. Lady British sent three of the Avatar’s closest companions to establish diplomatic relations. They found Shamuno in Paws, barely alive, with the heads of Dupray and Yolo tied to the stumps where his hands used to be. Britannia has no choice but to retaliate.”
“We anticipated Holden’s aggression,” the other High Co-Consul Imperator added. “It would be impossible to unite the Alliance without it, they’re a bunch of war-mongering fools. This is why we recalled you home, to prepare for when their fighting inevitably extends to our lands. Consulari Ormondo is already busy readying our soldiers and our defenses.”
“This isn’t fair!” The full, painted lips of the Baroness quivered with outrage. “How dare they force us to fight when all we want to do is spend time on other things? Like helping people?!”
Pomponia slowly rubbed her daughter’s back. “There, there, my darling. We have some time left. Our spies also told us the Alliance has split its forces, but their second target isn’t us, like expected. They’re heading south, which is strange because there’s nothing there.”
“This is too much!!!” Her son shook his head in frustration. “I thought the news we had was important, but it’s not as important as any of this.”
“What is it?” The female High Co-Consul Imperator squeezed his arm with her free hand.
“Some prisoners escaped from Wrong,” Marney closed her eyes, sobbing a few times as she did so. “Chanticleer ... John … whatever that bastard’s real name is. He was one of them.”
“Damn him!” Her father shouted, slamming his clenched fists down against the table. “We had assurances Wrong was inescapable. If only that Atilius hadn’t failed to redeem himself!”
“Husband, please,” said Pomponia, stroking their daughter’s distraught face with her gentle and comforting fingers. “Your plan was a clever one, and Atilius’ failures aren’t ours. This John will pay for harming our favorite daughter.” She leaned forward and kissed the Baroness fully on the lips. “But now isn’t a time for regret, it’s a time for celebration.” And then with her other hand, she reached between Adam’s legs and gave him a firm squeeze. “Our family’s together again.”
“You always did know best, my love,” said Marcus, disrobing as he moved to join his family.
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Apr 21, 2017 12:03:00 GMT -5
Meanwhile ...
Following their respective climaxes, achieved by a flurry of tongues, fingers, and various points of penetration, Jolicia and Renthar lingered in the copper tub awhile longer, their bodies lazily entangled as they soaked in a mixture of water, suds, and their own fluids. After a time, he offered her one his unnaturally wide and strange smiles, squeezing her tightly as she lay on top of him and said. “I’m in need of another bath now.”
She grinned in response and kissed him softly on the mouth. “I really missed you.”
Later still, after they had washed again, the blonde-haired mage dressed and joined her lover in the small, windowless chamber, located atop the keep’s central tower, and accessible only by a narrow spiral staircase. It was devoid of any embellishments except for the emerald crystal, as tall and wide as a small-sized man, situated on a plain golden pedestal in its center. They had been told the strange crystal was fashioned by the castle’s former owner, and the scope of its scrying abilities were limited by neither time nor space. Since their arrival in Everywhere nearly six months prior, this was where Renthar had spent countless, sleep-deprived hours, utilizing the artifact to explore matters that only he seemed to fully comprehend.
“My astonishment never ceases,” the tall, strange-eyed sorcerer exclaimed as his companion entered the room, briefly shifting his gaze to acknowledge her presence. “This mad emperor who once ruled here was a most impressive man. “I’m still uncertain how this place came to be tethered to Everywhere, or how it keeps us hidden from our unsuspecting foes, but I’ll always be grateful to our friend in Emerald Town for granting it to us”
“Yes,” Jolicia nodded curtly. “It’s been helpful.”
“Come closer, Jo Jo,” said Renthar, pointing at something beneath the gem’s surface. “Our plans unfold, and within a few short months, the Alliance will send its armies north and south. This Sir Neville Holden seems quite ambitious, our dealings with him will prove interesting.” When she reached his side, he gently touched her arm. “Speaking of, how did you fare in Wrong?”
“Just like you expected.” Her demeanor and her words stayed calm as she spoke. “Celestia is with the demon nows, and we have unrestricted access to the Infernal Path. Chanticleer and ‘The Smith’ are safe in Emerald Town. I also rescued another prisoner ... one we didn’t plan on. His name’s Wilfred, a corrupt guard from Wrong, but he shouldn’t make much of a difference.”
His strange eyes narrowed in curiosity. “And how do you feel about your own actions?”
Jolicia half-shrugged. “It’s too bad we couldn’t save her too, but it needed to be done. I guess I’m worried we’ve given the demon too much. We accidentally empowered him before, when you cast that ritual back home to cure us of Draven’s influence. Now that he has Celestia, there’s nothing to stop him from fulfilling the prophecy and attacking our old world.”
“Worry not, my dearest Jo Jo.” Despite his attempt, the sorcerer’s smile was more disconcerting than reassuring. “Do you know what a conjunction is?”
“I’ve ... read things about them,” she said hesitantly. “Magical events that happen at the same time, and a strong enough caster can use them as a source of power?”
“No, no, not that sort,” he chuckled, somewhat abruptly. “I speak grammatically, of words such as ‘and’, ‘or’, ‘but’, and the like. Due to the rather fickle nature of Everywhere, things hold different meanings here, and they aren’t always as mutually exclusive.”
The mage pursed her lips contemplatively. “I trust you, and ... I think I understand.” She rested her hands on his chest and gazed up at him. He was more than a foot taller than her five and a half feet of height, and when they spoke it often felt like he hovered over her. “What about you? You weren’t here when I got back, and one of those ... she said you had some business?”
“A success,” said Renthar, who responded by placing his own hands on her shoulders. “Even so, it’s burdensome to have been born before the Shattering of Mondain’s Gem of Immortality, that there are versions of me on every shard containing a mirror version of Sosaria.” An amused look spread across his face. “This one was interesting. My counterpart there, along with other former soldiers of Mondain, such as Jon Abbot, Serak, and Belmont, had forsworn all forms of conflict after the war, and retreated to a monastery. The wasted potential was a disappointment, but at least his passivity made it easier to convince the fool of what needed to be done.”
“How many are left?” She asked, leaning into him.
“Only a handful,” he explained enthusiastically. “Oddly enough, one of the more elusive ones is from the same shard as Lady British, Chanticleer, Neville Holden, and a few of the other players here in Everywhere. He had changed his name and joined a group of necromancers near Umbra, but he fled when I made contact, and I can locate him no longer. I’ve made attempts at recruiting allies, but only a few heard my call. One is a mage, part of a particularly potent cult, and I’ve convinced him I’m some sort of otherworldly power he can bargain with. The next is a spirit medium, the inbred royal of some fallen northern kingdom there, but he struggles to perceive me. The last are a pair of siblings, twins in fact, who are involved with that Britannia’s version of our old friends, the Camorra. They seem to hold the most promise.”
“No more Camorra,” Jolicia groaned in annoyance. “What will you do?”
“We’ll wait and see.” The sorcerer slowly slid his hands down her back. “There’s only so many places he can hide, and he can’t hide forever. Someone will eventually find him, either for us or to our advantage.”
“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind them. It was one of the Dezeras, of a similar appearance, attire, and manner of deference as all the other Dezeras. “Where do Master and Mistress want to have their supper? In the dining hall, or would you like it served up here?”
“I suppose here is fine,” Renthar shrugged indifferently. “But not for another hour yet.”
“Yes, Master,” said the Dezera, and then she descended the spiral staircase.
The mage proclaimed her discomfort with a heavy sigh. “Why her? Why’d it have to be her?”
“I could send them back to their home shards,” the sorcerer teased her backside with his fingers, “and find a more suitable replacement. Do you miss the Countess? Or perhaps Wolfwood?”
“Please no,” Jolicia shook her head. “It’s just ... they remind me of the one from our world.”
“That’s exactly why I chose her, Jo Jo,” said Renthar as he gripped her harder. “Hers wasn’t the first murder we committed together, but her death commenced our new lives together, and for that reason it’ll always hold a special place in my heart.”
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on May 2, 2017 15:59:19 GMT -5
Meanwhile …
The Twin Suns were ascendant in the morning sky. They were near enough in their proximity to be mistaken for a single orb, and to inspire tales of lost lovers, cruelly denied a mortal existence together, but then transformed and now forever entangled in the heavens above. Far below, there was activity inside the ancient ruins that lay at the center of Everywhere, five new arrivals to this strange world where coincidence was a natural law and inconsistency was a constant. Their entrance was straightforward and without any difficulties, they did not fall like Chanticleer, or pass through an unstable portal like Sir Neville Holden and his followers. Instead, each had been provided with a small, circular red token with a square-shaped hole in the middle and the same dark indecipherable symbol etched at different points along its surface. Not only was the group armed and armored, but they were mounted and had enough supplies to last them a month.
“Hopefully this will still work here like he said,” said their leader, a tall, pale elven woman with long, braided silvery-white hair and blue eyes, as she held up a small crystal ball.
A warrior wearing a suit of chainmail and a reddish cloak, flashed her an affable grin. He stood six feet tall with an athletic build, and his dark brown eyes were constantly moving about. “Hopefully, my friend, there will be no need for your pets at all.”
“Hopefully.” She grabbed one of her saddle bags and took out a small scroll, which she unrolled into a map. After studying the parchment for less than a minute, she turned to her companions and said. “It’s almost directly south from here. Let’s go.”
For two weeks they rode at a quickened pace, pausing only to make camp at night. Most of the time, they shared a sense of camaraderie, the sort of bond that resulted from experiencing mutual joy and suffering. Still, on occasions, a stray word or look hinted at unresolved matters that lingered between some of them. In the desolate wastes of the Barren Plains, they encountered nothing, no travelers or creatures, hostile or otherwise, only the ubiquitous dull-gray green grass that spread for miles in every direction. Unlike most of those who passed through, however, they were well-prepared and never endured hunger, thirst, or that overwhelming need to surrender all and die; they journeyed with a purpose.
Beyond the empty flat lands, they reached the fourth, southernmost kingdom of Everywhere, the Lands of Unknown Despair. The origin of this name, like much about the region, was concealed in mystery, although it was presumably related to its frustratingly unpredictable geography. It was a jumble of climate and terrain without any logical transitions -- a tract of lush, steaming jungle, then a bitter frozen tundra, then a pleasant stretch of calm, grassy hillsides. Yet they were hardly discouraged, the group was well-supplied and steadily guided by their elven leader’s map.
On occasion, the five passed a lone castle or small village, causing them to quicken their pace and avoid contact with those who resided within. It was not until the beginning of their fourth week in Everywhere, when they reached a sturdy wooden bridge that spanned a wide, flowing river, that they finally paused to discuss what lay ahead. High above, the Twin Suns dominated the skies, beating down upon them and making for a particularly sweaty autumn day.
“The map says we’ll reach Emerald Town in a few more days,” the white-haired elf said, shifting in her saddle to face her companions, two men and two women, all black of hair and human.
“Aye, an odd name for a town, an even odder coincidence given our own name.” No cracks had appeared in the warrior’s ever-agreeable demeanor, but the heat had caused him to shed his chainmail tunic for a plain white sleeveless shirt, revealing the tattoo of a crooked dagger on the underside of his left forearm. “But still we lack a plan.”
“The plan’s simple.” The second man was clad in leather armor, and he possessed a wiry build and subtle mannerisms that hinted at skills in stealth and subterfuge. His left eye was covered by a small leather patch, and his left foot moved with a pronounced stiffness. “Coincidence or not, Faeryl, we’re going to find our friend and bring her home.”
“I hope that we’re enough.” The speaker was barely twenty years of age, an olive skinned, curvy figure who carried herself with the dignity and poise of the nobility. She wore a fine silk dress, the outline of her leather bustier and skirt were visible underneath, and on her lap rested a thick book of spells. “There’s something here that isn’t quite right, you can almost feel it.”
“We didn’t have a choice, our lead was a limited time offer,” the elf said with a frown. “Edred’s still on that scouting mission, Zoe wasn’t going to be back from her travels in time, and I didn’t know how to reach Deraj, Alastair, or Fawn. No one’s seen Alisiea or Celestia in months, Judas refused to come, and we all agreed that Reinhardt was a bad idea.”
“I’m thinking Judas was too drunk to join us,” the warrior grinned in amusement.
“Bite me, Arturos,” she glared back at him. “He ... isn’t himself lately.”
“My brother only tells the truth,” said the third woman, a swarthy fighter in studded leather who bore more a strong resemblance to the one called Arturos, including the very same tattoo. “The man is too weak and too drunk to chase after his woman. Why do we do it for him?”
“Because I’m paying you to?” Faeryl snapped a quick reminder.
The young noblewoman pouted disapprovingly. “That’s not very nice of you, Renna, and your brother has no right to mock anyone's grief. Not after what he’s done.” Her angry glare flickered over to the warrior, before softening. “I had my own doubts about joining all of you as well, but then I remembered what we once shared together.”
“Sofia’s right,” the one-eyed rogue said. “All of us were part of the Emerald Trading Company. Maybe we didn’t all serve at the same time, but a lot of blood was shed, and …” He paused for a brief, saddened sigh. “We lost a lot of friends and loved ones, and we owe it to their memories not to abandon one of our own.”
“I don’t know for the rest of you, but I’m finding myself suspicious over this man who helped us locate her,” said Arturos. “Perhaps I’m too much for traditional thought, but in Jhelom we were taught never to trust hairless men who act like women. Isn’t that right, my sister?”
Renna smirked. “Aye, brother. It smells funny to me.”
“I’m suspicious too,” the elf nodded, “but he hasn’t given us much of a reason to doubt him yet. Those little red tokens got us here without a problem, he told us all the right supplies to bring, and his map’s been right so far.”
“Arturos has a point,” the other man said. “He’s helping us because he wants something.”
“Maybe, Lucas,” Faeryl shrugged half-heartedly. “But even if Haxley benefits, who cares? As long as we can kill Renthar, rescue Jolicia, and bring her home.”
END PART THREE
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Post by Chanticleer on May 18, 2017 12:39:33 GMT -5
PART FOUR: EMERALD ENCOUNTERSFive Months After the Infernal Path ...The bitter winds of the frozen Glacia Northern Wastes stung sharp against Chanticleer’s cheeks, and he found himself envious of his companion’s full suit of emerald-hued plate mail. His open-faced helmet was inadequate protection from the cold air, although his own combination of leather and mail permitted more flexible movement through the mounds of snowy terrain. He would have preferred for them to wait farther inland, a fair distance away from the icy, craggy shore, but the importance of their watch demanded otherwise. “Try again,” said the knight, gesturing to the war axe in the warrior’s hand. Beneath the finely crafted metal armor, Sir Conor Starfalcon was a tall, middle-aged, fair-haired man with kind blue eyes and a thick, bushy beard, and he always spoke in a calm and even manner. “ Consecrus Arma.” With these words, Chanticleer’s weapon was enveloped by a soft, blue glow, which dissipated after a few moments. “There. May I cease this now?” “You wanted to learn,” Sir Starfalcon quietly reminded him, “so the choice is your own.” “Our duel.” The warrior’s gaze wandered from his companion and southwards towards the sea. “It is not foolish to lose and avoid learning of your opponent’s strengths.” “Do you regret you did not win instead?” The knight asked of him. “I have no use for titles,” Chanticleer dismissed the notion. “Especially not in Everywhere.” “ Emerald Knight is not merely my title,” Sir Starfalcon corrected him, “it’s a duty to protect my charges, no matter what the circumstances.” He then chuckled abruptly, which elicited an odd look from the one he addressed. “It’s too bad we didn’t meet a decade ago. You could’ve made for a decent knight, if I’d gotten to you earlier. Now you're hopeless." “As you say,” the warrior shrugged half-heartedly at the prospect before changing subjects. “Is an Emerald Knight much different than a Britannian one?” “Not particularly,” he exhaled a soft sigh. “Only a different master.” “You speak little of your past,” Chanticleer continued. “Why is it you no longer serve Britannia? Is it because Lady British is a foul, deceitful, treacherous witch?” “Like you said, I speak little of my past,” said the knight. “Not so uncommon among those who live in Emerald Town. Speaking of, how do you rate your friends’ chances for success?” “How do I know their chances?” His scowl was rather pronounced. “I am no gambler.” “They’re from your Britannia not mine. You’ve known them for years, I haven’t,” Sir Starfalcon said pointedly. “You’re far more qualified to speculate than I am.” “I have no answer.” The warrior said. “I only know their chances are lesser than if I had been permitted to accompany them. I still resent the arguments against my inclusion.” “I can avoid notice.” The approaching voice was a surprise to both men, and they quickly turned to face the one it belonged to. She possessed an athletic build and wore the dark leathers of a scout, and her long brown hair was tied in a ponytail, most of it concealed beneath a thick skullcap. A short spear was strapped across her back, and in her hands she carried a large sack crafted from animal hide. “Jon’s quick and clever, Thalesa has a persuasive tongue, and Ellin is sincere. But you’re a battering ram, the opposite of what was needed for this.” “Kaylin.” Chanticleer lowered his war axe as he nodded in greetings. “I noticed you spoke only four names. Yet a fist requires five fingers to properly function.” The scout wiggled her smallest fingers at him. “But a pinky’s unnecessary for most tasks.” “I consider myself more the thumb.” He smirked in amusement. “Or the forefinger.” “At your best you’re the middle one,” she half-smiled back, “and that wasn’t needed today.” Sir Starfalcon interrupted by clearing his throat. “I don’t possess any aspirations for fingerhood, but I do have some questions. You were successful? Everyone else is safe?” “Yes,” Kaylin raised the sack slightly. “A Technocrat patrol found us after our ship landed. I left Jon and Thalesa behind to bury the bodies, but they’ll meet us at the gathering point.” “What of Ellin?” The warrior’s eyes narrowed with concern. “She stayed in Logos as planned.” “What’s Logos like?” The knight’s helmet masked the extent of his curiosity. “Is it really as terrible as the alliance described to us?” “I wouldn’t return there by choice,” the scout grimaced. “I hope Ellin can return soon.” “That’s him then?” Sir Starfalcon gestured towards the sack she carried. "The Techno-Prophet?" “It’s him.” Kaylin casually lifted the bag, shaking the unseen contents back and forth. “Glade’s potion worked as expected, it made him small and sound asleep.” “Let us hope he remains that way.” Chanticleer pursed his lips together. “I wish to see him.” “ No!” Both the knight and the scout shouted simultaneously. “It is harmless,” the warrior argued. “I recall fighting our world’s version of him. I am curious how this one measures against. Sometimes, I wonder the fate of that plucky yet inspired peasant girl of Yew who led that fight. Dawn, was it? Likely nothing of consequence.” “ Fine,” Kaylin relented, and with an exasperated sigh, she opened the sack and revealed to them the miniaturized, unconscious figure within. No longer a man but an abomination, the imperfect synthesis of human flesh and mechanized parts. He was … To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Jun 19, 2017 14:59:54 GMT -5
After securing the sack that held the tiny, unconscious Techno-Prophet, Chanticleer, Kaylin, and Sir Starfalcon set out from the southern shore of the Glacia Northern Wastes, traveling as swiftly as they possibly could across the unwelcoming landscape. The scout was always a dozen paces ahead, carefully choosing their path through the fields of snow and ice, while the heavily armored knight diligently protected their rear. The warrior was tasked with guarding their prisoner in a bag, his perpetual scowl defiant against the cold, biting wind. On two separate occasions, the trio encountered roving Technocrat patrols, but Kaylin’s skills at tracking alerted them to their presence with time enough to escape notice. Each unit consisted of soldiers, black-robed, cowled humans and wingless gargoyle creatures, all wearing intricately designed mechanical suits of armor and wielding clockwork blades, steam-powered tridents, or miniaturized crossbows. Then there were the golems, constructs of various forms and sizes, who like the Techno-Prophet himself were an unholy synthesis of man and machine. From the maps Chanticleer studied prior to departing Emerald Town, the Glacia Northern Wastes appeared as a narrow, frozen mass of land that stretched across the entirety of the northern seas, so he was not surprised when they reached their destination only a handful of hours later. The loose collection of more than twenty snow-colored tents were nestled within a mountain range near the island’s northern coast, carefully hidden from any unaware of its location. As they approached the perimeter of the encampment, they were intercepted by two sentries similar in appearance to the inhuman Technocrat minions. These were the Juka; tall humanoid creatures with lizard-like features, deep-set eyes, and skin shaded an unnatural yellow-green. “Halt humans!” One of the guards snarled. Both wore plated armor fitted to their strange bodies and carried poleaxes that they pointed at the newcomers. “You were successful?” Kaylin gestured to the bag containing the sleeping Techno-Prophet. “We were.” “Then follow.” The second guard turned from his post, beckoning them with a loud grunt. As they were escorted through the camp, Chanticleer, Kaylin, and Sir Starfalcon witnessed a small army preparing for war. Dozens of soldiers from the human-controlled New Britannia or the one of the Juka Clans of Garron were discussing military strategies, conducting combat drills, inspecting equipment, or engaging in other, related tasks. Word of their prisoner had preceded their arrival, and the three were greeted by suspicious looks with every step; there was a sense of relief when they finally reached the camp’s command tent. “ -- see it, the real problem here is, where does all the waste of Logos go? No wonder everybody hates the Technocrats, they live in this city floating high above your heads, randomly drop their shit on everybody below,” Jon Abbot smirked slyly through his neatly-trimmed beard. A worn looking, olive-colored cap concealed most of his shortly-cropped, sandy-blonde hair. “You should have seen the Techno-Prophet’s private chamber pot,” Thalesa added gleefully, her gray-blue eyes bright with enthusiasm. “It was this monstrosity crafted by some mad, drunken tinker, constantly humming and churning. Is it any wonder the poor fellow went all evil on us? Unable to empty his bowels in peace.” Their audience was unamused. Sir Moldovan was an elderly knight from New Britannia, Behrak was a savage-looking Juka Clan Chieftain, and the sorcereress Davash was one of the Meer, slim, catlike and coated in orange fur. Together, they were the representatives of a coalition that had joined together against the Technocrats of Logosia. When Chanticleer, Kalin, and Sir Starfalcon entered, Jon and Thalesea reacted with a smile, but the three resistance members grew uneasy at the sight of the sack that contained their prisoner. “I pity you, my friend.” Jon ignored the rising tension in the room and gave Chanticleer a subtle wink. “You missed out on perhaps the greatest Emerald Fist adventure of all time.” “He was busy with more important things,” Thalesa grinned, “such as counting snowflakes.” Unlike the others gathered inside the tent, she was unarmored, her slight frame covered in a thick wool tunic, leggings, and knee-high boots, all colored a conspicuous bright red. She carried two visible weapons, a long dagger sheathed at her belt and a lute strapped across her back. “Blackthorn!” Behrak howled angrily, his inhuman hands gripped tight around the shaft of his large poleaxe, which he waved towards the new arrivals. “The dark tyrant dies today!” At this, Kaylin and Sir Starfalcon stepped forward protectively, and Chanticleer lowered the bag to the ground before joining them. All three then readied their weapons. “Wait!” Jon was not a large man, of average height and build, which made absurd his attempt to intercept the much taller, raging Juka. “Before things become unnecessarily bloody, how about we talk about it.” He reprimanded the chieftain with a wagging finger of disapproval. “I thought Jukans were creatures of honor. Or did you forget our agreement?” “No one likes an oath-breaker.” Thalesa smiled playfully as her hand teased the hilt of her blade. “Dishonor is not intended,” said Davash, her queer purple eyes scrutinizing everything. “You have only seen the surface of the Technocrats’ evil. His death would save many lives.” Sir Moldovan interrupted with a soft sigh. “If we resort to treachery and abandon those very virtues that define us, how different are we from Blackthorn?” He maneuvered himself to face Behrak directly. “For this alone, we must honor our word, and find satisfaction in the knowledge that these good people will take Blackthorn away from here, and never will he return.” “You speak with wisdom.” the Meer nodded thoughtfully. “We must uphold our word.” “Fools!” Ignoring his allies, the Jukan advanced, roughly shoving the elderly knight and Jon out of his way. Everyone tensed for impending combat, but at the last moment Behrak altered his path, turning instead to exit the tent with the loud stomp of angry boots. Once the chieftain had departed, Sir Moldovan exhaled a short, yet appreciative breath. “He will learn to understand … I am sure of it.” His tone, however, was far from hopeful. Half a minute of quiet followed, until Davash suddenly said,. “My condolences for your friend.” She addressed the three guarding the Techno-Prophet with a sad, sympathetic expression. “The others told us of how she gave her life for your quest. I knew the monk only briefly, but in that time it became obvious that her soul was kind and true. It is a loss for us all.” Chanticleer narrowed his gaze towards the ground, Sir Starfalcon’s reaction was obscured by his platemail helm, and Kaylin awkwardly cleared her throat. “Er … thanks. Ellin will be missed.” “Her sacrifice will not be in vain.” The elderly knight then looked to the Meer. “We should find Behrak and prepare for the coming battle. All we have lost becomes meaningless if we fail at tomorrow’s task.” He paused, his mouth strained as he said. “I … should send more of my men to guard all of you and the prisoner. Please understand, however, I hold no doubts whatsoever about the honor of our Jukan allies.” “Of course not,” Sir Starfalcon said politely. “Thank you.” “Until tomorrow,” Sir Moldovan nodded solemnly. “May the virtues guide us to victory.” It began shortly before dawn, dozens of New Britannian and Jukan soldiers charging forth from a cloak of fading twilight, supported by Dasha and a handful of Meer sorcerers, and striking at the Technocrat base guarding the approach to Dungeon Doom. The Logosian forces soon regained the advantage with their superior numbers, as a seemingly endless parade of Technocraft soldiers and flesh-machine golems swarmed forth from the airship situated at the center of their outpost. Of the opposition leaders, Sir Moldovan was the first to fall, impaled at the end of a clockwork blade intended for Behrak’s back. Nearly a dozen more of the black-robed Technocrats died to the frenzied swings of the grief-stricken Jukan, until he also perished. Davash was among the last of the alliance to meet her death, her spells destroying numerous opponents before one of the larger golems tore her head from her neck. From its start to end, the fighting lasted less than an hour, but it was enough time for Chanticleer, Jon, Kaylin, Sir Starfalcon, and Thalesa to slip past the battlefield with their unconscious prisoner and enter the Dungeon Doom. When they reached the hidden portal leading back to Everywhere, Chanticler and Sir Starfalcon lingered after the others had passed through the shimmering magickal gateway. “Our actions this day,” said Chanticleer with knitted brow. “Do you consider them dishonorable?” “Betrayal never is,” the knight said plainly. This made the warrior even more curious. “Although we act for the greater good?” “Especially if that’s our reason why. The greater the necessity, the greater our dishonor.” To Be Continued ...
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