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Post by Chanticleer on Jun 5, 2018 21:25:52 GMT -5
New Umbral was burning! From the banks of the River of Tears to the base of the Jagged Peaks, Alliance soldiers dispensed their flames and fury, putting the torch to anything their blades could not penetrate, and forsaking the spoils of war in the pursuit of unbridled carnage.
The city’s four gates, reputedly impervious, were now battered and melted. The long, winding Rue de Marche, known as the center of western commerce, was splattered with blood stains and broken glass. The opulent homes of the Mansion District were ransacked and demolished, while the docks and warehouses of the city’s port were reduced to smoke and rubble. The residents of New Umbral fared no better than its famous landmarks; the vampires of the Twilight Juvenalia were slain on sight, as were any living who refused the call for an immediate surrender. As the sky transitioned into the dusky hues of evening, only the Forever Tower stood unscathed: A lone dark tower surrounded by a field of red.
Cold, pale hand clutched desperately at cold, pale hand, as the High Co-Consul Imperators of the Twilight Juvenalia huddled together on the balcony of their flood-through master bedroom atop their tower, helplessly watching the destruction unfold.
“We’re really losing.” Crimson tears slid a curved path down Pomponia’s cheeks, her thick lips at a full pout. “It’s so unfair. They never would’ve won without their portal magic.”
Marcus shook his head, his clever blue eyes focusing on events below. “We should have known this would happen sooner or later. They were never going to let us succeed. We were content to create and build, and their way is to bully and tear apart.”
“Is that the only comfort you can give me? That it was inevitable?”
A spiteful smirk crossed his ageless, handsome mouth. “Of course not, my love. I have a plan, one that will negate any victory they hope to achieve.”
********
“Where is Leigh?!” Chanticleer’s question was more of a demand. He raised his war hammer again, splatters of blood covering his chainmail and studded leather armor.
No response was forthcoming, at least not a relevant one. Instead, the injured Twilight Juvenalia soldier before him bared her fangs and stabbed forward with her kryss.
Chanticleer sidestepped the blow and swung downwards, his weapon making a loud crack as it struck her head. “I was not speaking to you.” He then yanked off her chainmail coif, unsheathed his cutting blade, and performed a swift, albeit messy, decapitation.
Bathed in the light of a gibbous moon, the inner courtyard of the Forever Tower, once a site of serene and gardenly contemplation, was now decorated with more than a dozen headless soldiers of House Blandinus, human and otherwise. Chanticleer paused to catch his breath, watching as his comrades finished the last of their own foes: Kaylin’s long spear penetrated an eye socket; Jon wrestled away a scimitar, using it to pierce its owner’s heart; and Ellin hurled a glass vial, its contents a guarded secret of the Temple of the Twin Suns, and it exploded on contact.
After confirming no further enemies were hidden in the shadows of the moonlight, Chanticleer gruffly repeated himself. “Where is Leigh?!”
Glancing around the courtyard, Jon replied with a shrug. “Do not worry yourself, Chanty. With those spells of hers, I doubt she is in any real danger.”
“We must find her. She is likely nearby.”
“We can’t waste the time,” said Kaylin. “Deniah sent us ahead to find Marcus and Pomponia. Until they’re dead, the war isn’t over. I’m sorry, but Leigh can wait.”
Ellin placed a gentle hand on Chanticleer’s arm. “She is right.”
He jerked away his arm and narrowed his eyes at them. “Then I will do so alone.” With his war hammer at the ready, Chanticleer charged out of the courtyard and back into the keep.
“What should we do now?” Ellin frowned with concern.
Kaylin was adamant. “We finish our job.”
“Related or not,” Jon said with an affable shake of his head, “those two need to fuck.”
********
Despite the sporadic sounds of violence that echoing throughout the torch-lit, labyrinthine halls of the Forever Tower, Carden refused to move from his post. The Shrine of Anhrees was a place sacred to the Twilight Juvenalia, and the red-haired, freckle-faced centurion knew his duty was to keep safe that which lay behind its golden-framed entrance. To keep her safe.
“Why aren’t you fighting?” A voice suddenly asked. “Quas An Lor.”
With a fluidity of movement honed during his years of training, Carden drew his broadsword and pivoted towards the voice’s point of origin. But nothing was there.
Half a minute later, she spoke again. “You’re quicker than you look.”
The centurion spun about frantically, still waving his weapon. He tried to stifle his panicked tone by affecting a threatening growl. “Go or I’ll kill you!”
“That’d be nice, but you probably can’t.”
This time, he caught her fading into view as her concealment spell expired. Tall, lithe, and clad in dark leathers, her black hair was styled into a pair of braids that her revealed pointed ears. She carried no weapons, except for the long dagger hanging from her belt. Three talismans crafted from dirt and stone were attached to a thin black cord around her neck, and she wore two thick, cumbersome bracelets on her right wrist. One was silver, the other was dark red, and both were divided into ten segments of equal size, with a different arcane symbol etched upon each.
Carden moved to block the shrine’s doors. “Not another step!”
“What’s in there? Is it important?” With her left hand, the woman twisted the silvery bracelet in a circular motion, until she located the image of a chain. “An Quas Lor.”
“That’s not your concern!”
“Are you one of the biters? I don’t like the biters.”
He slashed a warning in her direction. “I won’t warn you again!”
“Stupid biters,” she sighed and reached for the dark red bracelet.
********
It was near midnight when the front gates of Forever Tower were finally breached, the reinforced wooden gate splintered apart, and the shadow-steel portcullis disintegrated by magickal fire and conflagration potions Earlier, smaller scouting parties, such as the Emerald Fist, were able to crawl one-by-one through a shallow tunnel they had carved out beneath the gate, until the defenders thwarted this strategy by lowering the portcullis. But now, the main Alliance force was poised to enter the fortress and put an end to this four month conflict.
As her army awaited their orders, Lady Deniah approached the ruined gate, accompanied by the librarian Relvinian, the unnamed emissary from the Order of Automata, and Sir Alastair, the fair haired, youthful faced head of Sanctum’s former paladin order. Through her visor, she scanned for any signs of Twilight Juvenalia soldiers, but there were none to be found.
“They have abandoned their positions and retreated into their tower,” Lady Deniah remarked, almost derisively. “That is where they intend to make their final stand.”
“House Blandinus are cowards; they never fight unless they’re sure they’ll win.”
Her helm made a nodding gesture at the head paladin. “I do not typically insult my enemies, but their conduct throughout this campaign proves you are right. They sacrifice their own people for little gain, and their use of orphans as soldiers is deplorable.”
“So should I lead an attack now, or at dawn when they’re weakest?”
“We strike now, and I will lead us.”
“B-b-but Deniah, you can’t!” Relvinian spurted in surprise, replete with a spray of saliva. “You aren’t just a knight anymore, and you could get hurt or w-w-worse!”
“The Alliance is united through strength.” The emissary’s speech vibrated with a dispassionate inhumanity. “Delegation of risk denotes weakness.”
“The golem’s right,” said Sir Alastair.
“Correction: this is not a golem. This is perfection given form. ”
Deniah’s helm shook slightly. “My mind is set, Relvinian. For the sake of our alliance, and our men who have perished, I must take Marcus and Pomponia personally. Perhaps in doing so, we will also send a message to Lady British about the fate that awaits her.”
********
Three hours later, all paths converged upon the second floor throne room of the Forever Tower. After an exhaustive search, it was suspected that the High Co-Consul Imperators were cowering behind the chamber’s thick, bloodwood doors. The first to arrive were Ellin, Jon, and Kaylin of the Fist, followed by Lady Deniah and a company of her soldiers, then a noticeably distraught Chanticleer, and lastly, Leigh D’arc, who emerged casually from her cloak of invisibility.
When Chanticleer insisted that she explain her earlier disappearance, Leigh ignored him for the more urgent matter. She adjusted her silver bracelet and crouched down, pressing her fingertips against a narrow space along the floor. “Kal Ort Xem.” Her hands crackled with azure energies, and this was mirrored by a similar flash of light on the other side of the doors.
“I recognize that spell,” Lady Deniah said in approval. “It summons a slave made of air, capable of simple tasks such as pulling levers and carrying supplies.”
Or the opening of barred doors, which was precisely what the aerial servant did for its mistress, before it flickered away into nonexistence.
Inside, Lady Deniah and the Alliance members were treated to a spectacle of corpses. The bodies of more than five score House Blandinus centurions and retainers were haphazardly strewn about the chamber, entwined together in a grotesque, unmoving embrace. Decapitations, stab wounds, crushed skulls, and emptied vials of poison; a litany of deaths that were further accentuated by the occupants of the twin, ruby-encrusted thrones situated on the opposite side of the large hall. Upon the right throne sat a foot-tall mound of dark gray ash, and sprawled across the left throne was the sole survivor of this grisly, self-inflicted massacre.
Pomponia Blandinus was no longer raven-haired or beautiful, just a charred barely recognizable lump of undead flesh. Her bold, round breasts, supposedly imbued with magicks that allowed them to return the gaze of their admirers, contracted with slight, hissing breaths.
“It was considerate of them to spare us the effort,” said Chanticleer as he observed the carnage with a smug, self-satisfied smile.
While her soldiers paused to examine the servants of House Blandinus for confirmation of their fates, Lady Deniah advanced towards the thrones, flanked by Sir Alastair, the unnamed emissary of the Order of Automata, Leigh, and the rest of the Emerald Fist. Their pace was slow and deliberate, endeavoring to avoid touching the dozens of carcasses that covered the floor.
“Pomponia! Do you have any final words?” Without an inkling of mercy, Lady Deniah hovered over the severely injured vampire, her longsword in hand.
“... Marcus ...” The response was hoarse and muted, as she struggled to maneuver her withered head to catch a glimpse of his ashes. “... always so smart ... you didn’t kill us ... plan took it from you ... I failed ... sorry beloved ... you burned so fast ... I wasn’t fast enough ...”
“Very well.” And with that swift, downwards thrust of her blade, Lady Deniah put an end to the Twilight Juvenalia’s reign over the western kingdom of Everywhere.
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Jun 15, 2018 18:01:14 GMT -5
With the destruction of House Blandinus, the western kingdom of Everywhere was stripped bare of its identity, the Twilight Juvenalia no longer. It was a conquered territory, forcibly united with the east and the south as part of their Alliance of Rival, Powerful Kingdoms. Still, Everywhere had its rules, and the unnatural laws of that unnatural world did not permit exceptions. The very nature of its four kingdoms shift and bend to the whims of those who hold power over them. Years had passed since that too-familiar old man spoke these words to Chanticleer. Something new would eventually fill the void left by the Twilight Juvenalia’s defeat. But this was a concern for the survivors of tomorrow; today, a war needed to be won.
In the meantime, the Alliance forces were preoccupied with transforming their former adversary into a vassal state. Banners depicting a lone, black tower encircled by red were torn down and burned, displaced by the ubiquitous Silver Serpent. While Lady Deniah and the bulk of her army prepared to depart for the Britannia front, a token force stayed behind under the command of Sir Alastair, who was appointed interim governor of the west. Nominally, his task was to oversee the assimilation of these captured lands into the greater Alliance, but his true purpose was to eliminate the remaining vampires, and oversee a repatriation of any orphans that the Twilight Juvenalia had abducted from Alliance lands.
The cessation of hostilities also prompted a parting of ways for the members of the Emerald Fist that fought against House Blandinus. Leigh D’arc followed Lady Deniah and her men when they marched north; Ellin Lionsden volunteered to help rescue stolen orphans; Kaylin Windsong was assigned to a squad of vampire hunters; and Jon Abbot and Chanticleer Reich received an urgent summons from the Emerald Empress that recalled both of them to Emerald Town.
But before Chanticleer began his travels across the chaotic, desolate terrain of the Infernal Path, there was one last occurrence of no small significance.
********
She came to him in the deep of night, days after the victory against the former occupants of that Forever Tower. She slipped inside that dark room, once the modest bedchamber of a household servant; delicate, dancer footsteps that failed to stir his suspicious mind from slumber. Until she woke him, with a gentle touch and the whisper of his name,
“Chanticleer.”
His eyes were slow to adjust, but he knew her voice. “Leigh?”
The silhouette, though easily identifiable by its long twin braids, was encumbered by the bulk of her thick, red robes. “We should talk.”
“There is much to discuss.” He abruptly threw aside his blankets and seated himself at the edge of the full-sized bed. “You knew Holden was a monster. Explain yourself.”
“Not about that.”
Chanticleer grunted his disapproval. “Then tell me of Pagan. Your magicks come from there, so I assume you were there too. From Glade, I learned the portal closed suddenly on the Britannian side, and the Titan invasion never occurred. Why? What of those who entered Semidar’s portal with us, Bacchus and the rest? Do they still live?”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Leigh.” He scolded her with his inflection.
She sighed in defeat. “It’s hard to keep it all straight; I saw you die.”
“I was not dead. I merely fell.”
“I didn’t know.” Her distress was apparent, even in the darkness. “There was fighting. Some of the others fell too. Maybe like you, they didn’t die, or maybe they did. I saw an earth elemental crush someone’s skull. That’s when the witch cast her spell.”
“Dumahbh?”
“Dais. She brought the whole thing down. The bridge, the army of elementals, and ...” Her jaw tightened. “ ... our friends. Except for me and the witch, we made it through the Pagan portal.”
“And then?”
“Not now.” She shook her head insistently. “I want to show you something.”
********
In contrast to other parts of the Forever Tower, the Shrine of Anhrees endured the Alliance siege without any noticeable damage. Only a quarter in size of the throne room, it was no less lavishly decorated. Gold-plated walls were covered in Twilight Juvenalia heraldry, and ornate tapestries depicting men, women, and creatures engaged in a plethora of unnatural or erotic activities. The centerpiece was a blood-stained altar crafted from purest shadowstone, and above it hovered a twelve foot tall, white marble statue of Anhrees herself. A pale, thin, and matronly figure, it was considered a sacrilege to portray her likeness with her neck bared. Besides House Blandinus, she had very few worshipers, and they venerated her as a creator goddess, responsible for birthing the secret truths of the universe.
Chanticleer overlooked the obscene artwork, the black altar, and the towering statue, focusing his attention on the two prisoners in the center of the room. Bruised and shackled to chairs by steel chains, one was a red-haired youth in a centurion’s uniform, the other was beautiful noblewoman with strawberry blonde hair, too green eyes, and enviable cheekbones. The latter visibly tensed at the sight of him, and Chanticleer did the same after recognizing Marney Blandinus.
“I heard the story during the invasion,” said Leigh as she slowly circled the two captives, “how a stranger called John forced himself on Marcus and Pomponia’s favorite daughter. They were so upset, they sent Atilius, the captain who couldn’t protect her, after her attacker. Atilius faked the papers to get into Wrong, where John was also a prisoner, but the guards stopped him and he had to kill himself. John escaped Wrong and disappeared.” She paused, greeting Chanticleer’s gaze with a cold, distant stare, and he scowled silently. “It was easy to put it all together.”
“He’s a monster!” Marney shouted in hoarse outrage.
Carden struggled against his chains. “She’s telling the truth! I was only a child, but I saw it all! He was weak from the Barren Plains, and she wanted to help. But then he hurt her and set our camp on fire to cover his tracks! The Baroness almost died!”
“She is a deceiver, and he is the fooled.”
Leigh positioned herself in front of Marney. “I’ve known him for years and can’t see him doing it, so I’ll give you one chance to take it back.”
“I won’t recant.” The Baroness defiantly raised her head. “He did what I said.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not lying!”
Chanticleer quietly cleared his throat. “This serves no purpose. She is a vampire, and at the very least, he is her minion. Let us send them to Lady Deniah for judgment.”
“I need the truth. Some things should never change.” She loosened her robes and they dropped to the floor, revealing her strange necklace and bracelets.
“Elaborate,” Chanticleer said as he scrutinized the unfamiliar jewelry
“Pagan spells are different, each Titan has its school.” She twisted the silver bracelet, stopping at the segment etched with the image of a chain. “This one’s theurgy, magic of Stratos. The red one’s sorcery for Pyros, and the necklace is for Lithos’ necromancy.”
“And Hydros?”
“Tempestry doesn’t work that way. For the others, you channel their power into an item called a focus, which charges it for casting later on. I made my foci so I can wear them.” Leigh touched the chain symbol. “An Quas Lor.” She then turned to Marney. “Tell me what happened. If you lie, I’ll know it.”
The Baroness’ thick, painted lips trembled as she exhaled a long breath. “I’m a proud daughter of the Twilight Juvenalia, and not your puppet, I don’t answer to you.” Blood-red tears began to accumulate. “That bastard forced himself on me.”
“Say it again.”
“Leave her alone!” Carden pulled at his chains once more.
“Okay,” Leigh shrugged as she clutched at her red bracelet.
“I told you already!” Marney raged. “He’s a fucking rap-- !!!”
“Vas Ort Flam.”
The Baroness was engulfed by a burst of magickal flame. She burned outwards, from the center of her chest, the fire consuming her undying flesh like it was parchment, so rapidly that she was deprived of emitting one final scream.
Carden howled in grief, offsetting Marney’s dead silence. “Noooooooo -- !!!”
Leigh calmly unsheathed her long dagger and plunged it through the red-haired centurion’s skull. His body twitched thrice and then ceased, and there was a loud expulsion of gas as the contents of his bowels were released. “I guess he wasn’t a biter after all.” She retrieved her weapon and shot Chanticleer an accusatory glare. “Did you do it?”
He narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Pardon? Your spell exonerated me.”
“It didn’t.” She sliced off piece of Carden’s tunic and used it to wipe her blade clean. “She told the truth, or what she thinks is the truth. My spell can’t separate real truth from belief. Maybe she lied enough times, she convinced herself. People do that sometimes.”
“Then why ...?”
“Because.” A look of regret flashed across her face. “You murdered Chancellor Kensdrick for me. I hate the idea of you being someone who could hurt a woman the way that he hurt me.”
“If you hold doubts,” Chanticleer frowned, “cast your spell upon me.”
Leigh ignored his offer. “Marney didn’t have a chance. They adopted her because she’s pretty, and instead of being parents, they raised her into another vampire they could fuck. But Marney’s dead, and so is her truth. I liked yours better, so I made sure it was the one to survive.”
“Leigh ... ” Appreciatively, he reached for her hand and attempted to pull her closer.
But she easily evaded his grasp. “You’re still Emma’s son, and even if you weren’t, we always make each other miserable. Those truths won’t go away, Chanticleer, no matter how much we want them to. Like I said before, some things should never change.”
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Jun 24, 2018 15:02:43 GMT -5
Not so long ago, in a town of emeralds, there lived three women who could have been sisters. Whether they truly were sisters was never proven nor disproven, but they consistently denied the existence of a blood relationship between them. Notwithstanding this denial, the three had the same almond-shaped blue eyes, the same short and pointy noses, the same thin lips, and the same ageless skin. The only real distinction was the colors of their hair, which ranged from fair to red to dark. Nor were there moments they were not in each other’s company or engaged in similar activities. Their meals and the portions thereof were always identical, they prayed in unison to the Twin Suns, and they shared the same living quarters in the temple devoted to their objects of worship. These three were as one.
Until there came an evening, shortly after the fall of the Twilight Juvenalia, when the red-headed of the trio awoke screaming from a nightmare unexperienced by the other two. Her flesh was drenched in sweat and tears, and she hugged her knees close to her chest.
“What’s wrong?” The fair-haired one placed a soothing hand upon her back.
“Why don’t we know what’s wrong?” The dark-haired one asked in confusion.
“It was a dream,” the red-haired one whispered. “My dream alone.”
“What was your dre --?” The other two asked together, stopping upon the realization that they were now two voices, not three. Both gasped in surprise.
“My dream was about the darkness before the destruction.”
“Never forget,” the fair-haired one squeezed her shoulder affectionately.
“But that’s part of the prophecy,” said the dark-haired one. “With destruction comes rebirth, and in the victors, shall we be named.”
“That’s the problem!” The red-haired one’s panic refused to subside. “In my dream, I only saw the darkness! There was no destruction, no rebirth!”
Her maybe/maybe-not sisters exchanged fearful glances and grew silent. Then they hugged her tightly, as there were no further attempts to comfort her with words.
********
The closest entrance to the Infernal Path was a two day’s journey east of Emerald Town, but with their mounts and little rest, Chanticleer Reich and Jon Abbot arrived in less than a day and a half. Both were well-acquainted with the local terrain’s tendency to shift from one extreme to the next within a short distance, and they encountered little of interest along the way. Except for that lone tower, located in a shallow valley and surrounded by hills on every side. So tall it nearly touched the sky, the tower was so narrow it seemed structurally unsound, and its exterior walls gradually grew aged and tarnished the higher they grew from the foundation. Whenever the tower was in view, faint music, familiar yet never identifiable, could be heard in the background.
“What is this place?” Chanticleer turned to his companion.
“They call it the Tower of Song. Nobody knows what lies inside, but Thalesa swears someday she will find out. Or at least she did the last time we drank too much.”
Upon reaching Emerald Town, Chanticleer and Jon were escorted to the second floor of the keep, for an audience with its namesake. Also in attendance were Sir Conor Starfalcon, his green-hued armor fully repaired from his duel against Leigh D’arc, and Malcolm Glade, his kind eyes hidden behind a pair of smudged spectacles. Chanticleer noticed scorch marks on the walls, presumably from the night the mage Moriah assassinated Lord Neville Holden.
“Welcome back,” the Empress greeted them warmly. While Glade also offered a friendly smile, Sir Starfalcon was oddly silent, barely gazing in their direction,his stance was akin to a statue’s. “I’m glad the western campaign went smoothly, and that you’re safe.”
“Orphan-stealing, blood-drinkers are surprisingly ineffectual,” said Chanticleer.
“They also catch fire too easily,” Jon added with an affable smirk.
“How are Ellin, Kaylin, and ...?” Glade asked with an awkward pause. “... Leigh?”
Jon side-glanced Chanticleer and Sir Starfalcon, then rushed to answer first. “Kaylin prefers the freedom of stalking vampires to life in a military camp, Ellin is happy helping wayward orphans, and Leigh is ... still Leigh.”
“Why were we sent for?” Chanticleer interrupted. “What is so urgent?”
“Straight to business, then?” The Empress seated herself at the stone table in the room’s center, and the others, but for the Emerald Knight, did the same. “It’s about the Titan Seal fragments. As you both know, we were able to convince Lady Deniah that Holden was wrong and the Titan Seals prophecy was a trick. She left the Hydros, Lithos, and Pyros fragments here with me, and before Renthar left Emerald Town, he took them.” She turned to Chanticleer and Jon. “All four are with a blacksmith right now right now, and he’s making them into something that’ll help defeat Lady British. His work’s almost done, and I need you two to bring it back.”
“Elaborate. What is he crafting? Who is this blacksmith? ”
“A suit of armor. I’ll explain more when you’ve returned. I haven’t met the blacksmith myself, but Jolicia recommended him for his skill. She said you knew him too.”
“Is it 'The Smith’?” Chanticleer mused. “Both he and Wilfred vanished after the Infernal Path. Speaking of the traitorous mage Jolicia and her foul master, where are they now? Is there news of their elf prisoner, or Lady Sofia and her companions?”
“Nothing. I haven’t seen Renthar since he left Emerald town over a month ago.”
“He is wretched and foul, but I will not revive old arguments. Lady British is the more pressing threat, so I agree to seek out this blacksmith. Or ‘The Smith,’ as it may be.”
“If you think it will end the war sooner.” Jon shrugged noncommittally.
“Your Majesty,” Sir Starfalcon spoke up unexpectedly. He ignored everyone else, looking only at the Empress. “If we’re finished, I should prepare for my evening patrol.”
Once the knight was gone, Chanticleer narrowed his eyes at her. “He acts different.”
“It’s not my place to say.” Her mask shook slightly. “But since we’re done, I heard Thalesa’s performing at the Salty Dog tonight. I imagine she’d love to see you there.”
********
“Once upon a time and age; There was a lord of Moonshade; King of all that he surveyed; Yet in his robes, it always raged.
Sharp of wit, strong of hand; Whole armies at his command; Adored all across the land; And cursed by lust he could not stand.
Seated on his mighty throne; His heart grew hard as a stone; No lady to call his own; Or satisfy his swollen bone.
So it did pass, many a year; Until the answer did appear; A rumor that reached his ear; Of a lass, her habits queer.
Not a drop of noble blood; She bathed naked in the mud; Ate meals of slop and crud; A snout only a mage could love.
To a farmer she was wed; He toiled hard to keep her fed; But once that farmer lay dead She would be the mage’s instead.
Off he ventured to the farm; His spells causing fatal harm; Then with all his magely charm; He entered that big red barn.
There he found his pink princess; A beauty unlike all the rest; His loins burning with distress; He charged into her piggy’s nest.
Oh, the Mage-Lord fucked a pig! Yea, the Mage-Lord fucked a pig! Judge some might, but tis no crime; Because he swore to fuck her; Til the end of time.
Oh, the Mage-Lord fucked a pig! Yea, the Mage-Lord fucked a pig! Judge some might, but tis no crime; Because he swore to fuck her; Til the end of time.
Oh, the Mage-Lord fucked a pig! Yea, the Mage-Lord fucked a pig! Judge some might, but tis no crime; Because he swore to fuck her; Til the end of swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.”
“As you may have guessed, that one was inspired by Mage-Lord Raeff’s drunken tales about his homeland,” Thalesa grinned cheekily as she joined Chanticleer, Glade, and Jon at their table.
It was another busy night at the Salty Dog, and the tavern was brimming wall-to-wall with patrons preoccupied with alcohol and idle conversation. After months away at war, Chanticleer and Jon found it unsettling to be surrounded by such frivolity.
“What did you three think of it?”
“Crude language,” said Chanticleer, “but an acceptable rhyme scheme.”
“It was ... interesting,” said Glade.
“I enjoyed the historical inaccuracies,” said Jon.
“I am pleased someone appreciated it,” Thalesa helped herself to a swig from Jon’s half-emptied bottle of rum. “It is good to see you again, Jon, even if it means suffering sour-faced Chanty. A pity Ellin and Kaylin could not come in his stead. Are they well?”
“Ellin is stuck hunting and killing fugitive vampires,” Jon said earnestly, “while Kaylin is forced to care for starving orphans. They are very jealous of each other.”
“Are you being serious?”
“Of course not,” Jon winked at her. “Both are well.”
Chanticleer grunted quietly. “I notice you did not ask after Leigh.”
“Why should I care? That heartless bitch left us to rot!” Thalesa pouted. “But enough of Leigh, let us drink to forget how terrible Everywhere really is.” She paused for another sip of Jon’s drink. “So, is it true you passed the Tower of Song on your way here ...?”
********
Shortly after midday, they arrived from on northern road and were greeted by one of the guards stationed at the gates. While visitors were neither infrequent nor unexpected, these visitors were unlike most who wandered the southern kingdom. Four women wearing fine embroidered cloaks and leather boots, they carried few supplies and displayed no hardships normally associated with travel. Each also held a unique object reflecting their chosen profession: a massive spellbook; a thick wooden staff; a set of tinker’s tools; and a shepherd’s crook.
“What business ye have in Emerald Town?”
“Honesty, Justice, Sacrifice, and Humility.” When their spellbook-wielding leader observed the guard’s perplexed reaction, she simply smiled at him. “We are all followers of the Eight Virtues, seeking to bring enlightenment. Sister Antos of Britannia sent us here.”
“I recall,” the guard nodded in remembrance. “Ye should take care, Britannian, we’re tolerant folk, but the war’s stirred up feelings, and not everyone here’s native.”
“We shall take your warning into consideration. May we pass?”
“Aye.” He waved them through the gates, but they did not move.
“A question?” The woman holding the staff asked. Her hair was a paler shade of blonde, and she smelled of the woods. “Are you acquainted with Conor Starfalcon?”
“The Emerald Knight? ‘Course, he’s protector of Emerald Town. Did Sister Antos tell ye of him too? He’s another one of yer virtue followers.”
“Emerald’s a shade of black now, eh?” The red-haired tinker smirked.
The tall, thin shepherd gently elbowed her. “Excuse my companion. We knew Sir Starfalcon from before, when he was a knight of Britannia.”
“He’s a Britannian? Didn’t know that. Ye’d like me to send for him?”
The other three deferred to the mage, who shook her head at them. “As was mentioned, Conor is an old friend of ours. We prefer that our visit be a surprise.”
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Aug 1, 2018 16:30:00 GMT -5
Far above, Twin Suns enjoyed an intimate dance; down below, their servants toiled in their name, tending to a garden of flowers that surrounded their magnificent stone temple, a fine collective of daylilies, gaillardia, peonies, plox, and others, carefully cultivated into sun-shaped patterns. Its crowning feature was a gigantic bush of Emerald Helianthus, the unique hybrid developed in honor of the friendship between the temple’s order and the town they claimed as their home. The garden’s upkeep was laborious at best, requiring many hours of attention every week, but all of the acolytes willingly shared responsibility.
On that particular late summer morning, the task had fallen to the Three Sisters-Not. Amidst the unusually frenzied chirping from the surrounding woods, the fair and dark-haired ones worked in unison to tear up weeds, trim branches, and water the soil, while the red-haired one stood aside, absent-mindedly watching the sky.
An imposing figure clad in green-hued platemail marched past, paying the trio little heed. But two of the three noticed him, and shouted together in greetings, “Hello, Sir Starfalcon!”
He nodded stiffly, but did not pause his steps. “Good sisters.”
“We told you already,” the two giggled. “We’re not sisters.” He made no further response, and a minute later, he was out of their sight. They exchanged amused glances, and then turned to their red-haired companion. “Did you see him? That was the Emerald Knight!”
But she ignored them too, and instead continued to stare into the suns.
********
“I will return later,” Sir Starfalcon brusquely addressed those inside the private meeting chamber of the Emerald Empress. His armored form lingered in the doorway, unwilling to enter.
“Join us, Conor,” the Empress said invitingly. She gestured to Chanticleer and Glade, who were also seated around the stone table. “It’s a private discussion, but not a secret one.”
“There are things I wish to know,” Chanticleer nodded once.
“It’s long past time he learned them,” said Glade. “Or some, at least.”
“Carry on. As I said, I’ll return later.”
Chanticleer frowned. “Starfalcon. You avoid me at every turn. I thought us friends?”
“We were. Until you chose to dishonor me.”
“Dishonor you?!” Chanticleer growled, rising to his feet and angrily knocking over his chair as he did so. “I have done nothing of the kind!”
“Our interference in his duel with Leigh,” Glade explained with a hint of resignation.
“Interference?! We saved your life!”
“And in doing so, you dishonored me,” the Emerald Knight stated bluntly. “I’m the protector of Emerald Town, and it’s my duty to keep her safe. Your trickery was a mockery of that.”
The warrior advanced towards the knight. “It kept you alive. Free to protect your charge instead of abandoning it for a grave. You should thank me, and complain not.”
Glade started to speak, but the Empress cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“I was in error,” Sir Starfalcon shook his head; his close helm barely concealing his contempt. “You have no sense of honor, Chanticleer Reich. Even with the right guidance, you would’ve made a poor knight.” He then turned to leave. “I’ll return after you’re done.”
When the knight was gone, Chanticleer slowly unclenched his fists and returned to his seat. “He is fortunate I possess such a forgiving nature.”
********
“The dragon is a scaly sort; Who spouts flame when he sneezes; Many a bold knight has he fought; For he goes where e'er he pleases.”
His lute playing was skillful, his lyrics clever, and he sang at a perfect pitch. But it was far from a Thalesa Cornigan performance, as she was compelled to advise everyone gathered at the Salty Dog that late morning. And Jon was growing especially tired of her criticisms.
“Mister Porcupine's naught but spines, To the dismay of him and his missus. For that for which he truly pines Is one of her sweet kisses.”
“It is clear Lady Emanuelle is only concerned with profits.” Thalesa did not bother to lower her voice. “Not only did she hire this talentless minstrel, but she ignores my complaints about rats in the walls. I found another underneath my bed just last night!”
"A gypsy girl and a butterfly Were out in the woods at play And when I saw them I said 'Oh my! What a perfect sunny day!*”
Jon groaned. “I am enjoying it. Mandrake’s not half-bad.”
“He is not half-good either --”
Her retort was interrupted by a pained howling that originated from outside the Salty Dog. Jon and Thalesa were not the only patrons to notice it, and even Mandrake silenced his instrument in response. Moments later, the noises continued, growing closer and louder, and there was a mad scramble for the front entrance, but Jon and Thalesa reached it ahead of the rest. Both awestruck and amused, they watched as more than a dozen cats, hissing and pupils dilated, chased down a much larger dog, as it whimpered and bled from claw marks.
Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion. “That is ... something.”
“It is still easier on the ears than Mandrake’s singing.”
“I am standing right here!” The other bard shouted from the rear of the crowd.
Thalesa’s reply was drowned out by a parade of deafening explosions. For more than a minute, they spread all across Emerald Town, bursts of thick, black smoke that obscured the air and filled it with the scent of spoiled garbage and feces. Screams and panic followed, now human rather than animal, as the chaos caused of the explosions dominated everything, providing an opportune distraction from the flames that now covered the top of North Hill.
Except for Jon, who managed a glimpse through tear-filled eyes and fits of coughing.
********
With Sir Starfalcon’s departure, the Empress steered the conversation back to the subject at hand. “What did you want to ask us?”
“Before I fetch ‘The Smith’s armor for you, I demand more answers,” said Chanticleer. “Your mysteries have lingered far too long.”
“You’re right to feel that way,” Glade said sternly. “But we have our reasons.”
“Cease your excuses.”
Her gem-encrusted mask tilted from side to side. “I’m sympathetic. Lying wasn’t my intention. I’ll try my best to explain what I can, but I can’t tell you everything.”
“I cannot tell you everything.” The tiny squeak echoed across the room, causing Chanticleer, the Empress, and Glade to share in a succession of surprised glances. “The deceitful never do.”
Their eyes darted frantically about the chamber, until they spied the small gray mouse scurrying across the floor towards them. The creature paused a few paces away from where Chanticleer sat, and it gazed up at him in almost human-like manner.
“Aye, I thought it was you. The Destroyer. Lady British’s compassion was too good for you. Tell me, Destroyer, when you entered our world, did you fall or leap?”
“What rodent sorcery is this?!”
“Vas Ylem Rel.” The mouse was enveloped by a light blue glow, and then its body began to shift and expand, transforming into the form of a human woman. She was of medium height and thin, with long, light brown hair and piercing green eyes. In her hand, she held a thick spellbook. “None at all, for I am no rodent. My name is Moriah, Companion of the Avatar.”
“Lord Holden’s assassin?” Chanticleer stood and unstrapped his war mace. “If you were not in Lady British’s service, I would thank you for his death.” Though visibly unarmed, the Empress and Glade moved protectively to his side.
“My chosen virtue is Honesty, so I will not claim credit for another’s deed,” the mage shook her head. “Not that you will appreciate it, given my purpose here.” She pointed the slender fingers of her right hand at the Empress. “I have been tasked with your capture, for your part in the war waging against the Kingdom of Britannia.”
Chanticleer raised his war mace. “I think not.”
“In Nox Grav.” A field of noxious energy manifested in the middle of her opponents, causing them to reel and clutch their bellies, as they were filled with a painful, nauseous sensation. “Vas Ort Grav.” Waves of magickal lightning streamed forth, and by the time the last bolt struck, only Chanticleer was still moving. “Corp Por!” And then, even he was not.
Moriah then retrieved a small crystal from her belt pouch, and gently pressed its center, causing it to shift from green to red. She raised it to her lips. “Jools, you may proceed.”
********
Sir Starfalcon was already descending North Hill when the explosions occurred, clouds of dense, black smoke blanketing Emerald Town. The knight unsheathed his longsword and prepared to charge forth, until the sound of further explosions erupted behind him.
Spinning about, he realized the blasts were centered around Emerald Keep and the Temple of the Twin Suns Though the structural damage appeared to be minimal, chunks of broken stone from each now littered the area. Small fires were accumulating as well, flickering dangerously close to one another, threatening to merge together and spread across the entire hilltop.
As he rushed past the Temple’s damaged gardens, Sir Starfalcon noticed a slight hand and scraps of dull-brown robes protruding from a massive pile of broken, copper-hued stone. With a sigh of defeat, he continued towards the keep. The flames were meandering towards two guards lying prone near the entrance, and unlike the garden corpse, their deaths were not yet a certainty.
The birds struck swiftly and from behind; five wild hawks scraping at his armor with wings and talons. More surprised than injured, the knight used his shield to batter them away. But they charged a second time, savage and fearless, so he cut them down with his blade. As he did this, a woman’s voice called to him.
“I see you color yourself in emerald now, rather than silver or black.”
Clearing the feathers and blood that obstructed his helm-restricted line of sight, Sir Starfalcon pivoted, his weapon at the ready. The speaker wore leather armor and a forest green cloak, its hood concealing most of her pale blonde hair. In her hands, she held a thick quarterstaff crafted from Yew wood. Her companion, a taller, brown-haired woman, carried a shepherd’s crook and was dressed in plain robes. A hawk, similar to the ones he struck down, was perched upon her shoulder. “Jenna, Katarina,” Sir Starfalcon readied his longsword. “You’re responsible for this?! Why are the Companions here? Is the Avatar with you?”
The shepherd shook her head. “Only four of us. The animals do my bidding, and the explosions are Jools’ handiwork, simple distractions while Moriah captures your new mistress.” She then gestured to Jenna. “You are our target, Conor. You need to answer for what you did.”
“I no longer answer to Britannia, or Lady British.”
“Yet your crimes are many,” the druid said bluntly. “Oath-breaking, in the first. You abandoned your duties as head of the Order of the Silver Serpent. Then your actions as ‘the Black Knight,’ stealing the eight Runes of Virtue, attempting to kill the Avatar, and threatening revenge against Britannia’s mayors. Now, you compound your betrayal by joining those who war us.”
“I am no traitor. Britannia is my home, and I love her greatly. I tried to warn you about her, but none of you would listen. Lady British is the true danger to Everywhere.”
“How dare you?!” Katarina snarled in outrage.” “She is our queen!”
“She lies to us all.” Sir Starfalcon firmly countered. He then glanced from his challengers to the two guards who lay precariously close to the expanding blaze. “In the name of the friendship we used to share, let me to save those men. After that, I will give you the fight you crave.”
“True justice waits for no one. It is time to that you met yours.” Jenna’s blue eyes narrowed into a vicious glare. “For Lady British! For Britannia!”
To Be Continued …
*Credit for these lyrics belongs to the writer(s) of Mandrake’s dialogue in Ultima VI.
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Post by Chanticleer on Sept 18, 2018 15:50:54 GMT -5
It was an abrupt awakening; the touch of cold metal, the warm sensation of cleansing magicks, and the urgency of the incantations:
“Obsu Vulni! Expor Flamus!”
Eyelids fluttered rapidly, and the dark serenity of unconsciousness was replaced by the armored Sir Starfalcon kneeling at his side. “Tell me what’s happened,” the knight demanded.
Ignoring the burning sensation in his throat and lungs, Chanticleer slowly sat up. A harsh cough escaped his lips, followed by a thick mixture of blood and mucous that he spat onto the floor of the small meeting chamber. He blinked a few more times in a fruitless attempt to reorient his vision. “A Companion ... the mage ... Moriah ...” His voice was hoarse and subdued.
“She isn’t alone.” The Emerald Knight extended a gauntlet, his strong grip assisting Chanticleer to his feet. “Jenna, Jools, and Katarina are with her. They are here to capture the Empress and end my life. I only escaped their ambush because Jon and Thalesa interfered. I wounded Jenna and she ran away, and the others are chasing Katarina.” He then pointed towards the body of Malcolm Glade, who lay underneath a pair of toppled, wooden chairs. The elder man’s eyes were closed behind his cracked spectacles, and his breaths were slow and shallow. “I healed him first, but he hasn’t woken up. What type of spells did she cast?”
“Poisonous.”
The knight nodded slightly. “He needs a healer, this is beyond my capabilities.”
“A pity. He is the only healer I know.”
“Then find another. All of Emerald Town’s in chaos, but you might find one at the Temple. I’ll find Moriah and the Empress.”
“Moriah is too powerful to face alone.”
“If you don’t help Malcolm, he will die,” he said brusquely.
Chanticleer narrowed his eyes. “You despise me so much you refuse my aid?”
“Whatever our differences, you value loyalty.” Sir Starfalcon carefully plucked the overturned chairs off of the comatose Glade. “Your friend needs you more.”
“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “Why do they hunt you too?”
The knight hesitated briefly before responding. “It’s a long tale, and time’s precious. When I rebelled against Lady British, there were those who viewed the betrayal as personal.”
“Ah, I see,” Chanticleer exhaled a deep breath and used the table to steady himself. “I know not the relevance. But this Moriah denies complicity in Holden’s death.”
“That’s ... surprising. Moriah prides herself on being honest, so I don’t see why she’d lie.” He shook his head. “But it’s a question for another time. May the virtues guide us both.”
As he watched Sir Starfalcon leave, Chanticleer rolled his eyes, “They hardly have before.”
********
Slowly and unsurely, Jon and Thalesa stumbled through the Market District. Thick, dark smoke, the stink of refuse, and collisions with panicked townsfolk or unexpected buildings proved to be the most frequent obstacles. Nor did they chase a definite trail; after evading them on North Hill, the shepherd Katarina had fled in that vague direction, but there were no signs of her since. Due to the urgency of their task, and the severe consequences if they failed, Jon was surprised when Thalesa announced her first complaint. It took ten minutes longer than predicted by the mental wager he was conducting with himself.
“This is pointless!” The bard shouted between affected coughing fits. “What chance do we even have to find her in this mess of shit?! She could be anywhere!”
Jon squinted at her through the tainted air. “You heard Conor’s words, same as I did. We cannot let her escape and hurt anyone else. Besides, I am not turning around, and it is far too dangerous of an idea for either of us to be alone right now.”
“Fighting and dying to a Companion of the Avatar also sounds rather dangerous.”
“Thalesa, I need your help right now.”
“Aye, an oft-repeated plea, and again, I am made to feel guilty, for wanting something else for my life. How many times must we do this?!” She choked back a whimper of frustration. “I am a bard, not a Fist, emerald or otherwise! When will the rest of you understand that?!”
Before he could argue further, Thalesa disappeared into the darkness of the smog, refusing to answer his repeated pleas for her to return.
********
Each step was circumspect, carefully planned to avoid a snapped twig or a crackled leaf. In his platemail, stealth was impractical, if not improbable, but Sir Starfalcon still made the attempt as he traversed the tract of forest north of Emerald Keep. The trail was sparse and not the easiest to follow, and while he was no ranger, he did possess some limited tracking skills. A scrap of cloth matching the Empress’ robes clung to a low hanging tree branch, and there were footprints too small to belong to Malcolm Glade, the area’s only resident.
When he passed Glade’s cabin, he saw that the front door was slightly ajar. Within, the normally well-ordered shelves that lined the walls were in complete disarray, their contents disheveled or fallen onto the floor. Among these scattered piles, the knight discovered the shards of a shattered emerald -- Moriah probably tried to remove the Empress’ mask.
Sir Starfalcon continued until he reached the town’s northernmost wall. Following another stray bootprint, he walked east for another two hundred paces, which led him to the remnants of a discarded green robe and more broken emerald pieces. He was initially perplexed by the trail’s sudden end, before noticing a series of strange scratches in the stone. Resembling an animal’s claw marks, they formed a pattern that stretched all the way to the top of the wall. His quarry was known for her creative use of spellcraft, and she must have employed them to transform into a creature or animal capable of climbing great heights, and stealing away with the Empress.
But the Emerald Knight would not be dissuaded; it was merely a matter of determining the most expedient path for his pursuit.
********
Jon encountered the first corpse as he pushed through the ubiquitous smog. His foot had grazed against an unexpected lump, and after probing it further, he soon realized what it was. Even wearing his gloves, he was hesitant to touch it directly, so he allowed his boots to discern the vague details of its grizzly demise, blood and guts spilled from a mutilated torso. Sufficiently informed, he then resumed his efforts to escape the thick, black smoke.
A few minutes later, the pleasure of taking his first breath of unsullied air was ruined by the sight of more bodies spread across the cobbled streets that led to the docks. They were predominantly Emerald Town guards, though he counted some merchants and sailors among their number. As a veteran of Mondain’s army, Jon was well-acquainted with senseless, brutal violence; he had witnessed firsthand whole villages massacred by orcs, lizardmen, and other minions of the Dark Wizard. It was the sheer peculiarity of the scene that so disturbed him. Their cause of death was neither weapon nor spell, but tooth and claw. The wounds were focused around vital areas such as the head, neck, and torso, and along with their severity, this suggested an intent and ferocity beyond that of a simple rabid beast, an intelligence that guided their savagery.
“Where is your loud friend?” The question belonged to Katarina, who stood half-hidden by the entranceway of a nearby warehouse. She stepped forward, shepherd’s crook in hand. Jon saw a large nick in its shaft, the result of deflecting one of Sir Starfalcon’s strikes. “Her complete lack of humility was astounding; I was hoping to meet both of you together.”
Jon advanced as well. “You can still surrender, if you like.” He gestured to the corpses littering the ground. “Of course, I prefer you do not.”
“You may be alone, sir, but I never am.” She placed two fingers into her mouth, and emitted a loud, high-pitched whistle. “All follow!!!”
From the corner of his vision, he saw their approach. Quick, frantic, four-legged movements, and suddenly, he was surrounded. A dozen dogs, more cats, a trio of goats, and even a couple of pack llamas. All of them angry and agitated, and Jon was the apparent target of their rage.
“Shit.”
********
Malcolm Glade was not a large or heavy man, but after suffering Moriah’s magicks, Chanticleer struggled to carry his unconscious companion. As the guards of Emerald Town fought to contain the flames spreading across the hilltop, the weakened warrior shuffled towards the Temple of the Twin Suns, every breath as burdensome as the weight in his arms.
While the building itself endured only superficial damage, much of the surrounding gardens were devastated by pieces of stone shrapnel, and the once impressive floral displays were now crushed foliage and scattered petals. Only the lone bush of Emerald Helianthus had escaped unscathed; but this provided little comfort in light of the day’s events.
As he neared the double-doors of the Temple, Chanticleer observed a figure in dirt brown robes inside the garden, kneeling amidst a mass of broken stone, and he called out. “My companion is wounded!” There was no response, so with a pained grunt, he moved closer. “Monk! This is no time for prayers. I require your assistance.”
She turned and looked at him, tears trickling down her flushed, freckled cheeks, and he knew her as the red-haired acolyte of the three Sisters-Not. “They’re ... gone ...” She whispered slowly, an addled, wide-eyed expression dominating her youthful visage.
It was then Chanticleer noticed the two bodies. One was covered entirely by copper-hued rubble, except for a slight, feminine hand touching the ground. The other was the fair-haired Sister-Not, motionless and face down, a piece of broken stone protruding from the back of her skull,
“I had a dream ...” She sobbed quietly. “But we didn’t ... understand ... we were supposed to ... together ... how could they ... leave me … behind ... ?!”
“My condolences, but it is too late for them. We need your assistance.”
The red-haired acolyte continued to stare at the remains of her Sisters-Not.
“Please,” he said with no small urgency. “My friend will die.”
She blinked in confusion before her demeanor normalized, and then she stood to help. Together, they carefully transported the comatose Malcolm Glade into the Temple of the Twin Suns, passing through the empty vestibule and into the main hall. Weary and distracted by their charge, they were not expecting the carnage that awaited them.
More than a dozen corpses were strewn about the barren chamber, all robed servants of the Order of the Twin Suns, their fatal injuries caused by blunt force and magickal fire. In the center of the room, a pale-haired woman in leathers stood before the altar. She bled heavily from her shoulder and side, and leaned against a wooden staff for support. The top of her weapon was stained with blood and bone fragments, and she appeared unperturbed by the slaughter.
“What madness is this?!” Chanticleer shouted, while the red-haired acolyte began to weep.
The woman shot them an indignant glare. “I am the druid Jenna. This place is an affront to the Eight Virtues of Britannia, and these fools attempted to obstruct my sacred quest.”
His eyes were fixed on the druid as he carefully lowered Glade to the ground. “I am Chanticleer of the Emerald Fist. I know of you and your mission, Companion of the Avatar.”
“Chanticleer?! You were Lady British’s prisoner, the Destroyer who escaped Wrong!”
“And you are an ignorant fanatic who butchers innocent monks.”
“Do you so easily ignore the war that ravages my kingdom?! What of your Alliance’s victims?! How many innocent dead did they leave in Paws and Skara Brae?!”
“Enough. I will complete Sir Starfalcon’s task.” He casually unstrapped his war axe.
“Then you will share in his punishment!” Jenna let the quarterstaff slip from her grasp, using the altar to maintain her balance as she weaved an arcane pattern with her fingers. “Let Justice be delivered this day! In Ex Grav!!!”
To Be Continued ...
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Post by Chanticleer on Oct 18, 2018 23:04:14 GMT -5
Returning to the top of North Hill, Sir Starfalcon was troubled by the sight of guards struggling with the growing flames. While the smaller fires were mostly extinguished, the extant ones had consolidated into a handful of larger, more intense blazes. Near the entrance to Emerald Keep, a watch commander he recognized was overseeing the dousing efforts.
“Emerald Knight, sir.” Sergeant Basil saluted at his approach. She was five feet tall and stocky, and her graying blonde hair was wrapped into a long, thick braid that reached past her backside. Her demeanor, typically stoic, was beginning to crack due to present tensions. “Thank the Suns you’re back. The men are ready for your orders.”
“The Empress has been kidnapped by the Britannians. They’ve already escaped the town walls, and are headed north. I need you in charge so I can follow t.”
Her nod was small and unenthusiastic. “ ... for how long, sir?”
“Until we return, or you can locate any of the Emerald Fist. The chain of command is Malcolm, Kaylin, Jon, Chanticleer, and finally Ellin, but under no circumstances, Thalesa. Since Kaylin’s still in the north, and Malcom’s badly injured, you should look for Jon.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Our attackers are four Companions of the Avatar. The mage Moriah has the Empress; Jenna the druid is wounded; Jon and Thalesa are hunting the shepherd Katarina; and Jools the Tinker is the one responsible for the explosions, though I haven’t seen her yet. From what I remember of her handiwork, the smoke should fade within the hour. Do you have questions?”
Basil shook her head.
“Then I’ll start my -- ”
“Sir Starfalcon! Help!” The shrill plea heralded the arrival of one of the brothers of the Twin Suns. The man barely evaded the flickering flames as he sprinted towards them.
“What now?!” The knight regretted the harshness of his tone, but knew that each passing minute vastly diminished his chances of freeing the Empress.
“At the Temple!” The thin, red-faced monk’s dirt brown robes were sprinkled with gray ash, and he reeked strongy of garbage. “She killed all of them!”
“Take a breath,” said the watch commander. “Who did this?”
“Justice, she called it! Justice?! It wasn’t justice, it was awful!”
“It’s Jenna,” Sir Starfalcon sighed bitterly. “What else did you see?”
“I was at the Salty Dog when the explosions began. Once I thought it safe, I fled to the Temple. Inside, there was fighting, and bodies, and she was casting more spells, so I ran for help!”
“Are there other survivors?” Sergeant Basil asked.
“One of those Emerald Fist, I forgot his name, but you’d know him. He always looks angry, or constipated.” For emphasis, the monk narrowed his eyes, scrunched his nose, and twisted his mouth into the bizarre combination of a smile and scowl. “The healer Malcolm and another acolyte were with him. Hurry, she’ll probably killed them too!”
Her brow furrowed, she turned to the Emerald Knight. “I can send a few men, but not more than a few. If we don’t stop the fires, we’ll end up with bigger problems.”
For half a minute, Sir Starfalcon silently considered the matter. “No, I’ll go alone.”
“But ... what about the Empress?!”
The knight calmly unsheathed his blade. “I’m quite certain she’d approve.”
********
Dogs barked, cats hissed, and goats bleated, but it was a llama’s kick that knocked Jon onto the ground. As he fell, he punched a spotted tabby with murder in her eyes, and elbowed a vicious, three-legged goat in the head. It was one of two bulldogs that slipped past his erratic defenses; saliva dripping from the canine’s enlarged, protruding jaw as it lunged towards Jon’s throat.
Before teeth could penetrate flesh, a deep, calming music overpowered the senses of every man, woman, and beast present, and their furor immediately yielded to the peacemaking strums of a masterfully played lute. Even Katarina was noticeably affected, her body swaying in rhythm to the soothing chord progression.
Jon used the opportunity to slip away from his subdued assailants, and then scrambled to his feet. With an affable grin and a sentimental, yet sarcastic, quip at the ready, he looked for his savior.
“Have not fear, Mandrake is here!” The bard loudly proclaimed, his long blonde locks flowing as he plucked at his lute strings. “You are far more distress than damsel, my friend, but I figured you could use my assistance.”
“I dare say so.” A tight-lipped smile easily concealed his disappointment that it was not Thalesa who had returned for him. As Jon went to Mandrake’s side, Katarina’s pets barely paid him any heed, content to continue listening to the bard’s comforting notes.
Katarina, however, was not so complacent, and she raised her crook. “All Kill! All Kill!” This broke the beasts broke from their reverie, and they began to growl and snarl.
“Do something!” Jon shouted at him.
“Who loves not women, wine, or song?! That lass trying to kill us, I wager!” Mandrake taunted the shepherd with an exaggerated wink. He played harder and faster, an obvious urgency to his finger movements, yet the lute maintained a calming sound.
“All Kill!” The shepherd repeated.
They were at an impasse; Mandrake’s pacifying song, Katarina’s aggressive commands, and the confused, enraged creatures caught between them. Every moment brought an increased tension, as the clash of melody versus willpower unfolded. Until, after ten harrowing minutes, the bard accidentally snapped a D-string, and his musical defenses suddenly evaporated.
“All Kill!”
********
Sir Starfalcon boldly marched into the Temple of the Twin Suns. He did not bother to mask his entrance; time was an ever-growing impediment to his duties, and the wide apertures connecting the vestibule and worship hall rendered futile such deceptive strategies. “Jenna!” The knight called out to her, his sword and shield angled forward.
“Enter this room, Conor, and they will die.”
He did as he was bidden, pausing at the threshold. The scene was indeed the carnage described by the frightened monk. More than a dozen acolytes had been bludgeoned and burned to death, and one lone survivor, the red-haired Sister-Not, cowered amidst her fallen brethren. The druid awaited him at the altar, still bloody from their earlier battle, but these wounds did little to quell her fierceness. Her quarterstaff was pressed gently against the throat of Malcolm Glade, who lay unconscious at her feet, incapable of defending himself. Jenna’s other captive, Chanticleer, was trapped by a crackling blue field of paralysis magicks, suspended a few feet above the floor.
“Starfalcon! Slay the druid!” Despite his own injuries, the warrior struggled in vain against his sorcerous bindings. “Ignore us and slay her now!”
In response, the druid thrust her staff downwards, the pressure causing the healer to gasp for air. “I do not threaten idly.” She then alleviated the pressure, and his breathing returned to normal.
“Release them, Jenna,” said Sir Starfalcon. “Release them, and you can live.”
“Unlike you, Conor, I do not so casually discard my vows. I swore to spread Justice across these lands. Death will not discourage me.”
“How is this justice?”
“How is it not?!” She sneered at him. “Chanticleer is an escaped prisoner, an accused raper, and an enemy to Lady British. The old man serves an Empress who wages war upon my home. And the Twin Suns are a heretical cult, an affront to the Eight Virtues.”
“And you’re a fucking monster!!!” The acolyte sobbed angrily
“Silence, child, and be grateful I have spared you thus far.”
“You will die.” Chanticleer’s fists clenched slightly, the paralysis spell beginning to fade.
But Jenna took notice of his movements. “In Ex Grav!!!” She waved her hand, and the power of the blue field was renewed.
“Whose deeds do you judge worse, mine or theirs?” Sir Starfalcon asked pointedly. “You’ll kill the helpless old man, and maybe Chanticleer or the girl, before I reach you. But you won’t best me.” He slowly lowered his blade and shield. “Here’s what I propose instead: my surrender for their freedom. Take me, and they live. One final blow for your perversion of justice.”
“You speak sense.” The druid did not hesitate with her. “I accept.”
To Be Continued ...
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Post by Chanticleer on Nov 3, 2018 8:45:18 GMT -5
Mandrake died with a scream, rather than a song. As Katarina’s beasts bit, clawed, and stomped him into a pulpy mess, Jon used the distraction to grab the tail of a gray short-haired cat chewing on the bard’s nose. He then charged at the shepherd, wildly swinging the shrieking animal over his head to increase momentum, before launching the furry missile directly at her.
“All ki--” Katarina was too astonished to deflect the attack, and panicked claws dug firmly into her face. She spun about, letting go for her crook as she struggled to dislodge the feline.
Jon dove for the weapon and swung upwards. His blow connected with the bottom of her chin, cracking her jaw and loosening teeth. The cat leapt away with frightened howl, leaving deep scratches in his wake. The shepherd stumbled backwards, but not enough to avoid the next hit, which knocked her to the ground. By the fifth one, she was entirely unconscious.
Wielding her crook, Jon spun around, preparing for retaliation. But without their mistress to command them, her pets began to aimlessly disperse, their lust for battle evaporated. Convinced they were no longer a threat, Jon moved to secure his defeated foe.
“Jon!” A familiar voice announced excitedly from behind.
He grew visibly dismayed as he saw Thalesa approach. “You are a bit late for my rescue. Or am I supposed to be grateful you returned at all?”
“Better late than not at all.” She then glanced down at Mandrake, as a three-legged goat chewed obliviously upon one of his leather boots. “Well, not for him, but I warned you that he was a shit bard.” She patted the long dagger sheathed at her belt. “What to do about our prisoner? Do we wake her up before we slit her throat, or do it while she sleeps?”
“Our prisoner?” Jon rolled his eyes. “For now, she is going to live. She could know something important. Though ...” His mouth stretched into a clever grin. “Do you have any green dye, or maybe a pair of scissors? At the very least, she deserves a good fisting.”
********
“Cease this madness!” Immobilized as he was by the druid’s magicks, Chanticleer could do little more than shout his opposition. “Starfalcon ... Conor. Please.”
Instead of acknowledging the demands, the knight removed his close helm and gorget, tossing them next to his discarded sword and shield. His short blonde-hair and beard were matted with sweat, giving them a flat and uneven appearance, and his soft blue eyes seemed tired as he gazed intently upon the druid. “I have done my part, Jenna. I hope you’ll fulfill yours.”
“If you insinuate that I would break my word, after swearing on the virtue I hold dearest, then you never knew me at all.” With a grunt, Jenna picked Sir Starfalcon’s blade up off the ground. Her movements sluggish and strained due to her wounds, and she winced in discomfort as she aimed the weapon as its owner. “Your choices led you here, but I am heartened that you accept the consequences of your betrayal. Do you have any final words?”
“ ... this isn’t right ...” The red-haired acolyte suddenly spoke. She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the bodies of her fellow monks, and choking back her tears.
“It’s been decided,” said the knight. “Be strong.”
The Sister Not buried her head in her lap and erupted into another bout of weeping.
“Do not do this thing,” Chanticleer grimaced in frustration, continuing his failed struggle against the flickering blue field of paralysis.
“Please tell the Empress I’m sorry for leaving her service earlier than planned.”
“Kill. That. Foul. Druid.”
“I was angry when you and the others interfered in my duel,” the knight smiled sadly. “It was ... is ... my duty to protect Emerald Town. But I let my pride to blind me, you were trying to save my life.” His brow creased slightly. “I told you earlier, you would’ve made a poor knight. But I forgot to mention, you’re a good friend.” He then nodded to the druid. “I'm done."
“Sir Conor Starfalcon of Britannia; once head of her Majesty’s Order of the Silver Serpent, once villainous Black Knight, and now called Emerald Knight, protector of Emerald Town. I sentence you to death for your crimes of treason and betrayal.”
He exhaled a calming breath. “May the virtues guide us all.”
“Conor!” Chanticleer shut his eyes tight, refusing to bear further witness.
By any measure it was a clumsy swing, complicated by her injuries and a lack of familiarity with bladed weapons. Her target stood motionless until right before the point of contact, and then, at exactly that moment, he sidestepped the blow.
“Augus Luminos.” Sir Starfalcon chanted. A brilliant white light radiated forth from his chest, striking at everything in his immediate proximity.
Jenna dropped the sword and recoiled in agony, her hands burned by his paladin magicks. “But you swore an oath to surrender!” She hissed. “Where is your honor?!” Her damaged fingers began to weave an arcane gesture. “An Ex-- ”
His armored gauntlet struck her square in the mouth, interrupting her spell and causing the druid to plummet backwards. Her skull struck the altar of the Twin Suns as she fell. “I also swore an oath to protect Emerald Town for the rest of my days. You’ve become a monster, Jenna, and I don’t bargain with monsters.” Victorious, the knight then recovered his blade, and with a swift thrust, he gleefully stabbed the druid through her heart.
Or at least, that was what Chanticleer wanted to happen. It was what he would have done.
But when the warrior opened his eyes, Sir Starfalcon lay dying upon the temple floor, his blood flowing heavily from a crude cut across his throat Although his life was fading fast, the Emerald Knight somehow appeared content.
Unexpectedly, Jenna was at his side, cradling his head and gently caressing him with her slender fingers. Her fanatical indignancy was gone, replaced by a palpable sense of remorse.
Lost in thought, she neglected to renew her field of paralysis, and Chanticleer soon hovered over her, ready to unleash his war axe. “Do not touch him.”
The druid glanced up at him, but did not move. “Did he ever speak of me? We were close once, but duty prevented it from turning into more.” She frowned deeply at that thought. “Sometimes, I wonder if perhaps I personalized his betrayal. Justice must always be impartial.”
He glared at her in disgust. “I do not repeat myself.”
“Please,” she quietly pleaded. “As a druid, I had no choice but to discharge my duties. But I am also a woman. Do I not deserve to mourn a man I -- ”
“I think not.”
Once he was done, Chanticleer dragged Jenna across the room and away from Sir Starfalcon, unwilling to grant her the satisfaction of lying beside him, even in death. Afterwards, he rushed to examine the prostate form of Malcolm Glade, and was pleased to find that the elderly healer was still breathing. He then turned to the acolyte. “He lives. I require your aid.”
The red-haired Sister-Not’s reply was more muted sobbing.
“Now!” He barked at her.
She slowly raised her head to look at him. “ ... but everyone’s dead ...”
“Yes,” Chanticleer said sharply. “Your brothers and sisters are dead. Sir Starfalcon is dead. But Glade is not. Cease your weeping, and let us save him.”
********
Earlier in the year, a funeral was held for the conqueror of Emerald Town. A lavish affair, more than a thousand mourners were in attendance. The service included an inspired sermon about the contemporary relevance of the Eight Virtues, a choral performance of the famed ballad Stones, and during its glorious finale, the remains of the deceased were consumed by a fiery explosion.
Now, months later, on a day unusually sullen for summer’s end, another funeral was held for a defender of Emerald Town. It occurred without fanfare; only a few mourners were present, no monks officiated, and the eulogy was but a brief summary of his accomplishments.
Callous, perhaps, yet understandable. Repairs from the Britannian attack continued, a number of victims still required burial, and the town’s leadership was in disarray. Besides, Lord Neville Holden was a king, a man of power and influence, deserving of the highest tribute. And on this particular morning, rain-soaked with no signs of the Twin Suns above, it was Conor Starfalcon, a mere member of the Emerald Fist, who was laid to rest.
END PART SIX
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Post by Chanticleer on May 23, 2019 16:13:44 GMT -5
PART SEVEN: INFERNAL INTERLUDE
In the year and a half since his prior visit to the Infernal Path, little had changed. A compository of damnation and death, the rocky, barren terrain and decaying vegetation remained coated in a reddish dust that was unpleasant to breathe and irritating to touch. Its native species were still a perverse reflection of creatures that inhabited Sosaria, replete with their physical deformities, odd shapes, and unnatural coloring.
But this time, they posed no threat to Chanticleer and those he traveled with; the Demon Prince and his ilk continued to honor the agreement negotiated by Jolicia. In exchange for condemning Celestia to eternal bondage as the prince’s bride, the Alliance was granted safe passage through the demon realm. Most significantly, this enabled them to use the Infernal Path’s portal system to transport their forces across Everywhere. The power to teleport soldiers into enemy territory, virtually ignoring their defenses, was the Alliance’s greatest tactical advantage in the war against Lady British. It had enabled the swift defeat of the Twilight Juvenalia, and was responsible for their numerous victories against the Kingdom of Britannia ...
... which was why those of the Alliance would slaughter Chanticleer and his companions if they were aware of their current undertaking.
********
Then …
Captain Basil stood at attention and delivered her first report as the newly-promoted head of the Emerald Town guard. The short, middle-aged woman was unaccustomed to her rank, especially the chainmail armor that replaced her well-worn studded leathers, and she struggled to keep her neck and shoulders straight. This was only her third visit to the Emerald Empress’ private meeting chamber, and Basil was acutely cognizant of both their leader’s absence, and the tension that existed between those she addressed.
Jon Abbot, Thalesa Cornigan, Malcolm Glade, and Chanticleer Reich, were seated at the stone table, quietly listening to the new captain, but barely paying heed to one another. The foursome had nearly died during the recent assault by the Companions of the Avatar, but the circumstances surrounding their survival also seemed responsible for their bickering. With the Empress gone and Sir Starfalcon dead, Emerald Town’s leadership was now in their discordant hands.
“ -- except for the temple, the structural damage is repaired,” the guardswoman continued. “My men are reporting the people don’t feel safe. They’re worried about another attack, or what will happen if we lose the war. The Empress’ capture has definitely harmed morale.”
“Is there any new information?” Glade asked with a vague disquiet. His stilted breathing, pallid, complexion, and difficulty sitting evidenced a stagnant recover from his recent injuries. Even his attendance at the meeting was a matter of debate, but the elderly healer had insisted.
“No sign of the Empress or Moriah,” Basil shook her head. “A few witnesses noticed a woman fitting our description of Jools the Tinker escape town when the black smog dispersed.”
“Another reason to expunge the shepherd,” Chanticleer scowled. “Or do we wait until she also escapes?” The warrior’s physical recuperation was complete, but his disposition was still soured by his recent experiences.
“As discussed,” Glade’s tone was uncharacteristically rigid, “we’ll hold a trial for Katarina.”
“That was the agreement,” Jon exhaled bitterly. Since the attack, his jests occurred with far less frequency. “I did not take her prisoner to murder her now. Besides, she may know something about Lady British’s plans for the Empress.”
Thalesa’s spirits, on the other hand, seemed oddly undampened. “I was in favor of killing her at the docks, before this became such a dilemma.” The bard grinned, ignoring their disapproving reactions. “Speaking of, can you believe that cow Emmanuelle is erecting a statue to honor that talentless twat, Mandrake?!”
“Cease your insults!” Chanticleer barked at her. “You clearly possess no regard for the Fist, so at least honor those who died protecting Emerald Town.”
“Maybe you should stop dragging me into your messes,” she said pointedly.
“You abandoned Jon to die!”
“Only temporarily!”
“How comforting to hear,” Jon frowned at her.
Basil interrupted them with a contrived cough. “I should return to my men -- ”
Once the captain left, the warrior resumed his arguing. “Since the first we met, you have always put yourself first. Every sign of adversity, and you take flight.”
“Can you blame me? I never wanted to be a Time Lost, or part of your contest.”
Glade subtly adjusted his spectacles. “None of us asked for it. I had a family.”
“Instead of aiding,” Chanticleer narrowed his eyes, “you deserted us for a stranger.”
“Layden was rather handsome. Most importantly, he made me feel safe again. There was also an assassin trying to kill us, if you have forgotten!”
The harshness of the warrior’s glare intensified. “I have not. Podrugviati nearly ended me, but I did not falter. Nor was it your Layden who slew him, it was the Fist. We also saved you when you were haunted by the ghost of Sara Braccalese.”
“You speak as if I never risked myself for your causes! Do you easily forget my assistance in kidnapping the Techno-Prophet?! Or your idiotic plan to help Leigh?!”
“Ah, I see. My apologies for having expectations.”
“Fuck you, Chanticleer!” Thalesa snapped back.
“This isn’t helping,” Glade said firmly and then turned to the bard. “Thalesa, we understand that you’re not happy there, but it’s up to you what you do next.”
With a slow breath, she relaxed her shoulders and expelled her anger. “I am a bard. Music is my passion, not endless conflict. I would prefer to leave the Fist and Emerald Town, so I can finally explore the Tower of Song.”
Chanticleer rolled his eyes and emitted a derisive chuckle.
“Why are you always such an ass?!”
“I know not.”
“I wish you luck, Thalesa, and I hope you realize you’re welcome to return if you decide to.” He turned to the others “There’s something else I wanted to mention. If you recall, the Empress had asked you both to retrieve a suit of armor crafted from the Titan Seal fragments Its maker, a man called 'The Smith', lives in a nearby settlement.”
“No.” The warrior shook his head. “We should find her instead”
“The Empress suggested it could end the war, and I can’t think of anything more important than that. Once you’re back, we can start our search for her. Chances are, Moriah is bringing her to the north, and I’ve notified Ellin, Kaylin, and our other allies already there.”
“I am not convinced this is wise,” Chanticleer countered. “Renthar claimed Lady British’s ruby amulet is the source of her power. This is the key to her destruction.”
Halfheartedly, Jon shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe the armor will help with that?”
“It will,” Glade stated definitively.
“More secrecy? Fine, I shall do as you ask,” the warrior relented with an irritable groan. “What of your safety in our absence?”
“I have confidence in Captain Basil, and it’s unlikely the Britannians will return. Unless we lose the war, and at that point, will it matter anymore?”
Thalesa interrupted them with loud, contrived sigh. “I suppose I could delay my departure, at least until the war is over -- if you really need me to stay.”
The elderly healer smiled gently at her. “Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”
“Acceptable,” Chanticleer nodded once, and then he looked to Jon with a slight scowl. “It seems we must prepare for yet another pointless quest.”
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Jun 13, 2019 15:45:40 GMT -5
Unlike the rest of the demonic realm, the dense, wooded terrain that Chanticleer and his allies now traversed was surprisingly lush and vibrant. Yet, it was also disturbingly so; somehow, the fauna and flora had transposed their natural physical characteristics. Amorphous creatures made of leaves and bark scurried about flesh-trees and organ bushes. Worse still, a thick fog of reddish dust enveloped the entire forest, bathing it in an eerie, crimson light, and obfuscating much of what lay head.
Due to the truce with the Demon Prince, the monsters they encountered failed to demonstrate even a passing interest in them. Not the hideous bat-men, nor the fiery, three-headed ettins, nor the savage pig-goblins. But after spending a week in the Infernal Path, the threat of an ambush felt preferable to more endless wanderings, and Chanticleer’s patience had eroded past the point of civility. “One-eye!” he barked. “Are you certain this way is the correct one?!”
“If there’s one thing a Drachen always knows,” the wiry rogue retorted with a confident smile, “it’s how to hunt and kill demons.” Then he hobbled ahead, his movements surprisingly nimble for a one-footed man, and continued scouting the grotesque woods.
Despite his success in navigating the Infernal Path, Chanticleer was still doubtful about many of Lucas Drachen’s claims. He purported to be the descendant of an ancient clan of demon hunters, and the odd-looking bow strapped across his back was supposedly the key to slaying the Demon Prince that enslaved Celestia. On its face, the tale was far-fetched and easily dismissed, but both the Lady Sofia Elias and Wilfred insisted upon its veracity. The olive-skinned noble had proven her worth in Emerald Town, and the former guard’s passion for the gypsy girl was undeniable, so the warrior reluctantly accepted their judgment on the matter.
Chanticleer was equally conflicted about Jon Abbot’s inclusion in the group. Given their recent tensions, he was surprised by his fellow Emerald Fist’s decision to join their suicidal quest. The warrior appreciated Jon’s friendship, and he was comforted by his loyalty, but also he worried he might regret his presence. It was inevitable that circumstances would turn against them, and their deaths was the likeliest outcome.
The involvement of the Castile siblings was also far from reassuring. While their conduct during Neville Holden’s siege of Emerald Town was acceptable, their outlook was brazenly mercenary, and Chanticleer had long despised mercenaries. They had also resisted their current task, guarding the final, and most dangerous, member of the party. Even blindfolded, gagged, and bound, the warrior was constantly struggling not to strike the hooded woman dead.
The next morning, as they emerged from the enchanted flesh-forest, Drachen spotted an Alliance regiment a few miles to the north, and he immediately warned the others to retreat behind a cover of organ-shrubs. Patiently, they watched as the soldiers marched eastwards across fields of dead flowers and rusted grass. Their banners were easily recognizable from a distance, and marked them as a mixed company of Lunar Forest rangers, Moonshade mages, and Sanctum Knights. Presumably, they were using the portals of the Infernal Path to travel from the Twilight Juvenalia lands in order to reinforce the Britannian front.
Crouched between two thick bushes whose branches were covered in what resembled tiny male members, Chanticleer was tempted to break from concealment to accompany them. The missing Emerald Empress, unresolved feelings for Leigh, revenge against Lady British, all of these things and more awaited him in Everywhere’s Britannia, and the warrior knew he was fated to return. But instead, he restrained this urge until the soldiers were too far gone to follow.
Several hours later, Drachen halted to address the rest of the group, gesturing to a long range of mountains located a fair distance to the southwest. “That’s it right over there.”
“What is right over there?” Sofia asked curiously, before any of her companions could.
“The entrance to the Demon Prince’s lands.”
********
Then …
It was an early autumn afternoon, and after a spastic, mid-morning coupling, the Twins Suns were withdrawing to opposing ends of the sky. While the change of seasons brought a decrease in traffic, the number of guards positioned at Emerald Town’s gates remained doubled ever since the Companions’ attack. The people’s mood was still uneasy, and so none were allowed to enter without legitimate purpose and a thorough search of their belongings. This edict, recently issued by the current leadership, was one of the few things the foursome were able to agree upon.
“Must we repeat his argument?” Thalesa sighed dramatically. “Or for the once, can we simply exchange our farewells without the usual dysfunction?” The bard and her fellow members of the Emerald Fist gathered near the front gate, along the outskirts of the Market District.
“The shepherd is dangerous,” said Chanticleer. “You will regret your mercy.”
“Maybe,” Glade said, “but I’d regret your suggestion even more.”
“As you say,” the warrior half-shrugged. “The Empress’ order of succession places the authority of Emerald Town in your hands. I disagree, but I shall abide.”
“Now that we have resolved that for the hundredth time,” Jon rolled his eyes. “Thalesa is right, we should have a proper good-bye. I will be surprised if our visit to 'The Smith' is as quick or easy as it sounds. Nothing in Everywhere ever is.”
“Excuse me for a moment.” The others then exchanged puzzled glances as Chanticleer suddenly pulled away from them, until they noticed the woman he approached. Red-haired and dressed in plain robes, she led a small pony towards Emerald Town’s gates.
The surviving Sister-Not smiled at him and lowered the reins of her beast. “Hello.”
“What is this?” He pointed to her mount’s saddle bags, which were packed tightly.
“I’m leaving Emerald Town.”
“Why?”
“A few reasons.” She became self-conscious at the realization he was scrutinizing the absence of a copper amulet around her neck. “I’m still a believer, but after everything that happened? The Suns just don’t seem to shine so bright for me anymore. It’s time to move on.”
“Where do you intend to go?”
“I don’t know, maybe north? Maybe south? Is anywhere safe?” The red-haired woman exhaled a slow, quiet breath. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at Sir Starfalcon’s funeral. That wasn’t right.”
The warrior’s lips pursed. “It matters not. You had your own grief to contend with.”
“Still,” she shook her head. “What about you? What are your plans now?”
“Typical Fisting. Retrieve an artifact. End a war. Save this foul world.”
“Good luck,” She then raised her animal’s reins. “I should go before it’s dark.”
“Wait.” Chanticleer calmly placed his right hand on the pony’s muzzle to prevent her departure.” leaving. “A question first. Your name. What is it?”
She laughed at his question. “Why are you finally asking that now? How many years ago did we meet in the Wandering Woods? You saved us from that troll, and we gave you cinnamon raisin bread. Didn’t you ever wonder about our names before?”
“I always referred to you as Sisters-Not.”
“Sisters-Not?” She blinked uncomfortably.
He paused to frame his explanation. “You and your ... late companions. You were remarkably similar in appearance. Yet you always denied you were sisters.”
The red-haired woman slowly nodded. “That makes sense. A Sister-Not. I guess it’s even more accurate now.” She then shifted her weight onto her toes, so she was tall enough to kiss him on his cheek. “Farewell, John. Chanticleer. Whatever you choose to call yourself.”
“For now,” said the warrior. “No parting in Everywhere seems to last.”
“That’s true. But I have a strong suspicion that this one will. ”
Chanticleer stood there for another ten minutes, watching in silence as the former acolyte passed through the front gates and into the wilderness of the Unknown Despair. It was not until she was completely out of sight that he accepted that he might never learn her name.
To Be Continued ...
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Post by Chanticleer on Jun 26, 2019 15:28:28 GMT -5
The mountain range extended for miles in every direction, its jagged peaks coated in clouds of crimson snow-dust. For hours upon hours, they had wandered, but the narrow pass that loomed before them seemed to be the only way forward. A perpetual breeze flowed forth, more warning than invitation, delicate of force yet smelling of stale seminal fluid and ripe sweat.
Chanticleer’s dark eyes flickered in recognition and he recalled unkindly the battles of his prior visit. The boy-knight Everett Whitethorn, the musical mongbat Mooky, and that other Celestia, all three manifestations of a distraught fat boy unaware of his own suicide. By the time the true Celestia was able to persuade Bartholomew Dragonbane III, also known as Bottoms, that he was, in fact, dead, they were already surrounded by the Demon Prince’s armies. Chanticleer, Wilfred, and 'The Smith' barely escaped intact, and only because Jolicia sacrificed Celestia to her demonic tormentor. Now, more than a year later, the warrior had returned, and the prospects of survival were even less impressive than before.
“I tire of mountains,” Renna Castile groaned loudly. “Hills and plains and forests. Don’t these demons have use for cities? Inns and a hot meal, cool drink or bath.”
Her brother nodded in agreement. “Aye, everything in this place looks just like the rest.”
“Except for a lack of dick-trees for Chanty to hide behind,” Jon Abbot grinned widely. He and Arturos Castle had entered into a friendly rivalry, constantly attempting to outdo each other with absurd or humorous remarks. But only Renna found their efforts amusing.
Sofia Elias scrunched her nose at the memory. “I’d rather not be reminded.”
“Agreed,” Chanticleer frowned his disapproval.
Lucas Drachen led them through the ravine, his single eye darting about for any potential threats. Wilfred trailed directly behind him, his hands wrapped tightly around the shaft of a large battle axe. Next was Chanticleer, who walked alongside Sofia, and then the Castiles and their hooded prisoner. Jon was last, quietly whistling a cheerful tune as he protected their rear.
“It’s too quiet,” Wilfred suddenly remarked. “Not like last time.”
“We’re still in the Infernal Path,” Drachen pointed ahead. “Once we cross these mountains, then we’ll be in the Demon Prince’s kingdom. Technically, it’s a separate dimension that’s connected to this one. That’s where we can expect trouble.”
“That’s also where we’ll find Celestia.” The ex-guard’s voice cracked uncomfortably whenever he mentioned the missing gypsy girl.
“It’s also where Jolicia’s truce won’t help us anymore,” said the one-eyed rogue.
It was another hour before they reached the other side of the pass. Shortly thereafter, they were met by the first of the Demon Prince’s servants.
*******
Then ...
With a series of loud, gurgling noise, the petite, blue-eyed brigand finally expired, her tiny hands tightly clutched at the long dagger that pierced her heart. Her death stare reflected a vague sense of betrayal; the weapon was her own, a gift from her father, who won it in a game of Nim against a pair of traveling merchants from New Fawn. The blade was crafted of fine verite, its golden handle a perfect fit for her small fingers. Her perfect weapon, her Deadly Kiss, until Jon Abbot tricked it from her hand and stabbed it into her chest.
“What do you think of my souvenir?” Jon side-glanced Chanticleer as he carefully retrieved the dagger from the woman’s corpse.
But the warrior ignored his question. Instead, he held his weapon at the ready, his paranoid gaze scanning the surrounding forest for signs of anymore attackers. When he was finally convinced of their security, he lowered the war mace.
“Edric’s Marauders, by my guess.” Jon indicated the brigand and her three dead comrades, their bodies spoiling the otherwise picturesque clearing “Inspired by the legend of that infamous brigand from this region. Did Thalesa ever tell you the Tale of Yolo and the Brigand?”
“Too many times.”
Three mornings later, and without further ambush or incident, the two Emerald Fist members found 'The Smith’s Settlement. An assortment of thirty houses and shops, scattered between two green hills and a narrow tributary of the River Ponder, they were loosely connected by a series of dirt paths Atop the taller of the two hills sat a large smithy, while the somewhat shorter hill was occupied by a bustling tavern and inn.
As they neared the shoddy, wooden gazebo that marked the settlement’s entrance, Chanticleer and Jon noticed a middle-aged man spread lazily across one of its benches. Balding with a bushy beard, he wore filthy leathers that were frayed and covered in dark stains. A naked broadsword lay across his lap, and he clutched a large bottle of whiskey in his hands, presumably the source of the scent of alcohol that overwhelmed the small structure.
“Greetings.” Jon politely tipped his olive-colored cap.
“Tha fuck ya wan’?!”
“Why must we tell you?” Chanticleer asked pointedly.
“Is mah job,” the drunk man patted at his sword. “Guardin' ‘ere.”
“You are a guard?” The warrior did not bother to subdue his skepticism.
“ ... yea.”
“You guard this place?”
“ … yea.”
“You are too inebriated for your duties. If the town is attacked, they will die.”
"Prolly.”
Somewhat amused, Jon intruded upon their fruitless exchange. “Probably to which? Your state of drunkenness, or that it would cause their deaths?”
His reply was a loud, whisky scented belch that lasted a quarter of a minute.
Jon laughed loudly and shook his head. “Good man, where can we find 'The Smith'?”
“Tha smitty.” The drunk man took a long, casual sip from his bottle. “Or tha tavern.”
After a quick discussion, Chanticleer and Jon decided first to visit the blacksmith’s workshop. They following the series of unpaved paths that criss-crossed the settlement, and ascended the taller of the two hills. As they walked, they encountered no other signs of activity; if not for the drunken guard and the occasional shouts and laughter drifting down from the tavern, they would have assumed the area was completely abandoned.
Their destination was a wide, three-story structure constructed entirely of stone. Multiple forge chimneys adorned its perfectly flat roof, suggesting a rather prolific capacity for crafting. None were presently operating, though the harsh scent of molten metal and acrid smoke still clung to the surrounding air, irritating their nostrils as Chanticleer and Jon approached.
“Can I help ye fellows out?” A tall, red-haired woman leaned against the front doorway of the smithy, enjoying intermittent puffs from a small wooden pipe. Her muscular arms, thick leather apron, and toolbelt filled with various tools, vials, and various other items indicated she was some kind of craftswoman.
“We have business with 'The Smith',” said Chanticleer.
“He expecting ye?” She raised the pipe to her mouth again, and in doing so, she briefly flashed an image tattooed on the bottom of her wrist: an orange-colored teardrop.
“So we have been told. We are from Emerald Town.”
Her brow creased significantly as she expelled a smoky breath. “Never heard of the place. Ye can wait here if ye’d like, he’ll be back soon from tavern.” The woman abruptly turned her back on them and hurried inside of the building.
“Quite the reception,” Chanticleer smirked. “I will be glad to depart this pit.’”
“Shit, Chanty,” Jon’s expression darkened.
“What is it?”
“The one that got away.” he said quietly.
“Pardon?” The warrior squinted in confusion.
Jon momentarily pressed his lips together. “Did you see her tattoo? It was the Sacrifice symbol. And her red-hair and tinker tools? She fits our guards’ description perfectly.”
Chanticleer practically growled her name. “Jools.” Then he unstrapped his war mace.
“Wait,” Jon grabbed at his arm. “We have no idea what is happening here. This whole damn village could be full of Britannians.”
But the warrior easily shrugged off his grip. “I care not. This time, Glade cannot stop me.” And with his weapon at the ready, he stormed into the smithy.
To Be Continued ...
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Post by Chanticleer on Nov 16, 2019 18:08:45 GMT -5
Except for their hooded prisoner, whose sight and speech were still obstructed by her blindfold and gag, every member of the group reached for their weapons of preference. For Chanticleer, it was a magickal war axe with a valorite-hued blade, never before employed in battle. Jon flexed his leather-gloved fingers, Drachen nocked an arrow on his odd-looking bow, the Castile Siblings unsheathed their swords, Wilfred readied his large battle axe, and Sofia swiftly flipped open her spellbook, softly chanting three words of power.
When the party exited the narrow ravine, rounding past that final craggy corner and crossing into the valley that stretched wide and westward for many miles yet, the gray-robed figure seemed to be expecting them. Waiting patiently, his right foot slowly tapping to a rhythm only he could hear, he was flanked by his attendants, a pair of winged demons, crimson-hued, more than ten feet tall, and possessed of hermaphroditic attributes.
In response to the appearance of their weapons, the man lowered his cowl, revealing a curly mass of dark red hair atop an ordinary human face. Despite the plainness of his features, there was something manic and off-putting about his demeanor, the constant twitching of his pale blue eyes implied a loose relationship with sanity. Chanticleer and Wilfred instantly recognized him, and they were not the only one.
“Old tricks ... 'ey, Garrott?” Drachen maintained a steady aim.
“Lucas, my old friend, it’s good to see you too,” the gray-robed mage politely smiled and pointed at the rogue’s maimed eye and foot. “You seem to be missing some pieces.”
“At least I’ve still got my soul.”
“Well, you can blame our world’s Judas for that one,” Garrott sneered. “I tried to escape all of it ... so it’s his fault I was forced to become the Demon Prince’s ‘Left Hand’ again.”
“Because you tried to sacrifice him ... again,” Drachen shook his head. “What do you want?”
Chanticleer scowled at the rogue. “Why bother with this foul puppet?! He dies now.”
“No need for any of that.” The mage snapped the thumb and middle finger of his right hand, and both demons vanished into puffs of dark smoke. “I’m not here for a fight.”
“Why should we believe anything you say?” Sofia eyed him with suspicion.
“Aye,” Arturos nodded. “I would sooner trust Reinhardt to cook our supper.”
“Brother please,” said Renna. “This is enough hellish already.”
But Garrott ignored their remarks, focusing only on Drachen. “We share a lot of history, Lucas. Shelley, Claudia, and the rest of the old Magincia gang. For their sake, hear me out?”
“Only for their sake,” the rogue grudgingly acquiesced. “What do you want?”
“Should we even bother?” Jon asked. “It is probably a trick.”
Wilfred adjusted his grip on his battle axe. “He wants to stop us from finding her.”
“On the contrary,” the mage turned and pointed to the mountains bordering the opposite end of the valley, “That’s where you’ll find the Demon Prince’s keep, and I can lead you safely through all the secret tunnels and directly to them.”
“Are you saying ... ?” Drachen’s single eye blinked in surprise.
“If you’re here to kill the Demon Prince and rescue Celestia ... I’d like to help.”
********
Then ...
It was not the first time Chanticleer awoke a prisoner, and as his awareness returned, he strongly suspected it would not be the last. Due to the stink of metal-work that saturated the thick, hot air, which left him perpetually drenched in sweat, the warrior assumed he was somewhere within the large smithy. Stripped of all of his possessions, Chanticleer wore only a pair of shoddy wool pants that were obviously tailored for another: the legs ended half a few inches below his knees, and the waistline was too loose, slipping past his hips as soon as he stood.
Gradually, his vision adjusted to the cramped, dark space; without any windows, only a marginal amount of light passed through the cracks of the doorway. The room’s only egress, the thick oak was reinforced by chunks of metal and would not be easily circumvented. Besides the flimsy mattress occupying most of the hard stone floor, his only potential weapon was the wooden bucket lying in the corner.
After filling the bucket more than a third of the way with clear urine, the warrior spent the next several minutes performing a series of limb stretches and massaging his back and shoulders, in a failed effort to eliminate the soreness from sleeping on stone.
When the cell door eventually opened, the familiar figure of ‘The Smith stood at the threshold, an impressively huge smith’s hammer in his right hand. His head was entirely clean-shaven, and his muscles were as impressive as ever. “Been awhile.”
In response, the warrior quickly reached for the urine pail. He raised it above his head and aimed it at the other man. “You and your comrades struck me from behind.”
“Fair, but you were trying to kill my new apprentice.”
“She is no apprentice. She is a Companion of the -- ”
“I know now,” ‘The Smith’ interrupted, “just not when you tried to bust open her skull. After searching her room, we realized she was crafting things in secret.”
Chanticleer lowered the piss bucket and relaxed his grip on its bail handle. “To what end?”
“Sanctum knight armor. My guess? She was going to impersonate one of them so she could use the Infernal Path and escape back to Britannia.”
“Is she dead yet?”
The craftsman shook his head. “In a cell for now.”
“Then let me slay her.”
“We’re not that kind of settlement,” said ‘The Smith’. “Besides, your friend Jon’s waiting for you, and there’s a lot to discuss.”
Once the warrior disposed of his waste weapon, he and ‘The Smith’ departed the cell together. They traversed a narrow hallway, descended a short flight of stairs to the second floor. Jon was waiting at the end of a much wider corridor, within a room devoted to the exhibition of ‘The Smith’s craftsmanship; several human-shaped mannequins were dressed in polished suits of armor, and more than a dozen finished weapons, ranging from longswords to spears to war hammers, were locked behind the glass coverings of wooden display cases.
As his friend entered, Jon shook his head and sighed. “Have a nice rest, Chanty? Do you wish you had listened to me about attacking?”
“My only regret is that Jools lives still.”
‘The Smith’ interjected with a loud coughing noise. “Before rekindling that whole argument,” he pointed out one of the armored mannequins. “The reason you’re here.”
Situated in the far corner of the exhibition space, Chanticleer had not initially noticed it amongst the other pieces, but when he did, he judged it to be the finest of ‘The Smith’s works. A full suit of platemail, flawlessly crafted from pure valorite, possessing a magickal shine beyond its finish. The warrior also experienced a sense of the familiar, although a few moments passed before he identified the reason why. Four runes depicting different symbols were embedded in the armor: Lines of wind at the center of the helm’s forehead; earthen peaks on the upper left arm piece; a single flame on the back of the right gauntlet; and a wave of water on the lower left leg.
Stratos. Lithos. Pyros. Hydros. They were the emblems of the Titans of Pagan, and the sight of them caused Chanticleer’s fists to tighten. “What is this?!”
“Forging them into the armor wasn’t easy,” said ‘The Smith’. “I wanted to stay out of this whole war, but you and Jolicia freed me in Wrong. Helped me survive the Infernal Path. So when she asked me to repay that favor, I couldn’t say no.” He nodded to the display case in front of the Titan-etched platemail. “Those are for you too.”
The warrior’s eyes narrowed in confusion. Beneath the glass, there were a pair of enchanted war axes, their blades also crafted from valorite.
“I named them ‘The Fist’ and ‘Magebane’ cause of the weird shit that comes out of your mouth, but you can call them whatever you like.”
“I do not follow.”
Jon appeared equally perplexed. “Do not ask me,”
“I guess the Empress didn’t have a chance to explain,” ‘The Smith’ shrugged. “This armor that you’re here to get? These weapons? I made them for you, Chanticleer.”
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Nov 23, 2019 18:04:22 GMT -5
In the valley that bordered the Infernal Path and the Demon Prince’s realm, there was no reliable method to account for the passage of time. Familiar concepts such as day and night, or dark and light, were rendered irrelevant; everything was similarly-tinted crimson by that ubiquitous red dust. So Garrott’s insistence on delaying their departure until after midnight puzzled the others, arousing the suspicions of the more paranoid among them, like Jon, Chanticleer, or the Castile siblings. But Drachen repeatedly defended their new alliance, arguing they had little choice.
When the Left Hand of the Demon Prince indicated it was safe to leave, he led them westward, following a weaving path across the blighted and uneven grasslands. Every so often, he would spontaneously alter their course: zigging north and zagging south, circling backwards, or closely hugging the valley’s mountainous perimeter.
After a few hours of this seemingly pointless wandering, Garrott paused at a rocky outcropping in the northwest part of the valley. He nodded towards a large boulder located at the mountain’s base and chanted, “Por Uus Ylem!”
The mass of rock stirred slightly, and then with a loud rumbling, it inexplicably rolled up the hill, defying all natural law and leaving behind a miniature avalanche of dust and pebbles in its wake. “Here we are,” the gray-robed mage announced, pointing to the now-unobscured cave entrance.
“Where does it go?” Sofia was the first to ask.
“The last place you’d ever want, my sweet, sweet dusky princess.” He dragged his tongue across his upper lip. “Exactly where you asked me to bring you.”
“Cease speaking,” said Chanticleer.
Garrott sneered as he wagged his right pinky at the warrior and his armor. “A brand new suit of shiny blue platemail, but the man inside still doesn’t impress me.”
The next leg of their journey was uneventful, as they ascended a secret tunnel that terminated in an underground chamber beneath the Demon Prince’s palace. In human hands, the stone room would have been used for storing goods, or even prisoners; here, it was filthy and neglected, its floors littered with random piles of bones, debris, and odd scraps of flesh, somehow immune to the effects of decomposition.
“An Sanct,” Garrott spoke the phrase, and a section of the wall vanished from sight, revealing the corridor that lay beyond. “The guards don’t patrol down here, and my magic will keep us from being detected, but we shouldn’t risk making too much noise. Once we leave here, a left brings us to the southwest tower, and three floors up those stairs, to another hallway, then the side door to the throne room. That’s where they’ll be, unless the Demon Prince and his bride are off indulging in pleasures of the fleshy kind.” His gaze lingered on Wilfred in particular. “Not that they only do those things in private.”
The former prison guard frowned at the statement, but said nothing.
“Must we continue to suffer his presence?” Chanticleer aimed an angry finger at the gray-robed mage. “Slay him before he betrays us.”
“He’s not going to betray us,” said Drachen, “I made him swear an oath on Claudia’s memory. It might not mean anything to all of you, but it means everything to him.”
Renna loudly laughed. “The promise of demon puppets worth their weight in strings.”
“We should keep moving,” Wilfred walked towards the exit. “She’s so close.”
The prisoner also spoke, but her gag rendered her words incomprehensible.
Without further discussion, the group ventured into the dimly-lit hallway. The way was marked by a succession of misshapen, jagged crystals affixed to the thick stone walls. Set exactly one hundred paces apart, these glass monstrosities emitted a dullish glow, which caused much of the long corridor to be covered in shadows. The underground air was moist and possessed a potent, unpleasant smell, similar to spoiled food.
Still, Garrott’s directions proved accurate, and without further incident, they reached the base of the southwest tower. The staircase spiraled against the tower wall, so narrow that it forced them to climb the steps in single file.
Half-way to the third floor, Wilfred, who walked second behind their gray-robed guide, abruptly stopped. “Does anyone else hear that?”
“Quiet!” Garrott hissed. “My spells won’t shield us from their ears.”
“I’m not imagining it,” the former guardsman insisted. “It’s still playing.”
“Wait ... what does it sound like?” Drachen’s forehead wrinkled as he asked.
“Like a song,” Wilfred’s head inclined slightly as he struggled to listen. “A harpsichord, or one of those fancy instruments with strings. And there’s also singing.”
The one-eyed rogue considered his answer. “But why can’t the rest of us hear it?”
“What are the words of the song?” Sofia asked.
“Just close your eyes, yeah, just close your eyes ... and she’ll be there.* I think the song’s about her. About Celestia.”
They accelerated their stride, and soon arrived on the ground floor of the Demon Prince’s palace. But instead of the simple route to the throne room described by their grey-robed guide, the group was met by a maze-like intersection of four different hallways.
“I don’t understand,” Garrott frowned. “Something’s changed.”
Chanticleer raised his war axe. “If you attempt to trick us.”
“Not all of you shall survive this place.”
Everyone paused, searching without success for the voice’s source. Echoing unnaturally across the area, it possessed a bizarre blend of three different tones: a young woman, calm and delicate; a deep, distorted growl; and a manic, high-pitched cackle.
“Three shall fall to the blade of deaths. One to the virtue you know best. Another dies in honor of a name. The final death, devoured by flame.”
Moments later, it appeared at the end of the eastern-most corridor. A massive creature, armored in a full suit of rusted platemail. A steady march of heavy footsteps, its intention heralded by the ancient-looking halberd it wielded with one hand.
“Khal Ankur,” Wilfred gasped.
“Who? Too many names in this story to remember,” Renna casually unsheathed her blade.
“Aye,” Arturos readied his own weapon. “I’ve been thinking, sweet sister, this whole business is too much with the details, and not enough with the profits.”
“You ... don’t understand,” said Drachen. “Khal Ankur isn’t like anything you’ve faced before. Garrott, you need to get us out of -- ”
But all of a sudden, the gray-robed mage was nowhere to be found.
“Oh ... shit.”
********
Then …
Besides his expertise in crafting weapons and armor, ‘The Smith’ was also skilled in the culinary arts, as evidenced by the meal he served his two visitors in the second floor dining room of the smithy: a thick, hearty stew consisting of chopped lamb, common mushrooms, and an array of vegetables from his private garden. Jon barely hesitated, greedily devouring his portion and then immediately refilling his bowl, while Chanticleer was far more circumspect, carefully examining the food before he consumed it with slow, measured bites.
After swallowing enough of the stew to convince Chanticleer that it was not poisoned, their host proceeded to share the story of how he came to reside in the small, isolated settlement. “I’d been in Wrong for years. Don’t mean it as an insult, but after everything, your Emerald Town and the plans of the people who sent Jolicia to free us, it seemed too much like another kind of prison for me. And poor Wilfred, someone had to look out for him, he was barely sleeping or eating after what happened to Celestia.” He paused for a sip of his ale. “So we wandered and wandered the Unknown Despair, until we ended up here. Didn’t have a blacksmith anymore, but she’d left behind this place, and they asked us to stay.”
“Where is Wilfred?” Chanticleer asked between sips of stew broth.
“Guarding Jools.”
“I have seen him fight. He is not enough to stop me.”
“I was curious,” Jon blatantly changed the topic. “You do not seem the lawless sort, how did you end up in Wrong? Are you originally from Britannia? Did your parents name you ‘The Smith on purpose, after a seer foresaw your chosen profession?”
“Lots of questions. Never knew my parents or where I’m from. When I was but a babe, I was sold to a cult of wicked smithing fanatics.”
“Smithing. Fanatics.” Jon repeated the words, not quite convinced. “Are you joking?”
“Afraid not, friend. They’re real secretive, known among darker circles for crafting the things no else dares, with a presence on a lot of different worlds. Me and the other kids they owned spent our days and nights learning everything there is to know about making things. At twelve you get paired with a master called ‘The Smith.’ Only one way to complete your apprenticeship, and that’s to kill your master, or die trying. But since it’s a cult, there’s all these different rules on how you can do it.” ‘The Smith’s expression darkened. “Me, I ignored them; one day, I brained my master one day with his own hammer. Britain authorities never asked why, just sent me off to Wrong for the rest of my days. Tell the truth? I didn’t care, I was just happy to be free of them. I did keep my master’s name though.” He grinned broadly. “I earned it.”
Jon’s laughter evidenced his perverse amusement. “That is quite a tale.”
“Many in Wrong deserved their punishment,” said Chanticleer. “But yours sounds unwarranted. I do not regret you joining our escape to the Infernal Path.”
“Me either, friend. This is the happiest in my life I’ve ever been. Speaking of the Infernal Path, a few of Wilfred’s friends want to talk to you about it.”
Chanticleer pressed his lips together in disapproval. “Elaborate.”
“Not related to the war in Britannia, if that’s worrying you.” ‘The Smith’ raised his glass, and after a prolonged sip, he placed it down on the table. “No, Wilfred and his friends --”
“ -- they’re heading back to rescue Celestia.”
To Be Continued …
*With credit to Pretty Ballerina by the Left Banke.
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Post by Chanticleer on Dec 1, 2019 18:55:32 GMT -5
“Everyone ... split up!!!” Drachen shouted to the others. “Find the throne room and regroup. But don’t forget ... I’m the only one who can kill the Demon Prince.” As the rest of the group began to scatter, Arturos stood his ground. “I’m thinking, all of you are overestimate our mysterious foe.” He winked at his sister. “I will teach this fool some of what we learned in the Library of Scars.” “Brother,” Renna sighed. “There are here better crafted for fodder.” “Aye, Renna, but you forget -- ” If there was anything more to their exchange, Chanticleer missed it. He had immediately obeyed Drachen’s command, grabbing the hooded prisoner by the arm, and dragging her with him as he fled down the southernmost of the four hallways. In the background, the sound of metal against metal reverberated, and by his count, the clash involved at least three different combatants. The greater the distance they achieved, the more the fighting faded, until the only thing he could hear was the echoing of their own hurried footsteps. Navigating the Demon Prince’s Palace was hardly the straightforward undertaking that Garrott had depicted. During their escape, they passed several more intersections, randomly turning corners yet failing to find any signs of the throne room. After what felt like miles of running, the warrior suddenly stopped, violently shoving his charge down onto the floor. She fell forward and landed hard, an indecipherable grunt escaping the confines of her gag and hood. Despite the bindings that secured her hands behind her back, or the blindfold that obstructed her vision, the prisoner managed to regain enough of her balance to stand. Chanticleer rectified this with a harsh kick to her gut, knocking her prone. “You will not move again.” He lifted up his war axe and pointed it at her. “I would deny Khal Ankur the pleasure of your death. Nor will I let you impede my survival. If nothing changes soon, then you die.” He ignored her muffled response. “No final words. No last requests.” But the warrior’s silent countdown was soon interrupted by the untimely arrival of Jon and Sofia, who rushed towards them from a westwardly direction. “Chanty?!” Jon frowned as they drew closer. “What exactly are you doing?” “Justice. For Emerald Town.” He prepared to swing his weapon. “Wait!” Sofia cried out. “Why?”
“We found the throne room, and Celestia’s inside. But we can’t do this without her.” Chanticleer lowered his weapon. “The others?” “Wilfred is waiting for us to come back,” said Jon, “but I doubt he will wait for long. We lost track of Lucas, Arturos, and Renna after Khal Ankur appeared.” The warrior nodded once. “Have you noticed any guards? I have not.” “That is strange. Was Garrott leading us into a trap all along? We kept trying to warn Drachen not to trust him, but he insisted.” Sofia’s lips pouted slightly. “Speaking of Lucas, his bow's the only way to kill the Demon. Can we even fight it without him?” “Do we have much of a choice?” Jon smiled faintly. “Besides, we still have one weapon left, assuming Chanty does not cut her head off. Chanticleer grunted his acquiescence. “As you say.”
“Thanks for seeing reason.” Jon unsheathed a small dagger from his right boot. He proceeded to cut the prisoner’s hands free, and then removed the hood. “Alright then, Jools. Time to make yourself useful.”
********
Then …
After Jon and Chanticleer finished their lamb stew, ‘The Smith’ led them down the hill from his Smithy, along one of the dirt paths that cut across the settlement, and finally, to a home located on its outskirts. As on the day of their arrival, the two Fist members did not encounter any of the townsfolk, only the noise of their merriment from the tavern upon the other hill.
Their destination was a modest, one-story cottage, economically crafted from local fieldstones, and topped by a slope, wooden roof and the tiniest of brick chimneys. As they approached, the silhouettes of at least four people could be seen through the curtains of the front window. Instinctively, Chanticleer reached for his new war axe, ‘The Fist.’ But his caution proved unnecessary; of the five faces that awaited them inside, four were familiar to him: the siblings Arturos and Renna Castile; the Lady Sofia Elias; and Wilfred.
Their comrade introduced himself as Lucas Drachen, a lean, dark-haired man missing both his eye and foot. Months ago, he was the only one of Renthar’s would-be assassins who evaded capture in Emerald Town. “At that point, I wasn’t sure if the rest of Emerald Town were also enemies,” the one-eyed rogue explained as they gathered in the front room of the cottage, spread comfortably around the dining table and nearby sofas. “I knew it’d be bad if all of us were captured, so I hid. For weeks, I lurked in the shadows of Emerald Town, watching."
“Impressive stealth for a cripple,” Chanticleer remarked.
“Don’t let the foot fool you, the Emerald Town guards have nothing on the Camorra. Before I could make my move, the Technocrats came, then the Alliance army, and then Holden ended up freeing my friends for me. I surprised them after they left Emerald Town for good, I probably was the last person they expected to see.”
“Aye, this is so,” said Arturos. “I wouldn’t have lingered for so long.”
Sofia frowned at the comment. “Well, I’m glad that you did.”
“After that, we wanted to lay low for awhile and figure out what to do about Faeryl. That’s how we found this place, met Wilfred and ‘The Smith,’ and realized we had friends in common.” For a moment, a deadly serious expression flashed across his face. “Celestia is one of ours too, and we decided to help her first because we know where she is. But that doesn’t mean we’re giving up on Faeryl either.”
Renna sighed loudly. “Need more reason to wallow in madness.”
“Renna ... don’t make me hit your brother,” the rogue smirked.
“My brother?”
“I have to hit somebody when you say things like that.” Drachen turned to Jon and Chanticleer. “Do you have any idea why Renthar took Faeryl?”
Jon shook his head. “He is not all that fond of sharing.”
Wilfred, who had previously remained alone with his thoughts, spoke next. “It’s Celestia we’re here to talk about. We know where she is and how to kill the demon that holds her.”
“It’s called ... the Drachen Bow,” the rogue elaborated. “Turns out my ancestors were a clan of demon hunters that beat him before, centuries ago. On our world, when his followers tried to kill Cel’s mom Alisiea, we recovered the bow’s schematics.”
Chanticleer’s response was a suspicious glare. “Convenient.”
“This is Everywhere. Trust me, it works. My family knows how to slay demons. But our real problem isn’t just killing the Demon Prince, it’s reaching him. That army Wilfred described ... we need a lot more power to get past them.”
“Or a really good distraction,” Jon mused before glancing towards Chanticleer. “Remember the worst part about the Companions’ attack on Emerald Town?”
The warrior signalled his disapproval with sharp wave of his hand. “No. Either she returns with us to Emerald Town. Or she dies here tonight.”
“You’re talking about Jools again?!” ‘The Smith’s exasperation with the subject was apparent. “I’m just against murdering her. How do you think she can help us?”
“I have never seen anything like it,” Jon answered as his fellow Fist member continued to scowl. “She was able to cover most of Emerald Town in dark smoke and explosions.”
Drachen considered the suggestion. “That’s ... definitely something we could use.”
“No,” Chanticleer repeated his refusal.
“Chanticleer.” Wilfred emphasized every syllable to get his attention.
“Pardon?”
The former prison guard stood up from his chair and approached the other man, watching him intently. “Maybe you think the way I feel about Celestia is stupid. I know I didn’t know her for long.” His mouth curled into a small frown. “For months, I hated myself because I escaped and she didn’t. It wasn’t our fault, but we still left her behind.” Tears started to form, as his face flushed red with upset. “We need all the help we can get. Don’t stand in our way of this. Don’t put your hate for Jools over our love for Celestia.”
Ignoring Wilfred’s desperate plea, the warrior instead looked at Jon. “Let us speak alone. Now.” When none present objected, the two reconvened outside and he continued. “Wilfred convinced me. I will allow them Jools.”
“That is probably for the best. Especially since I think they are prepared to fight us for her. It is a fitting punishment for her crimes too.”
“Jon, you misunderstood. I intend to join their quest.”
“And that is probably not for the best. We have our own concerns: the Empress is still missing, and we have to bring the armor back to Emerald Town like she wanted.
“As I said, Wilfred convinced me. I will not abandon Celestia again.”
He sighed heavily. “I did not want to mention this inside, since they outnumber us, but are you forgetting the deal that gives the Alliance unrestricted access to the Infernal Path? That has been the foundation of our entire strategy against Lady British. What happens to the war if Drachen and the others are caught by the demons? Or worse, they succeed at killing their leader?”
“I never consented to Jolicia’s bargain. Nor is our advantage worth even a moment of Celestia’s suffering. If you object, then report us to the Alliance or Renthar. I care not.”
“Oh, Chanty,” Jon shook his head slightly and chuckled. “I am always impressed by the limits of good sense you will violate to help a friend. And it is heartening to know that one day, if I am also doomed to be sodomized by a demon for all eternity, that you would come to my rescue. Fuck you for insinuating I would do anything for Renthar.” He then offered his right hand to his friend. “In fact, I will join you in the commission of this act of extreme stupidity.”
“Why?”
“Come, you know how that old saying goes. Alone, we are but fingers …”
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Jan 3, 2020 23:56:34 GMT -5
Where they once walked, she now did: traversing the dying terrain populated by absurd, faunal abominations and suffused with reddish dust. Avoiding encounters with Alliance forces utilizing the Infernal Path’s system of portals to transport themselves between battlefields. Approaching the large range of mountains that loomed to the southwest. Following the narrow ravine into that wide, hilly valley, where she had nearly lost her life. Uncovering the entrance concealed behind a boulder. Ascending the cramped tunnel that brought her to an abandoned basement. Creeping through that poorly lit hallway, and then finally, up the southwest tower’s spiral staircase.
On the palace’s ground floor, she was faced by a crossroads of four, identical-looking hallways. Frustrated, and uncertain of which one to follow, she inhaled deeply and then closed her eyes. A minute of relaxing breaths passed, and then another, and then another. Finally, she opened them, the barely perceptible noise of fighting persuading her to choose the southernmost path.
She advanced carefully through the corridor, the sounds of battle becoming increasingly louder. Distracted as she was by this, she neglected to notice the corpse that obstructed the threshold of the next intersection, until she stumbled over it. Despite the massive injuries that left his torso a jumble of blood and viscera, the man’s face was intact and recognizable. Black eyes and hair, even in death, Arturos Castile still wore that amused smile. He had been a friend of her friends, but not one of her own, and circumstances were too dire for her to pause and grieve.
Lured by the clamor of metal scraping against metal, and the random splattering of blood across the stone floor, she turned left. Soon, she reached its source: two figures locked in close combat, a brutal display of pained grunts, weapons flashing, and parried blows. But one of them held the obvious advantage: Renna Castile, like her brother, was mortal and flesh, while the grotesquery known as Khal Ankur was neither of these things. A struggle of attrition, her desperate defense serving only to delay the inevitability of the creature’s victory.
As the battle continued, a sudden thrust caused Renna to pivot, and she briefly caught the gaze of their hidden observer. The dark-haired fighter refrained from any reaction that might alert her opponent to the presence of the other woman, though she did acknowledge it with a small smirk. Then, barely a moment later, Khal Ankur jabbed at Renna’s right knee with the butt of its halberd shaft, and she lost her footing. Its follow-up swing was strong enough to cleave her body in two, and Renna Castile died instantly, both of her halves simultaneously striking the ground.
She had known Renna even less than she did Arturos, yet she was unable to restrain the gasp of horror that escaped her lips. Khal Ankur paused in response, and the realization of what would follow filled her with dread. Before the creature could turn around, however, she felt two hands grasp at her shoulders, and somehow, she was pulled into the wall behind her: a secret doorway that vanished as quickly as it had been opened.
Unsettled by her near-encounter with Khal Ankur, she did not resist as her mysterious rescuer dragged her through the dark, winding passageway hidden within the palace walls. After ten minutes, they stopped, and a man’s voice chanted two simple words of power,
“In Lor!”
At the sight of the curly, red-haired mage, she instinctively pulled away. “Garrott,” she hissed his name, not bothering to mask her utter revulsion.
“You’re the last person I expected to see in all this chaos.”
“Kal Vas Fl -- !”
“Wait!!!” He raised his hands both of his hands to indicate his surrender. “I swear, Jolicia, this time, we’re on the same side. That’s why I helped you!”
The blonde mage allowed her spell to evaporate. “Explain yourself. Now.”
His attempt was interrupted by a sudden explosion from elsewhere within the Demon Prince’s Palace. The noise was muted somewhat by the distance, though it was still considerable enough to shake the surrounding walls, and sprinkle their heads with a cloud of dust and pebbles.
“Your friends have probably reached my master by now,” Garrott grimaced. “Please understand, Jolicia, I didn’t betray them. Not this time. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but my guess is the palace changed itself to defend against their intrusion.” His eyes widened as his face twisted with mania. “But I can still help you! This passageway will take us to the throne room. We can still save your friends! We can still save Celestia!! I can finally be free!!!”
Her reply was a sharp slap across his left cheek. “Just shut up, you idiot!”
“But -- ?!” His demeanor quickly shifted from derangement to confusion.
“I’m not here to save anyone. I’m here to stop them from fucking up everything.” ******** Then ... When she dreamed, they were floating in a sea of stars, their bodies so closely intertwined that neither could recall that they were originally birthed as separate beings. But Jolicia could only sleep so often, and the rest of her time was spent lonely, wandering that abandoned fortress in the ethereal void, once occupied by a Mad Emperor and his legions. There were worse places to waste away her days, of course, and the blonde mage was well-acquainted with many of them. Still, her tolerance for rare books, laboratory experiments, and warm meals and baths prepared by one of the Dezeras had its limits, and then she would escape back into the solace of her sleep. Because when she dreamed, they were together again ... Most mornings, Jolicia awoke at her own convenience. Renthar had instructed the Dezeras to never enter their bedchamber, unless, as he explicitly stated, it was a very urgent matter. “Mistress, there’s a very urgent matter.” Reluctantly, her tired eyes fluttered open, and she was met by the sight of two Dezeras standing at the foot of her bed. They were completely identical in appearance: black hair fashioned into a single ponytail, tan skin, and wearing strips of leather armor that concealed little of their bodies, including the tattoo of a crooked dagger on their left hips. “Go away,” she growled at them. “No,” said the second Dezera. “It’s a very urgent matter.” “Then go and find your Master.” “We can’t,” replied the first Dezera. “You’re the only one here.” It had been this way since Jolicia returned from the Infernal Path, more than a year ago. At first, she appreciated the respite; her encounter with Celestia and the Demon Prince had rekindled old, uncomfortable feelings about her former life in her native Sosaria. Then, she was sent to retrieve the Stratos seal fragment from Moi’Ami in the Twilight Juvenalia. A port city populated by the ruling class of Everywhere’s westernmost kingdom, the amenities it offered were designed to fulfill their every perverse, blood-sucking desire. The weeks she spent dealing with the vampire merchant who possessed the shard was an experience Jolicia preferred to forget. Soon, her lover assigned her to protect the recovered artifact at the fortress, until Lord Neville Holden was too dead to continue his pursuit of it. She later delivered all four fragments to ‘The Smith” in the Lands of Unknown Despair, requesting that he use them to create a suit of valorite, platemail armor, as repayment for her saving his life in the Infernal Path. In-between those events, Renthar asked her to safeguard the captive Faeryl Tyra’them. After the elf and her Emerald Trading Company comrades had failed in their attack against the sorcerer, he coerced the Emerald Empress into granting him custody of her. Renthar used his spells to render her comatose, and during his intermittent visits over the following months, he prepared her for some future, unknown purpose. Finally, bereft of a year’s worth of memory, he exiled Faeryl to the same iteration of Sosaria that Chanticleer and the Emerald Fist originated from. As the war in Everywhere progressed, Renthar’s visits became more and more infrequent, as did further tasks of importance, and informing her of his plans. He promised to be more forthcoming about both, but in the interim, the fortress felt less like their home, and more like another piece of the game he was playing. Jolicia never doubted her love for him, but the sorcerer’s many secrets frustrated her. This served to aggravate her mood, especially towards the Dezeras. Renthar still found their presence an amusement; she did not. However, she knew it was impossible to ignore their very urgent matter without either murdering them or possibly failing her lover’s trust in her. So the blonde mage slipped out of bed and into a thin, pink robe, and then followed the twin servants. They led her through the fortress, until they reached the private chamber atop the keep’s central tower. A third Dezera stood guard over the room’s only notable feature, a huge emerald that rested on a golden pedestal. Renthar’s treasured scrying crystal, an object that fascinated Jolicia, yet also elicited a significant amount of resentment, due to the many hours of his attention it consumed. “It detected something that set off one of the Master’s alarm wards,” the third Dezera gestured to the gem. “It’s a very urgent matter.”
“Stop saying that,” Jolicia frowned in annoyance. “What alarm ward?”
“One of the wards inside the Infernal Path that keeps watch over Celestia.”
“What?!” Her nose wrinkled and she approached the emerald. Having repeatedly witnessed her lover call upon its abilities, she exhaled and focused all of her thoughts on the strange girl with the mismatched eyes, and the demonic realm to which Jolicia had condemned her.
The gem was a tool of the Mad Emperor, and its power was bound not by time or space. As the blonde mage concentrated, a series of visions flickered across its facets. She watched in genuine surprise as she saw old acquaintances meet with new ones. “At least he’s wearing the armor,” she muttered to herself, “but he’s supposed to be up north.” Then apprehension, as she discerned the purpose of their impossible quest. “No, they can’t be that stupid.” Then unadulterated rage, as they were joined by another familiar face. “Fucking ... Garrott?!”
“Mistress?” One of the Dezeras called to her.
Jolicia sighed heavily as she stepped away from the emerald. “You were right, it’s urgent.”
“We can try to contact the Master and -- ”
“No,” she shook her head, “I’ll take care of it personally. When Renthar gets back, you tell him what happened, and he better appreciate the pile of shit I’m about to jump back into.”
To Be Continued …
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Post by Chanticleer on Jan 16, 2020 23:29:46 GMT -5
Afterwards ...
Chanticleer stood motionless at the edge of the bluff. Just one small step, and the weight of his valorite platemail would pull him forth, his body repeatedly smashed against boulders and rocks as it tumbled down a craggy incline, until landing in the ruins below.
Once, the Demon Prince’s palace was magnificent to behold, a mighty fortress crafted from blackened stone and the calcified bones of various creatures, both mortal and infernal. Its four corners were marked by soaring, twisted spires coated in dark flames that never ceased burning, and the center was capped by a huge, golden and grooved dome. But following the defeat of its master, the structure began to shake and crumble, transforming this once-testament to his terrible power into a crater of broken, smouldering rubble.
As he surveyed the destruction, the warrior’s thoughts were not of shattered palaces or demonic entities. No, he was contemplating the cost of their victory: the corpses still trapped beneath the debris, and his fallen comrades that once inhabited them.
Carved from obsidian and covered in blood moss and sulphurous ash, the Demon Prince’s throne was sizeable enough to accommodate his massive, form. Horned, winged, and naked, with skin akin to black leather, his face possessed almost human-like features. On his lap rested his bride of prophecy, an unnaturally pale Celestia, her hair and lips colored an eerie bright red, and her once-mismatched eyes now a deep crimson that reflected her husband’s.
Chanticleer, Sofia, and Wilfred boldly strode into the circular chamber without any resistance. They walked along a carpet woven from human flesh, between columns of bone, moving towards the throne dais in the center of the room. While the warrior paid no heed to the obscenities that surrounded them, and the mage wrinkled her nose in revulsion, the former guard kept his gaze fixed on Celestia.
“Yet, I see another version,” the girl-queen’s voice echoed melodiously throughout the hall, “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.”
“Cease,” Chanticleer demanded sharply.
A wide grin stretched across the Demon Prince’s face, and he engaged in a series of utterances that were incomprehensible to human ears.
But not to Celestia’s. “My beloved is not impressed by your foolishness. You violate the bargain struck by Jolicia. You doom the war waged by your allies; no longer shall they be granted safe passage through the Infernal Path.” Her mouth formed a thin smile. “All shall suffer for your betrayal; we will send forth our army to punish not only the people of Everywhere, but all the worlds you originally called home.”
“Celestia, please,” Wilfred spoke softly, despite his discomfort. “This isn’t you.”
She ignored him for Chanticleer. “We sent our guards away, so we could pleasure ourselves at your destruction. Nor has my beloved forgotten your transgressions against his kin, Abbadon. Yet before commencing with your suffering, he awaits an answer to his question from your prior encounter. In that final battle against the Pagan Titans that claimed so many of your friends, did you fall -- ”
-- or did you leap?”
His harsh reverie was interrupted by a familiar call. “Chanticleer?”
But he neglected to respond to Jolicia.
“It’s time to go,” she nevertheless continued. “Celestia’s awake, and Garrott mapped out the way to the Infernal Path. And without the truce, more demons can arrive at any minute.”
The warrior still did not move.
The blonde mage sighed in annoyance. “Are you coming or not?”
“Yes,” he finally answered her. Before turning to leave, Chanticleer stole one last glimpse of the palace ruins. “A pity. At least we have been spared the effort of it.”
“What’s that?”
“The bodies. They are already buried for us.”
To Be Continued …
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