A Fist Reborn

[Judas D'arc]

Prologue: Gone, But Never Forgotten

Years Ago ...

He knew that Sosaria was changing. The first sign was the broken facet of Malas, with its twisted and improbable terrain, and endless conflict between the forces of darkness and light. Then, centuries after the Shattering of Mondain’s gem, the land of Rondorin and Barataria suddenly returned, its people and culture transformed beyond what time or history could reasonably explain. After that, it was the elves, appearing in numbers not seen before, along with new and powerful monsters who claimed to be without peer. Now, there were rumors of civilized gargoyles whose kingdom existed on the other side of a recently-discovered Underworld.

This was no longer his Sosaria. His friends were dead or lost; most of the heroes of his age were gone or fading fast, as were their opposite number. New ones were arising, as they always did, but he could muster no affection or investment in their conflicts, just as they could feel none for the conflicts of his day. And once his final task was done, he too would disappear for good ... preferably into a bottle of something strong, between a pair of womanly thighs, if there were still any that would entry to his aging body.

The farmhold was located on the outskirts of Britain in Felucca, an unassuming wooden cabin with a vegetable garden, and a pen filled with sheep. A strange irony, he realized, should his suspicions about its occupant prove correct.

Following a full minute of knocking, a man answered the door. He was handsome, with a burly dark beard and a head shaved bare. Although dressed as one might expect of a shepherd, there was something about him that seemed dangerous. “Can I help you?” If he recognized his visitor’s face, he did little to demonstrate it.

"I need to ask you some questions."

"Apologies, my friend, but I cannot," he said firmly, but not rudely. "It is already midday, and I have much work before sundown. Besides, we know each other not, and I doubt any knowledge I possess would be of interest to you. Unless your curiosity involves the growth rate of carrots, or the best angle for the shearing of sheep.”

"You are rather well spoken for a farmer."

He frowned slightly, but said nothing.

"But you were not always a farmer, were you, Markus? We were never close, and yet I count grieving mage, Nujel’m justicar, Royal Army soldier, Order assassin, and leader of the Emerald Fist among your many accomplishments. Quite the biography."

‘Markus’ tried to slam the door shut, but the swift foot and pained groaned of his visitor thwarted his efforts. With a defeated sigh, he released his grip from the door. “Please, I do not wish an argument, and I am not who you believe.”

“In exchange for answers, I will gladly forget who I believe you to be,” the visitor’s mouth formed a slight, clever smile. “I want to know about the Fist.”

His expression darkened. “The man you seek ... was not present at their end.”

“If he was there, then he would be dead, alongside Leigh and the rest. Markus always did strike me as the sort who would have jumped into that portal with them.”

“But he was not,” ‘Markus’ stated with palpable resignation. “Others are better suited to answering your questions. I suggest you find them instead.”

“Who, exactly? I am barely in contact with my own ... er ... circle anymore, and many of their own encounters with the Fist were far from pleasant.” He gently cleared his throat. “As for the surviving Fist, I was rather indisposed during much of the group’s existence, and we are not acquainted, so I thought it best to begin with someone I knew.”

“There is a man by the name of Malcolm Glade. He was a witness to their deaths, and I believe he would be willing to aid you.”

“Unfortunately, Malcolm Glade has vanished.”

“Vanished?” He seemed surprised by this.

“As have Kaylin Windsong, Ellin Lionsden, and Jon Abbot, a man you have a particular interest in, if I recall correctly. Whether they have returned to their origins, or something more sinister is involved, I do not yet know. But no trace of them can be found.”

‘Markus’ merely shook his head. “I am sorry, but I cannot get involved.”

“I am not here asking for your involvement in anything. This is not my recruitment pitch for some grand quest; we are both older men, and beyond such things. My intention is to write a book, a history of the Fist’s exploits. A Fistory, so to speak.”

“A Fistory.” He chuckled briefly at the term, and then his demeanor soured once more. “But why, and why now? The Fist has been gone for years, their sacrifice barely known or remembered by any of those who still walk these lands.”

“Yes, and as the years continue to pass, fewer and fewer will remember, until they have faded completely into history,” said the visitor, almost passionately. “They may be gone ... but the Emerald Fist should never be forgotten.”

[Judas D'arc]

Chapter One: An Unreliable Measure of Existence

Recently …

The cell was cold and damp, its lone occupant never permitted any true comforts. Her tiny cot was stiff and barren of any bedding. Her meals were portioned and bland, providing minimal sustenance. Her guards were under orders never to speak, and her infrequent visitors cared little for conversation, they sought only the benefits of her gifts. The darkness was constant; without natural light, day and night were indistinguishable, and time became an unreliable measure of existence.

It had been weeks or months or a year since the spectacled librarian’s prior visit. His was an old and dangerous name, yet one he had not properly earned, as demonstrated by the near-embarrassing manner in which he tripped while entering the cell.

“Enter o’seeker,” the prisoner whispered hoarsely. “I am ... thirsty.”

“B-b-but of course.” He handed her a metallic wine flask, and she fervently consumed its contents. When she was done, her teeth, lips, and chin stained darkish red, he continued. “My L-L-Lady has more questions for you.”

“Lady?” She seemed perplexed by the notion. “But she no longer occupies a throne.”

“We’ve t-t-talked about this. Not that lady, the one who put you here.”

“Aye, a most unjust sentence. I allied with your side, and lit the path to victory.”

He shrugged. “Only because you were f-f-forced into cooperating. While you weren’t the one in power, you bear a responsibility for what happened.”

“You speak of power, Relvinian,” the prisoner practically hissed that last word. “By what right do you call yourself that? That name has significance, you do not.”

“As I’ve explained before, it’s a c-c-coincidence,” the librarian smiled nervously. “Maybe a distant ancestor in common, at most. But like I s-s-said, my Lady has questions. She knows the Emerald Empress has been in contact with you.”

“The Empress? Even my sight cannot pierce her mask.”

“But you can tell me what she’s been asking you about. That p-p-particular shard-world, it’s our original homeland. We might’ve left it behind for here, but events occurring there still c-c-concern us. What exactly is the Empress up to there?”

“To understand her game, o’seeker, you must understand its players.”

“Her game?” His brow visibly tensed. “What p-p-players?”

“The Mad-Eyed Sorcerer. The would-be Time Lord. There are also others, of course -- some already revealed and some not yet. Aye, and then the Emerald Fist.”

“Emerald Fist? But they’re -- ”

“Nay, I speak not of the originals who fell to the Titans. Nor the version that reunited briefly here in Everywhere. A new iteration of the group has formed,” the prisoner’s lips twisted into an unsettling smile. “I shall tell you of them, if your Lady so desires; I shall tell you of the Emerald Fist, and about all the rest ...”

[Judas D'arc]

Chapter Two: A Warm, Encouraging Smile

It was an early autumn afternoon, and once more, Guardsman Johnson walked the familiar sandstone streets of his beloved Trinsic.

Bright eyed, tall, and swarthy, he had served the City of Honor for many a year, like his father, his father’s father, and his father’s father’s mother before him. He had witnessed the comings and goings of Lord Generals, Mayors and their council members, Purple Guardians, and King Blackthorn’s governors. He had survived the betrayal of Juo’nar, General Valek’s tyranny and corruption, and Minax and her endless invasions. When it came to Trinsic, Johnson believed he had witnessed it all --

-- until the election of its current Governor.

Unlike his predecessors, Haxley had accomplished far more good than harm. Nearly all his campaign promises had been fulfilled: the crown’s proclamation of martial law was rescinded, the conflicts caused by Governor Ine were resolved, the Council of Trinsic was re-established to better represent the people, and the restoration of old landmarks continued, honoring the city’s history and further improving morale.

Still, there was something peculiar about Haxley. Casual statements and seemingly innocuous acts elicited a vague discomfort. An ongoing narrative which contradicted the facts, hinting at a greater enigma. Johnson’s suspicions were not so easily aroused, but his well-honed investigatory instincts could not so easily dismiss these challenges. The week he spent in Britain had revealed as much as it had not, and the veteran guard was now prepared to finally confront the Governor and uncover the truth.

The Governor’s office was situated in southeastern Trinsic, between the market square and docks. The well-furnished, one-room structure was surprisingly small, a less than suitable place for the city’s highest authority to conduct official business.

“Why, hello there, Guardsman Johnson,” Haxley offered his visitor a warm, encouraging smile. He sat comfortably behind his large wooden desk, dressed in handsome clothing befitting Britannia’s nobility. “What can I do for you, on this finest today?”

“Governor Haxley,” the guard nodded solemnly as he approached the desk. “I am sorry for visiting unannounced, but there’s something I need to discuss.”

“Please, go ahead.”

Johnson quietly cleared his throat before speaking. “Governor Haxley, it’s come to my notice that certain things you’ve stated about yourself aren’t true.”

Unfazed by the accusation, the Governor maintained his welcoming smile. “Is this so?”

“You claim to be part of the Haxley family of Britain. Except the last known living Haxley committed suicide twenty years ago. He was one of Lord Blackthorn’s Chaos guards, like you’ve said you were. But your appearance and age don’t match his. He was in his sixth decade of life when he died, and suffered from a physical deformity that kept him at height similar to a youth’s. You’re neither of those.”

Without a word of argument, Haxley intently listened.

“You’ve stated you’re a successful solicitor. But there’s no record of your clients, except for Mitre, the disgraced former head of the Rangers Guild of Skara Brae, and he was murdered last year. You travel a lot to deal with family business. Except there aren’t any other Haxleys, the family hasn’t had business concerns in two decades, and a few years ago, their estate in Britain mysteriously vanished overnight.” The guard’s brow creased with concern. “Then there’s your interest in that group, the Emerald Fist. A number of them are former residents and protectors of Trinsic, and it seems you’ve been -- ”

“Aye, thank you, Johnson,” the Governor suddenly interrupted. “Now tell me, have you shared these concerns with anybody else?”

The veteran guardsman shook his head. “I’m planning to present my report tomorrow to the council, but I wanted to talk first to you. You’ve been a fair Governor and I believe you to be a man of integrity. So I’d like to give you the chance to do the honorable thing and admit the truth, whatever that truth might be.”

“I really do appreciate your generosity. But before I proceed with my confession, there is something I wanted to ask about.”

“If you must, Governor.”

Haxley pointed at something behind Johnson. “What do you make of that?”

The guardsman frowned, reaching for his sword as he turned around. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hooded silhouette standing there, and then, a burst of pure white light permeated the entire office. But instead of panic, Johnson felt oddly soothed, as he was swept away by the brilliance of it all. His fondest memories then scurried across his mind, surging into an incongruous composite of recollections:

~ meeting his daughter fighting to defend his father taught sharing a drink one hundred gold they made love for the Trinsic alongside him to with comrades on a for hours very first time the great Dupre hold a sword at the Keg game of Nim together that night ~

********

It was an early autumn afternoon, and once again, Guardsman Johnson walked the familiar sandstone streets of his beloved Trinsic.

His patrol route led him to the Governor’s office, a small, one-roomed structure situated located between the market square and docks. As the veteran guardsman neared the entrance, he experienced a numbness, the flickering of recognition best forgotten. His thoughts then drifted to the Governor. There was something peculiar about Haxley, but unlike his predecessors, he had accomplished far more good than harm. So Johnson dismissed these notions from his mind and returned to his duties.

[Judas D'arc]

Chapter Three: Ourselves Are Never At Our Best

“Anh Mi Sah Ko.”

Mad eyes shut tight. The uncurling of a strange smile. Thick black hair suffused with sweat. Musings upon spontaneous bloodshed, gypsy eyeball feasts, dancing blonde breasts, and trans-existential ascensions; all were expelled calmly from his mind.

One breath;

........ Two breaths;

................ Three breaths;

........................ Four.

................ Three breaths;

........ Two breaths;

One breath;

His spirit soared --
-- an extrication (ephemeral) achieved --
-- below, adjacent, above,and beyond --
-- the physical discarded, unattended and alone --

-- AND THEN HE ENTERED THE RENTHARS ROOM --

********

B-B-but, you may ask yourself --

-- who is Renthar?

Born centuries ago in ancient Yew of Akalabeth, the ranger Renthar joined the armies of the wizard Mondain, betraying his order and those he was sworn to protect. Renthar later stole Mondain’s secrets and extended his own lifespan through unnatural means. Because Renthar existed prior to the Shattering of the Gem of Immortality, a version of Renthar exists everywhere. But not in Everywhere.

-- what is the Renthars Room?

A place for the spirits of like-minded Renthars from all across the multiverse to meet, plan, and converse casually, in the way that only like-minded Renthars can. It’s quite cozy, and there’s always an abundance of psychic food and alcohol.

-- where is the Renthars Room?

No map shall guide the way, for it is a place of the spirit, not the body. Besides, if you knew its location, they would have to eat you.

-- when is the Renthars Room?

Every day except the ones that aren’t.

-- how is there a Renthars Room?

It’s called magic, my friends! Magic can explain just about anything!

-- why is there a Renthars Room?

Because naughty Renthars need love too.

********

On that particular occasion, four Renthars were gathered in the Renthars room: Renthar the Architect; Renthar the Druid; Renthar the Glutton; and Shameless Renthar. Since all visitors to the Renthars Room were different versions of the same being, each was given a particular designation to facilitate their interactions.

When Renthar the Architect arrived, the bitterness of his mood was nearly palpable. With a dissatisfied grunt, he sat down at the circular stone table, three other Renthars already seated and enjoying a meal of sausage and potato leek soup.

“This is hardly a meal,” said Renthar the Glutton, as he devoured his second bowl. He was called glutton for his inability to refuse temptation, particularly alcohol, food, and dark sorcery. Physically, he was the most imposing Renthar, and also considered to be the most useless. A frequent guest of the Renthars Room, he usually traveled there to escape his wife -- Lady Minax, the Enchanting Ecdysiast -- and their seven children. But unless he was inebriated, he adamantly denied having any family at all.

“Then I hope you choke on it,” said Shameless Renthar, who refused to recognize social boundaries, and was prone to engage in disgraceful behavior without a smidgen of remorse. “All morning, I slaved over a hot stove to make this soup ...”

“Thank you, it’s very tasty,” said Renthar the Druid. Devoted to balance and justice, the other Renthars deeply respected his wisdom. His sips were measured and careful, and there was no sausage in his soup, for he valued and respected all life equally.

“Why are we discussing soup at a time like this?” Originally from the most populous of shard-worlds, Renthar the Architect was the one who originally persuaded his brethren to form this alliance, and it was his grand scheme they followed.

“What’s amiss, brother?” Renthar the Druid’s tone was calm and reassuring.

“Don’t disrespect my soup,” muttered Shameless Renthar. “Besides, you’re the one at fault for delaying our plans.”

“No, no,take your time,” said Renthar the Glutton, in-between slurps of soup. “I’m fine with waiting as long as needed, as long as I can do it here. Minax has been impossible ever since King Blackthorn forbid that old lech Nystul from spending the crown’s coin on private dances.”

“They do have a point,” said Renthar the Druid. “Ourselves are never at our best when our hands are idle. What hinders the spell of binding now?”

“What isn’t a hindrance?” He sighed dramatically. “I’m being hunted by Technocrats my hidden enemies have practically neutered the Everywhere Ruby, and I’ve even been forced to ally with the Emerald Fist for protection.”

“The Emerald Fist?” Renthar the Glutton paused as he filled his third bowl. “Wait, isn’t that the group that you’ll need for the -- ”

“Indeed.”

“That’s rather tricky of you,” Shameless Renthar grinned widely. “I’m impressed.”

“My biggest obstacle, however,” Renthar the Architect continued, “is finding the proper locations for the ritual. Unlike all of you, I’m trapped upon a Sosaria that isn’t my native Sosaria, so I’m at a disadvantage when it comes to uncovering the pathways.”

“Have you tried -- ?” Renthar the Druid attempted to ask.

“Automatic writing? It didn’t help.”

“What about -- ?”

“No, and I’m about ready to vomit from all the gypsy eyeballs I’ve consumed.”

“Maybe you try the soup,” said Shameless Renthar. “An empty belly isn’t conducive for proper scheming.”

Renthar the Architect rolled his mad eyes. “I’m not hungry.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have be so quick to arrange the death of our counterpart from your current world,” Renthar the Druid said sternly. “I warned you repeatedly, not only was it a deplorable idea, he likely held the knowledge you now seek.”

“No, the so-called Mitre needed to die. He would’ve never helped us.”

“I’d like to hear that story of his murder again,” Renthar the Glutton slowly licked his lips. “Especially about your little blonde apprentice’s act of seduction.”

“We’re leaving Jolicia out of this.”

“Well, if no one else is going to try the soup,” Shameless Renthar snickered, “I have a confession I’d like to make.”

“But with his death, so died his knowledge,” said Renthar the Druid.

“You never talk enough about her undergarments.”

“I didn’t actually make the soup.”

“That’s why every life should be deemed precious.”

“Can you at least tell me their color?”

“I murdered the man who did.”

“Causing the death of another should always be a last resort.”

“I bet they’re pink.”

“A cross-eyed innkeeper, but I thought he was looking at me funny.”

“Because then they’re gone.”

“Black?! Red?! At least tell me they’re not white.”

“You’ve been drinking his ethereally projected blood! Ha ha ha!”

“Then all you’re left with are the memories.”

“Unless she doesn’t wear any at all?!”

“Also, my urine! But mostly his blood.”

“And whatever legacies they’ve left behind.”

“I should find myself a blonde apprentice too.”

“Wait!” Renthar the Architect eagerly interrupted their banter. “That’s it!”

“I don’t understand,” Renthar the Druid raised a curious eyebrow. “What is?”

“Your words.” Renthar the Architect side glanced Renthar the Glutton. “Except yours, you’re still just an incompetent pervert.” Then he turned to the other two. “The way to the knowledge I seek. It’s our dead brother’s legacy ... his blood.”

“I remember once, when she used to love me,” said Renthar the Glutton shook his head sadly and returned to his third bowl of soup.

“I’m disappointed in your lack of disgust for my actions today,” said Shameless Renthar.

“What exactly are you planning?” Renthar the Druid looked at him apprehensively.

But Renthar the Architect only offered a single word, and a strange, sinister smile.

“Magic!!!”

[Judas D'arc]

Chapter Four: Her Dance Across the Shadow Spaces

As the torchlight flickered, Sister Niva flitted gracefully through the long, narrow corridor, every step choreographed to be part of her dance across the shadow spaces.

At the end of the long hallway, she was met by a thick stone wall, smooth and devoid of any obvious keyholes or opening mechanisms. The black-robed Mathematician leaned forward, pressing her dark, painted lips against the cold surface, and gently whispered, “Exedur.”

In response, there was a muted clanging noise from behind the wall, rusted metal gears roughly scraping against rusted metal chains. The barrier descended into the floor, until it vanished entirely. Sister Niva continued through the newly-created aperture, barely acknowledging the drone manning the lever mechanism that had activated it. A shining example of Logosian innovation, the creature was a fusion of clockwork and decayed flesh, its barely-functional brain capable of understanding simple commands or phrases, such as the name Exedur, first of the Techno-Prophet’s Chosen.

But it was not the long-dead Lector Exedur who awaited her inside the small chamber, it was Lector Stavros, one of his many successors to that illustrious position. A short, thin man in his forties, he was rather physically unremarkable, except for the uncomfortable contrast between his soft-spoken demeanor and intense, dark-eyed stare.

He stood at the center of the oval-shaped room, flanked by two others. All three men were dressed in robes, their exposed flesh adorned with tattoos that depicted numerical sequences and equations. Stavros’ subordinates, the twins Corban and Karan, were ‘brothers’ in both title and blood, Mathematicians equal in rank to Niva who served as the Lector’s closest advisors. She had not expected either to attend their meeting.

“Salutations, Sister Niva,” the Lector spoke quietly, his piercing gaze fixed intently upon her. “I am thankful to our Prophet for your safe return.”

“As am I, Lector,” she briefly bowed her head. “As am I.”

“Should I be equally thankful for your mission’s success?”

Silently, Niva reached into her robes and removed a spherically-shaped gem the size of a child’s fist. Its center glimmered and pulsed intermittently, as if something beneath the surface struggled for release. Cradling it carefully, she presented it to her leader.

After taking possession of the gem, Stavros scrutinized it carefully. “This is the item that they promised? There were no attempts at trickery?”

“The Stower Twins proved as reliable as our own.” She smiled politely at the brothers.

Karan scoffed. “I’ve heard Stowers can’t be trusted. How do we know it’s real?”

“They even refused payment,” said Niva. “Their interest is in outcomes.”

“What outcome do you expect?” Corban asked pointedly. “You failed in Lakeshire, you failed again in Ter Mur. How will your next move prove any different?”

The Lector stroked his chin in thought. “The Brothers aren’t wrong.”

“Because Lakeshire and Ter Mur were lessons, as much as failures. Now, I know our enemies. And with this knowledge, I have uncovered their weaknesses.”

“The Emerald Fist?” Corban asked. “They were known allies of our quarry at the start, some were even involved in the original transgression against the Techno-Prophet. They should’ve already been accounted for.”

“Don’t forget our purpose here,” Karan grunted. “If we want to return home -- ”

“I forget nothing,” she scowled at him. “I believe the Emerald Empress is hiding among the Fist in their Emerald Town. I have also tracked sightings of Renthar.”

Karan turned to Stavros. “Then why hasn’t she captured them? I swear, if granted the opportunity, I will have them both for you by month’s end ...”

The Lector ignored him for her. “Are you that confident of your plan?”

“I am. Once I have that final piece from Yew. With your leave, of course.”

“Then you have it.” Stavros nodded. “You may proceed.”

Corban sighed heavily. “How can you promise the Fist won’t beat you again?”

“Because, brother, a fist is but flesh, and flawed flesh at that,” Sister Niva narrowed her eyes at him. “As true servants of the Techno-Prophet, we are so much more ...”

[Judas D'arc]

Chapter Five: With Deliberate Exhalations of Fetid Breath

In the confines of that damp cell, Relvinian gently pressed his thin index finger against the bridge of his glasses, carefully pushing his heavy spectacles up the bridge of his nose. For a few moments he regarded the prisoner silently, before speaking again. “I’ll report everything you’ve said to my Lady. She’ll appreciate your c-c-cooperation.”

A trepidant bite of her lower lip preceded her question. “Would such appreciation entail freedom from my imprisonment?”

“But your sentence was for f-f-forever.”

“My forever or yours?” She smiled faintly.

The librarian shifted uncomfortably at her question.

“What if I could offer more? There are things that I have witnessed that I have withheld from all, even the Emerald Empress. Would these sway your Lady to mercy?”

“If there’s anything else you can t-t-tell me, I’ll happily plead your case.”

She chided him with a wag of her finger. “Know this, Lesser Relvinian, if you attempt to deceive me for your own advantage, it shall be you who suffers in the end.”

He swallowed hard. “I ... understand.”

The prisoner slid off the small cot and knelt down onto the cold floor. Closing her tired eyes, she entwined her thin fingers together at her chest. With deliberate exhalations of fetid breath, she began a recitation of the visions she had witnessed:

“Near the shire of a lake, a once-sorcerer shares the secrets of his exile.”

“Once-sorcerer? Is that about P-P-Pagan, or R-R-Renthar?”

“A calligrapher ponders whether a Fist is mightier than his pen.”

“Calligrapher’s pen? Or is this a euphemism of some kind?”

“Their brother weeps at mother’s feet, but the Twins are never how they appear.”

“Twins? The double suns of Everywhere?”

“A former knight hears the call of the Silver Serpent.”

“Hrmmm. I think I know that one’s meaning.”

“Beware not the Techno-Prophet, but those who follow the Techno-Prophecy.”

“Now there’s a Techno-Prophecy too?”

“Corrupt are the paladins who walk the walls of the other golden city.”

“Another g-g-golden city? Or another Trinsic?”

“None shall be prepared for the arrival of the Hunters of Abyss.”

“The Hunters? B-b-but I thought they were a m-m-myth?”

“And in the end, only one world shall escape the grasp of the Dark Usurper.”

“I’m n-n-not going to try and touch that one,” Relvinian grimaced.

And with that final revelation, the exhausted prisoner climbed back into her barren cot. Her eyes remained shut, and despite the presence of her visitor, she slowly submitted to the overpowering call of slumber.

“I have q-q-questions,” said the librarian.

“Leave me,” she half-muttered.

“Please, M-M-Morganna,” his brow furrowed with concern. “I need to know what to tell my Lady. Are any of your visions a possible threat to Everywhere?”

“That, o’seeker, depends entirely upon the Emerald Fist.”

[Judas D'arc]

Chapter Six: That Damn Bell

Some nights, Chanticleer slept alone; some nights, his beloved Piper lay beside him. But each of his days began the same -- with the ringing of a bell.

That damn bell.

A gift from the Emerald Empress, bestowed upon him two birthdays ago, the bell was empowered by the magicks of a would-be Time Lord and his Sextant of the Ancients. It protected its user from changes to time’s flow that impacted his continued existence. Foul sorcery had altered history, and not in Chanticleer’s favor, so if deprived of its daily ringings, he would presumably cease to be. Until a permanent cure was discovered, he was forced to begin each and every day in exactly the same manner.

With the ringing of a bell.

********

The leather-clad man sat at the head of the stone table, patiently awaiting the arrival of Emerald Keep’s masked mistress. The main hall, large enough to accommodate the members of the Emerald Fist and their visitors, was also suitable for official matters and informal ones. Flower tapestries, mementos of victories’ past (including a particularly noteworthy pair of sandals), and a rather imposing portrait of the group’s leader adorned the room’s gray brick walls. There was seating for at least twenty people, the fireplace always burned warm and bright, and that pot of stew never ceased bubbling, despite the edibly questionable nature of its contents.

“Hello, Chanticleer.” The Emerald Empress announced her presence as she frequently did, unexpectedly and from the shadows.

His gaze remained fixed upon the painting of himself that adorned the northern wall. “Thea’s painting. I never granted you permission to remove it from my home.”

“Is that why you’re here?” She chuckled. “Do you want to take it back?”

“No. It is an excellent likeness and her talent deserves recognition. But it is an example of the many liberties you have taken since we met in Everywhere. The recent attack by Semidar’s spirit. A reminder of the consequences of blind acquiescence.” Chanticleer rose aggressively from his seat, his expression devoid of any familiarity, and he stepped towards her. “Empress. I would have answers. Now.”

********

Chanticleer Reich was the only Emerald Fist member to join all three of its incarnations, the result of circumstance as much as choice. His ongoing presence throughout the history of the group was as unsurprising as it was not. Despite his near-pathological paranoia and well-practiced hostility, once a return to the Magincia of his youth became an impossibility, the Fist was the only place Chanticleer ever felt he belonged.

The Emerald Fist was conceived in otherworldly machinations, but birthed in bloodshed. Sometimes adventurers and often outlaws, Sylin Rhyas, Jon Abbot, Bacchus, Malcolm Glade, Trug’Clog, Kaylin Windsong, Leigh D’arc, Ellin Lionsden, Chanticleer Reich, Aria Trulacci, Alex Charmeux, Adegas Tazkia, Erik Kidd, Steel, and Sanjuro initially banded together for their very survival, the need to contend with a number of threats in common, and a shared belief that majority of Sosaria was in need of a good fisting. Over time, old faces departed and new ones joined, including Markus, Annah, Ssin’Urn, Tyler, Janus, Collan Rosvenir, Aleron, Ezekial Roberts, Dumahbh, Dubhlidais, and Iago.

During their two years of existence, they alternated between fighting and defending the Britannian cities and a certain northern Kingdom. Amongst their foes, they counted the face-changing Nujel’m assassin Podrugviati; the wicked Stower family of Magincia; the calculating Sir Neville Holden; the savage Shadow Clan Orcs and undead denizens of Necropolis; the vile demon Abbadon and its dark followers; the unscrupulous Black Rose Society; the traitorous half-machine Blackthorn; the necromantic Celt Bricrue; a whore-mongering snake woman; and the ever-elusive Entity of the Emerald.

Their final quest entailed gathering the four artifacts called the Titan Seals related. The group was betrayed by the librarian Semidar, who used these artifacts to summon the armies of Pagan to invade Sosaria. Though the librarian was slain, they failed to close his portal, and the onslaught of the Titans’ forces continued. So most of the Fist elected to sacrifice themselves, entering the portal to destroy it from the other side.

Their gambit was successful, but it also proved to be and ending.

********

“The ringing of the bell.”

Now seated across the stone table from Chanticleer, the Empress tilted her head. With her emerald-encrusted mask, it was difficult to discern her reaction, but her tone implied concern. “Is its power already starting to fade?”

He shook his head.

“Then what is it, Chanticleer?”

“Months since the Fist aided you in replenishing its power. More than a year since you initially gifted it to me. What you promised as temporary has become less so. I demand to know your intentions.”

“You’re ... right,” said a remorseful Empres, “you should know my plans. Unfortunately, they recently encountered a significant obstacle.”

“Elaborate.”

“We need two individuals’ help. The white-robed Sextant-bearer is the first.”

“And the second?”

She sighed gently. “Once the Technocrats were defeated ... ”

“... Renthar.” Chanticleer grunted the name. “Why? You know I despise him.”

“Because, like the white robed man, he possesses an item with the necessary power to help. So until he’s rescued, I’m afraid there’s no solution at all.”

********

The group’s next iteration was in Everywhere, a land of coincidence and contradiction, where Chanticleer found himself after passing through Semidar’s portal. After a decade trapped in that strange world, he encountered his former comrades Jon Abbot, Malcom Glade, Kaylin Windson, Ellin Lionsden, and Thalesa Cornigan. These five were brought there by the Emerald Empress, a masked woman who had somehow earned their trust. Joined by Sir Conor Starfalcon, an exiled knight, they reformed the Emerald Fist, and served as the defenders of Emerald Town, a small settlement founded by the Empress.

Allied with the foul sorcerer Renthar, this Fist contended with the Technocrats of Logos before being drawn into a war that quickly spread across Everywhere’s four kingdoms. They were reunited with Neville Holden and Leigh D’arc, and then joined the Alliance of Rival, Powerful Kingdoms against Lady British’s Kingdom of Britannia and the Twilight Juvenalia. But not all of the Fist survived this conflict.

At the war’s end, Chanticleer was forcibly returned to Sosaria after being tricked into donning a suit of plate mail armor crafted with the fragments of the Titan Seals. He long suspected that the Empress and Renthar were responsible for this deception.

********

“I demand my armor,” Chanticleer growled. A couple of weeks prior, the Empress had hidden the suit after the Fist discovered the Technocrats were gathering artifacts that duplicated the power of the Titan Seals. This proved provident, as it was revealed the Technocrats had allied with the spirit of Semidar, who utilized these artifacts to open a corrupted portal and summon forth the power of the Titans. Wearing his armor during that confrontation could have further endangered Chanticleer.

“Are you sure it’s safe yet?” The Empress’ dark brown eyes narrowed in thought. “We don’t know whether Semidar’s spirit was destroyed, and if the armor puts you at risk.”

“Yet you did not oppose its role in Renthar’s schemes.” An irritable scowl demonstrated his disdain. “Or do you claim you were unaware of his plans?”

“Is that another answer you’re looking for?”

He nodded once.

“Then ... yes.” She placed her hands on the table’s surface and entwined her gloved fingers. “They weren’t just Renthar’s plans, they were mine too. I instructed the Smith to craft the armor with the Titan Seal fragments, while Renthar made sure Relthor would summon you back to Sosaria at exactly the right moment.”

“Why?” His query was more curious than angry.

“You would’ve died if you’d stayed in Everywhere. Sending you back here was the only chance to save you. Please believe me, that’s the only reason why I did it.”

“As you say.”

The Empress ignored his remark. “As for your armor, I’m still not convinced it’s the best idea. There are still too many ways the seal fragments could be used against you. The Technocrats, Semidar’s spirit, the Titans’ followers, even Renthar if he decided to.” She paused for a few moments, then continued. “But I knew this was going to be a problem. Before I left Everywhere, I asked the Smith to make you another suit, one that’s not as vulnerable to outside influences. It’s yours if you like it?”

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What trickery are your plotting now?”

“I promise you, Chanticleer, no more tricks.”

********

The current incarnation of the Fist was proposed by the Empress, who believed it was necessary to organized a more proactive response to the various threats that had arisen as of late: the Technocrats of Everywhere, mysterious manipulations of both time and space, and other, greater dangers yet to come.

Led by Chanticleer, this group also consisted of former Fist members Bacchus, Adegas Tazkia, Ezekial Roberts, and Dubhlidais. Similar to Chanticleer, Bacchus, Ezekial, and Dubhlidais had also escaped their presumed deaths inside Semidar’s portal. From the ashes of the Holy Fist of Trinsic came Piper Swift and Sergio Jarrett, and they were joined by Kalanna, Lia Nightbreeze, Callisto of the Emerald Empire, Edward of House Churl, and Faeryl Tyra’them.

As Jon Abbot had once so presciently stated,

“Alone we are but fingers, Together, we are the Fist!”

********

When Chanticleer returned to the main hall some minutes later, he had discarded his leathers for the suit given to him by the Empress. This new armor was a combination of studded and metal pieces -- a platemail helmet and gorget, a breastplate crafted from red dragon scales, and studded sleeves, gloves, and leggings. As much as the spiteful part of him wished otherwise, its fit was flawless.

The Empress regarded him appraisingly. “The Smith told me it was one of his best works. Seeing you wear it now, I think he’s right.”

He shrugged slightly then frowned. “I have a final question.”

“I hope it’s one I can answer,” said the Empress, anticipating what he might ask.

Chanticleer gestured sharply towards her. “No more masks. Tell me who you are.”

She shifted in place but did not answer.

“Empress.”

Still, she remained silent.

“A pity.” He shook his head and turned to leave.

“Chanticleer?” She spoke softly. “I wish I could tell you, I really do. But it’s not the right time, not yet.” Her voice cracked with desperation. “Everything I’ve done -- ”

“I am aware,” Chanticleer swiftly interrupted, his own dark eyes barely visible through the slits of his helm. “As always, you have me at a disadvantage,” he grudgingly relented. “My very survival. All these secrets you conceal. That damn bell -- ”

She winced at his words.

“So as always, I can do nothing ... but wait.”

[Judas D'arc]

Epilogue: All You’ve Ever Done Is Make Things Worse

The strings were out of tune, his voice was hoarse and tired, and he had no audience to speak of. But still, the bard played on.

“I came upon a Gypsy Girl;
Who offered me a dance;
She wanted more than ale or gold;
But I did not seize the chance.

I did not have the Gypsy Girl;
Not even one small kiss;
And though my conscience, satisfied;
My loins are all amiss."

The player was a middle-aged man with dark brown eyes, his long black hair and beard peppered with spots of gray. He was nearly six feet tall and thin, with long, worn fingers that skillfully plucked at the lute’s strings, despite the sour notes they produced.

"I did not take the Gypsy Girl;
One taste of those sweet lips;
Nor gift to her, in return;
Between those swaying hips.

I did not hold the Gypsy Girl;
Within these prison walls;
The moment it has passed us;
Yet still, her body calls."

He could not deny that his room atop that lonely tower possessed its amenities; it was well-lit, suitably spacious for unrestricted movement, and the temperature was always agreeable. His bed was large and soft, and the writing desk supplied with sufficient ink, quills, and parchment. There was an abundance of alcohol, food, books and musical instruments to stimulate both his mind and body. But it was difficult to forget that it was a cage nonetheless, with no windows or doors or obvious means of escape.

"I did not touch the Gypsy Girl;
Too shallow or too deep;
Now I know, no touch at all;
Not even that of sleep.

Oh Gypsy Girl, I beg of you;
Please, another chance;
I’d give up all my ale and gold;
Just to feel your dance.”

His song ended once he observed the return of his captor. As always, the green robed figure emerged suddenly from the shadows, sparkles of light reflecting off the emeralds that lined her mask. Her manner of entry and departure was a mystery that had led him to hours upon hours of fruitless ponderings.

“Did you write that yourself?” Her tone was almost complimentary.

“I cannot say,” said the bard. “According to the inimitable Lord Haxley, it was written by another version of myself that exists upon some other version of Sosaria. Haxley once performed it for me, and I have been trying for weeks to recollect it all. As of late, I seem to have time enough for such things,” he smiled facetiously.

“Was it difficult to remember it?”

“Strangely, not at all. After a few false starts, it began to flow, as if it was something that I had known all along.”

“That’s interesting.” She slipped a gloved hand inside of her robes and retrieved a small book from one of its many hidden pockets. The cover was ripped, the binding was loosening, and the pages were an aging yellow, but the title on its spine was legible: A Fistory. “Thank you, it’s been very helpful for information I’ve lacked.”

He squinted as he read the title. “I am not certain I know your meaning.”

“You wrote it,” she casually tossed the book at him. “Who else would have?”

He shrugged but did not move to catch it, so it landed at his feet. “Perhaps.”

“Are you comfortable?” She seemed genuinely concerned. “If you need anything else, tell me and I’ll arrange whatever I can.”

“I need to leave.”

“Not yet,” her mask shook gently with her refusal.

“When can I?!” The bard angrily demanded. “By my reckoning, I have been here more than two and a half fucking years! How much more time do you need?!”

“Everything is too critical right now.”

He sighed in exasperation. “May I at least see Emma and Julia? You have continually insisted that they are safe, but you are the masked lunatic who took me prisoner. Forgive me if I have come to doubt your credibility.”

“They’re safe and will stay that way ... I promise.” She paused briefly as she considered her next words. “You won’t believe me, but I didn’t think you’d be stuck here this long. But things become more complicated every day. Haxleys, Renthars, Technocrats, all of it’s converging quickly, and I won’t let myself be outmaneuvered.”

“Then let me help,” he pleaded. “This name you have chosen for yourself, I assume it is no coincidence. You named yourself that for a reason.”

“The Emerald Fist trusts me, I don’t need your help.”

“Why not?!”

“Because ...” the crack in her voice was as prominent as it was unexpected. “All you’ve ever done is make things worse.” She shook her head firmly. “No, Judas, you’re going to stay here and do what you do best.”

“And what is that, Emerald Empress?” The bard frowned deeply.

“Absolutely nothing of consequence.”

THE END