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- Nov 24, 2007
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Referring to this thread: Occula - A Vivacious World
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I am an expert in falling short on basically everything I work on, Dawn of Life was never finished,
Black Roses and Poetry of Death was never finished, Vigilance was never finished and now I've
ultimately, and sadly, decided that Oroth won't see the light of day either. And these are only a few
of all the projects that I have started and acquitted successively. Not successfully.
But there is still some hope for some of those projects, Dawn of Life will one day be written, as it is
the collective brain-child of me and some of my closest friends. Never writing it would be a big offence
to all the work we've poured into it over so many years. And although I will never finish Oroth the way
I originally planned to, I might release the map for everyone to enjoy or use as a terrain template of
sorts. As it is a completely finished terrain.
But you're not here to hear me whine about all my shortcomings. You're here, I hope, to read my latest
rework of a story I started writing a while ago. A story that will hopefully one day make it to the retail
market as an actual book or something. If you're wondering why I reworked it, the simple answer is that
I didn't like the direction it was taking. And as some people pointed out to me in the previous thread: It
had a sort of "thrown right into something you know nothing about" vibe to it, a bit too much so. This
rework aims to make that throw a bit softer on the reader, to ease the reader a bit more into the story.
I hope I can deliver on that front, I hope the story you're about to read is enjoyable, and I sincerely hope
for honest and good feedback that can help me to further my dream. A little depending on the reception
of this thread, I might consider adding more chapters as I write them. But anyway, without further ado,
Here goes:
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Chained and Unbound
“The words have been spoken, and the ancients stir in their graves. The voices of a thousand dead breaths life through the world to hearken their awakening. One is already among us, the one they call the shadow of a thousand whispers, Mahlo the Treacherous. His arrival brought the ruin of an empire, and he will not sleep until the world is his grave. The words have been spoken, and the Spoken must rise. Their voices are all we can trust if the world of Occula shall remain ours to reign.
Forth comes Rheein: Bright eyed, white of hair, slender of build and with a hungering desire to discover and to know. Young and daring he is destined to thread the very fabric of civilization, to explore the vast unknown secrets of ruin and of legend. Armed with only his wit and voice, he is thrown into a world of chaos, plunged as thus from a past of peace. Great empires and grand kings will be at the mercy of his whims, and the very survival of existence may depend on his actions. His past is etched by catastrophic loss, his future is written and already foretold. But he is lost, like all humans, to the workings of fate, ignorant to the knowledge of his destiny. And like all human beings the choice is his to make, he will falter and fail, we can only pray that he will one day find his way."
He barely felt his numb fingers as he twitched them in an attempt to keep at the very least a modicum of his otherwise freezing body slightly warm. He was also shivering involuntarily to keep the hyperthermia from kicking in. It wasn’t that where he was was particularly extremely cold, and he hadn’t been out for long enough to be in any real danger, but he wasn’t about to start thinking rationally now. Not now. Not after what he’d been through. He had been humbled before, even picked on, but he had never been disgraced like what he felt now. As if the wooden bumpy ride in a crammed chart with sweaty hairy men wasn’t enough. As if being extremely undernourished and physically fatigued to the point that he neither wanted to be awake or managed to sleep wasn’t enough. Here he stood, nearly stark naked with nothing save a loincloth to cover his jewels, lined up at a slave auction ready to get sold to the highest bidder, like cattle, in a rundown town on the edge of the known world. He was past outrage, he was past desperation, he’d been travelling in said slaves-chart for at least a fortnight, by now he was resigned. Just resigned. But that didn’t mean he had to freeze. So he kept twitching his fingers and decided that the shivering was now voluntary.
“Sold for 34 glimmer to the gentleman with the big scar!” he heard C’farc, the chief slaver, bellow over the crowd of bidders. “And now over to today’s special item” he growled theatrically. The lumps of fat that dangled from his chin flapped with excitement as they brought forth Rheein to the center of the stage. “This boy may look a bit meager, and he might be a bit dim witted, but he is of noble blood from the Sal empire!” he paused for effect as a wave of mumbled chatter rippled through the crowd. “And what’s more! He’s a magic boy!” he barked over the dying chittering, then he grabbed Rheein’s left hand and held it up on display, palm outwards. Around his wrist was a shrewd mechanical device with canisters and chords and markings that connected with a circular lens in the middle of his palm. It was called a “Voice”, not that any of these feeble minded slave handlers knew anything about that. The lens covered a hole that went straight through his hand.
“The bidding starts at 40 glimmer” he chortled as plaques and hands shot into the air as everyone tried to break the world record in the fiercest and most bombastic shouts. Bids flung left and right, 100 someone screamed, followed by new numbers. As the bids went along to 200, 300 and eventually started to settle around 500 Rheein couldn’t help but cracking a tiny smile. Apparently his life was worth many times over the rest of the slaves. That in itself was a small victory.
“2000” said a calm voice at the back of the crowd as C’farc was about to sell him to a deranged looking fat man for 567 glimmer. The crowd went dead as faces turned to look at the robed figure that had made the outrageous bid. He was a shady looking fellow, his face was just barely visible under a heavy hood. His eyes, thought Rheein, had the tiniest shimmer of blue to them. And they were completely transfixed on Rheein. They drilled into him in a way that made him feel like a helpless puppy before a grotesque beast. C’farc’s blistered voice lit up with greed as he began saying “Ssssssoool---”
A majestic ray of lightning shot straight into the middle of the crowd. It crashed into an unlucky fat guy, who probably died momentarily, and sent a rippling shockwave of Tectra in every direction, throwing people left and right. As the wave of Tectra washed over Rheein, he inhaled in ecstasy as he felt a surge of power prickle across his entire body. His skin was alive with static electricity as he felt the canisters in his Voice filling up. In one fell sweep he sent Tectra through his shackles and they shattered before his very eyes. His eyes practically glistened with sparks of lightning as he turned his hateful gaze on C’farc. The look on the obese slave handler’s face was a priceless mask of terror. Rheein raised his hand, the lens dislodged from his palm and flew up to point directly at the fat wretches head. As he let fly a powerful bolt of electricity, C’farc sadly had the wit to dive off the stage. So instead of blowing his brains out like Rheein had intended, the bolt graced the side of his face: Exploding one of his eyeballs, searing away half of his hair and splitting open the side of his jaw. He went diving into the crowd, which was now in complete chaos, shrieking at the top of his voice as teeth dislodged from his mouth. The rush of Tectra cleared his mind and made it work faster than it had for a very long time, he turned around and sent a volley of precision sparks toward the rest of the slaves. As they shied away from the oncoming storm their shackles cracked open. Rheein then reared off the side of the stage and made for the slave handlers personal carriages. He burst open the doors, they had been locked but a lock was no match for a furious teenager wielding powers from the very tempest itself. Moments later he emerged from the carriage wearing a long rugged, but sleek nonetheless, overcoat that was a little too large for wear, a pair of fine breeches, one glove over his Voice, and a blue shirt. He hadn’t found any boots, but he had found a rather healthy bag of glimmer, which was now dangling from his waist. The storm inside him had settled somewhat by now, but as he was approached by the other slave handler, which had had the wit to follow Rheein as the initial wave of shock had left him, the thunder inside him surged to the surface once more. As the slave handler raised his dagger to threaten or attack Rheein, he sent another bolt of lightning straight into the slave handler’s face. It ripped his face open and revealed, only for the slightest of moments, the skull within before it shattered into a million pieces. Brains exploded from the crust of his skull as the man fell backwards in a lump of headlessness. His name was--- Unimportant. Rheein simply spat on the corpse and bolted for the nearest alleyway. Dodging panicking people left and right.
When he emerged from other side of the alleyway, he’d taken a couple minutes to rest, hide, and catch his breath, he felt the initial wave of Tectra slowly slipping away. He looked down and unfolded his glove to check the canisters around his wrists, there wasn’t much left, but there was enough. The street he walked into seemed to have taken little note of the incident at the slave auction, even though it was but a street apart, so he could easily slip into the small stream of people that were walking down the road. He lost himself in the crowd of faces, becoming just another bloke on the block. Nobody took any note of him, so he could easily listen in on the passing conversations. From a random collection of gossipping villagers he learned that the city he was in was called “Ghalin” and that it was on the outer edge of a place called “Ghaleroun.” He also learned that Rhoxah had recently given birth to her fifth child, that Moncti must be hiding money from the tax collectors, because he was far too fat for his current wealth, or poverty, and that the fringe district was nothing like it had once been. All these rich tax collectors and “wellborn” as they called themselves had turned it into a clean haven for ass kissers. “The nerve” one woman had said “to think of themselves as better than any of us” she continued with her nose held high, to the solemn and disapproving shakes-of-the-head from her mud-faced and warty friends.
A little later Rheein had convinced a young lad that it was in his best financial interest to discreetly point him in the direction of the fringe district, glimmer had exchanged ownership. And later still he stepped into what could only be said “clean haven for ass kissers”, as he noticed a drastic change in the smell of excrements. Where houses had previously been mismatching patchworks of wood and metal and other funny-looking building materials, these houses had somewhat unanimous cladding. Where the roads had previously been muddy dirt mounds, home to all kinds of defecation and rumination, these roads were partly cobbled and seemed to only accept the odd ordure on vacation. Where people had previously been a mixture of sour and sad looking individuals covered in muck and with stained clothing, these people were sour and sad, but also busy, looking individuals not covered in muck. Yes, he concluded, this was as civilized as it would get.
He looked at the signs as walked down one of the main streets, only dodging piles of shit on occasion, when he saw the one that he wanted. As he walked toward the door he smoothed his long and tangled hair as best he could, then he let his hand run through the stubbles on his face, and as a finishing touch he used what little remained of Tectra inside him to give his eyes a ever-so-slight glean of blue. Just enough so that one would be uncertain of whether there was something regal about them or not. He mustered up the best “spoiled and rich teenager” act he could manage as he stepped onto the doorstep, which was exceptionally good, considering he had until some time ago been a spoiled and rich teenager, then he stomped into the store with all the impatience of a youth late to a party.
“People!” he exclaimed, waving his arms in distaste as he saw the barber look up from his counter, a clear line of surprise sweeping across his face “I am already late to my uncle’s birthday. You’d think they’d have the sense to move out of my way.” he continued as he practically threw his overcoat onto the coat stand. The barber didn’t respond, he was sensible like that, he knew not to provoke an angry teenager. Rheein used this to his advantage and simply crossed the room and overtook the barber’s chair as if he owned it. “Well?” he said impatiently. The barber took a long, slow, moment of consideration. Then he cleared his throat.
“Uhm, you have an appointment?” he asked meagerly, but all the same he started gathering his razor, scissor and other tools of the trade.
“Of course I have an appointment!” Rheein frothed “My uncle sent a messenger to deliver the note, he’s a friend of the mayor, you should know.” he continued indignantly “Name’s Thourdan.” he added, waving his hand as if it was an inconvenience to even have to say it. All of this put the barber in quite the predicament, he had, of course, never received a note about this appointment. Nor had he ever heard about a family named Thourdan, and he was fairly certain the city didn’t have a mayor. And had he been in a rational state, he might have been a bit more suspicious, but presently there was an outraged teenager sitting in his chair, promising doom with his intonation if he didn’t do exactly what he said when he said it. This on top of the fact that he had no other pressing matters made the barber conclude that the wisest course of action would be to temporarily become this teenager’s servant. For fear of his own life.
“Right you are of course, lord sir.” he stuttered as he stumbled over to Rheein “And how would the young gentleman noble want his hair and face this fine afternoon---”
The boy that emerged from the barber looked nothing like the boy who had entered: His face, for one, was completely clean-shaven, his hair was shaved on one side, while the other was braided into three separate criss-crossed braids that dropped down along the side of his face. He had also borrowed the barber’s bathtub to rub off the stench from his slavery, claiming that he had stepped in a large pile of dung, and that that was also the reason he had thrown away his shoes. Luckily the breeches he’d stolen from the slave handlers had a brownish stain down along one of his legs to back this claim. He shuddered at the thought of what that stain might actually be. He had also insisted on paying the barber, but he would hear nothing of it. He simply asked Rheein to give his imaginary uncle his regards.
Now he was clean, smelling and feeling fresh and after nearly two months time of travelling and ill fortunes he actually felt like a somewhat decent human being again. He stood there like a shining beacon of cleanliness, a triumphant herald of overcome pains, a true martyr of--- His stomach growled and cramped in on itself, forcing Rheein to bend over in a show of utter embarrassment. He was hungry. Very hungry.
A time later he emerged from a tavern, stomach full and hunger quenched. He had conquered the most basic of human needs, he had fought the beast of starvation and come out the victor, he was a shining warrior of satiation, a champion of--- He stepped into a puddle of piss. Looking down he could see the yellow substance seep between his toes, bubbling in blobs to fill the top of his feet. It was obviously not fresh urine. He needed shoes. He badly needed shoes. He walked down the street and found a puddle of water, or at least he thought it was water, and washed his foot in it. Then he started scouting for a good cobbler, or even any cobbler he could find. When he had eventually found one, and had put on the same act as with the barber, he emerged from the cobbler’s store with a fresh pair of complementary boots of the best quality the cobbler could offer, and more good wishes to his uncle. The cobbler and the barber happened to be part of the same card-playing group at the same tavern that Rheein had been eating at. And later that week they would exchange stories about the same spoiled shitkid who had practically robbed them of good, paying, services. They would banter and nag about it, and as the night went on and they got drunk, the stories, mocking and groaning would get exaggerated. So much so that a local bard would write a song about it, that the local hearsayers would inquire and nose around to find out who this mysterious teenager was. Eventually the stories would become urban legend, and mothers would say to their children “don’t go and bother the shopkeeper, or Thordamn will come and get you”. But all this was far ahead into the future, and of no particular importance to the story at hand. So Rheein took his new pair of excellent boots on stroll down the street. He concluded that the day had gone by quite well, he’d freed himself from imprisonment, he wasn’t famished any more and he still had quite the pouch of glimmer to spend on whatever he wanted. Yes, life was considerably better now than it had been for quite some time.
As he pulled up to the end of the street, he caught the attention of another boy roughly his age.
“Excuse me” he began with smiling eyes “could you perchance point me in the direction of the nearest caeanium?” he asked pleasantly. The boy frowned, a rather big question mark written all over his face.
“Caeniwhat?” he asked in a hoarse voice, question marks flooding from his intonation. Then he looked to be about to laugh at the ridiculous thing Rheein had asked for.
“You know, a place where they store Caeic relics and scrolls on the matters of philosophic conventi--- Uhm. Is there a library somewhere?” he tried to simplify, and when he noticed that the question marks that had nearly settled on the ground suddenly flew back up to speckle the boy’s face he added “a place where they have books”.
“Oh!” the boy said, his face lighting up with understanding, scattering the question marks in all directions “Yes, there’s a lie-berry just on the other side of three streets down” he said, pointing his finger in a general direction. Then he gave Rheein some instructions in the form of just down that street there, around the corner and through the alleyway with a storm drain in front of it. When Rheein tried to offer the boy some glimmer as thanks the boy merely scoffed and pushed his hand gently away. Then he disappeared in the crowd. So Rheein went down that street there, he rounded the corner and found the alleyway with the storm drain, it didn’t take him long. Even though he had first rounded the wrong corner, and walked too far back that street over there for then to turn around when he noticed he was walking the wrong way and finally he’d spent some time finding the right alleyway. Getting to a caeanium was the best chance Rheein had of getting back to civilization. He’d heard the tragic fate that had befallen his home, Sal’Aan, and the capital had apparently also suffered the same fate. But as far as he knew both Sal’Aiy, Sal’Irh and Sal’Een was still in good shape. He only hoped his family and friends had gotten out of the city before it was destroyed. In any case, they would know who he was at the caeanium, they had records of all the noble families, and even if they didn’t, he would still be registered as an academic. They would give him a place to sleep, there would be food and they would help him get in contact with people he knew. And even if there wasn’t a caeanium in this town, a library was his second best hope. He could read, learn more about this strange place and probably get directions to the closest town where there was a caeanium.
“There he is!” a voice called from behind Rheein when he was roughly in the middle of the alleyway. He turned around and saw the boy he’d been talking to earlier, only now he had some friends with him. Older and more rugged looking friends. “He’s got a big bag of glimmer, I saw it. I promise. Big one, size of your fist Shint.” Rheein backed away slowly, and when he turned to walk fast-like in the opposite direction, he saw that there were rugged old friends on the other side of the alleyway as well.
“Look” Rheein said as his head darted back and forth between the two groups walking toward him “Let’s not get carried away here” he continued, a slight hint of concern creeping into his voice. “It wouldn’t be healthy for any of you to try to rob me” he tried warning them, then he raised his hand and pointed it palm-first toward the boy he thought was Shint. The boy scoffed.
“Wouldn’t be healthy?” he repeated sarcastically “what’s a little scrawny shit like you going to do to the six of us?” he asked, smiling deviously. Rheein sighed inwardly and sent a big bolt of nothingness toward Shint. He blinked. He tried again. Still nothing. What was wrong? He looked at the side of his wrist and saw that the canisters were empty, and then he noticed for the first time that most of them had small cracks in them. At the exact moment when he comprehended the seriousness of the situation he was in, the boys charged him from both directions. There was no more words, no more Tectra, no more nothing. Save the onslaught of fists and feet that hammered into Rheein from two sides. There was nothing he could do. He was scrawny, and even if he hadn’t been, he’d never been in a fight his entire life. He didn’t even know how ball his hand into a proper fist. Obviously he tried flailing his hands, he tried “blocking” the incoming punches and kicks, he tried and he failed. Pathetically. Before long he was screaming in pain, and then everything went black.
“Hey, you!” someone said. He groaned inwardly, his day hadn’t exactly gone like planned. Not at all. He pressed the wet piece of cloth draped in Greica closer to his splintered jaw and winced at the pain. He could feel the sinew and skin under the green dripping cloth healing abnormally fast. His jaw would heal decently, but his hair and eye wouldn’t come back.
“Go away” he gurgled dismissively, only half of the words came out right “the auction is closed” It’s in ruins actually, he added to himself. All his slaves had escaped, nobody had paid him their bids, and Blubb, his companion, lay dead in a headless puddle of blood just in front of their thoroughly robbed carriage. He’d be lucky if he would ever be allowed to set foot in Ghalin again after this. Once the city watch found out about the disaster he would probably be chased out of town with clubs and no manners. That is, if they didn’t straight up kill him. He didn’t plan on waiting around to find out, he would go straight to his smuggler friends and split the moment he could stand up straight without a nauseating headache. A paw, not a hand, for sharp claws dug into his skin where fingertips should be, ripped away the cloth and then came back with a vengeance, pressing sharp spikes into his skin. He yelped. His one good eye opened and looked around desperately, the “man” who was talking to him wasn’t a man at all. He had fanged teeth, obviously the nails of a hag, and his eyes glistened red with Feirca. He even had a tiny row of small horn-like spikes protruding from his forehead.
“I don’t care” he hissed “that boy who did this to your face, where is he?” he pressed, squeezing his grip ever so slightly. The boy. What was his name? Ren? Rhoan? He’d blasted him, and probably killed Blubb, and then he’d scattered. He was probably the one who robbed him as well, the little shit.
“Hell if I know” C’farc shrieked, trying to claw at the stranger’s “hand”. He simply sneered at C’farc, shoving him backwards and releasing his grip. Then he walked up closer to him, his blood red eyes frothing with contempt, he was so close that C’farc could smell the stench of Feirca on his breath, it felt like it seared against his skin.
“You’re a pathetic lowlife scum of exactly no value to me” he said levelly, staring intently at C’farc, the kind of stare that murders. “And if you don’t give me anything useful on that kid, I will mangle you where you stand---”
Darkness. More darkness. And then some darkness on top of the darkness. Then pain. Excruciating pain. It shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He tried opening his eyes and failed. Then he tried again, a tiny sliver of blurred vision appeared in his eyes. The slime that covered his cornea, or iris, betrayed some vestiges of colour. He blinked several times, the slime ran away and took residence in the corner of his eyes, where it contemplated a nefarius vengeance in the form of itching grains of mucus. His vision cleared now and he could see that he was inside, in a damp cellar by the looks of things. Beads of sweat started welling on his forehead, hadn’t he been outside? Hadn’t there been other kids? He’d gotten a beating, and now he was in this dungeonesque cellar, or what it was. Fear gripped him. He tried moving, it didn’t work. In fact, his feet wasn’t even touching the ground. He was dangling from the wall via a hook that went through the hole in his hand. Dread started building up inside him as he tried twitching his feet, wiggling his fingers and lifting his other hand. All in vain. Then he heard a throat getting cleared.
“You’re awake. Good, good!” the aforementioned throat croaked after a sequence of coughs and convulsions, which finished in a slightly embarrassed ahem. His eyes surveyed the room until they found the throat of origin. It belonged to what he thought looked like the hooded man who had bid 2000 glimmer at the slave auction. Even though this man gave him creeps creepier than any creeping creeper, he was somewhat glad it wasn’t C’farc.
He sat hunched over a desk, inspecting the lens of Rheein’s Voice under a magnifying glass. “I thought maybe I’d lost you” he continued, putting the lens down and standing up “those kids gave you a thorough beating, but fret not. I chased them off with vigor. You’re safe now.” Apparently Rheein and the hooded man had very different opinions on what “safe” meant. The man went over to what looked like a crate covered by a piece of tarp, and pulled away said tarp. Under it was not a crate, but a cage. And inside the cage was huddled a small fox-looking creature with strange antlers and glowing, blue, markings among an otherwise very white coat of fur. “What’s your name, boy?” he inquired as he stretched one of his hands out over the cage. Small streams of Tectra came seeping out of the fox and travelled into the hooded man’s hand. It whimpered as the man groaned a groan of indulgence. Something about the man’s voice sent shivers down his spine. It had a duality to it, as if two were speaking at once. Rheein tried clearing his throat.
“Rheein” he managed to squeeze out. He was far too gone to even attempt lying.
“Rheein” the hooded man echoed “Good strong Salic name that” he continued “the slaver didn’t lie about that part, it seems.” He stood up a bit more erect and cracked some limbs, then he pulled down his hood and faced Rheein. His eyes did indeed have a glint of blue to them, only it was more than a glint by now. The eyes that looked at him now pulsated with Tectra. Around them were veins of dark blue that stretched out like little tentacles around his face. He was an Absorber. A far gone Absorber by the looks of it. Absorbers were men “touched by Cae”, in one way or another Cae had become an integrated part of their bodies, and much like a tumour this Caeic infection grows for every bit of Cae they consume. Now Rheein understood what that tiny bit of crazy in his eyes was all about. He strode forward until he was practically face to face with Rheein.
“I’m Malnarc.” he introduced himself, his very breath seemed alive with sparks, with a foul scent of galvanization “And as you might have noticed, I dabble in the dark arts of Caeic matters” he continued, stroking himself along one of his eyes with a finger after having given Rheein a slight bow of his head. “Much unlike yourself, young Rheein. You are a student of the finer arts of Cae. A Seer.” he continued, turning around and walking back to his desk. Caeyer Rheein corrected in his mind. Most people didn’t know what that was, and most of them who did didn’t know how to say it right. “Cae” Malnarc continued as he picked up the lens again “Tectra, Feirca, Greica, Sehcra, Shicra, Dekcra and Lighcra” he continued “It’s the blood of the gods, isn’t it?” he said, not really expecting a response. He seemed lost in some sort of trance. His fascination for all things Caeic seemed overwhelming. More like the powers that hold the world together, Rheein corrected. And besides, there are no gods damned gods. None of it out loud, of course. “And you use this” he said, indicating the lens “to direct and focus Cae as you see fit, like an artist painting a picture. More like a surgeon operating five patients at once. “It’s called a Throat, yes?” he asked, once again putting it down. Rheein groaned inwardly.
“Voice” he uttered with great difficulty. Suddenly he felt a prod, like a mental probing. He looked for the origin of the feeling, it hadn’t come from Malnarc, it was a friendly, nearly pleading, gesture. Then his eyes met the foxes eyes, it was looking straight at him with big round puppy eyes. Malnarc hadn’t noticed the interaction, he was fast about walking aimlessly around the room, tidying here and picking something up over there, dropping it down somewhere else. Rheein then knew what he had to do, it had come to him in the form of a speechless communication with the fox. It wasn’t exactly a language, or the exchange of words, but a kind of mental Caeic understanding. The fox was a Tectra fiend. A creature of “pure” Cae. And his Tectra alignment allowed for this connection. “Voice, yes, much more elegant.” Malnarc muttered. Rheein concentrated on the lens, it jerked weakly to the left. Then it rose up on it’s edge and rolled off the table. He caught it with his mind before it hit the floor. “And now that you're mine, you can use this beautiful device to, heh, speak with me” he walked over to the desk, noticed that the lens was gone and bent down to look under the desk. Rheein moved behind one of the legs of the desk opposite him. “That’s weird” he mused, his eyes scanning the floor “I could swear it was--- It must have fallen to the floo--- Where is it?” he continued irritably as he stooped to the floor. Rheein first moved the lens back above the desk. Then he, careful not to catch the attention of Malnarc, hovered it over, quickly as he could, to the foxes cage. Hiding it behind the cage. “No matter” Malnarc said as he stood up “it will show up eventually.”
Rheein started coughing, getting Malnarc’s attention.
“Hng, hng” he stuttered. Malnarc came over to Rheein.
“Yes?” he asked with intent excitement. Rheein took pains to raise his head so that he was level with Malnarc, eyes attentive with cruel intent.
“How’s this for speaking” he whispered and zipped the lens up from behind the cage, the fox sent a small discharge of Tectra into it from his antlers and the Rheein focused it into a ray of needle-thin lightning that strook Malnarc dead in the head. It wasn’t a strong discharge of power, but it should have been enough to shut down his brain. In effect killing him clean. His face froze in a mask of shock as his eyes went blank, the glow in his eyes dimmed and got snuffed out as his pupils rolled back. Then he fell backwards with a stiff thudd.
“Right” Rheein said after a little while “Now, to get down---”
Ki’je stalked along a street in the fringe district. The clouds above had gathered in what looked to be an impending omen, and the darkness of the afternoon was slowly settling in as the Lid crept across the sky. “He’s a Salic boy” the slave handler had said “of noble birth, he’s probably going to try to get to the fringe district” he had continued “he robbed me blind and is probably looking to spend.” It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough. Ki’je had caught his scent, and that scent led him more or less directly to an alleyway in the middle of the district, after having taken some detours into a barber’s shop, a tavern and a cobblers workshop. All the shop owners had told him about an insolent teenager that had basically “robbed” them with his reputation. So the boy was a resourceful one, Ki’je couldn’t help cracking a smile when they told him about the boy. Smart kid.
When he arrived at the alleyway, he took some moments inspecting it, there was crowded streets on either side, but it was a perfect place to hide. It bent slightly so that you couldn’t see the middle of it from either side, there were no windows and no doors leading into the alleyway and mostly there was just trash and other whatnots strewn about. He crouched down when he saw a piece of cloth on the ground, it was a glove. He picked it up and sniffed it, definitively the boy’s. He could smell the scent of other people as well, he seemed to have been surrounded. A robbery? He inspected the ground around him and noticed there were specks of sweat and even a little spot of blood on the cobbles. He heard feet coming to s stop behind him. He turned around and saw a kid roughly the same age, or at least size, as the boy he was looking for. It was not the boy he was looking for. The boy backed away as he saw Ki’je, fear clearly written on his face, and tried running. In one leap Ki’je overtook the boy, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall of the alleyway.
“What happened here?” he barked at the boy, little droplets welled in the corners of the boy’s eyes. He stammered, apparently frightened out of his mind. Ki’je also caught the scent of urine, the boy had pissed himself. He sighed and loosened his grip, letting the boys feet touch the ground. “Look, boy. I won’t hurt you. Just tell me if you saw what went down in this alleyway and I’ll let you go, okay?” he tried saying this in the kindest way possible, which wasn’t very helpful, he wasn’t used to being kind. He tried smiling, and then immediately regretted it, flaring his fangs at the boy wouldn’t help his case. But it seemed like he had worked up the courage to at least stutter his way through a response.
“I--- We---” he started “There--- There was a boy, my age, asked me for the lie berry” he continued. “He looked like he had lots of glimmer, so I led him here, then--- then I went and got my friends” he averted his eyes, looked down, looked up, looked sideways. “We was robbing him, you know, the other kids, they--- Anyway, the crazy old man came.” he tried shying from his grip. “He chased us off, I think he picked up the boy” he finished. Ki’je narrowed his eyes.
“Do you know where this crazy old man lives?” he asked, the boy nodded.
A while later Rheein burst out from Malnarc’s house with the little Tectra fox in his arms, only to be swept away by a powerful gust of air. Rain whipped across his face as he had no control over the direction he was going. He struggled merely to keep his feet on the ground, which was now flooded with water. Apparently, a storm had decided that today was a good day to attack Ghalin. With a vengeance. He swiped left and right, searching desperately with his fingertips for something to grab and hold onto. Which was exceptionally difficult with an animal shuddering in his arms. From apparently nowhere he suddenly got barraged by a school of tiny skyfish, they jumped out of the water and flew into him, hammering his face before they zipped off into the air to escape the angry weather. Another rush of water overtook him and hustled him down the street. He dumped into someone, who accordingly shoved him away and uttered some incomprehensible insults. He lost his balance completely and the street became a waterslide of which he had never waited in a line to ride. As he came down to the end of the street he saw that he was headed directly toward the gaping maw of a storm drain that threatened swallow him whole. In a fit of panic he grappled blindly and managed to catch something to hold onto. He tightened his grip as best he could and hugged the streetlamp with every muscle in his body. He crammed up against it so completely that he suddenly noticed the fox was not in his arms anymore. The yelps and gulps caught his attention, it had slipped out of his grip and was now funnelling directly toward the storm drain, and with one last yip of desperation he saw the tiny creature vanishing into the maw. Rheein closed his eyes and considered for a moment, then he came to a conclusion and let go of the streetlamp, diving headlong after the fox. He couldn’t abandon the helpless creature to a fate of doom without trying to help it. It was the least he could do after it had saved his life. So he decided to dive headlong after it.
Ki’je pushed through the increasingly harassing winds. The weather was getting worse, soon rain and thunder and storm would hit Ghalin like a vengeful Sky Whale. He’d sent the kid off to find shelter, he didn’t need him anymore, he’d pointed him in the right direction and given him good enough directions. He should soon arrive at the right house now, if the directions the kid had given him was as good and honest as his frightened face he had worn ever since they’d met. It should be just up this street. Rain whipped down, or up, or from the sides. Probably from all directions, actually. And water had started filling the street. In tiny torrents it came down the street, trying desperately to escape the storm. Rather unlike how water usually behaved it was hugging the ground, seeming to try to shrink away from the storm. He grunted and held fast, a puny storm wouldn’t stop him. Not at this rate. And he would be out of it soon anyway. So he held up his hand to shield his face and pushed forward.
When he had braved roughly half the street, gravelled and cursed under his breath and fought the bombastic weather, someone had the audacity to bump into him. He shoved the little shit away, throwing some of his most creative insults at him, and didn’t think any more of it. Soon, with some more clawing for no actual reason, he reached the front door of the house he thought was the right now. The door was screaming as it hung on it’s hinges, barely hung on it’s hinges. In fact, as he was thinking this, the door came loose and came directly at him. He growled and dove toward it, hands stretched out in front of him, he grabbed the middle of it and ripped it in two, sending each part flying into the storm of the street. Then he dove into the building. He turned to shut the door but no. It wasn’t there, of course. So he turned again and walked into the house, away from the storm. He crouched over in his usual prowling position, it wasn’t that he was afraid of this old man, he wasn’t much afraid of anything really, but it never hurt to be a little wary. So wary he was as he stalked across the creaky livingroom floor. The creaking would definitely give him away, so he decided to hide behind one of the many cupboards, where he had a good vantage over the entire living room, he waited. It was obvious this man wasn’t much for decorations, which Ki’je approved of, there was, in fact, no decorations at all. No rugs, no paintings, no niceties. Only a wooden floor, a wooden table, wooden walls and wooden furniture in the form of cupboards and chairs and shelves. The only thing of note to look at, as he sat there waiting and bored, was that the shelves were packed with books. He would have entertained himself by reading the spines of the books, which would have informed him of the old man’s obsession with Caeic powers, Caeic creatures, reliquary artefacts, and so such things, but he didn’t. Because he couldn’t. Reading was something he had never considered learning. He frankly didn’t think it was worth his time. Other could do the reading for him, his hands were more than occupied with leading armies and fighting wars. How long should he wait? How long time did people usually take to react to creaking floors? Did people react to creaking floors? Might it be that the old man simply thought it was the quirks of the house? Or might he be sleeping? Or out? After all, his door was out. In any case, Ki’je decided that enough time had past. It had been thirty seconds. An extremely boring eternity in his simple mind.
As he went through the rest of the house, there was little worth mentioning, save for that he nearly tripped over one of the sills, knocked over a rather nice teapot and discovered a corpse in the basement. Careful and methodical reconnaissance assured him that it was not the boy he was looking for, but the old man who owned the house. Mostly owing to the fact that the corpse was--- An old-ish man. He was an ugly looking fellow. Otherwise the room wasn’t very interesting, in one corner was a small cage which seemed to have been pried open, and up against another wall stood a desk of sorts, under a fairly ominously looking hook that was fastened to the wall. There were pieces of broken glass around the table, and the corpse seemed to be missing some essential garments. He concluded that the boy must have killed the old man and broken free somehow, seeing as the man was dead and the door upstairs was broken. He blinked. The boy he ran into on the street, could he have been--- No. But--- He cursed through his teeth and ran out of the house.
He was caught in a cascade of water rushing down a windy set of pipes that was just a little too tight for comfort. He shuffled here and there, struggling to keep his head above the water while he was desperately scanning the path ahead for the little creature. He could feel the steel pipe digging into his already bruised skin, raking it with it’s little uneven dots of bad welding. He had to tap into what little he had of Tectra reserves just to keep from fainting, any normal human would have run out of juice a long time ago with all that Rheen had been through today, but he was a Caeyer, he could take it. He hit his head and everything went black for a moment, then he was falling, he fell into a large pool of jet black water. He flailed his arms in an attempt to get to the surface, he couldn’t swim, of course he couldn’t, water wasn’t usually on the ground like this. It was supposed to flow in elegant rivers across the skies, gathering in the mighty high seas that made the bulk of the skies. But no, of course today was a special day, a day when water had decided it was fed up with the natural laws of gravity. He was on the verge of panicking as when managed to grab onto some kind of steel pipe or something and shoved himself to the surface. The current was strong, but he managed to hold against it. One of his feet also found a footing, somehow, and he could semi-stand up. Looking around he saw mostly darkness, but a little ahead was a lit area, it looked like an island of sorts among the otherwise watery and damp interior of this aqueduct.
He pushed forwards, noticing that the footing he’d found was owing to the fact that the water was actually rather shallow, but the current was still strong. That’s when he heard a yelp for help, the sound immediately caught his attention and he saw that the fox was pressed up against a grille, struggling against the oncoming torrent. He heaved himself over and tried to lift the fox, a shockwave of electricity went through him strong enough to stun a normal man. But he absorbed the Tectra and gritted his teeth. The fox’s antlers were tangled with the grille, so he dove his hand into the water and started working on dislodging them. After a couple more desperate yelps and some uncomfortable shocks he managed to get the fox loose. It yipped in gratification and snuggled up in his arms as he carried it and himself over to the aforementioned island. One final heave brought him out of the water, the fox jumped out of his hands and he felt the Tectra leaving his body. He wavered for a moment, feeling somewhat nauseated, and finally collapsed forward. Caeyer as he was, he was also only human. Darkness overtook him for the second time that day.
A quartet of shimmering white teal-ish eyes had been following the entire sequence in the aquaduct with intense curiosity from above. It’s malicious eyes transfixed on Rheein. And now that the human was passed out it slowly crept out from its hiding place, six limbs steadied it against the walls and pipes from above. It slowly lowered itself toward the boy and the little caecric vhirc, storm fox, who was huddled up against him. It’s limbs spread out like the legs of a spider in the shadows as it was nearly upon them...
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And for anyone who might potentially be hungry for more after having read that beast of text, here's a
little something I've been working on as a kind of prelude to the story. Very much still a work in
progress. Like all of this is:
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I am an expert in falling short on basically everything I work on, Dawn of Life was never finished,
Black Roses and Poetry of Death was never finished, Vigilance was never finished and now I've
ultimately, and sadly, decided that Oroth won't see the light of day either. And these are only a few
of all the projects that I have started and acquitted successively. Not successfully.
But there is still some hope for some of those projects, Dawn of Life will one day be written, as it is
the collective brain-child of me and some of my closest friends. Never writing it would be a big offence
to all the work we've poured into it over so many years. And although I will never finish Oroth the way
I originally planned to, I might release the map for everyone to enjoy or use as a terrain template of
sorts. As it is a completely finished terrain.
But you're not here to hear me whine about all my shortcomings. You're here, I hope, to read my latest
rework of a story I started writing a while ago. A story that will hopefully one day make it to the retail
market as an actual book or something. If you're wondering why I reworked it, the simple answer is that
I didn't like the direction it was taking. And as some people pointed out to me in the previous thread: It
had a sort of "thrown right into something you know nothing about" vibe to it, a bit too much so. This
rework aims to make that throw a bit softer on the reader, to ease the reader a bit more into the story.
I hope I can deliver on that front, I hope the story you're about to read is enjoyable, and I sincerely hope
for honest and good feedback that can help me to further my dream. A little depending on the reception
of this thread, I might consider adding more chapters as I write them. But anyway, without further ado,
Here goes:
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Chained and Unbound
“The words have been spoken, and the ancients stir in their graves. The voices of a thousand dead breaths life through the world to hearken their awakening. One is already among us, the one they call the shadow of a thousand whispers, Mahlo the Treacherous. His arrival brought the ruin of an empire, and he will not sleep until the world is his grave. The words have been spoken, and the Spoken must rise. Their voices are all we can trust if the world of Occula shall remain ours to reign.
Forth comes Rheein: Bright eyed, white of hair, slender of build and with a hungering desire to discover and to know. Young and daring he is destined to thread the very fabric of civilization, to explore the vast unknown secrets of ruin and of legend. Armed with only his wit and voice, he is thrown into a world of chaos, plunged as thus from a past of peace. Great empires and grand kings will be at the mercy of his whims, and the very survival of existence may depend on his actions. His past is etched by catastrophic loss, his future is written and already foretold. But he is lost, like all humans, to the workings of fate, ignorant to the knowledge of his destiny. And like all human beings the choice is his to make, he will falter and fail, we can only pray that he will one day find his way."
-
He barely felt his numb fingers as he twitched them in an attempt to keep at the very least a modicum of his otherwise freezing body slightly warm. He was also shivering involuntarily to keep the hyperthermia from kicking in. It wasn’t that where he was was particularly extremely cold, and he hadn’t been out for long enough to be in any real danger, but he wasn’t about to start thinking rationally now. Not now. Not after what he’d been through. He had been humbled before, even picked on, but he had never been disgraced like what he felt now. As if the wooden bumpy ride in a crammed chart with sweaty hairy men wasn’t enough. As if being extremely undernourished and physically fatigued to the point that he neither wanted to be awake or managed to sleep wasn’t enough. Here he stood, nearly stark naked with nothing save a loincloth to cover his jewels, lined up at a slave auction ready to get sold to the highest bidder, like cattle, in a rundown town on the edge of the known world. He was past outrage, he was past desperation, he’d been travelling in said slaves-chart for at least a fortnight, by now he was resigned. Just resigned. But that didn’t mean he had to freeze. So he kept twitching his fingers and decided that the shivering was now voluntary.
“Sold for 34 glimmer to the gentleman with the big scar!” he heard C’farc, the chief slaver, bellow over the crowd of bidders. “And now over to today’s special item” he growled theatrically. The lumps of fat that dangled from his chin flapped with excitement as they brought forth Rheein to the center of the stage. “This boy may look a bit meager, and he might be a bit dim witted, but he is of noble blood from the Sal empire!” he paused for effect as a wave of mumbled chatter rippled through the crowd. “And what’s more! He’s a magic boy!” he barked over the dying chittering, then he grabbed Rheein’s left hand and held it up on display, palm outwards. Around his wrist was a shrewd mechanical device with canisters and chords and markings that connected with a circular lens in the middle of his palm. It was called a “Voice”, not that any of these feeble minded slave handlers knew anything about that. The lens covered a hole that went straight through his hand.
“The bidding starts at 40 glimmer” he chortled as plaques and hands shot into the air as everyone tried to break the world record in the fiercest and most bombastic shouts. Bids flung left and right, 100 someone screamed, followed by new numbers. As the bids went along to 200, 300 and eventually started to settle around 500 Rheein couldn’t help but cracking a tiny smile. Apparently his life was worth many times over the rest of the slaves. That in itself was a small victory.
“2000” said a calm voice at the back of the crowd as C’farc was about to sell him to a deranged looking fat man for 567 glimmer. The crowd went dead as faces turned to look at the robed figure that had made the outrageous bid. He was a shady looking fellow, his face was just barely visible under a heavy hood. His eyes, thought Rheein, had the tiniest shimmer of blue to them. And they were completely transfixed on Rheein. They drilled into him in a way that made him feel like a helpless puppy before a grotesque beast. C’farc’s blistered voice lit up with greed as he began saying “Ssssssoool---”
A majestic ray of lightning shot straight into the middle of the crowd. It crashed into an unlucky fat guy, who probably died momentarily, and sent a rippling shockwave of Tectra in every direction, throwing people left and right. As the wave of Tectra washed over Rheein, he inhaled in ecstasy as he felt a surge of power prickle across his entire body. His skin was alive with static electricity as he felt the canisters in his Voice filling up. In one fell sweep he sent Tectra through his shackles and they shattered before his very eyes. His eyes practically glistened with sparks of lightning as he turned his hateful gaze on C’farc. The look on the obese slave handler’s face was a priceless mask of terror. Rheein raised his hand, the lens dislodged from his palm and flew up to point directly at the fat wretches head. As he let fly a powerful bolt of electricity, C’farc sadly had the wit to dive off the stage. So instead of blowing his brains out like Rheein had intended, the bolt graced the side of his face: Exploding one of his eyeballs, searing away half of his hair and splitting open the side of his jaw. He went diving into the crowd, which was now in complete chaos, shrieking at the top of his voice as teeth dislodged from his mouth. The rush of Tectra cleared his mind and made it work faster than it had for a very long time, he turned around and sent a volley of precision sparks toward the rest of the slaves. As they shied away from the oncoming storm their shackles cracked open. Rheein then reared off the side of the stage and made for the slave handlers personal carriages. He burst open the doors, they had been locked but a lock was no match for a furious teenager wielding powers from the very tempest itself. Moments later he emerged from the carriage wearing a long rugged, but sleek nonetheless, overcoat that was a little too large for wear, a pair of fine breeches, one glove over his Voice, and a blue shirt. He hadn’t found any boots, but he had found a rather healthy bag of glimmer, which was now dangling from his waist. The storm inside him had settled somewhat by now, but as he was approached by the other slave handler, which had had the wit to follow Rheein as the initial wave of shock had left him, the thunder inside him surged to the surface once more. As the slave handler raised his dagger to threaten or attack Rheein, he sent another bolt of lightning straight into the slave handler’s face. It ripped his face open and revealed, only for the slightest of moments, the skull within before it shattered into a million pieces. Brains exploded from the crust of his skull as the man fell backwards in a lump of headlessness. His name was--- Unimportant. Rheein simply spat on the corpse and bolted for the nearest alleyway. Dodging panicking people left and right.
When he emerged from other side of the alleyway, he’d taken a couple minutes to rest, hide, and catch his breath, he felt the initial wave of Tectra slowly slipping away. He looked down and unfolded his glove to check the canisters around his wrists, there wasn’t much left, but there was enough. The street he walked into seemed to have taken little note of the incident at the slave auction, even though it was but a street apart, so he could easily slip into the small stream of people that were walking down the road. He lost himself in the crowd of faces, becoming just another bloke on the block. Nobody took any note of him, so he could easily listen in on the passing conversations. From a random collection of gossipping villagers he learned that the city he was in was called “Ghalin” and that it was on the outer edge of a place called “Ghaleroun.” He also learned that Rhoxah had recently given birth to her fifth child, that Moncti must be hiding money from the tax collectors, because he was far too fat for his current wealth, or poverty, and that the fringe district was nothing like it had once been. All these rich tax collectors and “wellborn” as they called themselves had turned it into a clean haven for ass kissers. “The nerve” one woman had said “to think of themselves as better than any of us” she continued with her nose held high, to the solemn and disapproving shakes-of-the-head from her mud-faced and warty friends.
A little later Rheein had convinced a young lad that it was in his best financial interest to discreetly point him in the direction of the fringe district, glimmer had exchanged ownership. And later still he stepped into what could only be said “clean haven for ass kissers”, as he noticed a drastic change in the smell of excrements. Where houses had previously been mismatching patchworks of wood and metal and other funny-looking building materials, these houses had somewhat unanimous cladding. Where the roads had previously been muddy dirt mounds, home to all kinds of defecation and rumination, these roads were partly cobbled and seemed to only accept the odd ordure on vacation. Where people had previously been a mixture of sour and sad looking individuals covered in muck and with stained clothing, these people were sour and sad, but also busy, looking individuals not covered in muck. Yes, he concluded, this was as civilized as it would get.
He looked at the signs as walked down one of the main streets, only dodging piles of shit on occasion, when he saw the one that he wanted. As he walked toward the door he smoothed his long and tangled hair as best he could, then he let his hand run through the stubbles on his face, and as a finishing touch he used what little remained of Tectra inside him to give his eyes a ever-so-slight glean of blue. Just enough so that one would be uncertain of whether there was something regal about them or not. He mustered up the best “spoiled and rich teenager” act he could manage as he stepped onto the doorstep, which was exceptionally good, considering he had until some time ago been a spoiled and rich teenager, then he stomped into the store with all the impatience of a youth late to a party.
“People!” he exclaimed, waving his arms in distaste as he saw the barber look up from his counter, a clear line of surprise sweeping across his face “I am already late to my uncle’s birthday. You’d think they’d have the sense to move out of my way.” he continued as he practically threw his overcoat onto the coat stand. The barber didn’t respond, he was sensible like that, he knew not to provoke an angry teenager. Rheein used this to his advantage and simply crossed the room and overtook the barber’s chair as if he owned it. “Well?” he said impatiently. The barber took a long, slow, moment of consideration. Then he cleared his throat.
“Uhm, you have an appointment?” he asked meagerly, but all the same he started gathering his razor, scissor and other tools of the trade.
“Of course I have an appointment!” Rheein frothed “My uncle sent a messenger to deliver the note, he’s a friend of the mayor, you should know.” he continued indignantly “Name’s Thourdan.” he added, waving his hand as if it was an inconvenience to even have to say it. All of this put the barber in quite the predicament, he had, of course, never received a note about this appointment. Nor had he ever heard about a family named Thourdan, and he was fairly certain the city didn’t have a mayor. And had he been in a rational state, he might have been a bit more suspicious, but presently there was an outraged teenager sitting in his chair, promising doom with his intonation if he didn’t do exactly what he said when he said it. This on top of the fact that he had no other pressing matters made the barber conclude that the wisest course of action would be to temporarily become this teenager’s servant. For fear of his own life.
“Right you are of course, lord sir.” he stuttered as he stumbled over to Rheein “And how would the young gentleman noble want his hair and face this fine afternoon---”
The boy that emerged from the barber looked nothing like the boy who had entered: His face, for one, was completely clean-shaven, his hair was shaved on one side, while the other was braided into three separate criss-crossed braids that dropped down along the side of his face. He had also borrowed the barber’s bathtub to rub off the stench from his slavery, claiming that he had stepped in a large pile of dung, and that that was also the reason he had thrown away his shoes. Luckily the breeches he’d stolen from the slave handlers had a brownish stain down along one of his legs to back this claim. He shuddered at the thought of what that stain might actually be. He had also insisted on paying the barber, but he would hear nothing of it. He simply asked Rheein to give his imaginary uncle his regards.
Now he was clean, smelling and feeling fresh and after nearly two months time of travelling and ill fortunes he actually felt like a somewhat decent human being again. He stood there like a shining beacon of cleanliness, a triumphant herald of overcome pains, a true martyr of--- His stomach growled and cramped in on itself, forcing Rheein to bend over in a show of utter embarrassment. He was hungry. Very hungry.
A time later he emerged from a tavern, stomach full and hunger quenched. He had conquered the most basic of human needs, he had fought the beast of starvation and come out the victor, he was a shining warrior of satiation, a champion of--- He stepped into a puddle of piss. Looking down he could see the yellow substance seep between his toes, bubbling in blobs to fill the top of his feet. It was obviously not fresh urine. He needed shoes. He badly needed shoes. He walked down the street and found a puddle of water, or at least he thought it was water, and washed his foot in it. Then he started scouting for a good cobbler, or even any cobbler he could find. When he had eventually found one, and had put on the same act as with the barber, he emerged from the cobbler’s store with a fresh pair of complementary boots of the best quality the cobbler could offer, and more good wishes to his uncle. The cobbler and the barber happened to be part of the same card-playing group at the same tavern that Rheein had been eating at. And later that week they would exchange stories about the same spoiled shitkid who had practically robbed them of good, paying, services. They would banter and nag about it, and as the night went on and they got drunk, the stories, mocking and groaning would get exaggerated. So much so that a local bard would write a song about it, that the local hearsayers would inquire and nose around to find out who this mysterious teenager was. Eventually the stories would become urban legend, and mothers would say to their children “don’t go and bother the shopkeeper, or Thordamn will come and get you”. But all this was far ahead into the future, and of no particular importance to the story at hand. So Rheein took his new pair of excellent boots on stroll down the street. He concluded that the day had gone by quite well, he’d freed himself from imprisonment, he wasn’t famished any more and he still had quite the pouch of glimmer to spend on whatever he wanted. Yes, life was considerably better now than it had been for quite some time.
As he pulled up to the end of the street, he caught the attention of another boy roughly his age.
“Excuse me” he began with smiling eyes “could you perchance point me in the direction of the nearest caeanium?” he asked pleasantly. The boy frowned, a rather big question mark written all over his face.
“Caeniwhat?” he asked in a hoarse voice, question marks flooding from his intonation. Then he looked to be about to laugh at the ridiculous thing Rheein had asked for.
“You know, a place where they store Caeic relics and scrolls on the matters of philosophic conventi--- Uhm. Is there a library somewhere?” he tried to simplify, and when he noticed that the question marks that had nearly settled on the ground suddenly flew back up to speckle the boy’s face he added “a place where they have books”.
“Oh!” the boy said, his face lighting up with understanding, scattering the question marks in all directions “Yes, there’s a lie-berry just on the other side of three streets down” he said, pointing his finger in a general direction. Then he gave Rheein some instructions in the form of just down that street there, around the corner and through the alleyway with a storm drain in front of it. When Rheein tried to offer the boy some glimmer as thanks the boy merely scoffed and pushed his hand gently away. Then he disappeared in the crowd. So Rheein went down that street there, he rounded the corner and found the alleyway with the storm drain, it didn’t take him long. Even though he had first rounded the wrong corner, and walked too far back that street over there for then to turn around when he noticed he was walking the wrong way and finally he’d spent some time finding the right alleyway. Getting to a caeanium was the best chance Rheein had of getting back to civilization. He’d heard the tragic fate that had befallen his home, Sal’Aan, and the capital had apparently also suffered the same fate. But as far as he knew both Sal’Aiy, Sal’Irh and Sal’Een was still in good shape. He only hoped his family and friends had gotten out of the city before it was destroyed. In any case, they would know who he was at the caeanium, they had records of all the noble families, and even if they didn’t, he would still be registered as an academic. They would give him a place to sleep, there would be food and they would help him get in contact with people he knew. And even if there wasn’t a caeanium in this town, a library was his second best hope. He could read, learn more about this strange place and probably get directions to the closest town where there was a caeanium.
“There he is!” a voice called from behind Rheein when he was roughly in the middle of the alleyway. He turned around and saw the boy he’d been talking to earlier, only now he had some friends with him. Older and more rugged looking friends. “He’s got a big bag of glimmer, I saw it. I promise. Big one, size of your fist Shint.” Rheein backed away slowly, and when he turned to walk fast-like in the opposite direction, he saw that there were rugged old friends on the other side of the alleyway as well.
“Look” Rheein said as his head darted back and forth between the two groups walking toward him “Let’s not get carried away here” he continued, a slight hint of concern creeping into his voice. “It wouldn’t be healthy for any of you to try to rob me” he tried warning them, then he raised his hand and pointed it palm-first toward the boy he thought was Shint. The boy scoffed.
“Wouldn’t be healthy?” he repeated sarcastically “what’s a little scrawny shit like you going to do to the six of us?” he asked, smiling deviously. Rheein sighed inwardly and sent a big bolt of nothingness toward Shint. He blinked. He tried again. Still nothing. What was wrong? He looked at the side of his wrist and saw that the canisters were empty, and then he noticed for the first time that most of them had small cracks in them. At the exact moment when he comprehended the seriousness of the situation he was in, the boys charged him from both directions. There was no more words, no more Tectra, no more nothing. Save the onslaught of fists and feet that hammered into Rheein from two sides. There was nothing he could do. He was scrawny, and even if he hadn’t been, he’d never been in a fight his entire life. He didn’t even know how ball his hand into a proper fist. Obviously he tried flailing his hands, he tried “blocking” the incoming punches and kicks, he tried and he failed. Pathetically. Before long he was screaming in pain, and then everything went black.
-
“Hey, you!” someone said. He groaned inwardly, his day hadn’t exactly gone like planned. Not at all. He pressed the wet piece of cloth draped in Greica closer to his splintered jaw and winced at the pain. He could feel the sinew and skin under the green dripping cloth healing abnormally fast. His jaw would heal decently, but his hair and eye wouldn’t come back.
“Go away” he gurgled dismissively, only half of the words came out right “the auction is closed” It’s in ruins actually, he added to himself. All his slaves had escaped, nobody had paid him their bids, and Blubb, his companion, lay dead in a headless puddle of blood just in front of their thoroughly robbed carriage. He’d be lucky if he would ever be allowed to set foot in Ghalin again after this. Once the city watch found out about the disaster he would probably be chased out of town with clubs and no manners. That is, if they didn’t straight up kill him. He didn’t plan on waiting around to find out, he would go straight to his smuggler friends and split the moment he could stand up straight without a nauseating headache. A paw, not a hand, for sharp claws dug into his skin where fingertips should be, ripped away the cloth and then came back with a vengeance, pressing sharp spikes into his skin. He yelped. His one good eye opened and looked around desperately, the “man” who was talking to him wasn’t a man at all. He had fanged teeth, obviously the nails of a hag, and his eyes glistened red with Feirca. He even had a tiny row of small horn-like spikes protruding from his forehead.
“I don’t care” he hissed “that boy who did this to your face, where is he?” he pressed, squeezing his grip ever so slightly. The boy. What was his name? Ren? Rhoan? He’d blasted him, and probably killed Blubb, and then he’d scattered. He was probably the one who robbed him as well, the little shit.
“Hell if I know” C’farc shrieked, trying to claw at the stranger’s “hand”. He simply sneered at C’farc, shoving him backwards and releasing his grip. Then he walked up closer to him, his blood red eyes frothing with contempt, he was so close that C’farc could smell the stench of Feirca on his breath, it felt like it seared against his skin.
“You’re a pathetic lowlife scum of exactly no value to me” he said levelly, staring intently at C’farc, the kind of stare that murders. “And if you don’t give me anything useful on that kid, I will mangle you where you stand---”
-
Darkness. More darkness. And then some darkness on top of the darkness. Then pain. Excruciating pain. It shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He tried opening his eyes and failed. Then he tried again, a tiny sliver of blurred vision appeared in his eyes. The slime that covered his cornea, or iris, betrayed some vestiges of colour. He blinked several times, the slime ran away and took residence in the corner of his eyes, where it contemplated a nefarius vengeance in the form of itching grains of mucus. His vision cleared now and he could see that he was inside, in a damp cellar by the looks of things. Beads of sweat started welling on his forehead, hadn’t he been outside? Hadn’t there been other kids? He’d gotten a beating, and now he was in this dungeonesque cellar, or what it was. Fear gripped him. He tried moving, it didn’t work. In fact, his feet wasn’t even touching the ground. He was dangling from the wall via a hook that went through the hole in his hand. Dread started building up inside him as he tried twitching his feet, wiggling his fingers and lifting his other hand. All in vain. Then he heard a throat getting cleared.
“You’re awake. Good, good!” the aforementioned throat croaked after a sequence of coughs and convulsions, which finished in a slightly embarrassed ahem. His eyes surveyed the room until they found the throat of origin. It belonged to what he thought looked like the hooded man who had bid 2000 glimmer at the slave auction. Even though this man gave him creeps creepier than any creeping creeper, he was somewhat glad it wasn’t C’farc.
He sat hunched over a desk, inspecting the lens of Rheein’s Voice under a magnifying glass. “I thought maybe I’d lost you” he continued, putting the lens down and standing up “those kids gave you a thorough beating, but fret not. I chased them off with vigor. You’re safe now.” Apparently Rheein and the hooded man had very different opinions on what “safe” meant. The man went over to what looked like a crate covered by a piece of tarp, and pulled away said tarp. Under it was not a crate, but a cage. And inside the cage was huddled a small fox-looking creature with strange antlers and glowing, blue, markings among an otherwise very white coat of fur. “What’s your name, boy?” he inquired as he stretched one of his hands out over the cage. Small streams of Tectra came seeping out of the fox and travelled into the hooded man’s hand. It whimpered as the man groaned a groan of indulgence. Something about the man’s voice sent shivers down his spine. It had a duality to it, as if two were speaking at once. Rheein tried clearing his throat.
“Rheein” he managed to squeeze out. He was far too gone to even attempt lying.
“Rheein” the hooded man echoed “Good strong Salic name that” he continued “the slaver didn’t lie about that part, it seems.” He stood up a bit more erect and cracked some limbs, then he pulled down his hood and faced Rheein. His eyes did indeed have a glint of blue to them, only it was more than a glint by now. The eyes that looked at him now pulsated with Tectra. Around them were veins of dark blue that stretched out like little tentacles around his face. He was an Absorber. A far gone Absorber by the looks of it. Absorbers were men “touched by Cae”, in one way or another Cae had become an integrated part of their bodies, and much like a tumour this Caeic infection grows for every bit of Cae they consume. Now Rheein understood what that tiny bit of crazy in his eyes was all about. He strode forward until he was practically face to face with Rheein.
“I’m Malnarc.” he introduced himself, his very breath seemed alive with sparks, with a foul scent of galvanization “And as you might have noticed, I dabble in the dark arts of Caeic matters” he continued, stroking himself along one of his eyes with a finger after having given Rheein a slight bow of his head. “Much unlike yourself, young Rheein. You are a student of the finer arts of Cae. A Seer.” he continued, turning around and walking back to his desk. Caeyer Rheein corrected in his mind. Most people didn’t know what that was, and most of them who did didn’t know how to say it right. “Cae” Malnarc continued as he picked up the lens again “Tectra, Feirca, Greica, Sehcra, Shicra, Dekcra and Lighcra” he continued “It’s the blood of the gods, isn’t it?” he said, not really expecting a response. He seemed lost in some sort of trance. His fascination for all things Caeic seemed overwhelming. More like the powers that hold the world together, Rheein corrected. And besides, there are no gods damned gods. None of it out loud, of course. “And you use this” he said, indicating the lens “to direct and focus Cae as you see fit, like an artist painting a picture. More like a surgeon operating five patients at once. “It’s called a Throat, yes?” he asked, once again putting it down. Rheein groaned inwardly.
“Voice” he uttered with great difficulty. Suddenly he felt a prod, like a mental probing. He looked for the origin of the feeling, it hadn’t come from Malnarc, it was a friendly, nearly pleading, gesture. Then his eyes met the foxes eyes, it was looking straight at him with big round puppy eyes. Malnarc hadn’t noticed the interaction, he was fast about walking aimlessly around the room, tidying here and picking something up over there, dropping it down somewhere else. Rheein then knew what he had to do, it had come to him in the form of a speechless communication with the fox. It wasn’t exactly a language, or the exchange of words, but a kind of mental Caeic understanding. The fox was a Tectra fiend. A creature of “pure” Cae. And his Tectra alignment allowed for this connection. “Voice, yes, much more elegant.” Malnarc muttered. Rheein concentrated on the lens, it jerked weakly to the left. Then it rose up on it’s edge and rolled off the table. He caught it with his mind before it hit the floor. “And now that you're mine, you can use this beautiful device to, heh, speak with me” he walked over to the desk, noticed that the lens was gone and bent down to look under the desk. Rheein moved behind one of the legs of the desk opposite him. “That’s weird” he mused, his eyes scanning the floor “I could swear it was--- It must have fallen to the floo--- Where is it?” he continued irritably as he stooped to the floor. Rheein first moved the lens back above the desk. Then he, careful not to catch the attention of Malnarc, hovered it over, quickly as he could, to the foxes cage. Hiding it behind the cage. “No matter” Malnarc said as he stood up “it will show up eventually.”
Rheein started coughing, getting Malnarc’s attention.
“Hng, hng” he stuttered. Malnarc came over to Rheein.
“Yes?” he asked with intent excitement. Rheein took pains to raise his head so that he was level with Malnarc, eyes attentive with cruel intent.
“How’s this for speaking” he whispered and zipped the lens up from behind the cage, the fox sent a small discharge of Tectra into it from his antlers and the Rheein focused it into a ray of needle-thin lightning that strook Malnarc dead in the head. It wasn’t a strong discharge of power, but it should have been enough to shut down his brain. In effect killing him clean. His face froze in a mask of shock as his eyes went blank, the glow in his eyes dimmed and got snuffed out as his pupils rolled back. Then he fell backwards with a stiff thudd.
“Right” Rheein said after a little while “Now, to get down---”
-
Ki’je stalked along a street in the fringe district. The clouds above had gathered in what looked to be an impending omen, and the darkness of the afternoon was slowly settling in as the Lid crept across the sky. “He’s a Salic boy” the slave handler had said “of noble birth, he’s probably going to try to get to the fringe district” he had continued “he robbed me blind and is probably looking to spend.” It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough. Ki’je had caught his scent, and that scent led him more or less directly to an alleyway in the middle of the district, after having taken some detours into a barber’s shop, a tavern and a cobblers workshop. All the shop owners had told him about an insolent teenager that had basically “robbed” them with his reputation. So the boy was a resourceful one, Ki’je couldn’t help cracking a smile when they told him about the boy. Smart kid.
When he arrived at the alleyway, he took some moments inspecting it, there was crowded streets on either side, but it was a perfect place to hide. It bent slightly so that you couldn’t see the middle of it from either side, there were no windows and no doors leading into the alleyway and mostly there was just trash and other whatnots strewn about. He crouched down when he saw a piece of cloth on the ground, it was a glove. He picked it up and sniffed it, definitively the boy’s. He could smell the scent of other people as well, he seemed to have been surrounded. A robbery? He inspected the ground around him and noticed there were specks of sweat and even a little spot of blood on the cobbles. He heard feet coming to s stop behind him. He turned around and saw a kid roughly the same age, or at least size, as the boy he was looking for. It was not the boy he was looking for. The boy backed away as he saw Ki’je, fear clearly written on his face, and tried running. In one leap Ki’je overtook the boy, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall of the alleyway.
“What happened here?” he barked at the boy, little droplets welled in the corners of the boy’s eyes. He stammered, apparently frightened out of his mind. Ki’je also caught the scent of urine, the boy had pissed himself. He sighed and loosened his grip, letting the boys feet touch the ground. “Look, boy. I won’t hurt you. Just tell me if you saw what went down in this alleyway and I’ll let you go, okay?” he tried saying this in the kindest way possible, which wasn’t very helpful, he wasn’t used to being kind. He tried smiling, and then immediately regretted it, flaring his fangs at the boy wouldn’t help his case. But it seemed like he had worked up the courage to at least stutter his way through a response.
“I--- We---” he started “There--- There was a boy, my age, asked me for the lie berry” he continued. “He looked like he had lots of glimmer, so I led him here, then--- then I went and got my friends” he averted his eyes, looked down, looked up, looked sideways. “We was robbing him, you know, the other kids, they--- Anyway, the crazy old man came.” he tried shying from his grip. “He chased us off, I think he picked up the boy” he finished. Ki’je narrowed his eyes.
“Do you know where this crazy old man lives?” he asked, the boy nodded.
-
A while later Rheein burst out from Malnarc’s house with the little Tectra fox in his arms, only to be swept away by a powerful gust of air. Rain whipped across his face as he had no control over the direction he was going. He struggled merely to keep his feet on the ground, which was now flooded with water. Apparently, a storm had decided that today was a good day to attack Ghalin. With a vengeance. He swiped left and right, searching desperately with his fingertips for something to grab and hold onto. Which was exceptionally difficult with an animal shuddering in his arms. From apparently nowhere he suddenly got barraged by a school of tiny skyfish, they jumped out of the water and flew into him, hammering his face before they zipped off into the air to escape the angry weather. Another rush of water overtook him and hustled him down the street. He dumped into someone, who accordingly shoved him away and uttered some incomprehensible insults. He lost his balance completely and the street became a waterslide of which he had never waited in a line to ride. As he came down to the end of the street he saw that he was headed directly toward the gaping maw of a storm drain that threatened swallow him whole. In a fit of panic he grappled blindly and managed to catch something to hold onto. He tightened his grip as best he could and hugged the streetlamp with every muscle in his body. He crammed up against it so completely that he suddenly noticed the fox was not in his arms anymore. The yelps and gulps caught his attention, it had slipped out of his grip and was now funnelling directly toward the storm drain, and with one last yip of desperation he saw the tiny creature vanishing into the maw. Rheein closed his eyes and considered for a moment, then he came to a conclusion and let go of the streetlamp, diving headlong after the fox. He couldn’t abandon the helpless creature to a fate of doom without trying to help it. It was the least he could do after it had saved his life. So he decided to dive headlong after it.
-
Ki’je pushed through the increasingly harassing winds. The weather was getting worse, soon rain and thunder and storm would hit Ghalin like a vengeful Sky Whale. He’d sent the kid off to find shelter, he didn’t need him anymore, he’d pointed him in the right direction and given him good enough directions. He should soon arrive at the right house now, if the directions the kid had given him was as good and honest as his frightened face he had worn ever since they’d met. It should be just up this street. Rain whipped down, or up, or from the sides. Probably from all directions, actually. And water had started filling the street. In tiny torrents it came down the street, trying desperately to escape the storm. Rather unlike how water usually behaved it was hugging the ground, seeming to try to shrink away from the storm. He grunted and held fast, a puny storm wouldn’t stop him. Not at this rate. And he would be out of it soon anyway. So he held up his hand to shield his face and pushed forward.
When he had braved roughly half the street, gravelled and cursed under his breath and fought the bombastic weather, someone had the audacity to bump into him. He shoved the little shit away, throwing some of his most creative insults at him, and didn’t think any more of it. Soon, with some more clawing for no actual reason, he reached the front door of the house he thought was the right now. The door was screaming as it hung on it’s hinges, barely hung on it’s hinges. In fact, as he was thinking this, the door came loose and came directly at him. He growled and dove toward it, hands stretched out in front of him, he grabbed the middle of it and ripped it in two, sending each part flying into the storm of the street. Then he dove into the building. He turned to shut the door but no. It wasn’t there, of course. So he turned again and walked into the house, away from the storm. He crouched over in his usual prowling position, it wasn’t that he was afraid of this old man, he wasn’t much afraid of anything really, but it never hurt to be a little wary. So wary he was as he stalked across the creaky livingroom floor. The creaking would definitely give him away, so he decided to hide behind one of the many cupboards, where he had a good vantage over the entire living room, he waited. It was obvious this man wasn’t much for decorations, which Ki’je approved of, there was, in fact, no decorations at all. No rugs, no paintings, no niceties. Only a wooden floor, a wooden table, wooden walls and wooden furniture in the form of cupboards and chairs and shelves. The only thing of note to look at, as he sat there waiting and bored, was that the shelves were packed with books. He would have entertained himself by reading the spines of the books, which would have informed him of the old man’s obsession with Caeic powers, Caeic creatures, reliquary artefacts, and so such things, but he didn’t. Because he couldn’t. Reading was something he had never considered learning. He frankly didn’t think it was worth his time. Other could do the reading for him, his hands were more than occupied with leading armies and fighting wars. How long should he wait? How long time did people usually take to react to creaking floors? Did people react to creaking floors? Might it be that the old man simply thought it was the quirks of the house? Or might he be sleeping? Or out? After all, his door was out. In any case, Ki’je decided that enough time had past. It had been thirty seconds. An extremely boring eternity in his simple mind.
As he went through the rest of the house, there was little worth mentioning, save for that he nearly tripped over one of the sills, knocked over a rather nice teapot and discovered a corpse in the basement. Careful and methodical reconnaissance assured him that it was not the boy he was looking for, but the old man who owned the house. Mostly owing to the fact that the corpse was--- An old-ish man. He was an ugly looking fellow. Otherwise the room wasn’t very interesting, in one corner was a small cage which seemed to have been pried open, and up against another wall stood a desk of sorts, under a fairly ominously looking hook that was fastened to the wall. There were pieces of broken glass around the table, and the corpse seemed to be missing some essential garments. He concluded that the boy must have killed the old man and broken free somehow, seeing as the man was dead and the door upstairs was broken. He blinked. The boy he ran into on the street, could he have been--- No. But--- He cursed through his teeth and ran out of the house.
-
He was caught in a cascade of water rushing down a windy set of pipes that was just a little too tight for comfort. He shuffled here and there, struggling to keep his head above the water while he was desperately scanning the path ahead for the little creature. He could feel the steel pipe digging into his already bruised skin, raking it with it’s little uneven dots of bad welding. He had to tap into what little he had of Tectra reserves just to keep from fainting, any normal human would have run out of juice a long time ago with all that Rheen had been through today, but he was a Caeyer, he could take it. He hit his head and everything went black for a moment, then he was falling, he fell into a large pool of jet black water. He flailed his arms in an attempt to get to the surface, he couldn’t swim, of course he couldn’t, water wasn’t usually on the ground like this. It was supposed to flow in elegant rivers across the skies, gathering in the mighty high seas that made the bulk of the skies. But no, of course today was a special day, a day when water had decided it was fed up with the natural laws of gravity. He was on the verge of panicking as when managed to grab onto some kind of steel pipe or something and shoved himself to the surface. The current was strong, but he managed to hold against it. One of his feet also found a footing, somehow, and he could semi-stand up. Looking around he saw mostly darkness, but a little ahead was a lit area, it looked like an island of sorts among the otherwise watery and damp interior of this aqueduct.
He pushed forwards, noticing that the footing he’d found was owing to the fact that the water was actually rather shallow, but the current was still strong. That’s when he heard a yelp for help, the sound immediately caught his attention and he saw that the fox was pressed up against a grille, struggling against the oncoming torrent. He heaved himself over and tried to lift the fox, a shockwave of electricity went through him strong enough to stun a normal man. But he absorbed the Tectra and gritted his teeth. The fox’s antlers were tangled with the grille, so he dove his hand into the water and started working on dislodging them. After a couple more desperate yelps and some uncomfortable shocks he managed to get the fox loose. It yipped in gratification and snuggled up in his arms as he carried it and himself over to the aforementioned island. One final heave brought him out of the water, the fox jumped out of his hands and he felt the Tectra leaving his body. He wavered for a moment, feeling somewhat nauseated, and finally collapsed forward. Caeyer as he was, he was also only human. Darkness overtook him for the second time that day.
A quartet of shimmering white teal-ish eyes had been following the entire sequence in the aquaduct with intense curiosity from above. It’s malicious eyes transfixed on Rheein. And now that the human was passed out it slowly crept out from its hiding place, six limbs steadied it against the walls and pipes from above. It slowly lowered itself toward the boy and the little caecric vhirc, storm fox, who was huddled up against him. It’s limbs spread out like the legs of a spider in the shadows as it was nearly upon them...
___________________________________________________________________________________
And for anyone who might potentially be hungry for more after having read that beast of text, here's a
little something I've been working on as a kind of prelude to the story. Very much still a work in
progress. Like all of this is:
A building stood on a hill, it was not a tall hill and it was not a low building. The tall building, standing on the low hill, stood vigilant among the meadows and ponds and flowers that mixed like they were sprinkled in every direction. The rolling grasslands were broken only by a single line of manmade path that shot through it like someone had laid down a ruler on a map and drawn a line. The building looked quite content where it stood, it’s carvings, foundation, two-by-fours, window sills, door knob, shingles, parapets, balconies and cladding all gave off a relaxed, nearly leisurely, air. And it had no right to feel that way.
This building in this picture, set against the backdrop of the surroundings that it’s creator had chosen for it’s wrapping was not right. Not if anyone having any attention to the invention of common sense had any stake in the matter. It was, for one thing, very old. And although old buildings were generally thought of to fit into such rural posteriors as this, it was odd that the building was so old, when it was so new. It ached in the wind, it shied from the sun, paint on the wood curling from old wear. It had all the signs and trademarks of a building that had spent a lifetime in its location. But there was no nests under its soffit no older than three generations. Which by any accounts, and no matter how far away you stood when regarding it, would be suspicious by itself. But there was more.
Countryfolk who had been travelling the ruler road for most of their lives, selling crops and corn and hay and other whatnots to the cities at the other end of the road kept narrowing their eyes and frowned, sometimes they even wrinkled their noses, when they passed the house. They didn’t know why, of course, but rooted somewhere deep down inside their subconsciousness they suspected that the house hadn’t been there for more than five years. Even the grass had an inkling that this old house was occupying territory that was rightfully its. Trying in vain to grow where foundation kept denying growth.
A shadowy figure that knew what was what came walking through the tall stalks. Everything shied from his presence, ants scattered from their precious ant lanes, the grass bent over backwards, and even light seemed to grow dimmer where he throdd. He seemed to have arrived from nowhere, as if he hadn’t been there but now he was. In his wake was a shadowy trail of low dark misty clouds that crept across the ground and snaked here and there. One of these snakey clouds happened upon a small anthill, where it spread out like tentacles and infested the tiny home of ants with it’s heinous influence. A revolution would take place with many a heroic act that would forever change this dynasty of creepers, unbeknownst to the rest of the world.
But now the figure that had moved through the reeds arrived on the patio, he stood there for some moments. Completely still. His slender body a silhouette against the sun. He didn’t raise his arm to knock, he didn’t twitch his eyes, and he certainly didn’t wrinkle his nose. He merely stood there, waiting. The door slid open, but nobody was there to greet him. From within the house a voice called “I will be with you soon. Come in, come in, take a seat. I will be with you soonish.” The tiniest hint of a smile curled its way around the edge of shadowy figures mouth as he slid through the door and into the hallway/entry hall/living room/kitchen/workplace/dining room. He didn’t pass all these rooms in sequence, it was merely that all these rooms were mashed into one large room. The room was completely circular, like the building was, which the narrator previously forgot to mention, with a large circular staircase spiralling all the way around the outer edges of the room. It also sort of spiralled inwards as it went up, making a sloped ceiling consisting of the staircase. This made the building not only having a circular shape, but also a conical one, which the narrator also failed to mention. There is obviously some slack that needs to be made up for in that department, if the narrator was part of a bigger corporation that had departments, that is.
Looking around the room, the shadowy figure decided that the resident of the house had no woman in his life. It was, in his humble and expansive opinion in complete shambles. He approved. He sat down in the most comfortable looking chair that made out one fourth of a sitting group roughly a bit off-centre facing the eastward window. Looking up he saw large spheres filled with all kinds of Cae held to the ceiling by nets; red and blue and green and purple and even a smaller jet black one all the way in the corner. He could feel it jerking a little his way, seeking home. When his eyes then travelled across the room he saw shelves and shelves and shelves with books, he saw small reliquary contraptions strewn about and the general messiness he had so approvingly noticed earlier.
“You came” said a voice which travelled across the room from where the stairs started their ascent. He turned around and looked at the old shrivelled, bearded, man that stood on the lowermost flight of steppes and regarded him. Time had taken its toll on his physical being, wrinkles deep and bountiful lined his face and hands, his eyes were drooping and tired looking, and his face was filled with hair. It sagged from around his mouth, crawling nearly all the way up to his eyes, he’d braided it much the same way he used to braid his hair; with small shining blue spheres of Tectra weaved into it. He stood erect, but there was something about his entire demeanor that gave away that all he really wanted was to bend over, probably due to some back-problems. He was dressed simply in a white robe, a gray vest and a pair of normal looking breeches. Yes, time had taken it’s toll, but it was him. There was no doubting that.
“Why of course, old friend, I said I would.” he responded as the bearded man wobbled his way over to the sitting group and sank down in one of the other chairs.
“Yes, yes you did” he said, stroking his beard “I imagine it’s been but minutes for you” he said pointedly “like you said it would be.” He kept stroking his beard.
“Seconds, actually” he corrected, then he lifted his hand up and made a stroking motion like what the other one was doing “What’s with all this?” he asked, and for the merest of seconds the shadowy figure’s face emitted a dark cloud that dropped downward and mimicked a beard. Then it was gone. He raised his eyebrow.
“Ah, yes.” the bearded man responded “I’ve donned a beard, you don’t approve?” the shadowy figure shook his head slightly.
“Well, in any case. I’ve proven my point.” he said “I’ll be going now” he finished. As he got up and made toward the door, which still stood open, it gently closed as he walked toward it.
“So soon?” the bearded man asked “I’ve been waiting for quite some time, you know.” For convenience sake we will now refer to the bearded man as “Beard” and the shadowy figure as “Shadow”, seeing as none of the character will use their counterpart's name during the conversation. Shadow stopped, turned around, and donned a wide smile, the kind of smile that seems akin to the motion of pressing one’s lips together, maybe even biting the lip slightly, as not to say something offensive or forthright. Beard smiled back, his smile was more of the character that expressed subtle understanding of the annoyance he had just caused, and that he didn’t care nonetheless. The kind of honest, insolent, and somewhat childish unconcern that only old people can express. Shadow’s smile changed to that of a smaller smile, the kind that tells you you are on the verge of being extremely offensive and that if you do not stop right now you will regret it for the remainder of the day. Beard tilted his head slightly and his smile turned into a slight smirk, divulging the age-old secrets of elderly nonchalantness that can withstand even the smallest of smiles. Shadow’s smile then turned into a slight flinch as he clicked his lips in the resounding clink of defeat. Beard smiled triumphantly.
“Well, I’m in no particular hurry” Shadow said gentlemanly and meandered back to his chair, only to find that somehow Beard had managed to change chairs during their smile-off, leaving him to make do with one of the poorer chairs. He sighed inwardly and sat down across the window, to Beard’s left. Beard reached forward and pressed down on the table, a small section of table around his finger lowered slightly and then the middle of the table opened up, revealing oddities of drinking varieties and cups in the middle of the table. He poured himself something of something, and offered the same to Shadow, which he accepted happily.
“This is Dekcra infused brandy, with a hint of honey. I’m sure you’ll love it” Beard said conversationally, not noticing Shadow’s frown as he looked down at the dark, slightly aglow, liquor in his cup. They use Dekcra to make liqueur now. That made him slightly sad.
“I would say ‘tell me how you’ve been since last we met’, but there would really not be any point in that, I reckon.” he continued, sipping his Dekcra liqueur. Shadow took one sip and decided against his pride that he actually liked it, a lot. “But do tell me, if you go back now and continue your relations with me, seeing as I have no memory of that, how will that affect me now?” he asked, continuing his sipping. Shadow took another sip. And another. And another. And another.
“This is really very delightful, old friend” he responded between sips “have you distilled it yourself or is it a brand of some sort that can be bought somewhere?” he asked, refilling his cup.
Three hours later they sat on the patio and watched the sunset through a haze of pipesmoke. Shadow wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this kind of feeling before, everything was hazy and calm, he felt tingling all over but most of all he felt extremely relaxed. He exhaled the last fumes of his pipe, took another sip of Dektum, which Beard called it. He had distilled it himself, so if Shadow wanted more, he would have to come and visit more. But he did indeed want more.
“To answer the question: If I go back and continue interacting with you, then this future will become a discontinuous divergence from the line of time. Meaning it will exist separately from the thus established time as an alternative future to your past self.” he paused to take another sip “Time is like a landscape stretching out in all directions. Every possibility from any point in time creates a new direction, a new divergence. This landscape can be traversed by someone who knows how the same way that you can walk forwards or backwards or sideways.” Beard took some puffs to mull this over in his old, but not very slow, slower now than it had been in his youth, but still quicker than most, mind. “So, it’s like a web, stretching out from a centre in every direction.” he said, Shadow solemnly nodded, “And you’re like a spider that weaves and climbs where you see fit” Shadow betrayed a tiny mischievous smile. Beard probably had no idea how accurate that analogy was. They sat in silence for a little while, each thinking their own very different thoughts. Then Beard seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “Let me tell you about my days before you came to my town---” he started.
I remember the warmth and the wind. The warm winds, not heated winds, not scolding, but tepid, lukewarm like the fervor of body warmth, how they carefully caressed my skin like nimble fingers covered in soft silks. Those loving winds swept gently through my mother's sunroom, where we so often had our breakfasts, luncheons, brunches and drinks together. We were a family, a small family, but a loving family nonetheless. Even though father was so often away, visiting the capital city to advise the empress and dine with the nobility of the empire. Lavishing in luxury unlike anything we ever had at home. Unlike, I surmise, anything my mother could offer him. I understand now how vigorously mother worked to make our home a happy place. It is clear to me how much effort went into all the little things that I took for granted, especially the carefully kempt gardens. I remember the plethora of colourful flowers that rimmed the dining area, just in front of the double doors with inlaid glass and a view across Sal’Aan. The scents flushed my mind with memories, memories that sometimes didn’t even seem like mine. We sat there often, as we did that day, the day in my memory, hidden so far away yet recaptured in a moment of melancholy. Often skyfish would fly by overhead, entering through the round window above the double doors and exiting through another at the far back of the sunroom. I do not remember exactly if there were any that day, but they flew there so often that I will tailor them into the memory regardless. I remember as I looked up, the underside of their silvery scales sparkled across the room, casting dancing lights in all directions. Just like water did when the sun shined through it. I remember mother’s coy way of gleaning Greica from the plants surrounding us, her breathing becoming more relaxed, her pupils expanding slightly, and I remember the tiny sheen of green in her eyes. When she meandered down the aisle toward the dining area the flora would bow to her as she idled past, brushing her hands gently against the leaves of the greenery. She was like a humble conductor playing a floral, soundless, overture. The moonflowers sighed in songs of silent salience, the coraels coiled in pirouettes of compliance, the roses bowed like blushing suitors. And among the stalks and the leaves tiny wisps of green lights would appear as if dancing gracefully to the soundless crescendo, then they would float gently toward my mother, offered freely from the collective verdure. She would wave her hands in a majestic cessation as she siphoned the wisps in joyful delight. Yes, she was the maestro of my childhood home.
And Sal’Aan, Sal’Aan was the homeliest of places for such a home. Situated farthest north in the Sal Empire, along the cliffside shorelines in Erolia, the lands of always summer. The beautiful city sat pleasantly on the outer rim of Mournié, looking out across the cloud filled nebulaic ocean. The City of Songs they called it, not only because of the All Singers, who performed atop the Caeicly enhanced sound towers so that their alluring music reverberated throughout the streets of Sal’Aan, but because the city was home of all things Caeic. The academy of Caeyers was here, the place where I studied to become the next Speaker of the Sal Empire. I look back now at all those days when I dashed across the streets, impatiently tapped my feet as I rode the Manet transports because I was late for a class with mirth in my mind. I look back at that little boy, the boy who didn’t know to appreciate what he had and smile, I smile at his innocence, his ignorance. His childish disregard for all things dangerous. And why should he fear such things? The Sal Empire had brought peace to the world, and the world had known only peace for generations now. There was nothing to fear, nothing to dampen the mood of anyone anxious, anxiety wasn’t even necessary. Those days in the warm winds are precious to me now, the days I and Shie spent running along the beeches, collecting shells. Rolling around in the sands and smiling happily to one another. The days when we sat on the cliffs, our feet dangling mere feet above the curtain like wisps of clouds that obscured the depths of the oceans, the curling drifts of vapor tickling our feet. We sat there, wind gently running it’s fingers through our hair, and mused philosophically about the future. Little did we know what tragedy it truly held. And yes, I do remember that dreadful day, the day when shadows rose from the depths, the day everything changed. The day I was betrayed by someone close to me, the day everyone and everything I knew and loved vanished in smoke. Leaving only a frightened seventeen years old boy with no knowledge of the real world on the run, running for his life...
This building in this picture, set against the backdrop of the surroundings that it’s creator had chosen for it’s wrapping was not right. Not if anyone having any attention to the invention of common sense had any stake in the matter. It was, for one thing, very old. And although old buildings were generally thought of to fit into such rural posteriors as this, it was odd that the building was so old, when it was so new. It ached in the wind, it shied from the sun, paint on the wood curling from old wear. It had all the signs and trademarks of a building that had spent a lifetime in its location. But there was no nests under its soffit no older than three generations. Which by any accounts, and no matter how far away you stood when regarding it, would be suspicious by itself. But there was more.
Countryfolk who had been travelling the ruler road for most of their lives, selling crops and corn and hay and other whatnots to the cities at the other end of the road kept narrowing their eyes and frowned, sometimes they even wrinkled their noses, when they passed the house. They didn’t know why, of course, but rooted somewhere deep down inside their subconsciousness they suspected that the house hadn’t been there for more than five years. Even the grass had an inkling that this old house was occupying territory that was rightfully its. Trying in vain to grow where foundation kept denying growth.
A shadowy figure that knew what was what came walking through the tall stalks. Everything shied from his presence, ants scattered from their precious ant lanes, the grass bent over backwards, and even light seemed to grow dimmer where he throdd. He seemed to have arrived from nowhere, as if he hadn’t been there but now he was. In his wake was a shadowy trail of low dark misty clouds that crept across the ground and snaked here and there. One of these snakey clouds happened upon a small anthill, where it spread out like tentacles and infested the tiny home of ants with it’s heinous influence. A revolution would take place with many a heroic act that would forever change this dynasty of creepers, unbeknownst to the rest of the world.
But now the figure that had moved through the reeds arrived on the patio, he stood there for some moments. Completely still. His slender body a silhouette against the sun. He didn’t raise his arm to knock, he didn’t twitch his eyes, and he certainly didn’t wrinkle his nose. He merely stood there, waiting. The door slid open, but nobody was there to greet him. From within the house a voice called “I will be with you soon. Come in, come in, take a seat. I will be with you soonish.” The tiniest hint of a smile curled its way around the edge of shadowy figures mouth as he slid through the door and into the hallway/entry hall/living room/kitchen/workplace/dining room. He didn’t pass all these rooms in sequence, it was merely that all these rooms were mashed into one large room. The room was completely circular, like the building was, which the narrator previously forgot to mention, with a large circular staircase spiralling all the way around the outer edges of the room. It also sort of spiralled inwards as it went up, making a sloped ceiling consisting of the staircase. This made the building not only having a circular shape, but also a conical one, which the narrator also failed to mention. There is obviously some slack that needs to be made up for in that department, if the narrator was part of a bigger corporation that had departments, that is.
Looking around the room, the shadowy figure decided that the resident of the house had no woman in his life. It was, in his humble and expansive opinion in complete shambles. He approved. He sat down in the most comfortable looking chair that made out one fourth of a sitting group roughly a bit off-centre facing the eastward window. Looking up he saw large spheres filled with all kinds of Cae held to the ceiling by nets; red and blue and green and purple and even a smaller jet black one all the way in the corner. He could feel it jerking a little his way, seeking home. When his eyes then travelled across the room he saw shelves and shelves and shelves with books, he saw small reliquary contraptions strewn about and the general messiness he had so approvingly noticed earlier.
“You came” said a voice which travelled across the room from where the stairs started their ascent. He turned around and looked at the old shrivelled, bearded, man that stood on the lowermost flight of steppes and regarded him. Time had taken its toll on his physical being, wrinkles deep and bountiful lined his face and hands, his eyes were drooping and tired looking, and his face was filled with hair. It sagged from around his mouth, crawling nearly all the way up to his eyes, he’d braided it much the same way he used to braid his hair; with small shining blue spheres of Tectra weaved into it. He stood erect, but there was something about his entire demeanor that gave away that all he really wanted was to bend over, probably due to some back-problems. He was dressed simply in a white robe, a gray vest and a pair of normal looking breeches. Yes, time had taken it’s toll, but it was him. There was no doubting that.
“Why of course, old friend, I said I would.” he responded as the bearded man wobbled his way over to the sitting group and sank down in one of the other chairs.
“Yes, yes you did” he said, stroking his beard “I imagine it’s been but minutes for you” he said pointedly “like you said it would be.” He kept stroking his beard.
“Seconds, actually” he corrected, then he lifted his hand up and made a stroking motion like what the other one was doing “What’s with all this?” he asked, and for the merest of seconds the shadowy figure’s face emitted a dark cloud that dropped downward and mimicked a beard. Then it was gone. He raised his eyebrow.
“Ah, yes.” the bearded man responded “I’ve donned a beard, you don’t approve?” the shadowy figure shook his head slightly.
“Well, in any case. I’ve proven my point.” he said “I’ll be going now” he finished. As he got up and made toward the door, which still stood open, it gently closed as he walked toward it.
“So soon?” the bearded man asked “I’ve been waiting for quite some time, you know.” For convenience sake we will now refer to the bearded man as “Beard” and the shadowy figure as “Shadow”, seeing as none of the character will use their counterpart's name during the conversation. Shadow stopped, turned around, and donned a wide smile, the kind of smile that seems akin to the motion of pressing one’s lips together, maybe even biting the lip slightly, as not to say something offensive or forthright. Beard smiled back, his smile was more of the character that expressed subtle understanding of the annoyance he had just caused, and that he didn’t care nonetheless. The kind of honest, insolent, and somewhat childish unconcern that only old people can express. Shadow’s smile changed to that of a smaller smile, the kind that tells you you are on the verge of being extremely offensive and that if you do not stop right now you will regret it for the remainder of the day. Beard tilted his head slightly and his smile turned into a slight smirk, divulging the age-old secrets of elderly nonchalantness that can withstand even the smallest of smiles. Shadow’s smile then turned into a slight flinch as he clicked his lips in the resounding clink of defeat. Beard smiled triumphantly.
“Well, I’m in no particular hurry” Shadow said gentlemanly and meandered back to his chair, only to find that somehow Beard had managed to change chairs during their smile-off, leaving him to make do with one of the poorer chairs. He sighed inwardly and sat down across the window, to Beard’s left. Beard reached forward and pressed down on the table, a small section of table around his finger lowered slightly and then the middle of the table opened up, revealing oddities of drinking varieties and cups in the middle of the table. He poured himself something of something, and offered the same to Shadow, which he accepted happily.
“This is Dekcra infused brandy, with a hint of honey. I’m sure you’ll love it” Beard said conversationally, not noticing Shadow’s frown as he looked down at the dark, slightly aglow, liquor in his cup. They use Dekcra to make liqueur now. That made him slightly sad.
“I would say ‘tell me how you’ve been since last we met’, but there would really not be any point in that, I reckon.” he continued, sipping his Dekcra liqueur. Shadow took one sip and decided against his pride that he actually liked it, a lot. “But do tell me, if you go back now and continue your relations with me, seeing as I have no memory of that, how will that affect me now?” he asked, continuing his sipping. Shadow took another sip. And another. And another. And another.
“This is really very delightful, old friend” he responded between sips “have you distilled it yourself or is it a brand of some sort that can be bought somewhere?” he asked, refilling his cup.
Three hours later they sat on the patio and watched the sunset through a haze of pipesmoke. Shadow wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this kind of feeling before, everything was hazy and calm, he felt tingling all over but most of all he felt extremely relaxed. He exhaled the last fumes of his pipe, took another sip of Dektum, which Beard called it. He had distilled it himself, so if Shadow wanted more, he would have to come and visit more. But he did indeed want more.
“To answer the question: If I go back and continue interacting with you, then this future will become a discontinuous divergence from the line of time. Meaning it will exist separately from the thus established time as an alternative future to your past self.” he paused to take another sip “Time is like a landscape stretching out in all directions. Every possibility from any point in time creates a new direction, a new divergence. This landscape can be traversed by someone who knows how the same way that you can walk forwards or backwards or sideways.” Beard took some puffs to mull this over in his old, but not very slow, slower now than it had been in his youth, but still quicker than most, mind. “So, it’s like a web, stretching out from a centre in every direction.” he said, Shadow solemnly nodded, “And you’re like a spider that weaves and climbs where you see fit” Shadow betrayed a tiny mischievous smile. Beard probably had no idea how accurate that analogy was. They sat in silence for a little while, each thinking their own very different thoughts. Then Beard seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “Let me tell you about my days before you came to my town---” he started.
I remember the warmth and the wind. The warm winds, not heated winds, not scolding, but tepid, lukewarm like the fervor of body warmth, how they carefully caressed my skin like nimble fingers covered in soft silks. Those loving winds swept gently through my mother's sunroom, where we so often had our breakfasts, luncheons, brunches and drinks together. We were a family, a small family, but a loving family nonetheless. Even though father was so often away, visiting the capital city to advise the empress and dine with the nobility of the empire. Lavishing in luxury unlike anything we ever had at home. Unlike, I surmise, anything my mother could offer him. I understand now how vigorously mother worked to make our home a happy place. It is clear to me how much effort went into all the little things that I took for granted, especially the carefully kempt gardens. I remember the plethora of colourful flowers that rimmed the dining area, just in front of the double doors with inlaid glass and a view across Sal’Aan. The scents flushed my mind with memories, memories that sometimes didn’t even seem like mine. We sat there often, as we did that day, the day in my memory, hidden so far away yet recaptured in a moment of melancholy. Often skyfish would fly by overhead, entering through the round window above the double doors and exiting through another at the far back of the sunroom. I do not remember exactly if there were any that day, but they flew there so often that I will tailor them into the memory regardless. I remember as I looked up, the underside of their silvery scales sparkled across the room, casting dancing lights in all directions. Just like water did when the sun shined through it. I remember mother’s coy way of gleaning Greica from the plants surrounding us, her breathing becoming more relaxed, her pupils expanding slightly, and I remember the tiny sheen of green in her eyes. When she meandered down the aisle toward the dining area the flora would bow to her as she idled past, brushing her hands gently against the leaves of the greenery. She was like a humble conductor playing a floral, soundless, overture. The moonflowers sighed in songs of silent salience, the coraels coiled in pirouettes of compliance, the roses bowed like blushing suitors. And among the stalks and the leaves tiny wisps of green lights would appear as if dancing gracefully to the soundless crescendo, then they would float gently toward my mother, offered freely from the collective verdure. She would wave her hands in a majestic cessation as she siphoned the wisps in joyful delight. Yes, she was the maestro of my childhood home.
And Sal’Aan, Sal’Aan was the homeliest of places for such a home. Situated farthest north in the Sal Empire, along the cliffside shorelines in Erolia, the lands of always summer. The beautiful city sat pleasantly on the outer rim of Mournié, looking out across the cloud filled nebulaic ocean. The City of Songs they called it, not only because of the All Singers, who performed atop the Caeicly enhanced sound towers so that their alluring music reverberated throughout the streets of Sal’Aan, but because the city was home of all things Caeic. The academy of Caeyers was here, the place where I studied to become the next Speaker of the Sal Empire. I look back now at all those days when I dashed across the streets, impatiently tapped my feet as I rode the Manet transports because I was late for a class with mirth in my mind. I look back at that little boy, the boy who didn’t know to appreciate what he had and smile, I smile at his innocence, his ignorance. His childish disregard for all things dangerous. And why should he fear such things? The Sal Empire had brought peace to the world, and the world had known only peace for generations now. There was nothing to fear, nothing to dampen the mood of anyone anxious, anxiety wasn’t even necessary. Those days in the warm winds are precious to me now, the days I and Shie spent running along the beeches, collecting shells. Rolling around in the sands and smiling happily to one another. The days when we sat on the cliffs, our feet dangling mere feet above the curtain like wisps of clouds that obscured the depths of the oceans, the curling drifts of vapor tickling our feet. We sat there, wind gently running it’s fingers through our hair, and mused philosophically about the future. Little did we know what tragedy it truly held. And yes, I do remember that dreadful day, the day when shadows rose from the depths, the day everything changed. The day I was betrayed by someone close to me, the day everyone and everything I knew and loved vanished in smoke. Leaving only a frightened seventeen years old boy with no knowledge of the real world on the run, running for his life...
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