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The Broken Mask
Posted: 19 Apr 2006 09:52 AM |
You could tell he was Midoran from the moment he walked into the tavern.
The accent gave him away. The aura of dignity and pride that he wore like an invisible cloak confirmed it. Add to that an unmistakable air of tragedy and loss, determination and desperation, and you had as typical an exile as you could ever find.
But that, thought Margaret as he walked away from the bar with a glass of fruit juice in hand, wasn’t why he had caught her attention. The influx of refugees into Port Royale over the past year had been good for business, and the Broken Mask was busier than it had ever been with those who wanted to drown their sorrows or those who sought new fortunes and new lives. A lot of people like him came in here; in fact, most of the crowd tonight was probably ex-Midoran.
No, it was the signal from Esteban, otherwise known as “The Eel”, that drew her attention to that particular man. Mister Jessup had recently become obsessed with a small band of ex-Midorans led by a priest, and the ostentatious card trick that Esteban had just performed—all the while never taking his eyes off the man—indicated that he was of that lot.
And not just anyone, either. That particular signal marked him as someone high-ranking. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Corinne Mellilua, Dagkrughk Tosk, and the mysterious Gnome who was simply called “Slide”, move into position like actors in a well-rehearsed play. Esteban reached the man first. He was so overtly and conspicuously dodgy that he drew attention away from the others. That was why he always made the opening move. This was the way they operated.
They were, after all, agents of the Black Hand. Some willingly, some not, though the difference mattered little. All that was required of them was that they serve. Willingness had nothing to do with it.
Esteban, of course, was driven away in record time, with a great deal of typical bombastic indignity on the Midoran’s part. Glowering at the grifter’s retreating back all the while, the kid settled into a conspicuously out-of-the-way corner and sat down with a poorly-concealed air of expectancy, like one who is awaiting reinforcements and trying not to be too obvious about it.
Amateur, Margaret thought with contempt, surreptitiously watching the Mellilua/Tosk tag team out of the corner of her eye. Those two were always a hoot to watch; she’d never yet seen a Midoran resist them. But the pair seemed to be waiting for the Midoran’s friends to arrive before they made their move, so she turned her attention to the three sailors who’d just swaggered up to the bar and busied herself with serving drinks.
The rest of the kid’s entourage drifted in over the course of half an hour, with a laughable lack of subtlety and an equally laughable attempt at it nevertheless. There were five of them all up, including the original Midoran, who she arbitrarily tagged as “Grumpy”. The others she labelled Angelface, Headband, Locket and Twitch. All of them looked young, Angelface especially, who looked twelve with that round and pink cherubic face of hers. All of them were also painfully obvious marks, and if it hadn’t been for that initial signal from Esteban, there would have been all sorts of dodgy types homing in on them by now. As it was, they’d been marked as Black Hand prey. There was more than one resentful glare towards that corner table. Angelface and Locket would have made some slave dealers very happy indeed.
With practiced ease, Margaret watched the group without appearing to be paying attention to them. The kid reminded her of Vidus. She’d seen him, once, back when he was a missionary preaching here in Port. Young Grumpy had the same mannerisms, the same fury, the same overbearing zeal as he spoke animatedly to his pals. She couldn’t hear the words, but she didn’t need to. Red in the face, practically radiating passion and rage, he looked like he was going to suffer apoplexy at any moment.
Midorans. They were all the same.
She was starting to grow bored when Mellilua and Tosk finally decided to make their move. There was a bellow and a crash of splintering furniture, followed by a feminine shriek. Another roar followed. Then Mellilua went flying through the air like a rag doll, landing with a sickening crash against the target table.
Flawless bullseye.
The rest of the tavern’s patrons turned to watch, more out of curiousity than anything else. Over in his corner, Esteban was already laying bets, to the delight of the locals and the disgust of the ex-Midorans. Margaret turned her full attention now to the unfolding drama. Tosk, in a marvellously simulated drunken stupor, was weaving his way through the tables and crowds towards Corinne. The poor girl was sobbing hysterically and no doubt pleading to be protected from the big bad Half-Orc. Grumpy had dropped the tough guy act and was tending to Corinne with all the skill and professionalism of a trained healer. Priest, most likely. Margaret hadn’t thought there were any Midoran priests that young.
Then a shadow suddenly loomed over them both as Tosk finally reached them. He bellowed a challenge in Orcish, pointing a thick finger at Corinne. She shook and sobbed some more, but Grumpy simply ignored the Half-Orc. At the far end of the table, the olive-skinned, black-haired woman with the white headband rose from her seat and said something that was apparently supposed to be placating. Tosk snarled at her in return.
Grumpy must have said something rude because at that point Tosk’s attention abruptly snapped towards him, and he reached for the axe strapped to his back with a massive hand.
And several things happened at once.
Angelface, her cheery expression replaced with one of grim concentration, plucked one of the long pins that bound up her elaborately braided hair and hurled it unerringly at Tosk. It must have hit because he clapped his free hand over his neck and roared in fury at the projectile that had dared to sting him. Locket emptied a satchel of powder into her glass of water and stood, splashing the contents into his face. The roar became a howl of pain as the acidic liquid ate through his skin. As he staggered back, Angelface and Locket took up defensive positions in front of Grumpy and his patient. Twitch, in the meantime, was sidling towards the exit in case things got ugly and backup needed to be called. It would have been a smart move if they’d been in Midor, but this was Port Royale, and all the guards that weren’t corrupt were dead lazy.
Headband still hadn’t moved. Calmly standing in the corner, with the table and the others positioned between her and the Half-Orc, she said something serenely to Tosk.
But Tosk had only suffered a minor inconvenience. Oh, their tricks had been pretty clever; Margaret grudgingly had to admit that. She’d expected a lot of useless negotiating or a straight-out fist-fight, not anything unconventional like this. In the space of fifteen seconds, she’d gotten a pretty good insight into what Mister Jessup saw in this sorry lot. Ingenious and resourceful, quick thinkers who worked together as if they were eerily attuned to each other’s thoughts, they had to be the most surprisingly creative bunch of Midorans she’d ever laid eyes upon. Hell, “creative” and “Midoran” weren’t words you expected to use in the same sentence; Midorans had a rep for thinking firmly inside the box.
What’s more, they were Midorans without powers, outside their city and outside their element, with no help, no friends, no backup. Oh, they were no match for Port’s long-time residents, but neither were they as unprepared and helpless as Margaret had first assumed. Together, they stood a better than average chance of surviving, and that was saying something.
The crowd had fallen mostly quiet now. Tosk was starting to waver, one hand still over his neck, his drooping frame and fluttering eyes indicative of one who has been drugged with a sedative as Headband droned on soothingly. Margaret’s estimation of the group went up another notch; they would have had to make that themselves, because they sure hadn’t bought it from anywhere in Port or she’d have known. Her eyes wandered over to Angelface’s head; wearing pins like that in your hair was pretty gutsy and dangerous, and it would have taken some ingenious engineering to come up with the things in the first place. They were probably a modification of poison darts.
Of course, the point had never been to hurt them. Tosk would have stomped off or pretended to be knocked out anyway, once they had Corinne in their possession. At the moment, it looked like they might actually win fair and square.
The problem with Midorans, though, was that they talked and talked and talked. Tosk’s response to Headband’s oration was a challenging—albeit sluggish—bellow as he knocked back the contents of a recuperative potion that he’d dug out of a pouch while Headband babbled. They should have decked him when they had the chance. With the posture of a charging bull he stomped towards the comparatively frail Angelface and Locket—
Margaret never even saw her move. Tosk certainly never had the time to react.
One moment, Headband was at one end of the table. The next, she’d leapt over it, slipping effortlessly past Locket and Angelface with a fluid grace that was almost Elf-like. A swirl of robes, a blur of movement, and suddenly Tosk was flat on his back and stunned unconscious, Headband standing over him as calm as you please.
And it was only then that Margaret saw the headband she wore clearly, now that she was standing in the light. The headband, and the calligraphic glyphs upon it.
Impossible for her not to recognise them. Mister Jessup had once been a Monk of Asashi himself. Margaret only had a rudimentary understanding of each of the glyphs, but she recognised the one that marked Headband as having retired from the monastery, and the one that said that she knew how to do that creepy death strike with her bare hands. The slow rise and fall of Tosk’s chest indicated that he was still alive, though, so she must have gone for some sort of stunning blow instead.
They got themselves sorted out quickly, Grumpy snappily barking out orders and the others practically tripping over each other to comply. There were a few half-hearted claps and cheers from the locals, but the ex-Midorans, being the spoilsports that they were, scowled in irritation at their adoring fans. Grumpy, Twitch and Headband left with Corinne, leaving Locket and Angelface behind. Probably looking to settle the bill, Margaret decided.
But they didn’t walk up to the bar immediately. To Margaret’s complete stupefaction, they looked over Tosk and treated him, Angelface at one point coming up and asking for a couple of basic healing supplies which Margaret automatically handed over before it occurred to her to charge something for them. Ah well. Too late now. Besides, in this business, information was invaluable. Mister Jessup would pay a fortune for a report of what had happened tonight, and if this got Margaret in their good graces and made it possible to extract further information from them in the future, then so be it.
When the two were finally done and Angelface came back to settle the bill, Margaret magnanimously said that she’d charge everything to Tosk, and handed over a room key to one of the smaller upstairs rooms, deducing that they would probably be stupid enough to try to drag him all the way to the Temple otherwise. Predictably, the girl blushed, argued a lot, then finally caved in and stammered her grateful thanks, practically tripping over her robes as she scurried back to Locket to tell her the news. Locket threw a suspicious look at Margaret, but she must have been smart enough to know that the only other option was to lug the heavy body through the streets of Port by night to a heathen Temple that no self-respecting Midoran ought to enter. Reluctantly she nodded to Angelface; and at a signal from Margaret, one of the bouncers stepped over to help them carry Tosk upstairs.
It was a small price to pay to ensure that Grumpy and his group would return for further scrutiny. Margaret didn’t know why they’d come to the Mask tonight, but she intended to find out.
In the meantime, she had a business to run, and customers were drifting over to the bar again now that the excitement was over. Smiling charmingly, she turned her attention to them and started taking orders. |
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Slide
Posted: 01 May 2006 07:23 AM |
His name was Slide.
He had no other name.
He sat so still in his chair that you could be forgiven for thinking he was a statue. Or a corpse. He did not blink. He did not seem to breathe. He had none of the liveliness, none of the inquisitiveness, none of the usual traits that made Gnomes so annoying to most other races.
Jessup double-checked the lock on the lab door before taking up a chair opposite the Gnome. It was a pity that Esmerelda had gone shopping; Slide was boring, and she could have livened this interview up.
“You haz a reportz for Mizta Jessup?” he grunted.
The Gnome nodded. “The leader,” he intoned flatly and without preamble, “is named Lance Vandemar. Prior to a recent re-organisation within Duvados’ group, he was one of a select few former priests who formed the Conclave. This is in keeping with the old system of government in Midor, before the Conclave was disbanded.
“When the re-organisation occurred, along with other internal changes, he ended up on the wrong side of a series of arguments on the direction the movement should take. They took him off the Conclave. He left them shortly after that.”
He was speaking, of course, of the group that had been at The Broken Mask the other night. Being adept at blending into shadows, Slide had trailed after the group that had taken Corinne to the Order of the Seven Sisters. She’d cranked the sympathy factor to the max and the three who’d accompanied her had utterly fallen for it. Midorans. They talked tough, but when you got right down to it, they were gullible softies inside.
“He is emotional and easily manipulated,” the Gnome droned on. At this, Jessup sat up a little straighter, narrowing his red eyes. “I have done some investigating on him. He has been causing a stir amongst the ex-Midorans around Port Royale. Merchants and mages especially. He advocates revenge against Midoran and the New Order. A few of the locals think he sounds like Vidus, when he was a missionary here. The former Midorans, however, seem to be listening. They say he is a very convincing speaker.”
The Gnome paused in his monotonous narration, but there were no questions from the Half-Orc. Only a thoughtful and dangerous silence.
“It seems that the reason he was taken off the Conclave was that his plans were considered too radical and violent. He petitioned to strike against Midor by crippling their economy. Stopping foreign trade; hijacking caravans and ships; burning the farmlands. He pointed out that Paws proved that anything outside the walls was vulnerable. He also pointed out that Midor has never had a strong naval presence. Duvados refused to take such measures for reasons of morality.”
Jessup snorted. Midorans and their morality. He had thought that this Jerec might be different, but he was starting to sound like a frail, just like all the others.
“The four that were with him also left Duvados to join Vandemar’s movement. I do not know the names of the two that stayed at The Broken Mask to handle the damage control there. With Vandemar, there was a skilled blind monk from Asashi, named Quia Zasie; she has no perceptible psychological weaknesses. There was also Dorson Dalle, a former paladin. The paladin has an odd background. He used to be in forced servitude to a necromancer. He was rescued by another Paladin, who he later became the squire of. He has an inferiority complex and seems to be incapable of being anything but submissive.”
Jessup had to laugh. The psychological evaluations, spoken in that droning deadpan voice, were incredibly funny. He made a note to let Esmeralda meet Slide some time; she’d be endlessly entertained by the drab Gnome.
Slide merely stared at him blankly, waiting for the laughter to die down before finally concluding, “That is all the data I have collated.”
“Gooda!” Jessup slapped his hands on his knees. “Keepz an eye on dem, Zlide. Mizta Jessup will zee if dey iz worth uzing.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“And if dey iz not...”
The throat-slashing motion he made with his finger was more eloquent than any words could have been. |
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Beneath a Blood-Red Moon
Posted: 03 May 2006 10:51 AM |
History would later attribute the violence of that period to the unnaturally lengthy season of the Blood Moon.
Ah, but what's history got to do with now? The raw and bloody now.
Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.
Retrospect presents us with a perspective and an insight beyond the here and now. To quote Il Amaranthi Codex—the largest and most comprehensive codex ever to be written... or rather, will have been written—“Memory is deeper than we are and has longer views”.
A pity history had never been an important part of the Midoran curriculum or culture. Only the eldest families paid their respects to it. The rise of the Seafront in the early 900s had all but ensured that history was no longer regarded as relevant. A hammer in the nail of a coffin that had already been shut six hundred years.
Six hundred years...
Ever since the forces of Sanctuarre had lost, it had been inevitable that something like The New Order would arise. And would kick off a self-propagating chain of chaos and bloodshed.
But let us return to the now...
Red Sea
Her name was Storm Lady. For seventy years she'd sailed the western seas, ferrying all manner of rare goods to Midor to sell to the wealthy nobles of the Seafront.
No more.
It was twilight in Port Royale when it happened. The streets were still filled with milling crowds of those doing last minute shopping, or those scurrying to get home before night proper arrived.
In other words, there was a fairly sizeable audience present to watch the grand old ship blow up.
Port was a place where violence took place behind the scenes. A stab in the dark. A quiet strangling in the night. But never anything like this. Therefore all eyes were riveted to the spectacular inferno—eyes that had never seen a light, especially one like this.
She was not the only one to die. Two other ships shared her watery grave before—in a confused scramble—the flames were finally put out. Another three were damaged.
All Midoran trade ships.
Red Earth
She did not mind the desert crossings. Shira had been taking this route for years, and no one but a skilled Nihillan horse rider such as her would have been able to take the trail, let alone guide others through it. By day or by night, it mattered not; although it was oft patrolled by brigands, she usually knew how to avoid them, and made short work of the ones she could not.
It seemed they'd already been here tonight.
The caravan was a large one, as far as she could tell. The oxen and horses had been slaughtered, the wagons themselves put to the torch. She spent nearly half an hour searching for survivors and clues, putting her finely-honed ranger skills to use in the investigation.
What she found was unusual and disturbing.
Clearly it was not the work of robbers. Robbers would have taken the valuables and, in all likelihood, slain the people as well. As near as she could tell, the people had been led away in a forced march, and then everything of value had been destroyed. Not taken; utterly annihilated.
But there wasn't time to consider the implications of that: there were still those survivors to find, and there were still robbers on this road that they might run into. If the desert didn't kill them when the sun rose—either with its heat, or with its predators—then the brigands surely would.
Leaping back atop her horse, she set off at full gallop, leaving the wreckage of the Midor-bound caravan behind.
Seeing Red
Rador had seen them gathering at the outskirts of Port Royale for several nights in a row now, and every time he saw them, the crowds seemed to be getting bigger.
He didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.
For one thing, the crowd resembled the mob that he had thought he'd left behind in Midor.
And although he never heard their leader's words, his mannerisms, his gestures, everything about him reminded him too much of Vidus.
"Ya can take the man outta Midor, but ya can't take the Midor outta the man," he muttered to himself as he packed up his crates. Most nights, he kept the shop open until late, but with this lot hanging around... well, if they kept hanging around, he was going to have to get himself some extra security or quietly move somewhere safer. He'd already had too much experience with mobs up close.
It was certainly something that would have to be brought to the attention of the Alliance. And sooner, rather than later. |
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Endings
Posted: 23 May 2006 06:04 AM |
It was a ramshackle little inn off the Northern Highway—little more than a dilapidated, oversized shack, really. The Merry Fiddle was buried in the woods halfway between the Order of the Seven Sisters and the Four Winds Inn, and it was a dingy and squalid and miserable hovel run by a dodgy Halfling who everyone just called Snot, for obvious reasons that needed no explanation. The clientele matched the setting: bounty hunters mingled with smugglers and other shady dealers, occasionally spitting at the odd beggar or snitch who got too close for their own good.
The three of them stood out like sore thumbs from the moment they walked in, even after all these weeks.
There was Quia Zasie, who wore an air of quiet confidence and competence like a cloak. Her black hair was held back from her olive-skinned face by a headband marked with alien glyphs, and for all her serenity she had the stance of a warrior. Asashi in name but Midoran at heart, mildness tempered by ruthlessness, a fluid and agreeable nature masked her iron discipline.
Dorson Dalle, for all that he was bland and nondescript, could not quite shake the signs of his Paladin training. The upright posture, the set of the jaw, the habitual sweeping, assessing scan. He might have belonged to the Chapter of the Gryphon, but every Paladin had to meet the minimum standards even to be admitted into the Order’s scholarly arm, and he possessed the Midoran virtues of justice, temperance and courage in an unobtrusive sort of way.
Natarsha Stiletto could have been a priestess of one of the vain Sisters, with her natural beauty and grace; but humility and Midoran righteousness prevented it. Usually twitchy and reserved, she was a raging storm cloud tonight as she stalked across the room, her knee-length fiery hair streaming behind her like a banner and her blue eyes uncharacteristically glacial.
Give me an excuse, she seemed to say silently as her murderous gaze swept around the shabby tavern. Any excuse at all.
The crowd parted uneasily before her, sheep scattering before a bloodthirsty sheepdog.
The upstairs rooms weren’t actually too bad. Snot’s domain was the seedy tavern, but the inn itself was the charge of his sister, a plump Halfling woman named Melippi with a sunny disposition. She ruled her portion of The Merry Fiddle with the proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove, and while the downstairs was all filth and chaos, the upstairs was a picture of cleanliness and stern orderliness. Woe betide the one who dared to spill a single drink, or forgot to make their bed, or held late night drunken parties in her territory.
They had two rooms here—Quia, Cherita and Natarsha in one, Dorson and Lance in the other. It took an unbearable eternity for Dorson to find his keys, and Quia went off to fetch Cherita while they waited. Natarsha paced with all the impatience and energy of a caged panther, wondering if he was stalling for time.
It almost didn’t matter. Not now, not after what had happened. One way or another, they were leaving this hellhole.
There was a click, and he pushed the door open. She slipped past him even before he’d managed to get it far enough to admit her, Dorson and the other two—having just arrived—following more sedately. The room was small and cramped, and Natarsha stifled a pang at the sight of it. It reminded her of her quarters at the Academy: two bunks, a desk, two chairs, a wardrobe and nothing else. At the lone desk sat Lance Vandemar.
He was about as Midoran as you could get; he wouldn’t have been able to hide it even if he tried, and he certainly didn’t try. Stern, proud and dignified, his straight brown hair was slightly long in the manner of a Seafront nobleman, and his brown eyes were fierce and provocative. Like Vidus Khain, like Johanas Uvanle, like Rayinor Liam or Lillian Carol Villanova, this was not someone you could feel neutral about or ignore. For better or worse, he commanded a strong emotional reaction in all those whom he encountered, even in impassive personalities such as Quia and Dorson. The young man quietly poring over a map now was a far cry from the loud and vengeful man who addressed seething crowds by night, but what Midoran priest wasn’t a politician, wearing one face in private and another in public?
He cast a glance over his shoulder, then, seeing the entire team assembled, turned his chair about without a word and waited.
Natarsha gestured animatedly with her fingers. We have to go back. Father Duvados has been poisoned. It sounds like it’s fatal.
There was a stifled squeak from Cherita; she hadn’t been there when the other three had heard the news, so this was the first she’d heard of it.
Lance shook his head. We can’t go back. We’re too close to finishing.
Natarsha’s eyes flashed. We owe him, she signed furiously. You know what this means—what must happen if he dies, and why we must return.
Lance stared at her, his shoulders suddenly slumping at the awful weight of the responsibility that awaited. Impossible that he could not know; it was why they’d severed themselves from the main movement, to protect both Duvados and the handful that remained. Of the original one hundred, there were only close to forty now, and their numbers were dropping, not gaining.
We will return if they send for us, he decided firmly. Until then, Nightshade must continue.
He looked around at their faces, and it seemed to him that they were the frightened faces of children about to lose a father.
One way or another, it’s almost over now. |
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Brand New Day
Posted: 17 Jun 2006 10:52 PM |
< Villa Candela: Gone
~*~
2nd Silvradi of Kramiarre, 1001 SD
The crowd was ecstatic. The White Bishop had just revealed that the demon-worshipping Scarlettos had been eradicated. For too long had the people lived in fear, and now a major triumph over the forces of evil had been won.
"So why'd it take so long for the paladins to do something about the Scarlettos?" cried out a voice in the crowd, straining to be heard over the roar of applause.
Vidus raised his hands, and the crowed quieted. "The question," he repeated, "is why the paladins waited so long to do something about this Menarok cult. The answer," his voice boomed, even in the open air of the Temple district, "is that the paladins of the Order of Midoran did NOT put an end to the Scarlettos."
A collective gasp escaped the crowed, followed quickly by confused murmuring. The Lord-Bishop continued, "A new power has risen in the defense of Midor. They are blessed by Midoran, and bear with them the full authority of the Church!" As Vidus spoke, several figures clad in red and silver clad entered the Temple grounds. "My people, I give you The Righteous Swords! Holy warriors of Midoran, blessed by his grace, and committed to protecting our fair city."
He smiled beatifically, and the crowd smiled back. A smile that was not returned by any of the Paladins present.
"These are your saviors."
3rd Silvradi of of Kramiarre, 1001 SD
The silver-white cross skidded across the desktop, coming to a precarious halt right at the edge.
"Do you know what that is?"
An elementary question with only one correct answer.
"Yes, ma'am," she said mechanically.
Brigadier Morgana Ravenheart planted her knuckles on the desk and leaned forward, her tall and brawny frame blocking the torchlight and casting a long shadow across both it and the Corporal seated across from her. A fearsome woman nearing retirement age—although it was possible she'd already reached it and no one had dared to point it out to her—her hair was more grey than black now, but she still had the vitality of someone half her age. Her eyepatch and her scarred, almost wicked appearance looked completely out of place with the white and gold Paladin armour she now wore. A new development, that. She'd spent her entire Midoran career fighting tooth and claw against being promoted and against being knighted, and she did not look at all happy with her newfound paladinhood.
The young Corporal she was currently chewing out was equally tall, though no longer brawny; she had been when she was younger, but five years of living off Army rations—not to mention daily exercise consisting of mountain-climbing, swimming, running, jumping and monster-slaying—had trimmed her down, to her everlasting annoyance. Her strawberry-blonde hair had once come down to her shins, but now it was cropped short and spiky in a way that made her look more forbidding and hostile than she already did.
"The cross of duty," Ravenheart growled in that grating voice of hers. She jabbed a finger at the top and bottom points. "We are responsible to our superiors and subordinates." A slash with her finger, lengthwise, to indicate the arms. "We are responsible to our peers."
A pause, then she leaned forward further and pressed her gauntleted finger against the centre of the cross. "Do you know the last one?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Tell me."
A cheek muscle twitched. "We're responsible to ourselves, ma'am."
"To ourselves!" Ravenheart flung her arms up theatrically, and the younger woman flinched. "There's a novel concept: we actually have to look out for ourselves. It's our duty to. We aren't allowed to neglect ourselves."
She raised a finger, then levelled it to point at the top of the other woman's head. "Don't think I don't know what that means. I may be a convert, but I do know the customs. It's your own stupidity and stubbornness that brought that about, and it isn't irreversible. If I was you, I'd grow it out again."
"Yes, ma'am," she said through gritted teeth for what must have been the hundredth time in the past half hour. She hadn't figured on Ravenheart recognising the significance of the haircut; it was like having a parent discover you'd gotten an offensive tattoo.
"Let me get to the point: you're wasting your life out here," Ravenheart said bluntly. "Do you know who gets assigned to the Furiosa Stockade? Recruits who need experience. Soldiers who've hit a dead end in their careers. Priests researching exotic diseases. No one ever volunteers for duty out here. The place is a hellhole and you can't do any good except maybe haul the occasional idiot out of the volcano for the Midoran Survey Teams to revive. And if you ask me, anyone stupid enough to invade a demon stronghold deserves what they get anyway." She drummed her fingers on the desk. "Frankly, you can do better than this. You can do a lot better than this."
The younger woman's chin tilted up in a signature gesture of defiance that Ravenheart had come to know all too well, her glacial blue eyes hardening. "What if I don't deserve better?"
Ravenheart snorted. "That isn't for you to judge." Deliberately, she placed a hand atop the stack of commendations piled up on the desk. "What, do you think you know better than Paladin High Command, the Church and Midoran himself?"
It was as neat a verbal trap as Ravenheart had ever devised, but the kid wasn't falling for it. She was a lawyer's daughter after all.
"I think they need to set their standards higher," she said stiffly.
"Fine. So apply for High Paladin, change the rules, then fire yourself," Ravenheart snapped. "Whether you like it or not, you're needed elsewhere now. We've lost thirty per cent of the Order in the past six days alone and that number's dropping by the day. Jongras is gone, Liam and Goodman are sitting on the fence, and word's spreading so quickly that I wouldn't be surprised if we lost ninety per cent of all our Paladins within the next two months. In the meantime, we've got a whole load of brats coming in who need to be whipped into shape because they reckon it's the fastest route to jumping onto the Righteous Sword bandwagon, and they've got completely the wrong idea of what the hell it actually means to be a Paladin. There's all this talk about some sort of bloody brilliant new age dawning, but the truth is that the entire situation's shot to hell. The Order's going down and all that's good in Midor is going down with it."
It occurred to her that she was skating dangerously close to the edge of treason admitting that. Frankly, she didn't really care. If she was going to mysteriously and conveniently "vanish" in the night like Jongras and so many other dissidents, so be it. This was something she wasn't going to keep her mouth shut about. Let them try to make her vanish quietly. Let them try.
"You want to stay out here in the middle of nowhere and sulk and waste your potential? Fine. Whatever. It's your life. Rot here for all I care. Don't take responsibility for the good you've done." She scooped up the cross on a chain and fastened it around her neck again. "I'm telling you now, though, if you want to actually do something about the shoddy standards and turn things around, now's the time to be doing it. The Paladins that aren't openly rebelling are just vanishing to who-knows-where. Mark my words, Villanova, there isn't going to be an Order to fix in a year's time. If you don't come back now, you won't have anything to come back to."
She didn't know how right she was.
5th Herialdi of Solarre, 1002 SD
It was an insane and convoluted plan, as insane and convoluted plans went, and one that Claude would have been proud of for its sheer mischief factor. Modular, adaptable, a war so secret and working on so many fronts that in truth it actually had no front line.
Asymmetric warfare. Hydra warfare.
Nightshade.
There were potential problems with the plan, of course. The issue with having cells working independently of each other was that there was no communication between them. You had to put a lot of trust in people you barely knew, you had to trust that you'd communicated your vision sufficiently and they wouldn't warp it into something completely different to what you had in mind.
You had to be prepared for the plan to change beyond all recognition. You had to be prepared to work blind, to admit that your one and only main role was to give the plan its initial impetus, and after that it was entirely out of your hands—you could not control it, could not orchestrate it, could not even watch it unfold.
From the moment Nightshade was conceived, they knew the implications of it. Knew that it would change the face of warfare.
But it needed to be done. Something had to be done about Midor.
2nd Herialdi of Azurinarre, 1002 SD
It was actually far more difficult than she had thought it would be to get the colour right, but several botched and messy attempts later, she'd finally managed to get her hair and eyebrows to what hopefully looked like a natural jet-black. With any luck, it wouldn't all wash out if it happened to rain. Jerec had once remarked that if she coloured her hair black and wore an eyepatch, she could pass off as a younger version of Ravenheart. Looking into the mirror now, she could certainly see the resemblance.
The earrings came next. Gnomish in design, they were little more than simple sleepers decorated with a single tiny piece of enchanted malachite. It took a few seconds for the magic to kick in and turn her eyes green while the stone turned blue. Harmless and completely legal, and even if she got caught with them where she was going, it would simply be assumed that she was wearing them for purely cosmetic reasons.
She nearly gave up trying to apply the make-up; only once in her life had she ever had to use the stuff, and trying to find a balance between covering up enough of her features and not looking horribly conspicuous took a couple of hours. As she stepped back to inspect her handiwork, Lillian came to the conclusion that she was completely lousy at all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, but so long as no one who actually knew her took a closer look, she could pass off as a different person. Possibly. Barely.
There was still a lot going on, but it would run without her. Ravenheart had been right. You couldn't set a good example if your own life was a shambles. You had to set yourself on the right path before you could lead other people to it. A leader couldn't afford to be a broken wreck.
The past eleven months were beyond her scope to immediately fix. The past eight years were not.
It was time to see if the Atropos Gambit had been worth it. Time to see if the light was genuine, and not just the lure of an anglerfish with a pair of jaws attached to the other end.
~*~
> The Novus Aristi: Hiding in Plain Sight |
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The Game
Posted: 23 Jun 2006 07:38 AM |
< The Turning of the Red Tide: Homecoming
< Letters to Aderyn: The Prophecy
~*~
Her name is Aurora.
Time is her Queen's domain. She sees its streams, its hidden ways, its ordered unfolding as naturally as she sees with her eyes. A pattern inherent in everything, ingrained in everything. Visions of perfect destiny.
Time is not capricious and disordered like flame. Time is inexorable, orderly.
Time is not whimsical and flighty like wind. Time is impartial, impassionate.
Time is cold and perfect and absolute. And beautiful. How could it not be? So precise, so ordered.
So easy to see the patterns if you have the gift. No one with an ugly or disordered soul ever had the gift.
In the depths of the Ice Palace, the perfect prism of past and present and future, Time refracts, reveals its true colours.
~*~
White
White moves first. White always moves first.
The pieces are stained in the red blood of the murdered. Once they wore white. Now they wear red.
The Pawns: An army of knights, most of them assimilated from the ranks of the Paladin Order. The great majority of them know not what the Righteous Swords truly are. They live only to die. They live only to be sacrificed—and many will never know why.
The Knights: Enforcers of the law. A knock on the door at midnight. A scuffle in the dark. Another dissident gone, just like that.
The Bishops: Only now are they revealed. Supremists in name and in nature. Their maneuvers have ever been oblique, even before they donned the red of the Righteous Swords. Now their movements are revealed.
The Rooks: The backbone, the might. Mystics so mystical that not even their fellows know what they are. The cornerstone of the Righteous Swords, without which there are only useless pieces shuffling around in vain. How long can white hold on to them? How long before their nature is revealed?
The King and Queen: Each viewing each as expendable, the ultimate murderers and deceivers. He is the Voice of Midoran and she is the True Light's shadow.
~*~
Red
In days long past, the game was played with pieces of red and white, rather than black and white. History turns and returns to older times, older ways. The advantage to going second is that you get to see the other side make its move.
And the red wears white to infiltrate the other side.
The Pawns: They know full well the role they play, they have known before the game began that their lives must be sacrificed. Team Nightshade. The voluntary suicide team, the frontline in this asymmetrical war.
The Knights: They move in ways no other piece may move. Erratically. Uniquely. None move as they do, and none may hurdle other pieces as they do. Nothing changes. No Paladin ever stops being a Paladin.
The Bishops: Another word for diagonal is oblique. They move more obliquely than ever before now. Discretion and stealth slip them past enemy lines. Every Midoran priest is a politician. Every Midoran priest must know how to keep a secret, for that is why confessors trust them. Not every secret is sinister. Not every deception harms. And sometimes, both are necessary.
The Rooks: Hidden allies in hidden places. The ultimate support unit, waiting in the sidelines until the time is right. So powerful, so deadly. And yet hidden, always hidden. Friends in high places. Friends in very high places.
The King and Queen: The Death's Head and the Amaranth. Eternal death and eternal life. Or are these but symbols and illusions? Is there a mask behind the mask? The symbols orchestrate, but where are the real leaders? Who are the real leaders?
~*~
Red and white on a checquerboard of fire and ice. |
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The Game: Part II
Posted: 12 Jul 2006 11:25 AM |
A red knight moves. Red's solid defence suddenly gapes wide open. A white pawn slides aside to make way. A red bishop tries in vain to step into the breach left in the frontline—too late. The white rook moves.
Check.
~*~
A knitted scarf left at the homeless shelter in Midor, patterned with pictures that look for all the world like the demented design of a kindergarden child.
A scarf? No, not merely a scarf.
A message, encrypted.
Hammerhead. Amaranth. Death's Head. Onyx.
A lighthouse with its fire lit. A cluster of white flowers. A red rook with a face, its eyes shut.
Dove pierced by an arrow.
The hooded man, the alchemist, sees it, reads it, understands it. He heads to the kitchen and lights a candle on the counter, then snuffs it.
Five seconds later, it comes back to life.
There is work to be done here in the kitchen. It's almost deliberately rhythmic, the chopping of his knife against the cutting board. Perhaps because it is deliberate. Chop, chop, tap, clink, thud, chop, tap. A message transmitted, masked as dinner preparations. He reaches over and pinches the flame when done. It briefly flickers back to life in acknowledgement. No magic involved; not in this place. Just smoke and mirrors, mechanics and alchemy, props and masks.
Onyx passes Dove's message on to Amaranth, then prepares to distribute it to the rest of the Hammerhead team. |
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The Game: Part III
Posted: 22 Jul 2006 09:03 PM |
< Letters to Aderyn: Pawns
~*~
Red queen moves to take the king out of check. White rook threatens. Red pawn defends.
~*~
It was a place like so many other places they’d holed up in: an unassuming facade masking hidden facilities, the store room beneath the kitchen now also serving as a makeshift living area and war room.
Unsurprisingly, not everyone was present today. It was too risky now to have all the proverbial eggs in one basket; by necessity, communication between the different cells was limited or nonexistent. In other words, running the show was a bit like performing surgery blind.
A few heads turned towards Amaranth as she quietly took her seat, but otherwise, the meeting went uninterrupted.
“You look like you’ve just been grilled,” Atropos muttered as Onyx launched into the various reports from the northern teams.
“Like a mammoth at an Orc banquet,” she growled beneath her breath. “He asked all the right questions.”
“Did you answer?”
“Of course not. You’ll find out when I tell the others.”
“...Follow-up of the report from Dove: the Peregrines are all still eager to gather a flock together,” Onyx was saying. He paused, then added, a little grimly. “Dove has a proposal—Project: Twilight.”
“The attempts will fail,” Amaranth said bluntly. “They’re treading old ground that has already been gone over numerous times this past year. Besides, amassing an army is hardly something one does on a whim. It requires a lot of time, effort, contacts and resources they simply don’t have access to.”
“Because you handed them all over to the Aristi?” Atropos said wryly.
“Exactly.”
“You set an impossible task so they would fail?” Willow asked, one of her eyebrows arching delicately.
“I didn’t set an impossible task. I merely said to quietly seek whatever surviving Paladins might still be out there in the wide world. How they choose to go about that is up to them,” Amaranth corrected. “Now. What’s this new project?”
“They’re still thinking like Midoran Paladins,” Onyx said bluntly. “They need the safety net and security blanket of belonging to a formal group and the appearance of being organised. Dove wants to provide it.”
“That strikes me as being a little counterproductive. We’ve already had to change names and restructure everything twice now. At the rate they’re going, Team Iceberg are in danger of fissioning off soon and becoming a whole new splinter group.”
She didn’t add that if they did, they would cease to be angeltouched. That went without saying.
He shrugged. “It’s difficult enough as it is for them to know who they are and what they are. Identifying themselves to others is even harder. Better that Dove comes up with a name and framework than leaving it to them.”
“It’s all they know how to do and what they’re best at,” Atropos pointed out. “I’ll need to review the details, but I think the best thing to do is what Dove has been doing: let them know the rules, then set them loose to do what they like, how they like, so long as it remains within the bounds outlined. We’re so far removed from them now that it’s no longer a threat if they choose to move openly. Pending review, consider Twilight approved.”
“While we’re on the topic of Team Iceberg and compromised secrets,” Amaranth continued, “Orchid is in the Lighthouse.”
“Full access?” Atropos asked.
“Close enough. As much as the Peregrines have.”
“Good. There’s a lot of knowledge and resources in there and I think he’ll be able to actively use it. Illumini’s too passive, and the Peregrines aren’t scholars. It’s one big puzzle waiting to be solved, and it needs someone like him to piece it together.”
“I told him to ask whatever questions he wanted, but most of them, I couldn’t answer or had to evade.” She made a face. “It was like dodging Elven arrows. Bullseye, every one. If I’d actually answered them all, he’d know everything. Still... if nothing else, I did get a measure of his character just from the questions he asked, the remarks he made, and the way he said it.”
“And?”
“I’m inclined to agree,” she said reluctantly. “Sane, he’s dangerously sharp, but also trustworthy.” She held up four fingers. “I can now almost count all the genuinely intelligent and responsible mages I know on the fingers of one hand. It’s not up to me to decide whether to let him in on Operation: Relic, but I’ll be putting a recommendation in to allow him Haven access and to let him in on the Relic project. I think once he knows, he’ll understand the existence of Haven. He seemed worried by it.”
She paused. “The water spirits couldn’t get a reading on him. Apparently he’s shielded. I don’t know if that’s deliberate and he has something to hide, or if it’s natural. I will point out, though, that the sphinxes screened him and let him in. Nor is it the first time. The sphinxes at Spiderweb also approved him, even at the height of insanity, and even though he was a purple badger at the time. Still, a person who consciously knows they’re under test conditions behaves differently to how they normally would; I’ve petitioned one of the spirits to keep an eye on him and judge him. When he returns it—if he returns it—we’ll know whether he’s genuine.”
She launched into a thorough account of the question and answer session with Xaranthir: the chess vision, the blunt questions, the skull, the Coruscanti, the Sslissayath. By the time she was finished, a stunned silence had fallen around the table.
“You did get grilled,” Atropos said at last.
“Cremated, more like,” she corrected bluntly. “He can’t be sidetracked and phrasing sentences evasively doesn’t have any effect either. It’s like trying to throw illusions at a dragon: he sees right through it.”
“Maybe we should throw an illusion at the dragon,” Atropos mused. “If the spirits will allow him to pass beneath the surface of reality, we could probably set a conference up in the Grotta Sanctuarre.”
“Even if they let him pass, there’s no guarantee he’s capable of dreamwalking there—especially if they can’t even get a personality reading. As I recall, you had to have help,” she pointed out.
“It’s worth a try, though—especially if it means that he’ll take Claude’s pet project out of criminal hands. He’s not the only one being scrutinised here; I doubt he trusts us either. Until he knows and trusts our motivations, I doubt he’ll hand anything so dangerous over for safekeeping.”
“In the meantime, Relic is still the priority, and probably the one thing we have in common with the Novus Aristi,” Amaranth said with a sense of finality. “Willow? How are we going with the Archande blueprints?” |
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Lost and Found
Posted: 24 Jul 2006 09:46 AM |
They should have left Midor.
They should have left when they were evicted, but so long as the library had stood, the fervent hope that it would one day be reopened had kept them in the city. But the days had passed and become weeks, and the weeks had passed and become months, and still they lived in the streets, waiting, and still the grand old building remained shut.
They should have left Midor when they had the chance. The Supremists were on the prowl now. It was bad enough that they had nowhere to go; they couldn’t just leave by the Northern Gate, and they couldn’t afford passage by ship or cart. They couldn’t conjure food or money, not with the anti-magic blanket smothering the entire city; and besides, the conjuration of money had always been a strictly illegal practice, too risky and too easy to detect. Yes, the situation was bad enough; throw in the fact that they were mages and they might as well have saved the Swords the trouble and painted big glowing bullseyes on themselves.
They were running out of places to run. The Slaughtered Dragon Inn had closed down, forcing them out into the streets; everything else was simply too expensive now. The few remaining mages of the Midor Mage Tower shunned them, afraid to put their necks on the chopping block, and pointing out politely and fearfully that they themselves were having problems keeping a low profile and avoiding the baleful eye of the Church.
Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The Supremists close on their heels like eager bloodhounds. Oh, the Swords had wanted an excuse to clear Midor of their arcane ilk for months, and now that the Supremists were here, they had effectively been handed a carte blanche. Not only were they homeless; they were homeless, powerless mages. The perfect target to make an example of. The perfect scapegoat.
Then suddenly the target vanished.
~*~
It was good to get away from the hustle and bustle of Checkerboard Central. Ever since they’d picked up that last group and snatched them out of reach of the Supremists, the place had become far louder and far more crowded than Amaranth could ever remember it being. They were a stubborn group, refusing to leave Midor even though it had been repeatedly explained to them how dangerous it was to remain.
She explained the situation. She named names. They didn’t really mean anything to her; she could count the number of times she’d been in La Sapienza on her fingers.
One of the names, though...
“Are you sure?”
“For the fifth time... yes. I don’t get a name wrong five times in a row.”
“They’re only staying because of the situation with the library?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear the report from Team Lunaris yesterday?”
“Of course I heard it.”
“Good. Leave Checkerboard for now, stay with Team Lunaris at Spiderweb. Find out everything you can about this renovation work that Wolf talked about. If you see Orchid, don’t say anything, don’t draw attention to yourself. Just pretend to be one of the priestesses.”
“I can’t very well hide my height and build.”
“You can if you sit in a corner somewhere and be quiet. I want to know exactly what’s being built. Find out everything Team Lunaris knows.”
“What about the new intake of refugess? They have to leave, or they’re endangering everyone—not just themselves. We need to convince them to leave Checkerboard.”
“Leave that to me.” |
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The Petition
Posted: 24 Jul 2006 08:56 PM |
...As you have often stated, one way in which we differ from the old Midoran way is that we have something the old Church lacked:
Loyalty.
Indeed, is it not one of the virtues we adhere to? The Midor of old had a short memory. As we have seen with the Paladin Order, champions only remain champions so long as it is convenient to have them. The moment they become obsolete, the moment there is no longer a use for them, they are discarded and forgotten.
This is not our way. Lives are not disposable. People are not disposable. We look after our own, we take responsibility for each other. What affects one of us affects us all. Even though it has become necessary for us to become divided and work independently of each other, we are still aware that at its core, our belief can be summed up in four words:
We are not alone.
We abandon no one. We leave no one behind. It is true that the Peregrines are outliers, but this is through no fault of their own. We have overestimated their ability to adapt to this new situation. Therefore I propose that we continue with the abandoned concept of Project: Twilight. It is clear that they are struggling to come to terms with this belief, which is not new at all, but simply the logical evolution of the faith we already had.
Yes, they have already been told, quite clearly, what this new faith is about. But they must be reminded. Repetition is one of the most powerful of training methods. What is not repeated is soon forgotten. Is this not why we have routines? I have observed that they seem to have abandoned many of theirs. Prayer, like anything else, becomes weak with neglect. We have routines and rituals. They have not been observing them. Surely this would not be the case of Project: Twilight had gone ahead and given them the necessary education and grounding that young people of their age and experience require. They are not like the rest of us; nor are they like yourselves. They are still finding the way. We thought they could find it on their own, but we were mistaken. They still need to be shown the way. They have not yet the maturity nor experience to navigate on their own.
Therefore I request that Project: Twilight be revived. I offer to undertake responsibility for the training and supervision of the Peregrines. I wish to dispel any ambiguity about the details of our faith. They have been developing incorrect perceptions, and I find it unacceptable that this has not been corrected. Let us lay down the law in no uncertain terms. I do not believe that this will compromise the remainder of our members. If anything, I believe it will resolve a great many problems.
[May the mystery of faith guide you and be with you,]
~Dove~ |
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The Departure
Posted: 25 Jul 2006 06:31 PM |
< Letters to Aderyn: Terror from the Deep
~*~
They were all crowded into the main barracks area around the long dining table, but for once, the crowd was silent. It had taken a bit of shuffling to ensure that only the mages and scholars evacuated from La Sapienza would be present; for good measure, they'd also invited the proprietor of the Midor Mage Tower.
Amaranth didn't mince words. Not today.
"If you remain in Midor, you will likely be hunted down by the Supremists and killed. They will then also turn their attention to we who have granted you asylum," she told them bluntly. "You can no longer remain here. In thirty minutes, the first ferry will depart."
A pause to ensure she had their attention, then she held up the book she'd been holding behind her back.
"For those of you who stubbornly remain because of the La Sapienza situation, I have been asked to deliver a message: Arathon has left La Sapienza."
A precise flick of her wrist sent the book skidding across the dining table where everyone could see the title: Legends of the Land, Volume IX: Arathon the Ranger. The one book, apparently, that had never left the Midor Library.
"There is nothing for you here. The La Sapienza is but a skeleton now. Its soul is elsewhere, and I can take you there."
She stepped forward, resting her fingertips atop the table. "Those of you who choose to leave will be divided into groups of two to four and evacuated over the course of the next three days, so as not to attract attention. I need to know now if anyone will choose to remain behind so that I can allot groups and times.
"No? I didn't think so." |
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Blacklist
Posted: 26 Jul 2006 06:14 PM |
Doberman: mobilise Team Remora. Targets painted by Orchid for blacklist: Lucius, Dana (description at Annex A). Require confirmation they are part of Cancer.
- Amaranth |
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Twilight
Posted: 06 Aug 2006 07:02 PM |
It had been some time since the war room in Spiderweb had been used, but the recent spike in activity and noise levels had been too perfect an opportunity to pass up to cover a quiet meeting. There were four of them present: Wolf, Spiderweb's coordinator, a graying man whose appearance matched his moniker; Dove of the errant Team Iceberg, an elderly woman with a quiet but no-nonsense air about her; Amaranth, stern and businesslike as ever, occupying the head of the table uncontested and alone; and almost as an afterthought, a newcomer whom Wolf and Dove had only met today. The middle-aged, black-haired man had been introduced to them as Atropos; he bore a strong familial resemblance to Amaranth, from his glacial gaze to his severe appearance to his statuesque height and build.
"I will admit that I have strong concerns about reviving the idea of holding the Twilight Sessions," Amaranth told them. "For one, the entire reason we didn't go ahead with it was that we lacked the resources to focus so much attention on a minority group within the movement. For another, it reintroduces that element of dependency which we finally managed to rid them of. Their situation is not unique; a thousand years' worth of knight errants before them have had to stand on their own and fend for themselves outside of the main body of their religion; I expect no less from them. We are not dealing with skittish fourteen-year-old adepts; we don't need to coddle them and hold their hands. They've passed their Paladin trials twice now, therefore I expect a certain minimum standard of professionalism and initiative."
"I don't even know why we're arguing about this," Wolf harrumphed. "We don't have any need for Paladins. They don't belong anywhere in this movement. It's an obsolete position, and we ought to thank the Swords for getting one thing right and having the sense to phase it out."
"Be that as it may," Dove cut in, her voice quiet but with a dangerous edge of steel to it, "the fact remains that they remain our responsibility. We are not the New Order. We do not simply abandon people because they cease to become convenient. The world at large still has need of their kind, even if we do not. Who are we to snuff yet another light in the world in these dark times?"
Amaranth winced and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "If you choose to go ahead with this," she warned, "they must fail or succeed entirely on their own. There will be no support—not from Hydra, not from Iceberg, not from any other cell. We're already spread too thin as it is, and they already know too much as it is."
"Only because you told them," Wolf growled. "Do you know how many lives you've placed on the line, revealing what you did to them? All it will take is one of their typical naive slip-ups and all our efforts will come crashing down around our ears and all our heads will go on the chopping block. What in Nethar'u were you thinking?"
"I was thinking of a little something called courtesy," she snapped. "In the likely event that they reveal what they know, we do have contingencies set up to deal with it. We don't have contingencies set up to mend broken trust and broken hope. Unlike Midor, we happen to value our people and their well-being. Sometimes that means we have to take a risk and trust them."
"Only if the risk is acceptable," he said pointedly.
"I deemed it acceptable," she said through gritted teeth. "Believe me, it was not a decision I made lightly."
"As to the Twilight Sessions," Dove cut in, raising her quiet voice slightly, "I believe I can cut them down to just one or two sessions. All that's really required is clarification of what is and isn't part of our belief. It seems to me that there's some confusion in that regard."
"Confusion?" Amaranth arched her eyebrows. "It's the same belief and the same rules and standards as before, with a very few differences in focus and method. It's not as if we've reinvented the wheel."
"And yet they do not behave as they once did, nor think they are beholden to the standards they surely upheld once," Dove said disapprovingly. "Some explicit ground rules need to be set, and soon, especially regarding standards of behaviour. I will not tolerate things such as the contemplation of hexagrams as a valid form of prayer."
Amaranth blinked. "What? Who's been—"
"It would appear," Atropos said grimly. "That the Evil Eye has been working her ensorcellments on them."
"It would appear," Dove corrected with a frown, "that one or both of you has not clearly pointed out the distinction between what is merely historical research, and what is our official approved belief and stance. They appear to consider them one and the same."
Amaranth grimaced. "So noted. Consider the Twilight Sessions approved, then. As for the Evil Eye's interference..."
"There's little that can be done about that," Atropos pointed out. "Let us hope that the sphinxes can prevent her from entering their dreams, and that they have the good judgement not to trust her when she seeks them out in the waking world."
Wolf snorted. "You expect too much of them."
"Better too much than too little," Amaranth countered.
"I'll need a few days to revise the lessons you had planned out," Dove said. "Then the Twilight Sessions can begin."
"No, I need you to keep an eye on Nightshade; I don't know what they've done, but it's been enough to make Midor close its gates," Amaranth told her, exchanging a glance with Atropos. "We'll handle this. I think it's best if they hear it from the top." |
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Bridging the Gap
Posted: 04 Sep 2006 09:26 AM |
It was a small outpost a mere half klick south of Hardknott Pass, one of many which—thanks to a combination of Midor's recent recall of most of its mobile units and the cataclysm last year that had nearly ripped the world apart—had been abandoned by whatever skeletal crew had once manned it. Crag Station, as they'd arbitrarily tagged the place, was typical of the facilities they used now: under-staffed, under-equipped, with a cobbled-together feel that inevitably caused no end of bemusement to a group used to having nigh-infinite resources and state-of-the-art facilities at their disposal.
Amaranth wouldn't have had it any other way. With the threat of extinction still looming ever-present, innovation and resourcefulness ranked high on the list of qualities they could ill afford to skimp on. Working with minimal resources helped in that regard, forcing people out of their comfort zones and preconceived ways of thinking. All the obvious methods had already been tried and had failed, depriving them of all the easy and conventional approaches. The bar had been raised. They had to be smarter and more vigilant than previous generations or they would die. It was as simple and as obvious as that.
That had been the topic of discussion for the past hour and a half, but even so, it was skirting around the real issue currently at hand. The woman sitting across the makeshift desk from Amaranth was a year her senior but looked ten years her junior. And if the expression on her face was anything to go by, she was impatient to get to the point.
"I found the last of the manufacturing details for those items from one of the mages in Spiderweb, by the way. He used to assist the Chapter of the Gryphon and Midor Mage Tower with military item enchantment," the elder woman said, her usual vacuous expression now one of uncharacteristic focus and intensity. She seemed to brace herself. "I'm thinking of delivering the details to Lighthouse. In person. Then I want to be re-evaluated for knighthood."
"You realise that this means you'll have to step down from Atropos duties," Amaranth warned. "It also means you'll effectively be at Iceberg level. You will no longer be able to be as involved as you are now."
Atropos flashed a lopsided grin. "Well, we're getting a little top-heavy anyway. A hydra can only grow so many heads before it starts tripping over its own feet at all the crossed signals it's receiving." The smile faded. "It's been good to be a part of this, but this isn't where I need to be. It always seems like there's something missing. Even after you leave, it never leaves you. It's a calling that won't let go."
There was no wistfulness in her voice, no starry-eyed and far-off look of glory days gone by. Only a quiet and steely determination.
Which only made it that much harder to try and do the right thing by her.
"You know that nothing that you've done outside of Iceberg counts," Amaranth persisted. "You'll pick up from wherever you left off. In the interest of fairness and consistency, I can't just automatically promote you. You need to go through the same evaluation process and scrutiny and you need to pass. There are no guarantees that you will; that decision's out of my hands. I can only recommend you, but I don't have the jurisdiction to decide whether you're restored to what you were."
Atropos waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, I know all that." Her expression shifted to its usual ditzy merriness, the pitch of her voice rising and becoming unrecognisably chirpy. "I'm a good student. I think I'll pick it up easily!"
Amaranth winced. "I wish you'd stop doing that."
"Sorry, force of habit." She dropped back to more normal levels. "I used to do it to my brother all the time to annoy him. It worked so well that he wants to kill me now. Poor, confused Little P."
"Speaking of which, have you received any correspondance from him lately?"
"Well, yes, somewhat recently," Atropos said slowly. "From what I gathered from reading between the lines, everything's working. We're so far beneath their notice that Brandibuck probably ranks higher as a threat. There was so much disdain in his last letter that I'm surprised he didn't get a mage to enchant the parchment to sneer at me."
Amaranth frowned. "And it wasn't enchanted in any other way?"
She shook her head. "No, I had Doberman look it over. You know how he is. Tested it five ways to Justicadi."
"I have the most horrid mental image of a letter for you arriving in the Lighthouse mailbox one day with an explosive rune attached. Or failing that, a tracer. The sphinxes can only do so much."
"Oh, please. If Little P was clever enough to get over himself and do something like that, Midor would deserve to win," Atropos scoffed. She raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to discourage me from returning to the path? If so, try harder."
"No, I'm trying to ensure that you make an informed decision," Amaranth corrected. "When you go back there, unless you choose to tell them otherwise, your disappearance will likely be attributed to lack of either diligence or faith. You're going to have a lot to prove and a lot to catch up on. Do you really think you'll be better off there and make more of a difference than if you stayed and continued here?"
"Not really." She admitted. "But if the new Peregrine doesn't pass then you're going to need someone to fulfil the role you had in mind for him. There's a gap that needs to be bridged; Dove can't be the one to do it because she was never on the path, you can't either because you left it for good last year. Can you think of anyone else to put in there?"
"Well, yes, but not on such short notice and not willingly. They wouldn't return to the path unless they absolutely had to. The role makes little sense in the context of the movement, and you get far more done by leaving it behind. You've seen that firsthand."
Atropos merely arched her eyebrows, waiting expectantly; and with reluctance, Amaranth relented.
"Very well; we have enough people in the Atropos role anyway to compensate for the fact that the Gambit failed. If you are certain that you want to be attached to Iceberg—" A pause, but Atropos gave no sign of retracting her decision, "—then consider yourself relieved of your Crag and River duties. When were you thinking of leaving?"
Atropos looked relieved, as if she'd been expecting more of a fight. "As soon as possible, but I might wait until tomorrow. I need to swing by Spiderweb this afternoon and talk to that mage, finalise and confirm those item enchantment details. Then I actually have to get to Lighthouse."
"I'll see if I can arrange for you to be picked up from Mirghul Coast. If not, Orchid might be willing to walk you there."
"Orchid? Willing? Hah!" Atropos put on her best innocent/stupid look and giggled. "He thinks I'm some sort of airhead. I don't know why," she squeaked.
Amaranth winced again. "There'll be none of that now," she said sternly. "If you're serious about this, you're going to have to set an example. That means dropping the ditzy act."
"But I'm still allowed to giggle, right?"
"No."
She made a face. "Spoilsport. And here I was hoping to convert them into a squealing, giggling club of piglets. You know... throw all discipline and common sense out the window and encourage fraternisation and debauchery... fill up the entire Haven q-store with alcohol... maybe turn it into an entertainment venue..."
"Go right ahead," Amaranth said with a wolfish grin. "In return I'll tell your brother where to find you and what a corrupting influence you've been."
"I can never decide whether it's a good or bad thing you're not on Midor's side," Atropos complained. "You've a mean streak as wide as The Great River." She paused. "You wouldn't really tell Little P?"
"It's nearly noon now. You'd better see about making arrangements to get to Spiderweb," Amaranth replied, ignoring the question.
"You knew I was joking," Atropos continued, standing. "Right? It wasn't a real threat."
Deliberately, Amaranth pulled a pair of spectacles from a case and put them on, wordlessly turning her attention to the papers on her desk.
"Have you ever considered taking over Brigadier Ravenheart's old pirate fleet? They'd like you. You're worse than she ever was."
"Sanner."
"Hmm?"
"You're dismissed."
Madeline opened her mouth to protest, thought better of it, and shut it again. Drawing herself up to attention, she spun smartly on her heel and fled.
It was only once she was outside that she broke out into a grin. She had plans for the neglected Peregrines, and when she was done with them, no one would be able to deny the greatness of paladins. |
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Critical Mass
Posted: 20 Sep 2006 10:12 AM |
They'd seen it coming, but like everything else that had happened this year, Midoran efficiency was working against them. They hadn't expected the numbers to reach critical mass so soon. Yet here they were, five months ahead of schedule, having reached the point where sustainability was now a major issue.
Once more, it seemed, the timetable was being shoved ahead of time. Nightshade should not have happened, but it had. The Atropos Gambit should not have happened, let alone failed, and yet it had. And now...
This.
Two hundred and fifty per cent and rising. Too much success too fast, and disaster threatening because of it. They'd seen it coming, all right, but had not accounted for such successes as La Sapienza to boost those numbers so quickly. Even now, after slowing the intake down to a trickle, the numbers were steadily ticking upwards.
The sounds of construction within the manor had fallen silent hours ago. Now they were starting up again. Movement outside. An undercurrent of voices murmuring beneath the sound of the ambient storm. She was still poring over the reports on the table when the knock came at the door, startling her out of a half-dream half-memory of toiling beneath a blazing noon sun to bury all the bodies discarded on The Great Plains. Wincing, she stood and crossed the makeshift war room, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes.
And wondered how Rayinor Liam had managed this for fifty years. At a third his age with a fifth his experience and a thousandth of the resources he'd had—and that had been with the Loyalists, never mind what he'd had access to in Midor—she had to achieve the same results he did in an emergency situation on a daily basis. With everyone above, under and on all sides of her in the chain of command watching and inevitably ripping her efforts to shreds. This should have been Claude's job, if only he'd lived. Or Jerec's, if he'd lived. As it was, it had fallen to her.
All in all, a fitting punishment for sins past.
There were two of them waiting patiently in the darkened hallway. The first was an exceedingly young man who possessed an air of quiet maturity that belied his age. On the first two occasions she'd briefly met him last year, she had not been particularly impressed; now he had the entire Conclave abuzz with cautious hope. The older woman behind him was uncharacteristically sombre, her usual ditzy facade discarded to reveal the steely seriousness beneath.
"Revenant. Piglet." It was a testament to the severity of the situation that it no longer felt surreal to be using code names. Anonymity was the norm now. "Come in."
The makeshift war room was the largest suite on the first floor of the derelict manor, its central feature a massive rectangular table covered with maps and various encrypted records, statistics and notes. Here, more than anywhere else, the scope and ambition of the overarching plan was staggeringly evident.
An impossible task, but as she'd once pointed out, plucking miracles out of thin air was part of the job description.
"I've got a preliminary scouting team lined up," Piglet said without preamble almost as soon as they were seated. "I managed to get the shortlist down to eight, but I need to know how many you can spare."
Amaranth shook her head. "I can't give you a full section. You can have two... three at most, and possibly four if you can justify it. But considering how things are going with Hammerhead, we're going to need all hands on deck at the permanent camps or this effort's just going to collapse. Mobile units just aren't a priority. Any additional personnel you require, you'll just have to find yourself."
"It has been over a year since the Battle of the Plains," Revenant pointed out. "Surely there has been some sort of progress in recalling those who were scattered then, and in the days after the disbanding of the Order? Now, more than ever, we are in need of such expertise."
The grimace he got in response was answer enough.
"How bad is it?" Piglet asked crisply.
"Worse than the initial situation we had back in Luminarre. They're civilians," Amaranth said bluntly. "The word is self-explanatory." She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "At this rate I'm going to have to start making cuts to the reformed Survey Teams. It was a nice idea while it lasted, but until and unless we get this new intake settled in, we just can't support their efforts. All of our resources need to be redirected to Hammerhead."
"Ah-ah. All of our existing resources," Piglet corrected, wagging a finger. "But I suppose that's why we're here. About time Operation: Peregrine got off the ground, hmm?"
Amaranth nodded and stood, planting her hands on the edge of the table and leaning over the map in front of her. "Here's what I need you to do..." |
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Changes
Posted: 06 Oct 2006 05:58 PM |
Nostalgia overtook him when he made his way to the Manor, a bundle of tied papers in his hand, ordered and written in perfect fashion. He looked back to where he has just been. Everything has changed, but the places he visited remained the same. How could anything remain the same when so much else has changed beyond return?
He remembered when Umber Stockade fell to the kobold invasion. How the entire academy, hell, the entire Midoran military, went abuzz with casting blame and find a scapegoat for that mess up. Midor did a good job covering for that failure, even after they had to evacuate a second stockade keep watch over the Realm the Mountain King. Not many really remember these names anymore; all they recognize is the Kobold Fortress, as if it had always been such!
That was the least of it. Never did he think relics from the academy would return to haunt him now, when they have all burned with it in His wrath. It was a sad comfort to think all was gone, and even that pathetic little hope was gone as memories flooded all over again when he witnessed what was once his training ground. Diamond Stockade still stood there, in the deeps of the forest. Any paladin would know that place; it was their home away from home, where training took place where the academy was not suitable; not everything could be conducted in stone halls and closed rooms, and paladins were as much soldiers as any Midoran legionnaire, even more so.
He even saw a place of certain infamy in his days at the military. Obsidian Outpost, a daring Midoran project overtaken by clowns and buffoons who could not manage a small hut, let alone a complicated project such as a small fortress tasked with the regulation of Midoran activity outside its borders, as well as keeping guard over an entire fortress of orcs. Every officer and paladin at the military in the last fifteen years was taught of Deathtrap Disaster – how the personnel of Obsidian Outpost failed at every task they were given up to the point they literally paved the way for an orc invasion of their outpost. The High Paladin himself judged the surviving officers who escaped that disaster, and what should have been an execution ended merely in stripping them from rank and duty – all for the sake of keeping this cataclysm away from the eyes of the public.
In his hand, Revenant now held what might change these places from what they have been to the reality that was forced upon him and the others. |
WickedArtist: I think he needs a proper elf.
WickedArtist: A christmas elf!
Tasra: Any sort of elf that actually smiles ;o
Gasp! Scandalous!!! |
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The Bitter Cold
Posted: 16 Dec 2006 09:16 AM |
((Written nearly a month ago, but posted late due to collaboration/editing/checking by PCs involved))
They arrived in the dead of night, the date specifically having been selected for coinciding with the New Moon.
Illumini was the first one in, entering the Villa via the cellar door invisibly and making his way from the basement to check every room. Six minutes later he returned to the group waiting in the wooded foothills of Asashi, giving a wordless all-clear.
It took most of the night to strip the place of the resources they needed and load it up into the wagon in the woods. The trip through Gladden, the winter lands and around Sunix was going to be a long and hazardous one, but that was what Illumini was for.
Not to mention the three mages who'd volunteered to take time off the La Sapienza project for this. That had been an unexpected boon, but a welcome one.
By the time De La Rosa and Sanner were done coordinating the loading, it was nearly dawn. A signal from Sanner; the mages cloaked the wagon in a bubble of invisibility and they set off.
~*~
Over in Spiderweb, they were siphoning away as many resources as possible without compromising the two jobs they'd committed themselves to. Khadros, as usual, seemed to trust that they knew what they were doing and didn't seem to mind. Xaranthir had mercifully not pressed them for details, even going as far as temporarily asking three of his mages to take time off his pet project to assist them. "Just returning the favour," had been his enigmatic explanation.
After they'd cleared out what they needed from the makeshift war room, Lillian had turned it over to Xaranthir for his portal research. She'd pitched Kelten's proposition of selective arcane training during her first spellcraft lesson, and he'd been receptive to it. It dovetailed nicely with his own burgeoning ideas for education; the discussion had eventually taken a turn towards the concept of teaching the responsible and prudent practice of magic and making it an essential part of the curriculum.
"Ethical arcanology," he remarked wryly. "Only Midorans could have come up with such a concept. It's a good idea, so long as it doesn't involve doing anything silly such as setting up a Magocracy."
"Hardly. Consider it the wizarding version of the Academy."
He didn't know what it was the beginning of. He couldn't possibly have known. He would never see Quinlann.
~*~
Clearing out the attic that the Lacrimosa team used was three weeks' worth of work; moving everything in and setting it up took three days. Following in Midor's footsteps, a trend had developed towards becoming more inwards-focused and pulling in all outlying resources to stop themselves from being spread too thin... but for an entirely different reason:
Survival.
To do anything less would have resulted in extinction.
It was the longest and coldest glacille on record, the cold season more vicious and stormy this year than any previous. They'd lost a lot of ground and a lot of time, simple tasks that ought to have been accomplished long ago only now being finally carried out.
Aerie was the prime example. Sanner's efforts kept the situation there from degenerating into utter disaster. Kelten's assured there would be a future after the cold season was over.
What everyone knew but no one said, by mutual consent, was that it was only going to get harder from here. Today. Tomorrow. Next year. And for the rest of their lives. |
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A Glimmer of Hope
Posted: 16 Dec 2006 09:16 PM |
The talk with Madeline Sanner had hurt. The things she'd said. The things she'd promised. Natarsha Stiletto limped across the room, the tavern's crowd magically parting before her try-it-and-you'll-be-sorry glare.
One bullseye accusation after another, tearing easily through thin defences and excuses. It had not been unexpected. Perhaps, deep down, she'd been hoping that someone would come along and say how wrong they were. That way they wouldn't have to admit it themselves. Someone else could take the responsibility. Someone else could make the decision for them.
But the offer...
The offer had come as a surprise.
She didn't remember plodding up the stairs to her inn room. She was only aware of staggering inside and collapsing, exhausted and still aching from that encounter on the Northern Highway with the local bandits, her thoughts warring chaotically over this new development.
A chance to make things right again.
A long-forgotten feeling creeping insidiously upon her, the feeling that this was unquestionably the right thing to do. No doubts, no questions, no fear.
A memory of what it meant to be a Midoran.
When the others came back, she would tell them of the decision she'd made on their behalf. And she would not take no for an answer. |
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The Season of Midoran, Part I: Week of Darkness
Posted: 22 Dec 2006 05:04 AM |
The five of them arrived as promised, meeting at the northern outpost dubbed "Temple" on a still and starless night.
Lance Vandemar looked older than Madeline remembered him, the weight of hard decisions—and wrong ones at that—adding years to his face that hadn't been there eight months ago. He looked physically and mentally drained, and even a little relieved. This was not the loud, brash youth who'd demanded decisive and drastic action against Midor at the beginning of the year: this was a desperate young man who'd tripped and fallen a long, long way into bloody darkness and was now clinging to the lifeline that Sanner had extended to his errant team. Then there was Natarsha Stiletto, more jittery than ever, her gaze twitching from shadow to shadow at every whisper of movement. Cherita Larisse and Dorson Dalle bore the same signs of exhaustion and quiet despair that Lance did; and Quia Zasie appeared almost literally out of nowhere, a tense edginess marring her usual poise.
Lindeman ran every check he could think of on them, confiscating their weapons and anything that could—within reason—potentially become one. A difficult task, and he knew it: they'd been selected for Nightshade based on their creativity and resourcefulness. Between Quia's Asashi training and Cherita's ability to turn even something as innocuous as a hair pin into a weapon, they were a formidable and dangerous group. Madeline could only hope that she'd judged correctly when she'd made the offer to Stiletto last week: that there was still some shred of honour and basic decency left within them that could be tapped, appealed to, trusted.
It had been—no, it still was—the hardest part of adapting to life outside Midor. No more decisions made for you. No more magical solutions. No more perfect, crystal clear answers. Just human opinion and human judgement and so many, many leaps of faith to be made.
Lindeman finished up and caught her eye, giving a quick thumbs-up. Turning to the group without a further word, Madeline organised them into a single file and signalled that it was time to leave.
They were quick to respond, falling efficiently and obediently into line. Her opinion of them went up a notch; their field skills, at least, weren't rusty. They were still familiar with all the drills.
Good.
They were going to need it.
~*~
"Welcome," said Corinne Melles, "to Aerie."
She was a short, blonde woman just out of her twenties. Lance vaguely remembered her from when they'd both been in the newly-formed Conclave; the air of shy innocence she'd had then had been completely shattered, replaced by the cool professionalism of a veteran nurse. Eight months ago, she'd given every impression of being a conceited little lady of Midor; now, it was impossible to mistake her for anything but an active field medic.
There was little in the way of introductions, and the tour was brief and to the point. When it was done, she questioned them quickly on their abilities, handed them appropriate assignments, and bustled away to resume her work without skipping a beat.
Midoran efficiency at its best. Lance didn't even stop to think about it. Who had that sort of time? There was work to be done.
~*~
Time passed. A week passed and still they remained.
~*~
"The black armbands that everyone's wearing," said Natarsha Stiletto, carefully pouring out a measure of aloe essence. "What are they for?"
Corinne involuntarily touched the strip of black cloth wrapped around her upper arm. "It's the Week of Darkness."
Stiletto arched her eyebrows incredulously. "And you're celebrating it?"
"We are still Midorans," Corinne reminded her. A small smile crept upon her face. "Besides... we have something different in mind for this year."
~*~
It was an old and battered wagon, the cover haphazardly patched in places and more than one-third of it seared black by flame. One of the wheels was loose, and overall, it was miraculous that it held together at all: it looked like it could fall apart at any moment. They'd found it abandoned on the Wastelands and had since salvaged and repaired it.
Victoria De La Rosa's lips twitched into a wry smile. That about summed up their situation, really.
"Time's up," she announced, striding towards the ramp and peering up into the inside. "How goes the loading, Sanner?"
Standing between crates, barrels and who-knew-what-else crammed into the back of the wagon, Madeline Sanner glanced at her checklist and gave a brisk nod. "All present and accounted for, ma'am. The caravan's ready to deploy."
She hopped out of the wagon and secured the ramp, then pulled the cover down and began to thread it into place. De La Rosa stepped over and started on the other side.
"I hear we didn't get much in the way of scrolls," Victoria said quietly.
Sanner shook her head, her lips compressing into a thin line. "No, ma'am. Too expensive and not much in stock in the southern regions. We've sent a few people back north to obtain some, but we're not sure if they'll be able to afford it—especially with the ship fare to take into account as well."
"What about Nightshade?"
Another terse shake of the head from Sanner. "I've already asked them, ma'am."
De La Rosa pulled the rope tight and tied it off with more force than was really necessary. Their biggest encampment under quarantine, and they'd had to diagnose and combat the unknown disease with nothing but primitive medicine. The people they'd trusted had proven unreliable. The people they had no reason to trust had unquestioningly done a great deal of good and demanded nothing in return, not even answers or details. She didn't know whether to weep, laugh or strangle someone over the irony of it all.
"Are you ready for tomorrow?" she asked.
Madeline flashed a sudden grin, pushing back her cloak and planting a fist on her waist to show off the restored gold-and-silver Midoran armour beneath.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
~*~
Somewhere unknown he walked. He did not know how long he had been walking in this place full of so much white and so many doors.
Somewhere in the dream there were voices. Trent stopped before a gigantic tome that looked familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. It was open, empty save for one sentence:
The fate you make is the only fate you deserve.
Somewhere everywhere there were voices.
::{You are too late.}::
A sound beneath sound, words that were not words. Ideas and dreams drifting through nothing and given shape, given form, interpreted into language. Even though they were in no language.
He said nothing.
::{The world's energies are finite. If you come seeking what you have lost, we cannot give it to you. We have already given and there is none left to give. Once it is given, it is gone. Once it is discarded, it cannot be retrieved.}::
"I haven't come," he said into the silence that was full of sound that was not sound, "for what I've lost. I wouldn't take it if you offered."
::{Then what is it that you seek?}::
"I've come on behalf of my people," he said quietly. "Not for myself."
A stillness so absolute that it felt as if time had stopped.
::{Your plight is known to us. We cannot use our power to save your people. The balance of power is delicate and has been abused so much that to use our power to do so would likely result in the world's destruction.}::
Trent shook his head. "I'm not asking you to save them either. I'm just asking for one miracle."
::{Name it and we will consider.}::
He said eight words.
There was no hesitation. From everywhere as one all the voices replied in unison.
::{You shall have it.}:: |
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The Season of Midoran, Part II: Day of Light
Posted: 25 Dec 2006 12:10 PM |
Darkness.
Absolute darkness, the sort where you could hold your hand right in front of your nose and still not see it. Lance Vandemar no longer knew how long he'd been kneeling. Perhaps fifteen minutes. Perhaps two hours. Perhaps half a day.
Sunrise had seen the arrival of Madeline Sanner and a young man named Trent Kelten at Aerie, the traditional parade of the Day of Light more pointedly significant this year than any other. Riding ahead of the supply wagons, conspicuous in ceremonial Midoran white and gold, it was easy to see how Kramer and Sprenger had inspired a dying and desperate nation to believe that they would be led to salvation over a thousand years ago. Ordinarily, the parade of the Dawn of the True Light was a ceremonial affair. For them, this year, it was the real thing.
Unsurprisingly, Corinne Melles had been appointed Master of Ceremonies for the occasion. Eight months ago, it would have been a laughable idea; but with her newfound authority and confidence, it had been the most logical decision in the world.
My fellow Midorans, I am Corinne Melles, and I will be presiding as the Master of Ceremonies on this the one thousand and second anniversary of the Salvation from Darkness. I come before you bearing neither rank nor title, for we left those behind in Midor.
The words similar but not the same to those Lance had heard year in, year out. The evolution of tradition, as proposed so many months ago in Paws: building upon what already existed rather than discarding it.
Today marks the day that Father Sprenger and Sir Kramer came upon the City of Aristi, when it was in its darkest moment, and offered unto Midor the salvation of the True Light.
We believe now, as we did then, that we were not wrong in this. We believe in the existence of order. Order does not exist without deliberation. Deliberation is driven by sentient will.
This is the message and the faith that was delivered, a thousand and two years ago, to the dying city of Aristi: that order exists everywhere and always in everything in the world, that petty false gods and disasters are nothing before the might of the ultimate will in the world, that even in the worst of circumstances there is hope, and justice and order will always prevail without fail.
In retrospect they should have seen it coming. But there was a gap between hope and expectation; for all their beliefs and hopes, they had known better than to expect anything.
Or rather, they had thought they had known better.
My people, the origins of the parade can be found in the disease-ridden days of the Plague of Aristi. It is why we continue the tradition to this day: for the parade was not always the ceremonial show of discipline and drill that we know today. In ancient times, the word "parade" was associated with parading the sick and the dead. The parade ground was the place where the dead were carried to in corpse wagons. The parade of today... was a different sort of parade for the desperate and dying people of Aristi.
The remark had struck home, given the situation here in Aerie. Time had come around full circle, the parade earlier today less of a ceremony and more of an actual parade, as in ancient times when miracles had been few and far between and magic less common than it was now.
The day that Kramer and Sprenger entered the city marked a change in the tradition of parades: it marked the day that the word became something to celebrate rather than dread, for the appearance of these two blessed heroes marked the end of the darkness, the end of disease.
The gap—
In continuing the tradition of the parade of the Dawn of the True Light we demonstrate our hope—
—between hope—
—and our faith in the virtues which we aspired to as Midorans, and aspire to still. Justice. Temperance. Courage. And a myriad of virtues which uphold order, prove its existence in our day-to-day lives in subtle but significant ways.
—and expectation—
One thousand and two years ago, two harbingers of Midoran entered a dying city and brought about the dawn of a new age. This is our dawn. In place of Kramer and Sprenger, we have Kelten and Sanner; in place of the original patricians—there is us.
We do not know what the future holds for us, nor where our beliefs will lead us. Only that we are united in our belief and that we will face the future together.
—closed.
He could still see clearly, in his mind's eye, the two of them coordinating the unloading and distribution of supplies with a distinctly Midoran efficiency that he hadn't known still existed; he'd gotten the impression, at least from his time in Port Royale, that people preferred to sit around discussing getting things done rather than actually getting them done. They were ghosts from another time come back, perhaps one last time, to revive a belief that had become twisted, corrupted, shattered.
He could still see clearly, in his mind's eye, the two of them moving amongst the ranks of the sick.
He could still see clearly, in his mind's eye, the sickness vanishing like mist before the sun wherever they went.
Even in Midor's glory days, it was a feat that should have been several weeks' worth of work by a team of Midoran priests. The two of them swept through Aerie in a little over an hour, Sanner looking every bit as surprised as the victims and onlookers, and Kelten...
Kelten had looked grateful and relieved, but not entirely surprised.
Darkness.
Absolute darkness, the sort where you could hold your hand right in front of your nose and still not see it. Lance Vandemar no longer knew how long he'd been kneeling. Perhaps fifteen minutes. Perhaps two hours. Perhaps half a day.
Remembering how to pray. |
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