Viewing Single Post From: Final Flame

Viewing Single Post From: Final Flame
Sentrovasi	Jun 15 2007, 01:24 PM
White Night Posts: 278 Group: Dimension Warriors Member #1 Joined: June 3, 2007	A/N: Somebody replied! That's... almost a first, on the three forums I've posted this work. Quite a few people replied on the small one, then none replied on the big one... but, eh. I digress. The Next Four Chapters The Mardukwood loomed ahead of him, an aura of palpable darkness about it despite the sun which still shone overhead. He hadn’t spent too much time in Ceyl: the weapons store didn’t even provide ammunition. He smiled to himself as he remembered the primitive selection of weapons: swords, shields, staves, and a few mage accessories. He looked down at Fendred again, appreciating its beautiful, ornate design. One of a kind. You and me, both. With a vague feeling of unease, he approached the Mardukwood along the travellers’ path the barkeep had told him about. Clouds of sand and dust rose with every step he made; the route wasn’t very regularly used. To his left he could just make out a swathe of blue among the greens and browns of the plain. A tributary of one of the four rivers which poured into the Treistrom, it was to be his guide in his expedition through the wood. As the sun began to sink below the top of the mountains which bordered the wood, he came to a sharp turning in the road. It skirted around the forest in a wide arc that seemed a lot more elaborate than necessary. It’s almost as though they didn’t want to go anywhere near Mardukwood. It didn’t make sense; if Mardukwood was such a plethora of the Marduk tree, surely an industry would long have been built up close to its border. He took a few tentative steps off the path, toward the forest. The sky around him seemed to darken; it was a few seconds before he realized the towering peaks were blocking out the light around him. They say the Mardukwood is a place of perpetual twilight… He remembered the words now. He watched the shadows with a sense of apathetic disdain. If they plan to use darkness to trap a NeoShade… I guess the joke’s on them. Tipping his broad-brimmed hat in a silent salute, he ran forward, plunging himself into the darkness that was the Mardukwood. *** The shadows of the waning light washed over his figure as he made his way through the thick forest; the river, his guide, was a faint burbling in the shadows to his left. He’d decided not to follow it too closely. He had the foresight of mastering the Alchemagical ability to see in the dark, but a simple slip would still land him in a rather wet situation. He had no idea how long he’d travelled; intermittent bursts of ShadowWalking had left him the worse for wear. Pausing to take a breath, he leant himself against a tree, resting Fendred beside him; he still held it in his right hand, though: the tales of monsters in the woods could hardly be exaggerated. You can never tell a whole lie without a half-truth… It was impossible to tell what time it was: the sky was entirely blocked out by the thick canopy of trees at this point At least that means it can’t get much thicker… Sighing, he got back onto his feet, shaking his head to clear off the drowsiness. He hadn’t slept for two whole days already. The effect of the prolonged run was hitting him stronger than he’d thought. Cursing Zeles for even bringing up this job to him, he let Fendred lie against the side of the tree he leant on, using both hands to slap at the back of his neck. Gotta stay awake… what? There. Imperceptible, but there it was. Movement. Too late, he realized he’d made a mistake in loosing his grip on Fendred for even a second. A sound of buzzing winds behind him, and a loud slam, of wood against metal. Hurriedly he turned, watching as the winged Vox which had tried to steal his gun had dropped it against a tree in its haste. The creature resembled a snake, its eyes expressionless orbs of white light. The only feature which separated it from a really ugly snake were the two pairs of wings which sprung from its midsection. Among the superstitious, it was known as Nyx’ils: Death’s Pet. At that precise moment, a loud howling issued from his right. Whirling around again, he watched as four dark shapes made themselves apparent. Varos… so the tales were true. He watched in trepidation as the four shadows began to approach. More because Fendred was in their way than anything. Slowly, he got into a crouch and edged forward, approaching his gun, even as the Varos made the same approach. He knew in his mind that he’d be able to take them even at point-blank range, if only Fendred were in his hands. Branches raked his coat on either side, a fact he hardly noticed in the tension. Stealthily, he let his hand fall to his side, where a small, auxiliary dagger was stowed. I can’t believe I’m even doing this… Tensing, he judged the distance between the three parties involved. Fendred, the Varos, and himself. If he was lucky, he’d be able to reach the gun just as he was being mauled to pieces by the creatures. If he wasn’t, he would be mauled to pieces before… well. That was it, really. Left with no other recourse, he steeled himself to his only choice. The grip on his dagger doubled as he tensed to perform the manoeuvre. Three… two… “One!” he breathed, leaping forward at the Varos. Distracted, the creatures leapt over the gun towards him, even as he twisted to a side and flung himself downwards. In a deft movement, he had released the dagger, sending it flying toward the lead Varos. And then there was a miscalculation. There hadn’t been three parties: there had been four. With a horrible screech, Death’s Pet released a spray of acrid acid at the dagger, sending it spinning off-course and thumping into the nearest tree. Andreas cursed momentarily; in an instant he had landed on the ground, hard. Winded, he was cut off mid-curse. He had seconds… make that a second. The Varos were in frenzy now, and there was no more time. But there was one vital difference, now. Fendred lay on the ground just a few feet from him. With the last vestiges of his Alchemagical ability, he ShadowWalked once more. Time slowed to a crawl around him as he pulled his gun over his prone body in the few precious seconds he had bought. The last of his power exhausted, time jumped back into its normal continuum. The lead Varos was surprised, to say the least. Where a moment ago had been empty air, forged steel now barred the way. But even as it reeled away in pain at the blow, the other Varos leapt to fill the void, encircling him as he struggled to get to his feet. Let’s see what you’ve got… A tight grin stretched across his face as he brought the gun up to his chest. Two of the Night Wolves leapt toward him. A loud bang issued. The wolf on the left was catapulted backward by the force of the blow, assisted with the laces of Night Alchemagi Andreas had woven around the bullet. As he let his gun fly back with the recoil, he heard a satisfying snap as said Varos broke several of its vertebrae against a nearby tree. He had less than a second to position his gun; his eyes narrowed as the gun halted in mid-swing, right in the path of the other Varos. Its gaping maw spread wide, its eyes widened in horror as the momentum of its jump sent the barrel of the rifle right through its throat, snapping its spine as it continued its horizontal journey. The jaws slackened half an inch from Andreas’s fingertips. He put two rounds in it, just to be certain. Of course, the remaining Varos just had to get into the way of the second shot. Severe cerebral damage, not forgetting death, was instantaneous. He was in his element. There was no stopping this dance. The Vox, a creature too small to hunt alone, fled into the forest. Death. Nycta, today I pay homage. He shook the remains of the impaled Varos off Fendred, bowing in reverence of the fallen. It was then that he realized he’d made a second miscalculation. The first Varos had not been killed; merely stunned. And from the fetid stench washing over the back of his neck, revenge wasn’t going to take long to execute. In the few seconds that followed, a few thoughts occurred to him. Don’t panic. Stay calm. Don’t move a muscle. Move and it’ll bite. Panic. Get out of the way. Stay and get eaten. Or at least, horribly mangled. Darn it my hat fell on the ground again. In a single, deliberate action, he panicked and ran out of the way, ducking low and collecting his hat as he passed. The Varos, hungry for revenge (not to mention raw human flesh), raced along only a few steps behind. No human could outrun a Varos, he knew that. He had only one shot, and he knew it. Turning to ready Fendred once more, he took it. A loud shot rang out for the last time that night, and the last Varos fell dead in its tracks. Turning back to see where he was going, he blanched. Two seconds later found him sopping wet and cold. He had found the river. *** He stepped toward the window, drawing the curtains, closing off the bright, starlit night beyond. “No… that’ll be unnecessary.” Her voice rang out clearly in the semi-darkness. She watched as he hesitated for a moment. “Sister… you mean–” “Leave it open. Tundra… is no matter tonight.” Her voice was soft, but he knew that she would have her way, no matter what he said against it. She lifted a hand to her temple, and then across her chest: a traditional gesture of thanks, but also a sign that he was no longer needed. Nodding even as he frowned slightly, the man left the room. Sighing, she stood from the bed on which she sat, closing the door behind him. Slowly she walked to the window: for a moment she considered closing it herself, but then hesitation was past. She looked out the window at the night sky, recognizing the constellation of Yuradin, the Night Maiden. Looking across the sky, a field of stars hung, unobscured: more than she had ever seen on any other night. Taking a breath, she noticed that the air around her was cold enough that little white puffs formed even as she breathed. Slowly her gaze lowered, almost reluctantly, from the soft beauty of the evening stars to the solid firmness of the Huntfall mountain range in the distance. Just seventy miles past that lay the small town of Ceyl: she had never been there in her life, but tales of the Treistrom just caused her to wonder… She turned her gaze to the town of Terres which spread itself out around the base of the hill the Church was built upon. It had been said that the birth of Sanctus was what had caused this hill to form in what had then been flat, desolate land. The presence of a Weyr—Source of Power in the ancient tongue—changed all that, though. She’d heard stories of how the land had been metamorphosed under the shade of the Inner Tree. Even now it was a sight to behold: the area around the Inner Garden where Sanctus grew was filled with flora and fauna alike, and it wasn’t just that. One felt the sensation of life within the place, the full force of all of life’s joys and mysteries. It was rapture. But it wasn’t to be enjoyed. Everyone knew, of course, that the experience was simply a result of the huge amount of Alchemagical power within the chamber. It was the same energy that granted Priests and Priestesses alike to heal the wounded, calm the troubled, and generally quell the unrest. Like many of the other Acolytes within the building, she had been an orphan, who had spent most of her childhood within the confines of the Church’s caretaking facilities. She owed it to them, then, for the way her life was working now. She didn’t exactly mind: helping people was something she’d always loved to do, but sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder what might’ve happened… A knock on the door. Tentative. Startled, she stepped away from the window: conscious of how cold it was getting for the first time, she shuttered them. Two more knocks, more insistent this time. “Sister, the High Priestess has called for you.” A muffled voice spoke through the door. Not fully aware of what was going on, she reached the door and pulled it open even as the person outside tried knocking again. “Sister—oh. I’m sorry to call so late, Sister, but there is some urgent need to which the High Priestess demands your presence.” She wasn’t surprised by the formal tone, but she was taken aback to be speaking to someone younger than she was: thirteen or fourteen by the looks of it. A Novice with news for her of the High Priestess’ requiring her attendance: for a moment, she wasn’t sure if she had heard right. “Sister… by High Priestess, you mean…” “Yes. High Priestess Riane, sister. She awaits your arrival in the Audience Chamber.” At this hour of the night…? She didn’t voice her unspoken question, but just thanked the Novice again, and waited for her to leave. As she heard her departing footsteps, she checked herself in the hall mirror before making her way toward the Audience Chamber. Me, a humble Acolyte, being called upon by the High Priestess herself? In the hierarchy of the Church there were many ranks to which many men and women were placed. The lowest level, the Novices, usually were of those from age twelve to sixteen: they were mostly errand-boys and the like. Further up were the Acolytes, Novices of sufficient calibre and above the age of sixteen: hopefully mature enough to make the right decisions and control their powers. They normally acted as proxy in less important functions or else were attached to a particular Priest for experience. Above the age of twenty-four, the Priests and Priestesses came in. Those devoted to serving Lenval and Sanctus were allowed to take this rank, in which they’d perform healings, take confessions, and perform some of the more important rites and services. Some were dispatched to other towns, to act in their churches. Then there were the Cardinals: they were the penultimate rank: seven of them, in their waning years, who took precedence in events of law and order, as well as performing some of the sacred rites. Important services (on festival days, for one) were also conducted by them. Last of all came the High Priest. In a theocracy, what he said was law, and it was by his judgement alone that the boundaries of good and evil were clearly defined. He presided over the most important affairs, and his word would be taken as though from Lenval itself. At least, that’s what she had been taught. And now she would finally get to meet her. The High Priestess, Riane. She wondered about what was going to happen for a moment: she still wasn’t sure she had broken any protocol. Then again, expulsion was usually left to the Priests or Cardinals: the Priestess had little reason to see anyone. As she walked down the narrow hallway toward the Audience Chamber, she turned her head to the windows which lined the hall once more, watching the night sky glimmer peacefully back at her. The moon, Yuris, hung lazily in the sky, as though watching her from its perch. Unsure of what to expect, she wondered what it thought of all of this. In the dreams of the future, which only Lenval might possibly conceive. *** She stopped at the doors of the audience chamber, glancing at her reflection in its glossy surface. Trying to check her attire despite the large emblem of the Inner Tree taking up a large part of the door, she brushed down the Acolyte’s robe she had hurriedly cast over herself, tying the sash around her waist in an attempt to appear neat. Brushing her chestnut hair down with her fingers, she took a breath and stepped toward the set of doors. Composing herself for the last time, she pushed the door open and stepped into the room. The audience chamber was a vast circular room, with row upon row of seats situated in a rough ring about the Speaker’s Podium, a raised platform situated in the exact centre of the room. The seats were built in such a fashion that the ones further at the back were higher than those near the front, leading to the room being of a concave fashion, and, she noted, severe neck-ache to those seated at the front. Traditionally, festival observations were held here, though the High Priestess sometimes held important public congregations in the same chamber. Stepping into the room, she closed the door as silently as she could behind her, before turning to look about the room. There was no one there. Well, that was an understatement. There was one person there. The High Priestess stood alone, just to a side of the podium. She was conscious of the echoes her steps made as she walked down toward the centre dais where the High Priestess stood: at the sound, she turned toward her, her movements betraying little hint of surprise, if indeed she felt any. Now, as she neared the platform, she noticed that there was one other in the room. A bird of some sort: a falcon, if her knowledge of avian beings proved correct. Stepping up onto the dais, she came face to face with the High Priestess for the first time. Her name was Riane: that much she knew. Everything else about her was a mystery. She had only caught glimpses of her, before, during the festivals in which she had been called to preside over. Now, meeting her for the first time, she found herself surprised at how young she looked. She looked closer to her own age of nineteen than the thirty-odd years that she’d have at least expected. Realizing that she’d been staring, she caught herself sharply and turned away: the High Priestess had not spoken. She wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good sign. Heaving a sigh, she mustered the courage to speak. “Y-you summoned me, Kiran’din?” The High Priestess, despite her position, seemed taken aback by the way she had addressed her: it probably didn’t feel quite so good to be addressed as an elder by one your age. “I did… but before I get into anything, it wouldn’t hurt if you dropped the formalities. If you like, you can just call me Riane.” She flinched involuntarily at that, because it seemed almost an affront to tradition. Bowing her head a little, she wondered if it was her self-discipline or her fear that held her back. Tentatively, she tried to respond. “Yes… High Priestess… Riane…” Her voice came out halting, as though she couldn’t quite find the words. The High Priestess seemed amused at that, though. She inclined her head, and opened her mouth to speak. But then came a complication. “I don’t suppose you’d care to hurry things up before my agent gets a little impatient, do you…?” She started at that. For a second she’d thought… “Never seen a talking bird, have you? Not even a macaw?” At that last, she turned incredulously to the falcon she’d seen perched on the podium. The High Priestess laughed softly, and then rushed in to clear the situation. “I’m sure you’ve been paying attention to your lessons. This creature is a Vol’sera… one of the windfolk…” She nodded her understanding. Of course she remembered her lessons about the Ancient Tongue: her name—Sera—meant Wind, after all. Her full name Fyseradin meant Graceful Wind, but Sera was far easier on the tongue. Others, too, had shortened names: she knew of another acolyte named Cyrrenaru—Dream Cloud. That girl was known to almost everyone else as Serena. She still wasn’t quite sure why the Church insisted on naming each of their adopted children in such a fashion: she suspected it had much to do with tradition. “… and so Zeles, as she is called, is bonded to a NeoShade of the Eastern Reaches.” She started. Snapping back into reality, she hoped she hadn’t missed anything. The High Priestess smiled at her bemusedly before continuing. “The NeoShade—” she spoke again, but this time she was interrupted. “NeoShade… Kir—High Priestess?” she interjected. It was only a second after that her face coloured, as she realized she had interrupted her. Surprisingly, though, the High Priestess didn’t seem to be annoyed. Rather, she seemed pleasantly surprised. Unsure of what to make of it, she waited for her response. “It’s always interesting to know just how varied an education you’re given. It’s no wonder you haven’t been taught about the NeoShades though: they serve a Weyr less than reputable.” “You mean… Nycta…?” her eyes widened as she realized the portent of the existence of such a group of people. The High Priestess nodded slowly. “The House of Shadows. Legendary abode of Kyarnyx, Lord of Shades,” she continued, bringing her hand up to the Tree around her neck even as she mentioned the name. “However, these NeoShades are not to be feared. They are mere mercenaries: not the agents of darkness.” She nodded mutely to all of this: she remembered her lessons about the eternal struggle between Lenval and Kyarnyx. Lenval, the holy valley from which Voltehr—the People—had been created, had let its proxy remain on the earth: a seed which grew into Sanctus, the Inner Tree. Its eternal nemesis, Kyarnyx, had left his own home to rot as he left Gaean to itself: the essence of the house had spread about the soil about it, binding it to the worldthread, gaining the epithet Nycta in addition to its original name, the House of Shadows. Looking up, she realized she’d been drifting again. Looking up into the eyes of the High Priestess, she noticed that she had been waiting for her to snap out of it. A little embarrassed, she smiled sheepishly and motioned for her to continue. “You sure you chose correctly?” a voice quipped from the side. Ignoring Zeles, High Priestess Riane continued. She realized that the Priestess was but a human like herself, and was gratified for the liberties she’d been allowed to take. Now, she tried her best to listen without drifting. “So… as I was saying, I have called for the services of this Vol’sera’s agent: an Alchemist, I believe. I’ve called you here because I believe that you have the skill necessary to assist him in the accomplishing of a mission I have planned.” Startled by the revelation, she was unable to respond for a moment, even as the High Priestess seemed to wait for her reply. She wasn’t even a Priestess yet: she was a mere Acolyte, and yet, the High Priestess seemed to have more faith in her than in any of the higher-ups. She wasn’t sure if she should ask the obvious question. And then there was the prospect of working with a NeoShade. She had never heard of one, but she didn’t feel very comfortable working with someone bound to darkness. Though, she had never had a chance to meet an Alchemist before: those in the Church were mostly Magicians: the major difference lay in that while Magicians Created, Alchemists Imbued. Magicians didn’t need any interface to use their power, while Alchemists had to channel their energy into objects. Finally, there was the mission she mentioned. Intrigued though she was, she didn’t want to risk anything without first knowing what she would be risking it for. Deciding, she looked up at the High Priestess. “High Priestess—” she was silenced by a look from the woman. She wasn’t sure what she meant, though: it seemed annoyed, in a friendly way. “High… Riane…” she let the word slip past her lips: the High Priestess smiled. “Riane, what is the mission going to be, exactly…?” she was still tentative about the first-name terms they’d graduated to, but she pressed on, nonetheless. At this, Riane smiled mischievously. “You’ll find out tomorrow. You and him both.” “Us… both? But I thought he was in the Eastern Reaches… that’s a pretty long way from here.” Riane nodded. “Ordinarily, yes: but the Church has established a Gatekeeper in the Eastern Reaches: it makes things a lot easier for us.” “A Gatekeeper…?” She’d heard stories of the existence of such an Alchemagical artefact, but she’d never believed much in them: they were the stuff of legends. She turned her head a moment to survey the room around her: her world was growing far larger than she’d ever thought it would. Far larger than Terres: larger even than the Huntfall pass. The Eastern Reaches was a place she’d dreamed about, but even so… “When will he be arriving, then…? Miss… Riane?” Riane shrugged. “Dawn tomorrow, at the earliest. I gave him three days.” The she-falcon made her presence known for the third time with an elaborate wing flapping. There was a sound like a throat being cleared, and then she spoke again. “If I know Andreas, he’ll be here before dawn tomorrow. He’s the type who can never resist a good offer.” Riane nodded. “Fifteen thousand gala should be a lot for a mercenary like himself.” “Fifteen thousand…?” Inwardly, she gasped at the amount of money Riane had offered the mercenary: she’d never even seen a thousand gala in the same place. The High Priestess finished consulting the windfolk, and with a few nods, the falcon flew out the skylight in the ceiling. Turning to her, the High Priestess smiled and motioned for her to leave with the customary touch to the forehead and across the chest. She turned to leave, unsure if the question should be left unasked. Stepping out the door, she stopped. Unable to hold it in, she turned on her heel to face the High Priestess once more. “Miss Riane, are you sure it’s okay to trust a mercenary like him…?” fearing to say more, she trailed off without finishing her question. The High Priestess watched her for a moment, and then winked surreptitiously. “If he gets out of hand… well; that’s what I chose you for.” And with a wave of her hand, the doors closed in front of her, leaving an acolyte named Sera to wonder just what Lenval had cast upon her. *** “Sister… wake up…” Moaning, she turned away from the source of the noise, pulling the sheets tighter over her bare arms. Tundra’s chill sure was coming fast… “Sister, wake up…!” The insistent voice was getting irritating: she moaned again, trying to muffle the sound with the soft pillow she lay on. She didn’t want to wake up… not just yet… “I’m sorry I’ve got to do this, Sister Sera, but you must wake up!” She ignored the voice again: but this time she shouldn’t have. In another instant, she felt the cold impact as thousands of icy needles seemed to pierce her skin, eliciting a startled yelp as she tumbled out of the covers, sopping wet in freezing water. Standing beside her was the same Novice who had summoned her the previous night: an empty bucket in her hands told her all she needed to know. She shivered as she got to her feet, looking down at her soaked top. Her shorts were dry, mercifully, but she would have to change, and maybe get a hot shower before… “Sister Sera, the High Priestess has called for you!” Startled out of her thoughts, she looked incredulously at the Novice for a moment. Not at this time in the morning…? But then she realized it must’ve meant that the NeoShade had arrived. Whatever it was though, she didn’t have any time to waste. Looking ruefully at herself in the mirror, she tried to dry her hair off best as she could, and then pulled on her robe and a pair of boots before dashing out of her room. There was nary a soul awake at this time of the morning: save for the Novice she’d left behind, anyway. Her footsteps echoed as she traced the path she’d taken before, her robe fanning out behind her as she ran. She still shivered from the ice-cold of the morning air: her chest was almost entirely numb. I don’t think I’ll ever ignore a wake-up call again… She smiled a little even as she reached the corridor she wanted. Slowing down to catch her breath, she placed a hand on her chest and invoked a little Alchemagi charm. Almost immediately she felt the warmth around her grow palpable: the cold being driven away by the spell she’d cast. She could enjoy it for another ten minutes… But then she stopped herself. The High Priestess herself was waiting for her. She patted down her still-wet top in an attempt to make it less noticeable, and then tied her robe about her. Now at least she looked halfway presentable. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the Audience Chamber once more. There were three figures there now: two she recognized, one she did not. High Priestess Riane was sitting in one of the front-row seats: her long, straight black hair was clue enough. The Vol’sera, Zeles, was still positioned atop the podium, as though surveying the scene. There was another figure there, though: a tall one, leaning against the side of the central dais. Despite the wide-brimmed hat which kept his face from view, she could see that his hair was an astonishingly bright blue in colour: along the ponytail which he kept, a streak of white could be seen. Intrigued, she made special note of the polished gun he carried: its gleam was unmistakeable even from a distance. Definitely the NeoShade High Priestess Riane had mentioned. Yet, even as she found her curiosity piqued, something else stirred within her as well. She could almost feel the aura about him: it was unlike most of the Alchemagicians she’d ever come in contact with. It was unfamiliar, and almost reminded her of the dungeons Terres held: she’d seen them only once before, but she’d know that scent anywhere. Death. He feels like Death. Her mind echoed with a certainty that frightened her. Yet, she knew that he was different from that which she reviled so deeply. He felt like Death, but it was different from that of the dungeons and the gallows. He was… somehow… clean. It was Death, but it clearly wasn’t evil. Confused, she shook her head, even as she noticed that Zeles had spotted her. Slowly she walked down the stairs toward the centre dais, conscious but uncomfortable of the NeoShade’s gaze upon her. Riane stood, and turned to greet her as well. She was happy that Riane treated her as an equal, but that felt just as uncomfortable. The man spoke first, his voice a strange combination of youthful exuberance and layered caution. “So this is the princess, eh…?” His eyes never left her, as though appraising her worth: they lingered on her limp hair and soaked top. Feeling discomfited, she attempted to reply. “What… what do you mean, princess…?” she looked desperately over at the High Priestess, but she seemed to want them to make the introductions themselves. “What I mean, princess…” he sighed, raising the brim of his hat as he looked her in the eye, “what I mean, is that you’ve kept us waiting for half an hour. And that’s pretty ***ed princess-like to me.” Now that she could see his face properly, she realized that he wasn’t really very old, either. His eyes burned with a bright intensity despite the weariness she read in his other features. His clothes were wet as well, though it seemed like they were already almost dry. Probably the reason why he seemed so worked up. Stifling a yawn, she looked to Riane to see if any help was forthcoming. When none came, she decided she had to at least try* to make something work out. Proffering a hand to him, she shivered against the cold as she tried to make an introduction. “Sera Fydin, Acolyte of the Church, at your service.” For a moment, it looked like he was going to ignore her. He looked awkwardly at the proffered hand a moment, his gaze incredulous as she made her introduction. As though unsure of what to do, he switched his gun from his right hand to his left, and then reached out to take her hand. For a moment, it seemed like the aura about him had dissipated, somewhat. “Andreas Moonlock, NeoShade: a pleasure, princess.” But she wasn’t quite listening: she was stunned by his gun-switching. He’d done it like it was second-nature to him, but the speed at which he’d performed it was extraordinary. Her mind had barely registered the passing of the gun between hands, and then it was over. But it was more than that. She remembered the instant when the gun had switched hands: she saw it now, even as he brought his hand up to shake hers: Blood. His gun was polished, true, but she’d noticed the flecks of red on the muzzle: somehow, somewhere, he’d killed something. Instinctively, she pulled her hand back a fraction. A fraction which he’d noticed. His hand paused, and then he let it fall to his side again. Shrugging, he tipped his hat over his eyes one more time. The aura of Death fell about him like an impenetrable veil. Sheepishly, she withdrew hers, looking to the High Priestess for a third time. “Well, now that we’re done with the introductions, are you or aren’t you going to tell me where the money comes in?” He’d spoken before she had a chance to say anything. She froze; mortified at the way he’d just addressed the High Priestess. Incredibly, though, Riane hardly seemed to mind. She glanced between the two of them, then spoke at last. “Well… Andreas, Sera, I guess it’s time for me to reveal your task to you. I’m sure that Zeles would have told you before that you were to help us eradicate the Asroni threat, correct?” Sera frowned inwardly: the Asroni heathens were definitely causing problems for the Church, especially in recent times. Dispatching them with mercenaries was a tasteless… but possibly necessary measure. She turned to Andreas, who nodded slowly, but then seemed to gather the resolve, and quickly shook his head. “Yeah… but that isn’t it. I know the Church. This isn’t your style.” The High Priestess smiled. “Indeed: that was merely a cover. Your true task lies elsewhere. Do you still have the pendant I told Zaph to hand to you?” Entirely confused by the events about her, she watched as Andreas nodded and removed a small miniature of the Tree from his pocket. She was surprised that he could even touch it. As she stared curiously, Andreas interpreted her thoughts and actions. “Yes, princess, it’s official. I can touch and hold your precious pendant.” He rolled his eyes and dropped the pendant into Riane’s waiting hand. The High Priestess weighed it in her hand for a moment, and then nodded. Looking to Sera, she offered the pendant to her. “… Me?” The High Priestess nodded, taking her hand and pressing the pendant into her palm. “I don’t care how… or where… you wear this. Just keep it safe, and with you at all times.” She looked at the pendant in her hand: it was very intricately carved: a work of silver and emerald that looked precious beyond anything she’d ever worn. The metal felt warm against her cold hands: she put it into a pocket, making a mental note to find something to wear it with. She looked to the Priestess again. “What… what is this for…?” The Priestess sighed, her eyes searching their faces as though unsure of how they’d react. “It’s one of the five keys to the relic of yore: the Fyrzenval. In the common tongue, it’s—“ “Final Flame…” Andreas breathed. “It’s the key to the Final Flame.” Riane nodded slowly. “At least one of you has been learning it right. The Final Flame. It has been said that it has the power to grant the flames of eternal life, or the embers of total destruction upon Gaean. “Legend has it that these keys appear only once every five thousand years. This is the year 4893 NT. Do either of you know what NT stands for…?” This time Sera knew the answer. But her reply was tentative, almost fearful. The knowledge had never seemed so grave before. “Nak’tnog. After Destruction. Does that mean… Gaean was damaged by the Final Flame five thousand years ago…?” Everyone was silent now. Destruction of that magnitude would mean… “The Rift…” Zeles spoke from behind them all, causing Sera to jump a little. Andreas, on the other hand, looked wearier than ever. “That’s it… the Rift.” Bewildered, Sera shivered again: but her wet clothing had little to do with it this time. “The Rift… you mean, the Great Divide?” Andreas shrugged, as Riane signalled with her eyes for him to continue. “Call it what you will, but that’s a huge gash in the surface of our world. Impossibly huge masses of seawater plunge into its depths every single day. A gash that big must’ve been caused by something like…” “The Final Flame.” Riane’s voice took the story up now. “Yes; the Flame has returned to our realm again, and those who wish themselves power might find it too pretty a prize to let go of, regardless of the consequences. “If only a person of pure heart might wish for peace from the flame, then disaster may be averted for another five thousand years. The flame wants to destroy. It wants to hurt the world. It will do everything within its power to bring the keys to itself, and then influence the bearer of the keys to visit death upon the world. “My only recourse is to hand this pendant to you, Sera.” Sera took two steps back, the sheer magnitude of the mission beyond her comprehension. Andreas stepped in front of her. “Hold on a sec… you show us this pendant and expect us to believe that the Final Flame is really coming? I mean: it’s a fairytale at best. If you haven’t got any proof, I don’t think I should be risking my life on a wild goose chase.” Riane nodded slowly. “I can’t give you any proof now, but if you wait another few weeks, then you’d see.” Sera looked up; the gravity in Riane’s voice was too much to ignore. “What do you mean…?” Riane cast an arm out over the many windows around them. “Tundra… Fyrre… have you noticed how cold it has become in the past few weeks? Or how warm, perhaps, where you come from, Andreas?” Andreas nodded grudgingly. “It has been warmer than usual, but that doesn’t—” Riane nodded once more. “Like I said: in a month, you will have confirmation of my words; until then, though…” Andreas sighed, bringing his gun up upon his shoulder. Tipping his hat over his face once more, he looked over at Sera, then back at Riane. “Fifteen thousand gala, you said?” Riane nodded, removing a small pouch from her side. “All in hundred-gala chips. Five thousand for travelling expenses.” The man nodded, pocketing the money. Sera watched the exchange, still unable to fathom what was going on. She’d been thrust into something far larger than she knew: more than the mercenary knew as well, quite obviously. But… how? How can he remain so callous when the situation’s so dire…? She turned her thoughts away from the enigmatic stranger, choosing instead to focus her attention on the High Priestess. “Your first task will be to head south to the town of Oasis, near the edge of the Fyrveldt. The first Key was found here: Sanctus’ mark. It is of my opinion that another Key might be found near Fyrre, the Well of Fire.” “Fine,” Andreas nodded, “we leave this evening. I need some rest after everything I’ve had to do to get here.” Sera didn’t want to know what ‘everything’ might have been. The blood on his gun was a chilling reminder of how little she knew of this stranger. She watched as he left the chamber, wondering if she could’ve treated him differently. But then he stopped, and turned again. “High Priestess, I’ve got a question for you.” Riane raised an eyebrow, motioning for him to continue. “I can understand why you might’ve picked the princess, but why me? There’re thousands of other NeoShades in the world: I don’t think you just picked my name out of a book.” Riane looked him over, as though appraising him in turn. He waited impatiently for an answer: Sera recognized the same question within herself. Why me? At length, Riane finally replied. “It’s Lenval’s whim, I guess. The instant I noticed your Vol’sera, I instinctively picked her: not the many other Carriers I’ve seen—her. “But why? It’s not just because she can talk, is it? Many other Carriers I’ve seen can speak as well—it’s just…” Riane seemed mildly surprised at this. Sera suspected that at this point, Andreas was as clueless as she was. “Zeles… you mean you haven’t…” Riane nodded, as though in understanding, though the falcon had said nary a word. “Lenval’s whim. Let’s leave it at that. I’ll meet you again this evening: do rest up.” With that, the discussion was closed. Just like that. Sera watched as Riane moved up another passageway to her private quarters, and then turned to watch the retreating silhouette of Andreas Moonlock. Mysteries: too many of them. Were they all just whims of Lenval thrust upon the chaotic board of life? Were they just leaves futilely fighting the hurricane rush of wind? She stepped out of the chamber, shivering in the cold air that was the night. The wet cloth clung to her sensitive skin, even as Tundra’s tendrils played across her body. Gritting her teeth against the cold, she concentrated on getting back into bed. For now, the future could take care of itself; at least, she reminded herself, I once thought it could.


Final Flame · Original Fiction