Viewing Single Post From: [PG-15] The Seekers

Viewing Single Post From: [PG-15] The Seekers
Sentrovasi	Nov 15 2007, 01:21 PM
White Night Posts: 278 Group: Dimension Warriors Member #1 Joined: June 3, 2007	I thought you all might like to know exactly what I'm doing this month for the event which I'm sure at least one of you must've heard of... the NaNoWriMo, where we attempt to write 50000 words in a month. I'm 12000 words behind schedule, but meh, this'll just be a good way for me to get inspiration to keep writing, I guess. Now I'll just copy the whole code over from another forum I put it on. The Seekers - Contents Episode Zero 00 - The Seeking Episode One 00 - In Search of Pandora 01 - Too Many Questions 02 - Death By Any Other Name - In Progress Author's Note: As this is my NNWM 2007 entry, please note that it'll probably be less edited than I'd like, and might go off of tangents at points. Oh, and that I only have about three weeks to write 40000 words =3 Episode Zero The Seeking The gleam of a steel knife in the darkness confirmed her suspicions. The question wasn’t a difficult one to answer: kill or be killed. It was one of the perennial questions of life. Questions with only one answer: questions which prompted decisions which cut, like a blade, through any loose threads which might have once held up a bridge one might no longer cross. Questions which left one no time to think; only to move: to act, so as to live. So why was this paragraph so damned long? She leapt to a side, turning her body so the dagger only caught the side of her open vest: she hardly felt any resistance as it tore a neat slit across it, so keen was its blade. The rush of wind which succeeded the slash was a chilling reminder of how close it’d been to actually wounding her: her skin seemed to tense against the deceptively gentle caress which threatened to numb her senses. She hadn’t expected any of this… Then again, why shouldn’t she have? She barely had time to chastise herself as she dodged a second slash from her adversary: he was nimble, but not especially well-trained. Leaping back, she watched as his wild swing overbalanced him just a little: with the proper encouragement… She unsheathed the slim knife she’d strapped against her thigh as she made to attack, herself: if she couldn’t take him out, she’d have no chance of getting any further with the mission. At the same time, she knew that any commotion would force her to retreat. Killing an agent was enough cause for her to have come in the first place, but she knew well enough that her client would not take the same view. With trained dexterity, she brought the hilt of the knife crashing down into the nape of his neck, at the base of his skull: the concussion would probably last long enough for her to get in and out. Probably, she reminded herself, but remember what happened the last time you relied on that word. Cursing under her breath, she reached out to pull the man’s shirt up. She hesitated for a moment, not because she was conscious of the sexual implications, but because she couldn’t help but wonder if his House had warded him especially. Tentatively, she reached out to touch him: there were none of the familiar buzzing sensations which indicated House interference. Reassured, she lifted his shirt, tracing a line down his vertebrae with a single finger. It was a nice back, she thought as she lifted the dagger again. She found the bone she wanted: it collapsed without too much of an effort. The man would never walk again. If it was any consolation, though, his back still looked quite as nice as before. --- Of course the other Houses would have sent their own agents, she reminded herself angrily: she should have realized long ago that any important job would always be fraught with competition: not the friendly contests like the ones at Yul’cet or the Dawn-Waking Festival: they’d greet you with smiles, just the same, but they’d be just as likely to cut you a new one in your neck. That’s how it is, she half-thought amusedly, we bare our teeth in a smile like those damned Varos do in a snarl. The corridor was silent, now, and given her heightened senses, that was saying something. That other had only been able to sneak up on her because of House interference: Shadow Walking was an ability she’d never dared underestimate: even if she’d managed to sense the interference before he’d managed to kill her, her own reflexes had barely saved her from the first attack. She was uncomfortably aware of the torn vest slung about her shoulders like so many strips of cloth: Krarthos’ bile, she’d spent gala on the outfit when she could’ve just as easily stolen it: she’d meant it as a reward for herself. And now it was ruined. Just as well, a small voice within her spoke up, red never was your colour. Sighing inwardly – even the slightest sound she made would have betrayed her – she continued her navigation of the maze of corridors with renewed vigour: the fact that an untrained agent had managed to get so close was enough of a warning for her to want to stay on her toes; initiates were rarely sent alone. She rounded another corner at a pace which seemed less like running or walking than gliding: her eyes roved from one shadow to the next, trying to discern any suspicious figure from the darkness which was broken only by the moonlight which filtered through the narrow slits which passed for windows in this fortress. For years, Vis’faren had been little more than another odd ruin: one of those immense buildings that looked intriguing from afar, but were little more than crumbling stones when examined closely. There were no treasures, ancient writings, not even a Welcome to our Happy Home sticker: it was popularly referred to as Efis’faren – “wasted journey”, in the ancient tongue. Its proper name had known no true significance, even if it was the only confirmed fact about the construct. Until now, she reflected. It had been day when the immense ziggurat had begun glowing, but it still shone noticeably: rough, worn rock had never been too reflective a surface. The glow brought with it a metamorphosis: as though it were a giant puzzle box, the great slabs of stone had begun sliding away. Its unnatural movement was made all the more surreal by the silence which had accompanied the shifting of its massive walls. There had been no sound, no vibrations and not even the slightest impression made in the ground under it when the transformation had finally come to a halt. What there were, though, were rumours: countless multitudes of words perpetuated by the presence of the ubiquitous street-ears and the many coin-purses behind them. Books of history were consulted, to peer into the ruin’s obscure past; books of prophecy were consulted, to understand what this portended for the future. Both were singularly unhelpful: the building had always been there: a relic of the Age of Mysteries, and an enigma that none could – or would – unravel. The possibilities, of course, had not been lost to the Houses: a whole new series of passages had been revealed: passages which had never been explored; which had, to all appearances, never been walked in by any man… but then they must have, or who’d have built it? But there were others besides the Houses: relic collectors or the curious rich; people who would take just as keen an interest in the possibilities… and greater interest in their lives. House agents were merciless; the reputations of House Nycta and Sanctus struck as much fear into the people as their actual deeds: Nycta was the Shadow and Sanctus the Divine, but both were as efficient at killing, and as apt at covering their tracks. To that purpose, Thieves were hired – they were no organization, but a collective name for the mercenaries which were treated as dregs which left a singular, distasteful aftertaste in the cup of tea that was society. If the tales were to be believed, the Thieves would sell your soul for a mug of ale, and then sell their own for a refill. It was thus that whenever the upper castes required their services, the irony would not be lost on them. While they were by no means organized, the seedy taverns were headquarters enough for the most of them: job notices were pinned to boards behind the counter, while a few of the more experienced Thieves would be affiliated to one tavern or the other. The income the rich provided them was fortunate, though: the taverns had yet to declare souls an acceptable form of payment. Thieves and agents, she thought to herself, a fine complement this evening. If it was any consolation, she had a good idea of what she was looking for: a plain, wooden door with a strange insignia cut into it – an insignia which would match the one stitched into the handkerchief he’d given her. She supposed he’d sent a runner ahead of her the previous day: the ruins had already been open three days, but the first few nights were always for reconnaissance: checking for wards, mapping the floors and discovering possible hidden chambers always took time. That things were heating up so fast was another sign that the ruins held items of considerable interest. Not that that was any of her concern. She removed the ragged piece of cloth from where she’d tucked it into her top, examining the door in front of her as she did: a circle with seven lines radiating from it, the tips of which ended about the two ovals on either side of the diagram, and a diamond which bordered the circle. She frowned for a moment, and then turned the cloth at a right angle. It was the right door, then. It was perfectly nondescript, built into the side of the wall in a recess deep enough so the shadows hid it from view. It was perfectly unnoticeable: which was probably its single weakness – anyone would have been struck by its singular ordinariness: in such a place of mystery, there was little chance it would have been overlooked. But its peace had been undisturbed: the ring which served as the handle for the door was coated with a layer of dust thick enough to match the condition of everything else in the place. The untouched cobwebs, the absolute stasis of the place hinted that this door had never been approached, let alone opened. She would change that. … Vis’faren… Lost in a moment’s contemplation, she felt a slight amusement touch her. For years, it had been ignored by all, but now they had become its namesake. “The Seekers,” she whispered, “and that’s all we are.” Pushing the handkerchief back down into her top, she reached out for the door handle, feeling layer upon layer of dust fall away as she pulled at it. The feeling was clean, in a way: it wasn’t grime or dirt, but a clean, dry powder which coated her palms in gray. Bracing herself with a hand against the wall, she pulled. The door swung open without a challenge: the lack of resistance unbalanced her, and it was only her natural dexterity that kept her standing when it gave. She was surprised: it opened far too easily for a door that had remained shut for so long. The room within was exactly as he’d described it: for all the humbleness of the door, what lay on the other side was beyond words. It was a high-ceilinged stone chamber, but the walls might well have been made of marble for the way they shone in the light cast upon them by the torches which hung from brackets at the sides. “Torches…?” she murmured, approaching the one closest her cautiously. As she let its flame flicker shadows across her face, she realized something other than the fact that torches could never have burned for thousands of years. The torch gave off no heat. It flickered without sound; burnt with no smoke: without the least indication that it was burning at all. It provided light, but that was all. She wondered just what it meant as she turned toward the altar. The chamber was large, but it was, for the most part, empty. The ground was wood, but lacquered in a way she was unfamiliar with. The smoothness of the walls, floors, and the complete immaculateness of the place seemed… otherworldly. The strange structure which took up most of the space at its center only added to the overall effect: one of intrigues and secrets. Secrets she’d rather keep a damned good distance from. It wasn’t made of any material she’d seen before: that much was certain. The structure, an altar set at the top of a pillar with steps cut into it, was made of a luminescent, vaguely translucent stone that reflected none of the light thrown upon it by the torches. It left no shadow, despite its apparent solidity, and seemed to exist apart of the rest of the room. Intricate designs weaved across its surface: its surface undulated in a series of swells and dips which gave it the appearance of water, frozen not in substance, but in time. Its scalloped edges were fine enough to appear smooth, and the many lines which spanned its surface – spreading in whorls and stars; crisscrossing in myriad patterns – were carved so exquisitely into the material that it was hard to imagine that they had been put there at all – she could almost fool herself into thinking that they had always just been. And she recognized some of the designs, too – for they were designs: constellations like Narudin and Sankutos; fantastic creatures almost too lifelike for their reality to hold them in their prison; symbols and runic scripts which ran every way across every available space. Logic told her there was no pattern in their placement; or even in their subjects – the figures and scripts seemed to have been randomly drawn. She found her eyes drawn to a Terrean script: a single sentence she recognized instantly. It was from a fairy-tale she’d read as a child. “Än pas mös’il insile inde…” she breathed, her accent flawless, “so the moles kept on digging.” Other scripts seemed just as cryptic, if not more so. But even as she turned her eyes to study them, something at the back of her mind reminded her that this was none of her business. She shook her head clear of the confusing thoughts uppermost in her mind now: she had no wish to get involved in any of the intrigues which foolish adventurers constantly lusted over, or desired to participate in anything to do with the Houses at all. Her mission was simple: retrieve a plain, non-descript orb from where it rested in the altar. Her skin tingled as she approached the imposing pillar before her. Simple indeed. She had never been on good terms with magic: she was better than most at sensing its presence, sure, but that was because she’d want to avoid it. House interference was something she particularly loathed, but she would never forget the time a well-meaning mage had managed to burn the skin entirely off her left hand – magical artifacts and spells would go haywire around her for no apparent reason whatsoever: she’d been banned from entering the Wizards’ Quarter for that purpose. The Houses had been more than a little interested in her, but she had ways of getting away from them. For her part, she thought she shared its sentiments with regard to their mutual relationship: she only wished she could be the one to do the electrocuting, burning and freezing instead. Her client, though, had assured her that the handkerchief would be more than effective in nullifying her apparent magical incapacity. She’d thought at the time that he seemed far too prepared for the eventuality for it to be mere coincidence… but asking questions was not her prerogative: he’d promised her a thousand gala for the orb, and money had its way of smoothing the rough corners out. Trying to ignore her misgivings, she began to climb the steps towards the altar. Crossing the threshold felt like stepping through a veil of ice. She started involuntarily as she instinctively stepped back and out of the structure. She rubbed her hands against her arms as feeling flooded back into her nerves. It didn’t hurt, but damned if it didn’t ghost her. She made a quick sign: her hand went to her temple and then across her chest – a perversion of the gesture of thanks traditionally used in times long past, this was meant to ward off ill luck. Tentatively, she reached forward with her hand, pushing it past the invisible threshold. The icy feeling washed over her again: she resisted the urge to shudder until it passed. Wincing, she stepped through it, herself. That this barrier was one she could not detect at all indicated that it wasn’t a very strong spell. Or, she reminded herself darkly, that it’s exceptionally strong, and your life’s just been shortened by another ten years. A wan smile crossed her face for a moment, making her seem somewhat pensive. Ten, fifteen, twenty years… none of it really mattered. The more popular a Thief was, the shorter he normally lived… and she, Äris Windblade, was one of the most desirable Thieves on the Western Continent. In more ways than one, she thought disgustedly, glad that she had never to apply her distinctions past killing. Thieves rarely had last names: only those who commanded respect would be gifted with names which suited the skills they were known for. Her skill with the dagger and her reflexes was something of a legend for a girl so young: that she had almost allowed herself to be ambushed by a lone agent tonight, though, was something she’d have to make up for. She had no eyes for the legendary beasts which lined the walls of the stairs she strode up, now: they watched her, their countenances both baleful and benign in the same instance. The saturation of magic about her seemed to intensify as she continued climbing, making the short ascent far more taxing than it would normally be. “This is it,” she breathed, lightly leaping over the last four steps and landing with barely a sound: a good thing, she reminded herself: no matter the esoteric properties the structure might have, it could be as fragile as glass, for all she knew. But now the object of her expedition lay just a short distance from her. With all the magical flux she felt about her, its presumed source was ordinary beyond description: a sphere slightly larger than her palm, resting in a bowl-shaped depression sunk into what appeared to be the mouth of a Dyrgos. The air positively crackled with magic as she reached a hand out to take the orb: for a brief moment, she was afraid the Dyrgos would clamp its jaw down closed on her if she tried, but the thought passed. Clothing the hand in the handkerchief, she willed her fingers to close down on the orb. Pain lanced up her arm, sparks of magical energy spontaneously bursting into life and flaring up about her forearm: the cloth was obviously enchanted, for it to generate such friction. Wincing as a stray spark burst an inch from her face, she threw her weight forward to combat the immense pressure, managing to close the few inches that separated her outstretched fingers from the orb. The instant she made contact with it, the magic faded. It retreated faster than she’d thought possible: magic wasn’t normally something that winked in and out of existence, but this was exactly it: she steadied herself by pressing a hand against the altar, but quickly drew away again as she felt its cold rob her off her warmth. Gasping under her breath, she realized she’d not known how intensely concentrated the magic about her had been until it was gone. She considered the orb in her hands with trepidation: the cloth alone would barely be able to wrap it within, but touching it at all would possibly render her efforts void. She hadn’t spent three hours in a dangerous labyrinth to have to go back and receive nothing for it. She cursed for the lack of any place to store it: when her client had described the orb, she’d thought she could’ve easily wrapped it in the cloth and pushed it down her front: a bag would only have been an encumbrance; a piece of loose material that could easily catch onto something or make a muffled noise. A large sphere she had to be sure not to touch with her bare skin, though, was something else. She was just grateful that the magical power within the orb was dormant, now: were it still active, her holding it so close to her magically-incompatible self would probably be suicide. But she was done here: she’d gotten what she’d come for, and she’d survived – she was lucky not to have had to fight more than a single battle on her way here. It was more than luck, though, she thought smugly: the fact that the Houses – Sanctus, Nycta, Tundra, Fyrre and Zephyr – were usually more engrossed in their own petty conflicts to bother with Thieves was probably another factor in that particular equation. Turning from the altar, she made her way down the steps, only slightly impeded by the care she had to take keeping the orb steady in her left hand. She kept her right hand dropped low, close to the hilt of her dagger. A Thief only dropped his guard when he was drunk… or dead. It was as she crossed the threshold and heard the snicker of half a dozen blades being drawn that she realized the latter prospect was very likely to be in her future. Author's Note: This story is set in an alternate universe from the events in Final Flame, and also in Painted Dirge, another story I never put here. They all use the same setting, though, and the plots of Final Flame and Painted Dirge were very much related. I just am not sure about where I'm going with this one yet ^-^;[/big][/big][/big][/big] Edited by ClarinetWrathArineko, Jun 3 2008, 05:22 PM.


[PG-15] The Seekers · Original Fiction