Written by Bryn Lewis.
The first Tale: Catalyst
The ink ran like black tears down the rough parchment as the rain fell in thick sheets, swirled up by the winds as they raced towards the earth, a bleak reminder of the message carried within. From under a sodden wool hood a keen observer could have just barely made out the dark green eyes scanning the message one last time, already well memorised; more totemic symbolism than any incomprehension. They lingered for a few seconds over the final sentence.
Ensure the death of Duke Edmond the Gladewarden.
In the enveloping night, brought on by the conspiring of thick clouds swirling to cover the evening's moon, the lone figure stood at the base of a small rise covered in thickets of gnarled, ancient woodland. Stretched out before them was the Highglades, a small but prosperous province in the Empire. Farmland dotting the banks of a wide river flowing down from the valleys to the south towards the wild dark sea to the north. A few small villages were almost indiscernible, little more than blotches against the landscape, and nothing lay towards the coast where ancient ruins rose menacingly from the dunes. Icy winds whipped at the figure's cloak, the flapping of the tattered black fabric one of the few sounds breaking the almost complete silence.
Nestled further down the valley along a river bank lay a keep, its white stone walls now a gray mockery of their daytime splendour. Two towers, one larger by half than the other connected by a great hall, circumnavigated by mighty walls. A keep from the early days of the Empire, a keep built for war and subjugation.
The figure set their dark green eyes on the silhouette, one hand folding the parchment they held neatly in half, the other flicking what appeared to be rosary beads through their fingers, seemingly nervously. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. The gentle clicking of stone on stone.
They knew the message, knew the location, knew the window to look for. Their face contorted into a focused look of concentration.
A sudden surge and they blinked out of existence, a maelstrom of unsettling pathways reaching outwards. They felt themselves move, but for a second were almost lost to the tumultuous flows of matter, time and magic. Unsettling colours with no names spiralled and dashed across the empty infinite space, directly assaulting their very mind through the space where their eyes should have existed. They focused, ignoring the maddening patterns that held together reality and found the place they required stretching out before them forever. Focus. The shapes, colours, sounds, tastes and feelings all coalesced into a small granite window.
The figure stepped off the window ledge, entering the taller of the two keeps, their lunch of bread and rabbit only barely managing to stay within the confines of their body. They had stepped into a small room, a bed on the far side spoke of its use, a luxurious carpet embroidered with scenes of the fey wars spoke of its opulence. With a deft movement they drew a blade from an unseen recess beneath their still dripping cloak, the other hand still flicking the beads through their fingers in a maddeningly rhythmic pattern. An almost unnoticeable stutter as their fingers slipped over a new gap on the string before a return to the perfectly rhythmic quiet tapping of stone. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
Nothing else alive or dangerous appeared to inhabit the twilight of the room, so the figure hurriedly moved towards the only other exit. They pressed against the grain of the heavy oak door, straining to hear if anything moved beyond. After a few seconds, more out of impatience than certainty, they pulled the door slightly ajar by its heavy iron ring.
A long corridor stretched outside in both directions, similar doors to the one the figure currently glanced through set at seemingly random intervals along both walls. The job had come with a complete map of the keep compound, and days had been spent in preparation for the infiltration.
Left, down the corridor, second right, before another left and then up the stairs. There were meant to be no guards stationed in the guest quarters, but the figure moved quickly regardless. All the guests would still be at the feast, the noise of which registered only slightly louder than the background silence from this high up. Duke Edmond however, would be at a war council, meeting his top lieutenants. Held in the duke's state room, the meeting was to plan the upcoming campaign against the Republic. From the top of the stairs, down the corridor, left and then first right.
A whisper of fabric and the figure had slid around the final corner. Before them lay a long stone corridor which opened up at the far end into a small open space with a few chairs and a table situated on either side of iron double doors. Flanking the door stood two guards, clearly well trained by their deft movements as soon as they saw the hooded figure swing around the corner. The first, clad in a simple chain mail shirt over padded cloth, drew up a crossbow, slotting a bolt into its groove in a single movement; a bead quickly drawn at the swirling mass of fabric. The second, in a single piece iron breastplate, drew a hand and a half sword and took a low stance.
The crossbow bolt released just as the world began twisting, a crunch echoing through the infinite. The cloaked figure felt themselves running towards the guards for an eternal moment, the twisting stonework sliding in and out of the walls around them. A strange feeling as the crossbow bolt passed through them, three times. Once as they were emerging from the twilight, once as it passed through their current position and once when it crossed the space they had just begun to leave. It felt like a tsunami shattering through their chest, a material reality passing through the endless copies and clones that existed all at once within this fractured plane of existence. But as soon as the pain exploded through their body it was gone, silenced and replaced with a hazy memory. As reality began to come back together around them the figure was almost face to face with the crossbow wielder.
Worry and disbelief etched themselves into the guards face as they began to comprehend what was happening. The figure that had just appeared before them ducked for a split second before springing up into a sideways pirouette over them, a fine steel blade slashing across their uncovered face. Blood flew across the wall behind them, and a primal guttural scream escaped their lungs as the pain filled their mind.
The second guard took a few seconds to realise what was happening, having lost track of the figure as it seemed to disappear into the shadows. Screams from his fellow soldier eventually brought both fear and realisation as he began to turn towards the threat. Too late his honed skills began to bring his sword to bear, into what would have been a perfect blow against the unknown figure as it landed in a crouch. Unfortunately, pain scorched from his stomach as a blade plunged into his guts, crimson chords spilling onto the floor.Just behind the figure the first guard was dropping to their knees clutching their face, tendrils of red blood seeping between their fingers.
With both of the guards sinking to the floor the figure wiped their blade against their cloak, drawing off the stain of human life, gleaming silver steel the only colour remaining. Moving quickly they pushed up against the side of the iron gateway. They looked at the two stones left in their hand, small blue orbs, irregularly cut like an unfinished gem and carved with runes etched deep into the material, a deep blue glow emigrating from carved fissures. Only two left, and they would need them both.
Focus, the very air began to spin and hum with vibrations. Consciousness pushed into the great iron door, a solid object seen as nothing more than an ephemeral cloud of particles raging against the untold billions of others. Through the chaos they try to make it still, find the miniscule weaknesses running through the reverberating patterns splayed out before them. Tendrils of blood reach up from the nearby corpses, floating and separating like a river delta, veins creeping into the colourless void between worlds. Blood running from their face, the eyes now as well, obscuring their vision with a covering of fractal human soul. See the pattern amongst the thousand of others, weaknesses exposed. Push.
The iron door exploded inwards, thousands of jagged pieces of dark cold iron erupted into the crowded room. Screams that could haunt a person until the end of their days burst forth from within. Before anybody could gather their bearings the figure drew a small device from within their cloak, a small sphere of metal indented along parallel crisscrossed lines. They pulled the pin, quickly checked around the corner and threw the device at the head of the oaken table that dominated the centre of the grand room, now peppered with iron shards. In a quick glance the figure could see corpses dotted around the room, slumped in chairs or on the table, and some less fortunate still writhing about in the rivers of blood now sweeping across the stone floor.
THUMP. Screeching fragments of ancient steel threw themselves from the doorway past the figure, who took the opportunity of their passing to dart into the room blade first. Most of the figures who had still been alive now lay silent in puddles of blood, their own and others. The walls, once only covered in the now tattered banners of the glade and ancient rifles with curved magazines, were pockmarked with angry hot steel puncturing the very stone. The conference table lay shattered and blackened from the force of the explosion, but there at its head, in the centre of a black soot ring from where the device had expertly landed and erupted in deadly flame, were two figures veiled in a swirling blue field.
The duke and his court wizard stood amongst the dissipating magical field, iron shrapnel from the door embedded in the duke's gambeson. The wizard, bringing his hands back in from the swirling ritual performance of the shielding spell, stood in a plain blue robe, his hair almost cropped back to his skull and tattoos of mystical symbols running up what little of his arms could be seen under his clothing. The mage was the first to speak, his words bellowing as theatrically as his hands had moved. “Who dares attack his grace!” Dropping into a casting stance he began to move his arms in rhythmic patterns once more, his fingertips leaving trace lines of magic flowing behind as they moved, coalescing into runic symbols of power. The duke was still struggling to his feet as the strange cloaked figure began stepping forwards, their pace accelerating as they moved closer. Multiple voices seemed to burst forth from the dark space under the hood where only the glowing green eyes could be seen piercing through the black veil. “Prepare to die.” The words etched themselves into the mind, twisting and turning with a malignant power, though they all seemed softly spoken their energy could be felt. The mage had finished the rune, and the entire room darkened. Behind the figure the gaping wound in the wall through which the dead guards could be seen misted over, and the lands visible from the windows faded into grey fog. The mage spat a challenge towards the interloper “What foul beast dares come to these hallowed halls!” Flicking his wrist a plume of blue fire shot from the wizards hands, narrowly missing as the figure deftly swept down at the last second. Close enough though, that a singed mark was left on their shoulder, the fibres of the cloak smoking as blue embers danced and fizzled into the ether. Less sure of himself now the mage once again challenged the advancing threat "Are you an avatar of the Fey? Answer demon!"
A second of hesitation as the supposed demon slowed and glanced quickly at their shoulder, before regaining their pace and leaping, dropping on the still unsteady duke. As both tumbled to the floor the duke grunted in effort, barely managing to draw his blade during the fall. Both figures rolled on the floor for a scant few seconds before a flash of steel and loud clanging noises emanated from the struggling pile of clothes, flesh, and armour.
The cloaked figure rolled backwards, exiting the frey and ending on their feet. “Long live the king.”
The duke staggered once more to his feet, and the mage looked aghast. A steel blade was forced entirely through his chest, angled oddly so as to slip between one side of the duke's plate armour on the front and jutting out of the back the other. Blood dripped from the duke's mouth as haunting, gurgling noises rose from his wounded lungs. It was already over, and the demonic figure turned to look at the magician. “Damn you to the otherworlds and back fell beast!” The mage struggled to speak as he began casting again, but the dark figure merely stared at him, deep green eyes piercing. “You have killed a most honourable and loyal man; my friend!” His voice breaking, anger and fear showing in his tear filled eyes. “I shall find you and kill you!” As he spoke, his composure lost and his fight having left him the wizards hands flicked quickly once again finishing a teleportation rune, and he blinked into nothingness.
The mists around the room cleared as the clamour of armoured soldiers could be heard down the hallway. The cloaked figure, fatigue beginning to set in crushed the final stone in their hand. Endless, stretching out, finding home. Elation, joy, pain. A sense of a job well done. Feelings manifesting as objects in the world between worlds. Blurring the lines between body and traveling soul. Find the place, step forward, bring the body with you. Just step.
Out onto the grassy field, a deep ancient forest before them, its canopy blocking the light from the moon creating the illusion of an endless cavern between the sky and the ground. The figure pulled off their voice modulator and sighed, the blow to their shoulder had been closer than they thought, the flesh seared and burning with pain. They walked towards the forest.
