A Foreboding Madness
Chapter 2
A Curse…
"So all it took to get you to wake up was your father's inheritance?"
"I'm not some old man who'd get interested and work myself up about old memories!"
Laughter filled the once silent room. On the white bed sat Alistair and beside him on a chair was his mother, Arwin. Just moments ago, Alistair had woken from his week-long sleep.
"So where is this fortune Marcus left for me?" Alistair inquired. "Certainly hope it's not that fruit basket you got me?"
"Oh, about that… There's no easy way to say it but seeing that you'll find out sooner or later, I might as well tell you now. Since the funeral was cut short and you were presumed dead by the Church, everything has turned topsy-turvy.
The bishops took your father's body away along with his inheritance and buried them together in the Catacombs. They argued that in your father's will, he intended to give it all to you, who turned crazy before… you fell asleep.
Anyway, you weren't there to collect your father's fortune so they kept it for themselves."
At many points, Alistair wanted to interrupt only to find himself frozen, listening to his mother speak. There was this sudden feeling that he had been here before in this hospital bed, listening to these exact words. It was eerily uncomfortable.
"Weird…" He thought to himself.
"W-wait, wait. I was dead? And they can't do that to my Inheritance, I'm here aren't I?!" Alistair raised his voice in irritation.
"The priests tried to heal you but that didn't work. They were saying it was because you were suspended between life and death? I don't get it but you got through it and we should be happy," his mother replied, without once mentioning the inheritance.
"I see…" Alistair mumbled. "If I can't have it, don't I at least deserve to know what it is?"
"Magical tomes from beyond the city walls," She answered.
"Magical tomes huh? No wonder the Church took them away. They're probably mere charcoal sheets by now," said Alistair, hiding away his disappointment. " 'The introduction of other forms of magic or the study of magic would only ruin our city' or so the Church says."
"I wonder why your Father even bothered trying to give you such a thing. It isn't like him to go against the Church's doctrines," His mother wondered.
She was displeased that he never left anything for her and instead, used up all his gold to obtain some magical tomes for his son to read after his death. There must have been some reason for his inexplicable actions.
"It's really time I should go. Rest well, Alistair."
"Right, she still has work to do at the food market. Ah, again that strange feeling," He muttered under his breath. "Never thought I'd ever think of studying magic again."
Ever since Alistair was a small boy, he had taken a fancy to the world-shaping power of magic described in the epics told by his mother. Enormous balls of fire engulfing hordes of monsters, words of enchantment to charm wicked men into changing their evil ways.
Hence, he requested his father to teach him magic but the city of Targon allowed its populace to practice holy magics under the supervision of the Church of Scoleo. Adding the fact that the Church strictly monitors the city gates and controls who leaves and enters, learning other forms of magic outside became impossible.
"No, I want to make explosion! Boooom!"
Memories of the day his father was trying to convince him otherwise were still stuck with him as one of many childhood memories. The awkward chuckle of his Father when he realized his son's first big decision was made with such childish notions.
Ever since then, Alistair's thirst for magic dwindled and he was left to study architecture. That way, he could at least find work remodeling the city walls and admire the magical world beyond.
~
"What do you remember before you collapsed?"
"I was at the church waiting for the funeral to begin. I must've slept."
"Has this happened to you before?"
"No."
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Moments after his mother left, a group of priests led by a Bishop entered his room. Their presence should have given him some sense of security but all he could feel was one of foreboding.
Indeed, they quickly closed and locked the door behind them and started a sort of interrogation. It began with a series of questions relating to the incident but the last few questions started to confuse Alistair.
"Did anything happen to you in your sleep?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
"What is Yytholin?"
Here, Alistair felt a pulsating pain in his head like something inside there was squirming about. That strange feeling of familiarity hit Alistair again but it was now a great deal stronger.
"No… clue…" Alistair's mouth moved on its own accord.
"Your very own mother mentioned you were shouting its name before you collapsed. Don't deny it and speak only the truth." Said the Bishop standing between the priests.
This piece of information baffled Alistair. Why had his mother not told him about this?
"Who are you anyways?" Alistair rudely inquired, his mood quickly turning sour at the Bishop's ignorance of his situation.
Alistair inspected the Bishop from top to bottom. He was a short man with scars drawn along his cheeks. His empty and hollow eyes along with his expressionless face made him extremely enigmatic.
His outfit was a long white robe Alistair recognized to be that of a regular Bishop but with a few added red stripes and ribbons arranged to look like blood dripping from his neck.
"I'm Bishop Vitas. I'm in charge of 'taking care' of you or anyone else that's suspicious by direct order of the Pope," He answered, putting additional emphasis on his current position in the church.
"Suspicious? I'm afraid I don't understand."
Alistair's skin crawled at the thought of being under suspicion by the Church. With them being in control of Targon, it would be very easy for him to fall into quick misfortunes.
"I need to tread lightly," He thought to himself, fiddling with his fingers.
"You don't have to know. Look for us if you remember anything at all. Scoleo keeps a close watch on everyone here," Bishop Vitas said monotonously, tired of continuing this pointless interrogation.
Alistair meekly waved them farewell before letting his back fall onto the soft mattress. Though the Bishop and his priests were gone, there was this residual feeling of oppression left floating in the room. Alistair laid silent with his thoughts only to himself.
"What's wrong with me? I speak without thinking and there's this weird feeling that comes along with it. Even now, I feel like I've thought about this but I know I haven't.
I expected him to speak up, I knew how to answer him, and I knew how he would respond in kind. But what's with this discomfort as though I've done everything before?"
Alistair's head hurts just reflecting on his weird predicament. Was it a minor curse? In such a peaceful city, where could he have possibly gotten cursed?
Yet in his eyes, there was no other form of explanation. He had heard rumours in the past that Bishops could easily remove a person's curse. Surely next time, he would ask for some assistance from Bishop Vitas.
"Not a curse."
A voice he never expected echoed in his mind. It was his own inner voice, somehow unaffected by the supposed curse. But at the same time, it spoke words he never intended. It shocked Alistair so much that he had jolted slightly in bed. But suddenly, an agonizing pain took over his entire mind.
"Not a curse."
"Not a curse."
"Not a curse."
~
In a secret room within the Cathedral, a round stone table was surrounded by 7 men. They were all wearing differently embellished Bishop robes. A chandelier hung from the top of the room with flames dancing on the end of each branch, illuminating the otherwise still room with life.
One of them, wearing the white and red robe, took out a piece of parchment and slid it over to the center of the table. It was tattered at the sides and had crease marks from when it was folded in half. It exuded a putrid smell like it was dug out of the gut of a corpse rotten down to its core.
But the strange aspect of the parchment was its age and a grafted picture seemingly inherent in the parchment. It was an ancient parchment found within a forgotten ruin which oddly enough, maintained its form despite the passing of time.
As for the picture, it showed a figure of a slug with countless arms extending out of its skin. At the top of its body was a deep, black pit of darkness that no light could escape from. The arms swirled around it, looking as if they were made to pass anything they picked towards the hole.
On the bottom of the picture were runes that were deciphered by the explorers who ventured into the forgotten ruin. They were written in black blood and spelled out…
"Yytholin."
"It has chosen another sacrifice."
"We must keep it away from them."
"Else it will bring about another Catastrophe, one we are not yet prepared for."
"The Tree needs more offerings. Time to grow."
"This man, Alistair, we must look after him. Lose focus and he'll vanish into thin air."
~
Somewhere in the far East, beyond the treacherous mountain range of Yrda lies the ruins of an ancient city. How that city ever got to its state remains a mystery. Skeletal remains were laying down carrying items like pottery and other forms of valuables. Their empty eye sockets all faced towards the city gates as if they yearned to escape whatever happened within the city confines.
Though many years have passed by, the states of the skeletons remain pristine as neither dust nor dirt could be found within the crevices between each bone.
However, amongst the dead, there was a single man sitting on the front steps of a temple. He was dressed in a shadowy cloak that covered him from top to bottom. As he sat, a dark, misty trail formed under him, crawling down the steps thereby spreading to envelop the entire city.
"Haaaahhhh..."
The sound of sonorous breathing broke the dead quiet of the city. It was as if it was the first breath that man had taken in ages. From under the hood, two purple pupils appeared and dry lips tore apart to give way to his voice.
" 'We' awaken amidst Death to answer His call.
Another catalyst for Catastrophe has come for us. We will welcome our new Prophet with the utmost respect.
Agh'bon Yytholin ir'syad.
Yytholin ma'kau geh."
As if on cue, shadowy tendrils rose up from cracks all around the city. They shot up into the sky to form a giant sphere of black smoke before plummeting down towards the cloaked man.
The man, unfazed by the sudden impact, stood up in an unsteady manner. Every time his joints bent, a loud crack could be heard echoing through the dead city streets and back.
Slowly, he stretched his arms and body as he descended down the steps towards the rolling mass of shadow. Once he reached the bottom, the shadowy tendrils split apart to form figures of varying shapes.
Half of them took the form of four-legged beasts while the rest assumed a bipedal form. Their misty heads lowered in greetings towards the mysterious man in front of them. To return their favour, the man simply waved his hand at them.
The hand was covered in runic patterns and circles carved into his skin. They seemed self-inflicted and were currently glowing crimson red.
"Whooosh"
Some rubble suddenly came flying towards the shadowy figures and the shadows exploded. The tendrils that had made up the figures quickly came back together after a few moments, pulling the skeletal remains with them.
In the end, the once mere intangible beings were given form by the bones covering them. Human skulls acted as mere decor for their pearly white body of bones. Wisps of dark smoke could be seen escaping through the gaps between the bone formations to form a foggy veil over their bodies. There were the humanoid Bone Wraiths and the monstrous four-legged Bone Beasts. But in a forgotten tongue, they were called…
"Wyr'lak"
"Wyr'shil"
The man removed his hood to show a frail face smiling from ear to ear. His purple eyes stared directly at the monsters in front of him and he began to tremble excitedly. Another red glow shone underneath his robes and he floated up onto the back of a Wyr'shil. After the Wyr'lak hopped onto the back of their own Wyr'shil, the frail faced man called upon the Wraiths following him.
"My Wyr'lak! We move now to our Prophet lost in the land of Decay!"