The Owl.
1 day of Ianua(1st month), 1492.
Courch Crossing, Gasinx City East. Brybs County.
***
Wrapped in a hooded robe of nightly quills and dusky feathers, the pale-faced Owl perched in the rafters of this dank complex, feeling utterly bemused. Its head turned its star-filled eyes this way and that as it bobbed up and down, watching the masked humans practice picking transparent locks or attempt to sneak around this decrepit place with varying degrees of success.
The Owl watched them as The Owl had watched so many others throughout Brybs County make the same strange gestures or take sidelong glances at the obscure makings hidden in plain sight to learn the wordless Cant known to rogues across the realms.
This was Brybs County. The coastal land to the southeast where cities sat atop wooden stilts, keeping them hovering above the fetid streams of a cold bog that persisted for as far as the eye could see.
Brybs. The land of goblins, orcs, and every other creature shunned, killed, or enslaved by the so-called civilized species.
Brybs County. Rogue territory.
Specifically, this was the City of Gasinx. Degenerate central. An incoherent blot on the land made of a dozen architectural designs smashed together in an effort to be called a city. The crude planks and bone bars of goblin abodes sat horrendously close to the rugged hide tents orcs called home. Even towering above them in some places and puncturing them in many more. Even those, however, were towered over evermore by the spires or townhouses built by the slightly more successful humans around them.
Whether it was the farms to the east, the Cloud Field district, the Applewell Center, High Ferry, or the Honey Dew District, killing, stealing, kidnappings, and robberies were the norm.
It was here, beneath the very ‘guard post’ overlooking the two sets of bridges in the city, that the Bodhi Tree’s Rogues Guild was located. Aptly and disgustingly named Green Water. It was here that they learned without being taught the language of thieves- a forbidden, wordless tongue of body language and environmental cues that spoke to all who remembered the Cant. Random carvings on a line of buildings could make up a spined horseshoe when seen from the correct perspective- a safe house. Other carvings depicting rats or snakes denoted hidden tunnels or caches, depending on whether the creature was fleeing or attacking. With subtle hand gestures and body language, thieves could plot scores with each other whilst engaging in conversation with a friendly neighborhood guard.
Though unevolved rogues often knew the cant, only the evolved could see it without effort; and once the young rogues below could, they followed the hidden script to enter and escape from trapped rooms, attempt to steal props without detection, and land stealthy attacks on unsuspecting magical dummies. Again, to varying degrees of success. Such paltry exercises were beneath The Owl. The ambitions hidden beneath these divine feathers ran far deeper than the Darkworld. Or rather, they ran as deep as the Underworld. To the land of death and devils. So, with the paltry but sure-to-be-needed perks of his class, The Owl took flight towards the north, flying high and low through the ethereal layer of dusk spread across the beautiful land below.
But, The Owl’s eyes remained ahead, its mind transfixed on a certain politician it hadn’t seen for quite some time.
He was found leagues upon leagues upon leagues from where we first met. In a brilliant chateau, set within the finest district of Anabel. A city of the Vrurian Empire. Inside was just him, his wife, his many maids and servants… and, The Owl, slipping silently through the dusk to take a dip into his shadow and observe the wickedness within him.
——
[Rogue Devil, Soul Mastermind: Step 2 - The Language. Task: Complete.]
[Reward: Passive Skill - [Thieves Cant.] Mana will react to the Cant in your presence, automatically translating it into written words or highlighting it for easier detection.]
[Reward: Passive Skill - [Cunning Reaction.] The paranoia of living as a rogue has heightened your perception to unyielding degrees, thus opening your nerves to a surge of mana upon the moment of detection, in turn drastically improving your reflexes and agility for the split second needed for decisive action.]
[Step 3 - The Soul Mastermind: To continue your journey to becoming unbranded, you must find one you’ve made previous dealings with and masterfully guide them towards their death. In turn, pulling their soul to your abyss, where they will be reborn into your first devil.]
——
‘They’re out there… HIDING!’
The whispers made him flinch. Always, they always made him flinch. But his feet refused to move from before the window regardless. Not until his saving grace pulled him from that horrid trance, did his feet even budge.
Budge.
Not move.
“Raymond, dear, you’ve been there for hours. Come, I’ve warmed your food.”
‘She understands not.’
“No.” The wickedness born from the deal he signed made his head shake, and he felt it. Distantly. He heard its grating whisper just as he heard its scream in his voice.
‘And how could she? She wasn’t the one called to our unruly nation of Mazi for court. She wasn’t the one who was poisoned by supposed allies. She wasn’t the one who had to put on a brave face as she walked among her potential conspirators in her own damn city! She wasn’t the one with a county at risk of being overrun by barbarians, at risk of being the reason Mazi declared its independence!'
No.
She didn’t understand. But when Bakewia seceded and they lost out on the enchantments coming from the Protectorate, that’s when she would care.
“Ungrateful-”
“Dear…”
A soft touch brushed his shoulder and the wickedness ingrained in him saw every fiber of his being pulled taught. As if he’d been grasped by a hag, he lashed out. As if pulled by an unknown force, he spun hard enough to overshoot the sight of his saving grace and twisted back to see her sprawled on the ground, a slender hand caressing her reddened cheek. A look of utter fear on her face as she stared… at him, in horror!
A pleasurable sight to the Owl; and thus a sight Raymond could witness through the watery mirrors of his wife’s eyes. From it, Raymond vividly felt that unknowing force, that wicked raincloud above his head, pulling his face into a taught, wicked scowl aimed at his victim. Raymond could sense the malevolence that haunted him sealing his mouth closed; keeping any words of apology from filling the air. Allowing only the sobs of his beloved to ripple across the floor until he could take no more.
He ran.
He left. To where he knew not, but he rode and rode through the blistering cold until he faced a familiar sight. A line of glistening spears and reddened armor.
Stolen story; please report.
What a welcome sight it was.
Before he knew it, his sword was out of its sheath, and standing tall among the glistening weapons pointed skyward, racing back and forth across the line as he whispered as loudly as the Owl’s gilded night would allow.
“Move! Forward! Move forward!” He screamed. “You cannot hope to spot the enemy this far from the boundary! Move!”
Anytime a noble appeared spouting orders, troops were confused. This time was no different. Except, he had an ally. A captain who, as zealously as he, realized the danger that loomed over their heads and so joined in belaying orders. If needed, he pushed people closer to the border, shouting and then yelling and then screaming for them to stay vigilant until the buzzing war drums sounded on the horizon.
And then they needed no such probing.
But still, the wickedness scratched and whispered.
‘They’re coming. For US!’
“Here they come!” Raymond shouted. “Form a line!”
‘WE must strike first if WE are to survive!”
“Stay vigilant!” Raymond banged the shield of a nearby soldier with his sword, charging the weapon with energy. Then moved on to the next. “If any barbarian crosses this border, they shall meet a swift end! Stay vigilant, Protectors of Anabel! For the Glory of Vruria! Stand strong against these conspirators!”
‘Kill them ALL.’
“Stay-”
A sudden gust from behind stole the air from his lungs and forced him about. But nothing was there to be found. Nothing but darkness. Darkness, and fear.
“Stay vigilant.”
---
The Owl had many children. Not in the sense of raptors or even serpents, Mustelids, rodents, or felines. We shared things, the Owl and the other. Even the creatures of our most private domains. And so, anyone who revered our creatures was our children. Therein was the subject of the buzzing drums echoing from Mazi’s border. Buzzing not for war but for revelry, the drums thrummed with a sting-induced rage by the hands of children the Owl could only admire. Barbaric children. Naive children. But good children nonetheless.
Even good children died, however.
It was something they’d done many times, the sacred battle brothers, Gruna and Thorotna. Then again, it was something they’d rarely done, for the circumstances had changed. The warmongering civilized folk kept attacking. And they would not forsake their ways. And so, they stalked through the woods in the dawn of light, reminding each other to keep their eyes on the swivel as they neared the Vrurian border.
“The cowards probably have wizards. Many of them. Probably.” Gruna whispered low.
“No probably.” Thorotna laughed grimly. “So let us be quick.”
Saying no more, Gruna turned to lean into a nearby tree and gave it a knock to allow the snow to fall over him; blending him into the environment to permit him a hide in which to provide overwatch. Thorotna had no such luxuries, only a moment to look around Gruna’s blind spot before turning his attention to the tree. However, instead of a cluster of bees in the hole of a tree, there was only wood that splintered once an arrow hit home where his head had once been.
Oh, how he wished the hive was present at that moment. For, even while cold, their Path- their rage would liven the bees- the Owl and the Other's children. It would enrage them. Their stings would act to strengthen their own. But alas, there were none. And so, Thorotna turned his attention to the coward who struck from the shadows. For them, there was plenty of rage in reserves. Enough to get them through without any poisonous stings, he assumed.
Weapons drawn, they put themselves back to back and spun slowly, scanning the white-topped forest for their opponents. Equal parts eager and desperate they were to see them, for the darkness grew deeper with each passing moment, and if they truly possessed wizards, the battle brothers were at a disadvantage.
Instead of magic, however, arrows sailed through the night and from opposing directions to sink their tips deep into their hides. Groaning angrily, Thorotna broke the arrow shaft at once, leaving the tip embedded in his thigh. Beginning a grumbling song to Viltramas to give him strength, he then turned to Gruna and faltered as he saw his sacred battle brother leaning against the tree, his fist clenched before his neck where it held an arrow shaft. A shaft impaled deeply into the tree behind him.
Thorotna knew then that it was a battle of time. Their wrath would keep them from bleeding out. But not entirely. So, with unbridled fury, his song to Viltramas rose to a rippling wave of heat. Gruna began gurgling, singing as he unimpaled himself from the tree before he took up a stance beside his brother, searching and scanning the forest in hopes of finding something to hurl their weapons into.
They were good children.
Two more arrows came from the left. Then from the right a second later. Easily they were dodged or blocked. Harder were the frustrations they carried.
“Cowards!” They screamed in unison. But only Thorotna edged further. “Show yourself! Have you no honor?”
A condescending laugh was the only reply. One that seemed to fall from all directions, echoed through the forest as if it were alive and filled with malice.
“There is no honor in war.”
The Owl appeared to their front without warning, freezing them in place from the sight of the small exotic bird. It was small. Black as the night itself but with a white, heart-shaped face and black legs that seemed to be made of metal. And those eyes, like a sea of stars contained in an infinite pit of despair, made their legs freeze.
The Owl hopped forward and grew twice larger. The darkness that had been growing deepened tenfold, making the endless trees and the brightened snow seem distant and dim.
The Owl stepped forward and grew larger still. Man-sized but with long, winged arms held out before the body to pin an elaborate cane to the ground; supporting its stature as it leaned ever-forward to tower its neck impossibly high over their frames.
“Sorcerous beast!” Gruna lashed out. And Thorotna, behind him.
The last thing they saw was a feathered hand waving, pitting everything around them in darkness. Leaving, in the end, only their rage to sing in the eternal dusk.
They were good children. The best in a hive full of them. Thus it was not long before more came. Another pair of less sacred battle brothers. Dorn and Viktor.
“We have to tell the Chieftain at once.”
Perhaps it was the round of stings they’d been subjected to before venturing here. If one could ever look back on that day, they would say those fresh faces saw the tracks heading toward the encampment and simply came to a logical conclusion. But they were aware of the folly that saw them ruined. It was seeing two great battle brothers, Gruna and Thorotna, covered in arrows and frozen blood, that did it. Their weapons were dry and cold from the lack of battle. Yet their faces were contorted in equal parts fear and rage. An undeserving death for ones as mighty as they.
It could not stand. And so, they knew it was time to ensure Vruria knew to stray from our lands.
Their fury was such that they remembered not the journey to the hall of mead. Nor did they remember their arrival or telling of what was found. Their minds only registered the familiar contortion of rage on every barbarian present. It was greater than even the Owl had ever seen. The rage of over 900 barbarians was verily tangible. Vibrating the mead hall with such an intensity that it threatened its structural stability, buzzing the air so loud as if it demanded to be heard by all of the Mazi Council. But of course, the Owl would ensure not a soul would hear a whisper of this conspiracy.
The swarms were released in droves, but still, they honored the traditions. Scorpions flew from their cages first, plummeting their curled barbs into the flesh of the heartiest of men. Then came those from the tribes of the Ant, Bee, and Wasp, injecting their wrath-inducing cocktails before the songs to Viltramas, the marching of boots, and the clanging of metal on metal melded with the buzzing seamlessly.
They marched through that cold night without fear as an unstoppable force. Even as the dozen or so Vrurian ballistae and cannons pierced or blew apart the ground before the standard bearer, they marched. Even as hundreds of arrows rained from the skies, they stormed. Even as hundreds of calvary flanked and hundreds more infantry formed a line, they charged.
Stupidly so, at first glance.
Even though they were outnumbered almost three to one, they sang gloriously to the Gods of Conquest and War throughout the battle.
Dorn felt a surge of fiery blood rush through his body as he made contact with a man in pretentious armor. So afraid of a deadly blow he was, and so angered by the fact of his brothers being felled by such cowardly beings was Dorn that the veil of red threatened to consume all around him. However, he mastered the wrath within him long ago. Thus his great sword was dropped upon the head of that hated Vrurian with all of his fury, crumpling them under their precious armor; and with a scream that morphed into a heated buzzing noise, he brought his great sword down again, implanting Vrurians into the dirt by the half-dozen before he turned, swinging, felling Vrurians with his brothers until the field of white grew more and more littered with the reddened bodies of the dead and dying.
Dorn cut down another and caught his gaze on the ballistae and cannons destroyed and in flames. Such a lapse in concentration cost him a gash across the back and he swung without hesitation, throwing a woman dressed in armor into the brush before he attempted to reel his sword in.
Too late, was it, for he retrieved the blade from the newly formed crevasse with a sickening crunch and a vengeful curse to the Vrurians for subjecting women to battle.
His discriminatory weakness cost him a cold prick from behind.
Again, he spun at once, finding purchase on nothing- seeing nothing, feeling only another piece of cold metal wedge between his ribs before his throat ran hot.
He tried to shout and only heard the splatters of liquid. He looked down and only saw blood gushing onto his chest. He was... confused. Empty. Dying. And yet, he could feel his distant body laying in the cold fields, falling into the most pervasive darkness one could imagine while the Owl witnessed his dying moments in passive contempt.