In a vast open space, flanked by two mist covered hills, a tall, muscular figure moved hesitantly. Though unmistakably human, his every step seemed plagued by elusive, shadowy memories that danced just beyond his grasp. The valley stretched before him, carpeted in verdant green, with fallen rocks breaking the seamless carpet. To him, the landscape seemed both alien and hauntingly familiar, like a replication of a real place painted on a false backdrop.
His wanderings eventually led him to a vast, lifeless lake, its waters calm yet uninviting. Above, where clouds would usually dance, he observed a mesmerizing sight: countless souls floated, forming a ghostly sea in the sky. Among the drifting ghosts, a winged figure flickered, barely maintaining its form as it wavered on the brink of existence.
As he glanced down, a jolt of realization hit him. He bore a striking resemblance to the floating apparitions in the sky, yet his form seemed more defined, as if imbued with a purpose. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but no words escaped his lips.
As he continued his journey, he eventually locked eyes with another. This figure, slightly shorter and slender, shared his ghostly appearance. They observed one another, a mutual uncertainty reflected in their intangible expressions. The second spirit reached to its side, perhaps recalling a time when it bore a weapon, but finding nothing. He mirrored the gesture, only to find no weapon at his side as well – the familiar handle he always carried was missing.
The ensuing standoff between the two seemed to last eons. All the while, the luminous sky began to dim, leaving them in a sea of darkness. And then, from the horizon, a singular light appeared - the warm, inviting glow of a fire, emanating from a distant tower's window. A scent wafted from the window, beckoning them to come closer.
Attracted to its glow, the tall, muscular spirit and his shorter, thinner counterpart were momentarily distracted, their prior standoff forgotten. The tower, and the light it held, promised answers, or at the very least, a break from their endless wandering.
The stone tower loomed above as the two spirits approached its entrance. As they drew nearer, the door creaked open, revealing a figure unlike any either spirit had ever seen or imagined. Shorter than an average man, it had green skin, bulging clear eyes, and a disproportionately large head. Its amphibious features gave it a strong resemblance to a frog, though it stood upright on two legs.
With an impatient gesture, the creature beckoned the spirits inside. "Quickly, quickly," it mumbled, its voice low and throaty. "The Dragon has given me an important task, and time is of the essence."
Inside, the spirits were met with vast tapestries depicting massive battles. Frog-like beings clashed fiercely against menacing human figures. The scenes were detailed, showing the valour and tragedy of war.
Attempting to vocalize his questions, the muscular spirit found he couldn't produce any sound. The frog-like being waved off his attempts, indicating for them to move to an upper room.
There, they were met with another puzzling sight. A woman awaited them, but something about her seemed amiss, as if her skin were but a facade. Her face and hair, intricately detailed from clay, seemed to possess a lifelike quality, moving as if animated by a living soul. With features both captivating and commanding, she gave the two spirits an acknowledging nod. She then gestured gracefully towards the two grand wooden frames standing beside her.
There two statues of clay, stood frozen mid-pose waiting for them.
“I’m uncertain about our time constraints, Master Giblets,” the woman stated, her voice silky smooth.
Master Giblets exhaled deeply. "He mentioned that the cracks would soon appear outside. Yet, how he knows that is beyond me…"
Swiftly, the woman shifted her gaze to the window, looking out at the tranquil lake, concern etched on her face. "Then we must act fast."
The frogman nodded.
"Are you sure these are the chosen two?" she inquired.
The frog-man moved next to an unusual brazier, from which a peculiar smoke wafted, filling the room with a distinctive aroma. With a hint of pride in his voice, the creature said, "I used this very smoke to lure these specific two here."
The spirits exchanged glances, both filled with questions and uncertainty about the purpose of their summons to the tower.
“Well get on with it then,” said the woman impatiently.
Master Giblets, with an authoritative yet kind tone, began his instruction. “To exist in this realm with substance, you must first take on a corporeal form. These moulds, crafted from the empowered clay of the land, will grant you such forms."
He gestured toward the female figure that stood beside him, her skin flawless and her features exuding grace. "Initially, you will appear as she does. But in time, the clay will adapt, taking on a more natural hue and texture, closely resembling mine, though of human shape, not of Froggian."
Seeing the questioning looks on the spirits' faces, Master Giblets added, "I too am born of this land, a construct crafted for a purpose."
After a moment’s hesitation, the spirits nodded in understanding. They slowly approached their respective moulds, the ethereal haze surrounding them dimming with each step.
As the muscular spirit immersed himself in the mould, an uncanny sensation enveloped him. His once intangible thoughts began to coalesce, gaining clarity and form, much like the clay that now encased him. As the clay shifted and moulded it grew and began to shape a figure reminiscent of a middle-aged man.
The transformation was immediate, growing to accommodate his muscular stature. As the mould took its final form, a rush of memories flooded back to him, each more vivid than the last. Staring down at his now solid hands, a realization dawned upon him. The weight of his identity, the knowledge of who he once was, settled in, and with it, a newfound purpose emerged.
Staring down at the fine detail the clay had replicated, he was in awe. His travelling attire, rugged and worn from adventures long forgotten, was brought back to life, right down to the pocket specifically sewn for his cherished piece of Akanam metal. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a surreal experience, to say the least.
His gaze shifted to the smaller figure next to him. Suppressing a chuckle initially, he couldn't hold it in any longer. The other spirit's outfit was flamboyant in every sense of the word. Adorned in what appeared to be a sailor's uniform, replete with ruffles and a spectacularly broad-brimmed hat, the man exuded charisma. The moustache, which sat proudly above his smiling lips, added another layer of charm. He sensed a camaraderie already forming.
With a gesture of respect and a twinge of amusement, he extended his hand towards the man, only to find the latter doing the same. Their synchronicity caused them both to croak out in laughter, their newly-formed vocal cords not quite accustomed to speech.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
After a few amusing attempts, the other man cleared his throat and in a rich, deep voice said, "Ahoy there! Name's Fredrickson. And you are?"
With a grin, he replied, "Bolgart. Pleasure to match a name with your face, Fredrickson." The two shared a hearty laugh, their spirits lightened by the bizarre situation.
With a slight air of annoyance, the woman cleared her throat to regain the room's attention. "If you gentlemen are quite finished with your theatrics, we have urgent matters to attend to." She shot the two a pointed look, before her gaze softened. "I am Valfrey, Elder of the Night clan."
“A Felren?” Fredrickson’s eyebrows shot up.
She nodded in a slight bow, “At one time.”
Master Giblets stepped forward, puffing out his chest a bit. "And I, as you've likely deduced, am Master Giblets. This," he gestured grandly, "is Polliwog Tower, an axis between realms and a place of significance."
Fredrickson and Bolgart exchanged glances. Though they had just met, their shared experience made them feel like old comrades.
Valfrey continued, her tone more urgent, "Your clay forms, here in this realm, are nigh eternal. But in the world of the living, where you will soon venture, they are fleeting. They will crumble in mere hours, and your spirits will be drawn back here."
Bolgart frowned, absorbing this information. "So, we're messengers on borrowed time?"
Fredrickson interjected with a hint of concern, "And what exactly is this message we're supposed to deliver? And to whom?"
Valfrey stepped closer, her ethereal face marked with grave seriousness. "The realm of mortals and this world alike are facing unrest, disturbances that ripple across the fabric of existence. But these disturbances, these tremors, they're merely on the surface. Deep down, there's a rot, a corruption that's threatening to tear everything apart."
Master Giblets chimed in, "The Dragon foretells that both realms stand on the precipice of oblivion. Only by finding the root of the corruption can we hope to survive."
Fredrickson, adjusting his clay hat slightly, asked, "What is this corruption? And how do we fight it?"
Valfrey paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. "The entity responsible for this tome, the one that has ensnared us, has extended his malevolent influence far beyond mere beings and isolated texts. He's tainting entire worlds, including the realm of mortals. While we fear it may be too late, the Dragon foresees a grim future where the world disintegrates, its very essence drained and twisted by Nahmlan's touch."
⚔
"You think you can just order your men to attack us?" Master Parlin shouted.
Charles gritted his teeth, his muscles tensed as he held the trapdoor shut against the pressing weight of a soldier's boot overhead.
"If you don't stand by us, then you stand against us!" the Duke growled, his voice snarling.
"And what do we oppose? Your brazen violation of the city? Tell me, Duke, who in Ren Daral sanctioned this madness?" Theodoric shot back, demanding an answer.
The Duchess's laughter, cold and mocking, pierced the air. "Who? It was the newly formed parliament of the Royal sector – the Bran Accord, of course."
Parlin's voice crackled with anger, "The Bran Accord was established to nurture the city, to ensure its people were fed in these times of change. Not to be a pawn in your power games!"
"But we will feed them," the Duke retorted, his smirk evident in his tone, "The loyal ones, anyway. The rest? Let them starve..."
Theodoric let out a weary sigh, "Margarete, you've changed so much since our days at the University."
She responded, feigning gratitude, "Why, thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment," Theodoric retorted.
The air tensed, the unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn echoed down into the secret chamber below. Charles shared a look with Alec who was powerless to help while Scarf moved beside him hesitant to help close the gap as the water encasing her body would surely leak through exposing them all.
"How dare you insinuate..." the Duke's furious voice boomed.
"I will speak the truth, whether you like it or not!" Theodoric's voice held a note of finality.
Suddenly, the room above erupted in a cacophony of movement and muffled chants. The University masters were drawing power from their books, unleashing events within the chamber. But as they did, a mocking laughter rang out, stopping them in their tracks.
"Ah, Theodoric," the Duchess purred, "you did teach me well."
"Master!" Parlin's scream echoed as the sound of the door being thrown shut reverberated, followed by the clamour of armoured guards sweeping the room above.
And then, disaster. The weight above shifted, more pressure pushing down on the hatch, making Charles' efforts futile. The stone hatch groaned, the metal latches strained, and then another pair of heavy, armoured footsteps joined the first. The added weight was too much. Charles could no longer hold it back. Rolling away just in time, the hatch crashed open.
From the darkness of the vault, Charles, Alec, and Scarf looked up. Framed by the gaping hole, the Duke and Duchess stared down at them, eyes gleaming with a mix of surprise and greed. The jeers and taunts that followed felt like salt on an open wound. They were trapped.
"Look what we have here—rats scurrying in our basement," the Duke announced with a smirk. Charles, seeing the Duke and Duchess for the first time, took a moment to size them up. The Duke, short and pudgy, wore extravagant clothing—impractical for any real purpose. His balding head paired with an arrogant expression was enough for Charles to know exactly what kind of a man he was. Standing next to him, the Duchess towered with her lean, almost skeletal shape. Her exaggerated bowl-cut wig and excessive jewellery added to her distinct contrived look.
Without hesitation, the guard’s maneuverer their way through the trapdoor, weapons at the ready. Scarf lunged protectively towards the intruding soldiers, but just as she was about to strike, the Duchess uttered a phrase. Scarf's liquid form crystallized, rendering her an immobile ice statue.
A blade pressed threateningly against Charles' throat, prompting him to raise his hands in surrender. As the Duke and Duchess made their descent, Charles' thoughts raced to Maze's book, wishing he had it by his side. He remembered the potential dangers of bringing together the opposing books, especially around the young Elementlets.
"You better not harm them," Alec warned fiercely.
The royal pair glanced at Alec, their laughter echoing coldly. With a flourish, the Duchess shuffled through her sky chapters and began to recite. Vines erupted, ensnaring Alec, who fought against their grip.
The Duke began to taunt, "Pathetic, aren't they? Just when you think—" His words caught in his throat as his gaze landed on the core stones and the red tome at their centre. A look of pure greed transformed his features. "Is that what I think it is?"
The Duchess whispered in awe, "I've only ever read about such a thing."
Intrigued, the Duke pressed, "It can’t be…”
"It's the Book of the Known—the most powerful event book in existence," she revealed.
With a triumphant laugh, the Duke asked, "And it's now ours?"
The Duchess nodded, “It was once thought to be lost, I guess the King must have kept it secret. Only those of royal blood can wield it."
A look of sheer ecstasy washed over the Duke. "I always knew we were destined for greatness."
With an air of reverence and a glint in his eyes, the Duke approached the Book of the Known. He gently lifted the cover, but instead of the victory he expected, a sharp cry escaped him. He recoiled as if seared, holding his glowing white hand in agony. The Duchess stared in horror, her confidence shattered.
“Nilby!” The Duchess cried out as the Duke's agonized screams filled the chamber.
His hand, which had briefly touched the book, glowed with a white-hot intensity. The luminescent energy quickly spread, consuming him. Charles instinctively tried to move back, but the sharp blade at his throat held him firmly in place. Its tip, however, wavered slightly.
The entire chamber watched in stunned silence as the power fully consumed the Duke. His fiery screams were abruptly silenced as his form disintegrated into ash.
“No!” The Duchess wailed, dropping her book and desperately trying to gather the ash remnants of her husband from the floor. As she mourned, a faint light emanated from the book of the known. The guards watched in mounting horror as the light intensified, cracking the very fabric of their reality.
As the rift widened, an arm extended through, revealing a woman sculpted from clay. Charles' eyes widened in recognition, though he couldn't quite place her.
The guards, awaiting instruction, were jolted to action by the Duchess's hysterical command: “Kill them all!”
The clay woman effortlessly evaded their strikes, her movements refined from years of experience. With a fluid motion, she disarmed each guard one after another.
“I said kill them!” the Duchess screamed.
More guards poured in, but as they did, additional clay figures emerged from the crack in reality. The clay woman tossed a blade to a figure resembling a sailor with a broad hat, who caught it effortlessly. He then proceeded to take on the incoming guards with impressive finesse.
As two more figures—a tall, muscular man and a frog creature—stepped through the rift, Charles' heart raced, unsure of what would come next.