An Abandoned Altar Near Cyrill Forest, Paxen, Cyrill

Lord Thorne, who had been a prodigy in Connexion and had once been a sure contender for the Councillorship of Cyrill, was now stepping into old age. His hair was thinning and his face was beginning to hang limpidly. In addition, his skin was becoming yellower with each year, which had started rumours that he was under the influence of some toxic concoction. He tried to offset this by wearing robes with muted colours. And so he was wearing a beige evening robe as he stepped forward to meet Councillor Floyd.

“Councillor,” said Lord Thorne, coming to his knees.

“Stand, Lord Thorne,” said Floyd. He was holding a small, plain chest in his hands.

“For what purpose might you need my presence, Councillor?” Thorne asked.

“You are the greatest authority in the matter of the Artefacts of Death, Lord Thorne?”

If Thorne was taken aback, his expression did not show it. “If it is not too presumptuous to say so with my own tongue, then yes, Councillor.” Then, after a moment of hesitation, he said, “might it be that you have called me out because you have learned something of the recent disappearance of the Black Cloak?”

Floyd laughed a low, growling laugh. “You could say so,” he said, then he produced from the chest, without so much of a dramatic flurry, the Black Cloak.

“Ah!” cried Thorne. “You have reclaimed it. Might I know from where?”

But Floyd remained silent, gazing steadily at Thorne. Thorne’s eyes widened, and suddenly he felt paralysed with fear.

“Lord Thorne,” said Floyd, gently, as if to a child. “I want you to oversee a Ritual. You can do that, can you not?”

Lord Thorne realised that he had come unarmed, but then thought that it would not have made a difference either way.

“Of course, Councillor,” said Thorne.

Floyd smiled. “Good,” he said. “I knew you were a wise man.”

Thorne led Floyd towards the altar, which was little more than a slab of stone, its bottom half covered in moss. It had been used as a sacrificial altar in the Ancient Times, when Philosophers could still converse with the Mind of Helion. The sacrifice was a symbol of the superiority of Mind over Body. The sacrifices had been banned for many generations now, and was still a topic of contention for some Philosophers.

Floyd lay the Black Cloak on the altar, while Thorne watched on fearfully, his lips paler than his yellowed skin. Floyd produced a sacrificial dagger and held it out to Thorne. With a shaking hand, Thorne took it. Floyd raised his right sleeve and held out his hand to Thorne. Thorne looked down at Floyd’s palm, smooth and broad, not betraying the Councillor’s age. The grooves of his palms, however, ran deep. Thorne steadied Floyd’s wrist with his left hand and then placed the tip of the dagger to Floyd’s palm.

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“My Councillor…” said Thorne.

“Do it,” said Floyd.

Thorne made a clean cut with a practiced flick of his wrist. It was a cut he had made many times throughout his years as Overseer of the Rituals.

Floyd pulled away from Thorne’s grip and clinched his fist tight. A drop of blood fell from his fist down to the Black Cloak. For a moment it seemed as if the blood disappeared into the Black Cloak, swallowed up completely, but then tendrils of black smoke began emerging from the spot where the blood at dropped. The tendrils arched back on themselves, swallowed back up by the Black Cloak, which produced even bigger tendrils. The arches grew larger and larger until eventually the entire Black Cloak was teeming with tendrils that danced and wrapped upon themselves.

Thorne looked over at Floyd who, without a word, disrobed himself. Thorne looked away from Floyd’s naked Body. Floyd stepped forwards in front of the altar, turned around, then spread his arms out.

“A prayer first, Councillor?” said Thorne with a shaking voice.

“No need,” said Floyd.

Then he fell backwards onto the Black Cloak. Before his flesh even touched the Cloak, the tendrils reached out hungrily towards him, grasping at his Body, consuming it. Thorne turned back to look at the altar and cried out in horror. The Councillor’s Body was no longer recognisable, with thick, rope-like tendrils of the Black Cloak wrapping around him again and again, forming layers upon layers.

Thorne felt instinctively that at that moment the Councillor had stepped beyond humanity.

Then, as if nothing had happened, the Cloak wrapped itself around Floyd gently. Floyd’s face, which Thorne had not dared to look at, was covered by its hood. For a moment all was still. Then Floyd lifted himself off the altar and stood up.

Thorne stared, wide-eyed.

Floyd raised his arms and lowered the hood. Thorne saw that the Councillor’s face was unchanged. Floyd smiled.

“Thank you, Lord Thorne,” said Floyd, stepping towards him and holding his shoulders with both hands.

Thorne was frozen in place. He did not move when Floyd’s hands crept up his shoulder and onto his neck, clasping it firmly with both hands. Abruptly, Floyd swung Thorne around and slammed him onto the altar. Looming over Thorne, Floyd began drawing Life out of Thorne’s Body, taking in greedy gulps, as Thorne began to wilt away, his skin becoming yellower, his wrinkles deeper, until in the end he was nothing but a corpse.

A Cemetery Nearby

Floyd reached out with both hands, which now resembled the bark of the black oak, and took the urn, grey and unadorned, down from its resting place. Floyd placed it down gently onto the ground and opened its lid. Then he placed his palms on either side of the urn.

Black tendrils, the Life that he had just drawn out of Throne’s Body, emerged from his palm and latched onto the urn as if desiring to devour it.

The ashes began to rise. They rose in amorphous pillars at first, sprouting out of the urn like water from a fountain, but never spilling over, keeping bound to each other. Then these pillars began to take, crudely, the shape of a woman. A face formed, continually dissolving then reappearing, then sockets for eyes, a feeble nose, then a mouth. The mouth opened, as if to say something, but then collapsed. Another attempt, but again it collapsed without a word.

With a low grunt, Floyd lifted his hand from the urn.

The ashes collapsed.

With shaking hands Floyd placed the urn back on its resting place. He turned with a swish of his Cloak and left.