[https://i.imgur.com/p37VtQQ.jpg]

THE SECOND MOVEMENT

IN THE PERSPECTIVE OF:

RHONE

AUTUMN 297I, WEEK 1, DAY 6, MORNING

STORMWATCH THOROUGHFARES, STORMWATCH, MIANA, THE ELTHEIRI EMPIRE

The insidious creep of exhaustion finally draws my darling Illeara to slumber. I have watched it promise as much for hours now. To see that it finally fulfill its word calms me a little. The woman has more compassion than sense. The body needs its rest, no matter how stubborn its accompanying mind.

And so, she sleeps.

Yet, while she needs it—so desperately that she fell asleep mid conversation, no less—she does not need it here. Though it really doesn’t bear saying, one should not sleep in the presence of a nightmare. But what am I to do? Could I be so cruel hearted as to wake her? —demand she keep herself awake now after I so earnestly suggested she rest?

Distracting myself, I look out and see what I expect, finding no comfort in the confirmation.

Crowds have waned, thinner and lacking the clamor such a morning would promise. The air has stilled, its texture cool and empty—somehow dry, despite the oceanic climate. Even the echoes of our agitopede’s thick brass legs sound hollow as their lumbering, rhythmic gate draws us away from the markets.

Yet the quiet does not offer peace.

Illeara mumbles something incoherent and I look down, noticing her twitching a bit.

I cannot imagine her dreams are anything kind.

A flash of something catches my attention. I keep myself from any overt reaction, moving only my eyes to track it and hand nearer to my sabre’s hilt, making a pretense of reaching into a pocket. I do not wish to not betray my interest with something more obvious. A second later, my mind has processed what I saw: a pedestrian bumped into another, and, tense as they are—tense as everyone is—they had the beginnings of an altercation, only for it to quickly subside.

Just the angst and pent-up worry of the greater situation finding momentary release.

Nothing.

Not of lasting interest.

I look back to Illeara.

War in the deserts honed my inherent sensitivity to spirits—a most adventitious fortune when one fought the unholy monsters the Shen Leim shaman conjured. But by chrome and silver, Illeara speaks to gon professionally, and Stormwatch is practically a gallows’ field for its gloom as of late. If this undefinable haunting keeps me awake at night, what must it do to her?

And out here—beyond even what limited protection the château’s thresholds offer? Should… should I wake her? —wake her only if to get her back to the château?

Would it even make a perceptible difference?

We had both believed the thresholds and wards would shield us. This nightmare—or, more accurately, some theorized, generic spiritual woe—were supposed to pale before a threshold—much more so the robust protections the château offer. Yet Gon’Kar made the matter plain in a metaphor.

Much in the way a bug net will prevent mosquitoes from trespassing, so does the threshold with uninvited spirits. Nevertheless, even behind a net, one might still hear the metaphorical mosquitoes’ buzzing. The same would seem to hold true for the detection of our present nightmare, whatever it is.

Finally—given that this so-called buzzing is sufficient to keep the entire capital on edge—this spiritual mosquito—this phantasmagorical bug—must be… well, not something so insignificant as a bug.

…or perhaps it is like a bug and we are haunted by a vast horde of them—a swarm of gnat spirits.

…or even conceivably something grander even than noteworthy—monolithic, yet distant—the type of thing years of old were named after in the days before the empire—

Year of the Cold Summer.

Year of the Grey Sky.

Year of the… Very Notable Spirit Bug.

But could it be? —could we be detecting the tremors of some world-affecting spiritual quake somewhere? —perhaps even beyond the bounds of Eltheiri? Some monumental preternatural bug?

But no… such is wishful thinking, as absurdly depressing as it is for such to be the material of wishes…

Surely, we would have heard reports from near and abroad of other cities enduring this phenomenon, should that be the case.

It must be local, and a local horror must be counted as a blessing when weighted against some globe-affecting monstrosity. That, at least, is some relief.

Whatever its nature, though, it nonetheless feels… wrong: an invisible groping that takes hold of the soul with wriggling fingers—a haze that seeps into the lungs, deepening paranoia with every breath. And, despite the seeming universality of the effect, no one has the faintest notion as to what it is—or at least not with any certainty.

It… it could be a bug.

I need to stop fixating on this.

I am reminded of the sensation of catching something in the corner of my eye, only to look and see nothing. Something looms, or so the mind promises, and the subconscious awareness demands a conscious rush of panic. It demands the eyes to twitch—to turn and scrutinize—only to find… nothing. Whatever it is disappears without having ever really been there.

But it is there.

Everyone knows it is there.

This feeling is not one of sight, however, nor the sound of the aforeconsidered metaphorical buzzing of an insect—a bug. Though I cannot discern the how or why that constitutes this ambiguous sensation… this something is less a feeling and more… an instinct, perhaps?

The soldier in me wants nothing more than to join the night patrols and assist in determining what in the hells is going on. Yet Stormwatch has an entire division and more of guardsmen in garrason and more to draw upon should the need present itself. Yet nothing has been found… nothing beyond the leftovers.

But that is the inquisitors’ domain.

How is one meant to chase shadows whilst in the darkness? I doubt an additional man will help—if anything, I suspect I will be more of an asset during the day. An Emperor’s Own is best seen among the people, not not seen. General morale demands that much of me, at least. To that effect, both Illeara and I have made ourselves available to Inquisitor Kadir, should he need our assistance. We—

I sense something.

The texture of the wrongness alters a little… grows nearer—becomes more pungent.

I covertly look around, inspecting.

“Gon’Kar?” I ask trying to appear occupied.

“Yes?” the agitopede’s spirit operator responds, the gon’s voice coming through the speaker with a slight tinny buzz.

“Do you sense anything… amiss? —anything singular?”

“Hmm,” he says, pondering with his unusually human-like way. “Considering this city’s present state, may I request a more specific query?”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I suppose,” I reply, recognizing the point. Whatever the case, the answer is affirmation enough; the spirit senses the oddness as well—why wouldn’t it?

I let the conversation pass, the opportunity to politely continue lapsing. My mind travels back to the feeling, senses trying to discern meaning in it.

What was that?

What was that?

But as I try to recapture the sensation—refocus on the nagging little hint of a shred of insight—I find… nothing.

I shake my head, distracting myself from my own frustration.

Only three or so weeks have passed since the rumors began, but the city teeters on the edge of hysterics. Strange people lurk in the streets, clothing not quite right and behavior abnormal. Details vary. Some say they have queer voices and vernaculars. Others swear to a smell of dust laced with a foul twinge of excrement. The faces, though… what few rumormongers who have witnessed these people’s faces speak of a visage both mangled and haunting. Yet guards are unable to find them.

They are gone before they can be apprehended or even assessed.

Then there is the talk of the rituals. Wholly irregular and vile, one indeed hears of such things, but never here—never so close—never so… real. But the rumors and their frequency—the strange pink liquid, the occult symbols, the stripped bones—are here… are close… are real.

Talk of that sort is supposed to die out… not grow more predominant.

We people with our walls and weapons take a justifiable comfort in the security they offer, but when something comes along that finds these unimpressive—not some dumb thing, either, but rather an entity intelligent enough to understand who and what we are, yet find us unimposing—well… we lose our ease and confidence… we become like animals… like prey.

But is that the case? Is some leftover abomination from the Era of Mantles stirring? Has some new horror found purchase in our world? …our city?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Or perhaps it is just the city’s indigestion as a new emperor prepares to take the throne—better yet, some Purple’s idea of publicity for an upcoming theatrical production, though I haven’t the faintest notion how some artist would manage to bewitch such a city, or, more unrealistic still, suppress his ego this long in keeping the purpose a secret. The idea is absurd, optimistic, and fanciful—truly I cannot afford to believe that—that hope, when my every instinct knows it is a sanguine lie.

Still, it might be something more sinister, but not quite as damning as reemerging scions or something of that sort. Maybe some aspiring chemist has developed a new narcotic? —something in the water? —perhaps a contagion has begun spreading?

If only it is something that simple.

Even so, drugs, contaminants, and diseases do not lead to ritualistic killings… or at least not inherently.

Illeara shivers.

As I look to her, I catch something in the corner of my eye once more.

…something wrong.

“Gon’Kar, mind her,” I mutter as take in details of the figure. Out of sight of it, I vault the agitopede’s railing on the opposite to the side, letting the vehicle keep it from seeing what I am doing, trading distance for stealth. “Goot, stay,” I say as I slide down the vehicle’s armored sidings, hearing the telltale ticks of my little friend following me; the last thing I need is an inquisitive spider at the moment.

The agitopede moves past me and I adopt a casual stride, attempting to look occupied by my own matters and not fixated on the strange figure. Reaching to adjust a button buys me a couple seconds. Looking at my pocket watch adds several more. Yet, behind a mask of distraction, I take in every passive detail I can while gaining proximity at an oblique angle.

The… person—I hope it is a person—leans out from being a corner, inspecting others. The figure has a masculine form, if gaunt and wiry. Wrappings cover him—I think it is a him—almost entirely, a cowl hiding the face. Satisfaction aside of having discovered confirmation of evidence, something in the way he holds himself raises my hackles. The way he looks—intent, but not confrontational—speaks to me of someone searching for someone… inspecting—like an an undercover guard on watch.

I try to make use of the few pedestrians between us for some measure of concealment, though have little to draw upon. I maintain my indirect route, but soon the individual’s attention falls on me and the figure—still though he is—somehow manages to become even less animate.

I attempt to deflect.

Avoiding eye contact, I raise my hand to flag down someone a ways up the thoroughfare and call out an arbitrary name. Even so, I keep my periphery on the figure.

It does not work.

I can sense it does not work.

A moment later, gaze now wholly fixed on me, the figure begins slipping back into his alleyway.

I dash toward him, forfeiting my useless pretense as I draw my sabre. “Stop! Emperor’s Own!” I shout, not expecting or getting any cooperation.

I whip around the corner, revolving pistol too now in hand. Evaluating the area, however…

Empty.

No… more than that…

Desolate.

Searching with intent now, it takes me a moment, but I find some small piece of evidence of the figure. Far from reassuring, however, it sends a shiver down my spine. A small tear of fabric is snagged between two stones of a sewer drainage opening where the sidewalk meets the road…

A drainage opening far too small for a person to slip into…

A drainage opening with vertical bars, preventing access to anything larger than a rat…

Yet…

I squat down to inspect the drain, peering in from a short distance. Even if the very notion is absurd, I should at least—

Something catches in the light and I look closer.

Two eyes stare back, red and sharp—wide enough apart to be human.

For half an instant the sight freezes me, but I react before the shock sets in.

I point my pistol.

I fire.

By the time the smoke settles, however, it is gone.

I am left with only the smell of filth and cordite.

I return my sabre to its scabbard, finding my hand shaking. W-what…?

Thoughts flood my mind, disorganized and fragmented.

Should I pursue? —venture into the undercity? Would it even be there when I navigated to that grate—could I even navigate to it?

Should I sound the alarm? Would it not just divine its way into some other fanciful hiding place, too small for pursuit?

No, what I must do is return to the château with Illeara, then immediately seek out Inquisitor Kadir. If my eyes can be believed, the information needs to be considered and disseminated as soon as possible. …if my eyes can be believed.

Why am I so shaken?

I have seen far worse—far more harrowing things. What I have seen—what I have fought—in the deserts is…

But that is the key factor, is it not?

Context.

Never had I suspected I would find such a thing—such an inscrutable, malevolent oddity—in Stormwatch, of all places. This is a place where such things should not be. A bastion. A haven.

But no… it would seem not.

Nightmare having plagued the city for weeks now, that is a notion that I should have long since reconsidered.

Unnerved, I begin a retreat toward the agitopede. Turning the corner, I see the agitopede had stopped sometime after I departed, scorpion-like body lowered, but eight legs primed to be off once more. My spider, Goot, waves and I cannot help but feel some small semblance of calm renter my mind; I scratch his head as I ascend the brass stairs.

“Discover anything?” Gon’Kar asks, more conversational than curious.

“Yes,” I reply, noncommittal. “The nature of it, however… I… I will need to file a report when I get back—more than file a report, I expect.”

Seeing Illeara, I shiver.

“I should want Illeara back behind the threshold of the château before I depart, however—the trek back will afford me the needed time to think in any case,” I say, the first step of a plan falling into place.

Feeling my heart begin to settle, I recount my observations to Gon’Kar in the manner I grew accustomed to doing with the officers back when I was in expeditionary reconnaissance. As I finish the rather short account, I drape a thin blanket over Illeara, aware I am projecting my own chills onto her; the early autumn day will be warm soon, but the morning and shade yet preserve vestiges of the night’s chill. Her mouth moves with silent words, and I can only assume some iteration of the reoccurring dream affecting her has come again.

I have repeatedly asked—lightheartedly pestered her, even—but she pointedly refuses to reveal the nature of these dreams, undoubtedly certain that I will find these fantastical visions as amusing as the books in which she so often buries her nose. Unfortunately, she assumes my jests are serious. The reality of it is I find her whimsical spirit nothing if not positively charming.

I should really be trying to make sense of what I saw, but I push it aside again, mind averse to the perplexing experience.

Sitting, as no guard should do, I gaze over to Illeara. She looks so very alone there, sleeping. The feeling defies explanation most flagrantly, but the sense of vulnerable fragility—the way she tucks her legs—the way she holds herself…. Her bodyguard I might be, but I am powerless against dreams. Sometimes I just want to hold her… to….

“What do you suppose it was?” Gon’Kar asks, something indiscernible to the spirit’s words. The question draws me back.

“I do not know,” I reply with mechanical rigidity, only having just realized I was completely distracted from the thing in the sewer grate and not relishing the duty of returning my mind to its station. I—

Something else hits me.

It hits me with the force of storm.

Something… familiar.

I find myself stricken with an uncomfortable alertness, panic lacing the feeling.

I look around deliberately… futility.

My eyes prove as useless to me in tracking this mystery as my ears might be in locating the source of a smell.

The sensation resonates with irksome familiarity—like a déjà vécu of the spirit—and mental buzzing begins to bloom into the distraction of panic as it evades classification. It is as if someone has struck a tuning fork within a noisy gathering: the hum proves undeniable, yet beyond the ability to be traced as crowd’s voices momentarily and repeatedly match the tone and disorient the ear.

“Gon’Kar,” I say, renewing the conversation. I reason that, if nothing else, I can use him as a screening board to deconstruct my ideas. “It feels familiar—whatever it is.”

“Oh Rhone, you honor me with your unerring specificity,” he says, mockery magnified by the dryness of the tone.

“I find it hard to describe,” I reply, ignoring his sarcasm. Pausing—grinding the gears in my mind—I attempt, yet again and with similar futility, to manufacture an explanation. “I do not think we have the words for what I am feeling—or perhaps my vocabulary is insufficient.”

“Verbose as you are, I doubt that most sincerely.”

I laugh, unable to help myself. “I—”

It comes to me in a snap instant, something triggering the memory, and I shiver.

The desert.

Blood.

Bodies.

Haven in a dilapidated temple.

I know what it is now.

I sense an Ellestra Allmy nearby.