The words made Sunday tense. Guests? His first thought was his ‘Missing’ status and those searching for him. There was no way for Trust to know that though. It was impossible, wasn’t it? So what guests was he talking about?
“I find it quite peculiar,” Sunday said, “how all of you try to create this image of yourselves. Knowing, powerful, benevolent. Advertising yourselves like whores, showering me with benefits, and showing me glimpses of riches and status to make me like you more. I don’t know what sort of spell you have me under, but I guarantee things don’t go well when people try to play games with me. And everyone in this fucking city seems obsessed with petty schemes. That’s not even a threat. I myself am quite terrified of what’s been happening.”
“Oh no! How terrible,” Trust exclaimed. “Don’t think of me as one of those savage Adepts who scheme and wonder how to attract you on their side, or the vampires who will throw riches and ladies at you. I’m more of a protector or a watcher of sorts. It’s my eternal duty to observe and record. With that, comes a lot of knowledge I don’t want to have, unfortunately. Sometimes it is quite a burden. However, in this case, it gives me an edge, you see. I know exactly what you are, since reports of others like you have reached me, and me alone. Blumwin is isolated and unimportant, for now. That will perhaps change as the currents start to shift and the sleeping fragments of the Divine awaken. And mostly because of you, you see.”
Sunday listened with rapt attention, ready to melt faces and slap whomever at a moment’s notice. His good predisposition toward Trust was gone, and for some reason, he felt almost terrified by the undead. It was a strange thing, how his mood was shifting. There had been no change in the demeanor or presence of Trust, but… there was something else there. His instinct never lied.
“I’m here to help, believe it or not. Building influence in a city like this is pointless. What will I use it for afterward? It’ll be like trying to blow away a storm by waving a feather. However, those limited by their inherent potential or by the chains set upon their minds struggle to hold onto the little power they have and grow it. Such is the nature of the world, after all. Everyone wants to be king, be it only in their humble home or upon a throne of gold and swords. That’s why they’re after you and your willing allegiance.”
“What the fuck are you on about?”
Trust sighed. He pushed some of the scrolls in place and walked deeper into the chamber. Sunday followed, reluctant but enticed. For once someone sounded like they held much-needed answers, and the promise of that was more attractive than mountains of gold or tens of spells. Was he another Mera? An ancient being hiding in plain sight, living until their moment came? Was Sunday their moment? A chance for revenge, glory, or whatever else it was they desired?
“I’m but a servant of time, Sunday. You, on the other hand, are a prisoner of it. Since time immemorial, perhaps even since before the Fall, our world has been subject to a game. No one knows why it happens, or who started it. Foreign souls are often drawn here, denied their rest, and allowed to run rampant, fueled by forces that should have no say in the lives of mortals. The champions, the plague that ravages the lands, the scourge.”
Trust waived a hand a few times, trying to get some spider webs of a bunch of scrolls. Sunday had almost forgotten that he was in an Art depository, and perhaps not a normal one. He was sure the process was way more complicated than what he was experiencing, but once again it became apparent that his meager attempts to hide what he was had failed.
It was oddly comforting in a way. He had a much-needed need for clarity, and considering how useful everyone found him, he was probably safe with all the old bastards trying to convince him they were the shit. So far only Mera had achieved that, but hadn’t she just bribed him with the insane spells? Or was it Riya’s influence on him playing a role too?
Am I so desperate for someone to tell me what the fuck is going on in plain words?
“However, there is no denying that since the Fall, aberrants such as you have taken on a much-needed role. That of saviors. Or more precisely, executioners. See, the Divine like to nap from time to time, and while their influence is present it's more like an after-effect of their dreams and nightmares, rather than a direct connection. Such is the nature of their madness and their curse. A cyclical tragedy, if you will. Of course, the war never stops, but that withdrawal allows the intelligent races to prosper and carve out safe places in the world, while ironically using pieces of the Gods that once kept this world safe as tools, and harvesting the powers of the fallen from the cursed lands.”
“Like waiting for the fruit to ripen, before picking it. Over and over again. Throwing shit on the soil to enrich it, make it sweeter and bigger,” Sunday whispered.
Trust smiled, although there was not much indication of it. In fact, he had been smiling the whole time due to the missing flesh around his teeth – like a skull. This one seemed more genuine though.
“That’s one way to look at things. Godly beings, due to their very nature, need faith to thrive. However, how does a mad dog earn the faith of those around them? It is incapable of acts of service, or even looking normal and cute.” Trust took a scroll, opened it, and then threw it to the side without much care. Where had his respect for the Arts gone? It almost looked like was searching for something, but he didn’t seem to know where it was. Wasn’t he the keeper of this place?
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“So… the dog bites those around, transferring its disease and madness, letting it slowly fester. What choice do the mad have but to join the pack when no one else would have them afterward? Of course, it is not such a simple process with the Divine, but it is part of it. Some people genuinely believe in them, be it because they don’t remember the plight of their ancestors, because they’ve lived in safety and don’t know the horrors still ravaging parts of the world, or because of misguided lust for power. It doesn’t matter.”
“And I’m here to rid the world of such people. Why me?”
Trust sighed. “Such people and more, and I don’t know why you. I guess outsiders are more suited to make the decisions that are needed for the good of the world, or because your souls are capable of carrying the wills of those choosing you. I don’t know what your existence will culminate as. The few records that exist only tell me that you’re important. So, my advice is to ignore all the bastards playing games and trying to drag you into their camp. Political bullshit is for children. Make use of them, of course. You’d be a fool not to take advantage when they throw themselves at you. You’ll grow too fast for them anyway, and once you get in touch with the powers residing in you… ah, I’m getting excited.”
Sunday frowned. “What's your stake in this? Why meet me and tell me those things? Don’t you work for the Arcanum?”
“As I said, I just observe things and make sure the institution lasts through the turmoil of change. It is a repository of knowledge and spells, after all. This branch has been quite unlucky to have you land at its doorstep. For some reason, it is only you that has found themselves all alone and jumping around like a rubber ball thrown by a blind child. Aha! Here it is!”
Trust held a beaten-up old scroll like it was the find of the century, then carelessly threw it toward Sunday, who caught it with a frown.
“What’s this?”
“Mirrored Soul. It is a good art, even if flawed. I don’t think a few hallucinations and voices will bother you though. I’m sure you already have plenty in that head of yours.”
Sunday frowned. The scroll was just… in a very bad shape. And Trust knew too much. “Am I not supposed to be getting a copy of this?”
“Who has the time for that? Just take the original, I’m sure no one sane enough will come for this Art—”
A sudden burst of light announced the opening of the door, that had grown distant during their conversation. Sunday realized the repository was larger than he had initially thought. He turned backward toward Trust, only to find the undead crouched behind a bunch of scrolls.
A sudden realization hit him, and the scroll in his fingers became uncomfortable to hold. Yet, a smile played on his lips all the same.
“You don’t work for the Arcanum, do you?” Sunday whispered. He crouched next to Trust, who was busy peeking from the side.
“I do! I never lie! They just don’t know it yet. It’s not my job to be noticeable, ah! I hope it’s not the librarian. She’s a piece of work.”
“What happens if they find us?”
Trust shrugged. “To you? Slap on the wrist, rope around your neck, and a purse full of gold. I wouldn’t recommend it though. You shouldn’t give those geezers anything. Find the Voice of Joy, rid the city of them, and wait for your fans to reach.”
So, he knows something. How?
Sunday had half a mind to try and slap around the guy right here and now, but that would be silly. He had gotten a lot.
“You not working here, means I don’t have to pay, do I?”
“Payment… who needs it? I made up those prices earlier, but the Arts were real. Those bastards fleece anyone and everything, acting like it’s in the service of the greater good. Please. Take the Art, they won’t miss it. Don’t take too many though. One unused scroll might be shrugged off, but a few… heh.”
Don’t tell me twice. Finally, a chance to pay back the Arcanum for all the wasted time. Is it right though?
“You’ll have to manage that on your own! It’s been a pleasure. We’ll meet again under very different circumstances, I assure you. And don’t worry, I don’t watch you while you bathe like the other stalkers you have done. You need to work on that soon…” Trust peeked on the other side. Sunday heard talking not far from them and crouched down as well. “Here, take this!” the undead took out a dirty handkerchief and threw it at Sunday, who cringed as it touched his hand. “Wave it, and the door will open but only once! Or it won’t. Honestly, I’m not sure how this all works, I’m not that good with quasi-spells and their key combinations. What I did earlier was kind of a fluke. At least it doubles down as a bandana. Bye!”
“What? Wait—”
Sunday stared. Trust had been next to him, and now he was gone. He reached out with a hand just in case to see if the undead could turn invisible, but if that was the case he had already fled.
I’m so confused… He knows too much. Anyway, how should I proceed? Browse around a bit and wait for whoever is in here to leave and follow them out. Head straight for the exit? Bash heads? Ah, this brings me back to the good old days…
He turned a corner and changed his hiding spots a minute later as the steps neared him.
“The wretch claims someone entered,” a voice said.
“‘The wretch claims…’ Do you even hear yourself? They can’t speak!” a second one replied.
“I told you I understand them! I have a talent!”
“Yeah, yeah. A talent for making up bullshit. There’s no one around, let’s get out of here.”
“But—”
“Shut up. Practice is hard enough without making that librarian mad because we’ve disturbed her private art collection. Imagine something goes missing, but we don’t find the culprit. We’ll be flayed. At least twice.”
“How do you flay someone more than once—?”
The voices trailed off and soon the light of the silent door once again shone above the shelves. Sunday was left in the dark, among cobwebs and Arts probably more expensive than anything he had ever held.
Sunday bit his lower lip. It’s not like I have a choice, do I? If I don’t steal at this point, I’ll let my ancestors down.