Act I
Chapter X
1st Millennia of Daor Loyar, Mekanip’s Tavern - 8th of Yluj
As I navigate the illuminated expanse of the Atlas of Realms, a sigh escapes my lips—more from irritation than exhaustion. “Oh, Uncle. You surely have given me a rather tiresome puzzle,” I murmur, the words echoing softly off the chamber’s brick walls. The green lights flicker a dance, casting an otherworldly glow as they reveal the intricate web of Khaz’s movements. This is the Atlas he’s using to traverse the myriad realms.
Aela, ever the diligent sorceress, moves gracefully through the shimmering projection. Her fingers trace lines connecting various dots, each representing different worlds. Her voice is calm, almost soothing, as she explains the tediousness of our task. “Yes, Ari. In fact, I tracked the pathways he’s using to travel.” She pauses, a brow furrowing as she marks several points of interest. “He’s been to many worlds, Ari. It will take some time to catch up to him.”
The realization is sobering. To pursue Khaz, we would have to traverse each realm’s gateway, a process infinitely more time-consuming and perilous than the near-instantaneous travel afforded by port stones. It’s a daunting prospect, especially given the precarious balance of power in cosmos.
A shadow shifts in the dim light, and Yalda materializes beside me, his form a blend of metal and darkness. His voice, a deep, disturbing echo, reverberates through my mind. “Shall. I. Hunt?” The metal beast kneels, awaiting my command. His loyalty is absolute, yet even he cannot comprehend the full extent of the political quagmire we find ourselves in.
Khaz, once my father’s trusted inter-world ambassador, has been sowing seeds of dissent. My father, the late God-King, commanded respect across the realms, not least because of our family, the Margraves, are among the few to achieve transcendence to godhood. But now, his death poses a threat to the delicate equilibrium. Other transcendent families, eyeing the throne filled, to their eyes, by a child, may seize the opportunity to challenge my claim.
The thought of Khaz spreading rumors of my father’s demise, gathering allies under the pretense of loyalty, gnaws at me. His actions have caused rebellion, destabilizing our realm and paving the way for a full-scale assault. It’s a grim reality that I cannot ignore.
Sinking back into the plush cushions, I stretch, trying to ease the tension coiling within me. A thought occurs, sharp and sudden, as I sit up. “Aela, can we adapt a port stone to my father’s memories?” My voice is steady, yet my mind races. The port stone’s ability to teleport across realms is unparalleled, but adapting it to my father’s memories could allow us to pinpoint specific event or locations he deemed crucial. It could provide a direct route to Khaz, bypassing the labrynthine paths of the Atlas.
Aela tilts her head, considering the proposal. The glass of wine in my hand catches the light, reflecting a flickering gold—a fleeting image of my father’s stern visage. The idea of using his memories, even posthumously, feels like a final gift, a last act of guidance beyond the grave.
Her eyes meet mine, thoughtful and calculating. “It’s possible,” she says slowly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “But it would require a substantial amount of energy and precise alignment with your father’s essence. It’s risky, but it could work.”
I nod, feeling the heaviness of the decision settle on my shoulders. The stakes are high, but so are the potential rewards. Rising from the cushions, I down the rest of the wine, the liquid burning a path down my throat. “Then, let us go,” I declare, my voice resolute. “We have a realm to defend and a traitor to hunt.”
The sensation begins as a simmering warmth, quickly escalating into a blazing inferno that seems to sear my pupils. It’s as if my eyes have become conduits for an overwhelming surge of energy, igniting memories and images that flood my mind’s eye. Vivid visions of distant lands, each with its unique landscapes and bizarre creatures, flash through my consciousness. The clarity of these memories is startling, almost as if they were my own. There’s a potent sense of nostalgia, a deep-seated familiarity that resonates with each scene.
“Richten,” I announce with conviction, the unfamiliar name rolling off my tongue as a particularly image takes prominence. The vision crystallizes into a large tavern, standing tall against the backdrop of swirling memories. My body feels an ethereal pull, as if a tether made of pure magic draws me towards a point of convergence. The familiar sensation of the port stone’s activation, yet different—more visceral, more intimate.
As we merge into the ether, an anomaly unfolds. The space around us shifts, a vortex of formless energy swirling above. Unlike previous port stone experiences, this transition is raw and unrefined. A window-like portal materializes, a hazy frame offering a glimpse into the innards of what appears to be a tavern. With a resolute purpose, I step through the aperture, gradually causing the wavering image to clarify.
It is quite jarring as the etheric pull gives way to a physical reality, and a cold, biting wind howls outside the tavern walls. Inside, the flicker of candlelight casts long shadows, the air thick with the scent of old wood and ale. My entry sends ripples through the room, an almost palpable shockwave of energy that stirs the occupants. Eyes turn towards me, a myriad of colors and shapes, some familiar, others utterly foreign. I can feel the weight of their gazes, a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and wariness.
“I. Feel. Weak.” Yalda’s voice intrudes my thoughts, a guttural growl laced with unease. “I. Don’t. Like.” His discomfort mirrors my own, an oppressive aura pressing down on us, sticky and cloying like a miasma. It’s a disconcerting sensation, one that grounds me in this place with an unwelcome intensity.
I move with deliberate grace, each step measured and imbued with the authority of my station. My presence must command respect, a reminder that true sovereignty has entered the room. The creatures—denizens of this strange realm—continue to watch, their expressions inscrutable. I can sense their whispers, feel their speculative thoughts brushing against my consciousness.
As I approach the bar, my eyes lock onto the figure behind it—a barkeep with a rugged face and knowing eyes. “Is this Pera Dunamis?”
The Barkeep lifts his gaze from the glass he’s meticulously polishing, finally acknowledging my presence with a casual smile. “Nope, I’m afraid not,” he replies with an easygoing tone. His response, so mundane and cheerful, contrasts sharply with the oddity of my impression. He resumes his task, seemingly uninterested, until a sudden change in his expression signals otherwise. He pauses, placing a hand to his ear as if listening intently to something only he can hear.
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After a brief moment, he barks out, “Ah, okay.” His voice shifts to a more authoritative tone as he continues, “You’re going to want to go back out about fifteen paces and turn left. Head that way until the ambient chaos level drops by about half, then go Zorth about three existences over, and Mr. Dunamis should be right there.”
I stand there, processing the bizarre directions. The instructions feel like a riddle wrapped in an enigma, each phrase laden with the cryptic detail that makes sense only in a realm where conventional logic holds no sway. As I mull over the information, a chuckle catches my attention.
Rotating, I catch sight of a Chiroptera—a batfolk. Its large ears twitch, pink nose scrunching up as it laughs. It wears a rugged, ripped tan shorts and a bare-chested tall-collared vest ripped down the sides for its large wings stretch down past its hands complementing its unusual appearance. What stands out the most, however, is the unkempt, orange-red hair that spills down its back and the thin, fur-tipped tail swaying with amusement. A seasoned wanderer, perhaps?
“It’s been centuries since we’ve laid eyes on Chirops,” Aela’s voice echoes in my mind, tinged with surprise. I nod, my curiosity piqued by this rare being. I thought I had exterminated all of them.
The Chirop grins, revealing a set of sharp teeth. “Say, you got anything stronger I can drink? And maybe less exotic,” it quips, examining the empty glass in its clawed hand with a critical eye. The playful tone does little to mask its evident thirst.
The Barkeep nods, reaching behind the bar to retrieve a bottle. As he places it on the counter, I can catch the sight of the label: Deathchanter’s Rum. The name alone is ominous, a promise of potency. The bottle itself is clear, showcasing the dark amber liquid within. A figure clad in a strange outfit adorns the label, their visage shrouded in mystery. The Barkeep pours the rum into a larger glass, filling it to the brim before handing it over to the eager Chiroptera.
“Those might be good directions, except I don’t think there’s a chance anyone’s ever gone Zorth,” the batfolk says, downing the alcohol in one gulp. It reclines in its chair, savoring the lingering burn of the rum as a faint trail of smoke escapes his sharp mouth.
Smirking mischievously, it leans forward, curiosity stirring his expression. “Pera Dunamis. Hmm. That’s something I haven’t heard in a while,” it says, its tone laced with amusement and caution. “But what’s it matter to you?”
Yalda, clearly irked by the Chirop’s nonchalant attitude, growls in a mechanical tone, “Insolence.” He reaches for his broadsword, the movement slow and deliberate. But before the situation can escalate, Aela raises her hand, gesturing the dark knight to halt.
“My apologies for Yalda’s hastiness,” she begins, her voice smooth and diplomatic. She bows elegantly, offering a graceful curtsy to Zeph. “My name is Aela.” She introduces herself with poise, carrying an air of nobility. “Our dear master is Aurelios Margrave, Ruler of the Margrave Realm, God-King of the Empyrean Planes.” She gestures towards me, remaining silent, my eyes disdainful. “Don’t mind his attitude. He’s just a being born from a royal lineage. It doesn’t help that he’s lived a millennium or two.”
Aela continues, her voice dropping to a more secretive, almost sinister tone. “We traveled here as we seem to have lost… a companion of ours to another world.” The implication hangs heavy in the air. “We would like to find Pera Dunamis.”
“I find him to be filthy. See to the cleanliness of its words,” I echo into Aela’s mind, transmitting my thoughts.
She conjures a mysterious emblem, its surface adorned with intricate engravings that shift and dance when caught in the light. The object seems almost alive, its patterns mesmerizing. “What may your name be?” Aela asks, and with a graceful flick of her wrist, she hands the emblem to the Chirop.
“Zeph,” it replies, taking the emblem, its demeanor relaxed and unimpressed. The batfolk scrutinize the object with a learned, inquisitive look. Reclining further, Zeph lets a chuckle escape his lips before setting the emblem down on the counter beside him, protruding his nonchalant posture.
“You know, if there’s one thing I’ve grown pretty fond of after all this time, it’s not doing things just ‘cause someone told me to,” he says, his eyes flicking toward Aela and then to me. His gaze lingers, offering a peculiar smirk. “And it’s quite interesting that a pair of knights with their king would stroll up to a place like this simply to ask around. Surely, this information you’re seeking is real important. At least, enough for a king to involve himself directly, eh?”
Zeph’s tone is casual and self-assured, yet subtly rebellious. I can feel the hate dripping from its gaze towards me—almost palpable. “But, hypothetically, let’s say I do have information that the likes of you are looking to uncover. Who says I don’t know the repercussions of that? Or that such facts don’t come cheap?”
Letting the question hang in the air, its smile widens. “Surely, you came here knowing that you’d have to negotiate, right?” Its eyes dart between Aela, Yalda, and me, as if evaluating our reactions. An electric current of unspoken stakes and potential conflicts thickens the air between the bat and I.
I notice Yalda, who stands tall and menacing, expresses his frustration as he unsheathes his broadsword. With a forceful thrust, he attempts to bury it into the tavern’s floorboards, only to be met with unexpected resistance. The blade clinks harmlessly against the wood, which, to his evident annoyance, remains unscathed. He tries again, and again, each effort punctuates by a dull thud and an irritated growl. It’s a comical sight—Yalda, a being of immense power, thwarted by something as mundane as floorboards.
This tavern is not an ordinary place. This oppressive aura sapping my energy as if scaling my powers to a mundane—almost mortal—level. I don’t blame Yalda for expressing his distaste.
My heavenly knight chuckles softly at the spectacle, a small smile playing on her lips as she watches him struggle like a child with an indestructible toy. “Simple-minded,” she muses inwardly, amused by his futile attempts.
Turning her attention back to Zeph, Aela’s demeanor shifts to one of intrigue. “This place is interesting. It seems you are familiar with this tavern.” As she speaks, she holds out her palm, and the emblem she previously conjured ignites into a blaze of embers. The fiery ash converges, swirling in her hand before reconstructing itself into a solid form. She examines, swirling in her hand before reconstructing itself into a solid form.
Aela examines the newly formed symbol. “The bat is deceitful,” she transmits to my thoughts, expectant of the result.
A smirk forms on my lips, amused by the outcome. I glance to the Chirop, a glimmer of challenge in my gaze.
“May I. Eat him. Master?” Yalda’s voice, deep and mechanical, cuts through the air. Noticing his sight locking onto the Chirop, predatory and hungry, like a wolf eyeing its next meal. “I can. Make it. Quick.”
With a casual gesture, I command Yalda to heel. He obeys, though his eyes never leave Zeph, a barely restrained eagerness in his posture. I step closer to our newfound friend, closing the distance until I’m standing before him. Aela steps forward, clearing a wooden stool with grace, making way for me to conjure a small throne. The seat materializes beneath me as I settle in, reclining with an air of casual dominance. My face rests on my fist, and my golden eyes burn with an intense glow.
“It’s been a few hundred years since I’ve conversed with a Chirop,” I begin, my voice smooth and commanding. “They’re extinct in my world.”
In the Margrave Realm, the locals use the term Chiropteras, Chirop for short, to describe batfolk or similar beings. Their absence adds a layer of rarity to this encounter, piquing my deep curiosity.
“I hope your answer entertains me,” I continue, my tone carrying a breeze of menace. “The last ones couldn’t.” My words thinly veiled with threats, a reminder of the fate of befell others who fail to satisfy my amusement. “Name your price, Chirop. If I find your response boring, then I hope to find a modicum of enjoyment in killing you.” I lean back in my throne with my eyes never leaving the rare creature.
“Just know,” I add, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur, “I find you to be filthy.”