An opaque window rattled as the cold autumn wind blew through the port city of Honeydew. A pale beam of light from a melancholic grey sky warred against the soft orange glow of a low crackling hearth to illuminate the modest-sized living area in the Master Necromancer’s abode. The inviting fragrance of rosemary and slowly cooking meat was a welcome change to the smell of old tomes and mildew in the basement where the young man and the old woman had awoken.
Kieran and Ainsle were engaged in a conversation regarding her summons to the capital. Ann sat silently beside Ben, her tired eyes wavering as her head swayed periodically, her lack of sleep over the past week evident. The young man had suggested that she rest, yet the short blonde woman protested to the point where he felt that further insistence would cause her undue stress. Issa, the Fisherman’s son, sat quietly, observing the adults around the table.
He held the letter from the Archmage, who lay in a deep slumber —or stasis, as Kieran had informed him— in his bedroom down the passageway. He read the words written in a beautiful flowing script, undoubtedly transcribed by Kieran, again.
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Dearest Benjamin,
It appears that fate is indeed the cruelest of mistresses.
As I write you from what is unequivocally my deathbed, I find myself amused at the irony of my circumstance.
Despite what my Apprentice may suggest, I held little hope for one as old as I to live to see the end of the decade, and now through treachery, I find the embrace of the void beckoning me sooner than I had anticipated.
—Ben, please don’t mind Master Durrene. He is quite fond of the melodramatic. -K
Several delightful conversations with your Keeper, Miss Annastacia Blackwood, have enlightened me regarding your current condition.
I would be remiss in failing to offer my assistance in your journey of rediscovery and the inevitable trials that obstruct your path.
The Benevolent Keeper has summarized your most pressing concerns into two encompassing queries.
I, Archmage Jared Durrene, will endeavor to provide answers to the best of my ability, barring the limitations this form of correspondence will allow.
Regarding the origins of Old Worlders~
Old Worlders, also referred to as ‘Sky-Striders’ or ‘Pale ones’ by the more primitive demographic groups, were the people of an ancient civilization thought to be extinct long before the First Era of Conflict. Their technological advancements are thought to have rivaled even those of the Polnean peoples in the southern continent of-
—I’ll spare you the history lesson. -K
-However, through my tireless research, what was most fascinating was that the cocoons, previously thought to have been sarcophagi, were, in fact, advanced stasis shells. Most of these have failed over the course of several millennia, yet some appeared to have survived the passage of time. The recently uncovered writings of an OId Worlder, known to the public as the Herald of the Era of Conflict, confirmed the theory, yet much is indecipherable (needs citation: ‘test-tube-infant’- K); therefore, more writings are needed to solve this particular quandary. In addition, the previously held theory relating to the cause of the Old World’s demise is disproven by the mention of infighting and the self-destruction of their society in the journal.
Regarding the names of the Divine and their Orders~
Unfortunately, though an intriguing discovery, none of my research illuminates a potential cause or explanation for the condition. I can but theorize that being from a Godless era could perhaps have had an influence on your prior inability to hear and interact with the Pantheon. The Old Worlder’s journal speaks of direct communication with a God, described only as the ‘Angry Bastard.’ Additionally, the Herald described themselves as a Null Mana Insensitive (-K), yet historical records report the figure as a Grand Master Spell Caster.
Therefore, at this time, I am unable to draw correlations between the aforementioned and the ordeals you have suffered at the mention of Divinity.
I have given my Apprentice instructions and access to my papers so that he may lead you to a suspected ruin site which I believe to be largely untouched. Hopefully, you will find the answers you seek.
A final note: I advise that you heed my request to seek out the Oracle in the Aeyr on the following summer solstice; as mentioned in the writings, the entity should be able to clarify any and all questions you may have. The Herald spoke of the return of one known as the Betrayer and a cycle of events that I fear we are terribly unprepared for.
Yours Sincerely,
Archmage Jared Durrene
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A loud snore startled Ben and prevented his fifth reread of the Archmage’s letter. He turned to see his Keeper, fast asleep on the chair beside him. He stood on shaky legs, followed by Ainsle, who helped him carry the blonde woman to the bedroll near the fireplace. Ben thought that her exhaustion must’ve been severe, considering the fact that her unsteady relocation didn’t seem to wake her at all. He nodded in thanks to the Berserker, who replied with a wink.
The pair sat at the table, and Kieran served bowls of delectable roast and potatoes. The four sat and ate in relative silence, finding comfort in each other’s company. Issa wolfed down his serving and expressed feigned reluctance at Ainsle’s insistence that he have another before relenting and accepting the offered bowl.
Ben’s thoughts were occupied by the revelations of the Archmage’s letter. As a living relic of a long-dead people, a sense of loneliness or hollowness washed over him. The Archmage answered the question of where he had come from, and the memory of Dee’s words tasted all the more bitter for it.
She said I was from Aetheria. Who else survived the stasis ‘shells’ in the Vale?
A thought struck the young man, and he snapped his head to Kieran.
“Kieran, you said Eric had fresh corpses of Old Worlders delivered here. Are those corpses downstairs what I think they are?” he asked, gaze meeting the startled Caster’s own.
A grunt and another kick against his shin made much more painful by the fact that the feeling in his legs had improved, drawing his attention to the scowling Berserker, who addressed the indifferent boy.
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“Benny is only joking, sweetheart. There’s nothing down there except for dusty old books and rats,” she lied in a terrifyingly sweet husky voice.
Ben winced yet noticed that Issa seemed undisturbed by his mention of corpses as he ate, oblivious to the assuaging of the old woman.
“Let’s go for a walk,” The red-haired Caster said. “I have to go check on Father’s store anyway. There have been looters around the city after the evacuation.”
Ben stood to follow Kieran when he frowned. “Evacuation?”
The red-haired man nodded before turning to Ainsle. “Aunt, we’ll be back soon.”
“Ah, shit. I’ve probably gotta go check on the little ones too. Say, did the twins come by at all?” Ainsle asked Kieran, who stopped at the doorway to address the Berserker.
“They came the day after the attack. Gian left for the Capital earlier this week, but June has been here every day so far. Multiple times a day…” Kieran sighed. “She would’ve slept here if I hadn’t protested. She’s staying at the embassy for now, but I suspect she’ll be back this evening.”
Ben glanced at the sleeping form of Ann and swept his gaze across the spacious room.
He spoke up. “Why couldn’t she stay here? There seems to be more than enough room.”
Kieran ran a hand through his messy locks and sighed once more. “Look, Ben. I don’t know whether you’ve figured it out or not, but Master Durrene’s experiments were often slightly ‘less-than-legal’ in nature. Allowing a Magic User Apprenticed to a member of the Council of Blades access to his work would be… less than desirable.”
“Pah,” Ainsle interjected. “The whip of a girl ain’t no snitch,” the old woman grunted.
“Regardless,” Kieran continued. “Miss Blackwood has already taken up temporary residence here. Myself and young Master Issa have since moved to a neighboring dwelling to give the honored Keeper some room for privacy.”
“Hmm. Is that so?” teased Ainsle. “A little birdie told me that there’s more than two of you in that abandoned house.”
The color drained from the handsome man’s tired face, and his black eyes twitched. “Whatever do you mean, dear Aunt?”
“I see. So little Kieran likes 'em big and strong,” Ainsle let out a ‘hmph.’ “Makes sense, I guess. Ol’ Bertie always had a thing for powerful women.” The old woman’s eye became unfocused for a beat. “And your mum was one of the most powerful of them all.”
Kieran cleared his throat and nodded to the Berserker. “We’ll be back soon.”
Ben grabbed the thick black cloak from a coat rack beside the door before pausing and tapping Kieran on his shoulder.
“Have you seen my halberd anywhere?” he asked.
The red-haired man winced. “I went back the morning after, at Miss Blackwood’s insistence, during the cleanup, but it was nowhere in sight… Sorry, Ben. As you’ll see, this sort of event tends to draw out all sorts of characters.”
Ben’s shoulders slumped slightly. “It’s. It’s fine, Kieran. You did more than enough already.”
The pair of young men left the warm, cozy house of the Master Necromancer to walk down the mostly abandoned streets of Honeydew. A chill autumn wind caused their cloaks to flutter, yet Ben found the cold surprisingly refreshing. The utter lack of activity in the city was jarring to him. From what he understood, the Archmage’s house was on the opposite end of the city from where the attack had taken place, yet the sheer number of looted homes with broken windows sent a shiver down his spine.
The distant sounds of shouting, wailing, and jeering sporadically echoed off the pastel-colored walls of the port city.
“So,” Ben began. “I want to know about the corpses Eric Vasylius had delivered to Master Durrene.” He met Kieran’s gaze as they walked side by side. “Tell me, honestly. Do you think they may have been alive when found?”
The Apprentice Necromancer furrowed his brows as he considered the question. “Please take what I say with a measure of reservation, as I only stumbled upon the exchange once, late at night. I was slightly inebriated at that time as well…”
“Okay, I get it. You’re unsure. Anything is fine. Please,” Ben interrupted, regretting the frustration in his tone.
Kieran cleared his throat. “Of course. I saw a malnourished corpse with markings on the back of the neck, the same as yours. The body had a puncture wound to the sternum as if the person had been executed while asleep. Aside from the usual decapitation that is mandatory when handling corpses, there were no other clear signs of death. The corpses have since been missing from the basement.”
“So, it's true then. There were other survivors, and Eric’s people went around killing them.” Ben said as a cold fury laced his voice.
The Caster, seemingly oblivious to the roiling anger of his companion, replied in a thoughtful tone. “It’s definitely possible. The body was also covered in beach sand… Didn’t you say you awoke on a beach in the Vale of Moons?”
“Yeah…” Ben replied, trailing off. “Why? What could they possibly gain by killing survivors of what was thought to be an extinct race?”
The Apprentice seemed to notice his distress. “Ben, you should know that the actions of a lone Council member aren’t a reflection on the Council as a whole. They’re a collective of frighteningly powerful people, rumored to consist of high-leveled Casters, Warriors, and Wielders of Avatars, much like you and Aunt. I want you to be aware that there isn’t a single power on Aetheria that can order a Champion to do something they don’t want to do; besides a collective of similarly powerful people.”
Ben frowned. “What’re you saying? Eric is acting on his own?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he is secretly working with another; I don’t know. But what I do know is that the Council of Blades is an important organization. It holds its members accountable by utilizing peer judgment and, if needed, punishment. That’s why we haven’t had a rampaging Champion since the earlier days of the Empire.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you have another connection to the Council?” Ben asked, tone hinting at suspicion.
“Look, it’s no secret that I’ve been in correspondence with Councilor Magus Mwalenu. He shares my vision, and his insight has been instrumental to the success of the procedure that sees you walking right now.” Kieran paused to calm his frustration expressed through his hurried speech. “All right. I sent a letter last month inquiring after I learned of Councilor Eric’s dealings. Uncharacteristically, I haven’t received any reply from the Magus as of yet. It may very well be that the roads are no longer safe for messengers to travel.”
Ben clenched his jaw, the shame at his accusatory question was overshadowed by the thought of Eric’s actions in MoonVale. The pair walked in silence for a while, their pride preventing any reconciliation of their minor heated discussion.
They walked past a burnt-down house, and Kieran mentioned that it belonged to the Baker, whose husband was a Scribe, the same one the Archmage had employed to transcribe the Herald’s journal. The sight of wet charred wood and blackened pink stone fanned the ember of anger within Ben.
Before long, the pair arrived at the desolate market street. Blackened blood, dried in the sun and then drenched by the rain, coated the vast area of uneven cobbled stones on the ground. Ben’s new legs prickled, but the long walk had seen him get used to them; his steps were no longer shaky and uneven. If anything, he felt his new limbs were healthier than the twigs he had before.
The pair turned down a side street to Red Maiden’s Trinkets and Baubles to find a group of a dozen armed men and women in various styles of ragged clothing standing in front of the eclectic store. A short man was hunched over in front of the door, seemingly prodding at the keyhole with slender, black implements. Ben glanced at Kieran, who frowned at the scene before them.
A large, dirty man with a small white, dead cat dangling from his hand laughed at an indiscernible joke one of his companions told.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. Would that happen to be Miss Fiona’s cat?” Kieran asked, ever so politely as the pair approached the gang.
A tall, slender man with a hooked nose stepped out from behind the fat man to leer at the two young men. His long brown hair was oily, and his dirty cheeks spread to reveal missing teeth in a mocking grin. Ben saw the group leader hold a long exquisite, black halberd leaning lazily against his shoulder as he sauntered to the front of the group.
“What the fuck is it worth to you?” The skinny man drawled.