Sylas North

Shaman

The primordial drum pulsed, its rhythm drawing Sylas's conscious awareness deeper beyond the veil that separated worlds. Etheric form following the spectral Jaguar, he emerged amidst sprawling Spanish vineyards bathed in fading dappled sunlight. At the focal point of the vineyard, an altar adorned with floral roses seemed to hold its breath, a deserted bride waited endlessly amidst the fading light, unspoken questions hanging heavy in the stale air.

In this suspended moment, Sylas observed the scene. The faces of wedding guests, their hushed whispers barely audible, blurred into obscurity, everything frozen like the second hand on the father of the bride's wristwatch. Fiona stood there—a ghost of her former self, suspended in time, reliving the heartbreak and humiliation of years past. Draped in a lace-adorned wedding gown with a veil cascading endlessly, her features etched with anguish, she remained oblivious to Sylas's presence, lost in the abyss of her agonizing memories.

Inhaling deeply, Sylas took a step forward, prompted by the jaguar's nudge. It's cold-wet nose simulated the ordinary senses of reality. Approaching fragmented spirit energy wasn't his favorite task; perhaps because he struggled with such social interactions in every aspect of his life. Softly calling out, his deep voice reached Fiona as he stood in front of the woman who stood on the verge of tears.

"Fiona," he said, standing before the tearful woman. "He didn't show up. Staying here won't change anything. You need to accept it. Acceptance has and will continue to lead you to better things.” His words hung in the air, and he groaned, trying to drown out the telepathic snarky remarks of his alchemist spirit guide, Xia.

Fiona finally opened her emerald green eyes, which had served as a temporary shield for the tears now streaming down her freckled cheeks.

With a sigh of desperation, Sylas willed himself to try again. “"Fiona, come back with me. This pain holds you prisoner, but in your current life, you're healing. You've come far." Sylas implored, his voice carrying determination. He extended a hand toward her, a silent invitation to leave the haunting echoes of the past.

The winery, frozen in time, seemed to hold its breath as Fiona hesitated. The distant whispers of Xia's skepticism lingered, but Sylas focused on the genuine upset etched on the younger version of Fiona’s face.

“Sometimes, the hardest moments shape us into the most resilient versions of ourselves. Even in the darkest moments, there's a light within us that keeps us going. And trust me, that light shines brighter than any heartbreak.”

The jaguar, sensing the shifting emotions, nuzzled Fiona, offering silent support. The wedding’s frozen tableau slowly began to dissolve, a sure sign of her readiness to step away, leaving behind the deep echoes of rejection. Fiona took Sylas's hand, and together they walked down the disintegrating wedding aisle, a wooden door being the only thing unfading—a gateway out of the otherworld.

As Sylas reached for the door, he suddenly became acutely aware of his physical body, his mental imagery vanishing. The fragmented soul piece remained as a cooling sensation on his arm, causing the hairs to stand on end. In that moment, Xia, resembling an Egyptian priestess, took control. She guided the energy of the abandoned bride back into the client’s physical body on the treatment table, entering through the crown of Fionia's head.

Rather abruptly, Sylas stopped drumming. Naloria often lectured him about this, emphasizing the need to fade out to avoid startling the clients, but Sylas found little need. The drum's sudden cessation signaled the end of the session—a rapid change in energy as he concluded communication with the spirit world, the circle closing as the projected image of Xia faded out of his extrasensory senses.

The treatment room retained a residual energy, a lingering aura of the otherworldly encounter. He observed Fiona, still on the table, gradually returning to full awareness. Among all things, Sylas dreaded the post-session conversations the most. The task of explaining his encounters, coupled with the onslaught of questions, weighed heavily on him.

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“You can slowly get up. You might feel disoriented,” he remarked, exhaling stagnant, tired energy. His dark eyes glanced at the clock, silently denying him the nap he craved. The past two nights had been sleepless; an impending event loomed within the collective, and he harbored a dreadful sense of what or who would be impacted.

“What did you discover? Oh, did you get any messages from Lester?”

“Lester?” Sylas asked, raising a curious brow.

“Yes, Lester! Oh, he was such a good little boy. I miss him so much.”

Sylas frowned, his mouth drying, leading to a deep swallow. Had he completely failed to pick up on the loss of a child? He must have mentally drifted off for a moment because, before he knew it, Fiona was shoving her phone in his face. “He crossed the rainbow bridge last year,” she remarked sadly, presenting a picture of a terrier breed dog wearing teddy bear print pajamas.

"Look, Fiona," Sylas said, his voice flat and devoid of sympathy. Talking to dead dogs isn't exactly on my menu. I don't know anyone who wastes their time with it." The words hung heavy, a blunt truth, landing with a thud. Fiona's face crumpled, her gaze dropping to the intricate swirls of the carpet.

"Fiona, after examining your energy field, I didn’t find any intrusive entities, although there were a few energetic attachments I had to sever.” Sylas's words hung in the air as he delved into the intricacies of the unseen. Energetic attachments often manifested as cords in the otherworld—some delicate and easily plucked like weeds, others as thick and rooted as a tree unwavering even during the fiercest of storms.

He continued, his voice factual rather than reassuring, lacking the reassuring cadence Naloria possessed "As these cords dissolve, you might experience some energy fluctuations, particularly related to thought patterns from a past relationship. This would be the one in Paris when you were nineteen, during the fall semester, not the one earlier summer.”

Fiona opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her as she stood there in shock, absorbing the weight of Sylas's revelations.

“I also performed two soul retrievals. You were in an accident at either twenty-six or twenty-seven. Time can sometimes be challenging to pinpoint accurately within the energetic field. You were in a red Dodge Charger, and a gray truck made a left-hand turn in front of you. You weren’t physically hurt, but it was enough to... well, cause you to mentally check-out,” Sylas recounted monotonously, his hand running through his short black hair. “The other retrieval was from three years ago, when your fiance left you at the altar in Spain. It took a bit more time to convince that part of yourself to come back, but she did. However, you need to understand; all of this happened for a reason.”

Fiona absorbed the revelations, a mix of emotions crossing her face. “But why? What is the meaning of being rejected in such a terrible way? Of being left there, without event the common courtesy of an answer?”

"Only you can discover the answer to the question, should you dare to travel within to find out," Sylas responded flatly. He understood the weight of such revelations and the profound impact they could have on one's perception of life. The question of why certain events unfolded as they did within her timeline was a journey only she could undertake.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in ten minutes I must attend, so I trust you to see yourself out.” Sylas lied, speaking with a composed demeanor, though beneath the surface, a conflict brewed. Perhaps he could have avoided bending the truth, but he weighed the urgency of his current responsibilities against the persistent stream of lost soul fragments seeking refuge from the traumas haunting them. The fate of many hung in the balance, and Sylas, as a conduit between realms, held a pivotal role in navigating these metaphysical currents. The dance of duty compelled him to prioritize the broader spectrum of spiritual welfare, even if it meant occasionally veering away from complete transparency. Or, at least, this is what he told himself to justify his mistruth.

After the door closed and Fiona left, Sylas's shoulders slumped, and he felt an overwhelming exhaustion wash over him. The weight of guiding Fiona through the daunting landscapes of her soul left him drained, both physically and energetically. As the residual energies settled around him, he decided to take a moment for himself.

Sylas walked over to the treatment table and lay down, allowing the cool surface to provide a temporary respite. The dim light played upon his closed eyelids, casting a tranquil atmosphere. If he expanded his awareness further, he could hear the faint sound of the singing bowls echoing from the temple downstairs.

In the quiet of the room, Sylas reached into his pocket and pulled out a spliff wrapped in rose petals. With a thoughtful pause, he brought out a lighter and sparked it, the flame casting a warm glow in the dim space. The smoke curled around him, creating a dance mirroring the complexities of the spiritual realm. Sylas closed his eyes, allowing the soothing effects to seep into his weary bones, providing a momentary escape from the demands of his dual existence.

Finally, a moment of peace. With nowhere to be until the evening hours, Sylas was free to disconnect and focus on the present moment. He took another deep inhale, savoring the earthy taste and observing the rising wispy smoke, which assumed sacred geometric forms when he tuned into it.

However, as soon as he tuned back into the material world, Sylas found himself once again checking out, plagued with troubling worries. The eternal cycle of Moros would continue—a battle between existence and nothingness. Soon, Moros would awaken from his slumber and attempt to restore the cosmos to its original state, erasing humanity to once again bask in the silence of the void.

This was the universe's original condition, a timeless nothingness. And for now, the Aethelstone remained hidden in the basement's western wing safe, powerless until the summoner arrived. But with the prophecy foretelling Moros' return in just two months, the summoner was nowhere to be found.