Step forward.
Foot angled toward the enemy, spear up. Keep your spear up!
Twist. Foot strike! One! Two!
Faster!
Faster!
Vessilia panted, sweat streaming down her forehead and back, soaking her padded training garb. The spear, a wooden one with a lead center, was slick in her grip as she thrust forward. An arm of baked clay swiped up at her, deflecting the blow upward, while a second arm jabbed for her throat. She spun to the side, flowing outside the strike and swung the blunt end of her training spear toward a smooth orb atop it all. The combat Golem took the blow and rotated, following her agile form as she maneuvered around it, blocking two more swift strikes from her spear.
Faster!
Vessilia ducked under the Golem's wild swing, catching its knee on the haft of her spear and shoving downward. She rolled, flexed, and popped to her feet just out side its range. But the Golem was fast, just as fast as she was; it oriented on her in seconds. Which was exactly one second too long to avoid her thrust.
The tip of her spear pierced the clay dummy with a muted *crack* and neatly split its head in two.
Haah haah. Vessilia's breath was harsh and ragged. That fight took...entirely too long.
The combat Golem, while only Clay and thus of moderate difficulty, was still too much for her. No matter that she had fully Tempered her Body in these last few months. She still was not there yet. Not even looking at the Golem's shattered head and sagging body made her feel better. I should have bested that in seconds!
She sat heavily in the matted grass, still lush despite her trampling feet. The Upper Ward of the Guild's citadel, the Eyrie, was a prized training ground. It was both littered with obstacles and special training equipment like enchanted combat Golems, but also expansive gardens. Tall trees, jewel-colored flowers, and perfectly manicured hedges filled the ward, framing and containing various training areas. Iron, Bronze, and even Silver Rank Guilders would have killed to train in these gardens. The skies were blue, the sun hot, and the breeze constant and cooling. Vessilia had zero reasons to be unhappy or discontent.
Yet she seethed.
Sitting in the thick grass beneath the looming spire of the topmost floors of the Eyrie, Vessilia fought to find her center. Her calm was upset at the start of each spar; the moment she spied the spindly body of the automaton begin to move. Clay Golems were sleeker than their more advanced brethren, made for those just beyond their first Temper, more focused on speed than strength. Whenever the creature struck at her, all she could see was an assassin in black leaping from the shadows. One that dropped her without effort or care, who had made her abandon her charges in a city of death. Abandon her friends.
Vessilia took a breath. And another. She attempted to slow her racing heartbeat and still her raging blood.
I am more than this, she breathed through her center, expelling worry and terror. I am more.
"Milady? Is everything...are you unwell?"
Vessilia cracked an eye and frowned at the voice, one that belonged to a young woman dressed in a pale yellow jacket and dark blue pants. She had long brown hair tied up into a warrior's knot, a mace at her waist, and a bandolier of knives across her chest. A bronze medallion dangled out of her open collar.
"I am fine, Liandra. Thank you." Vessilia stood up and distanced herself from her nosy minder. That was what she was, after all; a spy, an interloper. Set upon her by her father's Hand when he was too busy to watch her himself. When word reached the Duke that his only daughter and heir was grievously wounded in a deadly training mission gone wrong, he had dispatched his Hand to find her and keep her safe. Ever since the trial Vessilia hadn't been alone, not even while training.
The trial.
Her mind wandered back three months ago, only hours after she had woken up confused and alone in a healing ward in the Eyrie. She'd been gathered up by the Guild Elders and marched into a dark circular room filled with seats, both surrounding the center and behind a large, ornately constructed bench. Seven judges sat in attendance, and the seats were all filled with murmuring folk that grew silent as she entered. They had stared at her with a mixture of pity, anger, even dismay. Vessilia didn't know what to make of it, not until the judges began their questions.
"You were lured into the Foglands under false pretenses, yes?" One judge asked down a narrow nose.
"Yes, but--"
"Were you used as a tool, a way for Magda Aren to further her own personal agenda?" Another interrupted.
"To an extent, I suppose. I--"
"Did Magda flout Guild protocol in any way?" Asked a third, this one a woman who absently plucked imaginary dirt from her elaborate metal gauntlets. "Did she not attempt to slay an incursion from the Hoarfrost? Alone?"
"To save the prisoners, yes she did--"
On and on they went. Vessilia gritted her teeth at the memory. It had only lasted twenty or perhaps thirty minutes, but all questions had a singular theme: Magda Aren was a reckless traitor who placed her own interests over those of her apprentices. By the end of it, even she was spun in circles by their rhetoric and Skilled words. If she had not known better, it would have been an utterly convincing act.
Utilizing an obscure law of the Heirocracy, the Guild had tried to seize control of the Foglands by laying claim to territory and defending it against all comers for a period of six months. They had failed for several reasons, not the least of which was an army of bloodthirsty Frost Giants had attacked. The Guild had wasted hundreds of their best in a desperate bid for power and failed. Magda had set out originally to save her ex-partner Calesca Boscal from a deadly fate, but in order to gain access to the restricted Foglands, had to get permission from the Guild Elders to lead a training party. The rescue had gone sideways from there, but Vessilia still believed Magda's heart had been in the right place. She was about to say so when her father's Hand, Darius Reed interceded.
He had appeared with a thunderclap, the air he displaced booming as his passage sent errant breezes across the chamber. Darius cut an imposing figure, which befit someone of his station, and his level of 78 was nothing to scoff at either. He hadn't said a word, only gave the judges a stern look before gently guiding Vessilia out of the courtroom and back into the healing ward.
The Guild had not bothered her since.
In the intervening months, Vessilia found herself under the Hand's watchful eye at all times. After her disastrous foray into the wilds, the Duke had forbidden her from engaging in any more hunts, marks, or standard Guild contracts until his Hand deemed her ready. She was not allowed to leave the Eyrie, not even when she found out that her friends had arrived back in town. Nor when she heard that Harn was demoted to Bronze, or Callie had returned with Magda's body. Of Evie and Atar or even Felix, she had no word at all. She was allowed to train, and that was it. As recompense for her supposed suffering and to honor the Duke, Vessilia was granted the rights to use the Inner Ward so that she could safely train. The Guild even procured a new set of Essence Draughts for her, which was impressive. Not as impressive as the color the Hand's face had turned when he'd found out she'd lost her previous set.
The training provided a useful outlet for her frustration, and Vessilia could admit to herself that training was one of her favorite things to do, given the choice. But that was the problem. She had no choice.
Vessilia moved deeper into the gardens, seeking out another challenge, something that she could sink her teeth into and forget about everything. Liandra, of course, followed at a discrete distance. As always. The woman was a Guilder, but one brought from Pax'Vrell and trained personally by the Hand. She was only Bronze Rank, but that was still two entire Ranks above Vessilia's Tin; despite her greater social standing, the woman outranked her in the Guild. If Vessilia was one to toss her pedigree around like most of her simpering contemporaries, she might be pissed at Liandra's constant judgey eyes and almost-but-not-quite smirk, but she--no, no she was pissed. At everything. That was the problem.
It unfocused her, the rage. She felt bottomless fury at the nameless assassin that stole her away from the Foglands, at the giants that killed her mentor, even at the Guild itself. It was clear they were hiding more than a few things, and Vessilia was sick of it.
She wound her way down a path of crushed gravel, between flowering lanhel trees and large, artfully placed rocks. The path split up ahead, leading to three disparate training areas, ones that Vessilia knew well. As she came upon the fork in the road, there was a crash and a distant scream from behind them. Vessilia whirled and started toward the sound, but Liandra held out a calloused hand and grunted.
"No, milady. I'll see what's going on. Please, remain here."
Liandra took off. The woman was exceptionally fast, her build clearly focused on Agility, and in moments she had disappeared into the manicured forest. Vessilia waited approximately two seconds before she dropped her training spear and started running in the opposite direction.
That should keep her busy for at least a few minutes.
Although Vessilia wasn't as invested in Agility as Liandra, she hadn't neglected it either and excessive training in Running meant she was fairly fast. The heiress sprinted through the woods in a straight line toward the Spire, the top-most section of the Eyrie, where all the important business of the Guild was decided. Seconds later, she was there, staring up the thirty feet to the first ledge.
The Spire was called such because it rose four stories above the Inner Ward, each floor tapering until it reached the Beacon itself. The walls were smooth, expertly crafted and laid to prevent exactly the sort of thing she was about to attempt. Within the Spire, a meeting of Guild Elders was about to take place, and Vessilia would be damned if she was going to miss it. Taking a running start, she leaped upward over twenty five feet, pushing her Born Trait to the limit.
She missed.
However, she activated one of her new Skills, and her booted feet found solid purchase on the smooth walls. The Skill was new, learned over the course of her time at the Eyrie. She'd badgered the Hand to teach her the Rare Skill, one she always had her eyes on, one of her Mother's favorites. Wall Run was more complex than it's name suggested, and at level 2 she could only manage a few feet. But that was enough.
Wall Run is level 3!
With a grunt, Vessilia propelled her body up the last few feet. Her fingers caught the lip of a ledge and she leveraged herself onto first her forearms and then her elbows. The ledge she had found was scarcely wide enough to support her, more a decorative protrusion than anything else. Flaring her new Skill again, Vessilia kicked up and over...just barely grabbing onto the nearest window sill. A little more effort, and she was in.
The window, easily twice the size of her body, opened up on greased hinges. Vessilia breathed a sigh of relief. Her preparations had paid off; the same servant she'd paid off to create a commotion in the Inner Ward was also able to unlock this window. Climbing through as quietly as she could, Vessilia crept into a short hallway outside a set of closed double doors. They were a spotless white, adorned by the gilt edged carving of a shield with a spear and sword crossing it. The Guild Seal.
Voices rumbled through the door, but were too faint to make out. She'd prepped for this too, and pulled out a slip of thick vellum. That had been its own adventure; Darius would have killed her if he'd found her with a Script-Cipher. Her senses told her that no guard was positioned here, though she heard the faint heartbeat of someone down a set of stairs forward and to the left. Carefully, Vessilia held the vellum to her face and whispered three words.
"Ing Tohl Rul!"
The runes on the page flared before detaching from the vellum. One fluttered up and attached itself to Vessilia's forehead, while the other two floated beneath the door itself. The vellum dissolved into ash in her hand. Suddenly Vessilia could both see and hear everything that happened in the room beyond.
I'm not too late! She mentally crowed.
Within was a large circular space dominated by a rectangular table and ornate, padded wooden chairs. The walls were paneled with dark, polished wood, expensive and well-crafted to Vessilia's discerning eye. A crystal chandelier hung from above, filled with magelight that illuminated the entire chamber. Seven Guild Elders sat in the chairs, all of them embroiled in a heated debate.
"--Festival cannot be done with the Inquisition barring the gates. I do not know how we can expect anything else." A heavy-set man with huge sideburns and fists the size of hams grumbled. Elder Hyde, she recognized.
"We've brought in entertainers from Bel Atol and Levantier, had them come a month back now. Luckily well before the Inquisition stoppered our gates." A plump woman with grey-streaked red hair smiled. Elder Regis. "I don't see the problem."
"We've more than enough food and entertainment. What Elder Hyde is suggesting is a dearth of out of city guests; the Festival of the Spheres has always drawn in the smaller villages from beyond the Pass." Slender, silver-haired Elder Teine nodded at the rotund Hyde. "I agree. Visitors have historically generated the most revenue during this event. Is it worth it to even hold such festivities, especially in the face of the increasing beast assaults?"
"The Inquisition is a thorn in our side, one that must be removed with the utmost caution. The Festival will occur as planned." A powerfully built man in a silk doublet rapped a knuckle against the table. Elder Fairbanks, de facto head of the Protectors' Guild in Haarwatch. "What of the wall, Elder Latvere? How is our defense against the beasts?"
A man with pale blonde hair and a narrow face sighed. "Well enough. The beasts grow stronger and more numerous by the day. The Tin Ranks are getting a decent amount of experience, though nowhere near the same as with a horde surge."
"The Inquisitors help us hold the gates against the beasts?" Fairbanks' eyes were mild but there was a tension across his shoulders Vessilia didn't understand.
"They do. I cannot fault them on that account." Elder Latvere sighed again. "I just wish they'd learn to get along with our people."
Hyde laughed, a big, boisterous chortle. "Pathless protect us from his own zealots."
Fairbanks managed a thin smile. "And what of the hunter? The one that attacked the Acolyte? Has he been found yet?"
Latvere shook his head. "No. Still at large. At this point, I doubt they'll ever find him."
"Good for him," grunted Elder Holt, a large man with a wild salt and pepper beard. "Bloody their fuckin' noses. The bastards."
"Careful, Holt," smirked a woman with gauntlets on her hands. Vessilia recognized Elder DuFont. "The Master Inquisitor has surprisingly good hearing."
"Katan oversteps himself, and we all know it," growled Holt, his tone not quieter at all. "He'll only be happy when he can burn this entire city to the ground."
"Be that as it may, you all know Master Inquisitor Katan is not overstepping at all. The power he wields is real and backed by the Heirophant himself." Elder Fairbanks shook his head slowly, his mane of dark brown hair flowing with the movement. "As long as they have the scent of blood, they are a hound that will not heel. We must give them nothing. Understand?"
Significant looks were exchanged, and Vesillia's eyes darted between each of them during that brief silence. She was missing something. But what?
"Elder Teine," Fairbanks' voice cut through the silence. "Have your preparations been completed?"
"Yes. It took entirely too long, but we've finished the last of the construction this week." The silver haired man smiled, his teeth perfect and white. "The survivors will not be found. I believe....at..aft...."
Survivors? Vessilia's concentration had been slipping as the script-cipher deteriorated, but that sharpened her attention. Unfortunately, that's when the cipher really began to degrade. The spearwoman fought against the failing runes and poured more of her limited Mana into it, hoping to hear something--anything--more.
"--something is here."
A sudden and furious flare of Mana was her only warning, and it was a lifetime of training that let Vessilia throw herself backward in time. The white doors exploded outward, becoming a storm of wooden shrapnel in an instant. The carpeted floor and opposing wall were shredded to pieces in a fraction of a second. Vessilia gaped, panic gripping her heart like a vice and she found herself frozen. Not by a Status Condition or Skill, but by sheer terror.
Suddenly, a furious gust of wind swept through the hall, pushing Vessilia's body back another few steps even as it hurled shrapnel back into the Elders' chamber. Hands of steel grabbed her shoulder and waist, and before the spearwoman could react, she found herself sailing through the air outside. Only then did she get a good look at who held her: her father's Hand, Darius Reed. He regarded her with flat, emotionless eyes that gave Vessilia goosebumps and a new sort of terror.
She'd have rather been discovered by the Guild Elders.
At least they might have only killed her.
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