A cathar opened the blue leather book and began to read. Behind her, an armored angel approached, awkwardly folding her wings and turning to avoid brushing against the narrow bookshelves flanking her on either side.
“Remember, Hayna,” sighed the seraph, “we’re looking for solutions on the longer and colder nights. Not - another fencing manual.
“I know. That manual was very informative, though. You seemed to like it, at least.”
“Perhaps…What have you found?”
Hayna pointed to an illustration of a brilliant soldier on the page she was reading. “Right here, and the lines beneath, too - ‘Commander Sunrise was such an inspiration to his troops, it was as though the sun shone for him and his forces alone.’”
Feyn frowned as she took the book from Hayna, an expression which only deepened as she read the passage herself. “Hayna, I fear this is referring to a more metaphorical source of warmth. Leadership, loyalty, and the like.”
“Well, I’d say Lady Sigarda fits that bill! General Thalia, perhaps? Or maybe even that new archangel that’s been floating around?”
“Lady Liesa is not…Ahem. These kinds of inspiration do not solve the chill.”
“They don’t? Then what was the deal with Avacyn?”
Feyn’s mouth set in a thin line as she ignored the potential blasphemy and replied, “Avacyn’s light was more magic than moxie. No one on Innistrad was ever powerful enough to match hers.” A pause. “And, it seems Commander Sunrise’s story is likely a work of fiction, besides.”
“So. A dead end, then.”
“It would seem so.”
Hayna’s face fell, for but a moment. Then, she brightened once more. “We’ll just have to keep looking, then! Maybe try the spearsage section over there? I’ll catch up.”
“You’re not coming?” Feyn asked.
“In a bit. I just want to be thorough with this book, first. Hey…maybe Commander Sunrise has some secret technique later on that we could use!”
Feyn offered Hayna a soft, understanding smile. “Keep up the good work. We’ll find something.”
[I’m still waiting on that paper printing of Inspiring Commander, Wizards! Any day would be great!]
To the Ezandri Clan, the worst part of warfare was the part where the ground itself rose up against you.
They had not been taken by surprise by this attack. Centuries of this battle replaying over and over made this routine. Their weapons were all made solely of cold iron and strengthened by their own Halo, the purest form of starlight that they could wield. Of their population, small and scattered as it was, most of them could and did fight. The rest had taken their Clan’s belongings and taken wing before the attack.
But their enemies were not other angels nor demons, but the ground and sky itself. Stone formations crumbled to pieces. Trees older than the last demonic holdout fell and splintered. Water flooded hillsides and caused mudslides. Winds called up and weaponized by fae in the forms of tornadoes and hurricanes knocked angels out of the sky despite their strong wings.
Ezandri launched himself from the sky to swoop down upon a Court of Disaster fae that had taken a more elemental-esque form. Its stone body shattered into pieces from one strike of her cold iron sword. He then rapidly beat her wings to regain his lost height. Another angel swept by, striking a wind fae through the incorporeal body and buying Ezandri a moment to prepare for another attack.
Her people fought around him, buying time for the others to escape. She would stay here until the last managed to vanish.
Dive.
Strike.
Regain air.
Dive.
Strike.
Regain air.
They were still losing.
Ezandri winced as he felt another angel’s loss, a snap of wings and the dropping of a body. A scream of another angel echoed from somewhere behind her. None of this made sense. The Court of Disaster had attacked them regularly in the past, but this was a slaughter that Ezandri had never seen brought to them before.
He scowled and dove down once more as she saw another fae take on an elemental form. His blade struck true, sinking deep into its body. She beat his wings, trying to withdraw her sword. But this time, it remained stuck in the corpse, dragging him down with it as it collapsed to the ground.
The dead fae grinned at her.
He cursed and pressed her boot to the fae’s chest, trying to yank his sword free before-
A huge glob of mud struck her directly in the middle of his back. She cried out – more in surprise than pain – and spun around, beating his wings desperately to dislodge the muck and yanking sharply on her sword to finally free it.
Behind him stood a fae whose elemental guise she knew and despised on sight. The Left Hand of the Court of Disaster appeared as a tangled mess of mud, stone, and poison ivy that had taken on a human form to mock both the mortals that once sought out Ezandri’s Clan and Ezandri himself. Two spheres of a silvery grey metal made up the Left Hand’s “eyes”, which glowed a sickly, horrific-looking green when the Left Hand stepped into the sphere of Ezandri’s ambient Halo.
Ezandri scowled deeper and stepped back, bringing up her sword in both hands. “Left Hand of Decay,” he greeted, her voice tight. “What is the meaning of this?”
The Left Hand’s “mouth” stretched into something parodying a smile. Jagged stones stuck out of mud to mimic teeth. Angelic blood stained those stones. “Seeker of All,” it greeted in turn. “That is not for me to say. I’m here to keep you in place for my High Fae.”
Ezandri flapped his wings again. There was still mud in her feathers, and he realized just how patchy her flight feathers had become from the battering winds of the other Disaster fae. His armor was torn in a dozen or so places, the flattened plates and broken or warped links just barely protecting her and the patched cloth still trying its best to cling to his furred body. Most of her claws were broken, useless against beings made of the natural world.
His gaze flicked to the sky for a moment. Her remaining angels had escaped. But that was because the entire Court’s attacking force was now focused on him.
The entire mountain rumbled. More stones slid down the mountainside. More trees toppled. Waterways combined and collapsed. The earth surged up around Ezandri. Her grip on his sword tightened. Her heart sunk in his chest.
The Illustrious Earthshaker had arrived.
A body began to peel out of the upper half of the mountain. Trees – hemlocks, pines, aspens, firs, spruces – formed fingers, teeth, and bones. Water gathered in two deep pools to resemble eyes, pouring out of the basins for a moment before flash-freezing to look like trails of tears. Slate and mica formed “skin” unearthed from the mud below. The Illustrious Earthshaker’s chosen form was easily forty feet tall, if not taller, for He continued to grow by warping the mountain itself into His manifestation.
Splintered aspens made up His teeth. “Seeker of All.” His voice was like a dozen landslides layered over each other, only discernible due to its sheer volume.
She made sure that his grip on her sword was tight. He would not let Him see her shaking. Maybe, if he were lucky, she could get some answers. “Illustrious Earthshaker. What brings your Court here to slaughter my Clan?”
His gaze swept away past the rocks encircling her. The bodies of other angels from his Clan lay broken and shattered across the mountain, buried under rubble or slowly being pulled into the mud. Buried. Subsumed. Consumed.
The only thing worse than the Illustrious Earthshaker’s voice was His laugh. The sound of shattering glaciers echoed through the sky. “Out of respect, I will tell you, though it will not ultimately matter. Times change. The Honorable Judge has fallen and been replaced. Her hunting dogs lay slain or freed. The balance of power shifts. And now...there is no need to waste time on your Clan.” He raised His arms, peeling them away from the mountain to hold them up towards the sun-lit sky. “Now it is time to kill you and claim your power, Seeker of All. Then I will topple that foolish demon city and devour the archdemons’ pet dragon. But there is honor in our fight yet. I will let you die with your sword in your hand.”
Ezandri wondered how she was supposed to fight an entire mountain. He had taken wing against the Illustrious Earthshaker in the long past, but He had never joined His Court’s attacks on her Clan until now. How do you kill something that is made of the very world you stand upon? He would have to figure something out.
She gave his wings and experimental flap. Mud was still lodged among her tattered feathers. He couldn’t take to the sky for the mobile advantage that she was used to. Honor his ass, an honorable opponent did not ambush someone and prevent them from fighting fully if they wanted a proper duel.
She shook his head to dismiss that thought and slowed her breathing, focusing on each inhale and exhale as magical conduits themselves. His own power, the gathered starlight, usually flowed freely around her. Now he was withdrawing all of it back into her body.
The Illustrious Earthshaker sounded like the rumbling of stones. Ezandri realized that it was the sound of Him chuckling. He couldn’t tell that Ezandri was gathering power. “No quips, Seeker of All? No declarations that I will never succeed?”
As He spoke, Ezandri pressed the heels of his palms together and splayed out her fingers as though he were holding an orb. Her Halo silently pooled together in his palms. It was the essence of all that she was: his creativity, her hope, his desire to repair everything that had broken, her determination to not let everything fall to pieces despite the disasters brought about in the natural world.
And the resulting blast blew a hole right through one of the frozen basins making up the Illustrious Earthshaker’s “eye”.
Ezandri turned on his heel and ran away as the archfey behind her bellowed in pain. So that bastard does take damage, part of his mind noted while her body transitioned from fight to a less literal flight. His wings were still too mucked up with mud for her to fly away. The ground beneath his feet rumbled and shook as the other Court of Disaster fae began pursuing her.
There was a cliff coming up, a sheer drop. The ground beneath him shot up in precipices that she wove past. His instincts had not faded from the time she came into being, not after spending most of his life fighting these same fae.
She threw himself from the cliff’s edge.
Her wings snapped out.
The dried mud cracked and fell to pieces.
The wind carried him away.
Behind her, the enraged howls of Court of Disaster fae continued, but they were more concerned about their archfey than the escaping archangel.
He beat her wings and forced himself to get some lift so that she could just glide. He needed to get to the rest of her clan, to find out the damage done to his people.
Her wings finally gave out when he reunited with her clan. He hit the ground and grimaced slightly when her ankle rolled slightly on landing. Damn this body, damn its limitations, and damn Ziatora for binding his power in that ever-damned demon city.
“Head count and condition report!” she called, his voice carrying easily to her angels.
Tielurnio pushed forward. He was a younger angel warrior, with a flat bat-like nose and fur covering every inch of his body that wasn’t already covered in feathers. He was nursing a broken left arm that had already been tended to by one of the elders. “Four hundred of us are left in fighting condition,” he reported. His wings were pulled tight against his back. “About a thousand with varying injuries. The kids and the venerables are all safe, but the losses...”
Ezandri grimaced. The battle had begun with nearly two thousand angels in fighting condition, and now more than half were injured and less than a quarter were still able to fight. He knew that some of the angels had perished after the battle, as she had felt every single loss even on his way to rejoin them. She wished that he had been faster, but she also knew that everything that could be done for them had been done.
By the stars, look how far we have fallen.
Another voice rose. “Seeker Ezandri!” Ellal jogged over to join Ezandri and Tielurnio, shaking the shadows from her own wings. Her long fur was as dark as night, and her eyes were alarmingly white pinpricks that glowed despite all of her attempts to supress them. Not even her armor could provide definition to her form. “What’s the plan, my lady?”
Ezandri took a deep breath. What came next was something he had wondered during her flight to rejoin his clan. Her gaze wandered across his clanmembers, to the angels that she had sworn to defend and lead as each generation passed and he remained the only constant for them, to the angels that did not resemble the beloved artistic depictions popularized by the Church of Serra. She was their leader. He was the one they all trusted the most.
She needed to be the rock that they all depended on. He needed to see them through whatever had emboldened the Court of Disaster.
“...Times change,” she finally said. “Things have changed among the Courts, the Clans, and the Families, things that emboldened the Illustrious Earthshaker to finally try to destroy us once and for all. We have to find out what it is and adapt.” He paused for a moment as she realized something. “We need allies to make it through.”
“Allies?” Tielurnio repeated. “Like the other Clans? They’re friendly, but...”
“But not allies,” Ellal finished for him. She fluffed up her feathered wings. “You think they’ll help now? Will they take it seriously?”
Ezandri nodded, projecting a confidence that he did not feel. “We have lost over five hundred angels to a fae attack of unprecedented intensity. We have a thousand injured to the point where they cannot fight. We have lost our homeland to the very land itself, and we have nothing to rebuild from. The other archangels will recognize our plight. And if they do not...”
She hated the idea. He really hated the idea. But she knew that there was another option. “The demon city has paths leading to other places. Other planes. Ones where we can find allies who have never sullied our land or harmed our angels. If we cannot get the help of the other Clans, we can reach those and make our way through to find help on the other side.”
Leaving the plane felt like surrendering. Ezandri didn’t know how it would feel to be separated from the stars of Capenna. But it was better to retreat and recuperate than to lose even more of his clan. She had not experienced a loss like this in centuries, not since the invasion and the dragon tearing his essence apart to build that damned city.
Ezandri looked around at the clan that bore her name. Around a thousand injured angels who couldn’t defend themselves and their clan. Roughly four hundred in fighting condition. Five hundred-ish children, many of whom were now orphans or only had one parent left. Nearly three hundred venerable angels who could heal but not fight. The Ezandri Clan was always the smallest clan, but now, Ezandri felt as though they were an endangered subspecies.
“We will start by seeking out the Iustitia Clan,” he declared. “Whether they will aid and shelter us, I do not know. But it is our first step.”
All she could do now was hope that he was not leading her clan into the maw of another beast.
OOC Section:
Ezandri, Seeker of All and Release Potential were made by @masmackattack!
The Illustrious Earthshaker and Ezandri, Artifice's Light were made by @xenobladexfan!
Ezandri's model in the first card was made by myself in HeroForge.
In the village of the swamp, a duo of children was playing on the mud. A pair of orcs, at that age known for recklessness and excessive energy.
One of the childrens, feeling bored, decided to share an tale to her friends. That deep below, in the ground, the first soldiers of the Silumgars, those who were exiled for their madness, were buried below. That one could hear, their heartbeats below the ground, eager to drag their victim underground. The other orc, an boy, told her that it was stupid.
Thus, the girl challenge him, to stomp the ground. Cause that is one awakens these restless deads. The boy, accepted the challenge. Stomped and steeped over the ground, over and over. Each time stronger.
The boy, could swear that something was moving underground. Maybe it was the snakes or worms. He continued stopping, seeing that the smug smiles of her friends was painted over her face.
Tum, tum. He steped loudly over the ground. Tum, tum, he stepped, untill he felt an hand.
An dirty and long clawed hand, burying himself, from the ground. The orc boy felt aback, from the suprised, as his friend was laughing.
Yet her joy would end abruptly, as a famelic and long face, revealed from the ground.
The dead, raising from his earthly tomb, screamed at the sky: "I LIIIIIIIIIVEEEEEE". As the two childrens screamed, runnig away to their mothers.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Baptiste was taking all the freash air, to his rotten and non-fuctional lungs. Welcoming the blue sky with tears, hugging the muddy and dirty surface of the ground. His celebration ruined, with the mocking hiss of the chicken-stealing dragon, free of punishment underground. The next ground will be another day, he tought.
"What is the issue of those childrens? They never saw an zombie raise from the ground?" He asked, as he was the pair of childrens returning, alongside an angry and older orc, carrying an wood club.
He doesn't know how long he had been walking, wandering, following that stubborn tug and pull in his very being. He doesn't know for how long it had taken for him to see the surface again, nor why he was back, nor how. He was gone, then he was not.
He was surrounded by jungle. The light of the sun was just hitting the sky. He could not feel its warmth. He had no flesh to feel it with.
All he knew is that he had to get back. To make sure she was safe, that they were all safe. He had the terrible feeling that something was wrong, utterly so. He must right a deadly wrong. He must make sure they were safe. That she was safe.
He needed to get back. To follow that pull.
But how?
He didn't know. All he did know that he had to keep going. Keep… moving. Everything felt… distant. Not quite numb, simply not there. But he was walking, he thought. He had to climb at one point to get here, to see the sun again.
The sun…
He remembered chasing the sun. A different sun. A fabled one. Brighter than bright, one that would scour away sins and… and…
And now it was gone. That sun was gone, long gone now, but something else was here. Something… no, someone, yes, someone was here now, someone who was a savior, a savant, someone who could save them, someone who… who…
Who he… could not quite name. But the rose upon his armor was connected to them. To.. to her.
She? Was it her? Was it… oh, blessings of the… Why couldn't he…?
He paused. No. She was someone different. She needed to be found, to be made safe. No, no, the… the Blessed One did not require him, not now… not until he made sure others were safe, were alive, were not… not like he was now.
He had to move. To go, to find someone, anyone to help him. Help him find her, help him find them, the survivors, to understand what this wrongness was, to help him remember…
… remember who he was. Why he was moving the way he did, why he was the way he was, he needed to understand, to know, why didn't he know? How could he not know? He was of importance, obviously, but… but who was he?
He found one answer in the startled looks of the pale faces that stared at him as he finally broke through the high vegetation. It was stammered to him through frightened lips.
"Director?"
He responded with the only thing that came to mind;
"Where is she?"
The sight of a dead man walking was enough to unnerve even the most steely of paladins that still occupied Queen's Bay. The echo -- the spirit, the remnant, among plenty of other whispered names he had been accruing in his short stay -- wandered while someone was getting answers for him.
He knew his name now. Bartolomé del Presidio, the deputy director -- formerly -- of the Queen's Bay Company. Other aspects of his personhood were fuzzed, indistinct. It was the same feeling he had when standing too close to one of the braziers full of incense at a sermon.
Although, he noted, he could no longer smell. Or feel, really.
A set of finely dressed merchants approached him, all large, formless clothing with intricate patterning and impressive enough facial hair. One came forward, offering a low bow to him as he did so.
"We believe we have the information you are seeking, good sir," he said. "You seek the girl who came to us with the warning?"
"Yes," the spirit said, straightening a little. "Have you found her? Is she safe?"
"That we do not know, my goodly sir," he said, holding a rolled set of papers. The nonchalance in which he said it was infuriating. "All we do know is that the one you seek did give us the warning, which we did ferry to Torrezon shortly thereafter. It did not do us much good, however."
"What do you mean?" Bartolomé asked. He took a step forward. Some of the entourage stepped back. "What has happened?"
"You mean to say --" the merchant stopped himself, chuckling. Again, it was enough to rile him. "Of course you wouldn't, you've been deceased, my good sir. No, our home is at war once more."
"With whom?"
"With itself, of course," the merchant said, brushing out his thicker overcloak. Given the rising heat of day, Bartolomé was surprised he wasn't sweating enough to fill the Deoro. "As I said, the warning was too little, and too late."
Bartolomé was stunned a moment. He staggered a half-step, his mind whirring. So the schism has finally happened, he thought. The Church is cracking. My death meant nothing.
The merchant who approached him must've noticed how distraught he was. "We can assure you that your family-"
"What of them?"
"--has been very well taken care of by the Company," the merchant finished a little imperiously. "As far as we know, they are safe."
A little comfort. He squared his shoulders a little. Not all is yet lost. "Thank you," he said. He then looked to the open docks at one end of the settlement, casting his eyes at the horizon. The merchant was continuing to speak to him, but the words were falling on deaf ears. He was beginning to feel a pull, hard and distinct.
Come to me, something whispered to him. Rejoice with your kindred.
The merchant was trying to get his attention. He balled his hands into fists and took a step forward, disappearing into the open air.
A cavern, slicked with ice greeted him. Had he the flesh to feel it, he knew he'd be shivering. It was quite different to the warmer climes that he had trekked through just to make it back to the surface again.
At least there weren't goblins and gnomes and all sorts of myriad insects and other skittering creatures to greet him.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. There were plenty of other skittering things, but those things had wings and tiny eyes and were trying to convince him that they had a kinship.
He had been drawn here, and he wasn't alone. There were others like him. Spirits, shades, echoes.
They were being drawn like moths to fire. Something had called them here. Bartolomé understood what it was, and doubtless the others down here did too. It was the very thing he had died in vain to try and prevent from ever digging its claws into his home. But now it was trying to greet him and all the others with open wings, with promises of power and freedom, with promises of all things being right and proper according to his whims.
Heresy, blasphemy, and lies, all of it. But he would do as he did initially on that fateful journey into the Core of Paradise, into his grave; he would bear witness, be out of the way, be unassuming until the time was right to fight back.
The caverns were filled with thousands of bats. Demons lurked and moved among the shadows. They whispered in languages that Bartolomé should not understand, yet he did.
Welcome. Welcome, brother.
Welcome.
Freedom is at hand, brother. Welcome.
If he had a brain left somewhere, it'd feel as though something was snaking around it. He hid his intent as well as one could.
He saw traitors. Some of whom he recognized -- there was Albina, someone he served with on a handful of tours before the unification, alongside Fausto, not too far away from her -- and many whom he did not. He saw humans, some of them thralls, others nothing more than hapless peasantry that didn't have enough hands raised to protect them.
He had to keep himself in check. They would be mourned, and they would be most properly avenged. There was nothing good he could do for them now.
His eyes lingered on the traitors. Their bodies were warped, made wrong, blasphemies written into their very flesh now. They smiled and laughed as though they were not bringing ruin to their own home and people.
The main event was about to begin. Shadows and darkness gathered in the center of a massive chamber, and out of it came the incarnated form of butchery, savagery, and madness itself.
Welcome my children, it whispered to them all. Welcome to our new kingdom.
Screeching and cheers went up around the cavern, enough to be deafening. Bartolomé kept his face as neutral as he could. A good skill he picked up when he was becoming more accustomed to dealing with nobilites and merchants.
Soon, my errant daughter shall fall, and after her shall the people of the accursed sun, it went on. There was more chaotic cheering. Soon, very soon, all that light once touched shall be ours, as is our right!
Now that caused a stir. He could hear the beating of weapons on stone and fists on armor.
Privately, he formed the sign of the rose in one hand. He felt a few pairs of eyes staring at him soon after. He stared right back.
If we are to accomplish this, the whispers continued, then we will need strength. We will need only our most daring and strong for this conquest. That is why I call to you, as I call to all of my most worthy children.
More beating of weapons and armor.
Thanks to our hidden weapon, we know precisely where our erring brethren are going to be and how they intend to strike at us, the beast at the center of the cavern went on. My Antifex already has begun making designs for all of you. You will not be alone -- more will follow in the nights to come. We will stand as an army that is greater than any of flesh and metal that they can throw at us. We shall stand as an army immortal, an army of death, an army greater than any that this plane has seen before.
Something was creeping closer to Bartolomé. He remained standing and focused.
Is something wrong, brother? a demon asked, right in his ear.
"No," he answered. "Aside from you interfering with the words of our lord and master."
The demon pulled back, folding its wings in a display of apology, before it went on. If the thing at the center of the cavern noticed, it did not make a show of it.
There was plenty more grandstanding and encouragement and blood-stirring. The others in the cavern were eating it up. It made him sick. Surely, he couldn't be the only one who wasn't agreeing with this. But there were too many that were.
His mind began to click even as the Antifex began to speak. He was surprised at how... strangely normal she looked. Glamours? Did she reject the daemonification of the others? He was keeping track of locations she was outlining, of their own movements, anything and everything that could be of use later. They already had the compromised plans of the Legion -- how did that happen? The beast mentioned a 'hidden weapon'. Something to bring up later once he was out of here -- so he would return to the Legion with the plans of the enemy.
A draw wouldn't be pretty, but it was better than letting the enemy win. He had learned that several times while sitting on one side of a regicide board.
Some of the traitors were beginning to rally a number of the collected spirits to their sides. The demons were moving in to help. Bartolomé was going to be corralled like a sheep.
So he let them. Fleeing now would do nothing. He needed to remain beneath notice, and already he was worried he roused too much suspicion. He had to set things right. He had to make sure his death mattered. That was one of the most ignoble things to suffer; a meaningless and unremembered demise.
So he would wait. He would watch. And when the time came, he'd finally raise his arms in defiance to strike.
Revenant, they were calling him now.
Shade. Spiteful One. All sorts of titles he began to accrue.
Sometimes the names were spoken with reverence, other times with fear. He didn't care. All that mattered to him was the rebalancing of debt.
Bodies of traitors and the stolen and trapped essence of the dead and damned would be left by the gates of various bastions and at the walls of cities, as well as pinned warnings.
YOU HAVE TURNED ON YOUR FAITH, AND SO I HAVE TURNED ON ALL OF YOU.
REPENT AND YOU MAY YET BE SPARED THE WRATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS AND THE HOLY.
No one suspected him. No one expected him.
He was dead, gone, he was no great champion nor hero even in life. He was a paladin and soldier turned mercantile broker.
He walked the fields of his homelands by night, alone, going to where he felt himself being pulled hardest. From there, his job was simple; take as many as he could.
Unwinding the very aspects of the traitors, the ties to their heathen and debaucherous god, was made far easier when you were now formed as part of that essence. Tearing their very souls from their flesh had been a delicate and difficult thing to learn at first, but now he was doing it with a very practiced ease.
It was only a handful each night, but that was better than nothing. His heart broke when he realized the gravity of what he was doing, but he steeled himself against feeling such pity when they were the ones visiting destruction upon their home first. Of course, they wouldn't see it that way -- and they plead for him to listen to their perspective often -- and he found himself caring less and less as the nights wore on.
He made sure he had no witnesses. No one to linger, no one to breathe a warning and ferry it and get himself undone as he was doing to these traitorous bastards.
That was easy enough. He was able to make himself into a watchman and scout. The disappearances? Too many Legionnaires in the area. He fled at the first sign of them to give warning, but they would be gone by the time he retrieved reinforcement. He'd get chastised for his fleetfooted nature, of course, but never suspected of wrongdoing.
He spread himself as far across the continent as he could to avoid it for as long as possible. He knew it'd catch up with him, but he wanted to make sure the enemy would already have paid in droves by that time.
And yet, the whispers of a "revenant" still went up through the ranks. Some were worried the Blessed Saint had found a way to ultize echoes and shades in a yet-unknown manner. Perhaps she had been able to hijack a portion of their god's power?
Bartolomé wished that was the truth. Perhaps they had developed new techniques in regards to utilizing shades. He didn't know. All he did know was that he had to keep moving, keep working, keep spreading unease and fear in the ranks.
There was something more he had to do in order to properly atone.
The warning from Amalia had come too late, so he would ensure his own warnings came early. These, too, would be anonymous. Unsigned letters appearing on the desks of captains and commanders, as many as he could find close to where he had been "assigned", started turning up. Murmurs would travel up the chain fast.
In quieter nights, when he could wander alone, he sometimes heard the chattering and knew it'd be enough.
Even if no one knew it was him, he would be happy to perish with the knowledge his home would be protected and safe. That his family would be safe and sound.
That, wherever she was, Amalia would be safe and sound. That girl didn't deserve all of this, no more than his own daughter had.
Bartolomé looked to the sky that was beginning to lighten. Day was approaching. It meant the rest of the traitors would begin fleeing back to their darker and danker hiding spots, and that he would have to join them, too.
He looked at the tiny silvered jar he held, feeling the undying wrath and hatred of the latest victim of his own internal crusade from within. He took a step back and threw it over a stony wall, hearing it thunk off of a bit of armor. He was gone before the confused soldier could find the strange assailant.
He would be back at holy dusk, as he always would be. There were more souls to reap, more unheard prayers to hear, more hope to give to the hopeless. One bastard at a time, one night at a time, he'd continue for as long as he had.
And until he was caught, he had a veritable eternity to make them pay.
A mere block from the haven of the safehouse, the courier tripped upon an invisible snare in the middle of the street. He tumbled roughly to a stop, his thick coat taking the brunt of the landing. But as he rolled to a stop, he found a pale, fanged visage looming over him.
“Hello, Bruce,” chimed the vampire.
“Anhelo…” grumbled the messenger. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The Maestro merely snapped his claws, dispelling the now-visible tripwire in the street behind Bruce.
“Okay, fine,” Bruce grumbled, offering his briefcase to Anhelo. “Let’s not do the old song and dance. Saves us both some time. I just woulda thought one of Xander’s boys would still do things the old fashioned way.”
“Changing times, my friend! With a new…New Capenna, comes new customs!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Hmph! I would have thought you might show me a little appreciation for sparing your life!”
“Look, swift or bold, death comes all the same. So I doubt I really…Sparing? Really, now?”
“Yes!” Anhelo nodded. “I figured I’d be a gracious host and spare your life. With some conditions, of course.”
“Look here, now…” Bruce tried to regain his footing, only for Anhelo to push him back to the ground with a bladed dress shoe. “All right…What conditions?”
“Oh, just that you stay in the briefcase until your shipment of Halo is delivered - to the rightful owners in the Maestros, of course.”
“Now, wait just aaaAAAHHHH!”
Again Anhelo snapped his claws. Bruce’s briefcase popped open, pulling the courier across the ground with some unknown force. He shrank as he slid, disappearing perfectly into the glowing interior before snapping neatly shut. Anhelo drew close and picked it up, hefting it in his claws with a wicked grin.
“Don’t worry. As long as the briefcase survives, you will too! A perfect arrangement!”
[Again, I figure it probably wasn’t the flavor they were going for, but I love the idea of the courier’s briefcase, yknow, holding the courier. The card does make the token, after all!]
That damnable thing. That damnable jar, containing that damnable man. Why couldn't he just... decide? Why couldn't he just commit to a course of action? Why did he hesitate?
Afutue. He just couldn't. And it was driving him mad that he couldn't.
Night after night it remained, night after night did he speak with the spirit trapped inside. He had acknowledged that the man he once knew and loved was long since gone the moment he seized that damnable journal and went off on that hunt, whispering and preaching about the strange madness that had seized him.
In it, Mavren recognized a similar misguided altruism that had guided him toward Ixalan, the Immortal Sun, and the Blessed Saint. That want to fix the problems of home, the want to ensure that Torrezon would live on in peace and continue to prosper, to help usher in a beautiful golden age again. Faith had been atrophying within the continent ever since he was a child, let alone a true man of faith.
He understood it. But he did not condone it.
Death and divine nightmares came for them all now. An eight-winged harbinger of the end of things, one he venerated as its prophet and herald.
Hadn't his faith in it been waning in recent nights?
The thought was one he had been mulling over again and again when his mind was given the space between the million other tiny obligations he had. Speaking with the Kamigawans, placating Her Majesty and the baying of the noble families, trying to tame the famine and ensure that more and more of the farmland was being made workable, reaching out to other planes to learn of their peoples and to issue forth decrees and declarations for other diplomatic teams or to invite diplomats to Torrezon, if it was safe enough...
And that was just his responsibilities. Just thinking about balancing all of that on top of what the Blessed Saint was also tending to... it made his wings shiver.
But whenever he got a moment, he tried to think. Was there progress? Was it just... imagined? Was he being desperate? He didn't know. And it wasn't as though he could talk to anyone about this. What would he even say? "I am holding the Arch-Heretic but I am unsure if I am simply being led astray by his slow change of heart because he's desperate for me to love him again?" That would be a surefire way to have himself investigated and potentially voted to be removed.
And Torrezon did not need that right now.
He was trying to lead by example. But oh, this damnable thing. This damnable, damnable man. Why couldn't he just let go already? It made his mind and heart turn into tight knots. By the light of the Sun, Saint, and stars, he hated this.
Especially since he seemed like he was changing. There was regret in his words that hadn't been there before. There was melancholy and longing. But he didn't know if he could trust that damnable demon not to be fooling him. He couldn't.
And what made it worse was that he understood this. It made things feel genuine even when it could very well not be.
So why? Why? Why torment himself like this? He didn't know. He couldn't say. Or he could, but he was loathe to admit it.
How could he admit that there was a part of his heart and soul that longed for him nearly as much?
He couldn't. He wouldn't, because it could not be allowed to be true.
Yet it was. When Mavren saw him, that damnable and most pitiful thing, he could see the echoes of the man whom he had secreted away with for decades. He saw the years of secrecy and trust the two had built, and he saw the scars of it even in their small exchanges together. They were always the same sort of arguments. One trying to get the other to give in. Mavren had the upper hand, of course, and was trying to use that to nudge him in the right direction.
If he could repent, if he could fully and wholly forsake this god and admit that all he had done was just misguided and in vain...
No. He was just chasing a fantasy. He wouldn't, he was too devoted to that damnable bat.
But maybe he wasn't. Although he would speak with reverence, there was a greater devotion in his words when he would speak in the quiet hours of the night and share a memory the two had. Those beautiful, quiet, and intimate moments between them.
"It was our fifth anniversary. You were here, stirring everyone with your faith and devotion, while I was out afield, doing what we were told and believed was holy work. I still remember the letters you sent to me. I remember how surprised I was that they hadn't been read, especially with how eloquent you were with your wording. I kept them at my bedside on especially cold and lonely nights."
It dug at him worse than his hunger in the waning hours before the blessed madness of a Blood Fast. Saint and Sun, he felt like he was slipping back into that madness despite being relatively well-fed.
"I still have the gift you made for me when I was a century and a half old. Or, well... I did. I don't know if my old things were burned in the completion of my damnatio memoriae or not. I would not be surprised if they were. But I kept it in a chest hidden beneath my bed. Both it and the book of poems you made for me. A wonderful collection, Mavren. It inspired me to try writing my own, even though I never was the wordsmith you are. I suppose that is why you ascended to the position of Pontifex over someone like Theodors."
He hated his honeyed words. Long had he heard the silvered tongues of poisoned snakes throughout his lifetime, and he could always steel himself against them, their blasphemies, and their lies. And yet, that damnable little man stuck in that damnable little jar could still get to him. He hated it, he hated it, oh how he loathed it with every fiber of his being. He hated that he felt longing and misery, he hated that he felt the temptation to give in and embrace him one last time because he knew it would grow into many "last times" because of course it would and --
He clutched at his head. Maddening. It was maddening! He knew what the right thing was. Yet he couldn't do it, damn it all, he just... couldn't. There was still too much love there.
He remembered too well that final night between them, before all of this fell apart.
"I want to heal us. I want to help us, Mavren, we're suffering, we're starving, the stupid nobles are at our throats and Her Majesty is being more rigid than ever, but I think I have found something to help-- Just, please, listen to me -- the Saint has brought nothing but discourse and discord to our people, claiming we butchered her memory, but -- no, please, just listen to me, please, I know how we can be whole again. I know it, and I know it seems insane, but I am begging you, know that I come to you first because I love you and I want you to come with me. Please.
Please."
The look of desperation. Longing. Love. Fear. Conviction. Madness. Zeal. He saw every single aspect of him that night, and Mavren knew he had to turn away.
He had listened. He had let him rant and preach and rave, he spoke about that forbidden journal as though it held all the answers and wasn't anything more than the travelogue of a deluded man later canonized more for his acts of heroism and apparent piety rather than any holy theological writings. His writings had been redacted and sequestered with good reason, they were just... raving.
Yet that damnable book was what was being held as the ultimate truth. Mavren saw it for the falsehoods it had held, and now that damnation was hanging over all of them like the macuahuitl of the Sun Empire.
He should surrender the jar. Give it over to the condemners to deal with as they pleased.
But he loved him still.
And so his hand stayed.
He hated going around in circles like this. He let out a deep sigh, his eyes looking to that damnable thing. The man inside was quiet. He didn't rest. He didn't need to. But he still remembered Mavren and knew when he needed quiet.
He hated that. He hated that he still showed care. He couldn't trust him but he wanted to, he desperately wanted to. He just... he just wanted to let him out once just to end this game. Just to see what he would do. Just to see if his god would claim him or forsake him again or... or just... anything.
It had been weeks. Weeks of his resolve holding out. Weeks of not letting the dam break.
Mavren looked at the jar. The spirit within was looking back. He thought he saw something in his face. Acceptance? Hope? He didn't know.
Mavren looked back through the window over his desk. He drew the curtains. He stood.
He reached for the jar.
Still, the man within said nothing. No pleading tonight.
Because he already knew what was happening. He already knew that, in a sense, he had won.
Mavren's voice was soft. He didn't need to make threats, they had already both heard them at least a hundred times by now. He just... did it.
A soft, radiant purple glow enveloped his room. The jar was set aside. He knew the words to put him back, knew the way to bend and weave the power and conviction his faith had given him to slam him right back if he tried anything-
He felt the softest sensation brushing his face as the apparition reached up to cup his cheek. He knew that the confliction that had been destroying him would be more than apparent.
He looked into the eyes of his dead lover. He felt his heart melt just a little, his guard lowered but a fraction.
They came closer. Not a word was spoken. None had to be said.
Their lips met. It was strange. He had expected it to feel as though he were kissing the air, but... no. He could feel him. It was not like it was in life, but it was... something.
They pulled apart.
The candle burned beyond its first candlemark.
And that damnable, horrible, heretical man would be back in the jar in time for the candle to burn past the second.
The older gentleman bristled, held hostage as he was by a kimono. On the fabric wrapped tight around him was printed a woman in the same clothing. She was depicted brandishing a knife, that somehow applied a very real pressure to the museum curator’s neck.
“V-Very well, Azusa,” Musashi began. “However, since my blood might stain your fabric, I would advise caution.”
The kimono rustled angrily. A woman’s voice emanated from the fabric to hiss, “Let’s be realistic, kind sir. The real Azusa died many years ago. I am but a humble facsimile of the famed wanderer.”
“A-All right! You’re not Azusa! But, if you’re not Azusa, then you’re just clothing. And so I repeat: how is this even possible?”
“Just because I am not Azusa, does not mean I am not real.”
“But you…!” Musashi felt an increased push against his neck. “Oh, fine! You are real! What are your demands, then? Release from your display case, I take it?”
A brief pause. Azusa’s image adopted a puzzled expression as the kimono loosened its hold ever so slightly. “What? No. Perhaps I could use some better overhead lights, and regular glass cleanings, but…Never mind! For now, I merely wish for you to adorn this robe with different vistas.”
“I beg your pardon?”
A sleeve flew in front of Musashi’s face. Waterfalls cascaded down from a majestic floating palace, to a mysterious forest far below.
“Er…Oboro, floating above Boseju? Whatever is the matter with the view?”
“On its own, nothing. But I have traveled the same patterns, up and down this fabric, for decades! Perhaps I was once enamored with these vistas, some years ago. But even Azusa’s greatest journeys grow stale after so much time. So, I desire new horizons.”
“Really? But…” Musashi gazed wistfully at the ornate patterns that covered the kimono. “These are artful! Historic! Commissioned-”
“Years ago! And on a replica outfit, no less! Paint a new picture or else!”
“Eep! All right…!”
[Assuming you’ve got some utility or karoo lands, you’re probably untapping the same three every turn with Likeness of the Seeker. Not exactly new journeys or fresh paths.]
“…You have done your best. I give you leave to rest…So, what do you think!”
The older angel frowned at the winged messenger. “I think…perhaps it needs some more work, Feyn.”
“Oh, of course, Lady Eveline! I wouldn’t dream of joining the Goldnight choir with a half-finished song!” chimed the more enthusiastic of the two. “I just wanted to show you some of my works in progress, see what you thought?”
“Mmm-hmm. Well, like I said, it…Did you say ‘works’? As in, plural?”
“Yes!” Feyn pulled a long sheet of paper from her robes, much to Eveline’s dismay. “I have several more I wanted to run by you-”
“Unfortunately,” Eveline swiftly interrupted, “the salvation of Innistrad comes first. Much to do, after all.”
“Oh. Right. Well, is there anything I can do to help you?”
“No, no. Lady Gisela is already rallying our forces as we speak. I need only join them. And you, need only continue on your own mission.”
“No, really, I’ll tag along!”
Eveline held up one hand facing Feyn. “No. Your job is to ferry messages. Not to sing. And not to throw your life away on the end of a vampire’s blade.”
“Yes. You are right…” Feyn’s enthusiasm at last seemed to wane. “But, let me know if you’d like to hear some of my other projects…?”
“Certainly. And with Avacyn restored, there will be time aplenty for that. But not now.”
“Right! And, maybe you could carry one of my songs with you - in peacetime, I mean!” Feyn gestured to the collection of scrolls dangling from Eveline’s grip.
“Of course. Take care, now.” With little fanfare, Eveline turned and flew away from Feyn, who waved uselessly after her.
“Good luck! Good…”
Feyn trailed off. Her grip tightened, not on her sword, but on the paper. In one fluid motion she crumpled it, wound her arm back, and hurled it an impressive distance into the open air. As it plummeted, she gave a wistful sigh.
“You’re right. This was a foolish idea.”
[Heh, the flavor text for Emancipation Angel rhymes.]
Three in the morning. Towashi never truly slept, but it pretended to at this time. The only people that he saw as he prowled through the city were the dumpster divers (whether for food or for thrill, he didn’t stop to ask) and the occasional person trying to get high on whatever drug was popular this week. He paid them no mind.
Koda Hayashi was hunting.
There was a very short list of individuals, mortal or spirit, who would both dare to and successfully sneak into the Cherry Blossom Orphanage in the dead of night to kidnap one of the kids. That list had been whittled down over the years through more and more strategic removal. Koda’s knife – a divine gift from a god far away from Kamigawa – felt warm and familiar in his hand. He had no intention of letting this insult slide. He needed to get Spot-Tail back.
Undercity oni cults were, by and large, highly predictable. Very little foot traffic to underground bunkers and caverns hidden by a few centuries’ worth of concrete with the smell of smoke and blood leading one into darkness. Koda made no noise as he descended.
For once, he wasn’t drawing on Haruko’s power to see through the dark. He had shifted his gaze instead to see the world how his oni side did; it was like having a built-in thermal imaging camera. This allowed him to get a good count of his enemies – twenty total – before he even finished sneaking down. The oni, a city oni named Chikaryoku, and nineteen human cultists. Spot-Tail was still alive, curled up in a cage near the edge of the cavern. He looked terrified.
Haruko, Koda whispered through the bond, get our kid out of here. I’ll handle the rest.
A warm feeling confirmed that Haruko heard him. She carefully manifested out of the shadows near the cage and signed something to Spot-Tail when he noticed her. He nodded silently and hugged her. Together, the two vanished into the shadows once more.
With the kitsune boy safe, Koda stepped forward into the light of the braziers and torches. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he growled. His voice carried easily through the room. “Would you like to do this the easy way or the hard way?”
Chikaryoku bared his razor-sharp teeth in return. “I do not fear you, son of the Bloodcloaked. I will have my sacrifice tonight.” The oni gestured towards the cage, but paused when he saw that Spot-Tail was gone.
Koda chuckled coldly and snapped his fingers. The flames in the cavern were immediately snuffed out. “Hard way it is.”
This was not Koda’s first time fighting an oni cult that had taken one of the kids. This was his first time fighting one now that he was more comfortable in his half-oni body. But the steps were always the same regardless of his equipment, magic, training, or current health status.
Step one: get rid of the backup.
Koda remained silent as he darted through the dark cavern. The human body was very easy to knock out. Given that none of the cultists wore any form of armor, he doubted that they had been expecting an actual fight. It took three blows at most to make each cultist drop to the ground or slump against the wall.
Step two: confront the boss.
Chikaryoku could see in the dark. Koda could see the difference in his temperature and the rest of the cavern, a hint warmer than his surroundings. Neither of them cared enough to relight any flames.
Koda favored a Torrezone dueling pose that he had picked up from his time on the Majesty of Twilight and leveled his dagger at the city oni. “Why did you come after one of my kids?” he snarled.
“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it yet, Hayashi,” Chikaryoku taunted. “Surely the youngest son of the Bloodcloaked would be able to tell by now.”
His snarl grew louder. “Tell what?”
“Give me one good reason to tell you-”
Koda was across the gap in the blink of three eyes and now had his dagger under the oni’s chin, ready and willing to send his head rolling. “If I don’t hear it from you in the next three minutes, I get to send your physical head rolling and send the Silent Blade to the kakuriyo to consume the rest of your essence. Answer the fucking question.”
The city oni decided very wisely to not push his luck. “That kitsune boy has more of a connection to the spirit world than most kitsune do. He is a bridge between the utsushiyo and the kakuriyo just like you are.”
Koda’s eyes widened by just a fraction. Then they narrowed dangerously. “You’re saying he’s half-oni.”
“Precisely.” Chikaryoku spread his hands, placating. “If any oni were to takes his power through a sacrifice and add it to our own, it would be quite the boost. Just like if the same were to happen with you. It is easier to absorb power from something that walks the line between worlds, like other oni and kami or those born to them.”
Koda’s cracked lips worked for a moment. A dreadful realization settled in his gut. When kitsune had children, unless they had kids with another kitsune, the child looked like the non-kitsune parent. But Koda had looked completely human despite being half-oni. So if an oni and a kitsune had a kid...then that kid would look like a kitsune until the oni traits developed later.
Finally, he stepped back. His dagger was still at the ready. “Alright. You answered my question. Now give me a reason to not kill and eat you anyway for threatening my kids.”
Chikaryoku hesitated. Koda let him mentally scramble for two minutes, then slowly stepped forward again. The oni recoiled from the blade pointed at his throat.
“Wait wait wait-” he choked out as he was backed against the wall. “I can... We can take a blood oath. I will offer you my services, my power when summoned. Just...don’t destroy me.”
Koda’s brow rose. “You’re awfully scared of a knife for an oni who was getting ready to accept a mortal sacrifice of a child for more power.”
“That is because I know well that you’ll make good on your threat to send the Silent Blade after me, which is far more terrifying than being bound by Kyodai Ōmikami in the kakuriyo again.”
“Ah, self-preservation. I didn’t know you had that instinct. Breaking into my orphanage and taking one of my kids made that very questionable.” He stepped forward to slit the oni’s throat to send it back to the kakuriyo—
I hope you can forge a world where your ruthlessness is no longer necessary.
—and stopped.
This oni had intended to kill one of his kids. But...he was also more useful alive, with the binding magics that his dad was testing to potentially seal the Betrayer. And this oni wasn’t part of Koda’s gang. It wasn’t necessary for this one to remain in fighting condition just in case.
He slowly exhaled. “A blood oath it is, then. You’ll make yourself useful as I ask until I determine that you have paid enough for targeting my kids.”
Chikaryoku looked baffled by that, but he bowed low, kowtowing to the Reckoner boss. Strength recognized and served greater strength, after all. It was a rule among oni that Zenkuro had ensured that Koda knew. “Of course, son of the Bloodcloaked.”
Koda’s lips twitched at the titling. “That’s Boss Hayashi to you. Use my proper title.”
I summon the hollow shade. Illicit strength, power, and the dead. As human serves ogre, as ogre serves oni, so you will serve me. Rise, and make merry.
There was that itch again. That bone-deep thing that lingered at the back of the mind. It was seen as a tertiary hunger to some, or another manifestation of that beast the Rite created in their souls, trying to lead them astray. Something else to be overcome.
He knew how to take care of it without letting it run wild and rampant. So he did.
It was late enough that the other paladins in the garrison were elsewhere. Some were resting, others were joining the city guard for the nightwatch, others still doing only the Venerables-knew-what, and Arturo did not care.
The itch needed to go away, otherwise it'd be too distracting in a time where he couldn't afford distraction.
Training dummies and chunks of wood were interspersed within the stone chamber. It was cold, but not bitterly so. At last the world was beginning to warm again. New buds were beginning to show on the trees outside the walls, and soon the forests would go from brown to yellow-green to beautiful verdant hues again. The stone made it feel as though winter's chill lingered, long fingers wrapping around limbs and into bones and flesh. It would be made all the more worse if he had worn his full armor, so he did not. He was stripped to the waist, legs covered in woolen breeches that were not the best for fighting, as well as high leather boots. In his hand, a spear of blessed moonsilver caught the dim light from the torch and candlelight.
The tip dipped a fraction. He was face-to-face with a straw-stuffed effigy that looked back at him lifelessly, a face messily painted on. He stared down at it, studying the woven fabric. It was white. Stained, but white. His grip tightened around the spear.
His movements were still fluid. A lifetime and a half, by human counting, had seem him wielding such weapons alongside dozens of others. He went through each of his practice forms first, just to reaquaint himself with the practice. This was usually how he began when it came time for him to personally work on his reflexes, or when he knew he needed to tend to this itch of his. It meant less violence he would have to inflict upon the living and the undeserving, and more that could go to others who needed it just a bit more.
Lazaro was rubbing off on him. Just a decade prior and he would've ventured into whatever dungeons were nearest and took care of things then and there. But things change, as do men. It was for the better, he thought. He hoped.
A jab, a jab, a shifting of his weight, another jab. The sound of the spear hitting the lifeless thing before him were practically rhythmic. A side effect of being under Guitirre's arm for half of his tenure. The man saw all of war as a great symphony and the shouts and cries of the fighting and dying as the lyrics of the great song. Arturo never truly saw warfare the same way, but finding rhythms was invaluable. Many lesser men thought unpredictability was the biggest boon in warfare, but oh, Arturo had learned his lesson and learned it well.
If you want to be unpredictable, lad, you need to make sure you can be unpredictable in ways that you can still predict. We have proper forms and battle lines with very good reason. Innovation isn't a danger, but make sure you know what you're doing if you want to be subversive.
A jab, stab, step, jab, all at the many points of weakness that one may find in lighter armors. Throat, underarm, seam beneath the breastplate if you can manage it. Eyes, if the weapon was thin enough. Knees if your enemy has them -- this thing lacked proper legs, instead just hanging like a mangled half-corpse. Over and over and over again. Slow at first, but he was gaining momentum now. The itch was starting to become a burning in his chest.
He needed to let the fire burn, and let it burn well. And so he did. He let his strikes become less light and more vicious. He was leaving gouges, now, and straw was beginning to fall to the floor. His target was going to be all but eviscerated, so he moved on.
Again and again and again. More stabs, more tears, more rips, that burning feeling starting to grow and grow and grow.
He didn't realize he was snarling.
Red and black splattered the broken cobbles beneath the fallen body. Arturo's eyes were wild. He was dressed in far thicker armor than he had worn in an age, but it was more than just a small necessity.
"More on your flank!" a voice called over the din. He turned just in time to narrowly dodge a clawed hand edged with metal, once more his spear thrusting through them and leaving another mangled heap of desecrated flesh and metal.
They had been fighting for days. They didn't know when relief would be coming.
He ordered a fighting retreat to the garrison.
He paused, surrounded by the fuzzed innards of the few dummies he had destroyed. Only three. He looked around. No one else had come. So he simply pushed the straw that had fallen out of the way with the side of his boot.
That itch was still there. The burning had settled a little, but the itch remained. He didn't know why.
Or, well. He knew, but he knew he couldn't say it. Even if he was right, yet again, people would get mad at him or brush him off until he was proven right yet again. He really would be inheriting Guitirre's legacy if the old man chose him as his successor to the position.
Or, really, if the High Marshals agreed with him.
All he knew was that he was being sent to Kamigawa with good reason. He hoped he wouldn't just be kept in permanent garrison there, he had no intention of living out his days on that plane. He enjoyed his time with Koda and the Reckoners under his watch and care, but the plane was simply... not for him. He did not know if it was for the Legion as it stood -- probably not -- but Kamigawa asked for aid, and Torrezon wanted to answer.
He just hoped he'd have something to do.
With how long it was taking for a proper response to the sympathizers being dealt with, he wondered if maybe he wouldn't have a purpose when he went over there. Yet again stifled and kept in a cage until he was needed to be let out. A similar pattern, he knew, from when others were conspiring to keep him from his beloved. He knew there was no ill intent with that sort of thing at this point, but he did have pause about how often he was left to languish.
He shook his head. He let out a short huff, preparing to continue. He just needed to get the burning itch out.
He started back up, once more going through his most basic forms slowly, slightly adjusting here and there. Now was the time to let his frustrations go. To let them be felt and vented outward through his practice.
A stab, a jab, a step, a sweep. He knew what he was doing. His captains had faith in him. He had a good reputation among his people, for the most part. They were good natured and dedicated. That is all he could ask from any subordinate officers. People he could work with.
People he could understand and he would hope could understand him in turn.
His motions became faster as he went along. That was his biggest problem. People would hear him, but not understand him. His words went unheeded. Why? Because he was not as apparently versed in the technologies of the other planes? Because he was old? Because he seemed ignorant and stupid because he was a soldier?
He had vented such frustrations out with his husband. And Lazaro had understood, and Arturo knew he did, but even he did it sometimes too.
You cannot be jumping at everything that looks like it might be Phyrexia, beloved. We could have valuable allies here. Or they could just be trying to eke out an existence beyond its grasp, as we are trying with our own conquests.
A step, sweep, jab, stab, right up and under. Faster and faster and faster.
But he knew. He knew, damn everything, he knew this was how they had operated.
The next effigy had the face of the man he knew would prove it.
A fire was stoked. There was some nervous laughter, attempts at levity in the face of utter destruction. The smell of oil was everywhere. Arturo feared that one may run into the mountains and still never escape it.
It was just about to turn morning. One of his fellow Marshals turned to him and asked him something.
Arturo saw the black seam forming around his mouth before it struck.
Again, and again, and again. He struck, he slashed, he punctured, he disemboweled. The stuffing lay around him like the messy entrails of the deceased. The effigies all hung as though he had impaled them, a warning to all who may appear as they would to go no further, that death would await them.
He could see it. In the black of their lopsided smiles or frowns, he could see it. It was so subtle.
It was there.
It was here.
His arms were starting to shake. He grit his teeth and he began to fight.
A good slam into the rock wall had the skull splitting like overripe fruit after harvest season. Another good soldier, gone. He made sure to stay far away from the body. More fires would be necessary.
Another emerged from a section of the ruined bastion they took refuge within.
"Marshal?" she asked.
"Another one," he said quietly. "Another hidden one."
"What are you --"
He brandished his lance at her. "Give me a sign that you aren't taken."
"There is a oneness to be found in rejoining the Saint instead of rejecting her new message," the paladin said, hands up. "We need to set such things aside if we are to survive this."
Arturo stared at her for a long moment.
The lance found its mark.
He couldn't stop. More and more and more he fought and cleaved and eviscerated and --
"Marshal, stop!"
The tip of his spear was only a breath away from the throat of a squire. The young lad was cowering, shaking. Arturo stared down at them, then lowered the weapon.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"Are you well?" the paladin who had entered asked. Arturo saw they were not alone, with at least five or seven standing near the doorways.
"I'm fine," Arturo said gruffly. "I simply... lost myself for a moment. Stress and things. I didn't see you come in."
"You were screaming," the paladin said. "We had thought you were being attacked."
Arturo looked at the soldiers. He saw a bit of unease in their faces. Some had hands on sheathed weapons. He shook his head.
"No," he said. "Forgive me. My mind traveled to the past."
"Do you need a priest?" another paladin asked.
"No, no. I will be alright. I promise." He rolled his shoulders. "I did not mean to scare anyone. I am a little more vigilant than I otherwise would be, and I am on edge. But I am fine." He held out a hand to the squire, who looked up at him with a bit of fear still. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry."
The squire looked between him and the hand, and took it. "I probably shouldn't have gotten so close," he said with a nervous laugh.
"That is something you should learn, yes," Arturo said, patting his shoulder. "Don't go near someone with a pointy item unless you mean to try and get it away from them, or kill them."
"Noted, sir," the squire said awkwardly. They then returned to the side of one of the paladins.
"Have you heard anything?" one of the paladins asked.
"On Kamigawa, nothing. But Guitirre will be here in time," Arturo said, spinning the spear idly in his hand. "Then he's going back on leave."
Some of the paladins snickered and groaned a little.
"Maybe we'll get something better to do than just drills," one of them said. "I'm more than ready to go do something."
"We will. There will be plenty of Pestoxy to whet your appetite for destruction upon," Arturo said. "We just need to make sure we won't have enemies in plain sight."
"Even if we do, we can just kill them," the paladin said with a shrug.
"No, Lia, we cannot 'just' kill them," Arturo said, "We have to be sure of their identity, and we're trying to make allies of the Kamigawans. It would look bad if we just killed a few of them for being potential snakes. We may also misinterpret things, which is why we're trusting them to take care of it."
"What if they don't get everyone?"
"Well, if we find Pestoxy sympathizers, we will apprehend them." Arturo set the spear straight in his hands. "If that requires their death, so be it, but we'll only be striking if we are more than certain."
The paladins were exchanging looks. Arturo scowled.
"I will tighten it to 'do not execute unless I give explicit permission'," he said. "Regardless, we'll have plenty of fighting soon, don't worry."
"Fine."
"I know you're impatient. Trust me, so am I. What do you think this was over?" Arturo asked with a snort. "Are you going to be using the room?"
"One of the Champions has issued challenges," Lia answered. "We're going to go compete."
"Good luck." Arturo walked toward one of the side rooms where the rest of clothing was kept. "I'll put down a crown on the Champion sending all of you sore and sorry back to your bunks."
"Do you have so little faith in us?"
"I have plenty of faith in you," Arturo said, folding his clothes over an arm. "I just happen to know how well Champions fight and that Arcturus is one of the best Champions we've seen."
The paladins blinked, stunned. He smiled and chuckled.
"What? Have you never served with him before?" he asked.
"How did you--"
"He loves issuing challenges to those who aren't used to the heartcity," Arturo answered. "He knows you're all newcomers. We've been talking." He grinned at them. "But I do encourage you to try anyway. I'll give you all a bonus if you win a round."
The paladins exchanged looks again. Plenty of raised brows and hushed whispers.
"You're on," Lia said. They started to scramble away as though they weren't much older than the squire who dogged after them. Arturo snickered, looking back at the mess he'd made. He sighed, set his spear aside, and grabbed something to sweep up the straw. It was a little difficult to prevent his top from falling -- which it did, twice -- but he swept all of the straw into a neat pile against a wall.
He grabbed his spear and set the broom aside. He looked back at the sagging dummies, and he felt that itch distantly when he looked at them. He shook himself out. No. He had done enough.
Even if the sagging of the cloth around them reminded him of the ruined skin of his own people as they were turned from the inside out until they were no longer themselves.
Even if it reminded him of the threat that could always come back.
He shuddered and turned his back, deciding to go be with his beloved for the rest of the night to get his head away from this. Maybe he had a point. But there was something wrong here. Something deeply wrong. He felt it so deeply in his bones. Something was wrong.
He only had to hope he'd be able to speak the warning before something happened.
Trudvard left the apartment in a dissociated state. He simply needed to be Elsewhere, no matter what. Doubts and regrets plagued his mind. Why was his prosthesis design rejected? Why did it seem like he was only ever called upon to act as a tool for someone else to wield?
...Why did it feel like his trust was ever crumbling?
No matter. Who worries about that? You just need to get fresh air. Soon enough, Trudvard was in an unfamiliar space in the Mezzio, streets still lit up. The distinct sounds of partying could be heard... Cabaretti territory. He's unconsciously counted 25 stabbing glares as he travelled, but no harassment yet, thankfully. That thankfulness would be repaid harshly soon enough.
A group of clearly intoxicated individuals passing by. Despite the time having passed, they could still recognize a Phyrexian when they saw one. And being of unsound mind, they decided they'd take a crack at this little robot fucker. It was all the same harassment as they confronted him.
"What a disgusting robot thing." (What about being a machine disgusts you? I haven't done anything yet.)
"Get lost, murderer! Your kind's all the same!" (But that wasn't me! Sir Urabrask fought against Norn! He housed the Vulshok who... They were thankful, weren't they? Then why...)
"Ain't like this thing's got reinforcements! We should kick its ass for daring to step up here." (But I do have allies! I mean, there was the Vulshok before they... b-but, there's also Malone, and Renaissance, and Swift! ...Right? Then why did they...)
The harassment continued and was catalogued before something broke in Trudvard from all this introspection. (If the Vulshok were our allies, why did they attack the Kuldoshan forces before the March? If Renaissance and Malone are my allies... why'd it take them two years to even begin searching for me? If Swift is an ally to me, then... what flaw could've caused the rejection? ...) A cold bitter realization began to settle in Trudvard's heart.
A moment lapsed, and suddenly the Phyrexian goblin was standing before a few meat piles. He could only remember the cries for help loosely.
"P-please, I have a family, and friends to return to!" (What about mine?! What about my home?! Did anyone even think of that before destroying it?!)
"W-woah! We didn't mean anything by it, go easy on us!" (Go easy on you? What about me? After all I've toiled away at? After every ounce of penance I have carved out, only to be chewn up and spit out? Treated as worse than garbage? ...I will give you as much mercy as has been shown to me.)
"H-hey, wait a minute, we're all friends here! It's all in good-" (Good fun? Just a joke? That's all I am, isn't it? A thing to entertain people, to clap and be pointed at? What do you call them... a circus monkey?)
And he sat there amid the piles. Thinking more. (Those so-called allies... Have they done much for me as of late? Or am I bound only to give, never to receive? Am I forever bound to be nothing but a joke, treated as a danger once I am serious? A thing to throw away once I am broken?)
A figure approached from the darkened alley nearby. "You Do Good Work. Father." Trudvard turned his attention to the figure. The Contraption, of course. Bristling feelings of disgust rose in the Phyrexian goblin. "There is something wrong with you."
The Contraption cocks its head. "What Do You Mean?" Its shell-face droops into a saddened expression before Trudvard lashes out. "Stop that! That's precisely it, isn't it?"
Again, a head cock after returning to a straight up position. "Elabor-" The sentence wasn't finished before Trudvard plunged a heavy claw into the Contraption, grasping the core that animated the construct. "I see now! I see why you disgust me. You are everything wrong that I am now! A puppet of the incompleat. You are worthless, and will be repurposed. Lay down and die." He rips the core out of the construct, and begins to assimilate its meat shell.
Trudvard would lug only the dead metal frame back to his apartment. This was an incident to keep quiet about. Maybe someone would notice the disappearances, since the bodies were already assimilated. But it was New Capenna. Such things would be chalked up to any number of events. For now, Trudvard had a new spark of flame to focus upon.
You're laying upon the floor as usual, during the night. Your eyes drift closed.
You begin to dream. You aren't supposed to. Perhaps you're evolving, or perhaps it is degradation. It doesn't matter much, as your mind now wanders.
You dream of a sky everfull with cloying smoke, a sign of eternal industrial advancement. You dream of soil, richly red with iron as a material.
You remember the new fledgelings and the Vulshok Urabrask housed, who marveled upon your ability to invent and create. They... were marveling, right? You can't quite remember the look.
You remember... the face of the Praetor. Ever-caring, even if it meant his own neck went on the line. The one that saved you from the goblin tribes that would dare tear their own savior to shred. He who brought zeal and ambition to a land utterly devoid... and that last look you got as he cast you upon the Omenpath leading to that Old Capenna Swamp. His last words echoing in this fruitless illusion.
"Go, my Liutenant. Be free of these shackles. Reinvent yourself elsewhere."
You awaken upon the cold workshop floor. Well, both workshop and apartment. Still, the distinction does not rid you of the presence of what surrounds you. Failure after failure after failure after failure after failure. Where did that flame of zeal and ambition go? Did it vanish with the sight of that Omenpath closing right before you were able to build up and reach it? All that remains is a hollow façade.
Two years since the March, and nothing has gotten better. Severed from the homeland. Creation after creation rejected if it's more complex than a simple explosive. Hateful glares, cruel words... You need some time to think. A good city wander should do it.
"I trust that you know why you're here, Boss Hayashi?"
"I have some suspicions, Your Majesty. But do enlighten me, just to clear the air."
"I'll say it simply, then. People are wondering why the Reckoner gangs are not being cracked down upon like the Saiba Futurists were. Bosses Greasefang and Watanabe scaled down their operations to be less blatant and more legal. But the Dokuchi can't do that. And you and I both know that you don't have the manpower and can't rebuild your gang's ranks to scale down your gang's activities."
"...Correct... Where are you going with this, Your Majesty?"
"I'm getting there. I also understand that you and I have an agreement, and that your gang will honor it. However, I have no proof beyond your word that they will do so. And while your word is good – Kyodai Ōmikami would not have let you become a first rank priest if it weren’t – it is also not enough assurance when you already have one renegade running around."
His fists clenched at the reminder of Gesserith. He did not speak yet.
"There needs to be something more formal to assure me that your gang will not renege on our deal. The way I see it, there are two options. Either your gang remains a criminal gang, at which point we will have to press charges and undo much of the work that you and Calisto have done as parts of Clan Hayashi-"
"Your Majesty-"
"-Or you shift the Dokuchi Reckoners into a special ops team for the Imperial Court."
Silence.
"...What?"
"Not under the command of myself. Under the command of Regent Light-Paws and Head of Security Shizuki. But it would prevent us from having to prosecute you and enable you to act with more authority than just the power you have cultivated in the Undercity."
"...It would also undermine my authority as the gang's boss, because we would have to answer to the Regent or Head of Security."
"Yes." She did not bother to pretend it was anything else.
A slow exhale. Really, what choice did he have? But for now... "I need some time to speak with the rest of the gang about this. I will not make a decision about this without them."
"You have one week. Then we'll need an answer."
He wished he could still planeswalk so he could disappear somewhere to scream.
The Azorius negotiator skidded backward against the cobblestones, blown back by the force of the dragon’s voice. The lead arrester stepped forward again, shouting to be heard over the roar.
“O-Okay, Claw,” stammered an extremely nervous vedalken. “Just, give us a few minutes, and we’ll track him down.”
“NOW!”
“Now,” Coda repeated, to a second arrester behind her. “If we don’t, Claw’s gonna level the block.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Stall for time.”
As the other Azorius sprinted away, Coda approached the base of the tower where Claw was perched. Several other dragons had noticed the commotion by now, and circled overhead while Claw and Coda conversed.
“Claw! We need to know what you need Krenko for!”
“Nothing illegal. And so, beyond your purview.”
Coda rolled her eyes. “But we need to know you won’t kill him!”
Immediately, some of Claw’s bravado left him. His wings, spread wide, folded behind him. “Oh…Very well. I swear to Vitar Yescu, the goblin shall suffer no harm by my hand.”
“Swear to…Never mind! I want to take you at your word!” Coda cried anxiously. “But you up there, and your goons flying up there, all dragons? You make it hard to trust you blindly.”
Ironically, Claw’s expression brightened. “Ah-ha! So our organization bears fruit!”
“Wait, what?”
“Found Krenko, boss!” The second arrester returned, dragging with him a well-dressed goblin in shackles.
“What do you want, coppers!” Krenko barked angrily. “I haven’t done anything you could possibly…Oh, hey, Claw!”
Claw roared to the heavens, shooting flames from his maw as he did. “KRENKO, my friend! Your advice has already paid off. These Azorius are already negotiating with us, as opposed to suppressing us. But, I had a few questions as to your own success!”
“Coda,” hissed the other arrester, “we’ve got to stop these two…right?”
Coda glanced helplessly between the two peacefully conversing parties.
Dipping a vampire in holy water will not only burn them, but it will also magically crisp them with a coating of Parmesan cheese and panko bread crumbs.
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