I thought myself that I recently mentioned quite often, that I drown in WIP 🙈 So have some glimpses of some artworks that are almost ready to rock the next round when some evil plans will launchhhh... 😎🖤
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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.
Summer arrives in a strawberry, sweet, juicy. As long as you feel its flesh on your tongue you’re unaware how. One minute inches into the next. But how could you observe awareness anyway? Or, for that matter, a thought? It grows in you, not as a sensation. (Nor like a baby or tumor.) An experience that you can’t hold on to. Any more than to the smell of lilac. Though it soothes emptiness.
Rosmarie Waldrop, from “Asymmetry (2)”, The Nick of Time: Poems
