MQ: Scaling Heaven

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin listened to Dorian with a frown, his eyes still held captive by the ocean’s vague horizon. He was inclined to disagree with the composer, but felt that he might be more likely to be quiet if he did not challenge him. There were more important things for him to worry about than minor arguments with their captive academic. I can’t see what part Iorlan wants Dorian to play in all of this, he thought. He is knowledgeable, perhaps, but I have not heard a word of anything that could begin to save Salvar.

He could only roll his eyes at the man’s suggestion that they play at being three characters in a story. As distasteful as he found the idea, something nagged at him, telling him that there was sense in Dorian’s words. With the room’s temperament being as fragile as it was, there was no reason to fight against its wishes.

“Aye, comrades,” said Ashiakin half-heartedly, trying not to let Aerran and Dorian know how embarrassing he found this charade, “we’re off for treasure and women and glory and whatnot. Our enemies will rue the day they set eyes on us.”

Aerran smiled at Ashiakin, forcing back a laugh. “The seas look treacherous up ahead,” she said, playing along. “I hope we don’t run into any trouble.”

“There’d be no trouble that we couldn’t . . .” Ashiakin said, faltering, distracted by something that now loomed before their tiny vessel.

It was a door. He could say with certainty that it had not been there before, although he had no idea at what point it had appeared. It hung above the ocean, situated firmly in the air, with no walls or floors beside or beneath it. A great breeze ripped across the sea and the door flung open, clapping as if it was being struck against a wall by the wind.

“Well,” said Ashiakin, turning to Dorian and grinning reluctantly, “it seems that you weren’t as useless as I thought you’d be. Well done with that, really.”

But as he turned back, his heart sank. A giant hand—attached to an equally giant arm—was reaching through the open door and heading straight for their tiny ship. Its fingers were poised to capture the vessel in one swift motion.

“Ashiakin, Aerran!” a deep voice bellowed, seemingly from nowhere. “Dorian! Stand still and I will help you! You’ve nothing to fear, I’m getting you out of there!”

Ashiakin, still uncertain as to whether or not the hand was trustworthy, grabbed one of the vessel’s paddles and jabbed it like a spear into the center of its palm. The paddle snapped in half easily, a drop of blood splashing down onto the boat. Although the hand pulled back immediately, it surged forward with even more force and swept up the passengers into its gigantic fingers.

Ashiakin twisted and squirmed, trying to pry the fingers apart so that he would drop back onto the ocean. Then, on one of the fingers, he noticed something. It was the ring of an Arbiter of the Church of the Ethereal Sway.

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin stumbled into a muddled corridor feeling as if his head had been sucked through a vise. Dim memories of a hand dragging him through a floating doorway clouded his thoughts. It was only slowly that the deeper things began to come back to him—their mission to assassinate the head of the Church of the Ethereal Sway, the discovery of their captive-companion Dorian, and his own confused identity, cobbled together in pieces over thousands of ridiculous years.

He blinked. The corridor had two simple doors, one at its end and one at its center. There was no door behind him through which he could have entered. All around him there were bookcases and shelves with artifacts and museum pieces, ancient weapons held within cases on the walls. Two dead men in elaborately ceremonial armor were sprawled on the floor, their blood cutting rivulets through mounds of dust and matted carpet. Light from a window at the corridor’s other end, slowed by wafting dust motes, made their armor glitter bravely in some snide attempt at mockery.

Through that window, the city looked further away than he had ever seen it. He strode over to it and drummed his fingers against a desk below it. The siege had ended and the battle had moved away from the Cathedral, to the narrow streets and crooked alleys of the Hangman’s Circlet and the fry shops and factories of the Plaza of Industry and Air.

“We’re losing,” was all Ashiakin could say.

Behind him, Yesirvn moved the ring on his finger so that he could better tend to a wound on his palm. After he had done so, he tapped a small ripple on the wall with a golden instrument and it vanished, sewing itself neatly into the wall’s smooth exterior. His creature, Sally, was no longer with him, but he now wore a club on his belt that was covered in blood and fragments of bone.

Aerran stood some distance behind Ashiakin, looking down at the city with curious trepidation. Whenever gunfire sounded in the distance, she would twitch.

Above the fighting in the streets, a sign with even worse omens appeared. It was the royal airship—its heraldry almost hidden completely by the glint of the sun on its bulbous side, but unmistakable nonetheless—flying over and away from the city.

“It’s Iorlan,” said Ashiakin sadly. “He’s fleeing the city.”

Suddenly, he turned around and glared at Yesirvn. “Where the bloody hell is Dorian? Iorlan asked us to look after him at all costs. You had better be able to pull him into here with that little instrument of yours!”

Aerran and Yesirvn both seemed shocked by this statement, Aerran taking a step back. “I thought it best to leave him in there for now,” said Yesirvn, rubbing his wounded hand. “He doesn’t need to be here for this.” He looked to the door in the center of the room. “He isn’t one of us. This is business between friends.”

Ashiakin bit his lip. “This is…?”

“Yes,” said Yesirvn. “Don’t worry, though, I’ve enchanted the door—he can’t hear a thing we’re saying. When things got bad downstairs, though… when you got stuck in that room, I decided it would be best to pursue this course. I’d known that I might have to all along. I can’t say that I wasn’t without difficulties.” He pulled back his cloak, revealing a messy pile of red that had been hastily patched over. He winced.

Ashiakin nodded, considering it all. “You will have to get him out afterwards.”

“Of course,” he said.

Aerran walked up to the two, her fingers twitching on the hooked sword she wore at her side. “Dorian will be safe for now. He knew more about that room than any of us, save you, perhaps, Yesirvn. But he has no business being here for this. We owe it to Lev for this to be as dignified as possible, treacherous as he’s been.”

“Yes,” said Ashiakin, looking to the door rather than Aerran, “we do.”

He pulled the devotional mask that he had worn behind his head off, setting it down on a nearby desk. Yesirvn had since lost his mask, but Aerran removed hers and laid it down next to Ashiakin’s. Next to all of the museum pieces, they looked as if they had lain there undisturbed for hundreds of years themselves.

“Well, then,” Asihakin said. “Let’s have a chat with our friend. For old time’s sake.”

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin stepped into the office of the Justice of the Church of the Ethereal Sway flanked by his two companions. It seemed little more than a cramped extension of the corridor outside--teetering bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes, dirty glass cases with forgotten wonders tucked away behind them, even a few cages that held exotic birds and rodents. Two of the walls were giant ornate windows that looked out over the city, fires sporadically bursting up through the layer of fog that had been cast over it. The back wall was a large painting of the Forgotten One Denebriel, highest Saint of the Church, on a snowy hill overlooking the remnants of a battlefield. She was smiling.

Lev Testhan sat behind at an ornate desk before this mural, his desk cluttered with books and foreign scientific instruments. He was a short man, sixtyish, with a thin gray beard and weathered skin that was growing looser day by day. He was writing something hastily and would pause and furrow his brow after completing each sentence, as if he could somehow not comprehend what he had just recorded.

The trio said nothing and it was only after several moments that Lev looked up, a thin smile creasing his shaky lips. “Ah,” he said, laying his pen down. “I knew that Iorlan would send someone, but I had no idea that it would be you three.”

“His Majesty considered this task worthy only of His most trusted associates,” Yesirvn said, resting his injured palm on the end of his bloody club.

“Yes,” said Ashiakin. “I assure you we’ll show you far more courtesy than you’ve shown us. You at least have the comfort of knowing what we’re here for.”

Lev laughed without even a trace of bitterness. “Ashiakin,” he said, “I would have hoped that you’d appreciate that what’s going on here goes far beyond courtesy and rules.”

He was about to reply, but Aerran stepped forward and interceded. “Why on earth are you doing this, Lev?” she asked pleadingly. “Iorlan and you have always been friends—you always had an equitable situation, you were never wronged…”

The Justice shook his head slowly, pushing the papers he had been working on aside. “You’ll have heard why I’m doing this,” he said, “but you’ll likely not have believed. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the rumors in the street—I’ve been in communication with the highest authority that the Church has had contact with in over a thousand years. Saint Denebriel has been speaking with me. It was she that ordered this.”

For a moment, Ashiakin could only stare. He had always found it bizarre that the powerful sorceress who had once ruled Salvar and much of the world, thousands of years ago during the Wars of the Tap—a woman that he had known personally and closely, more closely than anyone who had ever lived—was the highest saint of Salvar’s current Church. After awaking from thousands of years of imprisonment, Denebriel’s sainthood was one of the few things that he had failed to ever quite comprehend.

“Of course,” he said coldly, cutting through the silence that had conquered the room. “Denebriel has returned and rather than contacting me—her closest friend and ally when she was at the height of all her power, someone who spent thousands of years imprisoned beyond the fabric of time for her—she decides that she will speak with a lonely old man at the top of some tower.”

Lev chuckled. “A very powerful old man at the top of a very important tower, Ashiakin,” he said. “But believe me, she did mention you quite often. In fact, she gave me something to give to you once I saw you. She knew I would sooner or later.”

“What is it she gave you, Lev?” he asked, anger and impatience obvious in his voice.

“This,” he said plainly.

He removed a silver instrument from a drawer in his desk, a long bar that was adorned with a roaring dragon’s head. Gems that adorned the thing all along its side glowed as if there was some heat springing to life within them. With reflexes and speed that should have escaped a much younger man, Lev raised the strange thing up and brought it quickly down again in a violent, spasmodic motion.

Ashiakin, however, was quicker. His knife had traveled from the inside of his shirt to the side of Lev Testhan’s neck in less than a second. Warlike sparks of energy had flailed forth from the Justice’s weapon, but they had been knocked off course. They had scorched a pair of caged birds, sending the shrieks and screams of animals tearing through the room.

“You can’t blame me for trying,” said Lev weakly, touching the knife in his neck.

Ashiakin frowned. He had struck too near the artery. His aim had never been that good. “No,” he said,” reaching into the holster at his side and pulling out the flintlock pistol, cocking it and leveling at the Justice. “I suppose not.”

The gun cracked and the bullet sailed through Lev Testhan’s head, smacking into the mural on the wall and pulling a shower of blood in its wake. The red splattered all over the scene of the battle in the valley, but Denebriel herself, she remained untouched.

[Ashiakin]

The room had fallen silent. Even the cries of the Justice’s beasts had stopped. Ashiakin threw the pistol down on the ground in disgust, as if it were some wretched insect that had wormed its way into his hand. He turned away from the body of Lev Testhan and the blood-splattered mural, facing his companions. It was a long while before he spoke.

“It’s over,” he said. “We should go find Dorian. I feel guilty enough as it is.”

“It had to be done,” said Aerran, cutting past Ashiakin’s words.

For a moment he met her gaze, then turned and walked behind the desk of the slain Justice. He stood next to the man’s body and began to rifle through the contents of his desk, quickly scanning papers for signs of the reasons behind Lev’s betrayal. The documents ranged from theological arguments to lists of grain quotas for the southern provinces, but there seemed to be no personal communications indicating the Church’s reasoning in instigating a civil war and a peasant uprising.

One paper, though, caught his eye. It was in Lev Testhan’s own intense script—a short page, dated like a journal entry, entitled, “A Conversation with Saint Denebriel.” It read like the transcript of a play, with Lev and Denebriel speaking to one another. Anger flexed through Ashiakin’s fingers as he crumpled the paper in his fist. Did Lev have these here to joke with those who would kill him? he wondered. It could be that he has his more important papers hidden away. He knew he was going to die.

Yesirvn, who had walked over to one of the cathedral’s windows to gaze out at the dying city, let out a sharp gasp. He swiveled his head rapidly back and forth from the window to the blood-stained mural behind Ashiakin, looking more than pale.

“What is it?” demanded Ashiakin, striding over to the window.

“There’s someone outside,” he murmured reverently.

There was indeed someone outside. Atop one of the Cathedral’s ornamented, jutting crenellations, there sat a regal woman in a deep blue dress. Her hair was red and flowing, but her skin was pure white and her features were as sharp as if they had been finely chiseled from the rawness of the Salvic countryside. She was smiling, her chin propped up by one hand, her fingers tapping gently against her face. The battle below was hers.

“Is that…?” Aerran asked in awe.

Ashiakin could only stare.

She bore a striking resemblance to a woman he once knew.

((A note: Ashiakin won't be keeping any of the weapons he borrowed from the king's store beyond this thread and I am not requesting any of them as spoils. I'll gladly accept GP, though.))

[Skie and Avery]

Quest Judging
MQ: Scaling Heaven

STORY

Continuity ~ 8/10. This would have been a 10 had I been given a closer from Dorian. Beautifully done, on both of your parts otherwise.
Setting ~ 8/10. Again, this would have been a ten, except for one thing that I had to deduct points from. At one point in the room, just after Dorian’s face-full of sand, there was a clarity issue that kept me from telling if the beach had stayed there or went back to being an empty room before going back to a beach. Other than that, everything was richly detailed, and at the end in Lev’s study was done especially well with both the missed shot, and the tapestry.
Pacing ~ 9/10. It slipped once due to the confusion about the beach, but it was very quickly resolved, and the entire thread moved seamlessly. Even in moments without action, the suspense was well sown; the fruits of this quest are clear.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7/10. While the dialogue was well used, there was nothing to distinguish the different characters by their dialogue. Everyone spoke as I they were well educated and generally level headed, but they’re all from different backgrounds. Even if their difference is just geological, there’s going to be something different. There were times I had to pause and get it straight in my head if it had been Ashiakin or Aerran that had said something.
Action ~ 9/10. Again, another category that you guys got so right. This wasn’t a high action thread (as in a lot of battle scenes), but read like one, and carried the weight of one. That’s difficult to carry off, and the actions of your characters, the situation and the suspense all came together to make this piece very dynamic.
Persona ~ 8/10. Good, and Ashiakin and Dorian shone as they should have, but I would have liked to see maybe a little more depth into Ashiakin in particular. There was a moment when Dorian described where his character had once been listening to the last dying echos in an organ, and how he was reminded of it as he was fleeing desperately through the tunnels. There was so much in this thread that was done masterfully, and that may have been my favorite part. At the end, Ashiakin did show his regret for having to slay Lev, but it was an aspect that might have carried just a tad more weight earlier in the thread, leading up to it.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 10/10. I can’t say anything bad here. You are both amazing writers, and you set a tone and told a story in a way that still has me floored. I have always had respect for the two of you as fellow writers, but this thread stands with a mere few other threads I’ve seen you guys do that really just speaks for itself.
Mechanics ~ 9/10.
Clarity ~ 8/10. I’ve mentioned the spot where you stumbled here, first setting up for the beach.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 10/10. This was a thread that carried with it so many emotions, even humor. To have made such a poignant point across in a mere 14 posts is something that I think perfectly illustrates the best of brevity and detail working together. This is one of my favorite Althanas threads now that I’ve read it, and I feel honored to have read it as well.

TOTAL ~ 86/100. This will be, of course, submitted for approval to have this placed in the Judge’s Choice sub forum.

Rewards

Ashiakin gains 7702 EXP and 516 GP
Dorian gains 1100 EXP and 208 GP

[Karuka]

EXP/GP added! Ashiakin levels up!