To the Citadel and Back

[LordLeopold]

Stevens finds himself, feeling every minute his 54 years, tangled in some relatively taut ropes, his feet off the ground, hanging somewhere in midair. The light striking his face was overwhelmingly bright and confusing, and a buzz of noise filled his ears. He had no idea where he was. The number of times he had travelled by magic gateway from one part of Althanas to another could be counted on one hand, but even in his limited experience he had never felt quite so odd after a magic transportation than he did now. It was sort of like having the flu, or another miserable disease that made one feel sicker than one actually was. Before he moved or made any noise, the duke waited for the confusion stimulus around him to die down, hoping that his senses would slowly right themselves and he would be able to make heads or tails of this mess. His patience paid off, and the light and sound cocooning him in a dizzying blanket began to melt away.

The light beating against his face was the flickering firelight of a popping, snapping blaze that was licking the sides of the huge hearth containing it. Leopold focused on the image of the fire, making sure the sounds of burning and what he saw below him matched. Whatever room he was in was long, wide and high-ceiling, and he was dangling somewhere closer to the ceiling than the floor. The side of the room he was facing was dominated by the yawning fireplace, which was decorated by a series of black metal skewers, pots and grates that jutted into the hearth like barbaric dental equipment into an open mouth. A kettle was whistling on the hot stone beside the burning logs, spewing steam into the air beside the boiling smoke. Looking around the rest of the room, careful not to upset the ropes he was loosely enveloped by, the duke took in the rest of the room as best he could. On either side of the room, crouching low against the walls, were wooden counters, some with marble tops attached to the block granite walls. Pots, pans, ladles and knives hung from hooks on the walls. There was a door off to the left of the fireplace, but no other entrances were readily apparent from the duke's vantagepoint. The ropes ensconcing him were tied to a metal latticework on the ceiling, and hung down to some wooden matrix below him, presumably from which other instruments like the ones on the walls were hanging. This, it appeared, was a kitchen.

There was no food to be seen, however, only a few lonely looking men standing or pacing between the countertops and a central counter that ran from the hearth down the middle of the kitchen. Four of them were monks, armed and armoured as well as the men the duke had encountered earlier in the hallway fighting Aesphestos' knights, but appearing far less certain of themselves. One was chewing his cuticle. The other men were, to Stevens's surprise and delight, obviously his brother and Silas Witherspoon. They were pacing, each with a path staked out next to the other, passing each other at the middle of their courses and then turning to face each other again for the return trip. Petunia and Icarus were perched on a side countertop, both looking far less placid than was normal. Stevens could still feel the hen's gradually abating fear tickling the back of his mind. Silas's leather case and Anthony's umbrella were laid out beside the two familiars on the countertop, the suitcase open and its contents spread out like a yard sale. Stevens's other swordcane, a teakettle, several leatherbound books and a folded-up piece of cardboard that looked like some sort of sign were the largest and most interesting of the paraphernalia.

"What the devil is going on?" Anthony barked at one of the monks after a few quick paces, turning on his heel like an expert drill sargeant. "High Priest Knaut told us we'd be kept safe, not prisoner." The monks didn't respond, but Stevens noted for the first time that their shortswords were unsheathed and glimmering in the firelight, their fingers twitching on the leather grips. Anthony sighed loudly and threw up his arms, returning to his pacing. Silas shook his head, clasping his hands behind his back and muttering to himself for several minutes in what sounded, from its tone, like a breathless diatribe.

Stevens hung in the ropes for a few minutes, his mind racing. First of all, how could be get down? Second of all, how could get rid of these monks and get out of here? He thought he knew roughly where in the Citadel this kitchen was, at least if it was close to the regular mess hall, so he imagined he could get at least to the main sanctuary, if not out of the building entirely, but it would be hard going with these four monks here. A plan was beginning to gestate in his brain as his eyes scanned over the materials lying on the countertop, and there was a glimmer behind his monocle as the pieces fell into place. The only thing he needed to do was somehow get Anthony or Silas's attention without attracting the monks, too.

His chance came as the sound of yells and stomping feet drifted out of the doorway beside the fireplace. All six men below looked at each other, the monks holding their swords a little tighter, unsure of what to do. The sounds only got louder. Frowning at each other, the monks began to gravitate towards the door, glancing from it to their charges. They seemed unwilling to leave their captives but equally hesitant about not seeing what the hubbub was about. As they got closer to the door, one opened his mouth, making a croaking noise, but closed it quickly and turned to follow his fellows, who were hovering at the entrance to the door, muttering amongst themselves. Stevens saw his chance. He hissed down - "Silas!" - and the charlatan looked around, confused, rubbing one ear. The duke frowned and hissed again through bared teeth. Silas looked up, almost directly above his head, and his mouth and eyes leapt open. He almost yelled out, grabbing at Anthony, who was watching the monks intently and chewing his cheek, but thought better of it, fixing his gaze on Leopold and mouthing "We're okay, are you?" Stevens nodded, jangling the ropes around him, and mouthed "Toss me the teakettle." Silas arched his eyebrows in confusion for a few seconds, and Leopold was about to give it up and just yell out at his friend, but the mountebank suddenly snapped to attention and smiled. He turned to the counter behind him, reached out, and lifted the teakettle from the marble.

Stevens could see a few errant hairs on the top of Silas's head begin to rise off his scalp, and smiled. All too easy. Silas, apparently a bit disoriented, backed up a bit too fast, barking his back on the central counter and giving a sharp yelp. One of the monks turned his head at the noise, and screwed it up in surprise. He raised a hand and opened his mouth, but before he could yell, Silas seemed to regain his bearings. With a vertical toss worthy of some professional sport, somewhere, he lobbed the teakettle up to Stevens. The duke stretched out his hands towards the kettle, and felt the ropes around him loosen and end his suspension. Gravity yanked him from the acrobat's tangle, but his fingers were on the teakettle.

His fall was arrested as the kettle's magical properties took hold of his body. His momentum kept him moving, but now he was shooting horizontally towards the wall in front of him. The duke, doing the best he could in the disorienting flight, twisted in the air, angling his legs feet towards the wall. He caught it unevenly, and when he pushed off, instead of shooting towards the monks as he intended, he spun off into the air, twirling ankles over crown, his twirling body knocking cooking utensils from countertops and into the air, his motion taking him in an odd diagonal towards the opposite corner of the room. He had hoped to soar directly at the monks, either bowling into them or coming up short, either way scaring them to death and causing them to flee. It was hard to imagine someone seeing a clumsy British lord soaring through the air and not being gripped with enough shock to knock them off balance for at least a few minutes. His clumsy attempt at air acrobatics, he thought to himself as blood alternately rushed toward his head and toes, was unlikely to do anything more than engender laughter.

Surprisingly, however, it achieved its purpose. One monk shrieked, and another threw down his weapon and unhinged his armour, tossing it to the ground and running out the door. In the time it took Stevens to rocket from the wall into a shelf full of spices at the opposite end of the room, a matter of two or three seconds, all the monks had hot-footed it out, some leaving their weapons in their wake. Stevens dropped the iron kettle to the floor, where it clanged to a stop, and felt gravity yank him downwards again. His rear slapped into the counter below him rather painfully, and a cloud of paprika billowed out around him, but other than that he felt amazingly good. He hopped down from the counter, winced at the pain that shot up from his tailbone, and rushed around the central counter to his brother and Silas.

"Sweet mercy," Anthony gawked, slapping his brother on the shoulder and spraying up a burst of oregano, "I didn't know you had it in you." Leopold laughed, and the two embraced. "Damn close one," Anthony chuckled after the spices in the air incurred a bout of sneezes. "I've never seen a bunch of men more afraid of each other than their own captives. You should have seen the face the other three made when one of them unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Petunia!" Leopold chortled again, and stepped toward Petunia, who kept her characteristically emotionless gaze locked on him. The two exchanged a look that required no words, which was good because Petunia wouldn't have been able to say them, anyway. Stevens then pretended to tip an invisible hat at Icarus, who bowed his tiny head and coughed up a "Good show, old sport, good show," in a parrot-like voice. Stevens turned to Silas, who was wiping the sweat off his palms on his red seeksucker jacket and puffing out his cheeks in a gusting breath of relief.

"Sire, you've outdone yourself once again. Although lacking in the grace I've come to expect from a personage such as yourself, and take that comment with no insult, for none is intended, your flight certainly served a noble purpose in freeing us from these inexperienced, albeit still threatening, captors," Anthony groaned, but Leopold waved him quiet.

"You have no idea how happy I am," Stevens said, a small smile on his face, "To see you all safe." Silas opened his mouth, but stood speechless for a few seconds before closing it and returning the smile. For once, for him, words were peripheral.

"Saints preserve us, is that a tear?" Anthony asked, tapping his brother on the cheek. Leopold's smile widened and he rubbed at his unmonocled eye, brushing away the younger Stevens's finger. "Mercy," Anthony sighed, and wiped away a last powdery spear of spice from his brother's traveling jacket. "Mercy."

The sounds of rushing, crowding people outside had not died down, and were now impossible to ignore. Clinking metal, the slap of leather and skin, the cry of the moving mob, drew the three men to the doorway just as they had the four monks. As Silas gathered up his materials, the brothers Stevens gaped at the passing crowd. Dozens of monks were rushing by, hefting weapons and calling out directions to those behind them that they had heard from those ahead. They were largely indistinguishable from the monks that had been holding Anthony and Silas, except for one critical difference: Their eyes. There was a fiery mission burning in their eyes. As more and more passed, Stevens realized he was not just seeing monks of the Citadel rush by. The mendicant monks of Concordia, wrapped in sackcloth, their belts dirty ropes, were patting by in bare feet, wielding wooden staffs. Hooded monks from the tournament circuit, tall pointed hoods covered their faces except for their eyes, shuffled past in silent knots, long daggers at the ready. Monks that looked to be no more than pixies, only waist-high with delicate features and bright blue eyes, carrying no visible weapons but at least as dedicated looking at the others, scurried in between the taller monks. Two very tall men, dressed in austere black trousers and jackets, with wide-brimmed hats Stevens had never seen before, strode past, carrying massive crossbows with scythes strapped to their backs. It was certainly a motley crew.

"My lords!" a familiar voice cried out. Furlinghouse, silver armor strapped around his body, the end of his crozier capped with a sharp spike that clicked against the stone floor as he used it as a staff. Leopold held back a frown as he approached, and Anthony openly scoffed, but the evangelion seemed unperturbed. "We go to challenge the Pontiff! Join us!" The flow of monks seemed to surge into the doorway, surrounding Stevens's entourage, and they found themselves swept up in the tide of armed humanity, streaming towards an ineluctable confrontation.

[EarlStevens]

"The Baron," the hoary priest continues, raising his other arm and stepping forward, superseding the statue and coterie around him on the dais, "Is a man as dangerous as the Nar'oth himself. von Ribbentrophen - I dare speak his name!" The priest roars at the visible shock that ripples through the congregation. "I dare speak his name because we cannot walk in fear," our man quivers at the phrase, which has so recently passed through his own mind, "of a false Messiah, who uses the false threat of a false dark army to weaken us. Ribbentrophen wants us to believe he is something he is not, that he has a power he does not. When we begin to use the name he has given himself, he has made us believe he has strength he does not. Enough! His name is Joseph von Ribbentrophen, and he is a man. Can one man stand against the force of Ai'Bron?" The monks leap to life at this, screaming and raising their fists and weapons into the air. "NO!" they roar, and the priest pumps a fist into the air. The yells are deafening. As they subside, the priest continues, as vituperative as before.

"The Baron is as dangerous as Ribbentrophen," he continues, to another round of cheers as he laconically spits out the name, "Because he has given him that strength, that unworthy power, which has been turned against us tonight. Tonight, the forces of greed and despotism defiled the sacred halls of Ai'Bron. Tonight, the Baron showed that he rejects the tide of history, which flows in our favor. Tonight, the Baron forfeited his right - no, his privledge - to hold power within sight of the citadel. Tonight we will avenge our brothers who died in the halls of the citadel as heroes!" Another roar from the crowd. "We stand at Armageddon, and we battle for Ai'Bron!"

It is at this moment that our man realizes he is not alone. The presence of others lurking in the dark forces him to tear his eyes from the spectacle in the sanctuary to the room behind him. It is no less crowded, he finds, in this niche than outside it. Dozens of monks are packed beside him, watching their friends and brothers roar with approval. One, standing beside our man, looks at him and rolls his eyes.

"Lord Leopold," he mutters. "By Ai'Bron, I'm glad you're here. We can't do this without you." Our man smiles, but feels like he is quickly treading into water that is way over his depth. He tries to burrow back into the crowd away from where the frontlines of any battle will surely be, but the division behind him is packed shoulder to shoulder, without room to slide in a piece of parchment between them. He is trapped. Hot sweat trickles down his back as the crowds on either side fill his vision. He starts losing track of time. Is it seconds or minutes? Or hours? How can these monks stand for so long like this, with battle a blade's breadth away? He feels the statue's stare upon him. This is the horror of battle. There is a collective intake of breath around him, a tensing of muscles. Then the dam breaks.

Monks rush from both sides of the sanctuary, streaming out of the niches on either side from hidden doorways, upsetting candelabra and partitions in their rush. The monks in the great hall, taken by surprise, collapse in on themselves in a clatter of dropped weapons and melee of screams, howls and confused questions. The onrushing monks lose momentum as they all enter the sanctuary, surrounding the suddenly very small looking body of monks in the center. Our man looks toward the dais, and sees a group of especially strong looking monks, garbed in black suits and hats, surrounding the surprised, petrified leaders on the stage. The statue of Ai'Bron looks onward.

"Brothers!" A new voice echoes through the chamber. Our man, who is at the forefront of the assualting monks, and is now panting heavily for breath in between two monks hefting round shields and broadswords, feeling very misplaced without armour or weaponry, looks up towards where the bearded priest was haranguing his men, and sees the black garbed priest standing where the older man, who is now being restrained by two powerful looking monks with scythes strapped to their banks, was speaking. This new man is pale as the older one's beard, his bone-white face contrasting painfully with his black clothing. Our man is reminded of his own manservant, but has little time to consider it. "Be wary of those who accuse others of their own deeds!" The surrounded monks look to each other, terrified, and the monks hemming them in look no less frightened.

"Remind yourself of the pledge you took when you joined the holy orders of Ai'Bron! Remember that you swore to instruct and protect, not defeat and subject! Ask yourself why you are asked to strike against the Entente, a force arrayed to defeat the Forgotten Five at the Last Battle! And compare yourselves..." the pale priest doesn't finish his thought. A sound like wet rags tearing ends his speech as the men holding back the older priest explode away from him, their innards smearing across the stone floor. The priest steps forward, blinding fire emanating from his body, and holds out a hand. Some horrific force clenches around the speaking priest, forcing his body rigid and lifting him in the air. Other monks spring toward the radiant old man, but they burst into flame, their bodies disintegrating to ash and smoke. Crackling energy jumps from the mage's fingertips, flinging aside the other men on the platform and popping and exploding in a stupefying display. The plot, it seems, has thickened.

[LordLeopold]

Stevens is yanked along by the crowd, hustled and pushed until he is no longer beside his brother or Silas, but all he sees as he is squeezed down hallways and through doors is a sea of unfamiliar faces, contorted into the grimace of battle, screaming encouragement to each other, only stopping when they stumble over their robes and must struggle upright against the weight of their armour. The onrush is frightening but invigorating, like an infantry charge against an unknown enemy or the arguing of a case against a legal genius. Stevens knows they are charging to counter the Pontiff, but how, and where, and even why are not entirely clear to him. He knows, however, that he is caught up in a struggle for men's lives, a struggle for the good of a society and for the end of evil. A struggle that he cannot possibly shy away from.

The multitude pours out an unexpected doorway, and Stevens finds himself launched from a cramped hallway into a massive, open space of dizzying height and awesome size. It is the entrance hall of the Citadel, and it it is filled with a number of monks that the duke never knew existed. Seemingly thousands of robed and helemted men are flowing into the room, surrounding those who they find there, jostling them into a defensive ring, the detritus of religion scattered about the hall caught up in their insurmountable rush. It is like watching the collapse of a dam and the resultant flood of water, except this flood is of a living, breathing, enflamed mass of men, bringing their swords to bear where their mere will cannot suffice. It is the movement of men's souls backed by their bodies, the epitome of the armed struggle for what is right and good. It is a revolution, and the duke feels in his heart a jolt from the realization that now, at this time, violence can achieve something, that a soul can strike out against another for something greater than either and survive. He does not even listen to the voices howling around and over him, he is just caught up in the irresistible pathos of it all.

The explosion of magic and fire at the front of the sanctuary does catch his attention, however. As lives are snuffed out before his eyes, Stevens gapes. The Pontiff, slinging magic across the stage, slaying a dozen men with a flick of his wrist, glowing with the horrible hatred of a man consumed with his own power, is reenacting a scene that the duke had seen not an hour before on the terrible tapestries of the War of the Tap. Men ripped in half, gruesomely burned, crippled and bent: It was almost too terrible to remember. He felt his spirit rise up within him in an insuppressible effervescence. His voice spilled out into the air.

"The Pontiff is our enemy, not the monks!" he cried. The sacerdotal soldiers around him paused, looking from side to side, taking each other in, surprised at where they had found themselves. Had they known what they were getting into? Did they actually know who they would be facing down here? They had stopped before striking out against their fellow monks. It could be their ingrained compassion, or it could be their shock and unease at finding themselves sword-to-shield with other followers of Ai'Bron. The explosive strength of the Pontiff stretches them to the breaking point of credulity, and they suddenly seem to lose their nerve. The Pontiff, his cackle crescendoing across the room, raised both hands, flinging Knaut aside and launching a booming gust of magic in front of him, knocking several rows of monks to their feet.

"The ploys of our enemy!" he screamed, his voice growing stronger and sterner, magnified with some invisible power. "You see, you have been goaded into revolt against the very thing you swore to defend! Do remember your vows! Remember what you saw in your head when you repeated them to yourself, day after day as an apprentice. You have turned this sacred building into a battleground. And for what?" A horrible wrenching noise and a deep rumble answered his question, shaking Citadel to its very foundations. Stevens turned to the source of the noise, and saw the huge doors of the Citadel swinging wide open, slamming heavily against the stone walls to either side, lightning streaking across the ebony night sky outside. A new group of figures entered the sanctuary, more slowly and measured than the flood of monks that had carried in Stevens. Their movements were more profound, and thrummed with an ancient power that the duke could feel flowing through his bones and out into the air. At the head of them all was Peter O'Mally, his hands gripped into fists, the same fists that had thrown open the doors with superhuman strength born of the Tap, the source of all Althanas's magic.

They marched in in several rows behind the priest. The first was made up of several men, dark skinned and curly haired, covered in flowing brown cloaks that flapped behind their voluminous pants and soft leather boots, extending from their wide belts and wrapped about their upper bodies and heads. They flanked one of their number, clad in pure white, who held up his hands in a mirror of the Pontiff. He was First Chief a'Tol of the Kahh'jami, and the five men on either side of him were the Tribe Chiefs, all masters of magic who had sworn allegiance to the Entente of the Light. Behind them marched a file of magicians from the Mage Guild, dressed in a variety of clothing from their respective lands, their faces twisted into concentrated masks as they drew upon the sources of their magic, pouring forth their power into the room. At their center marched, in a flowing dress and with her head held high, Hyllal Uriol, the weather mage who had fought with Stevens in the first Gisela, gusts of wind and cracking ball lightning blowing out from a glowing orb of magical power spinning around her. Behind them strode a row of priests of Ai'Bron, twirling their croziers and chanting incantations in loud, defiant voices.

At the end were several incredibly tall, willowy creatures, fused from tree branches, leaves and bark, their eyes sunken holes in their narrow heads, humming a deep, throbbing song that resontated throughout the chapel like a hymn. Each was over twenty feet tall, and in the center was one who must have reached sixty feet, swaying over the rest, its voice the deepest, its cadence and rhythm powerful enough to silence the the hundreds of monks caught in the hall. The Arbarians, as they were known, trod heavily forward, their steps surprisingly measured, their unbelievably long legs swinging majestly under them. Flanking the entire procession were a series of mages from the various nations of the Entente: Esporantel, Loirette, Ruska, Okatani, Bretellian. As if a procession of pilgrims at the end of a dangerous journey together to a foreign shrine, they stopped at the edge of the mass of monks, and stood silently, the indescribable power of their combined magic coursing through the assembly, causing some of the monks to sway and faint, as if in religious ecstacy.

"Pontiff Bartholomew," Peter O'Mally called out, his voice a clear, cold belltoll. Lightning crackled behind him, and thumber rolled through the door, mingling with the echoes of the name. "Your reign has ended."

[EarlStevens]

Our man has been in the most magically imbued places in Britain: Stonehenge, the Hebrides, the Western Gates, the Welsch Marches. He has never before felt the magical presence he now feels in the sanctuary turned battlefield. The immense power of the bearded priest, apparently Pontiff Bartholomew, is easily matched by the congregation of ancient and soul-shaking power emanating from the collection of magicians and magical creatures that has just entered from the stormy night outside. Our hero has little time to digest their appearances, or try to understand how their disparate natures meld together into a cohesive whole. Events are transpiring too fast, and his mind has been bent and stretched so many times tonight that further thought is pointless. He simply moves with his heart, not letting his mind get in the way. Right now, he feels a surge of pride and hope as the new forces array against the horrifying murderer before him. The Pontiff, apparently stunned for a moment, quickly regains his composure, the flames and light around him glowing hotter and brighter than ever, and roars back across the room at the priest, who our hero recognizes from his erstwhile magical trip.

"Pontiff Bartholomew? Bartholomew Brogh is not the Pontiff," he replies, rising into the air, pulled by a force that could only be felt by its resonation deep in some hidden recess of the soul. "Bartholomew Brogh has been dead for three years. I buried his bones on the plains of Salvar." This means nothing to our man, but the already confused and muttering men around him begin to chatter garbled questions, breaking their ranks, beginning to meld together, fear of the magical disruptions at either side of the sanctuary snapping their resolve. The glowing old man rises higher until he is level with the statue's serene face, burning so brightly it is impossible to look at him. Like a piece of the sun, he gives off an incandescence that warms our man's skin. He is sure the monks closer to the flaming man must be in pain from the heat and power radiating off his body.

"You see," the old man rumbled, "I am not who you believe me to be." With a loud bang and a bubble of flame, like a zeppelin catching afire, the glowing heat from the figure ends, the light flowing from his body fading immediately. There is a mere heartbeat of silence. Then the wail from the monks around our man overwhelms him, a more powerful and emotional scream than any during the earlier speech. The monks throw down their weapons and break into a rioting mob, rushing towards the exits, colliding into each other, clawing at one another's faces, only one word on their lips:

"Aesphestos!"

It is meaningless to our man, who is pushed to the ground by a panicked monk, and crouches there, his hands over his head, peeking up through a crack between his fingers. The figure hovering in front of the statue, which has been melted down to an indistinct pile of slag from the chest up, the remains of the arm dangling precariously, is certainly not the same one that ascended into the air. He is not an old man, nor garbed in white and gold robes. He has no beard, and his head is uncovered. In one hand he holds a long, curved sword, and the other is held a chest level beside him in a fist. He is clothed in a scarlet and silver uniform, buttoned down the front to his red trousers, which are tucked into slick black boots. A red cape hangs from his shoulders. Rampant beasts are stitched into the chest of his general's garb, and his collar is pressed up against the base of his neck. He has sandy brown hair, from what our man can see, and a sneer on his lips. The magic pouring forth from this man is impossibly greater now than it was before. Our man can feel the matter of his body being tugged and warped by the energy flowing into this sorcerer's frame. It is as if he is eating the world.

"Three years," A voice booms in our man's brain, nearly knocking him on his back. All other sounds are indistinct, reduced to a buzz in the background of this loudspeaker in his head. He can tell from the cringing, slinking postures of the monks around him that everyone in the room is feeling this hell in their skulls, also. "That is how long you have spent waiting for the Entente to defeat the Forgotten Five and send the Lord of Death back to the Darkness. How long you've spent in fear of the army that is meant to win the Last Battle and banish evil from Althanas forever. That is how long you served me. Ask yourself, why did you feel safer in the Citadel with the Lord of Death than in the care of the army designed to defeat Him?"

The voice in his head ends, but our man is too befuddled by the magical assault on his senses that he cannot tell what is going on around him. He does not see the forces who have just entered the sanctuary rise up a magical assault against the other side of the room. He does not see a laughing Aesphestos absorb the spiraling, exploding, electrifying attack and disappear in a burst of black flame. He does not see the panicking monks around him wear themselves out in a fruitless crush against the nearest escape routes. He does not hear the cries of the wounded and maimed. He is passed out on the cold stone floor.

[LordLeopold]

The night had passed, and the rain had stopped. Clouds were streaking across the sky in fragments of their former oppressive shield. All that was left of the night's horrendous storm were deep puddles pockmarking the courtyard in front of the Citadel, reflecting pieces of the motley sky on the ground. A mockingbird perched on a small figure carved into the Citadel's main doorway and twittered a happy tune before soaring back across the courtyard toward a nest hanging on an unused windowsill. Groups of men and women, hustling about the business of the day, were moving across the square from one street to another. Vendors were rolling in their carts, calling out the names of their wares. Two children poked at a long-suffering cat with a stick. Stevens sat on the stairs of the Citadel, feeling the wet stone soak the seat of his pants, and watched these Radasanthians. They were completely oblivious to the events of the night. All that was new to them was that the doors of the Citadel were finally open again, and that some strangely dressed men were guarding its doors. The Kahh'jami men, their hands resting on the hilts of their narrow swords, muttered to each other in their native, slurring tongue, stood to either side of the entranceway, glaring at men who dared walk too close to them.

Stevens knew that inside the Citadel, the peace and calm of its exterior could hardly be found. The monks who had stayed in the sanctuary were busy healing the injured who could be helped and carrying away the head who were too far gone. Some were righting the overturned altars and partitions. Several of the mages and Arbarians were directing their magic towards repairing the statue of Ai'Bron, but it looked like a cost cause. It appeared to be some kind of adamantine. The Tap might be returning, but the magic to create and repair that unbreakable material had not. Most of the monks, however, were nowhere to be found. They had feld the sanctuary in fear, and were either miles away by now or cowering in some secret alcove in the depths of the Citadel. The three evangelions were leading the search for them. Peter O'Mally was directing the gaoling of several of the higher priestly officials who had colluded with Aesphestos, in some of the less pleasant cells. Somewhere, someone was probably battling someone else in the Citadel, surrounded by an illusory world, incurring injuries that would be painlessly healed, trying to kill for the sheer sake of killing. The duke sighed. Petunia, seated beside him, rested her head on his knee, and he smiled, placing his hand on her back.

"Hell's bells," Anthony Stevens muttered, appearing from within the Citadel and flopping down beside his brother. He made a disgusted face as he realized his rear end was suddenly moist, but didn't get up, instead putting a hand on Leopold's shoulder. For a while the three sat, connected by their reassuring grasps, before anyone spoke. "Silas was hiding beneath a pile of robes in a storage room," Anthony said, watching a cloud pass behind a chimey on the city's low skyline. "He's drinking some soup in the kitchen." Leopold smiled grimly, and they lapsed into silence again. It was a few more minutes before anyone continued.

"What I don't understand," Anthony said, scratching his head through his bowler, "Is how Aesphestos made everyone think he was the Pontiff? How could he get the chance?" Leopold sighed and looked down at the cracks in the steps, plucking grass from between them and twirling the blades in his fingers.

"Before you appeared in Althanas," Leopold said. "There was a tournament called the Gisela. During one of the battles, Aesphestos appeared and fought Bartholomew, before he was the Pontiff. They fought to a standstill and then disappeared. When Bartholomew finally returned, he said he had escaped from Aesphestos after battling him across Salvar. No one questioned him. The monks of Ai'Bron are not known to lie." Anthony whistled in commentary and took up his brother's passtime, pulling up weeds and spinning them between his fingers until they disintegrated.

"I suppose Ribbentrophen won't be very excited that so many members of the Entente left in the middle of the night to come here," he continued. "I imagine he'll suspect some kind of plot." Leopold nodded, almost to himself, and ran his tongue over his teeth, mulling over this.

"I'm not going back," he said, simply. Anthony started, but didn't respond. The older Stevens looked at his younger brother, and smiled. "More happened tonight than you know about," he said. "And now, I know my future isn't with the Entente. Ultimately, I don't think that's how we'll beat Aesphestos and his minions, anyway." Stevens creakily pushed himself to his feet, and his brother stood up with him, a puzzled look on his face. Brushing himself off, Leopold looked at him and sighed, shaking his head. "I don't think I can explain it, Tony," he said. "But in some strange way, someone did tonight." He turned and walked towards the doorway of the Citadel, Petunia faithfully alongside him. Anthony stood in the sunlight for a few more seconds, watching the back of his brother's head, and coughed up a breathy laugh.

"Leopold, you daft old blighter," he said, quietly to himself, and followed his brother into the church.

[EarlStevens]

Our man comes to, and finds himself lying naked in a bed, the covers wrapped tight over his body, a shaft of sunlight lying across the sheets. His head aches dully, but other than that he feels fine. He turns his head from side to side, taking in the room, unwilling to move and disturb the pocket of warmth under his comforter. The room is nondescript, empty of furniture except for the bed, with a small, worn looking door on one side of the room. On the other side, lurking in the corner in a way that is oddly enough somewhat comforting, is the seven-foot-tall pillar of shadow that is our man's servant. He sighs, a grin on his face, and looks back at the silently glowering ghoul.

"Good to see you again," our man says, pleasantly. "I suppose you don't want to explain where you were last night?" It doesn't respond, but our man doesn't expect a response. He turns his head back toward the ceiling, looking at the cracks on the plaster overlying stone, and breathes out a contented breath. He doesn't try to make sense of what happened last night. Aesphestos, the Pontiff, the monks, the unusual intruders, the magical battle, all of it is too much to try to make heads or tails of without consulting someone.

The realization begins to creep over our hero that he is still in the fortress of his long imprisonment. Cursing, he leans up from the waist, uncovering his sunken chest and narrow arms, thin from so long denying himself food, and searches for the window from which the light is flowing. It is opposite his bed, perhaps narrow enough for him to slide through. If he can get out through the window, perhaps he can climb down the side of the building to safety. Once he hits the wet ground below, he'll take off running and not stop until he can't see this monstrous building on the skyline any longer. He searches for his clothes, trying to find them somewhere in the room, frantically moving his eyes across the floor.

"Ah," a voice calls out from the doorway, which has silently opened. Our man jumps, pulling his covers higher up his body, hiding his vitals. A monkish figure stands there, surrounded by light pouring in from the outside. Behind him, clouds stream across the blue sky, and the sun peeks around one of the corners of the doorway. It is the first time our man has seen the sky in five months, and it takes his breath away. Birdsong and the smells of spring waft through the opening, filling the room. "I see you've woken up. No one ever got a chance to say this before, so I'll say it now. Welcome to Althanas."

[Storm Veritas]

JUDGMENT TIME!

Absolutely wonderful quest. Fantastic writing, a fast-turning yet coherent script, terrific dialogue and clever insertion of some Althanian history. In short, this is the best quest I’ve read as a judge, hands down. It took me a while to read, because I wanted to actually enjoy this as the novel it is, and not skim through it and assess what a fair score would be. A masterpiece for a recreational young writer, although I’m sure you’ll be able to do more down the road.

Now then, for your scoring.

Introduction – 7 – I was a bit confused out the gate, and although you later clarified, figuring out the running stories that later came together, as well as the motivation at that point was quite difficult. At the same time, the writing was brilliant here.

Setting – 9 - Fantastic work here. A trifle inconsistent at times, I think there were a few rare occasions where a bit more environment could have helped out, but you also avoided redundant, gratuitous description. The way you tied in some Althanian lore and the conspiracy of the priests was brilliant.

Dialogue – 10 - The best I’ve ever read here, end of story. The benchmark, although your british vibe does give you a bit of an unfair advantage, since some things sound so peculiar and interesting.

Character – 8 - Outside of the detail that Leopold and Stevens are close to walking stereotypes in some respect, you did a great job providing motivation, internal thought, a balance of the physical and psychological, and an entertaining ride. Great work here.

Rising Action – 8 - Very solid, although the plot dragged at points. You had me on the edge of my seat in moments, and blown away by some of your creativity. Your shortened set of interacting posts was also a good break of the action leading to the climax, increasing the “speed” of the thread.

Climax – 9 - A nice twist, a good showdown, and a great tie in of modern struggles with a medieval feel. I loved it! Were it not so long coming, I would have enjoyed it more, but you did a long quest the right way.

Conclusion – 9 - A strong, fitting finish to a great quest. At this point, I was actually sort of upset it was over, and damned-near depressed that the sequel to this thread ISN’T a solo.

Writing Style – 10 - Yes, there were a couple of true typos – grammatical errors and things not caught by spellcheck. By and large, however, this thread was obviously very well edited, and your writing style was superb.

Strategy – 8 - There was nothing wrong with your strategy, but it is definitely a good deal easier to write when you don’t interact with someone else. Since that isn’t necessarily your fault, I give a very low deduction for this. I loved the way the whole thread worked out on the large part – although at this point I sound like a broken record.

Wild Card – 9 - That feels right.

Total Score – 87!!! By far the highest score I’ve awarded at Althanas. I will submit this to the mod-lounge for a potential Judge’s Choice. You certainly have my vote.

EXP – Leopold gets 5,370 EXP and 200 gold. I didn’t catch any request for gold in the thread or spoils, but you should get something

Earl Stevens gets 1985 EXP and 200 gold. The difference is based off a level 1 character.

[Thoracis]

EXP added.

EarlStevens gains a level!