Northern Ex Closure

This must be what fat people feel like every single day.

With every little waddling step down the snow-covered pathways that snaked through the small hunting village, I hissed a different curse. Picking up one foot out of the drifts, trying to bend my legs to put it in front of the other, and then plopping my boot back down into the powdery white shit, huffing and sweating under countless layers the entire time... I was quietly thankful for the high metabolism that stuck with me my entire life.

Four layers of wool pants, three pairs of thick socks inside poorly-insulated boots, a shirt that the merchant swore on his life would keep me warm under two sweaters, the thickest fucking jacket I could find, another heavy coat on over that, and a triple-layered cloak of various furs with the hood pulled up and over my head. My mask was stashed in my pack the moment I could pry it from my face without tearing several patches of skin off with it, so my head was wrapped in a couple itchy scarves with just my eyes exposed.

I would have taken another glance at my map, but hands in mittens good navigation tools do not make.

Any idiot could have seen that they were edging into the Great White Expanse, the Skavian Wilds. I was just making the venture into the part of the map that cartographers generally left empty, the most ambitious of them filling the giant splotch of white in northern Salvar with a couple doodles of “trees” and “mountains”.

The map in particular I had been given had a small village marked down on it, on the northern edge of the Whispering Hills. It was a little collection of huts dressed in the thick hides of the wildlife that populated the area, with a population of around two hundred fools and idiots who never imagined a life beyond hunting and trading. To bless this village with any more description--or hell, even a name--would make it seem like I actually intended on staying here longer than absolutely necessary.

I slowly made my way over to one of the buildings that had a small stable next to it and pushed open the door. I was greeted by a rustic interior that I suppose all backwater villages would have: Fireplace in the middle of the one-room building, roaring with enough of a blaze to heat the place. Fur-lined cots off to the side, a sparsely-decorated small table in the opposite corner with a set of chairs to match. Racks filled the rest of the space, adorned with various tools and weapons one would need to survive the frozen wastes.

A man with a thick beard and skin as dark as the hides he wrapped himself in looked up from stringing a bow. After taking several seconds to size me up, he decided that the egg-shaped woman with glowing eyes and a village's worth of clothes was no threat to him. He rattled off a rough greeting in a tongue I did not recognize. Possibly a local dialect, heavy as it was on consonants and an over-reliance on K's and V's.

“Tradespeak,” I replied as I set my bloated pack on the wooden planks of the floor.

The man smiled and effortlessly switched to common tongue. “Ah, yes, sorry.” His accent was still thick as molasses, though. “Are you the one I received the message from? The crazy woman who needs help navigating the snows northward?”

“That would be me,” I said with a nod and a flicker of amber light from my eyes. “The sooner we can leave, the better.”

We left the next morning. We rode on the back of these animals that weren't quite buffalo, but if you stripped them of all the shaggy, matted hair that covered their bodies, you might see something resembling one. They were hardy animals, strong and able to traverse the wastes and withstand the cold and howling winds of the Skavian Wilds.

My guide informed me that he knew the general area of where I was headed, and that it would take three days.

Three whole days, riding on the backs of smelly beasts, my clothes absorbing all the sweat that was pouring from my body from being buried under countless layers to begin with. Three days of the frigid blasts of air threatening to knock me off my mount. Three days of staring at nothing but endless miles of pine forests and stretches of blinding white nothingness.

The bearded man, who I came to know as Killian, filled the time with stories of all the grand hunts he had been on with the rest of the men in his village, sprinkling in a few tales of the treasures he acquired from merchants who were crazy enough to go north from Archen in search of the thick hides that he and his people could provide. He told me of his family, of his wife and daughter, the latter of who aspired to be a great hunter like him once she became of age, despite clan rules that only males could hunt.

It's not that I minded his constant droning, from sunup to sundown. I just would have preferred a bit of silence at various points throughout the otherwise uneventful trip. But it would be worth putting up with Killian's stories to see what Ulroke had stashed away in a cave somewhere up here.

The sun was high in the sky, reflecting off the mirror-like surface of the snowy hills when we finally reached my destination. It took some looking around before I found the entrance to the cave that was referred to on the scroll that was safely stashed away in my pack.

A small marking was etched into a rock, partially covered by a few errant flakes. I brushed it off with a gloved hand as I threw my bag down onto the ground. Taking my mittens off, the freezing air of the Great White Expanse immediately bit into my skin. I hissed at the sudden bite of cold, scrambling to undo the buckles on my back and snatch the rolled piece of parchment before my hands froze off.

The symbol that was etched into the cave's entryway matched the one scribbled in faded ink on the scroll. Without a doubt, this was what I had come halfway across the world looking for.

The First Sanctum.

Lichensith Ulroke's personal hideaway. His safe house and panic room. Where both his uprising and downfall began.

It was here that I would find... what, exactly? Now that I was here, what was I really looking for? Some sort of closure? The final pieces of the puzzle that was the Silver Assassin and the Crimson Hands?

Honestly, I had no idea what to expect. It was slightly frightening.

Killian approached me to say something, but a quick blast of cordyceps spores silenced him. In a few minutes he would be dead. In fifteen, he would be resurrected and on his way back home without me, resuming his normal life with orders never to speak about our trip, that I was with him, and that if anyone asked about the weird growths coming out of his neck and forming a collar to say that they were some sort of skin condition.

With a lit torch in hand and several layers of rancid animal hide stripped from my body and left on the cave floor, I descended further into the cave.

My mind wandered to that year I spent trying desperately to re-educate Ulroke and mold him into the leader I thought the Hands deserved. It was unintentional that information about the First Sanctum escaped from his lips, but I listened intently as he babbled on, each word stained with blood and hate and fury and fear. How all of his plans were formed there, of the records he kept there of various pawns in his game. I had always thought that the Seventh Sanctum was his headquarters, but absolutely nobody else was privy to the knowledge of the First. Not even his Left or Right hands. Red--sorry, Amari probably wasn't aware of it herself, and she was being groomed as either his heir or the weapon he used to reshape the world.

It was also the first I heard of Isabelle, his ex-wife.

It intrigued me to hear the stories about this poor thing, of her history as princess and a guardian of a tree that had some spiritual importance to her people on the other side of the world. Of her escape to the Skavian Wilds, and of his accidental discovery of her hiding place.

Of how he was once a man capable of love and compassion, of how he was once a father. He was a man once, and not the monster that I had come to known. It was that day that affirmed my belief that I could rehabilitate him, that I truly could fix that poor bastard and shape him into the strong but understanding leader that I felt the Crimson Hands deserved.

We all make mistakes though, yeah?

After a couple minutes of walking down twisting, claustrophobic paths, with nothing but a small flame and my ragged breath accompanying me, I found myself coming to a doorway. On the scroll, the assassin noted that the door itself would be unlocked. In fact, the entire First Sanctum was left unguarded. No hexes, no wards, no zombified guards to keep would-be trespassers away from all of his secrets and treasures.

And so, I reached out, turned the rusty iron doorknob, and pushed my way into the First Sanctum.

“Holy shit,” I muttered breathlessly.

For a man who kept his quarters rather plain in the Seventh Sanctum, there were a lot of things, for a lack of better term. Covered in layers of frost and ice that drifted in from the holes in the roof of the cave, undisturbed for years, sat enough pieces of furniture of a familiar Coronian style to furnish an apartment. There were other tables scattered about, each covered with tarps and linens. Off in another part of the cave, also covered with a thin layer of ice, was a full-fledged alchemy laboratory that would've put my own to shame. There was also a desk brimming with notebooks, folders stuffed with torn pages, and writing utensils

Normally, I wasn't one to poke around other people's belongings, but curiosity burned deep within my chest. I knew of this mythical time when Ulroke was a decent human being, but what sort of mementos did he keep from that time?

I took a step closer, my briar-knit hand hesitating for a moment before tightly gripping the linen sheet covering one of the tables and tearing it away.

It was a trip back in time.

As the worn sheet crumpled to the floor by my feet, I took stock of all the treasures that were hidden beneath it on the table. Before me were the mementos of a man who died a long time ago. Boxes of jewelry, the rusted armaments and outfit of a soldier in the Aleraran army complete with the insignia of the Crown painted on the shield and embroidered into the tunic. Toys and clothes made for a small child. A woman's finery, from dresses to jewelry. Various other things that one would find decorating the home of a family man.

I noticed a small picture frame face down on the surface of the table. Without thinking, I reached over and picked it up.

It contained a small portrait of three people, one of whom was immediately recognizable. Whoever drew it did a fantastic job of making Ulroke look like something other than the assassin I knew him to be. In this picture, he looked... at peace. He looked content. His spidery hand was placed on the shoulder of a woman who vaguely resembled an Akashiman nekojin dressed like the princess she was.

So, this was Isabelle. Even existing in painted form, one could see the brightness of her eyes and the energy she was filled with. No wonder he fell in love with her.

The little bundle of blankets she cradled in the picture must have been Kyleen, their child.

No wonder he became the monster he is today when they died.

I set the picture back face-down on the table and placed the linen sheet back over Ulroke's stuff. It was becoming clear to me that the First Sanctum was not only where his life's plans were going to play out, but it also served as a burial ground for his memories. The life that he gave up. He must've felt that to hang onto the past would impede him in his quest to... do what, exactly?

The answer must be around here somewhere.

I went from table to table, looking under the frosted covers and in every nook and cranny for an answer. I recalled one of the last things he said to me in the tavern the night we made our peace with one another: ”Maybe you'll appreciate what this has all been about.” The answer had to be here somewhere...

My gaze drifted to the desk littered with journals, scraps of paper, and writing utensils. Slowly, I made my way over to it. My briar-knit hands hovered over the collection of Lye's writing for the briefest of moments before I threw open the cover to the first book, exposing the first page of the journal to the first light it's seen in ages.

He must have been aware that I would come looking eventually, for that first book contained a manifest of sorts. One written shortly after he was imprisoned and awaiting execution, containing his ruminations on the nature of governments and religions that abuse their power to control their subjects. I spent far too long reading it, but can summarize it like so: Laws are not in place to protect; they are cages used to contain the cattle of society and as a feeble excuse to punish those who dare to achieve greater things. Governments and religious institutions pacify and fail to deliver true justice. Crimes are often committed by those charged to protect. Thus, power should only lie in the hands of the individual. Lye felt if you wanted something, you should take it. If someone wronged you, punish them. If someone put chains on you, either kill them or accept your fate as property.

Lye was sick of those institutions that have been in place since one man strived to attain power over another, and sought to replace them with absolute anarchy.

Now wasn't the time for a series of deep philosophical thoughts or discussions of my own on the matter, I still had more snooping to do. I closed the book, set it aside on the desk, and moved onto the next one, and the one after that, and so on.

I lost track of the time as I flipped through his journals page by faded page. Aside from the manifesto, the only other literature I uncovered in the First Sanctum of any relevance were complete and thorough logs on all of the pawns he shifted around the board in his little game.

Sei Orlouge. Jensen Ambrose. The rest of the Ixian Knights. The Brotherhood of Castigars, whoever they were.

There was also a complete volume based on our actions in Eiskalt, and the reasoning leading up to the conflict and the fallout of its resolution.

The next bunch of books were completely about the other eleven Sanctums, and their roles in his unfolding schemes. I skipped over those, as they were of no interest to me.

Then, I got to possibly the most interesting book of them all; one simply marked PvdA/GL. Philomel van der Aart, Guilded Lily. I took a deep breath and opened this one, intent on reading every word.

I remembered clearly the day that I pushed the freshly-reinstated Master Hand into engaging with his former Master of Secrets over her potentially treasonous decision to organize and employ her own ring of spies on the side. Ulroke chronicled his extreme discomfort and hesitance to engage the faun on the matter, but eventually relented after I subtly threatened him. He was able to get a few moles into the Lily to start feeding him information, but not fast enough, apparently.

He had a complete dossier on her, but it was nothing that I hadn't already known for myself. He noted that the Matriarch was overly independent and acted as if she had a point to move. She was cocky, but her elemental companions (especially that stupid fucking fox of hers) were her most vulnerable point of attack, with her army of whores as a close second.

On the subject of the girls, he wrote about their complete, unyielding devotion to Philomel, who they viewed as their savior. He also noted that should push come to shove, the Matriarch's elimination would immediately cripple the Gilded Lily, and they would cease to function as a threat and an organization within a month. ”Show them their hero is nothing and falsify their strength,” he wrote. Lye was willing to kill her should the need arise, but at the time of his last entry on her their relationship was ”dicey, if not cordial”.

While Lye didn't have the location of the Lily's headquarters in Concordia, he ultimately decided that neither Philomel or her army of whores were nothing more than a potential nuisance, a potential leak for confidential information that could easily be plugged.

Nothing I hadn't already known for myself. Onto the next.

I closed the book on Philomel and tossed it onto the pile of books I had already deemed worthless and unnecessary. I was down to the last journal. I brushed a few errant flakes of snow off the cover.

This one read simply, [/i]”MF”[/i].

I read it.

Of course I fucking read it.

Cover to cover, three times over.

...I won't tell you what it said. I couldn't tell you what it said. I will never tell you what he wrote down in that book.

I wasn't sure how much longer I spent down in the First Sanctum, but when I left, I left with a lump in my throat, a chill in my spine, my head spinning, my eyes stinging from tears long since dried up, the map to the place burning on the floor, and the journal on... on me in my bag.

Thread Title: Northern Ex Closure
Participant: Briarheart
Judgment Type: No Judgment

Briarheart gains 1520 EXP and 66 GP.

Please note that this thread's rewards are based on a word count of 3,097 words which equates to six posts. This thread also received 1.5x EXP for the Autumn Festival.

All rewards added.