Invincible

[Saxon]

(Closed to Letho)

The shipyard that sat nestled upon the Niema delta was blanketed by a thick, white layer of fog that hung in the air and drifted into the port city of Lamm, blinding the patrols of sentries and confining the citizens to their homes. The once bustling city rife with sailors, fishermen, and merchants that practiced their trades choked and gurgled silence as a soft, rolling wave of black enshrouded the island as night began to take hold. If it had been a clear night, anybody who gazed upwards could've seen the dazzling sight of a sea of stars that rested behind plumes of gray and streaks of soft red and orange as the unfathomable reaches above reigned supreme.

It was the cold that truly held sway within Corone, governing its people to and fro as the bitter winds blew and the temperature plummeted within reach of winter's grasp. Only the foolhardy would dare to sail in the fickle weather that the month of March often wrought while it slowly seeped into that of the Spring Thaw, making the seas far more deadly and unpredictable as it claimed the lives of those who tried to call its bluff. But, at the moment, the seas were calm and waves of black, frigid water crested and splashed gently against the hull of The Carpathian.

Despite whatever peace had settled within the city of Lamm, the smuggler ship thrived with life as the opaque mist provided plenty of cover for the crew to do its work. Bobbing gently in the water, the ship continued to rock from side to side, creaking as the wooden hull groaned as it moved. Below the mast and rigging, a group of eight painstakingly pulled and spent whatever slack was left to hoist the enormous burden from the ship's hold. A shout from one of the men who saw the massive crate bob to the surface from the black abyss instilled a sort of excitement amongst the rest of the crew.

Overhead the complex system of pulleys that dangled continued to squeak and grind as it navigated the rope away from the possibility of being tangled into the rigging, a line of smugglers more than a yard away trying desperately to finagle the crate from its slumber. Nobody even noticed as the cable began to fray from the strain and weight of its burden.

"Pull!"

As if on cue, the group of sailors grunted in unison as they gave the rope another sharp tug. The order from the first mate came again and again as the crew of ragged, lean smugglers obeyed and continued to pull and tug until the crate had completely cleared the black, artificial pit. A resounding clap echoed around the deck as the men who stood and watched saw their pay day emerge; knowing what they had illegally imported under the nose of the custom houses would soon pay off in spades.

Standing off to the side, a short, plump man pulled the collar of his frocked coat up as a chill went down his spine. Rubbing his heavy, calloused hands quickly together, the captain blew into them with a frustrated look upon his face. From his tanned complexion to the oils that slicked back his mane of black hair, it was obvious that Luis Mendez hadn't hailed from Corone, nor would he if he had the choice. The island's booming trade of exotic goods and items 'procured' by he and men like him was a vein so rich and so untapped that it seemed to be the only redeeming quality of the place in the captain's eyes.

Despite all that, Luis could've cared less about what his crew was dredging up. The pay had better worth it, the smuggler reasoned quietly as he recalled how difficult it had been to explore those wet, humid jungles within the mysterious lands of the East. He had lost men to disease, heat, and the beasts that had silently stalked and preyed upon them for weeks on end. It had been a horrible four months, the smuggler had later realized. The only saving grace he could've possibly seen from it all was that he had escaped the winter and the toils and turmoil that had come with it.

Finally turning his gaze to the man who stood beside him, Luis looked his patron carefully over as he debated whether or not the trouble had really been worth it. Dressed in a black wool overcoat, the old curator had a scholar's posture as he stared longingly at what it was he had long sought after. Plumes of white hair poked to and fro from under his porkpie hat, and as he often did, the man raised his gloved hand to his face and ritually adjusted his glasses to the appropriate height. But that wasn't what had enticed the smuggler as he turned his gaze from the customer's features to the black, leather briefcase that dangled in his grip.

It'd be so easy to just cut his throat, take the money and that damned thing with us, Luis wondered as the man turned to him and gave him a soft smile. If it hadn't been that the smuggler had a reputation to uphold, he might have just done that. But, in the back of Luis' mind he was sure that the sooner he got the cursed relic off his ship the better. Scratching his overgrown, untrimmed beard, the captain nodded to the crate, "Just like I said, eh? Four months and it'd be here."

"You said three, "The curator quietly protested as he strengthened his grip on his briefcase and resolve. "The board was about ready to pull out on the entire deal when word had gotten to us of your pending arrival."

Looking away to conceal a brief expression of annoyance that took over his face, Luis quickly looked back and smiled. "But it's here and thats all that matters. Have you the money?"

Raising the briefcase gently, the curator nodded. "As we agreed."

"It'll be five now."

"What?!" The patron cried as he lost all composure and turned completely towards the smuggler, his expression taut with anger. "Why?!"

Luis simply shrugged as he predicted this moment would've arrived as it had, "Three of my men died over seas, not to mention I had to hunt for that damned thing a little longer than expected. You’re lucky I came back here at all with how much trouble my crew and I had to go through to get that cursed thing back here on Coronian soil."

"But the original price was two-and-a-half! Where am I going to get that kind of money?!" The curator howled at the captain whose crew was now turning to witness the discrepancy.

"That's your problem," Luis said coolly as he placed a hand into his coat pocket where his derringer rested and turned towards his patron with a stony look upon his face. "This thing was as hard to get as it was to fathom its existence, and I will not be on the short end of the stick here. I expect two-and-a-half like we originally agreed upon and an additional two-and-a-half for the labor fees, the trouble, and the men I lost. One way or another you will pay up."

The curator's shoulders slumped in defeat as he gazed at the fat, underhanded smuggler that was trying to stiff him, knowing all too well that dealing illegally with these men had put the curator and his museum in a position that Luis could easily take advantage of. Before the curator who was known as Donald Remmings could respond, the sound of a rope snappinng hung loud in the air while a catastrophic crash thumped against the deck and timber and debris flew in every direction. Instinctively covering his face and ducking low to the ground with the thief beside him, the curator's boggled mind began to piece itself together as the overwhelming noise of the crew's frantic screams became too much to handle.

Several long moments passed as the sound of Luis shouting orders rang in his head, before long the fear of any damage upon the piece became too great to ignore. Looking away from the deck floor and to the disaster before him, the caretaker saw throngs of sailors scurrying up the pile of debris, digging into its splintery depths in search of the crew member that had been crushed beneath. The well being of the smuggler had slipped from the old caretaker's mind as he looked past the broken frame of the crate and into the brilliant, crimson gaze of the relic he had paid so much money to obtain.

Buried up to its midriff in the pile of wreckage beneath it, the statue whose very stone form looked something akin to an aged, worn bronze had to be at least ten feet in height, if one were to include its curved horns, in the curator's eyes. Letting out a stifled breath as he inspected it closely, Donald hadn't found a flaw in sight as the beast sat undamaged. Hypnotized by its unsettling gaze, the curator's insides began to squirm. Captivated by the very creature he had paid a fortune to retrieve a world over, the caretaker's mind snapped back to reality as he felt something slosh against his rich, handcrafted leather shoes.

Thick, scarlet blood oozed from beneath the soles of his shoes and onto the deck as he followed the trail of scarlet lifeblood back to its source. Smugglers began to dig and cast away the debris to rescue their fallen comrade, the tired expression upon each of their faces having vanished into blind panic at the sight of seeing the treasure claim another soul upon their ship's deck.

"Hey! You listenin'?"

"What?" The curator replied as he turned his ear up in the direction of the captain, unwilling to tear his gaze from the prize that would soon become his.

"Did you hear me?" Luis asked in a low growl as it became all too obvious he was on his last nerve with the old man. "I said the price has just gone up to six. That unholy thing has claimed its last life under my watch, so either you pay for it or else I'll dump upon departure where it can work its magick at the bottom the delta!"

Finally moved by the threat, the curator's gaze narrowed as it came upon the captain whose features were painted in broad strokes of the shock and awe with losing another crew member while being so close to being rid of the very thing that had almost costed him his own life. The anger that had washed into Donald's face quickly vanished as the draw of the statue caused him to glance back, feeling the sudden desire to pay anything he had for the possession of such a find.

He’d find a way to pay the price, the caretaker realized. He had the backing of the five most powerful men and women in Corone that supported his museum. Surely they’d be willing to foot the bill once they saw it, he thought greedily. Relishing the thought, Donald didn’t even offering the smuggler the slightest bit of courtesy as he felt the same smile crease upon his face when he had first discovered the beast within the ancient text that had guided him to this very point and time.

"I'll take it."

~*~

[Letho]

[Two Weeks Later...]

The perfectly polished shoes of Donald Remmings clicked on the equally smooth marble beneath, their black surface reflecting the ambience in a distorted, curved fashion as the aged man marched through the museum corridors. It was late afternoon, well within the usual working hours of the public establishment, but already the halls were hauntingly vacant, making the sound of the curator’s paces unnaturally loud. The tall windows, stretching almost fifteen feet upwards before they nearly touched the ceiling, let through a barrage of thick, yellow beams that almost seemed coherent in the musty stillness of the museum. There was still sun to be seen outside, still holding its ground against the encroaching evening, setting the sporadic clouds afire as they floated almost lazily. Only a small portion of that fire reached the ground, however; March in the north usually meant lovely looking days that still had the teeth of the winter to sink into one’s flesh.

Donald Remmings wasn’t cold, though, despite the fact that the museum’s furnaces were dormant and the heat pipes quite cool. In fact, droplets of sweat dotted his wrinkled forehead, making the man’s habit of reaffixing his spectacles evolve into a motion to do that and wipe the annoying perspiration. It wasn’t a fever that was tormenting him, but the queasy sort of nervousness that made him sick to the stomach even though he had nothing to eat all day. The reason for this restive was the fact that tomorrow was the opening day of the exposition he had put up and everything had to be perfect. After all, the financiers of this little endeavor were to be amongst the first ones to witness the exhibits he managed to procure one way or the other. It was up to them whether he’d get to do another one or be on a lookout for a new job.

Glass casings passed by his inspecting eyes as he traversed down the polished stone of the hallways, flicking off a mote of dust here, a stray pebble there, rearranging the creases on the heavy curtains, every time inwardly cursing at the cleaning crew that failed to do the job properly. It was to be the greatest expo Radasanth has ever witnessed, with historic pieces not only from every part of the known world, from a legendary shield that a Raiaeran bladesinger once wielded in combat during the War of the Tap to a collection of jewels from the Kachuck Mines. But there were also other, more exotic exhibits to be seen, from the lands yet unexplored and mysterious. Those were hard to come by, and by hard it meant that they were quite an impact on the museum’s treasury.

The crown of the exhibition dominated the central hall of the Radasanth Public Repository, and even though Donald gazed upon it a multitude of times before, the damn thing still mesmerized him every time he was in the proximity. It didn’t fail to do so on this particular evening as well. Standing on its thick hind legs, with its horns nearly touching the crystal chandelier above, the metal monster looked as if it was on a prowl, ready to pounce and decimate its prey. The gaze in its eyes was terrible, a chaos made of rubies whose glint almost made them look alive. They made him want to flee and hide in some dusty corner. They made him want to look at them forever. An outside intrusion made him to neither.

“A nasty basta’d that monster is. Big’un too,” the watchman said, startling the curator with his words. The large buffoon of a man took a couple of steps forward, acting as if he was trying to examine the statue more closely, but in all truth his interest was somewhere else. Mads Thiner’s interest was in getting old man Donald out of the museum as soon as possible so her could guzzle down some hooch he distilled yesterday and take an eight-hour nap. His tongue licked his coarse moustaches at the very thought of the liquor he had stashed in his little cabin near the entrance. He took of his hat and scratched the back of his head, waiting for any kind of response from the old geezer. When it didn’t came in any other form save a piercing glare, he put his hat back on, raised his belt over the bulge of his large belly and added: “Whered’ya get it anyhow?”

“You don’t want to know,” Donald muttered, returning his eyes on the beast paused in mid-roar. It was no more than a whisper, but the quiet of the hall was treacherous, making his words reach Mads all the same. Not that it mattered. The simple-minded guard cared as much about the mysterious talk as he did for this metal behemoth, which wasn’t a whole lot.

“It musta worth a fo’tune. Is that gold?” The chubby fingers made a move to knock on the metallic surface, but the dry ones of the elderly curator caught them before they could make contact. A look of outmost irritation took over Donald’s face. This was one of the moments when he wished he could just fire Mads and get a proper night watch, but Mads was his cousin and if he did that, his sister would probably give him an earful.

“Just make sure everything stays the way it is now, do you understand?” The rotund man nodded blankly, reflexively, like a child swearing he’d never go for the cookie jar again even though all his thoughts were bent on another attempt. Donald slapped his flabby cheek to get his attention. “I mean it, Mads! Don’t get all liquored up again and break something. Tomorrow is a big day. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Unc,” Mads replied, rubbing the reddening side of his face. Though the words came and went through his head like a draft, the slap made him promise to himself that he wouldn’t get utterly drunk tonight. Just a shot or two to help him sleep.

“And Mads?” Donald added before he departed. “Don’t call me Unc.”

[Saxon]

As if it weren't spooky enough during the day, the Radasanth Public Repository was a carnival of horrors and dancing shadows at night. Exhibits of creatures long dead began to jeer and take on a life of their own once shadows fell upon them, and primeval artifacts of ages past seemed to be far more sinister than what their creators had originally intended them for. The stark contrast between night and day had become all too apparent to the veterans of the watchmen trade who patrolled the dark, narrow corridors and guarded the very treasures their employers had paid a mint for to put on display for the public.

Some sentries who had once held the night shift all told the same stories of times where they could've sworn they had seen something fleeting out of the corner of their eye. Others said that if one were to sit and watch an exhibit long enough, it would begin to move of its own accord and play with the sentry's already fragile psyche. It had occurred to everyone who hired on that if the pay hadn't been worth the nightmares and fledging paranoia, nobody would have ever taken the night shift.

Almost nobody.

Percy Jobbs lived and breathed the job of a sentry to the point it had almost become protocol that would have any military man have a run for their money. Hired on years before Donald Remmings had even become curator, the balding, middle-aged watchman had always aspired to become one of those detectives or enforcers of law and order he had so often read about in silver-store detective novels he methodically collected over the years.

Setting his lantern unwittingly atop of one of the glass cases, Percy leaned over and gazed at his reflection in the glass's glossy sheen as he mumbled quietly while pulling at his lips and examining his yellowed teeth. The watchman was short and paunchy whose best years waved farewell to him long ago, and wore the same uniform that had been issued to him the day he joined up, the only problem being it had been more than two decades ago.

Staring into his reflection's dull, brown eyes, the watchman let go of his lip and gave a toothy smile before he heard himself say, "Ain't gonna be any thieves stealin' anything tonight," before adding, ".. If I got somethin' to say about it."

Stepping back from the case, Percy spat in his palm and lifted up his hat before precariously slicking back whatever hair it was he had left. Setting the four-pointed cap at a dashing angle he had once seen in the photograph of his favorite fictional detective, T.C. Wentworth, and scraped the lantern off the corner of the glass case.

Tonight was going to be different, he thought. Maybe this would be the night he would get to bag his first criminal, or so the watchman claimed every night he was on the job. Beginning to whistle one of his favorite tunes, Percy began his patrol and sauntered off into the darkness of one of the nearby corridors where he was sure he would be able to spot trouble.

~*~

The innards of the lock clicked and turned as Mads pulled the bronze key from the door and gave a small yawn as he hooked the ring of keys back to his belt and turned towards the dark corridor ahead. The watchman felt the tug of sleep heavy on his eyelids, and knew it'd be only a matter of time until he went on break and would be able to nap to a couple swigs of the booze he managed to hide from his employer. The keys banged noisily against Mads hip as he made his way down the shadowy hallway, his lantern giving a soft, yellow cast upon everything within reach. It had been a slow night for such an important day tomorrow, the sentry had realized.

Percy had taken off on his usual tangent and Mads stayed in his office until it the time to spelunk the innards of the museum came to pass. The drunkard had very little love for his co-worker, and all the staff knew of it. In fact, the only reason he didn't pull a knife out on the crazy bastard was because despite whatever flaws Percy had, and there were many, he had a connection with one the only bootlegger in town that still supplied Mads' favorite booze.

Lucky prick.

It took about five or ten minutes at a steady pace before the watchman reached the central hall, having stopped a couple times for a quick sip from the booze he had so coveted. Hearing his black, polished shoes clack against the glossy basalt floor and the sound of his keys clinking against his belt, Mads thoughts began to drift as he strolled between the rows of glass cases containing artifacts and displays that stretched down the corridor. It felt just like any other night, the security guard thought comfortably.

The hoarse yell that rang out followed by the bellow of a whistle just around the corner caused Mads to jump backwards and reach for his holstered revolver, his watchman training beginning to kick in. Slamming himself against the corner with a soft thump, the sentry felt the canteen wedged in the hem of his pants threatening to jostle itself free. Feeling the soft, smooth leather of his holster against his fingertips, Mads pulled his pistol free and raised it in the air as he bent over and sat his lantern upon the ground.

Edging closer and closer towards the end of the hallway and into the central hall, Mads felt his insides quiver as he heard the sound of footsteps running towards him. The thoughts of what might have happened to that statue on his watch, the watchmen wheezed with fright. Unc'll kill me if that statue got pinched, he realized. Feeling the seconds stretch into minutes, the watchman felt his heart leaping out of his chest as the footsteps got louder and louder.

Any second now.

The dark shadow that cleared the corridor turned with such haste to look behind him that Mads quickly raised his lantern and held his pistol in the air as he bellowed," Stop!" But it was too late, the assailant unable to stop as he turned his head in surprise and skidded into the sentry and caused them both to topple over.

"Oy! What the Hell, Mads?!" He heard the tangled mass of darkness roar in a familiar voice as the sentry wrestled him to the ground.

"Wut?!"

Dragging him forcefully into the lantern light, Mads looked into the pale features of his co-worker and heard himself say,"Damn you, Perc! Why the Hell didn't I save myself the trouble and shoot you first!"

Tearing himself away from his fellow sentry, Percy pulled back in the shadows as he panted, unable to catch his breath. "G-g-gone," he whispered.

"Say what again?" Mads replied as his eyes narrowed and felt himself patting the floor in search of his pistol.

Slowly moving back into the light, Percy groaned. "It's gone! The statue! It's gone!"

Mads knew there wasn't enough liquor in the world to nurse him back to health as he felt the color quickly drain from his face.

~*~