~A Game of Games~ (Closed)

[Mutant_Lorenor]

(Closed to Knave of Spades)

Wednesday, April 10th
C.P. 1808
1:00 A.M. (Standard Althanas Time)

With the words of the invitation still on his mind, the mutant visualized it over and over again. Cryptic as the invitation for The Tournament of Champions, the letter was delivered by someone heralding from Kebiras. That event worried Lorenor immensely. Rarely did the mutant's life ever cross swords with anyone heralding from Kebiras. The lone messenger managed to travel all the way to Niadath Pass in Raiaera to deliver the single parcel containing the information that Lorenor needed to see. It was a commission request for a job. It contained a dossier of documentation that Lorenor was required to memorize, and furthermore, it contained detailed maps of the target he was being hired to invade.

***

One week earlier--

Sitting in his study, the mutant found himself in a deep meditation. Having lost track of the time and day hours earlier, Lorenor rested on an intricate rug set in the middle of the chamber. It contained a meditation circle that glowed with a certain residue of energy. Three books were laid out in a certain position surrounding the mutant so that he could see the pages of the work clearly. Lorenor was reading the works of The Necronomicon. Lorenor sat in a perfect lotus position, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with each controlled breath he took. He'd been in that position for several nights now. No food, no water, no distractions. Only complete and perfect servitude to the dark lady.

Fell symbols were visible to the mutant's eyes. These were the writings of The Spider-Magi, and ultimately, the writings of N'Jal herself. Ancient prophets of The Spider-Magi wrote the works in human blood and bound on human flesh. By then, Lorenor had memorized the teachings of N'Jal fully and slowly started to unlock the mysteries of The Spider-Magi. He'd learned he was a Spider-Magi a time ago, and was studying to increase his knowledge on them. It was the sixth day he was meditating when a presence walked up to the door of his private chambers. Lorenor heard a discussion occurring between someone and his personal bodyguards. Words were exchanged between the parties outside the apartment complex, and Lorenor's mind slowly wandered back to The Firmanent from its far off communion with N'Jal.

Feeling the physical pangs of The Firmanent, the first immediate sensation was a deepened state of thirst. Lorenor hungered deeply as he sat there recovering from his meditation-induced trance. An unfamiliar scent passed across his sensory grid. Lorenor studied the scent, there was something familiar about it, but he couldn't place it in his weakened state. Hearing the individuals arguing outside of his door, his senses were unusually sensitive to the loud noises. A migraine headache immediately developed. Touching his forehead, a Forsaken warrior immediately manifested from the shadows where he was previously not visible. The warrior moved towards Lorenor with tremendous grace and speed. Crouching down, the warrior wrapped his arms around the weakened High Priest.

"Master Lorenor." Lorenor heard the guard say. "There is a man outside who is a royal messenger of Kebiras. He bears Emblems and markings of the organization known as The Cabal." Lorenor immediately looked up at the guard when he mentioned that name. "They are apparently the same Cabal that ran The Tournament of Champions."

Lorenor thought back to his brief appearance in The Tournament of Champions. All events now were intertwined in a constantly looping circle that made the mutant quite uncomfortable. Thinking about the team-based tournament, Lorenor remembered who his partner was. MetalDrago Scorpio, his good Captain of the guards. He was only able to set a brief foot on the battlefields chosen for by The Cabal for the Round 1 battle. From what he had later heard, MetalDrago Scorpio performed admirable in singles combat against a full team of two warriors. The mutant was particularly proud of the success his best-friend and brother-in-arms was gaining. Thinking about what he had learned about The Cabal, the mutant immediately did not like the way the day was unfolding.

"What is the messenger's purpose here?" He asked.

"He seeks audience with you sire." The guard said plainly.

"Allow him in." It will do no good to keep The Cabal waiting.

"Sire?" The guard suddenly asked in disbelief.

"You heard me, allow him in. I wish to speak with this Messenger in private." Lorenor said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"As you command my master." The guard said, and immediately went towards the door to allow the guest in.

***

A short while later, Lorenor had ate a fair share of food whilst he was entertaining The Cabal's Messenger. The man had an impressive height and stature standing at a full height of 6'5". Lorenor guessed the man's weight at well above 200lbs. The Messenger had an extremely dark brown complexion of skin. His clothing was elegant with aesthetics from the land of Kebiras. Lorenor studied the mysterious symbols that were more than likely Cabal symbols. The man had tribal markings on his face, and his hair was also braided in dreadlocks. He had piercing dark brown eyes. The man was armed, but there was no hostility in him. In fact, Lorenor had found himself liking the man almost immediately. He'd revealed his name was Khazan Qathar. The man had a jovial air about him. Lorenor learned that he was also very much a right-to-the-point type of guy. That was earning points with the mutant right away.

"So that's it Lorenor. The Cabal wishes to hire your services. Your reputation has exceeded you and even has far reaching influences in Kebiras herself." Lorenor heard Khazan saying. "We know of your connection to N'Jal. That is the primary reason you were considered for the job. One other has been chosen." The man hinted, but was not at liberty to reveal the identity of Lorenor's would-be partner. "The documentation you have received from me contains all the details of The Contract." The man leaned forward towards Lorenor. "Understand, the very nature of this job is extremely dangerous. We only want to work with veterans. If you turn this job down, my masters will understand and seek out others." A pause. "But the job must get done."

By then, Lorenor was already reading the documents. Dossiers were placed within the parcel, dossiers, maps, and other crucial intelligence. There were letters as well written by members of The Cabal. The request however, came from a certain member of The Cabal. Lorenor's eyes went wide when he saw the name of the man who was hiring him for the job. It can't be! He is supposed to be dead and gone! One name stood out above all the others in the package, and it was the name of their contractor. Xem'Zund. Another name was there too. Morian. Lorenor did not understand how Devon Starslayer would fail in his mission to destroy Xem'Zund. Lorenor hissed when he read that part of the documents.

"My Master knows your name Lorenor. He knows what you have become. He would have your help in completing this task."

"Listen to me very carefully." Lorenor began, acid in his voice. "I do-not know how Xem'Zund is capable of communicating from the dead, but I do know that he is a sworn enemy of The Forsaken!" Lorenor suddenly yelled and slammed his fist against the floor. Standing up quickly, Lorenor began to nervously pace. "Let me ask you something. Is he still alive?" Lorenor wanted to know, Lorenor had to know. Xem'Zund was a sworn enemy of his people and here he was asking for help...

"That depends. What do you consider to be a state of living. Understand something, there are no absolutes on Althanas. Xem'Zund is very much still an influence in this world. Though he has lost his physical shell, he still manipulates events behind the scenes. Much like how you operate."

Lorenor considered the proposition very carefully.

"What will be my payment? What your master asks for is a tremendous achievement to pull off. Even for someone like me, even with help." He said. He continued. "I have a condition for this job."

"Your payment? The matter is discussed in the parcel. Furthermore, my Master is prepared to offer you whatever it is you wish. As long as it is in his power to grant. He understands what is being asked of you is a great deal. And a very dangerous task. All he asks in exchange is the matter discussed in the parcel. You will have the means to get what my Master seeks." The man said.

Lorenor sighed. He was still shocked by he was hearing.

"I don't understand why I was chosen. But, like I said, I have a condition."

"State your terms." The man said.

"Well its like this..."

***
Monday, May 4th
C.P. 1808
3:30 P.M. (Daytime hours. Lorenor suffers a 50% negative modifier to his powers, but not his Skills)

Kebiras. It had taken Lorenor and Khazan Qathar approximately one month to reach The Garden of Secrets. The journey had been a direct one, filled with much conversation between the two men. Lorenor understood why he had taken the job in the first place, but he wanted to be certain that it was the right thing to do. Lorenor had learned a great deal about Althanas from The Messenger, and this was crucial to his knowledge. As they walked into The Garden of Secrets, the pair understood that their hour of destiny was rapidly approaching. Khazan Qathar stopped walking and motioned towards Lorenor. Lorenor paused as well. All around them, the chaos of The Garden of Secrets was apparent. Doorways from Phantaria flickered into The Firmanent at impossible positions for sometimes indefinite periods of time. Each gate held secrets.

Lorenor observed people moving in and out of the gates at will. Some of the people were native to Althanas, others were not. It made the mutant realize how small he was in the grand scheme of things. Great men plotted and schemed in an effort to dethrone The Thayne. Lorenor's goals were not as grandiose as that, and here he found himself working for a hated enemy. An enemy with the power to grant the mutant nearly whatever he wanted. It was too good a chance to pass up, and an opportunity to test his skill against an unknown enemy. When Lorenor stopped moving, he turned to face The Messenger. The man wore a serious expression on his face that had not been there previously. Frowning at that, Lorenor wondered exactly what the man was thinking.

"This is where we part ways Lorenor. We will meet again when your task is completed. May The Fates be kind to you." Then, the man pointed to a particularly large gate. "That is the gate you want to use. It will take you and your partner well within the target."

"Should I concentrate on any specific goals, or do I have liberties to use any methods necessary?"

"My master just needs the items harvested that was requested. After that, you can do as you and your dark lady pleases. The end result will be the same either way. Lorenor. If you are caught, this meeting never took place. The Cabal will not send help to get you."

"Better make sure it goes off without a hitch then."

"That you should. And with that, we part ways. Good luck Lorenor." With that, The Messenger walked off in a different direction to perform this or that duty for his master.

Lorenor found himself with no choice but to wait for his mysterious partner. He sat down on the ground, moved into a lotus, and began to meditate...

[Knave]

What are little girls made of?

Confectionery delights, the images of mothers, and fathers, and love. There was a party. Everyone was rejoicing. The end was upon them, but they knew joy, and their preacher lead them. He charmed them from their homes, he romanced them with the faith of the deep, and aboard his empty ship, he spirited them away with wind in his sails, and drinks in everyone's hands. She felt tired, and when she could not keep her eyes open or a thought in her head, she felt pain.

She remembered the touch of someone else's lover with zero understanding, but her limbs, her numerous, fanged limbs undulated at the fading sensation of love, lust, and touch. The succession of years, the passing of time, watching a good woman grow old, and watching her vanish before her. This life was rich, or it had been, but palsy of the mind had degraded much of the facts into fantasy without taste. The last thing he saw was a grinning specter dragging his old body still in its gown from his bed, down halls, up stairs, and finally over board.

She fought bar handed in the snow with her brother, and broke his nose when she threw him to the snow. There was a taste of victory, and a laugh in her throat, both of which stilled when she saw her little brother run away with blood and tears in his eyes. Black hair salted with white, snot running from his nose, Corenheim ran home, leaving the fish to Victor so he could to turn him in to the law for the pirate she was.

She experienced the lives of others as she digested them, her young and impressionable mind growing as experience flowed through it. Cold currents brushed her limbs and were redirected, curling, and causing whirl pools which would drag down ships and whales, neither of which had the capacity to grasp her size. All they knew was the sudden suction off oceans floor.

She breathed, water siphoned through gills with such a speed that a school of passing silverfish were torn to shreds instantly annihilated in the force the current that dragged them into the darkness. Trails of blood mingled the water, all that had been left behind by a careless breath.

She gnawed on rocks, and used the earth itself to adorn her body playfully in beautiful crags and stony armor. While her mind wandered, her hunger was perpetual, and her feeding constant. However, she craved intelligent life. Her hunger for flesh was an ongoing process. Her hunger for souls a necessity of entertainment, one that refused to be corrected by any morality absorbed. One that constantly forced her to explore her mind as she did the minds of others.

She was Egr’msatchek, and when she did not dream of others, she wandered the future, omniscient, but terribly focused to one area at any given time. Egr'msatchek watched as children wet their beds. Egr'msatchek handled tools to slice open heads. Egr'msatchek fought for with crazed ambition. Egr'msatchek watches her puppet turn village into ghost towns.

He was diligent, hard worker with all the flair and none of the feeling. Whatever shape he took, he smiled, and laughed, but never enjoyed himself. He did not enjoy talking with the baker's niece as he stuffed meat-filled bread down his mouth, and he never felt anything when his hands wrapped around her neck when she had been asking about his late night romps and all the things she had seen. Questions, like ideas, simply did not die. Alternative measures were required.

The muscles of Lawrence's pale arms bulged as muscles worked to apply themselves to the sweet things neck. She shakes violently, jolts of electricity stunning her. Anita's arms jump and go numb, dead to movement and sensation even though she begs them to fight. Flecks of froth on her lips, her jaw locking, a painful sensation as something within her attempts to swallow her tongue. A wet snap of bones. More violent shaking as he throttles her, mindful that, even broken as she was, that she might survive.

He does not bring Egr'msatchek his latest prize, she is too far, and the freed soul escapes. The shape shifter dispatches her body at night in the one place where no one will find it, the pigsty of Jesus Hoek, a farmer of no import to anyone. Heaving the body into the mud rich in waste, he buries it with a shovel. Every second, he glances up at the house he stands behind, looking for an old man who had wandered too far from his bed and too close to the window.

She tells him Lawrence he has done the right thing, he responds with affection, a smile, a pleasant thought to stroke the ether of her mind. She can tell he is not convinced. He knows that she knows too. She leaves him, he will not cry, or repent, he feels nothing that would worry her, and she knew he would never rebel. That was simply how she had made him. She parts with a kind good boy.

Wandering to distant continents, while squeezing between tectonic plates and surfing the vascular channels of magma beneath the earth she saw glimpses of a tantalizing future, Egr'msatchek would feast soon, and would insert herself into this vision. For those who had the senses of where to be, time was liquid, non-linear, easily changed, easily steered, easily controlled. She giggled, and the cost of Corone shook.

What are little girls made of?


***

Ace awoke in his Gisela apartment, the small dining room chair tipped back against the door, and him in the seat where he had fallen asleep. Mannerisms to imply lightheartedness, he rubbed at his eyes, stretched and yawned lifting his boots from the floor, the previous filth that had caked them gone. Shining his boots crashed back to the ground. He woke up with a smile, and the world was right as far as he need be concerned.

Dearest Darling from her place in the wide-open sea had communicated to what served as his very soul the place Ace was to be. The contact coming not some six hours since his midnight stroll as another man, doing things he would never think of, but knew in all their detail. “Gee...” He grumbled, “You'd think he'd get some sleep instead of shining his shoes.” It was easier to think of them as two separate people. Lawrence and his faces did not need to conspire, and they did not have conflict. All one creature, all different people.

Ace had never unpacked since his arrival weeks ago, and in his small box like stone home, he was the sole occupant beyond a furnace, a mat more vicious in relation to the spine than the chair. The mountainous bag that occupied the northern wall, a window just above it allowing an exquisite view of a narrow alleyway and brick wall. Of course, the lay out of the room is not very important, because Ace had already grabbed his towel and was well out the door.

The thing about a time locked in what we, the narrator and reader who of course in on the gag, consider analogs for the sixteenth and seventeenth was that it was still the sixteenth and seventeenth century. If you wanted a bath, you pour it yourself, or attended the local bathhouse, as our man Ace was doing with an expeditious bounce to his saunter. Being polite was key of course, in making ones way through town, one could not shoulder his way through society.

Duels were the obvious choice for anyone incensed enough to invoke the law, and every man was strapped with blades somewhere on his breeches, or a knife under the shirt of his person for those who did not have the money for twelve more inches of steel. While he carried no visible sword, Ace carried himself without fear, because that was the man he was. Never mind that he had a rather hefty sword at all times that simply could not be seen until invoked and drawn.

The baths were little different except the servant girls, bouncers, and compatriots were clad with less modesty if modesty is what you could call it.

“Private bath please.” It was still dark, that great enemy of all night owls and nocturnal movers and shakers, the Sun, not yet ready to make his grand appearance for what might have been the thousandth time.

Ace stood half dressed before the guard, a rather savvy fellow who knew not to trust smiling face, but cared enough for grinning gold to put his best foot forward. Leaning forward from his, seven feet of comfort to Ace's five he levied the price, “ One gold for every ten minutes, Sir.” He cast no glances from side to side, as one would expect, but instead leaned forward as one would after doing that from which he had just declined and offered the house specials, which went something along the lines of, “You don't have the look of a natural Coronian so let me clue you in. Sixteen gold for the Good Morning. Thirty-two for the Anytime Special. And the attendant (whore) gets to levy the price for any special services with happy or ending in their tittles.”

He had gotten up in a hurry for a reason, but he would be damned if he were not curious as to what a Good Morning or Anytime Special entailed when a Happy Ending, and several things like it, was already on the list. Ace liked to try new things, and said so followed by, “I'll take e-” Something akin to a mental slap rang inside his skull as several violent reminders were forced to the surface of his mind. “Just the private bath.” The bouncer gave him a disapproving look as if his hopes had been dashed, passed the ticket and signaled him in.

The interior of the bathhouse was a steaming shouting chaos of white with lockers to the left, and toweled or naked people to the right. Much like any large group of random semi-naked people, any attempt to sort out the beautiful from the asymmetrical corpulent blobs of wealth and liquor was an utter failure. What mattered here was what was inside, and deep down they were all the same with the exception of the staff who like all servants hated their customers with a constant sharp passion barely concealed as they made their way through the crowd.

Ace passed the baker in his bath, the old man unaware of his daughter's status as feed for pork. He could have said something, but instead clasped his hand in respect, paid the mandatory, and worthwhile, ogle of the girl in his lap, and was on his way with a rye grin. The nightlife was so fantastic the early birds got up even earlier.

He bathed in one of the separate stalls, rarely ever indulging in the festivities outside beyond once or twice a week when he was rested and his body maintained its shape. Lack of sleep could kill his disguise, and make him go limp in odd and unexpected ways. In any case, he was leaving a richer man, Lawrence had robbed, and Ace had cavorted for several days on arrival. They had a dozen friends, and one-hundred-fifty gold worth of merchandise. On his way in, Ace had said hello, and on his way out, he let them know he was leaving. There were tears shed by some, but overall a touching goodbye.

Returning to the room previously described, he gathered his things, turned over his furnace, and left the place. By the time anyone would realize the building was on fire, he would have his back on the island, and his eyes on that hidden coast. Of course, he would need a ship, but getting one of those was easy.

In the conditions of Sixteenth, and Seventeenth century analogues, no, the high sees were not the place to be, and everyone on land knew it. Yet when a man needed a job, the docks were the place anyone could go.

The sun had risen, and the docks were already a heavy bustle with the unloading and loading of monstrous luggage, travelers, equipment, and goods. Machinery was placed on planks, which were in turn set upon the backs of strong men at work, who walked as one out of discipline and fear. In this manner many things were moved, cages of lions, tigers, and people. Rickshaw taxis making their way up and down the woodwork of the dock with their worldly passengers aboard.

“Oy captain, I'm looking for work.” Ace said, calling with the irreverence of salt in his veins, and the respect of winning and working men. “Don't suppose you've got a spot for a good back to work?”

Captain Daniels, a graying lion complete with main turned to face the lad who had addressed him. Behind him, his powerful ship, the Ocean's Fissure floated proudly. It was as solid a vessel as could be asked for, standing ready at all times for bandits on land or sea! Its portholes thrown open! Cannonades never withdrawn, were thrust through them in an array of fire power the likes of which no one had experience and been left with a head to tell their tales, or lungs with which to breathe life and terror into their words!

“Aye, Boy.” The captain said, his malicious nature and grin apparent, the glowing butt of his cigar casting ashes into the wind. He wore the jacket of a Coronian Marine, a white, black, and red design for the country he had to protect. The grim dangers of such a life, and prices paid so that every Coronian could live in freedom under the barony. “If its work you want, you'll have all you need right here. Welcome aboard, you've been conscripted, Boy.” He never saw the glint of treachery in the boy mind, but Captain Daniels was certain he could break Ace down, and rebuild him in Captain Daniels image. This meeting could never end well between two men whose hearts were as cold as stone.

The vessel he was now stationed on soon its leave of harbor, destined for patrol of waters combat with the falling numbers of pirates. Numbers falling in no small part due to the Ocean's Fissure himself, it was robust and manly vessel, so much, so it deserved the pronoun, for at its prow stood Yecen Mazda.

It was a skeletal, but savage looking deity, the enraged form of a balding severe man cast into wooden sculpture. Lord of seas, and Dark Heaven's Supreme Justice, Yecen held the prison urn under his arm, the souls of the damned and stupid locked away inside. In his free hand, ready to cast, he held Damocles, his harpoon of choice, its barbs here gilded with bronze to illustrate the flames that burned along its steel. The god's oaken eyes were ablaze, constantly searching the horizon in his crusade. A Coronian Marine god. To touch this masthead was to pledge your loyalty, and no man, or rare woman, would be allowed to lay hands upon it. This was the sort of god that cared, and cared with a fiery passion.

Ace had likewise been ushered into service with a change of clothing and a presentation to the six-foot tall deity at the prow. He approached quickly, but everything within him wanted to dive overboard, as if swimming the hundreds of miles was preferable to swearing fealty to a god. Perhaps it was, he knew that the god's were real, he also knew that a majority of them would instinctively be set against him if they were to take notice. Thankfully, when he kneeled in subservience, prostrated himself on his belly in gratitude, and kissed the varnished leggings to show his loyalty, nothing all that special happened. The god took no notice of him.

Anchors were raised, sails set their backs to the wind, and the Ocean's Fissure was off. No neophyte to the ways of ships at sea, Ace had a variety of talents, but new to the ship he was was relegated to swabbing and preparing the food. He did so with grinning gusto. What he did, he did under the super vision of head chef and deck hand, each with jokes to ease the stress work, and whips should they need to speed it. Ace was not beyond telling the stories of the things he had seen, he had stories of horrors and adventures the likes of which grown men thought too fantastic and terrible to be true. Every time promised them that what he said was true. An ill wind began to blow.

The key to his progress was in the water. When he tilted the rationed bucket back, he let the backwash flow and rarely swallowed. Then he would pass the bucket and dipper to the man on his right in the noon line for a drink. Invisible under cover of darkness and illusory talent to cloak himself from sight and mind. When he found the drums of fresh water beneath the deck in their hold, he would tilt them on their ends and wrestle their lids open. In the darkness, the black water rippled as his forced the arsenic toxin of his saliva to build and let it settle, diluted, but still strong.

By the fourth day, health was already in decline. Bodies ached, shivers ran in their bones, they prayed to all gods for, but their own, for he was no medic and had made this clear. The ships doctor was the third to go, having gone sick, some strange fluid had built up in his lungs, and drowned him in his bed. Only the most robust of sailors remained at their positions, their resilience due to their sheer stubborn hatred of illness.

An epidemic on hand, Captain Daniels turned the ship for sail and sent birds to warn their reception of what was to come. He expected to return, and his pride forbids his organs to shut down, or for his veins to grow thin and rupture. Still, he too was in decline, his mane of gray hair, and beard of matching color and size, was unkempt, his face was red with the effort of resisting death. When he spoke, he spoke quietly, and all working seamen knew that he had no patience left for failure. Unable to sleep or let down his guard, he prowled the ship and put his back to work even at the dead of night. He was the rigging that kept wind in their sails, and he would have to die.

Fourteen days into their trip, eighty of their one-hundred-twenty dead. Among the still living and still working was Ace, Anderval, Friar James (now overworked in his capacity to grant last rights), Thurmond, HJ Fevvral, Captain Daniels, First Mate Silva, and Bass. The coast was not a day off, and they navigated the coast, rising mountains of stone shorn by the ocean into pillars stood all about them. The moon hung in the sky, unmoving, time standing still.

The captain stood for the first time atop the deck, his hands fastened to the steering wheel, his knowledge of the course and wind allowing him to sail with minimal aid. In the dire situation he was in, he had stripped off his jacket, and stone lean, bare chest bared, the only thing beyond his pants and boots, was the sword of his designation by his left side. One of his blistering cigars was clenched in his teeth, the smoke and scent of heady fumes trailing behind him. Captain Daniels' time had come. Death was upon him in an instant, but he was ready.

The sword was drawn, he turned with speed, and struck with ridiculous power. Not only had he defeated Death's blow he sent his assailant crashing back some twenty feet into the wall. The double bladed sword had at the last moment blocked the Captain's lightning fast draw, but in its nature, it had been so overwhelmed as to be driven back into its wielders chest.

Collapsed in a heap beneath the dent he had made, Ace lay motionless. The boy's anonymity vanished like a trick of the mind, the face Daniels had least expected to see was revealed. He had expect Fevvral to snap first, had even planned for it, but Ace had been promising fr- he was not dead. “What’s the meaning of this, Boy?” There was a sense that words could kill in his tone, and his eyes were dark.

Ace groaned as if just waking up, and sat up against the wall, the white of the blade untouched by blood though clearly embedded. Regardless he pulled the inch of length wise steel from his chest, and sat grinning like he had been caught doing something childish. “Just continuing the good work.” He shrugged while getting to his feet. Through the gaping hole of his shirt, the glint of pulverized flesh and chain mail was one. “Didn't really expect you to have your guard up though.” He accompanied this statement with a small laugh.

“You... are you responsible for all these men dying?” No emotion. He stood like a statue of the very god he worshiped, and in the moon's light what could be seen of his eyes were glints... tears. “You'll face punishment for all your sins, but don't tell me that all this was your doing.” Moreover, by extension, his for allowing Ace onto the ship. “We'll?” Barely contained, he looked terrifying.

“No, Sir, whatever this is. It’s not me.” Ace said, changing the white short sword from hand to hand nervously. Daniels’ felt against instinct that this was true. . “Just a same, I don't think we can put these things awa-” He was cut off as the fist clipped him across the side of his skull and sent him flying toward the rails. He hit with a violent crunch. Captain Daniels trusted instinct.

The captain kicked out. He did not care for the simple method. He just wanted this person, this thing, of his ship, and with several strike kicked him through the railings over the edge. He leaned forward to watch Ace plummet to his doom. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

Tumbling through the air, Ace caught the porthole. In that brief moment of struggle, Ace had been broken horribly. His face had been battered, no blood, but unsightly shifting of his muscles and jaw. His sword arm was broken, disjointed, limp yet refusing to release the blade. Looking back up at the Captain Ace smiled, his face shifting back into place, his arm visibly seething as the shards of bone worked their way back into place. “Nope, don't think we’ll be putting away our swords anytime soon.” Ace said up at the captain, his smile dying, and his character lost to something deeper, and unkind, “I'll be seeing you inside.” He vanished into the porthole.

Never fool enough to rush into danger, even when danger was so out matched, Daniels went for help. At the prow he where he had stationed Fevvral, he could not find him. In the sleeping quarters, he found Thurmond, large handprints around his neck, blood slowly leaking through his skin in small beads. Andevral was where he had been for the last hour, head bent over the tosspot where he had been heaving, he was now still. It soon became clear that everyone who could still stand was gone.

“Yes, Captain.” Something unseen said plainly in the darkness. “From here on it'll be just you and me... I doubt that will last long.” It was moving, its steps carrying it away. How terrible a judge Daniels had been, he had expected a man and now he had a coward, he had wanted a marine of integrity and now he had a monster without scruples.

“Aye, Boy. Not very long indeed.” Daniels Captain of Nothing soullessly followed after his enemy into the bowels of his ship. There were three floors and more than a hundred yards each. Rooms abounded. Corners unlighted to turn. Captain Daniels pursued the devil, ready for his tricks, his ambushes, and more of his backstabbing. Ace was weak, this monster. “By its carrying on, is even more the coward not to have the courage to fight me like a man or beast.” Daniels mused, his vigilance weakening.

'You are a fool.'

Daniels stared at the writing, the letters written in blood, the stump of a dead man's arm lying near by. Across one of its fingers, it wore three scars of burned flesh, the rings of the penitent, and the hand of Friar James. The captain paid his respects, and wrote his reply before moving on.

'And you underestimate me with your tricks.'

All trails, hints of sound, lead to one room. The very ports in which cannons were mounted, and barrels of gunpowder were settled against the walls. Instantly, by some sense of imminent danger, the captain knew he was not alone anymore. He continued walking, the steps of his feet forcing boards to creak against the nails of their make, and foot steps to echo in silence’s dominant shadow.

The wind tipped off the strikes. Again the Captain turn, his saber not quick enough to precede the counterattack before it could begin, this time his assailant was not launched back. The monster up close was still unseen, but the angle of Captain's guard left him fighting an up hill battle against a giant wielding two swords.

Steel rang, the teeth of three swords scraping one another. A sudden screeching break as they each with drew to strike again. Skill, talent, experience, whatever you could call it, the Captain Daniels battled a storm he could not see. The wind itself could harbor his end. Their intensity like dark clouds. Captain Daniels untouched, standing against the rain. The rain unstoppable, its source the sky itself.

The shadow twisted back, the floor boards were cut as it brought its second blade up and forwards. The sword was revealed, hurled up from below, spinning, and glinting in the porthole’s dim light. A deft old hand caught the hilt, feet popping of the ground to evade the severing of his ankles as his opponent finished his own spin and cut low. The Captain landed, and gave no ground to Lawrence’s gambit. Not that it was over.

With freedom to attack and defend, the old dog lunged for the center of mass. Only to veer to the side as the sword-less arm extended, and pistol shot was fired next to his ear. Distracted, Daniels could not stop the large hand that settled on his wrist. The other saber air born, passed overhead to change hands. Lawrence wrenched his arm to side, pulled him into a dance and flung Daniels into the air. Catching the sword, and taking the offensive, it was Lawrence who attacked.

Rolling, again preternaturally aware, by the grace of Yecen, the captain brought both sabers upward wildly to defend himself. Twin swords met twin swords, the invisible giant having drawn a lesser blade with greater weight. No thought, Daniels twisted his swords, and swept all four to the side dropping the giant to the floor beside him. The captain thrust blind into the darkness, and struck. Out matched the giant rolled to its feet, and sprang away into the darkness, tired, outmatched.

Strength fading, stamina down, as of yet unwounded, the Captain remained crouched in the ready, two sabers held in his fists. No attack was coming, the monster was content to rest and watch. It would receive no rest from him.

Methodically, detached from the invisibility of his enemy wherever he was, Captain Daniels approached cannon and dropped his right sword. With one hand obviously at the ready, he loaded it with a cannonball and several fists full of powder. Finally, he let that sword too fall as he lifted it from its wooden mount.

“You... you can't be serious!” The shadows surrounding him shouted as one.

“You have done your best to instill your brand of terror into me.” The captain said, his teeth clenching his cigar, his lips drawn back into a terrible smile. He breathed deeply and his cigar burned red. “Now, Boy, let me teach you my brand of fear.” The captain's head snapped back, the cigar was air born, and when it fell, it fell into the barrel. He levied his weapon on the place where the voice had likely come, and fired from the hip.

The sound of cannon fire dwarfs thunder. The light of cannon fire is like the sun. Fire raged, a miracle preventing the kegs of powder nearby from exploding by the slightest of associations. The very force of impact annihilated the opposing wall. Timber splintered. Dust became ashes. All those behind it were reduced to their elements and sent crashing down. The ball bore through every last defense, the breast of Ocean's Fissure exploded and its heart was laid bare. The hole well above the ocean, the ship was not yet ready to sink.

Through the smokes, Captain Daniels walked, the heavy weight of the cannon dropped to the floor where it made its own crater to lie in. Skeletal, soot bathed him as he smothered the fires with the water he kept nearby, pausing to drink and quench his thirst.

“Yecen... I plead for justice.” He begged for his enemy’s death in that fiery display. His prayers going unheard as his heart skipped a beat, and he settled to the floor. “In your employ we have done the best we can, we have turned back fleets of pirates, defended our homes and children, as we should. If this should be our end, deny evil its victory.” Captain Daniels died praying that he had taken his the invisible terror with him. The causes were of course massive amounts of poison coursing through his body eroding his insides and starving his organs. Of course, these were the causes, the means was the short sword that nailed his head to the floor and locked him in praying position from behind. Eyes closed, teeth lying on the floor, mouth open.

Lawrence sat back across from the corpse of his former captain. He was much different from Ace, he was well above seven feet, his limbs long and thin, and hands large and powerful. The color of his carapace black, a glinting sheen. He was winded, he was tired, and he was impressed. The captain had been far stronger than he looked, far more insane too, but in the end this ship belonged to Lawrence know, and he took to the task of steering this wandering vessel away from the rocks the moment he got above deck.

It was not a satisfying sort of battle. Just one that he had won.

ON one of the stone pillars, a god resided. He was no poof, no magical fairy and traveled instantly wherever he pleased arriving with sudden promptness. He held his harpoon in one hand, and the prison urn he slung across his back with a thick rope of fine hemp. He had heard their prayers, but had not seen their attackers. While looking like an old man, his eyes flickered with the light of divinity, he peered down on the vessel, and to him everyone was dead. “Very interesting.” The Judge said as watched death collect the last few souls, the reaper woman's scissors sheering the life from the bodies. When they conferred, she too had seen nothing.

Yecen Mazda would investigate.


***

Lawrence operated the ship, a one-man crew accounting for more than thirty men. He was always moving, repairing, and holding back the inevitable decline. He Sailed around Corone well off the coast to avoid attention, the sight of his mighty vessel a deterrent to those who would ordinarily risk their lives for the treasures he had on board. This continued for two months, in which Lawrence ate and drank what was available to sustain himself.

Two months at sea, no rest to be had as the galleon quickly degraded into a ghost ship. He was desperate. He needed order, and yet he was stranded at sea in a wooden box filled with garbage, and constantly decaying. Where Ace had toiled with willing purpose, Lawrence was simply manic. He organized the corpses when they began to rot. Heaved them overboard moments later under the rays of dawn. With a mop, he cleaned away the filth, and in the course of a week made the place shine. Sanity is a strange thing, it requires order.

He sailed storms, and rode the currents provided for him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the specters of power searching through the empty halls. Ghostly apparitions and vague sensations of intelligence. In the seas, he saw shapes moving. In these waters, there were dragons of the oceanic variety. They were cleared away when they got too near, some sensation of fear striking them.

Alone, alone except for the brief words of his little girl telling him what she'd seen, of what would happen, and where he would go. She never gave him plans, just people and places. She trusted him to work it out. He did so while sleeping, his dreams illustrating the things he would do, none of them pleasant. He wanted to limit the casualties, he had to on land. At sea, people could vanish and that was the way of things. On land, “anyone could be watching.” He hissed in his sleep, irritation knotting his brow.

Blind stars stared down at him. For two months, he sailed.


***


To understand her better her, he followed her home.

All images, all memories imparted by god herself marked this odd woman as his target. She was lean, hard in eyes and body, and she was something like him. She talked when she had to, and when she did, she did it well.

He installed himself as her chauffeur. In addition, while driving her horse around the floating city, Enjustan, he felt he knew very little about her. Like what she did for her living. There was money in everything she did, shopping was an activity in itself, and while he carried things for her, she and her purse were hand in hand. Knee length black dresses, bobbed hair, a taste for the finer things, no work, no banter, occasional smiles when others failed.

She was cold, icy even. She shunned his every word to her as beneath notice. She had blocked out everyone, she did not even notice when her chauffeur had arrived confused as to what to do, merely instructed and berated him for his incompetence. She was not surprised when he did not know her name, Fillan Carta, she did not have much faith in anyone it appeared.

The reason for her money and cynicism would become apparent when Lawrence wandered the mansion she resided in on the dessert's coast. Deals went down, poisons and favors. She made princes kinds, and handed down inheritances among nobility with a sort of charm trained to kill, and poison to finish the job.

The day was coming, the path way would be here soon. Reconnaissance was a bit hard to work with, but with his talents, he learned the recipes for the poisons he needed, and doubted he would ever need them. Then the chauffeur disappeared. Fillan Carta was forced to do without an official driver, and instead forced the driver to take them where they needed to go. No one would ever know what happened to the chauffeur, no one would even guess what had happened to Miss Carta.

At last, the mail arrived, born by a wild looking man who seemed out of place. As if he had walked a thousand miles to stand in this marble Parthenon. Never rising, Fillian reclined in a low sofa, a parfait clutched in her little hands.

The messenger carried himself officiously, despite the terrible fraying of his clothes and the devastated state of his shoes. Instead, he presented the message he guarded his with his life. Fillian had to wonder where he had been, he was a native, sharing many of her features, but clearly of no serious relation. Fillian was somewhat sure of this.

“Thank you. Mongo, read.” She commanded, enjoying the pleasures that wealth could buy, like servants/slaves. Carta threw the letter of the back of her lounge chair for the butler to fumble and catch. All sets of eyes went wide, the messenger looked as if he wished to shoot the receiver.

Barrel chested, of impressive height and strength he was the butler nearly dived for the letter. Straightening the tie, the collar that marked him as a servant, Mongo narrated the letter with an elegance the very shape of the words forced him to convey.

“Dear Ms. Carta.

I am in the midst o-”

“Short hand.” She said, uninterested in the details beyond time, place, and objective. She had a good idea of the what and where already.

“Several men are involved in the politics of the area and request your skills.” Mongo stated, closing the letter after a second glance. “There is one oddity. Xem'xud has signed this paper, Xem'xud is dead.” The piercing weight of his gaze fell on the messenger. “I would consider this a problem.”

“That’s nice, Mongo.” The girl said, sitting up, her chocolate treat finished. “But, dead or alive, we've been called upon.” She smoothed her and stood, taking steps down the stairs on her are feet, stars and the night sky lacquered across her nails.

“I shall escort you to the place of your partner.” The messenger announced, ready to depart, not tired in the least by the travel he had taken or the things he had done. “He awaits in the Garden of Secrets, the portal is south of here some thirty miles.”

“No need. We have a gate here.” For the right price, the right sort person could open all sorts of doors. Even the ones between space and time. “I'll escort you.” She did him the favor.
================================================== =================================

Arriving quietly into the garden, Fillian stared at the scene of people arriving and leaving, making their way through the different existential dimensions to their destinations. True to reputation it was a swirling void, no plant life, no vegetation, only the mists, the gates, and what they might conceal. No one talked to each other, everyone was busy.

To her left, was the messenger, and to the right Mongo. They had all changed into winter clothing, the gusts of the Phantarium often buffeting the garden with after world’s mists. Space wandered between them, and they often had to change their pace keep together, veering left or right when the distance between them seamlessly expanded. To be lost here was to be lost for a good long time.

Soon they happened upon the fourth member of their band. Carta recognized him, but she let Enoguchi announce them.

“Lord V'halkulus, we have arrived.”

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Many presences disturbed the air around The High Priest of N'Jal. Though for a long time, it appeared as though his employer would never arrive. No, not employer, benefactor. Lorenor had agreed to a very specific set of conditions to begin the experimental operation. Finally, when Lorenor had achieved a zen-like state after communing with his goddess, the mutant could wait for all eternity. When he waited, various thoughts passed through his mind: all of them bad. Lorenor was planning, more important, N'Jal was giving the mutant various instructions of how to proceed when the benefactor had arrived. Soon, a very specific scent had filled the air. An unexpected scent. It was a scent that was mingled with sex, murder, and violence. Just the type of scent that drove men to do insane things.

For a moment or three, the scent just lingered in the air. It was quite enticing to him. From his position, even with eyes closed, he could see the curves of the woman through his sensory grid. She was a beautiful individual, a native of Kebiras no doubt. Moreso, Lorenor noticed the men-folk that accompanied the queen. Within the sphere of his sensory grid, the mutant was capable of completely analyzing The Firmanent in many different spectral layers for one mile in every direction. Studying the figures before him, he concentrated on the woman. Observing the very nature of her femininity with his eyes closed. Once eyes did open, the mutant's twin-purple blazes erupted like the fires of The Pyre.

Energy cascaded from the mutant's eye sockets as his vision became a conscious factor. His brain settled into The Firmanent, the mutant analyzed what he saw. Is this the benefactors that I was told of? Was I not to meet Xem'Zund directly? Or will he speak through these mediators? The mutant thought to himself. Sitting on the ground was an act that took a considerable amount of concentration to sustain the same position for hours on end. Lorenor was a very patient man. Many beings of super-genius level tended to be such. He waited for a couple of days, without realizing it, for his benefactors to arrive. Lorenor recalled the contents of the letter once more, each verse repeating over and over like a mantra. Xem'Zund still affects events on The Firmanent. Even after his death. This is a matter that requires serious investigation. Lorenor could not sit still whilst a potential enemy moved in the shadows.

A moment or two passed after the woman introduced herself. It mattered not, she was his benefactor. Lorenor stood up, dusted himself off, and looked at the group intensely. The trio was dressed liked the denizens of Kebiras dressed, it was simple clothing that was more practical than fashion oriented. Lorenor felt the weight of his mission on his shoulder, and he walked over towards the trio. It was a short walk, the mutant knew, but his pace was deliberately graceful. Control. There was a certain amount of control in that movement and the mutant, despite his short height, stood proud and completely erect. Once Lorenor had cleared the gap between himself and the woman he acknowledged her. He nodded deeply at first, then inclined into a bow. It was all a game to nobility. You must dance the dance... Lorenor could commune with N'Jal at will.

Seeking the eyes of the benefactor, Lorenor wore a grim expression on his face. He spoke. His accent was that of a Haidian, his voice raspy with a certain baritone addition to it that was part of his common-speak dialect. His version of the common-tongue was filled with the inflations of a heavy Radasanth accent. Or at least someone attempting to mimic a Radasanth accent. It's true Lorenor was a lord, he'd achieved such in Salvar long ago and was recognized in some elite circles. Recovering his center of gravity after the bow, the mutant looked to the woman.

"I answer the call of Xem'Zund." Lorenor said in a deadly serious sort of way. "Enjustan must fall by the hands of those who would lead a new uprising." Lorenor added.

The words were simple, but then, nothing ever said by a madman ever was.

[Knave]

The sultry hums of the dreadful dead were lost among the different dimensions. Strange songs were sung in the winds, barely audible tales of the various things that only in death could be seen.

The woman restrained herself from humming alongside them, and inside introduced herself while the menservants prostrated themselves on the garden, each taking a knee to what very well might be a mortal god. “My name is Fillian Carta,” She said softly, never smiling, “and I hope you will enjoy my acquaintance.” Spreading the arms she had clasped so tighly to her bosom, she indicated the giants that dwarfed her on either side. “This one is Mongo, my best man.” She laid her hand on the back of the man’s neck. “And this is… isn’t mine, but you may call him Enno.”

Stalking, measuring his steps, Lorenor approached, and Fillian Carta stroked the sensitive skin of her cheek thoughtfully, taking him in… and remembering. Not too long ago—if time was in fact an issue—with a different form, they had known each other. They had fought as comrades together. In reminiscing about those dark caverns, and hideous beasts, Fillian knew that place to be hell. Of course, that time has ended. She thought, drawing to a close those distant and alien memories. She was not the same as the philistine Ace, or the cruelest Law, and thus this meeting, like every other, was a chance to be reborn in the eyes of others.

As Lord V'halkulus bent his head, and paid her due respect, Fillian did not curtsy or do to him the equal gesture of her gender. Instead, she turned her head, and bent her body to the side, to look up into that hood, and those bloodshot purple eyes. “If Xem’Zund calls, then Xem’Zund comes, but for now, I believe it will be just you and I…” She said, before swaying back to her full height of five feet and two inches, and eyeing the messenger that had brought her this information, “Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, Mrs. Carta, when he chooses to make his will apparent,” He looked up with a pious and unholy light in his eyes, “both you and Lord V'halkulus will know.” The insolence the woman showed him… he could bare that, but her very demeanor around those who lacked power or money disgusted Enno. He pulled his scarf higher, to mask his expression.

“Well then,” She turned back to the Lord, “I believe that gives us time to talk, tell me, how was your journey here?” She inquired as to his past, a black gloved hand held open and out, begging the question. “I hope it was kind to you.” Who had Fallien been before Lawrence had assumed her and all she owned? She had been like the Phantarium, filled with icy winds, biting words without reason, and distant ghosts that held her attention just as much as the present living.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Sexuality seethed from every pore. Lorenor could taste it in the air between himself and the woman, the men too. The mutant strangely found himself feeling right at home. As a High Priest of N'Jal, Lorenor had a certain air of respect about his person. He knew the game, and he played it quite well. He took a look all around him. So many Gates. Each Gate was a portal to different sectors of Phantaria; land of doors. Lorenor knew this because of his power to walk reality at will. Lorenor allowed his gaze to travel from the nearest set of doors, back to Fillian Carta. He smiled behind shadows. It was a curtain that seemed to cling to him like a lost lover. In his mind, the mutant imagined hot nights spent with either of the three beings before him. But especially, he picture soft caresses spent with Fillian Carta.

Lorenor's eyes narrowed for a moment. He took her hand when she extended it, carefully shaking her. As he touched her, electricity coursed through the physical contact. Passion raged through his black heart, but The High Priest handled himself well. This was a game after all, a game set staged by The Thayne themselves. Kebiras was about to be exploited by two powerful minds. Still shocked at the circumstances that lead him to become temporarily aligned to Xem'Zund, the mutant had a weary heart as well. Many thoughts were running through his powerful mind like demons pillaging a hapless town of dimwits. When Lorenor's eyes fell to the woman, there was a hunger there that only a madman could muster. Though it was a controlled sort of hunger, it was a hunger that was present nonetheless.

Through his insanity, the mutant was capable of recognizing beauty. To his eyes, Fillian Carta was more an energetic presence than a physical one. He could see the energy-halo that clung to her. Powerful, enigmatic, and strangely familiar at the same time. Where have I seen such a powerful energy signature before? Lorenor shrugged the feeling off as paranoia. So many minds, so many lives that the mutant High Priest had touched that he had lost sight of himself. Though through the shell, Lorenor was still clinging to The Firmanent despite his knowledge of it all. A part of him refused to ascend, and the other part was clinging to the desire of gaining power. Questions were asked now, and each word was carefully crafted. Lorenor knew Tradespeak, he was trying to decipher any double-speak behind the woman's words. There were none, she spoke in a clear and concise form of Common-Tongue, albeit quite accented.

Lorenor responded.

"I have this." Lorenor said casually in response and produced the parcel containing the invitation that Xem'Zund had given him. "The trip over here was productive enough. I spent much of it in service to my Master." Lorenor said as he handed some of the parcel to Fillian Carta as he was ordered to do in the parchment. She would make use of the documents located therein. "Those documents contain The Items we are to acquire for our Employer. I have already memorized them. What he asks could be nigh impossible to complete. Are you sure you are ready for this?" Lorenor had to ask. He wanted to know how dedicated she was to the job at hand. He did not want to die over a potential slander with a former enemy turned temporary ally. "I came here by ship from Raiaera. Then I found my way here using Phantaria's many gates...it's an interesting way to travel. Perhaps I shall show you sometime." Lorenor said with a slight hint of a smile touching the corners of his lips.

"But I digress. This is not the safest of places to discuss our plans or other personal matters. We should get to someplace...much safer. If you catch my meaning." Lorenor nodded his head towards the two man-servants just then as a gesture of respect. Then he returned his attention to the woman in charged. "It will not do well to linger too long here when we have to act soon...but before then I could use information about this place and a time to get to know you all better." Lorenor said carefully, always, the game was played with a certain level of presumed respect. It was almost amusing to watch how skillfully the ugly mutant played the game...his silver tongue would one day become legendary.

[Knave]

‘I was not expecting such… excitement.’ Fillian Carta, thought, her hand still sending messages of that brisk, and sudden touch. The skin beneath her heavy coat was so warm, but goosebumps were rising on her skin. She wondered if she had not chosen the best form to take, aware that Lorenor was not one of the people she should tease; such men were best to be distant to and distanced from lest he be provoked into taking liberties best left unsaid. Of course, while composed enough to avoid the thought, she pondered taking a less attractive demeanor in the future—perhaps a shroud for the appeal of mystery.

There was more to the nature of emotion here than one could so readily know.

The prickle of ambient intent, and carnal lust was in the air, if a bit one sided, swept the trio in some great aura, and the ghosts of dead realities moaned in the distance, envious vocal harmonies that craved the flesh if not the intent of all who passed through the garden. Cool winds trailed through Fillian’s hair, and clutched at her dress. ’Such poor souls.’ Fillian thought, feeling hands where there were none, eyes that could not be seen, a listening ears pressing against her from all sides.If only they knew what flesh entailed. The howling chorus swept the labyrinthine gardens, and shook dead leaves from gray, lifeless trees. ’ Though it is our nature to envy the lives of others.’

The rustling of hands returned Fillian’s attention to the Lord that in his dreams captivated her.

The hustle and bustle of another realm, the moving and shaking of a transient world played an excellent backdrop as Lord V’halkulus retrieved from his robes the object of their destination. It was parcel of unassuming beige paper, wrapped with twine, and a broken seal. He handed it to Fillian, beginning his tale, as she should have expected with more love for a sleeping god than the life that had previously surrounded him. “Njal could not have asked for a finer servant.” Unfamiliar with zealotry, she played her game with care. After all, while her god had her respect, and through biological tampering her love, it did not inspire in Fillian that sort of devotion.

With tentative hands, she took the package, eager for its secrets, but aware of all the dangers that her company, and prospects provided. If ever there was a more perilous position, Fillian had never experienced it, not now, and not before. The documents fluttered in the wind as she walked past Lorenor, leaving his question to find her own answers, eyes widened as she took in, and rifled through the articles. Some were clippings of print, others were pictures, one demanded hands, and some demanded eyes. She talked nevertheless, providing the easy reply with the precision of the tigress. “Though I am glad your trip was pleasant, I always do desire details. I hate to pry, but consummate professionalism and polite brevity do nothing to tell me more about you.”

Turning she held the documents held aloft, and away from herself, their importance dwindling as she knew them intimately now.

“You will come to know, Lord V'halkulus, we have all the drive we need.” She flaunted the papers, her interest concealed by a callous lack of care, “I’ve learned what it is dead men desire, and to deliver will be no greater challenge than that.” She said quietly, a small smile turning her red lips up, her expression remained cold, but beneath the uncertainty was a calm derision. She tracked his gaze to the men, and scoffed at the idea of a spy among their midst, or someone who did not belong.

“Mongo has been with me for quite some time.” She said, her words not quite reaching the ears of the servants, lost in the wind, “And if he (the benefactor’s mind) has deceived us, then I would think we would have been deceived entirely.” She made no gesture as uncouth as shrugging, but considered the question of their loyalty the two ends unlikely extremes.

“However, if we can expect no more visitors, how would you like to take a stroll through one of these portals?” She indicated the nearest one, and watched it ripple like liquid glass, and reflect two worlds; one of the living, one of the dead, inexplicably fused together.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Of course, Lorenor agreed with the woman's request. They were out in the open discussing murderous plans of genocide. Lorenor was certain that if they were caught, problems would come their ways. Problems that the mutant was not prepared for at the moment. When they arrived at the nearest portal, Lorenor saw a potential problem. A station was present before the portal, several of these portals were protected by similar stations. Armed guards were present in front of the portal they were going to. Lorenor had never seen the material that the weapons were made of before, and thus, he pondered if his prevalida weapons would be enough to pull the scheme off.

Deciding that a direct confrontation would not do, Lorenor turned towards Carta and nodded in her direction. A diplomatic solution is the course of the hour, for now. I shall restrain my desire to inflict pain on these mongrels. He thought to himself, and just then he remembered the words on the documents that Xem'Zund, or at least, the spectre of Xem'Zund gave him. The words still sent a chill up and down his spine, as well as the deed he was sent there to perform. With the stage set, Lorenor geared his thoughts to what he was well known for: complete chaos and violence.

Lorenor stood alongside the man-servants that Fillian Carta kept by her side, his eyes observing the guards. He started to count, six all together at different positions around the gate. Lorenor could only wait until Fillian addressed the gathered soldiers. In the meantime, his mind was fixed on the destruction of the city they were going to. Already, he was planning on various strategy and tactics he would employ. I do not like this idea of working for a hated enemy, but this opportunity is too golden to pass up. A chance to spread the word of N'Jal. That is well worth any price I would have to pay. Lorenor thought to himself.

Standing in place, the mutant could feel his cloak flapping about in the breeze. His senses would sometimes catch various people traveling through nearby gates. Lorenor had been to The Garden of Secrets before and knew there were literally billions of gates. A number that even his advanced intellect could scarce imagine. Lorenor folded his arms across his chest and quietly stood in place. Enno kept staring at The High Priest with a mischievous expression in his eyes. Lorenro simply nodded in response to the stares whilst he waited for the next part of the act...tension burned in his heart.