A Mystic's Return

[Vat'Clefor]

He has on rare occasions whispered disjointed and irresponsible things about "The black pit," "the carven rim," "the protoShoggoths," "the windowless solids with five dimensions," "the nameless cylinder," "the elder Pharos," "Yog-Sothoth," "the primal white jelly," "the color out of space," "the wings," "the eyes in darkness," "the moon-ladder," "the original, the eternal, the undying," and other bizarre conceptions; but when he is fully himself he repudiates all this and attributes it to his curious and macabre reading of earlier years.
- H.P Lovecraft, "At the Mountains of Madness"
He could feel the weight of their gaze pressing down on him with every weary, dragging step that he took. He was tired, so very tired, and could not remember that last time that he had even rested, let alone slept. He wanted to rest, wanted to sleep, but the eyes were upon him and he could not stop, dared not stop, for even a single second. And so onwards he trudged, eyes cast down and shut tight against the possibility that he accidently meet their gaze. He dared meet their unwavering gaze, steady in their horribleness and utterly alien in both nature and demeanor. Once, in the folly of his youth, he had dared to look into those horrible, blasphemous eyes, and the terrible imprint they left on his mind even now gripped his soul with a lingering blight, a blight that would haunt him till the end of his days.

And so Vat’Clefor Orlouge, ancient mystic and scion of the progenitor of that distinguished bloodline, walked with his eyes screwed shut to maintain the remaining fragments of his sanity. Above him, watching steadily from their perches with unwavering gazes, sat the blasphemous mountains that lurked in the back of Vat’Clefor’s mind like a splinter too deep to pluck. He had studied those mountains once, when he had first arrived in the “space between,” trapped by his own hubris as much as by his failed magic. They had been shaded then, surrounded by a ranging mist of no color that could be found on Althanas, a sickly, twisting yellow-green that forced nausea and dementia with its unwholesomeness. That alone should have been enough to deter the eye and send Vat’Clefor scurrying for ignorant safety, but the mystic had foolishly dogged on, intent on satisfying his lust for knowledge. He had paid for his curiosity, paid in the memory of those unnatural, non-Euclidian lines that stared back at him, lines carved by no mortal hand. It only took a second for the scene to burn itself into Vat’Clefor’s mind, etching itself indelibly into a slate from which there would be no removal. Other minds may have found succor in the sweet embrace of maddened oblivion, but Vat’Clefor was a mystic, and it was his blessing to remember everything that he had ever seen. His blessing, and his curse.

And now, after wandering the vast gulf between stars and seeing things that no mortal was meant to see, the monstrous gaze of those cyclopean mounts was once again upon Vat’Clefor and the mystic was left with no recourse but to trudge onwards, ever onwards.

[TwinCast]

Aislinn looked about the area as they continued to set up the infirmary. Orders were barked out with friendly sternness, though to the untrained ear that was no different from her normal tone. The twelve she had assembled in making this hospital were moving about frantically trying to reorganize the stock room into some semblance of order. They had at first attempted to store everything where there was room, and now that they had so much provisions for a lengthened fight, they needed to organize it. Aislinn picked up another basket of herbs before she moved it with its brothers a sigh leaving her lips.

"Ms. Orlouge, where should the willow bark go?" A young woman perhaps only barely attaining adult hood was carrying a basket of the bark. Aislinn eyed it before she sighed, nodding and pointed to one of the shelves.

"Put it third shelf on the right, next to the door. I think that will be one of the often used, so it would make sense to be able to reach it quickly, would it not?" Aislinn responded.

"Very well Ms. Orlouge," The girl replied. The basket was moved quickly before another one grabbed and moved into a similar area.

She was in the middle of moving the next basket when one of the men carrying a basket asked her, "Where should this go? It's the chamomile…"

She eyed the basket for a moment looking upon the leaves before she gestured with her head, "First shelf towards the back, I doubt we'll have problems getting our patients to sleep." She then grunted, moving the basket into position with the others. The work was menial, and yet they all knew it had to be done. So, when the morning checklist was completed they all descended upon the rather chaotic storeroom, and began to impose order upon the clutter and mess.

Soon the work was completed, all of them shuffling out of the room with the tiredness and ache of one unused to repetitive labor. Collapsing on the closest bunks to the stock room they relaxed before Aislinn spoke up, "Take the rest of the day off, I think that was more than enough work for one day. If there is an emergency I can handle it."

The twelve didn't need to be told twice, as they rushed out of the room whoops and hollers chasing them down the hallway. The sound of laughter rang through the tunnels as they made their way into the Radasanth afternoon. Aislinn relaxed on one of the cots, an idle arm covering her eyes from the torchlight that filled the room before she heard a soft meow and smirked. Her sister had just come into the room, "Afternoon Sister, what brings you to my corner of the caves?"

I decided to check up on you, and instead of working hard, I find you hardly working, The voice in her head was one of a stern lecture coming. Once she knew her sister was ill-prepared to give, considering Aislinn's normal work ethic.

The taunting tone of the voice in her head widened the smirk to a Cheshire cat grin before she responded, "You missed the work for today, feel free to check the store room and tell me I did nothing…"

Oh really? You put them hard at work, where are they? Cleaning up before going about their daily routine? Felicity asked. Aislinn felt the bed shake as the cat hopped up next to her sister.

"I gave them the rest of today off. They can do as they like for all I care," Aislinn replied.

You're certainly in a good mood if you're giving time off for such a mundane task, Felicity said. The cat finally came to a rest next to Aislinn and curled up close by. Aislinn could feel her sister's warmth along her rib cage as well as the fur of her sister. Slowly growing in from the penance she had paid for setting the younger Mystic upon a date with Jensen Ambrose. Aislinn had of course been furious at the treatment, but had surrendered her anger, knowing fully well her sister deserved it.

Her free hand idly began stroking her sister as she replied casually, "Your fur is growing in quickly."

I should hope so, I've been freezing my tail off in these caves!

[Silence Sei]

Sei had been in the library of his Tomb all day. His blue orbs quickly wandered through page after page of text, trying to catch up on the history of his family. It seemed as though the previous owners of this cave had all been of Orlouge decent. It also appeared that the large makeshift home had not been used in several decades, since Sei's great great great grandfather used the vast walkways and expanded them to literally reach entire continents from underground.

Sei found such stories very interesting; the stuff epic poems were made of. He found himself surprised he had not heard more heroic tales of his ancestors as he grew up in Chateau Orlouge. It made him wonder if there were some sort of dark secret his entire family had been keeping from him. It would make sense, seeing as Sei seemed to be the only mystic in the world with wings, a trait nobody could explain to the telepath. What was so bad about learning of one's self that the entire Orlouge lineage attempted to cover it up so thoroughly?

As Sei pondered this question, the lights in the library were extinguished. It was a common thing to take place; a cool breeze comes it and puts out one torch. The odd thing was that every torch in the room was no longer lit. Such a strange occurrence was more than just a coincidence to the mute. Sei stood in the darkness that was the library, the scent of smoke reaching his nostrils courtesy of the put-out torches. The mute looked back and forth in an attempt to see if anybody else was around to share in the creepiness of the area with him.

When he found nobody, Sei shrugged and sat back at his table. Raising his right hand up, a white light began to shine from the gold ring on his index finger. The light magic that was channeled through the ring would be sufficient enough for the mute to continue his studies. Even if it took a moment for his eyes to readjust to the sudden emergence of light. Sei began to flip the pages of the tome once more, starting to take notice of something different in this strange new light.

It seemed as though there were chapters in these mystic history books completely rewritten of taken out entirely...

[Vat'Clefor]

In time the mountains of horror, those blasphemous, fog-shrouded peaks, passed beyond the strange, blurry line where what passed for sky met with what passed for earth. The mortal eye breathed a sigh of relief to know that those cyclopean monstrosities had finally sunk to their fear soaked tombs and yet Vat’Clefor’s eyes remained clamped as firmly as a barnacle to the edge of the pier. If only he could know, if only he could be sure that they were well and truly gone, then perhaps he could release the terrible specter of their shadow from its perch across his mind. But Vat’Clefor was not so naive as to think that the wishes of mortal man could shake the eternal foundations of those eldritch stones with even the strongest of wills. And so he marched, dragging his feet through the gritty black substance which felt so similar to sand and yet so completely foreign at the same time.

Vat’Clefor mumbled broken bits and fragments of warding phrases while he walked, phrases whose power, if not meaning, that he had learned during his long, ageless wandering. Likewise his fingers clutched feebly at the talisman that was his only possession. The talisman was of a green, soapstone like material, at once slick as flax oil and gritty as sanding paper. He knew not where the stone had come from or how long he had carried it, and had not thought to ask such questions when his cognizance first settled on the thing. All he knew was that he had wrapped his jagged, filth encrusted fingernails in his telekinetic force and used them to carve the unnaturally hard stone, shaving it down line by thin line until its shape resembled a sigil of warding that he had learned from the wide-mouthed merchants of Jgerhn.

Those wide-mouthed merchants, who were so similar to the humans that Vat’Clefor knew of Althanas and yet different enough to cause his mind to retch, trafficked in the elder lore and secrets of the Space Between. They traded what they knew for the memories of their clientele. Knowledge of the symbol that he wore cost Vat’Clefor three years from his childhood, silly, trifling things of an immature time that should have been easily missed. And yet, for a mystic forced to remember all that passed, those blank, missing years gnawed in his mind like a throbbing, cancerous wound. Still, their loss had been worth it, and Vat’Clefor could only guess at how many things his talisman of sickly green stone held at bay. So effective was the symbol, that Vat’Clefor had carved the symbol, along with others, into the tender flesh of his naked body with the same telekinetic force with which he had carved his stone.

But that was all past now, for each driven step Vat’Clefor made brought him that much closer to the portal which had brought him to this blighted, Gods-forsaken land of misery and woe. Each step was an ounce of burden lifted from his shoulders; a ray of hope and light where darkness reigned. Each stoic, weary step brought the warmth of Althanas that much closer.

Vat’Clefor was going home.

[TwinCast]

“Perhaps if you had not interfered in business not suited to your talents, you would have a full fur coat..” Aislinn said sagely before sitting up. Her red tresses flowed over her shoulders even as the distinct sound of fetishes and clay clacking together filled the almost empty room.

A meow of indignation filled the air followed by a hiss as Felicity stretched, I was merely trying to do something in your best interest…sister.

“Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise,” Aislinn said firmly, moving over to her desk. The note that showed her staff had truly grown to be self sufficient still rested proudly on the desk in its small portrait frame. She gently brushed the dust off it before he looked at her diary and journal of medical notes. Neither seemed appealing to her, even as she heard the soft click of Felicity’s paws upon the rock.

The small black cat hopped upon the desk before she looked Aislinn in the eyes and spoke sternly into her head, Little sister, you have certainly grown some sass as of late. Have you truly become so-

Aislinn immediately placed a hand upon her sister’s head, the signal for her to stop as Aislinn sifted through her thoughts. The mystic in becoming a witch had developed into a conduit for the winds of magic. In using these winds she would often partake of her witchcraft in a manner which would make any magician jealous. She had no true restriction upon her other than the song at dusk.

While it was still a few hours out, she could almost hear Azyr, wind of the Heavens speaking softly to her. She had never noticed the soft song that filtered through the hallways, because it was so faint, and yet today, today it seemed almost alluring in its tone its pitch. The Melody was louder now, and steadily getting louder with every hour that passed.

She stood up grabbing her staff as she listened carefully to the melody, seeming to drift down the passageway of the caves. Looking back to felicity she spoke sternly, “Azyr is singing, stay here…”

Azyr sings? Felicity shot back as she saw Aislinn retreat. The young witch made no effort to reply and moved down the hallways with a sense of urgency. Her boots clicked as she continued down the hallways listening to a tune only she could hear, before she heard the lyrics loud and clear…

Waiting like the stalking butler…


…Whom upon the finger rests…


… Murder now the path called "must we"…


… Just because the Son has come

She frowned making out the words; they were not Azyr’s domain, why would it speak of matters of death so resolutely? Shyish, wind of the grave was the wind that held domain over death. Moving on she shook her head and moved towards the source of the music that Azyr seemed to repeat over and over, each footstep another beat in the impossible melody of the wind.