Of Sterling Steel and Putrid Plot

[Devin Argente]

(( Solo Quest ))

The light of day cast anew its resplendent gaze upon a gloom-afflicted Corone. Outside the island’s main city, aureate scintillae hopped ceaselessly from dewdrop to dewdrop, enfolding fields of green grass and florid flowers in tawny hue. Radasanth’s many constructions eyed daybreak peacefully, shielding their inhabitants from the infinite amount of bright rays the sun was introducing into the dying night. The air reverberated with the collective groans and moans of awakening townspeople, who inevitably noticed the detestible dawn that spelled the end of their nocturnal rest, and the start of their everyday toil. And yet, amongst the narrow pathways and paved roads that made Radasanth the human-forged spider’s web it is today, there was one person who could not help but rejoice at morning’s advent.

Devin Argente’s pattering footsteps disturbed dawn’s tranquil progression. He panted heavily as his black boots carried him quickly through the streets. Although he was near exhaustion, he did not dare stop, nor look behind, for fear that it might slow him down. The last half an hour had passed in a blur of despair, and even now, away from direct danger, Devin could not quite assess what had went wrong. The only thing he could remember was unforgiving blackness, sudden cold. Chilling whispers from every shadow. His father’s shout of retreat. Panic through both the unnatural darkness and a sense of fear that the head of the family had never exhibited before. Devin and his group had not shown hesitation in fleeing, yet even though they were the ones closest to the building’s entrance, some of them had not made it out alive. There are few places one can hide if one’s hunter lives in and strikes from shadow…

Even now, the young Argente glanced left and right, to make sure that no beastly creatures jumped unexpectedly from the darker corners of Radasanth’s inner roadways. Skidding through a puddle of last night’s rain’s remains, he rounded the last corner before his destination: there it lay, the third house on the right of the street. Compared to the white-walled residences it was squeezed inbetween, the Argente safe house appeared rather shabby. It’s walls were a dull auburn of weathered stone, and a single torch hung outside an oakwooden door. Devin could not help but feel relieved to see it lit: a burning torch near a safe house meant that it already offered shelter to other people. In this case, it also indicated that some sort of magical ward had been erected – an invisible shield that would render family members within the building temporarily undetectable to the wraithlike hunters that chased them.

When he had nearly reached the cottage’s entrance, Devin slowed his pace and recomposed his breathing. He rearranged his black coat and tucked the white blouse under it back into his coal-coloured trousers. One stroke through his hair put it back in its original, chaotic state. Even in times of failure, an Argente remained an Argente, and Devin would do nothing to ruin that image. His right hand was already on the doorknob when he looked around the area. No living thing, human or less, was to be discerned between the buildings that lined the narrow road. He hadn’t been pursued. Satisfied, he twisted the copper bulb to the right and entered the dim light of the small asylum’s single vestibule, closing the door behind him slightly too quickly. No, the fear had not completely dissipated. He turned around.

Five pairs of shaken orbs looked him in the eye, and Devin knew that they would see reflected the exact same feeling that the Argente could distinguish in theirs: a straining concoction of confusion and horror. Empty pupils, incapable – and perhaps unwilling – of comprehending what had transpired in Corone’s Great Library only an hour before. Devin noticed that candles had been lit in the corners of the room, which apart from making in uncomfortably warm also made sure that there was no darkness for the enemy to strike from. The quintet of associates seemed pale, and they trembled uncontrollably as they sat on wooden chairs – the only furniture supplied in an otherwise empty room. Their will had been broken – and it was up to the Argente to fuse it into unity again.

“It’s over,” he started out as bombastically as he could manage. However, his voice was pitched rather high, which led to him sound as though he was panicking, despite his reassuring words. To remedy the mistake, Devin shut his lips close and walked over to each of the room’s corners. The others present raised their hand in vain appelate as he extinguished the large candles, allowing darkness to partly overtake the chamber once more. As the smell of molten wax drifted away through the small hearth etched into the wall opposite the door, Devin stood defiantly in front of his shaken comrades.

“It’s over,” he repeated, calmly this time. “The infiltration of the Library has failed, but that does not mean that we must ultimately fail as well. The Argente family will remain untouched by her foes. Even if those foes travel cowardly through shadow and strike without warning, the banner of the Argente will persist. My father…” Devin faltered as he thought of Lodan Argente; if that man’s body were made of steel, his fortitude would have easily pierced through mithril. The young Argente could only hope that some of his father’s inspirational allure had rubbed off on him. It did seem so, as the room’s ambience changed slightly. He did not know any of the five persons assembled here, knew of no deeds in their past, cowardly or heroic, but right now they were all staring at him with a faint flare of hope in their eyes.

“You will not be punished for running away,” Devin continued, sensing that those were the words able to momentarily repress the fear present in their minds. “This was an enemy you could not fight, could not kill. I heard my father order a retreat with my own ears. As far as we are concerned, all of the Argente’s associates that participated in this… this nightmare… will be allowed to restart their career with unblemished slate.”

That was a fairly prodigious gift. Normally, anyone that betrayed or ran out on the family would’ve been tortured into oblivion, and only after days of excruciating pain be allowed the warm amnesty of death’s embrace. In this new prospect, the faces of the mercenaries brightened up slightly, and some colour returned to their cheeks, although they still appeared ghastly pale. Devin himself was grateful that they did not understand that this was more a necessity for the family than a blessing of some kind. He did not know what had assaulted them inside the Great Library, but he was certain that it would return before long, and when that happened, the family would need all allies she could muster. That those same allies perceived the fulfillment of that essentiality as philanthropy only served to buoy up his spirit.

“But it was so… cold. And dark. As if… as if I’d never see daylight again. What were those things in… in the shadow?” a soft voice trembled to the right. Devin turned his head and viewed the young woman who had spoken. She was dressed in darkleather armor, a crossbow resting on her lap. Her hair was long and coloured chestnut, alike Devin’s own, albeit interspersed with a plethora of brighter highlights. She would have been good-looking if it hadn’t been for the tears in those big green eyes, the indiscriminate contracting of her thin brows, and the nauseating bleach that showed through her tanned skin.

Devin shrugged. “I don’t know,” was the only answer he could provide, and he could see that it didn’t pose much consolation.

“But I do…” came a dark voice from the left.

[Devin Argente]

“Frederick?” The young woman spoke while she looked at Devin’s leftmost companion awkwardly. “Frederick? Why are you talking like that?”

Judging from the bewilderment in her voice, Devin assumed that this was not normal behaviour for her Frederick to exhibit. Taking a closer look, the Argente quickly cogitated that the dark voice could not be the young man’s own. Frederick had just started to grow a pale moustache, the auburn glow of his tidy mid-part hairdress adding to the image of a boy too young caught up in events too grave. His eyes were closed, the lids clamped closely together, as though he were withstanding a great amount of pain. Devin carefully put one thumb under Frederick’s bushy brow and another atop his cheekbone, softly dividing the flesh that covered the boy’s eyesight. The Argente frowned when he discovered a silver mist covering the sockets beneath, a unicolour veil of argent cast over both pupil and iris. Curiously, he brought his index finger up in an attempt to touch the mysterious mist covering the boy’s eye.

The firm shove against his right shoulder made him lose balance, and he ungracefully fell to the side, smashing against the wooden floor while the words “What the hell are you doing?!” pursued him in his decline. Looking up, he saw the woman standing over him, her emerald eyes spewing flame at his, her crossbow being held loose in her hands – not yet aimed to kill, but very much present.

“What in hell’s name do you…” Devin started, indignified, but she cut him off.

“You will not treat my brother as an object of investigation! Can’t you see there’s something wrong with him?” she asked in rhetoric, not awaiting the answer but turning around and sitting down to tend to her sibling. She asked questions, tried to reassure him, but Frederick showed no sign of reaction, until at last his eyelids parted, revealing his still silver-covered orbs. His lips formed into a hideous smile, and when they came apart, the foul voice drifting from the young man’s tongue drove shivers through Devin’s spine.

“Hahaha! Baz’h’akh! You mortals can be so entertaining!” The laugh was cold, a sonata of death and decay. “Igh’zurh! Do not worry about saving the boy!” it added with a sickening snicker. “His soul got lost while you were quarreling...”

“DEMON! What have you done to him?!” the woman erupted once again as Devin scrambled to his feet, eyeing Frederick with almost insulting professional interest. She trembled as she heaved her crossbow, seemingly ignorant of the fact that she was threatening her own brother. But the Argente could not blame her for instinctive reactions, for the temperature in the safe house had decreased by several degrees. It was almost as though they were back in the library. Devin took a deep breath as the woman continued her furious tirade. No. Not the library. That lay in the past, as did the shadowy assassins that accompanied the memory. Frederick’s sister’s angry shouts decreased in volume, then died out altogether. The boy still sat in complete silence.

“Demon?” the voice giggled. “Dear Anzala, you flatter me. If I possessed the power of a true Demon, you would all be dead by now.”

The woman was clearly abashed by the fact that the entity knew her name, and where her lips had previously burnt with sharp replies, they now paled out and stood clenched firmly together. The other three mercenaries looked around the safe house nervously, caressing their weapons as they eyed Frederick in paranoia. Anzala, on the other hand, had dropped her crossbow to the floor, her fingers suddenly languid. Devin shivered. Was the spirit controlling Frederick responsible for this all? Knowing that he could not fight an enemy that was not physically there, the Argente concluded that it would be best to sap as much information from the arrogant voice as possible.

“Then what are you?” he asked with a calmness that instigated strange looks from Anzala and the other hirelings. Frederick’s head turned to face him so quickly that Devin could’ve sworn he’d heard the poor boy’s neck snap.

“Ah, the young Argente! Baz’h’akh! The family prodigy,” the voice jeered, but Devin had long before learnt to endure verbal assault and insinuations. He waited silently for the wraith to answer his question – if it didn’t, then that was one more reason for Devin to doubt the actual potency of this being, apart from the occasional brain control. But the voice continued in scoffing tone. “I am your enemy, Devin. As I was your father’s, and your father’s fathers’, and those that came before them. I’m like a family heirloom,” whereupon the spirit let out another, hideous chortle that reeked of sheer malevolence.

“And why?” the Argente retorted quickly without a sign of anger. Silence ensued, longer than usual for a conversation, and Devin guessed that this was the spirit’s way of setting up yet another reply that formed no answer to his question.

“Why?” the voice whispered. “Why? Baz’h’akh! You know nothing of your heritage? The only surviving descendant of the Order of Argent does not know who he is?” Devin recognized the tone as a taunt, moreso than uttered amazement. Only moments later, he was forced to alter his opinion as the voice exploded in rage. “Khal’dari! Defilers! How presumptous, how bold! To conceal from their sons the shame that should have rooted out their family eons before! Listen to me, young Argente,” the voice returning to its normal, smudgy self, “the seal of your family was once not feared throughout the lands for the corruption and extortion you now impose upon the people of Char’an, Corone. Discover your true history, and you will find out who I am.”

Frederick’s eyes turned a dark shade of onyx. Devin recognized the murderous gaze, and his heart seemed to miss a beat. He had been shot numerous similar glances while fleeing from the halls of the Great Library. The boy’s mouth opened one last time, the voice from within fading into the distance.

“And you will know - what doom your fathers brought upon you…”

The Argente could not move. He felt the eyes of the others burning on his skin – they assumed that he had somehow understood the ghost’s ominous story. Truth was that he’d never heard of this Order of Argent. Argente was the family’s name. Not a title. Right? So caught up was he in his pondering that he stood completely off guard when Frederick leaped at him with a hideous roar and outstretched fingers. Although the hostile entity had disappeared from his tongue, it had clearly not left the boy for the better. His eyes were still alike those of the shadow hunters, and the agile way he attacked confirmed Devin’s fear: the appearance of the shadow hunters in the Library was indeed the work of this mysterious, mind-controlling wraith.

Casting aside the fact that this was Anzala’s brother, he grabbed Frederick’s extended arms by the wrists, placing a foot firmly in the lightweight’s gut. Falling backwards, he launched the no-longer-human mercenary into the wall with the force of its own attack. Although the collision had caused dust to rain down from the ceiling, ghostly Frederick was relentless, attacking anew. Devin blocked two oncoming strikes, but the third rammed straight into his jaw, sending him flying into several unoccupied chairs. Frederick’s shadow fell over him as the young boy leaped on top of him with uncanny grace. Long, pale fingers enfolded his throat and in a daze, Devin silently realized that death was imminent.

The creature let out a horrific screech and the grip around his jugular loosened, allowing Devin to throw Frederick off his chest. A black crossbow bolt stuck in the flesh beneath the boy's ribs. The Argente looked at Anzala: she was trembling, and very much crying, but a new bolt already lay loaded on her bow, ready to strike lethally should her brother make another attempt at killing someone. Howling in pain and eyeing his sister furiously, Frederick turned around and jumped straight through a window. Devin and Anzala followed him through the door, but by the time they reached the street, the boy was already gone, and they could do nothing but go inside again. Anzala immediately sat herself on a chair, throwing her crossbow to the side, weeping and randomly hitting away any hands of consolation the other mercenaries offered her.

Devin understood the feeling of hopelessness, the rage that came with it. As such, he felt slightly ashamed that he should think of it in terms of profit and efficiency again, but that did not restrain him from giving the girl a note before leaving the safe house.

Tomorrow at noon. Chapel next to the Temple. Don’t be late.

[Devin Argente]

The next day’s sky was of a tincture as gray as Devin’s thoughts. Sitting on a small stone fence in front of the Chapel of Force, he viewed the alabaster spires of the Temple of Draconus as they ambitionally reached up into the heavens, pincering the ubiquitous slate mist with a force as destructive as the deity the Temple represented. The Order of Argent… Had it been one big lie? Or did Radasanth indeed harbor more secrets than the Argente longed to discover? He would soon confront his father with the wraith’s whispers, and see what would come of it. Knowing his progenitor, Lodan Argente had probably already received word about what had transpired from the other mercenaries – as head of the family, Lodan was always the one in control, pulling his puppets’ strings. In retrospect, that was probably the sole fact that had led him to escape the Great Library alive two nights before, while his entire group got slaughtered by their ghastly onassaulters.

When her slender frame rounded the corner into the square, Devin instantly recognized Anzala the mercenary. Even in this mournful weather, her cleaned, dark brown armor gleamed with novelty; her hair was no longer loose, but tied into a long, auburn ponytail that ran until far below her shoulders, bellowing softly in the fresh breeze that cantered over the small square. She’d apparently left her crossbow at home; the only visible weapon she wore was a sheathed shortsword at her belt. Her skin had returned to its straw-coloured self, and she even smiled slightly when she saw him. Devin heaved his hand in comraderie, and she paced over him, wavering around multiple groups of pedestrians in her way. When she finally arrived at the chapel, Devin’s face had reverted from a welcoming grimace to a stone-faced mask of business.

“What you are about to see, lady Anzala,” he whispered into her ear mysteriously, “is the sanctuary of our family. I must warn you that I’ll have to blindfold you once we reach the entrance, but rest assured that the knowledge amassed within will help me – us – find out what last night was all about.”

Anzala only nodded, shivering at the prospect of entering the den of several major criminals. Sure, she had worked for them, but she hadn’t in any way but financially felt attached to them. Now that the Argentes had found themselves besieged by the same beings of whom her younger brother was now becoming one, her fate had nightmarishly intermingled with theirs. She would find Frederick. Find him, and cure him. And if his death was the sole thing that what would heal him… then so would it be. Determined, she asked Devin when they would leave.

“Right now,” he answered with a sinister grin, and he led her into the chapel, away from the eyes of curious passersby.The building’s large doors clunked to a close behind them. Few people ever gathered in this shrine: in the past, it had been a place of prayer for warriors, soldiers, but with the great wars withering on the paper of unread chronicles, the Chapel of Force had fallen into disrepair. The room was octagonal: low, stone pews encumbered a great statue at its center – stonework formed a great Dragon, armored in marble, the unyielding embodiment of Draconus’s destructive capabilities. There were no windows; instead, a large hole in the domed ceiling would have allowed sufficient entry to the sunlight, had it been in attendence today. Devin beckoned Anzala as he gracefully stepped over the four rows of stone seats. He halted an arm’s length away from Draconus’s statue, retrieving a lap of soft black silk from his pocket. Anzala obediently turned around and let him bind it tightly around her eyes.

“Wait here, and don’t move,” Devin spoke in friendly tone. “This’ll only take a minute.”

After making sure that the woman was completely blindfolded, Devin smoothly sneaked to the other end of the statue. First counting the knobs on the stone dragon’s tail, he cautiously clutched the fifth one from the left. With a firm twist, he rotated the seemingly agglutinated marble protrusion to the right. With the nearly inaudible sonance of stone shoving over stone, part of the floor beside Devin detruded into the ground, revealing a staircase leading to a dark, underground corridor. He swiftly moved over to Anzala and grabbed her hand, pulling her into the caverneous path after warning her that she would have to move down a couple of stairs. She did not complain, but held on to his arm tightly as they descended into the blackness beneath the Chapel, walking a blind man’s path to the Argente Sanctuary. After what seemed like hours, they arrived in a torch-lit hallway. Despite its subterranean situation, the air here was dry and clean, the temperature as comfortable as any aboveground residence. As the stone entryway closed behind them, Devin removed Anzala’s blindfold, allowing her a moment to gasp at the underground marvel.

“Father is waiting. Let’s go,” he suggested, and she convoyed in his wake, still surveying the smooth mosaics glued onto the walls left and right. Devin was quite used to their colourful presence, but it was understandable that a newcomer would feel slightly overwhelmed upon viewing the wealth of artwork amassed within the Argente family’s command nexus. Apart from that, the caves also formed a rather intricate maze, and Devin made certain that he led Anzala around so many corners and through so many alluring corridors that she would not be able to find the way back out on her own. After all, mercenaries were rather erratic in their fealty, and being able to pinpoint the location of a much wanted criminal to Corone authorities could prove to be a rather profitable venture. However, since the woman positively goggled at every new piece of artwork they passed, Devin reckoned his precautions were innecessary.

Eventually, the duo entered a commodious chamber, its walls covered in a single, soft-hued shade of muted yellow. An inctricately crafted desk dominated the bulk of the room, with three equally beautiful seats afront it. The paintings that clung to the wall here were even more famed than any Anzala had stared at on their way here. However, her gaze did not once shimmer left or right, as she could not take her eyes off the person behind the desk. Lodan Argente was an older Devin in all aspects, lean, with jagged facial features and dressed for enterprise, legal or less. However, his silvery hair was quite somewhat longer than his son’s, and carefully tended to, meandering to the man’s shoulders in frictionless fashion. His short, silvery beard gleamed in the warm gleam of a radiant chandelier that lit the entire cavern from its perch in the ceiling. His face a blank slate, the head of the Argente family glanced down upon his son and the one he had brought with him. Devin kept quiet, knowing that it would be impolite to speak before a superior saw fit to do so.

“Be welcome, my blood,” Lodan spoke officially after observing his visitors rigorously. His voice was one of authority, but benign in its words. “And be welcome, Anzala Russet. May the safety of the Sanctuary guide you both on your paths.”

Anzala curtsied deeply, flushing at her ignorance of the official reply Lodan’s words required. Devin had to repress a smile as he made a slight bow and replied as usual: “Lodan Argente, Keeper of the Sanctuary, may we forever stand blessed under your leadership.”

“Drop the formalities already,” Lodan snickered as his son reached the end of his mantra. The show of humanity only lasted for a second before his features returned to their neutral, grave countenance. “Word of yesterday’s events has reached my ears already. Lady Anzala, I offer my sincerest apologies for your brother’s unfortunate fate.”

The young woman looked at the ground, flushed – and grieving, Devin could see, although she seemed to refuse to acknowledge that emotion. She mumbled a short thank-you, followed by a statement that there was no need to call her ‘lady’. Lodan grimaced and shook his head in pity before turning his attention to Devin.

“This news of a malevolent spirit tampering with our operations is the worst we’ve had the last years – it is fortunate that we have already apprehended the evildoer,” he added with a grin, and Devin stood bewildered. Either his father’s circle of espionage was indeed as legendary as many made him out to be, or… or… He could think of no other reason.

“Apprehended? Killed?” were the only retorts that he could think of.

“Yes,” Lodan smiled, and his eye twitched, as though he were winking. “The dark mage living at the edge of town. I would have expected him to try and thwart the family’s efforts. As soon as I heard about Frederick Russet’s mind being controlled by a spirit, I had the heretic arrested and executed.” His gaze shifted to Anzala as he got up from behind his desk, walking towards his transients. “I have also sent out several men to try and find Frederick. Don’t worry, they will not kill him, and I’ll have our best healer on him to cure him of his spiritual infection.”

“But what about the Great Library? The scrolls we tried to capture that same night?” interjected Devin sharply, noticing his father’s sudden will to change the subject. A familiar gleam of warning in Lodan’s eyes pushed the rest of the Argente’s tirade back into his throat. “I… am sorry, father.”

“No matter, Devin,” Lodan smoothly stroked flat the impending argument. “The scrolls were never… really important. The knowledge they contained is already here,” and his index finger ticked against his forehead to clarify. “It’s really nothing to worry about,” he enunciated darkly as Devin made another attempt at starting discussion. Devin stood motionless, and for a while it seemed that he would utter his questions anyway, but then he nodded in resignation. Lodan slapped his son’s shoulder in approval.

“Very well. Anzala, if any news of Frederick reaches us, the Argente family will inform you. Devin, I need you to go after that lazy magician, Oggis. He took a loan from us several months ago and still shows no intention of paying it back.” He spoke rather quickly, and then waved the two away while bending over several pieces of paper sprawled all over his desk. End of conversation. Devin made a minimal gesture with his head, and together with Anzala he left his father’s office. He was unnaturally silent as they made their way back to the Chapel of Force, forgetting even to blindfold the female mercenary as they trudged up the stairs to the surface. He narrowly noticed when Anzala bade him farewell, and his own stoic word of goodbye was more of an automatism than processed thought.

Lodan had taken months to prepare a plan to steal the scrolls encased amongst the forbidden tomes of the darkest, deepest part of the Great Library. And now they were unimportant?

No way…

[Devin Argente]

Despite the feeling of being left out on something gnawing at his spine from time to time, everyday life seemed to resume its usual slur. Magician Oggis was easily dealt with: having two fingernails ripped from his hands had provided the arrogant entrepreneur with enough incentive to pay back the entire loan at once, plus a small amount of gold to show his gratitude to the family. Apparently, no new jobs were on offer in the Sanctuary, and so, Devin’s life consisted mostly of strolling through the town aimlessly, drinking here, laughing there – absolutely not the kind of life he was used to having. He had not seen Lodan Argente again since their previous meeting, two days after what had become known as the Scrollseekers’ Setback. It was as though his father were purposefully keeping him at a distance, a thought that only fueled Devin’s assumption that Lodan was hiding something. Although that secrecy was very worrying in itself, the fact that Devin could not remember a single situation wherein Lodan Argente had not told him the truth made these events even more disconcerting.

To make matters worse, his inquiries as to the truth behind the mysterious Order of Argent had yielded not even the remotest result. The Argente’s personal library made no mention of it in any of the family’s chronicles, and although present in several shady, historical tomes, none of the Great Library’s books actually detailed the Order’s goal or its members. Unable to directly communicate with his father, Devin had left Lodan several letters wherein he politely asked for information about this ‘insignificant part of Corone’s history’, as he so euphemismically put it. He had not received reply. Did his estranged father have something to do with this Order? Devin knew that he would not attain the answer unless he broke into the Great Library. Again. On his own. Although it was not an enjoyable prospect, his curiosity eventually overcame his fear of being besieged by shadow anew, and within days, the brilliant Argente started planning the infiltration.

The premise was simple: security was tight around the forbidden areas of the library, even at night, but Devin knew from the family’s previous attempt that there were no magical wards in place. That left the guardsmen and the locked door in his way. Making a way around fatigued, unmotivated warriors would merely require some quick wit and strange sounds at the right times. It would be more difficult to get past the thick wooden door. Lockpicks probably wouldn’t work. There was of course the possibility of ramming it down, but that would leave gross evidence and could alarm sleeping civilians, not to mention entice the diverted guards to return to their posts. And then there was the problem of the scroll itself: he would not be able to take it and leave. If he did, determinate investigation would ensue, and being captured would be more of an expectancy than probability. Even the family’s protection would not be able to get him out of such a mess. No, he would have to read its contents on the spot.

And he would need help…


~*~*~*~

Although night had fallen over an hour ago, Radasanth’s temperature proved rather complacent on the night of the heist, and albeit that he knew better than to believe in favourable auguries, Devin could not help but be enlivened by its commodious embrace. His fingers slid along the Library’s white wall as he encircled the building casually. No living soul was around to see him slip into the alleyway that led to the Library’s rear wall. Although there was no entryway there, there had always been an open window on the construction’s third story. Looking up, Devin saw relieved that this had not changed with time. Standing beneath the indent nearly ten yards above, the Argente son leaned against the wall, waiting. It was up to his allies to make sure the way was clear before he took action. His attire had not changed, but he wore a special belt with several small vials attached to it. Each tiny flask accomodated different contents, though their properties were hard to ascertain amidst the darkness Devin had concealed himself in.

Timorous tinge overcame his spine as he heard stumbling in front of the building. Mazek Contempous, the sculpted Fallien whom he had entrusted with his contrivances, was boisterously knocking on the Library’s front gate. Devin smiled. Since the only guards in the Library were the ones patrolling around the Forbidden Section, some of them would be forced to leave their posts to discover the source of the noise, and do something about it. Under the pretense of being drunk, the Fallien associate would then attempt to stumble into the Library, singing loudly, keeping the guardsmen busy, thinning out protection around Devin’s destination. Of course, charges would be filed against the Fallien on account of drunken vandalism and disturbing of public order, but considering Corone’s flawed judicial system, as well as the fact that there were bigger fish for the government to catch, it would not take the Argente family much time, money or effort to get the mercenary free again. He heard the heavy front door open, the angry voices of several infiuriated guards. A sonata of otherworldly baritones roiled through the streets moments after, indicating that Mazek had started his chanting, and Devin’s expression tightened. The time had come.

He stood one pace away from the wall, able to touch it with his fingertips. Making sure he was positioned directly below the window on the top floor, Devin silently unclasped one of the tempered glass vials from his belt. A small puff of white smoke circled up into the air, smelling strangely like eucalyptus. In a single movement, he threw the flask’s contents down his throat, made a face at its foul taste, and swallowed it as quickly as possible. Its effects were instant; Devin sensed everything around him in perfect harmony, his sight sharper, his taste sweeter. Worries of other events were pushed to the back of his mind, leaving only the bare necessities he required for the audacious act he was about to perform. He stepped closer to the wall, stretching his arms towards the star-filled sky, and closed his eyes. Within the confines of his genius, the white wall was smoothly converted to simple numeric values – all simple constants, as stiff and sturdy as the stonework they represented. Devin dove into an even deeper focus. His imagination added two poles, about two feet apart from each other, leading all the way up to the open window. Between those newly crafted, elongated beams, equal distances apart, he imagined trustworthy sports, horizontal staves that could carry his weight. Sweat pearled on his forehead – adding hallucinations to reality was a tiresome job indeed.

His outstretched hands closed to fists – but not entirely, for where once there had been naught, now ruled the tangible support of a wooden stave. Somewhere in the back of his mind, repressed strongly by the concentration-enhancing potion, the Argente knew that there was no ladder visible: not to him, and not to outsiders. But it was there, and that was what mattered. With muscles tensed not of physical, but of mental strain, he slowly climbed the imaginary tool, feeling the air get colder and the breeze harsher against his face as he ascended along the Library’s wall. It seemed to take eons before he finally reached the point where the ladder ended. Soundlessly, Devin crawled into the indented window, dropping to the corridor and hiding anxiously in the myriad shadows roaming its corners. No guard visible. A soft sigh escaped Devin’s lungs and he allowed himself a moment to recover from the hallucination that had tailored him here, wiping the sweat from his brow. The potion’s precipitate was quickly fading, only to be replaced by a powerful headache.

Devin put the uncomfortable feeling aside. He had succeeded in entering the building without being noticed – the first stage of his plan had worked out fine. Now, if Mazek could keep the guards busy for another few minutes, he would be well inside the Forbidden section, reading the contents of the scrolls his father had so direly wished to possess. With that encouraging thought in mind, Devin started sneaking to the other end of the corridor. It was only a short way from here to the area with proscribed literaries – left at the end of this hallway, then the first corridor to the right, if he recalled the Argente family’s blueprint correctly. It was quite fortunate that the floor was covered in thick, crimson carpet: it formed a buffer for the padding of his steps. When he reached the end of the hallway, he took a good look around, not so much interested in the many scrolls and posters hanging from the aisle’s alabaster walls, as an eventual patrol that might turn his plans awry. When he discovered none, he proceeded slowly, his back clinging to the rightmost wall.

Peculiarly, Devin encountered no guards until he reached the Forbidden Section’s actual entrance: and even there, only one middle-aged man stood sentry, an oil lamp on the small table next to his post providing some much-needed illumination. Judging from the early gray streaks in his otherwise blond hair, and the continuous frowning of his brows, this was not his first time standing watch here. Devin’s stomach contracted as he deliberately scraped his nails across the wall behind him, causing a raw sonority to try and lure the guard towards him. He backed off slightly, creeping into the corner he’d just come from. His heart beat so loudly he could’ve sworn it would give away his position. Everything seemed to pass in a haze as he slipped a thick, black glove around his right hand. The guard peeked around the corner, eyed the halway suspiciously – at one time even looked the Argente straight in the eye, causing a hint of panic in Devin’s mind. After several terrifying seconds, however, the guard turned around, clearly returning to his station.

Devin immediately took action. He sneaked as swiftly as he could. Fortunately, the sentry did not seem in much of a hurry to return to his post, so it was only a matter of moments before the young Argente had caught up with him. His feet shuffled over the carpet. Audibly. The sentry looked over his shoulder, but too late, as Devin’s forearm had already closed around his unprotected neck. The surprised man opened his mouth to scream, but his act was much-anticipated, and immediately the thick glove entered his mouth. Saliva dripped over the Argente’s wrist as he reached deeper into the guard’s throat, caressing the man’s bulging uvula with his middle finger until the sentry’s body began to spasm uncontrollably. Devin quickly retracted his gloved claw as the man spewed hopelessly, unable to utter a sound as the virulent stream of sour fluid escaped his mouth. The Argente quickly took off the glove and struck the man’s jugulars with the sides of both his hands, effectively interrupting the flow of oxygen to the brain. The result was commendable: the sentry fell to the floor with a soft thud, his face lying partly in his own spew. Devin took a moment to listen to his surroundings. Nothing. Success.

He again donned the saliva-covered glove, reached for his belt, and retrieved a small, long-necked flask. In the shimmer of the nearby lamp, an emerald green fluid could be discerned. Absinthe. Devin repressed a malicious chortle as he gazed down upon his unfortunate victim. Drinking on the job? This one would be fired within days, on grounds of proof that Devin would provide at this very moment. He shrugged in indifference as he poured part of the alcoholic spirit into the foul-reeking vomit, mixing it with the guard’s own, limp hand. At least the guy wasn’t dead. Careful not to touch the vial for fear of leaving fingerprints, he slowly let it slip into one of his victim’s pockets. Perfect. Stepping cautiously around the scene of unvoluntarily feigned drunkenship, Devin proceeded to face the thick, blackwooden door leading to the cruelest, darkest readings available in the Great Library of Radasanth.

The lock was indeed not pickable, as the Argente had presumed. Although the lock itself was a normal mechanism by all means, it could only be opened by entering a code of five numerical values by rotating the quintet of brown, circular devices on the large, golden handle. Even Lodan’s initial plan had made no mention of such a code. However, Devin was quick to notice that, since the door was only opened on the most auspicious of occasions, most numbers engraved upon the rotating plates were weathered, and hardly legible. Such were the blessings of neglect for a thief. It took him less than a minute to figure out the correct combination, which was accompanied by a soft click as the strong metal lock retracted itself into the door, allowing Devin to enter the room he had so longed to be inside.

At first sight, the chamber was quite chaotic, desks and bookstands strewn around the place in no apparent order. The floor here was of black marble, and every footstep reverberated with an echo so loud that Devin expected additional sentries to storm into the room any second. The walls, formerly as white as any of the Library’s other masonry, were a faded yellow, mostly covered with bescrawled parchment, written in languages Devin could not understand. The temperature was rather low, the air he breathed tasting wry, ancient. It took a while before he found the “A” of Argente, where he would begin his search. But once he had found the correct bookstand, the scroll he needed was not hard to identify, for its seal was a large icon covered in silvery mist. Devin took a step backwards instinctively as faint fear drilled through his ribcage.

It was an eye covered in silvery mist.

[Devin Argente]

Devin’s hand trembled as he removed the dirty glove and took hold of the thick scroll of ancient parchment. The seal, the whispers of the wretched wraith, Frederick’s argent glare. It could not be coincidence. With care, he carried the brittle papyrus over to a nearby desk, where he unrolled it in shaky anticipation. The words on the paper were written by hand, but definitely not by a chronicler or historian, for the symbols were messy, cluttered together and barely recognizable. Cursing underbreath at the lack of a lamp or other source of light, the Argente brought his eyes very close to the venerable document, plagued by both nervosity at the limited amount of time he had and an abrupt vexation at the author’s lack of commitment to writing an actually legible annal. As his hazel orbs deciphered the first few sentences, however, Devin noticed that the writing was not as much a recountal or delineation as it was a – slightly impersonal – diary.



Recounting the final year of the Order – by Hirdán Argente


Devin’s heart jumped straight through his ribcage upon recognizing the writer’s surname. Had the wraith been telling the truth after all? But why? Wasn’t this malevolent spirit his enemy, the nemesis of his family, as it had clearly proclaimed itself? Ablaze with curiosity, the young Argente continued reading, although he could feel a glower of aversion blooming within himself as he uncovered more and more secrets. Fear of past events. Fear of the truth.



It is strange that I should write the first words of my narration at the end of the story it recites… But let me not waste time with irony. The Order of Argent. A brotherhood, family almost, dedicated to exterminating the supernatural. Ghosts. Vampires. Mages. The Order consisted of nine members, and only nine. When one died, he or she was succeeded by the one most suited for the position. Although joining the Order could prove profitable, an oath of secrecy prevented anyone who joined from leaving or even speaking of the Order in public. Through these oaths, the true roots of the Order have remained a mystery even to myself. But I know what our task on Althanas is. I know what my enemy is. Magic.


Devin swallowed heavily and lifted his head in an attempt to clear his mind. The information was myriad, but very much cluttered together, as though Hirdán had attempted to disclose as much facts about the Order as possible, his nonbeautified sentences bordering on incoherence. Magic as their enemy? Had his ancestors been magehunters? Judging from the text – assuming that it was accurate, of course – that was indeed the case. But how did that relate to the business of the current Argente family? Wealth, power, those were their goals. Although none of its closest members truly pursued the understanding or use of magic, mages amongst the family’s associates were plentiful. Their spells could be considered helpful most of the time. Hatred? No. Well, the ‘black mage’ Lodan had had executed was an exception. But even if Devin did not believe that mage had been the one controlling Frederick, the man had still been an enemy of the family. And enemies had to die, magically gifted or not. And Oggis? That man was a walking charade, a fraud. Not really a mage. Or was he? Noticing that he’d absent-mindedly read – but not understood – the next part of the text, the Argente tracked back to the last word his mind had imbibed. Magic.



Alas, not everyone supports us in our strivings. Wizards fall easily to our imbued blades, adhering foolishly to their codes of conduct even on the battlefield. But warlocks and necromancers do not fancy death as much as their more pure-hearted counterparts. Although resistant to their direct spells, even a fully trained Argent Brother cannot hope to prevail against a horde of undead. One vile caster in particular has apparently set his sights on the order. Arghazabad is his name, although he is more commonly known by title: the Skull of Radasanth. He sends waves of undead to ravage our headquarters; our oaths may be binding in life, but cannot protect the minds of our dead from one who excercises necrotic divination, a talent thought long lost even amongst necromancers themselves. Our headquarters cannot withstand the onslaught, even with the alabaster spires of Draconius watching over the surface that lies directly above it.


The Temple of Draconius? So not only his own heritage, but the family’s entire base of operations could be traced back to the Order? He hesitated for a moment, shivered uncontrollably, heard sounds that were not there. He hoped fiercely that no guards would walk in on him at this moment, interrupt him, deprive him of the knowledge he craved. What had become of the Order and the powerful necromancer that had so fiercely opposed it? His eyes scanned down to the final block of text.



And as the deathless servants of Arghazabad wail through the hollow caverns of our sacred grounds, I prepare to make my final stand. Rethor died defending the entranceway in the Chapel, slain cowardly, from behind, after taking down nearly a thousand foul intruders. I have sealed the final Argente weapons not yet in Arghazabad’s possession within a cube crafted of anti-magic. My blades, now outside of time, will not feel the stain of that necrotic’s besmudged claw. I will fight them with my bare hands. I will die. But I rest easy as long as our final artifact is where Arghazabad cannot reach it.


And finally, centered at the very bottom of the page, text stood thinly noted in unprosaic form.



Silver fangs, set free from rust
Soul of the Father, fiery and just
Mind of the Offspring, give freely he must
Blood of the Maiden, the sole he could trust


Disappointment drew over him like a veil of oozing shadows. Lots of information about the Order of Argent, yes, but nothing that could aid him remotely in finding out and stopping whatever it was that had controlled Frederick Russet. Hidden weapons? Pah. Myth. Cryptic rhyming? It seemed as though his ancestor was very much different from Lodan Argente and his son. Messages had to be short and, above all, clear – that was the only way to prevent failure. Meanings bound into vocal harmonies were often praedicative, subject to the individual hearing them. Subject messages could therefore inherently bear no truth. The heavy breath of a person walking along the hallway awakaned him from his enraged mutterings. A curse. The ‘drunk’ guard had probably been found. Silently and quickly, Devin rolled the scroll back into its original state, reattached the silver seal, and put it back where it belonged. Waiting until the patrol’s angry snorting had disappeared to get help or report to his superiors, the Argente carefully opened the heavy door and sneaked back into the shadows.

He quickly made his way back to the window, not nearly as nervous as when he’d entered. Indeed, entering a state of hallucination to form a ladder proved not only painless this time, but also strangely distant, as though he were doing so automatically. Standing upon the cobblestones of the alley below, Devin decided that he would go and see Anzala tomorrow. It was her brother that had been affected by the mysterious force, after all. If he brought her this rhyme, at least she would know that he hadn’t neglected the loss of her sibling.

And as nocturnal commotion around the unconscious guard in the Great Library of Radasanth commenced, Devin helplessly made his way back to the Sanctuary, only to lie down on his bed and fade into a hopeless, dreamless sleep.

[Devin Argente]

Sunrise had yet to rear its faintgolden luster when a particularly unsettled Devin strolled up the downtrodden path to Anzala’s temporary residence. It was rather luxurious compared to the other precarious constructions found on the city’s outskirts, with unmarred stone walls and a charcoal-coloured roof that would not leak in the strongest storm. Mercenary work had definitely not left Anzala Russet in poverty. Devin took a deep breath and knocked on the door, a piece of parchment with the mysterious rhyme on it clenched steadily within his moving fist. While he awaited a response, he took a good look around the area. These quarters were commonly known as thieves’ districts; city guards were hardly ever found patrolling here, and criminality ran rampant throughout its unpaved roads. It was the side of Radasanth its government did not want outsiders to see. The side where the Argente family recruited most of its lesser associates. Devin was disturbed in his observations by a faint click and the shrieking of the wooden door’s mechanism, and he quickly turned his head to face the smaller woman standing in the doorway, her eyes a glittering green inquiry in regards to his early visitation.

He concentrated on not letting his jaw drop. Anzala had clearly not been expecting anyone. Her redbrown hair had not been combed or even put in any kind of fashionable style, making it look awkwardly much like his own. She was wearing naught but some sleeping robes and underwear – or so Devin hoped. He felt his cheeks turn warmer, and the thought of turning red in the face made him even more embarassed, but she only smiled and beckoned him inside. He sat silently on one of the three chairs around the living room’s center table. She begged his pardon to go and change into a more fitting attire. The Argente very much approved of that initiative, for the woman’s voluptuous movements and rather… eloquent… dress cluttered his otherwise mathematical wonder of a mind. As she returned in her light armor and with hair falling over her shoulders like a soft fan of chestnut, Devin felt much more comfortable, placing the parchment in the middle of the table and shoving it her way in a very business-like manner.

“What is this?” she asked in unsure voice after reading over the rhyme several times.

“It’s what I found in the Library,” Devin stated casually. Seeing that Anzala wanted to say something, probably pertaining to the rumors spreading over the streets about a lack of ‘good guards’ to defend the Library’s Forbidden Section from burglars, he quickly added: “it’s from the scroll we were all after, that night. What my father longed to possess, back then. The wraith… the wraith told us that it would somehow help me understand my enemy, understand what happened to Frederick, but I can’t make anything of it. Can you?” He concluded in query, but he was afraid he already knew the answer.

She shook her head moments after glancing over the parchment once more. Her eyes had turned dim the moment her brother had been mentioned. “No. I’m sorry,” she whispered and fell still. Minutes passed before she spoke again. “Your father sent me a message just moments before you arrived. That’s why I was awake to open the door for you. It seems that they found Frederick. He’s… he’s badly injured, but Lodan says that the healer he hired will fix him up and release him from his feral state…”

“I suppose I will go with you. After all, what happened to Frederick could happen to any in league with the family right now,” he weakly supported her, but she seemed grateful for his proposal, and so it was that they later walked side-by-side to the Chapel of Force, wherein they would once again descend the dark stairway to the Argente Sanctuary.

The healer’s room was situated quite close to Lodan Argente’s office. For an area of treating and curing patients, Devin found it rather void of equipment. A single bed stood in the middle of the room, Frederick’s slender frame strapped upon it, the black bands that restained him trembling as the possessed Russet relentlessly attempted to break free. The walls were blank, save for a single scroll hanging from the ceiling, detailing the ins and outs of a human body tanned by the bright, golden lamp in the corner of the quarter. Devin immediately recognized the healer – not in person, but by function – for he bore a long beard and was studying a book entitled “Exorcist” with determined blue orbs. Two guards stood posted at both sides of the door the duo had arrived through. The healer seemed not to notice them at first, and when he finally looked up from his scriptures, he seemed rather aggravated at the sudden arrival of a crowd.

“Don’t know… could take… incredibly difficult,” were some of the groaning mumbles Devin could distinguish between the endless, gloomy string of annoyed tones, and he felt it wiser not to inquire further.

Putting down the book on a small, round table next to Frederick’s bed, the healer bade them to be absolutely silent: a redundant gesture, seeing how not even the faintest echo resounded from Devin’s or Anzala’s lips. Nigh royally, he stood over a feral Frederick, heaving both arms in a priest-like manner, and whispering in an unknown language. Although his vocals sounded stronger and more sonorous with each passing heartbeat, the room’s atmosphere did not really change, making the healer’s baneful gestures rather theatrical. Devin would have thought the man a fraud if it hadn’t been his own father that had hired him in the first place. Needless to say that the young Argente was rather amazed when Frederick, whose visible skin had been harshly torn by his continuous struggling, calmed down and closed his eyes. The bearded mage stopped his ominous chanting and looked down upon his patient, smiling. Devin could feel Anzala’s hand reaching for his, squeezing tightly as her brother opened his eyes again. A light shade of brown. Back to normal.

“It… it hurts,” the young Russet coughed, lying completely still.

“Sssh, ye’ve been through a lot,” spoke the healer with his croaky but authoritarian voice. “It’s best if ye rest now. I’ve got ye a…”

“No!” Frederick interjected wildly, his dry throat causing the outcry to evolve into a high-pitched shriek of near-desperate candor. “I need to pass the Argente’s son a message! It told me to!” His face contorted into a mask of pain as he wriggled to enunciate the urgency of his yearning. Devin and Anzala’s hands parted as he looked at her, bewildered. All she returned was a mirror of his own amazement – and perhaps even a sense of accusation, blaming him for her brother’s agony. Devin walked over to the bed, ignoring as the healer gestured and plead him to stay back and let the boy rest. He firmly grasped the younger Russet’s hand and spoke with firm voice.

“I’m right here.” Hearing Devin’s voice changed something in Frederick, and the boy glanced at him peculiarly, his eyes glazy, as though he were hypnotized once more. While the healer scrambled for his book on excorcism, Frederick uttered the following words, monotone but still his own: ”The meaning of the rhyme that drove you blind, in the Lower Hall of Argh-Ante you will find.”

The boy’s eyes returned to normal, and his body finally became calm. Devin was still holding the boy’s hand. The wraith knew about his endeavours. The wraith knew what he sought. And it was helping him find it, even though it had announced itself hostile to the family’s cause. Somewhere, something was not right, not at all. His mind worked frenetically, trying to find some sense to it all, but a mathematical approach would not yield any results. It was only when the abashed healer forcefully removed his own hand from Frederick’s that the Argente sprung into action. Whatever the mind-possessing ghoul’s intentions were, no matter how terrible the true history of his ancestors and the The Order of Argent, he had to know: his eternal thirst for knowledge proved supreme to his inbred caution. He nodded at Anzala, who had silently shuffled over to his brother’s side, sitting at the sleeping boy’s side, looking confused yet relieved, indicating that he had to go. She did not look up.

Very few people knew what the fuction of the Lower Hall of the Sanctuary was, and Devin was not amongst those individuals. After travelling through myriad hallways, leading deeper and deeper from the actual, populated part of the Argente headquarters, each new stairway getting progressively colder, the beautiful mosaics slowly making place for unhewn and barely lit rock walls, he finally reached the final manifestation of ancient grandeur that the Sanctuary still possessed. The Lower Hall was a fairly large, cubic chamber. The walls were rendered nearly invisible by the smooth columns that reached up to the natural ceiling. As he entered, four giant edifices of flame fired up in the corners of the hall, bathing the browngray stone in an ocean of orange effulgence. Rubble lay strewn about the floor, but acenter the cavern stood a finely crafted, jagged pedestal. Upon it stood a flask, filled with an unearthly, silver liquid that glew more fiercely than the surrounding fires.

And as Devin approached and reached out to grasp the mesmerizing vial…

It shattered violently.

[Devin Argente]

In a reflex, Devin threw himself to the dusty floor, his arms covering his face, his eyes tightly squinted to protect against the hundreds of glass splinters flying overhead. When he removed the protective barrier of flesh and bone from afront his features, he bore witness to an utmost peculiar sight: the silvery liquid that had been inside the vial had not been splattered around the hall like its container. Instead, the gooey silver formed an argent puddle atop the pedestal, droplets dribbling off its sides slowly, virulently. Devin crawled back, frightened, but also slightly disquisitive as to the reason for this unnatural phenomenon. Getting to his feet, he eyed the silver-colored altar carefully. Ghoosebumps itched over his arms and neck. He shivered, as though the hall had suddenly turned unnaturally cold; a part of him told him to run away, get out of this place. Another, more powerful voice commanded him to stay. To investigate.

He tread closer, slowly, careful not to touch the silver-engulfed pylon. His pale skin bathed in argent light, and it was only light, accompanied by heat nor smell. As he gazed upon the pedestal, he felt rather dreamy, as though all thoughts had been wiped from his mind. Somehow, that feeling coaxed Devin into entering a state of hallucination. It did not take any effort – he almost automatically slid into his world of numeric values. But instead of finding himself in a room full of constants and variables as usual, the Lower Hall enfolding him was completely blank. Bedazzlement. Why? His eyes were drawn to the pedestal once more: the argent glow had not faded. Instead, it appeared to have gained in intensity, burning into Devin’s mental eye, and yet the young Argente could not remove his sight from the silver-coated pylon. For hovering several inches above the smooth column’s top was a twosome of silvery blades. They resembled daggers, but the blade was broader, more triangular. And instead of a haft, the downside of both weapons was comprised of a hollow cylinder of reinforced wood. Horizontal handles equal to the diameter of those spirals were connected to the armsheaths, an inch under the actual blade. Devin recognized the exotic design: these were katars, handblades. He reached out and effortlessly removed Hirdan Argente’s blades from their station outside space and time, and as soon as he slid the wooden cylinders around his lower arms and took hold of the katars’ handles, the silvery pylon returned to its normal, dull self.

Could this be what the rhyme was…?

“Well done, Devin,” resounded a sonorous voice behind him, disturbing his thoughts, veiling his utter confusion.

“Father?” the wild-haired youngster queried while turning around, startled. In rhetoric, for he indeed recognized Lodan Argente’s long, argentate hair, his royal posture, the gray eyes which now thundered with elation and – could it be – a sense of triumph? Devin could see that his father was eyeing the weapons wrapped around his hands greedily. Well done? How would he know? Why was he here? What was this all about? It was almost as if Lodan did not even notice he was there, his gaze focused on the katars.

“For so long, now…” Lodan whispered as he slowly walked closer to the pedestal.

“Father, what is this all about?” Devin nearly panicked, forcing himself out of hallucination to assure himself that this was truly happening. His father halted, looked into his eyes with disapproving glare, accusing him of intruding on a very intimate moment.

“This, Devin, is about power,” he spoke, belittling his ignorance. “Unlimited power and the means to achieve it.” The gray eyes flared up dangerously. Lodan took one step closer to his son. “Now remove the katars and give them to me. I will provide the family with all the might she requires. Baz’h’akh!”

The ancient outcry made Devin veer backwards in terror, hitting his lower back against the rough edges of the pylon. He crawled up to his feet, observing his father cautiously. His father? No. Lodan Argente did not use forgotten languages. Lodan Argente would not have risen to power through acquiring a simple weapon, magical or not. This was not his progenitor. The furious gray orbs in his fake-father’s skull betrayed him: Lodan Argente’s eyes were cold, calculating. This being’s sight was spoiled with rage, with impatience. The young Argente slid his right foot back, heaving his katar-enhanced arms in battle-ready position. His hazel eyes were grim, but determined.

“Stand back, wraith!” he shouted defensively. All he got in return was laughter, hideous laughter, awfully recognizable.

“So you finally figured it out,” came a hoarse voice from Lodan Argente’s vocal chords, but it was not his father’s. It was the same, disdaining sonance that Frederick Russet’s lips had spawned during his possession. The gray eyes turned to opals of deepest onyx. “I would have expected you to make this discovery far earlier.” A chuckle. “I mean, the risks I took… Executing the black mage, mutilating Oggis the magician… Allowing Frederick Russet to be treated by a healer not on the Argente’s trusted list… But that does not matter, now. You have done what I needed you to do. Now give me the Katars of Argh’ante!”

“W-What?” was the sole, weak squeak Devin could muster. The Lodan-wraith laughed again, louder this time, the dark roiling of its unhilarity spreading in jade echoes throughout the hall. The temperature tangibly decreased, the great fires in the cavern’s corners grew dim.

“Baz’h’akh! Don’t you see?” the wraith uttered throughout its self-indulgence. “You were but a tool! I allowed your father to view the scroll, imbibe its knowledge, that faithful night in the Great Library. Moments after, I possessed his unsuspecting soul and sent my ghouls to hunt his associates, through shadow. Reviewing the contents of the rhyme you also know, I quickly called off their hunt on you.”

“What? But… why?” Devin asked, confused, not noticing that the camouflaged wraith was stepping closer once more.

“Because I needed the last weapon of Argh’ante!” black-eyed Lodan continued its tirade. “Who told you to inspect the scroll in the Library, having you discover the rhyme yourself? I did. Who was it that possessed Frederick, had him return here? Who withdrew from the boy the moment that pathetic excuse for a healer uttered his useless incanctations? I did. Who reminded you, through the young Russet, to visit the Lower Hall? I did. Who placed your father's lost soul in a flask and basically prepared the entire ritual required for obtaining the katars? Baz’h’akh! And now you stand here, bearing the weapons that I have longed to possess for a long, so long a time.” He nearly drooled as he finished his monologue.

Devin stood aghast. This could not be true. It just… couldn’t. “Who are you?” he demanded grimly.

The wraith twisted Lodan’s face from a triumphant smile into a hideous grimace. A heartbeat after, the skin turned black as charcoal, crumbled off at the edges. Flesh curled up in rapid decay, teeth fell to the floor. The entire body grew larger, with strong musculature covered by no skin. Arms and legs elongated, fingers became hideous claws of shadow and blood. But amidst the metamorphosis, those black, black eyes remained, gazing at him malevolently. Devin trembled, paralyzed by a fear he could not repress. Great, black wings sprouted from the newly formed creature’s back. The fires were completely extinguished, leaving only a terrified Devin and the carnivorous shadow to feast on his remains. The creature’s voice was now a gruff grumble, shaking the Hall’s very foundations as it roared in a thousand voices:

“I am… The Ruler of the Dead!”

“I am… The Skull of Radasanth!”

“I am… Arghazabad!”

[Devin Argente]

Standing face to face with the necromancer that had threatened his ancestors for so many decades, Devin’s fear – strangely enough – slowly abated. Its throne was usurped by simple reasoning: if it were his destiny to die here, this day, at the hands of his vile nemesis, then there was no use in being terrified. Terrified of the pain, perhaps, but not of the unchangeable. But even as he silently acknowledged his impending doom, the young Argente was determined to make his last stand a legendary one. Alike his great-great-grandfather Hirdán, who fought this deathly abomination barehandedly, he would not yield to the magical terror Arghazabad inspired. He looked down upon his blades – they seemed crafted from phosphorescent diamonds in the overshadowing darkness of the beast, empowered by his resolve, and Devin in turn felt blessed by the presence of the katars. He emptied his mind once more, slipping into a new hallucination, and where once was but a trail of fear, now there was naught. He shifted his right foot backward even more, one katar outstretched, pointing at the vile necromancer’s skull-like features. The other blade hovered near his face, a poor defence against the blackened claws that could rip him in half with one, firm strike.

Arghazabad laughed so loudly that dust rained from the high ceiling. “Hahaha. Baz’h’akh! The whelp seeks to test himself! Haha!” Devin ignored the scorning sneer, but even in his concentration, he was not swift enough to avoid the virulent ray of blackness that shot from Arghazabad’s mouth. It hit him square in the chest, sending him tumbling through the sky, over the pedestal. All air had been ripped from his lungs, and he could not muster the power to get up. Helplessly, he lay still, waiting until his breathing resumed its regular pace again. The beast slowly tread closer, confident that victory lay within its reach. Yet all Argentes were known for their sheer determination, and if there was one prospect that Devin despised, then it was to see his ancestor’s blades in the necromancer’s paws. As a shadowy claw smashed down for the final blow, he rolled to the side and crawled to his feet. He sprinted for the exit as fast as he possibly could.

A glimpse of blackness in the corner of his eye. He jumped up, imagined a hovering platform for his left foot to land on, and jumped even higher from that hallucination-induced carrier. The claw smashed into the wall to his left, creating a giant, blinding cloud of flying rubble and gray smoke. The Argente did not notice it, however, for he kept running for the Lower Hall’s entrance. It lay nearly within reach. Another of Arghazabad’s attacks, accompanied by an annoyed growl on the necromancer’s part, barely missed him, smashing into the wall-lining columns once more. Devin neared the portal to relative safety, from where he would seek help. He would bring the family, and he would…

BANG!

He unsoftly collided head-first with a wall of deep blackness. Dazed, he crawled to his feet, and saw to his despair that the vile veil that had stopped him covered the entire entranceway, blocking any possible exit. He hopelessly rammed his fists against the unyielding forcefield. A hideous chortle echoed through the hallway. Devin turned around. He was immediately greeted by a sharp claw of black flesh closing around his throat, lifting him off his feet. One squeeze would be enough to rip his head off, but the malicious glare in Arghazabad’s crepuscular orbs suggested that the necromancer would rather watch him suffocate, grin evilly as the drops of life escaped from the Argente’s grasp. He put the katars into the darkened flesh, piercing it, but it did not seem to hurt the beast in the least. In vain, he kept fighting, his hallucinated state forbidding him from suffering any fear. But in the end, a veil of vague images flooded over his eyes, his hearing went blurry, his breathing came with bigger and bigger pauses, until it eventually… stopped.

ZHHHHIIINNG!

The fierce sound gave him a moment of clarity, more because it was completely unexpected than for any other reason. The grip around his throat loosened. A bolt stuck deep into Arghazabad’s arm, and the beast cried out in anguish. Devin wrestled himself loose, slicing through fingers with his katars, regaining his concentration. The necromancer had temporarily withdrawn to the other side of the cavern, obsessively caressing the wound that the crossbow bolt had left. A black crossbow bolt. From behind a pillar near the left wall, a familiar form trudged forward, another arrow already loaded upon her lethal weapon, her green eyes fixed coldly upon the vile wraith’s form. Devin did not know how Anzala had gotten here when she should have been upstairs with her brother, but he was grateful that fate had arranged the mercenary’s life differently. She must have followed him here.

“Baz’h’akh! Foolish wench!” Arghazabad roared as he turned to the elder Russet. “Your soul will make a fine addition to my collection!” Devin knew what would happen, and he raised his hands, beckoning Anzala to get out of the way, but too late. Stunned by a horror to which she had no efficient, logical defence, like himself, Arghazabad’s lightning-quick clawing ripped straight through her side, piercing her dark, leather armor as though it were cottonspun. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened, but no scream galloped forth from her lips. Instead, a gurgle of pain echoed off the Lower Hall’s columns. Arghazabad laughed at her jeeringly as she fell to the floor. Time seemed to pass in a haze. Devin felt something bashing against the outer reaches of his self-induced state of void. An emotion begging to be let past. He ran over to the woman who now lay in an ever-enlarging pool of blood. She looked him straight in the eye, but her thoughts registered nothing, so she did not react to his desperate queries, the tapping of his hand on her shoulder. Rage threatened to overcome the young Argente.

He repressed it. Concentration sharpened, augmented by a foreign force. Part of Devin was amazed, but then he recalled the rhyme: Soul of the Father, fiery and just – the vial with the silver liquid had uncovered the position of the katars for him. Mind of the Offspring, give freely he must – he had only been able to acquire the weapons because of his ability for hallucination.

Blood of the Maiden, the sole he could trust… he looked at the katars. Traces of crimson trickled over the blade, forming intricate patterns and symbols he could not understand. Anzala’s blood was absorbed into the blade, who shown with the power of a star at night. Argent runes lit up on the blade and haft. The handles became warm, uncomfortably so. He turned around to face Arghazabad. His concentration was deeper than ever. He slowly stepped forward and shifted into a position that spoke of eternal assault, of relentless determination. And although his concentration was far too deep to be broken by surprise, Devin saw that he was not alone in his resolve.

Eight ghostly warriors, spawned from the runes in Devin's weapons, surrounded an obviously amazed Arghazabad, yes, frightened even. Thousands of whispers mellifluously floated through the hall, in languages the young Argente could not understand, but all adding to his own bloodlust and that of the spirits, while visibly striking fear into the beast’s heart of darkness. Names and faces from another life seeped into his mind. Rethor Staffwielder, Berenth Irontooth, Naya Smitevexer. They were all assembled here, pointing their myriad different weapons at Arghazabad’s form. The Order of Argent had finally, after two eons of rampant blackmail and petty politics, reassembled for its one, final goal. The vanquishing of magic. Of the evil, arcane energies amassed within the being amidst the warriors’ circle. The flames in the corner of the hall lit up, brightly, with silver core and argent tongues. Devin was the first to storm Arghazabad’s visibly shrunk form, and his allies did not delay in following his, and with it, Hirdán Argente’s lead.

[Devin Argente]

Even with the sudden turnaround, Arghazabad would not yield and perish so easily. The necromancer’s resistance was fierce, but so was the obdurate offense of the Argent Nine. Devin had never fought with anything but bare fists and simple knives, but martial knowledge from ages past oozed through his body, guided his arms as they blocked the necromancer’s blackened limbs and attacked in turn. More arms spawned from the half-decomposed body to fend off the Nine’s assaults, but eventually, Rethor broke through Arghazabad’s guard and shocked his staff into the back of the vile mage’s head. Devin – or moreso, Hirdán – saw his chance and lunged forward, planting both silver-beaming katars into those deep, tormenting eyes of crepuscule. The necromancer gurgled, spastically slapping about with its arms, falling backwards, but Devin did not retract the katars from the eye sockets until Arghazabad lay completely motionless. The Argente panted heavily. A giant headache and a wave of nausea overcame him as Hirdáns augmentative spirit left his mind, leaving him with his own, shallow hallucination. Compared to the near-perfect battle he’d just fought, this basic concentration seemed very much incomplete.

He jumped off the necrotic’s grounded torso, and slowly returned to his normal, unhallucinating self. The warm pressure of emotion amassed itself between his ears immediately. Where was the woman? He turned and looked around the hallway, afraid of what he might see. All the spirits had left the place as soon as the lethal blow was struck, save for one, Tallius Woundknitter. The only person to have ever been known to heal in supernatural ways – without making use of magic. The bearded ghost sat down near Anzala and mumbled harmonious chants. She will be alright, sounded a voice inside his skull, and it was not his own. Tallius knows what he’s doing. So, Hirdán had not entirely left him, after all – Devin smiled. Dozens of questions boiled up in his mind, but it was as though his ancestor sensed his curiosity.

Don’t ask, my blood. Some things are best when found out by oneself.

But why did you help me? Devin wanted to know, hoping that Hirdán would not deprive him of all information.

You are as much part of the Nine as any of us. Since there were no Nine present to help you vanquish Arghazabad’s evil, we decided to lend you a hand, called by the power of the katars and the enchantment I put upon it, so many years ago… And I doubt we will ever appear again. I cannot help but think the Shepherd of the Dead is rather disgruntled with our actions here. A warm chuckle followed those words.

What about the weapons? Devin now thought, and somehow he felt that this would be the final question that Hirdán would respond to. His ancestor’s presence was tangibly fading.

Keep them, Hirdán answered. They are powerful, but only if you have the concentration required to use them to their fullest potential. Perhaps, one day, you will be bound to them as much as I was, once. His voice faded away, his final words only a faint echo of their initial, vocal force. Devin directed more queries his ancestor’s way, but to no avail. The second voice in his mind remained completely silent. He looked Anzala’s way again. Tallius Woundknitter had also dissipated, for his job here was done: the female mercenary lay on the floor, pale and weak, but undoubtedly breathing. Devin tread closer and looked her in the eye. He let go of the handles of the black-bloodened katars. The blades immediately retracted into his dust-covered black sleeves.

“Anzala? You alright?” he gave a rather untactical start.

“N-Not really. What… what happened? I followed you here, and there was this monster,” she started to rattle in reply, a tear running from her left eye. “And I felt myself being pulled away, away from this world, and…”

Devin put a finger on her lips, and helped her stand to her feet. Although he was quite tired himself, she required aid far more than he did, and he would not let her down. “Don’t worry. It’s over,” he whispered in her ear while he carried her out of the entrance, where no black screens or silver eyes hampered them on their way back to life and freedom.

It’s over…

(( Spoils -- The Argent Katars -- These exotic weapons are commonly seen throughout more foreign countries like Fallien, but also found amongst Dark Elf assassins in Alerar. In the past, these Katars have been known to possess incredible, anti-magic power; however, these special abilities are locked away from Devin until he improves his prowess in hallucination and concentration. For now, they are simple katars with the thrusting and slashing power of steel shortswords. ))

[Elrundir]

Story

Continuity – 9/10 – A little puzzling at the start but not so much that the story was hindered noticeably.

Setting – 10/10 – Aside from a technical detail that I mention later on (and that I can’t really subtract points from in this particular category) this was done extremely well. One area you definitely excel in is this description and use of characters and surroundings.

Pacing – 9/10 – For a story that seems to have been about unveiling some family secrets and learning about one’s origins, you have fulfilled that goal admirably.

Character

Dialogue – 8/10 – Probably one of my own weaker categories, I think I could take a note from you on this one. Need I say more? Devin’s own personal dialogue was quite well done, but watch out with characters like the Skull of Radasanth; it can be pretty easy to fall into the trap of corny dialogue. It wasn’t overly prevalent here but it was occasionally noticeable.

Persona – 8/10 – One vibe I definitely got is that Devin is a young man trying to uncover a secret, so he has determination. He has a good mixture of light and darkness in him too, it seems. The only trouble is that in some (particularly isolated) instances it almost seemed… sporadic seems too strong a word, but maybe it gets the point across anyway. Still, he seems like a well-written character and was so here.

Action – 9/10 – I was particularly impressed by the way Devin opened the lock in the library. Admittedly the use of the faded numbers is not something I’d even have thought of. You write his sneaky nature quite well, opting for swiftness, stealth, and secrecy wherever appropriate and possible.

Writing Style

Technique – 9/10 – For such a relatively short quest, this was done very well. In particular, the “silver” theme that so accurately goes along with the family’s name rings pretty clearly here. I would warn against overusing such a thing in the future, but I think you’re safe from that in this instance.

Mechanics – 9/10 – Pretty much flawless, aside from the odd typo here and there, which could be caught with more thorough proof-reading. Still, very well done.

Clarity – 7/10 – “Don’t use a big word when a minuscule one will suffice,” as the saying/half-joke goes. When you start getting particularly descriptive, your writing begins to contain a lot of words that are unnecessarily flowery, and while they’re nice in and of themselves, pile them up on top of each other and it makes the story quite difficult to read. I’m not saying don’t use them; but as with everything, use moderation.

Misc

Wild Card – 8/10 – I just feel the need to tilt this score higher, because the quest is definitely deserving of it. I look forward to future instalments!

TOTAL – 86/100

Rewards:
Devin receives 876 EXP and the Argent Katars!

[Cyrus the virus]

EXP added!

(Good job, man!)