Remnants Long Forgotten...

[Iriah Caitrak]

For many people ghosts are a mere fantasy that does not exist beyond the stories of their youth. They are forever marked as creatures that dwell within the minds of great storytellers, like the ones who paint pictures of vampires and werewolves. The eternal soul and spirit are thought to be real and within the shell of a living body, but when asked about the existence of ghosts people laugh them off as imaginary. The darkened shadows they see from the corner of their eyes are nothing but the light playing tricks on them. That cold brush against their skin was only the wind coming from that closed window and when the hair on the back of their neck stands on end it’s only their imagination. After all, there’s nothing really standing behind them.

Two Days Ago…

It was overcast. The brilliant blue sky was filled with grey clouds that threatened to drench the world below. Now and again the clouds were filled with the distant rumble of an angry God that shattered the dreary day with a strike made to rent the sky in two and pierce the earth. Without the light of the sun everything looked less vibrant, cast in a grey shadow with colours that had long ago bled out to a sad and dull reminder of their former glory. It looked like Purgatory.

Ira wrapped her fingers around the rusted gate that separated her from the crumbling mansion feet beyond. Pieces flaked off into her hand and stained it the colour of dried blood, but she didn’t notice. Her eyes fixed on the building before her. Possibly once a magnificent and grand home of the Lord and Lady who presided over this land, now it was a sad reminder of their rule and the villagers they left behind to fend for themselves. The front garden was left to grow in with the rest of the forest. Small trees had already begun to sprout between weeds, bushes and flowers that attempted to brighten the area in vain. The wood was faded, even in the light of day Ira knew it would be a grey colour from time and weather. Windows were broken and left as gaping holes in the outer surface like blackened eyes looking out at her. Beyond them she could see the occasional curtain fluttering in the wind, but nothing more.

She tugged on the iron wrought fence but it wouldn’t give to her. Whether it was locked or rusted shut she didn’t know. Sighing, the Calerian grabbed a firm hold on the fence and planted one foot and what was once an ornate leaf curling towards the centre. Slowing and carefully she pulled herself up and over the eight-foot fence, dropping down into a crouch on the other side. A certain amount of unease tugged at her from this side of things. Her senses were on alert but she could feel nothing from within. No lingering souls of the dead; not even any from the living.

Walking across cobbled stones overgrown with grass and leafy vegetation she had no name for, Ira slowly approached the front doors. Their wooden faces battered and warped by the elements. The one had long ago buckled and pushed itself open just enough for someone Ira’s size to slip through.

The inside of the mansion had faired only slightly better than the outside. Furniture from the previous owners still lay within, perhaps in their original placement. The first room Ira had walked into was some kind of foyer or hall. The ceiling was well over ten feet tall but the once magnificent chandelier that had graced its roof had long ago crashed to the floor, splintering and shattering the wood. The remnants spread all throughout the room in various sizes and shapes and covered in a fine layer of dust. A grand and sweeping staircase lay at the very back of the room, flanked by two suites of armour still standing guard with spear and shield in hand. The webs of countless spiders stretched between their armaments but they seemed long ago abandoned, just like this house. Tapestries and paintings hung along the walls, some having fallen to the floor. Their images blackened, faded and threadbare. Ira did not have time to examine them.

To the right and left of her were doors leading into other areas of the mansion. Ira went to the one on the left, her footsteps leaving a clear trail in the dust and stirring it up into the already stale air. Trying to open the door proved harder than she first expected. The wood warped and expanded over the years, it was scraping against the floor. Shoving her shoulder against it and hearing the groan of wood rubbing against wood as she forced it open. It broke the silence of the house and sounded uncomfortably loud to her ears but she continued to push until it was open halfway.

The room housed various pieces of furniture. A few chairs and a couch facing a table that all stood before a grand fireplace filled with ash and soot. One of the table’s legs was broken and it now rested upon an angle, all it contents spilt to the floor and shattered. Ira was beginning to think this a waste of her time. There appeared to be no spirits dwelling within this home, she would have sensed them already if there were. Despite being a rather creepy old home that was slowly falling apart, there seemed nothing special about this place. Catching something from the corner of her eye, the Calerian turned just as the door she’d had such a hard time opening slammed shut, the sound ringing in her ears. Her eyes searched the room as she could feel that slight increase in the beat of her heart and the adrenaline begin to rush into her veins. There, she caught a brief glimpse of fluttering material before it disappeared, and again. Turning in a circle, Ira stopped and caught her breath as she almost looked past the soul. Her figure still and floating inches off the floor. The only thing that gave her away was the fact that Ira could see right through her to the wall beyond. The woman’s head was bent down, her hair covering her entire face as her torn dress shifted with the touch of an invisible wind. Forming her Half Swallows in her hands, Ira slowly approached the soul.

Present…

Ira took a drink of the hard liquor before her. She couldn’t remember the name of it, but she didn’t have to in order to enjoy it. It wasn’t ale and it wasn’t wine. She didn’t mind those drinks, but days like today required something a lot stiffer, something that would burn all the way down and this was certainly doing the job. It was also numbing that pain in her shoulder blade. Two days and it still didn’t appear to be going away, she would just have to deal with the bruises. At least she could still use her left arm and her right arm didn’t have a scratch on it. She was lucky. Going through that window could have done a lot more damage than a bruised shoulder blade, some sore muscles and a few cuts.

She needed to go back to that house but she couldn’t do it alone. As much as she hated admitted it, there was no way she could succeed against the souls that dwelled within there. They were like nothing she’d ever fought before. Not only could she not sense them, but at times she couldn’t even see them. How could she defend herself against something she couldn’t see? The Calerian had considered contacting Gereint for help but it would take weeks for another warrior to travel up to Corone from Fallien and then they would have to find this place. It was such a small, out of the way village and few if any had ever even heard of it. Nestled so near to Comb Mountains that it barely received any travellers. That being said, Ira had not been treated with disrespect while she had been here. In fact it was the other way around.

Most of the villagers asked her about events outside their small area, glad to hear of any kind of news from Radasanth. Though she was a foreigner even the small bits and pieces she had picked up there was something to them, they were not at all pleased to hear Corone was in the middle of a civil war.

The mansion was a different matter entirely. None would talk about it and though they suggested she should not go there they did not stop her. She wished they had though, then she wouldn’t be in this mess. But she had a job to do; unfortunately she was going to need a few others to help her accomplish it. What kind of help normal warriors could be to her she wasn’t sure. After all they’d be fighting ghosts and Ira would have to supply them with the weapons to do it. None of theirs would work. But she’d had no choice other than to send word to a few of the closest neighbouring villages. If no one came she’d have to try again or abandon the mission entirely.

[Die Sieben]

The way my son speaks of his dreams frightens even my most seasoned men, he speaks of prophets and dark and long forgotten magics. I fear for my life as well as that of my wife and second son. My boy, Kylexan, must have somethin awful going on and on inside his head, he must not be let loose and this must not be seen. I will send him away until he stops having such visions of horror and he stops speaking of macabre beings. Then he may one day take my place as the real ruler of Scara Brae, behind the scenes.
~Exerpt from the journal of Baron D'yaka Alure

The way Corone evolved sickened Kylexan. The civil war encompassed everything. Only the smallest villages didn't know about it yet and this one was one such settlement. The townfolk were eager to hear about any news, but Kylexan wasn't willing to share. Politics and the affairs of such short lived beings didn't concern him, what did was regaining the powers he had lost. After murdering the dozens of necromancers who made him what he now was, Kylexan's power drained and he became weak and fragile. Luckily, his necromantic ability still had some sway in what he did.

Over the centuries, Kylexan had been searching and searching for a way to cure this affliction that was his loss of power over the dead. Even his sword, Necrophagist, had lost its power after consuming the sixth soul that was added into his own mind, body, and soul. The six others inside him had been quiet as of late, when nothing eventful happened they chattered amongst themselves while Kylexan tuned them out, not caring in the least what they said about him, or anything for that matter. Unless the situation called for it, the darkly handsome man never cared. Most of what they said was pointless anyhow, occasionally Kylexan would make the effort to tell them to keep quiet, but even that was rare now days. This was one of the few rare times that he decided to listen in, his head like a small gathering of friends.


"Well, you know, if we hadn't come here in the first place we wouldn't have gotten that message to go and investigate some haunted mansion." Flo, the foolish farmer girl always said the most obvious, annoying things. Nobody else seemed to mind except Kylexan though.

"Yes, but some haunted mansion won't help us get any closer to Kylexan's goal! Don't you understand?" The ninja and his most recently captured soul defended Kylexan's honor simply because he had bested the assassin in battle.

“The message was quite clear, these spirits are strong. Even too strong for a ‘seasoned veteran’ in dealing with spirits. It will help my goal, do not act wise beyond your years, the dead are what necromancy is about. I’m trying to regain my necromantic powers and dealing with the dead is part of that.” Kylexan had made his point hopefully, besting the ninja in the field of intelligence.

The fairly short trek to the said village where these spirits were would begin shortly. Once Kylexan shut them up long enough to have some peace and quiet while walking he would set out.


”Silence.”


~*~

The said village wasn’t too shabby; it looked like a town that had once prospered, perhaps the mansion that was deserted was the royalty that paid for the upkeep. Kylexan though that might explain the strength of the spirits, royalty was always corrupt and always into some, necromantic or spiritual, ritual or another. They longed for power, longevity, and more power. Those were two things that didn’t go hand-in-hand all the time. Most people thought it did but the necromancer knew better. Power came with dominion over life and death, not money. Money came from the power to manipulate the foolish, but Kylexan didn’t have the need for such feeble things. Food, water, and air simply burned on their way down, useless to Kylexan. As he walked along the mountainous path, he had sensed, even there, the ever so slight presence of death. It was only stronger in this village, but they didn’t feel friendly, any of them. In fact, it was so obvious to Kylexan, how could this supposed seasoned hunter have had such a tough time? Perhaps she didn’t have a direct connection to death, but to spirits. There was a difference, Kylexan knew from his years of research.

Years of research didn’t pay off now though, he had lost his powers not too long ago, maybe a century now. Fighting to gain them back didn’t seem appealing but it had to be done nonetheless. The long-term goal had to be accomplished in the long term though; more imminent danger was at hand. Kylexan walked into the tavern he was told to wait at and took a peek at the patrons. Mostly normal but some were being especially loud and all of them were talking. All save one. The woman had light, almost purple-looking hair and a deep tan, he couldn’t tell much else from where he was, especially since she was facing, giving the darkly handsome man only a profile view of her body.


“That must be her, what do you think?” The question was really directed at no one in particular but Exar answered.

“Calerian.” The druid said in a monotonous voice.

“Whatever that is, she looks human t’ me!” The large rowdy sailor, Marcus blurted.

Kylexan walked up to the human-looking female and sat at the table, looking her face over trying to see some emotion that would give away if it was her or not.

“We are Kylexan Alure, here to deal with the mansion. You are the one we seek, correct?” His mangled voice sounded of seven put to together, all talking in unison. A horrifying experience to the commoner, her reaction would tell all.