The Mirror of Epitaph

[Canen Darkflight]

((OOC notes: The events in this thread take place between 108 and 123AD (AD: After Domine) in the Nocturnian timeline in Canen's past. For a fuller description and understanding of these events, and their follow ups, please read the segments in Canen's history in his profile under the said dates.

The Riisan Black Fist are the technological equal of Alerar in terms of vehicles and the like. They use steam powered airships and small arms such as flintlocks, but nothing more advanced than that.

Gideon Xerxes is property of Fallen Angel and has been used with permission as an NPC for this thread. I do not own Gideon, and in some cases there may be discrepancies to character backgrounds as Fallen Angel may have further developed his plot. However, the account given below is, at the time of writing, as close to and as realistic as the original plots for Canen and Gideon as can be.

This one is for Jon, who'se roleplaying, writing and ideas I miss sorely, and anyone who took interest in the Khaians and Nocturnis.))



The Mirror of Epitaph

"Always raining…" Canen muttered, shaking his black hair as he emerged from the doorway. Gideon, who had stopped under the awning at the front of the silver rune hewn temple of Khaia, shook his head silently, a single pale hand rested on the hilt of the sheathed Vampire Blade, as always, in habit alone. His ceremonial red robes flashed under his black greatcoat, rushed by the constant breeze that swept through the valley settlement in the dark and cold winter months. Hugging a huge textbook to his chest, the young Canen staggered up to the tiny porch of the adjacent mortar, lumber and clay house and pushed up against the wall, breathing heavily through the heavy mist of rain that had been pounding Khaia’s streets for three days. He hoped that this awful weather would cease before every single scripture he had to bring home was destroyed.

The night was darker than sin. The heavy, cumbersome rain clouds had rolled over the valley and hung there for longer than expected, even in the winter season, flash flooding the less than perfectly maintained roads with sudden downpours and drowning out the crops in the wheat fields to the south, near the farming town of Sael. Indeed, the weather was hampering everybody’s day to day lives.

"Well," Canen said, turning to the towering, almost ghostly figure of Gideon, who had slowly crept up to the blackened doorway. "We managed to get what we needed. The manuscript should prove useful for the task. But Gideon, I must ask of you, what do you intend to use the Mirror for?" The Khaian, peering up at Canen through the glassy sheets of rain, frowned.

"Whatever my heart desires, brother, surely." Gideon piped up, with a rare sly grin, perhaps using it as a mask, quoting the vaguest passage from the memorised pages of the book Canen was grasping without technically telling a lie. It hadn’t gone unnoticed to Canen that Gideon had been keeping his cards close to his chest recently. His shadowy movements between libraries, spending more and more time away from the family and out in the woods, hunting, was a very sudden behavioural change. Was there something Canen had missed?

"I’m guessing everything will be made clear later then." Canen tacked on to Gideon’s statement. It seemed he had been out of touch with his best friend and his old Khaian ways for several years, since the death of Gideon’s father, Gabriel. Once he had known almost all of Gideon’s time to be spent with Canen doing what the young Khaian’s woud do best, buying and trading new equipment with most of the shopkeepers in Sael, training to hunt with Gideon’s tutor Ardemis in the nearby Riisan forests and just relaxing in the local hot springs. Now, having had his world turned upside down by the morbid events of the past years, the Riisan and Domine civil wars, and the horrifying and abrupt murder of Gideon’s father Gabriel he found his friend to be a ghostly shadow of his former self, and in most people's minds Canen was thought to hate that.

There was some truth in that. Canen had long since gotten used to Gideon being, if not by blood, then certaintly a brother by nature to the young Khaian. Witnessing the constant changes Gideon had gone through, feeling the suppressed hatred flowing through Gideon’s veins for the Riisans and realising that some things just could never be the same again was enough to feel some animosity towards his best friend, even if it wasn’t a direct emotion. Perhaps he hated the Riisans more for causing this in the first place. Another issue was that Gideon was remembered in Khaian society as the son of Gabriel, and not Gideon, the Xerxes family figurehead, the heir to the legacy, and that was if he was even remembered at all. Now he found it hard to relate to the few people he could still call his friends what he was experiencing in both dealing with the death of his father and coming to terms with Khaia’s new and cold reference tags for him.

"A bitter night tonight Canen," Gideon muttered, avoiding bringing clarity to the subject of the mirror, and instead choosing to state facts about the weather. “We should go inside. I fear we will catch our death out in these brutal winter nights. Come inside where it is warm and where we can drink the supple Tokay wine I have been saving.”

With a smooth gesture, the pale hand of Gideon Xerxes warmly ushered into his home the ringing wet Khain, and closed the door, grasping and firmly bolting the metal lock to his right.

[Canen Darkflight]

The interior of Gideon’s home was eerily silent, and the only sound was a feint crackling from a small log fire in the corner of the room, which was also the only source of light. Now out of the cold, it was a welcome sight for Canen. As the door shut behind him, the Khaian took a few minutes to find a comfortable position in front of the warm orange hue and dry up, while Gideon prepared a couple of clay cups of Tokay on the makeshift and untidy kitchen area.

Canen felt like he had been away from this house for so long he was almost a stranger to it. Its once familiar small vaults and low wooden arches now seemed somehow filled with a sorrow, a lonely feeling surely left behind by the void created by Gabriel’s death. Although he knew Gideon’s home to be the safest and most welcoming of abodes, there was almost a feeling that his fond memories of this once happy household were being torn apart by a strange and almost tangible feeling of sadness that came with the realisation Gabriel was actually dead, and was never coming back to his son, his wife, or anyone, ever again. That never again would the hearty laughter of the father and soldier fill the living area with cheer and mirth, or the narrative tale-telling capture the imaginations of the two young boys, as they once had been.

It was a sad reflection, but a horribly realistic one of modern times in Khaia.

Canen noticed a series of religeous statuettes made a corridor towards the far end of the room, where a statue of Gabriel himself stood, a handcarved tribute from Gideon’s tutor Ardemis. Shrouded in his Reaver robes, a sword raised towards the heavens, the strong figure of Gabriel Xerxes looked up to Isa for judgement.

Gideon, cups of the clear liquid in both hands, hurried up to Canen’s small wooden table, and handed his brother the Tokay wine. As he took the cup, Canen noticed Gideon’s Vampire Blade had been left at the door, just to the left. An unusual gesture for a man so attached and devoted to his weapon as he knew Gideon to be.

"You left your sword at the door, I see," Canen observed quietly, the atmosphere of the room and its bearing depressing him into lowering his voice. "Hell of a strange thing for you to do in these times." Gideon nodded slowly, running his lips over his clay cup, clenching it in place with two hands.

"At one time I would never take it off," he said, looking from Canen to the fire and finally with beighted breath to Gabriel’s statue. Rows of lighted candles flickered atop shelves positioned to either side of the statue of Xerxes, the most spectacular shrine in Gideon’s mostly religious home, for he had been a wise student of the teachings of Sera and Isa. Caught in the dancing light of the candles the monument, crafted from fine marble, the same as the temple, was quite a magnificent sight “, but the Vampire Blade is unstable here, only in this room. It lusts for the blood of those who so coldly struck him down, and therefore is a sword of sin in my place of peace. Until that lust is settled, it will stay at the door. I pray that I am not subject to thievery during this time, the sword would be an easy take. Sometimes my teachings and my common sense tend to clash.”

"The sign of a real Khaian man, then. One who is still utterly confused as to why what he is taught and what he thinks is the smart thing to do contradict each other so greatly. Ha Hah!" Canen’s high, clipped laugh echoed through the room, reverberating off the arches and walls. Gideon remained numblingly silent. He turned his head back toward the statue of Gabriel opposite the main doors, and tried to bend his frown into something a little cheerier.

[Canen Darkflight]

Walking carefully and cautiously toward the executive were three official looking men, each clothed in the garments of a high official of the ranks of the Riisan Black Fist. All three were carrying reports recorded on large scrolls of parchment, obscuring a chunk of their bodies under the folds of paper and silk ribbon tied around them. Ornaments and trinkets of the tribes which this monstrous killing machine had exterminated hung proudly in the small, mahogany fragranced room in which the executive sat in darkness, any recognisable facial features completely drowned by the shadow cast down the length of the room by the edges of the forest outside. Looking at these relics made him smile, an unusual occasion as most of his day to day activities often gave him little to smile about. It made him believe he was powerful, and gave him an air of invincibility. Indeed, he was an easy man to fear, given his position.

"Your grace," the first said, bowing in from the waist and stepping forward, showing a courtesy that he rarely reserved for anyone else. He didn't hear the other two gentlemen behind him; apparently they felt it more appropriate to stay behind and await their turn.

The executive's chair made a shrill creak as the overweight man made haste for his visitor, rising up slowly and relieving the wooden throne of its burden. He approached the official slowly from across the room, inspecting every single aspect of his underling along the way. He was the tallest of the three, with a short nose and a black stubble beard. His long fingers were wrapped around the report. This was Artremeas, the Khaian defector, the highest priest in all of Nocturnis, and one of the most powerful men of his tribe. His robes were woven with pure white silk. But no matter how white his clothes, or his smile, Artremeas was as black as coal, in heart, mind and soul. And he was not to be trusted.

“What news from the camps, ambassador?” The executive asked incredously, sweating slightly at the brow. Artremeas was not an ambassador, but the executive thought it sounded more formal. It would serve to butter up his contact.

“Little. Camp one two seven is quiet, and one two five has had no trouble since the uprising was quelled. Gabriel was an easier nut to crack than we first thought. He spoke of a son, but a boy his age is unlikely to be a threat.”

The executive reached into his top jacket pocket, pulled a cigar and lit it, peering down the length of the brown stick into Artremeas's eyes, through a plume of blue smoke. "I was hailed by one of our emissaries this morning, and we have come to a decision about the future of the camps," the executive began, giving the cold shoulder to the subject of the uprising. "I've decided to completely disband the Black Fist in its current format. We need more structure to our operations, rather than always feeling something like a sapling in a hurricane every time we are troubled by rebellion. This happens,” he pontificated with fat, stubby fingers “by the end of this week. Do I make myself clear?”

Artremeas made a face that he thought showed polite curiosity, masking a sudden overwhelming feeling of rage. The ‘ambassador’ looked into his eyes, blinked, and raised his free hand, palm upward, in a gesture of puzzlement.

"Your decision is worthy, but nonetheless puzzling. Indeed, we had only experienced setbacks in camp one two five, and our structure coped well with that particular. What purpose will re-structuring the legion serve, exactly? Gabriel is dead, as are the rioters. No one dare oppose us, surely, now that we are the absolute power in the region?”

The executive inhaled deeply into his cigar. "I received warning from our scouts on the Domine border this morning. A letter, carrying the official seal of the Khaian Royal Family, pinned to a division commander’s face with a dagger. There is no doubt about its authenticity, and they are soon to send an army of hundreds of thousands of Reavers to crush us in retaliation for the deaths of the rioters." The executive looked grim. “This is the single largest number of Reavers ever conceived in this age. By disbanding, they are fighting phantoms, with no one left to hate, and we can gather our resources and men, regroup and deliver a final hammerblow when they least expect it.”

"If I may, Your grace?"

“No.” The executive thrust an open palm up, turning away. “Just get it done. Collapse the camps by Friday, or heads will roll. You two...”

The other two men, who had most let the conversation slip past them but were now stood bolt upright, snapped to attention.

"Get my airship ready. We're going to one two seven."

[Canen Darkflight]

"Canen, great son of Maxmillian," Gideon said, his Khaian green eyes flaring through the firelight after a few minutes of silence and his lips taking a series of sips of the lush Tokay wine in his hand, "What I am about to tell you is important. It will affect a lot, perhaps even our lives and our futures, the way we view the world. Everything is going to change." the silver topped phantom glanced at the focused form of Canen briefly from the corner of his eye. "I would listen carefully.”

"I knew it." Canen responded between light breaths. He saw this as his opportunity to make his concern known. "The way you’ve been acting, and the unusual rituals don’t fit in with what you do, with who you are. What’s it all about? Be honest with me, brother. Honesty may be the only thing we have left at the end in these times." Gideon took another sip from the chipped clay cup, swirling the liquid around the insides of his cheeks, before swallowing hard.

"The scripture in front of you tells of an artefact called The Mirror of Epitaph.” Gideon continued. "This artefact was handed down between bloodlines of the royal family of Khaia. Originally, the mirror belonged to Prince Jazar, who sickeningly only lusted for vanity and wealth, leading the Khaian people into their first dark age as he neglected their needs in exchange for furfilling his own. The prince was one day badly and quite horrifically scarred in a chaotic fire that raged through the original palace while he slept, caused by rioters who were less than pleased by his leadership qualities. His charming good looks his only concern, and not the sudden deaths of his entire family as the flames consumed their bodies, Jazar, like the filthy rat he was asked a seer to create for him an enchanted mirror that could reflect what it was he wanted most in his heart into the glass. Of course, all he ever saw was his perfect self. Such a selfish waste of a power that could have been used for so much more, do you not agree brother? Hence the reason our people saw fit to murder him a year later. "

Silence, except for the frantic beating of the rain against the rooftop, again fell over the two. Canen digested this brief history lesson, as Gideon scrunched up his face, searching for the words to continue.

"The Mirror," he began, apparently finding them. "Was smuggled out of the palace during Jazar’s funeral and hidden away from anyone who might use its extraordinary power for the same greed-fuelled purposes." Canen's eyebrow went up. He didn't respond. "It's the single most powerful tool, used in the correct manner, Khaia and perhaps even Nocturnis owns. But not without consequences."

"Really?" Canen asked. "A mirror that can show you in its reflection what you most desire?” He paused for a moment. “What if you don’t know what you most desire?"

"The texts speak of the man who didn’t, a servant of Jazar’s who accidentally peered into the glass," Gideon continued, in a substantially hushed tone. "When he was found the next day, his face had been decimated, like his head had been ripped from the inside out. Blood smeared the mirror, the floors, and the walls. You see, the seer had not been a powerful one, and although he had boasted to his master that he had, by his own hand, enchanted the mirror it was not so. He had simply made a deal with a demon, who agreed to reside in the mirror and grant the wishes of those who peered into it, provided they knew what they wanted. If they didn’t, the demon would claim their soul, body and all. The seer was also a later victim of this, but simply disappeared. No body, no corpse. Nothing."

Gideon turned his head, staring Canen square in the eyes before quickly turning back again. Canen's mouth tightened into a straight, white line.

"What do you want the mirror for Gideon?" he muttered at last, his heart pounding. He was starting to worry.

Gideon, slightly irked by this approach, nevertheless responded calmly. Canen began listening intently.