The Sky Is Falling! (Open)

Quote:

---

1. Rioting has reached a fever pitch, and tempers are afray.

2. The Templars and the Mages of the Guilds-man Circle are clashing outside the Lamb Chop - Archanex and Alister unite.

3. Ulysses is alone in the rioting, inadvertantly finding himself closer and closer to the very soap box the Prophet is preaching from - he can almost hear him in fact!

4. The Captain of the Guard and the Templar Knight Provost are the same distance from the Prophet...approaching at the same speed.

---

All the while, the Queen watches from above.

A sigh mixed with the wet plopping sound of William dropping the remains of his latest plaything at his feet. Any outside observer insane enough to watch the revenant finish his macabre pleasure could have easily mistaken the demon’s sigh as one of boredom, but that was as far from the truth as possible. William had thoroughly enjoyed his latest kill, as he had enjoyed every person in Scara Brae that had laid their flesh bare to him throughout the riot. No, his sigh was born from a completely different emotion.

How on Althanas have I managed to slaughter my way across the slums without attracting more attention? William pouted. Sure enough, indiscriminately pursuing whatever targets were available had taken him from one side of the Numarr slums to the other without much more fanfare than running into some minor patrols.

“Perhaps I need to rethink my strategy,” he mused, smearing swaths of gore on his charred skin as he tapped his claws to his face in thought. He had mostly stuck to the side-streets and back alleys of the slum district, finding that he had much more time and privacy to enjoy his kills than he would if he were to jump out into the swirling chaos that could be found in the main thoroughfares. But finding lone group of looters and vagabonds was becoming increasingly difficult as the riots dragged on. And even in the darkness of the shadowy alley the revenant couldn’t miss the gibbering signs of madness warning people of his impending approach.

“Hey Kimes, there’s someone over here,” a voice, youthful and exuberant, called out behind the revenant. William glanced over his shoulder to see two young men silhouetted in the alley’s entrance, with one man excitedly in his direction. Though it was hard to make out the fine details, William could see that both men wore plain clothes and carried makeshift clubs, apparently fashioned from broken chair legs. The lead man, the one pointing at him, also wore a large kitchen knife tucked into the waistband of his trousers. A similar swatch of red paint on the front of their shirts tied the two young men together.

Well this should be interesting, William smiled wickedly and wrapped his tattered, bloodstained cloak tightly around him, hoping that the darkness of the alley would mean that it was enough to camouflage his demonic form. Ignoring the offal and garbage that crunched under his gore-spattered boots, William casually approached the alley’s entrance.

“Damn it, Ezren,” the younger man, Kimes, whined, “forget him, he’s just a bum.” A flicker of ghostly firelight from somewhere down the street briefly illuminated Kimes’ face, showing William that he was barely out of his teens. His buggy eyes frantically moved back and forth, scanning the world around him for threats.

“No way,” the other boy, Ezren, waved the suggestion off. “Miller told us that we need to bring everyone to the Friends. We do this and we’ll be heroes.”

“I guess,” Kimes muttered to his boots, “something just feels off.”

“Thaynes you’re a sissy. Just watch,” Ezren stepped forward and waved his hand at William as if to hold the advancing figure at bay. “Halt,” he ordered. “Are you a Friend or Enemy of Scara Brae?”

William, remained silent and drew closer.

“Hey,” Ezren’s voice finally registered a hint of worry, “I asked if you are a Friend or not?”

William stopped in front of Ezren, the burning coal glow of his eyes finally breaking through the darkness, causing the young man’s eyes to go wide.

“What do you think,” William snarled and, before the boy could react, thrust his claws out; one swatting the makeshift club aside and the other wrapping tightly around the boy’s throat. Short, gurgling breaths seeped from the boy’s bulging lips, but William’s inhuman strength kept anything more than that from, escaping.

“Stupid boy. You should have listened to your friend,” William barked in harsh, mocking laugh and proceeded to squeeze, digging his bone claws deeply into the sensitive skin of the boy’s throat. Muscle and vein parted easily under his demonic touch, like wheat before a thresher. William closed his eyes and savored the sweet rush of warm blood against his charred flesh. Coming back to his senses, William gave Kimes a cursory glance which showed the man to be frozen in time, paralyzed by the sight of his friend’s blood gushing like a fountain from ruinous mess of his throat.

Hmmnnn…, William’s thoughts raced, perhaps I should leave this one alive. He’s certain to run right back to this Miller of theirs. It was a gamble, but it was one that William was willing to take. He would, after all, needed a good supply of fresh bodies if he were to keep enjoying himself.

“Run, little rabbit,” the revenant hissed, snapping Kimes from his stupor. The young boy set off with speed born of life-preserving terror, trailing the revenant’s mocking laughter.

A new game is afoot, William snarled in pleasure as he tossed Ezren’s corpse aside to follow.

“Sometimes, kid, things reach a nexus,” the rebel known as Miller said. “A bottleneck, if you will. Do you know what a bottleneck is?”

Ulysses glanced around nervously. They were in the Numarr slums now. The violence in the city seemed to be escalating as they approached…wherever they were approaching. A single booming explosion came from somewhere to the east, and someone screamed. The red glow of fire suffused the night, and the haze of smoke above made it impossible to see the stars or moon. Hell, for all Ulysses knew, it wasn’t night at all. Maybe he’d passed into some timeless hell of smoke and flame, maybe the words of the doomsayer Prophet were correct. “It’s the part of the bottle that you drink out of, right, sir?”

Miller laughed heartily. He seemed to have taken a liking to Ulysses…unfortunately. The more time Ulysses spent with the man, the less and less sure he was of the rebel leader’s sanity. “No, not at all. What I mean to say is, sometimes all things come together at once, and all threads go back to the same spool of yarn. It’s only in times like this that you can enact real change.” There was another explosion. Another scream.

“I see,” Ulysses said, although he had no idea what the man was talking about. All he knew was that he wanted to get out of here, and fast. The ugly red stripe on his shirt might make it hard to do that, though. Still, if he could just find some little place to stay while this all blew over, some shelter in which to hide from the oncoming storm…

That, however, seemed very unlikely. The crowd of rebels and rioters pressed around him, their faces grim and ugly. These were men and women who had lived their whole lives in poverty, who couldn’t afford to flee the city if some disaster or doomsday came to it. They were tough and muscular—not soldiers, but maybe better. No, they didn’t have any training…other than fighting from the cradle for their very lives. They were armed with anything: butcher knives, the legs of chairs, even rocks. A handful had actual swords, but most had makeshift weaponry. Ulysses wasn’t any less intimidated because of that fact. He realized that Numarr had probably been teetering on the edge of chaos for a long time now. All it needed were the words of the Prophet to give it a little push.

A young man (or rather a boy on the edge of manhood) with the red line of the Friends ran out of an alleyway. He was drenched in sweat and looked panicked. He ran straight to Miller and started jabbering. It took a moment before he made sense.

“I told him! I told him not to…oh gods, please don’t let, I just…I told him! But then the monster…”

Miller looked at the boy sharply but kindly. It was a father’s stern stare, and the boy looked up at him with admiration. No, not even admiration, devotion. “Calm down, son. What’s this monster you speak of?”

“It…it looked like a man, at first. I think it was a devil. It had burnt skin, and god it’s eyes were like fires.”

Ulysses felt a chill go down his spine as he recalled the graffiti he’d seen earlier: run run from the revenant RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN. Surely it wasn’t connected, right? Some sick intuition told him it was. What stalked the streets of Scara Brae now that chaos had been unleashed? Some ghost or demon? What darkness lurked in the shadows and alleys?

Miller nodded solemnly, and then turned to the crowd of rebels. “Do you know what this is? Do you know what monster killed this poor young boy’s friend?”

Ulysses silently thought that, well, if the boy hadn’t been sent to patrol one of the most dangerous parts of the city by a certain rebel group, maybe he wouldn’t have been killed at all…but he kept his mouth shut.

“The Mages! The Mage’s Guild, in conjunction with the corruption of the Queen, have produced an abomination and set it loose among our homes. I know this because I have seen the Mage’s vile laboratories with my own eyes! There they make twisted, ungodly monsters and cast evil spells only with the purpose of hurting the common man of Scara Brae. Know this, Friends, every Mage is as surely our enemy as those still loyal to the monarchy. Aye?”

“AYE!” the crowd chorused.

Miller patted the boy on the shoulder and sent him away. “Now let us move! The Prophet’s square is near, listen.”

All was silent for a moment. Ulysses strained his ears, and he thought he could hear words coming from somewhere nearby. The voice grew in intensity and volume, until he could make out the doomsaying of the Prophet himself. Goosebumps rose on his neck. The Prophet was clearly no mere street madman. He hadn’t believed before that the foretold doom could mean anything but…after listening to the man speak, it was hard to not have a primal sort of fear take hold of his brain.

The Friends moved out once more, and it was only a few more minutes before they reached the small square that marked the very center of the slums of Numarr. There, the Prophet stood, a terror to behold as he spouted his words of fear. Across the square on the opposite side from the Friends marched a contingent of the City Guard. Ulysses thought that he recognized the Captain of the Guard himself—and at least one Templar…if not more.

Only one thought gripped Ulysses’ mind: that he would very much rather be anywhere else than here.

Indeed things had reached a Nexus. With the Mages of the Mage's Guild fighting to protect everyone they could, from themselves, Jotham was preparing his powerful spell. Then, several explosions rocked the city from unknown sources. Resonating through the air, the sound threw things off. People, parts of buildings, glass, etc. Jotham continued to concentrate on his spell and its eventual release. As he readied the floodgates, the Overmage's sharp eyes went towards the direction of his enemy. They were close to the prophet now. A miracle was needed to prevent the prophet from being captured by the Queen's representatives. The prophet would not be safe with anybody working for the Queen.

Jotham focused on his new target. With everybody rioting around him, the Overmage had all the cover he needed. His body glowed with a brilliantly shining nimbus cloud. This nimbus had a powerful burn to it now, as it was summoned with a deliberate purpose. Protect the Prophet! Jotham thought to himself as he prepared to unleash his vast power. His enemy was moving dreadfully close to the Prophet now. The leader of the city guard, and the leader of the Knights Templar had somehow escaped his grasp. They had moved from their original positions in the middle of the fray and covered considerable ground already.

They probably did not care which one of them reached the Prophet first, but Jotham did care. Whoever held the Prophet in their possession would have an incredible bargaining chip to hold sway over the Queen. When Jotham's power had reached its zenith, the Overmage unleashed his wrath against his chosen target. Not able to hear the words of Alister Cain, the Overmage was entirely focused on the spell-casting at hand.

Jotham observed the target he knew for a moment or two before he actually released the spell in his possession. Many would be hurt, Jotham knew, but at this point it could not be helped. Far too many were on the streets doing too many negative things. It was lunacy to thing that he could save everybody alone. When he focused on Lukas Hannigan he thought of one purpose alone. To detain him and prevent him from harming anybody else. Nearby, the captain of the guards was also attempting to steal the glory from the Mage's Guild.

Releasing his spell now, a loud burst of elemental manna crackled through the air signaling the potent explosion from the Overmage. Nearby individuals were thrown to the floor as the initial burst of blue fire spread out from the Overmage. It traveled in a spherical pattern quickly covering ground because of all the wind that was feeding the other fires in Scara Brae. Men and women who were paralyzed, asleep, or otherwise under the effect of this or that status-spell were burned by the Overmage's wrath.

The madness had to end now. Jotham threw the weight of his spell against the City Guard's Captain and Lukas Hannigan to knock them off course. Uncoiling like a snake through the air, the blue fire hissed as it leaped towards its intended targets. Jotham knew the odds, he knew the score. This...must be stopped and The Prophet is the key. Capture the Prophet and the power is ours! As Jotham recovered from the recoil of his spell, there was no time to assess the full amount of damage he had just caused. One of his associates from the Mage's Guild grabbed the Overmage and helped pull him up so that he could stand on his feet.

Jotham did just that despite his shaky knees. The Overmage looked at his companions with a weak nod. "Okay. That should do the trick. Let's go!"

With that, the Mage's Guild moved to capture the prize of all prizes. Jotham, Kaleb, and the other two members of the Mage's Guild moved quickly to capture The Prophet. They passed the burning forms of the City Guard's Captain, and Lukas Hannigan whilst they made their way to the Prophet. Jotham limped against his battlestaff moving as quickly as his gimp leg could allow him to. It was Kaleb who reached the Prophet first.

"You, are hereby a prisoner of the Mage's Guild!" Kaleb decreed and then made an attempt to knock The Prophet out and potentially restrain him...

Jotham, and the two other members of the Mage's Guild took guard positions...

Creaking boards and chipped tiles betrayed William’s position on the rooftop overlooking the central thoroughfare. It made true stealth next to impossible, but the revenant didn’t really seem care, knowing that the sounds of shouting, and fire, and chaos echoing louder than ever would just drown most of it out. And even if it didn’t, with all that was going on, no one would have paid him any mind. The rioters, looters, and rebels had too much going on in front of them to worry about what was above them.

Besides, William thought, feeling a particularly loose board slide away under the bulk of his power-swollen body, nobody ever looks up.

When it had become apparent that William’s prey, the boy called Kimes, would lead him directly into the center of the riots, William had made the decision to break off pursuit. Scuttling up the side of a nearby building, the revenant knew that he was in the right to have done so. Kimes’ ‘Friends’ had made their way to the center of Numarr’s chaos from across the slums and it seemed that they had been swelling with recruits the entire way. Though William’s restorative capabilities would heal almost any amount of damage done to him, even he doubted that he could face an army of people alone and survive the ordeal.

“And I was complaining about being left out,” William chuckled as he made his way across the rooftops. A quick look ahead told him that the Friends were not the only group around. Indeed it seemed that they were but one of four perching upon the precipice and waiting for a catalytic spark to set them against each other. And in the center, still screaming madly at the eye of the maelstrom, stood the infamous prophet who has started the entire delightful debacle.

William could just barely make out the prophet’s shrieking words over the general chaos pervading Scara Brae’s slums. Promises of death and destruction were nothing new to the revenant, who commonly inspired them. More than one fanatic doomsayer had come and gone during his time, and William had found that none of their words carried any more truth than bedtime stories to warn children that the boogeyman would get them if they disobeyed. Only faintly hearing the prophet’s words, William was fully prepared to disregard them as the delusions of a homeless madman when something that the prophet said struck a chord in the back of William’s mind.

“Nexus … falling sky … fire and death,” there was something about the mad man’s prophecies that grabbed his attention, though William would have been hard pressed to identify exactly what it was. Regardless, the ethereal fingers of the prophet’s words wriggled through his ears and into his mind, gripping his spine in their icy talons. For an instant, the tiniest fraction of a second, William registered the blaze of dynamic fire behind the prophet while the Numarr slums faded into the background.

William was back amid the horror strewn battlefields of Amra, ripe with decay and putrefaction. Screams from the dead and dying filled the air around him, mixing with bloodthirsty howls of demonic desire to create a cacophonic symphony of destruction. Startled by the change, William looked around only to find that he was kneeling in the tilled earth of his forest home, cradling the bloody corpse of his murderer wife. There were no bodies or battles around him, only a blazing inferno, raging where his family’s home had once stood. For a moment he was baffled by the inhuman wails of anguish around him until he realized that the cries were his own, shed not only for the love of his life, but for the unborn child that he would never know. William dropped his head in defeat, but something inside him refused to give in, refused to be torn asunder and consumed by his brethren. And so, purpose renewed, he lashed out with no shape or form to rip and tear at the other spirits of primal destruction while all around him existence burned in the fires of creation.

An eternity passed in that fraction of a second, and when William came back to himself he found that he was descended into the chaos while in his trance. William stalked through the smoky streets, acting without conscious thought to sever whatever stands of life came within reach. City Guards, Templars, Mages, and peasants all fell like threshed wheat before the inhuman reaper. Anyone familiar with the revenant’s handiwork however, could see that no desire or pleasure drove him in his slaughter. Instead, there was something cold and impersonal about his killings, as if some outside force were using him like an automaton to fulfill a function.

“Jotham,” William hissed as he made his way across the plaza to where the self-styled Overmage and his companions were attempting to subdue the Prophet. “The destruction has only just begun, and the Prophet must be free.”

"Indeed, the prophet will be free," a voice interrupted the gathering of paragons and self-styled saviours. It was a gruff, deep tone that carried malice in equal measure of authority. The Templar Captain and Knight Provost bore down on the old man, still preaching his doom-mongering vision of fire and brimstone, and brushed aside the mages who were trying to still his vision with self-styled 'acquisitions' of his power.

"By order of her Majesty, this man is to be detained for the furthering of the city's safety!" Without further warning, a white beam of power shot from the Templer's hand and struck the propher square on the forehead. He stopped speaking for a moment, then let out a single last phrase before falling forwards and lifeless into the Provost's arms.

"The Sky...is falling...now..."

---

The Queen looked down across the cityscape once more, a hand running through her hair and a hand turning the pages of a book she was pretending to read, which was propped up between the battlements of the tower. Her regal attempt at indifference worked wonders on the various officials and courtesans that had gathered behind her in honour of the capture of the 'prophet,' such a distance it brought gave her time to think and prepare for the times ahead.

The plumes of black acrid smoke and the still raging riots in the slums were just a smaller part of a greater disaster, one which she nor anyone else could attest to be negligible.

"Your highness..." a brave sole muttered, only to be rebuked with a hand wave over her shoulder. "Your highness...there is something you-" a second wave. "LOOK UP!" The Auditor shouted, pointing and screaming with the reigns of order shod, sometimes things needed to be said.

The court all turned their attention skyward, and gasped.

---

Down in the streets, the crowd gathered around the Prophet all turned their heads to follow the echoing words. If the sky was falling now, they collectively assumed, then surely they must watch. Something had appeared in the clouds as the city below burned, and had grown to the size of a sun, newly born into existence by ancient magic.

The Provost and Knight Templar used their chance wisely, and stole away the Prophet, disappearing from the sight of the others before they had chance to prevent them.

---

All hell broke lose a second time across Scara Brae as the comet shrunk and shrunk very quickly, now no bigger than the castle but slowly falling and falling and falling. The Prophet's words rang true in the Queen's mind, who was stood immediately below the ominous rock, which sent fire and colours out across the midday horizon. She craned her neck until she was almost on her tippy toes, and could also reach out and touch her demise.

"Oh my people...woe this day..." She looked across her shoulder and barked her commands as if possessed, "FETCH ME THAT PROPHET!"

---

Down in the streets, a little orphan by the name of Pete tapped Ulysses on the shoulder, and with a snotty finger, pointed at a nearby sewer gate. "'Scuse me sir, those men stole away that madman into there!"

Maybe there was time to see what was truly going on... The sewer entrance, as the Templar and Provost knew all too well, lead into the castle at the base of the tower. As Wohe and the Prophet made their way to the Queen's chamber, fate gave the opportunity for others to bring their demands to her attention.

Quote:

---

Sorry it took so long and that it's a bit shoddy! Please make your way to the Queen's chamber at the top of the tower however you seem fit, either through the tunnel or by some other means you deem appropriate.

---

(Due to a personal reason, I am no longer posting in this thread. Thank you all for understanding)

Although the world around and the sky above erupted into fire and chaos, Ulysses was filled only with a deep cold. Ice flowed through his veins, starting in his fingertips and pumping its chill to his heart.

We’re all going to die, he thought. His fear was strong that it froze him in place, unable to move a single limb

Magic crackled in the atmosphere and created a thick haze-like smog. To his left, one of the so-called Friends began to gibber madly, and his throat was swiftly slit. Ulysses watched this with vague disinterest. In the face of incoming doom, all former bonds and loyalties dissolved, and the courtyard became a swarm of seething, screaming, feral people. Still the flaming object in the sky grew closer, apathetic to the lives of the humans below. Perhaps that was the worst thing. Were this some divine retribution, were the city of Scara Brae being smote for its sins, at least there would be a reason. At least in that case it was a sign that some god or devil cared…but this was nothing. It was senseless.

Some brat, apparently unaware of the dire situation, tugged on Ulysses sleeve and gestured to a sewer grate. So that was where the Templar and City Guard captain had vanished with the Prophet?

If there was any way to stop this madness, this hell, it was through that gate and with the Prophet. The ice that had frozen him in place was burned away by sudden hope. Ulysses tore his shirt off and threw it to the side. The red line that demarked him as a “friend” would be an ugly badge to bear if he came face to face with the guard captain. Now only wearing a chainmail vest, he dove into the sewer grate, and was surrounded by darkness and silence.

He found himself in a dimly lit tunnel filled with ankle deep water and a terrible stench. Rats skittered around his feet. In normal circumstances he would have been disgusted, but beneath the city was peaceful and quiet. It was an odd dichotomy compared to the hell above, but not an unwelcome one.

Somewhere ahead he saw three figures moving. It could only be the men who had grabbed the prophet. Ulysses dashed after them, and the water around his feet sloshed and splashed as he ran after them.

The air was still thick with the acrid stench of magic. Ghostlights flickered and went out in the tunnel around him, a natural discharge of all the excess arcane energy that had accumulated. Ulysses looked around in wonder and horror. Never had he seen anything like this.

The heroic spirits within him stirred discontentedly. For the first time in a long time, they too were afraid for their own existence. Their lives depended on that of their host, after all. What if that deadly comet struck while he was still down in the sewer? The ceiling would collapse, and he be crushed to death…and he would die alone and in the dark.

He glanced up nervously, although he could see nothing. Ahead, the figures continued to splash into the gloom, and he sprinted after them.

In what he expected to be his last minutes alive, he thought of his wife, Mary. He ought to be waiting out this catastrophe together with his wife, but instead he was slogging through the sewers, a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. He would never see her again, of course. Even if he did find her by some miracle, she wouldn’t remember him. The spirit Cydonia had stolen every memory of him when she made him a hero. Nonetheless, he held Mary’s face in his mind…he wanted that to be the last thing he thought of if the end did come.

The doom from the sky didn’t seem to be ready to take him just yet, though. The sewers narrowed and the masonry became more elegant, and he was suddenly confronted by a small wooden door. It had been left open—the guard captain and templar hadn’t bothered to close it behind them. Some luck smiled on him, at least.

He charged through the doorway and up the staircase that lay behind it, taking the stairs two at a time. At this point, he had no idea what his purpose was. What help could he possibly offer? No, maybe he was running because, if he didn’t, he would go as mad as the raving lunatics left in the city square behind him. He had to do something, or face madness. Besides…there was hope. There was always some hope, no matter how dire the situation. Always. That was something he firmly believed.

He reached the top of the staircase. An ornate oak door lead into the Queen’s chamber. He shoved it open and barged into the chamber beyond, ready for anything at all.

A flashing moment of pure white brilliance washed over William as ancient magic activated, roused to life by unseen forces, and dominated the revenant’s vision. Shadowed by the harbinger of fiery destruction above, William felt the same sensation that he had felt upon being snared by the Prophet’s words fill his mind once again, alien and terrible, yet familiar and majestic at the same time. No words were spoken, and no sound could be heard as visions flashed before William’s distant, unseeing eyes.

It was as if his mind had been opened to the all encompassing destruction around him and then focused in a single moment of enlightened clarity. William understood with perfect certainty that the apocalyptic destruction foretold by the Prophet’s words was something more than the approaching comet, which was merely the capstone of the true apocalypse. Reality reasserted itself upon the revenant, and William looked around at the roiling chaotic turmoil and knew the truth.

Plumes of smoke, thick enough to blot out the sun, swirled and danced around the descending comet, birthed by the raging inferno of a burning nation. Blood fell like droplets of rain in a storm as the “Friends” finally met the remaining city guard and templars in a melee which rivaled the most violent and hateful clash of armies on any battlefield in any age. Human voices, raised in an almost inhuman chorus of cries, shouts, and wailing screams, were like a raised offering to forces of death and chaos older than time and space itself. The entirety of Scara Brae had been mobilized and stood perched on the brink as one giant sacrifice, guided by and offered up to the hand of an invisible master.

The Prophet in his madness, knowing or not, had been the final piece, the tipping point in the unseen master’s plan. His mad words had served as the catalyst, but in the end he had been nothing more than a puppet tool to spark and incite the pure essence of destruction that flowed through the city like a flood. But even at this hour, the Prophet still held the key to undoing all that had been wrought upon Scara Brae, something which could not be allowed. The part of William that had been birthed by creation for no other purpose than to unravel it seized the opportunity and willingly submitted itself.

Eyes flying back to focus, William found himself on the ground, shielded from the trampling stampede of the swirling melee around him only by the body of one of Jotham’s mages. The Overmage himself was nowhere to be seen amidst the chaos, but William brushed any thought of the man aside under his newest concern. Just as Jotham had been removed from the scene, so had the Prophet.

A bubble of startled panic burst in William’s mind at the thought that he was too late, but the revenant had no need to fear. Linked to the Prophet by the same force that mastered them, William’s eyes instinctively sought out the sewer grate where the Templar Captain and Knight Provost had secreted the Prophet away. William moved swiftly and efficiently, rolling to his feet and crossing the sea of chaos that filled the square, disappearing into the sewer entrance.

Nothing could stop William’s relentless advance, his demonic form driven mechanically forward through the maze-like sewers to find the Prophet and stop Scara Brae’s salvation. Only twice did he encounter any significant resistance in the form of trailing guards or panicked citizens, and both times he left their remains floating atop a spreading halo of crimson.

Onward the impulse drove him, faster the desire urged, until at last William came to the wooden portal, still ajar, which would take him to that which he sought. Moving with a silence and grace which defied his normal actions, William flew up the stairs to confront his destiny.

The chamber atop the tower was vacant now except for four people. The council had been disbanded, shed from her majesty’s company to allow her thoughts some time breathe before the coming confrontation with her ‘subjects.’ Everything was perfectly woven into the tapestry of fate, and now that her brother, the religious zealot and Prophet had been returned safely into the fortress walls of the castle, she could rest on her laurels whilst those fortunate enough to preserve came to her like a sheep to a crook.

A circular table sat in the centre of the room, on which was lain out various scrolls, maps and open books. There were twelve seats, with tall backs and insignia emblazoned into the mahogany and satin design depicting their owners as rightful and proud. The tallest of the furniture pieces was half concealed by a draping silk blanket, and the Queen was relaxing in its familiar embrace. The two armoured men at either side stood to attention, both casting their gaze firmly on the secret entrance from the sewers directly opposite them, with the backdrop of the majestic oaken doors that lead down the main stairway behind them baring way from prying eye and ear. Provost and Templar stood as her obedient dogs, ready to bark at any anarchy that revealed itself in those that approached, hands forever on the hilts of their swords.

The Prophet was still bedraggled and smelt of pig manure and he stood on the outer balcony, pacing around the circumference of the tower to remove his odour from his sister’s presence. Whilst the comet still blazed overhead, seeing the cacophony in bright lights and madness brought a sense of solidarity to the man’s heart, which bleated with an irregular gait as he tried to control his ramblings and mutterings. “Perfect little madrigals,” he began making sense finally, reciting a line from a poem he had heard long ago, “sweltering beauty in the summer sun, fortuitous melodies cursing the Chylde, forsaking the future and loving of fun…” he began to chuckle.

“Brother!” The Queen snapped, her serene visage cracking for a moment with disdain for her family’s secret most foul. Long had she wished for normalcy to have been gifted to Geraldo, instead, she questioned why fate had given him genius concealed by reigns of a daemonic mentality? “Be still now, soon the Chyldryn come and meet their ascension – we will not wait long for our vision to gleam a sense of fulfilment. Destiny shall be addressed.”

When confronted, such a Destiny did not like what it had become. As both Ulysses and William entered the Queen’s chamber, the truth of the day’s chaotic uprising stood before them in glamorous splendour. “Greetings,” it spoke, white teeth flashing like stars in the foreboding atmosphere of the tower’s tallest peak, “I am Queen and regent and I bid you sit at this table in council to hear of your triumphs in the name of Scara Brae!” Her visage of peace and pleasure returned to hide her stern nature and hierarchical fallacies behind a persona of nobility. She gestured to the two chairs opposite, one marked Angelus, the other marked Novellas.