The Sky Is Falling! (Open)

The Sky Is Falling!

Attachment 1908

The dead of night, a prophet mounts a soap box at the centre of Scara Brae's Numarr slums...he speaks for days of the wonders of hellish vigour, and the forthcoming end of time - he calls for salvation, and proclaims that the sky is falling.

Panic spreads through the streets, people clambering over dead and mugged bodies to find sanctuary beyond the city walls, and still the Prophet rambles.

Do you stay, and flaunt Fate? This mad man cannot surely be speaking the truth, can he?

Or do you go...to avoid the bedlam and rioting in the city, whilst the Guards impose martial law, and the Mages of the University fight alongside the Templars to quell the rioting and strike citizens dead in their thievery tracks.

"Oh woe," proclaims the Prophet, "The Sky is Falling!"

“You’ve come to what?”

“Volunteer,” Ulysses said for the fifth time. The man was getting on his nerves. The Sergeant’s name was Taylor, and Ulysses got the distinct impression that he was new to the post. The City Guard was (unsurprisingly given the current catastrophe) short on men, and they had to be scraping the bottom of the barrel. Taylor looked like he belonged in some sort of desk job, not out on the streets. He had fragile wire rim glasses and his hair was parted exactly in the middle. Ulysses didn’t like him, and he suspected that the feeling was mutual. “I figured that the Guard could use some help. I’ve worked with them in the past and, well, I thought I’d lend a hand.”

Taylor looked at him as though examining some queer species of exotic plant. They were sitting in the Southeast Office of the City Guard, on Mason’s Street, which were typically manned by a sergeant and a handful of guards. On a normal night, only one or two guards would be out on patrol, but tonight the House was nearly empty. Only the sergeant and two others remained, and they were playing poker at a small table. The fireplace was burning dully in a corner, and the remains of dinner lay scattered across the handful of tables in the room. All of their eyes were fixed on Ulysses.

“You know what we’ve got here, boys?” the sergeant asked. The guards shook their heads. “What we’ve got is a regular old quixotic example of misplaced chivalry.” The guards both laughed, but Ulysses wondered if either of them knew what ‘quixotic’ or ‘chivalry’ meant. He started to speak, but the sergeant cut him off again. Suddenly Taylor just looked tired. “Look kid, go home, alright? I’ve lost six officers this week, and I sure don’t need another death on my hands. I don’t know if you’ve got a lady friend you’re trying to impress or what, but it isn’t worth it for your head.”

“I’m not some kid fresh off the street,” Ulysses said, cheeks burning brightly.

Taylor sighed. “You can leave, or you can spend the night locked up downstairs. Your choice.”

Ulysses turned and left without another word. He slammed the door on the way out—immature, but satisfying. How could people be so stupid? The Guard out to be leaping at his offer for help! Ever since that blasted Prophet had appeared, the rule of law had just about broken down within the city limits. He’d watched with his own eyes, disgusted, as men and women he’d known his whole life turned to looting and thievery in their irrational fear. He felt the heroic spirits within him stir at the thought, in particular the spirits of the Knight and the Ronin.

Ever since he’d been visited by the spirit of valor, Ulysses had lived with the spirits of warriors from other universes and other times trapped within him. The spirit had stolen his name, given him a new one, and changed his life forever.

Now those spirits rose within him. An onlooker would have thought that he was talking to himself, just another one of the crazies. Someone looking a bit more closely would have noticed that the color of his eyes changed in rapid succession: from gold to green to blue, and back again. The spirits discussed what course of action was most appropriate, not bothering for much input from Ulysses. The Knight and Ronin agreed on many things, oddly enough. Although they were from vastly different worlds, their moral codes—what the Knight called “chivalry” and the Ronin called “bushido”—were oddly similar.

Ulysses found himself agreeing with them. If the Guard, at least in this part of the city, was being run by cowards and fools, justice would have to be implemented in a different fashion. He could not consciously allow the atrocities that were being committed in this city (his city) and retain his honor. Someone would have to pursue justice and order! Someone would have to—

“’Ello. That’s a pretty sword you’ve got, mate. I’d recommend you drop it,” came a voice from a nearby alleyway. A man in a grey cloak with the hood up stepped out. He was holding a dagger. “Just so we can be friends, eh? Don’t want nobody to get hurt.”

For a moment, Ulysses was simply stunned. This man was going to try and rob him, when Ulysses had nothing to steal but his life and the clothes on his back? This man, a little rat with a dagger, was going to try and rob him? It was absurd. “I don’t think so,” Ulysses said. Anger rose inside him like a geyser. His eyes turned from golden to a deep blue, as the spirit of the Knight rose within him. When he spoke again, his voice was deep and lathered in the inflection of another world. “I don’t think so at all. In fact, I think thou ought to drop thy knife and leave as fast as thou are able…”

The thief blinked. “Why’re you talking so weird, mate? And I’m sorry, I did so hope we could be friends…” The thief rushed at Ulysses with his dagger. Ulysses simply drew his sword and parried the blow; the dagger went scattering across the cobblestones. The thief turned and fled, and Ulysses watched him flee, expression grim and unreadable.

One had gotten away…

Nearby, in the Mage's Guild, an argument was happening. The argument was so loud that it could potentially wake the dead. Two representatives of the Warriors Guild were arguing semantics with the leaders of the Mage's Guild. Once, in another era, the two factions had worked hand-in-hand to defeat many an evil enemy. This time, however, the evil was seeded in the general populace as anarchy and discord rampaged through the aforementioned. Though the argument did not directly affect the Overmage, the consequences would be long-felt in the Mage's Guild. With the research projects on a current hiatus, many members of the Mage's Guild were standing in the Gathering Hall of the edifice. General confusion that somehow echoed the confusion and hysteria waiting for them just outside, the Magi of Scara Brae were eager to know what was going on. Many of the initiates were straight out of the University in Scara Brae, but several were experienced Magi. The most powerful two members of the Mage's Guild was currently locked in a heated argument with members representing the Warrior's Guild.

"You would implement Martial Law in a City that is free?! What about due process, what about the rule of law?!"

That voice was the voice of Elder Odost Talul. He was the current master of the Mage's Guild. The sudden riot raging out of the slums-district was an unforgivably chaotic event. However, it was also unprecedented. Odost was a man of medium height belonging to the race of High Elves native to Concordia Forest. He'd spent much of his life studying the Arkanos Arts alongside many students, in a plato-esque environment. Now, everything that the Mage's Guild fought for was threatened by those cronies of the City Guard. With Martial Law implemented, the citizenry would be punished in unacceptable fashion. Odost stood at a height of five-eleven and weighed about 145 lbs. He had a particularly slender physique, long brown hair, and deep green eyes. His eyebrows were particularly thin, his long ears extended for several inches which was a trademark of the Elfen folk. The man stood in a rather defensive posture. He wore prismatic robes made out of extremely fine materials, embroidered with minerals such as fine gold.

Opposite of Odost and the representatives of the Mage's Guild, were two other men. These men however, were fully armoured in plate mail and had their weapons sheathed in elegant scabbards. The men carried their helmets in their arms, long flowing blood-red cloaks were attached to their armour. The sigilliums of Scara Brae's City Guard was etched in gold upon the face of the blood-red cloaks. The representative of the Warrior's Guild was locked in a heated argument with the members of the Mage's Guild. The armoured warrior who spoke was a man named Tior Risuses. He stood at an impressive height of seven-feet nothing, weighing in about two hundred and sixty pounds of pure muscle. Where as Odost was powerful of mind, Tior was powerful of muscle. In another era, both representatives of their respective Guilds would have greeted each other as allies. However, in this second age of darkness, the two had somehow become bitter rivals. At last, the argument reached its peak. Odost would not sit for the destruction of freedom and liberty in Scara Brae.

"We will not stand for this!" Odost yelled. "You are infringing upon the civil liberties of our citizens! Martial law cannot be allowed!"

"Before you make your opinion final, you should read this." Tior said calmly and handed the Magi a document. "It is official orders from Queen Valeena herself. The official Royal Seal is on the documents."

Odost's eyes went wide as he read the documents signed from the very royal family that upheld the law that the Mage's Guild fought to protect in this, the darkest hour of Scara Brae's recent history.

Defeated, Odost looked at the triumphant Tior.

"How may we be of assistance?" Odost said finally, pushing the documents back in Tior's hands.

***

With Martial Law implemented, every member of the government's wings, including all of the Guilds in Scara Brae were mobilized. With a massive city-riot on their hands, the people of Scara Brae who were unaffected by the words of the mad-Prophet were forced to act for everybody else. Working in small teams, members of each of the Guilds of Scara Brae attempted to stop the violence.

That's how Jotham found himself in full action that day. Though the pacifist would have preferred to stay in the Guild Hall headquarters doing valuable research, the Overmage knew that was not meant to be. Deep down, he understood the dangers that Althanas was currently going through because he had seen them all in Ayenee. Once, Jotham lead a band of members of his people through many conflicts and wars. Wars against both The Light and The Darkness. Eventually, that group of Overmages was crushed from within, not by some hated enemy. Jotham wanted to ensure that the mistakes of his people were not repeated here on Althanas. He walked alongside three other members of the Mage's Guild, each one wearing robes that had the markings of initiate and neophyte. Even Jotham's own robes, despite their elegant nature, were the robes of a neophyte to the Mage's Guild itself. Jotham's group came across several individuals robbing a local market...

Jotham turned towards his companions.

"Proceed to apprehend them alive." The Overmage ordered and they began to prepare the Arkanos.

Meanwhile, a lone thief was running in their general direction...

Out of Character:

Sorry if it doesn't match with your posts, just an introduction I guess :/

You've got to be kidding me!

Was all the wizard, Alister Cain, could think as he sat loosely in a mahogany stool in his favorite bar, "The Lamb's Chop." The stale taste of warm ale streamed down his throat, causing a distasteful cringe to spread across his face. It was all the wizard had though, his liquor. He was no longer welcome in the Scara Brae Guard after an incident where he had been labeled "mentally unfit to serve the city." Corone was out of the question, he was wanted for murder there. And just about any other nation was to far and way to expensive, so for now he was stuck on the most boring island in Althanas.

"Damnit Fred, quit giving me this watered down goat piss. When I ask for the something that stings, I want that drink to jump out and fucking slap me in the face." Alister spoke up, he had reserved the right until tonight. Something about the afternoon had led the wizard to believe it could be his last.

"Look buddy, you can't be using that type of language in here. Bad for business."

Alister took a moment to scan the bar, noticing it was far below maximum occupancy. For that matter he and the bartender, Fred, were the only two in the place. Fred didn't even bother to light the fireplace, but why bother, after all it was the apocalypse.

"Sorry to burst your bubble Fred, but this place is a ghost town. Guess you didn't get the memo that this is the end of days."

"No, I heard, which is why I'm wondering why your pesky ass decided to mosey in here."

"I got nothing better to do. End of the world sounds so cliche anyway." Alister scoffed, "I could ask you the same question though."

"Gotta serve worthless scabs like you." Fred let out a light chuckle, which sounded more like a cough than anything.

"Well I'm glad you think so highly of me pal," Alister paused to fish a black hair from his mug. "You know what would make this whole thing better? If you busted out the good stuff. I figure an occasion like this don't come every day, might as well go all out."

There was a blank stare on Fred's face, before he finally replied. "Hell why not! Was saving it till I got married, but doesn't look like that's happening anytime. Ever." Fred turned back and reached for something under his beverage counter when all of a sudden the mood was interrupted by the shattering of glass. One of the two windows on the front side of the bar had a mangled arm right through it. Blood was seeping from fresh wounds, dripping onto the polished floors of The Lamb's Chop. Thousands of rowdy voices filled the bar at once, signifying that the end was near.

"Well to much for that thought." Fred said, replacing the bottle that he had grabbed with a spiked club.

"Damnit..." The mage bowed his head in disappointment, realizing that if he wanted his drink he had two ways of obtaining it. Either kill Fred or help him crack some invader skulls, with hopes that he will share. "Alright, I'll bust a few chops, but afterwards I want my damn drink Fred!"

The wizard prepared a spell as the bartender batted away the emerging hands that were waving through the broken window. Just when things couldn't get any worse, the door was busted down by a distorted file of vagabonds. From Alister's rough calculations there was about ten men, armed with about anything they could find. Pitchforks and planks of wood were just a few of their cruel tools they intended to maim with.

"Guess they didn't know there was a handle." The wizard concluded before launching a ball of fire towards the makeshift entrance.

"Never in the conflict between my people and the cult of the Mitra has there been such mayhem as this," Wohe panted.

Acting hastily, Wohe saw to the wounded civilians and the people simply left in the corners of the streets left to die. If the healing powers of Suravani couldn't provide comfort, then surely the words of a person who cared would.

There wasn't a particular order in Wohe's healing, how does one assess desperation? Is a man stabbed in the leg to the far right of the street who is surrounded by mobs in more need than a child hundreds of feet behind, crying desperately for his mother? No amount of training in Jya's Keep could prepare one for the mass havoc that ensued. "Why can't I do more," wept Wohe, "my healing should be stronger than this." Many blessings and prayers had been asked in the name of Suravani in the next few hours. Innumerable people passed away or, perhaps even worst, had to be left with an ineffective Protect cast on them.

Chants enraged the city streets as footsteps drummed on the cobbled pavement. There was an unfamiliar sound of wailing that was drowned out by screams of looters. Flames fanned freely on the wooden architecture in all the city, it seemed; fire was inevitable. Despite the high temperature of the Nirakkal desert, fire never had such a presence as it did now in Wohe's life. It created a burning taste in the throat, thick and consumable. It rested without welcome between pants.

"By the blessing of the Moon, we will do this."

Victims had turned faceless to Wohe, her role now came second to the upkeep of her sanity. Alone, in great distress, her self inflicted mission continued.

In The Queen's Common Council

The Queen narrowed her eyes and stared down across the cityscape. Destruction was being wrought in the name of lunacy, and she had lost the will and patience with her captains and advisers and their pedantic solutions to a simple problem. With a firm grip on the window ledge, she leant out and took a deep breath; she smelt all she needed to smell to take stock of her kingdom. It smelt of sulphur, smoke, and fear.

"Gentlemen," she continued her previous address and turned about to face the group of lethargic looking men and women who were gathered about the oaken meeting table, atop the tallest reaches of the castle. It was a simple stone room with windows in intermittent gaps around the circular wall, and little in the way of decoration - despite her splendour in the public eye, the Queen did not like such trivialities to impede the heart of her reign, her dichotomy “-Ladies, I wish to re-iterate a simple point of fact.” She let her threat hang in the air as she advanced across the room and sat at the head of the table, leaning forwards as she settled, chin cusped in hands in an almost meditative pose. “The city is in no danger, from any threat other than those that have existed for centuries, if not millennia.”

“But your majesty, the mage’s guild…”

“Have no stead in politics, Duke Leopold, nor do they hold any sway over the Templers, whose clerics deem no threat from the celestial heavens.”

“Then how,” the economical advisor stepped in, a brash and middle-aged man with a beard as large as his gullet, “shall we deal with the rioting in Numarr, and the outbreaks of panic throughout much of the city?”

“Simple,” the Queen replied, leaning back now that she had her audience encapsulated. “We will authorise the Templers Rite of Cleansing on any mage who aids or abets an individual in the furthering of this ‘prophets’ madness, and we will give the City Guard the support they have requested, in the form of the Knights Regent.”

“Shall we call such knights from the front, where another enemy greater still threatens us?”

The Queen shot the general of her armies a glare that silenced his protestations. “Yes. The sanctity of our city is more important, as is the protection of our buildings, our resources, and more importantly our heritage. Tell me clerk, what did Sloane of the Northern Guard report this morning?”

A wiry man with a jittery jagged moustache rustled his papers and stuttered to find his place, “Rioting…full scale, fire outbreak and fighting in the…” he peered closer through thick rimmed spectacles, “The Lamb’s Chop, the guard are struggling to maintain order across the slums as there is simply too much…space, to cover. Nay, ground – ground is what I meant.”

“So we shall amend that issue easily enough – what else?” The scent of smoke and brimstone drifted in through the window, kicking an aura of dust and carnal waste into the chamber, which mirrored the tension in the air between the autocratic figureheads of the city governance.

“The Guilds-man Circle is afoot; whilst many of their number are aiding injured citizens, and rumour has it that healers from foreign lands can be seen offering altruism’s course, this can only mean they aim to move against the rigidity and stability of the Ordos, and of course your majesty, the Tantalum Troupe...” Finding his confidence at last, the clerk named Basil met a sticky end from the Queen’s glare and settled back into silence.

“The Guilds-man Circle and their so called ‘Mage’s Guild’ is a threat greater still than this ‘Prophet.’ Commander Arish, see to it that your personal guard arrest this man and remove him from the streets – why you have not done so already is beyond my imagining, but harm him not – I wish for him to be pensioned by the court mystics-" the General left and the Queen waited for him to depart before continuing, as if she feared an eavesdropper or assassin.

“Our time to quash the guilds and re-establish the order that the peace with the Sorcerer Milieus brought will come, but for now – send our guard their reinforcements, and quell the slum rebellions. Find this mage I hear so much about and bring him to me.”

She stood, and all those in attendance stood with her.

“Scara Brae has been through dark times, and will go through darker still my friends. This is but a blot on the landscape and a small grain of sand slipping through the vice of the hourglass. We will retain the harmony of this land, for even if such madness as a comet falling onto us should ever happen, the Scara Brae promise will live eternal in the ruins to be rebuilt anew.”

She paused and thought of a truth she could not yet reveal before waving them away, “court adjourned.”

Quote:

---

Summary:

• The City Guard have been bolstered with new recruits, as well as the Knights of the Royal House. They are marching on taverns and other rioting and rebel strongholds even as the Queen speaks.
  
• The Prophet is now wanted, and men will come for him if someone else does not further his dissapearance to their own ends.
  
• The Mage's Guild and the University are both subject to the Rite of Cleansing, which is in essence, the power of the Templars to kill mages utilising magic in the streets for anything other than healing or protection of the university of city's assets. Alister is a wanted man, alive, fortunately, the healer named Wohe is also searched for by the Queen, who wishes to use her talents in the service of the Apocathery who tend to the wounded innocent across the city.
  
• In the stars above the city, a small flicker of flame can be seen, growing ever greater in size and ferocity with each passing moment...
  
• The smoke and smell and noise in the city is growing, and it is clear, even in the regions not affected by the rioting that something is afoot across Scara Brae.

---

What a glorious sight, William Arcus' laughter boomed out through the streets. Composed of both man and demon, the revenant rarely had the opportunity to revel in the mass chaos and destruction within him that constantly demanded release. Now, for the first time in ages, the voices in the back of his head were silent, acting as nothing more than spectators enjoying the show.

Scara Brae’s slums burned. The echoing cries of forlorn wails and smashing glass punctuated only by the ringing of steel on steel or the boom of magic gone awry. A few pockets of resistance still held out against the ever increasing forces that Scara Brae’s Queen wielded like a club, forcefully smashing whatever lie in her path.

Still, her heavy-handed tactics were not quelling the masses quickly enough. Fires spread thick plumes of greasy smoke across the city, and the rolling waves of rioting looters were like maggots swarming for necrotic flesh. Numarr had been the starting point, but was now the center of madness, and as the so called prophet’s words spread quickly, and the affect they were having across the city could not be denied.

Breathing deeply, William savored the acrid tinge that filled his ashen lungs. He had long since abandoned the human skin that he normally presented, his violent urges pushing his humanity aside like swatting a bothersome gnat. Clotted crimson soaked his skin from claws to elbow, having already drank deeply from a variety of broken mortals. Death stalked the streets of Scara Brae this evening, a nightmare made flesh who killed with passion and pleasure.

Another bout of fighting from a cross street drew William’s attention away from his reverie. The revenant quickly moved to the corner of the connecting alley, eager to spy what new charnel pleasures waited for him to pluck like forbidden fruit. Looters clashed with a small group of City Guardsmen, hurling obscenities and curses towards the arbiters seeking to put a halt to their fun. Though there were more rebels than guardsmen, they fought with make shift weapons and no sense of tactics and the City Guard were swift to put them down. And much to William’s distaste, they did so as peacefully as they could.

A boy, no more than sixteen or seventeen, broke from the riot and ran headlong down William’s alley. He wore ragged, stained clothing, signs that he was one of the many down-and-outs who called the Numarr slums home. From the way that he kept looking over his shoulder as he ran headlong through the alley, William surmised that he was hoping to make his escape from the shackles that were at that very moment being locked onto his companions.

That’s just not right, William thought sourly, waiting with baited breath for the youth to come within range. The moment came and the revenant was on the shrieking boy in an instant, looping an arm around his scrawny frame and jerking him to a halt.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” William hissed in the boy’s ear, using his inhuman strength to clamp the twisted bone of his claws over his prey’s neck to cut off all sound. “You’re going to miss the party running away like that. It’s almost as if you didn’t want to see what happens next.”

The revenant maneuvered the struggling boy to the mouth of the alleyway, waving his asphyxiating form like bait for the guardsmen. The demonic figure presented much too tempting of a target, summoning a trio of guards to act the part of hero. They ran as swiftly as their armored frames would allow, drawing their weapons and shouting hoarse insults.

“Sweet, sweet music,” William hissed and lifted the restraining clamp of his claws from the boy’s neck enough to let one whimpering sob escape as he drew his other claw across the boy’s gut. Entrails spilled into the dusty street like eels slipping through a cracked bucket, eliciting alarmed cries from the approaching guardsmen. The unlucky boy began to spasm uncontrollably, the last nervous impulses animating his body like a macabre marionette.

“What frail toys,” William sighed, feeling the last spark of life twitch out of his puppet. It was no matter, the guards were close enough now, drawing their blades back to strike, eyes full of righteous vengeance. A vicious smile split William’s face like a ragged scar as the first of the guardsmen hit striking distance.

The limp corpse pistoned forward from William’s grasp, projected into the lead guard with the same inhuman strength that had borne him aloft. Unprepared for the sudden, violent move, the guard had no time to evade and a sickening snap as he was sent awkwardly sprawling to the ground was tell tale sign that his neck had snapped. Seeing their leader fall the other two guards halted momentarily, distracted by the assault.

Snarling like an enraged beast, William stepped inside the next guard’s strike, flattened his hand, and drove the razor claws back and up into the man’s unprotected jaw. The last man recovered quickly as swung his sword towards William’s neck in a measured arc. The revenant ducked, bringing one claw up to deflect the strike and extracting the other from the ruined mass of flesh that had moments before been his attacker’s companion.

William’s snarl turned into a savage hiss as the remaining guard, no stranger to combat, angled his blade to kiss William’s charred flesh. Made thick and tough by the molten heat of his demonic power, William’s skin shrugged off most of the light swipe, but enough of it got through to draw a thin line of hot, syrupy blood. Even as he finished his strike, the guard backed away with a shuffle, pulling his blade into a closed defense. His hard eyes showed that he was well trained and was ready for anything that his nightmarish opponent could throw at him. Or at least that’s what he thought, until William hurled the bloody wad of meat that he had pulled from the dead guard’s head.

A moment of shock washed over the remaining guard as he realized what had just hit him and he froze up for a fraction of a second. His hesitation was all the time William needed, and the revenant dove in like a bird of prey, bringing his outside hand around to grab the blade of the guard’s sword in a vice-like grip. Iron hard bone bound the sword tightly, leaving the guard defenseless, and William’s follow-up left him lifeless.

“What a glorious sight,” the revenant chuckled as he reveled in the slaughter.

The caustic scent of smoke filled Ulysses’ nostrils as he made his way towards the Numarr slums. The buildings around him progressed from poor quality shacks to miserable hovels. Some had once been fine brick buildings, but these were in terrible disrepair. Screams punctuated the night like ugly misshapen commas. A rat scurried in front of him, fat and with yellowed, irregular teeth. Ulysses kicked at it halfheartedly and it scurried down an alleyway away from him. He looked up and was confronted by some bizarre graffiti.

Someone had taken red paint and defaced the brick wall before him. They had a single curved line. The line was like a sideways parenthesis, or a very shallow U. Ulysses stared at it, puzzled, but could attach no meaning to the symbol. What this rune or sigil meant he could not fathom. Perhaps they’d started to write something else and hadn’t been able to finish for some reason.

Far more disturbing were the small black words scrawled tightly in a lower corner of the wall, as if they didn’t say anything important. The handwriting was shaky and nearly illegible, but Ulysses could make out what it said: revenge red REVENANT run run from the revenant RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN. Goosebumps went up Ulysses spine and he didn’t even know why. The writing was probably just the ravings of some madman—there seemed to be a lot of those around these days—surely it didn’t mean anything.

Still, he didn’t feel nearly as confident as he had earlier. He was unsure. Afraid, even.

Terrified is more like it, some part of him thought, the part of any person that can never truly allow them to lie to themselves.

He continued his vague meander through the slums, barely aware of his surroundings. Everything was in a dreamlike haze; he felt as though he were looking through tinted glasses. None of this could possibly be real, right? This was the sort of thing that happened in far off lands—Salvar or Corone, maybe, even Raiaera, but Scara Brae? Never Scara Brae! He couldn’t possibly have just passed the mutilated and dismembered corpse of a young man, the fingers of his hand outstretched, as if reaching for help that had never come, his eyes glazed and unmoving.

Couldn’t possibly. Not in Scara Brae. Never in Scara Brae.

All of this was surely some bizarre nightmare, one that he would wake up from in a cold sweat and laugh about uneasily later, in the retelling. The details of the dream—the way a woman’s scream in the near distance reached a crescendo and then was silenced as her throat was cut, the way the child’s lips were frozen in a pouting mommy-I-want-a-new-teddy-bear expression (oh gods oh gods she couldn’t have been four years old three maybe oh gods)—the details were disturbing, yes, but surely when he woke up they would simply seem nonsensical.

This is not a dream, the Knight’s clear voice rang within his head. Ulysses’ lip trembled, and then was firm. He supposed some part of him had known that already. If that was the case, then he was more afraid for the life of the city he knew and loved than for himself.

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he walked right into a small crowd of people, not noticing them until he was in their midst. He found himself surrounded by armed men and women. Someone held a sword up to his throat, and he froze in his tracks

“You’re not a looter or a thief, are you?” the man with the sword said. Ulysses looked up at the face of his sudden aggressor. The man holding the sword had noble, handsome features and a short, neatly clipped beard. His eyes were a common shade of brown, but something about the way the warm glow of a nearby fire glinted off them was unnerving.

“No,” Ulysses said, shaking his head vehemently. “Sir,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

“An employee of the City Guard?” the man asked. His tone of voice was steady and assertive. Ulysses denied this as well, some instinct telling him not to mention the few times he’d helped the Guard in the past. He certainly wasn’t working for them now, anyway.

On hearing this, the man withdrew his sword and sheathed it at his waist. He was wearing a suit of medium-armor, and painted on the breastplate was a single upturned, red line. Ulysses gasped, recognizing it from the graffiti he’d encountered a little ways back.

“You recognize the symbol, or you recognize me?” the man asked, sounding amused.

“Neither,” Ulysses admitted. “Well, I saw that same painted line on a wall a ways back, but I don’t know what it means.” Ulysses looked around at the crowd of armed people (soldiers?). There were maybe two dozen here, enough to make a small platoon, standing in rough rows. All of the men and women had the same curved line inscribed somewhere on their clothing or armor. They were irregularly equipped, some barely armed at all and some well armed, some armored and some not, but all had the same expression of grim sincerity on their faces

“It means I’m a Friend of Scara Brae,” the man said with a relaxed smile. “My name is Abraham Miller—about as common a name and common a man as you can find around here.”

Ulysses silently observed that very little about the man, from the experienced and confident way he held his sword, to his tone of natural leadership and charisma was “common.” Still, he found himself liking Miller without really knowing why. Something about the man just exuded friendliness and charm. Then the connection was made in Ulysses head, and he realized just what this all was.

“You’re rebels, aren’t you?” Ulysses said, apprehensive.

Miller shook his head. The smile on his face was the same friendly Hey-Neighbor-Can-I-Borrow-Your-Gardening-Trowel one, but something in his eyes looked angry. “That’s not it at all,” he said. “We’re just a group of concerned citizens, hoping for the best for our great city.”

“Citizens concerned about what?”

“Concerned about the current situation that all people living within these city walls find themselves in, particularly folks who aren’t quite as well off as others. Whether or not the words of doom the Prophet are saying are true or not doesn’t matter, see? Not everyone is happy with the way the Queen, and through her the Guard, are running things at the moment.” The crowd of Friends around him nodded in assent. “In fact, some might say that the Guard is going at it all wrong. They’re too easy on criminals and looters, and too hard on peace-loving citizens who simply want what’s best for everyone.”

Ulysses’ eyes narrowed. “If you’re against the Queen, aren’t you rebels?”

Miller shrugged. “You could say that. I’d argue that the Queen and her cronies are the true rebels here—rebelling against the interests of the people! There are more of us Friends than you see here, of course. Platoons from every corner of the city where men and women are tired of being oppressed and mistreated will be joining us, or meeting us at our destination.”

“And that destination is?” Ulysses asked.

“The castle, of course!” Miller said with a chuckle. “And naturally, since you look like a fighting man, you’ll be coming with us.”

Ulysses shook his head. “I think I’ll mind my own business, if it’s all the same to you.”

For the first time in the conversation, Miller’s smile turned into a frown. “I’m afraid that it’s not all the same to me. You see, anyone who doesn’t join the Friends is clearly…an Enemy. And any Enemy of Scara Brae is surely a vile criminal who must be dealt with. In the best interests of the city, of course.”

Before Ulysses could speak, a small man with oily hair walked up to Ulysses and dabbed a swift stroke of red paint across the front of his shirt. He was now a Friend of Scara Brae.

“Alright, Friends! I think it’s time we move out!” Miller said. The platoon began moving, and Ulysses was shoved into line. It didn’t seem like he had any choice: either join the Friends (for now) or be killed in the name of the city. The platoon began to march towards the castle in the distance, Ulysses with them. As they walked, they were joined by a steady stream of others. Each new volunteer or “recruit” was given a daub of red paint.

“So I suppose you’re in charge?” Ulysses asked Miller, who was standing at the front.

“Not at all! There is no ‘in charge’ in the Friends. We are all equal! Equal as, one day, all the men and women of Scara Brae shall be, once they are freed from the dead weight of a bloated aristocracy, and a monarchy that now cares more for its own power than for the good of the people!” Miller said. The crowd cheered enthusiastically. Ulysses, however, knew better. He saw the way Abe Miller walked, and spoke—the way the others looked to him for leadership. There was no question at all who was in charge of the Friends of Scara Brae.

It was in this moment that Ulysses realized that this man was more than dangerous; he was a democrat.

Ulysses, trapped in the column of rebels, felt as though he was a small and fragile leaf, picked up in a great storm and carried to a river whose flowing was as unstoppable as that of time itself.

Somewhere in the distance, there were more screams.

As a lone thief ran from Ulysses' original person and made his way towards Jotham's position, destinies began to intertwine. Jotham and his fellow magi were prepared to arrest a group of looters when the thief changed everything in one moment. Crashing into Jotham, the thief's eyes were wide with terror as he stood there. The man started to blabber about being accosted by some vicious barbarian not moments prior. Recognizing the official Mage's Guild markings on the group of magi accompanying Jotham and Jotham himself, the thief carefully sized up the situation as it was unfolding. Scara Brae was being sent to the Ninth level of The Pyre in a hand-basket.

Holding the thief in his powerful arms, the Overmage looked down at the shorter man with a calm and collected expression on his face. "Be calm." The Overmage began. "Tell your story slowly so that we might act upon it." The Overmage looked out of the corner of his eyes and saw that rioters were gathering outside of a shop. Screams of terror were flowing from within, precious time was being wasted. "Shit. There's no time!" Jotham said. "Kaleb, you detain this individual for now. We will get him to talk later."

"No!" The thief yelled. "Somebody help me!" That's the single spark that was needed. Just fucking great. Jotham thought to himself as someone hurled a modified molotov cocktail in their general direction. "Evasive action!" Jotham yelled, and let the thief go, pushing him away from the incoming bottle in an attempt to save his life. Jotham dived as quickly as he could, using his battlestaff for leverage. The world slowed down. He counted seconds ticking by as the alcoholic bottle filled with its burning strip of parchment flowed towards the group. It rotated end over end and suddenly impacted against the ground. Jotham heard a deafening explosion as super-heated liquor and glass flew in every direction. Several pieces of sharp glass flew in the Overmages' general direction.

Jotham growled in agony as a superheated glass shard cut his face and left him bleeding terribly. A hand went to his face, and he clutched at it for a moment. By the Thayne, my face! The piece of glass jutted out of his flesh, and the Overmage attempted to pull it out, but the pain was just too great. He hissed in anger. His companions had suffered several injuries as well, but they had protected the citizen. To make matters worse, several individuals came from the East. They were a group of heavily armoured men from a certain organization. Through blurred eyes, Jotham recognized members of the Knights Templar. Paladins loyal to the Queen of Scara Brae and her kin.

Taking a defensive position, the Overmage knew that trouble was afoot.

"Jotham! There's trouble. If the Queen has sanctioned the Knights Templar, that can only mean what our leaders have feared. There is full Martial Law implemented in Scara Brae!" The Overmage nodded as he understood the weight of the matter. "By the Thayne! Jotham, your face!" Kaleb said angrily as he looked at his friend's face.

"I'll live. Many won't. We have to focus on our mission before the Knights Templar botch everything up." Kaleb nodded in understanding. "Where is the fellow? Did we save him?"

"Yes, but he ran off in shock." Kaleb responded to Jotham's question. "I guess we can't do too much can we." Kaleb raised his right arm, and Jotham saw that the lower half was missing, more than likely Kaleb had been at the epicenter of the explosion.

The Knights Templar made their way towards the representatives of the Mage's Guild. A man dressed in full Damascus attire walked over to the Mages and looked at them sternly. Jotham and Kaleb were the two superior officers of the small squad of Magi. They were all hurt at the moment though. One of the Magi was a Healer, and was using his healing arts on the rest of the fellows. Speaking on behalf of the Knights Templar, the man introduced himself. "My name is Lukas. Lukas Hannigan. You are representatives of the Mages' Guild are you not?" Lukas asked.

Jotham prepared to answer, but Kaleb answered first, waving a hand towards Jotham.

"We are. You're from the Templar aren't you?" Kaleb asked.

"That is not your concern. But yes we are. We are on assignment representing the interests of the Queen. You are advised to cooperate with us."

Kaleb hissed at that. "And if we refuse?"

"We are ordered to use the Rite of Cleansing against all Magi who do not cooperate..."

"Look out!" Jotham suddenly yelled and leaped at Lukas, in a tackle. An arrow from a bowgun barely whistled past the two men. Jotham held the Knight in place as he looked at the incoming group of rioters. "Get ready, here they come!" Jotham drew his skilled iron daggers and stood up quickly as the rest of his Magi prepared to act. The Knights Templar surrounded the representatives of the Mage's Guild to provide suitable support. "Detain all you can!" Jotham commanded and his fellows began to act. The fight was happening right outside of a bar known as the Lamb's Chop...

Perhaps fate would reunite Alister Cain with Jotham Archanex once again.

Moving into immediate action, the rioters descended upon the factions of the Mages' Guild and the Knights' Templar. Though injured, the Magi were incredibly powerful and capable of incredible feats. Jotham was already focusing on his spell, preparing to release it on the general mob that was coming at them. His fellows, Kaleb, Abdullah, and Shaeth, were preparing their own spells. Each Magus had their own specialties. Jotham needed a bit of time to focus on the Elemental Manna in order to channel it properly for an effective use of the Dynamic Fire. The Knights Templar worked with melee batons and non-lethal weapons to apprehend anyone who rose up against the Queen. Men wielding pitchforks and other crude weapons attacked the Knights Templar. Jotham was now glowing with a powerful nimbus cloud and kept having to wipe his face from the freely flowing blood that trickled down in rivulets. Jotham would charge his ability for a few more moments as he stood there, his body channeling the elemental manna with great skill. They fought relatively near to where the Revenant had fought against the City Guard. The chaotic battle was only the beginning...

As Jotham focused his Elemental Manna, the Overmage thought about how quickly things had started. Suddenly, he thought of another mission that would make the Mage's Guild heroes. He looked at his fellows for a long moment, and prepared his spell for just the right time. He needed only a few more moments of time...

His fellows of the Mage's Guild understood the power that the Overmage possessed. They released Stun, Paralysis and Sleep Spells into the crowd to knock people out where they could. The Knights Templar were fighting with all the ruthless skill they were known for, breaking limbs, knocking people out, etc. It was a brutal scene of carnage. It was art.

As the nimbus cloud gathered around the Overmage, the hour would soon be upon them. Jotham looked at his fellows. "Cover me!" Fighting broke out all around the Mages, and several brawls broke away from the main group as the Knights were attempting to quell the violence by adding their own method of violence. I have seen this before. Back home. Back in Ayenee. Rioting, pillaging, madness in the streets. People only understand what will make them afraid enough to stop the madness...we need an equalizer. And Jotham saw several opportune targets...calculating the right distance that he would need to launch his ability for, the Overmage prepared the strategy in his head. Lamps were everywhere, and this would add fuel to the fire he was about to ignite. Jotham thought about one other matter. We must find the Prophet before anybody else does... Jotham looked at his men and prepared his strategy. "NOW!" Jotham yelled. "For Scara Brae!"

And in a strange and unexpected moment, the Magi of the Mage's Guild took their own stance and turned against the Knights' Templar. Everyone became a target. Whilst using the cover of the battle raging against them, the Magi released their status-inducing spells upon the Knights Templar. Jotham swore to the Thayne Khal'Jaren, that he would end the violence one way or the other. Even as the eternal flames of his nimbus shone brightly around him.

He just needed a little more time...

The fire blast Alister had cast moments earlier erupted, casting a sea of orange tints across the entrance to the bar. Flames danced around momentarily before catching the battered door, the front walls, and a lone chair on fire. Gusts of heat jumped from the impact zone and made Alister and Fred back away from the besieged entrance to The Lambs Chop. The wizard's actions had bought the men time, he had created a fire haven for the two, but also doomed them at the same time.

"Ah what the hell Alister?! You're gonna' burn the whole place down." The panicked bartender exclaimed, frantically trying to scour enough water to put out the flames.

Alister couldn't help but to laugh at the situation. He had stared death in the face several times in the past few months, but had always limped away alive. In Brokenthorn he had faced bandits and foul creatures, but thanks to the help of two unlikely strangers, he left the woods in one piece. On Neverscale mountains he had been a pawn in the clearly insane Sir Pallotan's games, but returned to Scara Brae unscratched. If anything the wizard was stronger, mentally, after his adventures on the island.

"What the hell are you smiling at?" Fred shouted as he emptied the contents of several water jugs into one large tub.

"You. This. Everything." Scoffed the wizard, "life for that matter. What's the point Fred. You put that fire out and we'll have that-"

Alister pointed out towards the street, where it seemed all hell had now broken loose. Between the mixture of shouts and an ear blowing explosion, Alister began to realize that this was in fact the end. The impoverished horde was now being butchered like livestock by a group of knights. One of the knights, likely their leader, was being adressed by a Magi. It all clicked for the wizard suddenly, snapping him back to reality-

"Jothem?" He said under his breathe, recognizing the Magi from his exploits in Brokenthorn. If it weren't for him and another man, William Arcus, Alister would have found a shallow grave in the tainted woods.

"We'll have what?" Fred inquired, not being able to make out the wizard's whisper.

"Oh. What?" He had lost his train of thought, but was now ready to put out the flames and join his friend in the streets. "Here let me give you a hand with that."

Alister reached for the tub of water, with hopes they could put out the fire. After a great deal of straining pulls, not to mention a possible hernia, the two were able to lift the tub and carry it to the flames- that were now growing wildly out of control.

"Alright Fred, I'm pretty sure when we get out there we're going to be detained, or even possibly killed." Alister stated to the bartender, whose nerves were now getting the best of him. "I want you to just run, avoid those knights though."

"What? Why would I run?"

"Because it's clear that the queen has implemented full Martial Law. They don't care if your a looter, or just a sloppy bartender." He paused to shoot Fred a warm smile, "they'll kill you."

"So you're implying that I should run, from the knights no less, leaving you to die?"

"No, not at all. I'm implying that you run and we both live." Alister turned to scan the streets through the dancing flames. "I have a feeling I'll be alright."

"Whatever you say Alister." Fred retorted, before the two of them doused the fire out, creating an exit from the crumbling bar.

In the street the scene was ten times worse than Alister had imagined. The decaying stench of death was filling the air from every possible direction. Corpses, leaking crimson fluids, were littered everywhere. There was fighting and dying, but the knights and the Magi at a strange stand still. Before Alister could alert Jothem of his presence, the bloody streets became a lot bloodier.

It seemed that Jothem had ordered his platoon to attack the knights. At once everyone under his control begin casting spells or brandishing blades in a single movement to squash the well suited noble lap dogs. Jothem in particular was preparing his strongest spell, which he had called Dynamic Fire back in Brokenthorn.

"Jothem, it's me Alister Cain. Anything I can help with?!" The question with the obvious answer, one thing Alister always happened release during the opening moments of a battle.