The Sky Is Falling! (Open)

The Sky Is Falling!

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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:

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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.

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.

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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.

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(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.

Ulysses charged through the doorway and into the Queen’s chamber and was instantly cowed by the scene he saw. The Queen, who he’d never seen in person before, sat at a magnificent round table. She was partially concealed by a silky white veil, and a knowing smile sat on her lips. She seemed remarkably…calm? In the face of eminent doom, he would have expected her to show some more emotion, but perhaps that was just royalty for you. The Templar and Guard stood at her sides, still as statues and equally devoid of expression.

Another man followed him up the stairs, but Ulysses paid him little attention. He was probably just another guard of some sort. There were far more pressing things for him to pay attention to.

On a balcony leading out from the room stood the Prophet, who paced back and forth and watched the sky. His ramblings were no more logical than before, but Ulysses caught a couple phrases.

“The gods have fallen asleep on the job yet again!” the Prophet cried. “Soon, soon we shall—” The Queen hushed him and he fell silent.

Ulysses obeyed the Queen’s summons to sit at her table. He paused for a moment, trying to decipher the meaning behind the words engraved on each chair, but could not. In the end he sat in the chair marked Novellas and turned to face his Queen.

His entire life in Scara Brae, Ulysses had been a firm supporter of the monarchy. He’d ignored the occasional bad policy and wrote off the flare-ups of discontent and democratic feeling as foolishness, but right now he felt sympathy with the Friends he’d met earlier in the day. The Queen looked so serene in the face of this disaster…in that moment he realized something that gripped his naïve heart with existential terror.

She knew! he thought. She knew this was going to happen! Whether she caused it or not, she knew

“How could you do this?” he asked the Queen. “How…you must have known! If that madman knew, surely the royal family knew that the comet was coming. You could have evacuated…something.” He sighed, frustrated. It wasn’t as though the Queen would care what he had to say after all—how he’d ended up here, he had no idea. He still couldn’t get over the impression that he really ought to be by the ocean, in a little cottage with his wife…instead he was arguing with the Queen herself. There was really only one question he cared to know the answer to, though.

“What’s happening?”

So here we are, the phrase, like whispered words, filled William’s mind as he came to the end of the darkened stairwell, though the revenant could no longer tell if the thought were his own or were given to him to think. A single door waited for him at the end of his destination, designed almost impossibly well to be undistinguishable from the walls around it and yet lolling open, bobbing back and forth almost imperceptibly as if it were a gesturing hand waving him forward.

And forward he went, still moving in the uncommonly fluid grace that had taken him over since that fatefully enlightening moment of clarity at the feet of the stolen prophet. Hazy fog and flashed of half-remembered visions clouded his animal brain, permeating all of his thoughts in a thick mental fog that made it hard to focus. And yet, when he managed to focus long enough, he understood that he could reclaim himself from whatever intangible force that played him like a marionette. It was an odd sensation, feeling his body moving and acting without conscious control, and yet something about the situation seemed right to him, as if everything were coming to pass as it was meant to be. Relaxing his focus, William let the mind-fog retake him and watched like an outside observer as his spattered, grotesquely charred and visceral form entered into the queen’s chambers.

There was no moment of shock or awe as he entered into the very presence of Scara Brae’s commanding persona, nor was there any sense of surprise that the gibbering prophet stood relatively peacefully behind her. It was as if he had expected no less than this exact outcome, or at least whatever force drove him onward had expected nothing less. Nor was he surprised to see the grim, stern looking hostility in the faces of the armored guards which stood ready, even now to draw steel and strike him down. After all, wasn’t it the blood of their own men that currently congealed like thick jelly upon his blackened flesh and bone.

What did surprise William was the fact that the queen’s guards did not attack the demonic stranger on sight. Even more surprising was the fact that instead of lashing out at the flesh of the tender form of Scara Brae’s ruler, the revenant found himself following the sibilant words that flowed from behind her pearl-white teeth and oh-so-human smile.

And then there was the other man, who had apparently entered just scant moments before his own appearance. What was he to make of this fresh faced stranger who, like he, bowed to the regent’s words but who spoke out with confusion, anger, disbelief, and resentment towards her. Taking the seat opposite him, the one marked Angelus William pooled his focus and concentration together, pushing aside the mind-haze just enough to be ready for whatever was to happen next.

The Queen smiled, and solicited the need to reprimand them both with the pleasure at someone succeeding at long lost. She cleared her throat and adjusted her crown to redouble her legality, and set her eyes on Ulysses and Revenant, one by one.

“I can only hope that you have both heard of Milleius Cordeaux, or have at least encountered the prominence of his legacy – the great magical university that covers much of the city?” She continued on regardless. If they had not, in a few short moments, they most certainly would have. “Several centuries ago he was a powerful, and some say corrupt sorcerer that dwelt in this very tower. He was the advisor and court magician under the control of my predecessor, and as a man with such power, he was feared, respected, and reviled in equal measure.”

The cool air in the interior of the Queen’s chamber began, very slightly, to warm up. It went from a spring evening to a summer morning in temperature in little time at all. She took the time to mop her brow before continuing, allowing the tendrils of intrigue from her story to entice her audience. “Magic became far too uncontrolled in the city during his time as advisor. Very soon, the foundations of the island itself were buffeted by the strong and ill winds that the unbridled and untendered magic caused. My predecessor decided to restrain magic, and decreed the practice of the magical arts to be illegal anywhere in the streets of Scara Brae, and most certainly, criminalised the act of using magic on any other living, or undead being. I will not discuss the current political backlash against the Act of Nullvoid here, let us settle on that another day; the civil war which followed however, is a key fact to the reason you are both here.”

She stood, and the Prophet returned from the balcony at the sound of her chair scraping the cobblestones. “This,” the Queen gestured to the former madman, “is my brother, although the illegitimacy has given me no choice but to keep that fact hidden, he is a most potent magic user himself.”

“My sister is too kind; I am nothing more than a tinkerer and seer into the veil that exists between the realms. But, pray tell Ulysses and William,” he smiled maliciously, divining their names long ago in prophecy and bloodshed, “do you know why the people of Scara Brae can never know who I am, and what a magical sibling would do to my sister’s authority?” It was a simple, if exhaustible question. The Prophet took on a mantle of a wise, if young sage, shedding the former insanity as if it were just an act. His temple and brow smoothed out, his robes appeared more regal and his smile more human.

Whatever had brought them to the tower, had something to do with a war that had raged on unseen for five hundred years. From the afterlife, Milleius Cordeaux cackled as his curse found life once more, and fell upon the city that scorned him so.

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Your response to the Queen will determine her next course of action, and ultimately, who she will bestow the providence of her boon upon.

---

The revenant was as unfamiliar with Scara Brae’s illustrious history as he was with the name Milleius Cordeaux.

Just my fucking luck, William snarled in the back of his mind, the dark corner where he had ferreted his free will away, safely kept out of the hands of the commanding influence that held sway over his demonic form. Am I to be the puppet of every sorcerer’s ancient magic?

It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that the force commanding him was not an unknowable force of destiny moving the world steadily towards ruin, but a petty man reaching out to spank his disobedient children from beyond the grave. Frankly, the thought galled him, stoking the fires of his latescent anger. The molten rage flowing through his veins, locked away by Cordeaux’s curse, began to slowly build back up in intensity.

“”The Sky will fall,” the words were even and emotionless, spoken from William’s throat but not of his voice, “just as Scara Brae will fall, in flames.”

“No,” his true voice answered, “you will not use me this way.” William’s entire body shook as he mentally warred with the sorcerer’s curse. The tips of his claws dug gouges in the Queen’s table as he unconsciously dragged them across the glossy surface in his attempt to regain control. The Provost and the Templar shifted forward slightly, their eagerness to draw their blades and strike apparent in every move. But the Queen’s slight gesture stayed their hands.

Another flash of brilliance lit William’s mind with visions of chaos and destruction, the attempt of Cordeaux’s curse to crush William’s resistance once and for all. Refusing to submit, William clamped his eyes shut against the light, roared his defiance, and pulled every bit of strength he could muster from his demonic power. Caught between the two extremes, the curse broke, like a string pulled past its snapping point. Pushed to the limit, William’s power faded with the receding force of the curse, and within moments he had returned to his human form.

When the revenant opened his eyes, he was startled at what he saw. Webbed lines were pulled tightly across his field of vision, remnants of the curse’s destructive insight. Countless lines of the thread were wrapped around the Queen and her brother, as they did around the young man sitting in the Novellas chair and himself, proof that the four of them were the crux of the doom descending upon Scara Brae.

“I have seen Cordeaux’s curse and the weight that it bears down onto Scara Brae,” William said finally, once more his own creature, “the falling sky is nothing but the physical manifestation of the people themselves.

“They, your citizens, are the true doom of Scara Brae,” William glanced over at the lines of destruction curling around Ulysses, “or its salvation. If they knew the truth, if they knew the power that they held over their homeland, Scara Brae would tear itself asunder.”

“That,” the revenant turned his gaze to the Prophet, and though his eyes no longer glowed like hot coals, they remained solid and piercing, “is why they can never know.”

"It would appear," the Queen began, slowly rising and walking around the circumference of the council chamber, "that it is you who shall save their souls." She gestured to William, and with her other hand, she wiped away Ulysses, and the room, and all existence.

They stood, ten feet apart, in a sea of nothingness, an eternal blanket of white wherever one looked. The Queen sighed, knowing that the next part of her tribute to the dead was not the easiest of tasks, nor the most rewarding. Long ago, to end a war, her forefather had come to a bargain with the powerful sorcerer Cordeaux, in order to suppress the Innari Civil War and bring peace to the city.

"To save the city from the comet, one must take on the mantle, and as much, take on the curse of the Cordeaux line." She clicked her fingers, and a battered steel helmet with two white wings on either side wrought of steel and eagles plumes appeared in a scintillating sphere of light.

"The previous owner of this helmet died a martyr to save the people, and in a way, you must martyr something in an oath to do the same. You must absorb the power of the comet, and the curse, and bind it in your body and soul forever."

She willed it forwards and the power behind it flurried her dress and the delicate fur lining of her collar. Time had grated dearly on Valeena's visage, and she appeared many years older than she in fact was. if any knew her beyond the guarded visage of the matriarch of an island, one might find her weak, tired and world weary.

The helmet stopped a foot or so from William's torso, and levelled out upright as if it were begging to be taken. There was, if one were to look closely, still blood stains on the dent where the fatal blow had been struck and slain the captain of the guard at the end of an ancient rebellion.

"Take it, if you wish to carry this curse. You shall be staved from ever learning magical arts, but in return for this sacrifice, I will gift this helm, the Lindquist Crown to you. You shall be given the title of Captain Regent in the City Guard, and the provost of Knighthood in the Knights of Brae. The city shall be yours, to defend, or enjoy - the Swan Men of the long ships could do with a man like you to bolster their numbers and lead them fearlessly as you have done today."

The aura of white hummed for a few short moments, then grew brighter. Valeena waited patiently for William to make his choice, whilst all the while, the comet loomed closer, and the fires of it's corona descended across the city, to scour district and slum and province alike from existence.

William stared at the plumed Lindquist Crown with mounting horror. Slow seconds dragged on into eternity while the revenant’s thoughts shifted from the crown, to the plummeting comet, to the ever present Tome of Kal’Necroth that hung in his pack. How long had he carried that ancient, runic bound book in the hopes of one day learning Kal’Necroth’s forbidden magic so that he could reverse what was done to him? How many hours had he caressed the symbols that filled those ancient pages, dreaming of regaining his lost humanity? And yet he stood here now, presented the option of willfully throwing that away as the only way to save the thousands of fear stricken innocents below.

Why should I care if they live or die? he raged at the thought of even contemplating such an act. Didn’t I just spend the morning ripping the lives from those very same people? The choice should have been an easy one for the revenant. The fiery fate of a nation at his fingetips should have thrilled and enthralled a creature born for the sole purpose of destruction. Yet things, as they often are, were more complicated than that.

William reached to slap the helm aside, to deny the Scarabrian queen her victory and to damn the fate of everyone and everything but found the demon within him surprisingly resistant.

What is this? he questioned, Why can’t I do it? But even as he questioned it, William knew that the demonic portion of himself would never willingly submit to anything that would further the goal of removing it, even if it meant saving a nation to do so.

Besides, he heard his inner voice coaxing, could your human self really live with knowing that you let all of these people die so horribly? The simple question shocked him like a downpour of icy water, shaking him to his very core.

“No,” William whispered, again reaching for the helm, “no I couldn’t.” The battered metal felt cool and smooth against the revenant’s fingertips. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brought the helm up, pausing for just an instant to stare at the weary queen.

“For Scara Brae,” he whispered, nodding, and then placed the helmet on his head.

Instantly, he could feel the presence of a thousand voices whirling inside his head, filling him with shouts of support and encouragement. Opposing them, starting at almost exactly at the same moment, was the dominating curse that which had been controlling him. The opposing sides clashed and screamed in his head, but William could feel Cordeaux’s curse losing ground, and in doing so being bound tightly to William’s soul.

Finally, once the last remnant of resistance was vanquished, the featureless void around William flashed brilliantly. For a moment, just the briefest of seconds, William was the previous owner of the Lindquist Crown, standing stoic and defiant as the only thing between Scara Brae’s salvation and its destruction. And then, just as the previous owner had, William felt the crashing blow upon the helm which had felled the brave Knight. And, just as the previous owner had, William fell into darkness.

As William slumped to the ground, Valeena felt the strain drain from her temples and she sighed with visible relief that came only at the end of a long shift in the mines, or at the end of a tiring day caring for a hustle of children. The council chamber slowly returned to view, as if the fog of the arcane had been blown gently away by unseen mouths.

"Thank you," she said flatly, to William, despite his inability to hear her praise. She stared at his body for a moment as her aides returned to the chamber from their vantage point on the exterior of the tower and huddle around the table, hands tentatively on the backs of chairs as if seeking permission to reform the meeting.

She turned on a heel and clapped. They sat. Time turned in a curious way outside of the tower as the comet shattered and scattered it's shards across the multi-verse. The onlookers saw a fleeting glimpse of tomorrow, then found themselves, without suspicion, going about their duty as they had been two days earlier.

Refreshing, invigorating renewal washed over Scara Brae, and all except those who had stood in the tower forgot their troubles, the flames, the rioting, the murder, spite and misfortunes of the slums. Ulysses and the mages-guild and all those who had tried to make it to the tower in Valeena's game had proven ill-equipped, except one.

"We are to discuss, first and foremost, the transition of Captain William Arcus into the Knights of Brae." The head council clerk shuffled his papers and placed the relevant scroll before the Queen as she sat in her customary chair. "If prophecy is fulfilled so easily, we must see to it that he is rewarded for his sacrifice."

"Is the Crown not enough?" The Magister of Foreign Affairs questioned, but averted his attention elsewhere beneath the Queens' scowl.

"He has been given the reigns to the city, by all means, but there is much more we must offer him, in time. See to it that he is taken to the finest quarters in the palace until he awakens, and address any questions he has to the Prophet. With the lunacy of the comet ceased, his visions and clarity should return." She cast her imagination to the semi-naked man she knew to be lying on the balcony, staring up at the stars with baited breath and wonderment.

Two guards entered, and lifted William up in a fireman's carry and carried him into the depths of the palace. He would awaken in the finest silk sheets, white as snow and as expensive as the country it was brought in. The four poster bed traditionally reserved for visiting dignitaries was used for the newest of heroes in a city of heroines.

In the recesses of time, a goblin scowled, and raised his fist to the pools of ether before him as if to suggest he would be successful next time.

Valeena smiled at long last, and for the first time that day, she meant it. "Now that we have dealt with that threat, we must discuss the Dragon, and the earthquake..."

And life went on.

Quote:

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Spoils:

Revenant receives the titles and ranks of Captain of the City Guard, (one of the district leaders) and the rank of provost in the Knights of the Brae. He is entitled to receive training and missions and has access to either faction's generic resources. He may chose, at a time convenient to him, to add two faction points to whichever faction he becomes involved in (he may add to one but still work within both).

The Lindquist Crown: A steel helmet with side guards, nasal guard and winged vestiges on either side. It has been restored to it's previous polished shine and is almost angelic in appearance. It is a similar design to those worn by the Knights of Brae, only more archaic and detailed. It has the following abilities, use-able once per thread or battle each. Using such abilities must be purely for the benefit or salvation of Scara Brae citizens or in pursuit of service of the City Guard or Knights of Brae. If it is misused, there will be dire consequences.

• Aura of Command: May rally and order City Guard or Knights to his side and allegiance. In a battle situation, this may summon two ghostly city guard, equipped with iron weapons and armour, for one post, or one Knight of Brae equipped with steel plate mail and a sword and shield for the duration of one post. They are all considered average in swordplay.
  
• Light of the Lindquist: May sprout angelic wings to glide or descend as if avian at double walking speed; not usable in battle.
  
• Pulsar - Can emit a blast of light once per thread that eminates from the crown and extends in a 20 foot circle. Repels evil spirits, undead and daemons of a lower level than the wearer of the crown.

The Curse of the Goblin King - Revenant cannot cast spells of an arcane or sorceress or innate form so long as he has accepted the curse. If it is removed, or transferred to another willing object or person, he may revoke this inhibition.

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(Sorry for taking so long to get to this. I will not be providing any commentary for the drop outs, except for Ulysses, who made it almost to the very end. Besides that, I will be giving experience to all but two characters. Pavel has requested that Jotham not receive any experience, and Wohe only posted once.)

STORY ~

Continuity (4/10) ~ While I do have a general idea about what's going on in this thread, I don't know when or why. While not throwing in reasons for being here are fine, the actual history behind this "curse" seemed to be pegged on at the last second. While I'm not saying to go into detail throughout the thread with the history behind things like this, a bit more effort would have helped the reader understand exactly what was going on behind the scenes a little better.

Setting (6/10) ~ This is Duffy's best score, and Ulysses did really well in this as well. Revenant was good, and I liked the way you describe it when Revenant is ready to attack someone. There are some areas you can improve on, however, at least in this thread.

Pacing (4/10) ~ Honestly, a little self-explanatory. With all the shuffling, and people leaving the thread, the pacing was pretty much dead in the water about halfway through. You guys got a nice finish to the thread, though, so I didn't dock too bad.

CHARACTER ~

Dialogue (6/10) ~ The dialogue was fairly good in this thread, from both Duffy and Revenant. Ulysses as well was really good. Overall, I say good job. There are a few knicks and knacks you can improve upon, just practice, practice, practice.

Action (5/10) ~ Overall, this thread had a lot of action, but in the earlier posts, all it did was confuse me. Because of the separation of the characters all over the city, I didn't know where one fight ended and another began. Toward the end, there was less action, but it felt more real to me, so this is a mixed bag for me. Because it went from really muddled to really believable, I'm going to have to lean to the middle on this score.

Persona (7/10) ~ Best area by far, for the two who used their own characters, though Duffy got me into the mind of the Queen pretty well. I really felt like I got to know Ulysses and William in this thread. It was good, especially toward the end, to see how they worked in certain circumstances. I only turned it to a seven, because I didn't exactly understand why William turned against his feral tendencies and took on the curse to save a race he didn't even particularly like.

WRITING STYLE ~

Mechanics (6/10) ~ A few errors here and there, but nothing too standout as to detract from the overall thread.

Technique (5/10) ~ Some good uses of technique, but nothing extremely standout to me. While I don't look for anything in particular, it was just missing something that screams technique at me.

Clarity (3/10) ~ If you don't know why, I'll be happy to explain over IM.

Wild Card (4/10) ~ At first, I got a migraine every time I tried to read this thread, but toward the middle and the end, it got to where I actually started to enjoy myself, so overall, not really good, but not terrible.

Overall Score - 50

Duffy Bracken Receives 1450 EXP and 175 GP
Revenant Receives 1450 EXP and 175 GP
Ulysses Receives 650 EXP and 125 GP
Alister Receives 200 EXP and 50 GP

Quote:

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Spoils:

Revenant receives the titles and ranks of Captain of the City Guard, (one of the district leaders) and the rank of provost in the Knights of the Brae. He is entitled to receive training and missions and has access to either faction's generic resources. He may chose, at a time convenient to him, to add two faction points to whichever faction he becomes involved in (he may add to one but still work within both).

The Lindquist Crown: A steel helmet with side guards, nasal guard and winged vestiges on either side. It has been restored to it's previous polished shine and is almost angelic in appearance. It is a similar design to those worn by the Knights of Brae, only more archaic and detailed. It has the following abilities, use-able once per thread or battle each. Using such abilities must be purely for the benefit or salvation of Scara Brae citizens or in pursuit of service of the City Guard or Knights of Brae. If it is misused, there will be dire consequences.
Aura of Command: May rally and order City Guard or Knights to his side and allegiance. In a battle situation, this may summon two ghostly city guard, equipped with iron weapons and armour, for one post, or one Knight of Brae equipped with steel plate mail and a sword and shield for the duration of one post. They are all considered average in swordplay.
Light of the Lindquist: May sprout angelic wings to glide or descend as if avian at double walking speed; not usable in battle.
Pulsar - Can emit a blast of light once per thread that eminates from the crown and extends in a 20 foot circle. Repels evil spirits, undead and daemons of a lower level than the wearer of the crown.

The Curse of the Goblin King - Revenant cannot cast spells of an arcane or sorceress or innate form so long as he has accepted the curse. If it is removed, or transferred to another willing object or person, he may revoke this inhibition.

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Spoils approved, pending Realm of Greeting review.

Exp-GP added.

Duffy Leveled, congrats hoe bag.