Content Warnings

The looming threat of fascism
Drugging / needles
Fantasy racism
Misogyny

“You know I’m right.”

“You cannot always be. Nobody’s record is 100-percent.”

“Then fittin’ I’m a nobody!”

“That’s not a real rebuttal…”

“Fine—why’s it so unbelievable?”

“You are joking? There isn’t a modicum of proof.”

Alabastra turns to face me, hands on her hips. “Lupines lie. That’s proof enough.” She’s been trying to talk me around the whole trip back.

I cross my arms. “It’s a conspiracy theory based on nothing more than your preconceptions—however accurate those summations might be. The fact of the matter is that it’s entirely possible Lyla Serrone was telling some semblance of the truth.” I step closer, so we’re walking side-by-side down the bridge. “Plus, if your criteria for if a politician is implicit in manufacturing a crisis whole-cloth, for some nebulously nefarious purpose, is whether or not they lie—you may as well impute the entire Common Assembly!”

She nudges me in the shoulder as she picks up her feet. “Alright already, Wordy Wanda. But this is different. They don’t lie like Lupines lie—Lupines plot. They scheme.”

“You realize you sound exactly like Serrone, right?”

Her feet plant into the planks. “You did not just say that.”

My eyes roll. Despite her exaggeration, I can tell she’s not angry so much as shocked. She desperately needs the wakeup call that her conspiracies risk blinding her. I would know. I won’t let her fall down that same path. “I’m not going to coddle you from hard truths, Allie. You wanted my skepticism? Here it is.”

Alabastra stares a moment, dumbfounded. And then she laughs. “Gods”, she scoffs, “I didn’t even consider that you with confidence was gonna be a forrr…“, and she trails off as we round a corner, looking out into the next section of the bridge. There, stuck into the wooden railing, the rogue’s dagger glints under the blue light, and the breaking dredges of frozen cave water drift past us, melting into consensus once more.

And there is no sight of Faylie or Tegan.

“I… I thought we were gonna be the late ones…”, says Alabastra with a troubled quivering. She walks forward, slow, examining our surroundings, before pulling her dagger free.

Her own panic is not helping my own, rising at the thought of our other two in danger. “They… they couldn’t have gotten lost?”

“It’s a one-way path—they wouldn’t have strayed far.”

Sudden vertigo swings me into the railing, and my shaking hand pulls at my jowls. “I… we didn’t miss them because we were caught up talking, did we?”

She shakes her head. In a consolatory sigh, her worry subsumes. “No, Moodie. Don’t think like that.” And she starts to pace. “If we had the wrong way, then it’s pretty much a straight shot to the ruins from here. We’ll find ’em on the way—maybe they got there and decided to let us catch up!”

“Are you sure?”

For a moment, she looks like she’s going to say something, but stops herself. “Well, no. But they’re tough—they can take care of themselves, alright? So let’s go find ’em.” She darts her head, and follows her own motion down the path. And over her shoulder adds, “And maybe when we get there, we prove me right!”

* * *

“Fuck…“, says Alabastra.

We stand on the stone precipice of an expansive cavern, a quarter-mile of rock and water, arcryst rising in large carriage-sized spires. Along the left edge of the chamber, a bumpy wall of twisting and grinding stone sits above a pale-blue pool, and streams of setting sunlight spill through breaks in the cliffside. Moss and vines and other bits of greenery creep along the floors, crawling their way from the banks of streams cutting through the rock like a delta. Larger kinds of plant-life, too, dot the interior—trees bending and twisting around themselves, wild bushes and even grass mixing with the moss. It’s practically a forest down here. The streams converge into the river we emerge from, and draw back up to a singular source, falling from above. A rushing torrent of endless springing water bursts from the ceiling in a downpour, so endless and clear that it can only be a path up to the heart of the city itself—waterfalling from the portal to the plane of endless lakes and oceans, spilling into our world in an accidental miracle.

Small bridges and guard rails and paths carve over the streams and through the dirt and rock, tiny trails making this place seem more like an underground orchard, all leading back to the nexus.

Standing like an old guardian in the center of the chamber, a subterranean building, looking like it was once constructed to be no different from the architecture above the earth, now blanketed in green moss. Its beige and brown bricks crumble away from itself in slow collapse. Roofs of teal ceramic are fallen through with vine-wreathed holes, its many windows shattered or stained. It is an expansive premises—multiple wings, multiple buildings, like the campus of a small schoolground. Its towers are octagonal and defiant against the decay, and layered tiers build upon its steeples over archways of modest make.

It looks almost exactly like the illusion the dwarven girl in Stilton crafted for us. We’ve arrived.

The ruined temple is dotted with mortal movement, black-armored Sable Guard marching to-and-fro, and what even looks like a few Partisans in the mix. A fair handful of individuals wearing priestly attire, too, inundate the church as if it were in its heyday. Idiosyncratic reminders of the chapel’s current state… or perhaps hopefuls looking to raise it back to prominence? And a few other figures bearing the signs of none of these groups, too, mill about the space. Just regular people, though they never move unattended.

The opposite end from where the sunlight streams, overtop the flattest section of the cavern, layers and layers of temporary structures, almost like a war camp, sit in red and gold linens. The encampment is lit in glowing torchlight, soaked with Sables, and stands before the only other feasible exit to this cavern; according to our map, that pathway leads up to an eventual exit in a grand park in Firvus Heights.

And all this would be strange enough, were it not for the storm above our heads.

Raging like a hateful cyclone, thunderous blue magic whips around and around in a churning tornado of arcane violence, cut through with ribbons of gold and black. The sound of it encompasses the entire cavern, like wind through sea cliffs. It sends our hair diagonal, buffets the encampments, twists and turns on itself like a dancing fire. It situates between the chapel and the falling water, hanging in the air without source or touching anything physical. When the water spray strays close to the cyclone, it mists and evaporates instantly, creating a cloud of fog over the cavern.

I find it difficult to look at for too long, and not just in the traditional sense. There’s a sense of overwhelming unease just gazing upon it, and I’m even starting to develop a headache. The storm has a weight to it—a mental intensity, demanding cognizance, stripping away the outer layer of the mind itself.

In every description I’ve ever read of the worst storms of the Runeplague, what sits before us matches precisely. A magical and psychic disaster—and in its horrible destructive glory, all I can do is stare. It paints the world in the teal blue of its spell-sickness, and I am terrified… and awed.

Having pulled ourselves out of the cavern and maneuvered carefully away from the watching guard, we stand on an alcove overlooking this space, and Alabastra paces madly, pulling at her hair, having just uttered her lamentation.

Looking back and forth between her and the storm, I offer, “It’s… not impossible that you’re still correct? They could have created this?” Her unbridled dread has me capitulating; the one time I may very well be right, and it’s the time it would least suit us. Pessimism paying off doesn’t feel half as rewarding as it does when it fails, as it turns out.

She runs her hands down her neck, and growls, “That’s not the point, Moods.” Her hands ball in rapid succession and back to flat again as she tries to find a sense of calm. “I came here thinkin’ we were handlin’ a few dozen assholes drummin’ up a lie—somethin’ we might catch ’em on, tear it all down. Or trick ’em somehow. Worst case scenario we put arrows in ’em all…” There’s a pause as she meets my eye, and points behind her at the raging subterranean storm. “I don’t know what the fuck to do about that!”

I cast my gaze down to the temple, teeming with authoritarian intent. “Well. They might.”

“Might?! Moodie, you really still think they’re trying to stop this? Fuck, I’m freakin’ out because I’m more convinced than ever that I’m right, just in a way I can’t fix. They must’ve created this shit, or… or they’re channeling it, at least. I mean, that storm looks just like the shit Tegan said Thassalia did—they must be driving the cart!”

“Allie.” I cross my arms. “What would the point of that be?”

Hands thrown in the air annoyance, she exclaims, “The point?! Moodie, to torment people, that’s the point. To… to blame this on you, make people afraid of you…”

I knit my brows. “That would be highly counter-intuitive. They’re spiteful and foolish, yes, but they’re the ones afraid of us. They don’t need to manufacture a crisis—they think they’re already in one.” I glance back at the storm. “And it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that they’re right.”

“They’re not“, she huffs, “I mean, whaddaya suggest? We just… walk in and offer to help these hateful fucks? I ain’t workin’ with a fascist.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Allie—of course I’m not suggesting that. All I’m saying is…” I reach through my bag, and pull out the cloth mask we’d handed out on the way here. “Let’s find out what the Lupines know before we consider how to topple them. One problem at a time.” In several wraps around my head, the cloth obscures my face, trailing down in a black tail across my clavicle. “And find our wayward partners along the way.”

And I let myself savor the moment, that for once, I walk ahead of her, determined and leading the charge.

* * *

Perhaps it’s a sign of how far I’ve fallen that it doesn’t even strike me as odd when the rogue tells me to take my shoes off. “Less noise—less tracks.” She gestures to the bottom of her boot as she slips it away, the mud caking it from our trek across the cavern to the exterior wall of the ruin.

With a sigh, I acquiesce, tucking my boots my into my pack and hoping the barefoot leg of our excursion is mercifully short.

With the aid of her keen sense of timing and a series of bushes and rocks, we’ve managed to evade the guard so far. Save, of course, for the one currently slumbering below our feet, knocked out with one of our last syringes of Subduant. “Will anyone find him?”, I gesture down to the man.

“Nah. Well. Maybe.” She looks decidedly unsure. “Let’s, uh… let’s pick up the pace just to be safe.” And with that, she turns and begins climbing up the side of the building.

The old brick at least makes for a comparatively easy climb, but my lack of exercise is once more catching up to me. Alabastra climbs through a tower window on the second floor, disappearing past the un-paned sill. After a moment, her head ducks back over the edge, and she’s offering a hand down to me. I take it without a second thought, and she swings me up through the threshold.

We find ourselves in small reading nook, a discarded library of sodden and left-behind books in mostly-empty shelves that line the octagon walls. Alabastra looks left and right, taking in the lack of movement. “Okay. One step at a time.” And she stalks forward.

It isn’t long before the tower converges with a hallway, leading a short distance into a balcony that rings the interior of one of the building’s several large halls. From our position above the hall, it seems to be the nave of this section, rotten pews bent and cracked, a few broken by fallen bricks. Windows of green-stained glass twist out and in like shattered smiles. Below us, I hear movement, and conversation. As close as we can get without giving the game away, we creep to the railing to get a better look, and listen.

Below us, several men in a circle converse, and most of them are familiar. Short blond hair prim and proper, the Lupine Arthur Forsyth adjusts a suit tie, as several Sable Guard flank his sides. Sitting on a pew near him, his party collaborator Beric Serrone watches on, weathered skin crinkling under his sneer. And Forsyth drills a stare into his employee—Vail the monster slayer, who grabs at his arm sheepishly, hat pulled over his eyes. My heart starts to beat to an almost human level. Part of me is surprised they’re even here, but it does lend credence to Alabastra’s claim that the Lupine Party is not only involved, but orchestrating this. Damn.

“What do you mean, you ‘didn’t find it‘?”, Forsyth growls at the fiendling, air quotes to accentuate his annoyance.

Vail rolls his neck. “I mean it like it sounds. The vampire was… elusive, sir.” He’s… lying to him? For his pride? Or for something else?

I look to Alabastra like she might know the answer. She shrugs, and whispers, “I think I mighta put the fear of the Gods in ‘im.” Clearly she’s pleased. My eyes roll.

Forsyth bites at his employee, “Well, then what bright idea sparked in your horned skull to come back here and make that my problem?” I’d still been under the influence of the watch when I met this man last, and even then, I could tell he was contemptible. But now that I can see him with completely clear eyes? I think he might be even worse than Lyla.

With shifting eyes unbecoming a warrior, Vail shrinks down. “I… don’t think bringing it back here would’ve gone well, if the testimonies I gathered—”

Arthur puts an indignant index finger to the slayer’s sternum. “You let me worry about the logistics. It’s my job to make the calls—it is your job to do what I tell you!” Then he backs up, massaging his forehead. “Or at least, it was…”

“Mr. Forsyth—”

“Do NOT interrupt me!”, he spits. He holds out a hand, and from it a glowing rune of swirling purple arcana in floating sigils twists widdershins in his hand. “Vail… your position has been terminated. OSTIUM.” The mageocrat relinquishes his spell, and behind the fiendling, an arcane doorway opens. A swirling circular portal in the air, giving view behind it to somewhere in the outer city—North Grennard, maybe.

Vail looks like he’s about to fall to his knees. “Please, Mr. Forsyth, without this job I’m—”

Forsyth tsks. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you looked askance at my daughter.” He turns to the guard. “Remove him. He is barred from the Black Gates. Should he set foot in the heights or get within a mile of either of my daughters again—consider him a highly dangerous criminal, and deal with him appropriately.”

The guardsmen march forward, hook Vail under each arm, and drag him through the portal. With a flick of Forsyth’s wrist, it closes behind them.

Alabastra and I share a wide-eyed look. That is, at the very least, one less problem.

The younger councilor turns to the older. “And there we have the common failing of the devilkin. My fault, for hiring him”, Forsyth says to Beric. He dusts his hands, then grips the top of the rotted pew seat in anger.

Beric squares his shoulders, making an attempt to fashion authority out of his doddering self. “The vampire is still on the loose, then. Could it be the very same Lyla believes has orchestrated this madness?”

Forsyth rolls his neck. “If she’s right? Then undoubtedly.” That was a particularly dodgy answer… “And what of our returned guest?”, he asks.

“In lieu of anywhere else to put him, he’s situated in the dorms with the, ah, others. On the second floor, of course. The room with the question mark painted on it, if you wanted to speak with him. He doesn’t seem to be plotting any further ‘left hooks‘, as it were.” A ‘returned guest’ of the Serrone’s. Hm.

“Good. At least one thing has gone right.” Then the blond man stares at the geriatric. “You know, I’m becoming increasingly skeptical of this plan of your wife’s. Half a dozen now successfully converted, and not one could give us an answer on how to stop this.”

They’re trying to discover the etiology of this curse? Or, at least the storm raging outside this temple? I give a hard glance to Alabastra, conveying assurance. She bites her cheek, and brushes a decidedly plussed hand in front of my face.

Arthur Forsyth continues, “Perhaps it’s time we started looking for other solutions…?”

“Well, with the artifact finally in our possession she’s now quite convinced this is our best course of action—”

“And that matters? Blessed or no, she’s still your wife, Beric. If this plan continues to fail, we will have to move forward with more drastic measures. In that event, we will need to decide what’s to be done about these monsters. When that happens, tell her how it’s going to be.”

Beric Serrone clenches his jaw. He mumbles something under his breath that I don’t catch from the second story, but it clearly sets Forsyth off further.

Forsyth scoffs at his colleague, “How utterly pathetic you are, Beric. A scared old man.”

“I had a knife held to my throat, Arthur! And I think she was going to let me die!”

“Well, who’s fault is that?” His colleague huffs in smug contempt. “What a shame. All that power, wasted on some frail from the backstones. And on you. Can’t even control your own woman. Show her who’s in charge, Serrone! Be a man, for the Gods’ sakes!”

I’m decided—he’s much worse than Lyla.

The blond man interrupts himself with a new thought. “Ah, we’ve spent too long yammering.” He pulls out a pocketwatch, a normal, non-time-bending pocketwatch, from inside his coat. “We’re going to be late to the council meeting. It wouldn’t do to falter on appearances at a time like this.”

“Are we going to make an announcement to the public?”, Serrone asks.

“No. Not yet. That little speech of Lyla’s revealed more than enough. We’ll give this plan one more day, and then discuss next steps.” He outstretches his hand, and casts the same gate spell he had before, opening a portal into Firvus Heights with a twist of his fingers. And he pats Beric on the back. “There is time yet to turn this to opportunity.”

Alabastra looks to me, returning the same knowing look, likewise convinced of her theory. I roll my eyes.

And below us, the two councilors disappear beyond the glowing veil.

* * *

“Interesting that he said ‘converted‘, no?”, I say, as I slip on the white clerical robe that Alabastra was so insistent that we change into.

Still pulling hers over her head, she concurs, “Not ‘cured‘. Just stacks up with the rest of what he said—they’re not all on the same page.”

As we stand in a laundry room we stumbled upon on way to what is by our best guess the dorms, I can only hope these robes aren’t soiled in any way that would mark them untenable as a disguise. My arm juts through the sleeves. “Which lends credence to my theory. If this were an organized conspiracy, they’d be more in-line.”

“He also said they wanted to benefit. That’s a point to me.” She pulls the golden hood of the robe over her head. It’s not a perfect disguise by any means, but it’s better than getting spotted in our more obvious thief-ware.

“Of course they want to benefit. That doesn’t mean they’re responsible.” I finish with my own robe. It’s strangely heavy, like I’m wearing a blanket. Likely the fault of the embroidery.

She pats the sides of her legs, frustrated. “Why are you defending them?”

And now I’m worried she thinks I’m backsliding. “It’s… not about them.” I’m not sure how to phrase ‘it’s about you‘ without sounding like I’m blaming her. I just can’t see her fall down this path, tearing her mind up with paranoia, fitting everything through the narrow needle-eye of hatred. Even if, in this case, the hatred is deserved. Even if she has every justifiable reason to be paranoid. For the life she leads—the person she is. And the ways that personhood would be forged into a weapon against her.

Against… me, too, and in more ways than one soon enough.

Ah, damn, this is exactly what I didn’t want. Spiral later.

Alabastra opens the door, folding her hands into the sleeves in a clerical manner. “Let’s keep movin’—don’t want nobody walkin’ in on us changin’. Especially over him.” And she gestures to the knocked-out guard that’s been laying at our feet this entire time.

“That… would be for the best, yes.” We’ve gone through practically all of the Subduant now. We might actually almost be out. I suppose I am counting on this plan of Alabastra’s—to try to talk it out with Fear—to work. Because we are very rapidly running out of back-up plans.

We keep moving, down the halls of the subterranean priory, following Alabastra’s pre-researched knowledge of the building’s layout. It isn’t long before we pass a guard heading the opposite direction down the hallway of moss-eaten brick. He marches in aimless determination, keeping himself a watchful sentinel for intruders.

He passes we intruders without a second glance. Sometimes a break in routine is so terrifying it blinds people to oddity. And sometimes it’s likely better to outfit one’s watchmen with helmets that don’t obscure the periphery vision. The best and brightest of Firvus Heights, utterly lost in a building that isn’t also a status symbol.

After firmly passing into the next building through a hall that hangs over a courtyard, avoiding the hole fallen through the floor, we see lines of doors—rotted wood with mail slots built in. A couple are open to the dormitories beyond. One hosts decrepit furniture gathering mold in every corner. The other has newer furnishings, half-built and pulled in recently and yet to be set up properly. They’re remodeling?

A closed door next to us has a red question mark crudely painted over the paneling. Alabastra looks over the door, steps over the guard she’s just knocked out, and says over her shoulder, “What’re the odds it’s not him?”

“Whichever option would more annoying is likely what we’ve landed on.”

She raps her knuckles against the door. A familiar voice yells beyond it, “Fuck off already!”

Alabastra looks back to me. “I’m gonna take you gambling someday. Just to see what happens.” She slides open the mail slot.

On the other side of the door, sitting a wooden chair and twiddling his thumbs, the detective Nathaniel Latchet stares back, looking somehow more disheveled than last we saw him. He has a few bruises on him that he didn’t before, as well. I wonder if they’re Vail’s doing, or the Lupines’. Or even his own?

He stands, marching towards us, and whatever indignant tirade he was about to unleash dies at the rising dawn of recognition. “Alabastra Camin…”

“We gotta stop meeting like this, Natey.” She leans against the door, inspecting her nails. “Guess the ‘bug out’ plan didn’t go too well?” I didn’t realize she could get more smug, yet here she is.

The detective snarls, crossing his arms in resentment. “They stopped me at the train station. Fuckin’ rail cops.” Bizarre to hear a former police officer complain about cops. Authority’s only an issue when he’s on the receiving end of the violence, it seems. “For the record, I didn’t sell ya out to none of these yahoos. Kidnap me twice? No more answers.” He starts to tap his foot, chewing the side of his mouth.

Alabastra turns to me, nodding. Perhaps I’m a hypocrite for it, but Gods have I grown to appreciate her Insight. She says to the disgruntled man, “You did sell us out to a monster hunter, though. Bad form.”

He shifts, crouching down to get a better view through the slot in the door, and meets my eyes. The cold glare of his eyes tells me everything I need to know—he’s figured me out. Seen in me a threat. Slower than before, he drawls, “Was I wrong to?”

I shirk from his sight.

“Yes”, bites Alabastra. She puts a hand on my shoulder. As best as I can with my eyes, I indicate that we move on from this. No point in arguing my personhood to someone who barely sees anyone that isn’t him as people. She sighs, and says, “Why do they keep trying to capture you?” No trying about it.

“Beats me.” He shrugs. “Won’t matter soon—you gonna let me outta here or what?”

Alabastra looks to me. If I didn’t know better I’d say for direction. Hmm. “Answer a few questions for us first”, I say, not entirely sure if I’m in the right to assume.

Nathaniel scoffs. “Why? I don’t know nothin’ from nothin’.” Ugh. This is sickening. I’m the only needlessly belligerent contrarian I need in my life.

Which at least means I know how to handle his type. I make a show of looking behind him, and click my tongue, head shaking. “You’re rooming with Pictus Morel, you know.” And I gesture to a vague clump of growing plant mass on the wall, flowering vines and mold, pointing out the fungi in the mix. He looks behind him, confused. “The Lupines probably don’t even realize. I doubt any of them are botanists, after all. But hour after hour, you have been breathing in the spores. It won’t be long before it starts to burn your lungs. Constrict your throat. You’ll start to run a fever.

“You will begin to wonder—how long have you been in there, really? Did you hallucinate us? Were your hands always so heavy? And by tomorrow morning you’ll be left gasping for air and choking on your own vomit, frothing at the mouth as a half-dead animal. It’s a nasty way to go.”

His eyes go wide. As do Alabastra’s, in fact. “You’re… that’s bullshit”, he says, but his voice is shaking. “You fuckin’ weaselly lyin’ monster.”

My jaw clenches. I don’t give him the satisfaction of letting that sting. “It hardly matters to me if you believe me or not. I just couldn’t help but notice.” And I stare.

For a moment I worry he won’t countenance it. But he cracks, slamming a panicked hand against the door. “F-fine! You’ll let me outta here if I talk?” Alabastra nods. He sighs, “Whaddaya wanna know?”

Unseen from his view, Alabastra slips a hand behind me, patting me across the lower back. That’s-ah-hmm. A welcome gesture. She says to the unkempt private eye, “Y’seen anything in there? Like, maybe, a certain partner or two of mine?”

Latchet seems to find that funny. “Ah, I see. Now that makes more sense!” He’s waving a finger about. “You’re here for your little pettin’ zoo!”

Alabastra snarls. “Gods, you fuckin’ pig”, she mutters under her breath. “Did you see them?”

Now he’s the self-satisfied one. “Did indeed. They boarded up the window back there, but I can still take a looksee through the cracks”—he gestures behind him—”And I saw ’em comin’. Or, Tegan at least. She got dragged in by some styx coppers—and with some new ears on her. She probably got put downstairs with the other animals.”

I would very much like to make him eat his words. But that would require opening his makeshift cell. I wait for the nod from Alabastra to confirm he’s telling the truth, and when she issues it I say, “Let’s go, then.”

“Let’s.” She turns to move.

“H-hey!”, shouts Nathaniel, “You forgot the door!”

Without looking back, she says, “You’d just slow us down. Safer in there. We’ll come back for you when it’s over.”

“What about the mushrooms?!”, he pleads.

I catch his eye. “Your respiratory system can tolerate another hour, at least. Just don’t breathe too hard.”

There’s a panic in his gaze. A terror wrought by my words that completely shatters his miserable self-delusions. And a pride wells inside of me. A little mote of victory over his own myopia, like I’m running laps around his tiny solipsism, and—

Oh.

I get it now.

With Alabastra leading the way, we depart from his rambling pleas for assistance. She looks down at me, smiling like a madwoman. “Does he really have an hour?”, she asks in a whisper.

“Of course. Pictus Morel is completely benign.” I give her a small smirk. “Not that he needs to know that.”

The stage is set, the players are getting made up. And a few loose ends are tied.

And it seems our duo are in some amount of (thankfully healthy this time) disagreement over their antagonists' aims. We'll see how that resolves.

Thank you for reading. ❤

Next update is (1-44) blind worm's sting; on Sunday, November 17th.