By the Law of Fives Writing Guild
(The Catalyst, The Instigator,
The Time Reaction, and The Simple Solution)
(The Catalyst, The Instigator, The Time Reaction, and The Simple Solution)
Intro * Part 1 * Part 2 * Part
3
The pain from the cut on his forehead still hadn't gone away. The path seemed to take offense at his attempts to maneuver along its muddy rutted length and there seemed to be a grandmother of a storm brewing. The whole world was plotting against him. It had been for some while now. Well, at least as long as he could remember.
It was a day less than a fortnight since his past had been taken from him. He remembered nothing from before the day he had awoken in that sheltered dale. When consciousness finally returned to him he was beaten and bloody from what must have been a grand battle indeed. Sap glistened from the sheared edge of a young poplar a few feet from where he lay on the soft under growth of the ancient wood. A still smoldering crater oozed acrid smoke from the body of something less then human across the small clearing. So many rusty pools of half-dry blood spattered the landscape it was impossible to count them all. He had spent nearly a day in that dale hoping for something or someone to give him some clue as to what happened. As he sat and stared around this unremarkable patch of forest the trees stared back at him blankly, ignoring his pleas. Did he expect them to answer? Why should he count on the trees for an answer? He and whomever had stolen his memories were the ones who had disturbed the ancients' peace.
He cleaned up his wounds as best he could and then took an inventory of his possessions. He had a sturdy pair of boots that were a little well worn, but definitely travel ready. His breeches and vest were torn and bloody in places, but nothing that couldn't be fixed. The scabbard at his waist was empty, but in his boot still hid a sturdy hunting-knife. He could travel.
Where should he go, though? Without his memories it was as random as rolling the dice. These trees weren't helping any either. Someone or something had to hold the key to finding the answers he wanted, or to getting the revenge he needed.
It burned. His body turned into the heart of a blacksmith's forge. His rage seared away the pain of his injuries and the jumble of his thoughts. It was incredible. Clarity. That was what he felt. In his mind's eye he saw the face of a cruel twisted man, ordering people of his race massacred. They were lined up by the hundreds... "Aaaargh!" The vision was gone, but the deep pit from which it boiled in his sole remained. Perhaps he remembered more than he thought? With this newfound vitality he decided to trust his gut and follow where his feet took him.
His mind made up, he chose a course and started walking. The near unlimited supply of energy that he felt after the vision faded shortly after finding a road well worn with the travel of both foot and hoof. His injuries tore at his will to press on. He decided to rest near a small stream near the road, offering a chance to clean wounds too long ignored and cool an aching head now filled once again with unanswered questions. Wading in up to his knees he stripped his blood and sweat soaked clothes off. His wounds seemed all superficial except for the ragged gash on his forehead which leaked a pungent yellow puss that reminded him of something..."Damn it," his memory failed him and he voiced his derision to the refreshing water.
After cleansing his wounds and rinsing out his clothes as best he could, he sat on the bank, staring into the stream. He saw his reflection then for the first time. Skin the white canvas of an unknown artist, covered in strange script and mystical symbols. He sat in wonder at his own flesh until darkness began to fall. He could understand none of what he saw, but knew inside that these markings were the key to his past. He needed to find someone to translate. He needed his memory back. He needed to know his name, for his name held a greater power than even his rage.
His journey progressed slowly. He found that he did remember more as the days wore on though. He knew how to make a bow. A sturdy young oak and the body of a young deer provided the materials for the bow, arrows, and quiver. He could make fire from the abundant dried wood and moss in the forest along the road. He knew which berries and plants were edible and which would make him sick. He was at home in the wild.
Now he approached the Sleepywater River and a violent storm was coming. He hadn't remembered the river's name, but that's what Jessup had called it. Less than a hour ago he had met the dirty old man while making his way to the not so distant city. The old man was at first frightened of him. Jessup had pink skin unlike his pure white and Jessup's eyes were not the red of a glowing ember, but a homely brown. However, once Jessup realized the stranger meant no harm, he grudgingly accepted the company.
"What's yer name boy"?
"I have no name, sir."
"Then I'll call ya Shade, cause ya damn well look like something outta tale we'd tell our childrens to scare the wits outta 'em."
"Shade works for me, sir."
"Names not Sir, I's Jessup"
This was the first person Shade had talked to since he could remember. He asked many questions of this grizzled old man who had a team of stubborn mules pulling his wagon of lumber. Shade soon found that Jessup supplied the "Inventors Guild" with the wood it needed for its work. Not that Shade or Jessup knew what these inventors used it for.
Wind was now whipping through the trees and Jessup's mules were getting anxious. Shade suggested they take cover under the sturdy wagon Jessup used to haul the wood. They braced it against the oldest, toughest tree they could find and unhitched the team to tie the mules to the side of the wagon that was downwind of the storm. From the look of gale they'd be waiting a while, which was not what Shade had hoped. In a city so large there had to be room for some of the answers he needed.
A cool gust of reality pushed hair onto Nevarris's forehead from behind as he tipped back the bottle of Mashberry's wine for one last swig. With calm annoyance, he brushed it aside with a slow wipe of his forearm. Taking a deep breath, carefully turning to face the now emptying street, Nevarris looked up and noticed the deep blue wall of a storm climbing it's way from the horizon to the heavens. A startling sight, indeed: as if the ocean had somehow taken flight to destroy the land and extend it's own borders. A thick whip of lightning snapped from a large clump of the menacing, beastly clouds, striking an unseen target in the distant hills. Trees could be seen uprooted by gale force wind and debris speckled the sky like so many angry birds. The growling thunder followed shortly after and built into an angry roar. "Perhaps it is time we found our way to a less vulnerable location, my friend," Nevarris said to the now empty bottle in his left hand, watching the clouds drop water by the layer onto the dry landscape beneath. Floodwaters could already be seen rushing ahead of the storm in the rain-blurred, hazy distance.
Through uncooperative eyes, and on legs that were somewhat less dependable than usual, the street seemed a little unstable. "Best if we stick close to the buildings on the way back, Mashy. I wouldn't want you to fall and hurt yourself!" With a grin and a chuckle, Nevarris clumsily made his way along the rail of Sleepywater Bridge, and along the front of Fortress Stables. The wind must be picking up, for it was becoming very difficult to walk in a straight line, even trailing his right hand down the buildings was not helping much. Everywhere he tried to step, he missed by nearly a dagger's length or more. He stumbled past a few more buildings, and almost made it to the porch in front of Murrg's Barbershop before he tumbled and planted his face into the dirt below. Lifting his head, he felt the first few drops of rain on his face, and caught some wind-driven dust in his eyes. What a day for a storm, he thought as he turned his face from the gusting air and tried to pull himself under the porch for shelter. Something caught his eye up ahead: a bottle, with a very familiar label. Mashberry's wine. As he reached out for it with a desperate yearning, the bottle suddenly seemed much closer than before; as if it met him half way. He remembered passing out under this very porch only a few days before.
"Have we been drinking this much?" he asked himself in amused astonishment as he wiped away the first hint of a nosebleed. "I think you may have a bit of a problem there, Mashy!" The laughter began to build from quiet, short breaths to a joyful guffaw, to a gut cramping raspy noise full of shame and disgust. Soon the laughing stopped, and the rain cut loose from the sky and flowed as thick as the wind carrying it. Nevarris was fast asleep, half under the porch, and clutching two empty bottles. Face in the mud and free from the rainy night that was setting in. Free from the unseen terrors of being the inventors' assistant.
The rays of sunlight that broke his slumber felt like they were attacking his body and Nevarris rubbed the sleep from his eyes with mud-crusted hands. An ache like he hadn't felt in years was now wracking his body like no hangover ever had before. He wanted to get up, but decided to roll over on his side to face the street, instead. It required much less movement and, besides, the porch helped block the blinding sun from his newly opened eyes.
Through latticework and vines, the streets could be seen crowded with people, as was usual for this time of day. This was to be expected, being the main route between the Business and Market districts. Something was amiss though: traffic wasn't moving with any structure as it normally did. People were just wandering slowly. Perhaps this warrants an investigation, he thought through the cumbersome pain in his tired head.
Fighting the urge to lie under the porch, and fighting the throbbing pain in his head, Nevarris gathered his wits and dragged his reluctant body into the offensive light and annoying chatter of a loud and obviously disturbed crowd. The painful white light in his eyes faded slightly, and dark shapes slowly gained detail. After a few seconds his eyes were able to function normally again, and he beheld a mess like none he had ever seen.
The town was in absolute shambles. Had a tornado torn through with that storm? Most buildings were missing roofs, and some were collapsed upon their foundations. Piles of timber lined the streets, the result of volunteers helping with the clean up. Nevarris turned to lean on the porch railing for a little more stability. Saliva was building in his mouth, and his arms felt weak as he looked across the porch at what should have been a barber's shop. In place of a sturdy, wooden and stone structure was an empty space, save the floorboards and two vertical posts. The bitterness of old wine filled his mouth and gushed from his nostrils before it burst through pursed lips. Darkness began to creep in from all around as Nevarris doubled over in sickness, and slowly slumped to the earth with a heavy thump.
"We have troubles, Adrivall. This storm was mighty powerful, indeed; every ward we had in place is obliterated… utterly destroyed. There's simply no way this could have been a natural occurrence. It must have been a construct sent to destroy our city." Magistrate Harvala addressed Guild Master Adrivall very rarely. Usually the roles were reversed, and meetings like these had always been held with civility and mutual respect instead of the tense emotion that hung between the two of them now.
"Your concern is duly noted, and I assure you this will not happen again." The elder's skin shone brightly in the old, dusty office. "I have people working on a solution, and it is coming along nicely." The guildmaster smiled kindly, perhaps condescendingly, "You seem far to riled up to think logically right now, Bardren. I suggest you relax, and let me handle the situation," the Guild master's words impacted like a slap, making clear his impatience.
"Don't talk to me like I'm one of your little drones, Luviros!" Bardren Harvala's gruff voice boomed from his thick frame, as rage-born tears began to collect over his eyes. "This is a grave matter. Look at what's left of the town, for lord's sake! I will not stand in the shadows while my town is assaulted by gods-know-what!" His face, red as the sunset, showed no fear, and though his voice was choked with emotion it gave no hint of weakness. "I know how spineless the last magistrate was, that he let you take unnecessary risks with no regard for safety of the citizens. I'm in charge now, and things are going to be a hell of a lot different around here!"
The tall, frail frame of Luviros Adrivall rose quickly from his chair. "Do not be a fool, Bardren. You have merely been shaken by the current state of affairs… You are scared, and you are unsure of the future. I know you to be a wise man: now is the time to prove yourself to the people of this town. Creatures like those that caused the storm are best left to they with the power to oppose them, which I assure you your human forces have none. My people and I are the best suited to oppose the threat, and logically should be the ones to address this matter." Magistrate Harvala had regained his composure, and now had full control of his emotions as he listened to the guildmaster state his position.
"I have already sent for a very capable individual, well suited for an investigation such as this. He will be arriving before the morrow, I expect, and will be more than agreeable to my proposition. I will send him to the northland, with Nevarris Garrimon as escort, to investigate, and possibly quell this matter."
"What?" The magistrate's expression was bleak, yet was tickled with humor. "You're going to send your drunken errand boy on a mission of this significance? You are mad, aren't you?" Astonished, as he was, he was happy to hear the news. "I guess that's one good thing to come about from this mess: I'll finally get that good-for-nothing drunkard out of my streets!"
"Are we done then, Bardren?"
"We're done, but don't think this means I'm done." Magistrate Harvala left the room, shaking his head over the displeasing situation, obviously unhappy with how Adrivall was blowing off the situation.
The old man took a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh as he leaned forward, resting the weight of his thin torso on leathery knuckles. The desktop felt like cold stone, even through the clutter of books and papers. Its sturdiness was very sobering, given the tumultuous events of the previous night. I'd rather have handled this issue myself, but I'm getting far too old to travel such distances, the old man mused. My spirit and will are remain vigorous, but my bones have been telling me another story for many years now. Shifting his weight backward, he settled into his high backed chair and strolled through old memories: the first spell lesson he received from his master, Frova Leshki, dead now for almost two centuries. The first time his grand vision of "The Empowerment of Man" fell into place, and he started crafting the guild and picking it's founding members. The day he first set foot into The Incubator, now the headquarters for his guild and which grown ten fold since it's foundation was laid nearly one hundred and twenty years back. And the first day he met Neverris Garrimon, and an unwilling participant in the unorthodox experiment which would prove to be pivotal for the ascension of mankind…
On the outskirts of the business district an old man sat perched like a gargoyle upon a rooftop, watching the massive storm roll in. His patchwork cloak ruffled briskly behind him as the winds increased to a low roar. The old man knew that he must seek shelter soon, but was fixed in place with a sense of awe of the sheer power unfolding in front of him.
The old man had watched the storm develop on the horizon. It had started as only an inky blot on a canvas of pure blue sky, but it had quickly approached and loomed above the city within a few hours. The tranquil sky had turned into a violent display of swirling green and black clouds highlighted by frequent lightning.
This was not an ordinary storm. The wizened man could see unnatural energy pulse and crackle within the storm clouds. This imposing horror was definitely created by magical energy, and only a few beings could manage such power. But there was only one that would be sick enough to spread such genocide. It was he who was destined to lead the Inner Earth Races in battle against the Surface Races. This had to be his work.
"So this is how a war begins." The wizard shook his head sadly.
He was brought out of his musing by exploding sounds. Trees that had been uprooted outside of town by the high winds were now hurtling into city buildings like giant spears. The old man knew he was in grave danger being up high on a roof. He drew his cloak around himself to shield against the hail that started to fall and proceeded to retreat below.
The center of the swirling storm seemed to stop right over the center of the town and immediately intensify in power. The lightning strikes became more frequent and seemed to be focused around the center of the business district. The Inventor's Guildhall was located there, and the old wizard knew that this was probably the target of the storm.
"I hope the Inventors' wards hold," the wizard muttered as he watched the rapid fire of lightning bolts hit the business district.
The building began to shake. The winds were becoming much too intense for the wooden structure, and the roof that he had just departed from was suddenly ripped from its anchor walls. He knew he had better jump the remaining distance or else the building might collapse with him only halfway to the ground. He leapt and started to invoke a levitation spell to cushion his fall. The wizard closed his eyes, drew from his inner pool of energy and pictured himself floating in the air. He slowed to a stop and then felt himself start to rise. After a few moments, the wizard opened his eyes and noticed he was about thirty feet off the ground and felt a twinge of panic from being so high. The break in his concentration abruptly ended the spell and he plummeted toward the ground. "Should have practiced that one a bit more," he thought as he hit at full speed.
His right leg snapped to the side with a sickening crunch and he sprawled out on the street. The pain was intense, but he knew that he must get to a safer place or else run the risk of getting hit flying debris. The wizard started to drag himself to the other side of street when the building he just fell from finally caved before the wind and crumbled to the ground. His vision flashed as a piece of the falling building bounced off the side of his head. The world went black.
A voice could faintly be heard. "Are you ok? Can you hear me in there?"
Nevarris opened his eyes only to be meet by offensive sunlight stabbing pain into his head like daggers. He quickly closed his eyes again to shield the pain.
"How are you feeling?" The voice asked, "You look two shades from visiting the Creator."
Nevarris squinted one eye and let out a low groan. Through blurry eyes, he could make out the outline of a young woman kneeling over him. She wore a sky blue robe somewhat muddied from the wet street. Clothing different than the typical brown or gray of the working class was a rare sight in the market place. She also wore a silver circlet that peeked out from behind her light blond hair. It had a heart shaped pendent hanging down over her forehead that shined brightly in the morning sun. Nevarris immediately recognized the circlet to be the symbol of the Order of Panacea, the school of magic that specialized in the discipline of Life Magic.
Nevarris tried to rise but a hand gently pushed him back to the ground. "Rest for a moment, mister. Drink this water, it will make you feel better."
Nevarris felt her press the end of a water skin against his lips, and cool water poured into his mouth and down his dry throat. At that moment, Nevarris had never tasted anything so fantastic in his entire life. She laid a hand on his forehead and warmth started to grow in his head and radiated down to his torso, through his limbs and out to his extremities. Then, just as slowly, the warmth dissipated, leaving Nevarris feeling quite wonderful indeed.
"You should be able to sit up now," stated the female mage soothingly as she helped him up into a sitting position. He immediately noticed that his head was no longer throbbing and that the light did not offend his eyes
"Thanks for your help, lady. I do believe I had a bit much to drink," Nevarris confessed.
"Well, after a storm like that, I think we could all stand for a stout drink." The woman laughed.
Feeling sheepish since he was drinking before the storm, not after the event, Nevarris remained silent while he surveyed the carnage. It was hard to imagine the market place that he walked through every day in such ruins. "What happened?" muttered Nevarris. "We never get storms like that here."
Hearing him, the young woman replied, "I don't know. The size of that storm does seem a touch strange doesn't it? People are whispering that the Weather Mages made a mistake again, but I don't know. Even they cannot brew a storm of such magnitude..." She tapered off while shaking her head as if thinking to herself. Quickly changing the subject, she said, "So, are you feeling better?" When Nevarris nodded, she stood up and tossed him a small sack, which he caught handily.
"That powder will stop the nausea if it returns. Just add a palm's worth to water so you can drink it." She then turned to leave.
"Thanks again, miss," Nevarris called after her, "do I owe you anything?"
She turned her head while still walking away and shouted "Not to worry, Nevarris Garrimon, you will pay me back when it is your time!" before disappearing into a crowd of people.
Wait a minute, he thought, how did she know my name? He ran to where she had disappeared, but could not see her anywhere. He stood on his tiptoes and strained his neck above the crowd but still could not locate a woman in a sky blue robe. Nevarris shrugged his shoulders, Well, there are a lot more unexplainable things in this world than a pretty woman knowing my name. He smiled to himself as he glanced down at the sack the woman had tossed to him. It was bluish silver in color and appeared to be made of a fine silk material and had drawstrings of silver thread. There was stitching on the side of the sack that looked to be markings of a language that Nevarris did not recognize. Unknotting it and peering in, he saw the sack contained a dark brown powder blended with very small, sparkling crystals. I wonder how much I can sell this for at the Alchemist's, he smirked as he cinched the drawstrings closed.
He turned to walk towards the Sleepywater Bridge that would lead him back to the Inventor's Guild in the business district. "Those engineers are going to have a lot to clean up," he mumbled to himself as he slipped into the roaming crowd.
Flying east over the forests of the Sleeping Lands, searching for signs of Man, Gutter Slitquick was at first grateful for the tailwind. The dragonfly wings that buzzed in a shimmering blur over his back were powerful and agile, but were not designed for speed. The steady gusts of wind building steadily behind him had pushed him forward with ever-increasing haste. Reveling in the celerity granted him by the wind, Gutter cut a zigzagging course, dipping down through the trees, his small brown body almost invisible as it darted with impossible ease around branch and bole.
Delightful as this sport was, however, it was not his goal. With an irritated glance at the black gem set in bronze around his wrist, Gutter reminded himself that he needed to find himself mortals to aid. Mortals worthy of his penance, and preferably not too dreadfully dull to deal with. Sighing heavily, the fairy paused in his course to kick a squirrel from its perch before rising above the trees once more.
Immediately he knew something was wrong. His path through the trees had masked the swelling of the storm, which now threw him forward through the air at speed. Even consumed with the task at hand--dodging wind-blown debris while being tossed by buffeting gusts and pounded by sheeting rain--Gutter could sense it. A tingle in is spine, a burning in his pointed ears, an aching in his needle-teeth, all told him that there was something wrong with this maelstrom. Something was pushing this storm, and he was afraid he might know what it was. But that was a matter for others to deal with; he needed shelter and he needed it quickly. Even a flyer as agile as Gutter Slitquick didn't dare risk a drop into the trees while moving as at such velocities as this.
A road cutting between a river and the forest offered him his chance to escape winds that tore him eight ways at once. Below the tops of the trees the wind lost some of its power but none of its turbulence and a slightly panicking Gutter didn't know how much longer his wings could hold out. And then he saw it, a sturdy wooden wagon being lashed to the thick trunk of an ancient tree by two travelers. Thinking to huddle unseen in a corner of the wagon until this storm passed, Gutter folded his wings and dropped towards his haven. He never reached it.
A hand, hard and white as alabaster, struck out and snatched him from the air inches above the wagon. The mortal who had seized him looked as surprised about the fact as Gutter, as though the action had been one of pure reflex. The look turned to one of shocked pain as the fairy sunk dagger-sharp teeth into the flesh between thumb and forefinger. Released abruptly, Gutter's dropped to the ground, drawing his blade and hissing as his bent wings failed him.
"Shade? Why'd ya drop the damned rope!" a hoarse throat croaked out above the storm. The second traveler--a road-worn and weather-beaten mortal--peeked around the tree to find the white skinned man dropped into a fighter's crouch, balled fists ready to lash out. "Who the Hell're ya going after?"
"This... thing, Jessup," the pale one named Shade answered, pointing at Gutter with one long and callused finger.
The man, old in a way that only mortals could be, spotted the hissing fairy and let a long, low whistle slip out through stained teeth. "I'd be a mite bit careful there, Shade. A brownie is nothing to trifle with. Ya maybe jus' want to leave it alone." At that the white-skinned warrior (for such he obviously was) lowered his fists and back away from the fairy, apparently trusting his companion's advice.
With a disdainful sniff, Gutter sheathed his dagger and began to inspect his battered wings. "At least one of you knows his place." No permanent damage to his wings, but they would carry him no further that night. He looked up imperiously at the two mortals that towered over him. "Since you've made travel difficult for me this eve, I demand shelter and food until the storm passes."
Jessup and Shade exchanged cautious looks before nodding their assent and returning to their work. "At least the tyke won't take up much room 'neath the wagon," observed Jessup as they finished the work of lashing securely wagon and mules both. Sheltered in the dark, cramped quarters beneath the wagon--with a tarp pulled down taut around the edges to keep out wind and rain--the three settled into a meal of cold rabbit pulled from their stores. From his perch on an axle, Gutter mended his battered wings and watched both mortals slide uncomfortably into sleep, the pale red light from Shade's eyes extinguishing as sleep-heavy lids slid over them. Only after both were breathing deep and lying limply did he creep down to inspect Shade.
It had been a long time since he had seen a Bone Walker, but he had recognized one with no difficulty: his few encounters with them had been memorable. Gutter invoked a gentle fey working over the sleeping Shade and he barely stirred as the small brown sprite climbed nimbly over his torso to inspect the tattoos. "Interesting. Very interesting," he muttered to himself as he inspected the runes and sigils. "It seems I'm not the only one serving out a sentence." Gutter looked at the black gem and then back at the tattoos. Underneath the scents of damp earth and sweaty mortal, Gutter could smell the anger burning inside the Bone Walker. "Definite possibilities."
Sliding down to the muddy ground and slinking over to the old man, Gutter clambered up onto the old man's chest and drew his blade with a grin. "Wakey wakey, Jessup. It's time we had ourselves a little talk about your future."
"I don't understand this, Jessup. What has happened?" Shade's pale brow was knitted with concern and confusion, the red glow of sunrise tinting it to match his eyes.
"Just thunk better of the two of us hitching along together is all," muttered Jessup. As he moved around the wagon to ready it for the road he moved with a limp he hadn't had before. "You head on into town and I'll jus' head back the way I came. After last night's storm the Inventor's Guild'll be too busy ta want lumber anyway." Shade watched in silence as Jessup finished his task and mounted the wagon's bench seat. "You take care, 'right, Shade?" Jessup glanced up at the tree limb where Gutter Slitquick perched smiling. "I wish ya the best of luck."
Shade stared--concern plain upon his face--after the diminishing wagon until a bend in the road carried it out of sight.
"So, chalk skin," the sprite chimed brightly, buzzing down to perch on his shoulder. "Looks like it's just the two of us now! Where to?"