THE LAST QUEEN - {Works of Spurius, Book I}

[Hidden]

Ϡ Brother Lazarus| The Green Chapel, five days before the Queen's Awakening, Lauds

A lone bell rang out from the ruined tower on the east end of the chapel, lingered, then fell silent.

"Ad honorem tua Regina
Admirabilem ludum hunc
Ab Spurius inventus est
Et paret hunc iuventus"^[1]

His hymn finished, the old monk descended the tower's uneven stairs by feel in the predawn twilight.

 

[SwagStarIV]

Ϡ Irene Trisk & Hitro | Royal Observatory, 1 Day before the Queens Awakening

"Sure! You can call it that. Now shoo! Before he comes back!" Trisk was confused, but decided to hover back into the room. Hitro then came back into the room yodeling, "Ooooh Irene! Where are you my devious Angel of Intelligence! Come on. You're no nature nymph like Trisk so you can't be far. Are you preparing for our venture to the mountains? Hitro continued to look for Irene as she peered at him from the corner of the window. Trisk had lost KidD and was pondering on where he could be, when she suddenly had a pretty good guess. The Lobby of the Castle. Its slopes where timeless, walls with perfect 60 degree angles and a dome style ceiling. It was the perfect place for riding his board. Trisk began to walk down the hallway, taking her time while thinking, I should at least give him some free time. Sooner or later he's probably going to realize we we're supposed to be going with Hitro to the mountains, but whatever. I can't blame him for being a kid.

Hitro had just finished searching the room and then hovered outside to meet Irene face to face. Irene's brain began to rush. So close to his face. His eyes so vibrant. His passion so illustrative. His hair just flows. She then released a squeak of a reply, "Yes?" Hitro continued, "Why so shocked? Come here..." He grabbed her face and pulled it towards his own. Since she was upside down, once inside the room she twisted right side up. Hitro continued, "So today we're heading to the caves within the mountains to the east. We need to recover enough materials for KidD as well as do some of our own venturing. Think you can handle such intensity?" Irene replied, "I don't know if I can handle this intensity you speak of, though I do feel it rising in my chest." Hitro looks down at Irenes, all but lustful, breast, watching as the redness of her face flushes between her perky chest. Hitro watches, as she shows symptoms of arousal, and looks up at her with his iconic eyes of concern.

Irene felt as if his stare soared through the back of her skull and curved around to her neck. Her blush was obvious, and she could see the effects of Trisk's Trickery showing beneath Hitro's belt buckle. Hitro, caught in the moment, quickly turned away from Irene rubbing his eyes. He walked to close the door and stated, "Must have been something in the eggs again..." Hitro closed the door and continued, "One bite can drive a guy a long way huhuh So... You like where this is heading?" Irene stated, "Hitrooo... You know we have that connection right? So... Of course I'm interested... But are you sure? I mean... This is just-" Before Irene could finish Hitro had already locked lips with her. Irene's mind was sent down a tunnel of ecstasy which blurred into flaring passion. Before long Hitro was clutching her in his arms, while Irene was stuck between grabbing his shirt closer and pressing him back. Hitro soon snapped out of it, and pushed her away. He began to wipe his mouth with his forearm, then looked back at her and licked down his arm until he got to his hand. He then finished as a cat would do its own paws, and said, "So when you want to get started?"

Trisk was peaking in through the door and was having a fine time watching the two love birds connect on a deeper level. She giggled and began to skip down the hallway towards the lobby. Trisk was humming on the outside, but on the inside she was wondering, I wonder how much longer it will be until they become an actual item. Then they won't be able to hide their secret. Someones going to learn that Irene is an Angel, and that... Could cause some mischief hehehe This should be splendid! Everything in this world is so lovely! KidD's turn hehe

 

[Hidden]

Ϡ Brother Lazarus| The Green Chapel, five days before the Queen's Awakening, Prime

By the time he came upon the courtyard, Lauds had already shifted halfway to Prime, and the stones of the cathedral shone a pale pink so soft they seemed translucent. He shuffled forward on sandled feet, moving at the same unhurried pace as the rising sun. Surely as morning follows night, the last living monk of the Green Chapel went about his daily chores.

But this morning, the sun shone upon a sight unseen in the monk's 79 years of memory. For in that sanctum sanctorum stood a burning figure with six outspread wings, who shone so brightly that Brother Lazarus could not tell clearly if it was human or serpent or dragon.

"Holy, holy, holy!" the figure seemed to cry, or rather to weep, and indeed tears of brilliant diamond fell from where its eyes might be and shattered against the ground. Where those tears fell, Brother Lazarus noticed another light, fainter than the first, but in that dimness even more lucid and pure. For the briefest moment, that faint light took the form of a woman...

Then Brother Lazarus' senses left him, and he fell to the ground, shaking and crying, "Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the Queen, the Lady of hosts!"^[1]

Then the angel, that six-winged seraph, flew to him with a burning coal in her right hand, and she touched it to his lips and commanded, "Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged." ^[2] She lifted the frail man effortlessly to his feet. "Now speak."

And for the first time in 70 years, Brother Lazarus spoke.

"Benedicite! An ange from Himmel hast come finalmente, to liberar nos a malo and all our sin! Praise deusa!"

It was thus revealed that Brother Lazarus, in 70 years of silence, had forgotten his mother tongue; had forgotten all languages, save for the holy scriptures, and even they had long since lost any individual meaning. But in forgetting all languages, he arrived at the memory of all language, from before the Confusio Linguarum. And now, in his rush to comply with the angel's command, all of those diverse vernaculars were mixing together in his own speech and rendering him nearly unintelligible--he was inventing his own vernacular, an Ursprache born of Babel.

"Perché ist my Regina in this state sans forme? Was has passiert?"

The seraph raised a fiery hand. "Peace, Brother Lazarus. Your tongue outpaces you." The monk bowed his head in submission. "All this you shall know, but now I have the greater need of knowledge. Are there others who dwell in this sacred place? Others who can help us?"

Brother Lazarus shook his head sadly. "Nein. I am l'ultimo."

"You are a monk of the Laetrian Order. You know the Mater Misericors?"

"Sí," the monk replied simply.

"Then pray. Pray to your Goddess... and pray for her as well; that the source and beneficiary of your faith does not pass away this night."

The old monk went immediately to his knees, hands grasped in front of him, as he began to recite from memory:

"Merciful mother, protector of the weak, we seek asylum in thine arms..."

 

[KingdomKey]

Ϡ Bastian | The Ivory Manse, a week after the Explosion

[Be forewarned. Some minor sexual content below.]

The snake's tail rattles in the air as the delicate looking bird hops on the ground, slowly falling into it's trap; dancing along the lines of danger. A game of life and death that is often played in the grand scheme of things. Often known as life. And this is it's reality.

Baz whistled a tune that hasn't been heard in a few centuries years as he wandered the hallways. For over a week, did he watch hand maidens wander through the living quarters of royalty, commoners, and peasants. Instead of being the delivery boy on his captains orders, he watched the Little Dancer frequently stop by the infirmary to check upon her friend. It was aggravating to watch as he hid in the shadows, sharpening his blade, and over hearing countless conversations between them; it made his stomach tighten in disgust.

At the same time, he felt deeply satisfied at the remembrance of blue flames licking across his cheeks -- the heat a welcoming sensation as the intoxicating smell of meat being cooked filled his nostrils until it burned. His molten golden eyes watching the scene unfold before him. Unfortunately, it had the opposite affect he wanted on the castle, and those he tried to sabotage for his personal gain.

Upon seeing his chance, Baz begins to set out against his prey.

Baz captures Cathy by the wrist, earning a pleasant moan from her soft, plump looking lips. The heat of her body pressing against his sturdy one was repulsive pleasurable as he held her against him with no means to escape. Grasping the back of her head with his gloved hand, he could see the fear, the temptation, and something else pass through her blue eyes. In a certain light, it would look like he was seducing the young woman that was wanted by many. Except it was the opposite. Baz felt empowered at the thought of her life in his hands; how taking her life would be as easy as squeezing a can of soda orange until it's juices burst from the seams of the peel.

"Are you scared of me?"

"What are you doing?" Cathy deflected, refusing to answer him. "Haven't you caused me enough trouble lately?" As if to make a point, she started to struggle against his grasp, suddenly aware of how close his body was to hers, and desperately trying not to smell his musky scent beneath the armor he wore; nor the muscles she felt beneath the palms of her hands that made her weaken slightly at the thought of what he could do to her.

"You're going to make a scene." Baz warned, smiling in amusement as the color in her cheeks turned red. The reminder of them being in a crowded hallway outside of the infirmary, and living quarters of royalty; including open windows that showed the courtyard with men and women conversing, and waiting for a scandalous act to gossip about. "You don't want them to see me do this, do you?" His black gloved hand slid the hem of her dress up her thigh, making goose bumps abrupt across her alabaster skin.

"Unhand me then!" Cathy hisses angrily, freeing her arm, pulling it back and flings the palm of her hand with all of her might at his face.

The snake lashes out at it's prey, not giving it the chance to fly away, or lose it's next meal. It's venomous teeth sinking into it's awaited flesh; blood dripping around the puncture wounds, and coating the yellow-white feathers in it's own blood. As the life began to seep away from the bird's mortal form, the snake began to coil it's body around it, twisting this way and that -- taking hold of the bird's body with an iron grip, toying with it as the snake's mouth opens wide enough to swallow it hold.

Baz dodged the slap to the face, grabbing hold of her offending hand. "A feisty one, you are!" His face moving approximately closer to hers as he threatens compliments her. "You'll have to try harder next time. Dare I say, angry looks good on you, Darling. You should show that side more often."

The bird cries in pain and fear as it stares death straight in the face, edging closer and closer inside of pink, gummy flesh. Death looking less inviting as the snake lowers the bird into it's mouth, and swallows it whole. No promises of a painless death as the snake's insides begin to eat away at the bird's torn, broken body. Several delicate bones cracking until the lump visible to the naked eye fades away into nothing; death is a heartless bitch.

"There won't be a next time." Cathy protested weakly.

"Think about it." Baz murmurs softly against her parting lips. Then with a kindness he hasn't shown anyone else in years, did the knight move one of her fallen red locks back against her ear as his fingertips brushed against the side of her right cheekbone; watching in triumphant as she leaned in against her will for more of his warmth. "What's one dance with little ol me? Don't you want to bend the rules, get to know me? Do something wicked for a change?"

"Are inviting me somewhere, Sir Bastian?" Cathy asked breathlessly, trying to fight back against the lust and compulsion of her captive.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing here." Baz grinned toothily. "There's a special, private ball about to begin in a matter of days. So, I'm inviting you to come."

Unlike a speed anyone before had ever seen, Baz the knight vanishes before Cathy's eyes. The abrupt loss of a body holding her up was enough to send her falling straight to her knees with embarrassment blooming across her features -- A startle cry could be heard from those around her. Unknowingly, only Cathy could hear the booming laughter in the darkness with a promise of wicked things to come. Before her knees was a letter with her name scrawled across it.

 

[Ordeith]

Ϡ Enchantress Urganda | The Ivory Manse, [ ] nights after the attack

Since the Queen had come to accept her throne, the queen-makers assumed their respective seats beneath her. Not quite a week after their attack on Fort Londe, the reformed conspirators Advistory Counsel Council Congress Royal Council met for the first time in the Ivory Manse's innermost chamber.

[Filler here, to be added later. Battle report, summary of charges, state of the union kingdom, etc.]
​

"…and the new liturgy shall be introduced on Saint Ophelia’s Day, this approaching Sunday. I have the highest hopes for its reception." The archbishop pivoted his enormous ham-head around the circle, reading his co-conspirators’ fellow councilors' reactions. Urganda met his eyes with approval. Here is a man who knows his place, knows his duties — and, astonishingly, performs them well. Between meals. Men like that, whatever their private vices, needed encouragement in this unsteady time.

"We must, however, go about it slowly. The common folk," he continued, "rarely think beyond the immediate prospect of gain. Even among the city-dwellers this is true, yes? Therefore, I think that this new canon of petitions will be warmly received as a nice change of pace." His cheeks were flushed rosy, and his eyes twinkled merrily. He looked rather like a saint himself. "They can ask the lords of Hell — or rather, the 'angels of the earth,' hehe — for any minor intercession, and so receive! From there, the rest shall follow in time. The Oaths of Belial, Graendal's Hymn, and so on. All has been scheduled and arranged, and the bishops have been instructed accordingly."

The conspirators council voiced their its collective approval.
Then the archbishop signified that he had finished, and took his seat formally.

Proceeding clockwise from the Pontiff's chair, in what was decided to be the usual order of speaking, was the Lord Chamberlain's seat. Yet on this inaugural meeting of the Royal Council, his seat was occupied by a representative: the beak-nosed sycophant through whom he conduced all of his business remotely. Urganda did not care for the implications. If he is cavorting with that warlock...

She thought back to her meeting with the kitchen servant, Catharine. In her fear and ignorance, the girl mistook that madman Izan for the Lord Chamberlain; now her mistake seemed closer to the truth. Urganda mulled on these thoughts as the Chamberlain's man took the floor.

"It has been brought to my Lord Chamberlain's attention," he honked, "that Her Majesty wishes to hold ... a ball, here in the Ivory Manse. On the night preceding the Feast of Saint Ophelia." A restrained murmur ran through the circle. The Demon Queen lately had become cooperative, even tractable, with only the occasional tendency to show her perversion in public. Even so, a social gathering of such scale presented too many unknown risks. The steward, too, seemed quite aware of this. "The, erm ... fragile nature of this event has been noted by all relevant parties. And the Queen has been persuaded to limit the guest list—"

"Let it happen," Urganda broke in. The words left a sour taste on her lips. Time and again, she insisted that only magical business be brought before her — and time and again, politics managed to get the better of her. "The Manse has been settled and restructured," she continued, "but that is hardly enough. If we allow the silence the last for much longer, rumor will overtake us and our queen. This ball is a chance to win the nobles easily — for even if the guests are few, they will talk amongst their friends. Her Majesty will be much safer if we allow this."

Prince Lucius offered his support to this notion, and it was accepted by the council as a whole. And though she told them none of it, the Enchantress was pleased not only by the impending success of their puppet queen, but for a purely magical reason. The ball would serve as the perfect debut for another puppet, one entirely of her own making.

____________________________________________________________​

Ϡ Poor Tom | Home-in-the-Cabinet

I am waking up after a long time sleeping, and she is looking at me, and she is seeing me and my face and my insides. She says words at me and I do not understand. I can not hear her. I do not want to hear her.

She is smiling, but her eyes are sad, and her smile is sad, and she looks lonely and tired and sad.
I do not want to be lonely and tired and sad. So I do not want to hear her.

What is lonely?

I do not know what lonely is, but I do.

I was sleeping, but I was never not sleeping before, and I do not know what—

She is saying words at me, and I can hear them now. I am trying to not be hearing them, but I am, so I hear them. She is saying a name for me, and that name is POOR TOM, and that name is mine. She is saying a name for her, and that name is MISTRESS, and I am supposed to say that name at her. I try to say the name for her — but I can not. I do not have voices in me.

What is voice?

I think I was wrong before. I am not supposed to say the name for her. I am supposed to hear the name for her and know that it is for her. I do not know why I need to do this.

Then she says MAJESTY, and I do not see any thing for this name, but she is saying there is a big thing for this name. She says I ... BELONG TO MAJESTY. I do not know what this means. Then she says I ACTUALLY BELONG TO MISTRESS, and now I am hurting and split in the head, and I do not know what—

Now she is kissing me on the head, and saying I should be sleeping more.
I am afraid. I do not know where my face is.

 

[OmniChaos]

Ϡ The Warlock, Izan | Unknown, two nights before the Royal Council meeting

Whispers in the darkness, men reside in shadows as traitorous plots are hatched.

She must be free...

Kill the witch...​

So that all may drown in a river of blood...​

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, if you would please, allow me to set your thoughts at ease. My master is very well aware that you may doubt my convictions that I hold dear and my stout, and thus wishes for you yourselves to see, to look upon his great visage and degree."

The Warlock fell silent before the darkness as his eye grew into a burning blaze. But for a moment, the room was set alight, revealing four shrouded figures before him. A council of utter secrecy, not one conspirator knew the other, apart from Izan alone. The warlock's habitual use of rhymes made any form of disguise pointless, and thus was the only one not hidden in secrecy. However, what next left his lips were not rhymes, nor were they even his words. What spoke next was not Izan.

"Behold, I who stand before ye, men in shadows, am not the man ye know. Nay, nay! For I am his master, and he my servant, and I am the Fell King, ruler of a thousand kingdoms long since perished. Beyond yonder mountains tall, in a land of decay and suffering, have I built my empire upon the blood of the weak. And now have I come here, for all these lands beneath the sky are my divine right."

Izan's face became as glass, featureless and plain, and reflected in it was the gruesome visage of the Fell King. Eyes like hunks of coal, set in the body of a corpse, the sickly figure took form. The room grew heavy, the air thick and humid, as the men in the shadows looked on in terror (and some wonderment) as the Warlock's face was overtaken completely by a visage of horror.

"Behold!" the Fell King spoke once more, waving his hand softly before him. "Before ye rests the Oath of Blood. Sign ye that parchment, and forever more to me doth ye loyalties lie. In return doth I swear onto ye a seat within my empire." The sound of scribbling filled the silence as the four men signed the parchment that had appeared before them, using their blood as ink. When the sound ceased, the Fell King finished. "Break thou oath swore onto me, however, and suffer a death most unpleasant."

The silence was filled by a unified cry of pain. While they were wrapped in the shadows and veiled beneath secrecy, the king knew very well that a crimson mark—the sign of the blood oath—was being etched into their very flesh. Though it must have felt a lifetime, it ended within a matter of seconds, and the cries dulled into a low moan of pain. The Fell King smiled a nasty grin, his teeth black and rotting.

"We shall convene once more upon the eve of the 'Feast of Saint Ophelia.' My servant shall persuade the queen to throw a great ball upon that day, and should all proceed accordingly, shall we proceed forward. I leave ye now with my servant to explain the remainder."

 

[KingdomKey]

Ϡ Bastian | The Ivory Manse, night before the Ball?

[Some minor sexual content below. Angst moments and schemes await! ]

The Ivory Manse was lit brightly from streamers and lights set to celebrate Saint Ophelia. In the mist of the preparations, Bastian prowled around outside, awaiting for a lovely young lady to grace him with her presence. Fully aware another set of eyes was watching from the shadows, which pleased him to no end -- he wasn't a patient man, when it came to men loyal to him. Tonight, he would set more than one thing into motion. This was merely the beginning.

"I thought you said tonight was the night of a ball? It's a day early."

In the archway of the garden stood Cathy. The halfing that was to root out all of the men, women, and supernatural inside of the Ivory Manse on behalf of the Enchantress. The girl that tended to her wounded friend that stood in the way of the explosion inside of the Ivory Manse kitchen to protect her. Something he had done, because it gave him an excuse to get closer to her while poor Finnian was in the infirmary.

"I have something more important to discuss with you. Grace me with a dance, Mi'Lady?" Bastian said, eyeing the clingy white dress that clung to her features, the red hair swept into a braid and curled around her right breast; green eyes full of mistrust, wonder, and dare I say, excitement? He held out his hand, pulling her in close and begun to sway with her beneath the moonlight.

At first, they hardly talked at all until Bastian couldn't take it anymore. "Tell me something about your life, Cathy. I want to know everything." As he listened to her drone on about Finnian for fifteen minutes, she begun to ask him questions that he answered with ease. In fact, he got her to laugh a few times until he took hold of her chin to keep her still and snapped his fingers together with his left hand; making her clutch her head in pain, which drove her to her knees before him.

"Much better." Bastian said with approval, looking down at her like he was a king. Perhaps he was a king?

"Now then, when did we really meet, Catherine?"

Bastian took a seat on a nearby bench, watching her as she withered in pain before him until the pain subsided.

"We met as children. How is that possible?" Cathy asked, clutching her forehead with one hand and the other to steady herself from falling over; a dizzy spell overtaking her slightly.

"Does it hurt? Knowing your whole entire life was a big fat lie?" Baz asked curiously.

"It's not true!" Cathy said heatedly, standing back up and striding forward to kick him in the shins. It didn't matter to either of them, since the courtyard was clear and nobody had the time to watch the exchange between a maid of the kitchen, and a knight that worked on duty; protecting the queen and commanding it's officers.

"Don't believe me, Cathy? All those memories you're now remembering are false?" Baz said, holding out his hand as he began counting off the things he knew that she would remember within the next few hours. Chuckling in amusement, every time she tried to land a blow on his shins only to whimper in pain from hitting the bench itself.

"Who was always there, whenever you got hurt and chased by the youngsters? While someone else looked on, but you couldn't see him, because your short attention span was on the country boy , whom rescued you time and time again. I was there. Always there to watch and laugh at you. I constructed the whole thing, like a man would, leading a herd of sheep into the lions den. "

Realization dawned upon her. "Finny."

"Smart girl. Wasn't it a little peculiar, how he'd always show up right on time? Taking blow after blow for you?" Baz said, prowling around her in circles, touching her lips with a lovers embrace; sliding his fingers around her lips and watching them part until she shook her head away from him. Completely defiant. A test he was giving her to see what potential she had, if she could be an assassin. Which wasn't much.

"N-No... You can't mean!" Cathy whimpered, withdrawing away from him as she looked up at the Ivory Manse Castle, memories shifting of her childhood to adulthood. "What about everything he taught me? All that encouragement to find the fairies? My people?"

"I am strictly being one hundred percent honest with you now, Little Dancer. You see, every memory leaves a signature on the brain. You, my dear, are a victim of my hypnosis and compulsion." Baz said patiently, "Did you honestly believe you were something special? You're not. You're a mere child who grew up from an orphanage. You're not fae, nor anything supernatural. A mere human being that falls for every lie in the book. Why, you fell for the letter I left behind for you."

"I never said I was fae!" Cathy protested, stalking away from him as he stood there rattling on about her. Each step drew her into the courtyard filled with mazes with the outskirts being made up of forest. Unluckily for her, she was heading deeper into the forest and away from prying eyes without knowing it. A beginners mistake, when being hunted by someone with more experience and knowledge of any battle field or castle.

Baz nodded in understanding. "Yes, yes, I know. A halfling. Let me ask you this, if you're any part fae, what about your true name, hmm?" The mention of her being a halfling made her stop in her tracks. Confusion mixed in with rage then twisted into doubt, except something was keeping her from breaking entirely; so he kept going.

"In truth, you're nothing," Baz said, with a high pitch laugh, "For a single brief moment in your life, have you ever performed magic? You didn't. Not even once. What a disappointment you truly are. Even when Finnian reported to me about your training with kitchen knives, you're a lousy shot at best. Not worth a moment of my time."

Cathy's face grew redder in outrage. "You're a MONSTER!" The truth was unbearable that she couldn't even turn her face away from the man that spout so many lies into her virgin ears. What puzzled the poor lass more was Finnian. Surely he was talking about someone else, right? The boy she grew up with didn't lie to her all this time, right?

"If I'm a monster as you claim, what are you?" Baz implied, running his hands down her lower back and giving her rear a squeeze. The rustle of fabric bunching up beneath his hands as he set her down onto the grass -- reaching behind him, did he grasp the blade he wanted to slice her throat with. Except, it'd have to wait much to his displeasure -- keeping her occupied with savory kisses that would forever haunt the young woman.

No answer came from the miserable girl in his arms -- on the verge of being suicidal after learning the horrible truth. The knight smiled as he shed the fabric of her white dress with ease, leaving her bare before his golden eyes -- every curve on display for him to touch and taint."You don't know, do you?" After a few brief moments of caressing her body and watching her lean into his touch, he laughed. "Pity."

"Doesn't matter anymore. Make me forget." Cathy replied softly, tears dripping onto his hands as he cupped her cheeks.

"Oh? Did you think I wanted you?" Baz asked in mock surprise, "Cathy, Cathy, Cathy. I have no intention of taking you, my dear."

The sight of her will breaking in half reflected in her green eyes, making Bastian smirk. Truthfully, he just wanted to make her weaker and feel more vulnerable. If he wanted women, he could have anyone he wanted. Therefore, this was all for the sake of bloodlust amongst other things; such as ruining any schemes the Enchantress may of had. Imagining how sad the witch would be to lose her useless valuable spy. Unknown to her, he had plans to do much more as a grand assassin.

"Then what are you doing?" Cathy demanded, withdrawing from his touch as she grasped desperately around for her dress that laid upon the ground. Instead, dirt, grass, and pebbles clung to her fingernails that she wiped it away on her person -- wiping the tears that wouldn't stop flowing from her eyes; smudging dirt onto her cheeks as she crawled backwards from Bastian's prowling eyes -- the moon above them turned blood red as fear pounded into her heart. The verge of a scream at the back of her throat as shadows clung to Bastian's form. "You're not going to kill me, are you?"

"That depends..." Baz said slowly, standing upright as his golden eyes twinkled, "How fast you can run before I catch hold of you, and do as I please. You see, I like a good chase... Don't I, Finnian?" His golden eyes flickered past Cathy's shoulder, smiling directly at the man that stood hidden in the brush of the forest -- blending in with the trees with a crossbow in his hands; awaiting the order to fire it at will. The look of horror and disbelief on Cathy's face was a rush -- how he longed to see that face, when he could see her crumble after years of careful manipulation.

"This isn't real!" Cathy cried out desperately, "We're childhood friends! You were in the infirmary! I took care of you!"

Much to Bastian's disgust, he wondered what Finnian could of seen in her from the start. The tears mixed in with the choking sound of her sobs were grating on his ears -- whatever fun he had messing around in her mind was reduced to irritation as he watched her plea for her life. At one time, he would of considered her a beauty to use on a whim to take the edge off, but now, she was a useless woman in his eyes. He couldn't care less if she lived or died -- she was only needed for one purpose only.

Finnian stepped forward and spoke up, "I'm an assassin, Cathy. I heal fast, and I never needed you to take care of me. I wanted to tell you! Hell, you could of fought along side me until that enchantress took you under her wing. Now, you're collateral damage unless you prove useful to Lord Bastian. I'm sorry."

Bastian whistled. "Hurry this along, Finny. I grow bored of this useless chatter. I got places to be for, the night is still young. If I feel merciful, I may change my mind."

Cathy stood there with her dress clung to her naked body -- the body that she was born with that hasn't been touched by man. Finnian adjusted his crossbow as Bastian stalked forward. Her legs trembled like a newborn doe, uncertainty in her eyes as she looked between both men, and took a step back followed by another. "Don't do this... Please..." It was her last plea before the sound of her voice was drowned out by the sound of both men's feet crunching into the dirt with their steel toed boots -- the intent to kill intensified in both of their eyes -- making her twist around in the grass, stumbling forward on her feet as she flung herself desperately away with one loud, commanding voice echoing one word into her ear. And it was to Run.

 

[Ordeith]

Now ... Rape scene? Murder scene?
Good idea? NO​

Murder/Rape is bad — How to avoid this?

- Suddenly remembers secret assassin training
- Runs into the forest, finds the fae
- summons the Eagles
- Transforms in the light of the Full Moon (why?)
- Gets rescued

B. Knight
Poor Tom (magic? old sword?)

...What can Poor Tom DO???​

Urganda
Sir Bread...
Demon Queen No.
Handmaid? Helena?​

- Tell, don't show (first rule of writnig)
- time skip, make it ambiguous​

​

Ϡ Poor Tom | Urganda's Chamber, the Night Before the Ball

After some time in the cabinet, I've gotten much better at thinking.
Mistress Urganda says so, and I feel it myself, so it must be so.

Now, when she is here, I'm allowed to move about the room. I watch her while she is at potions, and when she is reading books, and when she looks inside her dish full of water. Sometimes she sits in her chair for a very long time. She closes her eyes and says nothing, but I don't think that she is sleeping. I cannot be sure, though. This is because I still cannot speak to her. (Even so, she understands me pretty well. I have yet to learn how.)

I cannot speak because ... well, I don't have a very good face. It doesn't move like Urganda's. It's cold and slick and hard. I have tried — a few times, actually — to show her that it might be broken, but she doesn't do anything about it. I don't like it.

It doesn't make me angry, but it does make me confused. My face seems to be the only one like this.
I have seen other faces, and they can move like Mistress Urganda's face.

Look at the girl's face, if you don't believe me.

She can talk and blink and breathe, and her eyes can cry water. Her mouth can move quickly or slowly, and she seems to do this without thinking about it very much. (I can do many things already, but I still need to think about them first.) It's very interesting to watch, even though it's a little sad. Maybe she is upset about her clothes? They seem to have broken — and from what I can see, they may have been very nice clothes. Or maybe she is lonely, like Mistress Urganda?

The two are talking now, very close, and I cannot understand them very well. Urganda is holding the girl in a strange way, not in any way that would allow her to pick the girl up, and saying something to her in a low voice. Once, she points at the place where the ugly statue was sitting (It's gone now, by the way. A moment ago, it got much bigger. Then it just left.), and the girl nods. Right now, I'm trying to get closer without being noticed...

"...but you are Fae, child," Urganda is saying, "I can feel it inside you. You are not like these court ladies, who use their beauty as a means to power; you are beautiful because you are powerful. It's the natural way of things. A Fae lady cannot be anything but lovely. You will learn magic, you will meet your people, and together we will put an end to these wicked men. We will crush them."

____________________________________________________________________​

Spoiler Show

Ϡ Apprentice Berenguela | Castle Farallón, the witching hour of Walpurga's Night

"You! You—cannot! Berenguela. B-Berenguela, if you recall..."

His words were muddled by freshly broken teeth, and thickened by the wine he'd drunk that night. He looked much less like a lord, now — with blood in his beard, and his robe flapping open. Ugly and old and wrinkled, paunchy and soft. Dark and wet like a drowned rat, shivering in the rain.

His eyes quavered in bloodshot confusion. "I had no say," he wept, "you know I had no say!" Milord was a ridiculous man.

In her innermost self, Berenguela was still terrified. Her steady breathing was merely a physical routine; it kept her mind focused, but it did nothing to stop the awful, shapeless feeling inside. Even as she stalked Lord Vilgo down, reciting Walpurga's Chant with a voice like dry stone, her insides were strangling themselves. Her throat constricted, her chest clenched around a massive thumping heart. Acid churned deep in her belly. The sight of Vilgo scrambling on the courtyard stones, slobbering blood and scraping low like a peasant...

Oh, it was too much! From her bare toes to her knees — from her knees to her thighs, from her thighs to her privates, privates to gut, gut to spine, spine to jaw — it sent a chill of absolute terror. Terror and power, mingled together. Terror at her own power. Still chanting, she searched for the exact and proper word for it, as Urganda was always urging her to do. "Tempestuous" felt close, but it did not quite grasp the feeling of ... righteous anger.

It was the feeling of wrath, as only the gods can have. Vast and impossible.
Incomprehensible in its all-destructiveness — in its self-destructiveness, even.

[More metaphors and analogies here]​

The final verse of the chant was on her lips. Berenguela advanced into the courtyard, where the rain and the torchlight washed over her face. The powers of Hell were all about her now: Where her robe touched the shadow of the torch, the darkness was full of scaly wings and coarse, hairy limbs. Her voice cracked with the sound of hot coals; her breath grew hot, and stank of sulfur. Each syllable of Walpurga's Chant was accented by a blast of hot vapor. Lord Vilgo scurried further into the storm, thrown off-balance by his own robe, which was heavy with rainwater. "Oh, Berenguela," he squealed, "I never had a bad word for him! Nor for you! And whatever I did, I—"

His foot became tangled in his robe, and the wet fur was slick against the patio stones. He fell hard. Vilgo's head smacked against the stone tile and rebounded, like a buoyant fruit, before smacking down a second time. Blood spurted from his mouth. Still he jabbered on, "I muh penntant man now!" The lord was crying now, loudly. "I muh — penitent man! Berenguelaaah!"

The new witch cut him off. "My name," she said with brimstone in her voice, "is Urganda la Desconocida. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Vilgo turned and ran on all fours. When he reached the ruined wall of the courtyard, where the cliff stood open to the sea, he jumped. Yet he did not drop so much as an inch. The very air seized him, pinned him to the sky with invisible iron shackles. He screamed. Urganda smiled, triumphant.

The girl spoke a word, and the fear in her belly quickened into fire. Just as the Great Witch Walpurga did long ago, she belched the liquid flame of a dragon, and melted the man who had wronged her. He screamed louder. He danced an awful dance before he plummeted into the sea. Urganda the Unknowable, the nineteenth witch of her name, had won her first victory for Sheol and Abaddon. She was the most powerful sixteen-year-old girl in the world.

- Wake the Queen up
- Assemble the army
- MOVE EVERYONE
- Review and revise

hearing tomorrow, 8 AM
f--- that pretentious pretending plagiarist Pseudolus!​

 

[Hidden]

Ϡ Marutia| The Green Chapel, one day before the Queen's Awakening, Sext

Spoiler Show

It is strongly suspected that many of the passages in this chapter have been plagiarized from diverse sources, both acknowledged and unacknowledged. Conscientious and diligent readers are encouraged to consult the works of Umberto Eco, Philip Gröning, Philip Gabriel, Haruki Murakami, Ueda Akinari, and Murasaki Shikibu for comparison.

ed. notes- Marutia questions Brother Lazarus on the nature of ghosts, phantoms, and spirits


"Brother Lazarus?"

The monk looked up from his garden.

"What can you tell me about... ghosts?"

Brother Lazarus held the angel's gaze for quite some time. "Les fantômes?" he asked at last.

"Yes. Phantoms. Spirits."

Her companion regarded her thoughtfully. After his initial outpouring of jarbled language, the monk had become reticent again, whether out of embarrassment or long habit. Finally, he put his hoe to the ground and with his hand beckoned the angel to follow him.

"Venī."

ed. notes- Marutia admires the outward form of the Aedificium, which reflects both architectural and spiritual virtues


Marutia followed him to the Northern wall of the Chapel, where stood the great mass of the Aedificium ^{(trans. note: literally "building")}. It was an octagonal structure, though from a distance it seemed a tetragon. Three rows of windows proclaimed the triune rhythm of its elevation, so that what was physically squared on the earth was spiritually triangular in the sky. As they came closer, Marutia realized that the quadrangular form included, at each of its corners, a heptagonal tower, five sides of which were visible on the outside--four of the eight sides, then, of the greater octagon producing four minor heptagons, which from the outside appeared as pentagons.^[1]

Marutia paused to admire the concord of so many holy numbers. Eight, the number of perfection for every tetragon; four, the recognized incarnations of the Goddess (of which the present Queen was the as-of-yet unrecognized, but unmistakeable, fifth); five, the number of the zones of the world; seven, the blessings of the Goddess upon Her land. Truly this was a building of spiritual as well as architectural significance.

Brother Lazarus was already entering through a large archway on the ground level; Marutia hurried to follow, but not before noticing a worn inscription set upon the keystone-- Die große Stille. The angel shuddered ever so slightly as she crossed that threshold.

ed. notes- Marutia and Brother Lazarus enter through the kitchen and make their way to the Scriptorium; Brother Lazarus leaves Marutia here while he ascends to the forbidden Library; in the Scriptorium, Marutia finds a very interesting manuscript


Inside, she was surprised to find herself in an immense kitchen. Against one wall, beneath the west tower, a vast oven opened for baking bread, while in the middle of the room sat a fireplace large enough to spit three hogs. This had once been the staging ground for grand and generous meals, when the Green Chapel had housed over thirty monks on a regular basis and hosted countless scholars, royalty, and pilgrims come to pay tribute to this holy center of learning. The grand oven and fireplace now lay ashen and cold, and over the entire kitchen hung an air of benign neglect; it had been many years since even a simple monk's fare had been prepared here. Through a door on the northern wall, the refectory could be seen, where the monks had once gathered for their weekly communal meal.

Brother Lazarus did not enter into the latter room, but rather stepped inside the man-sized oven, which contained a spiraling staircase that went up to the second floor. This they ascended, and eventually found themselves in a temple of light.

"My Goddess..." Marutia whispered, momentarily forgetting herself. The space was suffused with criss-crossed columns of pure light, streaming unfiltered through three grand windows and five smaller windows set high upon the walls. Anchoring each column was a strategically placed writing desk and a chair. These moreover, upon closer inspection, could be moved by means of small wheels set into tracks that traced the sun's progress throughout the days and seasons. Such were the technological innovations of the Green Chapel in its prime.

This room was of course the Scriptorium, where the monks set about the holy tasks of studying, illuminating, rubricating, copying, commentating, editing, transcribing, and translating rare books and manuscripts. Looking at the nearest of these, Marutia saw the unfinished translation of a popular religious tract from the far east, sitting open as though innocently awaiting its monk to return and finish his task. This is how it read:

The Goddess passed by.
Then a great wind tore the mountains apart
and shattered the rocks before the Goddess,
but She was not in the wind.
After that there was an earthquake,
but the Goddess was not in the earthquake.
After that came a fire,
but the Goddess was not in the fire.
After the fire came a gentle whisper...

Marutia recognized the translated text, but she could not remember the source ^{(trans. note: It is 1 Queens 19: 11-12)} nor the line that followed. Looking up to ask Brother Lazarus, she discovered him exiting through another door at the opposite end of the chamber. Flying after him, she was stopped in her tracks as he suddenly turned and stretched out his palm in an unmistakeable gesture.

"Interdit," he said simply.

Marutia stared at him in disbelief. Did he forget whom he was addressing?

Brother Lazarus also looked self-conscious and uncomfortable, but he held his ground. "La biblioteca contains many diverse libros, both wahr und falsch. It is not convenable pour un ange," he explained apologetically. When the angel made no further move to follow him, he turned and closed the door behind him, disappearing into the unseen library above.

Left to her own devices, Marutia continued studying the abandoned writings on the monks' desks. There were religious tracts, philosophical treatises, scientific studies, and political analyses; but also popular materials, song lyrics and ribald poems, written in the vulgar tongues (and often containing even more vulgar content!). The monks' marginal notes to these pieces were especially entertaining, and Marutia spent several enjoyable minutes perusing through them. But then she came upon a manuscript that gave her pause. It was a messy palimpsest filled with chicken-scratch and crossed out lines and written in what appeared to be several distinct languages. Was this perhaps the work of some errant monk, giving form to his own twisted imaginations, scratching them down over the bones of his betters? Marutia frowned. Such work had the taint of the demiurge, creation already stained with corruption. Here is how the offending manuscript began:

Ghost queen, archangel aid
seven VI SIX conspirators, coup
​

By the powers of m Moonlight, rain, midnight. Angel prologue
It began in moonlight and rain It happened beneath a rain-slanted-slashed moon

devils & ghouls
​

— (Pre)Gothic Horror??

Dark Fantasy.
​

By SPURIUS, the Greatest Author who ever Liv Was or Will Be

Spurius. An ill-omened name. Before she could read any further, however, Brother Lazarus reappeared from the library, carrying three tomes.

ed. note- Marutia reads from the three tomes, in which some of her questions are answered, possibly


Lazarus laid ^{(ed. note: [sic]; should be "lay")} the three books on the desk, then picked out the topmost one and opened it in front of her. Marutia squinted at it carefully. It was written in strange symbols that the angel had never seen; could this be a script from outside the Church? Such writings were rumored to exist, but Marutia had never given them much credence. And yet here in front of her was a text that the angel, for all her divine knowledge, could not read. Fortunately, next to these alien symbols, in the margin, a monk had written either a very succinct translation or paraphrase of the text. The page Brother Lazarus had opened to was glossed as "The Chrysanthemum Pledge."

Two samurai (warriors), servants of different lords, became fast friends and pledged themselves as blood brothers. They lived far away from each other, each serving their own master. One wrote to the other saying that no matter what, he would visit when the chrysanthemums were in bloom. The other said he'd wait for his arrival. But before the first one could set out on the journey, he got mixed up in some trouble in his domain, was put under confinement, and wasn't allowed to go out or send a letter. Finally, summer was over and fall nearly upon them, the season when the chrysanthemums blossomed. At this rate, the samurai wouldn't be able to fulfill his promise to his friend. So this samurai committed seppuku (ritual suicide), became a spirit, and raced across the miles to visit his friend. They sat near the chrysanthemums and talked to their hearts' content, and then the spirit of the samurai vanished from the face of the earth. It's a beautiful tale.

Marutia leaned back and nodded in appreciation. She wasn't sure if the final line was commentary from the monk who transcribed it or original to the text, but she understood this story. This also made sense of the condition of Captain Edgar and his soldiers; they might similarly feel themselves duty-bound to the Queen they swore to protect, in death as in life. Still, that did not answer her most pressing questions.

"Tell me," she queried the monk by her side, "do your books tell of anyone who becomes a ghost... while still alive?"

As though anticipating her question, the monk slid away the first book and replaced it with another. This one also was written in the strange symbols Marutia could not identify, but again a monk had helpfully written his own annotations in the margins. The title was printed proudly on the front in gold filigree, and inked equally handsomely on the inside cover as "The Tale of Genji." Once again, Brother Lazarus guided her to the relevant passages.

The part of the tale Brother Lazarus directed her to told the story of Lady Rokujo, one of Prince Genji's lovers, and a strong-willed noblewoman.

Lady Rokujo became so consumed with jealousy over Genji's main wife, Lady Aoi, that she turned into an evil spirit that possessed her. Night after night she attacked Lady Aoi in her bed until she finally killed her. Lady Aoi was pregnant with Genji's child, and that news is what activated Lady Rokujo's hatred. Genji called in priests to exorcise the evil spirit, but to no avail. The evil spirit was impossible to resist.
What is most disturbing about this story is that Lady Rokujo had no inkling that her soul was leaving her body to fulfill these violent passions. She'd have nightmares and wake up, only to discover that her long black hair smelled like smoke. Not having any idea what was going on, she was confused. In fact, this smoke came from the incense the priests lit as they prayed for Lady Aoi. Completely unaware of it, she'd been flying through space and passing down the tunnel of her subconscious into Aoi's bedroom. This is what is called a 'living spirit'.

Darkness clouded the edges of Marutia's vision, and her hands shook slightly as she put this second tome down. "What is the meaning of this?" she asked the monk beside her. "What is this 'living spirit'?"

Brother Lazarus, who knew he did not possess the words to explain this, opened up the third book and placed it in front of Marutia. This was a much newer volume, and written in the standard tongue of the kingdom. Moreover, as Marutia read the first few lines, she realized that this was a commentary on those two books she had just been reading; perhaps written by the very same monk who had left his annotations in the former! The commentary began as follows:

The world of the grotesque is the darkness within us. Well before Freud and Jung shined a light on the workings of the subconscious, this correlation between darkness and our subconscious, these two forms of darkness, was obvious to people. It wasn't a metaphor, even. If you trace it back further, it wasn't even a correlation. Before man discovered fire, and through this light in the darkness, most of the world was totally covered in darkness. The physical darkness outside and the inner darkness of the soul were mixed together, with no boundary separating the two.

In Murasaki Shikibu's time living spirits were both a grotesque phenomenon and a natural condition of the human heart that was right there with them. People of that period probably couldn't conceive of these two types of darkness as separate from each other. But today things are different. The darkness in the outside world has vanished, but the darkness in our hearts remains, virtually unchanged. Just like an iceberg, what we label the ego or consciousness is, for the most part, sunk in darkness. And that estrangement from ourselves can sometimes cause a traumatic break--the breaking of a person's soul from their body. The exact causes and consequences of this are hard to pin down, but it is generally born of extreme passion, and those passions tend to be at once very individual and very negative--in Lady Rokujo and Lady Aoi's case, fatally so.

The book fell from Marutia's hands. The breaking of a person's soul from their body... the text had read ...fatally so. Marutia's thoughts stretched out towards her incorporeal Queen.

"Tell me," she commanded desperately, "is there no story in this entire library where a living spirit is born of some good cause, of love or duty? Is there no story where the soul comes back to its body, hale and whole?" The monk looked upon her with pity, but not mercy.

"Nein," he admitted, "il n'y a que the 'living spirits' who art geboren von... come from... le forze del male."

Then Marutia's light dimmed, her wings folded inwards, and -O sight unseen!- the angel wept. She wept for her Queen, whom she loved. She wept for the kingdom, which in one fell night had lost both its regent and its Goddess. And she wept for herself.

 

[Hidden]

Ϡ Brother Lazarus| The Green Chapel, sixty-seven years before the Queen's Awakening, Nones

Nine or ten cowled men sit on small stools or directly on the grass outside of the Aedificium, nodding their heads and wagging their beards; they are breaking their vows, talking in low voices amongst each other. The rules of their order are not so harsh now as they were in the past, but if they are caught they will certainly be expelled from the abbey, perhaps with a few new scars to show for it. But the human spirit is irrepressible, and one of the expressions of this spirit is the need to communicate.

High above them, a young novice, barely 12 years old, leans dangerously out through the Scriptorium's open window (itself a prohibition, though less severe). Having taken his vows only three years ago, he is already starved for the sound of a human voice, and he leans out farther in hopes of soaking up each and every syllable.

"In Sélignac they have not been washing their hands before the refectory for over 20 years now."

"Do you think we should stop washing our hands?"

"No, but it wouldn't be a big deal to get rid of something useless."

"Our entire life, the whole liturgy, and everything ceremonial are symbols. If you abolish the symbols, then you tear down the walls of your own house!"

"In the monastery of Pavia, instead of one wash basin they have six. There you can wash your hands properly!"

(laughter)

"Yes, they're also Trappists!"

(more laughter)

"When we abolish the signs, we lose our orientation. Instead we should search for their meaning."

"But one should unfold the core of the symbols."

"The signs are not to be questioned, we are."

"I'm not against hand-washing, I just forget to dirty my hands first."

(laughter)

"The error is not to be found in hand-washing, the error is to be found in our mind."

But suddenly the abbot, a large and fearsome figure (and not just to young novices), emerges from the chapel and starts walking directly towards them. All of the monks scatter to various duties they are supposed to be performing, and the novice nearly falls out on his head in his excitement to get back inside. He quickly reclaims his seat in the scriptorium and resumes tracing out the letters of the Treatise of St. Basil on the Holy Spirit. It is dull work, and his hand aches, but the monks feed him three times a day and give him his own bed to sleep in, which is more than he will have at home. And so Jorge de Burgos, recently christened Brother Lazarus, continues his commitment to the Order and its vows, which persist unto death or the end of all things.

 

[OmniChaos]

Ϡ The Warlock, Izan | Unknown, [ ] nights before the Ball

"So, are we going to kill her?"

The Warlock was greeted by the ever bluntness of the dragon Haloge, who seemed to completely lack any concept of the word 'subtle.' The fact that the dragon had willingly kept up his human guise for this long was nothing short of a miracle to Izan's eyes, and a testament of his unwavering, insatiable desire for revenge. He stood at the door as the Warlock passed, arms folded with a look of annoyance (or perhaps boredom; Izan found the dragon's true feelings often hard to read) plastered across his face.

"Need I remind you once more to keep such questions for when no ears might be listening?" Izan grumbled slightly. "If you keep it up, everyone will know our plan before we can enact it. So do kindly—and I do mean this in the most absolute, truest sense of it—shut that gaping fire-spewer of yours before I turn you into a pair of boots and matching belt!"

Haloge scoffed. "You humans and your silly, cowardly ways; that's what's wrong with your race. If the witch is an issue, just kill the bitch and get it over with. But do you? No. No, instead you humans sneak and hide, you make your little plans in the dark, and you keep your face hidden when you bring down the dagger. Were it me, I would show my face proudly, showing her and the world who it was who—"

"If you are quite done, Dragon in the Bottle," Izan interrupted. The comment drew a low growl from Haloge, who fell silent as the pair continued to walk through the empty corridors. The damp darkness soon gave way to muffled light as the two turned a corner and reached a more traversed area of the castle. A sole guard stood at the hall's end, nodding slowly off to sleep with his weight placed upon the shaft of his spear. "Return to our rooms, for now. I've something I need to take care of."

As the pair split, Izan continued on in silence for several minutes before finally reaching his destination. Before him stood the large door to the queen's chambers. The Warlock could feel the magical energy of Urganda's handiwork pulsating from the wooden visage, a spell, no doubt, to keep the demon firmly in line. Izan knocked three hard knocks and opened the door. He peered in to find the queen alone and a grin split his face in two.

"I apologize for the late intrusion, Your Majesty, but I've a question I must ask: Would you like to be free?"

 

[SwagStarIV]

Trisk & KidD | Royal Lobby, 1 Day before the Queens Awakening

KidD was hover boarding up the halls of the lobby. The guards where standing their ground and he was using their spears as railing between gaps. Trisk walked in on the event and it seemed like everyone was in on it. She then stated, "HEYYYY! Who is in charge of this?" KidD stated, "Who else otherr than the prodigious KidD himself!" Trisk was worried about what could happen if her breakfast wore off. She began to feel... Un-productive. Trisk immediately jumped on his hover board and grabbed on to his waist. KidD said, "Woah! Trisk... Your tricks get more and more friskier as this elaborate story of life unfolds. Care to explain? Last I heard, you hate high speeds. Don't they interfere with your grip on reality, and your current location, due to the magnetic pull of this planet and the current of the surrounding wind, causing some type of fluctuation in your dust, making your physical appearance more general than it's usual finite position. Plus don't your emotions get all... Reckless?" Trisk was to busy clinging to KidD to listen to what he was saying, though he was right.

All shits and giggles aside, Her dust was actually filling up the lobby at such an outstanding rate that her physical manifestation was slightly slipping. Her current shape, stature, and form would not be able to sustain such a small physique if her dust continued to gather around the room as it did. Also, KidD riding through the same areas wasn't really helping. Something was happening with her body and its registration with the magical world. Ironically, she was still clinging to KidD. Trisk stated, "KidD... When you stop riding this board... I don't know whats going to happen... Can we at least change the coarse?" KidD shifted with no hesitation, "I never thought you would ask!" Instantly they headed out the castle doors.

Irene & Hitro | Royal Observatory, 1 Day before the Queens Awakening

Irene fell to her knees. Confused. She did not know whether she should try to kiss him, or begin their normal routine. Ultimately, either way, something had to be said. Irene stated, "So..." She stood up, "Do I move forward or back-" Hitro's eyes glowed green as he once again locked his face onto hers. Irenes knees buckled and Hitro took heed of that. He held her by her shoulders and made sure she did not fall in her moment of weakness. As Irene gained strength in her legs, her mind rushed. Is this going to be the day! I can't believe we're actually going to do something that involves intimacy besides our normal rituals or pact bonding events. This is... Irene's mind was launched to another plane.

Hitro on the other hand was ready to go at it full force, so as Irene gained stability he lowered her down. Slowly undressing her as they lowered to the floor. Irene had went surprisingly dull, yet began to move in an artificial yet synchronous manner. Hitro hated being intimate with females because they all seemed to break so easily. His passion was never met with one of and equal drive, but Irene on the other hand, had displayed an equal drive from day one. Hitro began to wonder, It's funny. I always thought of her as my partner. Who would have guessed that we would become slightly more. As a friend and companion, let alone a pact maker, you would think that things like this would be a common process, but I actually care for her. If I don't watch myself I could fall in love with her. Who would have guessed... A human and an Angel. As Hitro had finished removing her garments, Irene stood up and gazed at Hitro with eyes that seemed vacant.

Irene rose her index and middle finger, waving Hitro's pants into limbo. Hitro was astonished yet awkwardly resilient against moving forward in the current motion. With no underwear on Hitro was now prompted for the next step. He stood up himself and walked towards Irene's seemingly helpless body. Irene was backing away, but Hitro backed her into the desk by the window. Irene was having a conversation with one of her higher ups. Irene stated,"But why!" The archangel stated, "Those are our laws... Though you are no longer a being of complete light, you still must remember your upbringing and respect our codes." Irene stated, "I won't... You didn't help when I was dying... He did. So... I think I'll take my chances. Half-Breed or not!" Irene clicked back into her body and lost all the wind in her body as well as her footing. To her surprise Hitro had just connected, but this time they were both nude and against the wall. As she slid down the wall slowly, trying to regain her footing, Hitro followed her down. Once she was sitting between her legs and on the floor, Hitro was on his knees and backed away stating, "Now you can move forward if you like?" Irene charged forward and they engaged in frivolous love making.

 

[Ordeith]

ON THIS EVENING, PERFORMED ON Her Majesty's STAGE,
THE BLACK KNIGHT
or
"The Demon Horseman of Fort Londe"​

SIR the SILVER KNIGHT ... Robert Burbage
HIS LADY ... Ellen Gwynne
THE QUEEN ... Margery Hewes
SIR HAUSER, the MOONLIGHT KNIGHT ... Octavo de Phillipe
DESDEMONA, the FOREIGN PRINCESS ... Matisse Born
TOBY ... Richard Armin​

A tale of treachery and woe, violence and desire, shall be performed on the EVE of ST. OPHELIA'S DAY in a new piece of musical theatre. Hearken to a dark retelling of a history as old as time — written for the stage by SPURIUS, also set to the musickal devices of SPURIUS. To be performed for a royal audience and selected guests.​

​

___________________________________________________________________​

Spoiler Show

N.B. - This manuscript was found amid the massive pile of writings that we attribute tentatively to Spurius. Curiously for a "Spurius" document, it remained unchanged throughout my initial cataloging of the found work. Moreover, the style remains consistent throughout, and it is unmarred by the errors and margin notes that characterize our new author. I half-suspect that it is not Spurius at all — but the very consistency of the document, within a body of totally inconsistent work, is itself an inconsistency. Perhaps Spurius is making fools of us yet!

— J. Ordeith, Keeper of Tomes​

Ϡ Queen Anastaise | Dreaming, a thousand years away

Her eyes were plucked, her mouth was sealed. Her ears were stopped, her nose was plugged.
Her arms were pinned above her head. Her legs were crippled beneath her body.
Her lungs were heavy. Her stomach was empty. Her brain was split in two.
Her heart had been killed, butchered, and eaten.

It was difficult to remember what had brought her to this state.

She could, perhaps, place a date in her mind. She recalled faces and names, sometimes the voices that went with each. With these pieces, she could construct a scene in her mind — presumably, the scene of what had happened. For a few fleeting moments, only one-hundred or two-hundred years at most, she could remember exactly what had happened in the western tower. But only that. Only the senses she had felt. It was color and sound without meaning. Substance without context.

The nothingness was all. To live like this was not pleasant, but neither was it unpleasant in any normal sense. Nothing could hurt her in the way that things had hurt her once. Pleasure, too, was far away. The very concept had fled her. Stasis, devoid of self, remained her only option. Neither good nor bad, it was simply what it was.

Or rather, it was what everything else was not...

...and that was not so horrible.​

At this point, she felt nothing strong enough to be called "desire." Even so, the thread of self that remained had the slight inclination to disappear. It would be neither pleasant nor unpleasant to do so; but if a choice had to be made, she would rather go away forever. Her non-life would be much better served by a lack of arms, legs, a head, or a heart...

It was almost vexing, then, when she heard a sound.
Her ears were stopped, so she did not hear it altogether well...

...but she did hear it, all the same.​

Soon her crippled legs were carrying her; and her arms stretched in their bonds; and her plugged nose was sniffing for the air that carried the sound. Non-movement through emptiness was soon followed by a sense of motion, and then a sense of distance. As she walked, she felt the lightest brush of air on her eyelids — another sign that she was moving somewhere. She did not have actual eyes yet, as there was nothing yet to see, but if she pressed onward...

___________________________________________________________________​

Anastaise opened her eyes. She was standing in a tight hallway, or a tunnel of some kind. The walls and floor appeared to be stone, and felt somewhat like it, but they did not vary in texture. Owing its shape to neither bricks nor mortar, a smooth stone corridor continued for as far as she could see...

Again, she heard that sound. It followed a loose rhythm now, a kind of rolling pulse.
With clear eyes and a clean, empty head, she followed it down the tunnel.

Nothing differentiated one pace from the next. She felt the push and pull of her legs, the impact of her feet against the stone. She brushed her hand against the wall, and felt the magnified surface of a river pebble on her skin. Even so, nothing of the tunnel itself changed. Nothing, not even the slightest divot or dent, marred the perfect smooth walls. The air remained dry, cool, and static — and so did the floor beneath her. Even the light was constant, unwavering.

Even the light...

She realized that nothing at all was lighting the corridor; the light was coming from nowhere. At once, lit sconces appeared in the walls. The light took on a flickering, living quality, and the air grew a little bit warmer. Anastaise was pleased. She broke pace, only for a moment, to nuzzle against the warm stone, and listen to the fire crackle just above her. The warmth crept down her back, tingling her skin...

Then she realized that she was naked — but when she looked down, she saw the unwrinkled fabric of her underclothes. Oh, thank goodness! She exhaled with relief. Yet something did not seem altogether right about them. Anastaise squinted down her front, then twisted about in the light. She saw frilled lace around her neck, and delicate floral patterns along the hem. There was nothing of a bodice whatsoever, merely a loose tent of cloth that hung from her body, billowing as she moved. Flattened out, it reached just below her knees, and—

She blushed. It was the oversized twin of a frock she had worn at age three.
Before, she would not have recognized it even in its true size, but there was no mistaking it here and now.

Concluding, hastily, that a child's frock was better than nothing at all, she snapped her eyes upward again. No reason to dwell on it. She was prepared to walk a great distance further, holding herself erect with as much dignity as she could muster — but this was quickly taken from her. Somehow, she had already arrived at her destination. Here "destination" refers to a substantive change in Anastaise's surroundings: a split in the tunnel, one branch leading to an upward staircase, the other to an unlit hallway.

Walk, and get nowhere, she mused, but stand still and you arrive at the end. Distressing, but she smiled all the same. Progress was progress.

Leaning in with her unstopped ears, she picked the sound out of the air yet again. To the right, up the staircase, she decided. The echo was strongest there, unmistakably. Anastaise strode ahead with firmer resolve than she ever remembered having. She was only bolstered by the fact that her feet now scuffed against bits of rock and dirt, something that she hadn't even realized was missing.

But then another echo drowned out the first: a voice, from the opposite leg in the path. "Gaoler!" it rasped. "Wiltou speak?"

Anastaise twisted back around, one foot on the step. From where she stood, the other hallway was little more than a gaping hole, its contents untouched by the torchlight of the main tunnel. Her eyes, fresh and free though they were now, could draw no picture of what lay inside. The shadows suggested thin columns, or bars. "Gaoler," the voice within sounded again, "mistake me not for a dead man. I hear thy footfalls; I hear the tremor of thy breath. Answer! Thou shameless thing!"

Startled as she was, nevertheless she tried to reply. But her mouth was still sealed, and she could not speak a word. It was painful beyond compare — her voice, shaking and convulsing in her throat, begging to be let free. Tears smarted her eyes. She struck her foot against the step.

The other voice seemed to hear it and understand. "Well! Why hurry out of the womb, then?" It sounded pleased, but no less scornful it had been at first. "As they often say, 'ful wys is he who hymselfen known, and knowen his playce under the Sonne.' And we vagrants own no place up there. No place outside a battlefield, and that is no true place at all!" It laughed a terrible laugh. "Why not keep thy rest, spare thyself the trial and the sentence?"

Anastaise did not wish to hear any more. She climbed the steps, up and away, and the voice followed only for a few paces. "Why spurn thou Death?" it said. "'Tis Heaven's best gift..."

___________________________________________________________________​

The Queen parted her lips, and received a kiss sweeter than summer nectar.
A long-forgotten thrill shot into her chest, rose, and exploded behind the seal of her lover's mouth.

(Cont. on Page 2)​

 

[KingdomKey]

Ϡ Bastian | Outside, Night before the Ball

"Must everyone ruin a good game?"

Baz sneered in disgust at the sound of Cathy's sobbing coming to a screeching halt. The Enchantress comforting a wounded animal Cathy turned his stomach ill; watching her succumb to the woman words with a hopeful, tear streaked face made him turn on his heel. The crooning of the Enchantress voice was unbearable to listened to as he backed away — plugging both of his index fingers inside of his ears as he worked his way through the forest floor with a grunt. "Yes, give her words of comfort and empty promises. I'll take what's mine, when the time comes."

"How ever, do you woo a woman into your cold bed at night?"

The sudden tinkling of a woman's laughter made Bastian stop in his tracks with a frown. Unplugging his ears with a sigh, he rung his fingers through the front of his messy locks of black hair in a disgruntle manner. "Are you seriously asking me about my sexy times luring women into my bed at night? Have you not met me?" To prove his point, he swept his right hand down his muscular toned frame of a body — daring them to accuse him he wasn't good looking enough or skilled enough to nab any women he wanted into his bed. Then he scowled, looking to his right at something unseen as a tick formed in his jaw, pulsing. His golden eyes flared in suppressed irritation.

"You never handled losing too well."

The silhouette of the woman emerged from a intertwined tree with a smile on her face. Some stray leaves clung to her red hair that could easily be mistaken for brown in this lighting. Baz caught her appraising him that he gave a snarl, but she didn't let it faze her as she approached him — A sudden weight on his shoulders as she giggled and leapt up onto his back; making him hold her up by the bottom of her knees. "I'll drop you." He warned, when she bit his on ear, causing him to hiss in pain.

Don't touch that! You don't know where he's been!
A favor for a favor?
What is Bastian, really?​

"You haven't said a word after I knocked your ego down a notch," The woman replied, "Besides I gave you the poison you needed and played my part quite well." When he didn't say anything, she gave a huff of annoyance. "The girl hardly knew it was a woman saying those things to her. Kind of a dimwit, if you ask me. Why the devil do you need her for? When you're capable of turning this castle upside down?"

At the sudden reminder, he dropped her. The oomph made him smile as he stalked away with her looking after him on the ground — rubbing her sore bump that hit the hard rocky earth below. "I won't be needing your services anymore, Eva. Consider your debt paid." He called over his shoulder, working his way through the Ivory Manse court yard, up the cobble steps and into the shadows. "I've got someone to see and something to finish." His voice faded into a whisper as the doors enclosed around him — had anyone been wandering through the entry way of the castle, they'd cross themselves and say their prayers at the menacing eyes gleaming gold in the dark

What happens next?
- Cathy hysterical upon jostling awake in the infirmary
- Magic that hums beneath the skin and threatens to kill Bastian. Strong come back for someone traumatized.
- Dancing, talking, and a smile?​

 

[Hidden]

To our benefactor and sponsor, J. Ordeith

We apologize for the delay in transcribing and delivering these latest chapters to you. In addition to the arduousness of the task (as we have discussed previously), a number of 'unrelated' factors have conspired to further obstruct us in our interpretation of Spurius' strange text.

One month ago, our first assistant librarian, Berengar, who had been organizing all the materials for our senior librarians and experts working on the Spurius manuscript, went missing. All non-essential library duties were suspended (minus the interpretation itself, which continued unabated), and teams of novices and experienced librarians were sent out over seven days to search the chambers, passageways, and stairwells of the library in search of him. However, as you know, the library is a large and strange place, even for those of us who have spent our lives within its walls, and Berengar was not found.

Around that same time, one of our finest copyists, Adelmo, informed us that he could no longer perform his duties for the library. He is responsible for copying almost all of the chapters you now have in your possession, minus the very last chapter concerning Bastian and the mysterious fay, Eva. Adelmo's hand has lost none of its surety or strength--he writes if anything even more beautifully now than he did before. Only the characters he writes are no longer recognizable to any human being in the library, including Adelmo himself.

Malachi is dead. It pains me even now to write this, for he was a long-serving and faithful librarian, as well as a friend. He had taken charge of interpreting the chapters involving the Warlock Izan, and had taken the additional step of researching the possible origins of his power in the various grimoires and demonologies our library keeps. Normally these books are restricted for the safety of readers and librarians alike, but given his status as senior librarian and the gravity of his task, he was given special permission to consult them for a limited time each day. When his body was found, several of these books lay open around him, and imperfectly drawn circles surrounded him. The cause of death is unclear only to those lacking imagination.

In all, there have been eight deaths in the past month (most of them novices), and our most experienced translator has gone mad. As you have most likely already divined, all of these calamities have centered on persons directly or indirectly involved in the interpretation and transcription of Spurius' work. Replacements have been increasingly hard to come by. The only bit of good news is that Berengar was found, not three days ago. In face of all of our other troubles, I am ashamed to say we had all but forgotten about our missing assistant librarian until he showed up without warning in the herpetology chamber of the library. Questioned on where he had been so long, he seemed unable to give an answer; indeed, he appeared shocked when we told him he had been missing for over three weeks, and insisted he had been gone only a few hours. (He reported further that he had stumbled upon a circular chamber he had never seen before, and within this chamber was an enormous circular book whose spine was continuous and circumvented the entire library. Our physicians are seeing to him now.)

In spite of all this, I assure you our work goes on. We will not fail in this task you have set before us. Indeed, even were it not for your generous support of this project, I myself would go on. I find that I am compelled to do so. The words of Spurius, as though tattooed on the insides of my eyelids (or perhaps on the eyeball itself?), no longer disappear from my vision when I go to sleep. I have been having strange dreams. I grow ever more uncertain, not of the text, which seems to my diseased mind to finally be taking some coherent shape, but of the rest of the library around me, which day by day seems to lose its own familiar shape and solidity.

It is late. My candle is burning low, and I still have so much work to do. Pages lay scattered around me. I forget why I began this letter.

I remain,

while I can,​

your obedient servant,

Jorge de Burgos
​

 

[Ordeith]

An excerpt from The Lives of Saints and Martyrs, by Spurius...

There confronted by the person of Evil, Saint Ophelia prayed to the Goddess and was visited by Her Holy Spirit. Lo! Ophelia's figure was transformed to be radiant as the dawn, and when she spoke it was with the wisdom of the Goddess [112].

Subject to this light, the Nameless One's champion cowered in fear; and likewise, the knightess who then served as Ophelia's bodyguard, Dame Celeste Monteau [113], was revealed in her moral iniquities. In her bosom she harbored a perverse lust for her charge, and a perverse desire to see Saint Ophelia fall. When the shadows of her soul became apparent in her face, the crooked knightess drew her sword and slew the Holy Mother there on the spot. Saint Ophelia's spirit was sustained by the Goddess, but her body — not yet twenty years old — died then.

The traitor Celeste fled with the Nameless One and his servants, and hampered the Church for many years before her capture and execution [114].

Saint Ophelia, in rapturous union with the Goddess, remained upon this earth for eight days and eight nights. She preached the demise of wrongdoers and the redemption of the worthy, and gave us several prayers used today in liturgy [115]. Then she assumed her place in Heaven, seated in the midst of God's female aspects [116].​

Spoiler Show

Ϡ Queen Anastaise | Dreaming, a hundred years from the Moon

The Queen parted her lips, and received a kiss sweeter than summer nectar.
A long-forgotten thrill shot into her chest, rose, and exploded behind the seal of her lover's mouth. Oh, what a thrill!

She sucked in her breath, more out of reflex than arousal. Her nose was visited by the light, fresh scent of her handmaid's perfume. It mingled with the fruity summer wine that clung to their breath, and the combined scent took on a cloying, teasing quality. So sickly-sweet it was, almost to make one gag — but full of sharpness and youthful daring. Anastaise plunged into another kiss, taking the lead this time. She buried her face in a curtain of auburn curls. "My queen," her lover whispered when their lips separated, "my love, my love..."

Helena's body pushed against hers with all the eager wildness of youth. They spilled into the royal bed, breast against breast, legs locked, the girl's nose and mouth nuzzled under her mistress's chin. In order to catch her and hold her tight, Anastaise had no choice but to tear her arms free of their bonds. She wrenched her limbs loose, stretched her joints and muscles, and wrapped herself around Helena in the nick of time. Her nerves were tingling sharply, but still it felt wonderful to slide her hands down her lover's back. It was wonderful to feel every curve, every tense spot, and rejoice in the existence of a human body other than her own.

Her Majesty laughed breathlessly. And what a body! What a beautiful girl...

They were lying together in a tangle now, taut and happy and unsure what to do. The eternal candles of the bedchamber, yielding to the Queen's silent wish, floated up to Helena and illuminated her from head to toe. Barely older than twenty, Anastaise thought, and still a touch of childhood in her face. Goddess, I am a horrible person. Her adoration — and her shame — must have shown upon her own face, because Helena's smile fell away.

"Oh, my sweet," she whispered. The girl steadied herself upon the bed, and looked down at the Queen. "Might you feel unwell tonight? I hope I wasn't... Is something wrong?"

Anastaise felt even worse then. "No," she replied, "no, certainly not."
She masked her discomfort with a smile and another light kiss. "With my lovely summer girl? Never."

She pulled Helena down with her, gently, and the two women nestled together in the bedsheets. Their passion had not died, but it was burning more slowly. Queen and handmaid fidgeted under the covers, bodies cupped together, hands searching. As she shifted to her side, Anastaise felt a dull pang and a weight in her belly. She gave a soft huff of embarrassment. The memory was returning to her now: For the first time in quite a while, she had overeaten at that night's banquet — by quite a bit. Her stomach was still full to bursting, and she felt it much more acutely lying down.

Helena gave a soft titter. "Feeling the second course now, Your Majesty?" She reached behind and pinched Anastasise's belly. "I saw you from my table," she continued, "saying 'thank-you' to the soup, and then the fish, and then the poultry, and then one-two-three-four little pies!"

Each item was accented by a pinch. The Queen pulled her lover's hand away, and guided it to the sweet spot between her legs. "Oh, hush," she said. "With all this silly magic about me, I'll never turn into the fat old toad that — by anyone's count — I should be. So it's quite within my right to be a gluttonous fool." She started to pleasure Helena with her free hand. "And to ask service of my subjects, and reward them in kind, and love them, and love them..."

At once she heard the sound again. It tickled at the back of her neck like a stranger's breath, out of rhythm with her loving. And she felt absolutely sinful. Not a queen at all, but a lecherous old pantaloon from some low comedy.

The sound was seeking her desperately. To drown herself in pleasure was not her right at all.
What is a woman, she thought, if her chief good and market of her time be but to sleep and feed? Such a woman is no queen.

As gently as she could, she disentangled herself from Helena's warmth. The silk sheets fell from her body without so much as a whisper, and her clothes returned in an instant. Not a child's frock or a silk negligee this time, but a proper gown made for court. Somehow, Anastaise felt colder wearing it.

She looked back to her bed; still it was ringed with floating candles, and Helena was still inside.

The handmaid had not moved an inch. She lay on her side, mostly covered, her auburn hair splayed out on the pillows. The Queen could see the outline of her own body in the sheets — a queen-shaped pocket of air, gently deflating around the poor girl. A few seconds passed in this way. Then Helena whispered, barely louder than the strange, irregular sound: "You are Always so kind to me, my queen. if our respective roles did not Leave you so indisposed, and Me So busy, know that all of my minutes would go to you Alone.

"but now, When duty pulls You away for the hundredth time, i must confess: you are my mother, my sister, my husband, my queen, and my beloved. to any of those i would be the counterpart. ask anything of me; Do unto me as you will. This is your right, and I would Hate to disappoint You in failing some service that lies within my power. love And service are entwined, after all. work cannot spoil the love I have for you, nor time, nor war, nor Hate. nothing can drive a splint between you and Myself. nothing has yet, and nothing Yet will. so I freely bid you farewell, my love, though i Still Yearn for more time To have with you. Be well, and may the day be Yours." Helena turned her face into the pillow, and wept.

Her Majesty wished nothing more than to give Helena her heart — her whole heart — to have and to hold, to soothe all her hurts. But the Queen's heart had been butchered and eaten. It was not yet hers to give again. She left the royal bedchamber, out the door and up the stairs.

Her stomach was full now, and this would sustain her on the long climb. Her arms were free and ready for battle.

___________________________________________________________________​

The Last Queen cleared her lungs, expelling all of the bad air that had crept inside her.
She needed to be pure and whole for what was to come, even though her heart was missing.

The western tower of Fort Londe wrapped its walls around her. It was midnight. The lamps were low, and the room had been cleared. The Queen stood at the center of a massive circle drawn in chalk, the focal point from which a hundred different pentagrams and tetragrams sprung to ensnare her. They sent their invisible tendrils after her arms, her legs — but her legs had long ago thrown off their shackles, and her arms were free from their bonds. Planting her herself squarely on the stone floor, she made the Holy Sign high above her head. The grasping demons withered before her feet.

Then Her Majesty searched the darkness for her attackers. Her betrayers.

Three figures stood in front of her, and three stood to her back. Their voices bounced off the walls and mingled together, enveloping the Queen with the terrible sound of a chant in the language of Hell. Together, they made the voice of Legion.

Yet their faces had not changed, and there was still light enough to see them. She counted clockwise from the left: her son and the bishop who baptized him, the captain of her guard and the chamberlain of her house, the wealthy merchant with whom she shared her table, and a woman she did not know. Each held a piece of her heart. They looked at her, but they did not see her. Perhaps that is for the best, she thought. If one of them, if Lucius, could read my—

She stepped toward her son, and in doing so breached the innermost summoning circle. In that very instant, all the world seemed to tremble — the floor buckled, and the walls rippled like the surface of a pond. The conspirators broke off their chanting. A ragged intake of breath, from all six, cut through the air. Before any one of them could speak, the oaken doors to the commander's chamber flew from their hinges, streaming white-hot fire from the outside. They disintegrated into ash at the first touch of the stone floor.

The conspirators fell into shouting and confusion, scrambling for their weapons or for safe cover. Only the strange woman remained calm, the Queen saw: A steady stream of incantations rolling from her tongue, and her hands guided a dozen different warding signs toward the open doorway. A witch, Her Majesty realized. She could not help admiring such precise spellcraft. Here is the architect of this treason — or its emissary to Hell, at the very least. Yet when the Queen looked ahead to the doorway, she saw nothing. The spells were striking and binding empty air. The pontiff raised his staff against a vacant space in the air, and Sir Bercilak raised his shield to guard against ... nothing.

In unison, the conspirators spun about to face the spot where the Queen stood.
Then the tower shuddered a second time, and the far wall burst open.

The six looked in amazement at, yet again, nothing at all. Their eyes traced an invisible object as it arced through the sky. Her Majesty watched this play out with the air of a detached spectator. This battle had never been hers, she realized, and it harbored sights that were not meant for her to see. She had only to collect what was due her.

. . . . .​

The Lord Chamberlain had turned away from the ruined tower wall, and was speaking to some invisible person. His twiggy hands shook in the open air, from nervousness as much as the night chill. He spoke in a placating tone that the Queen knew all too well. One hand still clutched the piece of her heart; he gestured with it unconsciously, sometimes offered it to the object of his supplications. Gently the Queen removed it from his grasp. Then she approached the small crowd near the hole in the wall.

The Lord Bishop gripped his piece tightly beneath his chin, every now and then stopping to take a nibble of the stringy heart meat. His chins were covered in blood, and his jowls quivered nervously — but his eyes, glittering like ice, still chased after the object in flight. He gnawed with the distracted air of a beast over an old kill, contemplating his next move as he chewed. When he tried next to take another bite, the Queen plucked the piece of her heart from his ruddy lips.

The merchant, meanwhile, was trying furiously to stuff his portion of the Queen's heart into his purse. His face was pulled tight in concentration, his fingers worked madly; but he could not manage to keep a firm grip on the tiny piece of muscle. It was too slick with blood and juices, and slipped from his hands whenever he seemed most sure of his grip. When he tried unsuccessfully to daub it dry with his handkerchief, Her Majesty snatched it from his open palm. He continued to wipe at the empty air.

The Prince was not so gentle with his piece of his mother's heart. He was breathing heavily — disgustingly so, even — shaking his fists, shouting obscenities at the empty sky. Every foul word was accentuated by a tight, angry squeeze of the red sliver in his hand. Blood was spurting over his clothes, onto the floor, and the only thought in his mind was of the thing that had ruined the conspirators' ritual. The Queen felt the boy's fingernails digging into her heart, and she wondered at how much bile had grown inside her teenage son. She had no option but to pry his hand open and take the piece by force.

Behind Lucius, one hand draped halfheartedly on his shoulder, was the unknown woman. She, too, searched after the elusive flying object; but her expression was indecipherable. It could have been bitterness or resignation, or even a kind of grudging admiration. The Queen could make nothing of it. When she searched for the piece of her heart, however, she found it cradled gently in the crook of the witch's arm. Her Majesty took it without a moment's pause.

One piece yet remained.

Then she spotted Sir Bercilak. The Green Knight had already bolted for the interior of the fort, ready to lead the purge of his fellow knights — but he had tripped over his own long sabatons, and fell face-first onto the floor. In doing so, he had dropped his piece of the Queen’s heart. He pulled himself up with surprising speed, and — checking first that no one had noticed his tumble — slipped out the doorway. The Queen picked the sliver of her heart off the floor, and placed it with the others.

Her heart was all together at last, but it was not yet whole. The pieces twitched in disjointed rhythm, restless even in their owner's hands. Try as she might, Anastaise could not put them together.

The sound returned to her then, in the same unsteady tempo that it always had. It was coming from outside, she realized, reaching the western tower through the breached wall. The six conspirators had since dispersed, leaving the shelf of stone floor open to the air. The Queen stood with her toes at the very edge, breathed the moist night air deeply, and listened...

Weeping, she identified it for the first time. The sound seemed to come from the Moon, from across a great distance. The Moon is ... weeping for me? That did not seem right to her. The Moon was her guardian, the source of her strength. It served as her sigil among men, and shielded her soldiers from harm.

The Moon would not weep for her; the Moon was beyond the anguish of mortals.

Clutching the shards of her heart, the Last Queen stepped into the air, and walked toward the great golden globe that beckoned her.

 

[OmniChaos]

Ϡ The Warlock, Izan | Dragon's Hall, Night of the Ball

(The ink-set words of the chapter's text have all been smudged out, leaving the words illegible. Over the smudged text, written in now-dried blood, is a message. A note is attached to the bottom.)

J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith J. Ordeith

I will get you, J. Ordeith. I am coming for you, J. Ordeith. Coming coming coming coming coming coming coming. For I am the greatest! I am the Warlock! I am the King! I am the Pear Ape! I am the Puppet Master! I am God!!!

And what are you? You are nothing, J. Ordeith! Nothing but a footnote of history! I am immortal! I am forever! I am eternal!!!

Beware, J. Ordeith! I am the greatest being who ever that will ever that has ever and will ever exist! So beware, J. Ordeith. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware. Beware.

May the blessings of the Pear Ape be upon thee.

- S


To our benefactor and sponsor, J. Ordeith

I have recently taken over the interpretation of the Warlock Izan chapters following Malachi's unfortunate end. I can't say I called the man a friend, but we were nevertheless on good terms with one another; a death of a fellow man is always a sad occasion.

The above message was found among his possessions upon his discovery, written with his own blood on the chapter he was currently working on. Jorge, as well as the others, insisted this message not be delivered to you, out of fear that you may withdraw from this project. A few even fear that it may release some sort of great evil upon you, though I am not one to humor such talk of superstitious nonsense (which is rather ironic, really). However, I disagree with them.

You, dear sir, I know to be man of a higher quality, one who would not coward at the sight of a meaningless threat. I sent you this message not out of warning or cation, but rather to acquire your opinion on something. The tone of this "threat" has a familiar sound to it, one that almost mirrors Spurius' mad raving on one of the previous Izan chapters. Malachi even made reference to two of the characters from that raving: the Pear Ape and the Puppet Master. The threat was ended with a signed 'S', as if to suggest Spurius himself was the one who wrote the threat, and not Malachi. A rather amusing, yet nonetheless intriguing, thing, no?

I know you to be a busy man, sir, but you are the only one who I might theorize with. The others seem too shaken to talk any, at least concerning this letter, and Jorge scolded me quite harshly for my continued investigations concerning such. I feel there is something to be found here and hope to receive a reply as soon as you are able. In the meantime, I will begin recovering the lost words on this chapter. Malachi was a rigorous note taker, so I believe I will begin there.

As always,

your obedient servant

Giovanni​

 

[SwagStarIV]

Irene & Hitro | Royal Observatory, 1 Day before the Queens Awakening

Hitro shot his head up. Just noticing the change in scenery. The room had grown dark, while the sky was a starry clash of serenity and violet. What time is it... The sun was at a decline, but now the only light left were the sparks of the town street lamps. The hour or two, that had seemingly passed by, apparently cost more than expected. Hitro wandered back under the window seal and greeted Irene with the most frail kiss he could muster. Soon noticing, that the past event was well over due and he couldn't help but munch at her face as if it was his last meal. With Irene no different, Hitro saw this opportunity as a once in a lifetime happening. Irene broke free and stated, "So many times... I wanted this so many times... But I never acted on it." Hitro smirked before stating, "Glad we could have this moment. It's been a while since I let Trisk get the best of me." Irene giggled before stating, "Remember the herbs in the forest? Or evene, the rocks by the creek? Those guys are always setting us up for the booby trap." Hitro blurted, "Hahaha as if KidD would know? He probably uses them to scratch his feet haha"

Irene grew silent before replying, "So... Think its just the eggs?" Hitro bit his lip and looked down. The entire time he wondered this vary question and somehow couldn't tell the difference. Is there passion for her or am I seduced by the mystic dust of that nymph!? I spend all my time with her, but... In love with an angel? This is way to real. Irene sighed. Calmly she claimed, "So I see it was real... Is that bad? Or are you thinking of the formalities in society and how this could weigh on your concious!?" Irene twisted around, snatching the square blanket from Hitro, and pouted at his lack of haste. Hitro exclaimed, "It's real, but I also have the feeling of whether or not this can be real! You're infinite, and I'm... So finite. You know I'm not the type to hurt a comrade, better yet my-" Irene Interrupted, "So I'm a comrade!?" Hitro slightly nudged back in a hunched manner. He squinted at the expected manner of Irene, but as he opened his eyes he was met with more affection. Irene could read his humble ways, and knew him for his insecurities. Still... Hitro had not fully accepted his existence. This was something that could crumble his optimistic outlook on life. Irene thought, An undead? He doesn't realize his true potential... Or the potential threat on his soul... But yet he feels the harm he may cause. She then told Hitro, "Just don't worry about it ok? Things will flow as the should... We just have to allow them." Hitro smiled so softly that Irene couldn't hold a stare. He then lifted her face and said, "This stuff might be permanent." He grew closer to her face, yearning for more with each passing second.

Trisk & KidD| Skies of Spurius, 1 Day before the Queens Awakening

KidD had soared across the rooftops of the kingdom and was prepared to head back to the castle. The time had flown by, along with the citizens and the rest of the land they had traversed. KidD and Trisk came flying through the Observatory window. KidD mostly afraid to crash into something expensive, while Trisk was latched onto his pants. KidD Leaped over the two lovers, unaware of their nude stasis. To Hitro and Irene, it seemed as if they were hovering over them for centuries, yet they hadn't totally comprehended the flying figure before it gradually flew away. KidD raced towards his Royal Lab and leaped through the window, back towards his shop. Trisk had her eye's sealed. When she took a peak, she caught the launch from the window and widened her eyes as the fell down to the city streets. KidD had done this hundreds of times at least, so he wasn't afraid of a few bumps and scratches.

KidD approached the door at a slow creep, but Trisk was still clutching to his waist for dear life. KidD said, "We're back." Trisk added, "And I think my arms are fused to your pants! You know I hate flying so high and fast in civilian territory! Why do you have to be so..." Trisk's hear began to race with the speed of a charging wolf. Her thoughts jumped from the normal care-free bossy Trisk, to insatiable nymph of the forest. She continued with a more extended enunciation. "Daaarrrinnnggg. I hhhiighly doubt your edgy lifestyle ooonly comessss from that creative noggin of yours does it?" KidD answer, "Actually I got a few ideas after I ate that breakfast! I appreciate it! What would I do without you?" KidD ejected the token and hopped off the board. Trisk floated and hovered towards the shop stating, "You should thinnkk what caaan't you do with me!" KidD caught on to her sexual innuendo and said, "Not now Trisk. Things to attend to." He headed back to his lab. The entrance layout similar to that of your average pub. Just booths and stools for the bar. The lounge area catered to those looking for a social environment for trading tokens, selling items, and bagging ingredients. In the back there was an exclusive area for employees only. Seeing how him and Trisk were the only ones, and they were slow today. He took the obvious entrance from behind the counter.

Once he opened the door he was back falling from the Tower, but he was flying out of Hitro's window instead of in. When he looked back he saw the two kissing in the nude. KidD's eyes widened, before his response to his new enlightenment, "Whaaaaattt!?!?" Hitro saw the falling KidD and jump through the window to save him. Irene followed catching them both and slightly dropping them on a nearby rooftop. Hitro said, "Well I guess you found out... We have be keeping this a secret for a while." KidD was still shocked and starstruck by the sight. Irene said, "Its okay! When two people feel strongly about each other these things happen." Irene grabbed Hitro and they made their way to the window. KidD thinking, The only way I'm not telling Trisk is if they kill me. As he finished that thought, Irene appeared in front of him as if she had teleported. KidD, startled, fell down the rooftop and she caught him, before zooming back to the observatory. Hitro stated, "I guess now you know... Irene is an angel. Plus we kind of got a thing for each other. IF you want you can-" Irene glomped Hitro to the floor, and KidD screamed, "Arrrrgghghgggghhh!" Irene stated, " He knew. He had seen it before. Remember the mountains?" Hitro continued unable to stop, "Oh right... Well... Tell the nymph I said thanks! Thank her for me if you like haha" KidD then fell out the window again. Trisk appeared on top of him and said, "KidD? Can we continue or are we finished with this part of the trip?" KidD said, "Huh?" Then he caught glimpse of the orange meteor moon in the sky. KidD then thought, Crap... I'm dreaming.

 

[Ordeith]

My diligent librarians—


My sincerest thanks for your messages. Without them, I'd be left totally in the dark.
I pray for your continued safety, and for the peace of our less fortunate colleagues.

The year turns, and still we find ourselves sitting on a stagnant heap of writing. I anticipated some bumps in the road, but never a complete halt. I cannot help blaming myself. As you know, the Keeper of Tomes is always called to procure this volume or that — and this past month has been no exception to that rule. Somehow, according to his or her posthumous talents, Spurius has again slipped through the unseen gap in the bookshelf, as it were.

But I bring good news! In my latest assignments from the Circle of Story-Keepers, I ran across several new folios which might prove useful to the ongoing translation. Some are undeniably Spurius, and some are merely spurious — including one "Castle of Otranto," an unfortunate little story that, unless I am mistaken, seems to document a point in history when the Works of Spurius were known in the world outside our library. Or perhaps it is one of Spurius' many plagiarized sources. Worth an investigation, to be sure! At any rate, it should help you bear my absence for a little longer...

With luck, I shall be with you again within days of writing this missive. My arms will be full of new discoveries, not the least of which being the final segment of the dream manuscript from weeks ago, so I'll expect a greeting at the door!

— J. Ordeith​

Addendum: Terrible news about Malachi, Giovanni. If you have not already made Jorge aware of that odd bit of writing, show him, and then label it "Urgent Documents" "Primary Testimonials," subcategory "Encounters With the Supernatural."

 

[KingdomKey]

Ϡ Sleeping Beauty, Cathy | Morning? Night? Day of the Ball?

Can't breathe... Too dark... Need air...

The white sheets were making it harder for Cathy to move, confined in place as she squirmed restlessly in bed. Her hair splayed around her in a halo, sweat forming around her face and neck as she dreamed the hours away. Except what she dreaming wasn't even a dream. In fact, she was standing by herself inside of what looked like a cold sterile place. Some would say it was a hospital, but it wasn't the right decade for it. More of an infirmary with sick patients that murmured in their sleep. As she moved about, she knew she wasn't alone. Finnian slept in the bed nearby, covered in bandages. Cathy glanced down at herself, seeing the scratch marks on her body. "This isn't real." Apart of knew what she said was false, despite trying to keep it together as she shied away from a straying hand. Finnian's hand to be precise. There was no trust, no affection to be had. Instead she moved quietly as a mouse out of the infirmary, down the hallways lit with candles, banners of the kingdom she resided inside of, and felt her bare feet touch the velvety carpets beneath her every step.

A sense of being watched filled her with dread, except something within her chest was pulsing and waiting for her to call it forth. Power. Like calls to Like. The words filling inside of her head made little sense to her, but she found herself somewhere she never been before. Except it was strangely familiar. A tiny hut with smoke coming out of its chimney. The sign on the door was read in a description she didn't understand at first glance until the letters reformed before her eyes. "Eva" it read. Cathy shifted foot to foot, hesitantly reaching for the door knob and withdrawing her fingers away from it.

"Well girl, are you going to come in or stay outside? I didn't call you for nothing." A voice cackled from within.

Cathy let out a gasp, whimpering until the door flew open on its own. Within sat a woman hunched over in her rocking chair, she was both old and young in the flickering light. There was a strange resemblance in her features until it dissolved itself and changed into a man's face. "You're lucky, I didn't give you something more lethal, girl. Save me a world of trouble, if you ask me." The face before her looked just like Finnian, except it kept shifting and changing until it resembled the old woman's face again. "He won't give up, you know. A vile snake seeking power."

"Who are you?" Cathy demanded, scowling and glaring at the old woman. "You don't need to tell me that."

"Are you a nitwit? Do I need to make my name more clearer to you?" Eva asked with frustration, tugging something invisible to the naked eye. "Don't you start, girl. You nearly threw yourself at the snake, when you had a loss sense of identity. I played the part in order for you to escape that night. I am a face changer, someone who can manipulate what she looks like and deceive fools like yourself."

Cathy felt herself move before she could blink and found herself still standing before the face changing woman. "What do you want from me? How did you do that?" She replied, feeling her limbs weren't her own to move. Something like a marionette controlling her every move. Tears welled in her eyes, when she felt herself once again at someone else's mercy besides her own. "Stop."

Eva let her hand fall away, making Cathy crumple to her knees before her. Once again shaking like a leaf and backing away, when Eva held out a hand to help her up. "You foolish girl, you're the key to a rare artifact. Something that's been lost among the fey in years, something he seeks. I watched you since you were a young, non the wiser to the dangers lurking inside of the dark because of your innocence. Your power held in check, dormant until your counter part found you at long last, using the name Bastian, and making himself appear as a knight of the Castle. You couldn't help yourself, falling for his seduction and manipulation, because his power was seeking yours."

"My power?" Cathy asked, her voice cracking as she gazed up at the woman from where she sat. The fire radiated its heat, making Cathy feel strangely at ease as its warmth flowed through her bones and settled beneath her skin. "I thought-"

"You were useless, excuse of a human being with no special qualities to call your own? Bah. You're a fey through and through. You're more fey than a halfing or a pureblood. You just were to dumb to see it." Eva said, tapping her forefinger inside of Cathy's chest; something rose up to the surface beneath her touch until Cathy felt it was within her grasp. "No more tears, girl. If you're going to face the real world, you'll be needing your power to call upon. No more shoving it down like it's not there. If you want to see the truth instead of lies, you'll thank me later."

Cathy didn't have time to make sense of what was going on before she woke up inside of her bed, eyes flashing open to see she was inside of the infirmary once more. Words begun to drift inside of her mind once more. You're the map he needs, before he finds no more use of you. Then she felt a soft caress upon her cheek, making her see the finger was attached to non other then Bastian himself. "Took you long enough to wake." The urge to scream was there at the back of her throat, except all she could do was gasp before something responded to attack the unnatural man known as Bastian. Light flooded the room in a blaze of heat, conducting itself like a barrier to push him away before vanishing altogether.

"What's 'ee doin' ere?" A voice drawled out sleepily, before acknowledging Cathy. "Cath'ee, you look like 've seen a ghost?"

Cathy sat up, ignoring both of the men at her bedside. Perfectly aware one was watching her with concern, while the other was calculating. "If you'd be so kind, I have somewhere I need to be." She said coldly, pushing the blankets aside from her person and moved off of the bed. "I have someone to see, things to do, and I don't have time for either of you right now."

Ϡ Bastian | Infirmary

Something isn't right.

Bastian gazed thoughtfully at the act Cathy presented him with. The hum of power cackling beneath the surface took him by surprise, thusly, making him take back a step to let her pass. There was no tears, no startle scream, or swaying of the feet from Cathy at all. Instead, she barely looked at him before reaching the door. Her spirit isn't broken. Why? She wasn't suppose to bounce back from last night's fun. His golden eyes pierced hers, waiting for any sign of emotion from his little dancer, but she made no sign of backing down. I'll have to corner her again, make it more permanent. Crush what she loves dearly. Without even hesitating, he smiled as he flickered his gaze to Finnian, whom laid there in bed. If he hadn't kept an eye on her, he wouldn't see the paleness to her face or open mouth of horror.

"Don't push me away," Baz said lightly, "Not when we've got so much more to... finish."

"Leave him alone." Cathy hissed, her hands forming into fists as something sparked beneath her fingertips. "If you want to talk, then talk."

Bastian shook his head slowly in response. "Why would I want to do that?" Instead, he smiled at a confused and distrusting Finnian, "I could tell him how you threw yourself at me, begging me to take something scarred and pure. How you never once uttered this man's name. Such a pity. Trampling ones heart. Screaming my name in ways he never once heard for himself."

An intake of breath was her only response before he made his way before her. Carefully, Bastian caressed her cheek once more as he leaned into her ear; enjoying the look of hurt in her eyes as she gazed at Finnian. "Be careful, you don't underestimate me. Words are just as deadly as a weapon. Something you'll learn fast, when you're around me." Then swiftly, he kissed her fully on the lips. It was brief, but it tasted much sweeter than the first time he had stolen a kiss from her. Enjoying the revulsion she held for him as she shoved him away weakly from herself and the betrayal of longing in her eyes. "Make me your villain, Cathy. I'll give you a challenge and watch you destroy what you love most." Then he left her side, the damage done as he swung out the doors.

The sensation of something hot piercing his back made him turn around. Cathy stood with her palm facing him and upright; glowing with an intense light. "Not today, Little Dancer." The hatred in her eyes was all he needed to laugh as he ignored her failed attempts of hurting him. "In time, you'll see what we can do together." As if he just stumbled upon something amazing, he mocking gasped in excitement and clapped his hands together. "Maybe even sooner than you think! Wouldn't that be a treat."

"Get. The. Hell. Away. From. Me." Cathy angrily growled, setting the floor on fire as her hands pointed directly at the floor by his feet with her powers.

"Never." Bastian cackled, disappearing before her eyes and watching her stare at the spot he once was. Carefully watching the mask Cathy held in place as her shoulders slumped and her knees buckled; only the tears never came, which dissatisfied him. I'll need to fix that.