Chapter 28: The Commander of Castle Morne

Why am I helping Irina?

That question began to fester in my mind.

I knock on a rather unassuming door that rests in a dilapidated district of Bellard, which resides near Castle Morne's western side. My knuckles rap the mold-ravaged wood in a distinct pattern Irina taught me; my call is answered by silence.

I take a step back, letting out a breath I was holding. I feel like one of those modern missionaries, going door to door, never knowing how the residents inside will receive me.

It's not particularly safe out here; I can hear clashing blades somewhere nearby.

But I already know what Bellard's soldiers will see when they open the door: A Tarnished, with Irina's "V" shaped seal stashed in his left pocket. Could be misinterpreted pretty easily.

If they take at least a moment to consider me, I might be able to explain the situation, and why I have the charm-like seal. Irina gave me her charm for two reasons: To validate my legitimacy, and as a token of good luck. She assured me that if I show them it, they'll let me pass.

But my experience with soldiers has been nothing but sour; I know I'll be lucky if they don't just lop off my head within the first moment of seeing me. Irina may not hold hostility for Tarnished, but I feel she's putting too much trust in her men.

When no answer comes after a while, I repeat the knock, just waiting for the door to swing open and I get a gleaming blade thrust in my face. Still no answer.

You sure this is the right door?

There's other doors around, all of which look nearly identical. They all look aged and rotten, fitting with the vibe of everything else around us.

This part of Bellard is unkempt and fallen apart; it looks like a medieval version of the slums. It's a perfect place for a secret passageway, though it's difficult to discern if we have the right house.

Yet Melina wavers around just above my head; her glittering noise has increased in volume.

This is the correct door, there are people on the other side.

...

Gives a rather vague visual, doesn't it?

Are they just standing there?

Yes. If my reading of their runes are correct, they are suspicious.

Melina has been working on her "reading" since she discovered she could even do it in the first place. I don't know how hard it is to find patterns in a bunch of swirling golden fireflies, but I'm certain it must be difficult.

Should I knock again?

…They are not hostile.

I guess that means yes, then. I have my reservations about getting so close to the door once again, knowing there's armed men just on then other side. But I take another deep breath and knock again.

After a lingering moment of silence, a deep voice resonates from the rotting wood, muffled and practically dripping with caution.

"The gears of time keep turning." It drones.

I clear my throat, and answer.

"Yet Marika's rule remains everlasting."

That door slowly creaks open, groaning on rusted hinges.

The first thing I see is a steel helmet, crested with a sword ornament on its brim. Next comes a greyed and wrinkled face, features haggard from tireless warfare. A pair of amber-golden eyes stare me down, accented by a snarling nose and a light scowl.

The eyes flare wide for a split second, exuding a hostility that makes me feel sick. The hostility dies down, but never ceases, only mixes with suspicion and contempt, as those eyes narrow.

"Irina sent me."

I take her seal out of my pocket, brandishing its black iron base with silver designs that make it vaguely resemble two fingers.

"I need to have a word with Lord Edgar."

The soldier only stares me down; I can't tell if he has his sword drawn or not.

Lance… be careful.

The soldiers seems to consider if he should just kill me right now or not. He knows I'm Tarnished; I get another, overwhelming example of just how hated my kind are.

To be honest, I'm terrified. I feel like I found a bear in the wild, and now I don't cower or run, but have the gall to face it down.

When he finally moves, I flinch on reflex.

But he doesn't kill me.

He grabs my shoulder, looks both ways behind me, and drags me in, wrenching the door shut.

Almost immediately, I'm thrust into the dust covered wall, slammed against it with a jarring thud. The soldier drags me up the wall with one hand, angrily digging his fingers into my shoulder. I'm on my tip-toes, wincing at his vice-like grip.

His sword is drawn… of course it's drawn.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now," He says in a threatening voice, tone laced with venom. "Tarnished." He practically spits the word, his rancid breath wafting onto my face.

It hurts, it really does.

But I talk with quickened breaths, averting my face.

"I… told you. I've got… something for Edgar."

"Don't speak his name." He says through clenched teeth. "I don't even want to hear you talk."

Melina hovers just behind his head, she's not saying anything. I know what she's thinking; she holds my life far above that of a single soldier.

It will ruin everything if she kills him now, but in the end, she doesn't care. She's here with me for my sake, there's no love in her for these people, at least that I've seen. She feels sympathy for their suffering, despises the Limgrave Mob and the misbegotten for their transgressions.

But if she had to choose between saving me or retaining this soldier's life; I might have to see a face get melted away before my very eyes… again.

Melina, don't. Please.

The soldier tightens his grip further, I feel something pop in my shoulder. He brings that sword up, seriously considering slitting my throat.

What can I do?

What can I say?

I don't know, I don't know what to do. I merely stare the soldier down through the pain, meeting his dark expression with a docile one. I don't think anything will reach him, so I appeal to him.

I submit.

…

…

…

"Tch."

After an agonizingly long moment, the soldier's grip slackens; he curses under his breath.

"Filth."

He shoves me away, stashing his sword back into its scabbard. I shudder, clutching where his fingers dug into me. I'm not given a second to brave the pain, as he grabs my other shoulder and jerks me along. He gets me walking by force, leading me deeper into the passageway.

I breathe a sigh of relief, though it gets interrupted when he shoves me forward again.

"Keep moving." He growls.

I uh… I guess I'm in the clear.

For now, anyways.

I feel like a prisoner. But, this would be the first time a soldier didn't try to kill me or knock me out. When looking at it that way, this is progress. Irina did say Bellard's soldier were nice.

This is hardly how a guest should be treated. Melina sounds almost mad; she trails just behind the soldier. I swear it: These lands truly have abandoned all morals.

The soldier hasn't paid her any heed, though I'm not sure as to why.

Well, it's an improvement. At least nobody died.

…If that is how you wish to view this…

The soldiers says nothing else to me, just suggestively brings me along, taking me farther and farther away from that initial door.

We traverse a straight path, one that's been carved into the stone itself. From what I could see, Castle Morne rests atop a small plateau, built onto and partially surrounding it. If I could guess, we're traveling through the plateau now, making our way under Morne's walls.

The path is straight, but it branches off into multiple rooms, stairs, and small outlets, all of which are populated with Bellard's soldiers.

They're all dressed in their black and white surcoats, wielding weapons of similar varieties. They all give me suspicious and disgusted looks; some even decide to tail us.

None draw their blades or ready their spears, but I'm sure they'd love an excuse to kill me.

"Slow down again, and I'll kill you."

I'm shoved again, vaguely able to hear the other pairs of footsteps that have joined up behind us. I hear more voices, growing louder as more combine with this growing caravan.

"The hell's with the light?"

"Think it's a spirit?"

"I dunno."

"Who let th' Tarnished in?"

"Should just kill it."

Tch.

"That spear looks expensive. Hey, maybe we could sell it."

"Don't that spear look somewhat familiar?"

"Now that you go an' mention it…"

All gruff voices, in varying plays on the same Bellard accent. Strangely Scottish sounding.

I can't tell how many there are, but it sounds like there's many. Whatever the case, It's safe to say any form of an exit has been blocked off.

We've been boxed in.

No going back now; not that I was planning to.

We need a plan.

For what?

We reach a room, an expansive room with a wooden floor. A thick beam rests just above our heads, tied to the floor through a series of four angled chains. Most of the soldiers turn back, but three or four stay, filing onto the wooden platform. One purposely bumps into my arm, muscling by.

"Watch it." He sneers.

I don't say anything; there's no reason.

We need a plan to escape. Even if we can deliver Irina's letter; I guarantee they will not let us walk free.

I don't plan on running.

The soldier who originally "greeted" me at the door stomps his foot on a small pressure plate in the center of the room, and the entire floor lurches upward. With the groan of wood and clinking of shifting chains, we ascend.

Why?

I've been thinking about that myself. I want to help, do something for these people. As for my reasons why, I haven't been able to materialize them into words yet.

…But I will try.

Whenever I've done anything in this world that could be considered a good deed, it's always been a spur-of-the-moment decision. My legs move before I can think; I'm swinging my arms before I know the reason why. In that way, Kalé and I have something in common: Shallow plans; acting more on feeling than on reason.

This would be the first time I've consciously decided to go out of my way to help someone, and my reasoning is…

Melina, you saw what it's like out there. It's chaos.

Yes, Morne is at war.

And I can't help but surmise it's partially my fault.

…No. It is not.

A soldier nearby spits, aiming the phlegm at my boot.

You are not at fault here, not in any way. I can see your desires to think so, but it is misguided.

Godrick's men had no plan to come here, but they did, right after I killed Roard.

We do not know their reasons. It could have been coincidence.

And if it wasn't?

Lance, no.

You did not spurn them to attack Bellard. If anything, the soldiers retreated to Stormhill.

But the rest of them came here, right when I cut their leash.

Then they must have already planned to invade. Or, as the man in the village said: they may have been rallied under a new leader.

Then I created a power vacuum.

I'm blaming myself for things again, but I know for a fact this Limgrave Mob wouldn't be here today, if it wasn't for me. Agheel's presence might inadvertently be my fault too, the Sentinel disturbed his slumber because he was after me.

I didn't start the fire that currently burns this city, but I surely knocked over a few embers.

The misbegotten rebellion started almost four days ago now; Irina informed me Morne nearly had it under control. But Agheel arrived last night, and with him came the Limgrave Mob. It's unfortunate that the misbegotten rebelled; 500 soldiers couldn't take Bellard otherwise.

But it was nearly over, Edgar almost won. Yet, because of my actions, and because of timing so unfair that it almost feels planned; Limgrave's rogue soldiers found a hole into Bellard made by Agheel, and discovered a city weakened by a cancer of chuffing maws and swiping claws.

If they planned to invade, then I gave them the reason to begin.

So what?

Do you plan to give up your life?

Will you tell Edgar that this is all your fault and offer your neck?

The lift we stand on grinds to a halt, leveling out with the ground ahead.

I stand in awe at the view.

No. I plan to right my wrongs. I plan to help, in any way that I can.

I'm surrounded by a fortress.

Towering walls on all sides, battlements and bridges and towers every which way. A massive keep at the back, stocks and supplies, and rows of siege weaponry at ground level.

With it, hundreds of soldiers populate the scene, rushing about at breakneck speeds.

Archers and crossbowmen line the battlements and arrow loops, taking potshots at misbegotten that try to scale the walls. Soldiers with swords and spears and warhammers and shields form up into small rowed battalions, drawing their weapons and shields, before marching off into adverse corridors, where groaning lifts will take them down into the battlefield.

A commanding knight, with nearly identical armor to Roard, stands a few paces away, wielding a smooth greatshield and thin greatsword. He brings his large sword skyward, before swing that tapering blade down.

"Launch!" He bellows.

Five trebuchets, five massive machines of war, bend their lengthened arms skyward, screaming a cacophony of taught rope, groaning wood, and spinning disks; each lobbing a massive fireball high over Morne's frontal wall. The flaming projectiles climb, and climb, and quickly disappear into the smoke-choked clouds, before descending onto the city like cascading meteors.

Mingling of shouting voices, the constant thrum of accumulated footsteps, the mayhem of adrenaline filling the very air; It doesn't fall quiet for even a second, and I'm given only a moment to admire.

A brutish hand shoves me along, toward the keep. Our band of five soldiers, one spirit, and one Tarnished; rarely anybody looks at us. Those that do; their eyes linger. But they don't sneer or gawk, don't curse me or show any vulgarities. They promptly return to their tasks, falling back into this well-oiled machine that runs unendingly around us.

Quite the sight. Roard's camp feels almost childish by comparison.

Please, stay focused. As far as we are concerned, this is enemy territory.

I'm focused.

I'm also trying to make light of the situation; I fear I'll start ceasing up if I dwell on it.

Knowing me, I totally would.

The keep, a dense and fortified structure that looks almost like a castle within a castle, grows larger with every step I take, looming over my head.

When we enter its metal reinforced doors, the chaotic nature of the outside world gradually falls almost silent, becoming no more than the undertone of distant thunder.

Inside, the keep is expansive, and filled to the brim with weaponry. We're in what looks like a mess hall, a large room with barred windows and extinguished chandeliers, long tables, accompanied with benches and lit candles.

The tables are cluttered, and it looks like nobody has touched them in days. Cutlery, cups, and dishes still linger, though broken weapons and spent armor has now been piled atop them.

A great deal of soldiers are here too, and most are corpses.

Bodies are laid in rows along the edges of the mess hall, where what looks like doctors stalk about amongst them.

Behind us, the doors suddenly swing open, and a group of soldiers barge in, carrying wounded.

The doctors flock over to the new additions, looking over each one as they're laid down.

Some have only minor cuts and abrasions, a few have broken bones and arrow wounds. But some have an arm missing, part of their torso cleaved away, or a piece of them seemingly bitten off.

To the ones with light injuries, the surgeons bandage up or cure of afflictions, and send them on their way.

But to the heavily injured ones?

The ones that barely cling to life?

The ones that might die within the hour?

The doctors look them over, ask their name, and make a mark on what looks like a primitive clipboard they have in their hands.

Then, they slash the dying soldiers' throats with a knife.

I flinch at the sight, though I already get the idea. It's quicker to have them revive by tomorrow, then wait for their wounds to heal.

Still, what a horrible way of doing things. I get that 4,000 men are scarcely enough to fight with the ferocity I've seen happening outside for nearly a week on end, but simply charging headfirst into battle knowing it's not over if you die feels like the grounds for mindless and endless warfare.

Knowing that, I wonder how wars are conducted in these lands, when it could just go on for forever.

I don't get much time in the mess hall when we leave it via a flight of stone stairs, and I don't get a good look at anything else. I see mainly more of the same; room after room filled with toys of war, bundled supplies, and rows of bodies that wait to revive.

It smells terrible in here, but when the soldier shoves me for the final time, into a new room on the keep's top floor, the smell changes drastically. It smells like sweat, smells like iron and smoke. But there's another smell, a pleasing aroma…

Is that rowa berry?

I'm in a room smaller than the mess hall, but large enough to fit the somewhat thirty soldiers that now surround me in here, looking me over with aloof glares.

The entire place is well lit, compliments of the large fireplace on the opposing wall. It's a room of high quality weaponry and sophisticated furniture; a drastic difference from the rest of the castle. Clean walls, stocked shelves, barred and stained windows. Design-heavy ceiling, floor covered in varying rugs, and a wartable in the center.

At that table, splayed on it with both hands and looking over papers and illustrations with a keen eye, is a man.

A man that holds the power of Castle Morne in the palm of his hand.

Surrounded by his fellow soldiers, and another knight with the tall helmet standing at attention by his side, he practically steals everyone's attention by presentation alone.

He's donned in his own armor, a new kind comprised of seemingly silver plates, shining in the firelight. He has an arming greatcoat, white and black halves that extend down to his knees like a trench coat. He has a cape too, a black cape.

A real cape.

Clenched hands covered in shining gauntlets, dominant hand in a mitten configuration. Vambraces filled with eccentric designs, following the overall look of the armor.

His head is exposed, and it gives me a familiar view.

Curling brown hair and sharp amber eyes, strong jaw and an air of bravado about him. What's more, his face, like Roard and Irina both, has color, smooth features, and no wrinkles to speak of. It means he's rarely died; a mark of either a nobleman who hides behind high walls, or an exceptional warrior who rarely felt the taste of sharpened steel.

In that regard, he looks just like Roard in many ways, if Roard got twenty years older and grew a goatee.

He must be Edgar the Stern, Irina's stoic dad.

Intimidating, and he hasn't even looked my way yet.

"Milord."

The soldier that's been with me since the beginning says with a dead tone, standing off to my side.

"You have a visitor."

I give that soldier a glare.

What?

No insulting way of addressing me?

No disgusted tone?

I knew the Bellard's men wouldn't be too fond of me, but I already hate this particular soldier, who returns my angered stare with a quick sneer.

Prick.

The sparks flying between us diminish when Edgar's amber eyes rise from his maps and reports, regarding me for a moment.

"Well, I do. Do I?"

He voice sounds vaguely Scottish, keeping with the European trend of everyone in these lands. It's an accent nearly every soldier and civilian in the Weeping Peninsula has, to degrees from a light tone, to so aggressive and thick that I can barely understand them as a Mid-Western American.

Edgar himself is of the understandable sort, but he doesn't look like any one ethnicity or culture from earth; he's a Lands Between native.

He stands to his full height, towering over the soldiers, only challenged by the knight at his side.

"And you are?"

There was a moment, just a second, when his eyes flashed recognition upon getting a good look at me. Despite that giveaway, he doesn't exude hostility like the soldiers around me, only merely lets out a trickle of curiosity and concern.

Even then, he has no overarching emotion that influences his actions, just a dull thrum that makes him look like a statue that can speak.

He's noticed Irina's seal in my hand, which made him cease up a little. But despite this, he doesn't lose his calm composure.

I take a step forward, getting out of the realm of mummering mockery and disgusted remarks that nip at my heels.

"My name is Lance. I am a Tarnished."

I don't know what I was expecting, maybe for his expression to change? He looked like he recognized something about me, but since nothing about him reacted, I wanted to make sure.

And despite my predictions, he doesn't even react.

"Your daughter, Irina sent me."

That causes a change. Edgar leans in.

"Is she safe?"

Delivered like he was an interrogator; I take a deep breath.

At my core, I'm still just some kid from the suburbs of Springfield; I'm in way over my head here. Doing what I'm doing; I'd never dream of it before.

…

"She is safe, though she was unable to escape the city."

The crowd stirs, Edgar never breaks eye contact. I continue, glad I practiced my words beforehand.

"My friend and I, Kalé; we have hidden Irina underground for now. There is enough food and water available to last for a few days."

It's stale bread and mineral water, but I'm not about to say that out loud.

Edgar considers his tabletop, looking over his papers.

"Kalé you say? That travelling merchant? Guess I shouldn't be surprised."

I find myself biting the inside of my cheek. Just how many important people does that merchant know?

Nothing I can do about it now; I only hope Edgar is on good terms with Kalé.

I quickly procure a folded piece of paper from the small satchel on my right side, walking up to hand it over. The soldiers stay where they are, but I feel their glares digging into me.

"Your daughter asked that I deliver this."

It's a letter, Irina wrote it herself.

For a blind girl, she can write with near perfect legibility, using only a ruler to steady her words. I haven't read it yet, but I've got the feeling it's filled with personal information; stuff not for my eyes.

Edgar receives the stained parchment with a tender grasp; his hard eyes soften as he examines its contents.

'Hrmm."

When he's finished, he closes his eyes, mutters what sounds like a prayer, and looks back at me, becoming all the more animate.

"Tarnished Lance, might I ask that you accompany me for a spell?"

His sentences become longer, with more emotion behind them.

Almost on a dime.

It's a little jarring; I only manage to answer with a nod. He accepts that much.

"Then, I'll leave the preparations to you, Dalia."

He refers to the knight at his side; a woman's voice resounds behind that "t" shaped visor as she answers.

"Of course, Milord."

Edgar takes Irina's letter along with him, giving me a meaningful glance. Follow me. He seems to say.

Soldiers part to let me pass, though one lightly shoulder checks me as I pass by.

"Don' get no funny ideas Tarnished, you hear?" He hisses in my ear.

I'm honestly glad to leave, the amount of disgusted expression directed at me was getting overwhelming.

Edgar and I leave out a side door, Melina in pursuit. I hear the knight named Dalia begin to bark orders before the door closes, effectively muffling the congregation to the same level as the thunder outside. With that, we move down a hallway devoid of windows, only decorated with torches, minor wares, and artwork.

If there was a place to snuff me out, this would be the perfect opportunity.

But instead of that, Edgar speaks up once we're out of earshot, where only I, a golden spirit, and the subjects in paintings can hear his words.

"Tarnished Lance, it seems that I'm in your debt."

He starts off saying this much, seemingly waiting for me to answer.

Uh…

"Thank you, but I'm not sure if I've done anything worthy of your praise."

I try to sound reverent and almost overzealous; I'm in the presence of a lord after all. If he wanted to, he could order my immediate execution as easily as brushing dirt off his shoulder.

He glances back my way, giving me what I could only consider a smile. It's nowhere close, but his eyes exude a deep type of solidarity, mixing with a relaxed countenance. He goes on.

"My beloved daughter says that you saved her from those vile creatures, and she was pleased to write that you have been most kind to her."

He averts his gaze, still leading me to God knows where.

"You have saved her, while I have only shirked my responsibilities as a father; my little girl could've been butchered without my knowledge, and I wouldn't be the wiser, locked away in that sorry state you had to meet me in."

We go on what feels like a roundabout path, simply taking a lap around the keep in its outer hallway.

Edgar beings to tell me many things, expressing regret in his inability to quell the misbegotten rebellion in a timely manner. He says a great deal of other things too, all the while leading me up a flight of cramped stone stairs, which spits us out on the tallest of Morne's towers. From here, the clouds above are so close, I swear I could touch them.

Strangely enough, the wind is almost nonexistent, like a pocket of peace in a hurricane of conflict. It's strange, if not alluring.

Edgar walks to one of the tower's edges, which gives a view of Morne's Castle in its entirety, along with the entire expanse of Bellard beyond that.

From here, the raging battles in its street are small things, rampant fires being nothing but specks amongst a gridwork of this city's maze-like layout. Edgar leans over a small wall, looking over everything with a solemn expression.

"And that's only the outer districts." He continues, giving what could be considered an update on the lines in the sand. "The infestation has spread rapidly near Morne's front door; the menials are testing our defenses as we speak."

As if to validate his claim, Morne's trebuchets launch another volley; those colossal fireballs rising past us so close, I can feel their heat.

Their glow illuminates Edgar's face, who watches them fall upon Bellard, violently destroying everything where they land.

"Unless I ask my men for the impossible, we'll be overrun by month's end. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but whatever you've come here to do, I'm afraid Castle Morne won't hold much longer."

…

Sounds like quite the mess.

Yes. Are you sure that you desire to assist?

I cross my arms, joining this stern man at that low wall.

"Why have you told me all of this?"

I shift about, speaking more from the heart than anything else.

"I'm a Tarnished. There's always the chance I'm your enemy."

Edgar considers it with a small nod.

"Yes. That you may be. I knew you were one of those banished lot the moment I laid eyes on you." Before I can say something, he continues, looking heavenward. "But my darling daughter is rarely misguided by her deductions. She said you are a kind warrior. If she trusts you, then I do too."

I didn't even do anything kind. I just stopped her from dying, that's it. I feel that anyone would do the same thing in my shoes, it's just human nature.

Nevertheless…

"I'm grateful for your praise."

Edgar cracks a real smile, one that follows his darkened expression.

"As it may be, I find solace in knowing kind souls still exist. Trust is a fickle thing in the Lands Between."

We both fall silent.

My eyes naturally find Agheel, who flies around near eye level, surveying the chaos like we do. He keeps his distance from Morne and its trebuchets, but has free reign in Bellard's outer districts.

From here, he's smaller than my thumb if I hold my hand out in front of me; effectively a crow circling, looking for flesh to snack on.

…?

For a moment, just as he levels out, splaying out those massive wings…

I swear I see something atop his back, going along for the ride.

I can't tell for sure, Agheel's spines make defined lines fuzzy on his back; it's difficult to say.

But for a moment…

"Tarnished Lance, may I ask something selfish of you?"

Edgar breaks the silence, fully turning to me. I don't say anything, but he knows he has my attention. He takes Irina's letter out. grasping the stained parchment with quivering fingers.

"I appreciate that you brought this letter to me, it has helped quell my worries. I feared exceedingly at the prospect of sending my daughter away, and it pained me so. She is my life; I live for her. I desired that, if all else fails, she would survive."

His eyes start to slack, just barely. So much so that I don't notice it.

But Melina does.

?

"I will say it again: I thank you for your assistance, but I fear that you must return empty handed. I am commander of this castle, and as such, I am obliged to remain until its final moments arrive."

Edgar blinks a couple times, fighting off what looks like fatigue.

He must be tired.

"As ordained by Lord Godrick, it's my obligation… to…"

Huh?

He slurs Godrick's name, begins to sway not a second later.

I knit my eyebrows together…

Until he collapses right in front of me.

Woah!

"Woah! What the!?"

I jump, feeling a shock.

"Edgar? Edgar are you okay?!"

…

Melina. What happened to Edgar?

...

...

...

There's no answer.

Melina's light…

…

Where's her light!?

No sight of her golden form, no voice conversing in my head.

No...

Panic wraps about my heart; I'm in a realm devoid of sound. The sky darkens, the air becomes stale; like I was stuck in a glass case.

I…

I…

Where did the sun go?

What happened to Melina? To Edgar?

I stand in pitch darkness, devoid of any light.

The stale air carries a citrus scent, the ground becomes obscured in conjured shadows. I drew Roard's partisan before I knew it, shivers travelling up and down my spine.

Melina?

Melina!

"Melina!" My shout echoes back at me…

…and another voice answers.

"Forgive mine intrusion. Tarnished."

That voice… where did it come from?

Why does it sound familiar?

I wheel about, partisan in hand.

"Who's there?! Who are you?"

My own voice echoes.

The other voice comes from all angles.

"Be not alarmed. Thou'rt not mine enemy."

A woman's voice, bleeding mystery and a seemingly mocking countenance. Soft as silk, with needles hiding just beneath the surface. It makes mixed signals go off in my head.

"If it be'est in thine best interests, I wish to have a word with thee."

Where is she?

What did she do?

Is Melina alright?

"What did you do to Melina."

I can't help but snarl as I speak; it just bubbles up in my throat.

If she's hurt…

If something happened…

"Ah, just as I had hoped."

The woman sounds all the more intrigued at the mention of Melina's name.

"I had surmised it, but it seem'th that his talk was of thee."

Where?

Darkness.

Where?

Shadows.

Where?!

A horse.

...

I do a double take, knitting my eyebrows together.

...

Sure enough, a peculiar… no… a familiar horse stands a few paces away, resting idly in the festering shadows.

It's not Kalé dopey steed; this equestrian has a strange form of intelligence flashing in his eyes.

What's more, he sports a strung-up body and shaggy mane, topped with long, unnatural horns jutting out of the sides of the upper portion of his head. He looks my way through that shaggy mane, holding a conscience that rivals the smartest dogs in those obsidian-black pupils.

A striking image, a pop of color against the back backdrop.

With it, a name resurfaces in my mind, escapes the pit of dark snakes that devoured my memories whole.

It slithers out from the mess of those black coils in my mind, revolves about my neck with its strangling grip, and whispers directly into my ear with a forked tongue.

Torrent.

Torrent turns, and begins to trot away, absolving into the darkness.

"Wait!" I shout, running after him in the void.

Before I can reach him, that hair-composed tail flicks its last, being devoured by the shadows.

I stumble to a halt; an unknown force prevents me from going any further.

?

It feels like I'm a magnet, trying to touch its identical pole. I'm pushed back, denied from taking another step.

"What the…"

"Ah, so thine eyes can behold spirits too, it seem'th."

That woman's voice sounds out directly behind me. With it, comes a cold chill that enwraps my very frame.

I turn, and behold a dangerous sight.

A large doll, close to a person's size, rests in suspended space, watching me with dead eyes.

The doll speaks, and that woman's voice resonates from a physical, and ethereal mouth simultaneously.

"The outer gods have favored thee greatly."

Her skin is a somber blue, cracked and diluted with age. She's enwrapped in a snow-white robe and blouse, with a large witch's hat atop her waving mess of navy-blue hair. From within the depths of her cloak, four sets of slender hands join together in pairs, paltry legs and deteriorated feet obscured behind pale cloth.

Her face…

It reminds me of Melina.

Right eye closed behind a glowing seal, joined by a ghostly projection with its left eye closed; as if her spirit had partly escaped her artificial body, and it was chained to that form through a single marking.

She exudes a forlorn presence, holds the power of the cosmos in her hand, and she looks upon me without a single emotion in her glassy aquamarine eye.

She practically glows; she practically takes one look at me, and learns more about me than I could ever tell her myself.

A second snake slithers up to my other ear, its pitch-black scales flashing echoes of devoured images, words, thoughts, and experiences.

Images of an empyrean, experiences of wonder and fear.

Words of lies and promises, and thoughts of betrayal.

Blaidd dead at my feet, Black Knives after my throat.

Black flames, fallen stars, and crimson lakes. Curses, secrets, and quoted verbatim.

An uncanny doll, with a hollow smile, that exudes a single idea:

She desires to control her own destiny.

The serpent coils up to my ear, threatens a venomous bite as it whispers a single name.

Snow Witch. Fallen Empyrean. Daughter of the Stars. Princess of the Full Moon.

"Ranni."