Wayfare to an Uncertain Asylum, Chapter III
Chapter III - Theatre of Tragedy
Whisper awoke suddenly, propped against a stiff tree and buried under the dead underbrush and fallen leaves. He was relieved for the moment to have escaped the tense feeling of his first night’s journey, the haunted dreams had not returned to him while he slept and he felt it was a good omen. He continued to travel through the night and sleep throughout the day, keeping a slow pace as he pulled the shadows around him and was careful to leave no trail behind him. For more than a week he continued on like this, he occasionally passed small ghost towns which he cautiously avoided, preferring to go around them rather than risk discovery. However, as the days drew on, despite his attempts to ration his food he started to run low. Walker’s Realm was both more barren and more expansive than he had counted on, more than a week’s travel and yet nothing edible had presented itself, and there was still no sign of the end of the shadowland.
As dawn approached on Whisper’s eighth night of travel an unfamiliar sound caught his ear, unlike the uncontrolled movements of hungry ghosts or the faint footfalls of caravans of ghosts, he heard the distinct sound of a march. Whisper froze, shrinking low to the ground as the shadows bunched up around him, masking him from sight, his eyes shone as he shifted his gaze towards the origin of the sound. A guard of mortal men emerged from darkness, descending one of the lands many rolling hills, a parade of troops marching to the beat of a pounding drum. Twelve troops lead the way, large men covered in wrought iron armor, black as night with jagged spikes upon their shoulders, a razor sharp ridge along their masked helmets. Each carried a pole arm, ten feet in height with a two-foot long blade; at their sides’ crude chopping swords and shields that bore the crest of Walker in Darkness. Behind the men came a massive obsidian palanquin that could have carried all twelve inside, a finely decorated mode of transport that bore the Walker’s crest made of pressed soulsteel. The palanquin was carried by four massive figures, if ever they were human they certainly were no longer; their flesh was burned and scarred, their bodies mutilated, the once humanoid beings now resembled ogres more than their former selves. Directly behind the palanquin a young boy marched, a small snare strapped to his shoulders and he pounded upon it in an unfaltering rhythm. The boy’s eyes were shut and he was dressed all in white, a funeral garb no doubt, he looked as if he at suddenly stood from his grave and was somehow bewitched into becoming part of this parade. Bringing up the rear of the caravan was another fang of the wrought iron clad soldiers, unidentifiable from the twelve that had preceded them.
Whisper knew immediately the type of caravan this must have been, the extravagant method of travel certainly meant a favored servant, probably a deathknight like himself. The mortal guard most likely meant the group had been traveling about in creation rather than the Underworld or the shadowland. He watched closely as the guard moved across the plain, waiting until it was out of sight though he could still hear the beat of the drum when he resumed his travel. He had concluded that the deathknight inside the palanquin was most likely some sort of diplomat as assassins tended to travel alone and warriors out on horseback. Whisper adjusted his path so that he would follow the road, though he remained well away from the open plains that would make him an easy target. The caravan was in no hurry and as a result Whisper was able to keep pace, out of sight but within hearing range for the next several hours before the drum beat stopped. Whisper froze at the sudden stop of the drum beat, looking about to be sure they hadn’t realized they were being followed; he waited several minutes but saw no sign of life so he decided they had likely reached their destination rather than discovered him. Whisper crept on through the thick cover, not hurrying his pace it took him only a few minutes of travel to clear a small hill which revealed a large clearing where the road must have lead, within the clearing was the largest town Whisper had run across during his travel through Walker’s Realm. He had reached the end of the cover so he could move no closer to the town, though his elevated position gave him an excellent view of the layout of the town. As he looked down through the streets he discovered this was a town full of both ghosts and humans, though more dead than living, he soon discovered the large palanquin had found a resting place near the stables of a large building at the center of town, twelve of the guards were stationed around the building, the other twelve and whoever had been inside were not to be seen. He spent the rest of the night closely watching the movements of the town and its occupants, he used a charcoal pencil to sketch a map of the town on a blank piece of parchment, and making guesses to the town’s and each building within’s purpose. As the sun began to rise there was a changing of the guard around the central building but no other people were allowed entry and no others tried to exit the building. Whisper removed himself a bit from the town, staying quite close though before he took extra care to make sure his place of rest that day would be a well hidden one.
When Whisper awoke he felt refreshed, he knew that he should take a long way around the small ghost city and put it behind him, but he had already started to form a plan without meaning to. After waking he again approached the edge of the forest that kept him from view, overlooking the city he examining it once again finding that city appeared much busier than it had last night. He guessed the arrival of a deathknight caused quite a stir in the town, what caught him slightly off guard was the number of war ghosts among the common citizens of the town. It almost looked as if they were being summoned for war. He started making his way along the line of the forest, keeping low with his gaze on the city as he moved around it, heading for the road which leads back out of the clearing. He began to dig a small hole off in the forest, roughly man sized but not too deep, leaving it empty he went back to the edge of the forest along the road, climbing into a tree just out of sight of the city he laid in wait. He had seen a number of lone riders exit and enter the city and now he only needed to wait for one to appear. He patiently waited with his soulsteel bow drawn and ready, after several hours a rider on the horizon emerged heading towards the city, Whisper eyed him carefully as he drew the back the arrow. He let the arrow fly just before the man passed under him; the shaft struck him square in the chest knocking him off the back of the horse. Whisper dropped from the tree right in front of the horse causing it to rear up and halt; he moved quickly and calmed the horse, tying its reins to a nearby tree. Whisper slung his bow back over his shoulder and approached the man struggling to hold onto life, Whisper stood over him for a moment before crouching down. The look on the man’s face seemed all too familiar to Whisper who had seen the look of utter shock accompany horror on the face of too many innocent men. The arrow had pierced through the man’s lung making it impossible for him to breathe or speak; Whisper slowly lifted the man into a seated position which seemed to heighten his pain slightly but it would only last a moment. Whisper’s extended fangs sunk deeply into the flesh of the man’s neck and he felt the warmth of what remained of the man’s life flood into his veins. As the warmth spread throughout his body his figure started to change shape, it took only a few moments for the transformation to take place. Within seconds Whisper’s entire figure had changed, every detail down to the clothes that he wore; the only discernable difference was the difference in equipment. Whisper took care to hide the soulsteal of the equipment as he shifted his gear to closer resemble what a messenger might carry. He removed the documents the man was carrying, recognizing a single sealed document; he carefully removed the seal and opened the parchment, scanning the text quickly. As he read the document Boko had emerged from the forest to drag the body of the messenger away towards the hole he had already dug for the remains, though he knew Boko would likely consume the majority of the flesh before burying the body. After Whisper read the message he carefully rolled the parchment back to its original order, with a sizeable amount of skill and a short amount of time he was able to replace the seal quickly, yet quite convincingly. After slipping the message back into the leather pouch at his side, he mounted the horse quickly and headed towards the village. The news he was about to deliver was not ideal for his situation or plan, but he was confident he could make it work with the proper amount of finesse.
The small wooden gate at the edge of the town opened as he approached, pushed open from the outside by two war ghosts who seemed to recognize him immediately. He rode through the gate, already knowing the layout of the town from his observation the day before, he headed directly for the town hall where he was pretty certain the deathknight was residing, and if his information was correct he would be staying for at least another day. Whisper made his way directly towards the center of town where he suspected the deathknight would still be; as he approached the guards leveled their halberds and Whisper quickly brought his horse to a halt, dismounting quickly and falling into a graceful bow beside the horse. “I come bearing a message for The Prince of The Ninth Ebon Obelisk from my master Shards of Basalt to Her Army.” He croaked out the words in a husky voice, realizing it had been weeks since he had spoken in anything more than a brief whisper. He cleared his throat as he waited for a response, hoping the coarse tone would not raise any suspicion. He heard a cocky chuckle from one of the guards, he couldn’t see him because his head was still bowed but he heard the distinct sound of armored boots approaching. It crossed his wind to draw his sword and run, had this mortal guard seen through his disguise so effortlessly? His heart started to pound, his head still bowed, convincing himself to wait, this mortal would not strike him down. “Fine then boy, hand over your message and see yourself back to your master.” The voice was heavy and deep but held a forced tone of elegance; this man was no more than a mercenary trying to sound like a royal guard. Whisper reached into the leather case that hung at his side, drawing forth a rolled scroll with a wax seal binding it shut. He extended the scroll without raising his head, catching only a glimpse of the armored fist that plucked it from his grasp. He waited until he heard the familiar sound of armored boots returning towards the doors of the building before he slowly rose from his bow and remounted his horse. He looked back to the guards only once, as the guard who’d taken the message pushed open the heavy doors and entered the hall to deliver his message. Whisper smiled to himself as he rode away, towards the outside of town instead of the gates he’d entered by. His plan was working out nicely.
Whisper rode to a stable on the outskirts of town, dismounting as a humble looking ghost from the contagion era walked out to meet him.
“I’d like to stable my horse here for the night, and a place to stay myself also before I must ride out in the morning.” Whisper allowed himself to speak with more authority with this ghost sensing he was low ranking at best, he pleasantly found that his voice had returned to him instead of the croaky voice from before. The ghost responded with a pleasantry, sensing the superiority that Whisper intentionally was giving off, paying the man in wooden coins that he still carried from his service to his real master. Whisper retired into his room and acquainted himself with the home; it seemed this ghost lived alone which made things easier for him.
Whisper waited in solitude well into the night until he heard the ghost return from his days work. Whisper greeted the ghost and asked if he could play a tune for him, naturally the ghost did not object and Whisper began to play a soft melody from the distant north, a song often played during burial rites there. As he played a chill slowly crawled into the room, at first the chill was barely noticeable but it was soon accompanied by a haunting wind and Whisper noticed he could see his own breath. The ghost looked alarmed as he realized his home had suddenly dropped drastically in temperature; insects began to crawl forth from the earth below his feet. Large insects that do not hail from these parts, snow crawlers that lie in wait under the snow until an animal falls victim to the paralyzing cold. Then they emerge from the ground and devour the flesh of the dying victim. It all seemed to shocking for the ghost to handle and he hardly moved and was unable to scream before death once again took him, he attempted to rise from his chair as the insects began to devour him but it was already too late. He fell to the floor, upturning the chair as he did so. He squirmed for a moment but not for long, as he grew still so too did the insects, within a few moments the ghosts corpse drifted away into nothingness so too did the insects and the cold.
Whisper was able to rest easy in the ghost’s home that night, his first true nights rest since he left the village and his companions near Great Forks. When he awoke he had already let the appearance of the young messenger slip away, resuming his normal appearance he couldn’t help but admit he felt more like himself. He woke early and started to make preparations for the second day of his plans, he started to make a basic disguise for himself. He knew he would not be recognized, but likewise he did not want to be recognized by anyone here if he was seen again. He exited the ghosts home and ignored the stable where his horse was kept, dressing himself with noble posture he moved through the quite town, the sun had just risen and the shadowland slipped back into the land of the living. The ghosts were now all gone, but the humans of the town had not yet begun their daily duties. He approached the guarded hall now much differently than he had before, striding confidently up the stairs he was again met with pointed halberds from the black armored guards. Whisper paused, looking to the guards as if they’d done the unexpected and the unforgivable.
“State your name and purpose!” One of the guards, obviously slightly unnerved by the boldness of Whisper’s approach gruffly shouted to him.
“I am The Cerulean Guardian of Dawn, my purpose is of no concern to one so bound to the helplessness of life as yourself. Turn aside your blades quickly, before I relieve you of your fear of death.” Whisper spoke with confidence and poise, his words taking on an almost supernatural nature as he starred emotionlessly into the eyes of the guards. “My business is with your master, you’ve no need to worry for his life, fore if I wanted him dead you mere mortals would never have laid eyes on me.”
The mortal guards seemed to sense that they were outmatched even if they were to come to blows with the mysterious figure that stood before them. They slowly raised their halberds and looked questioningly to one another, clearly unsure if they’d insulted one of the master’s guests or just allowed an assassin to walk his way in. Whisper didn’t wait for them to decide on a coarse of action before he quickly moved towards the door that was no unblocked by the guards, he pushed through the might arched doorway, taking note that two of the guards followed him in. It was of little concern to him though, he allowed them to walk behind him and flanked to either side as an escort as he walked through the surprisingly large hall. Whisper could not help but wonder if the inside of this establishment was enchanted to be larger inside than it appeared to be from the outside. The hall was dark, yet beautiful as the only source of light was the dawn’s rays coming through painted glass windows at one side of the large hall. Large marble pillars rose up from the marble floors to support the roof and cast long shadows across the mighty hall, Whisper couldn’t help but think he was right in saying he could have assassinated this Prince if he’d wanted to. Whisper strode confidently down the hall as he started to near the end he noticed a raised platform where a throne sat, with a semi-circle of surrounding chairs placed in front of it. The throne was occupied by the deathknight he had seen earlier, as he had expected, and several of the other chairs were occupied by several ghosts and a single mortal. Things seemed to quiet down as the Prince saw he was being approached, several of the figures in the chairs also turned to see who the unexpected guest was.
Whisper ascended the steps of the platform, noticing the guards had stopped following him at the bottom, he looked directly to the Prince who spoke first.
“Greetings stranger, you have entered the chamber of The Walker in Darkness and the presence The Prince of the Ninth Obelisk, state your title and tell me what brings you into my presence.” The Prince spoke with a cool and collected tone, a knowing one perhaps and the tone of someone who felt they were in control.
Whisper waited until he was at the top of the platform to speak, his voice confident yet flattering to the man before him, “I am The Cerulean Guardian of Dawn, my master sends me from the distant reaches of the north to seek an audience with The Walker in Darkness’ great war general, Shards of Basalt to Her Army.” Whisper paused here for a moment as he looked over The Prince and took a glance at the other listeners who sat around him now as he stood in the center of the semi-circle. “My master has heard tales that The Walker in Darkness commands a great army, but has yet to find an adequate foe to march it upon. I am also told that The Walker in Darkness does not wish to be outdone by the young and bold Mask of Winters, nor have his citadel cursed by the meddling gods of Great Forks. My master offers a solution to all three woes.”
“Come then, let us here the great proposal your master has sent. You stand in the presence of a servant of The Walker in Darkness, it should be of no concern of yours to which the proposal is made.” Whisper could tell that he had awoken the interest of The Prince, not only that but the deathknight had seen opportunity for his own gain rather than allowing Shards of Basalt to take the glory.
“I am unsure if my master would see it so,” Whisper cast a glance to the figures in the chairs around him, “besides we are not in trustworthy company.”
“Leave us.” He waived a hand at the guests who had occupied the chairs in the semi-circle, some of whom seemed offended either by Whisper’s words or the fact their master cast them away. Regardless of their offense they could do nothing but obey.
As the conversation began The Prince attempted to keep things formal and about Whisper, giving out little information but trying to gather as much as he could. Whisper cleverly indulged parts of The Princes curiosity, but was careful to leave him feeling as if he was still missing something. Whisper turned the conversation elsewhere, telling tales from the north and other far away locations. Whisper had been putting on a performance for him, and had now engrossed The Prince in his tales, but to Whisper’s dismay was unable to learn much of his host. He gathered that his host was young, and bureaucratically natured, that he likely had little standing with his master but he sought to gain it quickly and with as little effort as possible. Whisper wondered why such a man was chosen to become a favored servant the deathlords, but then he remembered that the deceptions of his kind often ran deep. Perhaps his impressions of this man were not accurate. Whisper played him several songs, which greatly impressed The Prince with their morbid beauty; he eventually gave way to telling a story of himself under the promise that Whisper would write a song about him. Their conversation was long and guarded; it lasted throughout the morning and carried into afternoon. As dinner approached he summoned a servant to bring the two of them dinner and a gateway board, Whisper found it strange this man would make such a request, few outside of the realm played the game and he didn’t seem like a tactician.
They were served with a fine meal, much better than anything Whisper had consumed in a long time and drank wine, beginning to play the game as they ate. Whisper was quite familiar with the game from his noble upbringing in Thorns before The Mask of Winter took it over, because of this he considered himself quite skilled at the game. As he suspected The Prince did not seem very experienced or talented, taking long turns that seemed not to correlate into any sort of strategy. Whisper considered himself to be winning easily by the time they finished eating, the servant returned and removed the food, leaving them once again alone in the large chamber. Whisper was deeply concentrating on his turn when The Prince broke the tense silence of the game.
“It seems you are quite skilled, a rare skill for a northerner such as yourself. Why don’t we make a deal? If you win the game than I shall answer any question you should wish to ask me, if I should win you tell me what your master truly hopes to accomplish.” The Prince spoke casually and seemed genuinely relaxed as opposed to his earlier guarded demeanor. He’d also managed to strike a cord with Whisper, who was a sucker for an intriguing gamble.
Whisper waited a moment before responding, thinking over the deal. He was winning and was quite sure he could beat him, besides his whole story from earlier was a lie. “Make it two questions and we have a deal.”
“Consider it done.” The Prince extended a hand which Whisper reached out and took, shaking it firmly. He realized his mistake perhaps too late as The Princes caste mark shone immediately, runes of essence spiraled out of his mouth as he spoke the deal in old realm, sanctifying their agreement.
Whisper held back and obvious scowl as The Prince smiled, obviously quite pleased with himself. What happened next Whisper truly did not see coming as the demeanor and moves that The Prince made became more serious, all of a sudden the moves that made no sense earlier were all working out perfectly. Within a matter of minutes and only several turns The Prince had shown tactical genius and completely switched the balance of the game. He was holding back? Am I about to loose? Whisper kept his cool but he felt the game quickly slipping away from him, he saw now the cunning and tactical genius that had no doubt caught the eye of The Walker in Darkness. The game ended quickly after that, Whisper could only prolong his defeat as The Prince smiled to himself, relishing his victory over a clearly inferior opponent.
As Whisper laid down his last piece he looked to The Prince with a fierce grin, “It seems I misjudged you.” Whisper spoke calmly but rose to his feet as he did, stepping back from the table to look down the long, empty hall. It grew close to nightfall, soon ghosts would populate the city and the empty hall would likely not remain so. “It seems you have won, I must honor my agreement.” As he spoke, his back turned from the Prince he pulled forth a pinch of firedust from the pouch at his side, he turned rapidly back to the seated deathknight, his hand shot out towards him spreading the firedust into his face as Whipser snapped his fingers. The friction of the gloves caused a small spark; a trick he devised to allow faster firing of a firewand, the fire dust went up in a cloud of smoke that flooded the lungs of The Prince as he gasped at the treachery.
Whisper allowed The Prince no time to recover as he closed the remaining distance between them, his gloved hand reaching for The Prince’s throat. He clutched tightly to the throat of The Prince, not allowing him to call out for aid, but The Prince was savvy in his own right and drew forth the blade from Whisper’s side attempting to stab him with it. Whisper was forced to break his hold of the man’s throat, but dodged the attack which proceeded to make contact with the table, shattering through the wooden table top with ease. Whisper was quick to counter attack, quickly drawing forth and arrow from his quiver, he stabbed the obsidian tipped arrow through the hand of his attacker. The shaft of the arrow quickly broke, but it had done its damage and the soulsteel short daiklave clamored to the ground. The Prince acted quickly and tripped out the legs from under Whisper, causing him to fall back, as he did Whisper was able to grab the robes of The Prince and pull him back with him. The two bodies fell to the ground, rolling over one another as they fought desperately for position. As Whisper started to gain control of the grapple on the floor the two reached the end of the platform, the two bodies rolled brutally down the steps each man trying to make a vicious strike at his opponent as they fell. Both men hit the bottom floor hard, knocking the breath from their lungs, but neither took a moment to recover as the tangled bodies began to fight upon the ground. Taking short jabs at one another they attempted to defend their vitals while making stiff jabs with elbows and knees that landed with bone crunching effectiveness into the torsos of their opponents. The tide turned in Whispers favor as he managed to take hold of The Princes arm, grappling at the shoulder and forcing him face down into the floor. The Prince resisted the hold with all that he had until his arm eventually broke, snapping at the elbow, and letting out a crack that echoed through the empty hall. As the bone that Whisper held gave way he lost his footing slightly, stumbling back which was enhanced when The Prince was able to kick back at him, hitting him directly in the knee which buckled, nearly breaking and brought him to his knees. The Prince was able to quickly rise to his feet, moving at Whisper quickly he grabbed hold of Whisper’s throat, clenching his fist he tried to crush Whisper’ throat. Whisper was quick to respond, sensing that if he didn’t finish this soon he may loose this fight. Both men could barely breathe and blood had marred both thief faces and clothes, their lives hanging on the balance pushed adrenaline through their veins.
With one hand Whisper tightly clinched The Princes wrist, pushing tightly upon a pressure point he attempted to loosen the crushing grip upon his throat. With his other hand he swung an uppercut at the man standing over him, landing a direct shut between his legs. Whisper sensed that The Princes legs weakened under him as he landed the blow he immediately struck again, this time at The Princes knee which brought him to the ground. Whisper surged forward now, one hand twisted The Princes wrist away from his throat as the other move for his opponents throat. He managed to slip his arm under the chin of The Prince, grappling with him until he ended up behind The Prince with a tight strangle hold on him. The Prince was face down on the bloodied marble floor, the air being pushed from his lungs by Whispers body pressing down on top of him. Clinging to life as Whisper tried to finish off his opponent The Prince started to jab back at Whisper with sharp elbows that landed fully into Whispers ribs. Whisper too could barely breathe as he felt the sharp blows break several of his ribs, but he was unrelenting as he felt the strength of his opponent start to slowly slip away. Whisper felt the life of The Prince starting to slip away and as he did he whispered into the dying man’s ear, “I am a servant of The Mask of Winters, he will see your master and all others bow before him before the end.”
Finally, after several minutes of tightening the grip around his throat and sustaining many blows to his torso The Prince of The Ninth Obelisk stopped moving. Whisper rolled slowly off the body of his defeated opponent, breaking heavily he start to cough, spitting up blood onto the white marble floor. It took several minutes for Whisper to regain his breath, the blood still trickled from his mouth and nose, his heart pounded furiously still from the thrill of the fight. It had been a long time since he had killed a man with his own hands; it carried a different feeling, a sense of attachment and accomplishment that the use of weapons simply lacked. Whisper was both invigorated by it and disgusted by the feeling that it caused in him, he looked to the dead body that lie beside him knowing now what he must do.