Quest 09: Our Spirits, Kindred

Chapter 4 - Sliske's Secrets

When Ariane is kidnapped and the signs point to Sliske, Jahaan is forced to confront the Mahjarrat once again. But this time, things take a turn for the twisted, and Jahaan uncovers the truth behind Sliske's obsession with him. Can Jahaan survive Sliske's games? After all, broken bones heal faster than a broken mind...


Climbing over the broken rock fragments led Jahaan to a small corridor, two wooden doors on either side and one right at the end. Taking a random guess, Jahaan went from the one furthest away. Fortunately for him, it wasn't just a broom closet or a wardrobe.

No, it looked like Jahaan had hit the jackpot here.

"Whoa…" Jahaan breathed, taking in the cluttered room. Blackboards, potions, globes, drawings, books and manic scribblings…

This must be Sliske's laboratory…

The blackboard had equations that Jahaan couldn't even begin to understand; he recognised a handful of letters and numbers in the common alphabet, but mixed in them seemingly randomly were rune graphics, ancient scripture, and dozens of symbols that meant nothing to Jahaan. The majority were scribbled roughly in white chalk, half crossed out with increasing passion as the board became more and more crowded the further down Sliske wrote.

The blackboard next to it was a little more structured and simplified with a Vitruvian Man drawing in the style of a Mahjarrat taking up the majority of the space. From various points on the body, arrows were protruding, such as from the chest and forehead crystals, though their labels were written in an unfamiliar tongue. It didn't even look Infernal. From the rough mess of harsh consonants, Jahaan guessed it could be Freneskaen.

Behind a red velvet curtain stood an oak bookshelf, packed to the brim with countless novels, manuscripts, textbooks and research papers. Tracing his fingers along the spines, Jahaan stopped at one that was jutting out of the shelf, unable to squeeze back neatly into its place due to just how many books were stacked there. Jahaan gathered it had been read and returned to its place rather recently, and so he slid it from its position and examined the cover.

'The Divine Delusion', by Oreb, Magister of House Charron.

Intrigued, Jahaan opened it up to a creased page and began to read…

The human soul is a tricky construct, more comprised of emotion than quantifiable elements. Yet it is most assuredly a real, measurable thing. This I have demonstrated several times in my experiments.

There are various scholars that would argue that the strength of the soul is measured by one's devotion to a deity. That the worship of and adherence to the tenets of a powerful being of divine classification makes one's soul inherently more enriched and robust. I believe that this theory is naught but the prattle of clergy and the dogmatic response of those who themselves live their lives according to the whims of a god. Instead I propose that the soul has little actual relationship with the divine and is perhaps something entirely other. My extensive research suggests that the health and strength of one's soul comes from action and inspiration. It is my firm belief that the strongest souls belong to those who have made the most out of their lives, who have experienced everything that the world has to offer and braved the greatest of challenges.

Furthermore, I posit that the soul is perhaps more closely linked to biology than theology, though certainly it falls outside the practice of conventional medicine. Elves have discovered the medical process of 'organ transplants', where the healthy organ of one being - usually deceased - is transferred into the body of another, replacing an organ that has stopped functioning. As you'd expect, there are certain conditions that have to be met for a transplant to work. So far, no successful transplant has occurred between different species or races. Therefore, a gnome could not donate, say, a kidney to a human. It's all to do with proportions; the human body would simply not take it. Then there's also the problem of compatibility, as the process is helped greatly if the two people are genetically identical or similar, so using relatives reduces the risk that the new body will reject the donated organ or, worse, attack it, thinking it is foreign.

The same applies for soul transplants. If this process is to ever be done successfully, I believe the two participants have to be compatible in many ways, but whether that is some tangible compatibility, such as identical blood types, or something more abstract, like similar personalities, I cannot say with certainty. However, considering the soul is an essence instead of a tangible organ, there is nothing to say souls couldn't, theoretically, transfer between species. To serve what purpose, I cannot fathom.

Then there comes the issue of extraction. From the little practical experimentation I have been able to undertake, I can hypothesise that a soul is much more malleable during periods of volatile emotions. For example, if a person is calm, their soul is stable within them. However, if a person is angry, hateful or distressed, their grip on their soul weakens, and thus is prone to outside forces. Therefore, if a soul is to be extracted from a living subject against their will, then placing them under conditions of extreme stress increases the likelihood of success. Of course, like anything ethereal, the process would be much simpler if the soul was given freely rather than taken by force. Some of these conditions might then be mitigated.

My research, for obvious reasons, has not been allowed to spread outside these four walls, and with such secrecy comes limited funds, and less than willing participants.

In conclusion, I believe that the soul, like the flesh, can be both harmed, healed and indeed extracted. Therefore, if one could find a compatible host, it could conceivably be possible to transfer the soul of one being into another. As for what effects this could have, I cannot say.

I must continue my research...

The last paragraph was underlined feverously.

Jahaan next turned his attention to Sliske's desk. A notebook stood out for the block writing on the cover, black and ominous, with a slight spike to the edging of the letters:

'Death at Sea', by Praefectus Praetorio Sliske

When Jahaan opened it up, he saw that it was handwritten by Sliske. Fortunately Jahaan's Infernal language studies hadn't relented in his downtime, and thus he was able to understand most of what was being written. The longer, more scientific words he sometimes had to guess at, thankful for their similarities in many ways to the Common Tongue.

The notebook seemed to be used by Sliske to jot down ideas for a play. The opening section dealt with possible characters and a rough plot involving a sailor who witnesses a murder so terrible that it renders him mute. However, after a few dozen pages, it devolved into backstage gossip, excerpts from secret police files on the proposed actors, and tirades against the increasingly complicated plot.

After a short gap, the entries resumed, in a journal format.

It seems art may be imitating life! I had a chance encounter with Nabor this evening, which may hold the key to my current plot difficulties. It seems that he has received a new inmate to his little asylum, specifically a member of our navy, who has been struck insensible by some terrible injuries. I was almost bored to tears by the conversation - Nabor always was one of the dullest of the Mahjarrat - until that little nugget of information popped up. I may pay the place a visit tomorrow; an official inspection. That will pass a bit of time. Maybe seeing a wretch in a similar condition to the one I have been writing about will add a little realism to the scenes?

Well that didn't help.

My visit to the asylum has raised more questions than it answered. Nabor was almost fawningly open with his records, and it seems there is little to fear from his charges. I doubt many of them are capable of subversion at this point. Some are barely able to feed themselves.

I eventually requested to see the sailor in question. Nabor took me to a chamber held apart from the others, and I inquired if the patient was dangerous. He replied that it was more for his own protection. The human was known to shout things that disturbed the other patients, agitating them greatly. Nabor claimed that no matter what he tried, the lunatic would not do anything but babble piteously, occasionally howling and braying in ways most unsettling.

When I approached the cell, I found the human inside lying on a pallet of straw. I noticed that he was not bound, but was in a filthy condition and missing his left leg and right foot. On seeing me, he crawled on his belly across the flagstones and pulled himself up using the bars. His eyes were wild and hollow, darting like a cornered animal until they finally settled upon my own. Their darkness was captivating; I felt as if I was looking inside the shell of a man, someone beyond humanity and, simultaneously, so far below it.

Then, he spoke. "I know you."

His thick accent betrayed his breeding. The words were growled, the venom masked only by his increased shivering. After assuring him that we had never met before, repeatedly I might add, as he was rather insistent, I asked him where it was he thought we had met.

"The afterlife," he replied wistfully, like he was recalling a fond memory.

Clearly the man was delusional, but he was admittedly a fascinating specimen. So, I wanted to entertain his ramblings further, and explained that I could not go to an afterlife.

"You have," he insisted. Again, the past tense was used. "You will, once you take His soul. His soul is your key. Death is not the end, it is only the beginning!"

Inquiring as to who this 'Him' was only seemed to horrify the patient. What he said next was… unusual. I cannot get the words out of my mind, nor the intensity with which he spoke them.

"You don't remember?! He was no more god than man, and no more man than god. He could not save us all! He only saved YOU!"

Growing frustrated, I insisted he name the man he was referring to.

Once he did, he wouldn't stop, repeating it over and over again with increasing volume and desperation. "Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut! Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut! Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut!"

Soon, there arose a hooting and wailing from the nearby cells. The inmates on this level began banging the bars, screaming and otherwise displaying their afflictions in a chorus of suffering, obviously agitated by the man's disturbance. The pathetic human fell to the floor, weeping. As Nabor called for his orderlies to restore order, I returned to my office. Who is this 'Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut', and why is he so important to this crazed man? It seems my play will have to wait until I have answered these mysteries.

I returned to the asylum to speak with Nabor and the sailor, only to find out that the latter was dead. There were no marks upon the body, and nobody was seen to enter or leave the cell. Curious.

As for this Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut character, I have sent out agents to locate them, but no-one on record in the empire seems to go by that name. From the sounds of it, it likely originates from the Kharidian Lands. I shall have to widen my search net of agents if I am to follow up on this little enigma...

The majority of pages after that entry were blank aside from a single entry containing Jahaan's date of birth. As it was in the Common Tongue, Jahaan deduced it must have been written a lot more recently. Below the date of birth were the words:

Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut? Really? Is this the key at last? I must watch and see...

Utterly freaked out, Jahaan closed the notebook in a hurry, backing away as if it was going to explode after reading. He darted his eyes around him, half-wanting someone to be there to confirm that, yes, he did just read that. With his curiosity giving him a crazed adrenaline rush, Jahaan hurriedly returned to examining the rest of the laboratory.

Potions and chemicals cluttered the shelves, residing in bottles and vials of various shapes and sizes, a technicolour cocktail recipe. Some sat atop piles of books, others held down documents. Most of their labels, if they had any, were faded from the passage of time, and Jahaan wasn't about to taste test them to find out what they were.

Another small notebook on the tabletop caught Jahaan's eye, perhaps from the beautiful aquamarine quill feather resting on top of it, starkly contrasting the black cover of the journal. Opening it up, Jahaan noted the handwriting was identical to that scrawled upon the blackboards, therefore it must have been written by Sliske. It too was in the Common Tongue.

Curiosity getting the better of him once more, he began to read...

I have changed the world. I have taken the status quo and I have smashed it to pieces and scattered the shards across Gielinor. The Staff - the Siphon - was practically gifted to me. The dragonkin, weak and pathetic, trapped in my little shadow web... and then the Staff was mine. It was so simple, almost laughably so, that I can barely consider it an achievement.

I have changed the world. I have used the Siphon to slay one of the most powerful beings to ever walk Gielinor. The great Guthix, felled by my hand, by my whim… by my destiny.

Guthix, in his dying breath, created something new. The World Guardian, they have come to be called. The breadcrumb trail I left for Jahaan worked far better than I could have ever imagined.

"So he engineered all this?" Jahaan muttered dryly to himself, taking a deep breath.

At this point, the idea that Sliske had played a part in some events in his life no longer came as a surprise. He did, however, ponder just how far this particular 'breadcrumb trail' reached back to.

Did he influence Sir Tiffy? Commander Denulth?

The following pages remarked upon the return of the gods, including derisive commentary about the Battle of Lumbridge and Armadyl's slaying of Bandos. After that, Jahaan realised that several pages were missing, clearly torn out for some reason. A lot of the notebook became largely incomprehensible, with various strange diagrams doodled about the place. Most of the writing had been crossed out heavily.

Jahaan flicked through what remained, trying to find something he could decipher.

Then, right near the end, one last entry...

The time has come. I had hoped to resolve this without resorting to force, but he has left me no choice. Our agreement was abandoned by his reckless temperament. It would have been so much easier if he'd just played along. I could have had his soul, and he could have had eternal youth - a wight in my service, by my side...

Perhaps I have gotten too… close. I might even start to miss him. But not for long. The way that mortal lives, he would be dead within the next twenty years anyway.

Fortunately, it seems as though we are more similar than I could have ever hoped. Just a few tweaks here and there, a nudge in the right direction, and he'll be perfectly... compatible. I've researched this for too long to give up now. I'm so close. Too many test subjects have failed, countless souls shattered in my efforts. So here I am, pinning my last hope on the deranged ramblings of a madman.

I have a plan. It might work, it might be the solution to my problem. I have most of the pieces right here and the rest I can easily obtain with only the slightest bit of subterfuge.

Yes it will work.

It has to...

After returning the notebook to its place on the desk, one last thing caught Jahaan's eye.

In the centre of the dark wooden floor, a mystic diagram had been painted in purple and white, glowing brightly, like light itself was luminating from the etchings. The outer circumference was comprised of two purple circles, while inside white and purple triangles mirrored one another. Right at the centre was another bright white circle drawn in runes of the ancient magicks. Above it, floating around head height, a cluster of fizzing energy correlating into a globe shape.

When Jahaan approached it, he could feel his bones tingling from the magic it emitted.

Against his better judgement, he had the strongest urge to reach out and touch it…

The world around him was foggy and clouded, like he was seeing everything through a bowl of misty water. However, he could make out Sliske close to his vantage point, clutching onto the Staff of Armadyl and facing a large sphere that pulsed and crackled with energy.

The Stone of Jas.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Sliske remarked, wistfully.

"What is"

"Beauty?"

That mysterious voice was unfamiliar to Jahaan. It was hollow, yet deep. Impassive, yet commanding. Inhuman, certainly, but like no race Jahaan had ever encountered. The voice echoed and faded, swishing through his mind like calm waves on the shore.

Jahaan couldn't be sure if it was even real. Perhaps it was a conjuring of his imagination?

However, that theory died when Sliske turned towards Jahaan's vantage point and replied to its question, "Beauty… ahhh, beauty is what makes the world bearable. Without it, life is grey and empty. Beauty evokes pure emotion, and true beauty can bring empires to ruin or inspire the most evil men to heroic deeds."

"Irrelevant," the voice stated, unwavering in its dull conviction.

Sighing, Sliske replied, "Yes… I suppose you think it is."

Turning back to face the Stone, Sliske continued, "Thank you for the tip-off about this delightful thing by the way. I would never have found it on my own. It never occurred to me that the Staff could be used in such a fashion."

"The Siphon"

"Has many uses"

"Yes, and the look on that dragonkin's face was hilarious! To think, those fools just cast the Stone away, hoping that no-one would find it. They must have known it couldn't be hidden forever. Something like this… it wants to be found. It needs a user, false or otherwise."

The voice did not seem to care for Sliske's poetic ramblings, instead directly asking,

"Will this"

"Bring them?"

Sliske grinned. "Oh yes, very much so. The siren song of the Stone will bring all of the gods together. It will be a gathering like no other, a monumental occasion that everyone will yearn to observe."

"Pointless words"

"Make it happen"

Narrowing his eyes, Sliske bit his tongue to keep the sharpness from his voice. "Yes, of course. I live to serve…"

When the world rippled back into reality, Jahaan fought to get the echoed voice of the mysterious being out of his mind. It seemed to seep through him like ink, cloying and domineering. It was only once he realised just how long he'd been that he snapped himself back into focus.

Just as he was about to leave, however, he saw something glint underneath a pile of messed up papers. Pushing the papers to one side, Jahaan uncovered an ornate letter opener, its handle delicately carved out of elder logs. The blade was thin and fragile, probably made out of nothing better than light steel. Such a weapon wouldn't be able to pierce through Sliske's armoured robes - heck, it probably couldn't even stab through his thick skin - but the edge was sharp; if he could slice somewhere delicate, or perhaps use it on one of the Barrows Brothers at the right time…

These thoughts were enough to convince Jahaan to tuck the blade into the back of his belt, rolling his shirt over it to conceal its presence.


DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.