~AN~ Because this story is finally getting exciting, there is no author's note so you can get right to the good stuff. Get happy.
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{Due to standard regulations of the Insanity Police, the above message has undergone censoring}
Chapter Six:
The Storm Draws Near
Whisper of wind,
Tell me true---
What is it that so
Frightens you?
The rain is a gift
From the heavens above---
Why is it you fear
The cloud's shower of love?
You may not be hurt
By the showers of rain.
Often you feel numbness
Before the pain.
Time passes differently on the plains of Nightopia than it does in the real world; however, it does indeed pass. And it passed very quickly for the followers of Wizeman, as days became filled with training sessions, scouting patrols, and more training sessions. Wizeman seemed to be unsure of his soldiers' strength, and whatever semblance of power they'd shown before was to be bolstered up as quickly as possible. The younger generation was quickly formed into sectors and divisions. Weaponry, long seen as unneeded in a world where the only opposing being you'd come up against was either a Nightopian or a human, was again important, and the blacksmithy rang with the blows of hammer on anvil at all hours. Postmeridian got to begin serious practice with his bow.
While the fighting ranks were generally excited and hopeful, the higher powers' feelings were less positive. Clawz and Jackle were still vying for the top spot right underneath NiGHTS and Reala; Puffy was less than excited about beginning a long, fighting-filled campaign; Gulpo was annoyed with all the training going on, as he was expected to leave his peaceful lagoon to do a fair share of the water-creatures' training; Reala was becoming more brusque and moody as he centered all of his attention upon the battles ahead; NiGHTS was currently worried about the changes he saw happening in his friends and all about him. Wizeman himself was, as always, calm and serene above the rabble; however, several of the High Seekers, answering his summons for the weekly report, thought they detected a slight amount of increased scrutiny in their comments. NiGHTS and Jackle, the most observant of the six, were convinced he was forming a new brainchild.
However, despite rulers' plotting, leaders' infighting, brothers' worrying, and demi-maren's mental problems, life went on. The winds continued to change for some time; seven days after Wizeman's declaration they slowed, quieted, and finally halted altogether. Clouds that had formerly blown across the horizon in skidding clumps now stretched motionlessly over the skies, not actually bringing rain but rather gathering in low curtains and remaining a threatening grey. And two more days passed without incident.
It was on the tenth day that things began happening. Seeds that had been planted in the past, from just a week ago to centuries before, were watered by the rain that heralded a coming storm.
Reala was in the training rooms when he remembered the summons.
Ever since his little talk with Wizeman, when his ineptness concerning training had come up, he'd become a different creature. He spent all his waking hours hard at work, training the young ones, practicing his swordsmanship, toning his muscles, overseeing plans. He walked about with a preoccupied air, his steps quick and determined; his eyes, once a bright forget-me-not blue, had hardened into bright beryls, sharp blue stones of focus instead of living pools of emotion. Were it not for his slender build and thin, delicately-formed face, simply seeing him walk by could have been frightening. As it was the younger nightmaren cleared the hallways when he came through.
They had good reason to; Reala had taken over several of the training leader positions, and for the classes he hadn't he was firmly involved in the choosing of tutors. Quite a few nightmaren were replaced in favor of more violent, strict educators. Miss Luna, the sparring instructor, had remained, but was firmly lectured on the subject of authoritarian composure and harshness. Had Reala heard the 'humph' she gave once he turned away, he might have had second thoughts about her validity as a trainer, but he didn't.
It was during the middle of a flying lesson that he recalled his appointment with Wizeman. Silently cursing, he waved the current flyer down and nodded once.
"Well done," he said, without showing any emotion. "I have another engagement I must attend to; you are all free until your next class."
The nightmaren all stared at him for a moment, gauging his statement; then, when they saw he wasn't about to instantly retract his words, they took off as fast as they could. Free time wasn't to be had for free despite it's name, after all.
Ignoring the miniature jubilee now being celebrated behind him, Reala turned and stalked out.
Jackle looked up from the cards he was sorting when his name rang out from the door. Reala stood in the entryway of the Great Hall, looking, as was becoming usual, very impatient.
The demi-maren folded his fan of cards into a solid deck, and began sliding them back into their protective covering; he started at Reala's cough from behind him and quickly slipped the whole thing up his sleeve, pushing his chair out and hurrying after the leaving Seeker General. Originally, Reala wouldn't have minded Jackle taking his time, but now the nightmaren was so temperamental he didn't dare.
Flitting along the dim hallways, following Reala's firm stride with his peculiar hop-skip-float-skim, Jackle mused on the change that had affected not only the Seeker General but all of Nightmare Castle. Ever since Wizeman's declaration of his plot, it seemed everyone had become high-strung, the High Seekers especially; and after more than a week of volatile atmosphere and moody leaders, the entire castle's population was becoming edgy. Walking into a room you could almost feel the uneasiness in the air.
The demi-maren himself was highly intelligent; however, he was also very mentally unstable. Reala was pretty confident a few good mental shocks would unbalance him completely. As it was, with the tense environment and new challenges facing him, and the recent attack on his worth, he felt more insecure than usual; with the added weight of the strange voices he'd been hearing throbbing in the back of his consciousness like a blister, he was in a very unsteady state of mind.
This weakening of his mental power also impaired his courage, and for a little while he was too timid to ask the moody nightmaren in front of him the reason for their little walk. Gradually he worked up the nerve to do so. "Where are we going?"
"Wizeman's throne room," was the curt reply.
Jackle's heart gave a small jump at the name, but he retained a calm expression. "Why?"
"He wanted us to."
The demi-maren waited patiently for an expounding on the subject, but none was forthcoming. Eventually he spoke again. "Wonder what he wants."
"I don't know," muttered Reala, in an end-of-conversation tone. But Jackle, once he got himself going, was surprisingly hard to stop.
"When'd he call for us? I don't remember him giving a summons…"
"Last time he spoke to me." His voice was taking on a very thin edge.
"Which was?"
"None of your business!" snarled Reala, whirling around and giving Jackle a fierce glare. The demi-maren started and pulled back. He stared at the Seeker General's eyes in fearful fascination; they were hard, harder than he'd ever seen them before, and he could almost believe they'd gotten lighter in color.
After a very long second of silent stare-down, he reverted back to his normal chatty self. "Shuttingup."
"Good." And he turned away and strode down the hall.
After a moment, Jackle resumed his flitting, bounding gently off the floor to float a few feet before touching down again. He followed Reala silently, wondering vaguely whether this sudden change in the Seeker General's personality was permanent. If it was, then every nightmaren alive was in trouble.
Wizeman was busy.
He wasn't busy with just any old undertaking, either; he was busy creating. And creating was a difficult task, so he was concentrating deeply.
Contrary to the beliefs of most of the Nightmare Castle population, Wizeman could not create things out of nothing. He couldn't create anything out of nothing. He needed something to work with. Fortunately for him, the dream world was just what it was---the dream world. And as thus it boasted endless sculpting mediums.
He used dream energy for his clay, and the dream world was filled with practically nothing else. Dreamers, exploring Nightopia, had the power to change the surroundings slightly; the landscape morphed to vaguely resemble their favorite place, and their nightmares were frighteningly familiar shapes. A dreamer walking by often heralded a scenery change; not a serious transformation, but a slight warping of the current state of things, brought about by a subconscious thought the dreamer was often not even aware of. Such is the power of the dreamers.
Wizeman wielded such power, but to an infinitely greater degree. He possessed the ability to mold dream energy into any shape he desired; such was the way he created nightmaren, and his faithful legions of Minions. The only thing he did not control was the amount of energy available, and it was because of this he desired the massive strength of the Red Ideya; an immense power source for an immense undertaking.
For all typical purposes, however, he needed no more energy than was in the air about him, and it was this particular energy which he was currently molding into another creation: an inanimate one, only half--formed, but resembling a silver cage. And, as was stated before, creating was a difficult task, and he was concentrating.
This concentration was very abruptly brought to a halt when a thunderous bang echoed through the room, reverberating across the empyrean walls and making the galaxies waver.
Wizeman was broken out of his focus, and for a moment his expression revealed annoyance before he regained his usual languor. Lately it seemed he'd been slipping into showing his expressions more easily; doubtless just a temporary side effect of working on so many different projects. No doubt he'd regain his focus once things were up and running smoothly.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he returned to his task of creating a suitable enclosure.
The general shape had already been decided and formed, and all that remained was to smooth out the edges. Soon he was done, and he leaned back to admire the cage he'd created.
All was ready.
Jackle looked up at his leader questioningly. "Why's he not answering?"
"You think I know?" Reala answered between his teeth, still feeling some leftover annoyance with the demi-maren from earlier.
"Maybe he's asleep," suggested Jackle before remembering who it was he was speaking about, then sank down under the absolutely scornful look shot at him. Inwardly, he felt a slight resentment. 'Okay, so that wasn't my brightest statement. Who said he was the intelligence judge?'
Reala, to his surprise, saw a feeble spark of umbrage light in the demi-maren's eyes. He blinked once, but the look wasn't gone. A second-level---feeling bitterness towards him for snapping out? That was new. Sure, the High Seekers showed annoyance when he was snippish and moody, but real resentment wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't thought Jackle was even capable of retaining such a feeling towards him.
He blinked again, as if to clear his thoughts, and turned back to the door feeling a slight amount of guilt and a larger portion of annoyance. 'This mission to take over the Waking World is affecting them all negatively. Even I'm feeling more peevish than usual…but really, the High Seekers are all letting this get to them far more than they should. Weaklings. And if Clawz and Jackle don't stop fighting, I'm going to maim one of them…'
A small part of his mind mentioned the fact that this much aggression was a new addition to his psyche, but Reala had had enough soul-searching for the past couple of days. Reaching up, he knocked at the great stone doors again, knuckles rapping the wooden plate set in the stone for this reason. Faintly, the two nightmaren could hear the echo rebound and slowly fade inside.
This time, a voice boomed out in answer. "Enter."
A bit startled by the authority so clear in their master's voice, the two did as told. Reala pushed open the doors and stepped in, Jackle flitting close behind.
Wizeman looked down at the two figures and gestured with one giant hand. "Come closer."
They did so, crossing the shining floor to the very foot of the throne. Six hands hovered low about them, as if measuring them for something. Reala straightened slightly; Jackle floated just behind and to his left, peering over the Seeker General's shoulder at the giant eyes all looking back at him. Wizeman detected a small flash of fear in the demi-maren's eyes. Reala, if he felt any such trepidation, did not show it.
Finally their master's voice rang out across the silent room. "The training with the younger nightmaren is going well?"
Reala nodded. "As well as could be expected for the first few weeks. They are still learning to focus on the tasks at hand, but they are learning."
The eyes temporarily transferred their stony gaze to the cowering demi-maren. "Patrols are successful?"
Jackle nodded, short mussy hair tumbling about his eyes. "Y-yes, milord. Ideya intake has increased."
"Very well." There was a moment of silence, the eyes still appraising the two maren. Reala continued to stand tall. Jackle continued to cringe behind him. He wasn't a genius, but he was very observant, and his senses were all screaming that whatever Wizeman wanted them for wasn't good. Something about the way the eyes gazed at them, the way he leaned down from his throne; Jackle couldn't place his finger on exactly what it was that bothered him, but he was perturbed all the same.
Finally Wizeman spoke again. "You are content?"
Reala and Jackle both stared at him blankly, voicing their question at the same moment. "Content?"
"With your persona," clarified Wizeman.
Reala blinked; Jackle repeated his last action. "Persona?"
They looked at each other, then back up at their ruler; after a moment more of surprise, they both nodded.
Apparently he thought he needed to elucidate again. "You are satisfied with the way you are seen by others?"
Reala nodded again, but behind him Jackle faltered. Wizeman noticed the demi-maren's silence and focused on him once more. "You are not satisfied, Jackle?"
Jackle glanced down, still hesitating. Clawz's insult from some time ago came back to him. "Soon as this maren finds himself a proper body." Was he happy with they way people saw him? An insane, disembodied second fiddler? A mistake?
Finally he met his master's gaze. "No, my lord."
Reala inhaled sharply. To say you weren't satisfied with what you'd been given was to question---no, find fault with the master's design. Blasphemy, utter disrespect…from Jackle.
The demi-maren seemed to realize what he'd just said, and ducked back behind Reala with a squeak. Their king, instead of striking him down or ripping him to shards of dream energy for his insolence, was still. The hands circling them moved ever so slightly closer, their eyes firmly affixed on Jackle, but apart from that he did nothing.
Jackle visibly cringed under the eyes' open gaze, but remained silent; he didn't want to dig his grave any deeper. For a moment there was nothing but an uncomfortable silence.
Then, all at once, the eyes blinked; an eerie, perfectly synchronized movement. The two nightmaren watched with some trepidation as the hands all backed off a bit, and then a shadow fell over them as their lord bent down. His tone sounded as if he'd been deliberating for some time but had finally reached a decision. "Very well. We will begin."
"B-begin what, milord?" whimpered Jackle. His intuition was yelping for him to get out of this dark room, and get out now.
"Your improvements," replied Wizeman tranquilly, and with one even motion he swept the demi-maren up into his palm.
Jackle only had time to realize that he was being put into something that looked very like a cage, and then every light in the universe went out.