Books, tomes, and a bottle surrounded me, a pungent smell of ink swarmed my room, papers were settled on the rustic wood of a desk. The composition more appropriate to a swirl of a tornado, than a proper space of writing
The pleasant smell was offset by the dim light of the room, candles illuminating the desk, the shape of shadows of the darkest tones meandering at my desk, playing with the unoccupied whites of the blank page. Because of it, my focus was on painting the shapes of the Plegian abugida, a flowy and Arabic script in stark contrast to the more rustic and sharper Latin alphabet.
The simple room I was in was made of uncomfortable, black perforating stones, with no windows to be found nor the mark of simple decoration. A spartan room made to make even the most resilient of men go mad and reveling in its own suffocating atmosphere. A perfect dungeon to the enemies of the state, but my safehouse in the chaotic where I now live.
There was some furniture indicating it to be a normal room and not a pitch-black prison. An untidy yet comfy bed with a green mattress, which I had long stopped caring to tidy up; a wardrobe that I barely used, the sole item being kept inside a forgotten knife with an unknown owner; a mirror for which I had to use a torch/a candle to be able to see myself (sometimes I didn't care and gazed without any light); and the aforementioned desk and a chair to sit.
There was no clock or device capable of counting time, not even the most broken of a sand clock or sun clock adorned the place, despite this small hamper, I could tell lunch had already passed, the sounds of the steps of the crowd indicating it for me from the other side the door facing my desk. Audible and constant enough to mark the time, such it was routine.
I daily wrote down the memories of things and events I had back home: the usual tales of scandals of corruption, the bombastic news on every screen I could find, the banter of friends, whose memories I had enough to remember, and yet, not enough to fully appreciate.
I remembered notes that often swung in the air to create melodies and chords, the music of the old masters: Scriabin, Rachmaninoff, Satie, and many others. The feeling of waking up in drowsiness and seeing the sun irradiate in its magnitude, and hear the birds sing a beautiful melody. How I wished I could be back there.
Back home, I remembered the lines of the poem in which every adult, teen, and child heard and teachers overused to the point of being a parody. Paying attention to the class of literature had been worth it, as I could remember the first strophe and the two verse of the last strophe of it
Minha terra tem palmeiras / My land has palm trees
Onde canta o sabiá. / Where the thrush sings.
As aves que aqui gorjeiam/ The birds that sing here
Não gorjeiam como lá./ Do not sing as they do there.
Não permita Deus que eu morra / May God never allow
Sem que eu volte para lá; / That I die before I return;
I kept reciting to myself fragments of poems, as much as devotee prays to their gods, the few links I had from home. I wonder how much the world has changed since I became stuck here. How I miss it
Putting aside these ramblings, it had been a year since my non-consensual arrival by means of teleportation to the fictional game world that became my "home". I remembered how jarring the whole ordeal was. I was coming from my home, a place of sunny days and humid climate, the day was as bright as it could get, my dumb ass deciding it was a good idea to be wearing pants and jacket, only to be suddenly thrown into an arid desert where almost nothing grew, and dunes surrounded the scenery while the pale moon stared back at me in the blue-tinted starred sky. There wasn't a single sign of how I was teleported, nor a single trace of dust.
Equipped with only a backpack and some liters of water from the bottle I had, I was left to my own devices to survive the inhospitable land. It was surprising how long I lasted before I found someone. Days, weeks had passed without a glimpse or remains of civilization. But I was thankful that some days after the start of my grueling journey, a caravan found me, picked me up, and led me to a city nearby.
Maybe out of pity, or maybe for second intentions, I was able to enter the caravan and follow them on their typical trek. It was a failure.
The first contact with people after a long time was awkward. Neither of us could understand the language of the other. I was under the scorching sun, sweating like there was no tomorrow. My clothes dirtied with all the sand that the desert could muster at the time.
Because of my lack of any knowledge of the language or its costumes, I can safely say, not even a single connection or conversation was made in that week. Only the usual stares. It didn't help, but every time it happened I thought to myself that I could socialize and even make bonds with these people. I crashed down to halt before even trying, with the cold sensation on my belly always following every time I thought of making the imaginary mistakes, the anxiety consumed me. In the end, I don't think I even tried and promptly waited for vestiges of civilization.
After the weird weeks, we finally arrived in a city. It was a rather small-sized one, and not very impressive, there was nothing remarkable. I don't even remember a single landmark in the city to the best of my ability. With the sole exception of a small palace, one which, despite the small size compared to the likes of Versailles, dwarfed anything the place could offer.
I kept my mouth shut as we bravely strode to the destination, and for the first time, it dawned on me I was in for the long haul.
Once we approached the place, I started noticing more details before we entered. I could see the few pleasures of my trip, the architecture was something any prying wanderer or artist could marvel at. One great dome, which could scratch the skies, with tones of sky blue complementing the piece. Inside, the walls were decorated with navy blue, purple, and black mixing to become flowers contrasting with each other, sometimes I thought it was pulsing like an artery. I eliminated the thought from my mind. Looking back, I should have really noticed earlier, but nobody believes in magic until seeing the real deal.
I was led to a room. The first thing that came to my mind was how elaborated the whole carpet was woven, a story was clearly being told there. A shame I barely remember. I was intimidated by the whole ordeal. I found the nearest place where I could mix, a pointless endeavor, as my clothes told everyone where I was.
At the farther end, there was a throne encrusted with precious stones, and from what I could see a very comfy pillow cushion was also there. Sitting at the top was a man, a surprising uncomfortable smile in his black-bearded face, his pale tone more fitting of a man from the far north than someone who lives in a desert. His clothes were black with gold details in its fabric.
And the meeting between the leader of the caravan and the person started, with me anxious as ever, barely knowing whether what they were discussing was me or any other matter related to the merchant's products. The atmosphere of the room was tense, it was like a cold war, each man staring against the other, and shouts of arguments being thrown at every moment.
After a while, some hours perhaps, the nagging and discussion leading upon had an effect, The patriarch graciously accepted me to live there as a guest, or what I thought it was at that time. His guards picked me up and led me to a simple room with a bed, a small window, and a desk, with new clothes being prepared for me starting living with them. I didn't know why he had such a change of heart, but nowadays I can see his objective from miles away.
I want to slap myself for not noticing earlier were I was, everything in the place was screaming, the place was out of the touch, a normal bed, black clothes, the obsession with the color purple, the paleness of the man, everything was telling me, but the idiot that I am thought everything was alright and these were normal people.
So living there wasn't exactly a piece of cake. Despite being told I was living in the guest quarters, I had to do something to not quickly become a burden to them and be the guy who munched on their food as a parasite fests on the food of others.
Because of my lack of knowledge with everything Plegia-related, I became an errand boy for them, picking up items from the city to give to the mages of the place, while in exchange I was taught the local language, and learned the patriarch was called Ibrahim and is the head of clan Fatimid. In all honesty, I was an unofficial servant of the family, something which quickly would be changed at the end of some random date where I would have been invited to present myself as the newest servant.
While I waited until the deadline, I prepared myself for the meeting with the best of my abilities, trying to reduce the accent, acting as formal as I possibly could, and giving an air of some trustworthy robot rather than a person.
While I waited outside for the guard to call me in and enter the room where Ibrahim and his most loyal advisors were, I noticed someone passing through with a face somewhat familiar. A person with dark hair and eyes that begged to be alone, her aura threatening anyone who dared to look, and the pale complexion of someone close to death. While gazing at her, a slow epiphany came to fruition in my mind, wondering why I was feeling a sensation of dejavú. And then it dawned on me: it was Tharja, and I was in Fire Emblem Awakening.
Immediately, my face got even wetter with a cold sweat coming out, tremors conquering my body and legs readying themselves to escape the foul beast that was the pale lady. And besides that, the usual way my belly communicated to me the fright of meeting new people and presenting to them. Analogous to the shivers of getting stuck in a trap, while a predator gazes while capable of doing nothing but wait.
I had probably been glaring for some time because she had turned her head, and with her eyes told me to stop watching her, brows furrowed with annoyance, lips closed, her hands clinging to her book, her most prized possession, no doubt. This meant one thing: stop watching her, you weirdo. And so I did.
Thankfully, a servant opened the door and signed for me to enter, ending my awkward first meeting with the dark mage.
Upon entering the meeting room, the Patriarch stood at the center, with the matriarch at his side and some of his advisors in place. The room was filled with a mosaic of unreadable texts etched into the walls, and the very same carpet as the throne room. The walls were made of the finest rocks and the carpet made with the silkiest of clothes one could hope to find. The way they made my inner parnassian very happy.
But make no mistake, despite the splendor of the place, the atmosphere was anything but fine. I was meeting with my new boss, and any little mistake I made could kill all my chances of getting it and have at least a return of normalcy to my life.
After some eternal vertiginous minutes, Ibrahim said, "Greetings, dear guest. As you must be aware, we called you here to see if you are becoming part of our prestigious clan or not. Before anything, state your name, that of the being who graces the room at this very moment."
His honeyed word had a hidden test: whether I knew how to bow or not.
I gulped under those words. If I didn't get it right, I would be stuck with no way to survive.
"Calm down, do not worry, just say to the best of your abilities what purpose you could fill to serve us, besides, of course, your name," he said in the somewhat warm tones of a father that every day prayed for his child to succeed.
"My lord, my name is Gabriel Raimundo Bilac. You know I am a very quick learner. In these few months, I was capable of learning your language. I can do requests exactly as you wish. As of yet, my gratitude is immeasurable, and I want to keep serving your family," I replied.
At the end of this simple talk, I realized that I was not capable of getting the job done right, as my speech was very simple, but alas the only response was: ''Welcome," I nodded in accordance and got out of the chamber in the direction of my room.
I was now a servant of the clan, and such was how it was for about three months, always helping with what I could do. Despite my accent being a mess, and having to relearn the expressions used by the people here and how hand expression works in the region, I got around just fine, from what I could gather. Foreigners who know the language and the culture are so far in between, I was cut a slack. Still, stares were commonplace, and it didn't escape my ears the insults of some nobles. I even learn some dark magic along the way. Still not enough to be considered a mage, though, only to understand a little bit of it.
And looking back, I'm surprised how quickly the whole meeting for a job interview was. Only a brief question and that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. There was something fishy to the whole ordeal, nobody gets a position from merely answering a question. I wasn't even capable of using dark magic, and every single servant was somewhat capable, but for that time I was happy having a secured roof to sleep under.
One day out of the bloom, Tharja's father, the same Ibrahim, made me her retainer to our utter surprise. At this point, we didn't interact with each other, besides usual item fetching, normal to anyone working with a dark mage. She had a private conversation after his announcement, and before long she accepted. Now I had to endure her creepiness. And as if that wasn't enough, he surprised us again, by saying I was to be sent to the capital with her, becoming a man of the court, and that is how I've become familiar with all this mess.
Seven months have since passed. The court isn't for the weak of heart or the weak of will either. In other words, adapt or die. People betraying each other was a common occurrence, and even in my first week, they already tried to kill me. I was spared, but let's say a very racist noble didn't like my face and tried to kill me.
His death wasn't painless. Although the death of a noble would be very much a headache later down the line, and a spelled disaster to me. How the heck could a foreigner in all senses of the word survive after something like that? The simple fact is I'm connected with Tharja's clan, the Fatimid. They are my solution to every problem I have with someone. I know this can get me very much killed, but since the incident, I don't go outside the room often, so in the past seven months, nothing serious happened.
Anyways, I finished the daily writing session, putting the paper in a pile. I got up from my uncomfortable chair, making some stretches to dull the pain for a bit, and got to the mirror, picking up the candle. I lit some torches and put them back to the desk. The mirror was rather small, going up to my neck. Despite the torch, the only details I could gather was my face.
The marks of the sleepless nights didn't fade, but rather they grew every day, stain claiming both sides of the eye, sunk by the lack of relaxation or any time for true rest. The lights it once had faded long ago, now only an empty organ.
The hair wasn't in a better state either. It was in a rather messy state. I don't remember the last time I cleaned or cut it anymore. Strands going everywhere at least aren't falling apart as of yet, so I am not as ugly as I could be.
Every time I looked at this decrepit face, I wondered how I was alive and how much I had lost in those seven months. My sleep schedule was all over the place. By the first month, I didn't sleep at all out of fear for my life. After I discovered I could lock the door, I did it every day, no matter what. Now I could sleep, but with the sole problem of waking up at very random times or not sleep at all. There really was no pattern I could find, but still an improvement nonetheless.
Also before sleep, I always looked under the bed for any trickery. I've long known that they can't summon a creature from pure shadows, but as the usual saying goes., old habits die hard.
I could sleep, draw, or do many other things, but the doors were always kept locked, no matter what. I could not afford another person setting their filthy foot in this safe haven. The few times I had to get out was either to buy something from merchants like water, food, and ingredients or something interesting or to work with Tharja.
A knock on the door, probably Tharja, or some guard announcing dinner or something. I unlocked the door and opened it, revealing the dark mage and my "master", Tharja. As usual, the absurd amount of light behind her blinded me, but my eyes quickly recovered from the rays of destruction called light.
Tharja looked at me with the same indifference she always had for people she knew, and with an indifferent voice she matter-of-factly stated "I have a new curse to the test,"
I responded with the usual "Ok."
So as with any good "assistant", I followed her, going in the direction to her room. Our relationship, if you want to call it that, was of mutual interest: I worked as the lab rat for her experiments and curses, while she in return covered any of my track and acted as a shield and ears for any intrigue happening in the court against me, something I had yet to find why.
In the "contract" we made, for every testing, experiment, stop for buying ingredients, or anything resembling a learning experience, I got a week of rest. Of course, in the duration of that contract, there were some exceptions, but as I often say, every rule must have an exception. Besides, our contract made the two sides very happy. I could stay in my room all I wanted and not deal with the stress of dealing with the court for anything, freeing me to do anything, and she got a fixed test subject for anything she wanted to test and didn't need to relay without other people.
But as this often works, it didn't change the infamous stares that I kept receiving and the small talk that was normal with these kinds of people. If I am being honest, I wouldn't have received any if I had been some small servant of hers, the kind that picks up food and drinks for their master. Instead, to their eyes, especially dark mages ones, I was the random foreign guy, whose mastery of the dark arts was zero to none, and kept screwing up in the language department and yet, had the privilege and "pleasure" to work with one of the most prodigious mages of recent memory.
Also, I got a personal room, a rarity here, and If I know something, they can only complain and do not much harm and are very predictable, the same insults all over again and again, "the mad guy of Fatimid's", " the guy who doesn't speak"," the stupid outsider" etc. At least be a little original, how about "cheap imitation of Anakin hate for sand" or even better "you are nothing"
...
Moving on, it's not only my likeness that is insulted but also that of my clan, thinking they went mad for contracting such a savage. I remember that dead noble saying something like, "They are so decadent they are using foreigners to save their asses" or something like that. Anyways, I dispelled such thoughts for the moment and focused on the task at hand.
Her room was located a few minutes away from mine, so we got there quickly. Despite its closeness, hers was bigger and better than mine in every aspect. She had two entire bookshelves filled with tomes, and that is not counting the other shelves filled with religious books. A small cauldron for curses or hexes which needs very specific rules to be properly spelled, a bigger bed with better wool than mine, although tainted with a purple dye, and a window with a curtain she always kept on. Her desk was just as filled as mine, with the difference being the former was a thousand times bigger and was filled with very advanced tomes that I couldn't even begin to phantom wrapping my head around
The place was very dark as usual. A room that isn't too bright and with low visibility is a trademark of people of her craft since dark magic tends to have a better result in dark areas, especially when testing new things. There was some theory behind it, like some symbolic stuff about the clouds of unknowing, and to learn stuff, you must be surrounded by the darkness of it, and some more, but frankly I didn't bother to remember any more of it.
For me, it always felt like a placebo effect. I didn't feel any difference trying to use some really basic dark magic, which even toddlers learn, and the first time someone showed me a spell was in the middle of the bright and scorching sun. But maybe I should cut them some slack. I haven't even begun the proper studies of dark magic, so I didn't have any right to speak on this matter.
"Wait a moment, I have to pick up the tome," she ordered, and so I went to her bed and sat since she allowed me to do it. She picked up the book and started flipping through the pages until she found the curse in question. Slowly, she started reciting it.
At first, the words were discernible from each other, my ear capable of catching the meaning of each sound.
I didn't feel my senses changing in any way. I could still see her as clear as day, (or rather as it was possible at that moment), she and the room retained the same smell, I could feel my limbs and my heart beating on rhythm, indicating everything was in place.
But as time passed, her reciting became weirder and weirder, with the order of the words in the sentence changed at random, with verbs, object, and subject going all over the place, like: "The man him like was will eating." or sentences of only verbs or adjectives.
And then a second layer appeared, now with words of other languages mixed in "Aquele toshokan écrit on sujeito de zhongguó qui became a taberu, está free ga on existe matjar."
And the last layer was pure unadulterated gibberish. So much so in fact, that one wouldn't be wrong to think a person hit the keyboard with his head or was reading Finnegan somehow.
"Gfnifisdj nafuaindsj anlds ndsalfjasd lsfna dldjsn dska lamdl"
Truly a beautiful sentence!
"I don't understand anything that you're saying,"I spoke as loud and clear as possible. In response, a little smile appeared on her face, different from her usual aloofness, only to be shut down and the gloom of her usual frown replacing it.
She dispelled the curse and quickly said: "You are free now, bye."
The cold answer reverberated my ears, making me happy my weekly duty was finished and I could do other stuff.
"Oh, bye," I said and then left her room, entering the dark saffron colored hallways.
I went to my room, and saw a smiling … white-headed man. Why did he have to be right here right now? I tried to ignore him and go back to my room but the bastard must have noticed because when I turned my head to see if he was following, I saw him slowly walking to me, with his arm always pointing at me and a wicked smile that hid his true intentions.
The few times I spoke with him, he was just a crazy man as the game had said. Whenever he opened his eyes, it was always like a predator analyzing his surroundings, always seeking the next prey to arrive and slowly eat it. There were reasons people normally avoided him. His crows, which I believed he used for spying or something similar, and that followed him like their puppeteer didn't help.
And I realized something: he would catch me and wouldn't let me go back to my room until I finally did the deed and spoke with him. With the slow breath, I prepared for the worst.
I stopped in my steps and he reached me. As he did so, my eyes averted his gaze. To maintain it would be a painful task, with his glare piercing my flesh as if it was nothing, revealing every single part of my being to him.
"Hiya, Gabriel, how are you doing?" He starts with his usual playful tones, which reminds me of a little bit of the Joker.
"Fine," a simple reply to a simple man.
"Just fine? Okay then. I would just like to say that I've tested some new corpses, very fresh with their little organs intact and voila, with some nice hexes, the corpse arose from their slumber. And attacked. The blood was something else, kyahaha," He laughs at the only thing in life he seems to care about: guts and death.
"Okay, then.", I said, keeping my poker face intact like a stone.
"Why maintaining such a poker face, not afraid of death, are ya?" He said with a cold tone, leaving no trace of his disguise, revealing his true self.
"Well, I have to go right now," I quickly replied. If the conversation lasted any longer, I did not want to know what would happen to my body.
"if you want to keep it whatever, see ya, bye. I need to see the organs of my experiments, hee hee," He replied, going back to his more "normal" form and acquiescing himself from going any further, while promptly ignoring my answer. He must have noticed my unease, but still, I didn't really know what he truly thought.
"Bye," I replied as always.
Phew, wouldn't stand to be near that guy even a moment more than necessary.
Henry, Henry, Henry, one of the most prodigious dark mages in a sea of new golden students of dark magic. The man who destroyed a whole village for killing his dog with that very same smiling face. Not to say he is John Wick or something, but you must have some screws loose in your head to massacre an entire place like that.
Anyways, I go back to my quarters and lock the door as always. That afternoon was already tiring as it is. If I want to keep up the façade, my batteries need to recharge. I go straight to bed and let my eyes close, for I need any rest that I can take.
A knock wakes me up.
Wait, they didn't say there is going to be an event or something similar today. I prepare for the worse, I pick up one of the many books I have, and use as a makeshift shield, very dumb
I unlock the door.
A soldier, whose height makes me look smaller than a hobbit, looks down at me, with his scarred old face and grey ashen hair showing his age. Probably a veteran of the Ylissean invasion and one of the few lucky bastards that survived that massacre.
He looked at me as if he saw rotten fruit with larvae and fungi everywhere, a face of disgust as clear as water. He was probably wondering why he should respond to this barbarian that somehow entered court and was in a better state than him.
His shadow makes me impotent, engulfing me into a darkness that I would rather avoid. Ok Gabriel, if you want to survive, keep a note on him. Also, I put the book back in place.
At the same time, I could hear the steps of people going out, the murmurs, and talks of folks whose surprises were apparent by the many loud questions they asked, and how disorganized the sounds were. They were an orchestra without their maestro, a complete utter mess.
In a very dismissive tone, he says "There is an event happening in the halls. You have to go there," his grubby finger points to the crowd, to which I reply with a simple nod, and come out of the room, with him reluctantly giving me passage to go there.
The rays attack my eyes again. Man, I really should keep at least my room a little bit more lightning after this, I need to diminish the effect of it in my eyes. I look in the corridor and, to my utter dismay, the number of people walking was enough to fill a can of sardine, and I would be the next one. Cringing, I go along with the crowd.
In the crowd, I'm amazed and horrified by the ways these intellectuals move and act. Once their initial confusion is lost, they start to move like a march of ants: mindlessly focusing only on the task made by the rhythmic sound of steps and almost silent conversation. They feel more like workers in a factory line rather than pompous nobles. I retract my comment of this being a mess, this is even worse: an organized mess.
In the mind of everyone doing this hellish march, there was a lingering question: what is going to be next in the King's line of thinking, or even the Grimleal. The only thing we were called here is for this reunion, and nothing else.
For myself, the same question is being complimented right now, for the seven months I had been here, there wasn't something like this before. Even asking more senior members, whose face was always with their smug sense of superiority, if asked such reunion, they would be laughing calling you, a boorish military, at least, I can have the satisfaction of them being shut off for a minute at least.
But now, out of the bloom, with no warning or even a small sign for why there is, I realize, their marches aren't of an indoctrinated kind, but rather of fear. Their rhythm is very unsteady, denouncing their horror. Some are going as if it was a march, with their ones and twos, while some approach as if this is some kind of tango and I kid you not, there is a guy somehow counting the rhythm as if it is prog rock or jazz with one, two, three, four and five. How can you screw up this so badly?
Along the way, the familiar face of Tharja appears. I start slowly approaching her, making large steps, to get closer to her. It's better to be with a devil you know than to be with the one you don't. Her bafflement isn't etched not to her face, which kept the usual cold exterior, but rather the loose care with which she held her book too uncharacteristic of a person who thinks her best friends are tomes of dark magic.
"Hey Tharja, do you know what the hell is happening ?" I ask her, for the faint hope that she knew the answer, despite my mind saying otherwise.
"I don't really know, but something is creeping, otherwise the dark aura surrounding me wouldn't be so strong," she replies,
The event is going to be big and its shockwaves will determine our future in it.
"A person probably," I say, joking a little bit to calm at least a few of my nerves.
"Of course, who else could it be?" she replies with an annoyed tone and I shut myself up for the rest of the walk.
Looking around the saffron-colored hallway, the torches are always going in the same intervals, the ceiling that is made of wood and was etched at every corner with the principal symbol of this religion. Statues of old heroes are becoming a constant also, the tales of people who fought for Plegia and saved it from their enemies, dying along the way to make the nation prevail against all odds.
If Christianity has the cross, Islam the star and the crescent and Judaism the star of David, the Grimleals has the mark of Grima. The purple color indicating that it was a religion of corruption in the game's logic, is put everywhere: in the walls, the ceiling, in the books.
The corridor became purple-colored, losing the saffron nature it once had, the torches becoming scarce until only darkness remains. Then a priest of the Grimleal appears and leads our steps towards our sacred duty. I hear them muttering sacred words as the world receives light again.
After some walking and walking and walking nonstop, we finally arrive at the darn main hall. The whole walk feels like it lasted an eternity to me, my state of being suffocating by the infernal march to our meeting place, a giant hall with four pillars.
The hall was made with the sole intent of making big announcements, so it is enormous, capable of holding a religious ceremony, a royal party, ball, and it even had a little space for a small orchestra of about 40 musicians to play in.
It is rectangular, and the gigantic stairway is the principal feature of the room, capable of making any ruler that was at the top of it a god by the mere virtue of the height and the acoustics of the room that made for a special place to say a speech or anything like that.
The place is quickly filling up, making the sensation of being at a massive rally of a political party (or more accurately like a canned sardine). With every single square centimeter being occupied, the density of the room is more than the entirety of Kowloon city and Hong Kong combined.
And alas, with all the folk combined, the only thing that I could see was the upper echelon of the place and walls and a dome. The dome is painted with a depiction of Grima, his figure being destroyed by two heroes, that was depicted as eviler than thou, with a cruel smile in their face, mocking the dragon who had made all efforts to fight against them, only to be turned into a pile of goo and the heroes getting away scot-free.
After that, the painting continues. The image after is of followers making a gigantic procession towards the center of it, with cloud stormings with all their mighty and massive black figures with purple eyes rising from it to end it all. That was Grima and the probable future that will happen If his plan goes right.
Following the game's timeline, Validar had presumably got the Hierophant by now and was preparing his next step towards his goal. So it was only a matter of time before the war broke out and I could escape from this hell and join the Shepherds. Not to say I didn't like staying, but I much preferred people with actual sanity instead of madmen with genocide plans that would backfire and a lunatic with a goal of the end of times. The plan is going just fine, just as expected.
While I wait, I could see the royal figure of a tall man with a bored look on his face, eyes gazing in search of something to catch his interest, fallen lips that were being affected by gravity because their owner couldn't be bothered to care of maintaining a façade, and hair that represented the essence of his kingdom. A place with bright scenery, but with an underbelly that would make Gotham blush. In the end, Gangrel hopes it will end as soon as possible, and the worst part of it all, I am relating to him somehow.
The nobles all around are talking within themselves, making a sound analogous to someone stabbing my ears with my knife. In general, I hated these loud places with a passion, they only made me more distracted and made my whole effort of making a convincing act go out of the window while analyzing people's expressions became way harder than it already is.
Next to me, Tharja is rather annoyed. Her eyes gazing into nothing, waiting to curse the king for making this sudden announcement, while she was working in her new hexes, or curse, or whatever is on her mind.
I realize Gangrel is in the upper echelon, with the major dark mages families patriarch and leaders of clans of the land sitting in highly decorated chairs, each seat tailored for each one of them.
And up there I see Tharja's father, waiting patiently for the announcement to start. I must have been gazing at him so hard because when I turn my head I see a face with eyes so wide that it could easily fall off his face and mouth so agape that a thousand insects could enter his mouth at any moment. Realizing that I saw his face, he quickly turns his head and ignores his daughter in the crowd.
Finally, a dark man with the height of the mountain appeared, lanky as a toothpick, and healthy enough to sport some developed musculature. On his bearded face, a permanent grin is sculpted and his eyes look down at us, seeing the crowd as mere ants that are meant to be nothing but a sacrifice. It was Validar alright and nothing of him changed.
His loyal right hand wasn't with him, a weird fact considering that she was with him all the time. The few times I saw the man before, she was glued to him, but alas today she wasn't. Remember Gabriel, there was always an exception to the rules. Always.
With a voice so deep that it could scare away even the most ferocious of lions, the great priest of the Grimleals, starts his speech: "O followers of the Fell Dragon, the one who dared challenge Naga to create a new world, at utmost importance, I've discovered the new vessel of Grima, capable of holding our god in eternity and fulfilling our destiny."
The whole room goes into collective confusion making everyone, even for a little bit, from the smallest of merchants to the nobles to the most prestigious member of the clans become alike at least in something.
Around me, Tharja stands with a confused face, her mouth agape and eyebrows raised, closing her mouth she scowls and mutters for herself "how could they tell such lies," with eyes glaring at such an affront to her religion. Until now, from what they told me the idea of the vessel had died for good in the Grimleal community. And yet, here is the most important member of it, claiming the contrary, against the consensus of all people involved in it.
The only people whose mouths aren't agape were me, the King, and Henry, whose hair is easily distinguishable from everyone in the room. All of us with almost the same reason. Gangrel only cares if this could help anyway in his killing the verdant green of Ylisse; Henry can't care less about humanity and his only friends are his crows; and me, who knows it is supposed to happen.
An aura spreads to the place making the pressure of the room gigantic, announcing its arrival for everybody to see, shutting up everyone who's against it, gobbing our souls as its fuel source, feeling bigger and bigger at every moment until it somehow broke and breathable air reappears, resting us for what the hell is going to be next.
My mouth opens, What creature or thing can such a thing besides a monster !?
Then a lady with white hair marches with her Grimleal garbs, steady, not missing a single step. Her beauty encapsulates everyone's attention, robbing all of us with our breath. Tharja loses her scowls, eyebrows relax from the tension, her skepticism evaporates from her. Now her face stays marveled, wonder fills her eyes, while devotion starts to hold and become every part of her being both in flesh and soul. I can only stand in horror while seeing the birth of a new part of Tharja.
One last time Gabriel, let's see Grima for what is. Her expression is what I call the Fell Dragon, the eyes of a child having the contacts with the numerous wonders being presented for the first time. Despite her march from earlier, a smile ear to ear comes to her, stretching her arms, she signs at the audience, commemorating, happy as one possibly can be. wait, is that Grima, where is the disgust and the arrogance, where, where !?
The world explodes, the crowd's claims for their messiah, their once tasteful apprehension stopping, the rest of the fuel to pray and claim the creature who will the world. My eyes distort, while the world stops to make sense
It isn't Grima. No, of course, it isn't. It is the twin-tailed albino tactician, Robin.
This was the rewrite of the first chapter. Let's just say that I was very unhappy with how the original was written, with its grammar issue and other stuff. Hope this time, the chapter is readable. I also thank Cavik and Sushion for helping me in the grammar department. I am rewriting the second chapter of this fic for the same issues. If I have the time and everything goes as planned I will be also posting the third chapter at the end of this month. See ya
Besides, I participate in a discord server, here is the link: discord .gg/9XG3U7a