Between Worlds

by The Saga of Raccona

Rayne is not like everyone else. He appears normal, if slight of stature, but he knows better. His is a secret that could rekindle the world into an ancient war of shadows, but how can he use it if he can't even understand it himself?

Legal Mumblings: Tails of the Questor is 'copyright' to Ralph E. Heyns Junior as far as I am aware. All rights reserved and such, blaa blaa.
Basicaly should you feel the need to pass off this story or the univerce in which it is based as your own work, I will be coming affter you with a rusty disemboweling spoon and an infinightly looped tape of M.C.Hammer.

The Saga of Raccona

Episode I:

Between Worlds

Plot Author: Michael (Astral) Hughes

Co. Authors: Mjolnir, Aurrin, Kerry Skydancer, DracoDei, Strange wolf, Starfury, DragonMasterHawk, Greytiger, R.H.Junior

Prologue

This world is full of faith. Man leans upon it like an elder would upon his crutch, using its lack of substantiation to explain that which they didn't understand, looking too it for guidance when conventional means fail, relying on it for meaning and purpose against the grain of logic when all seems lost.

Faith is a versatile thing, taking on a different form in each person it naturally inhabits. Some hold their faith in the uncertainty, happy in their own existence to know that something else holds the cards of fate that govern life. Others have faith in 'the truth' and pursue it with a thirst for all that is yet to be found, only to never look back at the beauty and wonders they have walked straight past on their narrow sighted journey. A minority hold faith humanity, hoping that, in some miracle people might begin to look at his opposite and see a brother staring back, though fewer still are willing to contribute to this end. And then, there are those that hold their faith in reality, in the real truth of existence, their profit and gain coming from the malevolence, greed and deprivation inherent in every society since the dawn of civilization. For centuries these people have compete among one another, quietly conspiring toward one end, the quest for absolute power, the domination of life, the world itself. Even in the lightest places, high above the filth of the streets, dark cobwebs of deceit can be found amongst the fine china. Festering in the alleyways and dining with the aristocracy, evil is all around, quietly pulling the strings of every petty criminal and unwitting member of nobility, biding their time and gently manipulating things in their favor, living off the greed and squander of human existence. And it is with people of this very nature that our story begins.

Atop a small summit, deep in the stagnant lands of Traim, a fire had been lit among the grate shattered rocks, the strong flames visible for miles in every direction as its light shattered off the grate boulders. Clearly its owners were not afraid of discovery, not that anyone would dare climb the treacherous mountain. Tales of dark dealings and twisted ceremony surround that 'unholy' place, and while this was far from uncommon in a city where even a wart was enough to convince the local preacher of demonic presences, the denizens of Umbra were very much substantiated in their suspicion over 'Circles Rock', though their true meanings of the warning had been lost centuries ago.

The very summit of this tepid mountain was unnaturally flattened, the rock scraped away by ancient crafters and smoothed to the point of reflection, the fire light amplified by the rock's mirroring effect. At its hart stood a large stone table, crafted into a perfect disk out of the bedrock itself by the hands of a long departed servant of darkness. Once used by the villages to offer up sacrifices to gods who never seemed to be listening, now it served as the focal point of a prophecy that portrayed the coming of darkness. Yet few knew the true importance of the warning it posed, now no more then a bedtime stories told to scare children into behaving. Laid out upon the slab was a map of the known world, old and dulled, with tattered burn marks around the frail edges of the priceless tapestry, as though it had narrowly escaped from an inferno. The first map, the circle map from the throne room of the grate 'Cytadel of Arch'. Around the sacrament eleven beings stood like statues as though frozen to the spot, patiently waiting for something or someone to arrive. All of similar height and build, identical hooded cloaks of the deepest satin masked their true faces even from their fellow collaborators, for those who lust power trust no one but he who can grant it to them. In the right hand, each of the hooded druids held an artifact, most stolen from museums and private collections across the globe. Each unique in use and appearance but alike in origin. A twelfth druid approached through the north arch of the circle, carrying a scepter whose end was shaped like a Raven in flight above a clear crystal that seemed to amplify the image of what lay behind the stranger.
With a majesty that only comes with supreme respect, the hooded stranger approached the table, regarding each of his brethren in turn before piercing the staff into the ground at his side.

"Let us begin"

--

"Its official" whimpered the youth against the blasting wind "I must be insane". How could he have gotten himself into this situation? He was normally so sensible, so level headed even when the taunts got to him. But now he found himself kneeling on the saturated scuffed earth of the cliff-side park that bordered his hometown, the wind howling in his ears like a banshee warning of calamity, about to fulfill the dare that they had made him accept. Pinning the eight-foot sleeping-bag like kite with one knee, he tied the last of the guide strands to the support pole and glanced back at the group that was eagerly awaiting the moment of flight. The group, comprised mostly of the youth's peers watched from the comparative safety of the golf hut, sheltered from the intense gale force winds and belting rain. Some had anticipation, excitedly placing bets on how long the youth could keep it up, while others looked on with a little more worry and concern for his well being against the storm that buffeted their ears even within the sturdy wooden structure. One however, a boy named Jack, looked upon him, smiling casually as though particularly pleased with the situation.

"I can't believe he's actually going through with this" One girl with large pigtails squeaked from the back of the hut where she had perched on a shelf to get a better view.

Another boy, close to Jack's side whispered to his boss, frowning at the scene in the field beyond "I don't know about this jack, what if he gets hurt or sum'at? We're bound to get the blame."

"Ahh, James James James," The ringleader muttered in mock disappointment "You have so little faith. Little Orty chose to accept our dare, and now he has little choice but to go through with it."

James grunted, turning his fat head back to the windswept spectacle "Not like you gave him much choice in the first place though."

"Yeah" Chirped a girl who leaned on the barrier next to him "And you swore you'd stop calling him that Jake, s'not his fault he's orphaned you know."

"Whatever," The intolerant youth snorted, taking a deep breath and cupping his hands toward the squat figure "HAY ORT! YOU READY YET?"

Ort. He hated that name. Jack had slandered it to him after the he'd mispronounced orphan when they first met. It was not an experience he liked to think about.
He couldn't remember his real parents, and had lost his only real family, the people who'd razed him, when he was eight years old, forced back out into 'normal society' by the powers that be. Now living with what felt like his hundredth foster family, he'd never considered any of them to be anything but a second rate substitute. True, they cared about him to a degree, as any adult would about a lost child, but in the end he was just another kid passing through.
Carelessly winding the safety line around his arm, he battled back against the wind, hoping the kite would stay at its neutral angle until he could get to a starting distance.
Suddenly, the crowds' relatively calm disposition changed to one of panic, the children pointing and screaming at something behind the boy. He knew what it was. Grabbing the pads at the end of the lines, he glanced around just as the full power of the runaway kite snatched at the fine cords, whipping him around as it sawed into the air. The kite was too strong for him, as long as it was balanced it would keep on going. This had happened before, he knew what to do and, though he'd never flown in such fearsome winds the principle remained. Drop the strings.
Too late did it occur to him that the safety rope was still rapped around his right arm. The kite reached the end of the lines, the optimum height the string could provide… but the relentless wind was not satisfied, and the kite kept right on going, dragging the underweight human off his feet and across the semi-frozen ground like a rag doll. Skidding over the harsh terrain, the boy could do naught but fail around and try to loosen the thin cord that was now digging into his soft flesh. He felt the ground fall away beneath him, the powerful updrafts lifting him clear of fair terra and over the fence that cordoned off the cliff's abominable edge. The pain from his arm was unbearable, the strings had dug in and slashed the skin like cheese wire, and he knew his time was short. Everything was a blur, from the moment his feat left the ground, to the second he disentangled himself, watching in panic as the faces of his terrified peers vanished from sight, the young boy only just having time to realize his mistake as he continued his agonizingly long, fateful descent toward the crushing sea below.

There are those who have faith in the impossible. That somewhere, deep down within each of us is a gift. Call it a freak of nature, magic or a just a spark that waits for a time of need, whatever it was, in those final moments of life he felt it welling up inside his very soul. All the pain, the hatred toward his peers, his dread of what lay mere meters below, his deep longing to belong, all of them dwindled as he found that spark. He was desperate, and reaching out in his mind, he grasped it.

His eyes were engulfed in light. Pain of an unimaginable kind racked though his body, as though he were being pulled in all directions while also being compressed to an infinite point. Parts of him felt to dissolve, his form indeterminate for a split second as he fell. Yet, for some reason, in that same moment that the pain engulfed his physical self, his mind suddenly felt more at peace then he ever had before. With the silence of the light rushing though his ears, he could swear two gentle arms held him closely to a warm body, safe in the arms of the celestial stranger. He looked up to see a kind face staring up at him, falling along side him, the look in her eyes telling the child that she would never let go as the darkness approached from below.

"Mum?"

Then, dazed and confused, he broke through into the darkness and the thrashing surface of the water came rushing up to greet him, leaving the child with one simple question;

"Where'd the cliff go?"

--

The ritual was at its climax. Vivid black light was boiling out from the stone circle, cascading down the slopes of the mountain and flowing over the surrounding land, throwing a shadow as dark as night right over the small town below. The brethren stood silent, watching intently as, with a burst of intense light, a dark sphere expanded from the air above the table. Within, the faint image a small semi-human form appearing from a disk of brilliant light, glowing rings of a long lost language expanding in front of the strange creature as it fell together toward a watery grave. The orb suddenly collapsed, a gust of unnatural wind expanded outward as it did so, dissipating the shadow that hung over the sacremount, leaving naught but starlight and a fire fly of energy that flittered around the table. Slowly it descended, dancing above the surface of the tapestry, before finally coming to rest on the map, right above the Lake that lay at the northern most border of the 'land of mists', burning a charred black hole into the ancient material before diminishing to nothingness.
There was an uncomfortable silence that seemed to hang like over the ancient stones like an axe, something was amiss. The image that had been show in the sphere had not been that of the grate Lord of the Ark, but a child. Had they summoned the wrong being to existence?

"Nenerm…" the leader mutter, taking down his crimson hood to reveal his gaunt ancient features, gently caressing a finger across the hole in the fine tapestry of the map "Do sense his presence?"

One of the others bowed its head deeply the sparkle from his eyes vanishing beneath the shroud the hood cast, muttering in an old, silky voice "I sense no change, my lord. It was not the master that we have brought to this world."

The leader bowed his head slightly, closing his own eyes in sorrow and frustration "The master will not be made to tolerate our incompetence much longer, we must discover where we have failed, and be sure to succeed next time."

With a gentle wave, the tall Staff flew into his grasp. Holding it trimly in his withered hands, the elder began muttering a few runic words to himself as his concentration, eyes snapping open when he made count of the artifacts he could sense. Something was new. It wasn't the presence of the master, but it was defiantly different. His skeletal fingers gripped the staff's neck tighter, his thoughts casting themselves far and wide, feeling out the location of this 'disturbance', finding it floating in the center of the grate lake, a small, fur covered body bobbing lifelessly across the glassy surface. Sure of this, the count looked up from his meditation, his attention snapping to the two younger members of the cult like a magnet to metal plating "Most peculiar. Typhea, come here."

Without hesitation, the cloaked human dropped her hood, pushing her pale blond hair out of her eyes as she made her way swiftly around to the Count's side.

"Go to the lake, find the boy and bring him back here. The compass will show you the way, I am sure of it..."

With that, the count turned and began to walk toward the winding path that led down the mountain side, adding lightly "Alive preferably"

--

On the edge of the grate Lake, a Rac-connan kit, not more then eleven and dressed in the most unusual attire washed up against the muddy shoreline. For a moment it lay there, unconscious and unmoving, seemingly lifeless. Then, with a spluttering cough, it drew the first breath in a new life, hacking up the acrid water when it tried to breathe again, reeling in psychological agony from its transportation.
What had happened? He didn't know, the questions sprawled through his mind like the wreckage of a battle. He was alive. But something was amiss, nothing felt right, the world was different, new alien muscles twitched beneath his skin, which shimmered with a confusing array of sensations. His eyes focused, on his arm, the individual floccules emerging from the vast blur of grey that had existed before, terror gripping him weekly as the fingers twitched to his unconscious thought. Darkness quickly crept over his vision, the effort and trauma taking their toll on his tiny furred body, and he fell back into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness.