3. Eye of Ogden

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His first instinct was to run, to cower in fear from the terrifying angel, but then he realized something. He desired nothing more than to return to the dream, to the everlasting grace of Nos, and now a servant of the divine stood before him. Perhaps it had come to answer his prayer? Would it not hear his reason, or sympathize with his plight? Perhaps it only sought to return him to his glass cradle, and he had simply misunderstood everything.

The tension from his muscles faded, and he finally released his breath in a frosty cloud. The curator was not his pursuer, after all, but his savior.

As it approached, the angel's eye shone brilliantly, and a burning spear of golden light suddenly seared towards him. He threw himself aside as it collided with the heavy gate, singing its metal doors. The foundations rumbled while the stained-glass window shattered to bits, raining jagged shards across the floor.

As dust and debris drifted down like snow, he accepted the cold and bitter truth. They would not let him return to sleep. He was forsaken. He had sinned, and this angel was his judgment.

The sudden threat of a final death brought too many questions to mind, and no time to ask them, for the armored goliath was attacking again. Instead of another arrow, there was a familiar hum, and a ring of light encircled him once more. He panicked as his legs grew heavy, realizing he would not be able to dodge, and the ivory creature hovered forward without mercy.

Denied his only defense, the man had no choice but to attack. He gripped his dagger in desperation, but suddenly recalled another long-forgotten lesson, another novice spell, one so obvious that he could hardly believe he'd overlooked it. With a rush of conviction, he thrust his crystal-tipped staff forward, casting a similar arrow of light towards the angel at blinding speeds.

The spell raced through the chill air, struck the angel's chest, and instantly vanished. The projectile barely scratched the ivory armor and did nothing to stop its approach. He balked as the angel responded with another flash, and a spear of light seared directly at the center of his chest. He could not lift his feet, so he reactively dropped to his knees and covered himself in a pathetic defense.

Fortunately, his cowering actually worked, and the spell's heat grazed his back as it flew overhead. It burst across the marble wall and blackened its pristine tiles, while the mortal dared to raise his quivering gaze.

There was a third flash of light as another spear launched, this time aimed at his feet. In a rush of panic, he stood to run, but the angel's tranquil spell had yet to wear off, and his legs dragged uselessly against the floor as it erupted beneath him. The man was flung through the air and slammed against an unrelenting wall, where he collapsed in a heap, arms and legs numb, vision swimming.

This time, he did not try to stand, for it was of no use. He was powerless in the presence of this divine being. His spells were nullified, his strength inferior. There was no point in fighting any longer. As the light drew closer, the man shut his eyes and curled into a ball, hugging the staff to his chest for comfort.

His hand brushed a moving segment at the top of the catalyst, and despite the gripping hopelessness, curiosity got the better of him. He opened one eye to inspect the silver cane, discovering a thin ring lying just below the crystalline pommel. Suddenly, from the dim memories of his mortal life, he recalled this style of weapon, a unique invention from the scholars of Falmour.

More importantly, he remembered how to use it.

Moving by instinct, he twisted the ring and swung, and the segments of the staff separated to form a chained whip. The silver rods struck the angel's hip with blunt force, emitting a sharp crack as it connected with its crystal veins, visibly surprising the guardian. It glided backwards across the floor in sudden alarm, filling the man with a dangerous confidence, and he rose to press the attack. He ignored his heavy footsteps as he charged forward.

The curator's cavernous face began to glow once again, but before it could cast its light spear, the mortal flipped his staff around and thrust it forward. The segments shot straight like a lance, and though his strength may have been lacking, his aim was true. The metal staff penetrated the cyclopean eye, causing the angel to recoil with a shriek as its spell dissipated.

However, his opponent instantly recovered and glided towards him in alarming speed. He held up a hand in a useless defense as it swung one of its metallic appendages, striking him with its blunt side and sending him sprawling across the floor. He winced in agony as multiple ribs stabbed his insides, shattered and broken. He could not draw breath, and barely rose to his feet a second time.

He managed to glance up as the brilliance returned, and stared aghast when not one but three spears of light exploded from the angel's face, all arcing towards him as if drawn to his terror. As they drew near, time slowed to crawl, and the man gave a hopeless prayer for aid, though he knew in his soul that Nos had already abandoned him.

To his astonishment, his legs were miraculously freed. The angel's burdening curse wore off at the last second, and the man rolled between the shrieking projectiles, their relentless heat grazing his chilled skin. As he got close, the angel swung again, flailing with both its right arms, but he ducked and lashed back to strike its other leg. There was an echoing crack as the floating figure wobbled uncertainly.

He knew his strategy, now. He followed up with another strike on the same leg, then quickly dove out of reach. He circled, waiting for its counterattack, and sure enough the angel raised its four arms as the familiar hum returned. Before it could curse him with slowness, he swung with all the might he could muster, striking its leg with a powerful blow. Its focus was interrupted, so he took advantage with a second swing, then a third, always in the same spot.

He drew back for a fourth swing, when suddenly the angel raised its arm as well, preparing to jab at him with a finishing strike. The man froze, his legs screaming at him to run, though his arm told him to follow through. He made a split-second decision, and hoped it was the right one. He shut his eyes, gave a silent scream, and swung.

Something shattered as the angel cried out in anguish, wisps of light escaping its injured socket, then the mighty being collapsed to one knee. Its metallic shell struck the floor as it steadied itself with its four arms, unused to the sudden gravity, and its head bowed low. The man saw his chance. He drew his dagger and rushed to claim victory.

The angel raised its hollowed face just as the crystal blade plunged into its skull.

For a split second, the divine being did not react. Then, it arced backwards with a furious howl, violently twitching as golden mist fountained from its punctured eye. The giant toppled onto its back, limbs flailing like an overturned insect, and the man watched in silence as its life seeped away.

To his surprise, the creature abruptly righted itself, landing on all six appendages. It thrashed its head around, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the dagger as it trampled the ground in fury. He took a wary step back from the rampaging angel, but on his first footstep, its head spun directly towards him.

He balked as the angel charged, and barely avoided it at the last moment. He rolled to the side, but even as he came to his feet, a limb lashed out and shattered more of his ribs. The man crumpled to the ground with a gasp, feeling the last of the air rush from his lungs as cold blood seeped in. He raised a shaking arm in retaliation, but the wounded angel was faster. Another limb shot straight out and thrust its blunt point into the center of his chest, sending the frail mortal flying.

As the man's skull cracked against the marble floor, he realized he was dead. His ribcage had fully collapsed, and his heart had been ruptured. Blood flowed, an internal torrent that filled his lungs and flooded his muscles. The liquid was no longer chilling and congealed, but a burning river that consumed his soul.

The mortal found it strange that this life had been so cold, but upon death, he felt only warmth.

There was another shriek as the angel brought its arm down, and the man instinctively rolled aside to avoid it. He came to his feet, blinking in amazement, entirely unsure how he was still moving. The shock froze him in place, and the angel spun furiously, seeking him out. It swung its limbs blindly, and despite his confusion, the man made a sudden revelation.

He had blinded the angel. It was attacking him based on sound.

Not wasting a moment, he cast his Lightfoot spell again, and the twin auras returned to his feet. He circled the curator silently as it searched for him, ethereal mist still steaming from its wound. Then, it turned to face the ceiling. As its ivory body began convulsing, smaller spears of light exploded in every direction, raining down like a hailstorm of divine vengeance.

The arrows fell aimlessly, but were so numerous that the man could not stand still. He dove and weaved through the bombardment, though a few grazed his flesh painfully, until he was close enough to use his cane. He could only swing once before the arrows ceased, and a metal arm flew in his direction. He tumbled sideways, circling the angel and avoiding its assault, thrashing relentlessly with his silver whip.

All he could see was red. He realized his skull was cracked, trickling fluids down his face in a steady stream. His lethal injuries should have ended him, yet the rush of burning blood only fueled the man's frenzy, driving him into a blind rage. The giant's arms and legs descended upon him like blunt guillotines, but he slipped through its heavy steps unscathed, giving little thought for his own safety.

An ivory arm rose above his head, but the man did not move. He struck wildly with his whip — once, twice, three times against its skull, barely denting the impenetrable shell. Its blunted appendage crashed down inches beside him, pulverizing the marble floor with the strength of its blow, then it was still.

As the dust settled, the man stared into the angel's hollowed visage with a shiver, the last wisps of life escaping into the chill air. The gaping hole stared back as if in surprise, then the golem slumped forward, devoid of light.

He had done it. He had slain an angel.

Now, his soul was truly damned.

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Time passed without measure as he stood in the silent room, staring at the vacant shell before him. He could not convince himself this was real, that he had actually defeated the celestial guardian. He was just a man, a simple scholar, yet he survived blows that should have killed him a dozen times over. He had brought down an angel. For a moment, he wondered if he was still dreaming, perhaps in another nightmare. None of this should have been possible.

His eyes were caked in dried blood, and he finally wiped them clean with his arm wrapping. Then, he touched his fractured crown with his fingertips, and held them up to study the fresh fluids. Slowly, the pieces came together.

He thought his soul damned for killing another, for spilling the blood of his fellow man. This was a blasphemous act, an unforgivable trespass against Nos. Why, then, had God's servant spilled his blood?

The longer he stared at the angel's corpse, the more he suspected something was terribly wrong, something worse than he had previously thought. The angels would never spill the blood of man, even a sinner... especially a sinner. They were not allowed to do so even on accident, yet that golem had not hesitated to crush him. In such a case, if it no longer served Nos, could he even call it an angel?

Then, he considered the alternative. Perhaps the benevolent Nos had changed his mind?

The man immediately shook the unfathomable thought from his mind, and jolted back to reality. He glanced around suddenly, as if forgetting where he was, and dimly realized the fog blocking the exits had long since vanished. He stared back down the endless corridor he had come from, leading back to the labyrinth of crystal caskets and their dreamers, then back to the battered gate. It did not matter what had transpired while he slept. He needed to escape this place, and find somewhere safe to think.

His eyes were drawn back to the basin that sat before the corridor, with its sapphire decanter resting on top. Somehow, it had made it through the battle undamaged. The man licked his cracked lips, unable to resist his sudden thirst, and moved quickly to scoop the shimmering waters into his mouth. It tasted pure, invigorating him, washing away the wear of battle. His body was still battered, but his broken bones ached less, and his blackened skin burned no more.

He gasped as he guzzled the soothing waters, drinking until he could drink no more, then finally leaned back. He was puzzled to find the basin still full, bringing an involuntary flicker to the corner of his lips. After a moment, he finally took the sapphire flask and filled it with the endless waters before parting.

Feeling refreshed, the man stepped towards the mechanical lever, gathered his resolve, then gripped it with both hands and pulled. Gears clicked together, turning with a groan as if they had not worked in ages, and the massive gate creaked open. However, no light shone through as they parted, and the hesitant figure stared into the outside world with uncertainty.

There was a short staircase leading down to the rocky ground, only to end abruptly in a steep cliff. Cautiously, the man approached the edge, and stared out to see nothing but endless sky and sea, both shadowed by the shroud of night. There were no stars above, only iridescent clouds blanketing as far as they eye could see. It was not at all what he had expected, but it was a sight nonetheless, and he could not help but stare at the shifting aurora in awe.

Eventually, he tore himself away from the beautiful view, and gathered enough bravery to look straight down. As he expected, the cliff face dropped steeply without ending, offering nothing but jagged rocks leading down into the fathomless oceans. The only path was to his left, a seemingly natural formation that zigzagged up the crag, which continued to climb straight into the clouds themselves. The man leaned back as he followed its towering height, and nearly lost his balance.

He stepped back in startlement from the ledge, suddenly glaring at it with apprehension, and tried not to think about a fall from this height. Then, he noticed some markings on the ground where he had been standing a moment earlier. Someone had carved a message directly into the rock itself, and he leaned close as he tried to read its crude etchings.

Damnation ahead

Go back to sleep

His footsteps felt heavier again as he made his way up the winding path.

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As he cleared the first crest, he beheld a peculiar sight. Before him was a wide plateau presenting a meadow of birch trees and sparse vegetation, with a clearing of rocks in the middle. The stones were placed in consecutive circles, too concise to be natural, and in the center was a softly glowing lamp about waist-high. Its light reflected off the glazed rocks and frosted trees, and illuminated a strange figure seated next to it.

The man eyed this stranger warily, who noticed him at the same time. A tricornered hat shadowed his features, and he was clothed in mismatched traveling gear, with different colored gloves and boots. They stared at each other in silence, and he was unsure if he should flee, though there was nowhere to run. He waited for the stranger to make a move, and to his surprise, the other man chuckled.

"Well, what have we here?" he asked in astonishment. "You must be newly awakened, as well. Let me guess... bad dreams? Seems like we're all having them." The stranger studied him with a raised eyebrow, noticing the metal staff gripped tightly in both hands. "Don't be alarmed, friend. I'm not looking for a fight. Come, sit by the lamplight and bask in its warmth."

Eventually, he relented and followed the other man's suggestion. He took a seat by the beacon and imitated the stranger's posture, getting a nod of approval. "So you can see it, too. Thank Nos. The last bloke claimed there was nothing here. Damned sorcerer made me think I was going mad. Oh..." He paused as he eyed the silver cane and dusty tome. "Meant no offense, if you're inclined to that sort of thing. Nothing wrong with scholarly pursuits, though I never had the wits for it myself. Name's Morrow, friend. What's yours?"

The man shrugged helplessly in response. "Ah, cold got yer tongue?" Morrow spoke enough for them both. "Well, at any rate, you should feel proud. Few find their way from Ogden's Creche, and even fewer dare to step a foot beyond. I myself am hesitant to travel past this campsite, to be honest. It's just... I haven't quite seen anything like this lamp before, and its light is so comforting. Wouldn't you agree?"

He nodded silently in response and stared into the shimmering beacon before them. Its four crystal panes were encased in an ivory chassis, and though it contained nothing inside, an ethereal gleam shone from within. It was topped by a silver bell, which resonated in an airy tone as if tickled by the light.

"I've no idea who built it," his new companion mused, "But bless their thoughtfulness. It's given me a respite from this harsh land. Speaking of which, I suggest you rest a while if you plan on venturing any further. The way things are now, you may be better off asleep than walking amongst the awoken. But you strike me as the venturous type, am I not wrong?"

Without waiting for an answer, the stranger yawned and tilted his hat forward, covering most of his face. "I think I'll get some shut eye as well. Let us pray for pleasant dreams this time."

The silent man continued to stare through the translucent glass, entranced by the patterns reflecting against its interior. He could not resist its allure, and vaguely wondered where the light came from as he drifted into a different kind of sleep.

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Appendix

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Sapphire Flask — A flask containing blessed waters. Restores health and vitality. The waters which flow from the Well of Attunement never run dry, and are said to be the medium between life and death. Perhaps this is why mortals treasure it so.

Silver Cane — A multipurpose tool designed by the scholars of Falmour. Its quartz pommel serves as a catalyst for sorceries, while the cane separates into a whip. Keeping enemies at range proves crucial for a scholar's survival.

Soul Arrow — The simplest offensive sorcery. Fires an arrow of white soul energy, which is effective against physically resilient material. Soul sorcery is the purest form of magic, and is considered superior to elemental energy.

Soul Shower — A sorcery that fires numerous soul arrows from above. Although weaker than a single arrow, it can deal immense damage to those caught in close quarters. This spell has caused many a brave warrior to think twice about approaching scholars with hostility.

Soul Spear — An advanced sorcery that fires a focused spear of souls. Its immense energy penetrates nearly all defenses, and injures the very essence of life itself. Only the most learned scholars can hope to master this spell, which is rumored to harm even the angels themselves.

Eye of Ogden: deviantart (dankbouls87/art/Eye-of-Ogden-768952737)