Kuribohs like the ones Wells used are monsters have always intrigued me. The original Kuriboh first became well-known when the King of Games used it to defend himself from the onslaught of Kaiba's Blue-Eyes Ultimate Dragon, and later brought Pegasus' Thousand Eyes Restrict to its knees. Later it proved an effective shield against Obelisk itself, and he would later use it and the four siblings against the Orichalcos.
Years later, he would give Judai Yuki a counterpart of the card, Winged Kuriboh, which became a spirit guide that accompanied him in his battles against the Sacred Beasts and the Light of Ruin, until he finally vanquished Darkness.
Again and again, these small, unassuming, and physically weak monsters, holding powers of Light and Darkness, have aided their users in fighting opponents of godlike power, saving the world again and again. Some compare them to vermin, but like in the legendary conflict between David and Goliath, those who do often forget that overlooking the small things, the things you find insignificant, can throw a wrench in your plans later.
I am not in any way saying that Diogenes made such a mistake.
That mistake had been entirely on my hands. Which is what watching Rainbow Kuriboh strike down Cyber End Dragon in this duel made me realize.
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Chapter Thirty
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Man in the Mirror
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The impact knocked Diogenes backwards and broke its left arm off as the glass in the hourglass shattered. It fell backwards with a loud crash against a large tombstone.
It was still.
"Is it dead?" asked Philip.
Wells held up his hand, warning Philip to stay back. He looked at the android, which was leaking that same odd fluid from its joints. The gears stopped completely, and the eldritch magical fire surrounding them went out.
"Gonna be hard for him to get up from this," said Wells. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Now that was a duel."
"I'll say. I got tired just from watching you guys!"
They pivoted quickly and saw someone standing on a large headstone on a knoll in front of them off to the side of the sarcophagus that held Sofia. Neither of them had met Joka yet, but it was clearly him.
"Who are you?" demanded Wells.
"They always ask that," said Joka with a shrug. "Look, just call me that guy's enforcer and leave it at that."
"If that's the case, gruesome, you're out of a job," said Philip, pointing to what was left of the android.
Joka pointed his free hand, and the Gatling gun started to unfold. "Just keep your hands where I can see 'em, fatass, or you'll be so full of lead they'll have to rent a fork lift to bring you to the cemetery."
"Uhm, we're in a cemetery," replied Wells.
"Just raise em, asshole!" shouted the assassin.
"Okay, now that was uncalled for," said Wells, although he did lifts his hands.
"Look, I could care less about the pile of junk," said Joka. "I really didn't like just sneaking around in the shadows waiting for you guys to finish like he told me. I'm more of an up-front guy, you know? Still, seeing as you trashed him, and I got what he told me ta get –"
He had been reaching into his overcoat with his free hand as he said the last sentence, and took two objects out. The gear and the Flask.
"HEY!" shouted Philip. He and Wells looked at the ground, and they were, indeed, missing.
"Figures," said Wells.
"Anyway," said Joka, "since you thrashed him, I'm supposed to amscray. But seeing as ya did trash him, I guess I can have a little fun with you two first. Any last words?"
"Yeah, just one," said Wells.
Then he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Tatsunootoshigo!"
"What in the –" started Joka.
He never got to finish.
The third way of freeing a creature trapped in an Iron Flask, as Philip realized now, was to simply dispel the binding enchantment on it. Of course, that would cause the bound creature to break out, destroying the Flask in the process, making it very angry and eager to wreck everything in sight.
So if Wells ever had to do that using a command word, he'd have needed to be careful; accidents will happen. Tatsunootoshigo (the game card he had slipped to Philip) was ideal for three reasons; an old card that no duelists used anymore, if anyone ever did, (being a Level 5 Normal Monster with worse Scores than most modern Level 3s, and looked pretty ridiculous on top of it) and not likely to come up in casual conversation.
An explosion of water. That was the best way to describe the water elemental breaking free. A violent downpour followed, with gurgling, bubbling laughter that they assumed was from the elemental, followed by cursing from Joka.
Of course, Philip had started running towards the sarcophagus as soon as it happened, and his previous assertion that the elemental would "melt that Elysium red crystal like it was made of tissue paper" was inaccurate; toilet paper might have survived a little longer. Sofia was still inside alright; it dissolved so quickly, she was more shocked than Joka was, and while the scream of surprise before she lost balance and fell over wasn't pleasant to hear – even more so because she was still muzzled – it was at least proof that she was alive.
"Calm down, So-So, calm down!" he urged. He shoved the skeletal statue away, it clearly having stopped working when Diogenes did, and lifted her off the ground, but while she did stop struggling, the screams turned into some rather angry-sounding mumbles and grunts. Still incomprehensible, however.
"Hold on," he said. He started tugging at the fastener, which had a lock on it, it seemed.
"Philip, move!" shouted Wells. "Move, move!"
It didn't take long to for Philip to realize what he meant. Joka had gotten up, and he was mad. He had already tried to fire several times, but his weapon seemed have been jammed or clogged or something. But it seemed like the rainstorm had reopened the way they came too, or rather made it visible.
"Come on, stupid piece of shit," he cursed. He slammed his other hand into the weapon, and a single shot was fired as it unjammed. "There."
As Joka started firing his weapon with more gusto, they ran towards the gate; Philip struggling to keep balance on a ground that the angry elemental was quickly turning into a morass while the bullets nicked their feet.
"Hold on," said Wells, "I'll –"
Philip didn't want to know what he was going to try, and didn't want to wait. As they reached the gate, he hit it hard with his gauntleted hand and it blasted open. With a surge of energy from the raw Chaos the blow had caused, he threw himself though the broken gate and out the portal.
They had escaped.
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"So did Joka learn to shoot at the Imperial Stormtrooper Marksmanship School?" asked Oswald.
Dunstan, who was still working on the device, put the socket wrench down and wiped his brow.
"Maybe the problem with them was the helmets," he said, with a tired tone in his voice. "Headgear like that totally messes up your peripheral vision. Didn't Luke say he 'couldn't see a thing' when he and Han put it on?"
"Oh yeah," replied Oswald.
"Doesn't matter," continued Dunstan. "Hopefully, he'll be able to get that thing back to us. And it seems we've actually helped Ferdinand keep her promise to Sofia… Technically… Who knows? This might actually make them closer somehow… THERE! Finished."
The final gem had been affixed in place. He stood up and stepped backwards, and the contraption started to shake and hum as it came to life (possibly literally).
"What's happening?" asked Oswald.
"I placed the gems," replied Dunstan. "From what I gather, the Device is adapting them so it can use them."
As they watched, the weird device sputtered and whirred as it shook, making a lot of noise in the process.
"It sounds like my grandfather's old lawnmower!" remarked Oswald.
Then the shaking stopped, and the noise quieted to a soft hum. The gemstone sockets were covered with eerie orange, purple, and green colors, which meshed together in a murky collage.
Then the colors vanished, and the gems turned metallic blue. The Device hummed softly, but steadily.
"Now what?" asked Oswald.
"It turned the gems into, well, something," replied Dunstan. "Not sure if they're stone anymore. Not sure if they're even truly made of matter anymore. The important thing is, they're what's needed to install the five gears. The trick is, I have to do all five at once, and whatever it turned the gems into doesn't last long. The potent exponential decay gives it a magical half-life of only three hours, which means –"
"English, please?" asked Oswald. "I don't speak nerd-ese."
"It means Joka had better get that last cog here ASA-fast,"answered Dunstan. He collapsed in the chair next to the workbench. "Listen, Oswald, you think you can go make some coffee? I've got a headache the size of Gibraltar."
"Ah, I'll do it anyway," replied Oswald.
That should give me fifteen minutes, thought Dunstan.
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"Listen to this," said Nitro.
March 21st
The reserve forces and volunteers were able to bring down the cult of Maalpherus that had been hidden so long in L'Trel, but not without cost. Half my forces, including Captain Rusk, perished in the battle. The ones who died quickly were lucky. Others fell victim to some horrible wasting illness that the cultists were able to inflict via magic.
Still, the cult suffered far more casualties, and I can't help but feel sorry for most. The influence the leaders had was great, and most had degenerated into fanatically loyal and barely human drones, all suffering from a different, slower acting form of the same disease. For many, their death was mercy-killing. Even the beasts of burden the cult kept in the stables were suffering and had to be put down. Markson's sheer cruelty was like nothing I have ever seen.
Ironically, Markson himself was taken alive. I admit, I didn't expect him to surrender, but enough life has been lost as it is.
We will bury the dead, learn from their atrocities and move on. L'Trel will survive so long as I draw breath.
June 17th
So many mysteries in life that are still incomprehensible. The outcome of Markson's trial was a forgone conclusion at best. He certainly didn't help himself by insulting the judge and making blasphemous curses directed at Pelor, all the while praising the name of his dark god.
But now it seemed it was all for nothing. The jailers found him dead in his cell this morning. He had hanged himself.
I didn't want such an outcome. No-one ever even learned his true motivations, or what purpose his devotion to the God of Plague had. Still, whatever first drove this man to the madness he spread to others, I can only hope it died with him.
September 4th,
Father Borimin has identified the strange illness that has infected my patrolmen. Apparently, one of the goblin highwaymen pestering us had black pox and passed it to one of my men.
Borimin tells me that black pox rare even among goblins, but is no more dangerous than a simple cold to them. To humans, however, it can potentially be deadly. He claims he can brew the cure, and that the barracks need not be quarantined for more than a week.
October 10th
Father Borimin is now the latest casualty of this epidemic that has struck L'Trel. In hindsight, he underestimated the danger this disease posed, and overestimated his own skill.
I have consulted my advisors and have studied the matter deeper. It's clear that black pox has a very long incubation period, and far more citizens could have contracted it before we even discovered it.
While the cure still works and we still have the means to make it, the need for it is growing at an explosive rate. Simply collecting the necessary ingredients is now a difficult and dangerous chore, as several sections of L'Trel are now ruled by violent gangs and vigilantes. It seems extreme cases of the disease affect mental capabilities and judgment, often causing insanity. These rogues have already taken over the East Gate.
Fortunately, we still control the armory, the hospice, and the barracks. I've gone so far as to convert much of the palace to another hospice. For now, martial law is in effect, at least for the parts of L'Trel we still control.
Nitro stopped reading. He adjusted his glasses, looking a little worried, and his cohorts didn't look any better.
"Keep going," demanded Fanciullo.
Nitro cleared his throat again.
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For the past ten minutes, Philip had been running, carrying Sofia – who was still shackled, and not very happy – through the mall towards the parking garage. He knew people were yelling at him, and some were likely chasing him, but the important thing was getting somewhere safe.
Finally, he reached the garage, opening the stairwell door with a kick.
"Hold on, honey, hold on…" urged Philip.
Of course, all this time, Sofia was trying to say something, and though the muzzle made it incomprehensible, it was obvious she was angry."
"Hold on…" he said. "Don't worry, don't worry…"
He gently set her down, on the rear of a car – not his, obviously – and then dug through his satchel and withdrew a keychain with odd keys on it.
"Uh, skeleton keys," he said. He started with the lock on the muzzle trying one key, then switching to another, before it unlocked with a click. As he took it off, she coughed, then spit on the floor.
"Uh," he said.
"The handcuffs…" she said, in a dry, cold voice.
"Right," he said. He switched to another one, and after switching again twice, the shackles snapped open. As she rubbed her wrists, he started on the manacles, and had a little better luck with those.
Finally, she stood up, but she didn't talk again for about a minute.
"Thank you so much, darling," she finally said.
Philip started to sweat. Those words did not match her tone or her expression.
"Sofia, I –" he started. But he was interrupted as her fist slammed into his teeth, knocking him against the car parked next to the one she had been sitting on.
"Ugh, you know," he said. He sat up, rubbing his jaw. "I actually feel better now that you did that –"
"C'mere, I'll make you feel great!" she said. She hopped off the car and cracked her knuckles.
"Sofia, wait!" he pleaded. He tried to scooch backwards away from her.
"Stop right there!" shouted Francis' voice.
Sofia turned as the door to the stairwell opened, and Francis and Wells rushed out, Francis with a loaded crossbow. Then she lifted her hand.
"It's okay you two, I've got this," she said.
"Sofia, wait, he –" said Wells.
"Wait… outside…" she snarled.
"You're on your own, Phil," said Wells. The two male Shadowchasers backed up slowly, into the stairwell outside. Philip really didn't know whether this was good or bad. He tried to stand up, only for her to give him a swift push in the chest with her boot, knocking him back down.
"So-So, please…" he pleaded
"Stop calling me that!" she shouted. "And please what? Philip, five years I've been waiting for you, hoping you'd come back. I haven't dated anyone else, and believe me, it's not because no-one has asked me!
"Now you finally do come back, and I've been in more lethal situations during the past two weeks than I have since I ended apprenticeship. Since that day in Graceland I've dealt with ghosts, ran through a trapped temple, been dragged to another dimension, and now double crossed, kidnapped, and stuffed in a coffin, all because of some crazy conspiracy you won't even tell me about! If it even exists. Now I find out you're practicing Wild Magic, using an illegal weapon, and lest I forget, you've pointed a gun in my face twice?
"I actually went all the way to Turkey to find you! And to think, girls in high school still use the old 'I have to wash my hair' routine to get out of dates!"
"You want me to admit I'm an asshole?" he yelled. "Fine, I'm an asshole!"
She looked at him for about a minute, then turned away from him. "Hear that?" she asked. "That is the sound of nobody disagreeing with you. Philip, I'm wondering if you coming back was for the best at all."
Then she turned around, grabbed his hand, and slammed something into it.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Jabels sent me that," she said. "Karl thought you might need it. He looked up that Crystal thing we found. Consider this your once-in-a-lifetime, God-knows-why-I'm-being-so-nice-to-you gift."
Philip was stunned. It was the small marble-shaped object, the one Francis had found with that cake.
"How did you hide this from them?" he asked.
"None of your damn business," she said. Then she started to walk towards the door.
"Sofia, wait!" he stood up. "Where are you going?"
He tried to put his hand on her shoulder, but she caught it.
"Where do you think I'm going?" she said, even angrier now. "There's a procedure for when a Shadowchaser has been kidnapped and rescued! Suffice to say there's about ten doctors the chief is going to tell me to see. The next eight hours aren't going to be very pleasant."
She turned to him with a crafty smirk. Then she said seductively, "BUT… I'm going to let Francis… watch…"
Philip didn't say anything as she slowly sauntered towards the door, and out into the hallway.
She can't possibly be… he thought.
"THANK YOU!" yelled Francis from the hallway. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Sofia, WAIT!" shouted Philip. He started to run after her, but Wells appeared at the doorway, blocking him.
"You just stay right there, Mr. Lupin," he demanded. He was not being as jovial now as he had been before.
Philip didn't say anything, but he did stop.
"I could hold you to what you said and arrest you for using that thing," continued Wells, pointing to his hand, "but with no evidence that you've ever used it on a living creature in our jurisdiction, actual charges would be hard to prove and likely a waste of paperwork. But we will be watching you from now on. And personally, off the record –"
"I suppose you're going to say I'm an asshole too," he moaned.
"As much as I'd like to, I like to think I'm above that," replied Wells. "Still, I have no idea what this strange ka-tet of yours is up to, but you should consider if it's worth it. And who it's hurting. Good day Mr. Lupin."
As he left, Philip sat down on the rear bumper of the car and buried his face in his hands.
Problem is, he thought, that decision might be made for me…
Then his cell phone rang.
That was quick…
He sadly withdrew it from his pocket, and his finger shivered as he answered. "Prospero, look, I," he started.
Then he stopped. "Huh?" he asked. "Eleven o'clock?" He looked at his watch. "Yeah, I guess I could. Yeah, uh, I'll be there. Bye."
He hung up. Then he tapped a button on the cell. A digital photo he took of Diogenes right after he assumed his true form came up.
Eleven o'clock, he thought. Something's wrong here.
As stern as he had sounded, it was odd for him to tell him to come at a specific time. Maybe he would get out of this with his skin intact after all.
At least now he might be able to take a short nap first.
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In the garage at Copek, Dunstan opened a small pine box. The four gears were inside it.
If they had names, he never heard them, but seeing as the missing one, which went in the center, was called the Concordant Gear ("concordant" meaning "constant" or "agreeing") he assumed these four gears represented the opposing forces of the cosmos, Good, Evil, Law, and Chaos, the Concordant Gear that served as the hub gear keeping the opposing natures from conflicting.
He was startled as a communication device next to him came on, a small, cube-shaped radio on the work bench.
"Dunstan, you there?" said a rather frantic-sounding voice.
"What, Cevis?" asked Dunstan. He rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, I'm here. We saw what happened. Is Joka going to bring that thing? If he is, tell him to–"
"Actually, Dunstan, we kind of have a problem here. Getting Joka out of that place – and the Concordant Gear with it – is proving difficult. As you can guess, the boss pretty much threw a fit."
"What's going on?" asked Oswald's voice, as the henchmen came in, holding two Styrofoam coffee cups.
"Quiet!" ordered Dunstan. He looked at the device he had been looking on, then at his watch. "Well that's quite a sticky wicket, Cevis, because the sockets are in place, and unless we get the Concordant Gear in an hour and a half, we won't be able to use the Pan Dimensional Homing Device here for anything but a big paperweight."
"I know, I know!" stammered Cevis. "Where's Addams?"
"I think he's doing that job Diogenes told him to do," answered Dunstan. He stopped. He could hear exasperated curses coming from Cevis. "Uh, I think he has his cell, I could –"
"DON'T!" shouted Cevis. "Look, how long will it take to get it to his office? There's something there that might help."
Oswald strained his neck, looking at something behind Dunstan, then put the coffee down on the workbench.
"I dunno, this thing is heavy," answered Dunstan. "Not to mention –"
He was about to say "awkward" before Oswald pointed to the wall behind him. Dunstan turned around and saw what he had noticed – a hand dolly used to move cargo drums.
"Oswald, you are brilliant!" he exclaimed. Then he stopped. Now THERE'S a sentence I never thought I'd say, he thought.
"What's going on there?" asked Cevis.
"I'll call you in fifteen," replied Dunstan. He grunted as he and Oswald lifted the thing onto the dolly.
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Nitro continued to read, but as the journal entries got grimmer and darker, so did his tone of voice.
January 5th
Just when it seemed like we were making headway in combating the plague, new problems have arisen. Some crazed prophet who was just an annoyance up to a year ago has now become a true threat, forming a large cult of followers and seized control of the Temple of the Sun. Not that it had ever been prepared or equipped to repel an assault in the first place, and with a skeleton staff there due to the plague, it fell quickly.
I have no idea whether or not Zhenter Olm, the leader of these cultists, suffers from black pox or not. From what I can fathom, he worships the foul deity Incabulos, and speaks of apocalyptic prophecies. Before the plague, few listened to his rantings, much less joined him. But the inability of my healers to cure this confounded plague quickly has shaken the faith of some citizens, causing his nihilistic cult to grow at an alarming rate.
The conditions inside the Temple are reported to be unhygienic and filthy, and I don't doubt that joining causes many infected cultists to suffer more and the disease to spread. Even worse, the cult has kidnapped citizens, who I fear Olm intends to use as victims in foul sacrificial rituals. The captain of the guard has suggested raiding the Temple, but I fear I cannot spare the manpower. As cold and heartless as it seems, the plague still must be dealt with, and the disease takes more lives in a day than the cult would in a month.
I can only pray.
January 18th
Mercifully, the plague seems to have stopped spreading at least. Perhaps the survivors have gained an immunity to it.
Riots and looting have now turned to simple protests. While their words are rather – unsettling, at least the tide of despair has grown into determination, and my volunteer forces are growing as well. Soon, we will rebuild.
February 3rd
I was very reluctant to exhume Markson's body, but after the revelation that the god he called Maalpherus was simply the name Incabulos was called by the ancient Mulloise, I had no choice.
The autopsy proved my sages correct. Markson infected himself with this blasted plague before he hung himself. It was his final strike at us, the cad.
I hope his soul burns forever. At least we've cremated his remains this time, and by now, my wizards have been able to devise magic that can truly determine if the black pox has truly been eradicated from one part of L'Trel. Once the final victims are quarantined and cured, we can finally declare a true victory over the God of Nightmares.
February 5th
Zhenter Olm is finally in chains and secured in a dungeon, but after the disastrous first attempt to raid the Temple, I was forced to lead the second personally. Poor Captain Beauregard. He was killed trying to shield me. It was my fault for underestimating how fanatic and potent this madman was. I took him down, and even so, my shoulder still aches where he stabbed me.
Still, he remains defiant. He cursed and yelled even as he was dragged away, making horrible slurs. The jailers tell me he still refuses to shut up. As tempting as it is to let him suffer, I must have the healer see to him; if he has black pox, the infection could spread again. There has been too much death already.
I should be happy, but depression and sadness still hangs over the air. Everyone else feels it too. Ironically, Olm seems the only one still with an ounce of exuberance left.
February 15th
What deviltry is happening here? Wherever I go, even in my own sanctuary, odd, suspicious stares follow me. I could swear that both my new chamberlain and prime minister are saying things behind my back; for the first time, I find it hard to trust my own court. The healers have assured me that the black pox has been done away with by now, but I'm not sure if I trust them either.
At least the city is starting to recover and rebuild. I'll try my best to reassure everyone on my next inspection.
February 18th
What was supposed to be a routine inspection instead begot madness. A man from the crowd lunged at me with a knife, shouting something in a language I didn't understand.
It took all three of my bodyguards to wrestle him off of me, which grew to five in the ensuing struggle, two of them needing healing later. The would-be assassin was killed in the struggle, refusing to be silenced or restrained, even trying to fight with his fists when the knife was grabbed from him. His curses still echo in my ears. My sentries were able to assure the other onlookers that the man was drunk, but even as they helped me away, I had doubts.
I have now been able to translate what he said, which Draconic: "By the hand of St. Cuthbert, I send thee to Hell where goeth all tyrants. L'Trel is avenged."
I have no idea what could have driven him to such lunacy. Even now, I have no idea who he was.
What is happening to L'Trel?
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"Easy, easy!" urged Dunstan. The two of them set the device down next to Addams' desk. "Phew!"
"Now what?" asked Oswald.
"Listen closely," said Dunstan, "I want you to go into the showroom, and watch the door. Do not let anyone in. Can you do that?"
"Aye, aye!" exclaimed Oswald, saluting.
Dunstan waited a minute after he had rushed out, then went to the door and locked the deadbolt. Then he turned on another speaking device, much like the previous one.
"Cevis, I told Oswald to watch the showroom, unsupervised," he said, "which means he's going to eat the Oreo cookies he stashed in there and then fall asleep. Which means he should be preoccupied for a long time."
"Good, good," said Cevis's voice. "Now listen, Addams' safe, are the numbers on the digital combination all zeros?"
Dunstan bent down and looked at the office safe by the desk. "Uh-huh," he answered affirmatively.
"Thank the maker," replied Cevis. "Now, punch in the combination is 7, 9, 17, 21, 6, 22, 27, 8."
Dunstan entered the numbers, and they blinked once, then disappeared, then a small box above them lit up with two zeros.
"Okay," continued Cevis. "You have to enter 23 to disarm the burglar alarm. Once you do that, it can be opened safely. But before you open it, listen. Do not close it again once you take what you need out. That will reset the time lock and we won't be able to open it at all until noon tomorrow."
Dunstan entered the number, and there was a low hum. "So what's in here, anyway?" he asked. He pulled the latch upward.
"Important stuff," replied Cevis. "Just get the scroll on the top shelf, it has a Stasis Sigil scroll. The one with the purple string."
"I suppose you intend me to do this?" asked Dunstan. He found the scroll quickly, but he knew this was not in his job description. If this spell was cast right, it would place the Device in a small stasis bubble where the flow of time was greatly decelerated, and thus the hour they had left before the exponential decay made it worthless could be stretched for months, theoretically. So long as the spell was maintained.
"You do know I'm an amateur at this, and I'm unlicensed, right?"
"You want to tell the boss that?" asked Cevis. "I'll walk you through it. There's a calculator in that desk, right?"
Dunstan shrugged, and opened the desk drawer. There was a calculator, and while it was a new business-oriented model that would cost about $35 at a Circuit City or Staples, Dunstan knew that for this sort of thing, he might as well be using an abacus.
"What if I mess this up and vaporize Liverpool?"
"Relax, that probably won't happen," replied Cevis, although the tone of doubt in his voice was obvious.
"Probably?" asked Dunstan.
"Think of it this way," said Cevis, "if it does, for you it'll be quick. Me? I'll have to explain it to the boss."
If that was supposed to pacify him, it didn't work. Still, he unrolled the scroll and started reading the top part.
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Nitro stopped reading. He took his handkerchief from his shirt pocket, and wiped his brow.
"Uh, there's a footnote by the author here," he said, reading. "It says, uhm, 'The following was the last entry, and was undated. If the disheveled animal whom this journal was taken from is the one mentioned in the entry, it would put the date at roughly around the middle of July of the same year of the previous entry. This entry was written with incredibly poor penmanship and with a pen that splattered twice, along with drops of dried blood. To say the least, this entry required a much longer time to decipher.'
"Let's see here."
Final entry:
I have been blinded. I do my best to write this clearly so that others might read it, but I must rely on the memory of my hands in the making of these letters. The fools think there is no threat in letting me keep this journal and my writing material, and I only hope it will make a difference. I know I will die soon, but at least anyone who reads this will not come to L'Trel unprepared.
After Eduardo's death, only one of my servants, if you could call him that, remains loyal to me now. My companion Herald is outside my cell, and I can still touch him. He has stood by my side through this whole ordeal, managing to keep himself hidden from the jailers and living on whatever scraps he can find, but he can't do much else. When I finish this entry, I'll give it to him and tell him to run as far as he can. Hopefully, he'll get somewhere the insurrection cannot find him.
The last thing I saw before I was blinded was Eduardo being interrogated. I can still hear his screams. I ask whoever reads this, do not believe his confession if they present you with it. He simply wanted them to stop hurting him. I was forced to watch, and I can only hope I'll be stronger.
Still, I can take comfort in knowing that Olm, the one who I believe started this vile campaign of slander, is dead too. I watched him hang after his own cultists turned on him. Still, it makes me wonder just who engineered the whole plot. Was it another scheme by the clergy of Incabulos, or someone else entirely?
Know this. It is all lies. I have no idea now who was behind the spread of the black pox, the plague which I tried so hard to cure, but it was not my doing. Nor was it a deed done under my order. I now realize that the spread of the plague was part of a deliberate attempt to incite rebellion in L'Trel, and whoever the orchestrator was, he was triumphant.
Still, I have no idea who is running L'Trel now. My best guess is, if it has collapsed into virtual anarchy, it will soon.
I recall writing once that my lands would survive as long as I drew breath. Sadly, there is little more I can do for L'Trel.
- Queen Clarion Ehlissa, Final Monarch of L'Trel
There was silence in the room for a minute or two.
"Uh, you want me to try to de-spell the ward on the next chapter?" asked Nitro.
"NO," said Fanciullo, bluntly. "Not yet."
The crime boss sat down, rubbing his chin, thinking.
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Dunstan's head ached. And it wasn't like a normal headache either, it was like something was actually inside his skull, trying to force its way out.
Carefully, he concentrated, speaking the words interposed with numerical equations in a complex language, taking care not to mispronounce even one syllable. The Pan Dimensional Homing device shivered and shook.
Then there was a snap, like a band in his head snapping. He collapsed into the swivel chair, the scroll turned to dust, and the calculator he had been using melted into liquid plastic and glass.
"Dunstan?" said Cevis' voice. "What happened?"
Dunstan groaned and then looked at the device. "Uh, it has sort of a sphere around it," he said, "silver and sort of glowy."
"Perfect!" exclaimed Cevis. "That's exactly what's supposed to happen!"
"Would you mind not yelling?" groaned Dunstan again. "I haven't had a migraine like this since last New Year's Eve."
"Sorry," replied Cevis, quietly. "The Stasis Sigil you cast should halt the exponential decay for the duration of the spell, which is about twelve hours. By then, we should have the Concordant Gear there. Just sit tight and don't do anything to it until then."
Do anything to it? thought Dunstan, as the receiver switched off. I'm too TIRED to do anything with it. I doubt I have enough energy now to take a deep breath!
He turned his head to look at the clock. It was almost midnight now.
He tried to stand up, but in the next few seconds, he fell asleep.
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Indeed, most found it hard to sleep that night. And Philip did not get that short nap he wanted before coming here. He had barely even gotten a chance to sit down and have a bite to eat. Still, he knew it was best not to keep everyone else waiting. As tired as he was. As much as he hated this place.
Well, it did have an upside. The Golden Tapper was a pretty popular nightclub around here, if not a little expensive. The hors-d'oeuvres were good (Philip especially liked the coconut shrimp) and this was necessary.
Trying to sneak into the place wasn't easy. The walls were reinforced by magic, and the door that led from the kitchen to the alley outside was made of steel. There appeared to be a window that could be reached by standing on one of the four dumpsters, but not coincidentally, the dumpster right underneath said window was a living dumpster, which the nightclub staff encouraged to stay by giving it the leftovers. It would gladly turn on anyone who tried to climb to the window.
There were only ways two legitimate ways to enter the Golden Tap, the front door, and the back door. The front door was guarded by Hubert, a hulking, brutish-looking maître d' wearing a spotlessly clean suit. At least that's what most folks saw; truthfully, he was a maelephant. (Maelephant were creatures created in a magical genetics experiment conducted by – and later abandoned by – yugoloths in an effort to create loyal and powerful warriors. They were the size of ogres, muscular though often fat, with incredibly tough skin, strong hands, and heads resembling those of terrestrial pachyderms, complete with trunks and tusks. They looked ridiculous, but were known for being loyal and trustworthy guardians, and having iron wills.)
Hubert only a maître d' because he liked being called that. He more of a bouncer, and wouldn't let anyone past not on the reservation list unless the manager (or Prospero or Viola) told him to. He had a Kel-Tec P-11 and a Glock knife in his jacketif anyone tried to force his way past.
Of course, even if you did get past Hubert, you'd only get to the regular restaurant. It was a good place, sure, where rich folk – often the type who never earned the money they had – could guzzle the most expensive wine and haute cuisine as if it were nothing more than beer and cheeseburgers. If you were the serious connoisseur of fine food and drink, you wanted to go to the Club C, a place that even the bartender and most of the waitresses in the regular restaurant had never seen.
And that's where Philip was going now.
Doing so meant getting through the back door, which was guarded by two maelephants, which were even tougher and better armed than Hubert. They recognized him, of course, but one of them still frisked him (something Philip, much like Ray, hated, and was a reason he didn't like coming here). After a minute of this, one of them grunted to the other and opened the door, which led to a private elevator; as soon as he stepped in it, it went down.
And down, and down, and down. Simply riding down the long descent gave you the feeling of being lowered into a dark abyss.
Stepping out of the elevator was like walking into a waking dream, and something he wondered if he'd ever get used to. The room was full of colored lights, and music, the last part coming from a stage where a pianist was playing as a beautiful woman – well, one with dragonfly wings, wearing a translucent gown that shimmered and sparkled – sang a lovely, enchanting melody. The patrons stared at her, mesmerized by the music.
Of course, that tended to happen when you listened to the song of a dark sylph. Being able to hear and enjoy her bewitching music without being robbed, kidnapped, or worse was one of the benefits of membership to the Club C. And that was far from the only benefit. Indeed, quite a few patrons swore they knew someone who knew someone who had been here when Maddie Webber and the Web-Slingers had performed on that stage.
But getting a membership card wasn't easy, because wealth and ranking on the social ladder weren't enough; while there were indeed celebrities, sports professionals, supermodels and the like on the membership roster, almost all of them had some connection to Shadow, if not Shadows themselves.
She finished, the last note drawing out long and slowly. The listeners snapped out of the trance, finally erupting into applause as she shyly turned to them and winked, and the pianist started to play jazz.
As he crossed the room, he heard a tapping. He turned towards the large tank of seawater that dominated the corner of the place. Shaylene was inside.
Philip shook his head (meaning "no" and "I'm busy, bother someone else") as the mermaid smirked at him with a playful wave. Then swam away from him by flipping over backwards.
Some guys who have too much money like to flaunt it with shark tanks, he thought. THIS guy has three mermaids, and one of them has a crush on me.
Finally, he reached the door he needed, looked over his shoulder, and opened it, going in quickly.
"Kept us waiting, didn't you?" said a stern woman's voice.
A long table had been set up in the room, the place where the Determined met as a group. And the twenty-six members here – himself included – were not some inner circle of the Determined, this was the entire group. (Of course, as Prospero was quick to point out, the size of a group didn't always matter; Fidel Castro's Movement in 1953 started with only 165 revolutionaries, and casualties eventually shrank them to about a dozen; they still successfully overthrew Batista's government in the end.)
A large painting of a young, beautiful, blonde woman with ringlets and blue eyes wearing a southern-style curtain dress dominated the far wall.
Speaking of Prospero, he was the one at the head of the table, a man about forty years old or so, his hair prematurely white. He wore a grey smoking jacket (it looked expensive, but had been bought off the rack) with an ascot tie and white shirt under it, with grey slacks.
Prospero was mostly human, although his maternal grandmother had been, well, something else. Whatever it was, it gave him even more of an affinity for Wild Magic than Philip. Philip should know; he learned it from Prospero.
The elf slowly sat down at the other end of the table, and surveyed everyone there. A stern-faced old woman in a very old fashioned tea gown (that would be Viola) sat to Prospero's left, and someone who was humanoid, but obviously not human, was to his right – his face was as wrinkled as a prune and the color of a bruise, with white hair tied back in a ponytail.
The other members consisted of a variety of races, including elves, including one dark elf, a dwarf, two ophidia, an eladrin, a xixchil, and a mercane, as well as humans.
"Are we all here?" asked Prospero.
"Prospero, before we start, I –" said Philip.
"Philip, calm down," said the older man. "We didn't call this meeting to have a disciplinary hearing."
"Yet," added the wrinkled man next to him.
"You've already made your objections clear, Dram," said Prospero, "but as I told you, things aren't as clear cut as they always have been."
He stood up. He looked at the Memory Crystal. Philip looked at him. Then Viola spoke up.
"Not that I'm agreeing with Dram," she said, "but he's been skirting the fine line for weeks already in ways that Alphonse would have found unacceptable, and what you are proposing is nothing less than –"
"Alphonse did not found the Determined, and his time is long past, Viola," said Prospero, interrupting. "In fact, ever since he discovered the existence of the Memory Crystals so long ago, the Determined have been following leads ever since, only to have it slip from our grasp each time, with casualties increasing with each failed attempt."
He looked at it again. It seemed to glow slightly brighter as he stood closer to it.
"After eighty years of searching, we've found it, and with it, the possibility to locate its 'brothers' opens. At long last, true victory might actually be possible. Even Belle never thought so."
"So what are you suggesting?" asked Dram. "He got lucky and found it."
"He had help from his girlfriend," added one of the ophidia, "you know, the one you suggested we get rid of until we reminded you we didn't want her friends on her case."
"I've never been a big fan of the Chasers," added the xixchil, his mandibles clicking as he spoke, "but given a choice, I'd rather have them as allies than enemies."
"Are you suggesting those peasants can do better than us?" asked Dram.
"Peasant" was a common term Dram used for almost anyone born into a lower social class than himself. Other common ones were "plebian", "prole", and "serf". Putting up with his snobbish rudeness was something other members really had no choice but to take with a grain of salt, seeing as his skills were irreplaceable.
"Uh, Dram?" said Philip. "Catch."
Dram turned around as Philip threw the small object that Sofia had given him. The wrinkled Shadow caught it in both hands, nearly falling out of his chair in the process.
"Nice catch," he said. "Sofia gave that to me. Apparently, those 'peasants' she hangs around with have a database that had information about the Memory Crystal."
Dram looked at it, as everyone looked at him.
"I believe this is your area of expertise, Mr. Toomes," said Prospero. He stood away from the Memory Crystal as Dram stood up. As he faced it, its eyes opened, and it glowed much brighter.
Dram looked closely at the small object. "I think…" he mused.
He held it over the top of the sphere, and as he did, there was a click as a small indentation opened. He gently fit the small sphere into it.
There was a louder click, and the device glowed even more, as eerie, incomprehensible sounds came from within, like a whispering chorus of otherworldly voices, as strange colors shifted inside.
"Maybe it's an upgrade," said the other ophidia.
"Well, Dram did say it was some sort of magical computer," added the dark elf.
"Quiet!" demanded Dram. He picked up a device resembling a television remote next to the Memory Crystal and turned it on; two rows of green and red lights on the device started to flash and beep loudly.
"Either the Crystal just got a boost of power or that thing is trying to hail a taxi," said Prospero, smugly.
"Very funny," said Dram. He turned the device off, and went back to his chair. "Mmm, it's starting to look for Beta right now. I guess Ms. Witt was a… slight boon."
"Slight boon?" asked Prospero. "For God's sake, Dram, we've made more progress in the past two weeks than the whole organization has had in a hundred years previous! For once, we're one step ahead of Diogenes and his group."
"That's about as close as Dram gets to an actual apology," said Viola.
"Well, speaking of Diogenes," replied Philip. He slid the mobile phone across the table towards him. "You might want to look at that."
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Drago yawned. It had been a long day after all, and he was far from the only one who was tired. There were only a couple of small windows in the candle-lit reading room, but the dimness indicated night had fallen.
"Tormento?" said Fanciullo. "What was that you were telling me earlier about your grandfather? Something about World War II?"
"Huh?" asked the burly henchman. "Well…" He sat down then continued. "Around the time, granddad was working with some groups in New York, doing business with the ones in Sicily."
"You mean, he was smuggling," added Drago.
"Yeah, until all of a sudden, he found out that most of the groups he was smuggling for were being run by Mussolini. It was either keep doing that or make a deal with the feds."
Fanciullo only nodded slowly, as he could relate. Back then, that was a decision most members of organized crime had to make, given what the Axis was doing. When faced with a choice between one enemy that would arrest them and another enemy that was slaughtering the folks in the Old Country, the choice was usually clear.
Then a light went on in his head.
"Nitro, you said these guys were causing trouble for Stormbringer's men, right?" he asked.
"Boss, if what you're suggesting here is what I think," started Drago, "I'm not sure I like it."
"Well, we gotta do something," added Uomo.
"My enemy's enemy," muttered Fanciullo. He thought for a minute.
"I am suggesting it, Drago, but we have to be very, very, careful." He turned his chair around.
"I need a volunteer."
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"So he's a robot," mumbled the eladrin. "Does it matter now? Maybe whoever he works for will crush him and turn him into sardine cans."
"Ayumi, haven't you seen enough movies to know it isn't that simple?" asked the dark elf. "Robots can be repaired, rebuilt, and sometimes upgraded in the process."
"True, this revelation can be both a blessing and a curse at the same time," added Dram. "And this machine obviously has no qualms about disregarding the Three Laws of Robotics."
"Maybe he does," said Prospero, slowly. "Ever hear of the Zeroth Law of Robotics?"
"Say what?" asked Dram.
"It's a concept that Asimov used in one of his stories," replied Prospero, "which was named by another author later, and can be used as an unofficial 'fourth law' that acts as a loophole. In general, it changes a robot's directives so that it would interpret the first Rule as, a robot may not harm a human being, unless he finds a way to prove that ultimately the harm done would benefit humanity in general.
"Of course, there's always the chance it could abuse this loophole and turn rogue. And there were exactly three instances in Asimov's writing where the Three Laws were done away with completely.
"In fact –"
"Yes, yes, we can argue about that all night," said Viola, interrupting.
Prospero quieted down. His tendency to ramble on subjects unrelated to the discussion was well-known.
"Still, what you're proposing isn't just compromising our rules," she continued. "It would be a complete restructuring of our longest-held principles. We all know the reasons for these rules. If our existence and motives was known –"
"We'd not only jeopardize our mission, but innocent lives, I know!" shouted Philip, interrupting. "You've hammered that into our skulls for as long as I've been here."
The room went silent. It was rare that Philip had interrupted anyone like that, much less Viola. He was usually more polite.
"Go on," said Viola.
"We've remained hidden in the darkness so long," he started, "masking what we do, sneaking around, lying to everyone. Doesn't that sound a little familiar?
"The end justifies the means, hopefully, but if we keep it a secret from everyone, the message we hope to send includes one of morals and ethics that all end once we leave this room."
"What in the world are you saying?" asked the dwarf.
"He's calling us a bunch of hypocrites, Doug," answered the eladrin, who was leaning on his arm giving him a rather disgusted look.
"You know," said Philip, "when someone starts spouting nonsense about the Pope being a pawn of a Satanic cult or Teletubbies being a show with subliminal messages 'teaching' children to be gay, shouting, 'you have to believe me!' people do not want to believe him, they think he's a madman! Just like Sofia is starting to think I'm a madman."
"Now wait right here," started the Doug.
"Quiet," said Prospero. He looked at Philip. Then he put his hands behind his back, and walked around the table towards him.
He gestured slightly, indicating he wanted to tell Philip something he didn't want the rest to hear.
"Philip, you know, I noticed something in that duel you and Ms. Witt had against Lumis and Umbra."
Philip was about to ask him something, but Prospero answered it quickly. "Yes, I saw it. All of it. And I saw you threaten to break the Crystal too. And I noticed you cast some sort of hex on Ms. Witt before doing so. It wouldn't happen to have been Hornung's Surge Selector, would it?"
Philip didn't answer.
"Wild surges are dangerous things, Philip, and very often they have led a careless practitioner to his doom, but Hornung's Surge Selector increases the odds in his favor. If someone is protected by that spell when a Surge hits, the Goddess of Fate selects two possibilities and grants the victim a choice.
"But you gave that potential life-saving boon to her, not yourself."
"She got you the Crystal," whispered Philip back. "I dragged her into it, I was going to get her out."
"All right!" said Prospero, speaking up. "It's late, everyone is tired, so we'll do this the way we always do, by vote.
"And whatever we decide, may God have mercy on us all."
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The sun coming up the next morning was mercy to some early risers, especially those living in Chicago.
At the Shadowchaser's penthouse, Nichole was still half-asleep and partially-watching the morning news while sipping coffee. Francis was more awake at the table nearby were half of a microwaved breakfast burrito nearby had long grown cold, and his deck was spread out in front of him.
The downside of pulling a great card that would make your deck so much better is that to use it, you have to get rid of another one. Never a good choice.
"Kinda like what you've all done to the place," said Karl's voice.
Francis turned to see him come out of another room, with the coffee pot, SAL still covering his arm, despite the wrinkled sweatpants and t-shirt he had slept in. Francis was starting to wonder if they were joined at the hip.
"So, are you going to be coming back here again?" asked Francis, sounding a little nervous.
"Calm down, calm down," said Karl. He sat at the other end of the table and poured the coffee. "I'm weighing my options, Francis, and it seems you've done a pretty good job holding the fort. Especially since things have barely changed, it seems."
"Actually, Karl," replied Nichole, "things were pretty quiet after you left. Well, quiet for here."
"Yeah, then things started to get a little crazy," said Francis. "What do you think, this one or this one?"
He held up two of the cards, and Karl looked at them.
"Francis," SAL blurted out, "if you get rid of that one, there's no point in keeping the other one."
"Uhm, SAL?" asked Francis.
"Sorry," she replied. "Left one."
He nodded as he looked at them, (the problem, of course, was she couldn't point), and saw what she meant. He shuffled the deck again.
"Things are going crazy," he added. "I don't even want to know why Sofia gave me this twenty bucks simply to holler 'thank you'."
He looked at the bill; Nichole giggled...
"Yeah, and to think it all started when you found that thing in the," she started. Then she sat up as she remembered. Now she was fully awake.
"BARTHOLOMEW!" she yelled.
Both Francis and Karl knew what she meant. Of course, in the next instant, the small brownie appeared out of nowhere, as he often did.
"That's my name," he said. "Uh, want one?"
He lifted up a tray of strudel, and given the scent, it was fresh from the oven. But while it looked delicious, the three Shadowchasers weren't in the mood for it now.
"I'm not sure if taking pastry from one of you guys is safe," said Francis. He picked one up, looked at it, and then threw it back on the tray. "Last time I had one, someone tried to mug me for it."
"Eh?" said Bartholomew. "Oh! Oh. You mean that cake my cousin made with the, uh, prize in the box."
"Where did your cousin get that thing?" asked Karl, straight out. "We want answers."
"Trade secret," replied Bartholomew.
"A secret?" asked Francis.
"One of those things we keep secret," replied the brownie. "You know, like how we put princesses to sleep, spin straw into gold…"
"You guys can spin straw into gold?" shouted Nichole. She sat up quickly.
"More than straw, kid," replied Bartholomew. He looked at the table, where a bowl of wax fruit was the centerpiece. He took an apple from it and a cloth napkin, then covered the former with the latter, then rubbed it a few times.
"Here ya go." He tossed the apple to her and she caught it.
Indeed, it was gold.
"That," gulped Nichole. "That has to be some sort of trick." She looked over it, dumbfounded.
"Afraid not, Nichole," said SAL. "He just turned that wax into Atomic Element 79, otherwise known as gold. I have no idea how, but he did."
"If I told you how it worked, it would seem much easier," he said with a shrug. "A drunk goblin could learn it."
"So why the hell do you guys waste time selling… cakes?" asked Francis.
"Why do you bother selling things at all?" asked Nichole.
Bartholomew laughed a little, then plumped down on the couch next to a still-bewildered Nichole.
"Same reason an ugly old spriggan who was behind on his quota named Rumpelstiltskin cut a deal with that miller's daughter," he said. "Given that her stupid father had a big mouth and bragged that she could do it, which she couldn't. He knew what gold does to you mortals. Makes you go gaga! It's like some addictive drug!
"We've seen it so many times, thieves break into some palace in the Feywild, they stuff every gold trinket, bauble, knickknack, and bric-a-brac they see into sacks – after dumping out everything else, of course, including water, food, and maps – and make a run for it, thinking they've made a clean getaway, only to get lost trying to find their way back."
"Like I almost did," said Francis, as it slowly sank in.
"And they never consider dropping the ill-gotten gains," continued Bartholomew. "They'll fight over it first. As if they could find a place to spend it there. Eventually, they collapse, and several dozen soldiers of rightful owner, who were following them from the shadows the whole time, make them give it back.
"Even if they did make it, what would they do with it? It's not like you can go to the corner 7-Eleven and ask the clerk, 'Hey Mac, I'm short on small bills, can you break a gold goblet?' And I think that answers your second question too."
"He means," said Dugan's voice. His hand took the apple from her from behind, and they turned around.
"He means they don't see the point of why this is so valuable, because they aren't so materialistic." He covered the apple with his pocket handkerchief. "In their society, spinning gold into straw isn't changing its value much at all."
He placed the apple – which was wax again, on the couch's armrest.
"As far as your original question goes," said the brownie, taking almost no notice of this, even though Karl, Nichole, and Francis certainly did, "if you want to know how my cousin ended up with the gizmo, I'm not the one you should be asking. He might know if you want to go back and ask him –"
"No thank you!" shouted Francis. "Once is enough!"
"Well, off the record," said the fey, "he did tell me that some bigwig told him to put it there. They felt it was an important part of something big that was about to happen, and they wanted you to have it."
"Why would they help us for free?" asked Nichole.
Bartholomew did his best to stifle the laugh. "Uh, they didn't Nichole," he answered. "They wanted that thing as far away from them as possible when the shit hit the fan."
Nichole was about to say something else – well, about a dozen things – but then there was a buzzing. When she looked back, she saw the brownie duck back into the kitchen.
Saved by the bell, thought Nichole, looking towards the kitchen again.
"Now who could that be?" asked Dugan, turning towards the door, which was what had buzzed. Karl looked at the apple again, then picked it up.
Dugan looked through the door's peephole. Then, with a sudden expression of shock, he stepped back, grabbed his blunderbuss – which he kept by the coatrack – and threw the door open.
The reason for the sudden reaction became obvious a second later. Francis and Nichole lifted their hands threateningly when they saw who it was.
"Uh, hello," said Tormento, with a friendly grin.
"Just keep your hands where we can see them, Mr. Amare!" warned Dugan.
"Calm down, calm down!" replied the mobster. He lifted his hands. "I've come to turn myself in. I'm unarmed."
Dugan really didn't know how to respond for a few seconds.
"Uh, I can do that, right?" asked Tormento.
"Put your hands against the wall and spread em," said Dugan. "Francis, call the boss. He's really gonna flip."
Tormento did what he was told, but even the other three Shadowchasers couldn't make heads or tails of it, nor could Bartholomew. Karl absentmindedly went to bite into the apple, and almost got a bite of wax before realizing.
Why on earth would one of Fanciullo Cattivo's most recognizable enforcers surrender? he thought. The Shadowchasers were after him for twenty years, and we were no closer to nabbing him yesterday than we ever were.
He watched Duncan frisked the much larger Shadow. As educated as he was, with so many honors, he couldn't figure out a possible reason why any of it was happening.
Aside from the obvious.
Has the whole world gone mad?
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Jemorille: As I was recording this for the first time, my answer to Karl would have been, to quote one source that didn't take it nearly as serious, 'short answer: yes with an if, long answer: no with a but'. Still, to everyone involved, it seemed like insanity had gripped everyone this crisis had touched, and Sofia may not have known it, but Philip, by initiating their meeting, may have caused a blessing in disguise.
"One crisis was over, and Sofia would be able to rest for a while. Still, the date right now was one that held importance to some, several centuries ago: October 31st.
Not that it held much now, but something of the sort would be happening tonight. And if you were wondering where Emily has been all this time, well, stay put.
"Universal Appeal" is next.
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Shadowchaser Files: Races
Banshrae
In some European cities, where some buildings alone have histories that go back further than America's founding, and Gothic architecture is common on such structures, passersby might occasionally shiver upon seeing a frightening-looking statue of a winged demon crouching on the edge of the buttress, like a stone guardian, ready to pounce. Most will ignore thinking it's just a gargoyle or grotesque, built to convey water from the roof and away from the sides, preventing the structure from erosion, the frightening face a remnant of an old superstition that claimed a gargoyle could ward off spirits.
And in most cases, this was true. In others, however, there could be reason to be cautious, especially for any would-be thieves, as some gargoyles guard against more than rainwater.
The banshrae are a race a lot of folks don't seem to understand. One story starts when three burglars try to rob a museum that a pair of them were guarding; one is killed, the other two escape. Of the two survivors, one wisely suggests leaving the place alone, but the other wants to "get even", and tells the other one he knows the "perfect way" to handle it. So he goes to do so, and that evening, he's found dead and mangled on the street, next to a broken sledgehammer. He had obviously fallen off the building, the two still immobile – and unharmed – banshrae watching from above.
Clearly, the thug – if the story was real – put too much faith in old cartoons. A banshrae is an elemental spirit summoned to serve one purpose, guard. As such, it is not asleep as it does so, and sneaking up on it isn't going to work. (Nor would a sledgehammer have hurt one much even if someone got close enough to use one – trying to fight an earth spirit with a weapon made of ordinary non-magical rock or metal is like trying to put out a fire with a blowtorch.) And forget about besting them in a purely physical confrontation. You'd best not think they're stupid either. Most elementals are pretty stupid, but these are exceptions.
They do hate Wind magic, like most creatures of Earth, but will still bravely fight it should the magic-user wielding it try to get at what they guard. Whether it is a compulsion or not, none can say, but when summoned and told to guard, a banshrae will do so until two things happen. One, the terms of the deal they made expire, or two, it's no longer possible to guard what they were told to guard. (For example, its owner removes it or someone succeeds in stealing it.) Should neither happen, banshrae have been known to loyally guard something for centuries, often remaining motionless as they do so.
The biggest reason for this dedication may have something to do with a side of them that few see. Most elemental beings are pretty anxious to get back to their home dimension after fulfilling the request of whoever summoned them. Banshrae, however? Just the opposite.
Banshrae can assume human form, and often take the form of humans after finishing their duty. Whether they can do so before this, no-one knows. Many of them have been around for years, often forming relationships and families in that time, and only assuming their elemental form when threatened.
Why? Many believe there's a dark reason for this façade, but whether it paints the banshrae as villains or victims isn't agreed on. Some think that banshrae let themselves be summoned and choose to stay because they're scouting the place for a full-scale invasion. Others think banshrae are a slave race (or possibly even cattle) for some tyranny in their dimension, and aren't anxious to go back there.
The most unpleasant suggestion is, sadly, the most likely, seeing as banshrae never seem to be interested in their own kind, but only other races. Some think that their race is dying due to decreasing birthrate, and they're attempts to increase their population has led to experimenting with other races for mating partners.
Whatever secret they are hiding, it does make one very nervous when he looks up at the stone gargoyles looking down from the cathedral.
Story Ideas: Banshrae love the cities and other urban areas, sharing a dwarf's love for manmade structures and construction. They don't like the wild or the sea; indeed, their weakness to the element of Wind gives them a slight agoraphobic attitude that makes them more comfortable in heavily populated areas.
As previously stated, the inspiration for the banshrae came from one of the three stories of Tales from the Darkside (which itself was based on a Japanese myth of the Yuki-Onna). Stories about men who are dating or married to women who are secretly not even human but don't know it are hardly uncommon (aliens, mermaids, and especially vampires are common) it's hardly new.
Still, the banshrae and their enigmatic goals can be explored further, should an author put effort into it. As previously seen in this fic, genasi can be powerful foes to deal with (and four of the six Shadow Spawn in Thousand Year Door were technically such) but thus far, backgrounds on such children have been sparse.
If one wants to go into detail about whatever reason the banshrae have for staying away from wherever they call home, it should be a major plot point. The elemental forces are powerful, and often of conflicting nature.
For Duel Monsters, don't assume a Rock Deck is the preferred choice, although Wind is one to avoid. Banshrae try their best to avoid Wind-users altogether even disliking Field Spells that suggest the open air, like The Sanctuary in the Sky. This weakness can be used to outwit them.