Ch. 9: False Hopes, True Deceptions
Deep within the bowels of Grado Castle, where the massive stone fortress of a palace stood majestically to block the sun's setting form behind it, a lone, orchid-haired figure lay prone on the stone floor, gasping for air as he grasped his heart. The frail prince, feeling the strange but empowering presence of Formortiis leave his body in favor of a stronger fighter, found that his own body could barely function without the strength of his demonic possessor. This he expected… it was to tell the host that, should he return, the demonic presence would help him more than hinder him; a not-so-subtle way of telling the person that their will was for naught if their body would not cooperate with whatever energy he had left. Behind him, two generals of Grado stood by, with one patiently awaiting his awakening while the other seemed rather insensitive to his prince's plight. Moving instead to press a metal-tipped boot into the side of his body, the one known as the Moonstone impatiently began to chide.
"Don't die on me, Prince!" The gemstone general smirked, watching almost victoriously from above the fallen royalty's prone figure as it lay upon the cold, hard stones of the keep. Tapping the tip of his lance lightly against the prince's side, as if testing him to see if he could at least sidle away from fear, Valter seemed content when Lyon's eyes widened in response. He could not move away from this impending danger, it seemed… looking about him as swiftly as he could, he tried to remember where he had placed the mythical blade, Marth's Falchion. However, upon craning his neck upward ever so slightly to see, he noted that the space that had formerly housed the sword was now empty; apparently, the weapon had been vacated for some greater use. The tapestries that hung about them, draped in the majestic, deep violet and gold that were Grado's national colors, seemed only to mock him as they hung out of the madman's reach. They, unlike him, could not be torn apart with a lance unless Valter brought his mount in with him; they were too high up. Likewise, Lyon thought with despair, he too wished to be draped on high, out of reach of the vile beast that his former mental companion had deemed fit to serve beneath him. He was a snake, and a vile one at that… he would outdo the worst of the vipers in the world, had he the chance to metamorphose into one of their kind.
The bookshelf of fine oak lay off to the side; still standing ever vigil while holding the texts that the prince knew had summoned the poor azure-haired monarch of Aritia, its height and solid frame made the prince think only of his own frailty. In front of it, not caring that he was within the scorched sigil that had marked Marth's arrival, stood the former religious bishop of the Theocracy of Rausten. Now known only as the Blood Beryl, the haggard old man moved forward ever so slowly, not bothering to rush his actions. Despite his old and decrepit appearance, Lyon knew better than to rely on such skin-deep, fickle ideals; a train of thought that had been proven more than correct, concerning the bishop's impressive battle record. The bags that hung beneath the bishop's sunken eyes seemed almost to accentuate his age, with the only thing that proclaimed some sort of youth being in his garb, which mirrored that of a bishop several decades his junior. He had stained them crimson, to his own accord, and had declared thus that all of the hypocrites that inhabited Rausten be persecuted, just as he had in times past when the fool Manson had him banished from the clergy.
Realizing that he should be focusing more on the immediate danger than allowing his mind to wander (though he wished he did not have to… he was not as strong mentally as either of the Renais twins, he knew, and the only way to keep a cool head for him was to pay attention to other things…), he nevertheless looked up to see the pale face of Valter peering down at him from what seemed to be an indescribably long distance away. From his standpoint on the floor, he felt even more vulnerable than he ever had before… though the fact that he could scarcely change that in his current condition further augmented the problem to immense proportions.
"Remember our contract… today, the first harvest moon of the Archer, the deal shall be done. Formortiis declared it so, and so it shall be done." Gently squeezing the gemstone he held in his pocket, Valter allowed a smirk to run across his face as he pulled the prince up by the deep violet cloth that covered his fragile neck, thus forcing the thin-framed prince to stand or risk being strangled by his own general's hand. From there, he felt a strange energy take its place, almost as if some sort of magic had formed into a fist, designed only to hold him upright and strangle him if necessary. Indeed, he found out; looking down upon where Valter's hand had vacated the strained cloth that covered his neck, he saw that a strange, pale light had taken its place. With powers such as these, it was little wonder why the church had perceived the Blood Beryl to be a threat to their beliefs; if he could slay them, what would stop him from proclaiming that he alone spoke with the voice of the gods?
Lyon's normally gentle purple eyes now danced with fear, looking upon his former assistant while silently screaming for help. Rather than come to his aid, however, the excommunicated bishop of Rausten simply stood aside and let the Moonstone finish his work. It was only then that Lyon truly wished for the others back… Knoll had done nothing wrong to him, and the Obsidian had done the right thing, going to move to Ephraim's aid. It hurt his soul to remember that both the Fluorspar and Sunstone were deceased, and even more to realize that he had no chance of rescue. Perhaps hope for him lay with his father… no, not his father. He could not even bear to call that reanimated corpse a living being, let alone associate the putrid mass of deceased flesh with someone of close relation to him. He was alone, and, judging by the reaction of the two that now inhabited the same room, he wished at this point that the Demon King hadn't left him. It was a sad wish, to be sure, but living with a demonic behemoth inside of him was far better than to see those with hearts equal to Formortiis in malevolence turn to move against him.
"…It has begun. The fulfillment of the contract is at hand. Sealed by your blood as well as that of the Moonstone, it is time to fulfill your end of the bargain, Prince Lyon of Grado." The bishop spoke, allowing Valter to act as Lyon was transfixed on his words. Moving his free hand to grasp the gem that lay in his pocket, Valter brought it to rest against the cloth that covered the heart of his former liege. Terrified but lacking the energy to move or resist, Lyon's fear could only be attested to the widening of his eyes. Like amethysts they shone, looking straight ahead rather than to the cold, smooth, and ironically pure stone that was now pressed against the velvet that covered the front of his ribcage… he couldn't break his gaze away from those feral, beady, golden eyes that stared at him with malice and hunger unrivaled by anything he'd ever seen. It was only natural that he would see these things, for he had felt more than enough of it to detect even the slightest signs of it in another. Despite what many thought, Formortiis was indeed a terrible master… but he found some sort of enjoyment in teaching others what could not be taught by mortality. Apparently, he found some sort of perverse pleasure, knowing that, when he killed the soul of the original inhabitant, he destroyed the only strain of mankind to know the full depths of the demonic prowess.
"By my blood, I vowed my service to you. That debt has been paid." Leaning forward, the Moonstone drew the dagger once more, this time forcing it quickly across the skin covering the back of his left hand. He allowed the blood to pool slowly down his hand as Riev continued to hold the prisoner upright while Valter's now cut left hand continued to hold the gem of his namesake to his prince's forehead. The scarlet drops beaded at the source of the injury before leaking downwards, staining the stone a dark crimson in a path as a single stream of blood coursed down its smooth side. Without allowing the blood to fall from the surface of the stone, he forced Lyon's hand above the stone before repeating the process.
"By your blood, you vowed to pay; a price that will allow me to obtain that which I desire. That debt… is to be paid in full." Swiftly pulling the dagger across the teen's wrist, he heard the orchid-haired member of nobility hiss in pain as his thin flesh gave way to the small torrent of blood that seeped out from the clean cut. Feeling the skin around the cut scream in pain whenever he moved it, Lyon instead opted to stay still, lest he make the pain worsen with his struggles. Closing his eyes tightly, he knew what he had to do if he was to get out of his own castle alive… he had to comply.
"And today… the debt is done, the blood repaid. And so…" Lyon struggled to finish, knowing full well what would happen if he concluded his speech… and yet, he knew that the frailty of his flesh would eventually force him to do it, as well. Valter was no stranger to torture, and he would frequently hear the screams of his captives at night while he struggled to sleep with a dual presence in his mind…
Eirika… I'm sorry! For my weakness… and for letting it go this far. Forgive me! Letting a pair of crystalline tears escape from the corners of his eyes, he finished the oath he dreaded ever having to take in the first place.
"…Let it be done." A brilliant light shone forth from the stone before suddenly ceasing, with the opaque surface of the gemstone quickly metamorphosing into a deep scarlet hue. It was then that the prince began to scream in pain… a tearing at his heart began; growing from within, it seemed to be drawn painfully outward. The stone continued this painful process, struggling to obtain a sample of his quintessence with no concern as to whether or not the subject in question died in the process. It was only then that Valter could see what had been invisible to him before; brilliant strings of emerald light, which gently held the prince in their protective grasp, were now being pulled towards the stone. The very essence of life itself seemed to try to hold the prince in an almost paternal manner, and continued to hold on despite the force of the stone. The Moonstone general now understood the pain that was associated with the pull of quintessence, and reveled at the very sight of it.
Grinning in an almost sadistic manner at the prince's agony, he grasped the stone tighter, pushing it further into his already aching ribcage. Throwing back his head and yelling in agony, Lyon felt as if the very soul that he had struggled so hard to keep was being torn from him, and with strength unrivaled in its ferocity and greed. To feel this was the equivalent of having a scorching hot dagger being dragged across one' arm; as if the pain of the blade was not enough to make the prey struggle against tears of pain, the victim was left reeling from the agony and discomfort, brought on by the cauterizing of the wound and the accompanying stench of burnt flesh. And so it was when Valter paused, seemingly disappointed, as Lyon suddenly sagged in Riev's grasp. From the boy's chest wars torn both a gasp of pain as well as a swirl of emerald light, whose absence left the teen utterly helpless within Riev's vice-like grip.
Seeing as the crown prince was now nothing but dead weight, the bishop proceeded to drop the robed figure, as he was far more interested in the now pulsating stone that Valter held in his grasp. While Riev saw nothing but a brilliant gemstone, Valter saw what lay beneath and around its material beauty. Its former pearly sheen had all but disappeared, even to the naked eye, and had instead been replaced with a dark violet undertone. The very life energy of the prince now lay within his grasp… or, at least, enough of it to sustain his newly gained power for some time.
Swirling around its spherical form was a single coil of quintessence, as well as several wisps that had chanced to come along with it. Wrapping itself around this new facet, it quickly surrounded the gem, spreading apart into a multitude of thinner strands before settling down; forming its own swirling pattern, the life energy swirled lazily in a thin haze about the gem, just as clouds move about the earth. Smiling once again, Valter grasped the gem in his hand before testing his newfound energy, letting the quintessence from the stone snake about his body momentarily.
The resulting glow proved too much for the former bishop's eyes, causing him to snarl slightly from the pain and surprise before shielding his vision with his large sleeves. Cloaking his eyes momentarily, he found that the light lasted for a second at the most before dissipating into nothingness. Cautiously moving his shielding arm from his eyes, as Riev did not wish to be momentarily blinded again, he found that the strangest sight greeted his eyes. Before him now stood someone he knew… Valter was now garbed in different clothes, with his armor now seemingly replaced by long, flowing robes that would have normally not suited his appearance. But now…
Turning around to face the prince on the floor, Valter moved forward, kneeling down to pull Lyon's face from the stones of the floor. Grasping the boy's chin as he moved his face to look at his, he paid no heed to the trickle of blood that ran down the true prince's face that had resulted from Riev's cruel drop of his head to the floor… rather, he ignored all else but the prince's features, and almost wished that he could see the predicament he was in now. He stared at the teen's milky white skin, so smooth and pure, and almost longed for his violet eyes to open to meet his. The orchid strands of hair now drifted carelessly before his eyes as they briefly fluttered open, widening in shock at what met them.
"Wha…?" Lyon could barely speak, let alone put his shock into words as he stared at Valter's face, which now exactly mirrored his own. It was the last he saw until his vision swam, swirling like a myriad of whirlpools before his eyes… then, everything went dark.
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The large, intimidating figure of the blonde monarch of Bern stood in all his regal and majestic glory atop one of the large, sand-covered dunes that held the best view of the grand palace in Jehanna. The sun, though blazing in all its malicious glory, seemed to have no effect on the overall demeanor of the emperor, who stood unaffected by the searing heat while still being clothed in his large, heavy robes. Beside him stood two of his most trusted 'friends': Idoun, who was clothed in her traditional, large black cloak, and Brenya, one of his precious Dragon Generals. Each of them stood prone, staring directly at the desert palace, with all of them appearing to be immune to the heat (though the Dragon General admittedly seemed to be struggling with the onset of hyperthermia). The temperature of the atmosphere seemed to be around the range for the hatching of a fire drakling's egg (the modern equivalent being roughly 115 degrees Fahrenheit), while the heat of the sand soared to the temperature needed to render metal virtually untouchable to exposed flesh (roughly 130 degrees Fahrenheit). And yet, despite these environmental hardships, Zephiel knew he had already waited far too long for his attack.
Admittedly, the Moonstone and Tiger Eye's attack on Jehanna Hall had left an extraordinary amount of damage to its structure… and yet, they had failed to kill the queen inside. They had been rudely interrupted before the Tiger Eye could successfully find Jehanna's Sacred Stone, and so the hero had caught the structure ablaze in an attempt to crush the stone beneath its own fortress's weight; even then, the stone remained safe, especially since the majority of the castle's mainframe survived the fire. Zephiel could only assume that the queen's spared life had meant that they could not pry the information from her lips, and that she was still the only one capable of telling them where the mysterious rock lay. It figured that the former Jehannan mercenary could not kill her immediately, what with his rather infamous streak involving beautiful prisoners he had obtained in combat. He was rather surprised that a mere distraction such as the Princess of Renais would be adequate to turn his attention away from Ismaire… or, perhaps, the Queen of the White Dunes simply lacked something that the other princess had.
Maybe this is how she had survived this long, Zephiel thought. If she could remain hidden… unforeseen as any sort of threat to the others of her kind… yes, perhaps this is why she is still alive, as is Idoun. Turning briefly to meet the priestess's odd-colored eyes, he could only be met with the cold and obedient gaze of a servant to her master. Even though he longed to see her exhibit some sort of emotion… rather, to hear some sort of verbal signal that would tell him that her mind still could function on her own… he knew he would never live to see it. And yet, that is part of the reason why he obtained her in the first place, despite the hardships that Hartmut's seal had proven to break.
Turning towards the magic user of the Dragon Generals, Zephiel only motioned his head towards the dunes behind him, which immediately drew a nod from his loyal warrior. Brenya bowed deeply, understanding his silent command; to assure no one would arrive to ambush her Emperor from behind, she would stay outside, keeping watch for enemy soldiers while simultaneously making sure that the cretin known as the Tiger Eye did not encroach on the territory he had lost through his failure.
If Gheb had been any reflection of a Grado Gemstone General, it would have to be what Caellach would likely have pointed to for his origins as a mercenary. Yes, led by power and strength but fueled by their own hormones and hungers, both had lusted for financial gain and personal strength, thus leading him to be the man he was now… but, as with most mercenaries of his time, he did not simply emerge as an up-and-coming hero, but rather as one who had just recovered from a metaphorical illness. He had gone through several 'down' periods… only, Caellach went through them mentally, rather than physically, as the rather obese Grado general had done. Though Zephiel didn't care to show it, both Idoun and her emperor had easily seen through the hero's apparent ruse of strength; for beneath the man who wore the skin of a tiger laid a cold-skinned cretin – a pathetic yet hideous monster covered in emotional scars that were virtually covering his body. It was enough to disgust Zephiel, considering that he had already seen one yellow-bellied coward in his own militia… though Narshen had indeed been taken care of, and by Gale's lover Miledy, no less, the thought of the heinous coward having served under him still made his stomach turn sour with distaste.
Slowly moving towards the castle with one wave of soldiers numbering almost forty in number, Zephiel allowed them to move ahead. The orders were simple; capture the Queen of the White Dunes, and keep her alive for questioning. This was as much of a test for his soldiers as it was of this secretive woman… surely she would not have been entrusted with such a powerful stone if she could not fight to protect it? All of Jehanna's militia had disintegrated, especially since her own Royal Guard had turned against her, and there was no way to obtain mercenary help unless she put herself out into the open. This he could not understand… by hiding, was this proud Jehannan queen a coward? Or was she simply waiting for the opportune moment to strike?
His answer came relatively quickly as his men filed into the halls, with the sudden screams of pain alerting him to the bloodshed that occurred within the stone halls. Though he expected to have to rebuke his army for striking out at the Queen, he was pleasantly surprised to find that it was not she who bled, but rather his own men. Using the weather to her advantage – for she was accustomed to the harsh, dry desert climate – she drew the men into the sun, where their endurance was severely hindered by the blistering heat and the bright glare that blinded them. Standing to the side while appearing completely emotionless, Zephiel studied her movements, quickly making the connection to this woman's swordplay and the sword masters' art in Sacae.
As with the plainsmen in the East, this woman fought with the grace of a dancer; using the technique of the edge rather than the brute strength of the blade, her speed and finesse allowed her to easily fillet his men like fish, leaving many of the inexperienced ones twitching on the stone ground while holding their sticky crimson entrails in their grasp. Blood did not flow in small rivulets with this woman, but rather in torrential rivers of scarlet that continuously rushed down her enemies' flesh. Striking in the most efficient way possible, her dance of death often landed on the foes' throats, soft abdominal tissues, or their wrists, to prevent them from holding their weapons while assuring that they would still bleed to death. Every stroke of her blade rendered at least one man dead or at least mortally wounded with the severing of some vital vein or artery… a frightfully efficient warrior, indeed. At last Zephiel understood why this woman could rise to become queen in a nation primarily composed of mercenaries… she had most likely been able to best the mightiest of the proud warriors in combat in order to win the respected hand of her husband in times past. Even now, though slightly out-of-practice, she nevertheless continued her technique as if it had been only a few years after she had lain down her blade, rather than almost two decades later.
Moving back as the sheer number of men forced her into the throne room, she resorted to her lesser-known stratagems, used only in case of emergencies. Reaching her right hand into a pocket hidden from her foes while continuing to hold the curved blade Shamshir in her left, she drew forth a small, leather pouch. On it in gold thread was branded the Seal of Jehanna, thus labeling it as hers and hers alone. Quickly sheathing her sword, she drew forth a dagger instead, thus eliciting guffaws of disbelief from her foes.
"She must be mad!" Several of the men laughed, pointing at her seemingly suicidal action. No warrior, woman or not, could take out an entire army with just a small, ornamental dagger! Surely she knew that… Either that, some of them thought, or surely her blade is too heavy now for her exhausted arms! About time, too.
Resisting to let a sly smirk cross her lips, she threw the pouch into the air, above the heads of her enemy before throwing her dagger at it with as much accuracy as she wielded her blade. As the dagger sang through the air, she drew her blood-smeared Shamshir once again, this time more for intimidation than actually fighting… striking the leather surface and easily breaking it, the translucent powder inside fell upon the heads of the opposing army, and on their faces when they looked up to see just what she had thrown a pouch at them for. Quite frankly, it was the last thing they ever saw.
It had been the accidental work of some of her attendants that had given birth to the strange powder… they had crystallized a powerful acid quite on accident, and found that, when pulverized into a powder, it created the same effect of its liquid form when sprinkled onto any sort of moisture… including that found on the human skin and mucous membranes. As such, the men felt their skin burning with contact, and those who had looked up were greeted with the powder dissolving into their tears, saliva, and the mucous that lay in their nostrils… in other words, they quickly became blinded by the acid eating away at the sensitive tissues of their eyes, could no longer smell the overpowering stench of blood in their noses, and could feel their tongues writhing in pain within their now acid-filled mouths. She stood at a distance, watching the powder's descent carefully while listening to the Bernian soldiers scream in agony… she did not want to move in too soon, lest she be incapacitated by her own weapon. She knew that she had built up a relatively high tolerance to it (considering one or two relatively miniscule mishaps in the past left her blind for a week apiece), but she still felt much of the pain. Considering their bloodcurdling shrieks as men turned their blades on each other in an attempt to find her, she knew that the pain they were giving each other was more than adequate; she would simply stand by, await the final descent of the powder, then move in for the kill.
Strangely, though, she heard a loud roar, beckoning them to move back… more confusing than this was the soldiers' aghast reaction to it, as if such an order was sheer lunacy. Nevertheless, they obeyed, filing back through the halls as best as they could, following the sound of their emperor's voice while continuing to mew in pain and fear. At long last, when the last of them had dissipated, the man who issued the order moved forward, with only one unarmed man beside him. He appeared to be a normal shaman of sorts, bearing the same black robes… but something was strangely amiss. He seemed to lack the dark aura of the black magisters, and had no tome with him to fight. Why would a man garbed in magnificent robes choose to associate with someone of such apparently low rank? Nevertheless, they both moved forward, with the smaller man only moving slightly behind the emperor.
Looking upon her, he noted why Caellach had been so… distracted by her, to say the least. He noted her beauty, but was not moved by it… much as he noticed her skill with the blade, but took no precautions against it. Confident in his own ability to defend himself, and on her honor to not strike out at an opposing general without first hearing him out. She already held her Shamshir at her side, rather than in a position ready to strike; she was willing to hear him out, but certainly not unarmed. Stopping only two feet away from her, Zephiel allowed his height and large stature to loom over her with the intimidation factor of an enraged Berserker, standing before a mere Pegasus Knight. Though indeed taken aback, Ismaire refused to budge; her pride would not let her flinch before him.
"Ismaire, Queen of Jehanna… I have been sent to retrieve the Sacred Stone from your possession. If you should not disclose the location to me, I shall see that the mighty Palace of the Sands will stand no longer." He felt like scum, resorting to such threats, but nevertheless, he required the destruction of the Stone if his dream was ever to be realized. It had to be done, even at the expense of his pride.
"…This palace shall never fall. And neither shall you ever lay hands on the Stone." Having heard more than enough, Ismaire leapt forward, striking out at the Emperor… however, moving his staff in front of him, he effectively stopped her assault. Smirking, he did not even turn his head before barking his order.
"She has not agreed… let us leave, Idoun." And, just like that, the priestess ran from behind a stone pillar, touching his cloak lightly in her delicate hands. In a mere moment, the two of them were gone, leaving Ismaire standing alone in the castle with the unarmed, cloaked figure. Looking cautiously at him, she noted that, where he had appeared to be completely at a loss for magic before, she could feel the waves of anima magic flowing off of him… It was strange, indeed; a man, dressed as a shaman, could wield anima, as well? Drawing her blade, she was determined to cut just this one last man down, as a reminder to the proud emperor that he was not invincible, and neither was his army. She would teach him to leave her with an unarmed shaman… it was a slap to her face, that she would find this man a challenge…
"…" Just as she approached striking distance, a brilliant column of fire swiftly enveloped the man, spiraling up until it almost struck the ceiling of her majestic palace before expanding ever outward. Quickly leaping backwards and rather taken aback, Ismaire could only shield her eyes with her sleeve as she felt the furnace-like heat blast her flesh… her skin was almost burning, despite the fact that she had not been touched by the blaze. Looking back up when the fire dissipated, Ismaire's ruby eyes widened in indescribable fear as she met the golden eyes of the terror that stood before her.
It can't be… it's not… Unable to move from fear-induced paralysis from the mere presence of the man now - for he was no longer a man - she was quickly greeted with its wide-opening maw, which was now wide enough to consume the greatest of cyclopsi with a single snap of its jaws. From the deep, dark depths of its throat, she could hear its mighty roar, followed by the searing, unforgiving heat that had been only felt once before in the lands of Elibe. She felt her flesh char and tear away, but could still not close her eyes until said organs were scorched painfully from their sockets, rendering her sight and life dim forevermore.Even the mighty Queen of the White Dunes stood no chance against the might of the mythical beast, proven true when, as promised, her proud palace fell to the ground, lit ablaze by the creature's flames. As the beams fell, her body was crushed… and so too was the mystical Stone of Jehanna. The resulting crash could be heard for miles, and could be seen from twice as far as the dark plumes of smoke reached greedily into the sky…
Roaring one last time, the Battle Dragon raised its jaw towards the sky before returning to its subdued form, allowing all evidence of its destruction to bear down upon it, crushing his frail shell of a body while hiding every connection he had to this place. His task was done, and so now was his life.
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Watching as the palace collapsed and seeing the flash of the destroyed Stone, Zephiel turned from the ruined palace before moving towards the Pontifex of Rausten. For only it and Renais's stone remained… only those two blocked his conquest. Motioning to Brenya, he bade her follow as Idoun only stared blankly ahead, watching as a seemingly unholy ritual took place just beyond her companions' range of vision.
It appeared that Nergal's morphs were to return, after all.
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- The acid I was referring to is similar in strength to hydrochloric acid… ever been burned by that stuff? It's quite painful. Not to mention that, when highly concentrated like this (though I'm not sure turning it into powder is actually possible without freeze-drying… let's assume Fimbulvetr, shall we?), the only thing diluting one of the strongest acids in the world is your own tears and sweat.