SCENE 4 – Search / The Fettered
With the help of the hooded servants, St. Hélène's bells shout out to Norslof in full, clanging glory, arousing everyone's attention. The Yoma and people stop and freeze on their tasks upon hearing the cacophony of loud ringing, and know that a summoning is in order.
The main hall has been cleared of its seats, leaving the stone, dusty ground bare. Should Clare comes upon the Yoma, she'll have plenty of room to manoeuvre.
Under the watchful eye of a servant, the gang of children rest in one of the chapels. In each of their hearts, they eagerly await the inevitable moment when Clare would find the Yoma. It is only a question of how long a time must pass, touching one of 500, one by one, before she comes to kill it in a fantastic spectacle.
They pour in through the grandiose gates, shepherded in with help from the watch. As they start filling the main body of the cathedral, the air begins to fill with their sour, humid sweat and chatter. Ser Rodrik is standing by checking off the names of each who enter in with the village registry at hand. Clare idly looms at the very back, looking on each face, lit by dampened light. Some faces look back to her only a moment, out of curious suspicion. Some avoid looking back at her entirely.
To Clare, their stares unnerve.
Finally, the main hall is saturated with presence where it once had been empty. People - women, men and children nervously crowd the floors, standing, focusing on the back area where the village leader sits, and Ser Rodrik and Clare stand.
By now, everyone should be in here already, for the bells have stopped tolling. But the held registry in Rodrik's hands says otherwise, leaving three souls yet unaccounted for:
- Tyrion, a solitary man who prefers his time brooding in his home,
- Yohn, the jolly plump cook,
- and finally Jean, the weaponsmith.
Rodrik's hands flutter as he lets his hand drop down to his side. He hurriedly walks over to the head watch by the side, Ser Tomas, in his sparse iron armour and pike.
"Tomas?" Rodrik goes. The vizier shows him the registry of people in hand. "Tyrion, Yohn and Jean are missing."
A nod from Rodrik says the implication.
"Do you want me to send a search for them?" Tomas asks, as he ponders a way to do the search with enough men to confront the Yoma, while leaving enough back at the cathedral.
A beat.
"Send a party of four bravehearts," Rodrik goes. "Instruct them.. that if they come upon the Yoma.. or it come over them, they do not fight. It would be their end. Just.. they shall flee back, as fast as their legs are able and call out to the cathedral for us to hear. Should they manage to return here, they knock hard on these locked doors. Understood?"
A long beat.
"Right away Ser." The head guard heads off to-
"Wait," Rodrik goes. "Before that, you have Clare there evaluate you.. and then your choice of men."
A beat.
Tomas blinks, comprehending Rodrik's addendum, before heeding his commands. Ser Rodrik watches the head guard weave his way through the people sitting, all the way over to that silver-eyed woman.
Clare turns to the approaching militiaman coming from the crowd.
"Miss," he goes, taking breaths.
"Yes?" Clare goes.
"Ser Rodrik wants me.. checked," he goes. Clare notices a gulp come down his exposed throat.
"Hold still," Clare goes.
Tomas stands as still as he could manage it.
She reaches her fingers out to his forehead.
Tomas felt his heart elevating as her fingers come. He shuts his eyes. His life will be over. Thirteen years of duty and he fears her fingers.
Some of his sweat is left on her fingers. The militiaman is relatively mundane.
"You can go," Clare says.
Tomas lets out a sigh. With a departing glance, he carries himself over to where his men are – standing amongst the people with their pikes and shields at hand.
Ser Rodrik sees the head guard go around and disappear behind the myriads of people. It is time to know what everyone has gathered here for. So he makes his way over to the very back by the standing Clare's side.
"Welcome all; welcome each of you. Welcome." His voice booms through the open spaces. "Right now, we gather all here in a conclave, for the purpose of.. allowing our visitor to evaluate your condition."
Ser Tomas brings along his four brave men over to the back – he hesitates; Ser Rodrik's speeches are of utmost importance in such a gathering as this.
"We-" Rodrik notices Tomas' approach with his men. He gives a nod over and turns his head to Clare in a gesture.
Tomas nods back, and leads his four men over to Clare.
"Apparent to general knowledge, is that there is a single Yoma out of one of us. But hold steady. Do not panic." Seeing the gang of children turn to madness is disaster. "If the Yoma were to pop and show itself amongst us now.. our friend Clare here shall deal with it, here and now." Rodrik half-expects the beast to come out from its camouflage at his taunt. But it doesn't. Murmurs. "But it won't, I see. That's to be expected."
A beat.
"So we hold conclave, as of right now," Rodrik goes. "Conclave. No one is to enter nor leave the vicinity."
Clare finishes checking all four of the watch, and lets them go. Tomas leads his guards through the fettered people, over to the main entrance. He pushes the grand gates open for his men to go out, before going out himself, and the gate is pulled shut with a bang by an adjacent watch. And on cue, the watch with the help of St. Hélène's servants bar the gate shut. No one will go in, and no one comes out while the Yoma remains breathing.
And on cue, paranoia shoots through the populace. People shy away from one another. It could be any one of them, and there is no space safe enough from anyone's grasp..
"This is nonsense!" This outburst comes from a man, calling out to Rodrik. "What the hell are you going to do? You're dooming us all, trapping us here with that thing!"
"Yes. And that thing is trapped with its bane," Rodrik goes. But his words don't mollify the crowd. Several of the people close by the empty space around Clare and the vizier start taking steps forward.
Rodrik draws his longsword.
"Stay back. Back off. Way off." He frantically points his sword to those who think of approaching. "Back away." And taking steps back, they reluctantly do. But the whole crowd is turning into chaos. The people turn to madness, with all its present allure. This is so bad.
Then some guy from the back throws a punch against someone – right in the face, making that someone reel back. Everyone starts-
A deafeningly loud clack catches everyone's attention – Rodrik had quite dulled his longsword in the name of order, having slammed it into the hard ground.
"Enough! Enough!"
The air of madness gives way to the voice of reason for now.
"Here's what we do. All of us who have not been checked, men, women and children – feel free to sit here and still in the main hall. No moving, and no talking. No pissing or shitting, nothing. When Clare has checked and found you clean, you shall move yourself to a chapel to wait – no second thoughts. Keep order and proper distance away from one another. After this ordeal is done.. I offer my apologies for the trouble."
Utter dead silence.
Ser Rodrik nods on to the standing Clare.
And she goes to start with the first row of many people. The lone sound of her boot clicks on the ground serves to magnify the feelings of apprehension. Icy touches against skin, one after the other. Those she has checked shuffle nervously their way over to a chapel room.
The first row is done now. Clare moves on to the second row and checks in the opposite direction. It is like sweeping; eventually, however long and tedious this is, the Yoma will be found-
A faint shriek from outside.
Clare stops.
The crowd looks on to Clare, curious as to why she has stopped. They stand on the very edges of their toes. Did she..?
It is a very faint shriek, pained, almost inhumane. It is faint, beyond the realm of normal hearing. It stops.
A beat.
"Outside," Clare goes. "The Yoma is outside.."
"What?" Rodrik goes.
"I can hear.. their screams," Clare goes.
Focusing yoki, she goes to make her legs fast.
Her legs contort under the yoki, strained.
Fast.
Her legs come with a newfound energy, erring to run it all off.
Fast.
Her heartbeats pound ravishly inside. People nearby cringe away from the sight of her silver eyes transitioning to the daemonic yellow of Yoma.
Clare shuffles her legs, making her way through the people as they start standing. Close by the entrance door, her cloak snags on something – a large hulk of a man; the fabric is caught between his fingers. She tugs her cloak free from him. As she turns to the door, she had thought she made out a little smile from his ragged face.
By the entrance door, Clare tries to push the massive entrance open – she notices it has been barred by way of an oak piece held in place.
From behind, she makes out Ser Rodrik giving instructions to have everyone hide within the chapels.
"Sorry," the watch goes. "I'll have it-"
Clare draws her hefty sword – and gives the oak piece a split down the middle – a loud crack. She then pushes the massive doors open, out to the light.
/
The sun is nearing the horizons, giving the sky its evening hues of pink, purple and blue. Its rays hit her face with light as she comes out the cathedral to the empty outside square.
The doors behind her slam shut.
How empty it feels. The vendor shops are sprawled around with no one to tend. Nary a sound, other than the inside commotion of the cathedral and her squeezing heartbeats. Clare looks all around, trying to remember which direction that shriek of pain came from.
More screams – they come from the right. Clare could almost feel the pain that makes the screams. She sheaths her greatsword on her back.
And she makes her legs dash her to the right in all haste.
Fast.
Her boots clack fast on the stone ground like the sounds of many hammers making chinks on nails.
Fast.
The empty surroundings are but sights of blurs, passing her by.
Fast.
The wind is a chafing breeze against her face.
Fast.
And another scream - more subdued this time. They are dying.
Clare forces more yoki down her body. I must go faster... more faster... She could feel the bones and skin of face contort under the stress, as her feet and legs feel like they would rip apart without much further ado.
The screams become lowly whimpers. They get louder the closer she comes, but all the while getting softer as they die.
Faster.
She reaches the point where she could make the dying voices no louder to her. They come from her left – a narrow space leading down between the two stone buildings. Muffled their whimpers are. She lets the yoki go from her legs.
Clare draws the massive greatsword once again. Her heart pounds incessantly inside her. She makes her way down the spacing between – it slopes down..
down..
down until the sky seems to almost disappear between the long, dirt walls.
There is a door ajar that leads a way to darkness.
A long beat, where Clare stares on, contemplating the possible horrors yet to come.
Then, Clare goes in. Her greatsword leads her way.
/
As her eyes adjust to make subtle shades of light more perceptible, Clare notices a stairway leading further down to a blackness. It strongly reeks of the sour, bitter smell of blood here.
The whimpers are now little sobs.
Clare absorbs a last look back to the outside, and descends down the steps. Movements slow and tense. Clatters of boots on the steps. Heart beating. Heavy greatsword trembling in her slightly hands. She begins to glisten with sweat.
A loud clatter from below.
Clare gasps for control on her breaths, fighting for calm. Halfway down the steps now.
She makes her eyes adjust to more of the darkness, letting in as much light through her eyes as possible.
And there she could make out.. a puddle at the end, a darkened puddle at the end of the way. It stinks especially here.
No sound, other than her heart beating and erratic breathing. No sound. Not a sob, whimper or shout.
Clare tightens her two-handed grip on the sword. She moves on forward, to the puddle, to where the puddle comes from – another doorway.
Forward she goes. Her boots make somewhat of a splash on the wetness.
Clare stumbles, tripping on something in the dark – she cries out some of her fear, struggling blindly to hold onto something as she falls, can't find it, a free hand clawing desperately onto what it is- too late. She lands face flat onto the wet. Ouch!
A beat.
The musky sour stench is unbearable. It smells like raw, rotting meat, with a strange tinge of sweetness.
She regains herself. She notices her hand touching something.. something hard, smooth that glistens with cold wet. Blind in the dark, her fingers feel around it – the surface begins to feel dented..
and then comes upon something sticking out from it. Cold, corrugated.. and hooked sharp at the end.
Wait.
Her fingers frantically search around the body – feeling up to its neck, and its head, where another thing sticks out.
What is..
Screams. They sound as distant as before back in the cathedral, and much more painful than the ones that came from here. The screams come from back up, from outside.
Her heart skips a beat. The Yoma – it moved this fast?
Clare pulls herself upright amidst the darkness, picking up her greatsword. She sheaths it.
/
Coming outside – the sky is now the faint red and purple of dusk up above. Clare looks upon herself for a bit – she is covered in dabs of red blood all over her uniform.
The screaming continues, much worse.
Clare once more drives the yoki into her aching legs, and runs.
/...
Fast.
/...
She is panting, with her heart about to explode inside her. The square is empty as before.. perhaps more eerily so. The screaming had came from the cathedral.
There is the silence. Oppressive. Unnatural.
Clare manages her aching legs to the great cathedral's closed entrance. With a push, she tries opening the closed doors. They resist. The entrance must be barred from inside.
Clare focuses – willing for more strength to break open these doors.
In and out she breathes the cold, outside air.
And then, she throws the entirety of her body against the doors. Her body thuds against, making a loud slam but apparently having no effect.
She tries this again, over and over – hearing the faint splintering of the oak wood.
And at last, the grand doors give way.
/
Her footsteps clack on the stone floor, making a ghast echo through the place. Frescos of leering monsters, splattered entirely by red, decorate the spaces between the glazed windows high up beyond reach. Red is spread, splattered and smeared upon the open floor between Clare and the other end of the place.