CHAPTER TWO:One to lead us.
All was quiet within the Guild. Nothing had entered this place for hundreds and hundreds of years. The only sound to be heard was the slow, almost rhythmic drip of water in the deep.
The Halls still bore the wounds from the night that the people of Albion decided the Heroes weren't to be trusted, and laid waste to the sanctuary. The bookshelves were shattered and burned, dust blanketed every surface, and broken stone littered the floor. No light filtered into the Guild. Inside was everlasting night.
Suddenly, a dull thud echoes through the halls. A second thud follows, dust and debris being shaken from the ceiling, while piercing bright light blasts into the Guild in rays. Finally, an echoing bang, as an old door is blasted inwards and breaks against the remains of the old Map Table.
Scythe stepped into the ruined hall, covering his mouth to block the dust, his eyes squinting in the darkness. "Well… This is going to take longer than I thought…" His gaze roved the room, falling on the broken staircases that led to nothing, the cave-ins.
There was nothing for it but to take a look and see what he had to work with. So, gathering a fistful of flames, he walked carefully into the Guild itself.
From the looks, he had very little to work with. Barely anything remained of the old Guild and its grounds. It seemed like it would be a complete overhaul, if not a rebuild from the ground up. The only thing he had in his favor was that time had almost eroded Hero Hill, meaning that part's of the old stone ramparts were now exposed to the world. He wouldn't need to break apart a mountain to make the Guild accessible, and he silently thanked Avo; He doubted he could have done it, at his age.
After pushing an old bookcase out of the way, he descended the steps towards the Chamber of Fate. This was the place where most of the work would be done. The site of Jack's death, the hall displaying the life of the boy from Oakvale. There was still much magic to be found here, and even after nearly 2500 years, it was completely undamaged.
He ascended the steps, standing in the centre of the raised circle platform, gazing at the portraiture around him. How long ago had these portraits been painted? And who had the artist been? Scythe either couldn't remember, or he never knew to begin with. Many of them had faded over time, but he could see Twinblade cutting Theresa's eyes out, the Jackslayer with Whisper, standing together in the Arena…
No, no time to reflect on the past. There was much work to do.
Sweeping his cloak aside, Scythe kneeled on the platform, running his hand along the Guild Seal etched into the floor. The metallic pattern responded to his touch, flashing with blue energy as wisps of aura trailed into the air around him. He rose and took a step back, closing his eyes.
For a full 5 minutes he stood stock still, slowing his breathing while the magic of the Guild swept around him in a vortex. Then he opened his eyes, uttering a single word; "Weaver."
The swirling blue mana took on a fever pitch, whipping around like a tornado. Slowly but surely, it began to solidify, taking the form of a small, slightly bent man. The magical column of light disappeared entirely, and Weaver, the former Guildmaster, opened his eyes.
"You summoned me, William?" he asked conversationally, as if being brought back from the afterlife 2500 years after dying was a routine, everyday thing. His slightly rheumy eyes flittered across the battered chamber, and he blinked quickly, gripping the cane in his right hand tightly. "My goodness, is that what this is about?"
"Indeed it is, Weaver." Replied Scythe in a business-like tone. "The world has changed again. It's going to need heroes."
"Oh I see." Weaver muttered, returning his gaze to William as he rubbed his tattooed forehead in frustration. "I take it that you want me to rebuild the Guild? I may not be quite as old as you, my friend, but I think I've transcended 'Elderly' by now." His voice was one of annoyance, but his mustache twitched slightly; The old man was hiding a smile.
Scythe let out a dry, rasping chuckle. "There's still plenty of strength left in those old bones. And the Guild will need a strong leader. You are the best man for the job, in my opinion."
"Flattery will get you no where." Weaver finally cracked a grin. "At any rate, just look at this place." He gestured around the battered room. "I can't train young heroes in a place like this. And I'm no mason. The best I could do is to shout and wave my walking stick at the walls and hope it all falls into place."
"I do not expect you to physically rebuild the Guild." Scythe said, inclining his head respectfully. "Not alone, at least. I will help you in that regard, and I'm sure that you could find people willing to assist you."
Weaver rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course. I'm sure people would jump at the opportunity. Come now, let's have no pretence. You know how the Guild fell. The people of Albion distrust us, fear us."
"That was then. This is now. You say you are old, but I'm sure you could still vanquish a Balverine or a pack of troublesome Hobbes if presented with one." Scythe said all this slowly, as if trying to put a point across.
Weaver seemed to follow. "Save the people, win their trust. Yes, of course. You're right, as usual." The old man didn't quite enjoy the prospect of wandering around Albion, fighting deadly creatures. But he trusted Scythe's judgment, and knew that if the task truly was beyond him, Scythe wouldn't have called him in the first place. He also knew that there really wasn't anyone else for it. True, there had been better warriors than he, but a level head and willingness to teach and impart knowledge was needed here. "Very well." He sighed after a moment's pause. "I'll do it."
"Excellent." Scythe clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you, Weaver."
It would be a lot of work, according to Weaver's guesses. Years, at least, before the Guild was operational. And then there would be the time it took to train youngsters, to craft weapons. Then he had to factor in the time it took for him to walk across Albion. He wondered if the Guild Seals and Cullis Gates would work, after all this time.
"Some of the Cullis Gates are still in tact, but only a few of them are operational." Muttered Scythe as the pair descended the steps of the raised platform. He seemed to have been thinking along the same lines. "The one which originally stood at the fork near Bowerstone and the Guild is still there."
"Would it even still be Bowerstone?" Weaver asked, coming to an abrupt halt. "I'd wager that quite a deal of time has passed between the end of Jack and now. Surely the landmarks have changed."
Scythe nodded in agreement. "The world has indeed moved on. But when it started new, the people found maps and writings of the Old World. When they rebuilt, it was to those designs, more or less. Of course Bowerstone now may not lie precisely where it did before the End, but it is all mostly the same."
From a pocket within his cloak, Scythe pulled an ancient golden disc, slightly larger than a coin. It was, of course, a Guild Seal. Without a word, he handed it to Weaver, who understood what he must do next.
"Fare thee well, Weaver." Scythe said with a bow to the old Hero.
Weaver merely smiled, clutching the Seal tightly in his fist. Despite the arduous task ahead of him, he felt good, to be out and about again. To be alive. He disappeared with a flash of blue light, leaving Scythe alone once again.