It's been a while since I touched this one. My apologies. But before we get into the chapter, a touch of indulgence, if you would. Those of you who have looked at my profile recently, or else have read the most recent installment of my other Big YGO Story, "Cult of the Dragon King," will know this already. For those who have done neither of these things, lend me your ears.
I've re-launched my YouTube Channel, "Story Time with Iced Blood." It's a Let's Play channel, which is something I've wanted to do for a long time. I've been watching LPs for years now, and I've finally decided to jump in myself. You may also recall that, in this series of stories, this is something that Mokuba does, under the handle "Wonderboy996." Megan, the little gnome spellcaster in this arc, does it as well, as "Madam Why."
15 episodes of my first project, "Resident Evil 4," are up and ready for y'all, if you're interested. I'm going to get to work compiling the 16th after this chapter is posted.
My channel is in its infancy, so any interest or assistance at all is immensely appreciated. This could become a career for me, if it takes off, so if you're looking for a way to support me as I continue working toward my first novel, and working on these stories as I do so, this is definitely a big way to do it.
Thanks so much for your patience. Now, on with the story.
1.
"You know, it's not often that we get fine-dressed lords 'n ladies about. 'Specially ones what consort wit' beasts 'n creatures."
Mokuba stopped walking, turned, and set a hand on one hip. He raised a Kaiba's eyebrow. "It's a new age," he rumbled. The speaker, a rotund man swathed in silks and jewelry, eyed him suspiciously. "We have been summoned on behalf of the queen, and act as her hands here in the streets." He turned away and kept walking.
Jonah shoulder-checked the nobleman, grinning when he let out a squawk of indignation.
"The streets seem rather calm," Rebecca murmured slowly, "considering this talk of people being eaten. First the queen, now the upper echelon." She eyed the nobleman severely, and a green tendril snaked its way down her arm like a serpent. "These folk seem too . . . well-adjusted, if you ask me."
"When people are watching their loved ones get eaten by corpses," Jonah growled, "the well-adjusted ones are the first to start screaming and tearing out their teeth. These people? They're well and truly fucked." He grinned toothily. "Pardon the language." Then he looked back at the nobleman and bowed deeply at the waist; Megan hopped off Jonah's shoulder, landed in front of him, and curtsied. "By your leave, Milord," the orc said. "Mightn't ye cast me off in the direction of the nearest zoo, Milord? Shouldn't like to offend your sensibilities, Milord."
"Lock him up! Watch him squirm, Milord! Milord!" Megan offered this in a weirdly coquettish sort of voice that made Connor snicker. Then she cackled merrily, and jumped right back into place as Jonah straightened. Mokuba, for his part, smirked again and gestured for the others to follow.
"With me. Quickly. If we're going to handle this . . . situation, we should move."
"Where?" Connor asked, flipping a knife end over end and catching it. Mokuba watched as he lifted the fat nobleman's coin purse and slipped it into a pocket. "We don't even know what we're doing. We up and leave the queen with a court full of dead bodies, we come out here and everything's sugar and dewdrops. Where, fearless leader, are we going to find the root of the problem?"
The others all looked at each other. For one, even Megan and Jonah—who had only met Connor a few hours ago—knew that this was not Connor Brinkley speaking. Two, he had a point. Only Mokuba, wearing a knight's face, seemed entirely unabashed by the question.
He simply gestured grandly and said, "Where else would you go, if you're looking for the dead?"
Connor started grinning first, and he said, in a low voice that sent shivers down several spines:
"The graveyard."
2.
They hadn't set foot past the back of the church and into the cemetery before someone called out to them. Looking around, they saw a child, sitting on one of the tombstones and swinging his legs back and forth.
He was a boy, about twelve or thirteen, dressed like a beggar. His coarse brown shirt had a low-cut neck, and he used a length of rope to keep his shorts—made of the same cloth—cinched at his thin waist. The only things even remotely expensive about his outfit were his boots, which were made of soft, supple leather.
Curly red hair framed the boy's face, and somehow he looked at once like a beggar and a prince. His brown eyes sparkled intently as he hopped down and approached the party. "Good fortune to you," he said. His voice was light, happy, supremely inappropriate for his surroundings.
A great many graves had been desecrated, just like the queen had said; some looked like they'd been dug out with a shovel; others looked naturally sunken in. There were lines in the dirt, like hands had been digging through it. Clawing at it. Mokuba ignored the boy, and strode over to one of the overturned graves. Glancing inside, he saw a wooden coffin lying innocuously at the bottom of the seven-foot hole. The lid had burst open from the inside, leaving splinters and shards in the dirt.
Mokuba put a hand on the hilt of his weapon and turned slightly to regard the boy. "Do you make a habit of vandalizing the beds of the dead, boy?"
The beggar prince blinked, and smiled broadly, revealing startlingly white teeth. "Why, no, my lord. It's my first day!" He bent down and pulled up a pickaxe from where it had been leaning, against the stone he'd been seated on. "Master said I should use a shovel, but honestly, I find this a lot easier. It's not as heavy."
Jonah growled deep in his throat. ". . . I hate flippant children," he rumbled.
Connor chuckled. "That explains a lot," he said. "What's your name, stranger?" he asked the boy.
"Deacon."
Connor raised an eyebrow. "That's not your real name, is it?"
"Of course not," Deacon said. "I don't know you, my lords and ladies. Master says I shouldn't trust strangers. To you, I am Deacon. It's one of my names."
"Did you set these things upon the queen?" Rebecca asked, gesturing at the ruined yard. "Are you responsible for the blasphemy in the castle parlor, Deacon?"
Deacon shrugged his thin shoulders. "I've never even seen the castle, my lady. Maybe you didn't notice, but I'm kind of . . . um, what's the word? I forget. Poor. The City of the Moon doesn't stand much for people moving above their station. It's not a tourney day. I wouldn't even be allowed past the Diamond Gate. Much less the castle."
". . . Trust him?" Megan asked Jonah. "Trust the little princess boy? Look at him, look." She finally hopped down onto the ground and practically skipped up to Deacon. For his part, the little redhead looked down at the gnomish sorceress without the faintest trace of fear, or even interest. She looked up at him, frowning intently. "Boy? Girl? Both? Neither? What is the little princess boy? Who is his master? Why does he talk of graves?"
"I've given you a name," Deacon said lightly. "Won't you give me yours?"
"False names. Don't count." Megan huffed and crossed her arms. "This one does not speak with liars."
"I was honest enough to tell you that I was lying," Deacon said. He cocked his head. "Does that count for anything?"
Mokuba suddenly exploded into movement, reaching out one metal-clad hand and gripping Deacon by the throat. He set the tip of his sword against one of the boy's cheeks. The paladin's violet eyes gleamed with sudden malice. "Let me tell you what will count, boy!" he hissed. "What will count is you telling me the meaning of this sacrilege! Who disturbs the sleep of the sacred dead?! Why do you sit here, happy as a lamb, making jokes?! Speak!"
Dead silence. Gone was the nonchalant amusement. Deacon's thin face had gone pale, his lips trembled, and a little drip of blood fell down his cheek in stark contrast to his lily skin. This wasn't the fear of a child who didn't understand the nature of the threat in front of him. This was the mortal terror of a burn victim staring into a bonfire.
The others all stared at each other. Connor was grinning; Jonah looked excited.
Rebecca and Megan crossed their arms and waited.
A new voice broke the sacrament: "Smart move, holy warrior. It's always best to go for the throat to shut him up. It's a shame I didn't figure that out sooner. It would have saved me a great number of headaches."
The man who approached them was wearing clothing that made a mockery of nobility. He was lanky, dirt-streaked, but his eyes were bright. He wore a long, haggard coat that was frayed at the bottom, and beneath it they could just catch sight of a blade hooked to a thick belt.
The man scratched at the stubble marring his chin. He held up a hand. "You asked after the brat's master. My guess? That would be me."
Mokuba tossed the boy onto the ground and turned to face the man. "And what name will you give us?"
The man shrugged. "I only own two, sorry to say. Trevahn, and Fremont." Trevahn stopped for a moment, then gestured to the boy. "I'll give you a third. That one, there. His name is Brenyn. Whatever lie he's given you, disregard it."
Trevahn tucked his thumbs behind his belt, and sauntered over to them. He nodded once to Mokuba's character, and gave a little bow to Megan. "You are Her Ladyship's new champions, I take it. Here you see the, ah, preamble to the main event in her chambers." He gestured to some of the cleaner holes. "I got to those ones. Burned them before they could rise. Unfortunately, one of the Sisters—Father bless them—caught wind of my illicit activities, and locked me up before I could get to the rest. They're the ones you were lucky enough to meet. Lady Viranda gave a rather stunning performance, as I hear it. Did you know about her? Assassinated on her wedding night, the poor thing."
Mokuba's scowl intensified. "You're telling me . . . you are responsible for this display?"
"That I am. When they're well and truly burnt, they can't come back up. I hope you aren't one of those obstinate holy men, who refuses to listen to reason because it isn't pleasing to his faith. The dead don't rest anymore, ladies and gentlemen. You should know, better than most of these sheep, just what that means."
"They all convened on the queen's castle," Rebecca said. "How is it none of the other people in the city have noticed?"
Trevahn shrugged. "Willful stupidity? I've had the boy working on it since we showed up here. It looks like he's actually been diligent about the task I've given him . . . this time. More than I can say for most of the errands I've set him on." He shook his head. "Listen to me, champions of the realm: if you want to save this city, and stop it from becoming some relic of the past like Longreth in the north, then listen to me, instead of arguing. Can you do that?"
"What are you talking about?" Mokuba asked suddenly. "Longreth is fine and good. Standing as tall as it ever has."
Trevahn smirked devilishly. "How long has it been since you've set foot in that hallowed fortress, knight?"
"I came here, directly from the capitol of the empire," Mokuba said, "not two ten-days ago."
Trevahn chuckled. "Interesting. I'll have to show you, someday, just what that lofty perch has become in such a short time. The living never last long against their beloved dead." He turned and pointed far off to the edge of the cemetery; roughly sixty feet in front of them sat a mausoleum, flanked by torches and bearing elaborate carvings that might have been inscriptions—they couldn't tell from this distance.
"There," Trevahn said, "is the heart of this cosmic joke. If you would save this gem of Heaven, then seek your answers there. Sing to the babe who makes its cradle in the grave," he added after some thought, then chuckled as though he'd just made a joke.
"This feels too easy," Jonah said.
Trevahn shrugged. "Says the jouster who has yet to take the field. An easy path does not mean an easy destination. Now come along. We have a tomb to plunder. Unless, of course," Trevahn's eyes flashed, "it would offend your sensibilities. Milord."
Jonah blinked, then grinned, revealing his sharp, predator's teeth. "You've been following us."
"You're hard to resist, you motley lot. Shall we do our civic duty, then? Save the queen? Save the kingdom?"
Mokuba gestured dismissively. "Fine, then. Lead on, Ser Fremont."
"Ah . . . that's Lord Fremont, actually."
"Of course it is. Get on with it."
3.
.
Trevahn pulled a torch out from underneath his coat, and something much smaller from a pocket of his pants. Flicking the tiny object into the air, he revealed it to be a tiny stone. It had a tinge of red to it, and when he held it to the unlit torch, the oil-soaked cloth went up in flame almost instantly. This done, he set the red stone back into his pocket and turned over his shoulder to look at the others. Gesturing grandly with his torch, he said, "After you, good ser."
Mokuba rolled his eyes, and stepped forward. Trevahn fell into step behind him and held the torch aloft. The others all fell behind Trevahn, with Brenyn taking up the rear. The red-haired little imp looked positively bored as they stepped into the mausoleum.
The stone around you is ancient, older than the dreams of kings,came Seto Kaiba's voice, ethereal but no less powerful than it always was; it came from everywhere, and nowhere, all at once. The man was nowhere to be seen, and neither Trevahn nor Brenyn seemed to hear him. Cobwebs act like tapestries, and the spiders dance away into nowhere as you approach.
True to their Dungeon Master's narrative, they all saw spiders skittering away, making little scratching sounds, as the party's footfalls echoed off the old stone walls. Megan eeked and hopped back onto Jonah's shoulders. At the odd looks she received, the little gnome shrugged her tiny shoulders and said, "Scared of eight-legged crawlies."
Brenyn, almost casually, crushed one of the little arachnids under the toe of one of his soft boots, smiling coyly as he did. When he caught Mokuba looking back at him, the boy cocked his head to one side and winked.
Stone caskets were set into alcoves cut into the walls, marked with runes that none of them could read. This didn't stop Megan from trying, but after a long stretch of silence while she tried to puzzle some meaning out of the strokes and swirls carved into the resting beds of the dead, she gave up. "No words," she proclaimed. "Random way-sayings." None of the others seemed to have any idea what this meant, so they left it alone. She took up her vigil again, and they moved on.
Mokuba did his best to keep up his character's mistrust of Trevahn Fremont, but a blind man could have told that the boy in the man's body was fascinated by the character.
Trevahn was snarky, arrogant, and clearly thought very little of the group that was following him, and yet he moved with an easy confidence, and the way he held his weapon bespoke clear familiarity with it. None of the other players missed the fact that he was dressed in a long coat, and that he had dark brown hair. Aside from these details he didn't look like the elder Kaiba, physically; he was thinner, shorter, and his face had a ruddy look that bespoke heavy drinking. Also, his clothing might once have been rich, but long years of heavy, indifferent wear had rendered it into such a state that no lord, or corporate executive, would have been caught dead in it. However, the man seemed to exude Seto's essence, and Mokuba was clearly affected by it.
Connor was near the boy, and after a while they started to carry on a whispered conversation. Rebecca, acting in her capacity of a warden of nature, seemed just as suspicious of Trevahn—and Brenyn—as Mokuba was trying to be, for different reasons. Mokuba was playing on his character's religious convictions, while Rebecca seemed far more troubled by the desecration and mockery of the dead on an instinctive level.
"Who are these folk?" Rebecca asked Trevahn after a while. "Surely they are honored, if they rest beneath stones, instead of earth. But so many . . ."
"The Moon City cares for its brave men and women of the Walk," Trevahn said. At the silence that followed this, he raised an eyebrow. "Never been to good old Lorat, have you?" Rebecca shook her head. Trevahn looked around the caskets with a fair amount more respect than they might have expected from him. He said, "The story goes, there was a girl. A common-born girl, in an age beyond memory. She was born to a kind family, with her parents and her brothers and her sisters. They were strong people, hardy people, all with golden hair and bright emeralds for eyes. Truly a sight. But this girl, her name was Selena, she was born without any color at all atop her head. Nay, her hair was white."
Mokuba's face lost some of its edge. "Cause for concern, surely," he guessed.
"Oh, yes," Trevahn said. "White brings black. The darkness is drawn to the light, and monsters are drawn to anyone with white hair. Such is the old legend. It's an omen, you see. Palehairs are wrought ever with misfortune, and Selena's family would have done well to drown the babe in a river. Their fellows would have thought the better of them if they had."
"That was the custom?" Connor asked. "To kill babies?"
"Yes. This is hard country. A child with ill luck is a child that cannot be suffered. Children here in Moon Country must work, and earn their keep. Folks say that pregnant crop-marms are at their work, harvesting, right up 'til the point they spit a child out onto the ground, and the younglings are picking carrots and turnips out of the dirt right alongside their mothers before the day sets down to sleep."
Megan tittered with sudden laughter that echoed. She squeaked, and quieted.
The mausoleum quickly became a maze, and only Trevahn seemed to know where they were going. He went on: "But Selena's mother was born with Allacinne in her blood, and couldn't bear to kill her own daughter. So the family kept her, in a room beneath the floorboards. They fed her, and clothed her, and schooled her. All in the safety of that room."
"Seems a foul way to live," Mokuba said.
"Does it?" Trevahn asked. "Sheltered by a loving family? Mm. Well, I must cede to your expertise, ser knight. In any case, the family quickly learned that little Selena loved to sing. Oh, how she loved to sing. And her voice was beautiful. So beautiful that it made the family weep for the blessing they'd been given. And one day, so overcome with the beauty of their young daughter, Selena's parents took her from her room beneath the floor, and brought her out into the night, so that she could sing in the open air."
"Ooooh," Brenyn cooed, "I know where this story is going."
Jonah grunted.
Trevahn's smile was sardonic, and almost ghastly. "The white brought the dark," he said. "The people heard the singing, and they came to the family's home to see what heavenly creature could possibly make sounds so lovely as that. They saw Selena, and her white hair, and the night screamed with fire."
"They killed her," Connor guessed.
"Oh, no," Trevahn said. "It's ill luck to behold a creature with white hair, but it's suicide to kill such a thing. No, they cast her out, so that the dark might claim her. But her family? Her mother, her sire, her brothers, her sisters? Even the livestock. All were put to the sword. Or . . . the pickaxe. The shovel. The pitchfork. Not a single member of little Selena's family lived through that night. Selena left her home, alone, drenched in her lady mother's blood and bruised by stones and blunt sticks."
Trevahn stopped a moment, and glanced up. "Still she sang. Still she remained hopeful. In her music, she found solace. She would sing at all hours of the night, and she would sleep in the day to avoid discovery. The nights in this country became haunted, entranced by Selena's music. And the legends say that . . . some two hundred years before today, Selena sang a song that was so beautiful, so sad and so heartfelt, that it lulled the world itself to sleep. As the world lay on its side to rest, Selena found the sky beneath her feet. And Heaven in the sky bade her come closer. Closer, sweetling, closer, that we might hear you. And so she walked, into the sky, still singing. She sang, and she walked, and she sang, and she walked, and she sang. But the earth covets the air. It keeps the air so close to itself, like a winter cloak. And soon, Selena's singing began to quiet, and she choked, unable to breathe."
Caught up in the story, the others didn't move. Even Brenyn was paying close attention now. They stood stock-still in the dark, listening.
Trevahn said, "Heaven panicked, and began to storm. Wake! Wake, you earth, and help your precious daughter! So Heaven ordered, and so the earth obeyed. It sent a piece of itself up, out, and enveloped Selena. Enchanted with air, enchanted with light, Selena was free to sing for as long as she wished, and so she stayed there, up in the sky. And that enchanted hunk of earth? We call it Moon. So you see? The old legends have it right. The light does bring the dark. But the moon takes in so much darkness around itself, and keeps it up, up, away from us. The moon, shining so brightly, protects us in the night. Selena protects us in the night."
Megan leaned in close. "Mmmmmmm . . . ?" she crooned.
"They say that the great tower in the center of our fair city, the one that pierces the sky, was built on the precise spot Selena was standing when the world went to sleep. We call it Selena's Walk. You see? It rises, rises along the path into Heaven that Selena took, before she became the moon."
Mokuba frowned. "A pretty story," he said after a while, "but what has that to do with this crypt?"
"The royal family of this fair city-state," Trevahn said, "is always led by a woman who takes on the name Selena, in deference to the Celestial Siren who guards us. Although some take other names, as well, out of respect for the names of the dead. Such is the case with dear Queen Meyari. And we, in turn, guard her. Lorat is home to one of the most celebrated private armies in all of Phila. The Ten Guards of the Walk. They are the men and women who fend off any creature, be they human or beast or demon. They keep us safe in the night. And here, in this crypt, we lay them to rest. Any man or woman bearing the mark of a Guard is brought here."
Trevahn began to walk again. "Including . . ." he trailed off, and rounded a corner. They descended a short flight of stairs, and soon the party found itself in a small room, twenty feet by twenty feet by twenty feet.
A young boy sat in the center of the room, wispy and ethereal; they could all see through him. He was dressed in royal clothing, and his hair was long, curly. His face was lovely, but sad. Pained. Terrified.
Trevahn gestured grandly.
"May I present to you Prince Selbin, Fifteenth of His Name, the last blood descendent of the Celestial Siren's natural-born family. If you would end this plague, and bring the dead back to their rightful rest, and send the souls of the damned along the Pale River as they should, then here is how you do it."
The prince opened his mouth, tried to speak, but couldn't.
"How do we do that?" Mokuba asked.
Trevahn dug into his bag, and finally fished out a stone. It looked like a gem, black with streams of blue and violet, sparkling like star-light. He gripped it in one hand, while his other still held the torch, whispered something in a language that none of them could understand, and threw the rock down to the stone floor.
It shattered, blinding them all in a flash of sudden sunlight.
When vision returned, Prince Selbin was solid. Present. They could hear his breathing, they could see his breath in the cold, dusty air. His clothes were a faded purple laced with gold. His hair was white as fresh-fallen snowflakes. His eyes were bright green.
He skittered away from them, terrified.
Trevahn drew in a breath. ". . . If you would end this plague, then you must burn it at its source."
He thrust the torch at Mokuba.
"Kill the prince."
The story of Princess Selena is a myth that I've been cultivating for a while. Ditto for the characters of Trevahn and Brenyn. See, my best friend and I have been playing Dungeons & Dragons for a couple of years now. Once I started working on my own fiction, and building my own world, we decided to run all of our games in that setting. Avorah, this world is called. And Lorat (also called Mooncrest in my various notes) is one of those places.
So, in case you wondered, most of the mythology in this little side arc of mine are my own invention. This is, if you like, a crossover between YGO and Avorah.
Thought you guys might find that interesting.
Join me next time for the finale of this venture. It should be a good one.
Have a fantastic day!
