"—! Something is stirring..."
Abel whispered softly to himself, his tone poised and etched with a hint of trepidation.
He felt it—a change happening in his mind, but he could not fully realize what it was, yet something was there, something was wrong.
It has been set in motion; it was always meant to be this way; there needed only to be a trigger for it.
Abel sighed as he sewed the last stitch in place of his little project, his hobby—a small doll. He had sat on a bench and had been working on it for the past six hours. It was ashen in color; it did not have a face, nor eyes, nor a nose, or mouth. It was simply a series of cotton-filled cloths that were stitched together to resemble a human in physique.
Putting the needle in-between his teeth, Abel held the doll in his right hand as he wiggled around the doll's limbs. Content that each arm and leg were sufficiently fastened to its torso, he tucked it in his jacket pocket and pinned the needle on his right breast.
He looked to the right, seeing the sun beginning to shine its brilliance upon Orario. He heard the bell ringing as shop owners opened their doors—some had brooms in their hands to dust off their welcoming mats; others had carpet beaters. But Abel had no interest in visiting any of the various shops. Instead, his unbandaged eye was mainly fixated on the doors of the guild.
Some employees had already walked and clocked in. A rose-haired werewolf, a pink-haired human, and a brown-haired half-elf. Most of the members of the guild Abel spotted were predominantly women. Though, there were a handful of male employees.
Abel uncrossed his legs and jumped off the bench. So many adventurers were already making their way to the guild as well. An abusive, beautiful relationship. Abel laughed to himself as he maneuvered around the many men and women, humans and pallums, dwarves and elves—each holding their own personal weapon, their tool for slaughter and survival. Bows, spears, swords, daggers. And each of them held within their hearts the madness to plunge themselves into the dungeon's harrowing depths.
Abel stood out like a sore thumb amongst them. He wore no armor, instead, a prim vest and a trench coat. He had no (visible) weapons on him. If anything, he seemed as though he wanted to do business as some sort of entrepreneur. That was true, to a finite degree.
"Hello!" Abel cheerfully greeted the receptionist. He placed his elbows on the desk as he folded his fingers to rest his chin upon. The werewoman looked at him with an indifferent golden eye.
"And how may I help you?" she asked. Her voice was stern with a hint of annoyance, presumably to Abel's peppy tone.
"I was hoping that I could speak to your boss. I have quite pressing matters to discuss with him." Abel politely smiled.
The werewoman's eye suddenly sharpened at the mention of her boss. She eyed him, up and down. He wore no armor, instead, a prim vest and a trench coat. He had no (visible) weapons on him. He looked like your typical civilian. Though, she had never seen him before. And with his particular set of attire, especially the bandages, she was sure that she would have remembered seeing him.
"May I ask what these matters are?"
"Oh, just some private affairs in regards to the city. It shouldn't take too long out of his busy schedule."
"Hmmmmm."
"Pretty please~? He's a bit of a friend of mine."
She scoffed as she stepped away from the desk and headed towards Royman's office.
Content with how the situation was playing out, Abel slid back, away from the desk, and made his way to the open lobby. Spotting a completely unoccupied couch, he dove into it, selfishly snatching it to himself. He rolled onto his back and pointed his knee upward, while his hands found themselves tucked as a cushion around the back of his neck yet again. He hummed a tune, a song. It did not contain any words or has ever. It was an old melody belonging to a bygone time. Who he learned it from, he dared to not say aloud. It sounded strange on first listen, like the notes were either a pitch too high or a pitch too low, or the tempo of the rhythm was inconsistent, being Allegro or Adagio on a whim. Yet it was indescribably beautiful.
"EH? Who wants to see me?"
The grumbles of the gut-filled elf resonated in the halls of the guild. Who could possibly be so important to see this early in the morning, in the shift?! The audacity!
Marching his stubby legs to the foyer, he scanned around it with the typical scowl and umbrage of an elf.
"Well? Who was it?"
The werewoman sighed as her golden eyes narrowed to the figure lazily lying on the couch. She pointed at him. Royman scowled as he made his way to the man.
"Hmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmmmmm."
Abel closed his eye and continued to hum, blissfully unaware of the narked elf approaching him.
"Hmmm. Hmmmmmm. Hmm—"
"ROSE! Who is this?! I've never seen him before in my life!"
Abel opened his eye to see Royman upside down, standing over him. Slothfully, Abel hoisted himself upward and turned to face the Guildmaster. Rose sighed and gave a shrug to her boss.
"He's a friend. At least, that's what he said."
Abel gave a laugh as he stood up. Standing upright, he was now a good head taller than the plump dwarf. Abel tilted his head to the side as he placed a finger on his chin.
"Hmmmmm," he thrummed. "Seems I made a mistake. Oops!" he flashed an innocent, childish smile.
Swiftly making his way behind Royman, Abel placed a hand on Royman's shoulder, while his other hand found its onto the elf's gut. Abel began pinching and pulling the pudge of the Guildmaster. Much to Abel's mirth, Royman immediately began to thrash and holler about like a befitting pig.
"So sorry! Seems that I'm in the wrong place! My friend couldn't possibly be this tub of lard."
Letting go of the disgruntled elf, Abel tucked his hands back into his pocket. He turned to the werewoman.
"Thanks anyway, Miss Rose. Say you seem like you haven't had a cup of coffee this morning. Do you know of any good cafés around? Maybe you and I could go together!"
"Hrmph."
Rose scoffed at Abel's supposed suave suggestion and headed back to her desk. Abel gave an abrupt pat on Royman's back before hurrying off. Royman could only gawk at the young man, unable to even muster an insult.
Rounding the foyer's corner, Abel devilishly smiled as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Bronze, silver, gold. So many keys for so many locked doors that hold so many secrets. How delightful! Though, he really only needed one.
He gave a silent 'thanks' to Royman as he twirled the loop around his finger while he made his way down the hall. Many doors aligned themselves against the wall, closed off in privacy. Private rooms for advisors and adventurers to discuss amongst one another; a library with various maps and dungeon-esque encyclopedias; offices for posters and paperwork (Abel audibly gagged as he passed a door with the sign with the text 'taxes').
Finally, Abel arrived at a small door. There was no sign to indicate the purpose of the door, but Abel knew full-well what the door led to. Holding the set of keys up, he began to playfully sing.
"Inny, minny, minny, moe… Ah! Here it is."
He held a dulled, golden key. Its bow was composed of a trinity of circles. They were tinted to be a shade darker than its shaft, while the collar's coating had traces of rusting on it. Its partnering lock was equally as dulled as its counterpart. Abel slipped the key into the lock and twisted. A soft click could be heard as the mechanisms flipped and flicked open. Abel looked around to ensure that no prying eyes were looking at him. Satisfied that no one was watching, he clasped the doorknob and opened the door.
.
.
.
Archaic symbols were carved into every inch of the corridor's walls. Slashes, dashes, dots, loosely forming words that molded into sentences. Very few possessed the knowledge necessary to understand the principalities of how the language worked, and fewer knew what was being written out. Even the architect who inscribed the patterns on the wall did not know of its purpose, only understanding that in doing so, he would earn more coins.
Abel reached the end of the hallway, only to be met with a wall. A dead end. To most anyway. Abel began tracing the various symbols that marked the wall.
"Mmmmm, aha."
His finger brushed against the ideogram that read 'zacham'. He pushed his weight onto his finger. On command, the hallway lit up. Streaks of cyan magic flowed into the wall as it began to rise. The aged stones ground against each other as the passage became clear.
"Open sesame," Abel said with a smirk. Tucking his hand back into his pocket, Abel walked right into the chamber.
The chamber was opposite the corridor. Instead of invoking thoughts of claustrophobia, the chamber was open. It was sprawling in a shroud of shadows and darkness—except for a single spot. Alone, sitting atop a throne, torches of light ablaze next to him, sat the Primordial god of the sky.
"Who are you to enter this place?"
His voice was more calming than the elf's from earlier, though it teemed with authority.
"A messenger of sorts," Abel replied casually.
Ouranos glared at the young man, studying him. He was clever, that much was certain. Royman would not be so foolish as to willingly give him access to the chamber. Then there was the question of the chamber's door. However, the man did not appear to have any weapons on him. If what he said was to be taken at face value, then he was just a simple envoy.
"Hmmm, very well, speak your message."
"Now, now. No need to be so cold. That's not how friends act to each other."
"Hm?"
"Friends? Ehhh… Acquaintances?"
"Hmm."
Ouranos' glare intensified at the young man. He was vexing, to say the least. His voice was chirpy and peppy, naturally invoking annoyance whenever he spoke.
"No? Hm hm hm. Ahh, I guess it has been a while since I've been in your mind. It's been a few centuries since you've descended from Tenkai."
Ouranos' aged eyes began to widen. He began to feel it. A change happening in his mind, like an old idea or memory was seeping through again. He had felt this before—the moment right before he lifted his footing from the edges of heaven and plunged himself into the mortal world. That moment—it was clouded by the stains of time, but it suddenly sharpened itself into focus within his mind. A man was sitting on the edge, feet dangling in the space between men and gods. Ouranos had never seen him before, not amongst all the pantheons dwelling in Tenkai. He was not a Greek, Roman, Celtic, or an Eastern god. He was no god at all. So Ouranos asked his name. And the man answered—
"Madness," Ouranos said, his usual stern, authoritative voice, now meek and quiet. "You are Madness of the Mythics."
"Yes," Abel said with a smile.
Ouranos didn't know how to react. He felt an estranged sense of ease while in Madness' presence, and yet he felt chilled to the bone by such estranged authority.
A Mythic. One whose reign rules over gods. A Mythic stood before him.
"What is the message you have?" Ouranos asked, attempting to regain his composure.
"Hmm," Abel's tone became more somber and dour. "There is a conflict that will soon spark in the universe. I may need your assistance in preventing it. If it cannot be stopped, then it may very well destroy all of reality."
Ouranos' eyes widened once again. "But, I am merely a watcher, an observer."
"Yes, I'm aware. I'm mainly referring to your personal proxy, the sage. The one named Fel—!"
Suddenly, Abel feels a strong pull against his body. He staggers, thrusting his footing into the ground as he holds onto himself.
"What is the matter?" Ouranos asked in confusion and concern.
"I…" Abel said through clenched teeth and strained breath. His hand clutched his bandaged eye. "Something is pulling me, tugging at me. It's—it's like it's calling out to me."
Abel silently cursed as he tried to reel himself back onto solid footing. But the more he did so, the more he began to realize it was pointless. He could see it. His hand faded and waved in and out of focus, out of reality.
"Heh, guess I don't have a choice, do I?"
Abel relaxed his body, no longer wishing to struggle against the invisible force. Soon, his body began to dissolve and fade from existence. He looked at Ouranos and chuckled.
"Oh, don't worry. I'll be back. I need your help after all—"
Then, he is swallowed into nothingness.
.
.
.
He feels himself being pulled across the universe in a fraction of an eternity. It is almost like a second birth. He feels pain, but as it registers in his mind—it disappears.
Who summons him? Where was he going? These questions linger in his mind. He passes through planets, stars, galaxies, cosmos, and black holes. He travels through particles—wave functions—of the universe. But he is not afraid. He is Madness of the Mythics, he tells himself. He is Madness.
"Bzzzzz. Yes. You are Madness of the Mythics. So are all of us. Bzzzzz."
"Hmmm. Well-said, Me-self.."
"Late. As expected of myself."
"Yes, and now I am all here, I may start."
"Yes. Good. Start. Now."
"We answered promptly just as duty indeed bades us all to do."
".scihtyM eht fo ssendaM ma I"
Abel stands on the remnants of a deadened core of a star. Others are there, surrounding him. He stands in the middle of the circle. Each face is different. There is a cat the size of a carriage; a being composed of screens and wires and circuitry; there is a beautiful, elegant woman; a carnivorous fish encased in a spherical tank; a statue made of a mineral that has never existed; a reanimated, mangled, rotting corpse; just to name a few. They are all fundamentally different in physique, gender, species, and yet, they are all him. They are all Madness.
"What?" Abel utters in bewilderment.