Epilogues

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Jester of the FoS
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Epilogues

Post by Jester of the FoS »

For those who have survived and left, a place to tell their memories of the time after the Fall of the Manoir.
Last edited by Jester of the FoS on Tue Jul 11, 2006 12:51 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Erik Van Rijn
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Post by Erik Van Rijn »

From a hilltop some distance from the Manoir Erik van Rijn looked over the shattered ruin of the Manoir de Penombre. With him stood Jeffrey Terrence and the wolfwere Janus, and those of the invaders who had succeeded in exiting the structure before Terrence's departure had triggered the explosion which had leveled the structure.

"What shall I tell Lukas?" Janus asked.

"That I'll see him soon," van Rijn replied. "Warn him of the change in my condition, of course. I'll give him the intelligence he requested when I arrive."

The beast-man nods, staring at the ruins. "Failure," he says flatly.

"Not for you," van Rijn replies. "For me, perhaps, and for my patron. But that is not your concern. As for you, Terrence, you have done well. I will do all in my power to see you are rewarded according to your efforts. If you desire further service with me, I will see to it that you are a well-rewarded vassal."

* * *

"We did not retrieve the desired item, my master, but the plans were acquired."

"How? How did you fail, my servant?"

"It had been removed from the manor some time before the assault began."

A long pause, and then a scrape, as of bone on bone. "Very well. Return to me immediately, and we will discuss your next project. The Horsemen must ride again, my servant."

"We will make it so, my master."
My talk? You'll have to wait. It will be well worth it, I assure you.
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Mayhew Donovan
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Post by Mayhew Donovan »

The walking dead pulled itself from the rubble, much of the flesh on its body charred black. It moaned in pain, the constant pain. It could still feel the fire scorching its flesh, but it wasn’t healing! Why wasn’t he healing? His body would not even let him pass out from the pain.

Moaning he pulled the rags of a curtain from the rubble and draped it over himself and limped away. Why wouldn’t the pain stop?
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Viktor Hazan
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Post by Viktor Hazan »

"This is it?", said Viktor, fleeing with the others. "This is how it finishes ?"

The vistani was right, this was about Death. How could we survive such a fate ...

.
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Post by Jester of the FoS »

Gregory picked up the heavy bust and wiped off some of the soot.

“Hey, François, what do you think of this?”

“Ugly.” his companion replied. “What is with those horns and his eyes?”

“I dunno, musta melted like that in the fire.”

“But it’s marble!”

“Dump it then.”

Gregory, the older the two, wiped his blackened hands on his leather apron. He knew he should leave the store but he was curious about the fire. It was not every day a manor home catches fire and explodes, especially with all those weird rumours circulating that night about black carriages and travellers from far away lands. But since buisness was finally slow enough to slip away during the day he thought he would chance it.

The rest of the town folk were avoiding the place all week since the fire, like the plague had broken out here. And judging from the number of rat bones that might not have been too far off.


“Hey, what do you make of this?” François asked picking up what looked to be a melted statue of a warrior. “You maybe think it’s brass? We could make some fine jewellery outta this metal.”

“Possibly I...”

The ground shuddered under Gregory and he fell down. Thin wooden stairs broke his fall as he rolled down into an earthen cellar. Blackened walls and charred wine barrels stood around him. A burnt away door lead to a storage room. Something there caught his eye.

“Oh lordy, lordy. Are you alright brother?” François asked looking down into the hole.

Gregory moved into the storage room. There were piles of what used to be straw-filled boxes and packing crates. Something caught his eye. Something undamaged by the fire. Something that wasn’t even covered in soot.


“I’m fine!” Gregory called out picking up the small statue. It was stone, not metal, they’d never be able to use it at the shop. But there was something about it.

He turned it about and around. It was a small statue, just under a foot tall. It was of a small demonic creature, an imp of sorts; it was sculpted complete with long bat-like wings, a horned head and a long barbed tail. How could this small thing survive such a blaze? And why was such a magnificent sculpt sitting in a box tucked away in some Wine Cellar’s storage closet?


“Gregory?” the panicked voiced called from above.


“I said I was fine dammit!he snapped. “ Now how do I get out of here? I wish I’d brought a rope...”
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Jason of the Fraternity
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Post by Jason of the Fraternity »

Several carriages moved swiftly through the darkness. The red hue of the blazing manor left far behind as survivors fled from Ste. Ronges. One carriage, which carried three particular individuals, traveled at the end of the caravan.

Anthony sighed heavily as he tried to salvage the remainder of his burnt and tattered silken shirt. The once white fabric was black with soot and rust brown with blood. His trouser, which had fared slightly better, were also shredded from the knee down.

"Damned rats," he muttered to himself as he tucked his tinted-lenses, which were badly cracked, into a pocket. His amber eyes scanned first Ambrose and then Viktor before he spoke again. "I haven't heard anything from either Kristoff or Gabrek, but they weren't present in most of the evening's battles. I'm assuming that they are either away or made an early escape."

"I cannot believe that it came to this," Viktor spoke with a tired voice. "After all the years that I've known him, I wouldn't have expected Erik to betray us like this. We've lost so much tonight..."

"You're thinking like a human," Ambrose retorted. "We may have lost the battle, but the war is far from over. We will take time to regroup and rebuild our forces. I don't know where or when we can do this yet, but we have our lives. Any gnome would have the commonsense to value their life over a building."

"Ambrose," Anthony replied with a smile, "I would definitely drink to that."

Opening a decanter of absinthe, Anthony fills three glasses and passes two of them to his companions. No toasts were uttered, but each one of them began making plans for their future...
[i]Pandemonium did not reign, it poured![/i]
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Post by Pamela »

Gertrude Kingsley leaned back into the comfort of the cushioning of the carriages. If she’d been alone, she would have closed her eyes, sighing, and deal with the aftershock of coming so close to death.

She did permit herself one sigh. The adrenaline had begun to fade once the flames of the Manor were out of sight. Fatigue was setting in, but she blinked her eyes away from it. “I never did get to finish my dinner. Would anyone else care to join me when we reach an inn?” I can also use a good stiff drink…

“We’re going to have to warn the others about what’s happened,” she remarked, her thoughts turning to Rupert. She’d have to write him as soon as she returned to her room. Perhaps all the traitors hadn’t come tonight… She stiffened at the thought, and her eyes glittered with renewed anger. If anything- anything- happens to him-

I must learn to fight. Arm myself better, magically and physically. This is not going to go away, certainly any time soon. And it is obvious that the Fraternity elders are not equipped to deal with it on their own…What are they going to do? Where will they set up our new headquarters?
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Grey Arcanist »

After the fires had died for lack of fuel, the end of a rope suddenly appeared above the now crumbled ruins of the Fraternity's headquarters. The rope, which seemed to hang from the empty air, began in a spot where, before the building's total destruction, the library's special collection had been stored. The rope seems to grow longer, as its end was lowered towards the ground. For a moment the rope stood there, pointing skyward in an apparant defiance of gravity. And then a thin, red haired man carrying a large sack full of books and papers suddenly appeared at the top of the rope, and slid down it until his feet touched the ground. "The rope trick," Conrad de Chateaufaux said to himself, "Remarkable how useful that spell can be for getting out of difficult situations."
Well, he thought, that was not exactly the sort of friendly social get together I was hoping for...but I've acquired some very useful additions to my own library, so the time wasn't wasted. "I really must make a point of coming to the Fraternity's meetings more often." Conrad said to himself, as he hoisted the heavy bag full of magical knowledge over his shoulder, and began the long journey home.
Last edited by Grey Arcanist on Mon Oct 31, 2005 11:00 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Post by The Giamarga »

My my I wonder if that rope happens to hang all the way into the cellar surprising a certain nosey villager who just made a wish...
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Post by Tobias Blackburn »

Hartly stared blindly out the window as Kingsley spoke. He heard him mention something about warning others, and nodded.

"This is only the beginning of a larger battle." He said quietly. "One that we must prepare for. All in all, I believe that things are going to become quite... interesting."
The Remnants have one saying to represent loss, disappearance, exile, and death. It is [i]Shiao Marests[/i], "Taken by The Shadows".
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Rotipher of the FoS
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Epilogue -- Crow #1

Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

The flames from the Manoir de Penombre’s detonation were already dying out, by the time Crow’s stealthily-placed steps brought him to the half-crumbled fieldstone well by which he’d hidden the saddlebags. He’d checked several times for pursuers, for the bard was no woodsman – to hide his own tracks wasn’t one of his skills – and it’d take several minutes’ work before he could escape from these lands entirely. Pity he’d had to leave the wand behind; it was all but spent, and he hadn’t had it long enough for it to bear his psychic signature, so had made too perfect a decoy for the more-sentient class of pursuer for him to hold on to it. But, the bard surmised, there might still be a few zombies about. That wand had been a feeble weapon – one he’d brought along merely to mislead any magic-detecting attendees into thinking him less formidable than he truly was – but he’d rather not squander his remaining spells on the obedient dead: his own deep-felt disgust and pity for such fleshly automata aside, Crow had too much follow-up work to do.

Then again, luck had been so kind to him tonight (though cruel to his hosts ... and perhaps to the world, if his worst suspicions were correct) that he wasn’t unduly concerned. The Fraternity of Shadows, conversely, would need ample luck of its own, merely to emerge intact from its figurative and literal self-immolation. It took an agile giant to strike so small a target as Crow had made of himself; tracking one lone bard couldn’t possibly be deemed worthy of this wounded giant’s attention now. Especially not if the two men he’d rescued from the Manoir could rejoin the others: the Major Image he’d employed to fake his own gruesome demise at the zombies’ hands (ironically, the only illusion-spell he’d found any use for, this night), and the abandonment of the wand at the site of his staged “death”, would guarantee that their story left his own fate accounted for – murdered and dragged off for reanimation by the undead, the wand fallen from his dying grasp – in the wizards’ reckoning. By the time the survivors realized the truth, if indeed they ever did, the bard would’ve made himself nigh-untraceable by mortal man or magic.

As he retrieved the bags and bent to lay the instrument-case on the grass beside the well, pain from his claw-raked waist shot up his side. Crow glared at the damage the servant-cum-wolfwere had inflicted upon his poor coat – Damn that beast again; if it’d torn only the shirt, it’d be lightweight enough for a mending-spell, and I could’ve returned it intact to its rightful owner – and shook his head ruefully. He didn’t like having to steal the garments he wore on undercover missions like these, but wizards as formidable as those the Fraternity boasted had too much access to divination-magics to risk bringing clothing linked to his own person along. Even the threads caught on the wolfwere’s claws could have proven dangerous, had the creature borne those back to its master; as it stood, he’d had to kill the beast quickly and supersede Chateaufaux’s spell-borne commands, merely to ensure a villain like Van Rijn had turned out to be wouldn’t trace them back to the St. Rouges dandy the bard had “liberated” this evening’s dinnerwear from. Crow had rather disliked wolfweres, even before tonight – no matter what others might say, he’d always thought their songs’ tempo fell allargando at all the wrong points, perhaps in an unconscious parallel to howling – and this minor mishap could scarcely be accounted to their credit in his eyes. But, honestly, who could have seriously expected to confront such rustic monsters at a lecture…? Even one of this sort?!

“Amazing,” Crow marveled aloud, as he unfastened the latches of his guitar-case. “What are the odds that a nest of vipers should turn its venom upon itself, at the very hour when a crow’s alighted to pilfer the eggs…?” The case-latches clicked open one at a time, each sounding sharp and metallic in the stillness of the deserted well’s shadow. Better luck for me that it did – how else could I have found half so much as this? – yet it was ghastly, to have to watch all those petty, self-obsessed, compassionless people reveal their true natures in a crisis. Especially one of their own making; who with an ounce of common sense could hold such a grudge against transmutation, of all the pointless things to vilify? Now I’ll have to revise my every method of spying on their operations, as they reorganize!

At least, thanks to the nigh-preposterous amount of time he’d been left unwatched in the fiend-blood’s precious Library, the bard wouldn’t be doing so completely without leads to follow. As Crow opened the sturdy instrument-case, its interior revealed no guitar, nor any related breed of musical instrument, but a lightless vacancy far deeper than the case’s exterior dimensions could possibly have accommodated. Deep, but not empty: as the pensive bard uttered a command-word, the blackness within filled up with documents – books, papers, letters, a wax-sealed scroll or two – still dusty from the Manoir’s stacks and smelling, albeit only slightly, of the cinders from charred rat-fur.

And to think, I’d originally commissioned the custom enchantment, because the case used to be too heavy for my Magic Hand spell to manipulate! Crow thanked his good fortune – not the gods, never the gods; his hand started to rise to his chest, in unconscious habit, but he forced it to a halt before he could tap out the sun-rays-dawning gesture he’d never managed to quash, even after all these years – that he’d taken a gamble and rescued the case from trampling via that selfsame spell. Had it been kicked open, the questions that would follow would have been neither fun nor gently-asked. Chateaufaux had been right, in truth, that men were far simpler creatures at heart than they believed: they saw the contours of a guitar in a case’s shape, and believed they saw a guitar in a case.

The bard survived, and prevailed in his self-appointed missions, far less by magic than by relying in countless ways upon that single, subtle distinction.

Of course, the fact I can’t ever resist teasing such blackguards certainly doesn’t hurt. Men who are busy laughing with you – or even at you, for that matter; have to make a note of that “miss-aimed” Shout spell’s reception – seldom spot the motive behind the mockery.
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Epilogue -- Crow #2

Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

Crow first retrieved the bound letters he’d appropriated upon being left alone to guard the library – he stifled a chuckle – and checked that the postal stampings were current. He slipped half a dozen into a pocket on his coat’s undamaged side, securing the remainder in the saddlebags. The Fraternity of Shadows wasn’t as large an organization as it liked to pretend; there’d be only so many safe havens to which the night’s refugees could turn, to regroup and rebuild. He’d reconnoiter as many as he dared, himself – disguised, of course; too many members tonight had seen this face (and that was not the same thing as seeing his face) – and pass word on to those he could trust not to get themselves killed in the attempt, for any sites he lacked the time or resources to scout out personally.

While we’re on that subject, Crow thought, I’ve had quite enough of this makeup! It took a little longer than it should have – the thrice-damned wolfwere’s claws had ruptured one of the acetone-bladders sewn into his shirt, and he had to be sparing with what was left – but his real features gradually emerged from the masque he’d donned for the evening’s imposture. As the false guise – entirely mundane, and a good thing it was; Chateaufaux could have had a magical one off him instantly, when he’d blanketed the dining hall with his enchantment-breaking abjuration – was erased, features considerably more handsome and hence, far too memorable for the bard’s work, emerged. Not that Crow would dream of letting corrupt wizards as powerful as these glimpse his real face, even whilst passing casually on the street.

Illusionists. Hah! So caught up in self-aggrandizing fancies about reshaping reality, by redecorating it through brute spell-force, they won’t demean themselves to contemplate what a little commonplace resourcefulness is capable of! Hazan never did check up on my credentials – I knew he was the one to chat up; I couldn’t believe how many students I spotted cheating during his examinations, when I posed as an upperclassman for a week to get a good look at him; twisted “research”-panderer or not, the man wouldn’t know a bald-faced lie if he tripped over it – and the security of the Manoir was lax enough to let half the wolfweres in Kartakass through. If the stakes hadn’t been so grave and all nine hells not broken loose, I could have done the job as planned and been gone before they’d finished their Chicken Gabrielle. As it is, I never needed the gaseous-form scroll. Guess I’ll be saving it for some other such exclusive occasion… though not at the Fraternity’s next soiree. I expect tonight’s lesson in security-consciousness was rigorous enough that even pampered, self-important elitists who’d mislaid their common sense in the Shadow Plane will take the precaution of checking sigil-rings, in future.

Hmmmm. I wonder what kind of preparations and precautions it would’ve taken me, to actually join the Fraternity of Shadows…?

Of course, the game had become far more high-stakes than he’d ever imagined, between the supernatural invasion of the estate and the ever-greater opportunities that presented themselves, over the course of the evening, as the Library’s bounty of knowledge had practically – and even literally! – been shoved into Crow’s hands. For pity’s sake, that overbearing oaf Buchvold had actually told him where to look! He couldn’t possibly have abandoned his mission, despite the growing dangers of mayhem, fire, and discovery all around … not when a treasure more precious than a kingdom’s gold or an emperor’s glory lay so closely within his reach.

The ANNOTATIONS…, Crow marveled, even his thoughts falling to a reverent whisper. Lifting the nearest of the eleven volumes – only eleven, blast it; the fiend-spawn Reuland must have been keeping the Mists book at his bedside for late-night reading, assuming the Fraternity had even had time to assess the twins’ latest publication – from the guitar-case, he brushed off the residue of rodent-fur ash and opened the cover with his fingertips. A brisk scan of the table-of-contents confirmed what a rare prize luck had handed him: nothing less than every critique, commentary, verified anecdote, proof or disproof or addendum to Van Richten’s original writings which the shadow-loving Brothers had compiled in the last quarter-century, be they products of their own odious research methods or insights they’d ruthlessly appropriated from their legitimate discoverers.

Crow gently closed the priceless text; another glance at the cover revealed this to be the companion-compilation to Van Richten’s Guide to Ghosts. Something deep within Crow wasn’t at all surprised by that.

Perhaps you’ll rest easier, old sage, Crow silently wished the author’s spirit, knowing that your works are no longer sullied by those heartless hypocrites’ hands.

Hypocrites, indeed; for all their self-righteous blather about spurning necromancy, the Fraternity’s collected discourses upon the Guides filled volumes several times as hefty as the good doctor’s and the twins’ originals. Originals which – with the unfortunate exception of the Walking Dead text he’d had to distract Chateaufaux and Buchvold with; no matter, it was the unpublished annotations to that volume which were truly irreplaceable – Crow'd not had the heart to leave behind.

“Forbidden Lore”, my eye, the bard seethed. If any man amongst that hive of scoundrels isn’t secretly contemplating Van Rijn’s path, it’s for lack of any talent or stomach for necromancy, not for principle’s sake! The man they named ‘traitor’ isn’t morally any different from the lot of them; he was merely more desperate.
Last edited by Rotipher of the FoS on Tue Nov 01, 2005 5:39 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Rotipher of the FoS
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Epilogue -- Crow #3

Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

The ugly thought brought Crow’s mind to matters far darker than books or betrayals. He ever-so-carefully packed the Guides and their precious companion-volumes away in the saddlebags – it’d take some time to read through the latter, to assess each annotation’s content for validity, usefulness, and palatability to those less-callous than the Fraternity; besides, some of their revelations, the bard might deem prudent to keep to himself – and then used a silken handkerchief to lift the file folder from the case.

‘Doomsday Device’…? No possible implication for those two words which Crow could imagine (and the bard could imagine quite a few) seemed anything short of catastrophic. If it were true, this caliber of threat was leagues beyond the twins, might well have been beyond Van Richten in his prime. As he slipped the folder into a protective sleeve from the saddlebags – taking pains not to touch it with his skin; the odds of the plans Van Rijn had stolen having left any psychic impression upon the folder that’d housed them were minimal, but sensitives’ gifts could be capriciously keen at times, and Crow knew of one who’d at least try to pin down the former contents’ location – the bard pondered the list of names he might enlist to meet such a dreadful challenge. Said list of eligible allies was depressingly slim. Still, a threat of this scale had to be dealt with … and if the file folder didn’t serve, there was always the new-made lich’s autograph. A certain Vistani-blooded diviner of Crow’s long acquaintance had been known to work triangulatory marvels, with signatures: they were, in their own way, as personal a link to an individual as blood, hair or fingernails.

I’ll admit, getting their guest-speaker to sign one of the vellum ‘blanks’ from the forger who crafted my own invitation was cheeky – although, given that he was the “honored speaker”, I doubt if his was as plain as the common attendees’ invites; even alert, he may not have noticed the similarity of paper – but who knew…? I’ll have to transcribe those shorthand notes I took in the entrance hall, first – don’t want to forget who knows my “face” from the pre-dinner small talk, now do I…? – but soon as that’s done, I’ll be off to see the good wizards, for a change. Which, for what it’s worth, will be a welcome relief: after the foul company that I’ve been keeping tonight, I’ll need a bath just to get their superciliousness off my skin.

Recollection of his conversations with the Brothers brought a grimace to Crow’s revealed features. However much the challenge of his pretense or the unexpected battle which had followed might’ve made his blood sing, some of the conceits and sycophancy he’d been subjected to overhearing had been grotesque. ‘Fate of the Manoir won’t concern us if all we members fall’ – Sun’s blood, how could they be so bloody myopic! What insanity did they fall prey to, to keep THOSE plans unburnt and unexpunged from this hapless Land of ours? Did they actually fantasize they might one day make use of them themselves?!

Crow’s mist-gray eyes peered into the distance, to where the smoldering embers of the Manoir de Penombre outlined the building’s foundations, redly, against the gloom of night. Times when his missions presented uncomfortable choices weren’t uncommon – a fact Crow regretted more than anything else about the manner of penance he’d chosen for himself – but to do more than to bring those two sigil-free souls out safely would have only branded him as yet another traitor to their own ranks, in the eyes of the loyalists’ faction. It was a great pity about the servants; the bard had no illusions that they were innocent bystanders – no one could’ve worked in the fiend-blood’s house for long, without knowing what manner of grisly experiments went on there – but they must have become as mere sheep for the herding … or the slaughter … in the hands of Van Rijn’s “allies”. Crow dearly hoped (not prayed, never prayed) that their spartan quarters hadn’t been hiding any children – unlikely; the fiendspawn wasn’t prone to tolerating noisiness or mischief in his home, as near as the bard had been able to determine – but at least that lady scholar from Paridon, who’d been smirking smugly all through dinner, had made herself useful in that capacity, insisting that the attendees’ own civilian relations be evacuated early on … even if she was largely attempting to minimize witnesses, not deaths.

The guitar-case was emptier now, but the last assortment of documents he’d collected – the ones he’d not even dared to hope he’d find, as he and the rest were dashing though smoke and flame-crazed rodentia to retrieve the Library’s treasures; the ones which, unlike the precious annotations he’d come for, might conceivably hold a rare clue to Crow’s own circumstances and redemption – remained to be transferred to the saddlebags. The bard’s gaze shifted back again, from the devastated Manoir to those treatises he’d purloined, in those frantic minutes of confusion and smoke: treatises, regarding forces so cryptically malevolent as to make his dinner companions’ self-proclaimed ‘Fraternity of Shadows’ seem no more than a gang of bickering children playing tree-fortress.

Forces, that Crow could’ve told these shadow-playing pretenders a thing or two about, had they only asked….

There are no accidents, no coincidences, in a world such as this one, Crow averred in silent thought to those the remaining documents vainly struggled to define. Nothing amazing at all, that I should’ve been here tonight, of all nights, to learn of all the evil the Fraternity has committed, and of the still-greater evils which now arise from its carelessness and irresponsibility.

It’s your wretched game starting up again, isn’t it…? Just like in Il Aluk, or Nedragaard, or all the ugly business over that despicable Hyskosa’s prophecy. You’re doing it again, playing with the fates of nations for your own twisted entertainment or in obedience to some self-appointed role as the captors and scourges of wrongdoers, I’ve never been sure which.

But which one doesn’t really matter, if you ask me … for when all is said and done, neither such objective can possibly suffice, to excuse YOUR misdeeds!

Yes, perhaps you do see us as inconsequential: as objects or insects, to be utilized for your own ends and then destroyed without thought of remorse. Perhaps you think of us like children – or pets – that you’re convinced you must strictly punish and discipline in some uncompromising effort to forge a “better” caliber of men! But we’re not children, or insects, or phantasms created solely for your games. People aren’t meant to be pawns: to be playthings for your amusement or passive beneficiaries for some esoteric “greater good” you’ve deluded yourselves that you’re working towards. Down here where we don’t get to see the “greater good”, or get the joke when you laugh at our weaknesses – here in the real world of men, where we can only live and love and bleed and suffer and try to lead our lives as best we can – those of us who heed the voice of conscience know that people deserve better than that, that human dignity merits more respect than that, even for self-serving scoundrels like the Fraternity. There have to be consequences paid by those who choose to treat others like punching-bags and puppets … consequences, even for the likes of you!

They don’t begin to know what you are, what your nature is. They call you “watchers” in the desperate, unspoken hope you’ll be content just to watch them! They’re terrified of you – terrified to their cores – for all that they might aspire to usurp your role. Well, I don’t begin to presume to know your true nature – demons, ghosts, shadows of the gods; it doesn’t seem to me that those distinctions matter, either, when your power over us remains the same regardless of how you might best be classified – but I know precisely what you are, perfectly well: you’re complete and total bastards, every one of you; and you’re cowards as well, to skulk in safety behind your mysteries and craft murder from the shadows through your pawns.

Well, I’ve never been one to be intimidated by cowards; something in me won’t let me be afraid of them, even when they’re as big and bullying as you. Something in me can’t resist teasing such malignant, puerile personalities – taunting and humiliating and defying them – and you’re no more of an exception than the Fraternity was, in this. And though I can’t presently recollect what my crime is – what it is that I’ve done, or worse still, what I failed to do, through my own lapse into cowardice and denial – that set me on this path, and burdened me with an absolute certainty that I owe the people of this world restitution for the past I’ve blotted out … even so, my conviction to never again let a thing of true beauty – be it a long-suffering scholar’s superlative gift to a benighted world, or the music that’s kept me sane through it all, that I would never stoop to squander on ears as deaf to sentiment as the ones I’ve misled tonight – be touched by corruption it’s within my power to avert, can’t be shaken by such tawdry horrors as you saw fit to have me witness, tonight.

You’re afraid of that, aren’t you? Just a little and never overtly, but you are. I can sense how other personalities react to me, when I’m impressing or annoying or, yes, alarming them – it’s my stock in trade, my principle weapon against the evils you’re recruited to your purposes – and I can sense that you’re dismayed, even baffled, when I or others like me stubbornly opt to do what’s right, and to do it by methods that are right, in spite of all the darkness in which you’ve all but smothered this world. Oh, I’ll be doing what I’ve no doubt you’ve been expecting me to do – I’ll see that Van Rijn’s theft of the plans is duly investigated by the right people, and resolved to the humiliation of all parties responsible, even if I have to call in a whole lot of favors or (now there’s a thought!) enlist the damned Fraternity’s own help, repulse me though they may – but I’ll do it because it’s the least I can do for the innocent victims who’d be caught up in the conflagration if I did nothing, not because I’m any pawn or stalking-horse of yours.

And if you haven’t learned this much about me by now, you can keep your improbable gifts of “luck” to yourselves. Yes, I know you’re behind it – the wolfwere’s lining up so nicely with the Library door seemed a plausibly-random event, but the way that disgrace to gnomedom (the only one at the gathering who might’ve seen through my forgery or my lies) snared a goblet from the tray I’d called for, ensuring he’d be well in his cups and not asking awkward questions, was just too much – and I know what you want me to believe: that the gods have forgiven me for not forgiving them, and are showing me favor so I’ll cease blaming them for allowing the evils of this world to reign unchallenged.

But I
know the things that heretics whisper, when orthodox listeners aren’t present – know that they believe it’s you, and not the true gods, who answer prayers and bestow divine grace upon the faithful of this world – and unless and until I’m positive that’s a lie (and I wish, with all my being, that it is), I can never voice my faith again. Because I’d sooner be as damned as that wretched wolfwere, than to damn well offer up my prayers to you.

With this closing sentiment – a sentiment which the bard had laced with more undiluted acrimony and contempt than even the foulest villain of the Fraternity could’ve mustered; although highly selective in whom he’d turn it upon, the dark-curled wanderer’s loathing was cataclysmic when he did – Crow scooped up the last of the guitar-case’s contents and rudely crammed its “watcher”-related material into his saddlebags. Most likely there’d be no theories in them which he hadn’t already thought of himself, but fully investigating an enemy was second nature to the bard, and no source of knowledge was to be spurned unread … even though he doubted if the Fraternity – godless nearly to a man – had ever felt a need to consider the theological implications of their “watchers”. But perhaps the documents might relate some historical case analogous to his own, that would aid in resolving his more secular problem.

And then – because those to whom he’d directed his reproachful thoughts were the only ones he hadn’t been deceiving, tonight – that side of Crow which simply could not resist taunting evil had to add:

And I was just wondering … do you think it’s their egos that keep evildoers like the Fraternity from realizing that the way the moral hearts of men are cloaked from magic, in these lands – a fact of nature they reckon to their benefit – can so easily be turned against them…?
Last edited by Rotipher of the FoS on Tue Nov 01, 2005 5:51 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Rotipher of the FoS
Thieving Crow
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Epilogue -- Crow #4

Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

Thus delivering his requisite parting jape – one he liked to believe they’d petulantly yearn to smite him for, but wouldn’t dare: Crow suspected that his defiance was like an itch the “watchers” couldn’t resist scratching, and killing him would mean they’d be surrendering their chance to one day break his spirit; besides, if they were so-inclined, he’d have been struck down years ago – the bard mimed chords in the air and Summoned the guitar he’d left in safety at the inn: his only personal possession (his other belongings constituting tools for his work), and one he could never bring himself to subject to the dangers and odiousness of such conspiracies as he targeted for infiltration. The very feel of the instrument, as it settled into his hands, calmed his nerves and cooled his righteous anger: regaining this, he felt complete again, and could relax into his true identity once more. Crow lovingly ran his fingertips across its decorated body, that he honored with his alias – the delicately-painted feathers of the wings, the sleek contours of the crow’s beak, the reflected pinpoint of blue light deep within its gleaming eye – and his hands unconsciously drifted into position on the strings.

No, he thought, dreamily. Not now. Not while those vipers’ venom still clings to me. Got to do some good, first, so I won’t contaminate the music with aggression and outrage.

And Crow thought he knew which good should come first, at that. Ghastly though the threat of the Doomsday Device was, it probably wasn’t a menace that would come to a head overnight … and there’d been something in the plight of that grief-stricken young ranger (where was he from, again? have to check my notes…) that touched the bard too deeply for him to consider neglecting. Digging into a pocket on the side of his coat that’d survived the night intact – yet another bit of suspect luck, that it’d been on this side; if it’d fallen out in mid-battle, as the wand nearly had, having to explain away its presence would’ve been awkward, to say the least! – Crow confirmed he still possessed that heinous blood-contract which Buchvold had tricked the inoffensive youth into signing. Picking the mage’s pocket at dinner hadn’t really been contributory to his mission, by any means – it had nothing to do with the annotations’ theft – but to be honest, until Erik Van Rijn had unleashed his whirlwind of turmoil upon the Manoir de Penombre and sent the dining hall into chaos, the bard had been getting awfully bored.

Nonetheless, once he’d read through the enchanted contract’s stipulations, he’d known he couldn’t leave the young fool to Buchvold’s tender mercies. Nathaniel Hawke had been as close to an innocent as anyone at the Manoir – Crow, himself, included; while his spirit might remain unstained, the bard had confronted far darker things in those years he did remember than nearly any man ... and his intuition told him that this was only the tip of the iceberg, compared to what he’d blotted out – and he didn’t deserve to end up blind, deaf, and mute, nor to be held hostage to the Borcan wizard’s caprices. If Hawke’s own sense of honor compelled him to service, that was another story; if he chose to continue seeking aid from a Fraternity-member, despite all he’d seen tonight (and the bard sorely hoped the huntsman hadn’t missed how Hazan had still named Van Rijn a “Brother”, right up until he’d been informed of the rebel’s lichdom), then that was the youth’s own lookout. But at least, once Crow had analyzed the interlaced enchantments and wards his magic-detection spell had hinted at, and determined the safest way in which to nullify the contract, the actual choice would be Nathaniel’s to make.

The bard only hoped, and wished he could have prayed, that the young ranger’s decision whether to let grief rule his fate would be a wiser choice than Crow, himself, had once made.

And with this sobering thought, the bard gently laid his guitar snugly in its case – which now, it seemed, had assumed the proportions promised by its external size – and sealed it away, with much the same tender care he’d employed whilst handling the annotations. Not playing the guitar now would give him something to look forward to, at his journey’s end – the chance to fully purge himself of the evening’s poisons, once he’d gotten a grip upon his outrage, in melodies that voiced aloud the true emotions he had to stifle, each time he donned some temporary identity for his work – and knowing the annotations were safely in the saddlebags would give him something to think about, in his long ride to the nearest border. Always assuming that those rats weren’t deployed there – Crow sorely hoped not; he’d had quite enough of rats for one night – he should make it to Mordent (oh yes, that’s where Hawke came from… though under the circumstances, it would hardly be prudent of me to offer him a lift home!) in due time to meet the Vistani he’d hired, whose caravan would take him well beyond the plausible range of Fraternity divinations and pursuit.

Not that I’ll stay gone for long, of course; can’t let the trail get cold, if I’m to uncover the next Fraternity hiding place for its collection! The girls would be very disappointed if the windfall they’ll soon receive from their contact in Dementlieu – or Nova Vaasa or Souragne or Borca or Sri Raji or Paridon or Valachan; I’m not sure which of those correspondents they believe me to be would be the best one to “discover” this much new information in one go – doesn’t include the volume which poor Genny’d suffered so much heartache to complete. Damn that Reuland (as if that were any subject of debate) for not leaving the Mists commentaries in the Library!

Even so, I truly can’t wait to see – if I can arrange to, that is; if it’s too dangerous after they’ve upgraded their security, I’ll just have to witness it in my daydreams – the expressions on the Fraternity members’ faces, when they take a look at the new editions of the Van Richten’s Guides! Too bad I’ll have to keep the worst of the annotations’ contents from the twins – those girls aren’t nearly ready to play the game at my level of intrigue, especially not when their recent letters suggest they’re not getting along all that well, themselves – but I’ll make sure to include enough straight-out plagiarism that the vipers will recognize the source, straight off, when the revisions are published.

And, no doubt, start blaming each other, come to think of it…

Hmmm … perhaps new opportunities might arise, there.

Stepping away from the saddlebags, the comforting weight of his beloved guitar at long last slung across his back where it belonged, Crow pantomimed more strumming gestures and intoned melodious syllables at precise pitches and tempos. Strictly-analytical spellcrafting like the Fraternity’s wizards practiced had always left him cold – indeed, had the bard’s own history been open to him, he suspected that his past life’s training must have been quite different – but once he’d had the epiphany to catalyze his abilities through the forms and techniques of the music he loved so deeply, his arcane talents, like the tactical thinking he fell into so comfortably when about his work, had blossomed with an almost frightening speed, as if such natural aptitudes had been waiting, latent, in his blood. The bard was grateful for that; he’d had to teach himself, mission by mission and year by year, to play off the scheming of villains too strong to confront openly and thus turn their overconfidence and conceit to their disadvantage. A less-apt pupil would never have survived the learning-experiences.

Soon enough, Crow’s silent performance was answered, as wispy tendrils of vapor arose from the dampness of the old well and swirled into place, to amass themselves around the saddlebags. Taking on greater solidity as its density grew, the condensing cloud of dark fog gradually assumed a configuration of equine proportions. Buoyed up by the phantom steed’s congealment, the bulging saddlebags arose from the earth and slid into place, and the vaporous trails that took form as saddle-laces entwined them tightly.

Running a hand through his black curls, now dampened by the spray from the conjured mount’s mist-trailing mane – Damn good thing that no one noticed how nobody else had reported fog on the roads, upon arrival; have to make a note to bring a towel, next time I use the Steed for transport to a target-site in clear weather – Crow took a moment to retrieve a small item from one of the saddlebags’ outermost pouches. He polished the silver signet-ring on his sleeve, then held it up and tilted it into the moonlight for a moment’s inspection.

Not sure it’s a good idea, the twins’ sending us these – seems too much like the kind of thing the scoundrels I dined with tonight would favor, even though this bauble’s no more magical than that dreadful Chicken Gabrielle – but dear Laurie and Gennifer are such true romantics, at times, that I didn’t have the heart to write back about my objections to such fripperies. Not even when their “gifts” kept coming, and I wound up with an even dozen of the silly things; yet another inadvertent consequence of too many aliases, I suppose.

But you’d understand better than anyone, old sage, why I must mislead even them. Why I can’t afford to meet the girls in person – such kindly and decent lasses would refuse to remain at arms’ length, if they knew the full extent and peril of my doings; they’d only get too close, and pay a dreadful price for that warmth of character – and why my penance for those wrongs I dare not remember must be undertaken alone. My chiding refusal to fear them may perplex and intrigue those entities my hosts of the evening call “watchers” so much, they’ve never yet seen fit to destroy me out-of-hand … but I can’t expect that protection – a flimsy shield I know and accept will eventually fail me, when I finally push them too far – to extend to anyone whom I might openly venture to care for.

That’s why, until I discover why they take such an uncommon interest in me, I mustn’t make any attempt to recover from my amnesia. The notes I’d left for myself, the day I had my own memories erased, made that explicitly clear. For until such time as I can free myself from the "watchers'" unwelcome attentions, I dare not remember my past … and my crime … and her, whose name and face are empty to me now, yet whose absence haunts me even in my dreams.

The signet-ring’s polished emblem, kept untarnished and gleaming for all that Crow disputed the tastefulness of such symbolism, glimmered in the moonlight. Its embossed central letters – an ornate “V” and “R” set back to back, identical to the author’s marks on eight of the stolen books now tucked safely within the bard’s saddlebags – reflected glints of red from the far-off, guttering Manoir's fire, as did the three engraved words that surrounded them: “Magister” … “Rector” … “Amicus”.

Crow sighed aloud, slipped the ring onto his left index finger, then smoothly mounted up. As the bard who’d come to repay the Fraternity of Shadows for its own long decades of lore-piracy rode into the night, his black curls wind-whipped by the supernatural speed of his Steed and dampened by its fog-trailing mane, he chuckled inwardly.

Guess that’s the one time during the evening that I didn’t need to deceive my hosts. I was being completely honest, when I told Viktor Hazan I’d neglected to bring the society’s signet to the gathering!

I merely omitted the trivial little detail of which Society I meant…

And then there was nothing for the moon to illuminate but an abandoned fieldstone well, above which a few leftover wisps of black vapor were dwindling into the dark, and no sound save an artful whistling, that faded swiftly into the distance, of “Pennies For The Ferryman” from the stage play “From Hell”.
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Viktor Hazan
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Post by Viktor Hazan »

(some time later)

Viktor has finished unpacking his heavy but small sized trunk. He walked around the Mansion and admired its classic, southern lines. The two story mansion was raised six feet above ground on brick piers, for the eventual flooding. The seller said it never happened in a century. A full width front gallery framed by columns supporting a second floor gallery, covered by the entablature of the gabled roof.

In white color, and all made of wood and bricks, the house was very old but very solidly built.

Around it, the property lines were far. The vegetation was luxurious and it hides the Mansion from the main road.

Viktor smiled as he was imagining Ambrose negotiating for the property with all his gnomish wit. His smile widened when he remembered the pretext Ambrose used to justify his interest to the seller. The name of the Fraternity of Shadows was never mentionned.

"Our activities here will stay secret", assured Ambrose, "until the right moment."

Really a nice place, Viktor thought. Ambrose was right, this will make a great hidden place to stop and lick our wounds. The others will like it too, I’m sure. It’s a good place to rest and plan about the future. We got those messages from those left behind that they recovered some parts of the library. A rope trick? That was ingenious.

Viktor looked at the cemetery boarding the property to the East.

“This dreaded Unholy Order will never look for us here,” Viktor murmured to himself. “Perfect place, really…” but he couldn’t help but shudder by thinking of the shambling horde attacking the Manoir in Richemulot…

Viktor walked back to the balcony, where Reuland was enjoying a cup of tea.

“Viktor, have you ever been to Souragne before?”, Reuland asked. Viktor answered by the negative.

“We’ll have to explore the place”, Reuland proposed, “this would be a good way to occupy the Fraternity while we plan our next move… We have to learn everything from this island. We may have potential allies here.”
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