During the events of “Illusion: Dark Path,” a number of events surround a small little town in the middle of the growing Dark Empire. As a bonus, this allowed me to play around with a character known as Alva the Assassin, whose presence became increasingly important as the project progressed. Though I was not wholly satisfied with the “bark cell phone” idea, I thought the scene showed much of Alva’s inner emotions, which I found interesting.
COOPER.
The sign was simple, but bold. The single word was engraved into a large bronze piece hanging from two massive golden chains, in turn attached to a beautifully glazed wooden arch proclaimed the pride of the citizens over their beloved town. And yet, as the stalwart emblem gleamed in the light of the setting sun, a feeling of tension seemed to permeate the air.
No one noticed the lone traveler making his way past the sign. He had no horse, and carried very little, his face shrouded by the hood of his cloak, and naught but a common walking stick in his hand for balance. As he walked, one might have noticed the slight limp of his left leg, and the tendency for him to slump over. But even in the last shreds of daylight, only the stranger’s shadow could be seen in the quiet streets.
It was a modest town, made up of cabin-like structures built of logs from the surrounding wood. The largest structures surrounded a large fountain at the town square, cleverly supplied with a flow of water diverted from the nearby river, and in turn with an out-flowing chute for keeping the water fresh without overflowing and flooding the center of town. It was something unlike what the stranger had ever seen.
There was still enough light that no torches flickered about, but finally the stranger heard rustling and noise. Finally there was evidence of the living here in this apparent ghost town.
The stranger limped slowly towards the source, and more sounds were heard. Voices even. He drew near, but stayed out of sight, as the voices began to make sense, emanating from one of the wooden buildings.
“Do you want my honest opinion?” Said the first, a gruff, powerful voice. “I think this alliance is a bad idea.”
“I appreciate your opinion, Wheeler,” came the exasperated reply. “But there are many more factors to consider here.”
“You don’t think I know that?” The stranger peered around a corner, and finally maneuvered into a position to see who was speaking. There were two men, the gruff voice coming from the first, known as Wheeler, was a powerfully-build silver-haired man with a leather hat, and the second was a portly fellow with a receding gray hairline. Wheeler stood and began to pace.
“This man, Jasaid,” continued Wheeler. “I don’t trust him. His appearance seems far too convenient and his solution is far too planned. How do we know he isn’t a part of the Flyers conspiracy in the first place?”
The second man sighed. “We’ve been through this before, Wheeler. Jasaid is simply trying to help.”
“Then why does Dedimeire not trust him, Bartimore?” Countered Wheeler, spinning around. “The sage has never been wrong before, why is it that you don’t trust him now?”
“I trust him perfectly!” Retorted Bartimore quickly. “But that is not the nature of my position! I reflect the voice of the people, I do not make their decisions for them.”
“They’re running scared, Bartimore. They don’t know what to think, and they don’t know what they’re doing. Rourke has got them in such a frenzy of fear that they don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Well,” said Bartimore. “What would you have me do? Kill the man? He’s only sharing his opinions, and the law clearly shows that to be perfectly legal.”
“But it doesn’t make it right.” It was a third voice, one whose owner the stranger couldn’t see from his distance through the window. “It just means that we can’t force him to stop. Has anyone tried to persuade him?”
“It’s a noble thought, Aenaes,” replied Wheeler. “But Rourke has been on a personal crusade against the True Ones for as long as we’ve known him.”
“I still don’t understand why,” said Bartimore. “He’s never even seen them.”
“That’s not exactly true, Bartimore,” replied Wheeler. “Rourke came to Cooper three years ago, from the west. He used to live in the land of the Green Mountains.”
“The Candied City? But I thought that was just a story.”
“When he first arrived, he brought with him some of the finest crystal soil that I’d ever seen. Don’t you remember?”
“I believe,” replied Aenaes, “Our Council Headman was on a journey at the time.”
“Ah, yes,” said Wheeler. “He arrived during your trip to see the Daphnia council.”
“And no one saw fit to tell me about this?” Bartimore was annoyed.
“I thought you had been told. Your daughter, Zelli, was more interested in it than any of us.”
“So,” said Bartimore. “Why did Rourke leave the Green Mountains?”
“The True Ones,” both Wheeler and Aenaes answered simultaneously.
“The True Ones?” Repeated Bartimore. “What did they do to him?”
Wheeler continued to explain. “He told us that they had conjured up an evil spirit that destroyed most of the town hall, and killed many of the fairies there. It also stole from them their only protection against the evils that threaten them, the Sword of Andolus. So he left on the first barge heading across the sea.”
“But why does he blame the True Ones?”
“He mostly blames two of them,” continued Wheeler. “The Blue-Blade Warrior and the Black-Winged Sorceress. He claims that it was the Warrior who first stole the weapon and that the Sorceress conjured the spirit so that they could take it without question. The True Ones disappeared from the Candied City that very same night.”
“I take it,” said Aenaes, “That you don’t buy into his story.”
“I have a hard time swallowing all of it,” said Wheeler slowly, pacing again. “I’ve heard many of the differing rumors of the True Ones, and I for one think that they are good people. I don’t know them, and I’ve never seen them, but the things that they do seem as if they are trying to help.”
“But you’ve heard about the devastation of the Summits…” Began Bartimore.
“Those stories are also conflicting,” said Wheeler. “Some say that the Sorceress deliberately destroyed the nation of Ascent, nearly driving the entire Summit population into extinction. Others tell that the True Ones actually stopped an evil force that was intent on destroying the nation itself. And still others say that nothing happened in Ascent at all except for a minor civil war, in which the True Ones assisted the winning side. I don’t know what to make of it, but the Ascent people have proclaimed that their borders are open again, and I’m not inclined to believe that to be a bad thing.”
“There is far too much to consider here,” said Bartimore finally, blowing a long breath from his lungs. “And with Jasaid expecting a decision tomorrow I just do not know what do.”
“Why must it be tomorrow?” Asked Aenaes.
“Jasaid leaves tomorrow,” explained Bartimore hastily. “If I don’t tell him we are with him, then he will move on, and we will have no defense against these Flyers.”
“But I don’t see why we need a defense,” said Wheeler. “They haven’t done us any harm.”
“They might,” said Bartimore. “I, for one, have heard some of the recent attacks in the north. Vicious maulings, the undead rising and attacking, leaving only the symbol of a raven carved into the bodies of the fallen. Would not this be a convenient symbol for the dark-winged Flyers?”
The stranger’s lagging interest was suddenly suddenly piqued, and he moved himself closer.
There was a pause, and Wheeler shook his head. “This does not feel right.”
“Perhaps it is best to ally with them now,” said Aenaes. “If we change our mind, surely Jasaid will understand.”
“He may,” said Wheeler. “But his superiors may not.”
“I’ll think on this,” said Bartimore. “And I’ll tell you my decision in the morning before I tell Jasaid. Thank you for the drink, Wheeler.”
“Yes, thank you, Wheeler.”
“Good night, Bartimore, Aenaes.” The door opened and closed, and the two men made their way home. The stranger, on the other hand, knew that he had come to the right place. He limped slowly away into the darkness.
Bartimore thought that he saw a shadow moving away from Wheeler’s home, but then chided himself. You’re simply seeing things, you old fool, he thought. These Flyers have you too far on edge.
He never saw the strike come from his left, and he was no longer breathing when a raven symbol was carved into his chest.
- – - – -
Morning light crested the horizon, shining over the mountains and illuminating the valley. Crystal springs bubbled along softly, the music of nature echoing across the sacred stillness of the morning hours. In the northern corner, an ear-splitting scream shattered the tranquility.
“NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” The feminine cry echoed off of the mountains round about as the denizens of Cooper awoke from their morning slumber. They opened their doors and lifted their curtains to see two figures in the town square. One was small, crying desperately, her sobs deep and heartfelt. The other figure was motionless, but the purple robe was unmistakable.
Bartimore was dead.
As a crowd gathered, no one dared to speak a word. There was nothing to say. Their head councilman was dead, murdered in the street, and not a soul among them knew how they might comfort his grieving daughter. Dumbfounded, no one would take the charge to act.
That is, until Rourke arrived.
“They are here,” he began. “And more are coming. Bartimore was a worthy and honored leader, and now he has fallen.” It sounded rehearsed, as if he had been practicing this speech for just this occasion. Yet, in the midst of such turmoil, the townsfolk turned to listen.
“What are we going to wait for?” Cried Rourke. “Must we sit here and wait for these Flyers to enter our homes, enter our town, and kill those whom we hold most dear?”
Silence. There were some slow looks from eye to eye, but still no one said a word.
“No,” came a reply. It was Jasaid. “While your beloved leader may be gone, you are still here.” He stepped forward, and stood beside Rourke. “If you will follow the Empress, you will be protected.”
“How do we know it is not you we must be protected from?” Dedimeire was leaning on his cane. “No one had been attacked until you arrived at our town.”
Rourke came to his defense. “Jasaid has been here for two weeks, Dedimeire, longer than in most towns that have already allied. If he had been planning such a thing, surely he would have done it sooner.” Jasaid touched Rourke’s shoulder.
“I did not bring this upon you,” said Jasaid quietly, stepping forward. “But I warned you beforehand. It is not my fault that you decided not to act. I can leave now, if you wish. But I will tell you that the offer is still on the table. The Empress has offered protection to any and all towns that are willing to defend themselves against the Hollow Ones and their army of winged accomplices.”
Wheeler stepped forward, and looked down at Bartimore. Zelli was still kneeling beside her father, his right hand in both of hers. With the head councilman gone, it was now his decision. He knew that what he did now may well spell out doom for the town, but there was no other choice.
Or was there? He didn’t know what he should do. This couldn’t be the work of the True Ones, could it? Yet he had heard the rumors. The True Ones had been sighted in the western desert, and the news of the decimated Bedouin tribe left painful questions yet to be answered. Was it the True Ones who had been responsible all along?
Here was a man that was offering protection from the Flyers, and their brutal killings. Surely more would follow. Surely there would be others. And here was the answer.
“We…” Wheeler hesitated, and then closed his eyes in submission. “We are with the Empress,” he said. Rourke smiled, and clapped Jasaid on the shoulder. Relief came to the faces of many, and even a cheer or two arose.
“You see, my friend?” Said Rourke to Jasaid. “They have finally come to their senses. Now we can remove this Hollow threat from our borders once and for all.”
Wheeler turned and walked away, helping Aenaes and two others with the moving of Bartimore’s body to a proper burial site. Women of the town prepared him for the service, and there was a proper funeral held. Jasaid even stayed to attend. After the simple service, and after the actual burial, Wheeler brought Zelli and Gregor to his home for supper.
Wheeler’s wife was more than happy to serve them, for they had no children of their own.
“Mr. Wheeler?” It was Zelli. She sniffled, but held back her tears.
“Yes?” said Wheeler quietly.
“What is going to happen to Cooper?” Wheeler couldn’t answer her right away. This girl had just lost her father, and she and her brother were now orphans, and yet she was worried about the town? He took a bite of his potatoes, chewing as he thought.
“I’m not sure,” he replied slowly.
“It’s going to be bad,” she responded quickly. “War is coming.”
Wheeler’s wife turned to her, and put a hand on hers. “It won’t be so bad, little one.”
But Wheeler knew better. He knew in his gut that something wasn’t right. He could feel it inside of him that for some reason or another, this smelled like yesterday’s cabbage. So he looked away, focusing on his food.
A knock rapped on the door. Wheeler stepped over and opened it, but there was no one there. Instead, he kneeled down and picked up a note that lay on the step.
Mr. Wheeler,
You do not know me, and you likely never shall. But I will tell you that I was witness to the fall of your friend. Unfortunately I did not recognize the attacker, and I was not in a position to defend your fallen leader. Not all is what it seems for it rarely ever is. Tread lightly, my friend, for there is more to the Raven than your eyes may see.
I have enclosed a small envelope, in which you will find a piece of tree bark. Please keep me informed. Simply blow on the bark, and then speak, and you may communicate with me. Tell me of how your town fares. I fear there is a hurricane headed towards this valley, but I do not believe it flies on wings of black.
Good luck, sir, and I hope that we meet someday, in more desirable circumstances.
A.A.
“What is it, dear?”
“Nothing,” said Wheeler. He found the bark, and slipped it into his coat pocket, along with the note. Then he turned and shut the door.
- – - – -
The assassin took care to step lightly, the limp in his gait having vanished completely. He climbed higher, easily navigating handholds and footholds as he made his was up the face of the rock. Soon he would be able to hear the windsong. Soon he would hear tell of Illusionia’s unrest.
As he crested the cliff, Alva feared what news might come to him on the wind’s wings. Even without really trying, Alva could taste the decay of the land at the back of his throat, a dry, blackened flavor, like the charcoal-fired remains of a poor man’s last meal. He spat off the edge, caring little for whatever creature might feel the unnatural drizzle from the sky.
Alva had followed the stench of death in his travels, bypassing the Forest of Wolves by following the Oasis Trail on the rim of the Great Desert. After having passed Angel’s Landing, he had finally found what he thought was the source of the awful odor that saturated the land. It had lead him straight to Cooper. He had not planned to arrive at the time of such a tragedy, but the gods obviously were toying with his fate as they saw fit.
His witnessing the death of Cooper’s leader, Bartimore, was wholly unexpected. The violence itself fazed him very little – his business had long-ago numbed him to the shock of a man’s soul leaving his mortal body. He himself had been the cause of several spirits’ progression into the realms of the afterlife. But this was something different. The death had not been clean, and the mutilation of the body was against the laws of Illusionia.
Alva knew that nature itself had rules which must be followed, even concerning the death and treatment of the dead. Such was a rudimentary and essential purpose within the Shadow Tech. All of nature must have a balance, for each living thing has a purpose for which it is created. When that purpose is complete, or if it is compromised, that creature is deemed fit for retribution, and the right of passage allowing their soul to progress requires their temporary loss of their mortal body. Such was the purpose of Alva the Assassin.
That nickname had always bothered him, though it was true, in a sense. Alva was a clean and methodical worker, always striving to inflict the least amount of pain, and always following the laws of the gods so as not to upset the delicate balance of Illusionia. His people were the guardians, and he knew that it was his purpose to keep the purity of Illusionia whole. Assassin he was, but ruthless he was not. He was always careful to keep his passion in check, something enviable on the field of battle. He’d seen soldiers rush into situations with a gusto of a thousand men, only to be killed by a single arrow during their valiantly noble, but foolishly brief campaign.
And so he continued to creep upwards, finally reaching a high outcropping, the valley floor far below him, hidden in the mists. He sat quietly, forcing his heart to calm. The wind was blowing softly, but he knew it would tell him all it could as soon as he was able to tune himself to its call. He slowed his breathing, focusing on bringing it in rhythm with the ebb and flow of the whispering breeze. And then he closed his eyes and concentrated.
The change was immediate, as the wind increased its pace. Alva nearly staggered in his meditation as information flooded into him. He saw faces, rushing past in a unceasing tide. Wings, blades, darkness and light. Spilled blood, and unwelcome assistance. The images flowed back and forth, blending and changing, like the recoil of an arrow’s shaft after striking its target. The blur would slow, and become clear, and then increase and blend again. Finally faces were starting to become recognizable. He recognized Najm, and the back of another, a broad-shouldered man. It blurred again, and he saw winged creatures, the Sentinels, attacking one another, and clashes of steel echoing. Then a dark abyss, followed by silence.
He could hear voices in the Windsong, and he recognized that of his daughter. And directly after, he heard the crackling of lightning, and could feel the aura surrounding a certain sword. He watched in awe as the sword was sheathed onto the back of the broad-shouldered warrior, and hoped to see his face. But the image swirled again. He saw a sword of flames, and a muscle-bound giant. Who were all these creatures?
It was then that a song entered his conciousness. He could feel his own meditation going deeper than before. Where the song came from, he did not know, but the image of a golden scepter held in slender grip stayed fixed in his mind. And then the images cleared, and the wind calmed again.
“Hello?” A voice whispered in Alva’s ear. He’d forgotten about the bark that he’d left with Bartimore’s comrade. “I don’t know how this works, or if I’m just blowing hot air, but hopefully you can hear this.”
Alva could only listen. To speak would be to reveal where he was, and in this land tormented by darkness, he wanted to use the shadows of the mystical plane just as much as the physical.
“Cooper has allied with the Empress. I couldn’t see any other way. Rourke has taken control of the townsfolk, and has volunteered one hundred men to the cause against the Hollow… The flyers. While I don’t know if you can help, I feel as if this is wrong. It’s something that’s just beating in me. These people don’t know what they are getting into. I hope that you have better luck, my mysterious friend.”
Alva sighed, and stood. He knew that he needed to find the source of this evil, and put a stop to it. For that, he would need help. But he couldn’t help but wonder if that help lie in the hands of a small group of individuals being hunted on a cloud.
