A Devil's Dominion

Anders Nazret

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The Hinterlands was filled with treachery and peril. Far from any semblance of law and order those that carried themselves as vultures found a rightful home in the backwoods. They were the cruel sort of criminals too, the kind that’d cut your throat without a word just because they could. But, though they were dangerous, the Rule of Man was not recognized here. No, men forfeited their right to the top of the food chain when they chose to venture into The Hinterlands. Instead this was a place of creatures, a place where monsters and demons alike made their homes. Theirs was the Rule of Beasts, a ruthless and implacable force where the strong devoured the weak. It was not cruelty that drove them. Merely, it was an overwhelming desire to persist. This was something I could respect. The world was a heartless place, but at least with monsters you knew what you had.

Despite this respect and the apparent clarity of man’s relationship with the wild I, for the life of me, could not fathom why anyone would settle in such harshlands. However the denizens of Ackwood did not seek my approval. They simply did what mankind always tried to do when faced with something they could not control - they tried to control it. They had cleared away the land. They had established homesteads. They hunted and they lived where they were unwelcome.

It was an admirable pursuit, and I was glad to have found them. Maxwell and I had stumbled upon Ackwood through mere chance. The sun had gone low, and we had become lost. It was only through the providence of fate that we were not devoured by whatever nocturnal beasties lurked in the dark. We were welcomed, and found room and board at the village's tavern. It was an intimately small establishment, with the majority of patrons being local frontiersmen.

Maxwell retired to his room while I found a place at the bar. I ordered a drink, took a long draw, and simply relaxed. The barroom was unusually somber. Most seemed more interested in nursing their own drinks than conversing. Besides me sat a thin man, with old leathery skin and calloused hands. He was staring at me and I offered him a nod.

"Where ya from stranger?" He asked in a way that was not unkind.

"Arcadia," I answered, "Sort of, anyways."

The wrinkles of his face scrunched together and he asked, "How are ya 'sort of' from Arcadia?"

"The Arcadia I grew up in is long gone," I answered.

“I’ll drink to that,” He said and raised his glass, "Things like to change don't they?"

"That they do."

We shared a moment of silence. Physically he was older than me, but having spent centuries in stasis, the Arcadia I referred to was no doubt the one that his great-grandfather lived in. It was a strange thought, but one that I chose not to dwell upon.

“Name’s Beau, by the way,” He said.

“Anders.”

“You’re a swordmage, aren’t ya?” Beau asked suddenly.

I offered him a surprised look.

He quickly answered, “I only ask ‘cause of your sword, dark iron ain’t it?”

“It is,” I answered, “How do you know? I don’t think I’ve seen another swordmage for years.”

“Our founder was a swordmage, Anders,” He explained, “She and the rest of us grew… tired of Arcadia, this land was the only land that’d have us.”

Now that was phenomenal news. Perhaps there were still those worthy to wield magic. With a smile I finished my drink in one long draw.

“Where is this fellow swordmage?” I asked, standing up, “I must meet them.”

At this Beau became withdrawn, sinking in his chair and shaking his head. A coldness seemed to wash over the patrons as they had no doubt heard my question. Did they see me as a threat?

“She’s… no longer with us,” Beau explained, causing me to sit back down.

“My apologies,” I answered, “It has been a while since I’ve seen a fellow swordmage, and I was just excited.”

“Couldn’t have known,” He responded solemnly, “Let’s get another round.”
 

The Father

Pray for the dog, and whatever it is doing.
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Distant, and far away from prying eyes, was the peaceful home that the Father had established. The hidden campsite was all but occupied now, with a smoldering fireplace and neatly organized tent down by the crystal clear stream. Without the presence of John, it was completely silent. Still, however, that lone marble tree with its sacred apples awaited his return, along with his promised flock. He told the Lord that he would return with more followers, and truly transform that sacred site into a new place of worship.

John still had his mission, and the time had finally come for him to share the words of God with the rest of the Hinderlands. Night was falling, however, and the devils friends hide in the dark.

It was with confident steps that John marched on down the well-worn path, clutching his book underneath one arm while his hand idly sat in his pocket. His other shooting hand rested on the holster of his pistol. Although he was faithful in practice and believed that his Lord would protect him from all harm, he still needed to make an effort to protect himself. It wasn’t the common man he worried about, no. He dreaded the beasts that roamed the area. He already had a run in with a few of them, and although the Father dared not question the Lord and his creations, he wondered if maybe there were a few beasts that weren’t quite finished in terms of being sculpted by God.

”That… that thing had a scorpion‘s tail and a chicken’s… what the hell…” Muttered John, incredulous to the appearance of one particular beast.

Without breaking stride, John glanced over his shoulder and through the lens of his lightly tinted sunglasses. A momentary shudder racked his body as he dwelt upon his task. Doubt was undeniably a slow and insidious killer, and John did his best to waive it aside, but he was not always successful. He was only a man, after all. What if he was unable to find any who would listen? What if he couldn’t even find well and intact Hinderland inhabitants? Within the last day or so, John was forced to witness the harsh realities of the land he was in. Two small settlements were found not far from his own home, desecrated and scorched by unnatural means. Thankfully, the recollection of those villages only hardened John‘s resolve, bringing him closer to his Lord. Tightening his jaw and bowing his head forward, he picked up his pace on that foreboding path.

These people were in need of salvation.

Minutes after picking up his pace again, John slowed to a halt when he noticed scent of smoke in the air. Flicking his gaze upwards above the trees, he prayed that a bright glow indicative of an uncontrolled fire would not blossom in the ever darkening sky. He swiftly removed his sunglasses and squinted, folding them neatly before tucking them into his breast pocket. The only way he would know what awaited him further down the path would be to draw himself closer. Should he fail here, however, he would be forced to set up camp or fall back to his home. With this in mind, he started off into a sort of rough jog. John grinned when he heard the relieving sounds of common chatter ahead. As sure as the sun rises, the Father saw crude variants of torches and makeshift lights atop wooden posts, illuminating the few remaining townsfolk who were finishing their work for the day. Maybe, just maybe, the Lord would give him a chance that night.

Approaching calmly out of the darkness, the Father walked the lit street with a pleasant demeanor. A few townspeople passed him, and he nodded courteously. Unsurprisingly, his courtesy was not returned, on account of it being the end of the day, and him being a stranger with an odd appearance who just rose out of the darkness. John noted this, and with keen eyes, he spotted two men who were struggling to move a hefty wooden crate. Without thinking, he tucked his book into a pouch dangling by his side as he stepped over to help.

”I’ve got you, brothers.” He said enthusiastically, reaching for leverage on the crate. He saw now that it was an older fellow with a grizzled beard and bald head, along with a younger man with a clean cut and shaved face.

The two villagers were caught off guard, and justifiably so, but they did not decline the help. With John assisting them, they were able to heave the large package onto another nearby crate, clearing the path and tidying up the scene. Brushing his hands free of dust, John turned to face the two townsfolk. The younger of the two remained silent while the eldest engaged John.

”Thank you, mister. I swear that weight just keeps getting heavier the longer the day drags on. You stay safe.” He spoke simply, moving to turn away from John and walk off.

”Being weary and tiresome are the consequences of hard work. Tell me though, brother, what is it that you toil for each day?” The Father stepped towards them, outstretching his hands as he continued. “Surely your life is difficult, doing this day in and day out. I can see on your face that you are worried and troubled.”

The villager John addressed turned back, momentarily puzzled at the unusual visitors line of questioning. He shared a glance with the younger fellow, who responded in kind with a seemingly uncaring shrug. With a sigh, the man faced John once again.

”It’s just a job. We work for our families, our home... and do our best to stay alive out here.” He replied, crossing his arms and spitting down at the earth below him.

”I see. That is a noble reason, but what if there was something out there that could wash away all that worry? What if there was something out there that could guarantee your safety, should you only promise your service in return? It may do you well to heed my words for a moment.“ John spoke his piece, but was met by the younger mans scolding remarks.

”Oh-oh! So you’re some type of con artist or charlatan, is that it? Listen friend, thanks for the help, but we’re going to go get a well deserved drink. Take your… whatever you are trying to peddle elsewhere.” He waved his hand in dismissal, walking over towards the tavern.

”Do you enjoy being weak, son? Weak willed, weak spirited, and weak minded?” The Father smiled from underneath his gray cavalry hat, moving past the older man, who was no doubt bewildered by the events unfolding.

One might think that a stranger who just entered town and started insulting the locals would very quickly find himself removed from said town, but John had several ways of preaching his word. Fire and brimstone was often his favorite method, but he was not beyond simply telling the strengths of his faith. Before the young man he just verbally challenged could retaliate with any of his own words, or worst, his fists, John continued.

”Because you don’t have to be. You can have more than what you have right now, and more than you ever will have without the Faith. That’s what I’m peddling, son. Faith. There is a Lord above us, and he has given me the strength to seek you out, and bring you to him. For your devotion and your service, you will be rewarded with his blessing! You will know power, safety, and a life of fulfillment you could never hope to achieve in these helpless lands!” The Father spoke with conviction and utter devotion, gesturing with his hands as he withdrew the book he tucked away previously.

At that point, several more townsfolk peeked out their dusted windows, some even stepping out into the dimly lit street in hopes of seeing a fight between this raving madman and the young man. Near the tavern, one rather meek and disheveled looking villager darted in through the tavern doors and snaked his way around to a table of four. He leaned in and exchanged a few words, after which the group shared dubious glances before pushing up out of their chairs and stepping out of the tavern doors to seek the ongoing spectacle. Drinks still in hand, of course. Returning to the scene outside, John was continuing his speech.

”I am not asking you for your possessions, nor am I asking you to work for me. I am asking you to work with me, in service of God. You may already have contentment, and you may feel as though your lives cannot improve, but they can. The Faith that I speak for is as real as a marble tree, deep in the woods, with apples delivered straight from the Lord himself. Near this tree, you can live without fear, and without strife. You can finally find salvation...” He preached as he moved methodically back and forth amongst the light, pointing to the various villagers as if he was speaking to them directly.

The crowd grew yet again, with wildly varying expressions and feelings towards his words. Most were silent, some jeered, and a few even asked him questions about the tree, or his Lord. He withstood the flurry of verbal blows while gingerly removing his hat, revealing the curled brown hair underneath.

”If you do not believe me, so be it. That is your wish, and I will not impose the Lords will upon you. If you do, however, find any comfort in my words, follow me when the sun rises. I will deliver you to the tree, I will tell you more about my faith, and you will learn that these are not empty promises. If nothing else, know that the Hinderlands can be tamed by you... should you walk with me to the gates of Eden.”

At this, his speech ended, and he strode out of the dim light towards the tavern. Will he be granted any followers? Will any walk with him the following day? He was unsure, but as he tuned out the muffled voices and whispered tones of the locals sharing their thoughts on what they were just witness to, the Father smiled warmly.

For he had the faith, and the faith told him that while his offer of salvation wasn't perfect, it was good.
 

Anders Nazret

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Beau and I did as two old men often did. We drank our fill and spun stories to pass the time. Before long most of the others in the tavern had filtered out, finding their ways home with guts full of booze. It was here that good people were found, people untainted by the false splendor of modern Arcadia. These men and women were the salt of the earth that I strove to protect in my mission. They may not have been alive during the halcyon era of Arcadia, but they understood the value of hard work and that was all I needed to know. These were the people that would rebuild Arcadia from rubble.

“You remind me of Mirabel,” Beau said.

“Oh?” I answered, “Who’s Mirabel?”

“Our founder,” He explained, “You’ve got that same kind of confidence she had.”

I smiled, “A trait most swordmage’s carry, our bodies and our minds are trained to be unwavering.”

He didn’t return my smile, “What about your spirits?”

My smile slowly faded, “I’m not sure I follow…”

“Your spirits, your souls, you know that thing inside of people that give them that fire o’ life,” He said, a powerful hand grabbed my wrist, “Does your training account for those beasts that go after neither mind nor body?”

He leaned in, staring at me accusatorily. The glassy sheen of intoxication coated his eyes and his body smelled of sweat and booze. I pulled my wrist free, nearly pulling him from his perch atop the barstool.

“My spirit is as strong as my body,” I answered harshly.

He nodded slowly and shook his head, “Her’s wasn’t.”

It was unfortunate, I had decided, that Beau’s faculties were so poorly affected by booze. There was some slack to be cut, given his age, but a man who couldn’t handle his drink was to be pitied. So, I chose to finish my drink rather than answer him.

“Poor ol’ Mirabel,” He lamented, his voice trailing off as he rested his head against the countertop, “No, her spirit weren’t quite up to snuff.”

“You should head home, Beau,” I said, “Before you embarrass yourself further.”

He didn’t answer. Perhaps my assessment of these people was wrong? Well, a worm does eventually rot the entire apple, doesn’t it?
 

Anders Nazret

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Before long Beau had fallen into a hazy sleep. It was a welcome reprieve. Unfortunately, it was also a reprieve that ended far too quickly. Bright and unyielding light washed in through uncovered windows, swallowing us entirely. Screeching metal followed, vibrating the very marrow within my bones. It was as if some wrathful deity had chosen to make its presence known in a terrible display of sound and splendor. There was no action for me to take, there was nothing to do beyond weathering the storm of sensory overload. Then, as abruptly as it began, so too did it end. I nearly fell from my barstool, only managing to catch myself by skewering my sword into the floor.

“What in the world was that?” I exclaimed, squeezing my eyes tightly to wash away the purple splotches.

Beau sputtered, “She’s returned, help us all, she’s returned.”

“What are you blithering about!?” I demanded, blindly grabbing his shoulder and shaking him.

He didn’t answer, instead he broke down and began to sob. Useless. Allowing myself a steadying moment I lurched to my feet, finding stability in my weapon. Through bleary eyes I peered outside to see the orchestrater of such calamity. The beast stood in the town center, her swollen belly reflecting light as if it were a lighthouse mirror. Flesh and jagged protuberances of shiny steel had been twisted together to form the vague trappings of a woman. This, however, was not a woman, no it was a denizen of the Hinterlands -- a monster.

Sword in hand I made my way outside. The night was filled with the screeching of an untold legion of metallic cicadas. There would have been less agony found in tearing one’s own ears off than listening to this discordance. Still, I marched on. Pain was tolerable. As I drew closer, her form grew clearer. Flesh had been shunted away to make room for shifting scaffolds of metal, pushing her to stand several heads taller than even myself. She wore no clothing, but her humanity had long since been reduced to nothing more than a face. A face which was craned towards the sky, perpetually screaming and crying out.

Something brushed past me. A child, eyes glazed and mouth agape. He padded mindlessly forward, unphased by the terrible screeching. Bewitched. I reached out and grabbed him by his shirt, lifting him up over my shoulder in one smooth motion. He struggled feebly, writhing and thrashing against my grip. Suddenly the child fell limp, and the creature ceased screaming. Ackwood fell quiet. She looked at me. Her face seemed at odds with her warped body. It carried not a blemish of metal and was instead perfectly dark and of even complexion. She smiled. Her lighthouse mirror fell upon me, bathing me in that oppressive light.

“You stand before the might of Arcadia, you wicked devil!” I shouted, “You dare think your pathetic tricks will stymie my advance?”

“I know of your capabilities well, swordmage,” She spoke, her voice the sound of two cheese graters being scraped against one another.

“Then you should tremble.”

“Tremble before a body of flesh and blood?” It chided, “Do you see what remains of the last swordmage that guarded this place? I wear her flesh as a suit, I rattle her bones as instruments, her organs my toys. You are less than a pest, you are fruit borne upon a tree, waiting for my consumption.”

Ah, so this was Mirabel’s fate. What an abominable demise, being puppeted around by such an aberration. Disgusting.

“I am not Mirabel, you tasteless beast,” I responded, “I am a swordmage of yore, devoted to the true heir of Arcadia, you will find my body much more resilient than my contemporaries.”

Metal scraped upon metal as it lurched forward. It’s humanoid form broke apart and became more snake-like. It moved in a circle around me, forming a wall of steel and skin. Mirabel’s face remained untouched, spinning around me laughing.

“Your body is no different than hers, swordmage of yore,” It cried, “Meat and bones and fat, interconnecting ligaments and tissues, all too easily severed and left disconnected, why how easily I could turn you into little more than a torso with a head attached.”

I pulled the child into my chest and raised my sword, “Then do it you gutless beast, rend me in twain and prove me wrong.”

“Such an eager deathwish,” It spoke.

The mass of razors grinded to a halt, with every pointed edge of its being focused on me. I had found my way into an iron maiden constructed for giants. There was a stillness and I could smell raw steel and stale blood. The beast had already swallowed me.
 

Anders Nazret

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Within the beast’s maw I pulled the child close. It was a foolish gesture. The devil’s blades were sharp enough to cleave through flesh and bone alike. With but a thought it could mince both mine and the child’s body in an instant. Yet, that instant did not come. Breathless I stood, sweat dripping from my brow and sword in my hand. Within the mass of daggers I spotted Mirabel’s face, it was the tormented visage of a person long since passed. Yet, there was an expression upon on. Not a monstrous facade, but rather that of a cognizant person. At that moment I realized that Mirabel’s humanity still existed, or at least some shred of it. A look of strain and stubborn denial was painted plain upon her face. Blessed defiance.

Now was the time to strike. My sword would be worthless against a formless beast such as this so I cast it aside. With one arm I cradled the child, careful to maintain a solid grasp on the boy. With my other hand I called upon arcane magics. Carefully I weaved together negative thaumaturgical concepts, creating a void of energy around my free hand. Normally such a technique would only work against the magically inclined, but it was possible to adjust the spell’s parameters slightly. Afterall a devil was inherently magical in nature, albeit barely.

“I am the might of Arcadia, devil,” I said, “And I offer no quarter.”

With that I thrust out my magic-wreathed hand, latching onto Mirabel’s disembodied head. A rush of fresh energy infused my being, like a million tiny needles pricking my skin. There was a difference here. This was not pure thaumaturgical energy, rather it was a dirty mixture of demonic and arcane essence. My blood felt as if it had become acidic, threatening to eat me from the inside out. So intense was this sensation that my grip on the child loosened and he fell into the grass at my feet. Greedily I continued to drain the devil’s strength. Its wall of blades shuddered, before coming undone. Shards of metal clattered to the ground, no longer animated by wickedness. My teeth ached and my eyes threatened to burst as I drew in more of that tainted energy, but my will was strong and I did not relent.

“Eulalia, grant me strength,” I muttered, invoking the true heir’s name.

Something crumbled beneath my hand. Mirabel’s face broke apart, dissolving into dust. New energy stopped coursing through my body and the link was severed. The devil’s body was only a fraction of its original size. All at once the remaining blades descended upon my outstretched arm, shredding into the flesh and shearing meat down to the bone. Within moments I had recoiled backwards, but by then my arm was covered in lacerations and coated in blood. The surge of metal swirled around the unconscious child, cradling them in a nest of jagged edges.

“So your fellow swordmage still had some fight in her,” The devil spoke with a voice of gnashing metal, “But this one, this child will be a more malleable vessel.”

“Release them,” I commanded, pulling my sword free from the ground.

Blood flowed freely from my mangled arm. Every moment I grew weaker and my thoughts became hazy. There was no place for weakness within the swordmages, but my accursed body began to work against me.

“Now why would I do a thing such as that, swordmage of yore?” The devil taunted, “Worry not, I’ll return wearing them as a cloak.”

I lurched forward, but the devil moved quicker. It scuttled along the ground, carrying its prize off into the treeline. I took another step, but my legs had grown weak. Curse this frail existence. Before I could move any further consciousness had left my body.
 

Anders Nazret

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Death did not come for me that day. When I awoke the sun had risen, casting light into the unfamiliar room I found myself in. Blood-stained sheets covered my sweaty body. My arm sat suspended in a sling, a patchwork of stitches holding the shredded meat together. I tried to move it, but every flexed muscle tugged against the stitches and threatened to burst my arm back open. I relaxed, closing my eyes to recount the previous night. Imagining what horrors that devil would inflict upon the child sent shivers to my core.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Maxwell said.

The scholar offered a weak smile, before cringing as he looked at my ruined arm. There was magic to remedy such debilitating injuries, however it was a fickle and difficult to master discipline. Without it, or some suitably advanced technology my arm would most likely be unusable for the foreseeable future.

“Where am I, Maxwell?”

“Well, after your display last night, some gentleman named Beau deemed it fit to offer you a place to stay,” He explained, “The town’s doctor tended to your wounds, but, well she could only do so much… their technology here is primitive, don’t worry though, once we get you back to the institute we can-”

“We’re not going anywhere until that devil is destroyed and the child is rescued,” I interrupted.

“Anders, you’re in no shape to fight.”

He was, regrettably, correct. It took considerable effort to even rise from the bed, my body was so weakened from blood loss. Gingerly I flexed the fingers on my damaged hand. They shook violently and I was barely able to make a fist. This would not do. Hunting such a terrible beast was difficult in peak condition, injured it would be nigh impossible. Curse my weakness. Curse my fragility. Curse New Arcadia for even allowing such wretchedness to exist in their lands.

“I will be fine,” I lied, “The longer we delay the more likely the child will have perished.”

The devil had no doubt used Mirabel’s body as an anchor. Now that it had been destroyed her power would be greatly diminished. However, it didn’t take a stretch of logic to understand that she intended to use the child’s body as her next anchor. Mirabel’s spirit had given everything it had to stymie the devil for even a moment - the child’s spirit would be too weak to do the same. There was no time for recovery, and so I stood up.

“No, no, you can’t be serious,” Maxwell said, hounding me as I donned my equipment, “Your life is much more valuable than a few children Anders, your temporal properties could very well alter our understanding of time itself.”

“I admire your principles,” I said, pushing past him, “But my oath was to Eulalia and the people of Erde Nona, to turn a blind eye to such a travesty would be a disgrace to my honor. Do not worry, I have the light of the true heir to guide me, with it I cannot fail.”

Maxwell did not follow nor did he try to persuade me any further. He lacked the nerve for any true conflict. It was an unfortunate trait, but one that worked to my advantage. The scholar would have simply gotten in the way. So, sword in hand, I marched towards the treeline. Villagers watched from afar, shaking their heads. Their faith in champions was shattered the moment Mirabel’s corpse was turned into a puppet. These people would see the power of Old Arcadia. They would see what the true heir could offer them.
 

Anders Nazret

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The barrier between man and beast became immediately apparent. Thick underbrush clawed at my legs as if my very presence was being rejected by the forest itself. Every step forward was a small victory against an ever-present enemy. Birds sang their morning hymns while distant creatures filled the forest with their unique clarion calls. There was a majesty to the untamed wilderness. It lacked the safeguards of civilized society, were I to die here my body would simply feed back into the cycle, I wouldn’t even exist as a footnote in some history book. I resolved to avoid that fate.

As I moved deeper into the unknown I became acutely aware of just how exhausted I was. Sweat soaked through my tunic and stung viciously as the stitches in my arm. Fresh blood oozed from my wounds and more than once I felt a stitch grow tight and pop. My blade hung heavy against my hip, pulling my posture off to one side. So enthralled in my exhaustion I did not notice when the sounds of the forest slowly vanished. It wasn’t until I emerged into a glade that I recognized any semblance of true danger.

Yellow flowers formed a carpet, stretching from one end of the clearing to the other. At its center sat a moss-encrusted stone cairn. Old magic hung heavy in the air, invisible to the eye but as oppressively smothering as a wool jacket. This magic came from an era before even mine and though I understood its principles it was like trying to understand a foreign language. It coalesced around my injured arm, soaking into the blood of my body and infusing my entire being with a dizzying sense of vertigo.

“My oh my, I could eat you right up,” An invisible voice purred, “Who are you?

“My name is Anders Nazret,” I had begun to slur my words, “Forgive my intrusion upon your territory, elder one.”

At this she laughed softly. There was a gust of wind, as if a void in space had spontaneously opened up at the center of the glade. From seemingly nothing a creature appeared. It was a large tabby cat, but instead of cream colored fur its fur was a mixture of purples and whites. A halo of yellow flowers swirled around its neck, suspended in air by magical forces. Once materialized it did not move, rather it lounged in front of the stone cairn and regarded me with piercing multi-colored eyes.

“Elder one? Come now, no need for pleasantries,” She said, her voice vibrating in the space beneath my ribs, “Please call me Avana.”

“Thank you Avana,” I said, bowing my head in reverence, “Again, forgive my intrusion, I will leave the way I came.”

My body, however, did not belong to me anymore. Try as I might, my body refused to turn and move. Old magic held domain over nearly every last creation, even during the golden age Arcadia was subject to the whims of ancients beasts and their primordial magistry. To even scratch the surface of their thaumaturgical capabilities required decades of rigorous study. Such power was the stuff of myths.

“Your intrusion is forgiven, but you may not leave,” She said, “Visitors are rare to come by, most creatures avoid my grove, but you blundered head-first into it.”

This did not bode well. While ancient beasts were not strictly malevolent, they wielded power far beyond the capabilities of most. For her to strike me down it would take nothing more than a thought. Compared to her, I was not much better than an ant. Still, she hadn’t squashed me quite yet.

“Again, my apologies,” I answered, “But, my time is limited, an innocent child is in danger and the longer I tarry here the more likely these will be killed, please, if it would please you of course, please release me.”

At this the ancient beast stood, stretching its forelimbs and yawning as if it were a housecat. Slowly she lumbered towards me, her massive paws gently gripping the ground. There was a majesty to her gait and power emanated from her freely. Metaphysical energy washed over me like a breeze of hot perfumed air. Slowly she circled me, as if she was deciding on whether I was worth eating.

“A child you say?” She said, finally coming to a stop and sitting on her haunches in front of me, “What do I care for a child that isn’t mine? Especially one that isn’t here keeping me company?”

“I know that they are beneath your magnificence, elder one,” I answered, “And I know it is arrogant of me to even ask, but please, I beseech you, release me.”

“Be careful Anders, flattery is like honey, a little bit is refreshing - too much, however, ruins the stomach,” Her voice had taken on a sharp tone, “Tell me about this child, what is its name?”

“I do not know.”

At this she tilted her head slightly, “You don’t know their name?”

“No.”

“And you’re risking your life to save them?” She asked, “And you don’t even know their name?”

I swallowed hard, “That is correct.”

At this she seemed to pause, as if turning the thought over and over inside of her head, “Then why would you put yourself into danger trying to rescue them? Do they owe you a debt? Or perhaps their parents are your masters?”

“No,” I answered flatly, “I risk my life because it is my duty. I live in the service of Erde Nona and her citizens, regardless of their relationship to myself I owe them protection. This is my sworn oath.”
 

Anders Nazret

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"How noble," Avana purred, “An unfortunate trait for one as seemingly strong as yourself.”

“Noble or not, it is my oath and I am compelled to honor it,” I answered.

“Even if it leads to your demise?”

“Even if it leads to my demise.”

At this the glade seemed to shudder, every single flower laughing in unison. Her influence over me loosened and my breaths came easier. She came to sit before me, her green and gold eyes regarding me carefully. Slowly the laughter faded, replaced by a sweet-smelling wind.

“Humanity is fascinating,” She explained, “If an oath leads you to death, than what was the purpose of the oath?”

“There are worse fates than death,” I answered.

Eulalia knew this well. Their death was tragic, yes, but their erasure from history even more so. An entire lineage snuffed out before they had even reached adulthood. Were it not for the unusual circumstances of my existence it would have been as if they had never existed. But, so long as I existed, so long as I carried the true heir’s legacy they would not vanish from history.

“You are correct Anders, but death in the service of death is not a memorable existence,” She explained, “Honor, nobility, all of these things crumble and fade, believe me I have witnessed their erosion first hand, I’ve forgotten the names of more champions than you’ve ever even known. For mortals death is the end, and yet you all seem to rush towards it with the fervor of a flame-drunk moth.”

“I will not die until my mission is fulfilled, Avana,” I responded.

Her tail flicked back and forth, and the air grew still. My skin shuddered and began to split apart, blood pouring out from a myriad of wounds. Every joint in my body twisted and seperated and my head was removed from my shoulders. My assorted body parts floated in the air, gently swaying in the wind. There was no pain, just a terrible discomfort.

“Why are you so confident in your fate Anders?” She asked, gently batting away my disembodied torso, “Life is beyond your control, at any moment I could decide to simply remove you from existence. Everything beyond the present moment is uncertain and even I cannot predict the outcome of the future.”

“So do you intend to kill me?” I asked, somehow still speaking without access to my lungs.

There was a long pause. Avana examined each and every bit of my vivisected body. Blood swirled between the bits, forming deeply intricate patterns. Slowly then, my body began to stitch itself back together. Blood was pumped back into my veins and nerves reconnected. Even my previously damaged arm was restored to its former functionality.

“No, as much as I find your arrogance irritating I don’t desire your death,” Avana said, turning back towards the stone cairn, “You’ve grown tiresome, you’re free to leave, but know this - desperately trying to control fate is a terrible sin, Anders, one that is punished by powers greater than even I. Trying to undo history will only end in failure.”

My vision went white and I awoke with my back against a tree. Avana’s glade had vanished, as did the scent of flowers. All that lingered were her words. There was a wisdom to them, but her impression of me was wrong. I had no desire to undo history. Eulalia was dead and their legacy forgotten and nothing short of an Arbiter’s power could change that. Even then, Arcadia was too far gone and the current generation far too weak. I had no intention of erasing history. My aim was to create a new future, one free from the sins of Arcadia’s past.
 

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With my wounds mended all that remained was actually finding my quarry. Normally a devil would be able to travel freely without leaving a trace, especially one familiar with the terrain. Not to mention the myriad of trails created by the other creatures of the hinterlands. This was essentially trying to find a needle in a haystack. However, I had one ace in the hole. While devils weren’t completely magical in nature they still held a thaumaturgical signature. Injured as it was, it would leave behind near-invisible residue as this thaumaturgical energy wicked away from its body. And while this wasn’t the only magic in the forest, it was a magic I had tasted.

It took several minutes to inscribe a divination circle into the dirt. Once the parameters were established and the incantation scribed I held my hand over the circle. It called for a sacrifice of arcane energy and I fed it what I had stolen from the devil. There was a pulse of light that bloomed out from the circle and into the surrounding terrain. Silver strands of energy crawled through the underbrush, searching for whatever thaumaturgical residue was left in the devil’s wake. These strands crawled up my arm, forming a set of silver marionette strings around my fingertips. I relaxed my hand, feeling the feather-light tug of each individual strand. One of the strands twitched and I moved in that direction, pausing to wait for another twitch before continuing. It was a slow and tedious process. A more practiced and refined spell would have led me by the hand with no uncertainty, but this would do.

Eventually I came to a long-abandoned culvert dug into the side of a hill. The culvert was made from rusted steel, and stretched off into darkness. Every silvery strand of magic spiraled off into the corrugated tunnel, attached to some force beyond the darkness. It was odd to see a man-made creation so deep within the wilderness, but in the golden era of Arcadia this place did not belong to the beasts. Such a shame to see a creation of industry turned into nothing more than a nest for a terrible beast.

“Devil!” I shouted into the tunnel, “I have come for the child, reveal yourself!”

“You have followed me for so far, swordmage of yore,” The devil’s voice called, It’s voice vibrating off the metal walls of its home, “Why would you come all this way just to die?”

“I did not come here to answer your questions, filth,” I responded, audibly spitting upon the ground, “I’m here for the child, return them to me and I will make your end merciful.”

The only response was the terrible screech of metal shearing against metal. Reflexively I covered my ears as the clarion call of the devil’s movements screamed through the tunnel. Then, things fell silent. All that remained was the distant sound of footsteps, slowly growing closer. From the darkness the child emerged, his bare feet slapping against the rust-covered steel. The relief I felt upon seeing that I hadn’t arrived late was almost immediately dashed as the boy stepped out of the culvert and into the light. His eyes were pale and absent was the spark of life. As it approached I raised my sword.

“Halt.”

It came to an unnatural stop, lurching in place as if inebriated. Jagged edges appeared beneath its skin.

“Is this not what you wanted, swordmage of yore?” The devil asked through the child’s throat, “The child is in one piece.”

“You unconscionable wretch, what have you done?”

“Nothing of consequence,” The devil continued, “The life of such a frail being isn’t worth much, I’ve merely given it a greater purpose than being a sniveling child.”

“Release him, you monster,” I responded, fury evident in my voice, “Or I will strike you down.”

At this the child’s body contorted wildly. There was no blood as the leading edge of sharpened blades filtered through the child’s body. And before me the devil’s body unfurled, becoming a terrible waltz of steel and flesh. Blades scraped against one another as the devil’s form became manifest. While not as large as before, it was no less fearsome. In fact there was a certain vigor to its movements, fast and twitching. I had arrived late, the devil’s power had grown to a point where victory was far from assured. I raised my blade and readied myself for the assault
 

Anders Nazret

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It’s wrath fell upon me like waves in the ocean. Foot long shards of sharpened metal surged forward, and it was only by mere inches that I managed to side step the torrent. However, my body was still subject to laws of physics whereas the devil’s was not. The surge of blades quickly adjusted, lashing out towards me again. I raised my sword, stepping into the oncoming attack. I swung with all of my might, blasting open a cavity in the swarm of metal, only for it to quickly close back upon me. Shallow cuts appeared on my forelimbs as the devil raked across my flesh. It swirled about, reforming a rough impression of the child several feet away.

“How unfortunate, swordmage of yore,” It taunted, “You’ve come all of this way just to die an agonizing death.”

“You talk too much,” I muttered, struggling to keep blood within my body.

It turned its silver disc upon me, bathing me in a blinding light. And in that beam of pure light I came to a realization. Even without a host the devil was able to maintain its form to a degree. Most creatures of its nature required a core with which to bind themselves. Within its scintillating body there was only one part unlike the myriad of sharpened slivers. That lighthouse mirror, perfect and powerful - that was its core. Without a powerful host its core should be the only thing holding it together.

With solidified purpose I moved forward. Pressing into the light I used it as a compass towards my goal. There was a shift and the light vanished, replaced by another stream of blades. I swung again, batting away what was aimed for my vital organs. The remaining blades bit into me, tearing through my clothes and flesh. Another surge, but this time I was prepared. I did not try to avoid the attack nor did I attempt to deflect it. Instead I used the opening to strike at the beast’s heart. For the scantest of moments the lighthouse mirror became exposed and I struck. My sword smashed into the silver disc and impact tremors rushed up my arms. Knife points stopped just short of skewering my chest as the creature’s core shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. Hundreds of blades clattered to the ground, no longer animated by wickedness.

I took a moment of rest, collecting my breath and hardening my resolve. Before me the devil’s remains stretched out like a metallic carpet. However, what remained of the child was nothing more than separated body parts. I had been too late, I had been too weak. Using my sword I worked to dig a shallow grave, my own blood staining the ground as I carved into it. This was less than the child deserved, but it was all I could supply. With a heavy heart I buried what remained and covered the grave with stones to ward against scavenging animals.

By the time I had returned to Ackwood the sun had already begun to set on this dreadful day. Beaten and bloodied I limped into the village, gathering a small crowd as I went. Eagerness spread throughout them, followed by the realization I had come back alone.

“The devil plaguing your village is no more,” I said, with a heavy sigh, “But, in my weakness, I was unable to save the child… I am sorry.”

There was a somber, bittersweet celebration. The people of Ackwood weren’t stupid, it was only a matter of time before another creature of the Hinterlands filled the void left by the devil, but they were not foolish enough to deride the temporary serenity.

--

Later that night, Maxwell and I shared a drink. He hadn’t said much since my return and I was grateful for the silence. Heavy thoughts plagued my mind along with the mental image of the child’s soulless husk.

“You know,” Maxwell said, “The institute offers amnestics to field agents who have been particularly disturbed, if you want I could-”

“No,” I interrupted, downing the last of my drink, “It would be disrespectful to forget, as painful as it is to remember.”

“You did nothing wrong, Anders,” He said, “The loss of life is regrettable, but you did all you could.”

“And all I could was not enough,” I responded, “How am I to bring the False King to justice if I am too weak to even save a child? As much as I am loathe to admit it, I’m not strong enough to carry out my duty alone - we need allies.”

“Allies?”

“Yes, like-minded souls, or at least souls willing to be on the right side of history,” I explained, “We must raise an army, so that this world can return to its golden era and the Rule of Man can once again hold dominion.”
 
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