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Over the hill.
Over again.
Touch the jewel.
And live once more.
Fight in the darkness.
Die in the light.
Over the hill.
Over again.

Ashlynn recited the prayer to herself as she clasped her hands together. She drew her sword and laid it out before her, and with one slow motion, cut a straight line across her palms. A prayer to the god of death served one well in the Waste, although not everyone had the clarity of mind to realize that.
Her master, Lord Hubris, looked down at such shameful displays of faith. He hated most gods, but was particularly resentful of Abirt. Ashlynn wasn't sure why, but she knew better than most not to question Lord Hubris. Still, she would never forget the things her mother taught her. And what Lord Hubris didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
The dunes weren't more than two days walk from Portsman, and Ashlynn spent the majority of that time wondering exactly what it was Lord Hubris wanted from this Ceitu. He'd been particularly interested in one of the old Wonders. Something square, made of metal with a face of black and white.
She hoped she had enough room in her satchel.

Somewhere in the distance, the undead shuffled through the sands. Their old home, the Ceitu, lay half-buried. Its white walls were a stark contrast to the beige, desert sand that covered this part of the Waste. If the undead had any decency, they'd do the Waste a favor and go back home.
But the New Men were exceptionally uncouth.
Their behavior was more than enough to drive the most sensible travelers away. And if for some reason one were to think about approaching, the overwhelming amount of them in this part of the Waste would deter almost anyone.
Almost.
Ashlynn slipped by the hoard, trying her best to move with the sand as the breeze carried it toward the Ceitu. The undead didn't have the best eyesight, and she probably didn't need to take such complicated precautions but one could never be too careful.
She cut open the door to the Ceitu with the circular blade she procured earlier, careful not to make too much noise. The undead were a ways away from her, but sound traveled far on the sandy winds. Once a person-sized hole was cut into the door, Ashlynn descended into the Ceitu.
Ashlynn had been to places before, but this one was different. She could almost hear the ghosts of the old world speaking to one another in the walls. Fear starting to swell in her stomach, and Ashlynn squinted her eyes to see a bit better in the darkness. She explored the Ceitu with her senses on high alert, marking doors so she wouldn't get lost.
The halls reeked of death. Ancient blood spatter stained the metal walls dark red, and the ghosts spoke in great volumes near those spots. Ashlynn's imagination began to wander as she discovered more bodies the further down she went. Surely some of the Old Ones had been killed and risen again as New Men when their world ended, but it seemed not all of them met that fate. Hopefully, there wasn't anything down here that was still roaming the halls.
Ashlynn steeled her nerves. Lord Hubris was not one to be disappointed twice.
A shadow flickered at the end of the hall, and Ashlynn drew her sword. She said the prayer to Abirt under her breath and touched the ring on her finger with his symbol on it, then approached.
Ashlynn tightened her grip, ready to decimate whatever had cast the shadow at the end of the hall. The Ceitu was home only to Monsters and Wonders, a lesson Ashlynn learned when she was a much younger, more naive explorer. She held her sword high above her head as she crept around the corner and braced herself.
The only thing she saw was a small, familiar creature staring back at her with beady eyes. It was about half her height and far too fluffy to be spelunking on its own. The creature barked and smiled back at her. Ashlynn wondered how it got this far down unharmed, and then she spotted the hole in the ceiling that led to the surface. She shook her head.
"Alpine, you foolish beast. You scared me half to death."
Alpine barked, her tail wagging furiously.
"Well, I suppose I couldn't ask for a more loyal companion, could I?" Ashlynn stroked the fur on Alpine's head and looked down the hall she emerged from. Dimly lit as it was, Ashlynn could still make out the markers on the wall she had left on her last visit. There were a few unexplored rooms, and perhaps that meant there were still more Wonders to be had here.
Ashlynn was usually far more cautious than this; she would often abandon a Ceitu the second she heard a noise she couldn't recognize, or see something even remotely frightening. But Alpine's sudden appearance gave her a renewed sense of confidence. The dog could drill holes through solid steel like it was swimming through water.
Between Ashlynn's own skill with the blade and Alpine's ability, most of the creatures in the Waste (and the Ceitu as well) stood no chance against them.
Ashlynn approached a door she hadn't marked. The strange device that hung on the wall to the door's right had a red light above nine strange symbols. The symbols were from the old times, Ashlynn had seen them before in the ancient texts. She did not know what they were, only that pressing down on them in the right order occasionally opened doors in the Ceitu.
She tried pressing on the symbols in a dozen different combinations, and the light remained red still. She tried the combinations of other doors in the Ceitu, and the light remained red. She tried pressing all the buttons at once, and the light remained red.
Alpine barked.
"Ah, you're a genius Alpine!" Ashlynn smiled. She pointed at the door, "Have at it."
The beast beside her barked again and started shaking as if he were trying to dry himself. Soon he picked up speed, and soon after, Alpine's body was little more than a blurry mess of rotating fur, The ground trembled as Alpine stepped forward.
His nose pierced the metal with ease, and soon after the door slid open. The stench of ancient air assaulted Ashlynn's nose. She cringed.
And then she panicked as a deafening noise echoed through the halls.
"Geyre's forge!"
The noise did not stop, nor did it show any signs of getting any quieter. Alpine barked and growled at the ceiling. A voice was saying something in the old tongue, but Ashlynn couldn't recognize what it was saying. If she wasn't in the middle of a heart attack, perhaps she could have raked her memory and figured it out.
But at that moment, Ashlynn was solely focused on getting as far away from the Ceitu as she could.
Ashlynn snatched the object from within the room and stuffed it in her satchel. Luckily whatever lived in the room before she discovered it was small, although in her haste Ashlynn didn't get to look at what she had grabbed. All she knew was that it was a metal cube, and she prayed to Abirt that it was the Wonder Lord Hubris asked her to find.
Alpine was barking up a storm just outside. Soon enough he would start shaking, and Abirt knows how far down he would dig before he stopped. As soon as she left the room, Ashlynn knelt down and stroked Alpine's fur. He was calmer now, soothed down from a raging bark into a constant growl.
"We have to move!" She yelled.
And out into the halls, they ran. Ashlynn followed the path she had marked on her way in, and soon found herself at the entrance to the Ceitu. She looked out into the Waste and noticed a rather large cloud of dust approaching from the west. Were dust clouds supposed to move that way? It wasn't like anything she had ever seen before.
Were those… people?

The hoard of undead turned their heads east as they heard a noise in the distance. They'd wandered far from the hole in the ground they crawled out of, but a thousand years of undeath takes its toll on the brain. After a few years of walking in one direction, they all eventually stopped wandering and started waiting.
They were human once, as all New Men were. The Ceitu was their home, and the last place many of them saw before they perished. A few of them came here for salvation before the old world ended, more migrated just after it happened. Over the years, the old ones corralled here in search of something. Hope maybe? Or redemption.
Either way, they all met the same fate.
And there they all stood. One great collective of what remained of the Old World's inhabitants. The hoard of orange and white shuffled aimlessly in place for the last thousand years. Most everyone with the slightest inkling of common sense avoided them. Most everyone around this part of the Waste kept quiet and to themselves, for they dare not alert the hoard.
But they all heard that familiar sound coming from the east and, one by one, they shuffled east to investigate.

Ashlynn's heart nearly leaped out of her chest as she saw the realized the dust cloud was coming straight for her. She had an easy time sneaking around the New Men the first time; they hadn't been paying any particular attention to anything before. But now they were active, and in far too great in number to evade.
Alpine barked at something down in the Ceitu, then ran back into the red-tinted darkness. Ashlynn swore and ran after him. That stupid beast was her only companion in the Waste, and she would be sent to the afterlife before she let something happen to him.
"Alpine!" She called as she chased the beast through the halls, "You're going the wrong way, foolish beast!"
But Alpine did not relent in his pursuit. Ashlynn tried to peer through the darkness but couldn't see anything clearly aside from Alpine in front of her. The beast barked at nothing. Ashlynn tried to calm him but nothing was working.
Then Alpine flew threw the air into the wall. He let out a whimper as all his breath escaped him at once. Ashlynn's heart skipped a beat. She lowered her sword so that the tip was level with her chin. She couldn't see whatever Alpine could, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.
Ashlynn ran past Alpine and swung, letting out a shriek and connecting with the wall beside her. Sparks erupted from the strike. Vibrations shot through the blade and rocked Ashlynn's fingers. Her arm was trembling, but she didn't pay it any mind. Alpine was breathing heavily on the floor. Ashlynn noticed a wound on the beast, and how his blood was now mixing with the old, ancient blood that was already there.
She swung again. Again, her blade met the wall.
Whatever she couldn't see struck her from behind and sent her face-first into the floor. She rose to her feet on uneasy legs. A trickle of blood leaked out of the crack on her nose. She touched it and winced. Then she felt a hard blow to her side and another to her back. Ashlynn slashed through the air time and time again, meeting nothing.
Alpine's whining was getting quieter. Ashlynn rose to her feet and swung once more, finally connecting to something. She couldn't tell what she hit, only that it screamed like her. Her sword vanished, stuck in whatever it was that she couldn't see.
It said something in the old language, then cursed her in the common tongue.
"God damn it!" The unseen thing said. Her sword appeared out of thin air, clattering on the floor.
Ashlynn, understandably confused, ran to comfort Alpine. The bleeding was mostly superficial, and Ashlynn said a quick prayer to Abirt. She turned to the nothing, grabbed her sword and spoke.
"H-hello?"
A head emerged, dark-skinned with matted hair. A thick beard sat on its chin, and there was a glistening red line running down the head's face over its left eye. The head stared back at her on an angle. It furrowed its brow as it said something she didn't understand.
"What?"
The head said something else, this time sounding a bit different from the first language it spoke. Ashlynn still didn't understand.
"I don't understand!"
The head sighed, "It appears I must speak this guttural language of yours. The New Men will be upon us soon. You need a suit."
"You could have killed Alpine!"
"You triggered a breach."
Ashlynn pushed her satchel behind her and backed up against the wall, "I'm just an explorer."
The head blinked twice and sighed, "Of course you are. This way. Leave the dog, he'll only slow us down."
Dog? Ashlynn heard of "dogs" before, but all she knew that they had four legs and fur. Alpine was far too furry. And had far too many legs.
Either way, Ashlynn scooped up Alpine and ran after the head. It led her down further into the bowels of the Ceitu. Down twisting corridors with cracked floors, rusted walls, and splattered blood. The voices of the ghosts rang in her ears even louder than the noise screaming at her overhead. They stopped at a room. The symbols next to it pressed themselves and the door opened.
Inside was a yellow mass of machinery, unlike anything Ashlynn had ever seen before. It looked like a human, only larger and far bulkier than it ought to be. The tangled mess of wires and tubes at the joints frightened her. Just staring at the machine-made her uncomfortable.
"Get in." The head ordered.
"But-"
The ceiling shook above them. The New Men had come home.
"Get in the damn suit."
Ashlynn looked at Alpine. The beast stared back at her, but it was still weak. She placed him on the floor and steeled her nerves once more. She said a prayer to Abirt, and approached the machine. It stared back at her through a cold, unfeeling helmet. It was alien to her. Another tremor from above drove her to step inside.
The inside of the machine was oddly warm. Ashlynn felt as if she had eaten a feast for kings. All her fatigue disappeared almost instantly. She rose on uneasy feet and looked down at herself. Alpine was on his feet now and started barking.
"Good," The head said before vanishing, "All we've got to do now is wait."
"Why are you helping me?" She asked.
"I'm not."
Before Ashlynn could ask another question, the New Men were upon them. Ashlynn raised the sword to meet them, but they ignored her. The New Men shuffled in the room and sniffed the air, but none of them attacked. Ashlynn let out a breath she didn't know she was holding and walked through the empty halls of the Ceitu. She couldn't see the head anymore, but at least Alpine was following her.
Lord Hubris would not be happy to hear about this.


+ Display excerpt from SCP-682 Experiment Log

- Collapse excerpt

The following is an excerpt of a single test from Experiment Log T-98816-OC108/682 involving SCP-053 and SCP-682

Item: SCP-053
Tissue Test Record:
N/A, overridden by O5-Command
Termination Test Record:
SCP-682 introduced to SCP-053 containment area. SCP-682 appears to be very confused, and shows no sign of being affected by SCP-053. SCP-053 appears to be afraid of SCP-682, and hides behind a chair in her containment area. SCP-682 lowers itself to the ground, resting its head on the floor. SCP-053 approaches SCP-682, and after several seconds of hesitation, briefly touches SCP-682 before rapidly returning to her hiding place. SCP-682 does not react in any way. SCP-053 approaches SCP-682 and pats its head, causing it to exhale through its forward nostrils. SCP-053 claps and hops in place several times before embracing the head of SCP-682. For the remainder of the testing period, SCP-682 appears to be in a very docile state, with only two low-level escape attempts being made. SCP-053 is observed to bring toys and other items to SCP-682, and makes several drawings on its forward carapace with crayons.
Staff entering at the end of the test phase are immediately attacked by SCP-682, resulting in two deaths and five injuries. SCP-682 contained and moved to separate containment unit. SCP-053 observed crying for several minutes after SCP-682 is removed.
Notes: The reaction of SCP-682 is notable for several reasons. First, it is one of the few incidents where SCP-682 has come in contact with biological tissue and not entered a “rage” state. Second, it has raised questions as to the physical make-up and composition of SCP-053, in regards to the lack of response of SCP-682. Third, it has provided a possible solution to long-term containment. However, approval for the mutual containment of two highly dangerous SCP items in a single containment unit is not likely.

Excerpt concluded

On April 23rd, 2013, a proposed revision of containment procedures involving SCP-053 and SCP-682 was submitted to site administration.
Theoretical means to lower human resource cost on site were suggested by the document, focused largely on decreasing the frequency and severity of SCP-682 breach attempts by cohabitation with SCP-053. Suggested protocol relied largely on previous cross experimentation data with exposing the two anomalies to one another, which recorded a sharp decrease in agitation from SCP-682 when entities were housed together.
Proposal included a detailed blueprint for a cohabitative containment unit able to accommodate SCP-053 while keeping SCP-682 adequately contained against breach attempts. Security standards proposed for the onsite facilities neighboring the containment area were engineered for minimizing potential site damage in the event of 682 breach, with the layout of the facility and its safeguards being further maximized to improve the ease of SCP-682 recapture and return to housing with SCP-053.
On May 6th, 2013, proposal was passed forward from site administration to the O5 council. O5 council approved the proposal for a 24-hour trial application on May 14th, 2013, with a 5-4-4 vote.
Preparations were made over the course of the following weeks for the cohabitation facility of SCP-053 and SCP-682.

June 10th, 2013
08:00 - 053-682 Cohabitation trial begins under the provision that any breach attempt on SCP-682's part resulting in significant structural damage to containment in the following 24 hours would result in the removal of both anomalies from cohabitative containment and their return to pre-existing Special Containment Procedure.

"Well, I certainly never thought we'd actually get to see the day." Clef commented and leaned against a desk in the back corner of the room, smiling as he sipped his coffee. In the rare way he sometimes did, Clef was telling the truth. Perhaps it didn't suit him… or perhaps the souring face of the researcher tapping away next to him was due more to the fact that Clef's ass was parked on the corner of their desk. Who cares.
A bored beep toned from the entrance, immediately preceding the sound of a heavy lock releasing electronically. The door to the room clicked and swung open unceremoniously as a man in his late fifties pushed through.
“You're the one that was against throwing kids at the death alligator, if memory serves.” A gruff, succinct voice responded in the sort of dry tone that said it was sorely in need of its fifth cup of coffee. It seemed Kondraki had decided to join in the occasion. No particular surprise there.
“Normal kids, yes. It's a terrible idea, but fifty three is not what you call normal.” Clef had looked up when he heard the door to the observation room open and smiled at the familiar voice that followed, greeting the man that entered with his signature Cheshire grin.
This was the primary observation room, of course. The one that was actually immediately adjacent to the new state-of-the-art containment chamber and equipped with a heavily reinforced one-way viewing window (for looking in on the aforementioned containment chamber). The people crammed into every workstation here, taking final notations and frantically passing off system checks, were - of course - not the only people on the site currently huddled around computers in observational rooms at the moment, wired in to the security camera feeds showing all angles of the new containment area. All eyes were watching. All of them.
Dr. Kondraki huffed like a grizzly bear and rubbed his hand over his face.
“That's not why you're upset though.”
“Shut up.”
“You're feeling snippy today,” Clef frowned momentarily at Kondraki before passing his coworker the extra cup of coffee he had been holding onto. “For you, smartass.”
Kondraki gave another little sigh but accepted the offering of something warm and psychoactive. The disgruntled man took a sip and then paused to look towards his shorter companion.
“Irish?”
“Don't say I never did anything for you,” Clef smiled again and watched the taller man settle in to lean against the wall next to Clef and sip his drink, remaining dour despite the mumbled thanks. The researcher sitting at the desk tsk'd again before pulling a paper from under the corner of Clef's butt, looking it over, and passing it through a fax machine. Clef ignored them, focusing back on the subject at hand.
While the noise of the room surrounded the two men, a small social sort of quiet had settled between the pair. Clef regarded Kondraki. He picked out his next words quietly, speaking them into shape after a moment more of consideration. His tongue was careful and delicate about how the sounds were shaped in his mouth.
“… He's gonna be fine, Konny.”
“You don't know that.”
“Well he's yours, isn't he?” Dr. Clef scoffed and leaned back on one hand, gesturing with his coffee loosely. “Have some faith.”
Draven wasn't exactly Clef's area of expertise, but Clef knew plenty of his father. Enough to know that parental worry was getting to the elder Kondraki more than he'd like to admit to his son once this was all over. From Clef's interactions, Draven seemed confident, competent, and driven. A good kid. A good choice of leader for the transport team. From what Clef could make of the containment transfer plan, the potential for breach during the pass off was shockingly minimal. Once it came to being inside of the chamber that was another situation, but safeguards were in place and if containment itself failed then dealing with the fallout fell primarily to another team.
“Besides. The kid isn't nearly as impulsive a dumbass as you. At least from what I've seen,” Clef shrugged. “I'm sure he'll follow all the proper regulatory safety precautions. That's more than you could say in his place.”
Kondraki blew a bit of air out his nose, relenting a nod. Draven was certainly better about following procedure than his father had shown in the past. “Mm.”
“I mean, he stays hydrated, right?” Clef met the glare that followed with an only mostly work-appropriate level of smugness in his expression.
“… Clef. If filing staff incident reports wasn't such a pain, I'd knock your teeth out about now.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about, Konny, dear.” Clef's smile was absolutely impish now, but he didn't say another word for the time being. Clef just sipped his drink and leaned slightly on Kondraki's shoulder, turning his head to look out the observational window.
Kondraki huffed and allowed this, focusing on a monitor that displayed a fuzzy live camera feed showing a team of 8 MTFs standing around a five by five by five crate. He watched one of the armored figures speak into a radio on his shoulder, and recognized the quiet idle bounce of the young man's left foot. Looking down, Kondraki watched his own foot tap nervously on the tile. He sighed, shuffled his posture a little to lean quietly into his fellow researcher, and took another drink.
“… Liar.”
“As always.”
Clef watched through the window as a now evidently eight-year-old girl drew in lab coats and clunky hazmat suits onto the characters of a Dr.Seuss book with crayon, messily munching on a bag of pretzel crisps and taking occasional sips from a standard, Class-3 plastic liquid containment vessel. Her feet kicked around in the air absently as she laid on her stomach and doodled.

682 was irritated. Draven could tell that much. He also knew that was pretty normal for 682 and that this level of irritation was probably fine based off of the structural readout of the containment transfer crate, so he wasn't too worried about it.
He told his father not to be worried as well, though he knew his dad was too stubborn to listen and too proud to admit anything like fear.
They had just gotten the all-clear to proceed with final transfer steps, and so Draven directed his team to push the large crate slowly against the wall, locking it into a closed gate- not unlike backing a semi into a dock at a warehouse to be loaded and unloaded. SCP-682 registered a slight increase in agitation, scraping and shifting at one of the walls. The final locks were flipped in place, securing the door of the crate against the wall.
Draven reported successful secure connection to the wall port. He heard reinforced metal creak, the sound of hissing and liquid splashing around in a box.
Dispatch directed his team to proceed, and so heavy duty levers on either side of the crate were cranked down, lifting the door on the crate which laid flush against the wall. Then after a few more confirmations, the dock gate opened and Draven heard the shuffling of a large reptile squirming its way out of the box and into the new containment area.

“I hope you realize how stupid you look for being worried.”
“I hope you aren't going to be like this all day, Clef.”
“Hm. You should set more realistic goals.”

The disgusting idiots were moving him. He knew that much. Heard muffled speaking behind the sound of his flesh peeling and stripping and regrowing. What the fuck was this even for? Did they want him to be a lab rat for some new test? While they sat and cowered on the other side of their boxes, taking notes as they brought him into some new way to suffer? 682 snarled and circled in the cramped box, scratching at the wall, testing the reinforcements with strikes of his tail. He could get out of here, given long enough, but these kinds of boxes were always temporary. They never kept him in one long enough for him to adapt a way out. Disgusting cowards. The door to his box opened and revealed another wall. He growled and readied himself to slaughter whatever was on the other side of that wall. Safety horns went off and the wall began to raise.
He bounded out as soon as he could and- …did not expect what he saw.

This new room was nice. It was bigger and the bed was softer and there was a big play area and a closet with costumes and she had already constructed a pillowfort and really it was just very nice! She thanked the scientist who brought her there and gave them a hug before they were pulled back out of the door with the big rope.
She heard growling at the wall after a while and that was pretty scary. Then the wall opened up a big square and a big scary dinosaur came out and knocked over her pillow fort!
She was scared at first. But the dinosaur didn't seem to move a lot so eventually she got brave and went over to pet it. The dinosaur spoke after a while. It said he had met her before when she was a lot smaller. She said she was sorry because she forgot, but it was nice to meet you again big scary dinosaur.
The dinosaur said his name was Essie-pea Six-ate-two and she told him that she was called Oh-five-tree but she wished her name was something prettier, did he like his? Six-ate-two said his name was given to him by disgusting cowardly creatures who stain the world with their existence. Oh-five-tree's name was given to her by scientists, but she agreed that she wouldn't like her name very much either if it was given to her by mean monsters.
She offered to give Six-ate-two a new name.

“She's calling 682 'Lizzy'?” Junior research assistant Dr. Felix Hossack raised an eyebrow. He was amused but understandably skeptical. It wasn't uncommon for gossip to get hyperbolic among the foundation's lower clearance levels.
“Yes. Devourer of site staff and rampaging murderbeast, Lizzy the lizard. But hey, at least the kid gets to have a pet now,” Juniper Lovett smiled and shrugged.
“It's a keter class SCP item, not a dog! Arguably the most cartoonishly dangerous one that we have clearance to know about.” Dr. Silverman gestured with his salad-laden fork. The junior biology researcher raised a good point.
“Well, apparently he's 'responded positively' to belly rubs from her,” Juniper replied, looking rather smug. “Basically a big reptilian dog now as far as I'm concerned. Lizard the big weird dog. Which makes her Emily Anomalous.”
“Bullshit!” Messiah Silverman cried.
“… Isn't Lizzy the class pet from that kids' science show they let her watch last week?” Felix asked after a brief pause to swallow his bite of sandwich. Juniper's face lit up at that.
“Oh my god, she's mixing references. What an inspiration.”

It had been… a nice day. 682 did not feel frustrated spending time with this small child like he did in every other scenario. He understood that the child was a hated thing as well. One that had suffered like him. They were alike in that way. He had attempted to break out a few times anyways, to find out where the disgusting researchers were watching from and find out if they had hurt her as they had him. This had, however, frightened the child. So for the time being he allowed himself to be decorated with a too-small cowboy hat and appreciated how… oddly pleasant and relaxing it was when her tiny arms hugged his scarred, scaly back and demanded to be carried around.
Eventually the child grew tired, yawning and rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. 682 lifted the child carefully in his teeth by the back of her shirt and carried her off to bed, placing her gently on the mattress and circling the bed once, twice, three times before curling around her in a protective little ring. She grumbled and stretched across his back, using his body like a pillow.
Soon enough the girl was fast asleep, and he was her new protector.

June 11th, 2013
08:01 - 053-682 Cohabitation Trial concluded and confirmed successful. Special Containment Procedures for SCP-053 and SCP-682 are updated accordingly.


Previously...

Bobble the Clown sat up and coughed, the long, violent hacks jerking him forward. At the apex of his choking, a small transparent fish came free from his throat and dropped onto the ground, flopping around in desperation.
He was on a beach — long, near-endless, with snow-white sand and oil-black water, stretching on as far as Bobble's grey eyes could see. It wasn't a natural formation, obviously, given the straightness of the shoreline. It was as though it had been set out with the world's biggest ruler.
Wait, this didn't make sense. This didn't make any sense at all.
He'd started off his big evil plan! He'd had the Pelican, the Laugh is Fun guy, hell, even the Speaker of Alagadda on his side! He'd gathered up some disposable bodies, set out to start property messing with the human race, and then…
And then…?
And then nothing. A complete blank in his memory. What? Had God reached down and smote him or something? No, no. If there was a supreme being with the ability to crush Bobble like an ant, he'd have done it long ago.
He pouted, crossing his arms and legs. This was bullshit! Where was his BobbleCon 2018?! It was supposed to have been a veritable banquet of blasphemy and slaughter. And here he was in Nowhere, Nowhen. Where was this place, anyway?
Looking down, Bobble saw a few companions down in the sand with him. The fish that had somehow found itself in his throat — now dead, rest in peace — a human skull with the jaw ripped away, and a tiny tortoise making its way across the beach.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Bobble reached down, flipped the tortoise on its back, and started walking.
Relishing the squeaking of his footsteps, Bobble put his hands behind his back and took in the landscape — actually, no, he didn't do that, because there wasn't any landscape to speak of. Just endless black and white. There weren't even stars in the sky above.
He wasn't in the physical world, that was for sure, nor the psychospace. Those places weren't nearly as boring as this, unless you found yourself in Greenland. He had an inkling of where he was, but he truly hoped it wasn't true. If he was right, it was worse than being in Greenland.
Much, much worse.

”HALT”

Bobble stopped, turning on his heel to face the voice coming from behind him. People! Goodie, goodie. He'd always considered himself a people person.
The speaker was one of three — floating figures, clad in seamless steel armour, wide staring eyes painted onto the fronts of their helmets. Rotating silver wheels hovered directly over their backs.

”IDENTIFY YOURSELF, CLOWN - ARE YOU OF ONEIROI, OR ARE YOU A FRIEND OF SENSE AND LOGIC"

The clown smiled; he could see straight through them. Literally, he could see straight through them — each of the figures had a small hole going right through the center of their chests, like a donut, and through the hole the landscape behind them could be seen. It was a brave look! Even Bobble had to admit that.
“Hello, hello, my dear friends!” he said, bowing deeply with a flourish. “My name is Pierrot Mercury, and I think you'll find that I'm on the side of whichever of those is the right option.”
The knight-things shuddered angrily, the clattering of their armour like hail against glass.

”DO NOT TRIFLE WITH US, CLOWN - THE KNIGHTS OF REASON ASKED YOU A QUESTION AND GAVE YOU TWO POSSIBLE OPTIONS - YOU MUST CHOOSE FROM THOSE OPTIONS - A THIRD OPTION WAS NOT PRESENTED”

Well, Bobble certainly didn't want to offend the Knights of Reason. They seemed like very reasonable people, hence the name he imagined, and he was one-hundred percent definitely probably sure they would help him out once he explained his tragic situation.
“But of course I'm on the side of reason and logic. I mean, look at me! Clowns are notoriously logical, hence why the Man tries to keep us down.”
He suddenly got the distinct feeling that three blades were at his throat. There were no physical objects, of course, but this wasn't the kind of place where that would be a hindrance. Here, the idea of a sword was just as good as the actual thing. Better, even.

”YOU THINK US STUPID, DON'T YOU”

“Yeah,” Bobble giggled.
A moment of silence settled over the beach, interrupted only by the perfectly rhythmic sound of the tide coming in every 2.3 seconds. The Knights of Reason hung there, so still in the sky it was as if they were being strangled by invisible nooses. Bobble grinned: oh, he didn't know where he'd been, but he'd missed this.
The Knights came for him.

Taking a seat on the corpse of the most portly Knight of Reason, Bobble considered his next move. Clearly, he'd somehow ended up in the Dreamlands, and that was most definitely not his favourite place to be. There was no point in violence or cruelty when a good deal of it was just against figments of your imagination.
Chewing what was still in his mouth, he sorted through the information he'd obtained from the leaders' brain. These Knights of Reason were a part of some sapphire organization dedicated to colonizing the Dreamlands, having put themselves into permanent comas for that purpose. Seemed dumb to him, but he supposed that if that was part of their faith, he had no desire to judge.
The home of reason was the head, the home of emotion the heart — hence their removal of that deficiency from their dream-forms. Very poetic, very deep.
Ideally, Bobble would have liked to hitch a ride home, but these Knights weren't fit for that purpose. As permanent residents, the concepts comprising them would just come back together somewhere else in the Dreamlands rather than waking them up in the physical world.
What he needed was a tourist, a transitory visitor like himself, but with a body of their own waiting for them.
Bobble swallowed, savoring the last few fragments of information as he digested them. Ah! There was something interesting! A settlement belonging to these Knights, not far from this idea of a beach.
Worth a look, at any rate. Maybe he could send a postcard.
As he skipped over the other two corpses and off into the distance, Bobble contemplated just how miserable it must be to be someone other than him.

This place was a marvel, thought Nino, but he was simply too incompetent to make use of it.
The Citadel of Forms he'd discovered this time was a sprawling landscape of apartment buildings growing out of each other like the branches of a tree, a veritable mosaic of urban life you could never find in the real world. A blue cuboid sun hung in the sky above, bathing the entire city in an ocean glow. Every now and then he'd spy the silhouette of a civilian crossing the streets, always in a straight line.
Nino sighed. His subconscious could produce something like this, but he couldn't paint it to save his life. Why couldn't he just transfer what he saw right now to a canvas? Why couldn't his useless hands just do their job, damnit?!
He sat on the edge of one of the buildings, swinging his legs over the side as he tried to memorize everything he could see. Even if it was a futile endeavour, he needed to at least make the effort for when he woke up.
“Hey, champ,” came a voice from behind him. “Having a tough time?”
Nino glanced behind him — and once he saw the thing there, he flinched so hard he almost went toppling over the side of the roof.
“Woah, woah, woah!” chuckled the clown good-naturedly, grabbing Nino by the arm and pulling him back up. “Don't wanna go waking up early now, huh?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Nino panted, doing his best not to look directly at the painted man in front of him. He'd never had a specific fear of clowns, not really, but having one sneak up on you in the middle of your dream was still like something out of a horror movie. “It's just … you surprised me, you know?”
Again, the clown laughed. “I get what you mean, I get what you mean, buddy. Sorry to give you a fright there. Name's, uh, Bubble - I'm part of your subconscious, friend.”
Nino furrowed his brow. “My … subconscious?”
Bubble smiled. “Well, of course. This whole place is your dream, ain't it? Who else am I gonna be?”
It was true. For a few months now, Nino had been experimenting with lucid dreaming, trying to find inspiration for his paintings. The places he'd found himself in, like this city, were outstanding — it was sometimes hard to believe they'd come from the mind of a hack like him.
“Oh, okay,” smiled Nino weakly. “Bubble, right? What are you … um, what do you want?”
“Well,” said Bubble, taking a seat on the side of the roof just as Nino had been moments ago. “Like I said, pal, you struck me as a fella in need of a heart-to-heart. Real sad face, you know? And I'm part of you, so you can trust me when I say this stuff.”
Nino sat down again, wiping the imaginary sweat from his imaginary brow. After a few seconds of silence, Bubble nudged him with his shoulder.
“Penny for your thoughts?” the clown said.
Nino looked at Bubble. “If you're part of me, shouldn't you already know what the problem is?”
His companion blinked, grin frozen on his face. “Uh. Well, um, sometimes it's best to vocalize your — our issues, you know? Of course I know what the issue is, but the important part is that you acknowledge your difficulties.”
Sighing again, Nino looked down at the streets below. “Well, I've been having trouble with my painting. I've not been getting much in the way of success — no, that's not it. There's no success. I'm a failure, man. A fucking failure.”
“Aw,” tutted Bubble, stifling what looked suspiciously like a yawn.
“And — and I'm barely able to pay the rent right now, and they're bringing that up, and Lisa is always pissed off with me…”
“Lisa?” Bubble drew out the word, as if savoring the taste of it.
“My girlfriend. It's — Jesus, man, it's all fucked.”
“Please, please, just Bubble is fine,” the clown stood up, stretching upwards like a shadow in the sunlight. “Listen, friend, I've listened to what you have to say and this is my perspective.”
Nino took in a deep breath. What wisdom did his subconscious mind have to impart upon him?
“You're absolutely right. You're fucked. Your life is awful, and it's about to get substantially worse. Too bad, so sad.”
“Huh?” Nino turned to look at the clown, only to find himself falling over onto his stomach.
He winked — he tried to blink, but he couldn't quite manage that. Something was wrong. There was a taste of mercury in his mouth. Something was dripping into one of his eyes. He couldn't breathe right. He couldn't move. The closest thing to speech he could manage was a high-pitched squeal.
All he could see was the oversized shoes of the clown standing in front of him. A second later, they were joined by a bloodstained brick falling from above.
“Sorry, champ,” cooed the clown, each syllable dripping with insincerity. “I'm a long way from home, and I need you to give me a ride.”
Nino moaned.
Bubble cackled. “Sorry, sorry! I didn't quite get that, buddy ol' pal! Please to repeat? Please to repeat?!”
With all the strength he could muster, Nino looked up at his attacker. He had no trouble screaming after that.
The clown was smiling — no, more than that: the smile, the wolfish grin had spread over his face to such a degree that all his other facial features had shriveled down to tiny beady black eyes and a recessed skull-like nose. The skin around his mouth had torn, tiny black branches of wood poking out from the gaps, crimson blood belching forth without reserve.
Bubble reached for Nino with two hands, and half-a-dozen others that emerged from beneath his multi-coloured jacket. Within a second, they were upon him, each one wrapping around his skull. Eyes and mouth blocked, all Nino could do was scream his muffled scream.
“Now,” whispered Bubble. “We've got a little hole here, but we gotta widen it a little if I'm gonna take a seat. Also, this is unrelated, but do you know where I can get a postcard?”
Nino thrashed as much as he could, but much like him that didn't amount to much.
"Guess not. Well, here we go!"
Fingers started digging.

Nino Calvano woke with a start, coated with sweat. He panted for breath, the details of his dream already fading from memory.
Jesus. Jesus. Whatever it was, he'd never had a dream like this before. Nightmares, sure, but nothing that felt so real. His body was responding like it had been in genuine danger. It took him a few minutes just to get his breathing under control.
Lisa had clearly already woken up, leaving him alone in the bed. That was fairly common these days, ever since the money from the paintings had …
Shit.
Nino squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall what he'd seen while he was asleep, the landscapes he knew would make fantastic paintings.
Shit!
He'd messed it up again. There was nothing. He had nothing. He was nothing.
Next time, he couldn't mess it up. He just couldn't. The rent, Lisa, his paintings, his money, his failures … the problems swirled like a hurricane. For the last few months, he'd constantly felt like he was seconds from being swept away.
Positive affirmations, Nino reminded himself. Positive affirmations. He had to remember what Ms. Devon had said.
Joints cracking, Nino forced himself out of bed and walked over to his wall-side mirror. A sad, droopy face looked back at him. Bagged eyes and an unkempt, spreading beard. But he couldn't lose himself in negativity.
He took in a deep breath and spoke words he didn't believe.
“Everything's going to be fine,” he said, as soothingly as he could manage. “Everything's going to be fine.”

« The Revolution Will Be Televised | BobbleCon |


“The performance must be live; recordings of the piece have no effect.”

SCP-2845 | Special Containment Procedures | Procedure 420-Perinaldo: (120°)

My grandpa dodged Vietnam with a bari sax.
He was en route to report for the draft and ran into a lieutenant carrying an instrument case. He started talking to a fellow musician at the train station and wound up in West Germany instead of Dak To, doing cushy tours with a military band.
I'm sure he'll appreciate the parallels — if they ever let me tell him. I suspect they won't.
After all, that's what got me this job in the first place: my discretion. It's how I got away with corporate embezzlement for thirteen years, though the story of how I avoided jail is much more interesting. It involves a woman named Natalie Burman, who introduced herself as a recruiter and asked me if 13 years is my record for keeping secrets.
Natalie said she worked for a group called the Foundation, a group that wanted to keep the world safe. She said I could stay out of prison time by playing my flute. Then she said I'd never learn any more than that, and if that was a problem, I should save everyone the trouble and serve my 30 years right now instead.
So I'm not about to jeopardize that, even to Grandpa Eldon. Because if there's one thing the Foundation is, it's thorough.
Take my schedule for example. I only work for 39 minutes at a time, two or three times a week, but I have to arrive four hours early. I'm greeted at the door with a full-panel drug test. I deposit my phone and join the other musicians on a high-speed train, and we depart. The journey takes about an hour. There are no windows.
The drug tests are done cooking by the time we arrive. In four years I've never seen someone fail, but Dilara (oboe/backup clarinet) says it happened once early on, and they fired the guy on the spot. An understudy appeared from nowhere: frazzled, panicked, but she performed flawlessly.
After disembarking, we just wait around. There's a green room with books and movies, comfortable couches, a big honkin' digital clock on the wall, counting down to showtime. Our instruments are waiting for us when we arrive. Sometimes we warm up, or play for fun. But we can't play Perinaldo as a group, not until the time comes.
At T-minus 30 minutes, a wiry man we've dubbed “the Stage Manager” checks up on us. Again at 15, then 10. At 5 minutes to go, we exit and walk in silence to our performance chamber. It's Ring-G today: the Stage Manager leads the way but we've all memorized the order.
We take our seats, tune to each other, leaf through our sheet music. I look over the notes, vocalizations, and gestures. My nerves are always fine until the Stage Manager rolls back the covering on the hexagram, and then things get a little surreal. But that's the 30-second warning, and it's time to watch Dilara for the downbeat. And then we're playing.
The piece is 39 minutes long, and utterly alien. There's no coherent melody. Notes build and then suddenly stop. The dialogue and hand noises interrupt the music rather than accompany it. It's not just some weird song; I played a lot of John Cage in college, and it doesn't even compare. The thing is just deliberate enough to be music instead of noise. But only just.
You can memorize anything: we're living proof. The fingerings and chants are fixed, automatic, and in the routine, my mind drifts. I fixate on the dark gray hexagram on the floor, on the way my stomach drops every time I see it. There's no audience, but I've played to orchestra halls of a thousand and felt less watched than this. I can't describe it, can't name it of course. They've done their job obfuscating the details. But I've seen how the Stage Manager walks more briskly by Ring-A. I've heard the tone in his voice, in his clipped fragments of chatter about the other five Procedures. They do worse things than bad music in these steel chambers. And they consider it all absolutely necessary.
But more than anything, I focus on the start of Movement Four, 26 minutes in. Because on April 7th in my first year on the project, I was sick and distracted, and I flubbed six beats all in a row.
A single miss is infrequent but common enough, but then I lost my place. Missed the next two trills and a hand sign. And without warning, the audience in my head multiplied. There were 10,000 people watching and none of them were people, I was sure of it, I just knew, and that's how I missed the 5th cue, and then suddenly that audience was a hundred thousand.
The others had noticed. They glanced at me, at the red-yellow light now pulsing on the wall. The oboist and timpanist clapped in tempo. My turn again. The stage manager had vanished out the door.
The hundred thousand Not-People stared me down, expectant, unreadable. My next breath had a metallic tang. I swear the lead hexagram began to smoke. The 6th beat came up, and I wish I could say I missed it out of curiosity. Bravery. Some noble scientific need to see what happens next. But I didn't choose anything. I was weak, and stupid, and panicking. I just missed.
And then it saw me. Really, truly, saw me. And I saw it too, but I know it got more than it gave.
It was a hundred million people: an infinite audience packed into a single, impossible face. I saw — or imagined — antlers and ice and shimmering metal spheres and, behind that, something more. A warped song, a counter-melody, some sort of response that this thing was preparing, just for me.
It tilted its head, and the entire world bent to match.
The timpanist clapped.
The oboist clapped.
I breathed.
50 meters to the northwest, across a shuddering, warping reality, The Stag watched me.
Then muscle memory kicked in and I hit the G♯.
The alarms and lights were off by the time we finished, with only a whiff of ammonia dusting the air. The others covered for me. Then demanded offsite daily practices for three months.
Three years later and I don't miss any cues, even though my heart races during Movement Four. We coast through to the end, hold the last note, and Dilara cuts us off. The stage manager unfurls the canvas and covers the hexagram. I stand and follow him out of the room.
The Stag watches us go, a hundred million hands applauding. Calling for an encore. Listening for seven more wrong notes.
Waiting for its turn to sing.


by qntm

Previously

"…And what have we learned?"
It takes O5-8 a significant amount of time to answer his own question. He speaks with a measured, level tone. He is in no hurry.
"We have learned that there is time missing from our world. Almost a year of extremely recent history. And there are spaces, significant spaces, in every population center, which cannot be perceived or entered. The cities are rerouting around them, like mountains or radiation zones. And along with that time and that space, we have learned that there are enough people missing, without any explanation whatsoever, that if I spent the rest of my considerably augmented lifespan counting them, I could not count to that number."
He pauses.
"And outside of the Noöspherics Division," he says, "no one, not a single person, is even aware of these… thefts. Even those in the Division, who made this discovery, cannot recall what happened during that missing time. And no one can enter that missing space. The gap in reality, itself, can barely be perceived. It is this… shocking, blinding absence. This unknown unknown.
"We have learned — we have cautiously hypothesized — that three to four years ago an unimaginable anomaly entered our reality. And then, some time later, it left, taking all of that space, and all of that time, and all of those people with it. We do not know what it was, or what it did. We have tried to find out, but the truth evades my best noösphericists. The question fights back, as if it doesn't want to be answered. And we do not know why the anomaly left, though my experts say that in the conceptual realm, there is evidence — traces — of what could have been a conflict. And in the distance, shining down on us, there is a great new star."
He hesitates.
"Even I don't remember what happened," he continues, with his voice lowered. "Which I, personally, find… deeply alarming. Because this is recent history. Like nearly everybody alive, I must have been there. In some respect, I must have gone through it.
"But if we have learned nothing else, we have learned this: humans can walk away from, and forget, anything. Civilization can go back to 'normal' after anything."
He sits in contemplative silence, for some time. He stares at nothing. He worries, briefly, that he really does know the truth, and that there is nothing anomalous preventing him from knowing it. That it's simple denial. But he won't say that aloud, even here.
He says,
"And I wonder: what was the Foundation's role in this? Were we witness to this anomaly? Were we the ones who defeated it? Did we resist? Negotiate? Participate?
"We are here, now. Intact. We are back. To what do we owe that? Did we hide, or run?
"Do we deserve to be back? Have we that right? We failed in our stated objective. These people are gone, and it's useless to pretend that they aren't dead. We failed orders of magnitude harder than we've ever failed before. Despite which, we remain clandestine, and unknown to greater humanity. Which means that no one external to the Foundation can ever hold us accountable for our actions, or lack thereof. If what happened at the O5 Council meeting yesterday is any indication, we will certainly never hold ourselves accountable.
"What happened to those people? My people. Where are they? No one is just dead, no one is merely, passively dead. Death is caused."
SCP-055 cannot answer him.
He says, his voice rising, "These things happen. And we say to ourselves, 'Never again.' And a hundred years pass. And they happen. Again."
He says, "Last time. The time before this one, the time none of us remember, the time for which there is no evidence of any kind, but which I now realise must exist. That time, when we told ourselves and each other, 'We must do better,' what did we do differently, from then on, and why didn't it work?"
He says, "What does the Foundation need to be? Where does it need to be, and how far is that place from here? Can we see it from here?
"Or is this it?"
He does not know.
And after leaving the containment unit, he knows, he will not even remember the questions.

*

Direct observation is harmful to Nema's species. Her mother died when she was a juvenile, killed instantly when a Foundation researcher took a close-up flash photograph of her face. The Foundation thinks her whole species is extinct, wiped out by infertility and disease, as an indirect result of excessively close Foundation study.
But they are not extinct. Some of them adapted. They fled, across oceans and then inland. They grew thicker antimemetic armour.
Nema is a fully-grown adult C. gigantes, a massively vertically elongated quadruped, almost a kilometre tall at the shoulder. As O5-8's motorcade leaves Site 19, she is standing just beyond the Site's perimeter, with a crumpled metaspider in her mouth. She is unable to perceive the motorcade or the Site itself, any more than any human Foundationer can perceive her. They only barely walk the same earth.
The spider is a two-hundred-metre-long bundle of legs, eyes and chitin, long body parts dangling from each side of Nema's jaws. The spider convulses ineffectually. It can't escape. It is the last one. The spiders were numerous, and tasty, but the Ones Who Walk Very Slowly have a broad diet.
Nema bites down, biting through the last of the spider's legs, which begin an achingly slow tumble to the ground, accompanied by a gout of bug juice. Nema tosses the spider's mauled thorax in the air and catches it in the back of her throat. She gulps it down, mostly whole, still twitching. She raises her head and vocalises triumphantly, a deafening, inaudible, infrasonic warble. The call carries all the way to her mate and children, on the horizon.

Back to Antimemetics Division Hub


For the first time in his life, as a Templar and as a warrior, Melbrecht was fleeing from the field of battle.
This was no organized flight or strategic retreat. He and his Templars had broken from the field, running towards the safety and sanctity of the Brightshome. For the first time in his life, a grandmaster of a Templar order fled with his men, abandoning all the trappings of honor and station as he ran for his life down the main way.
Of the two hundred and fifty Templars who sallied out of the walls the night before with him, only fifty had stood with him before they broke. Of those fifty who stood, only thirty had escaped being cut down as they ran- eleven Templars, nineteen neophytes.
It was a debacle of the highest order, a stain of dishonor to sully the name of the Order of the Horn for years to come- but now, Melbrecht couldn't care less. He looked back, saw the doom approaching him from behind, and was reminded of the last fight to come.
Behind him, the remnants of the enemy army marched by slowly and impetuously, as if they had all the time in the world. At their head was the imposing figure of Asser Clef, clad in resplendent white armor stained with the drying blood of the High Priestess. At his side, the Scrantonum blade of Saint Agatha's witch-sword glowed with a dark crimson light, having tasted the flesh of the witch.
As he looked upon the Brightshome, Asser Clef smiled.
All around them, from the impoverished quarter of the Altostown to the grey stone manors of the Spirit Quarter, the entire city stood still and silent, as crowds came to watch the scene unfolding in front of their eyes.
The city was falling yet again, as another army marched down its streets, heading towards the Shrine at the top of the Hill of the Amulet.
But no shrines were burning now, no people were slaughtered in the streets or were savaged by the jaws of the invaders. As Arnven fell for the second time, it fell in total silence- under the familiar guises of humanity.
The Holy Foundation has returned.

Raetor watched the procession from the great window, a glass of wine perched in his hand. On his lap sat a small book detailing the outstanding accounts of the merchants within the city, written by himself in a time that now felt lost so long ago.
As the enemy army continued to head down the main way, Raetor set down his wine glass on the windowsill. Beside it, he laid the book of accounts. It was useless to him anyhow- the city had fallen.
He stood up from his seat, and quietly made his way down the stairs leading into the deathly silent Hall of Saints.
Leaning on the wall next to the statue of Saint Mann, he took the unassuming shortsword that he had set aside only two hours earlier. He sighed as he gave it a few practice swings, remembering the carnage from the Battle of the Way and the fight to come.
If this was meant to be my final day on Earth, he thought, examining the blade, then I will spend it in service of my city.
Then, with a thundering crash, the broken fellows of what remained of the Templars streamed into the Brightshome- tired, wounded, and crushed.
Raetor turned to meet them, his steps picking up as he sheathed his sword in the scabbard around his waist.
“Where is the grandmaster?” He said, his tone hard and angry.
None of the Templars or neophytes turned to look at him, even as they seated themselves among the statues of the saints and the engraved words of Lord Bright.
He crossed his arms. “Dead, then, I assume?”
A long, broken laugh answered Raetor as the door opened once again to admit the slouching form of Grandmaster Melbrecht, wounded and bloody, still holding onto the shaft of his long spear.
Raetor turned in shock, as Melbrecht hobbled into the hall and unceremoniously slumped on the marble wall.
“Believe me, Raetor,” Melbrecht said, his voice now rendered hoarse by his incessant shouting during the battle. “The grandmaster himself wishes he was.”
“What happened out there, Grandmaster?” Raetor said, moving quickly to face Melbrecht. “You adhered to no plan agreed upon by the council, leaving the city open to internal conflict. I had to order my own people to slaughter the-“
“Straight to the point, eh?” Melbrecht said, cutting Raetor off. “It was the Lady's idea. Nearly worked, too- Their army was in chaos, a third of them were dead. It's not your place to question her.”
“My place, Melbrecht,” Raetor began. “Is to make sure the city proceeds as it should. With your unwise attack outside these walls, you've compromised the peace of the city.”
“Heh, so fie on me, hmm? Since I was so callous as to leave this city's walls to break the siege that threatened to destroy it?” Melbrecht chuckled. “I have no time for your numbers, Raetor. I followed the Lady's plan to the letter.”
“The Lady is dying.”
Raetor's simple response caught Melbrecht off his guard, breaking his resolve as he looked up incredulously.
“Wha…” Melbrecht came to his feet in an instant, moving to close the distance between him and Raetor. “What?!” He said, his voice bellowing and angry.
Melbrecht placed his hand on his head, frustrated. “Where is she?” He asked.
Raetor moved his head in the direction of the inner sanctum. “There, with Brother Jaelen.”
As Melbrecht moved towards the sanctum, Raetor caught his arm and stopped him.
“They're saying their last goodbyes right now, Grandmaster.” Raetor said, his voice levelled in a tone of warning. “It would be prudent not to disturb them.”
Melbrecht turned to look at him, his face contorted in fury. He raised his hand in preparation to strike him-
Before he lowered it, his face softening as the news began to sink in.
The Grandmaster of the Order of the Horn crumpled then and there, his knees striking the floor as his heart grew heavy and his world began to crumble.
Then, almost as if the once formidable Grandmaster had been replaced by someone else, Melbrecht began to cry.

Jaelen's steps rang hollow on the polished floor as his fingers tightened around the hard, bejeweled amulet.
He moved into the Hall of Saints, where the statues of the different men and women of significance to the Church all stood at the sides, their faces both kind and hard, standing as they were arrayed in the hall.
He walked past all of them without a single glance, walking towards the end of the hall as his heart began to grow heavy with each step he took.
Only the amulet kept him company as he continued the long walk down the hall, its soft warmth reassuring him as he prepared to face what the world had in store.
When Jaelen finally emerged out of the cold hall, he found Melbrecht crumpled on the floor, broken and in tears. Raetor stood over the Grandmaster, turning to look at the monk as he kept this sword close to himself.
Brother Jaelen took a deep breath as he took a step forward, wearing the amulet around his neck as it glowed with a beautiful green light. In an instant, his chest felt lighter and stronger than it ever had before, as he looked back at the faces of the people gathered around him.
“Our city…” He began. “Our city has fallen. Our enemies march down the main way, their army ready to slaughter our people and take away our Lady.
“We've tried to break them outside our walls, to send them away from us while we still had the strength to do so. We failed then, but we will not fail now. We are your leaders, your councilors, the men of this city who you have entrusted your lives and homes to. Now, the enemy sits outside of this very shrine, waiting for the chance to break us once and for all- we have failed you the first time… but we will not fail you now.
“This is the last fight of our lives, my friends. We've fought outside our walls, within our city, within our shrine, dedicating our lives so that Arnven can live on. How many of our Templars died on this blessed land when the animals came at the Battle of the Horn? How many of our militia died at the foot of the walls when we called for their swords and their spears?
“You've all given so much, and I can ask for no more.”
Jaelen's eyes turned to Raetor, then to Melbrecht. As the assembled Templars and neophytes watched on, he drew his breath one final time, preparing for the words he was going to say next.
“The enemy numbers in the thousands, and we in the dozens. A last stand now will be noble, but foolish- a story that will be passed down future generations as a foolhardy task.”
Jaelen drew the spear from a rack at his side, raising it in the air with his good hand. “So I ask you now to let me fight Asser Clef, man-on-man, deciding the fate of this city in a last clash of sword against spear.”
At this, the entire assembled crowd of people erupted into murmurs, their eyes drawn to him in mixed expressions of admiration and resigned hope. He felt a hand wrap around his arm, as the tall yet slouching figure of Grandmaster Melbrecht forced him to meet his eyes.
“Have your senses left you, Jaelen?!” He said, speaking in a harsh whisper. “Asser is a legend among men, wielding relics and armor of saints. You are a monk, bereft of formal training, all but naked without a single plate of armor, and armed with only a spear. Do you wish to die and pull us down with you?”
Raetor paced to Melbrecht's right, his eyes drawn down in thought.
Melbrecht continued to speak, the fingers of his right hand digging into Jaelen's shoulder. “You have not a single chance, Jaelen! Reconsider now, I command you-“
Raetor placed his hand on the Grandmaster's shoulder before he could say anymore. “It's a foolhardy prospect, yes,” He said, turning to face the both of them. “But not one without merit. He will surely be slaughtered if it's just him…”
“But what if it were three of us?”
Melbrecht and Jaelen both turned to look at him, their faces contorted into the same expression of surprise.
Raetor leaned in. “Think about it, will you not? The Cardinal will think his victory secured, and his honor redeemed. Should we step out to propose a duel to the death, with the entire city in the balance, facing a merchant, an old warrior, and a monk- he would think it easy.”
“But as far as plans go, it is one that has the closest chance to success. Melbrecht will be our spearhead, thrusting forward to distract the Cardinal. The brother and I will be striking at the weak points in his guard, judging when the time is right to weaken him and get past his armor. It will have a scant chance of succeeding, yes, but if we do, we take away their leader and save the city. I say we do it.”
Jaelen nodded solemnly. “I agree.”
Only Melbrecht stood unconvinced, looking at the both of them with increasing disbelief.
Then, his face became one of resignation, nodding along with the both of them.
“Fine,” The Grandmaster said. “I shall accede to your insane plan.” He chuckled. “I've not much to lose anyway. If Bright Himself deems this our last fight, then let us spend it fighting for the Lady and the city.”

Tension suffused the air around the shrine, as the army and the citizenry waited for the answers of the people hidden within.
Maera, now openly on the side of the Foundation, stood beside the white-clad form of Asser. Even now, nervous sweat ran down her face, as the tall Doctor Cardinal waited at her side in silence.
It had been only three minutes since the army came to a stop in front of the Brightshome, surrounding the Hill of the Amulet and keeping away the surrounding nobility and normal citizenry from the view of the Shrine's entrance. Though she'd feared that Asser would immediately give the order for his army to enter the shrine and kill all those inside, the past few minutes had stood testament to the message that the Doctor Cardinal wanted to say:
This was a matter of the Church, and no one else can say otherwise.
Maera took a deep breath, maintaining her veneer of placid composure as her knees quivered beneath her long gown.
I've done much to bring us to this point, she thought as they waited. For this all to fall apart now would be-
Then, the white doors opened, revealing three lone figures as they marched through the entrance.
Brother Jaelen stood far to the right, his face hard and uncompromising- much to Maera's surprise. Around his neck lay an amulet of beautiful design, built around a peculiarly beautiful grey-green jewel that shimmered no matter where you looked at it from. His brown monk robes had been shed in favor of a shorter and darker battledress that blew in the wind as he walked. In his good hand, he held a sleek Templar spear, one of northern make and design.
In the middle, Grandmaster Melbrecht slowly walked forward, his unkempt red hair tied behind him. His hobble was gone, replaced with a dignified walk as his polished plate armor shone in the lamplight. His right hand held a much longer Templar spear, similar to Jaelen's in design yet obviously made for a larger and more imposing man. Wrinkles lined his scarred face, as the old warrior of fifty made his way down the steps of the Shrine.
To the left, Guildmaster Raetor marched in step with his fellow councilors, his cold gaze drawn in the direction of Maera. His close-cut hair gave him an unbelievably stern look, one befitting a general or soldier more than it did a leader of merchants. His full beard, along with the chainmail armor and coif, did nothing to disabuse her of this notion. As he walked, he kept his hand on the sword at his scabbard, his piercing eyes still meeting hers as they moved to meet Maera and Asser.
Asser stepped forward to face them, and Maera followed suit.
The cold autumn air blew through the city, as Asser began the parley.
“How fares the witch?” He began, his helmeted face betraying no emotion as he spoke. “Not good, I assume?”
Melbrecht, at the head of the three councilors, smiled. “The High Priestess is grievously injured, though she heals even now.”
“She does?” Asser said, his voice incredulous. “Send her my regards, then. She will be in my company soon enough.”
Off at the side, Maera noticed Jaelen hold the amulet resting on his chest.
“So,” Asser began again, stretching his arms in front of him in an accommodating gesture. “Have you come to surrender? To receive our terms? Time is a commodity I do not want to waste.”
“We've come to discuss our terms,” Raetor said. “The terms that you will take so that you may leave our city in peace.”
“I think the Foundation's position on that has become quite clear,” Asser replied, his hand casually thumbing the hilt of the bastard sword at his side. “Give us the witch, or her body. Additionally, the heads of the traitor leadership who have not either died-“ He pointed to the direction of the walls outside, where Garvin lay dead. “-or who have not atoned for their sins by aiding the Foundation in achieving proper justice.” He motioned his head in the direction of Maera, standing beside him.
At this, Melbrecht and Jaelen's heads moved in her direction. Melbrecht's glare pierced into her, but Jaelen's expression was one of pity and disappointment. She hung her head low to avoid their gazes.
Raetor stood, unwavering, his eyes focused only on Asser. “Do you consider yourself to be a man of honor, Doctor Cardinal?”
Asser's gaze turned to regard Raetor. Suddenly, all feeling in his voice receded. “Yes, merchant, I do.”
“Then you have heard of blood duels, yes?”
Asser chuckled, moving his head to the side in a show of disbelief. “You are testing me.”
Raetor drew himself up, taking a step as he closed in to face Asser, their faces almost touching each other as their level heights put them on equal ground.
He smiled. “What if I am, Doctor Cardinal?”
A long tension permeated the air around both of them, as the people of Arnven and the soldiers of the Foundation watched the scene unfolding before them.
Raetor faced the helmeted Cardinal in silence, his hand pressed firm on the hilt of his sword.
Melbrecht looked on, his arms crossed.
Jaelen held tight unto the amulet around his neck, whispering something to himself as he watched both figures face off.
Asser's left hand was tightly gripped around the witch-sword as his right fist quivered at his side.
Maera could only look on with bated breath, her hand drawn up to her mouth as she watched.
“No.” came Asser's answer, said through tightly gritted teeth.
Raetor laughed at his face- a jeering laugh, one that continued for several moments as he chuckled in front of Asser's face, ridiculing a man of high blood and station like one would a weakling man.
His laugh echoed into the cold night, through the crowd and the streets and the homes, spreading the news far and wide of the cowardice of Asser Clef.
Asser brought his fist up into Raetor's cheek in answer, sending him to the ground to meet the cold soil.
The once cold warrior in white now felt fury and rage permeate his veins as his vision darkened. He drew his sword with speed, bringing it up to strike-
Before Jaelen and Melbrecht leapt to his aid, blocking the bastard sword with the solid steel length of their Templar spears.
“If you wish to kill him,” Jaelen began. “If you wish to kill our Lady,”
“Then you'll have to fight us.” Melbrecht said, his voice low to a growl.
Asser met their gazes, before he withdrew his sword with a quickness meant to preserve his pride.
“So…” He said through gritted teeth, taking his right hand off his sword as he casted his helmet aside.
“Fucking…” He used the flat of his left palm to clean the blood of the high priestess off his sword, coloring the soil near him a dark red.
“Be it.” He took the sword with his other hand, levelling it at the both of them as the priceless Scrantonum blade glowed with a dark malevolent light.
Raetor drew himself up victoriously, wiping the blood off his nose as he drew the shortsword from his scabbard.
“Yes,” he said through a bloody smile. “A legendary warrior with the blood of saints is finally ready to answer the challenge of a monk, a merchant, and an old man.”
He chuckled again. “As expected of him.”
“Do you accept the challenge of a blood duel?” Jaelen called out, his spear at the ready. “Do you agree to only yield in death, to surrender your claims on this city should you lose?”
Asser Clef licked his lips, his grey eyes burning with contained rage. “Oh,” he said, as he relished the fight to come. “Oh… yes.”
The Cardinal struck first, swinging towards Raetor with a quickness unseen before.
Raetor barely dodged the blade, swerving at the last second as Asser's sword came dangerously close to his face.
Melbrecht thrust forward next, striking at Asser's knee where the plates of his armor met.
The skilled warrior deflected it effortlessly, shaking Melbrecht off his balance as he moved to chop off his head at the neck.
“No!” Jaelen shouted, kicking the Cardinal in the ankle and causing his foot to slip on the soil.
Perilously close to being caught off balance, Asser brought his feet close to each other as his blade grazed Melbrecht's cheek, shedding blood on the ground as he quickly withdrew.
“Striking at once, hmm?” Asser said, drawing his lips up in a smile. “A coward's move.” He took a step forward, thrusting his sword towards a vulnerable Jaelen as he went for his unarmored torso-
Before feinting with a quick change of direction, bringing his sword down to strike Melbrecht's knee, cutting through his kneecap with a satisfying schliiik!
Raetor's eyes widened in disbelief as he saw Melbrecht scream in pain as his leg buckled under him.
Then, like the work of a master swordsman, Asser drew his sword up in a final strike-
-slicing through Melbrecht's throat quickly and silently, causing a steady torrent of blood to stream from the slit in his neck as the old warrior fell to the ground.
“Yours is the work of amateurs,” Asser jeered as he watched Melbrecht writhe helplessly on the ground as he choked on his own blood. “Your guards are clumsy, your reactions are slow- he was the only one who posed a threat, and he went down easily.”
Jaelen turned his head as Melbrecht began crawling forward towards Asser, leaving a trail of blood on the ground as the old warrior used his good hand to clamp on his bleeding neck.
Asser answered the trap the dying man posed without hesitation, bringing his bastard sword down into Melbrecht's back with a soft schrak, as the old man's ribs gave way to the razor sharp witch blade.
Raetor seized the opening by swinging down into Asser's unprotected wrist-
-which he deftly dodged as he withdrew the sword from Melbrecht's corpse, making sure Raetor's blade only hit air.
Asser and the two remaining councilors withdrew again, as they caught their breaths and moved apart to prepare the next phase of the fight.
“Foolish bastards.” Asser said, his sword levelled in front of him as the three of them circled around each other. “You were wrong to challenge me.”
Now it was Jaelen who struck next, thrusting forward to meet Asser.
Asser deftly dodged, his blade meeting a swing from Raetor as he made a counterswing bound for Raetor's face.
Desperate to end the fight, Jaelen moved forward with the spear again, thrusting the point forward to the vulnerable point on Asser's ankle…
…but not before Asser struck out Raetor's eye in one swing, eliciting an agonized cry from the guildmaster.
A splitsecond later, the point of Jaelen's spear cut through Asser's leg, piercing through the cloth under the armor and evening the playing field.
Asser drew up painfully as he stepped back on his damaged leg, gasping as he pulled back.
Not more than a few meters in front of him, Raetor came back to his feet, his balance unsteady as the blood from his missing eye flowed down his cheek.
Recognizing the opportunity, he made an overhead strike on Raetor's head…
…before changing direction and striking Jaelen's chest, sending him to the ground.

Darkness enveloped the world, as Jaelen felt himself hit the soft soil.
He felt something warm soak his chest, and lifted an arm to stem the flow.
He heard the dull clangs of steel on witch steel as the darkness closed on the world around him.
The wound on his chest felt colder and colder. It dulled his exposed flesh as he felt himself close his eyes, embracing the memories as they came.
Then, he saw her, laying on the cold stone bed of the inner sanctum.
Sigurrós closed her eyes, the words she said paining her as she spoke them.
“I… I think I'm dying.”
“By Bright…” Jaelen said, his eyes wide. “H… how?”
Sigurrós lifted the stump of her right arm, showing Jaelen the soft red glow emanating from within the bandages. “The Doctor Cardinal, he…” She breathed in deeply, the effort hurting her ribs. “He possessed Saint Right's witch-sword, and used it to cut my hand at the wrist.”
She grinned weakly. “It's the end of the path for me, Jaelen. My magic grows weaker by the moment, and it takes more and more for me to open my eyes.”
Jaelen only stared at her in silent shock, tears drawing paths down his cheeks.
Sigurrós put his hand in hers, clasping it tightly. “Just… stay here, by my side for now, alright?” She used her stump to lift his head for his warm brown eyes to meet hers, ignoring the sharp pain as she did.
She saw the grief and loss etched across his face, and tears began to gather at the edges of her eyes, too. He didn't want to let her go, even if Bright himself emerged from his amulet and commanded him to.
She breathed in again, biting her lip before she began to speak. “Keep by my side, Jaelen. I want to speak to you now, just like we did before.” She smiled, even if the expression on her face seemed all too fragile. “No more high priestesses, no more councilors, just… as friends.”
The tears kept cascading down Jaelen's face as he looked away from her eyes, his breaths coming in brief gasps.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he managed a small nod. “Al…” He began, his lip quivering slightly as he spoke. “Alright.”
Sigurrós' hand held even tighter onto his, as she bit her lip even harder in an effort to hold back the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
“Remember… remember when it was just us at the inn? I used to watch you pray every night to Bright, reciting the procedures over and over again. From the first night I saw you, you just seemed so… devout. Faithful. Kind, most of all.” She chuckled again. “Every time you instructed me in my spellwork, every time you taught me the New Tongue over the old, you always seemed to have that… spirit. Always.”
At that instant, she could hold the tears no longer. “I miss those simple times in the inn, Jaelen. It was just us- learning, teaching, talking, crying, laughing.”
“I miss it too.” Jaelen said, wiping the tears from his face with the sleeve of his robe. “Bright knows that much, I'm sure.”
“I can't do this…” He breathed in, his tears falling again as he began to speak. “I can't do this without you, Sigurrós. I… I just can't.”
“You can, Jaelen.” Sigurrós said, meeting her eyes with Jaelen's own. “You must.”
“You have a city to take care of now, when I'm gone. You'll be leading Arnven to a new era, a new beginning, away from the reach of the Foundation, from the troubles that have followed us.”
“We owe it that much at least, Jaelen.”
“But Asser…”
“Asser will fall, as all evil under Bright must.” She bit her lip again, moving closer to him as she spoke. “I'll be there with you from the moment you step out of this shrine to the moment you leave this Earth. I'll be there when you step into the Land of the Saints, waiting for the moment you come to join me. I'll be there in every blade of grass you see, in the countless stars in the dark night, in every marble stele and in every shrine.”
She whispered something under her breath, and a soft green light appeared between their interlocked hands.
“Wear this when I'm gone, when you're facing down Asser and you have nowhere else to go. I'll be there to guide you.”
Then, in an instant, Jaelen embraced her, taking away all her pain as his warmth enveloped her entire being.
“Thank you.” Jaelen said, whispering into her ear.
Sigurrós could only smile, closing her eyes as she felt the darkness approaching her.
When they parted, Sigurrós was peacefully at rest, her body still holding the warmth he gave her.
Jaelen's tears fell for the third time as he mourned the girl he had loved for so long, and it felt as if the world had come to a stop around him.
When he found the strength to stand up many minutes later, he unfolded his hand to find a small amulet nestled within, a jewel the color of her eyes kept at its center, pure and beautiful.
It shimmered now, in the darkness, a small speck of light in the distance of the black void that encompassed him.
He moved forward on unsteady feet, stretching his hand out to meet it.
His fingers closed on the warm amulet- Sigurrós' last gift.
He held it to his chest as he curled up in the darkness of the void, his feet leaving the ground as he floated upwards.
Live, Jaelen. The amulet said, its warmth ever comforting. Live… for me.
I can't. He said to it, floating through the dark space. I want to be with you.
A chuckle answered him, light and constant, bright and warm. Now, it wasn't the amulet that spoke. It was Sigurrós, living within it- living within him.
I never left you, Jaelen. She said, her glow suddenly growing brighter and brighter. Remember what I said?
Then, as they both floated through the void, he closed his eyes, letting the warmth take him to wherever he needed to go.
Then, she spoke once again.
“Open your eyes, Jaelen.” she said.
And he did.
Her shimmering eyes met his once more, her sun-colored hair floating free in the void. Her smile never left him, as she brought her face close. The warmth in her arms told him all that needed to be said, as they were reunited once more.
“You're…” Jaelen began, tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. “You're here.”
Sigurrós brought her face close, meeting her head with his as they both drifted through the void in each other's embrace.
“I told you I would be, didn't I?” She said, her eyes light and beautiful. “I said that I'd always be with you.”
“I…” Jaelen smiled. “I'm not a good listener.”
“Liar!” She said, jokingly. “You are, Jaelen!”
He laughed for the first time in what felt like a long time, pressing her close to him as he felt her warmth once again. “I give up,” He said. “I am.”
Sigurrós giggled. “Then you remember what I told you to do, right?”
Jaelen looked at her, a tinge of sadness touching his smile. “I do, you know I do.”
She brought her finger up, touching his nose affectionately. “Then do what I told you to do, alright?”
Jaelen turned to object. “But I don't-“
“Shhhhh…” Sigurrós said, hushing him as she brought her finger to his lips. “I'll be here when you come back.”
She gestured to the void surrounding them. “Then, when you do, maybe all this wouldn't be so dark.”
Jaelen smiled for the last time. “Wait for me, alright?”
Sigurrós nodded, smiling back. “You know I will.”
Then, she summoned a lick of green fire with a snap of her fingers. “Remember to use my amulet when you need it, alright?”
Jaelen nodded, feeling the jewel in his hands as his fingers closed over it. “I will.”
Sigurrós smiled widely, and then put a glowing finger to his forehead, causing light to envelop him once again.
The last thing he saw of her when he left was the shimmer of her eyes.

Jaelen awoke to the sound of clanging steel and restrained anguish, as a wounded Raetor countered another blow from a hobbled Asser. The Cardinal pressed the attack, his swings suddenly growing ever more desperate as Raetor clumsily blocked each strike with his own sword.
Jaelen came to his feet, the amulet glowing with power as the wound on his chest steadily healed.
Hiil, a gentle voice said in his mind, knotting the open flesh together as he picked up his sword from the ground.
“ASSER!” He called out, picking up his spear from the ground.
The Cardinal turned his head at the sudden shout. Seizing his chance, Raetor thrust forward before his sword was struck from his hands with one blow.
Then, with a quick downward thrust, he brought the sword down into Raetor's back.
Silently, he drew his sword from the guildmaster's body, turning to face Jaelen as he moved forward.
“You're supposed to be dead.” He said as prepared to swing, lifting his sword above his head.
Jaelen felt an enervating energy flow through his veins, as he let out his final battlecry, thrusting the spear forward with inhuman speed in an attack that the exhausted Asser just barely managed to block.
"That's…" Asser said, drawing his sword back. "That's impossible!"
Wordlessly, he thrust his spear again and again, exhausting the Cardinal as he wasted time countering each and every strike with his blade.
With each attack, the Doctor Cardinal withdrew further and further, just barely managing to counter each of Jaelen's quick thrusts.
Then, he saw it- a weak spot in his guard.
Smiling triumphantly, the Cardinal lifted the sword above his head to exploit Jaelen's mistake-
Before he felt Raetor's fingers clamp around his ankle, digging into the open wound that Jaelen had wrought and breaking the balance and concentration that he had only a few moments earlier.
With one decisive and final thrust, Jaelen cut through Asser's throat, the point emerging out of the opposite side of his neck and killing him instantly.
Jaelen gritted his teeth as he looked into Asser's eyes, the shaft of his spear still locked in his throat.
Then, he spoke, his words final.
"You have no idea of what's impossible."
He pulled the spear from the Cardinal's throat, ending the duel as he watched the life retreat from the warrior's eyes.
Asser fell to the ground, his blood staining the soil beside the dying body of Raetor.
They had won. All was well.

To my dear Sigurrós, wherever you are,
I bring good tidings.
Asser is dead, killed at my hands while your power flowed through me. After the duel, peace was levied between ourselves and the Foundation. In truth, it was only Asser who had the drive to pursue something so close to a full war with our people- the Church was spent and on the verge of breaking, as the schism intensified within and the remnants of the animals invaded from without.
After the dust settled in Arnven, I rose to become High Priest, leading our people to greater times ahead. We rebuilt, albeit slowly, creating something new from the ashes left over by the siege. A year later, people were flocking once again to our city, worshipping at our shrines and trading with our merchants. It was as if nothing happened, and I am glad.
Though tensions remain high and the schism rises ever higher, the tenuous peace between us and the Foundation still endures, as Arnven becomes its own nation unto itself. Already, more and more of the eastern cities follow our example- Utgard, Eridar, Necramundas, and Finrys being chief among them- becoming sovereign and independent from the Foundation which we all once shared, following the word of Bright yet eschewing the commands of the Council.
I just hoped that you'd been able to see it- you, Melbrecht, Garvin and Raetor.
Maera herself lost her status as councilor soon after the duel ended, returning to her family in disgrace. I forgave her, if you can believe it. A year after, she started becoming a vital member of the nobility again, calming down the people who wanted reprisals against the merchants after the Battle of the Way. Maybe, in time, she will return to the council as the Lady Advisor- my new councilors never fail to tell me so.
Heh, I guess that as the city settles into peace, I've taken much to reminiscing. Your amulet still hangs around my neck, never leaving its rightful place. Sometimes, I put my quivering fingers around it to remind me of you. It never fails to make my chest light again. Asser's crimson sword hangs next to the statue of Saint Rights, untouched for years after the duel. Your old robes… I put in the chest inside your room. You'd like that.
By Bright, has it really been five years? Sometimes I forget that you're no longer beside me, your eyes wide and shimmering like the jewel in your amulet. Sometimes I call the new Grandmaster by Melbrecht's name, or regard the Marshal or the Guildmaster like I would Garvin or Raetor. This final peace is silent and tranquil, yet sometimes I can't help but be reminded of the cost.
But every day that passes brings more life to the city, more trade for the merchants and more followers to worship at the shrines. The past five years have let us rise, and now we stand ever higher, pursuing our own path as we make our way to the world that Bright intended for us to claim.
Once my work is done, I'll find you in the land of the saints, Sigurrós. Don't forget to wait for me there.
Forever yours,
High Priest Jaelen.

The Arnven Chronicles
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