I. The Haunting of History (Chapter One)
The trudge north is as hellish as he remembers. He travels quickly and silently without the burden of his underlings. Allard bows his head against the vicious wind. The first hour or so after waving goodbye to Burt and Adventurer had been refreshing; he realized how much babying the two guildlings required while they were traveling through less-than-friendly territory. Their spellwork is indeed steadily improving, but danger lurks around every corner of the Great Pond. But by the third hour of quiet marching with nothing but the wind and the snow-laden pines for company, Allard had felt the hollowness of solitude return with full force. He is no stranger to it however; Allard had always preferred to operate alone if he could help it. But when the Royal Proclamation for his arrest had been read, his thoughts immediately went to those two bumbling whiskers.
“As long as they don’t wreck my guild, it’ll all work out,” he mutters.
As Allard vaults over a fallen tree trunk and lands amongst the first gravestones that mark the entrance to the Settlement of the Dead, a stinging headache makes him fall face first to the snow.
He tries to open his eyes but they refuse to obey him, and instead swirling visions fill his head until they snap into focus. A dripping dungeon corridor, lit with eerie green light. He looks down at his hands and sees them plated in black armor.
“The Alchemist’s Eye.”
Allard could form words within his mind but it seems he has no control over any corporeal body.
“The curse brings us closer in spirit, whether we like it or not.”
It is a strange feeling; he could feel his own body lying motionless in the snow of the Northern Mountains, but at the same time, he is all too present in this whisker’s body he is apparently sharing consciousness with. A whisker he needs no introduction to.
As the armored whisker steals down the corridor, a ghostly figure materializes in front.
“Andromadus, my dear son,” the shimmering figure whispers.
“Father, I…”
Allard feels a jolt in his naval. He knows this late portly whisker, of his fateful journey to deliver an artifact to Amalhasu; the very artifact that is in the hands of the whisker whose body he is currently inhibiting.
Does Andromadus know that the culprit who ended his father’s life was in fact bound to him until death? Allard feels a rising panic as he struggles to return to his own body. It seems this momentary collision of souls is beyond his control. A suffocating guilt consumes him as the realization sets in. He is responsible for the death of Andromadus’ father. He had been under the employment of Wisteria and following strict orders, of course. The command to ambush, slay, and ransack the innocent merchant had been given by none other than Queen Moonfabis who had recently been instated to the crown. “For the retrieval of royal property.” The unarmed caravan was devastatingly easy to attack.
Allard distinctly remembers handing in his resignation papers straight after that mission. He had not become a royal guard to kill his kin in cold blood. Not that the mission was a success either. The royal convoy, on the way back to Wisteria, had been besieged by Amalhasu sand pirates and the artifact had been lost to the nether. Until it showed up again in Burt’s hands after the Shuffle…
Another sharp pain grips at Allard’s temples and he is back in his own freezing body in the mountains. He pushes himself up slowly, pulling out a rough map to confirm his destination.
“The Settlement of the Dead seems like a fitting place for such as myself,” Allard mutters. “Andromadus may be a fool, but I have brought upon him a wretched life. What has become of my oath to protect and nurture the youth of the Great Pond now that I know the horrors he has faced are caused by my hand?”
The howling wind offers no sympathy. Allard pulls his cloak about him tighter and wills his legs to carry him deeper into the graveyard. He remembers a clash with Andromadus long ago, on the shores of the Settlement. How little he knew of him back then. Allard had been leading a rescue mission for a famed alchemist who was reported to be lost at sea, but instead of finding any survivors, he had run into a fully-fledged Andromadus holding the head of said alchemist with one of his eye sockets empty. He should’ve known Andromadus would waste no time plundering his victims for items for his dark magic. Allard had barely escaped with his life that evening; his blow that should’ve ended the black-armored whisker’s life had afflicted him terribly in return.
“And history continues to repeat itself for this old fool of a whisker.”
“Zaranoah does not awaken, Andromadus.”
For the first time in a long while, I stand, fearing for my life. I had never been close to Nefexian; they are much too veiled to comprehend. But the way those chasm-like eyes regard me now feel like I am teetering at the edge of the world.
“I do not understand, my liege. I had laid her shard fragment on her chest and I witnessed the fusing. Her shard lies whole within her as we speak.”
“Do not merely babble the obvious to me. I need answers. Solutions.”
We are back in our hideout in the Sunshade Mountains, with Zaranoah’s lifeless form levitating between us. Her body had melted into the air once her shard was back together in the dungeons; I presumed it was part of Nefexian’s magic that was responsible for that. But no such escape had been planned for me and I had spent a harrowing evening fighting my way back out of the castle grounds before fleeing to the forest.
“Are you still upset that you had to escape from the castle on your own, Andromadus?” Nefexian laughs. I hear something like the snapping of jaws. “Believe me when I say that my faith in your service would only have been restored if you made it back out alive.”
I bite back my retort. Each passing moment with this whisker strengthens my want of throttling their tiny neck, but patience is a virtue my father had emphasized to me.
“Perhaps another spell had been cast on her upon her capture by the Wisterians,” I suggest. “I believe it was Allard that led the charge to her arrest.”
“The effects of most spells usually disappear when the original caster is deceased,” Nefexian says with a crooked smile. “And we’re back to square one, my friend. It all comes down to that overblown goldfish.”
“I know what you are suggesting, yet again, Nefexian. But I am far more useful to you alive than otherwise. Have I not been your loyal arms and legs during your time of hiding?”
“You are not wrong,” Nefexian says. “It’s rather amusing to see you begging for your life.”
My fingers inch towards my blade. “Then this expedition will be the end of this business. I will capture Allard, dead or alive, so that the next part of our plan can finally come to fruition.”
“Dead will suffice, Andromadus,” Nefexian says, tutting. “Always leaving loopholes for yourself.”
“Fine. I will deal with the Alchemist’s Eye and bring back Allard’s head.”
Nefexian’s eyes flash maliciously.
“We both know the curse of the Alchemist’s Eye is a spell of eternity until both sides perish. Funny how your mind works, Andromadus. You still believe you will come out of this alive.”
“You’ll be surprised what I am capable of,”
I say. I tighten my chain link belt with a clank.
“Allard will most definitely be trekking to the Settlement of the Dead after he forced…after what I told him. He believes that finding the Eye will somehow break the curse, but destroying the original artifact only results in shattering both souls bound to it. You will get what you want, whatever the result, Nefexian. I lay my life down to succeed in this mission.”
“Now you are talking like a true tether,”
Nefexian says, squaring their shoulders.
“May the blood moon rise over Allard’s dead body.”
“I have a bad feeling.”
“About what?”
“I dunno, just bad, you know?”
“Not really. Come on, let’s finish our game and grab some dinner.”
Burt pats his rumbling belly.
Quatal and Burt have been playing round after round of Last Fish! for the entire afternoon while you take up your familiar perch next to the tall, wooden paned window looking over Windrose City, tossing treats to the enormous Nessie. Her size is deceptive, as she can move silently whether on ground or in air. You are glad she is around; her presence feels like the only living reminder of your absent guildmaster.
"Oh don't fret too much, Adventure," Burt calls out.
He seems to have guessed what you're thinking.
"The old man will be back before we know it to kick our behinds. Just enjoy the freedom while it lasts."
"I'm afraid it won't last either way, my friend,"
Quatal chips in.
"You read the note. We need to find a suitable replacement during Sir Allard's absence, otherwise the guild will be dissolved."
"True," Burt says, casually flicking out an Attack card, and thus winning the game.
"Since when do you care about the guild so much? Aren't you looking forward to going back to Amalhasu?"
"Sick of me already?" Quatal says with a laugh. "Well, with your guildmaster gone, I thought you two might get a bit lonely here."
"Oh, well…" Burt stutters.
"My point is, let's not mope around here all week. Tomorrow, I'll take you down to one of my favorite getaways down south. What do you say, Adventurer?"
You nod your head enthusiastically. A trip with your best friends sounds like the perfect thing to clear your head for a bit.
"Get away?" Burt snorts. "Don't you Amalhasians get enough sun as it is?"
Quatal turns pink. You clip Burt around the ear, but he shrugs it off and packs away the cards. You feel another pang as you imagine what Allard would have done to curb Burt's rudeness.
"Elstrom," Quatal announces, gesturing grandly about the quaint seaside village.
It is the following day and the three of you had taken a leisurely stroll down the southeastern trail from Windrose. You had reached Elstrom in less than a few shades.
"Come on, Quatal, let’s go somewhere more exciting," Burt says. "If I wanted peace and quiet, then I would've drunk a barrel of ale and passed out for the evening."
"This is where I used to come whenever the bustle of Amalhasu got to me," Quatal says quietly. "It's where my parents used to take me fishing every weekend…when they were still around."
Burt trips over his feet and he quickly says,
"Lead on, my good whisker, show us the inner beauty of Elstrom."
You excitedly nudge Quatal; you had never tried fishing before. He nods and leads you and Burt to a rundown shack on the side of the shore.
"Afternoon, Pisces," Quatal calls as he steps through the weatherbeaten door.
You and Burt follow him past the threshold. The inside smells like old wicker baskets and something gone ripe, like bait that has been left out for too long. An old whisker, dressed in a baggy purple angler fish costume, slowly looks up from the counter, gazing at the newcomers in surprise. Judging by his reaction, you think he doesn’t get many customers, until he says,
“Bless the southern seas, is that Quatal?”
He stands in a flash, knocking a tin of rusty hooks to the floor.
“A week ago I hear news you’ve been kidnapped by some evil whisker after the Shuffle, and today you waltz back in here with an ‘Afternoon, Pisces’?”
“It’s for old times sake,” Quatal says, shuffling his feet. “I don’t like to cause a fuss.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come ‘ere, you rascal. I’ve been worried sick!”
Pisces squeezes from behind the counter and pulls Quatal into a tight hug. Quatal looks embarrassed but you can tell he is pleased by the reception.
“This is Burt and Adventurer,” Quatal says after Pisces lets go. “They’re my friends.”
“That’s something I never thought I’d hear from you,” Pisces says, surveying you and Burt up and down.
“Uh, you’re quite an honest old whisker,” Burt says.
Pisces guffaws.
“Watch who you’re callin’ old, youngster. But it’s true, me bones have started creaking in the morning these past years.” He turns to Quatal. “So I’ve met your friends. When are you going to tell me what happened and all?”
“Not today, Pisces, but one day I will. I don’t think I can talk about it just yet.”
“Fine, fine. But if you’re here, it can only mean one thing.”
Pisces sidles back to the counter. He reaches down and pulls out three fishing rods.
“I’ll lend out my finest to you and your friends.” Pisces tossed each of you a rod. “Quatal here’ll show you the ropes, if it’s your first time. Bless the seas, I’m glad you’re back, Quatal. I know you run around making a name for yourself playing them First Fish cards and whatnot, but if you ask me, there isn’t a finer young fisherman in the southern continent than you. It’s in your blood.”
“Stop it,” Quatal says quickly.
“Wow, were your parents good fishers too, Quatal?” Burt asks. You pull at Burt’s sleeve as you notice Quatal’s growing discomfort.
“Well, the tide’s starting to run,” Pisces says, slapping a hand on the counter. “I think you whiskers better get out there and make the most of it. Remember, I give a prize every month for the best catch so report back to me!”
The three of you troop out into the hot midday sun and Quatal guides you to a low cliff edge that overhangs the glittering waters.
“This is my favorite spot.”
You smile at the peaceful look that washes over Quatal’s face, and wonder what his parents were like. Behind you, Burt has hooked the hem of his cloak with his fishing rod and manages to pull his clothes over his face. You sigh as you attempt to disentangle him.
Quatal shows you and Burt the basics of threading a worm onto the hook and casting it out into the sea.
“See where the waves begin to form?” Quatal says, pointing out to the ocean. “The trick is to cast far enough so your line drops beyond there, so the waves don’t drag your hook back to the rocks. Also, that’s where all the big fish are.”
You manage to secure your first worm. You lean back, holding the rod like how Quatal showed you, and release it as hard as you can.
“Nice cast, Adventurer!”
You glow with happiness as your line drops neatly beyond the waves.
“Hey, no fair! Wait up.” Burt, with his tongue between his teeth, is still trying to hook his worm.
“Don’t squeeze so hard, Burt,” Quatal says, laughing. “It’s gone limp. The fish won’t like that.”
“Maybe some of them like dead worm, who knows,” Burt shoots back.
The next couple of hours fly by. Pisces was right; Quatal is an excellent angler. He lands fish after monstrous fish, and seems to know the name and quality of every single one. Between you and Burt, you land a few decent sized fish, and you are pleased to know some of them make fine fish stew.
“Oh, oh, I’ve got another hit!” Burt jumps in excitement. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you, my good friend, this sleepy village sure has lots to offer.”
“No sorry needed,” Quatal says, equally happily. “Wait, I think I got a big hit too.”
You laugh along with Quatal as Burt grunts and curses at the fish on the other end of the line, when you notice a black speck on the horizon. You had seen it before and hadn’t paid much attention, but now you see it is rapidly growing in size. You nudge Quatal and point.
“I was wondering about that too,” Quatal says.
“Friends, you’re missing the greatest battle of my life,” Burt calls out, his face red.
“Is it a ship?” Quatal puts his rod down and peers with his hand over his eyes.
You all stop what you are doing to gaze at the approaching shadow. It is indeed a ship. You can make out the dark bow of the vessel as it cuts through the water.
“Boy, it’s quite large, isn’t it? And is it coming right at us, like, fast?” Burt says, taking a step back.
“I think you’re right,” Quatal says with a creased brow. “I’ve been coming here for years and never seen a ship like that.”
A terrible feeling gnaws at your gut, and you immediately turn to put your rod away, beckoning furiously to Quatal and Burt. A moment later, a deep horn sounds from the decks of the massive ship.
“Oh no,” Quatal says faintly. You gasp as a crimson flag with a leering skull is hoisted up the main mast. “It’s a Jolly Roger.”
Burt drops his rod where it’s promptly whisked away into the sea by the fish he was reeling in.
“Pirates.”