Otherworld Squad

Morning had arrived in Crestvigil. Dawn spread colour across the sky where pure white clouds roamed the air like sheep. Alter’s eyes fluttered open to the sound of distant chatter and the crowing of a nearby cockerel. The strain of yesterday evening’s revelry was now a distant memory thanks to the universal correctant. As he struggled with the fact that light existed and didn’t seem to like him very much, he turned his head to see the other three beds vacated. He wasn’t alone though; Boozehound was perched on the window sill engaged in the ancient sport of people-watching. A stoneware mug sat comfortably in his hands emitting a small plume of steam.

“Morning.” Alter said as he rose.

“Good morning to you, too. Sounds like you’ve had an interesting night.” Boozehound responded without looking away from the window.

“You’ve been told all about it have you?”

“To think that one of those things would chase us all the way here. We need to be more careful. Not that we could’ve known what it was capable of.”

“It’s certainly a good lesson to have learned here, imagine how much worse it would’ve been if we were still in the wilderness.”

“True enough. You know, from how Oliver had described it you’d think that Soul Kindlers were a once-in-a-lifetime sight. Now it almost sounds like there’s at least a couple in every town. Blue flames, green flames, it’s a real world of pyromaniacs we’ve found ourselves in.” Boozehound mused.

“Calm down with the assumptions there, by every town you mean the one town we’ve seen so far. It’s a border settlement, they need the extra security. Besides, the people from last night looked more like priests than anything else, they could be a separate thing.” Alter moved to stand next to him, glancing out to the street below. As he expanded his senses, the smell of the brew in Boozehound's hands took firm hold of his attention.

“What’ve you got there?” He asked, curious of this strange new smell.

“I’m not sure. Tastes good though, and I’m pretty sure it’s got caffeine.” Boozehound looked down at the mug affectionately.

“How can you tell?”

“I actually feel alive for once.” His voice was a cocktail of triumph and whimsy.

“Addict.” Alter teased.

“Ah ah. Proper term, please.” Boozehound flipped to his best schoolmaster voice and waggled a lone finger at him.

“Frenchman.” Was the sheepish correction.

“Merci.” The finger was retracted and the hand returned to the warmth of the mug.

Alter made the spot decision that spying on the local populace wasn’t a career move he was looking to make right now and was best left to the professionals. As far as he was concerned there were much more important objectives to complete, such as food and making sure none of his friends had perished due to alcohol poisoning. He slipped from the room, the buzz of life swelling as he made his way along the corridor.

The main floor of the Riverfield was busy, not to the extent of last night but they were certainly in the flow of the morning rush. A number of locals had appeared, loading themselves up with hearty breakfasts in preparation for the heavy days’ work ahead. They sat cheek to jowl with the much less bright-eyed lodgers of the establishment who had not yet recovered from yesterday's indulgences. The rest of the squad were sat at the same table which they once again shared with members of the Silver Pack, Alter noted that there were more heads resting on the table then up and alert. Breakfast was provided after a brief wait, proving similar fare to last night. Eggs, pork sausage, root vegetables and freshly baked bread. Not quite the breakfast of champions but they’d certainly made the round of sixteen. Accompanying this spread was his own mug of the deep red liquid Boozehound had been so enamoured with. Like so many of the things in this world the taste was unique. Hints of blackberry and beetroot collided on the tongue, evolving into an earthy, almost mud-like flavour with a strong aftertaste of caramel. It was a surprisingly agreeable combination so long as you kept your sips frugal and interspersed with the food. The Frenchman was correct, there was absolutely caffeine in this. Caffeine and something else, some other chemical that hit his system and perked him up considerably. As minutes went by his awareness heightened and the colours of the world became two shades too bright and vibrant to be natural. Everything seemed so … nice. Alter didn’t trust this development, after all he was British, things weren’t allowed to be nice and anything that claimed to be was to be met with a heavy dose of suspicion. He left the mug half full.

Not five seconds after Alter had swallowed the final mouthful of his meal he spotted the familiar form of one of the Marshal’s manservants picking their way towards them. With upright curtness and a profound sense of discomfort at his surroundings, he informed Alter that they were expected at the Marshal’s residence before beating a swift retreat. There was no point in keeping anyone waiting, with a few swift under-the-table kicks and a shaken shoulder he roused the squad and set them to packing. Ten minutes later they tumbled out of the Riverfield and into the busy, sun strewn streets.

Upon their arrival at the Marshal’s estate they were quickly ushered through the door and down the same corridor, however their destination was not the map room. They were instead shown into a stately dining room with a long lavish table stretching nearly the full length of the space. With chairs added to both ends the room could comfortably seat a party of thirty two, however there were only two people already present. Oliver and Lucille sat opposite each other at the far right end of the table, a pair of immaculately decorated glasses with a matching decanter of crystal clear water was the only thing between them. Oliver waved them over and invited them to sit.

“Vaulter wanted to attend but business has sent him elsewhere. Nevertheless, he has asked me to tell you that he’s still thankful for your presence last night, and that he appreciates the fact that you felt the need to protect Crestivigil despite only being visitors here. How did you manage that? I’ve barely had to sweet talk him at all!” Oliver laughed, his manner seemed much more at ease now that he’d spent a night in relative safety and comfort.

“You can go a long way with a professional manner and a fortunate coincidence or two.” Alter shrugged as he took the seat next to him. The conversation paused as the squad found their seats. Once the scraping sound of wooden chair legs being dragged subsided, Lucille produced a leather-clad book from her lap.

“I’ve done a little research into the creatures you encountered on the road yesterday. From how Vaulter described it this morning it seems one of them made it to the town gates. Correct?” She asked poignantly.

Alter looked around, fearing the presence of one of the servants would result in the Marshal learning that they had led the Unrepentant straight to him. Satisfied that he was not about to reveal anything incriminating, he nodded.

“He mentioned something about it being an ‘Unrepentant’. From what we could tell it was one of the three we encountered having survived with heavy wounds.”

“I thought so.” Lucille smiled in satisfaction, opening the book to a specific page and passing it over to him.

Alter examined the beast profiled across the two pages displayed for him. The silhouette matched what they had seen pretty well, minus a couple of details. The long wiry legs, the vicious claws and the wavy tentacle-esque hair were more than enough to identify it. Seeing the curiosity in the eyes of those who couldn’t read the book, Alter began to read aloud, skipping details they already knew.

“The Pathstalker is an Unrepentant of medium level threat. It is often discovered on the outskirts of society, in the aftermath of major battles or significant natural disasters. It holds a severe loathing for humans, hunting and chasing any who cross its path across great distances and time scales. While typically encountered solo, groups of up to twelve Pathstalkers have been recorded in various locations. As with all Unrepentant, Pathstalkers are invisible to the human eye. However, their silhouettes can be revealed under the light of Sirrithae. Folklore in some regions also states that cats are capable of detecting their presence. It is believed that Pathstalkers are formed from the betrayed, the unholy, and the liar.” He intoned, eyebrows rising and falling as he read like a conductor before an orchestra.

“Quite the resume. Hey, how many different types of these Unrepentant things are there?” Riptide asked.

“Twenty plus.” Alter answered as he flipped through the other pages, taking in sketches of creatures that came in all sorts of weird, wonderful and terrifying shapes and sizes.

“What even are they?” Pavejack interjected, his face caught between fear and wanderlust.

“An unfortunate byproduct of death.” Oliver replied grimly, eyes burning holes in the surface of the table. However, Lucille was not satisfied with such a short answer.

“They are lessons to the living, on the virtues of being a good person. When a person dies, their soul has to stand before Mullisvar, also known as ‘They who wait below’. Now, Mullisvar is different to the others of the Four, as they have no set form. You could call them an amalgamation of all the souls that have passed before you, we refer to them as a ‘chorus’. When you stand before Mullisvar, you are in fact standing before the soul of those that knew you in life. Your loved ones, your enemies, everyone. There you are judged on your actions and words. On promises made, kept or broken. If the chorus finds you good then you are allowed to pass peacefully into the afterlife, whatever that may entail. Should you be found wanting though, you will be asked to plead forgiveness, to repent.” She explained in a rush before finally pausing to breathe.

“So the Unrepentant are people that their Chorus found wanting, but refused to plead?” Whim prompted.

“Exactly. They are then rejected, transformed into one of the monsters detailed in that book before being cast back into the world, a twisted shadow of their former selves.” Lucille nodded.

“But why? It all seems so extreme.” Walross frowned.

“That is the great question of ‘They who wait below’. The souls that judge are all good, they all begged forgiveness and were granted solace. They don’t understand why an individual would refuse their mercy. They see this punishment as a warning to the living, not comprehending that there will always be bad people. All they do is further hurt the people they left behind.” Oliver’s face tightened, traces of anger cracking his usual mask.

Lucille reached out and gently took one of his hands, concern played across her expression. Alter too found himself reaching out to lay a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Between his father’s illness, his brother’s disappearance and his uncle's ongoing powergrab, talk of this god of the afterlife was a terribly sore spot for him right now. A change of topic was required. Fortunately, he did not have to think of one himself as one of the doors opened and a servant stuck his head through the door.

“Begging your pardon my lady, my lord. A large column of knights in the Auserre colours has been reported approaching the town.” He beamed.

“So soon? They must have been travelling all night.” Oliver snapped out of his darkening mood.

“Did they see who was at the head of the column?” Lucille asked, her smile wide.

“A large man with black hair appeared to be leading, madame.”

“Victor!” Lucille laughed.

“Victor.” Oliver repeated quietly, his face rapidly turning ashen. “I may need to go into hiding.”