Complete - XIII. Death

Smoke and incense wreathed the little hut the shadows steered @Rivers Asteire towards. They were strange shadows, impossible to ignore. When they’d first appeared mid-afternoon to the yellow-haired Yladian they had been subtle—a trick of the eyes, perhaps just from the trauma of battle. They were swords and shields and hailing arrows which flickered under cover of passing cloud. They drew him to the bank of his namesake, a winding river, and harried him at its shore. They grew long in the dying light of sunset, becoming hands, becoming eyes, becoming staggering infants and intertwining silhouettes.

And as night encroached, the strange shadows which dogged Rivers all this way led him to the hut with smoke wafting from its chimney, lit from within by firelight the same color as the dipping orb on the horizon.

An (objectively) ominous figure was perched on the roof with feet dangling like a child on a swing, its crow-like head a dark and sharp-beaked silhouette. It rose when it saw Rivers and jumped down from the hut, landing neatly on its feet. The faint light revealed an ordinary human, a small man with dark hair and mask and a thick black hood mantled around his neck.

“Oh, have the shadows brought the second? Good. Very good. Come in, both of you. It's time.”

The voice was low and gravely, but unmistakably a woman. It came from inside the hut. Rook cocked his head to the side. He did not seem worried. He waved at Rivers shyly with a small, awkward movement and then pattered in through the open door.

Inside the hut was strange. The walls were packed with many things, cubby after cubby of junk and jewelry and jars with floating unknowns like a magpie’s nest. Each was uniformly black or white, however—even items that made no sense to be, couldn't be. A wedding band. A stuffed owl. A photograph.

On the ground was an unmoving boy no more than eleven or twelve, caught in-between child and teenager. He was pale and still. For all intents, he seemed…

Rook gestured vaguely at him in a sudden fit of animation, pointing, waving, movements as obscure as they were energetic. Strangely, the middle-aged woman kneeling by the body’s side seemed to understand. She looked up, signaling for the pair to sit down on the two cushions laid out on the floor. “No. It’s not.

…and yes. I can.”

 

At first Rivers was convinced he was seeing things, but the visions just weren't going away. He followed them, of course. How could he not? They led him eventually to a hut, on which a figure sat, swinging its feet. As Rivers approached, the figure leaped from the roof of the hut. Oh hell. This wasn't looking good. But, surely the visions wouldn't lead him to danger. This was some kind of an event or something, right? And events were generally opportunities...generally.

Except when they kill you

The figure seemed human. It was just a man with something akin to a plague mask and black hood around his neck. A voice called to them from inside the hut. The second? Rivers studied the man again, was he a player? That would make sense. Whatever this was required two people. That made sense. The other player seemed confused. Did he not know what was in the hut already? He waved Rivers inside and then entered the hut. Rivers followed trustingly. Surely between the two of them, they couldn't get into too much.

"Nice to meet you I've Rive-"

As he entered the hut, he was shocked by the sheer creepiness of the environment. There were so many...jars. And they were all filled with strange looking substances. What was going on in here? Then Rivers noticed the boy in the center of the hut. "Oh god!"

Rivers crouched down over the boy. He couldn't be more than twelve and he looked...dead. Rivers look at the old woman and the other player to catch the man gesturing weirdly. Did he not...talk? The old woman seemed to pick up on what he meant though, but her words were cryptic.

"What do you mean? Can you heal him? What do you need?" Rivers wasn't thinking...he was just acting in the moment. They didn't have time to think too much.

@Rook the Quick

 

As the sun set, the shadows seemed to hover just outside, teeming at the edge of the hut where the light from within faded into darkness. A ripple of agitation—or perhaps excitement—ran through them like leaves before a storm.

Inside, Rook reached over to tap Rivers meekly on the shoulder. The masked player handed him a piece of parchment with a sketch on the front, an unmistakable portrait of the woman currently kneeling before them. Written in neat, elegant cursive was the word necromancer.

Rook tapped the word insistently and looked at Rivers. He bobbed his head. He tapped it again. Tap-tap-tap.

“Yes, Rook, I am a necromancer. A death-witch.” The woman did not seem concerned, all her attention focused on the body on the floor. She smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing one blind white eye for a moment before the curtain dropped back down. “Or a life-witch. Depending.”

Again, she gestured at the cushions and Rook snatched back the parchment before edging around the young boy’s body, sitting down cross-legged on the black silk pillow.

“It is… difficult. The boy’s soul is caught between life and death.”

The woman drew a pattern up the body’s chest, leaving black runes trailing up one side of the body like bruises. “I sense that something blocks his way BEYOND, and something ties him here, as well. Fate has a hand in the life of this innocent. Perhaps in the way it led you to him, Rook—and you to me, @Rivers Asteire .” She drew a pattern down the other side, leaving white runes shining on his skin like ephemeral paper-cuts.

Rook reached out a hand as if to touch them and she slapped it away. He withdrew the offending limb in alarm. “Fool! Are you not afraid? Deathless adventurer, your very nature is an insult to my craft!” Her rage seemed to ebb as she looked back down at the body, murmuring “…But it may very well be all that can save this boy now.”

As a donor donates blood, as a philanthropist writes checks, the death-witch—the life-witch!—called upon the pair of immortal strangers: called for them to GIVE.

“What would you sacrifice to save this innocent’s life?”

A hair, a tear, a memory? A drop of blood, a tragedy? A chance at love, philosophy—yet be reduced to apathy?

 

Ne-necromancer? Like death mage? Like raising armies of skeletons to do battle against the forces of good? That sounded...bad. Like, typical enemy boss vocation. Rivers shot a glance to the other player. Should they fight? Should they run? Could they trust that she hadn't killed this boy? Could they trust that they weren't next? The other player didn't seem to be concerned though, so that was somewhat reassuring. Rivers would trust this man's judgment, but he should really learn this guy's name.

The witch went on to describe that the boy's spirit was caught from passing on. So he was still partially alive? Could he still be saved?

"What can we do?"

He asked without thinking. He'd do whatever he could. No boy of this age deserved to die for no reason. And of course, Rivers couldn't think of a good enough reason for a boy to die. Rivers listened as the witch proposed that fate had led the other player, Rook, and he to this location. Rook? That was an odd name. Rivers imagined something more like Crow or Raven. Well, that's what he got for judging books by their cover. Rook tried to touch the boy, but this caused the witch to freak out.

Deathless? No far from it. They could die. And coming back was hellish in its own right. Rivers was of course glad that he hadn't died in real life. Because that trope's overdone that would be the end. But, living after having experienced the pain of death was no joy ride either.

"With all due respect, we're far from deathless. Coming back after dying doesn't make you feel invincible or strong. I can't speak for Rook here, but I'm very aware how easy it is for me to die now. But," he said with conviction. "I'm willing to give up whatever it takes to save this boy's life."

He looked and nodded at @Rook the Quick , who hopefully felt the same way.

 

If any eyes turned to Rook when @Rivers Asteire said he didn’t speak for the second deathless player, they received no response. The small man in the bird mask looked as blank as ever, his unarched brows and neutral yellow eyes the only exposed features on his face.

Death?
Rook was not afraid of death.
(Because he hadn’t died.)

The body’s torso was now covered with glowing runes, black and white mapped out side-by-side like newspaper text where the woman had inscribed them with her fingertips. There were four blank spaces in the texture of magic, however—four postage-stamp-sized blocks of bare skin on that motionless chest.

Rook reached out again to point them out (you missed a spot) and the witch hissed audibly, slapping his hand away again. “Do you ever listen? You just have to push your luck, don’t you?” Her eyes, one blind and white, narrowed. “Some day, that luck will dry up. And you will drink from the pool this one has tasted already, and you will find it bitter.”

She leaned back. It seemed the ritual was set. “Rivers, Rook—to save the life of an innocent, I call upon these forms which you were given in this world, I ask that you loan this child a part of yourself to guide him home and restore his spirit."

"It has happened many times. Many before you have brought the fallen to my door, and given me their memories—their feelings—a singing voice, the little finger, a baby’s doll... all different, but each a sacrifice.” All around the hut, the witch's puzzling menagerie of items was becoming clear. “For the deathless, it is temporary. With your next cycle all is mended, for your death is a purging as much as it is the burden you must bear when next you’re resurrected."

“But I cannot take it from you. You have to give it freely.”

The silence after her words was not even a moment before Rook reached out again with his hand (his greedy little hand like a child reaching for the cookie jar, hoping his mother wouldn’t notice) and touched (at last!) the fleshy space.

He thought of close-calls and near-misses.

He thought of people jumping out-in-front to shield him from a blow or heal his wounds, and thought of kicking spindy spiderlings far, far away into the water. He thought of washing up on shore, unharmed, undrowned, uneaten, unkilled by eyewriggling black-fanged Titanius. (He thought of missed-misfortunes...)

But he was not afraid!

Beneath his touch black magic swirled and burst, leaving the rune for LUCK inked dark against the skin as he made his decision. His first sacrifice.

Selfless and peculiar, the jinx-eater (Rook the Quick, too quick to fail!) pulled his hand back again, unfettered and unfazed.

 

Rivers listened to the witch discuss what needed to be done. She couldn't take it from them, they had to give it up. Each of them had to make a conscious choice on what to give up. Rivers sat and thought about what he'd give up. He could spare an eye, or really anything he had two of. It helped that it would be given back when he next died. But...he wasn't going to give anything away so critical that he'd die to get it back. As he remembered the inside of Titanius, Rivers shook his head. No. There were things he could stand to lose.

Rivers watched as @Rook the Quick placed his hand on the boy's chest in one of the blanks. After a moment, he pulled away his hand and the rune for LUCK appeared. This filled in the blank. Three more.

"Oh! That's smart. It can be non-physical." He turned to Rook. "Good thinking!"

He thought about what was a worthy sacrifice for a life. What was something that mattered to him? His friends? No, those were too great to give up. But, that was so selfish of him to do. It was too selfish for him to decide what of his was too worthy to give up. Rivers rationalized it to himself that if he gave up his attachment to his friends, he'd cause them pain too. But, that was such a convenient excuse.

He needed to give up something that only brought him joy. Something that would inconvenience anyone else. As lame as it was, something that had brought him joy was sweets. Both in real life and in TS, Rivers loved to indulge himself when it hurt no one else. But, to save a life, he'd give up that joy gladly.

Rivers placed his finger on one of the empty places on the NPC's chest and held it there momentarily. Beneath his fingers, he could feel something swirl and twist about. As he removed his hand, he saw the rune TASTE left in its place. Two more to go.

 

Rook was pleased. He was not worried that he’d given up his luck, despite the death-witch’s warning. He would not have thought of it at all if not for her, in fact! She was a helpful person. He peered expectantly at the woman over his leather beak while Rivers made his sacrifice, as if to ask What next?

He clicked his tongue impatiently. “It’s not my job to think for you,” she told him without even looking his direction. The black-haired man looked startled. He noticed a thin sheen of sweat on the back of her neck, a tremble to her arms. Whatever this magic was, it was clearly draining on the necromancer to maintain. “Your gift is what mends his spirit, gives him a life to come back to. Give him a part of yourself. The more integral, the more important, the better.”

Now Rook felt annoyed! She hadn’t told them all the rules of the game before!

No, no, it was not a game. It was a dead-boy who was not-so-dead, a person torn away from this world before their time. What would call him back from heaven’s gates? Luck, the promise of fortune. Taste, the enjoyment of earthly desires.

Two slots left.

This lost child needed a purpose. And Rook (with his skill and battle-joy) had purpose to spare. For the first time, the swordsman looked a little troubled as he clutched the hilt of his rapier, knuckles paling.

It was different, giving up a thing.

Not-just-a-thing. More than a thing. An extension of his being, of his arm, of his love of lore and drive and careful study. It was the first real blade he had ever held, more than just a toy, more than just a practice-wand. He had taken that blade to the belly of Titanius and it had tasted the blood of the Gaze, pierced the eyes of sea serpents, danced in his hand in rainy caves and before the critical eye of wise ones far more powerful than himself. What about his fighting style? Rapier-and-dagger, the Spanish fencing he’d always so admired... without the rapier? What student of the Craft was he without it?

His shoulders sagged in a sigh and Rook unsheathed the blade, drawing it slowly with a soft scrape of steel. Resigned and reluctant, he turned it in his hands and gently wrapped the boy’s cold fingers around the hilt. He sat back again, eyes hard with regret.

He could get a new weapon, one without memories. He could stray from the masters who had come before him. He could write his own fighting tradition, spin his own variations, find his own unique style in this world of infinite battles and infinite potential. He could start afresh.

And in the third blank space the rune for SWORD appeared, sliced line-by-line as if drawn by the point of a blade.

“One last place to fill. It’s all up to you, @Rivers Asteire,” the death-witch murmured. Her body shook like leaves on a tree as the magic swelled but still her tone remained even, calm, direct. “What final piece of yourself will you give up to save this child?”

 

Rivers watched on as @Rook the Quick debated what to give up. Slowly, the other player had taken his sword and placed it in the boy's hand. He was sacrificing his weapon? Or was it more symbolic than that? Was he sacrificing fighting in general? It was hard to get a firm handle on what was what given the black magic and symbolism. But, as Rivers watched on, the rune SWORD appeared. Okay, so he had been right the first time. One to go.

It was now his turn to sacrifice something, but what to give up? Again, he contemplated something that warranted a life. Rivers'd given up some of his ability to enjoy worldly pleasures when he gave up his sense of taste. But, life had more facets than just worldly pleasures. There was also duty and perception and necessity. Necessity. Rivers touched his face and recalled an earlier thought. He could give up something that he had two of.

In this world, sight was crucial. Rivers couldn't get around without his eyes; he couldn't fight without them. Hell, Rivers didn't know the basics of getting around with blindness. So, he couldn't give up two for then he'd be a burden to those around him. But, he could give up one. "Guess it's my turn." He spoke without emotion. He placed a finger on the last blank space on the boy's chest. Again, the blackmagic swirled under his finger before the black rune EYE appeared on the boy's chest.

He started breathing heavily. Rivers could feel the magic in his left eye...swirling around in its socket. God it hurt, but there was nothing to be done but to bear it. He dug his teeth into his lip. This was for something greater than himself. This was to save a child's life. He could bear this.

Then, as quickly as it began, it ended. The vision on his left side was black. Unable to restrain himself, he raised up his hand and poked at his eyelid. There was nothing under it. It was actually super creepy to push on your closed eyelid and feel no resistance. Quickly, Rivers pulled his hand away and shook. He was trembling from the pain, but it would pass.

"When does the spell work?" he asked. He hoped he'd be able to see the boy awaken, and that he and Rook could take the NPC to his village. Surely the boy would feel better there than in a witch's hut for the night.

 

Hidden: Theme

When everything was said and done…
Was it enough?

As the last link of the chain was sealed, their pact complete, the runes began to peel from the boy’s chest in glowing ribbons of text. Like living threads they rose, twirled, tugging themselves loose until they hung suspended like kelp reaching for the surface of the sea. They undulated gently for a moment as the death-witch clasped her hands as if in prayer, rocking on her heels, binding forces beyond the two adventurers’ control.

Rook looked up as one of the ribbons of runes floated by his head and saw the record of his two sacrifices glimmer faintly as they passed, wraithlike and ethereal. LUCK. SWORD. The other ribbon passed by Rivers as if in slow-motion, reversing, mirroring its twin. TASTE. EYE. Before the Yladian’s one-sided gaze his losses—his gifts to the guiltless—drifted lazily as a daydream.

And then with a whip the two cords of dark and light bound themselves fast around the child’s belly, cinching him fast as the soaring strings of black and white runes braided themselves together in the air. Power and magic blasted out like high winds, leaving Rook clutching both sides of his cushion for dear life and blowing Rivers’ yellow hair back as if caught in a sudden storm.

The magic arched high almost to the ceiling and then came down like a striking snake. Like a torrent of beads poured from above, the runes vanished one by one into the body’s sternum like machine gun fire, an endless stream of symbols pouring one after another into the lifeless form.

LUCK. TASTE. SWORD. EYE.

The four runes appeared in quick succession, superimposed above the point of impact, before the body glowed with sudden life and its chest heaved with its first new breath. Warmth and color returned to its pallid skin, pink in its cheeks. The boy flexed his fingers, feeling something like fine black ash crumble away from his grasp where Rook had placed the rapier, now consumed by the ritual.

And his eyes—one blue, one light brown—fluttered open.

"!!!"

We did it! The exhausted death-witch, the newly-revived body, the form of Rivers, numb of tongue and single-eyed—the severity of the scene was lost on Rook in his rush of jubilation. He seized the boy’s hand and dragged the stumbling youth to his feet, seized Rivers’ grasp as well, skipped in place with joy and triumph.

It had worked!

Rook dropped their hands and capered past the pair, throwing the hut-door open. He stopped fast as pale rays of early-morning light fell upon him, the first trills of birds lively in the air. How can it be dawn? They had entered the strange-space not ten minutes ago, but already the sun was rising, the shadows retreating, the air fresh and cold and crisp with potential.

Shaking off his astonishment, Rook waved to the death-witch (the life-witch!) and to Rivers and the boy with the mismatched eyes. They had done a good thing (a hard thing, a sad thing) but the night was past—he had a new day to greet!

A new day! A new dawn!
And perhaps a new sword, too…

EXIT THREAD
You can post again if you want and then this thread is complete! Thank you so much!​