《The God of Nothing》
The Birth of a God
It wasn¡¯t cold anymore. It took Ricard a few moments to realize that. Feeling the lack of water and bindings came far quicker after that. He opened his eyes and began to wheeze, collapsing onto the ground and coughing up water. After several attempts he gave up on opening his eyes, the harsh light proving too much to bear. Instead he tried to focus on his environment, cautiously touching the ground with his finger tips.
¡°Sand..¡±
Ricard stated with confusion. There were no sandy beaches In Vertas, All the river banks were rocky and unpleasant, not like this sand. It was soft and fine. The individual grains must have been tiny. He never felt sand this fine before, it didn¡¯t seem real. An idea of rich people making their own special sand came to him and he couldn¡¯t help but give a single tired chuckle. He didn¡¯t know if it was because the idea was ridiculous or something that he could absolutely see some aristocrat doing. A mixture of both most likely.
Did he manage to be pulled downstream and ended up at some far off beach? Wouldn¡¯t be the least likely thing that happened in the world, and Ricard was pretty sure he deserved at least one miracle for all the suffering he went through. He laid still for a few more minutes, his thoughts occupied by thoughts of survival and fear of the unknown.
Once he managed to catch his breath, Ricard slowly opened his eyes. Fluttering his eyelids for a few seconds to get used to the light. Then quickly closing them again. Then slowly opening them up again. And so on for a few more times as they tried desperately to come back to reality, since what he was seeing couldn¡¯t be real.
An unending plane of pure blinding white sand. A sea of porcelain with waves frozen in place, spanning as far as the eye could see. The sky looked normal, well it was unusual to see no clouds in the sky but he lived in Vertas, any sky not completely covered in clouds looked strange to Ricard. It took a moment for Ricard to stand up due to his sore legs. Panic started to creep towards the front of his mind as he turned around trying to see anything apart from the empty expanse. But there was nothing.
No structures, roads, tracks, rivers or anything else that could serve even as a vague waypoint. A sudden realization came forth, one which he didn''t want to consider but the only thing that made sense to him at this moment.
¡°The gates..¡±
Whispering the words he looked around even more desperately, trying to remember the fraction of text he knew of the scriptures. But this place didn¡¯t look like any of the afterlives he knew. There were no sprawling greenfields, no river of spikes or everlasting orgies. He also distinctly remembered that all dead souls are judged by the heralds before they arrive and thankfully he had no memory of that either.
¡°Where in the balls of Ver am I?¡±
He mumbled to himself when he noticed something. A distant silhouette of something. Ricard considered his options. He could sit around here and wait to see what happens, pick a random direction and go or go towards the shape in the distance. Knowing his recent luck he would probably be eaten alive by a centaur if he stayed or died of thirst because he wandered in the wrong direction. At least there was something by the mysterious shadow.
He took a few more deep breaths, after his experience he knew what a luxury that truly was. Though the experience was weird in a way that he couldn¡¯t explain. It felt like the air passed through him to somewhere else. His injuries were unusual too, while standing up he noticed that the pain was more dull than before. Ricard had full control of his limbs so they couldn¡¯t have simply gone numb. His injuries were still physically there and to the same extent as before and they still hurt more acutely when he poked them.
After a few moments Ricard decided that it was best to survive and then make medical theories. It took roughly an hour to get to his destination and while the shape became more detailed it proved to be quite square like and seemingly made of actual marble. It was tall enough to reach the base of his neck. The side in front of him was completely blank but also remarkably reflective, the reflection on it was almost mirror quality. Ricard took the opportunity to examine himself and to what extent he was injured.
His suit even under the dried blood splatter and sand looked elegant, though not elaborate, clearly made for serving staff to look presentable but not out-stage whatever rich sycophant they were serving this week. Still Ricard was attached to his style and was rather disappointed in the state of his outfit. Yes his sleeveless vest and red bowtie marked him out as a bartender but he enjoyed the look he got from the various people looking down on him in the club. He knew he had more of a taste in fashion by lightly changing his uniform than the various rich babies copying whatever this week¡¯s hit fashionista¡¯s advice was.
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The black and grey striped pants he wore had some minor tears in it, though all in noticeable places, Ricard made a mental note of getting a new pair after saving himself, though by some miracle his plain white shirt managed remain speckles while the rest of his outfit was covered in dirt, dried blood and sand. Still it required a thorough ironing.
Next he leaned closer towards the marble cube, checking his face. His short black hair was a mess, with no visible style apart from possibly ¡°fresh corpse¡±. His face was swollen in various places but luckily he wasn¡¯t damaged beyond recognition. His face was soft with androgynous qualities. Something he felt very insecure about even today, trying to look more masculine by growing a goatee that did not match his face at all.
Both his real and prosthetic eyes looked good. His right eye was the real one, and managed to remain undamaged. Still as brown and charming as he remembered (or well imagined) it. In place of his left one was a spherical cloudy red crystal that worked just like a regular eye. It was so visually loud and striking that Ricard was forced to style his entire look after it, either making his outfits match it or making it look out of place and intimidating. His uniform managed to do the latter, at least the out of place part.
After he was done looking at himself he looked around the marble structure finding a strange purple symbol carved into one side. A star within a hexagon, within another star, inside another hexagon and surrounded by a circle. Ricard never saw this symbol before, he tried to connect it to any of the deities he knew. Maybe it was related to Cilla? All the stars would fit the goddess of the night sky after all. But she was very much against static places of worship. Maybe it was magical in nature? Well Ricard knew less about magic than theology. The symbol was fascinating. Ricard couldn¡¯t decipher why but this spoke to him. It made him feel..
Empty.
Incomplete, like if someone sucked the color out of a painting only leaving the outlines behind. A sudden thought came to his mind. One that he didn¡¯t know the origin of. The urge to touch it. Every fiber of his being told him to hold back, messing with a symbol you didn''t know about was a sure fire way to get yourself blown up. Maybe if he wasn¡¯t completely exhausted he might have been able to follow that instinct over the strange urge.
His left hand was gently placed on the edge of the symbol as if it had a mind of its own. It began tracing the lines with his fingers. Slowly spiraling closer towards the center star as Ricard couldn¡¯t help but stare in a mixture of shock and overwhelming curiosity. He pressed his palm against the center of the sigil and curled up his fingers as if trying to grab something through the marble.
This is when Ricard managed to come back to his senses, the foolishness of it all became far more obvious to him and with a panicked motion pulled his hand away. He pulled something with his hand, he couldn¡¯t see anything but there was a strange texture along his fingers that started to travel down towards his wrist. A feeling that was a mixture of ice cubes being dragged along the skin while an army of spiders slowly marched down after them.
¡°What the fuck!?¡±
He stared at his hand in confusion while instinctively pulling his sleeve down and shaking his hand. Finding nothing that could have caused the strange sensation.
Ricard pulled his sleeve down to his elbow, still finding nothing as the strange sensation spread across his body. And then he stopped feeling the tips of his fingers on his left hand. He looked at them and saw his fingertips slowly turning black and then collapsing into a dirty sooth filled smoke which quickly elaborated. He screamed while the rest of his fingers started to turn black.
¡°HELP! PLEASE! ANYONE!?¡±
His head turned around rapidly, desperately screaming on the top of his lungs while trying to locate anything or anyone that could help. But there was nothing but the marble structure and the silent alabaster plain. The only response to the cries for mercy was pain being dulled and muscles slowing. All proof of his existence began to dwindle along his voice as it echoed throughout the empty expanse.
No one answered his pleas for help as his entire body began to evaporate.
His arms went first, then his legs. Then his abdomen. He didn¡¯t know or even think about how he was able to still be alive with most of his body gone.
¡°IN THE NAME OF THE GODS PLEASE.. FUCK! I-I DIDN¡¯T MEANT TO TOUCH YOUR FUCKING ROCK! I WILL GIVE YOU ANYTHING! JUST STOP THIS.. please..¡±
The utter terror that filled him slowly faded alongside his eyes. He couldn¡¯t feel anything. He felt nothing. He wasn¡¯t anything. He was nothing.
And then it was cold.
The room didn¡¯t allow any light to enter. It would have been nothing but utter darkness for mortals and even most of the gods but that was the price to pay for privacy. She didn¡¯t want to be part of games, even after she threw her name away they still tried to drag her in. So every precaution needed to be taken. She never took notes but it¡¯s not like she would have used them even if she wasn¡¯t concerned. Her webs stored so much more information than mere words ever could. Each tiny vibration contained a more detailed description than what a thousand poems could describe.
Spreading her web was a tremendous effort and one she had to repeat each cycle, but her many spindly arms made it light work. She never regretted growing them, even though it caused her long luscious hair to fall out and her body to become gaunt and frail. It was so long since she talked to anyone or even seen light that she forgot how her face looked. But it didn¡¯t matter to her. Only the web mattered, the information, the world and its fate.
While most of her kin would have used her powers for petty power struggles she merely wished to observe and witness. After a while she started to notice the rhythm of things, while things didn¡¯t repeat, per se, there were patterns they usually followed. It would have been boring to most but she grew to appreciate it, it was familiar and calming. And the few times something unexpected happened it was truly refreshing.
But this was different. At first she even doubted herself, something she hasn¡¯t done in eons. But the more closely she listened to the vibrations the more certain she became, something new was born. It was both divine and mortal, but not in the way heralds or even demigods were. Its nature was not divided. Not one part god and the other mortal, it was both and yet somehow neither.
It was impossible, there were no more mantles and no deity died recently. Yet there was something even more concerning about it. It managed to leave the proving grounds without an audience. Without a trial, without the oath. She herself made some of the seals surrounding it. She knew that no mortal or god could have left that plane the way it did. Nothing could have.
Yet it did. Straight back to the mortal plane.
The Smell of Home, Garbage and Blood
¡°Hmm, still alive?¡±
A raspy feminine voice spoke to Ricard. Or at least he assumed she was speaking to him. After all that¡¯s the only thing he could hear. He felt a cold force wrapping around his wrist.This reminded Ricard that he indeed had arms and perhaps other limbs as well, maybe even skin.
Piece by piece he managed to reconnect to the rest of his body and put a considerable effort into focusing on his environment. It was warm. Maybe even a bit too much so, still it was an improvement over the river repeatedly leaching into his bones with its icy tendrils. There was something on him, it seemingly covered everything except his neck and head. Though he could only feel parts of it where it touched his hands and neck.
Luckily it meant that he still had clothes on, unluckily he still wasn¡¯t sure if he was passed out with some clothes piled on him or if he was tied down in some corpse snatcher¡¯s rotting shed. After he remembered how his body functioned Ricard took the time to take a few subtle short sniffs to help him orient himself. It was damp, with an ever so light touch of mold. Well apart from ruling out the upper districts of the city this didn¡¯t help much.
Resigning himself to his fate, Ricard listened. Trying to figure out how many people were around him. No footsteps, or anything else besides rain. A sickly kind, the kind that has miniscule droplets but continues to rain for ages to ensure it will still ruin your day. Another confirmation that he was still in Vertas.
¡°Stable...¡±
Ricard heard movement. Slow, scraping steps through either grass or dirt slowly growing distant. Once he couldn¡¯t hear them anymore he took the risk and slowly opened his eyes. Firstly he took a look at whatever was spread across him, to his initial relief it was only an old rag that once might have been a blanket. However the relief soon dampened after realizing that the stains weren¡¯t part of some decorative pattern.
Around him were four ¡®walls¡¯, if one would be generous enough to describe them as such, illuminated by a single oil lamp sitting on a wooden box, based on the heavy shadows surrounding it and the lack of light coming through the various holes in the walls, it must have been night. The walls were made of various patched together pieces of fabric, wood and other various scrap. It had some metal tubes serving as structural support. They followed the contour of the tent, coming closer until they reached the top, where they were tied around something round with metal wires.
Water seeped through the various holes, tears and structural weak points. Some spots become muddy miniature swamps around the tent¡¯s dirt ¡®floor¡¯. The tent itself was large enough for one person to live somewhat comfortably, maybe two if they were willing to sleep in the same bed. Though the exact size was hard to judge due to the various piles of scrap placed semi randomly, though perhaps some of these served as furniture..
Two wooden boxes put on top of each other with an old ironing board tied to the back of them might have served as a chair and the half rotten coffee table as.. Well a table. What functions everything else could have served was beyond Ricard. He took a deep breath and slowly rose up from his bed, though he couldn¡¯t help but hiss a few colorful sentences under his breath as he fought against the soreness of his body.
¡°Your sweet dragonfucking mother¡¡±
With a quick look and pat down he confirmed that indeed he was still dressed, and his various valuables were still gone. After yet another deep breath and some additional wincing he managed to stand up, right into one of the muddy spots on the floor. Ricard slowly lifted his feet up and tried to shake off the mud, somehow managing to get it on his other shoe and some on his pants as well.
¡°Of course.. Naturally. Why wouldn¡¯t that happen?¡±
Resisting the temptation to go on a rage fueled tirade to finally find an outlet for the boiling frustration within him, Ricard slowly walked towards the ¡®door¡¯ of the makeshift tent. A rather large, wet and heavy rug that took several attempts to lift up enough for Ricard to squeeze himself through. Only to be hit with an altogether familiar stench, a mixture of a finely marinated dead possum and an imploded septic tank.
¡°Leper¡¯s street.. Shit.¡±
In front of him was a tent not so dissimilar from the one he was currently residing in. Between them was a slop consisting of mud, various bits of trash and whatever small animal was dumb and slow enough to get stuck in it. Long wooden and metal boards littered the narrow mud street, a desperate measure to navigate through it. Rows of hovels, huts and tents made of different refuse were placed around half haphazardly, creating narrow passage in between them.
A woman came out from the tent in front of Ricard. She used some sort of cane and several hoods and layers of clothes on, all of which were covered in soot and mud. Her face was unnaturally pale. She stared at Ricard for a few moments before she started to walk towards him.
Panicking and confused, Ricard decided that the best plan was to escape from the horrifying old woman through the labyrinthine pathways. Though he didn¡¯t manage to go far as he continuously heard the woman shouting after him. He didn¡¯t look back. He just continued to walk. He needed someplace to think, someplace safe, someplace..somewhere else. This place was filled with too many memories to allow him to think. He looked around, trying to orient himself.
In the distance he saw the silhouette of the city, the real one, spires and sky scrapes towering over them like uncaring gods. He almost forgot how awe inspiring and mighty they looked from far away. It drew the poor and wretched closer with its siren promises. Security, strength, hope.. a future. If only it was so simple. Vertas never gives, it only takes, until there is nothing left to take. Like moths to the flame the young and stupid crawl to it just to burn up. The only way to live is to be able to take more back. But sometimes the city is too greedy to wait for its prey to come to it. Sometimes it goes to hunt.
Deafening rattling and shouting started to fill the slums as people started to run towards the direction of Ricard. One of them accidentally pushed him down into the mud as they ran. A few others pushed him further in as they used him as a makeshift ramp to run. As the shouting and rattling reached its peak Ricard finally saw the cause of the commotion. The silhouette of a man wearing some sort of cape and a long narrow helmet appeared between some of the buildings, the shouting becoming more clear as a rough voice spoke up once again.
¡°Search every damn hut! We are going to flush out those Doves one way or another!¡±
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Ricard instantly recognized the figure, not the individual, that never mattered. The hounds always want one of two things, blood or gold. If they were after the latter he might be able to get some sort of deal, however it started to look more and more like they were here for the former. From the corner of his eye he saw a pale and wrinkled hand reaching towards him. He looked up, seeing the same woman he ran away from. Her face was ever more pale up close, like a corpse with freshly bleached skin. Her eyes were golden and enchanting yet haunting at the same time. Her hair was hidden behind the layers of hoods she wore.
Her face had some hints of age, the slight beginning of wrinkles though judging from her eyes and the tone of her voice she should have looked far older.
¡°You can finish that mud bath later sweetheart. Watchmen will be here soon.¡±
Ricard firmly grasped her hand, more as a way to pull himself out rather than relying on whatever meager strength the old woman had left in her. Once he was standing and managed to wipe most of the mud off he followed after the old lady who managed to already get a lead. She acted as his guide, occasionally stopping and hiding behind the ramshackle buildings as watchmen passed by.
Desperate cries for help filled the narrow passageways alongside the sound of trash huts being torn down. Ricard started to see more and more watchmen pass by, barely managing to avoid them. The old lady led him to the edge of this settlement towards an enormous brick wall with a menagerie of rusty pipes sticking out of it. From each a gentle stream of sewage and various other foulness spilled out. The old lady quickly opened a metal grate near the base of the wall and gestured for Ricard to enter.
He hesitated. Trying to examine his surroundings for a better place to hide, the old lady seemingly losing her patients barked at Ricard.
¡°Do you want your ribs shattered? No? Then get in there and stay quiet sonny.¡±
Then without another word she was off, walking back towards the ever escalating chaos within the settlement. After weighing his options, Ricard climbed through the passageway behind the grate. It was just wide enough to fit his body and long enough to fully crawl into it, though the height forced him to lay down. It was pitch black in there, there were a few stray rays of light passing through the grate, but he avoided them as much as possible.
Deeming it too dangerous, Ricard didn¡¯t try to get a peak outside. He tried to lay as still as possible and listen. He heard footsteps. They became louder, and louder. Ricard prepared himself to rush out if the need would arise. Something scraped against the stone wall. Climbing then crawling into one of the pipes judging by the metallic thud. Then the footsteps started up again, this time walking away.
This happened three more times during the night. On the third Ricard managed to gather the courage to crawl forwards and peek through the rusty grate. It was the same woman who brought him here, but with a child standing next to her, clearly terrified. The woman directed the kid towards one of the various pipes. She leaned into it and whispered something, she walked up to 3 others and did the same, then she walked away.
The settlement seems calmer, there was still movement and shouting but a lot less than before, Ricard briefly considered just running. Trying to get away before he was inevitably found, but it didn¡¯t feel right. His panicked mind came up with hundreds of unrealistic arguments and scenarios all justifying why he should run now and not look back, he almost believed them, but from the corner of his eye he saw something move from one of the other pipes the old lady whispered into. Another child, briefly poking their head out.
He would draw attention to them. And either way, the idea of leaving a bunch of street kids in the clutches of the watchmen didn¡¯t sit right with him. He had the scars to prove what the result would be. So he waited. With every second seeming like an eternity and every creaking pipe like a watchmen¡¯s boot, until the sun came up. The old lady came back along with a few other people. She walked up to each pipe with a child inside and tapped on it. Twice and then thrice.
One by one the children crawled out and embraced the people that gathered there. After a few minutes of the children crying and apologizing most of the adults thanked the old lady and walked away. After a few minutes of silence she tapped on Ricard¡¯s grate.
¡°It¡¯s alright sonny, watchmen are gone now..¡±
It didn¡¯t take much more than that to get Ricard to crawl out and stand like a person again.At first he managed to resist the mind numbing horror that was the state of his outfit. It was hard to see where the dirt ended and the clothes began. He feverishly tried to clean himself before the old lady continued talking.
¡°Now then, how about you tell me who you are sweetheart?¡±
Ricard tensed at the question. He did feel a certain debt towards this woman. He might owe her his life. Another day, another debt he can never repay. And one that might send him to a watery grave.. Again.
¡°It¡¯s a.. long story.¡±
¡°Pissed off someone powerful have we? No need to answer sonny, don¡¯t worry. Ratting you out would cause more harm than good here. Well can I at least get your name?¡±
¡°Ricard.. and you are Miss ?¡±
¡°Call me Granny. Everyone does. Now Ricard do you want some tea?¡±
¡°No thanks. I need to go somewhere.¡±
And lay down somewhere that¡¯s not covered by mud and shit.
¡°Hmm.. alright sweetheart. Try to stay safe okay? It would be a shame if you got hit by an atca after I nursed you back to health.¡±
And without another word Granny walked back into the labyrinthine pathways of Leper¡¯s Street.
Ricard quietly considered his options, and decided that his biggest priority was getting home, passing out on his own bed and then swiftly eating the most freshly baked and overpriced bagel he could find. Once again taking a deep breath he looked up at the silhouette of the skyscrapers in the distance and started to walk towards them.
It wasn¡¯t easy and took many wrong turns but eventually he managed to find his way out of Leper¡¯s Street. Right into Lowcourt. Thankfully he managed to find one of the safer back alleys and additionally it was a work day, most locals were toiling in the factories. He was safe from the time being. For once in his life Ricard was happy that his apartment was so close to Leper¡¯s Street. He walked through the ¡°heavy¡± residential district. Or as he called it, block garden. After the great fire, some mages were secretly contracted to rebuild this part of the district. Creating rows of plaine identical granite blocks with the occasional decorative pillar. Though as he walked the alleys Ricard could only see the backs of them, where there was no detail, just a wall with metal stairs zigzagging along them in a repeating pattern.
After passing between the stone goliaths like a bug through the teeth of a dragon, Ricard finally reached the back of his own block. He walked through the back entrance which was only meant to be used for emergencies with an intricate lock system which only allowed people to go out of the building. Luckily that was broken long ago, most likely by some teenegers sneaking out to drink.
The interior was as bland and uninspired as the outside, however the stone stairs added a sense of class to the block that it certainly didn¡¯t deserve. He carried himself up through the stone slabs until he reached his apartment, the wooden doors sticking out like a sore thumb from the stone environment. Besides his door was an extra particularity, a single plant inside a clay pot. Ricard proceeded to nonchalantly pull the plant out, littering dirt all over the floor and then pull out the spare key he stashed in the pot. He reached for the door knob, the image of his clean bed lingering in front of him, moments away.. As his door suddenly opens up, revealing a large muscular man behind it , carrying Ricard¡¯s chair on his shoulder.
Home Sweet Stone
What does it mean to be alive? What is the purpose of existence? Is the world like it is because the gods made it that way? Or perhaps the gods are the way they are because of the state of the world? Existence is but a blink in comparison to the almost eldritch concept of eternity. Eternity, what spine shrivelling concept. For things to continue, to have no end is unnatural, wrong and what we all desperately want.
Every person no matter what class or rank they may be in a spiritual or societal sense, abhors change. Change is an end. The former ending so that the latter can begin. Change is uncertainty, change is the destruction of patterns and the known. Change is a sledgehammer that breaks apart our tiny little box that we have built around ourselves and boldly label it as life. People must sneak back into the terrifying wilderness of the world to gather new materials and rebuild it. This time foolishly thinking that they have made an unassailable bastion which the cruel hammer of change cannot touch.
With everyday proving them wrong.
Ricard despised this quote with every essence of his being. Every single word evoked an almost unnatural annoyance which at some point, forced him to buy a deluxe edition of the book it originated from. He told himself(and frequently others) that it was a joke. A way he can use it as a dart board or to fix the busted leg of a chair. After all it was so ridiculous, so ignorant and pretentious which completely ignored a sizable percentage of the world which didn¡¯t have this problem. This focused on such a hyper specific number of people that it was almost funny.
It was so funny to Ricard that he almost perfectly memorized it. It was so evocative that even as he was about to be murdered again it came to him. Perhaps because the book from which the quote was from currently served as the quite literal hammer which was changing the side of his fish tank from an undamaged one to one with rather stylish cracks originating from the point where the book collided with it.
Once he appreciated the delicate web of cracks which the fish tank somehow managed to bear, he turned towards the kind fellow who just installed the new decorations. A man (or perhaps a very short giant) roughly twice Ricard¡¯s size. Apart from his rather oversized nature there were only two peculiar things about him. Firstly his fists were unnaturally big even for him, as if someone replaced the hands of a toy figurine with one from a toy twice its scale. Ricard became truly ever of their size when he felt the behemoth punching his guts, almost forcing them out of him by sheer power.
The second was the mask he wore. It was a metal death mask in the shape of a human face with holes for eyes and his nostrils. The mask was coloured gold with various spots where the paint was applied a bit too thick. That detail was really obvious now that Ricard had the opportunity to inspect it in great detail as the large man firmly grabbed his throat and pulled him closer. Ricard tried to punch, kick and claw at the monstrous figure. For once luck seemed to have smiled on Ricard as he managed to land a lucky kick right into the man¡¯s liver.
Accompanied by the sounds of agonized cries and grunts was the easing of pressure on his throat as the big man loosened his grip on him and fell to the floor, holding his arm tightly around his side while laying in pain. Trying to quickly capitalize on his sudden upper hand, Ricard swiftly crawled towards the nearest object that could serve as a weapon. As he scoured the remains of what once was his living/bedroom, his eyes quickly turned towards his decorative vase that somehow managed to not shatter when it was pushed off from the coffee table during the scuffle.
He quickly reached for it, trying to grab it as he stood up and turned towards the big invader who started to regain control over their own body ever so slowly. Before he could, however, Ricard felt something cold pressed against the back of his neck.
¡°I would drop that if I were you, unless you feel particularly suicidal.¡±
The voice (if one would be polite enough to describe it as such) was strange. The words it spoke were understandable, but they weren¡¯t words. Sounds of scraping metal and chattering gears that somehow carried. The metallic cacophony swirling around in his mind took the form of words as if it was an unfamiliar language that Ricard somehow understood. Seeing no other options and fairly certain that whatever was pressed against him could finish what the big man had started, Ricard slowly puts the vase down and laid down.
¡°Good... Kry are you alright?¡±
The big man turned towards the source of the strange voice and nodded with a soft grunt before standing up. Ricard tried to slowly turn his head towards the same direction the was looking at but he quickly stopped as he was pressed down against the stone floor by what felt like a metal pole.
¡°Easy there... No need to be a hasty little man. Kry make sure our guest here is comfortable, would you?¡±
With another grunt the giant pressed his enormous hand against Ricard¡¯s back, replacing whatever was holding in place before, yet oddly the behemoth''s grip proved to be far more gentle. The figure with the strange voice started to walk around Ricard, their footsteps sounding oddly metallic on the stone floor. Ricard saw their feet first, at first he assumed it to be some sort of protective boots covered in metal. They were unnervingly smooth, like a freshly poured metal sculpture with no real dividers or details. Just a smooth unbroken mass of metal. They looked incredibly unwieldy and uncomfortable. The rest of the figure was hidden behind a worn brown cloak , a pair of leather gloves and a mask identical to the one that Kry wore. The figure leaned down in a swift and eerie motion, clicking into place like the arms of a clock.
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¡°Wait... Kry. Didn¡¯t the dead guy who used to live here have a red eye?¡±
Kry responded with a gentle nod.
¡°Ah... what¡¯s your name, little man?¡±
Ricard was tired. Frustrated, hungry, cold, sore, terrified but mostly just tired. He didn¡¯t have the energy to do some clever line that would have certainly earned him a few loose teeth or to think up some clever ploy that allowed him to pretend to be the Blood Lord¡¯s cousin twice removed. He just wanted to lay down and shut off, so with whatever brain function he had left, he decided it was best to cooperate and see where it goes.
¡°Ricard...¡±
¡°I don¡¯t suppose this would be your place now, would it?¡±
¡°Something like that¡¡±
¡°Hmm.¡±
With the same inhuman motion, it did before, the figure straightened itself. And started to walk towards the door.
¡°Alright, let¡¯s go Kry. There was nothing valuable here anyways and we have a incredibly fucked idiot to have a chat with. Knows all going on in Vertas my ass¡¡±
Kry walked after the figure, his walking slightly reminding Ricard of a baby that just learned to walk as they walked with comical steps and noticeably struggled not to fall over from the mere action of walking. Before leaving ,they gently closed the door behind them while taking one last look at Ricard.
He was home.
Broken, tired, beaten and his residence ruined, but home.
Now that he had a quiet moment for himself he finally managed to fully take in the state of his apartment. His living room was previously occupied by a small 1 person bed with comfortable but cheap sheets, one wooden coffee table by his bed and another one near the middle of the room surrounded by two chairs that seemingly were more valuable than the apartment itself and lastly Ricard¡¯s prized fish tank that was built into the wall of his apartment. The glass had a distinctive blue swirl in it clearly marking it as work of Barkir. He had no fishes in the tank anymore but instead it was filled with various small decorations.
At the end of the room was a simple bookshelf with an impressive collection of volumes. Ranging from cheap paperbacks filled with clich¨¦ stories of days being saved and maidens rescued, to some religious and historical texts. Most of the latter are usually sitting on the highest shelves. There were two doors apart from the entrance, one leading to a modest kitchen with just enough space for one person to cook and store food themselves and the other to a similarly sized bathroom.
Scraps of paper littered the floor as the books and indeed the bookshelf itself was thrown around in the scuffle, the various volumes were trampled , thrown and torn. The coffee tables and chairs were similarly, in splinters in the various corners where they were smashed and thrown. The only survivors of the battle was his bed which remarkably had no damage whatsoever, and the fish tank which apart from the book stuck in it and the cracks covering it was still somehow holding together.
Upon finally taking in the sight of what once was his living room, Ricard couldn¡¯t care. He didn¡¯t have any energy to care. He made sure that his door was locked, gave a quick thank to the gods that his toilet remained unsmahed and collapsed onto the bed. His body shutting off almost immediately, drifting into less of a sleep and more of a momentary coma.
¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Life is a disaster.
Whoever came up with the concept of control and order was a fool of the highest regard. There was nothing but chaos. Things had reasons for happening, absolutely but they were a spider''s web of conflict interests and happenstance. No one was able to truly see through the resulting mass of contradiction. The various lesser beings under Ulior occasionally made reference to one of gods who (like all of them) were supposed to know all that ever was and will be. When they were still a hatchling it was almost humorous but after a while it started to become vexing. They hoped that with the average lifespan of theirs, they would die out and perhaps forget about those gods of theirs.
But no such luck, in fact it has gotten worse. As the little pests spread, so did their temples and rituals. At some point in the long distant past Ulior was slightly intrigued by these, supposedly, all mighty beings. However after they had the opportunity to converse with one of their so-called heralds, they were less than impressed. In their shredder days they quite enjoyed burning down these temples. The shock and horror on all their little faces when their invincible shrines were melted was rather amusing. But Ulior was in their stone scale age. They learned to be patient and tolerate the ignorance of lesser things.
Still that frustration started to come forth when one of their lackey¡¯s started to swear to one of the myriad pitiful gods that he was telling the truth. That a pair of customers not only managed to break into his kiosk and rob it but that said customers did so due to having bought false information from them.
False.
That word is the death of business. Once the rumour mill starts going no one knows where it will end. And if that wasn¡¯t bad enough, the rumours would be true. Ricard was alive. Which means that either Ulior was lied to or that someone in their employ was incompetent.
Neither option filled the ancient being with much joy. Deep down they knew that the little rat currently soiling themselves in front of them was not at fault here. But it was a rare opportunity to vent out a long building frustration which Ulior seized upon. Grabbing him with one of their many metallic tentacle like appendages that protruded from their reinforced glass prison, and lifted him up then pulled them closer.
Until the man almost touched the colossal glass cylinder housing Ulior. They were clearly visible even through the murky green liquid they were immersed in. While their color has begun to fade over the years and liquid began to get murkier the silhouette of a brain the size of ten people was still clearly visible. A high pitched scream left the man chained to the base of Ulior¡¯s tank as various arcane tattoos started to light up across his naked body. After a few moments he looked up at the poor fellow in the clutch of Ulior and began to relay the message of his master with a volume that no human throat should be able to create.
¡°You will get Ricard here.
AM I UNDERSTOOD?¡±
The Man in The Mirror || Chapter 4
There was a man in the mirror.
The man looked frail at first glance, but a second one would have focused on the several ugly scars littering his thin and pale body. Some of the newer ones were almost pretty, slightly less glamorous than the scars of proud paladins or alluring like some of the defining features belonging to daring rouges in romance novels, but still taken care of. The others were not, the older the scar the uglier it was. Near some of the bigger old ones there were some additional marks of burning or sloppy marks left behind a shaky hand wielding a needle.
His skin was pale, unnaturally so to the point that he could have been mistaken for some cave dwelling alternative version of humanity, risen to take the surface from its decadent and ignorant inhabitants. Luckily his stance was far too straight and proud for that to be the case.
There was someone looking at the man in the mirror.
Supposedly the man was this person¡¯s reflection. A perfect copy of body, mind and soul. But the person observing had his doubts, not because the reflection was not accurate, not at all. It was too accurate. The observer looked through the various scars and marks covering the body of the man in the mirror at first wondering if there was any space for more, until they saw two new ones. Relatively fresh bruises around his neck and wrists. The observer moved onto the man¡¯s face, it was somewhat feminine in structure but still leaning towards the masculine, there was an attempt at a moustache in the shape of a thin and sparse line of hair above his lip. His right eye was dark chestnut, and his left socket had no eye at all. But a shimmering and brilliant blood red ruby. There were some swollen spots on the man¡¯s right cheek, nothing too horrible but enough to be noticeable.
The observer and the man in the mirror looked at each other, acting like two strangers at a bar seizing up each other for a fight or a drink. It took a few moments, but the observer remembered that the man was merely just him, that they are one and the same for better or worse. His mind started to come back to the moment and remember all important yet annoying fact that he was Ricard Feher, and that he was, truly, fucked.
With a towel hanging from his shoulder Ricard left the bathroom to be greeted by the remnants of his apartment. As he quickly scoured the Library/Kitchen/Living/Bedroom, he deliberately avoided looking at the tiny glass shards and other small debris littering the stone floor, instead focusing on the out of place medium sized furniture. Particularly those that were closer to their original position. He quickly put on his shoes that laid beside his barely standing bed and took another glance around his ruined home. Only for his frustration to flare up once again as the broom was on the other side of a field of sharp debris and cold chipped stone with most of the countless small rugs that once covered the floor now laying haphazardly. His door was luckily in much better shape, by no means a vault but it was still sturdy enough to discourage any would be assailants. Or it would be if Ricard still had his key, assuming it lost within the river, in the place of a working lock was a barricade consisting of a small cabinet and several splintered of parts from various wood furniture used to keep the door handle from moving, with some others laying in smaller across the floor beneath the door hinges.
¡°Fuck!¡±
Ricard in a flash of motion leaned onto the wall and desperately held onto his foot and promptly fell. Accompanied by several pained grunts Ricard managed to slowly sit up and look at his foot and the gently dropping blood that started to envelop the glass shard impaling it. After managing to stand up on his undamaged leg he hopped on it back toward the bathroom to remove the shard and clean up the wound. Using a piece of torn fabric from a clean towel. While bandaging himself up his attention once again wandering towards the mirror. He looked at the man in the mirror. A man whose posture was hunched, whose eyes looked tired, whose hands desperately grabbed the edge of the torn tower they were holding to stop them from shaking. There was a facade of control, one that still held but was crumbling.
He didn¡¯t like the man in the mirror. He had to resist the urge to hit him. To learn forward and shatter it with his bare hands, though the thought proved to be tantalizing he managed to hold himself back. After managing to wrestle his gaze away from the mirror Ricard let out a long grunt as he breathed out then breathed in and so on for a few more minutes. Considerably less volatile he checked on his foot to make sure the bandage held. It luckily held, at least until he was able to venture out from his little hole and find something or someone to apply a more permanent fix.
Summoning every bit of energy left in him, Ricard stands up, leaning mostly on his right leg. He takes another glance at the mirror. Only to find someone else in the mirror. Someone he didn¡¯t recognize.
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Glittering glass shards drifted across an everlasting and unquenchable void. The shards tended to form clumps of different sizes. Floating towards the same direction and occasionally splitting from them and creating new ones. Yet there were still uncountable shards, many too small to see, that drifted around aimlessly. Waiting to surprise some unsuspecting fool who made the foolish decision to possess a body capable of being cut by the razor-edged shards.
Reptilian scales shone brightly as the light that bounced between the uncountable shards bathed a wandering figure. They walked on one of the larger shards, roughly the size of a house. They were clad in a loose robe which covered their waist and most of their torso, but still revealed their charred and gnarly arms, each missing a few fingers, and their head which looked normal if it weren¡¯t for the patches of scales which covered most of their head. They were bald with almost all their skin that was not covered by scales instead covered in various circular drawings emitting a soft humming sound, which grew louder the closer they ventured towards a loose shard. Their face was angular with proportions that were ever so slightly off. Namely their noose and slightly more importantly, that his eyes were blank glass orbs. They moved with occasional sporadic bursts as they avoided the various stray glace shards that were drifting near their path. During their journey the figure couldn¡¯t help but give a glimpse at a nearby phenomena. They gazed as glittering rainbow light bounced between the two flat circular glass planes. Rays of light twisting and contorting like rope as the shapes drifted closer towards each other, causing this bundle of light to bounce and squeeze until it was wholly in between, the shapes working now as the hands of a talented sculptor. The light was stretched and flattened until it reached the proper dimensions that was required of it, though for what purpose the figure couldn¡¯t tell yet, the light was twisted and twirled until the shimmering moving mess of colors learned some manners. Stopping their rumbustious movements, the colors allowed themselves to be shaped and moved in a slightly more precise manner. As the two shapes parted ways with a sudden and violent motion, the energetic flowing bundle of light was no more. Instead of the shapes there was an image. That of a young woman with auburn hair and bloody split lips looking forward, with a tiny brush covered in some powder sharing the same color as her skin held delicately with long pale fingers. The scaled figure took a careful step closer in order to observe as the image began to slip off the mirrored surface it laid on. The young lady was caught by the other shape where she melded together with her environment, granting her a background in the shape of a ruined yet elegant bedroom with the various gilded furniture and bed sheets layed amuck on the ground. The other shape bent itself back and then springed forward, launching the now completed image away into the dark void surrounding everything as far as the eyes could see. It fell and fell until it couldn¡¯t be seen anymore. The shapes, completing their purposes, began to fracture into small bonelike shards. Joining a tornado of similar splints and pieces that span contentious around themselves and some unknowable axis.
This process repeated a thousand times across the storm of glass and light that was surrounding the figure. Their pupil-less milky white eyes strained themselves at the symphony of motion and light dancing through the soul clenching emptiness, but not for long as an upcoming migraine reminded them of their purpose here. They moved into a well practiced stance that strengthened their footing, took a big breath and began to sing. Sounds of crumbling stone and fracturing glass left their throat, mixing together with the murmurings of crowd and the clanging of construction and the squawking of birds, At first they were separate, singing one at the time but slowly they began to mix, creating reverberating harmony. Some of the glass shards start to fly towards him and as before, began to create images, of people walking and working, of birds flying past.
It wasn¡¯t what they were after. They began to change their song, adding and removing elements until they have created the perfect symphony. Drawing forwards the perfect selection of shards. The images they forged were that of a ruined apartment, with furniture thorn around, a very poorly barricaded door and a fish tank that by all rights should have been broken by now but somehow still staying together. A slight frown grew across the figure¡¯s face as they scoured the images only to find empty rooms. They sat down on the cold glass surface they were standing on, trying to get as comfortable as possible, their song slowly becoming a quiet hum which the other shards seemed to lose interest in and flew away. Focusing on the shards that continuously created images of the door, until they saw something from the corner of their eye, the images depicting the bathroom changed. Some objects were moved and on a closer inspection there was a trail of watery footprints leading out of the bathroom. The figure immediately stood up and scoured the other shards creating the rest of the images. Blinking and rubbing their eyes rapidly for a few moments, until they saw some neatly folded clothes on the bed float up and unbutton themselves. They began to sing once more, but this time the song was accompanied by a quick erratic dance of middling quality, the figure reaching out to the shards as part of the dance and with a single motion merged them together. Glass acting like liquid as the shards flown into each other and created ripples from the new combined surface. Soon after the new glass shard began to vibrate with increasing intensity. The figure stopped their dance and watched the surface intently, waiting. Until it had reached a critical point, fractures began to appear as the figure jumped into the rapidly disintegrating glass surface, feeling a thousand jagged fragments cutting their skin and clothes. They closed their eyes and shielded their face, until they felt solid ground underneath their feet. Slowly moving their hands from their face, they looked around, recognizing the ruined apartment surrounding them, but not being as familiar with the unseen fist that hit them in the jaw.
They stumbled back, almost hitting the floor, readying themselves for an attack. The figure looked around for their opponent only to see no one in the apartment. Were they hit? Did they just hit something when they arrived here? Their doubts quickly disappeared as they heard the shuffling of feet on stone and the grunts of a man charging towards him.