The first thing Sir Wembley of Cove felt was grits of sand between his teeth. Then, waves lapping slowly against his naked feet. His mind slowly recalled the previous night. The ship he was on was named "Seas the Day". Wembley remembered being mildly amused by the pun. Pouring rain began shortly after dusk and the ocean became turbulent, though the crew didn't appear phased in the least. The captain of the ship had invited Wembley and the other traveler, an attractive young woman with raven hair, to join him below deck for a couple drinks. The captain was a stout man, obviously no stranger to drink. A wave struck the ship as they started to descend and the captain's cigar fell from his teeth and sailed overboard. The captain cursed. Below deck, they shared a wonderful seven year old whisky and then... nothing. Had he blacked out? Did the ship capsize in the storm? How did he survive? Wembley was still laying face down in the sand. He opened his eyes and already his head had begun to spin. Where was he? Where were the others? Wembley noticed his clothing was tattered and his belongings nowhere to be found. He pulled himself to his feet and called out. He waited a breath. No response. The narrow beach he had landed on sloped upwards sharply where it met palm trees and thick tropical vegetation. Were they even sailing near the tropics? Wembley couldn't remember. The beach angled away from the ocean in both directions. Wembley thought for a moment he must be on an island, but wasn't sure which one. Behind him, the ocean stretched into the horizon. No sign of the ship. The sun looked mostly spent, hinting that evening was already nearing. He must have slept the day away on the beach. Wembley walked up the beach for a short ways before coming across a small stone structure hidden beneath the jungle canopy. Thick vines climbed its stone surfaces. Two rusted lanterns were perched on the short doorstep. Weathered bricks proved that ages had passed since its construction. It seemed almost natural sitting there, as if one could legitimately question whether this structure or the island existed first. A weather-worn sign hanging near the doorway read "KEEP THE LANTERNS LIT". "Anyone there?", Wembley called out. He listened for a beat, and again no response. Save the slow rhythm of waves on the beach, Wembley noticed for the first time that there was total silence on the island. No bird calls. No rodent chattering. No cicadas and their sickly sweet songs. Odd, he thought. Wembley stepped inside to discover a room stacked to the ceiling with crates. Had he stumbled across a smuggling operation of some type? In the corner of the room sat an old desk. An aged book rested atop it. Perhaps a ledger, keeping tabs of operations, he thought. A narrow staircase ascended to the second level. Wembley cracked open a crate to find it filled with lantern oil. The crate next to it had additional lanterns and even more lantern oil. And so on with the next crate, and the one after it. Wembley pondered who would possibly smuggle lantern oil. If this were a smuggling operation, it wasn't a very profitable one. Wembley turned to the ledger to make some kind of sense of the situation. The first page echoed the message from the sign: "KEEP THE LANTERNS LIT". Instructions? A warning? The remainder of the book was empty. Not one to tempt fate, Wembley bent down to light the lanterns on the doorstep to find that they were dry. He refilled and lit them before climbing the narrow staircase to the second floor. It looked like the residence of a madman. The phrase "KEEP THE LANTERNS LIT" was scrawled repeatedly on all four walls with some kind of charcoal pen. Wembley was getting the message that somebody really wanted these lanterns on, and indeed, lanterns adorned each of the room's four corners. A small worn bed sat oddly alone in the middle of the room - it did not look terribly inviting. Despite evening starting to settle itself in, Wembley was fairly certain he did not want to spend the night in that bed. He refilled and lit the four lanterns before ascending a makeshift ladder to the roof. Had the roof been tall enough to escape the island's thick canopy, it might have been quite the view. The sinking sun in the west and the soft rhythm of the waves against the south beach gave Wembley his bearings. A short field lay to the north, flanked by a steep hill. Wembley thought he saw a faint flickering light at the top of the hill, but was unsure. The rest of his vision was obscured by the thick jungle. Further from the shore now, the uneasy silence of the island was much more apparent. A lonely chair sat on the rooftop and, of course, more lanterns. Wembley bent down to light the rooftop lanterns as dusk crept over the island. As he stood up, a quick flurry of motion in the north field caught his eye. An animal? He squinted but couldn't see anything more. "Hello?", Wembley called out, unsure if he were issuing a greeting or a question. The island canopy seemed to absorb and dampen his voice - maybe it hadn't heard him. Then he saw another flicker of motion from the field, disappearing behind a tree. Whatever it was, it moved with a silent, unnatural speed. A third and fourth flash of movement came from the opposite side of the field, approaching the tower. Then a fifth, and ... a flood of movements that could no longer be counted... all charging towards the tower. An overwhelming sense of dread crept over Wembley, a sixth sense telling him it was no longer safe on the roof. He stumbled backwards slightly before scrambling down the ladder. Wembley looked around the second floor room for anything he could use as a weapon. A bedpost? One of the lanterns? He tried to listen for movement outside, but his heart was banging out an intense panicked beat that flooded his ears. At first, there was nothing but the ocean's distant waves and the island's usual sharp silence. But soon he could hear a soft, indistinct whisper from the treeline. The single whisper was soon answered by more whispers. And those whispers were joined by even more. A soft roar soon surrounded the tower. Wembley dared not look out the window to see where they came from. "Who's there?", he nervously called out from the corner. "WHO'S THERE?", the whispers echoed his question back to him in imperfect intervals. Some of the voices had a tinge of madness in them, some of the voices carried a mocking tone, and some of the voices were wet with anger. "S-sir Wembley of Cove", he stuttered, as if he should answer first. "WEMBLEY", roared the whispers, again in a variety of tones. He hated the mocking tones the most. Wembley crept towards the window and peered out. Hundreds of gray-hooded figures stood just outside the lamplight, surrounding the tower. Their skin seemed a pale white, the likes he had never seen before except on a corpse. Their eyes were hidden beneath gray cowls, yet he still felt their gaze upon him, like predators staring down their next meal. "WEMBLEY", came the chorus of whispers again and again. "WEMBLEY". He pulled himself from the window and sank down in a corner. Back home, the name 'Sir Wembley of Cove' was synonomous with 'hero'. Sir Wembley of Cove led the defense of Empeth Abbey against a brutal orcish attack. Sir Wembley of Cove had defeated all challengers in the Jhelom duel pits. Sir Wembley of Cove had defeated a dragon that threatened ranchers in Britain. In truth, he had accomplished none of those things. His legacy had been built upon lies and the deeds of others. And at first, his false reputation wasn't even by his own design. In Yew, he merely looked the part and was in the right place at the right time. In the chaos of the attack, a bystander mistook Wembley for someone else and declared him a hero. Knowing that the real hero of the day lay dead, Wembley simply did not correct the bystander. Almost overnight, tales of his courage passed through the town and beyond. One taste of fame was all it took before Wembley started to hunger for more. Like every good "dead orcs" story, the number of orcs slain in Yew increased with every retelling of the tale. But it wasn't enough. He soon found himself bribing his opponents to take a dive in Jhelom's annual tournament to widen his reputation. A short month later, he paid a mysterious tamer to have his dragon snack on some cows in Britain. He put on a convincing show for the cattle ranchers with that one, before the dragon "fled" back into the wilderness. And when the ship capsized, Wembley was on his way to Vesper to eliminate a group of murderous bandits that he had hired to terrorize travelers in the first place. Now it seemed karma had finally caught up to him. "WEMBLEY" was the name echoed from a hundred wild whispers from outside the tower. Wembley had of course heard horrific tales of the undead, if that's what they were, but had never come face to face with one. Wembley buried his face in his hands and wept like the coward he was, knowing that death was upon him. But strangely, death did not come. Wembley pulled his head up and took another look out the window. The gray figures shifted around at the edge of the lamplight, circling like sharks, but seemingly refused to enter it. The warning scrawled on the walls began to make sense. A momentary sense of relief came over him and he pulled back from the window and sat in the corner. He tried to cover his ears to block out their calls.
A ray of sunlight caught Wembley's face. He shot upright, awake and alert. "KEEP THE LANTERNS LIT" read the message repeated on the wall. He was still in the short tower at the end of the beach. The lanterns in the four corners of the room burned faintly, nearly empty of oil. Had he fallen asleep? No one called his name from outside. He scrambled to the window and looked out expecting to be greeted by a sea of gray figures, but there was no one. Morning had arrived and taken them away. Waves crashed softly on the south beach. Wembley wasn't sure who had originally built the tower, or who had stocked it with lantern oil, or even who had written the warnings, but they had saved his life. At least for now. He realized that though he had survived the night, he still needed to find food and and fresh water. And even though the day looked to be clear skied, Wembley grabbed a spare lantern and lit it before leaving the tower. The interior of the island was thick with vegetation and proved difficult to navigate. Wembley wished for a machete. The sound of the ocean faded as he traveled further in-land, replaced by an eerie silence. A breeze occasionally caught the treetops to rattle the leaves, but the island was void of any other sound. Before long, Wembley came across a small creek, likely originating from the hill in the center of the island. He couldn't recall a time when water tasted so sweet. He layed on his back to rest, staring upwards. A cluster of bananas stared back at him. At first, Wembley couldn't believe his luck, but he figured he was owed some after all he'd been through. Wembley had been so terribly hungry that he thought it a meal fit for royalty. He spent the day continuing his exploration of the island, eventually arriving at a sheer rock face that spired upwards. It was the hill he had seen from the tower, only it seemed much larger and steeper than he originally thought. At its base, a dark cavern burrowed into the base of the island. Just outside it, a man's body lay in the grass, facing upwards and gripping a leather bound book. Wembley did not recognize the man from the distance. Wembley waited a moment. The man did not stir. Was he sleeping? Or dead? Wembley called out to the man, but received no response. He then picked up a rock and hurled it at the man. The rock clanked right off the man's skull, but still he did not move. Must be dead. Inside his head, Wembley chuckled momentarily at the absurdity of him throwing rocks at a corpse because he was too scared to walk up to it. Wembley crept slowly towards the body and was halfway there when he first heard them. The whispers from the previous night were emanating from the cave. "WEMBLEY" they called. The cave was incredibly dark, but he swore he could see the gray figures standing just inside it, out of the sun's reach. Proud and brave Sir Wembley fled back into the jungle. He thought perhaps he could hear the figures laughing behind him. By the time Wembley returned to the tower, evening was starting to fall. He hurriedly refilled all of the lanterns around the tower and lit them. He huddled into a corner on the second floor and nervously waited for dusk. Soon, the whispers again arrived outside. "WEMBLEY", they had resumed calling his name. He covered his ears and did not look out the window once. At daybreak, Wembley grabbed a lantern and headed back to the hill. He remembered seeing a light atop it that first night. It seemed unlikely someone was out there, but he needed to investigate. He also wanted to read what was in the dead man's book by the cave, gray figures and their dread whispers be damned. Along the way, he again stopped for a kingly meal of bananas and spring water. He approached the hill from a different direction that he thought would not be as steep, and though the climb proved to be tough, it was not impossible. The view from atop it was impressive, but disheartening. He was indeed trapped on a small island, with limitless ocean sprawling in every direction. There were no ships to be seen on the horizon. A single lantern sat near the cliff's edge. Wembley thought it looked much like the one he carried in his right hand. Beyond and below the cliff-face, he recognized the cave entrance from the day before. He was startled to find he could not see the dead man's body from this vantage point. Had someone moved it? Had the gray figures moved it? Had ... IT ... moved it? After the past couple nights, anything seemed possible. He carefully climbed down the hillside the way he came and circled around to the cave entrance. The body actually was still there, just it wasn't a body anymore. A human skeleton had taken its place, still clenching the leather bound book and wearing the man's tattered clothes. Tattered was perhaps too forgiving of a word - they looked absolutely torn to shreds. Wembley inched forward towards the corpse. Ghastly whispers from the cave greeted his approach. He bent down and quickly snatched the book from the skeleton, half expecting something to happen. Again, he thought he heard the gray figures laugh. Wembley returned to the treeline and opened the book, just far enough that he would not need to listen to the whispers calling his name. Code: If you are reading this, know that I have decided to give up. My name is Ingram of Yew. I arrived on this tropical island some unknown number of days ago, by unknown manner. I know not the name of the isle. I once heard legend that Lord British had ordered every mapmaker in the realm to erase a specific island from their world charts. Perhaps I stand upon that island now. Or perhaps I am already dead and just don't realize it yet. My last memory before waking here is drinking ale at the Great Horns Tavern of Magincia. I was chatting up a pretty, young lass with olive skin and deep brown eyes. A portly man smoking a cigar bought the entire room a round of drinks. We thanked him and then ... that's it. I awoke here with nothing and no one. I found a peculiar stone tower my first day here. Instructions inside read "keep the lanterns lit", with enough lantern oil to perform the task for an eternity. Good that I heeded the warning, for every night dark beings come to haunt me. The lantern light is the only thing that keeps them away. They surround the tower and whisper my name until dawn. They want to make me share their fate, or bring me to the underworld, or ... I know not their hideous motive. There is no game to hunt here, or any living animal for that matter. I spend my days foraging for bananas and berries. Around midday, fish will occasionally start biting on the east side of the island. Contrary to what any fisherman worth their salt will tell you, they stop biting as evening draws near. Somehow even their tiny fish brains can comprehend the evil of this island, and they know when to leave it. I look out at the ocean every day, but no ships ever sail by. The dark beings spend their days hiding in a cave in the center of the island. I have tried sealing the entrance, but there's no stopping them. So long I have endured their whispers that I believe I can hear them even during the daytime now. Last night I got careless and got caught outside beyond dark. I was forced to sleep outside. My lantern kept the beings an arm's length away, but it was a terrifying experience. I can't endure this anymore. There is no escape from this place and I refuse to give them the satisfaction of killing me. The strange coincidences of the letter were lost on Wembley - the letter had only caused him despair. His fears that no rescue would ever come were manifested on the pages before him. But he was not giving in, and the despair was soon replaced by fury. He marched back to the cave entrance, lit his lantern, and hurled it into the cave. A couple of the gray figures shrieked as the lantern sailed past them and crashed onto the smooth cave floor. Fire spilled out, illuminating the silhouettes of countless figures edging away from the light. They hissed at him. The cave's darkness quickly devoured the light and the "WEMBLEY" whispers resumed with some laughter. Wembley turned to Ingram's skeletal corpse. How had all of the man's skin, muscle, and organs completely decayed in just a day? It was another mystery that would go unsolved for now. The man deserved a proper burial, at least. Wembley carried the skeleton away from the cave to the treeline and dug a shallow grave for the man, marking it with a stone. Wembley lost count of the days that followed. He found the small berries Ingram spoke of and was grateful for something that did not taste like bananas. He discovered Ingram's makeshift fishing pole hidden in the back corner of the tower and found that, indeed, fish did bite during the day on the east side of the island. Every night, the gray figures emerged from the cave and surrounded the tower, calling his name. Wembley found that humming a tune helped block out their voices. He also worked up the courage to give the creepy bed a shot, and found it to be rather comfy. But still no ships ever sailed by the island. He soon came to the conclusion that an escape from this place would only come about by his own doing. Wembley was no craftsman by any stretch of the imagination, but he started to construct a raft out of fallen trees, tightly binding them together with the thick vines that climbed up the tower. He jerry-rigged a sail out of a large branch and the bedsheet as best he could. He taught himself how to make fish jerky and gathered a feast of berries and bananas. He washed out old lantern oil containers and filled them with fresh water. He packed up a few lanterns, some lantern oil, and Ingram's old fishing pole. Finally, Wembley tested the raft in knee-high water. It worked! Or it floated, at least. Everything was in place for his escape, he just needed a clear morning and he would set out.
And that day came very quickly. He pushed the raft out into the ocean until he could no longer touch the bottom. He swam behind the raft a ways, pushing it out even further, before he pulled himself aboard. The island was already fading into the distance behind him. Wembley stood up and looked back at it. How long had he been stranded there? He flashed his middle finger at the island and laughed. He didn't know where he was going, but he was at least free. In the matter of a few hours, the island was nothing more than a speck on the horizon. Wembley shifted his focus to the open ocean ahead of him. How long would he be adrift, he wondered. Before he had set out, he knew a nasty storm would likely prove deadly. He silently hoped he did not encounter one. As evening neared, Wembley lit the lantern out of habit. The sun sank beneath the waves casting darkness over the seascape. Wembley almost expected the gray figures to emerge from beneath the water and pull themselves up onto his raft. Thankfully, they did not show up to torment him. He ate a banana in celebration and laid down for a nap. For the first time in ages, he slept peacefully. He awoke the next morning and could hear waves crashing up against a shoreline. He could feel the raft lodged on something, even before opening his eyes. A beach. He stood up, shielding his eyes from the sun until they could adjust. To his horror, the stone tower sat silently in front of him. "DAMMIT!", he yelled. He kicked over the container of berries he had painstakingly picked, scattering them into the sea. How had he ended up back here? The island refused to let him go, but Wembley was not giving up that easily. The raft simply must have gotten caught in a current, he told himself. He pushed the raft back out to sea and slid aboard. This time he would sail in a different direction and he would not sleep. The island slowly faded away behind him as he sailed out into the open ocean. Night came and went without event. In the morning, a tiny dot appeared on the horizon. Without needing to get any closer, Wembley had already recognized it. He feverishly ran his fingers through his hair, trying to understand how he could sail in the same direction all day and all night and still end up exactly where he started. He changed the sail direction away from the island and headed west. The skies began to grow dark, but Wembley absolutely refused to turn back. He was escaping this place, no matter the cost. Rain began to patter on the raft and the surrounding ocean. The cloth sail soon sagged with dampness. The wind picked up and he could see lightning flash in the distance. The waves grew vicious and he knew that this venture would not end well for him. The sea tossed the raft about like a play-toy and it quickly came apart under the stress. A wave knocked Wembley off balance and into the ocean. He kicked his way back to the surface and grabbed onto one of the splintered logs. The food, water, and lanterns were gone. The ocean battered him for hours, but he managed to hold on. The cacophony of rain did not let up for an instant the entire time. Then, he felt something touch his toes. Sand. He looked up and found he was back on the island, standing in waist-high water. Despite the grim light of the storm, Wembley could still tell evening had arrived and darkness would soon be here. He ran like a soggy dog as fast as he possibly could to the the tower and lit the lanterns. The whispers and mocking laughter from outside soon followed. He had made it just in time. The wind howled through the tower's narrow windows, extinguishing two of the second floor lanterns. Just as soon as they went out, the gray figures were somehow already inside. Another gust of wind blew out the third lantern and Wembley scrambled to the safety of the last lantern on his knees. The figures were just inches from him, their whispers of death closer and clearer than ever. Their gangly white hands stretched out, trying to grab at him. Each strong gust of wind made the flame waver and the light flicker. Wembley tried his best to shield the last lantern's flame from the gusts, but with every flicker of light the gray figures seized the opportunity and grabbed at him, tearing his clothes and scratching his skin with long inhuman finger nails. The night was long and painful, but somehow Wembley survived it. The gray figures retreated with the dawn and the storm finally came to an end. Wembley's body was battered and bloodied, but he had made it. He knew in that instant what he must do. It took many trips back and forth, but he dragged every crate of oil from the tower to the cave opening. The figures called out his name, but he did not hear them. He poured oil over one of the crates, lit a lantern, and dragged the crate of oil behind him into the cave. Hundreds of hands grabbed at his clothing and gashed at his skin, but he dragged every last crate into the cave, making sure to spill oil everywhere in the process. He stood outside and caught his breath in the sunlight. He then turned to the cave and hurled the lit lantern against one of the crates. It erupted in flames, igniting the lantern oil inside. The gray figures shrieked in agony and scattered away from the light. The fire spread to the other crates and they too exploded in bursts of flame. Wembley watched as the cave lit up like a fireworks display. The gray figures burned in the light of the inferno, their clothing and bodies igniting and turning to ash. Some managed to let out otherworldly screams as they disintegrated and faded from existence. After a long while, the fires burned down, returning the cave to darkness, There was silence. Wembley sat down solemnly in the grass, his ordeal finally over with. But Wembley's relief quickly faded when a soft whisper called out his name: "WEMBLEY". Slowly, more whispers joined it. Wembley stood up and squinted into the darkness - there were still hundreds of the gray figures left. He stepped backwards in disbelief. How? His plan had worked, but seemingly not well enough. And now all the oil was gone. He had bet the farm and lost it all. He turned to the treeline and Ingram's grave caught his eye. He was out of options. He had tried his damnedest, but in the end he was going to meet the same fate as the man from Yew. At least he had taken some of them with him, he thought. Wembley climbed the hill. Just as Ingram had written, he wouldn't allow the gray figures to have him. He would end it before they could have the chance. He looked down at the cave mouth and took a slow, deep breath. Ingram's nearly empty lantern still sat atop the hill. Wembley kicked it over the cliff-face to test the distance. It was a long, terrifying, way down. The lantern rolled with a distant thud. Another deep breath - he was going to do this. He looked up over the treeline at the ocean one last time - and was stunned. A ship's mast pierced its way above the treetops. It was harbored near the tower. The sigil on the sail... it was the "Seas the Day"! Wembley couldn't believe it. He took a slow uneasy step backwards and the rock beneath him gave way. He plummeted down to the rocks below. Everything turned black. Wembley awoke a long time later. Sharp pain lanced its way up through his body. He tried to move his legs but they were shattered and broken from the fall. His ribs ached, almost certainly broken themselves. It was nearly nightfall and the gray figures were itching to get out of the cave. Wembley glanced over and saw Ingram's old lantern laying in a sandy outcropping. He crawled over to it and lit it. The light was faint, the lantern rusty and nearly empty of oil. He crawled through the jungle on his stomach, occasionally pulling himself to a stand, but he knew he wasn't going to make it before the gray figures came out. Would the ship still be there, waiting for him? The sun's final light faded and they were on him in an instant, clawing and pulling. The lantern was fading fast. Wembley felt ghastly teeth sink into the back of his leg and he yelled out in pain. He thrust the lantern at the figure and it backed away with a hiss and a spat, Wembley's blood dripping down its face. He turned to crawl again, but the lantern was empty. The light faded out. The only trace of Wembley in the morning was a pile of bones, hidden deep within the island's thick vegetation.
Great story Basoosh! You've got quite a knack there for the suspense! I must admit, I was expecting an army of cows to appear at any moment though... and for the Hoff to rescue poor Wembley near shore. Also... Wilson!
He should have kept the lanterns lit! lol at 'seas the day' and wilson. Another true UO:R Great Work from Basoosh. Thanks.
Agree with all the above. A true story teller is in our midst. Thanks for giving us this fun tale. Westra/Marjo Governess of WispFelt
You all are way too kind (but thanks for all the internet high fives)! Will try to write more sometime.
I've had this epilogue rattling around in my brain. It's no Bash of a tale, but man I love this tale Sir Wembley of Cove a dark and foreboding ship slowly drifts in the distance from Trinsic harbor The rescue ship that had been sent after the famed and beloved Sir Wembley drifted eerily on the horizon. The hearts of the citizens had sorrowed when the ship had first returned battered and torn by the waves and bereft of their champion whom they so desperately needed as rumors of orcs gathering in the desert began to grow. And their hearts cheered again when the magistrates of Trinsic had agreed not only to restore "Seas the Day", but also to fund the expedition to rescue the Hero from Cove - Ser Wembley! Yes, this ship that had been the cause of such great sorrow and such great rejoicing should have been immediately sighted adrift by the harbor master. And further it should have been observed that the ship which only a week ago gleamed with freshly restored bulk heads and timber now was rotted and dismal and devoid of any visible signs of a crew. But the harbor master, along with all of the city's cartographers were gathered around every conceivable map they could find. All of which now shown a mysterious island that had not been there before. And yet upon every map in the realm the curious isle had appeared at the same instant. As they hunched over the maps and puzzled at the meaning - Seas the Day drifted southward and out of site of any who could have sounded a vigilant alarm. Death was carried upon that boat, and death would make landfall by dusk... ********* in the village of Paws Jupiter gazes into the Sapphire pond The Sapphire maiden rarely adorned a physical form. She stepped out of her pond and cast a look of powerful grief at her sanctuary as though it had been violated "This is unholy and cursed. A power that can penetrate my waters which are not of this realm is of pure evil or pure light. And that which is borne from that wretched isle is certainly not of the light. I sense it seeks to do battle with the very virtues!" Jupiter released a heavy and mournful sigh "The courage of men may falter if the ancient shrines are demolished. Not even the gales and maelstroms of nature nor the ages of time have prevailed against them. But if this darkness reaches them..." his sentence seemed to perish with his thought. He gripped his cane, and stared into the waters, watching the darkness spread. "Maiden, is there nothing that the strength of men can do to withstand this darkness? " The maiden's prolonged silence gave Jupiter little hope. "The measure of my power is as vast and immeasurable as the seas, but even still it is limited to this realm. I could not hope to contend with a power of pure darkness. I have already done all I can to keep it at bay upon the waters." "Light." A voice spoke from behind them. The sapphire maiden evaporated almost instantly- reappearing behind the wizard. So quickly that the heated water vapors sounded like hissing as they dropped upon the tower tiles. While most men would have felt proud and strong that the Sapphire Maiden sought their protection, but Jupiter knew that anything which could catch the maiden off guard in such a way was nothing he could contend with. He turned slowly and beheld the seemingly familiar scarlet red hair running perfectly over the feminine shoulders of a woman he was certain he should have recognized. And perhaps he would have remembered if he had been down on the first floor to see all the dice in the room spinning furiously on their corners. Before he could ask she spoke, "I. Am. Fate." When she spoke her final word, Jupiter's eyes rolled back into his head and his body went lump and seemed as though he would collapse if it had not suspended by some unseen force. She looked past the wizard, and locked her gaze upon the maiden. "The wizard shall not remember this encounter, like so many of our others, but you will remember what I tell you. And you will teach him my words or this realm will perish with the waning of the day." "I blame the foolishness of men for this evil which has been loosed. I sent that Sir Wembley to the isle to restore the tapestry he had begun to unravel at the assault on Empathy. His thread was woven to end there, yet somehow he managed to escape his destiny," her voice was deceivingly lush despite the callousness of her message. "I provided this simple mortal countless opportunities to set the thing right, yet over and over he tempted me. Then, blinded in my fury, I overlooked the foolishness of men, who were so willingly convinced of this man's contrived fame and heroism. And the ship they sent to rescue their beloved Sir Wembley, now sails forth with all the cursed souls that I have banished to that forgotten isle to balance out my tapestries." "I will put these wretched souls back to where I have banished them, but it will take me more time than this day will provide. The power of light is the only chance mortals have to withstand the night that will soon fall." "Light is the power to which even the virtues are individually bound. Man's only chance is to survive through the night that comes, and pray there is enough light left at the end of this day for me to banish them." "I shall grant unto men light bearers at each of the shrines. But beyond that, if men do not keep a steady watch over the light, the darkness will spread into their cities, their hearts, and their souls. And I will be left with no option but to cast away this tapestry entirely and I shall be forced to begin anew. I cannot convey how furious I am that I must even consider that possibility again." The maiden curtsied, "Your words shall be taught your grace." And then she gently stretched out her arm to soften Jupiter's fall as he completed his prolonged collapse as soon as Fate had vanished. The wizard would be asleep a long while after such an encounter. She only hoped his slumber would be enough for her to dreamspeak all that she had to teach him in such little time.
