Silence - Prologue

This arc takes place between when Felix was banished to the Void and his return.

* * *

Present Day

In the Eyrie of the Protector's Guild, a manic intensity reigned.

Men and women—most Human—ran down corridors with freshly inked missives and requests, many of them on their way to Eliza DuFont's desk. As the Elder of Acquisition, she was responsible for the harvesting and distribution of all resources gained by Guild employees and affiliates. Typically, this meant she dealt with the back-end of board requests and Guild hunts, taking in whatever skins, meat, and the odd cracked artifact her people brought home. In turn, her office would dole out a reasonable payment.

But now, the dreaded and mysterious fog of the eponymous Foglands had faded entirely. All of the riches within those wild forests, untamed mountains, and deadly hills were now within reach. In a single instant, DuFont had been catapulted to the upper echelons of the Elder Council as her domain would now affect the fortunes of all those within the Eyrie.

She thumbed through page after page detailing Uncommon herbs and Rare lumber already hastily harvested, each entry growing the power of their Guild branch. They may even overtake Setoria as the most prosperous in the west.Aalready DuFont envisioned the new assets the Main Branch would afford them if that happened. The Eyrie was a strong, powerful construction, but the city of Haarwatch was a backwards hovel that almost didn't deserve the services the Guild provided. She almost laughed when she found the letter from the Governor's office requesting a tithe of rare materials to be provided to the city's Craft Quarter.

"When did this arrive, Vera?" she asked, holding up the letter for her secretary to see. It was just the one today, as her twin sister was off on other important duties.

"Just this morning, ma'am," her secretary said, pausing the scratching of her quill. "And it's Tera, ma'am."

"Of course," DuFont said offhandedly before snorting in amusement. "The fog has been gone less than a week and already we have demands of 'recompense' and 'taxes on behalf of the people of Haarwatch.'" The Elder let the heat within her core spin off, spraying from her hand in a wash of bright yellow vapor. The paper blackened before turning entirely to ash. "Pathetic. They wouldn't know what to do with the materials we've collected already, let alone those deeper within."

The city of Haarwatch was and always had been little more than a jagged stone planted at the end of a mountain pass, designed as a bulwark against the dangerous Foglands. It was built upon ruins older than itself, older than the Hierocracy if legends were true, but it was a backwater. Luxury crept into Haarwatch slowly as the mines were found to be ample and the steady attacks of monsters provided a tithe of monster cores to fuel enchantment arrays or to sell for profit. Mining and hunting flourished, and all of it was under the Guild's charter and Provisional System Authority. They had made changes to improve the city, but they would never match the splendor of the Continental Interior. A few taxes to the Governor were tossing a flagon of water on a house fire.

"Pen a response to the Governor, Vera," she commanded, and her secretary took out a new scroll of parchment. "I'll nip this line of thinking in the bud—"

The doors were kicked in.

Vera screamed, and the slamming wooden doors were accompanied by the sound of tinkling glass. DuFont came to her feet, her senses stretched taught as her heat Mana cycled through her channels. Framed in the door was a slight figure wearing matte black armor and a half mask that left only her mouth exposed. Eyes the color of cataracts stared at her, sharp as the daggers lining her hips and chest.

DuFont's stance slackened and she gave a wide smile. "Ilia. You have returned, and none too soon."

"I'm just a simple courier, ma'am. Here to drop off my package and be on my way," Ilia said through her perfect smile. "After I've collected my payment, of course."

DuFont looked around the Sworn agent and took in the ragged appearance of a young woman slumped in one the plush chairs in reception. Dark of skin and darker of hair, the girl was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with Tempering, even unwashed and bruised as she appeared. Vessilia Dayne, heiress of Pax'Vrell and future duchess. DuFont Analyzed her, noting that her Health was untouched but that her Stamina was lingering near the bottom. She switched Skills, checking on the girl's Status Condition.

"Poisoned?" she asked.

"A baby poison. Barely hurts." Ilia shrugged as her secretary shouldered the girl out of the armchair. "She was a scrappy one and I had to transport her somehow."

DuFont regarded the Sworn with her steady eyes. "Vera," she called out.

"It's Tera, ma'am," her secretary said quietly.

"Vera, arrange for Lady Dayne to be taken to the Healer's Ward on the lower levels. Tell them she was found in the Foglands, injured."

"...Yes ma'am," she replied, before carrying the unconscious heiress out of the reception chamber and into the hall.

When DuFont returned her attention to the Sworn, Ilia was reclining in a settee along the wall.

"There you have it, girl delivered, plan foiled, Shieldwitch destroyed," she said, extending her hand. "Payment, if you will."

"You brought her into my offices like this? Did anyone see you?"

"Please. Your Eyrie is protected by Iron and Bronze Rank fools, none of whom have a Perception Skill higher than Uncommon," Ilia scoffed so hard she came to her feet. "They weren't able to even spot my shadow."

"And Aren died? You are sure of that?" DuFont pressed. It was a stroke of luck she hadn't quite expected, for all that she factored it into her plans.

"She was thrown into a nest of vipers so nasty I'd doubt you'd survive," Ilia said with a disbelieving headshake. "If she's still alive, I'd eat my own poison."

DuFont closed her eyes, letting a rare feeling wash over her. It was so infrequent in this wretched place, that truly it was a moment to be savored. Money and power were flowing into her hands, while those that had opposed and threatened her had perished.

"There are survivors, though. People that know exactly why they had gone out there in the first place," Ilia said with a sly smile. That smile transformed into pleased surprise as a heavy pouch twice the size as what she was promised fell into her arms.

"Take it all for services rendered, and discretion kept," DuFont said with a toothy smile. "I would not concern yourself with the others. They will be taken care of in due time."

Eliza DuFont turned to her large window, peering at the smudge that was the Foglands, now bathed in cleansing daylight. So great was her mood that she barely cared when the Sworn left without any parting words, or when her secretary returned with a new stack of sealed letters.

All was finally right with the world.


* * *


Far away, and far too close, an ancient mountain range rumbled. Beneath its deadly slopes, filled with dire creatures and ancient magics, down deep under the darkened earth was a skein of darkness. Beyond that skein, past where the Realms dragged against one another, beneath the bones of that aged mountain, cacophony reigned.

Within a chamber large enough to swallow a city, a legion of misshapen figures worked over forges designed out of molten lava. The air was filled with the stench of charred minerals, the ozone of discharged force, and the noisome clatter of hundreds of hammers. Said hammers struck and refined the metal pulled from these forges, shaping the dark materials into barbed, ominous forms.

Eddies of Mana vapor flowed through the chamber, orange and dusty brown mingling freely with the dark grey of shadow. The smiths, inelegant and malformed, grasped at the vapor, drawing it into themselves before working the confluence of energies into their craft. What power remained was funneled out of the forge room, down passageways so twisted and bent no right angles survived. Shimmering, twisted sigils inscribed in the walls pulled at the vapor, guiding the power with their invisible influence. Openings in the top of the passageways let in more vapor, pulled from other sources within the dark demesne. Emerald-gold and dark, crimson streamers joined the rest.

The jagged sigils pulsed with every new wave of Mana, growing imperceptibly larger each time.

Spreading.

The corridors wound downward, delving deeper into the earth as the ambient Mana began to riot. As dozens of twisted passageways terminated at another massive chamber, the air itself seemed to thicken and congeal with near-physical power. Blood-red crystals rose from every surface in the spherical chamber, glinting with a dark, pulsating potency. At the center of the spherical room's base, an oubliette shot straight down, into a deeper dark.

But from this shaft arose a sense of plenitude and surcease. Faint, emerald-gold Mana began to outweigh the crimson waves, as a garden thrived within.

The garden was fecund and beautiful, filled with colorful blooms and tall, impossible growths. Artificial lights shone from above, closely mimicking the absent sun, and a gentle, warm breeze rustled leaves and branches. Were it not for the terrible sense of crimson death that hung like a gallows axe in the air, the garden would have been a place of true serenity.

This effect was particularly spoiled by an immense iron desk.

Situated within the center of the garden, it was huge. Built on the scale of giants and their ilk, it was accompanied by an equally massive chair. Said chair was occupied by a huge figure, composed of an elaborate golden armor and full helm. Eyes like burning brands flared and narrowed as it considered the desktop before it. A dagger-sized stylus was in the creature's metallic hand, small in comparison to his huge frame, and he was carefully etching something onto a thick ream of hide.

Sigils of the Primordial Dawn is level 120!

"Almost. Almost ready to Tier," the golden figure sighed before sitting back with an exaggerated groan. The Archon no longer felt fatigue or needed to sleep, but he found some satisfaction in mimicking the feeling. He always hoped it might remind him what it was like to be alive.

It had not proven successful yet.

The Archon stared at his handiwork, admiring the steady hand and fine edge to his work. The sigils almost crawled across the page, power baked into their forms, his dire Intent harnessed by their unsettled lines. They were a cage for his dire Will, and the Archon had more than enough of that to go around. Intent and Might and Alacrity. Strength of Body, of Mind, but focus above all else. They were Harmonic Stats not typically used together, not anymore. The fools of the world had forgotten the truth that underpinned their flimsy reality. For that reason alone he would be more than justified in wiping them all out.

Clear the board. Start anew.

The Archon was ancient, this much he knew. How ancient precisely was a mystery even to him. Long enough that his makers were but dust.

Save for that fool boy.

A rage stoked inside of him, one that had been tended to for an Age or more. The reemergence of the Nym, here, in his Domain was untenable. Only his Wurms' insistence that he perished along with the Mother had the Archon advancing his plans. But a voice, a familiar one, whispered in the back of his mind.

The Nym are devious and powerful. They cannot be trusted.

He trusted the voice. It had been his sole companion for an Age, the only thing he could cling to in the endless dark. His earliest memories were bits of a dark, ceaseless void, and the voice was there. Speaking such things that made his infant mind tremble. Over the centuries, it dwindled, speaking up less and less. Once the Archon had awakened from his slumber, the voice had become a rare whisper. That it chose now of all times to return meant the Archon was right.

"Something turns Empyrean's wheel," the Archon boomed to himself, his aura flaring.

There was the sound of a startled gasp and the clatter of metal. The Archon looked up to see one of his Arcids collapsed upon the verdant ground. It trembled beneath the golden giant's glare, the silver wisps of its eyes gone wide.

"Number 54773. Report."

As if invisible strings pulled it up, the Arcid snapped to attention. It was more patchwork than some of his better creations, but the Archon had only been able to salvage most of its predecessor, Number 54768. The boy had damaged too much of its false Body. As recompense, the Archon had been able to put more resources in its Mind, and that had proven remarkably effective.

"Master, we have found evidence of one of the Mother's brood," it rasped in a metallic tone, like a file scraped along a tin cylinder.

"Alive?" the Archon sat forward, and he could feel the fires of his eyes burn brighter.

"N-no, Master. Dead for weeks. Killed by the boy, we think."

"Tsk."

"But its Mana signature is unmistakable. There was a...stench in the air, despite its sublimated Body." Number 54773 trembled slightly under the weight of his regard.

"Close?" The Archon had control of only a few dozen square miles of the surface. That area was growing, but not nearly fast enough. "Can I reach it?"

"I-It lies beyond your Domain, closer to the Bitter Sea. We are bringing samples back, but-"

A Harmonic Trace so close, yet so far. "The Waterfall?"

"Nearby, we believe," 54773 replied, puffing out its meager chest. "The Wretches and Reforged are searching as we speak."

The Archon fingered his sharp chin, the tarnished Nymean Bronze scraping against his articulated fingers. "The Envoy was dispatched, yes?"

"Yes, Master. Integrated with the survivors. They'll never sort them out, not until it's too late." 54773's rusted voice bloomed with unmistakable pride.

"Plan for it to happen anyway," the Archon waved the Arcid away. "Humans are wily, despite their weaknesses. Or perhaps because of them."

"Y-yes, Master. Of course."

The Archon turned away, regarding the twisted sigils he had written out. They had already blackened the durable hide upon which they were penned, breaking the powerful skin down under their power.

"Midsummer," he said to himself. The Arcid looked up at him, a question in its gaze. "We have five months."

Then his great work would truly begin.