Those Who Drink the Dark

Power often belongs to the few and the fate of the many are left to the mercy of their design.

"Power belongs to the few and the fate of the many are left to the mercy of their design."

Two days after the burning of Monmonoth.

     Know this, that the Northern Barrier is a vast frozen cordilleran belt crowning the time-worn Languedoc, a continent submerged in the blood of clandestine wars waged amongst the Houses minor and major of the Great Convention.

     A natural bulwark from the invading northmen, barbaric tribes dwelling in the lower snow cap camps sprawled all across the expansive arctic tundra. The Stragoi, Anderetix, the Gerga, and many more fragmented mountaineers fought extensively for resources trapped within the accursed white death.

     Heaven wages war against the great range while ominous storm clouds amass over the perilous mountains and a mysterious fog floods around it's base. Battered ferns sway in protest of the frigid Alpine winds that sheds their snowy coats. The firmament disembowels a heavy downpour besieging a light maneuvering through the wind swept pines. A four horse drawn carriage battles it's way through the snow and the frozen leaves. Fatigued, the dark bay thoroughbreds snort a swirling fog from their nostrils as they drudge the weight of the weary travellers behind them.

     Evanescent moon beams pierce through the weeping sky revealing a manor house nestled upon a lonely escarpment at the end of the winter torn road. Angry billowing clouds hurl lightning bolts that cast dancing shadows along the ancient walls of the Valasko Estate, an old and well established name in the Languedoc. One of the Houses major in the Great Convention, whose lineage dates as far back as the early Warring States Period and wields substantial influence over the affairs of Avalin Fief.

     The impregnable mountain manor appears more an old fortress than a home. Thick and high weathered walls surround the prestigious estate invoking defeat into any who would dare to defy it. Guards pace along the ramparts of the curtain wall whose vigilant eyes peer through chainmail coifs and bassinets. A squall assaults them as if a mountain god exhales a terrible breath but being hardened men they remain unspoilt by it's wrath.

     Square cut terracotta stones cloaked in a thick frost brick the walls of the bailey, where gruesome faces of mocking gargoyles perch. Inside, a queer garden labyrinth grows topiary of mammoth beasts. Shadows convey the illusion that the leafy giants are springing to life by ripping themselves from their roots and roaming about the garden. At the far end of the verdant maze looms rows of macabre tombstones guarding the dark belly of the eldritch cemetery. An ornate mausoleum lined with ionic pillars is wreathed in frozen arbor vitae undisturbed in the night mist. Atop the circular tomb stands an alabaster statue of a woman, her tender limbs in a graceful pose whose hands reach out into the night sky as if to pluck a star from the heavens. Fraught with memories the final milestones of the forgotten sleep in the ambience of the mountain, charged with some terrible purpose.

     At the pinnacle of the tallest tower an elderly man stares wide-eyed through an arched window at the battered mountain pass, hawking the flittering light through the trees with his deep almond eyes and bushy grey arches. His leathery face is pale, riddled with crows feet, aged, and worn. One could number the years in the bags hanging beneath his eyes. He is robed in the white with gold trim frock of a clergyman of the Avalin Church. Regardless of his frail appearance he seems unaffected by the ethereal calamity that ravages the night sky.

     This weather hardly seems of this world. It is as if, the world is changing. My storm is coming and with it my revenge, he resolves and with that thought recollections of his dearest daughter begin to occupy his mind. So potent are the old man's memories that they begin to manifest around him. The light of the fire wanes as the den turns to shadows. He is startled by the somber sound of a woman weeping behind him. His alb° rustles as he turns to find his daughter sitting in the large velvet cushioned Chippendale° chair resting by the fading fire spitting embers within the redstone hearth. Her ghostly eyes release a flood of tears but as he goes to comfort her the salted drops transubstantiate into blood. Raising her head the whole of her bodice becomes translucent as spectral flames rise up and consume her. Fearfully drawing back from the frightful sight the old Archbishop shields his eyes from the phantasmal visage expecting to be set a ablaze but lowering his hands he finds the ghostly apparition has vanished. Hanging his head he whimpers,

     "Elizabet..."

     Distraught he returns to the tall arched window, his wrinkled hands folded behind him as habit forces his frail fingers to rub slowly where he had once worn a band upon his ring finger. His throbbing heart aches with the memory of his wife, who was unable to cope with the loss of their daughter and committed suicide by throwing herself off the very walls that were built by her forbearers to protect her.

     Dear child how you haunt the halls of our bower, lifting his head he eyes the parabolic arches° holding the ceiling of his dark den but finds no support that can lessen the weight of his guilt.

     His line broken and youth spent, he's too old to sire any heirs. Now bereft of spirit he feels vestigial while burdened with some terrible encumbrance.

     "We shall be reunited my dearest daughter and not in death....Elizabet," he utters to his beloved offspring as if her spirit lingers, still caged within a body of flesh and blood.

     Summoning a deep calming breath the old man quells the pain as the dim light of the fire cracks and spits behind him drawing the demons from his thoughts. Gathering his strength he fortifies his faculties by reciting his mantra against fear.

     Preparation my ally in the dark places where thoughts become fears and there soon enslave the minds that birthed them.

     Bolts of lightning jolt him back to the moment and to the now arriving carriage. It passes under the barbican, and circles the frozen fountain, where winged cherubs with outstretched arms hold bowls of cascading ice posing round the statue of his wife, cradling in her arms his darling child. The comforting sight reminds him of kinder times long past. The Lord Archbishop however loathed his halls, haunted with the memories of ruin, of affliction, and sorrow without closure, which struck him with melancholy. The elderly man's almond eyes snap to the door at his side as a servant enters his obfuscous chamber.

     "The study is prepared your Eminence." With a bow he left the way he came.

     Turning his head back to the carriage with assiduous eyes he watches as the cabby drops down from his seat, walks along the carriage, and opens the hatch. He folds it down into a small set of stairs, where a pack of huddled and hooded decrepit old men step out onto the snow covered promenade.

     Again the pieces gather for their placing, all pawns upon the board, loathes the old Archbishop.

     The last appears antithetic from the rest of the herd, tall with pitch black wavy hair. Evening shadows frame his olive skin and eyes like the embers of a dying fire. He stands a distance from the rest, reserved, and regards himself as the black sheep of the herd. With an intrepid stride the prodigal Noble lifts his head, peers up at the far tower and senses avid eyes preying upon him. Mayhap that is why I am still alive. Lowering his gaze he notices the others entering the vestibule and follows with clenched fists, the bleak environ reminding him of the inevitability of his fellow bête noire° collaborators.

     Fools, this pact is an illusion, they still squabble amongst each other for the largest share. At least their forbearers fought for their keep. But none the less we are all victim to this one great cruel reality...

     Taking a deep breath he exhales,

     ...that exploitation is the very definition of power.

     This one revelation gives him pause before he continues his thoughts, they fill their cups with poison and savor it as wine. Damned men we are, of that I am certain. Even I too indulged from the same cup the others partook.

     A spit size necrosis creeps up his throat and quickly pulling a handkerchief from his leather belt he coughs the sanguine clot into the linen. Once he feels some life in him again he wipes the red blot from his lips and conceals the bloodied cloth within his vest pocket. Now into the Wolf's warren.

     The halo of a single candle sputters in the center of a long oak table. It's flame illuminating a series of maps and papers while it's wax weeps down into a puddle until it cools into a red lump upon the white linen cloth strewn across the old oak. Flames flicker as an opening door invites a wandering breeze.

    Elizabet...he ruminates before entering.

     The Lord ArchBishop Vladislas Valasko enters the dark chamber and seats himself at the head of the long wooden table. Slowly resting his elbows upon the creaky wood he leans forward clasping his hands and lowering his weathered eyes he observes his frail fingers drained of their former strength. Age however had taught him that strength is more than the hand that grasps the sword but the mind that wields it. These hands are getting old but there is strength enough in them yet to carry out my final task. The old ArchBishop elevates his eyes and surveys the shadows around the table. Through a towering stained glass window lightning bolts project a direwolf onto the large oak. Valasko turns his attention to the colorful window. Within the beast's jaws is a scroll and dangling keys. A banner beneath reads, "Lupis Ecclesia." The Wolves of the Church. Valasko eyes round the table once more measuring each attendant.

     The man to his left who is standing behind his chair is the Duke Bardoba, the Master of Smugglers. Last to enter the room he abhors the sensation of turning his back on a man. More astute than the rest he stands with advertent eyes silently observing the others before taking his own seat. On the right Baron Grueder's fat cheeks droop out of the shadows of his hood. The old Archbishop loathed him most for he wreaked of the foul decadence of the age.

     They all irradiate this pompous air and I know them well to be lesser men. All but the dark Duke and his wild eyes only calmed by the mind behind them. "Gentleman I apologize for the lateness of the..."

     "Dispense with the pleasantries Valasko. Why are we here at this ungodly hour?" Interrupts the basso voice of the obese baron.

     Sitting back in his antique purple cushioned chair the old Archbishop stares at the man distastefully, I despise his incessant barking. No matter the dog is all bark and has not the teeth to bite. "Of course, our agents in the Dykildre have informed me that the Count DeBauchaus and his family are being held captive in their villa in Millan. We suspect a rogue faction of the Merlincroft." Dropping his hand he points to a location on the map in front of him.

     One of the shadowy despots slams his fist down onto the old oak. "Again this pagan cult glutton with heresy. Has the arm of the Inquiries Office not grown long enough to rid us of these... anarchists?!" He barks.

     The Lord Bartholomew is a man glutton for the worldly goods which only great wealth can offer. Greed is a powerful ally, the Archbishop notes drumming his fingers together.

     "Though they are divided their numbers grow. They're gaining popular support with the common drabble and even among some of the disfranchised knights and nobles," replies Fenrigen, the Londom Parliament collaborator.

     "We sent an agent to inseminate further internal strife but four months time has passed and we've heard nothing. She's either been discovered or has defected. I recommend her immediate termination," cautions Valasko.

     The study grows silent in speculation of this new information. All attending calculate to the best of their capabilities how to gain advantage over the other. The Archbishop sweeps the room again with distaste, blindly climbing the echelons of status, that vaporous strata of stale corruption. My fellow colleagues are merely spokes upon a wheel.

     "I agree," rumbles the obese Baron. "Though the factions have their own separate agendas, this Melphonse Bonaparte seems to possess some hold over the major factions. We have yet to discover the identity of this man. Our spy network casts a great net to find the one they call, the Voice. No one has ever laid eyes upon Melphonse, only the Voice speaks for him. Whispers of his name seem to crop up from taverns and brothels across the Lower Languedoc, but our agents suggest this is in fact propaganda created by Melphonse himself."

     Again silence befalls the council of shadowy despots. The Count Bardoba measures all that was said and formulates his words accordingly, "it cannot be left to Providence no matter how menial the contingencies. New measures must be dictated."

     The others nod their heads silently for they all know well that the dark Duke only spoke when something needed be said, but Bardoba takes no pleasure in knowing that all ears are set to his words. He prefers the whispers in the shadows well hidden from prying eyes.

     "I concur. Such measures should be implemented. What of the College? Has wings carried word to the stench of corrupted bureaucrats?" Cardinal Rishlu asks pompously.

     "The Holy Knights were dispatched earlier this morning to investigate an incident that occurred in Farnith just outside the Thieves Thicket. A disgruntled peasant filed a report with the local constabulary concerning strange activities along the Devil's Fork. No doubt due to its proximity they will try to tie the two incidents together to gain jurisdiction. I've sent the Radiant Cross to recover the Count and his family if possible. They will send a full report when they've retrieved him. The Radiant Cross will resolve the situation before the College can interfere. As suggested we will also implement new measures. We must retain our anonymity. Are there other concerns before we conclude?"

    Rishlu grew uneasy of the ArchBishop's omniscience, it is morbidly formidable that there is no greater host of spies in the realms then the Radiant Cross.

     The clandestine conclave sits silently around the table. Thunder reverberates throughout the room breaking the silence of the hooded conspirators.

     The Duke Bardoba sits perpending while the others stir in their seats. Once a fighting man the Duke apperceived himself to be discordant. The others scheme and plot to endure but he knew the true meaning of survival, having survived the Dashkur fighting pits in the Southerling. He chooses his words wisely and spoke only when all the others have had their say but no one doubted the iron behind them. The dark Duke reminds himself, nothing that escapes the lips of these old misers can be trusted, especially the Wolf. The dark Duke glares with eyes unrevealed at the old Archbishop for he is aware of his scheming. His cargo as of late had been of a peculiar variety. The Wolf has his teeth into something and this doom that looms over him why has it taken hold of me? Is it because he is the Wolf the Dashkur spoke of?

     But the old Archbishop knows well the cunning Master of Smugglers suspicion, for he himself unknown to the Duke had fostered it in him. Like bread crumbs to the trap. All persons attending were merely pawns upon the grand chessboard and the old Archbishop with his hands upon all the pieces.

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Alb: a white vestment worn by clergymen.
Barbican: the outer defense of a castle or walled city, especially a double tower above a gate or drawbridge.
Bête noire: French for black breasted, it's the equivalent of the term cold hearted.
Chippendale: a chair characterized by the use of Gothic motifs, cabriole legs, and massive carvings.
Parabolic arch: a very strong arch shape defined by the intersection of a cone and a plane parallel to the plane tangent of the cone.

Author's Note

Finally nearing my final version of this chapter. Been working hard at being consistent about staying in the same tense and of course structure, grammar, and spelling. Please tell me how I'm doing and how I can improve.

Reviews

[blue cave]

I sure do like this dark manor on the hill...
I may however need some background to understand all these characters...perhaps it will be forthcoming in the next few chapters; and I'm looking forward to the alchemy chapter :)