Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

The Mask Comes Off	By : Samson Category: -Misc Video Games/RPGs > Slash/Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 4984 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Kingdoms of Amalur intellectual property, nor am I making any money off of this fanfic. Unauthorized duplication of this work is prohibited.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Warped Mind

The Mask Comes Off
Part III - "Destiny"
By: Jesse Racine AKA Samson
Original Date Written: May 15, 2016

Officer Heschua raised a hand over his shoulder, gesturing forwards twice in rapid succession with a couple quick flicks of his wrist. A stony look on his face, he ordered “First and second teams, search the main floor. Report any findings immediately.” Without a word, a score of Lucan Beaumont’s dispatched forty men entered the front hall of the manor and slowly began spreading out, entering the nearest two rooms on either side of the hall. The commanding officer to Lord Cheshire’s complementary guard detail ordered a few of his soldiers to focus on relighting any candles or wall sconces that they could find in the front hall, allowing four of his twenty men to enter the hall and set about investigating.

Farrah was about to cross the threshold of the front doorway and enter the hall, herself, when one of her family’s soldiers respectfully held his arm out before her, barring her path. With the utmost politeness, the soldier advised “Respectfully, Lady Farrah, you should wait here until it’s easier to see, inside. We don’t know what kind of state the manor is in.” Farrah gave the soldier a sidelong glance, but nodded at his counsel, keeping put by Astraia’s side as the rest of the soldiers waited for Lord Cheshire’s men to bring light into the dark corridors of the main floor. Within a minute, the deed was done, and Officer Heschua was entering the front hall, himself, along with another score of his subordinates, followed closely by Farrah and Astraia.

The renewed candles only further exposed the inhospitable condition of the Novambles Estate. The floor creaked and groaned unsteadily under the weight of all the soldiers’ suits of armour. It appeared as if there might’ve at one time been a pale blue paint covering the walls, but it had largely chipped off, by that point. Dust motes hung in the air to a tremendous degree, while expansive cobwebs filled every available corner to be seen. No furniture was to be found in the barren main hall, leaving the expansive room an oppressive, intimidating cavern. Even the paintings that Farrah could recall once hanging upon the walls had disappeared, and judging by the lack of clear patches in the dust, their removal was not a recent development.

Farrah looked up the nearest set of stairs with a cold dread welling up in her bosom. The second floor, beyond the reach of the candles, was still a black void. On either side of the front hall were a set of stairs that ran up to a secondary, horizontal hallway, which further fed into the second floor of the estate. Farrah looked over into the nearest doorway, to her left. The large room that was once the leisure hall did, at least, have some furniture, although it, too, was smothered by dust. The abandoned couches, chairs, and tables all looked like they hadn’t accommodated a living person in ages. A painter’s easel, canvas, and a couple opened buckets of paint sat near one corner, an eerily forlorn sight that only mounted Farrah’s sense of unease.

In the room to her right, there was the old dining hall, the same place where Sophitia’s birthday party had mainly taken place, all those years ago. The long, rectangular dining table dominated much of the room, surrounded on all sides by tall, finely crafted wooden chairs. Aside from that, however, the rest of the furniture that had once occupied that room had disappeared. Farrah’s eyes were drawn to the tail end of the table, to a chair that had been pulled out. Even in the gloom, she could see the many dark stains of varying sizes in the tablecloth, at that chair’s place. Her eyebrows slowly arched as her eyes eased half-closed, her shoulders slumping as she gave a long sigh through her nose.

Astraia watched Farrah staring, unsure of the significance of the scene before them. Within a few moments, the thumping of one soldier’s sabatons became more distinct than the others, drawing nearer and nearer. Soon, a soldier was walking out from the long, dark hallway in the main hall that stretched out into the distance, opposite the front door and between the two sets of stairs that led to the second floor. He went straight to Officer Heschua and promptly stated “Main floor is clear, sir. There are signs of a struggle in the kitchen, but nobody’s to be seen.” Officer Heschua nodded, ordered the soldier to show him to the scene, and walked off with the man. Instead of following, Farrah turned her eyes back towards the lonely art easel, over in the leisure hall.

Astraia watched her slowly walk off on her own, the giantess cautiously following after her, ensuring the noble was never more than a few paces from a bodyguard. Farrah’s eyes drifted over the art supplies as she drew nearer, although the thick parchment over the easel was turned away from her, preventing her from yet witnessing what the artist had been working on. Still, it was enough for her to see that the trio of paint buckets by the foot of the easel had been left wide open, abandoned to dry out in the air. When Farrah stepped around the easel, she gave a great sigh through her nose, raising one hand to her mouth while the other arm weakly folded across her stomach.

Astraia watched her as her eyes began to visibly unfocus, her eyebrows lightly arching. With a shaky inhale, Farrah eased her hand down from her mouth, crossing her arm over her stomach to join the other. Glancing up at Astraia, she explained in a weak, crushed voice, murmuring “It’s Rupheus...The firstborn of the Novambles clan...” Astraia quietly walked closer until she was standing next to Farrah, giving herself a chance to view the artwork, for herself. The painting, incomplete, nonetheless depicted a young Ljosalfar man, a friendly smile on his face as he gazed out at the viewer of the portrait. His head was slightly turned to the side, preventing the viewer from feeling like he was staring them down, while at the same time giving him an almost playful, impish air.

Although his body was largely incomplete, it was nonetheless simple to make out the snowy white suit he was wearing, contrasted starkly by his black tie. Astraia readily admitted to herself that she might not have known any better, but as far as she was concerned, Rupheus seemed like a rather handsome fellow, assuming this portrait were an accurate depiction, of course. He seemed fit and in shape, his jaw was strong, his snow-white hair had been swept back into a slick pompadour, and his golden eyes were striking, if nothing else. Astraia’s eyes roamed across the painting for a few moments more before Farrah spoke up, drawing the Kollossae’s attention. To her surprise, Farrah’s eyes had started to dew up.

Her voice audibly tightening, she mumbled “I can’t explain...We don’t have the time, just now...But, I...” Astraia slowly reached over, lightly placing her hand on Farrah’s upper back. Her touch seemed to steady the Alfar, who glanced over with a small, appreciative smile, which promptly withered upon turning her eyes back to the portrait. She lightly shook her head, lost in her thoughts. For a moment, she subtly bit at her bottom lip, staring into the portrait’s eyes. With a soft sniffle, she swallowed, relaxing her throat before continuing.

“I-I never knew him well, and yet...I was present when something...Awful happened to him, a-and I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven myself. Just, seeing this portrait half-finished, like this...I don’t know why, but it strikes a chord, with me...” Astraia gave a little nod. Farrah bit at her lip, again. The painting’s incompleteness bothered her more coherently than she cared to explain. It was half a man, just like the shadow of his former self that Rupheus had become, following the tragedy. She couldn’t bring herself to elaborate the whole sad truth, for Astraia. In her own mind, however, it all came rushing back, once more.

That far-off day of Sophitia’s birthday party had been far more eventful than uninteresting festivities and an older boy taking Farrah for a tomgirl. Before she or Rupheus could kiss each other, they had heard the four feet of a wolf racing towards their position, moving in on the prey it had sniffed out. Farrah had barely gasped before Rupheus was hurriedly pushing Farrah down the stairs, yelling for her to run. Neither of them were about to fight off a dire wolf empty-handed, and Rupheus, it seemed, was more concerned with Farrah’s safety than his own. In a quick blurting, he told her to run down into the mausoleum, that there was a passage at the far end that led straight into the estate’s basement.

Farrah, panicking and openly terrified of the idea of descending into the mausoleum, refused for several precious moments. Rupheus couldn’t change her mind before the wolf was rushing out in front of the mausoleum doorway, preventing them from escaping, blocking off the trail between the mausoleum and the Novambles Estate. By that point, Farrah was crying out of fear. She could remember Rupheus turning to face the wolf, muttering something to himself out of terror. The wolf’s fur had been stark white, camouflaging it against the perennially glacial state of Whitedown. The wolf’s black eyes seemed to burn with a raw, unending hatred as it curled it’s lips at them, exposing it’s long, thick, sharp teeth in a threatening growl.

Rupheus had turned back towards Farrah just as the dire wolf approached. Panicking himself, now, he carelessly shoved her down the spiral staircase, throwing her off of her feet so hard that she cracked her head against the wall, collapsing senselessly down a large section of the steps before finally recovering enough to pull herself up to her feet. She remembered looking up, seeing Rupheus’ body struggling against the guardrail of the staircase, shouting and screaming as the wolf stood against him, mauling him. Farrah, overcome with terror, raced down the spiral staircase, descending into darkness as the suffocatingly heavy air of the mausoleum began filling her lungs.

At the time, the situation had seemed incomprehensible. She utterly lost herself to fear. She couldn’t see a thing. All was blackness, and in the darkness, she knew an innumerable amount of corpses lined the walls, watching her, waiting for the dire wolf to make her one of them. All Rupheus had told her was that there was an escape route through the mausoleum, but there seemed to be an infinite number of twists, turns, and branching paths. She screamed for him to tell her where to go, but all he could answer her with were screams, of his own. If she were in a more lucid state of mind, she might’ve been able to think her way through the small maze, but with her head injury, her skull was pounding too hard for coherent thought to be possible.

Blinded by blood and shadow, incapable of knowing where to go, she ultimately went in circles before Rupheus finally managed to knock the wolf away, or, perhaps, vice versa. Farrah never did find out how the escape had occurred, but in the distance, she heard something take a nasty fall down the stairs, and hurriedly made her way back over. If he had gotten away, she’d refuse to leave him behind. It had never been her idea to separate, and if she had a chance to save him in kind, she’d jump at the opportunity. Besides, he was the only one out of the two of them who knew their way through the mausoleum. Unfortunately, her memory of that particular moment was fuzzier than the rest. Perhaps it had been too much for her to cope with, at that age.

She remembered hearing something crawling down the stairs, wheezing. She remembered looking up the center of the spiral staircase, screaming his name as she peered up into the circle of light, so far above. Something was hanging over the guardrail, halfway down the staircase. Something wet hit her face before the body tipped over. She jumped out of the way before Rupheus crashed into her, leaving him little recourse besides slamming straight into the stone floor, over his back. Farrah couldn’t see his injuries in the oppressive black, but after a moment where she distinctly recalled nearly breaking down and screaming, she knew she pulled him up to his feet, supporting him as best she could.

She had begged him to show her the way, to lead them both to safety. She promised him he’d be okay, that they’d get to help in time. At the time, she never noticed how much of his blood had already soaked her clothing. He never spoke, he only gurgled and wheezed as he led the way, pulling Farrah towards the correct turns and paths. The passageway ended at a secret door, a bookshelf that Farrah was forced to knock over by throwing their combined body weight against. Rupheus collapsed, unable to continue standing or walking, even with her support. Farrah, soaked in red and begging for help, raced upstairs into the estate’s first floor, interrupting the party with a bloodcurdling scream.

The aftermath was a haze. She couldn’t remember many of the details, but the general events were still there, in her memory. Some events, she only learned of after the fact. Rupheus’ life was saved, but had been irreversibly changed. The dire wolf’s mauling had left him scarred, disfigured, and mentally scattered. His fall down the stairs had left him partially paralyzed, leaving him unable to care for himself. The healers who had tended to him were convinced that Farrah had to have carried him through the mausoleum, herself, but Farrah was certain of otherwise. No longer was Rupheus a handsome young man, proud and the pride of his clan, firstborn and a strong heir to the family’s fortune. The tragedy had reduced him to a husk, a recluse for his own and his family’s sakes.

He never made another public appearance after that, whether by his own or his clan’s choice, and public gatherings at the Novambles Estate promptly ceased, shortly thereafter. The Novambles clan never did seem to recover. It always seemed clear to Farrah that they felt haunted by gossip as well as unsolicited pity, that they felt like they could never escape the tragedy of that day. No doubt the grief was harsh on both sides of the family: Rupheus, for feeling like a burden whose very crippled existence had tarnished his family’s image, and the rest of the Novambles clan, for perhaps a variety of reasons.

Farrah had tried to tell her family what had happened, and that it was nobody’s fault. Much later on, she had learned through Sophitia that Rupheus had actually attempted to do the same, with his own clan. However, with Rupheus’s charming appearance forever mangled and Farrah’s life having been endangered, both clans were too angry to listen to reason, and their grief craved a patsy to blame for the tragedy, particularly the good Lord Novambles, who was beside himself with rage at what had happened to his heir. However, with the children failing to blame each other and with no clear culprit besides a nameless wolf, there was nobody for either clan to direct their rage at, forcing them to blame their own children for foolishly leaving the party, in the first place.

Farrah knew that, behind closed doors, some members of either clan blamed the other family, but nothing ever came of it. Relations between the Beaumonts and Novambles never recovered, however - they remained civil, yet very distant and aloof. Lucan Beaumont and Pann Novambles were never again seen speaking with one another, at public events. With the patriarchs failing to socialize, much of the rest of either family followed suit. Farrah, however, maintained an acquaintanceship with Sophitia, who at one point related the story that Rupheus had never been the same, following the tragedy. His disfigurement had made him withdraw, emotionally. Nothing anyone ever did seemed capable of helping him move on. Inside and out, he had been broken.

Slowly, over the years, the family’s public appearances became sporadic. Whenever Farrah would see the good Lord and Lady Novambles, she’d keep her distance out of her own sense of grief and guilt. After her involvement in what had happened, she couldn’t bear to face them. Their sense of malaise, that gnawing sorrow that they could never seem to shake, might’ve overwhelmed her, had she tried to finally air the condolences she had never quite gotten around to offering. Farrah could never bear the thought of making a personal visit to the Novambles Estate, either, to see how Rupheus was doing, or to thank him for very likely saving her life. If not for his selfless, heroic act, she could very well have found herself in his position, if not worse.

That was the state of things for nearly three decades to come. The daughter, Sophitia, ceased making public appearances, a few months before the present day. The second son and youngest child, Herakles, was soon to follow. Lady Novambles disappeared from public life, shortly after. According to that weasel, Tavin Cheshire, even Lord Novambles, himself, had now withdrawn from society, and with his family’s entire staff dismissed, that left his clan secluded in the middle of nowhere, isolated from the outside world. Farrah, brought back to reality by the sounds of marching soldiers, sniffled, cleared her throat, and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. By now, her mascara must’ve been a mess. She hadn’t faced even a shadow of the tragedy that had befallen Rupheus, but for her to maintain her vow of avoiding the Novambles Estate for twenty-six years, clearly, she hadn’t walked away from that day unscathed.

Farrah, finally coming to grips with her emotions, spoke with convincing decisiveness, declaring “I, um...I can tell that this painting is how Rupheus would’ve looked, by now. He’s around my age, after all. I’m no master artist, but...I can’t let this sit here, forever. It isn’t right, abandoning this. It deserves to be finished.” Astraia said nothing, quietly watching the other woman as she let her hand slowly fall from her back. Farrah cleared her throat, her eyes dropping to a thick, black paintbrush, sticking up from a wooden jar attached to the front of the easel. Reaching down, she gently took the brush in her hands, raising it up for a better look. In a more quiet murmur, she added “He deserved better...This painting deserves better. It isn’t right, leaving it here. I can’t just leave it, someone needs to finish it...”

Farrah gave a shaky sigh. Still holding up the paintbrush, she took a few steps off to the side, bringing it closer to a nearby bundle of candles. In her absentminded and distracted condition, it was her hope that the paintbrush might bear the initials of the owner, giving her some idea of who the painter had been. Instead, what she saw confused her, slowly focusing her mental faculties back into their ordinary sharpness. The bristles of the brush were wet. So much so, in fact, that white droplets of paint had fallen off of it, landing on the inside of her wrist. The implications took her a few moments to comprehend. “Astraia?” Farrah asked, still staring at the brush.

The giantess lightly raised an eyebrow, glancing at a nearby trio of Beaumont soldiers as they approached before looking over at Farrah. Instead of explaining, Farrah turned around, walked back over the easel, bent over, and grabbed one of the opened paint buckets. Brow furrowing in realization, she nonetheless gave the bucket a light shake, watching the milky contents shift and swirl. Her jaw visibly tightened as she placed the bucket back down upon the floor. One of the soldiers ventured to ask for the Lady by name, but Farrah, dropping the brush back down into the wooden jar it had originally been resting within, instead looked over at Astraia.

Expression resolute, she muttered “I had thought the paint had dried out. It hasn’t. It’s still wet, which means this painting is still fresh. Someone does still live here. Someone might’ve even been working on it, just before we opened the front doors.” Astraia’s eyes hardened, and she gave a nod. Farrah turned her eyes to the trio of soldiers, who were all glancing at each other at the theory. If someone was still in the estate, hiding, then they’d need to keep on their guard, even if the main floor appeared to be clear. One of them, however, mentioned to Farrah that Officer Heschua was hoping to see her in the kitchen quarters. She nodded and began to leave, but ordered one of the soldiers to take the painting and bring it out to her carriage. Her handmaiden, Alvina, would know where to stow it.

When Farrah and Astraia entered the kitchen area a few moments later, they found it to be in a surprisingly hectic mess. “Signs of a struggle,” it seemed, had been a polite understatement. The kitchen, a rather large chamber, was a freezing mess. The walls, floor, and ceiling, all crafted of the same stone as the estate exterior, were covered over in frost in wide swaths, here and there. Counters lined the perimeter of the room, while two long, rectangular counters stretched across the center of the room, offering extra preparatory space to the now-absent culinary staff. The varying and copious amount of kitchen tools, ranging from knives and bowls to ladles and wire whisks, had been scattered about the various countertops as well as the floor, and a small pile of unwashed silverware had been left piled up, next to a large cast iron oven, built into the wall.

The tables stretching across the center of the kitchen were covered in refuse and spoiled food, which the cold had thankfully prevented from smelling too rancid. A door on the left hand side of the room, thick and sealed, likely led down into the larder, while a second door, near the corner on the far side, clearly led to the exterior grounds. The door, which had been secured with numerous rather large, thick deadbolts, nonetheless looked like someone, or something, had attempted to bash it down from the outside. The locks had held firm, yet the body of the door near the top had been bent and cracked inwards, and the hinges looked like they had nearly broken off of the very wall, itself. The broken seal at the top of the door meant that nothing prevented the outside wind and chill from blasting into the kitchen, which mattered not at all to the many Ljosalfar present, but to Astraia, the added cold was shiver-inducing.

To make matters worse, one of the windows over the counters had been partially broken, as if a small object had been thrown through the glass, providing an additional channel for the wind to cascade in through. It was a sad state of affairs, if nothing else. Why the Novambles clan hadn’t contracted any masons to repair the structural damage, Farrah couldn’t guess. Surely, this wasn’t such a recent development? Officer Heschua, standing on the far side of the room’s center tables, close to the damaged rear door, looked over when he heard the good lady enter the kitchen, raising a hand in hail. Gesturing for her to come closer with a little wave of his hand, he said “Lady Farrah, come over here and lay your eyes upon this. Whatever happened here might be more complicated than we first imagined.”

The soldiers stepped aside and made way for the noble as Farrah walked over, Astraia tailing close behind her. Once Farrah had stepped around the second lengthy counter in the center of the room, she immediately spotted what had drawn Heschua’s attention. It was difficult to miss, after all, a fairly sizeable bloodstain on the floor, especially one that the cold had kept reasonably fresh and sticky. Farrah’s brow immediately furrowed. Astraia’s jaw tightened. Officer Heschua, a grim look on his face, momentarily pointed down at the blood and said “There’s no telling how old it is, who it belonged to, or what caused it. My men and I have not uncovered any weapon that we can say was used, with certainty. There are all sorts of sharp cooking implements all over this place, but none that are bloodstained.”

Astraia slowly looked around at the floor, surrounding the puddle. Looking down at her own feet, then behind herself, she commented “I can’t help but notice that there isn’t a blood trail leading elsewhere. Has anyone else noticed that?” Officer Heschua turned his eyes to Astraia as he wordlessly nodded, while Farrah, too, looked down, noticing the lack of smears now that Astraia had pointed it out. Astraia, one eyebrow rising in curiosity, added “It’s strange. Either the person who was injured managed to leave the room without spilling another drop, or a body was removed without any mess. That bloodstain isn’t exactly small, however...It couldn’t have been a superficial wound. Whoever leaked that much blood must’ve been grievously injured.”

“There’s also no spray or spatter on anything nearby,” Heschua further pointed out, gesturing at the fronts of the nearby counters. His armour audibly shifted as he squatted down, peering more closely at the wood of the counters. A little more absentmindedly, he remarked “If something had fallen, here, and had been stabbed, for example...Surely, some small mess could be seen on surrounding objects. Yet, the blood is contained to this puddle, and I don’t imagine any cleaning was done to minimize the mess. Could’ve been a particularly blood foodstuff, I suppose...” Farrah subtly crushed her lips together in dread, then looked up at Officer Heschua and said “We may have a problem, officer. Keep your men on high alert. I have good reason to believe someone’s present and avoiding us, in this estate.”

Heschua quickly stood back up and looked around at his present soldiers, nodding at them before ordering one of them to spread the alert. Looking back at Farrah, he asked “What appears to be the issue, my lady?” Farrah held her hands together in front of herself, folding them together over her stomach, a move which unintentionally compressed her massive breasts together, a little, between her arms. She explained in a firm voice, almost muttering as she said “There’s an art easel in the lounge, which has a half-finished portrait of one of the clan. The paint buckets are open and still fresh, and the paint on the brush is still wet, as well. Someone was using it, very recently.”

Heschua’s brow furrowed deep. Immediately, he was ordering his men back out to the entry hall, in order to prepare to search the second floor of the mansion. Farrah and Astraia both did not hesitate to follow him. They kept their distance as the soldiers ascended, climbing the staircases to the second level of the Novambles Estate, spreading out as they checked room after room. Waiting near the peak of the staircases, Astraia glanced at Farrah and quietly confided “I can’t, for the life of me, fathom why I would be called to come here...What am I meant to do, here? To think, my pilgrimage would bring me somewhere such as this...Am I late? Did the gods intend for me to prevent this sorry state of affairs?”

Farrah almost didn’t answer, but eventually murmured back “Surely, there is a reason you were guided here. Let us wait until there’s a sign as to the whereabouts of the family, before we draw too many conclusions.” Astraia looked down at the colossally busty Ljosalfar, quietly asking “This tragedy that you mentioned, in the family...Did you have any idea that the grief could be this bad?” “This bad?” Farrah repeated, lightly arching her eyebrows. Staring off into the distance, she lightly shook her head. “...No. Nothing I saw would suggest this.” Astraia gave a faint sigh, through her nose. When Farrah felt the other woman’s hand come to her back, again, she offered a smile at the comforting gesture, but couldn’t maintain it.

It took several minutes, but finally, Officer Heschua returned to the duo and informed them that the sweep of the second floor had been completed, but had turned up nothing of particular or immediate note. The two of them should be safe to walk about, if they so desired. Farrah needed a few moments to steel herself before going through with the suggestion. With Astraia in tow, she began her own investigation, room by room. Walking past numerous soldiers throughout the hallways, she stepped in through doorway after doorway, witnessing the state of each bedchamber. Unlike many noble clans, it appeared as if the family’s hired help were allowed to keep their chambers on the same floor as the master family. Fortunately, most of the bedchambers were in much better shape than the first floor.

The first dozen or so bedrooms that Farrah investigated all looked as if someone were still occupying them. Their good state combined with their relatively low-quality furnishings, and Farrah had to assume that these had all been the bedchambers of the clan’s hired help. It was curious to note the discrepancy in the conditions of the main floor and these bedchambers. One would almost think that, for years ongoing, the Novambles clan had actually prevented the hired help from performing upkeep on the estate. For what reason, Farrah couldn’t imagine, especially considering the hired help had all been ejected from the estate grounds only after all this time, presumably with great abruptness.

Finally, Farrah stepped into a room that immediately took her aback. Unlike the others, this one had fallen into such disrepair that a large portion of the floor had actually collapsed inwards. Like the main floor, everything in this particular room was covered over in a thin layer of dust, while cobwebs filled every corner; little souvenirs left behind by the previous occupants, now little more than sad eyesores. This room, she could tell, must’ve belonged to one of the noble family. The higher quality furnishings gave it away, among them a beautiful rug that covered much of the center flooring, a fancy thing notably absent from every other room Farrah had checked, thus far.

The children’s toys were a particularly depressing sight. Unless the Lord and Lady had conceived an unannounced fourth child during their withdrawal from Whitedown society, this room could only have belonged to the second son, Herakles. Against the far wall, just beneath a wide window, there was a chest, a bit of blue cloth protruding from one corner. A small wooden horse sat overtop the chest, along with a porcelain doll fashioned in the unmistakable image of the Great General Tilera, the Ljosalfar whose sacrifice during the Siege of Mel Senshir had proved instrumental in affording the Siege Breaker a chance to slay the nigh-invincible Balor, Greater Niskaru behemoth of the Tuatha armies.

Farrah slowly stepped deeper into the room, looking around at the horrid condition of the child’s room. The bed was neat and kept, yet flat, unused, covered in dust. The floor, too, was covered in dust, betraying that nobody had even so much as walked across the floor in who knew how long. The dread that had been accumulating in Farrah’s bosom finally turned her stomach as cold as ice as she carefully looked over into the hole in the floorboards, threatening to consume nearly an entire quarter of the bedroom’s landscape. Her brow furrowed in confusion at the black pit she witnessed, the hole being too dark to make out where it led. It couldn’t have led to the first floor, otherwise she would’ve seen some sort of flooring, let alone candlelight. Instead, the hole simply seemed to fall off, forever.

Her heart rate slowly escalating, Farrah, on a whim, hurried over to the nearby armoire. Without hesitation, she pulled the armoire open, eyes shifting around at the contents. There they were: piles of expensive children’s clothes, all neatly stacked atop one another, made of exquisite silks and fabrics in bright colours. Farrah’s teeth went on edge as she slowly shut the armoire, then turned around to face Astraia, still standing in the doorway. Farrah, lost for a few seconds in thought, finally stated “...Something’s deathly wrong, here. This must be the youngest child’s room, Herakles was his name. All of his clothes are still here. Where is he? How could his bedchambers have been allowed to fall into this state? I don’t understand why a mother and father could...”

Farrah blinked, trailing off as her eyes sharpened. Making for the door, she remarked “Rupheus’ chambers, as well as the master bedroom. We must check those two. If anyone knew what the cause of all this was, it’d either be Rupheus, or the Lord and Lady of the household.” Astraia gave a wordless nod, stepping out of the way of the doorway, allowing Farrah to hurry outside. Farrah’s eyes followed the walls until she came to the next doorway. Peering inside showed nothing promising: Sophitia’s room, perhaps. It, too, was in the same poor state as Herakles’, sans the gaping hole in the floor.

The next door, she noticed, was still shut tight. Farrah’s expression chilling to an icy stare, she grabbed the doorknob and tried to shove the door open. Instead, it banged against the lock on the other side, refusing to budge even an inch. Farrah grit her teeth. She was on to something. Loudly, she called Heschua’s name. As Astraia approached, Farrah banged the palm of her hand against the door, clearly frustrated as she pleaded “Rupheus, are you in there? Can you hear me? This is Farrah! I was the Beaumont child, do you remember? I know we haven’t seen each other in years, but if...”

She paused, and when she spoke again, her tone relaxed. A little more slowly now, she continued, calling “...If you can hear me, if you can understand me, please, open the door! We’re worried about you and your family! If anyone’s hurt, we can help you!” Astraia noticed the soldiers slowly approach from Farrah’s far side, drawn by their lady’s despairing voice. She looked over her shoulder as more soldiers approached from her own rear, curious as to the development. One soldier stepped forward from Farrah’s side and apologized, quickly explaining “Apologies, my lady, we hadn’t yet knocked that door down. W-We passed over it while we were clearing the floor, we thought it best to leave it and save time until all the more easily-accessible rooms had been checked-”

“Officer Heschua!” Farrah called again, turning her head, looking out past the heads of her father’s soldiers. Astraia quickly began to walk over, answering the call, herself. Gently, she said “Here, Farrah, allow me. It shouldn’t be a problem.” Farrah, breathing a little heavily by that point, immediately nodded and stepped away from the door, allowing the giantess ample space to do whatever it was that she planned to do. Astraia first grasped the door handle, then squatted down, a little. She stretched out a leg behind herself and, in one brief, abrupt jerk, thrust her torso forward straight into the door, bashing into the door near a corner furthest from the hinges.

The overwhelming force of her body ramming against one of the door’s weaker spots was too much for the wood to resist, yet the locks held strong. Astraia smashed that corner of the door inwards so far that the entire thing rattled against the doorframe, while the wood audibly creaked against whatever mechanism was keeping it in place. She gave the door a second shoulder bash, which managed to separate the edge of the door from the doorframe, allowing white light to pour in around the perimeter. Finally, a savage knee to the door, just under the handle, sent it cascading inwards, all while barely holding onto the hinges, allowing Astraia to tumble inwards, alongside it.

Farrah immediately saw the dark figure past Astraia’s side, but it took her a moment to consciously register it as a person. Astraia, meanwhile, was quick to notice the black silhouette against the bright white backdrop of the opened window, her brow promptly furrowing as her teeth went on edge. Farrah hurriedly blurted out “We’re not alone! Stop them!” The soldiers to Farrah’s sides sprang into actions, barrelling over towards the doorway, trying their best to pile in around Astraia. Astraia’s relative size compared to the architecture meant that bashing open the door had sent her toppling over from her squat to her hands and knees, but she was quick to rise back up to a knee, hands darting for her weapons.

The figure moved fast, like some frenetic shadow, darting away from the unexpectedly large opponent to come crashing into the bedroom. The figure nimbly hopped backwards until they were squatting over the open windowsill, one arm dropping low between their spread knees to grip the edge of the sill. “Halt!” Astraia roared, making Farrah flinch with the unexpected ferocity in her voice. The soldiers already in the room drew their swords, unsheathing them with intimidating “shicks.” Against the sunlight, which was only intensified by the pure white snow outside, the figure was unrecognizable as they leapt backwards out through the window, propelling themselves into open space.

In that instant, Astraia and the shadow both swung out an arm in each other’s direction, throwing each other a parting gift. The figure’s small dagger bit deep into Astraia’s cuirass near the top of her right breast, catching her in the soft space between her shoulder and pectoral, just below one of her collar bones. In exchange, Astraia threw out an astounding weapon that Farrah had never even so much as heard of, before. The two metal rings that Astraia had always kept at her hips had, at first, seemed decorative, to Farrah. Now, she knew their true purpose: warfare.

The chakram whipped through the air towards the figure with a blood-chilling, high-pitched whirring, and, seemingly by magic, flew in a straight line towards the figure, rotating so quickly that it was a blur. The figure dropped before the spinning blade could lop off their head, and Farrah watched, astounded, as the chakram slowed to a quick stop in the open air, seemingly of it’s own volition, and came whipping back towards Astraia. As the Kollossae caught her weapon, seemingly without injury, some of the soldiers in the room hurried to the window, while the others piled back out of the bedroom, aiming to exit the estate and give chase. As she stood back up, Astraia replaced her chakram in the clasp at her hip, grabbed the dagger embedded into her chest, pulled it out, and quietly began eying it, noting the sleek craftsmanship.

Officer Heschua finally came marching up the hall to Farrah’s left, loudly asking “What’s going on, here? What happened? Report!” Farrah looked over to answer, but a soldier by the window beat her to it, still staring outside as he yelled “Hostile unit, sir! Some kind of rogue, wearing black!” “Male, female? Human, Alfar?” Heschua snapped back, marching into the bedroom. The soldier sounded rather clearly uncertain. “...I can’t say, sir! It looked female, slender like an Alfar, as well, but it had a human skin tone! The glare from the sunlight was too strong to be certain!” Heschua barged his way up to the window, pulling the sceptre from his hip.

Holding the small weapon out through the open window, he fired a few magical bolts at the enigmatic figure, but they were fleeing too quickly into the snowy wasteland for him to keep up with, and soon, they were beyond his range. Restraining his frustration, he waited several moments for his soldiers to emerge from around the estate, attempting to give chase. He roared for them to pull back, then turned around and faced Astraia, his eyes then quickly shifting to his lady, Farrah. She slowly walked into the room, her slippers lightly clicking against the wooden floor as she looked around. By the gods...This had been Rupheus’ room, hadn’t it?

It was so much tidier than the other rooms, as if so much more care had been taken in ensuring the occupant’s comfort. The floor and furniture had actually been swept, ensuring a lack of dust. Not a cobweb was in sight, and the walls even had paintings adorning them, each depicting a family portrait of the Novambles clan from years past. Farrah’s bosom swelled as she drew in a long, deep breath, silently easing it back out as her eyes wandered about the portraits. Finally, her eyes settled on a desk towards her right, in the nearest corner. Unlike the rest of the room, the desk was a mess, with various pieces of parchment, both rolled and unrolled, scattered about, most of which had fallen to the floor. The drawers in the desk had been pulled right out of their slots, but inside, Farrah could only see more pieces of parchment.

When her eyes turned to the bed at the far left, she was lost for several agonizing moments. The large canopy surrounding the bed had been drawn tight, yet through the translucent black silk, Farrah could see that the sheets were a tangled mess, speckled with numerous dark stains. To the left of the bed, positioned near the foot of it, was a bedpan, evidently freshly washed. To the right of the bed, on the far side from Farrah, she could make out the shape of a wheelchair, awaiting it’s absent owner. Her eyes had already begun to glisten by the time they rose to the perimeter of the canopy. Her mouth slightly ajar, she quietly remarked “By Lyria...What in heaven’s name are those things?”

Astraia and Heschua both looked over. Heschua’s brow twitched downwards, at the sight. In regular intervals of mere inches apart, some sort of primitive charms had been sewn into the fabric of the canopy, surrounding the perimeter of the bed. Farrah lightly raised an eyebrow, walking closer to the bed to get a better look. Not as quietly this time, she mumbled “Are these...Bones?” Astraia’s jaw tightened as she stepped closer, herself, the mysterious assailant’s dagger still cradled in her fingers. True enough, the charms appeared to be fashioned from the small bones of animals, along with the feathers and severed feet of multiple different types of birds.

Bits of rags, once soaked in blood, now dried into stiffening, accompanied the bones. Perhaps, most curiously, were the tiny thread nets suspending Embereye seeds, the diminutive red shards vividly standing out against the black canopy. “I’ve seen these before, in the Teeth of Naros,” Astraia calmly stated. “They’re charms, the kind used in dark practices. See the bird’s feet, and the dried blood? I believe the concept is that sacrifices going into the ritual will lead to more agreeable outcomes, but I couldn’t tell you, for certain.” Astraia reached out and delicately touched one of the charm braids, lifting it a little closer towards herself for a better look.

Arching an eyebrow high, she added “Whatever purpose these were meant to fulfill, they haven’t been given a magical charge, yet. It’s just as well, for us. The remaining Marauders in the Teeth of Naros usually use these things to call upon nasty curses, or even chaos magic. I can’t imagine what their purpose would be, in a place such as this.” Farrah blinked the moisture out of her eyes, lips subtly shifting around as she tried her best to cope with the development. After a few seconds of trying to keep her thoughts to herself, however, she came out and commented “...Whatever was happening here, I’m sure it wasn’t Rupheus’ idea. He deserved better than what he received.”

Astraia and Heschua both turned their heads to look at her. Unlike Heschua, Astraia wore her sympathy on her sleeve, giving the noble Alfar a soft look. Taking in a slightly strained breath, Farrah barely shook her head, voice quiet and soft as she added “Besides, I have it on good authority that, following Lord Rupheus’ decline in health, he lost some of his focus, his...His mental clarity. I don’t believe he’d be capable of the state of mind necessary for, f-for...Chaos magic, or anything of the sort.” Astraia gave a wordless nod, whereas Heschua maintained the stern look on his face. In a relatively placating tone of voice, he answered “You may be right, my lady, but we’ll need to keep all possibilities open, for the time being. As it stands, Lord Rupheus Novambles is just as absent as the rest of his clan.”

“Once we return to Castle Beaumont, I’ll inform your father of the woman my men saw, and I’m sure he’ll authorize the organization of search parties to scour Whitedown. Until then, we can at least search the master bedroom for any further sign of the Novambles clan. I don’t believe it was locked.” Farrah, a fair bit more composed by that point, gave a resolute nod. As she and Astraia made for the bedroom door, however, Heschua instead opted to approach the ravaged desk, commenting “Feel free to go on without me, my lady. My men, and madam Astraia, no doubt, will keep watch over you. I’m a little curious about these papers, here. Call it paranoia, but I can’t help feeling like our mysterious friend must’ve been the one rummaging around, in here. Maybe something here might explain her involvement, in this. Of course, she might’ve just been looking for something valuable she thought was hidden in the papers, but I can’t very well overlook the possibility.”

Farrah nodded, politely answering “Very well, First Officer,” before exiting the room, Astraia remaining nearby. Once they were outside, Farrah looked up at Astraia, concern clear on her face as she softly asked “Are you alright, my dear? You aren’t hurt, are you? Did the dagger get through your armour?” Astraia nodded, smiling appreciatively at Farrah’s thoughtfulness. “It did, but I’m quite alright, Farrah. It’s a rather superficial wound. Thank you for your concern, however, I very much appreciate it. It’s fortunate that I was between you and that brigand, this knife would’ve done much worse to someone smaller than I.” Offering her hand, she opened her fingers and exposed the black dagger, adding “I don’t recognize the craftsmanship...This is a new one, to me. Do you know of it?”

Farrah’s brow lightly furrowed in curiosity. A pair of soldiers parted in the hallway, giving the two of them room to pass between them on their way to the master bedroom. Farrah reached over and took the dagger from Astraia’s hand, loosely holding it by the handle as she idly commented “No, I don’t recognize this kind of make...This isn’t the usual sort you see, in the Faelands. I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but in my own personal research, I’ve found that most weaponsmiths in the Faelands follow a rather standard pattern for shapes. I don’t imagine that there are very many public smiths who’ll experiment to this extent, in their free time, and come up with this kind of cruel design, not without a wealthy client specifying it...”

Farrah and Astraia stopped before the next open doorway, allowing Farrah a chance to better examine the dagger. The blade of the dagger was straight and smoothly crafted, formed of some black, obsidian-like metal, dull and lustreless. On either of the dagger’s two edges, small serrated barbs jutted outwards, their purpose clear and heartless: upon penetration, should the victim attempt to remove the dagger, the barbs would grind the flesh inside as well as rip at the edges of the wound, widening and worsening the injury for greater amounts of blood loss. The heft of the dagger was clearly leaning towards the wide blade, with the handle much lighter than the dense metal of the tip, allowing for an easier time hitting a target blade-first. The dagger didn’t possess a hilt to protect one’s hand, further hammering home the fact that this was a ranged weapon.

Farrah’s eyes narrowed, a touch. Open suspicion entered her tone as she added “Perhaps our friend might’ve given us a clue as to her origins, or at least where she’s being outfitted with weaponry. It’s not precisely a revelation, but it could lead us on the right track, if nothing else does.” Looking back up at Astraia, she handed her back the dagger, explaining her thoughts. “If we can find someone who can recognize the sort of make of that dagger, or even identify the smith responsible, we can at least discover where that rogue hails from.” Astraia nodded in agreement, slipping the dagger into the waistband of her hosen, keeping it secure against the outside-flank of her right thigh.

Finally, Farrah turned to look into the master bedroom, cautiously stepping across the threshold of the doorway. Her stomach began twisting into a light knot as the took in the perfect state of the room, just as cared-for and immaculate as Rupheus’ own bedchambers. Astraia stepped in behind her, briefly bowing her head low to make it in through the doorway. Farrah slowly looked left and right, starting with the expansive bed towards her lefthand side, positioned up against the wall. Unlike Rupheus’ bed, the bed of the Lord and Lady of the estate lacked a canopy, and as well, the sheets were made and neatly positioned. On the far wall, a wide window could be seen, largely covered over in black curtains which successfully muffled most of the sunlight beyond.

The standard furnishings of dressers and armoires could be seen, as well as a vanity table for Lady Novambles to tend to her beauty needs. There was a door in the far right wall, which likely led to a walk-in closet, and a desk much like Rupheus’ in the near right corner, just to Farrah’s side. When Farrah’s eyes began drifting across the multiple portraits lining the walls, her teeth lightly grit against one another, tightening her jaw. Drawing in a faint breath, she gave a quick exhale, then thought aloud, remarking “Well, I suppose we now know who was tending to that portrait, downstairs.”

Astraia raised an eyebrow and slowly looked around, checking the multiple paintings. Some of the portraits, older ones, depicted the entire Novambles clan, showing the Lord, Lady, and their three children. Others, however, were visibly newer, and depicted only a single individual: the same man from the incomplete portrait that Farrah had confiscated. With side-by-side comparisons, Astraia could now see what Farrah had meant. The newer portraits did, indeed, seem to depict an older version of the eldest child in the family portraits, the older of the two male children and heir apparent to the Novambles seat of power.

Farrah’s mouth was hanging open, a crack, as her eyes shifted from portrait to portrait. Finally, after several long moments in silence, she looked over her shoulder, checking to see if any of her father’s knights were keeping watch. A collection of them were waiting just beyond the doorway, and Farrah was quick to say “One of you, please, pass on this message to First Officer Heschua: we must keep an eye out for Lord Pann Novambles, as well as Lady Yennefer Novambles. We now have reason to believe one of them may be present on the estate grounds, hiding themself away from us.”

One of the soldiers gave a curt nod, a smart turn, and hurried off down the hall. Farrah briefly looked up into Astraia’s eyes as she walked past her, absentmindedly heading for the nearby desk. “Astraia, I think my assumption about the possible cause of this ordeal was correct. You see...” Farrah paused to take a breath, steadying herself. Raising her eyebrows, she stood before the desk, easing open drawers before rifling through the contents. Speaking a little quickly, clearly uncomfortable with discussing the topic aloud, she explained “When I was a child, I came here for a birthday party dedicated to the family’s daughter, Sophitia. That’s when I met Rupheus. It was the first and only time I’ve ever seen him, face-to-face.”

“During the party, Rupheus and I went outside to be alone, and we were attacked by a wolf. Rupheus saved my life, but he ended up suffering, for it. The attack left him...Mentally scattered, and physically infirm. I was told, much later on, that he...He had never recovered. I could never face the family, ever again. I vowed never to return here...Not even to apologize to Rupheus, or thank him for saving me.” Farrah swallowed hard, trying to ease her tightening throat. Astraia’s expression went a little lost. Quietly, she answered “Oh...I see...I’m very sorry, Farrah...You have my sympathies, as does House Novambles. That must not have been an easy event to move on, from. I...Wouldn’t have expected that.”

Farrah raised her eyebrows, tossing her giantess friend a glance from over her shoulder before looking back at the contents of the drawer she had opened. More casually, she replied “Thank you, my dear, but the point I was making was that I still suspect a mental decline, brought on by grief, be the likely culprit behind any erratic behaviour of the Lord or Lady. For the family heir to be reduced to such a state...It couldn’t have been an easy development to accept, especially for his blessed mother and father. I would hardly blame them for never recovering...But, the magic charms around Rupheus’ bed, the state of this estate, the dismissal of the work staff, and the blood downstairs, I just don’t understand. Where’s the rhyme or reason? There must be something we’re missing, something that might explain how things reached this point...”

Astraia crossed her arms over her chest, idly turning her eyes towards the other door in the room, the one Farrah had suspected led to a walk-in closet. Farrah, meanwhile, went through folded bits of paper and stationary. Many were letters, received from friends in other noble families, or acquaintances from beyond the duchy of Whitedown. Some were expenses or records of otherwise important purchases, held on to for safe keeping. One drawer held a jewellery box, while another contained miscellaneous postage tools, including numerous envelopes, stacks of blank stationary, inkwells, quills, and a few small candles meant specifically for producing hot, fresh wax in order to seal the envelopes, with.

Finally, Farrah pulled open a narrow drawer towards the right side of the desk. A small black book, leatherbound and sealed with a bit of twine, slid across the floor of the otherwise barren drawer, excluding a sceptre crafted of ivory wood. Farrah’s brow lightly sank at the sight of the unadorned, untitled book, slightly curved with age. Out of suspicion, she reached in and grabbed it, laying it over the desk before setting about undoing the twine fastening sealing the book shut. Astraia, by that point, had walked over to the other door and pulled it open, silently noting how all of the contents of the closet were dresses. Not only had Farrah’s assumption been correct, but it further suggested that Lady Novambles hadn’t left, at least, not by choice. What well-heeled lady of wealth would leave behind an expensive collection such as this?

Farrah blinked with interest. The book had a title, after all. On the leaflet just inside the leather front, someone had written in cursive “Private thoughts and musings - Pann Novambles, patriarch to House Novambles.” Farrah immediately sat herself down in the desk’s accompanying chair, flipping to the first page. Within moments, she was thumbing through page after page, skimming the contents of each one, looking for key phrases or any sort of degradation in writing quality that might’ve suggested a parallel with the fall of the estate. Swiftly, she stopped herself; Lord Novambles had dated the entries. Her lips drew tight against one another. She knew the precise day to properly begin, with. She skipped ahead numerous pages, eyes watching the dates until that fateful birthday appeared.

“Page 51. 12th of Autumn’s Hymn. This day has shook my house to the foundations. Sophitia’s ninth birthday was completely overshadowed by the attack on Rupheus. Thank Lyria that Johan Maddsen was present, he immediately tended to Rupheus and may very well have saved his life. I will never be able to repay him. Remember to send him a batch of Icebrine Brandy, tomorrow. However, in spite of his aid, it is agonizingly clear to see that my son will never be the same. He will never grow into the man I had hoped for. He can no longer walk. He barely speaks. When he does, he does so slowly, uncertainly.

Johan took me aside and informed me that this apparent wolf attacker bit down on Rupheus’ head so firmly that it broke parts of his skull, pushing bits of bone into his gray matter. My son is brain damaged! My heir has lost his wits! Why, Lyria? Why in heaven’s name would you do this, to us? What did he ever do to deserve this? What did I ever do to deserve this? What fate is this, when my son would be better off dead? Why was it him, and not the Beaumont child? We’ve always been a pious family. Why would the goddess of Fate orchestrate this upon us? There’s no damned point in writing this, but my prayers have gone unanswered. At least writing affords me the chance to drink in peace. Yennefer is wailing, downstairs. I can’t bear the thought of facing her, after this.”

Farrah had to stop, for a moment. She tried to blink the sting out of her eyes, but it went unabated. The entry ended on a hopeful note, but considering the current state of affairs in the mansion, it had to have been dashed away, in the end.

“There is still hope. Things can still get better. This doesn’t have to be the end of my son’s life. We will help him as best we can. I can’t give up on my own son. Surely, there is at least one healer in the world who can at least undo my son’s paralysis. If that, at least, were fixed, we could at least salvage our public image with Whitedown and the rest of the noble families, and buy him his life, back. Losing his wits is another thing. With enough attentive aides and wise counsellors, that could be hidden. He would be known as a somewhat simple patriarch with implicit trust in his advisors, but at least he wouldn’t be seen as feebleminded. I just have to find a powerful enough healer. Rathir, maybe?”

“Page 52. 23rd of Winter’s Rejoice. I have spent the last three months, as well as nearly the entire estate’s gods-damned fortune, searching far and wide across Amalur for a healer. There is none. Some things, they say, cannot be fixed. Rupheus’ mind cannot be restored because his brain has been harmed, and the brain, they say, cannot be repaired. Rupheus’ mobility can never be returned to him because his spine had been cracked, and the spine, they also say, cannot be rejuvenated. Some things, they tell me, are only in the hands of the gods. It was the goddess of Fate who brought us to this point, to begin with. We cannot hope that She’ll turn the other cheek and show us mercy, now.

This couldn’t be the end of it, I thought. Old fool. I went to a Fateweaver. I asked him if Rupheus would ever recover. He told me, no. Rupheus would remain in his state until the Tuatha Deohn marched through the Faelands, into Whitedown, and murdered him, still lying infirm in his bed. The rest of Amalur would likely follow. There is no hope. At least we’ll all die together, as a family. We needn’t hide him, for long.”

“Farrah, is there anything interesting, in there?” Astraia innocently asked, unable to see the mascara prominently streaked across the noblewoman’s cheeks. Farrah managed to keep her voice from quavering as she answered. “I, um...I’m not quite sure, yet. Give me another few minutes, please...Feel free to continue searching, if you wish.” Astraia nodded, but didn’t depart, quietly watching Farrah from her spot by the closet door. Farrah turned the page, and found the next entry undated.

“Page 53. It’s been multiple years since I last touched this journal. I should’ve burned it. If I’m reading this in the future, and you don’t remember why you continued - it’s because there wasn’t a reason, not because your memory has been faltering. I suppose I’m tired of speaking my thoughts into my bottles. Nothing mattered, for the longest time. Rupheus’ life had been ruined. If he and that disgusting, reprehensible brat from the Beaumonts hadn’t left the estate during Sophitia’s birthday party, none of this would’ve happened. Belen take Farrah Beaumont to the coldest grave in Whitedown, and her father, too, if he won’t see how his “daughter” is to blame for what happened to my own flesh and blood.

We were all supposed to die. The Fateweaver told me it would be so. It was cold comfort, that the goddess of Fate had harmed Rupheus in such a way, only to finally end his suffering by having us all die, together, when the Tuatha invaded Whitedown. It was better than forcing us to watch my son for the rest of our lives, the way he is now. Instead...They say that the Tuatha have been defeated, that their king, Gadlow, was slain in Alabastra. How can this be? It sounded like they were destined to be victorious, to sweep across Amalur. Instead, they’ve been defeated? I don’t understand how this is possible. They were fated to kill all of us. They can’t do that, now, if they’ve been defeated and slain to a man. Did Lyria change Her mind on their fate? How incredibly fickle. She’d allow them to be defeated simply to spite me, now that I’ve gotten used to the idea of dying in my home, with my family. How very fickle, indeed.”

Farrah sniffled, wiping at her cheeks as best she could as she struggled to get herself more under control. She turned the page, following the increasingly unsteady, hasty scrawls.

“Page 54. Just out of curiosity, I went to a Fateweaver, again. It made sense, to me. If destiny had been unwrought for the Tuatha, then that meant everyone whose destiny was to be slain by them had had their futures altered, as well. I asked him to tell me my son’s future, and he told me that he couldn’t. I almost struck him down where he stood. Glad I didn’t. He explained. Ever since Gadflow had been slain in Alabastra, Fateweavers have found it impossible to see peoples’ spots in the Weave of Fate. Nobody knew what it meant. Either all Fateweavers had spontaneously lost their ability to see the paths into the future, or...The Tapestry of Fate had been undone, entirely. It’s unthinkable. What does this mean? That nobody is bound to destiny, anymore? Was this Lyria’s plan, all along?...What does this mean?”

Farrah’s brow furrowed in curiosity. Had Fateweavers lost the ability to peer into the future? Why hadn’t she heard of this, before? Granted, there were never any resident Fateweavers at Castle Beaumont, but regardless, she would think that a development of that magnitude would all the same reach her ears as court gossip. The next entry had been written in a hard hand, with numerous ink splotches visible around letters that Pann Novambles had evidently paused upon to think.

“Page 55. Healers still cannot aid my son. But, it is not his destiny to remain this way, anymore. Nobody has a destiny, at all. People can make their own fate. It’s a new age, in Amalur. The age we became free from the designs of Lyria, and were able to shape our own futures. Rupheus has a chance, now, but healers are impotent. Mages are my next best guess, but the Scholia Arcana were just as useless as the healers. Hidden under their grandiose rhetoric was a simpleminded belief that nothing could be done, just like all the healers had said, that Rupheus’ mind and body were simply untreatable. I beg to differ. Nothing is set in stone, anymore.”

Farrah immediately noticed that the numbering on the next page was two off, and closer inspection revealed the torn border of a missing page between the two facing her. For whatever reason, Pann Novambles must have ripped out a page and done away with it. Still, Farrah continued to read the next entry.

“Page 57. I finally got around to opening it. The tome I discovered in the family’s mausoleum, all those years ago, has shown me that magic is the way. Magic can restore him. I always knew it. I was always right. My extrapolations, however, suggest there would be costs. I don’t know what those accursed sorcerers had been planning on doing down there, but I’m glad we managed to slay them before they destroyed this book, as well. If only we had been quicker! The secrets in those other tomes are lost forever, now! Who knows how they might have helped!

This one, at least, has shown me a way to finally heal my son: the magic they refer to as “chaos,” the power of Niskaru. It, unlike ordinary magic, can so easily alter the mind and body. If I can at least cure my son’s paralysis, the house will be saved. He cannot be my heir, in this state. He should not be forced to suffer through the rest of his life, in his condition. He told me the other day that he was sorry. I couldn’t bear to look at anyone for the rest of the day. He knows we’re suffering, too. He thinks he’s a burden. I can fix this.

The Bassawin woman was wrong. I don’t believe a word she said. The tome says I was right. If she comes around here again, she’ll make for the first offering.”

Farrah’s eyes widened. The next two pages were written in a language she had never before seen in her life, some kind of wavy, flowing script. It was utterly incomprehensible - either a sad indicator of Pann’s mental health, or some sort of cipher to protect his writings. Quickly, she stood up from her chair, snapping the journal shut. Partially turning around, eyes hard, she hurriedly said “Astraia, it’s the father, Lord Pann! He’s using chaos magic to try and heal Rupheus! We have to ge-”

Farrah was cut off by a sudden, intense rumbling sound, followed by a harsh, unsteady vibration in the floor. The soldiers by the doorway shouted in alarm, leaning hard against the walls to try and steady themselves. Farrah, eyes wide, held her arms out by her sides to try and balance herself, but ended up grabbing at the desk and sitting herself back down in the desk’s chair. Astraia managed to keep her balance for several moments by leaning into the vibrations, but eventually, she was forced to drop to a knee. The rumbling in the floor quickly hiked up in intensity until the floorboards began to perceptibly shift and, without warning, ear-splitting cracks tore into Farrah’s head as the wooden floor began rupturing apart.

She looked over and called Astraia’s name. The giantess’ eyes widened as the floor gave way beneath her in a wide swath, the woman barely grabbing on to the edge of the pit to catch herself. A second later, the bit of flooring she had grabbed snapped off, sending her down into the darkness. “Lady Farrah!” One of the soldiers shouted, trying his best to rush into the room towards her without losing his balance. Farrah stood back up and tried to walk towards him, but then the world was pulled out from under her, dropping off beneath her feet.

With a gasp, she plummeted through the floor. Dust filled her lungs, wooden debris crashed into her body from all sides, and the sudden stop at the bottom knocked her insensate. The rumbling ceased soon after, and the soldier who had tried to pull her out of the master bedroom stood at the edge of the pit in the floorboards, trying to peer down into the darkness. How far that pit went was anybody’s guess. He shouted Farrah’s name, but no answer came.

(Author's Note - Hey guys, sorry I’m late with this chapterD:! I hope it was enjoyable and dramatic enough to make up for the extra wait, though:)! So, in this chapter, Farrah, Astraia, and their large guard detail enter the Novambles Estate, investigating bizarre behaviour from the socially-withdrawn noble family. Instead of finding the family, they find an all but empty mansion, a mysterious and hostile figure who makes a hasty escape, and a damning journal from the patriarch of the family who details his decision to resort to chaos magic in attempt to resuscitate his son, Rupheus. According to Pann Novambles, nobody has a fate, anymore - this supports his decision of thinking that chaos magic, the volatile power of Niskaru, should be able to succeed where all healers and magi have failed him.

Farrah, who clearly feels a great deal of guilt over the condition of Rupheus’ life, is emotionally moved all throughout the investigation, and Astraia can only offer silent sympathy. Although the mansion appears to be empty and the majority of it has fallen into disrepair with neglect, it is clear that at least one person has been occupying the estate in recent days. When the chapter closes, some sort of earthquake, or perhaps a shudder from a building ready to collapse in on itself, causes Farrah and Astraia to plummet through the floor, disappearing into the darkness far below. Where have they gone:o? Where is the Novambles family, for that matter? The next chapter will return us to Leah, Kelly, and Miriam, and continue their part of the journey as they prepare for the possible return of Leah’s intelligent Crudok, and the roving, berserk Brownies stalking the countryside:).

Hope you had fun reading, I’ll see you in the next one:)!)
- 11
- 12
- 13
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Mask Comes Off