Chapter 128 - Realization, SC

LONG NOTE/ CHAPTER BELOW: As I mentioned in the TFF chapter, I’m flying home today after a pretty busy period at work and will try to go back to a more regular posting schedule and catch up. I’ve noticed some mistakes like the fact that I’ve used Trust and Truth interchangeably as the name (?) of the weird mage/undead. I don’t know when this started, or how the wires got crossed in my brain... Trust will remain the one going forward, and I’ll be editing everything when I find the time.

I also have some issues with the way the story reached this point, but if I do major edits or pauses I'll warn ahead of time. For now, I'll try to find the time to make better outlines, see what content could eventually be cut/reworked, and so on. The chapters between the latest events and the vampire conflict are the ones I'm not very happy about. I started a lot of story threads, and I feel like I suffered from fomo and was unable to drop some things that needed dropping, which just detracted from the main story. In short, I dragged things out unnecessarily long, and coupled with my exhaustion, getting sick, and family issues, writing hasn't been going that well.

I'll figure it all out, and keep you up to speed even if you don't want me to.
Sorry for forcing you to come to my TED talk. Love you all.

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Sunday waited for a few moments, thinking over what had transpired. The feeling of being thrown about the universe like a rag doll had left him almost numb. He wasn’t even sure whether what had just transpired was real or just a vision. It had felt real enough, and the message was quite clear, at least to him—to use his talent to sow chaos. Small acts that grew into bigger events.

How though?

It was like forcing a blind man to judge paintings or guide the strokes of the artist. He was not a political genius nor a mastermind. He was a street urchin, a survivor obviously thrown in too deep waters. To figure it all out, to play everyone like Chaos itself, whether it was a being or a force of nature, was playing him seemed like a pipe dream.

Most of all, he lacked information. What he had heard and seen had enough information to make him put pieces together, but to reach those people? Worse of all, they were now aware of him and his interference. The biggest result of all of the steps he had taken had been that the target on his back had only grown.

Figures I can’t trust this. What is there to chaos but nonsense and even more chaos?

The stone landscape surrounding him became blurry once again, and Sunday tensed as he was pulled out of his worries. What was it this time? He doubted the golden page was anything but what it was seen to be—a means of getting vague knowledge about himself.

Then, was it Fable’s Strength—the one talent that didn’t seem to need any sort of transformation or understanding—or the Yew Tree’s Blessing?

His musings were answered as he found himself in a graveyard. Not buzzing nor the world falling apart into grainy bits and pieces. One moment he was on the square, and the next before the majestic tree. It was a grand tree. Many times greater than he remembered it, casting its mighty shadow upon the forgotten graves around it. It was many times grander than the image in his soul space.

Divinity is lost to the world, but you’ve been granted the means to take it. Even more so, you have a gift others lack. Where poison can be taken and made into medicine, some produce their own poison, and their own medicine.

Through the help of the ancient Yew Tree, know the power of eternity. Life and death are one, and you wield them so. Know thy soul. Know the truth of what is truly divine and transcendent.

Sunday walked carefully forward, almost expecting to be thrown into the void of the night sky. Nothing of the sort happened. The narrator's words seemed to guide him this time around. To offer an explanation. For once he didn’t find them that confusing. The tree had helped him a lot. It had helped him with essence, and it had also helped him absorb the strange energy of the descended Divine, turning it into fuel for his talents.

Was that divinity? Was he using the power of actual gods? And more importantly…

His hand touched the trunk of the tree and almost instantly he felt a spark being born in his soul space. It was like observing it through a dirty glass, as he could not sense much of it at all since coming to this city. But now he knew it was happening.

“Thank you,” Sunday said, for once being sincere.

This was the least he could do. The tree was anything but simple, and it was not like Chaos who had no respect nor consideration for Sunday’s autonomy, nor like the strange young master. The tree was something else. In fact, all three were different beings, with different goals and wants.

Before Sunday could ask anything the city shook, and he was falling once again.

He started, rising into a sitting position. A dark room that was mostly barebones, with few sets of clothes thrown about without care. A simple bag. He was not in his room in the tavern but in the caves beneath. He could recognize the veins of Mesmer Steel running through the stone walls. Mera’s abode. A safe place as any, though with the constant influx of strange people knowing him and wanting him, safety was perhaps not in the cards.

There was a shadowy figure in the corner, holding a book. Sunday’s undead eyes focused and peeked through the blank darkness. There was no light around them. He saw the set of eyes staring toward him, but for some reason couldn’t quite see them. He knew they were there. What did they look like though? And was anyone there at all?

“You’re being very creepy,” he said, shrugging off the strange feeling.

“Well pardon me, but whatever Nysandra says, I try to do. Don’t want to get tortured like that old fool of a lich, do I?” a male voice replied.

Sunday frowned. He had thought this was Nysandra but this was not her voice. The figure rose and stepped forward, suddenly announcing its presence.

“My name, dear Sunday, is Vesper Orier Soruna. I shan’t bore you with titles nor achievements, but just know that I hold you into the greatest of esteems, and you’re safe in my company. I’m not like that barbaric—” the vampire paused and seemed to rethink his words. “—that strong and scary, but very beautiful dark lady that brought you here.”

Sunday smiled. “She’s strong and scary indeed.”

What’s a vampire doing here? One of the Baron’s own? No. If he’s with Nysandra then the Baron is perhaps not worth the consideration anymore.

“The worst of them all,” the vampire mumbled. “Now! We have a lot of work to do. Undead don’t sleep regularly, but I understand your case is special. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear there was life in you. Not particularly tantalizing one, but life nonetheless.”

Sunday remained silent. He could feel the change. The tree in his soul space and the spark slowly growing there. It was but a speck of dust in front of the ocean of essence he had, but it was so powerful. So irresistible.

The Key of Divinity he held also wanted it and tried to draw it in, but this time around the yew tree didn’t allow for such transgressions. Good. Sunday had been afraid of being drained dry by the man-made spell. He didn’t know how much energy it needed, but it was not an amount he could simply give.

With a thought, a bunch of moths appeared in the room, and the vampire clapped his hands.

“How beautiful!”

Sunday smiled at the odd reaction as they flew toward his hand, and the essence sank deep into skin and bone. He waited for the process of the slow regeneration to begin. It wouldn’t be a simple affair, but he had seen the extent of the spell’s effect. He had seen what it had done for Jishu or those living in Blumwin’s abandoned districts. There was little it couldn’t heal, although outright regrowing a limb was among the tougher challenges.

Seconds passed, then a minute. He felt the essence but the process didn’t seem to begin. The vampire was looming over him. He smelled of some sort of expensive perfume, which made it feel like spring had come. A coppery note was underneath it all, promising violence and blood.

“How strange,” the vampire said. “Your wound feels wrong.”

“It does? You can feel essence?”

“When one lives as long and grows as tall in society as me, one gets all sorts of advantages. Don’t judge me because I live on blood and cannot cast spells, Sunday. I know quite a bit. What you have is a wound touched by a divine itself, which is remarkable, but also why simple spells won’t be able to restore your hand.”

They won’t?! Dread and terror were the least of it, but before Sunday could allow the turbulent emotions to explode a hand clapped his shoulder. “Don’t overthink it. There are many types of spells out there, and if simple death essence is not enough, I’m sure another spell would do great. I took the liberty to peruse the ones you’ve collected. That pretty lady—great ass by the way—was kind enough to open the underground of this inn for us. You’ve done well in our absence.”

Is he talking about Riya or Mera?”

As if having read his thoughts the vampire lowered himself and winked. “Worry not young one. I won’t steal your prey… unless you’re fine with sharing?”

“I… I think I’m good.” What the fuck was he on about?

“Ah, the closemindedness of youth. This too shall pass, worry not.”

Sunday ignored the implication of the vampire’s words. “What do you mean you’ve seen my spells? What do you know of spells? Not to be rude or anything… who even are you and how do you know of me?”

The vampire seemed more delighted with each question Sunday let out. Like a child given an opportunity to show their newfound trick.

“Let’s go through it all one by one. First of all, I read a lot in between bouts in the sheets. The years are long and even carnal pleasure becomes boring at times.  Not to me, of course, but to my partners—that’s why I have plenty. The wonders of marriage are a topic we’ll speak of on the road, perhaps. Anyway, I know quite a bit, and that bastard with the twisted beard is quite adept at disseminating his knowledge, even if he’s just an old human. I’ve perused his collection quite a bit as a means to protect myself against hostile magi, and I’ve got to say what you have here is a decent haul. The Deep Root in particular can serve you quite well with this issue you have. Or perhaps Flowing Flesh. Practical application of spells is not my strong suit, you understand. I know of their names and some uses.

Deep Root? I’ve no such spell.

“As for who we are… Nysandra might get angry if I say too much. She has a peculiar way of wanting things to happen, and I’m not looking to get my ass kicked. Let’s just say that we’ve expected you’re the arrival of your kind for hundreds of years, and so have others. Some friends, some foes. For some reason, you got lost during transit. Peculiar things, those prophecies.”

A welcoming committee just for me? Why did Chaos throw me off course though? Does that make them dangerous, or was it just so I can come to this place… to meet people? Mera? Or perhaps for this spell, I hold… If that’s the case then the forces behind my talents are even more terrifying than I thought.

The vampire seemed to observe him with great interest, which made Sunday quite uncomfortable. He felt like an open book before the strange being.

“What about Trust—that mage Nysandra tortured?” He should know a thing or two, the bastard.

Sunday was still unclear what the guy’s issue was, or how he was involved in this weird mess. As far as he was concerned nothing made sense.

“Don’t worry. All the prisoners are secured,” the vampire gave a vicious smile. “You’ll be surprised at the things we’ve gathered while making our way here.”

Sounds ominous. All right then. Sunday nodded, then without much thought summoned the golden page. He knew things were a bit different now, but he didn’t know how much. The first page he willed to open was the talents one, as the changes there were bound to be the greatest.

Talents

Yew Tree’s Favor (Growth) – Take from the fallen, and purify what has been tainted. Refine poison into medicine and ward off the toxins of the mind. Gather the scattered essences of the Gods of old, and nurture them, until all blooms anew. Only then you shall take your rightful place.

Sunday’s eyes widened and he ignored the curious vampire. It was confirmation of what he already knew, but even so, the words echoed with a strange meaning. For a moment a thought crossed his mind and made his body stiffen, and his missing arm became just an annoyance that could be ignored.

It was so preposterous, insane, and somewhat narcissistic that his mind reeled from it. And yet… it made some sense. His gifts. The words of the narrator. The strange benefactors and why everyone was paying attention to him. They knew he was special, but did they know the full extent of it? Did the vampire next to him try to befriend him just because of that?

Am I being brought up to replace the Divine?