Armaments - Mindscape II

Standing upon the hill, overseeing his Mindscape, Jakobus narrowed his eyes in tense anticipation for what he would have to do. Decades of work would be risked; his very sanity lay in the balance. Perhaps tonight, he would not return to Aedran. Perhaps he would finally overstep his abilities, cracks and tears slowly laying waste to his very mind. Necessity, he mused, may be the mother of invention, but it is the sister of destruction.

 Spreading his arms, he took to the skies, his form hurtling through the space that existed nowhere but inside his own mind. Beneath him, winding streets carrying shades from one task to another flew past in his vision as the spires of the Library closed in. Since his last visit, the construction of hundreds more gargoyles had commenced – an army of stone monsters stared down on him as he approached the large doors. They swung open with a motion of his hand, the carpets under his feet muffling his footsteps as he passed by row upon row of looming bookshelves. Finally, he reached his destination: the Overseer.

His feet reached the top of the short stairs leading to the platform that supported the long chair on which she lay, and he paused. Pangs of despair flared through his mind as he beheld the beautiful creature. The restraints, chains he had forged out of the blue steel of his resolve, had turned into wicked instruments. Black metal curved into twisted hooks, digging into her flesh, her every motion drawing blood. He took a step forward, and noted how his shoe seemed to stick to the stone of the platform. He looked down, and immediately wished he had not: a pool of her blood slowly soaked into his soles.

As if she were a spider in a web made of her own blood, the creature opened her eyes, dark pits of torment focusing on her master. She moved weakly, instinctively attempting to unfold the wings on her back. The soft rustling of feathers drew his eyes to the movement, forcing him to watch in silent horror as a razor-sharp chain sliced into the thin bone connecting her wing to her shoulder blade. She whimpered,  too weak to bring proper voice to the agony that coursed through her as the amputated wing slowly drifted to the ground. “My darling…” Jakobus gasped, stepping closer to the pathetic creature. His hand found her cheek, a gesture normally met with rage. But no longer – her fighting spirit had waned, she merely nuzzled her cheek against his hand. Seeing the majestic being so defeated, Jakobus curled his lips, attempting to replace his horror with a sense of disgust.

“Bring forth the Ring Leaders onto the square, love” he spoke, his voice cold as ice – it was all he could do to keep concern from slipping into the intonation. Beyond the slightest of nods, there was no response. He had seen this type of acceptance before: a victim brought close to death by torture, having lost all care for earthly matters.

He turned his back, and swiftly walked away. He took in several deep breaths, calming himself. The air he breathed in was thick with the fog of his own thoughts; he used the clarity it provided to pull himself together. Pity must not interfere. He had embarked on this path and now he must follow it to the very end. He took to the air, flying over the metropolis populated by thousands of shades. In the distance lay the Temple, and the Prison; but neither of these were his destination. No, he was headed for the Parade Square, where he landed on the balcony overseeing the magnificent plaza. Banners flew proud, sent in perpetual motion with his every thought. Shades, shaped like dancers in thin, silken dresses, danced atop the walls. He waited patiently, while the Overseer’s commands were carried throughout the city: “Assemble the Ring Leaders! Bring forth the Ring Leaders” sounded a deadened, amplified voice. Runners darted through the streets, delivering their messages to every shade of import.

*****

Slowly, they assembled in the square, unhurried – none could speed up the Ring Leaders; they set the pace. Jakobus’ vision, made perfect in the world of his mind, took in each of the shades’ appearances. Most were merely minor leaders, equipped with whips, leashes or feathers to urge the shades in their service to keep the pace of work up. But some stood out, representing the structures they held command over.

There was the cloaked monstrosity, his wicked form hidden by thick black clothes, leaning against the wall at the opposite end of the square. Under the cloth, Jakobus new, the creature hid a wicked cat-o’-nine-tails, that could grow to any size the Leader wished. The creature had no need for the weapon, beyond using it for his sick pleasure – when Jakobus had created him, he had given him sick claws that spread contagion the very moment it hit the translucent form of any shade. He was the Gaoler, and he was the first to be addressed.

“Gaoler, the Prison has been provided with a rack of spears. Every terror contained by your domain must be armed with a spear. None of your guards may ever leave the Prison again – every door will be sealed shut until I open them. May your guards and you be ever-vigilant” Jakobus commanded, his voice carrying over the square easily. Ring Leaders turned to eachother in astonishment; had they heard correctly? Each knew that unleashing the Nightmares inside the dome of the Prison would be dangerous enough, but providing them with spears sealed the fate of any guardian-shades still within; they would be devoured, and anarchy would come to reign the Prison. The scholar did not disagree with them, although he would never say this: it all fit within the plan: the monsters within would feast on the guardians, strengthening them, but the Dome would hold. There would be sheer anarchy within, ready to be unleashed as a weapon.

Next to be addressed was the seductive creature standing amidst the shades that populated the Temple; each dressed in a silken gown that did little to hide their delicious form, save for the Priestess. She was a creature of careful seduction, of whispered commands that rang louder than any barked order. She looked up at him as he addressed her, her crimson-painted lips formed a smile that made the scholar’s knees go weak: “Priestess, your girls will be provided with daggers, to be worn in sheaths against their thighs. They will spread out over the Temple, and coax each spirit into activity. Let them roam free through your halls, but do not let them escape. Let Hopes, Dreams and Ambitions be weapons, let Lust and Desires be assassins. May your girls stand strong”. More hushed whispers sounded through the crowd – emotions had been ordered disarmed decades ago – many of the shades did not even remember the time when the spirits had roamed free.

Jakobus did not give them time to consult eachother and share opinions, his eyes immediately seeking out the Headmistress – a creature who kept control over the Library’s many servants. She was clad in simple robes, spectacles adorning her nose. “Headmistress, the Library has received a shipment of devices. Send the Librarians out to every book, and connect the covers of each with the strings of a trap.  Let none remain that can be opened by an Invader, let them explode rather than be captured!”

Finally, the scholar sought out the Trapper among the crowd. The shade stood off to the side, hidden in the shadows cast by the tall walls of the parade square. Nets, spears and bolas hung from his belt and back. He had not brought any of his servants; they never rested – for never may a shade, spirit or phantom be left to roam the world freely. “Trapper, your servants will be equipped with bows, and instructed to capture without mercy. We stand under constant threat of attack – we must not allow the enemy to slip by our defenses undetected. Should a target behave in an unfamiliar way, attack without prejudice”. The Trapper merely nodded, accepting the dangerous command without question. Jakobus prayed the shades would do well, and refrain from injuring the loose spirits too wickedly. Like any man, the scholar occasionally fell victim to an escaped emotion, a memory forcing its way out of containment. Until now,  custom was to capture them, to be returned to their domains with as little harm as possible. But now, now they would be hunted – risking the scholar being plunged into a crazed frenzy of emotion should the shades mistake one of his own for an enemy.

Jakobus felt his knees go weak, his eyelids growing heavy. The commotion of the Ring Leaders had taken a toll on him that his battered existence in the real world could barely take. “Dismissed” he managed to command, before taking to the skies.

He groaned as he opened his eyes. Slowly, the empty bag of the IV came in focus – it must have been empty for hours by now. He sat up, his hand going to his throat to take his pulse; a minute passed. It was too slow; the blood in his veins barely circulating. Core body temperature had dropped, his mind made sluggish, every thought coming through a hazy fog. He struggled to his feet, limping to the coat rack. With an exhausted effort, he drew a hooded cloak around his form, and set off to Silvermoon. He hoped Aedran had kept her word – should he find the bed empty, he would find no heat between the sheets. He would drift off, never to wake up. The abyss would finally swallow him whole.