[Flashback] Worlds beyond these (Fallacy)

[Wrenmae]

Spring 37, 507 AV

"We stand on different precipices, staring into abysses too large for our minds to comprehend. Sometimes they are our own lives, sometimes the lives of others, more oft than not we decide to step away from these shadowy unknowns. We cannot bring ourselves to be cast into that most potent darkness, to hope beyond wonder that the bottom will meet us gently, that we will be the better for it. I have lived my life in the pursuit of knowledge, stories, purpose. We all tread those paths but I do so on a narrower ledge than others. I have the past to think of, the family I abandoned to Vayt and the curse he has left me with. Now I bleed his poison, and I have no means of stopping it. Do I dash my body against the stones? Do I rid the world of my corruptive influence? I find myself at a crossroads, always staring over these ledges and considering the drop. One day I may do so.

But death is too simple. Death is too permanent. I achieve nothing.

I will jump one of these days, but I will not hit the ground.

I will fly."

-Wrenmae Sek

Finishing the last symbol, Wrenmae laid the page out to dry. He sat on the edge of a roof now, the fading of twilight taking the streets and shifting the shadows like water. He loved the starlight up here, the fresh air, the birds that flew so free of woes and worry. Lifting his arms, Wrenmae imagined what it would be like to follow them, to spread his wings and leap from here...begone from here. Opening his arms he pulled, tugged at the tiny trickle of Djed in his arms. Feathers sprung against his skin, pushing out and together in black lustrous formations. Tearing hi shirt from his back he stood at the precipice and held out his arms, covered in the tiny and soon full length feathers that swaddled his shoulders and hands. The wind rushed by him, Zulrav's breath, the freedom of the sky and sea and earth. But he was bound here, letting his arms drop and shift back to skin once more, feathers to skin and skin just skin again.

It did not good to wish, to hope, and to fear. He had to grasp his own will and take flight with it. He had to for those he'd left behind.

Of course, it wasn't literal flight he was thinking of.

The thought and wind tipped him forward, a sudden miscalculation of balance and he was falling. Grasping out wildly, swallowing his panic in a startled yelp, Wrenmae landed on a tarp over a closed store and tore through it, hitting the side of a cart with a thump and rolling sideways. Unable to stop, agonizing pain, he bounced down the stairs...a staircase he'd never given though to before. It was a tumbling journey, ending in a resounding stop at the foot of the stairs. The darkness was nearly absolute, save for torches glowing ahead, set intermittantly on the walls. They guttered, greeting the new arrival.

Wrenmae groaned, blood seeping from a gash on his forehead. His arm felt twisted, but he staggered to his feet.

What was this place?

Buildings crowded each other in close proximity, creating choked alleyways devoid of life. It was quiet here, deadly silent, and the storyteller almost ran back up the stairs. But curiosity drew him onward, caught his chin by a smoky hand and led him into the Undercity of Alvadas. This place...it exuded mystery, story...

He could not bring himself to leave.

Not without knowing.

But the farther he went, the more turns he took, the less sure he was that he had stepped in here at all, that he had fallen.

There was no way back.

Only forward...and the alleys ever twisted, ever wound, ever drew forward.

[Fallacy]

The twisting and turning of the streets below was like a maze to the storyteller. A left then a right and then another passageway to follow forward, right, left, and even let then a right. The directions and paths that he took seemed like he was almost being led to a location, a certain point of the city. If that was the case perhaps the undercity of Alvadas had a little more mystery than what first meets the eye. Though if one remembers the golden rule in Alvadas they really shouldn’t be surprised anymore: Everything can be seen and anything can happen, that is, of course, if one knows how to look at something in just the right way. Anything is possible. ”Anything is possible and everything is permitted.” The man lost in the maze of alleys would hear a voice come from behind him. Where did it come from? Was it addressing him? A quick look around and he would see that he was no longer in the alleyways, and the red moon of the underground would give the now open area a redish shine to it. When did this happen? Well it was just another wonder of Alvadas. Now Wrenmae would find himself in an open area, building surrounding them, a crossroads of sorts, with alleys leading in for separate directions, one of which he just emerged from. In the center of the crossroads however would be a curious sight a grey substance, surrounded by a circle of glyphs, a closer examination would reveal the stuff be of sand like quality. Though if the attention would be of the voice which sounded behind him, the man would quickly walk from behind the lad and to the edge of the circle, ”That is the rule of the Underground. This city is a fickle one.” he told him paying more attention to the sands than to Wrenmae. A hand reached out and into the circle to grab a handful of sand. Brining the hand up the man let the sand slip through his fingers, falling back into place before turning his hand over and letting the rest of it turn to the Strands. The man wore a green cloak and had a beard, a short beard, brown hair, well-trimmed. Hair slicked back, and possessing emerald eyes his stare was almost overwhelming. The rest of his body was hidden well by the green cloak, which possessed gold trimming. Overall he looked rich and like someone who could take care of himself. Perhaps even in his late 30’s but well-aged. The tone of his voice seemed kind, but also had an edge of self-interest. ”Name is Armond.” he introduced himself, ”Armond Major.” he smiled at him, ”It looks like you have had a fall.” he told him with a knowing glance. Had the man seen his fall? Perhaps he was the owner of the stall he fell onto? Any matter he knew, and the most disturbing thing was that Wrenmae didn’t know exactly how long he was being followed. ”The underground is mysterious. You must have fallen down here for a reason.” He said, ”Oh yes, and in doing so you have made quite a mess for me. No matter, things can be fixed.” he said waving a dismissing hand, ”And in time all can be forgiven.” He said hinting at something, but exactly what… Well that would be left to debate, ”This.” he looked at the grey sands again, ”this place is called the Strands. I have lost much to this place.” he said, ”If you were to, say, help me find what I’ve lost in this place I can forgive you for wreaking my cart when you fell? Sounds fair, yes?” Armond left it at that, just a simple offer.

[Wrenmae]

The people in Alvadas, especially natives, had the most unsettling habit of appearing behind him at innopportune moments. After such a labynth, traversed in silence, Wrenmae leaped into the air and pivoted on his left foot, overbalancing and falling sideways onto the pavement. Armond regarded him without moving, almost curiously, like a bird examining some shiny bauble.

Wrenmae staggered to his feet as the man finished speaking, looking him over as though trying to see through him. Illusions were common, sure, but illusions that spoke? The circle of sand stared at him, not so large as to invite suspicion, but the glyphs around it and the nature of they grey sand itself was distinctly unsettling.

Distinctly.

His back still hurt, the bruises from his plummet still fresh. Agony spurned his indecision, thinking harder in the wake of such a request. Cart...cart...of course, the one he'd broken. The stall...or whatever.

What had he called this place? The Underground? Certainly existed beneath the city, that much was certain, but it had a name as well? The windows yawned at him like soundless mouths, all clammoring for his attention. Besides Major, there was no sign of life at all, no hiss of breath or murmur of voice. The both of them were along beside the sand.

And this man had lost something inside.

Wrenmae knew better than to run. He didn't know the area, definitely knew it less than the stranger. Besides, he was practically limping already. He was caught, incidentally not for a crime he perpetrated on purpose, but a crime all the same.

"I'm sorry," he offered, wincing as he felt the ridge of his back, "Have you ever just wanted to fly?" He regretted saying it immediately, shrugging it aside and laughing to ease the silence between them, "Look, ok, I'm sorry for wrecking your stuff, but I don't know the..err...Underground very well so you might have better help having someone else look."

Major looked at the sand, then back to Wrenmae briefly and the boy suddenly seemed to understand. "Ooooh! You lost something in there? I could...err, I could look through that, sure! Just tell me what you lost and whereabouts and I'll dig through this stuff to find it...I mean, so long as there isn't anything dangerous about it." He indicated the glyphs around it, "Kinda jumpy around mysterious magic."

[Fallacy]

Armond smiled at the mans answer, "Thank you" he said before turning to the little plot of sand again, pointing to the middle of it, "If lost it in the center of that place." he said, the center of course want in arms reach, the man would have to actually step into the small and unassuming plot of sand to reach the center. "Find it and Ill live up to my part of the bargain." he stated. He waved a dismissing hand at the inquiry of mysterious magic, "Magic? Oh no." he reassured the storyteller, "Nothing dangerous about."] he shook his head as if to reaffirm his message. As he looked at the sands there was a look of mourning, the feeling of pain and loss was there augmented by something else, was that a tinge of worry? Whatever the case was he would wait for Wernmae to approach the sands to dig to find the object. When the man got close enough Armond would step back behind him and in one quick push shoved the storyteller into the Strands. The scene quickly changed all around him, Wernmae would see the sands stretch before him and color sink out of the world as he crossed the runic barrier. If he fell, stumbled, or otherwise a harsh wind would blow kicking sand up brushing tiny pieces of rock against the face of the man, they burned with a sheer cold, colder than snow and ice. Behind him would be a solid door frame with a plain looking white door hinged on it while around him was the vast emptiness of the strands. The doorknob would wiggle a little before it opened itself and in stepped Armond, closing the door behind him, the portal to the world of color, "Welcome" he said, "to the Strands." he said the vast colorless desert was before them and the man held out his hand to Wernmae, "We did have a deal right?" he asked wanting, waiting for the other to shake the extended hand.

[Wrenmae]

The transition from the world around him to the Strands was sudden and jarring. Shaking him out of his comfort, Wrenmae smashed into the grey sands and slid into a small dune, coming up sputtering. The little rocks bit and cut along his skin, embedding in cheeks and irritating his eyes. Raking his fingers through his hair, almost violently slashing the sand from his face, he looked back wildly for Armond, the man who pushed him. Only a door and the endless sands greeted him, an impossible distance around him with nothing but...nothing. Just the door and him. And the sand. Armond stepped through neatly, stepping gingerly on the uneven ground before offering a hand to the storyteller. Wrenmae looked up at him, something akin to terror flickering in the back of his gaze. Gingerly he offered his hand to the man, letting himself be pulled to his feet. "The...Strands?" he asked, quietly, "Where did...Where did Alvadas go? Did we shrink? What happened?" The timbre of his voice rose with the panic fluttering around his ribcage. All of him wanted to run, to escape this place and its unnatural vastness. But his feet remained rooted. Maybe not...all of him wanted to leave after all. The infinity of it all pressed in around him, the grey sands sifting over his feet. How was this possible? How could anything like this exist? "How on earth am I going to find your ring in all of this?"

[Fallacy]

The dull and vast emptiness was alarming for most, but not to Armond, no. It seemed the fellow was used to this place, or as used to it as a person could get. Helping the man up, when Wernmae accepted the help and was pulled to his feet something strange happened the vast emptiness which was before him suddenly wasnt so empty, no, slowly ruins began appearing buildings of old looking as ancient as the night sky, towers, and the slight outline of a wall was present. All of it slowly fading into existence. "We shouldnt question the ways of Alvadas." he said, "We are still in Alvadas, everything here is a part of the city." he tried to explain, "Or so Im told. Alvadas is just beyond that door." he pointed to the door through which he just entered, "That is the only way out of this place." more and more building, ruins covered in sand kept on appearing, even the fain outlines of people and things. The colorless sands produced colorless buildings and in it lived the colorless people, the Strains. Armond laughed at the last comment made, "Boy, you sure do like to assume things." he said, "Who ever said anything about finding a ring?" he walked, biding the man to follow him, "We are here to rescue my master." he said simply walking at a brisk pace the strands sands not seeming to affect him at all. With that Wrenmae could have got himself into something a little more than he could handle. The strands were mysterious and it wasnt mortal magic, no, but the divine magic which could be found throughout all of Alvadas. "Where could he have gone?" he asked stopping after crossing the threshold of half buried, half broken down wall. Before them were three buildings, one looked like a broken down old church, the other a remains of some sort of establishment, and the last one looked like the old ruins of a manor. "Where would you have gone?' he asked his new companion almost jovial.

[Wrenmae]

His words were robbed, gone the moment he thought to speak them. Instead he closed his mouth and followed Armond through the sands toward the ruins. The buildings did not so much as grow from the ground as appear from the nothing. It was as though this world was unused to revealing itself, continued to forget what it held and only in bits and pieces constructed the colorless secrets it held. So, they were looking for a person...a master of some sort. The boy was suspicious, regarding Armond with something akin to the apprehension around a venomous snake. He certainly did not appear to need a master, much less seemed alarmed by this place, by the turn of events that brought them here. Wrenmae was confused, obviously, this felt encompassing...too large, almost frightening. He stayed close to his inanely jovial guide, doing well to keep his footsteps as light as he could across the sand. Cresting a dune and pushing through the remains of some ancient wall, Armond finally asked him a question...and one Wrenmae was not confident in answering. Where would he have gone? He would have gone back the way he came. This place was dangerous, it felt constrained. The lack of color was unnerving, like the sand finding new and creative ways to invade his clothing. "I do not know your master, nor what he was like," the storyteller murmured softly, "But I would have chosen the church...if any of this is as old as it looks, I can't imagine what sort of deities we'll find trapped in murals or mentioned in what was left behind."

[Fallacy]

The man shifted at Wrens suggestion of the church. Of course, how obvious! Clapping his hands together he started walking towards the church, ”So, what are we waiting for?” he asked leading the way up to the church, the strands sands giving way under their feet, making walking more of stumbling as they proceeded down the mound. Stumbling slightly, the merchant lost his balance and rolled down the hill rather ungracefully. At the bottom of the hill he looked up, but he didn’t take any time to wait for Wren, and proceeded hatefully into the church. When Wrenmae would approach the church, the ancient looking, decrepit building loomed over him with an almost impossible imposing presence. The stone it was made out of was weathered and seemed to be able to tell many stories. Intricate carvings would be present on the stone, worn, and half gone by the fierce winds of the Strands they became more prevalent within the building. Sand still covered the buildings floor, but a once polished smooth stone floor could be felt under their feet. The inside of the church was simple, the pews lined the room, and made of stone they stood the test of time. Triangles of all shapes, sizes, and colors could be seen within the building. Carved onto the floor, ceiling, the walls in all different shades they seemed to glow with a lost power. Sometimes, if one looked close enough, he might be able to see them shift or even more slightly. They moved in calculated, rheumatic motions, slowly making their way from point A to point B. In the center of the room was a giant azure colored triangle that seemed to spin slowly in place. All the other triangles present seemed to move with it, or was it the other way around? ”Amazing, isn’t it?” the merchant stood in the center of the center triangle looking around the room. This seemed to be where the priests preached the teachings of illusion, and it seemed an ancient power still ran here. ”But, no sign of the master.” he commented stepping out of the triangle, but fell. Fell where? He just… fell through solid floor? There would be silence before the a audiable call could be heard coming from below, ”Hello? Hello?” it sounded worried, ”This place is bigger than it looks.” typical for the Strands. ”Perhaps master found this place and went exploring on ahead.” he questioned, waiting for Wrenmae to come down there. When the person would be down there with the merchant he would look more than pleased. Above them was a straight drop down leading to this cavernous area. There was two ways, but the man started down one way, only to stop as the sight of a man came into being. The man didn’t look friendly at all, sword was out, long black hair, his skin burnt red by the sun, black leather armor presented itself as the man spotted the duo and began charging at them. This was what people call a Strain.

[Wrenmae]

Following their progress over the grey sands, Wrenmae felt lost in himself. This was an impossible situation, the cavernous sands around them at all turns, all places. Sighing, he tried to catch up to the merchant, slipping and sliding among the small mountains of grey grains as he moved toward the church. Alvadas was a city drunk off its own illusory presentation. Personally, the storyteller doubted the city had even showed half its true size. Perhaps this place was an example, some illusion cordoned world for lost rings and foolish travelers. Stepping beneath the triangular archway, Wrenmae stood in mute amazement at the level of sophistication in the church. Triangles rose from every conceivable angle, twisting and turning left to right and then back again on itself. He walked along the shapes, lost in their scripted steps. Without realizing it, he ended up on the other side of the room, turned another direction. He looked up only to see his guide vanish, an event as shocking as it was sudden. Dashing for where the man had last been, Wrenmae pitched forward and plummeted into the hole, smacking beside his guide in the sand with a clatter. Spitting sand, Wrenmae stood to find the two menaced by...a man, a sunburned greying man. Not graying in the usual sort, although certainly his hair did not shine with youthful luster. No...his very skin seemed to be losing color, the items he held, all of it, much like the sand around it. Something about that vision terrified Wrenmae, and he drew his dagger in an instant, backing away as the fellow charged nearer. Reaching into himself, a thick stream of res pooled beneath his hand. It wasn't much, but hopefully it would be enough to offset the fellow. Taking a step forward and leveling his hand forward, Wrenmae spun the palm out and mimed a push, converting the Res he'd collected in the short time to a blast of wind to set the Strain off balance. If it didn't work..well, he had his dagger out...although against a sword he had no idea how to react. Rather than call for help his words abandoned him in a panicked gurgle, only barely breaching the growl of the Strain moving toward them, sword raised.

[Fallacy]

The wind blast unleashed by the storyteller kicked up the sand and it blew into the mans eyes, causing him to cry out in pain, an arm going up to defend against the rest of the blast, but there was nothing left to defend against. The damage was already done. Stumbling the Strain ran into a wall, knocking his sword from his hand as the discolored man fell to the floor below, landing with a thud. He hoped to knock the man out of his stunned state by tapping Wrenmae on the shoulder, a tap, more like a hard punch. ”We don’t have time for this” Armond called to Wrenmae as he was already starting down the other passageway behind them. They had to search this place, and they had to find the master. Going down the passageway in a hurry the grunts of the Strain could be heard behind them, the shopkeeper ran a bit faster, the corridors they passed through were not nearly as colorful as the church above. Everything seemed to be draining back to the usual black and white. Color slowly fading as the Strain called after them, the sword could be heard scraping across the stone, sand covered flooring. It seemed no matter how far away from the Strain they got the two could always hear him as if he were right behind them, ”That,” Armond started, ”Was a Strain. They are residents of the Strands, this colorless desert.” he informed the storyteller as he ran, ”They are jealous of us because we still have color, but” he stopped and took a moment to look himself over, ”as you can see, we are losing our color too.” he said, the color draining from his hands and feet, the color fading away like under the influence of some disease. ”If we do not exit this place in time we will become a Strain too.” he said, ”We conduct much research on this place.” he said nodding. He continued walking feeling safe in the fact that they were far enough from that Strain. Soon enough they came to a doorway. Black and white, and devoid of color the door was, but it was made of the same stone as the rest of the place. ”So.” he stopped, ”Though the door or back to the Strain?” he asked, there was only but one obvious route. If Wrenmae chose to go through the door, Armond would place his hand on the door pushing it open. The sand covered floor made the doors progress slow and Armond only opened it enough for the two of them to slip through. It took enough effort and strain from the man to open it that much, ”Hurry, hurry” he said in a hushed tone as he slipped through the cracked door. Once both of them were through he pushed on it again, placing the door back in its previous position. In this new room there was an oval room. Half broken pillars stood as silent guards at the edge of the stone door they had just passed through. At the other side of the room was another set of doors, but the oval room was the space separating the two. On either side of the room stood two stone gargoyles. They looked grotesque and warped. In their hands held axes, and the oval room… well, it was tiled. Words suspended in the air said “Those who touch the sand have no hope of passing” The merchant ignored the message, and stepped onto a sand covered tile. The tile fell, and the merchant lost balance falling, gripping the edge at the last moment, "H-help" he called, the tiles lining the room were slowly disappearing to reveal a spiked pit below. Once Armond was up he brushed himself off, "Well, now what?" he asked.