I was in the Foglands. More specifically, I was in the Ribcage Castle* (The Ribcage Castle does indeed appear to be built from the ribage of some colossal kaiju. The ribs rise like pillars holding up the sky. The ribcage does not exist in the age of the Mirrored City. And unlike in the age of the Mirrored City, the castle does not sit at the center of the realm. The castle is clearly the same structure in both realms, but the world around it has changed from one age to the next. Such is the nature of worlds built out of stories.)- the crumbling sanctuary of the Last King. I’ve said before that the Locust King is not a person, but a dynasty. The Locust King is a title passed down from the First King to the inevitable Last King. The Last King is that Locust King unlucky enough to be holding the crown when the music stops and the Hungry Empire is unable to provide tribute to the ancient and powerful beings that they have captured and bent to their will. The Empire has succeeded in twisting these beings. The Empire has succeeded in driving many of these beings mad. But the Empire has not caged these beings, as it believes. The empire has only managed to distract those beings. And when the tribute stops, these ancient things will shed their chains and the Mirrored City will fall. The Fog will roll in and the Empire will be reduced to a region around the Ribcage Castle, the skeleton of the previous empire withering in the Foglands.
And this is where I found myself. And unfortunately I was not in the Ribcage Castle as a guest. Well, unless you count sleeping in the dungeon as being a guest, then I was a guest. I had completed my mission, but I had succeeded by sacrificing my own freedom* (This happened in his last adventure, where he covered the escape of the Oil Cloth Rebels and their children and was captured by the Men of Black and White for his trouble.).
I sat, trapped, in a cartoonish medieval style dungeon. Fungus bloomed from wet stone walls. Beetles skittered at the edge of the lamplight. I watched as a mouse pounced on a longhorn beetle and bit the insect in half. I felt a certain kinship to the small mammal and didn’t want to disturb or scare it. And so I waited quietly while the mouse finished its meal. Once the mouse finished eating the beetle, it turned and stared at me. I stared back, and then the mouse began to move strangely. The mouse began to shamble awkwardly towards me, as though being controlled by puppet strings. The mouse stopped in front of me and raised up on its hind legs with halting movements.
“You have done well student,” An impossibly deep voice rolled from the mouse’s tiny throat, “I feared that the mission would be lost. But you decided to sacrifice your freedom to win the day. I am impressed. But now we must effect your escape.”
“Good morning teacher,” I answered, “Is it morning? I can’t tell.”
“It is evening. But no matter. I have brought you the key to your cage using this useful rodent. Examine the hole in the stone as it leaves.”
“Okay, that’s great. A key gets me out of my cell. But how do I get out of the prison?”
“There are catacombs beneath the dungeon layers. You must escape. But be aware that this is the season of the Rite of Atonement* (The free peoples mark the lunar months with holidays held on the full moon in the middle of the month. The holidays tell the story of the free peoples and teaches new generations how to live on the free path.).”
“I was vaguely aware of that. But why does it matter?”
“The catacombs were once used as a place of sacrifice for the scapegoat and the crossroads cockerel. The catacombs are saturated with the thousands of atonement rituals enacted here before the Ribcage Castle was built on this spot.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that you will be forced to undergo your own rite of atonement in the catacombs.”
“Did you arrange this?” I asked, weariness creeping into my voice.
“I did not. I did not expect you to make this sacrifice. But the opportunity is not to be missed, and the catacombs are your safest avenue of escape in any event.”
“So you didn’t do this, the story did this?”
“The story did this, with your assistance.* (That’s the thing about a sentient story. It has plausible deniability. Something goes wrong? Well the story is only partially responsible. You had to do you part too. And if you did it right, presumably things wouldn’t have gone wrong. But the thing about a story, is that not everyone in the story is the protagonist. And even if you are the protagonist, protagonistscan die. So the story gets to play innocent. The story gets to blame us. But we don’t know what the story is planning unless we are trying to write the story ourselves. And that is a dangerous proposition.) “
“Yay me.”
“You must seek out the sacramental dead to begin the rite, the story will provide the rest. I wish you luck, student. May the story be ever on your side.”
And with that, the mouse dropped to all fours and scurried back to the wall, squeezing back into a small opening in the wall. I waited a moment, feeling a little sympathy for the mouse, and then leaned over and examined the hole the mouse had used. The house was small, and I could just fit a single finger into the hole. I fished around in the hole until my fingernail pinged against metal. Several minutes of fiddling later, I had an antique looking brass key in my dirty hands.
The guards didn’t visit these cells more than once every other day to deliver a single hardtack biscuit for my meal. I knew I wouldn’t be bothered by the authorities for some time. But the guards weren’t going to be the problem for me in my escape. I was almost certainly going to have to face the Scapegoat and the black cockerel of the crossroads. And I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with either of these.
All of the entities known as the Others represent a blend between form and concept, physicality and idea, flesh and name. On one side of the spectrum, the Spirits are nearly entirely concept- mere wisps of form clinging to their mind . On the other side, the Monsters are nearly entirely form, with barely a ghost of a spirit to keep them moving. The rest of the Others- the Elders, the Gods, and the Fair Folk- sit somewhere in the middle.
The Scapegoat is one of the Fear Touched Elders, and counterpart to the dreaded Hound. The Scapegoat and the Hound are beings as powerful as the Sleeper and their fellows. And the Scapegoat mediates guilt, restorative justice, and – obviously- atonement.
The Black Cockerels are avatars of the Walker at the Crossroads. The Walker is one of the Fair Folk, or Demons if you prefer. The Walker is specifically a Grandmaster of the Midnight Court- one of the great organizations of the Fair Folk. The Walker is Magus who guides the Midnight Court, the most influential of the Grandmasters of the Midnight Court. The Walker mediates the crossroads, both physical and metaphorical.
Neither was an entity I was looking forward to encountering.
Time is like a massive pile of pancakes. And the major realms are time as place. And so the deeper one goes into the Depths of the Shadowlands, the further back in time one goes. This applies to the greater realms, The Fog Lands sits on top of the Mirror Lands which sits on top of the Green lands which sits on top of the ancient Painted Labyrinth. This also applies within the realms, and so going deeper into the catacombs of the Ribcage Castle meant traveling back in time to older parts of the Fog Lands. And in theory, as you go deeper into the catacombs, I could find myself going all the way back to the Painted Labyrinth. I don’t mean that I could end up in the actual Painted Labyrinth, but I could find myself in an area where the two areas overlapped. And that could be dangerous.
“I mean all of this is dangerous,” I said to the empty prison,” But still, the Painted Labyrinth is really dangerous. Even an overlapping shadow of the Painted Labyrinth is way more dangerous than any of the other major realms. But I’m not getting out of here by going up through the Knights of Purity and Unity. And hell, if I know the story, then the Knights of Purity will probably come done for a random inspection and purge of the prisoners.”
“Halt in the name of the King!”
“Oh crap. Called it.”
And I ran.
Running from Knights of Purity had practically become old hat to me at this point. But that didn’t mean I was going to stop and let them catch me. I had no intention of getting purged. And so I ran, hurtling through the hallways deep underground. Candles and oil lamps flickered as I passed, the air movement of my flight leaving them sputtering in my wake.
The stones of the walls became progressively less carefully worked as a rushed through the corridors and down slippery wet staircases that spiraled into the darkness. The further I descended, the more worn and pitted the stones become. The world was growing old around me. Behind me, I heard repeated and predicable demands that I halt in the name of the king. I ignored them and continued to stumble and slither down crumbled staircases. Water began to trickle from cracks in the stones. Lichen grew on the stones. Moss and mold spread before me.
I was to seek out the sacramental dead. I’d heard of it before, it was what the denizens of the depths called magic mushrooms. That said, the sacramental dead wasn’t just a magic mushroom. I was not in the shallows. I was in the depths, and so was the sacramental dead. The story was stronger in the depths. And as such, so was the effect of the mushrooms.
And so I skittered down staircases and through increasingly haphazard hallways, watching the walls for the distinctive shape of the mushrooms of the sacramental dead.
Three women stood before me. I froze. Something had changed. They donned the masks of the Hound, the Scapegoat, and the Black Cockerel. They were Channellers then, embodying the essences of the entities depicted on the masks. This was the Rite of Atonement. But how had this happened? I was standing in an empty void. My feet rested on nothing.
I must have found the sacramental dead, I realized. I must have eaten the psychoactive mushroom and started the Rite of Atonement that way. The Hound turned her black painted mask to face me and beckoned. I knew the process, and followed as she lead me to a crossroads marked out by lines of half melted candles. The Hound dropped to her knees and inscribed the sigil of the crossroads onto the void in glowing chalk. The rite had begun. I had no idea, how I’d found the mushrooms or even where I was now. I could be in the custody of the Men of Black and White. I could be babbling in chains back in my cell. But it didn’t matter. I needed to focus on the rite, or I might not survive.
The Hound handed me two bottles and two shot glasses. I knew my role in this. I poured out a shot of navy strength rum from the Black Cockerel, and a shot of high proof moonshine for the Scapegoat. The two approached and each offered me a bowl fitted with a candle wick. I set down the shots and poured rum into one bowl and moonshine into the other bowl. The Hound handed me a burning match and I lit the wicks. The Scapegoat and Cockerel picked up their shot glasses and downed the contents.
The bowl marked with the icon of the Scapegoat began to fill with coins* (The Free Peoples are highly suspicious of money in all forms. They see currency as being something already halfway toward the path of the Locust. Free Tribes trade with other tribes using barter first, and currency second. Free Peoples only use currency when they deal with strangers. They see the use of money as a sign that one considers the other person innately untrustworthy. Such a judgement is considered reasonable when related to other tribes, and the other tribe would not take it personally. But to make such a judgement on a member of one’s own tribe is a grave insult.) . Coins bubbled up from the bowl like molten gold on a rolling boil. The bowl cracked and split in half. The Coins continued to spill out from nowhere. My vision swam. I saw the Scapegoat’s mask before me. And then my vision filled with my past misdeeds. One by one I saw the faces of all the people I had killed with Bloody Grin.
“No!” I yelled, “I’ve only used Bloody Grin against servants of the Hungry Empire!”
“And were they not still victims?”
I didn’t answer.
“Even the Locust King is a victim of this tragedy. You may think that your actions were warranted. But that does not mean that they were not people whom you made victims.”
I didn’t answer.
My balance faltered, and felt myself sinking. I looked back down and saw that the coins had entirely covered the floor and I was sinking into them. I sank to my waist.
“Will you answer these misdeeds?”
I hesitated. And as I hesitated, I continued to sink. I knew I needed to accept the misdeeds to prepare for the next stage of the atonement. But I couldn’t face the idea that I had murdered real people. I knew they were right. But it was easier to think of the servants of the Empire as empty vessels.
I sank beneath the coins, and found myself falling into darkness. I fell through space for what appeared to be an eternity, and then landed in the void with a thud.
“That should have hurt.” I said to myself.
I picked myself up and found myself facing the channeller in the Cockerel.
I sighed, “No rest for the wicked.”
“Okay. Normally I’d have to write down my misdeeds. I don’t see any paper. How are we doing this?”
The Black Cockerel stepped forward and tossed prayer sheets at my feet and turned her back. I knew what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to mark the debts of deed on prayer sheets and present them to the Black Cockerel. The Cockerel was supposed to burn the sheets upon the lit candles. I was then supposed to mark the debts of deed a second time and make promises to repay the debts of deed and make amends.
Instead, the prayer sheets burst into flames at my feet. Blood began seep through cracks in the floor I hadn’t previously seen. The flames sat like an oil fire on the surface of the rising tide of blood. The blood rose past my knees. The flames spread. The Cockerel turned back and held her arms wide. The riding blood had doused the candles at some point, leaving me in darkness.
If the rite were happening as it should, she would declare that all would see if the atoner’s words were true. But I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t made any declarations. Instead the blood kept rising, passing my belly button. I was supposed to have offered a feast by this point, but the rite was apparently completely off the rails.
The blood rose past my nose and mouth. I found myself engulfed by the blood, and then found myself lost in a void of taste and touch- hovering in the nothingness. Something had gone wrong. Did I think I couldn’t atone? Was I condemning myself? Was somebody else doing that? Was I being judged?
Either way, I was drowning in emptiness. I was dying.
“This is unacceptable,” Five voices chorused in my mind, “You have not yet paid your debt to us.”
The Quintuple Lords of Misfortune had found me.
“What. What are you doing in the Foglands? You’re bound to the Mirrored City.”
“We are bound to the Empire. This is all that remains of the Empire.”
“So we’re both screwed.”
“We are dying a slow death, bound to a pointless and broken thing. You are being torn apart by your regrets and misgivings.”
I vomited and tasted copper pennies and rusty nails in the vomit. Bloody tears dropped iron from my eyes. I screamed in pain.
“We doubt that you wish this to be your final moment. We wish that you survive this ordeal as well.”
I caught my breath, “Got to pay my debt, don’t I?* (The Lords aren’t about to let Harbinger forget that he owes them a favor. It is important for the reader to keep in mind several facts. First, the Quintuple Lords of Misfortune are Grandmasters of the Fair Folk. And the Fair Folk never lie. They may withhold information. They may imply. They may allow others to come to incorrect conclusions. But they never lie. The second thing to remember is that these are not free Fair Folk. As members of the Court of Eternal Summer, they are trapped in the service of the Locust King. Readers will be well served to keep these facts in mind. )”
“Indeed. And so we will make the same offer we made previously. We will save you, in exchange for a favor of our choosing at the time of our choosing.”
“Why bother? I keep ending up here. I’m useless.”
“You are not. We see who you are. A powerful mind chained to false beliefs and the fear beaten into you by a lifetime in the Empire. We see you. You twist and spin and gnaw your own leg off to escape the Empire. We see you as you hide your inner life from your fellow slaves and seek out new friends among the rebellion. We see you. For you are as we are. We know you. You are us, and we are you.”
The pain left me. And I floated in the void, stunned by the words I’d just heard.
“What?”
“We are both prisoners of the Empire. We are both lying to our fellow prisoners. We are both destroying ourselves.”
“Wait. Wait. Wait. What do you want? What are you going to use the favors I owe you to do? What’s your endgame here?”
“We thought it obvious.”
“No. well, yes,” I felt the pain returning at the edges of my mind, I ignored it,” Maybe it is obvious. But I want to hear it. I want to hear you tell me why you are doing this?”
“You are dying. Your time is short. Why would you waste words asking this?”
“You’re stalling,* (We should really give Harbinger a certain amount of credit here. He’s dying here, and he’s still sassing the Quintuple Lords of Misfortune. He’s sassing an nearly ageless being of unimaginable power while his consciousness is being pulled apart. It’s not wise, mind you, but credit where its due. It shows a lot of sass. We might put it down to a coping mechanism if we are being uncharitable. But really, if he didn’t show this level of extreme sass, he wouldn’t have pushed the Quintuple Lords to the point that they are here: about to show their cards on the table honestly. So credit where its due. )” I answered through gritted teeth, “But I’ll tell you all the same. I’d rather die than be a tool of the Empire. You are of the Empire. I made a bargain with you before. I didn’t consider the consequences then. I am considering them now. I think I know what you want. I even think I’m willing to help you get it. But I need to hear it. I need to hear it from you. The Fair Folk don’t lie. Gods lie. Demons tell the truth.”
“We do.”
“So tell me the truth. Why do you need my help? What do you want?”
Silence. And then.
“You would rather die than serve the Empire. We agree with this sentiment. We were free once. We will be free again.”
“Then I agree.”
“So be it. We are bound together, you shall be harbinger of our freedom and your own. And we shall craft you a foundation and a fortress from which to mount your fight.”
I felt a thin thread brush across my face and grabbed at it. As my hand closed around the jute string, the string lit up like a neon in the darkness. The light illuminated heavy stones at my feet and I felt the vision leaving me as my feet drifted down to the floor. The double layered images faded as my feet lit on the ground.
“What if the Minotaur* (Do we have to point out the origin of the minotaur legend? Hopefully not, but perhaps we do need to bring you up to speed. Not this time. We refuse. Figure it out for yourself this time.) was actually an ally?” I whispered to myself as I followed the thread.
The haze of the former vision drifted on a slight breezes in the underground as a walked, hand gripping the thread, through the darkened corridors. It may have been hours. It may have been days. It may have only been minutes. Time was lost to me as I walked. Eventually I began to smell fresh rain on the air.
Eventually fresh air reached my senses. And then I noticed that the darkness had been steadily receding. The darkness was retreating before the gentle light of the outside world.
The chorus of the Quintuple Lords echoed in my skull, “Our hopes rest with you, our harbinger. Find a waypoint shrine. Live to fight another day. Seek the ruins of our temple, and you shall find our gifts to you. Use them and prepare for the day when we ask you to return our favors and help us regain our stolen freedom.”
“I haven’t forgotten the deal. You have my assistance. And you will have your freedom.”
Professor Harbinger's School for Villains 