Ashen Empire

      A vast, empty wilderness that seemed to stretch endlessly unto the end of the world stood before a lone surveyor in black. The frontier was given to wide stretches of space that were so expansive that they had driven the earliest travelers and settlers mad. Misdirection and primitive technology lead to starvation and even certain cases of cannibalism. Summer in that area meant near constant cloud cover though very little rain ever fell, and neither the sun or the stars offered any direction in those months. Certainly it was a surprise for those unfortunate caravans caught in such a season. Their pitiable bones rested beneath the feet of a man who walked along a barely visible road, covered from head to toe in leather and canvas. The long coat was an absolute necessity, as was the wide brimmed coachman's hat which he kept tilted just above his eyes. The sun had set and darkness had fallen long since the lone traveler had entered the valley through a most troublesome field of geysers. Birds and other creatures of the natural world were not to be found this far from civilization. Unnatural things lurked on the Frontier; giant wolves, monstrous lizards that could swallow men whole and even worse abominations of men who preyed upon weary journeymen.
      There was not uncommon occaision in those days for men to carry steel at their side, either in the form of a blade or a six-gun. Those wisest travelers were known to forego all other equipment so that they may keep their belts well armed, even if it meant going without food for a spell. The traveler was such a wise man. Beneath the weathered duster was an intricately fashioned belt and an even more impressive blade resting at his side. It was a trifle longer than most sabers other men carried. The blade was straight for more than a meter before it tapered off into a finely fashioned and edged point. Good for slicing, cutting, thrusting and fencing. Utilitarian, though deadly and beautiful all the same. The guard appeared to be fashioned as withered vines, much to the style of the grip which could fit both hands if necessary although designed to be used with only one.
         The winds were calm and the night was peaceful. In the distance, the mournful howl of some unknown beast echoed throughout the valley. In the distance, the traveler could see torch lights, and as he drew nearer a bridge that crossed over a very deep and out of place chasm. The traveler's eyes were very keen, so much so that he could more than make out the shapes of the men guarding it. They would not have noticed him at all, nor could any man have noticed anything a foot beyond his sight in such blackness. As he stepped into the torch light, one of the men trained a rifle on him. "Hold your peace there sir. And mind you keep your hand off of that steel." His voice was cracking, though not from fear, but rather from some previous illness. Despite his being hoarse, the man was an imposing figure. Heavy shoulders and thick, tree trunk like legs that bulged beneath tattered breeches supported his barrel chest. Despite his oafish appearance, his eyes twinkled with that ever so rare spark of comprehension and ability that was uncommon to men of such composure. "State your name and business."
         The traveler was silent for a moment, emerald eyes darting from the large man in charge to the others who stood on both sides of the bridge. "And to whom am I stating, stranger?" His voice was even, and calm.
         "Strans, and that's all ye need to know 'bout me. Now state your name and business or I'll blast you."
         "Cort." The traveler in black identified himself.
         "And what are ye doin' around these parts at so late an hour?"
         "Walking, of course."
         Strans gritted his teeth. "I doubt your such a loon as to walk by yourself in such a place at such an hour carrying steel like that." He pointed the rifle at Cort's head. "I say you're a highwayman."
         "That doesn't strike you as unlikely, being that I've presented myself without hesitation or fear in the least?" Strans lowered the rifle a bit. "You make a point, sir. Though I must ask as per the responsibilities vested in me by my title as Bridgeguard as to your business in Toll."
"I was not aware of a township this far out. I am heading North West to the Bad Lands."
         "You won't be needing supplies? No flint or tinder, or food even?"
         "I Suppose it would do to get my clothes washed. My weapon could use a sharpening if you have any diamond stone." Cort's tone never changed or wavered. It was as even as his heart beat, if he even had one. Strans had completely lowered the weapon and was signaling to other hidden men to lower theirs. "Why I believe the smithy in town has a diamond stone and a black forge that would suit you. You'll be needing lodging I suppose?"
         "Only until my clothes are washed and weapon tempered. A day or so at the most."
         "You have urgent business waiting in so desolate a place as the Bad Lands? Curious thing. Another man, much liking to your composure sir, and a fair young lady came about not a week past that were headed to the Bad Lands on private business. Might he be a relative or comrade of yours?"
         "What was his name?" Cort inquired.
         "Called himself 'Gaius.' A fair strange git he was. Carried steel like yours and everything. In fact, now that I take a better look..." Strans stepped closer to Cort and peered at the face beneath the hat and collar. "...you'd pass for twins if I ever had a say, 'cept his eyes were blue."
         There were a few moments of silence that to Cort seemed to last an eternity. The clear green eyes that peered from beneath the wide brimmed hat seemed to cloud, only for an instant, and then were as sharp as they had ever been. A moment of doubt, perhaps, or of hope that few would have even thought to have noticed on the stoic face. "A week you say? Then I am not too far behind. Did they stay in town?"
         "The lady stayed a bit at the Inn and washed her hair and clothes. The man simply stood outside of the inn like some sort of statue until she was done with her business and they both up and left. Didn't even take a bit of jerky or wash cloths for the lady. Most unnatural man, he was."
         "The room that she used...would it be possible at all for me to acquire it?"
         "Blast it sir I don't think I'd have the slightest bit of control over that, though I'll definitely send word to Agatha to clear it. Mind if I inquire as to what sort of business you three might be having in such a rotten piece of hell as the Bad Lands?"
         A moment passed between the two before Cort answered as best he could. "They are going to the end of the world. I have a message I have to deliver to them that carries grave importance."
Strans shrugged his massive shoulders.
         "Well Sir, I apologize for the trouble, you understand of course how careful you have to be out here and I'm only doin' my job."
         "Of course. Good evening." Cort walked passed the guards and over the bridge, crossing the gaping wound in the earth. It was familiar to him, that chasm. Though in what way, was a greater mystery still. He disappeared into the darkness, headed straight into the township of Toll. A chill ran down the spines of the Guardsmen, one of which spoke with a trembling voice.
         "Bugger gave me chills straight to my bones."
         "I know, he's not quite the same as the other one though. Didn't seem quite so...unnatural." Strans crossed his great arms and thought to himself quietly as the night crept on. He would make doubly certain that Agatha minded the visitor and his doings about town with peculiar interest.


         Out of the barren Earth of the Frontier, there were small pockets of fertile land that bore crops of wheat and grain. Off of such minute findings the first settlements in the areas were made and of course, the largest and most prosperous of these outlying settlements was a place called Toll, which sat across the "Crying Hollow Chasm" as the people had come to call it. The ground was perfect for growing things, and that was exactly what the people of Toll knew best. Every man, woman, and child no matter their station or their trade worked out in the fields every day for at least four hours. The crops brought in the silver, which paid for the water filtration system which helped produce bigger and healthier crops and inevitably lead to more capital gain. It was this very system that the foundations of the growing community were built upon. Everyone worked, everyone ate, and everyone had enough to make it. The working model of earlier governments made so theoretical as per lust of gold. But somehow that particular fever had not spread throughout the simple township of Toll and the spirits of early philosophers smiled upon their tiny and long begotten victory.
         Of course, where there was wheat there was its ever so popular byproduct, Beer. The Brewer's shop was one of the biggest on the Front Row, which was the main seat of business for the city. Two large intersecting streets divvied off into the residential areas and the tradesmen's shops. From the front gate, Cort could see the citizens going about their daily business and others wandering about in idle toil. The gaol and the gaoler were plain to be seen direct from the gate. The robust fellow sat outside of the empty cell-house, whittling what appeared to be a flute of some type, saying a fond 'Halloa!' to those passersby. Small rituals of every day life that many took for granted, Cort thought. It was an illusion that even he had at one time thought of giving in to so long ago. The morning had come swiftly along his walk to the city, for which he could say he was somewhat grateful.
         The pedestrians didn't know exactly how to take the heavily clad stranger who walked upon their streets. Odd looks and whispers, but Cort was very much used to it and paid them little mind. His senses were flaring in the city, though his composure hardly hinted to it. The city seemed to have a pulse of its own, a life force that only a select few could sense beneath the material visage. The inn was located along the westernmost wall of the city and occupied virtually the entire block, those citizens who could not afford housing of their own took to Agatha's quite well enough. Upon entering the building the first thing one would notice was the homely smells of the kitchen in the back, where the proprietor and her children worked every day preparing meals and drink for the residents. The downstairs was a well decorated pub, the bar of course serving drops of expensive liquors imported from the capital, and of course the staple drink of many a man and woman's diet, Baterbury's Beer which was brewed and casked not far from the inn itself.
         Cort stood at the small podium and rang an antique bell, and after a moment was welcomed by a short, red faced lady of about two and forty. A hand tailored dress, stockings, and expensive pair of shoes beset her plain visage and stringy brown hair. "You'd be the gentleman Strans sent about?" The man in black nodded. "Let me see here..." She searched about a handful of keys for a moment before pulling one from the pile. "Ah, yes! Here's the key to the room ye requested. You'll be dining in, sir?" Cort thought for a moment before shaking his head.
         "No thank you. I don't partake of much, my palate discerns it to be quite to my misfortune, though." The lady nodded and accepted the compliment. She handed him the key and put forth a registry, a small cup of black ink and a quill pen. Cort peered over the registry curiously, finding of course the verification of Strans' tale in the form of a finely written signature. 'Kyrie' was written at the bottom of the page, Cort remarked to himself how her handwriting hadn't changed. He took the quill pen and signed his name, his script a series of elegant curves and precise strokes the like of which masters of the art seldom achieved. Agatha stared at the signature for a moment, marveling over its perfect symmetry before composing herself.
         Before she could ask for payment, Cort had reached into his coat and pulled from an inner pocket three silver coins and laid them on the podium. "That will suffice for the room?" Agatha casually scooped the coins into her hand and placed them into a bag beneath the podium, and nodded in agreement.
         "Sir, will ye be needing anything tonight? Any drink or...company?"
         "I prefer to sleep alone, although I might sample some of the local brewer's wares. Does he use wheat only?"
         "Aye, sir. Old man Baterbury is a right wizard when it comes to his brew." Without another word or signal save a silent nod, Cort made his way up the stairwell and Agatha followed to show him to his room. The heavy door was made out of a dark imported wood, as was nearly everything in the city as there were no forests for a great distance. It was spartan in appearance, a bed, two dressers and a freshly cleaned water closet. Cort, though, was looking quite intently at the window that overlooked the city below. He stepped up to it, curiously though looking more at the glass rather than the goings on beneath him.
         "Will you be needing anything else, sir?"
         Cort did not hesitate to answer. "No, thank you." And with that, Agatha left the room and closed the door behind her. There was nothing uncommon about the window that most men would notice right off, but Cort saw something there that no human eye could possibly have perceived without the aide of several complex lenses and lights. It was a message, written into the glass, a script very familiar to him. He'd known to look for these messages since he began his pursuit. The manner in which the messages were written were largely so abstract and complex that even he had nearly missed them a time or two. But then...he considered that Kyrie was indeed vastly intelligent and possessed of rare gifts. She intended for him and only him to have those messages, and it was decidedly so.
         The words came together in the glass, the morning sun hitting the window proved a troublesome foe nonetheless and obscured the secret script. Cort reached once again to his jacket and pulled a small mirror from his inner pocket. The arc of light that reflected from the glass illuminated the words within. The message was shorter than the others, probably though because she was pressed for time. 'You still pursue us, though he will never allow you to reach me. He says he will skewer you upon his blade and I think he means to do exactly that. Turn away and let things be as they should.' It was a grim message for him, a warning from Kyrie. Gaius...he considered the situation a moment. The message he held, the promise that he knew he absolutely had to keep. The man who was his equal and at one time his better, guarded Kyrie day and night on their journey to the End of the World, where they would all meet their fate.
         He thought of the young girl he'd met so long ago, the child who was cast from her home, branded as a witch for her attunement to the natural world. The death of knowledge and the birth of new ignorance lead to such misgivings of people. He thought of the lashes on her tiny back, the bruises on her frail limbs that he had nursed back into working condition once upon a time. She would have died, had he not intervened. It was a curious thing that he'd felt so compelled to do. He had seen men, women, and children killed before his very eyes and never once so much as blinked at it. He felt, though, such indignity and injustice in her situation that he untied her from the tree and carried her away.
         Every passing day to Cort was at once a mere grain of sand in a windstorm, and an eternity yet to pass before him in endless variability. The world was governed by these laws of physics that he had himself a seemingly infinite knowledge of, the very knowledge therein gave him his great mastery. He thought more about her as he undressed himself. The coat fell heavily to the ground, revealing beneath it ornate black armor, adorned with various circular gems of a strikingly similar shade of green to his own eyes. Spines of metal protruded from the forearms and elbow. The contours of the armor matched the muscles beneath, the material seeming to cling so tightly, and yet if struck was as solid as iron. Such weaving of metal was an art lost to the centuries, perfected a long forgotten civilization. The hat too came off, revealing a short and neatly cut head of dark red hair. Cort's face was boyish, to be exact he appeared as a young man of barely seventeen. Average height, but tightly built, the vision of youth was scarred by the heavy brow and troubled countenance of one who had weathered wars and years beyond his own. On his neck could be seen the number '206.' He turned his attention from the window to the streets below, feeling for the first time in what felt like forever something similar to the folly which he had been forever taught to ignore. The demon which crept ever so slowly into his mind and yet sang so angelically in his heart. A mistress that would not at all let him rest this day, and her name was hope.


         There weren't many seated at the bar that afternoon and the dining tables were sparse. It was at this interval that many citizens took to their tools and went to the fields. The rest about town had either worked that morning or would later in the evening. The inhabitants of the pub were as diverse as they were quiet. The man in black at the bar sipped very timidly at his pint. An older man and a few younger were scattered about. They all peered curiously at the stranger, though none dared risk conversation with him. The armor, the steel at his side and his stoic demeanor would prevent even the most lighthearted of people from treading carefree upon that ground. The door opened, the creaking of ill-oiled hinges audible over the quiet calm of the pub. A lithe figure with long brown hair dressed in light armor, a severe woman in her late twenties made her way to the front podium and rang the bell.
         The red faced Agatha hurried over and presented her the registry, pen and ink. She brushed her hair away from her face as she peered over the registry a moment and stopped, a faint smirk growing on her thin lips. She signed her name and surveyed the pub, her eyes finally coming to rest heavily on the man in black seated at the bar. As she started over towards the bar, the hostess called after her, "Miss, will ye be needin' anything else?" The woman stopped for a moment and replied with a simple 'No.'
          "Well this is a pleasant surprise, I didn't think you would come out this far Cort." She said as she took the stool next to him. "Have you already snaked up the call?"
         "I wasn't aware of any call, Alexis. It would seem you are here on business as usual."
         Her dull blue eyes never met his, it was the way of certain people to not make such contact at close distance. "You are very much correct. Don't play coy with me, Dragoon. Have you or have you not taken the call?"
         Cort tilted his head very slightly in her direction. One might have discerned some hidden dislike of the title she called him by, if they had been so perceptive."You are very much mistaken, Alexis. I do not require any silver and as such have no need to take any calls."
         The woman raised a pointed brow. "Since when did you get so articulate? I can't seem to recall an instance where you said more than three words in a single day."
         "It hardly matters. Mind if I inquire as to what sort of call this might be?"
         "Why? So you can snake it out from under me like the last one?"
         "I saved your life, if you recall. It was mere circumstance, though the consequence is seeming to become a nuisance."
         "You cost me a small fortune. If I had died I wouldn't be holding a grudge, now would I?"
         The patrons of the bar were listening quite intently to their conversation, as was Agatha, who stood conveniently aside the wall nearest the bar and out of plain view. "I don't think fighting me is going to help your situation. Unless the call is for such."
         "Rhadabeasts. You saw the great chasm, I take it? A giant nest f them, it would seem. A clean two thousand silver coins for wiping out the big insects. It's a wonder those fools at the bridge haven't been taken yet."
         "It's a wonder you couldn't come up with a better lie than that. You wouldn't venture this far out of the Capitol just for a mere two thousand coins. Not that its any of my business."
         She smiled and leaned in close to whisper into his ear. "Well I would hate to spoil the surprise, and I know how much you love those." She drew back and watched him for a moment. "You used to be good. Very good. One of the best, to be sure. What was the other's name? The one you were looking for?"
         "Gaius." Cort tilted his head further in her direction, more watching her movements than anything else.
         "Ah yes. It really is amazing that two Dragoon are still wandering around. Are there any more of you?"
         "I don't know."
         "Oh of course there wouldn't be. You and him killed them all, right?" Now Cort had turned to her fully, his expression completely unchanged. She wore a satisfied smirk, although to what end she was playing toward, none of the eagerly attentive patrons of the pub could say. "Was it so terribly difficult to do it? These people don't even know what you are." She had taken his pint and finished it off as he watched her. "How many hundreds of thousands of people? Even your own kind weren't safe from the likes of you. Take heed good citizens! To this man is attributed the deaths of countless men, women, and children! A Dragoon! Mark the word for it is sure to be the doom of you all, for it follows this man as a shadow."
         Cort didn't say anything. The few patrons of the bar were an ill-audience for the demented huntress who stood at the bar. A killer was all that she truly was, and Cort knew that as well. He needed no justification, no long or drawn out explanation of himself or his actions. He didn't owe her or anyone in the town any of that. He owed little if anything to anyone, save a promise which he aimed to make damn good on. "Why such a scene?"
         Alexis' right hand twitched a bit, and from the gauntlet on her right arm sprung a discs that separated quickly into a bladed buckler which she brought slowly to within an inch of his throat. "I've waited a while to try you out in combat. One day I'm going to prove all of those wrong who boasted of your prowess."
         Cort simply stared at her, his face as solid as iron. "Truly?"
         "We'll soon find out. But not here. I still have business to attend to." Alexis stood and walked away from the bar. "I wouldn't get too comfortable here in this place. Men like you are drawn to the feud." As she left the room the patrons talked amongst themselves quietly. Agatha stood at the bar, wiping it down for the third or fourth time.
         "What business around here could possibly call for mercenaries?" He asked her direct.
         "Bust me if I know, sir. The commissioner might well have put out a call, but for what purpose I've no inkling." She stood idle a moment, working up courage in her mind. "Sir. What did she mean by 'Dragoon'?"
         "It is of no matter. Just an archaic title from the old-world."
         "Correct me if I'm wrong sir, but the old world was a time of great and terrible things. Magicks and sorceries of mind and metal as the stories say. It'd be a grim thing if something from that time were to be unduly brought back from its tomb."
         "Indeed." He tipped a small copper coin and left for the smithy shop. His fabrics could wait for the wash, but something told him that his steel would need a tempering before the day was done.