Archival Conclave Chapter 1

Archival Conclave

By: Xion von Grise

A circle, a zodiac, a gathering of sigils…..
A masquerade halts the cycle as it ignites to start another….
A query is raised to the concerned many.
What is it that destined paths cross for?
Is it for the dominance of the Eros or the Thanatos?

The question remains, the answer is somehow unanswered.
This brings the page to its said work.

“A circle of stars, a conclave of twelve,
A long stream of silence for a query to delve;
An invoked constitution of souls unaware,
Their fate, sealed as their forms compare.
Assuming former selves of memorial instance,
This proof, a brand upon the vessel’s lance…”


I. Into the Lost Regards of Time

         “How should fate be made? Why does it seem like history written even before this has taken place? The point where the whole picture seems delusional and illusional to its point of reckoning that its nature is distinguished as a myth is what most men take. What is fate? This so-called memorial history written beforehand from the horizon of time sends its turn of dictatorship upon multiple paths that result differently in every turn. It seems to be a movement of light of a program’s script and codes, protocols being followed by the very cellular piece of a pack of legions rushing in the veins of sanguine streams. Similar to a script of a stage play that mortals usually follow, the ones that lie resemblance of difference is embedded within the will concealed in it.”

         The journal laid open on the wooden surface of the antique table had this page opened and revealed. The very words, exact to each letter, remained to question as the doubt filled the watcher’s mind. His eyes had made its dwelling upon the lines, shifting afterwards to the philosopher that stood on the corner with his hands snugly placed in his lab coat’s sheltering pockets. Whilst the wise one stared continually at the inscribed papyrus posted upon the face of the concrete wall, the watcher raised his query.
         “Philosopher,” he started his question, “What is this that you have written in your journal? Is this a riddle that still yearns for answer to quench its thirst for the true answers?”
         “Worry not, Inthur.” the wise one replied, remaining with his vigil upon the strange glyph of the ancient upon the face of stone. “A moment shall soon come for the answers that you seek. After this patient anticipation shall be the long-awaited moment of truth.”
         Inthur remained quiet, the anticipation of a hint or clue growing ever in ruling. He turned his gaze upon the wooden furniture’s surface, noticing the journal and something beside it. A ceramic tray, its surface inscribed with a circle and other glyphs in a strange formation. Upon it were twelve spheres placed upon certain points of significance. Wondering about the manner of being these objects hold and to what purpose it brings, Inthur remained in his erect posture while his hands are within the sheltering shroud of his cloak. A moment of silence took over, both men within the gap of its chasm of its blank motion. Ever in a short moment did the pitch stillness remained as a clash upon the sky was stirred after the flashing quicksilver upon the overcast firmament. Pattering of the heavenly tears followed, filling its clattering around the environs of the Philosopher’s mansion. The doors swung open as footsteps echo, indicating a presence following within the walls of the chamber where Inthur and the Philosopher were. Only then did the wise one stirred from his posture of staring at the posted wall, seemingly anticipating an arrival.
         “Maestro von Grise, I have come forth.” said the voice of a lady, the one who had arrived within the environs of this chamber. She brought her form to a descent, bringing herself to kneel on a bended knee.
         The Philosopher turned and laid his gray eyes upon the expected visitor, his platinum locks gleaming along the luminescent room’s lighting. He has to go on with the incoming will that he has planned, somehow he foreseen an upcoming threat to his life and to his creations. Knowing the time has been slipping away, he turned his gaze upon Inthur and to the maiden clad in black robes.
         “Lianna, Inthur, my accomplished apprentices,” the Philosopher addressed to them, “I have not brought you here without a cause that shall bring waste upon our handiwork. I have not brought you to follow and learn upon this path of knowledge and skill without a lesson being wasted away and to that I am overjoyed to bring you to my presence.”
         Lianna ascended from her kneeling, listening to the words of the maestro that had been the one watching over them. Inthur remained standing, his mind averted to the thought within the conscience yet he had brought himself to heed upon what cause was brought upon them, von Grise’s apprentices. The Philosopher continued, seemingly earning both attention and trust and seeing an assurance of success.
         “Your task shall be this, my dear apprentices.” the Philosopher emphasized as he laid his hand upon the table, referring to the spheres that lie in wait upon the ceramic tray.
         Inthur and Lianna perused at the objects. A fill of surprise brought Lianna to a gasp. Inthur, on the other hand looked at these things with an inquisitive view.
         “Could it be?” Inthur pondered, “These are….”
         “The very objects that the three of us have been working on,” Lianna imparted her reply. She then shifted her vision to the wise one, “Are they now completed? What should we do with these objects, Maestro?”
         The wise one only gave a nod of affirmation. However, he sensed the urgency of his point to be reached out to his apprentices. Seeing they are fit for his plan, he then resumed to what he should impart.
         “These are the fruits of our labor and learning. I shall put this burden to you. You know what shall be done upon them for the time has come….”
         After stating these words, he then begun to impart upon them the tasks that they should do. Inthur and Lianna listened attentively upon the maestro’s final instructions. After this was told to them, the two apprentices took the objects of the circle and placed them inside two separate vaults and carried these vessels as they left the abode of their maestro. The wise one watched them in their departure under the weeping sky of gloom. Only one thing, one thought entered the Philosopher’s mind.
         All of this shall be taken upon your hands. Your success in this task that I have told you, I have great faith and hope upon it. The Philosopher thought as he watched them gain in distance from his home. Go, and let them awaken to bring hope.

         Inthur and Lianna fled from the impeding danger. Both are running within the woods whilst the falling teardrops of the sky fell as they collide with their bodies. They ran with the vessels, where the circles of spheres reside, in their hands. They have gained distance in their flight to their safety, running with the vessels to their burden and held each other hand in hand. But upon the fleeing, running within the woods, they reached the face of the hill, halted as they reached the height. A thought came to Inthur’s mind, dominating his conscience that led him to halt their movement. Lianna followed and stopped, feeling the ill will that made her shiver. Then upon the flushing raindrops that clatter upon the ground with its shower, a loud bang echoed as it echoed through the vicinity, making the couple look back. Maestro…
         The maestro’s home has fallen into the destruction. Both of them turned, seeing the flash of flames upon where the mansion stood. The structure shattered in burnt debris by its powerful impact. They had one thing on their minds, and this negated intensity has brought their suspicions to be true. Lianna fell to tears as she placed her head upon Inthur’s chest, sobbing and weeping. Inthur only watched the inferno that raged from the distance, a doubt of loss inflicted upon his will. His hand brought Lianna upon his wing, clasping her head as he closed his eyes and bowed his head to be laid beside her in sympathy. They both felt the loss.
         “Lianna let us go.” Inthur said in a bold yet comforting voice. “We should flee and live. We have an important role to play.”
         Lianna looked upon Inthur, seeing a look of sadness fade into a gleam of hope. She nodded in agreement as both of them sauntered away from the fallen forest, leaving the tragedy to be a reminder of the failure that they cannot afford. They both remembered that day, they etched it upon the pendants that both had worn upon their necks. Remember the day of the full moon under the rainstorm. Eighth Goddess, Twenty third Duration, Era of Chaos....

         The rain continued to fall. The passing of time in its new turning tide has changed at last. The rain continued to pummel down in its gentle yet carpeting barrage, watering the gentle earth and pounding almost endlessly upon the nearly obsidian pavement. The ruins of history still standing, this of what remains to a building said to be a cathedral that stood for a long time prior to the destructive chaos of eighteen years ago. Now remains the broken pieces of time, being beheld upon by three strangers who stood before it in a distance not so far from it. They seem to keep a vigil upon the ruins, but yet they have just arrived for that actual matter.
         Within this party of three that stood before the ruins and under the overcast sky, one of them stands out in this unfamiliar party. He stood behind the two silhouettes that stood under the pounding rain. His still erect posture behind them brought his eyes to glance in perusal while the black sakat, a broad hat from the orient, sheltered his head and part of his body from the pounding rain yet the lining of his robe with ash-like shade are drenched by the drops that collide upon the pavement where they stood. His hand that clasped the staff stood still, keeping the object in a still motion, a tense sensation runs within the party, imparting an aura of disturbance that made them wonder.
         The party’s patience seemed tested as the time passes, luring their curiosity as the waiting runs it thin. A query was soon raised in wistful thinking to know what lies within. Their companion that stood on the left took a step forward, his desire to know what lies behind the ancient doors that stood before him grew more as his patience ran thin. The other one stirred, noticing his move.
         “Syne,” said a female voice, this silhouette on the right stirred upon the other’s action with her hand outstretched in a gesture to halt him. A cold yet calming tone line her words, denoting her youth as the youngest in the group.
         “Is something the matter, Syne?” the elder one inquired upon this sudden action with his tone of benevolence and deepness.
         Syne invoked his reply as he placed his hand upon the outstretched arm of his companion, lowering it to clear his path. “I sense something amiss within this vicinity. I cannot remain here standing in the open, knowing not a hint of what lies within those ruins that stand before us. It troubles me to know nothing of this oddity.”
         “What do you imply Syne? The source of this disturbance is within that abandoned structure?” the other questioned.
         The elder one, his hand clasping the staff that he had brought, struck the ground with a slight nudge. By the impact of this motion, the upper tip of the staff clattered as the rings placed upon it clapped upon the shaft. This motion caught the pair’s attention and halted their little argument.
         “Miruelle has a point, Syne.” the elder one remarked, “But we cannot remain here doing nothing. Just as it is needed, we need to know. It pays to know even in the face of risk.”
         Syne continued to his approach upon the building’s entrance without any hesitation to his decision. But as he saunters upon that said direction, he halts for a moment halfway to the very door before him. He then turned back to the direction of his companions.
         “I’ll go in to see what manner of being there is in here.” he said to them.
         “I doubt that this source is that of what we were told of.” Miruelle replied with a sound of doubt about the thought. “We are still unsure if this happens to be one of us.”
         “Nevertheless, we have to investigate.” the elder insisted, “Though this may or may not be the one we’re after, we should still do something. But I can assume that it is possible. The air itself gives this distinct pressure to the body. You do feel it, correct?”
         Miruelle nodded and looked at Syne. Syne then shifted his direction back to the entrance and continued until it was upon his reach. Upon reaching the door of ancient wood, he brought up a request.
         “Oh, one more thing, if ever that I never come out again, you know what needs to be done. Can I be sure of that, Miruelle, Yrune?”
         Yrune said nothing but angled the sakat upon his head. Miruelle only looked at her comrade, watching him enter the ruins through the ancient door as he pushes the old entrance open. Upon entering the halls of this abandoned cathedral, an unlikely sight welcomed Syne. A morbid sight of carnage and violent aftermath was seen at first glance. His cobalt eyes peer through the shadowy shade of the veiling cloak’s hood that shrouded his visage and form, staring at the grotesque figure that stood before him at a moderate distance.
         Syne’s eyes surveyed the environs while he stood silently still. The walls are stained with crimson splatters. The floor was marred with sanguine puddles and mutilated corpses with dismembered limbs. A bloody sight it has been to witness that at every corner was either a splattered stain of blood and entrails, accompanied by either a decapitated limp or a lifeless body. But what stood before him was a creature, a monstrous being that has undoubtedly caused this slaughter. A smirk writes itself upon his face in response to such sight as he stares upon the grotesque creature.
         “A being covered in blood...Stains of slaughter and rampage to be produced by demeanors of violence and carnage of ruthless rage.” Syne imparts his comment in a manner similar to his own soliloquy, noting the gory sight. His eyes never parted his sight upon the being, his voice made to be heard. “You either crave for the carmine bliss or you hold no control to your being’s sense of will. Either you bring forth this destruction out of bloodlust or by the fact that you are a wild beast driven to madness. Either way, never should you continue with this.”
         The being turned and brought himself to see, hearing the voice that brought disturbance. Seemingly able to comprehend, his fierce eyes stare at the silhouette that stood near the entrance. And he let out a furious roar that echoed throughout the archaic hall. This reminded Syne of the events prior to this, recalling the information imparted upon him. With that, he smirked as he brings his hand upon his cloak, pulling the blackness that veiled his form. Bringing the cloak aside, hurling the jet black shroud upon the air, his identity has been revealed upon this being. His platinum locks were still in their braids, his azure eyes fixed upon the creature as he retains his composure. His gloved hands clench upon a nieve, a distortion of air being found upon its aura. Yet on his right hand, the inviting mirage took its form as it grew and ignited. The ignited heat flashed upon it, an object took its form as it shaped itself to a blade. The flame quelled momentarily, revealing a straight blade of an unnatural force and matter. Bearing a heralding sword guard in a likeness that of wings of cardinal feathers, a pair of straps resembling the phoenix’s tail, and runes inscribed upon both sides of the blade, this nature of being unnatural has brought its wielder to have something behind his form of flesh. The edge that Syne has upon his hand sported its crimson aura of elemental being, the black apparel that compares to a clergy or magus of the nigrescent eminence Feeling the dust of the tiled floor of the ruins upon his leather boots, he stood with a raised guard as he initiates his resolve to be on a bracing of battle.
         What awaits Syne in this ordeal? To see what comes forth in the future and what comes to be trodden upon in the present has a shroud of doubt. The dance shall soon begin, who shall denote the query of divinity and mortality? For those who find themselves in the cross of decision, fate runs its course.