Jackal Among Snakes

Chapter 91: Dependent Thought

Chapter 91: Dependent Thought

Argrave awoke feeling refreshed. Sleep had come easier than he expected it to. At the very least, his body could sleep when he needed to.

All of that changed when he tried to move.

At once, his legs and back groaned, sore and achy from the intense yesterday. His shoulders felt bruised from the backpack, his feet still vaguely protested, and his thighs and calves were both taxed beyond compare. He tried to sit up, but even his core was sore.

“Jesus,” he huffed while leaning up. He felt something stuck in his throat and coughed. His cough was wet and unpleasant, and after he’d finished hacking, he spent some time clearing his throat. He was only able to breathe normally again after he pounded his chest.

“You okay?” Anneliese asked.

Argrave looked up at her. She had a book in her lap as she leaned up against the wall. She looked a mess, just as Argrave felt—her long white hair was braided tightly, yet still dirtied and matted.

“I’m fine,” Argrave waved his hand. “Just my throat, I think. Probably slept with my mouth open.”

Anneliese nodded. “Rare for me to wake before you.”

“Wish it would happen more often, frankly,” Argrave said, rubbing his eyes. “Any notable occurrences, Galamon?” he raised his head, looking towards the doorway.

“Nothing I could hear. Gave up on the smelling. Useless here—the debased blood of the Guardians consumes that sense,” he answered, returning to his usual brevity.

“Alright.” Argrave raised himself to his feet, and a piece of a broken shelf that had stuck to his clothes fell off him, clattering against the stone. “Part of me wishes someone would just break down the door. Kill off some of the uncertainty, at the very least.”

“It’s tempting to think like that,” Galamon stood. “Spent two days in a glacial cave, once, hiding out from enemies after things… went awry. Wanted nothing more than to do something stupid, force something to happen. You can’t, though.”

“I know,” Argrave sighed. “Alright. We have quite a conundrum on our hands, the way I see it. Kept me up a long while, thinking about how I was going to pull my head free of this vice before it slammed shut.”

“Given the circumstances… perhaps the aforementioned diplomacy with the vampires would be our best option,” Anneliese posited. “I am not sure they know three of their own died at our hands.”

Galamon looked ready to protest, but Argrave interjected himself before he could do so.

“I don’t really care to find out what the vampires know,” Argrave shook his head. “My overconfidence landed us in this situation in the first place. We left ourselves in the hands of a greater power, and this greater power proved to be unreasonable. The same might happen again, and I doubt we’d have an easy go escaping from vampires.”

Galamon nodded contentedly, and Anneliese looked to have no rebuttal. Argrave stepped away, placing his hand on the shelf blocking the door. He drummed his fingers on it, lost in thought. With a sudden realization, he frowned and turned around.

“I’m doing it again,” he said in annoyance. “Planning on my own. Seeking no advice.”

The two said nothing but did not meet Argrave’s gaze. That, alone, told him that he was right in what he said.

“Alright. Let me lay down some things we might be able to use to force either side’s hands…”

#####

A man wearing a crimson set of patchwork robes stared through a set of thick iron bars, one hand held against a bar for support. His face looked locked in a permanent scowl, and when coupled with his bald head, he strongly resembled a vulture. His eyes were cold and hazed, resembling a set one might find on a corpse.

The bars he stood before were each as thick as the man himself, and the metal shone with dancing light—enchantments. They were wide enough to accommodate entry. Though the area the man resided in was filthy, stained with blood and battered by debris, the area beyond the bars was pristine. It shone with golden light from chandeliers dangling from the rafters even now, illuminating a decadent library shrouded by a thick haze of dust.

The man reached a hand through the bars, and once it reached the halfway point, his fingers bent as though meeting an invisible wall. He kept pushing his hand forward until his fingers formed a fist, and then he pulled his hand back, punching. His skin shook, impacting against something invisible.

The man did not blink or breathe, staring at his hand. He raised a nail up, scratching at the barrier between the metal bars. Though his nails slid along what was blocking passage, no sound came, as though what he scratched was immaterial.

The faintest sound echoed out in the room, and the man quickly turned his head towards it. A necklace of stone roses dangled from his neck, numbering three.

“Who?” the man called out, voice almost a bestial growl.

“It’s Vizer, Namara.” Another slowly walked into the room, taking his place just behind Namara. He had a shrew-like look to him.

“What?” Namara questioned sharply, turning his head back to the bars before the library.

“A group of Stonepetal Sentinels have encamped out front the headquarters.”

“Mmm…” Namara uttered, voice a low rasp. “Their reason?”

Vizer shook his head. “Unknown. They’re watching the entrance. Their leader is Ossian.”

“Ossian,” Namara repeated. “The unpredictable one.”

“Some people heard a noise,” Vizer said, walking up beside the bars. “Thunder, they said. Only a few heard it.”

“Where?” Namara questioned.

Vizer clasped his hands together. “Within. And neither Raid, Ardis, nor Gavin have returned.”

“No coincidence.” Namara said. He finally turned away from the metal bars, some vigor returned to his eyes. “Something’s in here with us. But that something… the Stonepetal Sentinels are looking for it.”

“None of the others know,” said Vizer. “We can move before they do.”

“And do what, exactly?” countered Namara, voice a disdainful snarl. “No. We need no complications. Send one of our own out, rouse the blood of some of the Guardians. Lure the creatures inside. Have them flood the upper levels. We’ll wipe away the dirt with a tide of flesh and blood.”

“…it may be difficult to emerge from hiding in a timely fashion,” Vizer countered, wringing his hands tightly. “If we lure Guardians, those things will settle inside the higher floors. They’ll need to be purged once more.”

“Centuries we’ve stayed, our numbers dwindling more and more as the years pass by. It’s intolerable.” Namara glanced at Vizer. “See it done. Use someone reliable—someone used to trekking in the Low Way. The Sentinel, the intruders… let them succumb.”

Vizer nodded obediently, then walked away. Namara turned back towards the metal bars, staring at the library beyond.

#####

“So, it’s decided,” Argrave nodded. He sat atop a crate, speaking to Anneliese and Galamon. “We’re headed into the heart of the vampire’s territory—the lower levels.”

“I don’t like it,” Galamon shook his head. “But I dislike this entire situation. It’s the best option.”

“And our first genuine group decision,” Argrave said with a positive spin. “Won’t exactly be easy to get inside.” Argrave reached into his back pocket and pulled free a medallion bearing an owl on the front. “Remember this? Gave one to you, Anneliese.”

Anneliese nodded. “I do. It is a badge signifying membership to the Order of the Gray Owl. It allows one inside the Tower of the Gray Owl or its subsidiary branches in various cities.”

“Glad you have an understanding,” Argrave stowed his badge away. “The important thing is that it links to your magic fingerprint. This tradition of using one’s magic signature… it wasn’t started by the Order of the Gray Owl.”

“So,” Anneliese mused, placing a finger on her chin. “…the lower levels require a badge of that sort, just the same as the Gray Owl.”

“Not quite,” Argrave raised a finger. “The Order of the Rose had a more primitive system. The doors themselves only open to those with a magical signature recognized by the Order of the Rose. All of the vampires are apprentices from the Order of the Rose—hence, they have access.”

“Then we need only capture a vampire alive,” Galamon crossed his arms.

“I suppose we could,” Argrave nodded. He had not been considering that as an option because it didn’t exist in the game—another bit of evidence towards his limited perspective, and another reason he was glad he had sought out his companion’s perspective. “Hell, that might be the better option. The way I had intended… You remember those screaming heads on a stake at Thorngorge Citadel?” Argrave pointed at the two of them.

“The ones we should not kill,” Galamon nodded.

“There’s this place called the Menagerie of Morbidity on the upper levels. Has a lot of creatures out on display—grandiose abominations displaying alleged ‘necromantic achievements.’ Most of them are… pretty disturbing,” he admitted, gaze lingering on Anneliese. “One of them is a screaming head made of a Wizard that used to belong to the Order of the Rose. His magical signature is fully intact. As is his cognition.”

Galamon frowned and looked towards Anneliese. “That sounds… a bit ridiculous,” he eventually said. Anneliese nodded in agreement.

When put to examination, Argrave supposed they had a good point. This screaming head was a key item the player needed to access more of the headquarters—the player needed a way to progress, after all. It was an item of convenience placed solely for the sake of the game. Such conveniences would not exist in common reality, surely—but then, this had become his reality, and most other things remained the same.

Argrave’s head spun as he tried to wrap his head around it. Realizing he let a silence hang in the air for far too long, he quickly said, “I mean, we can probably just try and capture one of the vampires, but I think this should work…”

“Not used to you lacking confidence,” Galamon noted. “Be plain. Do you think this is worth the risk?”

“Compared to the prospect of capturing a vampire alive, yeah,” Argrave shrugged. “You saw the way those three were. Almost frenzied, unreasonable, and still dangerous despite all of that.” Argrave tapped his finger against his leg, thinking. “But with the Menagerie, there’s Anneliese to consider—can’t imagine the sights will be easy on her, what with her empathic talents.”

Anneliese shook her head in quick protest. “Thank you for your consideration, Argrave, but I refuse to be a hindrance. Even still, I’d like to know what waits within this Menagerie of Morbidity before I make a decision.”

Argrave nodded in understanding, leaning back on the crate he sat on. “A lot of the things within are locked up, or they’ve already been killed. The rest… they’re imitations of grander life,” Argrave described as best he could. “Of the ones still alive… there’s a wyvern, a mammoth, various types of big cat…” Argrave tried counting, but he realized the list was growing quite long and waved his hand.

“Too many to list, but they’re all malformed, each and every creation corrupted. The magic used to create them was imperfect, and they’ve morphed over the years into terrible things. Of course, they’re locked away. I doubt there will be much trouble. Best yet, there’s edible things there. We can replenish our food supply, if only just.”

Argrave waited as they both thought over what he’d said. Capture a vampire, or head into a necromancer’s zoo—neither seemed particularly fun options, but this was the hand they’d been dealt. He would be fine with either. As fine as he could be, at least.

“Considering the noise we made yesterday… it may be difficult to actually find a vampire, let alone capture alive,” Anneliese posited. “Though I am not fond of saying this, I believe we should head into the Menagerie.”

“Galamon?” Argrave gestured. “You’re fine with this?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “We should probably move quickly. No telling how things will proceed.”

“Right,” Argrave agreed, lowering himself down from atop the crate he sat on. “Let’s get going.”