faceless (narrative)
Long hallways were commonly signs of the wealth of a person, of a nation. The longer the corridor you were forced to endure, the more important the person who waited at the end of it. At least that was how the story was told. These meetings were not a trial for him to attend. In the main because... well, because there were a great many rules he had already broken. What was one more? The spear of his father was clutched in his hand, and its heavy counter-weight - a steel orb, polished and new as the day it was made - crashed heavily into marble with each step. Olas made no attempt to mute its noise, and his companion - a thin fellow with a wolf's smile - was not paying any atention to the sound of it. A strange place to meet. He could feel the stirrings of power here, in a way that he had not ever felt before.
Something was changed.
Once this had been the grand manor of a grand soul. Uathis had never realized precisely how much of a puppet he truly was. So when he had begun voicing objections, trying to influence the work that was being done, he'd been shuffled off in favor of Satharine. Now, in the dining hall that served to entertain guests of all sorts, Olas realized precisely why he'd been called here. That stunningly perfect face was staring at him with half-lidded eyes. She always seemed most bored when she was about to converse with them. It was infuriating. As though she knew precisely how to irritate him, and used tha to her advantage. But what advantage could she be seeking here? If she'd found out what he had been up to, then she would never have called him here. She would've had him killed.
"You are the last," said the wolfish man.
"Where are my men?" was Olas' reply.
"Dead, to the last," and now that smile grew larger on the wolf's face. "You should have known it would end that way, friend. We couldn't have them deciding your aims were not worth their lives."
He said nothing. To the last his father's Immortals had been loyal, but they were fatefully short-sighted. Returning to the World Tree was a pipe dream. Gershul had tried, and failed; if he could not do it, Olas did not see the way clear for any of them to do it. Not even this Oa with her supposedly boundless power. Nothing in this world would wither and die unless Ao wished it, or unless something else happened to make it so. He did not know who Oa was, or how she'd become so focused on destroying Ao's creation, but she fancied herself the opposite and equal of a god. That didn't matter, either. He was here for two reasons. One, she could not know that he was using the material Oa had given him to another purpose. And two, there was a chance he might see it at last. Skandra, broken and dead.
That was what he truly wanted.
"Does it not sadden you?" Orb's ever-shifting face was unpleasant to gaze upon; Olas made himself do it. "The deaths of your comrades?"
His gloved hand lifted, and Olas tapped his temple with a single finger. Once, twice, three times. Mixed in with the toothy smiles a frown appeared; angry and sullen.
"You can't tell?" it was a strain to make himself sound amused, but he managed it. "I think you're slipping. Creature."
"Enough."
The voice was more than adequate to silence all of them. For different reasons. Oa had Scythe at her side, now; that black behemoth spoke for her more often than not. Something was odd about the way he managed to speak with one thousand voices and none at all. Olas had asked after it once, when they were all maintaining the facade of polite behavior, and Scythe had suggested that every voice was a dying scream he'd saved for himself. Strange days, indeed. Yet no one wanted to explain what Scythe was. For the most part they all looked simply uncomfortable with his presence. And now armor rattled against stone as he walked. Walked to the crate which sat obvious and useless, just at the bottom of the dais. Gola was not here, was he? Or perhaps he wore the face of one of the servants?
You never could tell what that strange thing was thinking. They were all foreign in their own ways.
Everyone was looking to the box. Olas was studying Oa's face. Why engage in all of this nonsense? Unstable governments came and went; they would not achieve what she wanted by indulging in political games. Yet a part of him saw the logic in it. They were foreign to this place, yes, but they understood what motivated Skandra and his blind troop of fools. People. Places. Connections to a past that never mattered to any of them unless someone was trying to destroy it. Manipulating them into these smaller conflicts while the larger one played out, far from their attention... it was a general's dream. But Oa was not a general. For a moment, she met his eyes, and Olas shuddered. Thankful for the hood that hid his own. And wondering if she saw them in any case?
One side of the crate fell away. A woman, bound behind her back and at her ankles, spilled out. That fine dress she wore was a collection of ruin. Blood. Feces. Other things. Olas was interested, upon seeing that beautiful face. Satharine. She'd replaced Uathis some time ago. How had she fallen this far, this quickly? An unpleasant reminder of his own unstable position.
"You played a small role in this," Oa's eyes did not change, but she shifted in her seat. "Tell me how so minor a role as yours became the undoing of this trap."
"She cannot talk," that cacophonous voice rang against the inside of his iron helmet; Scythe seized a handful of her hair, and lifted Satharine's head. "I sewed her lips closed."
"She always was a tastemaker," Olas managed to sound glib. "Perhaps it will become a new fashion trend."
"Do you wish to explain in her stead?" Oa's eyes were bright, and fierce, now. "Perhaps you can tell me what she was thinking. Or perhaps I will cut it out of you."
"She was thinking what a human always thinks," and now sounding glib required no effort at all. "Profit. Money. Notoriety. They don't care who or what they injure in their quest for it, Oa. Do not be a child. But, I take it this means Skandra escaped?"
No one had ever spoken to her that way in his hearing. The wolf and the mimic were both very stille. Scythe was running a heavily-armored finger across Satharine's lips. She was trying and failing to scream in agony at the pain. Or at least, the screams were not fully escaping her mouth. How loud it must seem to her, and yet how little of it actually reached them. Oa studied him a moment longer before she spoke again. And when she did the thing - whatever Oa was, she was not truly a woman - began to descend the steps of the dais. In Satharine's direction.
"With the stone," Oa murmured quietly. "Somehow, he evaded death at Scythe's hands and interrupted an attempted theft of the stone. By the time Satharine had explained what happened to me, he was gone."
Somehow, he evaded. Interrupted. They did not understand. Skandra Tyullis was not a masterful strategist, or a fantastic warrior in the way of his elf friend. He was not especially clever, or bright, or gifted in any particular area. There was nothing special about him except the damned chaos that seemed to follow and favor him. What he referred to as 'luck' was a poor and uneducated way of describing chaos. Oa represented order, a firm and decided end to all things. Perhaps understanding chaos was not within her grasp. Yet call it luck, or chaos, or even the damndest sort of cunning - Skandra used it to great effect. Often enough that Gershul had actually speculated Skandra could control it, if he refined the ability. Those memories were worst of all; the wistful tone of their father's voice, as if Gershul had wished he'd kept Skandra at his side.
Instead of Olas.
"I warned you this would happen," Olas snapped. "I told you to leave him to me. I told you-"
"That time is past," Oa interrupted him coldly, but effectively. "You may be a proud and intelligent soul, Olas, but if you continue that sentence I will destroy you as utterly as a thing has ever been destroyed."
She paused.
"Do you doubt me?" she whispered.
A long silence. "No."
Satharine, meanwhile, was still attempting to scream. Well, attempting to open her mouth so that scream could fully escape. Olas wondered what, precisely, you would need to do to an extremely talented mage to break her so thoroughly. She was not one to think about the consequences of such obvious madness. At least, not here. Not now. Yet she was revealing with each passing second precisely how useless she was. Evidently Scythe was enjoying the experience. No one made even an attempt to shut her up. Oa patted the witch on the top of her once-beautiful head before she turned, staring up at Satharine's... chair. Throne, more like. That polished marble was inscribed with ever expanding circles of ancient runes, circles within circles within circles. Symbols of power. They meant nothing in this room, where everyone... and everything... rested comfortably outside the bounds of this limited strength.
"Fell," Oa addressed the wolf-man. "How do things proceed in Astarii?"
"They will fall," Fell replied.
As much as he understood the character of Oa - which was not much at all, in truth - he did not understand why she simply refused to strike. If Skandra and his companions were as dangerous as they all seemed to believe, it should have been the first action she planned to take. And yet this game was unfolding as she seemed to desire, with no real interaction between her and Skandra. Perhaps she truly had meant for Scythe to destroy him. Perhaps - and it was just as easy to believe this was the truth - she had merely meant to frighten him into surrendering this crusade of his. Olas would not have put it past her. So, Fell was in Astarii. Who was he pretending to be? Gola was an aide to one of the Free Cities' rulers. What role did Fell assume for himself? It hardly mattered. Olas knew his own part, had played it well enough. Fell's role was infinitely less significant.
"And Tyrus?" Oa turned her attention to him.
Olas had to consider again how much she should be told. The answer was not long in coming.
"The damage to all of our crossing points was extensive," Olas replied quietly. "The search continues for something that will serve."
Something that would serve. She knew what he meant as well as he did. There were no mysteries between them. And yet the one thing Olas refused wholeheartedly to do was reveal the few promising things that he'd found Oa could not be relied upon. If what she sought was what he sought, there was time yet to figure that out. Otherwise he would content himself with keeping his own counsel. She seemed satisfied with the answer, for now. For now. And when she nodded her head, those half-lidded eyes never betrayed an ounce of emotion. Perhaps she believed. And perhaps not. But Olas was sure of one thing, at least.
When Scythe began to talk, neither he nor Oa were listening.