7173 words (28 minute read)

Haxprocess

 

Haxprocess

By Conri

http://ceallachconri.deviantart.com/

Editing by C. Sacco

Cover art by Kassandra Leigh Purcell

http://kassandraleigh.deviantart.com/

His fingers rapped lightly on the lacquered brooch pinned to his lapel, a nervous habit Alphonse had picked up whenever he was presented with a problem he couldn’t quite solve. Yet no matter how long he tapped, the mockingbird emblazoned on his family crest never cried out to stop his incessant jabs. The pacing had begun to set in as well, but he had always paced about the Chamber of the Oracles. He had done so since he was first brought to this holy place.

White tile dominated the majority of the octagonal chambers he traversed. Brass and steel fixtures hung the various tools of holy work from the walls. Steward Alphonse Radley wound his way about the many apparatuses lining the Observatory ring, each one whirring, steaming, hissing, or pumping a different necessity of his order. He made his way rather unimpeded, as most of the excitement was further in. Through the reinforced glass walls encompassing the next level down, the Operating ring was a bustle of commotion as Deacons and Wardens busied about their stations and tutted to the nearby Alchemicae about their many findings and subsequent thoughts. As of late, the days had become much more hurried as the seekers of the faceless god did all they could to keep the lives of their prophets from slipping away. Alphonse made sure that his white leather steward’s surcoat was well clasped and said a quick prayer to the Exalted before finally stepping into the Inner circle of the Operating ring.

Within the turn of the last hour, the relative calm of the third watch had sparked into a raging torrent of activity. Alphonse was equal parts giddy, nervous, nauseous and elated. Clutching the autoscroll, containing the sum total of his formulae and calculations for the past three nights, the Steward forced his way to the Maester Alchemist on duty. The venerable scholar stood hunched over the ever flowing scroll of data being spewed forth from one of the many binary cogitators arrayed around the central theater. An anxious hand pawed at the old man’s scalp while he held the precious information but inches from his face.

“Maester Valen?” Alphonse’s voice nearly cracked from the emotional whirlwind he felt. “I have some concerns about the current diagnosis.” Valen remained consumed by the work before him. “Maester Valen, please, this is urgent.”

What is that whirling chatter? I know the sound of these vital and familiar machines. But what is that behind it all?

Valen was broken from his trance long enough to realize who was addressing him. His expression quickly changed from concern to disappointed anger. Letting the data scroll fall to pool into its receiving bin, Valen agitatedly turned on the lowly Steward. “Ah, the glorified wet nurse who feels he has attained the rank of Medicus by association. The Oracles are more active than they have ever been in the history of our order and we have much work to do.” He jabbed a gloved finger at the visibly intimidated Radley. “I have had enough of your wild assertions as to the well being of the Oracles. And in the end, you only succeed in distracting the rest of the Order. Your theories are the worst kind of assumptive reasoning, your methods are sloppy, and your conclusions are highly questionable. You are a poor Steward, Alphonse Radley. Now, if you would, go back to the Observatory ring and return to the duties you were assigned. And do us all the favor of staying out of the way of the Alchemicae and Medicae that have proper work to do.”

Alphonse cowered backwards several steps before sending a trolley of instruments cascading to the floor with a clamor. He jumped in fright to one side as if the upended tray was prepared to attack him for disturbing it. Those enrapt surrounding him barely took note as they continued in their muttered reveries. He knelt and meticulously deposited the instruments to their rightful arrangement, keeping his eyes down on his work. Standing once more, he returned the tray to it’s original position and chanced a glance up from his shoes. It was then that everything stopped in his world. Everything stopped when his eyes found them.

Within a gilded chamber, those songbirds of the divine plied their pained prophecies. Young and delicate, wan and morose, the Oneiroi above all others, wept and thrashed as the very music of the spheres pierced their senses. The pair sat addorsed, held fast by the chains keeping them back to back. Their lives brought to the moment of death’s embrace and torn back as a mere simulacrum of the living. Veins pumping with unnatural alchemies.

The Voces, a young girl no more than 12 years past birth, her eyes bereft of sight by plates drilled and pinned to the socket. Ears isolated from the world around her so that all she may hear is her sibling in sanctified suffering. She cants her sorrowful song in voices not her own. One a profound deep voice, the Basso, groaning a steady mournful dirge. Another, the Alto, bridging the melodious tones of the chorus together. Projecting above all, rose the grand Soprano, piercing the upper ranges with an aria composed of pure syllable, not a word to be found. And these were the voices just present. The Deacons had recorded a total of twelve distinct voices, all extolling in chorus, exalting in harmony, or screaming in cacophony from but one mouth.

Behind her sat her tortured sister. Of similar age and pain, The Augur has all the senses at her disposal but only her sibling, the Voces, may hear her. A mask of leather and brass sewn into her flesh so whatever divine noise were to escape is sent along wires and hose connecting directly to her dire sister’s ears. For all the perceived chaos that slips from the Voces, it is nothing compared to the choruses of the Augur. Hearing the Word directly from on high, singing unrefined hymns, of what seem pure madness, to the Voces. The Augur spoke but once to someone else. He now spends his days raking the padding away from his cell in Pilgrim’s Bedlam. The holy cacophony was too great, and his mind shattered before it as glass breaks before many a stone.

Revered as they are, they still bear the scars of the Oneiroi. Scars that show they are no longer of mortal being. Tubes, valves, hose, and brass riveted across their bodies and connecting them to the support machines and the great oppressive array. True life’s blood hasn’t pumped through their veins in years. They exist only to provide their divinities. Up their spines ran ports attached to hoses descending from the ceiling, making the prophets of the Order seem nothing more than alchemical puppets.

There it is again, that alien skittering staccato. What is it?

“I find myself lost in their wonder myself from time to time.” echoed a supine voice behind Alphonse. Nearly upending the cart he just set right once more he spun to come face to face with the Grand Alchemist himself. Maester Konstantine Tsoukaris, pensive and aged, stood with his right hand resting firmly on his cane while the left was held out in an expectant repose. “Let me see...what you have seen in them my son.”

With the care of an altar servant handing an aged tome to his venerable minister, Steward Radley turned over his autoscroll. His hands wrung in anticipation as the most learned of the Order scrutinized his work. Alphonse cringed at every sigh and twitched at every murmur as he felt the Grand Alchemist assess the young Stewards and what he felt was his very soul.

After a few grueling minutes of analysis, Maester Tsoukaris lifted his head and looked at Alphonse with a very worried face. “Would you testify to these findings before the Maesters Assembly?” The Maester’s voice was soothing, fatherly, and made Alphonse feel as though he could do anything if the Grand Alchemist was supporting him.

“Maester, every moment I spend pursuing the great works we do here, gives my life purpose and sacred meaning. I would be a poor servant of the Exalted if I did not stand by my findings,” Radley all but trumpeted as he made his profession of faith in their cause.

The old Maester gave a forlorn smile and beckoned him along. “Come then, we must prepare,” he said handing back the notes and turning toward the door. Maester Valen looked on with contempt but withheld his commentary. He knew that challenging the Grand Alchemist outside of formal proceeding would be tantamount to suicide within the echelon of the Order.

Maester Tsoukaris moved as swiftly as a man with the reaper following so close could. Clattering gilded flasks jounced from his hip as he made his way from the operations theater up to the observation mezzanine. Many a steward and deacon took reverent steps aside as they noticed the sweeping robes of the Grand Alchemist passing them. Once they reached a similarly tiled but sparsely furnished ancillary room, Maester Tsoukaris ushered the Steward to a seat by a large furnished desk.

This infernal rhythm plagues me so. Picking it’ terrible tremolo just beyond the ken of my hearing. Just above silence it lingers, simply taunting.

“You bring forth some very concerning suggestions in your assessment, Steward.” Tsoukaris said, taking off his white and gold mire as he seated himseld opposite Alphonse. “If I read this correctly, you imply that we must begin the Ritual Renovatio as soon as one month from this day.” He began reading the autoscroll in more detail. “Their anima are heightened as of late and you say this is a sign of their deterioration?” He leaned back and began stroking his wrinkled cheek.

Steward Radley sat silently for a few minutes in awe of his superior’s sudden interest in his work, completely missing the cue from the Grand Alchemist to explain himself personally. He snapped to when he received a rather blatant stare. “I...oh..my apologies, Maester.” A simple cough cleared his throat to begin. “Sire, I believe that the nature of the Oracles, being so close to the veil as they are, gives us insight as to their health by their overall activity. When this pair of Oracles finally synchronized at their creation 10 Samhradh ago, they began showing an upward trend of activity. And in those 40 years, we have seen that trend deviate in spikes here and there but the trend has been constant.”

Removing a kerchief from his pocket he wiped the cold nervousness from his brow. “Over the past three months, these spikes have not ebbed. We have also received a staggering number of new litanies to translate and the frequency, I fear, is due to one or both of the Oracles coming close to failing.” A tremble ran up Radley’s spine as he finished that sentence. This was one of the very creators of the Oracles. If this discourse went poorly, he could find himself upstairs secured and bound with the other unwilling patients of the Pilgrim’s Bedlam above.

Tsoukaris leaned forward, the trails of his mantle of office pooling on the desk. He face was dire, eyes that would make soldiers of the sternest stuff think twice before contradicting him. “I will remind you Steward, the statements you are proposing are challenging my personal designs. These are the closest thing to my own children that I will ever have short of seeding a womb myself.” His expression darkened further still, icing the blood and leaving a cold lump in Radley’s chest that he could not shake. Tsoukaris leaned in menacing. “Tread softly Steward, for you tread upon my dreams.”

Blanched and terrified, Alphonse saw the bitter fruits of his labors. The Exalted had allowed them to hear the voice. Now they stood to lose that very blessing, that his order had strived for across generations, and he was the messenger. Sitting before the man who was ostensibly the father of the Oracles and he had the unfortunate luck of being the one to carry such unsettling news. The Grand Alchemist was an intimidating man. A red ferriolone cape with accents of embroidered golden weave, resting atop a white cassock operating gown of equal embellishment, conveyed his holy position. The functional and consecrated leather stole he wore across his chest bore the symbols of his office as well as the carried vials of unguents and compounds he might need while away from his station. Together with his regal yet warm face, stern and deep set eyes, and a close cropped shock of salt and pepper hair, and you had a man that could carry his station as efficiently and directly as possible. But he had a responsibility to his station and the most Holy Oracles to see that something was done. He screwed up as much courage as possible and held his ground.

Radley stood up from his chair, adjusted the zuchetto on his scalp, straightened his family crest, and smoothed out the front of his stewards cassock. “Grand Alchemist, I realize that you find this news disturbing...We all do, but something has to be done.” He asserted, as respectfully as possible. ”I will not sit idly by while the ego’s and faith of every blind fool here sabotage the great works of this Order. The Augur is in need of a replacement, she is deteriorating faster than any of us could have anticipated or are willing to admit.” Alphonse’s eyes searched the floor as if it could give him some answer that he did not hold in his heart already. “We must save the Oracles.”

The leather of the grand chair, creaked as Maester Tsoukaris shifted his weight and rested his head in his hand. With the other hand he gathered up the autoscroll again from the report Steward Radley had assembled, “I see you have written as much here, brother. But I want to know how you came to these conclusions.”

Alphonse maintained his composure and began where he would have had Maester Valen not berated him earlier. “Your Eminence, as I said before I have found that over the past 40 years we have seen deviation spikes in the synchronicity of the Holy Pair. Nothing that didn’t return to normal after a few short hours at most and never more than 1 or 2 in an entire year. But I have noticed that in the past three Samradh, every year there comes at least three events and each lasting almost a day.”

The aged Grand Maester cycled through the pages in the autoscroll. “Yes but none of them have been threatening in the least.”

Steward Radley shook his head. “I must disagree, Your Eminence.” He walked about the desk and wound the autoscroll to a landscape chart. “You see here are the vitals of the Augur during each progressive event.”

“Yes, and they are all within the appropriate threshold.” Tsoukaris snapped, beginning to show a slight case of frustration.

Alphonse’s hand flinched back, “Well, Your Eminence, the vitals come forth as nominal but it’s the secondary readings that show the problem for what it is.” He reached forward again tentatively and scrolled to the next page. “This shows the prophecy tendencies given surrounding each spike. The Voces always speak of pain and suffering during these periods of recovery. This is always following a period of highly accurate activity and then a synchronicity drop. I believe that during these periods we aren’t hearing the Exalted word, but the pain of the Augur.” Tsoukaris’ brow furrowed as he examined the chart with greater scrutiny.

Taking a step back, the young steward realized his hounding proximity to the leader of his order. A simple kerchief from his own right pocket mopped the nervous sweat from his forehead while he continued his dissertation. “That pain has been growing ever greater and extended.”

The Grand Alchemist leafed the scroll through pages, browsing as he went. “Steward, I know you should know better than this. So I shall ask you what are the three states of Revenance?” He continued scrolling waiting for the lectured and drilled response.

I hear it as though it were coming closer and then fading away. Still grinding, clicking, and chattering. Would that I could stop it...

The lessons were still very clear in his mind. The years spent in the Pilgram’s Scholum had not been 2 years completed, allowing Alphonse relatively fresh regurgitation of the recent banal litany. “The Quidam, who retain their self and require the Mnemosyne. The Oneiroi, who have lost their self but retain cognitive reasoning. And the Barbaroi, who have lost their self and reasoning and are just above the intelligence of a common hound.”

“Very good, Steward Radley.” Tsoukaris mockingly praised. “And what are the sensory aptitudes of the Oneiroi?” He passed the autoscroll back to Radley.

After a moment of thought, confused as to the reason for the questions, Alphonse nodded “They have ocular and auditory reception with basic cognizance. Somatosenses are greatly diminished most notably mechanical and deep somatic pain.”

“Right again, Steward. Now to bring this all together, what are the Oracles classified as?” His stare bore into Alphonse.

Realizing the train of thought, Alphonse slouched and acquiesced to the line of questioning. “They are Oneiroi, your Eminence. Therefore, the Oracles would not feel pain as I attested.” He felt the doubt creep in. This can’t be when the data shows a picture diametrically opposite to this. I can’t let this go. I would be failing the Exalted directly! He leaned forward, resolved in his thought and insistent that he wasn’t wrong. “But these are these vitals all point to a wrong classification. These are somatosensory readings. They are feeling this pain.” He gestured to the data with a confidence he did not know he possessed. “They are Quidam. They are aware!” Alphonse’s frustration abruptly hit a final crescendo “And above all that I am sure that the Augur is dying! We must to act!” He threw the autoscroll back down to the table with an embarrassing crack. The paper, of the once contained scroll, ribboned onto the table, its housing snapped in two.

Steward Radley felt his gorge rise. The sheer incredulity that he had just portrayed would have earned, even those above him, the harshest of reprimands. And with what he had just professed, it may well be the Bedlam for him. To Alphonse’s astonishment, the Grand Alchemist gently motioned to the seat opposite the desk. “Please sit and let me explain my point.” Seeing the Stewards reluctance, Tsoukaris gestured more insistently. “Please, please, sit. It will be very clear once I’m done explaining.”

Cautiously, and with a hair of confusion, Radley made his way back to his seat. Dabbing his brow again to wipe away the condensed nervousness, he couldn’t help but ponder His Eminence’s sudden apprehension to the data. This was the smartest man in the Order. A man with the power to bring even the most holy of works to a grinding halt with but a word. What was the obstacle giving issue?

Retreiving his mitre from the table and placing it back upon his crown, Grand Maester Tsoukaris stood and began making his way around the desk toward the now seated, and terrified, Young Steward. “I must say, your resolve is impressive and inspiring. In the face of your superiors, you step forward and boldly declare their myopic ignorance and then maintain that temerity to defend your claims.” Radley could hardly believe this praise as a tremendous wave of relief washed over him. The Grand Maester stood calmly before him, a calm stance at ease and relaxed, casting a warm smile. Radley’s chest swelled with pride as he closed his eyes and listened greedily. “You should be commended and consider yourself a worthy member or our order. An example for this most holy institution. The Resurrectionists are proud to have you as one of their own.”

It’s so loud now. Why is it so loud? It screams within my skull, clawing at my mind.

Radley’s eyes snapped open, his momentary reverie broken by the tight grasp about his wrists, bronze clasps holding him fast to his seat. His mind raced trying to conceive what was happening about him. He writhed against the restraints and found it useless. He began to question what was happening but his voice was cut short by the sharp pain at his neck. Standing over him was Grand Master Tsoukaris, still at a calm parade rest, but a new layer of horror had replaced his genial demeanor. In its place was a new mechanical nightmare. The face of the stern but loving father was gone, replaced by the severe gaze of a ruthless purpose. Great bronze limbs extended from within the folds of his ferriolone, segmented as a spider’s and motivated with its clicking gears and hissing pistons. It was these very limbs that held him so fiercely in place, a horrifying inhuman grip on his wrists and throat.

Breaths came in sputters and gasps as Alphonse struggled desperately, yet futilely, against his betraying confidant and mentor. He counted four monstrous arms in all, Each as tall as a man and just as wicked. All were obviously worn, by age or use one could not tell. The Grand Alchemist stepped forward, the mechanical arms adjusting with his motions to maintain their grizzly grip, and produced from within his cassock a wicked palm length needle and injector. Within the reservoir swirled a hazy blue liquid that seemed to emit its own ghostly glow. As a Steward, Alphonse knew exactly what the instrument contained, one of the wonders of the Order, Mnemosynetic fluid.

Tsoukaris passed the syringe to the one free arm and returned his hands to the small of his back. “You are a wondrous member of our order, Alphonse. I do this with a great deal of regret.” The free arm craned over the Steward’s neck and found purchase at the very point where the skull meets the spine. It drove in, sending steel waves of gooseflesh rippling across his whole body. Without seeing the arm depress the plunger, he knew the deed was done as frigid foreign fluid forged it’s way into his spine and brainpan. Just as quickly as it had been administered, the needle was out and back in the aged hand of the elder, empty of its prior contents. Tsoukaris’ face softened as sympathy took hold. “For what it’s worth, know that your work will be remembered even if you are not. It’s not much seeing as in the next ten minutes your mind will be flooded with the sum total of memories contained within that dosage of Mnemo-Vitae.” He said with a sigh.

The grip of the terrible arms relaxed and Alphonse could breathe steadily once again. The Grand Alchemist looked Steward Radley in the eye, “The walls are thick stone and the door is solid ironwood, screaming or thrashing about will not stop what already has been done. Ask your questions now and I will give you what consolation I can in the moments of sanity you have left.”

Alphonse could scarcely assemble a thought, let alone formulate a cogent question. After several moments of shocked groping at the nape of his neck he found himself staring wide-eyed at his now former mentor, uttering a simple word, “Why?”

The arms fully retreated into the voluminous robes, appearing as before and completely without hint to their existence. “Your works are needed. You are not.” Tsoukaris said as he made his way back to his seat behind the ornate desk. “The life and well being of our order depends upon those within following the scripture of our founders and striving for the future, as you have. Sadly, your findings here could lead some to question that...” He took a deep breath and slowly retook his seat, “ That I cannot allow.” One of his aged hands found the autoscroll that Radley had brought forward to begin with. “Don’t fear. Your work will be put to use. But I have to...adjust the narrative to serve the Order.”

Steward Radley’s face gradually screwed up with contempt as the Grand alchemist droned on. At that last sentence, he could not refrain, “You mean serve yourself.” He spat in disgust.

The venerable Alchemist just shook his head. “Boy you must understand that this is one in the same. I assure you, we will stop the suffering of the Augur and find a replacement for her holy purpose. I am supremely grateful of you for this data you have offered us.” the Maester glided a hand over to a switch on the side of his desk and flipped it back and forth twice.

Alphonse blinked rapidly as he felt the surge of alien memory weave into his own. He remembered his first Commune. He felt the pride of his Confirmation Ceremony as he was inducted into the Resurrectionists. He felt the soft fabric of his first dress...No that wasn’t right..but there it was as vivid as the apple he had eaten for breakfast. He stumbled and lurched forward, shaking more violently with every passing moment. Tears streaming from his eyes uncontrollably, no sob came. His face was in shock, and the tears came down in rivulets. He gripped the heavy desk for support. “Us? What do you mean us?”

From a corner of the room to one side of a stately bookcase, there was an audible click. The bookcase, filled with medical folios and holy tomes of both age and prestige and pressed into the corner, now gave its true purpose. It was not flush to the far wall as one would think. In actuality it simply gave that appearance for the simple function of concealing the door nestled into the corner of the room. With a gentle rush of air the door gently swung open and gave way to new visitors.

Even in his increasing delirium, Steward Radley could make out the distinctiveness of the three who now entered to join the reluctant Grand Alchemist and his victim. The first came in strong and powerful, yet still lithe. She was tall, her head well over 6 inches above the head of the Grand Alchemist. Covered head to toe in leather and scale maille composite armor, she looked every inch the part of a big game hunter from the northern border with Skane, probably from the Waldeburg Province. In one hand she carried a sturdy spear of Ashwood and a brightly glinting exotic blade. Its shape was etched with what looked like Gaellian script, obviously a trophy from a fallen elfkin. Her helm carried two high mounted rams horns that made a close elegant loop behind the ear and back forward to the jaw. The face, a full visor covering all but for the eyes, was a fierce demon’s visage etched and burned into the leather of the helm. From head to toe these similar etchings snaked their way across the surface of the largest pieces of leather, giving the wearer the look of the Winter Demon feared and worshiped by the nordmen. Tsoukaris flinched at her appearance. He had not been expecting her arrival with the other two. She took her leave to the door leading into the operations theater, ensuring no one would disturb.

The second came in as a glacier fords across the land. Slow and implacable, resembling more mountain than man, he strode in. His long highwayman’s jacket settled a few inches off the floor, reaching up almost 7 feet to just below this monstrosity’s nose. Milky white cataracts terminally gazed over the lip of the high collar, the tell-tale signs of a blind man or an Oneiroi. It is his hands that truly revealed the purpose of this man. Blackened fingertips, bereft of nail, yet still sharp, they are as fire hardened spears. These wicked claws, the hallmark of the Oneiroi who find themselves dedicated to physical confrontation. His bald scalp was dry, crusted and flaking, with small incisions working this way and that from the brow to back. Each one a clue to the final alterations leading to this mindless, terrible, and tragic creatures fate. Heavy strides set him to one side of the door where he waited with unnatural patience for the next unquestionable order.

It was the final man who set the room to what felt like 5 degrees colder. The least physically of the group by far, yet still the most imposing, this final arrival wore the garb of a perverted physician. More butcher than healer, as his reputation was wont to insist, he wore all the appropriate adornments of a Patris Trinitaria. There were only three of these sacred men, each serving a member of the Holy Council of the Ordo Resurrectio. In his haze, Alphonse could only assume that he was the attendant of the Grand Alchemist. His surgeon’s cassock was stained yellow and brown from lack of cleansing. Blades swayed from his hips, always at hand. A garish top hat sat upon greasy salt and pepper locks. Obviously, the man had some kind of sense of personal appearance as his hair had been slicked back and his mustache had been meticulously waxed and twirled at the ends. He thumped the large beastly man on the chest as he walked by and the creature promptly shut the door behind them.

“Cyrus! What is she doing here?” barked the Grand Alchemist in a harshly raised whisper as his eyes looked as though they would erupt from their sockets.

“Ah Konstantine, how nice it is to see you.” The butcher replied dryly, adjusting his round glasses. “Would you please be more polite to our guest. The Fleischjaeger was kind enough to join us a few days early to give us a hand with your little problem...” his eyes lazily drifted over to the increasingly delirious steward. “Who’s the weeping willow?” He stepped confidently around the desk and leaned casually on the edge facing Alphonse. “I’d say he looks like he’s in the middle of Delirium Tremens.”

The Grand Alchemist peeled his eyes of the bounty hunter and turned to Cyrus. He rubbed his forehead lamentably, “You know the symptoms of Mnemosynetic Dissociation Syndrome. The overdose is not more than 2 minutes in.” The Maester Tsoukaris sat down again behind the grand desk. “He came forward with this.” His hand rested on the top of the autoscroll Radley had produced and slid it across the lacquered finish.

Dr. Cyrus lifted a quizzical eyebrow while picking up the loos scroll of the costly report and began skimming. A wicked grin tugged one corner of his wicked mouth as a low basso laugh rumbled in his chest. “Oh, Konstantine, it was about time something went your way.” His hand wheeled the dials at a fever pitch, extracting more from the shattered device. “You have the perfect scapegoat right here and you get to play the savior.” He spun about and mockingly pouted at the Grand Alchemist. “Just what you always wanted.”

Tsoukaris glared back at the doctor, looking as if he would remove the man’s head from his shoulders given half the chance. Eyes closed, he recomposed himself and readdressed the lunatic opposite him. “He presents a clean and complete alibi. I shall inform the Order of the failings that I found. When they see that I have traced the source back to this...” His pause weighed heavy in the air as the idea settled upon his conscience of just what he had actually done to a remarkable mind. “Now thoroughly broken shell of a sane man, they will find him in his cell raving and ranting as those with MDS invariably do. By that time, only the madness will remain from the overdose he is currently experiencing and he won’t be able to spell his own name let alone cast accusations.”

Hopping to the floor with obvious glee, Cyrus bound over to the gibbering fool that Radley had become. The steward was a drooling and babbling mess. He mumbled on about a lost day here and an incomplete night there. A shattered history within his own mind, as if the leaves of a grand library had been lofted into the air and reassembled as they fell. Leaning in close, the doctor took the thumb and index finger of a filth covered hand and opened the unfortunate man’s eye wide. “His pupils are fully dilated and judging from his rigidity he’s in acute catalepsy. I do so love seeing the effect of Mnemosyn on the living.” Radley did nothing but stare into the vacant distance. Cyrus grasped him by the jaw and rolled his head around in intent inspection, when a thought occurred to him and he turned both his face and that of Radley in the direction of Maester Tsoukaris. “Did you use up your last dosage on this one?”

The Grand Alchemist adjusted his cassock and sat up straight, as if attempting to deflect the question with a prideful breast. “No I did not, and I don’t need your assistance in reminding me of my condition.” He could feel the Cavae Viscus cold against his chest, as it drummed out the beat of his revenance, surrounding his heart. His hand found the brass cover plate under his garment “I have this well in check and I expect you to continue to maintain your silence.”

That serpentine smile couldn’t have stretched wider as Dr. Cyrus leapt up from his patient and all but hugged Konstantine with his outstretched arms. “Oh, Your Holiness!” He said bowing heavily at the waist and snapping back to attention. He was screaming in his exaltation. His hands waved back and forth accenting his uproar “You know that silence and secrets are my forte! I will be the most stalwart confidant. A Keeper of your darkest secrets and Warden of your Inner Sanctum” He dropped his arms to his side and turned to the Fleischjaeger “On a completely unrelated note, isn’t the soundproofing in this room astounding?”

The brooding warrior was found staring at the door intently. She had the posture of a great cat awaiting prey to walk beneath her perch. When beckoned, she turned her head slowly, made a quick scoffing sound and returned to her intent vigil of the front door.

A disappointed sigh followed a shrug in Dr. Cyrus’ defeat. “I have tried to engage her six times and I always get the same response.” he whispered in the direction of the Maester. “Now I’m assuming that you will be needing our services to take care of this then. Just racking up the debt aren’t we?”

Tsoukaris was obviously distraught by the mere reference to his past arrears. “I am fully aware of my dues without you continually bringing them up, you slovenly sorry excuse for a Patris. I would gladly have jettisoned you with the rest of the waste if I hadn’t need of you!” His voice rose and spittle launched. Brass arms now gripped the table, mimicking his gestures with the subconscious anger that welled up within him. It wasn’t until he had calmed and returned his deadly appendages to their rest that he saw the shadow that was looming over his shoulder.

“Now you see what you’ve done? Hugo is concerned.” Hugo stood no less than a foot behind Tsoukaris, looming in preparation to respond to whatever rash decision might be made. Dr. Obadiah Cyrus leaned on the desk, his shoulders hunched as the cobra’s hood is flared. “You’re aware of who is truly in debt ‘ere yes? I owe you nothing, savvy? Consumption would have taken you...’ell in a way it already has.” A taut finger jabbed at the rage and fear reeling Grand Alchemist. “But it was my beneficent heart that took pity on you and gave you the gift of becoming a Quidam. Now if you want to find out what happens to a member of the Holy Council when it is revealed that he himself is, for all intents and purposes, no longer in the light of the Exalted, please continue on this little tirade. I have already taken plenty of precautions to ensure that if you were to, by some stroke of luck, end me and survive Hugo’s ensuing programmed onslaught, it would be revealed to the whole of the world that you were not only a member of our esteemed Ordo, but a revenant with ill intent to be done against church and crown.”

Cyrus spied Tsoukaris darting his eyes to the Fleischjaeger here and there. “Don’t mind her,” Dr. Cyrus snapped. “She is well paid and comes highly recommended for her discretion. I would be more worried about your damaged lump on the floor.” A moan escaped the once brilliant Radley as he received a swift boot from the butcher. “I’ll take him to his cell using the wall passages. I’ll leave him there to be found jibbering and holding evidence of the tampering that you will expose to the Order. Are we in agreement?” His eyebrow arched awaiting an answer.

Tsoukaris, remaining calm in the face of lofted threats, took a steady breath. “Yes. I would suggest you and your gaggle immediately begin the search for an appropriate candidate for oracle. I will need at least ten to begin testing synchronicity.” The mixture of dread and hate sat like a bile ridden lump at the back of his throat, but he maintained and went about busy work in the moment to keep it that way. He began gathered up Radley’s autoscroll from the cluttered desk and folded it into a folio, hiding it amongst the other medical texts on the back wall.

“Oh, Your Eminence,” The butchers mocking bow and overly indulged honorific lacked the appreciation and respect that poor Steward Radley had lavished upon the venerated Master earlier. “I will surely begin selections for you this very night. I plan on heading to the Nether district post haste to acquire the first of your new litter of subjects.” His smile reeked of perverse, sadistic, relish. With an abrupt snap of his heels and straightened posture, he summoned Hugo to his side. “Come my lugubrious counterpart. Heft this sack of fresh lunacy and get ready to leave.”

Extending a hand to the armored hunter in the corner, he put on his best court tongue. “Would you kindly join me this night in a glorious hunt amongst the starless depths, my dear?”

With one last gaze at the door leading to the operations theater, she ended her reverie. Her armor jangled and rustled as she headed back to the hidden doorway. Brushing his hand aside with her shoulder, the Fleischjaeger made her nonverbal disdain apparent. Hugo fell in step behind her, the mumbling mess draped over his shoulder. At the door she turned her head and gave a look that defied her lack of facial features and sent a chill down even Dr. Cyrus’ spine. Her intentions made known, she left the room with the great Oneiroi in tow.

“Even on the clearest of nights and surrounded by six guards armed to the teeth, I wouldn’t feel safe with that daemon on my trail.” Cyrus said with a mindless shudder. “She’s of the manos exulto, just as you or I, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t hellhound in her family tree somewhere. Now, where was I? Ah, yes! The candidates.” He swept up the pen from the well on the desk along with a piece of loose parchment on the desk in front of him. Running the pen quickly along the edge of his tongue, he hovered his hand just above the page. “What are the requirements this time?”

Tsoukaris came back to his chair holding an all new hefty folio in his hands. Covered with red canvas, the face of the folio featured a neat gold etched, cream label. Deftly written on that label, in the font of a learned and practiced hand, was the simple phrase ‘For the Oracle spoke, with words most triumphant. And lo, the wicked were felled before the Exalted Truth.’ He closed his eyes and muttered a small reverant cadence. He could hear Obadiah rolling his eyes with impatience, but he did not break his introspection and observance. Once opened, he quickly sought out the charts of the current Voces and found his quarry. “Here it is.” He placed the waxed preserved parchment on the table gently. “Her synchronicity profile shows that her age at time of revenance was 14, so look for someone close to that age. Look for sable hair as well if you can. It may seem trivial but these are the chosen of the heralds of the exalted and that is what was chosen before. She was curious, inquisitive, and insistent on answers. Be on the lookout for any other similar personality traits. The subject should be of good health of course.”

The pen danced in Cyrus’ hand as he wrote his notes. He quirked a brow and lifted his head. “Sex?” he interjected.

Tsoukaris shrugged. “Bring a variety. The Exalted chooses what The Exalted will. We must do this quickly and quietly. I cannot stress that enough.” He wiped at the sweat of his brow and then looked at the standing clock against the wall. “Ah, now if you’ll excuse me. I must attend to my condition.” He reverently returned the records to their rest and rose to replace the folio to its berth on the shelf.

The butcher chuckled wryly. To the Grand Alchemist it was somehow reminiscent of a dragging a body across cobblestones. “Fear not,” he said “I always do what is required. You just remember your place and we won’t have any trouble.” He took out a cigar from his breast pocket. The lamp cover was removed. The raw flame danced about the room, giving Dr. Obadiah Cyrus the lighting of ghoul that he was. Gaunt of face and scant of remorse. That very dancing flame ignited the note paper. He lit his cigar from that flame and then let it fall to the ashtray to be consumed. “I think you have an appointment with a vial of memory, Your Eminence. I will leave you to your gallows company.”

Next Chapter: Beneath The Mire