Sport on the Mountain
Landfall
Swaying under the breath of the unimpeded wind, the dry grass welcomed the migrants to their barren, austere home, bowing before the new guests to the rocky island of Lorelei. First to peek over the abrupt cliff-face was a gloved hand, soon followed by an armored hand and helmeted head. A piece of dirt crumbled beneath his hand as he transferred his weight to it, but his other arm already held firmly onto a nearby boulder.
"We'll have to find a better path up to bring up the supplies."
"I don't know about that, Warwick. This was the first spot in half a dozen leagues where we could even get the barque to shore. Might need to build a hoist."
"We'll do what needs to be done."
With the grace of a practiced climber, a second man had risen above the cliff face and joined his companion. This one was unarmored, but his arms were corded with muscle, and his skin tanned by the beating sun of the tropics. Both surveyed the land for a time while more men and women came up from the shore.
Bouncing above and beneath the horizon, a mishmash of grey, black and brown hills occupied their view, with a few patches of dry yellow grass and even drier bushes dotting the land. To the East, in a lower part of the plateau, a few stubby trees had formed a copse around a little pond. It seemed most rainfall streamed right off the stony hills into the ocean, the soil too thin to retain much moisture; the pond was probably the location of a depression in the bedrock itself.
Westward, the relief rose higher, with the highest heights found on a dark massif of slate crowned by a smattering of emaciated shrubs.
Warwick pointed towards the prominence and asked a short, white haired woman:
"This sharp ridge there... Is that it? Check it, Karachi."
Without a word, the girl extended a small telescope hooked onto her belt to its full length and pointed it at the highest point of the island.
"Hmm, yes, this matches our records. Both watchtowers have crumbled down, but the gatekeep stands still, even all these years. And I think I can see the solarium's dome behind it!"
Cheers rose from the gathering crowd behind her; finding the mythical Temple of the Archivist Order was the raison d'être of this entire venture, after all. This crew was a motley one indeed; there was scarce any two individuals who bore a resemblance to one another. Many originated from countries across the breadth of the Holo and Niji Empires, some others came from the Independent states. On their anatomies you'd find leaves, furs, feathers, wings and tails, claws and scales, and epidermises of every shade and hue, down to snow-white. Some gave their mismatched neighbour an accolade; others nodded approvingly and got to work unpacking some luggage.
A few orders were barked and a group led by a pink-armored man and a thin albino headed towards the copse to replenish their supply of freshwater, while a few sailors and a red-haired girl busied themselves with putting up a tent.
However, the Heimin's pale brows furrowed at something the spyglass showed her. "Captain, it's... strange, the mountaintop is covered in fog."
Letting go of a friendly shoulder he was clasping, the burly tanned man turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "Fog? Maybe some clouds?"
After another inquisitive look, she sweeped her arm across the sky, pointing the deep azur sky, clear of any blemishes as far as the eye can see. "This isn't cloud weather, captain. The air dry as can be here."
He scratched the dense stubble covering his chin. "What if it's one of those weird mountain clouds, lentil, lensi, uh..."
"-Lenticular clouds? I don't think so captain. These shroud the mountaintops, floating above them, and they're much smoother. This fog seems to be surging from the surface. This was never mentioned in our records..." She cut him off with the explanation, and turned to him with a frown. "Where's Ptymse?"
The words "Here, I'm here," came from the escarpment, and a long tail snaked itself around a slate ridge, helping the Salamoim pull himself over the edge. "What is it?" The small man hefted a bag nearly as tall as him on his back, and quickly took it off to gently set it down, before brushing off some cliff dirt from his fancy-looking slacks and vest.
His captain rumbled a question at him. "Something stinks, shenanigans are afoot on the peak. Any idea what could cause a weird fog?"
Still breathing heavily from the efforts of the climb, the little man sat down next to his pack and squinted at the top of the mountains for a few moments. His ears twitched a few times, his nose wrinkled with concentration. "Mmm... There's a strong arcana at work here, to be sure. Fog magic and manipulation is a bit niche, but common enough back home, in Vinag, especially in the cloud forests. But we're so far from there..."
Though he remained silent during these deliberations, the armored man was looking at his companions intently, clearly deep in thought. He remembered the road to Lorelei, it had been an arduous path, but they were so close now. From gathering the ancestral keys, scattered to the four winds by the Order's downfall, to winning the HoroFaiytzee World Tournament to get the backing needed to fund this entire expedition, he'd really thought uncertainty was behind them. But it seemed there may be one trial before them.
"Arr, I ken that fog." A few faces turned towards the source of the locution; it was old man Neresus, the expedition's Seisi. A scaled hand reached up and squeezed a soacked towel wrapped around his head, letting some seawater dribble on the red-orange anemone tendrils hanging from his scalp. "I seent it a decade or two back, tis was a day like this here one. Nary a strand o' fluff in the sky, and good strong winds too, great fecking day for sailin, a withered one for fishin. I member I was sailin with a Gemlin skipper back then, haulin pigment 'n dyes to them Pinky states in the West-"
"Get to the point, geezer." Visibly, the heimin had no patience for her elder's tale. Neresus cleared his throat before continuing: "Arrhem, I be getting to it, fruitcake. Well, we were sailing along out in the open a couple hunnerd klicks South of here, and we saw that cloud just sitting there on the sea, squished on the surface like an overripe fruit fallen on a sun-baked rock. Then, when we were less 'n a league from it, out of the fog came a big ship made o' ice an frost. Long and sharp like a sword it was, and as it cut the sea, this fog slid off that icebergy hull, like tears on a pretty face." A barnacle-covered knuckle pushed a strand of anemone from his left eye and he gestured toward the slate mountain.
"That ship, twas a Deadbeat warship, cold heart pumpin with their frigid magicks, on its way to the Colour Wars. This fog up there, I'll betcha tis the mist of Death, don't see anythin else to be doin that out here."
Warwick stared at the ruins, shrouded in the fog. Death, huh. It had caught up to them.
Qualifications
A few days had passed. Up the rocky slopes, there had been no movement in the mystical ruins; no human movement, at least. Around the buildings, the blanket of fog had gotten even denser, and was now spilling from the peak of the massif, rushing down the hill like the world's slowest avalanche.
Down near the cliffside, the expedition hadn't been sitting idle either. After shuttling more supplies from the small ship anchored farther at sea, their small encampment had grown to accommodate every member. A few thin ghosts of smoke were climbing up from the few cooking stations that had been set up, and a bigger one from a makeshift blacksmith. Much of the group had been scouting out the island and updating the ancient maps the revived order had on hand. Little had changed on the craggy rock since those had been drawn, four hundred years prior, but some cliffs had been swallowed by the raging sea, worn down by the march of time. Hidden in the crags, the rock turtles mentioned in the ancient texts had grown more numerous and placid than as described, likely due to the years without predators, though they were still prone to gnawing on the hull of any vessel unfortunate enough to make landfall.
A bit farther inland, waddling along in the less desolate parts of the plateau, the local stony dodo species had similarly been thriving in the absence of human settlement. A few specimen had been captured, with some fated for the bellies of the explorers, and others for attempts at domestication.
However, under the leaders' instructions, a wide berth had been given to the mountain's peak. That was, until today.
...
Every step prompted a cacophony of creaking and cracking as the would-be archivists stepped over the shards of slate. Once upon a time, a paved path had connected the peak to the lower plateau of the island, but this path was now unusable in many parts, blanketed by piles of rocks crumbled from the steep slope. It would have to be restored in time, but for now the concern was with reaching the peak and elucidating this mystery.
About half of the expedition, a bit more than twenty individuals, were climbing to the ominous peak. Warwick led the charge, as expected, his dull bronzed armor remarkably shineless under the harsh tropical sun. A step sent a small stone careening down the slope to his right, knocking rocks of increasing size out of balance until some watermelon-sized boulders were slowly but noisily rolling down the gradient.
"This path is treacherous, be careful." One of the shorter companions chuffed at that. "Worry about yourself, old man." Ptymse's smaller feet didn't seem to have much trouble finding steady ground to step on amongst the mounds of pebbles. "We've got more important things to worry about than stepping on our tail besides. Right?" The well-dressed man was staring attentively at their destination as he lithely stepped around the more precarious footholds.
Not for the first time since the beginning of this hike, words from the morning's briefing echoed in Warwick's ears.
"Any idea who we might find up there, Ijji?" The deadbeat crossed his arms over his chest, in deep thought. His triceps rippled as it moved, the muscle thin but excessively defined, with each fibril drawing a ridge in his ivory skin. Ijji was the expedition's medic, but today his cultural expertise was what was required.
"Such a far-reaching a macroeffect, this kind of powerful Mordimdima is a rare thing. I would expect it in the towering zigarie of the motherland, in the Hell Troopers' academies, or from a renowned Ilua; at the very least, in a place where such talent is recognized. Out here, on a forgotten rock fallen from the consciousness of the world... Whoever this is is not welcome in the lands of rightful men, ran or was expulsed from them. Pirates or bandits of some sort, or perhaps an exiled warlord... We should approach with caution."
Caution, huh... Caution can only go so far, thought Warwick, back on the rocky path. They'd made some preparations, but their means were limited, the money from their tournament winnings had been stretched as far as it could already. A chilling breeze flowed down the hill, and they were beginning to enter the mist; the peak was close.
...
Deserted. The Archive complex was devoid of any life. Each ruin was exactly as abandoned as one would have expected from piles of bricks that had sat uninhabited for centuries. There was no food in the storehouses, and most buildings were so dilapidated as to be unusable. Every piece of precious metal or stone, any artefact, had been scavenged by looters from ages past. All that remained of the once glory of the Archive Temple was what still stood of its architecture. At the center of the campus, the dome of the Main House was the best preserved structure. From without, the once polished surfaces of the slate stonework was now dull and shineless, the bas-reliefs that once adorned it made illegible by the wear and tear.
On the inside, the decorations were better preserved. On the hemispherical surface on the ceiling, countless tales of heroes great and small were recounted and recorded in the engravings, with the recent and mundane near the floor, and the mythical and divine found near the apex of the dome. Some members of the expedition had fallen to their knees thanking their divines that such a precious artwork could be found intact upon entering the large room.
In other words, the place was much as they'd expected to find upon arriving to Lorelei, except for the matter of the cold. Everyone was wearing an extra layer of clothes, but they had still underestimated the temperatures they would encounter. Most surfaces indoors or in the shadows were frosted white, and mirror-like puddles of smooth, milky ice dotted the connecting paths.
After a careful survey, they determined the magical fields were densest near the most precious location in the Archive Temples; the Vault. The room leading to it laid below the Main House, down a wide flight of stairs; this was where the expedition wanted, needed to go the most, where they could verify the heritage of the Archivist Order still awaited them. But it was also the area of greatest risk.
Steeling their will, the inheritors of the Archivist Order's legacy began their descent into the darkened vault.
Anthem
Once upon a time, these stairways had been illuminated by rows of divine lamps seated in the recesses found in its top corners. From what he'd read, they'd shined an orange-gold light, and required no fuel or other worldly power sources, instead a priest of the most ancient gods simply needed to step in front of the bulb and speak a heartful prayer to renew the glow for another year.
Today, there were only empty holes where the artefacts had once been nestled, and the light shone no more; they likely had been torn out of their sockets before the grandfather of anyone present was born. Instead, black ink filled the stairwell, until the expedition washed it off with their own lamps.
Ptymse's tail held up his own lantern, leaving a hand free to nervously thumb the hilt of his cutlass while the other held the stair's railing. This section of the Archive Complex had a different architectural style than the rest, more advanced-looking, but older as well. Each wall was covered by fine brickwork with nigh invisible seamlines where the stones were joined. Despite their apprehension, the group was walking down the stairs at the same speed since the beginning of their descent, five minutes ago.
Every step further unto the vault's gullet brought another chill; perhaps the reason the explorers were keeping up the speed was because it was the only way to stay warm in these ancient halls. "One more flight before we reach the entrance. Everything ready?", announced and asked their burly captain.
"All in order, Aki." Up ahead, the steps gave way to a small floor and a right-hand turn, followed by a final set of stairs. Splashes of water stained the steps treacherously here, slowing down their procession somewhat. Ptymse pulled a little golden marble set into a bronze locket from his breastpocket; within the faintly transparent orb, an orange needle was floating. In the dome, it had been pointing straight down, but the magical compass' direction was now erratically shifting to and fro as the currents of the Mordimdima swirled around. Overall, however, it was still pointing down these very stairs.
Around them, only the sound of their breathing, of their feet gingerly walking down into the inky dark, and of their equipment clanking along were resounding. Without those, the corridors would be dead silent. As they neared the end of their hike into the artificial cavern, the members exchanged a few looks. Most held guns in their hands, each bearing three or five barrels, locked, loaded and ready to be fired in succession. Others had crossbows resting in their palms, with the magical boltheads gleaming faintly in the unlit cold. The rest were at the front and wielded an eclectic variety of close-quarter weaponry, from Warwick's two straight swords to the captain's short but heavy axe.
At last, here they were. Strangely, the stairs did not end with the expected stone tiling; it took a second for Ptymse to identify the surface as ice in the dim light of their lamps. Warwick had to duck under the doorway into the cavernous room; the bottom layer of ice was incredibly thick, at least Ptymse' full height, based on how close it got to the stairwell's ceiling.
Inside, the chamber of the Vault entrance opened up in an unseen space, shrouded in darkness. All took their place in a defensive formation around the entryway they'd just crossed, and let the air sit for a few moments; fingers near triggers, eyes darting about nervously. But nothing happened, only the blue-white, milky, smooth surface of the ice below, and the abyss ahead and above.
Warwick gave a sign to a tall girl crowned by long, dark blue hair. She quickly set on the ground two small launchers, and triggered the first one's spring loaded mechanism.
A grappling hook shot out of the barrel, pulling a cord behind itself as it arced through the vast room; they heard it hit an unseen wall somewhere ahead, around the far right corner, and the gal flicked a switch. Hundreds of small gems attached along the side of the rope came to life, turning the cord into a linear constellation of luminous dots at first, before the light emitted slowly grew to an intensity sufficient to reveal the chamber. She got to work firing and activating the second light-rope as the expeditioners took in the surroundings.
The church-like space was dozens of meters wide, long, and tall, the largest dimension being the distance between their current location and the opposite side. A series of somber, grey metal gates lined the two side walls, the ice blocking their access even if one had the keys required; the doors' handles themselves were frozen in. In front of them was the entrance to the Archive itself; a circular vault door at least six meters tall, though the lower part was obscured by the ice. A mechanism of metallic linkages interweaved with a concentric runic engraving; as per their data, this gate was nigh impassable, whether by mundane or by supernatural means. It seemed unaffected by the centuries of abandonment.
Perhaps most strangely, the room was utterly empty. No magical artefacts, no praying wizards, only the perfectly flat, white surface. So cold was it that the ice wasn't even slippery, their boots tended to stick to it slightly instead, and quite strongly if they stood in place for too long.
A few minutes passed where the explorers advanced into the room, slowly, cautiously. There were no alcoves, no cavities, nowhere to hide in this place. And yet, no enemy. Had they entered the lair while the beast was away?
"What now, captain?" Warwick asked his muscled companion the question, his voice collected, but ready.
"Hmm... Well, no one is here, but something is still causing this. Has to be camouflaged somewhere, let's do a sweep for stealth spells, and think of a way to get rid of this ice." He tapped the frozen surface with the point of his boot, letting a hollow thud rise from the floor.
Upon hearing the order, each member of the group was set into motion. Ptymse pulled out his magical compass, see if it might point towards said artefact. Up, down, left, forwards, the needle swung about wildly. 'Still useless', was his first thought, but then...
Something took hold of the needle, and froze it in place, pointing straight down. By the time Ptymse processed this information and called out to his fellows, it was already too late.
Matchday
[WIP]