Hall of the Dead Pt. 1

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It's a dark and stormy night, which is to say that it's dark here inside this badly-lit bar and there's so much tramping about from the dancing that it's a bit thunderous.  It's a stretch as a setup, but I'm a bit bummed right now.  Because of my mood, the real thunderclouds are on my face.  I can tell because my friend Gerude plunks down beside me and says:

"Did one of the bartenders wipe his ass with your glass, because that's what it looks like on your face."

I blink, shake my head and look up.  "What?"  I check my glass reflexively.  "Gerude, that didn't make any sense."

"Hey, I don't have to make sense, you're the Poet. Right?"  He sees my scowl, then frowns.  "Oh come on, not again."

"Oh yes," I say sulkily, then curse myself for adverb usage.  After big exams I get hung up about the silliest things.  "Jhe Edward's found something else to dock me for.  No pass.  No graduation.  Again."

Gerude rolls his eyes, then calls the bartender over.  The bartender's too busy to pay attention to him - or possibly just ignoring us.  They do that when you had too much fun in their establishment a night or so ago.  At least I can say that I learned something in Beleth - how to party.

"I can't see how this can be so hard.  You write creepy stuff, he writes creepy stuff.  There's really only so many times you should have to try before you get it right.  Just like with puzzles."  He pouts at my empty glass, then signals the bartender a little more urgently.  The bartender acquiesces after drying one last already-dry glass, and soon enough we're well-equipped with one glass of night-forgetter each.

"Yeah, well.  You'd think."  I sigh.  "But you're not a Poet, and you're not Edward Cruxradia, Master of Fear, Scholar of Horror, Laureate of... Some Scary Balderdash, and so your opinion doesn't count for parsley."  I shake my head.  "I just want to drink it into the past, quite honestly.  Maybe I'm not cut out for a Poet.  Maybe I should head back to Robinstead."

Gerude punches me gently in the side of the head, which is sort of like a hug for the Armed.  "Shut up.  You're being stupid."  He swigs his drink, thinks on it for a few more moments, and then says, "What'd that scary old buzzard fail you on this time, anyway?"

I snort.  "I didn't dress for the occasion."  I wait to let Gerude regain his composure.  He just spit out his liquor, after all.  "I made him genuinely startled, I gave him the crawlies, I'm pretty sure I got him scared at one point with what I wrote.  It was a good scenario.  But once it was over and I actually walked up to him to discuss my tremendous, astounding success, he looked over me.  He paused right before he was going to say I passed, I just know it!  And then he gets this twinkle of bullshit in his eye that others confuse for mischief, and he tells me that I can't go through all that trouble of establishing scenario and then mess things up with my appearance. My... Gerude, my shirt was untucked."

Gerude loses another mouthful of his liquor to my oratory skills.  "WHAT?!"

"He said nobody's going to take my work seriously if I don't make myself serious or... or something.  Something about presenting the proper image as a Poet, so that society takes us serious-- stop laughing, Gerude, this happened.  Anyway, however true it is, he's my mentor and he determines whether I graduate.  Until then I'm stuck as a trainee.  Probably forever, too, because I can't see how I can do this."

"Hm."  Gerude seems to be seriously thinking this over.  I check to see how much I've drunk, because Gerude doesn't seriously think about anything.  "You know, you're not the first Poet to complain about Uncle Edward.  Even Daddy has to kick him back into line sometimes.  Uncle Edward gets a bit too big for his britches when someone lets him be in authority for too long.  He's a bit notorious for it - Stevane's already giving him hell about it, you know."  He grins.  "Speaking of situations that give you the willies..."

I chew on my lip.  "Well, then what keeps him in line?  I can't take this to Jhe h'Akribastes.  That'd be silly, and he'd probably squish me so much as look at me."  I shiver.  Gerude's Daddy gives most people the creeps.  He definitely lives up to his reputation.  I certainly learned that after moving here.

Gerude gives me a look like my nose is growing in backwards.  "You nincompoop, the Judge is for keeping Armed in line.  You have a King for this stuff.  Jeez!"

The light of inspiration dawns on me, the light of hope.  Of course!  Jhe Edward has authority over my teachings, but it's Jhe h'Logos that's the final judge of whether I've surpassed the trainee level!  I could talk to him.  There's a way out of this, I just know it.

I down the rest of my drink and resolve to settle the matter just as soon as I've slept off tomorrow's hangover.

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"'Bit?  What's the matter?  You sick?"

Stevane smiles without any of her usual fire.  "Yeah.  I mean, no!  No, I'm fine."  She takes a sip from her glass, the foam forming a thin line above her lip.  "Maybe a little, Uncle."  She pouts just a little, her finger tracing the rim of her glass.  "Must be something going around."

I grunt and savor my own fermented version of the local brew.  "Somethin's going around?  Figures, I finally let you talk me out of my office only to be exposed to the plague."

She laughs.  It's a shorter laugh, not as full and deep as her mirth ran as a small... smaller child. At nine years of age, she's already starting to show some signs of inheriting her daddy's dour personality.  I far prefer the innocent, bubbly girl she was.  Watching it fade into cynicism is surprisingly painful.

"I don't think it's anything as bad as that, Uncle.  Probably just some kind of cold."  She sneezes as if to punctuate her point and scratches her nose on the sleeve of her sweater.  "Sorry.  I really just wanted to visit."  She glares at me.  "You don't visit much anymore."

"I'm a busy man, 'Bit."  I smile, but it's not enough of an apology for my little tidbit.  Those gold eyes of hers stare at me over the rim of her glass as she drinks.  "I have the trainee exams to proctor, and of course my own writing--"  

Stevane has gone pale grey, her eyes staring at me in panic.  As I watch, they roll back into her head, and she starts choking, her body arcing as she tries to draw in a breath.  She slumps and begins to fall off her stool, and as I lunge to catch her, my arm sends my glass flying into hers.  Mine explodes on impact; hers tips and falls, rolling off the table to shatter on the pavement below.

She gasps, and her chest rises and falls -- but it's too fast.  Much too fast.  Her heartbeat is erratic, and the grey cast of her skin is deepening.  

Fucking plague.  I knew it was the plague.

I scoop up my 'Bit and charge up the steps to the Poet Hall.  

Empty.

Since when is the Poet Hall empty?

I step inside, for a moment lost in the mystery of the Hall looking so damned abandoned.  Stevane coughs, then chokes.  Urgency overrides my natural curiosity, and I head down the main passage to the infirmary.  My own heart skips a beat when I hear a low boom behind me, and I glance back.

Just the front doors shutting.  Panic is making me jumpy, but now that I'm aware of it, I can calm down and use my noggin.

The infirmary is as abandoned as the rest of the building.  I lie Stevane down on one of the beds, propping pillows behind her head to keep her from drowning in her own spit, or worse.  "Rest easy, 'Bit.  I'm gonna find us some help."  Her eyes flutter, and she manages one shaky nod.  I tuck the covers around her and kiss her forehead.  It's cold as death.  "I'll be right back."

I fly out of the infirmary with dangerous speed.  My footsteps echo sharply through the Hall and seem even louder than they should be right now.  It's too quiet.  Why is it so quiet?  "HELLO?" I shout?  No, that'll take too long.  I try to search out any nearby minds and hunt them down directly - a skill that's sometimes a little iffy for me, but it certainly helps in these types of situations.  But it's no good - I can't find anybody here.

Or it just might not be working.

The infirmary's placed in a less-populated area of the Hall, but it's very near the dormitories - there should be help there.  I skid to a stop.  I'm on the ground floor, where most of the trainees  live.  Well, that's no good, but I should be able to find someone qualified on the second floor.  I ignore the strange smell that seems to pervade down here - regular trainee stuff, I'm sure.  Damn kids.  I head for the stairwell.

There is a dead body lying across the stairs.

Gray skin, drool and... something else trickling right out of his mouth.  Sprawled as if the strength just went right out of him while he was climbing.  He looks so happy.  I think he recently graduated - Jhe Lustig, I believe?

Theos, has somebody already died of this plague?  I should investigate, but a prickle goes up my spine.  I turn away from the stairwell and head down the row of doors on either side of me.  There's a shuffling sound before I get to the room I'm looking for - I check behind me.  Is the body gone from the stairs?

Hah, it is.  I start to relax.  I open one of the doors and look into Jhe Erynn's room.  The boy looks up from his desk, all innocence.  He's writing.

"Very nice work," I say, "but you've got to keep track of your props."  Of course.  Everything makes sense now.

He looks back at me, perplexed.  "Props, Jhe Edward?"  He gets up from his desk.

I step in, closing the door behind me.  It's not right to reprimand a student in front of the whole Hall.  Well, maybe sometimes, but I don't want to this time.  All of this should really stay private, considering the nature of Jhe Blackirons's previous failures.  "Your props.  The dead body on the stairs."

His eyebrows shoot up.  "There's a dead body on the stairs?!"  He moves toward the door with obviously feigned surprise.  While he does so, I step a little closer to his desk.

"No, not anymore," I say.  "That's what I said - you need to keep track of your props.  There's missing on the subtleties, and then there's just shoddy attention to detail.  Really, I thought I'd taught you that already, Jhe Blackirons."

He turns to me, confused.  "Jhe Edward, what are you talking about?"

I open my mouth to answer as I pick up the paper on his desk.  "I'm talking about what you've been writi-" I cut myself off.

This is a letter to Erynn's grandmother.  I raise an eyebrow at him.  "Where are you keeping the exercise?  Did you already finish it?"

He looks more confused than ever, an expression that almost seems genuine.  "I haven't completed another exercise, Jhe Edward.  I wanted to talk to you about yesterday's results first.  Was there really a body on the stairs?"  He pauses.  "Did you hear that?"

I listen in the silence.  "Just sounds like someone walking down the hall."  I sigh.  "Good, I was looking for someone to help with Stevane in the infirmary.  She's probably fine, but it won't hurt."  Knowing Erynn's shoddy workmanship, she probably still needs help.  He shows promise, that boy, but there's more than raw talent in real Poetry.  It takes discipline, work! ...And discretion, sometimes.

He just stares at me as I open the door again.  I look down the hall.  "Ah, Elric," I say.  His back is towards me, but he stops when I speak.  "Could you come give me a hand with Stevane?  She's probably gotten a bit of a scare by now."  At least Erynn managed to scare someone.

Elric turns.  He does so more slowly than I'd like, and I start to wonder if he's twisted an ankle or something, because he's standing a bit shaky.  Then he faces me in full, and my mouth goes dry.  That's because Elric's mouth is gone.  There's a fleshy remnant of cheek on the left side of his face, but under that is just flesh, blood, and a hanging, splintered jawbone.  I don't even see a tongue.  He gives me one pleading look of despair and then sags to the floor.

I'm halfway to him when I realize how silly this is - just a fantasy written-up by Erynn.  Sure, it's realistic and grisly, but--

"OH MY GOODNESS!  ELRIC!" shouts Erynn with overdramatic surprise.  He runs to the Briarseal boy's side.  I roll my eyes.  I don't have time to play around.

"Look, you already had your chance with the first scare - don't waste my time trying to ply for bonus points.  It doesn't work that way," I say.  I'm about to go on, but then I see Camden walking up from down the hall.  He looks a little odd, but I'm sure it's just another one of Erynn's tropes.  Strange that Camden would even play along with that, though - he doesn't really frequent the Poet Hall, and most people forget he even is a Poet as well as an Armed.  He looks rather Armed, now - there's a bloody piece of flesh hanging from his fingers right now, and his mouth and teeth are coated in blood.  One lens of his glasses is completely red with the stuff.  I'm sure Jhe h'Akribastes would be proud.  I just smile.  "Nice," I say, "but I've written better."  Really, the grey skin and the mucus are nice touches - definitely show a sense of continuity.  But I just can't believe this is happening.  It's too quiet!  Besides, if they were here the whole time, I would have sensed them.  I am a Poet, after all.  A skillful, trained one!

Camden gives me the same deadpan he gives everyone else, and continues to walk towards me. His jaw keeps on working back and forth, back and forth.  As if he's chewing on those bits of his brother.  I can even hear the squeaking sound as the skin is pressed tight and ground between his molars.  Not that it gives me a crawling sensation down my spine or anything.  It's just this wool sweater I'm wearing.  No, what's creepy is that expression - Camden doesn't blink, doesn't avert his eyes.  He's not even really focused on me.  It's strange, for him.  There's movement behind me, but I'm keeping my eyes on Camden.  It's just... even acting, I don't think he'd be able to quench the light in his eyes.  To have a truly dead look...

Then Erynn screeches behind me.  I whirl around to see him dodging backwards away from Elric's lunge.  Erynn looks up at me in panic, and then his eyes widen.  Before I know it, he's tackled me.  I see Camden stumble past, then turn his head, expression finally changing to one of rage.  He roars, the sound of it vibrating right through my own lungs.

"RUN!"  I have just enough time to notice that Erynn's voice is higher-pitched than usual, and then I'm being yanked down the damned hallway by the tips of two fingers.  Camden roars again,  chunks of gore spraying with the force of his breath.  One particularly large clot is caught in his teeth.  It's a rather nice effect, I must admit.  "EDWARD MOVE YOUR ANCIENT ASS, YOU ASS!"

"Erynn, why don't we stop this fa--"  The door next to me explodes.  My arm blocks most of the shrapnel from hitting my face, but I get a good nick in my ear.  I lower my arm enough to look around.  Erynn is on the floor across the hall, blinking in confusion and holding his hand to a scrape on his forehead.  There's a low groan to my right, and I see Jhe Mithroi leaning over the ragged edge of the lower half of the door.  The wood is pressing against him as he lunges for me, and as I step out of the reach of his swing, the wood finally punctures his gut with a wet tear.  Something oozes down the wood, staining it a dark, clotted black.  I look at his face, but he's not registering any pain.  He's not registering much of anything at all, in fact, besides some sort of animal hunger to reach us.  He faces me with his ruined face, one empty socket, the other filled with some manner of grey and brown jelly.  Chill runs like ice water down my spine.

I'm impressed in spite of myself.  Erynn has shown potential in the past, but this is showing some real growth.

I step forward to get a better look, confident that the animated remains of Jhe Mithroi are incapable of actually inflicting any damage on myself.  He reaches for me with one supposedly rotting hand, thin yellow rivulets of pus breaking through his skin.  Just before he can touch my shirt, his hand disappears in a roar and a thick spray of rotted tissue.  The stench nearly doubles me over.  A second roar sounds, and the top part of his skull disappears in a fine mist.  He slumps over the door, the remaining grey matter sliding out of the skull and landing in a quivering pile on the tile.

"Jhe Cruxradia, are you alive?"  One of the Akribastes boys trots down the hall towards me, his Arms held at ready.  It doesn't escape my notice that one of them is very carefully Aiming at me. 

"Yes, for now."  I nod my head towards Erynn.  "So is he, of course."

Jhe Akribastes glances in the indicated direction, then practically teleports to Erynn's side.  Jhe Gerude, then.  

"Erynn!  Erynn?"

"'m OK, stop shakin' me..."  

Jhe Gerude grins, then pulls Erynn to his feet.  "Come on, man, we've gotta get back to the Armed Hall."  He looks at me, his face tight with tension.  "They're everywhere, Jhe Cruxradia.  I don't know what's going on, but a few of us made it here and are looking for survivors."

The Armed are involved, hm?  Or is it just Erynn's boyfriend?  I decide to play along for just a bit.  It's not often that the Poets are able to convince more than one or two Armed to join in on their shenanigans, and my curiosity is piqued.  I can indulge Erynn's little rescue scenario for a while.  "Jhe Stevane is in the infirmary," I say, brushing my hands on my thighs and looking about for something to use for a weapon.  Jhe Gerude's face goes alarmingly pale, and in spite of myself I'm relieved that there isn't any grey cast to his features.  "We'd better get to her before anything else does."

Jhe Gerude nudges Erynn, a surprisingly gentle gesture for those two.  "Can you walk?"

"Yeah.  I'm fine."  Erynn looks at me.  "Think you can write us a clear path to the infirmary?"

I grin.  "I'm sure I can manage that."  After all, the place is still quiet, besides the low groans echoing through the dark corridors.  There shouldn't be too much Erynn can throw my way... interesting that he'd throw down a gauntlet at this point, though.  Most trainees don't think to counter by forcing their opponent to actively engage.

Camden roars once more as we retreat.  There's a bit of a gargle to the sound.  One of the Arms Aims at my ass, and I'm more than happy to take the suggestion that we pick up our pace.

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