The following morning found Daggeuro, Kathy and Byron meeting at the town's largest of four diners, the kennin frustrated, bleary-eyed. "I checked in with every command officer save three, all of whom had their second-in-commands field my contact. Nothing to report in any wooded township, except a pixie run amok with pranks."
"I've only met a couple of them," Byron commented, nodding graciously to the waitress pouring his coffee.
"They're cute, but hyper," Kathy said. "The last time I visited for a week, I met a whole pixie village in a tree in Veil Park, in Celia. They're hard to understand sometimes, because they're always kibitzing."
"What about sprites," Byron asked. Daggeuro cringed, sipped his coffee.
"Nasty little folken," the kennin said. "Highly territorial, to the point of murder. You can tell when someone's knocked over a sprite tree, they become little more than a blood stain on the ground." He shook his head. "Fairies are the easiest to deal with among the wee folk. But even they can be a nightmare. They're all just so powerful, and they have no clue, even brownies."
"How so," Byron asked.
"Here, I'll use this," Daggeuro said, grabbing a salt shaker. "Let's say this is pure, undirected magical energy. Now, your average elf uses a large fireball spell, it takes about a quarter of this to use it." He turned over the shaker and shook it just once, producing a small scatter on the tablecloth. "This is all most wee folk need for the same spell, but they have access to this," he said, waving the shaker. Byron and Kathy marveled at the scale.
"I had no idea," Kathy said.
"Now, take King Ovin," Daggeuro said, grabbing the pepper shaker and a salt shaker from the table behind them. He set the three side by side. "This is what he has access to."
"Christ," Byron breathed.
"Now you understand." He sipped at his coffee, scratched behind his ear. "The Chained One, his power felt about the same in sheer volume, but corrupted. If any of my people had seen it, they would have told me." The trio accepted their food when it arrived, eating in shared contemplation.
When Kathy finished her bacon, slapping Byron's hand away from her sausage twice, she said, "So we have to wait for now, don't we?"
"Until something comes up, yes," said Daggeuro. "But don't get comfortable. We're heading back to Celia tomorrow if we don't hear anything today." Kathy thought that was just fine. She asked Byron if he had any plans for the day.
"No, why?"
"I was thinking we could go Mortal-side, see if there's a theater nearby. You know, catch a movie." Byron grinned, noting the way she blushed but not poking at the fact.
"Sounds like a plan to me. That cool, hoss?"
"Just stay close," Daggeuro grumbled. He was still eating when the humans took off, leaving him alone. "No, I don't need any company," he said to the empty seats across from him. He shook his head. "Humans. Sometimes...."
While the humans and Daggeuro were eating breakfast, Councilman Stahg was returning to Celia. The dragon had taken its little old man form, somehow more disturbing to the fellin than the giant blue wyrm shape ever did. It let him pass without a word.
The full press works were going in Alsem, but getting them going here was key as well. Half of the merchants who held influence in his province were in Celia on trade trips, and he had to shmooze appropriately. Changing into his Council robes, he was out walking the market streets as Kathy and Byron were making their date.
Stahg smiled and lied and made many's the promise among the merchants from Ryalt and Linsa, ever the snake in the grass. But around ten o'clock, when someone grabbed him by the elbow and led him forcefully down an alley he was near, he realized that he'd been in too much of a rush and come to market without bodyguards.
He was slammed face-first into a brick wall by someone with an iron grip on his arm and shoulder. He grunted, spitting blood, trying to shake off his assailant with no success. "Do not cause me trouble, and I will let you go," a smooth, low voice whispered in his ear. He tried to catch a scent off of his attacker, but found there was none to pick up.
"I swear it," he said, choking down panic. He was released, spinning around to find himself looking at a gotrin in dark green thief's leathers and tabi boots, the vest sleeveless, fur slicked down with some sort of oil. "Who the hell are you?"
"Senta," the gotrin said. "I've come to Celia in pursuit of a human named Leroy Ferter. When I inquired around town about who possessed more information than anyone else, I was told the King, the sages, and you, Councilman Stahg. My fortune is good that you're here."
"And were I not," the fellin politician asked, shaking out his arm.
"I would have settled for one of your assistants or allies on your Council. I have been here only since dawn, and already have learned much from your citizenry." Senta crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the opposite alley wall. Shadows whirled around them, forming a wall of darkness on either side of the pair.
"What's this magic for?"
"Privacy. You are known as one of the slickest politicos in the kingdom, Stahg. I'll assume you have ears in the King's manor?"
"I do. Why?"
"This human will no doubt try to gain an audience with him. I don't want that to happen."
"Curious. And what," Stahg said, smiling like a serpent, "is that worth to you?"
"A great deal. If you hear of Ferter, you will tell me."
"And what do I get out of it," the politician asked. Between blinks of his eyes, Senta had come across the alley, a curved blade kissing Stahg's throat.
"The privilege of smiling with your mouth and not your neck." If the gotrin had come across as angry, Stahg might have been less frightened by him. After all, anger, like affection, could be manipulated in the hands of a master politician, which he considered himself. But the gotrin's words hung like icicles, delivered by a man for whom murder seemed a perfectly reasonable course of action. Stahg said nothing, trying to nod with his eyes.
When Senta stepped back, Stahg relaxed his body. "How do I get in touch with you if I hear word of this human," he asked.
"There is a bird's nest on the roof of this city's lending library. It is empty, save for a single blue egg. The egg is fake. Open it and put a scrap of paper inside when you hear word." Senta sheathed his blade, and the privacy shadows melted away. "I need not tell you to not involve the Watch or your Royal Guard."
"Of course not. Besides, they don't trust me."
"That is because most of them are men of honor," Senta said flatly. He leaped up onto one of the buildings forming the alley, and was gone. Stahg left the alley feeling strangely excited. He had a feeling the assassin might be willing to sell his services, and as a man of importance, he had plenty of drakes in his private coffers. It might not hurt to have an extra set of hands to do his dirty work when all was said and done.
The people of Linsa had, thankfully, assumed the armored unit marching through the city at high speed was just a battalion heading off for duty. The Chained One had possessed enough cunning to not only alter the helmets, but to morph the breastplates of the animated armors to show the insignia of the Rangers. The entire block of suits moved out of the city without incident.
The Chained One now stood on the damp soil of a murky wetland woods known locally as Graymarsh. Located in the far northern reaches of the kingdom, Graymarsh was split by a political line dividing one half into Amermidst on the south, and Hailek on the north. It fully intended to create havok in the village on both ends of Graymarsh.
It began raising long-dead corpses from the marsh, just a handful at first. It directed these boney wretches to form ranks, and had twenty of them lined up when an unexpected gust of wind magic slammed it back into its ghostwood tree. The Chained One grunted, hooded head whipping about, seeking the source of this power.
Up in the tree it had turned into a ghostwood in order to travel to Graymarsh, dozens of tiny points of light were flitting about rapidly. One darted down at him, and The Chained One flung his own wind force at it.
The pinprick cut through his spell like it was so much wet paper. Stunned, The Chained One lowered itself quickly to the ground and braced itself in the slippery soil. The pinprick sent another gust, this one blocked by a translucent dome of green force, but still The Chained One was driven several inches down into the mud. The light flitted upward to rejoin its kin.
"Sprites," the apparition rasped in its dusty voice. "Troublesome pests." The Chained One reinforced his protective barrier as dozens of spells were hurled down upon him, battering at his magical defenses with the savagery of rabid wolves. Yet his barrier held, absorbing each blow. When the lights hovered down, ringing him, the creature rotated in a circle, viewing each individual sprite. "Foolish nuisances, you will kneel before me now, or be destroyed."
"You killed our tree," several of the sprites howled, renewing their assault. The dome held once more, though one lance of ice magic got through, stabbing into The Chained One's right leg. It paid no heed to this damage.
"You have chosen destruction. So be it," The Chained One boomed. It flung its hands out, dozens of fine-linked, barbed chains flashing from its sleeves. It spun about, the chains ripping through the screaming sprites as they tried to elude him. They hurled spells at him like daggers, but all were repelled by his defensive dome or thrown back when they collided with the heavy black chains embedded in his back. The sprites all lay dead on the marsh floor in under a minute.
When he finished the last of them, The Chained One slumped onto the ground, exhausted and wounded. The wee folken had hurt him, reminding the creature that beneath all of his power and aura of terror, there still resided a thing that could be wounded, crippled, killed. That none had done so yet meant only that he had power, not godliness.
He would have to select his trees more carefully in the future. After recovering, he had work to do, starting with locating and ambushing any more wee folk in Graymarsh. He couldn't afford to run afoul of another commune again.
Ryalt turned out to be almost parallel to Altoona, Iowa, a sprawling suburb that had more in common with city life than rural towns. When Kathy had cut open a path back to the Mortal Plane, it came out behind a diner on Perch Street. When they walked out to the sidewalk, checking to see if they were being observed, Kathy was delighted to find they were in a busy little business district. People streamed back and forth in the streets and on the sidewalks, going about their daily lives. Nobody paid the pair much mind.
"Wow," Byron said, coming up alongside her. "Feels kind of weird being back." He set his backpack down, rummaging around until he pulled out a battered leather wallet with Marvel Comics' Punisher skull logo on it. "Haven't needed this in a while."
"You won't need it now," Kathy said, flashing out her own simple blue wallet. "I own my own cleaning company, I've got plenty of money."
"Bonus," said Byron, stuffing his wallet in his pocket. "Besides, I've only got cash. I don't think my debit card would be any good. I've been Ether-side too long."
"How long?"
"Almost three years," Byron said. "Sure, I hop back now and then, but I've got no roots here anymore." Kathy patted him on the back and pointed up the street at a small movie theater. "Cool beans! Let's see what they've got." Byron was about to step into the street when Kathy snagged him by the collar of his bomber jacket. A pickup truck went roaring past, horn blaring, driver flipping them off. "Holy shit, thanks for the save," he breathed.
"Did you forget about traffic," Kathy asked, a touch testily. "Or is it physics you have issues with?" She sighed, trying to brush the moment off. "Just try to blend in, okay? We don't need trouble." Byron nodded, and together they crossed the street and headed down to the theater. Their options were something out of a sitcom; either they could see 'War of Guts', a zombie apocalypse movie, or 'She Just Gets It', an obvious romantic comedy from the poster.
"I'm voting for undead nasties," Byron said with an excited smile.
"We just dealt with the real thing yesterday," Kathy said quietly. "You really want to see more?" Byron's smile evaporated, and he gave her a bemused look. "Granted, these ones wouldn't be trying to eat our faces, but come on." Byron looked at the poster for 'She Just Gets It', and shrugged his shoulders.
"Meh. At least it's got Emma Stone," he said.
"I know, I love her! 'Easy A'? One of my favorites."
"That's a great film," Byron agreed, and together, they headed inside to enjoy what neither would say aloud was a first date.
Daggeuro set his pen aside, the pages of his leather-bound journal slowly flapping over on themselves until it naturally settled. He looked out the window and considered the days ahead. The Chained One represented a problem beyond most things he'd ever dealt with. Once human, Cassius Melchar had likely been the most powerful Awakened in the history of Ether Plane. However, he was far from the first.
Thousands of humans had traversed the realm, Adepts and Awakened both. He had known many in his time, though few whom had taken to him as quickly and easily as Kathy Potts. She was a shining spirit, able to befriend anyone, it seemed, even the twisted journalist, Byron Torg.
Her ability to read people, to speak to their concerns, trumped her power to manipulate inanimate objects, in his mind. She was a natural leader, and a natural caretaker. He had come to know that Kathy Potts put others' needs before her own for a long time, and he feared that she would be taken advantage of as a result at some point, enough so to ruin her sunny disposition.
If Byron were the one to do that, human or not, Daggeuro would kill him.
And on the topic of Byron, he wasn't sure anymore what to make of him, precisely. He'd shown few signs of his mental illness since hitting the road on this mission. Daggeuro wondered if that could be because he was always engaged in some activity. There had been people in the kennin's long life who suffered bouts of madness like Byron's, but who, when kept busy, were in command of their faculties.
"So, keep him occupied," Daggeuro said to himself, writing in his journal. "Keep, him, occupied," he said as he wrote down his thoughts.
One pixie village and fairy commune later, The Chained One sagged against the tree that bound him, extraordinarily tired. The wee folk died easily under physical assault, but their magical prowess and raw power was taxing to fight against. After raising three more batches of undead warriors, it was almost unconscious.
The Chained One rose once more, sending its minions away to do his bidding. A slow, agonizing assault would be laid against two villages, one in each nation the Graymarsh inhabited. King Ovin's people would have no choice but to come here. In the meantime, the creature would be elsewhere, resting. Before leaving, The Chained One used the power of an Awakened it had copied for itself, willing every specter in a hundred miles to come find him, to serve him.
It left behind one of its ghostwoods and vanished, reappearing in the center of Parik. Its chains drew it taut against the tree, where it slumped over in slumber after erecting a barrier to ward it from any futile heroics. There it took rest, while townsfolk gathered round to bow down in worship.