Best Served Cold

[Finnius]

The Recruiter's Office, 9:oo am

 

Wyvern sat, rubbing his temples, hunched over his dusty desk; even though piles of high-stacked applications threatened to topple and bury the almost-dragon. Normally, he'd be asleep by now. Normally, piles of geld would be dancing merrily around his fog-wrapped brain. Last night, however, he'd binged on Ol' Peculiar and, stumbling back to the Office, had nearly tripped over a manuscript lying in front of the Pen's Banquet Hall. Sealed and stamped, and addressed to the Mighty Pen. All of it. By name.

 

It was this manuscript which had kept him pacing frantically all morning, until finally he'd collapsed into his chair in a cloud of cobweb and mildew. A simple blue folder... politely tied with cerulean string... maddening. If anyone had read this, or if it fell into the wrong hands, even now...

 

Well, that would never happen. Not now, not ever. Lighting a match, the scaled Master of Recruits said a silent thanks to the God of Money, and lit the manuscript, forever destroying the contents thereof.

 

The Mighty Pen's Banquet Hall, Two Months Later

 

"You're counting character before characterization, which isn't necessarily bad, but isn't really... polite... in a collaborative story." The speaker, a notable bard and Elder of the Pen, motions for parchment; which is quickly brought. "See, if you changed this line... just so... and now it becomes a statement of intent, rather than a declaration of action. Understand?"

 

A little blue head nods absently at the far table, while Pered's newest apprentice bewilderingly puzzles over the Elder's advice. In the background, a door opens, admitting a chilly blast of November wind and the tall form of one Wyvern, Elder of Recruiting. The little blue head lifts for a moment, then ducks under its table. Snickers are heard from several corners.

 

Wyvern strides to the far table, where a little blue head has just disappeared, and peers under. Extending a clawed hand, he extracts the little blue head, along with its little blue body.

 

"There you are! Been looking all over for you, Finny-boy... you're short on dues again, but we can discuss that later. There's a little... matter... we need to go over. If you would be so kind as to follow me?"

 

Reluctantly, the addressed semi-mage shakes himself off, and follows Wyv out the door.

 

"Wonder what that was..."

 

The Recruiter's Office, Ten Minutes Later

 

"... about?" Begins the little blue mage, settling into a somewhat dilapidated chair, directly across from Wyvern's desk. The Recruiter walks around the desk, but does not sit, instead he looms over it like an angry schoolmaster.

 

"I think you know what this is about, old boy," replies Wyv, all traces of joviality expunged from his normally sly voice. He proceeds to pull binders out of the tall stacks surrounding the perimeter of the office, defying gravity to bring one down. "These... are your work from Terra Lost...," He struggles with one particularly thick binder, nearly catching gravity's wrath at his earlier defiance. "Saved, catalouged, and stored here."

 

"...how... who? Thank you... Wyv, I didn't know you cared..."

 

"Don't thank me yet. The thing is, Finn, you can't have them back. Not until you do me a little favor."

 

"Of course, anything. What do you need?"

 

Wyvern chuckles evilly, a momentary glow crossing his eyes. He produces a blue, tied folder from beneath his desk, flopping it in front of the little blue mage.

 

"Tell me a story. Where did this come from, who wrote it, and how many copies are there?"

 

Finnius hesitantly stretches a hand forward, gently picks up the folder, turns it towards him, and gapes in astonishment.

 

Six words, deftly penned across the front in black reflective ink. Six words, and suddenly things become clear.

 

The Last Days of Terra Lost

 

"Wyv, I didn't have anything to do with this... not a thing..."

 

"Of course you didn't. You weren't even around for most of what's written inside. But someone wants me to think you were. Flip to the last page."

 

The stunned storyteller complies, struggling with the knotted string. And there, plain as day, apparently in his own handwriting; Finnius Mustardio Jalopini Canard O'Harpy.

 

"Take it somewhere and read it, Finn. See if it doesn't curdle your blood a little. The whole thing... is a lie. But a lie wrapped in truth, one so deftly interwoven with the facts that it might well be more accurate than the records we have. It can't be allowed to circulate. For posterity, you understand."

 

The little blue mage hugs the folder to his chest and nods, then straightens to leave.

 

"And Finn?"

 

"Yes."

 

"You're still late with your dues."

 

The Room of one Finnius Jalopini, etc, etc. Late that Night

 

The little blue man reads until morning. He reads of Peredhil and Gyrfalcon, Cerulean and Scarlett, Tamaranis and Wyvern. Recorded here are tales of heroism, of struggle, triumph, heartbreak... and ultimately of failure, of downfall. Amidst the imagery, something else floats. Whoever wrote this was present at the end. And was... happy... to see it.

 

The text is subversive, drawing the reader to the conclusion that Terra Lost is better lost.

 

"Wyvern was right... This can't be allowed to circulate."

Edited May 6, 2003 by Finnius

[Finnius]

The Estate of Gyrfalcon No’Dessu, Early Morning

 

A crash from outside, and the sound of shattering glass. Inside, the front foyer window caves in a spray of glittering shards. A delicately arranged display of flowers, resplendent gifts from one of Gyr’s many fans topples to the floor, ruined. And on the table where it stood, an inconspicuous blue folder, titled in reflective black ink slides to a halt.

 

With commendable speed, two small fuzzy creatures sweep into the room, assess the damage, and then whirl about, cleaning and repairing. The folder remains on the table.

 

Finished with their labor, the fuzzies begin to exit. Ink sparkles like purest diamond. And the trap is set, as one turns back, and snatches its bait.

 

One Month Later, The Halls of the Pen

 

A little blue mage stalks a corridor, manuscript clutched to his chest, looking for the one being in this place that he knows beyond all doubt he can trust. He stops in front of a door marked “Elders Only,” then hesitantly knocks. There comes no answer, not unlikely at this hour, just before dawn. Finnius has been up late, of nights.

 

Half relieved, half-afraid, the mage turns to try another room, then starts at the large form which has materialized behind him. His heart races for a moment, trying to find its paces, then slows as Finnius recognizes the form of Gyrfalcon.

 

“Gyr… almost gave me a heart attack!” The little blue mage wipes his forehead, even though it’s dry, as if to symbolize his startlement. “What are you doing up and about this early?”

 

“Looking for you… I’ve heard you keep strange hours lately.”

 

“Looking for me? Err… wha…” Is as far as the mage gets before noticing that Gyr is most definitely armed. He throws a familiar folder at Finnius’s feet, and thunder sounds out of a clear sky outside.

 

“I found this circulating through the fuzzies I’d hired from Canid. They cringe behind my back, and more than once, I’ve caught the servants listening to their endless chatter. If you ever pull something like this again, Finnius…” Here, he unsheathes his blade with a sound like flowing sand. “I don’t think I need to tell you… but…,” and sweeping the blade across the floor, Gyrfalcon neatly opens, then bisects the folder, spearing a page on the end and handing it to Finnius.

 

The little blue mage glances at the page, then winces.

 

… and in those days, Gyrfalcon the Mad returned, laying waste to those around him. Mount Tyrant exploded in his wrath, and from it, Redemption’s black edge tore the flesh of the righteous. Laughing and swinging wildly, he cut down fully half of the good mages sent against him.

 

“Never gone, only hidden, neither here nor there. Bring what you may against me, I will rend you limb from limb!”

 

Thus was he spoken, and thusly prov’d right.

 

“Gyr, wait, I can explain…,” but it’s too late. Thunder crashes again and Gyrfalcon No’Dessu, Elder of the Pen, and one-time scourge of Terra Lost departs.

 

The Recruiter’s Office, Late December

 

Wyvern sits at his desk, again ignoring the piles of applications which promise entombment. Instead, reports cover his desk, neatly penned in the same hand that graces the pages of the Terra Lost heresy.

 

*…nothing to report.

 

*…no further progress.

 

*…possible connection to Nanotoknonnen death-cults.

 

*…Grim Squeaker encountered, dismiss previous missive.

 

The Elder of Recruits sighs, cupping his head in his hands. Too many copies, not enough leads… The blasted manuscript had managed to circulate through the ranks of the Initiates, infecting many with its ideas. Already, several bards had disappeared, only to turn up later, preaching the Gospel of Terra Lost, denouncing the Elders for hypocrites and charlatans.

 

Finnius, supposedly the author, had had no effect at slowing the progress of this disease when he tried to explain matters. In fact, it had only made things worse.

 

And things were starting to get violent. Pered had been near-mauled by a group of cultists quoting Terra Lost 4:34:21;

 

…having at last forsaken the light, the Lord Peredhil did raise his fist, and in his fist was the forsaken brightness of the sun. This he rained down on his acolytes, burning them where they stood, drinking in their deaths with his parted lips and open nostrils. The sky rained black soot, and all knew that he had fallen.

 

Luckily, Pered had escaped into the Assembly Room, where Gyrfalcon was holding a seminar on how things really went down. A disturbingly small seminar.

 

“Melba! Get me some aspirin!” Finn had better figure this thing out soon, thought Wyvern, or there may not be a Pen for much longer.

[Finnius]

Outside the Hall of the Pen

 

“Thus do I say to you, and thus did he speak to me!” The speaker, face painted blue, hair dyed black, and wrapped in black cloth, waved a now-familiar folder furiously as he preached to the assembled crowd. “Terra Lost, chapter 3, verse 10: It was in those times, those hallowed, darkling times, that the seams of society came loose. Gyrfalcon had willingly embraced the dark once more, and so we gathered ourselves together to combat him. Chief among us were Peredhil, armored and resplendent; Wyvern, humbled and laid low; and Cerulean, though her mind was near-destroyed by the deaths of so many. Behind Peredhil’s banner did I ride, and this did I see: Wave after wave was sent, but all were torn apart. Gyrfalcon was a demon, and none could stand against him. The very sun blackened under the rain of stones and hail, and from the tower of Watch, where No’Dessu had stationed the night before, my former wife laughed and hurled down the corpses of children. Scarlett had defected. We broke and scattered, fleeing their wrath.

 

“Can I get an amen?”

 

The crowd answered in a voiceless roar, and hurled rocks at the Hall.

 

Inside the Hall of the Pen

 

A rock crashes through the large picture-window, accompanied by a rolling cry from the mob assembled outside.

 

A circle of chairs, most unoccupied, takes up much of the room. In the center of the circle is a stone table, empty save for a blue folder, titled in reflective black ink.

 

The Last Days of Terra Lost

 

“I want to know where this thing started, and now!” Peredhil’s voice, raised in agitation seemed to punctuate the terse nature of the Pen’s travails of late. Several mages shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Gyrfalcon fingered the hilt of his sword and stared at the broken window while Wyvern held one hand to his head and pinched his eyes shut. Cerulean and Scarlett tried not to look at one another and failed miserably. Tzimfemme, Rydia, and Rosemary tried not to notice that Minta was not present. Almost as soon as the fighting started, the girl had donned a black cloak and painted her face.

 

And that was all.

 

Wyvern opened one eye, as if noticing the others for the first time. “Pered, we’ve been over this… and Finnius really is looking, it’s just… hard. We shouldn’t rely on him this much, but he’s the only one who can walk outside the Hall these days without having something thrown at him.”

 

“Let them throw…,” grumbled Gyrfalcon, hand on hilt. “Let them try…”

 

“Gyr, we don’t want to hurt anyone, just-“ Begins Cerulean, who’s cut off as another rock hurtles through the window, nearly catching Scarlett in the right temple.

 

Gyr draws his blade and bolts upright. “Well, obviously they don’t share that sentiment! And if we sit cloistered up here for much longer while… he… fumbles around in the dark… it’s as good as giving the Pen to the mob.”

 

“Say his name Gyrfalcon. I know you’re still a little…,” Peredhil carefully sidesteps the word ‘mad,’ instead coming up with, “Upset with him… but this isn’t his fault.”

 

Scarlett cuts in from her seat, “Are we really sure about that? I mean, you read all that stuff about me… who else can describe the inside of my stomach that well? Or Cerulean’s party… especially the little demon-girl. I mean, did any of you even *remember that?”

 

Eight mages share seven-and-a-half glances, Wyv having only one eye open.

 

The almost-dragon completes his half-glance and speaks softly. “But he wasn’t there… he wasn’t even there…”

 

“Finnius has gone unremarked before…”

 

“Stop it Scarlett, that trash doesn’t even sound like him… and you know it.” Cerulean meets O’Harpy’s gaze full-force, defying the hedonist’s response. Scarlett gives none. Instead, protest comes from the least likely source.

 

“She might be right.” All eyes turn to Peredhil. “Not about Finn actually writing this,” he gestures towards the table, “but about this being his fault. Whoever wrote it knows our blue bard very well… and wants to discredit him. Whoever it is was present at Cerulean’s masquerade, where this thing starts. And it is only logical to surmise that the author is still watching him. We can’t leave this to Finnius. One of us, or more likely, all of us have to do something. We have to stop this thing.”

 

Silence spreads to each of the mages as they contemplate this turn of events.

 

Outside the Hall of the Pen

 

“…’til time itself ends. Saint Wyvern, throughout the whole, hid himself. And to the peaks of the roofs, to the highest towers, the huddled masses rose against those who had gone before. This did I see: Gyrfalcon No’Dessu, whom I called Master, and Scarlett O’Harpy, whom I called wife, were pulled down by the very ones they had raised up. Lord Peredhil died that day, reborn in his own tears and blood. And forsaking the light, he called us all together one last time.”

 

The speaker slams the folder shut, going on from memory.

 

“But I knew that he was lost in his grief, and so did not attend. The story of that day I have told to you. I hid myself in the bosom of the darkness, as Master had instructed me. I took my solace in the embrace of the one true Lord. Praise be to him. Lift His name up, and tear down the ones who tore down our home.

 

“There ends the lesson for today.” The speaker takes a torch from a waiting black-clad acolyte and turns toward the hall. He lifts it in a mocking salute to the form of Gyrfalcon, scowling down at the assembled crowd from a shattered window. “For today.”

 

The crowd departs, and the Mighty Pen, once a bustle of activity stands silent for several breathless moments. Slowly, mages poke their heads out of various doors, making sure that the crowd is gone. Gyrfalcon turns from the window, and back to the tense knot of mages.

[Finnius]

“This is the truth… what the Elders have told us is the lie!” The black-clad form a cultist blocks Stick’s way, blue paint peeling off his face, eyes alight with fanatical fury.

 

Stick tightens his grip on his namesake. The cultist leans forward, beckoning. Several more silently ghost from alleys and from around corners. Stick begins to shift on his feet.

 

“Join us… you could be a great leader! A voice for reason to all of us who oppose the Elders.” Stick glances around, looking for a way out of this. Black cloth shuffles against skin and ground. Wind passes by Stick’s ear.

 

“Would you take no for an answer?” A rock joins the wind and Stick leaps into action.

 

Thwock… crunch… two cultists go down, one clutching a broken arm, the other limp and unconscious. Stick bounds down the high street, towards the Hall of the Pen, where the sparse remains of the Mighty Pen are gathering.

 

Rocks follow, as well as the occasional arrow and fireball. Stick dodges most with ease, only succumbing to an arrow in his right thigh as he ducks into the main foyer of the Hall. He pulls the shaft from his leg with a wince and surveys the room.

 

The Elders mingle among Initiates as Cerulean takes Stick’s injured limb and begins to wind bandage and Healing. Canid is nowhere to be seen, nor is Rydia. Minyex hunches forlornly in draconic grief in an over-crowded corner. Wyvern argues over some matter with Peredhil, who looks decidedly thin. Who else… Minta had turned coat, so to speak, and it was rumored that Zool was acting as an advisor to the cultists. Whether this was because he came out of the Terra Lost heresy looking like a saint, or because his portrait was among the first captures of the crazed heretics had yet to be seen.

 

Several of the Elders are missing in action, notably Lumpenproletariat. In the midst of this, a chime rings loudly and the meeting is called to order.

 

“Friends, we gather here today to make clear the danger facing us all.” The voice of Gyrfalcon carries to the far corners of the Hall, weighted with authority. He holds up the infamous blue folder. “This is a copy of The Last Days of Terra Lost. Lies, all of it. But subversive lies, ones that have infiltrated much of the Pen. Many of you have had encounters with the… mages… who follow this book. And some of you have fallen to them, either willingly or otherwise.” Gyr glances at the empty spot on the wall normally reserved for Zool. “I-“

 

Gyrfalcon is interrupted here by a loud crash and the smell of smoke from outside. A distinctive voice… familiar and terrifying, booms through the repeated thunderous bangs at the front door.

 

“Everyone come out and surrender! I have exposed your lies and will now take my vengeance upon those that stole my birthright from me!”

 

Gyrfalcon, along with the assembled Pen, tenses. Swords are drawn, staves are made ready, arrows knocked, and spells prepared. Those that recognize the voice clench their teeth in fear and remembrance of a time when Terra was almost destroyed… Wyvern hisses and seems to grow much larger and more intimidating. Even gentle Pered bares steel. And to Stick’s eyes, everything becomes clear.

 

The booming stops and the doors of the Pen lie broken on their hinges. A sea of black cloaks and blue faces confronts the Pen, headed by the Traitor Himself. Stick hadn’t believed it until now, but confronted by Finnius at the front of this mob…

 

Arms crossed and eyes down, the little blue mage looked a lot more frightening than Stick remembered. The black cloak didn’t help much. Minta and Zool, born by two cultists, flanked the mage, and farther back in the crowd the forms of Degenero Angelus and Pered’s sons Elladan and Elrohir could be made out. Most of the rest were simply too obscured by their robes. A tear rolled down Peredhil’s cheek.

 

“Well… is this all? Minta, tear them apart.”

 

The girl cackled gleefully and started forward, only to run face-first into a wall of nothing. Gyrfalcon grimaced as Peredhil crumbled under the force being thrown against his barrier. But the wall held. Finnius threw his head back and laughed, exposing the redness in his eyes, the veins popping and bulging. Gyr stood adamant and clenched his jaw. Cerulean wretched. Wyvern roared wordlessly, on the verge of mindlessly. And still the little blue man chuckled.

 

“That won’t hold forever. Well… good to see you all again. Wyvern,” he continues, tapping his skull, “how’s the head been feeling? Better since I left, or worse?”

 

Gyrfalcon lowers his sword for an instant and spits one word at the mage.

 

“Exophek.”

Edited July 21, 2004 by Finnius

[Finnius]

Outside the Hall of the Pen

 

Exophek chuckles to itself as its black-clad followers engage the assembled Pen… and push them back. In the back of its head, Finnius railed and screamed, but to no avail. Exophek was just too strong for the pathetic creature.

 

Inside, its enemies were screaming… Inside crimson flows ran, from the black-clad and the faithful alike. Exophek was… happy. Just like the old days. But something was wrong… it had been good to tear down the Pen from the inside, good to take revenge on the ones who had hurt it. Now that the battle was joined, the fun was going to be over. Maybe Exophek would keep one or two alive… as ‘toys.’

 

Inside the Hall of the Pen

 

Gyrfalcon stood back to back with Stick, knee-deep in bodies. Wyvern had gone under some time ago, only to reappear with a black-clad form crushed between his jaws. The poor lizard had snapped. Likely, he’d have nightmares about this for months to come, if not years. As it was, Gyr was just as glad that Wyv had reverted back to his more primal nature.

 

Pered stood over the limp form of Cerulean, backed up by a startlingly furious Scarlett O’Harpy.

 

“Fall back! Fall back!”

 

The sounds of fire crackling at the walls began to make Pered’s point for him. Many of these mages had survived the inferno at Cerulean’s party the last time Exophek had manifested. None wanted to go through that again.

 

The Pen scattered, falling back, abandoning the very Hall itself to Exophek’s mad acolytes. Pered lifted Cery’s body and crashed through a window, running like the wind. Scarlett panted to keep up, followed by several of the Pen’s remaining Initiates. The group turned a corner and ducked into a large storage shed, empty save for a few rats. Tenderly, he laid the prone form of Cerulean on the floor.

 

“Who’s here?” Scarlett’s usually harsh voice, now muted and weak-sounding almost startled Pered.

 

Two of the Initiates made noncommittal sounds, the other collapsed.

 

“Scarlett, see what’s wrong with Salinye.” The Usually Polite Elder crouched low over Cerulean’s still form, looking for wounds. He promptly found one, an ugly black bruise down the back of her neck, right where the spine joins the collarbone. A killing blow.

 

“She’s lost a lot of blood… Pered, I don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

 

“She’ll survive. We all will. Come on, we need to get moving. Harpy, take Sal and these two and meet me at the Old Conservatory. I’m going to gather the rest of the troops, although Gyr’s probably far ahead of me.”

 

“What? Pered, the Old Conservatory… is gone. No… More. Period.”

 

“Wrong. There’s a tunnel under the Hall. Take this,” Peredhil pulls a key from a hidden pocket somewhere and slips it into Scarlett’s hand. “Be careful. I’ll see you soon.”

 

“Ok… you too.” And with that, Scarlett O’Harpy, the last person you’d want to trust with your life, hefts Salinye onto her shoulders and leads two Initiates on a suicide run into Cult-held territory.

 

Pered is left alone with Cerulean’s prone form.

 

“Sorry about this, Cery, but you’re safer here than with Scarlett.” Pered throws his cloak over the Incorrigibly Plural One’s still form, and casts a minor Illusion, making it all but invisible. “Now let’s hope no one trips over you…”

 

The Old Conservatory

 

Gyrfalcon stands over broken ground and up-shooting planks of wood and teeth of stone. Wyvern crouches near, blood still fresh on his jaws. Faces, mages, those still loyal and alive. Tzimfemme and Rydia, but not Rosemary. Minta’s face, Minta’s eyes…

 

Scarlett, the prone form of Salinye. And Pered still off, ‘Gathering recruits,’ whatever that meant. Everyone who survived Exophek’s attack was gathered here; gathered in the ruins of the Old Conservatory.

 

“What are we waiting for…”

 

“What are we doing here…”

 

“We’re all dead.”

 

Gyrfalcon spun on the balls of his feet, amazingly quick even after such a long battle.

 

“We are not dead until the last mage falls. And we have not lost. Pered is coming, bringing help,” Light, let that be true, “And when he arrives we end this. Exophek was defeated here last time. And will be again. You are not Initiates any longer. You are soldiers. Today, we write the last chapter of Terra Lost!”

[Finnius]

The Bowels of the Pen's Keep

 

Peredhil scuttled unseen through the dark catacombs beneath the Mighty Pen, searching for that one room...

 

Deep in the earth, something had been hidden away. Something old, and evil. And now, it might well be the salvation of the Pen, if only he could...

 

Ha! There... when Gyrfalcon found out about this... Well, truthfully, he'd probably be thankful, at least until this Exophek business was over with. Afterwards, though...

 

A thick wooden door, bound in iron and magic and surrounded by stone made poor defence against the one who had carved it. Pered slipped inside and for a moment he stared. A simple stand, a simple sheath, a not-so-simple sword. Alternate dimensions had their uses, but this was not what Pered had envisioned upon mothballing this here.

 

Step one complete, now for the fun part...,thinks Pered as he slides the weapon into his sword-belt. Making sure to bang the door behind him, Pered clomps down the halls to the tunnel. He soon has an escort of black-cloaked madmen pursueing him as he runs...

 

Runs all the way...

 

The Old Conservatory

 

The troops are ready, the pieces set. The wounded have been tended, and those who can fight are prepared. Nothing left but to wait.

 

Gyrfalcon, a leader once again, sits on his heals and thumbs the edge of Redemptio, remembering his last encounter with Exophek. The demon just wouldn't die! Wyvern, silent since the battle at the Hall of the Pen, crouches nearby with Minyex. Salinye, having regained consciousness, holds a borrowed blade in an unsteady hand.

 

Stick clutches the pointed object that is his constant companion forlornely and looks around for Peredhil; who chooses this exact moment to burst, heaving and panting, from the tunnel exit.

 

Pered shoves a wrapped bundle into the arms of Gyrfalcon, then turns to the exit.

 

"Pered... this is your help?" Gyrfalcon looks untrustingly at the bundle.

 

"...o..pe..n...it!" Pered begins weaving another barrier, as the first pursuers clear the tunnel.

 

Tearing the cloth away, Gyr's eyes go wide. And he knows what Peredhil plans.

 

"Pered, this is... no. There's another way, not this!"

 

"Atrernex...," Wyvern breathes, breaking his silence. "How?"

 

"Don't question, damnit! Just use it!" Pered gestures at the tunnel, where black-clad maniacs rend each other trying to get to the remains of the Pen.

 

Gyrfalcon No'Dessu, Demigod of Vengence and Immortal Elder of the Pen... hesitates. And then nods.

 

He steps forward, slices the barrier deftly with Atrernex, plows through the mages. Redemptio flashes in his right hand, its cursed counterpart in his left. He forces his way to the back, to where he feels Exophek's presence.

 

There stands Finnius, grinning that mad grin, arms outstretched as if to embrace No'Dessu.

 

And they do. Gyr leaps forward, into the embrace, sliding first one sword, then the other through the little blue mage's back, and into his own abdomen. Finnius grasps Gyrfalcon's head and squeezes with the unholy strength of a demon. The world goes black, and the last thing either of them hears is Exophek screaming.

 

The Hall of the Pen, Early January

 

Finnius sputters and wakes from a long sleep, rubs his stomach, and stops at two large, fresh scars. The room is white, the windows newly hung, and Gyrfalcon slumps in a chair on the opposite wall.

 

"So the bigshot prophet is finally awake. And it only took Silexion's last crystal cufflink to do it."

 

"Wha... ?"

 

"What happened? You were possessed by Exophek. Happens to everyone eventually, so it seems. Anyway, there was fighting, and... I killed you. Sorry about that."

 

"Err... ?"

 

"Oh and Finn?"

 

"Ya..."

 

"Wyv says you still owe your dues."