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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Science Fiction
- Subject: Science / Science Fiction
- Published: 04/19/2013
The Shade Counters: GENESIS
Born 1981, M, from Durham, NC, United StatesTHE SHADE COUNTERS: Rumael vs. Vishael
Prologue
Open your ears and see into the darkness. If you are sharp enough, you can peer through the disorienting haze that is the Penumbral Blinding. Your senses will draw you closer to the center of the second Gate-Wraith as you prepare to intrude upon the sacred silence that is the continuous night life called DAEMON THERIA EXTREMIS: the mystical and terrible world beyond the veil of our reality. This is the home of the Shade Counters, commonly known as “Reapers” in the living world.
The role of the Shade Counters that travel between life and death is one of an utterly thankless and tiresome task; collecting the souls of those who are to die. The Nordic Valkyrie legends collecting their Einherjar as glorious warriors and welcomed guests inValhalla--this is the greatest envy of ALL Shade Counters. Generally, their job has not one microscopic particle of glory, or grace, or beauty that is pleasing to those of the living.
Not the normal ones.
Daemon Theria Extremis is colored with an amazing roster of talented, willing and able Reapers. As you sink faster through the ninth and last Gate-Wraith, you will notice that today, you are an intruder; and you are intruding upon a most sacred and well protected runic ceremony. Apparently, this is the day that Rumael the Revealer sends his most prized and polished souls on their way to their final destinations.
Rumael, hmph....
“Talented” does not begin to describe the depth of his skill, and “terrible” does not BEGIN to breeze across the surface of the ocean of blood that is his anger. Please understand, Rumael takes his position and role in the universe and in Daemon Theria Extremis very, VERY seriously. If the soul he’s caring for is a good soul, they are treated to all of the pleasures that Rumael’s imagination can conjure into existence. However, if the soul is deemed unfit for passage into eternal peace, then those very same pleasures are only the bait and backdrop for deviant, decadent, and gruesome tortures…which will not bother Rumael in the least.
I assure you, Rumael will be pleasured either way.
So, continue to peer into the pewter skinned Reaper’s private matters. Notice that there is a symmetrical arrangement of eight mirrors surrounding an awe-inspiring centerpiece; Rumael knelt in a position of submissive prayer, head pressed against his in-folded knees. His magnificent silver hair—which is tinted blue from the pale flickers of night-flies flying around the cavernous chamber—lies in a pool of soft tendrils. Life essence pours throughout his body and flows out of his hands, then rises from the floating stone floor while drawing out the souls on their way to eternal peace. Warriors and pious monks, commoners and fallen royalty alike, they are all beckoned by a brilliant light that shines without blinding.
“Leave the bindings of these two colliding realities, and rest within the many folds of eternity’s blessing.” This is Rumael’s continued prayer as these souls are carefully transferred through the veil of eternity, taking their places amongst the dreams of constellations and comets.
Suddenly, Rumael is on his feet and facing you with a look of utter disgust stamped firmly on his gorgeous features; a slender face with very smooth skin, high cheek bones leading down to a stately nose and full, perfectly proportioned lips layered over sharpened teeth. The rich violet red of his eyes bleeds onto your conscious, giving him the appearance of a most ENRAGED angel. Stunning, beautiful, ravishing…
…until his left arm whips itself inside-out and transforms into a hideous bladed monstrosity of an appendage, then points it directly at your face.
“I suppose you have a decent enough excuse for disturbing innocent souls. I don’t intrude on the days of YOUR Final Summoning, so you had better be prepared to answer in the positive.”
You are Vishael the Impossible, and you should be grateful that you aren’t anyone else.
Chapter One
“Rumael, please don’t make me regret anything I do tonight. Sending you into a state of reconstitution would be excruciating for both of us,” Vishael says while tightening his readied grip on the soul-sword conjured from his own life energy, “but I swear by every hair on your head, I will gladly beat you into submission.” His short, deep brown hair raises and falls against his ruggedly handsome face, riding the vibrations of his increasing energy level. The golden brown of his skin tone lightens and darkens along with the changing atmosphere.
Rumael immediately begins to approach his target; the hulking mass of lethal flesh at his side breathes and sharpens as he comes closer to Vishael. “I promise you, this will NOT be elementary as you may assume. But please…take me lightly,” the Revealer dares Vishael.
The one called the Impossible stretches his neck muscles and steadies himself, but never even hints at a fighting stance. Only the soul-sword named Ceriula knows of Vishael’s true intentions. The air between the two Reapers takes on an electric quality that could rival a small lightning storm. Rumael’s essence begins to fill the ceremonial chamber, encompassing the entire area with his life energy. Vishael allows this to happen; secretly, he has been absorbing these waves of vital essence, keeping the bulk of it for himself and feeding the excess to the blade Ceriula.
In the exact moment the rivals are ready to clash, a thunderous voice echoes from beyond the walls.
“FOOLISHNESS!” the voice bellows, surrounding Vishael and Rumael like the gradual fall of darkness, “FIGHT ON YOUR OWN TIME, NOT MINE.”
Both Reapers give up the fight and draw themselves into an attention stance, their eyes burning through each other as they prepare to take orders.
“Hail, Daemon Mishael.”
At the center of the arrangement of ceremonial articles, a whirlpool of force and sediment reaches upward from the ground, then begins to solidify into a single entity; uncommonly well sculpted muscular frame wrapped around an ominously tall, bald-headed figure. His eyes scorch the air with white flames to match the majestic beard cradling a stern and very regal face. Age and wisdom conjoin to etch a careful combination of concern and reprimand onto this, the eldest of the Shade Counters; MISHAEL THE DILIGENT.
His voice carries throughout the chamber as if it is everywhere…and in many ways, this is not far from the truth.
“Vishael, your appetites will be your downfall, so says the oracle. You are to undergo extensive training in the Middle Grounds.”
“Yes, Mishael,” the Impossible chimes as he reluctantly turns to leave. He makes sure to pass closely enough to Rumael so that his soul-sword nullifies the constantly changing force of the weapon-arm. It returns to normal; Rumael just smiles wickedly, as does Vishael.
“Rumael,” the Diligent immediately turns his attention to his pewter skinned apprentice, “these are turbulent times. Please adhere to our laws when caring for passing souls, both good and bad.”
“Yes, Mishael,” Rumael respectfully accepts.
“Good. There is something that needs your immediate dedication. In the world of the living, there is a wave of blood coming. A killer of unimaginable terror is going to fill the city with his hate, murder its daughters and mothers, and enslave its sons and fathers.”
“There will be a lot of Shade Counters going between realities this month,” Rumael surmises.
“Then you understand the danger that this killer is bringing upon us. His hatred will be the key to the destruction of the barrier that keeps both realities safe. I need you to remove this killer from harm. He is still reachable…”
“Yes, presently. However…”
“…he will become the killer once he reaches his destination. You must reach him before he reaches the city. I will show you the path,” Mishael ends his command by lifting his right hand with his palm down. A surge of essences conjures a mist of small, pulsating jade colored lights that hover above the ground before meshing themselves together to form an image. Its winding streams and jutting blocks resemble the city with which Daemon Theria Extremis shares its borders. The image becomes clear and becomes an exact copy of a highly populated area directly west of where they are standing.
“This is his destination,” Mishael continues his debriefing, “No one will die until he reaches this street.” The virtual map morphs again and becomes a more detailed image of a beautiful estate sitting on no less than six acres. The tastefully groomed foliage and creative sculptures accent the home without being gaudy.
“THIS is the home of his first victim. Again, you MUST stop him before he even reaches this home. If you fail to stop him, things will tumble out of our control and he will have to be killed, leaving him nothing but a tainted husk of a soul to be tossed into eternal damnation.”
Mishael the Diligent faces Rumael…Rumael calms himself from the mounting excitement that comes with a new mission. Mishael has always been and always will be as truthful as the Sun is hot. If the Diligent one says this matter is detrimental to the safety of both realities, then he means that very thing with every fiber of his being.
“I will not fail, teacher.”
“I have no doubts concerning this, apprentice.”
Ah, the Middle Grounds. The features of Daemon Theria Extremis become much more colorful here as night gives way to light, revealing a maze-like garden of exotic, otherworldly blossoms. These blossoms glow with an almost spiritual quality, providing adequate lighting for the mind boggling architecture and gorgeously grotesque wooden sculptures.
“A lot has changed since I last visited,” Vishael speaks into the breeze. A hollow sound rushes from the distance and surrounds him.
“I WAS BEGINNING TO THINK YOU THAT BELIEVED YOURSELF TO BE ABOVE TRAINING. HOW HAS LIFE BEEN TREATING YOU, CHILD?” the voice caresses Vishael’s senses. An elderly woman appears from the light mist and fog rolling across the ground. Her countenance is that of an old warrior cheating time; hair tied into a simple bun, golden pupils set into a weather worn face that somehow retained smooth skin. She smiles a constant welcome as she envelopes Vishael with her arms.
“Madame Cilael,” he breathes in greeting. The old woman’s embrace always seemed to release all of the night’s stresses anytime she pauses to show concern. Of course, she only appears in the Middle Grounds when there is a task to be completed.
“Well, you know why you’re here, so let’s not delay any longer. Smile for me, child.”
If you can imagine the feeling of no threat, you have a good idea of how comfortable Vishael feels with the current situation. He smiles genuinely and leans in to hug Cilael once more; the old woman uses THIS particular opportunity to smash her right palm squarely against Vishael’s forehead. Mind numbing pain sears his entire face as a prelude to the immense blast of essence from Cilael’s hand. The force of the attack sends Vishael spiraling through several wooden statues. He crashes into one last dummy and tries to breathe steadily through his deafening heartbeat.
“I…I was sure that we were taking a walk together,” he manages to jest while struggling to stand. Using a technique he learned from Madame Cilael many years ago, Vincent uses the surges of adrenaline and the forcefulness of his breaths to create his soul-sword in an instant (rather than channeling energies to conjure it slowly). Ceriula roars into existence and whips in front of Vishael’s face, intent upon protecting him from any and all harm.
“There is no time for jests, child!” Cilael commands as she charges through the debris toward her trainee, arms trailing behind her seething with energy. She slides to a grinding halt a claps her hands together with all her might, then immediately sweeps both hands away from each other. Flurries of near invisible slashes begin assaulting Vishael just as he swings at Cilael. The soul-sword Ceriula howls in delight as it matches the attack blow-for-blow.
“SCAR, CERIULA!!” Vishael launches a relentless, booming energy attack that uses the soul-sword’s hyperactive nature to shatter the onslaught of blades. Large sparks of electricity and life essence color the atmosphere with a ghostly hue. Ceriula changes again and becomes a decorative gothic rapier, gleaming in the fluorescence of the residual energies hanging in the night air.
Suddenly, hundreds of the surrounding wooden dummies sink into the ground, creating empty pathways that lead into nothingness. Hints of Penumbral Blinding flicker in and out of the vacuum openings, and Vishael watches as Madame Cilael slowly disintegrate. Her particles ride the howling winds and are swallowed into the furthest of the new passages. Fueled by his passion for knowledge, and a slightly vengeful sensation, Vishael follows the fading trails of Cilael’s essence until he is sucked through the opening.
“FIND ME, CHILD... OR DIE WHERE YOU STAND.”
Chapter Two
“We often find ourselves in situations that require more tact than we are willing to afford. It is at these times that we must use as much tact as can be mustered. Giving in to the urge to ‘take the easy out’ is almost certain death in matters of war.”
Dremael the Memory never looks up to face Rumael, but continues reading a book on his most recent fascination—telepathy and telekinetic activity. He enjoys reading at this particular table in the library when doing wide-ranging research on a single subject. Instead of going to each shelf and retrieving the volumes, he uses the sensitivity of his connection to the books and summons them to the grand round table. There is a single chair positioned in the center of the adjacent wall, the back of it facing the grandiose stained glass expression of the Middle Grounds.
“You keep filling your shaven head with that nonsense. What makes you think that moving objects with your mind is possible OR useful?” Rumael questions sincerely.
“I’m surprised that you didn’t add some mundane insult about my face...”
“…or lack thereof?”
“There it is,” Dremael drones. He lifts his left hand and gracefully waves down a small wire bound journal. It’s titled CONNECTIONS AND CONDUCTIVITIES, and its pages are made of thinly sheeted gold ore. A light thump echoes between the book shelves when the journal hits the table, making a perfect landing next to Dremael.
“Was the first bit of information for me, or were you reading aloud?” Rumael asks while making his way around to a small display hanging on the wall.
“It was for you. This thing that Mishael asked you to do…it is no simple retrieval mission. You are hunting one of our own,” Dremael says with a faintly saddened tone. The words of his newest read are reflected on his featureless face and Rumael tries to read the slightly blurred, backward inscriptions. For some reason, the letters meld together and separate into unintelligible symbols.
“Having trouble reading, Revealer? Maybe you should rest your eyes.”
A slight twinge behind his eyeballs and a fluttering bout with double vision tells Rumael that an illusion has been forced upon him to ward against his prying eyes. If only Dremael could smile…
“Well done, Memory. Now where do I start?” Rumael inquires while rubbing the annoyance from his perception.
“I thought that Mishael showed you the map.” Zasael wanders from behind a nearby rolling rack of massive journals and encyclopedia. Each volume is no less than three or four hundred pages.
“He did,” Rumael says as he turns to greet the Vision. In many ways, Rumael owes this particular Shade Counter his life a thousand times over. Let’s just say that the Vision is seldom (if ever) wrong when deciding what is the best strategy. “It’s not the location that I’m worried with, but the method with which to hunt. Your brother tells me that my target is a Shade Counter.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Initially this presented us with a very vexing dilemma. Hunting our own kind is strictly forbidden on any other occasion. However, this mission is for the preservation of both realities.” Zasael paces toward Rumael and places a hand on his shoulder in greeting, then continues on his haphazard path around the library. Since the Vision is also face first in his research, Rumael accepts this as all the greeting he’ll get during this visit.
“Along with this is the colossal responsibility to the Beginning,” says Dremael as he looks up from his book for the first time during the entire conversation.
Rumael looks genuinely surprised. “…Pandael? What role does he play that isn’t his own? There’s no possible way that he’s the one I’m hunting.”
“You’re right, but wouldn’t it be just horrible if this renegade caused the Order’s demise? What do you think will happen to Pandael when he is held responsible for allowing the killer to come into existence, KNOWING that the situation is within his control?” The skin of Dremael’s forehead tightens with concern letting Rumael know exactly what the Memory is trying to say.
“…Unmael.”
“Yes, the Ageless will consume the Beginning. After that, we will ALL be consumed.”
“Yes, yes; doom and such…” Zasael interrupts this morbid banter. “Rumael, you asked about where you will start, or rather, HOW you will start.” He stands behind his brother and presses a small booklet against the Memory’s back. The golden journal that Dremael had been reading begins to radiate essence from specific points and reflects letters onto his face. He then looks up once again to face Rumael.
“Read it…before…it burns into my flesh!” Dremael struggles to warn the Revealer; Rumael promptly reads the only other insight he has for this mission.
“THE MOST OBVIOUS WEAKNESS AND THE MOST DESIRED THING IN THE LIVING WORLD…”
“Not this time, milady!!”
Vishael charges through the shadowy layers of the Penumbral Blinding with his soul-sword slashing wildly ahead of him. While carving a clear path within the banded darkness, Ceriula attacks the now solidified Madame Cilael and her constantly exploding essence strikes. Bursts of bright sparks and illuminated sword slashes decorate the cloudy black tunnel and cause tears that reveal glimpses of the living world.
Suddenly, Cilael deflects a slash with dense energy concentrated into a thin force field around her hands. She uses the force to push herself backward in a beautiful pirouette and slashes upward to create a wide opening. Cilael follows through and cartwheels onto her hands, folds her body, then launches herself up and through the opening.
“Find me now, Vishael,” Madame Cilael taunts as she dissipates into a spray of particles once again. The Impossible becomes slightly furious and Ceriula howls as she splits open the final layer of Penumbral Blinding, leaving them alone in an alleyway. ‘Damn the Middle Grounds! What kind of training is this? What are we doing in the city?’ Vishael’s silent question is lost on thefive o’clock morning winds and Ceriula slowly returns to her home inside the confused Shade Counter.
Street lights begin their synchronized shift into deactivation to make way for the sunrise. Just as he is turning toward the already open breakfast kitchen, a woman steps out of the door and leans against the wall after lighting a cigarette. Vishael is almost instantly mesmerized by her cool demeanor and uncommonly attractive features; platinum blonde hair tied into a simple braided tail, entrancing almond shaped hunter green eyes that seem to light up the entire street, and creamy caramel skin. The hairs on Vishael’s neck stand at attention when as he watches her lips gently kiss the filter, releasing the end of the cigarette with a light curl of smoke in tow.
“Welcome to Shawty Sammiches may I help you?” she asks when she turns to notice Vishael. It’s obvious that she finds him attractive, but women are much better at keeping those feelings concealed. “Oh, sorry. I’m not even on the clock and I’m already in waitress mode.” The slightly form fitting uniform accents the remark with innocent sex appeal.
“It’s alright. I won’t hold it against you. My name is…Vincent. To whom do I owe the honor?”
“Cecilia,” she says in a slightly melodic tone. The beautiful waitress brushes a stray lock of hair away from her forehead, allowing Vishael to capture her enchanting profile.
“Good morning, Cecilia.”
“Good morning, Vincent.”
The two exchange random pleasantries before he finally makes his way to the door. Small talk seems to be the perfect distraction when you don’t want anyone noticing residual energy from your soul-sword. Once there is no trace of abnormality, Vishael—now Vincent—makes his way into Shawty Sammiches. The interior is a COMPLETE oxymoron to the drab exterior and goofy name. The adventure begins with a pristine checkerboard tile floor and the scent of freshly brewed Columbian coffee. Following this is the captivating display of pastries and breads; two skilled bakers interchange in split second shifts loading the treats onto each shelf.
As Vincent draws closer to the well organized bar at his left, the aroma of the fresh breads is accompanied by a warm and mysteriously sweet and sour smell. He knows it’s a grain based food, and that it will be delicious. Beyond that he’s lost.
“What is THAT?” he asks as he inhales the smell again.
“It’s sourdough. I guess you’re not from here, with the super good looks….and the fact that you don’t know what sourdough is,” Cecilia chuckles that last part.
“I guess there’s a lot that I need to learn, lady.”
They stroll to the end of the bar and part ways as Cecilia goes into the back of the house. Vincent knows that she has to work so he just watches from his perch at the corner of the black marble top. Ceriula makes a heated surge and plays a little havoc with Vincent’s insides, causing him to double over with a few seconds of nausea. Suddenly a voice enters Vincent’s mind.
“That’s TWO extra women in our life now. What’s a little girl to do when her space is so RUDELY invaded, hmmm?” Ceriula questions the befuddled Shade Counter turned part-time human.
“MY life, mistress; you are on borrowed time.” He manages to answer without spinning into a vomiting rage.
“Let’s USE some of that borrowed time for a trip to the restroom,” Ceriula chimes. Vincent feels an unstoppable wave of nausea that he’s sure will end in spray, and that spray will decorate the bar if he does not find the restroom. He scans the room quickly and spots a stone passageway across from the back door. A sign at the top corner indicates that it is indeed the restroom area. After a swift and thankful prayer, Vincent curses Ceriula’s name as he charges into the toilet to settle his guts.
When Vincent returns to the bar, he notices emptiness within his mind and soul…and also notices an odd little green haired girl sitting at the bar. She turns to him and cuts a devilishly innocent smile.
“How’s your belly? You ran off in SUCH a hurry.”
“Oh my….”
Chapter Three
He stirs awake and smiles to himself as a gleaming white falcon descends onto his right shoulder. A light flap of its wings is the message, and the master receives with delight. The falcon takes off into the darkness above him and disappears, leaving a trail of white dust sparkling throughout the atmosphere. The light reveals a lavish burial chamber with its walls and ceiling covered in diamond glaciers speckled with pure gold. A bed frame of plush, bright emerald green moss sits perfect center in the middle of the room; the head board is a fierce stone dragon, and each of the onyx knobs is cut to resemble the images of four mythical beasts.
The light continues to fall and begins settling on his body, illuminating the engraved body armor and dragon’s head shoulder guards. A quick burst chi pushes his fire red hair into a flare and the white dust flies outward, making a dream like image of the chi outline. As the last bit of dust falls, light caresses his fitted, claw-grip Ruin Gauntlets, down to his weathered sash lying beneath a sturdy hide belt, and spills into the darkness along his weighted hakama.
“Things seem to be going well,” he says as the light disappears completely.
Rumael dips his hands into the cool blue and lets out a sigh of relief mixed with nostalgia before smoothing the water over his face. He knows that it’s very likely he won’t see his own room for a very long time. Missions like this one usually take quite a bit of time to complete, especially when you’re hunting a formidable target. The fact that Rumael is hunting another Shade Counter may have stretched the potential time into a weeks or months situation. Another lovely benefit of this time alone is the ability to go about doing his tasks and not be interrupted by outsiders; the Penumbral Reflection placed against the entrance will make SURE there are no interruptions.
“I wonder what sort of Shade Counter would go chasing lusts in the living world. I would be forever grateful if it turned out to be Vishael, but that is highly unlikely,” he thinks to himself while performing a few stretches.
Rumael slips into the streamlined pool on the far left side of the room with its twin directly across from it. He begins a hasty descent into the deep blue until he begins to see a pitch blackness swallow his path. Rumael adds a flow of essence to his swimming and charges faster. He enters the abyss unafraid, prepared for the journey ahead. It has been a few years since he has used this passage to the living world. Since the Penumbral Blinding surrounds Daemon Theria Extremis and its boundary with the living world, the cool essence infused water is flowing through a dense blackness. Fleeting streams of pinks and blues and violets shoot past Rumael as he speeds through the darkness.
“Youth tends to give way to lusts very easily, but power is the only thing that gets a fledgling Shade Counter through the Penumbral Blinding. This means that the one who did this is most likely an apprentice.” Rumael uses his inner essence in a technique that superheats and super-cools water within a field of essence borrowed from the water around him. After doing this he has exactly FIVE seconds to regulate his breath before the essence combination collapses, leaving him to resume his activities.
“I would know if the alleged killer was one of Daemon Mishael’s apprentices. This isn’t a training mission, so there is no reason that he would neglect to tell me if such was the case. Jurael would challenge me directly, so that’s not very possible either. “
Rumael sees a thread of light in the distance and increases his speed one last time. He sees faint shadows passing through the light and wonders about what sort of aquatic life he will encounter. A sudden blast of freezing cold torpedoes into Rumael and marks the edge of the dividing border.
“Whoever the suspect is, I WILL catch him!”
Rumael ends this last thought with a forceful thrust of essence that sends him roaring through the opening. As soon as he hits the ocean, he is swept into the current and sucked upward. The skilled Shade Counter uses another technique learned from the All-Father Mishael; using the upward force of the initial current, Rumael adds a bit of essence force to his ascent and shoots toward the surface at near mach speed. His body pierces the surface just as he inverts the flow of essence guiding his path. The Revealer explodes from the ocean waters in a majestic spray of pearl white foam and turquoise droplets sparkling like jewels in the sun. He uses the remaining inverted essence to create lift, using his hair as “wings”
While gliding over the city Rumael searches for an appropriate place to land—appropriate meaning somewhere separate from unsuspecting eyes might be frightened by the sudden appearance of pewter colored man with menacing fangs, and hair like the wings of an albatross. He spots a charred stretch of land coming into view and one of the abandoned buildings seems to be missing a quarter of its roof. Rumael takes his first relaxed breath since he entered the pool back in his cavern.
“Well, it’s time to get started.”
---
Mishael is satisfied with how things are progressing this week. So far there have been more than ten successful graduations and training programs. Rumael is more than capable of completing his mission, so now is not the time for worrying. It’s difficult to not feel a fatherly connection to someone who has been learning from you for most of their life. Taking this opportunity to reflect upon his own talents, the All-Father decides to go to his only true source of stress-relief. He tugs at the gourd tucked away in his robe and it rolls into his hand.
“…blue wine today. This should be good,” Mishael chuckles to himself before taking a healthy swig of the semi-sweet elixir. He knows that blue is Pandael’s favorite color, and that blue wine days bring out the beast in Pandael. A friendly match is sure to wash off the day’s worries…or at least beat the worry out of him. He takes another swig when he reaches the top of the grand staircase. The cool air that resonates from Pandael’s residual essence sweeps its way up to Mishael and he closes his eyes as the playful breeze passes by. This last bit of transient comfort is the first step of Mishael’s descent into the source of the Penumbral Blinding.
After a few flights, the essence becomes stronger and Mishael has to steel his body to keep his balance. He takes another drink of the blue wine and continues down to Pandael’s chamber. Upon reaching the door, a surge of essence blasts into the entrance hall and forces Mishael backward a few steps.
“Come in Mishael,” says a voice form within the chamber, “It’s good to see you drinking again.”
“Only on days like this, Pandael,” the All-Father says with a smile as he pushes his way through the storm of essence. As soon as he reaches the chamber and makes his way inside, the doors slam shut behind him and the All-Father is consumed by darkness. Steam and residual essence settle on the smooth curves of the enormous golden braces around the doorway. These immaculate adornments have been molded into two lions, facing each in symmetrical battle stances. Mishael watches the soft light of the essence fall to the ground in the shape of a single drop. The lonely concentrated essence explodes silently at his feet…
The room is filled with an almost holy light reflecting its infinite beauty off of the majestic jeweled glaciers and golden snowflakes. Mishael looks down at the transparent flooring; the panels are made of reinforced glass that was compressed under extreme heat and pressure near the Earth’s core. Beneath the glass is and endless chasm black as night, except for a faint green light glowing from the center.
“He’s sleeping today. Blue doesn’t sit well with him,” Pandael says with a yawn and a casual shoulder stretch. He walks out of a sea of reflections free of his armor, wearing only a black form fitting long-coat over his cappuccino colored hakama. The braided hide sandals leave his feet exposed to the elements, but the coolness of the air feels good against his toughened skin.
“Unmael is a fickle old soul when he wants to be,” Mishael answers as he unbuttons his weighted robes. The heavy black fabric collapses onto the glass and the sound echoes throughout the diamond glaciers. Pandael looks down at the robes and notices the beautiful red chrysanthemum embroidered on the back, then does a quick size-up of his apprentice turned opponent and looks genuinely surprised with the elder’s well chiseled physique.
“It looks like you’ve been training some, old man. Are you trying to impress your teacher…or embarrass him?” Pandael questions with a hint of mockery.
“Well, since the common cliché places age BEFORE beauty, I felt it was necessary to always keep the two concepts VERY closely related,” Mishael counters with a smirk and a stroke of his beard. The atmosphere becomes tense as the battle begins with a clash of wits and ‘flexing some muscle’.
Both senior reapers now face each other with their fists held away from their bodies, their combined essences making waves of force reverberate throughout the bejeweled burial chamber. Pandael’s mane flares out just like before, only this time the essence force is enough to leave hairline cracks in the glass floor and in the smaller diamonds around the room. Mishael smiles once more before his face takes on an emotionless, stone like quality as he makes his final remark.
“Pandael, are you ready for this old man?”
“The student won’t be defeating the master tonight, Mishael.”
---
Vincent is shaken to his core. How in the world did she manage to leave her home within his soul AND materialize without him noticing some sort of movement? It would be less disturbing if this had happened before, but it had NOT. Rumael stares with confused curiosity unable to find words to say to the green haired girl. Her short legs dangle off the edge of her barstool, leaving Vincent to wonder about how she got up there to begin with. The whirlwind of queries is almost dizzying so he settles on one simple question.
“How in the WORLD did you make your way out…and in human form?!?”
“Yeah, loud talking about me coming out of your body will most certainly keep you in Cecilia’s good graces.
“You little imp…”
Just as Vincent is cooking up a smorgasbord of curses, Cecilia emerges from the back-of-the-house holding a tray with two beautifully prepared drinks. One is a…something mixed with orange Jell-O and topped with whipped cream. The other drink is suspiciously familiar to Vincent; a steaming, lightly colored liquid with a pleasantly sweet aroma and a thin cinnamon stick resting against the side of the mug.
“Julius Jiggle for you, milady” Cecilia speaks in a sing-song tone as she places the strange orange concoction in front of Ceriula. The “little girl” smiles widely and dives into her drink.
“…and for you, my hero of the day, your friend here suggested something that I honestly didn’t expect you to like.” She carefully lifts the heated mug and places it in front of Vincent and his eyes widen with delight for the first time since he’s been in the living world.
“Vanilla tea. My goodness, you’re very good at your job,” Vincent says after inhaling the intoxicatingly delicious aroma of vanilla.
“Is that so? And what IS my job, kind sir?”
“If I’m not mistaken, your job is reading my desires, and delivering without my speaking them.”
Ceriula rolls her eyes, sickened by the suggestively romantic chatter. She continues to devour her Julius Jiggle and does her best to ignore Vincent and Cecilia—the newest hindrance to Ceriula and Vincent’s progress as far as she’s concerned. This could be the perfect opportunity to find out where Madame Cilael has hidden herself. That old heretic is the worst opponent we’ve ever had the misfortune of fighting with, Ceriula thinks to herself. The youthful soul blade has had some…memorable moments with Cilael; most importantly, she remembers triggering a terrible chain of events that eventually led to unleashing Ferael the Untouchable.
“My goodness, I hope that I don’t ever make that old heretic angry like that again. But what is she doing here in the living world?” Ceriula mumbles to herself while finishing her Julius Jiggle. She looks over at Vincent and Cecilia just as their noses “accidentally” touch. A surge of anger and bewilderment shocks Ceriula and she responds with a swift, child-like outburst.
“WENCH!! ANOTHER JULIUS JIGGLE, PLEASE!!!”
Vincent and Cecilia snap to attention. The stunned waitress glances at Ceriula with “excuse me?” written all over her face. The little miss just smiles and raises her glass as innocently as she can. Her mouth is stained orange and speckled with whipped cream. Cecilia can’t help but look into those sweet little eyes and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Seems like someone’s watched just a few too many pirate movies, eh?” Cecilia says with a curious smile.
“Maybe just a few, cap’n!” Ceriula chimes with glee. Vincent watches his new found love interest stroll into the kitchen, then turns to the “little girl” and leans in close.
“THAT was completely unnecessary.”
At this point in time, there’s not a single person more satisfied and tickled than Ceriula.
---
Rumael stands atop a dilapidated structure at the edge of the city, hair settled against his body in staunch defiance of the powerful wind chill. He uses an inner force technique that unifies the blood and outer essence to give him control over the length and thickness of all his hairs. The beautiful silver mane wraps itself around Rumael and protects him from the intense cold while he focuses his vision. Winter is a HORRIBLE time to try and pray for clear, dry vision. Because winter is so different in Daemon Theria Extremis, the Shade Counters almost never get accustomed to it in the living world.
The Revealer releases his protective technique and immediately forces his essence outward to begin searching for his prey. The thrill of the hunt always gets him excited, but up until now he’s been holding the hunger at bay. The struggle is now reaching its end as Rumael gives in to the demonic appetite that has made him on of the most efficient hunters in the Order of Shade Counters. He lets himself think of nothing but his own satisfaction and the feeling alone is enough to send a heat wave of euphoria throughout his body. The world becomes crystal black, and all living things are detailed drawings animated in his bloody virtual vision. Bloodlust begins to creep into his soul, so he inhales as deeply as he can and concentrates all of his essences on his vision.
The entire environment becomes a life sized version of the map the Mishael had shown him before. Vishael’s vision overwhelmed with jade colored landscapes with sculpted clusters of red moving along the roads and sidewalks in the distance. He sees people sitting in their homes, walking their pets, driving to work or wherever. It’s comforting to know that his body has entered a trance-like state, and he can use his essence powers effortlessly. However, if he can’t maintain his composure and allows his latent bloodlust to control his actions, Rumael will cut a bloody swath of punishment along the path to his target. This is why he focuses almost all of his essence on enhancing his vision; if he can see more efficiently, then he can react with more skill and less force while avoiding an overload of bloodlust.
Rumael looks further into the city and searches for the lavish estate shown to him by Mishael’s map. The extra visual support makes finding the home nearly effortless.
“We head West tonight,” Rumael reminds himself after settling his vision on the home in question, “…for now, let’s find somewhere to sleep.
Time and patience see that The Revealer finds his way to town in human form, elegantly dressed in a black soft leather Mandarin collared suit and wingtips, draped with a butter-cream colored fox fur long-coat (more handsome than any man in town, mind you), cruising the business district for a decent place to lay his head. Like a foul smell passing through the night breeze, he hears a very chauvinistic and masculine voice announce his opinion about Rumael’s choice of winter clothing.
“SO, IS IT PIRATE DAY AT THE FIRM, MILADY?!? THE FEATHERS ON YOUR LONG-COAT ARE F**KIN’ MAAHVELOUS!!” the man laughs with his friends. As they gorge themselves on filthy humor and insults about Rumael’s flowing silver hair, the un-amused Shade Counter uses a small amount of spiritual essence to connect himself to the man’s putrid aura. Once the energies are grounded, Rumael uses a technique called Luminous Blinding to travel over to his antagonists’ side of the street
**Luminous Blinding allows the user to travel within the reflection of peripheral vision. Multiple points can be used when more people are around. **
Like the blink of an eye, Rumael appears in between the mouthy pedestrian and his friends. He whips his hands out faster than the man can follow and hits the two companions in pressure points that put them to sleep without causing them to fall over. Once they are subdued, Rumael turns his attention to his initial target…and the man is shaking with fear. Surprisingly enough, he maintains the same arrogant countenance; Rumael passes it off as instinct and laughs to himself.
“What is your name, worm?” Rumael asks, making sure that the man gets a good look at his fangs.
“…I’m so sorry…I’m….I…,” the man stammers and stumbles over his words like a child reporting bad news to his parents.
“I think I just asked you a question. Feel free to answer, or you can just let me eviscerate you right here,” Rumael taunts his prey while he uses some essence to conjure a slightly stronger breeze. His silver hair blows around him and sweeps toward the terrified man’s face. Along with the stabbing sensations being sent throughout the man’s body each time the hair touches him, Rumael discovers that the looks of painful horror quaking over this man’s face are worth every moment of the annoying cold.
“SANTOS! SANTOS YOUNG! PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!!” the now humbled and broken man screams at the top of his lungs through frozen tears and a frostbitten bloody nose. His breath becomes shorter and shorter as he sinks deeper into Rumael’s mental torture.
“Santos, you poor excuse for a man, look at me.”
Santoslifts his head as swiftly as possible and meets deep onyx eyes pooling with a ghastly blood red energy sitting atop the most intensely evil smile decorated with perfectly sharpened fangs. The last bit of machismo exitsSantos’ body along with assorted bodily fluids and he feels time and space folding inward, engulfing his sanity in a shadowed hell no larger than the space between himself and Rumael. The satisfied Shade Counter slowly extends his right hand and touchesSantos’ forehead with the nail of his index finger.
“You should never treat strangers poorly, because you have no idea who you might be dealing with. Do you understand?”
Santos tries to nod or say “yes” or make some kind of effort to appease and answer, but only manages to mumble something unintelligible before collapsing to the concrete. As Rumael makes his way down the street toward the next potential resting place,Santos’ two friends finally awaken to find their hapless mate unconscious and barely breathing.
As he approaches his destination, Rumael realizes that things are not what they seem; this realization comes after a slight buzz of ethereal communication from Madame Cilael. For some reason she is ordering him to make a quick trip to her location, and that he will know the purpose upon his arrival. She claims that it is imperative to her current mission and that he will be overjoyed with the small-but-integral role he will play. Rumael is almost annoyed until he has a flash memory of Mishael sending Vishael to the Middle Grounds for training, then the joy wells up inside as he changes course to meet Cilael. The city is calling for something and he may be the only one who can provide it.
The stage is now set.
THE SHADE COUNTERS: Autumn
Pandael looks deep into Daemon Mishael and tries to find something that will give away any pending attacks. This battle is dependent upon preemptive strikes, and both fighters have a very deep understanding of each other’s fighting style. The tomb rumbles with energies clashing between the two elite Shade Counters as they finish estimating their potential. Light from the essences flowing throughout the tomb flickers and dances from one gemstone to the next. Gleaming white feathers begin to fall in the space between them as a dove silently lowers itself and hovers as if heralding the beginning of the fight.
“I guess The Ageless will be monitoring this bout,” Mishael says. He and Pandael never lose the iron bound stare.
“Somehow, it’s appropriate. I thought he didn’t like blue wine…I suppose you just can’t know EVERYTHING about a person. Are you ready, apprentice?” Pandael almost snorts the last bit of his response before he tastes the spark of battle.
Suddenly, the bird disappears in a flash of blinding white light and a thunderous crash bellows from the center of the cave.
“DEFEND YOURSELF!” Mishael demands.
Meeting with explosive force, both Pandael and Mishael unleash deadly Stomping Fists and find themselves resisting each other with their forearms. The pressure of their stances causes slight fractures in the ground and then gives way to a monstrous crater as Pandael launches himself backward and lands with both feet against a block of gems. Jeweled dust explodes from beneath his braided sandals. This unorthodox maneuver does not alter his balance or muscle control as he takes a directly offensive stance.
“Terrifyingly accurate!” Pandael pauses to praise The All-Father.
“My style is the apotheosis fusion between essence and physical form. I WILL surpass you this night!” Mishael roars into action.
At the exact moment Pandael settles his feet, Daemon Mishael appears like a flash of lightning with both arms still in front of his face, eye level with his master and comrade, in perfect position to smash Pandael’s collarbone from the left and right simultaneously. A split second’s breath is all that separates The Beginning from unimaginable pain, so Pandael uses this miniscule amount of time to bring his arms up into a cross block and catches Mishael’s devastating attack just as it makes contact. More gem dust bursts from beneath his feet as the impact shakes Pandael to his core.
“Very good, old man,” taunts the ever confident Pandael. He waits until the air is calm and rivals Mishael’s force with a thunderous counter attack. Deep vibrations rock the foundation as The Beginning uses the opposing inertia to create his counter force, then lands six monstrous punches against Mishael’s chest; each strike is more damaging than the previous, each strike sounds like an implosion trapped in a wind tunnel. The deafening echo shatters the Daemon’s concentration, coupling with the pain of Pandael’s expert attack to make the senior Shade Counter struggle to stand. He loses the battle and collapses to his knees, but a faint smile rests on his face as he fades.
Pandael leans down to grab Mishael’s gourd then drinks until it is empty. An overwhelming pride fills his heart as he recounts the fight in his mind.
“Old man, no one can doubt your worth. Only you can lead my Shade Counters so rest well…”
“Alright, it’s time to confess. How did you get out?” Vishael interrogates his giddy partner. Meanwhile Ceriula seems to ignore him and becomes a die-hard Julius Jiggle consumer. It’s not that she can’t hear him; if she chooses to confess then she will begin to unravel something much more detrimental than her own presence.
“Hmph!” she manages to come up with a retort childish enough to throw him of course…or so she thought.
“Not this time, girly-girl. I’m starting to feel uneasy and would like to know if it’s YOUR fault or just my nerves. Come on, stop playing innocent. How did you get-“
“WENCH! SAVE ME!!!” Ceriula yells, praying that Cecilia comes to her aid before she has no choice but to confess. From the kitchen and with infinite grace comes Cecilia with the largest Julius Jiggle ever served at Shawty Sammiches. Sure enough the skilled waitress appears to save the little one, but Vishael confiscates the cold treat and holds it away from the two young ladies.
“I’ll take over from here, lady. Thanks for your help,” Vishael speaks in a slightly annoyed tone. This unexpectedly alerts Cecilia so she laughs while reaching for the drink.
“Aw Vincent, don’t be so hard on her,” Cecilia says in her sweetest, most convincing voice. Unfortunately Vishael is completely unshaken by the attempt to woo his conscious. Ceriula looks to the waitress as if to say ‘please do something’ but there is nothing she can do without actually grabbing the man.
“Sorry love, but this little miss has a very important question to answer.”
“…so important that you would hold her new favorite drink hostage? That seems a little harsh for a smooth talker like you,” Cecilia pleads relentlessly.
“I know but she’s given me no other choice,” he responds with unmovable defense. Ceriula looks up at Cecilia and both of them are locked in a silent decision about how to deal with this situation but no possible rescue comes to mind. They shift focus back to Vincent.
“Suddenly I feel like you ladies are going to pummel me into the ground. What’s the deal?” he asks playfully, still intending to finish his interrogation of the child-like Soul Sword made flesh. Ceriula mentally surrenders, followed by Cecilia and the spiritual vibrations that shock Vincent as he realizes something very frightening.
“Ceriula,” he begins very carefully with his eyes locked with those of Cecilia, “how did you get out?” He waits patiently and is completely afraid of what he is going to hear. The three bodies seem to be trapped within their own bubble of space-time. Ceriula finally decides to answer but is stopped by a hand on her shoulder; Cecilia rescues her from a fate that is ultimately not her own fault.
“Vishael, I did this not her,” she speaks in a voice that is all too familiar to the now confused Shade Counter.
“Cecilia,” he manages to say without growling, “how do you know my name?”
“Why would you—“
“Because I deserve to hear you say it. Pulling on my heart-strings was despicable. Tell me how you know my name!” Vishael is quickly losing his patience.
“Alright, young man. You should recognize my voice by now so I will tell you. I pulled her away from you for the same reason that I retreated to this living world. Your training with me was ordered by the highest and I will execute without fail. This includes removing your Soul Sword to test your abilities that DO NOT rely upon the little one. Now what does this information do for you, hm?” Cilael speaks without breaking the enchantment that gave her the current body she possesses.
“It helps me reach a very stable and sensible conclusion. You have angered me for the very last time, old woman. Pray that this world will survive my fury,” he says calmly as his energies churn and wrench his soul.
“Young reaper, there is no need for anything extreme. Please reconsider,” Cilael tries to reason with The Impossible…fruitlessly. Ceriula cowers against Cilael and feels the intense negative force radiating from her once cool best friend, so much that it feels hot against her skin. She tries to pull away from the old woman and return to Vishael, but Cilael keeps a solid grip on her clothes.
“The Order treats me like a junior, especially Daemon Mishael. Rumael is the most devious and under-handed of all the Shade Counters, yet he is treated with great respect…almost REVERENCE! I refuse to tolerate this any longer.”
Vishael is nearly in tears spilling his heart’s concern to Madame Cilael, Ceriula is struggling to get back to her home before he destroys the city, and the heat from mounting negative energy is so great that patrons are leaving the restaurant swiftly as possible. The situation has taken a turn for the worst, but Cilael will not change course. She MUST train this young Shade Counter or The Order will dispose of him. It will be a sad affair but necessary for maintaining the balance between the living world and Daemon Theria Extremis.
“Please Vishael, don’t do this,” Cilael actually shows emotion this time because she knows that it is her last chance. She loosens her grip on Ceriula just enough for the girl to notice and struggle more. ‘Respond damn you!’ she cries in her mind while doing her best to let the enraged young man see Ceriula clamoring to reach him.
“VI-VI! PLEEEEEASE!!!” the girl screams through angry and fearful cries. Her inner essence is violently expelled and coats the entire room with lavender light. The hue deepens as it reaches Vishael and his breathing begins to slow. His mind is still beyond flatly trying to reason with but this is satiating the overwhelming thirst for negative energies by bombarding it with a familiar wavelength.
At this moment comes a very unfortunate situation where the Penumbral Blinding is the deciding factor in a situation that crosses the two realms. It is not just the border between them, but it is the veil separating any ethereal images or intense sensations with otherworldly origins. The only way to see something that originates from Daemon Theria Extremis is to be a Shade Counter, or have a special ability which most likely has roots in Daemon Theria Extremis.
It is here where we find our dilemma.
The hollow, ear numbing crack of a hand cannon shatters all sensibility. Cilael looks up and sees two things that give her the feeling that Armageddon has begun; at the door is a man dressed in very plain clothes and masked with a bandanna, then there is Vishael frozen in terror. The cold and empty atmosphere surrounding the utterly shocked Shade Counter is enough for Cilael to confirm her next words, kept at a whisper for reasons known only to her.
“I’m sorry boy.”
Vishael watches Ceriula and Cilael collapse to the ground with a bloody gash leading from the little girl’s torso through to the waitress’ ribs. Their human bodies lay against each other in a heap. A voice keeps screaming and asking for money, but Vishael seems to have no interest in what’s behind him. It sounds muffled and surreal, almost like the mind screwing images in front of him right now.
And then there is black…
“Did you hear about what happened at Shawty Sammiches? ” Val bursts into Amaya’s bedroom with no prior notice, a frequent occurrence for which Amaya is always prepared. Her best friend’s predictability is only rivaled by that of the fleeting telepathic connection they often share.
“You know I can’t stand that place. The lingual butchery in the store’s name is enough to make me want to vomit,” Amaya cringes with her answer.
“That’s exactly why I looooove saying it with excitement! SHAWTY SAMMICHES!! SHAWTYYYYY SAMMICHESSSSSSS!!! ”
“Oh my god if you don’t stop it—“ Amaya grips the smallest and most firm of her bed pillows with the intent to shuriken her tormentor. Val notices that the tirade hit home and stifles Amaya’s pending onslaught.
“Anyway Angel, the place went up in smoke. Strange thing is that the building is still standing but the interior is completely charred and empty, like somebody moved out all the chairs and just painted a disaster scene…except it’s not paint y’know.”
“Yes I know, Val” Amaya is still on guard and ready with her fluffy throwing star, “Was there anyone around the diner when you saw it?”
“…which diner?” Val asks with a sly smile.
“…shuriken.”
The pillow zips across the room toward Val’s head and makes point with accuracy. The smile melts away into a surprised scowl, then defeated laughter. Val speaks through broken chuckles, “Aside from the ridiculous number of law enforcers and dumb bystanders I didn’t see anyone that we know.”
“I felt something odd.” Amaya clutches her blanket for a moment then slips out of bed. Her onyx mane slithers across the pillows after her and falls against the soft sheen of silk pink pajamas. What she isn’t saying; telepathic tremors that were undeniably from Shawty Sammiches had awoken her from sleep. This abrupt disturbance came with cloudy visions of a dark haired man that she has never seen before, but was surely the strongest influence from the tremors.
After the girls get dressed for the day (of course Val is wearing one of her creative shirts…today is ‘TROUSER SNAKE KILLA’) they sit at the dining room table for their daily “round-table” discussion over cinnamon raisin bagels and fresh butter. The bagel ritual is something that keeps a sense of order in their lives and all ingredients are important. The sharp scent of toasted cinnamon and sweet creaminess of real butter is enough to put smiles on both their faces every morning. Understandably, Val is a little more than annoyed when she has the bagels in the oven nearing the perfect crisp then opens the dairy drawer in the refrigerator to find not a sliver of butter.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re out of BUTTER?!?” Val growls through gritted teeth, “How could I forget that? I even remember looking directly at the butter when I went to the grocery earlier.” She searches a little while longer, hoping that she was dumb enough to put it with the vegetables or even with the eggs. “That’s what I get for being nosy.”
Amaya perks up at this remark. “Nosy about what?”
“The diner…I heard all the hoopla outside and I guess my bystander sense tingled too much.”
Amaya cringes again when she realizes that Val’s telepathic link connected with the mess at Shawty Sammiches. Another fleeting vision of the dark haired man speckles her mind long enough to make her a little more uneasy, then she decides that it’s time for them to get some fresh air. The only comfort is that the stranger in her vision is very handsome and non-threatening…for the time being.
“Let’s just go to Deady Rok and get some coffee. They have the same brand of bagels and never seem to run out of butter,” she suggests hoping that she will not be met with opposition.
“Good idea. I’m in the mood for caffeine anyway,” Val agrees without a second thought. The young female odd couple gather themselves and heads out to the street on the mission for a peaceful bagel breakfast. Things seem normal enough but something tugs at Amaya’s soul like the lost child. She hopes that the origin of that sensation is equally as harmless. She reaches into her pocket and grips a very special item that gives her an extra bit of courage.
***
The disturbances in her force are more than a nuisance. A few weeks ago she found an old necklace with a single charm hanging from one of its broken ends. Amaya took it to Gold School, the local antiques dealer, to have it appraised. Cecilia couldn’t determine the exact monetary value of the charm, but she identified it as Norse a rune called “Aegishjalmar”; it is shaped like eight tridents joined at their tails to make a perfectly round medallion. Each trident carries three parallel bars just beneath the heads. This rune promotes irresistibility and protection from harm so Cecilia told Amaya to keep it with her at all time. Oddly enough, when she left, Amaya discovered that a primitive love spell surrounded by tiny Aegishjalmar runes had been scribbled on the back of her appraisal receipt. The spell was only two words;”SAL FELAG”, translated from Norse runic letters as “soul mate”.
Underneath the crude sketch and love spell was a message: “If you want love try anything. If you want YOUR love then repeat these two words seven times in any direction. –Cecilia”
***
Vishael awakens on the floor of what used to be a quaint little diner named Shawty Sammiches. Unfortunately the success of the restaurant was interrupted by an explosive outburst that he barely remembers. However something smells sickeningly familiar, almost like another Shade Counter or something else from his home. Whatever the case, it is enough to cause a great anger to rekindle within him. From what he can gather there are some seriously unacceptable that leave him no choice but to destroy the living world; Cilael is nowhere to be found…not even with his extended Daemon Signal (an ability that allows the Shade Counters to track and communicate with each other), the soul sword Ceriula has been completely removed from him and is also remarkably hidden from his senses, and there is a hunger for destruction that feels sinfully delicious. The only thing keeping him from beginning a bloody adventure across the city is his undying curiosity. Why am I angry? Why am I alone? Where are Ceriula and Cilael? These question itch him relentlessly as he lifts himself from the floor. His clothing is tattered and singed with whatever caused the disaster, so he uses a bit of essence to repair them…or at least he tries.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Vishael questions himself while trying to summon enough essence to tie his shoes.
Nothing happens.
“Powers that don’t rely on my soul sword, that’s what she said,” he recalls Cilael’s announcement. Suddenly he feels nauseous and dizzy when the entire event comes rushing back to the forefront of his memory.
***
The man in the doorway uses a crude and noisy weapon to blast a hole through Cilael and Ceriula. They fall to the ground in front of him and a tidal wave of furious anger consumes him. He turns to see the man trying to hide the weapon inside his clothes, then screams a curse known only to the Shade Counters as ‘the word of erase’. Whatever was left from Ceriula’s essence is sucked into his massive vengeful energies and then expelled as a white-out of explosive proportions. When things are clear Vishael is the only one left, but the sound of sirens and approaching pedestrians leaves no option other than disappearing. He uses the remainder of his energy to cloak himself in ethereal energy and masks his entire presence from any living creature, then collapses from exhaustion. Just before fading out he can see a graceful figure looming over him, leaning down with its silver colored hair teasing Vishael’s torso and scathing words teasing his subconscious mind. “…and to think, YOU are the one that I’m hunting.” Vishael’s memory essence allows him to follow the man with his mind, trailing the murderer to a very classy and expensive hotel, up to his room and into the walk-in closet to change clothes. The man turns his head slightly and allows his silver locks to fall away to reveal a wicked smile full of perfectly sharpened teeth.**
“RUMAEL!” Vishael vomits the name when he realizes that his fellow Shade Counter is the source of the sickeningly familiar smell. The realization makes it much more sickening but the nausea cowers in the shadow of Vishael’s loathing. Curiosity and retribution’s song bring him to some sort of common sense and he stands upright, a short burst of essence returns his clothes to their previously undamaged cleanliness. “Good work, I’m feeling better already. It’s time to find Rumael and send him to the pits of our realm.”
Even though the current gear is good as new, Vishael searches for an appropriate place to clone clothing. Shade Counters are almost always short on real currency, and cloning fibers makes for great practice with essences. Since this world is on the verge of falling to his vengeance, Vishael sees no problem with wandering the city learning what he can. These things might help him to specify the exact target of his destruction…they may even save the city. Rumael is still here in the city. The daylight bears no visible clues but the putrid after taste of his essence assures The Impossible that The Revealer is watching him very closely.
“Whatever, I need to find a decent clothier. No need to wear the same things during these next few weeks,” he says to himself, trying to decide how long he will stifle his rage. The streets surrounding Shawty Sammiches are lively and full of people going about their tasks. He blends in perfectly with window shoppers and rushing pedestrians alike. Vishael passes by a few open air fabric shops and garment kiosks and decides to scan them while chatting with their respective proprietors.
One such vendor takes the chance to absorb all of Vishael’s ruggedly handsome features and immediately tries to keep him there. Fortunately her kiosk is the most furnished on this part of the street. “Hello gorgeous! You did well stopping here. I keep the latest fashions along with the best vintage gear and accessories,” she remains smooth and welcoming while reciting her sales pitch.
“Thank you lady,” he responds with the most sensual tone he can muster. An extra fluff of essence sends all the right signals to the caramel toned, tastefully short-haired saleswoman. “Is there anything you recommend? You seem to have a good eye for body structure. Since I’m new to the area I don’t want to walk around looking like a fool.”
“Give me your name and my fantasy will be complete, mister…”
“…Vincent.” This couples with a genuine smile to make the lady show effort trying to contain her fascination. Perfect, he has full control of the situation and is free to scan and collect images while she shops for him in vain.
“My name is Ariel. Vincent: dark haired wraith of my dreams, I will dress you like a prince.”
“Why not like a king?” he asks while wondering why she chose ‘wraith’ of all things.
“Because the king has a queen, but the prince needs a lady by his side to join him when he takes the throne. Don’t you agree?”
“You’re the expert. I am just a prince looking for the perfect clothes.”
They exchange titillating smiles but only one is truly involved with this loosely romantic exchange of small talk. While Ariel flips through various articles of clothing Vishael looks around and takes in the scenery, logging every building and tree, every corner and street sign.
After taking in a few designs and fabric patterns he slips away before Ariel can hail him again, then he moves to an odd but quaint antiques shop. The wares are all beautiful in their own way, but a small onyx jewelry box catches his eye; then it tickles his essence. The box is surrounded by vintage jewelry in an artistically cluttered setting, but stands alone as an eerily appealing piece. Something pulls at his soul and for a few moments he feels a rush of positive energies buff his essence abilities and the clothing designs he scanned become effortlessly clear in his mind. In a swift and playful gathering of mental images, Vishael makes one outfit for each day of the week and locks them away for use when necessary.
“What was that?” he questions himself and the air around him. Mishael never mentioned any ethereal or runic items making their way from Daemon Theria Extremis in physical form with their essences intact. “I wonder who operates this shop…”
***
Standing just out of sight is a beautiful middle aged woman resting her head in her hands, dressed in a simple courier style uniform over a white tank-top that hugs her body and a name badge that reads “Cecilia”. On the left side of the counter lies a sleeping cat with beautiful lavender fur. Around her neck is a simple black collar adorned with a small heart shaped platinum plate engraved with her name…”Ceri”.
***
Rumael is numb with excitement. Anytime that he’s come to blows with Vishael, the elders became disturbed and interrupted their fighting. Even the All-Father Mishael has broken up their skirmishes before any decent attacks could be made. But now, The Revealer and The Impossible are locked in a fateful game of cat-and-mouse which will most definitely end with an epic battle. No referee, no interruptions, and virtually no restrictions. The ecstasy of anticipation crawls across his entire body, so much that he collapses face first onto the bed of his lavish hotel suite. Rumael has always been driven to sharpening his skills and even more so after being a student of Jurael the Ascetic; no other Shade Counter has been through the kinds of hardships as Jurael, the only one who uses very little essence.
“This will be a glorious hunt,” he whispers to himself. As sleep approaches he recounts the day’s events and decides the overall it has been a good day. The home sickness brings to him the feeling of passing through oceans of portals again. After settling his eyes and mind he slips into an astral form and returns to the edge of Penumbral Blinding. Most Shade Counters would never do this because rest comes scarcely, but Rumael is a rare breed of reaper who can rest his physical body separate from his essence energies. This gives him an advantage when dealing with memories and visions or communicating with other reapers. This trip through astral space requires a conversation with the chroniclers of Daemon Theria Extremis—Dremael and Zasael. Billows of shadow and dark essence writhe and slither to form a black mirror reflecting the library. In the center is the stained glass impression of the Middle Grounds; the two brothers sit next to each other with their heads lowered into massive literary volumes. ‘No surprise at all’ Rumael jokes quietly.
“This is the astral plane for you, which means that we heard you,” says the faceless Dremael.
“We did,” adds Zasael while removing a stray knotted lock of hair from his vision.
“Excellent, our connection is solid. Did you see what happened in the city?” Rumael begins with a slight smile. He would like to address one of them specifically, however they are all but lost while reading, so it is anyone’s guess as to which brother will answer.
Zasael seems to be paying the most attention at this moment. “Actually I heard about it from Pandael. Don’t you think that gun was a bit too much?” The Vision says with a smile similar to Rumael’s.
“Wait a minute…Pandael is watching this? He sees most everything but I find it hard to believe that this is important enough for him to watch with intent, let alone comment on the situation.” Rumael is genuinely surprised.
“Consider the fact that, for lack of a better phrase, his job is on the line,” Dremael speaks from the ardent reader stance. “Watching this hunt and retrieval is more stressful than one may think. As Shade Counters we don’t have that much to worry about unless you fail. The Beginning…he is resting all hopes upon you.”
Rumael lets that bit of information sink in before continuing. If the brothers are not exaggerating this point, then time just became much shorter and the conversation is now taking a turn for the worst.
“Is there a ‘holiday’ approaching?” The Revealer questions with caution in his voice.
“Yes,” Zasael answers immediately for fear of procrastination.
“Then I need to hurry…troublesome, I wanted to enjoy this. I learned that Madame Cilael is training him but he may not yet be ready for capture.” This time Rumael does not smile or even feel pride. The possibility of having to incapacitate or kill a fellow Shade Counter holds not glory or honor, not even for someone like Rumael who enjoys the more sadistic things in life.
“Please do, Revealer,” Dremael chimes in once more before snapping his fingers. A small spark of essence flows from his fingers to the mirror face causing the Penumbral Blinding to take its original, cloudy form once more.
As he returns to his body for a night’s rest Rumael yearns for another suitable fix for his hunting adventure. Midnight will be upon him in just a few hours, signaling the dawn of perfect timing for his search and seizure of Vishael. He has every intention of being an island of sensibility and rescue in the oncoming sea of blood.
Pandael is amazed at how heavy Mishael’s body has become. Normally he would be able to climb the grand staircase with incredible even while carrying something heavy. Each step is increasingly heavier than the one preceding. This leg numbing trek to The All-Father’s chamber is testament to the eternal bond between master and student.
“The old man did a lot more damage than I thought. Maybe he has kept a lot of training techniques secret from us. I suppose it’s for the best,” Pandael ponders as he finally reaches the last step in front of Mishael’s room. He pushes the door open with his toes and even they are tired from the combined stress of fighting, carrying a 200+ pound man and stair climbing. With great relief in his breath, Pandael places the elder’s body on the floor mat dressed with translucent bedding.
“I truly hope you appreciate this, old man.”
***
Deady Rok Café is the sound of prosperous business, the olfactory orgasm of coffees from around the world, and the peaceful images two young women silently enjoying their personal heaven of cinnamon-raisin bagels and hot caffeinated drinks. Amaya inhales the relaxing scent from her foam-free vanilla latte and thanks the universe for this moment of tranquility…
“PUNCH BUGGY! No punch-backs, m’love,” Val shatters the silence with a two finger strike to Amaya’s right shoulder, clearly avoiding the side of her body that is occupied with the latte. The now slightly annoyed Amaya turns to look out of the window and narrowly misses the tail end of a fire orange Volkswagen Bug.
“Okay, you win. May I finish my drink or should I start plotting my revenge now?”
The girls share a laugh that is forsaken by Amaya when she looks out the same window again; passing the cafe is the man she had seen in her visions earlier. All of the emotions that had before threatened her balance return to finish the job, but are suddenly quelled when she remembers the Aegishjalmar. Val is talking about something that the excitement has made muffled and nearly inaudible. Since she has yet to notice any change in her best friend, Amaya takes this opportunity to break free.
“Break for me, Val. I need to use the ladies’ room,” the black haired beauty speaks sharply as she stands up from the table. Before Val can even answer, she is walking while facing the same direction in which Vishael is headed. She waits until he is just a few steps ahead hoping that she remains unnoticed. Amaya’s right hand slips into her pocket and grips Aegishjalmar with the purest intention.
“SAL-FELAG…SAL-FELAG…SAL-FELAG…”
The Shade Counters: GENESIS(Willie J. Phillips)
THE SHADE COUNTERS: Rumael vs. Vishael
Prologue
Open your ears and see into the darkness. If you are sharp enough, you can peer through the disorienting haze that is the Penumbral Blinding. Your senses will draw you closer to the center of the second Gate-Wraith as you prepare to intrude upon the sacred silence that is the continuous night life called DAEMON THERIA EXTREMIS: the mystical and terrible world beyond the veil of our reality. This is the home of the Shade Counters, commonly known as “Reapers” in the living world.
The role of the Shade Counters that travel between life and death is one of an utterly thankless and tiresome task; collecting the souls of those who are to die. The Nordic Valkyrie legends collecting their Einherjar as glorious warriors and welcomed guests inValhalla--this is the greatest envy of ALL Shade Counters. Generally, their job has not one microscopic particle of glory, or grace, or beauty that is pleasing to those of the living.
Not the normal ones.
Daemon Theria Extremis is colored with an amazing roster of talented, willing and able Reapers. As you sink faster through the ninth and last Gate-Wraith, you will notice that today, you are an intruder; and you are intruding upon a most sacred and well protected runic ceremony. Apparently, this is the day that Rumael the Revealer sends his most prized and polished souls on their way to their final destinations.
Rumael, hmph....
“Talented” does not begin to describe the depth of his skill, and “terrible” does not BEGIN to breeze across the surface of the ocean of blood that is his anger. Please understand, Rumael takes his position and role in the universe and in Daemon Theria Extremis very, VERY seriously. If the soul he’s caring for is a good soul, they are treated to all of the pleasures that Rumael’s imagination can conjure into existence. However, if the soul is deemed unfit for passage into eternal peace, then those very same pleasures are only the bait and backdrop for deviant, decadent, and gruesome tortures…which will not bother Rumael in the least.
I assure you, Rumael will be pleasured either way.
So, continue to peer into the pewter skinned Reaper’s private matters. Notice that there is a symmetrical arrangement of eight mirrors surrounding an awe-inspiring centerpiece; Rumael knelt in a position of submissive prayer, head pressed against his in-folded knees. His magnificent silver hair—which is tinted blue from the pale flickers of night-flies flying around the cavernous chamber—lies in a pool of soft tendrils. Life essence pours throughout his body and flows out of his hands, then rises from the floating stone floor while drawing out the souls on their way to eternal peace. Warriors and pious monks, commoners and fallen royalty alike, they are all beckoned by a brilliant light that shines without blinding.
“Leave the bindings of these two colliding realities, and rest within the many folds of eternity’s blessing.” This is Rumael’s continued prayer as these souls are carefully transferred through the veil of eternity, taking their places amongst the dreams of constellations and comets.
Suddenly, Rumael is on his feet and facing you with a look of utter disgust stamped firmly on his gorgeous features; a slender face with very smooth skin, high cheek bones leading down to a stately nose and full, perfectly proportioned lips layered over sharpened teeth. The rich violet red of his eyes bleeds onto your conscious, giving him the appearance of a most ENRAGED angel. Stunning, beautiful, ravishing…
…until his left arm whips itself inside-out and transforms into a hideous bladed monstrosity of an appendage, then points it directly at your face.
“I suppose you have a decent enough excuse for disturbing innocent souls. I don’t intrude on the days of YOUR Final Summoning, so you had better be prepared to answer in the positive.”
You are Vishael the Impossible, and you should be grateful that you aren’t anyone else.
Chapter One
“Rumael, please don’t make me regret anything I do tonight. Sending you into a state of reconstitution would be excruciating for both of us,” Vishael says while tightening his readied grip on the soul-sword conjured from his own life energy, “but I swear by every hair on your head, I will gladly beat you into submission.” His short, deep brown hair raises and falls against his ruggedly handsome face, riding the vibrations of his increasing energy level. The golden brown of his skin tone lightens and darkens along with the changing atmosphere.
Rumael immediately begins to approach his target; the hulking mass of lethal flesh at his side breathes and sharpens as he comes closer to Vishael. “I promise you, this will NOT be elementary as you may assume. But please…take me lightly,” the Revealer dares Vishael.
The one called the Impossible stretches his neck muscles and steadies himself, but never even hints at a fighting stance. Only the soul-sword named Ceriula knows of Vishael’s true intentions. The air between the two Reapers takes on an electric quality that could rival a small lightning storm. Rumael’s essence begins to fill the ceremonial chamber, encompassing the entire area with his life energy. Vishael allows this to happen; secretly, he has been absorbing these waves of vital essence, keeping the bulk of it for himself and feeding the excess to the blade Ceriula.
In the exact moment the rivals are ready to clash, a thunderous voice echoes from beyond the walls.
“FOOLISHNESS!” the voice bellows, surrounding Vishael and Rumael like the gradual fall of darkness, “FIGHT ON YOUR OWN TIME, NOT MINE.”
Both Reapers give up the fight and draw themselves into an attention stance, their eyes burning through each other as they prepare to take orders.
“Hail, Daemon Mishael.”
At the center of the arrangement of ceremonial articles, a whirlpool of force and sediment reaches upward from the ground, then begins to solidify into a single entity; uncommonly well sculpted muscular frame wrapped around an ominously tall, bald-headed figure. His eyes scorch the air with white flames to match the majestic beard cradling a stern and very regal face. Age and wisdom conjoin to etch a careful combination of concern and reprimand onto this, the eldest of the Shade Counters; MISHAEL THE DILIGENT.
His voice carries throughout the chamber as if it is everywhere…and in many ways, this is not far from the truth.
“Vishael, your appetites will be your downfall, so says the oracle. You are to undergo extensive training in the Middle Grounds.”
“Yes, Mishael,” the Impossible chimes as he reluctantly turns to leave. He makes sure to pass closely enough to Rumael so that his soul-sword nullifies the constantly changing force of the weapon-arm. It returns to normal; Rumael just smiles wickedly, as does Vishael.
“Rumael,” the Diligent immediately turns his attention to his pewter skinned apprentice, “these are turbulent times. Please adhere to our laws when caring for passing souls, both good and bad.”
“Yes, Mishael,” Rumael respectfully accepts.
“Good. There is something that needs your immediate dedication. In the world of the living, there is a wave of blood coming. A killer of unimaginable terror is going to fill the city with his hate, murder its daughters and mothers, and enslave its sons and fathers.”
“There will be a lot of Shade Counters going between realities this month,” Rumael surmises.
“Then you understand the danger that this killer is bringing upon us. His hatred will be the key to the destruction of the barrier that keeps both realities safe. I need you to remove this killer from harm. He is still reachable…”
“Yes, presently. However…”
“…he will become the killer once he reaches his destination. You must reach him before he reaches the city. I will show you the path,” Mishael ends his command by lifting his right hand with his palm down. A surge of essences conjures a mist of small, pulsating jade colored lights that hover above the ground before meshing themselves together to form an image. Its winding streams and jutting blocks resemble the city with which Daemon Theria Extremis shares its borders. The image becomes clear and becomes an exact copy of a highly populated area directly west of where they are standing.
“This is his destination,” Mishael continues his debriefing, “No one will die until he reaches this street.” The virtual map morphs again and becomes a more detailed image of a beautiful estate sitting on no less than six acres. The tastefully groomed foliage and creative sculptures accent the home without being gaudy.
“THIS is the home of his first victim. Again, you MUST stop him before he even reaches this home. If you fail to stop him, things will tumble out of our control and he will have to be killed, leaving him nothing but a tainted husk of a soul to be tossed into eternal damnation.”
Mishael the Diligent faces Rumael…Rumael calms himself from the mounting excitement that comes with a new mission. Mishael has always been and always will be as truthful as the Sun is hot. If the Diligent one says this matter is detrimental to the safety of both realities, then he means that very thing with every fiber of his being.
“I will not fail, teacher.”
“I have no doubts concerning this, apprentice.”
Ah, the Middle Grounds. The features of Daemon Theria Extremis become much more colorful here as night gives way to light, revealing a maze-like garden of exotic, otherworldly blossoms. These blossoms glow with an almost spiritual quality, providing adequate lighting for the mind boggling architecture and gorgeously grotesque wooden sculptures.
“A lot has changed since I last visited,” Vishael speaks into the breeze. A hollow sound rushes from the distance and surrounds him.
“I WAS BEGINNING TO THINK YOU THAT BELIEVED YOURSELF TO BE ABOVE TRAINING. HOW HAS LIFE BEEN TREATING YOU, CHILD?” the voice caresses Vishael’s senses. An elderly woman appears from the light mist and fog rolling across the ground. Her countenance is that of an old warrior cheating time; hair tied into a simple bun, golden pupils set into a weather worn face that somehow retained smooth skin. She smiles a constant welcome as she envelopes Vishael with her arms.
“Madame Cilael,” he breathes in greeting. The old woman’s embrace always seemed to release all of the night’s stresses anytime she pauses to show concern. Of course, she only appears in the Middle Grounds when there is a task to be completed.
“Well, you know why you’re here, so let’s not delay any longer. Smile for me, child.”
If you can imagine the feeling of no threat, you have a good idea of how comfortable Vishael feels with the current situation. He smiles genuinely and leans in to hug Cilael once more; the old woman uses THIS particular opportunity to smash her right palm squarely against Vishael’s forehead. Mind numbing pain sears his entire face as a prelude to the immense blast of essence from Cilael’s hand. The force of the attack sends Vishael spiraling through several wooden statues. He crashes into one last dummy and tries to breathe steadily through his deafening heartbeat.
“I…I was sure that we were taking a walk together,” he manages to jest while struggling to stand. Using a technique he learned from Madame Cilael many years ago, Vincent uses the surges of adrenaline and the forcefulness of his breaths to create his soul-sword in an instant (rather than channeling energies to conjure it slowly). Ceriula roars into existence and whips in front of Vishael’s face, intent upon protecting him from any and all harm.
“There is no time for jests, child!” Cilael commands as she charges through the debris toward her trainee, arms trailing behind her seething with energy. She slides to a grinding halt a claps her hands together with all her might, then immediately sweeps both hands away from each other. Flurries of near invisible slashes begin assaulting Vishael just as he swings at Cilael. The soul-sword Ceriula howls in delight as it matches the attack blow-for-blow.
“SCAR, CERIULA!!” Vishael launches a relentless, booming energy attack that uses the soul-sword’s hyperactive nature to shatter the onslaught of blades. Large sparks of electricity and life essence color the atmosphere with a ghostly hue. Ceriula changes again and becomes a decorative gothic rapier, gleaming in the fluorescence of the residual energies hanging in the night air.
Suddenly, hundreds of the surrounding wooden dummies sink into the ground, creating empty pathways that lead into nothingness. Hints of Penumbral Blinding flicker in and out of the vacuum openings, and Vishael watches as Madame Cilael slowly disintegrate. Her particles ride the howling winds and are swallowed into the furthest of the new passages. Fueled by his passion for knowledge, and a slightly vengeful sensation, Vishael follows the fading trails of Cilael’s essence until he is sucked through the opening.
“FIND ME, CHILD... OR DIE WHERE YOU STAND.”
Chapter Two
“We often find ourselves in situations that require more tact than we are willing to afford. It is at these times that we must use as much tact as can be mustered. Giving in to the urge to ‘take the easy out’ is almost certain death in matters of war.”
Dremael the Memory never looks up to face Rumael, but continues reading a book on his most recent fascination—telepathy and telekinetic activity. He enjoys reading at this particular table in the library when doing wide-ranging research on a single subject. Instead of going to each shelf and retrieving the volumes, he uses the sensitivity of his connection to the books and summons them to the grand round table. There is a single chair positioned in the center of the adjacent wall, the back of it facing the grandiose stained glass expression of the Middle Grounds.
“You keep filling your shaven head with that nonsense. What makes you think that moving objects with your mind is possible OR useful?” Rumael questions sincerely.
“I’m surprised that you didn’t add some mundane insult about my face...”
“…or lack thereof?”
“There it is,” Dremael drones. He lifts his left hand and gracefully waves down a small wire bound journal. It’s titled CONNECTIONS AND CONDUCTIVITIES, and its pages are made of thinly sheeted gold ore. A light thump echoes between the book shelves when the journal hits the table, making a perfect landing next to Dremael.
“Was the first bit of information for me, or were you reading aloud?” Rumael asks while making his way around to a small display hanging on the wall.
“It was for you. This thing that Mishael asked you to do…it is no simple retrieval mission. You are hunting one of our own,” Dremael says with a faintly saddened tone. The words of his newest read are reflected on his featureless face and Rumael tries to read the slightly blurred, backward inscriptions. For some reason, the letters meld together and separate into unintelligible symbols.
“Having trouble reading, Revealer? Maybe you should rest your eyes.”
A slight twinge behind his eyeballs and a fluttering bout with double vision tells Rumael that an illusion has been forced upon him to ward against his prying eyes. If only Dremael could smile…
“Well done, Memory. Now where do I start?” Rumael inquires while rubbing the annoyance from his perception.
“I thought that Mishael showed you the map.” Zasael wanders from behind a nearby rolling rack of massive journals and encyclopedia. Each volume is no less than three or four hundred pages.
“He did,” Rumael says as he turns to greet the Vision. In many ways, Rumael owes this particular Shade Counter his life a thousand times over. Let’s just say that the Vision is seldom (if ever) wrong when deciding what is the best strategy. “It’s not the location that I’m worried with, but the method with which to hunt. Your brother tells me that my target is a Shade Counter.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Initially this presented us with a very vexing dilemma. Hunting our own kind is strictly forbidden on any other occasion. However, this mission is for the preservation of both realities.” Zasael paces toward Rumael and places a hand on his shoulder in greeting, then continues on his haphazard path around the library. Since the Vision is also face first in his research, Rumael accepts this as all the greeting he’ll get during this visit.
“Along with this is the colossal responsibility to the Beginning,” says Dremael as he looks up from his book for the first time during the entire conversation.
Rumael looks genuinely surprised. “…Pandael? What role does he play that isn’t his own? There’s no possible way that he’s the one I’m hunting.”
“You’re right, but wouldn’t it be just horrible if this renegade caused the Order’s demise? What do you think will happen to Pandael when he is held responsible for allowing the killer to come into existence, KNOWING that the situation is within his control?” The skin of Dremael’s forehead tightens with concern letting Rumael know exactly what the Memory is trying to say.
“…Unmael.”
“Yes, the Ageless will consume the Beginning. After that, we will ALL be consumed.”
“Yes, yes; doom and such…” Zasael interrupts this morbid banter. “Rumael, you asked about where you will start, or rather, HOW you will start.” He stands behind his brother and presses a small booklet against the Memory’s back. The golden journal that Dremael had been reading begins to radiate essence from specific points and reflects letters onto his face. He then looks up once again to face Rumael.
“Read it…before…it burns into my flesh!” Dremael struggles to warn the Revealer; Rumael promptly reads the only other insight he has for this mission.
“THE MOST OBVIOUS WEAKNESS AND THE MOST DESIRED THING IN THE LIVING WORLD…”
“Not this time, milady!!”
Vishael charges through the shadowy layers of the Penumbral Blinding with his soul-sword slashing wildly ahead of him. While carving a clear path within the banded darkness, Ceriula attacks the now solidified Madame Cilael and her constantly exploding essence strikes. Bursts of bright sparks and illuminated sword slashes decorate the cloudy black tunnel and cause tears that reveal glimpses of the living world.
Suddenly, Cilael deflects a slash with dense energy concentrated into a thin force field around her hands. She uses the force to push herself backward in a beautiful pirouette and slashes upward to create a wide opening. Cilael follows through and cartwheels onto her hands, folds her body, then launches herself up and through the opening.
“Find me now, Vishael,” Madame Cilael taunts as she dissipates into a spray of particles once again. The Impossible becomes slightly furious and Ceriula howls as she splits open the final layer of Penumbral Blinding, leaving them alone in an alleyway. ‘Damn the Middle Grounds! What kind of training is this? What are we doing in the city?’ Vishael’s silent question is lost on thefive o’clock morning winds and Ceriula slowly returns to her home inside the confused Shade Counter.
Street lights begin their synchronized shift into deactivation to make way for the sunrise. Just as he is turning toward the already open breakfast kitchen, a woman steps out of the door and leans against the wall after lighting a cigarette. Vishael is almost instantly mesmerized by her cool demeanor and uncommonly attractive features; platinum blonde hair tied into a simple braided tail, entrancing almond shaped hunter green eyes that seem to light up the entire street, and creamy caramel skin. The hairs on Vishael’s neck stand at attention when as he watches her lips gently kiss the filter, releasing the end of the cigarette with a light curl of smoke in tow.
“Welcome to Shawty Sammiches may I help you?” she asks when she turns to notice Vishael. It’s obvious that she finds him attractive, but women are much better at keeping those feelings concealed. “Oh, sorry. I’m not even on the clock and I’m already in waitress mode.” The slightly form fitting uniform accents the remark with innocent sex appeal.
“It’s alright. I won’t hold it against you. My name is…Vincent. To whom do I owe the honor?”
“Cecilia,” she says in a slightly melodic tone. The beautiful waitress brushes a stray lock of hair away from her forehead, allowing Vishael to capture her enchanting profile.
“Good morning, Cecilia.”
“Good morning, Vincent.”
The two exchange random pleasantries before he finally makes his way to the door. Small talk seems to be the perfect distraction when you don’t want anyone noticing residual energy from your soul-sword. Once there is no trace of abnormality, Vishael—now Vincent—makes his way into Shawty Sammiches. The interior is a COMPLETE oxymoron to the drab exterior and goofy name. The adventure begins with a pristine checkerboard tile floor and the scent of freshly brewed Columbian coffee. Following this is the captivating display of pastries and breads; two skilled bakers interchange in split second shifts loading the treats onto each shelf.
As Vincent draws closer to the well organized bar at his left, the aroma of the fresh breads is accompanied by a warm and mysteriously sweet and sour smell. He knows it’s a grain based food, and that it will be delicious. Beyond that he’s lost.
“What is THAT?” he asks as he inhales the smell again.
“It’s sourdough. I guess you’re not from here, with the super good looks….and the fact that you don’t know what sourdough is,” Cecilia chuckles that last part.
“I guess there’s a lot that I need to learn, lady.”
They stroll to the end of the bar and part ways as Cecilia goes into the back of the house. Vincent knows that she has to work so he just watches from his perch at the corner of the black marble top. Ceriula makes a heated surge and plays a little havoc with Vincent’s insides, causing him to double over with a few seconds of nausea. Suddenly a voice enters Vincent’s mind.
“That’s TWO extra women in our life now. What’s a little girl to do when her space is so RUDELY invaded, hmmm?” Ceriula questions the befuddled Shade Counter turned part-time human.
“MY life, mistress; you are on borrowed time.” He manages to answer without spinning into a vomiting rage.
“Let’s USE some of that borrowed time for a trip to the restroom,” Ceriula chimes. Vincent feels an unstoppable wave of nausea that he’s sure will end in spray, and that spray will decorate the bar if he does not find the restroom. He scans the room quickly and spots a stone passageway across from the back door. A sign at the top corner indicates that it is indeed the restroom area. After a swift and thankful prayer, Vincent curses Ceriula’s name as he charges into the toilet to settle his guts.
When Vincent returns to the bar, he notices emptiness within his mind and soul…and also notices an odd little green haired girl sitting at the bar. She turns to him and cuts a devilishly innocent smile.
“How’s your belly? You ran off in SUCH a hurry.”
“Oh my….”
Chapter Three
He stirs awake and smiles to himself as a gleaming white falcon descends onto his right shoulder. A light flap of its wings is the message, and the master receives with delight. The falcon takes off into the darkness above him and disappears, leaving a trail of white dust sparkling throughout the atmosphere. The light reveals a lavish burial chamber with its walls and ceiling covered in diamond glaciers speckled with pure gold. A bed frame of plush, bright emerald green moss sits perfect center in the middle of the room; the head board is a fierce stone dragon, and each of the onyx knobs is cut to resemble the images of four mythical beasts.
The light continues to fall and begins settling on his body, illuminating the engraved body armor and dragon’s head shoulder guards. A quick burst chi pushes his fire red hair into a flare and the white dust flies outward, making a dream like image of the chi outline. As the last bit of dust falls, light caresses his fitted, claw-grip Ruin Gauntlets, down to his weathered sash lying beneath a sturdy hide belt, and spills into the darkness along his weighted hakama.
“Things seem to be going well,” he says as the light disappears completely.
Rumael dips his hands into the cool blue and lets out a sigh of relief mixed with nostalgia before smoothing the water over his face. He knows that it’s very likely he won’t see his own room for a very long time. Missions like this one usually take quite a bit of time to complete, especially when you’re hunting a formidable target. The fact that Rumael is hunting another Shade Counter may have stretched the potential time into a weeks or months situation. Another lovely benefit of this time alone is the ability to go about doing his tasks and not be interrupted by outsiders; the Penumbral Reflection placed against the entrance will make SURE there are no interruptions.
“I wonder what sort of Shade Counter would go chasing lusts in the living world. I would be forever grateful if it turned out to be Vishael, but that is highly unlikely,” he thinks to himself while performing a few stretches.
Rumael slips into the streamlined pool on the far left side of the room with its twin directly across from it. He begins a hasty descent into the deep blue until he begins to see a pitch blackness swallow his path. Rumael adds a flow of essence to his swimming and charges faster. He enters the abyss unafraid, prepared for the journey ahead. It has been a few years since he has used this passage to the living world. Since the Penumbral Blinding surrounds Daemon Theria Extremis and its boundary with the living world, the cool essence infused water is flowing through a dense blackness. Fleeting streams of pinks and blues and violets shoot past Rumael as he speeds through the darkness.
“Youth tends to give way to lusts very easily, but power is the only thing that gets a fledgling Shade Counter through the Penumbral Blinding. This means that the one who did this is most likely an apprentice.” Rumael uses his inner essence in a technique that superheats and super-cools water within a field of essence borrowed from the water around him. After doing this he has exactly FIVE seconds to regulate his breath before the essence combination collapses, leaving him to resume his activities.
“I would know if the alleged killer was one of Daemon Mishael’s apprentices. This isn’t a training mission, so there is no reason that he would neglect to tell me if such was the case. Jurael would challenge me directly, so that’s not very possible either. “
Rumael sees a thread of light in the distance and increases his speed one last time. He sees faint shadows passing through the light and wonders about what sort of aquatic life he will encounter. A sudden blast of freezing cold torpedoes into Rumael and marks the edge of the dividing border.
“Whoever the suspect is, I WILL catch him!”
Rumael ends this last thought with a forceful thrust of essence that sends him roaring through the opening. As soon as he hits the ocean, he is swept into the current and sucked upward. The skilled Shade Counter uses another technique learned from the All-Father Mishael; using the upward force of the initial current, Rumael adds a bit of essence force to his ascent and shoots toward the surface at near mach speed. His body pierces the surface just as he inverts the flow of essence guiding his path. The Revealer explodes from the ocean waters in a majestic spray of pearl white foam and turquoise droplets sparkling like jewels in the sun. He uses the remaining inverted essence to create lift, using his hair as “wings”
While gliding over the city Rumael searches for an appropriate place to land—appropriate meaning somewhere separate from unsuspecting eyes might be frightened by the sudden appearance of pewter colored man with menacing fangs, and hair like the wings of an albatross. He spots a charred stretch of land coming into view and one of the abandoned buildings seems to be missing a quarter of its roof. Rumael takes his first relaxed breath since he entered the pool back in his cavern.
“Well, it’s time to get started.”
---
Mishael is satisfied with how things are progressing this week. So far there have been more than ten successful graduations and training programs. Rumael is more than capable of completing his mission, so now is not the time for worrying. It’s difficult to not feel a fatherly connection to someone who has been learning from you for most of their life. Taking this opportunity to reflect upon his own talents, the All-Father decides to go to his only true source of stress-relief. He tugs at the gourd tucked away in his robe and it rolls into his hand.
“…blue wine today. This should be good,” Mishael chuckles to himself before taking a healthy swig of the semi-sweet elixir. He knows that blue is Pandael’s favorite color, and that blue wine days bring out the beast in Pandael. A friendly match is sure to wash off the day’s worries…or at least beat the worry out of him. He takes another swig when he reaches the top of the grand staircase. The cool air that resonates from Pandael’s residual essence sweeps its way up to Mishael and he closes his eyes as the playful breeze passes by. This last bit of transient comfort is the first step of Mishael’s descent into the source of the Penumbral Blinding.
After a few flights, the essence becomes stronger and Mishael has to steel his body to keep his balance. He takes another drink of the blue wine and continues down to Pandael’s chamber. Upon reaching the door, a surge of essence blasts into the entrance hall and forces Mishael backward a few steps.
“Come in Mishael,” says a voice form within the chamber, “It’s good to see you drinking again.”
“Only on days like this, Pandael,” the All-Father says with a smile as he pushes his way through the storm of essence. As soon as he reaches the chamber and makes his way inside, the doors slam shut behind him and the All-Father is consumed by darkness. Steam and residual essence settle on the smooth curves of the enormous golden braces around the doorway. These immaculate adornments have been molded into two lions, facing each in symmetrical battle stances. Mishael watches the soft light of the essence fall to the ground in the shape of a single drop. The lonely concentrated essence explodes silently at his feet…
The room is filled with an almost holy light reflecting its infinite beauty off of the majestic jeweled glaciers and golden snowflakes. Mishael looks down at the transparent flooring; the panels are made of reinforced glass that was compressed under extreme heat and pressure near the Earth’s core. Beneath the glass is and endless chasm black as night, except for a faint green light glowing from the center.
“He’s sleeping today. Blue doesn’t sit well with him,” Pandael says with a yawn and a casual shoulder stretch. He walks out of a sea of reflections free of his armor, wearing only a black form fitting long-coat over his cappuccino colored hakama. The braided hide sandals leave his feet exposed to the elements, but the coolness of the air feels good against his toughened skin.
“Unmael is a fickle old soul when he wants to be,” Mishael answers as he unbuttons his weighted robes. The heavy black fabric collapses onto the glass and the sound echoes throughout the diamond glaciers. Pandael looks down at the robes and notices the beautiful red chrysanthemum embroidered on the back, then does a quick size-up of his apprentice turned opponent and looks genuinely surprised with the elder’s well chiseled physique.
“It looks like you’ve been training some, old man. Are you trying to impress your teacher…or embarrass him?” Pandael questions with a hint of mockery.
“Well, since the common cliché places age BEFORE beauty, I felt it was necessary to always keep the two concepts VERY closely related,” Mishael counters with a smirk and a stroke of his beard. The atmosphere becomes tense as the battle begins with a clash of wits and ‘flexing some muscle’.
Both senior reapers now face each other with their fists held away from their bodies, their combined essences making waves of force reverberate throughout the bejeweled burial chamber. Pandael’s mane flares out just like before, only this time the essence force is enough to leave hairline cracks in the glass floor and in the smaller diamonds around the room. Mishael smiles once more before his face takes on an emotionless, stone like quality as he makes his final remark.
“Pandael, are you ready for this old man?”
“The student won’t be defeating the master tonight, Mishael.”
---
Vincent is shaken to his core. How in the world did she manage to leave her home within his soul AND materialize without him noticing some sort of movement? It would be less disturbing if this had happened before, but it had NOT. Rumael stares with confused curiosity unable to find words to say to the green haired girl. Her short legs dangle off the edge of her barstool, leaving Vincent to wonder about how she got up there to begin with. The whirlwind of queries is almost dizzying so he settles on one simple question.
“How in the WORLD did you make your way out…and in human form?!?”
“Yeah, loud talking about me coming out of your body will most certainly keep you in Cecilia’s good graces.
“You little imp…”
Just as Vincent is cooking up a smorgasbord of curses, Cecilia emerges from the back-of-the-house holding a tray with two beautifully prepared drinks. One is a…something mixed with orange Jell-O and topped with whipped cream. The other drink is suspiciously familiar to Vincent; a steaming, lightly colored liquid with a pleasantly sweet aroma and a thin cinnamon stick resting against the side of the mug.
“Julius Jiggle for you, milady” Cecilia speaks in a sing-song tone as she places the strange orange concoction in front of Ceriula. The “little girl” smiles widely and dives into her drink.
“…and for you, my hero of the day, your friend here suggested something that I honestly didn’t expect you to like.” She carefully lifts the heated mug and places it in front of Vincent and his eyes widen with delight for the first time since he’s been in the living world.
“Vanilla tea. My goodness, you’re very good at your job,” Vincent says after inhaling the intoxicatingly delicious aroma of vanilla.
“Is that so? And what IS my job, kind sir?”
“If I’m not mistaken, your job is reading my desires, and delivering without my speaking them.”
Ceriula rolls her eyes, sickened by the suggestively romantic chatter. She continues to devour her Julius Jiggle and does her best to ignore Vincent and Cecilia—the newest hindrance to Ceriula and Vincent’s progress as far as she’s concerned. This could be the perfect opportunity to find out where Madame Cilael has hidden herself. That old heretic is the worst opponent we’ve ever had the misfortune of fighting with, Ceriula thinks to herself. The youthful soul blade has had some…memorable moments with Cilael; most importantly, she remembers triggering a terrible chain of events that eventually led to unleashing Ferael the Untouchable.
“My goodness, I hope that I don’t ever make that old heretic angry like that again. But what is she doing here in the living world?” Ceriula mumbles to herself while finishing her Julius Jiggle. She looks over at Vincent and Cecilia just as their noses “accidentally” touch. A surge of anger and bewilderment shocks Ceriula and she responds with a swift, child-like outburst.
“WENCH!! ANOTHER JULIUS JIGGLE, PLEASE!!!”
Vincent and Cecilia snap to attention. The stunned waitress glances at Ceriula with “excuse me?” written all over her face. The little miss just smiles and raises her glass as innocently as she can. Her mouth is stained orange and speckled with whipped cream. Cecilia can’t help but look into those sweet little eyes and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Seems like someone’s watched just a few too many pirate movies, eh?” Cecilia says with a curious smile.
“Maybe just a few, cap’n!” Ceriula chimes with glee. Vincent watches his new found love interest stroll into the kitchen, then turns to the “little girl” and leans in close.
“THAT was completely unnecessary.”
At this point in time, there’s not a single person more satisfied and tickled than Ceriula.
---
Rumael stands atop a dilapidated structure at the edge of the city, hair settled against his body in staunch defiance of the powerful wind chill. He uses an inner force technique that unifies the blood and outer essence to give him control over the length and thickness of all his hairs. The beautiful silver mane wraps itself around Rumael and protects him from the intense cold while he focuses his vision. Winter is a HORRIBLE time to try and pray for clear, dry vision. Because winter is so different in Daemon Theria Extremis, the Shade Counters almost never get accustomed to it in the living world.
The Revealer releases his protective technique and immediately forces his essence outward to begin searching for his prey. The thrill of the hunt always gets him excited, but up until now he’s been holding the hunger at bay. The struggle is now reaching its end as Rumael gives in to the demonic appetite that has made him on of the most efficient hunters in the Order of Shade Counters. He lets himself think of nothing but his own satisfaction and the feeling alone is enough to send a heat wave of euphoria throughout his body. The world becomes crystal black, and all living things are detailed drawings animated in his bloody virtual vision. Bloodlust begins to creep into his soul, so he inhales as deeply as he can and concentrates all of his essences on his vision.
The entire environment becomes a life sized version of the map the Mishael had shown him before. Vishael’s vision overwhelmed with jade colored landscapes with sculpted clusters of red moving along the roads and sidewalks in the distance. He sees people sitting in their homes, walking their pets, driving to work or wherever. It’s comforting to know that his body has entered a trance-like state, and he can use his essence powers effortlessly. However, if he can’t maintain his composure and allows his latent bloodlust to control his actions, Rumael will cut a bloody swath of punishment along the path to his target. This is why he focuses almost all of his essence on enhancing his vision; if he can see more efficiently, then he can react with more skill and less force while avoiding an overload of bloodlust.
Rumael looks further into the city and searches for the lavish estate shown to him by Mishael’s map. The extra visual support makes finding the home nearly effortless.
“We head West tonight,” Rumael reminds himself after settling his vision on the home in question, “…for now, let’s find somewhere to sleep.
Time and patience see that The Revealer finds his way to town in human form, elegantly dressed in a black soft leather Mandarin collared suit and wingtips, draped with a butter-cream colored fox fur long-coat (more handsome than any man in town, mind you), cruising the business district for a decent place to lay his head. Like a foul smell passing through the night breeze, he hears a very chauvinistic and masculine voice announce his opinion about Rumael’s choice of winter clothing.
“SO, IS IT PIRATE DAY AT THE FIRM, MILADY?!? THE FEATHERS ON YOUR LONG-COAT ARE F**KIN’ MAAHVELOUS!!” the man laughs with his friends. As they gorge themselves on filthy humor and insults about Rumael’s flowing silver hair, the un-amused Shade Counter uses a small amount of spiritual essence to connect himself to the man’s putrid aura. Once the energies are grounded, Rumael uses a technique called Luminous Blinding to travel over to his antagonists’ side of the street
**Luminous Blinding allows the user to travel within the reflection of peripheral vision. Multiple points can be used when more people are around. **
Like the blink of an eye, Rumael appears in between the mouthy pedestrian and his friends. He whips his hands out faster than the man can follow and hits the two companions in pressure points that put them to sleep without causing them to fall over. Once they are subdued, Rumael turns his attention to his initial target…and the man is shaking with fear. Surprisingly enough, he maintains the same arrogant countenance; Rumael passes it off as instinct and laughs to himself.
“What is your name, worm?” Rumael asks, making sure that the man gets a good look at his fangs.
“…I’m so sorry…I’m….I…,” the man stammers and stumbles over his words like a child reporting bad news to his parents.
“I think I just asked you a question. Feel free to answer, or you can just let me eviscerate you right here,” Rumael taunts his prey while he uses some essence to conjure a slightly stronger breeze. His silver hair blows around him and sweeps toward the terrified man’s face. Along with the stabbing sensations being sent throughout the man’s body each time the hair touches him, Rumael discovers that the looks of painful horror quaking over this man’s face are worth every moment of the annoying cold.
“SANTOS! SANTOS YOUNG! PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!!” the now humbled and broken man screams at the top of his lungs through frozen tears and a frostbitten bloody nose. His breath becomes shorter and shorter as he sinks deeper into Rumael’s mental torture.
“Santos, you poor excuse for a man, look at me.”
Santoslifts his head as swiftly as possible and meets deep onyx eyes pooling with a ghastly blood red energy sitting atop the most intensely evil smile decorated with perfectly sharpened fangs. The last bit of machismo exitsSantos’ body along with assorted bodily fluids and he feels time and space folding inward, engulfing his sanity in a shadowed hell no larger than the space between himself and Rumael. The satisfied Shade Counter slowly extends his right hand and touchesSantos’ forehead with the nail of his index finger.
“You should never treat strangers poorly, because you have no idea who you might be dealing with. Do you understand?”
Santos tries to nod or say “yes” or make some kind of effort to appease and answer, but only manages to mumble something unintelligible before collapsing to the concrete. As Rumael makes his way down the street toward the next potential resting place,Santos’ two friends finally awaken to find their hapless mate unconscious and barely breathing.
As he approaches his destination, Rumael realizes that things are not what they seem; this realization comes after a slight buzz of ethereal communication from Madame Cilael. For some reason she is ordering him to make a quick trip to her location, and that he will know the purpose upon his arrival. She claims that it is imperative to her current mission and that he will be overjoyed with the small-but-integral role he will play. Rumael is almost annoyed until he has a flash memory of Mishael sending Vishael to the Middle Grounds for training, then the joy wells up inside as he changes course to meet Cilael. The city is calling for something and he may be the only one who can provide it.
The stage is now set.
THE SHADE COUNTERS: Autumn
Pandael looks deep into Daemon Mishael and tries to find something that will give away any pending attacks. This battle is dependent upon preemptive strikes, and both fighters have a very deep understanding of each other’s fighting style. The tomb rumbles with energies clashing between the two elite Shade Counters as they finish estimating their potential. Light from the essences flowing throughout the tomb flickers and dances from one gemstone to the next. Gleaming white feathers begin to fall in the space between them as a dove silently lowers itself and hovers as if heralding the beginning of the fight.
“I guess The Ageless will be monitoring this bout,” Mishael says. He and Pandael never lose the iron bound stare.
“Somehow, it’s appropriate. I thought he didn’t like blue wine…I suppose you just can’t know EVERYTHING about a person. Are you ready, apprentice?” Pandael almost snorts the last bit of his response before he tastes the spark of battle.
Suddenly, the bird disappears in a flash of blinding white light and a thunderous crash bellows from the center of the cave.
“DEFEND YOURSELF!” Mishael demands.
Meeting with explosive force, both Pandael and Mishael unleash deadly Stomping Fists and find themselves resisting each other with their forearms. The pressure of their stances causes slight fractures in the ground and then gives way to a monstrous crater as Pandael launches himself backward and lands with both feet against a block of gems. Jeweled dust explodes from beneath his braided sandals. This unorthodox maneuver does not alter his balance or muscle control as he takes a directly offensive stance.
“Terrifyingly accurate!” Pandael pauses to praise The All-Father.
“My style is the apotheosis fusion between essence and physical form. I WILL surpass you this night!” Mishael roars into action.
At the exact moment Pandael settles his feet, Daemon Mishael appears like a flash of lightning with both arms still in front of his face, eye level with his master and comrade, in perfect position to smash Pandael’s collarbone from the left and right simultaneously. A split second’s breath is all that separates The Beginning from unimaginable pain, so Pandael uses this miniscule amount of time to bring his arms up into a cross block and catches Mishael’s devastating attack just as it makes contact. More gem dust bursts from beneath his feet as the impact shakes Pandael to his core.
“Very good, old man,” taunts the ever confident Pandael. He waits until the air is calm and rivals Mishael’s force with a thunderous counter attack. Deep vibrations rock the foundation as The Beginning uses the opposing inertia to create his counter force, then lands six monstrous punches against Mishael’s chest; each strike is more damaging than the previous, each strike sounds like an implosion trapped in a wind tunnel. The deafening echo shatters the Daemon’s concentration, coupling with the pain of Pandael’s expert attack to make the senior Shade Counter struggle to stand. He loses the battle and collapses to his knees, but a faint smile rests on his face as he fades.
Pandael leans down to grab Mishael’s gourd then drinks until it is empty. An overwhelming pride fills his heart as he recounts the fight in his mind.
“Old man, no one can doubt your worth. Only you can lead my Shade Counters so rest well…”
“Alright, it’s time to confess. How did you get out?” Vishael interrogates his giddy partner. Meanwhile Ceriula seems to ignore him and becomes a die-hard Julius Jiggle consumer. It’s not that she can’t hear him; if she chooses to confess then she will begin to unravel something much more detrimental than her own presence.
“Hmph!” she manages to come up with a retort childish enough to throw him of course…or so she thought.
“Not this time, girly-girl. I’m starting to feel uneasy and would like to know if it’s YOUR fault or just my nerves. Come on, stop playing innocent. How did you get-“
“WENCH! SAVE ME!!!” Ceriula yells, praying that Cecilia comes to her aid before she has no choice but to confess. From the kitchen and with infinite grace comes Cecilia with the largest Julius Jiggle ever served at Shawty Sammiches. Sure enough the skilled waitress appears to save the little one, but Vishael confiscates the cold treat and holds it away from the two young ladies.
“I’ll take over from here, lady. Thanks for your help,” Vishael speaks in a slightly annoyed tone. This unexpectedly alerts Cecilia so she laughs while reaching for the drink.
“Aw Vincent, don’t be so hard on her,” Cecilia says in her sweetest, most convincing voice. Unfortunately Vishael is completely unshaken by the attempt to woo his conscious. Ceriula looks to the waitress as if to say ‘please do something’ but there is nothing she can do without actually grabbing the man.
“Sorry love, but this little miss has a very important question to answer.”
“…so important that you would hold her new favorite drink hostage? That seems a little harsh for a smooth talker like you,” Cecilia pleads relentlessly.
“I know but she’s given me no other choice,” he responds with unmovable defense. Ceriula looks up at Cecilia and both of them are locked in a silent decision about how to deal with this situation but no possible rescue comes to mind. They shift focus back to Vincent.
“Suddenly I feel like you ladies are going to pummel me into the ground. What’s the deal?” he asks playfully, still intending to finish his interrogation of the child-like Soul Sword made flesh. Ceriula mentally surrenders, followed by Cecilia and the spiritual vibrations that shock Vincent as he realizes something very frightening.
“Ceriula,” he begins very carefully with his eyes locked with those of Cecilia, “how did you get out?” He waits patiently and is completely afraid of what he is going to hear. The three bodies seem to be trapped within their own bubble of space-time. Ceriula finally decides to answer but is stopped by a hand on her shoulder; Cecilia rescues her from a fate that is ultimately not her own fault.
“Vishael, I did this not her,” she speaks in a voice that is all too familiar to the now confused Shade Counter.
“Cecilia,” he manages to say without growling, “how do you know my name?”
“Why would you—“
“Because I deserve to hear you say it. Pulling on my heart-strings was despicable. Tell me how you know my name!” Vishael is quickly losing his patience.
“Alright, young man. You should recognize my voice by now so I will tell you. I pulled her away from you for the same reason that I retreated to this living world. Your training with me was ordered by the highest and I will execute without fail. This includes removing your Soul Sword to test your abilities that DO NOT rely upon the little one. Now what does this information do for you, hm?” Cilael speaks without breaking the enchantment that gave her the current body she possesses.
“It helps me reach a very stable and sensible conclusion. You have angered me for the very last time, old woman. Pray that this world will survive my fury,” he says calmly as his energies churn and wrench his soul.
“Young reaper, there is no need for anything extreme. Please reconsider,” Cilael tries to reason with The Impossible…fruitlessly. Ceriula cowers against Cilael and feels the intense negative force radiating from her once cool best friend, so much that it feels hot against her skin. She tries to pull away from the old woman and return to Vishael, but Cilael keeps a solid grip on her clothes.
“The Order treats me like a junior, especially Daemon Mishael. Rumael is the most devious and under-handed of all the Shade Counters, yet he is treated with great respect…almost REVERENCE! I refuse to tolerate this any longer.”
Vishael is nearly in tears spilling his heart’s concern to Madame Cilael, Ceriula is struggling to get back to her home before he destroys the city, and the heat from mounting negative energy is so great that patrons are leaving the restaurant swiftly as possible. The situation has taken a turn for the worst, but Cilael will not change course. She MUST train this young Shade Counter or The Order will dispose of him. It will be a sad affair but necessary for maintaining the balance between the living world and Daemon Theria Extremis.
“Please Vishael, don’t do this,” Cilael actually shows emotion this time because she knows that it is her last chance. She loosens her grip on Ceriula just enough for the girl to notice and struggle more. ‘Respond damn you!’ she cries in her mind while doing her best to let the enraged young man see Ceriula clamoring to reach him.
“VI-VI! PLEEEEEASE!!!” the girl screams through angry and fearful cries. Her inner essence is violently expelled and coats the entire room with lavender light. The hue deepens as it reaches Vishael and his breathing begins to slow. His mind is still beyond flatly trying to reason with but this is satiating the overwhelming thirst for negative energies by bombarding it with a familiar wavelength.
At this moment comes a very unfortunate situation where the Penumbral Blinding is the deciding factor in a situation that crosses the two realms. It is not just the border between them, but it is the veil separating any ethereal images or intense sensations with otherworldly origins. The only way to see something that originates from Daemon Theria Extremis is to be a Shade Counter, or have a special ability which most likely has roots in Daemon Theria Extremis.
It is here where we find our dilemma.
The hollow, ear numbing crack of a hand cannon shatters all sensibility. Cilael looks up and sees two things that give her the feeling that Armageddon has begun; at the door is a man dressed in very plain clothes and masked with a bandanna, then there is Vishael frozen in terror. The cold and empty atmosphere surrounding the utterly shocked Shade Counter is enough for Cilael to confirm her next words, kept at a whisper for reasons known only to her.
“I’m sorry boy.”
Vishael watches Ceriula and Cilael collapse to the ground with a bloody gash leading from the little girl’s torso through to the waitress’ ribs. Their human bodies lay against each other in a heap. A voice keeps screaming and asking for money, but Vishael seems to have no interest in what’s behind him. It sounds muffled and surreal, almost like the mind screwing images in front of him right now.
And then there is black…
“Did you hear about what happened at Shawty Sammiches? ” Val bursts into Amaya’s bedroom with no prior notice, a frequent occurrence for which Amaya is always prepared. Her best friend’s predictability is only rivaled by that of the fleeting telepathic connection they often share.
“You know I can’t stand that place. The lingual butchery in the store’s name is enough to make me want to vomit,” Amaya cringes with her answer.
“That’s exactly why I looooove saying it with excitement! SHAWTY SAMMICHES!! SHAWTYYYYY SAMMICHESSSSSSS!!! ”
“Oh my god if you don’t stop it—“ Amaya grips the smallest and most firm of her bed pillows with the intent to shuriken her tormentor. Val notices that the tirade hit home and stifles Amaya’s pending onslaught.
“Anyway Angel, the place went up in smoke. Strange thing is that the building is still standing but the interior is completely charred and empty, like somebody moved out all the chairs and just painted a disaster scene…except it’s not paint y’know.”
“Yes I know, Val” Amaya is still on guard and ready with her fluffy throwing star, “Was there anyone around the diner when you saw it?”
“…which diner?” Val asks with a sly smile.
“…shuriken.”
The pillow zips across the room toward Val’s head and makes point with accuracy. The smile melts away into a surprised scowl, then defeated laughter. Val speaks through broken chuckles, “Aside from the ridiculous number of law enforcers and dumb bystanders I didn’t see anyone that we know.”
“I felt something odd.” Amaya clutches her blanket for a moment then slips out of bed. Her onyx mane slithers across the pillows after her and falls against the soft sheen of silk pink pajamas. What she isn’t saying; telepathic tremors that were undeniably from Shawty Sammiches had awoken her from sleep. This abrupt disturbance came with cloudy visions of a dark haired man that she has never seen before, but was surely the strongest influence from the tremors.
After the girls get dressed for the day (of course Val is wearing one of her creative shirts…today is ‘TROUSER SNAKE KILLA’) they sit at the dining room table for their daily “round-table” discussion over cinnamon raisin bagels and fresh butter. The bagel ritual is something that keeps a sense of order in their lives and all ingredients are important. The sharp scent of toasted cinnamon and sweet creaminess of real butter is enough to put smiles on both their faces every morning. Understandably, Val is a little more than annoyed when she has the bagels in the oven nearing the perfect crisp then opens the dairy drawer in the refrigerator to find not a sliver of butter.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re out of BUTTER?!?” Val growls through gritted teeth, “How could I forget that? I even remember looking directly at the butter when I went to the grocery earlier.” She searches a little while longer, hoping that she was dumb enough to put it with the vegetables or even with the eggs. “That’s what I get for being nosy.”
Amaya perks up at this remark. “Nosy about what?”
“The diner…I heard all the hoopla outside and I guess my bystander sense tingled too much.”
Amaya cringes again when she realizes that Val’s telepathic link connected with the mess at Shawty Sammiches. Another fleeting vision of the dark haired man speckles her mind long enough to make her a little more uneasy, then she decides that it’s time for them to get some fresh air. The only comfort is that the stranger in her vision is very handsome and non-threatening…for the time being.
“Let’s just go to Deady Rok and get some coffee. They have the same brand of bagels and never seem to run out of butter,” she suggests hoping that she will not be met with opposition.
“Good idea. I’m in the mood for caffeine anyway,” Val agrees without a second thought. The young female odd couple gather themselves and heads out to the street on the mission for a peaceful bagel breakfast. Things seem normal enough but something tugs at Amaya’s soul like the lost child. She hopes that the origin of that sensation is equally as harmless. She reaches into her pocket and grips a very special item that gives her an extra bit of courage.
***
The disturbances in her force are more than a nuisance. A few weeks ago she found an old necklace with a single charm hanging from one of its broken ends. Amaya took it to Gold School, the local antiques dealer, to have it appraised. Cecilia couldn’t determine the exact monetary value of the charm, but she identified it as Norse a rune called “Aegishjalmar”; it is shaped like eight tridents joined at their tails to make a perfectly round medallion. Each trident carries three parallel bars just beneath the heads. This rune promotes irresistibility and protection from harm so Cecilia told Amaya to keep it with her at all time. Oddly enough, when she left, Amaya discovered that a primitive love spell surrounded by tiny Aegishjalmar runes had been scribbled on the back of her appraisal receipt. The spell was only two words;”SAL FELAG”, translated from Norse runic letters as “soul mate”.
Underneath the crude sketch and love spell was a message: “If you want love try anything. If you want YOUR love then repeat these two words seven times in any direction. –Cecilia”
***
Vishael awakens on the floor of what used to be a quaint little diner named Shawty Sammiches. Unfortunately the success of the restaurant was interrupted by an explosive outburst that he barely remembers. However something smells sickeningly familiar, almost like another Shade Counter or something else from his home. Whatever the case, it is enough to cause a great anger to rekindle within him. From what he can gather there are some seriously unacceptable that leave him no choice but to destroy the living world; Cilael is nowhere to be found…not even with his extended Daemon Signal (an ability that allows the Shade Counters to track and communicate with each other), the soul sword Ceriula has been completely removed from him and is also remarkably hidden from his senses, and there is a hunger for destruction that feels sinfully delicious. The only thing keeping him from beginning a bloody adventure across the city is his undying curiosity. Why am I angry? Why am I alone? Where are Ceriula and Cilael? These question itch him relentlessly as he lifts himself from the floor. His clothing is tattered and singed with whatever caused the disaster, so he uses a bit of essence to repair them…or at least he tries.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Vishael questions himself while trying to summon enough essence to tie his shoes.
Nothing happens.
“Powers that don’t rely on my soul sword, that’s what she said,” he recalls Cilael’s announcement. Suddenly he feels nauseous and dizzy when the entire event comes rushing back to the forefront of his memory.
***
The man in the doorway uses a crude and noisy weapon to blast a hole through Cilael and Ceriula. They fall to the ground in front of him and a tidal wave of furious anger consumes him. He turns to see the man trying to hide the weapon inside his clothes, then screams a curse known only to the Shade Counters as ‘the word of erase’. Whatever was left from Ceriula’s essence is sucked into his massive vengeful energies and then expelled as a white-out of explosive proportions. When things are clear Vishael is the only one left, but the sound of sirens and approaching pedestrians leaves no option other than disappearing. He uses the remainder of his energy to cloak himself in ethereal energy and masks his entire presence from any living creature, then collapses from exhaustion. Just before fading out he can see a graceful figure looming over him, leaning down with its silver colored hair teasing Vishael’s torso and scathing words teasing his subconscious mind. “…and to think, YOU are the one that I’m hunting.” Vishael’s memory essence allows him to follow the man with his mind, trailing the murderer to a very classy and expensive hotel, up to his room and into the walk-in closet to change clothes. The man turns his head slightly and allows his silver locks to fall away to reveal a wicked smile full of perfectly sharpened teeth.**
“RUMAEL!” Vishael vomits the name when he realizes that his fellow Shade Counter is the source of the sickeningly familiar smell. The realization makes it much more sickening but the nausea cowers in the shadow of Vishael’s loathing. Curiosity and retribution’s song bring him to some sort of common sense and he stands upright, a short burst of essence returns his clothes to their previously undamaged cleanliness. “Good work, I’m feeling better already. It’s time to find Rumael and send him to the pits of our realm.”
Even though the current gear is good as new, Vishael searches for an appropriate place to clone clothing. Shade Counters are almost always short on real currency, and cloning fibers makes for great practice with essences. Since this world is on the verge of falling to his vengeance, Vishael sees no problem with wandering the city learning what he can. These things might help him to specify the exact target of his destruction…they may even save the city. Rumael is still here in the city. The daylight bears no visible clues but the putrid after taste of his essence assures The Impossible that The Revealer is watching him very closely.
“Whatever, I need to find a decent clothier. No need to wear the same things during these next few weeks,” he says to himself, trying to decide how long he will stifle his rage. The streets surrounding Shawty Sammiches are lively and full of people going about their tasks. He blends in perfectly with window shoppers and rushing pedestrians alike. Vishael passes by a few open air fabric shops and garment kiosks and decides to scan them while chatting with their respective proprietors.
One such vendor takes the chance to absorb all of Vishael’s ruggedly handsome features and immediately tries to keep him there. Fortunately her kiosk is the most furnished on this part of the street. “Hello gorgeous! You did well stopping here. I keep the latest fashions along with the best vintage gear and accessories,” she remains smooth and welcoming while reciting her sales pitch.
“Thank you lady,” he responds with the most sensual tone he can muster. An extra fluff of essence sends all the right signals to the caramel toned, tastefully short-haired saleswoman. “Is there anything you recommend? You seem to have a good eye for body structure. Since I’m new to the area I don’t want to walk around looking like a fool.”
“Give me your name and my fantasy will be complete, mister…”
“…Vincent.” This couples with a genuine smile to make the lady show effort trying to contain her fascination. Perfect, he has full control of the situation and is free to scan and collect images while she shops for him in vain.
“My name is Ariel. Vincent: dark haired wraith of my dreams, I will dress you like a prince.”
“Why not like a king?” he asks while wondering why she chose ‘wraith’ of all things.
“Because the king has a queen, but the prince needs a lady by his side to join him when he takes the throne. Don’t you agree?”
“You’re the expert. I am just a prince looking for the perfect clothes.”
They exchange titillating smiles but only one is truly involved with this loosely romantic exchange of small talk. While Ariel flips through various articles of clothing Vishael looks around and takes in the scenery, logging every building and tree, every corner and street sign.
After taking in a few designs and fabric patterns he slips away before Ariel can hail him again, then he moves to an odd but quaint antiques shop. The wares are all beautiful in their own way, but a small onyx jewelry box catches his eye; then it tickles his essence. The box is surrounded by vintage jewelry in an artistically cluttered setting, but stands alone as an eerily appealing piece. Something pulls at his soul and for a few moments he feels a rush of positive energies buff his essence abilities and the clothing designs he scanned become effortlessly clear in his mind. In a swift and playful gathering of mental images, Vishael makes one outfit for each day of the week and locks them away for use when necessary.
“What was that?” he questions himself and the air around him. Mishael never mentioned any ethereal or runic items making their way from Daemon Theria Extremis in physical form with their essences intact. “I wonder who operates this shop…”
***
Standing just out of sight is a beautiful middle aged woman resting her head in her hands, dressed in a simple courier style uniform over a white tank-top that hugs her body and a name badge that reads “Cecilia”. On the left side of the counter lies a sleeping cat with beautiful lavender fur. Around her neck is a simple black collar adorned with a small heart shaped platinum plate engraved with her name…”Ceri”.
***
Rumael is numb with excitement. Anytime that he’s come to blows with Vishael, the elders became disturbed and interrupted their fighting. Even the All-Father Mishael has broken up their skirmishes before any decent attacks could be made. But now, The Revealer and The Impossible are locked in a fateful game of cat-and-mouse which will most definitely end with an epic battle. No referee, no interruptions, and virtually no restrictions. The ecstasy of anticipation crawls across his entire body, so much that he collapses face first onto the bed of his lavish hotel suite. Rumael has always been driven to sharpening his skills and even more so after being a student of Jurael the Ascetic; no other Shade Counter has been through the kinds of hardships as Jurael, the only one who uses very little essence.
“This will be a glorious hunt,” he whispers to himself. As sleep approaches he recounts the day’s events and decides the overall it has been a good day. The home sickness brings to him the feeling of passing through oceans of portals again. After settling his eyes and mind he slips into an astral form and returns to the edge of Penumbral Blinding. Most Shade Counters would never do this because rest comes scarcely, but Rumael is a rare breed of reaper who can rest his physical body separate from his essence energies. This gives him an advantage when dealing with memories and visions or communicating with other reapers. This trip through astral space requires a conversation with the chroniclers of Daemon Theria Extremis—Dremael and Zasael. Billows of shadow and dark essence writhe and slither to form a black mirror reflecting the library. In the center is the stained glass impression of the Middle Grounds; the two brothers sit next to each other with their heads lowered into massive literary volumes. ‘No surprise at all’ Rumael jokes quietly.
“This is the astral plane for you, which means that we heard you,” says the faceless Dremael.
“We did,” adds Zasael while removing a stray knotted lock of hair from his vision.
“Excellent, our connection is solid. Did you see what happened in the city?” Rumael begins with a slight smile. He would like to address one of them specifically, however they are all but lost while reading, so it is anyone’s guess as to which brother will answer.
Zasael seems to be paying the most attention at this moment. “Actually I heard about it from Pandael. Don’t you think that gun was a bit too much?” The Vision says with a smile similar to Rumael’s.
“Wait a minute…Pandael is watching this? He sees most everything but I find it hard to believe that this is important enough for him to watch with intent, let alone comment on the situation.” Rumael is genuinely surprised.
“Consider the fact that, for lack of a better phrase, his job is on the line,” Dremael speaks from the ardent reader stance. “Watching this hunt and retrieval is more stressful than one may think. As Shade Counters we don’t have that much to worry about unless you fail. The Beginning…he is resting all hopes upon you.”
Rumael lets that bit of information sink in before continuing. If the brothers are not exaggerating this point, then time just became much shorter and the conversation is now taking a turn for the worst.
“Is there a ‘holiday’ approaching?” The Revealer questions with caution in his voice.
“Yes,” Zasael answers immediately for fear of procrastination.
“Then I need to hurry…troublesome, I wanted to enjoy this. I learned that Madame Cilael is training him but he may not yet be ready for capture.” This time Rumael does not smile or even feel pride. The possibility of having to incapacitate or kill a fellow Shade Counter holds not glory or honor, not even for someone like Rumael who enjoys the more sadistic things in life.
“Please do, Revealer,” Dremael chimes in once more before snapping his fingers. A small spark of essence flows from his fingers to the mirror face causing the Penumbral Blinding to take its original, cloudy form once more.
As he returns to his body for a night’s rest Rumael yearns for another suitable fix for his hunting adventure. Midnight will be upon him in just a few hours, signaling the dawn of perfect timing for his search and seizure of Vishael. He has every intention of being an island of sensibility and rescue in the oncoming sea of blood.
Pandael is amazed at how heavy Mishael’s body has become. Normally he would be able to climb the grand staircase with incredible even while carrying something heavy. Each step is increasingly heavier than the one preceding. This leg numbing trek to The All-Father’s chamber is testament to the eternal bond between master and student.
“The old man did a lot more damage than I thought. Maybe he has kept a lot of training techniques secret from us. I suppose it’s for the best,” Pandael ponders as he finally reaches the last step in front of Mishael’s room. He pushes the door open with his toes and even they are tired from the combined stress of fighting, carrying a 200+ pound man and stair climbing. With great relief in his breath, Pandael places the elder’s body on the floor mat dressed with translucent bedding.
“I truly hope you appreciate this, old man.”
***
Deady Rok Café is the sound of prosperous business, the olfactory orgasm of coffees from around the world, and the peaceful images two young women silently enjoying their personal heaven of cinnamon-raisin bagels and hot caffeinated drinks. Amaya inhales the relaxing scent from her foam-free vanilla latte and thanks the universe for this moment of tranquility…
“PUNCH BUGGY! No punch-backs, m’love,” Val shatters the silence with a two finger strike to Amaya’s right shoulder, clearly avoiding the side of her body that is occupied with the latte. The now slightly annoyed Amaya turns to look out of the window and narrowly misses the tail end of a fire orange Volkswagen Bug.
“Okay, you win. May I finish my drink or should I start plotting my revenge now?”
The girls share a laugh that is forsaken by Amaya when she looks out the same window again; passing the cafe is the man she had seen in her visions earlier. All of the emotions that had before threatened her balance return to finish the job, but are suddenly quelled when she remembers the Aegishjalmar. Val is talking about something that the excitement has made muffled and nearly inaudible. Since she has yet to notice any change in her best friend, Amaya takes this opportunity to break free.
“Break for me, Val. I need to use the ladies’ room,” the black haired beauty speaks sharply as she stands up from the table. Before Val can even answer, she is walking while facing the same direction in which Vishael is headed. She waits until he is just a few steps ahead hoping that she remains unnoticed. Amaya’s right hand slips into her pocket and grips Aegishjalmar with the purest intention.
“SAL-FELAG…SAL-FELAG…SAL-FELAG…”
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