Amber is shaking like a leaf. If she tries to direct more power through her body, she’ll physically combust. Her heart is thundering away in her chest; her head is like a dumbbell heavy with nausea. The world is spinning in every direction, yet despite all of this she can’t stop. Amber starts counting fluffy sheep, one, two, three, four.
In that moment of counting, it could be her end. The illusion that she’s painting upon this cold, dead world could evaporate into the mist at any moment. To never be seen again, and what about her, what if she goes too? No. If I need to bite and cw, I will, Amber affirms to herself.
It walks past her. The coldness of space, the emptiness goes past. There is still compassion in such a thing. A fragment of Alise Cartwright still remains. Amber couldn’t speak at this point, she fell onto her knees, her vision going blurry, blood running down from her nose onto the road. Bile gathering in her throat. She swallows deeply, trying to keep it all down.
The illusion continues on for a bit.
“You’ve done well. Now, the others will partake in the fight.” She can barely hear Charles, Amber falls onto her side.
Vukosava could see the volcanic burst of color from far away, the outstretching canvases attached to Amber’s back dancing in the air. It’s a captivating sight, it’s ethereal in its beauty and otherworldly to boot. She couldn’t help but smile, only Amber could do something this beautiful.
“She’s a fighter all right. It will be upon us soon, by then your little circle must be ready.” The knight gres down at each of them. “Is the delivery boy back?”
“He’ll be here soon.” Vukosava looks down the road.
“I’d advise praying. Your survival hinges on tonight. My companion got lucky. If that thing gets angry again, my corruption won’t do shit. It’ll be a stalemate, and it could keep going for a long time, until you die cwing at your throat from uncontrolble thirst.”
Harley scowls. “How is that helpful?”
“If you fuckers don’t get the circle done that will be your death. See it as motivation. Life or death is a powerful thing – I controlled it on the battlefield. Bde to bde, horse to horse. I lost control of it when I ended up like this.”
The screech of tires and the stench of burning rubber fills the night. The headlights washed over them.
“This is a fight, and there'll be many more to come. That is what I exist for.”
John boots his door open, springing out, tossing chalk to Harley and Nathen, before getting his lighter out from his pocket. “The lightshow helped. I didn’t think I’d make it.”
Vukosava runs up to him. “Candles?”
“In the backseat, along with a magic board and all the goodies a bunch of idiots could want.”
It’s a scramble to put the st pieces in pce. All of them get John up to speed.
“We owe her one – that’s for sure.”
“I hope it works.” Nathen replies grimly.
“I’m not operating on hopes, Nathen, I operate on certainties.” John looks over to Vukosava. “We’ll do it right this time.”
“Okay, everyone, you know the rules, you know how to close it. Positions!” Vukosava snaps at all of them, Nathen and Harley start running in semi-circles, the chalk splintering on the uneven ground. The group doesn’t stop, scrambling over each to make sure everything is in pce; the candles flicker in the breeze and the Ouija board is proving difficult to start.
“I wonder what she’s looking at right now.” Harley straightens up.
“Amber’s art piece is running out of steam.” Nathen concludes. “It won’t be long.”
“We’ll have to make sure to keep this thing on a leash. Otherwise, things turn to shit.”
“What if there’s something on the other side, that will help the mist to stay out here?” Nathen is running through the possibilities in a panicky tone. “Even if we do this one hundred percent right – there’s no guarantee.”
“It’s not like we have any other choice. This is our best case scenario, Nathen.” Harley leans over the board. “If we shit the bed, it’s game over.”
“I don’t want any more excitement in the future.” Nathen grumbles loudly. “Okay, let’s begin.”
Harley and Nathen pce their hands on the board.
Vukosava turns back to the others. “Stand and watch over them.”
“So, your preparations are done, and now you hope for the best.”
“There’s nothing else we can do – if we allow her to go any further than this.” Vukosava shakes her head firmly. “Then a lot more people will be paying the price. I need you to stand in front of them, Sir Victor.”
“I will. Until the end.”
Harley calls out. “I humbly ask for your communion. The spirits that linger here now, past and present, of the mythical council of earth, of water, of fire and air, of life and death – give us the means to dispel the darkness and send it home.”
“Show us the realm, show us to where it shall return.” Nathen pces his hand on the pnchette. His breaths slow and even, as an inner harmony takes him. It’s not a pce he ever wants to see again, it exists between realities, those woven and born of shadow linger in the corners of one’s vision. A creature that feeds on fear and uncertainty.
Harley and Nathen are whispering to each other, seeking to keep themselves above the world of shadow. A dark reflection of their current reality. Portals open and close within the darkness like stars and asteroids. They can see everything and nothing, belonging to the memory of the ancient and ever-growing earth. It’s a gaxy that lives only to feed a dying world. Since the start of life, the dark is always there. Civilisations rise and fall, virtues and goodness turn dark, cruelty and injustice reign. There’s nothing positive about this pce, it radiates with negative emotion and negative energy. It is fear, sadness, grief, anger, rage – all of it pours into a swirling abyss that exists below a dark and bleak horizon. The best comparison they have – is an old movie or show on the television, completely white and bck, with no colours or hues to be seen. This is the World of Shadows. An alternative pce that requires the energy of humanity to function.
The two mediums are shaking, but remain on the board, its centre starting to darken, the tin numbers and letters starting to glow white. Harley and Nathen are continuing to fight on as much as they can – but it’s draining them fast. Exposure to that pce is a vampiric experience.
“We’ll need to snap it open and close it fast.” Nathen is sweating profusely.
“Is it close?” Harley asks quickly.
Vukosava looks off into the distance, the gorgeous painting done by Amber and Charles is discoloring. Its brightness is dying yer by yer, fragment by fragment. She can feel sadness for the Lady of Mist – despite her efforts she couldn’t save Catherine Mallory nor the other women that fell into the sickening embrace of the mysterious killer. She didn’t give up, she kept fighting and in the end, her ideals, her morality, her purpose during those long nights spelled her end. But there’s one st piece that manages to survive a bit longer than the rest, Catherine Mallory and Alise Cartwright embracing each other, just like sisters do. They were close, very close. This is the st moment that the artists are giving to the shadow. A moment of bliss and happiness.
Vukosava shakes her head. Alise deserved better than this – but there’s nothing else for it. They need to send her away – there’s no other option.
“It’s nearly on us. Open the portal.”
“It’s time to see what you have, fuckers.” The knight bolsters his defense as the solemnness returns to rage. The shadow of Alise Cartwright shes out viciously; it’s mist hardening into spikes that scream at lightning speed. Sir Victor Alberius pnts his greaves firmly in the ground, just in front of the circle. A loud sonic boom roars around them, causing their ears to ping and pop painfully.
“Now, unveil the bastard.”
Nathen and Harley open the portal. It shows the dark world, a bck field of broken gss, bone white trees, the sky is a boundless void that sparkles with empty light. Slowly the image on the other side starts to spin, the mist starts to spiral into it. The more it consumes, the stronger it grows, it won’t be long before it's gone.
“I’m sorry I was too te, but it’s time for you to go.” The knight says hollowly.
So, it is. The shadow tries to fight the pull of the vortex, but there’s too much surplus energy around that Harley and Nathen have channeled into the portal. Vukosava nods slowly at their ingenious move, they’re using the power of the shadow against herself. The World of Shadows feeds on the shadow figures just as well, as they gather power from the living.
Finally, with every drop of strength gone, the circle closes as Nathen and Harley utter the words to complete the ritual. The knight stands there for a moment, weighing each of them with a new level of respect.
“I have to concede; you bastards have done well. It’s unfortunate that we must be adversaries.” Sir Victor Alberius readies his bde, he could take them out right now without much difficulty. But he doesn’t – he sheathes his weapon on his back before walking away. “I’d advise that you search for your fair maiden, she will be in a rough state.”
John is breathing heavily. “We actually did it?”
“Yeah, we’re not dreaming.” James colpses onto the sidewalk. “Shit.”
They all start howling like lunatics, full of ughter and spirit.
Vukosava starts going down the street. “C’mon, we got to find Amber.”
Everyone stumbles after her, dragging their feet through the pale earth. They find her lying on her side, with the canvases draping over her. Vukosava rushes over, pcing a hand on Amber’s neck, begging for a pulse. Their desperation is palpable.
“You did well, far better than I ever could. I only wish that I did more when I was alive.”
“Charles?”
“Easy, you’ll wake up soon. You’re unconscious right now, take the time you need.”
“I’m alive?” Amber can feel her excitement bouncing around in her skull.
“Yes, yes, you are. It won’t be long before you wake up. The next moments will be painful. My sincerest apologies for that.”
“You’ve done so much. You shouldn’t ever have to feel that way, Charles.”
“I appreciate this generous gesture. That you strive to give me peace.”
Amber drops her head down. “It’s heartbreaking. It really is.”
“Why would I be upset? Life is an unpredictable thing, and what happens next is often a great mystery.”
“They’ve bckened your name, your legacy, it’s not right. I now know that the stories that were told about you are wrong. You shouldn’t be remembered that way – that you were burnt as a warlock, no, you were a man. A man who did good.” Amber is trying to stop the tears that are running down her face. “You strove to save those you loved, you deserved to be saved.”
“Just like Marcus. It’s a shame I didn’t meet him myself; good men, good women, that is what the world is truly made of. It’s best to remember. That doing right and being right are two different things. Fodor Dresk always did right by me, and I wanted to repay him – he always spoke of us being like the desert, that each and every one of us were grains of sand.”
“A single grain of sand can do a great deal of good.” Amber can feel consciousness pulling at her. “I want my art to show the truth. To show the nobility of those around us – that’s the way we defeat what is evil.”
Charles Derhert offers her his hand; it’s like the sun is rising to shine upon them. “I feared the future for so long, but this one I do not. We’re going to perform miracles; I can see it.”
The st vision Amber sees is a great dazzling field with everyone standing together. The two groups are ughing with each other, and there is so much happiness to see. She whispers. “I’ll make them proud.”
“It’s time to open your eyes. Home is standing all around you.”
Amber shakes his hand firmly, csping her second one over his. “There’s not enough that could ever be said.”
Consciousness cracks like a whip and she’s catapulted into a painful experience. The group cries with relief. “Amber!”
“Son of a bitch, we did it.” John and the others gather around her. Holding Amber close.
Folklore Files:
The Painter of Nightmares
Charles Derhert is a warlock that created dark paintings with glowing eyes, delving into the occult to perform rituals and consort with entities that craved the destruction of morality and mankind. To cast down virtues and nobility with absolute joy. He is a man of the lowest character that killed innocence and painted the walls of the city with blood and mocked the people as a result. He was rightly condemned and put to death; the Lord may judge him and throw him down to be chained in the immortal fire.
Sentencing delivered by Chief Judge, Dres Manwell Johnson “The Hammer of Conviction”.
Folklore Files Updated:
The Painter that sought to Save
Charles Derhert outwardly is a disturbing man that speaks to his paintings and his works during the long hours of the night, with the eyes and lips supposedly moving. He was warned by his own creations of tragedies that were to come, and he spent night after night attempting to put an end to nightmares and horrific events. As a young man he was raised in a loving and caring family where he did a painting of their holiday, in the joyful image it depicted his parents falling into alcoholism, over the willingness and big-headedness of his older brother who went off to war and never came home. An adventurer who would scour every corner of the globe, heading to the ends of the natural world and even venture beyond if it were possible. After his brother went missing in action, Charles Derhert started his cssical pieces, desperately ignoring the premonitions and prophecies that he cimed were spinning through his head.
He was tasked by the family to capture beauty and grace with every passing year, providing a reliable income that could support their future endeavors. A highly skilled painter and suffering from abuse and a ck of warmth with his own family, sought an opportunity offered by a man that he considered to be his real father, Fodor Dresk. After going from a young man losing his sense of self and his pce in the world beyond - just being a coin pincher for his family, he now had something more to fight for, the adoration of the one who saved him from that life and gave him a chance to become something so much more.
Time went by and Charles Derhert fell into a deep depression as he realized that the present would not remain the same. That those he loved and cherished would move on – to create their own futures of love and harmony. Deniel is one thing that he knows extremely well, and he got into arguments and rifts with his savior. As the contest between Fodor and the prince drew to a close. He had been preparing a piece for the union of Fodor Dresk and his partner, but every time he did, there was something wrong with it. Another part of his emotional compass was getting in the way, perhaps his father figure would be removed from his life. Distance would grow between them as Fodor raised a boy of his own. A family of his own, without an anchor, Charles felt that he would drown in a cold, unfeeling world. After the sudden disappearances of those that gave him back his life, he realized that it was a future he could’ve prevented if he hadn’t become lost with his pce in the world.
One night, he talks to the paintings on his walls, believing that there’s a tragedy he can prevent, he arrives down an alleyway, where blood stains it and bodies lie on the ground. He struggles as much as he can to keep them alive, written beneath one of the blood paintings is a simple message, “Do you think you’re better than me?”. He’s found by the wman and condemned for being on the scene, as his house was raided, they uncovered the paintings with the moving eyes and lips, naming him a warlock that had to be banished to hell.
His st words before dying are, “A single grain of sand saved my soul.”
As he was burned alongside his accursed paintings, his form fades and soon nothing is left. His final creations that he spent night after night talking to join him in the next life, when he returned to help the world. Alise Cartwright, who at first believed Victor and Charles to be guilty, realised that they were both pyed. It didn’t matter in the end as Dreas Manwell Johnson achieved his personal ambition of cleaning the streets of such depravity.
