Arc IV: New, Old Testament

  “Are you ready?” Jelena asked with a self-confident smirk. “Who knows what faith-shattering revelations are contained within this document?”

  Camp was arranged in a natural glen deep in the delta’s swamps and far away from any road. Sunset was not for an hour and a half. They could still read without the help of the campfire, which continued to burn at its well-regulated, Menu-mandated pace.

  Per church teachings, the Holy Priestess Mia formed her party in a nondescript dire-scorpion cave far south of Riverglen. There, they encountered the Holy Menu, an instrument of divine vengeance. Willingly binding themselves to this holy force and mastering its Interface, the Ancient Heroes of Yore fought back against the demons ravaging the countryside. Calaf had the holy scripture partially memorized at one time. Former sister Jelena still recalled the stories.

  This document was purported to be a firsthand account of this same period. What secrets would it contain? And why did the team thief of the ancient heroes go to such lengths to keep it safely guarded?

  “Yes, yes, I’m dying from suspense,” Zilara said. “We trudged through that swampy refuse pile for days looking for this. Let’s hurry it up.”

  Enkidu only grumbled, looking more annoyed than usual. “I care not.”

  “Let’s begin,” Calaf said.

  Not like I have much faith left to shatter.

  Jelena held his hand while they scanned the document. “Okay. Calaf and I shall take turns reading aloud. I’ll go first. Three… two…”

  Firsthand Testament of Mia, Shackled Cleric

  Ever-dark was the Southern Shackled Asylum. The lone welkinhatch atop the demonic seath-hollow seldom becreaved, and never in light of day. The lone light came from the speldtorches carried by guards. Seldomtimes would the sun stream through misfallen breakthroughs in the underground lair’s walls – caused by delve-digging thralls, breaking through to the outside world. Demon-wards cordoned these expansion burrows with haste to both secrete all signs of the outside world from the capt-hafts and to punish the offending delve-diggers for holk-carving overfar.

  Capt-hafts came seldom to the asylum. Just enough to uphold the gaol’s folk from dwindling. All were Shackled, forsaken. Marked for life by their demonic ward-masters. All were cast into the dark in the dead of night. Beseeching their masters, crying out from the hurt of their Shackling, scarcely able to put up a fight following the long haft-march in irons from the far-away uplands. Thus had it been for as long as anyone in this blackgloom pit could remember. Until this day…

  Muffled upsturance from the roof. Another prisoner yet had might to fight on. Bold, but far too late. The Shackling seal spared no man. Once applied resistance became moot. There would – could – be little defiance of worth once a capt-haft became Shackled.

  Indeed, the telltale searing whirl of the Shackling Iron could be heard even through the stone roof and wooden welkinhatch atop the gaol. Another Shackled had been everbound in soulbondage. And yet, on this fellow fought…

  Great scuffle sounded from the roof. Capt-hafts could follow this holdfast newcomer’s footfalls as he fought on. Some even saw fit to cheer under their breaths, still careful not to draw the ire of the guards or their many capos.

  As it ever-was, the roof-struggle ended. None could stand fast against the demonic gaolers for overlong.

  The rooftop welkinhatch swung outward. It was dark beyond, as always, but a rainstorm howled, splashing through the hatch ever-quick.

  “Unhand me. I am no one’s prisoner. I-h-hey! Glutinous fiend. Have at thee!”

  A figure tumbled – hurled – down the long drop to the bottom floor. Stripped of gear and properly Shackled, the fall was survivable, if not without great hurt.

  But something was awry. Capt-hafts left their gaol-cells to gather ‘round the fallen fellow. It was…

  … one of the outlying gaol-wards. A fat collection of blubber and muscle with misshapen wings like a dire-bat. Having been kicked down by a particularly opportune prisoner. But there was no saving the new capt-haft from their doom. All were cast down in time. And after another shout of ever-dare, a second figure tumbled forth from the welkinhatch. A shuffling heap in full plate armor. Yet, he did not fall free. Even in this ever-dusk, the capt-hafts of the pit could see their new gaol-mate twining forth until his elbow was angled down… falling upon the demonic sentry.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Yiyaa!”

  The capt-haft crashed into the demonic sentry elbow-first. The demon flailed, his chest seeming to lose air.

  The Shackles tale-told all capt-hafts that this guard was utterly undone, and by a new-Shackled prisoner at that! Their demon captors could be hurt, if not bleed (for the devil gaolers bore not blood). And if they could suffer harm…

  No time was there to act on this small whiff of rebellion. Fivefold the guard’s number, fully leveled, fully healed, and fully armed, pushed their way into the center-gaol. They pulled the new capt-haft off their kin.

  Never did guards speak with lowly Shackled. Instead, a Shackle-brand shone bright amidst the throng.

  Dealt-tasks sent forth from the gaol-warden were private, though there was an asylum-wide way by which all could be alerted by a System Message. The receiver was plain by the glow in the brand of her eyes.

  A figure in gaol-granted level one Plain Prisoner’s Robes stepped forth.

  “As thou wishest,” she said with a nod.

  Gleed-shine hugged-close her waylaid, demonic gaoler. Mia’s hands did gleam, brought forth with the great background Interface that at once empowered and bound her through her Shackles.

  In a breath, Demon Sentry #1 was health-raised to 23 life points. The lumbering, horned brute hopped up spoiling for a fight.

  Once more, Mia cast Basic Small Heal. And once more, the Demon Sentry’s LP (life points) overfilled. Most healing was squandered, overmuch, and Mia felt weary, but the Demon gaoler was back up to full strength.

  Demon Sentry #1 lumbered to where his foe was pinned by Demon Sentry #5 and #3. The newly mended sentry let forth a full-force blow. Demons were well-skilled at holding back their might. Not even a shimmer showed to signify the hit or bereckon body-dretch. (Zilara scribbled in ‘damage?’ with her unique Interface-editing abilities, after which ‘body-dretch’ was mentally swapped out in the posse’s minds.)

  The two restrainer demons threw the fresh capt-haft into a gaol-cell, then slammed down an ill-crafted set of bars, and the resistant knight was confined.

  Brand-Slave Mia’s Shackle shone once more, and she gasped as her task-work came down from the gaoler-chief.

  Later, Demon Sentry #4 swung open the cell with a jerking halt.

  Mia carefully stepped into the cell.

  Shackle-bound, she could wield little from the Interface. Mia could only beckon thus:

  Freshly Shackled brought forth a high heap of ‘experience points’— skill-worth, Mia turned the Interface’s demontongue over to her own— for the first week after Shackling. But there was little to gain from this boon within the gaol.

  The man still wore plain gear, though torn. Possessed was he of more health than most, doubtless an outland grenzritter before enthrallment.

  Stir not did the capt-haft. His Shackle was plain, fresh upon burned skin, on his neck.

  “Good day, sir,” Mia began. “Dwell you now in the Southern Shackled Asylum.”

  The prisoner, Roland, at long last stirred. “Shackled As… no. That cannot…”

  “T’is true, milord. Shackled you are. Bound by its make. To delve with the other miners be your fate.”

  “That accent…” said Roland. “You sound…”

  “Aye, m’lord. Loanwords from demontongue and the Outland-dweller marches bear not in the gaol. Such hath it been since my eldmother was Shackled.”

  “Gah.” The erstwhile knight held his hand near his throat by instinct. “The demons. An ambush. I’m a squire for Knight Herman of the Highland Vale. We marched south with an army to liberate the southern forests. But they’re heading north in force. To flank the front…”

  “None more were brought to the gaol,” said Mia.

  Again, Roland scratched at the brand on his neck.

  “This jail is a cave?” asked the soldier, straightforward and blunt.

  “A pit, sir.” Mia bowed her head. “An underground gaol. Built to delf and mine.”

  “How long have you…?” Roland’s eyes flitted about the cell, unadjusted to the ever-gloom. “You mentioned your eld… grandmother.”

  “For as long as can be remembered, m’lord.” Once more, Mia bowed her head. “As was my mother before. It was my eldmother who came hither unwilling from a convent far to the north.”

  Roland gasped. “The shrine. From the Capitol, most likely.”

  “I know not, m’lord. For my erdmother spoke not of the olden days save in dream-talk. But it was the erdmother who was first Shackled, a state passed forth to my mother ere me. All future sires of yours shall be Shackled as well.”

  The enslaved knight grimaced and uttered a brusque oath Mia recognized not.

  “We’ve heard stories of these oubliettes,” Roland said – another word Mia knew not. “You’ve… never left this hole?”

  “Never, good sir. Born here was I.”

  Then, his sight accustomed to dim speld-light, noble Roland gazed upon at Mia’s twinbrand eyes.

  “They… burnt the Shackle into your eyes?”

  Mia nodded. “A common branding-way. Impossible be it to remove the slave-brand without blinding.”

  Once more, Roland winced and scratched his neck. “Ah, you’re telling me.”

  “If healing be needed, I shall lend aid.” Mia outbreathed. “A single healing spell will mend any capt-haft in the gaol. Alas, I have not revival spells. My mother was allowed a cleansing spell for poisons at level five. Yet I have not climbed to such heights.”

  Ere the pair could carry on, the Shackle upon Roland’s neck began to shine.

  “What is…?”

  Roland’s eyes followed that which Mia could not see.

  “A Menu, good sir. Forbidden are we to access most of it. But all Shackled must heed its commands.”

  “Brand-Slave Roland, report to floor eighteen for excavation duty,” the fallen squire read from his invisible Menu.

  “The gaolers await on the lower levels,” Mia said with a nod.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “The Demon Sentries shall thrash you. Then order me to tend you, then thrash you once more.”

  “It’ll take more than that to break me.”

  “As your caretaker, further unhearsomeness shall mete out punishment upon me as well,” the healer said, head down.

  Roland’s frown grew deeper yet, a feat Mia thought not possible. Loathe though he was, rose he did.

  “I shall be here when you return,” Mia promised.

  But take off did Roland without a word.

  Anglish is a theoretical gimmick language presupposing English did not receive an influx of French and Latin words courtesy of William the Conquerer. Since this arc will have extended 'scripture' segments from the bad old days, I chose to portray that part of the story in Anglish for maximum differentiation from the standard prose.

  not work for this task, as it's so old as to be unreadable. Shakespearean prose would make everyone come off as a Dark Souls character. But Anglish is suitably strange but at once familiar enough to sound old and weird while remaining legible.