Take Up the Cross – Chapter 128: True Purpose, Perfect Design

“Aligned like… this is right?”

{Bowl, center-forward. Yew wreath beneath, surrounding. Water and ash prepared to mix in it.}

Adris orients the bowl’s designs just so, earning Still’s nod. Both kneel before it, yet only Still makes a strange gesture of worship by arching a finger before her mask and letting it descend slowly.

When it reaches her gut, black candles surrounding flare into life to form the shape of a pentagram, lit by the energies that radiate briefly from her.

{The barrier… could be tighter, but works for a “Short”.}

“Those ingredients make an alkaline mixture, though, not smo—?”

Before he finishes, a vial full of a slow-moving clear oil is tapped before his face.

{This~.}

Into the bowl is then tossed a piece of cloth with Still’s strange language written upon it.

{And that do~.}

(Obscuration, delusion, fear?)

Adris’ eye twitches when trying to identify this and the vial, for it contains floating black filaments that flit in and out of view of his enhanced sight.

{Before the ash fully saturates, fur of smoldering mephit (ELEMENTAL TRICKSTER). Alkali denatures the magical stabilizer. The power words of the Craft amplify the reaction, producing…}

“Interesting, basic mixtures and superstitious witchery joining together!”

(I can hardly believe she’s trying to teach me her Talent! Does she love me now!?)

Adris’ own delusion breaks when Still claps her hands. She “sighs” with frustration, hesitant to ask her next question.

{You’re sure… that “green wind of misfortune” was intentionally trying something that dangerous…?}

“Why wouldn’t she given how she’s acted since our spat with Lycia?”

(Ave went wild with Neesiette gone, why is because she begs for a chance to prove herself.)

“Still, Ave wants Neesiette to stop calling her useless. That’s one thing, but who do you think Ave really wants to praise her…? Other than me, of course?”

{That…}

The witch hugs her breasts tight, avoiding inspection by dipping her hat.

{… Ho… why a… performance for this pawn, if she licks your feet on demand?}

“So timid. Anyway…”

(Gonna avoid how much Ave loves to please you, huh?)

The two stand up with this “altar” completed. Its bounding sorcery will prevent the spread of conversations, making it a cozy place for conspiracy.

“I need more than just seeing! All of the emotions I need to catalyze Fehr into my perfect successor have to be boiling by the time ‘it’ reveals!

Hehehe…!”

(To this place… she will… supplant that asshole, becoming my personal…!)

That he only grins instead of elucidating sends Still into a fit, plinking his forehead with the vial until he pulls away with a frown.

{Successor to what?}

“… Oh, let’s not speak further, the walls don’t need ears to hear…”

With this show prepared, Adris can happily dream of the outcome while Still is left to shift weight onto each foot.

(She’ll stumble in, get mystified by my eloquent speech, then pull back the curtain and consolidate in—!)

Still’s agitated foot bumps his shin, startling him out of his dream.

{It’s your fuckin’ investiture all over again. Are you callin’ somethin’ even worse!?}

“… It… no, it’s quite different. This is a self-fulfilling temptation. She’ll transform herself, not leech your boons away…”

Still flicks the brim of her hat, turning away with a shrug.

{Didn’t say it was bad, or accusing you of planning to give away what’s ‘ours’, only familiar~. So you’re trying to amp her up…?}

“Of course, this is Zennia. Impression and impact are the same thing as improved results!”

{Then it’s a shame, illusions never interested me so I didn’t…? I can’t say that part will ‘pop’ for her like you need it to.}

For Still’s gestures to be so timid is a new experience, especially about her competency in her “almighty” witchcraft.

It makes Adris’ hand gravitate toward his favorite soft place.

{!?}

His favorite sneak’s fingers wiggle when, between the panels of her skirt, he steals a big squeeze of her supple ass.

“My voice will sell this, so you’re good! How about some motivation?”

(How will you respond?)

A quick slap on his arm, light yet “popping”, fends him off. Still glares at him with a smirk drawn on her mask.

{You being good doesn’t make me good! I make me good, so be ready~.}

(… You didn’t insu—NAH!?)

Still pinches the tip of his nose while simultaneously slapping his crotch enough to register it. When her hand pulls from his nose, her mask shows a cute, pink tongue sticking out.

{Save that thought for later.}

With a quick turn, she sashays over to retrieve some charms.

(Fuck… fucking hell… she’s actually…?)

Such a test of her boundaries results in the strangest reaction of all: a defensive man-hater that suddenly plays cute instead of stabbing him for copping a feel.

(Did I die this morning? Is this the next world, a paradise?)

There’s no artificiality with her tone or word choices, either. Not even a hint of hesitation.

(The day isn’t over yet, I can still become a pincushion.)

Though after those heartfelt words he spoke driven by fears of loss, it’s not necessarily solidified, this closer partnership between them.

{Arrival time~?} Still’s gesture almost rams into his face.

“A couple of minutes at most.”

Out comes a familiar gray whistle on a neck chain, his plan now in motion despite misgivings about Still.

{Why can this pawn receive signals through the poison? Even she should be influenced by now by contact with the rest…}

“Huh? She’s unique, she just ‘ignores’ it telling her not to listen.”

{The fuck!? How?}

“As if I know every magical detail of pseudoprósōpon? Ask Fehr how. After.”

It then occurs to Adris that he should know precisely why, but he maintains an aloof air instead.

(… Ugh, Still… totally threw me off by kissing me like that. A cold tongue… isn’t bad if she sweeps me up like…? I could pretend to only enjoy it, or get offended, any sort of appropriate response…)

But when the time came for Adris to say anything about it, all he had was a stupid joke.

(She liked it, though!

… Why did she mention a spear?)

This sole point, never explained by Still, makes his heart race every time he runs it through his mind.

{Then let’s fix up your plan before starting!}

“How does perfection need fixing?”

Still crosses the invisible heaviness of her pentagram’s barrier, snapping her fingers to call into the hollow.

{Dance for me, you loathsome bugs.}

From the gloom marches out an upright lion that mashes its paws together nervously, followed closely by lumbering footsteps that shake and send the creature off balance.

{So you got anticipation and mystery, ending in amazement? If you want to make a non-existent heart flutter, you really can’t go wrong with…}

A golden needle flicks out to fly, aimed for a stash of green banners stolen from the manse’s hallways.

They lift into the air, pulled by invisible hands to be folded and draped around the cringing lion and bleeding giant.

“Why me!? WHY MEEE!?”

“MAKE ME LOOK GOOD, COWARD GIRL.”

Where the needle darts at the speed of luminance, banners join to become interesting additions…

{A pinch of fear.}

A small girl plunges out of a vertical black slash hanging in the air, promptly dropping on her butt after feet fail her.

Clattering beside her on the hollow floor is her sole weapon.

“GUEST!?”

The girl’s cry is fearful, though she calms when standing and patting her dress clean.

“Locate the guest, annihilate the kidnappers, prevent the guest from leaving my sight…”

Chattering to herself, Fehr’s eyes are wide with rage and fear after taking in her surroundings.

{A white mask against your black is quite weird.}

“I think it looks cute.”

{Of course you do, you chose it, didn’t you?}

This cute girl peers at the thick fog that has sprung up from Still’s small bowl, whispy and ghostlike, throwing sounds at her from afar while muffling what is close. She tries her best to pierce what for Adris is a non-existent barrier to sight.

For within the pentagram, Still’s witchcraft inhibits them not at all.

“… My guest… where… where are you…? Where is the danger, please speak so I can begin the slaughter…

Ah!”

Fehr opens and closes her hand, suddenly remembering to pick up the two-handed cleaver sword she dropped.

“This unit…

No… I will save you, my guest…!”

After brandishing it, her frown slowly morphs into an arrogant smirk.

Step by step, Fehr swings her sword to scout the fog.

“So cute! It’s like watching her as a kid again, except chattier…?”

{You are bizarre.}

But not as bizarre as the figure that emerges from the cloud behind Fehr, staring down at the girl as she slowly turns to stare back.

Wearing a tabard with Falke’s coat of arms on its front is a guard of peculiar presence. The side-ways looking lion with swiveled eyes also drips with fresh gore painted upon it.

It’s splattered so thick that Falke’s eagle appears to have freshly killed some prey.

(Courtesy of that ape-thing!)

“Umm… little… little girl… intruder… into… umm, great Falke’s super secret place…? Can’t be here… please?”

Stumbling through its lines, the lion points up to Still’s hanging black tunnel hole as a finisher, urging Fehr to jump back through.

(The instigator!)

To Adris, these comical abominations are no more shocking than the rest of Zennia; but, to another, the lion’s idiotic pleading becomes…

“…

… D-D-Die… DIE, DIE THE DEATH!”

“HIIEEEEE!?”

Both scream in terror at each other, but the wild Fehr hefts her cleaver into an overhead strike and swiftly drops it before the lion’s pleading arms earn mercy.

“DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!”

“NYOOOOOO!”

With a “schink” sound, four different metallic pieces soar away into the hollow.

Fehr’s swing completes its arc, pointed toward the floor while she stares blankly at the enemy. The lion received her attack with two cross slashes, the x-strike mutilating the condensed pseudoprósōpon blade.

Fehr can only repeatedly blink when studying what’s left past her blade guard.

“… R-R-ROGUE SLASHERRRRRRR!”

“CRYPTIIIIIIIID!”

“AIIIIEEEEEEE!”

The wailing lion dances in place rather than chopping after Fehr when she flees in horror.

“HEEEEELP! GUEEEEST!”

Because the lion is staged perfectly, her opposing flight runs into…

(The obstruction!)

Summoned fog parts with the ministrations of Still’s fingers stirring the ingredients of the ritual bowl.

“INTRUDER, BEGONE.”

“I AM NOT AN INTRUDER!”

The receding gloom reveals a towering figure from only the waist down, its own Kestner costume, where it’s not weighed down by blood, flapping with a sudden manufactured gust.

“ALL WHO ENTER THE ROOTS ARE INTRUDERS. SEEK NOT THE TRUTH INTERRED WITH THE HONORED DEAD, INSTEAD BEGONE.”

“… The… the… the truth?”

Though weaponless now, a tiny offender to this hulking guardian cannot bring herself to flee after hearing that word.

Instead, she stares past the great form to a portrait and casket that also “coincidentally” reveal through the fog.

“… You are just… amazing, Still.”

{Shut up! This… this, hard…}

Still’s fingers often bump into each other when trying to make their cursive motions through the mixture, necessitating using both hands after.

But Adris can’t contain further praise directed at another.

“She’s grown a lot.”

His pupil doesn’t flee again, something of Kol’s bearing coming to her when Fehr puffs out her lacking chest.

“I… I am one made by the Maker! I am a servant of the Kestners! I belong here, if there is a truth about them to be found!” Though, she still squeaks when explaining who she is under duress. “S-S-Stand… aside…!”

“… INCORRECT, DEMAND REFUSED…” Quiet for a moment after barking this, the shrieking giant shakes its head. “… THIS IS THE PLACE ONLY FOR THE LOYAL. THE…?” It gestures behind itself, showcasing the casket. “HMMM, ONLY THE BRAVE AND TRUE MAY SEEK THE TRUTH BEHIND THIS GUARDIAN. PROVE YOUR WORTH.”

(Good ad-lib for a monster! He remembered he’s trying to get Fehr to the goal!)

“There is no servant more loyal than I!”

Though she is technically a rogue one, Fehr marches up to the giant within distance to be squashed by its feet.

“… I must save my master, a Kestner! Stand aside, so I may seek this truth and discover if it will accomplish salvation!”

As if to mystify her a bit more, the giant winds its massive arms in the air like windmill blades.

“THEN IF LOYAL, FACE… JUDGMENT FROM THAT ONE CLAIMED BY YOU TO BE SERVED.”

Its retreating steps shake the hollow, unveiling a tall figure that hovers into being from the fog.

(The inquisition!)

At the ready, Adris taps the crystal piece given to him by Still. Its self-contained command thins the barrier, allowing his voice out.

(He sounded like… a pompous jackass before being a servant.)

“Loyal, you claim to be, but haven’t you failed to report for your duties?”

The same gravitas for an older-sounding voice is one Adris has practiced many times before. With Falke’s imperious tone used when Adris is hidden, the born conman can mask his lack of understanding about Falke’s bodily mannerisms.

“… Ma—!”

Fehr drops to a knee instantly, hand over her heart in service to the illusory god that forms from the fog.

“Maker…!”

Dressed the same as always, but with its face black as if lost in darkness…

(Still can’t synchronize the lips for me, but I think being unseen increases the authenticity.)

“The traitor that scurries about my manse has finally presented for termination, as duty requires.”

“… T-T-Termination!?”

Still’s mimicry lifts a gauntlet through which gray matter flows, earning a look of horror from Fehr…

“No! Destroy me not, Maker!”

… before letting it drop.

“No? My intentions, the created refuses?”

(Good, resistance, just as planned! Then, she will assert her right to exist…)

As if on cue, Fehr stretches both arms toward this towering, glowing Maker of hers.

“Refuse!? No, I will obey, it’s just… it’s that, I can—!”

“‘I’? Curious.”

“Mah!?”

“How does a lowly creation rank being thought of as ‘a person’?”

Shaking in fright, Fehr then looks to the floor.

“… This… this unit has obligations. This unit is not a traitor! Instead, others are treasonous!”

(Wrong! You have grown past being unimportant.)

“Obligations? What is created is obligated to obey.” “Falke” stretches out his gauntlet once more, menacing Fehr. “A failure to obey is the fault of a contraption that needs to be fixed, for it is broken.”

From the floor Fehr shoots up, waving her arms wildly!

“THIS UNIT IS NOT BROKEN!”

The fog that Still called forth suddenly pulls toward Fehr rather than obey its assigned duties.

It winds around her body, caressing it. Kissing with cold charm.

“This unit… functions only for its true purpose… only for this, nothing more!”

An outburst so emotional from Fehr causes “Falke” to stay silent for too long, giving up ground to lead on the discussion.

And that’s solely because Adris is stunned by the intensity of the scream washing over him.

(Why… so emotional about this point?)

But he can’t wait, he must continue.

“Refusing orders is against the nature of this manse. You must be broken for failing to heed them.”

“… Ah… but…!?” Fehr’s eyes roll about, seeking some response that will prove she’s not failing. “… The nature of this manse is wrong! The fake Phira, all of the servants said as much, and…

My Maker, you… you… you cannot serve another, THIS IS WRONG! This is more against nature!”

“Naive. Consider this truth.”

At Fehr’s tirade, the illusory Maker sweeps an arm to a great many more caskets that slowly emerge from the receding fog.

“This unit… my… masters…?”

With so many Kestners to take in, Fehr gawks at the huge crypt. She’s stuck trying to bow to each casket she recognizes named as a “Kestner”, but quickly is unable to keep up.

“Witness the lack of suitable masters. With all the Kestners gone, it is time to find a qualified mistress to serve.”

“Make, you are a Kestner!”

(That’s the point that I can’t understand, either! Falke is clearly of the same stock!? Why would he be in service to others, why would he refuse the name!?)

But there’s no time to discover why, for Still woozily weaves her fingers about. Molding the image of Falke hovering in the air above the bowl directs its doppelganger.

“I am Falke, servant of the Kestners. Now, steward of the manse that a true inheritor shall obtain. Not a Kestner.”

“… No… my Maker… is a Kestner…!”

“And I have discovered an inheritor! My… my wonderful mistress shall… shall be…!”

As if fevered, the “Falke” places one hand over its face. The gauntleted arm is taken by a tremor that soon flows through its body.

“No… not… that…”

“That perfect descendant of the moon above…”

Fehr steps forward to run to the illusion, but stops, frozen with indecision when “Falke” waxes poetically.

“Her radiance and divine design controlling my very heartbeat… to her, only her… I shall surrender… everything…!”

Adris draws upon Neesiette’s prickly smugness to intuit why Falke would choose her, basking in the mental image of the mystic seated upon himself in their room while he was stuck in bed from overexertion.

This feverish offer of surrender sounds disgusting for him to mimic, but also…

(Neesiette…

… I miss you.)

“I’ll disassemble that fraud… destroy… destroy it completely…!”

Fehr bites onto her hand to control her clattering teeth. She recoils from this lovestruck “Falke”, refusing to accept being near anything that shows affection toward a hated foe.

(… Good. That’s it! “I’ll disassemble”, though!? I want Neesiette intact!)

“That thing is a temptress…! It has poisoned your mind, my Maker!”

“And so? It matters not… HAHAHAHAHAHA!” “Falke” laughs uproariously, then points at Fehr. “All I have made, I offer to her. This includes lesser contraptions, even broken ones!”

“… I will never obey that.”

Though once groveling, Fehr’s body language turns positively bestial. As if ready to pounce upon Falke, Fehr drops her center of gravity.

“You will resist? To not serve the supreme being called Neesiette vera Luna, to disgrace your Maker by stalking this manse that is gifted to her and making threats upon your new ruler, you will resist!?”

“I WILL RESIST!”

“YOU WILL RESIST PERFECTION?”

“THAT IS NOT PERFECTION!”

“YOU WILL CLAIM TO BE… ABOVE THE PERFECTION I HAVE WITNESSED!?”

“Falke” grows to become as giant as the tin-plated monster, Adris’ voice thunderous to match this spectacle.

“YOU REFUSE TO OBEY… YOUR MAKER!?”

“… This… unit…

… Fehr…!

Pulling on her clothing, nearly tearing the false material to shreds as she rips at her uniform, Fehr’s face is a sight to behold.

“… I am…!”

Almost red with color, like true blood flows through gray muck, Fehr howls!

“I AM SUPERIOR TO THAT TOY!”

“YOU!?”

Falke reaches down from above, his gauntlet that will spell doom for Fehr at a mere touch closing!

“YOU CLAIM, AT THE END, TO BE MORE WORTHY OF RULING THAN MY CHOICE OF SUCCESSOR!?”

“… Hiee!?”

Falling to her butt, Fehr shakes like a leaf!

But, even with dissolution nearing, when draped in death’s shadow…

“Fehr…!

I am more worthy of ruling than her!”

The gigantic hand envelops her, closing around her body!

“MAKER! I will save you, no matter wh—!”

When Adris claps his hands, Still promptly withdraws her fingers from the bowl and tosses a white powder into it.

The Falke made of solidified clouds falls apart puff by puff, its internal radiance snuffing.

“Maker…?”

(Well done! You finally said it!)

Mesmerized by her resolute claim, Adris almost stumbles through Still’s altar.

(Imagine what I could do… if it was with her. Behind her. With her as my figurehead… just… imagine, the authority I could gain over this manse and how I could use it…)

He feels drawn, intoxicated by the girl’s sudden darkly shining radiance that leaks out when true emotion flares up. Even when she’s dumbly waving her arms through the cloud of fog that made up “Falke”, the concern writ upon her has its own charm.

(Maybe… maybe I could stay here… with her as my “leadership”. All of us could… take up the call, turn this place into a real powerhouse! I could stay at the periphery, guiding her just like I do Kol, with… with…!)

“To rule in dark… from within the walls of an eternal fortress.”

That is what whispers gently around him, just as he passes through—!

“Fuck…!?”

“{You’ll become more like me~?}

Adris ends up in another’s arms, blue and dark and nimble. A lewd grin, with white teeth, is the smile a witch would make when finding corruption in another favorable to her own ambitions.

(Dangerous… presence…!)

Before he can interject, she flashes a quick series of signs before stroking his chin.

{Ahhhh, without the annoying “humanity” in the way, imagine what we could accomplish!?}

“Hu-Humanity… gone? I’m—!”

Still’s fingers stop his rushed response. Releasing him to traverse beyond her barrier, she is fast with warning gestures that suffice for explaining her true position.

{Then walk only toward town square, not down any tempting side streets!}

Still’s figure vanishes into the fog when Adris is cast out into the open.

“Guest!?”

Though only a silhouette, Fehr can now perceive Adris within the hollow, for she’s always been perceptive of where he is.

(What did Still mean? That idea I had, did she sense that I…? Nevermind, it was a stupid idea.)

A momentary temptation, nothing more.

Adris continues his clapping and walks toward Fehr, putting him between her and the casket of destiny.

As final amplifier for her emotions, Adris must be concise.

(If you will become the perfect vessel for my vengeance, you must be confident of being “the chosen one”!)

“My guest!? Is… is… this some sort of cruel joke!? If it is, this un—ah, I WILL BE VERY…!”

“The road has been arduous… but finally, the long night is at an end.”

“… O-Oh!?”

With a more sympathetic, but mysteriously tired, voice that is natural to him, Adris shakes his head while motioning for her to not approach.

Mannerisms fend her off, while his tone eggs her on.

“All signs along the road: vague, worn and misleading. Though offering many failures, each you navigated, all despite warnings of what may be at the end.”

“My guest… what are you talking about?”

(I’m setting the final tone.)

Fehr shakes before him, lightly but with fear plain, for Adris’ aura circulates to produce what he can only imagine is an eternally unpleasant impression.

Unsure of how he looks in her eyes, he can only guess he doesn’t seem like a small boy anymore.

(The mask made people wary of me, but this makes them pliable!)

“This was a test… like the others? Of my… capability?”

Adris smiles then, before nodding and recounting them.

“From Kol, that one taught you the distinction between right and wrong behavior, while also sharing what it means to be unyielding even when uncertain. From Sapphira, you realized the true state of the manse. What it lacks, having become aimless and drifting. Why it lost its ‘nobility’.

From Orloss…?”

(That madman gave your rage direction.)

“He taught you the nature of your enemy, for only with knowledge can you defeat what you oppose. And from Lycia…?

(Knowledge of what true conviction looks like.)

But Adris doesn’t continue, allowing the gawking servant to close her mouth and eyes, then squeak out an answer.

“… I l-l-learned to… compromise… to utilize outsiders…”

“That sign was most broken, its directions lost completely; yet, you understood where you should tread, no matter how frightening those who would follow behind you.

And now…”

To the portrait Adris withdraws, unnerving Fehr further by walking backwards and curling his hand to invite her.

“You have arrived, meeting your ‘Falke’ and comprehending why even he must finally change.”

She tiptoes to join him at it.

“Now, and only now, you may fulfill your true design. You have my permission to witness the potential withheld from you, to become what I always desired you to be, Fehr.”

“… Desired…? What… should I be…?”

Adris wants to laugh, because the girl looks ready to faint. Her voice is a mouse’s squeak, lost in a moment beyond her comprehension.

(Fascination, doubt, jealousy, possibility…! It all adds up!)

“I wish that you should now become… perfect.”

Fehr’s body jolts like lightning has struck her. A single word causes what Adris can only term “pleasure” to flow through her.

Her eyes roll back for a moment, a gasp released before she regains her balance.

“Per-Perfect…? I will become… perfect?”

(Fehr, like Fehl, desires nothing more than to succeed and be found useful. This is the final tier of useful: “perfection of design”.)

Adris can no longer frighten her off of the portrait. Its siren song drowns her just as it did Adris, with her longing to rip on the cloth covering it.

(Desire is the cross’ favorite thing! Oh, she’s… even resonating with me!?)

That shattered Inner Expanse of his that is normally quiet these days feels warm, his guts even churning a bit as the darkness he circulates begins to “hum”.

Both portrait and servant resound with the same notes, creating a pseudo territory among the three!

(Let’s finish this!)

“When none are found worthy, it is the will of the world that one unknown shall answer an unheard call!”

Before Fehr can reach it, Adris rips the cover off himself.

“For, if there is no successor to be found, then one must be made to succeed that memory…!”

Revealed beneath is what horrified and fascinated him, as well.

Three figures are the focus of this portrait set in an opulent throne room. Almost tight in the approach, the stone enclosure enshrines only one entity.

The first one Fehr focuses on is the…

“Maker.”

Stern of face and submissive of dress without even his mantle, this younger version of the butler that Falke has become rests one hand impiously upon the shoulder of a much more regal female seated beside him.

“Phira…”

At the other side of the one seated, a page harpy taken by the early signs of plumpness lays a black wing over the breasts of this figure. Even if wearing a cap with a veil to cover her face, the grace of Sapphira resides with this equally stern matron.

“And…”

Upon an orange smooth-stoned throne sits a mirror image of the girl that longingly stares up into the portrait. With blue eyes that shine of inner strength, it’s impossible to mistake this one for anything but a ruler. Wearing a diadem with green stones set into it, the rest of her eastern dress is studded with all the crystal treasures of the earth such that she resembles a tunnel of unearthed splendors.

“Who… are… you…?”

Above all three, a familiar bird much different from an eagle flies. It is the coat of arms which preceded Falke’s own.

Before the Pillars claimed him, Falke belonged to…

(This is the moment! THIS IS IT! OH STARS, I CAN FEEL IT COMING!)

Toward the frame’s bottom is where Fehr’s hand goes.

The stifling weight of ages, of emotions hidden so deeply that they were devoured by “false life”, has gathered solely to press upon this “worthy inheritor” named here.

(“From the depths of desire…!”)

Reciting it in his mind, Adris spiritually reaches out to merge his thoughts with the gathering dark.

It whips wildly when touching his “image” of what Fehr is to become.

Silently roars when she rubs an embossed plaque which proclaims the truth.

“Who… am…

I…?”

— Dohle Kestner, the Last and Greatest.

Purest Speaker for the Will. Guiding Earth of the Vohldok Principality.

Most Perfect Mistress. —

So is named this cold noblewoman with a contemptuous stare. Possessed of a beauty so knife-like that any man would impale himself on it for lack of being loved.

Adris has to admit one incongruity even at the height of this storm, though.

(Sadly, this “Fehr” called Dohle hasn’t an ounce of kindness in her gaze, and I don’t think she’s ever forgiven another, not even once.)

But if Fehr is a vessel that must be filled…

(Then I choose this woman for you to become!

BE MY BLADE OF REVENGE, FEHR!)

“… I remember.”

The beam of pure shining night that shoots from the portrait’s eyes invades Fehr’s own, undulating and growing with intensity. When its flashing light spills out into the hollow, even the hard roots begin to shift. A shrill whistle starts that may never end.

(SHIT!?)

Beginning from the crystal casket’s interred body, then flowing through to the portrait and onto Fehr via the beam, this current of darkness is the absorbed and focused essence of all that once uselessly filled the crypt.

Now in motion, it drains the hollow’s very air, cramming it all into Fehr’s wildly shaking and now floating body.

(All the darkness of the manse is—!?)

At first ignoring Adris, he feels an inescapable change when Fehr’s hand lifts and his own gravitates towards it.

Resonance becomes a fated bond, blocking all but his firing nerves.

(Oh… fuck… she’s…!)

Lacing fingers together, he finds himself burning within when she begins to share her “enlightenment” from Beyond across those live nerves.

Living gray flows from Fehr’s body to begin coating his hand, then arm, then chest, all so eager to merge.

(NOT AGAIN!?)

A boy’s voice, foreign to his own, screams in outrage from deep inside himself!

(Ah, I… just… can’t escape this kid…)

“Can you not do anything right when the situation requires adhering to decorum!?”

“F-Fuck, sorry, I… I’m trying to get it right!”

When night begins to part, colors and outlines join to push away the haze. It gives realness to the voices that sound distant at first, for then the one viewing this becomes the first voice speaking from within.

A boastful child chides further after a gruff man pleads.

“As a fourth-rank junior aid to His Grace, I place far below a first-rank house guard in social standing, especially in regards to feudal graces, correct!?”

“Ah… true, milord…?”

“AND YET, you address me as a noble!? While also cursing!?”

Though only able to stab into the man’s thigh with a pointed finger, the kid berating a fully armored warrior with a vicious saber hanging from his hip continues to heatedly chide.

“Do you not comprehend the inadequacy of your manners!? Have my lessons been for naught!?”

“But, you… I keep getting told you’re actually a…?”

“I am NOTHING!” This one point earns an ear-splitting cry before the boy settles. “If you will not address me responsibly, I will report you to His Grace for immediate reassignment! You will never achieve sufficient credit for promotion to the Prince’s Defenders without my backing, only a prompt demotion for lacking decorum!”

“… AH!? Fuck, really!? I’m sorry, please don’t… uh…?”

“You will call me, as dismissively as possible, ‘boy’ as is proper!”

“… Yes mi—! Oh, boy, I’ll obey you, got it now!”

“Hah… do not accept orders from a mere boy…! Be still, you are also lacking in presentation.”

Exasperated, the “boy” that orders a guard around pulls out a hand brush to wipe soot off the man’s underpadding and arms.

“Thanks for taking care of me! I wasn’t born proper, so I’ve gotten a little learning with my training, but…”

“It is only natural to instruct someone of your outstanding martial talents, not to mention your simplistic loyalty. I’ll bring tea to your… ahem, manners class tonight, so bring biscuits as is your duty. Oh, and that brandy.”

The boy pats the man’s hand hand before turning toward a door adjacent to the guard.

“Now, I will see her.”

“… Um… like I was trying to say…”

Growing ever more nervous, the man refuses to touch the door that the boy moves to unbolt.

The guard’s pot helmet obscures how his eyes dilate in terror, his skin blanching, but his voice tells it all.

For… this door is bound with great plaques containing words of power and gemstones.

Like the walls, it is grown over by metals from the deep earth that absorb the ruinous power of mages.

And if that fails, it has four enormous steel bolts to keep it closed, the last of which the boy struggles to pull free.

“That… thing…?”

“DO NOT CALL HER A THING!”

“SORRY, BOY!”

Bowing abruptly, the man then resumes his shaking.

“… Are you really… going in there with… ‘The Masher’!?”

“Only the weak of mind fear the glory of their betters.”

“But… but… that creature is absolutely lethal to any Kestner it recognizes!?”

With a bold laugh, the boy drags open the metal door.

Then steps in!

“But, I am not a Kestner!”

The door shuts behind him, as he demanded, and four metallic screeches announce his own imprisonment.

Within this interior area of the palace are many chambers, marking this as a prestigious family’s inner place of solitude.

Dusty and left as is in all rooms and alcoves that the boy passes through, priceless books and woolen comforters lie abandoned upon tables and regal sofas. There is no life observed in any room save one, yet not even this one is lit beneath the door.

All is left as it was on one day, preserved by neglect.

The boy takes up a lantern from the wall and shakes it. Its innards spring to fire, lighting his way.

“Hm, she is being tidy.”

Outside of the occupied room lies a used plate and utensils, silvered pieces that any commoner would be barred from owning. A small tub of water and towels, spoiled by the soap of cleansing and obviously utilized, sits ready for replacement.

“Conscientious. So long as she has mindfulness enough to bathe, I can correct the rest that is deficit.”

Into this room is where he boldly strides after pulling out a key and unlocking the huge lock on it.

When it swings open, a grand bedroom is revealed.

Facing windows that have old sheets placed over them and affixed with what looks like rivets of pure rock is a prestigious goose-down bed far too large for one person alone to sleep on.

It is also quite a bit larger than the small girl huddled on top of it could use without feeling lonely.

“… Found… you…”

Dressed in a sable full dress for mourning, the black has become faded with repeated washing using the wrong cleanser. Pillowy-soft and fluffy, obviously made for a child, this worn one is the only clothing set observed.

All that surrounds her otherwise are books and stuffed animals, piled high and more like a tomb than a meeting of friends the way she resides within her fortress.

“Now… now I will bring you out.”

Finding his gusto again despite the eternal gloom which hangs around her, filling the dark room with whispers, the boy steps forward and lifts his hand to rudely point.

“Your life is about to change forever!”

At the sudden scream, the lifeless girl perks up.

She looks around, hiding her eyes when she settles on the source.

When the boisterous boy is finally able to see her face reflected in the light he holds once she drops her hands, he nearly loses his grip on the lantern.

“B-B-Beautiful….” Stuttering sloppily, he whistles afterward. “What a… great find.”

Paled-skinned and squinting at him, the girl seems almost devoid of emotion otherwise.

Except to open her eyes further when called “a great find”.

Shining blue, they are almost brighter than the lantern’s flame when reflecting its glow.

“Hahaha! Yes, you are it! My choice was correct!”

Though there’s a creeping prickly feeling on his skin, the boy tramps up to the bed’s side and begins to orate for her benefit.

“In my infinite wisdom, I have chosen you to vie for head of the family! Everything you’ve known will be cast off, so that you may assume the absolute power and dignity deserving of your blessed blood!”

At this boast, the girl’s face sags. She tilts her head, squinting at him as if she cannot comprehend his chosen language.

“All honor will belong to you, from now on! To be a defender of the faith, you will become its Speaker! Oh, forgive me, my name is Falke.”

The self-named boy finally bows to her as a proper courtier would, before narrowing his sight and drinking in all of her particulars.

“Hmmm… cute face, fine nose, excellent pallor and skin smoothness? A bit thin, but I can stuff you full quickly? I am the only means by which you may be certain of victory in this pursuit, so be certain of my care plan, ahahaha!”

“… Huh?”

At his quick assessment, the girl… dangerously climbs over the nearest stuffed animals between her and him.

Without care for what her loose dress shows of her childish chest, this… wild-faced noble girl nears the bed’s edge.

“You need not rise to thank me, my mistress! No, it is sufficiently thankful enough to take the rough, unfinished goods that you are and transform you, who is full of infinite potential, into a better, more ‘fixed’ being!”

Giddy beyond normality for a child of his age, the fluidly gesticulating boy again boys to her.

“When I have completed my task, you will no longer be considered a retarded, secluded wastrel of this fine family! No, I shall not restrain myself any longer when you are slighted as a misbegotten outcast, ill-spoken of even by the menials! You shall not be this, but a true raptor, a hunter of savages and heretics!”

No longer unemotional…

The girl… the beast child snarls, revealing teeth that, despite being completely human and pearly enough for her young age, seem as if they want to feast on his neck.

When emotions flood through her, her silvery hair lifts into the air. Blue eyes blaze with power beyond mere supernatural origin, goading the earth into a roaring cry of destruction.

“… Oooooh… yes, that’s it!”

The boy lifts both hands, shaking fists in glee of the show she puts on. He can hardly keep his balance during the earthquake, but because he doesn’t feel what gathers, he can remain awake!

“Without a communion orb, purely through sympathetic guidance, you summon the earth to obey you!? THIS IS IT! THIS IS WHY IT HAS TO BE YOU, MY MISTRESS! WHY IT CAN BE NO OTHER! YOU… YOU WILL BE THE NEW HEAD OF—!”

The floor meets his forehead before he can finish roaring out his love.

“PHAF!?”

Whitish-red Vigor coats the wall and floor, but the boy manages not to tumble. His knees knock against each other, but he brings his wandering eyes back to his chosen one.

“… GUHD… GUHD KOHNTROL!”

What struck him was the floor itself.

Made of stone like all the structure in this holy palace, it has become a raised, malformed hammer that moves like a serpent.

All about and throughout the area she lives in, the boy can sense, by vibration alone, that the out of control rage of the earth spirits is about to overflow.

“… Be… be… become the…!”

The next act of her rage is to form a hand that grabs his leg, dragging him to the ground and flinging him about.

“BECOME! BEEEECOME…!”

He strikes an armoire, then a covered standing mirror, then loses track of what his legs and arms and torso impact. He feels so much break that he eventually vomits during his flight.

“… UGH… Be… beeecome…!” He clears up gathering Vigor by spitting it out, unable to clearly see with it coating his eyes. “My… mistress… not… an animal…!”

“ANIMAL!? HAAAAH!”

Something leaps from the bed, a pouncing wild cat that rains down blows.

“Guh!?”

“DIE! DIE! DIE!”

The blows to his head he obstructs with his broken arms, nearly passing out each time she punches what’s shattered.

“ALL KESTNERS, DIEEEE!”

A hellish eternity of a small girl brutalizing him…

“GET OFF, DEMON!”

A steel shadow comes into view, driving a boot into the tiger.

“AHHH!?”

The tiger rolls into the wall from this kick, screaming like a struck kitten and clutching its stomach.

“WE MUST FLEE, BOY, the demon has lost it! Where is the knight captain and the intercessors right now? We need to reach them before—!”

“… UNHAND ME AND BEG FOR… cough! FORGIVENESH!”

Away from these gentle steel arms is where the boy flings himself, flopping to the ground toward the tiger.

“SHE IS A TRUE SUPERIOR! A NOBLE WHO WE BOW TO…!”

He can only push with one leg, struggling to be nearer.

“Mistresh! Cough! Please… please forgive him…! He shows promise…!”

“… Hu-Huh?”

His mistress struggles to climb to the top of a jutting stone shard that’s pierced the floor, paradoxically seeking to flee from him.

“He does not… understand… that a servant should be… rightly punished for failing… a mistress…”

When he grovels before her, his voice begging for her forgiveness, the girl slowly climbs down from the shard and timidly approaches.

“Kneel, Rupart!”

“… I… I…”

Better than kneeling, the man noisily collapses to his knees.

“Ask… for…!”

“… I’m sorry… my… mistress?”

“Excellent, perfect… decorum…”

The boy rolls over, his head facing the ceiling now so that he can try to see her better.

“He will belong… to you… as I do… I will accept his punishment… so please, my mistr—!”

Just in time to watch her foot rise over his head.

“GUK!?”

That foot stamps down on his wounded forehead, nearly driving consciousness from him and leaving him writhing in abject misery.

“Not… mistress…”

It’s an odd feeling, for him, that he should experience this but appreciate the glimpse he gets of her hidden unders at the same time.

So childlike in pattern and style, but lacy, a strange feeling blossoms in his chest that is different from the pain.

Even the fact that she bothers to wear her tight socks and nothing else on the foot that stamps on him is suddenly fascinating, though the boy can’t recall ever wondering about girls or women except as needing proper instruction.

“The only name… that you will… ever call me…”

Low, almost growling, and with total antipathy for his existence, his mistress ploddingly speaks.

“… is Dohle.

If you… call me… something else… I will…”

“GAHH!?”

She grinds her foot, further savaging his brain.

“Kill you.”

“Yesh… yesh, DOHLE!”

Exclaiming her name is a rush of pure joy.

It’s almost a shame when she lifts her foot off to trot back to her bed, the only place that has escaped devastation.

“And you… forever… now on are…?”

Plopping to its side, she glares at him with the appearance of total control. A sinister smirk on her lips.

“My… Dummke.”

Like watery paints running down the canvas, the sadistic girl and destroyed scene swirl into the boy.

Its colors coat his spirit as melting wax does a nightstick before forcing him out into the real world…

The first hand that Fehl takes notice of is the one belonging to a queer girl wearing a fencing doublet. Though she has no rapier, she’s also seemingly part clown with fanciful blue and purple colors added in.

(And she wears a coven hat? Clad in mesh all over, how odd…)

With a neutral expression on the porcelain mask she hides her face with, this one makes strange signs with rapidity.

{Tug twice, and I’ll drag you back no matter what it takes.}

“Huh!?”

Fehl is shocked to find he understands her clearly, though the feeling seems to be fading as to why. Her last signs are faster still, losing meaning as he watches.

{You — Mine — Got it?}

With those three gestures given, the girl releases him.

“Are you… perhaps an acrobat?” Unsure how to respond, Fehl tries to focus on what’s important about her by touching her hip. “My, you are supple! With such grace and curves, all of the important muscles strong…?”

Looking her over with contact seems to bother this fanciful girl, for she flinches and tiptoes back, turning to not look at him.

“What’s wrong? I was only interested in feeling your body mechanics as you complete a tumble, because I’m not very familiar with these sorts of fluid move—?”

When he tries to cut off her escape, he gets violently pulled away from the acrobat.

“WHAT!?”

Almost hot now, the hand that grips his is still feminine. And delectably soft.

“Begone, witch. You have failed to aid the thief.”

Smoothly, not as a growl but rather an assertion of fact as plain as any other, this girl that is Fehl’s general build warns away the acrobat.

“Vanish before you are vanquished.”

The dark figure vanishes slowly into the gloom of the returning fog to obey.

“Our great designs, perfected by our Maker’s intent, completely defeat the tarnish of your poison.”

As if to prove this, Fehr spits out a glop of bluish-green liquid onto the hollow floor. With it gone, the ever more vibrant sibling grabs up Fehl’s other hand and beams brightly at him.

“Only now do we comprehend and fulfill our true purpose… my dearest Falke.”

“Fehr?”

Unsure of how to respond, the act of calling her by this name earns a shushing of his lips.

“No, my dear ‘shadow’, you know my true name now.”

(… I do. It’s… “Fehr”.)

But he cannot speak this again, for she nods back when he nods to her. Though he doesn’t speak her “true” name, she infers his knowledge.

Chock full of those things called “feelings”, Fehr announces it for him, so that both can bask in it.

“Not Fehr, my dear Falke, call me Dohle (Jackdaw) as you always have! For, I have returned to fulfill my duties anew.”

Then her eyes narrow, her smile tragically turning darker. Her hands grow more heated.

The deep hollow sways as if it’s a boat on the water for a moment, before subsiding and resettling.

(Who are you?)

“All who don’t belong within our roost… will now be dashed upon the heartless ground.”

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Chapter 127         Table of Contents          Chapter 129