I had a splendid opportunity one summer to tour one of the most esteemed education facilities, which I did so gladly. I saw the beauty in its architecture, the history which adorned its walls, and the high class nature of its lectures. Did you know the ancient Romans used urine as mouthwash? Intriguing. Anyways, I do remember meeting the most peculiar professor there, but, of course, I would’ve never expected him to be involved with the group of individuals who appeared amongst the fall of the Nineteen-Thirties. When I first saw of him, I had a friend, a very capable friend, at that, investigate said professor, who only found Two peculiar things: a confidant and connection within the City’s mayor, and quite the odd bedtime routine…
Minerva Academy was a prestigious institution centered around higher education, more specifically: arithmetic, astronomy, fine arts, and sciences, varied. It was a rather exclusive academy, withholding admission more often than allowing. Further, to become a professor, or any sort of staff for that matter, indubitably, was an extremely coveted position. Only those with minds of rigorous discipline over a vast many years were even considered for a position. Yet, paradoxically, one of their most revered professors held not this crucial trait, no, in fact he was a mere twenty-six years young and sat upon a seat of education over each of the aforementioned categories which the school specialized in.
Why, pray tell, would, or could, a man so young and inexperienced be chosen for this? The answer is complex, but also just as simple: this man had exceeded all expectations upon every test and every trial. The complexities lie in the observation as to why this could be so. The man was peculiar, no doubt. He had an affinity for knowledge itself, one could say an obsession, and always held an unpleasant disposition most hours of the day. His power was prevalent and had put to rest any challenges and accusations of lacklustre long ago. And as he spoke it was as if he held a seemingly boundless ocean of wisdom within him. He was hardly seen outside of work hours, retiring to his private study as soon as his lectures were over. Of course, numerous attempts were made over the years by students and faculty alike to persuade him away from solitude for an evening, to no avail. The response was always the same,
“I cannot. I must tend to my affairs.”
And that was the mystery, indeed. What “affairs” did this man urgently tend to every night without fail? What secrets doth he hold which grant him such knowledge and power? It was the greatest unsolved case which still floated around Minerva Academy to this day. But one thing was certain, of course, and this was such:
Prof. Amedeo Artramentum was quite a strange individual, indeed.
SIX-FIFTEENam.
Amedeo had been aroused from slumber, if one could call it that, for only Fifteen minutes. His appearance was neat and his glasses were circular, and within his quartered-half hour start, he had been productive. In that time, he had donned his authoritative garments—which consisted of sienna-colored shoes, black slacks, a white button-up underneath a static-patterned charcoal sweater, complete with a dark-brown plaid jacket—and began his morning mental exercises among a massive chalkboard attached to a wall within his study. This usually constituted of solving a series of equations from a book which held some of the world’s most difficult of known problems; he was roundabout halfway through the novel at this point.
This block of routine became perhaps his favorite, as he worried not about the affairs of students or school boards; simply honing his prowess vaster with each solution. Knowledge truly was power, see, and one must strive for power in order to thrive, no? And yet order itself was a fallacy, as there will never be enough power to ensure proper order is eternal. Or perhaps, no man ever had enough power to achieve that goal? Impossible to know, for now, that is.
A knock came at Amedeo’s door after some time, which truly irked him. Alas, his hour of prosperity had come to a close. Sighing, he put the stick of chalk down, now noticeably shrunk from use, and walked over to the door. Opening it, a woman in a white coat, wearing her hair up, and rectangular shaped glasses, stood, looking rather exhausted. She was mid bite of a banana when she spoke, and she hardly made eye contact as she did.
“My, early bird, are we?”
“What do you need, Dr. Cross?”
The woman, a Dr. Gwendolyn Cross, let herself into Amedeo’s study.
“Some pleasantries would serve you well, I think.”
“Come in, I suppose…”
“I’ve already done so, but thank you.”
Amedeo gritted his teeth, dragging his gaze slowly as he closed the door, turning to face Dr. Cross.
“Now…what is it you want, hm?”
“Have you been getting enough sleep, Amedeo? You look ghastly.”
“I could ask the same of you.”
She frowned.
“How rude.”
“And just what have you been up doing?”
She looked out of the window, silent for a moment. Amedeo spoke.
“You’ve been aiding them again, haven’t you?”
“I took an oath, healing does not discriminate. They need it, regardless.”
“What they need, is to survive upon their own means rather than leech into ours. They wanted to leave the City’s jurisdiction, they got it.”
“We both know why they had to.”
“They should’ve done it a long time ago. I, personally, don’t wish to live somewhere where nature’s own rejects can foul the air I breathe. They’re dangerous, Doctor.”
Dr. Cross scowled slightly, but chose not to comment any more on the matter. Diving into a pocket within the coat, she retrieved a small, orange bottle.
“I came by to give you a refill before the New Year tonight.”
“…Ah, thank you. I was in rather short supply.”
“You do know you shouldn’t be taking more than two tablets in a Twenty-four hour period, right?”
“I’m well aware, Dr. Cross. You forget, I earned my place in this establishment just as any of you did; I’m very much capable of reading labels.”
She scoffed, and put the bottle down on a pile of books by the window.
“Fine. Just making sure.”
Dr. Cross resumed her gaze out of the window, as Amedeo stared, wishing her to leave this instant. Just as he was about to say something, she spoke once more.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I-, what?”
“Surely, someone who earned his place in this establishment has ears to hear?”
“No, I do, I just didn’t understand-”
“Your plans? For the New Year?”
“I don’t plan on anything out of the ordinary, no.”
“Goodness, you are a drag.”
“What is the reason for-”
“A few of the other professors and I are going out, looking to enjoy some of the festivities. You should come with us.”
Amedeo thought about it, but knew he couldn’t, especially not tonight.
“I…do not think so.”
“Oh, come now. When was the last time you did anything outside of Minerva?”
“I need to tend to my affairs tonight, tonight more importantly than ever.”
“You and your affairs, what the devil do you even do night after night, hm?”
Amedeo fell silent, looking to the ground, before looking up slightly with a dangerous glint in his eyes, almost a bite to his words.
“I do not meddle in your double life, nor should you in mine.”
Dr. Cross squinted at him, biting back bitter words, before shaking it off, and her aloof attitude returned.
“Fine, be like that. You know, you…you’re never going to get laid staying cooped up in here like this.”
“…Goodbye, Dr. Cross. Thank you for the refill.”
She walked over to the door, knocking some papers off of a small table as she did.
“No more than two, and I’ll see you tonight.”
“You will not-”
But she had already left, turning the corner around a hall. Amedeo, disgruntled, closed the door and began picking up the papers Dr. Cross had knocked over. He thought about her as he took one of the pills. She was a sweet person, no doubt about that. She was a very accomplished doctor and was quite well-versed in the medical field, specifying in psychiatry and nuclear medicine; which was revolutionary.
But assuredly, she got on his nerves. Amedeo walked over to the window, one of which looked out over the courtyard of Minerva Academy, and one could see the street leading into the City as well. Thinking about Dr. Cross’ words, he strongly disagreed with her notion to help those in their forsaken ‘Underground’. He remembered the day they all left the City; he was in attendance with those who watched them depart.
A sizeable crowd of imperfections silently shuffled along the roads, heading into the only section they deserved: the sewers. Most wore bags or otherwise masks over their horrendous faces. A good amount of sympathizers joined the ranks and left with them, which, in Amedeo’s opinion, was perfectly fine. He picked up the bottle Dr. Cross had left for him. It was a simple medication which improved focus, useful for days when Amedeo worked late into the night and was required to teach in the morning. Or precisely for the late nights themselves. Amedeo took one, sealed the bottle back, and placed it in his jacket, before grabbing his leather briefcase, leaving his study, and heading towards his first class.
Seeing as today was New Year’s Eve, he was only scheduled to teach three classes: Mythology, Linguistics, and Philosophy. Amedeo walked briskly through the towering halls, the school itself a grandiose work of art. It was almost a millennium-year old establishment, being held in a very high regard by all knowing of its countenance. Original paintings and photos from amongst its students decorated the walls, and each was kept in pristine condition to honor those who sought the level of education brought by Minerva.
Amedeo walked into the classroom early enough to set his things down before students began to arrive. He grabbed a quick cup of coffee from the machine set in his classroom, before setting his briefcase on his desk. From the case, he pulled out a lantern made for heat, rather than light, as its design allowed the flames to spread their influence in a space around the lantern. He also pulled out two feathers, along with a small, wax figurine of an angel, its face pointed upward, wings spread broadly. The angel also wore a pair of circle glasses. Finally, Amedeo pulled forth a leather-bound journal, one with yellowed-color pages, their appearance that which might’ve been stained with tea. As he finished arranging the items, his students began to fill the chairs within the classroom.
“Good morning. I shan’t keep you long today, as I am aware that you all surely have a numerous amount of, ah, festivities to attend to today, and yet, we must strive to refine our minds every day, regardless of occasion, even the slightest bit.”
His words were met with bemused expressions, some intrigued, but most sheepishly attentive.
“I do beg of each of you, however, that you do not lose yourselves in your antics tonight. Intoxication blurs the soul and muddles the mind, but, none of you know anything of that, I’m sure.”
A few coy glances were exchanged between students. Amedeo gave a slight smile.
“Regardless, my plea still remains. Do be careful tonight, and heed my words of warning, as over-indulgence or pride can deftly lead to a many other sins. On such a remark, I will segway into our mythological studies of today: ‘The Fall of Icarus’.”
Amedeo brought forth the wax angel.
“Icarus was the son of Daedalus, the legendary craftsman. Daedalus was a well renowned sculptor, architect, and inventor, his most notable work being in the palace of King Minos of Crete. Minos is a prominent figure within this story, as he was a very notable King of the time, and his wife was equally famous, Pasiphae. Although, Pasiphae was known for a much different reason. She had fallen in love with the bull of Poseidon, bearing a child from their passions, this creature being the fabled Minotaur.”
A variety of disgust and confused expressions rattled across the classrooms.
“Odd, albeit, such is Greek mythology. Moving on, this Minotaur was welcomed by the King, who commissioned Daedalus to build the grandiose Labyrinth for the creature to abide in. It is said in some accounts that King Minos treated Daedalus rather harshly, something which lingered in young Icarus’ mind. Now, we remember Theseus, yes?”
General agreement rippled amongst the students.
“The greatest Athenian hero, yes, yes. So, Theseus was most known for the very slaying of said Minotaur, the act that which, even through the illegitimate circumstances, infuriated King Minos. Further, after Theseus killed the beast, it was a claw gifted by Daedalus that permitted his daring escape.”
The class seemed interested in the tale, some having a glance of understanding of what would follow.
“Naturally, when King Minos found out his son’s murderer escaped through means borne from Daedalus’ forge, well, he was outraged. He struck them in rage, imprisoning both Icarus and Daedalus in the very Labyrinth which he built, sealing them away to rot for eternity. Some versions say that Minos imprisoned them in a large tower far above his palace, however, I prefer the Labyrinth, for the ironic poetry of its nature feels more fitting for such a tale, no?”
Amedeo placed the wax angel down again on the desk, trading it for the feathers.
“Ultimately, the duo realized escape would be futile, as King Minos had full control of the surrounding seas, therefore even if they did escape the maze; what then? So, in a flash of genius, Daedalus constructed two pairs of wings made of wax and feathers so that they may fly away from Minos’ reign.”
Amedeo stepped back moreso towards the flames of his lantern.
“Daedalus, of course, knew that it would be dangerous, and gave a sage warning to his son, telling him to take the course he would show him. Due to the fragile nature of the wings, if he flew too low…”
Amedeo took one of the feathers and dipped it into his coffee cup, before releasing his hold on it. The feather, weighed by the coffee, crashed to the ground.
“…the moisture would weigh down his wings. If he went too high, too close to the sun…”
Amedeo suddenly flicked the feather through the lantern, causing it to immediately burst into flames; a quick flash of fire. The students jumped back slightly, more prominently the one on the front row closest to the flame. After a quick silence, Amedeo picked up the wax angel and continued.
“So…they took off. They soared through the sky, and for a while, it was smooth sailing. But alas, Icarus was a defiantly adventurous young man. He withheld emotions in his anger towards the King, and now here his father tries to stifle him as well. So, in his angst…he soars just a little higher.”
Amedeo moved the angel a little closer to the flame.
“And higher…”
He moved closer.
“And higher…”
He held the angel quite close to the flames, as the students watched intently. Very quickly, the wax angel melted, as if the figure was hollow and the wax was weak. The class watched as hot wax dripped down across Amedeo’s fingers, but he showed no semblance of pain.
“Quickly, suddenly. As Icarus paid no attention to his father, one moment he flew by his side, disappeared momentarily, and then came crashing down in fiery disorder.”
The last of the angel dripped down onto the ground.
“…why do we…choose to fly close to the sun…even when we bear wings of wax?”
The class seemed to be holding its breath.
“Please, enjoy your night tonight.”
And with that, Amedeo shook off the remaining wax and began to pack up his own things, save for the leather-bound journal. Slowly, but ramping up, the class gathered their own belongings and departed. Amedeo placed his briefcase underneath his desk, and began to write several things across the large chalkboard which faced the seats. As he was writing, occasionally checking the journal, he heard footsteps approaching the doorway. No student was ever this particularly eager to learn, arriving this early before Linguistics. No, these steps had an air of almost steadfastness to them, yet a stride was held briskly with each step as well.
Amedeo paused his writing and turned to the door to see a man donned in a fine, velvet, dark suit. He wore a blood-colored tie, held scraggly, wenge-hued hair with dirty blonde highlights, and his eyes bore a creeping redness amongst his sclera.
“Ah, old friend, I hope this isn’t a bad time!”
“Ah. Hello, Charles. I do have a class soon, but come on in.”
“I won’t be long, don’t worry.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visitation today?”
Charles Bunts walked in and leaned against Amedeo’s desk. As he spoke, Amedeo continued to write the phrases for his class on the chalkboard.
“I’ve done it, Amedeo. I have all the pieces in place!”
“Oh? Surely, you jest. And far too early to joke, might I add.”
“No, no, really, I’m serious! I finally found the sigils, I’ve planned the sacrifice, I’ve acquired an avatar; everything!”
“…hm. I see…”
Bunts hopped off the desk, overwhelmed with anticipation and excitement, and paced back and forth.
“Its happening all tonight, Amigo.”
A multicultural nickname he had for him.
“Are you sure? I mean, you are sure everything is going to work how you envision?”
“Yes! Look, I’ll show you, the sigils were in this diary I found-”
Bunts quickly retrieved a piece of chalk and started to scribble various symbols on the chalkboard. Amedeo stared, brow furrowed, doubtful that Charles actually found the…
His eyes widened rapidly, horrified, and Amedeo thrust forward, knocking Bunts’ hand away from the board, the chalk flying to the side.
“Stop!”
Bunts breathed slightly heavy, his gaze shifting from the chalk on the ground to Amedeo.
“So…they are correct.”
“Charles, I expressed my concerns several times regarding this matter, you knew this.”
“But you knew of the correct sigils this whole time?”
“Of course I did! You know very well how vast my expertise goes!”
Bunts’ eye twitched slightly, before he held his face in his palms, rubbing downwards.
“…that’s…fine. No matter. None at all, truly, because I found it anyways!”
“Charles…”
“Join me. Tonight. Be my ally in the summoning, let us share the devotion to Ethri!”
“No. Ethri is a monster, I will not be an advocate to repeat history, the diary you have should’ve taught you that much.”
“But its because of that very diary that we know how to do things properly!”
“Ethri is a very…particular…deity. If things are not done with exact precision, he is sure to take great offense.”
“No, no, see, that’s just it! Its not the acts themselves that need to be precise, its the intention behind it! The rituals, the sacrifices, its all to make sure the summoner has a steadfast heart, one that will go through any lengths to achieve their goals.”
Amedeo went silent. His mind spiraled a little, voices within confronting and challenging the words they heard, but ultimately: Bunts was correct. A truth that hadn’t been realized before. Bunts continued.
“I am going to change the world, Amedeo. I am going to bring this society into a new age of peace and normalcy, a society where we don’t have to be afraid of the underprivileged, the lazy, the-the monsters who live in our sewers! History’s let these individuals, these, this lacklustre and impoverished, those horrendous, and I mean HORRENDOUS, cursed individuals persist for too long! But…but I cannot do it without Ethri. And I would greatly appreciate a man of your mental caliber by my side through it all.”
Amedeo closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and walked over to retrieve the fallen chalk.
“I…I…don’t know. I must tend to my affairs tonight, but…perhaps…I will visit you afterwards.”
Bunts gave a slight smile.
“Very well…I’ll await you there. It will be a grand new year, friend.”
“Verily…”
With his words, Bunts departed, giving Amedeo a final nod before he did so. Moments after he left, a couple students walked in.
“Woah…Professor…was that Mr. Bunts?”
“Indeed.”
“You two know each other??”
“There are many things you know not of your Professor, pupil. Please, take your seat.”
As students poured in, Amedeo deftly finished writing his words and phrases across the chalkboard. Finally, he turned to address the class.
“Damn…”
“Behold, we sit within a graveyard. The fog is thick, and the night is deep. The smell of decay haunts your senses, and you see before you a single headstone. Its moniker reads: Latin.”
Amedeo gestured to the board.
“Latin is a since dead language, and yet it was the harbinger, the den-mother, of all Romantic languages. It brought forth terminology still used today within the fields of science, medicine, law, and theology. We study the roots of the very language we speak now to enhance our minds, our communication, and develop the…steadfast…base for learning other Romantic languages.”
He pointed to the first phrase written on the left side of the board.
“Today, being the event that it is, I am simply going to go through a few of my particularly favorite sayings within the Latin language; be sure to take notes, as there will be a test on this. The first, which some of you might’ve heard these days, is ‘O tempora, o mores!’ An outcry from people of every generation, usually the older crowd, to lament or comment on the current state of the world and its trends.”
He pointed to the next, which had two separate words finishing the phrase, split by a line.
“This one is something quite popular as well. ‘Memento mori’; remember that you must die. It is a grim reminder that we are not eternal beings, and we all will die one day. However, while this can be a wake-up call for some, others tend to dwell upon the looming death we all will face. So, I prefer, personally, the inverse of the phrase: ‘Memento vivere’; remember to live. Certainly, remember death, however, do not let that hinder you from living each moment you do have.”
The class seemed slightly perturbed by these words, some still hung up on ‘mori’, others thankful for ‘vivere’. Amedeo continued.
“‘Sub rosa’, or, under the rose. Since ancient times, the rose has been a symbol of confidentiality and secrecy, therefore, this phrase is to express a more ‘cloak and dagger’ nature of proceedings.”
And the next.
“One of my least favorites, as it reflects authors quite poorly, and yet is a very popular method and phrase. ‘Deus ex machina’, or, god in the machine; a lazy literary device used when a seemingly insurmountable task is accomplished through the means of divine intervention or some other external mechanism.”
Suddenly, nothing happened. But, if something were to happen, Amedeo would not be in class right now. And yet, he still gestured to the next phrase.
“The next is such one which reminds me of the tragic fall of Julius Caesar: ‘sic semper tyrannisc’; thus always to tyrants. This phrase is to correlate, or rather, excuse, the actions of revolutionaries and rebellions against tyrannical governments or individuals, saying that such is bound to happen. Of course, there is another Latin phrase on the subject of Caesar, brought forth from Shakespear’s play, when he was submitted to an uprising, led by his closest friend, Brutus. His final words, as he looked into Brutus’ eyes, were: “Et tu, Brute?” A saddened phrase demonstrating the ultimate act of betrayal.”
Amedeo pointed to the final phrase on the board.
“And finally, something many scholars, like myself, tend to struggle with. ‘Sic transit gloria mundi’; thus passes the glory of the world. Ultimately, the world will move on, and what we perceive as important or glorification today will be forgotten, or, if you’re lucky, history, tomorrow.”
Amedeo put down the chalk and pulled out his leather notebook.
“Now, on a less depressing note, I will leave you with one more, one truly final phrase for today, one of which you would all do well to remember tonight. ‘In vito veritas’.”
Amedeo closed the book with a slight smirk.
“’In wine, there is truth’. In a drunken state, you might find yourself revealing more of yourself than you’d prefer, so, be cautious. But of course, I know that none of MY students are any sort of the partying kind, surely. Go forth, enjoy your day.”
Amidst slight chuckles, nods, and handshakes, the class departed. Amedeo packed up his belongings, leaving the room as well a few moments later. He returned to his study, as the Philosophy lesson was a little ways away. As soon as the door closed behind him, Amedeo threw his briefcase violently to the side, rushing over to his desk. His heart started to beat fast, and his breath quickened. He riffled through pages and folders so brazenly, a few of them ripped at his forcefulness. Finally, he found what an insert of a journal, bound papers, each with the appearance of something ancient, adorned with sickening stains. Diving into a drawer, Amedeo procured a black leather covering, and slipped the bound papers inside. He collapsed into his seat, leaning on his knees as he sat, flipping through the contents.
“No…come on…I beg of thee, let my memory be false…”
But he arrived at the page he sought, and lo; the sigils of Ethri. They were precisely the ones which Charles had began to scrawl across the chalkboard. Dammit, surely if he had got the sigils correct, there’s no doubt he truly did recover the diary of the forsaken cultist. Amedeo had found it buried amongst the Archives, the Archives of Minerva Academy, at that, and had promptly copied the most important details from it into the black-leather journal he now held, before burying it once more into the depths that was the Archives.
The notes were written in an ancient codex Amedeo had studied, well, had had revelation to, while the binding of the journal held the key, should he need it. As he perused the contents, he saw confirmation of his fears: the sigils, the sacrifice, the avatar, and even explicating its descriptions, Amedeo discovered that Charles was right about the summoner being devoted in heart to their own cause, rather than the acts devoted to Ethri himself.
Fuck…he was truly going through with this.
A few years ago, in a humble act, Charles Bunts had shown up to Minerva Academy seeking advice and counsel from a most prestigious individual. Most had declined, refusing to tamper and meddle within politics, but Amedeo Artramentum saw a means to get closer to a seat of power, which was in no way disadvantageous. Charles was just starting his candidacy as mayor of the City, and needed intellectual aid as to how he could win the election. They met over coffee, discussing agendas and beliefs, and a mutual relationship built on prowess and connections began to occur.
Soon, Amedeo was Charles’ most trusted advisor, and a very good friend. Borne through dedication and righteous promises to change the City for the better, Charles had won, and thus was the new mayor of the City. There were plenty of aspects in which Amedeo was involved in, and equally as plenty which he turned a blind eye to. Of course, he had heard the rumors amongst the people of the things Charles had done to ensure his victory, but Amedeo chose to never pursue or confront him of these things. Ignorance is bliss, and safe. However, there was a point in which ignorance felt quite uneasy, as a conversation within his study over drinks had shifted into uncharted waters.
“Haha! I- oh man, I-I thank you so much, ‘Professor’! You truly are one—hiccup—of the smartest men alive, if not the-!”
“Ohh, come off it, Charles! You flatter me, sir.”
“No, no, seriously! I-I mean, how does on-e acquire such know—hiccup—ledge? Its almost, almost otherworldly!”
Amedeo shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Ah haha, no…just har-d work..”
“Oh-h? Rreally? I-I I’ve known you long enough to-to tell when you’re lying, old—hiccup—friend!”
Amedeo, throwing caution to the wind, perhaps due to the drink, stood up.
“Alright, alright, fine Charles, you win! I’ll-I’ll tell you. Give me one second.”
“Aha! I knew you were—hiccup—hiding something!”
“Do-don’t be so dramatic!”
Amedeo pulled open several drawers before retrieving a black leather-bound journal. He thought Charles would be too intoxicated anyways to remember this, so what could it hurt to indulge him?
“Here it is, my dark secret.”
“O-oh? Please, tell!”
“I…came across forbi-forbidden knowledge amongst my studies…I learned of ancient tribes and cults…Charles…some of them were onto something-!”
Charles’ eyes widened, and he leaned in close, quite intrigued.
“So…what, you-you learned about history?”
“No-, no, that’s just it, I learned from history! I practiced what the ancients did, and…I…”
“You what?”
“I…can hear…voices. Sometimes, not always. Whenever I-I am alone at night…I can hear them.”
“Wh-what do they say?”
“All sorts of-of things, they-they tell me secrets, they provide insight, direction, they…they are how I acquired such knowledge.”
“How…fascinating. Do they…only grant you knowledge?”
“Yes, these creatures do, they are the Vide, they, they exist in an entirely different dimension than you or I. They aided ancient people’s thoughts for centuries! Its so- its quite interesting, they-”
“But are there any others? Any other creatures or, or deities? Maybe one that grants…power?”
Amedeo shrugged, still flipping through his notes.
“I…suppose, there are a few. You could always summon Ethri, haha.”
“How do you summon Ethri?”
“Oh- no, no, I was joking, no one in their right mind wants to summon Ethri-”
“TELL ME!”
Charles lurched forward in his chair and shouted, a maniacal glint in his eyes. Amedeo slowly gazed back at him, closing the journal gently. Charles blinked rapidly, and sat back.
“I-I’m sorry old friend, I…I don’t know what came over me…”
“Perhaps that is enough shadowed talk for this evening.”
“Of course I—hiccup—should retire for the night a-anyways.”
“Look…so you may be at peace, no one knows how to summon him. An ancient cultist left a diary with i-instructions, but it has since been lost to time. However, Ethri is a horrible demon. He bears a heavy price on his summoner, a-and has been known to wipe entire villages with fire when his d-demands are not met. It would do well to forget about him.”
Charles smiled.
“Thank you. I am at peace now. I will take my leave, a pleasure chatting with you.”
“A-always, Charles. Mm…Goodnight, friend.”
Amedeo went to bed troubled that night, but chose to shrug it off. Soon after this, he had found the diary, and hid it away once more. To no avail, as it now seems.
The steps to summon Ethri were as follows: acquire an avatar to place your sins onto, and let their now-troubled soul walk away, paint the Six sigils in a circle and allow Six loyalists to link their auras around it, let the space be lit by candles and fumigated with incense, sacrifice an unworthy soul in honor of your cause, call forth his name, and state your purpose. There was no doubt that Charles had the resources and mercilessness to make this happen, and Amedeo could ignore his friend’s hunger for power no longer. He knew that it would happen, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. But…perhaps, if he drew closer to Charles, his own life would be spared from his wrath, and should things go sideways, Amedeo trusted the Vide would help find a way for him to escape.
Amedeo closed his eyes, breathing deeply, wracking his mind through possibilities, until a voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Amedeo.”
L’appelle du Vide.
“Yes, what is it?”
“You will come to us tonight. The King requires your presence before the throne.”
“But I…I am far too busy, I don’t even know how to, I couldn’t possibly-”
“Do not lie to us. You have approximately Seven-thousand seconds. We expect you here.”
And the voice dissipated. Seven-thousand seconds…close to Two hours. Amedeo had just enough time to finish Philosophy before he needed to be there. The voice was right, he did know how to arrive, in some form, into the Vide. Since his mind had already made the connection, all he needed to do was strengthen it. Amedeo had written the theory on paper, but had never tested it before–the Vide knew that; confirmation his theory was correct.
The Vide was almost an entirely hypothetical domain, yet every fiber of his being was convinced of its legitimacy, which was a complex concept in itself. Discovering, channeling, connecting to the Vide was less about equations and portals, instead being focused on thought and willpower—if he wanted to visit the throne, he could very well do so. Amedeo took a few deep breaths, steeling his mind from itself, before rubbing his face rather harshly. He needed to focus; he had a class to teach. He brought forth the orange bottle from Dr. Cross, and took the second pill of the day. He then strode over to the table and retrieved the brown-leather journal from his briefcase before departing from his chambers.
Amedeo walked down the corridors of Minerva and arrived outside amidst the courtyard. It was a melancholy day, as the sky was rather disconcerted with the proceedings of the New Year. The courtyard was a decent sized wing of the campus, as pillars supported a square-shaped overhang around a lush garden complete with vivacious plantlife all throughout the middle. At the very center was a sculptured fountain, and decorated around such were Four stone benches; these were where the class usually found themselves. Being outside was precisely how Amedeo always preferred to teach Philosophy. His class had been through rain, storms, blizzards, heatwaves; every form of nature’s fury. He believed that there was always something to provoke thought within every season of which they placed themselves outdoors, which was true every time. Even in a day as drab as today, there can still be Philosophical conversations sparked by its meekness.
Amedeo sat on one of the stone benches and looked up towards the sky, simply feeling. It was calm, for the moment. There was a slight breeze, perhaps a little cold for true comfort, and the smell of firewood burning somewhere was juxtaposed with the soft scent of the Winter Jasmine flowers. It was a moment, truly. Seconds later, his students began to gather around, taking usual spots on benches or leaned against the fountain. After everyone seemingly had settled in, Amedeo spoke.
“Hello everyone, thank you for joining me outside on such a lovely day.”
A few piteous chuckles.
“As I sat here awaiting you all, I noticed the bloom of these yellow flowers; the Winter Jasmine. It’s interesting, I think–”
Simultaneously, the class cut him off.
“Therefore you are!”
Amedeo chuckled; a philosophical call-and-response game borne from Descartes’ origin quote from his first principal.
“Haha, yes, yes. I am. I find these flowers interesting, due to their nature. See, they are one of the most adaptive flowers of the Olive family. They can grow in rough soil, little shade, harsh climates, and yet, if left unchecked, they can produce a whole colony of themselves. And, of course, their namesake refers to their bloom time being during the winter, usually from January to February.”
A student spoke up.
“So, they’re early this year?”
Amedeo responded.
“I suppose, if only by a few hours, yes.”
Another student.
“They can thrive anywhere, and they are beautiful? Such is life, no?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if the Winter Jasmine can thrive and flower even in rocky soil, or without much sun at all, than surely, we can as well.”
Amedeo spoke again.
“However, even if they thrive, they still have to be cut back if they grow too much—what do we make of that?”
There was a large period of silence, before a student spoke up, slightly unsure.
“I think—”
The rest of the class, as well as Amedeo, cut the student off.
“Therefore you are!”
The student blushed slightly but continued.
“I-I believe that maybe, if we thrive too much in worser conditions, maybe…maybe our hearts become soiled with…pride?”
Another student.
“Yeah, yeah, I get what your saying. Sort of like, you brag about where you’ve come from and what you did, but…at the end of the day, isn’t a flower’s job to bloom?”
Amedeo responded.
“Oh, interesting! How do you mean?”
After a bit of silent thought, they spoke back.
“Well, if a flower’s job is to bloom, sure, it’s impressive how they managed to bloom from worser conditions if that the case, but, humility holds a much prettier flower than pride does.”
Amedeo smiled.
“Ah, yes, this is true. So, if we were to explicate the Winter Jasmine, what do we think we might learn from this?”
A period of silence followed once again, before a handful students spoke one by one.
“Well, in our lives, we must work to bloom, no matter the circumstance.”
“Its okay to bloom later; for winter thanks us for it.”
“But to be cautious to not become a garden of weeds; unpruned and unruly.”
Amedeo opened his brown-leather journal and scribbled down their answers, before plucking one of the yellow flowers, placing it in his front jacket pocket, the bloom popping out from the top, and standing up from his seat.
“How wonderful that such a plant as this can provoke so much thought in the minds of the willing. On that, you may disperse for the day, I ask no further attendance from you all. Have a good day, and happy New Year.”
With his remark, the class all stood up from their seats, and quite a few plucked flowers of their own, adorning themselves in some way. Perhaps the flowers would serve as a reminder, a symbol, or just a decoration. Amedeo looked at his watch; he had about Fifteen minutes left before the Vide would expect him, if his math was correct. Amedeo hastily shoved his journal into his inner jacket pocket as he swiftly departed the courtyard.
He met no interruptions through the hasty return to his office, save for the occasional waves from students in the halls. He entered, slamming the door and locking it behind him, before checking his watch; Five minutes.
As he stood in his office, for a moment, Amedeo stopped. Was this truly something he should do? Tampering with another dimension, the Vide…surely, it was foolish…He must. He knew he must. They would not let him get away so easily. He needed to focus. He fumbled about with the orange bottle of medicine and took a third pill. And it was so; his inhibitions were lowered, and he found himself hyperaware of the circumstance before him.
Amedeo deftly walked by his desk and grabbed the black journal, bringing it with him into another room within the office. It was something of a lounge area, meant to aid professors in their comfort during the term, however, Amedeo aimed to use it for perhaps the opposite. He drew the curtains so the room darkened and blew out every candle that decorated the space, except for one. In each professor’s lounge there was a phone hung upon the wall for personal use.
Amedeo slowed his haste, slightly nervous. Looking at his watch; Two minutes; he gently lifted the phone off of the hook before letting it fall, hanging by its cord. Emitting from the speaker was a droning sound that slightly reverberated around the room. He sat down on the floor and opened his journal to the middle, which he had intentionally left blank. Drawing his pen, he inscribed the image of Two eyes; one for each page. Then, he blew out the candle and closed his eyes, as unintelligible whispers began to grow louder. Blackness swarmed in his sealed vision, before the whispers suddenly became very clear.
“You are early.”
The whispers all stopped and the darkness became something normal once more. Amedeo scoffed, annoyed, as he lit the candle once more to check his watch; Fifteen seconds early, he was. He rolled his eyes and sat in the dark, counting down. Finally, he blew out the candle and tried again. Oncemore, the whispers grew loud as the darkness began to swirl. This time, miniscule, bright, white lights began to pop into existence, slowly, dotting the blackness around him. Amedeo strained, trying to see more, before realizing that he was, indeed, straining his eyes to see into the distance.
The Vide appeared as a domain filled with oceans of gray sand and charcoal ash as its floor. The sky was a supernatural black sky filled with those tiny, white lights, occasionally dotted with a red one. A colossal archway built of some sort of stone towered in front of him, and beyond was a curved, ancient appearing stadium, its seats filled with he saw a horrible little ghouls; creatures with no neck, white eyes, and short bodies with long arms. They all seemed to be murmuring amongst one another.
He looked down and saw himself, and he was naked, save for a black loincloth around his waist. Brows furrowed, Amedeo looked around, before gazing upon the enormous throne in front of him, with a massively sized creature sitting inside. It’s visage was something almost overwhelming. It seemed to wear large, heaping cloths that were almost akin to black plastic bags, as they ruffled asymmetrically all over. Its face was covered by a similar cloth, except it had Two large slashes, and white glowing eyes protruded from within. Atop its head it wore a crown with several lengthened spikes on all sides, the centremost being the tallest. Amedeo immediately knelt before it.
“Greetings, professor. It is good to see you here in the Vide, although I wish it were on better circumstances.”
“Likewise, your majesty. What circumstances might those be?”
“We have offered an abundance of ancient wisdom and revelation to you for quite some time now, yet, we feel this transaction has been…unsatisfactory.”
“How so? Do I not provide you with ample sacrifice?”
“Ample? Haha, you must not respect us. Are the gifts we give you not worth plenty more than your ‘sacrifices’, professor?”
“No, no! I-I mean yes, you are worth far more, but alas, I…I can only provide you with what I have been! I have heard rumors spread amongst the City, surely they will be linked back to me instantly if I am to be reckless!”
“Perhaps that would be true, and yet, if you were to bring us a whole meals, we might not be in this predicament. You see, my people need to eat, professor. So, pray tell, why do you aim to starve them by bringing us a portion of human with every offering?”
Amedeo felt his heartbeat was rather quick; he was getting nervous.
“W-well um…”
“Surely you do not have a use for it? No, you glutton, you keep the remains for yourself, AFTER ALL WE HAVE GIVEN! …your greed sickens me.”
“No, no! Its not me, its not for me! I…I have a partner, a-a mutual beneficiary business, if you will. He requires just a portion for his own…survival, and I grant the other half, the bigger half, to you, oh gracious King.”
Whispers shuffled in concerned murmurings around the space, yet just out of sight, it seemed.
“A partnership? I was not aware of this…why? Why do you split the spoils betwixt the other?”
“Well…I…I required aid in…the hunt, O’ King…he gives me the marks…in order for us to be, ah, um…efficient-”
The King roared.
“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOUR COWARDICE AND LAZINESS HAS COST MY PEOPLE SUSTENANCE?”
“I-I am sorry, m-my position—”
“A POSITION for which you were never worthy of, it seems.”
“Please, i-if you just give me some time-”
“No. It seems our agreement has come to an end. I will, however, allow you to make amends in the only way you may have the capability to; with your life.”
The King waved its hand lazily as a tentacle the size of the throne itself lashed out from beyond the darkness, narrowly missing Amedeo as he dove to the ground, rolling just away from the impact. Scrambling, he cried out.
“No, no, please! Please, I beg you!”
“Save your cries, they annoy me.”
The tentacle began to curl inward, quickly wrapping Amedeo’s legs in a deathgrip embrace. He pulled and squirmed, and kicked a leg free for a moment, as he began to punch the tentacle abrasively, attempting to free himself. Rearing back another punch, his hand was stopped by something. When Amedeo looked back, a ghoul opened its slimy mouth and jeered as it held Amedeo’s arm back.
“Heheheh, no no no!”
More appeared, some watching, some taunting him. Others came forth to deliver swift kicks and swipes, all the while the tentacle resumed its course of constricting Amedeo. He thrashed about as hard as he could, while the ghouls cheered as they watched him struggle.
“Hehee, oooh, almost gotcha!”
“Yeah, do that again, you almost had him!”
“I wonder how hard you gotta bite a human’s leg to break it?”
The tentacle enveloped around his chest, squeezing tight. As the air was deflated, Amedeo used the last of it to shout as loud as he could, his lungs almost giving out from the effort.
“pplea-se…rrRELEASE ME!”
…
But oddly enough, the tentacle did so. The ghouls stopped cheering, all turned towards the King. Amedeo seized his moment to escape, but it seemed no one minded. He wiggled just enough to slip free, crashing to the ground. In panicked breaths, he clambered away, but when he turned to the glance back he saw why all had gone still. The King was slumped in its throne, a sizable hole in the middle of its forehead, as a deep, dark crimson colored liquid oozed from it upward, floating into space. Almost at once, every creature, including Amedeo, shifted their gaze down to the space before the throne, where a figure stood, covered in the same crimson liquid.
“Damn, that shit is fucking nasty. Ain’t no way this is gonna wash out nicely…can’t have shit…”
The figure was horrific in nature, with creeping limbs longer than normal, a face stretched to uncanny proportions, and odd attire with leather and buckles all over. And yet, its tone was so casual, so annoyed, rather than concerned or even bloodlusted. Just as soon as Amedeo examined the figure before him, it stepped to the side; he must have blinked, for it had entirely disappeared, leaving no trace of itself, save for the regicide in its wake.
After a few strained moments of silence, the stiff air was broken by a second, massive tentacle thrashing out from the void, crashing over the throne. A third followed on the opposite side, and both wrapped the King up in its embrace, before a forceful pull yanked the King into the darkness. A sickening series of crunching ensued. The ghouls all turned to Amedeo, unsettlingly slowly.
“What, I-I had no knowledge of that…that thing! Please, you have to believe me!”
The tentacle that was previously aiming for his life slunk back into the darkness, and the ghouls spoke in turn, addressing the new King.
“No knowledge, hm? You had no knowledge?”
“I don’t think he did, no, no.”
“Hehehe, you will never have that problem again, oh no!, O’ Wise King!”
Amedeo cocked his head slightly, thinking he misheard the creature’s words.
“‘King? For what—how do you mean?”
The ghouls chuckled piteously.
“Oh, you are, you are! You are the next King of the Vide!”
“For you bore witness to its death, therefore you must take its place!”
Amedeo shook his head, brows furrowed, eyes wide.
“No, no, no, no-! That cannot possibly be the rule!”
Another ghoul piped up.
“It’s not! Hehehe! But we made it so just for you, O’ Wise King!”
They seemed to take great pleasure in tormenting the mortal in front of them.
“I cannot—I will not! I must return to my old life, I can no longer sustain any sort of connection with the Vide, I am sorry!”
More ghouls crept out from the darkness, while more still remained, their beady white eyes gleaming and creaking noises began chirping from beyond.
“Ooh, you do not understand, professor. You will be the new King. You already are. You are free to go where you please, however, you must always return here, you must always feed your subjects, and you must always reign supreme.”
“But…I don’t…I-if I’m the King then–”
“Hahaha! You thought the King was in charge? No, no, no, no, no. We allow the King to reign, yet we are the ones who keep them in the throne. If they do not comply, they are feasted upon themselves, and we find another. And; we always find another.”
Amedeo felt trapped, which, he was. He eyed the ghouls apprehensively, and they in turn, stared at him the same. His breath was shaky, his heartbeat hastened, but he managed to get a few words out.
“V-very…wel—”
In an instant, he felt as if his breath was sucked out of his body, and his mind started to spiral. His eyes were rolling back in their sockets as he felt each muscle seize up, tensed as tight as they could. His body was forced to take a step towards the throne; the ghouls parted the crowd, forming an aisle. Another step. Amedeo wasn’t in control of his body at all, and each step was an excruciating exhaustion. What felt like an eternity, at last, Amedeo approached the throne. Even in his state, he realized the throne had somehow shrank to match his size.
The professor clambered onto the throne, taking a seat, as a long, spiny, black crown formed on his head. As the crown began to grow, the cushions of the throne on the back and armrests were ruptured as several voidborne, tail-like, barbed appendages bursted forth, stabbing into his body and hooking back. Blood began to flow profusely from the wounds, as Amedeo was forcibly held still. Two more emerged, piercing into his temples. Flashes of numbers, words, images, flickered across his eyes rapidly. Years, decades, eons of history was beamed into his cranium. Equations and formulas, calculations and recipes, shouts and whispers, all streamed into his ears, as the hairs on his skin raised, goosebumps rippling through him. He began to thrash, screaming as loud as he could, but his cries were drowned out by haunting, repeating chants, emanating from all around him.
As the man’s body was stabbed over and over, each pierce a beautiful addition to the overarching masterpiece, his eyes were blank with nothing but bliss and ecstasy.
Hours of labor to make a glorious work of art.
Borne from greed; the Polymath
As the man’s body was stabbed over and over, each pierce a beautiful addition to the overarching masterpiece, his eyes were blank with nothing but bliss and ecstasy.
Hours of labor to make a glorious work of art.
Borne from greed; the Polymath
As the man’s body was stabbed over and over, each pierce a beautiful addition to the overarching masterpiece, his eyes were blank with nothing but bliss and ecstasy.
Hours of labor to make a glorious work of art.
Borne from greed; the Polymath
Amedeo awoke in a strained groan, crumpled on the floor. His head felt as if it was filled with fluid, pounding and throbbing simultaneously, the whirring drone of the phone a horrid noise in Amedeo’s ears. He rolled over, eyes in something of a haze, looking around; seeing nothing amidst the darkness. He felt his face; no glasses; and felt around the floor until he felt the spectacles, slightly bent, it seemed. Putting them on, Amedeo slowly got to his feet and stumbled through the room, feeling and knocking into objects and furniture, until he got to the window. Amedeo pulled the curtains open, lo; the night sky. It brightened up the room enough to see somewhat normally.
He walked over, clutching his head, and picked up the phone to slam it against the receiver. Memories of pain, stress, ghouls, creatures, all wracked into his conscious as he stood, rubbing his face, trying to regain some semblance of control. His eyes watered gently. When he focused, he noticed the black journal on the ground. Instantly, as he looked at it, his vision flashed with words, floating text, written in a mixture of scrawled handwriting and various incomprehensible symbols. Whispers of equally overstimulating resonations accompanied it.
gateway (O)(O) Forbidden black-leather journal for you,Our King (l)(l)
(l)(l) Book WEWATCHWEWATCHWEWATCH Polymath Log: KEeP SeCreT
Y o U w i ll F e E d u s
And just as it started, it stopped.
Amedeo blinked hard, rapidly, rubbing his head; he was sweating profusely. Delving into his jacket pocket—which he realized he now wore his previous clothes oncemore as he did so—he retrieved a handkerchief, dabbing away the beads of perspiration. Amedeo coughed rashly as he walked over to the journal, and noticed that the open pages, previously blank, save for the two eyes he had inscribed, was now filled all over with multiple inkblot scribbles of peering eyes. He tensed, double-taking, his blood running cold and sharp for a moment, as the creepy sight settled on him.
His hands shook as he stood in the dimly lit room, his head wracking with tortuous thoughts. Some he was not certain were his own. He jumped, fumbling the journal in his hands, as the phone rang loud and clear. His breathing quickened as he tried to calm himself; it was only the phone, only the phone.
Telephone; a critical invention in the development of communication technology. This design is the candlestick design and had dial on the front so a person could call numbers directly, no operator needed.
Amedeo shook away the visions and whispers—he knew what a damn telephone was—as he bustled over to answer its summons.
“Yes? Hello, who is it?”
A merrily sinister voice rang through.
“Ah, there you are! I’ve been trying to reach your line for some time, yet the call wouldn’t go through!”
Bunts.
The voice of Charles Bunts, mayor of the City. Sinister; power-hungry. We sense…?
({}) ({})
“Yes, I-I, I do apologize. I’ve been meaning to have the officials come look at it.”
“No matter, no matter. You are still coming over tonight, yes?”
“Charles…”
“Please, friend. Look…”
The phone went silent for a moment, before Bunts continued.
“I…I understand if you do not wish to…taint…your image. I also know you are a very smart man whom surely can cover his tracks quite well. Hear me; the dirty work is done. Come now, share a drink with me. Revel in the aftereffects! You may only be a spectator as to the fruits of my labor!”
He is dangerous; go. Keep your friends close and…how does the rest go?
And keep your enemies closer. This was maddening, horrendous, to say the least. A second conscious unceasingly prepared to crash about one’s senses at any moment. Amedeo responded.
“…yes. Yes, yes, very well. I will be there momentarily.”
“Ah! Splendid! I await your arrival, friend.”
And with that, the line went dead. Amedeo hung the phone back up and rubbed his face underneath his glasses. He was so very stressed and so very tired, and yet, so very dreadful of the path he was beginning to walk on. He was sure he could not change it, not now, not after walking it so far. Perhaps he was a foolish young man, tapping into otherworldly plains for selfish gain, not knowing, or caring to know, the cost. His sins were his own to bear, he decided, and this was now the Price for his success. Amedeo dearly worried for the future of where the Vide would lead him, however, he knew he must follow.
Amedeo walked over to the black-leather journal and picked it up, gingerly. He gazed at the unsettling eyes for a moment, before flipping to the next page out of curiosity. Lo; an entry.
-Charles Bunts, Thirty-four years of age. A wicked, manipulative, politician bent on acquiring more and more power, longing to control the City, by any means necessary. Thus far, he has been appointed mayor. He now holds the powers of
The entry abruptly stopped. Amedeo noted this and sheathed the journal into his jacket. He made way to exit his chambers, walking down the halls towards the entrance to the institution. Soon, he found his way outside, heading down the path back into the City. As he walked, the brisk air accompanied him, but his stride was interrupted by a feminine voice shouting from behind.
“Why, is that a Mr. Artramentum I see?”
As Amedeo turned to face it, a pair of bright lights blinded his vision.
BRIGHT. FAR TOO BRIGHT. CEASE.
Amedeo covered his eyes as the automobile approached, squealing to a halt.
The Model T; the engine has a front-mounted 177-cubic-inch (2.9 L) inline four-cylinder engine, producing 20 hp (15 kW), for a top speed of 42 mph (68 km/h). It has a fuel economy of 13–21 mpg (16–25 mpg; 18–11 L/100 km)-
He slowly uncovered his eyes as he gazed upon the faces of his colleagues, more notably, Dr. Cross. Her face, slightly flushed, smiled at him, and spoke.
“Goodness me, I thought I’d never see the day you leave the Academy!”
-the engine was designed to run on gasoline, although it was able to run on kerosene or ethanol, although the decreasing cost of gasoline and the later introduction of Prohibition made ethanol an impractical fuel for most users-
Amedeo blinked hard, trying to sift through the noise in his head to hear Dr. Cross’ words.
“I…yes, sorry, I, yes. Well, you know what they say-”
“Surely, I don’t, professor. Why don’t you tell me all about what they say on our way to the City!”
“No, no, I…”
“Don’t be stupid. You promised you’d come out with us! Just this once, surely!”
“Dr. Cross, please…”
She leaned closer, her eyes pleading, properly making eye contact now.
“Won’t you at least keep me company?”
-the engines of the first 2,447 units were cooled with water pumps; the engines of unit 2,448 and onward, with a few exceptions prior to around unit 2,500, were cooled by thermosiphon action-
“STOP, PLEASE!”
Dr. Cross recoiled at the abrasive outburst. The voices ceased as well. Amedeo instantly regretted his shout, and spoke softer.
“No…I apologize, I’m just, you don’t understand-”
Dr. Cross shifted back in her seat, her brows slightly furrowed.
“It’s okay, professor. I’ll leave you to your affairs. We can go.”
She spoke the last words to the driver of the car, and they took back off along the road. Amedeo watched the lights fade, upset by what transpired.
“…why do you HAUNT ME SO?!”
He roared at no one, and yet, someone heard.
Aww, you care for her. How sweet. A fitting Queen perhaps, no?
“Not when your presence torments me!”
You have more important things to focus on, your majesty. Go forth.
Amedeo gritted his teeth, yet he obeyed, walking the paved road all the way into the City.
As he approached it, the sounds of loud, jarring music could be heard even from before the entrance gates, which were always open. Proceeding, a boisterous scene met his eyes. All sorts of people out and about, the streets flooded with drunken dancers, swinging big-bands, and party-trickers of odd magnitudes alike. He shuffled his way through the crowds, the smell of liquor permeating his nose intensely. He kept his eyes mostly down, as the Vide attempted to flash detailed profilings of every person he saw and the act they engaged upon.
Woman, approximate Thirty-two, swing-dancing, flapper, floozy?, buzzed.
A pair of fireworks, set to soar at…the count of midnight. Seconds, how many seconds from now?
Something…we cannot see. Who is altering reality?
Man, approximate Twenty-seven, drunken, looking for a fight.
Bunts Tower approaching, mere feet away.
Madness.
Trudging through, he found himself at the doors of Bunts Tower. Amedeo approached the intercom.
“Charles, its me!”
“About time, goodness!”
The doors opened themselves, and Amedeo stepped inside. As the doors shut behind him, the noise from street deafened wondrously. The familiar atrium was dark and empty, only lit by a few candles scattered across various furniture. Beyond the room were two doors, both with large glass windows with intricate designs, slightly larger than the others. Amedeo approached them, the one on the left sliding into itself, revealing a very small room alight by a hanging lantern inside. It was a mechanism of pristine value; the elevator. Amedeo pressed a button marked ‘11’, and the structure obeyed his request, rising up to the top floor. As it shook and moved, a tune began to play.
Bossa-nova; isn’t it nice?
Amedeo closed his eyes in annoyance, breathing slowly. After a moment, he arrived at Bunts’ office, the door sliding open with a slight bell tone, beckoning him forth. On the side of the desk closest to Amedeo were two leather chairs sat at angles facing inward. On the other side, there was a much nicer leather chair, almost equivalent to a throne; currently unoccupied. A large glass window looking over the entirety of the City was behind the desk, and Bunts stood facing it, gazing out upon the chaos that was celebration. As the bell rang, Bunts turned around.
“Aha, there he is! Come on in, come on, quickly!”
Amedeo bustled over to the window.
“What, what is it?”
“Look, look down there. Do you see him? That putrid old man.”
Bunts wrapped an arm around Amedeo and pointed down to a road nearby. There was certainly a wide variety of people, however, there was one in particular that stood out: an old man wearing worn rags for clothes and seemingly carrying a wooden sign.
“Yes…what of him?”
“That, my friend, is my avatar. No one would miss a worthless urchin, especially not one at his age.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Well…following the diary’s instruction…we had a…’chat’. He left here a little while ago, rambling nonsense.”
ETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRIETHRI
The Vide screamed in his ears, causing Amedeo to wince and grit in pain.
“I…I see. Who…what is that with him?”
Reaperborne, Kingslayer, Abomination. It will not be so easy next time, your excellence.
A creature, no, wait, it was the being from the Vide. He knew the build, the buckles, the horrible visage; and the Vide confirmed it. What the fuck?
“Oooh, yes, yes, that! I was wondering whether or not they would come after I sent the old man away. The diary warned that Ethri’s avatar would attract higher powers, and it seems that some amalgamation was sent to kill him!”
Bunts smiled unsettlingly, gripping Amedeo’s shoulders and gently shaking him.
“HAHA, oh my, this is amazing! Its truly happening!”
Amedeo watched as the creature warped out of reality for a moment, reappearing in the sky, slamming down on the old man. Bunts winced.
“Oh-h-ho, shit! He’s getting his ass handed to him!”
“And…and what if he does kill it? I, I mean kill him?”
Kill ‘it’. That is no longer human.
“No matter! I’ve already placed my sins upon that wretch—it is but a goat wandering in the woods. Ethri pays no attention to the avatar after it is sent out. Here is the interesting part I eagerly await: I believe that the diary is truly the only source of history and information for such an ancient power as this. It seems many ‘higher powers’ know not of how to properly combat Ethri, and many summoners knew not of how to properly attune to him. Therefore, I believe that this creature might try to sabotage the ritual as well. Look, up there.”
Amedeo looked up across the City, and saw atop a rooftop, one of the only buildings met with height to Bunts Tower, as a gathering of odd looking individuals with robes and masks was interacting with each other. Amedeo stepped back from the window.
“Charles…why do you do this?”
Bunts shook his head slightly, cocking it to the side.
“What do you mean ‘why’? Look at them down there! The City is rotten to its core, all of it, all of them. ALL OF THEM! Gluttonous fools amidst cursed beggars; all worms, caterpillars, beneath my feet. Caterpillars, yes, those of which need to be saved; nurtured and grown.”
“So, you see yourself a savior, do you?”
“I see myself a monarch. I see myself bringing the City into a new era, cocooned and metamorphosized into one born of those worthy of life itself, those who appreciate it, and those without stains to their bloodline. Perfection.”
“Worthy of life, stains to their bloodline, Charles, do you hear yourself?”
“Oh, come off it, Amedeo. You’ve seen the rats in the sewer, the ‘Underground’. Disabled, defected, demented; no one else is willing to face the blunt truth that they pollute the world we live in! If they multiply, their offspring will only know more pain and suffering for generations, surely, you do not want that?”
“No…of course, but-”
“And as for the rest of them, once the City is plunged into deprivation, they will look to a leader to bring forth the light. Only then will they realize the futility of frivolous pursuits. Only then.”
Amedeo walked around the office, thinking over the words he heard. Genocide of a people was bad, right? But perhaps the continued existence of an outcasted life of famine and suffering was…worse? How much would one sacrifice to help them? Could they ever be helped? No, no, what was he thinking? Perhaps…he could do it better.
If he were in the position, those lacklustre in spirit could be used as fuel to feed a growing furnace of industry. And the rest, those willing to serve the throne in higher capacity would be offered higher priviledge, rather than the status of their wealth. Equal opportunities for everyone only dependent on their loyalty to the empire and loyalty to the throne. Those who refused…would be food.
He was thinking like a monster, no, no, he was thinking like a King.
He perused the shelves of books amidst the small library Bunts owned. He scanned the titles, searching for the diary—
The diary is not amongst these shelves.
—he knew wasn’t there. Nevertheless, the vellichor brought his mind back to itself, and he spoke in a newfound, almost regal, tone.
“I…understand. And you are willing to make it happen, yes?”
“Of course. With Ethri as my solar core and cloak-and-dagger as my operation, there will be no opposition, there will be no controversy to rebel against.”
“Very…well…I would be honored to remain as your friend even amongst your reign. My wishes still remain to abstain from such lordship, but I will not depart from you, my friend.”
Bunts smiled, walking over to Amedeo and grasping him in a great hug.
“Thank you, sir. You are akin to a elite confidant and a pristine compatriot! I value you greatly.”
“You as well, Charles. Hey, look—”
But Amedeo remained, frozen by the bookshelves, unable to speak, as the Vide suddenly in an uproar at a presence felt, but unseen. Separate from the events occurring on that rooftop, the Vide had suddenly felt there was another, an equally dangerous entity, existing in the very place he stood in now, far below. Bunts had turned quickly as soon as Amedeo said ‘look’, watching giddily as a shadowed figure soared across the sky towards the top of the building with the robed members, and stepped in stride over to the window hastily.
“Hahahaha! Oh my gosh, look at him go! I knew it, I KNEW IT!”
Dangerous. A presence, a weapon. He lies in chains, he is restrained. ANGRY. A WEAPON. CurSeD. Bloodlust. HE HAS A VENDETTA. Horriblehorriblehorrible.
LEVEL B.
He WILL escape. He will not cease. REMAIN UNDETECTED.
HE WILL KILL. HE WILL KILL. HE WILL KILL.
The Vide flashed panicked whispers on a magnitude which he had never heard before. Arrows and outlines flooded his sight as he saw a bright-red outline of the basement far below Bunts Tower; there was a man down there…?
“OH SHIT! It’s killing them ALL!”
Amedeo shook away from his stupor, going over to the window. He could see as the creature slaughtered all of the robed figures mercilessly, miraculously. Bunts licked his lips maniacally as he watched, before twitching abruptly.
“Right, right, he’ll be here soon, it would be rude to not pour him a glass, no?”
“I…I’m not sure.”
Perhaps not?
Amedeo searched the shelf for glasses as Bunts retrieved an elegant decanter with an amber liquid swirling inside.
Ten-year old aged Scottish whiskey, kept within an oakwood barrel, triple distilled.
Amedeo placed the three glasses on the desk, although each looked gently used, it was all he could find. Bunts, his hands shaking ever so slightly, poured three glasses about halfway full of the whiskey. After, he walked into the center of the room with his glass, and stood, slapping his pockets nervously, yet holding an eager smile.
“Amedeo, please, take a seat. I believe what comes next might be horrific.”
Amedeo obliged, entirely unsure of what was to come next. His memory failed him as he tried to remember what proceeded the ritualistic steps, but resolved to a sip of the smooth liquid he held.
“What is it, exactly?”
But Bunts did not respond, as his voice stopped short of any sound. Amedeo watched as odd bulges in his chest began to appear. Bunts looked down, his smile fading. The glass dropped to the ground. Suddenly, Bunts was ripped in half, cleanly, save for the dangling entrails in its wake. As if opening a curtain, a figure walked through the viscera of Bunts. It wore a dark, crimson suit with a black tie. Its face was horrifying. It was similar to a ram’s skull, but none of the features of a ram’s face, no, more like skin stretched over a ram’s skull, as long, twisted horns permeated the forehead, curling backwards. When it spoke, it sounded like a chorus of deep, harmonious voices.
“Oh, hey. That for me? Ahh, I’m takin’ it.”
Ethri gestured to the glass of whiskey left upon the desk as he stepped over the corpse of Bunts. It took a long sip, sighing loudly.
“Mmnnh…yeah. That’s good shit.”
Amedeo’s eyes were extremely wide.
“Hm? Fuck you lookin’ crazy for? Oh, right. Uh…shit…how does it go?”
Ethri pinched the bridge of its, or where perhaps, a nose should be.
“Uh…oh, yeah. ‘Borne again through flames and fortune, power beseech your bones and brain, rise again my stubborn mule so you may rule the world again.’”
As it finished the incantation, flames swallowed the body of Bunts, sewing it back together. A few seconds later, the fire subsided, and the body of Bunts lay upon the ground. Ethri cleared its throat.
“Hey, jackass. Get up.”
Bunts stirred, and slowly got to his feet, groaning. He seemed oddly fine, his clothes unblemished, his hair intact. When he turned, he looked at Amedeo first, then to Ethri. His face was entirely untouched, but when he peered down at his hands, Amedeo saw they were charred and mangled by the scorching hell.
Ethri leaned against the desk and watched. Bunts’ eyes were red and bloodshot, and he moved in strained and pained shifts, but move he did. Slowly, clutching his chest, and not without grabbing the glass from the floor, Bunts shuffled across the room, back to his leather throne, slamming down onto it. He rashly grasped the decanter of whiskey and poured himself a tall drink. He tilted the glass towards Ethri.
“Hey boss, thanks for coming.”
“No problem, champ. Are you prepared for this?”
“You and I both know the answer.”
“Damn straight.”
They talked for a little bit, but Amedeo heard none of it, as his vision darkened and his hearing deafened, the Vide spoke prominently to their beloved.
You must remain close, and soon, you will be the King of Bunts’new World as well. You must remain close. Or you will perish. You must remain close. Ethri will pave the way. You must remain close. We will watch, we will learn. We can take over when the time is right. You must remain close.
Amedeo thought back.
“I shall.”
Just as he came back to reality, he noticed as Ethri nodded in Amedeo’s direction.
“Who’s this guy?”
Bunts responded.
“A friend, and a spectator.”
“Sure, hey, you cool with seeing some fucked up shit?”
Amedeo, his eyes stern, responded.
“Of course.”
Ethri nodded his approval.
“Then cheers. Hail to the Bunts Administration.”
“Hail.”
“…hail.”
And they drank. Bunts looked down at his watch, and smirked.
“Hey Amedeo, happy New Year.”
Happy New Year indeed.
.
.
.
fin.
ink stained pages 
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