Chapter Four:
Eventually Ser Drakonsarius had arrived at an ominous door, the deep brown of walnut, with a shiny brass plaque that proclaimed, "The Adeptus Echoist - Master of Acoustics" The knight reached out his armoured gauntlet to the handle, opening the door with mounting anticipation, he draws his poleaxe from his back, and enters the room.
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The room that he found himself in was eeire, the windows have been obstructed by spongy black panels that the Dragoon took to be soundproofing, the room was lit by only by blue candles that somehow seemed to darken the room despite being almost painfully bright. Obscure instruments could be seen everywhere, occasionally making barely audible noises, or in the case of a particularly strange one, slight ripples in the very air around it. The centrepiece of the room, however, was its occupant, presumably no longer hiding behind his facade.
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The Voidcaller stood as an enigmatic figure behind a desk crafted from the same walnut as the imposing door. The robes that hung over his frail form had fallen victim to time, worn and frayed at the edges, bony hands emerged from the ruined cuffs, their skin so thin it seemed almost translucent, adorned with liver spots. His head played host to thinning steel grey hair, and the face had a striking resemblane to slightly melted wax that had hardened again. The most unsettling feature by far was his eyes. The gelatinous spheres mirrored the void, devoid of life. Their darkness seemed to absorb the very colour around them, leaving an unsettling emptiness in their gaze.
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The Adeptus smiled, as Is if he knew how everything would happen, and spoke: "Ser Drakonsarius, of the Order of the Dragoon, your arrival was foretold by the Æbyssal deities. The shadows speak of your intent - to end the vessel that houses the whispers. But be warned, the path you tread is not one easily traversed." The Voidcallers voice was perhaps the most distressing thing that Drakonsarius had ever heard, a great many voices speaking the same words, all at slightly different pitches and times, the discordant symphony of the Void made the young knight exceptionally anxious, but he bravely fought to disguise it.
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"What dark designs do they spin through you? Speak, for I seek knowledge to thwart the shadows encroaching upon our realm" The Dragoon Knight spoke in resolute tones, but they masked his fear. The poleaxe was in a ready stance now.
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"The whispers of the Æbyss tell of a knight with the potential to upset the delicate balance we have woven. They see threads of destiny entwined with your existence, and so, I stand here, forewarned of your intent" the waxy face had twisted into a sneer. Before the knight could respond, those dead eyes rolled back into his skull, he spoke again, but this time he was different, an unstable maelstrom of pure, unadulterated wrath exploded forth from him, clearly not the Voidcaller's own words: "Doth thou comprehend the cosmic dance of existence, or doth merely stumble in the dark, ignorant of the threads that bind all things?" The eyes rolled back from the skull, the bony hand found an occult staff under the desk, ending in a cruel blade, and the battle commenced.
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Within the room, in the Academy of the Adept of Artè, the capital city of the Meritocracy of Aquiloria, the battle unfolded with a ferocity that transcended normal understanding. Ser Drakonsarius, armed with his poleaxe, clashed against the enigmatic Voidcaller wielding an occult staff adorned with that deadly steel. The air crackled with tension as each strike was guided by the ominous whispers of the Æbyssal Gods. Shadows danced in a macabre ballet, blending with the rhythmic clangour of weapon meeting weapon. The Voidcaller, as vessel for three malevolent entities, effortlessly anticipated the knight's every move with otherworldly prescience. Drakonsarius, however, defied the script, adapting his tactics with a dance of feints and unpredictable strikes. As the confrontation escalated, the sinister whispers anger intensified, revealing the ever-nearing threat of defeat for the Voidcaller. Shadows coiled around his staff, and the battlefield became a canvas painted with desperation, the staff lashed out and punched through the plate in his side, yet Drakonsarius pressed on, leaving behind a trail of blood. Despite knowing his every move, the voidcaller lacked one important card, the vigour to outlast the young knight, the older man, even with the occult having enhanced his strength and endurance, simply could not. This left the Voidcaller vulnerable and weakened as he grew increasingly fatigued. The axe blade of the poleaxe cleaved through the staff brought up in a feeble block, Drakonsarius slammed the haft of his weapon into the Voidcallers chest, knocking him down to the ground near his desk. The chamber echoed with the remnants of a viscous struggle. Drakonsarius removed his helm to reveal his face, absolutely drenched in sweat. The wound in his side was still bleeding. The poleaxe was pointed directly at the defeated Voidcaller, panting on the ground with the snapped staff lying nearby.
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Ser Drakonsarius, his poleaxe held at the ready, demanded of the defeated Voidcaller, "Why unleash such darkness upon our realm?" The elderly man, no longer quite so intimidating, coughed, wincing at the pain of broken ribs, before beginning to recount his tale, " I was once an Adeptus, devoted to the pursuit of knowledge. My insatiable curiosity led me to forbidden realms, whispers began to poison my thoughts, strangle my conscience, beat down my morality, they promised me knowledge, my younger self swallowed the bait, I joined the Covenant, the whispers promising me more if i only let them in, i obliged, and i was elevated to the Council of Ætharchs." The dead eyes almost seemed to twinkle and became moist.
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Another coughing fit, "Please...Destroy their vessel, it will slow them down...",
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The Æbyssal Gods, angered by the impending demise of their vessel, began to voice their dissent. "Foolish mortal, do you think you can defy the will of the Æbyss? Your feeble attempts amuse us." The voices all hissed discordantly. Drakonsarius drew back his poleaxe, preparing to put the Voidcaller out of his misery and to destroy the vessel.
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"Before you lies the consequences of their manipulation. They offer everything you wish for, but it comes at an extortionate moral cost that I lack the stomach for anymore. End this, before their whispers taint thou." The Adeptus Echoist wheezed.
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"Mortal, imagine the power you could wield. Spare our vessel, and we shall grant you dominion over realms beyond your comprehension." A single voice this time, one with the tone of a seductress, all low and husky. "I played a dangerous game, and now I pay the price. Release me from this torment, knight." The Adeptus lamented. "Where is the sixth?" the Dragoon demanded, "I don't know, perhaps the Pheasantine Republic?"
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The Poleaxe lashed out, the spear head punched through the chest of the ageing scholar, and exited out the other side, banging against the walnut desk. The old man looked up at him gratefully before he slumped over, his eyes glazed over and unmoving, there was a final twitch, and the seventh member of the Council of Ætharchs - The Voidcaller - was dead. Ser Drakonsarius turned on his heel, wincing from the pain, and made his way to his miniature airship.
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