Chapter 93: 93
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"So you are telling me," I repeat, struggling to bring my voice under some sort of non hysterical control. "That Azrael- the power of the mind soul, has more to than- oh I don't know- crushing your mind?"
I ask with a weary hysteria, realising with a sudden pang that my voice is little more than a whisper in the half light of the room, barely heard at all as I recoil into the shadows, my fists clenching next to my heart. The candle on the table flickers just as Fangorn pushes it aside with one long sweep of his arm, causing dark shapes to jostle and dance around the room. His nose wrinkles, fighting for the words.
"Not exactly," he says at last, and begins to stride over to me, his tall figure looming over me in a similar stature of a bear leaning over a mouse. All at once I feel very small. Fangorn's fingers patter together, breaking up the stark silence of the room with a soft and continuous patter, although it does little to ease the nerves in my stomach.
'Not exactly' isn't exactly the most reassuring of answers- in any situation. And while my necklace may hold wards against Azrael's powers being inflicted on my mind, that does not mean to say that his powers cannot hurt me in... other means. Nervously, I swallow down my fear, my hand instinctively creeping up to clutch around my necklace, as if that alone may save me from the horrors that are to be foretold.
"Prince Soren would know a far deal greater about the powers of the mind than I do," Fangorn sighs, evidently seeing the sharp look of worry that plasters itself on my face. He brings a firm hand of comfort to rest on my shoulder.
"He has studied the powers of each soul for a good portion of his life, you see. It's equally likely that he may even hold some sort of protection from each of them. You see from what I can recall, the soul of the mind is notorious for its loopholes and tricks," he states, twirling a finger in mid air, his eyes closing momentarily, as if recalling something long forgotten. Then his eyes shock open, flares of a fiery crimson against the blackened room that pierce me with their fervid gaze. If I didn't know any better, I might have said he looks terrifying.
"The mind souls power was once used for good, but I have no doubt Azrael uses it to get into the heads of his enemies, of his prey, sees all their weaknesses, their shortcomings, and exploits them for his use. While the mind soul has the power to simply crush a mind at it's will, this is extremely draining, and would likely knock Azrael out. But he can however create illusions to play in the minds of his victims, mess with their senses, render them helpless. Though this would likely rely upon the victim's mind being susceptible- someone like Soren would hardly even suffer these effects, if at all. His mental strength and sheer willpower is far to strong," he explains, bringing a boney finger up to tap twice on the side of his head with an audible thud, as if to demonstrate his point.
My mouth sours a little as I recall the feeling of those claws in the back of my mind, the shifting, searching, prodding of his talons in the parts of my brain I had never hoped to look in again, gleaning my fragile mind of information, or secrets. And had I not had my necklace, I think with a nervous shudder, my mind might have been his to influence too. Perhaps if I become cold and unfeeling like Soren that wouldn't be a problem, that I could breeze past Azrael's mind tricks without a second thought and consider myself done. A foolish thought really, childish: Soren has had hundreds of years to build up his mental fortitude, yet I have only know about Azrael's power for a mere matter of weeks. Yes, not only foolish would it be to presume I could fight him, but detrimental, too.
Yet the memory of the look of seething frustration on his face upon coming up from the depths of my brains empty handed gives me a small moment of foolish glee, a fleeting experience which is quickly wiped away by the hard frown playing in Fangorn's vacant stare.
Finally I muster up the courage to ask the question that is playing in my head and brace myself for impact.
"Surely if they are just illusions, they have no substance, they cannot hurt us?"
Fangorn almost laughs his response.
"No my dear child, they are not merely illusions. The soul magic is far more powerful than that. You see," he says, circling round to place his arms on my shoulders, the weight of which almost makes me sink straight into the floor.
"The illusions are designed to make those afflicted truly believe in what they are seeing. Down there you may see Ithuriel walking beside you, but in actuality you may have been separated a long few hours beforehand. Yet," he says, his voice rising as he draws a finger up, wagging it back and forth with an almost contagious enthusiasm, his eyes gleaming with a devilish mixture of admiration and absolute terror.
"Yet as long as those afflicted believe the illusion is real, it becomes real."
He smirks now, drawing himself back to watch in awe as fear consumes me, shocking my skin to a ghostly white and draining the colour from my body quicker than a vampire draining a body of its blood, leaving a cold, stirring emptiness in its place: a body devoid of all life.
In the maze under the Palace, there would be no telling what is real, what creatures down there are the real deal, or soulless illusions created only to torment. In the knowledge of that, I think I would rather be a corpse right now. After all, what is there to fear when you are already dead?
I smile sickeningly to myself as another shudder trembles its way down my body. Perhaps that is the logic of the vampires: perhaps the ones whose immortal life transpires across the plains of land and time simply have nothing to fear.
Maybe I should try becoming one of them.
Another part of me thinks that sounds like a horribly half baked idea. Then an idea strikes me.
"There might be one way to tell," I say, furrowing my brows as I try my best to recall what exactly it is I need to remember, but my mind is slow, as though wading through a bog, turning over information at a snails pace- a fact that is certainly less than ideal. I tap my fingers against my arm impatiently. Then:
"Ah! The angel I convinced the vampires not to kill- Dawn, Azrael tried to pretend to be me to earn her trust. But she recognised it was an illusion because it was cold to the touch. Could that be...?"
"Could it be a loophole to his powers?" Fangorn finishes, raising his brows to give me a poignant yet simultaneously surprised look. His hand returns to scratch at his chin ponderously, murmuring lowly under his breath something that my mortal ears are not keen enough to comprehend.
"Yes, yes that could quite well work," he says in affirmation, nodding his head with a firm enthusiasm. Relief floods through my chest, a weight finally lifting off my my shoulders. So I am not completely helpless then, I sigh to myself, running a hand through my hair to relieve the remaining remnants of stress that reside there. I have something against two of the tiers. Now there is just one more.
"And what of the final tier of the system. Soren's I presume?"
At my words, Fangorn's eyes slide into darkness, a red glow pulsing in their ruby depths. All the relief, all my hope I have accumulate quickly washes away with the coming of Fangorn's next words.
"No one knows what's on Soren's layer."
I freeze.
"What?"
My mind reels frantically; there must be some sort of clue, something hidden in Fangorn's words that I am simply not getting. The most powerful vampire in all of Faey, and no one knows what defences he put down? Not even Fangorn? Magic leaves traces, and such a big proportion of magic used to create the labyrinth would surely not go unnoticed, especially not if it's the dramatic, overly powerful tyrant king of Sezeria casting the spells. Surely, surely, there is something else here?
But is is evident in the slow and mournful shaking of the dark haired vampire's head that neither am I mistaken, nor missing something, that Fangorn's words ring as true as they could possibly be: no one knows what's on Soren's layer. Those words alone are enough to send a quiver bolting through me. Fangorn strides over to his desk and with one fell swoop, brings a hunting knife down on the third circle on the paper, snapping me to attention as the knife wobbles with the impact of collision, half buried into the table.
"What I am saying is no one knows what he did. Not a single person in Sezeria could tell you because not a single one was around to see it happen," he whispers roughly, withdrawing the knife back out the table and slamming it back into its sheath, his eyes glowering, sharp teeth flashing. He looks angry. So angry. Yet I can't seem to understand why. Carefully, I edge my way backwards towards the door, my fingers dancing lightly over the hilt of my sword strapped to my waist, tensing and untensing in a continuous cycle, ready to spring in to action.
"....What do you mean no one was around to see it happen?"
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"So you are telling me," I repeat, struggling to bring my voice under some sort of non hysterical control. "That Azrael- the power of the mind soul, has more to than- oh I don't know- crushing your mind?"
I ask with a weary hysteria, realising with a sudden pang that my voice is little more than a whisper in the half light of the room, barely heard at all as I recoil into the shadows, my fists clenching next to my heart. The candle on the table flickers just as Fangorn pushes it aside with one long sweep of his arm, causing dark shapes to jostle and dance around the room. His nose wrinkles, fighting for the words.
"Not exactly," he says at last, and begins to stride over to me, his tall figure looming over me in a similar stature of a bear leaning over a mouse. All at once I feel very small. Fangorn's fingers patter together, breaking up the stark silence of the room with a soft and continuous patter, although it does little to ease the nerves in my stomach.
'Not exactly' isn't exactly the most reassuring of answers- in any situation. And while my necklace may hold wards against Azrael's powers being inflicted on my mind, that does not mean to say that his powers cannot hurt me in... other means. Nervously, I swallow down my fear, my hand instinctively creeping up to clutch around my necklace, as if that alone may save me from the horrors that are to be foretold.
"Prince Soren would know a far deal greater about the powers of the mind than I do," Fangorn sighs, evidently seeing the sharp look of worry that plasters itself on my face. He brings a firm hand of comfort to rest on my shoulder.
"He has studied the powers of each soul for a good portion of his life, you see. It's equally likely that he may even hold some sort of protection from each of them. You see from what I can recall, the soul of the mind is notorious for its loopholes and tricks," he states, twirling a finger in mid air, his eyes closing momentarily, as if recalling something long forgotten. Then his eyes shock open, flares of a fiery crimson against the blackened room that pierce me with their fervid gaze. If I didn't know any better, I might have said he looks terrifying.
"The mind souls power was once used for good, but I have no doubt Azrael uses it to get into the heads of his enemies, of his prey, sees all their weaknesses, their shortcomings, and exploits them for his use. While the mind soul has the power to simply crush a mind at it's will, this is extremely draining, and would likely knock Azrael out. But he can however create illusions to play in the minds of his victims, mess with their senses, render them helpless. Though this would likely rely upon the victim's mind being susceptible- someone like Soren would hardly even suffer these effects, if at all. His mental strength and sheer willpower is far to strong," he explains, bringing a boney finger up to tap twice on the side of his head with an audible thud, as if to demonstrate his point.
My mouth sours a little as I recall the feeling of those claws in the back of my mind, the shifting, searching, prodding of his talons in the parts of my brain I had never hoped to look in again, gleaning my fragile mind of information, or secrets. And had I not had my necklace, I think with a nervous shudder, my mind might have been his to influence too. Perhaps if I become cold and unfeeling like Soren that wouldn't be a problem, that I could breeze past Azrael's mind tricks without a second thought and consider myself done. A foolish thought really, childish: Soren has had hundreds of years to build up his mental fortitude, yet I have only know about Azrael's power for a mere matter of weeks. Yes, not only foolish would it be to presume I could fight him, but detrimental, too.
Yet the memory of the look of seething frustration on his face upon coming up from the depths of my brains empty handed gives me a small moment of foolish glee, a fleeting experience which is quickly wiped away by the hard frown playing in Fangorn's vacant stare.
Finally I muster up the courage to ask the question that is playing in my head and brace myself for impact.
"Surely if they are just illusions, they have no substance, they cannot hurt us?"
Fangorn almost laughs his response.
"No my dear child, they are not merely illusions. The soul magic is far more powerful than that. You see," he says, circling round to place his arms on my shoulders, the weight of which almost makes me sink straight into the floor.
"The illusions are designed to make those afflicted truly believe in what they are seeing. Down there you may see Ithuriel walking beside you, but in actuality you may have been separated a long few hours beforehand. Yet," he says, his voice rising as he draws a finger up, wagging it back and forth with an almost contagious enthusiasm, his eyes gleaming with a devilish mixture of admiration and absolute terror.
"Yet as long as those afflicted believe the illusion is real, it becomes real."
He smirks now, drawing himself back to watch in awe as fear consumes me, shocking my skin to a ghostly white and draining the colour from my body quicker than a vampire draining a body of its blood, leaving a cold, stirring emptiness in its place: a body devoid of all life.
In the maze under the Palace, there would be no telling what is real, what creatures down there are the real deal, or soulless illusions created only to torment. In the knowledge of that, I think I would rather be a corpse right now. After all, what is there to fear when you are already dead?
I smile sickeningly to myself as another shudder trembles its way down my body. Perhaps that is the logic of the vampires: perhaps the ones whose immortal life transpires across the plains of land and time simply have nothing to fear.
Maybe I should try becoming one of them.
Another part of me thinks that sounds like a horribly half baked idea. Then an idea strikes me.
"There might be one way to tell," I say, furrowing my brows as I try my best to recall what exactly it is I need to remember, but my mind is slow, as though wading through a bog, turning over information at a snails pace- a fact that is certainly less than ideal. I tap my fingers against my arm impatiently. Then:
"Ah! The angel I convinced the vampires not to kill- Dawn, Azrael tried to pretend to be me to earn her trust. But she recognised it was an illusion because it was cold to the touch. Could that be...?"
"Could it be a loophole to his powers?" Fangorn finishes, raising his brows to give me a poignant yet simultaneously surprised look. His hand returns to scratch at his chin ponderously, murmuring lowly under his breath something that my mortal ears are not keen enough to comprehend.
"Yes, yes that could quite well work," he says in affirmation, nodding his head with a firm enthusiasm. Relief floods through my chest, a weight finally lifting off my my shoulders. So I am not completely helpless then, I sigh to myself, running a hand through my hair to relieve the remaining remnants of stress that reside there. I have something against two of the tiers. Now there is just one more.
"And what of the final tier of the system. Soren's I presume?"
At my words, Fangorn's eyes slide into darkness, a red glow pulsing in their ruby depths. All the relief, all my hope I have accumulate quickly washes away with the coming of Fangorn's next words.
"No one knows what's on Soren's layer."
I freeze.
"What?"
My mind reels frantically; there must be some sort of clue, something hidden in Fangorn's words that I am simply not getting. The most powerful vampire in all of Faey, and no one knows what defences he put down? Not even Fangorn? Magic leaves traces, and such a big proportion of magic used to create the labyrinth would surely not go unnoticed, especially not if it's the dramatic, overly powerful tyrant king of Sezeria casting the spells. Surely, surely, there is something else here?
But is is evident in the slow and mournful shaking of the dark haired vampire's head that neither am I mistaken, nor missing something, that Fangorn's words ring as true as they could possibly be: no one knows what's on Soren's layer. Those words alone are enough to send a quiver bolting through me. Fangorn strides over to his desk and with one fell swoop, brings a hunting knife down on the third circle on the paper, snapping me to attention as the knife wobbles with the impact of collision, half buried into the table.
"What I am saying is no one knows what he did. Not a single person in Sezeria could tell you because not a single one was around to see it happen," he whispers roughly, withdrawing the knife back out the table and slamming it back into its sheath, his eyes glowering, sharp teeth flashing. He looks angry. So angry. Yet I can't seem to understand why. Carefully, I edge my way backwards towards the door, my fingers dancing lightly over the hilt of my sword strapped to my waist, tensing and untensing in a continuous cycle, ready to spring in to action.
"....What do you mean no one was around to see it happen?"
"So you are telling me," I repeat, struggling to bring my voice under some sort of non hysterical control. "That Azrael- the power of the mind soul, has more to than- oh I don't know- crushing your mind?"I ask with a weary hysteria, realising with a sudden pang that my voice is little more than a whisper in the half light of the room, barely heard at all as I recoil into the shadows, my fists clenching next to my heart. The candle on the table flickers just as Fangorn pushes it aside with one long sweep of his arm, causing dark shapes to jostle and dance around the room. His nose wrinkles, fighting for the words."Not exactly," he says at last, and begins to stride over to me, his tall figure looming over me in a similar stature of a bear leaning over a mouse. All at once I feel very small. Fangorn's fingers patter together, breaking up the stark silence of the room with a soft and continuous patter, although it does little to ease the nerves in my stomach.'Not exactly' isn't exactly the most reassuring of answers- in any situation. And while my necklace may hold wards against Azrael's powers being inflicted on my mind, that does not mean to say that his powers cannot hurt me in... other means. Nervously, I swallow down my fear, my hand instinctively creeping up to clutch around my necklace, as if that alone may save me from the horrors that are to be foretold."Prince Soren would know a far deal greater about the powers of the mind than I do," Fangorn sighs, evidently seeing the sharp look of worry that plasters itself on my face. He brings a firm hand of comfort to rest on my shoulder."He has studied the powers of each soul for a good portion of his life, you see. It's equally likely that he may even hold some sort of protection from each of them. You see from what I can recall, the soul of the mind is notorious for its loopholes and tricks," he states, twirling a finger in mid air, his eyes closing momentarily, as if recalling something long forgotten. Then his eyes shock open, flares of a fiery crimson against the blackened room that pierce me with their fervid gaze. If I didn't know any better, I might have said he looks terrifying. "The mind souls power was once used for good, but I have no doubt Azrael uses it to get into the heads of his enemies, of his prey, sees all their weaknesses, their shortcomings, and exploits them for his use. While the mind soul has the power to simply crush a mind at it's will, this is extremely draining, and would likely knock Azrael out. But he can however create illusions to play in the minds of his victims, mess with their senses, render them helpless. Though this would likely rely upon the victim's mind being susceptible- someone like Soren would hardly even suffer these effects, if at all. His mental strength and sheer willpower is far to strong," he explains, bringing a boney finger up to tap twice on the side of his head with an audible thud, as if to demonstrate his point. My mouth sours a little as I recall the feeling of those claws in the back of my mind, the shifting, searching, prodding of his talons in the parts of my brain I had never hoped to look in again, gleaning my fragile mind of information, or secrets. And had I not had my necklace, I think with a nervous shudder, my mind might have been his to influence too. Perhaps if I become cold and unfeeling like Soren that wouldn't be a problem, that I could breeze past Azrael's mind tricks without a second thought and consider myself done. A foolish thought really, childish: Soren has had hundreds of years to build up his mental fortitude, yet I have only know about Azrael's power for a mere matter of weeks. Yes, not only foolish would it be to presume I could fight him, but detrimental, too.Yet the memory of the look of seething frustration on his face upon coming up from the depths of my brains empty handed gives me a small moment of foolish glee, a fleeting experience which is quickly wiped away by the hard frown playing in Fangorn's vacant stare.Finally I muster up the courage to ask the question that is playing in my head and brace myself for impact."Surely if they are just illusions, they have no substance, they cannot hurt us?"Fangorn almost laughs his response."No my dear child, they are not merely illusions. The soul magic is far more powerful than that. You see," he says, circling round to place his arms on my shoulders, the weight of which almost makes me sink straight into the floor."The illusions are designed to make those afflicted truly believe in what they are seeing. Down there you may see Ithuriel walking beside you, but in actuality you may have been separated a long few hours beforehand. Yet," he says, his voice rising as he draws a finger up, wagging it back and forth with an almost contagious enthusiasm, his eyes gleaming with a devilish mixture of admiration and absolute terror."Yet as long as those afflicted believe the illusion is real, it becomes real."He smirks now, drawing himself back to watch in awe as fear consumes me, shocking my skin to a ghostly white and draining the colour from my body quicker than a vampire draining a body of its blood, leaving a cold, stirring emptiness in its place: a body devoid of all life.In the maze under the Palace, there would be no telling what is real, what creatures down there are the real deal, or soulless illusions created only to torment. In the knowledge of that, I think I would rather be a corpse right now. After all, what is there to fear when you are already dead?I smile sickeningly to myself as another shudder trembles its way down my body. Perhaps that is the logic of the vampires: perhaps the ones whose immortal life transpires across the plains of land and time simply have nothing to fear.Maybe I should try becoming one of them.Another part of me thinks that sounds like a horribly half baked idea. Then an idea strikes me."There might be one way to tell," I say, furrowing my brows as I try my best to recall what exactly it is I need to remember, but my mind is slow, as though wading through a bog, turning over information at a snails pace- a fact that is certainly less than ideal. I tap my fingers against my arm impatiently. Then:"Ah! The angel I convinced the vampires not to kill- Dawn, Azrael tried to pretend to be me to earn her trust. But she recognised it was an illusion because it was cold to the touch. Could that be...?""Could it be a loophole to his powers?" Fangorn finishes, raising his brows to give me a poignant yet simultaneously surprised look. His hand returns to scratch at his chin ponderously, murmuring lowly under his breath something that my mortal ears are not keen enough to comprehend. "Yes, yes that could quite well work," he says in affirmation, nodding his head with a firm enthusiasm. Relief floods through my chest, a weight finally lifting off my my shoulders. So I am not completely helpless then, I sigh to myself, running a hand through my hair to relieve the remaining remnants of stress that reside there. I have something against two of the tiers. Now there is just one more."And what of the final tier of the system. Soren's I presume?" At my words, Fangorn's eyes slide into darkness, a red glow pulsing in their ruby depths. All the relief, all my hope I have accumulate quickly washes away with the coming of Fangorn's next words."No one knows what's on Soren's layer." I freeze."What?"My mind reels frantically; there must be some sort of clue, something hidden in Fangorn's words that I am simply not getting. The most powerful vampire in all of Faey, and no one knows what defences he put down? Not even Fangorn? Magic leaves traces, and such a big proportion of magic used to create the labyrinth would surely not go unnoticed, especially not if it's the dramatic, overly powerful tyrant king of Sezeria casting the spells. Surely, surely, there is something else here?But is is evident in the slow and mournful shaking of the dark haired vampire's head that neither am I mistaken, nor missing something, that Fangorn's words ring as true as they could possibly be: no one knows what's on Soren's layer. Those words alone are enough to send a quiver bolting through me. Fangorn strides over to his desk and with one fell swoop, brings a hunting knife down on the third circle on the paper, snapping me to attention as the knife wobbles with the impact of collision, half buried into the table."What I am saying is no one knows what he did. Not a single person in Sezeria could tell you because not a single one was around to see it happen," he whispers roughly, withdrawing the knife back out the table and slamming it back into its sheath, his eyes glowering, sharp teeth flashing. He looks angry. So angry. Yet I can't seem to understand why. Carefully, I edge my way backwards towards the door, my fingers dancing lightly over the hilt of my sword strapped to my waist, tensing and untensing in a continuous cycle, ready to spring in to action."....What do you mean no one was around to see it happen?"
