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Seven crosses here were for the seven faithful
Sinner’s lodging where little piggies grew hateful
Innocent, they were innocent! Until comes a disciple
Who made him think of it as indeed, terrible O’ terrible
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Ober did not return to Kinguin on that rainy day, instead he went through a forest. Parting away the thickets of bushes and branches, stepping himself into familiarity before walking up the hill. On the middle of it are where younger grass grow. Following a perimeter that looks like there was a structure here before as he caresses the lone standing wooden pole of its corner. Its blackened inner side suggests that it was burned and Ober looks at it down and heavy, as if it is a grave. As if seeing himself with the how the flames lit his face as he watched seven erect crosses for the seven faithful. Remembering how the princesses painted them hateful.
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His first task as magister of those devils…here lies “an orphanage. This was an orphanage before Merry.” He shares. “I burned that poor widow followed by the children who live here. All because of that devil who fears prophecies.” Chuckling low in reflection, “What can I say, karma hit them back hard when it actually happened. When I was away for the barriers, the high king and most caring queen died by “Mystery’s hands” he scoffs, patting Merry’s mane, “I had not thought of this before but I think it was possible. There were supposed to be 8 crosses: Seven for the children, one for the widow. But one of the children disappeared from their cross, somehow managed to escape my magic. I did not remove the crosses as they coincidentally faced Kinguin castle and the princesses probably got scared with them staring from a far. Mmm—Why did I even do that I wonder?”
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Bushes rustle in applause from behind and a group of seven monsters---“Ashspawns” Ober says, seeing their burnt ash like bodies: one tall and six short as children, with hollow eyes and mouth glowing hateful red from the inside out. “Seven crosses for the faithful, Seven ashspawns for the vengeful.” Stretching open his palms at the dead, “Ferire” and a holy light explode from their chest, spasming them on the grass where the ground suddenly sprouts chains emanating a dark green smoke and pull the ashspawn down with the ground swallowing them whole.
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As the moon grow full and its sister peeking behind the mountains, Merry nudges Ober, weary eyes seeking rest. And the old man gladly allows her to go onto his left palm as a tattoo just like her sister Bell on the right. He sits himself against the pole, a gentle breeze warmly play with his drenched robes. A ferret finds its way on Ober’s bald head as the weary old man slowly drowses himself asleep.
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A shaky voice, frail and trembling, asks, "We can't go back? Why?" The words quiver in the air, laced with a palpable sense of unease.
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Another voice, more urgent and agitated, responds, "We haven't heard of Cornellius since yesterday! And didn't that messenger from the castle whisper to Haley, and then she tore down Cornellius's request!? Even in that queer, Beauties guild!" The revelation hangs heavy in the atmosphere, hinting at a sinister turn of events.
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A third voice, tinged with surprise and disbelief, inquires, "All of Cornelius's requests were torn down?"
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A fourth voice chimes in, accusatory and frustrated, "And you only told us now?"
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The first voice, now laced with desperation, suggests, "How about we head for Queenuin, or sail across the Baltic Street!" The proposal carries a hint of urgency, as if seeking an escape from an impending threat.
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The second voice, more cautious and hesitant, replies, "Hey, hey, sailing across the Baltic is too much."
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A fifth voice, cunning and opportunistic, interjects, "We can sell the old man there for a high price! Don't they hate any noble from Cyndoryll?" The suggestion drips with a dark purpose, hinting at a willingness to exploit the situation for personal gain.
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The third voice, uncertain and hesitant, begins, "They do, but---" Their words trail off, leaving an ominous silence in their wake. The voices slowly die down, as if engulfed by the weight of their own thoughts and the looming darkness that surrounds them.
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Replaced with the sound of rocks cracking under a weight of a wooden wheel rolling. Feeling himself sway left and right before opening his eyes and see that he is in a wagon. On his right is a man with a black fur, a noble—Ober guesses and then there are two others sitting across them.
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“Hey you, you are finally awake” Says the lady across him, “You were trying to go across the borders, right? Walked right into that bandit ambush and that thief over there.”
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“Damn you merchants, this noble was fine until you barged along. He was nice and unguarded. If you just kept your mouth shut. I could have stolen his goods and been halfway to Alanweolf…You there” turning to Ober, “You and me, we should not be here. It is these merchants these bandits want.”
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“Well, we are all in binds now so what can you do about it.” The woman says,
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“Shut up back there” The driver threatens, “Or I will cut of ye tongues!”
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Following them is another wagon carrying five Kinguin soldiers in armor. Merry and Bell eagerly wants to come out but the old man clasps them together, asking them not. The palpable silence suffocates him, especially without the comfort of his tea. Ober wants to puke out his dizziness.
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“Hihihihi” Chimes in a strange laugh of a barbaric girl rudely wearing nothing and grabbing Ober’s head by the hair, “So this is the great Cyndoryll magister? You the magister? You the magister? So WEAK!”
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The bandit girl yanks Ober's head back, her rough grasp tangling in his thin gray hair. Her eyes glint with a feral amusement as she studies the old magister's weathered face. "You no look like mighty magister. Look more like weak old man ready for grave!"
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She cackles, a grating sound that sets Ober's teeth on edge. The stench of unwashed flesh and rancid breath assaults his nostrils, making his already queasy stomach lurch. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to retch.
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The other bandits gather around, leering and jeering at their captive. Their language is harsh and guttural, a discordant blend of broken common tongue and their own savage dialect.
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"Maybe we make him dance for us!" One suggests with a cruel grin. "See how high and mighty magister hop for bandit masters!"
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"No, no," another counters, eyes glinting with malice. "We make him eat dung of horses! Scrape it from bottom of wagon and feed to him like dog!"
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They erupt into raucous laughter, slapping their thighs at the notion of subjecting the once-proud magister to such debasement. Ober grits his teeth, his bound hands clenching into fists. Humiliation simmers beneath his skin, warring with the sickening churn of his gut.
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"Me have better idea," the girl announces, shoving Ober's head forward. He barely catches himself before his face slams into the rough wooden planks of the wagon. "We make him our toilet! Piss and shit on fancy magister robes!"
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The bandits roar their approval, their voices rising in a discordant chorus of gleeful anticipation. Ober squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming in short, sharp pants as he tries to steel himself against the degradation to come.
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In his mind, he reaches for Merry and Bell, yearning for the steadfast comfort of their presence. But he dares not summon them, not here, not now. To reveal his companions would only invite further torment from these savage brutes.
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And so, Ober endures, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache, as the barbarians make vile sport of him. They tug at his robes, spattering him with noxious fluids and pelting him with clumps of manure scraped from the wagon bed. Through it all, he focuses on the slow, deliberate draw of each breath, fighting to keep the contents of his stomach where they belong.
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"Why so quiet, old man? Got something to hide?" one of the bandits growls, his hand resting on the hilt of his jagged sword, the blade glinting in the fading light. He grabs Ober by the collar, spitting and pulling him close, his hot breath pungent with the stench of ale. "Listen here, you will speak when I tell you to. Now, tell me, why are you so easy?"
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Reluctantly, Ober replies, his voice steady despite the warm vomit coursing up his esophagus, "want a cup of tea good sirs?"
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The bandits exchange skeptical glances, their eyes narrowing in suspicion. "He is known for many faces," the leader scoffs, his lips curling into a sneer. "Better not talk to him lest his tongue poisons you"
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As they continue down the winding road, the sound of rustling leaves and snapping twigs puts the group on high alert. The air grows still, the only sound the pounding of their hearts. Suddenly, a horde of native barbarians bursts from the surrounding foliage, their war cries piercing the air, their weapons glinting in the dappled sunlight. Chaos ensues as the two groups clash, swords clanging and arrows whistling through the air, the ground trembling beneath their feet.
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Amidst the confusion, Ober finds himself grabbed by the native barbarians, their rough hands digging into his arms, their faces contorted with rage. His captors, too preoccupied with the skirmish to notice, fail to see the natives drag him away from the fray, down to the vast plains, the night blues swallowing them whole. Though Ober is very much glad to get off that dizzying wagon, and to be actually caught by ‘Kinguin’s people,’ he thinks, ‘it Is much better than being caught by anyone else right now.’
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In the native barbarians' camp, Ober is thrown into a makeshift prison, the bars rusted and unyielding. As he stumbles to the ground, he discovers he is not alone. Beside him sits someone he smiles, and giggles at. "Hoho, did not expect you here" Ober merries, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “Adviser Horney”
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Horney, the Adviser who had been captured days earlier, his once fine robes now tattered and dirty. The two men regard each other warily, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair, their predicament weighing heavily upon them. He sighs, his shoulders slumping, his eyes haunted by the memories of his capture. "And here I thought there was rescue, and HERE I REALLY THOUGHT OF RESCUE! Those stupid Djahatians, those mindless brutes! THEY DIDN’T EVEN HELP ME!”
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“mmhm~ whatever you said is your business.” Taking a seat next to the frantic eyed Adviser, “Well, I truly did not expect you though. What are the chances of being captured by the same barbarians! Haha” Ober nods, even calm enough to utter his silent words for a kettle and two cups to be hovering in front of them. “Tea?”
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“You and your ridiculous magic and teas. GET ME OUT OF HERE!”
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“Screaming won’t do you good.”
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One of the native barbarians, a child comes up and drinks water in front of them.
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“YEAH!? DRINK THAT TILLS YOU EXPLODE BRAT!”
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But then the child explodes a sprayful of water at Horney. Ugh, the smell of unwashed teeth now mingled on this muddy Adviser.
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“HAUUGHH!” grunting and moaning in dismay, “HAUUUUUUGHHH!!!”
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“Stop with the melodrama”
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Seconds later, and the barbarians look at their cage as if they are a wild open show. The Adviser banging his head over and over again against the air—not being able to fully hit his forehead on the floor. But seeing how they now have an audience; Ober tries to help the Adviser by his feet and slams Horney’s head on the ground. And their audience laugh,
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Except Horney of course, “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!? YOU MAY BE THE MAGISTER BUT I AM AN ADVISER I AM HIGHER THAN YOU!”
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Ober sips his tea calmly, seemingly unbothered by Horney's outburst. He regards the frantic Adviser with a mix of amusement and pity. "Higher than me? In this cage, we are equals, Horney. Screaming and thrashing about is entertaining for me and them.”
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Horney glares at Ober, his face flushed with anger and humiliation. "You think this is funny, don't you?” Growling “Sitting there, sipping your damned tea like we're at a picnic! I demand you use your magic to get us out of here at once!"
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Ober chuckles softly, setting his cup down. "Oooh that was hot, got to refill it more. Want some?”
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"AS IF!" Horney sputters, his eyes bulging. "THESE BARBARIANS ARE THE SAVAGE TYPES WORSE THAN THE ROAD ONES! SAVAGES I SAY! THEY’VE THROWN US INTO THIS CAGE AS IF WE ARE ANIMALS. DO YOU LIKE BEING TREATED LIKE THAT MAGISTER!? ARE YOU THAT LOW!? ARE YOU A SLAVE!?”
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"And yet, they have not harmed us," Ober points out, his tone even. "They could have killed us outright, but instead, they keep us as prisoners. Don’t act as if you want them to haste your death Adviser. Heh, why am I even advising you when you are the Adviser.
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Horney scoffs, turning away from Ober. "You're mad. Utterly mad. I will find my own way out of this mess, WITH OR WITHOUT your help."
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As Horney resumes his fruitless attempts to gain the barbarians' sympathy, alternating between pitiful wails and enraged shouts, Ober leans back against the bars of the cage. He watches the gathered crowd, studying their faces, their reactions to Horney's antics.
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Some laugh openly, pointing and jeering at the Adviser's distress. Others whisper among themselves, their expressions ranging from curiosity to suspicion. A few, Ober notes, seem almost sympathetic, their eyes flickering with a hint of understanding. But the brutish ones who swing their wangs and piss at him are the best. None wants to piss on Ober.
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"Please, I beg of you!" Horney cries, grasping the bars. Piss on his face and nobility wears. Smelling like he pissed himself which he actually did as well, "I am an important man, an Adviser to the king! Surely you must see the folly in keeping me prisoner!"
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His pleas fall on deaf ears as the barbarians continue to watch, their amusement only growing with each desperate outburst. Ober shakes his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
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"Come now Adviser, I’m sure help will come," he murmurs, just loud enough for the Adviser to hear. "Sit and sip with me—wait no, actually don’t sit with me, just sip."
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Horney whirls around, his face contorted with fury. "AND WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO, OH WISE MAGISTER? SIT BACK AND ACCEPT OUR FATE?"
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Ober takes another sip of tea, his eyes never leaving the crowd. "Whatever I could even do to help you and you’re not taking them. Save your face, you’d hope to when they start appealing their votes."
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"You're insane," Horney hisses, slumping against the opposite side of the cage. "AS IF THESE BARBARIANS CAN JOIN IN ANY POLITICS OR UNDERSTAND ANY OF OUR KINGDOMS! WE'RE GOING TO DIE HERE, AND IT WILL BE ALL YOUR FAULT."
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Ober merely shrugs, refilling his cup with a wave of his hand. As the barbarians' laughter echoes through the camp, he settles in, not minding this free long break after long weeks of invitations and preperations.
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