The Golden Queen

Tuesday, 12:24PM
Sub-Level H: Invisum Conservavit

Footsteps echoed loud long before they reached the two Knights on duty on Level H. Both had taken over the posts from their brethren who were knocked out by the Warlock; both had been fully briefed by those same Knights, and that brief was why four more of them had been stationed in Cell 04. Neither Knight reacted to the approaching footsteps; they knew full well that the Warden was coming for one--perhaps last--visit to the Warlock.

Three hours earlier...

Penelope and Victor Gorbachev seemed far from related, but that old clan's blood ran strong in them both. Both now stood over the mangled, naked corpse and neatly piled possessions of the former Brent Gorbachev. Moira had chosen a layered dressed lined with silver to meet with the Gorbachev representatives; a freshly-rested Sir Krieg remained in his old uniform, but this time “casually” carried a rifle along with his dress sword. Both had expected some manner of decorum as the first representatives to arrive since the “incident.” Both were wrong.

Penelope, in her early thirties as she was, was petite and young-looking to the point that made her seem more fitting at the Academy than whatever foster home for Gorbachev children she probably ran. Her caramel skin seemed barely touched by the sun or else was contrasted so strongly by her gothic wear as to make her seem a shut-in. Silver crosses and massive necklaces were organized in growing circles until all her neck and most of her upper-chest and shoulders glittered. Beneath the lip of silver, a modest chest was trying to escape a black lace top through which her pierced nipples gleamed. Round, black shades hid her intent as she handled the only weapon--a revolver--found on the corpse of their Unhallowed brother. Despite being indoors, and in the cellar temporarily serving as a mortician's office, she refused to remove her wide-brimmed summer hat (also in black, like every other bit of clothing on her) or at least remove the fake black leaves sprouting from between the hat and her straightened hair. On her fingertip, a discrete and tiny Eye opened as she floated her hand over the barrel and chamber of the MP-412 PEKC. "This is... one... no, each bullet: the Eye of An-a-theeeema," she softly sang, "the strange but accuuursed, polarizing and absuuurded."

"Yeah, no shit," Victor replied with an overt and dated English accent, "but what does it do- you know what, no, don't answer." Though it surely raised questions or accusations, Victor Gorbachev did, or perhaps chose to, look exactly like a slightly aged rendition of 1970's Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols... if Mr. Vicious had ever bothered to wear a white turtleneck and jeans… and wasn’t long reported dead. The striking resemblance was lost on Moira, but Sir Krieg had at least enough memory of English music legends from his youth to have been stunned by the man's appearance at the front gate. He didn't dare mention it or why this appearance, of that famous, baby-faced heroin addict now long dead, should have been notable. He quickly chalked it up to Gorbachev sorcery; he, and certainly Lord Brighton, could not well accept that Sid Vicious was alive and a secret Gorbachev.

"It touches naught but flesh and bone, to wound sinful daughter alone," she explained regardless, still refusing to break from her musical delivery.

"Have you ever shot a gun?" A pause... and Penelope simply offered the gun's handle to Victor who, with a grumble, carefully took the holster from the ruined, bloody pile of clothes and began to strap it on. "Alright... so a deal's a deal, right? We keep watch, and Tricia Gorbachev is ours to take, dead or alive."

Moira nodded; she questioned the wisdom of the trade, but Laksha's brash action had **** her father's hand at the negotiating table. "You'll be stationed in the mansion across from here; it is a front for more of our officers and mages and will allow your quick response-"

"Whoa whoa, time out," Victor interjected, surprising Sir Krieg and the Warden both, "I appreciate it, but this maniac is coming here, right?” He pointed two exaggerated fingers down to the floor. “This is where the mage she wants is being kept, right?"

Sir Krieg nearly spoke out of turn as his rage bubbled, but too many years of discipline kept him on a short leash. To his surprise, Moira kept her calm. "It is, but we cannot house you here in the home of our operations."

Victor opened his mouth to continue his debate when his involuntary partner suddenly chimed in, "That is fine, acceptable, and advantaaageous, for with us oh so very near, she cannot be dangeeeeerous."

"We didn't need to give them ground on this-"

Penelope let her sunglasses fall slightly down the bridge of her nose... and cold eyes peeked out from under shadows unnaturally cast. "Near enough, brother true, but authority is not for you."

Moira’s eyebrow twitched as Victor’s demeanor melted into something closer to a freshly switched child. "... Fuck, f-fine...” He pointed another finger at Moira. “But the moment we need to come in, your guards better listen!"

Frustrated by this odd pair, Moira gave them a curt nod. "Until the threat is neutralized, and if for good reason... of course." Moira looked to the mangled body on the slab, still wet and preserved by Hospitaler magic. "Will you require transport for the body?"

Instead of answering, Penelope scooped up the bloody rags and effects of Brent and tossed them over the body. Victor then pulled his sleeve up and, without warning, spawned four unfamiliar Eyes: bulbous, gray, and dry like bone, each sported a ridged, conical hole where an iris might normally be. For a moment, the Eyes appeared to do nothing as they looked upon the corpse. Sir Krieg, alarmed, gripped his sidearm... and kept his hand there when Brent's corpse and possessions began to vibrate. The image of the body began to blur as it continued to violently shake at some near-ultrasonic frequency until the body was almost a smudge in reality. No one moved or said anything as the body began to shrink and disintegrate into a smaller, gray blur. A thin mist of red began to rise up from where the corpse was transforming, and even those particles seemed to vanish. When the Eyes finally closed, all that remained of Brent Gorbachev's mangled body was a fine, pulverized ash.

"If you can spare a fucking vase, that'd do us fine I think," Victor offered with a grin.

Steel plate, worn from neck to boot and gilded in blooming golden roses, shimmered under the overhead lighting. A red sash, pinned near the shoulder with the golden shield brooch of this warrior’s station, flowed as she marched. She wore no helm; her dark crimson locks were a trail of hellfire left by hardened eyes of ice. Her grim demeanor gave the young woman an oppressive air, and her growing halo of light did nothing to lessen the same. The mouth of the hall neared. Her left hand rested uncomfortably on the pointed basket hilt of her father’s relic blade.

But her anger was not for the one she approached… but for the ones she left behind. Had she been misled? Would her sole parent in this world really lie to her about something so fundamental? She felt guilty for even thinking it; her maimed father’s image floated up from fresh memories.

Fourteen hours earlier...

Old, wrinkled eyelids eased open... and a moment of confusion passed before their owner realized that he was still alive. He scanned the room with obvious worry; his beloved daughter, his Warden, rose from where she sat and rushed to his left side. “Father, I’m here!”

Lord Brighton smiled as he reached for her hand at his bedside... but only one of the intended hands rose to grip hers. The rest of the guest bedchamber, once again serving as an impromptu hospital room, came into focus as he glanced at the clock. Lord Brighton intensified his smile to hide the shock; he remembered it all now: the scurry of his Hospitalers, the horror of his daughter, and the new height of pain delivered by the fiend he beat back into its cell. He remembered what it cost. But his daughter was here; all might yet be well. “The men need you,” Lord Brighton managed in a voice more feeble than he had ever let her hear. Moira cried fresh streams of tears as she squeezed his only hand with hers. “I’m not dying in a God-forsaken bed, Moira; go. Ensure that our defenses are ready. I will recover.”

Moira could not look at her father without seeing and remembering it all. They had arrived in time, with Laksha getting to him first. Naked as the day she was born, and a poor student of the prayers and magic of the Lady, she had still managed to stabilize both men by the time Moira had fought her way through a hallway choked with the Order loyal. She had seen the newfound evil at work with her own eyes: her father’s arm, rotted and mangled, had been amputated under the auspices of healing until only the fresh stump had remained. A Hospitaler leaned in to Moira; perhaps too coarsely, he admitted this was their third attempt. Moira shoved the healers aside and kissed the Lady’s prayer onto her father’s forehead. The divine healing passed through her lips as she kissed that clammy flesh, and she watched as new flesh swelled and grew from the stump with the miraculous power of their goddess... yet incomplete. Everywhere the rot had touched, whatever that rot from John had truly been, refused to regrow.

The light subsided, and the mutilated, bleeding meat of what flesh was allowed to return began to drain him anew. The Lady could not return what John had taken.

Moira squeezed her eyes shut to stop recalling, but opening them anew naturally made them drift to the flat spot in the sheets near her father’s right shoulder. Some of the spell had nearly reached even there; a bit further, and perhaps John would have doomed so much more than just an arm.

Moira marched past her saluting Knights and ignored every row of cells save the last to her left. The giant “04” at the end of the hall greeted her anew, but this time, at least, she thought there might be a hope of finding a clearer answer, some better way.

The massive, bolt-secured door opened as she approached. With a hiss the wall of steel slid away... and inside were the first hints that Laksha spoke the truth.

Ten minutes ago...

“I was set to hold my tongue until now, love,” Laksha sighed, “but if I have to be frank: I’m a bit skeptical about you being alone with him.”

The two stood before the staircase leading down from the manor when Moira had suddenly made her demand. All around them, the additional patrols of Knights and the uneasy steps of the civilian help carried on as they nervously awaited some kind of unprecedented ****. Reginald was nowhere to be seen, no doubt on special orders from her father. Moira felt neither the right nor the need to correct them.

Both Wardens were now properly dressed; Laksha had new, bronze-forged plate in the same style as before, meaning too loose and too obviously without a Vow Keeper as the plates occasionally parted to show the cleft of her crotch against spandex panties. Moira’s armor, apparently fitted for some future ceremony and battle ready, was broken out of the family vault upon her father’s orders. She was truly a Warden now, he surmised; she ought to be dressed as one.

How bitterly she might have answered that charge before the events of yesterday. Instead, she wore it proudly; it was in these layers of steel and gold that she managed the tactical meetings with her Knights and patrolled her own home like a guard all night. Laksha was well-rested, if concerned; Moira had shadows under her eyes and clear irritation at Laksha’s demeanor.

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Moira coldly clarified, “but a demand... from your fellow Warden and the one currently in charge of this house.” Laksha was clearly unimpressed with Moira’s authority. The Shield Warden sighed, “I need to talk to him... but I also need at least one of us here to fight whatever comes to try and save him, and they’ll probably do it thinking you’re not here. If you’re here to surprise them, then... I just... please.” Her words came softer as she pleaded, “Stand guard against the attack... and maybe I can convince John to not have this attack at all.”

“You let the Confessors have him, didn’t you?” Laksha muttered. “Some even came in from out of town in the middle of the night.”

Moira hadn’t been too surprised by that. She had not slept as she worked through the paperwork, communications, and tactical meetings with her Knights, Hospitalers, and Confessors. She had left the **** John in the care of the Confessors, in the hopes that they could convince him as she had not. Her father approved; he had already sent one before, and John had clearly been no worse for wear. When her father welcomed more expertise, she did not deny him.

“I hoped they could convince him.”

Laksha shook her head. “Remind me to never let you fall in love with me, love, because you’ve a cruel way of showing it. Even if he’s a baddie, he’s probably not bad enough to deserve ****.”

Laksha’s words now visibly shook the Shield Warden. Her, too? “They’re not torturers! At least not here. My father has assured that they refrain from the inhumane practices of the old days.”

Laksha blinked at Moira. “Did… did he tell you that, then?”

“Of course,” Moira nodded, “and I knew his words were true.”

“Ah… exactly that, then?”

“What?”

“That all they stopped doing was the ‘old’ horribleness?”

Moira stared at Laksha… and she shook her head softly without denial.

“Well, at least they’re not the spiteful type,” Laksha sighed.

“W-Why would they be?”

“That was sarcasm, love... of course they’re the spiteful type. I try not to involve them in anything if I can help it; the Confessors in India can’t hold a candle to all those old evil English cranks you brought over here, but it’s all too risky.”

“They’re...” Laksha wasn’t lying, either. But the Lady did not disprove the phenomenon being described; perhaps Laksha was exaggerating? “Then that’s all the more reason for me to see him myself.”

“Well, what’s left of him after this many hours of Confessor work-”

“Stop it!” Laksha raised an eyebrow at the shrieking Brighton who, with her steel gauntlets, covered her mouth in shame. Moira continued softly, “I... I couldn’t let things keep going like this. He's probably still coordinating some attack on us. I just wanted them to try and convince him to end this war of his... I didn’t... they don’t really… I mean… not to someone like John, right?”

Laksha’s frown turned to a scowl... though she wouldn’t admit it was more for Moira’s education than the poor Warden herself. “I’m not judging, love… at least I’m not trying to; I’m trying to say that if they couldn’t get him to cooperate, and you already tried before...”

“... then it's probably a lost cause, I know.” Moira sighed as she struggled with her muddled thoughts. “But I love him... and I need him to know that I also still love and want to protect the Order, even against people trying to help him." Moira's armor clattered slightly; Laksha stiffened as she realized her sister-in-arms was shaking.

Skepticism reigned over the Spear Warden’s brow as she considered her fellow’s words. “He cursed your father and took his arm. He’s hiding a Cabalist. He allegedly trashed the traditions of the Order... though sometimes, I can understand that last part.”

Moira grimaced at that.

“Point is,” Laksha insisted, “his fat meaty pipework aside—and love, I don’t blame you for wanting it, because Lady help me when I saw it!—he’s got all the makings of a baddie... and the Lady might be quiet in judging him, but I’m not. If I’m being honest, I’m not seeing much reason to see good in him right now... except, well- I mean, did you know he learned some spell that enslaves people?”

“He... enslaves monsters, and apparently one mage who merged with one...” But would I be surprised if he also took a human? The thought sickened her.

“Aye. That Hospitaler he knocked up said as much, but he spared her the disgrace... which frankly is the only good deed I've heard or seen of him (again, his huge How-Do-You-Do aside). Apparently, he struggled to keep her 'thinking selfishly' as the poor girl put it, but he could've just enslaved her and been done with it. He might’ve even beaten your dad something worse if she hadn’t interfered... so at least he’s capable of restraint, but that alone isn’t very…”

Moira nodded... and her nods slowed as her eyes widened. “What... what do you mean by... ‘knocked up’?”

“Knocked up, love, you know: bun in the oven, bat in the cave, prince in the fort, harboring a fugitive?”

“You-“

“She’s up the spout in the pudding club, up the duff with a pea in the pod... you know, she’s late.”

“I didn’t-“

“She’s wearing the bustle wrong, she’s going to blow, and she’s eating for two, dear. ”

“...”

"She's got bacon in the drawer, she was stung by the serpent, took the long route home and came back with a friend, that is, she made a wrong turn at Fallopia Lane. She-" Laksha looked between the stairs and Moira. “... Oh. Right, you were busy, probably didn’t even read that report... well, if it’s any comfort, she's keeping it.” Laksha didn’t understand the look that came over Moira… but it was enough to snap the Shield Warden out of her panic attack long enough for her to head down.