Aurelithae’s footsteps gradually faded into the distance, further muffled by the melding door, the thick wall and the retreating darkness. “Went better than I expected.” Naghig spoke up first out of the three, his arms atop the long table, framing the plate filled with the remnants of the lamb’s leg. Its bones cleanly chewed of any sinew, meat, specks of the bread forming a frame as he neatly placed them in the center.

  Mirayroth himself felt the same, the weight that remained after their talk when she returned finally dropped completely. The only thing which weighted upon him were the three heads of the Circles of Dhaekenia, Mhaugreus and Daemeiorvoth. The three did deliver on their end of the deal, though they failed to mention upon the dwarven guardian of the chest, though deep down he could not fault them wholly.

  “Have you contacted the three of them yet?” Grimslaukh sitting still turned at Mirayroth and questioned, though he expected Him to already know the answer.

  “Did, though they are a bit reluctant on the matter.” Mirayroth answered.

  “Can’t be helped, after Dumath’s little improvisation.” He lifted a cup towards his black and white mouth and sipped a little from the sweet beverage they brought for Aurelithae. A strange grimace manifested upon his face.

  “Is there anything else?” Naghig asked in his waning patience, already thirsting for a keg or cup filled to the edges with mead, wine or beer.

  Mirayroth remained silent, staring towards the encroaching darkness where Aurelithae disappeared. After a little pondering, turned towards Grimslaukh, staring into his dim eyes filled with the billowing stars. “Yes, could I ask for Ephraimur’s aid in the matters with the three heads of the Circles?”

  At first, he expected rejection when Grimslaukh remained silent, his long and blackened fingers furled over his umbral encrusted sharp chin, his dark gaze dewed the floor before in the company of an astral draught, turned at Mirayroth. “I believe it is possible. He shall aid in your meeting, though of course not in presence.” One step taken, Grimslaukh appeared before him, his right hand raised and passing through the mask and hood. A pleasant twinging elevated his mood in tandem of sensing another mind adjoining his momentarily.

  Before him, Ephraimur materialized out of the shadows, bowing courteously to Grimslaukh first, then Mirayroth. The black and blue folds of his long, layered robe dangled whilst the mask’s listless expression paired well with his usual, emotionless, calm voice. “What service of mine you shall need, Brother Mirayroth?” He asked in his soothing, low voice traversing the folds of space into his mind.

  “I shall have a meeting with three prominent members of the Order, willing to aid in our cause. But I still have doubts I wish to be rid of by knowing their thoughts.” He answered. Transferring his thoughts felt like prickly fingers tingling the cerebral folds within his skull. Pleasant, yet unnerving. Ephraimur bowed his head light.

  “That should conclude our business. Naghig you are free to go to cease your thirst.” At Grimslaukh word’s Naghig wasted no time, he jaunted into the darkness, remaining stoic even as the walls parted beyond themselves as the orkh returned to the Drunken Sphinx.

  Then he turned towards Mirayroth with a furtive smile. “And I wish you all the best my friend.” Mirayroth sat alone at the table with his own occupant of his own mind, after Grimslaukh decayed into an inky black mist swallowed by the blackness surrounding the room. With a sigh he arose wishing nothing more than to rest rather than deal with those three. Especially the one idolizing Chaos.

  *****

  Mirayroth halted before the towering establishment in the upper districts where the wealthiest amongst the people resided in their own meager palaces. Unlike the lower districts, which were uniformly of white, alabaster marble, the wealthiest erected their abodes from a variety of polished stones. Lining the streets were mansions of stalactite brought directly from Draemons’ belly, the multicolored limestone of the far-southern provinces, and even a few buildings of oaken and blackwood.

  Without a word, Ephraimur veiled Mirayroth in a great spell. The few patrolling custodians passing by did notice him for a mere second. They reached for their weapons, the air around them stirred as the unseen particles thronged, hoping to manifest into binding spells. Then vanished in the next moment, their countenances dropped their hostile expressions for a friendlier, more genial. They curtseyed towards Mirayroth, then passed on their way. He could not help, but marvel at the spell, the skill of Ephraimur.

  “Quite the humble abode for such high personages.” Ephraimur commented as Mirayroth stopped before the looming gate, which bars resembled twisted, thin bones. On the soft arch of a black metal bar, the painted and veiled visage of Dhaekenia gazed down at him. Beyond it laid what unlike his aide, he found lavish for his taste, and for one worshipping the solemn mistress of the dead.

  In the center of the meager demesne, the manor arose with its graying alabaster walls of rough texture, a fusion of marble and dark stalactite brought from the far-north’s dreaded mountain. Amidst its somber walls, windows set deep in the embrasures with frames fashioned after veils released warm lights into the darkness of the night. The roof slanted on either sides, and made in the strange, malleable but frozen style of certain northern mansions.

  Folds of marble loomed over each other, their surface covered in tiles sculpted after the scales of mighty dragons, painted in the purplish shade of approaching night, drinking in the silvery-white light of the Lunarius. On the bottom, the first floor hung elevated above ground, an oblong verandah carved into the structure with wooden flooring, five square columns holding at the edges, connected by marble balustrade and decorated with the slim, thinning forms of haunting maidens. Five of Dhaekenia’s servitors.

  A few guards of their respective circles guarded the premises; Dhaekenia’s wearing their distinctly funereal Toga-Coats, a draping, layered piece with the inner elegant, thick velvety piece with upright inclining shoulders, narrow sleeves of pale white contrasting the black piece, a high collar framing their whole neck tightly, a pale mask of a haunting beauty, half covered by a veil, and a voluminous hood draped over it; Mhaegreus’s Circle, nearly the same except they wore grey with teal blue sleeves, a mask of three faces, three ages veiled their visages.

  Lastly a few of Daemeiorvoth’s stood near the entrance, draped in multicolored toga-coats, even the materials appeared mismatched, ranging from the finest silken or velvet to the dullest linen or wool.

  “I can see why you possess reservations towards the Septarch-Maghistratos of the Son of Chaos. His taste is horrible.” Ephraimur could not help himself, and silently Mirayroth agreed, though his dislike was more towards his incalculable nature.

  Grimslaukh would have advised against seeking his aid, if he trusted not Falerius, the Mad Magus whose title was widely known across the Empire, and no one really knew why Terrianis or Angura allowed him to hold his position for nearly five decades.

  Not a single one of the guarding magusos spotted Mirayroth standing still as a pale white and black statue upon the wall. Not a single one heard his arrival upon the gravelly road, the ascent of dust and the pebbles be disturbed by the mild gust awakened by his soles. They seen only one of their own, who stood there in guard ever since their shift began two or three hours before.

  Mirayroth wasted no time, made his way across the long, winding road towards the yard encircling the mansion, where the mesmerizing form of the Solemn Shepherd stood weeping, hewn from marble and the black stalctites of Dhaugruz. The latter constituting the dark veil and many of its refined folds, the flowing funereal gown she wore upon visitation of those upon the precipice of passing.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  He still remembered the deathly coldness seeping from those ancient stalactites, the nightly shades they shimmered over their heads whilst their hearts beaten with a mild sense of dread. The same colorful mist arose from the frugal bosom, though this time there were no whispers only those on the precipice of doom could hear. Instead, he heard Ephraimur complementing the marvel’s creator and their erudite hands crafting the haunting beauty of Dhaekenia herself, the sorrow on her lips and eyes forever marred on by the loss of his dear Father.

  “They are awaiting. The two of Dusk unhappy regarding the theft, the heist. They fear it was a sloppy job, that may compromise them.” Mirayroth inhaled the soothing chill air of the night. His mild woes dwindled upon opening his lids.

  “That is what they are worrying about? Not the investigation into the murder of their fellow Sister who wished dead as soon as possible?” He asked sardonically as he neared towards the mansion.

  “That ails the mind of Verecunira. Seems she had a meeting and questioning with Angura himself.” Ephraimur’s psychic projection appeared to be waiting at the door on the verandah, ponderingly staring at the floor. “It may be bold of me, but if it aids our cause, I could do something about it.”

  “Thank you, my friend!” Mirayroth said in earnest. He expected their reactions, his were the same initially. But he shot down Ephraimur’s offer, knowing well Grimslaukh made sure not even Terrianis could pry anything relating to their plans out of their heads.

  Ephraimur’s projection phased through the ornated door. By the time Mirayroth reached it, it moaned slow upon opening, revealing a vast hall beyond and the thin figure draped in raven black silky robes, a translucent veil masking their face. Recognition burned in both her pallid violet eyes, her dark lips curled as a sepulchral sigh parted from them, accompanied by rosy breath.

  “They are waiting. Let me lead you!” An airy, light voice, gentle to his ears escaped from the confines of the dark and cascading veil, whilst her movements appeared quite ghastly as if she was betwixt life and death.

  On the black walls of the corridors, busts of the Dhaekenia’s chosen stared coldly at him, and for a moment he stumbled in his marching. Before him, Moirstyria marble bust stared back at her. Not a single speck of her left out. Not her silky pale complexion, the dark scales nor the hair tumbling down onto her stalwart shoulders, the languorous kindness brimmed in the hewn eyes flooding his minds of the passionate nights.

  “The famed Moirstyria. Heard my mother regaled to us each night how she slain the hydra of Thargalead two centuries ago.” A mirthless smile formed under his mask as he recalled the events. The long days spent tracking the beast across the golden and scarlet meadows, the roar of the beast nine heads echoing through the cavern near the lake. But he remained silent as they recommenced their walk.

  “Dear to you was she?” Ephraimur asked, gliding abreast. “Though pardon me as I could not help but peer into your fascinating mind, I shall wipe all that I learnt on this serene night about you, my brother in shadows.” Mirayroth spoke nor transmitted an answer. A little guilt he sensed coming through the channel, but ignored it as the vhouromancer apologized silently. Seldom like in the present, Mirayroth wished he would have never met her, to be free from the shackles of love.

  At last, they arrived before the door where she stepped in first announcing the arrival of the visitor, then made way for Mirayroth who stepped into a quite spacious room frugally furnished with four seats with thick, curving frames like the crescent moons of the old worlds.

  Entering his eyes fallen upon the four, sitting in their padded seats with wooden frames and flat legs elevating each lavish piece. They appeared quite tired, even Falerius, the Mad Magus, once clearly a truscian, now a tangram of a mortal being assembled from the parts of multiple beasts, suffused almost seamlessly. Almost.

  His once aquiline nose with gentle curves, now a grayish-yellow beak of a gryphon, gleaming softly under the warm candlelight. Eyes asymmetrical in volume, the right serpentine, belonging to a fledgling wyvern, the left bulging and of a cyclops’s. Mouth round and hideous, clearly of a worm’s, arrayed with translucent teeth within the tapering, soggy interior. Hair no longer silken, yet retained the rich blackness, though presently its strands were sleeping serpents, a gorgon’s hair. From the dreaming masses, two horns curved afront, the horns of a minotaur with sharpened tips, the ivory surface etched with a variety of runes.

  His shoulders like his eyes, unequal in length and constitution. The left covered in oily black, yellow and red scales of either a dragon or one of their pet projects, the right covered in a hoary layer, whilst the flesh beneath carried the faint tint of ice, slanted long making his movements awkward along his legs. One leg a taut cluster of feelers, tentacles. The other once belonged to some avian beast cast down from the skies, barred from ever soaring it by some higher being. Large chitinous plates lined his arms, from the gaps fur protruded similar to certain giant spiders living on the borders of the southern provinces. The flesh itself beneath appeared cadaverous, making him think if it belonged to some nekros or undeadesque being.

  Compared to the other two, Falerius wore nothing but a girdle bearing the sigil of his lord, a disk of many, chaotically shifting shades embossed with ten arrows pointing outwards. “Ah friend Mirayroth! It is a pleasure to see you!” His voice boomed through the room, clearly annoying the other two who preferred silence or at least something close to it.

  “This one’s thoughts are all over the place.” Ephraimur projected into his mind. “But strange as it may sound, you can still place your trust in him.”

  “Keep it low Falerius. You can never know when the walls listen.” Verecunira, the niuvhen Septarch-Magistratos in the gray and cerulean robes tailored in the same silhouette of a kimono as Mirayroth’s white and black robes spoke up next in her deep, raspy voice. Her teal blue eyes with dark frames stared inquisitively at him, a friendly smile curved upon her pale silver lips dewed by the warm, bitter tea.

  Ephraimur maintained silence, aware it was Verecunira who smuggled Mirayroth into the capital decades ago, and even now she aided the schemes of the Night in Phyrgos. “That one has some doubts lingering in his mind. Would you wish me to expunge them?” He pointed at the Szeakrin in the dark garbs of the Dhaekriost Circle, the owner of their meeting place, Septarch-Magistratos Pontidius. He sat in a deep, almost meditative silence staring at the crackling pale fire dancing in the hearth.

  “Won’t be necessary. He is well aware of Grimslaukh, fear shall smother those seeds in time.” Mirayroth shook Falerius’s taloned right hand, then ventured forth into the room. The rest of their adjutants glided out without uttering a word. He approached the lone chair, placed himself whilst the other three watched, each in their respective manners. A little, his back shivered from the bulging cyclopean eye of Falerius, but Pontidius’s gaze bothered him more until the merkiin at last voiced his woes out.

  “I expected better from your ilk Mirayroth!” His tone outwardly appeared calm, but Mirayroth sensed fear lurking at the end of each word. The merkiin sighed. “Was the death of the dwarf necessary? Especially in such a brutal, savage method?”

  “It wasn’t.” Mirayroth stated it laconically. “And I apologize for this small mishap. But fear not my friend,” He relapsed into silence, accentuating the last two words, mimicking Grimslaukh with small success. “Our agents amongst the custodians made sure any trail won’t lead back to you.” A lie, small but seemingly effective.

  “I have no doubt about that.” Verecunira gazed not at him, but at the merkiin. “But we came here not to discuss such trivial matters. The time to pay our due is nigh.” Falerius nodded, a strange gurgling sound came from his hideous maw.

  A yielding expression appeared on Pontidius’s visage, a sigh escaped him whilst his attention focused on the Lunarius, searching for something. “We shall provide entrance to the Nexus Chamber. I pray the one you call Ephraimur is as skilled a Vhouromancer as you claim.”

  “I am.” Pontidius nearly leapt out from his chair, whilst the other two remained seated, Falerius chuckled, Verecunira stared unamused. Ephraimur bowed before all three, recalling the little formal teaching the Laneas House provided for him before they threw him down into the Umbral Vaults. “I have enchanted the minds of greater beings of the far distant realms of Yuggoth. Controlling the feeble-minded citizens of the capital shall prove no challenge, nor will the Disciples of Septurrion will notice which shall be taken from them.”

  “Are you satisfied?” Mirayroth questioned in a calm voice, smirking beneath his mask. He liked not the merkiin, though for a trivial reason, as he knew in his heart, Moirstyria would be a greater representative of Dhaekenia. He lacked the ghastly eloquence she possessed, clearly knew more about the true nature of the Solemn Shepherd and her brother-husband. Trivial reasons all together, as he shall serve his purpose in the coming days, weeks and months.

  “I am.” Pontidius answered, choking the dissatisfaction of another unlocking his mind. A feeling the other two seemed accustomed to.

  “We all are. But still, if possible I’d like to beseech your aid a little more in matters brewing in Phyrgos.” Verecunira said. Ephraimur looked at Mirayroth who nodded.

  “If it shan’t take long, I’ll gladly be of service my lady!” Ephraimur bowed.