Chapter Fourteen: A Sting from the Past
Written by Ethan
Finnegan stood frozen in front of the schoolhouse, tears welling as the muffled screams of his classmates echoed from within. He tried to step forward, but his eyes immediately began to burn from the fumes of the caustic, yellow substance that had overtaken the large wooden structure.
Before he could react, he felt strong hands pulling him away from the horrific scene as a group of villagers rushed towards the building. Endless buckets of water splashed against the gradually dissolving school, shouts of frustration and panic filling the air as the rescue efforts proved fruitless.
He looked down at the package of sweet rolls he’d stopped to pick up on his way that morning, a gift he’d hoped to share with his peers to celebrate the end of their last year in primary school. Staring ahead blankly, he let the paper bag fall from his fingers, its contents spilling across the worn, cobblestone road.
Movement from the front of the school drew his attention, its robust wooden door swinging open slowly before snapping off at the upper hinge and landing with a loud boom on the ground. A lone figure hobbled forward from within, their gate labored yet deliberate. As the figure moved out into the light, the hushed crowd suddenly erupted with screams and cries, a few people stumbling backwards and vomiting, while others simply fainted.
Finnegan stepped forward, unfazed by the crowd’s reaction and moving as if his body was controlled by an outside force. As he drew near, he immediately recognized who’d just stumbled out from within the school, and understood the reaction of the crowd.
A boy stood alone on the sidewalk, his quivering body stained yellow and steaming from the otherworldly substance that slowly chewed through his clothing and skin. He looked up, making eye contact with Finnegan, and began shambling towards him, flesh sloughing off of his limbs with every step.
“Brannon…” Finnegan mouthed as his younger brother stepped forward, stopping less than a foot away.
“Remember me Finn, remember what they did to me...remember what they’ll do to us all!”
Brannon’s mouth didn’t quite align with the words that spilled out of it, nor did his voice sound as it should, as if an amateur ventriloquist was puppeteering the boy. They had a dry hollowness that scratched at Finnegan’s mind, each syllable crunching like dried leaves on a hot day.
Without warning, Brannon lurched forward and placed his right hand squarely on Finnegan’s chest, his glassy stare trained intently on Finnegan’s eyes.
“Remember Finn, remember what they can do with their power. They are all the same.”
Finnegan screamed as his brother’s hand melted through his school uniform and into the subcutaneous layer of his skin. The initial pain was followed by a fiery sensation coursing through his veins, his mind suddenly awash with seething anger that felt both foreign and familiar at the same time. His vision flashed and he felt himself begin to fade into another world, the sting of his brother’s touch dissipating as a comforting chill slowly took over.
“Remember Finn…remember what they did to me…”
Finnegan practically leapt off the animal hide bed roll as he awoke from the nightmare, his body drenched in sweat despite the chilly temperature of the underground chamber where he slept. At first, he didn’t recognize his surroundings, the impact of the dream scrambling his memory. As his bionic eyes adjusted to the darkness, Finnegan began to piece together where he was and why. He recalled the massive battle he’d only barely survived two days prior and the discovery of the Irapa’s underground habitat, the small village above the surface a decoy to throw off those with more curiosity than sense.
Though the shaman had not wanted to delay their mission to face off against Värlof, he and Finnegan were both weakened by previous encounters with the demon and in no condition for another fight. A few days' rest were deemed necessary, even though it would have been optimal to strike immediately, while Värlof was also weakened. Its battle with the Vist surely left it in need of recovery time as well, its ability to absorb the purple smoke providing diminishing returns due to the intensity of the battle.
Finnegan had all but passed out the moment his head hit the firm bed roll that had been laid out for him by the Irapa assigned to be his bunk mate, a young man named Horran. Despite the generally warm welcome he’d received, the Irapa were not quite ready to allow Finnegan free reign within their walls. Horran’s job was to assist Finnegan where he could, but primarily he was there to monitor the battered soldier.
Despite being fully awake, the pain across his chest was still present. He pulled his shirt down to investigate and was shocked to discover that the wound Jartow healed had reopened, his flesh once again branded by Laureena’s demonic host.
The dream flashed through his mind again. Years had passed since he’d last had it, yet somehow he knew that this time it was different than before. He’d re-lived his brother’s death hundreds of times, the horrific scene so vivid in his memory that he could describe every sight, smell, and sound as if he was seeing it live. Yet, in every dream before, he was always stopped short of rushing forward and embracing Brannon, never making it far enough to touch or talk to his brother before he died.
The latest iteration was far more visceral, and without the usual haze that made dreams difficult to recall. The last few moments of the nightmare - Brannon stumbling out, speaking and placing his hand on Finnegan’s chest - were completely new to the sequence, and Finnegan was sure they hadn’t occurred in reality either.
“Remember Finn…remember what they did to me…”
No matter how difficult Finnegan’s life had become after that point, nothing could measure up to witnessing his brother’s last moments. Yet somehow he now felt as if he wasn’t remembering Brannon’s fate intensely enough. The visions and feelings that used to keep him awake for days on end were eventually muffled by decades of life. He’d considered that moving on; it seemed healthy not to dwell on the past. But the dream of his brother’s death returning again uprooted something Finnegan had stashed away, something that years of training and discipline had kept under control. Whereas before Finnegan awoke from the dream memory feeling sad and distressed, the new version filled him with a kind of anger he hadn’t felt since he was a young man.
The vitriol felt intentional, like the propaganda they were shown during basic training: slices of day-to-day life flavored by the fear that it could all be taken away in an instant. Was this blatant attempt to stoke his anger coming directly from Värlof?
Finnegan looked down at his chest again and saw the outline of the fire projection’s hand glowing slightly, thrumming in parallel with the emotional buildup within his mind. He’d assumed that the demonic entity was merely trying to kill him in their last encounter, but as he sat there struggling to hold his emotions together, he realized that he too was becoming an unwilling participant in Värlof’s chaos.
“Not going to be that easy you bastard,” Finnegan mumbled to himself, unsure how his escalating anger was supposed to factor into Värlof’s plan. Tapping into the memories of his brother - however Värlof was able to do so - was deliberate, and until Finnegan understood what that purpose was, he was a wild card.
Finnegan and his brother had enjoyed an ideal childhood in a small village called Denston, just outside the fortified walls of the Capital’s main hub. Their mother was a successful merchant and their father a well-respected doctor known throughout the Central Isles. As such, neither boy ever had much to worry about, outside of finding ways to impress their friends and the girls they fancied.
Being born into privilege, Finnegan and Brannon were unaware of just how difficult things could be for others, especially those who lived on the outskirts of Denston, an impoverished area referred to as the Denston Dregs. They rarely interacted with the folks who lived there, until the government decided to combine the two schools in Denston in order to provide a better education for the less fortunate.
“How appalling!” his mother had exclaimed when she heard the news. “We pay more taxes than all of those people combined, and yet they still get the same benefits. Marcus, you must speak with the superintendent immediately!”
“Now, now Margo, perhaps this will be good for those children. An educated poor person is less likely to become a criminal, and you know how bad the crime has gotten lately. Why, just last week Robert told me about his sister’s husband’s best friend talking to someone who’d been mugged just outside of their home.”
“Well, I won’t allow our boys to associate with such people…we’ve worked too hard to have them lumped in with indigents.”
As it usually does with children, the entitled attitudes of their parents wormed their way into the two boys’ minds, and Finnegan and Brannan made it a point to remind the children from the Dregs that they didn’t belong. It started with teasing and practical jokes but escalated quickly once the boys and their friends didn’t get the reaction they desired.
Their victim of choice was a small boy named Tu’ Kren, a refugee from a far-off island in the Outer Rings. He was a reserved boy, never speaking unless called on in class, and rarely looked up from reading the dusty old books he lugged around with him.
Brannon loved to antagonize Tu’ Kren because he knew the boy would never tell on him, and if he did, he knew that no one would believe him. While the Capital had grown quite diverse over the years, the majority of citizens there still snubbed their noses at foreign influence, especially the kind that landed on their shores.
On one occasion, Brannon had filled Tu’ Kren’s knapsack with animal droppings when he’d left to use the restroom. Upon returning and discovering the tasteless prank, Tu’ Kren’s face turned red for only a moment before he calmly walked over to an open window and emptied the pack's contents outside, then returned to his seat. If Brannon had understood anything about where Tu’ Kren lived before ending up in the Central Islands, he’d have known that the poor boy had dealt with much, much worse.
Despite their efforts to get a rise out of Tu’ Kren, the boy rarely emoted, preferring instead to pick himself up, dust himself off, and walk away. Finnegan eventually lost interest, but Brannon had grown obsessed with the bullying, as if it was a mark of honor to get a reaction out of the poor boy.
“Why don’t you give it up, Brannon?” Finnegan had said on their walk home, a few days prior to the incident that took his brother's life.
“What? You know what mom said,” Brannon had responded. “The dreggies are taking stuff from us, we can’t just forget that.” He spit his wad of gum out onto the road, even though he walked right by a trash bin.
“Mom thinks that about everything. Just last week she accused the maid of stealing her perfume, but she’d just left it in the upstairs bathroom.”
“You are such a loser Finn. You don’t understand at all. He doesn’t react because he doesn’t respect us. Thinks he’s special or something because he came from that weird island. Well, I’m gonna make him respect us if it's the last thing I do.”
The following day, Brannon had stayed back at school instead of going home with Finnegan, claiming he had to ask the teacher a few questions about their final assignment for the year. When he finally arrived home that evening, he was holding a bulky canvas bag filled with rectangular objects, a wide smile plastered across his face.
He plopped the bag down on the table in their entry room and its contents spilled out onto the floor. Three thick, leather-bound tomes had tumbled out, the ornate decoration and undecipherable text on their covers making it clear where they’d come from.
“Oh man, you should have seen his face, Finn!” Brannon laughed. “Bawling like a little baby when he couldn’t find his stupid books. Ran off back to his little dirt house like a sad little rabbit. It was so funny.”
“Sure it was,” Finnegan had said, rolling his eyes. “You’re going to give them back, right?”
“I don’t know, they’re kind of cool. Look at all these weird pictures.”
Finnegan had looked through one of the books only briefly before growing unsettled. Even though he couldn’t actually read what it said, he knew instinctively that the illustrations and symbols in these pages depicted powers and concepts not intended for his eyes. Tu’ Kren came from a land whispered about in hushed tones, a location that was dangerously close to Vlyk itself. There was no telling what was contained in those books, and Finnegan didn’t intend to find out.
His cheeks burned hot as he watched his brother flip nonchalantly through the book, a look of idiotic bliss smeared across his face.
“You need to give them back Brannon!” Finnegan had shouted, slamming the book closed.
Brannon shot his brother a confused look, then laughed.
“Nah, I think I’ll keep them. He’ll get over it. I’m sure he has more.”
Something in the way Brannon responded had finally struck a nerve and Finnegan was across the room in a flash, grabbing his younger sibling by the collar of the shirt and forcing him against a wall.
“You need to give them back, or else!”
Brannon held his hands up, not wanting to endure the wrath of his older brother.
“Geez, ok, ok I will. It’s just a little joke! What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired of you being such a jerk. You need to grow up.”
“You’re one to talk - you started it. You were picking on those kids as much as I was.”
Finnegan tightened his grip on his brother’s shirt and pushed him harder into the wall. Brannon let out an audible yelp, a single tear flowing down his eye.
“Stop, you’re hurting me! I said I’d take the books back. Let me go!”
Finnegan dropped his brother and backed away, his heart still racing with adrenaline. He’d never laid his hands on his brother outside of the times they’d wrestled playfully in the yard, but in that moment he had felt like the force was necessary. His priority was to protect Brannon: from the world, and most importantly, from himself. If that meant roughing him up a little to get a point across, then so be it.
Brannon hurriedly gathered up the books and ran upstairs, slamming his door and not coming out for the rest of the evening. It would be the last time Finnegan saw him alive. Brannon left without him the following morning with the books in tow.
In the underground Irapa bunkhouse, Finnegan slowly sank back down into the sleeping mat, his chest aching as if Värlof had only momentarily pulled its flaming hand away. As the pain intensified, so did his anger, until he felt a fire burning in his mind that he was unsure he could put out.
Next to him, Horran slept peacefully, unaware that his bunkmate had awoken with such a fright. As Finnegan watched him, the features of Horran’s face appeared to melt away until there was nothing but blank flesh surrounded by long, braided hair. After a few moments, a nose, eyes, and mouth began to rise up from the empty canvas until a recognizable face emerged.
“Brannon…?” Finnegan mumbled as the boy's eyes opened and looked in his direction.
“Look at this man, Finn. He has power, power that can destroy people...destroy entire worlds. It’d be better for everyone if he didn’t exist…you’d feel better if he didn’t exist.”
Finnegan began to shake as the words resonated throughout his mind, the realization that his suffering could indeed be lessened if he did as he was told - did as he had in the past - before the Isos reintroduced balance back into his life.
Everyone who’d been caught inside the school that day died, their remains unable to be recovered until an Iso unit arrived and covered the area with avtimag bombs. Whole generations of families were wiped out in one fell swoop, both rich and poor alike. For the first time in years, they were united under a single banner: vengeance.
Still, not every student was killed during that horrific event. Two escaped the fate of their peers: Finnegan and Tu’ Kren, who’d apparently been kept home sick that day. When Finnegan had explained what had occurred with the books, the villagers quickly came to the conclusion that the quiet young refugee was to blame. Despite the authorities pleading with the parents that a proper investigation should occur, a mob formed and stormed the Dredges in search of the boy. Once they found him, they beat his family to death and hung the boy from a tree.
Upon searching the house, they discovered numerous books and scrolls and a wide variety of herbs and other ingredients meant for potions and other magical activities. It appeared to be the smoking gun, and the mob felt vindicated. At least until a local scholar reviewed the texts and discovered that Tu’ Kren’s family were actually healers, catering to those in the Dredges who could not afford medical care in the city. Those in Denston who had participated in the extrajudicial execution were sentenced to exile, Finnegan’s parents included, only furthering the familial destruction that had started with the senseless deaths of innocent children.
The true culprit was never discovered despite years of investigation. There were many theories and many suspects but nothing was ever settled concretely. Still, while Finnegan cared about the who, he was more concerned about the how. The type of power he witnessed at the schoolhouse - magic indiscriminately ravaging flesh and wood - didn’t belong in the world, and he decided that day that he would dedicate himself fully to ensuring something like that never happened again.
Kneeling down next to Horran, Finnegan watched as the man’s chest rose and fell with each breath. He knew what Brannon’s specter said was true, that killing the sleeping Irapa was the right thing to do. Yet, he also knew that he wouldn’t have even considered such an act a few days prior. He’d come to seek out the Irapa’s help, or at least he thought he had. Maybe he’d actually come with the opposite intention, and the Irapa themselves were pulling the wool over his eyes. Magi couldn’t be trusted, that’s what he had decided on the day his brother died. Why did he have a change of heart?
The pain in his chest swelled, flooding his mind with wrath. The urge to kill was becoming uncontrollable, to the point where it felt like Finnegan himself would die if the thirst went unquenched. But perhaps death was better than taking an innocent life. Horran was innocent, just like Tu’ Kren.
“You’ve grown soft Finn,” he heard a familiar voice say from the darkness behind him. He turned to see the skeletal figure of Brannon take shape from nothingness. A wave of sulfur coated Finnegan’s nose and mouth.
“You know the threat they pose, or at least you used to. Before the Isos brainwashed you, made you compromise, made you forget your vow to our family!”
“My vow never involved killing innocent people,” Finnegan said through gritted teeth, an intense, murderous rage threatening to contradict that statement at any moment.
“Are they innocent?” Brannon asked, stepping forward and placing his hand on Finnegan’s shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Finnegan responded, “but that’s why we exiled, and never killed unless absolutely necessary.”
“And was that the right decision?”
“I don’t know.” Finnegan hung his head as the words left his mouth. He was struggling to hold on. Whatever was influencing his mind seemed to be winning.
“You do know, you fool! The world as it stands today is evidence of that! Maybe things would be different if you didn’t stray from your path. If you didn’t take up the Iso mantle of balance and judgment, and instead took care of dangerous threats permanently.”
With his brother dead and his parents sent off to an unknown penal colony, Finnegan had been left alone with a vast fortune and a thirst for revenge. He hired the best tutors and trainers he could find, obsessed with learning how to seek out the Magi and the best ways to take them out.
He started in his hometown, rooting out Magi and giving them a choice between giving up their powers (achieved by consuming a solution of diluted avtimag material and a synthetic protein) or death. Few chose the latter, as the ever-increasing threat of exile already made most Magi fear using their magic in the first place. Those who were unwilling to give up their powers, however, met a quick and - to Finnegan - warranted end. Simply coveting otherworldly powers was guilt in his eyes, regardless of how those powers were used.
Finnegan’s success with vigilante justice was short-lived, his brashness growing with each successful hunt. With the vote on the Capital mandate looming, he’d assumed that his work would be celebrated, but the Capital was never a fan of citizens taking the law into their own hands, as evidenced by what had occurred in Denston. Finnegan’s home was raided by an Iso unit a few days before his twentieth birthday and he surrendered without a struggle.
On the eve of his exile, he was called from his cell unexpectedly and escorted to an office. Sitting at the end of a massive wooden table was then-Commander Ramden Grose and his second in command Lieutenant Jonas Caldwell.
Both men were grizzled veterans of the Capital military, placed in command of the Isos at a point in history where their power and influence would grow alongside the strengthening of the anti-Magi mandate. They were desperate for recruits, and not the simply former soldiers who already made up most of their ranks.
“We’re looking for individuals with unique skill sets,” Grose said, “not just the usual grunt that persists through a standard military career. I’m going to cut to the chase Finnegan: you can join us and use your abilities for good or hop on the next ship out to Vlyk.”
“They were going to send me to Vlyk? I’m not a Magi.”
“No, but it seemed fitting due to your extracurriculars…karmic if you believe in such things.”
“But, you know I’d try to kill them,’ Finnegan said, puffing out his chest.
“You wouldn’t last a day there,” Grose replied. “You’ve been fishing for guppies; that island is full of sharks. Join us though and the odds may swing in your favor.”
Finnegan agreed and was immediately sent to an undisclosed location for his training under the watchful eye of Caldwell. It was grueling and pushed him to his physical limits, but the way the Isos challenged his way of thinking was the most difficult adjustment. When it came time to learn how to operate modified magic weaponry, utilized in the most dire of situations, Finnegan flat-out refused. Despite endless laps, push-ups, and the threat of being washed out and sent to Vlyk, he was unable to accept that using magic, for any reason, was necessary.
One evening he was suddenly awoken by three men bursting into his bunk and grabbing him. He fought back, but was quickly overwhelmed and bound and a dark hood was placed over his head to obscure his vision. The men drug him through the barracks, eventually depositing him into a colossal enclosure that sat at the far end of their base.
When the hood was removed, he saw his captors were none other than Caldwell himself and two other cadets.
“I wish I could say I respected your stubbornness,” said Caldwell. “I too am a stubborn man. But we aren’t out here tracking down sweet little grandmas that can make plants grow faster and talk to animals. Our targets have power that makes that little school massacre of yours look like spilled milk. Our line of work requires a diverse tool box, and that means using a bit of magic here and there.” Caldwell pulled an intricately-designed revolver out of a holster on his hip.
He walked over to Finnegan and tried to hand him the weapon, but he refused.
“If this is what it takes to be an Iso, then send me to Vlyk. I won’t dishonor my family.”
Caldwell smiled and whispered an imperceptible phrase into the chamber before throwing the gun onto the ground at Finnegan’s feet.
“You don’t have that choice anymore, son. See, the three of us are going to lock you inside here for the night. And in about ten minutes, that big gate at the end of this enclosure is going to open up and release a pretty nasty beasty in here with you. In the morning, we’ll find out the true strength of your convictions.”
With that, Caldwell and the two cadets walked away without giving Finnegan another glance, their coldness making it clear that this was not the first time such an ultimatum had been presented to a new recruit.
When they arrived back at the pit the following morning, Finnegan sat calmly on the ground in front of the enclosure’s entrance. Behind him, a massive mantis-like insect the size of a horse lay dead, a gaping icy wound blasted through the lower half of its thorax.
Finnegan’s hesitancy to use magic didn’t subside immediately, and for years, he only turned to the revolver when absolutely necessary. But eventually, the necessity became a constant, and the weapon became his most trusted companion. Rumored to be possessed by the spirit of a Magi elementalist, the revolver could give bullets ice-like properties when a special incantation was spoken. Based on the user's needs, these bullets could either incapacitate subjects or tear massive, frozen wounds into their bodies, with any unnatural healing factors negated by the magical ice.
Finnegan wished he had his revolver then as he stood over Horran, the thought of exploding the Irapa’s head into frosty pieces giving him an unusual sense of peace. Unfortunately, the revolver was lost somewhere in the ruins of the Shaman’s lodge; he’d dropped it when Värlof had branded him. That just meant he’d have to appease his urges the old-fashioned way.
As he hovered over the sleeping Irapa’s neck with outstretched hands, the thought of taking the man’s life seemed to momentarily quell his pain. At this point, any relief he could find was the best he could hope for; the senseless pursuit of Värlof would surely end with his death. The prospect of dying was horrifying, and killing this Irapa Magi would keep him alive. Finnegan winced and his hands flinched back.
Since when did he fear death?
He’d thrown himself into countless perilous situations, never once being worried about his own demise. Not since he lost his family. Death to him had always felt like a reward, not a punishment. These thoughts were not his own.
Finnegan pulled his hands away and dropped backwards onto the floor, the impact making a sound loud enough to awaken Horran. The Irapa leapt to his feet in an instant, the startled look on his face quickly replaced by one of focus.
Horran closed his eyes and placed his right hand onto his temple and mouthed something that Finnegan didn’t quite catch. Seconds later, the Irapa opened his eyes, his sclera, pupils, and iris fused together into a blue pool of light that began to pulse rapidly.
“You fool!” Brannon’s specter shouted, its grip on the material world beginning to slip away. “You must kill them all! They are deceiving you!”
Brannon’s words made Finnegan’s chest seize with pain, the battle between his rational self and Värlof’s infection colliding like an earthquake deep within his core. Sweat dripped down his forehead as tried to force himself back to the ground, but his limbs suddenly felt numb.
Finnegan felt the room begin to spin, his vision dulling as the corruption within him surged. The thirst for death welled back up, dark thoughts trickling into his mind, washing away reality. Perhaps the fear of his own death was not enough to drive him forward to kill the Irapa, but the excruciating pain tearing him asunder had taken its toll. If he’d been armed, he would have taken his own life then and there.
“Kill me….” Finnegan demanded feebly. Horran didn’t react, a trance locking him in place.
“It seems he wants to die, the least you could do is fulfill his wishes,” Brannon said from somewhere deep within Finnegan’s mind.
Finnegan’s body suddenly stiffened up, his arms and legs shaking as an unusual numbness took hold. His mind grew cloudy, as if he was being administered anesthesia. He watched in horror as his legs marched him forward, his arms reaching out towards the Irapa. He was now a passenger in his own body.
In a few short moments, his hands were wrapped around Horran’s throat, red creases spidering out from beneath his fingers as the dark influence forced him to strangle his ally. Finnegan felt repulsion and relief as he witnessed the act, his own suffering easing the closer the Irapa came to death. He tried to look away, but his eyes were locked in place as the corruption gained complete control.
Horran’s hands suddenly shot up and wrapped themselves around Finnegan’s, loosening the stranglehold as the Irapa came to. Slowly, the Irapa worked his hands down Finnegan’s arms and then spun him around and forced him to his knees, placing his hands firmly around the top of his head. In the same moment, Finnegan felt his mind completely detach from his body, Värlof’s influence and the pain associated with it disappearing entirely. He remained aware of his surroundings as he slowly floated upwards, watching as Horran gently laid his limp body down onto the sleeping mat.
“My apologies, friend,” said Horran, not looking at Finnegan, but up at the ceiling above him. “This next bit may be shocking.”
Finnegan felt his spirit launch out of the sleeping chamber, rapidly gaining speed as it flew through the stone corridors of the Irapa’s refuge, through Jartow’s tunnels, and into the snowy landscape outside. Before long, he found himself floating above the icy shores of the Northern Plateaus. Below him, he could see three objects moving south through the snow. He knew immediately what he was looking at: Laureena, her beast, and a floating black orb were trying to leave the island.
“Ah, so that’s their plan,” he heard a familiar voice say.
“Yes, shaman, your intuition was correct.” Horran responded.
The two Irapa were communicating, though neither was in view, as if the three of them were on a conference call.
“Excuse me, does someone want to explain what’s happening here?” Finnegan said, aware of his words manifesting within his mind. “Am I dead?”
“No, I’ve simply detached your spirit from your body,” Horran responded.
“Simply? Sure didn’t feel simple.”
“Sorry, I sometimes forget how basic your mainlander magic is,” the shaman responded. “When a person’s body is overcome with illness - or in this case, corruption - we must separate their spirit in order to prevent them from being lost completely. Värlof planted something inside you when it touched your chest. We knew this immediately upon your arrival, as we could see his corruption in the air around you, though at that point his influence remained dormant. When you activated, we assumed it was a means for Värlof to finish me off, though we now understand that it was merely a distraction so that the three of them could get off the island. Värlof is not powerful enough to destroy me and teleport immediately afterwards.”
“But why are they leaving, and where are they going?” Finnegan asked.
“This, we are not sure of. But given your current condition, perhaps you’d like to do some reconnaissance for us while we tend to your physical body?”
Finnegan chuckled, unnerved yet content to be separated from his pain-stricken physical form.
“Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.”
Fate Index:
1. Interspecies relationship becomes a little one-sided
2. Protagonist’s hangover leads to some incredibly fortuitous turn of events
3. Protagonist has/develops some incurable urge they must sate daily
4. Someone gets refueled
5. Protagonist’s identity is thrown into question
6. Flashback episode
7. Protagonist gets overzealous and makes a major mistake
8. A character begins to doubt reality
9. A great artifact of the past is found, calling to a new owner
10. Something consequential turns out to be an illusion
11. An antagonist is offered a moment of possible redemption but must decide to act on it
12. Betrayal
13. Protagonist finds powerful item or treasure
14. Magic finger traps, but for the brain or heart
15. Millions of insects start their march to devour everything in their path
16. After a long string of losses, a character begins to succeed only to jeopardize someone else's success
17. Protagonist takes up cause of beleaguered
18. Razor clams
19. Virtue of protagonist is tested by an ally
20. Nothing happens when something is supposed to happen
Outcomes Used:
3. Protagonist has/develops some incurable urge they must sate daily
8. A character begins to doubt reality
Added outcomes:
Extended stream of consciousness
(thanks to Mark the Composer)
A creature’s weak spot gets found by accident
(thanks to Mäx)
