Threads and Monsters

The Past

"As two, we are found. As one, we are bound." -words to seal the marriage ceremony on Thread Day, from Continental Traditions, Volume I

Wick sprawled the corners out of the wadescroll, pushing the paper in the masked man's direction. Apparently, his name was Rax.

His petite monster of a bodyguard glared menacingly at Wick on the opposite side of the table. Wick's neck felt like it was on fire, but he winked at her just the same.

The man who called himself Graves sat with his back against the wall underneath one of the torches. Scout sat next to him, wearing an equally stupefied expression as Graves. They looked defeated and confused. Wick reminded himself to bring Scout up to speed.

Right now, Rax's reply was all that mattered.

Wick had earlier suspicions about the nature of Graves' operation, but seeing the man's performance put the nail in the coffin. He had to admit it was a good show.

Graves' posture and voice oozed a menacing command. But his nails were too clean, his boots too expensive, and the way he spoke words with consonants was too crisp.

The iron spheres had saved Wick's life when pointing out the truth.

He had spent a frustrating six months toying with the Misonians' legacy. Thymesia helped him recall every single one of the inscriptions in the puzzle dungeon's walls.

Other than the vague notification windows he received when gaining his Title as The Crafter, the inscriptions were his only clue. For geniuses of their age, the mice-people had somehow never bothered with instruction manuals like the ones given out with skillcards.

A few days into his experiments, Wick found that the sphere counted as something he controlled in his Domain, whatever that was. So, it qualified for Automate. He had bound Cut to the sphere, connecting it with the voice command.

It was a triumph, but a useless one unless the specific situation called for it. The advancement provided Wick with more tactics, that was all. It didn't give him powerful artifacts to rival dragons or make reusable enchantments.

He knew the sphere-golem from the treasure chest had pulsed with warmth. Its pulses were irregular and had no pattern Wick could find. So, that was a bust.

Circles and straight lines. It all came down to those two simple shapes.

The answer was obvious. The Misonians fused technology and magic. Golems, whatever they actually were meant to be, were magical. With only the knowledge of the inscriptions and Wick's own magic, he came to a simple conclusion. He had to push Source Points, SP, into the spheres.

But simple didn't mean easy.

Wick paired Jedir with an orphan for apprenticeship, and commissioned several small iron balls half the size of the one he gained. After that, he spent a few days pushing one SP into different parts of the ball at various angles. Nothing happened. No new golem had been made.

He experimented with pushing SP into the balls matching the inscription patterns with the straight lines as guides. He tried all the patterns to no effect.

When he remembered that the patterns weren't letters, but most likely the foundations for a blueprint, he used Thymesia to portray the patterns in his vision. He paired the patterns in sequences in groups of two, always with at least one circle shape, applying SP to the iron balls as he saw the combined patterns.

Even then, nothing.

Wick recalled all the stories of the Misonians he had heard over campfires in the Sprawl from Picks, Spades, and adventurers. The mice-people built cities that floated in the skies, homes for dragons and all other races. They dug tunnels beneath the surface, laying traps for any monsters who decided to come from the Crawl. They created the mysterious Labyrinth, filling it with both artifacts and monsters that made the ones in the Sprawl look like toys and pets.

The inscriptions, Automate, and the iron sphere were their only legacy. How annoying.

Then, in a flash of insight staring at the floating patterns with Thymesia, Wick stacked the inscriptions on top of each other. That yielded results up to only three pattern combinations.

Poles had begun forming out of the spheres. It wasn't exciting, but Wick knew he was on the right track.

After watching Ramara's papermaking process that involved layers of fiber simultaneously weaving and stacking, he saw the truth.

Wick made combinations of the Misonian inscriptions by both stacking and sequencing them.

Each combination required at least two inscriptions, like two halves of a gear. After spending only three hundred SP trying out every two-combination sequence, Wick had pushed SP into the right places, recreating the first iron sphere.

He had done it in front of Scout, too, adding to Wick's carefully crafted mystique.

With Thymesia, he would never forget the trick, and had gathered a few handfuls of the small iron balls. When the woman in the corner was only a second away from snapping Wick's neck, he used his new technique, and bound his skill to them with Automate.

Cut had been released a few dozen times, each from the balls he had turned into the spheres. The surprise of it saved his life.

Finally, Rax's mask tilted up from the contract. He spoke, his voice muffled but amused. "You'll have to forgive Berrma. She's very protective of me. But I'm afraid if you pull a skill like that again, she'll kill you before I'll be able to protest. Woman of action and all that."

Wick rubbed his neck self-consciously, the pain throbbing. His gaze flicked to the iron spheres on the floor and he raised an eyebrow. He replied, "Interesting threat."

None of the Cuts he had thrown from the spheres had done a lick of damage to her. If it came to trading blows, Wick would lose before he even knew what was happening.

Obadiah Graves huffed, "The best threats are the truth."

Wick chuckled. "That just means you're not a good enough liar."

"What in the Hells would a kid like you know about performance?" Graves muttered to himself. Gone was the gruff demeanor, replaced by an upturned nose and precise speech. He still looked the part of an underworld kingpin. His frame was oddly large and menacing for an actor.

Wick nodded to the big burly man sitting on the floor next to Scout. "Graves is the face. The way he shifted from gravelly-voiced hardman to eloquent bard speaks of a lifetime on stage. He talks to the merchants, brokers deals, and commands your people to break limbs when needed. The woman--"

"Berrma. Two r's. Old Simmerestian spelling," Rax supplied.

"Right," Wick continued. "Berrma looks like Graves' bodyguard, but really protects you since you accompany his meetings as his scribe and bookie, which you really are. It's a thin disguise, but one well-acted enough you don't need more to complicate it."

Graves squeezed his eyes at Wick suspiciously. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, kid. Criticism ending with flattery, that's not a stage trick. That's plumin speechcraft, beak to tail-feather."

"Who's the one flattering now?" Wick laughed. He couldn't help himself. Standing toe-to-toe with three dangerous adults with only his sharp tongue made him feel like a god.

"Wick," Rax said gently. The man's frame was thin, obvious even under the heavy robes he wore that draped down to his boots. "You've brought two documents."

Wick's mirth sobered quickly. The haggle had begun. He let Rax continue. The trick was to let the opponent share specifics while he kept his end vague. When it was time, he'd shape the conversation to his liking.

The man in the mask said, "The first is a detail of your contracts with the merchants. The execution was as impressive as the planning. Most would assume you did this out of love for your fellow orphans."

Scout snorted.

Rax nodded. "But gossip says otherwise. We don't have a hand with the craftsmen in Outlast but they do chat around our merchants enough. The second is something that confuses me."

Confusion. Good. Wick stepped in. "The contents or the scroll itself?"

Berrma twitched. Wick understood. What sat on the table was wadescroll. It could be seen only as a threat or a dangerous promise. But who was the danger for?

Rax put up a hand to calm the woman. The back of his hand had a small blue dot that looked too permanent to be an ink stain. Maybe a tattoo? He spoke with perfect certainty. "The scroll has no manna. My confusion lies with both the content and the scroll."

Wick explained. "I chose to rewrite those words on wadescroll for an important reason. Enchantments are powerful, allowing any who can burn the wadescroll to summon a skill once. But if the wadescroll catches even the hint of a spark, the skill is unleashed without direction. It's an unstable power that requires careful handling."

Rax breathed in. "I see. Symbolism. A bit heavy-handed, but you're still a child. You want us to know that you understand that binding your group to ours is dangerous. But the contents... Why did you hand us a Guild Writ?"

Scout and Graves inched forward, obviously intrigued by the conversation. Wick enjoyed the audience. He said, "I want to make a new guild, the Association of Apprentices, or the AoA. It requires both a notary's official approval from the state, and the sponsorship of the head member of a guild."

"We are not a guild," Rax pointed out. "We deal in selling black market goods at a reasonable price."

Wick nodded. "But your reach is far beyond Outlast. This city is just a fence for all your exchanges. The real work is out there in all the major cities. In the decade you've been an organization, you're telling me you haven't once bumped hips with a high-ranking member of a guild?"

"Oh, he's good," Graves said appreciatively.

Rax sat quietly for a moment. Finally, he said, "And what do you hope to gain from this new AoA? Once they are done being apprentices, they'd go on to other guilds, leaving you with more children once again. As the head of it, you'd be a glorified babysitter."

Wick laughed. "Oh, that line open for the lead signatory isn't for me. It's for Scout. I've been grooming him."

"What?" blurted Scout.

Wick didn't turn to address the greenhair, his focus fixed on Rax. "I don't want to be the head of the AoA. I'm destined for greater things. Those who go through the Association will infect other guilds. That influence will belong to Scout, and Scout belongs to me. Of course, some of the profits will go to me as an originator of the guild."

"You sound like you're a virus."

"You mean bacteria, the little creatures inside of us that put physickers in a tizzy?"

"I mean virus," Rax committed. "They are worse than bacteria because while some bacteria help the body, all viruses do is infect."

Wick was curious. He'd never heard of such a thing. But he was only eleven and there were libraries he had yet to visit. "What book is that from?"

Berrma shifted her weight.

Rax shook his head. "Something not for your eyes, or anyone else's for that matter. We're off topic. It sounds to me the AoA is just a side project for you. What is your real goal, Wick? What do you want?"

Up until that point, Wick had felt like he was finally conversing with an equal, someone who understood him. But now, he could only feel disappointed. "That's a stupid question. What don't I want?"

Rax tilted his head. "I don't understand."

Scout spoke up, as if apologizing to a stranger why his dog got off his leash. "Wick's crazy, sir. He wants it all. He wants everything. Tells me all the time he is destined to get what he wants. Crazy, crazy, crazy."

Wick nodded appreciatively to Scout. The greenhair got it. Scout understood since the moment he walked away from Pebbles that his fate wasn't just tied to Wick, it belonged to him.

"Ahh, fate," Rax mused patiently. "You're doing all of this because of your superstitions?"

Wick found himself disappointed again by Rax's reaction. Beneath the schemes with merchants, Graves' performance, and the black market network, Wick thought he had seen a kindred spirit in the masked man.

He explained, "Superstitions are funny. Some people feel like they have to click their fingers a certain way before making bets on chicken fights. Others pray to Morgoth, despite Etheria proving he wasn't a god by banishing him from the continent."

"Your point?"

"Everyone has their small superstitions. You, for instance, have adjusted each scroll I've given you to be perfectly parallel to the edges of your desk. Some call it a tic, but it's a superstition. No one else believes that you must do it except you. But you never think you're going to be the victim of other people's superstitions. That's a mistake. Some beliefs are bigger than others, the way larger shadows swallow smaller ones." Wick ended his speech. He knew it was long-winded, but he found his temper clouding his judgement.

Rax inspected the scrolls, adjusting them, stopped himself, then adjusted them once more. He tapped his fingers on the desk and seemed to be annoyed. His mask turned up once more to Wick. "Where did you learn this?"

"Ven Praxus," Wick said. "The greatest mind in the world."

Rax hummed thoughtfully. "I'm considered well read, even among my peers. Never once have I come across the name."

The man's education wasn't Wick's responsibility. Wick sighed, ready to move the conversation forward. "Now we have the measure of each other."

Rax splayed his delicate fingers out to the two scrolls on the table. "And yet, we have no formal contract binding you to us."

Wick put both palms on the table, and inched slightly forward. Berrma stirred, but didn't take a step.

He was slowly losing his patience. Wick spoke slowly, so everyone in the room could understand. "What does the law mean to people who built an entire organization circumventing it? Instead, I propose a deal based on trust alone. A deal."

Wick spoke the last word with reverence.

Rax was silent, but nodded for him to continue.

Wick said, "You provide me, the kids, their new families, and their craftmasters protection from Lanton and any other troubles that might follow your organization around. You do this until the last of these fifty children turn sixteen. I know you can do this because the mayor is in your pocket."

"Of course, but what about--"

"I'm not done," Wick pressed. "None of those kids, their masters, and their families work for your organization. Not now. Not ever. Their slates have to be clean in order for this to work. You help us get a signatory from the head of a guild, notarized under state law, all within thirty days of our handshake. In return, you will receive two things."

He paused, gathering his breath. "First, you will have an opportunity to allow a member of your organization to act as one of three signatories of the Guild Writ for the Association of Apprentices. That's one of three. Scout will be the second, acting as the founder and head of guild, and I will be the third, acting as witness. All three signatories will gain benefits, from financial to all others stated in the wadescroll contract."

Graves sucked in a breath through his teeth.

The man clearly understood the significance of Wick's words. Fifty children for the founding members of a guild was nothing. But in a decade's time, the money and influence they'd bring could keep a person fat for several lifetimes. Their organization could expand tenfold because of the network.

"Second," Wick continued, "you will have the honor of training myself, Scout, and Vein in the on-goings of your business. We will not oust you, but passively inherit your positions when you choose to without coercion. You may retire happily to wherever you want with enough money to build your own city. Or a really big house. I don't care."

Rax chuckled. "All this based on, what, a handshake?"

Wick said, "Deals from haggles are more binding than any red thread or legal document I've ever seen."

Just to drive the point home, he decided to weave in the experience from earlier in the day. The coincidence was not lost on Wick. He turned to Scout and asked, "What binds us?"

Confused, Scout replied, "Strength."

"And what is strength?"

"Loyalty."

Wick faced Rax once again. "You hear that? Straight from the plumin's beak."

Rax's mask faced the ebony spade with the pluminwood neck leaning against the table next to Wick. His hand caressed the white ivory mask on his face. "Your spade is divali bone. Their ancestors' bones were white."

Wick's eyes widened at the words. If what Rax was implying was true, then the mask he wore was priceless. How could someone so intelligent wear something like that so openly?

For a brief second, he thought about throwing all his SP with a hundred different Cuts just for the small chance to steal the mask. But Berrma's glare made it apparent Wick wore his thoughts a little too openly on his face.

Rax said, "You're a Sprawler, a Spade. What's that funny little motto again?"

"The strong live long, but the bold get the gold," Wick answered.

"Ah, yes." Rax nodded. "You're proposing a deal made only on loyalty, symbolized by the unstable power of a wadescroll. But according to Scout, loyalty is strength. And according to your Sprawler's Code, the strong live long. Am I to conclude that our organization's loyalty with yours leads to a long life?"

All of the disappointment built up inside of Wick vanished, and he suddenly found himself intrigued by Rax once more. Wick thought of a cheeky reply. It was too melodramatic, but he was only eleven once. He smirked. "You could even say the proposal is...bold."

Rax laughed, and it was one of the warmest things Wick had ever heard, only ever rivaled by his own dad's. He sat up. Berrma looked at the masked man in wonder, but did not move. Rax reached his hand across the table, speaking the same words lovers spoke on their Thread Day, marrying for life. "As two, we are found."

Without hesitation, Wick took it, and spoke the answer to the ritual. "As one, we are bound."

--

Graves paced excitedly around the living room of one of his many homes, despite the late hour. Dawn was beginning to break, but he had the energy to stay awake for a whole week.

Deepest Hells, that encounter with Wick had shaken him. Where was that fire in Obadiah now? He had it once, when he was training for the stage, before his family had cast him out. But since then, he'd gone too deep in the persona of Graves, the man who only cared about money and power.

Berrma was leaning against the wall, lazily flipping one of the knives from her leather armor. She snorted. "Calm down, Obadiah. You'll wear out the rug."

Graves stopped. She was right. The rug cost him several silver pennies. He hadn't meant to buy the ugly thing, but it had come across to him for half price. It practically bought itself.

He turned to the bald woman. "That boy. He'll make us all rich."

Rax was, of course, writing in that book he always carried. He said beneath his mask, "We're already rich."

"He'll kill us all if it advanced his motives." Berrma grimaced.

Rax seemed to contemplate it. "No. Deals to him are sacred as they are to plumins."

"He's dangerous," she urged.

"We are too," Rax reminded.

Graves rolled his eyes. "Speak for yourselves. I just look dangerous. I didn't even pass the entry exam into the Skillia. If you didn't make a pact with him because of the money, then why did you do it?"

Rax replied, "I have a few reasons, some for myself and no one else. But for you, I'll say this: Wick is a harbinger of change, the kind which swells seas and gathers storms."

Obadiah had no idea what Rax was on about. Ever since the masked man spoke up in the meeting, he had been acting out of character. Graves said, "You made a deal with a prodigy who has delusions of grandeur because you think he'll shake things up a bit?"

Rax sighed, a tiredness in his voice that reminded Obadiah of his own mother. The similarity was discomforting. "Don't you feel it, Obi? The world is stale. By the Crawl, the three of us have grown stale with it."

Graves stomped his foot, anger in his voice. "Don't you say that, Rax. Not now. Not after a decade of this lunatic scheme. It worked. We're rich and we did it in a way the forceknights aren't swarming at our backsides."

"I feel it," Berrma confessed. "It's been years since I've had a good fight. My chakras are as strong as they were a decade ago."

"You see?" Graves supplied. "You're as healthy at thirty as you were at twenty!"

Berrma spat, "The Limitadus teaches constant growth! Pilgrims are not to stand still unless stillness is the limitation. I'm in all this excess but have gained no new strength."

"Oh," Graves managed. He still didn't quite understand how Berrma's powers worked. The Pilgrims of the Limitadus, or the Limitadi, were nearly as secretive as Rax's own people had been. Though, that was a hard thing to be since Rax's people had been systematically wiped out. "Uhm. What about that halfbreed fellow with the kami-armor? He knocked you a good one."

"I let him hit me. I thought it'd get my blood flowing," Berrma complained. "I took him out in five breaths. No more bothering shady traveling merchants near the Glimmerrest wormhole. And that was five years ago. Rax is right. We've gone stale."

Graves wanted to disagree with her, to point out the expensive rug, multiple mansions, and many drunk night outs they'd been able to afford over their lucrative years. And yet, no amount of money had allowed him back in his own family. Nobles were like that.

Rax said, "He recognized my mask."

Berrma's knife disappeared, finding itself snug back in its place on her leather armor. She shot up, alert. "You think he's working for them?"

Rax waved her off, chuckling. "The Mandate of Morgoth hasn't been on my trail since they slaughtered all of my people. They're still searching for it. I meant that he knows what an Arach bone looks like. That's interesting enough."

Despite Rax's assurance, Obadiah shivered. The Mandate of Morgoth wasn't just a creepy little club. They were a wide group of powerful individuals who still believed that Morgoth was a god, despite Etheria proving his mortality.

The Mandate believed that Morgoth had left behind the legendary Miserex, a compendium of his most secret knowledge. In it were instructions on old magics, before sorcery and the blue screens were a thing.

It was a ridiculous belief because everyone knew that Etheria Hemincross herself had destroyed the Miserex. But still, even if copies of it existed, holding it would allow someone to become as powerful as Etheria herself. The book had been the source of Etheria's own rise.

Rax's people were her direct descendants, and he was the last of the Hemincross bloodline. The Mandate had tracked his family, no matter how distant, and sacrificed them on altars in hopes to gain Morgoth's favor. Rax had only been a child when the culling swept the continent.

Obadiah had once checked the book Rax always carried for any magical properties. It was completely normal. He hadn't done it for any greedy purposes, just curiosity.

Berrma relaxed, and she looked longingly at the dawn breaking through the window. "If the Mandate ever did find a copy of the Miserex, they could summon a guntus. Now that would be a good fight. And a muntus, too. One of those put even Etheria in a corner. Could you imagine?"

"I can imagine," Rax replied icily, and it was the darkest tone Obadiah had ever heard from the usually placid man. "My mother and father made me imagine, forcing me to memorize every story about Etheria, Morgoth, and the Miserex. The last guntus to birth itself on the surface killed thousands in a day. It lived for two more, growing exponentially. I don't need to remind you how Simmerest's population was halved in the span of half a week."

Graves realized his own jaw was slack, his mouth drying up. He had never heard Rax share this much about his past. Most everything he knew about the man was from others and the occasional drinking nights with Berrma. "Were guntus really that bad?"

Berrma looked away, ashamed. "They aren't just stories. Guntus are in Trechior's books. The Limitadi were founded to help understand and combat a guntus. We don't even have a tenth of the skills that existed in Etheria's time. If one was summoned..."

"It'd be the end for our nation. Long live the hesperides' chosen," Rax finished.

"I'm sorry, Rax," Berrma said. "I was just caught up in the moment. It was a stupid thing to say. What the Mandate did was a horrible thing for a horrible reason."

"All is forgiven," Rax insisted. "It's just history. Let's leave it at that."

Graves was curious. "But what about a muntus?'

Rax paused, considering. "A single fully formed guntus from the Miserex, given time to grow, would wipe out a city, or potentially a small nation. A muntus would destroy all of Sepshia as we know it."

Eager for a change of conversation, Graves asked. "So now that Wick and his little band of apprentices are under our protection, what happens to us?"

Rax spoke mechanically, the familiar tone easing Graves. "For you, the same as the past ten years. You'll be speaking with the mayor in a few hours to convince him getting in Wick's way will be getting in ours. Bring one of the men with a skill with you in case he needs to be reminded it is Graves who keeps the fat on the slob's double chin."

Obadiah found himself slipping into the Graves persona as easily as a hand in a glove. His shoulders hunched and his mood darkened. When he spoke, gone was the eloquent speech, replaced by a gruff, commanding voice. "His son still hates us, you know. Thinks we killed his dear old mom when we strolled into Outlast."

Berrma snorted. "Let him think what he wants. He's just a boy."

"So is Wick," Rax added.

Graves asked, "And what about Wick? Most of those kids are apprenticed. In a few more days, they'll all have homes and masters. But your little handshake with him means Scout, Wick, and a girl named Vein are ours till they serve Vandia."

"How kind of you to bring that up." Rax's mask turned to Berrma. "Did you know that when faced with a bottleneck in one's growth, sorcerers are encouraged to teach at the Skillia? In teaching others, it is common for them to find their own skills grow as well."

Berrma, the limitadi who made mincemeat of forceknights with her fists, shook fearfully at Rax's words. She quivered, "Deepest Hells, no. No and no and no, Rax. I'd rather fight twenty divali than deal with kids, especially that troublesome little sleaze-weasel, Wick. They smell weird and break things without meaning to and--"

Rax stayed silent, but Graves knew the man's stances well enough to understand Rax was clearly enjoying himself.

Graves was sure the woman was about to cry. Berrma groaned as if speared in the gut. "No. Please, no."