The Legend of Randidly Ghosthound

“We cannot afford this,” Jotem forced the words out between his teeth, both inwardly and outwardly miserable. He inwardly cursed his luck that saw fit to bring his family member to Malloon.

Across from him, his ‘Uncle’ adjusted his spectacles and gave him a rather nonplussed look. Behind him sat piles of rare and opulent raw materials. The finest basilisk scales gleamed on top of an ethereal bolt of cloud silk, these two rare treasures now being repurposed into drapes. “Considering the prized daughter of the Cerulean City is waffling about whether to rent out an entire floor of our prestigious penthouse resort for a party, we cannot afford not to spend this money. In the end, I suspect you will all be thanking me for my foresight. I am aware most will be too envious of my accomplishments to admit it, but I expected you wouldn’t be this small-minded. After all, what use, truly, is money?”

For a split second, Jotem couldn’t believe the Patron of the Deep hadn’t drowned in the sea of bullshit in which he was swimming. It took several attempts to spit his words out around the snarl that kept twisting his mouth. “There is simply no need to curry favor with the Ceruleans.”

“Spoken like someone who has never drawn the ire of that damned city,” The Patron of the Deep observed. But there was a twist to his lips that revealed a small spark of fear.

Jotem’s eyes widened; the fear had been unexpected, but wouldn’t be enough to explain this behavior by itself. “Are you appropriating our funds in order to generate goodwill for Elhume? Let me assure you, the Cerulean City would not be the monolith of power it is today if they could be bribed.”

For the first time, the Patron of the Deep looked at Jotem with genuine disappointment. “Nephew, you are oversimplifying an intricate and multi-step plot. To frame my actions as bribery, especially when I’m also gracing these floating islands with my singular insight and understanding of finery- no, I will not indulge this foolishness. Besides, Nether King Hungry Eye left me in charge of our discretionary funds. I will simply brook no dissension, not at this critical juncture.”

“He did no such thing,” Jotem shook his head vehemently.

And of course was ignored. The Patron of the Deep’s eyes began to glow as he turned and picked up a lavender metal ingot. “Speaking of which, this next step in the plan is particularly important. Deliver to me your recent profits so that I might set it in motion.”

“There are no profits.” Jotem rubbed his eyes, not even bothering to raise his diction for the simple declaration. He was very, very tired.

The Patron of the Deep’s face turned stormy as he whipped around. “What do you mean, there are no profits? Do you expect me to believe that with the raucous flood of bodies coming into Malloon, people suddenly stopped wanting the high-quality foodstuffs produced by your farm? Setting aside how quickly the Ara Fruit you provide have become the gold standard for Hobfootie games.”

“A Nether King attacked the farm,” Jotem replied. “The next crop won’t come in for another half a week. Which wouldn’t be a problem if you hadn’t spent all of our cash on hand. Now we just need to…Hah. I can ask for some allowances from merchants-”

“Jotem,” The Patron of the Deep let out a long sigh and leaned back in his massive reclining chair. “Do you take me for a fool? Nether King Hungry Eye is the Nether King. Why would he attack his own farm?”

Strangling would be too difficult, his neck is too thick, Jotem reflected. Stabbing would be the correct method. But to answer your question, yes, you are a fool.

“There are other Nether Kings,” He finally managed to wheeze around his rage.

The Patron of the Deep opened his mouth, likely to say something that would saw its way through the rest of Jotem’s self-control, but several loud explosions knocked those concerns away in a flash. The two origin beasts exchanged a glance and slithered through the air to the window. The Patron of the Deep’s office was located on the top floor of a building at the edge of the housing skyisland. Originally, he had grumbled at it being a relatively small building in comparison to most of the housing facilities.

But right now, the duo appreciated this particular building being built at the edge, making it possible to peer out past the lip of the skyisland and down toward Malloon below.

“...there are fires in Malloon,” The Patron of the Deep whispered. As they watched, a small explosion shook a sidestreet, belching smoke up into the air. After few seconds, another across town followed. Time ticked slowly past as they observed. Then the Patron puffed himself up, swelling to press against the ceiling. “We must investigate as soon as possible. Perhaps this is some sort of opportunity.”

More likely we are just about to see Faelmac Westrisser executing the foolish culprits, Jotem thought, but he kept his opinions to himself.

The two left the skyisland and flew down to the nearest gate, the keening grind of the barrier around Malloon sounding particularly frenzied. People were pouring out of Malloon in a mad stampede, shouting and searching for loved ones in the chaos. Some robes bore scorch marks, but as far as Jotem could observe, no one was actually wounded.

The Patron of the Deep raced directly for the gate and began to shout loud demands at the guards; as aggravating as his entitlement was, Jotem couldn’t deny it was useful in times like this, as they managed to enter the city in only a few minutes while swimming through the current of bodies. Once they were inside, both utilized their manipulation of gravity to fly above the crowds and skim along the rooftops racing for the nearest spot of the attack.

Both hovered in the air, looking down at the building in question. Flames greedily licked out through the smashed windows, but crews of Malloon’s guards were already extinguishing the blaze.

“This is not good,” The Patron of the Deep grunted.

Glancing sideways, Jotem was surprised how serious his uncle’s face had become. “What do you mean? Even if several buildings were attacked like this, the damage-”

“They weren’t trying to inflict damage, they were sending a message,” The Patron replied. His mouth twisted and he jerked his chin down at the shop. “I will need to inform Elhume. This location sold robes.”

Without another word, the Patron of the Deep twisted and shot toward the city center. His skin prickled as Jotem followed. No new explosions meant that the rush of bodies below them in the streets had slowed, but his mind whirled quickly through the implications. Considering the upcoming trial of Elhume and the reason for it, it comes as no surprise that seditious elements are making their way to the city. However, if they believed that a few small attacks like this would cow Westrisser at all…

If anything, he will set aside his reason and rain hellfire and feathers down at the sing of a single singed robe…

Their speed abruptly slowed when they entered the central square of commerce in Malloon, a single block away from the looming headquarters of Westrisser. The building’s long shadow was interrupted by a makeshift torch, of sorts. A single shop in the square of commerce burned, its wares aflame and walls beginning to join the party.

“Fate be damned,” Jotem swore, in spite of the hush across the legion of grim-faced Malloon guards in the square below them. “That’s my shop.”

The exceeding well-placed building that had been pried from Jotem’s hands only a month and a half in the past now burned cheerily. A part of him felt a flash of pleasure that Swacc undoubtedly lost a fortune in wares during the targeted series of insurrections. Yet he still felt a great deal of affection for the place; it made it even worse the shop now burned to the ground.

“Be glad it belongs to you no longer,” The full Origin Beast hummed, his tone serious. He pointed to the sky above the shop. “Still, I think responsibility is moot.”

A magical banner had been created that hung over the flames, affixed to what was probably the largest attack by the mysterious rebels. Only four words hung on the banner, the letters glowing with orange-red light quite similar to the fire.

We Suffer No Chains

“I had no idea the Aether rebels had operatives this far away from the heartlands,” Jotem whispered. “Or were bold enough to antagonize Faelmac Westrisser in his seat of power.”

“They’ve been setting fires to waste on Cerulean’s doorstep for decades,” The Patron of the Deep sniffed, some of his condescension finally breaking through his worry. “This field trip probably feels like a vacation-”

At that exact moment, ivory feathers began to drift down from the sky. They were almost beautiful, especially when they caught the light. Yet the implications of their presence were very, very dangerous.

Jotem’s head whipped up. Faelmac Westrisser floated about fifty meters above them, his face expressionless. It was something of a relief when he didn’t acknowledge them, but instead raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

Feathers began to fall more quickly, transforming from snow flurries to driven rain. His massive image had spread out so far that Jotem hadn’t even noticed it at first. His skin tingled and sweat beaded on his neck. After a few moments passed, it became obvious the goal of the strange precipitation.

Several individuals, bound in a mass of ivory feathers, were pulled out of the panicking crowd and carried up to join them in the sky. Jotem’s heartbeat quickened when those captured individuals stopped at the same altitude as himself and the Patron of the Deep.

The seven captured people cast their heads around until they saw Westrisser. Various expressions of fear contorted their faces; only the leftmost insectoid figure with six eyes remained relatively self-possessed, likely their leader.

“You have damaged my property,” Westrisser spoke mildly, but somehow his voice also spread to cover the whole of Malloon. “As such, you will be tried. I appoint myself as the single member of the tribunal. May justice in Malloon ever be served.”

“You may take our lives, but we’ve spread the word,” An ugly-looking pig creature spat to the side. “We are here. Our cause is just. Blood purity is a relic of the outer universe. Here, we have a chance-”

“In my opinion as arbiter,” Westrisser interrupted. He casually gestured. “You deserve to die.”

One of Westrisser’s own ivory feathers detached from his wings and grew until it was as long, and likely as sharp, as a short sword. Right as it angled itself to aim at the first speaker's throat, the leader of the insurrectionists finally raised his six-eyed head. “Wait.”

Westrisser’s eyes glittered in annoyance, but he didn’t yet attack.

The leader of this group cleared his throat and attempted to sound more confident than he actually was as he spoke. “We have destroyed property, Lord Westrisser, but that is it. You might have philosophical disagreements with us, but your laws-”

Westrisser gestured. The enlarged feather didn’t move, but the multitude of raining feathers spun into a funnel and forced themselves into the leader’s mouth. Their speed was impossibly quick. From the sheer amount flooding towards him, the feathers must also be barging their way down his throat. His eyes widened and he twisted back and forth, but the feathers' charge didn’t abate.

The individual belatedly tried to close his mouth, but by then the damage was done. As he began to scream, Jotem couldn’t exactly see what was causing him such pain. Yet then the edges of feathers bulged and then sliced their way out through his cheeks and throat. Blood spurted and dribbled out of the wounds.

For a few seconds longer the leader struggled, but the life drained out of his eyes.

“All laws,” Westrisser spoke coolly to the corpse. “Mean nothing in the face of power.”

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