by Rae Nantes
Historia Online
By Rae Nantes
Historia Online
1: The Lamb
2: The Raven
3: The Wolf
4: The Fox
5: The Serpent
6: The Lion
7: The King
0:0
She wasn’t burning.
He tapped his notebook with his pencil as he stared, waiting. The fires were beating against his skin, and this close, sweat was starting to bead down the creases of his eyes to soak into his mustache and stubble. He squinted against the heat of the flames, looking past the yells of panic at the young woman before him.
She was in her early twenties, blonde hair, brown eyes, average build. She did not look particularly like a witch - if a witch happened to look like anything in particular. Yet, here she was, tied to the stake with the tinder lit beneath her, writhing and shouting with wild eyes, cursing down at him with hate and spite.
But she still wasn't burning.
He accidentally made eye-contact, which was awkward for a moment, but with a polite business smile, he shrugged it off. She was obviously one of those types, so it would probably take a while.
Then, it shattered. A crashing sound like a dropped vase or a broken window.
The flames erupted into a rage to consume what was dangled in front of it for so long, ripping and tearing into the witch's flesh as she howled in pain and horror. The fire brightened and pulsed with heat.
He rushed to recount into words the sights, the sounds, the smells, the evil spirit which had possessed this poor woman. Now he just needed to sketch her burning face and—
She was gone.
He snapped the book shut and held out his arms in annoyed surprise, looking around for where she ran off to - if she did - only to find nothing. He sighed and dropped his arms. This was the second time this week a witch had vanished in the middle of a burning and the sixth time this month. A new form of magic, perhaps, or likely the devil's work. His Holiness the Pope would need to hear of this.
"Inquisitor Donnadieu," a voice said. It was the latest pest assigned to him by the church or the king - it seemed to change so often, he stopped caring which - an ordinary middle-aged nobody by the name Marcion. Marcion saw the burning stake where the witch should've been, then looked back at the inquisitor. "Monsieur, we—"
"Call me Vic," he said without bothering to look.
"We have him ready for you, Monsieur Vic."
He walked past him. "Just Vic."
Vic stepped inside the musty barn. The ground was soft with hay. Sunlight poured in from the cracks of the ceiling and the wall, marked by the lines of dust that floated by. A dining table sat in the center and strapped on it, was a man bound and gagged. The specimen was accompanied by two town guards who glanced around nervously with their hands on their sword hilts. They noticed the inquisitor and stepped back from the table, heads lowered in respect.
Vic stood over the captive. An ordinary male, late teens. White leather vest. Long, fashionable black hair with red discoloration on the ends. A mark of sin? Vic scribbled in his notebook, adding in crude sketches with pointed arrows and explanations. The barn was silent besides the muffled sound of pencil on parchment.
"Mmph!" the warlock mumbled. His chains rattled as he pulled his arms.
Vic looked down at him and tilted his head. This might have been any ordinary peasant or noble, swept up in the lies of the devil or evil magic. A travesty, it was, and even though the young man reminded Vic of his own son, there was work to be done.
Inquisitor Vic pulled the gag from the boy’s mouth. "H-holy shit," the young man stammered. "W-what do you want? Money? Is this about money?"
Vic replied with his usual business tone – a gritty, unamused voice. "You have committed treason against the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
"What?"
"Witchcraft."
"Oh shit."
Vic flicked out a knife from his pocket and rested the tip right over the young man's bare skin, letting only the weight of the blade bear down on him. "Where did you learn this magic, heretic?"
"Wait, wait a second," he pleaded. "I'm just a player. I—"
"A Player?" Vic pulled the knife off the man and went back to his notebook.
Marcion shook his head with disgust.
"I mean," the young man continued, "we were given this magic as a, uh, bonus."
"Bonus," Vic echoed.
"Right. It's... hard to explain." He laughed nervously. "Look, if I die, I go back a few levels, and I'm poor enough already, so if you want, we can cut a deal."
Vic lifted his eyebrows at the words. "A deal." He poked and prodded and stroked at the young man as a doctor would, noting the range of motion in the joints, the tautness of the skin, the thickness of the muscles. All nominal. Nothing unusual.
"As, as I was saying," the young man said. "I can pay you, uh, thirty gold?"
Vic brought out his knife and rested it against the man's thigh as if balancing a nail.
"Okay, okay, fifty."
Vic pushed hard, but the knife wouldn't cut. The specimen scarcely seemed to notice.
"Okay, fine! One hundred gold! It's all I have!"
Vic raised his free hand, balled it into a fist, and slammed down on the knife handle. Thomp. Sparks, as if the knife were digging into chainmail. Thomp, thomp, thomp, crish.
The young man roared in pain, the chains rattled as he struggled. The knife dug deep into him, and the scarlet was dripping into the hay.
Vic returned to scribble more notes. "You call yourself a… Player? Is that the name of your cult? The Players? Were you a part of that massacre the other week?"
The man glanced at Marcion, his captor. "Fuck you!" he spat. The table shook, the chains rattled, the man was chanting.
Thak. The young warlock's head toppled against the hay. Marcion wiped his blade with a nearby rag.
Vic snapped the book shut. A day's work was done, but the mystery yet unsolved. Vanishing witches, an emerging cult, verifiable magic - and not just folklore. He stared out of the open barn doors and into the distant fields in thought.
And then he saw it.
A distant figure limping away as quickly as it could. White leather vest. Fashionably long hair, red tips. Vic's eyes snapped to the body to find it still there, and back to the field at the man who was running away.
Same clothes, same height, same skin color. There was no doubt - that was the warlock who had just been executed.
Vic stepped outside, the guards right behind him, and they all stared in awe at the one who escaped. There was no point in chasing, for now the man vanished through the tree line.
Inquisitor Vic took a deep breath and shook his head. What was becoming of this world?
1: The Lamb
1:1
The water was cold.
Thoomp-thoomp-thoomp.
The fizzing bubbles of air tickled her skin as they raced back to the surface.
Thoomp-thoomp.
Dull cracking, splintering. Muffled shouting. Something was tapping, drumming above.
Rika opened her eyes.
The infinite blue, freezing, alive with the muffled roars of warfare. A long wood pole - a mast - cracked and groaned as it splashed in beside her. After a quick moment of confusion, she panicked back to the surface. The rush of noise faded in along with the dream.
Black flags flapped against gold and red ones. Muskets popped and flashed. Glints of sunlight and tinny clashes as swords met each other. Captains barked orders, men shouted in war cries. She was late to the fight.
Rika was squirreling up the side netting of the ship when she spotted them - two soldiers in a rowboat headed toward land. Armor and ocean waves glittered in the sunli
ght. Were they escaping? Deserting?
No.
Pale skin, blond hair, brown robes. It was him.
"Mondego!" she yelled.
They didn't turn.
A silhouette fell on her – a Spanish marine above. He aimed his musket down at her, but a harsh gust of wind ripped through him to throw him aside. His gun toppled down, and she snatched it before it hit the water.
Rika fumbled it around, aimed it at the rowboat, and pulled the trigger. It clicked, flashed, popped, missed. The gunsmoke pulled away as she tossed the gun aside.
The bullet missed its mark. The two deserters turned to face her, and it left her no doubt. The man she was chasing, hunting down, was rowing on into the new world, to Aztec Mexico, to his next objective.
The battle between the pirates and the Spanish seemed far from over. She took a deep breath, made certain her black leathers were tight against her skin, and dove back into the gulf.
1:2
Rika hurried through the forests and plains, up and down hills and small mountains. By using her Lightweight skill and jumping, she could cast Gust to leap further, essentially launching herself through the treetops over and over.
When she reached another tall hilltop, she stopped to catch her breath and to let her MP regenerate. Clouds hung in the reddening skies, the brisk wind chilled the sweat on her skin and ran through her short-cut hair. In the distance, a thin pillar of smoke rose up from the canopy of trees.
Civilization.
A twig snapped behind her. She spun around, her heavy mace gripped for a fight.
It was a small forest creature, something she had seen in a picture before, something that doesn't exist in her world, the real world. Not anymore, at least. She relaxed and listened out to the forest around her.
Wind. Leaves rustling. Distant conversations - village sounds.
She knew the conquistadors were due right about this time in history, and they didn't exactly like her by any means. Wanted was a better term, and now that the invading Spanish army was aware of her presence, she needed to act carefully and quickly.
After hurrying further toward the sound, she broke through the trees and found a bustling ancient metropolis.
The sun was hanging low, shimmering off the vast lake before her. In the center, the city. It looked like a place built on the water, alleys and streets and residential blocks all divided by canals, similar to Venice. In its center, pyramid-like structures brooded over the town like shepherds. In each direction from the city, a long, bridge-like causeway stretched toward the banks.
There was peace here. A flock of canoes manned by near-naked people turned a far-off corner and headed out. City noises echoed in the distance - conversations, construction, children playing.
She started off across the causeway, staring in awe.
The buildings eased closer into view, the sky behind was a canvas of blue, violet, and pink. The architecture here was much different than in Europe or Asia. Instead of building everything out of wood, stone seemed to be their primary resource. Houses and buildings of varying sizes, some with rooftops painted in green, white, and red. Gardens, trees, marketplace vendors with colorful awnings and empty stalls. Yet no gold.
She had heard of these cities of gold in history books, passing conversations, and forum posts, but even a massive city such as this seemed to lack the luster of those legends. It was a disappointment, but an acceptable one. Swallowing gold to level up was always the easiest route, but without having to rob someone of it, there just wasn’t as much fun.
Something glinted in the sun - armor. She looked over at an adjacent causeway that ran perpendicular from hers. There, a crowd of people were walking toward the city, figures in robes and ceremonial dress flanking two others in bulging metallic armor and conquistador helmets. Rika squinted her eyes at them. A black guy and a white one with blond hair.
It was Mondego.
1:3
"Mondego!" The crowd stopped when her voice reached them, and they looked over to see Rika running across the water with her mace raised high. Her footsteps pattered across the lake like a skipping stone.
The two Spaniards aimed at her. A blast, a flash, a puff of smoke. Water erupted beside her as she hurried past, misting her face. Another gunshot slammed into her shoulder, cracking and sparking off.
-570 HP
She leaped high over them. A pale green wind encompassed her weapon, and she felt the cool air slip across her hand. Mid-air, she swung her mace at him, throwing a Wind Blade.
It slapped against Mondego's aura, but it didn't shatter it. She landed across from them.
"Who the fuck is Mondego?" said Mondego.
She channeled another Wind Blade spell to engulf her mace.
"I've no time for your mind games, Mondego. You'll pay for what you've done!”
"Dude, you got the wrong guy," he laughed. His musket thumped against the causeway as he tossed it aside. He raked out a sword from its scabbard, then held a practiced stance against her.
Rika threw the Wind Blade at him, but he dodged it. His dark-skinned partner aimed a pistol and fired, but missed, bathing the area in thick white smoke. That was a mistake.
Her gust of wind hit them on the flank, scattering the gunsmoke, knocking his friend into the lake - and Mondego himself off balance. She dashed in and slammed her mace into his side. Clack. She hit him again and again, each attack pushing him further away. Clack, clack, clack, crash! The mace shattered through his aura, breaking skin and crushing bone. He grunted as his body slid across the causeway.
Rika followed after to deliver the killing strike, but just as she landed in front of him, he rolled back and darted forward. He was fast. His blade slashed against her torso, ripping her aura and knocking her back.
-336HP
He steeled himself and yelled, "I'm a player, you asshole!"
She paused. His voice was different, younger even, and not the scary deep voice Mondego should have had. He was a bit taller, his blond hair a measure longer and brighter, his eyes a sunburst of blue and gold - not green. He didn’t even have an eyepatch. This wasn't Mondego. She was an idiot.
"Uh," she stammered. "Well, I'm a player-killer."
"You're a jackass."
Her face was getting hot from the embarrassment. A laugh hit them from the water - his friend. "I'm-I'm gonna kill you anyway!" she yelled.
They dashed into each other and clashed again. She swung her mace hard, but it whipped by just inches from his face. He followed through with repeated stabs into her chest and neck.
-121HP
-113HP
-180HP
-217HP
HP: 0
Her aura shattered. She was losing.
He might've been the better swordsman, but she was the better duelist. She pulled back and yanked him over with Gust. He rolled with the momentum, ready for a piercing stab. She activated Lightweight.
As she dodged, he grazed her arm. The spikes of her mace slammed into his head, and he dropped lifelessly onto the wooden causeway.
Rika burst into laughter. Then, she heard a cough. She looked over at the crowd that had been escorting them, and she stumbled back. These weren't just priests or old ladies - they were warriors. Huge, meaty meat-head dudes with meaty muscles spilling out of their vests. One was wearing a chicken suit with feathers sticking out of his head. What the hell is going on, she thought.
One of them broke out of the crowd and stood before her. Not a meat-man, but a younger guy - a teenager maybe. Not huge, but well fit, dressed in a peasant's poncho, with long hair and a gallant, boyish face.
"I will be your opponent!" The young man carried a massive paddle - a weapon. A wooden board with a thin handle, black translucent teeth rammed along its edge.
This was a challenge.
Rika didn't like fighting nipsies without a good reason, and she especially didn't fight youngsters, even if they were bigger than her. Just as she raised up her hand and lowered her head to convey he
r unwillingness to fight, he rushed her.
She had no mana left. Her aura was gone. She braced back against the boy and watched as he raised his paddle-weapon to strike her down. It ignited in a hot flame. He’s a caster! Rika brought her mace to meet the swing, and they clashed. Sparks poured on her, the fires of his weapon singeing her face. He was strong.
She kicked his knee to the side, throwing him off balance, then followed with another kick. He slammed on his back beneath her. She stepped hard onto the causeway, her foot stomping beside him, and she raised her weapon high. This was a killing strike. She looked down into his eyes, and he looked back into hers - eyes wide with shock, then fear, then anger, then resolve.
She saw that he might've been her age, a few years younger, even. Sure this was a game, and he was just a nipsy, but he would die here, forever, and never return.
The boy rolled back to his feet and coiled like a snake. He lashed out, the flames that were roaring over his weapon exploded in strength, and his weapon slammed against hers–
–and through it.
Her mace erupted into shards and slag. She stumbled away and looked up at this terrifying force to see his weapon flying down on her. It turned at the last moment and sliced her at the wrist.
Her hand thumped against the causeway bridge.
She was defeated.
1:4
Twilight skies. War drums beating, echoing, thumping into their hearts with the marching warriors who carried Rika up the temple steps. Brazens lit, crowds cheered and danced in strange feathered outfits, bright colors flashing by drowned out by the scarlet that flooded her eyes.
Her arm throbbed. Her vision was fading. Her avatar was dying. She blinked then found herself on the temple's apex, wrapped tight and bound to a stone slab.
She struggled against her binds, her ears ringing from all the noise, her body sore from being thrown around as a prisoner. A priest, a sorcerer, a holy man in rattling, feathered ceremonial dress danced and spun and held high a broad knife.
This wasn't a mercy killing. It was a sacrifice.