by N Felts
tower’s existence. The ancient doorway at its base has remained sealed for as long as any Ikanian can recall, fear of a curse having kept even the most audacious hands from venturing near it. Over time these assumed truths became nothing more than stories in the eyes of the average citizen, and shortly thereafter, little more than evangelical lies vehemently preached by the Subrosian immigrants. Intimately aware of these concerns, the King intends to put all fears and doubts to rest with this ostentatious gesture.
“By the Guardians…”
“I told you,” Cale promptly agrees. “There are more soldiers than civilians.” Easily vaulting from the bridge’s bannister to a wooden pillar hoisting a cornucopia of decoration, he lends his companion a hand in ascending to the optimal viewpoint. With their elevated perspective, they quickly spot the king’s pair of bodyguards, and expectedly, the reclusive composer brothers, only making appearances at such events. Directing the band with their newest creation, they don’t appeal to the crowd at all, purely focusing on a perfect performance. The spectacle seems excessive, even considering the magnitude of the event at hand.
“That can’t be necessary,” his friend insists, gawking at the formations of soldiers lined up between the crowd and the king, gradually making his way to the stage. A wave of chants and enthusiastic gestures greet Igos as he pleads for calm while enjoying the praise. Few kings have enjoyed the popularity this monarchy has maintained, the unprecedented ability of a ruler to effectively govern, as well as resonate with his subjects, an anachronism until the current reign. A young and handsome king, Igos emits an aura of arrogant charm his people cannot help but love. Pacing the temporary stage with a memorable swagger, he proclaims his thanks before beginning his speech.
“My fellow Ikanians. We have been given an opportunity our fathers, and their fathers before them, could not imagine. An enemy, hiding right beneath our noses, has used the generosity, and the trust of our outstanding citizenry, to strike in the most devious, and cowardly way imaginable.” His nearly condescending tone and fatherly cadence lull the crowd into an even deeper state of civic pride, hanging on his every word, and frothing for retribution. His voice rapidly gaining base as his passion rises, the king continues his address. “What will they say of us in ten years? In a hundred? That those people were too pacified by their time without struggle, too timid to demand justice for the atrocities committed against them?”
“No!” Many of the attendees bark in unison.
“Will they gasp,” he continues, his tone softening as he mimics the proposed inquirer of the future. “Oh! You don’t mean the crushers of the zealous rebellion?” He declares, raising a hand and snapping his fist shut.
“Yeah!” The audience roars, delighted by his theatrics.
“Your children, and their children in turn, will always remember the unfortunate souls who have fallen victim to this treachery, and even more so, they will always remember our response.” He pledges, his energy spiking along with that of the crowd. “We will send a message to the furthest corners of Termina, and it all begins with the opening of this tower!”
“Igos! Igos! Igos!” The gathering chants as the event reaches the crescendo.
“Ikana does not fear! Ikana does not falter! Let us show all of Termina, we will have our justice!” He concludes, basking in the potent waves of unmitigated devotion the people are projecting upon him. Gradually making his way to the stage, a curious figure bows graciously before the king, and with that, the charismatic leader takes his place to the side of the stage. Turning to face the crowd, the man causes an unsettling chill to jolt through the attendees, his strange robes virtually unnoticeable compared to his otherworldly mask. Two bulging, yellow eyes create a piercing stare within the heart-shaped visage of purple and red. Two arrays of large spikes line the sides down to the inverted apex, each of them a darker color as they descend. Lifting his arms skyward, the masked figure seems to be chanting some sort of inaudible invocation, the gesture revealing another oddity in his ensemble. The outline of a large, white eye is displayed prominently upon his granite-blue robes, three triangles arrayed across the top resembling eyelashes.
“Who in Termina is that?” Cale mumbles, inspecting the figure as best he can from this distance.
“Some kind of shaman?” His friend proposes, shrugging his shoulders.
“Well, at any rate, you’d think Igos would want us up there,” Cale points out, crouching down and getting comfortable. “We were the only survivors.”
“The interrogation wasn’t enough for you? Those guards treated us more like suspects than victims,” he recalls, the irritating procedure seeming very unnecessary to him. “They might have locked us up if so many people hadn’t seen what happened.”
“You’re probably right, it’s just—” Cale starts, something about the entire event not quite sitting right with him.
“What?”
“I mentioned the name Garo, and they seemed hostile all of a sudden,” Cale recounts, the guards demeanor having changed like the wind the moment the word was uttered. “I just think they know more than they were telling us.”
“Well what do you expect? You tell them about the regiment in the forest?” His companion inquires, worried he already knows the answer.
“No. I got the sense they wouldn’t have let me go so easily if I mentioned it. I think they know who these Garo are, but they’re trying to keep it quiet.”
“You may be right,” he admits, concerned he is actually participating in one of Cale’s famous theories about government secrets. “Still, if there are more of those crazies out there, the guards should know about them.”
“Agreed. Problem is I haven’t been able to find them all week. They just vanished without a trace.”
“You think the guards found them when they were rounding up all the Subrosians? Maybe one of them talked and gave away their position,” he speculates, the most obvious prospect seeming to be the most likely.
“Possibly, but don’t you think it’s odd that—“ he starts, cut off by a sudden swell in the crowd. Having finished his ritual, the shaman figure approaches the door, placing both palms upon it near the center. With a great deal of effort, the heavy doors begin to creak, a deep and horrible sound discharging from within the tower with the effort. Instantly uneasy, the entire gathering grows quiet as the robed figure continues to pull the doors open with some manner of magic channeled through his hands. A beam of darkness spills through the opening as the doors separate, the widening line of inverted light blanketing the crowd in shadow as the rolling, thunderous sound continues to vibrate the area.
“Remain calm!” Igos blurts out with a smile, quickly making his way to the shaman with a pair of soldiers in tow. A brief conversation ensues, but Igos soon returns to the side of the spectacle, ensuring the people, “this is all expected.” An impatient gesture toward the composer brothers prompts them to restart the music in an attempt to pacify the mass of people. Without warning, a dark, purple mist rapidly crawls through the door, spreading out as it immediately overtakes the lines of soldiers and makes its way into the crowd. Several worried shouts throw the mood into a panicked state, many of the people closest to the tower pushing and shoving their way out of the area. Each of their heart rates spiking, the pair of young men atop the decorative column have an internal debate about the best course of action.
“I think that’s our cue,” Cale decides, timing his leap between the hundreds fleeing the area. At the edge of his peripheral vision, his friend spots a profoundly odd individual casually making his way through the fleeing group. Pausing next to the wooden pillar, he rubs his hands together compulsively as if he were carefully applying lotion, while considering his next move. A massive backpack dwarfs his meek frame, the satchel covered in a large variety of masks fastened to the oversized pack. Garbed in a thin purple robe, the stranger appears to be some sort of salesman, but his yellow-tinted skin tone is certainly foreig
n. Beneath his squinting eyes, a worried grin parts as he begins to mumble to himself.
“This won’t do. This won’t do at all,” he sighs, his voice oddly calm considering his surroundings. “No happiness can come of this.”
“Hey, let’s go,” Cale breathes, socking his friend on the shoulder before springing back to ground level.
“She’ll want that one recovered. It shouldn’t be in the hands of men, clearly,” the mask salesman continues to mumble, resuming his trek forward.
“What are you talking about?” The confused eavesdropper shouts, hopping to the ground and quickly glancing back to see Cale headed for the bridge. Deciding it is too late to catch up, he turns back toward the unusual mask-hoarder. “Hey you!”
“They won’t help these poor souls. He must see it by now. They’ve abandoned this world. This won’t coerce them down. Masks are meant to bring happiness. Never this,” the salesman continues to ramble, ignoring everything around him. Losing the bizarre salesman in the increasing darkness, the elemental novice decides a wind spell could quickly help to calm the escalating situation. Nearly upon him, the dark mist has caused the legion of soldiers to wander aimlessly, their confused faces not seeming to even know where