The East PacificBoard

Silvestras peeled the paper off his chocolate chip muffin at a cafe in middle Sventykla very carefully, crumpling it and leaving it on the table, careful to let as few crumbs as possible fall out. He pulled off a piece of the muffin very delicately. This time, many crumbs did fall, directly onto the plate underneath. He put the piece in his mouth and chewed, looking around. There were only a few other people in the cafe, mostly in groups of two to four, often families.

You can bite it, you know.

He shrugged. He could speak in their mind even while he chewed, but it seemed a bit rude still. When he swallowed, he thought, It’s messier that way. I don’t want crumbs all over my beard.

He heard what he thought might be a chuckle, but Gydvali did not elaborate. He tried to keep silent as he pulled another piece of the muffin off, but he couldn’t help but ask, Do you think we’ll get anywhere with this?

As the man chewed, the Deivos considered his question. It’s very possible that this is a waste of time. However, there is little else we can do. The magician won’t speak to us again. We can’t wait around for another lackey to come around. This is our best chance.

Having finished the next piece of his muffin, Silvestras pointed out, We could try the Triglav again.

Hmph, the god replied. I don’t know, Sil. It’s a delicate situation. In the worst case scenario, we can force through his security. But everyone seems to think he’s nothing more than a figurehead right now. A puppet of this Watcher. I fear that, if we take the direct route, we draw not just his attention, but his ire.

His host chewed for a few seconds. We may already be in that situation. That fellow with the knife, what was it called?

The Blade of Thanatos, came the solemn reply.

Yes, that. Silvestras was very familiar with the stories of the Dievai, but Thanatos was not one of the children of Teondumis Aukstoji. He was a strange part of this world the man did not understand. It concerned him how expansive that category was. He seemed convinced the Watcher would kill us, if not for what we did to him then for whatever he has planned. If we add stalking him to the list of our crimes, he might be pissed off anyway.

Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. I think this is our best bet, honestly. In the supernatural world, stalking isn’t too great a crime. It’s generally considered polite to approach an important entity for a personal conversation. He thought for a moment, and something didn’t sit right. Unless the norms have changed since I’ve been gone. I suppose it’s possible.

Silvestras grumpily ate another piece of the muffin. So it could be a dead end. He had overcome his aversion to eating and speaking.

“More coffee, sir?” The waiter came out of nowhere seemingly, while Sil’s head was down, focusing intently on his muffin.

“Uh, yes, please.” He wasn’t big on coffee - many of his shipmates had, but for a small town like his, it could be rather expensive, and he’d rather not spend money like that. He never saw the appeal. In Sventykla, however, it was cheaper and more common, so he could indulge.

Besides, Gydvali covered most costs with little miracles here and there. The supernatural community had accepted the wandering god as a temporarily welcome intrusion. They worried sometimes about the possible ramifications of such an impact. They couldn’t quite avoid attention, anyway. In some ways, the two wondered if it could be a good thing - an eventual confrontation might do them good. It was what both of them were thinking, in regards to their interrupted conversation, while the waiter filled up the small cup.

When the waiter departed, Silvestras snatched and shook a packet of sweetener. The Zemedievan people were somewhat known for their excessive sweetening of their coffee and herbal tea.

He took a sip, and then spoke. We could ask the magician again.

Sil . . .

I know, we’ve spoken about this already but maybe we should revisit it. We don’t have to threaten him again, we can make some sort of deal. Maybe we do something for the Triglav, or him. I don’t know. Just something to consider.

Sil . . .

I know.

Listen. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. We’ll find a way, the god of healing remarked.

I hope so.

He received the mental equivalent of a nod from his co-habitant. They sat in silence as the cafe door opened, ringing a little bell, and a man stepped in. Silvestras turned his head, in what he hoped was a casual gesture of muted curiosity, which this country specialized in, and it was difficult to contain his and Gydvali’s shared surprise when the man that walked in had no face.

Except . . . now he did.

And now he didn’t.

The horror Silvestras felt was clamped down only by the dominating will of the god in his mind, steeling his consciousness, sharpening his will, and preparing his mind for the scrambling which the presence of this new being would bring. Where a face should be, smooth, featureless flesh flickered into a new face and then another and then another, at lightning speed, until cycling back to the smoothness once again. At various times, the face on which it rested had clearly defined features, but was difficult to remember and make out. It looked familiar and strange all at once. When his mortal mind had finally adjusted, it shifted again.

Silvestras turned back to his coffee, mainly to hide that his eyes had become purple as Gydvali had asserted control. The god watched out of the corner of those eyes as the faceless man took a seat at a booth in front of them. It was not ideal, but he let no emotion show. Gydvali had noticed the waiter’s lack of reaction, and the lack of audible gasps or screams led him to suspect that the man - or the thing, as it was certainly not human and even its gender expression wasn’t solely masculine, if the flashing faces were anything to go by, which was certainly a lot of trust to place in something so obviously transient - was masking its presence in some way. They could not afford giving away their power.

The faceless being ordered coffee in a distorted voice, and smiled with a thousand faces when the waiter poured the steaming beverage. Gydvali kept his head down, pretending to be fully engrossed in the chocolate chip muffin he was eating. The god abandoned Silvestras’s practice of pulling it apart and eating piece by piece, deciding instead to bite into it.

You’re getting crumbs in my beard, Silvestras said in their shared mind.

The bell on the door rang again before Gydvali could reply, and some divine instinct kept Gydvali’s head down as a man walked in. There was a wrongness about the presence which Gydvali felt in the depths of his being, to a greater degree even than the entity which had arrived earlier. Certainly to a greater degree than the man wielding the blade of Thanatos, or than the halls of the Syndicate. This being was held dear by a very strange power indeed. It was a strangeness Gydvali had only ever felt in the depths of a cave system in southern Kamyachyn. It troubled him.

“Mr Chief Director!” The waiter’s voice was incredulous and reverent. Gydvali wondered if the title should mean something. Silvestras knew it was the office of the Directorate head of state, but it must also be some sort of business title. Perhaps this man was the owner of the cafe, or a nearby major company.

The businessman spoke smoothly and confident, his voice deep and commanding. “None of that, thank you. I’m just here to meet a friend.”

Gydvali snuck a look while the man spoke. Only the side of his face was visible, but it lit something in their mind, some memory Silvestras held. The god turned away again, hiding his face with a napkin, wiping the crumbs out of his beard to the satisfaction of Silvestras. If this was someone who knew Silvestras, it could complicated matters significantly. The man, thankfully, kept his eyes locked on the faceless one as he sat - facing away from their booth, but far too close for Gydvali’s liking. The hairs on his arms rose.

He finished the muffin just as the man Sil recognized began speaking. “You are not Mr Nera.”

“If the Watcher thinks only to send a lackey, rather than having the respect to come in person, Mr Nera will extend only the same courtesy,” the distorted voice said.

Gydvali, though immersed in sipping his coffee, was suddenly far more interested in this conversation. Mr Nera was the chairman of the Obsidian Group, which kept order within the Syndicate. It meant the faceless one was a known variable. The Obsidian Group was neutral and motivated by profit. It was easily kept in check, easily bargained with. If he was discovered, Nera’s representative might prove useful protection.

Most importantly, it meant that the plan was not in vain. Though it appeared the Watcher himself had not come to meet with the Faceless One, he had sent an operative, and it was closer than they had ever been before. If they were careful, they could track the puppet to the Watcher himself. It seemed, too, that Gydvali’s knowledge of face-to-face meeting customs had not been rendered obsolete by the ages. The day had proven better than they could have expected.

It was their fourth time sitting in this particular cafe, but Silvestras and Gydvali had spent three months stalking various public spaces of Sventykla. Waiting for some sign of the Watcher. Twice, they had stumbled into other supernatural plots. The meeting of two vampires at a Kampfian cuisine restaurant at evening time, regarding a vampire named Ksaveras, whom Gydvali had never heard of and then the exchange of money for knowledge on the location of the Church of the Evergloom, which Gydvali did know, but cared little for.

They had come to the idea after hearing from a Syndicate contact that the Watcher met with supernatural beings every Sunday in an attempt to gather information, make allies, and recruit new members of his extremist crusade against certain categories of supernatural life. He had to build power and influence across the Directorate somehow, and this is how it was done. He always did it publicly, they had heard. So, with a lot of time and a lot of luck, they could stumble across the elusive being. It was a long shot, and neither of them really expected it to pan out, at least so soon.

It was somewhat disappointing that the Watcher himself did not attend the meetings. The information they received must have been wrong. Or perhaps, it was a special occasion, or had been when their contact had been made aware of it. Whatever it was, it was also less than ideal. Directly speaking to the Watcher was less likely to lead to conflict. A lackey wouldn’t hear them out, he would likely just attack, like the man from the farmstead. It could still work. They just had to think on their feet.

“If I did not know any better, I would say this Mr Nera does not exist, and is in fact your fabrication,” the man smirks.

“You know nothing, puppet,” the faceless being snarled.

The venom in the man’s voice was evident as he said, “I am the Chief Director of Zemedievai. I am the greatest temporal power in this land. The Watcher is not my master, he is my partner. We are equals and I will be treated as such.”

The Chief Director of Zemedievai . . . this was no businessman. He did not hold a title which bore the same name as the country’s head of government, he held the very same title. It was how Silvestras had recognized him. It was why the waiter showed such deference. The representative of the Watcher was none other than Johann Franz von Metternich, the Directorate’s leader. Silvestras began to sweat, even though it was Gydvali’s consciousness in control.

Sil, calm yourself, Gydvali said. He’s only a man. Cast your consciousness out, draw on my power. Look for any guards.

He tried to do as he was asked, but it was difficult. With great effort, he finally confirmed that there were no armed guards around. Metternich, it appeared, had come alone. It was a small comfort. However, the exuded sense of wrongness could only mean that the Watcher had given Metternich some token of power. Gydvali guessed it was likely an artifact of sorts, likely a protection charm, but potentially something of offensive power. As the lackey they had met at the farm in the south had shown, it could be something of any of the supernatural spheres of power. They still had to be cautious.

“Please,” the thing laughed with a thousand mouths. “You hold power so much as the Watcher wishes. He can strip you of your title and your life as easily as he can look into your eyes. That you are blind to this only makes you the perfect victim for him.”

Metternich snarled, almost animalistically, but he had no retort.

“Ah,” the distorted voice continued. “You won’t disagree. You can’t. Because you don’t. Now, little puppet, we will speak as spokespeople rather than as authorities. We will both know our place.”

“What do you want, Stranger?” The Chief Director spoke the word like a name. It seemed very fitting. For someone whose face you could never see was always a stranger.

“Mr Nera has heard the Watcher has been making assurances,” the Stranger said.

“Of what sort?”

“Oh come on, you know.”

“I can guess,” Metternich offered.

“If your faction is granting protection, Mr Nera is interested in accepting such a boon.”

“The Watcher has not proposed such a boon.”

The Stranger smiled. In some of its faces, it appeared more like a grimace or a snarl. “Mr Nera is aware. He would like to hear such a proposal.”

“The Watcher has not authorized my to make any such assurances,” the Chief Director replied. A politician’s answer, but he was indeed a politician. Of course, his word being final, Silvestras figured he’d never had much cause to act polite with those who disagreed with him.

The many faces frowned. “That answer will not satisfy Mr Nera. He is interested in continued partnership with the Watcher, but the Obsidian Group is concerned that your master may decide at any point to withdraw from our agreement with no warning, and send his operatives to wipe out the Syndicate’s Zemedievai and Kamyachyn locations.”

“As you so kindly pointed out, I have no power over that. I serve at the pleasure of the Watcher.”

If the Stranger had a face, it would be contorted in anger, but the front of his head was as smooth as the table on which Gydvali gingerly placed his now-empty cup of coffee. “You are a petty man, Mr Metternich, to have the audacity to punish an ally of your master’s because your feelings were hurt by my reminding you of how little power you hold.”

“And you are an extraordinarily terrible diplomat to insult the man and the group you ask a favor of. I have spoken with the heads of state of many foreign nations. My diplomats have spoken with more. If I wanted something from Terreich und Preussen or Kampfia, and my diplomats insulted theirs, I would ensure they were out of a job. I may not know much about the supernatural world, Stranger, but I do understand that the major players tend to prefer killing worthless pawns like you and I over firing them. If Mr Nera was to hear that the Watcher not only denied protection but withdrew from our existing deal, because you did not have the foresight to treat the Watcher’s representative with respect, well, I know in a similar position the Watcher would have my head.”

The face that appeared in response was scowling. “What do you want, an apology?”

“Oh, I’m not so vain,” Metternich replied. “I’ve been insulted by people of greater importance than you. I’d just ask for more respect. For me and for the Watcher. It’ll keep us both alive, something I’m sure we have common ground on.”

“You will bring Mr Nera’s request to the Watcher?”

“As it stands, I’m not so sure. The Watcher gave me specific instructions not to alter our deal. He will not wish to even hear a request for a one-sided alteration. Speaking of rolling heads, he might have mine for even suggesting it. However, if you offered a second deal, offering something in return for protection, then I would be free to take it to him. I can’t guarantee his response in that case, but I can guarantee his ear.”

The Stranger nodded slightly. “I understand. What does the Watcher desire?”

Gydvali and Silvestras could hear a smile in Metternich’s voice when he said, “That was a mistake. An open-ended question like that. You know exactly what he wants. Something he values just as much as Mr Nera values his life. He wants the seizure of every artifact in the Syndicate and the execution of every supernatural abomination in its halls. In this case, he’ll settle for every one which does not wear a black ring.”

“Mr Nera will not agree to that.”

“How capitalist of him to value his business over his life,” Metternich observed.

Another snarl of a smile from the Stranger. “One might call it brave.”

“Such value judgments are reserved to my betters.”

“What else can the Obsidian Group offer the Watcher? Something more reasonable, perhaps,” the faceless being tried again.

“There’s been rumor of a Vampire King.” It was open-ended. The Chief Director was prompting an offer, not suggesting a deal. Likely because he had no power to do the latter, but he was aware what would work. It was clever.

“I’ve heard the same. I was not aware the Watcher was confiding in his spokesman about the finer points of his war. The Obsidian Group has no more information on this Vampire King than you do, which is that he exists.”

“If you have nothing to offer than neither does the Watcher. If you can convince Mr Nera to devote resources towards assisting in this battle, I can convince the Watcher to offer protection to the Obsidian Group.”

The Stranger paused for a moment. “Can we both say we’re completely sure that, if we offered what the other suggested, they would offer what we wanted?”

“Yes.”

It nodded with its thousand faces, at once familiar and unknown. “I can do that.”

“Good. I’m going to enjoy my coffee now. If you wish to leave, you are free to do so.”

Gydvali tapped his fingers against the table, then pulled out their wallet and dropped a few lapas with the Triglav’s face on them just as the Stranger stood up and walked by, leaving the cafe and disappearing into the streets of Sventykla. He then stood up, walked a booth over, and sat down across from Chief Director Johann Franz von Metternich of the Directorate of Zemedievai and Kamyachyn.

“I’m a busy man, you know,” Metternich told him as he picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee.

“Mr Metternich, I am not here for you. I seek an audience with the Watcher.”

The Chief Director looked up and smiled as he stared into the purple eyes of the Deivos of Healing. “I know, Gydvali. I’ve been expecting you.”

If Silvestras had been in control, his shock and fear would have been more than apparent, but Gydvali was skilled in maintaining a calm visage. Even so, suspicion curled up inside their shared mind as both began contemplating how this might be a trap.

“Mr Metternich, I understand the Watcher’s soldier met me in a farmstead and I left him injured and perhaps humiliated, but I did not kill him, nor do I wish to kill you, nor the Watcher himself. I have not been back on dry land for very long, Mr Metternich, and, though I’m certain the rumors I’ve heard of the Watcher’s brutality and mission would concern any other member of the Dievai, I care little for either. I seek only for a favor which would cost the Watcher nothing but mean a great deal to myself.” Gydvali spoke smoothly and diplomatically, a stark contrast to the way the Stranger had begun its own encounter with the Chief Director.

“Kreshimir was a fool and a coward. I wish you would have killed him,” Metternich said.

“Excuse me?”

The man stared into Gydvali’s purple eyes once again, and as he did, the world fell away. All the two co-habitants could see was Metternich’s face and soon, only his eyes, which glowed a faint green as they bored into Silvestras and Gydvali’s shared being with the force and judgment of an afterlife god. To be seen by those eyes was to be known and judged. It was to be seen for all your goodness and all your evil. For Silvestras, it was very uncomfortable. For Gydvali, it was the most pain he had experienced in hundreds of years.

As Metternich broke eye contact and understanding dawned on the two, Gydvali gasped for breath from the body of Silvestras Lapkauskas. “You are the Watcher,” he said.

“Astute,” the other replied dryly.

“Why pose as your own lackey?” he asked. It was not the most pressing question on his mind - that, indeed, was ‘What evil power do you draw from and how can it affect me so greatly?’ but he knew that to ask that was to concede the Watcher’s supremacy over him, the being that could not be killed or trapped or outsmarted by even the Dievai, the ruling class of the supernatural order within the Directorate. It would not be wise.

“My identity is best kept a secret. Besides, it’s fun,” he said with a toothy grin.

“I am glad to meet you, Watcher,” Gydvali lied. “As I said, I wish to speak with you regarding a favor.”

“Drop the niceties, Deivos. I know your crimes. I’ve heard tell of the slaughter of Besirdis. Tell me. Why didn’t you kill Kreshimir, then?”

Gydvali frowned. “My methods are harsh, and in a world which has changed so much as to be hardly recognizable, I thought it wise to keep my list of enemies as short as possible, and to act with caution.” He would not let the Watcher know of Silvestras. It would be dangerous to the both of them, and Gydvali was determined to keep his new partner safe.

The Watcher snorted. “You? The God Killed Nine Times? The Deivos who outsmarted Teondumis? Come now, Snake-Slayer. You can kill everyone in this country without feeling any pain. You could die twice for each death incurred in the process and still feel nothing. You could save anyone in any hospital in the world. What do you have to fear?”

“Likimas, not Teondumis, but yes. And it is not so much fear, as a one-track mind with keen attention paid to the need for allies. How else am I to get information?”

“Liar. There’s something else,” the Watcher said. Suddenly, those eyes seized his soul again, only for a moment. “I see.” Before Gydvali could wonder if it was a joke, the Watcher continued, “There’s two of you. You’re protecting the other. I knew this was not your body, but I would have guessed the original inhabitant would have been . . . evicted. This is most irregular. I killed Kreshimir, you know. It would have been quicker if you had. Less ugly.”

The eyes bored into Gydvali again, and as soon as he understood what he was seeing, he tried to hide the mental image from Silvestras. His host was not having it, though, and besides, the Watcher was skilled in transmitting such images. He knew how to do it. Both consciousnesses in Silvestras’s body saw in clear, stark detail, as the Watcher took a small, ugly knife, and stuck it in Kreshimir’s eyeballs, severing their optic nerves. The man Gydvali had fought wept as his eyes were plucked from his head and he was left in pitch black. A creature screached, and emerged from the shadows to tear the man apart. It was gruesome and horrifying. Furthermore, it was a message. The Watcher was not someone Gydvali knew. He clearly felt the need to make his capabilities understood.

“You know not who you are threatening,” Gydvali snarled. “As long as my consciousness remains in this body, you cannot harm him any more than me. I am as deathless as ever, and so is he. Let us get into more productive speak before I reconsider my desire not to make enemies. I’m sure you’re a formidable one, Watcher, but I am of a kind you have never before met. Let us speak as peacebringers rather than warmongers for once, and perhaps we could help each other out.”

“Oh?”

“Your little Vampire King. Extract something else out of the Obsidian Group. I can take care of any vampire you desire. You see, I’ve given up killing, at least for a little while, but these things are already dead. I don’t mind making it more permanent than at first.” Gydvali spoke without charm but with power, something the Watcher must have respected.

“No, no. I have something else for you, Gydvali. Something which may hit a little closer to home. Mr Nera can offer me what I need on the Vampire King, and my Crusaders can handle it.”

“I will not kill targets you give me, if that’s what you seek.”

The Watcher shook his head. “No, nothing quite like that. More like laying down the law. No deaths need come of it, if you prefer, but I seek a definite goal, and I will not help you unless you meet that goal. Don’t worry, you’ll like it. It’ll remind you of the good old days, some two thousand years ago or more.”

Gydvali narrowed his purple eyes. “What do you wish for me to do?”

“I want you to corral a splinter cell of rogue Storm Spirits. They escaped your father’s clutches, and have begun wreaking havoc on some northern villages, near the sea. Challenge their leader to a duel. Beat him. Then, I will personally ensure you have what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Gydvali said.

“Yes I do. You want an audience with Deivos-Karalius Teondumis Aukstoji.” He smiled with great humor. “You want to appeal your sentencing with a higher power. Do this and you’ll have your day in court. Furthermore, having done it will not only meet my demands, but ingratiate yourself with your estranged father, as well. I’m sure the Dievai will see it as a sign of great growth and willingness to cooperate if you returned their errant subjects. Though, the death of Besirdis will be difficult to explain.”

“I only need to convince one being.”

“Yes, indeed,” the Watcher replied. “Now, do you accept these conditions? They’re the best you’ll get, I assure you. The Triglav is under lock and key. Sure, you can break through, but even he cannot get you what you wish. Theondume would just as easily ignore his call as yours. The bridge won’t rise for you, and no portals may be formed. I’m your only option and, what’s more, I’m accommodating of your particular . . . scruples. This deal is very beneficial for you.”

“The question is why you would make it.”

“I thought you cared little for my Crusade,” the Watcher reminded him.

“I care much for any attempt to deceive me,” the god responded.

“I assure you, what I am offering is genuine and mutually beneficial. The ending to your story, Gydvali, will be as you desire. All you have to do is agree.”

The God of Healing paused for a long moment, discussing the offer with Silvestras. Discussing other options. Discussing ways out of the deal. Discussing potential traps. Discussing what they wanted from the end result. Finally, he relented, at Sil’s urging. “Very well, Watcher. We have a deal.”

Three month delay? Yes. But I gave it a canon reason. Also, at 4,790 words, this is the longest part of Storied, narrowly beating out Part I at 4,621. Currently, the entire series sits at 26,881 words. I estimate there being at least three more parts left before this storyline is concluded. This could potentially bring the series up to around 35k words. In that case, it would be the second largest series of mine, though admittedly less than half the size of the longest.