spell-caster realizes his time is up.
“Fine! Have it raw!” He shouts, his furious gaze snapping onto the drifting wraith just as the ceiling of flame falls into view. Squeezing the poor girl as tightly as he’s able, his strength all but fails him as her limp limbs wave and flail in the hurricane of wind exploding from the blinding green of his open palm. The curtain of death expands in every direction, an orb of dissipating smoke and flame swelling to a gradual halt like a mushroom cloud. “No,” he grunts, his free arm finally reaching its limit as the unconscious girl is sucked into the rapidly fading torrent. An altogether clumsy series of sudden wind gusts manage to stabilize her soaring position, and with enough strain to force him to his knees, the elemental novice allows her a mere bruise-ensuring landing. The silvery moonlight glows upon her vulnerable state, and somehow, all of the commotion has failed to attract any attention as another quiet breeze pets the landscape with invisible hands. Several exhausted breaths later, he finds his feet, and unfortunately, the ghost responsible for his plight staring at him. Gliding slowly backward, the ghoul gradually turns toward the helpless girl lying awkwardly upon the ground a short distance away.
“Stop,” the exhausted magi commands, his voice gaining a surprising amount of base considering his physical state. Ignoring him completely, the specter glides to a stop just above its victim, its heartless eyes fixated upon her as another otherworldly laugh echoes through the air. His eyes burning into a blinding white, the weary knight-in-shining-armor trips and stumbles toward them, his ethereal, spiked orbs scattering across the ground as they spill from his hand like a punctured bucket of water. “I said, stop,” he repeats, his voice cold and callous. A high-pitched squeal snaps Chrissy from her brief unconsciousness, pulling her savior from his berserker trance as the ghastly creature sways and weaves away, clutching the hole in its chest painfully. Glancing down to his outstretched palm, the unofficially-certified reaver realizes what he has done, and quickly leaps into a sprint, determined to finish the job.
“What happened?” A dazed and confused Chrissy mumbles as her date flies past her grounded form in a hurry.
“No time, love,” he shouts as he passes by, glancing over his shoulder to add, “proper fun! We’ll do it again sometime!” Dashing into an alley, the hunter spots the base of a lantern dip left as its orange glow quickly vanishes, its possessor laughing once again, but in a broken, painful sort of way. Closing the distance as quickly as his legs will allow, he sees the fugitive blink in and fade out of the visible spectrum for just a moment as it continues to flee toward the market district. Subconsciously pulling a half dozen of his faithful spheres along for the ride, he only now notices them sporadically orbiting his body as he runs. Blindly jogging between closed down stalls and booths, he has lost sight of his prey entirely as he endlessly turns to find nothing but shadows and reflections of moonlight. A tense silence ensues, the hunter expecting an attack at any moment from the still night. A sudden crash grabs his attention, and in moments he has covered the distance to a stand belonging to a vendor of glass bottles. An open satchel lies on the ground, its contents shattered and ruined save for a couple lucky containers. Scratching his head and wandering a few steps further, the reaver is rewarded for his diligence.
“End of the line pumpkin-eyes,” he breathes with exhausted arrogance. A single step toward his wounded prey ends in an equally fortuitous and disastrous manner as his ankle rolls atop a cylindrical bottle. His arms outstretched in a mad attempt to catch himself, a crescent blur of heat and light overwhelms his senses as he topples to a harsh landing upon his back, his orbiting spheres raining to the ground and dissipating. Regaining his bearings, he sees the ghoul recoil from its failed attack, stumbling backward in a futile attempt to keep its creaking lantern aloft. The jagged hole in the ghost’s chest spreads like cracks upon a pane of glass with the effort, and with a final weak shriek, the fading specter collides harshly with the bottle stand, dropping its lantern as it agonizingly fades away. Just as the discarded box of glass and tin collides with the ground, a single bottle tumbles from atop the stand, seemingly doomed to suffer the same fate. Another echo of wicked laughter sounds as the apparition’s soul springs from the lantern, the same evil eyes sneering within the gust of glowing smoke. Slowing its descent considerably, the bottle captures the escaping spirit like a net slapped down upon an insect.
“Interesting,” the potential ghost hunter muses, snatching the bottle from the ground and quickly pressing its cork into the opening. “Thought you had me there didn’t you?” He continues to tease, dangling the bottle before his smirking face. Suddenly, a familiar pair of green eyes reveal themselves within a swirling torrent of dark mist contained inside the glass cell. The ampule glows profoundly as a deep, deliberate voice speaks directly into the petty young man’s mind.
“Foolish you are, to think me defeated,” the spirit bellows, staring daggers at him.
“Oi! Now you can talk?” He blurts out with amazement.
“Release me now, and you will be spared,” it pauses, adding, “for a time.”
“Ha! That’s your offer?” He laughs, tossing the bottle between his hands before setting it upon the vendor stall. Taking a seat upon a stool within the kiosk, he props his head upon his fist as the dialogue continues. “What’s your name?”
“I am Garo,” the vengeful soul states bluntly.
“That a name or a faction?”
“Your intrigue amuses me,” it scoffs, its tone becoming less severe. “It is both. The Garo are legion. We wear the robe to allow passage through the dark, so the pure of soul may attain the light of their grace.”
“Their grace?” He mocks, quickly recalling the crazy preachers. “You mean the she-gods don’t you?”
“A blasphemer. I might have known,” it sighs, the callousness returning to its voice.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” He states breathlessly, the realization striking him like a crashing wave. A rapid flutter of horrifying memories rush through his mind, the desperate preacher begging the people to listen before sacrificing himself. “You killed all those people,” he pauses, blinking several times as the scene replays itself in his mind for the hundredth time. “And for what? Your stupid religion.”
“I embraced the purity of the cleansing flame,” it corrects, rapidly growing to dislike its disrespectful captor. “Your King would see you suffer,” it points out, turning the conversation around. “And for what? His heartless war.”
“Igos? What does—“
“Foolish boy. You cannot see beyond your station,” it reveals, the glow of its eyes fading as it grows tired of conversing. “You will. In due time,” it concludes dramatically.
“I know you’re still there,” he points out after a moment, unaffected by the theatrics.
“Leave me alone,” it resentfully responds a moment later, returning to a dark, featureless vapor. Rolling his eyes, the young man spots an intricate weave of thick string fashioned to carry a bottle on the wearer’s hip. After looping the attachment about the flared neck of the container, he pulls the strings taut before tying the fishnet-resembling accessory around his waist. A handful of rupees clatter upon the timeworn wooden counter. Payment for the bottle belt he has taken, as well as the wealth of damage done to the owner’s property. Satisfied with his patronage as well as his prisoner’s new accommodations, he starts for the royal district, certain someone of importance will be eager to hear such a fantastical tale. If not, there is always his father. “I suspect you care little, but—“ the spirit starts, its eyes whisking about within the bottle.
“You suspect correctly,” he interrupts, indifferent about the soul’s level of comfort. The vacant city streets pass by in a blur, the few energetic enough to be out at such an hour going equally unnoticed. Halfway across the mighty bridge spanning Ikana River, a very familiar voice sounds from the darkness.
“You surprise even me on occasion,” an e
lderly voice admits with compassion.
“Greatfather? What are you—“
“The very same as you,” he points out, gesturing at the bottle hanging from his apprentice’s hip. “Reporting the poe threat.”
“Poe?” He ponders, recalling the word from some unknown story in his past. “Is that what these jerks are called?”
“Indeed,” his master agrees with a chuckle. “That one put up much of a fight?”
“You could say that,” he snidely retorts, patting the bottle proudly. “What about yours?”
“Which one?” His greatfather smirks, lifting the hatch of a basket containing at least a dozen spirits of varying color and energy.
“Showoff,” he mumbles under his breath. “Where are they coming from?”
“I cannot say, but I am certain it involves those who were afflicted.”
“Afflicted?” He asks, moving closer and leaping up onto the balustrade to rest his legs.
“The darkness released from the tower has given rise to a mysterious illness among those who were closest to the doors,” his greatfather explains, subconsciously rolling his shoulder, and unintentionally revealing a discolored patch of skin beneath his sleeve.
“What does an illness have to do with ghosts?” He