Legend of Ransera

Aeseth walked casually down the Halls of Sorrow. The name had such a fitting chime to it, as opposed to the more official yet drab “Sub-Terran Prison”. The sound of each clack-tap of their boots danced down the halls, creating a cacophony of dozens of feet in each direction; to some, these were the footsteps of devils. To those like Aeseth, they were the footsteps of angels, ready to do the holy work of Zaechaer.

They opened a metal door, the door groaning as it opened to reveal a near-total darkness. A sliver of flame danced maybe ten feet away. The candle rested on a cart placed against a wall; without looking away from the darkness to their now left, they grabbed another, unmelted candle, using the first to light the second. “Have you been faring well, deary?” Aeseth asked, as the light quickly revealed a weary, frightened face. Of course, no response was possible, with their mouth gagged.

Kneeling before the gagged individual, Aeseth held the candle to the gagged’s figure. The light revealed chains binding them, arms and ankles locked behind their frame. The shadows danced, like an excited audience awaiting the next act of agony. Aeseth cupped their face, tilting it up; their captive was too drained to resist, eyes focusing not on Aeseth as much as their general direction.

With the unoccupied hand, Aeseth brushed their gloved hands across their captive’s bruised skin. The captive flinched in response. A small frown crept across Aeseth’s face. They grabbed at a bruised arm, eyebrow cocking in delight as a pained whimper crept out of the gag. Eyes raised up to meet Aeseth’s with a storm of emotions: anger, helplessness, both combined with a twinkle of something more.

Aeseth stood, tracing their fingers across the metal suspended from the ceiling, their personal chains of command. The cold bit gently through the gloved hand, making it known that not even this small piece of clothing could hide flesh from Chill’s bite.

“I’ll be back for you, lovely.” Aeseth rested the candle on the nearby table, out of reach of the captive, letting the flame run its course to dim over time, slowly swallowing the area in darkness, a gentle reminder of the fading hope in the room.

With a bounce in their step, Aeseth walked to Richter’s office. Rounding a corner, they barely caught themselves from running into Angevin. “Ah! Just the one I was looking for!” Aeseth said, preening themselves back to their full composure. “I heard I’ll be leaning on you for learning my way around this set of halls. What’ve we got on our agenda today?”

Aeseth watched Eitan’s eyes graze up and down their figure. Post-haste, they shifted themselves into a tall, statue-like posture befitting the Order. Their right eyebrow popped up in amusement, and a wry smile snuck across their face. Salacious thoughts whistled past their mind, and were brushed away just as quickly. Calm yourself, now’s not the time for such nonsense.

As Eitan commented on an unexpected Floydian slip Aeseth made, they had to pause in confusion at first. Then, they pursed their lips inward, biting them in suppressed laughter. “Well, here’s to spectacular first impressions, eh? That’s funny, I hadn’t realized that until it was too late.”

Aeseth proceeded to firm their posture further as they listened to Eitan describing their roles for Zaichaer, nodding. “There’s little more worthwhile than a respect well earned. I won’t have you, or I, lose face to others, absolutely not. But, yes, I’d prefer an authentic… whatever we manage to make here.”

Watching Eitan begin to stride down the hall, Aeseth quickly followed behind, back straight and chin cocked upwards, keeping step with their superior. “Frankly, I’ve several other obligations grasping for my attention, sometimes more urgently than that of the Order. Don’t misunderstand me, the Order is of significance, of course. Learning this, uh, magic nonsense is quite a headache, in multiple senses of the word. Between feeling dreadful touching the stuff and not understanding it, it’s just a timely thing.”

---

Their thoughts wandered to Vigilant Richter. Richter, that fork-tongued witch. They couldn’t put their finger on it, but her voice sounded familiar. Thoughts of the night their family fell echoed through their mind. From behind secret chamber walls, they could’ve sworn they heard her, and her cold, soft, merciless voice amidst those plotting against the Leichenbergs.

It will be a joyous day when they could have her in their chains, wringing that betrayer’s throat.

Aeseth shook their head, jostling the heinous thoughts of Richter to their appropriate, dark corner of their mind.

“I quite think I’d enjoy that, training with you. I don’t think I’ve the learning or focus just yet to do harm, though that may speak bounds of my ignorance and naivety on the matter. Perhaps it’s really as dangerous as a child playing with a Looger, shooting about and hurting someone. Shall we begin today, then? Or are other things we’re to attend to prior to that?

Hone themselves under her eye? For what end? Aeseth’s suspicions churned more violently.

“What’s it of someone that would catch her eye? Is it the gestation of excellence? Perhaps a pity of them, and a need to keep them in line? Or, Earth forbid, something else?” Aeseth caught themselves beginning to ramble, their tone becoming more angry and indignant. “Whatever the matter, I understand. She has her rank for a reason, as is oft the case. I’ll watch and learn and refine myself, for Zaichaer.”

At the mention of an investigation, Aeseth’s voice rose an octave. “Oh? An investigation, you say? What does that entail, pray tell? Certainly, both with Rune and Body, I’ll gladly accept any more training I can receive. As for my obligations, well… I, too, have investigations I pursue, and chase. It’s my primary contribution to the State, information. I’d have to ponder how you may be able to help; what comes immediately to mind as far as how you could assist me with such a thing?”

Without warning, where there were once two sources of boot-clacking in the halls, there was one. Aeseth stopped and turned to look down a hallway to their right, watching, their demeanor relaxing, sloughing off any formal posture or demeanor. Where their eyes were once haughty, quick, and observant, they now focused entirely on whatever was down the hallway. They smiled a gentle, care-free smile.

From the hallway came a young man, brown hair short and worn just well enough for the Order, yet careless enough to express that, truly, does it matter how their hair appears? They talked quietly with each other briefly, an exchange lasting a mere minute, though in that minute Aeseth seemed as naked as can be. The young man handed Aeseth a letter; Aeseth hugged the man, to his surprise.

As the young man turned to walk away, Aeseth turned to face Eitan. Like donning a mask, their face and demeanor shifted yet again, like an entirely new person filled those shoes.

“Pardon me. Where were we?”