Lanis Nidars's Story

The walk to the bar took eighty-seven hundred equally measured steps, counted with barely moving lips as the cloaked figure marched along, the winds about him furling and swishing his cloak dramatically with the errant twitching of his fingers and hands. Eyes, white and blank as fresh fallen snow, stared straight ahead in his path, not moving nor straying from their intended target. He kept his gaze not on any particular prize, but on the space in front of him, taking it all in as he moved, ramrod straight, poise and grace above all else.

The monks had taught him well and true; chin up, eyes forward, keep moving along. Peace and tranquillity above all else. Reason before emotion.

Sweeping into the bar, the cloaked man didn't look around the bar - he took everything in, feeling the obstructions and vibrations upon the air. Letting out a soft sigh, adding more depth to his vision, the hooded man walked towards the counter, his fist curling around a small container of toothpicks.

The cloaked figure would remain there, silent, until needed.

The cloaked man opened his mouth to speak towards the incensed Zekil, but found that there was not much to say towards an enraged individual. He was even more taken aback when the man sliced open his palm and began pouring it into a vial after disappearing.

"In my experience," came an even, monotone voice, "a man isn't so eager to spill his own blood unless there's powerful reason to do so. I'm curious as to-"

He stopped suddenly, his head jerking upwards as he felt a woman enter the bar, wounded, the sound of blood tapping on the wooden floors of the building piercing through the din and drone of the arguing patrons around him. Without offering any form of apology for his staggered sentence, the cloaked figure whirled from the bar stool, moving towards The Pagemaster with urgency in his steps.

"You're wounded?" He asked, his face focused on a spot far above her head. "It's serious."

With a quick movement, light as air, Lanis slid in beside the woman, the feeling of the stagnant and smoke-filled bar air filling up inside of his cloak, billowing it out as his thumb twitched. Smoothing both hands upon the table, he offered a smile in the direction of the girl, white eyes patiently observing her. "What kind of spell did you attempt, my lady?"

He asked the question as long, nimble fingers unstrapped three vials from his chest - the insignia of a tornado upon each of them. One by one, he placed the vials in front of her, smoothly and carefully, reading the air around him. He moved like a man who had no trouble seeing, with grace and fluidity.

"Perhaps I could help? If you'd allow me, that is."

Lanis nodded gravely, his face turning in the direction of the table, smiling wider. "I see. You predicted the future, found it lacking, and dove right in anyways. You remind me of a dear brother of mine - he, too, would've done the same thing. Perhaps you should meet him."

He uncorked each bottle, one after the other, until a faint pink mist sparkled above the small opening. His lip twitched slightly in amusement as he inhaled deeply, allowing the fruity smell to reach towards him. "In each of these is a gas." He explained.

"Now, I'm not certain which type of magic would be categorized, so I've covered the basics. What I'm about to do is guide the gas from these bottles towards your wound, and we can see if they do the job. They should stick - like moss to a log - and make the wound itch. I'm going to need you to expose the wound, let it get at the air, if you're comfortable with my assistance."

The three pink mists that expunged from the bottles suddenly lengthened into coiling, twisting pieces, that swirled together until they formed a salmon-coloured cone. Like a darting dragonfly, the cloud zipped through the air, plastering itself to the wound, seeping into the woman's cut. She would feel a vague discomfort, like a bone-deep itch that began to furrow and intensify as the cloud nestled deeper into her wound.

The wound began to fill with the gas, as it seeped out thicker; like dark pink smoke. With it came the infection, released into the air like a small explosion, offering a small bang, not unlike a fire cracker lit and shot at the couple's feet. As the gas exited her body, the wound covered with a dark blue furred patch that encompassed the entirety of the wound, the mist disappearing once more into their bottles with a wave of the stranger's hand. Deftly, he corked all three bottles, putting them back towards his belt as he spoke.

"The soft hair that's now on you serves as a patch; but whatever was failing to close the wound should have escaped into the air. No strenuous activity, and you may feel a little woozy, but other than that, you should be okay."

He paused. "Oh, I'm Lanis, by the way."

Lanis chuckled at that. "I'm sure you had your reasons for seeking medical attention in a seedy bar. Though I can't imagine what they were, nor the sanity behind them. Still, I'm glad we met this eve."

He folded his hands, adapting a stern expression. "Now, however, I do have to chastise you. Wouldn't be a monk if I didn't. What on earth were you doing trying out a summoning spell with that kind of repercussion - alone, no less? You could be lying on the seat right now, slumped and drooling with pasty blue skin and a wonderful cushion of blood red, and Gambit - whomever he may be - would be cross at having to wash out blood stains."

If he was reticent for using such prose to describe a death, he didnt show it.

Lanis nodded his head once, in the affirmative. "I see." He said, drawing the sentence out. "Plenty of experience in bleeding, too?"

He grinned, so she'd know he was kidding. "Well, thankfully whatever you summoned didn't succeed. With that much blood loss, must've been a doozy. What were you attempting to summon? A Bahumut?"

Lanis' face dropped as she said those words, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared off into space. Still walking around?

"You... successfully summoned something?" He asked, carefully neutral. "And it walked around? What was it, Hope? Do you need assistance in... dealing with it?"

Lanis folded his arms further around each other, clasping them quietly.

Leaning slightly towards her, a frown of concern across his face. "What was that in response to? Do you need my help in re-banishing the creature? You seem... apprehensive."

Suddenly a thought dawned on him; she was surprised by the blood loss, the way in which he healed it, and seemed generally evasive to the questions regarding the summon. The gears finally clicked together, and he turned to face her fully, coupled with her admission. "Hope, are you new to this craft? The craft of summoning? Are you endeavouring to learn it all by your lonesome?"

Despite the preparation for a foe so powerful; despite the rushed and hurried defences being erected, and despite the knowledge, the planning of the incoming swarm, a whisper flowed through the palace, the bearer of it's own bad news.

The whisper had witnessed a gift bestowed onto people - people it thought of as it's own, and under his protection - that would destroy a nation. A gift that would see planets reduced to dust, civilizations razed to the ground, until the universe were nothing but ash and grime. The whisper had seen the machinations of the one who bestowed such a present - games played where rules were often not clear - and, with frail fingers, it moved it's own piece upon the board.

The Divine Shadow would feel a chill; sudden and sweeping as the wind took him, fluttering the finery he wore. The wind picked up speed, a force that carried more weight than pure magic; an omnipresent feeling settling over the bones of all within the Shadow's chamber. The gale stilled, whipping and whirling in the center of the room until it became a dusty mass, becoming the shape of a man. The wind moved over the figure from the top down, revealing a cloak, a face with bandages wrapped around the eyes, a ragged cloth covering the torso, and long, lean legs.

The man looked to be about thirty, and clearly not of this world. He glowed softly in the room, the source of light weak and yet notable as he bowed slightly at the waist.

"Forgive my intrusion, my lord Shadow," Lanis Nisdars, God of the Pantheon, intoned, showing respect as a guest in the man's home, "but I am afraid there are more pressing matters than that of etiquette to attend to. I am known as Lanis, and your people are in the highest of dangers."

Lanis bowed his head, quietly. "I'll spare you the long winded version, then. The reason that a God stands before you today is that a gift was passed to a people. A gift that would see you and your vast empire crumble under the weight of a disease created, not by man or machine, but of a vengeful God. I know not his intention, but I do know of the disease's nature."

He folded his hands into his robes. "Should the Aschen not close their communications and pull back from Terran space with as much haste as possible, the disease will crawl through your people, infecting and destroying them until you remain a crippled husk. This is not an idle threat, Shadow, nor am I one to interfere in these matters. I trust you know when words ring true."

Lanis shrugged, apologetically. "I cannot give you more than they have been given; the rules have already been stretched too far. The information I've given you is all I can supply."

With a nod to the Shadow, the god disappeared.