The Serenade's Story

From the shadows, The Serenade stepped into existence, his dark red hood pulled over his face, blackness where his eyes should be.

"Then face to face you will have it."

The Serenade spread his hands wide, nodding his hooded head. "You believe I'm the bringer of death?" he queried, stepping towards her, his footsteps appearing more like a smooth, flowing motion than the common bipedal. "Dear, dear girl. I've not come to take your life from these clutches. That would serve no purpose."

He went further towards her side, gently nudging her weapon away with his foot, and cupped her chin with a hand that seemed to be made of smoke. It would feel solid but uncomfortable, sandpaper on ivory, as he turned her to face him. "Nor have I come to take anything from you, for that matter. What I offer is a benevolent one. No strings, no second guessing."

"Dear, dear girl. What I offer is revenge."

A bittersweet symphony is what he craved; agony and rage, twining together in harmonic bliss. His own code of ethics, his leger of wins and losses had been stacked far more on the 'good' side of the morality scale than the bad. If he were a cheater; if he were to lie and steal away points from his subjects, he might be tempted to tip the scales in the 'bad' answer every now and again.

But no. Like any being forced within the confines of rule, he had his orders. He had his code. And he intended to follow it.

And so he sat atop a roadblock, watching as the rains of Wing City poured down around him; his hooded cloak wrapped around his form and keeping him dry and safe in the gale. Below his dangling feet, there was an open man-hole, slowly filling with the torrential downpour. Inside the man-hole, there was a cage.

In that cage, there was a girl; twelve at oldest, shivering and shaking in the bars with naught but a potato sack to cover her skin. The water around her filled, and the girl's cries into the open air - fear, anxiety - spiraled high into Wing City's night. Over the rain, she would likely never be heard by outsiders.

But The Serenade allowed her song to reach the ears of a single individual. And, this night, he sat above his latest test.

He awaited the woman's arrival.

The moment he detected his desired target, the melodic screams increased, making his mouth curve in a cruel twist of emotion, sure that he would be fed this night. His amusement often came at the hands of such desolate souls, but the lack of balance in the ledger made him thirst for blood; thirst for this woman to 'lose' her test that had been set aside.

"I sense her in the corners; slouching, skulking, sneaking. That's a dagger in her grip." He called, flashes of the woman's appearance erupting behind his eyes. He shaped his tone, softened his words for her own ears. "But she doesn't know how lucky she is. Welcome, my dear. Welcome to the Serenade."

His smile, yellow teeth the only visible feature of his face, widened. "If you're ready to play, I'll teach you your instrument."

The figure sitting upon the road block spread his hands wide, the smile turning to a cheshire-cat grin. His robe dangled, oddly unaffected by the rain, the moisture seeming to bend and twist around his body.

"Nor do I, sweet girl. But would you truly turn down the life of someone on the thought that I might be a threat to you? Can you hear her screams? Do they do nothing for you?"

He was almost ecstatic. A clear cut loss, this early? Truly his master sent him a prime specimen this day.

"If this would not weigh on your conscience; if her dying cries as the water fills her prison would not haunt your memory, I shall not stop you in your retreat. All you need do is drop her cage into the water, and we will be done."

The smile remained wide, the words spoken on rapidly closing lips, slightly out of sync. "The Serenade, child, moves on with or without its musicians. The strings continue vibrating; music is still produced. I care not about whether or not you suspect my motives, but answer me this; why has nobody else heard the sweet screams she produces?"

To punctuate this, another loud, shrill, ear-splitting wail erupted from the man-hole, rending the air and echoing about the buildings as the water reached the girl's toes. Inside the current carried rats and infection, and the girl knew this well. She tried to balance her cage, the chain supporting it vibrating.

"Strange. A young girl cries out, and nobody answers. Nobody but you. It is almost as if someone wanted you here, my dear. It is almost as if someone wouldn't be too pleased if you left."

Crossing his legs underneath the robe, the man continued, "I care not about what you do. But this symphony must reach a climax, and for that, you must choose a path. Either the drums sound a melodic funeral march, or the horns of triumph mix with the rain. You must release the chain, allow the girl to drown. Or," he said, raising a finger.

"You must save her life. Shall you choose?"

The smile flattened, suddenly. The man, the figure, stood from his perch, the robe fluttering around him. "Beast?" he began.

"Let me tell you of a beast. A beast is one who would face flames and cackle as they consumed his people. A beast is those dark thoughts that you have when you're alone and comfortable in your bed, thinking idly of your enemies. A beast is enacting upon those dark thoughts, breaking the barrier between thought and action. Those are beastly things, my child."

He waved a hand. "I cannot help you become unbeastly. It is you who chooses. Your actions, your character, are what makes you a saint or a beast. This, at least, is what the populace will tote around."

He raised a hand. "The other side of it? You are hideous. Frightening, despair-filled. It chills me just to gaze upon you."

He shrugged. "The Symphony does not care. There is nobody to judge you. There is no benefit to saving her life; there is no cost to letting her die. There is only the choice. And you must choose, before the rainwater chooses for you."

Inside the water filled hole, the girl was curled into a ball, her knees clutched to her chest, expanse of back dark-skinned and clumpy, like she had a rare skin condition. The patches of skin rose in parts, looking oddly like ridges of scaling rather than the normal smooth expanse of back. She shivered, her one side completely soaked in the current of water; little shapes slapping against the metal bars.

Rats.

Hearing Sab's approach, the girl suddenly glanced upwards, and, for the first time, a shaft of moonlight hit her face, her bright eyes meeting Sab's.

And Sab would see the face of a girl, mixed with a fox. The skin condition was, in fact, mottled, wet clumps of fur. And in that contact, flashes of the girl's past erupted forth.

Joining a gang. Beating a woman to death with two-by-fours. Stealing a man's last meal. Running from police. All of it was a series of flashes on white that would invade, unbidden, into Sab's mind.

"She's a street rat, my dear!" The man suddenly shrieked, circling Sab and the man-hole as the chain, suspending the fox-girl above her death, strained. All it would take was a tug. All it would take was the strength to lift the cage.

"She's common filth! Vermin! She is not worth saving! She's murdered, stolen, tormented, cheated and lied! Why are you sacrificing it for her? Why, when no reward is had?"

The man suddenly howled at her, shrieking in seeming rage. "Nothing gained, and you risk yourself for this worthless creature!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING, SABETHA!?"

And inch by inch, it got easier and easier, the load lightening with each pull upon the chain. Inch by inch, the man began moving closer and closer, his voice carrying louder and louder, until it was almost inside Sab's brain.

"You can't do this. You're too weak. You're too little. You're as small as that girl; helpless. You're misshapen, deformed, disgusting. And there's nothing in the world that can stop it. You are broken, Sabetha. You are disgusting. There is nobody who can save you."

"This makes not a difference! Don't you see that!? Don't you SEE!?"

With the cage free, the girl turned to face Sab, her gaze wide and frightened, until, suddenly, the entire thing vanished. The cage, the girl inside of it, the rats who had managed to worm their way between the bars - it all abruptly stopped. The rain, too, ceased. All that remained was Sabetha and the figure, who suddenly flipped back his hood, regarding her.

He was a tall man; ice blue eyes, straight white teeth, black hair that was shaved close to his skull. He watched her for a long moment, enjoying the quiet sounds of her straining. He crouched in front of her, his expression serious, quiet.

"Listen," he said, pointing to the skies. "Do you hear it, Sabetha? Do you hear the Symphony; serenading you? Lulling you? It's the sound of your freedom. It's the sound of that beast from earlier shrinking into the background. Because you've won."

He stood then, smiling down at her - a beautiful, glorious visage. "Don't forget that you've won."

The man drew his hood over his face, nodding towards her with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Sometimes, it is better not to know, Sabetha. What you need know is that you chose correctly; not for someone else, but for you. The Serenade, the Symphony - it all is part of you, now. And, like all parts of you, it only heeds the musician if the musician plays the correct notes."

He drew the robe around him, fastening it. "Remember these lessons; that's what you must know. And now, I go."

With a nod towards the fox-girl, the man vanished as smoke upon the air, the rain continuing to fall. But in that burst of wetness falling from the sky, sunlight poured in. Where dreary raindrops pelted the citizens of Wing City, cheery sunbeams lifted spirits.

And, somewhere, a ghost continued to prowl the streets, a frown etched upon his face. One more 'good' in the ledger. One more blasted win. The cravings for a loss, the will to twist a darkened soul, reared up within him.

Sabetha had done well for herself. But for someone else, a victory was that much harder to pull off.

When Anja finally opened her eyes, the robed figure darted towards her bound wrists, quickly un-lashing the thick black rope from her hands, freeing them. The noose, however, he was quite fond of. It would leave a scar on her pretty little form, no doubt - maybe even effect her speech, for a short time. But the flash of death and life, cradled delicately around pale flesh... it was too delicious to pass up.

The robed figure turned to Lamp, and the tall figure - reeking of putrid dead fish and salt, as if the fish market itself became a man and stood here in this circle - waved a hand towards The Serenade. Those pale lips twisted again in a grin.

"You are Anja O'Connor," he said, his voice musical, beautiful. "You are alive. You've been brought back into the world to do as you please, provided that you follow a concrete command later in your new life. When you have repeated these words back to me, you may inquire anything you choose. Did you understand me, my dear? Nod if you did."

The third figure was silent and unmoving - appearing to be smoke trapped within a gray hoodie sweatshirt and jeans. There was no face, no limbs, just a swirling mass of white, grey, and black.

Valhalla, hall of the slain and house of Odin, king of Asgard. Few had tread through these magnificent halls, and fewer still that could be counted among the living, and yet it was here that Taima had found herself. The hall was a vast circular chamber, with a throne resting upon a raised dais, where none other than Odin himself sat. At his side was a smaller, though no less ornate throne where Frigga, queen of Asgard was seated.

Ringing the room were other faces, all who had answered the summons of Taima. Some of the faces were familiar to her, while others remained foreign. Thor and Baldur, sons of Odin, she knew only by reputation, while Lobos and Anzo were more familiar to her. Like her, their origins lay somewhere south of the northern reaches that Odin's house oversaw. The Auditor had come as well, sharing a domain not too different from her own. Cotillion and Serenade held her gaze the longest, as they were the two present that she was least familiar with. Norman too stood present, an oddity perhaps - as like herself he was born into the world a mortal before ascending to godhood. It was fitting perhaps that his domain lay within the realm of luck.

So few, she thought. So few that answered her summons. She had hoped that more would arrive, that more would rise to the threats that god and mortal alike were facing. There was a storm coming, she knew it as surely as she was standing here now, but convincing the very gods of this fact would prove more difficult. It was easy to sit on high and overlook the realms around you when you were a god, easy to think yourself beyond the influence of the world. It was a folly that had long plagued their numbers.

Turning her attentions back to Odin and Frigga, Taima took to one knee, bowing her head while she lay her halberd upon the marble floor at her side. The draconian warrior had a strength to her that ran deeper than flesh and blood, and even within the presence of gods she had a commanding presence to her as she rose back to her feet.

"I am Taima, herald of Ahuma, patron deity of the Draconian people," Taima began, her voice rough and gravely. "I have come on behalf of the southern gods. In the days of old, our pantheons have co-existed amiably, but times are changing. War and chaos ravages the lands. The old pacts lie in tatters, demons and gods alike walk the realms of the mortals, and the tenuous balance that holds reality together grows frayed. It is time for new pacts to be forged, new alliances to be made. We would reach out to the honorable house of Odin," she paused looking to the others. "And all who would answer the call," she added to the others that had gathered. "Scattered, our influence is weakened, but together we can bring order to the world again. Together we can face the rising storm."

"A dragonborn after my own heart," the serene voice of The Auditor carried through the air softly, but with an unquestionable command to it. Here was a woman not to be trifled with, a judge and a lawmaker even amongst those assembled here. There were those greater than her, but they were few, and even they would have reason to fear should they violate the heavenly laws, for in performing her duty she was empowered even further as the rules and strength of the heavens followed behind her.

"To bring true order to the world below would be a fool's errand," a small smirk graced the Goddess of Order's face, barely visible beneath her hood, "In chaos it thrives, even I recognise this. But it is true what you say, that there is a limit to this chaos, and it has gone far enough. The laws of the heavens are being danced with too closely. It is not our way to walk Miðgarðr openly."

Lifting her hand to gesture around them, she went on, "But of course, there is more to be concerned with than Order, much as it pains me to admit it. The fraying of reality is far more ... concerning."

Surveying those assembled, The Auditor - Selphina, Order, The Judge, The Lady... many names, all the same - folded her arms. "I agree with Ahuma's herald, that we must work together. An accord must be reached."

It was a sight to see the herald of a God smoking, and yet the harsh, angular lines of Anzo's face lit with the embers of a rolled stogie cigar, those features that were thrown into shadow by his hat illuminated in a deep red light. The trails of smoke rolled from his lips in a lazy fashion as his eyes travelled between the two speakers - first Taima, then The Auditor - in silence, appraising, examining. When The Auditor's voice quieted, the Gunslinger spoke.

"Ain't been in this business as long as some 'o ya," he murmured, his hat removed, as it would remain, when speaking in the presence of a lady, "but I reckon this here meetin's a good step - a strong step - in the righ' direction. Only problem I see is that we'd need a sort o' conductor, t'keep the train on the right tracks."

He paused, savouring another puff of the cigar before it vanished from his fingers. "Now, I don't wish t'offend any o' you gathered. Taima, the Herald of Ahuma, speaks a right truth in tha' united, we stand. An' if we're t'stand united, the conductor we choose has t'be the right conductor."

He waved a gloved hand to those assembled. "It's a mighty first step t'throw our hats in th' ring. Bu' an accord don't mean much if we're standin' on it separate. Herald o'Ahuma, y'called us here t'discuss this with us, an' I thank yeh for it. But d'you have an idea as ta how we're t'use th' considerable might of those assembled, should we decide somethin' must be done?"

To the Gunslinger's left, a cowled figure - The Serenade - leaned back, folded his arms, and awaited a response.

"What was once made must be remade, but the bindings of old must be rewritten." Of all those assembled, Lobos was possibly the most unusual in appearance, his beastly appearance fearsome to countenance. A god's blood ran through the wolf's veins, and his rumbling voice escaped his closed jaw like muted thunder. "Pacts made anew, but chains this one will not abide."

Chaos was the alignment of the demi-god, plain to see as one beheld him. The guise of an immense wolf, snow white man roiling despite the lack of stirring wind. Shifting runes gleamed on the metal of his few armor pieces, ringing the obelisk that hovered at his back. His nature was war, that of the frozen storms. He walked the mortal plane himself, yet in doing so withheld his own interventions unless necessary.

"There are some responsible for this twisting of the planes that no mere mortals can stand against. Eventually one of us will have their hand forced." Shifting on his paws, Lobos, the Wolf of Winter, settled. "To this we must account."

---

Another hooded figure, however, had watched Taima, Selphina, and Lobos speak in turn. His presence here was...tenuous, he knew, for his was a darker patronage. One need look no further than the armor he wore and the dagger at his belt to know him for what he was. Thus was the god, Cotillion.

"I do believe that both of your concerns are one and the same. The breaking of the old pacts freed powers to act. Order and chaos war anew. And this unbound struggle brings us together."

The glint of eyes within the shadows of his shroud. This patron of assassins, a lord of the place between light and the darkness, studied the others in attendance. "Yet the dragonborn speaks of more than mere unbalance. She calls for order, at the same time as calling for us to band together."

"These are the words oft heard before war. What then, is our enemy?"

It was at this time that a perfectly ordinary looking man, almost mortal in appearance, dwarfed by this assembly of great powers yet allowed to speak as an equal, dared to raise his voice. "Our enemy is as of yet unknown, or shall I say undefined. This is because we lack criteria to define who to count as enemies, allies, friends and bystanders. But before we do this, I second the notion that we must establish rules of order among our number, that we do not merely contribute to the very problems we seek to resolve. How shall we govern ourselves? Why are we gathered here? How do we identify and oppose enemies? And dare I say that we must have a protocol in place for training new members in the eventuality that one of us falls?"

Norman nodded his head authoritatively. "It is not mere chance that we have been gathered here. The Great Weaver cries in shock and anger that her greatest creation is being torn asunder. She has selected us to mend it, but as Fate is wont to do, she leaves us to our own devices as to how this must be done. Before we establish who our enemies are and how we are to fight them, I propose we establish who we are and how we are to fight each other."

He took in a deep breath, about to break the first rule of mages. "I am Norman Smith, shadow name Mercury, and as the chosen champion of Fate, I hereby lend my hand to repairing the damage that has been done to the Realms and punishing those responsible."

It was Anzo's words that drew Thor into the conversation as the son of Odin stepped forward. Clad in asgardian steel and armed with his hammer, Mjölnir, he was as dominating a presence as the draconian who stood at the center of the chamber.

"You stand in Valhalla, before Odin, king of Asgard, and ask who would stand at our head?" he demanded of Anzo. Indignation filled the prideful god, before his brother Baldur placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"Be at ease brother," Baldur interjected. "They are not of the northern gods, no insult was intended."

Thor scowled deeply, but before further words could be uttered, Odin had raised his hand from upon his throne.

"There is wisdom found within all present here today," he spoke up. His voice was weathered with age but laced with strength becoming of his status. "But I too would hear who you would have us go to war against." He looked to Taima, awaiting an answer.

"The Auditor's words echo my own," Taima replied. "Those that would break the old pacts must be returned to Asgard, or the planes below - both god and demon alike. Our kind are not meant to do battle within the mortal realms, and destruction runs prevalent. The very fabric of reality begins to fray. Only after the realm of man has been returned to the hands of the mortals will order be restored, and only by recalling the gods to Asgard will we be able to prepare ourselves to face the coming storm. We have all felt it, looming on the horizon."

"There have long been ways for us to interfere with mortal affairs without disturbing balance," Selphina mused, "Avatars, champions, dreams - in one way another, we have always been permitted to have influence within our domains." The Goddess of Order waved a hand, a massive tome appearing in the air before her, "It is my duty to uphold these laws, the laws of Order and the Heavens. The cause you speak of would be mine regardless of whether you had called me here."

She shook her head, "What looms on the horizon... It is not a pleasant sensation to be so woefully ignorant of something. I wonder how mortals manage it. We feel it, but have we any idea what it is? What comes?"

"Imbalance," the hooded figure - Serenade - said, from his perch. He glanced towards them all, a small smile tugging at his visible lips - the only visible feature on the thin, reedy face.

"As a creature - unlike yourselves - who spends my time creating the songs that proclaim choice and free will, you mustn't trivialize how crucial it is to be for us to remain on the knife's edge between good and evil. All that sustains us, all that propels us, is the power for mortals to choose. When they lose this, when they are predisposed to an outcome that will repeat time and time again, the world frays. The storm gathers. The music stops."

He slowly floated in space, legs crossed beneath him, taking in each assembled in turn. "I have long since sang, performed, and created the songs that celebrate this essential choice that mortals have. Good and Evil must remain linked, and in sync; for too much of either, and the world begins to crumble. I feel as though what marches to our borders and infringes upon our space, too infringes upon the borders and space of the Mortal realm's disposition towards this fundamental morality."

He glanced towards Anzo, then back at the crowd. "I, too, would repeat the Gunslinger's query - and Thor's, as it were. Should any of you feel you would be fit to lead against this irrepressible enemy, now is your time to step forth. I believe," he said, bowing his head in reverence to Odin, "that is the clearest and most fair of ways to decide."