I. The sudden shimmer in the corner of the study hall startled an acolyte, making him drop the book he was reading. Scintillating waves rose vertically from the half-drawn circle, which was slowly completing by itself. The two lines met, completing the circle, the vertical glimmer that rose from them growing more vivid in a flash, and disappearing just as quickly, leaving in its place two exhausted priests.
“Greetings, Father Maraksus and Father Dylan,” the acolyte said in greeting, politely bowing—picking up the dropped book in the process—and smiled primly.
The silver-haired priest sighed and massaged his temples. “Greetings, Vangel. Are there any news…?”
“Gah. Don’t ask anyone about work after we’ve arrived, Dylan. I thought we agreed on that,” sniped the other priest, his biretta sliding from head, threatening to cover his eyes. He irritably pushed it up, but instead of putting it back in its place it just dropped onto the carpeted floor with a thud. Muttering curses that could make his superiors suspend him upon hearing, he bent down to the floor, putting the biretta back onto his head, and forcefully pushed it down to make sure it would not slip again. “Goddamn thing’s too small for me. Is the Abbey too—?”
“Oh, for godssake Maraksus, will you shut your mouth?” griped Dylan as he plopped himself into a nearby chair, legs splayed and arms dangling from the armrests, sinking himself as deep as he could into the cushy chair. “We’re both drained and you’re there yapping your mouth off. Who cares if your hat is small? I don’t think your ladies would like you less for that.”
“And will you stop inquiring about work when we’ve just arrived here? Unlike you, I don’t think we’re walking white potions.”
The acolyte politely coughed. “Erm…”
The two haggard priests shifted their attention away from their usual tiff. “Well, Vangel?” asked Dylan, on which Maraksus shot the other priest a venomous glare.
“Sir Laire Allicran just wanted to confirm Morroc’s current state. And nothing more.”
Maraksus put down his bible and sat himself on the windowsill, staring out into the glaring white streets of happy Prontera. “Can’t he just ask Sir Valcrist?” he asked Vangel, looking at him with a languid eye. “Oh, those two are the best of friends…”
“Well…”
“Vangel, could you do us a favor?” inquired Dylan, propping his chin on his palm, looking like a limp doll. “Make Mister Sourpuss here happy and tell Laire Allicran that we’re too tired to arrange any appointments?”
The door banged open.
“Too late.”
Striding through the door in all his regalia-laden glory was Laire Allicran, his heavy footfalls muffled by the carpet, swinging his sheathed claymore as he walked. “I’ve waited for too long for you gentlemen, and I expect some decent report from you.” He finally paused by the fireplace, leaning his back against the mantle. “Well?”
Maraksus’ brow rose almost imperceptibly. “Since when did the Prontera Chivalry gain power over St. Capitolina Abbey?” Despite his relaxed position he stiffened, mood further soured by the raven-haired knight’s presence.
“Ever since St. Capitolina Abbey pledged its services to the good of Prontera and the whole of Rune-Midgard,” Laire snapped, then regained his cool composure again. “But that is beside the point.” He turned to Dylan, hoping for a more reasonable dialogue with the level-head priest. “What is Morroc’s current state, Father?”
“Total carnage, Sir Allicran,” was all Dylan could say, then in an afterthought added, “We learned that the Sword of Valor did its best to suppress the infestation, but still…”
Laire snorted. “Heh. The Sword of Valor’s a bunch of goofballs anyway, thanks to that no-good Valcrist. Anyway, there is a reason why I came here.
“The Doors,” Laire continued, walking over to the table between the window where Maraksus sat and Dylan’s chair, “are detected nearby our beloved city. Southwest to be exact.” Taking a map from a nearby open drawer he spread it over the smooth varnished surface of the mahogany table. “See here?” he traced a path from Morroc towards Prontera—a diagonal path that went Northeast—as he beckoned for the two priests to come closer. “A vein of unidentifiable energy has been sensed…so strong that it were the scientists of Geffen, no less, who felt it firsthand.”
Maraksus whistled over Laire’s shoulder, surveying the path Laire traced out for them. “Geffen, huh?” He gave a once-over towards the spot where Geffen lay, and compared the distance between Geffen and between Prontera and the desert regions. The distance was significant, at least. “A force to be reckoned with.”
“Well yes, there is the path between Morroc and Prontera, Sir Allicran, but what does it mean?” Dylan inquired, fishing out his reading glasses and pushed it up to the bridge of his nose.
Laire took a deep breath. “I do not know either. But the scientists have explicitly mentioned to give attention to the paths between the sites where the Doors opened—chronologically. They say there could be an underground vein involved.”
“Well why didn’t they try and take a look in it after the infestation of Morroc?” Maraksus asked.
“Because, Father Aralnae, the nature of the sand does not permit it. Unless you want our men to be swallowed up and drowned in the sand? You didn’t hope to dig in there, did you?” Laire said, rolling his eyes. “Really.”
“Erm.”
“So…you’re planning to investigate that angle further now that it's approaching the more solid grounds of Prontera…” Dylan murmured. “Not all of it though…almost one-half still lies in the desert sands. You can’t look into it completely, obviously.”
“Yes.”
“What does this have to do with us men of the faith, though?” Maraksus looked at Laire inquiringly. “Do you expect us to dig in there?”
“No, Father Aralnae. Only that I need you two to keep a close watch over Prontera. But I am only acting on a hunch. A woman’s hunch, in fact.”
