Part of an immaterial collective consciousness, it had passed through the open Door and into this world of flesh. The humanoids were frail, but they served their purpose. The collective needed material hosts to interact with this new world, to pave the way for his coming.
Interfacing with the humanoids was imperfect at best. Most tried to resist and damaged their minds in the process. Others unconsciously rejected the union with their bodies, and suffered disease. Yet it and its companions made do. They were establishing themselves, preparing to multiply, waiting for the time when the last Door would open and he would come onto this plane of existence.
It had felt the pull, an intense compulsion that called them forth. At first, the collective thought it was him. But it was just one of the fleshies, holding an intricate silver medallion. Like some mystic magnet, the medallion was beckoning them closer. It had answered the summons--there really was no choice--and its companions came, too. And with them they brought their lumbering fleshy puppet-hosts.
The command grew. It was engulfed and it knew, through its link with the central consciousness, that its companions were feeling the same thing. They were being commanded to abandon their hosts. It reluctantly pulled its flagellants from the core of its host and left, its cloud-like body oozing forth.
Its companions were swirling around the medallion now, whirling around and around. It began to whirl with them. But then it hesitated.
What are you doing? came the collective thought from its companions. Come join us.
It hovered just beyond the vortex of its companions, transparent clouds with whip-like appendages, now being charged with cerulean lightning from the medallion.
It isn't him, it thought back at the collective.
What do you mean? Can't you feel it? It is calling us. We must obey.
No. It held back. How could the consciousness not see? Its companions were being consumed, deceived by this powerful command. It isn't him!
They were creatures from beyond the material plane, composed of metaphysical ether, completely devoid of feeling. Yet something quivered through its amorphous body, and its dozen gaseous tentacles twitched, as it watched its companions vanish into the consuming blade held by the fleshies. The net of woven magical force was shattering the laws of the universe, reweaving it into the essence of this fleshy's blade. And still it just watched. It never joined its own companions.
There were a lot of explosions next, bits of matter hurled through the air, and still it just hovered there, the shockwave passing over and through.
It isn't him, it communicated. But none received its message. The collective did not exist anymore. It was alone.
As the surviving fleshies dug themselves from the rubble of Hell Vortex's assault, it drifted away.
The collective was no more. It was alone.
Through the streets of Prontera, it drifted, an unseen vagabond. The inhabitants of this world were made up of all elements, as the world itself was an amalgam of the same building blocks of reality. The ethereal creature flew through the city, unhindered by neither wall nor wind.
The collective was no more. But Laeveteinn would soon awaken. It must be ready.
***
It flew through the stone corridors, passing the coats of arms of various prominent guilds, uncaring. This opulent palace was nothing to it. These fleshies would never know the immaterial beauty of its own home beyond the Door, the immaculate bliss of the collective's communion. Yet even both home and collective exist only as random synapses in its cloudy core, memories of things that are now no more.
As if to assure itself, it flew down into next flesh-creature it saw: a rat. These creatures were smaller and had proportionately smaller brains than the dominant two-legged fleshies it and its companions had chosen as hosts. It was easier to control this creature, this rat, and it drove the host through the castle, scampering through tiny holes that led into unknown tunnels in the masonry.
It emerged into the kitchens where dinner was being prepared and it sniffed at the glorious aroma that wafted from the ovens. It had no need to eat but derived some vicarious pleasure in the sensations its host experienced.
It considered getting some food for its host but was cut short by a sudden wooden implement that crushed its host's tiny skull.
***
"Darn rats are everywhere," Pietro muttered tossing aside the broom and stooping down, hindered by his massive gut, to pick up the dead rat by the tail. It held it up, wincing. "You'd think this wasn't the royal palace!" he clucked.
He tossed the rat into a nearby trashbin and began to wash his hands at the sink, whistling gaily. Tonight's courses would be marvelous. But he still had a lot to do, ice the cake for one. The little princess loved cakes.
He turned towards the table where the dishes were all laid out, wiping his hands on his white apron. He adjusted his chef's hat, checked to see that his cooks are doing their work, and began to work on the cake.
Icing squirted uncontrollably as he convulsed, his core wrapped by the unseen creature's tentacles.
It was to the whole kitchen crew's chagrin when the chief cook staggered out of the Royal Kitchens, drool dribbling from one side of its mouth.
***
Like with all its previous hosts, it immediately set about finding out what its host can do. It delved through the hapless chief cook's mind, unearthing deep memories. Foremost on its new host's mind was the preparation of Lutie Christmas Cake, something that it cannot find practical use of.
It limped through the corridors, still wrestling with the cook's will. It passed by other fleshies--servants, soldiers, children--with looks of puzzlement and alarm on their faces.
Finally, it was convinced this host was useless, and immediately prepared to disembark to find a worthier one. It needs a powerful host, if it was going to continue the collective's function single-handedly.
***
Emerald strolled through the royal palace, a smile plastered on her face. Merton was meeting her tonight! She giggled as she remembered their last tryst in one of the vacant room of the palace, remembered the guard's strong arms around her.
She had first arrived last year, here in the Castle of Prontera. Coming from a lower class family of farmers from the eastern Pronteran estates, her parents hoped she'd catch the eye of a knight. Merton was just a palace guard, but she didn't care. She loves him.
She made her way past several stairs and into the eastern wing, towards the room where Merton was waiting, her heart beating loud.
The sudden appearance of the head cook, eyes glaring madly, from behind a pillar startled her, but her scream was cut short when the tentacles tightened around her mind, subduing her will.
***
Merton De Galde whirled around when he heard the scream, the high Pronteran Guard cap he wore almost toppling from its perch atop his head. He hurriedly picked up his halberd from beside the bed and peered into the empty corridor outside.
"Emerald?" he asked tentatively, looking down both sides of the torch-lit corridor
Someone was sobbing further down the bend to his left.
"Emerald?" he called out again, passing several paintings of scenery as he nervously made his way towards the corner.
Holding his halberd at the ready, he peered around the corner. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the girl in a maid's outfit.
"Hey, Em!" he called out, stepping into the branch corridor. And then he froze. Something was wrong.
Emerald was hunched and lurching as she walked. Behind her, sobbing was one of the cook's from the kitchen.
"What the--?" he managed to blurt out before he felt the ethereal touch of the Doorspawn.
And his mind knew no more.
***
"I'll have to commend the two priests then. Maraksus and Dylan, is it?"
King Tristan III stood in front of a window overlooking the palace gardens, topiaries of various monsters standing in the deepening gloom of early evening. He was glad that the "plague" in the slums had been solved.
Behind him, Laire Allicran, commander of the Sword of Virtue, bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty. May I suggest Golden Eagles? For their dedication to the city of Prontera," he said. "I'm afraid I must cut this visit short, Your Majesty. I have other things to see to."
King Tristan turned from watching the dusk outside. "Now, now, Laire," he said, "don't be so formal. We're friends long before you came to serve me."
Laire smiled as he executed the knight's salute sans sword, his sword arm crossing over his breast. Then he turned snappily on his heels.
"Well, then if you really must go...oh, don't forget. Breakfast tomorrow in the north gardens?" King Tristan reminded the knight. "Tara says she misses her godfather a lot."
"I'll be there, Tris," Laire answered, still smiling.
As the door closed behind the knight, the King turned once more towards the topiary on the garden below his window. There was a couple of porings, a thief bug, a lunatic, a couple of pecopecos...King Tristran idly thought about his favorite pecopeco, Equestre. He and Laire had done their fair amount of adventuring way back. I bet I can still throw a mean Grand Cross....
"Forgot something, Laire?" he asked as the door opened again.
He looked to see that it wasn't Laire. It was one of his guards.
"Oh it's you, Merton," he greeted the guard, noting the limp in the man's walk. "What is it?"
Merton suddenly collapsed and the King ran forward to see what was wrong with the guard. Merton immediately gasped, "No! Get away, King Tristran!"
"What's wrong, man?" Tristan asked as he knelt beside the guard. "What--"
His question was cut off when he felt the tentacles tighten around his mind, breaking his will.
