The Evil Viscount

(From @cordaxmerc because the other post was just WAY too LONG)

The Creature in the mirror begins to fade, the sounds of the forest beginning to dampen, and the fuzziness around the creature's outline becomes so blurred that where it begins and where it ends becomes impossible to tell. "Don't fucking fail us," is all it has time to say before it fully disappates, its handprints slowly softening back into the normal mirror surface.

The amulet, which once glowed a bright crimson slowly dies down to just that, a simple stone, and the Viscount violently coughs. "*krgh*- yes Cuervo... let us begin.. have two of your men search the castle, my spies tell me the game is finally afoot."

TW! Self-Harm and Bleeding

"𝔂-Ｙ𝐄ѕ 𝐌-m-𝐌'𝓛𝕆ⓡ∂"

It said before stooping low enough so that the people in the room could help... 'shape'... it. Molding it into something new, and bounded, not broken and disfigured. It's pale golden eyes were the only thing you could see beyond the armor... it's hauntingly pale golden eyes, which were simultaneously the most human and most inhuman thing about it.

"Now to whom do you serve?" Asked the Viscount.

"𝔂-Ｙ𝐮Ｈ-Ｙ𝕆𝐮 𝐌Ｙ.. 𝐌Ｙ 𝓛𝕆ⓡ∂.."

"Good. Now go win me a tourney, and show them what you're really made of."

He begins rolling the bandage around his palm once, twice, thrice, before taking out a gilded knife and cutting the extra bandage away. He loops it under itself, it stings, but any good cut should. "Either. But they must be able to appear living if they're dead, I want no one knowing our tactical advantage until it's too late Cuervo."

The little captain starts laughing uncontrollably. He looks mad with amusement.

"Alright! Alright! Mwehehhe- I can play that. I like playing that kind of game. Be careful, Rolon, you will end up having to buy me new clothes and new toys if I tell ya! I like being spoiled. I'm a war prince, after all!"

Cuervo hops out of the chair, and keeps laughing. He puts his hands behind his back and sways on his feet.

(From @cordaxmerc because the other post was just WAY too LONG)

The Creature in the mirror begins to fade, the sounds of the forest beginning to dampen, and the fuzziness around the creature's outline becomes so blurred that where it begins and where it ends becomes impossible to tell. "Don't fucking fail us," is all it has time to say before it fully disappates, its handprints slowly softening back into the normal mirror surface.

The amulet, which once glowed a bright crimson slowly dies down to just that, a simple stone, and the Viscount violently coughs. "*krgh*- yes Cuervo... let us begin.. have two of your men search the castle, my spies tell me the game is finally afoot."

TW! Self-Harm and Bleeding

"𝔂-Ｙ𝐄ѕ 𝐌-m-𝐌'𝓛𝕆ⓡ∂"

It said before stooping low enough so that the people in the room could help... 'shape'... it. Molding it into something new, and bounded, not broken and disfigured. It's pale golden eyes were the only thing you could see beyond the armor... it's hauntingly pale golden eyes, which were simultaneously the most human and most inhuman thing about it.

"Now to whom do you serve?" Asked the Viscount.

"𝔂-Ｙ𝐮Ｈ-Ｙ𝕆𝐮 𝐌Ｙ.. 𝐌Ｙ 𝓛𝕆ⓡ∂.."

"Good. Now go win me a tourney, and show them what you're really made of."

He begins rolling the bandage around his palm once, twice, thrice, before taking out a gilded knife and cutting the extra bandage away. He loops it under itself, it stings, but any good cut should. "Either. But they must be able to appear living if they're dead, I want no one knowing our tactical advantage until it's too late Cuervo."

(From @cordaxmerc because the other post was just WAY too LONG)

The Creature in the mirror begins to fade, the sounds of the forest beginning to dampen, and the fuzziness around the creature's outline becomes so blurred that where it begins and where it ends becomes impossible to tell. "Don't fucking fail us," is all it has time to say before it fully disappates, its handprints slowly softening back into the normal mirror surface.

The amulet, which once glowed a bright crimson slowly dies down to just that, a simple stone, and the Viscount violently coughs. "*krgh*- yes Cuervo... let us begin.. have two of your men search the castle, my spies tell me the game is finally afoot."

TW! Self-Harm and Bleeding

"𝔂-Ｙ𝐄ѕ 𝐌-m-𝐌'𝓛𝕆ⓡ∂"

It said before stooping low enough so that the people in the room could help... 'shape'... it. Molding it into something new, and bounded, not broken and disfigured. It's pale golden eyes were the only thing you could see beyond the armor... it's hauntingly pale golden eyes, which were simultaneously the most human and most inhuman thing about it.

"Now to whom do you serve?" Asked the Viscount.

"𝔂-Ｙ𝐮Ｈ-Ｙ𝕆𝐮 𝐌Ｙ.. 𝐌Ｙ 𝓛𝕆ⓡ∂.."

"Good. Now go win me a tourney, and show them what you're really made of."

He begins rolling the bandage around his palm once, twice, thrice, before taking out a gilded knife and cutting the extra bandage away. He loops it under itself, it stings, but any good cut should. "Either. But they must be able to appear living if they're dead, I want no one knowing our tactical advantage until it's too late Cuervo."

(From @cordaxmerc because the other post was just WAY too LONG)

The Creature in the mirror begins to fade, the sounds of the forest beginning to dampen, and the fuzziness around the creature's outline becomes so blurred that where it begins and where it ends becomes impossible to tell. "Don't fucking fail us," is all it has time to say before it fully disappates, its handprints slowly softening back into the normal mirror surface.

The amulet, which once glowed a bright crimson slowly dies down to just that, a simple stone, and the Viscount violently coughs. "*krgh*- yes Cuervo... let us begin.. have two of your men search the castle, my spies tell me the game is finally afoot."

TW! Self-Harm and Bleeding

"𝔂-Ｙ𝐄ѕ 𝐌-m-𝐌'𝓛𝕆ⓡ∂"

It said before stooping low enough so that the people in the room could help... 'shape'... it. Molding it into something new, and bounded, not broken and disfigured. It's pale golden eyes were the only thing you could see beyond the armor... it's hauntingly pale golden eyes, which were simultaneously the most human and most inhuman thing about it.

"Now to whom do you serve?" Asked the Viscount.

"𝔂-Ｙ𝐮Ｈ-Ｙ𝕆𝐮 𝐌Ｙ.. 𝐌Ｙ 𝓛𝕆ⓡ∂.."

"Good. Now go win me a tourney, and show them what you're really made of."

"Helm, or... well we can discuss that later, but i do believe that is the name you have now chosen yes?

A crimson amulet dangles from around the Viscount's neck, it slightly pings and bounces off of the Viscount's metal chestplate. He stands, beckoning that both Helm and his mercenary have a seat in front of the writing desk. Two plush velvet seats of black and gold stand before the writing desk.

"Cuervo I must say you have a good eye for soldiers, nearly as good as your ears are at listening to orders. Would you do me a favor and make sure we are undisturbed? I would very much like you here for this... discussion, however. It will become apparent as to why very soon."

"I am, uh, not great at. Tasting. Sir. Sorry."

(It does preen at the praise it assumes it directed at it. It's a good soldier. It's always tried to be a good soldier. It glances over at the captain.)

The Viscount looks over at Helm again, finally putting down his quill. He grabs a bottle of Bloodhaven parwyn, pouring himself a glass of the soft golden liquid. "Wine perhaps my dear Captain?" he asks before sipping at his own goblet.

"Sweet. Utterly too sweet. But my wife loves the stuff, luckily we know a local merchant so shipping isn't as pricey as it would be under... other circumstances. It remains enveloped in darkness all the way from here to Montehano. A miracle of the modern world if you ask me, aye Helm?"

"I remember dying, but that's it. I assume I was a knight at some point? You know more than I, sir."

[Of course it does. It wants revenge, doesn't it?]

"I would be interested, sir. I don't know if that's a good idea, though. I don't know how good of a soldier I was, and if it happens to help my memory, then my skill might suffer."

A soldier, perhaps 6’5 feet tall and nearly half as wide comes lumbering in, dressed in the coat of arms of his master, he doesn’t wear much armor aside from a couple of gauntlets and some shoulder pauldrons. “Bruno… ¿Le importaría retirar la lona?”

A low, and husky, grumble erupted from the chambers of the giant’s throat, “Sí… Señor…” before the man, if a man it truly be, began to march through the war tent. Stopping only when it reached the very back corner of the tent where the standing mirror remained covered by a filthy tarp.

The Viscount watched as the old sheet was removed from the pristine silver mirror, watching it slowly reflect the animate and inanimate alike in its long… long reaching gaze. It was peculiar, not in the way that it was not alike many other mirrors, but at its crown it showed a man, who’s mouth opened wide and terribly to reveal his teeth and tongue, almost as if he were screaming. The mirror stretched longer than any man, except of course perhaps Bruno’s 8 foot cousin, would have needed. It was beautiful decorated, and even the face of the screaming man had elegance in its shape… merely horror which lurked in its unending scream.

“¡Ah! Y, Sr. Bruno... si la situación se complica, por favor, llame a Alfons y a su... ¿hombre?” The Viscount said, looking at Bruno. Bruno nodded and went without.

“So Helm. The choice is yours. Care to see what really happened?” Asked the Viscount.

"I don't remember, I told you that."

But slowly, very slowly, as Helm begins to think back of that night in the woods, the mirror begins to cloud over… as if some sort of heat or coolness began to prickle at the back of the mirror. The visage becomes blurry, and suddenly, as if it were the same place, Helm could swear it heard the rustling of leaves in the background. A gentle summer’s breeze blowing a chill down its cloak. And yet it was warm, nearly like this night, but cooler due to the shade overhead.

The trees nestled so close together it was like a patchwork quilt overhead, the moon peaking through the cracks, lighting the way. Was it a full moon? It certainly felt like it. And for the first time in a long time… was there cheerfulness in the air?

(It misses this place. There had been some sort of gathering that night, hadn't there? It can't see the face in front of it. It feels like a [hole burnt through a picture] whenever it tries to focus on [them]. What was [their] name? Feels like it started with a sharp sound, but maybe not. Maybe that was [it's] name.)

He's cut off before his voice slowly shifts, raising from the Viscount's deep coarse tone until it sounds far more refined, polished, not nearly as sun-baked or tired as the Viscount. Younger? If indeed that were possible. Placing the voice somewhere within his more refined 20s. If the mirror were still reflecting the image of the tent Helm would have been able to see the amulet around the Viscount's neck begin to shine a red gleam. It's glow filling the backside of the tent. But the mirror refrains from showing the glint of the arcane, and instead continues to reflect the natural world as it was some centuries ago, before a figure's shape slowly begins to fill out.

"You just need a little help, darling," says a voice which sounds far sweeter than it ever was in life, the voice of Helm's liege, clear as day.

"You're doing such a good job my knight, you just need to focus on me, that's it. You've got this.." the voice trails off, is it coming from the mirror? Or is it the Viscount? Does it matter?

"I missed you," (it says softly. It reaches up to pull its hood lower around its face. [They] had never liked it when it was less than perfect, didn't [they]? And it's less than perfect now. It's been good. It would do [anything].)

The Viscount stand steadily behind Helm, holding his shoulder as the amulet lights the mirror, the fogginess of the figure's outline shapes and morphs with the rolling cloudiness of the mirror. It's almost like it can't fully settle on a final shape. But it has eyes... two piercing red eyes, which stare back at Helm, watching, discovering.

(It remains still. It's safe, isn't it? It wants to [kill them]. It wants to grovel. What a good dog it is, coming back to its master after so many years apart. It's good. It's... wasn't it purple last time? Maybe a magic difference, but why would that affect [spirits]? It )

(It isn't supposed to think. Dogs don't think.)

"Tis true... I have been kept from you for so long sellsword, i wish to... reunite with you, my good soldier..." The figure in the mirror glass begins to put its full weight against the mirror. As if it were struggling to get out.

"Y-you asked for me m'lord de Artiaga?" The old man did not shy away from this, he brought it upon himself all those years ago, he had merely hoped he would be forgotten. Such is the stupidity of youth. And like a debtor he had run out of time.

The Viscount did not turn, he hadn't need to, he knew who stood behind him, and yet when his mouth opened to speak, he did not answer, a collection of voices did, "Ă̸͎h̸̪́h̷͍̀h̸̖̣̾ ̴̘̈́͐͜ţ̵̱̏ḧ̴̭̪́e̶̘̔ ̸͖̭̍o̵̯͝l̴̥̯̀̃ď̶̠̼̔ ̷͍͊̔͜m̸͕̱̆a̶̜͎̍n̸͕̩̚?̸͕͌ ̷̨͂C̵̦̜̾͝ô̶̲m̶̰̮͌͠e̵̜̘̋ ̷̦̄̑a̵̤̞͊ţ̵̭̇̍ ̶̣̃̏l̴̘̓a̴̢̗̔s̵̥̙̉t̴̗̉͝ͅ.̴̩̦̓͑ ̷̯͆͆I̶̮͔̿̏ ̵̎ͅh̴̔͜ǒ̷̩̰̀p̷̯͐e̵̠͂ ̴̡̽t̵̫̫͝͝h̴̟͋͠i̶͔͒s̶̘̼̈́ ̶̠̣̚t̸̙̄į̴̂́m̶̡͐̉e̷͔̟͛̇ ̷͔͝y̶̳̟̎ò̸̮ű̸̼ ̸̲̈h̵̪̚ä̸̫́v̴͈̀̓e̸͍̦͂́ ̸̥̄c̴̼̔͠o̶̞̾ḿ̶̨̻ĕ̴͖͍ ̶̣̇͝t̴̡̅̚ò̶͙̃ ̸̝̻́͆p̶̧͗ͅḁ̴͆ẏ̷͍̟̕ ̶̻̏ÿ̴̺͇̍o̷̰̿̒u̶͓͍͊ṟ̴̓͑ ̵̘̺̑d̷̹̋͝ẻ̴͚ḇ̶̛̔t̷̜̑̌s̵̜͔͂?̴̱͛"

(Transcription: "Ahhh the old man? Come at last. I hope this time you have come to pay your debts?)

"Y-yes m'lord."

"̸̧̑T̶͕͊h̶̞̎̓ë̷̳n̵̨͙̎ ̶̟͕̃Ì̵͉͋ͅ ̵̪̩̋t̴̳͝a̴̫̐k̸̹̜̍e̵͉͘͠ ̶̨̝̈́ĭ̷͚̮t̴̘̤͋̌ ̶͇̻̉͘ȉ̴͚̄s̸̬̝̈̕ ̶͍̬͌c̶̭̏̄o̵͗̈́͜m̶̝̓̀p̶͓̑̉ĺ̴̟͉e̵̠͒̐t̴̥̂̿e̴̳̿ ̵̰̈́͝t̵̪̄͝h̸̰̪̑ẽ̸͙͜n̵͕͙͘?̵̣̫̐̎"̵̩̥̍

(Trans: "Then I take it is complete then?")

"Yes'm... it took some time, you will und-"

"T̶̲̃h̶̡̊i̷͉̚r̷̠̐t̷͔̀y̴̞͝ ̸̝̈́y̶̼̾è̸̠à̷̮ȓ̶̺s̸͎̐.̷̱̇ ̵̝̕W̸͔̐ȅ̴̹r̴̹͊e̶̻̋ ̵̙͊y̴̟͐ó̶̙ủ̷̬ ̶̨̾n̷͉̿o̸̰͠t̶̺̔ ̸̜̈́g̵̺̃i̷̦̓v̸͇̑e̸̘͒ṉ̸̾?̶̖͝ ̶̞̅T̷̖̊h̸̫̄ḯ̷̞r̵̰̀t̵̚ͅy̸͔̽ ̶̮̑ỵ̴͘e̷̠̐ǎ̴̡r̷̠͌ś̵ͅ ̴̮͝ō̴̬f̶͇͌ ̷̣͝e̷̮͐m̶̪͠p̸̠̒t̷̜͆y̸̠̏ ̸̲͊p̷̠͘r̸̝̀o̷̳͒m̸͎̓i̷̛̦ś̴̬e̶̘͘.̷̲̂ ̶̣̿W̶̼͠e̶̦͐ ̸̳̈e̵̪̿x̸̲́p̶̨͝e̸̩̒c̶̮͂t̵̞̚ ̷̟̋b̴̜̃e̶͕̽t̴̞̓t̴͚̔e̶͈̾ŕ̵͜ ̷̫̉f̴͙́r̴̼̓ȍ̶͚ṁ̶̟ ̶̤͐y̵̔͜o̴̼̔ṳ̸͋.̵͔͂ ̴̰͠Y̵͓͆ơ̷̟ų̶̇ ̵̎͜k̴̟̃n̶͉͂o̴͇͌w̶̨͋ ̸̢̚w̶̳͒h̶̝̐a̴͔͐t̵͕̕ ̵͈̉r̸̙̈́i̵͍̓d̸̨͝e̸̞͆s̷̩̋ ̵͎͊u̸̩̿p̸̩̕o̵̜͆n̷͉̔ ̶̗̃t̶̐͜h̵̜̓e̷͕̽ ̶̣̈́f̸̰̈́a̴̳̍ẗ̶̠́ȇ̴͍ ̷̖̄o̵̙͗f̵͕͝ ̴̹̿t̶͎͘h̷͈̑ị̶̄ś̴̫ ̴͓̈́v̴̘͗e̷̛̘n̴̗͝t̴̜͂ŭ̴̜r̶̺̕e̸̤͘.̶̭͆.̵̹̋.̸̭͊ ̸̝̒d̵͙͘ô̴̺ ̸̢͝y̴̦͆ó̷͙u̵̥̒ ̸̳̇n̵̥̓ȏ̷͜t̵̳̾?̸͖̇"

(Trans: Thirty years. Were you not given? Thirty years of empty promises. We expect better from you. You know what rides upon the fate of this venture do you not?)

"Yes... m'lord, I have done it regardless... do you... wish to see it?"

"B̸̡̑r̸̡͐i̸̲̓n̶͝ͅg̸̫̃ ̶͚̆i̷͍͛t̶̺͒ ̸͓̚f̵͈͊o̸̬̓r̴̢̉t̵̠̆ȟ̷̘.̷͈̈́"

Trans: "Bring it forth."

Alfons turns to look to the undead soldiers, wondering if he ran how far his aged legs would truly get him, in truth he did not think far. And thus from one of the undead men does he take a dark mahogany box with a gold clasp. He opens it slowly, unlocking the large lock on the front, before peering in, to reveal a small broken spear point, with a drop of black ichor staining the one shining metal tip. He looks back to the Viscount, who seems to nod, even without looking forth at the old man. 'If I threw this accursed thing at the mirror I could end this all, I could end the hauntings of that poor mercenary, I could destroy the abomination, I would die. But I would die a nameless hero.'

He held the spear in his hand. Feeling the sharpness of the spear. Feeling it's weight. He could throw it that far. It would land solidly if the Viscount did not move and block the shot. In fact there was a decent chance he could shatter the mirror with the spear point. 'I'm too afraid of death,' he thought before placing the spear point on the ground.

He began to open his mouth, and from it flowed the words he and he alone did know: "Deus, o Deus omnipotens! Qui nunc in carne mortali ardès ex vulnere saeculorum praeteritorum: da nobis vocem tuam dum spirituum maximum invocamus. Liceat nobis te huic loco alligare atque nomine tuo ignoto appellare; liceat te vocare et condicionem carnis sanguinisque nostrae tibi iungere. Liceat te vocare… HARIM."

And forth sprouted an ichor as black as night, as broken and bubbling as the sea, and forth sprouted the angel of death. A creature- nay spirit as old as creation itself, bound in the flesh of man, and blood of the earth. The god which had many names binding it to it's immortal form, yet it's unknown, godly name, which in this moment bound it to flesh and blood. 'Forgive me. Forgive me and my cruel fear,' thought the Alchemist.

Before long the thing... which indeed had dawned armor in it's slow rise to form the semblance of human's stature, with pale, glowing yellow eyes, did look about the room. It's target was within sight.

The Viscount turned to Helm, now looking not at the mirror but the thing to which it knew held some sliver of importance in his goals, and spoke, not as many, but as one, "You have a choice to make Helm, I would rather hope you pick correctly."

The Viscount looks at Helm, "Everything can be explained Helm, but only if you let us in." Then looking to Cuervo and the Creature, he signals them to face Helm.

"We all want you to remember Helm, won't you let us?"

"All you needs do is step into the mirror. And then you'll regain your memories." The Viscount smiles, this time hungrily snarling his teeth, he's so close, he can practically taste it. 'Come now mutt, you're so close, we needn't stop here.'

(No, it isn't a knight. It's a mercenary, and mercenaries question things. Mercenaries think.)

The thing behind the mirror stops pressing against the mirror, it almost seems to stumble back. More hesitant from before. Something in it shifts.. molding itself as if thinking on what to say, what to do before it next acts. All the while the Viscount stands there, twitching, "I can tell you," he answers.

"Our gracious host is merely... buffering while he rethinks that tragic night, you both had wandered into the woods as you most often do... you had another name, we could tell you if you like. You could have your whole life back, this... state? Could be nothing but a distant memory if you let us. No matter, the night was not too dissimilar from this one. The moon shone above.." As the Viscount drones on about the story, the amulet around his neck begins to gleem, almost as if it were a spider, and the Viscount merely the web. Entrapping everything and anything which comes near.

"The two of you had been out on a late night venture when all of a sudden you were- a-aatttacked. Yes that's it, we were attacked. A foul enemy of mine father's court, a dreaded rascal, named... well I needn't remember his name, he was the Duke of the Tidewells, that's all that's important. Men with green emblazoned on their coats. Awful sorts really. They harassed us for what seemed like hours, before driving us to the riverbanks... yes those scoundrels in their black and green! How dare they... harass my father's lands so! I cried to them 'get back you awful scoundrels, my brave brave brave knight stood there and told me to remain quiet... at long last you stooped down and kissed me by the cheek and told me to remain here until the violence had ended... yes that's it... before I could complain to you, you left! Quite determined to defend me at any cost."

The creature on the other side of the mirror begins to press against the walls of the silver yet again, nearly clawing at the surface of the silver reflection. Was that a gloved hand you saw? Or was it some smudge on the mirror face.

"My liege," the Viscount asked carefully.

"Nevermind Rolon, I could sense it remembering, thus why I'm so close to a material form," was that an eye piercing through the mirror, gods what bright blue eyes he (it) had, "it doesn't matter, I'm this close now, I need it, one way or another."

"Why me? I'm not that important. Is it the [nothing], the- gods damn. The bug?"

The Viscount's form raises it's hand beckoning the creature to block the exit, "Trust me Helm, if I had a choice I would have asked someone far more reliable to free me, I have no choice but to deal with likes of you."

(It wants to be good. It wants to be loved more.)

(Transcription: "Listen here you little shit, I am this close to being back and you deny me at the precipitous?")

Something inside the mirror, or maybe the amulet, or perhaps just within the Viscount seems to snap. The Ancestors don't seem to like where this is going. The creature in the hazy mirror's reflection begins to fog up, almost smudging or blurring it's image even more. For a second an eye, no two eyes become visible. Blue. Blue as the lake.

"I̸̞̿́ ̵̢͇́́h̴̡̬̩̋̚͝a̴̡͔̫̐v̵̨̜̓̐̓ę̴̧͌̈́ ̴̜̳̃g̸̦̦̋î̴̪̭̤͌v̸̺̱̭̋ȩ̶̒ņ̴͖̱͐̋̒ ̵͍̫̎́͋û̶̢̪̆p̶͚̤̐ ̸͇̯̍̌͂t̶̥̫̿̈́ö̶̯́͗̚o̶͓͈̓̏ ̷̻́m̶͉̗̉͘u̶̜̕͜c̷͕̟̆̈́h̷̘̘̤̍ ̴̥̌ṭ̵̍̄́ȍ̶̩͛̃ ̶̨̘̳̉̍̈́ĺ̴͚̠͕́͋e̸͔͠t̵͎͑̃ ̶̰̆̒á̸̱̖̣̃ ̴̧̣̕ṣ̴̀͛p̸̖͑i̷̥̰̐n̵̖̹̐̓̓ë̴̡̜́̃͠l̴̢͈̖͊ĕ̷̯̈́ṣ̵͙̈́s̵̜̲͑̓̀ ̴̞̖̞͌͒c̶͙̰͗̑r̶͈̩̠̅͌ḙ̷̤̼̇̎̌ȁ̸͎͍̩͗t̸͖̳̭͊u̵̗̻̣͊͐̃ŕ̵̺e̶̯͍̽ ̴̧̱̼͒̆͂l̷̺̪̭̅i̷̡̼͙̇̋̃k̶͈͊̿̿ë̶̼̜́͜ ̴̡͛͆͝y̸̬̮͑̈́o̶̪͂̌̑u̷͉̳̣͗ ̸̙͠ş̴͈̈́̆t̷̥̮͕̾̐͝ó̸̞̪̣̎͠p̸̧͓͊ ̸̡̪̦̏̀m̶̢̝̐ȅ̵̮̬.̷̩͓͈̔"

(Trans: I have given up too much to let a spineless creature like you stop me.)

And yet the mirror's image begins to dissipate, and instead of it speaking up, the Viscount steps forward, firmly grasping his amulet so that the light only peaks through, instead of shining brightly.

"Fine... fine, I'm a man of my word, you wish to leave Helm. Do it then creature. Begone. But you will have wished you stayed. Aberración."

He turns to face his undead captain, "Let the dog cower, it's of no concern to us, for the moment. I have bigger fish to fry."

"Helm, or... well we can discuss that later, but i do believe that is the name you have now chosen yes?

A crimson amulet dangles from around the Viscount's neck, it slightly pings and bounces off of the Viscount's metal chestplate. He stands, beckoning that both Helm and his mercenary have a seat in front of the writing desk. Two plush velvet seats of black and gold stand before the writing desk.

"Cuervo I must say you have a good eye for soldiers, nearly as good as your ears are at listening to orders. Would you do me a favor and make sure we are undisturbed? I would very much like you here for this... discussion, however. It will become apparent as to why very soon."

"I am, uh, not great at. Tasting. Sir. Sorry."

(It does preen at the praise it assumes it directed at it. It's a good soldier. It's always tried to be a good soldier. It glances over at the captain.)

The Viscount looks over at Helm again, finally putting down his quill. He grabs a bottle of Bloodhaven parwyn, pouring himself a glass of the soft golden liquid. "Wine perhaps my dear Captain?" he asks before sipping at his own goblet.

"Sweet. Utterly too sweet. But my wife loves the stuff, luckily we know a local merchant so shipping isn't as pricey as it would be under... other circumstances. It remains enveloped in darkness all the way from here to Montehano. A miracle of the modern world if you ask me, aye Helm?"

"I remember dying, but that's it. I assume I was a knight at some point? You know more than I, sir."

[Of course it does. It wants revenge, doesn't it?]

"I would be interested, sir. I don't know if that's a good idea, though. I don't know how good of a soldier I was, and if it happens to help my memory, then my skill might suffer."

A soldier, perhaps 6’5 feet tall and nearly half as wide comes lumbering in, dressed in the coat of arms of his master, he doesn’t wear much armor aside from a couple of gauntlets and some shoulder pauldrons. “Bruno… ¿Le importaría retirar la lona?”

A low, and husky, grumble erupted from the chambers of the giant’s throat, “Sí… Señor…” before the man, if a man it truly be, began to march through the war tent. Stopping only when it reached the very back corner of the tent where the standing mirror remained covered by a filthy tarp.

The Viscount watched as the old sheet was removed from the pristine silver mirror, watching it slowly reflect the animate and inanimate alike in its long… long reaching gaze. It was peculiar, not in the way that it was not alike many other mirrors, but at its crown it showed a man, who’s mouth opened wide and terribly to reveal his teeth and tongue, almost as if he were screaming. The mirror stretched longer than any man, except of course perhaps Bruno’s 8 foot cousin, would have needed. It was beautiful decorated, and even the face of the screaming man had elegance in its shape… merely horror which lurked in its unending scream.

“¡Ah! Y, Sr. Bruno... si la situación se complica, por favor, llame a Alfons y a su... ¿hombre?” The Viscount said, looking at Bruno. Bruno nodded and went without.

“So Helm. The choice is yours. Care to see what really happened?” Asked the Viscount.

"I don't remember, I told you that."

But slowly, very slowly, as Helm begins to think back of that night in the woods, the mirror begins to cloud over… as if some sort of heat or coolness began to prickle at the back of the mirror. The visage becomes blurry, and suddenly, as if it were the same place, Helm could swear it heard the rustling of leaves in the background. A gentle summer’s breeze blowing a chill down its cloak. And yet it was warm, nearly like this night, but cooler due to the shade overhead.

The trees nestled so close together it was like a patchwork quilt overhead, the moon peaking through the cracks, lighting the way. Was it a full moon? It certainly felt like it. And for the first time in a long time… was there cheerfulness in the air?

(It misses this place. There had been some sort of gathering that night, hadn't there? It can't see the face in front of it. It feels like a [hole burnt through a picture] whenever it tries to focus on [them]. What was [their] name? Feels like it started with a sharp sound, but maybe not. Maybe that was [it's] name.)

He's cut off before his voice slowly shifts, raising from the Viscount's deep coarse tone until it sounds far more refined, polished, not nearly as sun-baked or tired as the Viscount. Younger? If indeed that were possible. Placing the voice somewhere within his more refined 20s. If the mirror were still reflecting the image of the tent Helm would have been able to see the amulet around the Viscount's neck begin to shine a red gleam. It's glow filling the backside of the tent. But the mirror refrains from showing the glint of the arcane, and instead continues to reflect the natural world as it was some centuries ago, before a figure's shape slowly begins to fill out.

"You just need a little help, darling," says a voice which sounds far sweeter than it ever was in life, the voice of Helm's liege, clear as day.

"You're doing such a good job my knight, you just need to focus on me, that's it. You've got this.." the voice trails off, is it coming from the mirror? Or is it the Viscount? Does it matter?

"I missed you," (it says softly. It reaches up to pull its hood lower around its face. [They] had never liked it when it was less than perfect, didn't [they]? And it's less than perfect now. It's been good. It would do [anything].)

The Viscount stand steadily behind Helm, holding his shoulder as the amulet lights the mirror, the fogginess of the figure's outline shapes and morphs with the rolling cloudiness of the mirror. It's almost like it can't fully settle on a final shape. But it has eyes... two piercing red eyes, which stare back at Helm, watching, discovering.

(It remains still. It's safe, isn't it? It wants to [kill them]. It wants to grovel. What a good dog it is, coming back to its master after so many years apart. It's good. It's... wasn't it purple last time? Maybe a magic difference, but why would that affect [spirits]? It )

(It isn't supposed to think. Dogs don't think.)

"Tis true... I have been kept from you for so long sellsword, i wish to... reunite with you, my good soldier..." The figure in the mirror glass begins to put its full weight against the mirror. As if it were struggling to get out.

"Y-you asked for me m'lord de Artiaga?" The old man did not shy away from this, he brought it upon himself all those years ago, he had merely hoped he would be forgotten. Such is the stupidity of youth. And like a debtor he had run out of time.

The Viscount did not turn, he hadn't need to, he knew who stood behind him, and yet when his mouth opened to speak, he did not answer, a collection of voices did, "Ă̸͎h̸̪́h̷͍̀h̸̖̣̾ ̴̘̈́͐͜ţ̵̱̏ḧ̴̭̪́e̶̘̔ ̸͖̭̍o̵̯͝l̴̥̯̀̃ď̶̠̼̔ ̷͍͊̔͜m̸͕̱̆a̶̜͎̍n̸͕̩̚?̸͕͌ ̷̨͂C̵̦̜̾͝ô̶̲m̶̰̮͌͠e̵̜̘̋ ̷̦̄̑a̵̤̞͊ţ̵̭̇̍ ̶̣̃̏l̴̘̓a̴̢̗̔s̵̥̙̉t̴̗̉͝ͅ.̴̩̦̓͑ ̷̯͆͆I̶̮͔̿̏ ̵̎ͅh̴̔͜ǒ̷̩̰̀p̷̯͐e̵̠͂ ̴̡̽t̵̫̫͝͝h̴̟͋͠i̶͔͒s̶̘̼̈́ ̶̠̣̚t̸̙̄į̴̂́m̶̡͐̉e̷͔̟͛̇ ̷͔͝y̶̳̟̎ò̸̮ű̸̼ ̸̲̈h̵̪̚ä̸̫́v̴͈̀̓e̸͍̦͂́ ̸̥̄c̴̼̔͠o̶̞̾ḿ̶̨̻ĕ̴͖͍ ̶̣̇͝t̴̡̅̚ò̶͙̃ ̸̝̻́͆p̶̧͗ͅḁ̴͆ẏ̷͍̟̕ ̶̻̏ÿ̴̺͇̍o̷̰̿̒u̶͓͍͊ṟ̴̓͑ ̵̘̺̑d̷̹̋͝ẻ̴͚ḇ̶̛̔t̷̜̑̌s̵̜͔͂?̴̱͛"

(Transcription: "Ahhh the old man? Come at last. I hope this time you have come to pay your debts?)

"Y-yes m'lord."

"̸̧̑T̶͕͊h̶̞̎̓ë̷̳n̵̨͙̎ ̶̟͕̃Ì̵͉͋ͅ ̵̪̩̋t̴̳͝a̴̫̐k̸̹̜̍e̵͉͘͠ ̶̨̝̈́ĭ̷͚̮t̴̘̤͋̌ ̶͇̻̉͘ȉ̴͚̄s̸̬̝̈̕ ̶͍̬͌c̶̭̏̄o̵͗̈́͜m̶̝̓̀p̶͓̑̉ĺ̴̟͉e̵̠͒̐t̴̥̂̿e̴̳̿ ̵̰̈́͝t̵̪̄͝h̸̰̪̑ẽ̸͙͜n̵͕͙͘?̵̣̫̐̎"̵̩̥̍

(Trans: "Then I take it is complete then?")

"Yes'm... it took some time, you will und-"

"T̶̲̃h̶̡̊i̷͉̚r̷̠̐t̷͔̀y̴̞͝ ̸̝̈́y̶̼̾è̸̠à̷̮ȓ̶̺s̸͎̐.̷̱̇ ̵̝̕W̸͔̐ȅ̴̹r̴̹͊e̶̻̋ ̵̙͊y̴̟͐ó̶̙ủ̷̬ ̶̨̾n̷͉̿o̸̰͠t̶̺̔ ̸̜̈́g̵̺̃i̷̦̓v̸͇̑e̸̘͒ṉ̸̾?̶̖͝ ̶̞̅T̷̖̊h̸̫̄ḯ̷̞r̵̰̀t̵̚ͅy̸͔̽ ̶̮̑ỵ̴͘e̷̠̐ǎ̴̡r̷̠͌ś̵ͅ ̴̮͝ō̴̬f̶͇͌ ̷̣͝e̷̮͐m̶̪͠p̸̠̒t̷̜͆y̸̠̏ ̸̲͊p̷̠͘r̸̝̀o̷̳͒m̸͎̓i̷̛̦ś̴̬e̶̘͘.̷̲̂ ̶̣̿W̶̼͠e̶̦͐ ̸̳̈e̵̪̿x̸̲́p̶̨͝e̸̩̒c̶̮͂t̵̞̚ ̷̟̋b̴̜̃e̶͕̽t̴̞̓t̴͚̔e̶͈̾ŕ̵͜ ̷̫̉f̴͙́r̴̼̓ȍ̶͚ṁ̶̟ ̶̤͐y̵̔͜o̴̼̔ṳ̸͋.̵͔͂ ̴̰͠Y̵͓͆ơ̷̟ų̶̇ ̵̎͜k̴̟̃n̶͉͂o̴͇͌w̶̨͋ ̸̢̚w̶̳͒h̶̝̐a̴͔͐t̵͕̕ ̵͈̉r̸̙̈́i̵͍̓d̸̨͝e̸̞͆s̷̩̋ ̵͎͊u̸̩̿p̸̩̕o̵̜͆n̷͉̔ ̶̗̃t̶̐͜h̵̜̓e̷͕̽ ̶̣̈́f̸̰̈́a̴̳̍ẗ̶̠́ȇ̴͍ ̷̖̄o̵̙͗f̵͕͝ ̴̹̿t̶͎͘h̷͈̑ị̶̄ś̴̫ ̴͓̈́v̴̘͗e̷̛̘n̴̗͝t̴̜͂ŭ̴̜r̶̺̕e̸̤͘.̶̭͆.̵̹̋.̸̭͊ ̸̝̒d̵͙͘ô̴̺ ̸̢͝y̴̦͆ó̷͙u̵̥̒ ̸̳̇n̵̥̓ȏ̷͜t̵̳̾?̸͖̇"

(Trans: Thirty years. Were you not given? Thirty years of empty promises. We expect better from you. You know what rides upon the fate of this venture do you not?)

"Yes... m'lord, I have done it regardless... do you... wish to see it?"

"B̸̡̑r̸̡͐i̸̲̓n̶͝ͅg̸̫̃ ̶͚̆i̷͍͛t̶̺͒ ̸͓̚f̵͈͊o̸̬̓r̴̢̉t̵̠̆ȟ̷̘.̷͈̈́"

Trans: "Bring it forth."

Alfons turns to look to the undead soldiers, wondering if he ran how far his aged legs would truly get him, in truth he did not think far. And thus from one of the undead men does he take a dark mahogany box with a gold clasp. He opens it slowly, unlocking the large lock on the front, before peering in, to reveal a small broken spear point, with a drop of black ichor staining the one shining metal tip. He looks back to the Viscount, who seems to nod, even without looking forth at the old man. 'If I threw this accursed thing at the mirror I could end this all, I could end the hauntings of that poor mercenary, I could destroy the abomination, I would die. But I would die a nameless hero.'

He held the spear in his hand. Feeling the sharpness of the spear. Feeling it's weight. He could throw it that far. It would land solidly if the Viscount did not move and block the shot. In fact there was a decent chance he could shatter the mirror with the spear point. 'I'm too afraid of death,' he thought before placing the spear point on the ground.

He began to open his mouth, and from it flowed the words he and he alone did know: "Deus, o Deus omnipotens! Qui nunc in carne mortali ardès ex vulnere saeculorum praeteritorum: da nobis vocem tuam dum spirituum maximum invocamus. Liceat nobis te huic loco alligare atque nomine tuo ignoto appellare; liceat te vocare et condicionem carnis sanguinisque nostrae tibi iungere. Liceat te vocare… HARIM."

And forth sprouted an ichor as black as night, as broken and bubbling as the sea, and forth sprouted the angel of death. A creature- nay spirit as old as creation itself, bound in the flesh of man, and blood of the earth. The god which had many names binding it to it's immortal form, yet it's unknown, godly name, which in this moment bound it to flesh and blood. 'Forgive me. Forgive me and my cruel fear,' thought the Alchemist.

Before long the thing... which indeed had dawned armor in it's slow rise to form the semblance of human's stature, with pale, glowing yellow eyes, did look about the room. It's target was within sight.

The Viscount turned to Helm, now looking not at the mirror but the thing to which it knew held some sliver of importance in his goals, and spoke, not as many, but as one, "You have a choice to make Helm, I would rather hope you pick correctly."

The Viscount looks at Helm, "Everything can be explained Helm, but only if you let us in." Then looking to Cuervo and the Creature, he signals them to face Helm.

"We all want you to remember Helm, won't you let us?"

"All you needs do is step into the mirror. And then you'll regain your memories." The Viscount smiles, this time hungrily snarling his teeth, he's so close, he can practically taste it. 'Come now mutt, you're so close, we needn't stop here.'

(No, it isn't a knight. It's a mercenary, and mercenaries question things. Mercenaries think.)

The thing behind the mirror stops pressing against the mirror, it almost seems to stumble back. More hesitant from before. Something in it shifts.. molding itself as if thinking on what to say, what to do before it next acts. All the while the Viscount stands there, twitching, "I can tell you," he answers.

"Our gracious host is merely... buffering while he rethinks that tragic night, you both had wandered into the woods as you most often do... you had another name, we could tell you if you like. You could have your whole life back, this... state? Could be nothing but a distant memory if you let us. No matter, the night was not too dissimilar from this one. The moon shone above.." As the Viscount drones on about the story, the amulet around his neck begins to gleem, almost as if it were a spider, and the Viscount merely the web. Entrapping everything and anything which comes near.

"The two of you had been out on a late night venture when all of a sudden you were- a-aatttacked. Yes that's it, we were attacked. A foul enemy of mine father's court, a dreaded rascal, named... well I needn't remember his name, he was the Duke of the Tidewells, that's all that's important. Men with green emblazoned on their coats. Awful sorts really. They harassed us for what seemed like hours, before driving us to the riverbanks... yes those scoundrels in their black and green! How dare they... harass my father's lands so! I cried to them 'get back you awful scoundrels, my brave brave brave knight stood there and told me to remain quiet... at long last you stooped down and kissed me by the cheek and told me to remain here until the violence had ended... yes that's it... before I could complain to you, you left! Quite determined to defend me at any cost."

The creature on the other side of the mirror begins to press against the walls of the silver yet again, nearly clawing at the surface of the silver reflection. Was that a gloved hand you saw? Or was it some smudge on the mirror face.

"My liege," the Viscount asked carefully.

"Nevermind Rolon, I could sense it remembering, thus why I'm so close to a material form," was that an eye piercing through the mirror, gods what bright blue eyes he (it) had, "it doesn't matter, I'm this close now, I need it, one way or another."

"Why me? I'm not that important. Is it the [nothing], the- gods damn. The bug?"

The Viscount's form raises it's hand beckoning the creature to block the exit, "Trust me Helm, if I had a choice I would have asked someone far more reliable to free me, I have no choice but to deal with likes of you."

"Helm, or... well we can discuss that later, but i do believe that is the name you have now chosen yes?

A crimson amulet dangles from around the Viscount's neck, it slightly pings and bounces off of the Viscount's metal chestplate. He stands, beckoning that both Helm and his mercenary have a seat in front of the writing desk. Two plush velvet seats of black and gold stand before the writing desk.

"Cuervo I must say you have a good eye for soldiers, nearly as good as your ears are at listening to orders. Would you do me a favor and make sure we are undisturbed? I would very much like you here for this... discussion, however. It will become apparent as to why very soon."

"I am, uh, not great at. Tasting. Sir. Sorry."

(It does preen at the praise it assumes it directed at it. It's a good soldier. It's always tried to be a good soldier. It glances over at the captain.)

The Viscount looks over at Helm again, finally putting down his quill. He grabs a bottle of Bloodhaven parwyn, pouring himself a glass of the soft golden liquid. "Wine perhaps my dear Captain?" he asks before sipping at his own goblet.

"Sweet. Utterly too sweet. But my wife loves the stuff, luckily we know a local merchant so shipping isn't as pricey as it would be under... other circumstances. It remains enveloped in darkness all the way from here to Montehano. A miracle of the modern world if you ask me, aye Helm?"

"I remember dying, but that's it. I assume I was a knight at some point? You know more than I, sir."

[Of course it does. It wants revenge, doesn't it?]

"I would be interested, sir. I don't know if that's a good idea, though. I don't know how good of a soldier I was, and if it happens to help my memory, then my skill might suffer."

A soldier, perhaps 6’5 feet tall and nearly half as wide comes lumbering in, dressed in the coat of arms of his master, he doesn’t wear much armor aside from a couple of gauntlets and some shoulder pauldrons. “Bruno… ¿Le importaría retirar la lona?”

A low, and husky, grumble erupted from the chambers of the giant’s throat, “Sí… Señor…” before the man, if a man it truly be, began to march through the war tent. Stopping only when it reached the very back corner of the tent where the standing mirror remained covered by a filthy tarp.

The Viscount watched as the old sheet was removed from the pristine silver mirror, watching it slowly reflect the animate and inanimate alike in its long… long reaching gaze. It was peculiar, not in the way that it was not alike many other mirrors, but at its crown it showed a man, who’s mouth opened wide and terribly to reveal his teeth and tongue, almost as if he were screaming. The mirror stretched longer than any man, except of course perhaps Bruno’s 8 foot cousin, would have needed. It was beautiful decorated, and even the face of the screaming man had elegance in its shape… merely horror which lurked in its unending scream.

“¡Ah! Y, Sr. Bruno... si la situación se complica, por favor, llame a Alfons y a su... ¿hombre?” The Viscount said, looking at Bruno. Bruno nodded and went without.

“So Helm. The choice is yours. Care to see what really happened?” Asked the Viscount.

"I don't remember, I told you that."

But slowly, very slowly, as Helm begins to think back of that night in the woods, the mirror begins to cloud over… as if some sort of heat or coolness began to prickle at the back of the mirror. The visage becomes blurry, and suddenly, as if it were the same place, Helm could swear it heard the rustling of leaves in the background. A gentle summer’s breeze blowing a chill down its cloak. And yet it was warm, nearly like this night, but cooler due to the shade overhead.

The trees nestled so close together it was like a patchwork quilt overhead, the moon peaking through the cracks, lighting the way. Was it a full moon? It certainly felt like it. And for the first time in a long time… was there cheerfulness in the air?

(It misses this place. There had been some sort of gathering that night, hadn't there? It can't see the face in front of it. It feels like a [hole burnt through a picture] whenever it tries to focus on [them]. What was [their] name? Feels like it started with a sharp sound, but maybe not. Maybe that was [it's] name.)

He's cut off before his voice slowly shifts, raising from the Viscount's deep coarse tone until it sounds far more refined, polished, not nearly as sun-baked or tired as the Viscount. Younger? If indeed that were possible. Placing the voice somewhere within his more refined 20s. If the mirror were still reflecting the image of the tent Helm would have been able to see the amulet around the Viscount's neck begin to shine a red gleam. It's glow filling the backside of the tent. But the mirror refrains from showing the glint of the arcane, and instead continues to reflect the natural world as it was some centuries ago, before a figure's shape slowly begins to fill out.

"You just need a little help, darling," says a voice which sounds far sweeter than it ever was in life, the voice of Helm's liege, clear as day.

"You're doing such a good job my knight, you just need to focus on me, that's it. You've got this.." the voice trails off, is it coming from the mirror? Or is it the Viscount? Does it matter?

"I missed you," (it says softly. It reaches up to pull its hood lower around its face. [They] had never liked it when it was less than perfect, didn't [they]? And it's less than perfect now. It's been good. It would do [anything].)

The Viscount stand steadily behind Helm, holding his shoulder as the amulet lights the mirror, the fogginess of the figure's outline shapes and morphs with the rolling cloudiness of the mirror. It's almost like it can't fully settle on a final shape. But it has eyes... two piercing red eyes, which stare back at Helm, watching, discovering.

(It remains still. It's safe, isn't it? It wants to [kill them]. It wants to grovel. What a good dog it is, coming back to its master after so many years apart. It's good. It's... wasn't it purple last time? Maybe a magic difference, but why would that affect [spirits]? It )

(It isn't supposed to think. Dogs don't think.)

"Tis true... I have been kept from you for so long sellsword, i wish to... reunite with you, my good soldier..." The figure in the mirror glass begins to put its full weight against the mirror. As if it were struggling to get out.

"Y-you asked for me m'lord de Artiaga?" The old man did not shy away from this, he brought it upon himself all those years ago, he had merely hoped he would be forgotten. Such is the stupidity of youth. And like a debtor he had run out of time.

The Viscount did not turn, he hadn't need to, he knew who stood behind him, and yet when his mouth opened to speak, he did not answer, a collection of voices did, "Ă̸͎h̸̪́h̷͍̀h̸̖̣̾ ̴̘̈́͐͜ţ̵̱̏ḧ̴̭̪́e̶̘̔ ̸͖̭̍o̵̯͝l̴̥̯̀̃ď̶̠̼̔ ̷͍͊̔͜m̸͕̱̆a̶̜͎̍n̸͕̩̚?̸͕͌ ̷̨͂C̵̦̜̾͝ô̶̲m̶̰̮͌͠e̵̜̘̋ ̷̦̄̑a̵̤̞͊ţ̵̭̇̍ ̶̣̃̏l̴̘̓a̴̢̗̔s̵̥̙̉t̴̗̉͝ͅ.̴̩̦̓͑ ̷̯͆͆I̶̮͔̿̏ ̵̎ͅh̴̔͜ǒ̷̩̰̀p̷̯͐e̵̠͂ ̴̡̽t̵̫̫͝͝h̴̟͋͠i̶͔͒s̶̘̼̈́ ̶̠̣̚t̸̙̄į̴̂́m̶̡͐̉e̷͔̟͛̇ ̷͔͝y̶̳̟̎ò̸̮ű̸̼ ̸̲̈h̵̪̚ä̸̫́v̴͈̀̓e̸͍̦͂́ ̸̥̄c̴̼̔͠o̶̞̾ḿ̶̨̻ĕ̴͖͍ ̶̣̇͝t̴̡̅̚ò̶͙̃ ̸̝̻́͆p̶̧͗ͅḁ̴͆ẏ̷͍̟̕ ̶̻̏ÿ̴̺͇̍o̷̰̿̒u̶͓͍͊ṟ̴̓͑ ̵̘̺̑d̷̹̋͝ẻ̴͚ḇ̶̛̔t̷̜̑̌s̵̜͔͂?̴̱͛"

(Transcription: "Ahhh the old man? Come at last. I hope this time you have come to pay your debts?)

"Y-yes m'lord."

"̸̧̑T̶͕͊h̶̞̎̓ë̷̳n̵̨͙̎ ̶̟͕̃Ì̵͉͋ͅ ̵̪̩̋t̴̳͝a̴̫̐k̸̹̜̍e̵͉͘͠ ̶̨̝̈́ĭ̷͚̮t̴̘̤͋̌ ̶͇̻̉͘ȉ̴͚̄s̸̬̝̈̕ ̶͍̬͌c̶̭̏̄o̵͗̈́͜m̶̝̓̀p̶͓̑̉ĺ̴̟͉e̵̠͒̐t̴̥̂̿e̴̳̿ ̵̰̈́͝t̵̪̄͝h̸̰̪̑ẽ̸͙͜n̵͕͙͘?̵̣̫̐̎"̵̩̥̍

(Trans: "Then I take it is complete then?")

"Yes'm... it took some time, you will und-"

"T̶̲̃h̶̡̊i̷͉̚r̷̠̐t̷͔̀y̴̞͝ ̸̝̈́y̶̼̾è̸̠à̷̮ȓ̶̺s̸͎̐.̷̱̇ ̵̝̕W̸͔̐ȅ̴̹r̴̹͊e̶̻̋ ̵̙͊y̴̟͐ó̶̙ủ̷̬ ̶̨̾n̷͉̿o̸̰͠t̶̺̔ ̸̜̈́g̵̺̃i̷̦̓v̸͇̑e̸̘͒ṉ̸̾?̶̖͝ ̶̞̅T̷̖̊h̸̫̄ḯ̷̞r̵̰̀t̵̚ͅy̸͔̽ ̶̮̑ỵ̴͘e̷̠̐ǎ̴̡r̷̠͌ś̵ͅ ̴̮͝ō̴̬f̶͇͌ ̷̣͝e̷̮͐m̶̪͠p̸̠̒t̷̜͆y̸̠̏ ̸̲͊p̷̠͘r̸̝̀o̷̳͒m̸͎̓i̷̛̦ś̴̬e̶̘͘.̷̲̂ ̶̣̿W̶̼͠e̶̦͐ ̸̳̈e̵̪̿x̸̲́p̶̨͝e̸̩̒c̶̮͂t̵̞̚ ̷̟̋b̴̜̃e̶͕̽t̴̞̓t̴͚̔e̶͈̾ŕ̵͜ ̷̫̉f̴͙́r̴̼̓ȍ̶͚ṁ̶̟ ̶̤͐y̵̔͜o̴̼̔ṳ̸͋.̵͔͂ ̴̰͠Y̵͓͆ơ̷̟ų̶̇ ̵̎͜k̴̟̃n̶͉͂o̴͇͌w̶̨͋ ̸̢̚w̶̳͒h̶̝̐a̴͔͐t̵͕̕ ̵͈̉r̸̙̈́i̵͍̓d̸̨͝e̸̞͆s̷̩̋ ̵͎͊u̸̩̿p̸̩̕o̵̜͆n̷͉̔ ̶̗̃t̶̐͜h̵̜̓e̷͕̽ ̶̣̈́f̸̰̈́a̴̳̍ẗ̶̠́ȇ̴͍ ̷̖̄o̵̙͗f̵͕͝ ̴̹̿t̶͎͘h̷͈̑ị̶̄ś̴̫ ̴͓̈́v̴̘͗e̷̛̘n̴̗͝t̴̜͂ŭ̴̜r̶̺̕e̸̤͘.̶̭͆.̵̹̋.̸̭͊ ̸̝̒d̵͙͘ô̴̺ ̸̢͝y̴̦͆ó̷͙u̵̥̒ ̸̳̇n̵̥̓ȏ̷͜t̵̳̾?̸͖̇"

(Trans: Thirty years. Were you not given? Thirty years of empty promises. We expect better from you. You know what rides upon the fate of this venture do you not?)

"Yes... m'lord, I have done it regardless... do you... wish to see it?"

"B̸̡̑r̸̡͐i̸̲̓n̶͝ͅg̸̫̃ ̶͚̆i̷͍͛t̶̺͒ ̸͓̚f̵͈͊o̸̬̓r̴̢̉t̵̠̆ȟ̷̘.̷͈̈́"

Trans: "Bring it forth."

Alfons turns to look to the undead soldiers, wondering if he ran how far his aged legs would truly get him, in truth he did not think far. And thus from one of the undead men does he take a dark mahogany box with a gold clasp. He opens it slowly, unlocking the large lock on the front, before peering in, to reveal a small broken spear point, with a drop of black ichor staining the one shining metal tip. He looks back to the Viscount, who seems to nod, even without looking forth at the old man. 'If I threw this accursed thing at the mirror I could end this all, I could end the hauntings of that poor mercenary, I could destroy the abomination, I would die. But I would die a nameless hero.'

He held the spear in his hand. Feeling the sharpness of the spear. Feeling it's weight. He could throw it that far. It would land solidly if the Viscount did not move and block the shot. In fact there was a decent chance he could shatter the mirror with the spear point. 'I'm too afraid of death,' he thought before placing the spear point on the ground.

He began to open his mouth, and from it flowed the words he and he alone did know: "Deus, o Deus omnipotens! Qui nunc in carne mortali ardès ex vulnere saeculorum praeteritorum: da nobis vocem tuam dum spirituum maximum invocamus. Liceat nobis te huic loco alligare atque nomine tuo ignoto appellare; liceat te vocare et condicionem carnis sanguinisque nostrae tibi iungere. Liceat te vocare… HARIM."

And forth sprouted an ichor as black as night, as broken and bubbling as the sea, and forth sprouted the angel of death. A creature- nay spirit as old as creation itself, bound in the flesh of man, and blood of the earth. The god which had many names binding it to it's immortal form, yet it's unknown, godly name, which in this moment bound it to flesh and blood. 'Forgive me. Forgive me and my cruel fear,' thought the Alchemist.

Before long the thing... which indeed had dawned armor in it's slow rise to form the semblance of human's stature, with pale, glowing yellow eyes, did look about the room. It's target was within sight.

The Viscount turned to Helm, now looking not at the mirror but the thing to which it knew held some sliver of importance in his goals, and spoke, not as many, but as one, "You have a choice to make Helm, I would rather hope you pick correctly."

The Viscount looks at Helm, "Everything can be explained Helm, but only if you let us in." Then looking to Cuervo and the Creature, he signals them to face Helm.

"We all want you to remember Helm, won't you let us?"

"All you needs do is step into the mirror. And then you'll regain your memories." The Viscount smiles, this time hungrily snarling his teeth, he's so close, he can practically taste it. 'Come now mutt, you're so close, we needn't stop here.'

(No, it isn't a knight. It's a mercenary, and mercenaries question things. Mercenaries think.)

The thing behind the mirror stops pressing against the mirror, it almost seems to stumble back. More hesitant from before. Something in it shifts.. molding itself as if thinking on what to say, what to do before it next acts. All the while the Viscount stands there, twitching, "I can tell you," he answers.

"Our gracious host is merely... buffering while he rethinks that tragic night, you both had wandered into the woods as you most often do... you had another name, we could tell you if you like. You could have your whole life back, this... state? Could be nothing but a distant memory if you let us. No matter, the night was not too dissimilar from this one. The moon shone above.." As the Viscount drones on about the story, the amulet around his neck begins to gleem, almost as if it were a spider, and the Viscount merely the web. Entrapping everything and anything which comes near.

"The two of you had been out on a late night venture when all of a sudden you were- a-aatttacked. Yes that's it, we were attacked. A foul enemy of mine father's court, a dreaded rascal, named... well I needn't remember his name, he was the Duke of the Tidewells, that's all that's important. Men with green emblazoned on their coats. Awful sorts really. They harassed us for what seemed like hours, before driving us to the riverbanks... yes those scoundrels in their black and green! How dare they... harass my father's lands so! I cried to them 'get back you awful scoundrels, my brave brave brave knight stood there and told me to remain quiet... at long last you stooped down and kissed me by the cheek and told me to remain here until the violence had ended... yes that's it... before I could complain to you, you left! Quite determined to defend me at any cost."

The creature on the other side of the mirror begins to press against the walls of the silver yet again, nearly clawing at the surface of the silver reflection. Was that a gloved hand you saw? Or was it some smudge on the mirror face.

"My liege," the Viscount asked carefully.

"Nevermind Rolon, I could sense it remembering, thus why I'm so close to a material form," was that an eye piercing through the mirror, gods what bright blue eyes he (it) had, "it doesn't matter, I'm this close now, I need it, one way or another."

"Why me? I'm not that important. Is it the [nothing], the- gods damn. The bug?"

The Viscount's form raises it's hand beckoning the creature to block the exit, "Trust me Helm, if I had a choice I would have asked someone far more reliable to free me, I have no choice but to deal with likes of you."

"Helm, or... well we can discuss that later, but i do believe that is the name you have now chosen yes?

A crimson amulet dangles from around the Viscount's neck, it slightly pings and bounces off of the Viscount's metal chestplate. He stands, beckoning that both Helm and his mercenary have a seat in front of the writing desk. Two plush velvet seats of black and gold stand before the writing desk.

"Cuervo I must say you have a good eye for soldiers, nearly as good as your ears are at listening to orders. Would you do me a favor and make sure we are undisturbed? I would very much like you here for this... discussion, however. It will become apparent as to why very soon."

"I am, uh, not great at. Tasting. Sir. Sorry."

(It does preen at the praise it assumes it directed at it. It's a good soldier. It's always tried to be a good soldier. It glances over at the captain.)

The Viscount looks over at Helm again, finally putting down his quill. He grabs a bottle of Bloodhaven parwyn, pouring himself a glass of the soft golden liquid. "Wine perhaps my dear Captain?" he asks before sipping at his own goblet.

"Sweet. Utterly too sweet. But my wife loves the stuff, luckily we know a local merchant so shipping isn't as pricey as it would be under... other circumstances. It remains enveloped in darkness all the way from here to Montehano. A miracle of the modern world if you ask me, aye Helm?"

"I remember dying, but that's it. I assume I was a knight at some point? You know more than I, sir."

[Of course it does. It wants revenge, doesn't it?]

"I would be interested, sir. I don't know if that's a good idea, though. I don't know how good of a soldier I was, and if it happens to help my memory, then my skill might suffer."

A soldier, perhaps 6’5 feet tall and nearly half as wide comes lumbering in, dressed in the coat of arms of his master, he doesn’t wear much armor aside from a couple of gauntlets and some shoulder pauldrons. “Bruno… ¿Le importaría retirar la lona?”

A low, and husky, grumble erupted from the chambers of the giant’s throat, “Sí… Señor…” before the man, if a man it truly be, began to march through the war tent. Stopping only when it reached the very back corner of the tent where the standing mirror remained covered by a filthy tarp.

The Viscount watched as the old sheet was removed from the pristine silver mirror, watching it slowly reflect the animate and inanimate alike in its long… long reaching gaze. It was peculiar, not in the way that it was not alike many other mirrors, but at its crown it showed a man, who’s mouth opened wide and terribly to reveal his teeth and tongue, almost as if he were screaming. The mirror stretched longer than any man, except of course perhaps Bruno’s 8 foot cousin, would have needed. It was beautiful decorated, and even the face of the screaming man had elegance in its shape… merely horror which lurked in its unending scream.

“¡Ah! Y, Sr. Bruno... si la situación se complica, por favor, llame a Alfons y a su... ¿hombre?” The Viscount said, looking at Bruno. Bruno nodded and went without.

“So Helm. The choice is yours. Care to see what really happened?” Asked the Viscount.

"I don't remember, I told you that."

But slowly, very slowly, as Helm begins to think back of that night in the woods, the mirror begins to cloud over… as if some sort of heat or coolness began to prickle at the back of the mirror. The visage becomes blurry, and suddenly, as if it were the same place, Helm could swear it heard the rustling of leaves in the background. A gentle summer’s breeze blowing a chill down its cloak. And yet it was warm, nearly like this night, but cooler due to the shade overhead.

The trees nestled so close together it was like a patchwork quilt overhead, the moon peaking through the cracks, lighting the way. Was it a full moon? It certainly felt like it. And for the first time in a long time… was there cheerfulness in the air?

(It misses this place. There had been some sort of gathering that night, hadn't there? It can't see the face in front of it. It feels like a [hole burnt through a picture] whenever it tries to focus on [them]. What was [their] name? Feels like it started with a sharp sound, but maybe not. Maybe that was [it's] name.)

He's cut off before his voice slowly shifts, raising from the Viscount's deep coarse tone until it sounds far more refined, polished, not nearly as sun-baked or tired as the Viscount. Younger? If indeed that were possible. Placing the voice somewhere within his more refined 20s. If the mirror were still reflecting the image of the tent Helm would have been able to see the amulet around the Viscount's neck begin to shine a red gleam. It's glow filling the backside of the tent. But the mirror refrains from showing the glint of the arcane, and instead continues to reflect the natural world as it was some centuries ago, before a figure's shape slowly begins to fill out.

"You just need a little help, darling," says a voice which sounds far sweeter than it ever was in life, the voice of Helm's liege, clear as day.

"You're doing such a good job my knight, you just need to focus on me, that's it. You've got this.." the voice trails off, is it coming from the mirror? Or is it the Viscount? Does it matter?

"I missed you," (it says softly. It reaches up to pull its hood lower around its face. [They] had never liked it when it was less than perfect, didn't [they]? And it's less than perfect now. It's been good. It would do [anything].)

The Viscount stand steadily behind Helm, holding his shoulder as the amulet lights the mirror, the fogginess of the figure's outline shapes and morphs with the rolling cloudiness of the mirror. It's almost like it can't fully settle on a final shape. But it has eyes... two piercing red eyes, which stare back at Helm, watching, discovering.

(It remains still. It's safe, isn't it? It wants to [kill them]. It wants to grovel. What a good dog it is, coming back to its master after so many years apart. It's good. It's... wasn't it purple last time? Maybe a magic difference, but why would that affect [spirits]? It )

(It isn't supposed to think. Dogs don't think.)

"Tis true... I have been kept from you for so long sellsword, i wish to... reunite with you, my good soldier..." The figure in the mirror glass begins to put its full weight against the mirror. As if it were struggling to get out.

"Y-you asked for me m'lord de Artiaga?" The old man did not shy away from this, he brought it upon himself all those years ago, he had merely hoped he would be forgotten. Such is the stupidity of youth. And like a debtor he had run out of time.

The Viscount did not turn, he hadn't need to, he knew who stood behind him, and yet when his mouth opened to speak, he did not answer, a collection of voices did, "Ă̸͎h̸̪́h̷͍̀h̸̖̣̾ ̴̘̈́͐͜ţ̵̱̏ḧ̴̭̪́e̶̘̔ ̸͖̭̍o̵̯͝l̴̥̯̀̃ď̶̠̼̔ ̷͍͊̔͜m̸͕̱̆a̶̜͎̍n̸͕̩̚?̸͕͌ ̷̨͂C̵̦̜̾͝ô̶̲m̶̰̮͌͠e̵̜̘̋ ̷̦̄̑a̵̤̞͊ţ̵̭̇̍ ̶̣̃̏l̴̘̓a̴̢̗̔s̵̥̙̉t̴̗̉͝ͅ.̴̩̦̓͑ ̷̯͆͆I̶̮͔̿̏ ̵̎ͅh̴̔͜ǒ̷̩̰̀p̷̯͐e̵̠͂ ̴̡̽t̵̫̫͝͝h̴̟͋͠i̶͔͒s̶̘̼̈́ ̶̠̣̚t̸̙̄į̴̂́m̶̡͐̉e̷͔̟͛̇ ̷͔͝y̶̳̟̎ò̸̮ű̸̼ ̸̲̈h̵̪̚ä̸̫́v̴͈̀̓e̸͍̦͂́ ̸̥̄c̴̼̔͠o̶̞̾ḿ̶̨̻ĕ̴͖͍ ̶̣̇͝t̴̡̅̚ò̶͙̃ ̸̝̻́͆p̶̧͗ͅḁ̴͆ẏ̷͍̟̕ ̶̻̏ÿ̴̺͇̍o̷̰̿̒u̶͓͍͊ṟ̴̓͑ ̵̘̺̑d̷̹̋͝ẻ̴͚ḇ̶̛̔t̷̜̑̌s̵̜͔͂?̴̱͛"

(Transcription: "Ahhh the old man? Come at last. I hope this time you have come to pay your debts?)

"Y-yes m'lord."

"̸̧̑T̶͕͊h̶̞̎̓ë̷̳n̵̨͙̎ ̶̟͕̃Ì̵͉͋ͅ ̵̪̩̋t̴̳͝a̴̫̐k̸̹̜̍e̵͉͘͠ ̶̨̝̈́ĭ̷͚̮t̴̘̤͋̌ ̶͇̻̉͘ȉ̴͚̄s̸̬̝̈̕ ̶͍̬͌c̶̭̏̄o̵͗̈́͜m̶̝̓̀p̶͓̑̉ĺ̴̟͉e̵̠͒̐t̴̥̂̿e̴̳̿ ̵̰̈́͝t̵̪̄͝h̸̰̪̑ẽ̸͙͜n̵͕͙͘?̵̣̫̐̎"̵̩̥̍

(Trans: "Then I take it is complete then?")

"Yes'm... it took some time, you will und-"

"T̶̲̃h̶̡̊i̷͉̚r̷̠̐t̷͔̀y̴̞͝ ̸̝̈́y̶̼̾è̸̠à̷̮ȓ̶̺s̸͎̐.̷̱̇ ̵̝̕W̸͔̐ȅ̴̹r̴̹͊e̶̻̋ ̵̙͊y̴̟͐ó̶̙ủ̷̬ ̶̨̾n̷͉̿o̸̰͠t̶̺̔ ̸̜̈́g̵̺̃i̷̦̓v̸͇̑e̸̘͒ṉ̸̾?̶̖͝ ̶̞̅T̷̖̊h̸̫̄ḯ̷̞r̵̰̀t̵̚ͅy̸͔̽ ̶̮̑ỵ̴͘e̷̠̐ǎ̴̡r̷̠͌ś̵ͅ ̴̮͝ō̴̬f̶͇͌ ̷̣͝e̷̮͐m̶̪͠p̸̠̒t̷̜͆y̸̠̏ ̸̲͊p̷̠͘r̸̝̀o̷̳͒m̸͎̓i̷̛̦ś̴̬e̶̘͘.̷̲̂ ̶̣̿W̶̼͠e̶̦͐ ̸̳̈e̵̪̿x̸̲́p̶̨͝e̸̩̒c̶̮͂t̵̞̚ ̷̟̋b̴̜̃e̶͕̽t̴̞̓t̴͚̔e̶͈̾ŕ̵͜ ̷̫̉f̴͙́r̴̼̓ȍ̶͚ṁ̶̟ ̶̤͐y̵̔͜o̴̼̔ṳ̸͋.̵͔͂ ̴̰͠Y̵͓͆ơ̷̟ų̶̇ ̵̎͜k̴̟̃n̶͉͂o̴͇͌w̶̨͋ ̸̢̚w̶̳͒h̶̝̐a̴͔͐t̵͕̕ ̵͈̉r̸̙̈́i̵͍̓d̸̨͝e̸̞͆s̷̩̋ ̵͎͊u̸̩̿p̸̩̕o̵̜͆n̷͉̔ ̶̗̃t̶̐͜h̵̜̓e̷͕̽ ̶̣̈́f̸̰̈́a̴̳̍ẗ̶̠́ȇ̴͍ ̷̖̄o̵̙͗f̵͕͝ ̴̹̿t̶͎͘h̷͈̑ị̶̄ś̴̫ ̴͓̈́v̴̘͗e̷̛̘n̴̗͝t̴̜͂ŭ̴̜r̶̺̕e̸̤͘.̶̭͆.̵̹̋.̸̭͊ ̸̝̒d̵͙͘ô̴̺ ̸̢͝y̴̦͆ó̷͙u̵̥̒ ̸̳̇n̵̥̓ȏ̷͜t̵̳̾?̸͖̇"

(Trans: Thirty years. Were you not given? Thirty years of empty promises. We expect better from you. You know what rides upon the fate of this venture do you not?)

"Yes... m'lord, I have done it regardless... do you... wish to see it?"

"B̸̡̑r̸̡͐i̸̲̓n̶͝ͅg̸̫̃ ̶͚̆i̷͍͛t̶̺͒ ̸͓̚f̵͈͊o̸̬̓r̴̢̉t̵̠̆ȟ̷̘.̷͈̈́"

Trans: "Bring it forth."

Alfons turns to look to the undead soldiers, wondering if he ran how far his aged legs would truly get him, in truth he did not think far. And thus from one of the undead men does he take a dark mahogany box with a gold clasp. He opens it slowly, unlocking the large lock on the front, before peering in, to reveal a small broken spear point, with a drop of black ichor staining the one shining metal tip. He looks back to the Viscount, who seems to nod, even without looking forth at the old man. 'If I threw this accursed thing at the mirror I could end this all, I could end the hauntings of that poor mercenary, I could destroy the abomination, I would die. But I would die a nameless hero.'

He held the spear in his hand. Feeling the sharpness of the spear. Feeling it's weight. He could throw it that far. It would land solidly if the Viscount did not move and block the shot. In fact there was a decent chance he could shatter the mirror with the spear point. 'I'm too afraid of death,' he thought before placing the spear point on the ground.

He began to open his mouth, and from it flowed the words he and he alone did know: "Deus, o Deus omnipotens! Qui nunc in carne mortali ardès ex vulnere saeculorum praeteritorum: da nobis vocem tuam dum spirituum maximum invocamus. Liceat nobis te huic loco alligare atque nomine tuo ignoto appellare; liceat te vocare et condicionem carnis sanguinisque nostrae tibi iungere. Liceat te vocare… HARIM."

And forth sprouted an ichor as black as night, as broken and bubbling as the sea, and forth sprouted the angel of death. A creature- nay spirit as old as creation itself, bound in the flesh of man, and blood of the earth. The god which had many names binding it to it's immortal form, yet it's unknown, godly name, which in this moment bound it to flesh and blood. 'Forgive me. Forgive me and my cruel fear,' thought the Alchemist.

Before long the thing... which indeed had dawned armor in it's slow rise to form the semblance of human's stature, with pale, glowing yellow eyes, did look about the room. It's target was within sight.

The Viscount turned to Helm, now looking not at the mirror but the thing to which it knew held some sliver of importance in his goals, and spoke, not as many, but as one, "You have a choice to make Helm, I would rather hope you pick correctly."

The Viscount looks at Helm, "Everything can be explained Helm, but only if you let us in." Then looking to Cuervo and the Creature, he signals them to face Helm.

"We all want you to remember Helm, won't you let us?"

"All you needs do is step into the mirror. And then you'll regain your memories." The Viscount smiles, this time hungrily snarling his teeth, he's so close, he can practically taste it. 'Come now mutt, you're so close, we needn't stop here.'

(No, it isn't a knight. It's a mercenary, and mercenaries question things. Mercenaries think.)

The thing behind the mirror stops pressing against the mirror, it almost seems to stumble back. More hesitant from before. Something in it shifts.. molding itself as if thinking on what to say, what to do before it next acts. All the while the Viscount stands there, twitching, "I can tell you," he answers.

"Our gracious host is merely... buffering while he rethinks that tragic night, you both had wandered into the woods as you most often do... you had another name, we could tell you if you like. You could have your whole life back, this... state? Could be nothing but a distant memory if you let us. No matter, the night was not too dissimilar from this one. The moon shone above.." As the Viscount drones on about the story, the amulet around his neck begins to gleem, almost as if it were a spider, and the Viscount merely the web. Entrapping everything and anything which comes near.

"The two of you had been out on a late night venture when all of a sudden you were- a-aatttacked. Yes that's it, we were attacked. A foul enemy of mine father's court, a dreaded rascal, named... well I needn't remember his name, he was the Duke of the Tidewells, that's all that's important. Men with green emblazoned on their coats. Awful sorts really. They harassed us for what seemed like hours, before driving us to the riverbanks... yes those scoundrels in their black and green! How dare they... harass my father's lands so! I cried to them 'get back you awful scoundrels, my brave brave brave knight stood there and told me to remain quiet... at long last you stooped down and kissed me by the cheek and told me to remain here until the violence had ended... yes that's it... before I could complain to you, you left! Quite determined to defend me at any cost."

The creature on the other side of the mirror begins to press against the walls of the silver yet again, nearly clawing at the surface of the silver reflection. Was that a gloved hand you saw? Or was it some smudge on the mirror face.

"My liege," the Viscount asked carefully.

"Nevermind Rolon, I could sense it remembering, thus why I'm so close to a material form," was that an eye piercing through the mirror, gods what bright blue eyes he (it) had, "it doesn't matter, I'm this close now, I need it, one way or another."

"Helm, or... well we can discuss that later, but i do believe that is the name you have now chosen yes?

A crimson amulet dangles from around the Viscount's neck, it slightly pings and bounces off of the Viscount's metal chestplate. He stands, beckoning that both Helm and his mercenary have a seat in front of the writing desk. Two plush velvet seats of black and gold stand before the writing desk.

"Cuervo I must say you have a good eye for soldiers, nearly as good as your ears are at listening to orders. Would you do me a favor and make sure we are undisturbed? I would very much like you here for this... discussion, however. It will become apparent as to why very soon."

"I am, uh, not great at. Tasting. Sir. Sorry."

(It does preen at the praise it assumes it directed at it. It's a good soldier. It's always tried to be a good soldier. It glances over at the captain.)

The Viscount looks over at Helm again, finally putting down his quill. He grabs a bottle of Bloodhaven parwyn, pouring himself a glass of the soft golden liquid. "Wine perhaps my dear Captain?" he asks before sipping at his own goblet.

"Sweet. Utterly too sweet. But my wife loves the stuff, luckily we know a local merchant so shipping isn't as pricey as it would be under... other circumstances. It remains enveloped in darkness all the way from here to Montehano. A miracle of the modern world if you ask me, aye Helm?"

"I remember dying, but that's it. I assume I was a knight at some point? You know more than I, sir."

[Of course it does. It wants revenge, doesn't it?]

"I would be interested, sir. I don't know if that's a good idea, though. I don't know how good of a soldier I was, and if it happens to help my memory, then my skill might suffer."

A soldier, perhaps 6’5 feet tall and nearly half as wide comes lumbering in, dressed in the coat of arms of his master, he doesn’t wear much armor aside from a couple of gauntlets and some shoulder pauldrons. “Bruno… ¿Le importaría retirar la lona?”

A low, and husky, grumble erupted from the chambers of the giant’s throat, “Sí… Señor…” before the man, if a man it truly be, began to march through the war tent. Stopping only when it reached the very back corner of the tent where the standing mirror remained covered by a filthy tarp.

The Viscount watched as the old sheet was removed from the pristine silver mirror, watching it slowly reflect the animate and inanimate alike in its long… long reaching gaze. It was peculiar, not in the way that it was not alike many other mirrors, but at its crown it showed a man, who’s mouth opened wide and terribly to reveal his teeth and tongue, almost as if he were screaming. The mirror stretched longer than any man, except of course perhaps Bruno’s 8 foot cousin, would have needed. It was beautiful decorated, and even the face of the screaming man had elegance in its shape… merely horror which lurked in its unending scream.

“¡Ah! Y, Sr. Bruno... si la situación se complica, por favor, llame a Alfons y a su... ¿hombre?” The Viscount said, looking at Bruno. Bruno nodded and went without.

“So Helm. The choice is yours. Care to see what really happened?” Asked the Viscount.

"I don't remember, I told you that."

But slowly, very slowly, as Helm begins to think back of that night in the woods, the mirror begins to cloud over… as if some sort of heat or coolness began to prickle at the back of the mirror. The visage becomes blurry, and suddenly, as if it were the same place, Helm could swear it heard the rustling of leaves in the background. A gentle summer’s breeze blowing a chill down its cloak. And yet it was warm, nearly like this night, but cooler due to the shade overhead.

The trees nestled so close together it was like a patchwork quilt overhead, the moon peaking through the cracks, lighting the way. Was it a full moon? It certainly felt like it. And for the first time in a long time… was there cheerfulness in the air?

(It misses this place. There had been some sort of gathering that night, hadn't there? It can't see the face in front of it. It feels like a [hole burnt through a picture] whenever it tries to focus on [them]. What was [their] name? Feels like it started with a sharp sound, but maybe not. Maybe that was [it's] name.)

He's cut off before his voice slowly shifts, raising from the Viscount's deep coarse tone until it sounds far more refined, polished, not nearly as sun-baked or tired as the Viscount. Younger? If indeed that were possible. Placing the voice somewhere within his more refined 20s. If the mirror were still reflecting the image of the tent Helm would have been able to see the amulet around the Viscount's neck begin to shine a red gleam. It's glow filling the backside of the tent. But the mirror refrains from showing the glint of the arcane, and instead continues to reflect the natural world as it was some centuries ago, before a figure's shape slowly begins to fill out.

"You just need a little help, darling," says a voice which sounds far sweeter than it ever was in life, the voice of Helm's liege, clear as day.

"You're doing such a good job my knight, you just need to focus on me, that's it. You've got this.." the voice trails off, is it coming from the mirror? Or is it the Viscount? Does it matter?

"I missed you," (it says softly. It reaches up to pull its hood lower around its face. [They] had never liked it when it was less than perfect, didn't [they]? And it's less than perfect now. It's been good. It would do [anything].)

The Viscount stand steadily behind Helm, holding his shoulder as the amulet lights the mirror, the fogginess of the figure's outline shapes and morphs with the rolling cloudiness of the mirror. It's almost like it can't fully settle on a final shape. But it has eyes... two piercing red eyes, which stare back at Helm, watching, discovering.

(It remains still. It's safe, isn't it? It wants to [kill them]. It wants to grovel. What a good dog it is, coming back to its master after so many years apart. It's good. It's... wasn't it purple last time? Maybe a magic difference, but why would that affect [spirits]? It )

(It isn't supposed to think. Dogs don't think.)

"Tis true... I have been kept from you for so long sellsword, i wish to... reunite with you, my good soldier..." The figure in the mirror glass begins to put its full weight against the mirror. As if it were struggling to get out.

"Y-you asked for me m'lord de Artiaga?" The old man did not shy away from this, he brought it upon himself all those years ago, he had merely hoped he would be forgotten. Such is the stupidity of youth. And like a debtor he had run out of time.

The Viscount did not turn, he hadn't need to, he knew who stood behind him, and yet when his mouth opened to speak, he did not answer, a collection of voices did, "Ă̸͎h̸̪́h̷͍̀h̸̖̣̾ ̴̘̈́͐͜ţ̵̱̏ḧ̴̭̪́e̶̘̔ ̸͖̭̍o̵̯͝l̴̥̯̀̃ď̶̠̼̔ ̷͍͊̔͜m̸͕̱̆a̶̜͎̍n̸͕̩̚?̸͕͌ ̷̨͂C̵̦̜̾͝ô̶̲m̶̰̮͌͠e̵̜̘̋ ̷̦̄̑a̵̤̞͊ţ̵̭̇̍ ̶̣̃̏l̴̘̓a̴̢̗̔s̵̥̙̉t̴̗̉͝ͅ.̴̩̦̓͑ ̷̯͆͆I̶̮͔̿̏ ̵̎ͅh̴̔͜ǒ̷̩̰̀p̷̯͐e̵̠͂ ̴̡̽t̵̫̫͝͝h̴̟͋͠i̶͔͒s̶̘̼̈́ ̶̠̣̚t̸̙̄į̴̂́m̶̡͐̉e̷͔̟͛̇ ̷͔͝y̶̳̟̎ò̸̮ű̸̼ ̸̲̈h̵̪̚ä̸̫́v̴͈̀̓e̸͍̦͂́ ̸̥̄c̴̼̔͠o̶̞̾ḿ̶̨̻ĕ̴͖͍ ̶̣̇͝t̴̡̅̚ò̶͙̃ ̸̝̻́͆p̶̧͗ͅḁ̴͆ẏ̷͍̟̕ ̶̻̏ÿ̴̺͇̍o̷̰̿̒u̶͓͍͊ṟ̴̓͑ ̵̘̺̑d̷̹̋͝ẻ̴͚ḇ̶̛̔t̷̜̑̌s̵̜͔͂?̴̱͛"

(Transcription: "Ahhh the old man? Come at last. I hope this time you have come to pay your debts?)

"Y-yes m'lord."

"̸̧̑T̶͕͊h̶̞̎̓ë̷̳n̵̨͙̎ ̶̟͕̃Ì̵͉͋ͅ ̵̪̩̋t̴̳͝a̴̫̐k̸̹̜̍e̵͉͘͠ ̶̨̝̈́ĭ̷͚̮t̴̘̤͋̌ ̶͇̻̉͘ȉ̴͚̄s̸̬̝̈̕ ̶͍̬͌c̶̭̏̄o̵͗̈́͜m̶̝̓̀p̶͓̑̉ĺ̴̟͉e̵̠͒̐t̴̥̂̿e̴̳̿ ̵̰̈́͝t̵̪̄͝h̸̰̪̑ẽ̸͙͜n̵͕͙͘?̵̣̫̐̎"̵̩̥̍

(Trans: "Then I take it is complete then?")

"Yes'm... it took some time, you will und-"

"T̶̲̃h̶̡̊i̷͉̚r̷̠̐t̷͔̀y̴̞͝ ̸̝̈́y̶̼̾è̸̠à̷̮ȓ̶̺s̸͎̐.̷̱̇ ̵̝̕W̸͔̐ȅ̴̹r̴̹͊e̶̻̋ ̵̙͊y̴̟͐ó̶̙ủ̷̬ ̶̨̾n̷͉̿o̸̰͠t̶̺̔ ̸̜̈́g̵̺̃i̷̦̓v̸͇̑e̸̘͒ṉ̸̾?̶̖͝ ̶̞̅T̷̖̊h̸̫̄ḯ̷̞r̵̰̀t̵̚ͅy̸͔̽ ̶̮̑ỵ̴͘e̷̠̐ǎ̴̡r̷̠͌ś̵ͅ ̴̮͝ō̴̬f̶͇͌ ̷̣͝e̷̮͐m̶̪͠p̸̠̒t̷̜͆y̸̠̏ ̸̲͊p̷̠͘r̸̝̀o̷̳͒m̸͎̓i̷̛̦ś̴̬e̶̘͘.̷̲̂ ̶̣̿W̶̼͠e̶̦͐ ̸̳̈e̵̪̿x̸̲́p̶̨͝e̸̩̒c̶̮͂t̵̞̚ ̷̟̋b̴̜̃e̶͕̽t̴̞̓t̴͚̔e̶͈̾ŕ̵͜ ̷̫̉f̴͙́r̴̼̓ȍ̶͚ṁ̶̟ ̶̤͐y̵̔͜o̴̼̔ṳ̸͋.̵͔͂ ̴̰͠Y̵͓͆ơ̷̟ų̶̇ ̵̎͜k̴̟̃n̶͉͂o̴͇͌w̶̨͋ ̸̢̚w̶̳͒h̶̝̐a̴͔͐t̵͕̕ ̵͈̉r̸̙̈́i̵͍̓d̸̨͝e̸̞͆s̷̩̋ ̵͎͊u̸̩̿p̸̩̕o̵̜͆n̷͉̔ ̶̗̃t̶̐͜h̵̜̓e̷͕̽ ̶̣̈́f̸̰̈́a̴̳̍ẗ̶̠́ȇ̴͍ ̷̖̄o̵̙͗f̵͕͝ ̴̹̿t̶͎͘h̷͈̑ị̶̄ś̴̫ ̴͓̈́v̴̘͗e̷̛̘n̴̗͝t̴̜͂ŭ̴̜r̶̺̕e̸̤͘.̶̭͆.̵̹̋.̸̭͊ ̸̝̒d̵͙͘ô̴̺ ̸̢͝y̴̦͆ó̷͙u̵̥̒ ̸̳̇n̵̥̓ȏ̷͜t̵̳̾?̸͖̇"

(Trans: Thirty years. Were you not given? Thirty years of empty promises. We expect better from you. You know what rides upon the fate of this venture do you not?)

"Yes... m'lord, I have done it regardless... do you... wish to see it?"

"B̸̡̑r̸̡͐i̸̲̓n̶͝ͅg̸̫̃ ̶͚̆i̷͍͛t̶̺͒ ̸͓̚f̵͈͊o̸̬̓r̴̢̉t̵̠̆ȟ̷̘.̷͈̈́"

Trans: "Bring it forth."

Alfons turns to look to the undead soldiers, wondering if he ran how far his aged legs would truly get him, in truth he did not think far. And thus from one of the undead men does he take a dark mahogany box with a gold clasp. He opens it slowly, unlocking the large lock on the front, before peering in, to reveal a small broken spear point, with a drop of black ichor staining the one shining metal tip. He looks back to the Viscount, who seems to nod, even without looking forth at the old man. 'If I threw this accursed thing at the mirror I could end this all, I could end the hauntings of that poor mercenary, I could destroy the abomination, I would die. But I would die a nameless hero.'

He held the spear in his hand. Feeling the sharpness of the spear. Feeling it's weight. He could throw it that far. It would land solidly if the Viscount did not move and block the shot. In fact there was a decent chance he could shatter the mirror with the spear point. 'I'm too afraid of death,' he thought before placing the spear point on the ground.

He began to open his mouth, and from it flowed the words he and he alone did know: "Deus, o Deus omnipotens! Qui nunc in carne mortali ardès ex vulnere saeculorum praeteritorum: da nobis vocem tuam dum spirituum maximum invocamus. Liceat nobis te huic loco alligare atque nomine tuo ignoto appellare; liceat te vocare et condicionem carnis sanguinisque nostrae tibi iungere. Liceat te vocare… HARIM."

And forth sprouted an ichor as black as night, as broken and bubbling as the sea, and forth sprouted the angel of death. A creature- nay spirit as old as creation itself, bound in the flesh of man, and blood of the earth. The god which had many names binding it to it's immortal form, yet it's unknown, godly name, which in this moment bound it to flesh and blood. 'Forgive me. Forgive me and my cruel fear,' thought the Alchemist.

Before long the thing... which indeed had dawned armor in it's slow rise to form the semblance of human's stature, with pale, glowing yellow eyes, did look about the room. It's target was within sight.

The Viscount turned to Helm, now looking not at the mirror but the thing to which it knew held some sliver of importance in his goals, and spoke, not as many, but as one, "You have a choice to make Helm, I would rather hope you pick correctly."

The Viscount looks at Helm, "Everything can be explained Helm, but only if you let us in." Then looking to Cuervo and the Creature, he signals them to face Helm.

"We all want you to remember Helm, won't you let us?"

"All you needs do is step into the mirror. And then you'll regain your memories." The Viscount smiles, this time hungrily snarling his teeth, he's so close, he can practically taste it. 'Come now mutt, you're so close, we needn't stop here.'

(No, it isn't a knight. It's a mercenary, and mercenaries question things. Mercenaries think.)

The thing behind the mirror stops pressing against the mirror, it almost seems to stumble back. More hesitant from before. Something in it shifts.. molding itself as if thinking on what to say, what to do before it next acts. All the while the Viscount stands there, twitching, "I can tell you," he answers.

"Our gracious host is merely... buffering while he rethinks that tragic night, you both had wandered into the woods as you most often do... you had another name, we could tell you if you like. You could have your whole life back, this... state? Could be nothing but a distant memory if you let us. No matter, the night was not too dissimilar from this one. The moon shone above.." As the Viscount drones on about the story, the amulet around his neck begins to gleem, almost as if it were a spider, and the Viscount merely the web. Entrapping everything and anything which comes near.

"The two of you had been out on a late night venture when all of a sudden you were- a-aatttacked. Yes that's it, we were attacked. A foul enemy of mine father's court, a dreaded rascal, named... well I needn't remember his name, he was the Duke of the Tidewells, that's all that's important. Men with green emblazoned on their coats. Awful sorts really. They harassed us for what seemed like hours, before driving us to the riverbanks... yes those scoundrels in their black and green! How dare they... harass my father's lands so! I cried to them 'get back you awful scoundrels, my brave brave brave knight stood there and told me to remain quiet... at long last you stooped down and kissed me by the cheek and told me to remain here until the violence had ended... yes that's it... before I could complain to you, you left! Quite determined to defend me at any cost."

The creature on the other side of the mirror begins to press against the walls of the silver yet again, nearly clawing at the surface of the silver reflection. Was that a gloved hand you saw? Or was it some smudge on the mirror face.

"Helm, or... well we can discuss that later, but i do believe that is the name you have now chosen yes?

A crimson amulet dangles from around the Viscount's neck, it slightly pings and bounces off of the Viscount's metal chestplate. He stands, beckoning that both Helm and his mercenary have a seat in front of the writing desk. Two plush velvet seats of black and gold stand before the writing desk.

"Cuervo I must say you have a good eye for soldiers, nearly as good as your ears are at listening to orders. Would you do me a favor and make sure we are undisturbed? I would very much like you here for this... discussion, however. It will become apparent as to why very soon."

"I am, uh, not great at. Tasting. Sir. Sorry."

(It does preen at the praise it assumes it directed at it. It's a good soldier. It's always tried to be a good soldier. It glances over at the captain.)

The Viscount looks over at Helm again, finally putting down his quill. He grabs a bottle of Bloodhaven parwyn, pouring himself a glass of the soft golden liquid. "Wine perhaps my dear Captain?" he asks before sipping at his own goblet.

"Sweet. Utterly too sweet. But my wife loves the stuff, luckily we know a local merchant so shipping isn't as pricey as it would be under... other circumstances. It remains enveloped in darkness all the way from here to Montehano. A miracle of the modern world if you ask me, aye Helm?"

"I remember dying, but that's it. I assume I was a knight at some point? You know more than I, sir."

[Of course it does. It wants revenge, doesn't it?]

"I would be interested, sir. I don't know if that's a good idea, though. I don't know how good of a soldier I was, and if it happens to help my memory, then my skill might suffer."

A soldier, perhaps 6’5 feet tall and nearly half as wide comes lumbering in, dressed in the coat of arms of his master, he doesn’t wear much armor aside from a couple of gauntlets and some shoulder pauldrons. “Bruno… ¿Le importaría retirar la lona?”

A low, and husky, grumble erupted from the chambers of the giant’s throat, “Sí… Señor…” before the man, if a man it truly be, began to march through the war tent. Stopping only when it reached the very back corner of the tent where the standing mirror remained covered by a filthy tarp.

The Viscount watched as the old sheet was removed from the pristine silver mirror, watching it slowly reflect the animate and inanimate alike in its long… long reaching gaze. It was peculiar, not in the way that it was not alike many other mirrors, but at its crown it showed a man, who’s mouth opened wide and terribly to reveal his teeth and tongue, almost as if he were screaming. The mirror stretched longer than any man, except of course perhaps Bruno’s 8 foot cousin, would have needed. It was beautiful decorated, and even the face of the screaming man had elegance in its shape… merely horror which lurked in its unending scream.

“¡Ah! Y, Sr. Bruno... si la situación se complica, por favor, llame a Alfons y a su... ¿hombre?” The Viscount said, looking at Bruno. Bruno nodded and went without.

“So Helm. The choice is yours. Care to see what really happened?” Asked the Viscount.

"I don't remember, I told you that."

But slowly, very slowly, as Helm begins to think back of that night in the woods, the mirror begins to cloud over… as if some sort of heat or coolness began to prickle at the back of the mirror. The visage becomes blurry, and suddenly, as if it were the same place, Helm could swear it heard the rustling of leaves in the background. A gentle summer’s breeze blowing a chill down its cloak. And yet it was warm, nearly like this night, but cooler due to the shade overhead.

The trees nestled so close together it was like a patchwork quilt overhead, the moon peaking through the cracks, lighting the way. Was it a full moon? It certainly felt like it. And for the first time in a long time… was there cheerfulness in the air?

(It misses this place. There had been some sort of gathering that night, hadn't there? It can't see the face in front of it. It feels like a [hole burnt through a picture] whenever it tries to focus on [them]. What was [their] name? Feels like it started with a sharp sound, but maybe not. Maybe that was [it's] name.)

He's cut off before his voice slowly shifts, raising from the Viscount's deep coarse tone until it sounds far more refined, polished, not nearly as sun-baked or tired as the Viscount. Younger? If indeed that were possible. Placing the voice somewhere within his more refined 20s. If the mirror were still reflecting the image of the tent Helm would have been able to see the amulet around the Viscount's neck begin to shine a red gleam. It's glow filling the backside of the tent. But the mirror refrains from showing the glint of the arcane, and instead continues to reflect the natural world as it was some centuries ago, before a figure's shape slowly begins to fill out.

"You just need a little help, darling," says a voice which sounds far sweeter than it ever was in life, the voice of Helm's liege, clear as day.

"You're doing such a good job my knight, you just need to focus on me, that's it. You've got this.." the voice trails off, is it coming from the mirror? Or is it the Viscount? Does it matter?

"I missed you," (it says softly. It reaches up to pull its hood lower around its face. [They] had never liked it when it was less than perfect, didn't [they]? And it's less than perfect now. It's been good. It would do [anything].)

The Viscount stand steadily behind Helm, holding his shoulder as the amulet lights the mirror, the fogginess of the figure's outline shapes and morphs with the rolling cloudiness of the mirror. It's almost like it can't fully settle on a final shape. But it has eyes... two piercing red eyes, which stare back at Helm, watching, discovering.

(It remains still. It's safe, isn't it? It wants to [kill them]. It wants to grovel. What a good dog it is, coming back to its master after so many years apart. It's good. It's... wasn't it purple last time? Maybe a magic difference, but why would that affect [spirits]? It )

(It isn't supposed to think. Dogs don't think.)

"Tis true... I have been kept from you for so long sellsword, i wish to... reunite with you, my good soldier..." The figure in the mirror glass begins to put its full weight against the mirror. As if it were struggling to get out.

"Y-you asked for me m'lord de Artiaga?" The old man did not shy away from this, he brought it upon himself all those years ago, he had merely hoped he would be forgotten. Such is the stupidity of youth. And like a debtor he had run out of time.

The Viscount did not turn, he hadn't need to, he knew who stood behind him, and yet when his mouth opened to speak, he did not answer, a collection of voices did, "Ă̸͎h̸̪́h̷͍̀h̸̖̣̾ ̴̘̈́͐͜ţ̵̱̏ḧ̴̭̪́e̶̘̔ ̸͖̭̍o̵̯͝l̴̥̯̀̃ď̶̠̼̔ ̷͍͊̔͜m̸͕̱̆a̶̜͎̍n̸͕̩̚?̸͕͌ ̷̨͂C̵̦̜̾͝ô̶̲m̶̰̮͌͠e̵̜̘̋ ̷̦̄̑a̵̤̞͊ţ̵̭̇̍ ̶̣̃̏l̴̘̓a̴̢̗̔s̵̥̙̉t̴̗̉͝ͅ.̴̩̦̓͑ ̷̯͆͆I̶̮͔̿̏ ̵̎ͅh̴̔͜ǒ̷̩̰̀p̷̯͐e̵̠͂ ̴̡̽t̵̫̫͝͝h̴̟͋͠i̶͔͒s̶̘̼̈́ ̶̠̣̚t̸̙̄į̴̂́m̶̡͐̉e̷͔̟͛̇ ̷͔͝y̶̳̟̎ò̸̮ű̸̼ ̸̲̈h̵̪̚ä̸̫́v̴͈̀̓e̸͍̦͂́ ̸̥̄c̴̼̔͠o̶̞̾ḿ̶̨̻ĕ̴͖͍ ̶̣̇͝t̴̡̅̚ò̶͙̃ ̸̝̻́͆p̶̧͗ͅḁ̴͆ẏ̷͍̟̕ ̶̻̏ÿ̴̺͇̍o̷̰̿̒u̶͓͍͊ṟ̴̓͑ ̵̘̺̑d̷̹̋͝ẻ̴͚ḇ̶̛̔t̷̜̑̌s̵̜͔͂?̴̱͛"

(Transcription: "Ahhh the old man? Come at last. I hope this time you have come to pay your debts?)

"Y-yes m'lord."

"̸̧̑T̶͕͊h̶̞̎̓ë̷̳n̵̨͙̎ ̶̟͕̃Ì̵͉͋ͅ ̵̪̩̋t̴̳͝a̴̫̐k̸̹̜̍e̵͉͘͠ ̶̨̝̈́ĭ̷͚̮t̴̘̤͋̌ ̶͇̻̉͘ȉ̴͚̄s̸̬̝̈̕ ̶͍̬͌c̶̭̏̄o̵͗̈́͜m̶̝̓̀p̶͓̑̉ĺ̴̟͉e̵̠͒̐t̴̥̂̿e̴̳̿ ̵̰̈́͝t̵̪̄͝h̸̰̪̑ẽ̸͙͜n̵͕͙͘?̵̣̫̐̎"̵̩̥̍

(Trans: "Then I take it is complete then?")

"Yes'm... it took some time, you will und-"

"T̶̲̃h̶̡̊i̷͉̚r̷̠̐t̷͔̀y̴̞͝ ̸̝̈́y̶̼̾è̸̠à̷̮ȓ̶̺s̸͎̐.̷̱̇ ̵̝̕W̸͔̐ȅ̴̹r̴̹͊e̶̻̋ ̵̙͊y̴̟͐ó̶̙ủ̷̬ ̶̨̾n̷͉̿o̸̰͠t̶̺̔ ̸̜̈́g̵̺̃i̷̦̓v̸͇̑e̸̘͒ṉ̸̾?̶̖͝ ̶̞̅T̷̖̊h̸̫̄ḯ̷̞r̵̰̀t̵̚ͅy̸͔̽ ̶̮̑ỵ̴͘e̷̠̐ǎ̴̡r̷̠͌ś̵ͅ ̴̮͝ō̴̬f̶͇͌ ̷̣͝e̷̮͐m̶̪͠p̸̠̒t̷̜͆y̸̠̏ ̸̲͊p̷̠͘r̸̝̀o̷̳͒m̸͎̓i̷̛̦ś̴̬e̶̘͘.̷̲̂ ̶̣̿W̶̼͠e̶̦͐ ̸̳̈e̵̪̿x̸̲́p̶̨͝e̸̩̒c̶̮͂t̵̞̚ ̷̟̋b̴̜̃e̶͕̽t̴̞̓t̴͚̔e̶͈̾ŕ̵͜ ̷̫̉f̴͙́r̴̼̓ȍ̶͚ṁ̶̟ ̶̤͐y̵̔͜o̴̼̔ṳ̸͋.̵͔͂ ̴̰͠Y̵͓͆ơ̷̟ų̶̇ ̵̎͜k̴̟̃n̶͉͂o̴͇͌w̶̨͋ ̸̢̚w̶̳͒h̶̝̐a̴͔͐t̵͕̕ ̵͈̉r̸̙̈́i̵͍̓d̸̨͝e̸̞͆s̷̩̋ ̵͎͊u̸̩̿p̸̩̕o̵̜͆n̷͉̔ ̶̗̃t̶̐͜h̵̜̓e̷͕̽ ̶̣̈́f̸̰̈́a̴̳̍ẗ̶̠́ȇ̴͍ ̷̖̄o̵̙͗f̵͕͝ ̴̹̿t̶͎͘h̷͈̑ị̶̄ś̴̫ ̴͓̈́v̴̘͗e̷̛̘n̴̗͝t̴̜͂ŭ̴̜r̶̺̕e̸̤͘.̶̭͆.̵̹̋.̸̭͊ ̸̝̒d̵͙͘ô̴̺ ̸̢͝y̴̦͆ó̷͙u̵̥̒ ̸̳̇n̵̥̓ȏ̷͜t̵̳̾?̸͖̇"

(Trans: Thirty years. Were you not given? Thirty years of empty promises. We expect better from you. You know what rides upon the fate of this venture do you not?)

"Yes... m'lord, I have done it regardless... do you... wish to see it?"

"B̸̡̑r̸̡͐i̸̲̓n̶͝ͅg̸̫̃ ̶͚̆i̷͍͛t̶̺͒ ̸͓̚f̵͈͊o̸̬̓r̴̢̉t̵̠̆ȟ̷̘.̷͈̈́"

Trans: "Bring it forth."

Alfons turns to look to the undead soldiers, wondering if he ran how far his aged legs would truly get him, in truth he did not think far. And thus from one of the undead men does he take a dark mahogany box with a gold clasp. He opens it slowly, unlocking the large lock on the front, before peering in, to reveal a small broken spear point, with a drop of black ichor staining the one shining metal tip. He looks back to the Viscount, who seems to nod, even without looking forth at the old man. 'If I threw this accursed thing at the mirror I could end this all, I could end the hauntings of that poor mercenary, I could destroy the abomination, I would die. But I would die a nameless hero.'

He held the spear in his hand. Feeling the sharpness of the spear. Feeling it's weight. He could throw it that far. It would land solidly if the Viscount did not move and block the shot. In fact there was a decent chance he could shatter the mirror with the spear point. 'I'm too afraid of death,' he thought before placing the spear point on the ground.

He began to open his mouth, and from it flowed the words he and he alone did know: "Deus, o Deus omnipotens! Qui nunc in carne mortali ardès ex vulnere saeculorum praeteritorum: da nobis vocem tuam dum spirituum maximum invocamus. Liceat nobis te huic loco alligare atque nomine tuo ignoto appellare; liceat te vocare et condicionem carnis sanguinisque nostrae tibi iungere. Liceat te vocare… HARIM."

And forth sprouted an ichor as black as night, as broken and bubbling as the sea, and forth sprouted the angel of death. A creature- nay spirit as old as creation itself, bound in the flesh of man, and blood of the earth. The god which had many names binding it to it's immortal form, yet it's unknown, godly name, which in this moment bound it to flesh and blood. 'Forgive me. Forgive me and my cruel fear,' thought the Alchemist.

Before long the thing... which indeed had dawned armor in it's slow rise to form the semblance of human's stature, with pale, glowing yellow eyes, did look about the room. It's target was within sight.

The Viscount turned to Helm, now looking not at the mirror but the thing to which it knew held some sliver of importance in his goals, and spoke, not as many, but as one, "You have a choice to make Helm, I would rather hope you pick correctly."

The Viscount looks at Helm, "Everything can be explained Helm, but only if you let us in." Then looking to Cuervo and the Creature, he signals them to face Helm.

"We all want you to remember Helm, won't you let us?"

"All you needs do is step into the mirror. And then you'll regain your memories." The Viscount smiles, this time hungrily snarling his teeth, he's so close, he can practically taste it. 'Come now mutt, you're so close, we needn't stop here.'