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As Once Now Was[]
Istanbul, 1941
The solemn silhouettes of Istanbul's twin domes and many minarets remained crisp and unmistakable in the haze of twilight. Bands of pink and gold smudged the skyline and shimmered in the oily gray waves of the harbor. At last, the west light vanished, the Maghrib ended, and the city that spanned continents and cultures, Byzantium to modernity, which seemed to have been shuttering its eyes, suddenly sprang to life. Lanterns of vendors dotted the streets yellow. Spice and dust melded in the air. Shiny black sedans on their way to the opera threaded through donkey-pulled carts and wooden fruit stands. A cosmopolitan crowd flooded the avenues: Europeans with sepia brimmed hats, mustached Slavs, priests in black cassocks, Africans in flowing tunics, and members of a growing Kurdish population in bright patterns and elaborate serwins.
Among this pastiche of humanity, a Quincy could blend in easily... Almost too easily.
Sōken Ishida thought this as he noted a band of German officers step off the train in front of him. They seemed to be accompanying a dignitary of the Third Reich, no doubt bound for the capital. Sōken gave them a wide berth. He didn't want anyone confusing his own uniform with the officers' white summer jackets. Still, if a band of soldiers could escape notice in the crowded streets, no one would raise an eyebrow at a lone Asian man in a uniform marked with blue crosses—at least, he hoped.
Sōken followed the Grande Rue de Péra, reflecting on the fact that he hadn't been in Constantinople in some twenty years—Istanbul—he corrected himself. Although not much had seemingly changed in that span of time, he feared that the Maison Velour might no longer be in business. But as he turned off the main avenue he found it where it had always been. The arced stone windows and burgundy awnings that faced the harbor were exactly as as he had pictured, golden light from inside the pub reflecting on the dark water.
When he pushed open the door and stepped inside, he was immediately greeted with the blare of brass and an acrid cloud of smoke. He pushed through the din to reach the bar, and was almost turned away by the barkeep until he addressed the man in French. He could see doubt flicker in his eyes—the Maison Velour was primarily a Caucasian bar—but at last his natural charisma won over the m an's prejudice. Somewhat begrudgingly, the barkeep told the attendant to lead Sōken to one of designated the smoking lounges in the back, behind the main dance floor. They passed white-cloth covered tables, where Parisian couples and Bulgarian businessmen leaned in close to talk in hushed tones with the cover of the jazz band to hide any secrets they shared. In stark contrast, and yet somehow even more secretively, the smoking lounge was removed from the whirl of activity. Thick woven tapestries—a parody of Turkish decor—muffled the noise from outside. There was only one other man in the lounge: A Turk who had somehow also slipped past the French in the front of house. Sōken offered him a warm smile, then lit the tobacco-filled water pipe to avoid raising the man's suspicions. He picked up the newspaper on the side table and glanced at his watch. There were still a few minutes till Eight, so he settled in to wait. Effortlessly, he maintained perfect posture in the ornamentally embroidered lounge chair, one leg crossed over the other with the newspaper spread out in front of him.
To his side rested a window, permanently latched shut, as they all were. Hidden behind a series of extravagantly patterned drapes, one could barely tell it was even there, save for the beams of radiant light beaming through the slats of the window shutters, the only source of light besides the dancing flicker of the occasional candle. Out that window, and through the winding streets, one would eventually find themselves in the rich areas of the Beşiktaş, the lavish palaces and domiciles that dotted the European shore of the Bosphorus. One particular set of structures belonged to the largest palace in all of Turkey. The Dolmabahçe was so extravagant in fact, it almost bankrupt the country with its construction.
Nestled away behind its walls, in the corner of one of its lavish gardens was a guard station. Normally a quiet, regimented little box, the room had become the center of attention for no few members of the regiment today. The air was thick with the smoke of lit cigarettes and the laughter of joyous soldiers, to the keen of sense one might even catch a whiff of the boza underneath the burning nicotine.
Through the open window and into the square-like cavity of the guard station was a relatively plain room, one table in the center, surrounded by stools that were firmly filled by the buttocks' of the palatial guard. The walls were all clear and empty save one, whereby a painting of the late president Atatürk hanged. The cause of all the commotion and hysteria also filled one of the wooden stools, the only one that wasn't resting on all four of its legs. Instead it leaned in on two, gently listing with the motions of its occupant. Roshan Bamshad sat with his legs atop the table, and his back to the wall, casually resting his elbows on the windowsill, only leaving to take another draw of the freshly provided cigarettes the guards had on offer.
Though they laughed and jeered like the deepest of comrades, the clash of their uniforms painted them very differently. The guards were members of the presidential regiment, here to protect Atatürk's successor who had come to visit the palace much like his predecessor before him. They were easily picked out by their turquoise uniform—the only one of its kind in the Turkish army—and white helmets. Roshan on the other hand was clad head-to-toe in white, with the only distinguished difference being the red that became visible whenever his arms raised to show the underside of his cloak. It was the uniform of a bygone era, the standard fit of the long dead Lichtreich — the lost empire of the Quincy.
Roshan had been weaving tales for the men before him, sharing old war stories and myths that were just too tall to be true. There was a truth to them, of course, the blonde headed Persian was speaking from experience, but not one of these men would believe he had borne witness to an encyclopedia of Turkey's military sur-realities dating back a hundred years when he himself looked like he'd barely made it to his thirties. No, no, these were all stories his grandfather had shared with him, or so the guards believed.
With a puff of smoke emerging from his lungs, Roshan endeavoured to draw up another when the glint of his watch caught his eye. Languidly his eyes focused on it, past the shimmering hue of sunlight that obscured the glass. "kahretsin", he let out a word in the local tongue with a great deal of surprise. He was due for a meeting any minute now, and if he dallied any longer that meeting would be exceedingly dour-faced.
Roshan sprung from his seat with a sudden deftness, to the raising eyebrows of his gathered entourage.
"Sorry, brothers, I'm late for a date!", he remarked with a casual exuberance, putting out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, which had seen its fair share of use already today.
"Oh, come on, Roshan! Not one more?", replied one of the soldiers, distraught at the potential of having to go back to the silent pallor of guard duty.
"Not to worry, I saved the best for last", Roshan clapped him on the shoulder for reassurance. "Next time I'm 'round, get out the good stuff, and I'll show you a real story!", he related with a glance to a nearby empty bottle—three, in fact—of empty boza. He'd drank it like it was water and still hadn't caught himself a buzz. Though he supposed that was the point.
To the disappointment of his fellows, Roshan departed, and as soon as he was out of eyeshot, he outright disappeared, as if he had sank into the shadows.
He appeared some distance away, emerging from a singular swift motion, his hand clasped around the golden ornament of the extravagant palatial gates whilst his cloaked bristled lightly under a thin breeze. Viridian eyes scanned the environment, focusing on the nearby clock tower. He held himself in place until he was sure no one was around to see, and only then did he leap from his perch, once more into a motion so quick he had all but vanished without a trace.
He would appear on one of the many outcroppings of the tower, deigning to climb the last portion. Something about moderation in this current age, he told himself, all while one hand puttered around in the breast of his uniform, eventually withdrawing a small silver tube. With an expert motion of his thumb, he twisted the cap off the tube, dabbing its contents onto that very same digit. In the midst of a leap, and a grapple with some of the nearby outward facing architecture, he applied this strange blue fluid to the bottom of his eye. Soon repeating this gesture with opposing limbs, such that by the time he had reached the top of the tower, both of his eyes were now wet with liquid and in front of his pupils were the glistening glimmer of two spheres. Perfectly in place, just far enough as to not conflict with his features or cause strain and their presence was an immediately valuable effect.
Casting his gaze onto the streets of Istanbul, Roshan could make out everything; at least that which was important to him. Spiritual energy and those who had it. Most people, especially in the World of the Living, did not have much of it. A German officer here, an African missionary there. Very few possessed it in any noticeable amount, even to themselves, and that was why a technique like this was so useful. For Roshan's date was one of the few.
He snapped his fingers as if to hail his success when he finally found them, nestled away in the back of a bar. Typical.
He brushed away the lingering fluid beneath his eyes and with it the lights arrayed before them. He leapt from the tower, his posture like the spreading wings of an eagle. His clothed billowed in the wind as his descent became very real, but before he could be seen to become a smear on the ground, he made use of that fanciful trick of his once again. Gone, just like that.
He appeared, in that very same motion, a few feet above the ground, where he would fall—and land—safely just outside the Maison Velour, and fancy that, he was only a minute late.
He ruffled his blonde mane, dusted off his uniform and entered the building, carrying himself with all the weight of a soldier. He gestured silently to the barkeep, who gave him a singular once over, and turned a blind eye. The assumption that he was what he wasn't, was enough.
His posture relaxed the moment he passed out of the barman's sight, and soon enough he fell into the chair opposite Sōken.
"Merhaba, brother", he started, his tone as warm and as pleasant as it was with the soldiers he had been speaking to not minutes before.
Sōken smiled and snapped the newspaper closed. He was about to say something, perhaps return Roshan's greeting, when a curious expression crossed his face. The squarish tilt to his brows made it seem as though the gray-haired Quincy was always slightly bemused, but now his eyebrows jumped high above the frame of his glasses.
"Night vision lenses? I hope the Germans didn't see you, they might be inspired." He chuckled, referring to the residual circles of reishi that had lingered in front of Roshan's gaze, despite his attempt to clear away the effects of the Gintō. "Hmm, that joke was rather dark, wasn't it?"
Roshan laughed freely, clearly not perturbed by Sōken's joke, they might have been both human, but Roshan never considered 'human affairs' to be his purview, he lived in a world removed from them and their perpetual conflicts. "I think you meant they'd be enlightened, no?", he gave back with the most immature grin plastered on his face.
But Sōken's grin faltered. While he might have also preferred to keep his nose clear of human world politics, he perhaps had more reason—or more concern—to remain connected to current events. For a moment, the conversation faltered. "Has it been twenty years?" He sighed, running his fingers through his thick hair. "I don't think we've met under anything but hard circumstances. I wish it were otherwise, but this time is no exception."
Roshan sat back in his chair, relaxed, and unperturbed his comrades statement. "You don't send the diplomat to do the soldier's job, after all", he replied curtly, in a tone lacking malice. Perhaps it was to assuage Sōken's apparent guilt. It was an easy thing to rationalise, between the two of them Roshan was better at fighting, at hunting someone or something down, and the Ishida patriarch could dance rings around verbal arenas; when it came to saving the lives of Gemischt he was the better of the two.
Roshan rapped his hand on the hard wood of the table, gently tapping away with the back of his knuckles. "So who's fallen into our lap this time?"
Sōken leaned forward, knitting his fingers together over his knees. Hedging his bets, he switched to German, hoping it would give them a bit more privacy. "I've been keeping my ear to the ground for a few years now, considering the situation in Europe that is. There have been expeditions undertaken. Teams of what are called researchers sent to Egypt, Tibet: you may have encountered some of them—they have seemed like normal military, but there has been... supernatural interferences. Especially regarding ancient Quincy artifacts." Sōken straightened up and removed a slip of paper from the pocket of his jacket. He unfolded it, gently smoothing out the paper's creases, then handed it to Roshan. It was a hand-drawn diagram. Large stone statues sat in a row, framed on each side by a lion resting on its haunches and a perched falcon. The statues' visages were stolid, kingly, and would have seemed Egyptian were it not for the almost fish-fin shaped crowns they wore. "This tomb," Sōken explained. "Is either located in the Syrian Desert or somewhere near the headwaters of the Tigris. There's a possibility that it could be the resting place of an object of some importance to the Wanden—Lichtreich." Sōken continued: "There's a troop of Nazi officers headed south from Ankara. Considering your expertise, I was hoping you could handle the situation." He lifted his gaze, peering at Roshan over the rim of his glasses. This created an odd effect: his onyx eyes seemed even darker, and glittered in a way that suggested there was something more he wasn't letting on. However, he didn't need to specify the dire importance of keeping any trace of Yhwach safely out of the hands of other Quincy—he and Roshan were on the same page in that regard.
Roshan looked back at him with a sense of incredulity. His arm that had previously dabbled at the wooden table, now sat half raised, his Quincy cross hanging from a simple chain that swayed back and forth from his wrist, as if to signal something to Sōken.
"Alright, but what does it matter if a few humans stumble on an artifact or two? They wouldn't know how to use it, even if they were spiritually aware", replying in perfectly adequate German. The Persian man had definitely kept spiritual items out of the hands of mortals before, especially at Sōken's behest, but typically these sorts of situations involved someone who knew what to do with these relics. A ringmaster leading the blind. An interested party. There were many names for the fools that would court the attention of the Sealed King. Roshan's incredulity deepened, half-lidded eyes exaggerating his expression. "Even if, by some miracle, they managed to activate something like the keys, all they'd do is die, and return to the cycle".
His hand lowered, clutching the jangling cross. "So what are you really asking me to deal with?", he asked pointedly.
Sōken maintained a perfectly cordial smile. He leaned back, pausing to draw pensively on the water pipe before he responded. "You're right to suggest that I have a keen interest in alleviating the plight of Gemischt brethren. And it's true that these ancient artifacts may not pose any temptation to them—or normal humans, of course... But allow me to correct a misassumption: in this matter, my primarily concern is for the Echt." The way he said the word was laden with meaning.
Roshan's squinting glare lessened, processing at the hints Sōken refused to give plainly. "Am I Echt protecting, or am I going Echt hunting?"
The former was something he expected of Sōken, almost like routine, though they hadn't met in person often, it wasn't uncommon for the Asian man to ask for his help in keeping the conclaves of Quincy tribes hidden from prying eyes. Rarely, that meant from the latter.
Sōken's expression shifted, becoming serious. "I suppose you'll be able to determine that once you encounter them. My hope is that you can find a way to save them from themselves before you have to resort to more drastic measures. In the end, even if they are enemies to peace, they are members of our own kind." He stood, signaling an end to their conversation. "I trust you'll make the right decision. Until we meet again, brother."
He left an object behind on the small table: a silver ring with a signet resembling a small embossed sun.
Roshan eyed him wearily as he left, not following or arguing. Ordinarily he would have put up protestations, there would have been a whole song and dance. But Sōken had learned better over these long years, and so there wasn't much point feigning. Roshan's viridian eyes returned to the table, his hand lowering to caress the edges of the ring that had been left to lie.
The iconography was unmistakably Quincy in origin, as was its make. With just a touch, he could feel the Reishi that was used to make it, like a numbing tingle. He picked it up, twisting it between his fingers as he gave it another once over. His mind poured over words and previously visible scribbles. An old Quincy crypt, huh.
He let out a lonesome breath from his nostrils, then rose from his seat, pocketing the ring in a singular motion. He trod the same path Sōken had just taken, eventually leaving the establishment.
On the steps just outside, Roshan took one long glance at the sky, the sun now having firmly set, replaced by the calm of the moon. He raised his hood over his head as if anticipating a breeze, then he was gone.
Turn the Foundation Stone[]
Somewhere in the Tur Abdin, a hundred kilometers north of the Syrian border, specks of white canvas tarps dotted the desert landscape. They were spread across a flat sand depression that interrupted the jagged lines of rugged foothills; from a distance their shape was maggot-like. On the crest of one of these overlooking ridges, Dresden stood watch over the dig site, vigilantly scanning the surrounding terrain. From the perspective of a topographical map, east Turkey resembled damask fabric: sharp ridges and narrow, deep-cut valleys wove intricate patterns across a beige and gray backdrop. The terrain was dotted with bleached rocks and dark patches of shrubby growth that seemed to barely cling to the scree slopes. Mentally, he noted the blurry outline of the low-lying peaks to the north where somewhere the headwaters of the Tigris lay. To the south, a flat band of brown haze marked the barren Syrian desert. The shadow of a vulture traced along the floor of the valley. Otherwise, nothing moved.
Dresden checked the position of the sun—it was almost directly overhead, and the horizon wavered in the heat. Even here, sequestered in the foothills, the temperatures had risen dramatically since sunrise, now hovering just below 37 degrees Celsius . He lifted his canteen but there were only a few drops of water left. To make matters worse, there was no sign of the spiritual presence he had detected earlier. It was as if there had been a blip in his awareness, then nothing. He knew there was something out there, and that something seemed to be a fellow Quincy. Or Quincies. For a moment, he thought about returning to the dig site, but he didn't want to stand under fire for having "no news" to report. So, he raised the binoculars and glassed over the desert once more. Still nothing.
He had just started to feel a hint of relief when he caught a glint of metal from a distant ridge. His eyebrows drew together in a deep frown, and he focused Blut to the veins in his eyes, enhancing his vision to see much farther with supernatural aid than what was possible even with the binoculars. The glint was the result of a tin can that functioned as a crude telescope device. At least, that's what Dresden assumed it was. And it was being carried in the hand of a boy dressed in shepherd's garb.
"Where did you come from?" Dresden muttered to himself. There were a few villages scattered throughout the ravines in this part of the desert. But here, very near the Syrian border, no one should have been crouching behind a boulder on a rocky slope with a tin telescope, especially not in the heat of midday. He wondered who had sent this young spy: the French? The Turks?
As if he had sensed the fact that he had been detected, the boy scuttled up to the crest of the hill, dodging behind the rocks and shrubbery. Dresden tracked his shadowy, practiced movements along the ridge line and for the first time noticed what appeared to be a skeletal finger pointing into the pale blue sky: A sagging brick spire, no doubt an exposed piece of ancient monastery hidden on the other side. Suddenly, something keyed him in to the awareness that, like him, this boy was abnormal. A Quincy. With inexplicable prescience he became certain of the fact that, should he trek to the other side of the distant ridge, he would find others just like him hiding in the ruins. Dresden looked over his shoulder at the outfit of canvas tarps. Ostensibly, they were there as part of an expedition to scratch for traces of an early nordic civilization and thereby prove Aryan legitimacy. But Dresden knew full well that the real reason his superior had dragged them all here, and he hesitated. The boy—and any of his kin—was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, after all. With that set in his mind, Dresden turned back towards the site.
Lieutenant Quilge Opie stood erect, his hands clasping a pair of white gloves behind his back. Even under the shade of the white linen tarps, the dark shadow he cast was crisp as he loomed over the graphs and maps spread over the flimsy folded tables. He did not break his focus to acknowledge Dresden's presence.
"Anything to report, corporal?"
Dresden subconsciously drew the heels of his boots together. "I was unable to determine the source of the spiritual presence, sir."
"But?"
Dresden gave him the answer he had prepared. "As you said, our prospects here seem to be promising. There are a few ruins near our current location. I could take a few men and comb the hills. That way, you could focus your efforts here."
Quilge scoffed. "What efforts? There is nothing to focus here. This damn bowl of sand is completely sterile."
Below them, a half dozen archeologists toiled away in their excavated trenches, oblivious to the two Quincy observing them. One of them sneezed, resulting in a cloud of pale gray dust. He lifted his head from the work he was absorbed in and, noticing the two officers, offered them a tired yet still optimistic grin. Quilge made no attempt at hiding his scowl of disdain.
"Those Ahnenerbe idiots don't even have the slightest idea what they're looking for."
Dresden agreed. It was only the second day of the excavation, but if they hadn't been saddled by Himmler's weighty patronage (and stamp of approval) they could have quickly plucked the few Quincy relics hidden in the Tur Abdin and been on their way. Instead, they had to accommodate the wishes of pretend scholars, all while maintaining the pretense that the desert held artifacts of interest to the Third Reich.
"Nonetheless," Quilge continued. "I'm curious to know how you managed to determine that we're in the correct location." He turned his head slightly so that he could, if needed, glance at Dresden over his shoulder. "I've studied these maps for over three weeks and devoted my time to pouring over the details. I've made every calculation. So how is it, corporal, that you could ascertain the fact that we are near our goal in a mere hour's surveillance?"
Dresden blinked to clear the sweat from his eyes. Unlike Quilge, who had the luxury of a white summer tunic, he wore a standard issue uniform. The brim of his cap was too short to offer much protection—but it wasn't the sun that made him feel suddenly stifled. At last, Quilge leveled his gaze at him through the reddish lenses of his rounded spectacles. "It seems you have omitted an important detail from your report."
"What do you mean, sir?" Dresden tried to lick his lips. His mouth had run completely dry.
Instead of replying, Quilge stepped away from the table to pour himself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher on the nearby stand. His movements were deliberate, as if every tap of his finger against the glass had been carefully considered. Finally, he leaned back against the table. "Please, have a seat," he indicated. Gingerly, Dresden followed the instruction, his back stiff as he perched on the edge of lightweight stool.
"Feel free to have a drink. You must be parched." Dresden knew that, likely, he was about to receive the upbraiding of a lifetime. It would be better to withstand such an ordeal while hydrated, at least, so he set aside his suspicions and quickly drained a full glass. The water tasted slightly salty, almost metallic in his mouth.
"Are you aware of the history of our current location?"
The pretend joviality to Quilge's tone sent shivers down Dresden's spine. He steeled himself, then gave the best answer he could muster. "Let's see. During the Roman empire, Christians in this region established monasteries to—"
Quilge held up his hand. "Current events if you please. I don't need a full recital." Dresden remained silent, so Quilge plucked up the thread of the conversation himself. "A little more than twenty years ago, the many crevices and ravines in this area proved to be excellent gravesites for the scores of Armenians culled by the Turks. Further north, the bodies choked the river valleys, causing outbreaks of disease downstream. This was of little concern to the Turks of course, as only the Kurds live here. The irony of fate: Parasites killing off more parasites."
Dresden stared at the rim of the glass that he gripped with both hands. "Why were they eliminated?" He dared against his growing unease to ask.
"Simply put, a Turkish version of Lebensraum, in a manner of speaking. The Armenians had ingratiated themselves for centuries in a land that was never rightfully theirs. Of course, the efficiency at which this purge was carried out is to be admired. I'm sure many in our homeland hope to achieve similarly quick results, with a more systematic approach, of course. I find it an illustrative example of how our own race must approach these types of situations. The Shinigami even aided us in the endeavor of ensuring the purity of our race." Dresden nodded as Quilge spoke, the familiar propaganda washing over him without sinking in.
"So tell me, corporal," Quilge's tone sharpened abruptly, "Why you would cast aside your loyalty now to protect Gemischt mongrels?"
Dresden's eyes widened and he shot to his feet. "Lieutenant! I would never—"
The swift punch to his solar plexus caught him off guard. He barely had time to anticipate the impact before he flew a dozen meters backwards, excavating a new trench in the sand. It wasn't until he had rolled over onto his hands and knees that he realized the glass had shattered in his hand. Bright blood smeared across his palm. He felt dizzy and fought to force air into his lungs.
"Good work," Quilge called out. "If you hadn't utilized Blut at the last second, that blow would have shattered your ribs, and potentially collapsed your diaphragm. At least your training is beginning to pay off."
He clapped his hands together, and an enlisted man ran over. Quilge gave him curt instructions to take his position at the observation tent. "We've discovered a potential site of interest, which must be surveyed, so I'm leaving you in charge of things here. I'm sure the corporal is planning to accompany me as well."
Dresden nodded and managed to stand despite his wobbling knees. The reprimand was implicit, and he reminded himself that, fundamentally, he was an Echt Quincy. Nothing would be gained by extending sympathy towards the impure. Why had he even tried to protect them in the first place?
Later, as he lugged a heavy pack of survey equipment across the rough terrain behind Quilge, he experienced the return of his unease. He thought of the boy with the tin can, and tried to stifle his conscience.
Too soon, Quilge announced: "Ah, glorious. We're here."
Miraculously, he had found the spot that Dresden had been scoping out earlier. This only proved that, even if Dresden had tried to subtly redirect them to another ridge, Quilge had probably marked the exact location of spiritual disturbance from the beginning. Now, they stood before a sheer rock face. A columned procession of giant stone figures stood on either side of the pockmarked facade. A tomb. Their deteriorated visages had been carved in an Egyptian—or perhaps Babylonian style—with snarling lions, perched falcons, scowling kings in curled crowns and equally stoic queens all with unseeing eyes glaring at the desert before them. Yet there was nothing to indicate that they would find traces of ancient Quincy there... except for the fact that the ruins of a younger Syriac style monastery flanked the tomb on another face of the ridge. This was what drew Dresden's attention. He strained to detect any sign of movement—spiritual or physical—from within the gaping black windows of the monastery. He knew that the Gemischt boy was likely still hiding somewhere within, and he willed him to stay there—out of sight, undetected.
Above the tense tomb, over the grooves of the nearby hills there was a river, coursing its peaceful flow. The water lazily trudged along a singular path, only ever interrupted by the practiced motions of a wooden paddle, pulling a small boat along its surface. A haggard Syrian man stood firm on the body of his boat with a measured focus on his upcoming destination. His eyes passed over his passenger with curiosity, puzzled why someone would want to come out here, where nothing but soldiers had an interest.
Roshan, splayed out over the solid surface of the boat's interior, snored away at peace. His droned, nasally breaths matching the rhythm of each pulse of momentum as the boat pulled itself to the whims of its master. Hands clasped behind his head, he was the perfect picture of defenseless, until the boat creaked and bristled, and his eyes opened with purpose as if he had been aware this whole time. The blonde Quincy pulled himself to a sitting position, taking stock of what had caused the noise.
They had arrived at their destination. Stretching out in front of Roshan was a simple dock, little more than a series of planks and rope-bound poles that terminated into a flight of stairs upon a well-trodden road. Or, it used to be anyway. Though the path ahead was clearly worn into existence by extensive travel, the dirt carried little to no sign of recent travel.
"We're here, mister Bamshad", the boatman affirmed politely.
"So we are", Roshan replied casually, climbing to his feet with all the hurry of an old man. His hands patted around in various pockets of his stark white uniform until he revealed a small pouch, filled to bursting with gemstones, easily signified by the clatter going on between them and the many differing protrusions as the gems poked at the confines of their container. With a languid throw, he cast the bag towards the boatman who fumbled his hands in order to catch it. Roshan chuckled.
With a step, he climbed onto the dock, lightly waving to his host. "Thanks for the ride, friend".
"Ah!", the boatman ushered. "Do you wish for me to wait for you?", certainly, the boatman had been more than fairly compensated, so it was only natural to offer his guest a return home.
Roshan smiled back. "No, no, get yourself out of here", the Persian dismissed. "Got no idea how long I'll be out here, ain't much sense in having you sittin' here when it gets dark".
With no intention to hear any arguments — if there were any to be had — Roshan proceeded down the length of the dock and onto the road ahead, flanked on either side by shallow hills and the faintest amount of growth, surrounded by rocks and dust.
He closed his eyes, picturing an oasis in his mind. An oasis flooded by animals. Just one too many, drinking of the haven until all the remained were droplets of water. As the imagery danced within his head his spiritual presence seemed to likewise shrink, snuffing itself out so as to cloak himself from the potentially sensitive. Sōken rarely called him for things mundane and easily solved with words, that was his domain after all. That meant being prepared for whatever could cause him, or others, harm. Indeed, his earlier pat down of his own outfit confirmed to him that all his equipment was still on his person. Gintō, Seele Schneider, and all the other miscellany there-in. A canteen of water was especially important in this kind of dry heat, he affirmed to himself with a gentle knock on a steel container, fastened firmly to his hip.
"Now, then", while having obscured himself from the senses of others, his own stretched out in search of his own quarry. An easy find when his nerves tickled at not one presence, but several. Firmly he took a step, and then another, towards his destination. Time to see what was in store.
Tomb[]
Statues of decapitated monarchs sat on either side of the gaping entrance to the tomb. Quilge stood in front of the gap, almost at attention, his white uniform strikingly crisp in contrast with the black interior—Motionless, yet the tilt of his shoulder suggested the probing rapaciousness of a conqueror.
As he lingered behind Quilge, Dresden tried to match the heads of the statues to their original bodies. Lopped off by a sword of centuries' weathering, the heads gaped bug-eyed from the desert sand: Perhaps the bearded Zeus had been on the right, and the Babylonian woman on the left. The only statue left entirely intact was the perched falcon. A large raven preened on its massive beak, pausing to examine the two figures beneath it with beady eyes. Dresden knew that it wasnōt their only witness. Somewhere, he and Quilge were being observed through a tin-can telescope. The fact that Quilge hadn't seemed to notice this made Dresden uneasy. Surely he couldn't have had a keener sense of spiritual perception than the veteran Echt soldier. Perhaps Quilge was simply preoccupied with the discovery of the tomb... Perhaps those headless statues would stand up and salute them. The latter seemed more likely.
"You seem lost in thought, corporal."
Dresden tried not to seem startled by the sudden question. "I was wondering—Not to cast doubt on your authority, sir... but should we have left the archeological site unsupervised? What if someone rats us out to Berlin?"
Quilge almost sighed, but instead his half-lidded eyes drifted back to the entrance to the tomb. "The sooner you learn to let the inconsequential affairs of mortal humans resolve themselves, the sooner you'll recognize your potential as one of our kind."
Dresden wasn't sure if the affairs of special permissions granted by the Third Reich's top brass counted as "inconsequential," but said nothing.
Quilge clicked his heels together abruptly. "Let us be about our business before we're joined by any of the rats you seem so concerned about."
Without a second thought of whoever might be behind him, he marched into the maw of the tomb. Dresden followed him through the dark archway. A wall of cool air immediately sheared the sweltering heat from the desert outside. Beyond the entrance, the passageway descended steeply, so he kept one hand against the coarse sandstone. The winding passageway was clear—maybe thanks to bygone grave robbers—and the stalactite-studded ceiling was intact. Quilge switched on an electric torch, which stabbed only a short distance down the crude steps before meeting one sharp corner after the next. At each turn, Dresden expected to see the litter of human remains. But while the air seemed dense, almost clinging, there was no scent of decay—only the scent of musty stone and damp sand.
At last, they entered a vault perpendicular to the stairwell and their path inward abruptly ended. The circle of light from the electric torch bobbed over flattened bas-relief figures that marched in an even line across the surface of the unbroken gray wall. Knotted beards, elongated eyes, and open palms suggested a decidedly Babylonian influence. Quilge chuckled. "Clever."
A long moment of silence followed until Dresden realized that Quilge wasn't going to launch into his usual monologued explanation. "What is, sir?"
"Look there." Quilge pointed at the dead lion stretched effortlessly across the bare shoulders of the frozen figures. "Tell me what you notice."
Setting aside his incredulity, Dresden inspected the lion more closely. A perfectly round hole, nearly hidden by the mane, had been chiseled out where the lion's heart should have been. "The hunters appear to have had excellent aim."
"An observation as dense as the wall itself. Nonetheless, you would benefit by recording your observations. They could be useful in the pursuits of the esteemed Ahnenerbe."
Dresden wasn't sure if Quilge was being serious or not, but dutifully pulled out his field notebook and began jotting down a few notes. Then, he tried again: "They're all archers, and the figures seem to be Persian, not Egyptian so... those must be crosses in their hands, not ankhs."
"That's a little more astute. Go on."
Dresden thought back to the painstaking hours he had spent pouring over tomes of dusty lore at Quilge's behest. Some of it had been insightful, but he had doubted that the tedium of symbols of bygone civilizations and the esoteric triangles that dubiously linked them had much practical application. At least his studies seemed to be useful now. Above the figures, five rays of a sun beamed down at different angles, forming a pentagram. The sun was the most prominent part of the composition aside from the figures, so Dresden had purposefully avoided mentioning it since Quilge had already criticized him for pointing out the obvious. "It's hard to say but, considering this is a tomb, the sun could be a disguised symbol. Perhaps it was added by Christians centuries after the original carvings."
Quilge scoffed. "A pentagram. Archers armed with crosses. A monstrous beast with a hole where its heart should be and—" Quilge paused to press his palm into the stone. "Some spiritual force pulsing beneath the stone."
Dresden himself hadn't detected the 'spiritual force,' but he took Quilge's word for it. "What now?" he asked.
"Now..." Quilge took a few steps back. He raised his hand so that his palm was flat to the wall, then formed a cross with his other arm. "Lanzenformer, zehnter Gral." Four white lines traced over the wall. They stretched twice the height of Quilge, and were meant to obliterate whatever was enclosed within its bounded space.
Instead, they snapped.
Dresden barely had time to react as the cut lines spiraled back into a single point of white light. He leapt back into the stairwell, crossing both arms above his face and hardening his entire body with Blut Vene. There was a high-pitched, almost metallic shriek, followed by a deafening crack as the Heizen exploded. Chunks of sandstone tore free from the ceiling and collapsed around them. In spite of the chaos, Quilge held the torch still in the cloud of dust. He waited until the reverberations subsided, then said: "Hmm, most interesting." Dresden coughed: too busy trying to clear his lungs of dust to respond. Quilge stepped closer to the wall. He bent at the waist at an exact angle to inspect it more closely. "Naturally, it's sealed."
"Sealed?"
"Perhaps an ancient spell. At least, it's old enough to not appear to be Gintō on first glance."
"Is that why—cough—the spell was—cough—ineffective?"
"Precisely." He traced his fingers over the embossed figures. When he reached the eye of the lion, he froze. "Yes yes, of course." He grinned. "All we need is the key." Quilge gave Dresden a knowing look, the torch light gleaming in his spectacles. "And as fate would have it, the key seems to be on its way to us."
Dresden was completely dumbfounded. But Quilge ignored his ignorance. Instead he tilted his head to crack his neck, rolling his shoulders to ready himself: for what, Dresden couldn't say.
The bespectacled Quincy was certainly correct that the key he required was making its way to him, but he had seemingly failed to notice just how very close it happened to be.
Not too long ago that selfsame object rested on Roshan's person, tucked away safely in one of his many pockets. Far and away from the elaborate tomb the Schutzstaffel officers occupied, over the sun-baked hills and sparsely greened land. Having detected their presence from his earlier perch, Roshan had since been making his way towards them; assuming that only they could be the quarry he sought.
His stride was strange, lackadaisical in form, but carrying with it a deceptive momentum. To the naked eye, he was merely walking, carefully trudging his steps across coarse, dusty ground. The distance he covered, however, was nothing short of extraordinary. From one moment to the next, he covered entire leagues with each step that he took. He was like a mirage in the distance, every time you took your eyes from him he got invariably closer. A journey that should have taken most of a day was over in mere minutes, and the excavation site full of German troops and over-worked labourers never even so much as saw him arrive, or leave, their perimeter.
It was an interesting application of Hirenkyaku that carried the blonde-haired figure so far, so fast. Individual instances, prepared painstakingly one-at-a-time, allowing him to leap forward considerable distances while leaving as little impact as possible. There was no gesturing, no noise, and a serenely small signature of Reiryoku to fly under most spiritual senses. It required finesse, control, and granted unparalleled efficiency. A technique only a scout, or an assassin, would ever understand.
This great climb across the landscape saved Roshan a great deal of time, so much so, in fact, that he had arrived at the tomb mere moments after Quilge and Dresden made their entrance. Only very nearly out of eyeshot was he able to follow behind them, sneaking as was his wont. As the two men followed the twisting paths of the descending stairwell, Roshan followed from above. A deft leap into the air, followed by the quiet clutch of his hands and legs. Precariously, he climbed along the countless spires of stalactite formations that lined the tomb's ceiling.
Roshan was the perfect picture of silence as he kept up with them. Making little to no noise, only that which could be easily mistaken for chips of decaying stone or passing motes of dust, ever fell from his measured acrobatics along the top of the tomb. However, his perch would not remain impeccable forever. Indeed, the Heizen that was launched upon the two men, found him as well, careening freely into the ceiling as it did.
"Oh shi—", he silently exclaimed, and cut himself off, with effort. Narrowly, he escaped the pillar of disintegrating essence, clinging desperately onto various stalactites with his entire being. Clutching for dear life, he hung there in a pose that could only really be described as the shape of the letter 'C'. He sighed, with relief. Safe. He was safe.
Until the beads of sweat fell, that is.
Key[]
Dresden had opened his mouth to ask Quilge what he had meant by a 'key,' and in the process of doing so a small chunk of gravel pelted into the back of his throat. He doubled over under the strain of coughing, having only just cleared the dust from his lungs. Fortunately, the fact that the gravel had hit his mouth first prevented a much worse fate, as he realized something wet and warm had dropped onto his forehead. He knew that viscosity—it wasn't the mineral water from the stalactites. It was most likely...
Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling of the cave. His eyes nearly bugged out of his skull when he saw the white-robed figure clinging precariously to one of the stalactites. It was as if they were attempting to mimic a feature of the cave's natural rock formations, but in the end the effect was more like a sagging chandelier hanging by its last thread.
"Spiders," Quilge said knowingly as he adjusted his spectacles. "There never seems to be an end to them." He raised his hand, extending his fingers to puppet the ambient spirit energy in the cave. White lines of energy crawled towards Quilge from four directions, pulled into the center of his mass. It was the remnants of the Heizen spell, which Dresden had assumed had already been completely consumed by the detonation. Here, Quilge demonstrated his complete mastery over the reishi that had previously formed the Gintō, scrapping together what remained of its concentrated spirit energy to focus the four white lines in a square at the base of the stalactite. He snapped his fingers, and the Gintō activated. This time, the spell didn't backfire. Bright light flashed inside the translucent box formed by the bounds of the Heizen and completely obliterated the stone trapped inside. As a result, the stalactite dropped towards the floor of the cave.
The spiral-shaped cluster of rock fell from its perch with a graceless whistle, followed closely behind by the fluttering of clothes and an emphatic whine of a man in sudden free fall.
"Woaaaah!", Roshan yelped, and in a moment later, the stalactite met the ground with a crash. The stone shattered against the more solid surface, scattering into a million pieces not even an entire inch away from where Dresden had been standing. The impact also kicked up a solid cloud of dust, layers and layers of grains of all manner of particulate, having been dislodged from their centuries old placement.
The blonde-haired Quincy groaned with pain. Pressing the knuckles of his fist against his side, grumbling like an old man dealing with deep-seated cramp. One would expect him to be hurt from the fall, but it quickly became apparent that it was a feint. He had to have done something, for despite his antics, Roshan was nowhere near the crash site. He was several meters back, playing his game. All except the hand on his hip betrayed the motions of a last second dodge, hidden under the split second of cover garnered by dust and debris.
"Come on, brother, that was rude", Roshan piped up suddenly, attempting to draw Quilge's attention. Though he spoke of offense, his tone held no malice. "You're supposed to break bread with guests, not rocks!".
Quilge turned his full attention to the strange intruder, his round spectacles mirrors that reflected the dim light of the torch. And yet, despite the fact that he was staring directly at him, Quilge seemed mildly disinterested: as if his preoccupation was elsewhere.
In the meantime, Dresden tried to adjust his position without arousing suspicion. He shifted to the other wall of the stairwell so that he had a clear shot of the stranger beyond Quilge's shoulder. He dropped his left hand, his fingers finding the smooth texture of the iron cross he kept tucked into the cuff of his sleeve. The fact that he hadn't noticed his presence until Quilge had pointed him out had rattled him. Then again, he was still splitting his attention between the situation at-hand and the small reiatsu presence that had only grown continuously clearer after he and Quilge had entered the cave. Which meant, of course, that that reiatsu presence was growing closer. In fact, was now moving somewhere directly above the layers of rock that formed the roof of the cave. The determined Gemischt Quincy had already converged on their location, despite Dresden silently willing them to turn back. He kept his gaze locked on Quilge, although he was certain that he wouldn't be able to gauge whether he had noticed anyway.
"Normally, guests announce their arrival to the host," Quilge pointed out humorlessly. "But I'll overlook it. Now," he paused and clapped his hands together. "Shall we skip the formalities? The key, if you will."
Though his eyes were unobscured, they were just as much the imperceptible lenses that rested on Quilge's face, reflecting little of Roshan's intent or will, or even which he could truly perceive for that matter. He was keenly aware of Dresden's presence, and that of the next interloper who was approaching. It nipped at his thoughts a little; a sense of aggravation. The easiest way to achieve his objective was to simply eliminate the threat to those Sōken would see him protect, but this wouldn't be the first time where those very same wards would arrive to get in the way. Part of him wondered if Quincy were moths, drawn to danger.
He flicked his wrist with flair as if to dismiss Quilge's request, twirling his spread out fingers to call attention to his empty palm.
"Sorry, sorry, but the formalities are important, brother!", he retorted casually. "Can't just go inviting you home without dinner and a dance, can we?", as Roshan spoke, the hand not playing pantomime slowly slinked its way into the pocket at his side, almost like an invitation.
Quilge scoffed. "Churlishness." He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "Nevertheless, you have a point." Without warning, he tossed the electric torch to Dresden, who nearly bobbled it, so he could clap his hands together. "Quilge Opie, Hauptmann. Pleased to meet your acquaintance, of course." His tone dripped with insincerity.
Dresden, who lacked Quilge's flair for the dramatic, didn't see a need to introduce himself to their enemy. It was a shame that this time it happened to be one of their own. Normally, these types of encounters ended quickly once Quilge had initiated a skirmish, so Dresden didn't think he'd have much to contribute aside from holding the torch. But this time he felt Quilge's disapproval trained in his direction. Before he could weigh his options, Quilge told him: "It's rude not to introduce yourself, corporal."
"Apologies, sir. I'm Dresden Fels, Unteroffizier."
"As you can see, my corporal here is unaware of your legendary status." Quilge's thin lips curled into a smirk. "Perhaps you could tell him a bit about yourself, Herr Bamshad."
His hand withdrew from its pocket, joining the rest of Roshan's body as he visibly winced from the uttering of his own name. Observable for all to see was an open palm, concealing nothing, strangely.
Roshan grimaced. "Ooooh, so you've heard of me?", for all intents and purposes, the Persian archer should have been something of a forgotten footnote, at best a disgrace only whispered around drunks and veterans. But, even so, he did lay claim to lauded positions, the former head of the Aufklärung — one of many armies Yhwach formed in his time — or a member of the vaunted Sternritter which did once sink its fangs into the heavens of the Seireitei.
He let out a long drawn out breath before his usual smirk of confidence returned to his features. He passed a single, quick glance Dresden's way and from it, sensed friction between himself and his superior officer. Well, that wasn't particularly true, their tone and dialogue gave that away. But he could pretend that was just how sage he happened to be.
"Well!", he started with dramatic impetus, his empty hand gripping into a pointing gesture, aimed directly above him. "As your generous head-man pointed out, we were on the same side once", his eyes were on Quilge again, though he certainly wasn't attempting to appeal to the man's sense of brotherhood or comradery.
"Ah, but back then, I was Sternritter "R"", for once Roshan's expressed himself with sincerity, perhaps out of some reverence for the position, or the part it played in his life. He might've stood opposite Quilge and Dresden, but he was a Quincy even so. His eyes maintained on his bespectacled opposite, he continued. "Ah, what was it again? The Runner? The Raid...? No, no..."
His titles were feigned, obviously, as if trying to bait the upright Quincy into identifying his Schrift for him.
"Perhaps it was the Recreant," Quilge supplied, "as legends also say that you betrayed the cause of your brethren—alongside a few infamous others."
It was barely perceptible, but there was disappointment in his voice—as if at the mention of those noticeable "others" he had been thinking of someone else, perhaps even one he had hoped to encounter instead. That could have also explained his apparent disinterest in Roshan, despite the data he had acquired about the former Sternritter. "And on that note," Quilge continued, "if I'm not mistaken you have something that belongs to the empire."
"I'm keeping the uniform", Roshan fired back casually with nary even a moment's hesitation, as if it was the most natural response he could've ever come up with. The kind of response that could only formulate so quickly if it had been practiced, or become habitual. To emphasize it he had even flicked out his fingers at Quilge, like a pair of guns, a visage all the more apparent with his raised thumbs like a pistol's hammer at rest.
"But, I like your choice of words — recreant, huh?", his tone grew mischievous, the apparent accusations levied his way seeming to carry no weight of their own. Though, perhaps, given his brazen performance, it wasn't too surprising that he wouldn't find himself to be the disloyal dog that Quilge believed in. "Its a little off the mark, but it'll do!"
Quilge had been closer to the truth in his mockery than perhaps he should've been. What Roshan possessed was a power confusingly referred to as the "The Re—", and through it he had been blessed with the ability to manipulate the events around himself in any way he so chose, so long as he could attach them to a word that flowed from his title, and he uttered them aloud. Yes, recreant would work handsomely here. The word as it was intended referred to cowardice, treachery, disloyalty; all things Quilge would perhaps label Roshan. But more esoterically it referred to a deep lack of faith, and unfaithful events were Roshan's wheelhouse.
He had everything he needed to manipulate all in hand. In the brief moments before his hand had lingered around in the air, it rested in his pocket, and for the briefest, faintest of instances, the tip of his finger managed to graze upon the key that sat inside. That contact was the catalyst, marked by a faint wave of Reiatsu fluttering along the floor of the sand-covered chamber. Ordinarily such fleeting touch would at best leave a sensation on a man's finger, and that would be the end of it. Instead, the "The Re—" would be used to alter this insignificant moment so that the key disintegrated, shattering into a million particles in Roshan's pocket. Each of those specks of particulate were not left to rest there, of course. That would be no fun.
A million keys, all apparent copies of the original, burst onto the scene around Roshan, clattering down onto the ground in a clattering hail of metallic chips and clinks and clangs as they hit the stone floor, surrounding piles of sand, and each other. "Might you be lookin' for, one of these?"
Dresden gaped at the countless rings that now carpeted the floor of the cave. He picked one up and turned it in his fingers to inspect it. A small, circular red gem was set by ornate prongs that resembled lion's claws onto a simple silver band. Cast compass needles jutted out on four sides from the prongs, extending along the shoulders of the band and wrapping under the bridge. A lion's mane filled the space between the compass needles. Somehow, the design was familiar. So, this was the key. Or at least one of them. Dresden felt a creeping sense of despair as he realized how it would be impossible to weed through every single copy that now littered the sand. Had Roshan used a Gintō technique to duplicate them?
Quilge, on the other hand, seemed not only unperturbed but also extremely pleased by the turn of events. His smile was a jagged line, underscored by the dark tint of his upper lip. "You humor me, Herr Bamshad. Did you really approach me without considering the facts of the situation?" Quilge held up a finger. "First, you might have asked how it was that I knew who you were. Surely your name is but a scrap of irrelevant daten lost to time. Indeed, only those who are in someway connected to your partner would have known of it. Yet I identified you immediately." He held up another finger, counting the points. "Second, how was it that I could perceive a ring hidden in your pocket to be the key to unraveling a hidden and ancient seal? I could forgive you for assuming that my assessment of the situation was so perspicacious, but alas, even I lack such talent." He continued. "Thus, the only way that I could have known of its existence was if I had certain sources of information within my grasp. The Ahnenerbe is at least utile in this regard―although admittedly it was by my own personal recommendation to employ these "sources" throughout Istanbul. There, they are embedded in the walls of various smoke houses along the Rue de Péra where they may witness any number of transactions, even those of a cultic nature." He paused, tilting his head to the side. "That said, I'll admit it was a surprise to learn that members of your generation possessed powers such as the one you've employed just now. Fortunately, it now affords me the chance to demonstrate the centuries of development within the empire that have occurred in your absence."
The star-shaped pendant that hung from the belt of his uniform, a Quincy Zeichen, glowed blue with the stirring of spirit energy. From it, Quilge drew a single-edged sabre from its scabbard. He took a step forward, crushing dozens of rings under the heel of his boot. Quilge leveled the tip of the blade in Roshan's direction. "And that brings us to my third and final point. Did you ignore that I might have had a contingency for such a situation as this? You've been naive―Roshan Bamshad!"
Two limbs of translucent blue spirit energy extended from the hilt of Quilge's sabre, forming a bow. But instead of firing at Roshan, Quilge raised the sabre so that the tip pointed towards the ceiling of the cave. In the next instant, he unleashed a pillar of concentrated reishi―a sustained Heilig Pfeil. The torrent of energy slammed through layers of rock, disintegrating thousands of years of natural formations to touch the sky above. Desert sun splashed into the cave, forming a halo of white light where Quincy stood. Around him, bits of rock remained in a suspended state where he had stilled their movement in midair. "This is his majesty's power, granted to me in the form of the Schrift J―The Jail."
March to Madness[]
Dresden was stunned. He had only seen Quilge use his Schrift once, and that had been when the latter was proving to him the existence of the "Walled Empire" and its "Sealed King." He wondered if Quilge had only used it now on account of their adversary―an Echt Quincy who was, according to what Quilge had just revealed, an accomplice of none other than Sōken Ishida. As green as he was, even Dresden had heard about how Sōken Ishida had deserted the Wandenreich and taken the secrets of the Quincy craft with him to the human world. Although that could have been on account of Quilge's strange fascination with the man.
But more shocking was Quilge's target. He hadn't utilized his Schrift against Roshan. Rather, the hole he had carved in the ceiling had been intentional―and also a confirmation of Dresden's fears.
"Unfortunately, my Schrift isn't effective against fellow Quincy, especially those of your caliber," Quilge told Roshan. "But if I layer Gritz within it, it's enough to restrain those with little potential. Especially Gemischt." Quilge didn't even look at the prey he had ensnared. Dresden, on the other hand, couldn't tear his eyes away from them.
Inside the spokes of the floating cage, the shepherd boy who had spied on him and Quilge earlier glared brazenly at his captor. Even worse, he wasn't alone: a young girl, elderly woman, and man had accompanied him―from the resemblance he surmised that they were the sister, grandmother, and father. From the head-wraps and shawls they wore, Dresden would have thought they were Armenians. Perhaps they were―not the survivors of the Turkish purge who had found succor in the southern desert, but rather members of a tribe who had persisted in that region for millennia. But they were also Quincy. Although in tatters, their clothing was elaborately patterned and featured woven crosses, especially prominent on the grandmother's square-shaped dress. The colors used for their fabrics was light blue and white: The same white of Quilge's summer officer uniform and Roshan's red-hemmed cloak.
Dresden felt sick to his stomach just before his training kicked in. He told himself that they weren't from the same Volk and would eventually disappear anyway due to the weakness of their bloodline and culture. But if his superior asked him to do the unthinkable now... At last he looked away, unable to maintain eye-contact with their fearless, yet knowing, expressions. Wordlessly, as if accepting Dresden's reaction as an answer, the young boy reached for the rosette and cross pendant that hung from a chain around his neck. He materialized a Quincy's Bogen, which seemed small and fragile compared to Quilge's own spirit weapon, and fired an arrow into the walls of the jail cell. When he saw that it had no effect, he shouted something in a language Dresden couldn't recognize. His father pulled him back, placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him from antagonizing Quilge further.
"Such little potential," Quilge reiterated in response. "And such little future. It's both admirable and laughable that they saw themselves as the guards of this place, when they serve no purpose to the empire whatsoever. Even among these four, only the boy has any spiritual ability. Their bloodline dwindles even as they cling to the past, tarnishing the cloth from which we were cut." Dresden heard himself echoed in Quilge's words and the hair raised on the back of his neck. Meanwhile, Quilge hadn't taken his eyes off of Roshan, and now he made his demand: "But perhaps they'll survive a little longer if there's no longer any sealed tomb for them to throw their lives away to protect. Wouldn't you agree?"
For his part, the Persian cast his gaze away from Quilge to regard the prisoners being bargained for his cooperation. The look in his eyes was hard to describe, somewhere between a mix of dismissal and disdain, but with hints of acceptance. As if the light reflected in his pupils were telling those trapped that he understood why they did what they did. He closed his eyes, and let out a heavy breath, his sigh punctuated by the shuffle of his feet that jostled a number of the scattered keys piled up around him.
Honestly, part of him was tempted to kill the Gemischt himself. If he was alone, if this was his job, he very well might have. He didn't put much stock in the purity of Quincy blood; nor did he truly care for the pride either group seemed to have for their place, though he was Echt himself. The only thing that mattered to Roshan in this instance was his word, and perhaps some part of him believed in Sōken.
"Alright, I'll play along", he responded, finally, sounding defeated. Whether or not it was because Quilge refused to play his game, one could only guess. With a snap of his finger, the spiritual power that emanated from him previously, did so again. One by one, hundred by hundred, the keys — in their shape as a ring — began to disperse. Popping like bubbles as they swiftly and suddenly removed themselves from view of everyone in the room, only for the genuine article, the reconstituted key, to appear safely in the palm of Roshan's hand.
In doing so he was giving Quilge what he wanted, but there was a trick to it. No matter where it went, the key to this temple was now undoubtedly bathed in Roshan's spiritual energy, and as a result, would be able to be affected by him no matter who's hands it entered next. It was something anyone of analytical acumen would eventually figure out, and Roshan had no doubt that his Imperial counterpart would do just that, given time.
So, to shift that thought from his mind, Roshan quickly went into action. His grasp around the ring became all but gentle, as it caressed the edges of his fingers, rolled into the perfect position to cast it away. A pinging gesture from a normal human could, at best, fly at a speed comparable to a gentle breeze. From a Quincy backed by Blut Arterie on the other hand...
The room echoed with a boom as the ring was fired out from Roshan's grasp, like he had just unmuzzled a rifle. Its target: Dresden.
Despite being preoccupied with the Gemischt Quincy above him, the hapless Dresden sensed the subtle shift in Roshan's posture. The problem was, even though he could perceive the ring-shaped bullet piercing towards him, he was almost powerless to react. Almost. In a split-second, Dresden raised his defenses with Blut Vene. He wasn't sure if it would be enough to stop the projectile entirely, but hopefully it would be enough to cushion the impact. Best case scenario he'd walk away with the nastiest of bruises on his chest.
But then, the ring froze in midair.
Quilge clicked his tongue. "You should be more careful, Herr Bamshad. You wouldn't want to drop this, would you?" He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, then uttered a single word: "Sklaverie."
As the ring had passed through Quilge's sphere of influence, he had reached out to capture the airborne projectile and stop it in its tracks, demonstrating his complete control over the reishi surrounding him. Quilge extended his hand, and the ring drifted onto his finger. "This should keep you from going after my subordinate. You see, it's my job to keep him in line." Quilge curled his fingers into a fist and admired the ring. Even though he was well aware of the tension of their current situation, the out of place gesture struck Dresden. He tried to cup a hand over his mouth to mask his chortle, but the sound escaped. Quilge froze, turned his head slightly in Dresden's direction.
"Is something the matter, corporal?"
"Congratulations, sir."
Dresden's only warning was Quilge's slightly narrowed eye before he whipped his sword in his direction. A torrent of Heilig Pfeil slammed him against the far side of the cave, and for a moment Dresden's form was lost within the cloud of pulverized rock.
"Setting aside the churlishness, shall we resume?" Quilge seemed to lament the fact that he had been interrupted. He swung the blade in a wide arc in the other direction towards his actual opponent. A razor-thin line of concentrated reishi snapped down from the tip of the saber, threatening to bisect Roshan from the head down.
Sklaverei. Dresden's dismissal. An impending attack. It was all information that Roshan had to take in and account for in less time than he had to react, which itself was very little. He worked through them in reverse order.
It started with an unusual clang as the Reishi-based strike found purchase, cleaving through sand and solid ground. Roshan hadn't left his perch, though that wasn't to say he hadn't reacted. His hand, fingers dancing along silver metal, twirled a newly, suddenly, manifested bow — his Spirit Weapon — in an instant, using its own Reishi as a shield to gently cast off the imminent slash. Once it was in the correct position, Roshan stopped twirling with a tightening grasp, and, as his body assumed the posture, he cast it lightly forward into his left hand. His right, the original wielder, now tickled the pluck of a glowing stream of light, a string of Reishi.
The look on his face, as he took Quilge into his sights could only truly be described as confident bewilderment. As far as he could tell, his plan had worked. Indeed, Quilge took the bait, plucking the key from his grasp without noticing that Roshan's influence wasn't going anywhere soon. The blonde-haired archer didn't expect, however, that he would fail to knock Dresden out of the fight, only for his opponent to do it anyway. More over, there was this Sklaverei that he had to contend with.
It was a technique that Roshan was as yet unfamiliar, but he could see, better yet, feel its mechanism. When his straight-laced opponent used it to steal the ring from its path in flight, the persian could sense the alterations made to accommodate such a feat. The Reishi in the air, surrounding the ring, even the fragments clinging to himself. They were manipulated in a way that felt like they had been subjugated, a sensation he understood all too well. As if he had been using the power of Letzt Stil in a self-contained form.
An arrow formed on Roshan's bow, a gleaming pillar of light, more akin to a sword than a projectile. All around him similarly shaped objects began to appear in the air, twinkling into existence like the glint of a star. As he culled the Reishi around him to form these arrows, he stretched his senses simultaneously, tightening his grasp over that spiritual essence ever more. The only way to fight against such a power was to offer up equal opposition after all.
"Well, bruder Quilge!", Roshan called with some degree of unexpected excitement, given his lax approach thus far. "Let's begin this dance in earnest!"
His words were signal to an onslaught of hundreds of arrows. First from his bow, then from any of their myriad positions in the air. It started slow. One arrow. Three. Ten. Thirty. Loosed only when Roshan was sure his spiritual grip lacked any faults. Loosed only when he was certain they were strong enough. So, they were, as they fell upon Quilge like the winding burst of a machinegun.
In the meantime, Dresden peeled himself off of the wall he had cratered into, one limb at a time. He was once again grateful that Quilge had drilled the skill of Blut Vene into him, because otherwise the back of his skull would have been smashed into the rock. That said, he was still rattled, and he saw stars in his field of vision. It took him a moment to realize that the stars weren’t just an after-effect of the impact. Rather, it was the bursts of light created by Roshan's volley of Reishi-formed swords. They peppered into the barrier Quilge had created by drawing in Sklaverie close to his body so that he could control the Reishi of the air surrounding him, thereby forming an impervious membrane that neutralized the onslaught before it could touch him. Apparently, the technique was meant to mimic a legendary application of Blut that only the king of the Quincy had been able to use a thousand years before—or so Dresden had read in one of the dusty tomes Quilge had assigned him to read. Nonetheless, the fact that Quilge was now focused on enslaving the Reishi within his immediate reach meant that he was less likely to have his attention on the Jail construct, which still held the Gemischt above the ruined temple.
The cage could not be undone from within. And, if Dresden tried to destroy it from the outside, Quilge would surely respond much more severely than he had to Dresden’s earlier quip about the ring. Considering this, perhaps the ring itself was the key—If he destroyed it, there would be no reason to hold the Gemischt hostage. But he quickly discarded that idea, as he was sure his superior would simply kill the hostages in a vindictive rage were that to occur. He had to find a way to dismantle the jail cell without his superior's notice. Quilge only needed to draw out a fraction of his power to maintain his technique, but for Dresden it would probably require every ounce of strength he had to break through by utilizing a power he had not yet perfected.
But, maybe that was the solution.
As part of his training, Dresden had been given a Leiden Hant by Quilge. He wore it as an emblem on his officer's arm band, the five pointed star taking the place of the typical swastika. Raising his hand, he began to pick at the spirit energy that formed Quilge's cage, drawing it bit by bit into the armband. The unfortunate result was that by pulling in so much energy, that technique would eventually activate against his will. He'd just have to cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now, his only hope was that the trapped Gemischt noticed the hole he was boring into the side of the jail cell before Quilge did.
Meanwhile, Quilge called out to Roshan: "Hoh? Using a primitive form of Sklaverie to push the spirit energy around you into a Regen of Seele Schneider. Fascinating!" White light shone off his sun-blocking spectacles, which were the latest Swiss model. Without them, he would have been completely blinded by the attack.
As the barrage ended, Quilge slashed through his own Sklaverie barrier and stepped through the shimmering curtain of dispersed light. As he did so, pieces of the barrier clung to his shoulders and arms, forming a glittering translucent cape of captured points of light. He wrapped the cape around his arm and twisted it into the hilt of his rapier, which he pointed in Roshan's direction.
"However, as I say, in some cases less is more." Quilge seemed not to register the irony of making such a statement while wrapped in such flamboyant attire. Almost imperceptibly, the direction of Reishi flowing through his veins changed as he switched from a mode of defense. He widened his stance. Then, he released the curtain of light from the tip of his sword in a concentrated laser beam that he aimed to cut through Roshan's center—returning fire with Roshan's own fire while doubling its potency by constraining it to such a narrow point.