CHAPTER ELEVEN- SHADOWS UNVEILED: PART 1
Sunday 24th August, 1710- COLONY OF WILLOW IN FRENCH AMERICA
(1:34 AM)
The tension in the air was thick as Nathan and Baptiste faced each other, their eyes locked in a deadly stare-down. The crowd of onlookers held their collective breath, knowing that the clash of steel about to ensue would decide the fate of New Salem.
Baptiste, a master of French swordsmanship, was known for his aggressive and relentless style. He brandished his rapier with confidence, his every move exuding controlled aggression. Nathan, on the other hand, took a cautious and defensive stance, his rapier held in a classic French guard.
With a sudden, lightning-fast motion, Baptiste lunged forward, his rapier flashing in the dappled sunlight. He unleashed a flurry of rapid thrusts; each strike intended to wound or incapacitate. Nathan, despite his skill, was forced into a purely defensive posture, parrying Baptisteâs strikes with grace and precision.
The crowd watched in awe as Baptisteâs rapier darted in and out, leaving no room for Nathan to counterattack. He relentlessly drove Nathan backward, his attacks coming like a relentless storm. Nathanâs heart pounded, and sweat poured down his brow as he strained to keep up with Baptisteâs assault.
Baptisteâs style was aggressive and unyielding, his footwork quick and agile, leaving no openings for Nathan to exploit. The crowdâs gasps and murmurs grew louder as they watched their leader being pushed to his limits.
Nathan knew that he couldnât match Baptisteâs aggressive onslaught with raw power. Instead, he focused on his training in classical French fencing, employing precise parries and evasions. He used his footwork to maintain distance and minimize the impact of Baptiste's strikes, all while keeping his composure.
Despite the odds, Nathanâs defensive techniques began to frustrate Baptiste. The crowd noticed the shift in momentum as Nathanâs calm and defensive approach appeared to wear down his opponent. Baptisteâs relentless energy began to wane, and his attacks lost some of their earlier ferocity.
With a swift parry and a subtle riposte, Nathan managed to disarm Baptiste while giving him a new scar across his right cheek and eye. Sending his rapier clattering to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers as Nathan stood victorious, his honor defended through a calculated and defensive approach.
âYou fucking bitch!!!â, Baptiste exclaimed, âWait until I report you to our King for such insubordinationâ. Nathan knew these were just empty threats, Louis the 14th was a distant relative of his, the colony was bestowed by him for Nathan to manage. It was his colony, his rules, he wasnât going to let a bull of a man called Baptiste push him around. Truth be told Nathan was more worried about what the colonists now thought of him, a European protecting a bunch of savages caught red handed. A part of Nathan just felt like leaving this to Baptiste and the guards to handle, but he didnât want to disappoint Kai and Morris the pair of which he had grown quite close to these past years.
âThatâs enough everybody. Go home. Weâll settle thisâ, Nathan said whilst waving his arms as a shooing gesture to the crowd, âWill make sure these Indians will be sorted withâ. The armed guards following Nathanâs demeanor stopped aiming their rifles at Morris but still had their rifles in hand in case of any ill suspicion.
âAre you okay, Morris?â, Nathan asked as he extended a hand to help up Morris from the ground. âAs you can see Mr. Noir not reallyâ, Morris replied with a hint of sarcasm whilst taking up Nathanâs hand. âWhat in the hell were you thinking Morris?â, Nathan asked, âKai! What about you? What were you thinking?â. Nathan's voice was stern, though concern laced his words. Kai, still standing a few paces away, looked up, his face bruised and smeared with dirt. His eyes, however, were sharp and defiant. He had been silent during the clash, and now his gaze met Nathanâs with an intensity that made even him hesitate for a moment.
âI was thinkingâ, Kai finally said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air, âThat someone had to stand up. You canât just look the other way forever, Nathan. These men...â, he glanced at Baptiste, who was still nursing the fresh scar on his face, âthey treat us like animalsâ.
Nathan sighed, rubbing his temples as he absorbed his words. âIâm not looking the other way, Kai. But itâs not that simpleâ. âIt is,â he said, stepping forward, his eyes blazing with conviction. âYou either protect us, or you donâtâ.
Morris, now standing beside Nathan, dusted off his clothes. âThe boy is right. Every time they come through Willow, weâre one step closer to being wiped out. The guards, Baptiste, all of them... they donât care about usâ. The crowd had mostly dispersed, but a few lingered at the edges of the square, murmuring among themselves, unsure of what to make of this latest confrontation.
Nathan could feel their eyes on him, judging his every move, his every word. He was caught between two worldsâ his European blood, the colony granted to him by the French crown, and the loyalty he felt to the people he had come to know, the indigenous tribes and settlers alike who saw him as a leader.
âYouâre going to get yourselves killedâ, Nathan said quietly, his voice low enough that only Morris and Kai could hear, âYou canât keep defying them like this. Thereâs a way to do thingsâ diplomacy, negotiations. Youâre not thinking about the bigger pictureâ. Kai narrowed his eyes. âThe bigger picture? The bigger picture is our survival, Nathan. Every day we lose more land, more people. How long do you think we can keep negotiating when they donât see us as Human?â.
Nathan was about to respond when Baptiste, still fuming, staggered to his feet. His hand pressed against the wound on his face, blood trickling between his fingers. âThis isnât over, Nathan â (Ce nâest pas fini, Nathan),â Baptiste spat in French, his voice dripping with malice, âWait until the King hears youâve sided with these savages? Iâll see to it that youâre stripped of your title. Iâll see to it that youâre dead â (Attendre que le Roi apprenne que vous vous êtes rangé du côté de ces sauvages? Je veillerai à ce que vous soyez dépouillé de votre titre. Je veillerai à ce que tu sois mort)â.
Nathan responded back in French, turning sharply to face Baptiste with cold eyes, âYouâll do nothing of the sort, Baptiste. Go back to home. Tell whoever you wish, but this colony is mine to govern. And if you ever set foot here again, I wonât hesitate to treat you as an enemy of the crown â (Tu ne feras rien de tel, Baptiste. Retournez à la maison. Dites-le à qui vous voulez, mais cette colonie est à moi de gouverner. Et si jamais vous remettez les pieds ici, je nâhésiterai pas à vous traiter comme un ennemi de la couronne)â.
Baptisteâs face twisted into a sneer, but there was something else in his eyesâ fear. Nathanâs reputation as a swordsman, especially now after disarming Baptiste so publicly, would hold weight. The French officer knew better than to challenge Nathan again, at least not without reinforcements.
âMark my words, Noir â (Marquez mes mots, Noir)â, Baptiste growled in French, backing away, âThis is far from over â (Câest loin dâêtre fini)â.
With that, Baptiste stalked off, clutching his wounded face as he disappeared into the darkness. The guards, unsure of what to do, hesitated before following him, their rifles lowered but their eyes wary.
Nathan watched them go, his jaw clenched in frustration. When the last of the soldiers had disappeared, he turned back to Morris and Kai, his expression softer but no less serious. âWe need a planâ, he said quietly. âI canât protect you forever if things keep escalating like thisâ.
âWe donât need protectionâ, Kai said firmly, âWe need allies. We need you to stop playing both sides and choose.â
Nathan met his gaze again, his mind racing. He had always tried to maintain peace, to balance the needs of the colony with the demands of the crown. But now, standing by moonlit stables, with Baptisteâs threat still ringing in his ears, he realized that the days of balancing were coming to an end. There would be no more middle ground.
Nathan sighed. âAlrightâ, he said at last, his voice firm, âI will help but I need something in return. I want you to take me to Chief Meztilaou. I need to discuss something important with him in-regards to some strange activitiesâ.
Kaiâs expression softened, and Morris nodded. âYes. Mr. Noir just let me know when you want to leaveâ, answered Morris. âGood. Iâll be back here in the next five hours there is a friend that will be accompanying me for the journeyâ, Nathan replied as he handed over 15 Louis Dâor coins to Morris, âTake this and buy whatever you need for the journey in town. Keep whatever change remains. I will be backâ.
Friday 11th May, 2018- SAN DOMINGO, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(11:37 PM)
The Artistâs stood at the base of Augustus Tower the night of the full moon arrived quicker than expected, and The Artist found themselves in San Domingo, a sprawling metropolis nestled within the State of Willow, a mere 8-hour drive from New Salem. Now, standing before the towering structure, they felt the weight of what was to come. Augustus Tower wasnât just any building; it was a monument to power, casting long shadows over the city beneath it. Its beige bricks having stood as one of the cityâs prominent skyscrapers for over 89 years, with the American flag in all its star-spangled glory flying high above on the towerâs green-tipped roof.
With a final nod to themselves, The Artist crossed the threshold into Augustus Tower. The entrance lobby was grandiose, filled with cold marble, sleek metal and eerily sterile lighting. The entire place was emptyâ too empty. Not a single person manned the front desk, no guards patrolled the area, and the silence pressed down heavily. The Artistâs boots clicked against the floor as they walked toward the elevator at the center of the lobby. Every step was a revibrating echo, every step was a signal to something lurking in the dark. As The Artist stepped into the elevator their phoneâs notification bell began ring. Checking it The Artist found a message written in the same cold robotic font that sent them here in the first place:
NOW COME TO THE 31st FLOOR.
The Artist followed this new command with no hesitation pressing the number 31 on the elevatorâs panel, the 31st floor being Augustus Towerâs highest point. The ride up was smooth but tense, each second feeling like an eternity as the elevator ascended to the 31st floor. Which felt strange to The Artist as they had been taller and better towers than Augustus Tower in New York such as World Trade Center, Helmsley Building, Empire State Building, etc. The Artist adjusted their jacket, the weight of concealed weapons offering a sense of security. A silver-plated dagger, a few Holy Water vials, and a .44 Magnum Revolver loaded with Occulirium bulletsâ just enough for any contingency. âTheyâll use you until thereâs nothing leftâ, Nathanâs warnings echoed in The Artistâs head, âDonât let them see fearâ.
As the elevator doors hissed open The Artist was accosted by two guards dressed in Frumentarii Inc. uniform, they were wearing two steel masks that had the appearance of a personâs face on them. The faces on the masks looked distorted on purpose as if it was supposed to humiliate the person it represented. The two Frumentarii began to search The Artist for any weapons but found nothing due to The Artistâs skillful placement of contraband within their jacket.
After the search the two Frumentarii then gestured The Artist to continue moving forward. The entire top floor of Augustus Tower had been converted into a luxurious sanctum. Black marble, crimson accents and dim lighting gave the room an air of both wealth and danger, as The Artist saw multiple Frumentarius working on multiple weapons. And at the far end of the room, sitting in a leather chair with his back to the view of the moonlit city, was Lucius D. Decanus.
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The Shadow Vampire looked exactly as the rumors describedâ dark hair slicked back with olive tanned skin. His eyes, however, were what unsettled The Artist the mostâ his sclera were as black as the night, reflecting nothing but the void. While is irises were a deep red blood, reflecting nothing but hate and bloodlust.
As he stood up from his chair, The Artist got a good look of his height, he was tall but not as tall as The Artist, his height almost identical to Nate Black. His Frumentarii uniform was almost the same as everyone else but modified. The familiar color scheme of black and red was there, but his jacket, pants and boots had a more regal and elegant design to it.
Unlike the rest of Frumentarii that wore these strange steel masks, Lucius wore a plain red bandana that covered the entire lower half of his face. Probably to hide the deformity of the scar running from the corner of his mouth to his chin, courtesy of Nate Black.
The Artist stopped a few paces short of Lucius D. Decanus, the oppressive atmosphere thickening as their eyes locked. There was no fearâ at least none they would let surface. Lucius stood there, emanating an unnatural stillness, as if the roomâs dim lighting flickered to his rhythm alone. He gestured dismissively to his guards, who retreated to the roomâs dark corners like specters disappearing into the shadows.
âOn time. You impress meâ, Luciusâs voice was a gravelly hiss, barely loud enough to reach The Artistâs ears but carrying a weight that could crush stone. The Artist resisted the urge to glance at the large moon outside the window. âOkayâ, The Artist replied with a casual shrug, their tone purposefully detached.
Lucius took slow, deliberate steps toward The Artist, his boots making no sound on the black marble floor. âYouâve fascinated me since the day you arrived back home. I wonder how Virginia is compared Willow, these days Iâm not much of a travelling man with all the orders I have been receivingâ.
âI wish it was something I could relate tooâ, The Artist replied evenly as they were adjusting their jacket ever so slightly, feeling the cool metal of the hidden revolver beneath, âAnyway Iâm here now, is there something you wanted to tell meâ.
Lucius paused, his head tilting slightly as if considering something. The flicker of amusement danced briefly in his blood-red irises, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by something colder. âOf courseâ, his voice echoed beneath the red bandana, âIâm sure your curious about The Cult that took your parentsâ.
âJames and Samantha?â, The Artist asked, stepping forward, now standing a mere few feet from the imposing vampire.
âYes. Although Iâm not very sure if they do have them, but you can always go check for yourselfâ, replied Lucius. For a moment, the tension in the room thickened. The Frumentarii on the fringes of the sanctum tensed, their hands subtly drifting toward weapons holstered at their sides. Lucius, however, remained eerily still. Then, with a gesture as swift as it was subtle, he waved them off.
âI just been wondering why never stopped by the Garden District, it is just a few kilometers from where you live, I always pass by there around this time of the nightâ, Luciusâs voice dripped with disdain, âBy the way is that what youâve been using to kill Hollows. I must say that is some really low stopping power for revolver. I personally favor using .454 Casull or .45-70 Govt rounds for such creaturesâ.
The Artistâs eyes narrowed realizing that Lucius had likely spotted their concealed weapons, their body remaining still but mentally preparing for any sudden movement from Lucius. âNo, Iâve never killed a Hollow before. But I know enough that their very dangerous to you and meâ, The Artist replied, âAnd to your Frumentariiâ.
Lucius chuckledâ a cold, hollow sound, âDangerous, you say. To me?â. His hand reached out, and for a moment The Artist felt a pull, like gravity itself had shifted in the room. Luciusâs eyes darkened, the void in them deepening. âYouâre nothing but a tool. Just like that mentor of yoursâ, His voice dropped, venomous and sharp, âNate thought he could play this game too. And now? He is nothing but a coward that canât face the reality of what is to come. But do not worry for I will show you the meaning of true powerâ.
With one word and a hand gesture The Artist found themselves on their knees, with their upper body bowing to Lucius. âTadiceâ, Lucius uttered coldly, with his left thumb covering his bowed left ring finger. The Artist was paralyzed, unable to say or think any thing else, only being able to responded to what âthought-commandsâ Lucius could think of.
âI see Nate never trained you against the Hypnosis spell, how poorly of himâ, Lucius said, âBut do not worry for it is said that the learned who experience this spell over and over again tend to build up a resistance to it. Think of this as gift from me to you. You may speakâ.
âWhatâs your game Lucius?! What do you want?!â, The Artist angrily asked.
âWhat I want is to help you achieve your fullest potential. Under my guidance you will unlock powers far beyond any thing you can ever imagine. Just pay attention to what I sayâ, Lucius responded calmly, âThere is also another method of countering Hypnosis effects, though risky, and only the gifted are able to pull it off. Pay attentionâ.
Lucius then made a shooting gesture with his right hand, making his index and middle finger point towards the air while fingers were closed. âSelilneâ, Lucius uttered. Which The Artist recognized as Sinokâ the language of Mages, the word meaning âTo rebukeâ or ârepelâ.
The Artist then stood up straight and pointed their .44 Magnum Revolver to their head. âIâm giving you 15 seconds to pull that off. Fail and I make you shoot yourself. Your time starts nowâ, Lucius replied.
The Artist instantly performed all the gestures Lucius demonstrated but for some odd reason the counter effect was not working. âSelilne! Selilne! Selilne!â, The Artist shouted, but nothing happened. â4...3â¦â, Lucius counted down maliciously. âSelilne!â, The Artist begged a hundred times over, making the hand gesture a thousand times over. â1â, Lucius said.
In the nick of time the spell had not only countered the Hypnosis but also reversed it upon Lucius, giving The Artist full mind control over The Shadow Vampire.
âThere it isâ, Lucius simply said, âThe power I offer. You can kill me if you so desire, my Frumentarii wonât retaliateâ.
The Artistâs heart raced as the realization of their newfound control over Lucius D. Decanus settled in. They stood there, revolver still trembling in their hand, as they took in the weight of the situation. Lucius, the feared Shadow Vampire, now stood before them like a puppet, his deep red irises locked onto The Artist, waiting for their command. The Frumentarii guards, stationed in the corners of the sanctum, hadnât moved. They remained still, their hands cautiously near their weapons, but the tension in their stance indicated they were uncertain of how to proceed. If The Artist gave the order, these guards would not intervene.
âWhat now?â, The Artist asked themselves, the options swirling in their mind. They could kill Lucius right here, severing his grip over San Domingo and perhaps putting an end to his reign of terror. But there was something more to thisâ an opportunity. Lucius had spoken of untapped power, of potential far greater than anything they could currently imagine. The Artist lowered the revolver slightly, breathing out slowly, the adrenaline in their veins beginning to steady.
âTell me everything you know about The Cult and my parentsâ, The Artist demanded, voice cold but controlled.
Lucius simply stared at The Artist with deadly focus, his movements eerily restrained by the reversed spell.
âYour parentsâ¦â, Lucius began slowly, his voice hollow, as if dredging up some long-forgotten memory, ââ¦were part of something far more dangerous than I initially believed. The Cult of Blairâ they seek the rebirth of an ancient being, a force that predates our world, The Willow. James and Samanthaâ¦they werenât just captives for The Cult to toy with, they were participantsâ.
The words hit The Artist like a blow to the chest. They managed to keep their face impassive, but inside, emotions clashedâ rage, confusion, disbelief. âParticipants?â The Artist echoed, fists clenching around the revolver. âContinue Mr. Decanus, this should be interestingâ.
Luciusâs expression remained unreadable, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. âThey sought power, just as you do now. The cult promised them that power, but at a price. They thought they could control it, but they underestimated the forces at playâ.
âWhere are they now?â, The Artist asked. âThat, I do not know. But I highly doubt they are alive,â Lucius replied calmly, âElizabeth Kedward is not known for her mercyâ.
A heavy silence followed Luciusâs words. The Artistâs mind reeled with the implications. Their parents werenât just captives of some sinister cultâ they had been willing participants, delving into powers that twisted them into serving sinister purposes.
The Artist took a deep breath, trying to steady their thoughts. They had come this far for answers, but now they were confronted with even more questions. Could they trust anything Lucius said? Could they trust themselves, knowing the path they were walking might lead to the same fate as their parents?
âYou think youâre helping me by telling me this?â The Artist spat, stepping closer to Lucius, the revolver now pressed against his chest. âAll I see is more manipulationâ.
Luciusâs gaze remained steady, unflinching. âIâm offering you clarity,â he said quietly. âAll I ask is for your loyalty and trust. The power I hold, the power the cult wieldsâ it can be yours. You donât need to fear it. You can control it. Your parents tried and failed, but youâ¦youâre different. I see it in youâ.
The Artistâs finger hovered over the trigger. Every instinct screamed to pull it, to end this here and now. But something held them back. The pull of power, the temptation of knowledge and the burning desire for answers.
For a long moment, the two stood in silence, locked in a deadly stalemate. Then The Artist slowly lowered the gun. âTake me to the Garden District,â they said through gritted teeth, âI want to see Elizabeth Kedward for myselfâ.
Lucius nodded slowly, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. âAs you wishâ.
Saturday 12th May, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(3:42 AM)
The Artistâs mind churned. Why here? A plantation seemed an odd location for something as secretive and malicious as a cultâ unless there was more to it. The silence between Lucius and The Artist growing heavier as they neared Oak Valley.
When the grand, wrought-iron gates of Oak Valley Plantation finally came into view, The Artist felt a tightening in their chest. It was an opulent, sprawling estate, with towering oak trees lining the gravel driveway. Their twisted branches reached out like skeletal fingers, as if the very land was cursed. Beyond the trees, the plantation mansion stood in the moonlight, a foreboding monument to an old world.
The mansion was massive, built in the classic Greek Revival style. White columns stretched up to the roof, casting long shadows across the wide porch that wrapped around the front of the house. The mansionâs façade was painted a gleaming ivory, almost too pristine for something that housed such darkness. Tall, arched windows glistened with a soft light from inside, the shutters black and imposing. The front doors were made of heavy, dark wood, and above them, a grand balcony overlooked the front lawn, offering a clear view of anyone approaching.
As Lucius and The Artist walked towards the front door, they could see rows of parked vehiclesâ luxury cars, sports models and even armored vans, all arranged neatly in front of the mansion. The soft glow of string lights wrapped around the plantationâs oak trees and adorned the front lawn, creating an eerie juxtaposition between elegance and evil.
The Artist stepped carefully, their boots crunching against the gravel. Lucius followed; his steps dead silent despite his heavy presence. The sound of distant laughter and raucous celebration drifted through the air from the mansionâs backyard, a stark contrast to the unsettling atmosphere surrounding the place. The laughter was wild and free, as if whoever was back there had no ideaâ or perhaps didnât care about the horrors that lurked inside the mansion.
The Artist eyes narrowed as they scanned the mansionâs windows. They could see figures moving inside, their shadows dancing behind the curtains. Some were gathered in groups, and others seemed to be walking with purpose deeper into the mansion.
âDoes the plantation always get this busy this time of night?â, The Artist muttered. Lucius smirked; his blood-red eyes gleaming in the faint light. âOf course. Elizabeth always enjoys herâ¦social gatheringsâ, replied Lucius.
The Artist was familiar with that name due to Reiâs constant ramblings of Elizabeth Kedward. A known chemist and C.E.O of Kedward Pharmaceuticalsâ one of the wealthiest and influential companies in the United States. And apparently, the leader of this cult.
âHow many connections could The Cult possibly have?â, The Artist wondered. Their fingers brushed the concealed revolver beneath their jacket, the cold steel offering some comfort.
As they approached the mansion cautiously, going around the corner, they could see the source of the celebration. The backyard was even more luxurious than the frontâ an opulent garden with perfectly manicured hedges, elaborate fountains and marble statues of ancient figures. Hundreds of guests filled the area, all dressed in lavish attire as they drank, danced and laughed without a care in the world. Torches lined the path, casting flickering light on the scene, while the distant sound of jazz music played from somewhere unseen.
Among the crowd, The Artist caught glimpses of figures in white robesâmembers of the cult, their faces hidden behind wooden masks that gleamed in the torchlight.
âWeâre closeâ, Lucius said, his voice low and filled with anticipation, âYour parents may be inside.â
The Artistâs eyes locked onto the back entrance leading into the mansion. Inside that house, behind those pristine white walls, was the truth. The Artist could feel it. Their heart raced as they took a step forward, but Lucius suddenly grabbed their arm, his grip cold and firm.
âRememberâ, he hissed, his voice dripping with caution, âYou still need me. Donât get reckless.â
The Artist yanked their arm free, eyes burning with anger but knowing he was right.
Before the pair could do anything, a woman, dressed in an elegant red gown, her face hidden behind a wooden mask. She walked towards the pair slowly, her movements graceful, almost hypnotic. The Artistâs heart pounded as they watched her approach, every step she took bringing with it a sense of dread.
Lucius stood still, his eyes narrowing, but he didnât respond. The tension between them was palpable, like old, unfinished business rising to the surface. The Artist watched, unsure whether to step back or press forward.
âLuciusâ, she said, her voice smooth like velvet, dripping with a strange familiarity. âIâve always been expecting youâ.
The womanâs gaze shifted slowly to The Artist, and though her face was hidden by the mask, they could feel the intensity of her stare. It was as if she could see straight through them, into their mind, into their very soul.
âAnd as for youâ¦â, she said, her voice softer now, almost contemplative. She tilted her head slightly, her wooden mask glinting in the dim light. âI wonder whatâ¦â, her voice trailed off, and The Artist felt a cold chill settle over them.
The Artistâs throat tightened, fear crawling its way up their body. What does she know?