Fortress 4

LOADING . — 51% — ETA 07:22 LOADING . . — 68% — ETA 05:07 LOADING . . . — 99% — ETA 00:12       OPEN: 7_script_supplement THE FORTRESS MUST SURVIVE ACT 2, SCENE 3 [Enter the SCRIBE, descending down a flight of stairs. There are lit candles resting inside small notches to her sides. Each step echoes from the bottom.] [She arrives to the foyer of a wide chamber carved in the earth, lit by candles and two windows to each side. A mound of earth rises slightly above her, crowned by a black, ovoid object. It is slightly transparent, distorting the light of the candles behind it. An elaborate iron gate separates the mound from the entry foyer: the SPIDER guards it, a shortsword in hand. She points it forward, but shows little confidence with the weapon.] SCRIBE: Noble lady! Why art thou here? And steel'd no less! Didst thou not harken the pandemonium that above did transpire? SPIDER: [Trembling, then dropping the shortsword.] Ah! Thou scarest I… I did harken indeed, but the Future commandeth me to forfend the Egg. I know not what happed or what threaten'd it so suddenly, but he swiftly turn'th to me, face ashen, and of encroaching harm muttereth afore demanding I take guard here. SCRIBE: He hath foreseen it then… [Pause.] O dearest mentor, the Justiciar is dead. To Sea cast by a colossal grotesquerie, within its statue curtained. He did elucidate something to the Egg referr'd, the beast's rage invoking… So little did I verily understand! But I know what the Oracle afluttered, I vouchsafe! SPIDER: And what may that be? A thing most terrible it must soothly be… I did ne'er see the calm Future so pallid and fearful. SCRIBE: Rememberest thou what I harken'd the Charlatan speak apropos the Egg? Of his craving for it that thou dismissest? I harken'd the King as well with him deliberating, voice afflict'd by the deep dread of the ruler soothly desperate, and he too spaketh of the Egg: that the Charlatan desireth to spill its blood to appease the growing Crimson Sun. [The SPIDER breathes in deeply, then uses the shortsword as a cane. She covers her forehead with her other hand.] SPIDER: Out upon it! Once again superstitious falsehood, ever the very same… Did I not warn thee against such? SCRIBE: The King himself spaketh such! Why dost thou disbelieve it so? Does the Future's own fear not lend troth to what I speak? SPIDER: I have here resided for long, and with mine own eyes and senses examined this matter: never have I seen but a smidgen of troth to these claims. But mayhap… Mayhap is this simply erroneous? By mine own design blinded? I know not even wherefore I am here. SCRIBE: Ah! These discussion shall await until these troubles are concluded; I heed echoing steps descending! [Loud steps from a several people are heard. The SPIDER steps forward, with the shortsword in position. The SCRIBE stands behind her.] [After a short moment, the source of the echoes arrives: the CHARLATAN and the SMILING MAN descend, headed by the KING, who appears crestfallen. He struggles to walk, troubled by age.] SPIDER: Cease! Not another step: the Future commandeth that this sanctum lay undisturbed! Returnst from whence thou camest, at once! CHARLATAN: Wilt thou hinder thy King so?! I did know thee ill-mannered and foolish, yet disturbed not. Ah, verily naïve was I not to see thou for what thou art: a poor madwoman, by lunacy thy mind upset. Away with you! Afore thou invokest the King's fury! SPIDER: Nay! I do stand here, and it is thou who shouldst turn away. Bidden was I, and that bid I shall keep troth. Charlatan: [To the KING.] Seest thou what I spake now? Rebell'd the once good maiden hath, by the perfidious Oracle led. A spy hath relayed our aims to him, and he instruct'd them to prevent it so! [The KING steps forward, waving right with his hand.] KING: I pray thee both, clear the path. Let strife avoided be. [The SPIDER shakes her head, raising her sword higher. The KING roars in response.] KING: Away with thy dogged daftness! I command thee; clear the path! [The SPIDER and the SCRIBE stumble to the side, as if pushed by an unseen force. The former attempts to move back in place, but is unable to.] [The CHARLATAN and KING walk forward while the SMILING MAN strides to the SPIDER and SCRIBE, knife in hand. He crouches before them, tapping the floor with his knife. The KING briefly places his hand on the gate, and it opens on its own.] SCRIBE: I pray thee! Harken me, if once only: deceived thou wert by the man to thy side! If thou dost indeed believe that the Egg will allay the growing Sun, thou hast misdeemed its nature. [The SMILING MAN extends his hand, placing the knife's blade to the SCRIBE's cheek.] SMILING MAN: Shhh! Thy King is occupied with an important matter. Keep thy silence, and thou may keep thy tongue. KING: Be done with thy venom, wretched ruffian, and let the good seer speak. [The SMILING MAN's hand retreats.] CHARLATAN: I pray thee proceed with haste, good King. Indeed do I understand it just to heed even the traitor and the demented, for that is the yoke of ev'ry ruler. But some matters greater care demand than the foolishness from peasants inseparable. SCRIBE: Many a world and many good men have I beheld devoured by red glimm'r in the Starlit Sea, but the same glimm'r that the Crimson Sun doth radiate: hast thou not seen a red fog skyward soaring? KING: I know it so, but what art thou assaying to claim? Dost not my time squander. SCRIBE: Thou dost indeed wish to sacrifice the Egg, or may this be untrue? If that is so, how dost thou know whether the Crimson Sun shall halted be, or with still greater fury continue to devour? KING: Thine art wise concerns, but wiser still art the assurances of the man beside me. But didst thou not dub him a deceiver? Why is that so? [The CHARLATAN places his hand on the KING's shoulder.] CHARLATAN: Once more I pray thee— KING: Silence! SCRIBE: I know him a deceiver, for I have harkened readily to his private gloating: he doth not wish for aegis from the Crimson Sun's light, but rather the power that the Dragon's Egg doth possess. Quoth I his own words: The accursed King doth his Keys not give — and the Dragon's Egg thither lies, too far yet for my grasp. Dost this to thee not seem sooth, and not connate with his insistence? CHARLATAN: Libel and calumny, horrid fabrications from the maw of a scathed viper! Forsooth, dost thou believe it so? KING: I command thee, remain silent. [The chamber suddenly grows silent. The KING walks toward the Dragon's Egg, muttering to himself.] [The SMILING MAN silently rises, then hands a knife to the CHARLATAN.] KING: Sooth, this cannot be. Or is he not a kind right hand? But I knew it not when he first appeared, like an atrocious blatterskitter. But has he changed not? Verily it seemed so, but could it be otherwise? [The KING places his hand on the Egg. A thin white figure imitates the gesture from inside it.] [The CHARLATAN sneaks toward him, knife in hand. The SCRIBE and SPIDER attempt to shout, but are unable to.] KING: Indeed, it must be sooth. Then what may he be? A betrayer, an apostate, a foul serpent. But then, when doth the serpent bite? [The CHARLATAN raises his arm. He swipes down, aiming the blade for the KING's back.] [In the flash of an eye, he turns and blocks the CHARLATAN's arm with his right. He is now upright, and stands as tall as the assailant. He pushes back the CHARLATAN with his shoulder, and reaches into his own veil with the right hand.] [At the same time he unsheathes a two-handed sword from within the veil it slides back and turns into a cape, revealing a suit of plate armor that fully covers him. Instead of a regular helm, the head is covered by a flat mask, decorated with an intricate yellow sun. It shows no sign of a face, and is covered with dried red stains, extending to the upper torso.] [A ray of yellow sunlight reaches through the window at the right, shining onto the KING's broadsword as it lunges forward, piercing the CHARLATAN's chest. Wind can be heard outside, whistling through the windows.] KING: Hadst thou held thy hand, I could not have known thee a snake. [The KING swings the sword to the side, flinging the CHARLATAN toward the window and into the Sea: his shadow remains on the ground, but no one takes notice. He then steps forward, readying the blade to strike the SMILING MAN. The SPIDER rises from the ground, helping up the SCRIBE.] [The SMILING MAN throws a knife, and it strikes the KING on the forehead: he stops dead in his tracks, stumbling forward briefly before falling to the ground.] SPIDER: The King! What hast thou done! [The SPIDER rushes to the SMILING MAN, shortsword in hand. He begins to cackle in apparent disbelief, but succeeds in evading her swipes. He kicks the sword out of the SPIDER's hand, and pushes her to the floor. The SCRIBE tries to reach for it, but the SMILING MAN manages to take it first.] [He wordlessly threatens to kill the SPIDER: the SCRIBE stands back.] SCRIBE: Leave her, thou ruffian! It is lowly and vile to hold a mistress hostage! SMILING MAN: Hah hah! Thou wert a greater challenge than the anil King, but it seems indeed that this islands holds naught a fighting soul, yet only soft maidens. [Chuckling.] The Half-Tamed Wilds doth await. I shall put thy good hearts to rest. [As the SMILING MAN speaks, the KING begins to get up: he slowly rises from the ground, blood oozing from the wound in his forehead.] [The KING reaches up to the knife buried in his head with his right hand and tears it out, bleeding more profusely thereafter. He can still walk, and soon begins to stride toward the SMILING MAN as the SCRIBE and SPIDER watch.] [The SMILING MAN turns to see the KING walking toward him. He jumps up, leaving the SPIDER free to crawl away. He attempts to ready the shortsword, but is crossed by a right punch from the KING. The sound of breaking bone fills the chamber before falling silent. The KING faces the SCRIBE: the new bleeding from his forehead perfectly matches every old stain in his armor.] [The KING falls again to the ground. The whistling of wind ceases, and the ray of light that shone into his broadsword fades away. There are a few more moments of silence: the SCRIBE helps the SPIDER up, and the figure inside the Dragon's Egg watches.] [Suddenly, the CHARLATAN's shadow begins shifting and gaining substance. It loses its previous shape but remains human-like, instead gaining a red ring of light where a face should be.] SCRIBE: Art— Art thou the Charlatan? SHADOW: Nay. I am but the Mestra, and the Crimson Sun's light doth guide me. [The SHADOW unsheathes a scimitar from its own substance.] SHADOW: Fine lasses thou art, but thou shouldst know when chance smiles not upon thee. Withdraw at once: short enough are the days remaining, thou need not make them shorter still. [The SCRIBE reaches for the shortsword on the floor, and hands it to the SPIDER, who readies it to swing. Before she can step forward, a pale arm grabs her shoulder: the FUTURE is behind them, with a scythe in his right hand.] FUTURE: Cease! Run now, both of ye. Long enough have I kept fate hawing. I cry thee mercy for my costly lingering. SCRIBE: What art thou saying? Shall we leavest thou to contend with the shade-demon? SPIDER: My hands hold the sword firmly still, and thou commandeth me to keep the sanctum. FUTURE: [Shaking his head.] Behindhand these sentiments art. The Egg is lost already, but thy lives may be kept still. Ah! I deeply regret my sluggish valor, too late torn from my fearful rapt. Go, go now. Hide. Finish thy book. [The SPIDER retreats. The SCRIBE tries to remain, but is pulled back by the SPIDER. She takes a last look at the KING's body, then turns and runs upstairs with the SPIDER. The echoes last for only a few seconds, and then the chamber is plunged in silence again.] FUTURE: I did deserve this fate much more than the poor Justiciar. Why didst I dismiss him so? SHADOW: Cowards shall cowards remain; fate cometh for them regardless. [The FUTURE lunges forward, clumsily swinging the scythe to one side. The SHADOW cleanly avoids it, before piercing the side of his torso with the scimitar. The FUTURE shouts in pain, dropping the scythe.] SHADOW: O great Oracle, I do have but one last question for thee. Many names do I know mine. Mestra. Harbinger. Horseman. Death. But none doth verily belong to me. Tell me, Oracle, for I have heard that thou weavest fate with thine own hands: what was my name afore the Crimson Maw claspeth around my soul? FUTURE: [Grunts.] A name like thy own lost did I once have. I know indeed the tales that each man and woman doth write for themselves, yet only mine lieth too far from grasp. But thou dost naught a thing write or learn: all that doth the red light know is voracity and death. Why shouldst thou learn from my lips what I can ne'er know from thine? [The SHADOW stabs the FUTURE again, this time in the chest. He drops dead to the floor.] SHADOW: Wilt thou always deny me so? [The SHADOW walks to the Dragon's Egg. The figure inside it stares back. The SHADOW pierces it with its scimitar, and slices the Egg open.] ⇓

THE FORTRESS MUST SURVIVE
TITLE:	PART 4: THE SCRIBE'S RAGNARÖK	DATE:	12/06/2007
FILE:	2KDD6159F3JAE/AAAAA_oslo/umbreit_letters/8	#	8/8
The Spider and the Scribe flee. They flee across the Common Room, and then to the beach. The red eye in the sky opens greater still, bathing everything in blinding scarlet. And yet, the Starlit Sea grows black: not a shimmer of reflected light leaves it, and it is deathly still, perhaps more so than before. The Hare rows by, and the Spider and the Scribe walk onto the boat. HARE: Thus is indeed my task. I am a champion not, nor a great savior. I doth only narrow flee, and ensure others do as well. Before long, they arrive at a pair of doors at the side of Folamh Gard. Behind them, a small room, with a small bed, a small desk, and a small candle. Not enough for three, but it will do. The Spider cries, her sight bereft of any visions from the Sea. Yet, the Scribe is blinded by them: one after another, the many fates of the Starlit Sea weave a story that nears its end. She writes, she writes ceaselessly under the candlelight. The Hare and Spider feed her dried jerky and saltwater. Hundreds of yellowed pages succeed each other in feverish continuity, inbetween moments of trembling sleep. The Spider encourages her. Gives her hope. Maybe even after the end someone will find the book and read it from end to end. It'd be a great discovery: a message from the Court of Folamh Gard. She writes of the Dusk-Seed and of the Crimson Sun and its many harbingers. Pale wisps, cracks in the sky and falling stars herald the red light that grows from a Tower turned Seed turned Tree. Last words accompany each sight: good and bad wishes, memories and prayers, and so many names there is a whole chapter for them. Before too long, it is done: the last white corner of the last page is occupied by the last words of an old man. And so, the book has to be taken to the library. When they finally leave, it's dark. Red embers cross the sky, providing faint comfort. Even still, they need a candle to see anything before them. That single candle, if half-melted, will surely do. They enter through the hole in the wall, and the Scribe places the book upon a shelf. The place is littered with other books. She reaches out to one and struggles to read a single word inside it, aided only by the candle that the Spider holds. Her own handwriting stares back at her. She gasps: the loudest noise she's heard in long. She scours through every other book. They're all written by her hand, even though she doesn't remember writing any of them. She turns to tell the Spider what she's seeing, but she isn't there. The Shadow stares back, holding a candle in its hand before blowing it out.

Some Notes…

I recognize those names now. I've heard them before. The Scribe, the King, the Justiciar… They're names of gods from the religions that form in Liminal Spaces. The more backward populations of some Middenground spaces revered a Chained Titan that symbolized their mantra of inaction and isolation from danger. In the Crimson System, there were stories of a Hare — no doubt a corruption of the Hare and the Turtle — that blesses the Commonwealth chowrunners with narrow flight from all danger. Rolf must've heard Olympus calling from afar, and sought to climb it. Then the Justiciar found himself amidst the Gods' Court, bereft of memory. Were they truly gods, or did they all simply find a distant vision that swallowed them short after? I walked out into the fog, heeding Olympus calling too. At first I could see nothing else, but soon it started to darken, and the mist pulled away from my sight. I saw a fortress upon an island, amidst a red sea under a red sky, crowned by a red sun. I thought that I should go there. The sense of discovery beckoned me to dive into the sea and swim. The same words kept panging in my head: I am the Lady of Last Words, and last words I shalt seek. A moment of weakness? Or of enlightenment, maybe. I met fate in the eyes, and I could only run. I ran for Rolf's house, but I missed it in the fog. I ran down the cliff and tripped, rolling down its rocky height. I didn't break a single bone, somehow. And then I kept running, running away from the Starlit Sea, as far as I could. I ran for so long I thought there was nothing but rocky plain ahead of me. I thought everything else had vanished and the Threshold eaten me and Rolf's house whole. The Crimson Sun remained in the sky, and it only grew brighter as I ran — but then, a rectangular shadow appeared in the mist. Was it a monolith? Some alien thing brought from the script? A piece of bone from the Starlit Sea? No, no it wasn't. It was a bust of Lenin. And behind it, the central plaza of Pyramiden, with every little house and the logo of the town with the arctic bear on top. I could only laugh, and laugh I did — laughed my ass off for an hour. I hugged Lenin so tightly I must've broken a few of his bones beyond the grave. And before I even realized, the real sun was warming me up. The cold wind welcomed me back, ecstatically whistling past the ghost town. Welcome back home! The stories of the town came back to me, flooding my nostrils with its particular scent of melancholy. Did I make a mistake? Did I refuse a greater fate that called me? I can't tell. The Soviet brickwork feels far too real for me to consider that seriously. Maybe I refused my invitation to the Abode of Gods in Heaven, rudely rejecting a blessing that only few can even dream of. The Lenin bust doesn't really judge. And besides — I don't think I want a home in Heaven. After all, there's no home like sweet home.