Shuteye

 You tell yourself it's nothing. Houses creak, boards shift, wind rustles a few things outside, that's all there is. Yet, as you're going to sleep, your body urges you to open your eyes to ensure you're safe. Check the door, make sure no one opened it. Look outside, make sure no one's out there. If your eyes are closed, you can't see the man you're imagining standing at the foot of your bed.

Forcing your eyes shut, you try again. It's more frustration than anything now, looking at the clock and seeing 2:14 lighting up your room in small red numbers from your dresser. It's a counting-up count-down to the next day when the inevitable bags under your eyes and heavy yawns tell the story of this night you ever could. You will close your eyes, you will fall asleep, you promise yourself for the good of tomorrow.

Thump.

Eyes wide as dinner plates. It's amazing how fast your heart will pick up the pace when danger, real or imagined, is around. In your head you tell yourself that's the sound it makes when the heat comes on, and not a burglar, home invader, serial killer... You know your reasoning is perfectly logical. That sound happens when it's a cold night. Of course, your heart is still doing its greatest impression of a jackhammer.

Thump.

Okay, it usually doesn't happen twice. That's odd. Not a big deal, but that's odd. It's something that can be checked out in the morning, as your bed is warm and comfortable and the idea of getting out of it is not in the cards tonight. You reassess where you're at. The red lights flare their warning of 2:27. Five hours is fine if you fall asleep right now, just take a nap when you're back from work, you tell yourself. So, you close your eyes again. You're an adult, for goodness sake. This isn't something you should be dealing with. It's just like being a child again, except you've replaced monsters under the bed with someone breaking in.

Of course, people do break in...

That's it. The only way you're falling back asleep is accepting that you're going to have to go downstairs and check it out. Not to see anything, but to confirm that you see nothing. That there's nothing there, and that everything's all in your head. Convincing yourself you're a brave, levelheaded adult, you rip the sheets off your bed, throw on your housecoat, and march out of your room to suddenly realise that the stairs are dark and every step you make on them seems to be loud enough to wake the dead. Have they always creaked?

Why is your heart beating? This is ridiculous. You turn on the light and your home feels warm and familiar, even if the light stings your eyes. You check each room, still walking around on tip-toes as for some reason anything that breaks the silence is oddly disconcerting. Your eyes take special care to look around inside, but not outside, as you saw that horror movie when you were a kid where there was someone out there, and you just don't want to deal with that right now.

After a few minutes the scouting mission is complete. There's no one there. There's never anyone there. You're just falling asleep, the same as you always have, and in the morning you'll feel awfully foolish. It's 2:41 when you're back up in your room, and that same frustration from before sets in. Less than five hours. That'll be a lot of coffee tomorrow morning.

Having gotten out of bed makes the sheets and pillow seem more comfortable again. Also, as much as you hate to admit it to yourself, you feel far more comfortable knowing you checked outside. Your heartbeat has since settled down to a gentle pattering. It's your chance. You're almost there.

Thump.

Grave of the Old Gods

 At the darkest point on the longest night, they chose him. Gabriel felt no lamentations nor regrets for his sacrifice. On the contrary, he volunteered. It was an honour to be relieved of life in order to please the deities of the past. He would learn what all longed to discover and none lived to share; the secrets of what lay in the forest. These were the secrets of the Old Gods, the keepers of knowledge greater than they could ever hold. To enter it would mean to be taken into their graces, sacrificing their earthly form to live amongst them, as all who have entered were known never to return.

He left for the holy site alone, eyes bleary from the depleting sickness that enveloped his kind. His lungs ached, as all of the elderly did. The land was unforgiving; for the Old Gods to tame it and to create such wondrous structures was an accomplishment beyond reckoning. Gabriel took a moment to kneel down and recover what little strength he had. The night was unseasonably warm, and for that he was thankful. Often during the winter solstice the weather was cold enough to nearly break the sacrificed on their journey. To their knowledge, they always succeeded in the end. Otherwise, it was their belief that the sun would only continue to hide, as the Old Gods would no longer deem it fit to roll it across the sky for another year if they were not paid proper homage.

After hours of travel, he knelt in the dirt, desperately needing a moment of rest from the journey. It was there he saw a symbol. A tiny black dot, surrounded by three black rectangles facing outwards, rested on a larger circle of yellow. Their scholars have deemed it the symbol of the Old God's graveyard, where they finally went to rest after conquering this world. The rectangles were believed to be their graves, and the singular black dot a celestial body in which they left for. Other such grave sites have been found, each taking the lives of those that entered. Upon seeing the symbol, Gabriel's resolve was reinvigorated. He was among the few, the lucky, that were given the gift of being allowed to enter their realm! He pushed himself up, old bones fragile and weak, but providing him one final push towards the end of his life and the start of his next.

He crossed the opening in the fence left behind by the Old Gods, the same smooth, cold-to-the-touch texture they had learned to associate with them. He was there, certainly, but it did not look as he had imagined it. The 'forest' was not full of life-giving trees or shrubs, but rather collapsed pieces of the Old God material stretching up from the earth in haphazard ways. It lacked the typical symmetry and order he'd known to associate with them.

Gabriel ventured further. To his left was the body of another sacrifice, collapsed and, strangely, showing very few signs of rot. Why had that body not been taken? Further, why was it facing away from the direction he ventured? Surely, he must have not travelled far enough into the sacred land, and the attempt was not deemed worthy. Gabriel promised himself he would not find the same fate. His lungs ached, and his skin began to burn and itch, in spite of the chill of winter. Still, he was undaunted. Still, he pushed forward.

He arrived at what he felt had to be the central point of the sacred burial grounds of the Old Gods. It looked as if a great devastation had occurred here, debris scattered across the landscape in no true pattern or reason. Great waves of heat and energy emanated from a distant place, a massive hole which most of the devastation seemed to have arisen. He prayed he would be taken soon, that his sacrifice was not in vain. There was little more he could take. His lungs burned, and his skin began to blister and bleed.

Looking across the landscape and seeing nothing more than scattered destruction, Gabriel slowly began to realise his greatest worry.

This is all wrong, he thought. This is no sacred land. This is no burial chamber. The fence... the devastation... the strange symbol... it was a warning. He turned to run, to warn the others, to say the sacrifices were all for naught. Gabriel knew he wouldn't make it. His body was old and weak, and the travel here had nearly sapped him of all the life he held left. He fell to one knee, remembering now the body facing away from the centre of the holy site, and understanding. He had tried to warn the others, too. They would both be buried here, rotting in their failure, waiting to serve as a warning to the next unwary soul that dared enter the destructive realm of the Old Gods.

What Lies in Atlantis

 From the notes of Alexei Kolisnyk:

"I read the books of explorers as a child. Shackleton's intrepid voyage into the frozen south. Magellan's travels across the endless ocean. Edmund Hillary besting the tallest peak. Born into a time where the world had lost its mystery, I was allowed but one route to count myself among their ranks. I could explore the last remaining unknown, plunging the depths of the ocean. That is where I knew I would go, where I felt compelled to go, heart and soul in full dedication.

So can you call my mission a success? Will Kolisnyk be etched into history?

I would hope not. I would hope I am forgotten. My dream now is for this vessel to drift endlessly in the Mariana until the crushing weight of the pressure shatters it in pieces and takes my memory with it. In case it does not, I wish to recount my tale for whatever is next to find me, and at least provide an explanation.

I have found the lost city, the mythical Atlantis. I wish I could say it was deliberate. Instead, it was a tremendous bout of chance, what I would have dared to call luck not a few hours ago. It was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. There were towering pillars, built in a manner that somehow kept them from shattering in the pressure of the deep. Statues of their people's gods and goddesses, their own mythical heroes and great kings were scattered through the city. Further, the architecture was like nothing I had ever witnessed. I felt as one would when seeing the Colosseum, the castles in Japan, or the temples of the Aztec for the first time. It was overwhelming. Awe inspiring. I was compelled to look further, to know more. That desire pushed me beyond caution. I should have seen the way the statues were placed. I should have recognised the warnings.

The city was placed around a massive, central circle, full of images not dissimilar to our early depictions of great monsters in the sea, the type the old explorers I so praised would have been told were waiting for them beyond the fringes of the maps. Something about their placement told me they were not to be feared, however. They all faced the centre. They all seemed to be paying homage, bowing in their own way to a greater being.

Naturally, I did as all explorers would; I travelled in the direction which would prove to hold the greatest prize. In the very centre of the circle was what I was searching for without having known it existed. A great orb, sparkling, catching every trace of light that my submersible emitted. Even in its simplicity it was as beautiful as anything else I had witnessed in Atlantis.

I was foolish to have wanted to take it. I can see that now, far too late. The moment the gripping hand of my submersible plucked it from the altar, the giant circle in which the city surrounded shifted. A great rumbling shook the ocean, and at once I feared it would shatter my craft.

It didn't. Instead, I was left to witness its arrival. The great beast. I know not what to call it, but surely any that would ever find this message will surely know well of it now. In the darkness I could see its eyes. One went close near my machine, massive and deep red, inspecting me with a fierce intelligence. It could have killed me then without a thought. It left me, instead. I wasn't worth the effort. This was its domain, and I was merely a visitor. I watched it leave, finding it difficult to see its form with the meagre light from my craft. There was no way I could gauge its true shape, only that it was far larger than any mythical Kraken or sea monster.

I don't know what I unleashed upon the world. No being that size and scale should be considered anything but a god. I pray for it to be just an observer, but looking in its eye I could sense something deeper. A malevolence. A thirst for vengeance upon all who had imprisoned it.

I cannot return to the surface knowing what I have done. I will remain here, until the oxygen runs out or the beast returns to take me. If this message is found, know that I am sorry."

A Little Old Lady Walks Into a Bar

 The door clicked open, much to Rhonda's satisfaction. No matter how many years passed or how strongly time had stolen the deftness of her hands, a lock was a lock.

She was glad to be in from the cold. While a quiet, unassuming room by the docks was fitting, the sea spray and the chill wind coming over the water froze her tiny frame to the bone. But, now that she was in, she felt that old familiar rush, that spark of adrenaline that would course through her and be all the warmth she needed. It felt like decades since she'd experienced it. Perhaps it was.

A moment later, she was wishing that same rush would dull some of the pain from tripping down the short flight of stairs. Rhonda landed heavily on her hip, wincing, knowing she'll be paying for that with interest over the next several days. The room that was full of the sounds of good cheer and the clinking of glasses a moment ago was abruptly replaced with a stunned silence.

Two rushed to her side, pushing through the tables and chairs that were in their way to reach her. One, a man with a bowler hat, the other, a young woman with the side of her head shaved. They placed their arms under Rhonda's, gently guiding her up. She winced, let out a quiet whine, and slipped a few inches - digging in her nails on their forearms in a futile attempt at latching on.

"What the hell is this?" came a deep, gravelly voice from the other end of the room.

"We've gotcha, don't worry!" the man in the bowler said. "Jesus, that was quite the tumble. Are you quite alright?"

"Oh, yes, I believe so," Rhonda said. "I've taken a few tumbles in my time." With a nod of thanks to the two, she scanned the room. It certainly fit the bill, in her mind. Small, tilted tables, a bar that looked as old as her, lighting that would make a cockroach comfortable. Of course, that was just the scenery; the importance lay in the gentlemen and ladies occupying the old, rickety chairs.

At the back was a large man, bald as can be, and a brow that would have been more appropriate in the stone age. At his side, picking the darkest corner, was a thin man with a thin beard, the hair on the top of his head shaggy and unkempt. He had his feet up on the table, flipping a coin, strangely nonchalant considering the sudden turn of events. Lastly, a woman with a shock of bright red hair was on her left, near the bar. She had an expression on her could make a snake look warm and inviting.

With a nod and a friendly smile, Rhonda walked right up to the centre of the room, standing patiently at a table. In her hands she held a tiny clutch and a walking cane. A sideways glance at the lady with the shaved head was all she needed to get the chair pulled out for her. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said.

It seemed to take a moment for the gears to turn in the big one's head, but when they finally started to shift, he cracked a smile. Then, deep and bellowing, he let out a hearty laugh. The thin man and the red-haired one joined in, soon enough all adding to the chorus together, slapping their hands on the tables and lifting their glasses in cheers. "What a turn this is, eh?" the big man said. "A little old lady walks into a bar. It sounds like the start of a strange joke." He leaned forward. For a moment it looked like the table wouldn't be able to handle his tremendous bulk. "I don't think you've come to the right place."

Rhonda smiled at him, tilting her head slightly. "Oh, dear, I do believe I'm in exactly the place I wish to be." They all laughed again. Rhonda frowned slightly. "As expected. Now, I do believe you may be laughing a touch too often. A smarter man would question how I got in, rather than mock my misfortune. My first piece of advice; take what you do seriously! Wouldn't you say?" she said with a nod to the man wearing the bowler. He didn't respond, just went wide-eyed in confusion.

"Little tough to do when an old woman breaks a hip on the way in, wouldn't you say?" the red-haired woman said. The thin man snorted loudly and the bald one slammed his hand on the table.

"And another piece of advice, and I suggest you listen to this one quite carefully. Once you're serious about the job, that means your head's in it. That's good. That's when your feet come in, and let your head guide them. Spacial awareness. Scouting. Reconnaissance." She coughed quietly. Again, to the man in the bowler. "Be a dear and fetch me some tea, would you? I've got quite the chill from outside, and I don't think the big one's bright enough to make it right."

The big man's mirth turned quickly to anger. The smirk on his lantern jaw turned slowly to a frown. "Now, I don't take too kindly to... to..."

Rhonda held a wrinkled hand up to her chest in mock surprise. "Oh, are you having a hard time standing? You seemed to find it humorous when my feet went out from me a moment ago." The thin man suddenly looked deadly serious. He stopped flipping the coin and pulled a dagger instead.

"Next lesson!" Rhonda proclaimed cheerily. "Learn the importance of a deft hand. Subtle movements. Quick tricks. Not just some cliche thing with a coin. You'll never know when they come in handy!" The thin man pulled back his arm and found the dagger slipped harmlessly from his grip, his hand weak and shaky.

"What is this?" the red-haired woman asked in a panic. "Who are you?"

"Lastly!" Rhonda called again. She looked the three that mistreated her dead in the eye, one to the next, a terror in an ageing body. "Know your enemy." The big man slipped forward first, his huge body breaking the table and falling heavily forward. The others quickly followed.

The woman with the shaved hair and the man in the bowler flexed their fingers and wiggled their feet, wondering how they escaped their fate. Rhonda read their expressions and gleefully answered for them.

"I train your kind," she said, dropping the facade of the kindly old lady and speaking with authority and confidence. "That last lesson? That's the most important. I learned the trade here myself, and I've had a few of my proteges track the comings and goings to see what kind of people I'd be dealing with. I don't bother with villains and miscreants anymore. Not worth what time I have left. I'd prefer to work with the kind that would help a harmless old lady, lost on her way home." She tapped her arm on the spot she scratched them both. "One of my students came up with the antidote. It won't be as potent through the scratches, but it'll do. You'll be right as rain in a day or so. Another one of mine came up with the gas, and the means to pump it in here the moment I arrived."

"So..." the woman stammered, still processing the events. "What do you want with us?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the old lady asked, finding it to be her turn to laugh. "I'm offering to teach you."

Sebastian's Bastion

 The major pressed his back against the window, tapping his earpiece, screaming for backup. His squad fired overhead, machine guns raining down on the enemy. His hand motioned for the left for a flank, and two of his men sprinted forward behind the next objective, another three on his right providing cover fire. "Take it down, men!" he yelled. Their missions had been more difficult as of late, as they've had to scale the wall every night to reach the window for the past year, and return before daybreak. The men were already tired as they challenged their quarry.

Bullets sped towards their target. It was a fearsome opponent; quick, dangerous, and damn near the size of a quarter. The spider moved around frantically, unfamiliar with the strange opposition. Soon enough, it fled back the way it came, down through the rip in the window screen.

"Injury report!" the major yelled. His squad formed up on the window sill, ten of the best soldiers a leader could ask for. Not one was lost.

The men saluted their major, exhausted, but proud of having yet another success for their storied regiment. They were just about to be dismissed as the eyes of a private grew as large as dinner plates - proportionally sized dinner plates, at least. They turned to see what shocked him to see their sole purpose for being looking down on them. For the first time, Emily had awoken. Normally the men would be still the moment she stirred, but the battle distracted them enough to miss the change.

"This is a weird dream," she said sleepily, rubbing her eyes. "Maybe mom's right - I shouldn't watch so much YouTube before going to bed." The army men froze. Maybe if they stopped moving they wouldn't be compromised, and she'd return to bed. Theirs was meant to be a secret mission.

"It's just a dream!" their bazooka man yelled. The major cursed. They almost had it.

"You are alive! Seb was telling the truth!" She lowered herself down to their level and peered closer, a big smile on her face.

"Major Action at your service, ma'am," the major said, his cover blown. He frowned at the mention of their previous benefactor, Sebastian. The regiment missed him dearly.

"Seb told me he used to set you up on my windowsill to protect me, because I always leave it open when it gets hot. Is that what you guys do?" Emily asked.

"We protect from any and all threats, ma'am. Mostly windowsill based intrusions, yes." Every soldier was standing at attention. They always thought this day would come, but that knowledge didn't much help their nerves. How could one prepare for such an intense, long-awaited moment?

"Cute!" she said. "That's so-o-o cute."

Major Action turned a sideways glance at his men, who looked as perplexed as he did. "Cute, ma'am?"

"Oh, look at your little guns! And the little bazooka - oo-oo-oo!"

"Ma'am, please! That's a deadly weapon! During the '16 Ant Invasion it single-handedly held the line for several nights until the cold front gave us a reprieve." He realized he was speaking out of turn, and quickly straightened his back and saluted. "Apologies, ma'am. If you believe the bazooka is 'cute', then... it's cute."

She frowned, slightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"Ma'am, I understand. I did not mean to speak out of turn. Exactly one year ago following a surprise centipede assault we lost three good men to the vacuum. It's an old wound that still feels fresh, and... I reacted quickly and spoke too soon."

She perked up. "Hold on! They got stuck! My mom took them out and kept them with Seb's things." She creaked open the door silently, tip-toeing as to not awake her parents. She returned shortly from the hallway with three more of the tiny soldiers.

The regiment couldn't keep their typical resolve. They thought they had lost the three, only to have them reunited. Soldiers clapped each other on the back, and rejoiced. Only the major kept his cool and calm as they returned - although he'd celebrate with his men in due time. However, for now, duty called.

"So you guys hang around here and protect me from bugs?" Emily asked. "That's what Seb set you up for?"

"From anything, ma'am. An intruder - an adult of your-sized people, likely a burglar - once tried to come through your window. We tossed our flash-bang grenades, and he must have thought the flashes meant someone was still awake." He spoke this story with extreme pride. It was their single greatest accomplishment.

"I've always thought those sounds were from the furnace or something..." she said, understanding better now. "Why do you do this?"

"Sebastian was always good to us. He thanked us for our duty every night he set us for our watch. We... lament his passing." The major's men all nodded in solemn respect.

"Yeah... I miss him too," Emily agreed. A tear formed and nearly rolled down her cheek before she wiped it away.

"We've lived on in his name. Back when, he named us 'Sebastian's Bastion.' Our regiment has kept it ever since. With your permission, we'd like to keep our watch. We made an oath to him ages ago, and we fully intend to keep it - as long as you're willing." The men formed up behind their major, even the three that had returned. They held the rigid discipline of a true force.

"Yeah," Emily said. This time a tear rolled down her cheek, and she didn't stop it. "I'll set you up just the way he did."

Major Action nodded. "Thank you. The trek up the wall has been a trial for my boys. I can say for all of them," he waved his hand towards his men, "we're honoured to serve."

From then on, Emily placed the soldiers on the windowsill every night to keep their watch. She thanked them, just the way Seb did when he used to set them up for her. She always felt that little bit safer knowing that even though her brother was gone, Sebastian's Bastion was right there watching over her.

Seraph's Chosen - Episode 2: What is Out There?

 The sword dipped under his guard and landed strong against the padding on his ribs. Castile wheezed and dropped to one knee, having been struck far more than the average day. His opponent was Berenger, a Gloried, albeit a slight, young one. Castile outweighed him by a couple dozen pounds, most likely. He had always been on the heavier side, with a layer of fat concealing a reasonable amount of muscle that made him stronger than he appeared. On most days, he would have swung his weapon with enough strength to keep the smaller man off balance through brute force if not through skill, but the day was not his. Focus was required in the sparring circles, a small arena behind the main hall used for the demonstration and skill acquisition of the fighting arts, and today that was what he lacked.

While he was desperate to concentrate on the task at hand, he could do little to ward off his attention drifting to the gates opening to the outside world. Fanciful thoughts of heroics and exploration flooded his mind, and every time he failed in blocking it out, he’d find the end of Berenger’s weapons instead. His injured rib cage was a testament to his fading concentration.

“Do you wish for a moment?” Berenger asked in a high voice. By the angels, he was more of a boy than a man. Shame coloured Castile's face.

“No, no, I can...” Castile pushed himself to his feet and felt just how hard those last few blows had landed. “Perhaps I do,” he said, returning again to one knee. He needed water, desperately. The day was unseasonably hot, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead and rolled into his thin, patchy beard. The sun was unforgiving for a task such as sparring, and the heat was taking a heavy toll, even with the positioning of the arena. Placed near the back of the church, it overlooked the water and the steep cliffs beyond, allowing the sea air to chill them as they practiced. However, it could only do so much. The leathers meant to protect him were also cooking him alive. Rolling over onto his back, he tried to at least catch his breath if he couldn’t escape the heat.

Looking dreamily up to the sky, he closed out the sounds around him - the standard grunts of exertion and pain mixed with the clashing of weapons. The blue sky changed not in the slightest, but in his mind he was looking at it from another place, one far outside the gates and unbeknownst to him. Castile charged, defeating all manner of beasts and demons and wretched people that would stand in the way of the angels and the Seraph's Chosen, all in his mind's eye. The Preacher class, purple-robed men of calm and wisdom, typically older men who had moved on from the days of fighting, had long taught him of the heroics of past members of the order. Like many young monks, he longed to one day be named amongst those heroes. Of course, the Preachers would also warn him of the dangers of foolish pride.

Whispers brought him back. Two men were talking quietly, and one word in particular caught his interest; “Uriel.” The Gloried he had spoken with in the hall just a few days before. Still pretending to lay absent-mindedly in the field, he tilted his head towards them as they sat and recovered from their own sparring. Castile could hardly see them from his position, but that didn’t matter so long as he could hear them. He knew it was wrong to listen in when he shouldn't, and for that he felt ashamed, but talk of Uriel meant talk of someone with experience of life beyond the gates. It was not something he could afford to miss.

“...says the king's men are coming, and I for one believe him,” came a voice of an older man.

“Agh, I don't know...” came a lower voice than the last. “What interest would they have here? They haven't come our way in years. Too busy pilfering the peasants is what they're doing.”

“Well, that's just it. Seems a few of 'em might be getting tired of the king-sanctioned thievery, and they're looking to play it straight. I know, I'll believe it when I see it...” he said, trailing off.

“Anything to get the gates open,” the man grumbled, keeping his voice down so low Castile could hardly hear it.

“I hear that. I’d ask him about it myself, but they took him in for questioning on the world outside, and I haven’t seen him around since. Lots to catch up on, I suppose.”

For Castile, it was reassuring that he wasn't the only one that wished the gates to open. For a moment, he considered asking them to reveal more of what they've heard passed through the grapevine, but thought better of it. Best to keep looking up at the clear skies and hoping. That is, until a hand waved in front of his vision.

“Another round?” Berenger asked.

“Another round.” He grabbed his hand and accepted the help up, knowing that if indeed the gates were opened someday it would be best to be physically prepared for whatever mysteries are out there. They grabbed their weapons and returned to the circle, but before they began their sparring session Castile couldn’t help but voice what he’d been thinking about. “Why don't we know what's out there?” he asked, thinking it best to clear his mind before making a fool of himself again.

Berenger looked taken aback. “Where'd that come from?”

“Don't pretend you haven't wondered about it yourself.”

“I have,” he conceded. “But not much point to it. Might be that they don't know what's out there themselves, just that there's something wrong and it's best to shield ourselves from it rather than find ourselves prey to it.”

“So we hide in here until all the world falls apart?” Castile spat, frustrated at hearing the same line of defence that had come from so many in the church.

Berenger held up his hands. “What do you want from me? I'm a Gloried. They point me at what to fight, I fight it. And if they don’t point, well… I wait until they do.”

Almost matching in time with his last word, the bells from the main hall began to toll. Immediately, Castile wondered if he had fallen asleep while looking lazily to the sky, and had missed much of the training session. So accustomed to the sound, he had assumed it had just rang once, as was common to signify the change in scheduled duties. It slowly dawned on him and his partner that this time, it was three. Immediately, Berenger ran for the Commons, a meeting ground of all the castes that lie between their separate lodgings. The last time three tolls were sounded was when the gates were closed. Castile didn’t know in what way, but he knew their world was about to change drastically.

The Commons was simple, spartan architecture, as were all the locations built specially for the monks. Uncomfortable stone seating encircled a larger central platform, each section belonging to a caste, each behind their respective leaders. He sat with his fellow Harbingers. Dietrich, their leader after having risen to the rank of Exalted, was already there ahead of him. His large moustache hid any hint of emotion upon his face. Claw marks from wild animals tamed or defeated in the wilderness marked every revealed part of his body. Still, he was a comforting presence. The leaders were the embodiment of what each caste was meant to be. Dietrich was a man Castile looked up to and idolised.

However, he was not the one they had all come to see. That belonged to the head of the whole order. It was the True who stood at the front upon the platform, the direct link from humanity to the angels themselves. As was common for the monks, he wore nothing particularly beyond the ordinary. Average clothes, stained with the dirt and sweat of working in the fields. The only piece that distinguished him as the leader of the order was his immaculate shoulder ribbon, similar to Castile's in size and material, and differing only in that it was the purest white. It was blessed by the angels themselves long ago, preventing any dirt and grime that could sour its appearance. But even that was not what made the man such a startling figure.

His image was almost a caricature of the triumphant, noble hero. Somehow, his look of extreme confidence – a jetting chin, rigid posture, the intensity of his gaze – took nothing from his air of humility. His smile was still gentle and warm, his features strong but not unwelcoming. His position was well-earned, and his presence here reminded those in attendance that while their situation looked bleak, there was always a strong hand at the helm. Elias, the True – the representation of the best of their order.

“Seraph's Chosen,” he called, quieting the crowd instantly. His voice sounded hardly beyond a whisper, as if speaking to each member directly. Castile casually wondered if it was also enhanced by some angelic gift bestowed upon him. “My people.” He smiled, dimples

crossing his cheeks. “It has been so long now, having been sequestered within our gates. You've shown patience and resolve, calm and belief. All this built on faith in the church's word that a great evil has taken hold of the land beyond. Faith in what I’ve put forth to you. For that, I thank you, for your resolve and your stoicism.”

Castile looked to his left and right, seeing Gloried rapping large fists on their chests and Menders nodding their quiet agreement. This was what Uriel didn't understand; the church was indivisible, indomitable. Why keep the gates closed when no evil could ever penetrate these walls? Not with the angel’s own earthly force protecting it as a cohesive unit.

“I have long ago made the decision to lock the entrance to the church, to block those that would harm us from ever doing so. I did this because I, myself, did not yet understand the truth. The world around us was changing, but I was unsure how. I know better now of the world beyond the gates.” He turned solemn, quieter. “Take heart - the news will not be easy to hear.”

Castile's jaw slackened. His heart pounded ceaselessly in his chest, so strong he

felt it could burst from beneath the bone. This was it. He was to learn all of what he had been longing to know.

The True, if crestfallen, still appeared resolute. “A great evil has taken hold across many of the farms, towns, and – I fear – Ulrich itself.” Whispers and gulps came from the crowd, but settled quickly. Ulrich was the largest city in the area, a beacon of commerce and immensely powerful. To have it fall to whatever evil the True spoke of was dire indeed. “But sadly, that is not all I have to report. It is the nature of the evil that concerns me so. Seraph's Chosen, hear me now, for you'll remember this moment for the rest of your time, as it may be the ultimate call of our order.” He took a deep breath. Not a sound could be heard across the whole of the stone circle. “I have reason to believe demons have returned to this realm.”

Gasps erupted from the crowd, and from the faint of heart came screams. The Gloried, and any others who were able-bodied and full of righteous fury, yelled in anger, but at what or whom even they surely did not know. A few reflexively grabbed for weapons they could not find; others buried their heads in their hands. Castile, meanwhile, was unsure on how to feel.

Demons were legendary creatures, as wretched and horrifying as the angels are tranquil and harmonious. The ancient texts warned of their coming when man had pushed too far in the continuum of good and evil towards the latter side, spawning them as a physical manifestation of their bloodlust or greed, lust or envy. When let loose upon the world, they tempt those weak enough to hear them with artifacts and relics of great power, similar to that of the angels but tainted with a terrible, demonic presence. The Seraph's Chosen had earned and cherished gifts from the angels, and had sought out and cleansed many of those relics, a main task of their order. Truly, the return of demons was dire indeed.

A sense of fear welled deep in his heart, but he found his fists clenched in anticipation. A name for himself was there to be had. Through great trials, opportunity. While those around him howled their displeasure in one manner or another, Castile sat in uncharacteristic quiet, a strange mix of fear and excitement.

“Hold, now,” came the True's calming voice. He raised his arms and lowered them for calm, and a return to the quiet the monks cherish and respect. Normally, the True would chastise them for such an outburst, but few could be expected to hold their tongue at such a time. “All is not lost. For those of you that feel fear of these demons, remember the light within your hearts. It is our duty to combat them, through the deeds of the angels or with the spear and shield of justice. The world has shifted to evil, yes – otherwise the demons would not be among us today - but we hope only slightly. It is our role to turn it back. From within these gates, we cannot do so. Too long have we been separated from the outside world. It is time we ventured out once more, to be the bringers of goodwill again.” He surveyed the crowd, those intense eyes seemingly transfixed on each individual as they passed from side to side, vigilant. “Our enemies are strong, but we are stronger still!”

“Angels watch!” Dietrich, the head of the Harbingers, called out from the front of the row of steps before Castile. To see him yell out unprompted was so out of the norm, especially for one of the Exalted, yet it filled Castile with a zealous pride. A few called after him as well, and the True had to wait for the crowd to gather their senses before he could continue. The suddenly quiet Harbinger could only muster a soft “angels watch” under his breath, so transfixed on the incredible, suddenly bellicose event.

“While I am blessed to have such fervorous, willing members of this order by my side, I am further pleased to announce that we need not worry of battling these wretches alone. One of our own, the Gloried by the name of Uriel, has made contact with a handful of king's guards that are still loyal to the righteous path. Seasoned warriors all, they will help us bring order and justice to these lands plagued by the evils of the world. Exalted! Don your finest. The rest, from the Menders to the Gloried, find what weapons you can. Meet us at the gates at dusk, as our new brothers in arms mean to leave their patrols en masse and join us. We should hope to look our best. A show of strength will bolster their hearts.” Through this all, the True looked calm and composed. He reminded them all of what they aspired to be. “We must be the guiding light through these dark times.”

He left his small, stone platform, composed and assured. The rest scattered this way and that, looking to be as formal – and as military – as they could. The Exalted hurried to don their finest armour, passed down from ages before. The rest just took what they could; a few just grabbed their sharpest farming tools and heaviest clothing, as there wasn't even so much as enough training swords for all of them. The defense of the church had always been threefold: a strict regimen of training, combat and survival; the obvious wall that lined its border; and just as importantly, a rare need for any of it. The land was of no great worth, and a siege on a church would label the attacker an enemy of all that was good.

But demons cared little for what was good.

Seraph's Chosen - Episode 1: Safe Inside

The ramparts were high and the view stretched far, but still there was no sign of the terrors promised beyond their gates. The small, distant farms looked nothing out of the ordinary, bathed in gentle moonlight as they were, its inhabitants taking their well-earned rest. The forests were sleepy beyond the gentle rustling of animals. From the sight of his perch, all seemed well. The only sign came from when the wind turned. There was a stench from beyond the wall, an odour of death that told the truth of what lay past the comfort of the church.

Fortunately for Castile, the wind today was from the east, carrying with it the salt of the sea air from the waters at their back, cold and bitter but far more appealing than the miasma when it blew in from the western fields beyond the gates. If it wasn't for the cold it would be a beautiful night, a far cry from what the other monks had warned him of. Castile had heard rumours of patrols seeing figures in the trees, just as dusk was fading into the night's darkness. A few would go as far as to say they heard screams cutting in between gusts of wind. He brushed them off as overactive imaginations; long patrols play tricks on the mind after a few hours, as waking the next morning after some sort of excitement is a far better tale than a night of empty searching. A cry in the night is just the wind through a crack in the wall, and a skulking figure is just the moon's light on the shifting branches, making shadows into monsters.

Castile saw the land beyond in a different manner, not as a source of fear, but a promise. Glory and adventure lay out there somewhere. The voice of the wind through the forest urged him to bring his cunning and skills to tame it. He could almost hear his name through the branches. Come, it called, make a name for yourself! Do as you were trained to do! But, he was stuck on the wall. A waste as a Harbinger, an insult to his caste. His entire order, all of the Seraph's Chosen, was founded on the premise of going forth into the unknown and bringing the word of the angels to all that would listen and justice to those that wouldn't. His ruminations caused him to adjust the green ribbon that was draped across his shoulders, the identifying mark of the Harbingers, reminding himself that patience was a demand of the angels. In time, the church would open the gates once more and return the world to one of peace. When they did, he was certain he'd be the tip of the spear. Until then, he would walk the walls dutifully.

The wind picked up. The wool he wore was thinning terribly, and he shivered atop the ramparts. He cupped his hands over his mouth, blowing warm air in. "Soon," he muttered. The wind was so wretchedly cold, twisting in the striped branches to whisper its challenge again.

"Castile!" His body shot up sharply at the suddenness of the call. His hands, still cupped near his mouth, popped into his nose. "Didn't mean to scare you, lad. Wanted to let you know your shift's over. They've got some water boiling inside the main hall if you looking for tea."

Castile didn't recognize the man, covered as he was for the weather, far more appropriately than himself. But that mattered little. His hands were near frozen and the prospect not only of a hot cup of tea but getting away from the strange mix of forbidding and inviting the land outside promised.

"Thank you," Castile replied. "Angels watch."

"Angels watch," the man returned with the traditional greeting and farewell. Encouragement in one sense, but just as much a demand of obedience. Castile hurried down the path, descending the cold stone stairs of the ramparts, into the gardens of the courtyard.

The church's gardens were vast and plentiful, the result of countless hours of labour from the monks within. Designed to feed any that would come through their gates, regardless of station or pay, they required constant tending and backbreaking effort. Even the True, the church's highest position and the direct correspondent to the angels themselves was seen tending the garden as often as any other. Only the old and enfeebled were relieved of the duty.

Castile would normally look upon it with pride; a sign of their order's devotion to the populace, a refuge for the poor, the needy and the sick. In the past, they had opened their gates to anyone in need. It was so different now. While it still maintained its incredible bounty, fruit lay fallen in piles around the plants, unused due to the monks' recent isolation. Those seeking food or shelter were turned away to prevent the flow of evil that was overcoming the outside world to find its way into the sacred halls within the gates. The smell of rot from the uncollected fruit made his stomach churn. Much of it had been thrown over the side of the gates, too afraid as they were to even walk out of spitting distance of the entrance to leave it far enough away so not to smell. He was relieved to be past it when he arrived at the hall.

The building never ceased to amaze him, a testament to the wonders his order could achieve. Towering spires, built to reach towards the heavens themselves. They stood so tall one wonders if they reach them. Stained glass adorned each window; stunning, elaborate pieces, depicting the greatest deeds of each of the church's castes with colours to match that of the shoulder sashes that identify them. Castile's, the Harbingers, depicted an explorer overlooking a vast expanse of nature spotted with settlements, all cast in a variety of shades of green. The explorer was one of the early members of the Exalted, a group consisting of the most respected member of each of the castes. They were the ones that made the decisions for the church, along with the final say in matters from the True, who stood above them all. Castile gritted his teeth at finding no such opportunity to reach such glories, sequestered as he was within the walls. A world to explore, and he found himself caged. He shook his head and went inside. The tea would grow cold if he didn't hurry.

With the gates closed, the silence of the rest of the church had absorbed the hall just the same as the seas would a sinking ship. Candles were still lit to brighten the hall to the very end as if a wave of guests would suddenly arrive. Old habits. He sat at the first set of empty tables, pulling back a chair. It echoed as it scraped, reminding him of just how quiet the place was without the scores of the hungry coming through for a meal.

It wasn't long before a small cup was placed delicately at his side, steaming and smelling sweet. A young woman had delivered the tea. He recognized her, but only in passing; the men and women were often separated, not by any strict doctrine but by the nature of the caste system. She was about to leave when Castile spoke to her.

"Have Menders delivering drinks now, do we?" Castile asked rhetorically, pointing to her red hood. It was a symbol of her caste, belonging to the group of women that dealt with the wounded or ill. "No one to care for anymore?"

The woman pursed her lips. "Afraid not. Nothing much else for me to do."

Castile nodded solemnly. "You're not alone." The echo in the hall mocked the statement.

"Could be worse, couldn't it? If we let the gates open, there's no telling what would enter." She nodded to him and turned to leave. "Angels watch."

"Ain't wrong, that one," came a third voice from behind him. Castile suppressed a start, embarrassed as he was for how effectively the man snuck up on him. The newcomer was well past his youth but not far past his prime. Corded muscles covered his powerful form. He looked very much like a man that had been in many fights and won only most of them. His face was deeply tanned and heavily scarred, all the way up to his bare scalp that carried a few knocks of its own. Around his shoulders hung a gold ribbon. A Gloried. The revered caste of the warriors.

The man looked every bit the part. Castile, on the contrary, looked soft and boyish still, larger than the average man but lacking definition. His round face and natural exuberance led him to more than a few jokes at his expense.

The Gloried leaned back in his seat and stretched. "Plenty of nastiness out there. Certainly wasn't easy to get back here, either. With the gates closed, I had to climb up one of the refuse heaps on the north side just to find my way. Not the most pleasant welcome! Now I'm not sure they even so much as want me back." He grunted. "Apologies - politeness. What's your name, son?" He hopped up next to him on the long table's bench, stepping with incredible grace in spite of his large form.

"Castile," the Harbinger welcomed, hoping he didn't look too caught off guard. It was unusual to see a man he didn't recognize. "Angels watch."

"Angels watch, friend. Call me Uriel." The community of the church was small, consisting of only a few hundred. The different castes tended to stay almost exclusively within their own, as well. Knowing faces was more common than knowing names outside their own. The warrior read Castile's expression and smiled. "I've been gone a while. Just came back tonight. Thought I'd stop in for a cup of tea before I reported to the Gloried hall."

Castile worked to contain himself, suppressing the excitement building in him. "Gone a while" could only mean one thing. Recognizing he might find some answers, he put on a vain attempt at nonchalance. "How is it outside of the gates?"

"Ahh, well, thing is when you're out there you can go for ages and only see a piece. Places we get sent to," he said tapping his gold ribbon, "they're the rough parts. Couple nice places on the way, but the destination is always rough. Menders come too, take care of the wounded and all, and in the places we go, there are plenty. Sights you see there you don't want to see twice. And that's just for what's close; I wasn't stationed far from here, and the further you get from the church, the worse it is, from what I've heard."

Castile nodded. "Who was doing the fighting, then?"

"Same old, same old," Uriel muttered, suddenly looking a touch more weathered than he had. "King's men come to some farm that isn't paying their dues, they say they can't pay, in come the cavalry to set an example... been happening for a while now."

Castile nodded again, but this time mostly in trying not to reveal his ignorance. "But... who'd you fight for then? Which side?"

Uriel smiled, patting him on the back. "Just trying to stop 'em from killin' each other. Put me in between a couple lads and maybe it's no longer swords they're swinging but rather just some nasty words."

Fascinated and confused, Castile kept probing. There was so much he didn't know, and while he was wary of frustrating his new companion, he couldn't help himself but to keep asking. "So who wins then? If you're just stopping the fighting, who pays?"

Uriel exhaled, making his massive frame slightly smaller. He didn't only look tired now, but surely was. "King always wins. Might not be right, but he does. We do our jobs and the outcome's the same but with no bloodshed. Almost feels like we're in his employ sometimes, even if it doesn't sit quite right with the lot of us. But when you can't make things right, you make it as right as you can."

"That's not good enough," Castile said, raising his voice. It echoed slightly, reminding him of where and who he was. If there were heads to turn in the forgotten hall, they would have. He lowered his voice and regained his composure. "You've got to fight to make it right to the very end! How can you just give up on them? On your caste? Your calling?"

Uriel pointed a meaty finger in Castile's direction. "You watch yourself with that talk, boy. You've got no idea. No idea at all. Might learn soon enough, if the gates are opening again..."

"What do you mean?" Castile said, almost out of his seat, shaking his cup of tea he had all but forgotten about, enough to spill some into the saucer beneath his cup.

"Why do you think we've got 'em closed?" Uriel asked, suddenly far more gruff and unfriendly than he had been before. His first conversations back from whatever expedition he had ventured on was turning out to be not as amiable as he had hoped. "There's something out there, and it's not looking good. People going mad, by the looks of it. When the king's army came... I don't know. Even some of the people in the towns. They're different, something about them makes me uncomfortable. Some of the stories I've heard..." He looked off towards nothing in particular before finding himself again. "Listen. We're trying to block it out so it doesn't take us, too." All this Castile knew, but he thought better of pointing it out. It was all the church could speak of as of late.

"Word is a few of the king's men that see it for what it is are coming to serve here, knowing this is the last bastion of what's right in this land," Uriel continued. "At some point we've got to try to take the fight to them, and with a few of the king's guard on our side there might be no better chance. Can't say I've heard there're more than a hundred, though. Seem pretty scattered as it is. Likely don't even know each other exist. A few of the good ones, they were the ones that convinced me to come back here. Said they'd do their best to fix things, and even though it was the king's men that were causing a lot of the trouble, I couldn't help but believe those lads. Good men, those ones. I hope they find their way here."

"Then when they come we can use them to find others! That could be our chance," Castile said, this time literally out of his seat. "We've to go out and cleanse it of whatever force is taking the goodness from this land, and if we have some of the king's men by our side, all the better!"

"That's the plan. But don't get your hopes up."

"How could I not?" The question was genuine.

"The world out there... there's a reason we closed our gates. There's a darkness that's taken things. And for all the light that's here, I don't see it as enough to brighten all the dark." Castile was taken aback, bothered by his statement. "We're the Seraph's Chosen," he spoke with passion, invoking the name of their church's order. "We're indomitable! Our church - our home - has stood for centuries, and, angel's watch, we'll see it thrive for ages more!" Seeing no strong reaction in what was meant to be a rousing speech, he pushed his point. "Then why open the gates at all, if it's so hopeless?"

Castile regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. He was sorely testing his luck, as was typical for him, his impulses so often triumphing over his better judgement. "When you can't make things right, you make it as right as you can." Uriel turned his heavy shoulder, strongly implying he was through with the conversation that had weighed on him far more than he had hoped it would. The woman returned and gave him a cup of tea. He thanked her. Turning back, he gave one final, grumbled warning. "Lad, you just don't know what you're speaking of."

That much was true. Castile knew little of the outside world. The leader of the Harbingers prepared him and the rest of his caste for living according to what the land provided, but what that land was was still mostly unknown to him. Early years are spent within the church walls, and as he came of age to leave, the gates were shut. The Exalted were strangely quiet on this matter, assuring the church the gates would be open soon and to remain calm, but that message had been ringing for what felt like ages.

"Tell me of it, then," Castile asked.

Uriel sighed. "I don't have much else to tell. The Exalted are trying to find what to do, but I don't think even the True has seen the likes of it. You want those gates opened, but that's only because you haven't seen what's beyond them. Things I saw, I can't explain them." There was a pain in his eyes, even a fear, that was deeply, truly disconcerting. It was a testament to Castile's beliefs that he almost immediately overlooked it. He could hardly get his thoughts straight. The gates may open soon, his greatest hope since the day of his youth when he had seen them closed. But for a man of Uriel's strength and experience to be so shaken and defeated...

What was it on the other side?

They both went quiet, collecting their thoughts. They heard the echoing sounds of clashing steel ringing from somewhere beyond the hollow chamber. Both the men and women would train in warfare, even though only the men were a part of the warrior, Gloried class. Each role, from the spiritual healers to the True himself, would train in arms. Young, old, male, female, weak, strong; he'd sparred with them all, saw victories and defeats. The ribbons marked only specialities and general directions. From many hours in combat training himself, the connecting metal was strangely comforting, reminding him that while Uriel made things sound bleak, it was abundantly clear the warrior did not understand the sheer battle prowess of the members of the church.

"Hear that?" Castile asked. "Maybe we're more ready than-"

"I'm through talking. You've no idea, no bloody idea..." he muttered to himself.

Castile had indeed overstayed his welcome. The clashing swords mixed with the clinking of glasses of tea in the otherwise silent hall. After finishing his drink, Castile returned the cup to the Mender and gave a respectful thank you.

Castile went to leave and thanked Uriel for his time. He received only a half-hearted mutter in reply. On the way out of the hall, two stern Cleansers - orange-hooded women dedicated to ridding the land of all things unworthy of the angels - passed by him. They strode immediately up to Uriel and demanded he come with them. When he didn't move, they placed their hands under his arms to usher him out. The act struck Castile as unusual. To use force in the church is a clear path to harsh punishments. Also, with Uriel's size and strength, it was fighting a losing battle. He pulled his arms away from them and took another sip of his tea before finally acquiescing.

While returning to his quarters, he wished only to throw open the gates and to challenge it, whatever it may be, sword and shield in hand. Uriel was wrong. The church is full of soldiers, healers, and brave leaders, each carrying the favour of the very angels in the heavens themselves! Whatever force is corrupting the lands around them, the Seraph's Chosen were the cure. Their might and their will would hold.

If only the gates would open.