Wreath of Lilies, Cauldron of Poison

Interlude 5

Candle in Daylight

(Part 1)

It was late in the evening and the sky had grown dark. And in the dull and grey forest, it was more prominent.

A man was sitting on a rock with a small fire burning in front of him, with chunks of meats stuck on branches surrounding it. The fire cast shadows against the trees surrounding him.

The fire provided reprieve from the cold, but also attracted dark things that prowl in the night. As evidenced by the corpses of a pack of grey wolves around the camp. One of the bodies belonged to a giant wolf the size of a house, with iron-hard claws and fangs and eyes that glowed yellow in the dark. If one would submit it as a quest, it would take no less than a B Rank Party to finish it. And that did not count the 30 strong pack it led.

But now they were naught but dead bodies, strewn along the ground as if they were trash. The man did not even bother with extracting the Essence Crystals as they were worthless to him. To him, it held less worth than the meats and sweetmeats now grilling on the fire.

The man looked gaunt, with stubbles around his chin. He wore a Hunter’s cloak and leather armor which had seen better days. On his side was a staff made of wood with tips made of steel. On one end was a spiky contrivance that held a deep blue crystal which held lightning within.

He had not seen fruit for the longest time and his gums had started to bleed, so he grilled the giant wolf’s heart and feasted on it with relish.

After dinner, he erected a barrier to keep out the monsters with a magical tool from his Item Ring and went to sleep on the bare ground to keep himself alert. Blanketed by the stars in the sky.

This man had no name, instead he had a number. And he was No.1789.

For convenience, if people asked him his name, he would answer with the name “Rida”. It was name of little consequence and little meaning. For what was important was that number, just as many who belonged to L’asile des Fous.

“Hrrgh,” Rida groaned, slightly regretting the follies of his desire. The thing that led him to go on a wild goose chase to search for a legend. A story.

A legend by the name of Hasenaddin.

Hasenaddin, the Eternal King of the Uradin, the Great City of the Dwarves located beneath the Sacred Mountain of the same name; said to be raised by the hands of Mydirr himself.

He was a Hero before there was any concept of a Hero. Before the Gods see fit to bestow the Art of Hero Summoning to the Races. Before Grea knew of the existence of Demons.

He was more powerful and more righteous than any Hero after him. A man worthy of his status, by deeds and by honor.

In the age before the Age of Heroes, he ruled Uradin with great wisdom and kindness, creating a golden age for the Dwarves. He had fought against those who seek to enter the Sacred Mountain for ill-gotten gains and greed. Men who seek the Blessed Metal, The Gift of Mydirr the Sightless, God of Lightning and Thunder.

A most precious metal now named Mydirrite.

His legends were many, but none described the same person. In one, he was an old man wielding a fiery cane. In another, he was a dark-skinned Dwarf with arms so powerful he could hammer Mydirrite with them. And in another still, he was not a man, but an infernal apparition wearing the skin of a man twice the size of normal human. The latter mostly being told by his enemies.

The truth had been embellished and added on for so many times that no one living now, knew who or what Hasenaddin really was. Or how he looked like or even what race he as.

But one thing that Rida remembered reading was that he died of old age, never knowing defeat. And at the time of his passing, the Sacred Mountain mourned him. It mourned him with tears of molten rocks and groans of ash-filled sky. His subjects all shaved their beards in despair and held a 3 months long wake.

The body was embalmed through the secret methods of the Elves, as they had owed him a great debt. And the Dwarves worshipped him as highly as they worshipped Mydirr. In his honor, they called him their Eternal King. And from then on, their ruler did not have the title King, only Regents.

It was a good story. One told to children to ease their sleep. To give them good dreams. To teach them of the proud history of their people.

So how did he end up sleeping in the middle of a forest in pursuit of this long dead Hero who only appeared in such stories?

Because sometimes, stories do not die.

Rida contemplated his poor choice but did not find it in himself to regret the choice he made.

The object of his desire, Le Fou was not a young woman, though she wore the skin of one. Which was very normal, as her kind was mostly indifferent to age.

He knew that already. And yet he still accepted the bet.

Because he wanted her. He wanted to suckle at the teat of the beautiful beast and be engulfed in the heat of her flesh. He knew that he had an abysmally small chance, but still he needed to take the risk.

His friends - especially No.1994, a charming Beastfolk with half an antler - had scolded him for his decision. But the bet was made and officiated, so they could do nothing but kept his vigil. No.1822 - a quiet young Elf - even made him a stone obituary, complete with his bust on top. Which was rather morbid.

Though he had to admit, his handiwork would shame even a Master Sculptor.

With friends like that…the man chuckled.

“For now, I should at least have a shut-eye.”

Tomorrow he would break his fast early. With three pieces of the leftover meat and a mouthful off stiff drink. And then he would continue his search.

With that in mind, he turned to sleep.

It was not even a minute later, when suddenly, a flight of bats disturbed the forest.

“Hmm?”

The Mana around him suddenly began to ebb and webbed as if something was disturbing it.

And then, he saw it. A shaft of light came over the forests. It was dim, but where it passed, trees burst into flame and exploded from the heat.

“BARRIER!!” Rida shouted in terror. He stabbed his staff into the ground and erected a wall of white light. A blast of hot air blistered through the forest, destroying his camp.

When he finally let go of his magic, his face was pale and he retched and spat, holding hi suddenly aching head. “By the fires of Sud-Ghazid!! What was that?!”

The light burned and consumed, burning Mana where it went. The slight taste of ash still lingered at the tip of his palate.

Rida licked his lips and after a moment of thought, proceeded to follow the direction of that beam.

For he was indeed a Fool.

Two and a half day’s journey later, Rida found that he was starting to lose his sense reality.

No, he was not going crazy, he was sure of that. It was because he had spent most of the hours wrapped in eerie silence. Ever since he left the camp on the second day he found that he had not heard any sound except for his foot against the ground and the occasional whisper of the wind.

The sun was shining bright and the cloud was merrily floating about in the sky. And yet there was no chirping of birds, no distant sound of animals, not even monsters.

It was like he was alone in this world. A world of painted silence.

“Keep it together Rida. It’s just the Mana making you sick,” he whispered to himself.

And then he saw something. Something unbelievable. He took out a map and opened it brusquely.

“This isn’t right,” he peered closer at his map and found that there was indeed something not right here. “That’s supposed to be empty land!”

His eyes gazed at the magnificent mountain of white before him “How is there a mountain there?!”

Rida was a curious man, as all Fools were, and marched forward. With great care.

When he finally arrived at the bottom of the mountain, he saw that it was not a normal mountain, and the mountain itself was not made of earth.

Gingerly he poked at the white ground with his staff. It felt solid. A toe now, and indeed it was solid. After that, he tried stepping on it and found that it was slippery. He almost fell forward but managed to stab his staff into the ground and kept his balance.

When he pulled the staff up, he found that although the ground was solid, the inside was brittle and bone white. He took a pinch of the ground and let it crumble between his fingers. He took a sniff and realized something.

“Wax...or tallow? No...this is wax,” His voice trailed off. “This whole mountain…is made of wax.”

By now a normal man would have ran away screaming in terror.

But Rida bit his lips and continued on, more cautious this time. For his curiosity now had reached its peak.

As he climbed on, a thought came to him. The mountain from this side looked like something out of the drawing of small children, drawn in a single movement. It had only one summit without any trees around. Just bare white all around.

The road was getting more treacherous now and he dug his feet deeper into the ground, etching foot holds using his shoes and staff until finally, an hour later he was halfway up the mountain.

And there he saw buildings.

Buildings that seemed as if they grew out of the mountain and then swallowed up by a torrent of wax. Their positions and shapes were highly unnatural and unnerving.

These were clearly constructs not made by human hand, the man thought. His fingers traced the pillar of one and he shivered for it felt slightly warm, as if it was alive.

Buildings that were nothing more than façades. And on them were statues. Hundreds of men and women of all races, on their knees and on their feet. As if they had become one with the white mountain, clambering up the smooth, white surface of the mountain. Compared to their bodies which were so lifelike, the faces were shoddy and rough, and some had no faces at all, being more like dribbles of tallow candle on ancient chandeliers.

He regretted his choice and felt that he should just descent down the strange mountain. No one would blame him.

Rida glanced back at the summit of the mountain, then down to the safety of the green grass and brown earth.

“…Le Fou. What will you choose if you were me?”

He asked himself, as if that would even make a difference.