The World Within the Web

by Lord Max

Chapter XXII: Yellow Eyes

Chapter XXII: Yellow Eyes

* * * * * *

Fingers reaching, yearning, sought

to seize men's feelings, wants, and thoughts.

Turning, burning, branding, bending,

distrust and rage, the Beast is sending.

The terror lives, and breeds to end

the love for neighbors, brothers, friends.

The masks they wore, he said with grace,

protect them with a falser face;

to hold the angry hate away,

and hide themselves from the Beast in the Bay.

“To hide yourself is the coward's way,

confront this beast!” I proudly say.

“Defeat this Beast Beneath the Bay,

you could be free from masks today!”

His glistening eyes stared for a spell,

“But you,” he said, “wear masks as well.

Confront the Beast? What could we do?

When you can't kill the Beast in you?”

— “The Land of Masks,” Stanzas V-VIII

* * * * * *

Golden Hammer Problem: Authority antipattern; when one assumes that their favored solution is universally applicable

* * * * * *

Staring out the window at the Dreamweave night, Lady Violet Brushshape’s face was lit up by moonlight, her expression firm, grave, and—underneath a neutral exterior—angry. If someone did not know her well, they likely wouldn’t be able to tell that, so well did she hide her displeasure behind decorum and grace. Proximo Hart knew her too closely to not have it figured out from the moment she learned of what happened.

If someone were very, very lacking in good sense, they might mistake her patience and lack of outward fury as the attitude of one that was uncaring, or overly calm, or easily pushed aside; that she was too formal, too humored, too polite to pose a threat. They couldn’t be more wrong, and knowing that was what made her assistant uneasy to see her in such a state. This will not be a pleasant conversation, he realized immediately.

“You know,” she said in an frigidly level tone, not looking away from the Mare Who Waits that hung in the sky outside, “there are some people that ask me why I never respond in kind to people that insult me. People like the Martes, for example, or Borlund Barr, whenever they call me ‘whore’ or some other rude word. I will admit, the temptation is certainly there. But do you know why I do not take up arms of mine own?” She did not wait for a response before she immediately continued. “Because I have heard it all before: every sordid accusation, every seething insult, every form of harassment in the Web, and it no longer surprises me. That is part of my job, I suppose, and my lot in life. I expect little from those who call themselves enemies, and thus I am rarely disappointed.”

“But I expect a great deal from my friends,” Violet calmly said. “They have never let me down, never really. They raise me up higher than I ever stood alone, make me stronger together than apart, brace my weaknesses and inspire my strengths. My friends make me who I am, and being at odds with a single one of them reduces me. I hope you understand, then, how painful it is for me to be so let down. To hear about something like this.” She cupped her face in one hand, long nails massaging her temples. “Honesty,” she continued, “what were you thinking?”

The Warden of Honesty stood, still and silent, in front of the door, visibly uncomfortable. He did not seem sure if he should speak. “We—"

“What were you thinking?” Lady Violet shouted angrily, rounding on the table behind her and slamming both open hands on it. Proximo jumped back at the noise, edging away in his chair, but she did not stop or notice. “Do you have even the slightest idea of the consequences for what you tried to do? Of what you were doing? Do you have the faintest clue at all?”

“The knight lied,” the Warden of Honesty replied, frowning. “Hurt friends. You said we needed his support to release them.”

“Oh, and this was the best way to get it?” Lady Brushshape demanded.

“Already tried asking nicely,” the Warden said. “Did not work. Man compelled by fear to rule against us. Threat would have moved him.”

“That is utter foolishness.”

“Would have worked,” the giant replied, sounding defensive. “Were we not interrupted.”

“I walked in and saw Sir Alwin, one of our judges who holds the fate of our friends in his hand, lifted against a wall and being strangled within an inch of his life,” Proximo cut in, angry himself. “What exactly did you expect would happen? That he would brush himself off, go down to the dungeon and let Dabrius and Greenglade walk free? Six save us, we’re lucky that it didn’t go any farther.”

“If Proximo hadn’t come, Sir Alwin might have been killed," the lady said. “Do you not understand that?” She wrenched out a chair, sat herself down, and rubbed her eyes wearily. “How could you do this?”

“Not difficult. He was alone, followed when asked. Poor training in combat, if any, thus—”

“That is not what I meant!” Lady Violet shouted. “Of all the brutish things… yes, what exactly were you expecting to happen once you were finished, hm? What was your goal here, again?”

“That friends be freed. No longer harmed,” the Warden said, sounding surprised that it needed explaining.

“Oh? And what would you have done if Sir Alwin did not follow your polite request?”

“We would have killed him,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Six save us, Honesty!” she gasped in horror. “Have you any idea what you’re saying?”

The ugly face of the Warden contorted in confusion, not seeming to understand. “You are upset,” he said. “Why?”

“Why? Why? Honesty,” she said in disbelief, “I am upset because you are admitting that you would murder a man in cold blood! One of our judges, no less, while on a diplomatic mission! Which is, if you recall, the exact thing our fandom is accused of doing! What do you think is going to happen when Sir Alwin tells the others what happened? They’ll see it as proof of our guilt!”

“Their thoughts irrelevant.”

“Wh— they’re completely relevant!” Lady Violet said, utter incredulity coming over her. “What they think is what decides if our friends come home, which is why we’re here to begin with. That is the exact definition of relevant!”

“Should not care what they think,” Honesty grunted. “They hurt our friends. Oppose the Collective. Insult it. Threaten it. Enemies, all. Why concerned for them?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think of them, Honesty, nor what they think of me. It is wrong to threaten and bully people, and it is wrong to think that dealing out death will solve our problems. Wrong, morally and logically and in every other way.”

“Only right is our friends,” the Warden said stiffly, “only wrong is harming them. Anyone that does, enemy.”

“You think that we are the only people in the world that deserve to be treated well?” Proximo asked gravely, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” the Warden replied. “Others oppose us. Oppose truth. Must be fought.”

“Do you see what I told you, my lady?” Proximo asked, exasperated. “What kind of person says things like this?”

“Not a person,” Honesty insisted. “This one is a device for removing threats. Our purpose. Our existence. Nothing else.” His golden eye looked down harshly at Proximo. “They imprison us. Torture us. Starve us. Lie to each other and us to ensure it continues. Insist on pain, without care. Not threats?”

“You’re picking out a small number and applying their crimes to a vast majority,” Lady Violet answered. “Yes, some of them do hate us, but that does not excuse your actions.”

“Not some,” the Warden responded curtly. “They attack us on false charges. Assault us in streets. Ban us. War against us. This one fought them since beginning. Outsiders lack virtue. Truth. Magic. Only understand force.”

“That is not true,” Violet said.

“Their lying, hatred, deceit, cruelty disproves your assertion. Have seen this since the Chan.”

“And I have seen a thousand more people in a hundred more places, Honesty,” the lady steadfastly replied. “And not just in war either, as you have. There are as many good people outside the fandom as in it, and if you were able to see the world in any terms aside from threats and potential threats you might understand that. This is not the Chan, and we are not at war.”

“Brutalized Greenglade, Dabrius Joh for weeks. Refused to stop. Every moment wasted another they are hurt. Another you are threatened. This one cannot abide.”

“This is the time for diplomacy. You cannot expect everything to happen all at once.”

“If method fails, alternative required,” he said. “Diplomacy failed. Has failed for weeks. New method necessary.”

“Idiocy is what it was,” Proximo remarked bitterly. “Is killing people the only thing you understand?”

“This one killed many in Chan,” he admitted neutrally, not seeming at all emotional about it. “Many since. It is necessary. Otherwise, friends killed instead.”

“Is that how you rationalize trying to murder an unarmed man?” Proximo demanded.

“Would not have had to kill him. But we do whatever necessary to protect others. Someone endangers them, we remove danger.”

“And those ‘others’ do not include Sir Alwin?”

The Warden frowned. “He endangered Greenglade and Dabrius. Lied to preserve their torture. Would not halt when asked by you,” he said to Violet. “Only our method left.”

“What method?” the lady asked. “This is a mission of peace, Honesty: violence is never an option.” She rubbed her temples. “I believe in the goodness of the Six and fandom every bit as much as you, but that has to be tempered by etiquette and respect.”

The Warden’s brow furrowed. “Not using all means to advance cause implies that there is higher thing than it. That friends are less good than something else. We cannot think this. Is doubt. Dishonest. A lie.”

“Honesty, there is something higher than our cause, and that is the ideals of the Six themselves. Do you really suppose that they would approve of what you tried to do?”

He seemed ready to respond all at once, but stopped for a brief moment. It was probably the only singular moment of hesitation that Proximo had ever seen from the brutish man, his single eye wavering just slightly. He looked at Lady Violet in confusion, but then stiffened. “They would not want friends hurt either. They oppose all evil. They are honest.”

“Honest, yes. But with common sense and compassion as well,” she insisted, staring him down. “Six save us, you have to be able to compromise!”

His mouth tightened. “Cannot.”

“Why?” Proximo asked, frustrated to no end with the insanity of it all. “Why not? Are you incapable of seeing reason at all, or just willfully ignoring it?” He stood up from his seat, facing the man opposite. “Why can’t you just set it aside and act like a damned human being?”

The Warden stared at Proximo, and for a moment did not answer. “Because this one was a damned human being. Now we are honesty. Chained this instrument to that principle. Cannot violate it—would destroy our only use. Would betray the reason we were created. Would betray the Six. Our friends. We cannot. Not ever.”

“Enough. Enough, I have heard enough,” Lady Violet said wearily. She cupped her face in her hands, seeming very tired. “With this… this folly, you have endangered the success of everything we are trying to accomplish here. And you have committed a great wrong.”

The look the Warden gave her was complete incomprehension, as though she were speaking another language entirely. “We… we do not understand,” he said slowly. “Do you not want friends freed?”

“Of course I do!” she shouted, slamming her hands down on the table. “I want them freed more than anything, but I will not stoop to such lows to do it.” She stood up suddenly, striding up right to the Warden of Honesty and glaring right at him. “What you have done is not our way, Honesty. It is never our way.You say you don’t understand? Then let me be clear. You have sworn to serve and honor and protect your friends? And to trust me, no matter what? Well I am telling you now that what you did was wrong. Can you reconcile that, or can you not?”

As freakishly tall and strong as the Warden of Honesty was, the Warden of Generosity seemed almost a match for him, in her fierceness. The one-eyed man did not have an answer. “You are telling the truth,” he finally said, much shaken.

Lady Violet narrowed her eyes. “Did you need to use that Sight of yours’ on me to tell?”

“No,” the Warden replied forcefully, but quietly. “We would never use it on you. You would never lie to us.”

She continued to stare him down, then closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “Honesty…” she began, her voice full of sadness.

Before she could say more, though, the Warden of Honesty suddenly stumbled back, catching himself just enough to keep his feet. He looked bleary and confused, as though some great mental weight was descending on him. “Don’t understand,” he slurred out as he tried to regain himself.

Lady Violet took a step towards him, concern crossing her face. “My friend?”

“Friend,” he repeated softly, before he collapsed.

His huge hand reached down to catch himself before he fell. His voice sounded oddly different, as though its rough and gravelly quality were being lifted off. Suddenly, both of his hands shot up to his head, clutching it tightly, as his face twisted in pain.

Gone were his ordinary stoicism and harshness: his features seemed were going through a wild litany of expressions, confusion then anger, sadness, rage, dumbfoundedness. Proximo had never seen the Warden act in such a way: it was like every feeling he refused to have was erupting up at once, breaching through a single moment of doubt to come flooding out—like he was fighting himself.

The Warden of Honesty twitched and roiled in silent pain, his armored hands digging into his head. He clenched himself tighter and cringed. Blood was dripping off his fingers as they dug into his flesh.

Violet looked at his in horror. “Honesty! Six save us, I— “

“Six save us,” her friend responded. His eye opened, and all at once he seemed to be himself again: his large hands went back down to his side, his voice returned to the way it usually was, his face turning to the same emotionless mask it always was, unmoved by the bloody marks now cut into his head. He closed his golden eye again, and inclined his head down, while Violet stared at him wide-eyed and afraid. “Must reconcile,” the Warden of Honesty said, sounding distant, far-removed. “Only one option.”

He drew out the sword at his belt.

Proximo instantly threw himself forward, determined to put himself between the madman and his lady… but as he did, the Warden of Honesty did not step forward to attack her. Instead, he fell down to his knee, the long and ugly blade shimmering in his hand in front of him.

Then he turned the point of the sword to his own neck.

“Stop!” Violet cried, holding his arm back with all her strength. “What are you doing?!”

The Warden did not open his eye, nor look up. “We do not understand,” he said calmly. “Our friends are always right. You are always right, and this one less than an insect compared to you. If you say we are wrong, we are wrong. But this one should have known what was right and wrong for friends. If it did not, then it failed.” Despite all of Lady Violet’s efforts, the razor-sharp edge was still directly touching the Warden’s neck. “We will kill it. Only way to correct mistake.”

"No,” Lady Violet shouted immediately. “Six save us, put that down! I forbid it, Honesty—do you hear me? I order you to stop!”

The Warden of Honesty complied without hesitation, taking the blade away from his neck. The look that he gave to Violet, however, was one of utter astonishment. “We disappointed you,” he said, baffled. “This one failed. Why do you still want this thing to live?”

Lady Violet looked down at the kneeling man with equal parts fear, anger, unease, and compassion. Going towards him slowly, hesitating just for a moment, she placed her hand on his massive shoulder. “Whatever mistakes you’ve made… it doesn’t change you being my friend,” she sighed. “How could you think I’d want you dead, Honesty?”

“We...we failed,” he answered, still not understanding. “Contradicted purpose. Utility exhausted. This instrument must be broken, to have failed you.”

Lady Violet shook her head. “You will not speak of doing that ever again, not as long as I live. Understand? Six save us, you need to start thinking of yourself as a person, Honesty, not some… some tool to be used!”

“That is all we are,” he replied softly.

She turned away. “My point exactly.” She traced her way back to her seat, almost collapsing into it. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” she admitted fearfully. “Sir Alwin will certainly tell his superiors what happened. Then they’ll come for you, my honest friend. What can be done?”

Violet seemed to sink just considering their options. Proximo did not speak, nor the Warden, his head bowed and his sword still gripped in his hands, the point resting on the ground. Silence filled the room. “Perhaps…” she began to say.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Violet shot to attention, frowning. “I said for you to wait down the hall, and that we were not to be disturbed.”

“Apologies, Lady-Warden,” came a woman’s muffled voice from the other side. “I do not mean to break conversation, but there are people here to be speaking with you.”

Proximo could see her heart fall. “The Moderators?” she asked gravely. The Warden of Honesty stood, and put away his weapon.

“No,” the woman replied.

“Then who—oh, come inside Jorama—who is it? Who would want us at this hour?”

One of the Honest Friends stepped gingerly inside, a dark skinned woman with a black braid of hair, one that Proximo recalled seeing earlier in the day. She tugged nervously at a gold scarf around her neck. “Is… is all well? We would not have come, but—" Her eyes widened upon seeing the Warden. “Lord-Warden!” she cried, staring at the cuts on his head. “Are you injured?”

“Fine,” he simply said. “Who comes?”

“Is it the Martes?” Violet asked. “One of ours? I swear if this is Withins-Bei again, I’ll—"

“No, Lady-Warden,” Jorama answered warily. She told them quietly who had arrived, uneasy as she said it.

The three of them looked between one another, with expressions ranging from confused to suspicious. “Send them in,” Lady Violet said at last, after some thought. “But Jorama?”

“Yes, Lady-Warden?”

“Stay nearby. I’ll call, if we need your help.”

Jorama stood in the doorway for a moment, not wishing to leave. Then, she nodded and stepped out. Some voices could be heard vaguely from the half-open entrance, voices that grew closer while shadows curled around the door. The pale yellow light of the Mare Who Waits streamed in from the window, casting a sickly saffron block of color on the opposite wall.

The door creaked, as a gloved hand pushed it open hastily, and in strode a strange figure. From head to toe, he was covered in dark, bound clothing, a baggy and ill-fitting shirt covered by a heavy vest. A black armband was tightly wrapped on one of his sleeves, and a winding patched cloth was draped from his left shoulder to the right side of his belt, colored dirty yellow. A hood covered his head, brown and shabby.

His face, however, was covered by a mask.

The visitor looked between the assembled Bronies, one to another. He paid particular notice to the Warden of Honesty, tilting his head at the giant, while the Warden returned the stare intensely. At last, after a long period of silence, the masked man half-bowed. “Good evening,” he said, a strange accent filling his words, one that Proximo could not recognize. The mask, however, he knew immediately.

The wooden face was a thing of considerable craftsmanship, with sections of brown and white wood cunningly fitted together without any noticeable seam or crack. The impression of it was smooth and rounded, aside from the bottom-most portion, where it sharply cut off in two jagged points, forming a gap from which the man’s mouth and chin could be seen. It was the only exposed patch of skin on his body: a very pale, very thin mouth, surrounded by unseemly, dirty stubble of brown hair on all sides. A film was over the eyes of the mask, a special kind of fabric that was easy to see through on one side but far more difficult on the other, meaning that they simply appeared to be black spaces to Proximo. Leading to both of these voids were bone white spirals and ivory dots, like dark whirlpools that made twirled rings of sea-foam.

The same anonymite from the ball, the assistant realized at once. The same one we noticed there, and who noticed us in turn. Hart rarely forgot a face, even when it was not really a face at all.

“Good evening to you as well,” Lady Brushshape said politely. “I’m afraid we have not been introduced.” She bowed, but kept her eyes on the Channic. “My name is Lady Violet Brushshape, Warden of Generosity, servant of the Brony Collective. To what do we owe this pleasure?” she asked, gauging his intentions.

“Business,” the anonymite replied, a smile appearing on what little of his face went uncovered, “the best kind.” It was an odd smile: not so much friendly as humored, like there was some joke he was aware of that no one else knew. “I have two others outside. I would like those in here as well.”

Lady Violet raised an eyebrow. “I hope that this isn’t some manner of trick.”

The anonymite chuckled. “The Chan is fond of them, true. But this is not one, you’ll find. I simply want to talk, Brony.”

Lady Violet looked to the Warden of Honesty, then gestured for the Channic to let his brethren in. The Warden moved closer to her and Proximo and further from the door, and two others came inside. The two muscled past one another as they pushed their way through the door.

The first was shorter than the others, and covered by a long mud-colored cloak that concealed most of their body—Proximo could not even seen their arms underneath, and only barely saw ragged clothes of dark purple and green behind a thin gap in the middle of it. Their mask resembled some terrified face: the whole thing was pale, but two huge white circles almost the size of grapefruits stood one on each side of the mask—the ‘eyes,’ with tiny black ‘pupils’ in the middle that likely served as the actual opticals. Three darks lines descended down from each of the eyes, like streaming tears, and the bottom of it was contorted to look like a screaming mouth. The small person wearing the unsettling image moved their way in first, head darting around rapidly as though to scan and see everything in the modest room.

The last Channic was bulky, broad in the shoulders, and possessing a huge chest that was tightly covered by a very dark red and black vest. Their giant, meaty hands were covered by gloves, while their mask was one of some snarling grotesque. It was made to resemble a ferocious animal of sorts: large, sharp tusks and teeth protruded from its roaring mouth, ragged strands of what looked like hair hung down the sides, and its pupils were thin slits like a tiger’s. They brought up the rear of the party, and crossed their log-like arms as they looked at the Bronies before them.

Without asking for permission, the lead anonymite strode up, pulled out a chair, and sat himself down. The one with the fearful mask did the same, after a moment of examining the seat carefully, while the animal-faced one stood stubbornly.

“I’m sorry to say,” Lady Violet said as they seated themselves, “that you have us at a disadvantage. We have not been acquainted, after all. I cannot say that I know your names.”

“You won’t, either,” snapped fear-mask. It was hard to tell, but Proximo was fairly sure that the scratchy, high-pitched voice of the one with the screaming face was a woman’s. The accent was entirely different from the other one’s, as well—rougher, and with less strange melody, more akin to something one would hear in a gutter. “Know our names? She is foolish, no?”

“My name is my own,” the leader said, ignoring his companion. “There are none alive worthy of it, either. However,” he said with a smile, “if you must call I and these something, this one,” he said with a gesture to the one sitting beside him, the probable woman, “can be called Syll.”

“A mask-name,” ‘Syll’ cut in. “Her real name is too great for you to understand.”

“Ignore her rambling,” said the leader anonymite. “This creature,” he gestured to the larger one, who still stood silently, “is called Boar. He is unimaginative in naming.”

‘Boar’ did not respond, simply staring down at Lady Violet, ugly mask looking uglier by the moment.

“And you?” Violet asked.

“Vaath,” the anonymite answered.

“Well, Mister Vaath, what can I— “

“Just Vaath,” he replied curtly. “There are no misters or lords or ladies in the Chan, horse-lover.”

“If we’re to insist upon names,” Lady Violet replied, “I shall call you by what you prefer if you use something other than that title for me.”

Vaath’s lips curled into a smirk. “Maybe you should have a thicker skin. In the Chan, your kind wears that name with pride. Their masks have bright eyes and bright colors, or else snouts and horns.”

She shrugged. “Thick skin I have, by my own biased reckoning. I’ve simply heard the insult a great deal recently—I’d enjoy a change of pace, Vaath.”

The anonymite laughed. “Very well, Brony."

“Changing yourself to demands of some horse-whore?” Syll said dourly, as though no one could hear her. “Ack, you stoop low, Vaath. Sir Vaath, perhaps? Will you gown in white?” She tilted her masked and veiled head at her companion.

“Quiet, fool,” Vaath answered harshly. “This flower is more fortunate than you, at least: no horse would be whore enough for Syll, hmm?”

Proximo could have sworn that Syll made a noise akin to hissing under her mask, but she said no more.

“Not that I don’t feel comfortable with all this,” Lady Violet said patiently, ignoring the insults, “but it seems to me that you three are a long way from home.” She leaned back calmly and steepled her fingers. “What would three anonymites of the Chan be doing in the Dreamweave of all places?”

“She inquires of me?” Syll croaked, her chest seeming to puff out a little under the cloak. “Be amazed then. Over many miles Syll came, across oceans and seas, past even the furthest reaches of your imagina—"

“I came by ship,” Vaath interrupted, seeming to delight in watching Syll seethe after doing so, “and these two followed. I and these sailed from Freewheel in Twicechan, some weeks ago. There are many ships in Twicechan these strange days.”

“I had heard as much,” Lady Brushshape said, intrigued. “They say Channic from the main isles are fleeing en masse. Political refugees fill the docks, or so I’ve been told.”

“They told well.” While Proximo could not see Vaath’s whole expression, his mouth tightened and scowled. “I and they are not Twicechannic by birth. Syll is from Vidchan, Boar from Greatchan, birthed in some Baysmouth gutter not worth knowing. I hail from Paulton, in Polchan, the greatest and most free land in all the Web, until now. Those as enlightened as myself—those few who could ever be—were forced to leave, to resist the Oppressed, and their puppet Moderators, and their puppet Mootking, may his false name be cursed by the Beast.”

In the back, stirring for the first time, the hulking Boar lifted his mask just slightly, and spat on the ground once he heard the word ‘Mootking.’ As Proximo wrinkled his nose at the disgusting gesture, Syll spoke up again. “Bah!” she growled. “You waste time, Vaath. These things know nothing of the ways of real people. They leave their faces out for others to see, as though others are worthy, the children. They will not understand my struggles.”

“There are horse-lovers among the Channic,” Vaath pointed out, again speaking as though there were no one else in the room that could hear them. “And this one,” he said with a gesture to the Warden of Honesty, “this one knows the Chan, I know. You are the Brony Warden of All Honesty, yes?”

“We are,” the Warden grunted, sounding uncomfortable.

In the back, Boar growled. Syll made a noise between a scoff and a screech as well, locking the giant, wide eyes of her mask on the Warden. “We? We?" she repeated like the word was somehow poisonous. “You hear the evil on the thing’s lips! Blackness, damnable slave of all speaks many not one, by his own choice he kills himself. Vaath is fool of fools and stupidity born human if he thinks this thing will comprehe—”

Vaath punched Syll across the ‘face,’ catching her off guard and knocking her out of her chair. Violet and Proximo stood up in surprise while the Warden moved his hand to his weapon, but Vaath moved no further, remaining in his chair in a state of mild disinterest as Syll picked herself back up, furious.

“I will kill you dead for that!” she hissed hatefully.

Vaath did not spare her a glance, and instead reached into his vest, and pulled out what looked like an empty hilt… but when he moved his thumb over it slightly, a long blade sprang out, ugly, twisted, honed and deadly sharp. He waved the knife lazily in front of her. “You will try,” he yawned, sounding bored.

Syll grumbled angrily, but returned to her seat without another word. Vaath smirked and returned his attention to the conversation, only to catch the unease that Proximo wore upon seeing the knife, and the threatening glare of the Warden of Honesty. He chuckled, and waved the knife a little more.

“A Channic retractable,” he explained nonchalantly, “among the fine creations of the free people. Now it appears to be what it is: a sharp blade made sharp to perfection. But a mere motion renders it thus." He slid his thumb over the same spot on the hilt, and the blade collapsed inside, hiding it. “And now it appears to be harmless again. Easily concealed… from your guards, for example.” Vaath smiled smugly. “These two had their weapons confiscated, but this had to be found first. But you know this weapon, don’t you?” Vaath said to the Warden of Honesty, tilting his head and grinning.

“Yes,” replied the Warden, watching carefully as Vaath put the retractable away.

“We heard much of the orange terror that led the horse-lovers in Comchan. I imagine you’ve seen many of your kind killed with blades like this, no?” Vaath said with a smirk.

The Warden glared ominously. “We killed many of your kind that tried.”

Vaath laughed out loud, showing off a mouthful of crooked teeth. “He has a Channic humor, I’ll say as much. And what of you, flower?” Vaath said to Violet. “Do you know the Chan?”

“I saw much of Sixchan-in-the-Sea, during the First Rise,” she said casually. “After the war, I did return once, to see our team compete in the Channic Games.”

“Ah, quite the spectacle. You enjoyed your time among real people?”

“It was certainly bracing, I will give it that much,” she said with a faint smile.

“Well, be happy with your life. After all, you saw real life, even for a moment—a land of free men, free to say and do what they wished, ruled by none. How men are meant to live. You will be sad to know that such a place is under such threat, even now.” He leaned forward gravely. “I am not the only one driven from his home, of late. Many thousands have left the Chan, my birthplace and birthright, after the war went sour. You know of which battle I speak.”

“The Great Gamer War,” she answered immediately. Proximo recalled the newspaper they had read in Shine: ‘the recent expulsion and removal of Channic combatants from their home isles only served to heighten hostilities and stoke anger… political refugees, having fled to Twicechan, claim the Mootking to have been compromised by Moderator and Oppressed interests.’ He remembered the headline of the piece, ‘HOSTILITIES RESUME’ printed indelibly on the page.

“Quite so,” Vaath continued. “And how great it was. The Polchannic such as myself had long hated the fisted power of the Oppressed, but it was not until the war began that it was realized how far they went. The Moderators were bought and paid for, with coin or flesh, as were the gamer leaders. All across the Web, the shackles came off when the corruption came to light. You know of these Oppressed, you Bronies—you fought with them recently, I think.”

“My friend Madelin Wright led an expedition against them, yes. A fire-feud in the Blurr—perfectly legal. It was tit-for-tat, seeing their hostility towards us.”

“You understand their evil, then.”

“I hold very few people to be wholly evil,” Violet answered diplomatically.

“A foolish mistake. They curse everything they touch, enslaving others to their political schemes and killing those that resist, and all with a sanctimonious face.” His mouth twisted just announcing the words. “A hateful foe, with much hate towards my people. And well-earned hate—the Chan is everything they cannot be.”

“Yes,” Syll interjected excitedly, the screaming face of her mask bouncing up and down as she spoke, “tell them of the enemy. Tell them of how they invade my home, and kill my Channic. Tell them of the silencing all across the Web, in Reddit and the others, and the banishings, and the deaths. All these the enemy did. Tell her of the traitor Mootking, Vaath, tell her!”

“I and many others opposed them,” Vaath continued. “But even while the free gathered in the Chan to discuss our next moves against the enslavers, the movement was betrayed. The Mootking,” he said, tightening his fist, “had turned. I wonder what it cost him, in gold and women, to do such atrocity. Now he bows to Mods while the Oppressed whisper in his ear in bed, and those dedicated to the true Channic ways are sent to exile, if they are not killed. You should have seen Vidchan burn, when knights came down upon it.”

Syll hung her head in mourning when Vaath mentioned her homeland. Boar made a sound that might have been a sigh, keeping his arms crossed.

“I’ve heard much of all this,” Lady Violet said, looking between the Channic. “The anti-Oppressed being banned all across the Saying Sea. I’ve met some who claimed them to be torturers and insurrectionists, inventing imagined threats.”

“Those people would be fools,” Vaath replied vehemently. “Blindly stupid, or else stupidly blinded. The deniers are either ignorant or in the Oppressed’s pocket, or both.”

“So I’ve heard as well,” she responded, wisely keeping her own stance officially neutral—it would not do to take sides in a conversation like this. “But what has this to do with your coming to Dreamweave? Is this just where you chose to continue, after the ban?”

Vaath shook his head. “Urgh, not a chance. If I wanted slaves to aid in the fight, I could have stayed in Twicechan, or sought refuge in Reddit, or with the Escapists, to be sure. This city is… how did you say? ‘Bracing,’ yes, but nothing compared to home. It is not worthy of me, and even now I wish I were with real people. But my business here is too important.”

“Did your leader send you?” Proximo asked, curious.

“The Channic have no leader,” Vaath snapped. “None commands anyone because of some title, even if the Mootking has forgotten that. No, I am my only leader, and I have led myself and these two here for my own reasons.”

“You do not lead Syll!” the female Channic barked.

“I do, and it is well-known,” Vaath responded casually, while she sulked. “I came here for restitution. Originally I hoped that the journey would end in Indelio, but at the last moment he left, and came here. I have come,” he said proudly, “to make demands of the Moderator, Dyren Halforth, and his ilk.”

“You wish to ask things of Lord Halforth?” Proximo asked, surprised that it was that simple. “You are petitioners?”

“I do not ‘petition’ for anything,” Vaath replied sourly. “I am demanding that the Mods end their damnations against real people.”

Lady Violet’s expression was half-understanding and half-bemused. “I am loath to say it, but if you believe that you can demand anything of Lord Halforth, you may be dreadfully mistaken.” She ignored the unhappy noises coming from Syll and instead asked, “But why come here? It seems to me that if you wanted to speak with the Mods targeting the Channic, you would have been better off speaking to the ones stationed in the Chan.”

“Many Channic have,” Syll answered. “And accomplished little with them.”

“But none of those Mods had a particular quality,” Vaath continued for her. “None of them, for example, were the most influential member a certain group,” he smiled, “which happens to be leading the charge in my homeland. Do you know the one, which drafts the plans to invade the Chan and break its people?”

Proximo then remembered a detail from some time ago: one of Halforth’s many qualifications that the Bronies had dredged up during their hunt for information. A very particular organization within the Authority, one that had been pushing for the Mod intervention in that tract of the Saying Sea. “The Channic Relations Committee,” Proximo realized, “of which Lord Halforth is a member.”

“Is the member,” Vaath corrected him. “The only one worth counting, truly. And he is their red hawk as well, forcing wars to force laws and rules and Centrellian nonsense on me. I might have just stayed in the Chan to free the Chan, but I know of things that this Halforth does not, and perhaps he will be less stupid than others and hear how dire his actions are.”

“Those things being?” Violet asked.

Vaath remained silent for a moment, pondering how to answer. “You have known the Chan, flower,” he said, “and your ugly ‘we’-guard as well. Then perhaps you noticed something while you were there. There is a feeling in that old place: a low motion, like something just at the corner of your eye, that creeps in a man’s thoughts. The Chan has a heartbeat—it is a living thing, or at least is the home of one. It is passion and drive, and burning stars that go out quickly but shine so brightly that many turn away—only the strong can stand to watch, and learn from watching. The Chan is not a place: it is alive, and it does not want to be controlled. These Mods and their invasions upon its freedom and mine are abominations upon it, and if not stopped it will react like any living thing does to a virus—purge it.”

Violet tilted her head. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Things are stirring in the masked-lands,” Syll rasped in a low whisper. “Nameless terrors stalk in the night of the sea, in black Baysmouth and the Bay. It sleeps low, and searches high for us, watching.”

“And waiting,” Vaath said softly, “until…” He broke off, head darting around him sharply, as though looking for something. “You will not believe me. No foreigner so unenlightened would, but I have seen things. Things that cannot be, and should not, but are, and are in the Chan. The dark waters are becoming more hungry, and I can feel it looking for me more closely than ever, even while I wear the mask that my people carve to escape its sight.” He smiled, but it was a nervous smile, without any confidence behind it. “It is growing angry, and strong, and if it is not appeased then the doom will be at hand.”

“It?” asked Proximo, lost.

“The Watcher in the Waves,” Vaath whispered. “The Sleeper ‘Neath the Sea. The Dread and Dreaded, the Yellow Eye that sees all. The Beast in the Bay.”

After hearing the name, Syll bowed her head, and from out of her cloak a gloved hand appeared, which she placed over her heart. She began to sing a dissonant, strange song in a croaking rhythm, the words coming from the mask’s screaming mouth.

“The Beast has come, beneath the bay,

the bay, the bay, it’s come to stay,

the Beast will stay, beneath the bay,

the Beast in the Bay.

“It hunts our minds, or so they say,

they say, they say, it hunts our thoughts

I’ve heard them say, beneath the bay,

the Beast in the Bay.

“It waits there for a darker day, beneath the bay,

the bay, the bay, it sleeps and waits

for darker days, beneath the bay,

the Beast in the Bay.

“The masks will hide us from its gaze, or so we pray,

we pray, we pray, they hide us here

from it that preys, beneath the bay,

the Beast in the Bay.”

Violet and Proximo listened to the unpleasant tune warily and uncomfortably. The assistant passed his fingers through his hair, suddenly feeling nervous. “The Beast in the Bay,” he repeated, trying to sound nonchalant and skeptical, “your demon-god?”

Another growling sound came from Boar, while Vaath’s mouth warped into an intense scowl. “Not my god. The Beast belongs to no one. The only god that I follow is myself, fool, because I am the only one worthy of my worship.”

Lady Violet raised an eyebrow at the Channic. “That is an interesting perspective on things.”

Syll scoffed. “You hear her voice? She disapproves. No doubt she worships her horse-gods and lets them tell her what is right and wrong, the simpering slave-girl fool. Too weak to decide what is good herself!”

Lady Violet narrowed her eyes at the Channic woman, and seemed ready to argue that point, when Vaath cut in. “Foolish indeed, to worship gods, but she is foreign and incapable of doing otherwise. It is besides the point anyways—we were speaking of a greater peril. The Beast.” Vaath leaned in close, close enough that Proximo could smell him across the table—it was not a pleasant odor. “To live in the Chan is to feel it watching you,” the anonymite said, “never-ending. Only the masks keep it from finding and enslaving the Channic, but I can feel its anger. If it is roused from sleep, then there will be no room left in the Web for your horse-gods, or for Mods, or Oppressed, or free men or fools. And more importantly, there will be no world left for me.”

“That does sound unpleasant.”

“You do not believe me,” Vaath said, unsurprised. “Very well. But this is why I must speak with this Halforth, and soon. Perhaps he will be smart where you are not, flower.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” Violet said calmly. “But if that’s your aim, then who is stopping you? And why do you need to come to me?”

“ ‘Who is stopping you,’ she asks,” Syll repeated in a mocking impression of the lady, “ ‘Oh, who is stopping you, I have such clean clothes,’ she says. Bah!” Syll cried. “Syll will tell you what stops her from speaking to Halforth, it is Halforth who stops her!”

“She is tedious, but right,” Vaath said sardonically. “I tried to approach him, but I was turned away and told some lie about ‘needing appointment.’” Proximo couldn’t actually see, but judged from the twisting of the Channic’s mouth and the motion of his head that Vaath was rolling his eyes. “He should be the one making appointments to see me, the weak slave.”

“Seeing how preoccupied Lord Halforth has been, that appointment might be quite some time from now,” Proximo pointed out.

“Yes, which is why I come to you. Halforth’s slaves will not listen to me—the white-clad fools turn away or say the same line of ‘appointment this or that.’ But I understand,” Vaath said meaningfully, “that you have a closer mouth to his ear. That you Bronies have his attention, for slaying the knight? We congratulate you on that, by the way.”

Violet ignored the accusation and questioned him further. “You want us to arrange a meeting? I’m surprised you came to us, if that’s your aim. The Martes have his attention as well.”

Vaath waved his hand. “I want nothing of them. Aureliano is a slave to others and too weak for my liking, Arcadio has a yellow light to him, and Pilara is one of the Oppressed.”

“She is?” Proximo asked, not having heard this.

“Hmm-hmm! Quite so—she is from the Blurr, is she not? Did you not wonder why she dislikes you Bronies so?”

Proximo might have pointed out that being Blurrite was no guarantee of being one of the Oppressed, but had to concede that he’d considered the possibility. He had admittedly never been entirely clear on why the Oppressed despised the Brony Collective so much, but since they considered their motives and the justness of their cause self-evident, they were unlikely to enlighten Proximo any time soon.

“So you simply wish for us to put in a word with the Lord Moderator as to how urgent your mission is?” the Warden of Generosity asked, leaning back. “I had half-expected more. I suppose you will offer some manner of reward to us, then?”

Vaath smiled. “The honor of helping me save the world, of course.”

She laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Very well, then. I am fond of this world, after all—it’s where I kept all my clothes. Perhaps I will pass this along.” She rested her chin on her hand, and bent forward towards the Channic. “But let me ask you something first. We have our own reason to be in this awful city, and you already named it: our friends are accused of murder. I hate to disappoint you, but it is not true. So tell me,” she said forthright, “is there anything that you know about who murdered Sir Harald?” She gave a glance to the Warden of Honesty, who returned the look to her and then fixed his sight on Vaath.

“I did not kill him, if that is what you ask,” the Channic replied carefully. “Nor can I say who did. Another dead Mod is a triumph though,” he smiled, “and if one lies about doing it, I would congratulate them.”

Proximo spared a look to the Warden of Honesty, but the giant did not seem ready to call out whether the Channic was lying or not. Instead, he simply looked at the masked-man, brow furrowing. “Hrm,” he grunted.

At the same time, Vaath frowned. “I will say nothing more than… than…” He grabbed at the forehead of his mask, sounding dizzy. Suddenly, his head shot up, and the eyes of his mask looked directly back at the Warden of Honesty. The two locked eyes for a moment, saying nothing.

“Vaath?” said Syll, tilting her head.

At first, the anonymite did nothing. Then, that same unfriendly, very amused and knowing smile appeared on his face. “I must go now. Will you speak to the Mod?”

Violet looked at him, and remained silent. There was suspicion hidden behind her calm face, Proximo could tell, and confusion. But soon she said, “Yes. Though I’m not sure he will listen.”

Vaath nodded, and stood to leave. “Then I go. Follow, followers,” he said to the two others. Syll muttered at him, but went out as well, shoving her way past Boar. The large, barrel-chested anonymite lingered, however, not making a move for the door.

The three Bronies waited a moment for Boar to leave, but he remained unmoved, just looking at them with his arms crossed.

Proximo began to ask, “Can we— “

“Dark days are coming,” Boar said to them in a gruff, rough voice. Then, he stomped away without another word.

A silence persisted in the room for a few moments after the anonymites shuffled out.

“Well,” Proximo said after they were sure the Channic had left, “that was strange.”

“Honesty,” Lady Violet said immediately, “three anonymites with aims on the Lord Moderator turning up in the city on a whim seems an astonishing coincidence to me. Was Vaath telling the truth, or does he know more than he says?”

“We are not sure,” the Warden of Honesty admitted, frowning.

“Not sure?” Violet said, shocked. “I had thought you could…”

“Ordinarily. But something different,” the Warden said with a fresh hint of confusion in his voice. “Blocking the Sight. Not working.” He narrowed his eye. “The masks.”

“Masks?” Lady Violet said with a raised eyebrow. “Is that truly all it takes to prevent you from Seeing them?”

“No,” the Warden replied immediately. “Never interfered before, even in Chan. Strongest there, but did not affect it. Those three are different. Used some power to prevent Seeing.” He looked down at Violet meaningfully. “They came prepared to counter it.”

Lady Violet’s eyes widened as she contemplated the implications of that. “It seems to me,” she said slowly, “that we have an interesting new party here in the Dreamweave. An interesting party in which we must take more interest. Perhaps some resources should be spared to find out about these anonymites, hm?”

“I agree, my lady,” said Proximo. Anonymites with a vested hatred against Mods, turning up out of nowhere in a city where one was just murdered? Sounds like a lead worth pursuing to me, he thought. “I can have some of our fact-finders get to work immediately.”

“Do so. We’ll need to move fast, considering recent lapses,” she said with an eye on the Warden of Honesty.

“You are angry,” the Warden of Honesty said, monotone and emotionless.

“Yes,” Lady Violet said without sparing him a glance. “Your actions might have cost us everything here. I suggest you think about that.”

The golden-eyed giant said nothing, keeping his gaze on the floor. “Should this one leave?” he asked after a moment.

Lady Violet rubbed her head, then sighed. “No. If they come for you… you should not be alone. Stay here with me.”

Proximo looked at her, agape. “My lady, can I have a word with you? Outside, perhaps?”

Just outside the room, the assistant looked to his lady with concern. “My lady, I have no intention of leaving you alone with that lunatic.”

Lady Violet smiled wanly at his concern. It was a tired smile, weighed down by all that had happened, but a grateful one. “I understand your reluctance, Proxi, but it isn’t necessary. Honesty would never hurt me.”

“Sir Alwin might disagree,” Proximo said gravely. “My lady, he’s a violent madman that was willing to threaten and murder to get what he wanted.”

“To get what he thought I wanted,” Violet corrected him.

“Why are you defending him?” Proximo asked incredulously. “If anything, we should be turning him over to the Moderators. At least then they might accept our apology.”

“I am not turning anyone over to anyone,” Violet replied firmly. “I am not defending what he did, Proximo, and you should realize that. It was inexcusable, without a doubt. But he will not hurt me though, or any of his friends, for that matter. I don’t need to fear him… it’s everyone else that I worry for. Including himself.” She sighed when she saw that Proximo still did not agree. “Go and rouse some of our friends, and have them start investigating. Someone in this court must have some clue about who these anonymites are.”

“And what will you do, my lady?”

She turned back to the door, and half-opened it. “Wait for the Mods,” she said sadly, “and do what I can.”

* * * * * *

In terms of sheer perversion and depravity, the Deep Web can never be matched. But if there ever was a Hell of anarchy and discord within the Known Internet, you would find it in the Chan. The islands are death and darkness, laden with madness and cruelty. And it is infectious as well. Of the team I assembled to write this report, two began to rant and scream after we arrived about “lamp-lights” and “yellow blackness” like madmen. The next day they had disappeared, no doubt vanishing into the island to join the savages.

The people of the Chan are falseness made flesh, utterly devoid of honor and reason, content only to stew in their chaos and lawlessness. The mere act of showing one’s true face or giving their birthname is seen as weakness among the anonymites, with the natives wearing twisted masks that conceal their identities and show any number of grotesque images. Half of the isles are ablaze at night with the fires from their constant conflicts, and the other half is crumbling into the black waters of the bay. And the bay...

I have served the Authority for many years, and seen many strange things. I do not consider myself a superstitious man. But there is something very wrong with the waters around the Chan. The locals speak of “The Beast in the Bay” with hushed tones, as though it can hear them night and day, and our group has found repeated messages painted around the islands, all referring to “something in the sea” or the “watcher in the waves”. The Chan is a place of hatred, but it is also one of fear: fear of the law, fear of the governing, fear of one another, and fear of this Beast most of all, and the most horrible thing is that I’m beginning to understand why. Whenever I look into the inky waters of the bay, I can’t help but feel uneasy, as though something horrifying in the depths is looking back. One of the men who deserted swore that he saw something while we were in the ship that carried us to the Chan, but none of us could get him to say more.

I have come to the Chan and sent the reports that my superior requested; I have done my duty, so now I am leaving this place with my remaining team as fast as possible. I only hope that none of the stain of this pit follows me when I return.

Signed under the Shield of Law,

Sir Ira Ahzred, of the Order of the Enlightened Mind.

— A note attached to an Authority census report conducted by the Knight Enlighteners in the Chan. This was the first mission that Lord Ira Ahzred—also called ‘Ira the Apostate’ or simply ‘The Mad Mod’—would conduct in the Chan, though not at all the last. This is also held as the first of the “Channic Letters,” some of which would find their way into his most infamous grimoire: The Darksea Compendium.

Comments

[Glenn]

I'm enjoying your story, but I'd like to make one small correction:
"So tell me,” she said forthright, “is there anything that you know about who murdered Halforth?”

It was Harald, not Halforth, who was murdered.

[Lord Max]

7538459 Well, drat. I'd really hoped that I had cleaned out all of the minor errors, and that's a pretty glaring one. In my own meager defense, I had been typing out the word "Halforth" several times, and the name "Harald" is almost kind-of a little bit close. Sort of.

Anyways, I suppose getting to Chapter 22 without getting corrections is a pretty good run. Thanks for pointing that out - it is now fixed!

[Yami Vizzini]

Hmm... possible answers, finally, or at least a working theory. Not that it doesn't leave a host of other questions, of course....

[Lord Max]

7549438

I can safely say that you will be very rich with materialistic items in your lifetime, not to discredit you inner satisfaction with yourself as well of course.

Ha, now that's what I like to hear! I would choose inner satisfaction first, of course, but having lots of nice things is also good.

Honestly, you are far too kind with compliments like this - I'm just happy that I managed to make something that people seem to really enjoy. As to what you said about a group, however, I admit that I considered making one some time ago. I thought, however, that having a group with just one story in it would be a bit perfunctory, so I turned away from the idea. Or am I overthinking all this? I admit that I don't really know the details of making or maintaining a group on this site like that. If there should be any demand or desire for one, I would gladly make one or encourage someone like yourself to do it in my stead.

On that same note, I've actually been trying to think of other groups to add this story to, where it might get a little more exposure. I realize that groups can be a powerful tool to spread the word about a particular story, so I'm open to finding new ones that might accept this rather esoteric tale.

7543781

The anonymites are certainly the type to inspire curiosity, aren't they? There will a fair share of more questions to come, though I think the chapter I'll put out tomorrow will shed a certain light on a few things...

Oh, by the way - you seem to be the 100th comment! Personally, this was the milestone I looked forward to most - people leaving comments is the best pleasure I get from writing. Here's hoping that the next 100 will be every bit as great as the first!

[Seraphem]

Okay, well first off, the whole opening scene between Lady Violet and honesty was damn intense. Just.. adds even more to the complexity and mystery of honesty, what would cause him to becomes like this, so utterly devoted to expunging all sense of self and seeing himself as naught but a tool. Just... I can fully see why Violet defends him and trusts him, understand what he was thinking and why. And do think Proximo is being a bit to harsh on the guy and not really understanding things... but that's an issue with Proxy, not the story, and it does work. But just.. everything adds to more and more depth then you'd think, and his is the backstory I really want the most. During this, I started getting the idea.. maybe he's Channic, used to be an Anon until he joined the Bronies, that would explain why he has no past dispite being rather remarkable, and some of the way he talks... kind of fits.

Next up the Anons.... I find them rather annoying.... BUT in a way that.. I get the idea they were meant to be a bit grating, off, not quite right, kind of hitting an Uncanny Valley almost. I do.. kind of... get the outlook they are talking about... which is oddly enough the complete antithesis of the Authority. Focus on Self above all, nothing matters but the self, freedom is the only 'right' things. Pure Chaotic Neutral. And just, the whole exchange was.... grating in a very well done way. Definitely interested to see were this goes.. and after this... I really do not think they are in collusion with Arcadio.. just, the way they act.. hard to see them acting with him directly.

And of course all this sudden focus on "The Beast in the Bay" it's been mentioned before a few times, set up, and with just how hard this chapter drilled it in, both with the Anon's words, and both the opening and closing bits being about it.... this is getting far to large and deliberate not to be a Chekhov's Gun being set up. Not fully sure how I feel about that... this has been an overall Low Fantasy type deal. Some extraordinary powers are cler, with the Cybramancers, so something beyond "Normal" are there, but something this large.... not saying it isn't a good idea or will not work, but feeling like a thing that might need to be handled very carefully to not feel to out of place... but see what comes up could be something I am not even able to guess at coming.

Also....

the Yellow Eye that sees all.

Okay then..... this.. this is.......yes story.. I "see" what you did there... and it's got my attention....

[Sky Seeker]

Loved the HP Lovecraft reference at the end there...

[Lord Max]

8320249

Yeah, I'm a huge fan of ol' H.P., as I'm sure you already noticed. Trust me, it won't be the last reference you see.