Secrets of Aria (Original Fiction)

[Phearo]

notice: chapters on unfinished acts may undergo constant rewrites. The updates may come every other day. Oh! I'm also pretty terrible at writing stories.

Volume 1

Table of Contents:
Act 1:
"Introductions"

read here

1.1

Act 2:
Act 3:
Act 4:
Act 5:

Act 1.1

"Thief!"

With the word of the chief guard cutting through the noisy streets of the Bazaar, the great castle gates that barred entrance for most folk blew open with great force, as if in response to the authoritative man's wail of alarm. A figure in cloak bursted out of the opening gateway, its speed almost incapable of being captured by naked eye- appearing as just a passing blur of darkness... before it suddenly slowed.

"Contiarte."

In just those few short moments a hand appeared from within, fetching a white sheet of paper which it smacked to the ground, and a massive tower of air exploded upwards- letting the rogue swim with it's current and rise from the ground and land on the top of the long stretches of the tiled roof the walled the lively streets, away from its pursuers, that forces of the law that had a little bit more than a hard time catching up with its maneuvers.

"Haah-"

"Oh dear-"

"My lungs are burning-"

The gasps and pants of the herd of policemen slowly surfaced as they make their way through the hastily opened gates, barely keeping form and mostly staggering to hit the ground moments later. At the tail of said mob a man of a more ornate uniform jogged alongside the others, clearly less fatigue, but upon closer inspection one would see his bloodshot eyes fixed firmly to a squint that belied his discomfort of another variety.

Even with his bleary eyes this man took on the tired nature of the others, remembering the almost endless chase they had experience following the cloaked person around the different corners of the noble walls.

"What conniving scum." The squad leader spoke inwardly, a grim frown encroaching on his features as he spots the fleeting dot of the criminal. Only through another way would he catch the bastard, quite fortunate was it that he had the means to execute it, too. Without much fanfare he reached underneath his coat, fishing what looked to be crystal clear glass, adorned with a metal frame of odd design. He pressed a protrusion on the frame, displaying the gadget's UI on its glass, before raising it to his ear.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rooftop crackled with every step the figure took on its escape, but drowned out by the jovial noises that permeated the famous market ring of Lotta Quiconte no one had bothered to look up to see the mysterious person move.

"That took longer than I'd hope."

The amount of mana that was spent in the previous run was a much high, nearly draining all reserves, and would have done so if another unexpected factor blocked the way. While using Consiate was much less expensive than using the far stronger alternative Congiate, the number of uses it had gone through took a considerable toll. There was a hope that there would no longer be any more use for the speed-reinforcing enchantment, one that was shattered when an armada of bullets peppered against the person's trail.

A brief moment of surprise was all the noble knights needed, and with their little distraction they had managed to gain enough time to pepper the cloaked figure with bullets, tearing multitudes of holes into its form, before having it unceremoniously fall into the streets below. Soon afterwards, they would come to check the body of the fallen criminal, only to find the remains of the tattered cloak, and nothing else.

"It's seems we've lost him, again."

"Continue the search still, we cannot have him escape the confines of this city."

"Sir, our only recognizable lead was-"

"I. don't. care! We must retrieve that sword!"

"....no matter the cost."

[Phearo]

Act 1.2

"Oi, Old man! Where do I put this crate?"
A man rather dirty in appearance called out to another man- one that stood in the middle of all the recently unloaded boxes the shipper had done earlier. In response, the man- an elder to the worker's eye, if the streaks of white color in his hair was anything to go by- winced at his new-found title, before pointing to somewhere close to where carrier of the crate stood.

"Over there, just be careful with it--" Before he could finish his sentence the crate now immediately skidded across the cobblestone floor to its destination; a feat he might not have not possible, a feat that also almost gave him a heart attack as his precious cargo almost tipped along its bumpy way.

"--Right. All done now, I guess you can go." The older of duo waved the mover away, the man's sweat wiped by his own bandana that previously masked his frown before he left the owner of the cargo by his lonesome to look over his belongings.

"Heh. Looking nice." His slitted eyes settled for the roof of his newly-erected tent, pride boiling up inside him every minute his sight lingered on it. Managing to coerce the president of the Bazaar had been a frightfully excruciating task- the results of his efforts only netting him the standard license, and one of the most terribly positioned spot in the entire commercial ring. Still, he had some ideas on how to bring some folks to his shop, mainly through word of mouth, but once the business would start rolling the goal of becoming one of the more popular sellers of goods for scrap squads will be there in no time, and he personally can't wait. Images of the digits of his cashier rising with enormous speed entered his mind, and it took alot out of him to bring down his elation to simply smirk in happiness, than cackle with glee.

However such thoughts of grand delusions became distorted as reality cuts through them with swift precision, mainly through a sudden explosion of gust, bursting outward of a nearby alleyway and sweeping across meters of cobblestone, capable of knocking a person unprepared on their feet. It was fortunate that he held his balance- the surprise tipping him slightly, but not completely.

In a fit of morbid curiosity and careless abandon, the merchant went to its source. He ventured into the dank path only to find a crumbled form of a person, their feature draped in cloak, lying unconscious in the middle of said path. Upon inspecting closer, he noted the shredded remains of paper scattered about underneath said figure; a vague idea was forming in the aging man's head by the time he went about to actually removing the tattered sheet of cloth one could barely longer call a cloak, before quirking his eyebrow and smirking to himself at the sight that had been presented to him.

"Well, what do we have here?"

[Phearo]

Act 1.3

"Sweet dreams?"

Before the grunting sound of the person strapped in the chair were ever released the room had only been caked in silence. The man in front of said captive did nothing but observe, letting the smoldering hot cup of coffee he'd place at the wooden corner table besides him simmer into something more tolerable. The drink wasn't for him, anyways.

"Ah, you probably shouldn't struggle, it'll be bad for you."

Just as expected the moment the thief realized her position, even with bleary eyes the rogue struggled against the bindings, the force giving it a bit of work on its end, but fortunately held true in its firmness. That did not mean the woman stopped the efforts of wrestling with it, at least, for a while. A sneaking suspicion arose within her inner thoughts as her actions drained far more of her strength than she unreasonably wasted, and more importantly, stopped her from channeling any mana; there was a high chance that whatever she was bound to had a blocking spell engraved to its surface- a thought she didn't like one bit.

"Tch."

In the end she stopped, fully knowing, resigned, but still however unaccepting of her defeat. It might have been a matter pride, considering her- though all she could then was to glare at the slowly clearing figure that in front of her- an aging man, sitting backwards on a wooden chair, which, she would suspect, the same as her own.

Her eyes, filled with disdain stared like a hawk, the pair of emerald blues shining through the curtain of red hair that messily fell on her face.

The silence between them lasted long, neither of the two bearing the will to take the initiative.

...
...

Though without his youthful vigor the man sighed away the last traces of his tension. He was far too

old

bored

to play such games anymore.

"So, where should I start?" He cut the silence with a rather sharp knife. Whatever insufferable mood the redhead had boiled in her thinking frizzled at the man's abrupt jovial tone. Her surprise just fueled amusement on the man, peppering the ends of his eyes with wrinkles as his mouth finds itself at home into a smirk. The realization afterward had the rogue regaining her bearings immediately, but the moment had come to pass and the elder had savoured every second of her quick reaction.

He stood, pushing the chair from himself away with a nonchalant shove with his foot. No need to give another sweeping gaze throughout the small little compartment he called his bedroom, having familiarized himself completely with the surroundings, save for the rolled up paper besides the steaming coffee on his table, which he then proceeds to pick up and hold high.

'This should be as good as any.'

Ripping through the fancy knot the royal guards showed the glimpses of the ornate sheath that carried a sword within. Colored in blue and patterned in silhouettes of rose, it was smooth to the touch, but felt remarkably rigid. He tore more of the paper separate from the weapon, and released the sword from it's scabbard, inspecting it.

"The Avalriel, the Sword of Might and Will. Said to be wielded by Cire Artorias ci Vlanco-Estada during the hundred-year battle for the Withered Plains. Got involved in lots of clashes- coming out victorious in lots of them, too. Glorious man, loyal knight, I'm sure you know the deal."

The blade.. was a cobalt blue, polished to a shin, the ornate designs of thorns was plastered near the guard, almost inching, intertwining, towards the end of it.. but never quite reaching. Aside from that, the hilt was fairly average, dark leather wrapped around it for a better grip. the most perplexing of all it's features, however, was none of them- but rather, the seemingly pristine quality the sword itself possesses, as if it had never experienced a battle in it's life time. though in honesty it feels more like the sword is brand new, rather than maintained. Like undermining all it's history. At the presence of this deduction, a frown creases up his face; which the woman might have noticed, but may no comment or reaction on, preferring to stay silent.

"...."


"It's also the sword paraded to be displayed in the forthcoming summer ball, as a sign of peacekeeping between the two countries after the end of the recent war. Given to them by the descendants of Artorias themselves."

He gives a few quick slashes with the legendary sword.
She bulged out her eyes at the disrespect.

He just grins a bit more before letting it fall to his hip.

Nice balance.

As a merchant, he could appreciate it's fine make. How much would a scrapper pay for it, he wonders.

Besides these new revelations, there was still one, underlying question. The question that piqued his utmost curiousity.

"Now, I'm not really going to hurt you or anything, I just want to satisfy my curiosity."

Such a question, one could even say, was the sole progenitor of all his actions to the newfound criminal.

In a flash, the sword that rested on his hip traveled a quick arc- swinging, missing the rogue, never intending to hit her.

Instead, the tip of its blade rested on the pouch the redhead had brought with her, filled with all manners of spells, written upon cards and other such devices. This tidbit however was not the one that had caught his attention- rather, the button that held it close. The insignia embedded upon it.

"Tell me; Why exactly does the Vlanco-Estada want their sword back?"

[Phearo]

A/N: I am a moron. Proper notes will come at the end of the act.

Act 1.4

"They don't." She spat, shooting a glare of animosity at the aged merchant before breaking off eye-contact. Not another peep would come from her mouth, despite the answer that only served to open a door to a million others. As is the case the stubborn had finally reached the man's patience, shaking it, and finding himself with little resolve to correct the issue.

But there was no fire to found in anger- such spark was lost to him years ago.

"Well this has been a lovely conversation." He sighed, again. Now he could see why his deceased uncle never liked kids. 'Bunch of twats.' that phrase always left the poor miner's heart whenever he was a mile radius close to a member of a younger generation. Anima bless his soul.

Reaching an impasse the two shared experience to another bout of silence, broken only by the sudden ring that ruptured within earshot.

"Wonder who could that be?" The merchant mutters, fully knowing who would come to visit a new, low-profiled resident like him. Suffice to say the reason was anything but pleasantries. That would saved for another occasion, or, as how things are turning out, in another city. Yet, there might be a chance. Whatever he could do he would have to do now, lest he risk being for too late to take initiative.

"I'll go see."

Standing, he descended from the stairs that led to his quarters.

'Time to face the music.'

With nervousness tacked within his gut, and face as casual as ever he took the knob of the entrance clutched upon his right fist, tilted it to its side to open the door to his authoritative visitors.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

'Relax'. 'Pretend'. Words to live by. Words he had lived by. The two men- the knights at the majesty's beck and call- eyed the merchant with warily. Of course, what little description there was for the culprit they're in pursuit didn't match the clothes of the humble abode's owner, nor even his physique- but one can always have accomplices.

T'was this line of thinking that persisted the past row of houses, and would persist to do so until the end of their patrol.

What luck they have to find their hunch to be true, they'd struck gold, after all, with the crackling sound of broken windows that came from the upper floor.

"...That stupid girl."

What misfortune he has, to be stuck with such terrible circumstance.