Author Games: Path of the Guildpact

Semifinals: Calais Agate

She could not recognize herself any longer. There was no hint of the naivety, no glimpse of the hope that once glistened in her now shrouded eyes. On the precipice between her previous life and the point of no return, she tottered on its edge, ready to fall in one fell swoop. Today, the balance would tip. There were many different species and races in attendance, but all of those in competition to take the spot of the memorialized Guildpact sat in the front row.

She had no formal clothes. All around her came the cries and chatters of different languages, with small elves wearing decorative robes and angels brandishing elegant gowns. And then there was Calais: rumpled woven top and starched pants that were a size too small for her made it seem as though she was truly a giant ogre trying to fit in amongst the rest of the more civilized peoples.

And yet, she did not care. In fact, she could not care for much at all, because the turmoil that stewed within her was so great it took over her, rendering her unable to seem at all approachable.

Heccan prodded her. He wore a green suit. Fluffy was missing from the scene. "Calais, try and look a bit more, you know, approachable. I do appreciate a good whinging partner but no one should out-shine me and my dazzling humour by upstaging me with dramatics."

Calais could hardly bear to look at him.

He frowned. "Calais, listen, I—"

Music flourished for a moment, announcing the arrival of the officiator of the ceremony. The entire stronghold bent to one knee, though Calais staggered for a moment to lapse behind. A crier raised a trumpet and played the march of Orzhov, and then began to throat sing, high and wallowing. It was meant to be the language of a bygone, forgotten, era, though Calais only hurt wails and cries.

The pair approached the altar, which was adorned by different flowers and memorabilia from different Guilds. It was filled with magic, branches sprouting at will and water flowing from the top down into a small reservoir. The deceased Guildpact was entombed behind the altar, in a memorial that would be left up for thirteen nights.

Though Calais had never been to an Orzhov funeral before—much less one of a Guildpact—she found herself irritated by every word she could understand. The officiator spoke in a nasally tone, and used words that drew the laughter of the other Orzhov in the crowd and small smiles of confusion from the others. He spoke with determination yet half his words seemed jumbled so that Calais could never fully understand the message. Heccan, however, seemed enthralled.

There was nothing for her to do but wait for the ceremony to be over, to rise and bow and pay her quiet respects and pretend she wasn't one of three ogres in a room of one thousand. Ogres were apt for solitude and battle, not for mourning the death of a being whose entire species was bound to die one day. That was why Gruul took away their dead or condemned: there was no room for grief in a land of warriors.

The ceremony ended as it started: with fanfare to escort the officiator down the long aisle and out into Orzhov once more. Calais was grateful to stand up—the bench she had been seated on was meant for someone of Heccan's or any of the other competitors' size, height, and weight.

"See? Not so bad," said Heccan. Calais turned away.

She was greeted not by a wall of vines, but by an unfamiliar face. It leered at her. An angel. And, as though it had thought of her next question before she had even thought it, she said, "Hello, Calais. If you could follow me into a more quiet space, I have something you might be very interested in."

The angel was beautiful: flowing white hair looked purple in the streaming of light and magic above, with a tall frame though still with curves to make the flow of her dress seem wispy and ghostlike. She led Calais into a corner by the altar.

"My name is Alusru, and I am a part of the Syndicate. You know what the Syndicate is, don't you? Yes, of course. Now, about your next signet. It's not hard, nothing too trying after all you've went through before, poor thing. And trust me, I haven't always been as nice as I am about to be to you with this offer. Would you like to hear? Of course you would. The signet in exchange for one future vote of yours swung towards Orzhov whenever we wish it. Simple, right?"

Calais grunted. She did not want to talk with anyone, much less with an angel who talked down to her. Deep within her, though, she was frightened of scaring off or injuring another being.

"No? Doesn't suit your fancy? Good girl, I always liked those with strong political convictions!" She raised her fist at this, swinging it in the air as though she was being friendly and not being forced to talk with Calais. "The other option is just a trifle, really. The signet in exchange for your soul to the Syndicate for 2000 years after your death. Think of it: a free ride into Guildpact territory, and you won't even be alive when the bargain comes back! I think it's a steal really—who wants the terrible, morale-crushing deal of being forced into an opinion one doesn't believe in?"

Calais could scarcely believe her, and yet there was little in her to truly believe the angel in front of her was lying. Was it really that easy? To get the signet all she had to do was choose? She turned her head to the side, shying away from the harsh gaze of Alusru. To keep her morals while she lived and throw away her morals when she died, or throw her morals away now but be spared whatever afterlife had in store for her?

There came a glimmer, a reminiscent memory of who she once was. She could not shake it as it came to her, the idea that she could not continue to live her life with the apathy she had now formed. She could not break the morals she had believed she had lost just for a signet.

"No other way?" she asked.

"Nope!" said Alusru.

And yet, when she was dead, it was not really she who would control her actions, would it? Nor would she control her emotions. She would be a puppet of theirs, a marionette to dance around, but she wouldn't be herself. She wouldn't be Calais.

"Soul for signet," she declared. "Soul for signet," she convinced herself.

"Lovely choice."