The Fantasy Trip inspired Fiction, The Tower

[Terquem]

What does death look like in the world of The Fantasy Trip? I’ve been reading the comments and ideas in the Discord channel about how characters die, the way strength is used to represent character death and fatigue, and the special relationship to magic it has (is there Strength in all things that live?) and it made me think of a story to write. In this story a character with a unique relationship to death searches for a powerful sorceress who he hopes can explain the experience he has had - the two are then thrown into a situation where they must rely on each other’s secrets to survive. The story is called, “The Tower”

The Tower
By D. H. Austin

Prolog - A Death

He was on the ground now. His shoulders and head rested against the stone of the castle wall where it bulged outward near the ground. His left hand throbbed in pain and the right was numb. Bodies lay all around him, and above him the battlements were silent.

Everything was death.

The sun was bright and high in the clear, blue sky above him. Many birds were circling but there were no sounds. He was afraid to move his head, unsure of potential sharp edges that might cut him from his cracked and damaged helmet. He tried to look down at the ground around him, but his swollen face got in the way of his vision. With great effort he rolled, onto his side, and then he saw them. There were many. They were tall and vaguely human-like, and they had thick long legs, four long and thin arms, and massive feathery wings. The garments they wore were simple long dresses with no sleeves split up to above the knee and colored in muted yellows and browns.

It seemed they did not notice him or that they did not care that he was watching them. One of them came close, kneeling near a fallen soldier, and it reached a hand through the armor and drew out a wisp-like thing. It then stood and released the wisp into the sky. The wisp rose like a leaf caught in a wind going higher and higher until it was out of sight.

The tall thing had the face of an angel with wild golden-brown hair, but he could not tell if the thing were a man or a woman. Its countenance was pure contentment, bliss even, and its eyes radiated calm. At one point it turned to look at him. His eyes met its eyes, and he began to cry. He wanted to sigh, feeling he had earned this, this moment at life's end, but his chest was weak. He had fought with every bit of him. All of his strength and all of his training he had given in this one, his first, and last, battle. This death was not a bad death, he thought.

The thing continued to look toward him. Slowly, its expression changed to one of surprise and it seemed to become agitated, distraught.

He lifted his left hand, in pain, and turned his palm toward it, saying, "You are not what I imagined you would be."

It was startled, and its wings rose high in the air. Its arms waved up and down and then it called out in a loud voice, "Marge, we got a problem here."

Others of the beings heard the call and came rushing over. A much taller one among them, who wore a green dress with gold edges, came and put a hand on the one who cried out, and said, "It's okay, Eloise. Sometimes the body will still appear to have life even when they have died. In any case, they cannot see us. I told you that, remember?"

The one, Eloise, he heard, raised two arms, and pointed at him, and then moved her pointing fingers to the left and to the right.

His eyes followed its fingers.

There were gasps and one high pitched scream from the winged angels.

The one in the green dress covered her mouth with two hands and reached out with her other two arms and pushed the ones near her, including Eloise, back. It then took two giant steps toward him and kneeled beside him on the ground.

He was not afraid.

It lowered its head, bringing its eyes right to his. It peered at him, and with one hand wiped away the tears on his swollen cheek. "This," it said its voice soft and low, "is not normal. You see me, man, and I see you are not at all dead to this world."

Being gentle, the thing took off his helmet, stroked his hair a few times, and smiled.

"I am Margerory Avaladeris Sofian," it said. "We are not here for you. You should not see us. I do not know what to do with you. Who are you, and what do you desire? What do you want?"

He tried to smile, but there was pain.

He said, "My name is Alan, Robert’s Son, of Dastrane. I want to be alive again."

It was Margerory's turn to cry.