Chapter 81 - Before There Was Battle (Part 2)

Marionettes are supposed to be puppets that are given the magic of a warlock, a substitute for its soul, and the essence of a certain person, which will serve as a form of its memory and emotion. Puppets are usually created to do a bad deed; voodoo dolls, for instance, are done to inflict harm.

Voodoo dolls are witch curses and are often referred to as the lowest form of Marionettes; they can harm and inflict pain but cannot kill. Voodoo dolls can be ineffective once regular magician doctors reverse the essence of a person (such as changing one's perfume). Marionettes, or the Warlock's puppets, are the dangerous ones. A marionette is created with the essence of multiple people of whom the warlock wishes to follow. Unlike unmoving voodoo dolls, a marionette can walk and take orders, inflict physical harm but cannot inflict death—however can cause it.

A marionette can have the essence of people close to you, and thus has an imitation of their memory. This can be used against the person the warlock wishes to track. A marionette is one of the forbidden arts in the Black Book, a certain object that is owned by the Warlocks. Marionettes can speak to your mind, give you nightmares and lure you to danger. It is by far one of the dark spells Warlocks can conjure, yet one of the weakest as well.

Warlocks had been extinct—their kind extinguished in the Great war. The Warlock who battled the first king of Feuersturm was the one who ordered the eradication of his kind the moment he lost. Warlocks are born from infernal blood—mating a mortal with a demon. They are rare breeds; existed when Elves still resided in the mortal realm, and when monsters roamed freely across the lands. They had demonic souls, part-human part-devil, and a body of deceptive beauty. Warlocks were deemed to be higher beings with a magical prowess greater than that of magicians. Not only can they control the four elements, but they also commanded darkness and the void.

Owen had no formal teaching in magic. The moment his uncle banished him, he had to forget the tavern's business as his uncle ordered. But he was a lad, barely eighteen, and was skilled with the crossbow with a developing magical potential. He was a commoner with a mystic potential—an unusual occurrence. But no one would help him to Magierstadt, not even his Rose. It was when Owen realized his connections to the underground—the shady people who come and go to the tavern for information. Different people and folks who can be of help.

The Faction.

Traders of illegal magical items, and teachers of magic. He was a boy with no home to return to, and so he joined The Faction and became one of the students. In place of staff, he had a sword. His crossbow hangs to him with the desire to be held once more—but Owen swore an oath: Thy Weapon is My Only Weapon; The Faction is My Strength. He never used the crossbow again once he was a part of the Brotherhood.

For a few years, his life was of peace. He was still loving Rose, his dear Rosey—but now, just from afar. Everything was at a concord; Owen was satisfied with observing the one he loves, making sure she would be safe. Even if she would be in the arms of another. He was sure Rose was now happy. He wanted to stay out of her way; Owen was fine this way for years.

Until one rainy night.

"Owen," says a soaked man, the one he called fat slob in his mind. He was panting, obviously tired. "Help me. P-please,"

"Uncle," Owen answers in apprehension. "Das rare. Ye don't ask fer help. Ye give it, ya?"

His Faction brothers laughed with him. They just finished a business in town; an illegal trade. They were now headed to the den, cloaked in the stormy night. But Oscar Wild Lopez had begged them to stay—he said he was searching for Owen for days now. It was luck and a blessing that the Above led him to his long, lost nephew. The bastard of his deceased wife.

"Rosey, sh-she… she ran off." He exclaims. "W-where is she?"

Owen chuckled. "In an inn? With 'er dear duke?" Owen answers with a bitter taste on his tongue.

"I—she—she…" stutters his uncle, "Rosey is pregnant."

Owen blinked. "What?"

Oscar Wild had a dim look on his face. "If she'd no husband, they will stone her to death—Owen—"

Owen nodded to his Brothers, and they nod back and left. The Faction did not disconnect you with your family, and each's business should not be trifled with. They left them alone in the crooked passageways amidst the heavy rain.

"'ere is she?" Owen asks silently. Thunder echoed on the entirety of the vast grounds of the town. There were no people passing by in the dark of the night.

"Home," Oscar says. "W-we just found out…"

"Whose is it?"

Oscar covered his face.

"The duke's," says Oscar. "Owen… I… I want you to help Rose. I don't want her to be… like her Mama…"

Owen's eyes gleamed. Oscar Wild Lopez was crying. At his most vulnerable. His uncle; the one who failed to treat him like a son, or even just a nephew. This man is now asking for help with the daughter he neglected.

"Help us." He exclaims desperately. "Save Rosey."

Women were not allowed to be single mothers—a woman without a husband meant treason. The punishment for such atrocity was death. Owen knew what Rose's fate would be once the duke decides not to acknowledge the child as his own. It would be Rose's doom. Lives of two were at risk.

It was not just Rose.

The baby needs his help.

Owen and Oscar then went to the house—a three-story house Rose and her mother designed on their own. A cozy house once, brimming with life and flowers. But now its garden was left unattended, the grass growing untrimmed, and dead flowers hanging around the windowsill.

"Rose! We're here!" Oscar says. He was still wet from the rain. He was dripping down to the dirty floor—Rose has been neglecting the house too. Everything was at disarray.

"Rosey!"

"Rose!"

"She isn't here…" Oscar says in fear. "Where is that child? It's nighttime! The storm!"

Owen bit his lip.

"The duke," he says, "Where is his mansion?"