Chapter 658: Beating One's Nature

Chapter 658: Beating One's Nature

Drinking alcohol was really just drinking scummy water for Argrave—his black blood, coupled with all the other myriad ways that his body had changed since using the Fruit of Being, made both water and rubbing alcohol equally intoxicating. Which is to say: not at all. As time went on, it became clear Durran had become much the same way. Nevertheless, both of them drank pisswater in honor of Garm. He’d be pleased.

Argrave spent the first while regaling the so-called King of the Scorched Sands on the merits of Garm’s choices in the Shadowlands. There were tales to tell that were good enough they seemed tall, but each and all were the truth of the matter and nothing more. They talked well into midnight, and Argrave appreciated the night far more now that he’d experienced total darkness. The night, at least, had some stars shining, and a large red moon overhead.

Gradually, though, something loosened and mellowed Durran—it couldn’t be blamed on alcohol. His repartee slowed to a lull, before disappearing altogether in way of a more honest form of the man Argrave had come to know.

“I like your city, Argrave,” Durran admitted. “I don’t know if I’ll end up staying here—though, that depends a lot on Elenore. I can show her the desert, but I can’t make her like it.”

Argrave rested his arms on the table between them. “She’s a city rat, but she’s also tough. I think she could do both.”

“Yeah, but there’s no parliament in the Burnt Desert. And there’s no you.” Durran took another drink, grimacing at the taste. “She’s given herself fully to this cause of ours. She has a lot to offer. She can do things I can barely imagine. Sometimes... I struggle to see my place in things.”

“You’re important to us,” Argrave said in assurance. “Don’t doubt it for a second.”

“Please. I really only know how to fight—and as we’ve proven, Orion is infinitely more suited to that than I am.” Durran raised his tankard. “Not that I mind. To Orion, savior of the city.”

Argrave narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to goad me into playing the surrogate father that points out all your good qualities? This sounds like a ploy to get me to say nice things so you can make fun of me.”

Durran laughed. “No, I’m just... a little lost.” He looked at Argrave. “What do you need from me? What do you want from me? I want to do more. I want to do better. I want to pay you back for that golden meal you fed me, because you deserve it. Look at Garm. Man was more jaded than anyone I’ve ever met, and still, he... did that.”

Argrave leaned back in his chair. “I think... I think I get what the problem is.”

“Yeah?” Durran looked at him.

“Yeah, I do.” Argrave tapped the table. “I think I’ve been stifling you.”

“What?” Durran narrowed his eyes. “You’re not responsible for my failures. I’ve—”

“No, it’s true.” Argrave nodded. “You don’t work best being given orders. You work best given free rein, left to your own devices with an objective in mind.”

“Oh yeah?” Durran laughed. “Tell me more about me.”

“I need you to go back to the Burnt Desert,” Argrave continued. “And I need you to tie up all the loose ends that I’ve been putting on the backburner. I need you to deal with the automatons that the subterranean mountain people use, for starters. I need you to be the King of the Scorched Sands. I need an independent actor to get things done, without consulting anyone but their own judgment.”

“Llewellen was rather sage.” Argrave looked down at the documents before him. “Have you had a chance to look at this paper?”

“This one?” She walked up, laying eyes upon it, then carried on past him. “No. I was going through the daily reports in chronological order. I saw interesting illusion magics, but none this so-called ‘soul magic’ of yet.”

Argrave looked at her. “You mentioned you preserved Traugott’s psyche, right?”

“I can recreate it.” She nodded. “Why?”

“I was rather worried about how we were going to extract information out of him.” Argrave turned back to his papers, leafing through them. “But... I found... here.” He pulled one paper out, then walked briskly to her and delivered it. “I think we should bring Traugott back. Then... use that. An interrogator’s wet dream.”

She studied it for a moment, her head clicking as she went through the same considerations that Argrave did. With that spell, they could force Traugott to divulge any information they could imagine.

“The last thing I wanted was reason to actually bring him back. But with this... there’s no excuse, is there?” Anneliese sighed deeply.

“We need to know anything that he’s learned. It could be the Heralds. It could be related to Sophia’s power. It could be some measure he took to ruin the world before we beat him—whatever it is, let’s tie a bow on this bastard’s saga.”

“Alright.” Her fingers tightened around the page. “One last moment of his existence, until he’s snuffed out forevermore.”

#####

Argrave looked upon the shell of Good King Norman. It was a testament to Traugott’s utter disregard for everything that he’d chosen to abandon his original body to inhabit something like this, all at some vague hope of playing some hand in the fate of the universe. He was a dangerous man—as such, Anneliese took no chances. The form she’d made for the psyche of Traugott had neither A-rank ascension nor magic at all. They were in Raven’s lab, closed off from the rest of the world. The body was crucified in stakes of Ebonice—extreme, perhaps, but they didn’t want Napoleon Bonaparte coming back from exile to pick up the torch of his revolution in the Shadowlands.

Anneliese withdrew her hand from the shell’s chest, stepping back. “Any mom—” she began, but a deep breath of air ahead cut her off.

The shell, now occupied with Traugott’s mind, looked about in curious panic before settling on the two of them. It opened its mouth to speak, but Argrave already had the spell prepared. He employed soul magic—the spell [Compulsion] blast out, entwining with Traugott’s soul. His head rocked back and he spasmed before growing still.

“Tell me your full name,” Argrave commanded.

“Traugott of Galrithium,” he answered, as pliable as any other druidic bond.

Argrave paused—that confirmed he was from the Burnt Desert, though Argrave knew that town had long ago fallen to ruin. He looked at Anneliese. He saw her trepidation, and it was surely mirroring his own. It was time for a conversation with the man that had caused so much damage to the world.