Traverse The Fog

There he stood, staring at himself in front of a lavish restroom mirror. Today, this man went out of his way to wear a finely tailored suit for this special occasion.

For today was his introduction to the fold.

Once again, he inspected himself. First was his brown hair, usually matted with sweat and soot from long hours near the factories, now neatly combed and washed for this day.

There was nothing wrong with that, so he moved onto his face. Or rather, what covered it. Slowly, his calloused fingers traced along the cold, ceramic mask. It was sculpted into the shape of a shifty-eyed young man, full of ambition. One who was willing to step upon those deemed 'his betters.' But what was this?

"Wrong," he muttered in a gruff voice, locking gazes with his reflection.

Those eyes were wrong with what the man should be portraying. They were too hopeful—eyes that longed for a better future. And in an instant, he quashed them and replaced them with a cold, detached gaze. Now, they revealed a man willing to do what it takes, be it dumping bodies into the Saibgold's river or stealing the livelihood of a struggling family.

All of this was done to fit the role of The Usurper.

This Usurper did not belong in such a lavish bathroom with gleaming white marble so polished that he could peer at his own reflection from it. No, if it were any other circumstances, he would have used his clammy, pale hands to rip and run off with the finely embroidered golden faucet and handle on the very sink. But now was not the time for such ideas.

"Show time," The Usurper muttered.

After one last scan for imperfections, he stepped out into the hallway. And there she was—the plus two. Casually leaning against the left wall was a tall and lithe woman dressed in a simple black gown. Appearing graceful as a ballerina, she held a small canvas and drawing pencil. Her burgundy hair was in a lazy bun, with stray strands sticking out as if she had made a half-hearted effort to prepare for the event. And like he, himself, she wore a ceramic mask depicting a daydreamer lost in thought.

She was The Artist. Or so he was told.

"Wake up," The Usurper barked an order, one learned from constant practice. "We got work an' you're just standin' around."

The Artist stirred. Her light brown eyes, once vacant, swiveled toward him. The two remained in a deadlock as a cold chill crawled down The Usurper's spine. It was more than enough to tell him his place in this ridiculous manor. But just as quickly as the moment came, it passed.

"Ah, give it a rest, extra." She lazily covered her mask with a yawn, her voice slow and detached. "Maybe in a few years, I'll start taking you seriously. But right now?" A pause. "Nah."

Was it that obvious? The thought siphoned the energy from the man as his shoulders slumped. "What gave it away?"

"It's your tone," The Artist said, pushing off the wall into a languid stretch. "Like you're holding back, afraid to raise your voice. Funny, considering I'm supposed to be the 'helpless,' right?" She glanced over his outfit, gaze flickering with faint amusement. "And that suit? Completely wrong for this ball. Not the 'big bad who killed his boss,' more nervous idiot dressed to impress."

"Oh..." The Usurper compared his outfit to hers. Had he really misjudged the event? "Should I..."

"Leave?" The Artist softly scoffed, soon strolling toward the double doors, voice floaty and lazy. "It's too late for that. Just stick behind Troupe Leader and act invisible" —she glanced back at him, gaze smug— "That way, you won't embarrass him."

"W-wait—'old on!"

Quickly, The Usurper chased after her through the doors. But he didn't make it far once he entered the grand foyer. It was nothing like he'd ever seen. Marble flooring, indigo velvet, painting of grand stages, large golden chandeliers with dim lights, and lined with furnishings more expensive than that damn hovel he called home. And he wasn't alone.

Gaze narrowing, he took in the sight of hundreds of people from every walk of life. Each wore masks that reflected their personalities and dotted the room in small, distinct circles. Bakers conversed with civilians, while guardsmen spoke casually with criminals as though they were living out scenes from real life.

"Come on, newbie." The Artist glanced back with a hidden smile. "Wouldn't want you to get lost."

Forward they went. Quietly, The Usurper listened to the cliques speak in hushed tones, oblivious to the world around them. He heard cries of laughter, sobbing, and even heated arguments as if mirroring fragments of scripted existence.

As he moved, his attention focused on certain individuals—delivery men, factory managers, mercenaries—'the versatile.' They would flitter between groups, seamlessly melding within these coteries, either rich or poor, mundane or magical, and making brief exchanges before moving on.

It was rather unnerving.

But The Usurper swallowed the thought and kept moving. His attention swerved toward those more prominent figures gathered near the grand imperial staircase. Some of them would cast occasional glances upward as if expecting someone, yet none dared to ascend.

Maybe he, too, would stand there someday.

It was a good thought, one that took his attention from windows obfuscated by a thick blanket of fog that painted a world swallowed by it.

"Heads up," The Artist said. "There he is."

Indeed. Just beyond a few groups was a lone man leaning against the back of the room. Tall and broad-shouldered, with long white hair cascading to his shoulders, he carried the aura of a soldier, ready to strike at a moment's notice. And he looked the part, too. The man was clad in thick black breastplate armor. On his padded shoulders, he carried a silver embroidery depicting a hawk mid-strike with its sharp talons stretched out. And what made the transformation complete was the mask—a face of absolute indifference, specifically that cold, red gaze.

Those who spoke to him knew him as 'The Businessman.'

Both The Usurper and Artist moved before him. And where one respectfully bowed, the other lazily wrapped her arms around his waist.

"You've been away for so long, darling," she dreamily murmured with just a hint of a sigh. "Where have you been?"

"At the Andes." The Businessman allowed her to rest her head on the crook of his neck. "There was a situation."

And that was enough. Their troupe leader had no reason nor the script to tell them more. But The Artist seemed fine as she seemed more preoccupied with the contours of his arm.

"This brute killed my favorite baker a few weeks back." She lazily pointed at The Usurper. "Can we get rid of him? It's been such a bother to find a new bread shop."

You bitch.

Yet The Usurper swallowed his words. All he could do was wait for judgment.

"Hmm." The Businessman remained bored, not bothering with the spat. "I'll return in a week." His gaze then settled on The Usurper's outfit, eyes so cold that the latter could almost imagine his brows furrowing.

"Is something the matter, Mr. Darrah?" he asked, voice taut.

"The outfit's wrong, your stance is sloppy, and your eyes... still too bright," The Businessman remarked, his voice flat and emotionless. "Don't embarrass me when the time comes."

"Yes—yes, of course, Mr. Darrah." Sweat began to trickle down The Usurper's back, his voice barely audible. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Then came the lull in their conversation. During that time, The Usurper quietly listened to The Artist's stupid ramblings while keenly scoping the subtle interactions of the other cliques. At least, that was until The Artist asked a question.

"Please, Hun. Can't you do something about the guardsmen? Inspections have become oh so dreadfully tedious lately."

"When I return, I'll speak with The Captain."

The Artist let out a delighted gasp. Happy, she wrapped her arms tighter around him, her gaze narrowing into crescents.

"Does that mean you're staying?" she asked, her voice drifting off as if lost in a daydream. "And for how long?"

"A year or two, perhaps. Should nothing unusual occur." In a rare display of emotion, he traced a finger across her pale hand. "Thanks to Tiger's subordinate, Murder, I was able to avoid trouble."

The Usurper blinked. He didn't know who they were, but considering The Artist's minor faux pas at the names, they were rather important. However, the two didn't delve into the subject and returned to unimportant matters. During the wait, members of the flock would separate from their groups and speak with the couple.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Is that O'Coire?! The Usurper blinked at the rotund man approaching them. This fucking rat bastard is one of us?!

The mask he wore depicted a sleazy face; ears perked as if listening for the cacophony of clattering coins. Moreover, The Usurper would always remember that Guard administrator suit, always stained with food-stuff or alcohol.

If there were ever a name he would apply to O'Coire, it would be 'The Weasel.' Regardless of his thoughts, The Usuper listened in on the simple basis of: 'I'm a crook.'

The Weasel eagerly extended his sweaty hand, shaking with The Businessman with a bit too much enthusiasm, his words tumbling out in rushed, jittery sentences.

"Mr. Galloghy! Great to see you again, really great! Uh, did you—did you bring the supplies? Are you, uh, heading back to the city soon? That's great. So, uh, the supplies—did you bring 'em?"

"Ugh—Yes." The Businessman yanked his hand back and wiped The Weasel's sweat off it with a white handkerchief as fast as humanly possible. "But listen here. I've heard your men have been causing trouble."

The Weasel nervously rubbed his sweaty hands together, shoulders hunched. "It's Lady Megarry, Sir. She found one of the processing plants in the factory district" —he swallowed a mouthful of saliva— "And now the city's on lockdown."

The Usurper caught The Businessman's gaze and nodded in agreement. It was true, after all—The Dúndraíocht knew the dangers if the product spread unchecked.

"Then you'd better make sure the product gets past the gate, Rhine," The Businessman said.

He kept his tone flat. Yet, The Usurper had never witnessed anyone nod as quickly as The Weasel.

"D-don't worry, Mr. Galloghy!" he said, who appeared ready to leap his soul right from his body. "There are plans in place alread—" A loud gong echoed through the room.

With it came a sudden change in his demeanor. The Weasel's frantic demeanor suddenly vanished as he stood up straight, no longer speaking. But it was not just him. The entire room fell silent, conversations halting—whether cheerful, tense, or angry, everything shifted to an eerie calm.

Before The Usurper could react, The Businessman and Artist separated with blank expressions. He watched them follow The Weasel and followed suit. They quickly joined the congregation as they slowly flocked to the grand stairwell.

Once before it, they waited. They waited until the room dimmed as dark as the abyss, and not one word was spoken in that brief moment. Then, a spotlight flickered on the top of the stairs, revealing a set of double doors, signaling the time of ascension. Slowly, one member—appearing to be a delivery woman—ascended the stairs with her head bowed low. Then, another—a guardsman.

Slowly but surely, more and more members rose up the stairs. Reverent, each one took the utmost care to avoid even the tiniest creek.

Is it time to pray? The Usurper wondered, mirroring the others' actions.

When he stepped through the doors, he momentarily paused at the sight. This place was unlike any normal place of worship. Instead of rows upon rows of pew benches leading up to an altar surrounded by an ornate chancel, a stage stood before an audience seating area. The only sign of worship was the small wooden pulpit waiting at the edge of the stage.

His gaze flickered around and took note: Under the pale spotlight, members of the flock sat side by side without regard for status or rank.

However, what then drew his attention, or rather his dread, was the fog. What was once blocked by windows now seeped onto the floorboards, weaving itself on the legs of those who searched for seating. In truth, this had been The Usurper's first time outside the golden barriers of Saibgoid. Even the coach who drove him here offered a modicum of separation. The fog had been more of a ghost story than a threat. Yet now, all the superstitions he had heard of flooded back. Despite his years of blood and darkness, the Usurper couldn't help but nearly walk on his toes as he followed The Businessman, his skin prickling with goosebumps.

It was now time for prayer. Everyone bowed their heads low and waited in deferential silence. Time passed without nary a peep. That was until the doors abruptly opened, followed by footsteps echoing. The Usurper slyly cracked an eye open once the footsteps reached the stage.

And there he was. A simple and clean-shaven brown-haired man wearing simple wear—slacks, suspenders, and a white dress shirt—something you would see on an average Joe heading back from work.

A shiver ran down The Usurper's spine. This was the man his sponsors had led him to—the one who had awakened his latent faith and abilities.

The man is only known by the name of Bishop. And he licked his thin, dry lips as he made a single clap that echoed throughout the stage.

"Sorry to keep you all waiting," he began, his voice carrying a tired but familiar warmth, like a friend you'd chat at the bar with after a long day's work. "Even with all the faith in the world, I still have bills to pay."

The Usurper let out an involuntary scoff. Indeed, many others, clearly from middle or lower-class backgrounds, laughed softly, too. Despite the laugh, The Usuper felt his heart seize. But why?

With his breath held, he watched The Bishop step onto the pulpit steps, remove his thick, black glasses from his aquiline nose, and tiredly wipe them with the end of his sleeve.

Yet it was enough to reveal The Usurper what he was missing out on—there was no need for robes or garbs of the priesthood, for The Bishop already wore them.

"Well, then. Shall we get started?" The Bishop once again adjusted his glasses and reached for a thick script packet waiting on the pulpit. "As some of you know, I'm not like my brothers" —he held up the blank script for all to see— "I prefer improvisation since plays reflect life. And life is chaotic."

With his declaration came the quiet, rippling murmurs of approval throughout his flock. Several breaths passed until The Bishop clapped for silence.

"Today, I felt a calling. Or was it my stomach?" Another murmur of laughter. "In any case, we'll begin a performance instead of the usual. Call it a farewell."

A farewell to what? The Usurper wondered.

His attention moved toward the masked servers marching through the center aisle. Despite the confusion, ten congregants made their way to the stage once called upon. Meanwhile, The Ursurper was left unchosen. And he couldn't tell if he was relieved or frustrated by the fact. Maybe it was the suit.

"Now, don't be nervous," The Bishop tiredly continued, casually resting his head on his hand. "Think of this as your chance to be the star of the show. And maybe you'll earn The Scriptwriter's favor."

A jest, The Usurper assumed.

From what he's been told, there hasn't been a divine revelation in hundreds of years. Not that it stopped anyone from relinquishing their fervor. Faith was funny like that.

With that in mind, the chosen began to coordinate. Soon, a story unfolded—a tale of a man losing everything to his vices. He watched a barrel of a man dressed like an administration official reluctantly play his part.

His story began as a child enduring an abusive childhood, something far too common in the poorer districts of Saibgold. And like any other child growing up in such a place, the main lead succumbed to the call of alcohol.

"Put some emotion into it," The Bishop remarked, drumming his fingers on the pulpit's wooden surface. "You're life is misery. You are misery."

From there, the story spiraled into a nightmare. The main actor experienced more and more grief, with only the love of his wife keeping him afloat.

"These guys are really getting into it," The Usurper whispered to The Artist, his gaze ever-remaining on the lead. "It's like the main lived through it."

The Artist let out a low snicker. "Just wait. Things are about to get interesting."

True to her word, the emotions of the play intensified with the introduction of props, especially when cups began filling with alcohol.

"You're a fucking drunkard," The Bishop directed. "Act like one!"

With it, the fog began to cling onto the unaware lead, rising higher and higher as he drank more and more, suffering trial after trial.

The man was truly lost in the sauce.

And it all accumulated when the lead's 'wife' left him.

"What's happe—" The Usurper's words caught in his throat as he watched the lead suddenly choke.

When the thick fog coiled around the lead's neck, The Usurper remained still. When the man dropped to his knees and clawed desperately at the floorboards, The Usuper did nothing. When the rest of the group calmly retreated to their seats as if nothing was amiss, The Usurper simply watched. And as the lead bent forward, the mask slipping off to reveal a man's graying face and writhing serpent-like veins underneath his skin, The Usurper swallowed the lump in his throat.

And if everything couldn't have been more horrifying, everyone except him began to clap as if it were all part of some show. One that he was not a part of.

"Bravo, bravo," The Bishop called out, slowly clapping as he approached the choking man. He knelt and picked up the discarded mask. "The Gossip, perhaps? Or maybe The Drunkard suits you better?"

Without fanfare, The Bishop raised a hand. Like a magic trick, he revealed a bronzed skull-like mask—a Specter's mask. The sight brought the lead into a scramble. Inch by inch, he clawed toward The Bishop. But he failed ever to reach him.

The fog churned and frothed, silently tiding over the lead as he began to contort his body. His muscles grotesquely shifted and bulged as if writhing worms trying to break through the skin. And just before the fog consumed him, black bile spat out of the man's mouth.

"Improvisation may be my forte." The Bishop stood up and outstretched his arms into the spotlight. "But a story needs preparation to truly ever shine."

With a clang, The Specter's mask fell to the ground. The Bishop, along with everyone else, closed their eyes as they fell into another silent prayer. The room dimmed; its spotlight remained ever-on The Specter as he twisted and writhed until he stopped moving with one last sorrowful wail.

Thus, the story came to its conclusion. There was no need for further readings or recitations of doctrines today—this performance had been more than enough.

"Now then," The Bishop whispered, lowering his arms. "Shall we—" His gaze snapped open at the sight of the fog coiling around The Specter suddenly rising.

Under the frightened murmurs of the audience, it rose higher and higher above him and the crowd, shading darker and darker. Once it shifted into an inky black, it moved. Slowly, it drifted toward the pulpit, engulfing the blank script packet.

"A revelation?" One spoke out.

"A sign from our lord!" Another.

Gasps filled the room as everyone fell into a fervent prayer.

The Bishop raised his hand to keep the peace. "Now, now, I understand your excitement, but remember our doctrine: 'Those who don't know the script can't see the truth.'"

But anyone could hear the excited tremble in his voice. How long had it been since a divine message reached one of the flock? Never in his two hundred years of preaching, that's for sure.

Their gazes remained on the pulpit. One minute. Thirty. Only after an hour of silent prayer did the miasma sink back to the stage's floorboards.

Slowly, reverently, The Bishop strode before the pulpit. His shaking hands gently grasped onto the divine script, dreading that it would crumple. For a moment, all was quiet as the audience watched him study the script.

The change in his expression was barely noticeable at first—one of trepidation and yearning, shifting slowly into shock and realization. Then, it became pure zealotry.

"An era of bliss is upon us, my children!" The Bishop yelled, displaying the script for all to witness. "Our lord has revealed a new play! And in this era, a new star rises!"