Vas Forterai

Vas Forterai sat in a restaurant in the center of town, in the corner seat farthest from the entrance. Marjory’s. She’d been here a number of times before, but this time she wasn’t here to eat. Instead, her eyes were laser-focused on a greasy-looking mountain of a man that was about to begin enjoying his first meal outside of prison. He picked up his chopsticks and held them gingerly in his large hands, as if he was afraid that someone would take them away.

Usually when someone stares this intently in public, it might draw attention. But no one looked at Vas with any curiosity at all. In all fairness, to everyone else she looked like an senile old geezer engrossed in a book as ancient as him. It was all thanks to active cloaking, a skill that had existed in light magic for centuries, but that she had perfected. At least, was trying to perfect.

You see, active cloaking requires an absurd amount of concentration. The wielder must focus on controlling all the light surrounding a subject, an already herculean feat for most, even on small unmoving objects. Beyond that, they also have to project a desired replacement image, and ensure it is correct when viewing it at any angle. Beginners at the temple find themselves depleting all their energy to transform bars of soap into matchstick boxes. More advanced learners could cloak small animals, provided they were still or moving at a slow enough pace. A tortoise, for example, might be able to be turned into a slowly-rolling cart.

Vas was undoubtedly the most adept out of those in this practice, by far. She reached such a high level of proficiency with the magic that she was able to cloak her entire body while sprinting. Even during athletic engagements, she was perfectly able to reflect images from a small library of people and objects that she had collected over the years. Not only that, she had managed to pretty much autopilot the cloaking when reflecting a familiar images. This left brainpower and energy for critical thought when stationary, and quick observation and decision making when on the move.

Her abilities weren’t infallible, however. The energy required to perform active cloaking remains the same whether you are a master or a novice. This meant that she could only hold mobile cloaking for about ten minutes at a full sprint, while stationary cloaking could be held for a few hours. The energy drain is also relative to the scale of the cloaking you’re trying to perform. A toothpick, as you might surmise, is much easier to hold a cloak on than a book. At the height of her past accomplishments sits the cloaking of the entire temple library for two seconds, and a button for fourteen hours.

In addition, to attain a perfect cloak, undetectable by civilians, one had to fully understand a complete image from all angles. There are occasions when incomplete cloaks are more useful or efficient, but only perfect cloaks are trained for, as they have the most practical applications. To turn an object into a single die, one must understand not only how all the faces look, but how they will be lit by the existing light sources in the environment. This becomes even trickier if the wielder wants the die to roll, for instance, as they must understand how a die looks during that action. The difficulty is compounded exponentially further if the light sources in the environment are not fixed. As a result, students of active cloaking generally specialize in cloaking certain objects or actions.

The elderly gentleman that Vas was currently disguising herself as was actually an imaginative three-dimensional rendering of a photo of her late best friend’s grandfather. She had never seen him in real life, as he had passed long before either of them had been born, but from the stories she had been told about him, he was the kindest soul. Quiet too, living in seclusion on the outskirts of the city, never really drawing attention to himself. A perfect image to replicate, though Vas was not the kind of person to think so reductively. The only reason she ever cloaked into him was to give Eletta a chance to see her grandfather in real life for the first time.

She sat there still watching the hulking figure across the room. Though he had just been released from maximum security prison, the threat didn’t actually come from him. Well, not technically, not yet. The man was Hauhan Uloch, and he had just finished serving thirty years for the premeditated murder of his wife, Pina. It was supposed to be life without parole, but someone was able to pull enough strings to release him early. On the day of the arrest, he was found sobbing on the floor of his apartment, balled up next to her body with a bloodied knife in hand. He had apparently stabbed her forty-one times, in what could only be considered massive overkill from a place of extreme anger. A notebook detailing his mounting grievances with their relationship was found locked away in a trunk in the bedroom closet.

And it was true, that he killed his wife. The problem with this story was everything else. According to his neighbors and coworkers, he was the most gentle giant they had ever met. Even with his foreboding stature and size, it was immediately apparent upon observation that Uloch was a quiet and loving man. Never saying a word unless spoken to, he was only ever talkative when it came to Pina. Though he thoroughly enjoyed his work in construction and was often fine working overtime, he was always eager to head home to spend time with her.

The stories told by the people that knew him didn’t fit with what was written in the notebook at all. If someone had never known Uloch and were tasked to describe him from the book alone, they would most likely come to the conclusion that he was a severely deranged man. There were several instances in the writing that were so gruesome that when it was read back to him he showed an intense and visceral revulsion. He denied the existence of the notebook, saying that he could never write something so horrible. But as much as he wanted to deny the murder itself, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It seemed that he acknowledged his actions, as out of character as they might’ve been. With the confession and the evidence, he was easily convicted. An important statement given by Uloch in custody reads as follows: “I could never do it. Pina is my world, my joy, the woman I love over everything else. We have a great relationship, and we’ve never quarreled even once. The thought would never even cross my mind, I’m not a violent person in the slightest, ask anyone. But… I did it. I did it, didn’t I? I remember doing it. I remember feeling so angry. I’ve never felt that way before. I remember it all… happening. I killed Pina.”

And he convinced himself that he did. Once Uloch was thoroughly locked away, he fell into an entranced state of self-loathing and fear. He wanted to be kept away from everyone, afraid that he would lash out again unprovoked and hurt someone. So he voluntarily admitted himself into solitary confinement. A dark room, devoid of light and noise, save the three times a day a small window was opened to push meals inside. He told himself that he deserved worse than this, that even death wasn’t enough to atone for his crime. He would suffer through this punishment and then take whatever divine punishment awaited him in death. There he would stay, in that small dark room, for what he thought would be the rest of his life.

Yet thirty years later, his door was opened. A man wearing an immaculate bespoke suit told him that it was time to leave. He was free. And though Uloch protested extensively, he was forced out of prison and dropped on the pavement directly outside, where a letter waited for him. The letter announced the arrival of a taxicab that would take him to Marjory’s, where Vas was watching him now. It also goaded him into staying the route with the promise of the “truth” concerning his wife’s death.

So there he sat now. Long, greasy, unkempt hair sat atop a tired face. He was sixty-five now, and had wasted away quite a great deal while in prison. His muscles, once profound and defined, had atrophied considerably, and though he retained his height, he slumped into himself, creating a smaller shell only echoing who he was before. His eyes were nervous, darting around to focus on every new stimulus. Being trapped in a dark room for three decades certainly didn’t make him well attuned to bright lights and noises.

Vas felt an acute sorrow for him, especially since she was almost entirely certain that it wasn’t his fault that he killed his wife. His story was one that was starting to pop up a little too often. A completely normal person, lacking any prior criminal history, who all of a sudden commits an unthinkable crime. They’re brought in, and though they deny the possibility, they don’t deny their actions. Sentenced to various terms, brought out before their term has been completed, given a letter, and whisked away to a hub of public activity. That’s when the rampaging begins. All of these people, for seemingly no reason at all, turn incredibly violent and destructive, attacking everything within their line of sight.

Errod Waters, fifty-seven years old: served twenty years in prison and upon release, killed fourteen people and caused thousands in property damage with a homemade explosive device. Prior to imprisonment, Waters had been a high school teacher who’s only goal in life was to pass on his knowledge to the next generations. Kulvich Thranton, forty-four years old: served twenty-five years in prison and upon release, murdered his entire family via strangulation. Prior to imprisonment, he was a newly-admitted freshman in university with a full ride and bright prospects. Their stories just didn’t add up.

Vas began following this trail of violence about seven months ago when Thranton’s case went into circulation. It piqued her concern, but there was nothing to be done about it at the time. The Arrastari Lumos, the organization that Vas practiced underneath, were not crime-fighters or detectives. The council of elites that remained at the helm of the Arrastari kept a strict adherence to tradition, and one of those traditions was absolute secrecy. The world that they resided in was still blissfully unaware of magic, and the high authorities in the realm of magic wanted to keep it that way. Though Vas found it a bit ironic that those who practiced with the light preferred to work in the dark, she never really questioned this principle, since she also felt that pushing this arcane knowledge onto the civilian population most likely invited more consequence than benefit.

However, this didn’t mean that she personally adhered to tradition perfectly. Here she was, broadcasting magic energy in an absurdly public space, preparing to use that magic to stop the outburst that was likely to come soon. To be fair, cloaking was the specific kind of lightwork that wouldn’t be detectable through normal means, so she was probably safe. That’s what she told herself anyway.

Just then, a woman walked up to Uloch at the table. She looked ready for a vacation, so perhaps she wasn’t from the area. She was thin and small, especially standing in front of Uloch, but she was a standout in the crowd. A large, wide-brimmed hat struggled to keep a mountain of curly red hair in check, a bright green and white-striped tank top clashed with sunburnt skin, and beige slacks were held up with a flashy, yet knockoff big-brand belt. Anything but inconspicuous, but it wasn’t the loudest outfit you’d ever see in town. She also wore thick black glasses that were tinted so dark nothing was visible past the lenses. Perhaps something one might wear after an eye surgery.

The woman handed a package to Uloch and then sat at the table, not saying a word. Uloch looked rightfully confused, but assumed the small brown packet was meant for him, and opened it. Inside was a pair of glasses identical to the ones the woman wore. Vas could just barely make out their short conversation from where she was.

“These… glasses? Am I supposed to wear them? Why?” Uloch tested.

The woman kept silent for a moment, then responded in a slow drawl, “Do… you want to know… or not?”

There were no further questions. He carefully worked the glasses around his head. They were a tight fit to be sure, but fit nonetheless. Vas waited in perfectly tunneled concentration, muting all the motion outside Uloch’s table. Nothing happened for a long, long time.

Then tears started running down Uloch’s face. He grabbed at his face and hair and began yelling at the top of his lungs. Shrieks pierced the commotion in the shopping district, and everyone turned to look at the screaming giant. His cries turned into racking sobs, and he folded himself over in pain. It was clear to Vas that something in those glasses was causing extreme stress. Several civilians began inching towards Uloch, trying to calm him down. The woman was the only anomaly, sitting still as stone, showing no visible emotion. Vas prepared to move, but was unsure exactly how to proceed since she’d most likely have to give up her disguise in the field of people. Perfect cloaks were useful even up to an inch within the wielder’s space, but any motion that crossed that distance would temporarily distort the section that was disturbed. In the growing crowd, her cloak was almost surely going to be revealed. She made the decision to drop the cloak while everyone’s attention was focused elsewhere. In an instant, gone was the elderly gentleman and in his place was Vas, looking for an angle to deal with the situation.

Before she could come up with anything though, Uloch seized the red-haired woman with both of his gigantic hands. In one quick movement, he twisted her head up like a bottlecap and tore it off, flinging it into the crowd. All hell broke loose.