The Call of the Beachwick

Chapter 18: The First, the Fourteenth, and the Thirty-Second

Aurelia made her way towards the orphanage, her thoughts heavily focused on what she would tell Kesi. Having accepted her role as the Matriarch of the Beachwick, she tried to brace herself on what was to come. She knew that just by taking the role there would be conflicts between herself, her people, the Syndicate, and everyone else caught in the middle. The looming specter of war cast a shadow over her thoughts, leaving her uncertain of who stood with her and who stood against.

It was clear to Aurelia that conflict was inevitable in the Beachwick, but she found herself questioning the loyalty of those around her. She wasn't even sure who was on her side, let alone if they were willing to fight. Even if they did fight, there was no guarantee they would win. And even if they won, it would only mean winning a single battle. She wasn't a strategist, but even she was smart enough to figure out that wars were fought over the long haul.

But then what? Aurelia thought as she stopped near the dilapidated gate. If we scored a victory, would the Syndicate leave us alone at that point or would the full force of the Syndicate army descend upon us in their steam powered airships? What would happen to our homes, our families?

Suddenly Aurelia got a very vivid picture of younglings and toddlings crying in the streets covered in dirt among the rubble of tattered tin, brass, copper, and wood, their tear-streaked face illuminated by the flickering glows of cracked gas lamps. Amidst the chaos, she saw wounded individuals being tended to by makeshift medics, their anguished cries blending with the distant sounds of explosions and cannon fire. She could see herself captured aboard one of the airships forced to watch as her new Sisters Dinia, Krery and Devi were tossed overboard only to fall to their doom. Worst off, she saw Kesi both being used against her or fighting on behalf of the Syndicate; neither of which gave her comfort. As her mind started to spiral out of control, she bent over to catch her breath.

The world around her contorted and twisted as if she were peering through Kesi's fogged-up goggles. Time stretched. Every heartbeat pounded in her chest reverberating like piston rods echoing through the chambers of her mind. As the gears of her body began to spin out of control, they grated against each other with a sickening grind, threatening to tear her apart from within. A surge of nausea surged up her throat, and before she could react, the remnants of the festival feast erupted from her lips, splattering messily onto the ground all over her hooves.

"Been a while since I've done that," said a soft feminine voice that pierced both the darkness of the night and the recesses of Aurelia soul.

Startled, Aurelia took a step back and stood frozen in place. To her astonishment, she realized she was no longer alone. Before her stood the second of the ethereal beings that had greeted her in the mine, only this time the hornless satyr wasn't ethereal at all; instead, she appeared as solid and tangible as her own form. Caught off guard and unsure of what to say, she began to stammer, her words faltering in the presence of the unknown visitor.

"Are you..."

"Real?" the satyr finished for her, a wry smile playing on her lips. Aurelia nodded in response, and the satyr glanced around the area, crossing her arms over her chest. As she did so, Aurelia noticed that the white dress she was wearing slipped down slightly at the shoulders, revealing a scar that seemed to be etched deep into the woman's skin. Subconsciously, Aurelia found herself wondering how the scar had come to be, and she instinctively reached up to scratch at the exact same spot on her own body.

"Hard to say," the satyr concluded, her tone tinged with uncertainty. Aurelia stepped forward, half expecting the female to attack her or disappear into thin air. Her heart pounded furiously, unable to decide which outcome to anticipate. Summoning her courage, she reached out to touch the woman, only to find her hand passing right through her form, as if she were nothing more than a wisp of steam.