Chapter 105: Isobel Makes a Move
While Langston and his team battled Cu Sith in Edinburgh, Isobel fumed in her chosen rooms inside Doras Dagda's Arcoplex. She fully intended to turn as many of Edinburgh's surviving population against Robert and Moira as she could, but she deeply enjoyed her quarters' eerie charm. The rooms were comfortable, artistic, and magically adapted their decor to suit the occupant. Isobel's transformed into a hauntingly beautiful Gothic cathedral. Walls rose into pointed spires that seemed to pierce the shadows above, their jagged edges casting sharp reflections on cold stone floors. Stained glass windows bathed the room in sharp, aggressive hues of red, black, and deep violet, each pane depicting the Warlock in stylized glory, hands raised as if commanding chaos and decay. Jagged lines of light and shadow radiated outward. The windows seemed alive, figures shifting as light moved, the Warlock's watchful gaze following anyone who entered.
Iron-wrought lamps hung from long chains, their sharp, curling designs resembling thorns and bones. Pale flames flickered weakly, casting uneven shadows that crawled along the stone walls. The air was thick and heavy, carrying the scent of old iron and an undercurrent of something sour, like burnt paper. Everything echoed the inevitability of decay, from the spires' crumbling edges to cracks in the iron supports. The desk, carved from dark, weathered wood, had splintered edges, as if time had bitten it. Black silk curtains draped archways, their once-perfect hems fraying into strands that swayed despite still air. This was no mere room; it was a shrine to the slow unraveling of the universe, a testament to the power of entropy and the darkness Isobel admired.
Isobel stalked before the windows, their aggressive colors staining her skin. She dragged her nails down her arms, leaving dark red lines that stung in the cool air. Her hands trembled as she slapped her cheeks sharply, each sting a punishment for her failure. "Pathetic," she hissed, voice low and cutting. "I am pathetic for hesitating."
Her pacing quickened, boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. The glowing image of the Warlock loomed above, casting a dark shadow that seemed to scowl at her failures. "He watches," she muttered, glancing up at the shifting light of the stained glass. "He sees my inaction and hesitation." The thought burned in her mind, pushing her to lash out again, slapping her arms and pulling at the fraying edges of her sleeves. "I am unworthy of his vision unless I make it right."
She stopped suddenly, breathing hard, fingers curling into fists at her sides. "I must get something done," she said, her voice a bitter snarl. "Anything to prove my loyalty."
How could she motivate these people to turn against one another? "I must take action to infuriate them," she muttered, her pacing slowing as an idea began to form. "Frame Robert and his band of saints for something… something divisive." She paused, lips curling into a cold smile. "Or better yet, sabotage them. Force them to enact curfews and harsh protections for their precious refugees."
Her hands rubbed together, excitement building as the plan unfolded. "The garden," she whispered, voice almost reverent as she turned to the window. "Their precious garden. I could poison its ability to provide food. Yes. It is a fungus that thrives in rich soil. It'll take the same nutrients as their crops but destroy them from the roots."
Her grin widened, a hint of madness in her eyes as she began to pace again. "Fabricate a shortage. Create chaos. That will do it." She stopped and tilted her head as another thought struck her. "Hell… those damned druids might even accelerate the fungus's growth with their own magic, thinking it's just another plant." The idea made her laugh—a sharp, shrill sound that echoed through her quarters.
"Yes," she said, her voice firm now, resolve solidified. She gathered her belongings quickly, fingers trembling from excitement. "I'll make the call. The Enclave outpost will send what I need by drone."
She swept out of the Arcoplex, her mind racing with the chaos she would unleash. Each step felt lighter as her plan came together; the Warlock's approving gaze flashed in her mind. Yes. Yes. Wherever he was, he was pleased.
Forty-five minutes later, Isobel stood in the shadows near the Arcoplex outskirts. She made the call, and the big man himself approved her plan within moments. Dr. Draven, Elias Draven. Her breathing was steady now, her earlier frustration replaced by focused anticipation. The cold wind bit at her cheeks as her gaze darted skyward.
A whirring sound reached her ears, growing louder. The Enclave drone approached fast, its sleek frame cutting through the dark sky. Its undercarriage blinked, signaling it carried her prize. She stepped forward, her boots crunching against the gravel, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
The drone slowed as it neared, its movements precise and efficient. With a soft hiss, it dropped a small, reinforced container to the ground before speeding away without pause. Isobel crouched and opened the container, her fingers trembling slightly. Inside was a carefully sealed vial filled with a dark, swirling substance. Inside was a genetically modified Fusarium oxysporum. The liquid shimmered, betraying its unnatural origins.
She lifted the vial, holding it up to the dim light of the Arcoplex's distant lamps. A grin spread across her face as she imagined the havoc it would wreak. "Perfect," she whispered, sealing the container back and tucking it safely into her satchel. The Warlock's gaze seemed to press heavier on her now, and for the first time that day, she felt worthy of it.
With a satisfied smirk, she turned and disappeared into the night, her plan set in motion. The garden, and the faith of those who worked it, would soon crumble under her touch. It was getting late; the town was quiet. She walked softly through the growing city. "It smells nice here," she murmured to herself, her focus slipping against the magical, comforting feel of Doras Dagda. Stopping for a moment, she shook her head roughly and pushed herself further. Everyone is at home now, with their families, faithfully spending time with one another. She could hear muffled laughter coming from the pavilions that hung over their underground home's entrances. She had to admit that bunkers such as those were incredibly useful. After all, she utilized one herself in Edinburgh to observe the chaos she helped to unleash.
Chaos is ready to unleash itself once more. She padded silently into the Gardens of the Dagda. With softly glowing lights illuminating the paths, she proceeded forward. She decided to start from the center, near the great Ambrosia tree. It was very convenient for what she wanted to do. That giant tree, laden with golden ambrosia fruits, crowned the center of the garden. She would start there and walk the spiral road back towards the entrance. These people were fascinated by spirals. She thought to herself, "Nothing more dangerous than people with unhealthy obsessions." And of course, she completely missed the hypocrisy of labeling anyone obsessive.
She took out the package of vials. A clear, seemingly harmless liquid contained the spores suspended in a clear nutrient fluid. They just needed contact with soil, and they would begin spreading. Judging by how quickly some of these berries replenished themselves, the magical enchantments of the garden were likely to enhance their growth one hundredfold. She swore she could see the berries growing in size right before her eyes.
That will absolutely work in her favor. "Alright… Magic… Let's see how you stand up to the power of the science of Homo sapiens," she muttered. She started her slow walk of destruction. The garden's empty, except for her. It was perfect for this plan. She walked the ever-widening spiral, allowing a single drop to fall in each planter and each section of trees. Drip. A little further, and then another drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Her smile increased, and she experienced little shudders of wicked delight with each spent vial. She must have been walking and releasing the fungal spores for almost two hours before running out of vials. Then, she heard the thumping of a monstrosity. It was a pair of those monstrosities, called "Kobrutes." "These people and their stupid puns," she thought venomously to herself. She decided it was time to hide until they passed. That part was easy. The kobolds riding on their strange, saddled monsters were alert and could see well. But the pounding march of their brutes, along with the grinding of stone from their joints, muffled any sound they could have heard from her. She hid behind a particularly large decorative hedge, letting them pass. She listened to the kobolds' bizarre chittering language as they lumbered past.
She held her breath until they were gone, and she bolted as quickly as she could from the gardens. It would have to do; she was out of vials anyway. Taking herself to her rooms once more, unseen by anyone, she tossed her package and empty vials into a recycling chute to be magically destroyed and converted into power for the facility. Finally, she flopped onto her canopy bed. It was soft. It was as soft as she was hard. With a satisfied smile on her face, she fell asleep almost instantly, dreaming of enraged mobs of refugees demanding more rights in Doras Dagda.
By sunrise, the smell of fried eggs, sizzling bacon, and warm, fluffy biscuits wafted through the dining hall of Lord Ewan MacEwan's home. At the long oak table, Lillia sat quietly, her dark curls framing her face as she picked at a bowl of fresh fruit, vibrant and glistening in the morning light. Across from her, Rauri leaned forward, gesturing animatedly with his fork.
"I'm telling you," Rauri said, between mouthfuls of bacon, "if I adjust my stance just a bit when swinging the greatsword, I'll have better balance. It should help against Chaucer and Hamish's quicker movements."
Sorcha rolled her eyes, sipping her tea as she glanced at her father. "Or you could accept you're not as nimble as them and focus on brute strength instead."
Lord Ewan chuckled, cutting into his eggs with ravenous abandon. "Rauri, lad, you've been chasing Chaucer's shadow since you met him. It's good to aim high, but don't lose sight of what makes you, you."
Rauri grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "Aye, maybe you're right, but I'll get him one day. Just wait."
Before anyone could respond, the door to the dining hall burst open. A druidess, her face pale and streaked with dirt, rushed in, her breath ragged. "My lord! My lord! Something has gone terribly wrong!"
Ewan stood immediately, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. "What is it?" he asked, his voice calm and patient.
"It's the garden," she said, clutching the doorframe for support. "It's fallen ill. No matter how much magic we pour into it to encourage strength and growth, it keeps getting worse. We don't know what to do!"
The MacEwans exchanged worried glances before rushing to the window. From their vantage point, the sprawling gardens of Doras Dagda came into view. In the distance, the massive Great Ambrosial Tree towered over the settlement, a landmark visible from nearly every corner of the town. But something was deeply wrong.
The tree's once-lustrous golden leaves were shedding, fluttering to the ground like dying embers. Its fruits, usually glowing with vibrant energy, were mottled with sickly gray and black splotches. The garden, so full of life and abundance, now exuded an aura of decay. As they stared, dumbstruck, a fetid stink of rot wafted over them, carried by a gust of wind that made their stomachs churn.
The druidess clutched her hands together, tears forming in her eyes. "What do we do?"
"Go find Robert. Now!" Ewan said, running for the door.