William J. Bryan stood outside the gates of the East Garden, canvas umbrella held up to keep the rain from him, bespectacled yellow eyes scanning the darkness before him. What he was doing, he wasn't entirely sure, but the event with Fredrick Vespasian had left him shaken and unable to sleep. Night after night, he saw his sisters watery vision, heard her whispered call for help. Even now, through the rain, he swore he could hear it.

Help us...

Shaking himself, the old professor lifted the phosphorus lamp he'd brought, adjusting the shutter at the front so light spilled out from it, illuminating the slick wet garden before him. Taking a breath, he began to move forward, field tightly drawn like a bow string.

Deep in the thorn maze, there was a stirring. The vines creaked softly in response. Something moved inside, a black shadow on a black night.

Over the pond, starflies danced, even in the rain, hovering over the center before scooting off again. Below them, the water rippled with the rain, and a white murky shape deep below moved across the divide, settling near the edge.

Bryan stopped at the first rosebush in the garden, marveling at how well they survived even without a gardener to tend to them. How they didn't turn the place into a rose covered nest, was a mystery.

Hunter prowled the edges of the garden, deep in shadows, his field pulled tight. He had slept little the past week. The Gardener’s rage had filled his dreams. In some of them, he stood in Couldin’s place. Seared by magma during the moment following his love’s plunge into the cold waters. Cold despair followed by blinding pain and hot rage. Fifty years of rage at the loss of an innocent love and an unjust end. How easily that galdori boy had summoned his death. Had killed his own sister. Had defaced a helpless corpse.

From these dreams, Frederick wakened hot and feverish with bloodlust. He channeled his anger – or tried to – during the daytime exercises. Most of his fencing was practiced with Master Stephanus or alone at the pells. Few of the students wanted anything to do with the fury of the new student’s wild sword patterns. No one dared venture too close to him on the Lawn either, and several of his practice constructs had been bashed and blown to splinters or ended up charred spots on the ground.

Worse were the other dreams. Where he had seen through a young Professor Bryan’s eyes. Arrogance turned to dismay as Catherine fell. The fear that had unmanned him when the Gardener came running. There was an almost sickening joy at the success of the Magma spell. But it was overshadowed by fear, fear and guilt that had driven him to the actions of a madman. The sound of the pick axe as it met its all-too-fleshy target. The smell of burned flesh. (And of the urine from somewhere…)

Fred had awakened in a mass of soiled bedsheets after the first of these dreams. It had taken him nearly an hour to shake off the despair enough to remove himself from the mess, and then it was only to cower in the corner of his room. Fortunately most of the students had been still on vacation and there had been enough privacy for him to stealthily clean his things.

He’d been unable to concentrate on research, inconsistent in his studies and had even begged off helping out with Horation. He was every bit as altered by the touch of the ghosts as Ali – more so now that he’d had the encounter with Bryan - if he could only admit it to himself.

Spirits stirred in the Garden, moved by something, and Hunter could no more resist their pull than he could will away his need for oxygen. He moved, just another shadow in the damp night.

And to think the starflies and their patterns used to make me smile…

As the two galdori, unawares of each other as of yet, wandered through the darkness, the garden whispered. Thorns creaked softly, and a gentle breeze tugged at the magisters. The rain fell like a sort of mist, making everything ethereal and slightly hazy.

Within the twisted and dried maze, a dark shadow moved onwards, making its way to the opening, the prickly vines pulling aside for it, caressing the ground behind it. Deep within the bottomless pond, the white shape was moving slowly to the surface.

Bryan moved away from the roses, walking slowly into the center of the overgrown mess. Stopping, he turned a slow circle, eyes distant. In his mind, he could still see it all, hear it all, clear as day. Closing his eyes, he swallowed.

Help us...

The voice was barely a voice at all, more of a suggestion. Opening his eyes, Bryan frowned. There was another sound. A soft, sad crying. It sounded like it was coming from the thorns. Moving a step towards them, Bryan called out.

"Hello?"

The crying... the lure. Fred had lost much of his sympathy for the ghost girl since Alisoina's almost-drowning. Still the sound tugged at him. He wondered if she would be at the same spot as she'd been on that first night. He didn't wonder about the Gardener.

Recklessly he drifted closer to the thorns. He knew he shouldn't, but it seemed almost pointless to resist. They were destroying his life bit by bit, through his dreams and even his daydreams. Maybe it would be easier to give in...

Bryan wandered closer to the opening of the thorn maze, the soft crying calling to him like a siren song. Somewhere behind him, a field had begun to close in, seemingly wandering in the same fashion as himself. He recognised the field, and without turning, he spoke.

"It's her, isn't it? She's trying to lure passers by into the maze for him." Looking into the blackened opening, the old professor sighed.

"Ever since you visited me, I've heard her, seen her. I've not bathed in weeks, the water turns icy cold and black as night. I thought, if I came here and...talked to her. Or something..." His voice trailed away, unsure. Deep in the maze, the crying continued.

Professor Bryan’s presence was a surprise. Fred couldn’t decide if it was a pleasant one or not. His first instinct was to try to harm the man with harsh words, but he had no heart for it. Perhaps the older galdor could bring an end to the troubles, after all.

“There are students who’ve lived with her visitations for far longer. The ones who’ve lived… I’m not sure if she’s luring them for him. She warned me about him last time. And the maze itself seems to hold Couldin in check.”

His voice was calm, neutral. His field was just as unreadable.

“I think she just misses people. The garden is more – is safer perhaps - for her than the pond. Of course once she comes in contact with anyone, her nature quite prevents any sort of lasting comfort.”

Alisoina was haunted by green eyes as deep and dark as the mazes they wandered. She woke in sweats, names given from her heart into the dark; sometimes Billy in despair, others Catherine in shock. Most of the time it wasn't either of those... Couldin would tremble on her lips, the need to feel him, his love for her, for Catherine.

Help us...

She could deny him nothing, not anymore. The loneliness was making her nights so unbearable, and she would remember Stephanie's cruel words, the anger and fear of the crypts ghost, her loss of Athrym and Nauleth to love, anything to fill that void. She would hold herself in sheets and sob into the crook of her elbow, trying not to want things she didn't even understand. She'd felt him, though. She'd known him like only Catherine knew him. Couldin, her Couldin. She was his as well, be she Alisoina or Catherine, anything just for him.

She'd wandered out of her dormitory in nothing but her nightdress. She'd not had time, the compulsion, the need unswervingly demanding. Come to us, it said. Help us. Free us or die trying. She would, too. She might force her thoughts away in sunlight but in the sharp daggers of moonsilver, she was his. By his grace or her own will, she'd made it to the garden without mishap, and now she felt him pull like a chain at her heart.

From the corner of the garden where she's snuck in, she could sense presences; they were not Catherine or Couldin, Couldin, so she ignored them. Hunter, perhaps-- she ignored it, ignored the flutter of her still broken, childishly stubbed heart. He was not Couldin, he did not love her with eyes like labyrinths and ghostly caresses within her very soul. So she would not want him, and would try to forget him and his aeroship named Alisoina.

Help me...

Was it her or them? Sleep, confusion riddled her mind still, lack of rest and the cloying exhaustion of obsession. She couldn't tell who needed it more, either... she'd been so sure, so strong with the Healer, so dauntlessly unheeding of warnings. Are you well? Well, was she? No, yes and all other answers fit now because she didn't know anymore.

Closing her eyes she whispered the name aloud, sweeter than any monite. "Couldin--" She knew what she wanted to say and so, this once she would say it aloud because she couldn't keep the silence. "Couldin I love you." Please love me too.

Bryan stared into the darkness, mulling over Fredrick's words. Inside the thick creaking maze, the crying continued on, and something else. Deep inside, as the shadow moved along, a red glow began to define him, embers from a spell long since cast burning eternally within him. Along the edge of the thorns, the pickaxe scraped, pulling away vines as it went.

The professor spoke quietly.

"Lonely? Oh, Catherine...how could this happen? I'm sorry, sister. I'm sorry." Turning his back on the maze, he frowned at Fredrick.

"Do you feel that? Someone else is here with us." Indeed, a soft voice came from the rainy night.



Bryan held the young man's gaze with a curious expression.

"Is that...Catherine?" Inside the maze, the dark shadow stopped in his tracks, embers glowing deep in his torso. Torn and gaping eye sockets appeared to look around, and a sound of confusion came from the aparition.

Unnoticed by Bryan, the crying had ceased. As Alisoina made her way through the garden, the pond rippled slightly. She was being watched.

The girl’s voice snapped like a whip along Fred’s awareness. He might be willing to risk himself, and he was certainly willing to throw Bryan to the ghosts, but Alisoina was another thing entirely.

Adrenaline shot through him more potently than any monic spell.

“It’s Ali. Catherine tried to drown her, but she still hasn’t learned her lesson. The romantic fool girl has forgotten herself in the haze of ghost visions. She thinks she’s Catherine. Worse – Couldin may think so too.”

His own words spurred him to action. A knife slid out of its scabbard as he moved quickly towards the girl’s voice.

“Alisoina! Alisoina Denore!”
Perhaps her name will bring her back to herself.
“Did you learn nothing from her trying to murder you before?!”

He called back to the older galdori.
“Professor, please help me. If he doesn’t kill her, your sister’s ghost will.”

Vaguely, she heard the others, a voice that pulled at unfamiliar memories and Hunter's tone, the roughness to it she may have once been fooled into thinking held real feeling. She doubted everyone, now. She didn't want those who obviously had no want of her. Standing from her timid crouch, she looked to the maze, lips parted with his name still silently evoked.

Aching, she felt the figure in the maze pause, and Alisoina stepped forward, hand outstretched, towards the labyrinth. Catherine didn't frighten her, death didn't seem the threat it once had, so she told herself. Hunter and Harper and all of them had tried to cut her out, cage her away from her Ghosts. She had eyes into the lovers, though, and was no child in that way. She knew things about them that could free them, if only she knew how to unlock it. She was going to find out what they meant by going to the source.

Alisoina had gotten visions from Catherine's deathly embrace, perhaps she would get more within Couldin's. Yet, if she did... would she ever want to let him go? Ignoring that, she opened her heart, her mind to the garden. Her field was laid bare, delicate childlike emotions swirling about her, love laid on her sleeve.

"Couldin. I'm coming to help." He'd asked her, so many long nights ago, when in repose she had said she would. Now it was time to make good on her words. "Let me help you..." She was just outside the maze now, and Ali could feel the thorns dragging her in, midnight coming together around her, pale in white nightdress and hair a shadowed tangerine. Couldin.

Bryan moved to stand between Fredrick and Alisoina, a wild look in his eye as he glanced at the knife.

"Mister Vespasian?! I want to help the girl, but for the love of Alioe, you don't need to kill her! Good Gods, what are you doing with such a nasty weapon-" Pausing, he laughed, a singular crazed chuckle.

"I suppose if I'd thought about it, I would have brought a weapon too. I forgot this garden acts poorly towards the mona." Clearing his throat, hold a hand out to the boy, he turned to face Alisoina.

"Miss Denore, you must awaken child. Couldin, is nothing more than a spectere, awaiting to steal your soul forever more." Within the maze, a girls voice called out to them.

"Help us..." Bryan looked at Alisoina, the maze and then Fredrick.

"I wanted..to try and end it tonight. To...help them. I think, I know how to get rid of Couldin. But...it requires going into the maze. And, if he thinks Alisoina is Catherine, I think...I think I have an idea." Looking wildly at the darkness, he swallowed.

"Will you help me, help them?"

Caution? I suppose he's had time to learn… Better than a bolt of magma through chest.
The student shuddered at the all-to-real mental image.
"The knife’s for the thorns or whatever else may impede us.”
Or for you…

Listening to the professor’s babble, Frederick wondered just how competent the man was. He didn’t trust Bryan, but he wasn’t sure what options were left. Ali seemed set on going into the maze anyway. Could she be stopped?

The part of Fred that was Wild Boy casually calculated the best angle and speed for a throw that would stop the older galdor in case something went wrong. Of course, that would leave only his own skill to deal with the ghosts…

“We need to solve both of them… What is your plan? I’ve visited the grave and I’d sooner not repeat the experience.”

Bryan looked down at Alisoina, shaking his head.

"Clocks, she reminds me so much of Catherine. And I wouldn't be suprised if Couldin thinks the same thing. Right now, I think he's confused. He's focus on Miss Denore here because he thinks she's Catherine. If we enter the maze, with Miss Denore in front, I am quite confident that Couldin will be distracted by her. Whilst he is distracted, we can find the grave and remove his body. If we take it down to the phasmosia outside of Vienda, give him a proper burial, it should rid him from this place." Glancing over at the pond, he sighed.

"And once he's gone, I am confident Catherine will leave as well. She is here because of him. Because of...of me." Turning back to Fredrick, he looked stern.

"Are you with me, Mister Vespasian? It will be dangerous and frightening, but it must be done. With or without you, I am going into the Maze and I am ridding this school of the East Garden Ghosts."

Fred had to respect Bryan's determination and stern tone. Especially in the face of his earlier fears. And so he didn't rush to point out the several flaws with the professor's plan. It did take some effort to put aside his instinctive distrust and the residual hatred he felt for the older galdor. Were those his own emotions or something transferred from the ghost memories?

"I'll help if I can... but how are you planning on digging up and moving the body? Tampering with the mona of this place is almost certain to draw his attention and it is a rather long walk to the phasmonia. I've no wish to be speared with a pickaxe, sir."

(i've been given full control of Alisoina from here on out.)

Bryan looked distant for a moment, before shaking his head.

"Pickaxe, my boy, is the answer. There is a pickaxe by the statue. I left it there...it will still be there, surely. Old and rusty, I've no doubt of that, but still there." The professor had no idea what Fredrick meant by being speared by the pickaxe...perhaps it was a bad joke. Moving back, he put a hand on Alisoina's shoulder, putting her ahead of them. Inside the maze, a dark shrouding figure waited, watching, listening. The womans voice had ceased, as had the crying. Around them, a senseless wind swirled, not stirring a single leaf. The rain fell softly still, gently wetting their hair.

"I can put the bones in my jacket, and carry it like a sack. It shouldn't be that hard." Lowering his umbrella, the professor threw it to one side. Looking at Fredrick with rain spackled glasses, he nodded.

"Are you ready?"

A strange calm settled over Hunter. Despite the danger, it was a relief to be doing something about the situation. And surely Professor Bryan was capable of protecting them long enough to escape if necessary. He nodded his assent to the older galdor.

"The pickaxe..."
The student's voice was whisper.
"... When he attacks, his hand is a pickaxe. If he uses the real one or if he just changes his own form, I do not know."
Hopefully the latter, if we are to have the tool... Probably not time to run to the shed and back, at least not unnoticed.
His eyes scanned the area for potential tools as they moved further into the maze.

Bryan looked visibily pale, one hand resting on Alisoina's shoulder, other shoved into his jacket pocket.

"Well...we shall see. Surely its...a figment of some kind." His voice sounded unsure, even as he pushed lightly on the girls shoulder, turning back to the black maw.

As they entered, the thorns creaked around them softly, tendrils reaching out to touch the trio. Alisoina in particular, they found of great interest. As Bryan and Fredrick followed behind her, the would see the vines caress her calves as she passed.

"Slow down a bit boy, he needs to see her before he see's us." As if on cue, a glow began faintly further down in the maze. The area began to look familiar, and Fred would begin to recognise it, the chair, the small bird bath. It was the central clearing he'd first met Catherine in. Possibly noticed by the student, the drowned girl was still missing, no crying coming from anywhere. Around them, the air felt thick with ominous pressure, like the whole maze was watching them. Beside Fredrick, Bryan had stopped, yellow eyes on the glow in the darkness.

As they watched, the glow became brighter, a heavy rumbling breathing coming from the now visible black silouette around it. Before them, Alisoina continued forward, almost in a daze. Her lime green eyes fell on the figure and she sighed softly.

"Couldin, I'm here my love, I'm here." Her small arms reached out to him, and the wraith emerged. He was hulking, with the smouldering hole still gaping in his torso. His eyes, two empty torn sockets, seemed forcused on the girl as she approached. One hand reached out to her, the other a mangled and mutated pickaxe. A sound came to the other two's ears. Deep, and not unlike the sound of stone dragged against stone.

"Catherine..." The Gardener rumbled, placing his fingertips on her cheek. The girl smiled, leaning into the rotted and dirty flesh.

"Yes love, its me." She said in a light voice, lying to have him near her, touching her. In her mind, she saw the sad young man with the amazing green eyes, not the horror that stood before her. Nudging Fred lightly, Bryan gestured around the edge of the clearing, indicating they move slowly.

As they began to walk, The Gardener did not notice them, too caught up in the image before him, memories forever imprinted in his mind.

The movement of the vines was no surprise to Frederick. In fact the activity was something of a relief as he recalled the way they had aided him before. He was curious what they would make of the professor. His field reached out with tendrils of its own as he tried to connect with whatever sentience guided the garden thorns. It was likely a futile effort, but in this situation he must grasp at every clue.

The bench area was a familiar sight, but Catherine’s absence was almost odd. Was the girl-ghost occupied elsewhere? Or was she truly connected to Ali now? And Ali… seemed lost. Fred doubted that the girl was even aware of the professor’s or his own presence anymore.

It’s not right to risk her in this way. It cannot be. But what choice do we have now?

He cringed as she reached toward the apparition, but was able to lessen the reaction by superimposing the gardener’s old appearance in his mind’s eye.

Now to the task…

Frederick took care as they went, matching Bryan’s memory of the location to his own recent journey into the maze. A part of him was always trained on the reactions of the thorny vines around them.

As Fred reached his field out to the vines, he would feel a sort of gentle, patient kind of aura. It pushed back at him gently, questioningly. A few vines reached back to him, curling around his hands as he moved along the thornwall. They weren't restricting, more curious than anything. Ahead of him, breathing speed up a little, Byran slapped at the creepers snagging his clothes and tugging at his ankles.

"What the clock?" He exclaimed in a whisper, grabbing one of the thorny tendrils and going to snap it off, a quickly inhaled gasp revealing he'd been pricked in the process. Annoyed and on edge, the professor led the boy along to the open tunnel in front of them. As they entered, Alisoina moved forward, placing her hand on the solid, aged flesh of the creature before her. The green eyed face before her eyes, the one implanted in her mind, looked into her own lime eyes with a loving stare.

"I've missed you, my love. Every night I hear you calling to me, and I sit at my window and I call back. Do you hear me?" In the reality of the night, misty rain falling on her fiery hair, mutilated empty eye sockets stared back at the young student and smoke wafted up around her face as the embers burned steadily in The Gardeners torso. The rotted hand on her face moved to her hair, stroking it. Nothing but the sound of his rumbling breathing could be heard.

Deeper inside the thicket, Bryan moved faster as they left the monstrosity behind. Following a path he remembered like the back of his hand, a path he'd last walked more than fifty years ago, the elderly galdor led Fred on. Here and there, roses began to appear on the thorn walls, red and fresh as a spring day. The older man cursed quietly, trembling all over.

"How do they survive in here? This is unnatural..." His voice dissapeared as they moved into the clearing, covered floor to roof in ruby roses and fresh green foilage. In the center stood a broken statue of the goddess Alioe - or rather an artists interpritation - and beside it...

"The pickaxe." He whispered, looking back at Fred, before looking over the resting place again. It seemed that the one mutated into The Gardeners arm was nothing more than a manifestation of the monsters own death. Slowly, the roses moved in and out...like a rising and falling chest. It seemed the attention of the garden was on one thing.

Alisoina.