When Dagan sat on the swing, he wasn't greeted by much--no new feelings or memories, though something still lingered. He'd feel perhaps the urge to lean back and forward in the swing, if only in small, idle motions, and yet . . . that was all. That was all that remained in this lost, lonely, and desolate place. Everything and everyone else had left it, and now only Dagan lingered.

There still hung a spiritus mundi about the place, however: an ill feeling to be experienced by all that set foot upon the playground. It wasn't quite frightening or nauseating. Rather, it was, more than anything else, disappointing and forlorn. It was enough to drive a person away, regardless of who they might be--especially someone like Dagan, who'd experience this sullen and solemn feeling more harshly than anyone else that had ever investigated the playground since that time.

Dagan's chest heaved a sigh of relief and regret; his eyes looked across the barren deadscape and he felt nothing, nothing at all like what he had just experienced, and even that was fading fast. Earnestly, Dagan pushed backwards on the seat of the swing, bringing it and himself back, and then he folded his legs; the seat moved forwards with Dagan until it reached its limit and then Dagan stood up, allowing the seat to fall behind him with the rattling of chains.

“Ah well,” he shrugged after allowing the depressing mood of the place to rest atop his shoulders. “Mind must be playing tricks on me, I guess.”

Once again, he’d look about the unnamed city’s streets and buildings, unsure of where to go, once again, and vaguely recalling that it was by luck of the draw that he even found the playground in the first place.

Slowly, one foot after the other, Dagan would once again start wandering, although he had no destination in mind, that didn’t seem to matter at all, and, really, he didn't much care for the playground's atmosphere; it was best to forget about this place for now, he decided.

They lurked in darkness once more, a seated man and a kneeling man before him. They were still, and it seemed even their heads barely moved when they spoke.

"And the status of the New Arrival . . . ?" asked the throned man.

"The Twelfth keeps him from us," the kneeling man replied.

"I see. His reasons?"

"The New Arrival is inexperienced. Young. Impressionable."

"The very reasons we require him . . ."

"Shall I extract the New Arrival by force?"

"No. We are ill-equipped to confront the Twelfth--for now. We must continue to act in the shadows he so willingly avoids. Even taking the New Arrival when the Twelfth is away would alert him to our cause."

"I . . . see," the kneeling man seemed disappointed. "What course of action do you propose?"

"The Twelfth seeks the defense of the New Arrival, correct?"

"Yes . . ."

"Find a second agent. Someone who will protect him."

"And if the Twelfth continues to persist?"

"Provided a powerful enough agent, he will see reason."

"Your will be done, my Liege."

A quaint building surrounded by larger, more opposing ones; it had a homely charm to it, it looked old, but inviting; it had a sign out front, the words long since faded or scratched off; and the inside, perhaps one of the most decorated in all of the unnamed city, was arranged to accommodate the still-shining, glossy bar top that had been erected a few feet in front of three shelves, the middle being the highest, with the two outer ones being of the same height and a mirror in each, but the contents of the shelves were gone, missing, or never there to begin with: it was a nice building, quiet, too, and full of seats, stools, tables, and chairs.

A hunched figure laid his head against the cool bar top, forehead pressed softly against the wood, arms folded just underneath his head and a bent leg, knee pressed against the underside of the bar, where support met top, moved, bouncing up and down, bored-like.

A lot of things had been put off for when he had a moment to think, no, that was a lie, actually, they had been put off because he didn’t want to think about them, not because he was pressed for time or had more urgent matters; he did not, in fact, have anything important going on in his life, he had done things, new things, things he hadn’t experienced before, at least to his recollection, but he was not specifically busy: he just didn’t want to think about the things going on, the annoying feelings that had stabbed at his heart for the last few days.

His head was lifted, propped atop his palms, supported by his elbows; he stared at himself reflected by the mirror, thinking.

" ... This is a nice building," he half-interestedly said to himself.

A black gloved hand twisted the doorknob and pushed with minimal effort. The establishment's door creaked open slowly, but surely. This was the first sound Dagan would hear. The second were footsteps-- slow, steady, methodical, and light. A hooded figure made his entrance, his body clad in a hooded sweatshirt, his legs covered by dark slacks, and running shoes upon his feet. He was an all too familiar figure, one that Dagan had reasons to both loath and appreciate the man.

"Dagan," the familiar, raspy voice called from behind.

It was merely to get the man's attention. Were Dagan to look behind him, he'd find the Seeker standing just past the same doorway Dagan used to get in here.

Once he had Dagan's attention, the Seeker would slip his gloved hands into the pockets of his jacket. Not one for conversation, he skipped right to the point:

"I've another task for you." Another. It was as if the Seeker had enlisted Dagan's services before, even though the last time, the Seeker was almost reluctant to bring Dagan along . . .

At the sound of another entering the building, Dagan turned to face the doorway, he hadn't expected someone to come to the building, let alone someone looking for him, but it was a pleasant surprise, regardless; he didn’t mind the fact that it was the Seeker and nor did he even give pause to reflect on their last meeting; after all, that was just the type of person Dagan was.

For a moment, Dagan felt tempted to ask Seeker how he had found him, but then thought twice about it, remembering Seeker’s second-to-none speed and how even Dagan couldn’t keep up with him.

“A task?” He questioned innocently: “You need me to do something? What?”

He wasn’t necessarily distrusting of The Seeker, but he was curious to find out what the task was.

Indeed, the Seeker's appearance was hardly expected, but if his title-like name warranted any sort of merit, it was likely that finding persons and things happened to be the man's specialty. Were that the case, it would have been easy to find someone like Dagan.

"For now," the Seeker paused.

He drew in a breath and turned from Dagan. When he faced his back to the man, he seemed to let out a sigh, but neither in a relieved or disappointed way.

"Follow."

He did not explain the purpose of this, nor did he say exactly where he expected Dagan to follow him, but the Seeker wordlessly left the building, regardless.

Dagan lifted a hand and scratched the top of his head in reply to the Seeker's command, the pause, however, was only brief, and he quickly stood up, collecting his wits about him and following after the Seeker.

“Alright, alright! I’m coming,” he shouted after the Seeker and followed him outside; quickly, Dagan would catch up to the Seeker and walk just behind him, a few steps away, at best, and refraining from attempting to walk beside him.

“So what’s this task?”

With a considerable amount of determination, Dagan asked again and this time pressed the issue; it might not have been received well or met with an answer by The Seeker, but Dagan was prepared to ask again and again, as necessary.

"I told you," the Seeker replied. If he didn't sound so consistently indifferent, he might have been hissing at Dagan. "My task is that you follow me. When we reach our destination, you will be given a much more valuable task from a much more important person."

The implication was that Dagan would have to ask the nature of this upcoming task to the individual responsible for it. Someone that was not the Seeker.

The two of them continued on until they neared the center of the city--but the Seeker didn't stop. No one enter the large structure in the city's center. No one even came near it. The chateau itself was built like something of a small palace and surrounded on all sides by tall black fences, comprised of patterned vertical bars that all came to a point at the tip. They were tall enough that they were nearly impossible to leap over. The only sane option was to take the front gate, a large bisected gate, even taller than the rest of the fencing around it. To all that came this close, this gate was locked. Push or pull, it did not move.

With the utmost intent, the Seeker strode onward. He guided Dagan to the chateau and stood before the gate. What should have stayed closed was guided open with barely the touch of the man's hand. The gates opened for him and he set his hand within his pocket once more. He wasted in time in taking the first steps forward, and motioned for Dagon to continue following.

A long side-walk led to a set of stone stairs, which in turn led to a set of tall double-doors-- the entrance to the chateau. The Seeker stopped at these doors.

"The man you will see within," the Seeker began, though he spoke without even looking back to Dagan, "You will respect. Do you understand?"

"Liar," Dagan muttered to himself. "You didn't say that at all."

The Seeker’s reluctance to divulge any information or the apparent lack there of would force Dagan to shut up for the remainder of the journey, however long it lasted. This was not a particularly welcomed turn of events, either. Dagan wanted to speak, he wanted to keep his mind from focusing too long on any one subject, but such a want was not to be, in the end.

The sight of the chateau--black palace--creepy, haunted-looking mansion took Dagan aback for a moment, a momentary--brief--passing of surprise. Although Dagan had seen the property before, for the most part, he pretended the place didn’t exist, he didn’t like it, the atmosphere it gave off, or that it was a place he seemed to instinctively avoid, either. Now that he thought about it, although he had passed it many times when traveling through the as of yet named city, he could not ever actually recall seeing someone on grounds or even in the building.

Before The Seeker opened the gate, Dagan had rushed ahead, grabbed onto the fence, and peered inside to his best ability: Is this really the place, he thought to himself. Regardless, a couple of seconds after Seeker opened the gate and went inside, Dagan would rush to his side, hands in his pockets, turning on he balls of his feet every other second, looking about, around, and generally showing a sense of excitement.

“H-huh? Oh! Oh, yeah. Right.”

A lackluster reply, Dagan never went directly out of his way to disrespect someone and loved meeting new people. Surely The Seeker would have nothing to worry about, right?

The Seeker nodded to Dagan, then pulled the double doors of the chateau's entrance open. They were greeted by a lengthy (yet considerably wide) hallway. It led down from one side of the chateau to the other, and was marked by nearly a dozen and a half doorways on each side. It was the main access point to all sides of the chateau, though they weren't going to either the right or left wing of the place. The Seeker started off-- slowly --down the hall.

Comfortable chairs and end-tables, too, lined the sides of the hall where there were no doors, and the only other body in the hall occupied one of these many chairs. He was seated near the perfect mid-point of the hallway. He was also someone Dagan had never seen before, an old man in a three piece black suit. He sat with one leg crossed over the other and seemed to be casually reading a book with no words.

It was entitled The Sonatas of J. Henrich Brentherzt.

He was an aged fellow with bags under his eyes and thick wrinkles set upon his forehead. His frown-lines were as greatly defined as the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Only the top of the man's head was bald, the result of a hairline that had long since receded to the back of his skull. A collective of gray and white hair clung to the sides and back of his head and grew in a somewhat uncontrolled and sporadic fashion. A long gray goatee clung to his chin. He was tall and though his clothes were fairly thick, it was easy to tell that he he had a formidable build, regardless of his outwardly ancient appearance.

The man looked up from his book as the Seeker and Dagan passed him by. He acknowledged the Seeker with a nod of his head.

"Maestro," the Seeker said with a mutual nod of his head, as well.

And with that, they continued on. That man-- the man the Seeker regarded as the Maestro --was not who Dagan was here to see, though to be within the chateau in such a casual manner must have meant he was a person of significant importance . . . much like the Seeker himself, that is, who had free access to the structure.

Suffice it to say, Dagan was near overwhelmed by being inside the mysterious château, but he kept himself calm, balanced enough to only look at the sharp interior of the building (rather than touching it, talking incessantly or generally being a nuisance to Seeker). Passing the stranger sitting by his lonesome in the hallway made Dagan want to say something, to greet the man, as only seemed proper, but he felt far too under-dressed to do anything more than pass by him silently, allowing the Seeker’s nod to go unaccompanied by one of his own.

Maestro, he committed the old man’s name and appearance to memory.

“This place is pretty big,” he remarked to himself, still following behind the Seeker.

“So who is this guy supposed to be, anyways? I mean, you don’t know the task or won’t tell me, but you can at least give me a name, right?”

Dagan’s question was honest, perhaps even deserving of an answer, but he did not sound as though he were whining, not in tone or intent, at least, but it could have been taken differently, probably.

“I haven’t met him before, right?”

The Seeker continued to walk until he reached the very end of the hallway, where stood a pair of double-doors twice as tall as Dagan and twice as wide as Dagan and the Seeker combined.

"You have," replied the Seeker, "You've merely forgotten him."

A logical enough conclusion . . .

"He is the Legionnaire," the Seeker turned his head as if to focus his attention upon Dagan, "He is our king."

And with this, the Seeker pushed the double doors open with both of his hands, leaving wide enough space for Dagan to follow behind him. The Seeker stepped in beyond the doors, fully expecting Dagan to follow, but would not be terribly concerned if he hesitated.

The room beyond was large in both width and length, but not at all ornate. It was white and gray and nothing more, it had no windows and only one chair, a throne, set within the center of it--but that wasn't the most alarming aspect of this room. When one saw it for the first time, it was impossible to look away: this room was larger than the physical world that Dagan knew would have ever allowed. To look up at the ceiling was to see no end. You could stop breathing and without the expectation of death, you would never die.

You could forget to die and be all the better for it.

He who sat within the heart of the Unreal was just as striking as the limitless room itself. He sat upon a tall, white throne. It rose up by six feet, with a set of stairs that led to it directly.

The man, the Legionnaire, was a terrifying sight. He was a mountain of metal, a man entrenched in armor from head to toe-- jagged, gold colored armor. It was fashioned much like plate-mail, and the top of his full-helm appeared to be shaped like a tall and jagged crown.

King?

Dagan's mouth formed letters all on its own, but it was left unspoken--inaudible, more a thought than spoken word. Still, he committed this man's name to memory, as well, just as he had done with Maestro, and that was that, he stayed behind Seeker and--without hesitation--walked into the room as he opened the door, stopping abruptly almost the second his body was fully inside.

To someone as keen on detail as Dagan, when it came to buildings, he found his eyes tracing the walls of the room, moving upwards, towards the ceiling, but finding no such thing: as unsettling as this was, the room was barely decorated, save for the massive throne with an equally as massive statue sitting atop---

“H-uh,” he looked at the center-seated man and felt a tinge of awe and what may very well have been agitation, agitation based solely on how outrageous and ridiculous this all was, but it wasn’t due to rudeness. Dagan near-instinctively respected this gargantuan man before him, by appearance alone; in fact, he almost felt the need to kneel.

The Seeker knelt before the bottom of the stairs, before the Legionnaire. Anyone that knew him well enough would have had an impossible time trying to imagine the Seeker bowing before anyone, but here it was: the Seeker kneeling in duty and loyalty to another living being.

"I have brought the task," the Seeker declared. His voice echoed throughout the endless expanse that characterized this room.

"So I see . . ."

The Legionnaire's voice was strong, commanding, and outright regal-- yet on top of that it carried an almost paternal confidence, as if by the sound of his voice alone, the Legionnaire was a man that could be trusted.

"It has been too long, Dagan," the Legionnaire uttered from atop the throne.

It was impossible to see him speak. His helmet covered the entirety of his skull, and only slightly moved when he spoke.