The Wielder of Death Magic

Scary as it had been, the electricity held nicely. Though, people were advised to boil water before drinking. Leaks could be present without anyone’s knowledge; caution over sickness.

Normality returned to the office workers and scouts. Delayed work laid on the tables of those in smart-clothes. “Igna,” the day rose at the apartment, “-are you ready to go?” asked a muffled voice.

“Yes,” a turtle neck atop which laid a sport’s jacket and light-colored pants. Most of the days were spent playing the guitar, recording, teaching Celina how to handle the bass, and scouring the police reports. Learning of Aceline’s disappearance had another meaning, another of which he couldn’t ignore. To find who was pulling the strings, the true masterminds. Research led to the vile and disappointing truth of the hopeless Emperor.

“Do I really have to go?” argued Celina pulling away from Alicia.

“Come on, wear the jacket already,” said she running after the girl.

‘What the?’ stood at the doorway.

.....

“IGNA, HELP,” she ran to leap into his arms.

“Calm down,” caught without effort, “-why all the ruckus?”

“I told her she ought to come...” explained a flustered Alicia.

“It’s fine,” he patted her head, “-Leave her be, she’ll get bored.”

“You spoil her too much,” pouted Alicia into a displeased, ‘-whatever,’ expression.

“What are you?”

“What you mean?” she gave herself a once-over, “-smart clothing, what’s the problem?”

“The tag,” brows raised to point her neck, “-supposed to be a fashion statement or?”

“Oh,” embarrassed, “-let’s leave already,” her heels thudded to the door.

“Thanks for the save.”

“Don’t cause trouble,” holding a high-five, “-we’ll be back soon.”

“Ok,” she smiled.

Lady Sally contacted them for the coming photoshoot late afternoon. The suddenness had the manager frown in suspicion. Not worrying about the state of things, Igna thought it best to go with the flow.

Area 04, the industrial-looking compound turned into a horror movie. The rain left marks of struggles onto the ‘clean’ metal roof. Caretakers strolled about holding cleaning supplies. A raise of the hand, a sweep of the mop, and wiping off the forehead ended in a fatigued sigh. Unda’s Inc owned the rented warehouses. Came as a shock when Phantom decided to leave it as is. No involvement, lady Elvira must have had a better idea in mind. Or so the expected line of thought, her way in seeing profit and ability to make money couldn’t be rivaled.

“We’re back,” said he pulling to Warehouse 03.

“Igna,” bumped Alicia, “-look at the black-bus over there.”

“What about it?” a close look showed decals and the name,’ -Rocher Cartney.’

“Don’t you know him?” her eyes widened, “-Cartney, the Pianist, doesn’t it ring any bells?”

“No.”

“You uncultured dumbass,” she facepalmed, “-he’s a world-renowned classical musician.”

“Uncultured dumbass,” the lips tightened, “-seriously?”

“There, there,” she condescendingly patted his shoulder.

“Go to hell.”

Opened to the solemnly mournful scape, ‘-why’s the renowned pianist here?’

“éclair, search for that pianist,” frowned Igna.

“Aw, did she hurt your feelings?” commented the spirit slyly.

‘Last I heard of him was the concert given in Iqeavea. No one can compare to the dexterity and technique, why’s someone so legendary in a place like this. Pop music doesn’t really mix with classical.’

“Here’s a few pieces,” said éclair.

“Let’s go,” ordered Alicia taking charge.

‘That’s him?’ paused he nodding at the skillful display, ‘-I see. The man’s more of a virtuoso than I’d imagine. I’m actually stupid,’ breathing a laugh,’-I’ve heard the music, not the man. Being referred to as uncultured hurt a little.’

A blast of warm air slapped the duo. Inside felt more of a furnace than a photo studio. Lady Sally’s stood in conversation with Mr. Cartney. The latter held black-hair turning grey. A big forehead, rimless glasses, bone-structure resembling the noble of birth from Iqeavea. Gloomy pupils scanned about as he gave a fragile smile during the conversation. The lady’s overbearing personality stole control of the parley. Bandages and cast kept her injuries recovering at their pace.

“Over here,” she waved, almost hitting Mr. Cartney.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sally,” said Alicia courteously.

“Good morning,” said the pianist as well.

“Mr. Cartney,” said she with a resolved tone, “-this is the boy I was talking about.

“Greetings,” said Igna puzzled at the awkward combination.

“Are you Igna?” he moved to give a trembling handshake.

“Yes sir,” gripping tight, “-a pleasure to make thy acquaintance, Mr. Cartney.”

“Alright,” nodding to Sally, “-we’ll go talk for a bit.”

“Ok,” she snorted a laugh. Alicia kept an awkward smile at the disturbing laughter.

Black-curtain gave a sliver of privacy, the pianist’s demeanor changed into a more pleasant expression.

“Might I ask the relation you share with Mrs. Sally?”

“Oh,” sweating profusely, “-she’s my sister-in-law. Brother had to go ahead and fall for a boisterous lady. I get it, she’s got a good reputation and hails from a wealthy family, still, her personality lays more on the animal side than human. Just so you know, I have no interest in you whatsoever.”

“I see,” he nodded, “-why are you here?”

“Sally asked me to come by. She goes on and on about thy guitar playing. I honestly prefer a soulful melodic violin or piano to the hardness of a guitar. The instrument deserves praise, it can be warm in the right hands... I’ve yet to see anyone skillful enough to produce the sound I wish to hear. The best guitarist only screams and has the instrument cry in pain, I hate it.”

“Basically, you hate what the world has changed into.”

“Pop-music is awfully simple, the lyrics either talk about love or heartbreak, there’s no emotion behind the singing. Four simple chords pertaining the same feeling throughout.” A one-sided rant on how the man hated the evolution of sound. Bored in the middle of the talk, he took a stool and sat. Cartney played melodically on the piano. Face-to-face, a polar opposite of what was shown to the world. A snob for music; or so what thought Igna, a befitting title from the thirty-minute babble.

“So,” he stopped, “-you’re a guitarist too, is that correct?”

“Yes,” the expression changed.

“Pitiful. Have you ever tried changing instruments?”

“No,” he shrugged,”-the piano is a good instrument, I get it. I know a few good pianists myself, sadly, the association of the upper-class to the music makes it less available to the average ear. What you say is full of emotion and heart-moving is nothing more than noise in the common-sense of the words. Discord-making harmony, the concept is nice, and the composers of the olden era are to be revered – that I don’t argue against. Still, the pop music of which thee spoke so hatefully is more inclined to the new era. Classical music is classical, old, and meant for the museum. What we have now is experimental, people learning new instruments, developing new sounds, and moving towards a unified path of music.”

“Prove it,” said he,”-I doubt the modern way of playing can move the hearts of another. It’s dull, complexity is what brings flavor and passion!”

“This is a chicken-egg argument.”

“No,” he strongly gripped Igna’s shoulder, “-I dare you to play the piano.”

“Are you sure about that?” he stood, “-even though I’m a guitarist?”

“Yes,” he glared.

Back to the assistants moving to and fro, “-that sure took long,” commented Alicia.

“Yes, or so a waste of time,” refuted Igna.

“What’s this about?” turned Sally.

“Mr. Cartney thinks what idols aspire to be in wanting to move the hearts of many is a fa?ade. The quicker they learn that modern music can’t move hearts, the better they’ll fall back onto the greats of classical.”

“Brother, is that true?” her persona changed to a bear, “-why did you say all that to him?”

“No, sister, you misunderstand,” a lion turned sheep at her presence, “-I didn’t mean that,” the innocent expression couldn’t hide the hate welling in deep.

“Mrs. Sally. I respect Mr. Cartney’s opinion. Everyone’s free to think and form a judgment, tis the way we advance as a society. There’s a simple way to resolve the argument, music.”

“You’re in luck, we’ve brought over guitars for the photo-shoot, want to use them?”

“No,” the head shook slowly, “-a piano. Is there a piano?”

“Not here no,” she paused to think, “-I think warehouse 06 has one. They record music for coming bands and idols, they must have one.”

“Good, let’s head over then.”

Opposite 03 rested 06. The redundant exteriors didn’t spawn excitement for what the interior would be. Expectations were low, and on the opening of the inside, a gentle breeze of air-conditioned greatness. Clean, carefully planned, and separated. Renowned pop-idol groups practiced in differing recording booths. ‘A pleasant surprise.’

“Excuse me,” voiced a guard, “-the recording studio is restricted at the moment. Can you come at a later date?”

“No,” said Sally, “-we require a piano at the moment.”

“I’m sorry,” apologized the guard, “-lady Sally, the concert hall is being used for practice.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she shoved him aside, “-what group is performing?”

.....

“Vorn.”

“Oh, I know them,” she smiled, “-we’ll be fine.”

‘She does get around.’ The long walk had the pianist breathing heavy. Each time they passed a recording booth, he’d avert the gaze in fear of being tainted. Musical snobs, as politely referred to by Igna, were very common in the classical world. Instead of being a thing to admire and praise, the snobs cruelly disrespected those who of low skill and common-birth.

Through the metallic door, speakers played the live-performance of a six-member girl band. A singer, guitarist, bassist, pianist, violinist, and drummer.

“Didn’t I asked the guards to,” spotting the reflection of the door, “-who are you?” stomped the manager.

“Hey there Thomas,” smiled Sally.

“Sally, what are you doing here?” the guard dropped.

“I’m here for a challenge,” said she, “-my brother-in-law wants to prove something to young Igna.”

“It’s actually the other way around,” said he.

“Could you wait a few minutes, watch the show.”

“Sure,” sat in the front row, the six on stage sang, played, and danced to the melody. The last song performed was, ‘Daylight struggle’.

“See,” said Igna,”-this is the music you refused to acknowledge.”

“No, I refuse,” ego forced a disagreement, ‘-pretty, but I can’t say yes to him now.’

Sweat dripped, spotlight glistened the pearly forehead, “-the singer is great,” complimented Alicia.

“Yeah, she’s awesome,” said Thomas.

They ended practically drenched in sweat. Fighting to be at the top was a hard battle. “I’m tired,” complained the lead-singer.

“Tell me about it,” laughed the guitarist.

“Good job everyone,” said the pianist, also the captain, “-we need to keep this energy for the coming festival.”

“Understood,” the empty hall gave a moment of respace. Then and there, footsteps clopped onto the stage, a gust of wind flowed against their face. A handsome man walked towards the piano with a stoic expression. The strange allure captured their attention, “-excuse me, may I please use the piano for a bit?”

“...” the girl kept on staring without blinking.

“Excuse me,” he waved, “-are you there?”

“Oh yes,” her face flushed, “-I’m sorry. The keys are a bit wet from the hours of playing.”

“It’s no issue,” smiled he, “-I just need it for a few minutes.”

Questions riddled the collective minds of Vorn.

‘Who’s he?’

‘Where did he come from?’

‘What is he?’

“Manager,” voiced the violinist, “-who’s that young man there?”

“Igna Haggard,” replied Alicia, “-a newbie in the entertainment world.”

“Is he a pianist?” wondered she who spaced out after seeing him.

“No, a guitarist,” said Sally.

“Why is he using a piano then?” wondered they.

“To prove a point,” said Cartney.