In the darkness of the moonless night, Amilie lay on a hand woven, multicolored flax mat. Her hair had been fanned out behind her, with slightly wilted wildflowers strewn over it. A circle of rotten smelling plant cuttings whose brown fronds seemed dead lay around her, leaving only about an inch of space all the way around the mat's edges. The brightly painted clay bowl that still smelled of the honey and darkeye mixture sat just to the left of her. On her right, with her right hand placed into it, was a bowl full of swampy mud that a group of adventuring Firebirds brought back from the border of the swamp. Deadriver had requested that they go to the center of the area, but wasn't surprised when they came back sheepishly; he'd simply blessed what they'd brought back, saying it would remind Amilie of her heartland anyway.
On the outside of the circle, Fairwillow, Udala, Snakesoul, and Steeleye- accompanied by his half-Elf partner, Refuge- helped people to arrange themselves in comfortable seating positions around her. Oakarm, his staff held comfortably behind him by a leather holster that he'd made himself, ran to and fro, carrying messages between them and Deadriver, who was busy counting everyone to make sure that everyone had made it. Some of the congregants had already begun chewing herbs, crushing mushrooms, or inhaling various mists while they waited, so that they had to be physically taken hold of and moved wherever they needed to go. Udala rolled her eyes at what seemed to be carelessness to her, but had learned better than to make any snide comments about it.
"Welcome, my brothers and sisters, into this space," Deadriver encouraged as he moved through the edges of the crowd. "A place of trust, of love, of change, and of great joy. You gotta come up outta the valleys, come down outta the mountains; come out from in the forests, come on in from the deeps of the ocean. My brothers and my sisters, you got to get down with your sweet swamp sister, a'layin' here awaitin' your energy, now. I said, reach out to her. You gotta reach out, and radiate. You gotta let her feel her way to us, oh yes; you got to put yourselves here now, here, where you can be found, my brothers and my sisters."
Udala, who had been shepherded toward the front by a focused and patient Snakesoul, looked behind her. Arms- bronzed, pale, slender, muscular, scarred, wrinkled, mottled, and young- all reached up and toward the circle that lay beyond their reach. Snakesoul looked over her shoulder to watch Udala watching the others. Gently, so that her touch was neither resisted nor denied, she placed her hand on the Halfling's upper arm and let it wait there until Udala looked at her.
"Don't be afraid," she whispered, the tips of her fangs showing as she smiled gently. "We put her out there; it's on us to get her back. Isn't that what you would have told us to do, had we warned you beforehand?"
And the Halfling had to nod. That had been exactly what she'd thought of the whole situation.
Meanwhile, Deadriver had worked himself into a tone worthy of an outdoor Pelorian prophet. "Yeah, you got to open your hearts, my brothers and my sisters. Open your hearts and your minds, and let the vibrations of all the planes come on in. Yeah, 'cause when they come in, my brothers and my sisters, when they come on in, yeah, they are gonna pick up our sister here, now, they are gonna wrap her in their embrace now. They are gonna speak from her mouth, oh yeah, I said they are gonna speak to us, and to her now. Right here, my brothers and my sisters; they are gonna make this ground holy. Yeah, I said holy now. Like the sun and the moon, now, the rain and the wind, oh yeah, like the fire and the smoke, yeah now, and the cloud and the thunder."
As Deadriver spoke, he continued his approach toward the circle, along with Fairwillow, who had begun walking just behind him since he caught up to where she had been still seating people. While the pair were still a good distance away from where Snakesoul and Udala had stopped, Steeleye whipped himself around as though he'd been jabbed in the back with a hot poker, thoroughly surprising Refuge.
"Hey, Deadriver, lil' sis is comin' 'round early!" the Dwarf hollered. He turned back to try to make his way toward the circle, only to have Refuge wrap a preventative arm around his waist.
"Let 'er go then; she ain't gonna hurt nobody," the Eladrin replied, using one of his dreadlocks to wrap the others up. "We're gonna hafta catch up, that's all."
Udala, close enough to hear the holler but too far to hear what the hollering was about, grit her teeth in the effort not to continue to appear nervous. She was, however, and had been since she'd discovered that the reason Amilie had not come back to her bedroll the night before was because she'd been left on a what the Firebirds called a "dancing floor"- an extremely fancy term, in her opinion, for a section of open field between the swamp and the Hullack Forest where you leave someone that you drugged, ringed by awful-smelling herbs.
In the silence that Deadriver's pause left, a hum began to arise from Amilie- at first, the tune was awkward and dissonant, but as it continued, it began to gain melody and a recognizable cadence. Those who had already been seated close enough to Amilie to hear it began very quietly patting time.
"She ain't waitin' for us; she's gonna go," Steeleye warned Deadriver again, as Refuge began simply flapping his hands at the people in front of him to indicate that they ought to just seat themselves. "I'm goin' up 'n get 'er, 'fore she just goes on and leaves us, hear?"
"G'wan up," Deadriver laughed. "You're the guide; g'wan up and make sure we're with her."
"Yeah," Steeleye replied gruffly as he made his way to the circle made of plant cuttings. He slowed his steps as he approached it, not wanting to disturb the clearly identifiable verses and refrains to what was rapidly becoming a full-fledged song. Refuge moved carefully behind him, even less willing to disturb the reverie than his beloved. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a few people begin swaying.
"You know," he called down to Deadriver, "Mountain sister's gonna wanna come get her wife."
No one had to tell Udala twice. The Halfling, who'd brought her cane more for the fondness of it than for an actual necessity, easily stepped away from Snakesoul in order to get toward the circle. Refuge caught up to Steeleye, who had stopped just outside the circle, and took hold of his shoulder; upon noticing Udala's approach, he turned and reached out his other hand.
"C'mon; come feel this," he urged. "Your wife's doing something in there."
Udala took a few tentative steps forward, then heard the humming for herself. "It's a spell; she sings all her spells," she replied, although once her voice hit the open evening air, she knew she'd spoken too quietly to be heard. It couldn't have been avoided; the closer she got to the circle, the more she felt pressed by some force she couldn't understand. It wasn't physically uncomfortable, no stronger than the pressure one feels when they are swimming deep underwater; the uncomfortable part was feeling that while moving through nothing thicker than air.
"C'mon mama, you scared?" Steeleye charged suddenly, waking Udala to the realization that she'd stopped moving forward. "Don't hear you walkin' no more; what, you stopped?"
Udala watched Amilie's right hand begin stirring, making the bowl full of swamp earth and water move. Swirls of natural brown and green were joined by an inexplicable, bright ethereal blue, as though whatever spell Amilie was working on was radiating light through her fingertips.
Deadriver, who had by that time moved close enough to the circle to catch the tune of the humming from the others who had begun humming along, immediately turned around to relate the tune and its beat to those farther away. Snakesoul raised an eyebrow at him as he passed by her, but allowed him to go by without remark. A quiet chant of encouragement began arising from the back of the assembly, who could hear the beat more clearly than the tune itself. Deadriver bent at the hips and crouched slightly as he kept moving between the people, flapping his spread arms slowly. Counter-rhythms that complemented the original beat sparked in different places in the gathering.
Udala, who hadn't moved a single step farther forward, closed her eyes. Steeleye turned his head over his shoulder to say something else to her, but, feeling a single finger from Refuge on his lips, decided against it. Snakesoul gave Fairwillow a small beckoning gesture, and with a nod to Deadriver, the latter moved back toward the circle to stand on the opposite side of Udala from Snakesoul. Together, the two began stepping in time to the beat that had been created, sending very slight tremors through the ground under Udala's feet.
"I want to hold her hand- her other hand?" Udala said suddenly. "I just want to hold her hand right now. That's all."
"Okay," Fairwillow soothed easily. "Come with me; I'll take you there."
"Is Snakes coming?"
Snakesoul only answered by putting her cold hand very gently under Udala's left hand. The Halfling closed her hand over the vampire's, then reached out her hand for Fairwillow to take. With the rising tide of sound all around her and the women, who were each over five feet tall, on either side of her, Udala- for once- actually felt small. She took a deep breath, lifted her head, and began moving forward.
"That's better," Steeleye encouraged. "Now watch yourself; she ain't doin' nothin' but gettin' stronger in there. You get close, you gonna feel it, mebbe even through the ground, 'fore you even get here."
"She's already got it," Fairwillow replied. "She had it from where she was; just wants more. Here- pick her hand up- that's right. Now just-"
Udala never heard the end of the sentence. The moment the center palm flesh of Amilie's warm, soft hand hit hers, a song more beautiful than any she'd ever heard crashed over her. Her eyes squeezed shut at once. Behind their lids, she somehow saw slowly rising mist that eddied and swirled in places. From some great distance, Amilie's voice actually gave words to the song that had fully manifested in flutes, pan pipes, and the joined voices of all the Firebirds.
You're the fire all stones must bleed
You're the zephyr under the sea
You are nothing
Nothing
Nothing
If not me
If not me
The persistent Lead on, now sister, lead on, mama; Lead on, now sister; lead on, mama from the Firebirds surrounded Udala completely. Sharp claps somehow manifested as bright flashes of light that illuminated the mist so that the Halfling could see towering trees, and recognizable figures between them.
Your bones roar till my walls come down
My eyes make your heart softer ground
There is no one
No one
No one
But us now
Just us now
Although Udala wasn't conscious of moving anywhere, the trees in the world behind her eyelids had gotten closer and closer, so that she could no longer see their crowns unless she looked up. Between and around the majestic trunks danced identifiable Halfling figures, no longer partially and temporarily outlined by the sudden flashes of light, but instead constantly illuminated by what seemed to be a solid beacon of soft blue glow. Other figures either stood still or swayed, but all seemed fully absorbed in the music and the moment. As soon as Udala had gotten close enough to realize that the beacon had a shape of its own, one of the Halfling figures turned toward Udala.
In the center of the fire
Where the heat's as blue as water
Is the wellspring of your mana
And the song of your foremother.
You can echo back our image
What we started you can finish
You weren't born a pretty princess
But to show these folk what strength is.
Where
You find it breaking, don't you ever bend;
Where
All of the edges are, don't let it end.
Like the flowing of the fountains
From the mightiest of mountains
Just remember your foundations
And your words will shape the nations.
Udala could finally tell that the source of the bioluminescence, which had before seemed like a solid, cylindrical core, was Amilie herself. Just as this realization broke upon her, Amilie turned around and smiled. Looking back toward the Halfling figure, with Amilie's light thrown on its once shadowy form, was like looking into a mirror. In the soft blue light, Udala could identify the wide, high forehead, the snub nose, and the rosy, healthy cheeks. The figure smiled at Udala, then turned to take both of Amilie's hands. Udala got the irresistible urge to back away, but the Halfling who had joined the two women raised an eyebrow at her. Amilie's smile got a bit wider as she leaned forward to take both of Udala's elbows.
My hero, came her thought, as solidly as if she'd actually spoken. I'm glad you're here.
These people- they're Ghostwise, Udala wondered, feeling awed, surprised, and frightened all at once. The Elves drove them all-
They came for you, Amilie replied. These are your spirits. They came with mine- look.
In the natural brightness of Amilie's self, which Udala decided not to question, the entire gathering was illuminated. Udala could recognize friends, family members, and other loved ones as they all danced, swayed, and clapped time. None of them gave any voice to the song- they didn't have to. Beyond and around them swirled mists that flowed as though they were really streams of grey water. From somewhere in the distance, so far and foreign that it seemed as though it were from another plane of existence, the voices of the Firebirds kept the song going. Udala let herself be led by Amilie's warm hands, and slowly moved around the inside of the circle in the opposite direction from everyone else.
I'm the cat's eye behind the moon
I'm the lightning caught in the dew
But I am nothing
Nothing
Nothing
If not you
If not you
Watch me, Amilie said as the song continued around them. She let go of Udala, stepped back, and spun around and around with her arms wide open, showering everyone with shimmering waves of blue. From wherever it was that the Firebirds were, there were some whoops and hollers of delight, as though they too were seeing the ripples of light that traveled beyond the Halfling gathering and disappeared into the distance.
A violet glow edged the inky horizon, mottled by trees and congregants.
Lead on, my sister, lead on, mama; Lead on, my sister, lead on mama.
Lead on, my sister, lead on, mama; Lead on, my sister, lead on mama.
Amilie stopped spinning, lifted her hands higher, and leaned her head back, so that Udala wasn't sure how she was continuing to stand upright. Then, with lower, stronger notes than the other parts of the songs used, she added the sung spell.
Darkness my womb,
Give way to light;
Breath in the tomb,
Grant a new life.
Pierce my eye through
Set me aright
All sight, all truth,
Make void the lie.
A surge of stringed instruments rushed up toward dazzlingly high notes, soaring above the pipes and pan flutes with piercing harmonies that were echoed by some of the higher-voiced Firebirds as though they had been a trained choral society. A glorious sunrise bathed the dancing ground in oranges and reds, making real both the Ghostwise Halfling gathering and the Firebird clan, dancing in and around each other. Joining them from the mists that had previously simply been moving around them were strangely lanky, but powerful looking women. Their hair and the scraps of dresses that clung to them were long, ragged, damp, and dark, as though they'd come up from deep water without bothering to arrange themselves afterward. They too glowed with different shades of bio-luminescence- emerald greens, sapphire blues, saffron yellows, and even eerily brilliant whites. One of them reached out to Amilie, who relaxed her supplicant's pose to reach out her arms in acceptance. The on-looking Halfling was quickly half-horrified to see that the offering passing between them was a long, thick bodied, copper-and-tan scaled snake.
At once, the Halfling who had first put Udala and Amilie's hands together appeared again at Udala's side. Udala turned, and in that instant, knew in her heart that she was looking at her mother, just as certainly as she knew that her mother was no longer living. Turning to look back at Amilie, she sat that the snake had changed, somehow, into a thick, leather-bound grimmoire. As Amilie pulled the book toward herself and pressed it to her chest, it became a snake again, and wound its way lovingly around her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that her mother had made a gesture, so she turned to look at her. Her mother repeated the gesture, accompanied by a few others, and Udala simply nodded.
Beyond them, the lanky witches passed outstretched arms and hands over the Ghostwise, who began to disappear into mists with them. Sunlight, insistent that the day must begin as soon as possible, made their natural lights dimmer and dimmer until they simply looked like strange, living willow trees, retreating from the dancing ground to make the trek back to the marshy lands from which they had come. Two of them lingered for a while longer than the others, tenderly brushing their pale, clawed fingers on Amilie's cheeks. Amilie enjoyed their attentions, then turned over her shoulder to look toward Udala and her mother.
For a moment, all five women stood, looking at each other.
Udala's mother let her go to make a series of gestures toward Amilie and the two witches. Surprisingly for Udala, the witches made completely understandable gestures in reply, then brought Amilie to Udala as though presenting her.
In the very next breath, Udala and Amilie were surrounded by the very real Firebirds, who were still singing, clapping, and dancing all around them. Steeleye stood where Udala's mother had been, and Fairwillow and Snakesoul were where Amilie's mother and grandmother had been.
Before Udala could even begin to voice her confusion, Steeleye smiled at her.
"We all thought I was gonna be the guide, but it was you, mama. We just stood here and made sure you didn't fall out when you called Moondew back to us."
"And," Fairwillow added cheerily, "unsurprisingly, since she was so worried about it, Moondew brought back your name, if you wanna take it."
"Of course I'll take it," Udala croaked, finding that her throat hurt.
"Marrowfire," Fairwillow answered with a nod of approval. "I love it. I think it's very descriptive."
As if on cue, a chorus of Firebirds that were still singing reached the I am nothing, nothing, nothing, if not you part of the song. A variety of explanations, each just as valid as the other, began filtering their way through Udala's logical mind. After a few moments of silence during which she flitted through each one, she consciously put them to the side.
"It is," she said with a firm nod. "What do I do to take it?"
"You're did in already," Steeleye laughed. "Enjoy yourself now, mama- dance around some more. We're gonna. Now, I gotta say, I'm a little jealous- a'fore you two, the closest ones together were me and Refuge. But we ain't danced the same day- he came first, I went after."
"And it's been the other way around ever since," Refuge joked.
Amilie, who still had a few flowers clinging to her hair, picked up the hand that was still laced in Udala's. Udala looked at it, and noticed that at some point, someone had taken the ribbon from her staff and wrapped it around their wrists.
"We really joined the circus, huh?" she asked, feeling herself smirking.
Amilie nodded wordlessly, but with a smile still on her face.
"Did you see all the-"
Amilie nodded again before Udala could even finish her sentence, and held up the hand that had been in the swamp water. The skin there, still slightly damp, gave a very faint blue glow. Without another thought, the Halfling reached her other hand out and slid it just underneath, so that it looked as though the two were about to begin a partnered dance of some sort.
"Yeah!" Refuge encouraged. "Get on down, ladies- c'mon, Steel, get on the good foot, boy."
"How's your foot?" Amilie asked.
Udala looked at Amilie, and really looked. She saw in the flawless face the streetwalker, the herbalist, the hag, and the dedicated lover all at once, and was amazed at her.
"Fine," she answered. "I didn't take off the cloth you bound it with before you left- and I don't think I'll need that much longer. So if you're asking if I can dance on it, then yes."
Amilie curtsied as though she were at Le Lune Silvestre, then pulled Udala close to her and began fearlessly romping around the circle as though she hadn't just been laying completely still for half a day and the better part of a night. Firebirds hooted and hollered, and anyone who was still sitting got up at once. The gathering jumped, turned, and generally made a great deal of noise, and after a few moments, Udala stopped thinking of herself as separate from it. As if she'd heard her partner's thoughts, Amilie squeezed a bit tighter.
"Feeling good, Marrowfire?"
"Like a pig in shit, Moon- you got a few more go-rounds in you, right?"
The Human woman simply laughed, and the two of them swirled with the rest of the Firebirds, disappearing into their frolicking as though they'd always been with them.
02 November 2016
07 October 2016
3:62 Personal detail.
Eunice shifted uncomfortably, shivering in an uncharacteristic chill for early evening in Suzail. Beside her on the cart, Druce patted the younger woman's knee without looking at her.
"Don't fidget, dear; they'll only be a few more minutes, I'm sure."
A consolation that would have been more effective, had it not been offered twenty minutes before. Eunice tried to smile gratefully, but a pitiful expression painted itself on her face instead. Druce, meanwhile, was busy trying to tolerate her scar's incessant burning, which had kicked up the moment the cart had gotten within ten feet of Eunice's cottage and refused to stop, even when Bahlzair's ward had been expertly undone. It had been useful in that Terezio insisted on entering the house with the Purple Dragon to ensure that no further wicked magic traps were in place, but based on how long it had taken both men to walk through a house that only cost Eunice herself twelve paces to cross all the way through, there had definitely been reason for the men to stop.
The traps that were in place were bad enough, Eunice assumed, but she wasn't nearly as worried about them, so much as what new, fresh horrors would be waiting for her whenever fellow students got tired of escorting her to class, or her tutor got tired of checking her house every evening. Bahlzair, a rueful Aleksei had warned everyone that morning, was the very soul of patience.
At last, Terezio appeared at Eunice's doorway with his glasses perched on top of his head. Druce, who was more aware of what this meant than Eunice could ever hope to be, bit her lips on her reproach. She simply got up and reached her hand over the cart, knowing that the motion itself would be enough to let him know where she was- and by extension, where he needed to go. The old mage, however, still considered himself on the job.
"Now, first in the morning, be sure to concentrate for at least an hour on your arcane factoring theorems before you get started on your combination homework," Terezio began, rubbing the bridge of his nose absent-mindedly as he moved toward what he knew to be his wife.
"Yes, Magister," Eunice said before she'd even thought twice.
Terezio managed to find Druce's hand, and the latter began guiding him around the cart toward the step that would allow him to get into it. "And don't buy the fire clover imported from Marsember; word is that the master alchemist there is still having problems with rats-"
"Yes, Magister."
"And don't use the mule pollen and the fire clover-"
"-at the same time; no, Magister, I won't," Eunice replied earnestly, standing up in the cart as Terezio neared it. "I'm still very sorry; I know you know that."
"Well... yes..." Terezio managed, realizing his mistake.
The Purple Dragon, a roughly tanned man who looked as though he could bodily throw Bahlzair out of the front door if need be, came out from behind Terezio to the back of the cart in order to offer his gloved hand to Eunice, who blushed fiercely.
"I suppose you've given sufficient assignments and warnings for the day, Rezi," Druce urged, half-jokingly as she gave her husband's hand a slight squeeze. Eunice turned a real, albeit fleeting, smile upon her, then gave her hand to the guard. Once she'd completed her graceful dismount, the guard offered an arm to get Terezio back onto the cart. The older man made a face, although he had to accept the help, and once he'd gotten onto the cart, his wife swatted at him with the same hand that had guided him just moments before.
"You could thank the man," she insisted sharply, bringing a bit of color to her husband's cheeks.
"Don't worry about it," the guard smiled, giving a small half salute with his right hand's first two fingers. "I know you would've preferred to get up there yourself. Get home safely, Battlemage Ranclyffe."
"Thank you, ser, and I hope you have a pleasant night," Druce inserted before Terezio could even manage to think of anything to say. "Pelor guard you both."
Eunice smiled again, even more faintly than she had before, and offered a wave as the cart drove off. She waited until she could no longer see the cart down the cobblestone street, then turned to open her door again. It was not until the door was stopped with an audible grunt of either surprise or effort that she realized that the Purple Dragon had not gone about his own patrol.
"I'm... supposed to stay," he explained sheepishly when she leveled a blank stare at him, standing in her doorway.
"Oh," Eunice said, suddenly bringing her hand up into her hair as though she'd just remembered that she hadn't combed it- which she had, that morning. "Um...well... then, come in. Please come in; I'm sorry."
The guard removed his helmet first, then entered the doorway, stepping to the side so that Eunice could close her own door. Eunice, at a loss for things to say, simply made her way toward her kitchen.
"Something to drink for you? I'm not much in the way of a cook, I'm afraid, or I would offer you something to eat as well," she said in a slightly higher, tighter voice than she'd spoken with before.
"I ate before I left the barracks," the guard replied, setting his helmet down just to the left of the door and swiftly following Eunice toward the kitchen. "Just a minute-"
"Huh?"
The guard had caught up with Eunice easily, and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. She looked over her shoulder at it, and was just as surprised- for some reason- at how mottled and scarred the hands were as she was that he'd touched her at all. He, for his part, resisted the urge to feel self-conscious, although his cheeks grew just slightly ruddier.
"I'm supposed to check the kitchen before you go in," he offered. "I was told to beware of anything to do with fire, cooking, and sewing, as those seem to be things that the suspect prefers to manipulate."
Eunice nodded and stepped back, and as she did, the guard allowed his hand to drop from her shoulder.
"He completely rearranged my pantry," the apprentice admitted as the guard stepped past her. "Didn't touch a thing; he said it would ruin the flavor if he did, but not a single thing is where I normally put it. Took me ages to find the salt, I... don't have much of it, and... half my spices he threw out, because they were stale..."
"Here it is," the guard smiled, his head suddenly popping up from behind a counter. "You have about as much as I do, back at the barracks? Yeah, you have to have a pinch, to survive in there. What comes up from the mess hall- no flavor at all."
Eunice smirked, grateful for the momentary mirth. "Have I enough to give a bit of a push to the rice?"
"This and butter'll do you, sure," the guard nodded jovially as he stood up. "You want a hand with the water?"
"No, I brought it in before I left," Eunice sighed. "It's in the bucket with the cover on it, over there in the corner- I could make some tea?"
"If you promise not to make any strange pronouncements over the leaves when we're finished," the young man replied. "The kettle?"
"Oh, over here, let me-"
Eunice walked into the kitchen, which at once became too small, and picked up both the kettle and her soup pot from her cooking area, where the fire pit still sat cold. Handing off both vessels to the guard, she took up the two stones that sat on the nearby counter.
"Battlemage Ranclyffe checked those all over," the guard piped up. "Did something to them so that they glowed, then muttered and did something to make them stop glowing. I don't know if that meant something was wrong with them or not, and when I asked him, he just grunted at me."
"Oh, that's Terezio Ranclyffe for you," Eunice said, rolling her eyes as she briefly considered casting a sense magic spell herself. "He's astoundingly talented, but heinously curt, and rude."
"The way I'm told, he can hardly think his own thoughts but for hearing or sensing everybody else's," the guard noted with some strain of pity in his voice. "My commander said that once, during some kind of joint forces exam, he jumped up and hollered out 'Would you shut up, all of you?' But no one was saying a blessed word."
A few sparks caught the dry wood and allowed the most delicate sprigs of flame to begin eating into it. Eunice stood straight and began fanning at the wood with the bottom of her apron.
"That... that's very interesting," she mused, "I never thought his manners had anything to do with his resting aura perception overwhelming him."
" 'Resting aura perception'?" the guard echoed, looking around to find some way of getting the water out of the bucket that didn't include picking it up and pouring it, which would risk spilling it.
"Yes- on top of the- you found it," Eunice encouraged as she watched him discover the ladle. "Your resting aura perception is your natural ability to divine other people's thoughts and intentions without actually casting a spell. Most people's perception level is pretty high- meaning we have no idea what anybody's thinking or feeling- but his... I waste at least one sense spell per day just trying to figure out whether he's listening to what I'm saying or what I'm thinking."
"You can't just ask him though?" the guard shrugged. "Or would he take some sort of offence at that?"
Eunice chuckled to herself as she took the kettle and placed it next to the pot, which was already on top of the metal grate above the embers and flickers that were trying trying to be a fire. She fanned it a bit more with her apron, and the guard, taking a hint, knelt down to blow on it.
"There, that should do it," he sighed, sitting back on his ankles once the fire had gotten strong enough to satisfy him. "You know, I think if that murderer was tinkering around, moving your salt and throwing spices out, I should probably taste your food first no matter what, to check if it's poisoned."
"I... can't say I thought of that," Eunice admitted. "He's an alchemist... I should have thought of that."
The guard stood- not an easy task in a small space with chain mail armor- and smiled at Eunice without saying anything further.
"Um... may I... know your name?" Eunice asked timidly. "I mean, you know mine, and... I..."
"I'll be out tomorrow," the guard answered, instantly blushing again. "I might not come back."
"Well, how many men do they want to have cycling through my house, staying the night, and tasting my food?" Eunice retorted, her voice coming out much more harshly than she intended.
"They're not going to all come at once, take up all your space, make noise to distract your studies, or gobble up everything you have; I mean, we're trained to-"
And something, even though Eunice hadn't moved a muscle or made a sound, stopped the sentence in his mouth. For just a moment, the only noise in the room was the fire's crackling.
"Piettro."
"You don't have to-" Eunice began apologetically, her face melting from the mask it had become at once.
"No, no; you shouldn't feel as though you were in a flop house; I'm Piettro. Of House Xiarlethi, though that doesn't mean anything, outside of Skullwatch."
The apprentice blinked at the guard for a few moments. "What's a flop house?"
A noise that should have been a guffaw burst from Piettro's mouth, but stopped as soon as it hit the air, visibly startling Eunice.
"Never mind that," he said, blushing so hard that even the skin that disappeared under his hairline turned red. "The evening bells- do you- do you... um..."
"Nothing's even warm yet," Eunice chuckled gently, feeling guilty for being amused at Piettro's embarrassment. "But I did hear the dusk bell. Maybe about a half hour ago, while we were still on the cart. I don't imagine the lights out bell will sound for some hours, and- and we can figure out where- I mean, I suppose in the room, but-"
"We can set up some kind of signal-"
"We can talk about all that after dinner," Eunice suddenly decided firmly. "Come on; watched pots never boil, everyone knows that."
"Don't fidget, dear; they'll only be a few more minutes, I'm sure."
A consolation that would have been more effective, had it not been offered twenty minutes before. Eunice tried to smile gratefully, but a pitiful expression painted itself on her face instead. Druce, meanwhile, was busy trying to tolerate her scar's incessant burning, which had kicked up the moment the cart had gotten within ten feet of Eunice's cottage and refused to stop, even when Bahlzair's ward had been expertly undone. It had been useful in that Terezio insisted on entering the house with the Purple Dragon to ensure that no further wicked magic traps were in place, but based on how long it had taken both men to walk through a house that only cost Eunice herself twelve paces to cross all the way through, there had definitely been reason for the men to stop.
The traps that were in place were bad enough, Eunice assumed, but she wasn't nearly as worried about them, so much as what new, fresh horrors would be waiting for her whenever fellow students got tired of escorting her to class, or her tutor got tired of checking her house every evening. Bahlzair, a rueful Aleksei had warned everyone that morning, was the very soul of patience.
At last, Terezio appeared at Eunice's doorway with his glasses perched on top of his head. Druce, who was more aware of what this meant than Eunice could ever hope to be, bit her lips on her reproach. She simply got up and reached her hand over the cart, knowing that the motion itself would be enough to let him know where she was- and by extension, where he needed to go. The old mage, however, still considered himself on the job.
"Now, first in the morning, be sure to concentrate for at least an hour on your arcane factoring theorems before you get started on your combination homework," Terezio began, rubbing the bridge of his nose absent-mindedly as he moved toward what he knew to be his wife.
"Yes, Magister," Eunice said before she'd even thought twice.
Terezio managed to find Druce's hand, and the latter began guiding him around the cart toward the step that would allow him to get into it. "And don't buy the fire clover imported from Marsember; word is that the master alchemist there is still having problems with rats-"
"Yes, Magister."
"And don't use the mule pollen and the fire clover-"
"-at the same time; no, Magister, I won't," Eunice replied earnestly, standing up in the cart as Terezio neared it. "I'm still very sorry; I know you know that."
"Well... yes..." Terezio managed, realizing his mistake.
The Purple Dragon, a roughly tanned man who looked as though he could bodily throw Bahlzair out of the front door if need be, came out from behind Terezio to the back of the cart in order to offer his gloved hand to Eunice, who blushed fiercely.
"I suppose you've given sufficient assignments and warnings for the day, Rezi," Druce urged, half-jokingly as she gave her husband's hand a slight squeeze. Eunice turned a real, albeit fleeting, smile upon her, then gave her hand to the guard. Once she'd completed her graceful dismount, the guard offered an arm to get Terezio back onto the cart. The older man made a face, although he had to accept the help, and once he'd gotten onto the cart, his wife swatted at him with the same hand that had guided him just moments before.
"You could thank the man," she insisted sharply, bringing a bit of color to her husband's cheeks.
"Don't worry about it," the guard smiled, giving a small half salute with his right hand's first two fingers. "I know you would've preferred to get up there yourself. Get home safely, Battlemage Ranclyffe."
"Thank you, ser, and I hope you have a pleasant night," Druce inserted before Terezio could even manage to think of anything to say. "Pelor guard you both."
Eunice smiled again, even more faintly than she had before, and offered a wave as the cart drove off. She waited until she could no longer see the cart down the cobblestone street, then turned to open her door again. It was not until the door was stopped with an audible grunt of either surprise or effort that she realized that the Purple Dragon had not gone about his own patrol.
"I'm... supposed to stay," he explained sheepishly when she leveled a blank stare at him, standing in her doorway.
"Oh," Eunice said, suddenly bringing her hand up into her hair as though she'd just remembered that she hadn't combed it- which she had, that morning. "Um...well... then, come in. Please come in; I'm sorry."
The guard removed his helmet first, then entered the doorway, stepping to the side so that Eunice could close her own door. Eunice, at a loss for things to say, simply made her way toward her kitchen.
"Something to drink for you? I'm not much in the way of a cook, I'm afraid, or I would offer you something to eat as well," she said in a slightly higher, tighter voice than she'd spoken with before.
"I ate before I left the barracks," the guard replied, setting his helmet down just to the left of the door and swiftly following Eunice toward the kitchen. "Just a minute-"
"Huh?"
The guard had caught up with Eunice easily, and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. She looked over her shoulder at it, and was just as surprised- for some reason- at how mottled and scarred the hands were as she was that he'd touched her at all. He, for his part, resisted the urge to feel self-conscious, although his cheeks grew just slightly ruddier.
"I'm supposed to check the kitchen before you go in," he offered. "I was told to beware of anything to do with fire, cooking, and sewing, as those seem to be things that the suspect prefers to manipulate."
Eunice nodded and stepped back, and as she did, the guard allowed his hand to drop from her shoulder.
"He completely rearranged my pantry," the apprentice admitted as the guard stepped past her. "Didn't touch a thing; he said it would ruin the flavor if he did, but not a single thing is where I normally put it. Took me ages to find the salt, I... don't have much of it, and... half my spices he threw out, because they were stale..."
"Here it is," the guard smiled, his head suddenly popping up from behind a counter. "You have about as much as I do, back at the barracks? Yeah, you have to have a pinch, to survive in there. What comes up from the mess hall- no flavor at all."
Eunice smirked, grateful for the momentary mirth. "Have I enough to give a bit of a push to the rice?"
"This and butter'll do you, sure," the guard nodded jovially as he stood up. "You want a hand with the water?"
"No, I brought it in before I left," Eunice sighed. "It's in the bucket with the cover on it, over there in the corner- I could make some tea?"
"If you promise not to make any strange pronouncements over the leaves when we're finished," the young man replied. "The kettle?"
"Oh, over here, let me-"
Eunice walked into the kitchen, which at once became too small, and picked up both the kettle and her soup pot from her cooking area, where the fire pit still sat cold. Handing off both vessels to the guard, she took up the two stones that sat on the nearby counter.
"Battlemage Ranclyffe checked those all over," the guard piped up. "Did something to them so that they glowed, then muttered and did something to make them stop glowing. I don't know if that meant something was wrong with them or not, and when I asked him, he just grunted at me."
"Oh, that's Terezio Ranclyffe for you," Eunice said, rolling her eyes as she briefly considered casting a sense magic spell herself. "He's astoundingly talented, but heinously curt, and rude."
"The way I'm told, he can hardly think his own thoughts but for hearing or sensing everybody else's," the guard noted with some strain of pity in his voice. "My commander said that once, during some kind of joint forces exam, he jumped up and hollered out 'Would you shut up, all of you?' But no one was saying a blessed word."
A few sparks caught the dry wood and allowed the most delicate sprigs of flame to begin eating into it. Eunice stood straight and began fanning at the wood with the bottom of her apron.
"That... that's very interesting," she mused, "I never thought his manners had anything to do with his resting aura perception overwhelming him."
" 'Resting aura perception'?" the guard echoed, looking around to find some way of getting the water out of the bucket that didn't include picking it up and pouring it, which would risk spilling it.
"Yes- on top of the- you found it," Eunice encouraged as she watched him discover the ladle. "Your resting aura perception is your natural ability to divine other people's thoughts and intentions without actually casting a spell. Most people's perception level is pretty high- meaning we have no idea what anybody's thinking or feeling- but his... I waste at least one sense spell per day just trying to figure out whether he's listening to what I'm saying or what I'm thinking."
"You can't just ask him though?" the guard shrugged. "Or would he take some sort of offence at that?"
Eunice chuckled to herself as she took the kettle and placed it next to the pot, which was already on top of the metal grate above the embers and flickers that were trying trying to be a fire. She fanned it a bit more with her apron, and the guard, taking a hint, knelt down to blow on it.
"There, that should do it," he sighed, sitting back on his ankles once the fire had gotten strong enough to satisfy him. "You know, I think if that murderer was tinkering around, moving your salt and throwing spices out, I should probably taste your food first no matter what, to check if it's poisoned."
"I... can't say I thought of that," Eunice admitted. "He's an alchemist... I should have thought of that."
The guard stood- not an easy task in a small space with chain mail armor- and smiled at Eunice without saying anything further.
"Um... may I... know your name?" Eunice asked timidly. "I mean, you know mine, and... I..."
"I'll be out tomorrow," the guard answered, instantly blushing again. "I might not come back."
"Well, how many men do they want to have cycling through my house, staying the night, and tasting my food?" Eunice retorted, her voice coming out much more harshly than she intended.
"They're not going to all come at once, take up all your space, make noise to distract your studies, or gobble up everything you have; I mean, we're trained to-"
And something, even though Eunice hadn't moved a muscle or made a sound, stopped the sentence in his mouth. For just a moment, the only noise in the room was the fire's crackling.
"Piettro."
"You don't have to-" Eunice began apologetically, her face melting from the mask it had become at once.
"No, no; you shouldn't feel as though you were in a flop house; I'm Piettro. Of House Xiarlethi, though that doesn't mean anything, outside of Skullwatch."
The apprentice blinked at the guard for a few moments. "What's a flop house?"
A noise that should have been a guffaw burst from Piettro's mouth, but stopped as soon as it hit the air, visibly startling Eunice.
"Never mind that," he said, blushing so hard that even the skin that disappeared under his hairline turned red. "The evening bells- do you- do you... um..."
"Nothing's even warm yet," Eunice chuckled gently, feeling guilty for being amused at Piettro's embarrassment. "But I did hear the dusk bell. Maybe about a half hour ago, while we were still on the cart. I don't imagine the lights out bell will sound for some hours, and- and we can figure out where- I mean, I suppose in the room, but-"
"We can set up some kind of signal-"
"We can talk about all that after dinner," Eunice suddenly decided firmly. "Come on; watched pots never boil, everyone knows that."
30 September 2016
3:61 Part of the family.
The moon slipped coyly behind the harmless clouds, stealing glances down through the low branches of Urmlaspyr's scrubby trees. The quiet between the breaking of the waves was punctuated by cricket song and the occasional hoot of an owl in search of a mate. The sea breathed salt air over the beach and into the city, but halfway between the docks and the catacombs, the only salt that one young man could smell and taste was in his sweat.
"Attack."
But Kennig whipped his arm- and the staff that his hand held- back to a waiting, defensive stance. Vhalan watched him hold the pose for all of ten seconds before abruptly swinging his chain up to an attacking speed. The young man found he had to use his staff to fend off two particularly venomous attempts on his arms, smacking them away as he backed up a few paces to get out of the chain's reach.
"I said attack!" Vhalan repeated, his voice nearly a snarl. "The danger may be a guard, may be a mercenary, may be anybody- you cannot stay your hand just because you recognize your assailant!"
The master slung his chain out twice more- first, just barely missing the trainee's feet, then threatening one of his arms- and the silvery arcs that ripped over and around his head as they briefly embraced his neck thoroughly distracted the young man into a weaker stance. Pouncing on the opportunity, Vhalan stepped far to his right side, dropped into a lunge and slung the chain up and around the Kennig's arm.
There was a momentary pause which everyone knew better than to believe was indicative of any lack of ideas on Vhalan's part.
Turning himself around twice so that his chain wrapped around the outside of his arms, the vampire picked up enough ground to connect with a spinning back kick that snapped his student's head to the side and put him on the ground immediately. The chain yanked taut as Kennig fell back, nearly taking his shoulder out of its socket. His staff, to his credit, never left his right hand; although the grip wasn't tight enough to resist a concentrated attempt at disarmament, Vhalan left it precisely where it was.
Suddenly, there was a rustle of branch and leaves, and the wings of a raven cut through the weight of the night as though they'd been blades. Shanna, who'd accompanied Vhalan nearly out of force of habit, looked up from her meditation position on the ground.
"I talked to Deadriver, like you said," Kennig panted when he could hear himself over the ringing in his ears, "did Shepherd Aric tell-"
"That is not the matter at hand," Vhalan replied, his eyes narrowing as they cut away from the boy on the ground and toward the darkness of the night beyond his faithful monitor. Predictably, she had moved to close the distance between herself and the two men. "At the moment, I am wondering why, once you'd neutralized my charge the first time, you did not continue the assault."
"Continue it how?" the young man argued, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees. "The staff is a defensive weapon, not an-"
"The next time Sakhma tells you that, ask her to tell you about the thorough trouncing Svaentok gave her- with her own staff, might I add," Vhalan replied flatly, even though his amusement at the memory of the referenced event printed itself clearly on his face. "Generations of stick fighters have not survived the brute idiocy of blade wielders, the quickness of archers, and the agility of exotic weapon handlers with a... 'defensive weapon'... the term itself is nearly oxymoronic."
"Ha?" Kennig managed, stranded somewhere between incredulity and frustration. "You nearly took my whole-"
"Your weapon has just as much reach as mine, and it is solid; use it to help you spring forward, and hit me, Ironfeather; I know you know how to do that," the chain master said with crossed arms and an arched eyebrow. The raven, as if to punctuate his point, gave a short, self-satisfied caw.
Silence.
"I didn't want to, you know. I didn't enjoy it or anything."
Vashte, who had found a high perch long ago, ruffled her feathers. Only the master could hear the sound, a fact that, for some reason, rested uneasily within him. When the raven actually turned her head to look down at Vhalan, he gave a quiet sigh of resignation.
"The enjoyment of such activities seems wholly mine," he replied. "Yet, I fault you not for your tenderness of heart, mortal; merely for that of your spine."
Above the pair, the raven shifted on the branch, her head swiveling toward the town's horizon. An unfamiliar scent made its way, on the sea breeze, to the chain master, who decided not to turn his own head toward its source right away. In the space his lack of response left, the young man lying before him gave a strange, weary laugh.
"Something more interesting, huh?"
Vhalan looked down at the young man with the barest flicker of emotion. Kennig, in turn, had to fight with himself not to become nervous at the fact that he could not tell which particular feeling had tugged at his tutor's heart. From the knobby branches of some one of the scruffy trees, the raven's high, sharp caw split the quiet as she lifted herself into flight again. Shanna scanned the area, but could find neither the bird nor the reason she had called out.
"Leave me."
The young man grunted as he got to his feet. "You'll tell me, right? When you think it's time?"
The master scoffed before he spoke, but when he did, there was nothing mocking in his tone. "I am nothing, Ironfeather, if not a man of my word. Shanna, take him and go."
With a simple nod, Shanna moved forward and helped the monastic initiate to move a bit faster. There was a short, low conversation that began between the two to which the master worked hard not to pay attention. The two of them had gone some distance toward the above ground graveyard before the chain master turned to face the coastline and sat down. He focused on the whispers of footsteps, sniffing at the air to try to get a read of the emotional state of what he couldn't help but consider a victim.
"Will they return?"
The voice was high and thin, but not fraught with fear. Vhalan closed his eyes. Whatever this slip of a girl was feeling manifested itself as a dry rotted wood smell.
"If they do," Vhalan said, his voice a half-chuckle, "they will get what they deserve."
There was one tentative foot step, then another.
"The only territory I hold sacred is a single chair," Vhalan offered, understanding the reticence with a part of himself that still seemed strange. "Made of the stair up into Saint Cuthbert's... place of worship."
There were two more steps forward, then another pause.
"There isn't a stair up into the temple of Saint Cuthbert," the high voice answered. The tone was meek- almost that of an apology, as though the one speaking were sorry to have to correct a misconception.
"Now there isn't, no. Because when I was too weak to go on banging on their door, the 'brothers' assumed that I'd died, and that they were safe. They picked up the entire stone and moved it back into the wilderness from where my sire came, too afraid to even bury me, which was only helpful in that I was found by someone who was more brother to me than they ever were. It was while he was sorrowfully digging a place for me that I awoke and- to my great shame- attacked him."
Five more steps brought the small girl right next to Vhalan, who opened his eyes and looked at her. Instantly, a paternal spirit, stronger than nearly every other urge by which he had, to that point, been moved, swept away all considerations of prey or victimhood. She, on the other hand, seemed to be nearly jolted back by the sight of his red-streaked brown eyes, even though her hazel eyes had gained some crimson strains of their own. After an indecisive moment, she carefully seated herself next to him, as though she might get in trouble for doing so at any moment.
"Did he die?" she asked after a short silence.
"No," Vhalan replied with a half-smirk, as he remembered the fight. "I was still very, very weak, even for a fledgling vampire, because my sire could not care for me as Lucien has cared for you. My brother, even at his age, was already a warlock worthy to be feared. Had I any sense at all, I would have fled him, but I didn't, and when he had me firmly in his power, he would not kill me. Instead, he called me by name until I recognized it, and him- when I did, I fled his presence at once."
The little girl, whose tightly braided auburn hair pulled at her pale scalp, bit her lips and dug her toes into the dirt. "Can I know your name?" she asked slowly.
Vhalan reached his left arm over and across himself to lift the girl's chin, feeling very reminded of Silveredge. "My name is Vhalan. Now, what do I call you?"
"Tirabet Caemeth... although... I guess just Tirabet, now," the little girl replied.
"That is your choice," Vhalan counseled. "You can keep that name, or choose another- perhaps Lucien's- or simply have none at all. You don't have to choose now... and you can also change your mind, whenever you feel like it."
"I don't feel anything," Tirabet complained instantly, an unmistakable jolt of frustration in her voice. "I know I'm me, but-"
"But that 'you' has changed, and will keep changing," Vhalan replied. "You must allow it to happen peacefully. I was mortal for quite some time before my change, and had a very difficult time getting used to my new nature- new choices, new abilities- everything was unfamiliar. Horrifying, even- at first, I couldn't... well. Letting go of my Humanity... cost me many years."
Tirabet sighed and looked down at the ground again. "I will feel something then, won't I? After a while?"
Vhalan remained quiet for a few moments, biting back on his natural cynicism. Finally, when he was sure that he could keep all trace of bitterness out of his tone, he replied with a simple "You won't just feel different. You will be different. Almost everything you know about yourself will change."
In the quiet that flowed between them, the raven- Vashte- left her branch to settle herself on Vhalan's left shoulder. Tirabet, startled, leaned forward to look over at her immediately.
"This is Vashte," Vhalan explained. "She is an emblem of the Raven Queen, the goddess to whom those mortals who were with me are dedicated."
Tirabet nodded, and sat back again, looking at her hands. The nails there, jagged and mottled with white spots, spoke to Vhalan of a child who had been accustomed to biting her fingernails, but recently discovered that it was a much more dangerous pass time now than it had been before.
"Did you have a pet once?" he asked gently, aware of her awkwardness.
Tirabet shook her head. "Only my pony. I just got her; I can't even ride. I bet Logan gets her, now."
"Ah," Vhalan replied, not sure how to tell the small girl that the horse would likely run from her in terror now. "Her name?"
Tirabet shrugged. "I dunno. I got in trouble the same day I got her, so I never even saw her, really."
The old rebel in Vhalan couldn't help but be amused. "Got in trouble for what?" he asked, having a feeling the exploit would be something minor, like stealing a cookie from the kitchen before dinner, tricking a nursemaid, or getting a stitch wrong on a sampler.
"For hitting Logan in the mouth, 'cause he was making fun of Jana and Circe, calling them names. I don't know why he didn't get in trouble for calling her names, but I knew he wasn't gonna! He never gets in trouble; only me! That's why I hate him! I wish he would die!"
Vhalan wouldn't have given much thought to the words themselves, but the sharp, acidic smell of actual rage got his attention.
"I bet he's not even in trouble now, 'cause my parents never wanted me anyway," Tirabet continued furiously, not minding Vhalan's silence at all. "I bet they don't even care I'm gone."
"They-" Vhalan began, then thought better of it. "Well, he deserved that. And your parents deserve worse, if they even did one thing that caused you think for a moment that they didn't want you."
"They never wanted me," Tirabet repeated, her voice beginning to tighten. "They hate me, and I hate them too, because they are stupid, and mean, and they don't make sense ever, and they let Logan do whatever he wants 'cause he's a boy, and he's big, and smart, and everything they want, and I hope their house falls in on them too, like the other one up the road did. I hope they scream and get burned to death, because I hate all of them. I hate them; hate."
Vhalan sat in quiet thought for a few moments, listening to the small child next to him pant out the remnants of her fury. The tang of rage had edged down into some strange, vinagary smelling emotion that he could not quite put a name to- it wasn't metallic enough to be sorrow, nor bitter enough to be angst, nor quite sour enough to be a desire for revenge.
"They'll die before you do," he at last noted flatly, unable to think of anything else to say. "All of them, even Logan- I suppose he's your brother?"
"Yes?" Tirabet answered, half-stunned by the flippancy in Vhalan's voice.
"Well, take comfort," the older vampire counseled seriously as he arose. Vashte, unperturbed, took flight and made long, looping circles overhead, waiting. "Logan is mortal, able to die quickly, and for little reason. You are beyond his type of frailty. You are beyond being denied your pony, and or your freedom... even beyond your parents's stupidity- and never, never, let anyone make you feel that being a boy is better than being a girl. That is perhaps one of the biggest lies any of us are ever told."
"Wait, where are you going?" Tirabet said as she jumped up, watching Vhalan's long strides away from her with a throb of surprise and fear.
"The docks," Vhalan replied without looking back. "I have been particularly interested in a rather hefty fisherman who seems to enjoy spying on the burial grounds from his rooftop- are you hungry?"
Tirabet let out a puff of breath that should have been a threat of tears. "I don't know," she whined finally, finding that she couldn't even muster a proper temper tantrum. "I don't feel anything, so I don't know anything; I don't know what to do."
Vhalan, who hadn't been hungry at all, stopped and turned his head over his shoulder so that the girl behind him could see the right side of his face. "You'll have to use your mind- your memory, right now- to make up for what you don't feel. That would be one of those changes I was telling you about earlier. It might be difficult at first, but I'm sure you can handle it. Now, tell me, what did you do last week?"
Tirabet stopped huffing and pouting at once to get about the business of remembering, which Vhalan folded his lips over his teeth to keep himself from smiling about.
"I went to temple, and I mixed incense powder, and I sorted the flower seeds, and I found worms under a rock, and I went to market with Nursie, and I dug in the garden, and I played with Jana and Circe, and we pushed the Soargyl's cow- we didn't push it over, but Mama had Nursie beat me as though we did- and I socked Logan in the mouth, and then that's it."
Vhalan hummed with genuine consideration. "Well, I'm not taking you anywhere near Mama or Logan, because I can't promise that I'd leave them in one piece, after hearing all of this about them. I don't know where Jana and Circe live-"
"In the Dark Quarter now; they moved, 'cause their papa had to," Tirabet supplied immediately.
"Ah, hence the name-calling- but at this hour, they're probably asleep. I can't take you to temple, either; I don't think I'd be welcomed." Vhalan tilted his head slightly and allowed his gaunt, wolfish features to draw into a nearly comical caricature of thought, and Tirabet giggled in spite of herself. "Hmmm... that leaves... you like gardening?"
"Yes," Tirabet said, quickly closing the distance between herself and the male vampire. "I like buttercups best, but everyone says they're weeds."
"I know of a lovely spot," Vhalan smirked, throwing off the obvious pretense just as quickly as he'd donned it. "Someone obviously prepared it for a nice-sized garden, but then abandoned it- would you like to see it?"
Tirabet nodded at Vhalan with a smile, and in response, Vhalan squatted down so that he could speak to her without forcing her to look up.
"There are such mortals in the Dark Quarter as are unafraid of our kind, as I'm sure Lucien has already told you. I wonder if...perhaps... we can convince some mortal to get us some seeds at market?"
"Yes!" Tirabet cheered. "Papa Lucien said you'd say that! He said so before I even left! He knows you really well."
Vhalan, encouraged, continued conspiratorially, "Did he tell you whether I would want to go on two legs or four?"
"Oooh, four, four!" came the enthusiastic reply. "He taught me how to do it, and I learned really fast! Lookit!"
Vhalan stood and watched the little girl run several feet behind him, then whirl around and begin running back toward him. When she was about a yard away, she began leaping into the air, and on the third leap, her form scrunched up, her ears changed, and her whole body produced tawny brown fur. Vhalan turned around and took off himself, changing gracefully into his dire white wolf form on his first leap, then slowed down just enough to allow the smaller wolf pup to catch up and smack into his side. He gave a sharp bark of feigned insult as he stepped sideways, but quickly gave the pup a playful push toward the Witchrun, and the Dark Quarter.
Overhead, Vashte cawed her approval before coming to rest on a severely damaged tree near the catacombs. And in Letherna, with a satisfied smirk, the obsidian-eyed Queen knotted the vibrant green satin sash together with the dark grey braided cord.
"Attack."
But Kennig whipped his arm- and the staff that his hand held- back to a waiting, defensive stance. Vhalan watched him hold the pose for all of ten seconds before abruptly swinging his chain up to an attacking speed. The young man found he had to use his staff to fend off two particularly venomous attempts on his arms, smacking them away as he backed up a few paces to get out of the chain's reach.
"I said attack!" Vhalan repeated, his voice nearly a snarl. "The danger may be a guard, may be a mercenary, may be anybody- you cannot stay your hand just because you recognize your assailant!"
The master slung his chain out twice more- first, just barely missing the trainee's feet, then threatening one of his arms- and the silvery arcs that ripped over and around his head as they briefly embraced his neck thoroughly distracted the young man into a weaker stance. Pouncing on the opportunity, Vhalan stepped far to his right side, dropped into a lunge and slung the chain up and around the Kennig's arm.
There was a momentary pause which everyone knew better than to believe was indicative of any lack of ideas on Vhalan's part.
Turning himself around twice so that his chain wrapped around the outside of his arms, the vampire picked up enough ground to connect with a spinning back kick that snapped his student's head to the side and put him on the ground immediately. The chain yanked taut as Kennig fell back, nearly taking his shoulder out of its socket. His staff, to his credit, never left his right hand; although the grip wasn't tight enough to resist a concentrated attempt at disarmament, Vhalan left it precisely where it was.
Suddenly, there was a rustle of branch and leaves, and the wings of a raven cut through the weight of the night as though they'd been blades. Shanna, who'd accompanied Vhalan nearly out of force of habit, looked up from her meditation position on the ground.
"I talked to Deadriver, like you said," Kennig panted when he could hear himself over the ringing in his ears, "did Shepherd Aric tell-"
"That is not the matter at hand," Vhalan replied, his eyes narrowing as they cut away from the boy on the ground and toward the darkness of the night beyond his faithful monitor. Predictably, she had moved to close the distance between herself and the two men. "At the moment, I am wondering why, once you'd neutralized my charge the first time, you did not continue the assault."
"Continue it how?" the young man argued, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees. "The staff is a defensive weapon, not an-"
"The next time Sakhma tells you that, ask her to tell you about the thorough trouncing Svaentok gave her- with her own staff, might I add," Vhalan replied flatly, even though his amusement at the memory of the referenced event printed itself clearly on his face. "Generations of stick fighters have not survived the brute idiocy of blade wielders, the quickness of archers, and the agility of exotic weapon handlers with a... 'defensive weapon'... the term itself is nearly oxymoronic."
"Ha?" Kennig managed, stranded somewhere between incredulity and frustration. "You nearly took my whole-"
"Your weapon has just as much reach as mine, and it is solid; use it to help you spring forward, and hit me, Ironfeather; I know you know how to do that," the chain master said with crossed arms and an arched eyebrow. The raven, as if to punctuate his point, gave a short, self-satisfied caw.
Silence.
"I didn't want to, you know. I didn't enjoy it or anything."
Vashte, who had found a high perch long ago, ruffled her feathers. Only the master could hear the sound, a fact that, for some reason, rested uneasily within him. When the raven actually turned her head to look down at Vhalan, he gave a quiet sigh of resignation.
"The enjoyment of such activities seems wholly mine," he replied. "Yet, I fault you not for your tenderness of heart, mortal; merely for that of your spine."
Above the pair, the raven shifted on the branch, her head swiveling toward the town's horizon. An unfamiliar scent made its way, on the sea breeze, to the chain master, who decided not to turn his own head toward its source right away. In the space his lack of response left, the young man lying before him gave a strange, weary laugh.
"Something more interesting, huh?"
Vhalan looked down at the young man with the barest flicker of emotion. Kennig, in turn, had to fight with himself not to become nervous at the fact that he could not tell which particular feeling had tugged at his tutor's heart. From the knobby branches of some one of the scruffy trees, the raven's high, sharp caw split the quiet as she lifted herself into flight again. Shanna scanned the area, but could find neither the bird nor the reason she had called out.
"Leave me."
The young man grunted as he got to his feet. "You'll tell me, right? When you think it's time?"
The master scoffed before he spoke, but when he did, there was nothing mocking in his tone. "I am nothing, Ironfeather, if not a man of my word. Shanna, take him and go."
With a simple nod, Shanna moved forward and helped the monastic initiate to move a bit faster. There was a short, low conversation that began between the two to which the master worked hard not to pay attention. The two of them had gone some distance toward the above ground graveyard before the chain master turned to face the coastline and sat down. He focused on the whispers of footsteps, sniffing at the air to try to get a read of the emotional state of what he couldn't help but consider a victim.
"Will they return?"
The voice was high and thin, but not fraught with fear. Vhalan closed his eyes. Whatever this slip of a girl was feeling manifested itself as a dry rotted wood smell.
"If they do," Vhalan said, his voice a half-chuckle, "they will get what they deserve."
There was one tentative foot step, then another.
"The only territory I hold sacred is a single chair," Vhalan offered, understanding the reticence with a part of himself that still seemed strange. "Made of the stair up into Saint Cuthbert's... place of worship."
There were two more steps forward, then another pause.
"There isn't a stair up into the temple of Saint Cuthbert," the high voice answered. The tone was meek- almost that of an apology, as though the one speaking were sorry to have to correct a misconception.
"Now there isn't, no. Because when I was too weak to go on banging on their door, the 'brothers' assumed that I'd died, and that they were safe. They picked up the entire stone and moved it back into the wilderness from where my sire came, too afraid to even bury me, which was only helpful in that I was found by someone who was more brother to me than they ever were. It was while he was sorrowfully digging a place for me that I awoke and- to my great shame- attacked him."
Five more steps brought the small girl right next to Vhalan, who opened his eyes and looked at her. Instantly, a paternal spirit, stronger than nearly every other urge by which he had, to that point, been moved, swept away all considerations of prey or victimhood. She, on the other hand, seemed to be nearly jolted back by the sight of his red-streaked brown eyes, even though her hazel eyes had gained some crimson strains of their own. After an indecisive moment, she carefully seated herself next to him, as though she might get in trouble for doing so at any moment.
"Did he die?" she asked after a short silence.
"No," Vhalan replied with a half-smirk, as he remembered the fight. "I was still very, very weak, even for a fledgling vampire, because my sire could not care for me as Lucien has cared for you. My brother, even at his age, was already a warlock worthy to be feared. Had I any sense at all, I would have fled him, but I didn't, and when he had me firmly in his power, he would not kill me. Instead, he called me by name until I recognized it, and him- when I did, I fled his presence at once."
The little girl, whose tightly braided auburn hair pulled at her pale scalp, bit her lips and dug her toes into the dirt. "Can I know your name?" she asked slowly.
Vhalan reached his left arm over and across himself to lift the girl's chin, feeling very reminded of Silveredge. "My name is Vhalan. Now, what do I call you?"
"Tirabet Caemeth... although... I guess just Tirabet, now," the little girl replied.
"That is your choice," Vhalan counseled. "You can keep that name, or choose another- perhaps Lucien's- or simply have none at all. You don't have to choose now... and you can also change your mind, whenever you feel like it."
"I don't feel anything," Tirabet complained instantly, an unmistakable jolt of frustration in her voice. "I know I'm me, but-"
"But that 'you' has changed, and will keep changing," Vhalan replied. "You must allow it to happen peacefully. I was mortal for quite some time before my change, and had a very difficult time getting used to my new nature- new choices, new abilities- everything was unfamiliar. Horrifying, even- at first, I couldn't... well. Letting go of my Humanity... cost me many years."
Tirabet sighed and looked down at the ground again. "I will feel something then, won't I? After a while?"
Vhalan remained quiet for a few moments, biting back on his natural cynicism. Finally, when he was sure that he could keep all trace of bitterness out of his tone, he replied with a simple "You won't just feel different. You will be different. Almost everything you know about yourself will change."
In the quiet that flowed between them, the raven- Vashte- left her branch to settle herself on Vhalan's left shoulder. Tirabet, startled, leaned forward to look over at her immediately.
"This is Vashte," Vhalan explained. "She is an emblem of the Raven Queen, the goddess to whom those mortals who were with me are dedicated."
Tirabet nodded, and sat back again, looking at her hands. The nails there, jagged and mottled with white spots, spoke to Vhalan of a child who had been accustomed to biting her fingernails, but recently discovered that it was a much more dangerous pass time now than it had been before.
"Did you have a pet once?" he asked gently, aware of her awkwardness.
Tirabet shook her head. "Only my pony. I just got her; I can't even ride. I bet Logan gets her, now."
"Ah," Vhalan replied, not sure how to tell the small girl that the horse would likely run from her in terror now. "Her name?"
Tirabet shrugged. "I dunno. I got in trouble the same day I got her, so I never even saw her, really."
The old rebel in Vhalan couldn't help but be amused. "Got in trouble for what?" he asked, having a feeling the exploit would be something minor, like stealing a cookie from the kitchen before dinner, tricking a nursemaid, or getting a stitch wrong on a sampler.
"For hitting Logan in the mouth, 'cause he was making fun of Jana and Circe, calling them names. I don't know why he didn't get in trouble for calling her names, but I knew he wasn't gonna! He never gets in trouble; only me! That's why I hate him! I wish he would die!"
Vhalan wouldn't have given much thought to the words themselves, but the sharp, acidic smell of actual rage got his attention.
"I bet he's not even in trouble now, 'cause my parents never wanted me anyway," Tirabet continued furiously, not minding Vhalan's silence at all. "I bet they don't even care I'm gone."
"They-" Vhalan began, then thought better of it. "Well, he deserved that. And your parents deserve worse, if they even did one thing that caused you think for a moment that they didn't want you."
"They never wanted me," Tirabet repeated, her voice beginning to tighten. "They hate me, and I hate them too, because they are stupid, and mean, and they don't make sense ever, and they let Logan do whatever he wants 'cause he's a boy, and he's big, and smart, and everything they want, and I hope their house falls in on them too, like the other one up the road did. I hope they scream and get burned to death, because I hate all of them. I hate them; hate."
Vhalan sat in quiet thought for a few moments, listening to the small child next to him pant out the remnants of her fury. The tang of rage had edged down into some strange, vinagary smelling emotion that he could not quite put a name to- it wasn't metallic enough to be sorrow, nor bitter enough to be angst, nor quite sour enough to be a desire for revenge.
"They'll die before you do," he at last noted flatly, unable to think of anything else to say. "All of them, even Logan- I suppose he's your brother?"
"Yes?" Tirabet answered, half-stunned by the flippancy in Vhalan's voice.
"Well, take comfort," the older vampire counseled seriously as he arose. Vashte, unperturbed, took flight and made long, looping circles overhead, waiting. "Logan is mortal, able to die quickly, and for little reason. You are beyond his type of frailty. You are beyond being denied your pony, and or your freedom... even beyond your parents's stupidity- and never, never, let anyone make you feel that being a boy is better than being a girl. That is perhaps one of the biggest lies any of us are ever told."
"Wait, where are you going?" Tirabet said as she jumped up, watching Vhalan's long strides away from her with a throb of surprise and fear.
"The docks," Vhalan replied without looking back. "I have been particularly interested in a rather hefty fisherman who seems to enjoy spying on the burial grounds from his rooftop- are you hungry?"
Tirabet let out a puff of breath that should have been a threat of tears. "I don't know," she whined finally, finding that she couldn't even muster a proper temper tantrum. "I don't feel anything, so I don't know anything; I don't know what to do."
Vhalan, who hadn't been hungry at all, stopped and turned his head over his shoulder so that the girl behind him could see the right side of his face. "You'll have to use your mind- your memory, right now- to make up for what you don't feel. That would be one of those changes I was telling you about earlier. It might be difficult at first, but I'm sure you can handle it. Now, tell me, what did you do last week?"
Tirabet stopped huffing and pouting at once to get about the business of remembering, which Vhalan folded his lips over his teeth to keep himself from smiling about.
"I went to temple, and I mixed incense powder, and I sorted the flower seeds, and I found worms under a rock, and I went to market with Nursie, and I dug in the garden, and I played with Jana and Circe, and we pushed the Soargyl's cow- we didn't push it over, but Mama had Nursie beat me as though we did- and I socked Logan in the mouth, and then that's it."
Vhalan hummed with genuine consideration. "Well, I'm not taking you anywhere near Mama or Logan, because I can't promise that I'd leave them in one piece, after hearing all of this about them. I don't know where Jana and Circe live-"
"In the Dark Quarter now; they moved, 'cause their papa had to," Tirabet supplied immediately.
"Ah, hence the name-calling- but at this hour, they're probably asleep. I can't take you to temple, either; I don't think I'd be welcomed." Vhalan tilted his head slightly and allowed his gaunt, wolfish features to draw into a nearly comical caricature of thought, and Tirabet giggled in spite of herself. "Hmmm... that leaves... you like gardening?"
"Yes," Tirabet said, quickly closing the distance between herself and the male vampire. "I like buttercups best, but everyone says they're weeds."
"I know of a lovely spot," Vhalan smirked, throwing off the obvious pretense just as quickly as he'd donned it. "Someone obviously prepared it for a nice-sized garden, but then abandoned it- would you like to see it?"
Tirabet nodded at Vhalan with a smile, and in response, Vhalan squatted down so that he could speak to her without forcing her to look up.
"There are such mortals in the Dark Quarter as are unafraid of our kind, as I'm sure Lucien has already told you. I wonder if...perhaps... we can convince some mortal to get us some seeds at market?"
"Yes!" Tirabet cheered. "Papa Lucien said you'd say that! He said so before I even left! He knows you really well."
Vhalan, encouraged, continued conspiratorially, "Did he tell you whether I would want to go on two legs or four?"
"Oooh, four, four!" came the enthusiastic reply. "He taught me how to do it, and I learned really fast! Lookit!"
Vhalan stood and watched the little girl run several feet behind him, then whirl around and begin running back toward him. When she was about a yard away, she began leaping into the air, and on the third leap, her form scrunched up, her ears changed, and her whole body produced tawny brown fur. Vhalan turned around and took off himself, changing gracefully into his dire white wolf form on his first leap, then slowed down just enough to allow the smaller wolf pup to catch up and smack into his side. He gave a sharp bark of feigned insult as he stepped sideways, but quickly gave the pup a playful push toward the Witchrun, and the Dark Quarter.
Overhead, Vashte cawed her approval before coming to rest on a severely damaged tree near the catacombs. And in Letherna, with a satisfied smirk, the obsidian-eyed Queen knotted the vibrant green satin sash together with the dark grey braided cord.
18 August 2016
A Virtuous Quest 3:60 En Passant.
To the Silent Port:
By the grace of Tel'Seldarine and the leave of our captain, the Jackal, I, Cutpox of the Princess Gildenglade, to here write you the minds of all our company. We collectively pray for you, and crave on your behalf the good fortune and blessings due you for your great gifts of foresight and patience. Aye, and vérité.
After this latest burden bearing, for which your contact in Ylraphron was quite glad, we won for your cause two tales of interest. First, it is as you had feared; Sembia is, under the tutelage of Netheril, not only granting full amnesty to such vessels as shall prevent the coming of goods to your shores, but further placing bounties on the goods-bearing vessels themselves, so that when they are brought whole to port, the captors receive some paltry sum to soothe the straining of their more destructive natures. Calaunt, because of the assortment of thieves that pretend to rule Scardale, has taken close note, and has of late acted more fiercely likewise, so that Ylraphron is quite nearly completely choked of her resources. Your case stands in better stead than hers, for there has not been yet found a purse whose jangle might drown out the howled name of Lord Hawke. Not wanting to seem in any way envious of that good lady's company, we elected it wise to stay ashore awhile, and so made diverse contacts before we pushed out to sea again.
In Tsurlagol, Ylraphron's trouble was common talk, and upon very gentle questioning on it, the other bit of news did burrow its way into our ears. These cunning Semmite serpents, having seen that no one wishes to step into the way of Hawke's wrath, split themselves in two, and do thus play shepherd and wolf at once. This tale did seem passing strange to us, yet it did not move us enough that we should elect to write to you about it, until our persons were, by its cause, personally moved. When we put out to sea, our leanings southerly, we caught sight of a cargo ship flying the colors of Procampur, seemingly escorted by a ship whose colors were accompanied by those of the Semmite state, yet then followed somewhat close by a ship without colors at all. We held our place at the first, but seeing that the vessel without colors did set sorely upon the two before it, we did close in with intent of preventing the boarding of Procampur's daughter. While we did expect some contest from the ship without colors, whose men we did take to be brigands of some sort, we by no means foresaw the sudden attack from the identifiable Semmite ship. Only when we had dearly bought the lives of Procampur's men with two of our own did we discover that both ships were Semmite, and that the cargo ship had been summarily taken captive- bound, much against the will of her crew, for Selgaunt. From papers and strong questioning did we glean this information, and once both were exhausted, we set the Semmites, together with a grave charge against any further congress with Procampur's vessel, on their own way.
We did not ourselves make any contact with that cargo ship, yet we could have done no further harm even if we had, for despite our caution, our name proceeded us to four other ports. We took warning quickly, and, our various wounds and wants being eased, moved quickly to the north to escape the dreadful interest of Lord Hawke. We would not return to her waters until her curiosity has been elsewhere turned, and thus must beg off your commission for a season. The Jackal, being learned in nearly all the area of the northeast, has advised us toward Nyth. The place is small, he assures us, and even if made wise of us, shall treat us no more harshly than any idiot beggar could expect, so long as we comport our several selves with even the modicum of common politeness a brute barbarian might be able to muster.
Tel'Seldarine, and all your various gods, whatever they might be, keep you in all health and graces. We crave your prayers from our continued advancement, which shall, in turn, advance yourselves; should any contact of yours come near Nyth, let them but bear some shadowy semblance of your name, and they shall bear also the favor of the Princess Gildenglade, even as diminished as it shall be in that strange land.
Aye, and vérité,
Cutpox of Princess Gildenglade
By the grace of Tel'Seldarine and the leave of our captain, the Jackal, I, Cutpox of the Princess Gildenglade, to here write you the minds of all our company. We collectively pray for you, and crave on your behalf the good fortune and blessings due you for your great gifts of foresight and patience. Aye, and vérité.
After this latest burden bearing, for which your contact in Ylraphron was quite glad, we won for your cause two tales of interest. First, it is as you had feared; Sembia is, under the tutelage of Netheril, not only granting full amnesty to such vessels as shall prevent the coming of goods to your shores, but further placing bounties on the goods-bearing vessels themselves, so that when they are brought whole to port, the captors receive some paltry sum to soothe the straining of their more destructive natures. Calaunt, because of the assortment of thieves that pretend to rule Scardale, has taken close note, and has of late acted more fiercely likewise, so that Ylraphron is quite nearly completely choked of her resources. Your case stands in better stead than hers, for there has not been yet found a purse whose jangle might drown out the howled name of Lord Hawke. Not wanting to seem in any way envious of that good lady's company, we elected it wise to stay ashore awhile, and so made diverse contacts before we pushed out to sea again.
In Tsurlagol, Ylraphron's trouble was common talk, and upon very gentle questioning on it, the other bit of news did burrow its way into our ears. These cunning Semmite serpents, having seen that no one wishes to step into the way of Hawke's wrath, split themselves in two, and do thus play shepherd and wolf at once. This tale did seem passing strange to us, yet it did not move us enough that we should elect to write to you about it, until our persons were, by its cause, personally moved. When we put out to sea, our leanings southerly, we caught sight of a cargo ship flying the colors of Procampur, seemingly escorted by a ship whose colors were accompanied by those of the Semmite state, yet then followed somewhat close by a ship without colors at all. We held our place at the first, but seeing that the vessel without colors did set sorely upon the two before it, we did close in with intent of preventing the boarding of Procampur's daughter. While we did expect some contest from the ship without colors, whose men we did take to be brigands of some sort, we by no means foresaw the sudden attack from the identifiable Semmite ship. Only when we had dearly bought the lives of Procampur's men with two of our own did we discover that both ships were Semmite, and that the cargo ship had been summarily taken captive- bound, much against the will of her crew, for Selgaunt. From papers and strong questioning did we glean this information, and once both were exhausted, we set the Semmites, together with a grave charge against any further congress with Procampur's vessel, on their own way.
We did not ourselves make any contact with that cargo ship, yet we could have done no further harm even if we had, for despite our caution, our name proceeded us to four other ports. We took warning quickly, and, our various wounds and wants being eased, moved quickly to the north to escape the dreadful interest of Lord Hawke. We would not return to her waters until her curiosity has been elsewhere turned, and thus must beg off your commission for a season. The Jackal, being learned in nearly all the area of the northeast, has advised us toward Nyth. The place is small, he assures us, and even if made wise of us, shall treat us no more harshly than any idiot beggar could expect, so long as we comport our several selves with even the modicum of common politeness a brute barbarian might be able to muster.
Tel'Seldarine, and all your various gods, whatever they might be, keep you in all health and graces. We crave your prayers from our continued advancement, which shall, in turn, advance yourselves; should any contact of yours come near Nyth, let them but bear some shadowy semblance of your name, and they shall bear also the favor of the Princess Gildenglade, even as diminished as it shall be in that strange land.
Aye, and vérité,
Cutpox of Princess Gildenglade
22 July 2016
3:59 The restoration school.
Early afternoon sunlight beamed hopefully into the Ranclyffe family shrine room, which was unique in that it was set slightly apart from the body of the rest of the house, enabling it to have both eastern and western facing windows. It grew warm easily, which was the main reason that its door never closed, but since one had to pass both the sitting room, the hearth room, and the kitchen to get to it, it was rarely entered by mistake. Twisted cord had been hand sewn to the rich red pillows, and although the colors had faded due to age, they were immaculately kept. On one of them, this day, lay an opened envelope with the wax seal of the College of War Wizards. Across from it, with glasses perched on top of his head, sat Terezio, who was massaging the bridge of his nose with the first finger and thumb of his right hand. His wife held the letter, a crisp missive that spanned two entire pages. The first page, already read, had been placed with the envelope, but the second had been turned over between the slender hands.
" '...without progress, nor any hope of progress, so that the subject himself resorted to trickery to rid himself of her, as though she were unwanted baggage or a children's trifle. I had not expected, neither had you warned me of, such sharp wit on his part, as might pierce our shared scheme; however, there is no better proof of the integrity of his mind than that its thoughts reached toward our own.
As I became curious as to what may have caused this unnatural stretching, I made some meager use of a former colleague, who is very fond of scrying work. Only such information as was needful to her was made available, for she is austere, I felt she would disapprove of the idea of our experimentation. Fortunately, she is not at all as perceptive concerning the intents of those near unto her as she is of those who are afar off. From her, I learned that your man has taken up with some other woman, or perhaps two, as well as some sort of charge for whom he feels personally responsible. I dismissed myself from her presence courteously, of course, but held within my spirit some distrust, for I read not in any of your correspondence concerning the specimen that he is the sort to leap back again into the bonds of responsibility, of which he had so recently and happily been bereft.
The messenger I sent to Westgate claimed that it took some time to find even someone who knew your control specimen, let alone someone who knew the character to whom that specimen referred. Yet, after the work of some days, found he was, and he was so greatly dissimilar to your control specimen that the messenger saw fit to make question of his target on his own. The conversation was long, I am told, but the tenor of it was mostly erased from his memory by strong drink, so that he knew it happened, and that he was greatly encouraged by the company of his companion, but could not say precisely why. The letter of response, when it was given me, was nothing more than my own letter sent me back, with the word 'Mulhorand' spelt out with Sylvan lettering upon the reverse side. As the messenger is just as much Wood Elf as the contact apparently was (that an Eladrin should be made pupil of a Wood Elf!), I cannot be sure which of the two of them decided to record at least that bit of their conversation.
At last, my friend, I must admit that I have gotten nowhere with the researching of the clan name that you have shared with me. It is as though it did not exist, and further, had never existed, from the foundations of Arkhosia until this day. Of course you know that such a severe departure from the flesh, blood, and scale reality that you have near you, to whom you may easily speak, can only be due to the great disgrace of the name you have given me, which would force a collective disowning of said name, due to the strictures of the highly honor-bound Arkhosian culture. If it is as you say, and the only surviving child of the patriarch is a useless drunkard, a common fixture in taverns and brothels, then it is quite likely indeed that he has been banned from the company of his own, and must take his comfort where ever he may find it.
I have, as you must by now have guessed, written this with my own hand; I crave of you, on Karri's behalf, prayers and offerings to any of the gods. She has been in such poor humor of late that I fear some imbalance beyond my ability to address.
Long may our king live.
Ever in your service, mightily girded with the honor due you and the crest,
Battlemage Erylanae Beausace of Marsember.'
And that's it."
"Thank the gods," Terezio scoffed. "And you, of course. My eyes-"
"The writing is quite small," Druce immediately commented, flipping the paper over to look over a part of the message that had caught her attention before. "It amazes me that she managed to write a four page missive with the same sizing all the way through, especially if she normally relies upon this Karri creature to pen her correspondence for her."
"Karri is but the pale shadow of what you are to me, my dear," Terezio noted. "Simply because I am not the one penning letters doesn't mean I don't pen anything, however much the College may wish that to be the case. Eladrin lettering is larger and more ornate than its Sylvan and Elven counterparts, but- well, frankly, I can't read any of it anymore- I'd be blind without you, mon coeur."
"Good to still be useful for something," Druce quipped, scooting closer to Terezio so that she could give him a peck on the bridge of his nose. "What do you think of this book she's written you?"
"Erylana has always been like that; even in classes, she'd hand in a page or two more of proof or substance, and then be proud of it- typical Elf." Terezio rested his right arm around his wife, and she, in turn, shifted back and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Ser Voyonov and Ser Unessmus did not have sufficient in common for my little scheme to work."
"Is that what Trizzi was trying to have you do? See how similar Ser Unessmus was to Ser Voyonov?"
"On the record, I was supposed to be testing for Voyonov's mental infirmity- to check whether or not he was in control of his own actions," Terezio shrugged. "Urmlaspyr law is still Sembian law, in places. If a murder has been committed under duress caused by insanity, possession, or magic compulsion, the criminals aren't simply executed, as they are here. Unless they are Semmites, they must either be permanently incarcerated with the Afflux bone rattlers, or released to a guardian who agrees, before a priest in a registered temple, to guarantee their good behavior for life. They're not faulted, and some are practically caudled for the rest of their lives- but they're never permitted to live alone again."
"A frightening loss of autonomy," Druce frowned. "It would be better to simply end the matter, I think."
"Most logical creatures would agree with you," Terezio huffed. "But Urmlaspyr is run by committee- and it's not the wisest cluster of living beings, as I hear it. At any rate, Ser Voyonov, was a complex subject- while he himself was of an upstanding, nearly gentle character, that soul burn-"
"What's a soul burn?" Druce interrupted immediately, putting the letter down completely and leaning her head on Terezio's shoulder.
Terezio reached his arm over and gingerly took Druce's right arm. "It feels like this does for you," he said quietly, brushing his thumb over the puffy, discolored skin where the stitches refused to heal. "Only it's branded on... an ephemeral surface. If one believes the Tri-part Human Composition theory, then it can either sear someone's mind, or spirit, forcing them to act contrary to their normal reasoning, or it be burned into their soul, thereby changing the tenor of their actual being. Aside from the Tieflings descended from the families responsible for making the original pacts, it's most commonly seen with warlocks; it's normally a function of their... ah, mon coeur; I'm boring you."
"You are not boring me; I'm tired," Druce corrected as she shifted herself in his arms. "And you have always been very comfortable- only more so, now that there's more padding to you."
Terezio smirked a bit, pulled his glasses all the way off, and laid them on the floor not too far away from himself. This done, he moved closer to Druce and pressed his cheek against hers.
"If you can stop listening to the matter long enough to remember that I'm comfortable, then I'm boring you," he soothed, kissing her left temple tenderly.
Druce simply made a noise of feigned offense, snuggling down closer to Terezio.
"I still wonder at why Master Ranclyffe pawned him off on me at all," Terezio scoffed. "As the court mage, she has every right to declare him infirm herself."
"If you ask me, she is every bit as sneaky as her mother used to be, and used you as a cover, to get Ser Voyonov out of the country until she could get that pack of lack-wits she's dealing with to do what she wanted. A very classy shill job, just as I said it was at the beginning."
Terezio smiled wistfully, with the hint of a chuckle. "Good to be useful, I suppose. Her reputation as a heartless utilitarian certainly remains intact in my mind, although I do wish I'd gotten more mileage out of that young Human- no offense to himself, of course."
"For goodness sakes, that's where Trizzi's 'heartless utilitarianism' comes from; right from you," Druce groaned. "You ask me, you ought to have just let the matter rest after he out right told you 'no' so many times."
"You can't prove mental instability, as I thought I was supposed to do, by just telling the presiding magistrates that you can't get the subject to admit to anything but being the equivalent of a bad parent." Terezio shrugged at Druce's face when she looked back at him. "That's exactly why he was so interested in our own familial ties, Maman. For him, both of those grown women are his daughters, given to him by vengeful gods that may never permit him to have children of his own, for whatever rank sin has gotten him into the state he's in." The old mage paused for a moment, then chuckled to himself again. "It's also very boring to be retired."
"They gave you a brace of classes and an apprentice," Druce reminded immediately, choosing to selectively ignore the rest of his answer.
"And I wonder why they did, to be honest," Terezio frowned. "I'd thought of releasing Eunice; I think it's rather obvious, given her multiple run-ins with whatever denizen of the Hells was so intent on getting a hold of her, that I'm not doing her any favors."
"You can't be serious," Druce exclaimed, incredulous. "Although it might be nice, and I've said so myself, for Eunice to have a strong female example, that doesn't mean that you ought to take your experience completely away from the poor girl. Now, I saw some effective, if not particularly gentle, teaching some days ago-"
"No Ranclyffe can be found guilty of being gentle," Terezio sighed. "But you have a point; Eunice herself told me about that...impromptu lesson she got. There's only one possible issue the College might have with Trizzi."
"No lack of experience or credentials," Druce shot instantly.
"Of course not," Terezio replied, gently tugging at Druce's waist until she turned back around and leaned on him again. "She'd have to have her citizenship reinstated."
I have, as you must by now have guessed, written this with my own hand; I crave of you, on Karri's behalf, prayers and offerings to any of the gods. She has been in such poor humor of late that I fear some imbalance beyond my ability to address.
Long may our king live.
Ever in your service, mightily girded with the honor due you and the crest,
Battlemage Erylanae Beausace of Marsember.'
And that's it."
"Thank the gods," Terezio scoffed. "And you, of course. My eyes-"
"The writing is quite small," Druce immediately commented, flipping the paper over to look over a part of the message that had caught her attention before. "It amazes me that she managed to write a four page missive with the same sizing all the way through, especially if she normally relies upon this Karri creature to pen her correspondence for her."
"Karri is but the pale shadow of what you are to me, my dear," Terezio noted. "Simply because I am not the one penning letters doesn't mean I don't pen anything, however much the College may wish that to be the case. Eladrin lettering is larger and more ornate than its Sylvan and Elven counterparts, but- well, frankly, I can't read any of it anymore- I'd be blind without you, mon coeur."
"Good to still be useful for something," Druce quipped, scooting closer to Terezio so that she could give him a peck on the bridge of his nose. "What do you think of this book she's written you?"
"Erylana has always been like that; even in classes, she'd hand in a page or two more of proof or substance, and then be proud of it- typical Elf." Terezio rested his right arm around his wife, and she, in turn, shifted back and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Ser Voyonov and Ser Unessmus did not have sufficient in common for my little scheme to work."
"Is that what Trizzi was trying to have you do? See how similar Ser Unessmus was to Ser Voyonov?"
"On the record, I was supposed to be testing for Voyonov's mental infirmity- to check whether or not he was in control of his own actions," Terezio shrugged. "Urmlaspyr law is still Sembian law, in places. If a murder has been committed under duress caused by insanity, possession, or magic compulsion, the criminals aren't simply executed, as they are here. Unless they are Semmites, they must either be permanently incarcerated with the Afflux bone rattlers, or released to a guardian who agrees, before a priest in a registered temple, to guarantee their good behavior for life. They're not faulted, and some are practically caudled for the rest of their lives- but they're never permitted to live alone again."
"A frightening loss of autonomy," Druce frowned. "It would be better to simply end the matter, I think."
"Most logical creatures would agree with you," Terezio huffed. "But Urmlaspyr is run by committee- and it's not the wisest cluster of living beings, as I hear it. At any rate, Ser Voyonov, was a complex subject- while he himself was of an upstanding, nearly gentle character, that soul burn-"
"What's a soul burn?" Druce interrupted immediately, putting the letter down completely and leaning her head on Terezio's shoulder.
Terezio reached his arm over and gingerly took Druce's right arm. "It feels like this does for you," he said quietly, brushing his thumb over the puffy, discolored skin where the stitches refused to heal. "Only it's branded on... an ephemeral surface. If one believes the Tri-part Human Composition theory, then it can either sear someone's mind, or spirit, forcing them to act contrary to their normal reasoning, or it be burned into their soul, thereby changing the tenor of their actual being. Aside from the Tieflings descended from the families responsible for making the original pacts, it's most commonly seen with warlocks; it's normally a function of their... ah, mon coeur; I'm boring you."
"You are not boring me; I'm tired," Druce corrected as she shifted herself in his arms. "And you have always been very comfortable- only more so, now that there's more padding to you."
Terezio smirked a bit, pulled his glasses all the way off, and laid them on the floor not too far away from himself. This done, he moved closer to Druce and pressed his cheek against hers.
"If you can stop listening to the matter long enough to remember that I'm comfortable, then I'm boring you," he soothed, kissing her left temple tenderly.
Druce simply made a noise of feigned offense, snuggling down closer to Terezio.
"I still wonder at why Master Ranclyffe pawned him off on me at all," Terezio scoffed. "As the court mage, she has every right to declare him infirm herself."
"If you ask me, she is every bit as sneaky as her mother used to be, and used you as a cover, to get Ser Voyonov out of the country until she could get that pack of lack-wits she's dealing with to do what she wanted. A very classy shill job, just as I said it was at the beginning."
Terezio smiled wistfully, with the hint of a chuckle. "Good to be useful, I suppose. Her reputation as a heartless utilitarian certainly remains intact in my mind, although I do wish I'd gotten more mileage out of that young Human- no offense to himself, of course."
"For goodness sakes, that's where Trizzi's 'heartless utilitarianism' comes from; right from you," Druce groaned. "You ask me, you ought to have just let the matter rest after he out right told you 'no' so many times."
"You can't prove mental instability, as I thought I was supposed to do, by just telling the presiding magistrates that you can't get the subject to admit to anything but being the equivalent of a bad parent." Terezio shrugged at Druce's face when she looked back at him. "That's exactly why he was so interested in our own familial ties, Maman. For him, both of those grown women are his daughters, given to him by vengeful gods that may never permit him to have children of his own, for whatever rank sin has gotten him into the state he's in." The old mage paused for a moment, then chuckled to himself again. "It's also very boring to be retired."
"They gave you a brace of classes and an apprentice," Druce reminded immediately, choosing to selectively ignore the rest of his answer.
"And I wonder why they did, to be honest," Terezio frowned. "I'd thought of releasing Eunice; I think it's rather obvious, given her multiple run-ins with whatever denizen of the Hells was so intent on getting a hold of her, that I'm not doing her any favors."
"You can't be serious," Druce exclaimed, incredulous. "Although it might be nice, and I've said so myself, for Eunice to have a strong female example, that doesn't mean that you ought to take your experience completely away from the poor girl. Now, I saw some effective, if not particularly gentle, teaching some days ago-"
"No Ranclyffe can be found guilty of being gentle," Terezio sighed. "But you have a point; Eunice herself told me about that...impromptu lesson she got. There's only one possible issue the College might have with Trizzi."
"No lack of experience or credentials," Druce shot instantly.
"Of course not," Terezio replied, gently tugging at Druce's waist until she turned back around and leaned on him again. "She'd have to have her citizenship reinstated."
05 July 2016
3:58: The agnostic dedicant.
In the silent darkness of the very early morning, the roofs
and walls of the dark wood shacks made inky outlines against the velvet sky.
Various pens, rough wood-and-metal enclosures that, in any other culture,
might have held animals, were empty. The shacks and pens surrounded a
circular courtyard, with adult-sized trenches dug three inches into the ground
all the way around the perimeter that all smelled faintly of blood and acrid
leather. Ice, so thick that it nearly seemed to have a color of its own,
embraced every flat surface upon which it could lavish itself, and a heavy mist
hovered over the ground.
Jyklihaimra opened her eyes, and found herself kneeling in the center of the courtyard. Her arms and legs were covered with marks that were as radiantly cobalt blue as if she had just received them, but only her right wrist hurt. Her thought process, slow to awaken and realize itself, was interrupted by the shadow of a large winged animal that cawed as it passed over her. She looked up, and realized that her hair was shorter than she'd become accustomed to wearing it- lopped off at the nape of her neck.
She found she had to stare at the ice.
It was strangely familiar.
Tell me where you are.
The whisper, hardly audible, was nearly blotted out by the cawing of the animal flying above. Inexplicably drawn to the creature, even though she knew there was no way of touching it, Jyklihaimra reached out an arm to welcome it toward her-
Spíci oighear.
-and discovered that there was a solid spike of ice through
her right forearm, just above her wrist. It ached miserably, and was
nearly as blue as her bruises. With her gaze pinned to it, fascinated,
she lowered her arm.
Tell me where you are.
The throbbing pain in Jyklihaimra's wrist began climbing up her arm. As it did, her hand and wrist began tingling, then went completely numb, as though they had frozen. The shadow of the bird crossed over her again, crying defiantly as it went. She didn't look at it; didn't have to. The knowledge of exactly who it was and exactly why it was there imprinted itself on her sleeping consciousness as surely as if it had been truly branded in her skin.
Nach raibh maith agat.
As she denied the command, a wave of tingling, then of numbness, climbed rapidly up her arm and stretched itself into her chest. Around her, the ice on the roofs and the pens visibly thickened, taking on a steely grey cast that couldn't be explained by the streaks of rosy dawn in the sky. The mist thickened and rested, as frost, on the ground.
TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE.
The voice, sharply gaining a shockwave of power, jarred Silveredge's sight and brought stinging tears to her eyes. A tremor of discomfort went through her bruises. The ice around her hissed and squealed as deep cracks pushed their way through. The ice in her arm, however, glowing a blue that was more radiant than her fresh blood could be, suddenly seemed to grow an inch in every direction, causing spectacular pain as it did. In spite of all her tolerance training, she gasped in response, and was surprised when she felt as though the air she'd taken in had both filled her lungs and rushed over her body-
"Ah, Shadow Child," Aleksei soothed in a rolling tone that left no doubt about whether he'd gotten his frenzywater that morning or not. "Dobro pozhalovat'."
And Silveredge, glad to be looking at the scarred, half-blind Dragonborn instead of the strange sky, the vicious pens, and the grey ice of her dream-vision, simply smiled, having no idea what had just been said to her. Discovering that neither her voice nor most of her body would stir, she focused only on her breath as it passed slowly in and out of her. Her heart was pounding, and both the back of her neck and her right arm ached miserably.
Aleksei waited, looking from the Shadar-kai in his arms to the Tiefling who lay in the make-shift bed just off to his right. Behind him, Susanna hadn't yet decided to move from the doorway.
"Is she alright, then?" the Human woman ventured quietly, when what was peaceful silence for everyone except for her became too concerning to endure.
Aleksei turned his seeing eye over his shoulder, surprised that the mother-to-be was still on her feet. A moment later, he shifted himself and sat all the way down on the ground instead of simply crouching.
"I do not know this," he admitted. "Please to ask Shadow Child herself."
"Yes," Silveredge managed, the word coming more as a simple exhalation than even a whisper. The ache at the back of her neck pounded with breath-taking ferocity.
"That doesn't sound alright," Susanna countered, "You've missed breakfast, Silveredge; I'll go down and get you some broth."
"My lady is kind," Silveredge said gratefully. "The handmaiden hopes you will forgive her for not addressing you with proper posture."
Aleksei watched Susanna give a scoff that just barely pretended to be a chuckle. "Don't worry about that," she replied as she slowly stepped back from the doorway and turned to make her way down the hall toward the kitchen. "Considering how you looked a few moments ago, I'm grateful you're able to even speak to me; I'll be right back."
"Mishka is also much wanting to know if you are
alright, before she is sleeping," Aleksei noted when he could no longer
hear the gentle brushing of hand-made moccasin on the well-cared for wooden
floor boards. Balancing Silveredge carefully, he moved to a kneeling
position first, then slowly stood up. "I am thinking it is the weakness of her body, not
her own desire, that is making her sleep; it does not much seem as though she is truly resting."
When Silveredge turned her head, she could certainly understand why Aleksei would be of that opinion. Wide welts were brutally apparent despite all attempts at magic healing. Silveredge noted with some concern that the Tiefling was noticeably more slender than she'd last seen her, and that the skin surrounding her eyes had sunken slightly and grown darker.
"I am late for learning my letters," Aleksei
soothed knowingly. "I will put you near to her heart, and if
something is seeming strange to you, please to call out. I am not so far
that I will not hear you."
Silveredge nodded silently, not taking her eyes from
Mi'ishaen. Aleksei walked the few steps between them and the make shift
bed, then knelt down to lay Silveredge next to Mi'ishaen. The Shadar-kai
turned and reached out her hand to offer a sort of silent thanks, which Aleksei
allowed to fall on his scaly snout, as though he were a pet instead of a
companion. He smiled at her blush, knowing she'd instantly become self-conscious about her choice to touch him at all, then rose and turned away, closing the richly
hand-detailed curtain behind him.
Silveredge, while recovering from the mild embarrassment, took that moment to actually look at the curtain. Two green satin panes had been joined with lace dyed a slightly tanned hue, and the entire curtain had been framed with radiant gold fringe, such as much have been very expensive to come by. The Shadar-kai looked over at the Tiefling, and rested her light blue hand on top of the red one.
"I don't know why everyone is making such a fuss," Mi'ishaen managed, smirking without opening her eyes. "Bahlzair caught nothing but my blocks half the time, and when he did hit, the blow wouldn't have much force. I think he's doing as badly as I am, and I'm not surprised; all the food in there was rancid. Worse than Urmlaspyr."
Tears of relieved joy at once stung Silveredge's eyes, surprising and embarrassing her at once. She was glad Mi'ishaen hadn't looked at her yet. In the quiet that came with the absence of her answer, the Tiefling shifted on the palette.
"Where's dog?" she asked, turning her hand over and pressing Silveredge's hand in her own.
"At the Sunfire Manse, with a little girl named Amadelle," Silveredge explained, finding that her voice still came quietly and hoarse. "She's very recently lost her little brother, and so Niku is keeping her company until she finds another."
"More like he's keeping the other animals in that den from snapping her hand off while she tries to pet them, probably," the Tiefling scoffed. Although she couldn't her voice couldn't sound bitter as the comment obviously warranted, Silveredge was relieved to at last be missing the strange rattling in Mi'ishaen's lungs that had not left her since the glyph trap they'd sprung on the way from Urmlaspyr.
"The dogs there are not particularly used to being little brothers and sisters, but they are very aggressive, determined warriors," Silveredge noted. "It seems I should be grateful that Niku can be both at once."
"He tries," Mi'ishaen puffed, again trying to laugh. "He could use some more practice at being a warrior."
And Silveredge chuckled herself. "It seems he only wants to be fierce occasionally; perhaps it takes too much work. A few days ago, he brought me a shard of thin cotton that looked as though he had fiercely struggled with whomever it belonged to before him. I opened it, and my katars, my needles, and my chain were all wrapped tightly inside."
"Must've been heavy," the Tiefling replied with a slight smirk.
"And Aleksei's frenzywater appeared at the bottom of one of the shop barrels, he said, half buried in sand, like one would find in an hour glass. Same day. No one was sure where it came from. And a guard came by to ask us about them, since they were recorded as confiscated, but never as returned, as they should have been when we were both released."
Mi'ishaen moved her head very slightly- what would have been a nod, had she not been lying down. Silveredge chuckled softly, deciding not to put any more words to what was, for Mi'ishaen, an admission by omission. The Shadar-kai first delicately pulled stray strands of dark hair out of the Tiefling's face, then scooted toward her in order to lay down with her.
"It's even longer now. I can probably braid it all the way around your head. Tightly, so that no one can grab-"
A light knock came from the side lintel outside the curtain, and Susanna poked through, carefully managing a small tray with a bowl of broth and half of a small loaf of bread, after a few seconds of silence. She reddened slightly in the cheeks when she saw Silveredge's closeness to Mi'ishaen. Mi'ishaen, as if sensing an incoming conflict, opened her eyes at last. Although her body couldn't possibly have complied with the threat in her eyes, Susanna felt the force of the glare nearly push her back out of the room, all the same.
"Thank you," Silveredge cooed gratefully, patting Mi'ishaen's hand just once before sitting up and lifting her arms to reach for the tray. "The handmaiden hopes you will forgive her for not rising to receive your gift."
"No need; no need," Susanna smiled as she brought the tray closer, still strangely embarrassed. "I'm glad to see you better."
"Blessings of your gods be with you," Silveredge nodded, carefully taking the tray with a small bow.
"And those of yours be with you," Susanna replied as she backed away. Finding that Mi'ishaen wasn't intending to say anything at all, the mother gave another brief, tight smile, and moved back through the curtain.
Mi'ishaen closed her eyes again almost immediately, and so was surprised to feel the edge of the wooden spoon, dry, but warm because of sitting so closely to the earthen bowl, pressed lightly to her lips.
"If it had a bit more rice," Silveredge said in a strangely apologetic tone when Mi'ishaen had opened her eyes again, "I wouldn't have bothered with the spoon."
Mi'ishaen blinked at Silveredge for a few moments as though she couldn't see her clearly, then spent a few uncomfortable moments getting herself to sit up.
"Does your goddess like the cold?"
Silveredge raised an eyebrow, as she wasn't expecting to talk about spiritual matters with a bowl of soup between them. "Yes," she replied. "She was given dominion over the winter."
"Have you ever seen her?" Mi'ishaen asked more urgently, putting a hand against Silveredge's forearm so that she would put the spoon down entirely. "In paintings, or literature, or something? Do you know what she looks like?"
"What she looks like?" Silveredge echoed, now completely surprised. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I-" The Tiefling stopped and sighed. "Tell me if this sounds familiar. Tall, thin, pale skin, dark eyes and hair, I'm talking completely black..."
"Were there... chains?" Silveredge asked, feeling
quite awkward for not being able to find any way to put the question any more
delicately.
"Yes," Mi'ishaen replied, managing a weak, but encouraging nod. "Everywhere, all over her. Longer than you would normally make any piece of jewelry, even a belly chain. I couldn't see where any of them ended or started... winding around her, thin as spider webs... she picked one of them off herself to show it to me-"
What do you think of this one, heart of my beloved's heart?
And for the first time since Urmlaspyr, Silveredge heard the rattle of distant chains without seeing a single one. She turned her head very slightly and hummed, but didn't want to do anything else, concerned that she may give away the suddenly familiar, yet strange sensation.
"-and there were these empty links where charms should have gone. She asked me whether she should put gold in them, or rubies," Mi'ishaen continued, looking past Silveredge as the memory of the vision became more and more vivid to her. "I told her the rubies would be better, because... because..."
"...they'd make the piece beautiful; much more striking to behold," Silveredge suddenly supplied, putting the soup tray aside and reaching out to gather Mi'ishaen closer to herself in encouragement. "I would have done the same- especially if the gold were pale instead of bright or rosy. I wish I could have seen it; it sounds very lovely."
And for a few moments, Mi'ishaen could do nothing but look at Silveredge.
"And yes, that does sound familiar," the Shadar-kai added with a quiet smile.
"Okay," Mi'ishaen relented, relaxing her body slightly. "Okay, at least I'm not completely crazy. I felt crazy. Well...no. Not that time. That time, I was just..."
The ache of not only seeing her brother, but getting to play and speak with him, throbbed strongly enough in her chest to make her eyes sting. Silveredge pressed Mi'ishaen as closely as she could with still-weary arms.
"You were?" she prompted gently.
"Angry, is what," Mi'ishaen burst sharply, unable to keep the words from sounding harsher than she wanted. "To have him right there... I thought I'd let him go."
Silveredge turned her face inward slightly, enough to be able to press her lips to Mi'ishaen's neck.
"I understand," she whispered, not needing to guess at the subject of conversation. "I think one day, you will."
"It's not like it was yesterday," came the frustrated retort. "He's been gone for years."
From the sound of Mi'ishaen's voice, she'd come close to tears. Silveredge felt her own eyes well up with empathy.
"I don't think anyone's heart is ruled by the almanac," she soothed, trying not to let her voice tremble.
"I'm not doing it on purpose; everything just keeps... I don't know, bringing him up, for some reason," Mi'ishaen breathed, laying her head on Silveredge's shoulder. "What am I doing that everybody's bringing him up?"
"Did she... bring him with her?" Silveredge asked carefully, moving a bit more so that her head could lean on Mi'ishaen's.
There was a daring silence during which Mi'ishaen's body shivered a little, but absolutely no sounds were made. Silveredge felt her shoulder get slightly damp, then absolutely wet, and she bit the backs of her lips, trying not to make any sound of her own.
"He was there first," Mi'ishaen puffed. "I wanted to stay, Edge, I wanted to stay with him so bad, I could have screamed, but he said I couldn't. He said I had to go-"
"Then I'm grateful to him," Silveredge urged, pressing her eyes shut tightly as she tightened her hug as much as she could. After a few silent moments, she sat back just slightly to look at Mi'ishaen, who had closed her own eyes.
Something worthy of my beloved...
The Tiefling bit the back of her lower lip as tender blue fingers brushed at her cheeks, and lifted a hand to touch the one caressing her face.
"Tell me the thing you were going to tell me before," she said, her voice still wobbly with the weight of her brother's loss.
Silveredge smiled and leaned forward so that their foreheads touched. "Bidh gaol agam ord fad mo bheatha, thusa's gun duine eile."
Mi'ishaen made a few puffing noises that were supposed to indicate amusement,
but that couldn't do so as yet. "Did you expect me to get something out
of that, Edge?"
"I will love you only, for all my life," the Shadar kai translated.
"Oh," the Tiefling said in response, the sound thudding to the floor like a stone. She felt as though someone had just punched her straight in the breastbone.
"It's written somewhere- from an old love story that my mother cherished. She said that always to her good friend- whispering it in the hallways, speaking it as a secret in the kitchen- I realize now that I didn't really know what she meant by it, especially since her good friend only spoke Common and Undercommon. But when I thought that they... that I might not get a chance to..."
"I told you, I get out of things," Mi'ishaen soothed, with the benefit of about half her voice, when Silveredge's words had died away into silence. "Don't ever worry about me."
"The handmaiden hopes you will forgive her when she tells you she cannot do as you have asked," Silveredge replied, a wistful look crossing her face. "It is yet another way in which you are stronger than I."
But Mi'ishaen remembered the anxious days, the nearly sleepless nights, and the vicious attacks that Cloud and Cypher had suffered before Greyscale managed to put her into a very necessary choke hold.
"I'm different," she admitted after a few moments. "But I wasn't any stronger about... what you had to do... than you were about what I... just trust me. I was pretty damned worried too."
Silveredge looked more surprised at that than Mi'ishaen
thought she should have. "The handmaiden is sorry to have made you
worry," she said genuinely, seeming as though she feared the Tiefling's
impending wrath.
"Nobody makes anybody do anything," Mi'ishaen stated flatly. Silveredge leaned back just slightly to look at her face, whose strange cross between sorrow and relief utterly belied the tone in her voice. "Things happen, people say things, people do things, and everybody chooses how they will feel about it."
"Then the handmaiden thanks you for choosing to return," the Shadar-kai smiled. "The Queen guides our fates, but she does not set them. We do that ourselves."
Mi'ishaen hummed in something that approximated understanding. "I can appreciate that, if it's true. Tell me again. What your mother said?"
"Bidh gaol agam ort fad mo bheatha," Silveredge repeated, snuggling close to the Tiefling again. "I love you only, Mi. Only you."
"Okay." Mi'ishaen reached her hand out and wrapped it in Silveredge's
hair. "Entonces, eres la única a quien amo; la única que
yo quiero. Only you."
20 April 2016
3:57 The fallen officer.
Garimond looked out at the wrestling test that was happening out in the courtyard, below and before the porch upon which he and an apprentice of the Royal Magician sat.
"There is a wickedness here at work," the oversword lamented as his knuckles whitened on the iron bar that circled his porch, "that has made thieves, kidnappers, and liars of enlisted men."
"I would not call 'wickedness' what seems to have merely been a lapse in judgement," the apprentice replied, shaking her hooded head and crossing her arms over her ample chest. "Due, perhaps, to the ferocity of the fight immediately prior-"
"The ferocity of the fight should have sparked greater concern, granted its possible repercussions," Garimond cut in, frowning. "If I were to bring battle to southern Sembia, I would immediately check any wounded officer for shakes and blinding sickness, since those infirmities are not only native to the land, but are known to be somehow extracted, distilled, and used for poison-like attacks by some of the less scrupulous mercenaries there-"
"I don't know that all the commanding officers in your-"
"Any officer- further, any Cormyrean of any stripe- has every right to expect that a possibility of infection is treated as the danger that it is, with a temporary quarantine, exhaustive testing, and due notification- why was there no word about the original testing?"
"I don't know that all the commanding officers in your-"
"Any officer- further, any Cormyrean of any stripe- has every right to expect that a possibility of infection is treated as the danger that it is, with a temporary quarantine, exhaustive testing, and due notification- why was there no word about the original testing?"
"Because there was no original testing," the apprentice charged, just barely keeping herself from hitting the arms of her chair. She spent a few moments waving that energy out of her forearms before resting them down again. "It simply didn't happen."
"Every single officer that I questioned replied that they were taken into the mage's tent and given an examination," the silver haired officer countered, turning a glare over his shoulder at the bristling apprentice. "You're telling me six commissioned officers, and two that were either released or retired, are all lying at once?"
The apprentice gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "You also have officers telling you that they 'lost' holy items that you miraculously found in a confiscation chest. What should I tell you?"
"I want you to tell me, honestly, why precisely I didn't hear about the results of an examination that you most certainly did have," Garimond rumbled, his eyes narrowing. "Or should I get a diviner up here to babysit you?"
"I need no diviner to weigh my words," the apprentice scoffed in a lofty tone, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. "I, unlike any of those officers, have the strength of documentation to back my words; if you'd like to go through the records and see whether or not you can find paperwork that doesn't exist for an examination that did not happen, you are by all means welcome to do so."
"Every single officer that I questioned replied that they were taken into the mage's tent and given an examination," the silver haired officer countered, turning a glare over his shoulder at the bristling apprentice. "You're telling me six commissioned officers, and two that were either released or retired, are all lying at once?"
The apprentice gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "You also have officers telling you that they 'lost' holy items that you miraculously found in a confiscation chest. What should I tell you?"
"I want you to tell me, honestly, why precisely I didn't hear about the results of an examination that you most certainly did have," Garimond rumbled, his eyes narrowing. "Or should I get a diviner up here to babysit you?"
"I need no diviner to weigh my words," the apprentice scoffed in a lofty tone, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. "I, unlike any of those officers, have the strength of documentation to back my words; if you'd like to go through the records and see whether or not you can find paperwork that doesn't exist for an examination that did not happen, you are by all means welcome to do so."
Garimond turned all the way around and straightened his back as though a hot iron rod had been jammed into his spine. "Then I should counsel Officer Thom's family to sue the entirety of the War Wizards, because Officer Thom was never actually tested at all?"
"Perhaps they should sue the commanding officer who never ordered the testing, or better yet, the entirety of the Purple Dragons," the apprentice cut in with an edge of frustration in her voice. "If you're so certain the fault is on our side, have you considered alerting the Alarphons?"
"Oh, yes of course, the Alarphons," Garimond spat, unable to keep his annoyance out of his own tone. "Pack of shameless witches- restricting powers that they still use themselves, taking so long to process the results of a wildly dangerous magic wielder that said prisoner had time not only to escape his cell, but to cook and eat his guard, cherishing nothing better than the thought of never having to answer to another brute weapon-toter again- these are the people to whom I must turn to ask which thoughtless, useless war mage ran the apparently imaginary examination that completely ignored whatever signs could have warned anyone of the possibly life-long curse of lycanthropy afflicting a previously devoted and loyal defender of Cormyr? I might better wait for nightfall to go and make offerings to the swamp hags."
And in the face of the oversword's frustrated tirade, the apprentice remained defiantly silent. It didn't take a diviner to realize that she had absolutely no desire to budge from her position. As far as she was concerned, the piece of evidence that could have been considered missing simply didn't exist, and had never at all existed.
Garimond tore his eyes away from the stony glare of the apprentice to look back at the thorough trouncing of the active officer by the man being tested. The silence that lay between the armored guard and the robed apprentice was pushed upon by the grunts below, the distant sounds of birds and the market, and the general bustle of servants just behind the closed doors of Garimond's office, but did not break until the apprentice chose to break it.
"I do understand your hesitancy," she said, struggling valiantly to keep tightness out of her voice. Her eyes had gone to the stone floor of the balcony, as if the sight of it would cool her temper. "But the Alarphons would be your best hope. I do not have any record at all of any testing that looks remotely like anything those men described."
The oversword turned around again, moved to the iron-wrought chair that sat across from the apprentice's, and sat down.
"You know more of the laws of magic than even I can hope to- is there, then, a legal way to weigh the intentions of the dead?" he began carefully, never taking his eyes from her now downcast face.
The apprentice's eyebrows raised, but no other part of her even moved.
"I of course recognize the name on the kill order," Garimond explained, his voice low and grave. "But its owner is conveniently dead, and cannot defend himself in court. He had an otherwise spotless record, so such a marked departure from precedent is... suspicious, to say the least."
Another silence fell between the mage and the officer, this one thicker and more alien than the last. It seemed as though the middle aged woman did not want to believe the man before her, who, in response to her confusion, simply stared his pure intention into her eyes.
A will like that should manifest in potential magic energy of some kind, the apprentice thought distractedly, folding her hands to keep herself from picking at imaginary spots in her robe. Splotches of white appeared between her knuckles.
Another silence fell between the mage and the officer, this one thicker and more alien than the last. It seemed as though the middle aged woman did not want to believe the man before her, who, in response to her confusion, simply stared his pure intention into her eyes.
A will like that should manifest in potential magic energy of some kind, the apprentice thought distractedly, folding her hands to keep herself from picking at imaginary spots in her robe. Splotches of white appeared between her knuckles.
"You... need a specialist," she answered. In the pause that followed, she began staring at the whiteness between her knuckles as though she wasn't sure how to fix what was causing it. "Either a highly talented arcane worker, a rather fearless divine practitioner, or... or a speaker." The middle aged woman shivered in spite of herself, as though a chill wind had just passed by her. Garimond couldn't imagine a casual breeze that would reach her bones through the natural weight of her body, let alone the thickness of her robes, but waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he gently, but clearly prompted her.
"And precisely what is a speaker?"
The apprentice shivered again, and frowned before she spoke. "A mage who is given to communicating with the dead. Not just getting their corpses to talk, which any common bone rattler can do- truly listening to and talking with their actual departed selves, no matter on what plane they may exist. Very difficult to locate and study- I don't know for sure that there is one in the whole country. Or if there is one, that it would be a person fit to speak to."
A thoughtful hum arose from the oversword.
"Bone rattlers are few enough," the apprentice continued carefully after a few moments. The whiteness between her knuckles had spread up to her wrists, but the very tips of her fingers had turned a furious red. "Cultists, most of them, huddled together so securely that finding them feels like finding black worms under a rock after a heavy rain. But when I do find one that isn't dangerous, or insane, I'll send him or her to you-"
"Thank you." Garimond watched the apprentice continue to press her fingers together, as though she were holding something between them that she couldn't dare to allow to escape. "You understand, of course, that we are in the pursuit of justice, on behalf of the family of-"
"The former officer down there?" the apprentice huffed, pursing her lips. "Yes, I do understand that. As for him, I'm handling the matter myself; I studied various strains of lycanthropy while still going through my basic initiate's training in Hermit's Wood, so I requested the authority to take over the case. It's my hypothesis that he is under a polymorphic spell- a powerful one- and none of those are ever made to last this long. There's always severe damage to the subject's mind, when they do."
"I'm less concerned about the 'how' of it than about the 'why' of it," Garimond sighed. "It reeks of set up, but precisely who would benefit from making a beast out of a man is a bit less than clear."
The apprentice bit the backs of her lips for a few moments, thinking. "I'm not an Alarphon, so don't take this as testimony."
"I won't call you down to the Pillars over it," the oversword replied simply.
"There is a record that indicates that an 'expel and expunge' order was served just nine months after this incident, due to 'flagrantly inappropriate conduct.' It's highly unusual; I only know of a handful of others to whom it's happened in the entire history of the war wizards. Now, I have no idea whether the two issues are connected, and they very well may not be, but I find it...suspicious, as you've said, that a war wizard would be not only cut off from the college, but utterly blotted from their records, less than a year after a magic-related kill order was issued."
Garimond tilted his head just slightly to the right with a thoughtful frown. "Am I right in thinking that an 'expel and expunge' would include the complete erasure of all acts the wizard had performed during their time in the college?"
"That's not supposed to happen, no," the apprentice replied. "If it did, we'd have no way of proving why... oh." The apprentice suddenly picked up her arms, folded them in front of her, and put a hand in front of her mouth, as if to stop herself from speaking any more.
"No Pillars," Garimond reminded with a raised hand. "I won't even say that you mentioned it. Unless the Alarphons weigh my words-"
"Count on that," the apprentice interrupted, shaking her head quickly. "They haven't trusted a single soul since 1365."
"Count on that," the apprentice interrupted, shaking her head quickly. "They haven't trusted a single soul since 1365."
Down in the courtyard below, the proctor of the contest filled out a lengthy assessment form as Howler watched.
"I didn't throw the man that far," the dogmaster objected, the muscles of his crossed arms rippling momentarily as he shifted his grip.
"Yes, you did," the proctor replied without even looking up.
"No, I-"
"There are markers on the ground, and the man's back hit dirt outside of the fifth," the proctor answered, lifting his tone a bit to cover Howler's protest. "They gave me this job for a reason; you'll get out of here faster if you just let me do it."
"No, I-"
"There are markers on the ground, and the man's back hit dirt outside of the fifth," the proctor answered, lifting his tone a bit to cover Howler's protest. "They gave me this job for a reason; you'll get out of here faster if you just let me do it."
"On a good day, I can put a woman to that distance," Howler argued, his jaw tightening. "And she'd have to be slight of build, at that. That man was heavy, and the pass was quick. You didn't see it properly; I was there doing it."
"You want to go over there and look at the scuff mark where his belt hit the ground? Because whatever else I mayn't have seen, by means of not being the one doing the fighting, I certainly saw that. By the time you decided to chuck him like a potato sack, you'd gotten truly angry," the proctor replied in a flat tone. "Even young children know, thanks to bedtime stories, that werewolves get stronger when they're angry."
And Howler, who hadn't yet become accustomed to everyone knowing what he was, couldn't manage to answer.
"Like I said, I have the job for a reason," the proctor mused, adding a few numbers on the side of the page. "What season and city were you born in?"
"Midwinter. Couple days after a Thunder Call, that year. And Dhedluk isn't a city by anybody's measure."
The proctor gave a short, unimpressed grunt that could have either been agreement or dissent. "Last time you checked in for an examination?"
Howler made a very small noise of surprise, and had to actually think before he spoke. "Four years ago, and a bit."
"Date of termination?"
"I wasn't terminated."
The proctor sighed and looked up. "If you were still enlisted, you would have had to have a physical proving fresher than four years old."
Howler nodded slowly, sucking in his cheeks. "There was a death order, and I assume I was considered dead as of that date. You want that?"
"If that's the case, the line-of-duty records will probably be more specific than your word," the proctor shrugged.
"Then look for Thom, Garett," Howler stated with another short, sharp nod. "I'm off."
"You weren't dismissed," came the retort, already three paces too late to be given to its recipient's face.
"I'm not yours to command," the dogmaster snarled, still moving to leave the courtyard as he spoke.
"If you weren't terminated-"
Howler whirled around as though he were a spun top. "I was ordered DEAD, you idiot, and though I met no blade's edge that day, I died as surely as if I had. I just went to the Pillars, yeah? I had to be told who my mother was; someone pointed her out to me there. She fell down and screamed like I was killing her. I was her youngest son, her baby, her favorite, she cried, how could I not know who she was? But I didn't, because I'm not her son. And I'm not your officer. I have to make petition for citizenship, like I wasn't born here, because I have lost everything that I used to be. You got room for that? On your form?"
And both Garimond and the proctor watched wordlessly, from their places, as Howler turned back around and stormed completely out of the courtyard.
"Midwinter. Couple days after a Thunder Call, that year. And Dhedluk isn't a city by anybody's measure."
The proctor gave a short, unimpressed grunt that could have either been agreement or dissent. "Last time you checked in for an examination?"
Howler made a very small noise of surprise, and had to actually think before he spoke. "Four years ago, and a bit."
"Date of termination?"
"I wasn't terminated."
The proctor sighed and looked up. "If you were still enlisted, you would have had to have a physical proving fresher than four years old."
Howler nodded slowly, sucking in his cheeks. "There was a death order, and I assume I was considered dead as of that date. You want that?"
"If that's the case, the line-of-duty records will probably be more specific than your word," the proctor shrugged.
"Then look for Thom, Garett," Howler stated with another short, sharp nod. "I'm off."
"You weren't dismissed," came the retort, already three paces too late to be given to its recipient's face.
"I'm not yours to command," the dogmaster snarled, still moving to leave the courtyard as he spoke.
"If you weren't terminated-"
Howler whirled around as though he were a spun top. "I was ordered DEAD, you idiot, and though I met no blade's edge that day, I died as surely as if I had. I just went to the Pillars, yeah? I had to be told who my mother was; someone pointed her out to me there. She fell down and screamed like I was killing her. I was her youngest son, her baby, her favorite, she cried, how could I not know who she was? But I didn't, because I'm not her son. And I'm not your officer. I have to make petition for citizenship, like I wasn't born here, because I have lost everything that I used to be. You got room for that? On your form?"
And both Garimond and the proctor watched wordlessly, from their places, as Howler turned back around and stormed completely out of the courtyard.
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