"Fate is, indeed, a predictable force. There is nothing so rigid or unyielding as the cogs that grind away life...nor something so pitiless and cruel as Order without Compassion," Illixion the Mad boomed out, an intricate projection imitating his movements in front of Elise, "NOR," did the mad Mage continue, swinging his arms upward and clenching his gnarled digits into seemingly strangely-wrought fists. Elise, momentarily, was transfixed by the similarities of Illixion's fist and the tangle of roots she'd nearly tripped over on entering the small hamlet of Oakheim; though, the continuation of Illixion's ravings would soon shake her. "NOR," came the screaming rasp, seemingly for the third (perhaps fourth, even) time and Elise turned her attention back to the rise and fall of his hands as they clenched and unfurled, "is there something so maddeningly erratic as the machinations of Fate without guidance!" Elise felt as though she had missed something, but did not deign it appropriate to put forth a question; she had learned rather early on that Illixion did not intend for those he harangued to actually communicate with him...instead, it seemed that the oldest Mage in Drasil (perhaps even Kallore, its self) much preferred to have no interaction, leaving his azure astral projection to scream directions and impart whatever bizarre wisdom (and sometimes spew spittle-laden maladies towards those who had roused his ire) he felt appropriate. The Silver Glint had become accustomed to the way of things with the Mad Wizard, when he chose to involve himself with her affairs. With a quiet sigh, she turned and began gathering her cloak from the bed.
Silently, still, she was thankful for the way his mind worked. What she was doing in Oakheim, what would happen henceforth...it had all fallen into place easily. Behind her, the projection coughed; disrupted for a moment. Her ears twitched at the sound of it and she turned to observe. Illixion's stare bored into her, his eyes dark pits, waiting for her full attention; she almost gave an answer, but waited to see how long he expected her mind to wander. For a few seconds, silence lingered, followed by another wracking cough; though Illixion never seemed to close his eyes. With another sharp gesture, he wiped something away from his mouth and then let his fingers prod at his nose and tug at his beard. "But that is what we seek to correct," all of the intensity had bled from him, though his eyes still seemed far-off dots of obsidian, "is it not? All the iniquities brought about by Eldra's Sundering and the following years..." he trailed off, slowly lowering his hands and lacing his knotted fingers. Quietly, the Mage whispered to himself, raising a hand before the projection disintegrated into a momentary whirl of sparkling ether and abruptly faded altogether. The sounds of the Drawback Inn resurged as his visage faded and broke, the day in full swing below; though she did not pay them much mind, several conversations drifted up to her. Without much thought, she placed on her cloak and blade; moving easily to the door.
How predictable is Fate, truly? How far can one follow the streams and rivers of time and see only displaced cycles? At some point, it has to end. Everything ends. Fate isn't your enemy, it's just a tool...used and repaired, when broken. Death is your enemy. Chaos is your rival. There is no room for Fate in a final act that spurns the very notion of its existence.
Fate is very predictable. Fate is stuck in its ways, recycling the same nonsense that it allowed to pass countless years ago. Fate is your tool, in this regard. A tool that will inevitably break, given that enough Chaos is applied to the system. Chaos has its own uses...though it is far less predictable, without Order to scold it back in line.
Elise found herself outside, as though the innards of the inn had never existed, wandering beyond the boundaries of Oakheim; casting a brief glance skyward, listening intently to the world at her back. People spoke in easy tones, though there were a few hushed whispers and the occasional shout. She didn't claim to know them, nor would she claim to envy not knowing them. The faces she had known in Oakheim were seldom seen, these days...their resting places bearing names and specters of the past; no more and no less. Something about the errant thought sent a lance through her, though brief it was. A longing for a time where every shadow hadn't nursed doubt and every passing whisper was not a near-silent accusation of the sins that lingered over her head. Simplicity still found its home in the people of Oakheim. That simplicity...that absence of worry, even from the world outside, gnawed at her in a distant way. All that mattered to most in the hamlet was how the weather and crops seemed to be faring...or when the sun would set. They did not concern themselves with matters best settled at the tip of the blade, or by threat of spell...they need not concern themselves with the strange outsiders that walked within their walls; the hordes of untested 'would-be' and 'will-be' types, stopping in for Ranked Missions or to ogle the Stone of Nine.
She pulled up her hood to drown out the tinge of bitterness that wormed through her thoughts, letting everything fade into the background. The voices became more distant, shrinking behind her with each step. Soon, the Sun only stood before her in small bursts; rays cutting down through the thickening foliage overhead. Whispers became the rustling of leaves with the breath of the breeze, and doubts shrank into shadows half-cast and too unstable to take familiar form. Elise enjoyed the solitude, for a moment...and continued on her way; paying little mind to the parcels she bore for unwary and (most likely) unprepared souls.
Elsewhere, though reasonably close...
Invari Lashe was not impressed by the Stone of Nine. At least, she was not impressed by its size. When she had heard that the strange monolith had been left behind by Beastkin migrants...she had assumed that it would be something that would tower over her. It did not loom over her as she had envisioned, the Stone of Nine merely looked down on her. Rough hewn stone weathered slightly by the passing years, gray and dull in the midday light. She did well to hide her disappointment, however, still managing to reverently touch the stone (after pushing aside thoughts of height and size) and lower herself, albeit somewhat slowly to a knee before it. The bovine Beastkin looked over the symbol before her...a rudimentary fist, carved deep into the stone; something, if she recalled correctly, that had been inscribed by Granz the Gargantuan. There were others, but Invari paid them about as much mind as the breeze rolling through the secluded glade (which, she realized absently, did not have a name to wear...it was simply the glade that housed the Stone of Nine) or the scattered sunlight that stretched down from above; casting the day in a warmth that would soon become, if she knew her seasons well enough, an autumn chill that persisted through the night.
She did not know about the other forms in her periphery, but she had risen late (from a fitful slumber, nonetheless) and rushed here after a hasty breakfast.
Is it improper to go back to Oakheim after visiting this...rock?
Something about the stone was more mundane than she had hoped, but, reluctantly, she remembered that it wasn't the rock she had come to bear witness to. It was the spirit of adventurers past (or present, truly she didn't quite know what the Stone of Nine was really meant to inspire) and the promise of glory and gold that brought people here for this ritual. Her finger brushed lightly against the surface of the mark left behind by the Gargantuan. She tried to imagine him, but immediately ceased; panic setting in.
What if he wasn't as impressive as I've heard, either? What if ESSIA isn't as grand!? What if there isn't any gold to be made and I came all this way to do work I could've done back home...!
Invari brought her free hand from the ground and slapped herself across the face, with a force that most might reserve for enemies. The rings in her ears hopped with the exertion, but it stilled her mind. The Nine were heroes beyond measure, she told herself, steadying and slowly lowering her knuckles against the sparse grasses that grew around the Stone, and they didn't get their start by whining. I'm in the presence of history...all the presence that's left of some of these folk. I should be more respectful. With a slight external nod, she raised herself, smiling slightly at what remained of Granz the Gargantuan and his fellows, and began making a slow pass around the stone; trying to keep her eyes from drifting.
She spied symbols representing the Protector (a shield, with small rays cast out from its top), the Firebrand (a flame...how unpredictable), the Silver Glint (a small starburst, adjacent to the flame; where others seemed to have taken their place around the Stone), the Opulent Summoner (a meticulously carved circle, bearing hard-to-read runes in its center), and two interlocking stars...which she supposed belonged to the Mage of the group, who she couldn't quite remember the title of. The others did not jar any memories or bring forth any particular knowledge, though they were somewhat strange. A simple set of two parallel lines drew her attention, first, then a diagonal cut that bit deep into the stone. The latter almost made her think that one of the Heroes had not willingly put their mark on the Stone, but, rather had sought to slay one of the others...from the very spot she was standing. Though, it didn't take her long to realize that whoever made the cut would have to be closer; given the length of her arms.
Six out of Nine isn't so bad, right?
