Lovejoy — Roleplayer Guild

The Ruins of Iddin-Mar, Old Omestris

[written by Lovejoy, shylarah & CollectorOfMyst]

Up above them, past the impossible cliffs that surrounded the Corpseland and the ruins that stood upon it like a sprawl of gravestones, the pale sky was darkening. As shadows fells upon the ruins, Ziotea felt it. 

Somewhere in the hollows of this fallen place, tearing through the world like lightning, there was a spark of ether manifesting. 

East. It had come from the east.

***

The flare of ether caught her attention and Ziotea turned to face it, going still as she stretched her senses out to see if she could determine anything further.  It had already faded.  She considered briefly telling Father Oren what she'd sensed, but her lips pulled back from her teeth at the thought.  There was no good reason for her anger at him, but there was also no reason to set it aside so soon.  She adjusted her grip on her spear and started eastward without a word to him.  If he wished to follow, let him.

***

Fire... is death. Yes... perhaps that was true. But still, the Omestrians lived on... didn't they? The crunch of the ground broke this line of thought before he could pursue it. Ziotea was walking away from him... and with purpose, to somewhere else. Oren tilted his head at her back. Unlike him, this place seemed to be causing a plethora of emotions. And clearly, she was angry at him - perhaps even wanted nothing to do with him. But, even now, he would not suggest travelling alone. So, in silence, he took one last look around the area, and then, turned on his heel and followed his companion.

***

They headed eastward, where the the ruined city of Iddin-Mar sprawled throughout the rest of the sunken valley.

The tall buildings were all scorched and twisted, but even in that distorted and ruined state the beauty of their architecture was still apparent. Oren recalled that during the invasion, the city of Iddin-Mar had already been reduced to this state by the time the Varyans broke through the Marian Gate-- the strange barrier-like aegis that once protected the land of Omestris. Most historians agreed that the Omestrians seemingly decided to destroy their own city before the invaders could step foot within it. For what reason, no one knew.

They ventured through wide roads lined with destroyed houses and neighborhoods covered in leafy crimson overgrowth. They walked through what appeared to be a major commercial center and saw dozens of rusted amber-colored steam chariots.The chariots all bore the same marking, a circular rune which translated to "transportation". Up on the scorched buildings they saw the remnants of ancient billboards, advertising what seemed to be plays and public art projects. 

The two made their way past the entrance to an underground tunnel when Ziotea felt the pulse again, coming from somewhere beneath her feet. They could hear footsteps coming from within the tunnel. Ziotea could feel the signature of one person, a child by the feel of their ether. 

***

The flicker of ether came again, and Ziotea recognized that it came from somewhere underground.  There was a crumbling stairway they'd just passed, and she turned to head for it.  A child...possibly others, it was hard to tell if they weren't making use of their ether.  The one she felt, though, that child was strong enough that they'd be a candidate for the Inquisition.  Could she force a child to join, if they didn't wish to?  She should -- if she didn't, and someone found out, it would likely mean trouble for her.  "Be ready," she told the Inquisitor following her.  "There's people, and I'm not sure how many."

***

Oren's hand curled around one of his daggers... he was not fond of Ziotea's wording. People? Were they of malintent? If so, were they armed? He knew that Ziotea couldn't possibly know these details, of course, but, still, he didn't like it.

He turned to the stairway they'd just passed. He had heard the footsteps echo out from below, but... they had been light, regardless. Small. And only belonging to one.

He stepped on to the first of the stairs, beginning the descent.

***

When they reached the bottom of the steps, they found themselves in a half-flooded tunnel, the beautiful filigree and ornamental stonework decorating its walls scarred to oblivion by whatever ruin had befallen the city. The stagnant water was waist-high and covered in patches of ancient red algae. Pools of detritus floated along the water's surface, while thin shafts of light shining down from the grates above cut through the darkness, allowing them a vague idea of the surroundings.

The tunnel led to stone steps which brought them into a large open chamber. As they climbed the stairs their footsteps echoed through the spacious cavern. What awaited them, was wholly unexpected. Most of it was submerged underwater, and it was difficult to see with how dark it was, but there was no mistaking the shape of the massive train-like vehicle that lay twisted and misshapen beside what could only be a station platform. The area beneath the platform was flooded with filthy water but the platform itself was completely empty... Or so they believed, until they stumbled upon the three bedrolls spread flat on its surface.

The ether signature had long faded to nothing and apart from their own, the two inquisitors hadn't heard any more footsteps. The ether flare Ziotea felt and whoever it belonged to was nowhere to be found. Clearly people had been staying in this station, but if they were still here, Ziotea would've felt them again by now. Had she made a mistake? 

It was then that they heard it. A sound so familiar to them that they were as accustomed to it as the sound of their own heartbeat. For more than a decade, on the blood-drenched stones of the training yard the telltale airy hiss of a spellblade being summoned had filled their ears. And now, that same sound echoed throughout the underground station.

Up ahead, a hundred feet from where they stood a golden shaft of light, cruel and sharp, pierced the darkness. It was shorter and thinner than most spellblades they had seen-- about the size of a large dagger. Its golden light illuminated the gloved hand wielding it. The hand was small, the size of a child's. 

"Go away," a voice spoke to them. It belonged to a girl, no older than twelve. "Go away or I'll kill you," the voice demanded again, resolute yet calm.

She was wreathed in shadow, only her vague outline was visible in the dark. From the jagged edges of her silhouette, the girl was wearing some kind of armor. She was not very tall, from what the two inquisitors could see, but the girl had summoned a spellblade, which immediately made her a threat. Was she an apostate? They had not heard of any young trainees fleeing from the Seminary recently.

 Ziotea and Oren heard the girl take two steps forward. Whoever this child was, there was not an ounce of fear within her. 

The girl pointed the blade at them, the motion of its arc illuminating her face for a split-second. It was all they needed to see her eyes. 

They burned gold.

***

At first, Oren was sweeping the tunnel with his gaze, trying to determine what this used to be - though, the twisted scrap of the train lent itself quite easily to figuring that out. And the bedrolls told him quite quickly that people had been using it as a shelter, as well. But with the poor light, and the smell of damp and mould, he couldn't tell how long ago.

His answer was found quite easily.

"Go away. Go away or I'll kill you."

The spellblade breathed itself into existence, and in time with its appearance, Oren felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. And he saw her. She was... young. Small. But her stance and her voice told him that she was deadly. Or at least, that was how she appeared.

And when he saw her eyes, the course of action he should take became clear. Child or not, his priority was to get her to stand down.

Oren slowly began to walk forward, determined to appear non-threatening. Holding his hand high, he brought forth a small spark of light, enough to show his face. He glanced briefly to the bedrolls. And speaking softly, he asked her, "Are you alone?"

 The girl took a half-step back, the ashen-haired man's response wasn't something she was expecting. She breathed in, the blade crackled in her grip. 

 "Y-Yes. Now turn back the way you came if you know what's good for you!" she shouted.

Oren paused at the sudden flare in her power... but he wasn't afraid. He stopped walking, but he didn't stop meeting her gaze.

"But why? What happened here? To you?"

***

As the ashen-haired priest's questions left his lips, the girl allowed herself a moment to look upon the two inquisitors. The tiny sphere of ether levitating on the man's palm was casting a pale light which barely illuminated the entrance to the tunnel where they stood, but it was enough for her eyes. 

They were young. Younger than all of the other hounds who had hunted them thus far. An emblem of a red phoenix, cruel and savage-looking, stained the black hardened armor that covered the man's chest. The woman, who was about her height, was covered in heavy-looking armor. That lance, she could tell, was a marvel of craftsmanship. It was a beautiful weapon and the girl couldn't help but admire it. Even still, she knew that one hit from that and it would--

Her hair.

The girl's eyes widened.

"You," the girl said. Her pupils were fixated on the woman's red and orange locks, but she still clung to the crackling golden blade.

"Why is your hair that color?" The girl asked, trying to make her words edged with iron and defiance but unable to hide the wonder in her voice. Without waiting for the woman to answer, the girl reached up to her head-wrapping and pulled it off.  Still pointing the blade at the ashen-haired inquisitor, the girl raised it a few feet higher so that its light shone directly on her face. 

The golden light of the spellblade made the girl's hair appear like fire, the same blaze of red, orange and gold as the armored woman's, but looking more closely, the girl's hair was different. It was wild and unruly, a tangle of curls, and it was the color of blood, not flame.

"Are you of the Hand?" she asked, the echo of her voice reverberating in the tunnel. Almost by instinct, her eyes shifted to look upon the woman's left hand, but found it hidden underneath her shield. Suddenly, her heart began to race, only for it to calm itself after the girl took a breath. Just like before, Ziotea felt the ether pulsing from her, like a sudden gale of wind. Just as quickly as it began, it died out.  

Behind the girl, the sound of light footsteps began to echo through the hall. In the darkness of the tunnel, a pair of golden eyes appeared like two shining jewels in the darkness.

"Rose? What's all this yelling?" an old woman's voice asked. 

"No! Grandmother!" the girl cried out, but it was too late.

The old woman's words were tinged in an accent that neither of the two inquisitors could identify, but as the she stepped forward from the shadowed tunnel behind her, past the girl and into the reaching light of Oren's ethersphere, the woman they saw was garbed in what could only be described as "traditional" Omestrian robes. They had seen such robes in old history texts, but never with their own eyes. After all, Omestrians had no culture and no fashion to call their own. But the woman's robes seemed ancient in their own way, as if they had come from another time. Decorative but understated, the robes were comprised of overlapping layers of scarlet and azure, the two colors melding together, no... embracing one another, as if each belonged to the other.

As she stood there, the darkness of the tunnel seemed to brighten. Oren and Ziotea could see all of her, there was no hiding.

"Good afternoon," the old woman said to them, a gentle smile touching her lips.

"I am Essa, a keeper of these ruins. And you've met my granddaughter, Rose."

She turned to Ziotea, her eyes focusing intently on her hair, before turning to face Oren.

"Fire and frost. What an interesting combination! May I ask you your names?"

***

The underground station was wet and wretched, with the sounds of their passage far too loud.  Ziotea kept her ether humming through her, ready to handle whatever they found.  There were traces of people, three rumpled bedrolls and a few other things.

The sound of a spellblade summoned to someone's hand made her react with the well-honed instincts of a warpriest.  Her own ether responded at once, spreading into her shield and through her muscles, waiting only on need to turn her from a slight woman into an immovable fortress.  It didn't matter that the fighter before her was a mere child; Ziotea knew better than most that appearance did not necessarily reflect ability.  The child wore armor, and she was able to summon a spellblade; in all, likelihood she'd had some sort of training.  At the least she had some measure of skill. 
 She demanded they leave, stepping closer to the two Inquisitors.  Either she was brave, or putting on a show of being so.

Father Oren approached her, the female Inquisitor a soft shadow behind him.  He asked if the girl was alone, and she lied -- the bedrolls said as much, even if the others were not around just then.  Ziotea tensed, her grip tightening on her readied spear.  If the child did not wish to talk, she would not waste time.  Such a child...she was too old to be accepted into the Inquisition, as had happened to Ziotea.  Her heritage doomed her to a harsh life, and her ether would make it the harshest of all.  The life of an ether slave was nothing but suffering and misery.  The young Inquisitor would kill the girl sooner than she'd doom a child to such a fate.  At least she could make it a quick, clean death.  The ether factories were death by slow degrees.

The child addressed her, wide-eyed and marveling.  The Inquisitor bared her teeth in a wolf's smile, and summoned etherlight around the blade of her spear, letting the golden-amber light drive the shadows from her face, even as it answered the question.  Her hair, her ether, her eyes: her Omestrian heritage ran strong in her blood.

The next question was puzzling.  The Hand?  A group, but allied or opposed?  Her frown deepened in thought.  Given that Omestris was said to be the left hand of the ice titan, perhaps a group of Omestrians?  By the time she'd thought of that possibility, the old lady that came to join the child was making introductions.  With no further need for her etherlight, Ziotea let it fade, but she did not relax.

"You may ask," she said, the words clipped short, "but I do not care to say.  Mine is hardly a name you would know."  Her gaze flicked around the room again, before returning to consider Rose and then Essa in turn.  "What is it that needs keeping?  And where is the third member of your little family?"

***

Fire... and frost.

Oren looked from the woman to Ziotea. From Ziotea, to himself. And from himself, to Essa again. Her sudden appearance discounted the girl's - Rose - earlier claim, but still... this place was incredibly... solitary. He couldn't imagine being in a place such as this.

Ziotea's refusal to reveal her name made him hesitate, but, the atmosphere, here... so far, he could sense no danger. "I... you may call me Kanus, for now. Anymore, I cannot give."

Fire... and frost. Yes... an interesting combination. All four of them here were born of Omestrians. And their hair; two, red and orange like the supposed flame. And the other two, frosted white, one by birth, and the other by age, as the entire world had come to be. But there was also the woman's robes. Red, again, intertwined with blue. Fire... and frost. What did it all mean?. 

“Names are curious things. Ours are resilient. Through a thousand weathers, ages of ice and oblivion, they have endured. Kanus... It is as ancient a name as there has ever been, and it suits you,” the old woman told him with a smile.

She turned to Ziotea.

“As for why I linger in these ruins, well, I suppose old habits die hard. These ruins are my home, and I would not give them up. Now, If you would indulge an old woman’s curiosity, how did you come upon my granddaughter?”

***

"She's rather hard to miss."  Again the Inquisitor was reluctant to part with and kind of information.  She felt a dull stab of jealousy.  She'd come to terms with her heritage, her nature, but to have a proper home -- even to have a name that meant something, these were things she envied.  "Is the Hand just native Omestrians then, or have you started recruiting others?"  Ziotea likewise avoided having to confirm or deny whether she herself was a member.

The old woman regarded Ziotea with a curious gaze. The young inquisitor, with her hair of autumn and ember, stood defiant and ready. She held the spear firmly, aiming its point at the young girl even as her attention shifted toward the Omestrian elder.

Essa turned to Rose and frowned. The girl's etherblade crackled violently with ethereal energy, the bolts of amber light dancing chaotically along the blade's edge. There was anger and fear roiling within her, this much Essa could tell by the state of the girl's etherblade.

"Sheathe your weapon, my dear. You are brave, but you would stand no chance against an inquisitor of the empire."

The elder and young girl's eyes met, their gold pupils like a constellation shining in the dark. There was no argument from Rose. As the girl turned to Ziotea she offered the slightest nod of surrender before allowing the spellblade to extinguish into nothing. Satisfied, Essa once again turned to address the two inquisitors.

"You have so many questions," the old woman said, regarding the two of them with a look of amusement. "It is good to see such curiosity in young inquisitors." Essa reached into the folds of her robes and quickly retrieved a diamond shaped object. She held the diamond in front of her, allowing it to tumble slightly around the open palm of her hand. Its surface was like a mirror, the shadows reflecting themselves within it, black as an abyss. As it caught the glow from Oren's lightsphere, it seemed to shimmer with a soft blue light.

Upon seeing the object, Ziotea and Oren immediately took a half step back. This was pure instinct, for they knew exactly what the diamond was and the danger it presented. An inquisitor's catalyst being used on the battlefield was oft the harbinger for great death and destruction. It was a personal totem, unique to each warpriest, for it bonded with their own ether and allowed them to call their greater miracles into the world. 

"Please, be calm. I am offering you my catalyst as a gesture of peace and goodwill," Essa said as she surrendered the weapon to Oren, raising her palm to the young man's face. She smiled at him and nodded, as if assuring the inquisitor that it was safe for him to pluck it from her hand. 

"If this is to be an interrogation, perhaps we might do this in a more comfortable setting. My solar is just up ahead. I will answer your questions there, and in return, perhaps you might answer some of mine."

The old woman smiled at them once more.

"Does that sound agreeable to you?"
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