Antithetical to his title and that of his order, Qasem is as bright light of energy who wears his heart on his sleeve. A charming smile and offer of friendship to most any he comes across is what he likes to think of as the face of his true self, but of course being a truth-seeker does at times call for mask to be worn. One less open and acquiescing to others.
Most importantly, Qasem does not abide deception in any form. As part of his initiation, took a vow to root out and report any he finds and uphold truth in all things.
A P P E A R A N C E
Dark of skin, hair, and eyes. Qasem sticks out a distinct foreigner in southern lands. He stands just over six feet, and through careful consumption of chemical remedies, paired with magic has achieved a massive amount of muscle and imposing stature. His preferred dress is brightly coloured and flamboyant; often made of silks or satin and trimmed with metallic thread.
Chemical - Journeyman Blood - Adept Binding - Novice
Given his pitiful RAS Qasem is forced to compensate his magical ability but using it in unique and unexpected ways. His primary target for his spells is typically himself; a combination of his practical and magic chemical knowledge allows for Qasem to augment his own body to be much stronger, faster, and resilient for short periods of time. If the situation calls for it, he is able to turn off his pain sensors completely and overclock his body's adrenaline production to stay awake for extended periods. It all comes at something of a cost of course: Such physical exertion requires recovery time, and to preform them at all calls for Qasem to be constantly topped up with a specific formula of vitamins and proteins, distilled once a week and carried in a flask.
Using his magic on others is something he is loathe to do, but often called for in his line of work. He struggles to effect others without direct touch, but once done so has access to all systems of their body. His studies have taught him much about the brain's chemical reactions, and his time as a truthseeker more still. Not quite at the level able to detect his targets exact brain pattern by sensing alone, Qasem instead uses his abilities to replicate the reactions monitored in others within his own body. This gives him particular insight into the emotions and thoughts of others, but is primarily used to detect and stop lies.
There are other magics he's learned. Long forgotten curses, and maledictions that could further make up for Qasem's lacking range and capacity. But he's never had the need or desire to exercise those.
B A C K G R O U N D
Qasem's history thus far has been as a footnote in the greater fates and tales of others.
First there was family. The great Laghmani lineage, dating back some four-hundred odd years to a group of peasants in the northern Zaqhory desert. A peasant family gifted by Fashdal-Sep a dream of a future to come; one that would bring ruin and destruction. The vision brought the family further north still; to Inipor. For another generation they lived more destitute than even before, thought lying or insane for their stories. Until the Torragonesse came. As the Laghmanis witnessed their homeland ravaged by invaders, they themselves were uplifted in the Inipori capital. Divine seers, the were called, protectors of the Darhanic Dreams. The same gift would continue to reveal itself in the same line every few generations, and while found in Qasem, it was not he who the Dreamer thought worthy to bestow it upon. Instead, he came into the world too-soon and choking for air. A disappointment from the beginning, he would remain small and sickly until adolescence; where his shamefully low RAS made itself known. It was a relief in its own right, any and all hope and expectations of him had fallen to his younger brother, and Qasem was free to toil in the depths of Hanom'Riqash, unearthing dusty tomes long forgotten to time.
Razin was the second being he came to know in the world. Mother and father were deities in their own right to the vision of a four-year old child. It was Razin who had received the family gift, and more. Tormented by vivid nightmares and dreams at a young age, whispers of hope for the next shepherd surrounded him constantly. To Qasem he was a screaming baby - always seeking too much comfort. A blessing in disguise in the end - neglected and forgotten as Qasem was by the others around them. He could soothe Razin, be of use to his brother at least. The years that separated them might as well not have existed for the closeness achieved between the brothers as they grew.
The third notable relationship in Qasem's short life has been Siraj Asghar, his assigned master and Truthseeker of the Greyscale Chamarines. He recognized the value of Qasem's studies and peculiar, albeit weak, magic. Together, they traveled the Darhannic world over five years, deciphering truths within lies and unmasking deceptions for later judgment. Siraj taught him what books could not: the nature of humans, their flaws and graces. How the duality found in them all was something worth preserving - and preservation required absolute truth.
Shortly after his most recent return home, Qasem was called again. Alone, he would be sent to Ersand'Enise as a full Truthseeker in his own right. Officially, his business there was to investigate rumours of a Darhannic wild-blood associated in an assassination plot. Improbable, the people were to believe, that the Inipori council would send one so young and weak in the gift to deal with the claims had they any basis in truth.
M O T I V A T I O N
To serve the his order and the Inipor holy council as a truthseeker; bring falsehoods to light and record the truth. More personally and less officially, to return to his younger brother and to protect from the political vultures that circle him.
I N V E N T O R Y
On his Person:
Water-skin - one of the two vessels Qasem exclusively drinks from Flask - filled with a strange-smelling mixture that somehow always feels slightly warm. If filled and emptied twice a day. Spear - weapon of choice and one with which he has most training Round shield - a small shield that can be attached to his fore arm or held depending on the situation
Collection:
Jewelry - A sizable assortment borrowed from his family's collection, though he rarely wares more than two pieces at a time. Lab Equipment - A large chemical set up taking up a significant portion of his room including a distillery, titration equipment, separatory funnels, and more. Traveling Chemical kit - A standing trunk that, despite it's name, weighs more that Qasem. Contains a vast collection of dried herbs, powders, and salves as well as a smaller and a mush less useful distilling set in the upper compartment. Notes - Multiple books filled with copied passages from Qasem's readings so they can analyzed while away from his usual sources kept in Inipor.
M A K E N N A C L O U T I E R - L E E D S M A K E N N A C L O U T I E R - L E E D S
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"Call it obsessive... I consider myself thorough."
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▅▅▅▅▅▅ Y E A R B O O K P H O T O ▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅ Y E A R B O O K P H O T O ▅▅▅▅▅▅
▅▅▅▅▅ S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y ▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅ S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y ▅▅▅▅▅
Makenna Rose Cloutier-Leeds _________________________________________________________ April 17th,2001 | 21 | American-Canadian _________________________________________________________ Engaged | Female | Straight _________________________________________________________ Lafayette | Louisiana | USA
▅ P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E ▅ P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
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P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ B U I L D || Lean, moderately athletic ◼ H A I R C O L O U R || Black/Brown ◼ E Y E C O L O U R || Brown ◼ H E I G H T || 5'-6" ◼ W E I G H T || 137 lbs ◼ S K I N T O N E || Mixed -
▅ M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S ▅ M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S ▅▅▅▅▅▅
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M O T I V A T I O N S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ All Makenna has ever wanted was to get out of her dying backwards hometown. Her goal remains the same, though her tenacity and certainty have been challenged with the discovery of her meta-human abilities. She worked and scraped her way out of Lafayette once before, and she wouldn't go back so long as she can help it. Not that there'd be anyone there willing to take her back anyways. G O A L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Re-establish the life she lost from her hype-gene. She'll do what she needs to get through PRCU, but once she's done enough to appease the courts and her mother, she's adamant to return to Yale and finish her started degree in business communications. Then she'd never have to hear from either side of her disappointing family again and could forget where she came from.
Her more immediate goal is to re-solidify her relationship with her fiance, Carson Ashwater, which has been rather muddled since the wedding's initial postponement. -
▅ N O T E S ▅ N O T E S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
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M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► She is a rather adept cellist, despite only picking it up in the past four years. ► Attends PRCU as part of her 'sentencing' due to the events of her hype-gene awakening. It was a fortunate opportunity offered only due to her mother's connections to H.E.L.P. and in turn, the school. ► Hex code; BC8F8F -
▅ S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S ▅ S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
It was only eight months ago that Makenna was on top of the world: Attending an Ivy League school on full scholarship, engaged to the love of her life, and free of her less than respectable roots. Until the night of her bachelorette party, planned specifically the same time as her 21st birthday. Her friends had taken her for a night out in New Haven, eventually landing in a karaoke bar. During a particularly passionate rendition of Whitney Huston, Makenna's meta-gene decided to make itself known. The result was a lawsuit from the bar, suspension of her scholarship, indefinite postponement of the wedding, and annexation from both her new friends and southern family.
As each and every door she'd managed to pry open slammed shut, an opportunity came from the most unexpected of places. Makenna's mother, a woman she had no memory of on account of her running out before her daughter's second birthday. Jaida Leeds was a notable H.E.L.P.-affiliated Hyperhuman, and met Makenna's father while helping the state police in southern Louisiana track an especially dangerous hyperhuman during the early 2000's. The whirlwind romance and resulting child were not enough to keep a career-minded woman such as Jaida in a town like Lafayette. Makenna first balked at the idea of accepting and sort of aid from her estranged mother, but as the life she'd so carefully built for herself continued to crumble, she eventually packed her things and moved to enroll PRCU to make what she could of what was left.
▅ A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S ▅ A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || V O C A L P R O J E C T I O N __PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION ||ESOTERIC __SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION ||EXPULSIVE
Makenna has inhuman range, strength, and control of her voice. Her abilities allow her to create nearly any sound at any pitch or volume; ranging from those inaudible to humans, to voice mimicry, to intense sonic blasts strong enough to create a resulting kinetic force.
L I M I T A T I O N S ||T B D
For all her precision at normal vocal ranges, when using a powered 'sonic scream' as labeled in her student file she lacks any real control. On more than one occasion she has failed to produce the desired effect at all. Her mother and intake counselor quickly determined most of these shortcomings stem from Makenna's own nerves and reluctance to use her abilities at all.
W E A K N E S S E S ||T B D
The voice is Makenna's powerhouse, and easily limited. She has the potential to become completely nullified with a simple gag, or if her opponent has the forethought to wear a decent pair of earmuffs. Her own ears have no natural protection, so she always travels with multiple sets of earplugs to prevent damage.
▅ S K I L L S & T A L E N T S ▅ S K I L L S & T A L E N T S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
S K I L L || Affable
Moving from her lowly beginnings in the rural south to the upper echelons of Ivy League society has taught Makenna a lot of things about people. Most importantly how to fake it until it becomes real. She can wear nearly as many faces as she can voices, and while she prefers to play the part of the charming, proper lady of pedigree she can slip back into natural vernacular and behavior of her old life if the situation calls for it.
T A L E N T || Erudite
Makenna would call it a result of will and determination rather than innate talent, but there's no arguing that from an early she had a Midas touch. In each activity she joined in; from toddlers ballet to student council president, she didn't only thrive, but excelled. There was no magic involved of course, just an ungodly amount of effort. Every ounce of spare time Makenna has is spent studying, training, working, strategically socializing, or prepping for any of the four. As remarkable as her fastidiousness is, it can also be frightening, and calls to question how long she can feasibly keep it up.
▅ P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S ▅ P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
Y O U A W A K E I N T H E D E A D O F N I G H T, W H A T W O K E Y O U?
Her phone, plugged in its appropriate place on a desk on the far side of her room. Makenna is up before the third note chimes. Another busy day ahead, and she doesn't have the time to dawdle. The morning routine that typically began for her at 5:30am was a well-enough practiced dance that the hour-early start made little difference. The night before she had portioned the ingredients for her smoothie, packed a gym bag, and picked her clothes. Her usually trip to the gym and workout routine had a notable extra pep in them. Makenna herself could hardly tell whether it was due to nerves or excitement. Carson was making the long-awaited journey across the entire continent to visit. The first one since Makenna's arrival. Everything would have to be perfect.
A D I S H E V E L E D S T R A N G E R A P P R O A C H E S Y O U A S K I N G F O R H E L P, H O W D O Y O U R E S P O N D?
Makenna kept her head down and muttered something barely audible about not having change. Her pace didn't quicken, nor did it slow to heed the stranger either. Just to be sure, she checked her phone that not a minute of her precious schedule was set askew. For a time, she listened to ensure that no footsteps followed her own, but never fully turned to check. The interaction would be completely forgotten before the end of the day.
A N I N T R U D E R A L A R M H A S B E E N S E T O F F O N C A M P U S, H O W D O Y O U R E A C T?
Makenna is one of the first on their feet, and encourages others to follow as she makes her way out the classroom door. At the choke points she coordinates and calms crowds into orderly lines to prevent congestion before it can properly begin.
"Lines, alphabetically, in your houses!" Her amplified voice booms over the rancorous students gathered outside the school. She looks for a professor or administrator to turn over to for instruction, but finding none continues to order the students until a sense of order is resorted.
M A K E N N A C L O U T I E R - L E E D S M A K E N N A C L O U T I E R - L E E D S
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"Call it obsessive... I consider myself thorough."
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▅▅▅▅▅▅ Y E A R B O O K P H O T O ▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅ Y E A R B O O K P H O T O ▅▅▅▅▅▅
▅▅▅▅▅ S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y ▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅ S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y ▅▅▅▅▅
Makenna Rose Cloutier-Leeds _________________________________________________________ April 17th,2001 | 21 | American-Canadian _________________________________________________________ Engaged | Female | Straight _________________________________________________________ Lafayette | Louisiana | USA
▅ P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E ▅ P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
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P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ B U I L D || Lean, moderately athletic ◼ H A I R C O L O U R || Black/Brown ◼ E Y E C O L O U R || Brown ◼ H E I G H T || 5'-6" ◼ W E I G H T || 137 lbs ◼ S K I N T O N E || Mixed -
▅ M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S ▅ M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S ▅▅▅▅▅▅
-
M O T I V A T I O N S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ All Makenna has ever wanted was to get out of her dying backwards hometown. Her goal remains the same, though her tenacity and certainty have been challenged with the discovery of her meta-human abilities. She worked and scraped her way out of Lafayette once before, and she wouldn't go back so long as she can help it. Not that there'd be anyone there willing to take her back anyways. G O A L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Re-establish the life she lost from her hype-gene. She'll do what she needs to get through PRCU, but once she's done enough to appease the courts and her mother, she's adamant to return to Yale and finish her started degree in business communications. Then she'd never have to hear from either side of her disappointing family again and could forget where she came from.
Her more immediate goal is to re-solidify her relationship with her fiance, Carson Ashwater, which has been rather muddled since the wedding's initial postponement. -
▅ N O T E S ▅ N O T E S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
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M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► She is a rather adept cellist, despite only picking it up in the past four years. ► Attends PRCU as part of her 'sentencing' due to the events of her hype-gene awakening. It was a fortunate opportunity offered only due to her mother's connections to H.E.L.P. and in turn, the school. ► Hex code; BC8F8F -
▅ S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S ▅ S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
It was only eight months ago that Makenna was on top of the world: Attending an Ivy League school on full scholarship, engaged to the love of her life, and free of her less than respectable roots. Until the night of her bachelorette party, planned specifically the same time as her 21st birthday. Her friends had taken her for a night out in New Haven, eventually landing in a karaoke bar. During a particularly passionate rendition of Whitney Huston, Makenna's meta-gene decided to make itself known. The result was a lawsuit from the bar, suspension of her scholarship, indefinite postponement of the wedding, and annexation from both her new friends and southern family.
As each and every door she'd managed to pry open slammed shut, an opportunity came from the most unexpected of places. Makenna's mother, a woman she had no memory of on account of her running out before her daughter's second birthday. Jaida Leeds was a notable H.E.L.P.-affiliated Hyperhuman, and met Makenna's father while helping the state police in southern Louisiana track an especially dangerous hyperhuman during the early 2000's. The whirlwind romance and resulting child were not enough to keep a career-minded woman such as Jaida in a town like Lafayette. Makenna first balked at the idea of accepting and sort of aid from her estranged mother, but as the life she'd so carefully built for herself continued to crumble, she eventually packed her things and moved to enroll PRCU to make what she could of what was left.
▅ A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S ▅ A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || V O C A L P R O J E C T I O N __PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION ||ESOTERIC __SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION ||EXPULSIVE
Makenna has inhuman range, strength, and control of her voice. Her abilities allow her to create nearly any sound at any pitch or volume; ranging from those inaudible to humans, to voice mimicry, to intense sonic blasts strong enough to create a resulting kinetic force.
L I M I T A T I O N S ||T B D
For all her precision at normal vocal ranges, when using a powered 'sonic scream' as labeled in her student file she lacks any real control. On more than one occasion she has failed to produce the desired effect at all. Her mother and intake counselor quickly determined most of these shortcomings stem from Makenna's own nerves and reluctance to use her abilities at all.
W E A K N E S S E S ||T B D
The voice is Makenna's powerhouse, and easily limited. She has the potential to become completely nullified with a simple gag, or if her opponent has the forethought to wear a decent pair of earmuffs. Her own ears have no natural protection, so she always travels with multiple sets of earplugs to prevent damage.
▅ S K I L L S & T A L E N T S ▅ S K I L L S & T A L E N T S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
S K I L L || Affable
Moving from her lowly beginnings in the rural south to the upper echelons of Ivy League society has taught Makenna a lot of things about people. Most importantly how to fake it until it becomes real. She can wear nearly as many faces as she can voices, and while she prefers to play the part of the charming, proper lady of pedigree she can slip back into natural vernacular and behavior of her old life if the situation calls for it.
T A L E N T || Erudite
Makenna would call it a result of will and determination rather than innate talent, but there's no arguing that from an early she had a Midas touch. In each activity she joined in; from toddlers ballet to student council president, she didn't only thrive, but excelled. There was no magic involved of course, just an ungodly amount of effort. Every ounce of spare time Makenna has is spent studying, training, working, strategically socializing, or prepping for any of the four. As remarkable as her fastidiousness is, it can also be frightening, and calls to question how long she can feasibly keep it up.
▅ P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S ▅ P E R S O N A L P R O M P T S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
Y O U A W A K E I N T H E D E A D O F N I G H T, W H A T W O K E Y O U?
Her phone, plugged in its appropriate place on a desk on the far side of her room. Makenna is up before the third note chimes. Another busy day ahead, and she doesn't have the time to dawdle. The morning routine that typically began for her at 5:30am was a well-enough practiced dance that the hour-early start made little difference. The night before she had portioned the ingredients for her smoothie, packed a gym bag, and picked her clothes. Her usually trip to the gym and workout routine had a notable extra pep in them. Makenna herself could hardly tell whether it was due to nerves or excitement. Carson was making the long-awaited journey across the entire continent to visit. The first one since Makenna's arrival. Everything would have to be perfect.
A D I S H E V E L E D S T R A N G E R A P P R O A C H E S Y O U A S K I N G F O R H E L P, H O W D O Y O U R E S P O N D?
Makenna kept her head down and muttered something barely audible about not having change. Her pace didn't quicken, nor did it slow to heed the stranger either. Just to be sure, she checked her phone that not a minute of her precious schedule was set askew. For a time, she listened to ensure that no footsteps followed her own, but never fully turned to check. The interaction would be completely forgotten before the end of the day.
A N I N T R U D E R A L A R M H A S B E E N S E T O F F O N C A M P U S, H O W D O Y O U R E A C T?
Makenna is one of the first on their feet, and encourages others to follow as she makes her way out the classroom door. At the choke points she coordinates and calms crowds into orderly lines to prevent congestion before it can properly begin.
"Lines, alphabetically, in your houses!" Her amplified voice booms over the rancorous students gathered outside the school. She looks for a professor or administrator to turn over to for instruction, but finding none continues to order the students until a sense of order is resorted.
Silas didn’t have to wait long after returning to The Castle for his roommate to join him.
“Desmond! What happened with-”
A voice that was quite distinctly not that which belonged to Desmond came from the Desmond-shaped figure. “Cadence and this one seem to think you’ll be useful.”
Silas scowled at the stranger, but sure enough Desmond did appear to confirm the first words. Brother Wolf, but very much not the same man he’d spoken with less than an hour before. A dirty trick he thought, made all the more suspect by the striking similarities between his roommate and the dread priest. Neither of the two acknowledged it, so Silas did the same- always careful to differentiate what was meant to be seen with what he could see.
The trio reunited with that tall student Trypano on their path towards the workman’s quarter. Already it appeared the fight they interrupted had already reached its climax; a handful of students he somewhat recognized bloodied and hurt searching for a vanished Brother Ash.
Silas’s senses prickled at the figure cloaked in arcane magic fleeing to the south.
“He’s gone that way!” He shouted, pointing and running in the opposite direction. A very small lie, for 500 magus.
Except, the others didn’t give chase as he’d expected. The female student with an unfamiliar accent attacked the space instead. It was so fast, he hadn’t even felt her draw, and barely had time to duck out of the way as darts of pointed scraps of wood, metal, and rock flung past him. The screams that followed stopped Silas in his tracks, ruse forgotten completely.
“What in the hell-?” He whirled to find the rest of the group, Zeno’s included turning to restrain the girl. It all meant little once Brother Wolf intervened.
He could sense the victims of the unannounced attack, distant as they were. She hadn’t killed anyone. Still, his heart beat hard in his chest for more reason that the eerie puppets Wolf had made of his colleagues and teachers. Silas took the hair and cloth the older boy offered him. Upon feeling only three hairs between his fingers he reached up to pluck out the two more requested by his employer. He took off before the older boy could do more than curse his name into the darkness. Let them have their secrets and lies, he’d have no part of it. The church was no different in the end; hoarding wealth power and knowledge.
Silas ran nearly halfway across the city before finally slowing enough to sort the hairs and cloth into vials. Neither his dorm or Zeno's quarters felt particularly safe, and he doubted he'd get much sleep even if he made it so far unfollowed. He settled to instead wait beside the merchant's dorms, pacing in the shadows while he waited for the tall pale woman to return to her rooms.
Trypano later returned towards the dormitories, heading back after successfully dealing with the issue at hand and even collecting a few good samples to study upon her return. If there was someone waiting for her she made no indication that she was aware.
Silas cursed under his breath and jogged to keep stride with the tall Revidian as she walked right past him. He cleared his throat loudly, in an effort to draw her attention. "Miss- uh-" His face flushed as it became obvious he'd forgotten her name, if he'd ever learned it in the first place. "I wanted to give you something" He finished, hurring over the awkward misstep of an introduction.
”Ah, Silas.” She recalled the other member of this scattered team, remembering his name largely from the trials team listings. She stopped and waited for him to speak his piece, her expression unchanged from its resting cool.
"You wanted some of that priest's blood yeah? For some kind-of bloodchild magic?" From his oversized pockets he procured the vial containing a torn piece of bloody handkerchief. He hoped there was enough light for her to make out what it was.
She didn’t want to be presumptuous but this was definitely what she expected. ”Ah, yes indeed. Thank you.” She gently procured the sample, examining it through the glass carefully. He could see bits of the cloth disappearing along with it’s reddish-brown coloration as she drew from the blood that was soaked within. She left a small remainder of it, a couple drops worth approximately. Producing the vial she had on her she looked inside, focusing as she rebuilt the liquid she had just broken down, her fine Blood Child senses already keenly familiar with this variety of blood. With any luck this copied sample would be virtually identical to the original. With a spare vial she created a portion more and passed the glass back to Silas. ”As thanks you’re welcome to my share of the coin from this mission. I’ll be attending largely so my contribution is recognized and little else.”
Silas watched in semi-disturbed silence as the energy inside the vial broke down and into her arm. "It’s not the coin I wanted from you." He said hurriedly, gently tapping the second vial of blonde hair in his pocket. "I want to know what you learn from it. If you find a way to counter whatever..." He tried and failed to think of some accurate description of what he'd seen Brother Lamb's magics do. "Whatever he did to turn them all to puppets. I want to know. He sounds more sure than he is, and quickly reverts back to nervous fidgeting, reaching out with his senses for anyone who may have been listening in on the conversation.
Trypano nodded, a small pull at the corner of her mouth, a shadow of a smile. It was nice to see others take an interest in discovering more.
”I’ll learn what I can from his blood. What I suspect however is that it’s not tied to his blood but rather what he’s learned. I’ve only seen something like this once before. I only barely managed to break free of it with chemical magic but I suspect something else was at play.”
She turned and began to continue on her way before stopping, if just briefly so.
”If you want to find out more then keep your eyes, such as they are, on Ismette. She knows techniques that nobody else has ever heard of, or at least have kept well and truly secret if they have.”
"Ismette?" Silas muttered to himself, remembering the singing Yasoi that had nearly broken the door frame to give a gift on his birthday. An impossible contrast to the haunting magic of the dread priest. Silas shook his head and the thoughts away. Just another person to avoid. He'd gotten caught up enough as it was- well past time to cash out and try and forget everything he saw. "Thank you." He said, giving Trypano a curt nod before turning away. It was incredibly late, and Silas' weariness was growing but he walked past the common dorms for one final stop at the docks.
The small rowboat was still there. Tied to the southmost dock and pulling in and out with the lowering tide. Silas took a deep breath before stepping on, hands balling to tight fists in his pockets as he did his best to ignore the wavering kinetic energy under his feet. "Got what you asked for." He said, addressing the hunched and shrouded figure waiting for him.
And nearby stood Trypano, also waiting for their elusive employer.
It was dark and the tides had brought in a thin fog to add to the atmosphere. A meaningless thing for Silas, of course, as he saw Sinn’s unique energy signature, but to Trypano it was unexpectedly difficult to get a read from him even with her good reading capabilities. The figure stood, shrouded in nothing but the darkness, and approached Silas. His hand reached out and remained idle until he was given the big he had initially given them. His gaze was dull and indifferent. This was just business as usual and it was about time it concluded.
The contents were inspected once the exchange was made, with the gloves taken by Desmond and the vials secured. He examined each one before sealing the container and bringing it into the bowels of the old rowboat. A good three minutes of nothing followed with Sinn’s signature suddenly vanishing even to Silas’ other-sight. But at the third minute mark, he appeared where he had disappeared and ascended back with the bounty in hand.
“Eight hundred.” he uttered with a voice fitting his cold demeanor. A wooden case was presented to Silas with the contents revealed before his very non-eyes. He was free to count them, “We will be in touch, young Silas.” he mentioned whilst giving Trypano a passing glance. For the first time in their brief encounters, he showed a hint of amusement when his attention was on the unusually tall woman. As if he knew something, and he was going to be seeing more of her.
Early afternoons in Madame Copin’s whorehouse were always the most relaxed time. The handful of children that were typically hidden away had free roam of the place prior to the arrival of patrons. But on one particular day Silas opted to remain in the kitchens with his mother and the other women as they sat down for their late breakfasts. It was an exceptionally important day after all; a gift was waiting for them at the end of the table’s long bench. His mother showed him the handful of curling letters she claimed represented her name.
The package was wrapped in thin fabric, a scrap piece too small for anything more than a washcloth, though his comment stating as much only earned laughter from those in earshot.
“You can’t wash with silk mi jiano” His mother said kindly before passing it to him. Sure enough, the material was unlike anything he’d felt before. Thin and impossibly soft, he found himself absorbed by the wrapping until a collection of gasps returned his attention to the gift itself.
His mother had pulled a cloak from the box, and a shower of dried flowers came out with it. It too was made of another material unfamiliar to Silas. Velvet, he would later learn; a useless material that only lasted so long as it stayed dry. A terrible choice for outerwear; but the deep blue colour and light fur on the trim had left the room speechless. Until they all began again at once, a flurry of reaching arms and shrill excited voices.
“Manifique”
“The cost! How much do you-”
“What else from a Baron?”
“Even softer than it looks-!”
Laura, an exceptionally tall blonde woman was the first to stand and swat away the hands of the others. “Enough you greedy monsters. Let Aleshta enjoy her gift before you tear it to bits.” She gently pulled the cloak away only the flourish it dramatically, loosing another half dozen petals before draping the garment over Aline’s shoulders. Even over her tattered bedclothes it was a sight; her pale skin radiated where it could be seen through the dark fabric, only a shade darker than her eyes. even Silas found himself staring agape at his mother. Until the overpowering smell made him sneeze. A few of those close to him chuckled, and casual conversation around the table resumed; even if the topic remained focused on the gift.
“This is how you charm a woman Silas; pretty and expensive things are a sure way to a woman’s heart.” Silas had been running his hands over the fabric covering his mother’s arms, the slight change in shade depending on the way her rubbed fascinated him. He looked up to see Willa speaking to him and gave a disgusted look. Already her cup was filled with cheap wine and she leaned in too close to the boy. Silas stiffened and stared at her blankly. Why one earth would he ever want more women in his life? Laura inserted herself on the bench between them.
“What need will he have for gifts?!” She laughed and ran fingers through the small boy’s hair “with his mother’s eyes, the women will lift their skirts for a smile and a wink.”
“What nonsense are you filling my boy's head with Laura? He’s too young for such things!” Silas’s mother draped the arm he’d been petting over his shoulder.
“He’s old enough!” Shouted someone else from across the table, but embarrassment had left Silas’ face burning and eyes planted firmly on the table. “How long can you expect to keep him in a place like this Aleshta?”
“He’ll be pretty enough to pull a few women in himself in a few years,” It was meant to be a joke, but Silas felt his mother stiffen as the others laughed.
“Women, men… Even this baron of yours-”
“Kess ti, Enough Willa!.” Though it was not directed at him, the scorn in his mother’s voice made Silas flinch. Both her arms wrapped around Silas and pulled him backwards into her lap. “Do not listen to them Minya. A good and honest heart is the only true gift that matters to a woman.” She said quietly, almost whispering in his ear. The comfort he normally expected was stifled by the nauseatingly strong perfume of dry flowers still clinging to her new garment.
“I think you have something of mine.” Silas said, startling Ahrora from behind.
“Silas! Fancy seeing you here.” For all her casual tone, Silas could sense her increased heart rate and darting glances. It made him smile for some reason he couldn’t make sense of.
“We’re competing, and you’re avoiding the subject.”
“Are we? I haven’t been watching the scores.” She lied in an airy tone.
“I don’t much like being robbed.”
Ahrora abruptly took a step forward until Silas could feel her breath on his face. The warmth of it made his own hitch. “I supposed I’ll have to repay you.”
His smile flinched for only a moment. “Still an hour ‘till the match starts. By my eye while I shop?”
It earned him an eyeroll, but Ahrora slipped her arm into his and pulled him further north. The moment he was able to recover from the sudden intimate touch, Silas resisted. “Not that way.”
“But these are the best stalls,”
“Souvenirs.” He scoffed, “They’re all just here to trap visitors for the trials. Not worth our time.”
Ahrora faced him with an exaggerated pout even he was able to glean. “But I need something to bring home, to show I came all this way in the first place.”
Silas scowled and shook his head. “Whats the point? You’ll come visit again.”
“Oh will I?” She spun around to look at him, her words mixed with laughter. It was impossible for Silas to keep the red warmth from creeping up his face at that.
“It’s all made from second-rate binders and will fall apart before you even leave the city.” He continued, returning back to the point at hand.
Eventually he managed to pull her away to the vendors further behind- those with smaller displays and wares easy to move, lest any city guards come in search of licenses or permits. But the effort proved fruitless; the pair struggled to find anything of value and were near about to give up and spent their coin at the food stalls, when Silas stopped and turned at the last of the vendors.
“What?” Asked Ahrora impatiently, they’d already deduced that the one he’d stopped at had nothing of value, but Silas only motioned her to stay silent, and indicated the alley behind the manned table.
There was a figure there beckoning them while fidgeting nervously, as though he’d been waiting for them. The old man was poorly dressed, and lacked matching shoes, but still promised a wondrous assortment of wares should they follow him down the desolate alley. They agreed, Ahrora taking lead on speaking and inquiring, playing the ignorant foreigner, while Silas used his particular sight to measure the authenticity and worth of the items produced from the man’s pockets.
Useless trinkets at first, and Silas quickly grows weary of the man wasting their time, even while Ahrora finds some amusement in a pair of spectacles.
“This be the glass of unseeing! One shall see wat cannot be seen with tis.” He handed over the item to Ahrora for her inspection as he turned to Silas. “Buyin’ good ser?”
"We'll buy the spectacles,” He concedes, placing the other useless item’s the man hand handed them back, “a good price too if you show us where the real goods are."
The man gave Silas a look. A rather confused look if any. Is truly one man's treasure and another man's trash? “Eh, yer bighter, sayin’ tis not good enough for yer?” He took the discarded items returned them into position upon his coat, stroking as he admired his precious ones. He took a look at the spectacles within their hands. “If yer too good for my wares, return those and be on yer way”. The man considered for a moment, as they were still interested in those, despite wanting to see the good stuff. “yer not foolin’ me, yer tryin’ to get those on the cheap”. He gave them a very wide smile. “One Magus!”
Silas scowled at the fraud, and turned on his heel. He gripped Ahrora's arm, gently tapping two fingers onto her palm in the process.
Before they could make it to the end of the alley Ahrora jerked free from him and stamped a foot in a dramatic display to capture both men's attention.
"But darling" She whined, "you promised me something pretty and rare." She reached for the spectacles and clumsily placed them over her eyepatch. "They're far to fetching on me to leave behind-"
As Ahrora continued her performance, Silas reached with his kinetic magic into the grifter's coat, attempting to free one of the bracelets that looked to be made of something more than mere cut glass, and land it into his own pocket.
Except he pulls too hard and fast and the man lets out a yelp, grabbing onto his coat tightly. “Now yer’ tryna mug me! Ought to call the guards on you!”
Silas scowled, and prepared to argue with the miscreant before being cut off by the bell warning for match start before he could open his mouth. Instead he sighed and offered the man the requested magus. “Enough, then take it and go.”
"Hah, found them in yer trash". He slicked his hair back before going off to spend his new found fortune.
Ahrora removed and handed the over-priced purchase to Silas as they left the alley “Useless junk,” she confirmed “can’t see a damned thing.”
“Won’t make a difference to me,” He replied and began slipping them on, “but what could be the point of them?”.
For a moment, it was as Ahrora said, a complete disappointment. But what else had he really expected?
“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” The scream is torn out ot him, as for the first time in years, Silas saw, and it was horror. Terrors beyond comprehension stared back in the unending abyss the lenses led too. Energy too, unending and infinite. With shaking hands, he reached to remove the spectacles, but they held fast. There was something. Something which was ought to be left unseen. For a moment he could hear himself still screaming, feel himself ripping at his face, and knew he was going mad.
“What… did you see?”
He was blind again, the energy of Ahrora standing over him, glasses in hand and no monsters to be found.
Ahrora was late for their meeting. Not that Silas was particularly aware of it; he was no expert in keeping time himself, and had spent the better part of the afternoon scrambling together the final pieces of their planned night together. It didn’t look much; a blanket spread over the field south of Millner's hook was a location chosen for privacy and view rather than to impress. That was left to the contents of the homely chipped pitchers and plates; some of the finest wine and cheese in Constansia, found during the day’s event.
When she did arrive, it was easy to notice her coming. Few were outside the city outskirts with them, but Silas remained facing away until she called to him.
"Help me carry this wont you?" She had a box in her arms, the weight of it awkwardly distributed and slipping as she walked over the uneven terrain. Silas was on his feet in a moment.
"I'll try not to peek," He joked, lifting the box as she groaned. There was no need to open to tell that inside was the prime shot she'd stolen from him, a book, and two small and warm bread rolls, made from soft white flour. "Thought this would be so boring you brought a book?" He bemoaned.
"Hardly. Took it as an excuse to get away." She followed him to the small picnic he'd made. "Bohrom kept nagging to go to see the Retanesse girls perform, had to pull some tricks to shake him." She sighed, lowering herself to the blanket. Silas handed her a mug and poured her wine from a clay pitcher.
"I'll try to make it worth your while," He grinned back.
They began by talking of the events of the day, their matches of Roses and Neskals. He told her the adventures he’d had, getting the wine, Margot and her new ship. Ahrora explained the events that lead her team to finals, followed by playful needling of him for eventually pushing them out of the game. “Damn smart getting those statues first,” She finished, shaking her head and taking a sip of wine. “Could’ve used the extra roses.”
Silas shrugged and followed her in sipping his drink. He was tired of talking of the trials, nearly of the games themselves. It all felt wrong, a disingenuous celebration while the world was crumbling everywhere else. “What will you do when you return home a champion?” He asked instead.
She turned to look at him, head tilted slightly in consideration. “Don’t think anyone from back home would know enough to care. Will be mighty impressed with the riches we’ll be bringing back though. When we win.” She finished the last sentence with a choke of laughter.
“When we win.” He repeated, sipping again to hide just how wide his grin had gotten. “What is your home like?”
Ahrora hesitated again. “Small, I’m realizing.” Silas could feel her stiffen. “I thought differently before. But looking at it from here I can see it; small, backwards, and insignificant.”
Silas nodded in understanding, silently reflecting on his own first time outside of Ersand’Enise. The girl’s mild distress wasn’t noticed in time before she moved close enough for their knees to touch.
“I do want to visit again,” She spoke so quietly, Silas found himself leaning closer to hear.
“You’ll be able to, they’ll open portals and we’ll be able to come and go as we please. Could even-” He was talking so excitedly it wasn’t until Ahrora’s mouth was at his lips that it dawned on Silas to stop. She pressed her body with hard enough force against his to push him backwards onto the blanket and uneven ground underneath. But her mouth was open and warm enough to make him forget the discomfort- and when he faced up to the sky, Silas swore he could see the stars.
It wasn’t in Ahrora’s nature to apologize. Even in the rare occasions she might have felt it was owed, it was always easier to forget and move on. Forgiveness required too much dwelling. But there wasn’t really much chance for blowing past her most recent mistake she realized when approaching Silas’s window in the Castle. The young boy was there, circling the room with haste that only slowed to inspect the various piles of clutter scattered as small islands throughout. The large jacket usually covering his small frame was on the lower bunk, looking worse than usual. He’d torn the lining open. An unfamiliar sensation of guilt twisted deep in Ahrora’s stomach and the urge to flee and abandon any previously considered plans entirely.
Foolish of course, to think she could do so unnoticed around a powegazer. No sooner did she turn from it than the window creaked open. “Came all this way and not going to say hello?”
“You should take better care of your things.”
He took the letter silently, and Ahrora flinched at the action and her own words.
“I hadn’t- I didn’t mean..” She paused, hoping for some interruption. A sly smile or anything to bring back the casual levity that’d come so easily only a few hours before. Silas remained stubbornly impassive.
It was too much, in the end she became desperate enough to end the silence it all came spilling out at once; “I meant it to be a little game, thought it was a from an old sweetheart or maybe from that Kerrimand girl you met yesterday-” Her face flushed with brilliant heat at the confession, but the words kept coming. “Hells, I’m sorry Silas. I did stop once I realized it was your mother, I swear.”
“What did it say?” He finally spoke, very quietly. Ahrora blinked back, too stunned to reply instantly. “You haven’t…?” She managed to stop herself. How would he have read it? Slowly she withdrew her hand, still holding the letter, and opened it.
Silas
My prayers that this letter reaches you, a thousand more that you are well.
It pains to say, but stay away from home. Many have come looking, your friends; the Balzzagic boy and the over-fed young one. Moriff came and made stir enough to for me to send word of warning. Stay away.
Keep safe Silas, grow to be good. Do not worry for me, all is well here.
All my love, always,
You mother, Aleshta Rieger.
Her reading was slow and clumsy with the unfamiliar language but Silas remained patient and silent the entire time. It was short, and written and in a neat and clear hand; aside from the signature, which was barely legible and oversized. A paid scribe had written the note, how many other curious eyes had read it before hers? More questions itched, but she remained uncomfortably still on her self-made perch outside the window.
“You should come inside,” Silas offered a hand to bridge the gap between them. She took it, but he moved away from her the moment she stepped inside, pulling the letter back with him as he did so.
“We’ve changed plans for today.”
Ahrora flexed her hands, hoping his limited sight couldn’t see her eye flickering about the room, taking in the mess, bed, and various possessions. “What plans?”
“For the trail, if we match.”
“Right. Thin air. Forked tower.” Part of her knew it was wrong to let this pass- it hadn’t been a proper apology. But the slow return of a familiar grin to Silas’ face was more than enough to silence what little conscience she had. Ahrora moved to the bed, casually shifting the torn coat and taking it place on the mattress.
“Think we’ve come up with a way to get higher.” He replied, taking a seat next to her.
Eight hundred Neskals
Large cask of Bernieres Red
Port-Bernières Blanc Royal ASZ44: HALF a 72-pound wheel (36lbs) of the world's rarest and most valuable cheese, aged for two centuries. Deliciously tangy and piquant, with a slight nutty flavour, instantly elevates any dish. Sells for Ỽ4/lb.
two kegs of Whetmelon Wine, a Mycormish favourite and almost impossible to get outside of yasoi lands
Two crates of Yasoi racing snails, one two of the 10 have decent worth/value, and the rest purely decorative or nutritional.
VOID Goggles: when focused upon with temporal or dark energy, allow the user to peer into the VOID. Amount seen depends on skill level.
They were staring at a disadvantage. It annoyed Silas, sending him pacing while one by one the other pairs were allowed to begin. Ahrora was bothered too, even if she contained it better; her one eye darting wildly to measure the remaining competition. But when it flickered back to Silas, seeing his eyeless face staring back she stopped chewing her bottom lip long enough to give a smile. “Lucky we both know how to make the most of a bad hand.”
He only nodded in response, finding his throat too tight to comfortably speak.
The moment they were permitted to take off, the pair split. Silas ducked left, Ahrora right. They had considered their plan carefully, waking at dawn to run drills through Mudville’s filthy narrow streets until they’d gotten a sense of each other's pace. She was fascinated by his past back-alley escapades and truesight. Silas liked her accented Avincian and nimble grace, keeping stride with him easily, even over rooftops through the morning mists. Ahrora’s laughter and the hot bitter coffee had made his throat tighten then too.
He found the water token first. Resting in the center of a fountain, he’d noticed the magic signature emanating from it, similar to those used in the melon race. His hand slipped into the cool water, just as an eruption of heat energy tore through the sky in a column. There was no light or colour to it, just a heated burst of air to the sky. It was their agreed upon signal; Ahrora had found the first gate. He moved to her position and the system repeated again.
It was Ahrora that crossed the finish line. Just barely missing out on first place to a pale Vossoryian. Silas still cheered for her from the other side.
***
There was no way of actually speaking with the short citizens of the Hegelan city, but with enough gesturing and counting neskals Silas managed to ‘barter’ himself a pair of prime shots and a runed blanket of hard wool. It glowed in his not-sight with gentle arcane energy, and was warm to the touch as though heated by flame. It brought back memories of cold winters in Mudville, of carefully wrapping hot bricks in frozen sheets to try and bring warmth into the drafty attics. Of his mother.
When he returned to the finish line, Ahrora was still there, waiting for him a few feet from the portal meant to return them to Ersand’Enise. Her eye quickly surveyed the items in his arms and lighted pockets. “Enjoy your shopping trip?”
“We agreed beforehand- your team got the bonus points.”
She sighed and dismissed his defensive tone with a wave. “Forget it, I’m just bitter we didn’t get first. Really thought we had it for a bit there.”
Silas hesitated, then offered in a more conspiratorial tone; “Still got the better of that Eskandish noble though,” She responded by looking to his face with a wide grin. Marljin had thrown taunts and illusions at nearly each gate. Somehow they’d managed to keep pace with her, and careful communication allowed them to avoid the worst of her trapping mirages. The pair fell into an awkward silence as they watched the last of the teams pass through the end-line.
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” Ahrora finally spoke up, casually gesturing to her eyepatch and Silas’s own face.
His head tilted at the suggestion, a smirk growing. “Don’t think I’ll be able to see anything much differently than I do now.”
She frowned at him, but her tone remained light: “C’mon, I’m curious. I’ll make it worth your while.” She held the last syllable, gently swishing a previously unnoticed vial of prime shot clasped behind her back. How she’d managed to snag it at the pace they’d been going was a mystery.
He shrugged “Not sure what you’re expecting. But I’ll hold you to it.”
The fabric caught in his hair as he pushed it over his forehead to reveal the deteriorated and shrunken remains of his eyes. Even as she leaned close, Silas struggled to read Ahrora’s expression. True to her word, she raised her eyepatch to reveal the empty socket he already knew lay behind it.
“Wanna touch it?” She whispered and he wrinkled his nose. His face was expressive when it wasn’t half hidden.
Ahrora only laughed at his disgust and moved closer still; until all she had to do was lean forward for her lips to press gently on his ear. Silas froze in surprise, which only coaxed out another breathy laugh as she planted a second warm kiss on his slightly agape mouth.
“Till next time” She said, pulling away too quickly, stepping backwards through the portal before Silas had regained enough composure to speak to her. Not that he’d have even known what to say. He yanked his blindfold down again, doing what he could to hide the red flush of his face before following her to rejoin his team on the other side. It wasn’t until much later, while doing a cursory sorting of his winnings that he noticed a missing prime shot from his collection.
"Come to collect tithe if I have?" Silas replied with a question- but not expecting the stranger to answer. The uneasiness and surprise of being found before even noticing the priest remained well-concealed behind a coy smile that betrayed only the insincerity of his words, despite their tone. It wasn't as though he'd yet done anything worthy of accusation anyways. "I seek only the blessings of Reshta and Eshiran for the upcoming trial."
"Oh, is that all?" the Dread Priest replied, leaning forward in his seat and clasping his hands. "Silly me. Here I was thinking you were here for something much more clandestine." He shook his head easily enough and remained smiling, but there was something in his eye: something that Silas would not have been able to notice, of course. A glimmer, perhaps, of a cat. Was the powergazer a mouse?
"You wound me sir." Silas clasped a fist against his chest in gesture of exaggerated offense, while the other remained buried in its pocket. "Are the poor and deformed souls not also permitted to seek the pentad's mercy on a restless night?"
The blond-haired priest smiled indulgently, sitting in repose now, his expression beatific as it so often was. "And what mercy is it that you seek, brother?"
"Fortune for tomorrow and a good night's rest." The lies slid out easily, though Silas's impatience and discomfort with the conversation began to make itself known through his left toe; silently tapping on the floor. He had little desire to withstand a full interrogation of a dread priest.
"That is all, then?" the priest asked. "I shall ensure that it is yours." He rose, eyes darting to Silas' shoe for the barest of moments, and held out his hand. " he smiled. "Will you accept my blessings?"
Silas hesitated in silence, letting the priest's offer hang unanswered too long. He held no trust in the esteemed brother or desire to make physical contact with him. Unfortunately he had successfully lied himself into a corner and scrambled to find reasonable objection. "A fair and impartial blessing?" his smile tightened as he tilted his head in speculation, "Your team will be competing tomorrow too after all."
"You will receive the customary blessing of my order," the dread Priest confirmed, "on my honour." His smile was friendly enough, but there were - perhaps - just a few too many teeth. "I will admit that it is not often one asks for the blessing of a Dread Priest"
"Didn't ask." Silas reminded him flatly, returning his exposed hand to a pocket, all the more assured he did not want whatever this unnerving boy was offering. "Not for your blessing anyways- If Reshta seeks to favour me it will be because my own words and devotions."
"Oh, well then,” the priest replied, "I suppose I shall be going." He rose and smiled, all lips and no teeth. "If Reshta truly decides to favour you, I suppose you will bear close watching." He never breaks character, but his eyes narrow for just a moment. He turned to walk away.
"I always appreciate an extra pair of eyes." Silas replied, his usual flippant grin returning as the priest turned to leave, taking his body full of blood and head of hair with him, untouched.
For all his comfortable facade, Silas found himself rather shaken on the walk back to his room. He'd felt much more the dread priest's mark than the other way around . The cautious and reasonable part of him knew it best to back out now, before any reckless action could be taken. But that piece had always been rather small, and easily ignored. Spending so long scouting the cathedral had been a mistake, but he decided to return again. In the morning, along with the early worshipers as to better avoid any further chance of running into Brother Lamb or his comrades.
***
The Dread Priest continued to track the boy's location for some time after he had left. The walk back to the cathedral wasn't long and the robed figure slipped in, after some time, through a side door into the sacristy.
Letting the glamour fall away, Brother Lamb turned into Sister Cadence. She headed back into the Bishop's apartments, for he had been kind enough to give her and the rest of her team free run of all but the private areas. If that boy was snooping, it occurred to her, there were likely others and they were almost certainly after the church's secrets, discontent to simply leave some things to the Pentad and their servants.
She went to speak with Lumen, Flint, and the shadow sister first, preparing to make haste to her teammate's position immediately afterward. There was a threat here: possibly a dire one.
Silas had turned his nose up at the offered work board. Not at it has anything to do with his literacy difficulties. He just didn't much like the idea of if a middle-man or extra effort put between himself and other peoples money. Besides, his sale of the Wyrm acid and cut from Desmond's egg had set him up rather well, for the rest of the semester at least. But when he'd heard Desmond mention a familiar name, his curiosity couldn't help but be peeked. Though he refused to outright say it. Sinn’ulen’luunetar did not meet with just anyone. If he came knocking, it he already knew what he wanted and the price. Never to be bartered on. His feigned disinterest was stretched rather thin before the end of the same hour he'd hear it.
"Strange he's meeting you in the docks. There are safer places." He'd casually mentioned to his room-mate over their final breakfast before the derby.
"Hiring students seems awful risky don't you think? How trustworthy you think that lot is?" He whispered after the dramatic display at the auction house.
"Hope you didn't bring a gun." He bemoaned, happening upon the Enthish boy in latest hours of night, on a rather twisted, empty, path towards the water gate. A claimed coincidence, of course.
"Y'know those Yasoi noses," he gestured to his own small, rather flat nose. "They can smell that fire-powder from ten feet."
His hands were stuffed deep into the large pockets of his coat- at least a half foot too long for his small frame- and he clicked his tongue. "I better keep by to watch out for ya." If Desmond heard him at all he made little more acknowledgement than a short grunt.
The pair arrived at the docks to find Carmilla and Trypano. Not exactly nobles, but rich stuffy enough to be indistinguishable in Silas' eyes. He didn't give them much more than a nod, before most of his focus was put towards no being sick. The moment they'd stepped onto the boat he'd been overcome with the gentle, yet relentless, lapping of the tides. Behind his blindfold he closed his eyes and listened to the mysterious man's instructions.
"Don't know why we'd have to meet them at all." He piped up, well after the meeting had finished and the other had begun discussing, but enough time for his face to regain it's usual colour. "They all staying in the Cathedral District- The Cathedral even. Could pop in while they're at breakfast and check their beds and clothes." His energy and excitement renewing with each idea that came to mine, he unknowingly began tapping his foot and nodding while one hand emerged to reach for one of the vials. "What'd there even be to notice missing?"
"Why are you fighting me Rae?" Talit yelled into an empty room. The Timewalker was still a floor above, safely hidden away. The hag had prepared for her arrival, called upon a greyborn to protect her. It would barely slow Talit down. "You can't beat me." She continued to thin air. It was true enough, though the other woman's vanishing and reappearing complicated what should have been a decisive fight. When no response came from her taunting, Talit made to move for the stairs for a third attempt. Just as the others, the moment she made it only a few steps, Rae materialized further up and struck to push her back down. This time Talit was ready, she swung her chains over her opponent to root in the ceiling above, securing herself from losing her place even as her leg was swept out from under her.
"Let me pass!" Rae was pinned between her chains, until she faded again. Talit didn't wait to see where she would turn up again, instead pulling herself to the uppermost floor of the Timewalker's hut. The ancient woman herself, sat on the narrow cot that served as her bed, huddled in the dark and facing the window. Again Talit unleashed her chains to pull her across the room with greater speed than she could ever move on foot.
"Talit! Stop!"
"Lyen?" Talit responded, already knowing it to be her before turning. The older Yasoi stood in the doorway, along with the shockingly tall southern stranger from two nights before. It was all the distraction Rae needed to return again, charging at Talit with enough speed to knock her grip loose from the Timewalker. All three were sent sprawling to the floor. The space in the small room was all the more sparse with the new arrivals, but it didn't deter the two from sparring on the floor, Rae dodged most attacks while Talit was able to absorb greyborn's blows with little impact. Only the Timewalker's voice brought an end to it. With some assistance from Lyen and Eliis she was on her feet again, albeit leaning heavily on the window-ledge.
"Enough, Rae." Her voice rasped but remained clear enough for all to hear, past even the creaking supports of the home and roaring fire bellow. "Your city burns and your brother lies dead. Are you pleased with the path you've chosen, Talit'yrash?"
"Shut up!" Talit yelled, using a wave of force energy to finally land a blow on Rae, sending her towards the timewalker, leaving both momentarily stunned against the wall. Lies and more lies! She had been left with no choice- chosen nothing. Certainly not this. The Eskandr weren't meant to come with such force, weren't meant to bring fire with them. Had Dyric only listened "Lyen," She started again, turning to her friend but her eyes caught instead on the hands of Eliis, still wet with blood. The timewalker's words rang again in her ears.
"What’s happened?" Even as the timewalker and Rae righted themselves behind her, Talit did not look at them again."Where is Dyric?" She asked, her pitch increasing each time her mouth opened.
"I-" The tallest of the grouped women looked at the faces of strangers. "Outside. Dead."’ Lyen's solemn nod was confirmation enough. Talit reached out with force energy, enough to drag the red-headed woman to the floor.
"Murderer!" She screamed, equal parts shock and surprise. Impossible. Her brother - her twin, she would have known. "How?" No sooner was she on Eliis, than she redirected her anger to the timewalker again. "Explain yourself! What twisted lies did you feed them? My brother?"
The timewalker's wrinkled lips pursed then parted to reveal missing spaces between small and rotten teeth. "A maledict killed Merit, your brother was honest on that, if nothing else." A crooked finger pointed to Eliis. "Dyric's blood is not the only she has drawn these three days passed."
"It was lies!" Eliis defended herself. "He told me it was what she wanted- a dying wish! A final selfless act to protect Loriindton!" She shook her head, eyes shining. "Merit was the best of us, I would never have ended her life had I only known the truth."
"You're unworthy to speak her name!" Talit yelled at her, already drawing energy for another attack.
The timewalker took her attention instead: "And you, Talit? How much blood will be on your hands after today? Sending a thief and mercenary to poison soldiers, to send them against your own people-"
The gears clicked in Eliis head, the final piece of the puzzle that had been missing for so long was finally in place. If she could have ripped out her heart in that moment, she would have. Alas, she was on the floor, so all she could do was watch as hatred for this girl filled her heart and mind. To Eliis, Talit had truly been lost to the huusoi. To think she would betray her own people for some foreign king. It was blasphemous.
"I never meant for this!" Her voice was now unnaturally high and strained. "Had Dyric listened from the beginning- Had anyone just believed us-" She stopped and looked between Eliis and Lyen, searching for some understanding and finding none.
There was a brief moment of confusion in Eliis’ mind, but stark clarity came after. She thought that perhaps she should not judge this girl for her crime, since she herself had committed a grave sin all too recently. But Eliis realized Talit was not remorseful for her actions. She would do them again if it meant she got the outcome she wanted.”You are lost. You let your city burn not for duty, but for love. I know the truth - your truth. And I swear to all the gods that you will burn for your sins, just as your city does now. ”
Words wouldn’t be enough to contain Talit’s anger. She rushed at Eliis, the air around her hot with energy; she meant for the southern witch to burn.
"Rae, it is time." Before the words had fully left the timewalker's mouth, the greyborn had taken hold of Eliis' arm and disappeared, this time the tall woman vanishing with her. "She can only take one, I'm afraid," the old woman whispered to Lyen, sorrow in her voice.
"I won't run from a friend." Lyen replied with a good deal more confidence than she felt. "This isn't right Tali, you know it isn't."
"You trust her? Knowing what I told you- What she did to me?"
"She isn't the one who took your leg." Lyen kept her voice low, desperate to be a voice of reason.
The timewalker took a different approach. "Stupid girl. A child! You want the entire truth and I shall give it to you. You will die before your 30th year, Talit'yrash. Loriindton will vanish and be forgotten. The Yasoi will crumble and hide away from the world in their shame. This is the future you have wrought."
Talit was lunging again before Lyen had a chance to try to defuse the timewalker's words, there was enough time to put herself between them, barring Talit from passing any further.
"You see how she poisons with her words Lyen- She is a cancer to our people and must be cut out."
Lyen shook her head, but gave one final effort; "The truth will prevail," she said, "However ugly it may be."
Her own words being used against her proved the final straw for Talit. How could Lyen, Lyen of all people, whom this had all been for, be so blind? There was no blinking back the tears once they came again, now at least she hoped the smoke that had come in the room was enough to hide them.
"Parrence needs the Yasoi," Her hand trembled as she drew energies, and sensed Lyen's person for the thin silver blade always kept at her hip. "Please," She said, "This can't have been for nothing, I don't want to lose anyone else."
The blade had slid easily and smoothly through the right hip and out the left shoulder. The timewalker was still screaming out curses when Lyen's body slumped to the floor, but Talit finally recognized the spitting vitriol for what it was. The old woman feared her death. As much as she had seen it coming, she did not wish to die. The observation did not lend itself to sympathy, as Talit used the energies still inside her to push the hag from the window, accelerating the force of gravity so she'd have no hope of saving herself. The fall was too far to even hear the woman’s screams, had she produced any. Without sparing so much as a glance at the bodies on the ground or in the tree, Talit fled from the house the same way Rae and Eliis had, though they'd left not a trace behind and she eventually circled back to put out the fires and finish the Eskandr. She would save her city and her people, even if it meant dragging them to their salvation, kicking and screaming.
Twenty lay dead by the time the fires were completely extinguished. Merit's body still lay among them, still greyer and more gaunt with each passing hour. Her place of honour was now shared; Chad, Dyric, and the timewalker all lay ahead of the rest of the deceased residents. A place had been left for Rae. None were able to find her and assumed the worst had come to pass; she'd been caught in the flames or between Eskandr who hadn't left anything behind.
Hers wasn't the only body missing from the memorial. Lyen's body had been left outside in the forest. Unburned and unburied, exposed for the elements and animals to exact their judgment. The final insult for a traitor, murderer of two barons, and deceiver of Vyshta. Talit remained quiet throughout the ceremonies, the picture of grief; pale faced and tight lipped. She hadn't wanted to remain long enough for the proceedings at all, but her binding was needed to heal the injured, and leaving early after Gari had pledged two battalions of Yasoi dervish and mages to the Perrench cause would be nothing less than an insult. Not that any questioned her now. Talit'yrash, saviour of Loriindton, avenger of her family, killer of the treacherous and deceitful Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc....It was easier not to listen too closely to the praise they showered her with. She accepted the commendations with a humble nod and teary smile, speaking only long enough to give thanks and notice of her intentions to leave ahead of the group and give warning of their arrival. The cheers for her were deafening.
When everyone else had long left, and she stood alone over the corpse of her brother did Talit let her tears fall. Had only they listened to her; heeded her warnings, accepted her apologies, it could have ended so differently. A long silver dagger was produced from her clothing. She'd cleaned it well, though she swore she could still feel the last of Lyen's magic lingering inside. An impossible melancholic haunting of guilt, she knew, but it did draw enough sentiment that she found herself kneeling on her one leg at the base of the tree that had once been her childhood home. She dug the hole with her hands, scraping knuckles on rock, dirt caught under nails. It wasn't large, but she'd made it herself, without the gift. The knife was placed inside, with a short, customary burial blessing, and buried. It was a weak balm for her stinging guilt. She faced east instead, and looked to the future, thinking of again seeing Arcel and the comfort he was unable to provide her. But what else did she have left?
Chad’orast’ilan’chiis stood as Lyen was taken from her place by the same guards that led her there. A single clap was enough to hush the quiet whispers that had followed her interview. “We now ask Calitan’Viszar’Telrontelios to approach for questioning.”
Dyric returned to his place; not sparing so much as a glance in the direction of his sister. The powergazer moved towards the table again, joining the elders in waiting for the stranger to approach.
He was used to eyes on him, and it brought on the same surge of adrenaline that came before every fight, and begged the same question: will I survive this? Time seemed to fall away like pine needles.
His ‘comrades’... What did they see? A cunning maneuver, vouching for an enemy, or the truth?
Idiocy.
He went to one knee, “Give me your questions, and my truth I will trade.”
“Your name,” The powergazer asked first, her voice so soft as to barely reach his ears. “Your home,” she continued, her eyeless face staring at Calitan. “Your family” The questions were listed, all innocuous under normal circumstances, but delivered with an intensity that left the audience quiet until it was finished. The powergazer nodded towards Dyric and motioned for her interviewee to stand.
The former wasted no time to begin his circling. "Let us start with this; what is it that brought you to our city during such troubled times stranger?"
“What brought us all here, sirrah,” his s’s whistled through his deformed lip.
"What would you presume that to be?"
"The mette-stiroi of course."
Dyric folded his hands in front and nodded "Merit's renown reaches far and we have many visitors, it's true. Where did you come from?"
"The decisions I've made and the road behind me. Ask better questions, sirrah."
Dyric's placid face twitched into a half smirk. "Your honesty is apparent. Let me be more clear then: Who commanded you come here?"
"Better, but I do not think that is a helpful question. You could say it was a colour. You could say it was my will. You could say it was Vyshta. I say it was all three. So why don't we focus on what matters?"
"I am grateful to have your approval." Their exchange had brought enough levity to the somber proceedings to produce a smattering of laughter. "What is it you claim to have seen in the moments before Merit's death?"
"Not enough to condemn another, at least not outright. No drawing. But the lady is a maledict, so..." Calitan shrugged, "I still think I have fought enough to know what their death dealing feels like."
"You don't proclaim her innocent?"
"Nor do I proclaim her guilty. But I know which way the scales tilt."
"So you continue to say nothing certain at all." He turned from his subject with a wave of his hand. "I will play along no longer. He is yours sister"
Talit stood, crutches forming under her arms as she did. "How many a maledict would you say you’ve fought, Calitan?" She asked as she approached with her strange gait.
Calitan thumbed through the ears of his necklace, "Nine."
Talit grimaced, taking a closer look at each of the pointed ears. "Enough to be familiar." She acquiesced. "But have you ever met this one, Lyen, before these past two nights?”
"Only travelling here. In a game of Three Yellow Roses. Is she innocent now?"
Talit scowled but ignored the man’s snideness. “You had no reason to defend a stranger lest you knew her to be mistakenly judged. Where is your certainty now?”
“If it was such a simple matter we would not be here. I believe her to be innocent, yet I have been known to be wrong before.”
"Rarely wrong when it comes to maledict magics." She nodded to the string of ears around his neck again. "You are excused Calitan'Viszar. I have no more questions." No guards made to escort the scarred Yasoi away. As quickly as the attention had settled on him it dissipated; interest already changed to the next witness.
In total five took the stand. And as each passed, the patience of the crowd wavered. The sun made itself scarce, and one by one the citizens of Loriindton returned to their homes as it became clear no justice would be found the first day. More witnesses vied for Lyen's innocence and guilt;
Some defending the magic of maledicts, professing that casting without drawing is impossible. Others claimed to have sensed her draw earlier in the evening and perhaps this had been enough- One woman claimed to have seen Lyen poison Merit’s glass herself. It was all a contradicting mess that revealed only one absolute truth: Merit had died the exact moment Lyen laid hands on her.
A morning breeze carrying the scent of smoke and burning fat drew Ogmund from slumber, and sent him into an imitate fury. The source was easily found only a few meters south from the camp. His men were found encircled around a fire, interacting in as hushed tones as could be expected from an entire contingent of Eskandr forces. Ogmund stepped over the two closest and, to many vocal complaints, kicked the cooking set-up aside to stop out the small flames.
"What did I say about fires? We're too close to the tree dwellers." He glared at the group, they had to have been at it as soon as his watch had finished. Damned fools. Damn himself for not waking to put an end to it.
"Been four days since our last hot-meal. How's a man to keep his wits about on an empty stomach?" Soldi moaned, making no effort to look ashamed, instead leaning back in his place and patting his notably bloated stomach.
"By following orders." Throwing on a blanket to extinguish any remaining embers put an end to any further argument. "Clean up and pack; I want to be out of these woods by sundown." He turned heel from the scene as the soldiers hastily finished the remains of their breakfast, keeping their complaints as grumbles among themselves as they readied to move.
"Here," Before they set out, Soldi came to Ogmund with the last of the food; a charred strip of meat folded in a flatbread. "Not warm anymore," He shrugged "But still better than what we've been having."
Ogmund only gave a nod in thanks, but only tucked the meal into his bags. He'd not acquit their wrong-doing by taking part, however he hungered for fresh food.
It was barely a mile into their march when the strangeness began:
" "Nax luin yani dii'luin abe rot hax'oft!" The voice was unnaturally loud and echoing with the dense foliage. The language recognizable only because of its foreignness. Yasoi. A shiver ran down Ogmund's spine. How long had the forest been so quiet?
"Who's there?!" Shouted one of the men, "Where are you?"
Ogmund whirled "Quiet! What do you-" But he was interrupted by more of the strange lilting tongue.
“Huusoi? Tai soceh abost juu nash!”
A mist rose from the ground, a clear trick of the Gift that only only a few men seemed to recognize. The rest shouted back, heedless of their leader's orders, frantically moving as though to push away the fog that began to envelop them.
No response came to the soldiers, but the exchange between their watchers continued: ”Joi di'thiir Eskand'huusoi? Tuum tai fep!"
In the same moment he recognized the word referring to the homeland, Ogmund heard weapons being drawn behind him, on turning he found Soldi. The sight of a raging berserker was unmistakable. Entering such a state was supposed to be impossible without heavy use of the gift or the intense frenzy of battle; and was never an accident. Even after Ogmund commanded the man to still, he was already surging towards the trees in search of the voices' source.
It wasn't just Soldi. A dozen men followed him into the forest, axes raised and screaming a bloody battle-cry, then more with them, until all but those unaffected by the rage remained. Ogmund found himself left with fifteen men looking to him for orders. "Stop them from getting any further into the forest!" No more lines came, but a chilling laugh followed them in their pursuit.
It was a hopeless attempt. As fast as they ran it was no match for the inhuman speed and endurance that came with a berserk rage. The first group had long halted when they were eventually reached. Just in time for Ogmund and the others arrived only in time to see the first volley of fire leave the hand of an Eskandr soldier to embed itself into a tree above him. In mere seconds the single branch transformed the entire section of forest into a wall of flames.
It wasn’t long after Lyen was returned back to her room that she fell asleep. Exhaustion from staying awake so long finally beating out her anxiety enough to give her a few hours rest. Her dreams were short and frantic, and when she woke only a few hours later, she hardly felt a difference had been made. But food was waiting for her, and it was at least something to do.
There was no stopping her thoughts from circling the trial as she ate. Dyric had played a dirty trick, and after the scarred man’s non-committal interview, there didn’t seem to be anyone left who wanted to so much as consider her innocence. The truth remained though. And it would reveal itself, such was the purpose of keeping a timewalker at all.
She had only partly finished when Talit’s face appeared in her doorway without the usual warning of her crutched gait or even the guard's acknowledging her presence.
“Is it that time again already?”
The younger woman shook her head. “No, and the guards can’t see or hear us, but we only have a few moments,”
Lyen straightened, and held back the reflexive questions.“Then tell me what you came here for.”
“To tell you to be ready, I’ve spoken with Otios, and it’s given me an idea. We can pull the blame off you and Perrence in a single act. Just- Be ready to move when it happens.”
“During the trial?”
“Hopefully before, I have to go.”
There were of course countless more questions Lyen had ready, even before Talit had finished answering the first. But she’d vanished as suddenly as she’d appeared. It had been time magic, Lyen concluded as she finished her meal. What less could be expected from Vyshta’s most favoured?
As accepting of Talit’s haste as she’d been at the time, it didn’t take long for Lyen to become vexed at her vagueness. How was she supposed to ready herself if she had no idea when or what even for? She paced the small plain room until she was certain dawn had to have passed, but a call to her guards heeded no more than a shout to remain quiet. There was little else she could do but draw and deplete a small pool of essence mana from her own body, ready to reflexively cast.
It was mid-day by Lyen’s best guess when someone finally entered the hallway. A stranger she vaguely recognised as one of the costumed jesters on the mette’stiroi, though his appearance was much less festive and demeanor infinitely less jovial.
“The city is under attack, we need everyone outside!”
Lyen pressed herself up to the small hole in her door, desperate to make out what she could of the men outside. The three guards looked to each other then the intruder. “What of the prisoner?”
“One of you take her to be held in the council’s chambers for now. You other two come with me; they’re burning the trees, Exiran spare us.”
Lyen found herself alone but for one remaining guard that gripped her forearm as he led her out the building.
“Don’t think about trying any of y…..” His sentence never finished as his hard set frown was replaced with a vacant, slightly blissful expression as Lyen’s magic took near immediate effect.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She said flatly as the disorientation eventually brought the armored man to the floor. Without further hesitation she made for the final door between her and freedom.
A billow of hot air, clouded thick with smoke greeted her at the entrance. Outside was pandemonium. But the blaze, only a few feet away, commanded immediate attention. Already it was well into the city and extended well beyond her vision. All around Yasoi ran, scattering in search of family and treasure as they made their escape. The true attack didn’t arrive until Lyen had already committed herself to destroying the parts of untouched trees too close to the flame, desperate to aid in halting the fires before they came any closer.
They seemed to emerge from the fire themselves; screaming barbarians, wielding their weapons at anything that moved in their reach. Lyen was brought back to the witch wood, how desperate she’d been to help her people then. She looked at the blood covered axes of Eskandr tearing Loriindton asunder and prayed to each of the gods by name that this wasn’t the event Talit had planned.
The first day of trial has ended largely in a stalemate. Few minds have been changed. Something has happened to drive the Eskandr forces wild, they are attacking Loriindton, though there do seem to be a handful trying to stop them? Who can tell in all the chaos.
The city is on fire! Eskandr are madly attacking anyone they come across! Help is needed on the western side of the city where fire and Eskand force began coming from. Who you aid and how is entirely up to you, or maybe you’d rather use the distraction to pillage treasure and info. If you’re struggling or need any further info please do not hesitate to DM me here or on discord.
Trials and Tribulations I Ersand'Enise Seen & Mentioned: idk a lot
A pounding on the door nearly caused Silas to fall from his bunk: Memories of a birthday surprise the week before still all too fresh. But it was male voices that called out orders to him, and in fluent Avincian.
"Who's there?!" He shouted back as he jumped from his bed, silently cursing himself for spending the night in the dorms at all after the last event.
"Representatives of D.R.A.G.O.N., here to see about the Froabase eggs know to be in your possession." As the man explained himself, a jiggle to the door knob entered the rotation of knocking and shouting. Silas dragged his blanket down with him, billowing it out to cover a fraction of the littered possessions scattered wildly behind the stacked bunks. The lower bed was empty. Always an infuriatingly early riser Desmond had inadvertently abandoned him to an investigation. Unless the Enthish boy had done so on purpose; reported their sale of the egg to let Silas take the blame and be free of any suspicion.
"Right- Give me a moment!" His words came out a discernibly higher pitch than before. Leaping the final paces to the door of the small room, Silas managed to open it just it time to save it a final frame-rattling pounding. A trio of men, dressed in rich materials and decorated with various metals, stood on the other side of the threshold.
"The Froabase eggs. Egg. Right. Of course." He was still wearing his bedclothes; a well tattered and over-sided linen shirt that still bore the memory of the original white colour in some places. "I uh- only have the one." He kicked a few stray items to make a wide enough path for the men to follow him to the egg's resting place in the closet. Even so, one had to remain outside and the other on the opposite side of the room, the space remained so limited.
"And your name?" The representative that had managed to follow Silas closely enough to get a good look at the egg produced a flat board with papers and a pen.
"Silas Reiger." He could feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. There hadn't even been enough time to cover his eyes. The longer the stranger scratched away at his records the more time Silas had to imagine the worst possible outcomes of his predicament and assure himself that Desmond truly had hung him up to dry.
"A standard male Froabase egg. In healthy condition still a few months out from hatching." The writing continued even as he spoke. "Current conditions leave much to be desired but, space is compatible for the needs of nursing one egg should the owner comply with D.R.A.G.O.N. regulations. The owner being Silas Rieger?"
The question was so sudden in such a quick list of information it surprised him. "Yes. I am."
"Upon hatching new accommodations will be needed if you require information or assistance on accommodating a Froabase hatch-ling..."
It took nearly half an hour for the representative to complete his paperwork. Silas handed over payment for the suggested care items with uncharacteristically little reluctance; his eagerness to be rid of the men and their questions outweighing frugality.
"If you will sign here for me please," They were standing at the doorway again, the new purchases having further reduced the standing space inside. Silas hesitated only a moment before taking the fountain pen from the taller man's hand and hastily scribbling a design that could just barely be legible as a name, albeit with one or two letters in the wrong direction.
"One final thing." Just when the end was in sight, the leader turned heel stop the door from fully closing all the way. "This is the only egg in possession at this residence?"
"Only one." Silas agreed, unable to stop his rapid nodding once it had begun.
A final few marks were made on the report, and then there were gone. The relief that came with their departure was great enough that Silas had almost forgotten the faire entirely. Right until horns and cheers bellowed a summons from under his window.
It wasn't Silas' first attendance at the Societies faire. He could remember the past two of his life, and the former had even been during his short time with true sight. They were some of his happiest memories, where residence from the entire city joined to the main streets, spirits full of cheer and purses with coin. The excitement was in part responsible for his later slumber; the thought of being the target for all the festivities was something too grand to even dream about only a few months before. So he'd spent the better part of the night tossing and turning in anticipation until exhaustion took him. It meant the first day was something of a wash; he spent the bulk of it around the table for the Speed Demons, watching the others sign and compete in various ways. Jackson Clark himself made an appearance and showed some over-confident biro's he was legend even among the low-born natives of Ersand'Enise. An unexpected combination of awe and nerves left Silas a observer only.
The society head wasn't the only familiar presence. The short and round frame of Ishto was also milling through the crowd, trying to collect bets from a small group of young spectators. All were welcome in every district during the faire, so there was no need to think twice about why the boy was there. At least until Silas was close enough to be noticed. With a yelp and comedic jump of surprise the boy sprinted out of sight before he could even be addressed. Silas moved to follow but instead was found by Desmond and quickly forgot about the urchin altogether. Their conversation did eventually lead him to the Enchanter's Union, the guild already had his name prepared on their list as a Zenith Scholar; much to his chagrin. But he was in no hurry to reveal the extent of his new-found wealth and so gave his perplexing signature on the required forms before the booth's closing on the first day.
On the second day a song from Ayla and a continued sense of fatigue brought Silas to the fully-stocked and modestly busy Zeno-Bucks. Marci was manning the stand, always easy to identify with her her narrow frame and large floppy hat, and reached over the counter the moment she recognized him.
"Silas! You look awful." Whether it was a facade to draw customers or the contagious energy of the faire, she seemed in high spirits, even while insulting him. "A cup of Virang's finest might just be the cure!"
"Zarina trying to make a business out of her habit?"
That was all the prompting needed for Marci launch into a well-rehearsed sales pitch that eventually lead Silas to buying a cup of the hot drink, and forcing a smile through the bitter taste.
"You're still finding time to join societies? with all this?" He gestured to the grinder, cups, and customers. Their conversation drifted to more casual matters where it was revealed both had been approached late the day before, well after most of the booths had been closed. An invitation to join another, more exclusive club -or so they claimed- located somewhere outside the southern city walls. The two young biro's speculated on the secret group's other possible members and true purpose before the morning rush became to great for Marci to indulge him.
"Bring back the cup!" Were her last words when Silas broke away from the counter a drink later; his second heavily sweetened for a steep price. Barely detectable to his senses, and well out of Marci's view, another figure parted from the surveying customers to follow him across the street.
Silas only spent a scant hour of the morning watching the Speed Demon races before making his was to the unexplored western half of the city, determined to make better use of the second day. In the Cathedral district he found the Draconic Order. Yet another group that already had his name prepared on forms; courtesy of his visitors the day before. Much preferring the idea of seeking advice from his peers than the stuffy D.R.A.G.O.N. members, Silas readily agreed to membership.
It was as he was leaving back towards the main campus that Kaspar caught his attention; beckoning to him from across the main road.
"I don't think that's an aberration." Was Silas' entire contribution when the other boy had shown his discovery. They were in disagreement; their eyes seeing two very different things. Whatever it was, was too active for it to be a proper aberration; reaching out and pulling at the energy around it rather than leeching the other way. Kaspar insisted it looked the same save for colour. Both agreed on the ominous aura it produced.
"We can't just leave it here right?" He sounded wary of the idea, and the feeling was genuine. It didn't help that the closer they approached the stronger the pull became. Kaspar must have felt it too, as with only a nod to communicate, the two began to draw from the strange aberration almost simultaneously.
The dread and hesitation fled Silas' body just as the energy transfer began. Unlike the unpleasantness experienced in the desert, he felt hyper-aware of each passing second, each thought clear and his own. It took another moment to notice the effects were persisting even after the entity was gone.
"I feel.... Great."
He was browsing over the magic societies when the second aberration appeared. There was little hope in him being accepted to any, at least as anything more than a novelty for his viral manatype. Still he couldn't help himself from idling over the Golden Mushroom's displays, however haughty and aloof the members. It was large, and only seemed to be growing in the space in-front of the fountain, almost comforting in its familiarity compared to what he'd previously dealt with.
"Ingrid?" He called out, thinking he recognized the tall girl walking towards him. Running in fact. "Ingrid?" He asked again, in a much less certain tone. She passed him in a matter of steps, clearly reaching for the large void of an aberration behind the society members. It wasn't going to be her first helping of void for the day by the looks of things. With his fellow student deafened by aberration-madness, Silas felt no choice but to join her in pulling from the gaping void of energy, if only to stop her from getting worse. It came easily, and so quickly it sent him staggering; clutching the sides of hid head as he felt his capacity was reached, then strained just as soon as he'd begun. To their benefit, the aberration had dissipated with just as much speed. Still hunched over, and breathing heavily, but feeling mentally stable Silas attempted to address his fellow Biro again:
"Are you-" But Ingrid was already upon him, and using the full brunt of her strength -and near two foot advantage- to send him flying over the Golden Mushroom's table, ruining a good deal of their display and landing Silas squarely into the fountain. That, along with memories of her immense power against the sand wyrm were enough to discourage any further attempts to calm the maddened noble. Besides, his dept to her had already been paid; this was finally an issue for the Zenos to handle.
The rest of the faire passed with surprisingly little drama, irregardless of the half dozen aberration popping into existence throughout the afternoon. Silas found himself again at the Speed Demon booth towards the end of the day, a second Zeno-Buck's cup in hand, and oblivious to his trailing shadow. Deciding he'd had enough anxious teetering, he approached the administrative table. There his name was taken, as was his class schedule and current mana capabilities. For the second time Silas signed his name to the half-lie. After the events of the day who was to say what his capacity was compared to the student record anyway?
His ego wasn't quite so great as the challenge the society head, but a particularly ostentatious noble from his cohort that had already earned his place.
"Not sure how I feel about a challenger lacking in stature, sight, and capacity." He sneered, making a grand show of leaning down to peer at Silas.
"At least state the race before forfeiting then."
"The commons-roof route. I assume you're familiar enough with the place." A small bit of an audience had gathered, and an audible chortle of laughter reached them both.
"Could do it with my eyes closed." Silas agreed with half a smile, tapping his blindfold.
The long walk to the common dorms left more time for the initially small following to grow to something rather sizeable. Silas' nerves grew in tandem and he found himself focusing his senses on individuals in the group. He was suddenly certain something was wrong. Logic told him it was only his own anxiety- as unwarranted and unnecessary as his fears the morning before. When they made it to the rooftops, the surprise and excitement of Jackson Clark standing with them to observe the race was enough to supersede his worries.
In fairness, there was no way for his opponent to know exactly how familiar with Clark's famous route Silas was. There hadn't been a need to disclose the fact that he'd witnessed being done first hand four years before, or that it had been part of his self-study in using his false-sight and gift to maneuver throughout the city. As it was, it didn't take long for his opponent to drop out of sensory range, and Silas' confidence began to grow with each pounding heartbeat. The first notable leap on the path was between the Castle and it's shorter neighboring building. The gap was just wide enough to require a slight use of the Gift to cross. Eager to make a show, Silas drew and released much more than needed, lauching himself a good twelve feet in the air. Except, his decent began too soon. Something had drawn at his forward moving momentum. Someone. Still em-poured with enough drawing speed from the white aberration, Silas expelled enough force energy to catch himself on the roof's ledge. The figure responsible remained above on the Castle as Silas struggled to right himself. It wasn't his competitor, and yet the shape of the meddler rang strangely familiar.
Not wanting to waste time dwelling on potential cheating, Silas kept to a more basic route, free of any obstacles that required the Gift, until the final wall directly bellow the dorms' highest point, and finish line. He hesitated, but ultimately employed his kinetic magic to keep his hands and feet firmly against the wall as he climbed the vertical surface. No other magic touched him until mere feet from the summit. The static force he poured into each of his limbs to remain stable in his precarious position began being gently pulled from. His hands were the first to slip, making his head lead the proceeding plummet downward. He drew from the momentum- desperate to catch his fall- only to realize it was more than gravity working against him; whoever had caused the fall was pushing him towards the ground.
A sudden force in the opposite direction winded Silas, but knocked him out of his accelerated fall towards the wall again, where he was able to catch himself and make out his rescuer. The noble he'd challenged had caught up, and in a convincingly shocked state.
"What the hell? Who-?" Silas didn't wait around to hear the rest of the thought. Instead he fled, trusting the other's arrival enough of a distraction to allow for his escape unharmed. It was a longer route without scaling the wall, but it didn't require putting himself at the same risk. There had been no doubt that time; someone was trying to kill him. The crowd that had remained long enough to see the result of the event erupted into cheers as Silas crossed the starting point again. Only he didn't stop, not when the administrator called out to him, or even as Clark reached for his hand. Silas continued running with increased speed until he reached the same ledge he'd first felt the mysterious mage's interference. This time he slid down the wall, already feeling intrusive magic pulling at his own created friction. He fell through the first open window he found. An unfamiliar room, with a stranger shouting obscenities at him inside. The window slammed shut with enough force cause an unsettling creak from it's poorly-aged frame. His own room was mercifully close by, and in the same building. He retired there for the rest of the evening; fearing to return to his Zeno's rooms until late nightfall.
- D.R.A.G.O.N. Reps are dealt with - Silas joins clubs listed bellow - Someone is tailing him throughout the faire - Silas gets chased down by a familiar face while trying out for the Speed Demons. - Silas has lost 2 zeno bucks cups.
Guild: Enchanter's Union Clubs: Draconic Order, Little RAScals, Rat Bastards, Speed Demons
It was a sight to behold. Lorridton’s people were in an uproar over their dead matriarch. Confusion and disbelief sent a panic through the ever gathering crowd. Even the Tar’ithan woman had played her part to perfection, tears shining on her face when Dyric chanced a look her way. Talit had flown herself, crutches and all, across the field to meet at the accused’s side, vehemently defending the stranger from the encroaching mob, the matching brands of the Perrench lilly on their shoulders in clear view to all. In the midst of it all Merit’s body lay peacefully still, untouched in its seat.
“She did not draw, did you not notice?”
It was a surprising outburst,and true enough to quiet a frenzying group that looked to Dyric to justify his accusation. His face remained a penetrating glare, one that moved from the struggling Lyen and his sister to find the dissenter.
"Do you not recognize her for a Maledict, stranger?” He called out to Calitan. “Their magics are those of deceit and trickery." The mob hissed as one, enthralled by Dyric's distraught fury.
"Our brother is right to question." Came another voice, in an attempt to draw their attention. Chad the elder that had taken Merit's place when her decline became impossible to hide. He was standing at his seat, only a few places down from those of the guests of honour.
“Let us not make this night a tragedy twice over. Take the maledict away to be sentenced.”
“I will not-”
Talit cut Lyen off, pulling her back to face her brother. “She is innocent! I can vouch for her character.”
“Then she has you fooled. Her hands fell on Merit and she died. We all saw; where were you sister?”
Talit glared at her brother only to look past him to the chief elder. “Let the gods prove her if my word isn’t good enough. A trail by combat; with me as her champion.”
“You want me dead too now? You’ve fallen too deeply into her ploys Talit.”
“I want to prove the truth!” She cried in horror, “You would go against me?”
“No one else would!” He gestured to the people around them. The reasoning didn’t need to be said aloud to be stated; Talit’s own people feared her. “I want justice for our Nan if you don’t -”
“Enough!” Chad moved between the twins, using the Gift to amplify his voice enough to drown out the riled chattering. “Shame on both of you; so eager to spill more blood when Merit’s is not yet cold.” It was enough to quiet the entire city as the enormity of their figurehead’s death claimed them.
The Maledict was taken away, and only when the crowd had dispersed did Dyric dare look in the direction of the tall redheaded woman. Their look communicated all that needed to be said as they each turned to convene with their respective groups.
It was rare for Lyen to think of her parents. She was a woman grown, well traveled and experienced for it, but alone in a cell on Loriidton's forest floor had made her thought melancholic. Shaping a pan flute always brought them to mind, with memories of her childhood. Her mother's tireless efforts to make sure she understood the process; binding the reeds to the right density and length. Father had done his best to teach her to play, but she never had the patience for learning anything that wasn't magic then.
Lyen drew from the ground beneath her. She knew she was being watched, prisoner as she was. Guilty as she'd been judged before a trial had even begun. She focused on binding the flute in an attempt to calm the panicked thought. It was a small thing, only six reads long, but she was hardly talented enough to make use of more. She tested a few notes before falling into the handful of tunes she knew. They too were old memories, songs for children planted there by her parents.
"You're not very good." Talit’s awkward gait had given away her presence long before her voice. Lyen didn’t even look up to greet her; instead snorting and turning the flute to ash in her hands.
"Kick me while I’m down, why don’t you?” There was a sudden sharp prod on her hip, jolting her upright to see Talit wielding her right crutch threateningly. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot, skin strangely pale, even for Yasoi. It seemed neither of them had slept.
“No more time to wallow in self pity I’m afraid.”
Lyen’s face darkened, shamed by the younger woman. She brushed the crutch away with a scowl. “Come to break me out, have you?”
"No time for that either. They want to begin now. Yes I already tried to argue for more time but,” Talit rolled her eyes, too exasperated to even detail the chaos that was Yasoi bureaucracy. It was enough to silence Lyen’s arguments and replace them with a nod of sympathy.
“Best not keep them waiting.” In truth, she wasn't surprised there had been such a rush on things. Merit may have let go of her official positions, but her wisdom remained the binding component of the community. It was rare for even a Yasoi to reach such an age, and yet they all felt her taken too soon, unjustly, and by Lyen's hand.
Talit continued speaking, undeterred by her companion's silence as they moved down the narrow hall. She did her best to fit her knowledge of Loriindton’s elders in their short walk. Chad had been the official leader for some time, but Merit’s influence and command were not easily forgotten; this trial would be his first true act as Baron. Yrii was a known hater of humans, the bulk of her family unjustly killed during the former Perrench King’s raids. Alternatively, Gari was the youngest of them all, but a former teacher and friend of Arcel, she seemed to think he could be trusted. Dyric was markedly left unmentioned.
The guards that flanked them seemed only to press closer with each step. It would be so easy, Lyen realized, only half listening to her companion, to kill them and flee out back. Run away and forget the terrible night had ever happened. Except the people of Loriindton would not. Wherever Lyen went, she’d be a pariah of her own people, or worse.
She had so wanted the killing and death to remain in human lands. To repaint the story of the Battle of Relouse so its memory would be only her own heroic retelling free of fear and regret. Instead she had brought it with her. A few days ago the idea of killing her own people would have been horrifying, but the few short hours since Merit’s death had numbed her. She herself was considering doing away with the guards. Two Yasoi she barely knew, only following their own orders.
“I’d hoped we’d at least get to enjoy the Mette'stiroi before things went to shit. But you’re innocent Lyen, and when we prove it they’ll have another. The truth will always prevail.”
The sounds of Loriindton’s people could be heard before they even reached the door. All had a connection to Merit in some way or another, and all would be present at the trial of her supposed murderer. So it was to be held in the only space large enough to hold them all; the forest floor.
“I know.” Was the final thing Lyen said, reaching out to give the Talit’s wrist a quick squeeze as they exited the building.
The tables and bleachers from the mete’stiroi were repurposed for the trial. The platform that had been used as a dais for Merit and the others the night before was still used in that capacity, but for a much changed reason. In the background continued the snail race, with perhaps only a handful of observers, and most of the other festivities had been tastefully set aside. Cleanup was well underway, but it was a physical thing only. There was no cleaning the wound that had been dealt to this community until it was determined, beyond reasonable doubt, who had dealt it, and hopefully why.
The baroness’ body had been prepared the night before and now lay in state before her people, surrounded by fragrant herbs and flowers. Perhaps the sun’s light fell naturally upon her through a small break in the branches or perhaps someone had used the Gift to make it so. It did not greatly matter. Lady Merit was present at her own murder trial. Her treasures had been arranged around the table where she lay, wrapped in a banner with her personal sigil. Her eyes were covered with gold coins, and it was a certainty that, in the five days before she rose to meet the Bringers, she would see and hear all.
It was into this scene that Talit and Lyen emerged. There were not hundreds present; there were thousands. They spread out across the forest clearing, some sitting on the bleachers from the mete’stiroi, others occupying nearby tree platforms, staircases, and hanging bridges. The two of them, feeling rather an island unto themselves, passed beneath a small girl idly kicking her feet back and forth from one of the bridges, and a couple of boys who had run eagerly up beside her hurled insults at Lyen, or perhaps both of them. “Taiv’op!” one sneered. “Cuul’op!” accused the other, horking up a wad of spit, but an older woman came and grabbed both by the ears and hustled them away. Her scolding could not be heard against the backdrop of such a great mass of people, each with their own words to speak. Their voices had risen when they noticed the pair’s entrance. Now, however, as Baron Chad’orast’ilan’chiis rose, he made a gesture and, after a handful of seconds, the noise gave way to a silence that was eerie and unnatural to yasoi: ovaya’zesh – the ritual act of complete quiet.
Dyric had already taken his place, strategically close to his three-times-great grandmother, facing the three elders. He twisted only briefly to look at his sister and she was forced to part with Lyen, leaving the maledict alone in the center, surrounded by guards, as she took her place opposite Dyric and flanking the body of ‘old nan’, who it was clear she struggled to look at.
She instead looked to her twin, trying to discern his always unreadable expression. He'd gone to great effort in avoiding her, spending most of the night with the time-walker. The one place Talit wouldn't go. It was a cowardly act, but it instilled fear within her in turn. What lies did he think he learned and how could she disprove them as such?
Eventually the silence of the bloodthirsty crowd teetered, and Chad put an end to it before disrespect could be done. Those that had seats took them, others leaned or pushed themselves to the outskirts, until only the elder and two blind women remained standing near the body. Recognition of the one standing by Merit's head sent a shiver down Talit's spine, all the way down to her stump of a right leg. The time-walker that had deceived her so long ago. That would make the other a powergazer. Two arbiters of truth, only summoned for the most extraordinary trials.
"I will not waste time with ceremony. We all know why we are here: This woman," Chad gestured to Lyen, still flanked by guards behind the elders, out of view of the corpse. It was enough to cause an uproar from the spectators. Talit watched her friend's face harden as hurled insults reached her ears.. It was some time until they were quiet enough for the trail to continue. "Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc stands accused of murdering our Merit’entasp’osmax, by her own descendant; Dyric’antiil’osmax."
The two women instilled one final prayer to Damy to watch over their proceedings before walking to either end of the elder's table.
It was to the accused to speak first. So it was Dyric that stood, whispering something unheard to his dead grandmother as he turned to face the crowd, bowing to them first, then the Elders.
"None want to be here less today than I. But as Merit's descendant it is my duty to bring justice for her murder. Half those here gave witness to the same events I did last night; the maledict's touch of death. I believe it is no stretch to maintain that an unambiguous observation shared by at least dozens of individuals - if not hundreds - need not be called into question.” He paused, clasping his hands behind his back, and turned on the spot so that he addressed everyone present. “I am grieving, as I know many of us are, as I trust my sister is as well.” He swallowed. “That does not mean, however, that I shall let my emotions rule me.” He began pacing again, commanding the stage as only a politician could. “I intend to deal in only known facts this day and it is a fact that that woman, Lyen’ivhere’zulc, a known maledict, laid hands upon Lady Merit mere moments before she expired.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, mostly of approval. “And what do we know of this alleged murderer who stands before us?” Dyric’s intonation made clear his thoughts on the use of the word ‘alleged’. He spread his arms as he continued. “The truth is: precious little.” He returned to pacing, building his case. “For, you see, she was not born among our people, nor has she much deigned to live among us either.” He shook his head sadly. “Her loyalties, you can see written plainly upon her skin.” He was referring to the fleur-de-lis tetsoi that she had gotten, but it was not currently visible. He paused and amended. “If you cannot see, I invite you to look at Lady Talit’s shoulder instead.” Dyric shook his head and continued. “And what, might you ask, would someone whose first loyalty is to Parrence want with the baroness?” He laughed bitterly, not even bothering to state what everybody knew: Lady Merit was renowned as no friend to the great human nation that surrounded them. “All of us who were alive then know very well what the Parrench crown’s approach is to the slightest hint of independence or, as they term it, ‘dissent’, from our people.” His eyes lingered, briefly, on those of the elder Yrii’antiil’enjuun. “And now, we find yet another huusoi bloodshed brought to our doorstep: one that we all know my great grandmother would want us to stay away from.”
He paused close to the body and both blind women nearby tilted their heads in an eerie synchronicity. “We have a means and a motive, moilar, suuneir, yaluur. Yet, there are those who refuse to believe it. While some may be our enemies, I do not believe that most are. The bounties offered by huusoi nations are tempting, and those of Parrece chief among them. One need look only as far as my sister: truly among the best of us. She is a loyal woman, with a good heart, and I would not question that. When the crown prince, Arcel, came to us as a boy and she was ever at his side, I did not question it. When she would make her regular trips to visit him in Solenne, I harboured no doubts as to where her loyalties lay.” He glanced Talit’s way, beatific. “Earlier this year, when she took some four hundred of our people to fight alongside her huusoi friend at Relouse, I knew that our people’s interests remained foremost in her heart. If the Eskandr could be stopped on the beaches, so much the better.” He left it unsaid that, of course, they hadn’t. An army of them was known to be on its way into the region, though all believed that it would bypass the yasoi town so long as it remained nominally neutral. “Yet, not all are so strong as Talit’yrash’osmax. It is a simple matter for one’s reason to become corrupted, for one not to be willing to see the facts laid out cleanly before them, to not be able to make a picture from the pieces.” Dyric stood, center stage, and clasped his hands in polite deference to the elders. “That is what I intend to help our people do this day, whatever their beliefs may be, so that my great grandmother and our people alike may walk in everlasting peace.”
It took Talit a moment to stand in time for her turn. To observers, she struggled with maneuvering her crutches around the body. In truth, her head was reeling, searching for any probable reason her brother would have to voice such vitriol against her. But there was no time to consider motives, he'd riled the people of Loriindton well, and if they'd hated Lyen before, they were only waiting to tear her limb from limb now.
"I agree with my brother on two matters at least. The first being that my great-great-great grandmother's assassination has been one of our greatest tragedies in recent memory." She paused for silence, as keen spectators hushed others to hear Talit speak. "Though I fear we carry different memories of the woman she was. Her bitterness and resentment towards Parrence is well documented - but did we not also come to witness her to temper and resolve that hatred?" She began walking parallel to the elder's table, pacing the length of the clearing with hobbled steps. "In her lifetime to have witnessed such cruelty and still accept her declared enemy's son into her home. To have taught and raised a human child alongside her own grandchildren; you think this a woman with indifference to her neighbors? Let us not forget this Parrence is not that of Rouis, but of Arcel - the boy who lived among us, as one of us." She stopped herself before too much emotion could bleed into her voice. Dyric had stressed that particular relationship enough already without her adding more speculation. "Would any here that knew him dare accuse him of sending assassins to those that cared for him? The Parrench have made their errors and are different, but we know what they are, we know their king. Meanwhile violent southern strangers pass through our land without sending a single word of notice or warning." She stopped her pacing to look directly at Dyric at the mention of the Eskand, searching for some reaction and finding none. "Is our resentment toward the Parrench so great we can no longer recognize a trusted friend?"
"The second matter we agree on is that Dyric knows precious little of Lyen; our friend and sister." A lone voice far off shouted a curse at her in disagreement, but was quickly silenced. "He does not know of her bravery shown towards defending her people - the Yasoi people even when it was not her burden to share. How many of those that had come with me might have been lost had she not stood tall against Eskandr's golden hand and hand of death in the Witch Wood? Ask them yourselves - they live to tell the story because of her actions."
Reaching the end of the Elder's table, Talit shifted her crutches and began her pacing in the other direction, stopping to make eye contact with the panel's eyes as she moved. "Her duty to the Yasoi can be found even in her name, Ivhere, for she spent so long with her teachers absorbing our ways they though she might never grown into her own!" Some feet away, Lyen's face was darkening an even motlier grey than usual. "We can see now she has, though she still seeks knowledge from new places - yes including those among human lands. But we are Yasoi, and our people have wandered for as long as we've had limbs." There was a slight chuckle at that as Talit flexed her hands on her crutches.
"But Lyen has always returned to her people. Who that spoke to her last evening could say she is anything but Yasoi? Even her magic, which Dyric seems intent on vilifying, is that of our own people, blending together different areas of the gift. Maledicts can be as much healers as curse-makers, which the name does little credit for. It is humans that fear and separate magic by types and morality, categorizing what is and isn't allowed." She sighed as she reached her original place "Most importantly, maledict magic is similar to any other in one respect at least; it requires energy. As many witnesses as my brother claims, I do too; any with the slightest bit of the gift could have seen that Lyen did not draw. What spell could have been commanded without trace? The answer is none, gentle people of Loriindton. Merit's death deserves justice, yes. Precise, direct, and harsh retribution towards the right parties is called for, once they can be found." She finally faced Lyen and gave a weak smile. "I ask we all heard the words Chad spoke last night again, let us not repay one needless and unjust death with another. Let it fuel our determination to find the truth and the guilty party."
Their opening pieces said, the twin descendants of Merit took their seats again while the Elders huddled and whispered for a moment, before motioning to the guards on either side of Lyen. The younger of the two blind women present laid her hands on Lyen before she took her place to be interrogated. The powergazer asked innocuous questions in a calm, low voice that easily traveled to Talit's ears, the clearing was so silenced with anticipation. With a nod, Talit was given leave to begin her questions. Shuffling her crutches to one side, she leaned on her seat casually.
"Have I been speaking the truth when it comes to your character and actions?"
Lyen's face twisted into a grimace of a smile. "You have."
"Please explain the events of last night."
Talit stood in silence as Lyen gave her story. Moving only to shuffle her weight on and off her foot as needed. She listened as her friend told her events; their arrival, the beginning of the Mette. She detailed the many people she'd tried to engage about the human war, and the few that humored her enough to hang around. About her snail's disappointing start in its race and the near fight that had broken out from it. The one part of the story left vague was her time spent with Talit. She mentioned only their drinking and acquisition of tetsoi, and nothing of the words they'd exchanged. Finally she told of the moment itself, her drunken excitement, a brush against Merit "... and then..." The hands Lyen had been anxiously wringing together towards the climax of her story fell away, finally still. "She was dead." She finished.
"I have only one question left." Talit finally said after she felt enough time had passed for Lyen's story to settle, "Did you, Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc, kill my kin, Merit’entasp’osmax, by magic, poison, deceit ,or trickery?"
Lyen let out a sigh, "No."
Talit could feel the crowd's eyes move as one to the power-gazer. The shrouded woman only reacted with a short nod, which sent whispers rippling throughout the clearing, enough so that it took some time before Dyric was able to approach with his own interrogation. Not that Talit cared for whatever else he had to say. She winked at her friend, and for a moment they shared hopeful smiles as Dyric made his way to her.
"You are a trained Maledict? Could you explain what that means?"
"I think we all heard you mention it enough times." Lyen rolled her eyes before giving an answer. "It isn't dissimilar to the witchcraft any priestess uses, we just train to have a more direct command and control over our manas, using them as triggers for more delicate uses of the Gift."
Dyric nodded, turning from Lyen to face his sister for a brief moment before continuing. "So would it be possible for a trained Maledict to use their magic to trigger reactions within their own body with little need to draw." Talit sucked in a breath sharply enough to catch the attention of the handful of people seated closest.
"Yes," Lyen responded with some hesitation "it could be done if-"
"A sort of spell that could be used to suppress any involuntary chemical reactions produced by lying?"
Lyen scowled and folded her arms, refusing to answer as the muttering picked up again. "Did you understand the question, Lyen?"
"Yes but-"
"Yes what?"
Lyen and Dyric were glaring at each-other so intensely, Talit felt herself forgotten with the rest of the witnesses.
”It could be possible. Yes."
Dyric spun, not bothering to dismiss himself as the spectators erupted into a hysterical combination of hissing insults, and calls for blood. Talit felt Lyen's eyes looking to her for assurance or comfort, but she found herself unable to meet them.
- Calitan will be called to the stand, other characters may volunteer as witnesses to be interviewed. - Both teams should reconvene to amend plans/tactics as needed - This chapter will include the first day of trial and the following 18 hours until it begins again. Any schemes/info to turn the crowd and/or elders to your side, this is the time!
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the universe is grand, but life is grander
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<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/873000357712765022/1122544468558614632/25185797.gif" /><br><br>the universe is grand, but life is grander</div></div>
Badarby
mickilennial
Bingelly
Dyelli Beybi
Carlyle
Izurich
Qia
Master Crim
Lord Wraith
