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commie-eschatology · 4 years ago

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Fiona, Breaker of Chains

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041928

“It's hard to start a revolution. Even harder to continue it. And hardest of all to win it.” - Ben M'Hidi, Battle of Algiers. Fiona despairs, as Alexius's spell leaves her unmoored in time.

“Starting a revolution is the easy part. Winning one is the far more difficult task.”

Fiona looks at the words she has written, and cannot remember why. She sees that it is a pamphlet to send out to the remaining rebels, but she cannot recall for what purpose. Her temples throb with pain, eyes droop downwards with exhaustion- when was the last time she slept? She can’t remember.

“The Venatori, as the vanguard of the Imperium, will be honored to protect the mage rebellion from the templars, if, Grand Enchanter, you would merely agree to the terms of our contract,” says the Tevinter, a man she can’t recognize at first. Slowly, she remembers, this is the shem who seeks indentured servitude for her people, who’d provide protection from the templars if she’d agree to ship a few elvhen up to the Imperium. She opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, that she’ll personally rip out his shem tongue if he dares make such an offer here again, but the words don’t form. She feels blood drip down from her nose, her vision clouds.

Fiona’s in the White Spire, yelling “Fuck the Divine” to the College, relishing the horrified gasps of the Loyalists. “Well I’m sure the Divine is a perfectly nice woman,” she smirks. The vote swings their way, a moment Fiona has fought for her entire life, but now that it’s here, she feels unprepared for what happens next. They fight through the circle, a young enchanter, one of the People, throws himself on a templar blade to save Fiona; she doesn’t even know his name. So many sacrifices, cannot let them be in vain, must do what is impossible. In the streets of Val Royeaux, they chant that they are finally free, but they are not yet; it’s just a comfortable lie that they all share.

“I understand the nobility of Ferelden has reached the limit of their accommodation. The Imperium will provide what King Alistair will not,” says the shem magister, fiddling with a strange talisman. Alistair. She’s holding her baby boy in her arms, caresses the slight point of his small ears. Fiona is of the People, the long struggle of the Elvhen is in her very bones, she cannot impose such a burden on a child. Her son will never know his People, will never know her. She is a revolutionary, fighting and always prepared to die for her people, and there is no time for anything else.

Fiona is in Denerim after the Blight, watching from afar as they place a crown on Alistair’s head. She hopes the shem aristocrats will learn to ignore the slight point of his ears, the strange width of his eyes. Then, she is reading about another purge of the alienage, of how the appointed Elvhen Bann was murdered and not replaced by the Ferelden Crown. Her son has grown into a shemlen after all, what did she expect?

She’s kneeling before the throne, a necessary degradation after Andoral’s Reach, her grown son above her. Her knees begin to cramp before he finally speaks in full view of the court, “Very well, the rebel mages will have sanctuary in Ferelden. But, our army won’t fight for you, nor will we prevent the templars from pursuit if they wish.” Fiona grovels and thanks him, as is expected, he motions for her to stand and whispers that he wishes there was more he could do. But then, she is in the halls of Redcliffe castle, and her own son, flanked by his honor guard, orders the rebels to leave their sanctuary, recalling any protection her people had from the templars.

“It is a quite reasonable offer. I do not believe you will find a better one,” the magister says. She’s in her chambers, reading the daily casualties. Every day another friend, another comrade, dead, or worse. As the templars advance, demons of Despair appear as she dreams; Fiona herself manages to shut them out, but other enchanters aren’t so lucky. Every night brings danger, she’s never sure how many will wake in the morning. Fiona prays to Andraste and Shartan every night, wondering if they ever felt such crushing doubt during their rebellion, the kind that makes her feel as she is constantly shrinking into herself. She prays to the old gods of the People as well, for the justice of Mythal, the cunning of Andruil, the power of Elgar'nan, but they, as always, are silent. In her dreams, she spies a Wolf watching her curiously; on top of everything else, it seems she’s caught the scent of the fucking Dread Wolf.

She’s face-to-face with Enchanter Trevelyan now, daughter of the infamous Lady Trevelyan of the Free Marches, now called the “Herald of Andraste.”The true-believing Liberati, the one she sent to stop the Conclave if the negotiations didn’t swing their way, returns to Redcliffe with a Seeker at her back. Fiona watches as she realizes the terrible truth of their predicament,“An Alliance with Tevinter? I cannot possibly think of a worse decision you could have made,” she says. But, what decision was there?

Fiona is in the back of the tavern now, her temples throb with pain, and her mind feels foggy. She thinks there’s something important she has forgotten, but can’t remember what. Enchanter Linnea of Ostwick sits beside her, puts a comforting hand on her knee and says, “You did the right thing. The Imperium will protect us now.”

Trevelyan appears again in front of Fiona and Linnea, this time separate from her Inquisition companions. “Let me help,” she begs, “All I want is for our people to not end up in Circles again. Or worse.” Fiona cannot find the words to answer, so Linnea does so for her. “Go back to your templars,” she scoffs, Trevleyn flinches.

“Grand Enchanter?” the magister smiles, “will the mage rebellion accept our terms?” There is no choice to make. They never could win this rebellion. She’s already chosen, and will do it again.

“Yes, Magister Alexius,” she concedes. This time, at least, the shackles are hers to choose.

#dragon age #dragonage #fiona #mage rebellion #trevelyan #linnea #alistair #alistair & fiona

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ladywindrunner · 5 years ago

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@windrunnerrs ( nathanos ❤︎ continued from x )

“—in conclusion, Magister Drathir believes these rumours of plague are baseless, rooted in the mortality of the human race and their fear of death.”

The words came from a messenger of the Magister’s Terrace, a young man with a surprising haughty disposition. He stood in fine robes, though not as flowing as the magisters he served. He was a servant, not an apprentice, enchanter, or any other rank of mage the fools could conjure.

And Sylvanas was entirely confused as to why she was listening to him. She stared at the bookshelf, back to the man, eyes wide as her mind reeled from whatever spell that orb had cast.

Quel’Thalas?

The thought hardly pierced the absolute terror in her mind before she collapsed, lungs burning as she gasped for air.

“Ranger-General!” The arrogant tone of the young man vanished as he hurried over to her. He grabbed her arm, staring at her in concern. “Are you well?”

Ranger-General?

Light be damned, breathing hurt. It pained her each time her lungs dared to expand and draw breath. She sucked air in through flared nostrils and clenched teeth. Her limbs shook, and her skin ached where the messenger dared to grab her. Her nerves flared at every touch.

It was overwhelming.

“I—“ she croaked out a single word before she paused. Her voice, her voice was different. It was ordinary. It did not carry the ethereal resonance it had. It was plain. “Let… go of me…”

Hesitantly he did as she commanded.

Vicious with her glare, she regarded him with the same disdain she often had with the living who overstepped their bounds.

“Get out.”

There was no hesitation this time, the man scurried away.

She sat there in silence, unaccustomed to the fear that attacked her. Worse yet, beyond the nerves and the aching breaths she drew – was a haunting sensation within her chest. A thundering, panicked beating that rocked against her ribcage.

A heartbeat.

“Alive,” she hissed, struggling to her feet. She used the bookshelf to steady herself. “How terribly inconvenient…”

Admittedly, not a statement she’d ever thought she’d make.

It took her a moment to recognize where she was. Her first instincts of Quel’Thalas were correct. But beyond that, it was Silvermoon. She was in the palace, in her office at the top of one of the many spires the structure possessed. The window was open a crack, permitted the gentle spring breeze to reach her.

She stumbled towards a mirror, her limbs feeling strange.

Her heart, which she now felt for too keenly, nearly stopped.

Her skin was fair, flush with life. Her grey eyes were not drowning in a seething red glow, but rather alight with a gentle blue. Her hair was flowing, and long. It carried with it a lively sheen.

Her clothing, the outfit of a ranking farstrider, simple but respectable.

Her gaze caught a glimpse of a weapon resting on a desk. An elegant, ornate bow. Red, gold, and turquoise, bearing the symbol of the royal family.

The Sunstrider Longbow.

What was going on? What terrible trick was this? What had that orb done?

Thousands of questions flew through her mind, none of which possessed simple answers.

Sylvanas stared at her hands.

It was not that her limbs felt strange. They felt alive. They carried with them a sense of things. Touch, most notably. Though her nerve-endings no longer felt as if they were on fire, the high elf found herself almost overwhelmed by the sensation of clothing on her skin. While in undeath she’d been vaguely aware of their weight, now she noticed every stitch and thread that grazed her skin. How her breastplate was snug, midriff bare.

A choice dictated by vanity, if she recalled correctly.

She moved towards her quiver, and plucked an arrow from it.

Quel’dorei arrows, exquisitely made. Sylvanas pulled a glove from her hand.

Dreams were simple to end; the concept of pain always woke one up. Not that she’d dreamt in years – but there were incantations that could render the undead unawares.

Without faltering, she drove the head of the arrow into her hand.

The woman hissed after a second of terrible realization. She pulled the offending out, tossing it away as she clenched her hand a moment after.

She hadn’t woken up.

The spell hadn’t wavered.

She cursed in Gutterspeak, shaking her hand. Slowly she opened it up, eyebrow arching curiously.

Warm, red blood ran from the cut.

The smell didn’t strike her nose. All she smelt was the lilac trees from the gardens, wafting through the open window.

Either this spell was powerful, or it wasn’t a spell.

Her heart fluttered anxiously. What was happening back in Orgrimmar? Was that runt of a high king the Alliance followed using her absence to his advantage?

Her eyes widened.

Nathanos!

All at once she moving, ignoring how she felt nearly alien in her old body. She equipped her quiver and slung the bow over her shoulder, and was fighting to put the glove back on her hand as she descended the staircase, leaving that infernal office behind.

She was moving so quickly she nearly crashed into another.

“Ranger-General!” The exclamation came from a young man, eyes bright. He stared at her attentively, giving a quick salute. “Ranger-General, His Majesty wishes to speak with you.”

It took Sylvanas a moment to realize that the man speaking to her was Halduron Brightwing. Light spare him, somehow he appeared infinitely younger then—

When? Now? She wasn’t quite sure when this was.

“What?” She questioned, nearly snapped. Her eyes narrowed sharply.

His Majesty?

Brightwing’s lips pressed thin into a nervous cringe. “His Majesty… King Anasterian.”

Oh, she could have laughed. She almost did, her lips curved into a sharp, unfriendly smile. That fool was still alive. Yes, of course he was. Useless imbecile he was.

“I don’t have time,” she replied quickly, “that fool will have to wait.”

Halduron blinked, stunned.

She glared at him.

“Where is Nathanos?”

Halduron coughed, looking back the way he must have travelled. “I saw him outside the walls, Ranger-General. He plans to scout the Lordaeron wilds, to see what exactly is happening beyond our borders.”

Her heartbeat picked up once more.

She had to stop him.

If Nathanos was here with her, the fool was undoubtedly trying to save his country. She couldn’t allow him, he’d die. He could not save Lordaeron, by the time she’d given the man permission to leave, the human kingdom lost.

“Find Lor’themar,” she commanded, “tell him to ride for Windrunner Spire immediately.”

“Of course Ranger-General,” he bowed his head, “but what reason should I give?”

She frowned. She needed a reason for him to follow her command?

“Tell him it is of the utmost importance,” she clarified, though it was hardly a justification.

Brightwing, with little other course, saluted and hurried away.

Sylvanas hurried towards the doors of the palace. She wouldn’t run, not until she was outside.

She hadn’t considered what she’d feel, seeing Nathanos alive.

She called his name and watched him hesitate, turning whilst on the saddle to see her form running across the bridge to him. Her mouth turned dry, and she found it hard to swallow as her gaze became fixed on him. His skin was not deathly pale, his face was his own, with no hints of his nephew. She could see he drew breath, and he sat upon a horse amidst the elven world around him.

Her run became a jog, then a walk before she came to a complete stop.

What is wrong?

A strange, stinging pain erupted in her chest. She looked away from him for a second, somehow devastated. She stared at the wildflowers skirting the tree line. They weren’t yet in bloom.

Nathanos had been there, in the room with her when the orb activated. But if this had been her Blightcaller, he wouldn’t have asked that. He would know. He would have told her she couldn’t stop him.

In this strange nightmare, she was alone.

All at once she buried the anguish, and looked once more at him.

Her distress did not stay away; it rose up with a vengeance. She felt as if she’d choke on it if she dared to speak.

“I—“ she coughed, clearing her throat as she cursed her heart. It was already causing problems. “I need you to accompany me to Windrunner Spire.”

Her home was at least two days ride from Silvermoon, but it was the only place she could guarantee no one would overhear what she had to say.

“I cannot tell you why, only that it may have dire ramifications.”

#// sylvanas broken hearted blightcaller didnt come along #// also what could go wrong with the banshee queen running around quelthalas #// while in her living body XD #✧:: the tyrant queen ( shadowlands )

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erikacousland · 4 years ago

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Dragon Age: Asunder. Reading notes, part 18

Chapter 18

"The only insanity I see here is that of a man who refuses to see what he does is wrong."

… There was going to be a meeting, and it involved important mages who had been slowly arriving from faraway places. Everyone called them "First Enchanter," though he had no idea how so many people could be first at something. Didn't there have to be a second, and a third?

As important as they might be, however, they were afraid of the templars. When they argued, they did so quietly because there were templars nearby . . . watching, always watching. They folded their arms and scowled at the mages, the same way the kitchen cooks scowled when they spotted a rat. These mages could wear all the fancy black robes they wanted, it didn't mean they weren't prisoners.

… The things the others said about the templars made sense. They were the problem. When he looked into their eyes he didn't see the danger he used to. He saw fear. A terrible fear that was going to burn up everything in its path.

A fat templar was waiting outside the doorway Cole sought, half- asleep. His head kept drooping and then snapping up again. If he'd just nod off, this would be easier, but there was no such luck. Fear kept him awake. Fear of the man in the black armor.

Cole shuddered at the memory. That man was made of steel, honed to a fine edge. When Cole had been in Evangeline's chambers, that man had sensed him. He had something in him, something different from the other templars, but Cole couldn't put his finger on it. He didn't want to find out what it was.

Slowly he walked over to the guard, heart pounding in his chest. Pharamond said that everyone forgetting him wasn't just something that happened. It was something Cole did. A power. If so, maybe he could use it.

You don't see me. You won't notice anything I do. He stared into the guard's eyes, concentrating, summoning up . . . something. He could feel it. Way down inside of him, in the dark place he never dared to look, something was there. He tried not to let it frighten him. Instead, he told it to come.

Reaching out, ever so carefully, Cole plucked the keys from the templar's belt. He maintained eye contact the entire time. The keys jingled, and he froze. Nothing. The man didn't blink, didn't react at all.

I can do it. I can make them not see me.

"You've changed." Cole walked over to the elf and sat down on the edge of his cot. Pharamond glanced down at the dagger in Cole's hands, his eyes widening in fear. "You can see me and remember me because you want to die."

The elf gulped once, loudly. He didn't look away. He didn't question how Cole could know such a thing. He also didn't say Cole was wrong. "Tomorrow morning they're going to make me Tranquil again," he whispered, the words a croak torn from the depths of his throat. "I want to die more than anything."

Cole nodded sadly, but didn't respond. He stared at the flickering candle instead, and for a long time the two of them sat in silence. Being Tranquil didn't sound so bad to him. He'd been terrified of being swallowed up by the darkness for so long it seemed like it would be a relief to get it over with. You were only scared of becoming nothing until you were nothing.

Just like dying.

The last conclave Rhys attended had been a spectacle.

The College of the Magi in Cumberland was a palace— once the home of a Neverran Duchess and given to the Chantry, it was rumored, because her daughter had been discovered to have magical talent. The Duchess wished her daughter to live in the opulence to which she was accustomed, and not in a dark tower a hundred miles away.

Rhys believed it. If the White Spire was impressive for its oppressive grandeur, the College was impressive for the sheer wealth on display: marble pillars, brightly painted frescoes, vases, and gilded vines that crawled up the walls. The entry hall had been especially interesting, with sandstone busts of every grand enchanter who had held the office in the last six hundred years. Everything glittered. It didn't seem like the sort of place mages would be allowed to gather, but it had been exactly that.

The "red auditorium," so named because of its domed mahogany ceiling, easily held the two hundred people in attendance: first enchanters, the heads of every fraternity, senior mages, and even intrigued apprentices. They argued, postured, split into cliques, and made speeches. Some were there simply to watch, the eldest with no small amusement at the "excitable" newcomers. Rhys had spent his time wandering amidst the cacophony, confused as to the schedule of events until he realized there wasn't one. Any attempt to enforce order was swept aside in favor of conversation.

Very little had been accomplished and, according to those who attended, that wasn't unusual. Still, nobody seemed to mind. It made the mages feel like they were a part of something bigger than just their own tower, and that when they chose they could speak as a unified voice.

This conclave, if it could really be called such, was nothing like that.

The White Spire's great hall dwarfed those present: fifteen first enchanters, short four who couldn't make it in time, plus the Grand Enchanter. Other than that there was simply himself, Adrian, and Wynne. The templars watching balefully from the walls more than doubled their number. It was intimidating, and everyone felt distinctly uneasy.

Rhys stood off to one side, not really feeling welcome in their inner circle . . . unlike Adrian, who hadn't left the Grand Enchanter's side since they'd arrived. No one was talking. They waited for Pharamond to be brought in, and that alone was cause for tension: Wynne had already explained what was being done, and none of the first enchanters were pleased. When the elf finally entered, Tranquil once again, Rhys wasn't sure what the reaction would be. Nothing good.

Grand Enchanter Fiona was an elven woman, black hair greying at the temples, and almost as short as Adrian. It might have been comical to watch the two of them standing next to the taller mages had they both not possessed an intensity which made them larger than life. Fiona glared daggers at the templars, and it was apparently a sentiment shared by the others.

As he stood there watching, Evangeline walked over to him. Her armor had been newly polished, but he noticed she'd left the red cloak behind. It made her seem . . . less imposing, somehow. Not that he ever thought her imposing, per se, but he had always pictured her as an authority figure. If she was trying to downplay that now, she was the only templar present making the attempt.

"Adrian is currently attached to the Grand Enchanter's hip. That makes her more of an accessory, I suppose, like a nice belt or an extra pair of shoes."

"I've had enough of this!" someone cried from the great hall's floor.

…

The commotion on the floor was centered around the Grand Enchanter, who was now stamping her staff on the marble floor to get the others' attention. The staff flared brightly, making her white robes stand in stark contrast to the dark ones around her. The watching templars whispered angrily in response, and several headed toward the doors.

"We're not waiting," Fiona declared. "We're here now, and we're well aware of what we're to discuss. We don't need another Tranquil to underline the kind of contempt in which the templars hold us."

"Will you keep it down!" one of the first enchanters hissed fearfully, an Antivan man with a braided black beard.

"No, I will not." Her staff flashed as she turned her glare on the other mages before her. "This is the first time we've been allowed together in a year, and I'm not going to waste it." She took a dramatic breath. "I am putting forward a motion to separate the Circle of Magi from the Chantry."

Everyone in the room took a shocked breath. More templars moved toward the doors, these ones propelled as if chased. Rhys sensed that something bad was about to happen— the air bristled with anger, ready to explode. He followed Evangeline, running onto the floor.

"We are to discuss Pharamond's research," Wynne insisted. "Nothing more. If you derail this conclave, Fiona, we'll never get another."

Fiona snorted derisively. "This isn't a conclave. This is a joke! We could discuss what to do about the Rite of Tranquility until we were blue in the face; do you believe the templars would even think about following our advice?"

"The Divine is willing to—"

"Fuck the Divine." She sighed when the others stared at her, stunned by her blasphemy, and rubbed her forehead in agitation. "I'm certain the Divine is a perfectly nice person," she continued in a more conciliatory tone. "So was Grand Cleric Elthina in Kirkwall. She did her best to keep everyone happy, and what happened? Nothing was resolved, until finally her inaction killed her."

Wynne frowned. "She was killed by the act of one madman."

"I'm not going to condone what Anders did," Fiona said, "but I understand why he did it. I'm only suggesting that we act, not blow up the White Spire."

"Aren't you? How do you think the templars will respond to this?"

"We are not responsible for their actions. We're only responsible for our own." Fiona turned her gaze to each of the first enchanters in turn. "You all know who I am. I came to the Circle from the Grey Wardens because I saw something had to be done. In the Wardens, we learn to watch for our moment and seize it— and that moment is now."

"And what would you have us do? Battle the templars when they attempt to take us captive?" Wynne stepped in front of the Grand Enchanter, holding her hands out imploringly to the others. "What Pharamond discovered has given us an opportunity. In the face of evidence that the Rite of Tranquility is faulty, the Divine has the excuse she needs to ask for reform. That will be a beginning, I promise you."

"You promised as much at our last conclave," Fiona said. Her words weren't harsh, however . . . Rhys thought she sounded weary more than anything. "And look where we are. We know how you feel, Wynne, but the Chantry can't wait to decide when it's safe to do what's right."

"I put forward the motion," the Grand Enchanter said urgently. "Who says aye?"

But it was too late. All heads turned as Lord Seeker Lambert marched through the great hall's doors, a crowd of templars at his back. All had swords drawn. Three men who wore the same black armor as the Lord Seeker walked at his side— more seekers, Rhys realized. The thunderous noise of their entrance was like death approaching.

The templars and seekers spread out, surrounding the mages in a heartbeat, as the Lord Seeker strode toward them. The cold fury in his expression left no mistake as to his intent. "This conclave is at an end," he declared. "Like children, you cannot even be trusted to do as you are commanded. I will not have treason under this roof."

Grand Enchanter Fiona stepped ahead of the others, almost protectively. Considering how short the elven woman was compared to the Lord Seeker, it might have seemed laughable were her incredible power not obvious. Her staff flared brightly, mirroring the outrage in her eyes. "This is no treason. The Divine gave us leave to hold conclave, and you've no right to tell us what we may or may not do with it."

"The Divine is a fool," he snarled at her. "As are all of you, both for thinking this might even be permitted . . . as well as for listening to the words of a murderer." It took Rhys a moment to realize the man was referring to him. "The Tranquil, Pharamond, was found dead this morning. Stabbed to death. I took the liberty of having Enchanter Rhys's chambers searched, and found this."

He tossed something on the floor between them: a knife with a black hilt, the smear of blood on its blade clearly visible. It wasn't Rhys's, nor did it look anything like Cole's dagger. Rhys had never seen it before. "But . . . that's not mine," he objected.

The Lord Seeker seemed unimpressed. "I am done listening to the Divine," he announced. "She will lead this land into chaos it can ill afford. All of you have a choice: stand down and return to your towers, unharmed, or be treated as the rebels you clearly are."

"No, it is you who have a choice," Grand Enchanter Fiona warned. "Leave us to our lawful conclave. Allow us to investigate this claim against Enchanter Rhys in a rational manner. Or face the consequences."

His eyebrows shot up. "Threats?" He looked at Evangeline. "And what of you? Do you stand with these traitors, or will you salvage some shred of sanity?"

Evangeline clenched her jaw. She drew her sword. "The only insanity I see here is that of a man who refuses to see what he does is wrong."

Templars charged toward Rhys. A nearby first enchanter raised her hands. "I surrender!" she cried in a panic. Whether the templars didn't hear her over the cacophony or thought she readied an attack, he couldn't tell. Either way, the first templar that reached her ran her through.

The surprised look on the young man's face said he hadn't expected that. He watched in horror as the mage stared down, confused by the sword now piercing her chest. As she opened her mouth to speak, blood spurted out. Quietly she slid off his blade and slumped to the floor, a dark stain spreading on her robes.

The reaction was electrifying. A cry went out as more mages saw what had happened, and suddenly they were no longer merely defending themselves. Rhys heard Adrian scream in fury, and deadly fire rained down on the templars— men burned, screaming horribly. The entire chamber exploded in chaos, a cyclone of lightning and smoke summoned in their very midst. The templars attacked indiscriminately now, hacking down any mage they could reach.

…

He turned and saw Wynne cradling the fallen woman in her arms. She desperately summoned healing spirits to mend the woman's injuries, but the magic she poured into the body was pointless. The woman was dead and gone. Wynne shook her head in horror, tears running down her face. "No! No, this is all wrong! That can't be happening!"

Fear clutched his heart as Rhys saw the Lord Seeker standing before them, a glittering obsidian blade held casually before him. He appeared undisturbed by the chaos, grey eyes focused on them and only them.

"Get out of our way, Lambert," Evangeline warned.

"No one is leaving this room," he said, his tone cold as ice. "Not a single one." A dozen templars appeared behind him, and Rhys saw more coming. Mages were scattering now, some trying desperately to flee even as they were cut down. Others were being overwhelmed, their mana disrupted until they couldn't cast a single spell. The mages were losing.

Wynne pushed herself away from Rhys, wiping the tears from her face. "You won't get away with this!" she cried, her voice hoarse.

"Get away with bringing a murderer to justice? With stopping a new rebellion in its tracks? The Maker's work is being done today, nothing else." He strode forward, summoning power into his sword as the other templars surrounded them.

Evangeline raised her blade with a look of determination. Wynne, too, gripped her staff and prepared for battle. Rhys couldn't let it happen. He dug deep down into the reserves of mana within him, deeper than he ever had before. With a cry of rage, he held up his staff and unleashed a torrent of magic.

The wave of force that expanded from him sent every templar flying back, as if they weighed nothing. The entire building shook, and for a single moment Rhys felt exhilarated. The power . . . it was like nothing he had ever tapped into before. It flowed through his veins, filling him up.

It would have been so easy to do more. The Veil was fragile, and he could sense the demons, lurking just beyond and eager to enter this world. A single call would give him all the power he needed. He could take many of these templars with him, one last hurrah they would never forget.

Forbidden power at his fingertips, beckoning.

#Dragon Age: Asunder #Dragon Age #Wynne #Cole #Dragon Age Novels #Reading notes #David Gaider

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garywonghc · 7 years ago

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The Man Who Told the Future

by Pico Iyer

Kristin and I were scuffling around the back streets of Kathmandu on a lazy November afternoon. We’d already gone to the zoo that day, and been unsettled to see a brown bear clutching at the bars of his cage, wailing piteously. We’d trudged around the National Museum, where every artifact of the King’s life was recorded, with particular reference to “The Royal Babyhood.” We’d passed an early evening amongst the spires of Durbar Square, watching bright-eyed boys play Carom while their elder brothers brushed against us in their jackets, muttering, “Brown sugar, white sugar, coke, smack, dope.”

But now the afternoon was yawning ahead of us and we didn’t know what to do. It was a rare opportunity for shared sight-seeing: Kristin was accustomed to heading out every night at 10 p.m., reeling through the pubs and bars of the old city, being chatted up by self-styled mystics before fumbling back to our tiny room in the Hotel Eden as the light was coming through the frosty windows. I’d take off, a little later, into the heavy mist, notebook in hand, to record the bearded sages who sat along the streets peddling every brand of cross-cultural wisdom. She was collecting experience, we liked to think, I was collecting evidence.

We’d met in New York City eight months before and, on a wild impulse, had decided that Kristin should join me on the last stop of a four-month tour through Asia that I was planning to take. She had a charming boyfriend back on East 3rd Street, and I was romancing my notebook, so it felt more than safe as we settled into our sixth-floor room on Freak Street.

I opened my Lonely Planet guide — my companion through all the countries I’d visited — and pointed out to her one item that had long intrigued me. There, tucked among long lists of trekking agencies and meditation centers, explanations of living goddesses, and reviews of apple-pie emporia, was the single most startling entry I had seen in such a work: “The Royal Astrologer.” For a price, the write-up said, this mage who consulted with the palace on even its most important decisions — When was the right day to pass some edict? Which time boded well for a royal birth? — was available to anyone who wished to see him.

How could either of us resist?

I had grown up in England, among little boys at boarding school who defined ourselves by everything we imagined we could see through. By day, we committed to memory the lines of Xenophon and Caesar; by night, we proved ourselves “superior” to everyone around us with cascades of fluency and quasi-sophisticated airs we’d borrowed from our books.

Three times a year, I left my all-male internment camp and flew back to my parents’ home in California. There, in a blindingly yellow house perched above the clouds, my father was reading the palm of every stranger who visited, talking of Aquarian precessions and the “Ascended Masters of the Himalayas.” His students, graduates of the Summer of Love, were attuned to psychic vibrations, auras, and verses from the Bhagavad Gita, but I wasn’t sure they’d recognise real life if it punched them in the face.

What better environment for producing someone who loudly announced he believed in nothing?

Kristin, however, had never given up on magic. She was five years younger than I — twenty-three to my twenty-eight — and she had a powerful belief in herself (or some parts of herself), matched only by her conviction that life would reward that faith.

One time, she’d come to my office, on the twenty-fifth floor of Rockefeller Center, and I’d pulled out a backgammon set. I was one throw from victory, and the only way she could defeat me was by throwing a double six. She closed her eyes, she shook the dice again and again between her hot palms, she muttered something nonsensical, and then she sent the dice clattering across the board.

One stopped rolling, and disclosed a six. The other came at last to rest: another six.

Now, as we tried to follow the runic instructions to the Astrologer — what true sage would allow himself to be listed in a Lonely Planet guide, I wondered? — we found ourselves passing through empty courtyards and along a scribble of narrow lanes. We were directed toward a golden temple, and then through another maze of darkened backstreets, and then led out into an open space where a ladder brought us up to a second-floor redoubt.

When the Royal Astrologer greeted us with a business card listing his doctorate and his work for NASA, my every doubt was confirmed.

Still, I was sure I could get a good story out of this, so we agreed on neither the priciest of his readings, nor the cheapest. We padded off to while away the hours before he could give us his verdicts, and settled into one of those Kathmandu cafés that might have doubled as Ali Baba’s cave.

Nepal in those days was budget time-travel to all the revolutions we were too young to have experienced firsthand. Pillows and cushions were scattered across the floor of this (as of many a) café, and a swirl of peasant-skirt bedspreads turned the space into a kind of magic tent. A creaky cassette of “The Golden Road of Unlimited Devotion” unspooled blearily on the sound system, and any number of mushroom enchiladas and “secret recipe” lasagnas on the menu promised transport of a more mysterious kind.

Travel, for me, had always been a testing of the waters. Every journey is a leap of faith, of course, a venture, ideally, into the unknown. But for me a large part of the point of encountering the Other was to see what and how much to believe in. Every stranger approaching me with a smile posed a challenge of trust — and asked, silently, how much I could be trusted, too. Something was at stake in nearly every transaction, I felt, and it was as essential as whether you believed the world made sense or not.

Kristin and I had met when she, a former student of my father’s, had read a cover story I’d written on the Colombian drug trade. She dreamed of being a writer, though for now, just out of college, she was working as a temp in a succession of Manhattan offices, deploying her capacity for typing at a furious speed. I had similar dreams, though for the time being I was cranking out long articles every week on world affairs for Time magazine, drawn from the reports of colleagues in the field. The explosion of demonstrations that was convulsing apartheid-stricken South Africa, the manoeuverings preceding the Mexican election, the gas leak in Bhopal: I covered them all with the assurance of one who had never seen the places I was describing.

In the warm summer evenings, the two of us met often in the gardens of tiny cafés in the East Village, and she showed me the story she’d just written about Desirée, an Indonesian bride arriving in America. I told her of the book I was going to write on Asia. We swapped our latest discoveries from James Salter or Don De Lillo, and she told me of her girlhood adventures growing up in India and Japan and Spain (her father a spy under deepest cover).

By the time we headed out into the streets again, dusk was beginning to fall over the Nepali capital, turning it into fairy-tale enchantment once more. Oil lamps and flickering candles came on in the disheveled storefronts and faces peered out at us, almost invisible save for their eyes. We slipped and lurched across the uneven, potholed paths, the silhouetted spires of temples all around us. The noise and the crowds of the big city seemed to fade away, and we were in a medieval kingdom at its prime.

As we climbed the stairs back to the Royal Astrologer’s chamber, we might have been stumbling into an emergency room after an earthquake. Half of Nepal was there, so it seemed, shivering in the near-dark as everyone waited for his or her fortune. A family wondering when to take its newborn to the temple, and how to name him; a nervous couple thinking about auspicious marriage dates.

Quite often, a sudden thump at the door announced an urgent messenger — from the palace perhaps? The Royal Astrologer handed out futures as easily as a doctor might, and the people who left his room were seldom the same as when they came in.

Finally, he summoned us closer and pored over the charts he’d drawn up from our times and places of birth.

“So,” he said, turning to Kristin — she craned forward, taut with attention — “generally, I have found that you have a special talent.” She braced herself. “This gift you have is for social work.”

I’d never seen my friend look so crushed.

“Does it say anything about creative work, an imaginative life?”

He looked again at the circle with all the partitions and said, “Your talent is for social work.”

She didn’t say a word at first. “Nothing about writing, then?”

He shook his head.

When it came to my turn, I worried it might prove awkward once he confirmed my future as a ground-breaking writer after what he’d said to my friend.

“So,” he said, looking down, “generally I have found that your strength is diligence.”

“Diligence?”

He pointed out the calculations and quadrants that confirmed this.

“‘Diligence’ in the sense of doing one’s duty?”

“Yes,” he said, and began explaining every scribble, but to someone who was no longer listening.

I knew that diligence was the quality that the Buddha had urged on his disciples in his final breath. But the Royal Astrologer wasn’t a Buddhist, and nor was I. To me, the word smacked of Boy Scout badges and “to do” lists.

“I think,” he went on, perhaps sensing our disappointment, “that every month, on the day of the full moon, you should meditate for an hour. And eat no meat all day.”

This sounded like the kind of thing my father would say. He’d been a vegetarian all his life and was full of talk of the virtues of stilling the mind and fasting so as to access a deeper wisdom.

I negotiated the sage down to fifteen minutes a month and a day without meat, and we filed out.

My four months wandering amidst the conundrums of Asia changed my life more irreversibly than I could have imagined. I went to California to write up my adventures, and when my seven-month leave of absence was over, and I returned to New York City, I knew I could never survive in an office now that I had such a rich sense of how the world could stretch my sense of possibility in every direction. While writing up my droll account of the magicians of Kathmandu — and the others I’d met across the continent — I’d remembered to keep an eye out for the full moon and had sat still for a few minutes once a month, restricting myself for one day every thirty to Panang vegetable curries.

It hadn’t seemed to hurt.

So now I served notice to my bosses at Time, packed up my things in the elegant office overlooking another 50th Street high-rise, emptied my eleventh-floor apartment on Park Avenue South, and moved to a small room on the backstreets of Kyoto without toilet or telephone or, truth be told, visible bed.

As I was settling into my cell, on my twentieth week in Japan, I found a letter in my mailbox downstairs. It was from Kristin, in New York. Her father had died suddenly the previous year, she told me. She’d been distraught, hadn’t known where to turn or how to get her longing out, so she’d taken to her desk.

Every night, while everyone around her slept, she’d typed — and typed and typed. When her novel was finished, she’d sent it out to publishers. Within hours, Random House had signed her up for a six-figure sum, and by now rights had been sold in a dozen countries around the world; she and her friends were spinning a globe as the number mounted.

At twenty-six, she seemed assured of a glorious future. She’d rolled a double six again.

A few weeks later, I walked, as I did every Wednesday afternoon, to the little shop across from Kyoto University that stocked a few foreign magazines. It was my one tiny moment of connection with the world I had abandoned. I forked over 700 yen, collected the week’s edition of Time magazine and consulted it, as I always did, while ambling back through the quiet, sunlit lanes to my tiny room.

As I was paging through the magazine, from the back, something caught the edge of my gaze that looked like a misprint — or, more likely, a projection of an over-eager imagination. There, in the Books pages, was a picture of someone who looked a bit like me — or, rather, like me in my previous life, in button-down shirt and striped tie.

I knew the magazine was eager never to take notice of books written by its staff — even former members of the staff — but I looked again and there, among the eminences, was a small, friendly review of my book about whirlwinding across Asia, accompanied by a visa-sized picture. I had any number of other projects I’d been chafing to complete, and now, I felt, I could try to be a writer at last.

“Diligence” and “social work” indeed! The Royal Astrologer didn’t know a thing.

That was half a lifetime ago, almost to the day, and more than a hundred seasons have passed. A few years after our visit, the palace in Kathmandu was torn apart by a crazy massacre and I had no doubt that the Royal Astrologer was no longer in service (if only because he would have been in trouble if he had predicted such a bloody coup — or if he hadn’t. Telling futures for the powerful has never been a reliable source of income).

As for Kristin, her path of double sixes had continued, almost impossibly, for quite a while. Her boyfriend in the Village, like so many, was a committed Star Trek fan and, like thousands of Trekkies, no doubt, had sent in a script on spec to the program’s showrunners in Hollywood.

Unlike most such fans, though, he’d seen his script accepted. He’d been flown out to L.A. and offered a full-time job with the program. He’d taken up a big house with Kristin in the Hollywood Hills, a chief architect of the universe he’d once worshipped from afar.

Few couples of my acquaintance had found such lustrous futures in their twenties. When I visited, Kristin and her beau seemed to have exceeded anything they might have hoped for, with their Spanish-style villa above the canyons, the red, open-top sports car, publishers and TV executives waiting to turn their words into pictures.

But Kristin had always had a restless soul — perhaps the same soul that had brought her to Nepal and sent her out into the streets every evening — and somewhere along the way, in flight from stability but not sure exactly of what she wanted instead, she’d burned the life she’d found and lost it all. Now, in her early fifties, she lives alone with a beloved cat, tending to every lost animal, still writing, but in a world that doesn’t seem very interested in novels, especially from the not so young.

Her strongest quality, though, remains her fierce attachment to her friends. She lives through them and with them, the centres of her universe, and keeps up with pals from high school in Tokyo and Delhi on a sometimes daily basis. She sends me warm and mischievous messages on my birthday and remembers every last detail of 1985. As the years have passed without bringing all the adventures that once seemed inevitable, she tells me that the trip to Kathmandu was one of the highlights of her life.

And me? A couple of years after my first book came out, I sat in a car just under the yellow house above the clouds and watched a wildfire take it apart, every inch of it, so that everything I and my parents owned — not least the notes and outlines I’d drawn up for my next three books — was reduced to ash.

In any case, I’d fallen under the spell of Japan and silence by then and decided to take on a wife and two kids, giving up my thoughts of becoming a writer, and simply turning out several articles a week to support an expanding household.

Writing, I’d seen, demands a ferocious, all-consuming commitment, a refusal to be distracted — or, sometimes, even to be responsible. That would never be my gift.

I smile when I hear people say that the young are too credulous, too open, too ready to be transformed. I and my school friends were so much the opposite. It was only travel — being propelled beyond the world we thought we knew and could anticipate — that stripped us of our petty certainties, our flimsy defences, our boyish confidence. It was only figures such as the Royal Astrologer who showed us that we didn’t know a thing.

We sit on opposite sides of the world now — Kristin essentially a model of social work, with the passionate attention she brings to her friends, while I steadily meet my daily deadlines, the very picture of diligence — and see that life has much wiser plans for us than we ever could have come up with. The only one who really was exercising a writer’s imagination, the kind that sees the future as easily as the past, was the well-meaning man I had mocked as he tried to nudge us toward a truer understanding of who we really are — and were.

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gronglegrowth · 4 years ago

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The Archmage’s tower was a very tall spire carved of fine stone, and many balconies and short bridges jutted out from it. Upon the bridges were small one- or two-floor side towers, though many of them were newer additions. The tower itself was quite old, and though it was ancient, it was the sturdiest structure in all of Gharnach.

The Frohiqui’in winds carried sand, which covered the lower reaches of the tower. Hanging beside the grand doors at the very bottom were two banners, bearing the sigil of the Archmage—a glowing eye with swirls emanating from it. The banners were Enchanted to show the eyes watching visitors. That enough deterred most from its doors, save for those who truly deserved an Archmage’s assistance.

The tower was fifty floors high, and all floors served their purpose. However, most floors didn’t see much use to anyone but the Archmage, for, to them, they were just decorations or things unworthy of their time.

The only floor most visitors ever got to see was the very bottom one, containing tapestries and rugs, a few bookshelves and boxes of books, and a seating area. This floor was named the miniature library, for there were four library floors. The other three were each stacked on top of one another, together forming the famed Trinity Library which the two rivaling Frohiqui’in mage groups, the Bashrahni and the Azar, could visit and read in. The Library consisted of over a million books, only fifteen percent of which came from this Multiverse. The others were much older tomes, each one documenting the events of the First Multiverse, whether factious, fictitious, or an amount of both.

The very top floor was a special floor. Aside from the impressive floor mosaic, there were also no less than fifty Teleportation platforms arranged in a circle around the center of the room leading to various areas of importance, an area devoted to astrology which contained two telescopes (one was magical), and a throne, beside which was a table with a comfortable pillow for any familiar worthy to be the Archmage’s. The throne was most commonly named the Seat of the Stars, for when one seated themselves in it, their vision expanded so much so that they could See. They Saw everything, and all but the most experienced of Seers couldn’t handle it.

It was this magnificent tower Aum Arcana had once called home, and it was this magnificent tower he was returning to now. He stood in front of the locked doors, grasped the crystal chain hanging near, and pulled. That was the doorbell, and it could be heard resonating throughout every floor, an Enchanting melody of chimes resembling a tune a certain Raven used to hum when he felt homesick for the Unknown.

The doors opened as the bell was heard; Aum entered. Within, he passed everything, concentrating on reaching floor forty-nine. He ascended each silver spiral staircase quickly, using magic to hasten his movement.

On floor forty-nine, he saw what he needed: the most well-stocked, most advanced mages’ lab ever devised. On one wall was a large mirror that, when given a name, would tear a hole in the Fabric of Reality to let one reach the dimension containing that name. Aum could tell it rithic and it’d open a portal to a dimension full of the gemstone. Rorrim’s Mirror of Ytilaer was a very useful device. That, however, was not why Aum was here.

Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was with the set of doors in the center. Aum expected them to be locked, but just to be sure, he tried the handle. It worked—what a fool was Mithion to keep his magical devices unguarded.

He took a step back, unsure of why he was doing so. Then—Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was with the set of doors in the center. Aum expected them to be locked, but just to be sure, he tried the handle. It worked—what a fool was Mithion to keep his magical devices unguarded.

Wait, Aum thought, that has occurred… twice, and my thoughts were the exact same.

He instinctively retreated a step again—Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was—

A Time Loop! Aum realized, and burst free of the spell. It was barely noticeable to all but the trained mage, and its effect…? It placed those it affected into a loop, repeating one or many moments of the past. Some people’s entire lives were stuck in a loop.

That’s how he wants to play this, Aum thought. He cast a protective spell blocking Time magic, then approached the doors again. This time, he was able to open them without repeating the loop. He closed the doors behind him and approached the marble pedestal.

Carved within the pedestal was a hexagonal basin filled with shining water. Aum looked into it and cast the scrying spell, hoping to learn where his not-as-foolish-as-originally-thought father was.

“You assume I leave my own tower undefended?” Mithion challenged, looking directly into the eyes of the scryer. “Intruder, you have been wandering through an Illusion….”

Everything melted away. Aum was standing in the middle of the desert, and the real tower stood not fifty feet away from him.

“Nas’ha-al,” Aum swore, realizing he was paralyzed. The sand swirled around him.

- Arcturus's End

When your son tries to betray you, remember! Surround them in a palace of illusions!

#my writing #tdlw #the dark light wars #arcturus's end

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rpg-adventures · 7 years ago

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A New Dawn: Second Darkness Epilogue

With the deactivation of the master glyph and the defeat of Allevrah Azrinae, the terrible doom Golarion secretly faced was averted. The falling star that had been captured by the aboleth magic was released, and the influence of the powerful magic that shielded it from the planet’s atmosphere faded.

Before returning to Kyonin to inform the Queen, the adventurers were met by an emissary of Abraxas who introduced herself as Alistraxia. She informs them that her master, Abraxas did not care if Allevrah completed her goals, he simply wanted to ensure than the Aboleth magic she utilized was not forgotten. To this end, she offers them a magical item if they were to take the research and keep them safe, deep within a surface world library for a seeker to find once again. Though Caeldor seemed tempted by the offer, his companions vehemently disagreed and young Lamia set the research ablaze before the mage had any time to argue.

The loss of the research seemed not to faze the demon, who simply smiled and stated that more copies were sure to surface as time went on. A boon of the human race’s habit of documenting their failures, she mocked, before returning to her realm.

With Alistraxia’s last words spoken and the Aboleth magic turned to ash, the party returned to Kyonin to assure the elves that another Starfall was prevented. Their mission was a success.

---

“Ledhpóna Kyonin!”

Caeldor’s voice echoed with magic. One moment, they were staring at the purple-glow of the Blood Basilica’s runic walls and in the next, bright morning light shone upon them.

Like the Drow they had fought, the adventurers shielded their eyes, briefly blinded by the first natural light they had seen in weeks. Tears stung Uyula’s eyes, as she squinted into the sun.

“Praise Gozreh!” she exclaimed, wiping her face and crouching to feel the grass between her fingers. “I can actually see the sky!”

Slowly the group regained their bearings, adjusting to the light gleaming of the pearlescent spires of elven architecture that surrounded them and the sounds of natural, running water and murmured Elvish reached their ears.

“Suilanna, Master Sanakt,” one of the royal guard greeted from the edge of the courtyard. “I am glad to see you all return.”

“Suilanna, meldir,” the Paladin replied with a weary smile. “As are we, I assure you.”

“The Queen will wish to speak with you,” he advised, looking over the worn set of warriors. His gaze finally rested on Uyula, sitting in the grass stroking the singed leaves of Twill’s wings with an untempered grin on her face as she basked in the sunlight. The guard’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, and he smiled at Sana.

“You seem in good spirits. Would you like to refresh yourself before seeking an audience with Queen Edasseril?” his eyes shifted to the grime on their armor, but he held his smile politely. “Perhaps a bath and some more comfortable attire?”

“A bath sounds wonderful,” Caeldor agreed. “So much more satisfying than a little prestidigitation. Yes, and well earned, I might add.”

“A little dirt never hurt anyone,” Uyula rolled her eyes, before noticing the blackened demon blood that still stained Twill’s ligneous maw. Bits of gore remaining from Allevrah still hanging from her horns, “...but I guess baths don’t either. So maybe a bath?”

Imani locked eyes with Sana, silently conveying her thoughts on the matter. ‘A private moment would be prefered. We should speak before reporting to the Elves.’

Sana nodded and addressed the guard. “Please. A few moments to clean up would be appreciated.”

The guard gestured to one of his peers to join them. “Galan here will show you to the guest quarters and I will inform the Queen of your arrival. Rest well.“

---

The guest quarters were undoubtedly elven, with curved walls and lavish decor that covered every inch of the room. Curtains draped over alcoves with private quarters and the enchanted harp sat by the marble bathing pool in one of the larger alcoves, serenading the space with an ethereal song. A step up from the simple quarters the group had shared during their previous stay in the Elven capital.

Uyula was never one to have a very high regard for strict personal hygiene, thinking there to be much more important things to worry about in life on a day to day basis and cleaning only really needed to happen when you couldn’t stand the stink of yourself or had something really yucky on your clothes with no handy spell to be rid of it - but as the steam from the perfectly heated and scented pool rolled along her dark skin she felt her muscles ache pleasantly for the water. It was time to wash off the land of Black Blood.

She didn’t bother with the sectioned quarters, simply walking up to the side of the pool and beginning to shed her layers and equipment. Weapons, gloves, bag, belt, armour, shoes, all in one unified ungraceful pile. Her clothes felt more like rags now, still damp with sweat and blood and dirt and the shower of conjured water she’d used to put out the fire clinging to herself and Twill. Uyula hummed thoughtfully, noting how strange it felt to think back to things that had happened mere hours ago, but already felt like a distant memory when suddenly surrounded with the life and light of Kyonin. She could barely believe they’d really been there, underground and surrounded by evil for such a long time.

“Come, Twill!” she called, reaching an arm back to beckon her companion as she waded down the steps into the pool. “We hafta wash the Allevrah off you.”

“Won’t that transfer ‘the Allevrah’ onto anyone else who wishes to clean themselves?” The giant wolf asked incredulously, coming to poise at the marble edge of the water sphinx-like, with her bark-tail swishing back and forth along the floor behind her. Bunny and Nutty scampered about over her shoulder, jumping back and forth after each other around the room looking for places to hide, bumping into things and making a great ruckus. Twill’s head snapped back and she bared her teeth with a low, warning grown - Nutty froze still as a statue and Bunny darted under Uyula’s cloak, peering out with its blood-red eyes aglow and nose twitching. At least the polymorphed pets of hers were starting to know their place.

“We can be like barbarians, and bathe in the blood of our enemies!” The half-elf cackled gleefully in jest, swishing her hands through the water to toss some up towards her friend, then ceased with a grin. “I’ll just purify the water when we’re done. Come on, I don’t like looking at you like that.”

Twill crouched down low over her front paws to scrutinise the pool, and after another moment’s thought rolled in with a loud and cumbersome splash. Uyula giggled like a child as she watched her eidolon roll about like an excitable puppy in a summer puddle, the leafy feathers along the ridges of her wings fluffing up with pleased relief even as the water around her started to cloud with the dark blood of vrocks and drow washing from her form. After she’d finished and gotten to her feet, looking far closer to her natural pale-oak colour once more, Uyula sat back and opened her arms, welcoming her close to fondly scrub behind her ears and pluck at stubborn flesh and gunk that still clung to the eidolon’s horns.

“I’m proud of you, Twill,” she breathed, pressing her face to Twill’s wide snout. “We did it, and you made the killing blow. I’m sure Gozreh is pleased for that, that would mean the world was saved in his grace, wouldn’t it? And now we can go home.”

Home. Churlwood. How long had they been gone? Would that tiny forest with its simple rules and easy problems be enough for her summoner when she returned, after all that she’d seen and carried and been through? She’d gone from a quirky, wood-dwelling loner to a world-savior, powerful and with powerful allies, and no longer faceless in a crowd. Soon, if not already, everyone in Kyonin would know their names and faces and celebrate them, and she wondered if the girl would know the Uyula they spoke of.

The great wolf hesitated a moment, her large golden eyes gazing up into Uyula’s own of the same shade, trying to find her answer. She lowered her head and nuzzling to her summoner’s shoulder. “We can go wherever you like, little one. Now clean the water before the wizard pitches a fit.”

Uyula sighed, and glided her hands along the soiled surface, mumbling to it in the secret Druidic tongue. Light shifted through the water, and within moments it was clear once more.

“I also appreciate it,” Imani admitted from the edge of the pool, hanging her heavy coat on a golden branch that seemed to grow out of the mural painted across the wall that curved around the bath. Methodically, she unbuckled and removed the few pieces of armor she wore. Their last encounter in Alleverah’s temple had left her gear in worser wear than normal.

As soon as Lamia placed her gear to the side of the bath, Imani pulled the thin, silk curtain around the perimeter for the scant touch of modesty it offered and began to disrobe.

“Caledor?” she asked through the curtain. “Can you make certain this room is safe from prying eyes and ears? The Elves may be our allies, but indulge my paranoia this once.”

She could feel the elf’s protest on the end of his tongue, but the words caught in his throat. Sighing heavily, the mage set to work on a spell.

“Considered yourself indulged, Imani. Our privacy is assured,” he announced, obviously too weary to argue the superior status of elves for once. In truth, the Winter Council and Alleverah herself had done much to deflate his own thoughts on the matter. “Do hurry it up in there. This ‘ladies first’ business is quite bothersome, you know.”

The tiefling ignored the comment and smiled to herself as she slipped into to warm, scented water. Honeysuckle and lavender, she noted, only just able to hold back a grimace. She missed the heady, spicy scents of Katapesh. Amber and sandalwood, balanced with desert rose. With a sigh, she dipped her hair in the floral bath and washed away the thought of home. It was a place she knew she would not be returning to, despite her hope when leaving Riddleport almost a year ago.

“I do not think it wise to share all of what we know with the Elves,” Imani spoke just loud enough to ensure Caeldor and Sana were still included through the drapes. “They have shown themselves to be seduced by ill-practices, and surprisingly short-sighted for a race who are so long-lived. Coupled with their natural talents for the arcane, I do not feel sharing the existence of aboleth magic, to risk them to seeking it, is a wise venture.”

Her strange gaze flicked up to the shadows behind the curtain. She could not deny her concern for the Paladin’s morals in such a situation. “How much do you intend to tell them, Sana?”

Lamia chimed in as she slowly slid herself into the pool. She’d been quiet for the past while not really thinking it was her place to speak; after all, what did a nineteen year old child know about the machinations of elves and demon lords? What she did know was that no one should have access to such evil.

“Perhaps we just tell them that the drow’s plan has been stopped… and not about Abraxas’ plans. If anything it’ll scare ‘em and probably inspire others to search for the stuff…” She pulled a nervous and lamentful face that was only privy to those on her side of the curtain. She met Imani’s eyes for a moment before shrugging and going back to lazily scrubbing the grime and demon blood off of her.

Sana’s walking slowed, until he stood near the edge of the large pool. He’d barely stopped moving since they arrived at the accommodation, leaving the room and returning multiple times and engaging the guards on the door, as well as his own shield, in muted conversation. His eyes unfocused, he looked as though he were seeing through the walls of their residence. Imani might have believed he was, if it weren’t for her particular ring being decidedly absent from Sana’s fingers. “You’ve both got points, I think,” he began. Although he, too, was speaking softly his voice projected around the room. “It’s not quite right though. Maybe I’ve become to used to the fight, but I feel like now is the time to be proactive.” Sana fixed his gaze on the curtain that obscured Imani and Lamia.

“If I know you at all, Imani, you’ve already started planning something. I’d hear it, if you’re willing. What we do and say in the next few hours could well ripple down the years.”

Imani’s gaze shifted from the paladin’s broad shadow, across the water to the women bathing beside her. After a quiet moment, she nodded softly and spoke up.

“Before we embarked for Zyrnakanin, I sent a letter back to Magnimar for my brother. It was… my resignation from the Order,” she began, sinking down to let the water sit just below her scarred shoulders. “I walked through that portal, and into the Darklands as Imani Fiendborn -- a tiefling free to pursue her own path in service to the Seven Veils. No longer am I a ward of the Kassis family, nor a Shadowbreaker. As such, returning to Riddleport is not an option for me.”

It felt like an awkward admission to leave hanging, lest one of her companions find the chance to comment, so the half breed quickly continued.

“Leaving the Order removes what protection I had. Not only does the blood of fiends run through these veins, but I know their ways, their tactics and safe houses. While it places a sizable target on my back, it also leaves me to pursue matters that my Lady deems more important,” she continued. “The gloating of the maralith has me concerned. There was no lie in her words. Abraxas unearths secrets that should be best left to rest, and as any demon would, cares nothing for the chaos his machinations unleash. For me, at least, the journey is only beginning. Reconnaissance would be my goal for the foreseeable future, and I expect it will take me far from the Order’s gaze for the time being.”

“Should the Elves allow it, I would like to start my research here, in their libraries,” she concluded.

Uyula scrunched up her elven nose, pulling a face. She looked a mix of concerned and disgusted.

“Here? Surely the only one of us who’d happily stay here is the wizard.” She paused and rolled her eyes as Caeldor huffed and muttered about her from behind the curtain. If only the ancient, secret Druidic language had swears, then both of them could curse at each other in other languages.

“Another way you could look at it is,” she started thoughtfully, her head bobbing back and forth to the pandering of Twill’s grass-coloured tongue lapping insistently at her hair, like a she-wolf cleaning her young. “Maybe that Alistraxia told us what she did on purpose, so that we’d pursue these other documents and rituals to keep the curses alive. She did say Abraxas just wanted to be known and unforgotten. What better way than to work up the people who defeated him into a frenzy, looking all over for the Aboleth magic and keeping the knowledge of it fresh?”

Twill’s head rose, her amber eyes regarding Imani, silently awaiting a response as though some undecided action relied on it.

“She also assured us that were we not willing to carry the knowledge to the surface, others would fill that role in time,” the tiefling pointed out softly. “We did not defeat Abraxas in the Darklands, we merely prevailed over Allevrah’s plans. I do not believe staying idle would do much to impede his goal in this case.”

Laima’s eyes were trained hard on Imani like a concerned mother. Though the tiefling had several years on her the simple nature of ‘family first’ the youth had been raised with shone through, and like it or not they were all family.

“If Riddleport is no longer safe for you…” she trailed off as internal debate wore on her face, “... even the Gold Gekko cannot offer safe haven, you have men of your- uhm, ex-Order there. Will they remain? What of my brothers? Would they use us to get to you?”

She found herself rattling off too many questions and bit her tongue for a moment. “Whatever your plans are, I'll be there for you, Imani, I promise.”

The tieflings grey lips curved into a brief smile. The young girl had come a long way since that night following the battle of Celwynvian. Imani inclined her head gratefully. “Thank you. In my letter I had mention of Celwynvian, I expect the men at the Gekko have since be recalled and reassigned to follow that lead. The Shadowbreakers have a weak presence in Varisia, their forces will have to conviene in Katapesh from around Cheliax and Orision before they get organized and move out. Should they still be stationed at Riddleport, they will be no threat to you or your brothers. Simply tell them the truth, tell them we split paths in Kyonin. I will ensure I am not here when they arrive to check.”

Lamia nodded slowly, her brow furrowed for the briefest of moments but she seemed sated by the answer. “Alright. Just remember if y'all ever need a place to lay low, the Golden Gekko is open. I'll have the underground passages made up as a safe house if we ever need it.”

With that Lamia dunked her head under the pools surface for a moment to let the matted sweat and blood wash out of her dark locks. Once reemerged she rested against the lip of the lavish cistern with a happy hum. They'd won the battle and while the fight wasn't over it was still a good time to enjoy the pleasantries of life.

“Uyula has a point too. How do we know this isn't a trap set by Abraxas?” the young woman pointed out.

The armoured figure on the other side of the curtain turned, and his voice was softer, as if speaking away from the bathers.

“It’s a Demon Lord. As much as it wants the Aboleth magic remembered, if we’re even slightly a threat it can simply ignore us until we just… go away. And we will, eventually,” he continued sadly. “Time will take us all. Proactive action, something where we can make a lasting impact is the only way to curb the revelations Abraxas wants to unleash.”

He chuckled, “A trap is ultimately a compliment, like the opposite of damning by faint praise. If it wants us trapped, then I feel there must be more we can do to stymie its plans.” The sound of Sana’s fist meeting his palm emphasised this statement.

“I think reconnaissance is a good idea. Finding out what already exists is a good start. The tunnels under the Gekko are also an exceptional idea. I may see if I can put the Arena to some use for us as well. There’s something else I’m missing; something we, as our Hyena pack can do, even if we have to go our separate ways.”

The shadow made to turn back as if looking at Twill’s bulk behind the curtain when he stopped. “Hyenas...” he muttered softly, the projection gone from his voice. “Which were… and then the priestess… domains…” he trailed off; thinking aloud.

A silence filled the room as Sana paced away from the curtain, before turning back to his starting point. He paused for a moment before his pace accelerated, and he stopped himself just short of swiping the curtain in front of the alcove back. Hand still on the rich cloth, eyes focused as if staring through the walls of the room he began to cautiously speak, as if his words would flee if he tried to speak them too quickly. “Months ago, before we arrived here for the first time, I told Uyula a story from my youth. How a man from the desert hills of Osirion had come to the temple seeking aid against the wild hyenas of the red lands. As he told his story it was my abbott that I watched.” Sana’s head turned, reliving the scene in his mind’s eye. “It seemed the abbott could have told the man his own story and it dawned on me I was living a fable, a parable, a tale where the telling teaches, aside from strict lessons and repetition of lore.

“Later,” Sana’s whole body shifted, as if he were moving to a separate table, to physical evidence only he could see. “When we arrived here in Kyonin, our first accommodation had that book, the one we believed was from Queen Edasseril. We read of the tale of the Priestess and the Quasit. We knew there was a message hidden within; why else would it have been so conspicuously left for us? “I believe now that the Queen was preemptively asking forgiveness on behalf of the Winter Council; they’d schemed for so long they couldn’t help but do otherwise. My tale asked that we stand together in the face of opposition. Each was a story with a separate message, knowledge couched in a format easy to spread, enjoyable to learn. Knowledge where the context was only revealed when it became necessary.” A predatory smile now began to spread over Sana’s face and his pace rushed. “Abraxas’ domains include knowledge, the forbidden. He wants this information remembered, he wants it feared. The maralith implied as much. ‘Fear the Aboleth magic, fear the might of the ancients and fear the being that can gift it to your enemies’. Let’s twist it,” he mimed. “Twist the knowledge he’s given us, remove the forbidden nature of it. Take what we know of the Glyphs, their crafting and their destruction and build a story around it. One where the Aboleths, their falling stars, destruction on Golarion are absent unless you know the real context. We build a fable that only speaks of how to break apart the stabilising and master glyphs, to recognise when they’ve been built. Not to fear them but to render them nuisances to which the answer lies in a childhood fable, the same way one burns incense for the gods or wears silver to deter ‘thropes.

“Destroying the instructions that the maralith and Abraxus would place is but a sliver of our strategy. We’ll poison the well, so to speak, by making the knowledge of the Glyphs and Starfall useless before it’s implemented. One day, the knowledge that the magic came from the Aboleths might be just a historical curiosity. A curious scrap to share when you plan on getting too deep in your cups to know anything else. “What we tell the Queen and her people later today should reflect this goal. They know so much already of what they faced, but we may be able to convince them of our way of seeing things. If they don’t know there is more to find, they think we’re just heroes wanting our story told our way, they may agree.” Sana’s eyes focused again, as he turned back to the concealing curtain and the bearded elf in front of it.

From behind the thin drapes, the tiefling laugh bubbled. It was a rare sound -- soft, but harsh like the light rattling of iron nails in a clay jar. Imani ascended the marble stairs leading from the bath and claimed one of the folded linen towels on the cabinet nearby, grinning to herself.

“My Lady would find much poetry in such a tactic, I should think,” she spoke toward the curtain as she dressed. Though the elven clothes were freshly laundered, the half-breed was about as fond of elven fashion as she was elven architecture. She muttered a soft curse her native tongue as she attempted to fix the laces that held the fitted bodice together.

“Everything alright?” Caeldor drawled, his shadow shifting closer to the curtain.

“Fine,” Imani growled, dissolving into a grateful smile as Lamia stepped up to assist her. “Just marvelling the construction of elven tailoring.”

As the young brunette went to fetch the matching skirts to Imani’s bodice, the tiefling frowned and shook her head, opting for a pair of the soft leather breeches possibly intended for the men, and boots to match.

“Thank you,” she smiled to the girl, retrieving her bladed scarf and ducking out from behind the curtain. The look she saw on Sana’s face was almost as amusing as the clothing had been frustrating. “I apologise, Imani,” he said, regaining composure. “I’d not even considered how the Seventh Veil would respond to such a tactic. That was remiss of me.”

Sana began removing his armour, as if remembering that he, too, would have to clean up before standing before the Elvish Queen.

“Ooooh,” Uyula sung finally, “I get it. You mean to say, because there’s no one here that could challenge our story on what happened, we could twist the truth to our advantage? Removing the dread of Abraxas and the ritual and all of that from the tale completely? That’s so smart, Sana.” She gathered her thick mounds of raven hair up in hand and began wringing the water from it, batting away Twill’s gnarled snout as she stood.

“If we could pull it off, that would cause to happen exactly what he’s so afraid of. He’d be left out of his own story and maybe even forgotten.” A grin spread across her dark lips at the thought. It was such a simple concept, yet could so easily be executed.

“History is written by the victors,” Twill hummed, following suit and standing, shaking out the water from the long thin branches that made up the sort-of mane along her neck and shoulders, littering the pool with leaves and small twigs, “and bards do like a moral to be at the centre of their epic stories. I see no reason not to spite Abraxas and omit him and his omens from our journey.”

“‘The Incredible Adventures of Caeldor the Magnificent’ sounds like a title the bards would love,” the bearded elf chortled from the other side of the curtain. “‘The Many Arcane Bumblings of Caeldor the Treasure-Obsessed…’” Lamia muttered to the ladies as she finished dressing herself in a simple but beautiful elven dress.

“We have plenty of time to build on this,” Sana said with a smile as Lamia walked out from behind the curtain. “But yes, Uyula, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Although I think instead of twisting the truth, we’re encouraging a story to become legend faster than it normally would. Besides, it is our story to tell and we can depict the villain however we like. And if we choose for that to be off-stage, so be it.”

“I think, Imani,” he said, turning to the tiefling, “in answer to your original question, we tell the Queen and her court that we prevented Alleverah’s magic from bringing the star from the sky, and destroyed her research and theories lest we become tempted, let alone anyone else.” If Caeldor felt Sana was deliberately not looking in his direction as the Osirian spoke, he didn’t show it.

“If they ask for specifics, we can provide a series of ritual sites, heavily defended, and state that we feel they are best left alone. The Drow presence may be gone, but there are creatures there that have no love for up-worlders and they remain at large. The Creature at the Crystal Plaza springs to mind.”

Lamia quickly shook her head. “That monster… I don’t think we have the power to defeat it. What kind of thing can exist in all planes at once at once, but I see your point.”

“Then we shall let the two of you bathe,” Imani nodded in full agreement. “Then we shall spin our tale for the Court.”

#imani #uyula #twill #sanakt #lamia #caeldor #second darkness #pathfinder rp

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