#but if i nitpicked all my shit; i'd never get a chapter out asdlfkjn

[fvaleraye]

Old Friends

Ayyyyyy, another Scintillam chapter... it’s a miracle asldkfjn this one focuses on uh the pyromancer from The Boatman(whom I have named Charthos bc he needed a name and I was tired of trying to think of one that wasn’t made up asdfkljn), and fleshing him out a bit also fleshing out more of the world bc there’s so much going on in it asldkfjn

i hope y’all enjoy reading it ‘^^

Getting letters out into the Charred Lands wasn't exactly easy. Not only was the terrain separating it from the rest of Magna Terra treacherous in every sense of the word, but pyromancers were very reclusive and paranoid people. They'd just as soon burn a letter than read it, especially if it was from a stranger, or, heavens forbid, unmarked. But especially persistent people had their ways. There wasn't exactly a mail service circulating in the Charred Lands, most pyromancers had more esoteric ways of long distance communication with each other, but there was the next best thing.

A middleman.

It wasn't exactly a secret that the Charred Lords held a position on the Council of Ten in name only. They hardly ever attended council meetings, and barely even bothered to pay lip service to the laws of the land. No-one dared fight them on that, however. No-one wanted or needed another Edict of Fire. The Charred Lords didn't exactly go out of their way to provoke the ire of the Council either. It was a bit of a cold war. However, for those truly persistent few, who, for whatever reason, absolutely needed to get in contact with someone in the Charred lands, there was neutral ground.

The Bogs.

Between the barren, ashy plains of the Old Lands, the crackling, boiling soil of the Charred Lands, and the fertile, sprawling greenery of the Great Forest, there was the Bogs. A place of unparalleled filth and grime. The first settlers of this horrid land were refugees of the War of the Flame, people with nowhere else to go. Most died, but those that lived became the first Bog Lurkers, horribly mutated creatures "blessed" with the Gifts of the Bog. No-one knows what causes these changes to happen, though the Bogs inhabitants claim it as the work of the Bog itself. They claim it to have a mind and will of its own, and that those it deems worthy receive blessings and secrets. Whether or not this was true when the Bogs were first settled is not clear. But now?

Well.

Belief is a powerful thing.

No-one wanted to be in the Bogs except for the Bog Dwellers or people crazy enough to believe their words. But occasionally outsiders came, from the Charred Lands and the outside world, for meetings, messages, and secretive outings. Messages were on the docket for today. Someone had been trying to get in contact with Charthos for a while now. The messages were unmarked, but he opened one after a while. They were all the same. Asking him to come to the Silver City for a job. He wasn't going to the Silver City, no way, no how. The mystery individual didn’t even offer money, influence, anything, if he would just come over and listen to what they had to say. Maybe they were stingy. Maybe hey had nothing to offer him. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t take anything that they offered anyway. And yet he continued to get letters, and he continued to ignore them. At this point, he was burning them out of annoyance and frustration rather than distrust. He wasn't even sure how they kept getting these to him. They had a Charred Seal on their letters, so obviously they were someone of importance. Eventually, though, the letter person offered to send a middle man to the Bogs, and deliver terms and offers. He could do that. He could meet with someone. And if he didn't like what they had to say, he could always take out his frustration on them.

The trip to the Bogs wasn't exactly short, he spent most of his time on the Obsidian Coast, while the Bogs were on the complete other end of Charred territory, inland. Of course, it was nothing compared to what the trip from the Silver City to the Bogs would be for the middleman. Old limbs creaked and crackled, sparks flying out occasionally, roots threatening to dig into the earth as he walked. But he got there eventually. He would hear what this person had to say. What they had to offer. And then he could dismiss them, and return to his solitude. It was times like this that the pyromancer was glad that his humanity was behind him, as he no way of smelling the putrid odor of the bogs, nor any way of feeling the sludge seeping into his charred bark. Terrible things lurked in the mists of the bog, but they knew better than to attack a pyromancer. The Bogs inhabitants were... particularly flammable. Eventually, the shape of huts and buildings started to appear in the fog.

The huts were modest, just a tiny little handful of ramshackle homes. You couldn't exactly blame them, they had little to work with besides rotting wood and mud. So much mud. And sludge. There was one person outside, a man in a dirty robe and a large hat. His features were obscured, his hat and scarf hid his face, while the baggy robes and bandages hid any "gifts" he might have from immediate observation. He sat on what was presumably his porch, reaching uncomfortably long arms down into the mud and scribbling chicken scratch into the sludge with his dirty nails. He only stopped when Charthos stepped in front of him.

"I'm here to meet someone." He said, bluntly, sparks and embers shooting from his splintered head as he spoke. "Are they here...? You didn't eat them did you, mate?"

He was only half joking.

He did not raise his head. Instead, he grabbed his forearm, and gave it a quick twist, a sickening series of pops and cracks barely muffled by the suffocating fog ringing out, and raised his hand, revealing a large, yellow eye in the center of his palm. It bulged unnervingly from the pale, sickly skin of his hand, unnaturally large and vibrantly colored veins appearing across his arm as the eye focused its idle gaze. After getting a good look him, the bog dweller simply pointed a gangly finger at a hut with a lit lantern down the way, and returned to his scribbling, his hands a bit steadier than when he started.

"... thanks." He mumbled, and began to trudge towards the indicated building.

There was no door, just a tattered piece of cloth in the doorway. He pulled it aside, and stepped into the hut. It was... small. One room. A rotten cot on the floor, a makeshift counter, a table, and a few shelves. Sitting at the table on a repurposed stump was a very obviously grossed out Silver Apprentice. They hadn't been here long, but it was clear they didn't want to be here any longer either. They jumped at the pyromancers approach.

"Thank the Lady you're finally here..." They mumbled, their voice muffled by a scarf probably meant to protect from the stingers of any of the Bogs deadlier bugs.

"Mhm." He stepped over to the table, embers dying down as he sat at the wooden table. One mild flare up and this entire hut was going up in flames. He leaned over, staring through the young apprentice. "The fuck you want, mate." He spat, his tone full of the frustration provided by the endless letters somehow finding his way to him.

The apprentice leaned back nervously, eyes darting between the man at the other end of the table and the rest of the hut. After a moment, they cleared their throat and answered.

"Th-the Silver Magus would like your help."

"I could fucking tell that much." If he still had teeth, they'd be gritted. "What's he want help with. And what's he offering that I'm gonna say no to."

They cleared their throat again, fidgeting as they tried to find their words. Before they could speak again, their words caught in their throat as they heard a pair of heavy boots stepping into the hut. The man from the other hut stepped into the room, standing into the doorway for a moment, before walking over to the counter, setting down a bag full of, quite frankly, disgusting looking meat. Seems he decided to take a break from scribbling to grab a bite. And apparently this was his hut. Interesting.

"C'mon kid, speak the fuck up." Charthos spat, impatiently scratching the table.

"Y-yes sir..." They cleared their throat yet again, and finally managed to get more words out of their mouth. "The H-High Magus would like you to. U-uhm. Retrieve something. For him."

"And what is this something?"

"A. A Charred Ember. S-sir."

The silence that settled over the room was only disturbed by the bog dweller in the back of the room sharpening a large knife to cut his meat with. If the pyromancer still had a face, astonishment and confusion would be the primary expressions on it.

"A Charred Ember." He parroted. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Y-yes sir."

"No- No. Nononono- no. No sirs. You- or, rather, your Magus- wants me, some random old pyro, to go and get him a Charred Ember, only the rarest and most sacred item in the entirety of the Charred Lands, coveted by the Charred Lords."

"Y-"

"And!" He raised a finger. "And! All known Charred Embers are stored securely in the Vault of the Nine, only the most heavily guarded location in the entirety of the Charred Lands- maybe even the entirety of Magna Terra- which is itself in the Citadel of the Everlasting Embers, the other most heavily guard location in the Charred kingdom!" He clapped his hands, the two wooden appendages clunking together clumsily. "And! And! Technically, I could get one without all that hassle of breaking into a holy site, if I just made one! Which I would only do if I were very brave, very confident, very good, or very stupid. Of which I am none of these things."

He let out an exasperated sigh, sending a few embers scattering about, and placed a hand on his forehead.

"What's his name." He added, still staring at the apprentice.

"W-wha-?" They sputtered, still trying to process everything they just heard.

"The Magus. What's the lunatics name."

"O-oh- uh- Caecus. C-Caecus Coluber."

The pyromancer froze. Silence settled over the room again. Even the man in the back stopped what he was doing. Creaking rang throughout the room as he leaned forward onto the table, looking the mage dead in the eyes. Not that you could really tell. He took a deep breath, his exhale cutting through the silence like a dagger, and spoke again.

"Caecus Coluber? You sure?"

"Y-yes sir." They squeaked, shrinking under the others gaze.

"Son of a bitch, why didn't he just write his name on the goddamn letter... secretive piece of shit... probably up to some looney shit, doesn’t want anybody knowing he’s asking favors..." He mumbled to himself, letting out another sigh. "Fuck 'em. I'll do it."

"W-"

"I said I'll do it. Now fuck off, tell the old man I'll figure something out." He pushed himself out of his seat, and started to pace.

The apprentice scrambled out of the room, clearly happy to be done with this business, and disappeared into the mist. The pyromancer continued to pace in the hut, while the bog dweller had stepped from his lunch. They shared a look.

"... old Caecus. Can you believe it? Always said he'd be Magus. Crazy bastard." He snickered. "Guess he wasn't crazy about the Magus thing, at least." He tilted his head at the other. "What do you think, mate?"

The man pulled his hat off his head, and set it aside, revealing his dirty, scruffy, greying mud-covered hair, and pulled down his scarf. His head was perpetually tilted, and the skin was uncomfortably tight on his skull, and discolored patches were all over. There were no eyes in his sockets, the eyelids had closed over like old wounds, and his lower jaw had atrophied into almost nothing. On his neck, was an enormous, bulging yellow eye, pupil slit as a snakes. It was so large it forced his head aside, explaining the perpetual tilt. He stared at the other. He said nothing. Not a single sound passed what was left of his lips, not even a breath. Silence reigned. And yet, Charthos felt as if he said enough to fill a novel.

"Yeah. We always told 'em he was crazy." He let out a slow, hollow laugh. "... guess we're the crazy ones, after all these years. He's a Magus now, apparently. And look at us. An old worn out pyromancer, and a Butcher in the making."

The man pulled his scarf back up, and placed his hat back upon his head. After a moment, he placed his good hand on his wooden shoulder. They shared another glance, to which the pyromancer only responded with a tired exhale.

"... I don't got much else to do, mate."

...

"Don't look at me like that."

...

"No, she's-" His words caught in his throat, and he took a breath. "She's gone. I know."

...

“Yeah I’m still visiting the docks.”

...

“I fuckin’ know. I still have hope, y’know.”

...

"This ain't a ploy to get myself killed, mate. If I wanted to join her, I'd have walked into the sea and offed myself ages ago. This ain't about that."

...

"I owe him a favor. The kind you can't pay back without jumping through a few hoops."

...

"Yeah, that."

...

"You're one to talk, mate."

...

"I ain't making one myself, you nut. Like I said, I ain't ready to burn down to embers yet."

...

"I'm already a heretic, mate. 'sides, I know a few people who might help."

...

"I take offense to that."

...

"Fuck off."

...

"You three weren't my only friends, ya jackass."

...

"You ain't talkin' me out of it."

After another moment, he took his hand off his shoulder, and grabbed something from one of the drawers. He placed it in his hand, his old cracked hands burning a bit from the heat. It was a knife. A large knife, clearly made from the mandible of a gigantic Bog Lurker. Just looking at it triggered the pyromancers fight-or-flight response. He whispered a few words and it vanished to a safer place, where he could always get it if he needed it. "Thanks, mate." He patted his shoulder. "You remember me when you're covered in teeth and spikes and rippin' people to bits, eh?"

...

"You're a fuckin' looney, mate."

...

“Yeah yeah, pot kettle, whatever.”