The big, fat musklop jumped over the short, skinny hound.
The big, fat musklop jumped over the short, skinny hound.
The big, fat musklop jumped over the—
Talia set her trinket-pen down, clenching her cramping hand. The words on the page of her journal were little more than illegible scribbles, no better—worse even—than a child’s first attempt at writing. Above her head, floating at about eye level when she sat up straight, was a small, steel ball bearing. It wobbled unstably for a moment until she gave the Image construct she was maintaining her full attention.
Taking a look at her handy work, she felt a visceral curl of satisfaction in her chest. The work was tedious. It was boring and painful. But she was making progress, and that was what mattered. When she’d started, the ball bearing had fallen every other word. Now she could write entire pages with it only bobbing up and down like a buoy on Lake Wyrr.
Progress.
Either her telekinesis would improve to the point where her ruined arm was a non-factor, or she would get used to using her left, also making it a non-factor. All she really had to do was get to the point where she could design and inscribe arcanics. Everything after that was moot.
Pushing back her stone stool, Talia plucked her wand from its holster and tossed it in a flip, forcing herself to catch it. Either with her left hand or her telekinesis. The telekinesis part was her personal addition to the exercises Lazarus had left with her.
Clink-Clink-CLANG.
The ball bearing fell from its place above the desk and rolled across the floor of the barracks workshop she’d claimed for herself. Catching it with a foot, she snatched the wand from where it floated a few centimetres off the ground, tossing both it and the ball bearing back in the air.
I’ll need to have Osra rework some of the stone. A few large worktables, a forge bed for when she’s busy, maybe, and a pair of tool racks. The vise is rusted to shit, and a nice-sized drafting table would be nice. Wonder if she can make chalk? I’ll have to ask. Some more storage cabinets wouldn’t hurt. Hmm. Might as well have a bed in here as well. I’ll need a door, too. Maybe a lock. Wouldn’t do for curious crew to come poking around while I’m practicing.
But remodelling her workspace would come after the chellicoi hunt. A glance at her timepiece told her she had a few hours before the hunters would even wake, let alone leave. So Talia planned out a few enchantments she knew she would need in the coming weeks. In her head, of course. Her handwriting was useless in any kind of design work. For now.
At least crystal mind helped with that. Her thoughts had never been clearer, her mental work crisper. It was refreshing, after weeks of feeling…muddled.
When the cramp in her hand subsided somewhat, she tucked her stool back in and got back to work with single-minded determination.
As she wrote, she considered how she should approach the hunt. She knew most of the lower city pretty well by now. At least, this section of it—ranging farther from the haven hadn’t seemed practical until she could confidently say that the nearby lifts were indeed useless, as she suspected they would be. If she wanted to, she could lead the hunting party straight to the nearest bugs, kill them with her wand—or her kinetics, disguised as her wand—and be back in a few hours.
Her pen paused on the page and the ball bearing wobbled harder.
It would be minimally suspicious, and not at all unlikely that she had spotted a nest or two in her exploration. Leading the group directly to one was somewhat precarious but could be managed with a few well-placed misdirections. Maybe a few false flags, first? Killing it, certainly, was a non-issue. And it would get her back faster, allowing her to focus on her practice.
Hmm. We’ll see what Darkclaw’s plan is, but if it takes more than half the day, I might just do it my way. So it might stoke some suspicion. What are they going to do? Collar me?
Even through the clarity of crystal mind, the thought…distressed her. Her life was hers to control, no matter her circumstances. She wouldn’t be making the same mistakes her parents had, not if she had any choice in the matter.
Zaric’s collar lies with him. I don’t imagine they’d desecrate his grave without a very good reason, but…
Mentally, Talia added studying mage collars to the list of things to work on. They had to have weaknesses, after all. A good rule of thumb in arcanistry was that complexity was proportional to potential points of failure, even with designs created by the most paranoid and careful of arcanists. According to Reggie, long-distance activation enabled artefacts were fiendishly difficult to create and relied on several restricted runes she wouldn’t be allowed to learn until she was a true journeyman.
Anyway, not like anyone here is going to stop me from tinkering with things outside of the rules. Come to think of it, that’s probably why the Arcanist’s Guild doesn’t use metal mages in arcanistry. Too much chance they’ll figure out ways around their shackles.
Well, that was just too bad for them. Talia might not have been a metal mage, but she refused to be shackled, either way.
Convincing Osra to help, on the other hand, would likely prove difficult. No matter which way Talia looked at it, she would need the stone shaper’s cooperation if she wanted to get a closer look at the collars. They’d thus far managed to avoid the topic of religion and mage servitude. A silent agreement to keep those things out of the way of their burgeoning friendship. Talia pursed her lips. A few…white lies were probably in the cards somewhere down the line if she wanted to get anywhere with that.
Definitely something to put later down the list. After all, it’s only really a concern for when we get back.
The thought made her frown. There was an element of certainty to it that had been absent in her previous outlook. At some point, after the funeral wake, maybe even before, ‘when’ had turned to ‘if’.
Now?
Now she had plans. Pieces on the board and a hand to play them with, without the shaking and hesitation she’d been plagued by. It was…refreshing.
Mreow?
She glanced to where Menace had perched himself within a cubby, his growing, furry form barely fitting within. His tail flicked invisibly, stirring up dust.
Talia stuck her hand in her old jerky pouch. It was filled with the dead beetles that had infested the workshop when she’d arrived. Clearing them out had been good practice for her telekinesis. As a bonus, Menace seemed to enjoy eating them. As she levitated a crunchy treat across to her feline companion, the steel ball bearing threatened to fall from her telekinetic grasp entirely.
That it didn’t was just another sign of progress.
< Go hunt, Menace. Be quiet, stay hidden. >
The mirage-lynx leapt down from his cubby, rubbing invisibly against her leg as he sauntered away. Talia watched him slink his way through the barracks with her mindsense. Then she got back to work. Progress meant nothing if she didn’t achieve her goals.
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The hunting group had been fairly obvious to spot. They were the only ones armed to the teeth in the mess hall. Talia had scarfed down her unidentifiable, tasteless breakfast sludge with a wash of over-steeped tea and followed behind them as they made their way to the front gate. At a distance, of course. She truly didn’t intend to get to know them more than she already did. The group of five was…mostly unremarkable. Not to mention more or less useless to her. Other than Grif, whom she supposed she could argue had more than shown his worth, in a tangential sort of way.
Didn’t mean she felt the need to listen to any more of the greybeard’s ramblings, though.
All told, including Talia, Grif and Darkclaw—whom she could sense waiting by the gate—there were eight of them.
A scaled beastkin with a pair of bone studs in her snout and an odd-looking curved, horn-hewn bow she carried unstrung. Two platinum hoops pierced the top of tapered ears—one in each. Though she carried herself dangerously, her light, studded leather armour looked like it had seen better days. A pair of leg holsters carried an ornate, matching set of hand axes, with scrimshawed bone handles—enamelled black—and what looked like adamite heads treated to be matte, like Talia’s armour.
A dwarf sporting a pair of black eyes and with a thick wad of brown plaster across his nose. Drakin, or Darvin, the crewman who’d taken an impromptu flight into her wagon just yesterday. Apparently, the stout redhead had been declared fit for duty. That or he was going against Lazarus’ wishes. A single-bladed axe rested against his shoulder, with a haft nearly as thick as Talia’s fist, and a head that was probably twice the size of Menace. More of a polearm than an axe, really.
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Seems impractical if you ask me, but to each their own.
The other three were humans. If it weren’t for the difference in skin tone, Talia would’ve thought the two women were twins. Both had close-cropped hair, aquiline, almost brutish features, and matching, asymmetrical tattoos of a pair of serrated fangs on their cheeks. Talia didn’t recognize the symbol but knew enough to know a ganger mark when she saw one. Unimportant. What mattered were the stubby crossbows on each of the delvers’ backs—with an accompanying quiver of heavy broadheads—and the short arming sword they each carried strapped at their belts.
They look like they can handle themselves.
The pair gave off an aura of quiet competence that lay directly at odds with the man—boy? child?—that they flanked. The kid—he couldn’t be more than sixteen—looked…unsteady. Talia had seen the look before on sapients who came to her father’s practice to get treatment for genital diseases. Or on the faces of new apprentices when Reggie laid out the deepmountain of tomes they were expected to read in their first month of training.
It was the look of someone who was thoroughly regretting their choices. The boy wore functional black leathers in the same style as his companions, with an arming sword to match, but instead of a crossbow, clutched the stave of a shortbow in whitened knuckles. A shag of black hair fell into green eyes with whites so wide from anxiety they could likely act as a beacon in a dark tunnel.
Talia found a look of consternation creeping onto her face despite herself. Even she could tell that the boy didn’t want to be here. And if she could tell, then everyone else definitely could. Which made no sense. Calisto had told Darkclaw to gather volunteers. Yet the kid looked like he had been conscripted into one of the low quarter’s gangs.
With a pair of gangers on either side of him, he even looks the part.
In the end, Talia shrugged. His prowess or willingness was irrelevant. Only his survival mattered. For all that the boy looked like he was about to piss himself, his armour had all its straps and buckles in the right places, and his equipment looked well taken care of. It wasn’t truly an indication that he could handle himself, but Talia figured if he couldn’t, then the battlemaster wouldn’t have allowed him to join the outing.
None of my business. Just gotta make sure he doesn’t get snapped up by a depths stalker.
Companions—or rather, charges—assessed, Talia let them fall from her mind, using the time to consider her plan of action for the excursion. She had an inkling of what she wanted to do, and if she played her cards right, she thought she might be able to char two urvai hives with one torch. The plan got much harder if Calisto hadn’t told Darkclaw to heed her counsel when it came to navigation, but Talia thought she could swing it even then as long as she implied she could make the hunt more efficient.
If not, well, she’d take a quick return and more time to focus on the other items on her list.
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The only sound that heralded the group’s march to the gate was the omnipresent susurrus of the waterfall, rendered into dismissible background noise by that same omnipresence, and the quiet padding of soft-soled boots against dusty stone.
Darkclaw stood before the gates, discussing something with Dhustrun. The quartermaster and battlemaster seemed to be going over a pile of equipment, the latter doing checks, and the former marking things off on his clipboard. Both looked up as the hunters approached.
The battlemaster set down a pair of mesh-wrapped metal cylinders—an artefact, Talia noticed now that she was closer—and met them as they rounded around the plinth and accompanying stele.
Grif lagged behind, lingering by the memorial and bowing his head.
The act reminded Talia of a number of things, most unpleasant, and yet… she felt next to nothing. Not numbness, or haziness, or mild anything. Nothing more than a twinge somewhere deep in her chest and the intellectual acknowledgement of a tragedy. It was…nice.
“Good. Early is good. Makes good omen. Orokai will bless us,” Darkclaw mumbled in that disconcertingly high pitch of his. “All have met? Spoken? Concerns must speak, or silence will be heard.”
Whatever that fucking means.
The battlemaster was a beastkin of few words, and the few he did speak tended to be either cryptic, blunt, or both. Usually both. How something could be both blunt and cryptic, Talia couldn’t say; however he did it, Darkclaw was a master.
The susurrus of the waterfall was the only thing that answered the diminutive beastkin’s inquiry.
“Good? Good. Inspect gear, check weapons. Meet in ten minutes. Wagon one. Plan route. Then leave.”
Unfortunately, the blissful lack of discussion was not to be, it seemed.
The darker-skinned ‘twin’ spoke up, her voice smooth as spider silk.
“Why’re we bringing a crippled arcanist on a hunt? This isn’t a scavenging run. We planning on running into traps?” she asked, turning to Talia, “Meaning no disrespect, of course, Arcanist.”
Talia couldn’t say how she’d have reacted before crystal mind. The emotions weren’t there for her to conceptualize with. As it was, she simply turned her head to look the other woman in eye, her expression indifferent. After holding her gaze for a moment, Talia flicked her stare to the battlemaster, seeing if he would respond. The reactions of the others were inconsequential.
Darkclaw said nothing. If anything, it looked like he was curious too.
But I might just be projecting. Then again, maybe not. He knows I have a way of detecting enemies, surely. Does he suspect? Would he say anything if he does?
Beastkin spirituality seemed to have an interesting connection to magic, one she couldn’t quite quantify.
Ah. She’d been silent too long. The pause was becoming awkward. Talia frowned.
Do I care? Hmm. No need to antagonize unnecessarily.
She turned back to the ‘twin’.
“Ahem. I’m coming along because I’ve been delving the city for the past few weeks. Alone. Means I know where quite a few chellicoi nests are, which should make our hunt easier,” Talia explained matter-of-factly. Pursing her lips, she nudged aside her cloak and tapped her wand where it lay in its holster. “As for being a cripple? Well, I don’t need a sword to defend myself,” she added, deciding to insert a little jab and gauge the delver’s reaction, “If I were you, I’d worry more about keeping shiny boy in one piece.”
The reactions to her words were manifold. The boy flinched. Darkclaw’s waxy orbit twitched upward. The scaled woman’s lips stretched into a toothy grin. Darvin-Drakin-whatshisface mirrored Darkclaw with pair of bushy red brows.
The paler ‘twin’ opened up her mouth with a retort, stepping in front of the shiny, but her ‘sister’ grabbed her by the arm and tugged her back with a warning look.
Internally, Talia sighed.
It always comes down to social dynamics, doesn’t it? This is why runes are better than people. At least when runes go wrong, you aren’t alive to suffer through it.
For a moment, Talia considered scouring them with her mindsense. Getting a lay of the land, so to speak. She didn’t have the patience or the energy for another Hanmul. There were things to be done.
Some thing stopped her. She’d made a promise to allow others their own minds. It’d been pointless sentimentality back then, all wrapped in guilt and insecurity and fear of her magic. But breaking the vow now felt…wrong.
“Like I said, Arcanist, I meant no offence. I simply wondered if we had some other goal beyond the hunt, one we would need to protect you for. I see now I was hasty in forgetting how…formidable you are,” the ‘twin’ said with a smile, sugary sweet.
Talia smiled back, full of teeth.
The other woman’s slight recoil was unexpected, but not necessarily unappreciated. It felt good to not be a knot of anxiety and worry in every conversation. Instead, she was the one throwing others off balance. She was the one in control.
Casting crystal mind was proving to be the best decision she’d ever made.
Reassessing her previous judgement of her fellow hunters, Talia decided it best if she tried to foster some unity. It wouldn’t do to have her plan derailed by discord among the group. Learning their names was the least she could do to show interest. Though the barb the darker ‘twin’ had thrown her way was not forgotten. Unity was well and good, but letting herself be trampled over wouldn’t do.
“I completely understand having to worry about burdens,…?”
The questioning pause dragged on for a few seconds before the ‘twin’ realized she was supposed to supply her name. If they noted Talia’s not-so-subtle implication, there was no sign.
“Yasida, and these are Colum and Kaina.”
Talia nodded and turned her gaze to the other members of the group.
“You may call this one Silversweep,” the scaled beastkin hissed lyrically.
“Lored of Clan Pern,” the dwarfs simply said.
Hmm. I was off the mark. Way off the mark. That’s…not surprising.
“Talia Vestal, of Clan Angrim,” she said, even though they all knew who she was, “Just call me Talia. No need for titles. Hopefully, we can make this hunt quick and painless, and be back before—”
Grif chose that moment to return from his vigil, clapping his hands sonorously and puffing a billow from his pipe. The greybeard shot her a wink and a knowing look.
“Aye lass, you just about have the right of things. In, out. Heh. And a keg of moonshine when we get back. Work together, stay on your toes, and it’ll be simple as that,” he rumbled, giving the shiny—Colum—a comforting pat on the back as he passed.
Talia nodded, taking the interruption in stride, taking note of the way Grif took control of the dynamic.
Ooh, crystal mind makes talking to people kind of fun. Have I been missing out?
Gathering herself, she addressed Darkclaw directly.
“If you’ll allow it, Battlemaster, I could lead us to a few isolated chellicoi nests further in the lower city. The nearest ones all seem to have clustered together, and I worry we won’t be able to engage them one at a time.”
Not that they would need to, with her kinetics and her wand. But a little white lie would go a long way toward accomplishing her goals. It wasn’t even untrue. She’d just slightly exaggerated. Luckily, Darkclaw didn’t immediately question how she ‘knew’ that the nearby chellicoi were tightly packed. Relatively speaking. They were still territorial and solitary, after all. But their territories weren’t large, especially not in the Dead City.
“Acceptable. Reduce risk good. Take backways. Avoid noise and ruckus, yes? Avoid notice. Tight formation. Irzkarid prowling will demand it.”
Silversweep stiffened as Darkclaw uttered the unfamiliar word, a stream of sibilant beastkin dialect that Talia didn’t recognize spewed from the scaled delver’s mouth. Those who also did not know the dialect simply looked on, confused. Which was everyone. Well, everyone but Grif, it seemed. He rubbed a restless thumb against the metal of his shield, having clearly also recognized the word.
“Ach. Depths stalkers? Here? Blasted hells, that complicates things.”
That did it. The rest of the hunting party tensed like a spring ready to pop.
Well, shit.
The greybeard sighed gutturally, rapping his pipe against his shield to empty it of the ash. He interrupted the discussion between the two beastkin with a grumble.
“Silversweep, the battlemaster’s right, girly, isn’t anything for it. We’ve all seen the etching on the rock. We need food, and we need it now. The stalkers’ll be there no matter when we go. If Darkclaw says he has a plan to keep us safe, then we’ll just be havin’ to trust him.”
The battlemaster in question flicked his eyes at Talia, expression shuttered and unreadable.
“Risk is risk. We fight, we live. We starve, we die. One and one. No choices.”
The recognition of the truth in the statement rippled silently through the group. Silversweep hissed and gripped at the heads of her axes but made no move to leave. The rest followed suit. Just like that, the hunters began preparing to leave the safety of haven. Stowing items away with terse, one-word exchanges and checking over their gear with worried looks.
Off we go/unto the yawning pit/our flames yet burn low/We shan’t, nay can’t remit.
The verse from a poem Orvall used to recite to her as a girl seemed fitting, though she’d long forgotten its name.