Chapter Seventeen: Streets Of Freywyn III
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Freywyn deemed to test me, windswept between buildings temperature dropped- A reddish sun obscured my tower, malformed spire cast half the city in man made eclipse signaling mid-day. Midst stillness as I stood the mind played whispers, tales of feeling and desperation an emptiness I lacked ability to comprehend. It was if I was bound, still inside the claymore. Luminar was a sly man, a merchant of the arcane the peculiar was his repertoire, convoluted designs I lacked insight to understand. Runic carvings either unnecessarily confounded or outright intelligible. A lifetime of work, failure to read basic wares along a beggars street,
Had the gulf of my knowledge been overshadowed by time, own magical prowess become archaic, obsolete?
..
Ceron found himself down an adjacent street, a silver mask donned a face plate with only eyes- The single piece out of the lot he'd known. A visual enhancement, laughably one of non-runic design. Enchanting and rune-smithing came hand in hand, both served purpose and any reasonable mage knew the fundamentals of either despite own proclivity, though a sentiment shared not often proved a well rounded blade did better than a needle and thread alone. Enchantment's were magic personified, as understood through human thought imbue objects by written laws. A rigid form, one that required a mage to replenish every so often.
The artistry of runes related to magic surrounding oneself, the foundation of all magical powers and design from natural forces a world's law. Obtuse, fickle to a man's understanding but potent. Where an enchanter could layer a sword of fire, a runesmith may further enhance its capability harnessing powers nearby of earth' and ember. Bygone the trifling notion, the knowledge of arcane Ceron possessed rested on his face. Luminar nearly turned green, frantically writing down the method Ceron had imparted, a method of enhancing the shop's rune of concealment; not derived out of carelessness, Ceron had originally thought--
Regret what had already passed, a folly and pointless excuse for a lack of foresight. Asriel spoke nothing still, deluded images played in waking steps- To walk, exposed bathed in the delirium without any knowledge of the boy's affiliates or apparent wanton kidnappers was pure idiocy. 'Asriel may delude himself, but he wont fool me.' To pick a direction, any that lay outward stretching beyond the walls and to walk ignoring Freywyn and the insidious roaches perverting my tower, side it all I could never let that be,
"Callvar, In mar." .. Words of invocation, a call to heed to the plight. No response, the words were empty like playing charades with the blind it was more of instinctual habit than anything else,
None would answer, not now.
...
The mask curved forward, tracing a simple slant line head to chin. A featureless mask side two holes for the wearer's eyes. Woven skintight black coverings to the neck, topped with a Tricorn hat singed an off dark hue. Paired with the cloak and rest of attire not a shred of skin laid exposed. Nothing to tie Asriel to this figure. Imbued with an enchantment of meager darksight, the dark corners and drudge of Freywyn's back corridors ever so easier to discern, scurrying rats on lying bricks munched fallen trash cast in shadow, a decrepit vagrant straddled his sides among others in low light. High class decor down to the intoxicating smell of horse-shit that you did not need eyes to notice. Gone was the mountain air, solitude of my weeping forest of souls, 'Sarieth, did your misguided deed foresee me among the world of the living again?'
The buildings shifted, hobbled together tenements no escaping the musk crowding men, boarding homes, glancing street alleys spotted a courteous smile feminine lips to a distasteful snear as Ceron parted to no advance, cheap pleasure did little to appease. Secret methods, foreign arts and techniques reserved by blood in study of magic Ceron spared none of it, to advance mind and body, to not use every ounce at your disposal just left bitter what ifs. The most basic forms a practitioner of the arts channeling the body through rhythmic breathing, lying down, meditation or just a stroll the technique could be used anywhere.
Sensing ambient mana, the correlation of the innate reserve within oneself a rudimentary practice that mages preformed, to control the forces within by no guide was bound to fail. To understand the body was to wield it. Aptitude played part in a mages ability, practice was must. Honing the discipline required, bound in annoyance Ceron continued, each attempt like a petulant child the body refused command. Minor convulsions, a spark of spams and nausea Ceron's nose began to seep droplets of blood.
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Easy enough, all while walking amidst a crowd.
Ceron inwardly cursed, the pittance of mana within faded-- Caught mid stride colliding, yelp later a dash of blonde hair swung just before the ground met them headfirst, was pulled back. Ceron swiftly grasped a hand, dark green eyes met his, "Pardon miss, are you... Hurt?" Like a thornbush, intense the she reeled back forcing her weight to stand, a solitary moment as a piercing ire struck back, "Think nothing of it." Grating stone, against stone would have sounded more sincere, Ceron just stood before subtly nodding, a rising urge to do the opposite welled inside, Beth a captive supposedly not. Asriel negged, at the back of his mind, to reach out.
Apprehension, a tense longing later Beth walked without intervention. Winding down the path Ceron had come barring no chains, scars- Maimed appearance or likewise any malformation the demented sow, Asriel reveled, his ego bellowed out a pounding headache. His sister, one of many if not thee reason he had come to Freywyn To rescue her from the scourge that took their lives. Connected as one Ceron came to an understanding, as did the vagrant lingering in his mind the same fragrance at the kidnappers hideout; Beth remained free, how come shad had not seen to to Asriel sooner. Was it coincidence a baseless assumption, she had escaped the men whom sieged the estate with such ease to not bear any mark?
Subject to the increasing will from within, a fools tale yet there was no merit to reject it. Following such notion's Ceron turned toward the path she had left, out of suspicious intrigue and brotherly affirmation of her waiting innocence.
Deception had a way, worming between sentences spoke between two individuals. False truths, misguided suggestions a fabricated tale. But in absence of words there was no lies in action nor thought. Tangled together in conjecture of Beth's wrongdoing chipped at her sisterly image. The way she moved, a confident stride with purpose seemingly unmarred by the burning of her home. Ceron battled the crowd lest he lost Beth in the jungle, the confines of Freywyn's rat maze growing ever tighter, a region foreign a dividing wall topping past buildings and men. Obscured forms walked overhead on catwalks of metal and stonework scrutinizing those below in vigilant silence.
As the passage narrowed the disorder slowed to funneled lines, casting lamps shined down highlighting select figures- Deep reverberating thuds like that of a fallen tree signaled off, pairs of guards detached from side walls and hidden doors enforcing the marked with maces and clubs, soon dragged them off to a recessed wall from prying eyes. Methodical, within under a minute and those who ran fell to the ground quicker, forms above wielded staffs of arcane lighting, scorched their victims incapacitating them to a drooling mess.
Electrifying as the atmosphere was, a rising sense of unease drenched Ceron he had seen another checkpoint just as this one at the front entrance of Freywyn and other dividing walls. Inconspicuous among a sea of black and the obscure, Ceron kept forward backtracking would certainly rouse suspicion, 'Go to her, Beth must have escaped.' Asriel pleaded, 'She is family!' The urge demanded Ceron inwardly sighed, he would observe for now nothing more.
Open to all to see, a silver sphere erected near the barriers end. It hovered by unseen mechanisms, large as a horse, people parted around it flickers of light gleamed off its surface. Sprouting like fireflies as men passed. A device of scrying perhaps, Ceron ignorantly mused about the creation, another example of alien knowledge. Surely a device would due well hidden, was it for intimidation or some limitation of it's design that it remained within reach?
..
In penumbra' shadow's embrace. I was drawn, like moths to flame straddling my soul a feverish desire. Inexplicable, ushered pulling from a well deep within held my being. Had I known, in time as I now so do; rash decision begun by my own hand. I was blind of it, Moloch Elrax Invernum. Even now my mind frays, scouring a pittance of the esoteric growing within me. Lest I gut it out, disembowel myself of this itching desire. Had I known, had I the forethought-Pity recollection of my actions. Controlled by what I deemed tame. Sarieth, you been the one to fell me, both bound by things we knew little torn from the unseen pounding for our demise.
Faux lighting crackled, singing nose hairs a triad of fights broke out, flesh grinded against stone paving a line of blood between cracked tiles. The distinct smell of singed hair came from behind me, in the charade Beth had not once looked back, just a long stride out of sight, not confounded by the sphere or complexities surrounding her. Despite my own inclinations I abated my suspicion of scrying, passed with underwhelming relief of silence to an almost disappointing degree. The sphere, itself having no discernible impression of me either reflected a sheen of clouded silver.
My involvement was woven into Asriel's life, deemed the moment I was wretched neath earth's embrace, departed from the soil of an unmarked prison. Quandary of it fell before me, the chance of unseen whims a power beyond perception. Had I been given the gift of rebirth to be played like a marionette's doll? A void of eternity plagued my thoughts, a solitary moment in time forever repeating, yet in the blur of my suffering it seemed but a day, a moon ago that the tower was mine. Were my problems could be solved by a flick of the wrist, but even then. In a life not forgotten had roots, of a seed to bloom.