Chapter Twenty: Meeting II

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Beth was always a timid girl, predisposed to a gentle nature since we were children.' Asriel lamented, 'She must be-- Influenced, controlled somehow.' Not a lapse of doubt, no fickle or unpleasant memory someone so perfect really exist? Ceron's first gut reaction was more than just naive family love, Asriel being charmed was in the realm of possibility. A method of control to sow falsehood in memory, impairing judgment.

The seeds of a charm, indistinguishable only the latent after effects on one's psyche a indicator of being charmed; without the proper means, Ceron could only go with his gut.

"We need to get Beth." Asriel firmed his mind, Ceron piqued his brow nay had Asriel been more resolute than the moment he awoke. Finding her meant a great deal, to find someone you knew all your life but a facade. To be used dancing by a play unknown,

"So to the corpse before us, your sister so graciously left us...' Ceron brought out the goblin's blade, not in the least concerning with his life choices; or of particular why he'd be butchering a woman's laying her entrails like an origami set. Not that those thoughts would be of concern otherwise. A maelstrom bid its time within, all due to a sweet conclusion by steps at a time-- Ceron knew that yet his mind possibly, misaligned had yet to reconcile with his pragmatic judgements. A vile race adorned in garb adorned with his symbol, some lowly magicians atop his tower bleeding it dry, torn between demented thoughts of a dead soul.

Ceron soothed his inner turmoil, a demon summoning was not one did with a raging heart. Demons existed on a dimension in parallel just beyond, it was not Ceron's first foray, incorporeal beings manifested by desire and an unending thirst for chaos.

Meticulous detail and preparation were wise, and common sense, of course Ceron had neither. But something more, no binding or artifact to help the mortal soul, he had favors to be met. Like a natural law of needing air to breathe demons operated on a sense of obligated duty, never parting from a deal and always returning favor. For a demon could never lie or break an oath without severe consequence.

A rite, tools and a essence of particular demons you wished to converse was normally a foundational requirement; however Ceron had a debt, to the high class of demon social order his name was not a pittance, or just any mortal to toy with. Much the world differed in his absence the realms in which demons inhabit remains. As thoughts formed Ceron felt the pulling of a force beyond, guiding his hand like wading through water.

The desire was overwhelming, something edging him-- Ceron stopped himself, only collecting the heart of the woman and eyes of the goblin. Hairs rose as skin went prickly, whispers just out of comprehension to appease here and now, to fall forth and call upon a demon's name. To write the patron of his calling in blood, invaded Ceron's mind. His body made prey by influence, it would be a mistake to try and summon a demon without care. For bridging a rift between dimensions, delving in entities far from material concept paid a price unknown.

Only certainty in this realization had Ceron still standing. The theatrics ceased as he sighed wrapping up his offerings.

"This body would rot the moment I had called a patron." Ceron held little doubt of that' to manifest a demon in such a state would be a burden too much; just as Ceron himself resides within his new form, to imbue a summoning with a vessel would be the only recourse.

...

Memories to taste, an eye for an eye a price was paid at every measure. Demons were troublesome to bargain with, the honesty and binding of word ensnares the foolhardy. For price is neither coin or peerage, the oldest among them living before most mortal races had begun to crawl. Perish the thought of a well deserved retirement, soon enough the narrow backstreets of Freywyn' welcomed another.

A bell tolled, reverberating off walls drowning sounds of the crowd, Ceron did little of idly wait parting past men and beast alike. Asking for directions from a stall vendor Ceron found himself down another courtyard to a shop "Fang n' Claw' Embellished on a wooden plank just outside. An animal trader. From scaly two legged mules to wolves an assortment of beasts locked in cages, though Ceron had only one in mind. Stepping inside smell of wet fur, appropriate amounts of hay filled his senses it was a large building hanger-like with a center podium which a thin woman sat behind mulling through a ledger.

The counterwoman looked human enough, the artificial flame of blue lampshades gave her a certain glow. Short brown hair, a pair of spectacles an older woman but still youthful. She had paid no mind eyes glued to the ledger up until Ceron stood before her. Before Ceron could speak she drew a book from underneath the podium, laying it fore him a large book of scrolls. In the same stride the woman had glossed the contents of the book, it contained a list of purchasable stock each scroll a depiction, price and temperament of said animal or beast. Ceron had already saw, knew what he desired the moment he had entered the shop only out of courtesy and genuine curiosity of what was for sale, had bid through the scrolls.

Meryl, the counter woman's name Ceron briefly accounted, the book and her name to memory- Meryl' Shinning sea, her parents sailors perhaps. The inside alluded to a much bigger enterprise a contrast from the outside display, still coin was good no matter the merchant. Strength, fangs and claws a venomous snake or the like were fine. Yet would a pack of wolves threaten a magi? Let alone a common knight, or a deadly toxin to what delivery method?.. That was to say, Ceron needed knowledge the most something versatile regardless of its proper origin it would be a vessel either way. After a few parting words a small bell rang, a servant boy went running to fetch it.

In throes of legacies bygone, Ceron couldn't help of notice the humans and civilization no matter the period were the same. The unknown enchantments had given Ceron pause, flying machines gilded in foreign make, yet hearts of men held the same amount of malice and greed as any before. Despite the centuries since, the pool of innovation for the common life remained stagnant. Only those endowed with gifts of magic held right of that, seizing all beneath for what could a farmer do to those whom control the skies?

Knowledge foremost, close by deceit and power were what ruled. Anything else was to be dissected, used and thrown away at circumstance dancing on its grave.

...

Feeling a few baubles lighter, patiently waiting soon enough the clacking of boots drove Ceron from idle contemplation. The servant boy emerged from an adjacent room, held in his hand a metal cage draped with white cloth. Donning a smile Ceron took the cage and peeked past the curtain to his satisfaction. But on the inside Ceron had no spare thoughts, no glee bound in his heart. For it held no room, no sliver of delight could overshadow his aching desires. To lay waste to them. 'There was no relief to be found while my legacy remains uprooted and defiled.'

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A grimace slipped as Ceron left, all while his outward appearance remained a faceless mask.

Parting way to the streets and down another winding path littered in wreckage of toppled buildings a set of footsteps accompanied another, till there was but one. The streets grew thinner and rubble higher walking tens of blocks to edges of the unseen. Until the expanse of stone left to an open field of mounds, a retired cemetery with none left to mourn. Graves had been eviscerated, just mounds of dirt and rotted coffins. A leafless tree overlooked the cemetery in all it's glory. Beautiful scenery aside, it was not the reason Ceron had come.

Guided by Asriel's knowledge and memory to a den of wolves. Farther in at the tree's base silhouettes of figures rummaged in and out of its periphery, a set of stairs were carved leading down to the establishment within. Few things Ceron needed, some he had no means on his own' a mercenary guild, one with a less than savory reputation. Nonetheless a perfect guise for plans ahead. With haste in stride Ceron made way, unperturbed by the gatekeeper's peering gaze. With a determined look, without a hint of leisure or hesitation led one to little question his motive, not that it wasn't of public means to enter. Ceron just had little time for such inconsequential inconveniences.

The establishment, was known as Catch the gathering hall of IronScall's band of mercenaries and numerous other bands of similar distinction, 'I had been propositioned, naturally forced to slave with menial tasks as a porter for IronScall a debt I found myself in by their grace and hospitality since the day I arrived.' Asriel lamented, their faces clearly in mind. The influence they had more than toll collectors, dealers of misfortune twisting those below; the connection if any to Beth and kidnapping of Asriel? Ceron had no idea and neither his co-occupant. Ranting of the abuse he had endured for the sake to bide time-- Well. Ceron's eyes lit behind his mask, "With any luck-- No certainty we will repay those debts tenfold.' For both our sakes."

The stairs descended into a network of darkened tunnels some lay with depths unknown, were too remain so as Ceron heralded only forward, to bolstering double-wide doors. Of thick aged wood and protruding barbed metal, all encased by carved stone. Lit from torches on sconces, no less fortified than castles above. As if expecting a siege at any moment, stationed guards roamed the halls just outside the boundaries of the mess of tunnels and connected catacombs. With deployments of three to four men, most suited in full plate and towering shields, a uniformity not shared among the greater mass of crowding people entering and leaving Catch...

While within Freywyn, a whole subterranean landscape was ever present, not just the mine workers and slaves but beasts and vile unwanted. Parties regularly descend into the depths, to hunt the beasts below living off the rot Freywyn produces. Not out of duty, but resource of hides, claws any facet a manner of creature provides. Some wielding the arcane, by birth and experiments gone awry. Such beasts were valued for crystalized cores of mana residing in their bodies a conduit many have use for. Asriel recounted, the groups that had never returned amuck the darkness; just to wash up in the sewers, of torn armor and cracked bone weeks later.

From the still opening toward light above, Ceron briefly paused even here he could see it. Topping clouds and reaching beyond ones sight. Just how much laid in grasp of those who choked the life of his work? Ceron had doubts of any room untouched, as flying ships soared to numerous floors, coiling pipes draining from it's side. But below, how many had ventured to the depths beneath? The tower was only a part of a greater construct, like a corkscrew it ate at earth below, in hexagon like segments of twisting rooms and treacherous labyrinths. The underground was an expansive network, hundreds of acres had held experiments and constructs both of flesh and stone.

Surely some remained, a facet the hands of time lost and misplaced.

'For what had your death accomplished brother?'

...

..

Plucked strings of my destiny, this sweltering day, lest to abate any flourish my part not exempt. Still, I caressed strings to an old familiar tune, to the day and more of what awaits, Six of Swords for time of essence an Ace of Coins for a harvest well met in the unlikeliest of places. A knight of wands for whom I so seek. The fortune of cards I was dealt, a sage guiding me to this pivotal place. To rescue a world from madness, so I play in tune to a ancient melody for the one I'm destined to meet.

A wealth of figures, some donned in armor any beggar would kill for. Another group selling scale of a basilisk, a feat not to be doubted even if it was a juvenile male; a creature who could turn living to stone by glance was fearsome regardless of its maturity. A fifth fight this morning had broken, another dispute claimed this time by a few fingers shorter Catch was like many other gathering place of mercenaries and wanton freedom seekers, adventurers.

For why I waited three nights, the elusive reason beget to but a feeling. A purpose I knew and a change sought in the slog that was life, to bet on a chance however slim it was. But a pittance of my time' I was no stranger to squandering it in self satisfaction. Arms tired, my throat dry as hours droned on in my serenade. I have fashioned my worn lute till fingers bled on many occasion, perfection or death. I found little in-between, to alleviate myself of burden was to stop living, to give up on pursuits worth enduring.

Acquainted with the nest of a back stage, I gave way to the process and restrung my lute in record time. Catch held a small room, for any entertainers and wandering bard' scourge that I am. Used the misused with right certainty, amidst the dust and grime. My traveling sack, lute and a damn heavy book. All I had, and all needed a few coins naught here or there. By the time I had saddled it in working fashion, the floorboards squeaked ever so slightly, a long shadow cast; from beyond the quaint room's door frame, an all but pleasant hobbit leered back at me. "Those knife ears cutting the sense out of you?' Morvane craned his neck, the small man barely reached my thigh. 'Ye hands were not paid to slack' Finished, he strut off and he was the nicest of the lot. No mention of twiggers, spite how nimble we elves are our proclivities-- The roaming monarch, left many with a less than desirable impression.

I remained a backdrop, another tune wistfully appreciated as patrons shuffled about. It was a day like many others a normalcy found in mundane monotony of my action. Spite of it all, my heart begged to differ beating like a rouge of its own accord to a fastened beat I was nay to control. By the time sight had caught up, my playing momentarily went lax as I side-eyed the source of mine affliction. Like wind past cloth, a masked figure draped in dark tones made way through a passing gesture to host staff' I was unable to hear, but discern as they kept forward to a board of listing. Jobs and other contracts given out to free-hands, those capable in mind and body of their own volition. Usually regarding safety a concern after the fact.

The world, my body knew something as I left to ponder in the dark. Less I knew, the driving forces at bay would appear before me, as this important piece; man or woman, no sliver of skin shown with eyes laid masked their indiscernible intent. A figure who in tow held a draped cage. I knew despite the layers that obscured, I had never known them yet they appeared like a storm a lone stranger whose gait betrayed a powerful allegiance. Or confidence in sheer excellence of skill, I wagered on both in my gut.

While I got my baring, the lone stranger had beelined for a group I knew' their reputation a apt reminder of those who carry blade for gold. Brushing my hair aside, I perked thy ears to the best I could, stepping toward my destined encounter.

'Falean, la-n marn' I uttered softly, an olden elvish greeting, feet away and behind them they turned. A small gesture I had mostly spoken for myself, however in the sea of voices mine was heard. A wide toothy-fanged grin, flick of my wrist I tossed a pebble from the palm of my hand. Which they too reciprocated at a moment's notice, catching it between two fingers with a lingering look.

"I, Lin moore' seems you've tred my path, stirring me."