Several hours after the attack on our caravan did we leave the thundered plains. The trees, unlike those of the plains, were unpetrified and held verdant leaves that had yet to corrode under early-Autumn’s chill. It did not take long for many to realize the paladin’s stories had rendered him unable to speak,disheartening those of the caravan who had survived the attack (twenty-five in number, including the guards). Yet, even as many of us grieved the lives lost to the shrieks with their decaying wings and foul maws, one could not help but to hold optimism close to one’s chest. The land, undesecrated, carried no marks of the war between those two consuming powers, Moringia and Junumianis; the road was unmuddied, the grasses of those greener and more-forgiving plains untrodden, and the hills held no refuse of men who marched towards the fort on the river Kalipaonin, for the city Arimens had yet to involve itself.
Still, communication with the paladin was of a necessity. Even if there were fewer liars, swindlers, bandits, and beasts who roamed these wilds, we needed to be able to understand what the man who led us towards the unsullied city needed of us. Fortunately, being a child of the double moon, my parents had educated me in words and letters. For the rest of the journey the paladin would scrawl his words into the dirt with a stick or on rocks with charcoal for me to read and relay to others.
Raluros told us it would be many months before he could whisper, but assured us that the dangers of this portion of the journey would be lesser than what we had encountered in the thundered plains.True to his word, the troubles were lesser, and there was only little conflict to be had. The highwaymen were not so desperate as to attack a paladin of Ralurusian, for they fled at the first sight of the flames of Raluros’s mithril sword. During the final length of the journey, during which Raluros scrawled words in dirt and rocks to communicate, I also tended to Ynguinian’s recovery as well. While it is true that the paladin’s story had saved my friend from mortal woundage, it did not spare Ynguinian from the pain and time of recovery of near-fatal wounds. Each morning Ynguinian had to drink bitter tinctures for pain and he walked the trade road with the aid of the walking stick he had originally made for me, slowing our progress significantly.
I remember very clearly, our arrival to the city we had climbed the Harinese Mounts, the river Kalipaonin, and walked the thundered plains to reach. For Arimens, unlike other cities of its size and prominence, reveals itself to the visitor slowly. Upon arrival, there is no sudden view from the top of a hill where you can see the brook flowing fast under the many wooden bridges. Arimens has no great and sudden walls of stone that brandish regential power in their exquisite and looming architecture. No, these things are true of Ginoria where the granite court holds its sessions, and these things are even true of the seat of power which began that wretched war: Junumianis.
However, the untainted city has none of these things. Arimens, as I have said, reveals itself slowly like the first trickle in the creek during Greenpeek. The dirt roads slowly give way to increasing cobble. The wooden houses start to condense and compact until they lay upon themselves as wood to a pile. This ever-increasing flow of things makes it easy to ignore the mage towers which peek above the ever-growing streams of buildings, people, and animals. Ynguinian and I saw the city, much like the crossroads, as wondrous, for we had never seen so many people in one place. The streets were crowded such that one could not move without touching the shoulders of people from all backgrounds. Fishers held grass-woven baskets above their heads, full of the river's bounty. Merchants from many distant places sold salt, saffron, and texts in unreadable languages. It was filthy, as all cities are for there is never enough space for cleanliness in those places.
I held tight to my coin purse as Raluros led the caravan through Arimens towards the great stone temple of Urostrian, for he knew they would assist us in finding refuge and shelter in the chaos of the wen’s sprawl. The paladin warned of pick-pockets, muggers, and pesky children that took money that was not theirs to have, and having previously lost money we were not about to make that mistake again. Ynguinian was particularly alert, for he knew of the dreams that coin purse represented to me, and he had sworn an oath to work until I could afford tutelage. Secretly, I believed his promise would be unneeded, for at that time I often thought “what teacher would reject a promising mage born under the double moon?”
That temple to Urostian seems, at first, an unimpressive building. The windows are simple, and the exterior is gray stone. The interior is at first glance simple and unadorned, the seat and floor carved of common riverstone. However, it is the dome, walls, and windows of that temple which conveys the sublime of Urostian’s preferred element. Carved ornately into layers of red, white, yellow, and brown stone from distant mesas is the saga of the sixth saint up until his final moments. Each scene stretches many feet up until all carvings meet the domed roof that, within deep shale, lay arcing paths of quartz lightning that snake the walls just as the gilding of a frame serves a painting. The windows, rather than glass, are thin-cut stone through which the sun drapes the seats and chiseled chronicles in ethereal color. It is a solemn place, and just as Urostian often asked of his followers in life: those grey walls provide Shelter to the downtrodden, abused, and unlucky.
It was at this temple of Urostian, did we bid farewell to Raluros who before taking his offered Ynguinian a written recommendation for the city guard and suggested that perhaps greater things beyond that lay in his future. To me, Raluros bid nothing, and it is now clear to me that even after I had learned the price of stories that I still had yet to learn the patience Kalitian bid me to learn. Rather than look for more permanent shelter within the city on our second day within, I began a fruitless and sobering search for an apprenticeship. Foolish then, I believed the spell Kalitian had gifted me would impress the magickal scholars of Arimens. Lonesome I walked the streets of Arimens, wielding my measly threnits and naivety as I sought the mages of the city.
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Seven mages I sought the tutelage of. The first mage, Zuryne, a master of fire and light, remarked that unless I already knew flame magicks he would not apprentice me. The second mage, Naronian, a manipulator of birds and beasts, told me that I lacked the hundreds of golden hilants that would cost her tutelage. The third mage, Kalityne, a refined enchanter of metals, refused me as many children of the double moon have done as I had and their inexperience only caused him trouble. The fourth mage, Yularelian, a scoundrel and a cur, refused me because I was a woman. The fifth mage, Junan, was too old to take a new apprentice.
The sixth mage, Hazlyne, who healed and mended, had too many apprentices and even then I could not afford his teaching. However, seeing that I was determined to learn he advised me to speak to the seventh mage of Arimens.
“Seek Corindrian, an old mage who studies the magicks of weather. He has taken precocious and ambitious students before, and if you can impress him he will have much to teach you.”
Taking the sixth mage’s advice, I found myself addressing the weather mage as the sun sank over the western horizon of the city. Corindrian offered me tea, which I declined, and asked me of my past, my reasons, and my skill.
“I only seek those who have the capacity to learn, and can truly demonstrate Knowledge of magicks to me,” he said.
So I began my tale. I told the mage of my birth under the double moon, of my journey through the Harinese Mounts, of Ynguinian’s friendship, and of Urostyne’s treachery and drowning. I told him of Kalitian’s gift, my first magicks, and our journey through the thundered plains wherein I did learn the price of stories. However, I did not tell him that the spell of unnoticing was a gift and a lesson, and I did not tell him of Synwye’s warnings and how I had touched the yew, nightshade, and water hemlock. I did not tell him these things, for I feared he would not apprentice me. Attempting to persuade the man into giving me knowledge of magicks. I even cast my spell of unnoticing as a means to impress him. Corindrian, the old mage, rejected me anyways, for he was wise enough to know when things are unspoken.
“Nayinian, child of the double moon,” Corindrian said. “I understand you to be a dedicated and ambitious seeker of truth. However, as I am faithful to Kalitian whose patron is Knowledge, I know that you withhold certain things from me. I also know that you do not understand the nature of knowing yet. I am old in years, and in that age I have learned the nature of the gifts Kalitian gives to those who pray to her. The vellum maiden’s gift you bear, the spell of unnoticing, is also a lesson. You must first learn patience, and then you will know what knowledge truly is. Once you have heeded her lessons, and have the gold hilants to pay for apprenticeship only then will I consider you. That is all I can promise, as she bids I cannot aid you in this pursuit.”
Understandably, I was upset at the mage, and bawled in frustration in the lower room of his tower as another apprentice of his escorted me out of the tower. I had traveled for months to Arimens, and now I held no teacher, no means of return, no Shelter but the temple of Urostian, no means by which to quickly get the golden hilants for my study, and one friend.
Distraught, I walked the nighttime streets of the autumnal city I had already grown to hate. I avoided the temple that evening, not wanting to embarrass myself in front of Ynguinian. Instead, I searched for a fortune teller, hoping that one might provide guidance and hope to me. I wandered deep into a cramped and dark alley, and did see a small door falling off of its hinges. Above this door, was a faded painting of two moons within an eye, the symbol of fortune tellers on the western part of the continent.
The interior of the building was dusty, and in disrepair. However, at a table sat a man. His teeth rotted, his skin speckled, and his hair ghostly white. He was old to the point where one could practically see the bones of his fingers. It is from him, my fortune did he read. I told him of my rejection, and my woes, and he listened in silence.
“Your fortune, two threnits,” said he.
I set the two silver pieces next to the white bowl he kept in front of him as he set a knife and a rat within his white bowl. He swiftly grabbed the blade and jammed it with a force that betrayed his bony fingers into the poor creature, which flailed about as it squealed and gurgled blood as it died. Warm, and lifeless the corpse was as hundreds of insects came out of the darkness to devour the corpse. In a matter of seconds, five neat lines of red lay at the bottom of the bowl, glistening under moonlight. It was then spoken much like the insects which devoured the corpse.
“At the beginning of your life was death. Knowledge you will gain after an encounter with luck. Then, written in red are the veins of bloody misfortune. Then, once again, birth, and your fate no longer yours.”
At first overwhelmed at the fortune, and the brutality of the rat, I remembered the warning Benevolence had given me while I still lived in my village.
If you avoid necromancy and the symbols of Yuorinis your fate will remain yours.
All of the sudden I was hit by the shock of revelation. I had just witnessed the foul magicks that had felled Urostian: necromancy. I had not avoided the symbols of the wretched saint, nor of Decay. Swiftly I grabbed the threnits, revoking my payment, as I ran from the decrepit fortune teller. I ran long through the city, praying to Borrinean that my fate was still mine and that there was still hope I could avoid the Decay and bitterness in my life for I still had many things dearest to me.
Finally, after running long under the moons did I slam the stone doors of the temple of Shelter and sprinted into Ynguinian’s quarters where I embraced him: for he was what I worried of losing the most to bloody misfortune. We talked for many hours as I told him of my misfortunes with the wizards, and of the harrowing and necromantic fortune I had recieved.
Assuredly, the virtuous man spoke: “Nayinian, I do not know how to read, or of magicks. But, I do know one thing for certain: your fate is yours to do as you please. For if your fate did not belong to you, you would never have survived the long trek to Arimens. Decay will not come to you from one fortune, even if necromantic in nature, and fortune tellers are often liars. Be happy you are alive, for I know that I am.”
Ynguinian was right that I still possessed my destiny: for it would be years until I severed the veins of fate.