The others saw the good work of the Children of Sun, and took inspiration. Naude sculpted her elves among the clouds, and from them were born a people ever wandering. Curious and playful, they were, and ever full of imagination.
Dervalia, ever wailing, put her tears into a people of sober mind and solemn temperament. And these were responsible for the first notations, both of word and song, and for the first [epics] and [oral] traditions that are still sung among elves to this day.
-The Faerie Beginning, c. BUE 1000
Edits by Tudious Spacklebottom
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FENNORIN
Fenn stoked the ashes underneath the stove with one of Syrdin’s sticks. It was an easier task this “morning” than stoking his mind. Every spark that sputtered there jumped from studying the crystal artifact to one of a hundred worries.
He stared at the notebook in his lap, but, for once, the urge to grab a quill escaped him. He could not even be bothered to cast his true-seeing spell to study the artifact. He had written the spell based on his copy of runes from an old trinket. He and Gale had discovered it as children, though he no longer knew what had happened to the thing.
Gale. Will she be alright? His mind-sparks leaped again. If he had been overwhelmed the first time he had left Etnfrandia for just Hethbarn, she must feel lost. This was the Faeworld, where danger lurked in the beauty of the poppies, the laughter of the pixies, and the dancing of the trees. He glanced at her quiet tent. She didn’t seem lost.
His stoking finally started a small fire under the stove, and he set some oats to boil. He returned again to his notebook and the symbol of Lorthen forming on the page. Gale’s father had seen that on Mell’s forehead. He wondered if the Ceann had known what it meant.
He sighed. The probably-former Ceann would be under severe scrutiny, and it was his fault. At least the man had nothing to hide other than Gale’s book on magic, so his job would be the only thing he’d lose. Still, when this was over, he wouldn’t have the power to help Gale escape the consequences of her actions. Not that she could’ve returned anyway. Only the HighFather herself could pardon them for attacking an Everguard.
Yes, if she had ever wanted a normal Etnfrandian life, she had made a huge mistake. Even a hundred years after their adventure, her return home would not be allowed, much less welcome. With her magical abilities, she’d have no problem growing her own orchard in Hethbarn, so to speak. Not that she had ever wanted that. Nor was she prepared.
The oats roiled in front of him, agitated by the flames and heat. Gale was naive. Her questions to Syrdin the prior day proved it. Even after their quest, he would need to mind her–at least for a while. Otherwise, she might just be killed by a troll or robbed by goblins.
He leaned forward, running his fingers through his hair. His thoughts had gone to Gale again. She had insisted on helping, on following him. Why? It was time to consider a serious concern: she may actually be in love with him. He would never have believed it possible except that Mell insisted it was so. Without that complication, the group’s relations were already muddled. He was the only connection most of them had to each other, aside from Syrdin, who was only known to Mell. If he damaged his relationship to Gale now, she would be alone out here.
He needed to be considerate of her until her feelings–if they existed—faded. Seeing him in “action” every day, he didn’t doubt they would. Perhaps it would take years, but what were a few years to him? He had no other plans.
Or, once she befriended Mell, he could simply tell her matroniages didn’t exist outside Etnfrandia. If they passed through again, it would only be to testify at trial and receive exile. He’d announce his findings, and that would be last he’d see of that ignorant nation. He’d have his answers; he’d tell the world. It would all be as intended, only Gale had tagged along.
There was nothing personal in breaking a matroniage that held no legal ground outside their home. Right? He had never agreed to marry her. Eight hundred years was a long time to live with anyone, even more a walking conundrum like her.
A sharp sigh from the bow of a branch jolted him into recalling another riddle: Syrdin. He shook his head and pulled a little pouch out of his pocket. He’d fetched it from his collection of magic baubles before sitting to prepare breakfast.
“Salt,” he whispered to it, holding it upside-down over a cupped hand. A few pinches of white granules fell out. He tossed it on the boiling oats.
Syrdin was not far away, toying with a dagger as zhe lounged in the crook of a tree. The others were asleep. He could ask zhem. Be direct. He watched zhem flip the blade in zheir hand. He could do it, now. He clenched his fist, psyched up for the challenge. I can do it.
The shadow of Syrdin’s cowl turned toward him, eyes luminous with the glint of a trained killer.
He looked away. Nope. Mell can do it.
He had allowed problems he couldn’t solve to assail him for long enough. He forced his mind onto problems he could: the artifacts. Lifting his pouch again, he commanded cinnamon into the oatmeal.
He had spent a little time studying them the night before, and his sketches of the box’s engravings sat splayed on his lap. They were tributes, for certain, to members of the Fae deities from before the Unification Era melted the pantheons of various nations into a lore both muddled and confused. While the complexity of the enchantments enthralled him, Fenn had come away disappointed that he could not discern more about their origins. The maker had not marked their name, though they were doubtless a master of masters.
He had, however, determined its use. The crystal nested in the box wielded the power to scry and to spy across realms. In addition, the box’s engravings were more than simply decorative. When the sides’ designs were laid correctly on a page, they formed a symbol akin to Mell’s headpiece. Runes rimmed the symbol in an ancient language he recognized as a root Faenic language, though he didn’t understand it. On top of that, he had trouble identifying the magic energy attached to them. Logic provided it would be Knowledge, a subset of Moon belonging to Cialmara Lorthen. What the crystal and box did not provide was a hint at a god’s history or location.
“I bet this stuff would be good in the sludge.”
Fenn nearly dropped his notebook into the fire as he jumped up from his makeshift seat–his trunk of baubles. Syrdin was next to him, peeling a yuka.
“Beauty’s sake!” Fenn retrieved his notebook from the dirt. “You scared me.”
“I noticed.” The statement was flat. “You mind?” Zhe gestured the yuka over the oatmeal, a dagger in zheir other hand.
Fenn glanced down at the bubbling oats congealing in the pot. “Sure, that’s fine.” He dusted off his book and set it aside. I can do this. “So,” he swallowed hard, “what makes you want to come with us?”
“With you?” Zhe chopped the fruit over the thickening meal. “I don’t.”
Fenn squinted at zhem. What? Then why—There was almost a hint of disgust there. Oh. With us. “Sorry, I’ve asked the wrong question. I meant why the Faeworld?”
“Meh,” zhe shrugged and pulled out another fruit. “Shits and giggles.”
Fenn scowled. Zheir delivery was once again flat, but this time with a trace of sardonic humor. It was an obvious deflection. Even he could tell. “You must want something from here.”
“My artifact would be nice. Though if you want to be less immediate, I want the same things as everyone else.” A smirk grew in zheir voice.
“The same things?” He thought of the gods, the lost history, the magic, the truths he sought. “What do you mean? The gods?”
“Dunno, you’re the scholar. Didn’t you learn philosophy in school or something?” The smirk-sound turned snide. Zhe flicked a clinging yuka piece off zheir dagger with a practiced motion. For an instant, he expected to see a smatter of blood fall over the pot.
He had learned some philosophy, but it seemed like mentioning it would not help. Besides, all he had learned was that humans valued bonds, achievements, and some sense of posterity. He was uncertain how this compared to elves. Focus. He opened his mouth to press for a real answer, then closed it. He shook his head. There’s no point. Zhe won’t tell me.
“You got nutmeg in that magic pouch of yours?” Syrdin asked it like his prior attempt at conversation had never happened.
“Yes, I can ask it for any spice from Hethbarn.” Fenn dumped it into his hand. “Nutmeg.” The little tan granules poured out. “It took me ages to decipher the enchantment–it was fairly early in my studies in artificery. I must have broken half a dozen similar pouches before I finally gave up exacting the location. It’s quite wonderful. Whoever is making these connected them all to the same hidden inter-realm storage domain.”
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Syrdin didn’t so much as grunt in acknowledgement.
Fenn sighed. This is going to be a long journey.
“So, my artifact?”
He ogled the engraved box beside him. Selfishly, he wanted to hold on to them all. But they had an agreement. “Yes, take your pick.”
“Hah,” zhe sheethed zheir dagger and crossed zheir arms. “Not without knowing what they do.”
Mell burst from her tent. “Mmmm! Do I smell spices?”
“Cinnamon and Nutmeg.” Fenn scooped out a bowl and offered it to her. “Want to be the first?”
“Yes, thank you.” Mell patted him on the head, then took the bowl. He supposed head pats were meant to be a friendly gesture. Sometimes he got the impression people just liked messing with his hair. The pastel-yellow strands sort-of stood where you left them. He took it kindly anyway.
“So?” Syrdin prompted.
“R-right, the artifacts.” He struggled to meet zheir gaze. It was too penetrating.
“Oh, are you picking?” Mell blew on a spoonful, “I thought you’d like the armored boots.”
Fenn pulled them from his satchel. They were of beautifully polished dark steel. The greaves showed a feminine figure posed for battle in full armor, a glaive tip buried in the ground. Above, dark lines pointed down from what must be a sky. The top edge was trimmed in navy scrolls. Her hair, silver, curled as in the wind, mirroring the scrolls, with a twisting pattern etched into them.
“They aren’t just decoration,” Mell continued over a mouthful, ”they are useful armor, but quieter. They’ve been enchanted to make very little noise–even less than leather. We’re not sure of the deity they depict, though. It’s not someone either of us recognized. It seems she is associated with night, but it doesn’t quite look like Dervalia. We thought it might be a pure representation of her from before the melding of cultures. It could be Skunyuv, but it doesn’t depict stars. And Sabaed wouldn’t be on something the Etnfrandians displayed.”
Fenn was surprised Mell included that much information, but Syrdin didn’t interrupt her. Zhe reached for the boots, meeting Fenn’s gaze. “What about the necklace?”
Mell and Fenn shared a glance, eyebrows raised. Zhe is interested in the necklace?
“It adds to the innate charm of a person,” Fenn said, “and makes them more appealing, I suppose. The Necklace of Beauty and Grace, by Mell’s divination. Obviously, it’s a tribute to Boidhan himself.” Fenn picked up the necklace by its chain and proffered it to Syrdin. “I was hoping it was more than a tribute, but I have not found a direct connection to him, just his class of magic.”
“Are all of the artifacts like that?”
He lowered the necklace after zhe didn’t take it. “Like that? Not connected to their god? It’s hard to be certain. At very least, they all appear to be elvencraft enchanted with similar methods to those of modern artificers–erm–magic engineers.” Zhe is interested?
Syrdin tucked the boots under zheir arms. “Hm.” Zhe stalked off without another word.
Or not. Fenn turned to Mell. “That must be the strangest elf on the face of Hethbarn. Where did you find zhem?”
“A tavern in Rockfall, actually. It’d be more accurate to say zhe found me. I was asking around for a mercenary for hire, claiming it was a religious mission. Syrdin tapped me on the shoulder, and asked ‘what mission?’ and then what it had to do with Lorthen.” Mell tapped the emblem on her circlet. “We got to talking after that. Of course I didn’t explain everything, just that I was seeking artifacts hidden in another land.”
Zheir motives for being here might be related to the artifacts, then. He stared after zhem. Even in simple tasks like tucking away belongings, zheir intense, deft movements intimidated him. Could zhe have more information?
Fenn took a breath. “Excuse me, Syrdin?”
Syrdin jerked zheir head up from zheir magic bag where zhe had just stashed zheir boots. “What?”
“Why did you want to know about the necklace?”
Zhe shrugged, and for a moment, he thought zhe would not answer. “When I looked at it yesterday, it had a strange draw.”
Fenn held the necklace in his palm and fingered it gently. The pendant was simple, yet elegant, with silver elements interweaving over each other toward the center. A gold knot gave the appearance of tying them together. The design seemed to draw him in, pulling at his mind, his heart. Zhe was right, the draw felt unnatural. It was that magical appeal he had mentioned. He glanced over at the elf. A magical awareness. He shook his head.
Gale wasn’t the only one with a surprising aptitude for magic.
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MELLARK
They had a plan. When asked directly by Krid, Fenn had explained his designs to form a base camp and make short expeditions outward each day, studying in between. With that in mind, they hoped to find a suitable place near the watering hole–so long as it proved safe.
Now, packed up and marching, she let herself get caught up in the beauty of the place: the purple skies, the fantastical blue-hued leaves, the trees with their dark, earthy trunks tied with knots in their roots. She gazed up the trunk of one of what she could only describe as an enormous palm tree and grew dizzy as it nearly disappeared into the sky with an explosion of leaves. There were fewer of these than the low, gnarled ones; just enough to create a second, high canopy.
The more time she spent in this place, the more alive it seemed. Ferns twitched when bugs settled on them, while the bugs seemed to meet, talk, and gawk as their group forged through the clusters of ferns. And the eyes. These were not particularly shadowed forests, but she swore she almost caught eyes staring from them every time she turned her head.
Whether the eyes of a forest creature of mythos, or of a dryad, or even the homodryads of the trees themselves, I may never be sure, she composed in her head. For her memoir. She nodded to herself. She’d have to write that down later.
“While we have time, we should discuss the artifacts,” Fenn interrupted her mental composing. He was right, and she committed her attention fully to his discourse.
He explained first about the crystal. Apparently, the box’s sides depicted her own god’s symbol, only the details were different–older. When he said older, her first assumption was that it would be simpler. Then he slipped her a page of the reconstructed emblem.
Oh how presumptuous she’d been to assume modernity meant advancement. The pointed-down triangle was looped with knots, and the swirled eye twisted in and out among them. She gaped, tracing her fingers over the page. A memory of Fenn bent over her library desk, sketching similar patterns for her based solely on recollections from his youth, resurrected in her mind. She had nearly forgotten it over the last six years. She smiled.
“...and it can be used for scrying the future as well as the present. Though about the former I am unsure. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mell, but Cialmara is not in the business of fortune-telling is he? Not usually?”
She lifted her fingers from the page. Cialmara and prophecy? “No, not usually. Though I can use his powers for divination, so it is not a total departure from his magic. How far in the future are we considering?”
Busy with his own musings, he didn’t heed her. “...Unless that is from the other god… Lortin… Lorfen—no. What was it before the merge?”
He meant the integration of the human God of Wisdom, Lorthen, and the Elven god of Knowledge, Cialmara. “Lorthen, just in another language. But my question, Fenn?” It was ancient history to her, having occurred a thousand years ago. Odd that for him it was just a generation or two ago.
“That’s right!” He raised a triumphant finger. “And…how long? Perhaps a few days ahead at most–and only snippets. It is not a powerful scrying spell. You see, the layering of the alphamatic runes atop the betramic couldn’t possibly allow…”
He took off, speaking his gibberish to any ears that would listen–mostly his own. Novices who apprenticed as artificers or mages often expected magic runes to work like a language. They did, if you counted mathematics as a language. Mell did not. Fortunately, casting through a devine conduit didn’t require extensive knowledge of runes–only object enchantments required Fenn’s level of understanding. Even in that expertise, he surpassed most masters.
A flash of another pair of eyes set Mell spinning toward the trees. They were Syrdin’s. They watched Fenn, listening and learning. For an instant, they locked onto Mell, then disappeared.
Many times on their journey to Etnfrandia, Syrdin had conversed with Mell about magic and gods. Back then, Mell had dominated the conversation, encouraged by Syrdin’s questions. Those had been pleasant evenings passed with brandy and wine. Now, Syrdin only listened from the shadows. Mell longed for zhem to step into the light and reveal zheir interest, zheir knowledge.
They stopped only briefly for lunch. Mell hardly had time to jot down a paragraph as she wiped her fingers clean of her biscuit. While she wrote, she watched Galendria share her crumbs with the antenna-eared rodents, Fenn capturing a sketch from beside her. Hunger glittered in Krid’s gaze as he observed the scene. Then they were off again to the beat of Mell’s aching feet.
They hid from a herd of cladafrum that passed by a ways away, then a small stream joined their journey. Mell was struck by the intense shade of green that hued the water. On the Trueplane, people only dreamed of dying their ponds that color. It bubbled and rippled next to them, other runoffs joining it.
“Look ahead.” Fenn pointed through the trees.
They thinned, and something sparkled between their leaves. Mell squinted. She pushed past a clump of ferns and came to a stunned halt. A small lake shimmered in the white sun, its emerald surface broken with purple reeds, pads, and other flora. It was as if the rich life that pervaded this world had infused the water itself with the same verve. Or perhaps it worked the other way, vivacity leaking from the clear, green waters into the forest.
Beautiful. She stepped forward. Though probably not quite a lake. She guessed she could probably walk around the whole perimeter, which she could easily see, in about half an hour.
Fenn plodded up behind her. “Perhaps we should be more careful about charging into clearings.”
Mell opened her mouth to defend herself, but saw the hint of a smile on his face. Cheeky. She grinned. “Right. We can’t go wandering into another pixie hollow.”
He ducked his head, sheepish. “Or monster-infested lakes, in this case.”
“So,” Syrdin appeared from whatever shadow zhe’d been hiding in, “who’s going swimming?”
Looking between the companions: Fenn scratching at his ear, Gale struggling past a final clump of ferns with Krid’s assistance, and Syrdin standing with arms crossed; Mell got the distinct impression it would be her. She would seek the beast; she hoped with help.