Knives sat sentinel, cloaked in the shadow of the mountain.
While Gale had tasked Knives with gathering provisions, he was instead watching his compatriots dawdle in the townhouse from across the way. He had followed along the Shantytown rooftops, more out of curiosity and boredom than any suspicion. Knives found the crowds below to be far too cramped, but atop the buildings he was alone. He preferred that, most of the time.
Knives was perched on the roof of a Guild bakery in a comfortable squat. The roof was sloped, gently, and constructed of black clay tiles. The clay tiles were alternating half cylinders that created a wave shape profile. Knives enjoyed the fun tinkling sounds with each step, it was far more entertaining than the slate shingles in Arx Boreas. The light of day had not yet fully engulfed the Caldera; that would only happen close to noon when the sun reached its apex, but the blue arc lights of the streets gave illumination plenty. The galvonic blue seemed brighter even than the whites and yellows of the sun and crackled angrily, it burned Knives’ eyes if he stared too long.
Knives took in the smell of the Shantytown, the pungent odor of redbread dominated from seemingly every direction, the Guild bakery made little else. Knives loathed redbread; closer to a pudding than a loaf, it had no crunch nor flavor, lacking any true spice. Redbread was usually a collection of whatever was available but often had two key components: imported wheat and red waterweed. The soggy mush was often baked with mint and Knives was tired of the damnable herb. Mint wasn’t bad, Sternfolk just were delighted to include it with every dish. Despite his hatred for the slop, redbread did keep Knives satiated and full of energy.
Knives shuddered, feeling a chill as though many eyes were watching.
Knives did not like this place.
Not the bakery, that was fine.
It was the Empire and its Peace.
Like all 'civilization' under Imperial Dominion, the Caldera was under the Peace of the Empress. Knives couldn't see or hear or smell the Peace, but he could feel it; like a discordant snake wound up his spine. Everywhere the Empire existed, the Peace accompanied it. Silver had explained that the Peace was 'faith made manifest' and ‘brought forth the miraculous immanence of the Ennead and empowered each servant of the Numen'. Knives rolled his eyes, true power did not require faith, only the ability to create change and the will to use it. Knives did not dispute the existence of the Numen, just that they required mortal faith for any reason.
Unfortunately for Knives, the Peace had a direct negative impact on his well-being; it kept out the mysts. Much of Knives’ capability revolved around the mysts and any place the mysts could not reach was one where Knives was far more vulnerable.
Ultimately, the Caldera was far more tolerable than the Arx; there were fewer people and the Peace was less obnoxious; Knives was glad to be away.
From the townhouse below, Knives saw movement and caught sight of his fellow Greypelts. He watched Sledge leap over the stairs and land heavily on the street. The Pridefolk then headed back towards the inn, the morning crowd parting at his presence. Knives wished the crowds would do that for him, Sledge’s formidable build had value beyond carrying heavy things.
Silver too departed, walking down the stairs before diverging from Sledge’s heading. He made his way up Main Street, Knives was unsure where he was headed. Silver moved with urgency, but was not quite running. The crowd did not make space for him unless they caught sight of his eyes. Then, they gave the Starborn a wide berth.
Knives saw the townhouse door close; Ink remained within the townhouse, near as Knives could tell.
Knives scrunched his face as he decided who to follow, bouncing his head side to side as he weighed the options. Unable to make a decision, he sought out a flat surface. As fortune would have it, a brick chimney towered out of the bakery and the pinnacle appeared flat from Knives' vantage. The peak of the chimney was maybe three Knives' above from where it emerged from the roof and was fairly narrow, appearing much older than the rest of the structure.
Knives nodded, there was only one way to find out.
Knives arranged himself at the intersection of roof and chimney and kicked it a few times to test the integrity, it seemed solid enough. He found natural holds for his fingers between each layer of bricks and rapidly pulled himself up. It was not much of a grip, but enough of one. While only half Kindred, he had the nimble fingers of his father's people, and they were well suited to climbing such as this.
Knives soon found purchase in the opening of the chimney and pulled himself into a seat on one of the corners of the square construction. While the bakery at one time would have needed the vent of the chimney, resontry had rendered fire and fuel unnecessary for baking. Knives didn't fully understand it, but magic rocks made it hot?
The chimney was caked in aged soot and the brickwork did not match any of the other buildings of the Shantytown. Within the vent, it appeared that a family of pigeons had taken up residence in a messy nest of trash from the Shantytown, though the nest of refuse and debris now laid sadly empty. Another once integral component of society now done away with by resontry, homing pigeons had once been key for navigation through the mysts. They now had magic rocks that could be paired and point at each other, no matter the distance. Knives had heard some sailors kept them aboard for good luck, but most were now regarded as a nuisance. He couldn’t help but notice the parallels in the Myst Hunters and their capability to see through the mysts. He liked the idea of a pet pigeon, it was one worth exploring upon their return to Arx Boreas. Maybe he could train it to pester Sledge.
Knives fished around his pockets and found a single copper coin. He placed it onto the opposite corner before drawing a dagger from the small of his back. This throwing knife was his favorite, but all his daggers were his favorite, as long as they did their job. Knives weighed the blade for a moment, balancing it just above the guard before placing its center on the coin opposite to him. With a flick and some gentle humming, he gave the blade a spin and waited.
The dagger slowed, eventually pointing roughly the direction of Silver.
Knives sighed, everything with Silver was always so routine and regimented, just boring.
Knives ducked down slightly, staring along the trajectory indicated by the blade.
If he just gave it the slightest of nudges it would be closer to Ink than Silver.
Knives looked to see if anyone was watching before gently allowing his knuckle to brush the blade handle.
He smiled, Ink it was.
Knives grabbed his favorite knife and let himself fall backwards, leaving the coin behind.
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Silver had made his way to the local Guild Chapterhouse.
Main Street had curved away from the Caldera Lake and towards the stony walls of the mountain. The Chapterhouse was situated on a hill of hexagonal stone pillars overlooking the rest of the Shantytown. Built of red and white brick, the Chapterhouse stood distinct against the stark grey of fibrula plank that was all too common below. The building splayed out from a center mass into four equidistant wings.
While impressive, at least for here, Silver was far more taken in by the Novell across the street. While simple when compared to the mighty grandeur of the Novus Novark of the capital, Silver was enamoured with the charming humility of this house of the Numen. The Threshold was a set of three doors, but they were not on a hinge, instead they rotated along a central axis and created channels for the devout to enter the Novell. Beyond the Threshold lay the Harmonic Hall; a long structure in the shape of a trigonal prism with flat roof and face. Within, there were no features save a single font of still water in its exact center. It was here that the Evangelists chanted the Liturgical Harmonies and built the Peace of the Empress with the devout. Beyond the hall was the Sanctuary of the Nine, a large dome partitioned equally into ten sections. One served as the connection to the Harmonic Hall while each of the other partitions held a pedestal bearing the symbol of each Numen. This was the most sacred of all the Novell and was where the faithful offered their remembrances to individual Numen.
Upon arriving in Caldera, he had immediately sought out the place of faith. The Greypelt’s journey west had taken 22 days and Silver had languished in the forced abstinence. He had been overdue for his remembrances and was desperate to wash in the radiance of the Ennead after such a duration. The local Evangelist, named Ventris, and her Ardents had eagerly embraced Silver as one of their own, a pleasant rarity when most avoided any interaction with Imperators, active or veteran.
While offering succor and guided remembrance, Evangelist Ventris had explained the local culture and politics to Silver. While such an outpost should be under the domain of the Regency, the Guilds were permitted a wide range of freedoms in the Caldera and no Magistrate was positioned here. Instead, the Magistrate operated a small outpost an hour away by horse. It was an understanding the Regency had with the Guilds, so long as they accorded themselves the Magistrate would not interfere with Guild affairs. The Regency was typically far more concerned with meeting Imperial Quotas, a required amount of raw material production that would circulate through the Empire to the Guilds. In another age, the Regency had led the Empire, but their failings had led to the formation of the Illuminant and the status of Magistrates as keepers of the status quo as determined by the Illuminant. The Emittance Illuminant was the true governing body of the Eternal Empire and were the representatives of the will of the Ennead across the Mortal Realms.
The Evangelists were one branch of the triarchy of the Illuminant. They were responsible for administering the faith by leading the prescribed liturgical harmonies and guiding the devout in their remembrances, serving as preachers of the faith. This was often done at the direction of the Seekers, another branch, who led the faith and determined its path and course. The Imperators, though, were the protectors of the faith; the shield of the Imperial Realms and the swords of the Ennead.
Silver was proud of his service to the Imperators and bore his eyes with pride. He could understand the anxiety the Imperators evoked in many, but it was that reputation that made them effective. Fear was just as valid a tool as hope and the Illuminant used every tool in its arsenal to keep the Peace.
Silver refocused on the present and the Chapterhouse in front of him. He broke away from the pavement of the street and stepped onto a red brick pathway. It was a straight path, no winds nor bends nor aesthetic flair and led to an intersection of the wings, terminating in a large set of double doors. As he approached, Silver sniffed at the doors before knocking, catching the aroma of evergreen. Wood, here of all places, the Guild must have paid a fortune to construct such a monument. Silver’s snout wrinkled in disgust at the opulent display before he knocked and entered.
The inside seemed just as intent to convey wealth, tile was mounted on near every surface as the canopy above was a mural of glassy colors. Arc lights were mounted within, casting a galvonic blue across the interior. Silver hated how the arc lights crackled and sputtered, but they were favored across the urbs for their supposed efficiency over resonant lanterns. It was hard for Silver to tell the true color of the interior, strong blue light such as this irritated all his senses.
A Lichenfolk man was seated behind the desk and carried the bearing of a confident clerk. He appeared roughly the same height as Gale and looked to be a young adult. Silver was fairly certain he had pale skin, mottled by outgrowths of moss-like formations, Lichenfolk generally did not have hair. The arc lights painted him in an array of blues, turquoises, and teals that gave Silver the beginnings of a migraine. The clerk was dressed in a nice fitting suit coat with pointed shoulders that appeared dark in the strange light. On his collar, he wore a prominent golden lapel button displaying three pillars, marking him as a Banking Guilder.
The clerk did not look up at Silver's arrival and began speaking in a bored monotone.
"Welcome to the Caldera Guild Chapterhouse. We currently maintain representatives of the Tavern, Consignatory, Trade, and Banking Guilds. The Banking Guild has a Reserve for Guilders here, all others including guild affiliated wrights are to use the Guild Reserve in the Shantytown. Yes, the Ethics Guild and Guild of Quills were housed here. No, neither maintain a posting currently. Please address all complaints to the Guild Consociation in Arx Boreas; the Consignatory Guild is happy to facilitate written complaints."
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
The clerk's eyes flicked up, noting Silver's build and pendant before settling on his eyes and quickly averting his gaze.
The clerk inhaled before continuing.
"The Banking Guild is currently looking to contract magewrights. No new mercenary contracts are being approved at this location. If you are seeking to collect, you must present the original contract sealed by oathwright or a notorized copy. My name is Tomek, how may I assist you?"
Silver gave him a toothy grin.
"Hello, yes. I would like to report the death of a Tavern Guilder. I have been led to believe that the Regency does not maintain a Magistrate within Caldera and this matter has some urgency."
Tomek did not lose his composure and stared hard at the enneagram around Silver's neck, avoiding eye contact.
"Were you responsible for the..."
"No, we were asked to check in on a Guilder and found him. Likely dead for several hours."
Tomek stood and sighed.
"Very well. Please follow me, there is a considerable amount of documentation to complete."
Silver slowed his pace to match that of the clerk and asked.
"You seem remarkably undisturbed by this, not your first time I gather?"
"Third one this morning. Now, we will start with this form..."
----------------------------------------
Ink had found several more treasures in their dissection of the space. A hand clock of excellent make, several ink reservoirs for the fountain pen, and a very fanciful letter opener now joined their collection. There was little light entering the room, only singular beams from the closed door and shuttered window, the rays showing every speck of dust that had been disturbed from Ink's liberations.
Ink laid on the bed and was engrossed with one of the ink reservoirs. The mattress was exceedingly comfortable, firm but with enough give that Ink felt comfortably engulfed. The blue-black was their favorite color of the set, though the green was a close second. Ink would never have been able to afford pigments such as these, even when they had been a retained alchemist. The reservoir was a sealed glass ampoule that tapered from a rounded point into a wider vial with a flat bottom and it could sit comfortably between Ink's thumbs. Ink had been inverting the ampoule for some time, enjoying the simple displacement of blue-black by air bubble. This brought a playful amusement to Ink and they were content to lay back and enjoy the repeated experience.
To Ink's right was the deceased's desk, the shelves all removed and placed nearly in a stack on the floor and many papers arranged into disorganized stacks. Close to the desk was a respectable pantry, Ink was most impressed with the chilled storage, that was a rarity in non-commercial settings. To their left was the Ardorfolk's body, Sledge had forgotten to convey a name before departing. Ink had covered the corpse with one of the bed sheets, more out of a sense of propriety than any disgust with death.
As Ink smiled in a reserved glee, they very nearly missed the patch of shadow on the wall growing darker, only detecting the change as the bubble in the ink magnified the effect and Ink discerned the appearance of movement.
Ink froze as the darkness deepened, shaping into a tall ellipse before becoming more... solid. From the void emerged a mask. The mask was roughly the size of a face and seemed made of bronze, resembling a sternfolk face with almond-shaped holes for eyes and a slit in the shape of a frowning mouth; Ink could not see any features in the gaps. Under the mouth slit was a sharp rounded triangular chin. Between the eyes and above the mouth was a nose piece that was curved just above the mask's lips and ran between the eyes before branching into curves resembling a stylized brow above each eye. The nose piece differed, it was a dark unknown metal that seemed cloaked more deeply in shadow. The mask felt old, it had a weathered look, and it somehow felt ancient, primal even. Ink could also see lines running from each of the eyes, it was difficult to tell if these were artifacts of the casting process or the stylized path of tears.
Behind and attached to the mask, a head wrapped in charcoal linens emerged from the shadow. Covered in similar cloth, a body with arms and legs followed in short order. From their prone vantage on the bed, Ink could only see above the figure's waist.
Instinctively, Ink's body flushed the color from their skin and replaced it with the beige of the bed below. This did not hide Ink's clothes, but earlier preparation had made the reaction entirely unnecessary. Ink was, at present, functionally invisible.
The stranger was tall, somewhere between what Ink would expect of the average male Sternfolk and Kindred with an athletic build. Their features were carefully obscured by the wraps and Ink found it impossible to discern any facial characteristics; the mask covered their entire face. At the stranger's side was a blade unsheathed, held tightly in their hand. The blade was a curious texture and shape, but Ink's focus was near completely on the stranger's movements, watching closely for any change that might signal some flaw in Ink's obscurement.
While vigilant, Ink felt smugly confident, they knew their invisibility invocation was flawless. A moment after a smug look had taken hold of Ink's face, their eyes widened in panic; they realized the ink ampoule was still visible. Ink remained still as death, trying to avoid drawing any attention from movement.
The masked person had fully emerged from shadow and moved cautiously across the room, focusing on the desk that Ink had carefully taken apart drawer by drawer. Ink began to work through their invocation, determining what fix or modification could be applied to the ink reservoir before they were noticed.
Invisibility was remarkably more complex than it seemed. This was not a self aggrandizing thought, it was the simple truth of radiant mages. All lightwrights could modify the color of light and reflections with ease. Most could blur light through scattering, manifesting opacity and artificial haziness. Many could fashion flat image projections but fewer still had the skill to create convincing depth through illusion. True illusions had to look real and feel real to the visual sense, often needing to be able to move convincingly as well.
Ink took in a slow and measured breath, holding their arm as still as possible, it was beginning to ache from the forced position. The masked figure now stood just off the foot of the bed and began sifting through papers Ink had uncarefully organized on the desk, casting them to the floor as they searched.
Ink was one of maybe a dozen able to perfectly hide themselves without flaw using light, modifying their own reflections in real time to match their surroundings while anticipating how changes might be reflected as they happened. The cost of doing so was normally quite high and any duration beyond a few heartbeats had a continual cost. Ink was normally able to outsource such costs, but the current circumstances made this... inadvisable.
The masked figure swept the contents of the desk to the floor in a quick motion of annoyance, but no utterance escaped the mask. The mask began to turn towards Ink.
Invocation required exact elocution, needing precise verbal articulation and perfect diction. That is, invocation with minimized risk required exact elocution. Nonverbal invocation had a habit of backfiring on the unwary. Per the terms of Ink's outsourcing, this arrangement only functioned under specific elocutive parameters that were additional to those of any invoked incantation.
Ink would have to do this unaided.
The bronze mask was nearly upon Ink as the figure pivoted.
Ink rapidly formed an invocation to blur the ampoule in shadow; it would have to be enough. Ink gathered them self, focused a nonverbal elocution in their mind's eye, and unleashed their intention upon the glass ampoule. Ink felt bile rise from their stomach as something popped in their right ear slit. Ink swallowed the wretchedness back as warm fluid began oozing forth from their nose slits and right ear. Their heart skipped several beats before pounding normally once more. Recovering from the backlash, Ink turned their head to its side, hoping the rivulets of liquid dripping forth would pool under them and be obscured by the invisibility invocation.
The stranger finished their pivot and crept toward the bed, their footsteps as inaudible as an alley cat stalking pigeons.
The mask was upon Ink and swept over their prone form and the ink set.
Ink tensed, ready to jump and flee at even a hint of hostility.
The figure then looked away from the bed before kneeling next to it, Ink could no longer see them.
Ink glanced toward their hand; the invocation had seemingly worked. The ampoule was replaced by shadow, appearing as a slightly darker patch among the many shadows of the ill lit space. It was not Ink's best work, but they remained mostly alive and seemingly undiscovered. Ink heard multitudes of shuffling as the sheet covering the corpse was cast aside. It was difficult to discern much of anything, half of Ink’s hearing was now replaced by a most unfortunate discordance from their leaking ear.
The figure seemed to pause for a moment before Ink recognized the all too familiar sound of a blade cutting into flesh.
Ink had a perfectly normal rationale for the familiarity, they regularly moonlit at a butcher shop; the bones were fundamental components for many base alchemical solutions and suspensions.
As the masked figure cut, Ink let out a careful and measured sigh and gingerly placed the shadowed glass ampoule on the bed.
The bed groaned ever so slightly at the movement.
The cutting stopped and though Ink neither saw nor heard any change, they were convinced that a warm breath was brushing the back of their neck. Ink remained as tense as they could, feeling their leg muscles grow stiff and begin to ache.
Then the cutting resumed. Ink did not deign to move again.
What felt an eternity later, the squishing and cutting of flesh faded into blessed silence and the figure again came into view, setting the deceased Ardorfolk's head onto the desk. Ink made direct contact with the dead eyes before quickly looking back to the figure. It was disrespectful to stare into the eyes of the dead. The masked stranger began tying off their blade into a cord around their waist. Ink rapidly evaluated the figure, methodically working to garner some clue of identity.
The stranger was almost certainly no automata; they were far too light on their feet.
They were no ghostly shade; they had corporeal form, though possession could not be ruled out.
They were most likely not Cloudfolk or Lichenfolk; they were too tall, nor Starborn; their head was ovular rather than snouted.
They were not Pridefolk; their shoulders were not broad enough, and they were not Ardorfolk; no horns emerged from their head.
They were likely not Anchorfolk; Ink had not yet seen nor heard any elemental manifestations and were probably not Lucidfolk; they walked far too rigidly.
That left Sternfolk, Kindred, or Brightblood. Or some combined Bastard ancestry. It was difficult to determine the figure's sex and Ink could certainly not ascertain gender, the wraps were preventing any educated guess. If the masked figure was a magewright, they carried no casting foci. Ink did not carry one, but they had no need.
Ink's gaze drifted to their hands and a smile crossed their face.
Four evenly spaced fingers cleverly tied their blade; Kindred seemed likely. But then, their other hand came into view as five fingers finished a knot. Barring some birth anomaly, the masked figure was very likely a bastard. How parental ancestries manifested varied greatly between individuals, but bastards typically displayed some mix of traits from each parent. This person was likely part Kindred, a trait shared with the vast majority of bastards.
Satisfied, the blade then caught Ink's attentions. It hung by strings from its pommel, a large hoop connected to a hilt of wraps similar to the charcoal bind of the stranger. There was no guard, the hilt transitioned into a blade barely wider than the grip. The blade portion extended a third meter and gently narrowed like an over sized needle. It appeared sharpened on both edges and had a texturing like a dark granite marble, Ink swore they could see quartz specks in the blade. Ink had never heard of using stone for a weapon before, it must have had some natural quality a resontrist had tried to exploit.
The stranger then reached across their body as they finished securing their weapon; Ink now saw a purse they must have missed earlier dangling from their waist cord. The figure's hand plunged into the purse to nearly their elbow; the purse was larger on the inside.
A dimensional pocket then Ink thought. Someday, Ink planned to store their entire collection in such a dimensional pocket, it would make their pack far lighter.
The stranger then withdrew a flask; it was far longer than the purse could accommodate.
The flask was a quarter meter in height and had the form of a narrow ellipsoid that tapered along its neck to a sharp point. The glass was smooth and unblemished, perhaps a tenth meter at its widest point with a flat bottom. Ink noted this as a strange alchemical vessel; there were no volume demarcations nor any openings along its neck; it was fully sealed. Ink would have normally guessed this flask was purely decorative, but the current context suggested otherwise.
Within the flask, Ink saw a viscous yellow solution that eagerly clung to its container's walls, glowing a soft emerald green in the shadowed room, so soft it would not have been visible in the light of day. Ink thought they could spot some label on the flask 's exterior, but it was hard to discern from their present vantage.
The masked figure grabbed the head by one of the antelope-like horn and threw the flask hard, arcing it straight up. Ink heard the flask shatter as the masked stranger bolted out of sight, their footsteps finally audible in the sprint.
Then, Ink heard the crackling roar of a fire taking root, bathing the room in an eerie green light as the stench of garlic filled the air.