…..:::::|. Blue Sunrise Underpass .|:::::…..
It was of a particular bright out this sun-rising. The kind of bright that pierced to the inner pigment of materials and skin. The kind of bright that illuminated the iridescent scales of fishes in ponds and lakes. The kind of bright that made one's eyes squint in shield of its cast. Two men now waited, shielding said eyes from the bright, on one covered side of a cobblestone bridge stretching toward, arguably, the most splendid castle-keep that had ever been constructed.
Castle Havvenchael.
A seven-sided wonder in stone; ‘Facing All Seven Troubles of Dureyr’, as was her motto. Seven sets of blue and silver banners hung long and billowed far on all her sides. Seven floors on all seven faces, varying in height and depth from the bottom main level with seven parapets each, housed the seven Archons who governed the region; The Queen and Polemarch being one.
Seven bridges, lined with seven types of larkspur and blue ivies, entered her castle courts, each guarded by seven semeguard, over-watched by seven arbalists, and under-watched by seven knifehands.
Below the castle bridges coursed seven lower city streets and steed-drawn cart entryways and canals carrying cargo into the castle keep. Aromatic updrafts from seven underground garden breezes wafted upward and over the bridges, gently waving hair, veil and banner. These bridges and common courts beyond were often littered with fair-goers and travellers here for May Rising as the seven sights and seven wonders of Castle Havvenchael were things only storybooks could speak of.
Mages of every race and species spewed colourful sparks high into the sky for crowds here, street performers contorted their frames for applause, mummers performed dramas written of the city’s past, merchants sold apples and candies from long-held Isam tradition and pies made from freshly smoked stock for hungry walkers out on constitutional.
These two men, weary from just waking in the morning, leaned on the walls of the covered crossing with folded arms facing the seventh bridge to the castle keep, watching hordes of fair-goers pass into and out of the common courts. One of them only uncrossed his arms to play with balls of magecraft for short whiles as la'as was extremely thick where Havvenchael sat. Many magi quipped that the whole city was one humongous Place of Power, which was why it hadn’t been toppled since it was built. The Isam, who were craftless themselves, often claimed their city was strong because of the overwatch of the Seven Sylph who brought them to this land.
Regardless of folktale or belief both these men loved this city and often visited to play in her seven wonders.
The other man, picking his fangs free of Ghostgale jerky, watched his long time partner and friend toss bits of magic to the ceiling of the underpass to kill their wait. A few folk saw the old wolf flick pieces of meat from his teeth and murmured their fright. Passersby, for the most part, ignored rabble leaning on city walls but a show of fangs in any regard was a somewhat startling reveal. He shrugged off their squeals.
“Ironwight showed up, again.” Veygornne started, blandly.
“What was it doing this time?” Percival scoffed as he tossed another ball of craft.
“Looking at flowers.”
“Why are ghastly things always so enamored with nature?”
“I'd love to know. Same thing goes for Karls, though, really.”
“And were is he? It’s been literal ages.”
“Haven't' seen him since he set sail. Zshankedhi Off-worlder.” Veygornne huffed.
“Pff, everybody’s got an agenda.” Percival groaned.
Crates and barrel stacks dotted the slope of the walk to where they stood. A whole host of placards on all the plays to see during May Rising, plastered the walls of the covered crossing. The two had read them all, twice. The smells of Blue and Silver Jopa, the WarQueen's favourite herb native to Buraamira but shared with the Eastern Courts of Ashok, sprouted in hanging planters along the center rafter of the covered space.
In the recent past, Veygornne would have prodded Percival about his trysts with the WarQueen and Polemarch Brisbe-Hexandrea the Spearhanded but he naught seemed in the mood this morning. Percival had been shifting his weight many times, for the uneven cobbles he stood on secured a tiny puddle just at the heel of his boot, but where he stood offered him the best vantage point to see all the way across the bridge to the inner courts; so he suffered the watery hole. They had both long dropped the conversation wondering what the upkeep cost of Havvenchael's streets could have been, seeing as how they'd been trod on by so many boots every cycle. And both men sighed near audibly at their boredom. One could only count grey bricks on a parapet but so many times.
“I know the second I say something about the wait—” Percival started. And just as his words hit the open air, the rings on their wrists rotated in unison to a rune depicting two chevrons crossing one another glowing bright gold. Percival threw his hands and shook his head at the expected timing of it all.
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A wondrous bang of green-blue lightning stretched long across the cracked sky and struck the grounds down to the center of Castle Havvenchael's inner courts, just where Percival had been watching. Two surges of indigo lightning followed the first boom. Fair-goers and children nearest the inner courts clapped wildly, up to a gaggle of mages stumbling around the grounds half-singed with sparking energies, coughing that it wasn’t them, balking off the roaring applause.
Three other figures clad in magnificent muted purple cloaks walked confidently through the dusts of their impact toward the bridge pass the other two men stood under.
As the three tall ones cleared the crowds—still cheering for magical explosions—branches of sparking charge stretched, crawled, and jumped across their freshly landed bodies and the bodies of the folk they walked passed.
It seemed in the fuss of magnificent magecraft and garden dust, few revelers understood what they had actually witnessed.
Percival rolled his eyes. He’d long become unimpressed with the entry of these types and often complained that the folk from the Wild Kingdoms could just as well use a weyship or a boat like everyone else instead of the complicated maps of teleportation. But who was he to jeer at the well-bred Fine Mages of the Valtaega Jemedh. They were the ones who’d given the world the voidhearths in the first place.
Percival watched as Veygornne, in fair routine but fine reverence, bowed his now cloth-covered head as the three approached the underpass. He followed, equally so, throwing his hood over his hair, instead.
As the still sparking three ranked up with the two on the other side of the bridge, the grey-amber eyes of the leading white-haired figure met Percival's blue eyes, nodded, then made to move the group on under the covered walkway, through the crowds, into the wide diverging streets of the city together; having said nothing to them at all.
…..:::::|. Blue Sunrise Road .|:::::…..
Siin hummed to himself, comfortable in having long ago caught the trail of where his mentors had made off to. He was walking up a fairly steep yet not horribly uncomfortable road toward Castle Havvenchael there in the near distance. There were frothy nobles up here, finely robed merchants and courtesans instead of street-walkers dressed in violet sashes about their waists.
He made a hand gesture to one and she made another with a smile. He read the gesture as her having pulled in a fair amount of coin the night before by only holding conversations. Relieved she understood his cant, he nodded his way on up the road, catching a whiff of something shamelessly foul.
He pulled from his vest an empty vial, uncorked it, flipped it deftly over four fingers, held it to the backside of a laughing man, inhaled a whispering magical cant, then flipped the vial back to cork it with a pleased grin. He laughed to himself about how Halycind had scolded him for collecting farts but he’d enjoyed the past-time anyhow.
He stumbled, suddenly light in his head, and a young man on the road helped steady his stance. He recognized the Zhuer as being an aBn and asked of his well-fare.
Siin was unsure but nodded off the well-wish. Two thoughts splintered his mind; the fact someone recognized his station and the fact he couldn’t remember why the notion had drawn up such sudden contempt in his middle. All morning something had been nagging at his attention, roving around in the back of his mind. And something in his heart ached fiercely but he couldn't have been sure of what it was. He felt like he missed something. Dearly.
In the brightness of the morning over the crest of the upward sloping road, the battlemage saw the two Agents he’d been following amidst three cloaked figures walking his direction.
He pursed.
He never liked their indigo robes.
When Percival would visit him in the dorms of the aBn Tera Villa, Siin would hide in alcoves and hallways and spaces between spaces to give Percival a 'rogue-mage to hunt for'. His Exemplariat used to enjoy the boy's antics and offer many pointers for better hiding places. Siin very much liked to play with the patience of his mentor and if this were any other morning, he would have. No, here, Siin walked upon this group with his chin high and a stride bordering on irritated arrogance.
“Hmm, look what's come up the walk?” Siin said nearing the tone of derision.
“No pranks today?” Percival mused.
“No, Exemplariat.” Siin turned his attention to the three with them. Their cloaks and robes were more purple than he'd remembered. Still piped in gold and still far too long for their far too tall bodies. Under the long hems fell the full length of their far too long black tresses. He scoffed at them then looked to the grey-amber eyes of the figure in lead, whose tress was washed in white.
“You, I know from Air House, but who are the potatoes with you?”
The other two, dark in the eyes, looked at him, hard.
“Oh, I don't care what you are.” Siin grimaced as if everything about them suddenly smelled fouler than that fart he captured. “We're not in the Wild Kingdoms, so I don't have to cut or cover my hair.” He stated in rebuke of their people's traditions.
Where Percival understood his indignant greeting, Veygornne stood, silently nervous of the developing heat in this meeting.
“Then you won't mind hunting one?” The grey-amber eyed one tilted a regal head in agreement to the young mage.
As if the annoyed mage weren't there at all, the three began their processional through his indignance and Siin was stood aside, contemplating if he should joog a knife through all their robes.
He fell in unit behind these three in front of his mentors for a while, down toward Havvenchael’s Seventh Sector and the inn where they stayed.