A storm was heading for New York.
He didn’t know if this storm was figurative or literal, mundane or metaphysical, or how long it might be until it arrived. He didn’t even know how he knew. Moreover, it would have been extremely unwise to delve too deeply into that particular mystery.
That the knowledge was so profoundly anchored in his awareness was a suggestion in and of itself. After all, why would he have begun a new life with such a storm building on the horizon? There were only three reasonable conclusions.
First, that he was unaware of it before the Renewal. That was the least likely of the three, so he discarded it. Second, that he had undergone the Renewal to hide from it. All things considered, that was also highly unlikely. Which left the third option, that he had conducted the Rite of Renewal specifically to position himself to do something about it. What that something might be would have been even harder to guess, but he had a clue sitting on the dressing table in front of him.
When he’d first awakened from the Rite, he’d had only one question: who will I be? In the few minutes since he’d closed the cabinet on the glowing crystal that held all of his consciousness up until the Rite began, he’d learned some answers to those questions.
He’d known he was an elf — one of the oldest, most reclusive races — as soon as he woke up. How could he not? The Rite of Renewal created a kind of retrograde amnesia, but the magic only removed episodic memory, not semantic and procedural memory. So he knew the things he knew, just not the things he’d experienced. He could go swimming but have no recollection of times he’d swam before, how he learned, or who taught him.
Unlike most of his kin, the reflection in the vanity above the dressing table revealed his appearance was more human-like. Most elves were between seven and nine feet tall and exceedingly thin, while he was just barely over six feet tall and could only be considered skinny by human standards. Otherwise, he had the standard elven features — pointed ears, large eyes, and two rows of stubby, sharp teeth in a too-wide mouth. Taken on its own, his height would have suggested he was either quite young or very, very old.
Elves, however, were creatures made of magic and aura as much as biological matter. Their physical bodies were correspondingly more malleable. He, for instance, was a he, complete with awkwardly placed external sex organs. While biological sex and gender weren’t native to elvenkind, some chose to adopt the trappings of other races as an expression of who they were. Although such expressions were usually stable within and between Cycles, it was quite possible he had chosen his body to be as it was specifically for this one.
So, a man! And a roughly human-shaped one, to boot, with a regular flesh tone and everything. How…interesting.
Being creatures equal parts aether and matter, elves were also more susceptible to collective perception than other Creaturae. Adopting a more human appearance — if it was, in fact, a choice — would have been easier than maintaining a traditionally elven form. Especially if he were going to be interacting regularly with human society.
That perception of elves — as extra beautiful humans (by human standards) — stemmed from two things: humanity’s tendency to conflate goodness (or helpfulness) with beauty; and, the shenanigans of the thrice-cursed fae. Those faerie cousins had, more often than not, called themselves to be elves in their dealings with mankind. Now, there was little distinction between them in the mind of most normal people.
But a storm was coming, that was the important thing. He couldn’t forget that.
On the dressing table were two objects of immediate interest. One, a leather portfolio binder, bore a label in shining gold letters that read Public Face. He had glanced at it and learned it was a small, interactive catalog that offered a selection of various things he would need for his new Cycle; clothing, vehicles, jewelry, and so on. The other was related, but far more interesting.
It was a flat metal box which held a number of things a person would need to operate in mundane society — driver’s license, bank cards, and the like — and they told the elf his name: Eric Nathanial. Or, at least, that was his name among mundane institutions. The name engraved on a platinum plaque on the lid of the box had read Eresthanon. The most interesting item in the box, however, was an appointment card.
About the size of a business card, it was labeled ‘Final interview,’ had Eresthanon’s name on it, a date and time, and an address in the Financial District. Two symbols were embossed on either end of the card and they told Eresthanon that his new Cycle was likely to be an interesting one.
One — a simple cross with longer horizontal arms that bent downwards towards the end — was an ancient symbol for justice. It was a symbol that had persisted across millennia but it was rare that the scales were so plainly rendered. The second was another ancient symbol, an eight-pointed star with straight rays in the cardinal directions alternating with shorter, wavy rays.
Eresthanon knew those symbols; they were the sigils of an order that upheld and enforced what few laws had been widely accepted to govern the actions of all Creaturae for more than a thousand years — the Vigiles Creaturae. There weren’t many reasons he would have an interview with the Vigiles which, when coupled with his sense of an oncoming storm, made it all the more urgent he conclude the housekeeping for his Renewal.
The cover of the portfolio opened with the soft but satisfying creek of supple leather, revealing a flexible sheet of smooth, glossy material. It was like a sheet of plastic, except an opaque crème color. A single word glowed lightly near the top of the sheet: Ethnicity.
After tapping the word with a finger, more words materialized on the page, expanded downwards from the title. The words listed a variety of different human ethnicities. Interactive, animated menus and screens might be new to mankind, but it was old magic that was often eschewed as gaudy and cumbersome, not least because it was a nuisance to enchant. Eresthanon chose Caucasian, which most closely matched his natural complexion, and declined a multiracial background. That would make traversing human society much less cumbersome, ridiculous as it was.
The reflection in the mirror changed. Although his golden blond hair and sad, amber eyes remained the same, the other features of the illusion hardly resembled his true appearance at all. It was all too broad, in a way: a square jaw compared to his own narrow, sloping lines; a cleft in the pronounced chin; and the cheeks and brow both protruded much more than his own. It was an obnoxiously masculine face — according to human standards — as if someone made a caricature of a comic book character then created a photorealistic version of it. Eresthanon had no objections to experiencing maleness in this Cycle, but this was just ridiculous.
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Perhaps Eresthanon had, in a previous Cycle, been close to some square-jawed fellow with high cheekbones and that was the root of his disapproval? Or maybe Eresthanon simply wanted to look more like himself. Prosaic, perhaps, and not particularly adventurous, but familiar and sensible. That felt right to him and, just like that, Eresthanon knew a little more about the kind of person he was going to be.
The binder didn’t have any obvious way to fine tune appearance. The only other reasonable option was the image itself. Eresthanon prodded the mirror with a finger. At his touch, several small marks around the mirror Eresthanon had mistaken for blemishes expanded, offering a variety of options keyed to various parts of the face. Some were expandable menus like the menu in the binder, while others were sliders and small circles marked at the cardinal directions. With some experimentation, Eresthanon found he could change aspects of size, position, and even orientation of various parts of his appearance.
Eresthanon found he was rather particular once he discovered how much control he had over his appearance. He also enjoyed fiddling with the features, seeing what he could look like if he wanted to and he had soon created a face that was fairly close to his own. Only the lack of elvish features really differed between them.
With his appearance decided, he turned to the next page of the portfolio. This page had a similar expanding menu, labeled Anchor, and offered a list of jewelry. This, Eresthanon believed, would be the anchor for the illusory disguise he had just selected. After some consideration, he selected a ring. Magic rings were convenient and their recent resurgence in popular culture would further empower and stabilize the disguise enchantment. Platinum alloyed with aethril would serve a similar purpose; assuming, of course, that aethril was a new term for aetherite, which Eresthanon was more familiar with.
He was pleased to discover that he possessed an expansive knowledge of magic, both in breadth and depth. He evaluated the enchantments in the portfolio and the binder with a seasoned eye, thought of ways the disguise might be woven and anchored, and even noticed the occasional errant thought on aether refining and forging. It seemed he was an adept sorcerer and that, certainly, would be useful in the coming Cycle.
One bit of magic that caught his eye was on the driver’s license. All the text information had been present, but the picture had been blank. When he finalized his illusory visage, the glamour on the ID had changed to match. That was an impressive bit of adaptive linked enchantment, particularly since it appeared to be automatic and didn’t require any attention or input from the enchanter.
He worked through the rest of the portfolio fairly quickly. He selected a diverse wardrobe that fit his tastes and expected needs, largely skipped over the fashion accessories, and selected a phone and vehicle. His aesthetic tastes seemed to be firmly established; he gravitated towards sleek and simple options, neither flashy or plain but somewhere in-between. His driver’s license had an address on it, so his lodgings were likely sorted, although he had concerns about the address. It was something he didn’t have time to deal with at the moment, but it would require attention in the very near future.
The last page of the binder thanked him for his attention and directed him to go into the next room. Eresthanon gathered up the bundle of identification and departed through a narrow door that opened at his approach.
Beyond the door was a long room lined with more than a dozen closets, their polished wood gleaming in the soft lights. There was a door at the far end of the room and another at the midpoint. Another elf, clad in the light green robes that signified a Renewer, stood near the closest door.
“Good morning, Eresthanon, and welcome,” the elf said. “I am Mallat. I will be something of a concierge for your new Cycle. I can address any questions or requests you may have and I will ensure any goods you don’t take with you will be promptly delivered to your residence.”
Mallat raised the doors on two of the closets, which slid up into the ceiling, revealing that they were closer to armoires than closets, with both hanging racks and drawers.
They contained the clothes and other items Eresthanon had selected just a few minutes prior, as well as additional goods that Mallat said were added to round out his wardrobe, all of it in line with the styles and preferences from his choices in the portfolio. Mallat advised him to mark anything he disliked with one of the small red tags that were provided and they would be removed before everything was sent out for delivery.
The drawers also contained the ring that bore his illusory disguise, the phone he’d selected, and keys for both the vehicle he’d chosen and his home. Mallat provided an overnight bag and suggested he pack a few days of clothes, just in case scheduling delivery had any complications, then stepped out of the room through the far door to let Eresthanon get changed. A few minutes later, Eresthanon stepped out to meet Mallat dressed in a gray suit with a pale blue sweater instead of shirt and tie.
“Was everything to your liking?” Mallat asked.
“Yes, quite,” Eresthanon said, “It seems everything is in order and I, for one, am interested to see what the future will bring.”
Mallat inclined his head in a slight bow and stepped out of the way of the door. “I hope it will be an enlightening experience, Eresthanon.”
Eresthanon stowed his identification documents, phone, and keys in his pockets.
“Calm crossings,” Eresthanon said and, with a final smile to Mallat, took his leave.
The passage from the room led to an elevator, which led to a hallway, which in turn deposited Eresthanon in a parking structure. A number of cars were parked within sight, but the one closest to the door happened to be a car that matched the one Eresthanon had picked from the portfolio.
It was an almost aggressively nondescript sedan, dark in color with heavily tinted windows, nice but not ostentatious. And, as it would happen, the key fob in Eresthanon’s pocket worked. Eresthanon put his overnight bag in the trunk and got in.
With a little under two hours until his appointment with the Vigiles Creaturae in the Financial District, Eresthanon decided to take a few minutes to set up his phone to his liking. The meeting was in the Financial District; at this time of day, two hours would be ample time from just about anywhere in the city even if he opted to use surface streets over the Byways. The phone turned out to be more complicated than he expected as it came with an app that included some very sophisticated integrated security enchantments. Building a profile and getting everything just so took a few minutes, but Eresthanon felt it was worth the time.
When he finished with his phone, he drove out of the parking garage and onto a two lane road facing an emergency entrance to a hospital. He was, apparently, very familiar with New York City. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but only a moment, and he realized he was in Morningside Heights, which meant the hospital was Mt. Sinai Morningside, St. John’s Cathedral was behind him, and Columbia University was a block and a half away.
Another thing he realized as he pulled out onto W 113th was that he didn’t just know New York, he had known New York for a very long time. He couldn’t remember the experiences themselves, but as he thought of landmarks he could imagine what those spaces had been like in the past going back to the very start of the settlement.
It was a lovely autumn day, cool but not cold, and the sun was bright in the sky. Eresthanon decided to take Morningside Drive, cross the northern edge of Central Park, then take the FDR down along the East River. It was a nice scenic route that, barring catastrophe, would get him to his appointment with time to spare.
The drive should give him ample time to discover what kind of New Yorker he was going to be. Would he be rude to his fellow drivers? Was he proud of the Yankees or disappointed in the Mets? And, of course, did he think New Jersey was a real place, or the fevered imaginings of some sewer demon?
Eresthanon was excited to learn more about himself.