Inalia
Her auntie’s face goes pale as she shoots a sharp glare over to Mum, but before she can answer the question the front door swings open to the sound of cawing birds. Inalia immediately jumps to go see, excitedly expecting the elf, and almost failing to see the look of sheer relief on Auntie Jemma’s face before she disappears into the living room.
“Vindaruil!” she greets happily as she sees the pale elf step into the room with, oddly, a crow perched upon either shoulder.
There is a strange feeling as she remembers the reverend’s mad ramblings, but she quickly shoves it to the back of her mind as she observes the remarkably placid nature of the birds, their beady eyes levelled down at her.
“Child,” Vindaruil mutters dryly in response, glancing over towards her mum and auntie standing by the kitchen door rather than to her.
“Who are they?” Inalia asks nevertheless, pointing up to the crows, already conjuring up some kind of fanciful explanation in her mind. Magic birds? Fairies in the shape of crows?
“Crows.” He replies, now turning to glance down at her.
Inalia crosses her arms, “I mean, what are their names?”
The elf cocks his head. “They are birds, they do not possess names.”
As he says this the one on his left shoulder lets out a petulant ‘caw’, to which Inalia giggles. “I think he disagrees.”
Vindaruil reaches up, grabs each bird and places them on one of the chairs near Inalia, not particularly gently but not harshly either. One of them stumbles and flutters its wings as it loses its balance and beak-plants into the cushion.
Inalia glances back to find her auntie looking entirely horrified. “Why have you brought wild animals into my home?”
“They know better than to make a mess, if that is your concern. But I have not come to discuss my new… acquaintances. I am in need of your human currency, how is it best acquired?” he asks, completely unabashed.
Jemma is still looking like the pair of crows are about to start tearing up all her furniture as Inalia rushes to coo over them, helping the one which fell up to its feet.
Mum clears her throat to break the tension, answering “Well, that depends. You could get a job, I’m sure there are a few things that need doing around the village. What, err…. What can you do?”
The elf just looks blankly back at her. “I am thousands of years old; I have tried my hand at nearly every craft imaginable, it would be easier to name that which I cannot do.”
“Well, they’re looking for another teacher down at the school.” Auntie Jemma answers, snapping out of her reverie as she watches Inalia handling the strangely calm crows. “And I know Fred always says they can use more hands at the lumber mill.”
Vindaruil’s gaze rolls over to Jemma so slowly Inalia thinks she can hear his eyes scraping in their sockets. “… I believe I shall pursue alternative methods.”
Mum clicks her fingers and her eyes widen as she seems to think of something, turning to her sister. “That reminds me, we’ll need to enrol Inalia as soon as…”
She is interrupted by Inalia jumping up to her feet, desperate to break that chain of thought. “When are you going to teach me magic, mister Vin?”
Looking down at her, his nose twitching as he answers. “Do not ever call me that again. But I suppose now is as good a time as any… If your mother is agreeable.”
He turns to look at Mum, who rolls her eyes at the obvious ploy. “Where will this be happening?”
Vindauril seems to think for a moment, “It must be done out of the way of any distraction. I expect we shall be walking to the other side of the lake.”
Pursing her lips, but looking down at the pleading eyes of her daughter, Endrea soon relents. “Very well, so long as you’re back before dark.”
Inclining his head slightly in acquiescence, and ignoring the strange look Auntie Jemma is giving her sister, he gazes back down to Inalia.
“Come… and bring the birds.”
----------------------------------------
You
As you walk away from the house, the half-breed hot on your heels with your two newest minions in her hands, you are left with a foul taste in your mouth. Consorting with humans is one thing, but even considering working with, or even worse for, them is entirely another.
You are left once more considering if this is the path you really want to take, if it is all worth degrading yourself for.
“Fenrick and Henrick.” The child says happily, the two ‘crows’ tucked beneath her arms as she skips ahead of you.
You spare an unimpressed glance down at her.
“Their names. This one is Fenrick, and this one is Henrick.” She adds, lifting up the one on the left and then the one on the right.
“Hey, that’s not my name!” caws the newly-christened Fenrick, the elder of the brothers. The half-breed can’t understand through the curse you placed on the former humans, but you alone can. Restricting their ability to speak entirely, though it would save the pain on your ears, would negate the reason you turned them into the form of crows rather than just enlisting the aid of actual crows; that being your average corvid, even if markedly more intelligent than other birds, is incapable of speech and true intelligence.
Not that you’d call your new minions especially intelligent either, but they were still a marked improvement from your average forest beast.
“I do believe he likes it.” You mutter with wry amusement, the thought of the former thief’s anguish buoying your mood in recompense for the role they played in almost making you lose your control.
The crow goes silent, evidently unwilling to further provoke you. At least it seems to recognise its place.
Inalia, however, beams. “Really? It's from one of Mum’s bedtime stories, about two fairies that were brothers and…”
“What makes you think they are brothers?” you interrupt as you both now reach the trees.
Frowning, the girl slows. “Umm… I don’t know? I guess it just felt… right. And they look very similar.”
You take a moment to really look at the two birds. They aren’t identical, you can tell them apart in a dozen ways as you could any mundane such birds, but… the girl isn’t wrong. Then again, to a human’s eyes all beasts without faces look the same, so you aren’t sure if it is a keen insight or a lucky guess.
“So they are brothers then?” she asks.
“I did not say that.” You reply evasively.
“They are,” she concludes with a sudden certainty after a moment, “so… what are they?”
You look down with a deadpan expression towards the curious girl, and answer with a mere look.
Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head at you. “I know they’re crows. But what else are they? And I don’t see how I’m supposed to work that out on my own.”
You raise an eyebrow at the girl. “Why do you think they are any more than they seem?”
This time she merely shrugs. “They just… feel special. And they aren’t really acting like birds.”
You concede the latter point, seeing as both of your minions appear very much in shock at their new circumstances and have yet to adjust to their new bodies. They are hardly subtle about it. But the former… perhaps it is time to investigate your suspicion.
“How do they feel special? What specifically draws you to that conclusion?” you question.
It is her turn to raise an eyebrow. “You mean other than arriving on your shoulders?”
You give her a look to make it clear you are unamused by her cheek and she looks suitably abashed as her eyes draw away from your own and onto the path ahead.
“I’m not sure… they tingle a bit, I suppose.” She answers.
“Tingle how?” You prompt.
She takes a moment before she responds. “Like… like when I get pins and needles in my legs, but… not in my body.”
“And does this happen often?” You further inquire.
“I don’t know, sometimes. Arma feels similar, so did some stuff in Athaca, and I think I felt it when you’ve done magic before.”
“You think?”
“Um… I don’t know if you actually did anything sometimes, and you don’t feel like that.”
“And you said nothing of this?” You are not surprised that she senses nothing from you, for what is the point of a disguise if not done properly?
She shrugs, “Should I have done? Isn’t that what magic feels like to everyone?”
“No,” you give her a straight answer, “you seem to have a sensitivity to it.”
Turning to you, there is a half-worried, half-excited look on her face. “Is that a good thing?”
“You can decide as much for yourself.” With that, Inalia falls silent and you walk through the forest quietly for a time, the lake just visible through the trees to your side.
It is hardly wilderness, you are following something of a game trail and just glancing around it is obvious the humans walk this way often, though you sense no others this side of the lake.
You begin to turn away from the lake and head deeper into the forest, and Inalia follows without question.
“What do you need money for?” she asks eventually, shifting the topic entirely.
“Cannot you think of any reason?” Comes your response.
She at least seems to consider this before continuing. “Well, yes. It’s just… you said you’re really old and you have magic and stuff, haven’t you been on loads of adventures? In the stories, the heroes always come back with loads of treasure.”
“Indeed, and yet did you see any such treasure in my tomb?” You refrain from mentioning that it is usually the villains that come away with the fortune at the end, indeed it is mostly how you acquired yours.
Inalia frowns, “No, but I’ve seen you pull loads of stuff out of your pockets!”
The half-breed surprises you with her observations, and you momentarily pause to look down at her appraisingly. “So you have, but they are not bottomless. No work of magic is without limit, even those by my hand. Besides, what makes you think any in this village would have the coin to purchase my treasures from me?”
That being said, she has given you an idea, one you are surprised you did not think of earlier. Why should you work when you can just take that which you deserve, as so many not-so-heroic adventurers once tried to do to you? Not from Hartonville, obviously, but humans were so terribly fond of their ‘banks’ in your age, and few wards can keep out Arma. You are certain you can find one bearing this nation’s currency to relieve it of.
“So you do have treasures?” Inalia asks wide-eyed.
You don’t deign to answer that, and shortly after you come to the small clearing you’ve been heading towards. A break in the trees with only an old cracked stump in the centre surrounded by a lonely patch of grass on the forest floor.
“Go sit by that stump, put the birds down.” You tell the half-breed as you look around with an appraising eye. Inalia does as you ask, sitting on her knees as your new minions take the opportunity to stretch their new limbs with a complete lack of grace.
Moving over, you slowly sit down and get into a lotus position an arms reach away from Inalia, who is watching you intently. You look down at the stumbling birds and mutter, “Leave us, stretch your wings and try not to injure yourselves. Return as the sky darkens.”
“Yes…sir!” The younger of the two, which would be Henrick, caws more than a little nervously as he waddles away with his kin.
You then meet Inalia’s eyes as she shifts herself so she is, obviously uncomfortably, imitating your position. “The first thing you need to know about magic is that it is all around us. It is universal, not only in Mortus but amongst all the realms. It is what ties them together, permeating every aspect of existence, albeit to varying degrees. Using it, or even sensing it, is no simple task, though you have an advantage over many in the latter regard. It is not a power that can be taken, at least not initially, it must first be invited in, and before you invite it in you must first find it. Are you following me so far youngling?”
There is a constipated look on the half-breed's face, though to her credit she has not yet broken your eye contact. “Not really.” She replies honestly.
Not unsurprising. “In Athaca, there is a harbour or docks of some kind, yes?.”
Frowning in confusion, Inalia nods.
“So then you have seen the ships which sail upon the water?”
She nods again, not yet understanding where you’re going with this.
“Do you understand why they do not sink to the bottom as a stone might?”
“Because… wood floats, right?”
“Indeed, but these ships carry more than just wood, do they not? Cargo and crew that might surely sink if given the chance.”
The half-breed just looks at you, and though you can see the wheels turning behind her eyes you can also see this is not a conclusion she will come to on her own, at least without prompting.
“It is not because wood floats, but because air does. These heavy things, they push the ship down under the waves, but the water can’t get past its hull, and so there is a great deal of air pushed below the surface of the water that doesn’t want to be there, and so it pushes the ship upwards once more until it floats. Understand?” you explain as simply as you can.
“I… I think so. Like… like how it's easier to tread water in the lake when I’m breathing in than when I’m breathing out?” she asks, a spark of understanding behind her eyes.
“Precisely. Now, picture yourself on a ship, with ocean all around you. This ship is your body, and the sea is magic. Most people, perhaps, would be hidden deep below deck, blind deaf and dumb to the ocean which surrounds them. You, let us then say, have much sharper senses than them, still hidden below deck, but you can hear the bigger waves when they crash against the hull of the ship, feel its movements as it rocks.” You speak slowly, enunciating your words clearly and softly as you paint the girl a picture.
“Now, the goal is to bring some of the water, the magic, onto your ship, so that it can be used, although not so much that you end up sinking. But that is getting ahead of ourselves. First, you must find your way to the top deck, so to speak, so that you can actually see this ocean before you can bring it in. But the first time you really delve into it, your ship will be unfamiliar to you. It will be dark, and you will know not the way to the surface. Finding it is done through meditation, and though perhaps this analogy cannot adequately encapsulate the intricacies of this challenge it is the best that I can give you. The journey to opening oneself up to magic is one that must be tread alone, for if I guide you then you will not learn the path for yourself. I would suggest you listen to that tingle of yours and allow it to guide you. Close your eyes, take deep, controlled breaths, and focus.” Closing your own eyes, you reach for that familiar meditative state.
“Is it really…” Inalia begins a question before you interrupt her with a quick raise of your finger.
“It is what I have told you to do, and you shall do it. Unless you would rather return to your mother and forgo my lessons?” You question pointedly, and she goes quiet.
You notice as she begins to match her inhales and exhales with your own, and seconds turn to minutes turn to hours with only mild fidgeting, until finally the girl’s patience snaps, and you are surprised she lasted so long. “Nothing! I don’t know what I’m doing!”
Opening your eyes slowly, you see her looking at you with a mix of frustration and something approaching anger. “No one does at first, youngling, but you must persevere. Understanding will come with time.”
“How long does it usually take?” she demands, crossing her arms and pouting.
You give a mild shrug. “It depends, but most who awaken to magic via this route do so in less than half a century. But with your gift I expect it may be closer to a decade or so.”
“Ten years?!” Inalia whines, getting up to her feet. “That’s way too long! …You said, ‘this route’, does that mean there are other ways? Faster ways?”
You meet the girl’s stare with a decidedly unimpressed look. “There are other, inferior, methods. If you are to be my student then they will not suffice, and patience is a lesson in and of itself. I have not met another half-breed, but it is doubtful a mere ten years is a significant portion of your life span. You are no mere human who need rush such things and sacrifice their potential in the doing so, you have time enough to do things properly and so you shall.”
Now pacing, her fists balled, she glares back at you. “But Mum said Dad will be here by then, what’s even the point of you teaching me anything?”
You raise an eyebrow but do not feel particularly incensed by her challenge. It is not the first time your students have been unruly, indeed Inalia pales in comparison. But the methods you used to encourage obedience then are not open to you now, albeit only due to your own self-imposed restrictions, so you merely glare back.
That being said, the girl has a certain point. There is still the obvious benefit of simply not wasting time, but you’d rather your teachings not be interrupted by whatever drivel your surviving people might feed her. And you begrudgingly realise that there is a way that could speed things up without sacrificing efficacy.
“Perhaps there is a way to… encourage things along. Rouse up a storm on this sea, as it were, to give that sense of yours something more to follow. I warn you, however, that it will not be… pleasant.” You then very pointedly look to the darkening sky. “But it is not a decision you need make today.”
This seems to calm the half-breed somewhat, and though she pales slightly she offers no disagreement.
You come to your feet and see the crows sitting beside one another on the forest floor just beyond the clearing. “Need you be carried again?”
Fenrick caws loudly, “We wouldn’t have to be carried if we didn’t have legs the size of twigs!”
His brother pecks him on the head and gives a very pointed look, for a crow at least. “We haven’t been able to fly yet, um, sir, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Disappointing, but not unexpected. You look to the half-breed and decide she might as well make herself useful once more. “The crows want you to carry them.”
Her face brightens, and she rushes over with a grin to scoop each newly-turned-corvid under her arms. The elder struggles fruitlessly in her grip but is at least wise enough not to scratch the girl, whilst the younger submits to his fate with as much dignity as can be expected.
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Without another word, you turn to set off back. Rather more reserved after her failure, it takes until you are halfway to the house, as the shadows begin to deepen, that she braves another question.
“What do you mean by… unpleasant? I mean, I… I don’t mind if it hurts, if it makes things faster.” She says bravely, though you can tell she is uncertain.
You could let her stew in the fear that you sense boiling under that façade, maybe watch and see if she succumbs to it or pushes beyond, but strangely you find yourself frowning upon such a game. “It shan’t be painful as you know it. Tell me youngling, has your mother ever woken you by pulling back the curtains and allowing the sun to shine into your eyes?”
An experience you recall from your own childhood when your rests were frequent and short.
“Yeah,” she answers, “all the time, she says I don’t get up if she doesn’t.”
“Indeed. The experience will be not dissimilar, except it shall be many times more jarring. And just as the sun shines through your eyelids whether you open them or not, the discomfort will prevail even if you do not succeed. As to our analogy, think of it as getting terribly seasick. It will become a test not only of patience but also of endurance. I will not force this on you, youngling, for I am more than happy to wait. If you choose this it will be your decision, and your continuing resolve will be what sees you through, nothing else. But tell me to stop and I will, you will be in no real danger.” You aren’t quite sure why you add that last part, but it seems to do the trick as Inalia nods and you can see the gears turning towards an inevitable conclusion behind her features.
When you arrive back by the house there remains only an echo of the blue skies from earlier, and Endrea is waiting with crossed arms and an unimpressed look on the porch.
“You’re late.” She says dryly, glancing down to a sheepish-looking Inalia with the crows still in her arms but keeping the majority of her ire upon you.
“My eyes see not the shadows as yours do, so dark I would not yet consider it.” You tell her, though you know perfectly well what she had meant.
Shaking her head in exasperation she looks away from your gaze and back down to her daughter. “Then for future reference when I say ‘dark’ I mean before the sun has fallen below the horizon. Now come in, your Auntie Jemma’s made a lamb stew for dinner and I put together something for pudding.”
Inalia at your side looks up to you, “Umm… do you want Fenrick and Henrick back?”
You incline your head, and she sadly places them on the ground before quickly rushing off inside towards the smell of cooking. As you remain Endrea gives you an odd look.
“…You’re more than welcome to join us, Vindaruil. I told Jemma about your people’s diet and she’s put together a salad for you just in case.” She says a little self-consciously.
It takes you all of half a second to think about it, the concept of sitting at a table enduring the humans munching on what they called food rolling your stomach.
“Not this night, there is something I need to… attend to,” you say as diplomatically as you can, before turning at the door and stalking off into the deepening darkness, two hopping crows hot on your heels.
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Archibald
It is taking all of Archibald’s effort to keep his eyes open, he feels himself slipping in his saddle and quickly re-adjusts before he once again ends up in the dirt. He at least isn’t worried about his horse running off if he does; the poor beast looks about as exhausted as he feels.
Their initially hasty pace has since slowed to a crawl, but it is all worth it as he strains his neck to lift his head and sees the light of civilization just down the road. Hartonville.
The tiny, remote village he’d drudged out of the city records in relation to his mark’s family at the cost of far too much coin and sanity.
Well, hopefully, Hartonville, if he hadn’t made a wrong turn somewhere in his sleep-deprived stupor.
He hasn’t stopped since he talked to his master, setting off from Athaca the moment he had a location. But that was over two days ago.
Or was it three? His memory is hazy at best. It didn’t help that he damn nearly got robbed by a bunch of thugs on his way through Bleakbow Pass. Damn near stoned him to death from the cliffs, and he hasn’t had the stomach to check the bruising he knows has bloomed around his shoulder from a direct hit. He counts his lucky stars they didn’t have bows or he’d be a goner.
But Archibald knows he can’t delay, even if it means running his stolen horse into an early grave, Hartonville is something of a long shot anyway and if It proves a dead end then it is time wasted that his quarry has been getting further and further from him.
“Come on, girl, just a little further.” He mumbles softly, giving his mount a gentle squeeze to prompt her onwards. He hasn’t had time to think of a name for her, maybe if they both survive this he will.
Archibald has always been more comfortable around animals; he never needs to wear a mask around them after all. He is glad then that his mount endures and makes it to the village just after the sun sets without giving in.
He gives the stable boy an extra couple of coins to take special care of her as he limps to the door of the… Dreaming Donkey. Stopping just outside, he takes in a deep breath and considers how he wants to present himself.
Lacking the energy to put on any semblance of not being exhausted, he decides honesty is his friend here. Just a weary traveller stopping off from the King’s road of the sort that keeps places like this in business. Heading to… Ismuth, let's say Ismuth, to deliver a message for his noble patron. Stopping for at least a day or two to restock and refresh, he can hardly foresee himself staying any longer than that.
Not that he imagines anyone will question him about his business, most folks know to keep their curiosity to themselves, but people tended to be different in the villages so it couldn’t hurt to have his story straight.
With a weary arm, he pushes the door inwards and is greeted immediately by a room with far too much energy for him to deal with at that moment. What must have been a couple dozen villagers deep in their merriment packed into a space that would see him have to push past at least some of them.
A few eyes turn his way, there is no bard playing so the door thudding shut is quite clearly audible, but as he flicks back his hood and reveals his very obviously tired, although not unfriendly, face no one decides to bother him.
He gives a few greeting nods to those that catch his eye as he begins making his way through the crowd and they politely move out of his way before continuing their conversations. It takes repeating ‘excuse me’ and ‘coming through’ a couple of times before he all but collapses on a free bar stool, almost moaning at the feeling of sitting down on something that isn’t constantly rubbing painfully against the insides of his thighs.
There seems to be two individuals manning the bar, a young, quite pretty, girl with rosy cheeks and a balding older gentlemen with a gut bigger than most pregnant women. It is the latter that sees him after handing over a pint to another portly gentleman he seems to know well, waddling over with a friendly smile.
“Hard journey, friend?” he asks, leaning against the bar casually and not quite needing to raise his voice to be heard.
Archibald slumps over the bar and nods tiredly, hardly even an act, then gives a small smile. “You’ve no idea. Please tell me you have a room free?”
“Aye, that we do. Tell you what, if you’re staying I’ll throw in a hot meal and something to wash it down. You look like you could use it, son.” The innkeeper adds with a pitying smile.
Letting out a relieved sigh, Archibald nods once more. “Bless you, man. How much for two nights?”
“Lets call it a single silver dragon. Dinner is casserole, not much other choice I’m afraid but my wife makes it and once you’ve tried it you won’t want anything else.”
With a groan from his stiffening muscles, which seem to have become even more sore since sitting down, Archibald reaches for the purse in his jacket pocket and pulls out the silver piece, placing it on the counter and sliding it over.
“The name's Gregory, that’s my daughter Sarah. Welcome to the Dreaming Donkey.” He says, nodding over to the young woman who is currently engaged in an animated discussion with two patrons as she pours their drinks, and then reaching over and pulling a bronze key off a hook and sliding it towards Archibald. “Rooms are upstairs, stairs are just over there. Yours is number three.”
Slumped over on the bar, Archibald manages to pocket the key and raise a shaky thumbs up in answer as, in the warmth of the tavern and on the relative comfort of the stool and the bar, he finds it harder and harder to keep his eyes open.
“I’m… Archie. I’ll… I’ll have an… an ale and… some of that cass… casserole please Gregory.” He manages to get out between flickering moments of unconsciousness.
If the innkeeper answers him he doesn’t know, as he feels his forehead slump against the wood and sleep overtakes him.
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Barry Fenrick
There have probably been several instances in which the newly-named Fenrick ought to have realised his new ‘boss’ is some kind of evil sorcerer. Now, yes, the whole being turned into a crow thing makes it pretty obvious in hindsight, but in fairness he just remembers blacking out and waking up with feathers in what should have obviously been a dream.
Albeit after nearly choking to death and then being issued with a truly ominous ultimatum, but to be honest he’d just written that off as his air-deprived brain making stuff up.
It did prove itself a remarkably strange dream, with his not-too-bright little brother as another, uglier, crow who seemed adamant that they should follow the strange pale-haired man about, first clinging to his shoulder and then being carried by the small girl.
Even in a dream, being given a new name isn’t something he can stand for, but even as a crow there had been an incredibly ominous feeling from his brother pecking him that had shut him up.
That should have been his first clue that he wasn’t dreaming, but he is stubborn like that, and, rather understandably in his mind, couldn’t comprehend that his sauntering around as a walking, squawking, not quite flying, crow was the reality and not the dream.
But then there was the walk in the forest that stretched on and on, and then they’d had to awkwardly hobble about on their own for what seemed like forever and his dreams had never been so boring.
It is now, specifically, however that it really all clicks for him. As he watches the pale-haired man performing some kind of ritual in the shadow of the barn, perched with his brother on a fence post as they keep their distance from the unusually large horse that keeps sending them menacing glares.
Whatever he is doing, he doesn’t seem to be rushing but every moment looks practised and calculated. Even in the pitch dark, which Fenrick now realises he too can see in with little difficulty, there is no hesitation as the pale man digs a perfect circle in the dirt with a wave of his hand about himself. The dirt simply parting at the gesture without need for the man to even kneel down and muddy his trousers.
Once that is done he continues to draw more shapes within the circle that make Fenrick’s head hurt just to look at, all the whilst muttering, or perhaps singing, in a tongue he doesn’t even slightly understand. He can’t find it in him to look away, however, until the work seems to be finished and the man lifts his hands to his mouth and perfectly mimics the hooting of an owl, enough that in his new form Fenrick visibly flinches.
A totally silent moment later and a white-feathered shadow swoops from the darkness and lands on the man’s outstretched arm. Sharing a quick glance with his brother, they watch as he gently strokes the neck of the owl which preens under his attention.
Then he utters a phrase in a totally different language, each syllable feeling like a nail in his skull. A sudden ominous feeling overwhelms Fenrick and some part of him screams to avert his gaze from the strange circle just as it seems to glow an impossible black.
Lifting up his wing to cover his brother’s gaze also, Fenrick turns. A moment later there is an awful sound of tearing and crunching, not entirely dissimilar from a time he’d seen a dog tear apart a rat in his jaws, but far more visceral.
A single pale feather floats down lazily in front of his eyes and he is vindicated in his decision to look away, a sick feeling entering his small avian stomach.
At the sounds which follow next, more mutterings in that painful tongue, Fenrick wishes he once more had hands to cover his ears. Alas, all he can do is close his eyes and wait for it to be over.
Which it is, shortly enough, and the ominous feeling disappears.
“You two,” he hears the man’s voice from behind him, “what do you know of ‘Ismuth’?”
“It’s a city… sir,” His brother caws, turning around first.
Fenrick quickly does the same, seeing only a blackened, charred circle where the markings in the ground once sat with no evidence of any owl barring the feather just below him.
Swallowing nervously, which is an entirely odd sensation as a bird, his eyes raise to the utterly unimpressed look of their new ‘master’.
He really can’t deny as such anymore, this witch, this… sorcerer is clearly not just a figment of his imagination as much as he’d like it to be so, and he recalls the ‘deal’ that his brother had struck as they writhed in the dirt.
So it is with fresh terror after this most recent display of his power, that he realises disappointing the sorcerer is the last thing they should be doing. Something his dopey brother apparently realised from the get-go.
“It ain’t too far from here, a few days journey north on the King’s road from Athaca. Everything that goes to or from the capital pretty much goes through Ismuth. We’ve been there a couple times, haven’t we La… Henrick?” Fenrick adds, trying to sound useful, and wincing as he finds himself calling his brother by the new names they were given.
It is a small price to pay, however, if it means he’ll one day have the luxury of opposable thumbs once more.
His brother nods his tiny head, and they both look up to the pale-haired man. “And is this city known for its magic?”
If he could have frowned then he most certainly would have. “I… err, don’t think so. I mean, it probably has a few of those wizard types, but most of those go to the College in Athaca, I think, so the capital probably has more.”
Not that he really has any idea what those pointy-hat-wearing freaks get up to and where, and if he ever sees one coming his way he’s turning and sprinting out of there, present company notwithstanding. All of his acquaintances agreed, messing with wizards and witches is a bad idea… the proof being rather self-evident as he shuffles on his stick-like legs.
“Hmmm,” the sorcerer has a thoughtful look on his sharp features as he glances back towards the circle.
The scary horse lifts its head towards the man, huffing as it flutters its mane in an undeniably intelligent manner.
Nodding, the sorcerer looks over to his mount. “I concur, it is worth investigating.” He then glances over to Fenrick and his brother, an odd glint in his eye. “Kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”
“What?” Fenrick asks warily, trying not to sound too combative.
But, thankfully, the pale-haired man doesn’t follow up his words with a stone, so to speak, just shakes his head mildly and then motions for the pair of them to leave.
“Go, I need not your services this night. I expect you will have learnt how to use those wings of yours come the morning, else there shall be consequences. Find me at first light.” He says dismissively, nodding towards his mount who bows its head before a ring of silver light begins forming before them.
As the night within disappears into an illuminated street somewhere entirely else, the pale-haired man and his horse step within and the portal snaps shut.
Fenrick looks over to his brother, who looks back. “This is all your fault.”
Henrick shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, I’m the reason we’re still alive.”
“You’re the gods-damned reason I have feathers, bird-brain. Now come on, spread your wings and jump off this fence.”
“You’re a bird-brain too, and why do I have to go first? I don’t know how to fly!”
“Because you’re the youngest... Look, he’s coming back!”
“Where!?”
His squawking laughter echoes out as he pushes his little brother from the fence with a beat of his wing.
Alas, he succeeds only in falling… this is going to take a while.
----------------------------------------
You
When it comes to divination you prefer to cut out the middleman. Sure, it is far safer to look beyond the veil without actually looking, but that is how one gets vague and unhelpful information that is of little to no real use.
You prefer precision, and if that necessitates communing with a creature that would break lesser minds and turn them towards madness then it is a price you are happy to pay, even if you do still feel an odd buzzing lingering behind your eyes.
It is fortunate that most of said beings are generally benevolent, in so far that the madness and destruction they often cause is entirely accidental. But with the proper measures in place one can ask them nearly anything in exchange for a snack and the novelty of conversing with a mortal that can actually speak their tongue.
Of course, the ‘measures’ are not actually barriers that can contain the beings, but are in fact closer to instructions on how said beings can interact with Mortus without tearing it apart. Had you fished out a truly malicious being then the outcome could have been catastrophic.
Catastrophic, but not necessarily fatal. For you and Arma, at least.
It proved an interesting conversation, as they often do. It turns out there are several banks, hoards and lairs containing the type of wealth you seek, some more expansive than others. Giving exact inventories, spatial coordinates and warnings as to the wards in place, its information would save you a great amount of faffing about. Rather helpfully, the being drew your attention to one that, to paraphrase it, held unusual protections for the current age. The Royal Bank of Ismuth.
Not so subtly, it had been pushing you towards investigating said city with what you can only assume was a mischievous tone as it refused to elaborate any further. It reminds you of several fey you’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with, although it is somehow even harder to gauge the eldritch creature’s intentions.
Nevertheless, it piqued your curiosity and Arma seemed eager for you to take on the challenge so Ismuth it was.
Immediately as you step out onto the dark street an odd, half-familiar smell reaches your nose and you share a knowing look with Arma as the portal snaps shut.
“Scout the wards, verify the information we have and seek out any weak points. I shalt follow this scent to its source.” You tell her, in elvish once again now you don’t need to keep the crows in the loop.
With a huff and a nod, the horse-shaped creature trots off alone down the cobbled streets, illuminated by the flickering streetlamps and startling the small number of pedestrians taking a nightly stroll.
Lifting your nose to the air, you close your eyes take in a deep breath through your nose. Turning on the spot, and opening your eyes, you allow the smell to guide you down the city’s maze-like alleys.
You walk with more haste and purpose than usual, not because you are necessarily impatient, but because of that most rare of emotions in your great age; excitement.
Athaca, during your very brief stay, had been your first impression of the human civilizations that have sprung up in your absence. Built mostly on a raised cliff and then flowing downwards towards the sea, its boulevards were wide, spilling down from the top like rivers. Not quite straight or logical, winding and becoming wider and narrower at random, with streets running off like tributaries and buildings built to fill the space they provided without any real planning behind them.
Like a living thing, it looked as though it had grown naturally with only some provisions for later growth that had kept it ticking even as it spread far beyond its initial borders. But like a crustacean that had shed one too many times, it was beginning to suffocate under its own size, its infrastructure simply not designed for so large a population. You could tell the signs easily enough; you have watched it happen with your own eyes in cities human or otherwise.
Ismuth is different. The streets are regular, turning at right-angles only. The buildings raised in perfect rectangular blocks around a network of sewage tunnels you can sense running beneath. It is not a natural evolution, but a planned design. Possessing of a foresight that such short-lived creatures rarely displayed.
It is cleaner, for a human city at least, and the smell not so foul. Yet it lacks… the personality most settlements of such size possess. It is not a living, breathing beast but a golem, devoid of a soul and, naturally, without the messy efficiency of nature.
Just walking its streets makes your skin crawl. Even the ever-compulsive dwarves followed the paths of least resistance as they dug out their mountain holds, carving out their sharply angular halls and homes but still following the route nature laid out for them.
It is not something you’ve seen before on such a scale, and you reach out your senses to try and determine why.
You notice that, though Ismuth itself is very flat, it sits around a colossal fissure in the land that stretches down further than you can tell. You do not recognise such a landmark, although just because you conquered the world doesn’t mean you’ve seen every nook and cranny of it so it isn’t too surprising, and you don’t recall your fight with Ngrakken heading this side of the mountains.
The bank you came here for sits near the centre of the city, just at the edge of the ravine and opposite what you must assume is the palace of this city’s leadership, and stands at equal splendour.
Which isn’t saying much considering it is still human architecture, but the generously applied precious metals to its exterior seem to be their attempts to compensate for this.
Your nose leads you to walking in its shadow, with its marble arches and pillars it strikes an intimidating stature to the average passing pedestrian. Of course, it is heavily guarded by a dense cordon of armoured humans keeping vigil for any who might try to peel the gold that plated much of the building, though strangely not by the regular city guards you have glanced on your walk here.
Rather than old chainmail, a helm, a spear and a shield these men and women bear glaives, swords and plate armour, with gilded visors that cover their faces but not the stink of magic that clings to them. Enchanted weaponry, not strong ones by your standards, but not insignificant. Sharpness, durability and swiftness at a glance.
Your opinion of human magecraft in this age heightens just a little and you pause before one of them. Your nose twitches and that strange stench seems to linger around these guards, though it is far from strongest here.
Unable to quite put your finger on how or why that is even possible, you begin to doubt your initial assumption about its source. Not an easy thing to make you do, but rare is it that you come across something you have not seen before.
Although the last few days have certainly shown that there are things that can yet surprise you.
The armoured human you have been looking at sniffs and tilts his head in your direction.
“If you’ve no business, sir, then move along.” He says gruffly in Torish, his voice echoing somewhat behind the closed visor.
You scowl but do as he asks, feeling as though it is more important than ever not to make a scene. That doesn’t stop you from muttering a mild curse to make the man’s nose itch until the morning.
Walking over and stopping by the thick marble railing that separates the street from the ravine, one of the several bridges across it just to your right, you peer over into its depths.
Your eyesight is impeccable, beyond even the natural limits of your kind, and yet even you fail to pierce its depths despite your entirely unobstructed view. Frowning, your take another breath through your nose and confirm your suspicions that the source of the scent lies below.
Not at the bottom, for you see many staircases and doors leading down and into the sides of the ravine, even a few pulley lifts, and you can tell your nose is pointing you towards one of the few entrances sitting directly below the bank.
Your quest for coin has almost been forgotten before your curiosity, but the source of your information and this revelation tell you they are most certainly connected.
With a graceful leap, you soundlessly vault the railing and allow yourself to fall. True unassisted flight is beyond your powers, at least without changing into a form more suited for it, but directing and breaking your fall until you are comfortably hovering just above the platform you were aiming for is no great problem.
You cock your head and observe the strange rune carved into the stone door. It is of no language you recognise, vaguely resembling some kind of stylised face but not of any creature you can pinpoint. It is not so finely crafted a door as those on the surface, but just glancing around there was vastly more care put into its construction than some of the other portals into the side of the ravine. Plenty don’t even have doors; they are just barely-carved caves.
Even the platform you stand on, and the stairs that lead down to it nailed into the cliff face, are formed from mere wooden planks, several of which appear rotten or even just missing.
Yet the door is imbued with more magic than you have thus far seen from the humans of this age, a ward worthy of the masters of old.
Not only that, but there is also a peculiar signature to it. As one progresses in the magical arts and progress is made not through instruction but personal experimentation their workings often differ slightly from others even if attempting to copy one another.
To those, like you, who know how to read them, it can tell you a lot about the individual that formed them. You reach out and run your fingers over the rune, closing your eyes and really taking the time to inspect the ward.
Impatient, but cautious. Paranoid, even. Redundancies where they need not be, but no two the same. Determined, stubborn, forcing the threads together rather than weaving them into proper shape to make up for inadequacies in understanding. But most of all, greedy, gathering far more power into the working to strengthen it beyond what such sloppy work could normally contain.
Not a mage of legendary skill by any means, but certainly one of prodigious power. As much as any human you have known that hadn’t been backed by the gods.
Breaking it down would be difficult, and loud, though far from impossible. But you have unravelled the purpose of this particular ward and in doing so recognise its fatal flaw. Designed like a lock, it is supposed to allow entry only to those with the specific key.
Once you isolate that core of the working you extrapolate and, with a small working of your own, replicate the magical key it is searching for, and the door clicks open.
Shaking your head and tutting, you lament the poor challenge. No general ward can stand against a skilful and determined attack by a knowledgeable mage, even had you been far less powerful. In fairness, however, it could probably have stopped a juvenile dragon dead in its tracks if it tried to rip it open by brute force. And once upon a time, the latter had been far more common than the former.
The smell hits your nostrils like a physical gust of wind, stronger than ever, and you know for a fact the source lays within. Not only that, but you can also hear… music, though you use the term very loosely to describe the racket, echoing along the dark, rocky corridors and sense a great many heartbeats within. Most are racing at a pace far in excess of what is regular.
Intrigued, but wary, you take a step inside and the ward activates to swing the door shut behind you. There is no chance that the mage detected you bypassing their ward, but your instincts are itching and telling you that you are not as undetected as you believe.
You send a mental prod at Arma to continue the heist on her own at her leisure. Now you recognise the calibre of your opponent you foresee nothing that Arma cannot bypass on her own, although the chances that such a thing wasn’t true in the first place were very small indeed.
Really, the greatest difficulty is her lack of opposable thumbs, but you are certain she will find a way to manage. She sends back a questioning prod, and you send back the telepathic equivalent of a smile.
You get the feeling you are going to be indisposed in the immediate future, and you cannot wait to find out why.