Ch. 12 — Midlands. Varren Mountaintop. Dwarven Temple - Faroah and Samasira_The Glass Wizard - The tale of a somewhat depressed wizard

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“There is knowledge that is forever inscribed into the consciousness of man. There is knowledge that forever eludes his grasp. And then there is knowledge that is found and lost time and time again. Magic harbours many such secrets.”

Faroah offered his prophecies not to those who sought them, but to those who needed to hear them. Often, those who needed to hear them were not where he was, though. Sometimes, he pursued and paid them a visit, which was generally a great pain in the ass because he hated travelling, and sometimes he simply uttered his prophecies to the world at large.

It mattered little whether people understood him or not, for the world always listened. And, in his experience, the world was kind enough to work out a way to translate and pass on the message, be it through elaborate signs of fate, through subtle tricks of the light, or in more modest terms, such as a chance encounter with a passage in a random book.

Prophecies were not bound to a specific place, nor were they confined by time. You would be surprised how often Faroah prophesised something that had already happened. These kind of prophecies were just as important as those that concerned the future, because how else would the world know that these things had been meant to happen?

Ah, someone was here. A young witch stepped into the sacred space, her silhouette cast against the weathered stone walls by the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the gaps in the roof above. She hesitated at the threshold, her unease palpable in her skittish movements as her eyes darted from the speckles of light dancing around her feet to the figure of Faroah before her. The light at this altitude possessed a rare clarity, the fragments spanning wide, unblemished nets. It streamed through the broken roof section, revealing the intricate patterns of dust stirred by the witch's arrival. Beneath the layers of dust, the stone floor bore witness to the craftsmanship, dedication, and grandeur of dwarven stonemasonry.

Faroah had been at his sweeping for four days straight, but he had not yet made it to the entrance. This place was simply a lot of work for one old wizard. Resting his broom against the wall where he had just cleared, he acknowledged Samasira's presence with a nod. As she bowed and introduced herself as Samasira, he welcomed her with a gesture to follow him deeper into the dim interior. The singular, floating orb trailing Faroah illuminated their path and cast warm hues of orange onto the feet of the columns and statues surrounding them, lending a mesmerizing glow to the ancient stone carvings.

The air within the temple hung heavy with the lingering scent of dragon fire and the faint echoes of ancient ceremonies. Faroah liked to listen, and every once in a while, when something sounded particularly interesting, he stopped his sweeping and looked back to see what the fuss was all about.

Few wizards shared his fascination with dwarven history and culture. Especially those born after the Mountainfell Heritage Wars, who were now the vast majority, had rather opposing views. They grew up with nothing good to remember and that left little motivation for listening to anything that lay beyond the confines of these tainted memories.

Faroah did not blame them. After all, introspection was the province and privilege of age, was it not? In your youth, you are consumed by the present; coming to know the world as you live it, navigating the truth as it unfolds. As years pass, you begin to look into the future. You build on your present and plan your path ahead. With maturity comes reflection, the consideration of your actions. You consider how these actions will shape you, and how you will shape the world for the generations to come. And then, with old age, you start to look back, acknowledging the vast changes wrought over a singular lifetime, and marvelling at just how much change had already been there, long before you.

Faroah and Samasira arrived at a secluded alcove nestled within the heart of the expansive entrance hall. Here, the juncture between the free stone architecture and the mountain itself was unmistakable. The walls and floor were hewn from natural rock, every column and statue sculpted by chiselling away from the mountain itself.

The only man-made addition amidst this natural wonder was the stool Faroah had brought with him. It was a neat little wooden construction that could be folded, with a sheet of leather stretched between the beams. Placed seemingly at random, it seemed out of place and utterly insignificant amidst the temple’s grandeur. To Faroah, however, it offered a welcome respite during his days of sweeping. Since he never had the opportunity to ask, he felt it would be impolite to occupy the grand thrones and elaborate stone benches that once hosted legendary kings and warriors. He had yet to find a fragment of past where one dwarf said to the other, You know, I wouldn’t mind if a wizard sat here. In fact, if one ever wanders into here long after we are gone, he has my blessing.

The alcove harboured a crystal altar, flanked by four carved stone benches curving around its perimeter, all facing the central altar. The crystal formations marked the end of a natural vein that protruded from the wall, extending freely through the air before winding its way into the ground. Meticulously carved into intricate windings, the crystal altar captured and refracted the ambient light emanating from Faroah’s floating orb, casting captivating reflections throughout the alcove.

"It is unparalleled craftsmanship," Faroah remarked as the young witch halted a few steps behind him. His voice resonated through the temple hall with a commanding presence, masterfully amplified by the acoustics of the sacred space. There was no distortion or echo; every word reverberated clearly, reaching even the furthest corners of the hall. Any dwarf, even those standing all the way back at the entrance, would hear him clearly. "The dwarven art of shard cutting rivals even the finest glass magic. If you look closely, you will recognise a small fissure of mountain blood running through the center of the crystal vein." He pointed it out, guiding Samasira's gaze to the most prominent section. The crystal shimmered in dark hues of ash. There was no dust here; Faroah had thoroughly cleaned the entire structure, beginning from this very spot where they now stood. This was also where he had begun his sweeping.

The young witch hesitated, then leaned over the altar, searching. Her hands remains suspended at her sides, not daring to make contact. Faroah observed her closely, noting the subtle changes in her expression as she delved into the energies emanating from the crystal.

Few wizards outside the Transcender spectrum possessed the ability to perceive the rare elixir known as mountain blood. Witches, with their innate connection to the natural world, were often more attuned to such phenomena. The most adept amongst them wove the pulse, breath and essence of mountains and forests into their spells, drawing and building upon the very fabric of nature itself.

Faroah recognised the moment Samasira found the vein. As her eyes traced the layers and patterns within the crystal, following the vein embedded within, his own gaze traced her. He took note of her torn garments, the raw wounds on her bare hands and feet, and the myriad of cuts and bruises that marred her battered body. Nothing he had not seen before — a testament to the toll exacted by the Varren upon those who dared challenge the mountain. It was not that Faroah wanted others to endure such hardships to reach him; rather, some places had more to offer than others.

"Did you know," he began, his voice low and measured, "that it is the mountain blood that, over time, gives rise to these crystalline formations? A structure of this diameter likely took over one thousand five hundred years to take shape. If you look even closer, you will see that the altar crystal has grown past and built upon the delicate carvings bestowed upon it by the Dwarves of Hefdahl."

But the young witch did not examine the carvings. Instead, she regarded him with growing confusion.

Of course, she did not understand him.

Faroah circled around the structure and positioned himself opposite her, with the altar between them. “Place your hands on the table,” he instructed. Using his own hands, Faroah showed her where to place them, atop the etching within the crystal tableau. He then placed his hands on top of hers. Sie tried to maintain her composure, but Faroah sensed the slight tremor as their hands made contact. He did not take it personally. He understood her apprehension about being touched by a wizard.

Faroah, in turn, marvelled at the touch of youth beneath his wrinkled palm. His fingers, calloused and hardened over time, barely registered her softness. Here was youth in its purest form; a delicate hand that would soon toughen from the blisters, cuts, challenges, and exhaustion of the climb. This was youth; striving, struggling, almost killing itself to reach the mountain peak, only to ask, Well, where to next?, while old wizards like him just wondered, Do I really have to get all the way back down again?

Eventually, Faroah said, “Speak your truth.” He looked at her until she understood that it was her turn to speak.

She tried to express her gratitude for the audience, but was greatly startled by the amplification of her own voice resonating through the temple's hallowed hall. After several faltering attempts, she mustered the focus to voice her request. “You see that I am a witch, but I am not,” she began, her words revibrating with astonishing clarity. “I have never wanted to be one. I was raised among humans until I was taken from my parents by witches who claimed that I was a child of theirs."

Faroah said: "The passing of time is the result of the flow of energies between the two Genesters of Life. T̵̩̅̑̿e̷̡̖̤̣̦͉̹̪̿̔ͪ̍͜͜͠͝_̸̵̰̦̗̒͜h̡͔͒̄̇̓ḁ̶̦̤̤̥̤ͯ͊͂͗͌͜͠ṟ̸͓̞͙̜̹̂͐̉̎͆͂͢͝u̯̼ͫ̆͐͘nͮ gives to the world while OϻΔΓΔΠ [Omaran] takes from the world. This exchange creates change, and change is the essence of time.

But time birthed imbalance, where OϻΔΓΔΠ ascended and T̵̩̅̑̿e̷̡̖̤̣̦͉̹̪̿̔ͪ̍͜͜͠͝_̸̵̰̦̗̒͜h̡͔͒̄̇̓ḁ̶̦̤̤̥̤ͯ͊͂͗͌͜͠ṟ̸͓̞͙̜̹̂͐̉̎͆͂͢͝u̯̼ͫ̆͐͘nͮ waned, until guardians of the world arose to restore equilibrium. Upon these keepers of balance, T̵̩̅̑̿e̷̡̖̤̣̦͉̹̪̿̔ͪ̍͜͜͠͝_̸̵̰̦̗̒͜h̡͔͒̄̇̓ḁ̶̦̤̤̥̤ͯ͊͂͗͌͜͠ṟ̸͓̞͙̜̹̂͐̉̎͆͂͢͝u̯̼ͫ̆͐͘nͮ bestowed three hearts: one to live, one to thrive, and one to give.

These guardians learned to give back to the giver. Some, however, fell victim to OϻΔΓΔΠ’s corruption. From these, OϻΔΓΔΠ took the heart to give and replaced it instead with a fragment of his essence. From that moment forth, all they take from the world, he consumes.

You, child, are of your mothers, who gave you three hearts. You are indeed a witch."

She strained to listen, to understand. Faroah read on her face that she had expected something different from this audience. Well, if people knew what to expect, they would not need him, would they?

With a gentle tap on her right hand, Faroah redirected her focus, prompting her to proceed. By now, he had very much perfected a facial expression, a blend of encouragement and curiosity, that silently said, "Go on."

“The reason why I seek oracle ...” She paused, hesitating

Faroah tapped her hand again.

“The day I escaped the witch coven that had claimed me, I was …”, her voice was tinged with uncertainty, “I was captured and then sold to a wizard. All I wanted was to return to my human family, but he bound my life to his. Can you sense it? I mean, can you feel the seal in me?”

Tap.

“I believe that he is bound to die soon, and if he does, so will I. I seek oracle to learn if this is my fate, or to learn of his fate, so I may prolong his life and thus mine. Or, if you can, please tell me how I can free myself and reclaim my life. Please tell me what I need to do to make my life my own again.”

“This is a place that grants change,” Faroah said. “A legendary sanctuary where dwarven kings once ascended. Many of them stood where we stand. At this moment, you may sense the mountain's heartbeat extending towards you, its vein reaching out to connect with you. You may offer it a fraction of your giving heart.”

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Her hands trembled beneath his touch, yet Faroah refrained from grasping or confining them. Then, with a sudden jolt, she withdrew her hands, but, equally abruptly, halted midway. Only her fingertips remained beneath his touch. “What is happening?” she whispered.

“Do not be afraid,” Faroah reassured her. “Change is a knife with a blade for a handle. Changing your future needs changing yourself.” His hands remained suspended over the crystal, unchanged in their position. Through his years of experience, Faroah knew that coercion bred resistance, while the allure of free will and curiosity often merged into to trust.

A few moments passed before the witch tentatively slid her hands back under his touch.

“A part of you becomes part of the mountain. You are forever a fragment of a greater whole,” Faroah observed the shifts in her expression as she felt the mountain's vein extent, reach out and connect with her. “And with that, I do not refer to the Albweiss alone. The difference in futures available for you depends on your willingness to embrace this exchange with the encompassing entirety that exceeds your individuality.

Your heritage is entwined with humans, your lineage stems from witches, and your future is bound to that of a wizard. Do not mourn your fate by yearning for a return to your past. Often, what we perceive as flawed, lost, or shattered holds the greatest significance for the greater whole."

She stared at him, her expression searching for understanding.

“Consider the entrance, where you first stepped into this temple," Faroah continued. "Immediately, your eyes fell upon the broken roof. The structure surrounding the entrance no longer shelters from the elements, rendering it devoid of its original purpose. However, while this section may appear marred, within the context of the greater whole — the encompassing temple that still offers ample sanctuary and protection for this pair of humble wizard and witch, yes, even for hundreds of dwarves, should they ever decided to reclaim the Albweiss — it is not a fault. Instead, unintended by the dwarves who fashioned it, it has transformed into something unique, an integral part of the structure. You have witnessed the radiant phantom presences it captures, the beautiful white beams of light. You have marvelled, just as I have before you, at the interplay of light it casts upon the floor. You have seen how the broken beckons beauty."

“Sir, please. I am sorry, but I do not understand you. I only know how to speak Teh and Faramyr,” Samasira said, her voice tinged with growing concern.

It did not matter. These truths would reach her. Eventually. She had grasped what was most important. Intuitively, she had allowed the mountain to claim a fraction of her giving heart. With that, she had opened herself up to significant change.

“Places of change offer many futures,” Faroah said while putting on a pair of oversised spectacles adorned with an array of mismatched lenses. Each lens had a different purpose, and was enchanted respectively. Faroah did not need the spectacles to see into the future, but to limit his perception. He simply saw a lot of things all the time, even just in this time here and now; things surrounding him within the temple. Of some, he never spoke, because that would quite terribly frighten people or make them think he was mad. The glasses helped to filter and focus his vision. He adjusted the spectacles on his nose, which promptly slid down to rest precariously on the tip. And then he did his thing, where he looked and listened, felt and smelt, and tasted for the far and distant futures that were open for the young witch in front of him.

Faroah would best describe the future as a complex dish, a conundrum wrapped in an enigma smothered in a riddle and slathered with mystery sauce. Yet amidst bewildering array of components and flavours, there was always a recipe, and if you but found all the ingredients and cooking utensils laid out by the present, you could quite well guess what was brewing. Looking into the witch, Faroah saw who was coming to dinner. Looking beyond her, he discerned what would be on her plate, what would be waiting.

In Faroah’s experience, most guests arrived and simply accepted their pre-prepared meals without fuss, content to eat what was served. However, there were always a few dissenters who rebelled against the set meal of the day. They might argue out of sheer necessity, insisting on something different for dear life, citing allergies, dietary restrictions and whatnot. They might also argue even if the set course was perfectly fine, simply because their expectations were not met.

Some grumbled quietly, their discontent murmurs barely audible above the clatter of plates and chatter of conversation. Others, however, were far less subtle in their dissatisfaction. These individuals made their protests known with boisterous and rude exclamations, seeking to draw attention from their fellow diners. For them, causing a scene was not just an unintended consequence but rather a deliberate tactic to get what they wanted.

As for the other guests, they typically either ignored the ruckus or complained about it. Some felt pity for the future that waited on these troublemakers, while others offered support to the dissenters, either to solve the issue with honest intent, or to silence it so they could finish their own meal in peace. In most cases observed by Faroah, these troublemakers were eventually accommodated with the menu, allowing them to choose an alternative meal.

There were also those who began content with the set course but then realised that someone else was having something different — and regardless of how much they enjoyed their own meal or how full they were already, they wanted it, too. Because it could be had. Out of nowhere, these guests would throw down their fork and knife, shove away their unfinished plate, hammer their fists onto the table, and disrupt the entire dining experience for everyone else until they receive this alternative meal as well.

As if the future that waited on all of the world was not yet busy enough, there were times when the collective clamour of dissent reached such a crescendo that the set course for an entire era was cancelled altogether. Instead of adhering to the meticulously prepared course, the future then presented a buffet, a one-for-all allowing everyone to get up and select whatever they wanted. These were rare times; times of great change on a worldly scale.

You would assume that allowing everyone to freely pick and choose as they liked would lead to a satisfactory dining experience, but reality proved otherwise.

When confronted with an array of unlimited choices, there were always those people who jostled and elbowed their way to the front, hastily piling their plates with whatever delicacies lay within arm’s reach. If you ever had the misfortune to encounter such people, you knew that they were rarely content with the etiquette of one plate per person. No, they grabbed as many as they could carry, attempting to amass and hoard enough food for their entire lifetime and ten generations to come, leaving little to nothing for their fellow diners.

If their plates were brimming before they reached the end of the table, and they spotted something even more enticing, they thought nothing of discarding items from their already overflowing plates. Whether the discarded food fell into a nearby container or directly onto the floor, they cared little for the disruption they caused. In a mere moments, these people could reduce the once meticulously arranged buffet into a dishevelled mess, leaving the table strewn with scraps and discord.

Those who came after would have to navigate through the chaos left behind, forced to sift through the spills that had landed in the containers along with what they actually desired. While they might still manage to assemble a decent meal, albeit with some compromise, it might not taste quite as they had hoped.

Lastly, there were the silent spectators and all the sad sobs who were either too polite or too timid to engage in the initial pushing and shoving. They ended up with hardly anything. They might be afraid of bothering anyone, starving politely and out of sight, or they might approach the future with the humble suggestion of offering pre-prepared, set meals for everyone. They would reason that, while not everyone would get exactly what they desired, at least no one would be left hungry.

And because the future would thus ever again be reminded of the benefit that came with set courses, there would always be a period of well-set, predetermined fates following a time of great change.

This was Faroah’s take on the era-phenomenon: As a world-reader and time-reader, he ever again encountered transparent periods of rigidly distributed fate, fortunes, and futures, followed by a surge of uncertainties that offered him close to no insight.

Now, where was the young witch in all of this? Ah, yes. Taking her left hand into his and turning it over, Faroah said, “The future you desire takes another change of heart.”

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Samasira left the temple utterly bewildered. As she stepped outside, she felt the gaze of the imposing dwarven heads that were built into the mountain façade on her. The dwarves had shaped the Varren with their liking. Even after they left, their kings still watched over the Albweiss. The temple stood like a silent sentinel against the seasons, its ancient stone walls weathered by centuries of wind and snow, but overflowing with potent auras. Surrounding it, the rugged terrain of the mountain stretched into the distance, while far below, the world lay hidden in shadow beneath the grand mountain peaks.

With freezing feet, fingers and breath, Samasira hurried back along the lengthy path to the visitors' tent, where she found two of her companions awaiting her return. All except for Abar and Kel-Khadar were asleep, their forms huddled together for warmth in a secluded corner of the tent, sheltered by a makeshift partition of cloth and blankets. They had arrived not three hours ago, all in great need of rest, food and healing. Despite her exhaustion, Samasira had insisted on seeking oracle from Faroah immediately.

There were two thick blankets in the seating area, one claimed by Abar. As soon as Samasira arrived, she threw herself on a rock-turned-chair, pulled in her arms and legs and wrapped the second blanket so tightly around herself that she became a parcel of fluff, which somewhere, somehow, revealed a pair of human eyes.

Abar helped wrapping her, “How was it? What did he say?” After Samasira was all set, she returned to her own rock chair. She had been studying their map, which she had spread out on the table before her. The table, just as all of their chairs, was nothing more than a large, flat rock.

Kel-Khadar said nothing, but observed Samasira with what she believed to be genuine interest. He sat on the ground opposite her, unaffected by the cold thanks to his thick coat of fur. He was sharpening his claws, which had suffered damage during the climb. The borman had carried both Samasira and Abar for long stretches, and she was eternally grateful for his help. As humans, they could not match the toughness, endurance, and skills of any their various companions. Samasira had always known, but after the challenging ascent, she was particularly aware and ashamed of her weakness.

Samasira was eager to share what Faroah had conveyed to her. However, she remembered nothing of the encounter and would remember even less in the days to come. They had been forewarned about this by Faroah’s attendant, who had greeted them at the end of their climb and led them to the visitors’ tent. Nonetheless, the feeling of having lost something vital was nothing short of disturbing. And so, Samasira returned from her audience none the wiser but fundamentally changed. All that she retained from her Oracle audience was a singular witch rune, faintly carved into her left palm, hardly readable amidst all the cuts, blisters and blood:

c̮̲̥̟̳͖̼͉̬̠̣̾̆̓́ͤͯͨ͌͠r̶̹̽̉͛ḙ̴̩̾̓̅̿͋ͬc̷̸̙͚̺͖̞͆ͩ͌ͥ̅̓̑ͩ͡͠e̗͒ͦ̌ͬ̃̒ç̤͓̘̲̇̔͋ͫ̇̍ͥo̴̩̳̰̮͔̩ͬͣ͋̋̃ͧr̨̳̓͌͗͜ȧ̺͖̖͂͑̃̓̈́͝

“What does it mean?” asked Abar, reaching for Samasira’s hand to look at it herself.

“You did that? Or he?” asked Kel-Khadar.

“I honestly don’t know,” admitted Samasira. “It’s like Mariam said, I can’t remember anything.”

“Maybe you wanted to leave a message for yourself,” suggested Abar. “What does it say?”

“It is a rune that combines two words,” Samasira grabbed Abar’s pencil from the table and used an empty section of the map, an undefined section of water that outlined the Northlandic Ocean, to draw the rune. It was not necessary for her explanations, but it gave the other two something to look at while she pulled her hands back under the blanket. “They are cr̸̬̈́̓͡è̲̮ͮč̙̹̈ͣ͢ecȯ͒͐r and c͕̹̳ͦͥ͜ǫ͓̳ͭ͞r̫̻̖͋̓͘͜a̰ — to raise and heart.“

“The racing heart?”, suggested Kel-Khadar.

“What? No, it’s raise.”

“The rising heart?” Kel-Khadar tried again.

“No, raise. Raise, Arr-Eyy-Eye, as in to cojure. Or maybe to grow?”

“Like, raise a child?”, asked Abar. “Are you sure?”

“The growing heart?” asked Kel-Khadar.

“The heart that grows?” threw in Abar.

“Grow a heart?” continued Kel-Khadar. “You need to get stronger?”

“It could be symbolic. I mean, does it have to do with, you know, your witchcraft?” asked Abar, “Or was a rune just easier to write than spelling growing heart?”

“Beats me,” For several minutes, Samasira tried very hard to remember, but her mind remained blank. With a resigned tone, she eventually turned her attention to the map, “Well, that was that. Where to next?”

“Please don’t ask”, Abar groaned. “I really, really don’t want to get back down again.”

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Ch. 12 — Midlands. Varren Mountaintop. Dwarven Temple - Faroah and Samasira

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