A figure walked into a large circular room, a podium surrounded by a stadium of empty gray stone chairs, each positioned in front of small and simple gray stone tables. In the center, standing on the plain stone dais, seven figures waited; all eight were dressed identically, in plain gray robes, hooded. There was a strangeness to the air, which grew with the new entry; the room was too small for these figures.
Long brown hair descending to the waist the only visible sign of identity. The occupants, identical in their gray hooded robes even to the height, shifted and turned slightly, and then began shuffling out of the area, until only three occupants remained; the new entry joined the other two.
A voice filled the room, a whisper that was a shout, booming across the dark circular chamber, and the vast rows of chairs ascending to the wall in two semicircles omitting the large twin doors through which the speaker had entered from, and which the others had exited from. The alien intonations twisted the air, bending the little light emanating from no particular apparent source, until something broke, and the mostly delicately quiet whispered words slipped through the trembling tears in reality.
“The foundation is cracked, but healing; parts of an alien world slipped through, and there are new ideals.” The gray-robed individual who had waited staggered only slightly under the assault on reality, and after several long shuddering seconds to recover, nodded in return, a masculine voice marking him.
“We suspected as much, but the greater ascended were … reticent to explain what was going on, even to myself. What of the point of intersection?” He braced himself as the air rent once more to let loose the whispers. They didn't come; a third voice replied, in a melodious voice, not quite masculine or feminine.
“The plane survived. It should not have; the anchor was sundered.”
“It is not unique. We have received seventy three reports of similar occurrences. It is a most unfortunate development. We will need more safeguards going forward, else someday a disaster shall spread beyond our ability to contain.” The second voice returned.
“What of the astral space?” Two figures quaked before the whisper.
“The division appears to have worked. Sage Eslan was correct. It has contributed to the stability of the severed plane, however; the entire mess appears to be drifting across the foundation.”
“Drifting? No, don't answer that. The idiot should have thought before he learned the new ideals, he was perhaps the best situat-” the masculine voice disappeared, the whispers simply ripping the voice, the words, from of the air.
“You will please remember my relationship with my grandfather, warden.” The whisper carried a threat; the podium on which they stood creaked under the weight of it. “And that I was there. Assignment or not, I knew many of those we had to leave.”
“I do not forget, warden. My apologies.” The masculine voice trailed off then, replaced by melody.
“Please be careful, Warden Eslan. This place is straining already at our presence.” The long-haired warden took a moment, before nodding. “Warden Vage, you are dismissed.” They waited in silence as the hooded figure bowed, and departed. Only when the footsteps faded into the distance did the melodious voice continue. “Warden Eslan, I think you should take some time to recover. Finish your reports, and take three months.” The long-haired warden jerked, raising a hand in objection, but the melodious voice continued, “That is an order, Arias.”
Arias found herself nodding, and returning to her desk. Her office wasn't in the same location as when she had left it, but it took her only a few minutes of reorienting herself to find it again. This place was more solid than most mere planes in some respects; it was conceptually grounded. In other, more ephemeral senses, like geography – it wasn't particularly solid at all.
The headquarters of the Gray Wardens was in a failed plane, which had been the product of an insane mage, who had been attempting to create a bridge to the foundation itself; this had been an early prototype, which existed more as an extension of the astral, than as a plane itself. It was perfect for the Gray Wardens, who used its properties to better prepare themselves for the astral, and to have a place where they could congregate without breaking reality.
She looked at the report sitting on top of her desk, written in her grandfather's neat hand, detailing her mission of the last few years. It was incomplete, but she didn't reach for a quill, and there wasn't one present on the desk anyways; paper struggled to contain her words. She would need to find somebody who could speak the hand language, ideally one who would survive the experience. Maybe the venusapien black warden, he had done very well for an ephemeral; she'd have to find out his name anyways to finish the report.
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Arias tried to organize her thoughts about the last few weeks, since she had last updated her grandfather prior to the cave, but it was surprisingly challenging. Anne's death had been a shocking and premature end to her mission, and being followed by Thomas' transformation, and necessary destruction, the time had left her unusually uncomposed. It wasn't quite like she had been prior to her own partial ascension – it wasn't quite like being ephemeral again. But it had left her in an erratic state, particularly coming as it did after the disaster with the esra in the cave, which had nearly shattered her.
The fight with the esra had been a threat she hadn't been prepared to handle, and only Anne's surprisingly fast thinking had kept them all from a total death. She glanced to the side, but, as had been the case since the plane had been unanchored, the faceless horror which had become an annoyingly persistent companion remained missing. It had never spoken, never shifted or moved, just watched her.
Arias shook her head, trying to clear the erratic thoughts, and start over; she had to have the story prepared, to make sure she omitted certain things; in particular her own role in bringing down the rogue knighthood. She did allow herself a small smile; they were now broken, and none the wiser for it. It hadn't been quite the way she and her grandfather had planned it, but she'd taken the opportunity when it had presented itself. Norris had survived, and he was a loose end who talked too freely; she liked him, but it wouldn't do for the representatives of Pantheon to be too open about their less ... palatable activities. The Black Wardens could get away with it, having developed a reputation for brutal efficiency in the ancient war against the astral, and proven themselves. The Gray Wardens - she stopped herself, trying to focus her attention once more on organizing her report, which at this point spanned years.
She had carefully omitted Anne's little group of terrorists' more unconventional activities. The conflicts between adventurers and the Gray Guard had been a staple of her entire upbringing, and the long years of forced silence about their treatment of her had perhaps been formative. But when she had joined Anne, officially to see what they were up to, she and her grandfather already had plans, which had come to an unexpected fruition when their idiot leader had shown up outside the city gates with a group of ill-trained recruits in expensive clothing, and he had taken Anne's arrow as his long overdue reward for the deaths of her parents.
Arias considered how to frame that little fight, and decided to focus on the death of the children, and Thomas' ensuing bloodrage, having been positioned to protect them. That was not, of course, exactly how it had happened, but that was par for the course for this paperwork, which existed more to establish an official account, than to represent what had actually happened. What had actually happened. She glanced once more at the empty space where the esra had watched her from. Maybe she could work in the mental damage as well. Anne hadn't needed the excuse to kill Gray Guard working outside the safety of the city. Arias certainly hadn't.
Arias smiled a little bit, thinking of Thomas' intervention in the city; she had nearly screwed up, there. But she had already reported on that. She moved back in the report, rereading, to ensure she wouldn't contradicting herself in a way she didn't intend, always a risk with these reports; she had reported on Thomas' imprisonment, and his anger at having his meager finances taken. She wouldn't mention that again, she'd just let the readers notice that he was already angry with the Gray Guard, and wonder at her omission of that information later in the report. Some contradiction was expected, even among the Gray Wardens, but it was best if the contradictions supported her version of events, rather than undermining her words. Her thoughts, once on Thomas, turned once more to his transformation, and the smile slipped. She had liked him. Where had he encountered the goats? They shouldn't have been in that plane, they shouldn't have been in any plane; there was a mystery that definitely wouldn't make it into the report. Worse, somehow, he had inexplicably survived the experience.
It took an effort to try to concentrate again, her hand shaking as it held the report; Arias forced her fingers open again, forced herself to set the report down before she ripped it. They had told her that she'd become more ephemeral herself, the longer she spent among the ephemeral, and she was feeling it. She was feeling, at all, and it made it increasingly difficult. She shouldn't be feeling this way, she was incarnate. She had managed to do what needed doing. But she should have killed him the moment he had started speaking of the goats speaking truth - TRUTH - when she had realized something wasn't right with him, instead of waiting until she had needed to unleash her voice.
She started, at the warmth and wet on her cheek. Tears. Ephemeral indeed. Maybe she did need some quiet time, but three months seemed excessive. She was a Gray Warden. What she needed was a new assignment, something without people she'd grow attached to. But first she needed to finish this report, and make sure her competence shone through, so that maybe the three month order would be shortened into something more reasonable. Reasonable. She once more attempted to sort her thoughts, focusing on the next steps.
She would need to send somebody to have a talk with Norris and the self-styled Balier Mersin. The young prince-in-exile might be the bigger problem, between the two, but she suspected he knew enough to keep his mouth shut, particularly about the damned blathering goats. It wouldn't hurt to make sure. Now, the sequence of events. They had departed for the cave, officially looking for survivors, and unofficially following up a lead on where Jane had hidden after her escape; the need for secrecy there was now outdated.