A limbless torso lay upon a stone platform, splayed open and riddled with hooks. At the mercy of the bleary man who sliced and prodded at it, engrossed in his work with no foreseeable end, its flesh softened, oozed, and tore away from bone as his research once again fell fruitless to decay. From many such experiments prior, an amalgam of fluids both bodily and alchemical stained the raised structure and the surrounding floor, their trickle forever frozen in time, soaked into the porous stone. Scattered all around were surgical tools, stained from their current use, but otherwise in exceptional condition.
A presence perturbed the air, but he kept to his work. The cellar’s hatch slammed shut, and a familiar, feeble gait echoed from the cavernous walls.
“Jovar,” he addressed the newcomer, sparing neither a glance nor a twitch in his direction, “Just who I needed to speak with.”
“Greetings, Lord Maestus,” Jovar said, shuffling further into the room, “Your shipment is well on its way. It’s just made it through Oakenvale pass, I believe.”
“Excellent,” said Maestus, his voice deep and melodic. “But my concern lies elsewhere.”
“Wherein, my lord?”
“Your family name. You’ve neglected to mention it before.”
“My lord…” The Dronvar’s voice strained as he ran his fingers over his slicked-back hair, which fell forward in clumps formed by the sweat of his palm. Maestus’ scalpel gave an unnerving clink on the hard stone, despite how gently he had set it down.
“Jo-var Salan-val,” Maestus intoned. A smirk tugged at his parched, pale lips as he turned to face his subordinate. The Nelthrin’s white, sagging face appeared sickly against his dark robes and tired, purple eyebags. He kept himself well groomed on a regular basis, thus it became clear to Jovar that he had been working without rest for quite some time. “Rumor says your family has right to an heirloom. Descendants of Girin, they say.”
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“Well–” Jovar choked, clearing his throat before he continued, "Not quite. It's never been proven that the Salanval family shares any blood with Girin.”
"It is safer to say it's never been disproven. The evidence aligns, does it not? Not to mention how befitting it is that the paragon of your people would be afflicted with the same thoughtless, self-serving recklessness as your creational father. After all, why wouldn't someone of his status produce a bastard son? But that is aside from the point. Gossip is for the lowly – and despite my presumptions, it seems you may not be in that category after all. This is an opportunity to find out."
“Maybe so, my lord, but in any case, I’ve been excommunicated. I’ve no right to any position, nor any piece of Charox-Val, whether or not it is recoverable.” Goosebumps formed on Jovar’s spindly arms, and his robes clung to his skin in the thick, heavy dampness.
“Nonsense,” Maestus said, scratching at his unmanaged stubble. “Exiled or not, it is your birthright – all the more reason you should be the one to find out whether it is recoverable. Should you lay your hands upon it first, who could oppose you?”
Jovar lowered his head, ruminating on the possibilities. Perhaps Maestus was right – after all, he’d never led him astray.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start looking,” he said, his eyelids fluttering as he spoke. Most Dronvar were graced with a sharp, calculating gaze, but his eyes proved no more captivating than unpolished rubies.
“And I would not expect that you do.” Maestus grabbed a rag to wipe the blood and sweat from his hands and forehead. “But I’m sure I can help you.”
“If that is the case, then I suppose there is no harm in trying. Is there anything I should do to begin?”
“Not for the time being. As it happens, I’m to meet with an old friend in a few weeks’ time. He may have some insight. All I ask is that you see to the progress of my shipment.”
Jovar nodded, his gaze wandering to the hapless pile of flesh upon the platform.
“Very well, my lord.”