The Artisans Pride XVI
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Twentieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
When he had joined the Citadel, Doran Sand had not quiet known what to expect. His father had made it sound like the greatest opportunity a bastard would ever get in life, but to him, then a boy of ten name days, it sounded more like punishment. The man was a trader after all, not a lord, so Doran had enjoyed the perks of wealth without having to endure the scrutiny the name Sand brought you in a lord's household. He would have rather preferred to spend his years drifting up and down the Torrentine with his father's barges then to waste away in a musty library sorting books all day. In retrospect, it was neither reward nor punishment, but just cleaning up a past transgression as the trueborn heir was starting to ask pointed questions about his older brother.
Luckily, the reality of the Citadel was somewhat more to Doran's liking. The people here trusted you to bring your own motivation to your studies as opposed to being tutors that hounded you every day and if you just happened to have none, they would largely ignore you. Certainly, you had to earn your keep in some way, but as long as you left a good impression with a few selected people, you could coast by on that alone. It even came with perks. Being an associated of the right Maester could make life a pleasant one in Oldtown, getting you everything from a mug of wine to a free tumble in the whorehouse if you just knew the right names to drop.
It was not all that different from how his father had done business. Know the right people and keep their memories of you fond. Doran had learned early on that a good handshake was important and the best ones came with a golden dragon in the palm. Here it was usually favours or more substantial things then money though. Sneak out a text from the more secure halls for an acolyte with a good name. Bring some herbs from the gardens to the nice lady at the Empty Flagon. Have a sudden spot of amnesia when the Archmaester asked about your whereabouts. Simple things. Easy things. The trick was just to know when to do them and for whom.
Recently though, things had changed. There was a tension in the Citadel, ever since the magic had returned to the world, but in recent months it was steadily mounting. People whispered between each other wherever you looked. The favours traded became ever more obscure and strange to those like him who had made a point to not entangle themselves too tightly with one group or another. Something was about to happen in the Citadel, that was clear to everyone there, but what exactly was much harder to pinpoint. And then came the day when the Faerys disappeared. News spread quickly in the Citadel that something had happened to the Court of Stars, though the details were sparse for those like him, and suddenly everything going on had gained a frantic edge to it.
Suddenly the Archmaesters began to meet daily, if not even more often, instead of mostly ignoring each other for weeks or months at a time. Lectures had been cancelled, as the maesters giving them were either busy with other tasks in the Citadel or gone on trips that nobody was willing to share any details about. Acolytes were sent on strange errands all across the Citadel and even the catacombs. Some had tried to stay out of whatever was happening, Doran among them, but that quickly became impossible. People expected you to have urgent business to attend and if you did not, then they would give you some, and for once there was no way to weasel out of this, especially not if you had some skill deemed in high demand.
Doran's ability to navigate the catacombs was among them. It was a well-honed skill that let him circumvent curfews, to sneak in a nap where nobody would bother him and occasionally to locate the odd things stored in dusty vaults. The last part was suddenly what he was doing the most, looking for this tome or that, checking up on the seals of certain rooms and leading around others working on the orders of the Archmaesters. It was unpleasant work they had him do, but he could hardly say "no" to their faces and all his friends and associates were in the same boat as him, meaning they could not help him out either.
Today at least, he could catch a break. For once, he was alone instead of having any tag-alongs. That was seen as having bad luck by the others when Archmaester Ebrose gave out the marching orders for the day, but they clearly were working on the insane assumption that Doran would actually be
doing something. All he was told to do was to patrol in the catacombs and report back in the evening, which meant he would just grab some light reading, bugger off to some dark corner with a small mage-light and then do precisely nothing. In the evening, he would then truthfully report that he saw nothing suspicious at all. He was rather grateful to whatever gaggle of easily spooked acolytes had begun the rumour that something was wandering around in the catacombs.
It was simply perfect. After two weeks of being run ragged, he would have some peace and quiet again, just because some people were hearing ghosts while traipsing around in the cellars, which was most likely just other groups of skittish acolytes. The old wine cellar he had picked for his retreat was sufficiently far out of the way that he did not have to worry about anyone coming there, neither intentionally nor by accident, and even if they did, they would never spot him inside one of the broken barrels. All that was left to do was to find the best place to settle down, and so he slowly wandered up and down the rows of ancient casks in the early hours of the day, shining his light into each of them and seeing where there were the least debris and dust in the way.
Quietly, he wondered why this place even existed. The Citadel hat no winery and this room was far away from the kitchens, who had their own modest wine cellars. Maybe some long dead Archmaester had it built for one experiment or another. There were many baffling and strange things buried under the Citadel which, if you bothered to ask around long enough, inevitably turned out to be the leftovers of someone with a mask living out their whims. Light footsteps echoed through the empty room and Doran nearly dropped the enchanted stone he used for a light.
He turned around, holding the mage-light up to illuminate a little bit more of the room, but nothing came into view. Only cobwebs and dust slowly drifting around, his own footprints clearly visible in the thick layer of grime and disuse coating the room. Was someone else here? The catacombs
were rather busy in the last weeks and for all he knew, someone had been running around in another chamber right above him. So, Doran lowered his arm again, feeling rather silly for jumping at shadows like all the others. The mirthful giggle of a young woman echoed through the chamber.
The book and pillow he had carried clattered to the ground, as his now free hand quickly went for the small amulet in his pocket. It was a plain thing of iron with four dull pearls, each set in an artless, but detailed carving. One was held in the tentacles of an octopus, the next by the teeth of a bared skull, the third rested in the hands of a winged creature and the last between the claws of a horned figure. He held it out from himself, eyes firmly set on the pearls, but nothing happened with them. He briefly tapped the amulet in confusion, as if that would fix whatever was wrong with it, but still, nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure darting from behind one row of casks to the opposite side, trailed by her flowing white dress and her own laughter.
Doran could not quite deny the fear in his gut, even though the amulets lack of a reaction had lessened it somewhat and left mostly confusion behind. He carefully looked around, affixing the small charm with its leather strap to his wrist. Had somebody from outside the Citadel wandered into this cellar? It would not be the first time, though they were rather far from the nearest access that he was aware of. "Hello? Who is there?" His voice echoed through the empty room and he felt rather silly the very moment he had said them. Again, footsteps sounded, this time right behind him and as he turned, he saw the hem of a black dress disappearing behind a barrel.
Quickly, he sprinted over, trying to catch a better a look of whoever was here with him, but as he walked through the gap in the row to peer into the next aisle, he saw nothing. The light emitting from the stone in his left hand did not reach nearly far enough to see everything clearly and as he peered into the darkness, a soft voice sounded right behind him. "Too slow.", the young woman said, loud and clear, yet as he whirled around, he only saw motes of dust behind him drifting through the still air.
Aimlessly, he took a few steps, shining his mage-light into nearby nooks and crannies. Two voice laughed again. A short glance at his wrist still showed nothing from the amulet, leaving Doran ever more confused. "Who are you?", he asked into the darkness and as no answer came, he quietly added "What are you?".
This time, an answer came. "Bored.", spoke a woman sitting on one of the barrels, barely at the edge of the mage-lights reach. Her hair and skin were white as fresh snow and she wore an elaborate dress that seemed black as pitch in the darkness of the cellar.
From the other side of the room, the same voice sounded. "Our father has given us so little time to enjoy ourselves." They had to be twins, for their features were exactly the same, but for one detail. The second woman, who lazily leaned on the far wall, had hair black as shadow and favoured a white dress that made her look like a spectre risen from the grave.
"Always work.", the first one continued, though as Doran turned his head she had disappeared from his perch, her voice now sounding from somewhere he could not see. "Work… work… work…", she spoke on. "No time at all for us to enjoy ourselves for once. You know the feeling, don't you?"
Were they fey? They looked and talked like Fey to Doran, but the amulet still was quiet. Maybe he had just let the fears of the acolytes get to him. This would not be the first children of some noble or merchant to wander the catacombs on a search for adventure, though that had always been boys in his experience. It would have been the first Fey to make it all the way into the Citadel without being invited though. "I can.", he replied truthfully at last, slowly letting the tension go from his back. "Haven't been doing much except work lately either."
"See, sister? Even the maesters are tired and want a break.", one voice sounded.
Immediately, the other replied from the other end of the room. "But his choice… is a book not just more work? You should be doing something different to relax yourself, not more of the same."
Meanwhile, Doran wandered the aisles again, looking for the source of the voices, but they were far more adept at sneaking then he was at finding them. "But it's not a book that is work… it's just some stories. Fun stories." The argument sounded weak even to his own ears. "I'm supposed to walk around the catacombs all day, so it was either that or work. Can't go to a tavern or something where someone might recognize me."
The two women giggled again and this time it sounded rather close to him. "Ah, but now you are no longer alone, are you? We promise we will not tell on you. Right, sister?"
"Of course not.", the voice sounded from right behind him, but when Doran turned this time, the woman was still there. It was the white haired one, who was calmly stepping closer without making a single sound. "Let us have some fun together, shall we?" He did not know what to think in that moment, but as he watched her face, her grin suddenly became wider and wider. Suddenly her mouth stretched from one ear to the other, revealing razor sharp teeth that slowly parted as she stretched her hand to him.
There was no thought in his mind as he turned and ran, his startled scream being swallowed by the darkness. He just needed to get to the door. Just leave this room and these things behind. Yet as he ran, a cloud of smoke and dust rose before him, coalescing into the shape of the black-haired woman. "You were too early sister. We could have drawn this out so much longer." She rose her hand, idly flicking the foot-long claws that had replaced her fingers.
Doran nearly lost his footing as he stopped, then dove in between two casks into the next aisle. It did not help. "But just look at him!", the other said and she was close. Far too close. Something hit him in the side, feeling as if a mule had kicked him. The mage-light fell from his fingers as he tumbled over the grimy floor, landing in a pile of junk and debris. Doran wheezed, desperately sucking air into his chest. "He is
adorable. And we can still draw this out, or has mother taught us nothing?"
"You are not wrong, sister.", the answer came out of thin air. Doran did not listen though. He needed the mage-light back. His whole body hurt. He could not stand. Yet still, he threw his arm out and slowly dragged himself to the weak shine of light. But then the white-robed woman was next to the pile, again appearing from smoke and air and picking up the small, enchanted pebble. "But are you sure he will let us?", she spoke, and as if to punctuate her sentence, her fingers clenched around the rock. It splintered like glass an shot out a few feeble sparks that died nearly instantly. The room was dark.
AN: This was running a bit long, so I'll make a cut here.
