A pair of Solars upon the Dreaming Sea take their chances with the fae at the edge of Creation.
Tales of the Wyld-Dark Sea (Exalted)
- Thread starter Kaiya
- Start date
- Fantasy
- Created
- Status
- Ongoing
- Watchers
- 35
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 18
-
Statistics (18 threadmarks, 70k words)
User Total Kaiya 18
Wyld Dark Sea Chapter 1
Hello! This is the first session of the Exalted game I run for @emeralis00, @Maugan Ra, and, later on in the game, @Omicron. We post it on AO3 as a narrative, but it doesn't get many views and almost no comments over there, so I thought to myself, why not try posting it here? If you like it and wanna see more on SV, do say something! You're also likely to be able to get direct responses from us about it here, too, if you end up enjoying it.
**
The trip down the coast of the Dreaming Sea has been only somewhat eventful thus far, always a sign of good fortune when it comes to the area. A notable absence of fae pirates and sea monsters alike on the mercifully short trip. The further away from Prasad's sphere of influence they got, as well, the more enthusiastic the greetings tended to be, and the more interested the locals seemed to be in the tools and goods for sale. No shortage of food available in trade against proper iron and steel tools, the latter of which seems especially in short supply.
Their last stop, somewhat tellingly, was very interested in purchasing any weapons, or tools which could be easily used as weapons, of pure iron make, and cautioned them against sailing much further along the coast. The next place of port, they were warned, is the port of Mankya Prava, seat of the Earl of Pravance, who serves the Raksha lord known as Uke. The mad sorcerers of Ysyr trade regularly there, but few others dare to do so.
The lighthouse overlooking Mankya Prava has just become visible over the horizon to anyone looking towards it. Their journey is nearly complete.
Juran Heartsong is an unremarkable looking man. He is neither fair nor ugly in countenance, neither strong in body nor ravaged by lack. If you passed him on the streets of Kalmathar you would think him a successful merchant, with bejeweled rings on his fingers and fine perfume on his skin, but you would not think more of him than that. Yet as he walks the decks of the Maiden Voyage , his steps sure and his hair rippling in the warm wind, every eye aboard turns to follow him as he goes.
"Steady now, my friends," he calls out, with a calm confidence he must as captain display, "let us greet our new hosts without trembling!"
He is nervous. Of course he is nervous - the city ahead languishes beneath the reign of the Raksha, frightful monsters that feed on dreams, and no amount of sacred oaths can make a man feel truly secure in the face of such peril. Yet it is one thing to feel fear, and quite another to show it. The crew need him to be fearless, to be confident, to let them know they will all be coming back alive.
Butterfly had mostly stuck to her corner of the boat, sharing the space with Aleu. Since meeting up with Juran, she had assisted by repairing and making all manner of tools on the way down. Each one bore the mark of her name, and were near-masterworks for all that they were rush jobs to make ends meet. Still, she had felt too cooped up, and though her companion, Aleu, the childish spirit of tar and prophecy immaterial for the moment, was content to mutter prophecies to herself, reading signs in the flocks of birds as they flew ahead, or schools of fish swimming past, she needed the air.
She walked up to the top deck, letting the sunlight glisten on her patterned and bronze flesh, only rivaled by the light from her castemark on her forehead. She was letting it glow, heralding what she was to everyone, and especially to the ones who would be their hosts very soon.
The towering figure of Five Lightning stands a bit beside Juran, watching the lighthouse grow ever closer, a wary tension in her stance, but taking her cues from the one she is sworn to defend. A pair of iron tulwars are slung over her back, her fine steel plate armor exchanged for iron chain under a firm iron breastplate, a precaution against fae enchantments. The storm-blooded woman rarely shows tension, but the fae unnerve everyone.
But then, the fae rarely must contend with a demon-king, and that gives Juran's retinue comfort.
"Not long now, sir," she comments, glancing at Juran, and giving a polite nod of wary respect to Butterfly, "Lady. We'll be at the lion's den soon enough. Hope you've got your magic by you," her latter comment is directed obviously more to Butterfly, who the crew has shown increasing deference to the last couple days, as they grow nearer and nearer to the lands of the fae.
A demon sorceress is an unnerving thing to share a ship with, until something even scarier approaches. The whispers that ever follow her have even become appreciative, in this last day or two.
What monster would dare act against those protected by the Solar Anathema of old?
Butterfly smiled back what she hoped was a pleasant expression, "The crew is under my protection, as well as that of Juran, but I trust his words even more, and I am confident it won't come to such things."
"Mm. Though we must hope that they do not take the sight of so much iron amiss," Juran comments with a wry smile. "Still, given the alternative, we shall call it the lesser of two evils."
"Too right," Five Lightning harrumphs, "The leopard doesn't get to begrudge the hunter her spear."
The crew go about their jobs, and as the ship moves closer, the docks of Mankya Prava become visible, as does the city beyond it. The port town seems fairly prosperous, multiple large warehouses sit near the docks, and a number of mortal workers go about their business, overseen by lanky, silver-skinned fae creatures who bark commands every so often. Most buildings they can see are wooden structures, though the lighthouse itself is stone.
The docks themselves, however, are oddly empty for a port city, only a few merchant vessels are currently birthed, compared to the number of small, slim pleasure vessels who almost seem to shimmer in the sunlight. The Maiden Voyage is waved over to a particular dock where a number of dockworkers wait to help pull the ship into place, and overlooking them is a tall, lovely man in what seems to be steel plate armor, a risky thing to wear around so much water.
As the ship is pulled in and tied to berth, Juran has time to notice that many of the workers elsewhere on the docks seem to be carrying heavy loads back and forth between the larger warehouses. Only rarely do any put something on a wagon heading into town, or unload something from one of the docked vessels, compared to carrying a load to a warehouse, placing it down, picking it up, and carrying it back.
The docks are a bustle of activity, but much of it seems to be of no purpose.
"With me, my friends," Juran murmurs, cracking his neck as the ship slides into the harbour, his crew leaping to their duties with practiced skill, "Best foot forwards."
The gangplank is lowered and Juran Heartsong descends, a wide smile on his face and his hands spread wide as though to embrace the new opportunities before him.
And there, on his forehead, the gleaming symbol of the Eclipse emerges, a glimmer of red and gold to mark his station
Aleu bubbled up at Butterfly's heels as the Twilight followed Juran. The prismatic shards of her armor re-asserted her outwardly human disguise, a young child with dark skin and frizzy hair, smiling widely, but for a brief moment she appeared as a humanoid of tar.
Butterfly gave her a pat on the head, ignoring any of the glances the crew may have sent their way.
As Juran's Caste Mark lights up, the expression of the armored man, one of apparent joy and relief, briefly flickers into alarm and discomfort. It is a subtle thing, he must be an extremely practiced liar, or perhaps a very skilled actor, but Juran can tell that while his presence at all was not a surprise, his nature as one of the Eclipse Caste was quite alarming.
((Result of Mastery of Small Manners
You can immediately tell that the vibe of respect and deference is important. Actual respect is immaterial, but you can see in how the workers around the armored man subtly cower, how no one dares lift their eyes, how the man's own posture, as he moves to greet you, is that of someone apparently genuinely at joy to meet you.
The way you project your emotions, here, is how you indicate what you want their reaction to be. The armored man wants this to be a pleasant interaction with someone who is here to help their gracious host.
You could very easily suggest to him that you desire a different form of interaction, and he would happily indulge your preference. Take care that you do not indicate that Five Lightning's opinion matters to you, around this man, or her own weaknesses in matters of deception might give a mixed message.))
"We greet you," the armored man says, as if the flicker did not happen, his voice rich and his arms spread wide in welcome, "Our friends upon the winds told us that a vessel, rich with cargo and helmed by one with divine blood was on its way. I am Reeve Marxom of Pravance, Revee of the Earl of Pravance, his lordship Djarl Redsabre, Slayer of Three Dragons. Your goods and presence be welcome in our city."
He bows, but his eyes do not leave your faces, as he glances over each of you in turn, watching for your reactions.
"Your welcome is heartening, your hospitality appreciated," Juran says easily, his smile warm and genuine. "I am Juran Heartsong, owner and master of the Maiden Voyage ."
A slight stress on the words there - this is his ship, his crew, his cargo. Look to him for your cues, approach him for any dealings. And, of course, do not lay hand upon those under his banner.
"It is my desire to speak with your lordship Djarl Resabre, for we have heard many stories of his person and his lands from far across the waves," he continues after a moment, "That we might establish firm ties of mutual respect and, perhaps in time, even friendship."
Butterfly tilted her head in the raksha's direction, though hanging back a little. Her eyes were largely on the designs of the buildings, and the other ships in the docks.
Marxom smiles, a pretty and empty expression compared to the warmth behind Juran's, but only the presence of the real thing reveals the false warmth of the smile.
"That is good," Marxom says, relaxing a fraction and clearly (to Juran) glad that the encounter continues on script, "As my lordship hoped to speak to you. It has been some time since we entertained guests not of Honored Ysyr, and few dare voyage this far south these days. Your daring speaks well of you, as do your manners."
Honest approval, in the fae, and it does seem likely that they speak to a true Raksha now, Juran's words clearly settle some concern.
"And, of course, it has been even longer since any of Heaven's Voices have deigned to speak to us," and there is a slight edge to the appended statement, the smile becomes just a bit sharper.
"Such is why I have come," Juran replies, his dark eyes seeming to shine with enthusiasm. This is a hollow thing he deals with - where in other men he might need to see the truth behind the mask, here the mask is all there is. "To seize the opportunities none else dare to."
Behind the Raksha's pleasant mask is a lingering bitterness. Juran is not the only Solar they have been dealing with, diplomatically, and this Raksha was personally deeply insulted either by someone like Juran, or an agent of theirs. The role the Raksha plays demands it have pride, and pride it holds in abundance. It was a true error to let Juran see the ill-intent it holds for another, but the inability to correct the insult gnaws away at it.
"Courage wins many rewards," the Raksha smiles, as though the seething venom within it had never shown its face, "And we have much to offer those who dare. My lord, I am sure, will have much use for whatever goods you bring, and much to trade in turn. It is for this reason I was sent to greet you, and hope that you will allow me to direct you to him without delay."
This time, the edge in the statement is deliberate, a pointed, telegraphed thing that even a child could not miss. It will be taken as an insult if Juran delays, a statement that he does not wish to play with gloves on, and pride offended will demand redress.
Five Lightning tenses beside Juran, but does not otherwise react, unwilling to jeopardize the dangerous game her master plays.
"Ah, it is good to hear such words. Of course, the wise man pairs courage with courtesy," Juran says, nodding smoothly before stepping sideways and indicating his companion, "My companion is an artificer of no small skill - please, allow us to present you with a token of our appreciation, in gratitude for your consideration."
Butterfly smiled, pleased, and reached into her robes. She pulled out the cormorant statuette, "it holds a delightful secret for an audience."
She crafted the statuette carefully, over a miniature forge she had made, to prevent the boat from burning down. It was hollow, a framework of silver wire holding glass beads and panes of bronze over complex clockwork. She had spent most of the trip working on it. There was no magic to it, but if set into the wind just right...
The first time she had brought it out into the light, and set it upon the prow of the ship, the wings of the heron had spread, the wind resonated in its metal breast to give it a proud call.
The Raksha accepted the gift, the smile becoming a touch more real as he takes it, genuinely admiring the statuette's beauty. For all that it lacks in humanity, art clearly says something to Marxom.
"This is indeed a fine gift," he says appreciatively, his attention at last torn from them and placed entirely on the work of art in his hands, "I shall treasure it," and his smile widens, becoming a touch fierce, "A gift from an Exalted artisan is a rare treasure indeed. I do not think even our Beloved Queen can boast to hold such..."
He looks back to Butterfly, and she finds herself staring into empty, hungry eyes.
"I shall be certain to return your kindness someday," he says, and there is a sense of truth in his words that she recognizes to be something mystical. If there was any doubt that he was Raksha, the echo of the magic in his statement as he acknowledges a debt between them puts it to rest.
((GM notes on a very successful roll
All three crafting reward goals are met. You didn't have a way to know this, but Marxom is rarely acknowledged. This gift would have gotten you a positive intimacy if you'd saved it for the Earl, but Marxom never gets acknowledged like this. You don't get him as an Ally, not from that alone, but there is a debt between you, now, equal to an Inconvenient Task.
So that hits the equivalent of a monetary payment, I feel.))
"Truly?" Juran says, for all that his heart skips a beat at the terminology. Exalted... was he right in his beliefs? Was his station equal to that of the Dragon Caste? Ah, no, one thing at a time. "It would seem a common courtesy, yet your manner tells me that others of... our kind... are tragically bereft of such."
He sighs, a touch theatrically. "Well, we must not keep your lord waiting - but perhaps while we journey there, you might tell us of such past encounters? I should hate to be taken for a lout by mere association."
"I am glad you appreciate my work so," she said quietly.
"Only a fool would not," he says firmly to Butterfly, before gesturing that they follow and turning his attention to Juran's question.
"I suppose you have not much memories of the golden years," he guesses as they walk down the peer, "Your sort have been asleep for quite some time. It would certainly explain your uncommon courtesy. The Solar Exalted rarely deign politeness to their inferiors, and famously consider all the worlds such," again that subtle edge to his expression, an insult that normally would never be shown without deliberate intent, "An arrogance inherited by their usurpers."
"The sorcerers who- employed me failed to recognize my own brilliance, simply because of the exotic nature of my skin," she snorted, "what does it matter what I look like, if I can create wonders such as have not been seen for a thousand years. No, I appreciate your words, friend. Far too many think that because they look down they are somehow superior, not realizing it is because they are standing upon someone else's back."
Marxom laughs at that.
"You must be of Ysyr then," he smiles, "To be so familiar with unthinking arrogance. Exile becomes you. Clearly, your Sun agrees."
"I am. You mentioned they visit? Do you know how often they do?" It might be best to not mention further details about her history with them.
"We usually have at least one Ysyri sorcerer about," Marxom replies, "Present company excluded. I know one attends court with the Queen as of three days ago, I do not know if they have left since then. They are by far our biggest trade partners, for better or worse. Frankly, they could stand to learn courtesy from their employees, so poorly they comprehend it themselves."
"You knew the Solars of old?" Juran enquires, intrigued despite himself, "Rare company indeed. I myself know them only as an inheritor - their triumphs and their failings have both done much to shape the world I know."
Better to distance himself from those golden tyrants of old, it seems.
"In some form or another, and only at great distance, but yes," Marxom nods at Juran's question, "Though things were quite different back then. We rarely met with them on matters of trade. Far more often they came upon storms of annihilating sunlight, to bleach the color from our lands and make pretty things of our corpses. They guarded this world jealously, and resented our existence. On the occasions we had something they could not simply take, they would come to negotiate, but always with arrogance, always with weapon in hand. But, what could we do? Even Holy Balor could not have bested the greatest among them."
A performatively melancholy sigh, as the Raksha dwells on dark days past.
Holy Balor? The thought of the Raksha having religion is... well, at least it seems as performative as everything else. Yet perhaps that is enough, for a hollow creature such as this. Perplexing, and so very dangerous.
Juran says none of this, of course. Perhaps in time, with his footing established and his place here secure, he might... but for now, smalltalk will suffice.
And the small talk continues, idly and pleasantly and of things less substantial, as they pass through the port town. The streets are pleasantly cobbled, and the air smells often of fresh-baked bread or of cooking meats, there are vendors offering food, here and there, and many people walking to and fro. It is a pleasant image of a bustling city, but obvious in the ways in which it is false. There is none of the foul smells of many humans living in close proximity, or of horses which must be led through the streets, carrying carts of goods. The vendors are there, offering food, but no one ever stops to purchase from them, and there don't seem to be enough people to support how many vendors there are, either.
There are many buildings, but they rarely show signs of being lived in. Many shops, but nothing in the way of customers. A city built and maintained, but without the humans and animals it would be built to serve there to distract from the pleasant image presented.
Butterfly looked around with a frown, unsure of how to deal with the... hollow nature of the city. If they were going to settle in these lands, maybe she should request to build a private compound, if only to not need to see this every day.
Such a strange facade...
Juran keeps his thoughts and feelings from his face, as any professional merchant should, but inside he cannot help but wonder. What is it like for the people here, knowing that their lives are a performance, that they are playing roles in a flawed imitation of what their lives should be like?
As Juran looks around, his enhanced intuition shows him the collective image the mortal population of the city paints.
They are all, to a man, terrified. Not a single one of them is not fearful and exhausted. They are actors in a play that never ends, for an audience who will eat them should they miss a step or forget a line. They want nothing from each other save not to falter and draw attention from the monsters surrounding them. The goblins who wait in shadows, the strange birdlike creatures upon the roofs, the rare fairy knight like Marxom, they are at all times watched, and there is no break for the audience to get up and stretch their legs and allow the actors a moment to breath.
And as Juran digests this, he catches a glimpse of Marxom's own feelings, on this city and those within it. It is something he's seen before, in a merchant watching their vessel unloaded, in a farmer, looking over the fatness of his pigs, and being assured of their quality, of a baker withdrawing bread from an oven, and inhaling the pleasant scent of their labors.
All is as it should be, and the perpetual fear and stress of those who playact at life comforts the Raksha for whom they perform.
...hm
It is... he would be lying if he said it were surprising. This is how the Fae work, he knows this. He knew there would be compromises in coming here and yet, and yet...
They continue their walk, and eventually come to a paved hill, upon which has been placed a castle of ancient Shogunate design, as if someone carved the home of a Lookshyan lord from the East and carried it to be dropped on this hill ten thousand miles away. There are no other hills nearby, either this one was artificially constructed, or the others all leveled to build their pretend city. The castle is mostly wooden, with many floors rising and thinning to eventually form a tower, the roof edged in a patina of gold, the walls painted white to the deep black of the roof sections. A small stone wall encircles the hill, and the one-eyed head of some great fae beast rises above the wall where it patrols the perimeter. Two fae knights stand at the open gate, and bow briefly as they approach.
Butterfly perked up, and she squinted her eyes to take in as much of the castle construction she could. Trying to get a sense of its strength and quality.
As she surveys it, the mystical side of her intuition, which has only grown since Exalting, notices the strange perfection of the structure. The wood is too smooth, the structure too perfectly even. It is not a wooden castle, constructed of trees cut into boards and nailed into place. It was carved as an entire piece, more like turning a marble block into a statue, but done on the scale of carving a castle out of dreams and chaos. No mere catapult would be enough to tear it down, and no mortal flame would see it consumed.
"An impressive castle," she noted audibly, "it need not fear the strength of a siege engine's throwing arm."
"As the Cyclops Legion of Her Ladyship the Duchess Fantastical learned to their great dismay," Marxom says smugly, as they pass through the gates and walk up the path to the castle itself. Greenery surrounds them, various species of tree and bush that grow from spots all across Creation, planted eclectically and without regard for its native soil, flourishing presumably more by fae magic than the hands of any mortal gardener.
Juran makes note of the name, but does not speak. He's preparing himself for the meeting with the Earl of Pravance.
A Duchess would normally indicate a greater title of more responsibility, yet for all he knows the Duchess Fantastical merely picked the title for how it felt to say.
"A neighbor?" Butterfly asked, "I am unfamiliar with these lands. My dealings have been further north."
"More of a rival," Marxom shakes his head, "Or perhaps a dear friend. Our Earl once served the Duchess and no other, and she took the moving of his allegiance to our beloved Duke rather personally. She still occasionally goes to war over it."
He says this as if a war being waged were gossip worthy, but not alarming, and with the amusement of an underling revealing the foibles of their betters.
Butterfly tapped her chin, "an impressive display of desire, not many can claim in this Age to have stirred the armies of a country for scorn."
"I can think of a few," Juran murmurs thoughtfully, a reflective smile on his face, "Though to go to war more than once for the same reason is exceptional indeed. One assumes the Duchess planned on a singular triumph, only to be frustrated by a worthier target than she supposed."
"It is certainly possible," Marxom allows, in the tone of one who suspects the answer is different, as they near the great wooden doors of the castle itself, only for them to swing open slowly at their approach, "But, truthfully, she is quite vain, and has the cyclopes wrapped around her finger. War costs her little enough, and sometimes I suspect she attacks for boredom's sake alone."
Their guide falls silent once they enter, and indicates by his pointed silence that they should speak of it no more while within the walls. The interior of the castle is well lit by glowing stones embedded in the walls, amber light cast through them from some unknown source, and the floor is smooth black stone. Archaic paintings of ancient conflicts hang here and there from the wall, while marble statues of fae warriors seem to stare at them as they walk past. Occasionally, they see gossamer tapestries which show the events depicted as if the cloth were alive. Dozens of monstrous beasts throwing stones which bounce off the castle, and the storm of arrows loosed in return, knights clashing in duels while goblins tear each other apart on the battlefield, and other such boastful retellings of past events.
This at least is familiar - more than once Juran has secured a favorable deal with a representative of some great Clan by flattering their ancestors in the process.
Idly he wonders what Five Lightning thinks of the similarities - she is Clan Akatha, after all. He will need to ask her, when they are somewhere it is safe to talk.
Five Lightning has maintained a dutiful silence for their trip, not trusting her tongue to not offend the monster they follow. She is skilled with her blades, and confident of her value in a fight, but amongst the fae she knows that her role is insurance against the worst-case scenario, and has no desire to hasten the breakout of violence.
Butterfly's grip on Aleu's hand tightened, as she grew just a little bit nervous in here. She was without her bow, hidden away as it was due to its value. Her mind raced, but nothing came to mind to solve the problem of keeping it close by easily.
Aleu patted her on the hand, reassuringly, her voice quiet yet high pitched, "the seagulls did not say there were problems tonight."
They come into a large, mostly empty hall, dominated by a single great throne in the center, carved of marble and cushioned in gossamer. All around, faery knights stand watch, their presence a constant deference to the great knight who rises now from the throne to greet them.
He towers half a head over even the quite-tall Marxom, his armor is a metallic, faded pink of unknown alloy compared to the shining steel Marxom wears. A great bladed spear rests by his throne, but the knight does not pick it up as he nods to the newcomers.
Marxom steps forward, walking halfway between Juran and Butterfly and the great knight, and begins to speak.
"It is my great honor to introduce to you Djarl Redsaber, Earl of Pravance, Slayer of Three Dragons, and, my Earl, it is my honor to introduce to you our guests, one of the esteemed Copper Spiders and one of Heaven's Voices, awoken now from ancient slumber, and their divine attendant, whose names they have not yet honored me with."
The Earl takes a moment to digest that, his expression hidden by the pink helm covering his face. The hesitation, coupled with Juran's earlier observations of Marxom, are telling. He did not expect Exalts, and no messenger made it here to warn him ahead of you.
Juran does not let his expression betray his thoughts, but he admits to a flicker of amusement.
"It is our honour to stand before you, Earl Redsaber," he says, stepping forwards and bowing low, a sign of respect before the assembled, "And to have been received with such grace by your loyal Reeve."
He was expecting them, but not their nature, an interesting omission in the reports of whatever spies he had watching them. Very well, then; the circumstances have changed, but does the Earl change with them, or try to force things back into the path he prefers?
He could play along, of course, but that is a danger all of its own - to let one's host set every detail of a meeting is to place yourself in their power, in this case perhaps literally.
"Yes, of course," the Earl's voice booms, even as a murmur, deep and rich and resonant, and in his town Juran can almost see the thoughtful frown, "And I, in turn, am honored that not one, but two of the Solar Exalted would honor my lands with their presence. You must have traveled from quite far to visit our little town."
The modesty is false, nakedly so. Pride echoes in the voice, pride of the town, of the docks, of the Raksha who serve him, of the mortals who live in terror. There is nothing he holds that the Earl does not take pride in, for the simple matter of it being the Earl who owns it. There is nothing this being could do to conceal that fact.
In his voice, though, there is the ring of truth . It echoes out, into the minds of Juran and Five Lightning and Incandescent Butterfly. If they are not Solars, if they have not traveled far, they must speak up, and correct the falsehood.
"Merely from Prasad, noble Earl, where I found the company quite lacking," Juran says with a self-effacing laugh. All present can infer easily enough why he might not wish to remain in a land ruled by Immaculates. "In hopes of more pleasant neighbours, I voyaged across the sea to your fair domain, with all resources and skills at my command."
He clasps his hands and bows again, as one does before presenting the heart of the matter. "It is my heartfelt desire to make for myself and my people a home here, and to repay the generosity and honour of our host in such ways as my skills and nature may permit."
No mere trader he, here for a day and then gone again. No, his ambitions stretch rather further.
Five Lightning feels the echo of truth, but her jaw stays clenched. A damned week at sea, and in the company of demons, that was her trip, and there is no lie to be ripped from her souls. She glares at the Raksha for the overt enchantment, but does not otherwise speak.
Butterfly considers her home, and how far away from it she was. So very far... no lie, only homesickness.
"I'm not a Solar!" Piped up Aleu with a wave of her hand.
"I see," the Earl muses resonantly, only a flicker of a glance at Aleu, not surprised at all to see the slaves of the Yozi made slaves of the Solars, "Then we are honored indeed, to be central to such ambitions. Long have we wondered of your kinds' return, and here you answer the role we must play. Well, young Prince, I can certainly play my part. The part of the one who tells you who must die, if you are to have a place here. The one who tells you what grand rewards can be yours, if your aid falls upon my house. The one who warns you of those most treacherous, whom you may not heed and whom you would surely regret ignoring. This is a fine role to have, in such unfolding circumstances."
The growing smile is clear, even hidden behind the faceless helm, as the Earl continues.
"But, before we speak of such things, I think it is tradition to honor esteemed guests with a feast, and to speak then over meat and wine. We shall even have mortal food, that you need fear no trickery, this I promise."
The truth of the vow echoes, as does the strength of the offering. To break bread with a monster, and gain a certain ally, or reject him, and seek another with no understanding of the surrounding lands, and a new enemy surely gained?
"It is tradition that binds all men and spirits together," Juran Heartsong says approvingly, "And so if it is tradition that we feast, then I should be pleased to accept a place at your table, and there discuss the role we might each play in what is to come."
He presses a hand to his chest, and his voice takes on a powerful timber. "Men have named me Heartsong, and such shall be my role. That which the mighty desire, I may learn. That which they seek, I may provide. That which they require, I may bind through pact and oath. Such skills and more shall I place before my allies, and set against my foes."
He smiles, a shining halo of light gathering around him. "Now! Let us feast, and embrace as friends!"
Butterfly tilted her head in Juran's direction, hand hidden in a sleeve quietly tapping her next gift. She wondered when Juran would indicate the time would be right to share it. This sort of thing went over her head.
There is a moment in which the Earl is silent and still, a moment which passes so quickly it might never have been, the mere shadow of hesitation, before his arms open wide and he laughs a grand, booming laugh.
"Yes! Let us, indeed!" and he steps forward, pulling Juran into a tight, metallic embrace, to Five Lightning's near panic, before releasing him and striding firmly towards the east exit from the throne room, indicating for them to follow.
**
The trip down the coast of the Dreaming Sea has been only somewhat eventful thus far, always a sign of good fortune when it comes to the area. A notable absence of fae pirates and sea monsters alike on the mercifully short trip. The further away from Prasad's sphere of influence they got, as well, the more enthusiastic the greetings tended to be, and the more interested the locals seemed to be in the tools and goods for sale. No shortage of food available in trade against proper iron and steel tools, the latter of which seems especially in short supply.
Their last stop, somewhat tellingly, was very interested in purchasing any weapons, or tools which could be easily used as weapons, of pure iron make, and cautioned them against sailing much further along the coast. The next place of port, they were warned, is the port of Mankya Prava, seat of the Earl of Pravance, who serves the Raksha lord known as Uke. The mad sorcerers of Ysyr trade regularly there, but few others dare to do so.
The lighthouse overlooking Mankya Prava has just become visible over the horizon to anyone looking towards it. Their journey is nearly complete.
Juran Heartsong is an unremarkable looking man. He is neither fair nor ugly in countenance, neither strong in body nor ravaged by lack. If you passed him on the streets of Kalmathar you would think him a successful merchant, with bejeweled rings on his fingers and fine perfume on his skin, but you would not think more of him than that. Yet as he walks the decks of the Maiden Voyage , his steps sure and his hair rippling in the warm wind, every eye aboard turns to follow him as he goes.
"Steady now, my friends," he calls out, with a calm confidence he must as captain display, "let us greet our new hosts without trembling!"
He is nervous. Of course he is nervous - the city ahead languishes beneath the reign of the Raksha, frightful monsters that feed on dreams, and no amount of sacred oaths can make a man feel truly secure in the face of such peril. Yet it is one thing to feel fear, and quite another to show it. The crew need him to be fearless, to be confident, to let them know they will all be coming back alive.
Butterfly had mostly stuck to her corner of the boat, sharing the space with Aleu. Since meeting up with Juran, she had assisted by repairing and making all manner of tools on the way down. Each one bore the mark of her name, and were near-masterworks for all that they were rush jobs to make ends meet. Still, she had felt too cooped up, and though her companion, Aleu, the childish spirit of tar and prophecy immaterial for the moment, was content to mutter prophecies to herself, reading signs in the flocks of birds as they flew ahead, or schools of fish swimming past, she needed the air.
She walked up to the top deck, letting the sunlight glisten on her patterned and bronze flesh, only rivaled by the light from her castemark on her forehead. She was letting it glow, heralding what she was to everyone, and especially to the ones who would be their hosts very soon.
The towering figure of Five Lightning stands a bit beside Juran, watching the lighthouse grow ever closer, a wary tension in her stance, but taking her cues from the one she is sworn to defend. A pair of iron tulwars are slung over her back, her fine steel plate armor exchanged for iron chain under a firm iron breastplate, a precaution against fae enchantments. The storm-blooded woman rarely shows tension, but the fae unnerve everyone.
But then, the fae rarely must contend with a demon-king, and that gives Juran's retinue comfort.
"Not long now, sir," she comments, glancing at Juran, and giving a polite nod of wary respect to Butterfly, "Lady. We'll be at the lion's den soon enough. Hope you've got your magic by you," her latter comment is directed obviously more to Butterfly, who the crew has shown increasing deference to the last couple days, as they grow nearer and nearer to the lands of the fae.
A demon sorceress is an unnerving thing to share a ship with, until something even scarier approaches. The whispers that ever follow her have even become appreciative, in this last day or two.
What monster would dare act against those protected by the Solar Anathema of old?
Butterfly smiled back what she hoped was a pleasant expression, "The crew is under my protection, as well as that of Juran, but I trust his words even more, and I am confident it won't come to such things."
"Mm. Though we must hope that they do not take the sight of so much iron amiss," Juran comments with a wry smile. "Still, given the alternative, we shall call it the lesser of two evils."
"Too right," Five Lightning harrumphs, "The leopard doesn't get to begrudge the hunter her spear."
The crew go about their jobs, and as the ship moves closer, the docks of Mankya Prava become visible, as does the city beyond it. The port town seems fairly prosperous, multiple large warehouses sit near the docks, and a number of mortal workers go about their business, overseen by lanky, silver-skinned fae creatures who bark commands every so often. Most buildings they can see are wooden structures, though the lighthouse itself is stone.
The docks themselves, however, are oddly empty for a port city, only a few merchant vessels are currently birthed, compared to the number of small, slim pleasure vessels who almost seem to shimmer in the sunlight. The Maiden Voyage is waved over to a particular dock where a number of dockworkers wait to help pull the ship into place, and overlooking them is a tall, lovely man in what seems to be steel plate armor, a risky thing to wear around so much water.
As the ship is pulled in and tied to berth, Juran has time to notice that many of the workers elsewhere on the docks seem to be carrying heavy loads back and forth between the larger warehouses. Only rarely do any put something on a wagon heading into town, or unload something from one of the docked vessels, compared to carrying a load to a warehouse, placing it down, picking it up, and carrying it back.
The docks are a bustle of activity, but much of it seems to be of no purpose.
"With me, my friends," Juran murmurs, cracking his neck as the ship slides into the harbour, his crew leaping to their duties with practiced skill, "Best foot forwards."
The gangplank is lowered and Juran Heartsong descends, a wide smile on his face and his hands spread wide as though to embrace the new opportunities before him.
And there, on his forehead, the gleaming symbol of the Eclipse emerges, a glimmer of red and gold to mark his station
Aleu bubbled up at Butterfly's heels as the Twilight followed Juran. The prismatic shards of her armor re-asserted her outwardly human disguise, a young child with dark skin and frizzy hair, smiling widely, but for a brief moment she appeared as a humanoid of tar.
Butterfly gave her a pat on the head, ignoring any of the glances the crew may have sent their way.
As Juran's Caste Mark lights up, the expression of the armored man, one of apparent joy and relief, briefly flickers into alarm and discomfort. It is a subtle thing, he must be an extremely practiced liar, or perhaps a very skilled actor, but Juran can tell that while his presence at all was not a surprise, his nature as one of the Eclipse Caste was quite alarming.
((Result of Mastery of Small Manners
You can immediately tell that the vibe of respect and deference is important. Actual respect is immaterial, but you can see in how the workers around the armored man subtly cower, how no one dares lift their eyes, how the man's own posture, as he moves to greet you, is that of someone apparently genuinely at joy to meet you.
The way you project your emotions, here, is how you indicate what you want their reaction to be. The armored man wants this to be a pleasant interaction with someone who is here to help their gracious host.
You could very easily suggest to him that you desire a different form of interaction, and he would happily indulge your preference. Take care that you do not indicate that Five Lightning's opinion matters to you, around this man, or her own weaknesses in matters of deception might give a mixed message.))
"We greet you," the armored man says, as if the flicker did not happen, his voice rich and his arms spread wide in welcome, "Our friends upon the winds told us that a vessel, rich with cargo and helmed by one with divine blood was on its way. I am Reeve Marxom of Pravance, Revee of the Earl of Pravance, his lordship Djarl Redsabre, Slayer of Three Dragons. Your goods and presence be welcome in our city."
He bows, but his eyes do not leave your faces, as he glances over each of you in turn, watching for your reactions.
"Your welcome is heartening, your hospitality appreciated," Juran says easily, his smile warm and genuine. "I am Juran Heartsong, owner and master of the Maiden Voyage ."
A slight stress on the words there - this is his ship, his crew, his cargo. Look to him for your cues, approach him for any dealings. And, of course, do not lay hand upon those under his banner.
"It is my desire to speak with your lordship Djarl Resabre, for we have heard many stories of his person and his lands from far across the waves," he continues after a moment, "That we might establish firm ties of mutual respect and, perhaps in time, even friendship."
Butterfly tilted her head in the raksha's direction, though hanging back a little. Her eyes were largely on the designs of the buildings, and the other ships in the docks.
Marxom smiles, a pretty and empty expression compared to the warmth behind Juran's, but only the presence of the real thing reveals the false warmth of the smile.
"That is good," Marxom says, relaxing a fraction and clearly (to Juran) glad that the encounter continues on script, "As my lordship hoped to speak to you. It has been some time since we entertained guests not of Honored Ysyr, and few dare voyage this far south these days. Your daring speaks well of you, as do your manners."
Honest approval, in the fae, and it does seem likely that they speak to a true Raksha now, Juran's words clearly settle some concern.
"And, of course, it has been even longer since any of Heaven's Voices have deigned to speak to us," and there is a slight edge to the appended statement, the smile becomes just a bit sharper.
"Such is why I have come," Juran replies, his dark eyes seeming to shine with enthusiasm. This is a hollow thing he deals with - where in other men he might need to see the truth behind the mask, here the mask is all there is. "To seize the opportunities none else dare to."
Behind the Raksha's pleasant mask is a lingering bitterness. Juran is not the only Solar they have been dealing with, diplomatically, and this Raksha was personally deeply insulted either by someone like Juran, or an agent of theirs. The role the Raksha plays demands it have pride, and pride it holds in abundance. It was a true error to let Juran see the ill-intent it holds for another, but the inability to correct the insult gnaws away at it.
"Courage wins many rewards," the Raksha smiles, as though the seething venom within it had never shown its face, "And we have much to offer those who dare. My lord, I am sure, will have much use for whatever goods you bring, and much to trade in turn. It is for this reason I was sent to greet you, and hope that you will allow me to direct you to him without delay."
This time, the edge in the statement is deliberate, a pointed, telegraphed thing that even a child could not miss. It will be taken as an insult if Juran delays, a statement that he does not wish to play with gloves on, and pride offended will demand redress.
Five Lightning tenses beside Juran, but does not otherwise react, unwilling to jeopardize the dangerous game her master plays.
"Ah, it is good to hear such words. Of course, the wise man pairs courage with courtesy," Juran says, nodding smoothly before stepping sideways and indicating his companion, "My companion is an artificer of no small skill - please, allow us to present you with a token of our appreciation, in gratitude for your consideration."
Butterfly smiled, pleased, and reached into her robes. She pulled out the cormorant statuette, "it holds a delightful secret for an audience."
She crafted the statuette carefully, over a miniature forge she had made, to prevent the boat from burning down. It was hollow, a framework of silver wire holding glass beads and panes of bronze over complex clockwork. She had spent most of the trip working on it. There was no magic to it, but if set into the wind just right...
The first time she had brought it out into the light, and set it upon the prow of the ship, the wings of the heron had spread, the wind resonated in its metal breast to give it a proud call.
The Raksha accepted the gift, the smile becoming a touch more real as he takes it, genuinely admiring the statuette's beauty. For all that it lacks in humanity, art clearly says something to Marxom.
"This is indeed a fine gift," he says appreciatively, his attention at last torn from them and placed entirely on the work of art in his hands, "I shall treasure it," and his smile widens, becoming a touch fierce, "A gift from an Exalted artisan is a rare treasure indeed. I do not think even our Beloved Queen can boast to hold such..."
He looks back to Butterfly, and she finds herself staring into empty, hungry eyes.
"I shall be certain to return your kindness someday," he says, and there is a sense of truth in his words that she recognizes to be something mystical. If there was any doubt that he was Raksha, the echo of the magic in his statement as he acknowledges a debt between them puts it to rest.
((GM notes on a very successful roll
All three crafting reward goals are met. You didn't have a way to know this, but Marxom is rarely acknowledged. This gift would have gotten you a positive intimacy if you'd saved it for the Earl, but Marxom never gets acknowledged like this. You don't get him as an Ally, not from that alone, but there is a debt between you, now, equal to an Inconvenient Task.
So that hits the equivalent of a monetary payment, I feel.))
"Truly?" Juran says, for all that his heart skips a beat at the terminology. Exalted... was he right in his beliefs? Was his station equal to that of the Dragon Caste? Ah, no, one thing at a time. "It would seem a common courtesy, yet your manner tells me that others of... our kind... are tragically bereft of such."
He sighs, a touch theatrically. "Well, we must not keep your lord waiting - but perhaps while we journey there, you might tell us of such past encounters? I should hate to be taken for a lout by mere association."
"I am glad you appreciate my work so," she said quietly.
"Only a fool would not," he says firmly to Butterfly, before gesturing that they follow and turning his attention to Juran's question.
"I suppose you have not much memories of the golden years," he guesses as they walk down the peer, "Your sort have been asleep for quite some time. It would certainly explain your uncommon courtesy. The Solar Exalted rarely deign politeness to their inferiors, and famously consider all the worlds such," again that subtle edge to his expression, an insult that normally would never be shown without deliberate intent, "An arrogance inherited by their usurpers."
"The sorcerers who- employed me failed to recognize my own brilliance, simply because of the exotic nature of my skin," she snorted, "what does it matter what I look like, if I can create wonders such as have not been seen for a thousand years. No, I appreciate your words, friend. Far too many think that because they look down they are somehow superior, not realizing it is because they are standing upon someone else's back."
Marxom laughs at that.
"You must be of Ysyr then," he smiles, "To be so familiar with unthinking arrogance. Exile becomes you. Clearly, your Sun agrees."
"I am. You mentioned they visit? Do you know how often they do?" It might be best to not mention further details about her history with them.
"We usually have at least one Ysyri sorcerer about," Marxom replies, "Present company excluded. I know one attends court with the Queen as of three days ago, I do not know if they have left since then. They are by far our biggest trade partners, for better or worse. Frankly, they could stand to learn courtesy from their employees, so poorly they comprehend it themselves."
"You knew the Solars of old?" Juran enquires, intrigued despite himself, "Rare company indeed. I myself know them only as an inheritor - their triumphs and their failings have both done much to shape the world I know."
Better to distance himself from those golden tyrants of old, it seems.
"In some form or another, and only at great distance, but yes," Marxom nods at Juran's question, "Though things were quite different back then. We rarely met with them on matters of trade. Far more often they came upon storms of annihilating sunlight, to bleach the color from our lands and make pretty things of our corpses. They guarded this world jealously, and resented our existence. On the occasions we had something they could not simply take, they would come to negotiate, but always with arrogance, always with weapon in hand. But, what could we do? Even Holy Balor could not have bested the greatest among them."
A performatively melancholy sigh, as the Raksha dwells on dark days past.
Holy Balor? The thought of the Raksha having religion is... well, at least it seems as performative as everything else. Yet perhaps that is enough, for a hollow creature such as this. Perplexing, and so very dangerous.
Juran says none of this, of course. Perhaps in time, with his footing established and his place here secure, he might... but for now, smalltalk will suffice.
And the small talk continues, idly and pleasantly and of things less substantial, as they pass through the port town. The streets are pleasantly cobbled, and the air smells often of fresh-baked bread or of cooking meats, there are vendors offering food, here and there, and many people walking to and fro. It is a pleasant image of a bustling city, but obvious in the ways in which it is false. There is none of the foul smells of many humans living in close proximity, or of horses which must be led through the streets, carrying carts of goods. The vendors are there, offering food, but no one ever stops to purchase from them, and there don't seem to be enough people to support how many vendors there are, either.
There are many buildings, but they rarely show signs of being lived in. Many shops, but nothing in the way of customers. A city built and maintained, but without the humans and animals it would be built to serve there to distract from the pleasant image presented.
Butterfly looked around with a frown, unsure of how to deal with the... hollow nature of the city. If they were going to settle in these lands, maybe she should request to build a private compound, if only to not need to see this every day.
Such a strange facade...
Juran keeps his thoughts and feelings from his face, as any professional merchant should, but inside he cannot help but wonder. What is it like for the people here, knowing that their lives are a performance, that they are playing roles in a flawed imitation of what their lives should be like?
As Juran looks around, his enhanced intuition shows him the collective image the mortal population of the city paints.
They are all, to a man, terrified. Not a single one of them is not fearful and exhausted. They are actors in a play that never ends, for an audience who will eat them should they miss a step or forget a line. They want nothing from each other save not to falter and draw attention from the monsters surrounding them. The goblins who wait in shadows, the strange birdlike creatures upon the roofs, the rare fairy knight like Marxom, they are at all times watched, and there is no break for the audience to get up and stretch their legs and allow the actors a moment to breath.
And as Juran digests this, he catches a glimpse of Marxom's own feelings, on this city and those within it. It is something he's seen before, in a merchant watching their vessel unloaded, in a farmer, looking over the fatness of his pigs, and being assured of their quality, of a baker withdrawing bread from an oven, and inhaling the pleasant scent of their labors.
All is as it should be, and the perpetual fear and stress of those who playact at life comforts the Raksha for whom they perform.
...hm
It is... he would be lying if he said it were surprising. This is how the Fae work, he knows this. He knew there would be compromises in coming here and yet, and yet...
They continue their walk, and eventually come to a paved hill, upon which has been placed a castle of ancient Shogunate design, as if someone carved the home of a Lookshyan lord from the East and carried it to be dropped on this hill ten thousand miles away. There are no other hills nearby, either this one was artificially constructed, or the others all leveled to build their pretend city. The castle is mostly wooden, with many floors rising and thinning to eventually form a tower, the roof edged in a patina of gold, the walls painted white to the deep black of the roof sections. A small stone wall encircles the hill, and the one-eyed head of some great fae beast rises above the wall where it patrols the perimeter. Two fae knights stand at the open gate, and bow briefly as they approach.
Butterfly perked up, and she squinted her eyes to take in as much of the castle construction she could. Trying to get a sense of its strength and quality.
As she surveys it, the mystical side of her intuition, which has only grown since Exalting, notices the strange perfection of the structure. The wood is too smooth, the structure too perfectly even. It is not a wooden castle, constructed of trees cut into boards and nailed into place. It was carved as an entire piece, more like turning a marble block into a statue, but done on the scale of carving a castle out of dreams and chaos. No mere catapult would be enough to tear it down, and no mortal flame would see it consumed.
"An impressive castle," she noted audibly, "it need not fear the strength of a siege engine's throwing arm."
"As the Cyclops Legion of Her Ladyship the Duchess Fantastical learned to their great dismay," Marxom says smugly, as they pass through the gates and walk up the path to the castle itself. Greenery surrounds them, various species of tree and bush that grow from spots all across Creation, planted eclectically and without regard for its native soil, flourishing presumably more by fae magic than the hands of any mortal gardener.
Juran makes note of the name, but does not speak. He's preparing himself for the meeting with the Earl of Pravance.
A Duchess would normally indicate a greater title of more responsibility, yet for all he knows the Duchess Fantastical merely picked the title for how it felt to say.
"A neighbor?" Butterfly asked, "I am unfamiliar with these lands. My dealings have been further north."
"More of a rival," Marxom shakes his head, "Or perhaps a dear friend. Our Earl once served the Duchess and no other, and she took the moving of his allegiance to our beloved Duke rather personally. She still occasionally goes to war over it."
He says this as if a war being waged were gossip worthy, but not alarming, and with the amusement of an underling revealing the foibles of their betters.
Butterfly tapped her chin, "an impressive display of desire, not many can claim in this Age to have stirred the armies of a country for scorn."
"I can think of a few," Juran murmurs thoughtfully, a reflective smile on his face, "Though to go to war more than once for the same reason is exceptional indeed. One assumes the Duchess planned on a singular triumph, only to be frustrated by a worthier target than she supposed."
"It is certainly possible," Marxom allows, in the tone of one who suspects the answer is different, as they near the great wooden doors of the castle itself, only for them to swing open slowly at their approach, "But, truthfully, she is quite vain, and has the cyclopes wrapped around her finger. War costs her little enough, and sometimes I suspect she attacks for boredom's sake alone."
Their guide falls silent once they enter, and indicates by his pointed silence that they should speak of it no more while within the walls. The interior of the castle is well lit by glowing stones embedded in the walls, amber light cast through them from some unknown source, and the floor is smooth black stone. Archaic paintings of ancient conflicts hang here and there from the wall, while marble statues of fae warriors seem to stare at them as they walk past. Occasionally, they see gossamer tapestries which show the events depicted as if the cloth were alive. Dozens of monstrous beasts throwing stones which bounce off the castle, and the storm of arrows loosed in return, knights clashing in duels while goblins tear each other apart on the battlefield, and other such boastful retellings of past events.
This at least is familiar - more than once Juran has secured a favorable deal with a representative of some great Clan by flattering their ancestors in the process.
Idly he wonders what Five Lightning thinks of the similarities - she is Clan Akatha, after all. He will need to ask her, when they are somewhere it is safe to talk.
Five Lightning has maintained a dutiful silence for their trip, not trusting her tongue to not offend the monster they follow. She is skilled with her blades, and confident of her value in a fight, but amongst the fae she knows that her role is insurance against the worst-case scenario, and has no desire to hasten the breakout of violence.
Butterfly's grip on Aleu's hand tightened, as she grew just a little bit nervous in here. She was without her bow, hidden away as it was due to its value. Her mind raced, but nothing came to mind to solve the problem of keeping it close by easily.
Aleu patted her on the hand, reassuringly, her voice quiet yet high pitched, "the seagulls did not say there were problems tonight."
They come into a large, mostly empty hall, dominated by a single great throne in the center, carved of marble and cushioned in gossamer. All around, faery knights stand watch, their presence a constant deference to the great knight who rises now from the throne to greet them.
He towers half a head over even the quite-tall Marxom, his armor is a metallic, faded pink of unknown alloy compared to the shining steel Marxom wears. A great bladed spear rests by his throne, but the knight does not pick it up as he nods to the newcomers.
Marxom steps forward, walking halfway between Juran and Butterfly and the great knight, and begins to speak.
"It is my great honor to introduce to you Djarl Redsaber, Earl of Pravance, Slayer of Three Dragons, and, my Earl, it is my honor to introduce to you our guests, one of the esteemed Copper Spiders and one of Heaven's Voices, awoken now from ancient slumber, and their divine attendant, whose names they have not yet honored me with."
The Earl takes a moment to digest that, his expression hidden by the pink helm covering his face. The hesitation, coupled with Juran's earlier observations of Marxom, are telling. He did not expect Exalts, and no messenger made it here to warn him ahead of you.
Juran does not let his expression betray his thoughts, but he admits to a flicker of amusement.
"It is our honour to stand before you, Earl Redsaber," he says, stepping forwards and bowing low, a sign of respect before the assembled, "And to have been received with such grace by your loyal Reeve."
He was expecting them, but not their nature, an interesting omission in the reports of whatever spies he had watching them. Very well, then; the circumstances have changed, but does the Earl change with them, or try to force things back into the path he prefers?
He could play along, of course, but that is a danger all of its own - to let one's host set every detail of a meeting is to place yourself in their power, in this case perhaps literally.
"Yes, of course," the Earl's voice booms, even as a murmur, deep and rich and resonant, and in his town Juran can almost see the thoughtful frown, "And I, in turn, am honored that not one, but two of the Solar Exalted would honor my lands with their presence. You must have traveled from quite far to visit our little town."
The modesty is false, nakedly so. Pride echoes in the voice, pride of the town, of the docks, of the Raksha who serve him, of the mortals who live in terror. There is nothing he holds that the Earl does not take pride in, for the simple matter of it being the Earl who owns it. There is nothing this being could do to conceal that fact.
In his voice, though, there is the ring of truth . It echoes out, into the minds of Juran and Five Lightning and Incandescent Butterfly. If they are not Solars, if they have not traveled far, they must speak up, and correct the falsehood.
"Merely from Prasad, noble Earl, where I found the company quite lacking," Juran says with a self-effacing laugh. All present can infer easily enough why he might not wish to remain in a land ruled by Immaculates. "In hopes of more pleasant neighbours, I voyaged across the sea to your fair domain, with all resources and skills at my command."
He clasps his hands and bows again, as one does before presenting the heart of the matter. "It is my heartfelt desire to make for myself and my people a home here, and to repay the generosity and honour of our host in such ways as my skills and nature may permit."
No mere trader he, here for a day and then gone again. No, his ambitions stretch rather further.
Five Lightning feels the echo of truth, but her jaw stays clenched. A damned week at sea, and in the company of demons, that was her trip, and there is no lie to be ripped from her souls. She glares at the Raksha for the overt enchantment, but does not otherwise speak.
Butterfly considers her home, and how far away from it she was. So very far... no lie, only homesickness.
"I'm not a Solar!" Piped up Aleu with a wave of her hand.
"I see," the Earl muses resonantly, only a flicker of a glance at Aleu, not surprised at all to see the slaves of the Yozi made slaves of the Solars, "Then we are honored indeed, to be central to such ambitions. Long have we wondered of your kinds' return, and here you answer the role we must play. Well, young Prince, I can certainly play my part. The part of the one who tells you who must die, if you are to have a place here. The one who tells you what grand rewards can be yours, if your aid falls upon my house. The one who warns you of those most treacherous, whom you may not heed and whom you would surely regret ignoring. This is a fine role to have, in such unfolding circumstances."
The growing smile is clear, even hidden behind the faceless helm, as the Earl continues.
"But, before we speak of such things, I think it is tradition to honor esteemed guests with a feast, and to speak then over meat and wine. We shall even have mortal food, that you need fear no trickery, this I promise."
The truth of the vow echoes, as does the strength of the offering. To break bread with a monster, and gain a certain ally, or reject him, and seek another with no understanding of the surrounding lands, and a new enemy surely gained?
"It is tradition that binds all men and spirits together," Juran Heartsong says approvingly, "And so if it is tradition that we feast, then I should be pleased to accept a place at your table, and there discuss the role we might each play in what is to come."
He presses a hand to his chest, and his voice takes on a powerful timber. "Men have named me Heartsong, and such shall be my role. That which the mighty desire, I may learn. That which they seek, I may provide. That which they require, I may bind through pact and oath. Such skills and more shall I place before my allies, and set against my foes."
He smiles, a shining halo of light gathering around him. "Now! Let us feast, and embrace as friends!"
Butterfly tilted her head in Juran's direction, hand hidden in a sleeve quietly tapping her next gift. She wondered when Juran would indicate the time would be right to share it. This sort of thing went over her head.
There is a moment in which the Earl is silent and still, a moment which passes so quickly it might never have been, the mere shadow of hesitation, before his arms open wide and he laughs a grand, booming laugh.
"Yes! Let us, indeed!" and he steps forward, pulling Juran into a tight, metallic embrace, to Five Lightning's near panic, before releasing him and striding firmly towards the east exit from the throne room, indicating for them to follow.
- Location
- Wörms, the half continent
The story of Aleu, and those other people she deigns to hang around with, begins!
accurate tbh
Now now it's also about Juran's many and ill-considered oaths.
Wyld Dark Sea Chapter 2
Another chapter, whynot, to finish the first session.
**
The Earl leads them through the amberlit halls of his castle, more artwork adorning the walls, more fae statues whose eyes seem to watch as they pass. The hall you walk through seems to have no end, some trick of space in effect as the Earl walks, a sense of disorientation following them, as if something was disconnected. The Earl's attention seems focused elsewhere, perhaps on generating this effect, perhaps on something else. The effect is that they walk in silence, though at least the very tall Earl slows his stride enough that they need not jog to keep up.
Five Lightning is visibly tense, glancing behind her every so often for followers, glancing ahead for any hint of detail on what is happening. None are clearly visible.
Butterfly frowned, trying to keep track of the effect. She let her eyes go unfocused, relying on Aleu to keep her moving in the right direction while she concentrated on the effect. She began keeping time, tracking her stride with the motion of her sun and comparing it against how she felt she was moving to see if there were any oddities in distance or if it were an illusion.
The Sun moves over her head as it always has, making its journey across Creation, and yet she can feel herself receding from it at speed. The effect is both subtle and disorienting, and it takes her a moment to place what is happening, for stories of those who wander into faerie rings to come to mind, and for her to be certain that time accelerates around them, while they walk this hall, divorced from the certainties of Creation and the Laws laid upon it with the Dawn of Time. The Earl holds them in one stretch of space, and hurries them along towards some particular moment within the castle's walls.
An impossible miracle, were Creation's borders not so frayed and weakened as they are. But here, so far from the Pole of Earth, stability is a more distant thing, and Chaos more able to play its endless games.
Butterfly blinked and refocused on walking normally. She didn't say anything, keeping a wary eye on the Earl. If they needed to flee the castle, that would be a problematic effect. Did the castle even have a true interior, or was this just a transition, a wasted time while the backdrop changed like in a play?
"Your domain is an impressive one indeed, Your Grace," Juran notes as they walk, when even his ignorant awareness of the occult secrets of the world suggest that something is wrong, "Are we to feast in a great hall, or perhaps somewhere more exotic?"
"We are nearly there," the voice is distant, hollow, distracted, the great bass of it not nearly so resonant as a door appears ahead of them in the distance(?). For a time, they approach no closer, despite the steps they take. And then the disorientation fades around them, a tension leaves the Earl's posture, and the rich smell of fresh-cooked meat and fresh-baked bread fills the air around them.
The door finally begins to draw nearer with each step they take, and there is a sense that they have returned, though nothing to indicate from where.
Ahead of them, the large wooden doors open, and inhumanly beautiful servants bow as they enter a hall with a great wooden table lined with dishes familiar to both Juran and Butterfly, Prasadi cuisine and Ysyri cuisine on full display, including a number of dishes that would have needed to be cooked many hours in advance to be ready for an afternoon meal.
The Earl moves to take a seat in an overlarge chair clearly intended for him, leaving his guests to choose to sit how they wish.
There are even some honey-based dishes, which Aleu is delighted about, for all that the mezkeruby's tastes could not have been known to these chefs.
"...such hospitality is certainly to be commended," Juran says with some surprise, "To see such dishes outside my homeland is a rare pleasure."
He pauses for a brief moment, and then guided by instinct takes his place on a recliner to the Earl's right, a comfortable seat that places him slightly lower than their host. A position of importance, but not one that usurps that of a genuine subordinate.
Aleu gasped and ran forward, taking a couple spots down from Juran in front of a particularly large honey confection. Butterfly hesitated, very uncertain. She opened her mouth to ask where to sit, but seeing everyone else go on ahead decided against it. She took a seat next to Aleu, eyeing the number of dishes, a larger variety than she had ever had access to before.
Five Lightning takes the seat by Juran, frowning cautiously, and noting Marxom taking up position behind the Earl, his eyes able to watch all entrances to the room and all the lovely servants besides. When their eyes meet, he offers her a pleasant smile, and gets an uneasy grimace in turn.
"I hope the feast is to your liking," the pleasing, resonant voice is back, uninhibited by the helmet the Earl seems never to remove, "I am informed that our littlest guest caused no small difficulty in uncovering what food would be most familiar," he nods in acknowledgment to Aleu for the first time, and Juran feels a weight begin to tighten around the space where his anima would shine, were he to unleash his power. Butterfly feels a discrepancy herself, the distinction between her station and how she is treated emphasized and upended. There is a certainty in her, that this is what she is owed, whatever may wait in her past.
It takes Juran a moment to process the nature of the strange restriction he feels, but understanding comes swiftly, especially with what he noticed before. Debt and context is how the Raksha function, and what the Earl does now emphasizes each. The Earl could no more raise a hand to Juran at the moment than Juran could sprout wings and fly. The Raksha cannot make choices without the proper context, but they can enforce similar restrictions upon those who freely treat with them. To betray his host now would be difficult, though not impossible. They act as allies, and this is a truth. To resist this would be hostility, and would free the Earl to act in kind. To accept it is to accept a binding upon the choices he can make, but would force the Earl to truly mirror his acceptance.
Five Lightning watches warily, she cannot perceive the mysticism at work the way the two Solars can, but she knows that the Raksha speak with magic and chains, and only the concern of what open suspicion might bring upon Juran, and the Raksha's plainly spoken oath, allow her to reluctantly enjoy the lamb stew she heaps generously into her bowl.
Juran hesitates for a moment, thoughts racing, possibilities unfolding like flowers, like swords... and then he forces himself to relax, and allows the sense of rightness to settle into his bones.
All of life is give and take, a thousand individual bonds that form the weave of society. The Fae simply make it more literal.
Butterfly was already grabbing food and putting it onto her plate. Any concerns she might have had about the dangers of this place were rapidly chased away by the sensation that yes, she did deserve this. She deserved the recognition and honor as guest, and if the Earl gave it to her... well then the Earl wasn't a problem now was it?
Aleu likewise was already cutting portions of the honey cake.
The Earl's blank helmet stares at Juran, but Juran feels nearly that he can see through the gossamer-metal to the fierce smile behind it. An expression a great warlord gives a valued ally who might have been a terrible foe, an expression he last saw upon a titan of a Fire Aspect as he clapped his exhibition partner upon the back and drove them to their knees.
"It is good you have come," the monster that is now their friend speaks, "and it is good we find you so amenable. I feared that, as many of your brethren, you would cause us no end of difficulty. Indeed, I considered simply slaying you on the spot," and the Earl laughs a booming laugh, as if this were some great joke and not a statement of literal truth, "But I stayed my hand, and I do not regret it! I need allies, and all the better if they are allies, and not mortal patsies thrown by an uncaring hand to uncertain doom. You have given me what I need, and so before I tell you what I want, I ask you:"
And the Earl's blank gaze focuses on each of Juran and Butterfly before he continues.
"What is it you want, and how is it you thought I might help you get it?"
It is no leading question, and there is no threat to it. Their host seeks to know that he might provide, now that there is to be no bloodshed between them.
"There is an irony in your words, your grace, and in a way the question is its own answer," Juran replies with a rueful smile, allowing himself to sample the first of the foods laid out before him. "To explain - do you know of the Immaculate faith? The code that grips the hearts of men and women all across the Dreaming Sea?"
A solemn nod from the Earl as he replies.
"The Code that brands us, as well as yourself, Anathema, and frees the Dragon-Blooded to hunt us as the hound hunts the hare, should we dare show our faces in their lands," is his suitably grim reply.
"Just so. And if I were to come to the court of a Lord of Dragons, as I have come to this court of fae, said lord might think as you first thought - they would see a danger, a threat, a source of no end of difficulty. And so they would think to slay me," Juran nods, shrugging slightly. "All my protestations and good intentions would be as nought before their souls of jade and blades of iron."
He turns one hand over, palm up, as though weighing a purse of gold or the shape of the future.
"And so I must change that. If I am to return to my home, if I am to save my people and realize my ambitions, if I am to do anything save run as hare before the hound, I must have power," he says, smiling a grim smile. "I must have followers, and resources, and the ear of the mighty. I must be a figure of such strength and might that even a Lord of Dragons shall hear me out, shall allow me to speak my piece before he draws his sword. And then... then I may embrace him as a friend, as you have embraced me."
He smiles, a flash of pearly teeth. "A simple goal, in some ways. Terribly complicated in others. But the friendship we make here today, I feel, is a fine first step upon that road."
Butterfly looked up from the slab of meat she was eating, she was pretty sure it was spiced spider-goat. She had only seen others eat it, and it tasted so much better than she had expected. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Emboldened by the fae's magic, she went for a blunt answer, "I want to destroy the Ysyri Sorcerer Lords. I want to hurt them, shatter their lives and drag them all down."
The sensation of a smile settles upon the Earl again as he nods along with their words.
"Ambition indeed," he says approvingly, "Worthy of the Solar Exalted. To destroy one great power, and force another to listen to those they deem their enemies."
"Such deeds are, of course, beyond my power, or that of my Court, but I do believe I can help you along your way. The Shoguns stood head and shoulder above the proud Exalted lords of Prasad, held magic that even the Ysyri slavemasters cannot control. But Holy Balor shattered their Shogunate," he nods to Butterfly, "As you seek to shatter Ysyr. And it was Holy Balor who, alone among us, could treat with the Solars of old as an equal. The Raksha can certainly tell you of what it takes to bring great powers to speak, and to lay low those who imagine themselves eternal."
Holy Balor. Those words again. This time, with magic honing his senses, Juran understands what it is the Raksha means when he says those words. He does not speak of Balor as one does a god one knows, or as one does of a remote deity, mighty but far. The words remind Juran most of those holiest of monks, when they speak of the Elemental Dragons themselves, in their role as the distant creators of the world. Holy is an honorific of the sort that he would not have suspected Raksha to have.
Respect, mourning, hope. Once, the being the Raksha calls Balor was everything to them, and his loss stings them to this day.
As Juran's thoughts race, the sense of a smile widens, and there is a deep hunger to it, now.
"You shall, someday, speak to my Queen, and when you do, I shall be at your side. On that day, I imagine you shall gain much of what you seek."
"For now..." his gaze returns to Butterfly, "You gave my subordinate a gift," the Earl speaks, and behind him Marxom undergoes a very subtle flinch, near invisibly, "And on some other day, these words would be of reproach, but I care not for the minor disrespect, in the face of newfound friendship. I note this to ask of you, is your greatest gift that of creation? Artifice, infrastructure?"
She blinked and wiped her hands on her clothes, "Oh! Yes. I work with metals, mostly. I've been making some forays into other forms of craftsmanship, but when I- worked with the Sorcerer Lords, I produced items necessary for rituals and the like."
She reached into her other sleeve, pulling out a puzzle box. Bronze, with symbols and texts written upon it in inlaid silver. Carved glass beads graced the corners of the box. It had been formed from the remainder of the metals from the bird statue, an idle task to fill her time, and entertain Aleu. Though Aleu had swiftly grown bored of the final product. She had practiced her hand at fine decoration, discovering that it was fairly tricky to ensure the metal cooled just right. Still, after a few tries, and changes in design at her whimsy, she had managed it.
"You seem one to appreciate utility, so I give you this gift of a puzzle box. It has a compartment within, to store valuables," she got up to hand it over, "there is no potent magic imbued within it, only clever mechanics."
The Raksha lord extends a hand, and takes the gift gently from Butterfly's hands. She gains the sense of honest curiosity as he looks it over, testing how it shifts.
"Interesting," he murmurs, "And not a gift I would expect from a Solar. There is whimsy and practicality both to this, and no mad magic to obliterate all who touch it."
He nods to her, a solemn, respectful gesture.
"You have my thanks, child," he says, not with a tone of disrespect, but as one who has seen aeons pass speaks to one who has not even seen her first century, "And my apologies, for assuming you had forgotten me."
Juran says nothing, as Butterfly presents her gift. He is too busy within his own thoughts.
Holy Balor ... to speak of a creature of the deep wyld in such terms as a monk might one of the Elemental Dragons? He has no better word for that than blasphemy. Perhaps if he were of the Wyld himself, or if Balor himself had been purely that, then it would seem appropriate - a Dragon of the Wyld, to match the Dragons of Creation.
Yet they are not in the Wyld, here. They are within Creation, with its laws and codes and the many savage wounds dealt to it by Balor and his Crusade, and to revere the creature, the monster that is responsible…
Butterfly brightened, "It- it was my pleasure. I love making things. Magic is... it's useful, but it doesn't hold any great joy for me."
She shifted in place, unsure how to stand, or speak, with this noble.
"The old Solars," the Earl says, somewhat wistfully, "Knew magic like only those who crafted this strange world from Chaos ever did. They breathed it into their every creation. They worked wonders and terrors both, and the Sword that slew Holy Balor was made by their hands, though wielded by one unfit to so much as look upon it. There is wisdom," he looks directly at Butterfly, "In not making a weapon of all one touches. There is beauty, even under the burning light of your Sun, in the terribly real materials that make up your world. I hope you do not lose this wisdom, this beauty, when your power grows large enough to swallow this world, and all who live upon it. When you stride amongst my kin, and bleach their color from infinity, to pull forth the materials needed for your next great terror."
There is no doubt in the Earl's voice, that Butterfly will someday do these things, nor is there any request that she not do so.
Only that strange hope that she not lose sight of this, though what importance it holds for the fae is unknown.
Aleu was watching things. She did that a lot. She knew prophecies were hidden everywhere, if you knew how to find them. She had been tasked with keeping an eye out for Butterfly, by Glory, another layer to watch the young Solar. Aleu was clever, and tricky, and not important compared to her company. She was underestimated.
So she nibbled on the honey-cake and watched. The fae that was working its will, that would definitely be a problem, was hard to read, but she managed it.
More than anything else, the ancient Solars frustrated the Earl for how boring they became. How utterly unwilling the old Solars were to take risks or connect. The Early was beyond pleased by the willingness of Butterfly and Juran to play along in comparison. She mentally filed it for later, when it was safer.
"I suppose that is as good a point as any," the Earl makes a show of shaking his head, casting doubt on how truly lost in reverie he was, or if the sentiment simply demanded the drama of it, "To tell you what it was that I desire, and how you might bring it about."
They cannot see the Earl's eyes, but they can imagine, as he speaks, how they blaze like fire, as a sense of intensity rises.
"There is a mine, five days by foot from here, one day by steed, if you rode non-stop," he speaks, and all present listen, for there is no choice in the matter, "A mine I seldom work, for what good have we fae for silver and sparkling stones, when we can shape the stuff of chaos to our desires? But we trade, and it is mine, and so sometimes it is worked, nonetheless."
If you could see his brow, it would be furrowed with rage.
"Some years ago, a daring foe ate my guardians I'd set to watch it, and it ate the dream-eaten wretches who worked it, and from their remains birthed its foul young. It kills all I send forth to reclaim what is mine, and when its young are grown, they will venture forth, and take more of what is mine, and I will not have it."
His voice falls upon the hall like a thunderclap, and all jump in their seats, whether they want to or not, and his great gauntleted fist punctuates the echo of his voice with another tremendous clatter. The solid oak of the table cracks under the blow, though it cannot be said for certain if that was a marker of the Earl's raw strength, or his desire for the table to crack under his fury.
Juran nods thoughtfully. The specifics are different, but the paradigm is the same - useful resources lost, a slight to one's honour and authority, and the need to respond.
He listens silently, for the Earl clearly has a plan in mind.
Butterfly had returned to her seat, flustered and quiet.
"I cannot negotiate with the creature," the Earl growls, "No more than I could turn tail and flee on that battlefield, long centuries ago, when the young fool of a Dragon called me to duel. No more than I could leave his head upon his shoulders, when he sought to flee my wrath. It knows that I cannot, and so it will not speak. It simply murders. When I believed you merely mortal, I had hoped for your intercession, for it might not see you as a threat, and isolation and boredom might have led it to speak, instead of simply murdering you and feeding you to its vile offspring."
The Earl shakes his head, and there is a sense of almost-heat about him, so firm is his desire for his rage to bend the elements, as the passions of the Dragon-Blooded tend to do.
"But no, no mortals you," and there is that sense of ferocity, of teeth bared in a fearsome grin, "You are, instead, Exalted, Solars, no less! You can force it to listen and speak, instead of simply killing, and when it does, you can bind it by Oath. Trick the creature, and lure it here, to kneel before my throne, and I shall lease you the mine for no less than a century. I will share with you what gossamer I have, and shape for you a forge unlike any you have known," he nods to Butterfly, before turning to Juran.
"And you," he says, "Shall have Marxom's fealty for no less than a century, and ten score goblins and two score ogres, bound to you for no less than a century, to command as you desire. That shall be your fine start to your great ambitions. I trust it is a suitable payment, for such an endeavor."
He does not ask, but rather state. He offers a fair deal, to press it is not impossible, but it risks offending him, to seek more at this juncture.
Butterfly's eyes gleamed, as she looked to Juran, "I do need resources..."
Silver was not her preferred metal, but she could work it nonetheless.
"And I a household," Juran replies, nodding to Butterfly, smiling in pleasure. For he can already tell that this is the Earl's generosity, compelled by the terms of their accord. He cannot help but be generous with such fine and considerate allies, for it is not in his nature. Yes, this works well.
"We shall do this thing, Earl Redsaber," he says, nodding, "A worthy service for a worthy price. That which seeks to take from you without permission or recompense shall kneel before the throne and beg forgiveness for all to see."
"Good," the Earl speaks, and Juran feels the palest imitation of his own Oath's power take hold. To turn from this path would be difficult, to betray it altogether would be painful.
"The beast you seek offers no name, and so we know it only as Manticore," the Earl's tone relaxes a fraction, but still blazes with underlying fury, "But it is canny and dangerous, and deserves well its reputation. Even the noble cataphract I sent after it did not return. Respect the threat it poses, and remember that such things are both mad and bored. Each quality can be exploited."
Butterfly considered, chewing on another dish, one she did not recognize. If she gathered some info, perhaps she could figure out a counter.
"How long do we have? My thoughts go to creating a tool to help, but such things take time."
"I would prefer you leave upon the morning, as I have been forced to tolerate this insult long enough," the Earl growls, "But I understand that you have just arrived, and that you may be in need of time to consider your approach. I give you three days to linger here, and from there however long the task may take, once you set out. I will not rush your return, merely your embarking."
There is clear hesitance, in the understanding the Earl shows.
The words are dragged out of him, and Juran knows he would not have given them more than the night to rest, had they behaved differently, or with any hostility.
"A night's rest will do, for contemplation," Juran puts in, smiling in reassurance, "And perhaps for my companion to forge tools or weapons worthy of this task. One must hardly dawdle when the chance comes to make a name and prove their worth, I think."
"Yeah," Butterfly agreed. Her earlier exuberance and energy was fading, especially now that her thoughts were wrestling with the problem.
The Earl nods, and settles back down in his seat, the intensity fading somewhat, and his aura takes on something of a brooding tone, as he stares somewhere past the door, perhaps in the direction of his manxome foe.
Alone among the companions, undistracted by grand concerns or honey cake, Five Lightning watches, and in the Earl's demeanor, she spots something he sought to conceal: weakness. She has seen it in the Dragon-Blooded, after long battles, felt it herself, on the occasions she is forced to rely upon her Storm's Blood in combat. The weariness that comes of using too much magic, the soul-sleepiness of Essence rapidly expended. The Earl has exhausted himself, this meeting, and his focus turns to hiding this from his guests.
The talk is less serious from there, and all present, save the brooding, weary Earl and ever watchful Marxom, begin to focus more on the feast in front of them than the conversations which by their nature must at least be partly guarded. Assurances are made to Aleu that the honey cake and a few other delicacies will be wrapped up for the journey or sent to her room for later consumption, and not thrown away or otherwise wasted, and eventually, all retire to their chambers or (ominously), stalk out with a hungry air in his step, in the case of the Earl, to consider next steps.
Or to finish the honey cake in peace, before it goes stale.
Later that evening, when all had retired to their guest quarters, Butterfly pulled a coin out of a careful pocket near her heart. It was small, shiny silver, but worth nothing to a typical mortal and so much more to her. She began talking about the last leg of the trip to it, what she had made, and what she had seen. She brought up the fae she had encountered, and in her words it was clear just how deep the fae had already gotten their hooks in her.
After giving her report to the coin, she put it back in the pocket, and returned to her last minute projects before night called.
**
The Earl leads them through the amberlit halls of his castle, more artwork adorning the walls, more fae statues whose eyes seem to watch as they pass. The hall you walk through seems to have no end, some trick of space in effect as the Earl walks, a sense of disorientation following them, as if something was disconnected. The Earl's attention seems focused elsewhere, perhaps on generating this effect, perhaps on something else. The effect is that they walk in silence, though at least the very tall Earl slows his stride enough that they need not jog to keep up.
Five Lightning is visibly tense, glancing behind her every so often for followers, glancing ahead for any hint of detail on what is happening. None are clearly visible.
Butterfly frowned, trying to keep track of the effect. She let her eyes go unfocused, relying on Aleu to keep her moving in the right direction while she concentrated on the effect. She began keeping time, tracking her stride with the motion of her sun and comparing it against how she felt she was moving to see if there were any oddities in distance or if it were an illusion.
The Sun moves over her head as it always has, making its journey across Creation, and yet she can feel herself receding from it at speed. The effect is both subtle and disorienting, and it takes her a moment to place what is happening, for stories of those who wander into faerie rings to come to mind, and for her to be certain that time accelerates around them, while they walk this hall, divorced from the certainties of Creation and the Laws laid upon it with the Dawn of Time. The Earl holds them in one stretch of space, and hurries them along towards some particular moment within the castle's walls.
An impossible miracle, were Creation's borders not so frayed and weakened as they are. But here, so far from the Pole of Earth, stability is a more distant thing, and Chaos more able to play its endless games.
Butterfly blinked and refocused on walking normally. She didn't say anything, keeping a wary eye on the Earl. If they needed to flee the castle, that would be a problematic effect. Did the castle even have a true interior, or was this just a transition, a wasted time while the backdrop changed like in a play?
"Your domain is an impressive one indeed, Your Grace," Juran notes as they walk, when even his ignorant awareness of the occult secrets of the world suggest that something is wrong, "Are we to feast in a great hall, or perhaps somewhere more exotic?"
"We are nearly there," the voice is distant, hollow, distracted, the great bass of it not nearly so resonant as a door appears ahead of them in the distance(?). For a time, they approach no closer, despite the steps they take. And then the disorientation fades around them, a tension leaves the Earl's posture, and the rich smell of fresh-cooked meat and fresh-baked bread fills the air around them.
The door finally begins to draw nearer with each step they take, and there is a sense that they have returned, though nothing to indicate from where.
Ahead of them, the large wooden doors open, and inhumanly beautiful servants bow as they enter a hall with a great wooden table lined with dishes familiar to both Juran and Butterfly, Prasadi cuisine and Ysyri cuisine on full display, including a number of dishes that would have needed to be cooked many hours in advance to be ready for an afternoon meal.
The Earl moves to take a seat in an overlarge chair clearly intended for him, leaving his guests to choose to sit how they wish.
There are even some honey-based dishes, which Aleu is delighted about, for all that the mezkeruby's tastes could not have been known to these chefs.
"...such hospitality is certainly to be commended," Juran says with some surprise, "To see such dishes outside my homeland is a rare pleasure."
He pauses for a brief moment, and then guided by instinct takes his place on a recliner to the Earl's right, a comfortable seat that places him slightly lower than their host. A position of importance, but not one that usurps that of a genuine subordinate.
Aleu gasped and ran forward, taking a couple spots down from Juran in front of a particularly large honey confection. Butterfly hesitated, very uncertain. She opened her mouth to ask where to sit, but seeing everyone else go on ahead decided against it. She took a seat next to Aleu, eyeing the number of dishes, a larger variety than she had ever had access to before.
Five Lightning takes the seat by Juran, frowning cautiously, and noting Marxom taking up position behind the Earl, his eyes able to watch all entrances to the room and all the lovely servants besides. When their eyes meet, he offers her a pleasant smile, and gets an uneasy grimace in turn.
"I hope the feast is to your liking," the pleasing, resonant voice is back, uninhibited by the helmet the Earl seems never to remove, "I am informed that our littlest guest caused no small difficulty in uncovering what food would be most familiar," he nods in acknowledgment to Aleu for the first time, and Juran feels a weight begin to tighten around the space where his anima would shine, were he to unleash his power. Butterfly feels a discrepancy herself, the distinction between her station and how she is treated emphasized and upended. There is a certainty in her, that this is what she is owed, whatever may wait in her past.
It takes Juran a moment to process the nature of the strange restriction he feels, but understanding comes swiftly, especially with what he noticed before. Debt and context is how the Raksha function, and what the Earl does now emphasizes each. The Earl could no more raise a hand to Juran at the moment than Juran could sprout wings and fly. The Raksha cannot make choices without the proper context, but they can enforce similar restrictions upon those who freely treat with them. To betray his host now would be difficult, though not impossible. They act as allies, and this is a truth. To resist this would be hostility, and would free the Earl to act in kind. To accept it is to accept a binding upon the choices he can make, but would force the Earl to truly mirror his acceptance.
Five Lightning watches warily, she cannot perceive the mysticism at work the way the two Solars can, but she knows that the Raksha speak with magic and chains, and only the concern of what open suspicion might bring upon Juran, and the Raksha's plainly spoken oath, allow her to reluctantly enjoy the lamb stew she heaps generously into her bowl.
Juran hesitates for a moment, thoughts racing, possibilities unfolding like flowers, like swords... and then he forces himself to relax, and allows the sense of rightness to settle into his bones.
All of life is give and take, a thousand individual bonds that form the weave of society. The Fae simply make it more literal.
Butterfly was already grabbing food and putting it onto her plate. Any concerns she might have had about the dangers of this place were rapidly chased away by the sensation that yes, she did deserve this. She deserved the recognition and honor as guest, and if the Earl gave it to her... well then the Earl wasn't a problem now was it?
Aleu likewise was already cutting portions of the honey cake.
The Earl's blank helmet stares at Juran, but Juran feels nearly that he can see through the gossamer-metal to the fierce smile behind it. An expression a great warlord gives a valued ally who might have been a terrible foe, an expression he last saw upon a titan of a Fire Aspect as he clapped his exhibition partner upon the back and drove them to their knees.
"It is good you have come," the monster that is now their friend speaks, "and it is good we find you so amenable. I feared that, as many of your brethren, you would cause us no end of difficulty. Indeed, I considered simply slaying you on the spot," and the Earl laughs a booming laugh, as if this were some great joke and not a statement of literal truth, "But I stayed my hand, and I do not regret it! I need allies, and all the better if they are allies, and not mortal patsies thrown by an uncaring hand to uncertain doom. You have given me what I need, and so before I tell you what I want, I ask you:"
And the Earl's blank gaze focuses on each of Juran and Butterfly before he continues.
"What is it you want, and how is it you thought I might help you get it?"
It is no leading question, and there is no threat to it. Their host seeks to know that he might provide, now that there is to be no bloodshed between them.
"There is an irony in your words, your grace, and in a way the question is its own answer," Juran replies with a rueful smile, allowing himself to sample the first of the foods laid out before him. "To explain - do you know of the Immaculate faith? The code that grips the hearts of men and women all across the Dreaming Sea?"
A solemn nod from the Earl as he replies.
"The Code that brands us, as well as yourself, Anathema, and frees the Dragon-Blooded to hunt us as the hound hunts the hare, should we dare show our faces in their lands," is his suitably grim reply.
"Just so. And if I were to come to the court of a Lord of Dragons, as I have come to this court of fae, said lord might think as you first thought - they would see a danger, a threat, a source of no end of difficulty. And so they would think to slay me," Juran nods, shrugging slightly. "All my protestations and good intentions would be as nought before their souls of jade and blades of iron."
He turns one hand over, palm up, as though weighing a purse of gold or the shape of the future.
"And so I must change that. If I am to return to my home, if I am to save my people and realize my ambitions, if I am to do anything save run as hare before the hound, I must have power," he says, smiling a grim smile. "I must have followers, and resources, and the ear of the mighty. I must be a figure of such strength and might that even a Lord of Dragons shall hear me out, shall allow me to speak my piece before he draws his sword. And then... then I may embrace him as a friend, as you have embraced me."
He smiles, a flash of pearly teeth. "A simple goal, in some ways. Terribly complicated in others. But the friendship we make here today, I feel, is a fine first step upon that road."
Butterfly looked up from the slab of meat she was eating, she was pretty sure it was spiced spider-goat. She had only seen others eat it, and it tasted so much better than she had expected. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Emboldened by the fae's magic, she went for a blunt answer, "I want to destroy the Ysyri Sorcerer Lords. I want to hurt them, shatter their lives and drag them all down."
The sensation of a smile settles upon the Earl again as he nods along with their words.
"Ambition indeed," he says approvingly, "Worthy of the Solar Exalted. To destroy one great power, and force another to listen to those they deem their enemies."
"Such deeds are, of course, beyond my power, or that of my Court, but I do believe I can help you along your way. The Shoguns stood head and shoulder above the proud Exalted lords of Prasad, held magic that even the Ysyri slavemasters cannot control. But Holy Balor shattered their Shogunate," he nods to Butterfly, "As you seek to shatter Ysyr. And it was Holy Balor who, alone among us, could treat with the Solars of old as an equal. The Raksha can certainly tell you of what it takes to bring great powers to speak, and to lay low those who imagine themselves eternal."
Holy Balor. Those words again. This time, with magic honing his senses, Juran understands what it is the Raksha means when he says those words. He does not speak of Balor as one does a god one knows, or as one does of a remote deity, mighty but far. The words remind Juran most of those holiest of monks, when they speak of the Elemental Dragons themselves, in their role as the distant creators of the world. Holy is an honorific of the sort that he would not have suspected Raksha to have.
Respect, mourning, hope. Once, the being the Raksha calls Balor was everything to them, and his loss stings them to this day.
As Juran's thoughts race, the sense of a smile widens, and there is a deep hunger to it, now.
"You shall, someday, speak to my Queen, and when you do, I shall be at your side. On that day, I imagine you shall gain much of what you seek."
"For now..." his gaze returns to Butterfly, "You gave my subordinate a gift," the Earl speaks, and behind him Marxom undergoes a very subtle flinch, near invisibly, "And on some other day, these words would be of reproach, but I care not for the minor disrespect, in the face of newfound friendship. I note this to ask of you, is your greatest gift that of creation? Artifice, infrastructure?"
She blinked and wiped her hands on her clothes, "Oh! Yes. I work with metals, mostly. I've been making some forays into other forms of craftsmanship, but when I- worked with the Sorcerer Lords, I produced items necessary for rituals and the like."
She reached into her other sleeve, pulling out a puzzle box. Bronze, with symbols and texts written upon it in inlaid silver. Carved glass beads graced the corners of the box. It had been formed from the remainder of the metals from the bird statue, an idle task to fill her time, and entertain Aleu. Though Aleu had swiftly grown bored of the final product. She had practiced her hand at fine decoration, discovering that it was fairly tricky to ensure the metal cooled just right. Still, after a few tries, and changes in design at her whimsy, she had managed it.
"You seem one to appreciate utility, so I give you this gift of a puzzle box. It has a compartment within, to store valuables," she got up to hand it over, "there is no potent magic imbued within it, only clever mechanics."
The Raksha lord extends a hand, and takes the gift gently from Butterfly's hands. She gains the sense of honest curiosity as he looks it over, testing how it shifts.
"Interesting," he murmurs, "And not a gift I would expect from a Solar. There is whimsy and practicality both to this, and no mad magic to obliterate all who touch it."
He nods to her, a solemn, respectful gesture.
"You have my thanks, child," he says, not with a tone of disrespect, but as one who has seen aeons pass speaks to one who has not even seen her first century, "And my apologies, for assuming you had forgotten me."
Juran says nothing, as Butterfly presents her gift. He is too busy within his own thoughts.
Holy Balor ... to speak of a creature of the deep wyld in such terms as a monk might one of the Elemental Dragons? He has no better word for that than blasphemy. Perhaps if he were of the Wyld himself, or if Balor himself had been purely that, then it would seem appropriate - a Dragon of the Wyld, to match the Dragons of Creation.
Yet they are not in the Wyld, here. They are within Creation, with its laws and codes and the many savage wounds dealt to it by Balor and his Crusade, and to revere the creature, the monster that is responsible…
Butterfly brightened, "It- it was my pleasure. I love making things. Magic is... it's useful, but it doesn't hold any great joy for me."
She shifted in place, unsure how to stand, or speak, with this noble.
"The old Solars," the Earl says, somewhat wistfully, "Knew magic like only those who crafted this strange world from Chaos ever did. They breathed it into their every creation. They worked wonders and terrors both, and the Sword that slew Holy Balor was made by their hands, though wielded by one unfit to so much as look upon it. There is wisdom," he looks directly at Butterfly, "In not making a weapon of all one touches. There is beauty, even under the burning light of your Sun, in the terribly real materials that make up your world. I hope you do not lose this wisdom, this beauty, when your power grows large enough to swallow this world, and all who live upon it. When you stride amongst my kin, and bleach their color from infinity, to pull forth the materials needed for your next great terror."
There is no doubt in the Earl's voice, that Butterfly will someday do these things, nor is there any request that she not do so.
Only that strange hope that she not lose sight of this, though what importance it holds for the fae is unknown.
Aleu was watching things. She did that a lot. She knew prophecies were hidden everywhere, if you knew how to find them. She had been tasked with keeping an eye out for Butterfly, by Glory, another layer to watch the young Solar. Aleu was clever, and tricky, and not important compared to her company. She was underestimated.
So she nibbled on the honey-cake and watched. The fae that was working its will, that would definitely be a problem, was hard to read, but she managed it.
More than anything else, the ancient Solars frustrated the Earl for how boring they became. How utterly unwilling the old Solars were to take risks or connect. The Early was beyond pleased by the willingness of Butterfly and Juran to play along in comparison. She mentally filed it for later, when it was safer.
"I suppose that is as good a point as any," the Earl makes a show of shaking his head, casting doubt on how truly lost in reverie he was, or if the sentiment simply demanded the drama of it, "To tell you what it was that I desire, and how you might bring it about."
They cannot see the Earl's eyes, but they can imagine, as he speaks, how they blaze like fire, as a sense of intensity rises.
"There is a mine, five days by foot from here, one day by steed, if you rode non-stop," he speaks, and all present listen, for there is no choice in the matter, "A mine I seldom work, for what good have we fae for silver and sparkling stones, when we can shape the stuff of chaos to our desires? But we trade, and it is mine, and so sometimes it is worked, nonetheless."
If you could see his brow, it would be furrowed with rage.
"Some years ago, a daring foe ate my guardians I'd set to watch it, and it ate the dream-eaten wretches who worked it, and from their remains birthed its foul young. It kills all I send forth to reclaim what is mine, and when its young are grown, they will venture forth, and take more of what is mine, and I will not have it."
His voice falls upon the hall like a thunderclap, and all jump in their seats, whether they want to or not, and his great gauntleted fist punctuates the echo of his voice with another tremendous clatter. The solid oak of the table cracks under the blow, though it cannot be said for certain if that was a marker of the Earl's raw strength, or his desire for the table to crack under his fury.
Juran nods thoughtfully. The specifics are different, but the paradigm is the same - useful resources lost, a slight to one's honour and authority, and the need to respond.
He listens silently, for the Earl clearly has a plan in mind.
Butterfly had returned to her seat, flustered and quiet.
"I cannot negotiate with the creature," the Earl growls, "No more than I could turn tail and flee on that battlefield, long centuries ago, when the young fool of a Dragon called me to duel. No more than I could leave his head upon his shoulders, when he sought to flee my wrath. It knows that I cannot, and so it will not speak. It simply murders. When I believed you merely mortal, I had hoped for your intercession, for it might not see you as a threat, and isolation and boredom might have led it to speak, instead of simply murdering you and feeding you to its vile offspring."
The Earl shakes his head, and there is a sense of almost-heat about him, so firm is his desire for his rage to bend the elements, as the passions of the Dragon-Blooded tend to do.
"But no, no mortals you," and there is that sense of ferocity, of teeth bared in a fearsome grin, "You are, instead, Exalted, Solars, no less! You can force it to listen and speak, instead of simply killing, and when it does, you can bind it by Oath. Trick the creature, and lure it here, to kneel before my throne, and I shall lease you the mine for no less than a century. I will share with you what gossamer I have, and shape for you a forge unlike any you have known," he nods to Butterfly, before turning to Juran.
"And you," he says, "Shall have Marxom's fealty for no less than a century, and ten score goblins and two score ogres, bound to you for no less than a century, to command as you desire. That shall be your fine start to your great ambitions. I trust it is a suitable payment, for such an endeavor."
He does not ask, but rather state. He offers a fair deal, to press it is not impossible, but it risks offending him, to seek more at this juncture.
Butterfly's eyes gleamed, as she looked to Juran, "I do need resources..."
Silver was not her preferred metal, but she could work it nonetheless.
"And I a household," Juran replies, nodding to Butterfly, smiling in pleasure. For he can already tell that this is the Earl's generosity, compelled by the terms of their accord. He cannot help but be generous with such fine and considerate allies, for it is not in his nature. Yes, this works well.
"We shall do this thing, Earl Redsaber," he says, nodding, "A worthy service for a worthy price. That which seeks to take from you without permission or recompense shall kneel before the throne and beg forgiveness for all to see."
"Good," the Earl speaks, and Juran feels the palest imitation of his own Oath's power take hold. To turn from this path would be difficult, to betray it altogether would be painful.
"The beast you seek offers no name, and so we know it only as Manticore," the Earl's tone relaxes a fraction, but still blazes with underlying fury, "But it is canny and dangerous, and deserves well its reputation. Even the noble cataphract I sent after it did not return. Respect the threat it poses, and remember that such things are both mad and bored. Each quality can be exploited."
Butterfly considered, chewing on another dish, one she did not recognize. If she gathered some info, perhaps she could figure out a counter.
"How long do we have? My thoughts go to creating a tool to help, but such things take time."
"I would prefer you leave upon the morning, as I have been forced to tolerate this insult long enough," the Earl growls, "But I understand that you have just arrived, and that you may be in need of time to consider your approach. I give you three days to linger here, and from there however long the task may take, once you set out. I will not rush your return, merely your embarking."
There is clear hesitance, in the understanding the Earl shows.
The words are dragged out of him, and Juran knows he would not have given them more than the night to rest, had they behaved differently, or with any hostility.
"A night's rest will do, for contemplation," Juran puts in, smiling in reassurance, "And perhaps for my companion to forge tools or weapons worthy of this task. One must hardly dawdle when the chance comes to make a name and prove their worth, I think."
"Yeah," Butterfly agreed. Her earlier exuberance and energy was fading, especially now that her thoughts were wrestling with the problem.
The Earl nods, and settles back down in his seat, the intensity fading somewhat, and his aura takes on something of a brooding tone, as he stares somewhere past the door, perhaps in the direction of his manxome foe.
Alone among the companions, undistracted by grand concerns or honey cake, Five Lightning watches, and in the Earl's demeanor, she spots something he sought to conceal: weakness. She has seen it in the Dragon-Blooded, after long battles, felt it herself, on the occasions she is forced to rely upon her Storm's Blood in combat. The weariness that comes of using too much magic, the soul-sleepiness of Essence rapidly expended. The Earl has exhausted himself, this meeting, and his focus turns to hiding this from his guests.
The talk is less serious from there, and all present, save the brooding, weary Earl and ever watchful Marxom, begin to focus more on the feast in front of them than the conversations which by their nature must at least be partly guarded. Assurances are made to Aleu that the honey cake and a few other delicacies will be wrapped up for the journey or sent to her room for later consumption, and not thrown away or otherwise wasted, and eventually, all retire to their chambers or (ominously), stalk out with a hungry air in his step, in the case of the Earl, to consider next steps.
Or to finish the honey cake in peace, before it goes stale.
Later that evening, when all had retired to their guest quarters, Butterfly pulled a coin out of a careful pocket near her heart. It was small, shiny silver, but worth nothing to a typical mortal and so much more to her. She began talking about the last leg of the trip to it, what she had made, and what she had seen. She brought up the fae she had encountered, and in her words it was clear just how deep the fae had already gotten their hooks in her.
After giving her report to the coin, she put it back in the pocket, and returned to her last minute projects before night called.
- Location
- an unseen void
- Pronouns
- Any
This has all motivated me to start reading ahead on AO3 and...Juran really is promiscuous with his oaths, huh?
- Location
- London, England
You don't have to say it like that…
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It's the story of how Yata has never made an incorrect decision, ever, in his life, and yet the world conspires to assail him.
- Location
- The sixth circle of Hell (second on weekends)
- Pronouns
- She/Her
guys guys, you're all wrong
I'm pretty sure it's actually the story of Butterfly's Brilliant Binge of Building Bullshit for her Boys And Also Some Unimportant Politics Stuff That Happened On The Side.
I'm pretty sure it's actually the story of Butterfly's Brilliant Binge of Building Bullshit for her Boys And Also Some Unimportant Politics Stuff That Happened On The Side.
Wyld Dark Sea Chapter 3
I love waking up to comments!
**
When Butterfly begins to dream, she immediately knows something is off. The loose sensation of dream-consciousness is far too sharp. The awareness of her body is in too much clarity. And the world around her is too obviously real, shaped though it is from mists and shadows. Above her, a sun shines, but does so anemically and through thick cloud cover. The light that reaches through is not warm, it holds no nourishment or guidance for life. Plants trapped beneath it would grow sickly and starve. There is a melancholy to it all, a quiet sense of sadness, and it is that detail that confirms it.
Her teacher is reaching out to her.
Butterfly looked around, a small smile brightening her face, and began looking for her teacher. It wasn't all that often they got to talk. Her clothes were different than the robes she wore normally, simpler and more tightly fitted, with protective leather covering her arms and chest. Her hair was tucked in a tight cap. At her back, her Unlight Bow murmured, flickering in and out of view. The opalescent melody within the starmetal wires sang quietly, asleep as it was since she made it.
"Glory?" she called out, voice barely louder than her bow.
"Hello, Butterfly," speaks a woman's voice from the mist, and the shadows bend beneath a sun too anemic to cast them, shaping into a woman's form in dark clothing, the pale mist forming the pallid features of her mentor, Fallen-in-Glory. She's smiling, but as ever the expression is vaguely sad. She performs a respectful curtsy in Butterfly's direction.
"Thank you for welcoming me into your dreams," she says, the words she has spoken each time she reaches out like this.
"You are very welcome to my dreams, I wouldn't want to pass up the chance to speak with you again," Butterfly greeted, then hesitated, wondering if she was supposed to elaborate more.
"Well, uh, I already told you how my trip went. How have you been since we last spoke?"
The sad smile has a touch of weariness that seems to emphasize Glory's ashen features, the subtle skinniness to her that speaks of a lot of weight lost in a very short period.
"Busy," she admits openly, "Very busy. Not so much that I cannot listen, yet enough that speaking regularly is difficult. I hope that Aleu has kept you in good company, in my absence, at least."
Fondness in the Sorceress' expression, as she speaks the kerub's name, her affection for the little demon is as clear now as it was when Butterfly was entrusted with her.
"She has. She's very clever, and likes to tell me about what she sees in her fortune telling. I've been keeping an eye out for texts on different methods to share with her, but I haven't seen any. Might have to write them up myself," Butterfly scratched the back of her neck with an awkward laugh, "I'm still trying to figure out what she likes."
"Bees," Glory says, with amusement, "Or tea with more honey than water, and let her read the leaves. They also enjoy a sort of tarot they invented, but sadly I have yet to be able to find any cards that Aleu does not already own."
"Bees..." Butterfly muttered, thinking, "thank you. I have a few ideas. We're close to being able to settle down, and I should have a bit of time and certainly more room than the ship to work on my projects. I haven't had a chance to make full use of my new set of tools."
"Yes," Glory nods, and worry tints her expression, the dark void of her eyes predicting doom, "That is the main reason I have come to speak to you. Your reports of the fae called the Earl, and your dealings with them."
There is no rebuke in her words, no anger, but the air fills with the gnawing sense of an important fact missing, a critical detail overlooked, doom flowing from a single innocuous mistake.
"The fae treats you as an equal," Glory continues, and while she does not move, the mist flows around her, and you might imagine she was pacing, "It speaks with respect. It offers wealth and power and honor. Things your old masters would never have truly shared. Things denied you all your life. This is why you have allied to it, this is the face it presents?"
The question is honest, and holds the possibility that Glory has misunderstood, that Butterfly might, in fact, know more about the situation than she.
The shadows whisper that doom will follow, should Butterfly speak falsely.
Butterfly looked down, avoiding Glory's worried expression, but that did nothing for what Butterfly could hear. She could feel her face warm, and the sensation that she had messed up filled her chest.
"Yeah, it was... nicer than I expected. More welcoming. I didn't expect to be treated that way, and we didn't even need to do much," her voice trailed off," it was nice."
"I have no doubt that it was," and Glory's voice is full of empathy, "It's the trap that they set. The lure that they use, when something too big to swallow whole comes close enough to snare. There can be no lasting favor with the Raksha. There can be no true friendship with the fae. They wear pleasant lies and fearsome faces like clothing, to change as befits their purpose. But, in the end, there is only one thing they want, and that is to consume . Love, hope, dreams, lives, souls. They will try to make it painful for you to leave them. To think ill of them."
"They will try to trick you into believing that they are people," and Glory's expression is firm and foreboding, "And this, above all else, you must not do."
And then there is an empty silence, and no shadows speak to her imagination, as Glory's pause invites the question, and invites Butterfly to wonder why that would be the great danger.
Butterfly frowned, thinking, distancing herself from herself so that she could look at it from the necessary angles. Why was it important to never believe them to be people? They seemed to put a great deal of effort into appearances and... plays.
"If I started believing them to be people, that be almost like... throwing them a line in a play? Like we're doing an improvisational scene. That'd be an opening, an invitation, in a way," she rubbed her forehead with the palm of her gloved hand. Thinking about people was hard, and harder still when trying to think about fae pretending to be people.
"Good," Glory smiles, and there is pride in her voice at Butterfly's conclusion, "You very nearly hit it. It's not just the line that you throw them. It's the risk posed, if one has compassion in their hearts. Those who believe the fae to be their friends, or lovers, are most vulnerable to being ensnared, because history is full of stories of those who sacrifice everything for love and friendship. The fae seek, against opponents they fear, to ensure that, when the time comes that we must destroy them or die, that we will be unable to raise a weapon in our defense. That you will be unwilling to harm a friend, or kill a prisoner, or flee a lover's embrace, even knowing that, behind the lies, you are being eaten alive. They will make you stay, even as they feast upon you. They will try to make you want to."
The dark fathoms of Glory's eyes emphasize her words, and invite the image of chains of gossamer to Butterfly's mind, of a happy future with a husband and family, of a tower risen in her name to watch over all the world, and every kiss and word of praise a bite, teeth shearing through flesh and into her very soul.
"They are monsters," Glory concludes softly, "And they are wise enough to fear you."
Butterfly shuddered, thinking on the images she had seen, the chains and the teeth. She thought on how she felt when she sat down at the table and felt sick to her stomach.
"That's- insidious. I wouldn't have noticed."
"It is their great power, their great danger," Glory says sympathetically, "They know what we crave, and offer it. They know what we fear, and threaten it. They tell beautiful lies, and we believe them, because it would hurt too much not to. It is why the Ancients built a moat of lightning and flame between the fae and Creation. It is why the Solars of old came armed and armored, and offered no story but that of the conqueror exploiting the conquered," another sad smile flickers on her face, "Although, by the end, that was the only story the Solars could tell, anymore."
"I don't have anywhere else to run too," she said quietly, curled up, floating in the mist, "Ysyr is too close, and Prasad is too strong. I need strong protection to give me time. Time to craft and learn."
"I am not advising that you simply flee," Glory shakes her head, "Nor ordering you to. I am warning you of the dangers, so you can make your own decisions with eyes wide open. I would not see them eat you, little Butterfly. I should someday, instead, quite like to see your maw open wide, and swallow their sweet lies and beautiful treasures whole, to be digested and reforged into something more suitable for you."
For a moment, the smile is a fearsome thing, and the shadows whisper not of Butterfly's doom, but that of the fae, of emerald flames scorching and quiet darkness settling, of grand towers arisen and great beasts called forth.
The image is terrible and beautiful, and features her at its heart.
"You are capable of greatness," Glory concludes softly, "And I would not see it extinguished."
Butterfly took a deep breath, focusing on the words and encouragement Glory gave her. She thought about how the fae didn't deny or try to stop how she might one day do exactly as Glory's whispers encouraged. She could do this, she just needed to hold out for long enough. She had to protect herself, and not fall into their traps, else she'd disappoint Glory.
"Okay," she said, voice firm, if quiet, "thank you, Glory."
"You are quite welcome, little Butterfly," Glory says fondly, "And I have a gift for you, to pair with the lecture. Something prepared against the possibility that you were not so receptive, a disservice done to you in my thoughts. Would you like to see what you have done, that you might see what you may yet do? You will dream the rest of the night of what glories rest in your past, and what may still lie in your future. Perhaps you shall find it inspiring, rather than merely informative," her smile is gentle as she offers a black-gloved hand, for Butterfly to take, or to shy away from, as she chooses.
It took a moment to parse what Glory was offering, then she grinned in delight and took Glory's hand, "of course!"
The dreamscape fades to shadow, the mists overtaken by darkness, and for a moment, Butterfly imagines silvery dunes stretching out under an endless, starless night, before all sense of self fades, and a timeless darkness passes by.
It is not Butterfly who opens her eyes, and it is not the Earl's castle she stands in. Instead, she stands still in the sky, atop a cloud beneath her feet, and stares down at a blackened, wasted landscape, firemarks and toxic smoke extending for as far as can be seen in all directions.
"As you can see, my lady, the Thousand-Forged Dragon left no fae alive, but, alas, it didn't leave the fields, or the people to maintain them, either," a dry voice speaks next to her, a handsome man whose body seems composed of the same wisps that form the cloud beneath her feet, her longtime friend and close ally, the exiled Cloud Person called Thunderhead for his love of storms, "The Rains of Doom unleashed by our dear allies in the Deliberative made things worse, as well. I don't think there's much choice, if you want to avoid mass starvation."
She reached out, putting a calm hand on her friend's shoulder, "the land remembers what it should be. It just needs some help to find its way back."
She let her anima grow, hands reaching out to gather the tattered clouds and infuse them with her essence. She began to sing, gently, quietly, coaxing the land to sing with her, and recover. Her words were thread, and her essence the needle sewing the wound upon the land shut. It would heal, the scars would fade, and the twisted landscape would fade from memory. The rain came, and carried by her voice, and behind it plant and animal. People would follow after.
Minutes turn to hours, and the sun rises and falls with her words. The very Essence of Creation responds, rising from below and falling from above. Once, all this was naught but chaos and warring dreams competing to become real. The damage done by careless magic and unleashed superweapons and wicked fae is terrible, but nothing that she cannot undo. The patter of the rain and blowing of the wind seems to sing with her, and in some places it does, as the spirits of the wind pause in their duties to watch the miracle unfold.
Burnt ashes and poisoned geomancy turn to fertile soil, trenches gouged by titanic claws and lashing tails are filled out and gently eroded further. New rivers are born, and new plant life seeded, and all around the animals and spirits of Creation are called by the magic that made life itself from nothing, to come and do their part.
The sight begins to fade as she appreciates the fullness of her work come sunrise. She remembers that she wasn't really here, in a distant sense, but knows still that, a long time ago, she was. She sees the endless desert once more, as darkness closes in, and its significance is on the tip of her tongue, and then gone, as consciousness once more fades to timeless shadow.
When she opens her eyes, she is at war with a shining star. Though the bindings hold, waves of unearthly power clash against her mind. Toxic radiance shines bright, and she could not possibly close her eyes tightly enough to shield them from the pain of it. The marble floor begins to crack beneath her feet, her hair blows in a stellar wind and her ears are deafened by the howling rage of the Sun she has called forth and bound.
If she falters, she will die. If she falters, many will die. The Green Sun's rage is the stuff of legends, and the grand feast she is even now missing was originally proposed to keep people like her from doing exactly what she intends. There is no backing down. There is no turning back. She must pit her soul and will against that of the eldest and grandest of demon princes, or she must die. There is no middle ground.
She marshaled her will, hand clenched on her orichalcum cane. It's greater purpose as a focusing aid for this very summoning only secondary for keeping her mangled foot from getting caught in the shattering floor. The shining gems along its length sending reflections dancing madly throughout the summoning hall. She cared not for the cost of the damage inflicted.
"Ligier," she spoke, for the first time since she had begun the binding, voice rasping and iron, "tell me of the light of Ruvelia."
The screaming slowly quiets, as her will clenches down on the impossible force opposing her. The command is channeled through her focus, and as the light dies away, a handsome man, unnaturally tall, with bronze skin that seems to almost shine with green light, a great blade in his hand, twitching and hungry, and a seething, endless rage boiling around him.
"You dare speak her name," and the hatred in the Green Sun's voice is a seething poison, she knows, if she had heard those words unprotected, she would be dying even now, wasting and scorched by fathomless burning spite.
"I will speak it again, and thrice, if I must," she narrowed her eyes. There were many lights, many suns, some true, most not. The light of the Yellow Sun was easiest obtained, the Green Sun Less so. The Red Sun... that light had not shown since the greatest strike was inflicted upon what became Malfeas, "I have seen the augury. I know. A stream of her Light yet remains, somewhere. Tell me of the Light of Ruvelia."
The hatred in Ligier's eyes is beyond murderous, even as the binding sets in, and shifts every priority of the terrible spirit. Even as his loyalty bends towards her, she can see that it only equals the depths of his hatred, and does not exceed it. It is said that Hell's great prince despises even its King for the humiliations the Exalted inflicted, and in that wrath she can imagine how that could be so.
There is nothing that exists that this being is not capable of hating, because the Exalted destroyed that which it loved most.
"The last I saw of her Light," Ligier speaks, with deathly softness now, as the binding enforces a measure of calm, and prevents his violent screams, "It was being harvested from her slit throat as she died. By you and yours, 'o Prince," and Ligier manages to convey millenia of grief and misery in that honorific, as his eyes burn into hers, and flay away every deception she has ever used, every pretense she has ever held. The Green Sun cannot raise a hand to her here, cannot even raise his voice. But he can stare into her soul, with ancient eyes, eyes that saw the birth of death, the birth of time itself, and he can remember .
She knows that, someday, she will pay a terrible price for this.
"There is a vault," the words come out slowly, as if pried from his tongue like teeth from his jaw, "In the heart of the Hierophant's Manse. And there is a lens, within the Imperial Manse, at the heart of your Sword of Creation. In both places, her light shines still. May they bring you death and pain.
She did not smile. Not against the weight of the gaze, but it was the key she was looking for. The last light she needed. She would need to work her way into that project. She knew of the weapon's reputation, but despite its durability, it still had minders. If she could just get access... then she would have them, the light of all phenomena that had ever graced Creation and more. United, and brought beyond what they were.
"Very well," she continued, she moved her thumb, pressing a small star shaped button on her cane. Shutters opened, uncovering mirrors.
"Ligier, I will have you pour your light, nondestructively, into these mirrors. Then you shall be banished."
The Green Sun stares at her wordlessly, and then there is nothing but light. It shines with a brilliance that evokes the most terrible of magics, extorted from the very being now blinding her. Were she mortal, she would turn to ash. Were she unprotected, she would burn. But the bindings apply, and her command was placed, and the light does not destroy, for all the terrible strength it holds. Everything she needs, she is given, and as the light pours fourth, the Demon Sun whispers in her ear.
"I have seen thousands of your kind rise and fall. Your dreams will be as ashes. Your hopes will turn to dust. You will be forgotten, never to be remembered, as all mankind must be, in the end. No god nor traitor can change this truth."
She snarled, "I refuse. My work will be completed. Even if I have to slaughter my way to Ruvelia's Light myself."
The Green Sun laughs, long and loud and full of merry spite. Laughter fills the room and laughter fills her mind. Laughter that her work could matter. Laughter that she dreams it will complete her. Mad and mocking, it is all she can hear until at last she banishes the demon. Even so, it lingers, what the demon prince thought of her, of all her works, and a scent of acrid hatred.
It was the laugh that shook her, and she screamed back. She screamed, and ranted, and it was not enough.
The last she would hear was that laugh, her works destroyed and stricken from mortal record.
The darkness comes through as the screams and ranting and laughter fades, and once more there is only silver dunes and a timeless sense of nothing.
And then, as her eyes open, she looks upon the end of the world. A titanic horror, a scorpion whose sting seems to brush the dome of the Heavens. The Exalted host are scattered, taming Creation after this latest series of unmitigated disasters. The Dragon-Blooded swarm in their hundreds, but their thousands are needed. A handful of the Lunar Exalted wrap around the beasts ankles and burrow into its flesh, but it presses on regardless. The Solars are few and far between, and she is the only Sorcerer. The others fly as fast as they can, but the string strikes once more, and the mere shockwave of it flattens dozens of miles of forest. The poison sinks deep into Creation itself, and the world dies by inches.
She is the only Sorcerer here. The only one who might unleash power on the scale that is needed. They need time. They need a decisive blow it can't ignore. They need to stall it long enough for reinforcements to arrive, without losing all of the East to the poison it carries with it.
She must unleash Total Annihilation.
She was a child, in comparison to the Solars that had once stood next to her, the elder sorcerers of her coterie. She shivered, clutching the shimmering furs closer around herself. Her brow glinted, a multifaceted gem embedded within her forehead, reflecting light. Her castemark loomed above it, a beacon marking her position. She stood on green grass, but to her left and right, was blasted landscape. In front of her, where the triangle of grass ended, a corpse lay. Her teacher, the one who initiated her into sorcery, had deflected an errant strike away from her.
She raised a hand, two fingers pressed against the gem. She began chanting, running through the necessary calculations, calling upon Ligier's name. Artifact wings at her back spread, humming and pulling power from the very air to fuel her magic.
As she watches, the tail snaps out again, and like thunder it seems to split the sky as it passes. A Hearth of Dragon-Blooded are knocked violently from the air, spiraling towards the ground. The poison twists the geomancy further, and the elementals howl Creation's agony. Another step is taken, and the Exalts restraining its legs are forced to scatter all over again. The power comes rapidly, as fast as she can gather it, but still too slowly .
She gritted her teeth, and chanted faster. Her throat was dry, the air here so unlike the weather of her Western palace.
She interwove the oaths she had extracted from elementals, and proud gods, who had pledged their might to her. She called upon their power, drawing their strength. She had to do this. She was worthy once, but did that mean she remained worthy?
The power gathered begins to take texture in her grasp. The purity of it blackening, toxifying, and her desperation and doubt begins to turn to a sickening hatred and burning resentment. From far, far away, from a distance measured in time rather than space, the power comes to her, via a path that defies comprehension. Five days away, Ligier glances towards Creation, a momentary flicker of attention from some great work, and she knows the Green Sun's eyes are upon this. She can feel the pride and rage and hate and pain that is Hell's Sun, how it burns to hold even this fraction of his power.
The beast takes another step, and its sting strikes again. The venom spots are beginning to overlap. If not stopped, it will just keep striking, until Creation itself rots away, the spite of the Ishvara so recently beaten, at such great cost.
The spell has to be enough. It has to.
She called upon the last option she had. Fixing her eyes upon the beast, she raised her other hand, letting the cloak snap and writhe with the wind. She spoke her Secret Name, the one writ upon Creation in a hidden place. The syllables burned her throat, but finally finally the dam broke.
The spell was unleashed.
The spark flies out from her grasp, growing and growing as it does so. It passes beneath the beast's great shadow, and becomes all the more radiant, removed from the Yellow Sun's light. There it stills, for the barest instant, and then it explodes.
A pillar of blinding viridian light erupts into existence as the beast takes its next step, punching effortlessly through carapace and ichor and whatever foul organs and muscles the Wyld dreamed up to allow it to move within Creation, skewering it in a moment. Its momentum, so easily changed beyond Creation's borders, carries it relentlessly forward, dragging it through the titanic field of expanding total annihilation, erasing more of its body from existence.
Even at this distance, she can feel the heat of it. The forest catches flame all around, even the grass beneath her feet burns and blackens, she feels as though she were standing by a lava pit, the hairs on her skin singing away. She can see Ligier's light scarring the Eastern Jungles, burning and sickening all it touches. And yet, as terrible as the Green Sun's hatred is, it burns away the toxic nightmare venom seeping into Creation's depths. Burns away the poison everywhere the light shines upon it, even as the world shakes with the keening howl of the monster.
The light shines on, growing more radiant and the viridian starlight expands even further, and has carved through miles of monster, severed a leg entirely. The unstoppable movement of it spells its doom in the face of the laws written into Creation itself combined with Ligier's infinite rage.
It does not kill the monster, but the momentum of it is arrested. The Exalted who fought it regather and swoop down. She sees a Lunar's nightmare swarm-shape fly into the gaping wounds left in the horror, to begin the work of consuming it from within.
The battle is over. All that is left is the execution, and to once more begin rebuilding the terrible damage done to Creation. This time, much of it inflicted by her, if the way Total Annihilation continues to expand is any indication.
How many more times can they be expected to do this?
How many more battles must be fought before the Exalted Host can finally rest ?
She looked around, watching the devastation she had wrought. Then she looked at her fallen comrades, the ones she had only months before joined. She fell to her knees, and sobbed.
The shadows begin to gather again, and she feels herself once more divorce from the moment. But across this lifetime, and many others, she feels the conviction of countless souls echo, their firm answer to the question asked, no matter how many times they fall, no matter what horrors drive them to the ground.
As many as they must. As many as it takes.
Butterfly's dreams turn from the past, from pain and pride and hope, towards the future with what she now knows. With the power that can exist, that one day she will truly call her own. She dreams of the future, and all the wonders she will bring to it.
**
When Butterfly begins to dream, she immediately knows something is off. The loose sensation of dream-consciousness is far too sharp. The awareness of her body is in too much clarity. And the world around her is too obviously real, shaped though it is from mists and shadows. Above her, a sun shines, but does so anemically and through thick cloud cover. The light that reaches through is not warm, it holds no nourishment or guidance for life. Plants trapped beneath it would grow sickly and starve. There is a melancholy to it all, a quiet sense of sadness, and it is that detail that confirms it.
Her teacher is reaching out to her.
Butterfly looked around, a small smile brightening her face, and began looking for her teacher. It wasn't all that often they got to talk. Her clothes were different than the robes she wore normally, simpler and more tightly fitted, with protective leather covering her arms and chest. Her hair was tucked in a tight cap. At her back, her Unlight Bow murmured, flickering in and out of view. The opalescent melody within the starmetal wires sang quietly, asleep as it was since she made it.
"Glory?" she called out, voice barely louder than her bow.
"Hello, Butterfly," speaks a woman's voice from the mist, and the shadows bend beneath a sun too anemic to cast them, shaping into a woman's form in dark clothing, the pale mist forming the pallid features of her mentor, Fallen-in-Glory. She's smiling, but as ever the expression is vaguely sad. She performs a respectful curtsy in Butterfly's direction.
"Thank you for welcoming me into your dreams," she says, the words she has spoken each time she reaches out like this.
"You are very welcome to my dreams, I wouldn't want to pass up the chance to speak with you again," Butterfly greeted, then hesitated, wondering if she was supposed to elaborate more.
"Well, uh, I already told you how my trip went. How have you been since we last spoke?"
The sad smile has a touch of weariness that seems to emphasize Glory's ashen features, the subtle skinniness to her that speaks of a lot of weight lost in a very short period.
"Busy," she admits openly, "Very busy. Not so much that I cannot listen, yet enough that speaking regularly is difficult. I hope that Aleu has kept you in good company, in my absence, at least."
Fondness in the Sorceress' expression, as she speaks the kerub's name, her affection for the little demon is as clear now as it was when Butterfly was entrusted with her.
"She has. She's very clever, and likes to tell me about what she sees in her fortune telling. I've been keeping an eye out for texts on different methods to share with her, but I haven't seen any. Might have to write them up myself," Butterfly scratched the back of her neck with an awkward laugh, "I'm still trying to figure out what she likes."
"Bees," Glory says, with amusement, "Or tea with more honey than water, and let her read the leaves. They also enjoy a sort of tarot they invented, but sadly I have yet to be able to find any cards that Aleu does not already own."
"Bees..." Butterfly muttered, thinking, "thank you. I have a few ideas. We're close to being able to settle down, and I should have a bit of time and certainly more room than the ship to work on my projects. I haven't had a chance to make full use of my new set of tools."
"Yes," Glory nods, and worry tints her expression, the dark void of her eyes predicting doom, "That is the main reason I have come to speak to you. Your reports of the fae called the Earl, and your dealings with them."
There is no rebuke in her words, no anger, but the air fills with the gnawing sense of an important fact missing, a critical detail overlooked, doom flowing from a single innocuous mistake.
"The fae treats you as an equal," Glory continues, and while she does not move, the mist flows around her, and you might imagine she was pacing, "It speaks with respect. It offers wealth and power and honor. Things your old masters would never have truly shared. Things denied you all your life. This is why you have allied to it, this is the face it presents?"
The question is honest, and holds the possibility that Glory has misunderstood, that Butterfly might, in fact, know more about the situation than she.
The shadows whisper that doom will follow, should Butterfly speak falsely.
Butterfly looked down, avoiding Glory's worried expression, but that did nothing for what Butterfly could hear. She could feel her face warm, and the sensation that she had messed up filled her chest.
"Yeah, it was... nicer than I expected. More welcoming. I didn't expect to be treated that way, and we didn't even need to do much," her voice trailed off," it was nice."
"I have no doubt that it was," and Glory's voice is full of empathy, "It's the trap that they set. The lure that they use, when something too big to swallow whole comes close enough to snare. There can be no lasting favor with the Raksha. There can be no true friendship with the fae. They wear pleasant lies and fearsome faces like clothing, to change as befits their purpose. But, in the end, there is only one thing they want, and that is to consume . Love, hope, dreams, lives, souls. They will try to make it painful for you to leave them. To think ill of them."
"They will try to trick you into believing that they are people," and Glory's expression is firm and foreboding, "And this, above all else, you must not do."
And then there is an empty silence, and no shadows speak to her imagination, as Glory's pause invites the question, and invites Butterfly to wonder why that would be the great danger.
Butterfly frowned, thinking, distancing herself from herself so that she could look at it from the necessary angles. Why was it important to never believe them to be people? They seemed to put a great deal of effort into appearances and... plays.
"If I started believing them to be people, that be almost like... throwing them a line in a play? Like we're doing an improvisational scene. That'd be an opening, an invitation, in a way," she rubbed her forehead with the palm of her gloved hand. Thinking about people was hard, and harder still when trying to think about fae pretending to be people.
"Good," Glory smiles, and there is pride in her voice at Butterfly's conclusion, "You very nearly hit it. It's not just the line that you throw them. It's the risk posed, if one has compassion in their hearts. Those who believe the fae to be their friends, or lovers, are most vulnerable to being ensnared, because history is full of stories of those who sacrifice everything for love and friendship. The fae seek, against opponents they fear, to ensure that, when the time comes that we must destroy them or die, that we will be unable to raise a weapon in our defense. That you will be unwilling to harm a friend, or kill a prisoner, or flee a lover's embrace, even knowing that, behind the lies, you are being eaten alive. They will make you stay, even as they feast upon you. They will try to make you want to."
The dark fathoms of Glory's eyes emphasize her words, and invite the image of chains of gossamer to Butterfly's mind, of a happy future with a husband and family, of a tower risen in her name to watch over all the world, and every kiss and word of praise a bite, teeth shearing through flesh and into her very soul.
"They are monsters," Glory concludes softly, "And they are wise enough to fear you."
Butterfly shuddered, thinking on the images she had seen, the chains and the teeth. She thought on how she felt when she sat down at the table and felt sick to her stomach.
"That's- insidious. I wouldn't have noticed."
"It is their great power, their great danger," Glory says sympathetically, "They know what we crave, and offer it. They know what we fear, and threaten it. They tell beautiful lies, and we believe them, because it would hurt too much not to. It is why the Ancients built a moat of lightning and flame between the fae and Creation. It is why the Solars of old came armed and armored, and offered no story but that of the conqueror exploiting the conquered," another sad smile flickers on her face, "Although, by the end, that was the only story the Solars could tell, anymore."
"I don't have anywhere else to run too," she said quietly, curled up, floating in the mist, "Ysyr is too close, and Prasad is too strong. I need strong protection to give me time. Time to craft and learn."
"I am not advising that you simply flee," Glory shakes her head, "Nor ordering you to. I am warning you of the dangers, so you can make your own decisions with eyes wide open. I would not see them eat you, little Butterfly. I should someday, instead, quite like to see your maw open wide, and swallow their sweet lies and beautiful treasures whole, to be digested and reforged into something more suitable for you."
For a moment, the smile is a fearsome thing, and the shadows whisper not of Butterfly's doom, but that of the fae, of emerald flames scorching and quiet darkness settling, of grand towers arisen and great beasts called forth.
The image is terrible and beautiful, and features her at its heart.
"You are capable of greatness," Glory concludes softly, "And I would not see it extinguished."
Butterfly took a deep breath, focusing on the words and encouragement Glory gave her. She thought about how the fae didn't deny or try to stop how she might one day do exactly as Glory's whispers encouraged. She could do this, she just needed to hold out for long enough. She had to protect herself, and not fall into their traps, else she'd disappoint Glory.
"Okay," she said, voice firm, if quiet, "thank you, Glory."
"You are quite welcome, little Butterfly," Glory says fondly, "And I have a gift for you, to pair with the lecture. Something prepared against the possibility that you were not so receptive, a disservice done to you in my thoughts. Would you like to see what you have done, that you might see what you may yet do? You will dream the rest of the night of what glories rest in your past, and what may still lie in your future. Perhaps you shall find it inspiring, rather than merely informative," her smile is gentle as she offers a black-gloved hand, for Butterfly to take, or to shy away from, as she chooses.
It took a moment to parse what Glory was offering, then she grinned in delight and took Glory's hand, "of course!"
The dreamscape fades to shadow, the mists overtaken by darkness, and for a moment, Butterfly imagines silvery dunes stretching out under an endless, starless night, before all sense of self fades, and a timeless darkness passes by.
It is not Butterfly who opens her eyes, and it is not the Earl's castle she stands in. Instead, she stands still in the sky, atop a cloud beneath her feet, and stares down at a blackened, wasted landscape, firemarks and toxic smoke extending for as far as can be seen in all directions.
"As you can see, my lady, the Thousand-Forged Dragon left no fae alive, but, alas, it didn't leave the fields, or the people to maintain them, either," a dry voice speaks next to her, a handsome man whose body seems composed of the same wisps that form the cloud beneath her feet, her longtime friend and close ally, the exiled Cloud Person called Thunderhead for his love of storms, "The Rains of Doom unleashed by our dear allies in the Deliberative made things worse, as well. I don't think there's much choice, if you want to avoid mass starvation."
She reached out, putting a calm hand on her friend's shoulder, "the land remembers what it should be. It just needs some help to find its way back."
She let her anima grow, hands reaching out to gather the tattered clouds and infuse them with her essence. She began to sing, gently, quietly, coaxing the land to sing with her, and recover. Her words were thread, and her essence the needle sewing the wound upon the land shut. It would heal, the scars would fade, and the twisted landscape would fade from memory. The rain came, and carried by her voice, and behind it plant and animal. People would follow after.
Minutes turn to hours, and the sun rises and falls with her words. The very Essence of Creation responds, rising from below and falling from above. Once, all this was naught but chaos and warring dreams competing to become real. The damage done by careless magic and unleashed superweapons and wicked fae is terrible, but nothing that she cannot undo. The patter of the rain and blowing of the wind seems to sing with her, and in some places it does, as the spirits of the wind pause in their duties to watch the miracle unfold.
Burnt ashes and poisoned geomancy turn to fertile soil, trenches gouged by titanic claws and lashing tails are filled out and gently eroded further. New rivers are born, and new plant life seeded, and all around the animals and spirits of Creation are called by the magic that made life itself from nothing, to come and do their part.
The sight begins to fade as she appreciates the fullness of her work come sunrise. She remembers that she wasn't really here, in a distant sense, but knows still that, a long time ago, she was. She sees the endless desert once more, as darkness closes in, and its significance is on the tip of her tongue, and then gone, as consciousness once more fades to timeless shadow.
When she opens her eyes, she is at war with a shining star. Though the bindings hold, waves of unearthly power clash against her mind. Toxic radiance shines bright, and she could not possibly close her eyes tightly enough to shield them from the pain of it. The marble floor begins to crack beneath her feet, her hair blows in a stellar wind and her ears are deafened by the howling rage of the Sun she has called forth and bound.
If she falters, she will die. If she falters, many will die. The Green Sun's rage is the stuff of legends, and the grand feast she is even now missing was originally proposed to keep people like her from doing exactly what she intends. There is no backing down. There is no turning back. She must pit her soul and will against that of the eldest and grandest of demon princes, or she must die. There is no middle ground.
She marshaled her will, hand clenched on her orichalcum cane. It's greater purpose as a focusing aid for this very summoning only secondary for keeping her mangled foot from getting caught in the shattering floor. The shining gems along its length sending reflections dancing madly throughout the summoning hall. She cared not for the cost of the damage inflicted.
"Ligier," she spoke, for the first time since she had begun the binding, voice rasping and iron, "tell me of the light of Ruvelia."
The screaming slowly quiets, as her will clenches down on the impossible force opposing her. The command is channeled through her focus, and as the light dies away, a handsome man, unnaturally tall, with bronze skin that seems to almost shine with green light, a great blade in his hand, twitching and hungry, and a seething, endless rage boiling around him.
"You dare speak her name," and the hatred in the Green Sun's voice is a seething poison, she knows, if she had heard those words unprotected, she would be dying even now, wasting and scorched by fathomless burning spite.
"I will speak it again, and thrice, if I must," she narrowed her eyes. There were many lights, many suns, some true, most not. The light of the Yellow Sun was easiest obtained, the Green Sun Less so. The Red Sun... that light had not shown since the greatest strike was inflicted upon what became Malfeas, "I have seen the augury. I know. A stream of her Light yet remains, somewhere. Tell me of the Light of Ruvelia."
The hatred in Ligier's eyes is beyond murderous, even as the binding sets in, and shifts every priority of the terrible spirit. Even as his loyalty bends towards her, she can see that it only equals the depths of his hatred, and does not exceed it. It is said that Hell's great prince despises even its King for the humiliations the Exalted inflicted, and in that wrath she can imagine how that could be so.
There is nothing that exists that this being is not capable of hating, because the Exalted destroyed that which it loved most.
"The last I saw of her Light," Ligier speaks, with deathly softness now, as the binding enforces a measure of calm, and prevents his violent screams, "It was being harvested from her slit throat as she died. By you and yours, 'o Prince," and Ligier manages to convey millenia of grief and misery in that honorific, as his eyes burn into hers, and flay away every deception she has ever used, every pretense she has ever held. The Green Sun cannot raise a hand to her here, cannot even raise his voice. But he can stare into her soul, with ancient eyes, eyes that saw the birth of death, the birth of time itself, and he can remember .
She knows that, someday, she will pay a terrible price for this.
"There is a vault," the words come out slowly, as if pried from his tongue like teeth from his jaw, "In the heart of the Hierophant's Manse. And there is a lens, within the Imperial Manse, at the heart of your Sword of Creation. In both places, her light shines still. May they bring you death and pain.
She did not smile. Not against the weight of the gaze, but it was the key she was looking for. The last light she needed. She would need to work her way into that project. She knew of the weapon's reputation, but despite its durability, it still had minders. If she could just get access... then she would have them, the light of all phenomena that had ever graced Creation and more. United, and brought beyond what they were.
"Very well," she continued, she moved her thumb, pressing a small star shaped button on her cane. Shutters opened, uncovering mirrors.
"Ligier, I will have you pour your light, nondestructively, into these mirrors. Then you shall be banished."
The Green Sun stares at her wordlessly, and then there is nothing but light. It shines with a brilliance that evokes the most terrible of magics, extorted from the very being now blinding her. Were she mortal, she would turn to ash. Were she unprotected, she would burn. But the bindings apply, and her command was placed, and the light does not destroy, for all the terrible strength it holds. Everything she needs, she is given, and as the light pours fourth, the Demon Sun whispers in her ear.
"I have seen thousands of your kind rise and fall. Your dreams will be as ashes. Your hopes will turn to dust. You will be forgotten, never to be remembered, as all mankind must be, in the end. No god nor traitor can change this truth."
She snarled, "I refuse. My work will be completed. Even if I have to slaughter my way to Ruvelia's Light myself."
The Green Sun laughs, long and loud and full of merry spite. Laughter fills the room and laughter fills her mind. Laughter that her work could matter. Laughter that she dreams it will complete her. Mad and mocking, it is all she can hear until at last she banishes the demon. Even so, it lingers, what the demon prince thought of her, of all her works, and a scent of acrid hatred.
It was the laugh that shook her, and she screamed back. She screamed, and ranted, and it was not enough.
The last she would hear was that laugh, her works destroyed and stricken from mortal record.
The darkness comes through as the screams and ranting and laughter fades, and once more there is only silver dunes and a timeless sense of nothing.
And then, as her eyes open, she looks upon the end of the world. A titanic horror, a scorpion whose sting seems to brush the dome of the Heavens. The Exalted host are scattered, taming Creation after this latest series of unmitigated disasters. The Dragon-Blooded swarm in their hundreds, but their thousands are needed. A handful of the Lunar Exalted wrap around the beasts ankles and burrow into its flesh, but it presses on regardless. The Solars are few and far between, and she is the only Sorcerer. The others fly as fast as they can, but the string strikes once more, and the mere shockwave of it flattens dozens of miles of forest. The poison sinks deep into Creation itself, and the world dies by inches.
She is the only Sorcerer here. The only one who might unleash power on the scale that is needed. They need time. They need a decisive blow it can't ignore. They need to stall it long enough for reinforcements to arrive, without losing all of the East to the poison it carries with it.
She must unleash Total Annihilation.
She was a child, in comparison to the Solars that had once stood next to her, the elder sorcerers of her coterie. She shivered, clutching the shimmering furs closer around herself. Her brow glinted, a multifaceted gem embedded within her forehead, reflecting light. Her castemark loomed above it, a beacon marking her position. She stood on green grass, but to her left and right, was blasted landscape. In front of her, where the triangle of grass ended, a corpse lay. Her teacher, the one who initiated her into sorcery, had deflected an errant strike away from her.
She raised a hand, two fingers pressed against the gem. She began chanting, running through the necessary calculations, calling upon Ligier's name. Artifact wings at her back spread, humming and pulling power from the very air to fuel her magic.
As she watches, the tail snaps out again, and like thunder it seems to split the sky as it passes. A Hearth of Dragon-Blooded are knocked violently from the air, spiraling towards the ground. The poison twists the geomancy further, and the elementals howl Creation's agony. Another step is taken, and the Exalts restraining its legs are forced to scatter all over again. The power comes rapidly, as fast as she can gather it, but still too slowly .
She gritted her teeth, and chanted faster. Her throat was dry, the air here so unlike the weather of her Western palace.
She interwove the oaths she had extracted from elementals, and proud gods, who had pledged their might to her. She called upon their power, drawing their strength. She had to do this. She was worthy once, but did that mean she remained worthy?
The power gathered begins to take texture in her grasp. The purity of it blackening, toxifying, and her desperation and doubt begins to turn to a sickening hatred and burning resentment. From far, far away, from a distance measured in time rather than space, the power comes to her, via a path that defies comprehension. Five days away, Ligier glances towards Creation, a momentary flicker of attention from some great work, and she knows the Green Sun's eyes are upon this. She can feel the pride and rage and hate and pain that is Hell's Sun, how it burns to hold even this fraction of his power.
The beast takes another step, and its sting strikes again. The venom spots are beginning to overlap. If not stopped, it will just keep striking, until Creation itself rots away, the spite of the Ishvara so recently beaten, at such great cost.
The spell has to be enough. It has to.
She called upon the last option she had. Fixing her eyes upon the beast, she raised her other hand, letting the cloak snap and writhe with the wind. She spoke her Secret Name, the one writ upon Creation in a hidden place. The syllables burned her throat, but finally finally the dam broke.
The spell was unleashed.
The spark flies out from her grasp, growing and growing as it does so. It passes beneath the beast's great shadow, and becomes all the more radiant, removed from the Yellow Sun's light. There it stills, for the barest instant, and then it explodes.
A pillar of blinding viridian light erupts into existence as the beast takes its next step, punching effortlessly through carapace and ichor and whatever foul organs and muscles the Wyld dreamed up to allow it to move within Creation, skewering it in a moment. Its momentum, so easily changed beyond Creation's borders, carries it relentlessly forward, dragging it through the titanic field of expanding total annihilation, erasing more of its body from existence.
Even at this distance, she can feel the heat of it. The forest catches flame all around, even the grass beneath her feet burns and blackens, she feels as though she were standing by a lava pit, the hairs on her skin singing away. She can see Ligier's light scarring the Eastern Jungles, burning and sickening all it touches. And yet, as terrible as the Green Sun's hatred is, it burns away the toxic nightmare venom seeping into Creation's depths. Burns away the poison everywhere the light shines upon it, even as the world shakes with the keening howl of the monster.
The light shines on, growing more radiant and the viridian starlight expands even further, and has carved through miles of monster, severed a leg entirely. The unstoppable movement of it spells its doom in the face of the laws written into Creation itself combined with Ligier's infinite rage.
It does not kill the monster, but the momentum of it is arrested. The Exalted who fought it regather and swoop down. She sees a Lunar's nightmare swarm-shape fly into the gaping wounds left in the horror, to begin the work of consuming it from within.
The battle is over. All that is left is the execution, and to once more begin rebuilding the terrible damage done to Creation. This time, much of it inflicted by her, if the way Total Annihilation continues to expand is any indication.
How many more times can they be expected to do this?
How many more battles must be fought before the Exalted Host can finally rest ?
She looked around, watching the devastation she had wrought. Then she looked at her fallen comrades, the ones she had only months before joined. She fell to her knees, and sobbed.
The shadows begin to gather again, and she feels herself once more divorce from the moment. But across this lifetime, and many others, she feels the conviction of countless souls echo, their firm answer to the question asked, no matter how many times they fall, no matter what horrors drive them to the ground.
As many as they must. As many as it takes.
Butterfly's dreams turn from the past, from pain and pride and hope, towards the future with what she now knows. With the power that can exist, that one day she will truly call her own. She dreams of the future, and all the wonders she will bring to it.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
This scene is, in hindsight, pretty neat by how much it was a 'wanna see something cool' moment between Butterfly and Glory, compared to its impacts later on.
Wyld Dark Sea Chapter 4
Please do comment, if you like this! We worked very hard on it <3
**
While Butterfly converses and dreams and Juran plans and thinks and makes his own way towards sleep and Aleu consults seriously with matters of honey-smeared tortoise shell, the servants of the Earl make good on Juran's suggestion of a morning departure. A hearty breakfast is prepared for them, but the Earl himself makes no appearance. It is the lesser fae and then Marxom with whom they deal. Five Lighting shows a small hint of relief when Juran reveals to her that she will be staying behind with the majority of his followers, most of whom would be little aid against a fae beast within its place of power, and whom could be at risk if left alone in the den of monsters.
"Watch yourself around that thing," she says seriously, glancing about as they finish picking the dozen followers with experience with both mines and strange beasts, just ahead of the departure time, "And I don't mean the Manticore. He's dangerous until you get that oath. You'll be in the lion's den, with a snake around your ankle. It'd be the worst damn time for you to go funny in the head, you got that?"
It is rare that Five Lightning speaks words that could be construed as rude to him, even quietly and out of earshot of others. It is even rarer than she alludes with direct concern to his nature, and the stories of the madness of the Anathema. Her expression is tight with concern, though, for all that she does not relish going to the belly of the beast with him, she worries to leave him vulnerable in a time of need.
"I understand quite well, and your concern is appreciated," Juran says, slightly bemused by the sudden intensity. Still, she isn't wrong. "Although should things go wrong - the scouts say it should take us five days to get there and back. Should the fifth pass with no sign of us, prepare the ship for sail. Should we approach a week, then set off. Do not wait for the last grains of sand to fall."
Butterfly had woken and felt more than refreshed. Her feelings on what she had seen in her dreams aside, as concerning as one in particular was, she felt energized and confident.
"I had some time to consider that problem while I dreamt," Butterfly said, in hopes of helping ease Five Lightning's concerns, "and am a bit more aware of the...seductiveness of their words. Be careful yourself, the Earl, or this castle itself, it does not need to respect space, and you might find yourself running for minutes down the same hall. Maybe spend time on the boat more than in here, yeah?"
Five Lightning has a harsh laugh for Butterfly's words, and a grim nod for Juran's.
"No one is going into the main city alone, or even in groups," she says firmly, "Much less the castle. They can talk to me as they need, but I won't be letting wanderers tempt the monsters, no matter how pretty their faces and vows. We'll be sailing slowly down the coast, the way we came, if it comes to it. If you get to the shore and do your demon light trick, we'll head that way. Gods know there's no holy ones to be offended in a place like this, and it'd be hard to miss such displays."
"Well, let us hope it does not come to that," Juran nods, though he cannot deny that it is a relief to have Five Lightning's professionalism behind him. Should the worst happen, he would not like to go knowing he had endangered those good people whose only sin was to believe in a fool. "Now then - Butterfly, I have ideas for this beast, but if you need any remaining supplies?"
Butterfly at first shrank back on herself at the laugh, before consciously standing back up straight with a frown and mild glare at Five Lightning.
"My portable forge is all packed up. Some ingots would be helpful, since I can make tools as we need it."
"I had them each pack an iron ingot with their kit," Five Lightning nods to the men holding a professionally courteous distance behind them, not close enough to overhear words whispered to keep privacy, but close enough to rush forth if called, or if disaster struck, "And the fae assured me the wagon he was preparing would hold them all. Should be enough, especially with your magic hands," Five Lightning glances respectfully at Butterfly's hands as she speaks, it's how she's always preferred to refer to Butterfly's particular gifts, unless the words Sorcery cannot be avoided.
"Oh, that's good," she said, frown melting away in the face of the, minor, compliment.
Five Lightning's nods of acknowledgement is both serious and respectful in the face of Butterfly's comment, and at last they reach the edge of the dockyards, and she stops.
"I'm gonna head back and start assigning some busywork, keep folks occupied and on the ball," she says, with one last concerned glance at both of them, "Don't get eaten, either of you. Wealth past one's station corrodes their soul, and mine's already imperiled enough with all these demons about. If I inherit your caravan with it, the next go-around will be as a frog, if I'm lucky ."
The words are flippant and mildly blasphemous, but the sentiment is real, and the nervousness of her forced smile robs the phrase of any bite. The time of biggest risk is now, the next week will likely determine the success or failure of this venture.
"Who says you're inheriting my caravan?" Juran says with some mild affront, "You're taking it back home and enacting my last will and testament, Five Lightning, or I will haunt you for the rest of your days."
Shaking his head, he turns back to his fellow Solar and the volunteers from his crew. Well paid volunteers, but still, their courage was to be commended.
"Well then. Let us not hesitate on the very verge of our goal," he says cheerfully, "Onwards!"
Aleu returned to Butterfly's side at that moment, holding with her Butterfly's bow. Butterfly grabbed it with a quiet thanks, spinning it in her hand. The bow sang, letting the yozi melody hum for a moment, before she let it rest against her back. She definitely didn't want to leave it on the boat.
The grimfaced men and women perk up a bit at Juran's apparent cheer, and the smile on Five Lightning's face as she turns away, carefully chosen to suggest there had only been lighthearted ribbing between them in their moment of goodbye. Led by a god-blooded and demon king, it becomes easier to remember that this venture isn't as doomed as such dealings with the fae often are. They adjust their iron breast plates, the packs they carry and the weaponry at their waists, and follow Juran up the long main road from the port to the city's north gate, where Marxom had expressed, with slightly clipped tones, that he would be waiting with their transport, and would quite appreciate not being made to wait too long.
It is not a long walk, as things go, and with the gates in sight they see, too, the fae in shiny steel armor, the towering wagon, constructed solidly in wood and capable of holding as many as twenty passengers, with three great steeds tied to the front of it, stomping their feet in agitation and shooting murderously intelligent glares at Marxom, who occasionally shoots them an irate look of his own.
The size of the beasts alone is impressive, taller and heavier built than even the warsteeds of the Prasadi Dynasts, and there is no doubt they could carry the wagon at speed, for the naked power in their bodies.
Even more impressive than their size, or the intelligent gleam in their eyes as they shift their weight and test the bindings holding them to the wagon, are the long, pointed horns that extend like pearly spirals from the center of their foreheads.
They're unicorns.
The Earl has a blessing of unicorns to carry the Solars to battle (or the negotiations, as the case may hopefully be).
Butterfly eyed the unicorns, and the sharp horns of each. They seemed restrained for the moment, but opted not to get too close anyways. She reached out and gently tugged Aleu to her side, maybe they should sit in the back.
"...well now," Juran says briskly, addressing Marxom as they approach and stopping quite carefully out of range of the unicorns and their viciously sharp horns, "I confess, this I was not expecting. Dare I hope that you are a trained handler of Unicorns, Marxom? Or perhaps have one in your employ?"
Marxom's smile is brittle, and his fine steel armor, Juran now sees, has a long scratch along the front, and a dent on the right pauldron, as if something attempted to run him through and was barely stopped by the armor.
"My sentence as Revee of Pravance demands a mastery of many esoteric skills, the most treasured and useful of which is the art of improvisation," the fairy knight says, in the tone of one who has faced their death six times before breakfast, and expects to face it another six times before noon. He is careful not to allow any personal sense of resentment to creep into his words as one of the unicorns stomps a hoof contemptuously, and gestures mockingly with its horn.
"I see."
Keeping his expression severe, Juran turned to regard the Unicorns... more than one of which had shifted to keep a wary eye on him. It could not be for his physical might or stature, for the Reeve was quite clearly superior in both, so... oh, of course! An old legend, proved true, that unicorns measured status by the hues they could maintain daubed upon their horns and hides!
Granted, those hues sometimes came from the crushed bodies of those that antagonized them, but via the splendour of his garments he was already ahead there. Now, how to frame this.
The unicorn that had just been taunting Marxom glances at Juran. Its dark eyes narrow as it glances him over, taking in the fineness of his armor, the clear coloring and artistry of it. The other two follow its gaze, and for a long moment Juran feels the weight as they survey him, the living pressure of the attention of so magical a creature.
And then the lead unicorn gives him a brief, approving nod, before turning back to Marxom and offering a nickering taunt, throwing its mane back haughtily.
Marxom's smile is icy, the earlier brittleness frozen over in the face of whatever insult had just been given.
"Careful, beast," he says, very softly, and for all that Juran and Butterfly knew that he must be more dangerous than he seemed, in this moment Marxom conveys a great deal of danger indeed, "We are immortals both, and yours are not the only grudges to live on in legend. The Earl's protection will only last so long."
The Unicorn meets Marxom's gaze for a moment, but it cannot long meet it. It glances away, with deliberate haughtiness, but all watching know that it blinked in their contest.
"It is a matter of colour, I am afraid," Juran offers, eyes gleaming briefly as he tracks the Reeve's feeling. Pride is the key to this one, for his pride is quite literally everything. "Their measure their status by it, by its vibrancy and variety. See the big one at the front, with the blue streaks on the horn? I imagine he got those from a kind of chalk or ore, and kept it through all the shows of force and duels to follow."
It sounds like an idle observation, but Marxom reads the truth of it, hidden beneath Juran's words.
There is no insult more dire than to rob a unicorn of it's hue, if the Earl's protection forbids direct harm.
Butterfly, having missed basically all of the byplay, was eyeing up Marxom's armor with a frown. She opened her mouth to suggest repairing it, but Juran was still talking. She hesitated and waited.
Marxom glances at Juran, as if mildly annoyed to be told something he know of generally, but a faint twitch of his lips conveys his comprehension of the true meaning.
"When I was first lashing it to the wagon, it assured me that my blood would paint its horn for a century," he replies drily, "I am not unaware of their idiosyncrasies."
But he was unaware of just how much it might humiliate the beast, and some of the dangerous tension leaves him, now that he has a means of potential retaliation.
Butterfly coughed quietly, "when we camp for the night, I can repair your armor. I don't like seeing such a gash mar the armor's form."
"Well, you heard the Reeve," Juran says to his followers, "Mount up, and don't get anywhere near those horns. They'll kill you and wear you for makeup, and that is just an undignified way to go."
He nods to the unicorns, then heads around to board the wagon himself, staying far clear of the beasts pulling it.
Marxom glances at Butterfly, for a moment there is naked surprise on his face at the consideration for him, and another bit of tension leaves him as he nods.
"I would most appreciate your aid," he says, bowing lightly at Butterfly, "the asymmetry bothers me, as well, and I have not the finest hand at smithing nor repair."
And then he returns to the unicorns, moving cautiously towards the driver's place on the wagon, the reins of gossamer which bind the unicorns to it. When all are boarded and safe in the spacious back, a number of thick blankets spread over the interior to reduce the discomfort of the ride, plus a crate of salted means and dried fruits for the trip, Marxom cracks the whip and lets out a Yah clearly intended to provoke the unicorns to anger, and with howls of rage they get to running, pulling through the open gates and onto to the road at great speed.
They had only gotten halfway before they stopped to cap. With the opportunity to make good on her offer, Butterfly set up her forge, and sent Aleu to fetch the necessary ingots for her plans. Unusual for the fae, this armor was steel, no gossamer at all, so she had to use some of her own materials. Still, she didn't feel that an issue. She wanted to not merely repair it, but also strengthen it. Her plan was to add some simple design work that would cleverly disguise the additional reinforcement and bracing to the chestplate.
The result was a work of art, pleasing to her eye, and hopefully pleasing to Marxom's. With a grin, she carried it to the fae. This wasn't to fall into the fae trap, she assured herself, but to capitalize on her earlier efforts with the heron gift.
Juran, meanwhile, spends most of the trip in the company of his guards. Good men, all of them, the sort who had grown familiar enough with his presence to not object when he joined their regular drills.
The trick with sword practice, he had found, was to make it entertaining as well as useful. It built camaraderie and created room for banter, to practice his defenses by having the guards toss stones for him to swat away with a wooden practice sword, and soon he was deflecting whole salvos of zipping pebbles with commendable reliability.
Marxom visibly preens as he dons his armor back before assuming watch, offering Butterfly a deep bow of respect, and deepening the sense of debt between them. She has the distinct feeling there's not many favors she could ask that he would feel disinclined to perform, so long as no oath of his was in the way.
Juran's training goes well, though each fault in his technique provokes whinnying snickers from the watching unicorns, who clearly appreciate having a show to distract from the tedium of the trip and grazing.
The night passes without incident, though with a faery knight and three unicorns standing primary watch, the number of beings in Creation capable of causing incident are quite small, even before the presence of Juran's guards and the Solars themselves. A quick breakfast and much spiteful stomping of hooves precedes resuming their surprisingly smooth ride across the roads of Pravance. They see occasional farmsteads or small villages, but each they pass swiftly, neither Marxom nor the unicorns having any time for set pieces or simpering mortals.
One more night spent camping passes without interest, and as the second morning becomes afternoon, you finally approach the mine itself. There are again nearby villages, some more populated than others. The nearest one you pass through directly, and while there are many women and some children about, no young or grown men are seen. The trip passes too quickly for Butterfly to spot it, but Juran sees it, in flashes and blurs, a village missing two generations of its people.
The Earl's comments of the Manticore and how it first moved against him echo in Juran's mind.
It did not speak. It simply killed.
Butterfly was heedless of this, focused as she was on playing a card game with Aleu, disregarding the bumpiness of the ride. It was startlingly complex. Enough so that the other passengers had long since given up on trying to keep up, leaving the pair to play by themselves.
"We're almost there," Juran says at last, tension settling over his men like a sudden weight when he speaks, "Get the meat out, in the special bowl just like we planned."
Manticores were born from poisoned corpses, after all, wrought from lions who devoured such things by the dreadful alchemy of the Wyld. The meat from a beast that died of poison was therefore among the sweetest of delicacies to their sensibilities, and an offering that Juran had prepared earlier.
They obey, taking a clay jar with the wrapped meat within, preserved as fresh as could be done, within the limitations of the trip. The meat is poured into a bowl of fine silver, sourced from the mine itself, and presented to Juran to carry forth himself, as the unicorns slow and then stop at the edge of the mine itself.
The mine is a vast pit carved into the earth, spiraling deeper down towards the tunnel that leads to the underground itself. It is unclear what exactly dug the pit out to begin with, it looks almost as if some vast tool was run through the earth to carve it away and gain access to the precious ore beneath. They will need to walk carefully down the spiraling path, the wagon is too large to go further.
Marxom dismounts ahead of them, walking over to the edge to look down, a pensive look upon his face.
Butterfly hopped out, with Aleu behind. She didn't go as far as approach the edge of the mine, but did look around at everything else. Was there any infrastructure left behind? Maybe a crane she could climb up and post herself on, where she would have the vantage of her bow, should she need it.
"Right then. Stay behind me, if you would, and let us play the respectful guests," Juran says with forced calm, holding the silver bowl in his hand as he makes for the spiraling path. There is a brief flare of golden light, and on his brow the mark of the Eclipse shines clearly, his words taking on an unusual timbre. "And let us trust our host is in a receptive mood."
There are no cranes there, though crates here and about, fallen tools and spilled silver ore, where fleeing miners clearly stumbled or dropped what they sought to carry free. Marxom follows quietly behind, one hand near his blade. The walk down is long, and thankfully it has not rained recently. The perfectly smooth stone would near-certainly become terribly perilous to descend, were it wet.
It's clear that this mine was big, even by the standards of Prasadi mining operations. The stone worn like this is vaguely reminiscent of the stone-carving magic of the Dragon-Blooded, and the wealth produced by this place must have been vast. The Earl's dismissive words for the relative unimportance of the place do not match the size of it, how much effort must have been spent to create a mine this size.
Butterfly sighed, resigned to the lack of useful infrastructure and followed after her ally. She was starting to get spooked, her hand twitched towards her bow at every noise and shadow.
When they reach the center, the entrance to the tunnel heading down into the darkness, illuminated by the light of Juran's Caste Mark, they see shredded bits of armor about. Gossamer shards, and bits of calcified flesh and blood are scattered about and stain the ground. Marxom's expression is grim.
"It seems that my sister quite nearly escaped," Marxom sighs, clearly melancholy, "I told her to bear the discomfort of steel. Gossamer is no proof against the Manticore."
"As warnings go," Juran murmurs quietly, "It's an effective one. I would be hard pressed to name a more imposing entrance."
There is no body to be seen, but attacks that shattered armor were unlikely to leave survivable injuries, and the scattered chunks of flesh invite them to consider claws slashing with such violence that chunks of meat are scattered about.
"It will not leave the mine to greet us," Marxom says, his bearing holding a silent agreement with Juran's sentiment, "This marks as far as it will go. We must enter, if we wish to see it."
Juran knows that this is the time to armor himself with all the power he holds. That he must draw no weapon, and speak no insult.
That, above all else, he must not turn his back to the mine, once he steps forward into it.
Juran exhales slowly. In his mind, he recites the mantras of his faith. He remembers his people, for whom he acts.
And he enters the lair of the beast.
Butterfly gently patted Marxom on the shoulder, not sure how one would go about offering condolences for a fae losing their... sibling? She didn't realize that was even a thing. Still, they had to go in deeper, so she stepped away, taking Aleu's hand and following Juran in.
Marxom offers her a smile in return, though his deeper thoughts do not show past the appreciative expression. He moves ahead of her, his bulk shielding her at this point. The tunnel, as they move ahead, is thin enough that it is unlikely the beast could pace around them. The deeper down they go, though, the more it widens, and the deeper the shadows.
They finally come out into a large central room, with tunnels leading off in multiple directions.
Blood stains the ground around them, fallen bits of ore and mining picks litter the ground. Multiple people died here, the last few who did were rapidly overwhelmed, the blood stains tell of terrible gushing wounds and fallen bodies grabbed and dragged off into the darkness.
This is where to place the offering. Any further would be trespass.
Smoothly, Juran comes to a halt. He lays down the bowl, its contents glistening slightly in the low light, and then takes several steps backwards. Then he sits, legs loosely crossed, hands on his knees.
"I wonder if it will make us wait," he murmurs, the light of his anima bathing the stone around him.
Marxom looks about, to and fro, but even with Juran's light, he sees nothing, no telltale movements in the shadows, no soft sound of padded feet on stone.
After some long moments of silence, a deep, drawling voice, harsh, as if from much yelling or smoking, begins to speak.
"A fae," it muses, rolling the words over in its mouth, dragging them out, "But not here to slay me? A shiny little man, who brings flesh seasoned with a venom I have never smelled? A scared girl, an infant goddess, but with such a pretty bow, singing such a pretty song~"
"Whatever am I meant to think?"
There is a deep amusement in the voice, alongside an obvious sense of pride. No one here could possibly miss that the speaker loves to hear themselves talk.
"Whatever shall I do?"
Somewhere, and it is unclear, the way the echoes sound, something flicks something hard against the stone of the mine.
"You might come out and introduce yourself," Juran says with a polite smile, even as his heart pounds in his chest, "For I have come a long way to speak with you, and yet I do not even know your name."
Something tells him that interrupting the beast would be a fatal mistake. Well, that is fine. It would not be the first time he has spoken with someone who could hold his life in their hand if their pride were offended.
"Name?" the word is drawn out, the tone inflected with deep irony, "My, my, I haven't had one of those in a long time. A name, a name," it ponders with deliberate drama, and as it does, another little click sounds out. Marxom tries to catch Juran's eye from the side, and gently gestures his head towards the easternmost tunnel, one which curves back up. Marxom's eyes flicker towards the ceiling, where shadows are cast above a possible upper level.
"Some have called me 'Gods, no!'" the Manticore, for that is clearly what speaks to them now, speaks the name in a sudden shriek, a young man's terrified cry, "Others named me 'Help, oh spirits please help me!'" it howls the phrase in a voice of sudden, sobbing terror and pain, "Are those names, shiny man? Would you like to cry for help, now?"
It's voice is back to the raw, deep rasp, and intoned with great curiosity, as if it was sincerely interested in his answer.
"A name is how one defines themselves," Juran offers, though his smile does fade somewhat at the sounds of the death-cries repeated back at them, "So I suppose those could be your names, if you are nothing but mimicry and shadow, the fears of your victims made manifest."
He pauses there for a moment, in thought. "I do not think this is the case. If it were, you would wear quite a different face for me, and speak in a different voice."
Aleu looked up at Butterfly, seeing her fright, and then very firmly grabbed Butterfly's right arm in a hug. This would prevent the Twilight from doing something rash like draw her weapon. Aleu knew better than to talk.
Butterfly herself was feeling trapped down here, though the hug was sufficiently distracting as to keep her from backing off. She had never fought before. Her skill with her bow was from practice and talent, but it was something she had learned of as she began her travels, not something she had to put into practice. She dearly hoped Juran succeeded in this task, because she feared she would be as useless in a fight as she was right now.
The Manticore considers that for a moment, from its shadowy perch.
"An interesting point," it allows, clearly thoughtful, "I am more than fear, because I am. I am more than the spray of blood, the scream of pain, for I remember what words are. And yet, I am not Ishaan, stung by a scorpion and eaten by a lion, for Ishaan feared blood in all its forms, and eschewed the eating of raw meat. So my name cannot be Ishaan."
Click click comes the tapping of something on stone, and Juran can imagine a great scorpion sting, lashing about back and forth like the tail of some great cat.
"Tell me, shiny man. If I stung you here, and fed you to my cubs, and you awoke behind their eyes, what would your name be? Would it be Shiny Man, nonetheless?"
"Hmm. You know, I'm not sure," Juran says, and he's actually surprised to find himself calm. Death threats just aren't as intimidating as they used to be. "I was named Juran by my kin, and took the name Heartsong from my deeds, and so I am both in a sense. Yet there was a time when I was just the one."
He smiles, the golden light on his forehead briefly brightening. "There are those who say Juran Heartsong is dead. He died, and a golden demon hollowed out his corpse and crawled inside to roost. There are others who say I have taken the second breath, that I was born twice and have not died. Which is true? Are either?"
He shrugs. "I do not think it matters. My name is what I call myself, and if I can lay claim to it after a life born again in gold, I would say Ishaan might be born again in you."
"I see," the Manticore says, and perhaps it lies, or perhaps it does, "Then, Juran Heartsong, what name should I hold from my deeds, if once kin did name me Ishaan? Silverblood, for I bleed the Duke of his greatest source of wealth? Manslayer, for all the men I have slain? Shadowspeaker, for I speak from the shadows? Clawflesh, for how I shall claw your flesh, when we are done conversing?"
The Manticore doesn't speak as if it is a threat, so much as an idle statement of fact.
Nonetheless, the bits of calcified fae strewn about the mine's threshold return suddenly to mind.
"Poor names all, if I might observe," Juran counters gamely, and yes, like he is playing a game, "The Earl weaves miracles from silk and makes pact with men like me, so this is not his greatest source of wealth. There are a thousand beasts out there who have slain men in greater quantities than you, so the name would be an empty boast. The shadows swathe you while my manners hold, but if light burned bright or faded away you would have nothing left to speak from. And as for the last..."
He grins. "Oh Ishaan. If you clawed my flesh and cracked my bones, who then would you bandy words with? Or are you truly content to lair here in silent eternity?"
Click click click, the irritated tapping of claws on stone. He can definitely hear the agitated swishing of a large tail.
"An irritating trap, one that I cannot punish you for without also springing it," comes the annoyed voice of the Manticore, "I begin to think you are not just shiny for fun. Too clever, too clever. But, fine!" and it very suddenly snaps the words out, "If you have a better idea, then speak it, Juran Heartsong, and prove your words more valuable than your flesh beneath my claws."
"Perhaps Ishaan Silvertongue, for your love of conversation?" Juran suggests, "Or Ishaan Lionheart, for the way that man's fears were burned away by a lion's pride and courage. I might even suggest Ishaan Twinsoul, to reflect this very search for meaning."
The suggestions are honest, the meanings true, but beneath them all is another implication. One who enjoys conversation must seek it out. One who is courageous cannot hide in the dark. One who desires meaning will be driven to search for it.
"The world is a vast and beautiful place, Ishaan, and there are as many names as stars in the sky," Juran continues, smiling wistfully, "Surely there must be one that speaks to you?"
Out there, under the sky, abroad in the world. If true meaning could be found in the shadows of this old mine, surely you would have found it by now?
The Manticore taptaptaps on the stone again, the swishing noise of its tail indicates the thoughtful silence that has taken it. For a long moment, there is no response.
While they conversed, Butterfly knelt down, rifling through her pack for the spare parts she had made while letting her hands idly work. She began fitting them together, building a constructed statuette of their present 'host'. It was extemporaneous, letting the words bandied about influence her and guide her hands to something of value and beauty. She warmed the wires that would hold the disparate silver pieces together by twisting them with a pair of pliers, back and forth, back and forth. The wire was swiftly woven in, forming a strong connection, and helping the little manticore and human statue take shape. Two forms in one.
Finally, it speaks.
"...Ishaan Silvertongue," it muses, irritation giving way to thoughtful reflection, "I do love silver, and there is a terrible dearth of conversation, now that the screams are no more. Yes. I like this name," and above Juran, motion can be seen, a large feline shape moving towards the edge of a ledge, and hopping down into the shadows cast by Juran's Caste Mark.
It is big, Juran can see now, even with the features indistinct. Longer than lions tend to get, with the muscular power of a tiger. It stalks forward, and Juran knows that, if it cared to, a single leap would see it on top of him, rending and tearing.
It steps into the light, approaching the bowl of meat between them, and as it does, Marxom immediately steps back and away from the food. Juran, Butterfly, and Aleu all know as well that it would be best to give it room, if it intends to eat.
The beast has silvery fur that catches the sunlight Juran shines with, and instead of a lion's face, there is a man's distorted features, dark skin, the same shade as Juran's, wide black eyes, dilated from the darkness, ringed by amber irises made thin by the pupils.
The beast is smiling, a grotesque expression revealing a mouthful of human teeth made sharp and jagged, the smile stretching too wide for the face, calling attention to the distortion in the bone structure.
Ishaan, whoever he was, might have been a countryman of Juran's. Perhaps they even shared a career, wandering merchants who found themselves in a place they should never have been, staring at a painful death fast approaching.
Smoothly, Juran stands, taking a few steps back. Manners are important, especially when dealing with something as terrifyingly dangerous as a Manticore.
Its paws are large, with vestigial fingertips poking out at the knuckles where long, vicious claws extend with every step it takes.
It sniffs at the silver bowl full of meat, once Juran stands back by Butterfly and Marxom, and opens its mouth wide, far too wide, and grabs entire contents of the bowl in its jaws, chewing messily and bloodily.
It doesn't take long for it to finish chewing, and then it looks up at them with a bloodstained mouth.
"It seems I was right not to simply slay you," it speaks in that horrible raspy base, "What venom is this? I have never tasted its like, even in the veins of those who worked the mines when I arrived."
The vast scorpion sting that it has instead of a lion's tail swishes steadily behind it, a slow contented motion compared to its earlier agitation.
"Silverback Coralfish," Juran says, hiding his nerves with professional ease. The Manticore is so much more intimidating up close, now that he can see it, but revealing that fear would be a disaster. "Shoals of them cluster around the hull whenever the ships trace the southern coast of the Dreaming Sea. It's a beautiful sight, even if you realise they're trying to sting the ship with their little barbs."
He smiles, careful not to show teeth just in case. "I've come across many poisons in my time upon the seas. Some wish to buy those that kill their enemies, while others favor the edge it adds to their food."
Just like you do. There are others out there with the same appreciation you have.
taptaptap, Juran sees it extend a long, wicked claw and tap on the stone floor thoughtfully. Its brow furrows as it considers that.
"Fish," it says, trying out the word on a rough, barbed tongue, "I know this word, but have never seen such things with my eyes. I remember that fish are to be eaten, and live in the water, but I cannot recall their taste."
It frowns, unsettled or bothered by something in Juran's words or its thoughts.
Statuette complete, she handed it off to Juran, then returned to Aleu's side. She still did not speak, for fear of ruining the gains Juran had apparently made.
"Well, I would be surprised to find fish in a place like this," Juran says, taking the gift from Butterfly as she passes it to him. He examines it briefly, and then nods to her in appreciation. "And alas, they do not survive out of water, so could not be easily brought here."
He tilts his head in thought, then nods.
"I am a merchant, a man who travels to many lands, and I have seen many sights in my day," he says, his voice a clear offer, "If it pleases you, Ishaan Silvertongue, I should be pleased in turn to have your company on my next such voyage."
The Manticore stares at the strange item in Juran's hands, the tail-swishing becomes more agitated as it considers the offer and the item alike.
"My companion here is an artisan - her works are one of the many things I trade in," Juran continues smoothly, picking up on the Manticore's sudden suspicion. He holds the gift out carefully, so that the beast can have a good look at it. "See? It is a thing of beauty, inspired by your words, wrought when all she knew of you was the impression that your silver tongue wove. Yours, if you wish it."
It stares at the item, its tail stopping for a moment.
"...a gift," it says, testing the word in its mouth, "I remember gifts. You came with tribute, then? And now offer a gift," it frowns, at the rush of memories it seems to be experiencing, or perhaps some long-buried emotion, "Ishaan-that-was has done this before. Food and fine treasures, to gain the patronage of a lord. Am I to be your lord, then, Juran Heartsong? Or perhaps to be your pet?"
Its expression turns a bit nastier, as it considers the possibilities, it's attention turning to Marxom.
"Why did you bring a fae to my lair?" it suddenly asks, "Why does the fae follow you?" the tail is thrashing violently now, "Did you trap it, then, with sweet meats and pretty gifts, that it must follow you, chained in debt?"
It takes a menacing step forward.
"Do you imagine debt can bind me?"
Beside Juran, Marxom is silent, impassive, taking the pose of the bodyguard, not daring to speak out of turn, lest the beast pounce.
"Peace, Ishaan, I have no such intent," Juran says quickly, holding up his hands, palms outward and nonthreatening. "My intent is honest - I wish to travel with you, to lands unseen and unknown, to meet new people and sample new pleasures. The food, the gift, these I brought to demonstrate my sincerity."
Juran spots it, through his alarm and through the sudden threat, the warring social instincts driving the Manticore to sudden paranoia. A scorpion does not feel, and lions are not such deep thinkers that they can worry themselves about such things as a suspicious gift, or another species' choice of company.
The manticore is intelligent, and through its intelligence the lion's instincts are roused, its position implicitly challenged. Juran has one great predator slaved, might he not be seeking a trophy pet to add to his fae bodyguard? It cannot allow such concerns to pass unchallenged.
"The Fae owes me no service. It is bound to the Earl, who claims to rule these lands," the merchant continues, a glint of understanding in his eye. "It is here to watch me, to make sure I go where the Earl wishes, that I see only what the Earl wishes me to see, to kill me if I step out of line."
I am not the one holding the chain. I cannot even control this Fae - how could I possibly hope to bind you?
Its dark eyes narrow, the tail still thrashes, but it doesn't advance another step as it considers Juran's words, glancing over at Marxom's impassive face.
Slowly, it sits back down, no longer posing to pounce, but its attention is firmly on the fae, watching it for any tell-tale reactions.
"Is this true, faery? Are you to be Juran Heartsong's executioner, if he does not drive me hence? Another trick by the cowardly Earl who dares not face me himself? Is it your opinion, then, that is the only one that matters here?"
Marxom's face is stone. Juran has seen the fae's ability to hide his reactions, most people wouldn't be able to read him. But the Manticore's senses are not limited to sight and facial expressions, and something causes it's eyes to narrow and tail to begin swishing, though not as violently as before.
"I am a servant of my Earl," Marxom says blandly, lowering his gaze and taking an obeisant posture, "And I guard these intermediaries while they travel through his lands. We cannot drive you forth, and so we must place our hopes that someone can find a reason you might leave. We are outmatched."
The thrashing tail calms again, as the beast scrutinizes Marxom for any sign of deception. The tension once more begins to die down, and it turns to Juran.
"It is the Earl's opinion, then, that matters," it seems to decide, speaking directly to Juran, "And through him, the Duke. But they are not here, only their slaves and..." it pauses, eyes narrowing, "What are you, then, to the Earl? You are not a slave, I see that plain. Are you a flunky, then? A mercenary? Hired to do the impossible, and drive me forth? Is that your plan? To win my mine back by having me leave it by choice?"
"I am no slave," Butterfly said, voice certain and firm, despite her fear, and despite not having said anything else thus far, "and I was not compelled here."
The Manticore's attention jerks over to Butterfly.
"Are you not?" it sniffs, literally, sniffing at the air in her direction, "You are not the armsbearer for Juran Heartsong, to hold his bow until he needs it? You matter, is that what you say? Are you the mastermind then, here to sit in silence while others speak on your behalf?"
"You reek of resentment, child, you stink like the fae," the Manticore throws a sneer at Marxom, whose fists quietly clench in rage, "But the fae dares not challenge me, because it knows what I do to uppity faeries. Do you know what I do to uppity mortal children, then? Do you know, and believe your metal skin will save you, if I decide to flay it from your bones?"
Butterfly's feet felt rooted to the spot, heavier by the weight of the gaze upon her than by her metal flesh. She said nothing.
Marxom's hand rests on her shoulders, and she feels him give her a comforting squeeze, even through the metal flesh.
"I do," he says softly in the darkness, "You have fought fae armored in gossamer, beast, and mortals dressed in tatters. You have never faced spell-metal, or you would know the answer to your threat. And while you scrabbled at her, a housecat breaking its teeth upon a turtle shell, I would be beating your skull in with the pommel of my blade. Juran would draw his own, and show you the terror that comes of facing the Solar Exalted. You are dangerous, monster, but so are we."
His soft, quiet voice takes on a threatening tone of amusement, as his lips form a daring smile.
"And you know it, or you would not be posturing so."
"This could end in violence," Juran nods, entirely honest, "But I did not come here for that. I came here because I want what the Earl has - his treasures, his servants, his land. He in turn wants what I have - my stories, my knowledge, my goods from distant shores. And so we trade"
He nods briefly to Marxom. "As the Fae says - the Earl wants me to find a reason for you to leave, and so he offers me great treasures if I can see it done. But I cannot force you, even if I wished, and nor can I simply trick you. So again, I must trade."
He spreads his arms, bares his heart. "So I come to you with tribute, and I come to you with gifts. I come to offer you a guide to distant lands, to places filled with fish and plants and people you have never seen before, and I come with an offer of company and conversation. I come before you, and I ask - will you not travel with me?"
The Manticore looks between them, and on its face is ill-concealed doubt. The slave stands up, and declares themselves free. The chained beast rises, and defends its captor, even in the face of death. The shining one who gave it a name makes such reasoned arguments, and slowly the Manticore begins to wonder what, exactly, is going to happen if it says no.
Juran's words hang in the air, echoing off the cavern walls, shivering with divine power. His outstretched hand is limmed with gold, his eyes as bright as the sign on his brow, his fine robes rippling slightly as divine fire plays across his form.
Even in the darkness beneath the earth, the sun yet shines.
In the lair of the monster, a hero speaks.
"...and you will slay me, if I don't," the Manticore whispers into the darkness, in a voice tense with rage and, beneath and hidden, no small amount of fear at the burning presence of Juran's soul, "Fear is the chain that will bind me, if I do not accompany you freely. Yes," its lip curls in disgust, "Ishaan remembers monsters like you. Golden devils. Anathema, but you were just a story."
Its attention flickers towards Marxom for a moment, before returning to Juran.
"...an Oath," it spits, "Using your devil magic. Binding you , if I am to leave my home. You will not slay me, demon, if I displease you. Your words shall be your weapon, and the only ones you will ever raise to me, unless my claws raise first to you. And you shall not allow your watcher to harm me, either," it glares at Marxom, "Or you will send it away, and we will see how brave it is, against your light."
"An oath, then."
The fire spreads as Juran speaks, the light of his soul given form in an inferno that burns without source or end. The flames spread over the ground, across the roof, through the flesh and soul of everyone present, and in their dance is the heart's song reflected.
Ishaan's loved ones, those who mourned the dead man before he was devoured. Butterfly's mentor, grim amid the flames. And Marxom... well, who knows what a fae might love?
"I will not harm you, Ishaan Silvertongue, will raise no blade or hand against you, nor shall any other do so upon my order or request," Juran says, blazing like a star. "This I swear until the end of days, or until you bring harm to me and mine, and we shall travel together in peace. By the sun and stars and death itself, I swear."
The Manticore stares at Juran, focusing on his words, instead of melancholy memories brought to life. Marxom squeezes Butterfly's shoulder again, and this time not for her comfort, as his eyes stare somewhere far away. There is silence, as power gathers, the weight of Heaven bearing down upon them, for this most ancient and greatest of Oaths.
"And I shall swear to follow where you go," it says, "Providing your end is upheld. We shall travel and meet new beings, and I shall cease haunting this place. I make no promises for my offspring, who haunt the lairs below. Your fae lord," its lips form a sneer again, "Shall have to make his own arrangements for them."
Butterfly reached up to put her hand on Marxom's, really trying to remind herself about Glory's words. Startlingly hard when the fae had just done their best to stand up for her.
He smiles down at her, tall as he is, and there is nothing hungry in his expression, nothing calculating or wicked. Maybe there are exceptions. Maybe the fae can like people. It's hard to say, without more research to determine. For the moment, though, the comfort is real, and there's a far more dangerous creature than Marxom to be suspicious of.
Juran concludes the Oath, and together they leave the mine. The Manticore hisses as soon as they step into the sunlight outside, glaring up at the sky for a moment before averting its gaze. The trip back up the spiraling path is uneventful, though it must be said that Marxom stands close enough at every moment to tackle the Manticore should it misbehave, and made his willingness to do so very clear.
The wagon isn't where they left it, having been dragged a few dozen yards as the unicorns searched for forage. A few of Juran's followers practice their swordsmanship, a few others are finishing a midday meal, the others follow the unicorns about, ensuring they don't wander too far. The Manticore balks at the idea of sitting in the back with so many others, and, once the wagon is pulled back by an extremely irate Marxom to the angry whinnying taunts of the unicorns, instead rapidly climbs the canvas covering to take a perch on top, glaring down at the unicorns from above, while they occasionally glare back with murderous intent.
Juran is given reason to be glad of bringing both his followers and Marxom before long. The speed of the unicorns, and their habitual wariness, prevents the Manticore from harming anyone, allowing for proper rest to be taken without everyone needing to be on their guard. The unicorns wake the group up twice the first night, only for the Manticore to be implausibly asleep in some location near to either Marxom or Juran. It is clear that bringing it back would have been a difficult and dangerous task, without Marxom and the unicorns.
When at last they return to the port of Pravance, a bit more than four days had passed since their departure. They arrive near afternoon, and multiple fae creatures are waiting for their return.
When the vehicle is stopped and its passengers unloading, the Manticore is the only one who makes no move to leave its perch on the top. Marxom glares up at it for a moment, before he is distracted by a unicorn's opportunistic kick in his direction, narrowly evading it.
"Come now, Ishaan," Juran calls up, his smile genial despite the stress of the last few days, "Let us go and meet new people, and introduce you in proper style."
A twitch of the long scorpion tail, but the Manticore leans over and looks down.
"I hardly think you need me present to collect your reward," it says irritably, "What gain have I from entering the stronghold of my enemy, just to prove my existence?"
"You swore to follow where I went. I am entering that stronghold, and so you will follow" Juran says evenly, "You yourself said the Earl was too afraid to face you, and now we shall not give him the choice."
The tail flicks hard, and the sting opens the canvas top of the wagon as the Manticore expresses its annoyance.
It hops down, nonetheless, and shoots an annoyed look up at Juran, before its expression settles into curiosity.
"I suppose it will be interesting to finally see my foe. In a way, this is my victory, isn't it? He never dared show his face, I am the daring one, for all his trappings as a warrior," it preens, circling Juran's legs as it waits for him to lead ahead. Behind them, Marxom grapples with the gossamer reigns of the unicorns, and allows himself the smallest satisfied smile as he hears its words.
"Well, you might not see his face, if he yet wears the same armour," Juran admits, laughing, as he leads the way to the castle, "Do tell me what you smell, though, when you meet him. I am curious to know how he feels."
Butterfly had been tense all trip, and had done her best to largely stay away from the Manticore as much as possible alongside Aleu.
She was greatly looking forward to the end of this task.
"If he is like most fae, he most likely reeks of perfumed cloth shaped into false flowers," it sniffs haughtily, walking along, "Pretty and empty, inside and out."
They are led by the fae creatures into the Earl's castle, and from there it is not far to the throne room. The crystal lights of the walls seem a bit brighter than before, and there is a looming sense of tension, nearly resolved, building ahead of them. The doors to the Earl's throne room open as they approach, and the blank-faced knight rises from his seat as they walk in, towering over all present.
"Not even a week, and it is done," he says in his rich, beautiful baritone, so elegant compared to the Manticore's rasping bass, ferocity mixing with a measure of awe in his tone. Behind and to the side, his massive greatsword rests propped against the chair, "Not a scratch upon any of you."
The Manticore looks up at the Earl with an extremely unimpressed expression. It strides forward, mouth twitching into half a smirk.
"I am Ishaan Silvertongue," it says aloud, "Named by your emissary for a dead man and the ever-dying art of conversation. I relinquish my claim upon your mine and its contents. My young still haunt the lower levels, and while exploring I irritated a colony of vaktri. Consider each my gift to you, your problem to deal with once more."
The Earl is silent for a moment, and it seems, for an instant, like he might explode with rage.
Instead, though, he begins to laugh. Deep and rich and wonderful, his roaring cackles fill the room. The Manticore slinks back in the face of the sudden noise, sensitive ears offended by the Earl's loud laughter.
"I shall certainly do so," he says, as his laughter dies down, "My, but you are an insolent creature. If you were not such a terror, I would wonder how it is that your tongue still rests in your mouth."
Juran simply watches, a faint smile on his face. His worth is proven by the Manticore's very presence here. What comes next is up to the Earl.
Butterfly frowned, looking away from the interplay between Manticore and Earl. She wondered if this would still end with the Earl destroying the manticore. It was a foul thing, leaving corpses in its wake. It'd be better if it were dead.
And then space twists and the Earl lunges forward, grabbing the Manticore by the throat and lifting it high into the air. Its paws scrabble against the pink armor, digging deep gouges into it, but not tearing through. Its sting lashes out, over and over, denting the breastplate but not piercing it, as it chokes for air under the unyielding grip of the fae lord.
"Not so invincible now, are you, beast ," the Earl growls in a voice filled by fury, "An invulnerable hide, but even you need to breathe."
"A sting fit to slay elephants, but did you not know? My armor isn't gossamer, you arrogant little shit , its jade, torn from the corpse of an Exalted prince! You thought yourself better than me?!" the Earl's fury turns to a roar, something crunches inside the Manticore's throat, and it hacks out a dribble of blood, unable to respond, "You thought you could steal from me?!"
He shakes the dying beast, and as his hand clenches tighter, more pops and cracks begin to sound, its throat being crushed by the Earl's armored grip.
"Die helpless," the Earl snarls, staring with faceless features into the panicked eyes of his foe, "Die in agony. Above all else, die ."
And then the Earl reaches out with his other hand, changes his grip, and jerks the Manticore's head a hundred and eighty degrees around, the crackling of broken bone and cartilage and tearing muscle echoing through the room.
The Earl tosses the broken corpse to the ground, and looks directly at Butterfly.
"The hide of a Manticore is nearly unbreakable," he says, the rage falling away like it was never there. Or, rather, like it was all resolved completely by the death of his foe, "And their venom has a number of useful properties. The corpse shall be a gift to you, that such resources do not go to waste. If you should find yourself willing to craft a dagger of its sting and gift it to me, we shall consider any debt from the gift repaid in full, and separate from all other promised rewards."
Butterfly perked up, and moved closer to inspect the corpse, "I will need some small time to experiment with the corpse, but such a creation will be within my capabilities."
She crouched down, nudging the tip of the stinger with her bow's starmetal frame.
The chitin of the tail is hard and solid, the tip needle sharp. She might get some use practicing on other materials first, but even the tail's chitin could be worked into a club or blade or shield or breastplate, with the right techniques.
Butterfly nodded to herself, forms for the future weapon taking shape in her mind, "I may also need assistants at some point in the future, to train as apprentices. There were villages near the mine. Were they covered under the mine ownership as well? It would be helpful to know what populations I can draw from."
"They owe fealty to me," the Earl confirms, "Though we may negotiate in the coming days for that to change. At the least, your friend's new army needs to make the mine safe to work again. Speaking of," he turns to Juran.
"You have fulfilled our compact in full, the both of you" the Earl says frankly, stepping forward, "Far faster than I dared to hope. You shall have all the rewards owed to you. I have recalled raiding parties from the borders to serve as the basis of your army, in anticipation of your success. I had hoped them to be here before you returned, but you have outpaced them. I renounce my own claims upon the mine for no less than a century. It goes to Incandescent Butterfly of the Copper Spiders for that duration. All treasures and dangers within are hers. Two hundred goblins and forty ogres march for Pravance, and shall swear their oaths of fealty for the coming centry when they arrive. Marxom shall swear to you as soon as his final task for me is finished. I shall begin the building of your forge, Incandescent Butterfly, and provide for you the gossamer before the day is out."
Butterfly looked up from the corpse and grinned widely.
Juran bows politely to the Earl, smiling broadly.
"A fine start to our alliance," he says, clearly satisfied, "I shall take the opportunity before the army arrives to have my existing followers properly accommodated."
"On that note," the Earl says, extending a hand to Juran as he rises from his bow, "I further offer you this: my friendship," he says seriously, turning to Butterfly, "And you, as well, if you wish it. Only a fool would fail to recognize the light shining in your futures. I wish to be able to truly say that I was the first among your coalition, in the days before your Empire rose, casting all aside before it. I would offer you the protections of my court against others in this land, and ask in turn for your support when inevitably strife breaks out among us. Your mortal followers would be considered extensions of you, as well," and Juran could easily imagine a self-aware smile behind that faceless helm, "No goblin nor wight would dare to offer casual violence against a peer of my court."
Butterfly thought hard, knowing this was the kind of trap Glory warned her of. Her mind raced, trying to piece together the words to say that would get her through without reprisal.
"I believe I will have to reject this offer. Though I do appreciate it. I am not all that interested in court dealings, as I feel they would be a distraction from my work in the forge. I have no plans to craft weapons for your enemies however, so I hope you remain at ease in our alliance though."
"I understand," the Earl says to Butterfly, in a kindly tone, "You are an artist and an artificer, not a warrior. I will not renege on my given word, you have a place here as my ally, court or no."
Juran hesitates for a brief moment. Again the Fae seeks to ensnare him, to wrap tight bonds of debt and obligation around his neck, but... ah, there is the lure. The promise of recognition, of protection for his people. The stories speak of the protection of the Eclipse, but how far would that extend, if he was ever an outsider?
No choice at all, then.
"I would be honoured, Earl Redsaber," he says, a smile on his face, acknowledgement of a play well made glinting in his dark eyes.
The Earl seizes his hand and shakes hard, the air growing thick between them with the strength of their bond. In life and death, in war and peace, in beauty and ugliness, they are intertwined.
"I declare you now to be Juran Heartsong, Lamane of the Fields of Pravance!" the Earl exclaims, "We shall have a ceremony and work out your new holdings, there sha be hunted game and chaos foods, a true celebration of our friendship! We are going to do great things together, my friend," he proclaims fiercely, his entire body radiating the smile his blank helmet cannot show, "Great and terrible, as in the days of old!"
**
While Butterfly converses and dreams and Juran plans and thinks and makes his own way towards sleep and Aleu consults seriously with matters of honey-smeared tortoise shell, the servants of the Earl make good on Juran's suggestion of a morning departure. A hearty breakfast is prepared for them, but the Earl himself makes no appearance. It is the lesser fae and then Marxom with whom they deal. Five Lighting shows a small hint of relief when Juran reveals to her that she will be staying behind with the majority of his followers, most of whom would be little aid against a fae beast within its place of power, and whom could be at risk if left alone in the den of monsters.
"Watch yourself around that thing," she says seriously, glancing about as they finish picking the dozen followers with experience with both mines and strange beasts, just ahead of the departure time, "And I don't mean the Manticore. He's dangerous until you get that oath. You'll be in the lion's den, with a snake around your ankle. It'd be the worst damn time for you to go funny in the head, you got that?"
It is rare that Five Lightning speaks words that could be construed as rude to him, even quietly and out of earshot of others. It is even rarer than she alludes with direct concern to his nature, and the stories of the madness of the Anathema. Her expression is tight with concern, though, for all that she does not relish going to the belly of the beast with him, she worries to leave him vulnerable in a time of need.
"I understand quite well, and your concern is appreciated," Juran says, slightly bemused by the sudden intensity. Still, she isn't wrong. "Although should things go wrong - the scouts say it should take us five days to get there and back. Should the fifth pass with no sign of us, prepare the ship for sail. Should we approach a week, then set off. Do not wait for the last grains of sand to fall."
Butterfly had woken and felt more than refreshed. Her feelings on what she had seen in her dreams aside, as concerning as one in particular was, she felt energized and confident.
"I had some time to consider that problem while I dreamt," Butterfly said, in hopes of helping ease Five Lightning's concerns, "and am a bit more aware of the...seductiveness of their words. Be careful yourself, the Earl, or this castle itself, it does not need to respect space, and you might find yourself running for minutes down the same hall. Maybe spend time on the boat more than in here, yeah?"
Five Lightning has a harsh laugh for Butterfly's words, and a grim nod for Juran's.
"No one is going into the main city alone, or even in groups," she says firmly, "Much less the castle. They can talk to me as they need, but I won't be letting wanderers tempt the monsters, no matter how pretty their faces and vows. We'll be sailing slowly down the coast, the way we came, if it comes to it. If you get to the shore and do your demon light trick, we'll head that way. Gods know there's no holy ones to be offended in a place like this, and it'd be hard to miss such displays."
"Well, let us hope it does not come to that," Juran nods, though he cannot deny that it is a relief to have Five Lightning's professionalism behind him. Should the worst happen, he would not like to go knowing he had endangered those good people whose only sin was to believe in a fool. "Now then - Butterfly, I have ideas for this beast, but if you need any remaining supplies?"
Butterfly at first shrank back on herself at the laugh, before consciously standing back up straight with a frown and mild glare at Five Lightning.
"My portable forge is all packed up. Some ingots would be helpful, since I can make tools as we need it."
"I had them each pack an iron ingot with their kit," Five Lightning nods to the men holding a professionally courteous distance behind them, not close enough to overhear words whispered to keep privacy, but close enough to rush forth if called, or if disaster struck, "And the fae assured me the wagon he was preparing would hold them all. Should be enough, especially with your magic hands," Five Lightning glances respectfully at Butterfly's hands as she speaks, it's how she's always preferred to refer to Butterfly's particular gifts, unless the words Sorcery cannot be avoided.
"Oh, that's good," she said, frown melting away in the face of the, minor, compliment.
Five Lightning's nods of acknowledgement is both serious and respectful in the face of Butterfly's comment, and at last they reach the edge of the dockyards, and she stops.
"I'm gonna head back and start assigning some busywork, keep folks occupied and on the ball," she says, with one last concerned glance at both of them, "Don't get eaten, either of you. Wealth past one's station corrodes their soul, and mine's already imperiled enough with all these demons about. If I inherit your caravan with it, the next go-around will be as a frog, if I'm lucky ."
The words are flippant and mildly blasphemous, but the sentiment is real, and the nervousness of her forced smile robs the phrase of any bite. The time of biggest risk is now, the next week will likely determine the success or failure of this venture.
"Who says you're inheriting my caravan?" Juran says with some mild affront, "You're taking it back home and enacting my last will and testament, Five Lightning, or I will haunt you for the rest of your days."
Shaking his head, he turns back to his fellow Solar and the volunteers from his crew. Well paid volunteers, but still, their courage was to be commended.
"Well then. Let us not hesitate on the very verge of our goal," he says cheerfully, "Onwards!"
Aleu returned to Butterfly's side at that moment, holding with her Butterfly's bow. Butterfly grabbed it with a quiet thanks, spinning it in her hand. The bow sang, letting the yozi melody hum for a moment, before she let it rest against her back. She definitely didn't want to leave it on the boat.
The grimfaced men and women perk up a bit at Juran's apparent cheer, and the smile on Five Lightning's face as she turns away, carefully chosen to suggest there had only been lighthearted ribbing between them in their moment of goodbye. Led by a god-blooded and demon king, it becomes easier to remember that this venture isn't as doomed as such dealings with the fae often are. They adjust their iron breast plates, the packs they carry and the weaponry at their waists, and follow Juran up the long main road from the port to the city's north gate, where Marxom had expressed, with slightly clipped tones, that he would be waiting with their transport, and would quite appreciate not being made to wait too long.
It is not a long walk, as things go, and with the gates in sight they see, too, the fae in shiny steel armor, the towering wagon, constructed solidly in wood and capable of holding as many as twenty passengers, with three great steeds tied to the front of it, stomping their feet in agitation and shooting murderously intelligent glares at Marxom, who occasionally shoots them an irate look of his own.
The size of the beasts alone is impressive, taller and heavier built than even the warsteeds of the Prasadi Dynasts, and there is no doubt they could carry the wagon at speed, for the naked power in their bodies.
Even more impressive than their size, or the intelligent gleam in their eyes as they shift their weight and test the bindings holding them to the wagon, are the long, pointed horns that extend like pearly spirals from the center of their foreheads.
They're unicorns.
The Earl has a blessing of unicorns to carry the Solars to battle (or the negotiations, as the case may hopefully be).
Butterfly eyed the unicorns, and the sharp horns of each. They seemed restrained for the moment, but opted not to get too close anyways. She reached out and gently tugged Aleu to her side, maybe they should sit in the back.
"...well now," Juran says briskly, addressing Marxom as they approach and stopping quite carefully out of range of the unicorns and their viciously sharp horns, "I confess, this I was not expecting. Dare I hope that you are a trained handler of Unicorns, Marxom? Or perhaps have one in your employ?"
Marxom's smile is brittle, and his fine steel armor, Juran now sees, has a long scratch along the front, and a dent on the right pauldron, as if something attempted to run him through and was barely stopped by the armor.
"My sentence as Revee of Pravance demands a mastery of many esoteric skills, the most treasured and useful of which is the art of improvisation," the fairy knight says, in the tone of one who has faced their death six times before breakfast, and expects to face it another six times before noon. He is careful not to allow any personal sense of resentment to creep into his words as one of the unicorns stomps a hoof contemptuously, and gestures mockingly with its horn.
"I see."
Keeping his expression severe, Juran turned to regard the Unicorns... more than one of which had shifted to keep a wary eye on him. It could not be for his physical might or stature, for the Reeve was quite clearly superior in both, so... oh, of course! An old legend, proved true, that unicorns measured status by the hues they could maintain daubed upon their horns and hides!
Granted, those hues sometimes came from the crushed bodies of those that antagonized them, but via the splendour of his garments he was already ahead there. Now, how to frame this.
The unicorn that had just been taunting Marxom glances at Juran. Its dark eyes narrow as it glances him over, taking in the fineness of his armor, the clear coloring and artistry of it. The other two follow its gaze, and for a long moment Juran feels the weight as they survey him, the living pressure of the attention of so magical a creature.
And then the lead unicorn gives him a brief, approving nod, before turning back to Marxom and offering a nickering taunt, throwing its mane back haughtily.
Marxom's smile is icy, the earlier brittleness frozen over in the face of whatever insult had just been given.
"Careful, beast," he says, very softly, and for all that Juran and Butterfly knew that he must be more dangerous than he seemed, in this moment Marxom conveys a great deal of danger indeed, "We are immortals both, and yours are not the only grudges to live on in legend. The Earl's protection will only last so long."
The Unicorn meets Marxom's gaze for a moment, but it cannot long meet it. It glances away, with deliberate haughtiness, but all watching know that it blinked in their contest.
"It is a matter of colour, I am afraid," Juran offers, eyes gleaming briefly as he tracks the Reeve's feeling. Pride is the key to this one, for his pride is quite literally everything. "Their measure their status by it, by its vibrancy and variety. See the big one at the front, with the blue streaks on the horn? I imagine he got those from a kind of chalk or ore, and kept it through all the shows of force and duels to follow."
It sounds like an idle observation, but Marxom reads the truth of it, hidden beneath Juran's words.
There is no insult more dire than to rob a unicorn of it's hue, if the Earl's protection forbids direct harm.
Butterfly, having missed basically all of the byplay, was eyeing up Marxom's armor with a frown. She opened her mouth to suggest repairing it, but Juran was still talking. She hesitated and waited.
Marxom glances at Juran, as if mildly annoyed to be told something he know of generally, but a faint twitch of his lips conveys his comprehension of the true meaning.
"When I was first lashing it to the wagon, it assured me that my blood would paint its horn for a century," he replies drily, "I am not unaware of their idiosyncrasies."
But he was unaware of just how much it might humiliate the beast, and some of the dangerous tension leaves him, now that he has a means of potential retaliation.
Butterfly coughed quietly, "when we camp for the night, I can repair your armor. I don't like seeing such a gash mar the armor's form."
"Well, you heard the Reeve," Juran says to his followers, "Mount up, and don't get anywhere near those horns. They'll kill you and wear you for makeup, and that is just an undignified way to go."
He nods to the unicorns, then heads around to board the wagon himself, staying far clear of the beasts pulling it.
Marxom glances at Butterfly, for a moment there is naked surprise on his face at the consideration for him, and another bit of tension leaves him as he nods.
"I would most appreciate your aid," he says, bowing lightly at Butterfly, "the asymmetry bothers me, as well, and I have not the finest hand at smithing nor repair."
And then he returns to the unicorns, moving cautiously towards the driver's place on the wagon, the reins of gossamer which bind the unicorns to it. When all are boarded and safe in the spacious back, a number of thick blankets spread over the interior to reduce the discomfort of the ride, plus a crate of salted means and dried fruits for the trip, Marxom cracks the whip and lets out a Yah clearly intended to provoke the unicorns to anger, and with howls of rage they get to running, pulling through the open gates and onto to the road at great speed.
They had only gotten halfway before they stopped to cap. With the opportunity to make good on her offer, Butterfly set up her forge, and sent Aleu to fetch the necessary ingots for her plans. Unusual for the fae, this armor was steel, no gossamer at all, so she had to use some of her own materials. Still, she didn't feel that an issue. She wanted to not merely repair it, but also strengthen it. Her plan was to add some simple design work that would cleverly disguise the additional reinforcement and bracing to the chestplate.
The result was a work of art, pleasing to her eye, and hopefully pleasing to Marxom's. With a grin, she carried it to the fae. This wasn't to fall into the fae trap, she assured herself, but to capitalize on her earlier efforts with the heron gift.
Juran, meanwhile, spends most of the trip in the company of his guards. Good men, all of them, the sort who had grown familiar enough with his presence to not object when he joined their regular drills.
The trick with sword practice, he had found, was to make it entertaining as well as useful. It built camaraderie and created room for banter, to practice his defenses by having the guards toss stones for him to swat away with a wooden practice sword, and soon he was deflecting whole salvos of zipping pebbles with commendable reliability.
Marxom visibly preens as he dons his armor back before assuming watch, offering Butterfly a deep bow of respect, and deepening the sense of debt between them. She has the distinct feeling there's not many favors she could ask that he would feel disinclined to perform, so long as no oath of his was in the way.
Juran's training goes well, though each fault in his technique provokes whinnying snickers from the watching unicorns, who clearly appreciate having a show to distract from the tedium of the trip and grazing.
The night passes without incident, though with a faery knight and three unicorns standing primary watch, the number of beings in Creation capable of causing incident are quite small, even before the presence of Juran's guards and the Solars themselves. A quick breakfast and much spiteful stomping of hooves precedes resuming their surprisingly smooth ride across the roads of Pravance. They see occasional farmsteads or small villages, but each they pass swiftly, neither Marxom nor the unicorns having any time for set pieces or simpering mortals.
One more night spent camping passes without interest, and as the second morning becomes afternoon, you finally approach the mine itself. There are again nearby villages, some more populated than others. The nearest one you pass through directly, and while there are many women and some children about, no young or grown men are seen. The trip passes too quickly for Butterfly to spot it, but Juran sees it, in flashes and blurs, a village missing two generations of its people.
The Earl's comments of the Manticore and how it first moved against him echo in Juran's mind.
It did not speak. It simply killed.
Butterfly was heedless of this, focused as she was on playing a card game with Aleu, disregarding the bumpiness of the ride. It was startlingly complex. Enough so that the other passengers had long since given up on trying to keep up, leaving the pair to play by themselves.
"We're almost there," Juran says at last, tension settling over his men like a sudden weight when he speaks, "Get the meat out, in the special bowl just like we planned."
Manticores were born from poisoned corpses, after all, wrought from lions who devoured such things by the dreadful alchemy of the Wyld. The meat from a beast that died of poison was therefore among the sweetest of delicacies to their sensibilities, and an offering that Juran had prepared earlier.
They obey, taking a clay jar with the wrapped meat within, preserved as fresh as could be done, within the limitations of the trip. The meat is poured into a bowl of fine silver, sourced from the mine itself, and presented to Juran to carry forth himself, as the unicorns slow and then stop at the edge of the mine itself.
The mine is a vast pit carved into the earth, spiraling deeper down towards the tunnel that leads to the underground itself. It is unclear what exactly dug the pit out to begin with, it looks almost as if some vast tool was run through the earth to carve it away and gain access to the precious ore beneath. They will need to walk carefully down the spiraling path, the wagon is too large to go further.
Marxom dismounts ahead of them, walking over to the edge to look down, a pensive look upon his face.
Butterfly hopped out, with Aleu behind. She didn't go as far as approach the edge of the mine, but did look around at everything else. Was there any infrastructure left behind? Maybe a crane she could climb up and post herself on, where she would have the vantage of her bow, should she need it.
"Right then. Stay behind me, if you would, and let us play the respectful guests," Juran says with forced calm, holding the silver bowl in his hand as he makes for the spiraling path. There is a brief flare of golden light, and on his brow the mark of the Eclipse shines clearly, his words taking on an unusual timbre. "And let us trust our host is in a receptive mood."
There are no cranes there, though crates here and about, fallen tools and spilled silver ore, where fleeing miners clearly stumbled or dropped what they sought to carry free. Marxom follows quietly behind, one hand near his blade. The walk down is long, and thankfully it has not rained recently. The perfectly smooth stone would near-certainly become terribly perilous to descend, were it wet.
It's clear that this mine was big, even by the standards of Prasadi mining operations. The stone worn like this is vaguely reminiscent of the stone-carving magic of the Dragon-Blooded, and the wealth produced by this place must have been vast. The Earl's dismissive words for the relative unimportance of the place do not match the size of it, how much effort must have been spent to create a mine this size.
Butterfly sighed, resigned to the lack of useful infrastructure and followed after her ally. She was starting to get spooked, her hand twitched towards her bow at every noise and shadow.
When they reach the center, the entrance to the tunnel heading down into the darkness, illuminated by the light of Juran's Caste Mark, they see shredded bits of armor about. Gossamer shards, and bits of calcified flesh and blood are scattered about and stain the ground. Marxom's expression is grim.
"It seems that my sister quite nearly escaped," Marxom sighs, clearly melancholy, "I told her to bear the discomfort of steel. Gossamer is no proof against the Manticore."
"As warnings go," Juran murmurs quietly, "It's an effective one. I would be hard pressed to name a more imposing entrance."
There is no body to be seen, but attacks that shattered armor were unlikely to leave survivable injuries, and the scattered chunks of flesh invite them to consider claws slashing with such violence that chunks of meat are scattered about.
"It will not leave the mine to greet us," Marxom says, his bearing holding a silent agreement with Juran's sentiment, "This marks as far as it will go. We must enter, if we wish to see it."
Juran knows that this is the time to armor himself with all the power he holds. That he must draw no weapon, and speak no insult.
That, above all else, he must not turn his back to the mine, once he steps forward into it.
Juran exhales slowly. In his mind, he recites the mantras of his faith. He remembers his people, for whom he acts.
And he enters the lair of the beast.
Butterfly gently patted Marxom on the shoulder, not sure how one would go about offering condolences for a fae losing their... sibling? She didn't realize that was even a thing. Still, they had to go in deeper, so she stepped away, taking Aleu's hand and following Juran in.
Marxom offers her a smile in return, though his deeper thoughts do not show past the appreciative expression. He moves ahead of her, his bulk shielding her at this point. The tunnel, as they move ahead, is thin enough that it is unlikely the beast could pace around them. The deeper down they go, though, the more it widens, and the deeper the shadows.
They finally come out into a large central room, with tunnels leading off in multiple directions.
Blood stains the ground around them, fallen bits of ore and mining picks litter the ground. Multiple people died here, the last few who did were rapidly overwhelmed, the blood stains tell of terrible gushing wounds and fallen bodies grabbed and dragged off into the darkness.
This is where to place the offering. Any further would be trespass.
Smoothly, Juran comes to a halt. He lays down the bowl, its contents glistening slightly in the low light, and then takes several steps backwards. Then he sits, legs loosely crossed, hands on his knees.
"I wonder if it will make us wait," he murmurs, the light of his anima bathing the stone around him.
Marxom looks about, to and fro, but even with Juran's light, he sees nothing, no telltale movements in the shadows, no soft sound of padded feet on stone.
After some long moments of silence, a deep, drawling voice, harsh, as if from much yelling or smoking, begins to speak.
"A fae," it muses, rolling the words over in its mouth, dragging them out, "But not here to slay me? A shiny little man, who brings flesh seasoned with a venom I have never smelled? A scared girl, an infant goddess, but with such a pretty bow, singing such a pretty song~"
"Whatever am I meant to think?"
There is a deep amusement in the voice, alongside an obvious sense of pride. No one here could possibly miss that the speaker loves to hear themselves talk.
"Whatever shall I do?"
Somewhere, and it is unclear, the way the echoes sound, something flicks something hard against the stone of the mine.
"You might come out and introduce yourself," Juran says with a polite smile, even as his heart pounds in his chest, "For I have come a long way to speak with you, and yet I do not even know your name."
Something tells him that interrupting the beast would be a fatal mistake. Well, that is fine. It would not be the first time he has spoken with someone who could hold his life in their hand if their pride were offended.
"Name?" the word is drawn out, the tone inflected with deep irony, "My, my, I haven't had one of those in a long time. A name, a name," it ponders with deliberate drama, and as it does, another little click sounds out. Marxom tries to catch Juran's eye from the side, and gently gestures his head towards the easternmost tunnel, one which curves back up. Marxom's eyes flicker towards the ceiling, where shadows are cast above a possible upper level.
"Some have called me 'Gods, no!'" the Manticore, for that is clearly what speaks to them now, speaks the name in a sudden shriek, a young man's terrified cry, "Others named me 'Help, oh spirits please help me!'" it howls the phrase in a voice of sudden, sobbing terror and pain, "Are those names, shiny man? Would you like to cry for help, now?"
It's voice is back to the raw, deep rasp, and intoned with great curiosity, as if it was sincerely interested in his answer.
"A name is how one defines themselves," Juran offers, though his smile does fade somewhat at the sounds of the death-cries repeated back at them, "So I suppose those could be your names, if you are nothing but mimicry and shadow, the fears of your victims made manifest."
He pauses there for a moment, in thought. "I do not think this is the case. If it were, you would wear quite a different face for me, and speak in a different voice."
Aleu looked up at Butterfly, seeing her fright, and then very firmly grabbed Butterfly's right arm in a hug. This would prevent the Twilight from doing something rash like draw her weapon. Aleu knew better than to talk.
Butterfly herself was feeling trapped down here, though the hug was sufficiently distracting as to keep her from backing off. She had never fought before. Her skill with her bow was from practice and talent, but it was something she had learned of as she began her travels, not something she had to put into practice. She dearly hoped Juran succeeded in this task, because she feared she would be as useless in a fight as she was right now.
The Manticore considers that for a moment, from its shadowy perch.
"An interesting point," it allows, clearly thoughtful, "I am more than fear, because I am. I am more than the spray of blood, the scream of pain, for I remember what words are. And yet, I am not Ishaan, stung by a scorpion and eaten by a lion, for Ishaan feared blood in all its forms, and eschewed the eating of raw meat. So my name cannot be Ishaan."
Click click comes the tapping of something on stone, and Juran can imagine a great scorpion sting, lashing about back and forth like the tail of some great cat.
"Tell me, shiny man. If I stung you here, and fed you to my cubs, and you awoke behind their eyes, what would your name be? Would it be Shiny Man, nonetheless?"
"Hmm. You know, I'm not sure," Juran says, and he's actually surprised to find himself calm. Death threats just aren't as intimidating as they used to be. "I was named Juran by my kin, and took the name Heartsong from my deeds, and so I am both in a sense. Yet there was a time when I was just the one."
He smiles, the golden light on his forehead briefly brightening. "There are those who say Juran Heartsong is dead. He died, and a golden demon hollowed out his corpse and crawled inside to roost. There are others who say I have taken the second breath, that I was born twice and have not died. Which is true? Are either?"
He shrugs. "I do not think it matters. My name is what I call myself, and if I can lay claim to it after a life born again in gold, I would say Ishaan might be born again in you."
"I see," the Manticore says, and perhaps it lies, or perhaps it does, "Then, Juran Heartsong, what name should I hold from my deeds, if once kin did name me Ishaan? Silverblood, for I bleed the Duke of his greatest source of wealth? Manslayer, for all the men I have slain? Shadowspeaker, for I speak from the shadows? Clawflesh, for how I shall claw your flesh, when we are done conversing?"
The Manticore doesn't speak as if it is a threat, so much as an idle statement of fact.
Nonetheless, the bits of calcified fae strewn about the mine's threshold return suddenly to mind.
"Poor names all, if I might observe," Juran counters gamely, and yes, like he is playing a game, "The Earl weaves miracles from silk and makes pact with men like me, so this is not his greatest source of wealth. There are a thousand beasts out there who have slain men in greater quantities than you, so the name would be an empty boast. The shadows swathe you while my manners hold, but if light burned bright or faded away you would have nothing left to speak from. And as for the last..."
He grins. "Oh Ishaan. If you clawed my flesh and cracked my bones, who then would you bandy words with? Or are you truly content to lair here in silent eternity?"
Click click click, the irritated tapping of claws on stone. He can definitely hear the agitated swishing of a large tail.
"An irritating trap, one that I cannot punish you for without also springing it," comes the annoyed voice of the Manticore, "I begin to think you are not just shiny for fun. Too clever, too clever. But, fine!" and it very suddenly snaps the words out, "If you have a better idea, then speak it, Juran Heartsong, and prove your words more valuable than your flesh beneath my claws."
"Perhaps Ishaan Silvertongue, for your love of conversation?" Juran suggests, "Or Ishaan Lionheart, for the way that man's fears were burned away by a lion's pride and courage. I might even suggest Ishaan Twinsoul, to reflect this very search for meaning."
The suggestions are honest, the meanings true, but beneath them all is another implication. One who enjoys conversation must seek it out. One who is courageous cannot hide in the dark. One who desires meaning will be driven to search for it.
"The world is a vast and beautiful place, Ishaan, and there are as many names as stars in the sky," Juran continues, smiling wistfully, "Surely there must be one that speaks to you?"
Out there, under the sky, abroad in the world. If true meaning could be found in the shadows of this old mine, surely you would have found it by now?
The Manticore taptaptaps on the stone again, the swishing noise of its tail indicates the thoughtful silence that has taken it. For a long moment, there is no response.
While they conversed, Butterfly knelt down, rifling through her pack for the spare parts she had made while letting her hands idly work. She began fitting them together, building a constructed statuette of their present 'host'. It was extemporaneous, letting the words bandied about influence her and guide her hands to something of value and beauty. She warmed the wires that would hold the disparate silver pieces together by twisting them with a pair of pliers, back and forth, back and forth. The wire was swiftly woven in, forming a strong connection, and helping the little manticore and human statue take shape. Two forms in one.
Finally, it speaks.
"...Ishaan Silvertongue," it muses, irritation giving way to thoughtful reflection, "I do love silver, and there is a terrible dearth of conversation, now that the screams are no more. Yes. I like this name," and above Juran, motion can be seen, a large feline shape moving towards the edge of a ledge, and hopping down into the shadows cast by Juran's Caste Mark.
It is big, Juran can see now, even with the features indistinct. Longer than lions tend to get, with the muscular power of a tiger. It stalks forward, and Juran knows that, if it cared to, a single leap would see it on top of him, rending and tearing.
It steps into the light, approaching the bowl of meat between them, and as it does, Marxom immediately steps back and away from the food. Juran, Butterfly, and Aleu all know as well that it would be best to give it room, if it intends to eat.
The beast has silvery fur that catches the sunlight Juran shines with, and instead of a lion's face, there is a man's distorted features, dark skin, the same shade as Juran's, wide black eyes, dilated from the darkness, ringed by amber irises made thin by the pupils.
The beast is smiling, a grotesque expression revealing a mouthful of human teeth made sharp and jagged, the smile stretching too wide for the face, calling attention to the distortion in the bone structure.
Ishaan, whoever he was, might have been a countryman of Juran's. Perhaps they even shared a career, wandering merchants who found themselves in a place they should never have been, staring at a painful death fast approaching.
Smoothly, Juran stands, taking a few steps back. Manners are important, especially when dealing with something as terrifyingly dangerous as a Manticore.
Its paws are large, with vestigial fingertips poking out at the knuckles where long, vicious claws extend with every step it takes.
It sniffs at the silver bowl full of meat, once Juran stands back by Butterfly and Marxom, and opens its mouth wide, far too wide, and grabs entire contents of the bowl in its jaws, chewing messily and bloodily.
It doesn't take long for it to finish chewing, and then it looks up at them with a bloodstained mouth.
"It seems I was right not to simply slay you," it speaks in that horrible raspy base, "What venom is this? I have never tasted its like, even in the veins of those who worked the mines when I arrived."
The vast scorpion sting that it has instead of a lion's tail swishes steadily behind it, a slow contented motion compared to its earlier agitation.
"Silverback Coralfish," Juran says, hiding his nerves with professional ease. The Manticore is so much more intimidating up close, now that he can see it, but revealing that fear would be a disaster. "Shoals of them cluster around the hull whenever the ships trace the southern coast of the Dreaming Sea. It's a beautiful sight, even if you realise they're trying to sting the ship with their little barbs."
He smiles, careful not to show teeth just in case. "I've come across many poisons in my time upon the seas. Some wish to buy those that kill their enemies, while others favor the edge it adds to their food."
Just like you do. There are others out there with the same appreciation you have.
taptaptap, Juran sees it extend a long, wicked claw and tap on the stone floor thoughtfully. Its brow furrows as it considers that.
"Fish," it says, trying out the word on a rough, barbed tongue, "I know this word, but have never seen such things with my eyes. I remember that fish are to be eaten, and live in the water, but I cannot recall their taste."
It frowns, unsettled or bothered by something in Juran's words or its thoughts.
Statuette complete, she handed it off to Juran, then returned to Aleu's side. She still did not speak, for fear of ruining the gains Juran had apparently made.
"Well, I would be surprised to find fish in a place like this," Juran says, taking the gift from Butterfly as she passes it to him. He examines it briefly, and then nods to her in appreciation. "And alas, they do not survive out of water, so could not be easily brought here."
He tilts his head in thought, then nods.
"I am a merchant, a man who travels to many lands, and I have seen many sights in my day," he says, his voice a clear offer, "If it pleases you, Ishaan Silvertongue, I should be pleased in turn to have your company on my next such voyage."
The Manticore stares at the strange item in Juran's hands, the tail-swishing becomes more agitated as it considers the offer and the item alike.
"My companion here is an artisan - her works are one of the many things I trade in," Juran continues smoothly, picking up on the Manticore's sudden suspicion. He holds the gift out carefully, so that the beast can have a good look at it. "See? It is a thing of beauty, inspired by your words, wrought when all she knew of you was the impression that your silver tongue wove. Yours, if you wish it."
It stares at the item, its tail stopping for a moment.
"...a gift," it says, testing the word in its mouth, "I remember gifts. You came with tribute, then? And now offer a gift," it frowns, at the rush of memories it seems to be experiencing, or perhaps some long-buried emotion, "Ishaan-that-was has done this before. Food and fine treasures, to gain the patronage of a lord. Am I to be your lord, then, Juran Heartsong? Or perhaps to be your pet?"
Its expression turns a bit nastier, as it considers the possibilities, it's attention turning to Marxom.
"Why did you bring a fae to my lair?" it suddenly asks, "Why does the fae follow you?" the tail is thrashing violently now, "Did you trap it, then, with sweet meats and pretty gifts, that it must follow you, chained in debt?"
It takes a menacing step forward.
"Do you imagine debt can bind me?"
Beside Juran, Marxom is silent, impassive, taking the pose of the bodyguard, not daring to speak out of turn, lest the beast pounce.
"Peace, Ishaan, I have no such intent," Juran says quickly, holding up his hands, palms outward and nonthreatening. "My intent is honest - I wish to travel with you, to lands unseen and unknown, to meet new people and sample new pleasures. The food, the gift, these I brought to demonstrate my sincerity."
Juran spots it, through his alarm and through the sudden threat, the warring social instincts driving the Manticore to sudden paranoia. A scorpion does not feel, and lions are not such deep thinkers that they can worry themselves about such things as a suspicious gift, or another species' choice of company.
The manticore is intelligent, and through its intelligence the lion's instincts are roused, its position implicitly challenged. Juran has one great predator slaved, might he not be seeking a trophy pet to add to his fae bodyguard? It cannot allow such concerns to pass unchallenged.
"The Fae owes me no service. It is bound to the Earl, who claims to rule these lands," the merchant continues, a glint of understanding in his eye. "It is here to watch me, to make sure I go where the Earl wishes, that I see only what the Earl wishes me to see, to kill me if I step out of line."
I am not the one holding the chain. I cannot even control this Fae - how could I possibly hope to bind you?
Its dark eyes narrow, the tail still thrashes, but it doesn't advance another step as it considers Juran's words, glancing over at Marxom's impassive face.
Slowly, it sits back down, no longer posing to pounce, but its attention is firmly on the fae, watching it for any tell-tale reactions.
"Is this true, faery? Are you to be Juran Heartsong's executioner, if he does not drive me hence? Another trick by the cowardly Earl who dares not face me himself? Is it your opinion, then, that is the only one that matters here?"
Marxom's face is stone. Juran has seen the fae's ability to hide his reactions, most people wouldn't be able to read him. But the Manticore's senses are not limited to sight and facial expressions, and something causes it's eyes to narrow and tail to begin swishing, though not as violently as before.
"I am a servant of my Earl," Marxom says blandly, lowering his gaze and taking an obeisant posture, "And I guard these intermediaries while they travel through his lands. We cannot drive you forth, and so we must place our hopes that someone can find a reason you might leave. We are outmatched."
The thrashing tail calms again, as the beast scrutinizes Marxom for any sign of deception. The tension once more begins to die down, and it turns to Juran.
"It is the Earl's opinion, then, that matters," it seems to decide, speaking directly to Juran, "And through him, the Duke. But they are not here, only their slaves and..." it pauses, eyes narrowing, "What are you, then, to the Earl? You are not a slave, I see that plain. Are you a flunky, then? A mercenary? Hired to do the impossible, and drive me forth? Is that your plan? To win my mine back by having me leave it by choice?"
"I am no slave," Butterfly said, voice certain and firm, despite her fear, and despite not having said anything else thus far, "and I was not compelled here."
The Manticore's attention jerks over to Butterfly.
"Are you not?" it sniffs, literally, sniffing at the air in her direction, "You are not the armsbearer for Juran Heartsong, to hold his bow until he needs it? You matter, is that what you say? Are you the mastermind then, here to sit in silence while others speak on your behalf?"
"You reek of resentment, child, you stink like the fae," the Manticore throws a sneer at Marxom, whose fists quietly clench in rage, "But the fae dares not challenge me, because it knows what I do to uppity faeries. Do you know what I do to uppity mortal children, then? Do you know, and believe your metal skin will save you, if I decide to flay it from your bones?"
Butterfly's feet felt rooted to the spot, heavier by the weight of the gaze upon her than by her metal flesh. She said nothing.
Marxom's hand rests on her shoulders, and she feels him give her a comforting squeeze, even through the metal flesh.
"I do," he says softly in the darkness, "You have fought fae armored in gossamer, beast, and mortals dressed in tatters. You have never faced spell-metal, or you would know the answer to your threat. And while you scrabbled at her, a housecat breaking its teeth upon a turtle shell, I would be beating your skull in with the pommel of my blade. Juran would draw his own, and show you the terror that comes of facing the Solar Exalted. You are dangerous, monster, but so are we."
His soft, quiet voice takes on a threatening tone of amusement, as his lips form a daring smile.
"And you know it, or you would not be posturing so."
"This could end in violence," Juran nods, entirely honest, "But I did not come here for that. I came here because I want what the Earl has - his treasures, his servants, his land. He in turn wants what I have - my stories, my knowledge, my goods from distant shores. And so we trade"
He nods briefly to Marxom. "As the Fae says - the Earl wants me to find a reason for you to leave, and so he offers me great treasures if I can see it done. But I cannot force you, even if I wished, and nor can I simply trick you. So again, I must trade."
He spreads his arms, bares his heart. "So I come to you with tribute, and I come to you with gifts. I come to offer you a guide to distant lands, to places filled with fish and plants and people you have never seen before, and I come with an offer of company and conversation. I come before you, and I ask - will you not travel with me?"
The Manticore looks between them, and on its face is ill-concealed doubt. The slave stands up, and declares themselves free. The chained beast rises, and defends its captor, even in the face of death. The shining one who gave it a name makes such reasoned arguments, and slowly the Manticore begins to wonder what, exactly, is going to happen if it says no.
Juran's words hang in the air, echoing off the cavern walls, shivering with divine power. His outstretched hand is limmed with gold, his eyes as bright as the sign on his brow, his fine robes rippling slightly as divine fire plays across his form.
Even in the darkness beneath the earth, the sun yet shines.
In the lair of the monster, a hero speaks.
"...and you will slay me, if I don't," the Manticore whispers into the darkness, in a voice tense with rage and, beneath and hidden, no small amount of fear at the burning presence of Juran's soul, "Fear is the chain that will bind me, if I do not accompany you freely. Yes," its lip curls in disgust, "Ishaan remembers monsters like you. Golden devils. Anathema, but you were just a story."
Its attention flickers towards Marxom for a moment, before returning to Juran.
"...an Oath," it spits, "Using your devil magic. Binding you , if I am to leave my home. You will not slay me, demon, if I displease you. Your words shall be your weapon, and the only ones you will ever raise to me, unless my claws raise first to you. And you shall not allow your watcher to harm me, either," it glares at Marxom, "Or you will send it away, and we will see how brave it is, against your light."
"An oath, then."
The fire spreads as Juran speaks, the light of his soul given form in an inferno that burns without source or end. The flames spread over the ground, across the roof, through the flesh and soul of everyone present, and in their dance is the heart's song reflected.
Ishaan's loved ones, those who mourned the dead man before he was devoured. Butterfly's mentor, grim amid the flames. And Marxom... well, who knows what a fae might love?
"I will not harm you, Ishaan Silvertongue, will raise no blade or hand against you, nor shall any other do so upon my order or request," Juran says, blazing like a star. "This I swear until the end of days, or until you bring harm to me and mine, and we shall travel together in peace. By the sun and stars and death itself, I swear."
The Manticore stares at Juran, focusing on his words, instead of melancholy memories brought to life. Marxom squeezes Butterfly's shoulder again, and this time not for her comfort, as his eyes stare somewhere far away. There is silence, as power gathers, the weight of Heaven bearing down upon them, for this most ancient and greatest of Oaths.
"And I shall swear to follow where you go," it says, "Providing your end is upheld. We shall travel and meet new beings, and I shall cease haunting this place. I make no promises for my offspring, who haunt the lairs below. Your fae lord," its lips form a sneer again, "Shall have to make his own arrangements for them."
Butterfly reached up to put her hand on Marxom's, really trying to remind herself about Glory's words. Startlingly hard when the fae had just done their best to stand up for her.
He smiles down at her, tall as he is, and there is nothing hungry in his expression, nothing calculating or wicked. Maybe there are exceptions. Maybe the fae can like people. It's hard to say, without more research to determine. For the moment, though, the comfort is real, and there's a far more dangerous creature than Marxom to be suspicious of.
Juran concludes the Oath, and together they leave the mine. The Manticore hisses as soon as they step into the sunlight outside, glaring up at the sky for a moment before averting its gaze. The trip back up the spiraling path is uneventful, though it must be said that Marxom stands close enough at every moment to tackle the Manticore should it misbehave, and made his willingness to do so very clear.
The wagon isn't where they left it, having been dragged a few dozen yards as the unicorns searched for forage. A few of Juran's followers practice their swordsmanship, a few others are finishing a midday meal, the others follow the unicorns about, ensuring they don't wander too far. The Manticore balks at the idea of sitting in the back with so many others, and, once the wagon is pulled back by an extremely irate Marxom to the angry whinnying taunts of the unicorns, instead rapidly climbs the canvas covering to take a perch on top, glaring down at the unicorns from above, while they occasionally glare back with murderous intent.
Juran is given reason to be glad of bringing both his followers and Marxom before long. The speed of the unicorns, and their habitual wariness, prevents the Manticore from harming anyone, allowing for proper rest to be taken without everyone needing to be on their guard. The unicorns wake the group up twice the first night, only for the Manticore to be implausibly asleep in some location near to either Marxom or Juran. It is clear that bringing it back would have been a difficult and dangerous task, without Marxom and the unicorns.
When at last they return to the port of Pravance, a bit more than four days had passed since their departure. They arrive near afternoon, and multiple fae creatures are waiting for their return.
When the vehicle is stopped and its passengers unloading, the Manticore is the only one who makes no move to leave its perch on the top. Marxom glares up at it for a moment, before he is distracted by a unicorn's opportunistic kick in his direction, narrowly evading it.
"Come now, Ishaan," Juran calls up, his smile genial despite the stress of the last few days, "Let us go and meet new people, and introduce you in proper style."
A twitch of the long scorpion tail, but the Manticore leans over and looks down.
"I hardly think you need me present to collect your reward," it says irritably, "What gain have I from entering the stronghold of my enemy, just to prove my existence?"
"You swore to follow where I went. I am entering that stronghold, and so you will follow" Juran says evenly, "You yourself said the Earl was too afraid to face you, and now we shall not give him the choice."
The tail flicks hard, and the sting opens the canvas top of the wagon as the Manticore expresses its annoyance.
It hops down, nonetheless, and shoots an annoyed look up at Juran, before its expression settles into curiosity.
"I suppose it will be interesting to finally see my foe. In a way, this is my victory, isn't it? He never dared show his face, I am the daring one, for all his trappings as a warrior," it preens, circling Juran's legs as it waits for him to lead ahead. Behind them, Marxom grapples with the gossamer reigns of the unicorns, and allows himself the smallest satisfied smile as he hears its words.
"Well, you might not see his face, if he yet wears the same armour," Juran admits, laughing, as he leads the way to the castle, "Do tell me what you smell, though, when you meet him. I am curious to know how he feels."
Butterfly had been tense all trip, and had done her best to largely stay away from the Manticore as much as possible alongside Aleu.
She was greatly looking forward to the end of this task.
"If he is like most fae, he most likely reeks of perfumed cloth shaped into false flowers," it sniffs haughtily, walking along, "Pretty and empty, inside and out."
They are led by the fae creatures into the Earl's castle, and from there it is not far to the throne room. The crystal lights of the walls seem a bit brighter than before, and there is a looming sense of tension, nearly resolved, building ahead of them. The doors to the Earl's throne room open as they approach, and the blank-faced knight rises from his seat as they walk in, towering over all present.
"Not even a week, and it is done," he says in his rich, beautiful baritone, so elegant compared to the Manticore's rasping bass, ferocity mixing with a measure of awe in his tone. Behind and to the side, his massive greatsword rests propped against the chair, "Not a scratch upon any of you."
The Manticore looks up at the Earl with an extremely unimpressed expression. It strides forward, mouth twitching into half a smirk.
"I am Ishaan Silvertongue," it says aloud, "Named by your emissary for a dead man and the ever-dying art of conversation. I relinquish my claim upon your mine and its contents. My young still haunt the lower levels, and while exploring I irritated a colony of vaktri. Consider each my gift to you, your problem to deal with once more."
The Earl is silent for a moment, and it seems, for an instant, like he might explode with rage.
Instead, though, he begins to laugh. Deep and rich and wonderful, his roaring cackles fill the room. The Manticore slinks back in the face of the sudden noise, sensitive ears offended by the Earl's loud laughter.
"I shall certainly do so," he says, as his laughter dies down, "My, but you are an insolent creature. If you were not such a terror, I would wonder how it is that your tongue still rests in your mouth."
Juran simply watches, a faint smile on his face. His worth is proven by the Manticore's very presence here. What comes next is up to the Earl.
Butterfly frowned, looking away from the interplay between Manticore and Earl. She wondered if this would still end with the Earl destroying the manticore. It was a foul thing, leaving corpses in its wake. It'd be better if it were dead.
And then space twists and the Earl lunges forward, grabbing the Manticore by the throat and lifting it high into the air. Its paws scrabble against the pink armor, digging deep gouges into it, but not tearing through. Its sting lashes out, over and over, denting the breastplate but not piercing it, as it chokes for air under the unyielding grip of the fae lord.
"Not so invincible now, are you, beast ," the Earl growls in a voice filled by fury, "An invulnerable hide, but even you need to breathe."
"A sting fit to slay elephants, but did you not know? My armor isn't gossamer, you arrogant little shit , its jade, torn from the corpse of an Exalted prince! You thought yourself better than me?!" the Earl's fury turns to a roar, something crunches inside the Manticore's throat, and it hacks out a dribble of blood, unable to respond, "You thought you could steal from me?!"
He shakes the dying beast, and as his hand clenches tighter, more pops and cracks begin to sound, its throat being crushed by the Earl's armored grip.
"Die helpless," the Earl snarls, staring with faceless features into the panicked eyes of his foe, "Die in agony. Above all else, die ."
And then the Earl reaches out with his other hand, changes his grip, and jerks the Manticore's head a hundred and eighty degrees around, the crackling of broken bone and cartilage and tearing muscle echoing through the room.
The Earl tosses the broken corpse to the ground, and looks directly at Butterfly.
"The hide of a Manticore is nearly unbreakable," he says, the rage falling away like it was never there. Or, rather, like it was all resolved completely by the death of his foe, "And their venom has a number of useful properties. The corpse shall be a gift to you, that such resources do not go to waste. If you should find yourself willing to craft a dagger of its sting and gift it to me, we shall consider any debt from the gift repaid in full, and separate from all other promised rewards."
Butterfly perked up, and moved closer to inspect the corpse, "I will need some small time to experiment with the corpse, but such a creation will be within my capabilities."
She crouched down, nudging the tip of the stinger with her bow's starmetal frame.
The chitin of the tail is hard and solid, the tip needle sharp. She might get some use practicing on other materials first, but even the tail's chitin could be worked into a club or blade or shield or breastplate, with the right techniques.
Butterfly nodded to herself, forms for the future weapon taking shape in her mind, "I may also need assistants at some point in the future, to train as apprentices. There were villages near the mine. Were they covered under the mine ownership as well? It would be helpful to know what populations I can draw from."
"They owe fealty to me," the Earl confirms, "Though we may negotiate in the coming days for that to change. At the least, your friend's new army needs to make the mine safe to work again. Speaking of," he turns to Juran.
"You have fulfilled our compact in full, the both of you" the Earl says frankly, stepping forward, "Far faster than I dared to hope. You shall have all the rewards owed to you. I have recalled raiding parties from the borders to serve as the basis of your army, in anticipation of your success. I had hoped them to be here before you returned, but you have outpaced them. I renounce my own claims upon the mine for no less than a century. It goes to Incandescent Butterfly of the Copper Spiders for that duration. All treasures and dangers within are hers. Two hundred goblins and forty ogres march for Pravance, and shall swear their oaths of fealty for the coming centry when they arrive. Marxom shall swear to you as soon as his final task for me is finished. I shall begin the building of your forge, Incandescent Butterfly, and provide for you the gossamer before the day is out."
Butterfly looked up from the corpse and grinned widely.
Juran bows politely to the Earl, smiling broadly.
"A fine start to our alliance," he says, clearly satisfied, "I shall take the opportunity before the army arrives to have my existing followers properly accommodated."
"On that note," the Earl says, extending a hand to Juran as he rises from his bow, "I further offer you this: my friendship," he says seriously, turning to Butterfly, "And you, as well, if you wish it. Only a fool would fail to recognize the light shining in your futures. I wish to be able to truly say that I was the first among your coalition, in the days before your Empire rose, casting all aside before it. I would offer you the protections of my court against others in this land, and ask in turn for your support when inevitably strife breaks out among us. Your mortal followers would be considered extensions of you, as well," and Juran could easily imagine a self-aware smile behind that faceless helm, "No goblin nor wight would dare to offer casual violence against a peer of my court."
Butterfly thought hard, knowing this was the kind of trap Glory warned her of. Her mind raced, trying to piece together the words to say that would get her through without reprisal.
"I believe I will have to reject this offer. Though I do appreciate it. I am not all that interested in court dealings, as I feel they would be a distraction from my work in the forge. I have no plans to craft weapons for your enemies however, so I hope you remain at ease in our alliance though."
"I understand," the Earl says to Butterfly, in a kindly tone, "You are an artist and an artificer, not a warrior. I will not renege on my given word, you have a place here as my ally, court or no."
Juran hesitates for a brief moment. Again the Fae seeks to ensnare him, to wrap tight bonds of debt and obligation around his neck, but... ah, there is the lure. The promise of recognition, of protection for his people. The stories speak of the protection of the Eclipse, but how far would that extend, if he was ever an outsider?
No choice at all, then.
"I would be honoured, Earl Redsaber," he says, a smile on his face, acknowledgement of a play well made glinting in his dark eyes.
The Earl seizes his hand and shakes hard, the air growing thick between them with the strength of their bond. In life and death, in war and peace, in beauty and ugliness, they are intertwined.
"I declare you now to be Juran Heartsong, Lamane of the Fields of Pravance!" the Earl exclaims, "We shall have a ceremony and work out your new holdings, there sha be hunted game and chaos foods, a true celebration of our friendship! We are going to do great things together, my friend," he proclaims fiercely, his entire body radiating the smile his blank helmet cannot show, "Great and terrible, as in the days of old!"
Last edited:
- Location
- London, England
Ah yes, the Manticore.
I had an immense amount of fun in this session - it's pretty rare that I get to play a social focused character who actually gets to rely on his wits and cunning to solve problems. So it was great to kill a monster by making it trust me and walk into the home of its enemy.
I had an immense amount of fun in this session - it's pretty rare that I get to play a social focused character who actually gets to rely on his wits and cunning to solve problems. So it was great to kill a monster by making it trust me and walk into the home of its enemy.
It was very fun to run, too! I'm very used to games where, no matter what I did, they'd just mulch anything I could justify the Manticore being. It was cool being able to have a mythical monster actually threaten a pair of young demigods!
- Location
- The sixth circle of Hell (second on weekends)
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Honestly, as one of the first really Big Things that Juran did in the game, the Manticore set a very strong theme for What Kind Of Person Juran Heartsong Is - in a not-exactly-typically-heroic way. Much more Odysseus than a more straightforwardly morally good archetype. Very cool scene; I loved it a lot.
- Location
- Wörms, the half continent
I am slightly confused as to how the Manticore seems to know that Juran is an Eclipse without that really being in evidence beforehand? Maybe I just missed something.
Have a drink
One sip and you'll understand
The power that's in your hands
A wine so fresh
You'd never wanna eat human flesh again
Then we shall be on our way
No bloodshed in here today
A trade, you see?
A gift from you and a gift from me~
Juran and Odysseus would legit be best buddies, honestly XD Maybe rivals, too, but I think they'd like each other quite a lot.
Juran flared his anima before entering the mine, so that he'd have light to see by. The Manticore then loosely recognized the Deceiver's Mark from Ishaan's memories. It's why he was calling Juran "Shiny Man".
Wyld Dark Sea Chapter 5
Juran, meanwhile, had his own work to attend to.
From the Earl he had what he needed to secure a place here - rank and title, the right to hold land and troops, promises of future aid. Now he had to capitalize on that, turn his wealth and contacts into a presence in Pravance, a foundation on which he could build.
Such matters were almost routine for a merchant of his skill and experience, and before long he had managed to secure both a warehouse and a second ship to ferry goods, along with residences for his people in the city and a farm on the outskirts to feed them. Which was where the complications came in.
The fae, naturally, ran the place with slave labour. The crops went to feed the mortal populace, while the suffering of the workers fed the fae. The second the local overseers were removed fully half the workforce deserted, fleeing for the hills and outskirts, while the others lingered only out of trauma and malnourished despair.
Cursing up a storm, Juran set about doing what he could for the terrified, distrustful people that remained. As for those that escaped... he sent Five Lightning after them, with coin and food in abundance, either to tempt them back with promises of better treatment or supplies for their onward journey. That much, he thought, was the very least he could do.
Five Lightning returned some days later leading a host of abused and resentful now-ex-slaves, walking beside the wagon of supplies she'd brought to gift to them, food consumed on the way back and now loaded with the injured, even the seat on the front holding a few who were struggling to walk on their own. Many of them were armed with bronze farm tools as weapons, pitchforks and edged hoes chief among them. Many show signs of torture, brandings and floggings chief among them, the preferred punishments inflicted by the goblins for any signs of defiance.
As she relays the tale, she caught up a day off from Pravance's western border, and found them struggling to carry the most injured among them, some feverish with infection, all hungry past their ability to feed themselves, even having successfully hunted some of the local wildlife. They did not trust her, but the food she'd brought, the coin she offered, and the gift of the wagon, combined with the critical conditions of much of their number, convinced them that they might be better off giving this new lord a chance.
Juran's own quick actions arranging those of his own retinue with medical training to quickly treat the injured, along with his exhortations to do all they can, sparing no effort, to prevent any more suffering befalling these victims, saw the doctors and apothecaries working with conviction, daring risky surgeries and exhausting supplies of precious salves and medicines, and exhausting themselves well into the night. By the next midday, Juran received a messenger: all patients have been stabilized, no deaths expected.
Among the mortal population of Pravance, within the city and without, the whispers of the new Lamane spread, a mortal amongst the fae who brings relief to the enslaved, and holds great healing arts and the blessing of great spirits. For the first time in generations, the mortals begin to have hope.
Whispers, of course, were short-lived things, prone to being banished like a stray breeze in the absence of proof. And so Juran Heartsong set himself to the task of providing that proof, to upholding the promises he had made.
While his new laborers rested and received the care they needed, and while his doctors received generous bonuses and time off in thanks for their sterling service, the Merchant Prince set about securing what they would need to prosper in the future. Homes and food, clothing and medical supplies, all the things they should have had but were denied to stoke their suffering.
Names were taken, wages apportioned and specialties recorded, and that was when the first surprise came to light. Not everyone labouring on the fields was a civilian. There were those who knew how to fight, whose hearts burned with rage and who could not hide their hatred at the thought of returning to the farmland, young hotheads and captured warriors put to labour by inhuman masters. These, Juran took from the fields and added to the ranks of his guards and soldiers, appointing officers from among their ranks and commissioning weapons of iron from Butterfly's forge.
And then he turned his eye towards the mine.
In truth, Juran was not entirely sure how to go about clearing the mine of its monstrous inhabitants. He'd taken an interest in military affairs, had commanded his guard in ambushes and raids a time or two, but an operation like this was entirely beyond his expertise. So he yielded to pragmatism, and turned the matter over to Marxom.
The Raksha was only too happy to comply. He had a new lord now, his fealty sworn to a man who barely knew him and had only assurances of his worth - a chance to prove himself, to cement his place and his value, was enough to entice the knight into providing a truly sterling performance. So he mustered the ogres and the goblins now sworn to Juran's banner, and he led the shrieking horde into the depths.
In the end, there proved to be seven of the Manticore's murderous spawn lurking within the mines, bestial things too young to have developed the higher intellect or legendary venom of their sire. Their stings were still deadly enough to claim a handful of goblins, the venom all but rotting them from the inside out, but Marxom called that acceptable and Juran hardly cared. They swept the mine from surface to the depths, cleared out the blood and bones of the dead, and then assembled outside in something resembling parade formation.
"Fine work, Sir Marxom!" Juran proclaimed, afterwards, in front of them all. "I was right to leave this task to your leadership, and you have exceeded my expectations. Such excellence deserves a reward, and so I grant you a boon of your choosing, to be named now or in the future."
His eyes were keen as he made the offer, for in truth he did not know what reward Marxom would seek to claim for his service, and the choice could tell him much.
Marxom's expression flickers. Most would miss it, the Revee is talented at concealing his feelings and expressing polite interest in lieu of any particular emotion regardless of circumstance. But Juran sees the brief moment of genuine surprise at the acknowledgement of the exhausting efforts of the past few days.
"I apologize," he says, after a long enough pause that he could not easily recover from it, his polite formal tones strained slightly by shock and the exhausting efforts of truly ensuring the mine was safe, "You have caught me quite offguard. I suppose, were I to ask anything, I would have to request that my Lemane commission for me a daiklave, one forged of gossamer and my own provided dreams. It has been a long time since I was allowed to wield a weapon worthy of my hands, and such a blade would render me far more potent in my role as your retainer," and he bows in brief respect at this point, holding the position as he falls silent, giving time for Juran to consider his answer.
Behind Marxom's words is a burning sort of hope, perhaps something closer to desperation. He hides it well, but not so well Juran cannot see. He has offered a lifeline to a man condemned to death. He has offered water to a man dying of thirst. Marxom believes that an artifact weapon will complete him. He believes it will save him. And he does not want you to know what it would mean to him.
Juran pauses for a moment, sensing the hope, the desperation. How interesting. There is more to this than mere self-image or ambition, but he lacks the arcane understanding to deduce what. A point to raise with Butterfly later, perhaps.
"I shall speak with our artisan," he says, smiling and nodding, "You shall need to arrange the details of form and desire with her, but I shall cover the cost of time and material. I look forward to seeing what wonders your dreams and her skills produce!"
Marxom halts his smile before it spreads too wide. He keeps his breathing clear and even, as he bows even deeper. He holds the bow long enough that Juran cannot see the flash in his eyes, the fae expressiveness that could yet betray him. And he dares to hope.
-
The mine is cleared, at minimal cost to anyone whose wellbeing matters to Juran. Marxom has asked his boon and attempted to conceal the new light of hope within him, and gone off to discuss the details with Butterfly. The next endeavor is at hand, now that Juran can safely enter the mine:
Negotiations with the spirit court, revealed by the Manticore and confirmed by Marxom and the goblins. A crack in a wall, carved open with what must have been great difficulty without hands to hold a pickaxe, behind which crystals glitter and an armed group of gemlike spirits stand, leveling spears, watching silently but advancing no further. Five Lightning walks beside Juran as they descend, weapons sheathed, and holding a heavy bundle of cloth in her hand. Her expression is carefully neutral, and she walks with confidence, a carefully selected stance from a lifetime partially lived amongst warlike spirits.
Ten minutes, Marxom said, down the deepest tunnels, and a hundred paces left. Torches light the way head, hung by the goblins to show the path to the Vaktri sentries.
"Marxom has proven himself quite capable," Juran says quietly to his bodyguard as they walk, the depths of the earth swallowing them up, "So much so I find myself wondering why the Earl granted me his fealty so readily. I have seen his court - he has no others nearly so capable, nor so professional."
Five Lightning's expression shifts subtly, almost unnoticeably, for one not attuned to the ways expressions change and form between seconds. This is the look he associates with her considering how to phrase something.
"I have considered the same," she says after a moment, "And had a thought I've been intending to bring up, when we each had a moment away from prying ears. Have you noticed the strange order the Earl's court seems to have?"
"It would be hard to miss it. Everything is in its place, and everything works with relative harmony - enough so that the Earl himself seems almost bored," Juran nods, frowning thoughtfully, "I am no expert in the ways of spirits or raksha, but I would have expected there to be more... politics, I suppose. Ambition, rivalry, internal disputes. I have never encountered a mortal court without them."
"The Raksha are worse," Five Lightning says bluntly, "I've asked about the neighboring courts. The Duchess Fantastical is fond of random poisonings, apparently. It's not a party until someone's innards melt. The Duke's Court is so invested in sabotage that the Earl ended up exiled despite his master's favor. The farther ones sound little better. And yet, here, things work, day to day. No random murders or clever betrayals since we arrived."
Her lips twitch into a smile.
"Other than yours, that is," she notes with amusement, before continuing, "There were other powerful fae, though, before we arrived. Sent here, to this mine, to hunt a terrible monster. Sent one after another, as well, even as the deaths mounted."
"...a purge?" Juran pauses, rubbing his chin for a moment, "I could believe it, and yet it leaves his court vulnerable to the depredations of external rivals. Such threats are how unreliable elements maintain their position in the first place."
"I don't think it was the Earl," Five Lightning shakes her head, "I've been watching Marxom, whenever we work together. You should see what he does to fae who displease him. I've watched executions of traitors to Prasad less horrific. He hates disorder. He hates rudeness , as well. He twitches every time I curse around him. He's good at hiding it, but I saw how it grates. He organizes everything," the words are coming faster, now that she finally has a chance to voice the suspicions nagging at her, rushing to express them before this brief period without the risk of spies is gone, "He advises the Earl, or used to. I think he was cleaning house."
"Hm. And yet he is no traitor, as far as I can tell. His relationship to the Earl is - or was - one of dutiful fealty," Juran frowns, "Which... might well explain it. If Earl Redsaber is trapped by the nature of his role, he cannot simply cut Marxom out of his court, not without evidence of incompetence or treachery. But he can look for an excuse to transfer him elsewhere, and make his fealty a gift given to an ally."
His fingers drum against the hilt of his sword for a moment as they walk.
"I may be similarly trapped," he allows after a long moment, "for a lord who moves against a subordinate prior to any such action will not maintain the loyalty of others for long. I would sound paranoid, if I did."
Five Lightning nods seriously.
"You owe him as part of his oath, as well," she adds, "Same as why you and I both know you wouldn't fuck me over. The obligations to one's vassal, they're literal, here. You'd need a good reason to toss him out. At least, I think. Try considering it. Tell me to kick him to the curb."
Juran smiles, opens his mouth... and then closes it again, his expression troubled.
"I can't," he says slowly, "No... more than that. I don't want to. It feels wrong. Like... like you just asked me to maim a child, just to prove I could do it."
He shakes his head, frowning. "Well. An unpleasant discovery, indeed. I shall have to be careful going forwards. Still, if we are right about how the Earl was bound, then the solution would be to listen to multiple voices. A lord cannot discard sincerely offered advice out of hand, but they can certainly choose from among several options offered. I wonder... if this happened recently, then perhaps there was a counterpart to Marxom in the court, one who fell for unrelated reasons and left him one of the few voices left."
Five Lightning nods again, her expression grim.
"Agreed," she says firmly, "It'd be worth looking into, and definitely don't take any major risks just 'cause he tells you it's definitely a good call. Mind, you're smarter than the Earl, so you probably wouldn't have fallen for that," she smiles a bit as she insults the faery lord, "I think our best practice here would be watching him. Maybe he had beef with those fae, maybe he thought he was helping. I dunno enough about their magic to guess how he got around the loyalty he owes, but unfortunately, I think you need him. If only so I don't have to fucking melt like those goblins did."
She shudders at the memory of the dead goblins being carried out of the mine, a rare gesture from her, given her usual stoicism.
"And that was venom from the immature spawn, not the sire," Juran nods, wincing at the memory, "Speaking of which... I do believe we are here."
Five Lightning nods in agreement, and falls silent as they approach. The crack in the wall shines ahead of them. A gentle blue light source glimmers off the crystal visible through the wall, and even now Juran can see the sentries posed to stab anything that wriggles through. Five Lightning will have some difficulty getting in with her armor on, but it should be easy enough for him to poke through. At least if he can convince the sentries to not stab him.
Juran stops a polite distance away, looking at the glittering sentries for a moment. Then he clasps his hands and bows politely, and on his brow the sign of the Eclipse burns to life.
"I am Juran Heartsong, of the Solar Exalted," he says formally, hiding the brief flicker of discomfort he feels at naming himself as such. The Earl called him Exalted, and it is certainly a better introduction than Anathema or Demon. "As one of the Eclipse, I invoke my right of safe passage, for I wish to speak with your people as emissary and representative of those who dwell above."
A long silence follows. The beings waiting on the other side have no faces for him to read, and their body language is muted as they glance at each other, but their bodies shine with various colors as they speak without words.
At last, one steps forward, leveling its spear.
"Begone, Anathema," it speaks without a mouth, in a cold and level tone, "We have no wish of what wars you bring. Demons have troubled us enough. Begone."
Juran's mouth twists into a wry smile. "Anathema or not, I bring you no wars, and mean you no harm. Allow me to present a token of my sincerity."
He gestures to Five Lightning, and with a single smooth motion his bodyguard draws the manticore's head from the bag and holds it up so all can see.
All of the sentries flash suddenly and brilliantly, a rainbow of light exploding within them, rapidly dancing through a myriad of changing colors, red and yellow most prominent among them. They are silent for more than a minute as they simply shine brilliantly at each other. At last, the lights being to fade, and each one subtly inclines their heads towards Juran.
"We do not wish to deal with demons," the lead Vaktri speaks again, "We do not wish for war. But demons have come upon us nonetheless, and one has ended our war. You and your companion may enter. We will take you to our Court. You will say why you have done this, and we shall thank you. And then, you will leave, or we will make you. If this is unacceptable, turn and walk away."
The spear remains leveled, waiting for him to agree or not, and all twelve of the present Vaktri adopt the same shining light: a pure white that is unmistakably a warning.
"I accept your terms," Juran says evenly. This is perhaps not going quite so smoothly as he would like, but there are worse outcomes, and so he can hardly complain.
The Vaktri step back as one, raising their spears to the ceiling in the same motion, allowing Juran and Five Lightning to step forward. It is easy for Juran to cross over while she re-wraps the Manticore's head, it is difficult for her to step through once she has done so, broad as she is in her armor. The sound of metal scraping on rock echoes in the small cavern, but when she is through, her armor shines in the ambient light, not a scratch upon it. Butterfly's work is impeccable.
Juran spends the few awkward moments as Five Lightning traverses the gap quietly studying the nearest Vaktri, trying to pick out the meaning behind their Anathema comment - if they are likely to simply reject his presence, or if they are committed enough to chase him down.
Unfortunately, he has no idea how to read something without a face. The coloured lights are clearly connected in some fashion, but how?
Disquieted, he stays silent, waiting for the guards to lead him to their court.
When Five Lightning is at last through, the Vaktri turn as one and stride ahead, leaving Juran and Five Lightning to keep up as they can. They walk in perfect unity at a steady pace, the lights within them flickering various shades, different now in each of them. They do not seem to fear being stabbed in the back, apparently willing to trust Juran at his word, or perhaps able to see behind them.
It is not as if their faces have eyes to begin with.
The walk down the path to the rear of the cavern they entered is long, and the Vaktri are silent as they travel it. As they walk, though, the source of the blue light becomes apparent. In long, thin trails on either side of the wall, a clear blue stone runs through, shining with gentle light and further reflecting that of the Vaktri.
Five Lightning dares not speak aloud, for fear of alarming their escorts or signaling avaricious intent. But she attempts to draw Juran's attention to it nonetheless, and mouths at him when he glances to her.
Blue Jade.
Juran nods shallowly. A valuable resource indeed, and one he will seek to obtain if at all possible... but not one worth going to war with a spirit court over, not while his position is still so fresh and easily disturbed.
It gleams almost tauntingly in the light of the Vaktri, and the air seems fresher and cleaner for the mere presence of the stone. Perhaps it is, it would be a small miracle among the many attributed to the substance. The Vaktri do not notice, or perhaps simply do not care, what Juran is thinking. They lead him on, eventually into a much larger cavern. The blue lights dim, it becomes almost dark, the only lights coming from the Vaktri and Juran's Caste Mark. The lights bounce off the walls, illuminating bits of shining silver therein. Five Lightning stares ahead at the Vaktri, sparing no attention for the surrounding environment.
They are led into another tunnel, walking further and further in the dark. When it at last ends, nearly an hour has passed. The air has gone from cool and clean to thick and uncomfortably hot. Five Lightning sweats heavily in her armor, and the preservatives applied by the Earl's "apothecary" cannot fully block the smell of the thing. Ahead, though, shine more shimmering crystal figures. Another set of Vaktri sentries, blocking the entrance to a vast cavern behind them, in which more Vaktri can be seen, going about their business.
The Vaktri guiding Juran and Five Lightning flash brightly, and the guards part to let them pass. The air keeps heating up, and now in the distance they can see great pits glowing with red light. Lava, the blood of Creation itself, blazing bright within its veins. They are led through the cavern, to its far end, to a wall made in large part of a single vast gemstone, blood-red and shining with the light of the distant lava in the pits on either side of it, towering far, far above him, a gemstone sized for a mountainside.
The Vaktri stop before it, and as one, they fall to their knees.
The crystal on the wall begins to slowly glow with an inner light, and it reminds Juran terribly of a single glowing eye beginning to open. His every instinct screams at him that this would be the time to bow, and to yank Five Lightning down with him.
Sweating freely now, Juran bows, a single sharp gesture commanding Five Lightning to do likewise. He can tell that the Vaktri prefer silence, or at least the quiet, wherever possible. Best to put the best foot forward here.
Five Lightning kneels quickly at his gesture, his silent command snapping her from her shock.
"Gemlord," the lead Vaktri speaks, "We beseech you for your guidance. A demon has come, bearing the head of the one who hunts your faithful servants. Gemlord, please guide us, in our time of need. Gemlord, please speak, that we may know your will."
The light of the great crystal eye shines brightly for long moments, apparently staring down Juran. His attention is drawn to it, and a deeper meaning nags at him.
Gemlord. An elemental of the deep earth, something that the Vaktri serve, that they speak on behalf of. If they are heralds, then they must have a grasp of the gemlord's typical will.
Subtly, Juran casts his senses around, absorbing not so much the brilliant glow of the gem before him as the scene as a whole. Light, reflected in a prism.
For a long moment, it is light and nagging meaning. And then, at last, with all his senses sharpened, he sees it.
Pain. The being before him is in pain. Desperation. This is not how it communicates naturally. It sees the mark of the Eclipse, and it shines its intentions, in desperate hope he will understand and act. Juran can easily imagine it as a human eye, shining with pain and fear and loneliness and hope. Hope that he will be able to help it. Hope that someone will understand, based only on an expression that isn't truly there.
And then the light begins to fade. The great crystal slowly dims, and Juran can imagine that human eye fluttering, consciousness leaving it, falling back into the slumber of the terribly sick.
Eventually, the light is gone altogether, and the Vaktri around them flash with a bright green light. With his senses as they are, his instincts attuned, however briefly, to the Gemlord, he can see that the green is an expression of grief.
"We remain unworthy," the Vaktri chosen to speak to them says aloud, so they can hear, and manages to put a fraction of the misery it feels into its voice, "Our God does not care. Even with demons among us. Even with the demon who hunted us dead. What do you want, Anathema? What reward will leave us to our worship? What price will buy us peace, at last?"
"...you are not unworthy," Juran says, slowly, quietly, with the certainty of iron in his voice. "The gemlord is... were it mortal I would say it is sick, injured perhaps, or poisoned."
It is, perhaps, not the most logical of things to say. He could easily walk away from this, perhaps negotiate rights to the jade in exchange for peace, and leave matters to rest. But he would know the truth. The lie, even by omission, would gnaw at him.
"Your God wishes to speak, but cannot. There is something leeching its strength away," he says, rising to his feet. "Know you, any of you, what it might be?"
There is silence, but green and red and violent painful white shine in all of them. One raises a spear, others turn pure white, bright enough to force Juran to look away, and the one who raised the weapon backs down. They argue violently in silence for long minutes, before finally the speaker Vaktri turns to face them, as if making sure to stare Juran in the eyes, all the while the others continue to shine chaotically.
"You blaspheme, Anathema," it says, staring him down, "Some of us wish you dead, curse or no curse. But our God rarely shines. Our God never speaks. We have wondered for centuries what it was we did. We have tried so many things to earn the Gemlord's favor back. And now, you come, and it shines on our words for the first time in decades. Now, you come, and you tell us what we so desperately hoped: that we have not erred. Now, you come, and you suggest that we might yet save our Lord. We will not kill you, we will not drive you forth. You will tell us what the Gemlord said, exactly. And we shall save our God."
"It said nothing," Juran says flatly, shaking his head, "I heard no voice, read no words. Say instead..."
He gropes for an explanation for a long moment.
"If I look at another human, one that is sick or injured, I may know they are in pain and distress by the sweat on their brow, the colour of their skin," he tries at last, "Just as you would know the look of another Vaktri in pain or distress. I have traveled to many lands, spoken with many people, learned to read the signs of a thousand and one woes in voice and face and eye."
He thinks hard for a moment, then looks up briefly at the ceiling. "The land here is a bordermarch, twisted by the wyld. It has been so for four hundred years, I think, for that is when the Raksha laid claim. When did your God cease to speak?"
There is a terrible silence, as green-white light fills each of the Vaktri, too painful to look upon.
"Thirty five decades ago," comes the flat response, emotionless, and yet filled with a terrible rage, "Our Lord gave us its last command, then, to go to the world above, and return with word of what was happening. We traveled upwards, and found nothing. Empty fields under a yellow sun, as the tales always told. When we returned, and reported our findings, our God was silent, as it often was. And then the light of the Gemlord dimmed. We thought we had failed. And then we thought it was a test. And then we wondered if our God was dead, but the Eye would shine, every so often. As if checking on us. Seeing if we were worthy yet. We searched more, and found nothing. We expanded, and it helped nothing. And all the while, the Enemy poisoned our Lord with the stuff of Chaos?"
Still the Vaktri shines too bright to look at, such is the sick horror and rage within it.
"You are Anathema. A demon with the stolen power of the Most High. Kill these Raksha. Lead us into battle, if you must. We are not warriors, but we will fight for our God. Name your price. There is nothing we will not give."
Wincing, Juran closes his eyes. Yes. He should have expected this. Of course they would wish to take action immediately. How can they not? How can he deny them that?
"This must be done properly," he says at last, when the thoughts have finished sliding into place, "I know little of the wyld, or of the deep earth and how the essence flows here. The Raksha that holds the nearest court did not even know of your existence until a matter of weeks ago - if this poison is an attack, then the foe is further afield."
He nods firmly. "You have sages? Priests, scholars, people of wisdom? Those who hear the earth most clearly, who know of essence and how it may be shaped. They shall come with me, to the surface, and learn the shape of things there. The source of this sickness, and what must be done to cure it. They shall swear service to me, so as to be protected by the curse that falls upon those who harm my kind, and I shall swear in turn to release them when an answer is found."
The lights flash again, white and green and red and yellow chief among them.
The argument continues for several moments, before it is interrupted by the main speaker.
"You will leave, Anathema," it says in its strange monotone, the shining red within it lending a sense of firm certainty, "And we will follow, when we have determined who shall accompany me. It may take days. Many will insist on coming, but many must stay to defend our God, if our foes are as numerous as you imply. We shall come up through your mine. Tell your servants there to not be alarmed. We do not wish to be attacked with your crystal-shattering tools over the panicking of slaves. When next we meet, we shall swear to your oath, and together we shall heal our god."
Juran considers this for a moment, then bows. "Acceptable terms. I will have returned to the nearby settlement, most like, but I shall leave agents to direct you."
"Please do," the Vaktri inclines its head in a mimicked human gesture, "It is hard to navigate above ground. If the settlements are far apart, that is likely why we failed. It was far too easy to become lost."
With those words, though, it turns to the others, joining the series of flashing lights and wandering off in the direction of some of the other Vaktri in the cavern. Others of the group that escorted Juran and Five Lightning begin to split off in pairs, presumably to spread the news and gather the others, leaving their guests to make their way back to the surface alone. At least there were not vary many turns.
Nodding thoughtfully to himself, Juran turns and walks away, relying on the light of his soul - and his keen memory for direction - to guide him back.
Hopefully the wyld corruption is an accident, the byproduct of raw chaos soaking into the ground over decades and centuries. Such things can be dealt with through... well he's not entirely sure, but he has heard talk of jade obelisks and other totems against chaos before, and then of course there were the Earl's stories about the Solars of old calcifying all before them. Regardless, it would be a question of logistics, a practical challenge.
If there was one of the Fae behind this, then it would be war. He'd never be able to hold back the Vaktri, and frankly he'd feel bad about trying.
Five Lightning walks in pensive silence beside them, occupied by her own view of the events, planning for possible war, worrying about Marxom's possible scheming, and the terrible power she briefly felt from the Elder Spirit's Eye.
From the Earl he had what he needed to secure a place here - rank and title, the right to hold land and troops, promises of future aid. Now he had to capitalize on that, turn his wealth and contacts into a presence in Pravance, a foundation on which he could build.
Such matters were almost routine for a merchant of his skill and experience, and before long he had managed to secure both a warehouse and a second ship to ferry goods, along with residences for his people in the city and a farm on the outskirts to feed them. Which was where the complications came in.
The fae, naturally, ran the place with slave labour. The crops went to feed the mortal populace, while the suffering of the workers fed the fae. The second the local overseers were removed fully half the workforce deserted, fleeing for the hills and outskirts, while the others lingered only out of trauma and malnourished despair.
Cursing up a storm, Juran set about doing what he could for the terrified, distrustful people that remained. As for those that escaped... he sent Five Lightning after them, with coin and food in abundance, either to tempt them back with promises of better treatment or supplies for their onward journey. That much, he thought, was the very least he could do.
Five Lightning returned some days later leading a host of abused and resentful now-ex-slaves, walking beside the wagon of supplies she'd brought to gift to them, food consumed on the way back and now loaded with the injured, even the seat on the front holding a few who were struggling to walk on their own. Many of them were armed with bronze farm tools as weapons, pitchforks and edged hoes chief among them. Many show signs of torture, brandings and floggings chief among them, the preferred punishments inflicted by the goblins for any signs of defiance.
As she relays the tale, she caught up a day off from Pravance's western border, and found them struggling to carry the most injured among them, some feverish with infection, all hungry past their ability to feed themselves, even having successfully hunted some of the local wildlife. They did not trust her, but the food she'd brought, the coin she offered, and the gift of the wagon, combined with the critical conditions of much of their number, convinced them that they might be better off giving this new lord a chance.
Juran's own quick actions arranging those of his own retinue with medical training to quickly treat the injured, along with his exhortations to do all they can, sparing no effort, to prevent any more suffering befalling these victims, saw the doctors and apothecaries working with conviction, daring risky surgeries and exhausting supplies of precious salves and medicines, and exhausting themselves well into the night. By the next midday, Juran received a messenger: all patients have been stabilized, no deaths expected.
Among the mortal population of Pravance, within the city and without, the whispers of the new Lamane spread, a mortal amongst the fae who brings relief to the enslaved, and holds great healing arts and the blessing of great spirits. For the first time in generations, the mortals begin to have hope.
Whispers, of course, were short-lived things, prone to being banished like a stray breeze in the absence of proof. And so Juran Heartsong set himself to the task of providing that proof, to upholding the promises he had made.
While his new laborers rested and received the care they needed, and while his doctors received generous bonuses and time off in thanks for their sterling service, the Merchant Prince set about securing what they would need to prosper in the future. Homes and food, clothing and medical supplies, all the things they should have had but were denied to stoke their suffering.
Names were taken, wages apportioned and specialties recorded, and that was when the first surprise came to light. Not everyone labouring on the fields was a civilian. There were those who knew how to fight, whose hearts burned with rage and who could not hide their hatred at the thought of returning to the farmland, young hotheads and captured warriors put to labour by inhuman masters. These, Juran took from the fields and added to the ranks of his guards and soldiers, appointing officers from among their ranks and commissioning weapons of iron from Butterfly's forge.
And then he turned his eye towards the mine.
In truth, Juran was not entirely sure how to go about clearing the mine of its monstrous inhabitants. He'd taken an interest in military affairs, had commanded his guard in ambushes and raids a time or two, but an operation like this was entirely beyond his expertise. So he yielded to pragmatism, and turned the matter over to Marxom.
The Raksha was only too happy to comply. He had a new lord now, his fealty sworn to a man who barely knew him and had only assurances of his worth - a chance to prove himself, to cement his place and his value, was enough to entice the knight into providing a truly sterling performance. So he mustered the ogres and the goblins now sworn to Juran's banner, and he led the shrieking horde into the depths.
In the end, there proved to be seven of the Manticore's murderous spawn lurking within the mines, bestial things too young to have developed the higher intellect or legendary venom of their sire. Their stings were still deadly enough to claim a handful of goblins, the venom all but rotting them from the inside out, but Marxom called that acceptable and Juran hardly cared. They swept the mine from surface to the depths, cleared out the blood and bones of the dead, and then assembled outside in something resembling parade formation.
"Fine work, Sir Marxom!" Juran proclaimed, afterwards, in front of them all. "I was right to leave this task to your leadership, and you have exceeded my expectations. Such excellence deserves a reward, and so I grant you a boon of your choosing, to be named now or in the future."
His eyes were keen as he made the offer, for in truth he did not know what reward Marxom would seek to claim for his service, and the choice could tell him much.
Marxom's expression flickers. Most would miss it, the Revee is talented at concealing his feelings and expressing polite interest in lieu of any particular emotion regardless of circumstance. But Juran sees the brief moment of genuine surprise at the acknowledgement of the exhausting efforts of the past few days.
"I apologize," he says, after a long enough pause that he could not easily recover from it, his polite formal tones strained slightly by shock and the exhausting efforts of truly ensuring the mine was safe, "You have caught me quite offguard. I suppose, were I to ask anything, I would have to request that my Lemane commission for me a daiklave, one forged of gossamer and my own provided dreams. It has been a long time since I was allowed to wield a weapon worthy of my hands, and such a blade would render me far more potent in my role as your retainer," and he bows in brief respect at this point, holding the position as he falls silent, giving time for Juran to consider his answer.
Behind Marxom's words is a burning sort of hope, perhaps something closer to desperation. He hides it well, but not so well Juran cannot see. He has offered a lifeline to a man condemned to death. He has offered water to a man dying of thirst. Marxom believes that an artifact weapon will complete him. He believes it will save him. And he does not want you to know what it would mean to him.
Juran pauses for a moment, sensing the hope, the desperation. How interesting. There is more to this than mere self-image or ambition, but he lacks the arcane understanding to deduce what. A point to raise with Butterfly later, perhaps.
"I shall speak with our artisan," he says, smiling and nodding, "You shall need to arrange the details of form and desire with her, but I shall cover the cost of time and material. I look forward to seeing what wonders your dreams and her skills produce!"
Marxom halts his smile before it spreads too wide. He keeps his breathing clear and even, as he bows even deeper. He holds the bow long enough that Juran cannot see the flash in his eyes, the fae expressiveness that could yet betray him. And he dares to hope.
-
The mine is cleared, at minimal cost to anyone whose wellbeing matters to Juran. Marxom has asked his boon and attempted to conceal the new light of hope within him, and gone off to discuss the details with Butterfly. The next endeavor is at hand, now that Juran can safely enter the mine:
Negotiations with the spirit court, revealed by the Manticore and confirmed by Marxom and the goblins. A crack in a wall, carved open with what must have been great difficulty without hands to hold a pickaxe, behind which crystals glitter and an armed group of gemlike spirits stand, leveling spears, watching silently but advancing no further. Five Lightning walks beside Juran as they descend, weapons sheathed, and holding a heavy bundle of cloth in her hand. Her expression is carefully neutral, and she walks with confidence, a carefully selected stance from a lifetime partially lived amongst warlike spirits.
Ten minutes, Marxom said, down the deepest tunnels, and a hundred paces left. Torches light the way head, hung by the goblins to show the path to the Vaktri sentries.
"Marxom has proven himself quite capable," Juran says quietly to his bodyguard as they walk, the depths of the earth swallowing them up, "So much so I find myself wondering why the Earl granted me his fealty so readily. I have seen his court - he has no others nearly so capable, nor so professional."
Five Lightning's expression shifts subtly, almost unnoticeably, for one not attuned to the ways expressions change and form between seconds. This is the look he associates with her considering how to phrase something.
"I have considered the same," she says after a moment, "And had a thought I've been intending to bring up, when we each had a moment away from prying ears. Have you noticed the strange order the Earl's court seems to have?"
"It would be hard to miss it. Everything is in its place, and everything works with relative harmony - enough so that the Earl himself seems almost bored," Juran nods, frowning thoughtfully, "I am no expert in the ways of spirits or raksha, but I would have expected there to be more... politics, I suppose. Ambition, rivalry, internal disputes. I have never encountered a mortal court without them."
"The Raksha are worse," Five Lightning says bluntly, "I've asked about the neighboring courts. The Duchess Fantastical is fond of random poisonings, apparently. It's not a party until someone's innards melt. The Duke's Court is so invested in sabotage that the Earl ended up exiled despite his master's favor. The farther ones sound little better. And yet, here, things work, day to day. No random murders or clever betrayals since we arrived."
Her lips twitch into a smile.
"Other than yours, that is," she notes with amusement, before continuing, "There were other powerful fae, though, before we arrived. Sent here, to this mine, to hunt a terrible monster. Sent one after another, as well, even as the deaths mounted."
"...a purge?" Juran pauses, rubbing his chin for a moment, "I could believe it, and yet it leaves his court vulnerable to the depredations of external rivals. Such threats are how unreliable elements maintain their position in the first place."
"I don't think it was the Earl," Five Lightning shakes her head, "I've been watching Marxom, whenever we work together. You should see what he does to fae who displease him. I've watched executions of traitors to Prasad less horrific. He hates disorder. He hates rudeness , as well. He twitches every time I curse around him. He's good at hiding it, but I saw how it grates. He organizes everything," the words are coming faster, now that she finally has a chance to voice the suspicions nagging at her, rushing to express them before this brief period without the risk of spies is gone, "He advises the Earl, or used to. I think he was cleaning house."
"Hm. And yet he is no traitor, as far as I can tell. His relationship to the Earl is - or was - one of dutiful fealty," Juran frowns, "Which... might well explain it. If Earl Redsaber is trapped by the nature of his role, he cannot simply cut Marxom out of his court, not without evidence of incompetence or treachery. But he can look for an excuse to transfer him elsewhere, and make his fealty a gift given to an ally."
His fingers drum against the hilt of his sword for a moment as they walk.
"I may be similarly trapped," he allows after a long moment, "for a lord who moves against a subordinate prior to any such action will not maintain the loyalty of others for long. I would sound paranoid, if I did."
Five Lightning nods seriously.
"You owe him as part of his oath, as well," she adds, "Same as why you and I both know you wouldn't fuck me over. The obligations to one's vassal, they're literal, here. You'd need a good reason to toss him out. At least, I think. Try considering it. Tell me to kick him to the curb."
Juran smiles, opens his mouth... and then closes it again, his expression troubled.
"I can't," he says slowly, "No... more than that. I don't want to. It feels wrong. Like... like you just asked me to maim a child, just to prove I could do it."
He shakes his head, frowning. "Well. An unpleasant discovery, indeed. I shall have to be careful going forwards. Still, if we are right about how the Earl was bound, then the solution would be to listen to multiple voices. A lord cannot discard sincerely offered advice out of hand, but they can certainly choose from among several options offered. I wonder... if this happened recently, then perhaps there was a counterpart to Marxom in the court, one who fell for unrelated reasons and left him one of the few voices left."
Five Lightning nods again, her expression grim.
"Agreed," she says firmly, "It'd be worth looking into, and definitely don't take any major risks just 'cause he tells you it's definitely a good call. Mind, you're smarter than the Earl, so you probably wouldn't have fallen for that," she smiles a bit as she insults the faery lord, "I think our best practice here would be watching him. Maybe he had beef with those fae, maybe he thought he was helping. I dunno enough about their magic to guess how he got around the loyalty he owes, but unfortunately, I think you need him. If only so I don't have to fucking melt like those goblins did."
She shudders at the memory of the dead goblins being carried out of the mine, a rare gesture from her, given her usual stoicism.
"And that was venom from the immature spawn, not the sire," Juran nods, wincing at the memory, "Speaking of which... I do believe we are here."
Five Lightning nods in agreement, and falls silent as they approach. The crack in the wall shines ahead of them. A gentle blue light source glimmers off the crystal visible through the wall, and even now Juran can see the sentries posed to stab anything that wriggles through. Five Lightning will have some difficulty getting in with her armor on, but it should be easy enough for him to poke through. At least if he can convince the sentries to not stab him.
Juran stops a polite distance away, looking at the glittering sentries for a moment. Then he clasps his hands and bows politely, and on his brow the sign of the Eclipse burns to life.
"I am Juran Heartsong, of the Solar Exalted," he says formally, hiding the brief flicker of discomfort he feels at naming himself as such. The Earl called him Exalted, and it is certainly a better introduction than Anathema or Demon. "As one of the Eclipse, I invoke my right of safe passage, for I wish to speak with your people as emissary and representative of those who dwell above."
A long silence follows. The beings waiting on the other side have no faces for him to read, and their body language is muted as they glance at each other, but their bodies shine with various colors as they speak without words.
At last, one steps forward, leveling its spear.
"Begone, Anathema," it speaks without a mouth, in a cold and level tone, "We have no wish of what wars you bring. Demons have troubled us enough. Begone."
Juran's mouth twists into a wry smile. "Anathema or not, I bring you no wars, and mean you no harm. Allow me to present a token of my sincerity."
He gestures to Five Lightning, and with a single smooth motion his bodyguard draws the manticore's head from the bag and holds it up so all can see.
All of the sentries flash suddenly and brilliantly, a rainbow of light exploding within them, rapidly dancing through a myriad of changing colors, red and yellow most prominent among them. They are silent for more than a minute as they simply shine brilliantly at each other. At last, the lights being to fade, and each one subtly inclines their heads towards Juran.
"We do not wish to deal with demons," the lead Vaktri speaks again, "We do not wish for war. But demons have come upon us nonetheless, and one has ended our war. You and your companion may enter. We will take you to our Court. You will say why you have done this, and we shall thank you. And then, you will leave, or we will make you. If this is unacceptable, turn and walk away."
The spear remains leveled, waiting for him to agree or not, and all twelve of the present Vaktri adopt the same shining light: a pure white that is unmistakably a warning.
"I accept your terms," Juran says evenly. This is perhaps not going quite so smoothly as he would like, but there are worse outcomes, and so he can hardly complain.
The Vaktri step back as one, raising their spears to the ceiling in the same motion, allowing Juran and Five Lightning to step forward. It is easy for Juran to cross over while she re-wraps the Manticore's head, it is difficult for her to step through once she has done so, broad as she is in her armor. The sound of metal scraping on rock echoes in the small cavern, but when she is through, her armor shines in the ambient light, not a scratch upon it. Butterfly's work is impeccable.
Juran spends the few awkward moments as Five Lightning traverses the gap quietly studying the nearest Vaktri, trying to pick out the meaning behind their Anathema comment - if they are likely to simply reject his presence, or if they are committed enough to chase him down.
Unfortunately, he has no idea how to read something without a face. The coloured lights are clearly connected in some fashion, but how?
Disquieted, he stays silent, waiting for the guards to lead him to their court.
When Five Lightning is at last through, the Vaktri turn as one and stride ahead, leaving Juran and Five Lightning to keep up as they can. They walk in perfect unity at a steady pace, the lights within them flickering various shades, different now in each of them. They do not seem to fear being stabbed in the back, apparently willing to trust Juran at his word, or perhaps able to see behind them.
It is not as if their faces have eyes to begin with.
The walk down the path to the rear of the cavern they entered is long, and the Vaktri are silent as they travel it. As they walk, though, the source of the blue light becomes apparent. In long, thin trails on either side of the wall, a clear blue stone runs through, shining with gentle light and further reflecting that of the Vaktri.
Five Lightning dares not speak aloud, for fear of alarming their escorts or signaling avaricious intent. But she attempts to draw Juran's attention to it nonetheless, and mouths at him when he glances to her.
Blue Jade.
Juran nods shallowly. A valuable resource indeed, and one he will seek to obtain if at all possible... but not one worth going to war with a spirit court over, not while his position is still so fresh and easily disturbed.
It gleams almost tauntingly in the light of the Vaktri, and the air seems fresher and cleaner for the mere presence of the stone. Perhaps it is, it would be a small miracle among the many attributed to the substance. The Vaktri do not notice, or perhaps simply do not care, what Juran is thinking. They lead him on, eventually into a much larger cavern. The blue lights dim, it becomes almost dark, the only lights coming from the Vaktri and Juran's Caste Mark. The lights bounce off the walls, illuminating bits of shining silver therein. Five Lightning stares ahead at the Vaktri, sparing no attention for the surrounding environment.
They are led into another tunnel, walking further and further in the dark. When it at last ends, nearly an hour has passed. The air has gone from cool and clean to thick and uncomfortably hot. Five Lightning sweats heavily in her armor, and the preservatives applied by the Earl's "apothecary" cannot fully block the smell of the thing. Ahead, though, shine more shimmering crystal figures. Another set of Vaktri sentries, blocking the entrance to a vast cavern behind them, in which more Vaktri can be seen, going about their business.
The Vaktri guiding Juran and Five Lightning flash brightly, and the guards part to let them pass. The air keeps heating up, and now in the distance they can see great pits glowing with red light. Lava, the blood of Creation itself, blazing bright within its veins. They are led through the cavern, to its far end, to a wall made in large part of a single vast gemstone, blood-red and shining with the light of the distant lava in the pits on either side of it, towering far, far above him, a gemstone sized for a mountainside.
The Vaktri stop before it, and as one, they fall to their knees.
The crystal on the wall begins to slowly glow with an inner light, and it reminds Juran terribly of a single glowing eye beginning to open. His every instinct screams at him that this would be the time to bow, and to yank Five Lightning down with him.
Sweating freely now, Juran bows, a single sharp gesture commanding Five Lightning to do likewise. He can tell that the Vaktri prefer silence, or at least the quiet, wherever possible. Best to put the best foot forward here.
Five Lightning kneels quickly at his gesture, his silent command snapping her from her shock.
"Gemlord," the lead Vaktri speaks, "We beseech you for your guidance. A demon has come, bearing the head of the one who hunts your faithful servants. Gemlord, please guide us, in our time of need. Gemlord, please speak, that we may know your will."
The light of the great crystal eye shines brightly for long moments, apparently staring down Juran. His attention is drawn to it, and a deeper meaning nags at him.
Gemlord. An elemental of the deep earth, something that the Vaktri serve, that they speak on behalf of. If they are heralds, then they must have a grasp of the gemlord's typical will.
Subtly, Juran casts his senses around, absorbing not so much the brilliant glow of the gem before him as the scene as a whole. Light, reflected in a prism.
For a long moment, it is light and nagging meaning. And then, at last, with all his senses sharpened, he sees it.
Pain. The being before him is in pain. Desperation. This is not how it communicates naturally. It sees the mark of the Eclipse, and it shines its intentions, in desperate hope he will understand and act. Juran can easily imagine it as a human eye, shining with pain and fear and loneliness and hope. Hope that he will be able to help it. Hope that someone will understand, based only on an expression that isn't truly there.
And then the light begins to fade. The great crystal slowly dims, and Juran can imagine that human eye fluttering, consciousness leaving it, falling back into the slumber of the terribly sick.
Eventually, the light is gone altogether, and the Vaktri around them flash with a bright green light. With his senses as they are, his instincts attuned, however briefly, to the Gemlord, he can see that the green is an expression of grief.
"We remain unworthy," the Vaktri chosen to speak to them says aloud, so they can hear, and manages to put a fraction of the misery it feels into its voice, "Our God does not care. Even with demons among us. Even with the demon who hunted us dead. What do you want, Anathema? What reward will leave us to our worship? What price will buy us peace, at last?"
"...you are not unworthy," Juran says, slowly, quietly, with the certainty of iron in his voice. "The gemlord is... were it mortal I would say it is sick, injured perhaps, or poisoned."
It is, perhaps, not the most logical of things to say. He could easily walk away from this, perhaps negotiate rights to the jade in exchange for peace, and leave matters to rest. But he would know the truth. The lie, even by omission, would gnaw at him.
"Your God wishes to speak, but cannot. There is something leeching its strength away," he says, rising to his feet. "Know you, any of you, what it might be?"
There is silence, but green and red and violent painful white shine in all of them. One raises a spear, others turn pure white, bright enough to force Juran to look away, and the one who raised the weapon backs down. They argue violently in silence for long minutes, before finally the speaker Vaktri turns to face them, as if making sure to stare Juran in the eyes, all the while the others continue to shine chaotically.
"You blaspheme, Anathema," it says, staring him down, "Some of us wish you dead, curse or no curse. But our God rarely shines. Our God never speaks. We have wondered for centuries what it was we did. We have tried so many things to earn the Gemlord's favor back. And now, you come, and it shines on our words for the first time in decades. Now, you come, and you tell us what we so desperately hoped: that we have not erred. Now, you come, and you suggest that we might yet save our Lord. We will not kill you, we will not drive you forth. You will tell us what the Gemlord said, exactly. And we shall save our God."
"It said nothing," Juran says flatly, shaking his head, "I heard no voice, read no words. Say instead..."
He gropes for an explanation for a long moment.
"If I look at another human, one that is sick or injured, I may know they are in pain and distress by the sweat on their brow, the colour of their skin," he tries at last, "Just as you would know the look of another Vaktri in pain or distress. I have traveled to many lands, spoken with many people, learned to read the signs of a thousand and one woes in voice and face and eye."
He thinks hard for a moment, then looks up briefly at the ceiling. "The land here is a bordermarch, twisted by the wyld. It has been so for four hundred years, I think, for that is when the Raksha laid claim. When did your God cease to speak?"
There is a terrible silence, as green-white light fills each of the Vaktri, too painful to look upon.
"Thirty five decades ago," comes the flat response, emotionless, and yet filled with a terrible rage, "Our Lord gave us its last command, then, to go to the world above, and return with word of what was happening. We traveled upwards, and found nothing. Empty fields under a yellow sun, as the tales always told. When we returned, and reported our findings, our God was silent, as it often was. And then the light of the Gemlord dimmed. We thought we had failed. And then we thought it was a test. And then we wondered if our God was dead, but the Eye would shine, every so often. As if checking on us. Seeing if we were worthy yet. We searched more, and found nothing. We expanded, and it helped nothing. And all the while, the Enemy poisoned our Lord with the stuff of Chaos?"
Still the Vaktri shines too bright to look at, such is the sick horror and rage within it.
"You are Anathema. A demon with the stolen power of the Most High. Kill these Raksha. Lead us into battle, if you must. We are not warriors, but we will fight for our God. Name your price. There is nothing we will not give."
Wincing, Juran closes his eyes. Yes. He should have expected this. Of course they would wish to take action immediately. How can they not? How can he deny them that?
"This must be done properly," he says at last, when the thoughts have finished sliding into place, "I know little of the wyld, or of the deep earth and how the essence flows here. The Raksha that holds the nearest court did not even know of your existence until a matter of weeks ago - if this poison is an attack, then the foe is further afield."
He nods firmly. "You have sages? Priests, scholars, people of wisdom? Those who hear the earth most clearly, who know of essence and how it may be shaped. They shall come with me, to the surface, and learn the shape of things there. The source of this sickness, and what must be done to cure it. They shall swear service to me, so as to be protected by the curse that falls upon those who harm my kind, and I shall swear in turn to release them when an answer is found."
The lights flash again, white and green and red and yellow chief among them.
The argument continues for several moments, before it is interrupted by the main speaker.
"You will leave, Anathema," it says in its strange monotone, the shining red within it lending a sense of firm certainty, "And we will follow, when we have determined who shall accompany me. It may take days. Many will insist on coming, but many must stay to defend our God, if our foes are as numerous as you imply. We shall come up through your mine. Tell your servants there to not be alarmed. We do not wish to be attacked with your crystal-shattering tools over the panicking of slaves. When next we meet, we shall swear to your oath, and together we shall heal our god."
Juran considers this for a moment, then bows. "Acceptable terms. I will have returned to the nearby settlement, most like, but I shall leave agents to direct you."
"Please do," the Vaktri inclines its head in a mimicked human gesture, "It is hard to navigate above ground. If the settlements are far apart, that is likely why we failed. It was far too easy to become lost."
With those words, though, it turns to the others, joining the series of flashing lights and wandering off in the direction of some of the other Vaktri in the cavern. Others of the group that escorted Juran and Five Lightning begin to split off in pairs, presumably to spread the news and gather the others, leaving their guests to make their way back to the surface alone. At least there were not vary many turns.
Nodding thoughtfully to himself, Juran turns and walks away, relying on the light of his soul - and his keen memory for direction - to guide him back.
Hopefully the wyld corruption is an accident, the byproduct of raw chaos soaking into the ground over decades and centuries. Such things can be dealt with through... well he's not entirely sure, but he has heard talk of jade obelisks and other totems against chaos before, and then of course there were the Earl's stories about the Solars of old calcifying all before them. Regardless, it would be a question of logistics, a practical challenge.
If there was one of the Fae behind this, then it would be war. He'd never be able to hold back the Vaktri, and frankly he'd feel bad about trying.
Five Lightning walks in pensive silence beside them, occupied by her own view of the events, planning for possible war, worrying about Marxom's possible scheming, and the terrible power she briefly felt from the Elder Spirit's Eye.
Here's some more!
**
Aleu's prophesying revealed a particular timeframe in which to use Glory's lessons to call forth a demonic familiar. The full spell taught to Butterfly includes the ancient ritual of binding by which humanity holds the right to call forth the least demons of Hell as slaves, but she knows of another power within her, one that she could share, as she shares with Aleu. The Twilight Caste of the Solar Exalted, as Glory has insisted she properly be known as, may bond freely with spirits, even those imprisoned in Hell's Brass City, and invite them as friends into Creation.
Glory warned her that not all spirits would be willing, especially not Hell's demons, often paranoid and always dangerous, painting a brief picture of the misery it is, for those least spirits imprisoned, a teeming mass of slaves, purpose built for service by cruel divinities, the lords and princes of Malfeas, who were not content to suffer their imprisonment without others to suffer with them.
But, under the new moon, Aleu is certain that Butterfly's spell will reach a spirit who would risk believing in freedom, that there might be such a thing as benevolence from above, whatever Hell's laws speak to the contrary.
Butterfly brought Aleu (and her bow) out of the city, into the dark outside of the walls. She didn't want to summon the demon within, or be watched by prying eyes. She didn't want the fae to realize how little she wanted to force the issue, if the demon refused her offer. She wasn't all that keen on gathering an army of demons to work to the bone for her, but the high numbers of demons Glory mentioned suggested it were possible to find demons willing to accept working with her to escape hell. Aleu, for example, was a delight and showed no sign of resentment towards Glory. In any case, she was calling this demon for a particularly close relationship. Compatible personality was of vital importance.
She finished pouring out the carefully mixed dust, a delicate and complex circle. Every symbol the summation of pages upon pages of calculations and balances, all for the purposes of calling a demon to her. She lit a match and touched it to the dust. The whole circle burst into pale green flame, as she made her call.
The pale green flames herald the conclusion of her preparations, and before her, within the circle, green light begins to carve a piece of Creation away, outlining a portal beyond which endless silver sands stretch below a starless sky. On the other side, as if waiting for her call, a stormy cloud waits, blades and strange limbs peaking out of the clouds edges, and two burning eyes glowing within.
It is just as Glory described: Tomescu.
It flows into the circle, seeming almost hunched in on itself as it glares hatefully at her. This is normally the point at which she would pit her power against the demon's will, and crush it into joyful submission.
The faintest of laughter echoed in her ears for a brief moment, and it was almost enough for her to reflexively banish the demon. Still, her will was strong, and she could feel it press against the demon. Not with force, but present. Her calculations had been superb.
"Tomescu," she began, voice quiet, "I could bind, but I do not want to. I am not here for a slave. My future is, more than likely, one fraught with peril. I seek a tomescu to be my familiar, and live within my anima, to protect me and advise me. Would you be... interested in this?"
There is a long moment of silence, as the demon simply stares at her. The burning eyes falter in the intensity of their glare, and it seems almost as if it is waiting for her to begin laughing, or reveal that it was a cruel joke. When no such laughter or revelation come forth, it dares to speak.
"...why?"
The voice is deep, like rumble of a storm, and the tension of the cloud remains. It does not elaborate on the question.
She hesitated, trying to figure out what exactly the demon was asking 'why' for.
"If you're asking why I don't want to bind you, its because I grew up, in a way, bound myself. If I sought to inflict my will upon others for power, then I am no better."
It almost sounded stupid, when she said it. She felt foolish.
It stares, uncomprehending.
"...why?" it asks again, with more emphasis, the cloud roiling, "It is your power. It is your right. Why ask? Why speak, when no others do? You are a Sorcerer."
It says the words like they are the whole of her being. It says Sorcerer the same way her old masters said Slave. The only difference is the inversion of position. They could see her as nothing but something to command and abuse. The tomescu can see her as nothing but someone who will command and abuse it.
"I- I don't-" her heart began to beat faster, she didn't want to be that.
"She wanted a friend," Aleu cut in, materializing in bubbling tar. Her demon form seen for a brief moment before her armor reasserted the disguise, "so I went looking in the future, trying to find someone who would be a good friend."
Butterfly exhaled, centering herself, "Yes, if this doesn't interest you, I will send you back. No harm intended or inflicted, no clash of wills."
The demon stares at Aleu, for a moment, before briefly spinning around in a sudden fit of anxious movement.
The eyes do not reappear for a time, apparently closed as it considers.
"...my death has been foretold to me by the All-Makers, at the moment of my birth. I am to die at the hands of the traitor-god Ahlat," it finally says, eyes still squeezed shut, "I see it every dawn and every dusk. The war god's bloody spear, tearing me apart. His foe is the sorcerer who will force me to love them, that I die willingly for their fleeting advantage. One of dozens of lesser spirits, dying to buy time for whatever madness would drive them to oppose such a being."
"I am not a warrior, among my kind. There is no point to throwing me upon such a battlefield. There are many others who would serve better. But my murderer will not care. One tomescu is the same as any other. And, as I die, I will not care that they do not care. I will only love them, and then I will be dead."
The burning eyes open again, and it stares at Butterfly.
"The strong may do as they like," it says, and Butterfly can hear the pain and dread in its rumbling voice, "That is the law of the Endless Desert. You are a Solar, if you have the powers you claim. No other being could free us as you suggest. No one else holds such privilege. If what you want to do, with your strength, is have a friend..." it hesitates in a manner that, on a human, would indicate emotion overwhelming them, "Then I will be your friend, if you will save me from my fate. If you will keep me from being torn back to the Endless Desert. If you will save me from the war god's spear, I will be your friend in all endeavors."
Butterfly's lip trembled. That wasn't- she still felt like she was coercing the tomescu!
"That's a cruel fate," she focused on her breathing, in and out, "I think, if you're in my anima then you can't be called, yeah? I'll protect you from it, as well I am able."
She held out her hand, "I'm not entirely sure how this works. Let me just try something."
She reached out with her anima, her body starting to burn with golden and bronze flame. She felt her will brush ever so gently against the Tomescu's own. Not pushing, though she could, just providing the contact, the path in.
"Oh, um, what's your name?"
"I am Starless Sky," the tomescu says, and she can feel its mind reaching out to touch hers, as well, "For I was born under the Dragon's Shadow."
Her fingertips breached the circle. If she were wrong, this would be the moment she would pay for it, but she had to make physical contact to finish the bond.
"I'm Butterfly, and that's Aleu."
A single limb reaches out slowly from the cloud, long and terribly clawed, edged like razors. Starless Sky shifts their clawed hand to touch Butterfly's hand with the back of the hand, so as not to accidentally cut her.
"I am glad to meet you, Butterfly and Aleu," the demon says, "My first and dearest of friends."
She felt the bond form, and a weight settled into her mind. She tugged, and Starless Sky dissolved, blooming into light for a moment. Then she pushed, and the tomescu was at her side.
"That's kinda weird."
The tomescu is quiet, for a moment, as it stares up into the night sky. Full of stars, the Pillar shines down on them from above.
"...Creation does not feel so terribly hostile anymore," Starless Sky says, something like wonder in its voice, "It does not hurt to be here."
Butterfly sighed in relief and flopped onto her back, looking up at the stars as well. Aleu moved to join her, raising her hand to trace constellations.
"You're a part of it, now. Not just connected to me, but all the essence of the world."
"Thank you," the deep voice of the tomescu is thickened by emotion, and Butterfly realizes that she can tell the body language and vocal tones far more clearly than before, more in tune with her new friend than she is even with most humans, "For freeing me. For saving me. For showing me a sky that does not burn with pain. For the first time, I understand why the Unquestionable seem to miss Creation so terribly."
She smiled for the first time since starting the ritual, though tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, "your welcome."
"We're gonna be great friends!" Cheered Aleu, "we can play games together, and look at the bird flocks, and eat honey."
"I do not know 'honey,'" Starless Sky admits, "But I would be honored to play games with you, friend Aleu. Though you may also need to remind me how Creation's birds flock..."
**
Aleu's prophesying revealed a particular timeframe in which to use Glory's lessons to call forth a demonic familiar. The full spell taught to Butterfly includes the ancient ritual of binding by which humanity holds the right to call forth the least demons of Hell as slaves, but she knows of another power within her, one that she could share, as she shares with Aleu. The Twilight Caste of the Solar Exalted, as Glory has insisted she properly be known as, may bond freely with spirits, even those imprisoned in Hell's Brass City, and invite them as friends into Creation.
Glory warned her that not all spirits would be willing, especially not Hell's demons, often paranoid and always dangerous, painting a brief picture of the misery it is, for those least spirits imprisoned, a teeming mass of slaves, purpose built for service by cruel divinities, the lords and princes of Malfeas, who were not content to suffer their imprisonment without others to suffer with them.
But, under the new moon, Aleu is certain that Butterfly's spell will reach a spirit who would risk believing in freedom, that there might be such a thing as benevolence from above, whatever Hell's laws speak to the contrary.
Butterfly brought Aleu (and her bow) out of the city, into the dark outside of the walls. She didn't want to summon the demon within, or be watched by prying eyes. She didn't want the fae to realize how little she wanted to force the issue, if the demon refused her offer. She wasn't all that keen on gathering an army of demons to work to the bone for her, but the high numbers of demons Glory mentioned suggested it were possible to find demons willing to accept working with her to escape hell. Aleu, for example, was a delight and showed no sign of resentment towards Glory. In any case, she was calling this demon for a particularly close relationship. Compatible personality was of vital importance.
She finished pouring out the carefully mixed dust, a delicate and complex circle. Every symbol the summation of pages upon pages of calculations and balances, all for the purposes of calling a demon to her. She lit a match and touched it to the dust. The whole circle burst into pale green flame, as she made her call.
The pale green flames herald the conclusion of her preparations, and before her, within the circle, green light begins to carve a piece of Creation away, outlining a portal beyond which endless silver sands stretch below a starless sky. On the other side, as if waiting for her call, a stormy cloud waits, blades and strange limbs peaking out of the clouds edges, and two burning eyes glowing within.
It is just as Glory described: Tomescu.
It flows into the circle, seeming almost hunched in on itself as it glares hatefully at her. This is normally the point at which she would pit her power against the demon's will, and crush it into joyful submission.
The faintest of laughter echoed in her ears for a brief moment, and it was almost enough for her to reflexively banish the demon. Still, her will was strong, and she could feel it press against the demon. Not with force, but present. Her calculations had been superb.
"Tomescu," she began, voice quiet, "I could bind, but I do not want to. I am not here for a slave. My future is, more than likely, one fraught with peril. I seek a tomescu to be my familiar, and live within my anima, to protect me and advise me. Would you be... interested in this?"
There is a long moment of silence, as the demon simply stares at her. The burning eyes falter in the intensity of their glare, and it seems almost as if it is waiting for her to begin laughing, or reveal that it was a cruel joke. When no such laughter or revelation come forth, it dares to speak.
"...why?"
The voice is deep, like rumble of a storm, and the tension of the cloud remains. It does not elaborate on the question.
She hesitated, trying to figure out what exactly the demon was asking 'why' for.
"If you're asking why I don't want to bind you, its because I grew up, in a way, bound myself. If I sought to inflict my will upon others for power, then I am no better."
It almost sounded stupid, when she said it. She felt foolish.
It stares, uncomprehending.
"...why?" it asks again, with more emphasis, the cloud roiling, "It is your power. It is your right. Why ask? Why speak, when no others do? You are a Sorcerer."
It says the words like they are the whole of her being. It says Sorcerer the same way her old masters said Slave. The only difference is the inversion of position. They could see her as nothing but something to command and abuse. The tomescu can see her as nothing but someone who will command and abuse it.
"I- I don't-" her heart began to beat faster, she didn't want to be that.
"She wanted a friend," Aleu cut in, materializing in bubbling tar. Her demon form seen for a brief moment before her armor reasserted the disguise, "so I went looking in the future, trying to find someone who would be a good friend."
Butterfly exhaled, centering herself, "Yes, if this doesn't interest you, I will send you back. No harm intended or inflicted, no clash of wills."
The demon stares at Aleu, for a moment, before briefly spinning around in a sudden fit of anxious movement.
The eyes do not reappear for a time, apparently closed as it considers.
"...my death has been foretold to me by the All-Makers, at the moment of my birth. I am to die at the hands of the traitor-god Ahlat," it finally says, eyes still squeezed shut, "I see it every dawn and every dusk. The war god's bloody spear, tearing me apart. His foe is the sorcerer who will force me to love them, that I die willingly for their fleeting advantage. One of dozens of lesser spirits, dying to buy time for whatever madness would drive them to oppose such a being."
"I am not a warrior, among my kind. There is no point to throwing me upon such a battlefield. There are many others who would serve better. But my murderer will not care. One tomescu is the same as any other. And, as I die, I will not care that they do not care. I will only love them, and then I will be dead."
The burning eyes open again, and it stares at Butterfly.
"The strong may do as they like," it says, and Butterfly can hear the pain and dread in its rumbling voice, "That is the law of the Endless Desert. You are a Solar, if you have the powers you claim. No other being could free us as you suggest. No one else holds such privilege. If what you want to do, with your strength, is have a friend..." it hesitates in a manner that, on a human, would indicate emotion overwhelming them, "Then I will be your friend, if you will save me from my fate. If you will keep me from being torn back to the Endless Desert. If you will save me from the war god's spear, I will be your friend in all endeavors."
Butterfly's lip trembled. That wasn't- she still felt like she was coercing the tomescu!
"That's a cruel fate," she focused on her breathing, in and out, "I think, if you're in my anima then you can't be called, yeah? I'll protect you from it, as well I am able."
She held out her hand, "I'm not entirely sure how this works. Let me just try something."
She reached out with her anima, her body starting to burn with golden and bronze flame. She felt her will brush ever so gently against the Tomescu's own. Not pushing, though she could, just providing the contact, the path in.
"Oh, um, what's your name?"
"I am Starless Sky," the tomescu says, and she can feel its mind reaching out to touch hers, as well, "For I was born under the Dragon's Shadow."
Her fingertips breached the circle. If she were wrong, this would be the moment she would pay for it, but she had to make physical contact to finish the bond.
"I'm Butterfly, and that's Aleu."
A single limb reaches out slowly from the cloud, long and terribly clawed, edged like razors. Starless Sky shifts their clawed hand to touch Butterfly's hand with the back of the hand, so as not to accidentally cut her.
"I am glad to meet you, Butterfly and Aleu," the demon says, "My first and dearest of friends."
She felt the bond form, and a weight settled into her mind. She tugged, and Starless Sky dissolved, blooming into light for a moment. Then she pushed, and the tomescu was at her side.
"That's kinda weird."
The tomescu is quiet, for a moment, as it stares up into the night sky. Full of stars, the Pillar shines down on them from above.
"...Creation does not feel so terribly hostile anymore," Starless Sky says, something like wonder in its voice, "It does not hurt to be here."
Butterfly sighed in relief and flopped onto her back, looking up at the stars as well. Aleu moved to join her, raising her hand to trace constellations.
"You're a part of it, now. Not just connected to me, but all the essence of the world."
"Thank you," the deep voice of the tomescu is thickened by emotion, and Butterfly realizes that she can tell the body language and vocal tones far more clearly than before, more in tune with her new friend than she is even with most humans, "For freeing me. For saving me. For showing me a sky that does not burn with pain. For the first time, I understand why the Unquestionable seem to miss Creation so terribly."
She smiled for the first time since starting the ritual, though tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, "your welcome."
"We're gonna be great friends!" Cheered Aleu, "we can play games together, and look at the bird flocks, and eat honey."
"I do not know 'honey,'" Starless Sky admits, "But I would be honored to play games with you, friend Aleu. Though you may also need to remind me how Creation's birds flock..."
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Starless Sky!
One of the vital components of keeping the people in Butterfly's little troupe happy, in times to come. Also honestly one of our more potent fighters, since we generally lack combat investment in depth.
One of the vital components of keeping the people in Butterfly's little troupe happy, in times to come. Also honestly one of our more potent fighters, since we generally lack combat investment in depth.
Wyld Dark Sea Chapter 7
A lull in the constant activity finally arises, and Butterfly has enough time to finally indulge Aleu's intermittent reminders that something is off in the forest and it might be her Happening, so let's go! Especially now that Starless Sky can accompany them, and mere goblins aren't so much a threat anymore, especially with the shiny iron edges and caps on their many, many limbs. It's a long walk to the forested area on the map, but Starless Sky offers to carry them both, and while they're not as swift as a horse, the ability to hover above the often-rough terrain of Prasad's grasslands is a great advantage, and the swirling and oddly-dense cloud structure of their body can support both Butterfly and Aleu well enough. It ends up only taking them most of the morning and part of the afternoon to reach the forest's edge.
The trees stretch up unnaturally high, goaded into growing past their usual heights by Raksha flattery, casting shadows over the approach. In the knotholes and patterns on the bark, it is easy to imagine hostile faces staring down at them.
"This is a strange place," Starless Sky opines, in their rumbling voice, as they reach the tree line, "Nothing like the Silver Forests or deep swamps I know. Though the trees at least do seem hungry, so there is that."
Butterfly remained close to Starless Sky, even after she was set down. Her bow was on her back, with a quiver of iron tipped arrows.
"Juran mentioned the traps the fae put into place to keep their... slaves from fleeing," she made a face, "though, I only really experienced woodlands months after my second breath. My homeland does not really have forests. Especially not like this. Hopefully we don't run into anything aggressive."
"I will protect you," Starless Sky says, shifting the width of their body in response to the positioning of the trees as they glide gently into the forest, taking care not to disrupt Butterfly's or Aleu's positions, "In Malfeas, I am unexceptional as a warrior among my kind, but few of Creation's spirits are a match for even the least of the tomescu. It is my strong suspicion that the goblins of this land will find themselves similarly outmatched."
A number of Starless Sky's new iron-edged limbs strike out, almost too fast to follow, clearing a number of branches that would have otherwise been placed to strike Aleu or Butterfly, to punctuate the reassurance.
"Though I don't suppose that you, friend Aleu, have gleaned anymore on which direction I should be going in?"
"No," Aleu shook her head, "its in here, somewhere, but thats all I keep getting. The birds in this place are strange, they do not move like they should. I've been unable to get coherent divinations from them."
Butterfly eyed the trees, "I don't feel it would be safe enough to climb the trees and get a look around. I suspect it would be dangerous to try."
Aleu tapped her lips, "if we find an ox or a turtle I could do another reading!"
"I shall keep an eye out for turtles," Starless Sky says seriously, "But I fear we will not find oxen here."
As they move along, the shadows cast by the trees grow thicker, and more than once Starless Sky hacks apart a root that was rising to grab at Butterfly or Aleu. A few times Aleu does spot birds, but they are crows with long, fanged beaks and nastily curved talons, glaring hatefully with intelligent red eyes. They would not fly for her, even when requested.
Aleu puffed up her cheeks and glared, after a solid minute of asking and pleading. Her eyes were glittering with held back tears before she turned away with a huff.
"Fine, stupid birds. Bet they can't fly anyways. They're stinky and smelly and can't clean their feathers."
The shadows thicken as the sunlight overhead, what little passes through the branches, is obscured by a cloud. One of the crows laughs mockingly, before fluttering away. After a few more moments, Starless Sky stops moving. Out of the corner of her eye, Butterfly sees why, before the tomescu can speak.
Behind them, and spreading to their sides, a lattice of wood is spreading rapidly. A many-legged figure, smaller than Aleu, but alarmingly large for something that must certainly be some form of insect, is visible to her side for a brief moment as it darts from one tree to the next.
There is no avenue for retreat, and ahead of them at least two inhabitants of this forest attempt to leave them only one direction to move in.
"I am sorry, my friends," Starless Sky says miserably, "I didn't see them in time. It seems we are being trapped."
Butterfly looked around, then let the castemark on her forehead light up. More light.
"Wood Spiders," she said, "dangerous and intelligent, but they would have attacked already if they were trying to kill. Hello, elementals to where do you wish to lead us?"
Silence, for a time, as her Caste Mark banishes the shadows with shining gold. Eventually, though, one crawls back around, a great spider of greenery and long, knobbly wooden limbs, and thorny mandibles clicking rapidly. It begins weaving a new lattice above her, but this time in Old Realm characters.
Twilight. Solar. Prince. Why bring thee a devil into these woods?
Starless Sky says nothing beneath her, but she can tell that they can read the question, and that their feelings are hurt.
Butterfly reached to pat one of their arms. She took a deep breath, and hoped she wouldn't make things worse talking, "T-they are under my aegis, and are a friend and advisor to me. They protect me, as their martial skill is great. Um, we saw signs and omens of something within this forest, found in the cracks upon a tortoise shell touched by flame. So we decided to investigate."
Along long silence, and all the trees rustle, but no wind blows through them. The lattice rots away rapidly, crumbling to the ground, and the wood spider begins to weave anew.
The spirits of the wind tell that thy labor is done in service to the Hated Earl. Hast thou betrayed Creation?
"What?" she blinked, "no, I- we came to this place for protection. There are many who would hunt me, and my friends. The Earl knows I will eventually destroy it, and accepts this. I need to get strong enough to do so, though. Once I am strong enough, then I will know I am safe enough to no longer need the Earl's protection."
Another long pause, as the forest shakes around her. For a moment, the wood spider visibly cowers, and then begins weaving the response.
Why hast thou not sought protection from Creation's spirits? Those that remember the ancient oaths, those that yet serve Heaven's Will. Why suckle at the teat of horrors, Prince, when Creation itself bends to thy will?
Her mind raced, trying to think of what to say. Her mind went to the Earl's speech, months ago, "We've been asleep a long time, and Creation does not remember us that way. Instead they call us demons. The dragonblooded hunt us, and have their own laws which brand us as anathema. The raksha remember, and give respect."
The Woods remember. The Sea remembers. The Sky and the Flame remember, even if the Earth has forgotten, and the gods turned blind. I am a King, 'o Prince, and I bow to thee.
Around her, the forest bends , some distant will pressing the trees down, forcing them to bow. The wood spider nearly falls, scrambling in panic to avoid losing grip on the lattice. Bits of wood fall all around her, as the branches above break and brush against each other with the movement of the trees, and a ray of sunlight comes through, to shine directly upon Butterfly as an entire forest bows to her.
Butterfly's eyes widened, as old text surfaced in her mind. A King of the Woods. A potent god of the wild places. Puissant such that even the hated Sorcerer Lords dared not face them directly, and resorted to trickery. They were called Lord of Wild Things, or Fawon. A duel word that meant both kind... and threatening.
Such a being bowed to her .
"Hail, Fawon, Lord of Wild Things. I am gladdened that the fae did not destroy all of Creation in this place."
The trees rustle again, and there's something almost pleased in the motion. The spider quickly begins weaving, before the prior lattice had even fallen away.
Hail, Prince of the Earth, Arrow of Heaven, Child of Twilight. It has been a long time since I was greeted with such respect. The younger spirits have forgotten their manners along with their history. I am pleased to see that the Solars, at least, have not forgotten their manners, for all that madness has seized both the Lunar Exalted and the Dragon-Blooded, and the Sidereals have abandoned their duties in favor of clever scheming. Perhaps there is yet hope for Creation.
Butterfly opened her mouth to speak-
"Whats a lunar? and a Side- sid- whatever that word is?" Aleu interrupted, leaning forward with burning curiosity.
The trees rustle, this time angrily. Another pause, as the wood spider cowers, and then quickly responds.
Be silent, foul spirit. Thy betters speak. I tolerate thy presence in my domain, but will not tolerate thine insolence.
Butterfly frowned, heavily, and reached over to grab Aleu, pulling the child demon to her side. Any complaint was immediately silenced through a hug and headpats.
"Oh King of the Woods, she is a child, and I ask forgiveness for her innocent interruption. Though, I share one of her questions. I recognize Lunar, for all they are known to Creation as the Silver Anathema, and hated as much as Solars. Yet I do not recognize Sidereals."
There is another long silence, and then the woods rustle and the spider once more begins weaving.
A child among demons? I did not know such a thing was possible. Is this thy work, Child of Twilight? But, no, thee asked first, and I shall answer: the Chosen of the Five Maidens, of the Stars Above, the Chosen of Fate and Destiny are tasked with maintenance of causal matters, in particular with the mishaps caused by the imposition of linear time, such is my understanding, at least. They were unsatisfied with this role, and sought to name themselves highest among the Exalted. They conspired with the ancient Dragon-Blooded to murder the ancient Solars, your predecessors, at a party held in the name of friendship and comradery among equals. Much of the damage done to Creation that was not dealt by the fae rests at the feet of the Chosen of Fate and their catspaws.
Butterfly considered, deep in thought, "the Dragonblooded believe that to be a Dragonblooded is the pinnacle of reincarnation. I have not heard of any other Exalt described as such... and if they wanted to be highest among the exalted, whats missing? Where did the sidereals go?"
The wood spider responds quicker, this time, the King of the Wood must have had an answer ready to go, or perhaps some other means of speeding the process.
Betrayed by their own incompetence. The Sidereal Exalted sought to hide their misdeeds from the spirits of Heaven and Creation, that we would accept tragedy and bow to their Exalted wisdom. The Chosen of Fate destroyed the Constellation of the Mask and erased their true selves from Creation, fools that they were. They cannot rule, for all forget them in moments. They sought to hold all Creation in their grasp, and doomed themselves to linger forever in obscurity, hiding in the shadows of the Dragon-Blooded, the stagehands propping up the true actors of the play. It is a fitting punishment.
Butterfly blinked, contemplating the magnitude of effort it would take to break a constellation. She wasn't even sure she knew how. Though at the back of her mind, designs of artifacts flickered fitfully. A stellar core. A cannon. A vast terrestrial diagram to reflect upon the dome of heaven. All so much effort, and all theoretical.
"Dangerous," she murmured, her heart hardened, "I thank you for this. To know that there are such creatures-" she did not call them people- "hidden in the shadows, now I can prepare."
If they dealt with fate, maybe they knew what she should have been. If they were jealous beings, ruining the world as much as the fae, then surely they would hate to see others succeed. Her thoughts turned to resentment at the faceless wicked beings.
A slower response, this time, as the trees rustle around her, it seems that the King of the Wood did have the Sidereals already on his mind.
It is my pleasure, Child of Twilight. I resent what the Chosen of Fate hath wrought of Creation, and the loss of thy arts from Creation. I hath long despaired of cultured company, as well, since the Hated Fae took over this land. Speaking with thee hast been a rare treat in a long, dull age.
"I will share this information with my friend, Juran. He is another Solar, Eclipse caste? I believe is the term," Glory had mentioned it, "I am glad to have met you."
She considered, "oh, you also had a question yourself. We... don't actually know where Aleu, my friend here, came from. Only that it is a place called the Meadow, or Meadows. Perhaps demons are different there, and can be children. I could not find written records of her breed anywhere, nor did my teacher."
A longer pause, nearly a minute this time, before the trees shake and the wood spider resumes writing.
I am aware of thy friend. It was my understanding that the Crowned Sun has become tragically ensnared by the fae. He walks among them as friends, accepts their gifts and spares no time for the tormented spirits of this land. Thou suggest that he, like thee, is not truly ensnared? That he, then, might listen to what wisdom I have, and perhaps lend his aid to the spirits?
Of this Meadow, I know nothing. I have never seen a spirit like thine Aleu, but the teeming masses of Hell are multitude, and all share the scent of that foul place.
"I can't say he has not been ensnared to some extent, but in doing so he shields me, and our followers, through his sacrifice," she said firmly, "and he has shared with me the existence of a sick Gemlord, beneath my mine; he seeks to heal it, and I know the task tugs at his heart. He has not told the fae of this."
The forest shakes, and once more the wood spider nearly falls from the tree, before quickly writing out the Wood King's words.
The Elder Spirit yet lives? Thou art certain? Long hath I assumed it dead. I could not imagine how it could live, while the fae massacred us freely...if they struck first, then, to target the Elder One that it could not swallow their armies from beneath the Earth, but could not slay it, then there is more hope than I knew. I must speak to the Crowned Sun. I must see him with mine own eyes, and determine how binding the chains upon him are. If the Elder One can be saved, then this war may yet be won. You must bring him to me, Child of Twilight, if ever this land is to be freed.
"I will bring him to meet you," Butterfly smiled, wide, "and I hope the meeting shall lead to the Gemlord's recovery."
The woods rustle once more, and the King of the Wood gives his final response.
I pray thee go, then, Child of Twilight. A path shall lead thee to my Court, upon thy return with the Crowned Sun. I shall gather the spirits in turn, those that survive, those that yet resist the fae, and we shall speak of miracles and war.
The trees stretch up unnaturally high, goaded into growing past their usual heights by Raksha flattery, casting shadows over the approach. In the knotholes and patterns on the bark, it is easy to imagine hostile faces staring down at them.
"This is a strange place," Starless Sky opines, in their rumbling voice, as they reach the tree line, "Nothing like the Silver Forests or deep swamps I know. Though the trees at least do seem hungry, so there is that."
Butterfly remained close to Starless Sky, even after she was set down. Her bow was on her back, with a quiver of iron tipped arrows.
"Juran mentioned the traps the fae put into place to keep their... slaves from fleeing," she made a face, "though, I only really experienced woodlands months after my second breath. My homeland does not really have forests. Especially not like this. Hopefully we don't run into anything aggressive."
"I will protect you," Starless Sky says, shifting the width of their body in response to the positioning of the trees as they glide gently into the forest, taking care not to disrupt Butterfly's or Aleu's positions, "In Malfeas, I am unexceptional as a warrior among my kind, but few of Creation's spirits are a match for even the least of the tomescu. It is my strong suspicion that the goblins of this land will find themselves similarly outmatched."
A number of Starless Sky's new iron-edged limbs strike out, almost too fast to follow, clearing a number of branches that would have otherwise been placed to strike Aleu or Butterfly, to punctuate the reassurance.
"Though I don't suppose that you, friend Aleu, have gleaned anymore on which direction I should be going in?"
"No," Aleu shook her head, "its in here, somewhere, but thats all I keep getting. The birds in this place are strange, they do not move like they should. I've been unable to get coherent divinations from them."
Butterfly eyed the trees, "I don't feel it would be safe enough to climb the trees and get a look around. I suspect it would be dangerous to try."
Aleu tapped her lips, "if we find an ox or a turtle I could do another reading!"
"I shall keep an eye out for turtles," Starless Sky says seriously, "But I fear we will not find oxen here."
As they move along, the shadows cast by the trees grow thicker, and more than once Starless Sky hacks apart a root that was rising to grab at Butterfly or Aleu. A few times Aleu does spot birds, but they are crows with long, fanged beaks and nastily curved talons, glaring hatefully with intelligent red eyes. They would not fly for her, even when requested.
Aleu puffed up her cheeks and glared, after a solid minute of asking and pleading. Her eyes were glittering with held back tears before she turned away with a huff.
"Fine, stupid birds. Bet they can't fly anyways. They're stinky and smelly and can't clean their feathers."
The shadows thicken as the sunlight overhead, what little passes through the branches, is obscured by a cloud. One of the crows laughs mockingly, before fluttering away. After a few more moments, Starless Sky stops moving. Out of the corner of her eye, Butterfly sees why, before the tomescu can speak.
Behind them, and spreading to their sides, a lattice of wood is spreading rapidly. A many-legged figure, smaller than Aleu, but alarmingly large for something that must certainly be some form of insect, is visible to her side for a brief moment as it darts from one tree to the next.
There is no avenue for retreat, and ahead of them at least two inhabitants of this forest attempt to leave them only one direction to move in.
"I am sorry, my friends," Starless Sky says miserably, "I didn't see them in time. It seems we are being trapped."
Butterfly looked around, then let the castemark on her forehead light up. More light.
"Wood Spiders," she said, "dangerous and intelligent, but they would have attacked already if they were trying to kill. Hello, elementals to where do you wish to lead us?"
Silence, for a time, as her Caste Mark banishes the shadows with shining gold. Eventually, though, one crawls back around, a great spider of greenery and long, knobbly wooden limbs, and thorny mandibles clicking rapidly. It begins weaving a new lattice above her, but this time in Old Realm characters.
Twilight. Solar. Prince. Why bring thee a devil into these woods?
Starless Sky says nothing beneath her, but she can tell that they can read the question, and that their feelings are hurt.
Butterfly reached to pat one of their arms. She took a deep breath, and hoped she wouldn't make things worse talking, "T-they are under my aegis, and are a friend and advisor to me. They protect me, as their martial skill is great. Um, we saw signs and omens of something within this forest, found in the cracks upon a tortoise shell touched by flame. So we decided to investigate."
Along long silence, and all the trees rustle, but no wind blows through them. The lattice rots away rapidly, crumbling to the ground, and the wood spider begins to weave anew.
The spirits of the wind tell that thy labor is done in service to the Hated Earl. Hast thou betrayed Creation?
"What?" she blinked, "no, I- we came to this place for protection. There are many who would hunt me, and my friends. The Earl knows I will eventually destroy it, and accepts this. I need to get strong enough to do so, though. Once I am strong enough, then I will know I am safe enough to no longer need the Earl's protection."
Another long pause, as the forest shakes around her. For a moment, the wood spider visibly cowers, and then begins weaving the response.
Why hast thou not sought protection from Creation's spirits? Those that remember the ancient oaths, those that yet serve Heaven's Will. Why suckle at the teat of horrors, Prince, when Creation itself bends to thy will?
Her mind raced, trying to think of what to say. Her mind went to the Earl's speech, months ago, "We've been asleep a long time, and Creation does not remember us that way. Instead they call us demons. The dragonblooded hunt us, and have their own laws which brand us as anathema. The raksha remember, and give respect."
The Woods remember. The Sea remembers. The Sky and the Flame remember, even if the Earth has forgotten, and the gods turned blind. I am a King, 'o Prince, and I bow to thee.
Around her, the forest bends , some distant will pressing the trees down, forcing them to bow. The wood spider nearly falls, scrambling in panic to avoid losing grip on the lattice. Bits of wood fall all around her, as the branches above break and brush against each other with the movement of the trees, and a ray of sunlight comes through, to shine directly upon Butterfly as an entire forest bows to her.
Butterfly's eyes widened, as old text surfaced in her mind. A King of the Woods. A potent god of the wild places. Puissant such that even the hated Sorcerer Lords dared not face them directly, and resorted to trickery. They were called Lord of Wild Things, or Fawon. A duel word that meant both kind... and threatening.
Such a being bowed to her .
"Hail, Fawon, Lord of Wild Things. I am gladdened that the fae did not destroy all of Creation in this place."
The trees rustle again, and there's something almost pleased in the motion. The spider quickly begins weaving, before the prior lattice had even fallen away.
Hail, Prince of the Earth, Arrow of Heaven, Child of Twilight. It has been a long time since I was greeted with such respect. The younger spirits have forgotten their manners along with their history. I am pleased to see that the Solars, at least, have not forgotten their manners, for all that madness has seized both the Lunar Exalted and the Dragon-Blooded, and the Sidereals have abandoned their duties in favor of clever scheming. Perhaps there is yet hope for Creation.
Butterfly opened her mouth to speak-
"Whats a lunar? and a Side- sid- whatever that word is?" Aleu interrupted, leaning forward with burning curiosity.
The trees rustle, this time angrily. Another pause, as the wood spider cowers, and then quickly responds.
Be silent, foul spirit. Thy betters speak. I tolerate thy presence in my domain, but will not tolerate thine insolence.
Butterfly frowned, heavily, and reached over to grab Aleu, pulling the child demon to her side. Any complaint was immediately silenced through a hug and headpats.
"Oh King of the Woods, she is a child, and I ask forgiveness for her innocent interruption. Though, I share one of her questions. I recognize Lunar, for all they are known to Creation as the Silver Anathema, and hated as much as Solars. Yet I do not recognize Sidereals."
There is another long silence, and then the woods rustle and the spider once more begins weaving.
A child among demons? I did not know such a thing was possible. Is this thy work, Child of Twilight? But, no, thee asked first, and I shall answer: the Chosen of the Five Maidens, of the Stars Above, the Chosen of Fate and Destiny are tasked with maintenance of causal matters, in particular with the mishaps caused by the imposition of linear time, such is my understanding, at least. They were unsatisfied with this role, and sought to name themselves highest among the Exalted. They conspired with the ancient Dragon-Blooded to murder the ancient Solars, your predecessors, at a party held in the name of friendship and comradery among equals. Much of the damage done to Creation that was not dealt by the fae rests at the feet of the Chosen of Fate and their catspaws.
Butterfly considered, deep in thought, "the Dragonblooded believe that to be a Dragonblooded is the pinnacle of reincarnation. I have not heard of any other Exalt described as such... and if they wanted to be highest among the exalted, whats missing? Where did the sidereals go?"
The wood spider responds quicker, this time, the King of the Wood must have had an answer ready to go, or perhaps some other means of speeding the process.
Betrayed by their own incompetence. The Sidereal Exalted sought to hide their misdeeds from the spirits of Heaven and Creation, that we would accept tragedy and bow to their Exalted wisdom. The Chosen of Fate destroyed the Constellation of the Mask and erased their true selves from Creation, fools that they were. They cannot rule, for all forget them in moments. They sought to hold all Creation in their grasp, and doomed themselves to linger forever in obscurity, hiding in the shadows of the Dragon-Blooded, the stagehands propping up the true actors of the play. It is a fitting punishment.
Butterfly blinked, contemplating the magnitude of effort it would take to break a constellation. She wasn't even sure she knew how. Though at the back of her mind, designs of artifacts flickered fitfully. A stellar core. A cannon. A vast terrestrial diagram to reflect upon the dome of heaven. All so much effort, and all theoretical.
"Dangerous," she murmured, her heart hardened, "I thank you for this. To know that there are such creatures-" she did not call them people- "hidden in the shadows, now I can prepare."
If they dealt with fate, maybe they knew what she should have been. If they were jealous beings, ruining the world as much as the fae, then surely they would hate to see others succeed. Her thoughts turned to resentment at the faceless wicked beings.
A slower response, this time, as the trees rustle around her, it seems that the King of the Wood did have the Sidereals already on his mind.
It is my pleasure, Child of Twilight. I resent what the Chosen of Fate hath wrought of Creation, and the loss of thy arts from Creation. I hath long despaired of cultured company, as well, since the Hated Fae took over this land. Speaking with thee hast been a rare treat in a long, dull age.
"I will share this information with my friend, Juran. He is another Solar, Eclipse caste? I believe is the term," Glory had mentioned it, "I am glad to have met you."
She considered, "oh, you also had a question yourself. We... don't actually know where Aleu, my friend here, came from. Only that it is a place called the Meadow, or Meadows. Perhaps demons are different there, and can be children. I could not find written records of her breed anywhere, nor did my teacher."
A longer pause, nearly a minute this time, before the trees shake and the wood spider resumes writing.
I am aware of thy friend. It was my understanding that the Crowned Sun has become tragically ensnared by the fae. He walks among them as friends, accepts their gifts and spares no time for the tormented spirits of this land. Thou suggest that he, like thee, is not truly ensnared? That he, then, might listen to what wisdom I have, and perhaps lend his aid to the spirits?
Of this Meadow, I know nothing. I have never seen a spirit like thine Aleu, but the teeming masses of Hell are multitude, and all share the scent of that foul place.
"I can't say he has not been ensnared to some extent, but in doing so he shields me, and our followers, through his sacrifice," she said firmly, "and he has shared with me the existence of a sick Gemlord, beneath my mine; he seeks to heal it, and I know the task tugs at his heart. He has not told the fae of this."
The forest shakes, and once more the wood spider nearly falls from the tree, before quickly writing out the Wood King's words.
The Elder Spirit yet lives? Thou art certain? Long hath I assumed it dead. I could not imagine how it could live, while the fae massacred us freely...if they struck first, then, to target the Elder One that it could not swallow their armies from beneath the Earth, but could not slay it, then there is more hope than I knew. I must speak to the Crowned Sun. I must see him with mine own eyes, and determine how binding the chains upon him are. If the Elder One can be saved, then this war may yet be won. You must bring him to me, Child of Twilight, if ever this land is to be freed.
"I will bring him to meet you," Butterfly smiled, wide, "and I hope the meeting shall lead to the Gemlord's recovery."
The woods rustle once more, and the King of the Wood gives his final response.
I pray thee go, then, Child of Twilight. A path shall lead thee to my Court, upon thy return with the Crowned Sun. I shall gather the spirits in turn, those that survive, those that yet resist the fae, and we shall speak of miracles and war.
Wyld Dark Sea Chapter 8
Formatting over from AO3 suuucks.
**
Butterfly was busy. While she intended to tell Juran, and bring him to visit the spirit court she had discovered, she had a dozen small houses, a centralized and purified spring with piping, and a ward against pests covering all of them, and she was already behind. When she started the ward against the pests, she had initially failed to take into account the wyldlife variations of the same, which added an entire week to constructing it, and required tearing down a number of totems integrated into the load bearing walls of some of the houses. Today was another high effort day, and since dawn that morning, she had been working. The flames of her anima licked the sky, and the vast bronze simulacra of herself reached out to pull up walls along with the handful of workers she had roped into the task of helping her.
Consequently, it was fairly easy for Juran to find her, in response to the message carried by Aleu. She had something to tell him.
As it happened, the request came at a convenient time. Juran had just returned to the city from the last of his inspections, his mind buzzing with thoughts and plans and his heart heavy with suppressed horror and grief. So when Aleu came by to speak with him, he was more than willing to take an hour or two to go and see what his fellow Solar wanted.
The sight of Incandescent Butterfly at her work never failed to impress, and as the merchant prince approached he slowed his steps to appreciate the sheer... artistry on display. Such terrifying power and spiritual might, leashed to the task of building houses for those who had been forced to dwell in shacks. It was almost poetic.
"Ah, Butterfly," he called as he approached, smiling, "The young miss said you had something to discuss. There was no problem with the materials, I hope?"
"H-huh?" She looked up from a pile of complex pipes and joints. One of the pipes had a deep rent in it, with an embedded root, "material problems? no, I just underestimated the aggressiveness of the bushes in attacking the copper pipes. I'm going to need to add some silver to it to keep the roots from trying to eat it."
Her anima's simulacra leaned down to whisper in Butterfly's ear, though while it's mouth moved, it was not sound but a long string of equations and symbols that came out.
"Predatory roots... well, I cannot say I envy you the task," Juran shakes his head, smiling ruefully, "I do actually have something of my own to discuss, but let us not get ahead of ourselves - what was it you sent Aleu to fetch me for, then?"
"Oh! Uh," she set down the joint she had picked up, and ran up to Juran's side. She stood up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, "there's a spirit court in the nearby forest. Friendly to me, wants to meet you. Very secret."
"...I see," Juran says, blinking rapidly, "Well then. I can make room in my schedule easily enough, I suppose."
Beneath his words there is a slight inflection, a question that only Butterfly can hear - I assume they are hostile to the Raksha?
Butterfly nodded insistently, "yes."
Behind her, the workers had finished pulling one of the walls into place with a thud, "um, a moment."
Butterfly turned and ran, pausing only a briefly to grab a large hammer and massive nails. Running up to the wall, she carefully climbed up, using subtle footholds to reach the peak. There, she began driving in the nails.
"I'll be done with this one in a little bit! Can't stop!"
"Of course," Juran says, before pausing, "Actually, come to think of it - you've been working very hard. There is scarcely an hour in the day when I cannot see your light burning in the distance. You have been taking breaks, I hope?"
With the wall secured, she slid down, and directed the workers to pick up a number of tools and items already laid out. They began carrying them into the house.
"No. I don't have time. I already have had too many delays, especially since I also need to finish that daiklave for Marxom," her words had begun with exasperation over the question, but ended with a hint of affection as she mentioned the fae.
"I'm already stuck sleeping without dreams instead of using them too, so that should count right?"
"I see," Juran says mildly, scratching at his chin in thought. He's been growing a beard of late, experimenting with different styles. "If I may offer some advice - the wishes of your clients are not the rules of this world. Indeed, it is good practice to make them wait every now and then."
Butterfly, who had begun sorting through the pipes, paused, " Juran ! These people need better housing. Even I had better housing than this, and I shared it with nine other people!"
"And when you have finished the housing, will you take a break?" The merchant asks, a kind smile on his face, "Or will you throw yourself into your next project, and rest when your body gives you no other choice?"
Butterfly wilted upon the realization that she had, in her mind, yelled at Juran, "uh, sorry. Maybe?"
"I thought so," Juran nodded, clasping his hands, "Incandescent Butterfly, I need you to understand this. You are an amazing young woman, with an incredible degree of talent and a good heart."
He gestures around them at the construction in process. "Truly, I have traveled across the Dreaming Sea and beyond, and I tell you this - I have met nobody who could do the things you do. Do you believe me?"
"Yeah... thank you. I just, I'm already behind with this project. We've got another two months worth of work to go," she looked down, continuing to sort the pipes, radiating glumness.
"Ah! There - right there," Juran lifts a finger, as if to highlight the point, "I gave you a compliment, and it made you sad. Earlier, you chided me for showing no concern for the people, and then apologized for it. You are looking for reasons to be upset with yourself."
He hesitates for a long moment, then nods, bracing himself.
"You are looking at yourself like your masters once did."
Butterfly slumped, hands going idle and face down. Her caste mark made the copper gleam, even as her anima banner began writing vast plans for future architecture upon the nearby walls and road.
"It needs to be perfect," she said quietly.
Aleu peeked at Butterfly from around Juran, face pensive.
He hesitates for a moment. "If you were of my family, I would be sitting next to you now, offering a comforting arm around your shoulders. Would... you allow me to do so?"
"I- I need to keep working, there's much to do and-" she went quiet. Her next words were very small, "yes please."
Calmly, Juran settles himself down by Butterfly's side, reaching out to gentle embrace her. A comforting warmth for a young woman in dire need of support.
"I don't think perfection exists," he says kindly, "That is what my faith teaches me - that life is endless struggle, an eternal quest to better ourselves and the world around us. Across years and ages, across lives and incarnations, we strive endlessly towards something that is always out of reach."
He makes a thoughtful little hum then. "And yet, even if we never reach the end of the spiral, we are not without worth. Our lives have meaning, our accomplishments weight. We oppose evil where we can, and we make the world a better, brighter place for those who come after us."
He gestures around them, at the building site and the city beyond. "Look at what you have already accomplished, Butterfly. Take pride in that. And do not let anyone, even - nay, especially yourself - tell you that it is not enough."
She leaned into Juran's arms, tugging her legs up so that she was curled up on a ball at his side.
"I saw some of my prior incarnations," she said quietly, "one of them was a horrible person."
"I expect some of mine would be rather unpleasant, if I ever knew them," Juran muses, "Tell me about them?"
"Um, she- I know what her name was, but I dare not say it. She summoned Ligier, trying to find the light of Ruvelia-"
She began explaining what she had seen, slowly, as the flames of her anima swirled around and the workers continued with their tasks.
(and in Butterfly's mind, green light flares and the hateful whispers of a wounded divinity echo in her ears)
After the explanation, Aleu leaned over, and with a loud whisper, "she's also upset because Mom was making her sleep."
Butterfly scowled, and buried her face in Juran's shoulder.
"Oh well, we must always listen to our mothers," Juran says with a laugh, "The lady in question sounds very wise, though I do not believe we've met."
Butterfly sighed, reaching up to press a hand against her face, "okay. I'll relax when I'm done with the daiklave and the houses."
"Good! It's important to enjoy the fruits of our labour, otherwise we may forget their worth," Juran nods, before pausing, "Although... before you return to your work, I do have one thing more that we need to discuss."
He sighs. "Pravance is trading with Ysyr. It has been, for years. And I don't see a way to stop that."
Butterfly tensed. She didn't go as far as pushing Juran away, but any relaxation she may have had was gone now.
"Oh... I see."
"Mm. I'm sorry to put it so bluntly, but I thought you needed to know," Juran explains, not allowing himself to sound too defensive. "It's not that I couldn't find other buyers - there are people hungry for grain all along the coast. Rather, it's the consequences of changing markets."
He shakes his head.
"You'd know better than I how reliant on food imports Ysyr is. At the moment, Pravance supplies a considerable portion of their diet," he continues after a moment, "If I redirected those shipments, I expect we'd see Ysyri ships in the harbour within the month, and their sorcerers not long after. They don't strike me as people who would come to negotiate with us."
"Yeah," she whispered. Her bronze simulacra knelt down next to them, a single finger reaching out to pat her hair, "I know what they do."
"Better than I ever want to, no doubt," Juran sighs, frustrated despite himself. "I do not intend this to last. I remember what you said to the Earl, on that first day in his castle, and it is a fine goal to work towards. We might use the shipments to gather information on Ysyr's situation, and keep them placated and ignorant while we strengthen our hand with weapons and allies and the magic of our ancestors... but it will take time to reach that point, and until then we must play the happy trade partner."
She took a deep breath, in and out, "I believe you."
"I'm glad to hear it," Juran says, then allows himself a wry smile. "And, I confess, I thought it better you hear it from me than from some fae courtier at the worst possible moment. They do like their razor words."
It's longer than is ideal before both Solars have a section of free time to make the trip to the Wood King's domain, certainly less than immediately following Butterfly delivering the invitation to Juran. The Vaktri walk stoically around him, a trio apparently elected by their brethren once Juran asked them to accompany him, led by the first Vaktri they spoke to before, who seems to hold some sort of respected military position amongst them. They are able to ride much of the way, but the last stretch must be walked, thick as the grassland becomes around the woods.
Five Lightning remains behind to cover for Juran's absence, and Starless Sky waits in the invisible anima surrounding Butterfly, quietly watchful, a tangible presence to her along, as Aleu rides immaterially upon Butterfly's shoulders, enjoying the trip and not needing to worry about the tallest blades of grass tickling her chin. A thick cloud cover has followed them, casting a welcome shade from the Southern heat. Aleu waves upwards periodically, and happily informs them that the cloud spirits waved back.
At last, though, they stand at the edge of the deeply foreboding woods. Ahead of them, two trees part, and reveal a path in that allows their party to travel deeper without the trees dividing them.
Butterfly had been doing her best to inform Juran of what she knew of the King of the Woods. They were old and powerful, and put a great deal of stock in titles and courtesies. It was a contrast to their domain, the wild places, and many an ignorant diplomat had assumed the Fawon to be as rough as the predators they ruled over, and met their end.
Juran listens attentively, for while he is a peerless negotiator among mortals, his knowledge of spirits is... well, rather lacking. He'd always left such things to the monks before.
"Best if you introduce me, I think," he says as they approach and the woods part to reveal a path, "He invited you, after all, and by all accounts you made a strong impression."
"Ah," Butterfly was nervous at the suggestion, "I can do my best. Um, I mostly just guessed before."
The woods are pleasantly shaded as they enter, for all that the atmosphere should be smothering, there is a sense of quiet to the place. The calm of friendly waters, as opposed to the simmering hostility that first met Butterfly. The path opened for them is a straight line into the wood's depths, but around them and outside it, the trees change shape and form. Five steps in sees the entry point far, far behind them.
"Perfected manipulation of domain," one of the Vaktri murmurs a complex term in Old Realm, lights flashing excitedly within. If Juran has his guess right, he can tell that it is one of the specialized occultists, a priest of the Gemlord who learned of esoteric mysteries from the Elder Spirit when it still was conscious enough to speak.
Juran nods fractionally. He does not fully understand the mechanics at play, but the notion of powerful spirits as intimately entwined with their domain was one that the Pure Way held as evidence of divinity verging on enlightenment.
The trip does not take long, as they are ushered past twists and turns and over obstacles. At one point a river in their path is dammed by the carefully flattened dirt they walk on, the water unable to erode the makeshift bridge away. It is only ten paces and hundreds of yards past the river that the dark and grim of the shaded forest gives way to greenery upon which sunlight shines. A great towering tree rises high above, high enough that they surely should have seen it from outside the forest, and at its foot waits the spirits they have come to meet.
The King of the Wood draws their attention first. He towers like the tree behind him given flesh, more than half again Juran's height, and five times his breadth. Armored with thick, ancient bark and beholding them with ancient green eyes, he slowly rises, and only then does it become clear that he had been reclining on a throne made of a wood much like that of his body. Long clawed fingers wrap around a cudgel of ironwood and green jade, sized for a giant's hands, and the King leans upon it as he stands, rising to stand twice as tall as any man.
Beside the King are two massive hounds, fully as large as adult male tigers, with fur black as the night itself, eyes blazing like shining emeralds as they walk at the feet of their King. No other spirit in the court is half as impressive. A handful of figures with paved skin and dust-worn traveling clothes hang back, looking somewhat weary, each armed with iron swords or maces. Wood spiders cling to the tree above, in various states of maturity, some hardly the size of a housecat, some as large as a bloodhound. A single field god, tall and emaciated, with green skin gone white as if from lack of sunlight, leans upon a great scythe, and is missing one of its feet and part of a hand. Two feral looking spirits, scarred and bearded, with bloodstained hands and clutching iron knives, wait in the shadows behind the throne, glaring at all around them. A sickly figure rests in a patch of withered vegetation, with great bags under its eyes and clinging to an iron hatch.
There are not two dozen spirits within this court. There are not even a dozen, if one does not count the wood spiders above.
Only the King and his Hounds match the majesty expected of the spirit courts of wild places. This is not a spirit court. This is the cellar of a rich man, in which refugees cower and a handful of dissidents plot.
It was sad to see, but maybe Butterfly could make it better, somehow. She gave a short bow, "Greetings, Oh King, I have brought my circle mate as requested. He brings with him Vaktri, representatives of the Gemlord I spoke of."
The Vaktri stare, impassive. They bow respectfully, and the lights within them shine subtly. Juran, attuned as he is to subtle things, can almost hear the quiet whispers about the sad state of this place, the disappointment that another hope is dashed.
Juran for his part bows low in turn, sincere respect - verging on reverence - in his mannerisms.
"This humble traveler is named Juran Heartsong," he says, his tone the slightly stilted formality of the old courts, "And I give thanks to your majesty for the invitation to your hall."
When he rises, the sign of the Eclipse shines brightly upon his brow
The King of the Wood is silent for a moment, and its eyes gleam brightly as it stares at him.
"...there is a great weight upon you, Juran Heartsong" the Wood King speaks at last, his voice smooth and deep in a way the rough, craggly bark of his exterior is not, and there is no anger in his voice. The surrounding spirits relax a fraction as their King continues.
"You have been ensnared, but your soul is yet your own," he notes, "You have seen, it is clear, the horror the Hated Raksha bring, the ugliness that their beauty conceals. It wounds you, as well it should."
The King of the Wood seems to be speaking for the benefit of his court, and Juran realizes that some of the lesser spirits were afraid less of the King, and more of what he might say about the Solar visiting them.
The gravel-skinned spirits in the back continue to watch him warily, however, and one, thinner than the others and missing an eye, sharpens a dagger as it stares at him unflinchingly.
"I have, your majesty," Juran says, his voice quiet and subdued, "In the last few weeks I have toured much of this land, seeking knowledge of its resources and what I might do with them. In the process, I saw... what the Raksha have done, to land and spirit and people alike."
He glances from one attendant spirit to the next, his dark eyes taking their measure, weighing up this collection of refugees and how each relates to the next.
"Even when they do not intend malice, it seems their existence brings misery and pain," he says at length. "And they so often intend it."
It is strange to see a Lord among spirits caring for the serfs beneath it, Starless Sky muses silently within Butterfly's anima, Stranger still to see so small a Lord called King.
Butterfly had retreated a step behind Juran, keen to let him take charge of the conversation. She let her mind wander, turning the present situation over and over in her head. Maybe she would come up with something she could make that would help- no, she had to relax after her latest projects were done. She had said she would, even if she felt compelled to get to work.
"The Raksha are hateful parasites," the Wood King speaks bluntly, "They are nightmares that should never have been, leeching stable existence by huddling at the shores of Creation, foul ticks upon our fair world. I had despaired of doing more than base sabotage, of killing the occasional goblin hunting party or faery knight foolish enough to travel through these woods, or alone upon untamed roads. But now," and the Wood King's craggly mouth splits into a wide and fearsome grin, "The Lawgivers have returned to Creation, and two come to this very court."
As the Wood King speaks, Juran surveys the court around him, and the moods and intentions of the spirits become clearer. The stone-skinned spirits in the back, almost certainly gods of the roads, want nothing more than to return to the fight against the fae. They have the look of hardened warriors, and the one-eyed spirit holds a particular loathing for Juran himself. The sickly spirit curled up in its misery wants just to die, some deep pain afflicting it. The bloody-handed spirits want to kill, they have gone feral with centuries of violence, they do not understand the point of this meeting, and have surrendered to their darker natures. The wood spiders live in abject terror of their King, and wish Juran to leave, that they might flee this grove before his attentions and rages turn to them. The field god stares mournfully at nothing. It holds no hope, and resents Juran and Butterfly both for sparking the Wood King's fervor.
The Hounds only wish to protect their master, and the desire all the other spirits share is to flee this place, before the Wood King's attention falls upon them. In the King's own eyes, though, Juran sees something more. In the tension in his body and pride in his bearing and the flattery in his voice, he sees something he did not expect: Juran is not an ally, to the King of the Wood. Juran is a scapegoat and potential bargaining piece. The
Wood King wishes to betray him, and can hardly hide his delight at Juran's mere presence.
"...yes. The Lawgivers have returned."
Juran smiles there, and there is no mirth at all in his voice, nor joy in his expression.
"It is strange, at times, to hear such terms. Everyone I meet has different expectations of us, of what we might do," he continues after a moment,
"The Earl believes we will scorch the world with our power, and wishes to be at our back when we do instead of at the point of our blades. The Immaculates believe we will lead all men into heresy and sin, twisting good souls around our fingers in mad ambition."
He bows again, perfectly formal and polite. "It is a rare pleasure to be received by one so understanding. Please, your Majesty - what is it our presence means to you?"
And in his eyes and the beat of his soul, the King in the Woods can hear the truth of Juran's statement.
I see your intent, Your Majesty. I will not speak it in open court, but neither will I be your pawn, to be sacrificed or betrayed.
Butterfly smiled faintly, all unaware of the undercurrent. As far as she knew, this was a success.
The King is silent, for a long moment, and in that moment is murder. A boundless pride offended, rage flashing in ancient emerald eyes. He does not move, does not speak, does not indicate anything, but Juran can see hate sufficient to kill a man five times over.
"That our suffering is at an end," when the King of the Wood speaks, it is as if the moment of murder did not happen, it is with the same quiet dignity he had been affecting for the entire conversation, as if they did not, in truth, see each other plain for who and what they are, "The Lawgivers hold the power to raise nation-toppling armies out of terrorized, starving peasants. They hold the power to tear life from the Wyld and still the power it holds, lifting curses and curing the twisted and mutated. They may call upon the Enemies of the Gods and demand potent servants to drive forth the Hated Raksha. There is no end to the hope you bring, Crowned Sun, nor to the potential you hold."
Juran has made an enemy here. He knows this, beyond any doubt. Only immediate and groveling submission could stay this being's wrath, and then it would betray him all the same. In it, he sees the boundless and predatory ambition of Prasad's Princes, the entitlement and privilege that justifies any act, that excuses all cruelty, if it means they get what they desire.
The only difference is that Prasad holds an army led by Exalted warriors, and this spirit has two Hounds and a handful of cowering wood spiders. More than enough, nonetheless, to kill Juran, in this place and time, were he not protected by the magic of the ancient Solars.
"So I have been told, and yet I am afraid that at present, I am but a merchant ensnared in a Fairy's bargain," Juran replies, and he sounds honestly regretful, his downplaying of his own abilities sincere. "There is little that I can aid you with at present, and even if time will change that... it would not be just, to offer services I cannot yet provide, nor swear to undertakings I cannot complete."
He shakes his head. "If there is a task I might perform to demonstrate good intent, then I ask you name it, else we might do little better than to part ways here in good faith and future intent."
"Free the field gods."
It is not the King that speaks. The one-eyed god who has been glaring at Juran stares at him defiantly, even as the King jerks to glare murder at the one who dared speak unaddressed.
"Yes," the Wood King's voice is clearly and obviously strained by rage, now, in a way that bodes poorly for the one who interrupted, but he cannot help but take credit, lest he admit that he was interrupted, "That would certainly be a fine demonstration of your good intentions. Our brothers, long bound in torment, could use your aid as much or more than any mortal in these lands."
The long, clawed fingers grip the Jade cudgel, and were the material less than that magical stone, it would surely shatter under the King's rage-clenched hand.
Butterfly blinked, looking between Juran and the King of the Wood. This... was not how she was expecting the meeting to go. She got the distinct sensation she missed something big.
Ah, yes, that is more what I am accustomed to, Starless Sky muses in her mind, The King of the Wood bears interruption poorly. That road spirit will regret this, I expect.
Juran nods.
"I shall do one better, for I know my words alone may not suffice," he says, and around him blossoms a wreath of golden flame, "So in the gaze of the Unconquered Sun, and on my very soul, I swear it."
He presses one hand over his heart, and all around him flickering symbols in the language of the Old Realm burn into life. "I, Juran Heartsong, shall do all I can to free the field gods of this land from torment and slavery, at the hands of Raksha or any other."
And so the Oath is sworn.
The spirit court falls silent. Even the miserable god of disease opens his eyes to stare in awe. None were expecting such an Oath. None were expecting any Oath. None believed that the Solars would match the hopes their King attempted to stoke. None believed that anyone outside would ever truly care.
Silence reigns as all around Juran, a court of weary, broken spirits stand in awe.
**
Butterfly was busy. While she intended to tell Juran, and bring him to visit the spirit court she had discovered, she had a dozen small houses, a centralized and purified spring with piping, and a ward against pests covering all of them, and she was already behind. When she started the ward against the pests, she had initially failed to take into account the wyldlife variations of the same, which added an entire week to constructing it, and required tearing down a number of totems integrated into the load bearing walls of some of the houses. Today was another high effort day, and since dawn that morning, she had been working. The flames of her anima licked the sky, and the vast bronze simulacra of herself reached out to pull up walls along with the handful of workers she had roped into the task of helping her.
Consequently, it was fairly easy for Juran to find her, in response to the message carried by Aleu. She had something to tell him.
As it happened, the request came at a convenient time. Juran had just returned to the city from the last of his inspections, his mind buzzing with thoughts and plans and his heart heavy with suppressed horror and grief. So when Aleu came by to speak with him, he was more than willing to take an hour or two to go and see what his fellow Solar wanted.
The sight of Incandescent Butterfly at her work never failed to impress, and as the merchant prince approached he slowed his steps to appreciate the sheer... artistry on display. Such terrifying power and spiritual might, leashed to the task of building houses for those who had been forced to dwell in shacks. It was almost poetic.
"Ah, Butterfly," he called as he approached, smiling, "The young miss said you had something to discuss. There was no problem with the materials, I hope?"
"H-huh?" She looked up from a pile of complex pipes and joints. One of the pipes had a deep rent in it, with an embedded root, "material problems? no, I just underestimated the aggressiveness of the bushes in attacking the copper pipes. I'm going to need to add some silver to it to keep the roots from trying to eat it."
Her anima's simulacra leaned down to whisper in Butterfly's ear, though while it's mouth moved, it was not sound but a long string of equations and symbols that came out.
"Predatory roots... well, I cannot say I envy you the task," Juran shakes his head, smiling ruefully, "I do actually have something of my own to discuss, but let us not get ahead of ourselves - what was it you sent Aleu to fetch me for, then?"
"Oh! Uh," she set down the joint she had picked up, and ran up to Juran's side. She stood up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, "there's a spirit court in the nearby forest. Friendly to me, wants to meet you. Very secret."
"...I see," Juran says, blinking rapidly, "Well then. I can make room in my schedule easily enough, I suppose."
Beneath his words there is a slight inflection, a question that only Butterfly can hear - I assume they are hostile to the Raksha?
Butterfly nodded insistently, "yes."
Behind her, the workers had finished pulling one of the walls into place with a thud, "um, a moment."
Butterfly turned and ran, pausing only a briefly to grab a large hammer and massive nails. Running up to the wall, she carefully climbed up, using subtle footholds to reach the peak. There, she began driving in the nails.
"I'll be done with this one in a little bit! Can't stop!"
"Of course," Juran says, before pausing, "Actually, come to think of it - you've been working very hard. There is scarcely an hour in the day when I cannot see your light burning in the distance. You have been taking breaks, I hope?"
With the wall secured, she slid down, and directed the workers to pick up a number of tools and items already laid out. They began carrying them into the house.
"No. I don't have time. I already have had too many delays, especially since I also need to finish that daiklave for Marxom," her words had begun with exasperation over the question, but ended with a hint of affection as she mentioned the fae.
"I'm already stuck sleeping without dreams instead of using them too, so that should count right?"
"I see," Juran says mildly, scratching at his chin in thought. He's been growing a beard of late, experimenting with different styles. "If I may offer some advice - the wishes of your clients are not the rules of this world. Indeed, it is good practice to make them wait every now and then."
Butterfly, who had begun sorting through the pipes, paused, " Juran ! These people need better housing. Even I had better housing than this, and I shared it with nine other people!"
"And when you have finished the housing, will you take a break?" The merchant asks, a kind smile on his face, "Or will you throw yourself into your next project, and rest when your body gives you no other choice?"
Butterfly wilted upon the realization that she had, in her mind, yelled at Juran, "uh, sorry. Maybe?"
"I thought so," Juran nodded, clasping his hands, "Incandescent Butterfly, I need you to understand this. You are an amazing young woman, with an incredible degree of talent and a good heart."
He gestures around them at the construction in process. "Truly, I have traveled across the Dreaming Sea and beyond, and I tell you this - I have met nobody who could do the things you do. Do you believe me?"
"Yeah... thank you. I just, I'm already behind with this project. We've got another two months worth of work to go," she looked down, continuing to sort the pipes, radiating glumness.
"Ah! There - right there," Juran lifts a finger, as if to highlight the point, "I gave you a compliment, and it made you sad. Earlier, you chided me for showing no concern for the people, and then apologized for it. You are looking for reasons to be upset with yourself."
He hesitates for a long moment, then nods, bracing himself.
"You are looking at yourself like your masters once did."
Butterfly slumped, hands going idle and face down. Her caste mark made the copper gleam, even as her anima banner began writing vast plans for future architecture upon the nearby walls and road.
"It needs to be perfect," she said quietly.
Aleu peeked at Butterfly from around Juran, face pensive.
He hesitates for a moment. "If you were of my family, I would be sitting next to you now, offering a comforting arm around your shoulders. Would... you allow me to do so?"
"I- I need to keep working, there's much to do and-" she went quiet. Her next words were very small, "yes please."
Calmly, Juran settles himself down by Butterfly's side, reaching out to gentle embrace her. A comforting warmth for a young woman in dire need of support.
"I don't think perfection exists," he says kindly, "That is what my faith teaches me - that life is endless struggle, an eternal quest to better ourselves and the world around us. Across years and ages, across lives and incarnations, we strive endlessly towards something that is always out of reach."
He makes a thoughtful little hum then. "And yet, even if we never reach the end of the spiral, we are not without worth. Our lives have meaning, our accomplishments weight. We oppose evil where we can, and we make the world a better, brighter place for those who come after us."
He gestures around them, at the building site and the city beyond. "Look at what you have already accomplished, Butterfly. Take pride in that. And do not let anyone, even - nay, especially yourself - tell you that it is not enough."
She leaned into Juran's arms, tugging her legs up so that she was curled up on a ball at his side.
"I saw some of my prior incarnations," she said quietly, "one of them was a horrible person."
"I expect some of mine would be rather unpleasant, if I ever knew them," Juran muses, "Tell me about them?"
"Um, she- I know what her name was, but I dare not say it. She summoned Ligier, trying to find the light of Ruvelia-"
She began explaining what she had seen, slowly, as the flames of her anima swirled around and the workers continued with their tasks.
(and in Butterfly's mind, green light flares and the hateful whispers of a wounded divinity echo in her ears)
After the explanation, Aleu leaned over, and with a loud whisper, "she's also upset because Mom was making her sleep."
Butterfly scowled, and buried her face in Juran's shoulder.
"Oh well, we must always listen to our mothers," Juran says with a laugh, "The lady in question sounds very wise, though I do not believe we've met."
Butterfly sighed, reaching up to press a hand against her face, "okay. I'll relax when I'm done with the daiklave and the houses."
"Good! It's important to enjoy the fruits of our labour, otherwise we may forget their worth," Juran nods, before pausing, "Although... before you return to your work, I do have one thing more that we need to discuss."
He sighs. "Pravance is trading with Ysyr. It has been, for years. And I don't see a way to stop that."
Butterfly tensed. She didn't go as far as pushing Juran away, but any relaxation she may have had was gone now.
"Oh... I see."
"Mm. I'm sorry to put it so bluntly, but I thought you needed to know," Juran explains, not allowing himself to sound too defensive. "It's not that I couldn't find other buyers - there are people hungry for grain all along the coast. Rather, it's the consequences of changing markets."
He shakes his head.
"You'd know better than I how reliant on food imports Ysyr is. At the moment, Pravance supplies a considerable portion of their diet," he continues after a moment, "If I redirected those shipments, I expect we'd see Ysyri ships in the harbour within the month, and their sorcerers not long after. They don't strike me as people who would come to negotiate with us."
"Yeah," she whispered. Her bronze simulacra knelt down next to them, a single finger reaching out to pat her hair, "I know what they do."
"Better than I ever want to, no doubt," Juran sighs, frustrated despite himself. "I do not intend this to last. I remember what you said to the Earl, on that first day in his castle, and it is a fine goal to work towards. We might use the shipments to gather information on Ysyr's situation, and keep them placated and ignorant while we strengthen our hand with weapons and allies and the magic of our ancestors... but it will take time to reach that point, and until then we must play the happy trade partner."
She took a deep breath, in and out, "I believe you."
"I'm glad to hear it," Juran says, then allows himself a wry smile. "And, I confess, I thought it better you hear it from me than from some fae courtier at the worst possible moment. They do like their razor words."
It's longer than is ideal before both Solars have a section of free time to make the trip to the Wood King's domain, certainly less than immediately following Butterfly delivering the invitation to Juran. The Vaktri walk stoically around him, a trio apparently elected by their brethren once Juran asked them to accompany him, led by the first Vaktri they spoke to before, who seems to hold some sort of respected military position amongst them. They are able to ride much of the way, but the last stretch must be walked, thick as the grassland becomes around the woods.
Five Lightning remains behind to cover for Juran's absence, and Starless Sky waits in the invisible anima surrounding Butterfly, quietly watchful, a tangible presence to her along, as Aleu rides immaterially upon Butterfly's shoulders, enjoying the trip and not needing to worry about the tallest blades of grass tickling her chin. A thick cloud cover has followed them, casting a welcome shade from the Southern heat. Aleu waves upwards periodically, and happily informs them that the cloud spirits waved back.
At last, though, they stand at the edge of the deeply foreboding woods. Ahead of them, two trees part, and reveal a path in that allows their party to travel deeper without the trees dividing them.
Butterfly had been doing her best to inform Juran of what she knew of the King of the Woods. They were old and powerful, and put a great deal of stock in titles and courtesies. It was a contrast to their domain, the wild places, and many an ignorant diplomat had assumed the Fawon to be as rough as the predators they ruled over, and met their end.
Juran listens attentively, for while he is a peerless negotiator among mortals, his knowledge of spirits is... well, rather lacking. He'd always left such things to the monks before.
"Best if you introduce me, I think," he says as they approach and the woods part to reveal a path, "He invited you, after all, and by all accounts you made a strong impression."
"Ah," Butterfly was nervous at the suggestion, "I can do my best. Um, I mostly just guessed before."
The woods are pleasantly shaded as they enter, for all that the atmosphere should be smothering, there is a sense of quiet to the place. The calm of friendly waters, as opposed to the simmering hostility that first met Butterfly. The path opened for them is a straight line into the wood's depths, but around them and outside it, the trees change shape and form. Five steps in sees the entry point far, far behind them.
"Perfected manipulation of domain," one of the Vaktri murmurs a complex term in Old Realm, lights flashing excitedly within. If Juran has his guess right, he can tell that it is one of the specialized occultists, a priest of the Gemlord who learned of esoteric mysteries from the Elder Spirit when it still was conscious enough to speak.
Juran nods fractionally. He does not fully understand the mechanics at play, but the notion of powerful spirits as intimately entwined with their domain was one that the Pure Way held as evidence of divinity verging on enlightenment.
The trip does not take long, as they are ushered past twists and turns and over obstacles. At one point a river in their path is dammed by the carefully flattened dirt they walk on, the water unable to erode the makeshift bridge away. It is only ten paces and hundreds of yards past the river that the dark and grim of the shaded forest gives way to greenery upon which sunlight shines. A great towering tree rises high above, high enough that they surely should have seen it from outside the forest, and at its foot waits the spirits they have come to meet.
The King of the Wood draws their attention first. He towers like the tree behind him given flesh, more than half again Juran's height, and five times his breadth. Armored with thick, ancient bark and beholding them with ancient green eyes, he slowly rises, and only then does it become clear that he had been reclining on a throne made of a wood much like that of his body. Long clawed fingers wrap around a cudgel of ironwood and green jade, sized for a giant's hands, and the King leans upon it as he stands, rising to stand twice as tall as any man.
Beside the King are two massive hounds, fully as large as adult male tigers, with fur black as the night itself, eyes blazing like shining emeralds as they walk at the feet of their King. No other spirit in the court is half as impressive. A handful of figures with paved skin and dust-worn traveling clothes hang back, looking somewhat weary, each armed with iron swords or maces. Wood spiders cling to the tree above, in various states of maturity, some hardly the size of a housecat, some as large as a bloodhound. A single field god, tall and emaciated, with green skin gone white as if from lack of sunlight, leans upon a great scythe, and is missing one of its feet and part of a hand. Two feral looking spirits, scarred and bearded, with bloodstained hands and clutching iron knives, wait in the shadows behind the throne, glaring at all around them. A sickly figure rests in a patch of withered vegetation, with great bags under its eyes and clinging to an iron hatch.
There are not two dozen spirits within this court. There are not even a dozen, if one does not count the wood spiders above.
Only the King and his Hounds match the majesty expected of the spirit courts of wild places. This is not a spirit court. This is the cellar of a rich man, in which refugees cower and a handful of dissidents plot.
It was sad to see, but maybe Butterfly could make it better, somehow. She gave a short bow, "Greetings, Oh King, I have brought my circle mate as requested. He brings with him Vaktri, representatives of the Gemlord I spoke of."
The Vaktri stare, impassive. They bow respectfully, and the lights within them shine subtly. Juran, attuned as he is to subtle things, can almost hear the quiet whispers about the sad state of this place, the disappointment that another hope is dashed.
Juran for his part bows low in turn, sincere respect - verging on reverence - in his mannerisms.
"This humble traveler is named Juran Heartsong," he says, his tone the slightly stilted formality of the old courts, "And I give thanks to your majesty for the invitation to your hall."
When he rises, the sign of the Eclipse shines brightly upon his brow
The King of the Wood is silent for a moment, and its eyes gleam brightly as it stares at him.
"...there is a great weight upon you, Juran Heartsong" the Wood King speaks at last, his voice smooth and deep in a way the rough, craggly bark of his exterior is not, and there is no anger in his voice. The surrounding spirits relax a fraction as their King continues.
"You have been ensnared, but your soul is yet your own," he notes, "You have seen, it is clear, the horror the Hated Raksha bring, the ugliness that their beauty conceals. It wounds you, as well it should."
The King of the Wood seems to be speaking for the benefit of his court, and Juran realizes that some of the lesser spirits were afraid less of the King, and more of what he might say about the Solar visiting them.
The gravel-skinned spirits in the back continue to watch him warily, however, and one, thinner than the others and missing an eye, sharpens a dagger as it stares at him unflinchingly.
"I have, your majesty," Juran says, his voice quiet and subdued, "In the last few weeks I have toured much of this land, seeking knowledge of its resources and what I might do with them. In the process, I saw... what the Raksha have done, to land and spirit and people alike."
He glances from one attendant spirit to the next, his dark eyes taking their measure, weighing up this collection of refugees and how each relates to the next.
"Even when they do not intend malice, it seems their existence brings misery and pain," he says at length. "And they so often intend it."
It is strange to see a Lord among spirits caring for the serfs beneath it, Starless Sky muses silently within Butterfly's anima, Stranger still to see so small a Lord called King.
Butterfly had retreated a step behind Juran, keen to let him take charge of the conversation. She let her mind wander, turning the present situation over and over in her head. Maybe she would come up with something she could make that would help- no, she had to relax after her latest projects were done. She had said she would, even if she felt compelled to get to work.
"The Raksha are hateful parasites," the Wood King speaks bluntly, "They are nightmares that should never have been, leeching stable existence by huddling at the shores of Creation, foul ticks upon our fair world. I had despaired of doing more than base sabotage, of killing the occasional goblin hunting party or faery knight foolish enough to travel through these woods, or alone upon untamed roads. But now," and the Wood King's craggly mouth splits into a wide and fearsome grin, "The Lawgivers have returned to Creation, and two come to this very court."
As the Wood King speaks, Juran surveys the court around him, and the moods and intentions of the spirits become clearer. The stone-skinned spirits in the back, almost certainly gods of the roads, want nothing more than to return to the fight against the fae. They have the look of hardened warriors, and the one-eyed spirit holds a particular loathing for Juran himself. The sickly spirit curled up in its misery wants just to die, some deep pain afflicting it. The bloody-handed spirits want to kill, they have gone feral with centuries of violence, they do not understand the point of this meeting, and have surrendered to their darker natures. The wood spiders live in abject terror of their King, and wish Juran to leave, that they might flee this grove before his attentions and rages turn to them. The field god stares mournfully at nothing. It holds no hope, and resents Juran and Butterfly both for sparking the Wood King's fervor.
The Hounds only wish to protect their master, and the desire all the other spirits share is to flee this place, before the Wood King's attention falls upon them. In the King's own eyes, though, Juran sees something more. In the tension in his body and pride in his bearing and the flattery in his voice, he sees something he did not expect: Juran is not an ally, to the King of the Wood. Juran is a scapegoat and potential bargaining piece. The
Wood King wishes to betray him, and can hardly hide his delight at Juran's mere presence.
"...yes. The Lawgivers have returned."
Juran smiles there, and there is no mirth at all in his voice, nor joy in his expression.
"It is strange, at times, to hear such terms. Everyone I meet has different expectations of us, of what we might do," he continues after a moment,
"The Earl believes we will scorch the world with our power, and wishes to be at our back when we do instead of at the point of our blades. The Immaculates believe we will lead all men into heresy and sin, twisting good souls around our fingers in mad ambition."
He bows again, perfectly formal and polite. "It is a rare pleasure to be received by one so understanding. Please, your Majesty - what is it our presence means to you?"
And in his eyes and the beat of his soul, the King in the Woods can hear the truth of Juran's statement.
I see your intent, Your Majesty. I will not speak it in open court, but neither will I be your pawn, to be sacrificed or betrayed.
Butterfly smiled faintly, all unaware of the undercurrent. As far as she knew, this was a success.
The King is silent, for a long moment, and in that moment is murder. A boundless pride offended, rage flashing in ancient emerald eyes. He does not move, does not speak, does not indicate anything, but Juran can see hate sufficient to kill a man five times over.
"That our suffering is at an end," when the King of the Wood speaks, it is as if the moment of murder did not happen, it is with the same quiet dignity he had been affecting for the entire conversation, as if they did not, in truth, see each other plain for who and what they are, "The Lawgivers hold the power to raise nation-toppling armies out of terrorized, starving peasants. They hold the power to tear life from the Wyld and still the power it holds, lifting curses and curing the twisted and mutated. They may call upon the Enemies of the Gods and demand potent servants to drive forth the Hated Raksha. There is no end to the hope you bring, Crowned Sun, nor to the potential you hold."
Juran has made an enemy here. He knows this, beyond any doubt. Only immediate and groveling submission could stay this being's wrath, and then it would betray him all the same. In it, he sees the boundless and predatory ambition of Prasad's Princes, the entitlement and privilege that justifies any act, that excuses all cruelty, if it means they get what they desire.
The only difference is that Prasad holds an army led by Exalted warriors, and this spirit has two Hounds and a handful of cowering wood spiders. More than enough, nonetheless, to kill Juran, in this place and time, were he not protected by the magic of the ancient Solars.
"So I have been told, and yet I am afraid that at present, I am but a merchant ensnared in a Fairy's bargain," Juran replies, and he sounds honestly regretful, his downplaying of his own abilities sincere. "There is little that I can aid you with at present, and even if time will change that... it would not be just, to offer services I cannot yet provide, nor swear to undertakings I cannot complete."
He shakes his head. "If there is a task I might perform to demonstrate good intent, then I ask you name it, else we might do little better than to part ways here in good faith and future intent."
"Free the field gods."
It is not the King that speaks. The one-eyed god who has been glaring at Juran stares at him defiantly, even as the King jerks to glare murder at the one who dared speak unaddressed.
"Yes," the Wood King's voice is clearly and obviously strained by rage, now, in a way that bodes poorly for the one who interrupted, but he cannot help but take credit, lest he admit that he was interrupted, "That would certainly be a fine demonstration of your good intentions. Our brothers, long bound in torment, could use your aid as much or more than any mortal in these lands."
The long, clawed fingers grip the Jade cudgel, and were the material less than that magical stone, it would surely shatter under the King's rage-clenched hand.
Butterfly blinked, looking between Juran and the King of the Wood. This... was not how she was expecting the meeting to go. She got the distinct sensation she missed something big.
Ah, yes, that is more what I am accustomed to, Starless Sky muses in her mind, The King of the Wood bears interruption poorly. That road spirit will regret this, I expect.
Juran nods.
"I shall do one better, for I know my words alone may not suffice," he says, and around him blossoms a wreath of golden flame, "So in the gaze of the Unconquered Sun, and on my very soul, I swear it."
He presses one hand over his heart, and all around him flickering symbols in the language of the Old Realm burn into life. "I, Juran Heartsong, shall do all I can to free the field gods of this land from torment and slavery, at the hands of Raksha or any other."
And so the Oath is sworn.
The spirit court falls silent. Even the miserable god of disease opens his eyes to stare in awe. None were expecting such an Oath. None were expecting any Oath. None believed that the Solars would match the hopes their King attempted to stoke. None believed that anyone outside would ever truly care.
Silence reigns as all around Juran, a court of weary, broken spirits stand in awe.
- Location
- an unseen void
- Pronouns
- Any
i stand by my description of this oath
I was so fucking delighted when he did that, giggling and clapping my hands in my chair XD
Wyld Dark Sea Chapter 9
Butterfly was silent as they left the forest, deep in thought as she tried to puzzle over what had happened in the meeting. It had seemed to start so well. She did what the Wood King asked, Juran seemed happy to help, but things just went bad. What did she miss? What went wrong?
She glanced at Juran as they left the trees behind, "Um, what happened?"
"Nothing, really," Juran says, frowning pensively as he walks, "Or rather... nothing changed . I saw what was going on, and the King did not care for it."
He glances sideways at his companion. "He genuinely quite likes you. But everyone else in that clearing was terrified of him."
She stopped walking, for a moment, feeling suddenly ill.
"They're not a good spirit are they?" She asked. It didn't speak well of the Wood King if they held their court in fear of them.
"No, I'm afraid not," Juran says with a sigh, stopping a little way ahead of Butterfly and turning back to look at her. "I have met men like him before. Men whose sole concern is their own interest, their sole care for others how they might be useful . He tried to hide it, but as soon as I walked into that clearing, the King was wondering what price he could sell me for."
He looks wistful for a moment. "I suppose some part of me had hoped that spirits would be better than such men."
"I hoped so too," Butterfly said, morose, "I'm sorry for bringing you in."
"No, don't be," Juran shakes his head, "If nothing else, we learned that there were other spirits here, injured and bereft. Many of them strike me as good people, forced to hide behind a tyrant's shadow for their own safety. If we make this a better place, then they won't have to stay there anymore."
He chuckles, a touch rueful. "That was what the Oath was for. I wanted them to know that a better outcome was possible, and that I would be working to bring it about."
"That was a big Oath you know," Butterfly shook her head, arms crossed, "you told me to relax, and then you made one that applied to all of Faerie, are you insane? "
Shall do all I can.
His words echo in his ears, voiceless yet clear.
"What kind of man would I be if I refused to help someone because they were on the wrong side of some line on a map?" Juran protests, shifting awkwardly. He coughs, slightly embarrassed.
All I can.
Butterfly frowned, and her face set in an unusual display of stubbornness, "I'm helping, and you're not allowed to say no."
"Perish the thought," Juran laughs, raising his hands in surrender, "Your aid would be most welcome. To remove the gods from their current bondage is one thing, to unpick the gossamer chains that bind them quite another, I fear."
"I'll need to think on it. Um, I had some plans for the moonsilver we found in the mine but maybe I should use it to make something to break them away. It feels more appropriate than the blue jade alone," she sighed.
"I shall defer to your expertise on the matter," Juran nods seriously, "As for myself... I will see about arranging the transfer of one of those poor spirits to the farm I was granted. If we can find a means of helping one, then I will be able to expand that to help the others."
"Having one available as a test would be helpful," she tapped her lips, "given the numbers we're dealing with, I can't run around handling each one individually, we'll need to come up with something scalable."
"If you can create tools that can serve to free them, and we can identify a working method, then perhaps we might enlist the aid of the remaining field gods in freeing their peers," Juran muses, then shakes his head, "But I am getting too far ahead of myself. I shall speak with the Earl later... or perhaps after the initial trade missions, once I have the evidence I need to use as leverage."
"That makes sense. I think I have an idea now, might take me a bit, especially including breaks, but I should have enough material for more than a couple, mmm, shears in shape."
Butterfly smiled up at him. There, he could now reasonably claim he was doing something by getting her to act.
THAT NIGHT
Sleep comes poorly to Juran. The Oath weighs on him, a silent judgement for every second not devoted to his vow. Flashes of the Manticore come to mind, as well. The shock in its very human eyes, as it died. Echoes of Ishaan, the poor man who died so terribly and rose as such a horror, flashing behind his eyes. An oath sworn that might have revived Ishaan, broken at the hands of another by lies of omission with intent to kill.
When sleep does come, it is on the tail of such visions, his dreams taking shape as a stormy ocean, screams of pain and terror upon the wind, the reek of death in the air and a horrible dead chill unlike any he has ever known. A ship rocks beneath his feet, and ahead of him his friends, his Circlemates lie dead at the feet of the horror that has held his people in thrall for as long as anyone can remember. Red Ribbons Flowing, always stalwart and invincible in shining Orichalcum plate, stares with sightless eyes at him, his chest carved open by a blow of impossible strength, his lungs carved open to exhale his final breath through shattered armor. Five Stones, so quick, he cannot remember the last time a blow landed upon them, their head is gone from the body, lost over the ship's edge. His crew could not even stand in this monster's presence, their hearts stopping in their chests as they were boarded.
Everything he's worked for. The freedom of his people. The hope for the future. The alliances he's made, the allies he's gathered. All of it for nothing. It does not matter than he feels stronger than he has ever been in his life. It does not matter that magic seems to come freely with every breath he takes. The horror opposite him is stronger, faster, and commands the fleet of the dead currently destroying his life's endeavors.
The Silver Prince smiles, an agonizingly sweet expression, and flicks his blood-drenched sword. The air cracks and the blood splatters upon the deck. The foul weapon, a cursed amalgam of Moonsilver and howling Soulsteel, keens louder, and the Deathlord walks slowly closer, his Soulsteel-plated feet thunking on the deck as he approaches.
"Do you understand, yet, Tulaya Half-Moon? Do you remember?"
The face the monster wears is achingly beautiful. His voice is soft and sweet, and Tulaya feels his sword arm weaken, his body assured that there was no reason to stand firm. That the time to rest is almost here.
"Understand?" He shouts the words into the wind, rage layered over despair, "What is there to understand, monster? You've taken everything from me! From us!"
It wasn't meant to be this way.
"Even now, at this late hour, you do not know," the monster shakes its head in slow, dramatic disappointment, "Was your slumber truly so long, then, that you do not remember me? Look closer," the words are hypnotic, they pull his gaze to meet the dark and beautiful eyes of the deathless horror opposite him, "I wear the face that I forsook alongside my name. I risk a curse more terrible that the one that led me to you. Come, the least you can do is remember, before you die."
The Silver Prince's eyes are deeper than any ocean, more full of horror and death than the deepest most lightless canyons below the waves.
"Remember, Oathbreaker. Remember, and understand. By your name, remember, Endless Splendor."
The words are spoken like an invocation, and the command cannot be denied. Memories flow forth, and Tulaya recognizes the face of his murderer.
Slowly, the sword drops from his hand. To drop one's weapon is to betray their mentor, and yet in that moment Tulaya cannot muster the strength to hold it. What is one more treachery?
"Seven?" he says, and for a moment he is there again, in another time, another life, the words of another oath spilling from his lips. "What... what have you done to yourself?"
"What had to be," the horror that once was named Sevenfold Faces speaks, smiling beatifically, "The only thing I could have done. I have sung the songs of the first and greatest of our victims. I have dreamed their dreams. I have Whispered their death rattles into the ears of family and lovers as they slept. You hid from me, Splendor. You hid from Death itself. Until treachery found you in turn."
The smile widens, an honest and joyful expression, the expression of a being utterly at peace with themselves and the world around them, as the Silver Prince raises his daiklave, and, for a moment, it is like looking into a mirror, from the perspective of another life.
Except, it is her face. The one Endless Splendor was born with. And she is screaming with a mouth opened far too wide.
"And then I found you, and fulfilled half your Oath."
"Vengeance... in this life, and the next..." Tulaya Half-Moon says, and his eyes are hot with tears. He looks into the screaming face of his prior incarnation, and at the joyous rapture of the person he once betrayed, and he weeps. His tears join the rain.
"Is this it?" he whispers, as the chill turns his breath to fog and his heart to ice, "Is this all there is? Old sins, old souls..."
"This is where it ends," the Deathlord says, not unkindly. He stands before Tulaya now, head and shoulders taller, vast in the bulk of his terrible armor, "We shall, at last, be free of each other. Consider your Oath fulfilled, and your betrayal pardoned. I am nothing if not forgiving, after all."
The Silver Prince smiles, and the expression is the death of nations as he runs Tulaya through the heart. He would have expected the pain to be searing, but there is only a terrible empty cold. Distantly, he hears the endless screaming of the shade of Endless Splendor, screaming even as she draws him into her lungs, a great breath to inhale his soul. Darkness gathers around his eyes, and the Deathlord smiles to watch him die.
Tulaya Half-Moon dies, and as the darkness closes in, his looks his killer in the eye.
"You will never be free of me, Seven," he whispers, and there is power in his words, strength to make the air shiver, "You've built your own prison in my name, and there you will rot until the end of days. You poor, doomed fool."
There is a flicker of the beautiful expression. An instant of composure lost. The quietest moment of doubt, quickly crushed and replaced with the terrible smile. The Deathlord says something, but Tulaya does not hear. There is only the death rattle of a woman whose screams, at last, have ended, and then darkness and cold, and nothing more.
And on the far side of Creation, Juran Heartsong wakes in his bed, heart pounding like a drum and skin clammy with sweat.
"What..." he mutters, slowly rolling into a sitting position, "What was..."
He knows. Of course he knows. It is in him, written on his bones, carried within his souls. Alone in the dark, the man who thinks himself a hero bows his head and weeps.
No wonder the Immaculates called his kind Deceivers.
She glanced at Juran as they left the trees behind, "Um, what happened?"
"Nothing, really," Juran says, frowning pensively as he walks, "Or rather... nothing changed . I saw what was going on, and the King did not care for it."
He glances sideways at his companion. "He genuinely quite likes you. But everyone else in that clearing was terrified of him."
She stopped walking, for a moment, feeling suddenly ill.
"They're not a good spirit are they?" She asked. It didn't speak well of the Wood King if they held their court in fear of them.
"No, I'm afraid not," Juran says with a sigh, stopping a little way ahead of Butterfly and turning back to look at her. "I have met men like him before. Men whose sole concern is their own interest, their sole care for others how they might be useful . He tried to hide it, but as soon as I walked into that clearing, the King was wondering what price he could sell me for."
He looks wistful for a moment. "I suppose some part of me had hoped that spirits would be better than such men."
"I hoped so too," Butterfly said, morose, "I'm sorry for bringing you in."
"No, don't be," Juran shakes his head, "If nothing else, we learned that there were other spirits here, injured and bereft. Many of them strike me as good people, forced to hide behind a tyrant's shadow for their own safety. If we make this a better place, then they won't have to stay there anymore."
He chuckles, a touch rueful. "That was what the Oath was for. I wanted them to know that a better outcome was possible, and that I would be working to bring it about."
"That was a big Oath you know," Butterfly shook her head, arms crossed, "you told me to relax, and then you made one that applied to all of Faerie, are you insane? "
Shall do all I can.
His words echo in his ears, voiceless yet clear.
"What kind of man would I be if I refused to help someone because they were on the wrong side of some line on a map?" Juran protests, shifting awkwardly. He coughs, slightly embarrassed.
All I can.
Butterfly frowned, and her face set in an unusual display of stubbornness, "I'm helping, and you're not allowed to say no."
"Perish the thought," Juran laughs, raising his hands in surrender, "Your aid would be most welcome. To remove the gods from their current bondage is one thing, to unpick the gossamer chains that bind them quite another, I fear."
"I'll need to think on it. Um, I had some plans for the moonsilver we found in the mine but maybe I should use it to make something to break them away. It feels more appropriate than the blue jade alone," she sighed.
"I shall defer to your expertise on the matter," Juran nods seriously, "As for myself... I will see about arranging the transfer of one of those poor spirits to the farm I was granted. If we can find a means of helping one, then I will be able to expand that to help the others."
"Having one available as a test would be helpful," she tapped her lips, "given the numbers we're dealing with, I can't run around handling each one individually, we'll need to come up with something scalable."
"If you can create tools that can serve to free them, and we can identify a working method, then perhaps we might enlist the aid of the remaining field gods in freeing their peers," Juran muses, then shakes his head, "But I am getting too far ahead of myself. I shall speak with the Earl later... or perhaps after the initial trade missions, once I have the evidence I need to use as leverage."
"That makes sense. I think I have an idea now, might take me a bit, especially including breaks, but I should have enough material for more than a couple, mmm, shears in shape."
Butterfly smiled up at him. There, he could now reasonably claim he was doing something by getting her to act.
THAT NIGHT
Sleep comes poorly to Juran. The Oath weighs on him, a silent judgement for every second not devoted to his vow. Flashes of the Manticore come to mind, as well. The shock in its very human eyes, as it died. Echoes of Ishaan, the poor man who died so terribly and rose as such a horror, flashing behind his eyes. An oath sworn that might have revived Ishaan, broken at the hands of another by lies of omission with intent to kill.
When sleep does come, it is on the tail of such visions, his dreams taking shape as a stormy ocean, screams of pain and terror upon the wind, the reek of death in the air and a horrible dead chill unlike any he has ever known. A ship rocks beneath his feet, and ahead of him his friends, his Circlemates lie dead at the feet of the horror that has held his people in thrall for as long as anyone can remember. Red Ribbons Flowing, always stalwart and invincible in shining Orichalcum plate, stares with sightless eyes at him, his chest carved open by a blow of impossible strength, his lungs carved open to exhale his final breath through shattered armor. Five Stones, so quick, he cannot remember the last time a blow landed upon them, their head is gone from the body, lost over the ship's edge. His crew could not even stand in this monster's presence, their hearts stopping in their chests as they were boarded.
Everything he's worked for. The freedom of his people. The hope for the future. The alliances he's made, the allies he's gathered. All of it for nothing. It does not matter than he feels stronger than he has ever been in his life. It does not matter that magic seems to come freely with every breath he takes. The horror opposite him is stronger, faster, and commands the fleet of the dead currently destroying his life's endeavors.
The Silver Prince smiles, an agonizingly sweet expression, and flicks his blood-drenched sword. The air cracks and the blood splatters upon the deck. The foul weapon, a cursed amalgam of Moonsilver and howling Soulsteel, keens louder, and the Deathlord walks slowly closer, his Soulsteel-plated feet thunking on the deck as he approaches.
"Do you understand, yet, Tulaya Half-Moon? Do you remember?"
The face the monster wears is achingly beautiful. His voice is soft and sweet, and Tulaya feels his sword arm weaken, his body assured that there was no reason to stand firm. That the time to rest is almost here.
"Understand?" He shouts the words into the wind, rage layered over despair, "What is there to understand, monster? You've taken everything from me! From us!"
It wasn't meant to be this way.
"Even now, at this late hour, you do not know," the monster shakes its head in slow, dramatic disappointment, "Was your slumber truly so long, then, that you do not remember me? Look closer," the words are hypnotic, they pull his gaze to meet the dark and beautiful eyes of the deathless horror opposite him, "I wear the face that I forsook alongside my name. I risk a curse more terrible that the one that led me to you. Come, the least you can do is remember, before you die."
The Silver Prince's eyes are deeper than any ocean, more full of horror and death than the deepest most lightless canyons below the waves.
"Remember, Oathbreaker. Remember, and understand. By your name, remember, Endless Splendor."
The words are spoken like an invocation, and the command cannot be denied. Memories flow forth, and Tulaya recognizes the face of his murderer.
Slowly, the sword drops from his hand. To drop one's weapon is to betray their mentor, and yet in that moment Tulaya cannot muster the strength to hold it. What is one more treachery?
"Seven?" he says, and for a moment he is there again, in another time, another life, the words of another oath spilling from his lips. "What... what have you done to yourself?"
"What had to be," the horror that once was named Sevenfold Faces speaks, smiling beatifically, "The only thing I could have done. I have sung the songs of the first and greatest of our victims. I have dreamed their dreams. I have Whispered their death rattles into the ears of family and lovers as they slept. You hid from me, Splendor. You hid from Death itself. Until treachery found you in turn."
The smile widens, an honest and joyful expression, the expression of a being utterly at peace with themselves and the world around them, as the Silver Prince raises his daiklave, and, for a moment, it is like looking into a mirror, from the perspective of another life.
Except, it is her face. The one Endless Splendor was born with. And she is screaming with a mouth opened far too wide.
"And then I found you, and fulfilled half your Oath."
"Vengeance... in this life, and the next..." Tulaya Half-Moon says, and his eyes are hot with tears. He looks into the screaming face of his prior incarnation, and at the joyous rapture of the person he once betrayed, and he weeps. His tears join the rain.
"Is this it?" he whispers, as the chill turns his breath to fog and his heart to ice, "Is this all there is? Old sins, old souls..."
"This is where it ends," the Deathlord says, not unkindly. He stands before Tulaya now, head and shoulders taller, vast in the bulk of his terrible armor, "We shall, at last, be free of each other. Consider your Oath fulfilled, and your betrayal pardoned. I am nothing if not forgiving, after all."
The Silver Prince smiles, and the expression is the death of nations as he runs Tulaya through the heart. He would have expected the pain to be searing, but there is only a terrible empty cold. Distantly, he hears the endless screaming of the shade of Endless Splendor, screaming even as she draws him into her lungs, a great breath to inhale his soul. Darkness gathers around his eyes, and the Deathlord smiles to watch him die.
Tulaya Half-Moon dies, and as the darkness closes in, his looks his killer in the eye.
"You will never be free of me, Seven," he whispers, and there is power in his words, strength to make the air shiver, "You've built your own prison in my name, and there you will rot until the end of days. You poor, doomed fool."
There is a flicker of the beautiful expression. An instant of composure lost. The quietest moment of doubt, quickly crushed and replaced with the terrible smile. The Deathlord says something, but Tulaya does not hear. There is only the death rattle of a woman whose screams, at last, have ended, and then darkness and cold, and nothing more.
And on the far side of Creation, Juran Heartsong wakes in his bed, heart pounding like a drum and skin clammy with sweat.
"What..." he mutters, slowly rolling into a sitting position, "What was..."
He knows. Of course he knows. It is in him, written on his bones, carried within his souls. Alone in the dark, the man who thinks himself a hero bows his head and weeps.
No wonder the Immaculates called his kind Deceivers.