Pegulis, Chapter 2

[ReaperOfFlames]

Castigarian - Ruins Beneath Fissura Pass, Cadetblue

Whatever had happened, it happened far toof fast for Castigarian to comprehend. One minute he had been helping the blacksmith away from the edge he'd been teetering on the edge of and the next the poor man was actually being dragged over it. It seemed that his conventional methods of arrow placement wouldn't be enough to fell this beast...at least not in the one or two shots he was used to; whatever this thing that used to be Arcantos was, it would take far more from the lot of them to handle.

Reacting quickly, the hunter rushed to the edge of the small cliff with his bow drawn, but by the time he could see the commotion below, there were already too many people grouped around the beast to make firing a shot off safe. He was a good archer, this he knew; he could probably hit the creature if he fired...but that was only a probably. Part of being a marksman was knowing when to gamble on a chance and when to hold back...and there was far too much movement and the sakes too high for him to act rashly. "Move yer damn hides!" he bellowed, hoping his booming voice would clear some of the cluster, but the fighting was so vicious now that his call fell on deaf ears. Time was quickly waning and with Ilsa now pinned down, there was an even greater sense of urgency welling up in the large man.

Out of options, he began to call to Kreinn, hoping that some added vision would help him, but the words never left his mouth as he was bowled over onto his face as a grouping of ice shards slammed into his back. The minute he hit the ground, he felt the same white hot fire from before begin to engulf his brain as ancient knowledge flooded through him. Thoughts, feelings, and emotions overtook the hunter and flowed freely through his veins, filling every part of him with an intense feeling of sadness, pain, and regret; he knew in that moment a life that had been in every intimate detail, as if it were his own come and gone before his eyes, even though he knew from whom the these feelings were coming.

With a new sense of purpose, Castigarian stood to his full height and with an almost melancholic sadness to his quicken stride, made his way back over to the sarcophagus. His world was in a haze and his mind was nothing more than static noise following one objective...to end the pain of the one calling him. He stared intently at the sarcophagus below him for only a moment before drawing the hand axe he'd been left with and raised it high over his head. A small prayer for peace was whispered under his breath before the weapon came crashing down into the endoskeleton, his strength easily smashing the ancient construct apart before a large voltage of electricity began to flow through him, numbing the large man before he was blown back off of his feet and back onto the ice.

Sounding almost akin to a pained scream, the noise around the cavern of grinding gears and moving machinery came to an screeching halt, leaving everything around the caravan in the same, eerie silence that had held a grip over this place since they'd arrived, leaving only the noise of their own actions floating in the air. Castigarian lay still where he'd fallen, his breathing slow and his body crackling with trace amounts of electricity as the current moved through him, sparking off the flecks of snow that had fallen on his body. Every nerve on his body slowly coming back to life with a slow burning sensation creeping underneath his skin. It wasn't at all painful...it almost felt as if his whole body had become aware of itself while his mind remained blissfully blank to the experience, the only thought beyond the warm white haze wondering if his actions had somehow accomplished what he'd set out to do.

Perhaps he'd find out after he woke up...he was tired and the weather seemed so nice here. The rolling grass and the warm wind across his face invited him to a deeper sleep as he heard his mother singing a pleasant tune in the background...a day to eat outdoors, his father would call it. His lips curled into a small smile as he nodded off with his back to a large oak, his mind settled on more peaceful things like what manner of animal he'd track next, or partaking in some of the Red Antler's famous Shepard's Pie. Yes, that sounded like a fine plan to him...today, he told himself, was a perfect day as he felt his heavy eyes finally close as sleep soundly took him.

 

[unanun]

Castigarian did not only feel the agony of the creature. Each time he blinked in his dream, he saw yet another dream flashing behind his eyelids:

Singing ... clapping ... a statue of ice cupped its hands to its mouth and blew beautiful snow flakes into the air.​

A pair of hands angrily gesturing at a male in front of him.​

They were locked in passion.​

Urgency. Forms on the icy horizon.​

The same male, climbing into a sarcophagus. A shield of crystal slid over, frosting his visage.​

She was in a cradle too. But her hands reached forward and weaved a pattern on the glass, opening her own tomb. She climbed out, and looked to her side. The male's horrified look, his arm reaching forward -- then locked in stillness behind the crystal.​

The heat increased as she climbed out of the cave. The ascent to Hell.​

The Frozen North, bathed in liquid fire.​

Look down.​

Out of time.​

And the dream ended. A lifetime's memories, a lifetime ago.

 

[4everDifferent]

Darin's eyes widened when Ethel announced his gift. She did so so loudly, Darin's hands tightened on the reigns in preparation to run if they descended upon him as one desperate mob. Those closest to the pair began to murmur as word passed throughout the sick that a healer had come.

Darin's eyes moved to the people. There were so many and he was but one man. Besides that, he was no an ordinary healer. With the shape some of these sick were in, it would take him weeks to heal them including recovery time for himself. Then there was his mission. He was so close to rev- justice. Could he spare the extra time and risk losing those responsible?

His eyes fell to the young sage and his heart broke. She was a pretty, young girl and sick with the plague. Could he really move past these people without helping? It was his duty to defend the weak, to help those in need and here was a mass of people that were in need.

His gauntleted hands tightened around the reigns as he warred within himself. Telra seemed to notice and lowered to his ear, "Darin, you have to help them. I can't believe this is even difficult for you to decide!" She scolded.

"Telra, we're so close," he argued, "So close to getting those responsible for Selphia's death."

"She wouldn't want you to let these people die for her memory's sake," Telra echoed the last thing that had stilled his irrational emotions.

Darin looked down at Selphia's locket. He had attached it to his gauntlet as a reminder of why he did the thinks he did. It motivated him to be the Paladin she had always dreamt him of being. A gust of wind blew across his lap the cloth of his saddle slapped against his waist and pulled his attention to the tightly wrapped murder weapon. It was then Darin made his decision.

Darin pulled hard on the reigns of his horse and turned it down the road, away from Barvelle and toward Tavark. The horse's hooves pound against the ground as he wordlessly abandoned the girl. His eyes moved from face to face as he rode the length of the caravan. If he could but ignore them, he could be on his way.

"This is wrong, Darin," Telra challenged him.

"Be quiet," he told her harshly. He had almost cleared the group when his eyes fell on a young family. Their plight gripped his heart and he stopped his horse. He had never been given the opportunity to have a family and he was going to throw the lives of this one away.

"Look at them," Telra whispered in his ear. His head lowered before he pulled hard on the horse's reigns once more. His direction changed, sending him back to the front of the caravan. Telra shone bright like a beacon of hope as they rode past the sick and dying until Ethel came into view once more.

"Ethel," he cried out as he neared her, only stopping the horse once he was close to her. Quickly he slid off his mount, "Fetch the captain, I've a plan."

 

[fatalrendezvous]

Ilsa Lisbon ― Ruins Beneath Fissura Pass, Indigo

Ilsa, still on the ground from the blow that sent her tumbling through the caravan, reached behind her back to grab her shield as Arcantos' tendrils stopped her arm halfway. Her other arm was promptly wrapped in veins and muscle tissue around the wrist as she struggled, but it was no use. She was pinned. The creature's foul arm, newly regenerated with the remnants of flesh and ice, coiled back in preparation to strike. Ilsa prepared for the worst.

Suddenly, Vrein came crashing through, cutting Ilsa's arms free as she scrambled backwards and up onto her feet. She stood, just in time to see the creature's newly regenerated arm smash into Vrein's chest, launching him into the wall with a terrifying crunch. Blood flecked the ice of the walls as Vrein's unresponsive body slumped to the ground, leaving streaks on the ice as he slid downwards. Ilsa's horrified eyes fixated on his body, as if waiting for it to move, waiting for him to stir, but no movement came. Simultaneously, the beast screeched in pain as Castigarian struck the blow into the sarcophagus up above; turning her attention up to the hunter, Ilsa had no way to be sure of his fate either.

Her blood boiled. Instinctively she reached for sword and shield, but her hands found only shield. Her sword had been knocked yards away earlier. Searching quickly, her eyes located one nearby that had been dropped by another member of the caravan earlier as she rushed to it and picked it up, tossing it lightly in her grip to get a feel for its weight and balance. The other able bodies in the caravan continued to attack the beast, just as they had before. But it was different now; its cries of pain more shrill, more substantial. Whatever Castigarian had done up above, it had turned the momentum of the encounter rapidly in their favor.

Wounds on the beast opened by the attacks of the soldiers ceased to close; flesh of the bodies around them that previously gravitated to him fell still. Arcantos' pained rage threw him into a frenzy - the death throes of a beast not meant to die. Ilsa rushed forward to engage as the abomination mauled at several other soldiers nearby, their pained cries for help squelched into sudden silence by its fierce swings. It turned to Ilsa as she approached, letting off a snarl that caused droplets of blood and saliva to spray off its maws.

Her feet skidded to a halt as it coiled back the remnants of an arm, torn and shredded. Focusing on the direction of the arm, she lifted the shield to meet it, pushing back against the blow to help counter-balance the momentum. The icy limb crashed against steel with a resounding clang, and as soon as Ilsa regained her balance, she sprang into action. Sprinting hard, she could feel the icy tendrils of the beast lashing out at her and snapping apart as she pulled against them. They were distracting enough to slow her pace, but she weathered the attempts to hold her in place, willing herself to continue trudging forward.

Bits of chainmail connecting her plates of armor snapped apart, plates falling loose and exposing the tunic and bare skin underneath around her arms and torso. The ice and veins crashed against her skin, opening wounds and leaving trails of blood seeping down her arms and abdomen. She drew within striking distance, leveling her sword as the beast opened its gaping maw both on its chest and its head, ready to consume her. It was too weak to continue; it would devour her, then with its new energy turn to the remainder of the caravan and complete its task. Icy limbs gripped the blade of Ilsa's sword, making it impossible for her to attack. Her eyes affixed on the ice as flashes of their encounter with the ice golem shot through her memory.

"Virtus en ignis flamma," her voice whispered as the blade heated, causing Arcantos' icy grasp to melt free. The glow faded as the enchantment was spent, but it was enough time for Ilsa to heave the blade through the creature's gaping chest, penetrating its body and piercing out its backside. Arcantos released a gargling, blood-curdling cry, thrashing about as Ilsa held the blade steady. The remaining soldiers rushed forth to drive their blades into the creature, as arrows from above whizzed into its body. It fell still. Ilsa released her grip on the sword as the beast formerly known as Arcantos crumpled to the ground.

It passed with no cheer, no rousing victory cries. Only somber faces as they tended to the wounded and prepared to wrap more dead. Ilsa rushed to Vrein, a noticeable limp in her movements as she did so. Reaching him, she knelt to the ground and cradled his head in her lap, the cold steel of her armor probably no better than the icy embrace of the cavern's floors. She called to him, repeating his name in search of a response, but there was none. Leaning forward, Ilsa apprehensively placed her cheek near Vrein's nose and mouth. She felt warmth, and let out a sigh of relief. Vrein was alive. Barely - but alive.

 

[Asmodeus]

The Dreadcove

In all the stories his master had told him, there was one place that was byword for the edge of the world.

The Dreadcove.

Shardis's father, Remnata, had explained it to Medwick like this. While the Black City was the nest of every kind of scum, the Dreadcove was the breeding ground itself. Here, vice was incarnate, a tangible, sentient force that knitted ruined ships and ruined souls together. Any man who stayed too long would be a host for it. Decency and virtue would slip from them like the still-born, and evil fill the breach.

In the back room of the Drunken Draken, Medwick felt the sediment, between his toes, between his teeth, beneath his fingernails. This place was toxin, and Glyph had no guardians in the shadows to keep them safe. The Dreadcove was the farthest southern settlement he knew of, and beyond it lurked the void. A ghostworld to which Kessel Cole was gatekeeper.

The mage fell upon the feast after handing back the scroll. How could he not? His stomach was acid raw. Perhaps he was even hungrier than usual. Perhaps this place had made him hungrier - the start of his corruption. He stripped the meat from a pork bone and eyed the so-called Hosian Admiral with juices on his chin.

"White Claudia," he spat the word to cover lies with confidence. "The sages love it."

Kessel pulled a face, at once amused and perplexed. "Drug smugglers? My, my, such clientele you grace me with, Glyph." He glanced once to the bard then back at Medwick. "And you travel with a harem?"

Medwick swallowed then jabbed his pork bone at Shardis. "Bodyguard." Then at Aerie. "Courier." The bone then lingered, for a half-second, as it pointed to Caoimhe. "Product taster."

Kessel looked to the twitchy, anxious wolf-girl clutching her backpack and chuckled. "No wonder you needed Glyph to sneak you past the Black City. The Fangscar Gang will skin you for trying to sell Claudia."

Medwick sat back and stuffed his mouth with grapes. His crow Aux settled on his shoulder and stared intently at Kessel. "Barvelle sages like a dealer with manners."

"I would the laws of physics included etiquette," Kessel agreed with a smile. He paused only briefly before adding. "How is your shoulder?"

Medwick stopped chewing, hesitated, then swallowed. He lifted his right arm slowly, the shoulder joint still tender from where the Ghoul Sage had dislocated it. This Hosian Admiral was a perceptive one.

The mage shrugged and reached for a jug of wine. "My horse dragged me. He has bad manners too."

 

[Ai]

Vrein Bealithar - The Ruins Beneath Fissura Pass, #285bd2

Ambience
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im5CIpMFo4Q​

Trapped within the depths of a forlorn darkness Vrein felt himself sink into a pit of nothing, starring into the abyss as the unrelenting aching of his body slowly began to numb. 'Is this the end?' There was no reply, only an echo that seemed to go on forever. He was alone.

Someone cried his name 'Who?' A sudden sense of warmth washed over him, melting the ice on his face like the gentle rays of the sun. Light shone through the void, growing brighter and brighter glaring at him as he rose into consciousness.

Weighed down like lead Vrein's hazel eyes opened. Gazing up at the golden haired battle maiden brimming with respect and adoration. "Ilsa," he responded weakly, reaching his hand to her cold soft face. "I'm glad I got to look upon you one last time-" his breathing was heavy "To see the way the sun reflects off your golden hair- to hear your voice- to know your warmth." summoning what little spirit he had left, he gave her a big familiar grin.

His arm dropped, his strength had finally given way, this was it. "Leave me, I'm-- a dead man." Accepting his fate, the smith relaxed. Closing his eyes as he trailed off into a coma, fresh blood still oozing from his wounds.

Soon Vrein would be dead.

 

[lynzy]

"So how did they do it Daddy? Huh? How??" Shardis pleaded, while her father took up his seat by the fireplace in his comfy chair.

The story tonight was to be about how they had gotten the artifact from an island in the Prosperos Sea. It was a smallish piece that had markings on it of the ancient languages, Mother was still working on which one. Father really he wasn't sure what it was, so he wouldn't let anyone touch it and it remained in its special box in the study for now.

Father, Mother and some others were set to leave on a survey team of the area in a week or so. Everyone was excited about the find and the upcoming event of travel. Mother had made her special frozen cream for after supper. Shar had gotten to lick the bowl and spoon after mother had dished out the tasty treat! She licked her spoon after each bite while Daddy told the story of how the item had been found.

It was a fascinating story of discovery, battles, drama and even a bit of romance. Shardis sighed at the end of it, how she wished she could dare the world like those people did and come out of it as the finder of relics that could be used to make the world a better place (although she didn't see how this thing was able to accomplish such a feat).

Why wasn't it like the stories father used to tell? Shardis had been on countless expeditions and none of them seemed to be even close to what she remembered his stories to be. Where was the fun?

It certainly wasn't in this cabin filled with pirate types or this man called Admiral Kessel Cole. Not to mention the little old man that Caoimhe admired so much, he was poison incarnate. No, nothing seemed to be as exciting or wonderful as her Father had made it out to be. The Snow Leopard Anima was beginning to wonder what was real in her world and what wasn't.

 

[unanun]

As Ethelwen navigated the passages in Barvelle, he crossed paths with Arktus, who was exiting the general assembly hall. The Anima's ears perked, and he felt that his slight connection to the Calm Sage seemed to bring him closer to the legislative assembly, to the chaos of law making and government.

The slight musk of Ethelwen's drying fur caught Arktus' attention, who turned to the Anima with a kindly smile.

"Have you just been to see the Archon? I have only heard, but not seen, the good news."

"Y-Yes .. " He replied in turn.

"I was about to seek you out. I would like to learn more about your advent." The Sage's eyes glittered with scholarly excitement, the trials of the previous day already forgotten, the rigors of this mornings meetings past. "We may even be able to replicate it - somewhat - with a spell circle ..."

Arktus caught himself, smiling sheepishly. "Forgive me. I am still young. Has the Archon tasked you with anything?"

Ethelwen remained silent, shuffling his feet. Should he tell - bother him, or not? Arktus paused for a while, watching him pensively before speaking.

"You must not forget," the Sage chided, "The two basic tenets of being a citizen of Pegulis."

"The right to learn." He placed a hand on Ethelwen's shoulder.

And he placed the other on his own chest, "... and the duty to teach. No one can be denied these two things. Let me accompany you to your destination; we can talk as we move along." The cave tunnels were lit a soothing thermic blue-green, and their feet softly crunched in the ice and stone pathways.

 

[Peregrine]

ETHELWEN-BARVELLE, royalblue

A slow smile spread over Ethelwen's face at the words of the Calm Sage. He cast the young man a grateful look before bobbing his head in agreement to the Sage's reminder. All things considered, he could probably use the Sage's advice. He had never been in a situation where he would have to motivate others to fight for a common cause. Out in the wilds of Pegulis, there was no need for such a thing. His family had expected him and everyone else to do their share, whether they wanted to or not.

The two men resumed walking, Ethelwen making towards his destination with significantly less haste now that he has Arktus by his side. He enjoyed talking with the young, excited Sage, and he was in no hurry to rush their conversation now that it had properly begun. "The Archon tasked me with drafting a bulletin, in an attempt to recruit some of the citizens of Barvelle to the military." Ethelwen confided. "I'm supposed to write like a warrior-poet." He laughed slightly, quietly, but it was almost more a breath of panic than true humor. "I am afraid I don't even know what that means."

 

[unanun]

"Ah. But you are not a warrior, nor are you a poet. You are ... er ..."

Arktus paused, ears red with embarrassment.

"I am Arktus. And you are ..."

"Ethelwen." The Anima allowed himself the luxury of a smirk.

"So you are." He coughed into his fist, but his lips were curved upwards at the edges.

"You will not be able to write as a warrior-poet until you are one. To be a warrior is to love your country, and to be a poet is to speak from the heart. Can you say that you possess either?"

They walked in silence for a bit, taking a detour through a nearby farming cave. Giant tubes of translucent salt piped down the clear Northern sun, dimly illuminating a bed of wispy looking tuber plants. In another room, their roots fermented in giant Seal-Whale carcasses, the blood and stomach juices brewing a concoction that would make a Kaustiran toss up his Kresnick. But to them, it was a familiar and appetizing smell.

"Ah!" Arktus turned to Ethelwen, waving his hands back and forth. "That is -- I meant, it is not a bad thing at all if you do not have these qualities. No one says - unlike Kaustir, or Viridos - that you must love Pegulis. Everyone here has the choice ... though for some, they made it so long ago that they have forgotten that they once had free will." Perhaps a jibe at Coul?

"Once you understand the meaning of those two words, you should be able to write something sincere."

"Although, I must say that I disagree with the Archon's actions. To militarize against a single person, and one who behaves inconsistently at that, is a waste of everyone's time ... "

"I fear more the danger of our neighbours to the south." Perhaps right on cue, as Medwick was meeting the Viridosians, and an envoy from Avarath pushed his way through the snow to Barvelle.

 

[Tegan]

A fog had settled to mask the grime of the Dreadcove. Only the black ships and their figureheads were visible from the docks. The illusion was enough to stir the bard's memory. "I remember when this cove was a fishing village." Glyph squinted from behind his moonish spectacles, before he placed his pipe back between his lips. "Lovely place, then."

The nocturne man, frozen in youth, at his side did not humor the old man's reminiscence. "Smuggling four Northern mules into the port of Hosia is no small task, soothsayer." His eyes kept darting to somewhere along the southern horizon, as if he expected to see something there. Kessel did not seem concerned with the thick fog, for his crewmen were making preparations to depart, and his hobblers ready to guide them to sea.

Glyph laughed, sending plumes of smoke into the air. "Try getting that lot in and out of the Black City."

The Admiral reached into his coat and drew out a compass, his Aux. "I will have to bribe half of the harbour masters along the way." After checking the worn face, he placed the compass back into his sleeve. "And promote the other half."

"Then the mules must let you gnosh their product."

"They have nothing of value to me, and I do not work on contingency; even for beautiful avians and Barvelle sages." The bard said nothing, forcing Kessel's hand in speaking the obvious. "You will pay their fair. I have need of your talents."

The furrows in Glyph's brow deepened. "I'm not in that business anymore, Admiral."

"Not those talents—I have a map that needs translating. I fancy a spot of grave robbery." There was a flash of fang in his smile.

"I'm not in the grave robbing business, either. I am too old for all of that." Glyph paused mid-stride, Kessel followed suit. They watched as the four Pegulians boarded the White Empress, their faces tight with suspicion.

Kessel placed and hand on Glyph's shoulder. "You've never been known to let age stop you." Neither man took their eyes off of the four as they made their way up. Kessel smiled, kept speaking, quietly. "If they don't get to Hosia, you don't get paid, Glyph. Think of it as protecting your interests."

"Hosia is a day and night's journey from here. Translate the map for me, and I guarantee their journey will be most uneventful."

Sea travel Caoimhe discovered, within mere hours of setting sail, was not something people raised their whole lives in higher climbs were meant to do so suddenly. Her stomach had roiled and retched, she could barely stand by the time Glyph had forced her to drink some foul tea. She swayed in her hammock, in the cramped cabin the five shared, and drifted off...

When her eyes snapped open again, adjusting to the now darkened room. She had fallen asleep clutching her backpack, but it was now gone. Her heart seized as she sat up and spied a glow in the far corner. It was Glyph, hunched over the dragon egg, whispering something in a birdlike language. The egg itself was swaddled in furs and thermic gems.

Caoimhe lunged forward, snarling and furious. Glyph backed away, knowing that he had overstepped his boundaries. He watched as the wolf girl crouched over her young, shielding it with her own body, and gave a low warning growl.

"Vilda chaya, I mean only to help zmeya." He stood as still as his stiff joints would allow, and began to ramble advice. That she must keep the egg warmer, to place it in hot coals as often as possible, to anoint it with cedar and cinnamon. Or else the zmeya would be weak and brittle, smaller than the rest of its kind. "There are those—including the admiral of this ship and me—who would not hesitate to kill you for what you have."

Caoimhe tensed. Glyph continued.

"But grandfathers do not hurt little vilda chaya or young mothers." Glyph smiled warmly, the red glow from the gems reflected from his spectacles.

Aerie unfurled her wings, allowing the jet stream that guided the White Empress to carry her along. Cradled by the night sky, she was free from the suspicion and exhaustion below. The avian was content, for the moment, with Sunne and all in it. It would not last long. In the distance, what she thought at first were more fleeing sea birds, became visible in the moonlight. They were five birds of another variety.

Aerie circled so that she could join the avians in their flight.

"Aerie?" A blonde girl with sparrow wings. "Aerie! Where did you go? We thought you dead!"

Aerie sighed. "That was the idea." Her eyes drifted though, to a man with black hair and magpie wings. He said nothing, save: "There's no need for that, anymore. There is no more past to run from."

Aerie felt her heart sink. "What do you mean? What has happened?"

The sparrow girl piped in again. "We're seeking asylum with our kin in the North..."

On deck below, Medwick and Shardis watched the avians part ways; the five heading North and Aerie, without looking back, flew south, towards the poison forest. In a blink she was gone.

 

[E.T.]

Fear the mother for she does not fight for her own life. When Caoimhe had realized that her bag was gone her heart had stopped and all the color had poured from her face. Now crouched over the egg her face was livid, had person touching her egg been anyone outside of their group she would have wasted no energy on warnings, but had it not been for the nausea that weakened her Glyph would have most likely earned himself a sharp snap.

In dead silence she listened to him speak, her eyes wild and watchful. She was no longer snarling but there was a faint rumbling to be heard from her chest and her limbs were tense, vibrating with strain, exhaustion, and anxiety. When he spoke the word kill she visibly flinched, body lowering by several inches so that the egg was almost completely hidden from sight. As she did so her Aux fell from where it had been hidden beneath her shirt, the twin leaves. On the leaf that was red there was a slight crack showing, branching off of the middle and only barely reaching the middle. In that space of time before Glyph next spoke ideas flooded Caoimhe's head she tried to figure out what she should do. There was a measure of fear in her eyes, trust was not something she was used to having broken and she unsure what she would do if Glyph tried something. Yes he looked old and feeble but there was something about him, and Caoimhe had never been one to underestimate she could never afford to.

When he next spoke there was another shorter pause before Caoimhe's shoulders relaxed some of their tension and she backed off a step. She was still tense but it was a much milder nervous tension rather than the aggression that she had been displaying before. Softly she sat right next to the egg, her legs and arms still shaking slightly from the fatigue that was so prevalent with the damned sea sickness, her gaze flickering from its smooth surface to Glyph, looking for any sign that he had done something to harm it. Quite the contrary it had been nestled among carefully placed furs and heat crystals.

"How do you know these thing?" She asked softly, her voice still husky from being pitched for a growl. There was a suspicious note to her question, as far as she had known dragons did not interact much with people. As she waited for a reply she fussed with the furs a little bit, a subtle move but one that positioned her solidly between the egg and Glyph while still allowing it to be seen.

 

[Peregrine]

ETHELWEN-BARVELLE, royalblue

"I love my country," Ethelwen replied quietly. "It is my home, and nothing I do will be able to change that fact." Yet, somehow, even though he knew that his words were true, he also knew that they would not be able to help him write this bulletin. Perhaps it was because there was the tiniest flavor of dishonesty in them. He loved the place where he had been born, but he had not been born in any city of Pegulis. Could he truly transfer that love into words for Pegulis, and for Barvelle? Surely he could.

Of course, he wasn't so sure about his ability to speak from the heart. He had spent so long learning how to hide his true heart from everyone that he knew he would never reveal it willingly. And how could he put it down on paper for everyone else to look at? It was something over which he would have to think, at least for a while. He had to believe that some answer would find him, because he would not fail in the task that the Archon had given to him.

"Does it make much of a difference?" Ethelwen asked in response to Arctus' comment about mobilizing the military. "An army mobilized against one thing will serve the same against any enemy, will it not?" Ethelwen meant what he said, but subconsciously he realized he was stalling, trying to keep the Calm Sage from looking too close at his Advent. Changing something from one thing to another was such a deep rooted part of his own being that he was afraid, looking at his first ability to change, Arctus would realized the second as well.

 

[fatalrendezvous]

Ilsa Lisbon ― Ruins Beneath Fissura Pass, Indigo

Ilsa's eyes widened at Vrein's words, moistening from the combined realization of Vrein's feelings towards her in addition to his acceptance of death. She'd become so lost within her own past over the last several years that she had failed to notice when others made attempts at becoming part of her future. The memories she had of her pleasant interactions with Vrein all fell into place. The blacksmith typically kept to himself, but often carried a smile when speaking with Ilsa that she'd seldom seen him carry at other times. How could she have missed this?

She shook her head fiercely as Vrein sank back into unconsciousness. His polar bear Aux, laying in the snow nearby, let off a faint whine as it too, closed its eyes. There were no healers left in the remnants of the caravan; by Ilsa's count, there were barely a dozen able bodies left. They had departed with ninety, and at this rate of attrition, would be lucky to arrive in Barvelle at all. Ilsa checked again to make sure Vrein was still breathing before calling for assistance.

"Bring me some spare thermic gems from the fallen, and some cloth to wrap his wounds with. Gods willing, he may just survive through the night." Her eyes drifted to the openings atop the cavern, where earlier rays of sunlight shone in, now she only saw the waning light of sunset. "Have the most experienced climber here drive some pitons into the walls and lay the rope so that we can climb out of here first thing in the morning. We'll rest here for the night." They scattered, setting off to work and making preparations as Ilsa tended to Vrein's wounds.

 

[unanun]

"I will answer your second question first."

Arktus picked up a small handful of ice and rubbed it vigorously between his hands. Water seeped from his fingers.

"A standing army's worst enemy is idleness. When you arm men, you are doing it with the explicit intention to have them kill other men. Or women."

"But if you do not give them something to do, they dawdle. Loiter. Their frustration mounts. A group of frustrated, armed men are capable of many things."

"The second worst thing you can do is have them chase a ghost until they are out of breath."

He reached with his hands into the carcass, removing a dripping red-brown piece and popping it into his mouth.

"A standing army tax is an enormous waste of time, goods, and effort that could have been put elsewhere. Pegulis has many other measures in place to defend against invaders."

"Which brings me to your first question."

He wiped his hands against his hanfu, shocked a second later that he had smeared his white robes. The curse of the absent-minded.

"That you also have the right to refuse. And no one - especially the Archon - " he smiled, perhaps a bit too off guard, teeth red from the fermented slosh "- will regard you any less."

"I realize that I have only given you more questions, but the best way to get answers is to answer the question yourself."

 

[Navras]

Aldus - Azareth Searching

The crowds were thinner further away from the center of the city. Azareth was able to weave his way through the crowd and make his way southward with general ease. His mind was set at the Rusty Tankard, one some old tomes and dusty words he had yet to figure out just yet. He had time though. While he waited for his summons, he would have plenty of time to study. Yes... time was what he had the most of...

As he was beginning ti trail off with his thoughts, a familiar little boy stuck out in his vision. Yes, it was the same pick pocket from earlier who had tried to steal from Azareth. The boy moved through the crowd with a grace that the cloaked scholar simply did not possess... just where was he going? Had he perhaps stolen something else? Was he good at stealing from other people? Azareth had to admit, he was quite curious about the boy now that he was watching him rather thant he other way around. He decided to follow him, and see where he lead. After all, he had nothing but time on his hands at the moment.

Through the ever thinning crowd they moved, the boy in the lead and the bandaged man sticking at a shadow's distance. They moved further and further together as one away from the crowd, finally splintering off and heading down an alley way. The pickpocket made his way down quickly while Azareth slowed and followed behind as quietly as he could. His following lead him along through the back allies of Aldus, moving between one set of buildings and then another, going down more and m ore unused pathways and streets than he thought existed within the city. The boy, however knew better. What was he leading Azareth to though exactly...? What secrets laid in wait in the deep of Aldus...?

 

[Asmodeus]

When the Northern Archon was a little girl, walking alone through the snow, passing from wizard tower to hunter cave, from fishing hole to mountain tribe, she understood one thing. That it is the slightest threads that make strong. In this world there are many links: coincidence and portent. The smallest deed can be the advent of greatness. The slightest nuance the telling of all.

Pegulis was built upon connections, on hands interlocked and threads interwoven. It was a million cracks in an ice sheet.


That evening, from the Aldus wall to the shores of Tavark, there were little things.


In the cave beneath Fissura Pass, a Draken who had thought himself free from the Ghoul Sage's wrath had stumbled back into it. An accidental revenge. Arcantos had been left alone for but a moment, and in that moment had gazed upon the Utandis Cradle, and been taken by the spirit within. A spirit who had followed the Ghoul Sage through the ages and sought to survive the ice as he once had. A spirit who had failed, and suffered, and become a thing of rage.

A lover of the Sage... who would never see him again.

And now, beneath that Cradle, a second lover lay, prey to the first one's fury. Vrein's life hung in the cradle of his comrades, who wrapped him tight in furs, pressed gems to his flesh, fed healing herbs and restorative soups between his lips. He dreamed of Ilsa, and hoped to see her once again. And as he slept the hunter Castigarian kept watch and suffered with his own dreams - waking ones that flashed parasitic in his mind.

The story of the Cradle... of Utandis, who had longed to join the Ghoul Sage on the harrowing path he walked.

Such little things.

The activation of the Cradle - that brief moment where it awoke and then was crushed - was an echo felt miles away in Aldus. The signature of one was answered by another, enigma by enigma.

The pickpocket's home, where the boy dwelled with his cut-throat father, was like many in Barvelle: a hollow in the ruined structure of the once before. Lain upon a mountainside were buttresses of strange metal joined by geometric architecture. It had been taken for granted, long past, when the settlers found these ruins. And for all these years it had slept.

But as Azareth placed one foot upon the thorn-choked stairway, following the boy who had slipped beneath the arch and called for his father, there was a moment when history shuddered. The buttresses broke from ice, a bronze-like glow eclipsing white, and as the snow dropped in one the light flared outward. Azareth staggered. A projection of shape and symbol surged towards him. He fell. But not before the light took him. The image burned beneath his eyelids, through his corneas, to the addled brain beyond. He crashed down the stairs and landed in the grip of agony.

It lasted two seconds. The structure faded back to grey. The light vanished. Aldus slept again, and Azareth heard but a ringing in ears and the sound of the boy and father shouting questions from the top of the stairs. Hands fell upon him, healers checked his head; faces loomed.

And whispers stirred.

Such little things.

The small sight of a rider marked the plains around Barvelle. That night a horseman stumbled through the gates of the Secret City, pale and poised to drop. The man's way had been blocked, then opened again as the guards found recognition. Then came a rush. The soldiers dashed to help the man, to catch him as he fell from the shadow, to fetch blankets and food to ward his death away.

As the man recovered in the guardhouse, he made salute with pox-ridden hand and gave his name as Captain Anders. And as he told his story, his horse was led into the stables beyond.

A plucky and a healthy horse, lent to him by a Paladin who had remembered his duty.

The arrival would be spread, to the high towers where the Archon worked beneath the guard of Wolfsin. And to the chambers of Ethelwen, who drafted up his rallying call for the mission ahead. They would hear in time, and learn the stories of Medwick and his Prosperos Quest.


And to the north, beyond the mists that swallowed the coast of Tavark, there would be one more little thing that evening.


A thing perhaps glimpsed from M'Vae's prison cell, or from the window of Longspur's chamber as he battled with the flu. For as the sun went down upon the troubled sea, it caught awhile upon a shape. A silhouette on the horizon, that watched the city as it had four nights before.

A little thing... that now moved closer.

​

End of Chapter 2​