Fenn Finally Learns How Recipes Work And Uses Them For Evil
The bells attached to the antique shop’s antique door chimed pleasantly as Fenn breezed his way into the shop. A front of cold air billowed out along with his entrance, an accidental side effect of his excitement. Fenn peered out from the doorway, his gaze skimming across the tables and their dusty wares. It was a homely little store, stuffed with stacks of odd valuables and creaking antiques. The only light was what sunlight filtered in through the dusty windows. What organization there was to the accumulation was by type of object; a wall there was dotted with old clocks, an aisle here displayed worn chairs… so was how it went.
All in all, it seemed the perfect place to hunt for old books on Frost Fae. Finding anything credible since his… interesting visit to the Clemonts mansion was damn near impossible. Maybe this time, this time, he would find what he needed.
There was a jar of candied nuts left on a table next to the door. Treats for anyone browsing the store, he supposed. Fenn slyly tipped it into the front pocket of his satchel and stared skywards at a curious dangling instrument, one of planets attached to wires spinning around a round lantern. Neat! Perhaps, he decided, he could take his sweet time looking for the book section. He was in no hurry today.
“Hey,” a stentorian, nasal voice called out. Fenn turned on his heels to face a bony blonde woman sitting behind a desk. Her hands absently stroked the pages of a flaking book, and she gazed out at him with a furrowed brow and and uncertain frown. “I don't know what brought a you here, but welcome, I suppose? You can look around if you want, especially if you have it in mind to pay for something, but don’t touch anything. I didn’t set up shop here babysit little elfen brats. You understand?”
Nodding sweetly, Fenn put on his most angelic face. Of course he wouldn’t cause trouble!
“Good.” The lady turned back to her book and yawned. “Lemme know if you need something.”
Fenn gave her a curt shrug and went back to exploring. Let's see… table of old necklaces -- cheap ones, he could tell at a glance thanks to make years of stealing and selling them himself. There was an open wardrobe displaying old robes and dresses. The fabric had that distinct old-people-smell that never seemed to wash out of things. Fenn pulled out a faded red shirt and wondered if he ought to shop around for some new clothes. His current ones were threadbare from years of abuse. He shrugged and hung the shirt back up. Maybe another time.
What really caught the little Fae’s eyes was a mirror hanging on the inner door of the wardrobe. The black frame inlaid with quartz seemed normal enough, if a bit fancy. But, his reflection was just wrong! A moment of puzzling over it gave him the right words for the wrongness. The colors were muted and murky, as if he were seeing himself through a haze or a fog.
Fenn wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out at the distortion, marveling at how his tongue seemed more brown than pink. His eyes looked almost black!
The boy ducked over toward the main desk and tapped his knuckles against the wood, getting the shopkeeper's attention. "Yes?" she asked, looking up from her read. "What is it?" Fenn cocked his head and gave a sweeping two-handed gesture to the mirror inquisitively. She leaned over to peer around the corner at his object of fascination. “Oh, that? I’d be careful about touching that one if I were you,” the antique woman told him with a shrug, leafing to the next page of her book. “For one thing, I’d love it if you didn’t contaminate my wares with smudgy fingerprints. For another, that one’s enchanted.”
Enchanted? If that didn’t intrigue him, he didn’t know what would! Fenn sighed and pointed again, a wordless plea for more detail.
“Mmm, yeah, that one’s got a curious history,” the antique keeper droned on. She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Last owner was real happy to be rid of the thing. I don’t know the specifics of the enchantment, but it’s supposed to give you a glimpse of the future. Or was it an alternate world? For all I know, it gives you a look at the future of a different world. Unfortunately, I don’t have a clue as to how to work the damn thing. Any old wizard could probably power it by touch alone, but I haven’t a lick of magic in me. So, uh, don’t touch it.”
Fenn’s ears were pricked now, twitching in curiousity. His bright gaze swiveled back to the mirror’s gloomy interior. With an agreeable dip of his head, he backed away from the desk, leaving the shopkeeper to her reading.
But...
To hell with dire warnings, he wanted to see this other-future-world thing! After glancing back to make sure that the shopkeeper was still engrossed in her book -- she was -- he slunk over and lifted a finger to its surface. Only a touch, she said? Gently, he prodded it. Frost shivered up the glass.
A few seconds passed. Hmm? No response? How disap-
FLASH!
~ § ~ § ~ § ~
The circle had been made. The blood had been laid down.
Deep in the bowels of an abandoned mineshaft, Fenn sat amid his doings and studiously went over the open page of a black-bound book, his Grimoire. Surrounding him was a meticulously prepared altar of sorts. Several silver bowls held offerings he had gathered himself. One to his left pooled with crimson blood. One to his right was brimming with powdered bones. The last was a frothy black potion that lay before him, a potent mixture of mushrooms, oleander, and snakeroot. All the bowls were surrounded by circles of blood, and around those circles was a larger one which encompassed Fenn as well. What paltry light there was in the room came from flickering purple-black candles placed at specific points on the edge of the greatest circle. It wasn’t particularly good light to read by, barely penetrating the thick dark between him and the glistening walls of the shaft, but it was necessary. This was the only light permitted to touch this sacred space.
He had gone back to the Clemonts mansion. Foolish, perhaps, after his first venture there had gotten him killed, but in hindsight he considered it a victory. Her Grimoire was the key to everything. He understood now why the professor had done what she had.
There were laws. There were rules. There were rituals that had to be performed. There was power to be taken.
He knew better than to stray. When mistakes were made, it all went awry, and nothing would ever get done. Yes, mistakes were costly. Clemonts had made mistakes, and now she was dead. Fenn’s first mishap had lost him his mount, and another had threatened to take his head. But, he was practiced now. He had communed many times with his new masters. They needed him to perform one final task to aid their descent into the realm that was Althanas.
Fenn licked his lips and flicked through the pages, turning over to the final step of the ritual. Right, right, the components.
He gently laid the book down outside the circle. A measured pinch was taken from the ground bones and sprinkled into the black potion. Afterward, Fenn dipped his hand in the blood. One, two… eight drops of blood went into the potion. Mmm. There was blood on his hands now. It was starting to congeal and freeze over. Fenn considered the dark liquid with a sigh, knowing that it wouldn’t do to taint his grimoire nor altar with the touch of such an excess. It might muddle the ritual. Shrugging to himself, he slurped the glistening red ooze off of his fingers as one might honey. Waste not, want not.
̯̝͍̳̳͇̪̊̇ͯͦ̌ ̨̫̮̭̲̭͉͇ ̵̠̞̖̩̿ ̺̗̙̯̋̀͋ͯͤ͊̕ͅ ͚̫̻ͥͯ̅̽͐̓ ̲ ̖̘̩̞͛̆̀̅ ͇̲̜̉ ̘ͥͭ͟ ̧̖͍ͦ͌͒ͩ̎̈́͆ ̙̟͈̜̣̝̆̃̀ͯ͂ ̛͚̙̖̫̘̖̔ͥ̊̏̌̓̆ͅ ͇̱̥̲̱̦ͪ̈́͗̽ͭͮ͆͘ ̥̘̻̽ ̩͌͒̀ ̊ ̠̦͈͍̯͕̀̉̽͢ ̵̮͆̔̋́ͤ ̖̬̖̠͉̆̓̏ͬ͐̎̈́ͅ ̡͈ͤ̐ ̫̣͉̮͈̜ͥ̀́̽̀ ̥̬͍̤̼̆ ̝̩̥̝̣̻ͧͣͥ͂̍͝ ̠͍̤̪̗̭ͤ͞ ͍͈̓͋̒ͣ ̶̖̓ͧ̓͊͋̑̑ ͥ̍͢ ̬̱̹̥̬͗ͭ͗ ̧̖ͩͮ ͇̊ ̣̱̭͕͇͘ͅ ̟͕̫̋́̈̑̃̑̓ ̸ ̡͔̲̦̟̫ͤ͐ͦ̈́̊ ̓ͫͧ ̯̣̭̱ͮ̍̈́̔ͅͅ ̵̘͖͓̘̤͙ ͐
Where there had once been the black potion, there was now a gap in time and space. The room became markedly warmer.
A darkness felt its way out of the rift on twisted claws, bearing gnashing teeth and rasping drool. Milky white eyes pried open. They oozed and shuddered, focusing on the small vessel offered up before him. The abyss had stared into him, and he stared back, his lips spreading into a wide toothy smirk. Althanas would be host to his gods now. Oh! If only Amari could see him now. She'd be so proud. Perhaps, he pondered with a ghostly smile on his face and a lost look in his eyes, he should go looking for her sometime. Perhaps he could persuade her to ditch her current master for his.
None would call him small nor weak. Fenn would tower above all.
~ § ~ § ~ § ~
SMASH!
The shattering of the mirror broke the shopkeeper out of her reverie, startling her so much she dropped the book she was reading under her desk -- which would be a shame, as the binding was already loose enough as it was. It wasn’t a common book either; no book on the northern Fae was “common”. Without bothering to peer around the corner, she could easily guess what had been broken, and who had done it. That was it. This was the last time she was letting a little kid into her shop unsupervised. Where was that kid’s flipping parents?
“I told you not to touch the mirror!” she called out, her face livid with frustration and she bent over to retrieve her fallen tome. “Wait right where you are! Don’t move, and for the Thayne’s sake, don’t step on the glass. I need to see just how much damage you’ve caused and what it’s going to cost.”
But, by the time she had gotten up and walked around to see the mess by the wardrobe, she could hear the chiming of bells and the echoed slam of the door. The little elfen boy was gone.
He had left nothing behind but the broken glass and the bent frame. The floor was made treacherous broken glass, and oddly enough, a crystalline hunk of melting ice. Would breaking such an ominous mirror cause seven year’s worth of good luck, or misfortune? If it was the latter, she dearly hoped the kid was at the receiving end of it, not her. “Imp,” the shopkeeper grumbled under her breath, feeling a scowl coming on. She’d have to find a broom now, and waste some of his precious time taking care of this. Worse, she probably wasn’t going to be compensated for this, was she? How she hated it when her customers broke the valuables...
Neutral Good: The Irritations Of The Unfamiliar
The air hung with the rich scents of a myraid of spices; za'atar from Merian, Keribas, cardamom from Amonuum, Haide, majoram from Survani's Oasis, Fallien. Bright colours of livid saffron, scarlet, lemon and golden yellow and brilliant green filled the open caskets lining the stalls. Other products, such as the carefully made fine china spice bowls, lined shelves, whilst hand-woven cloths and tapestries hung from the ceiling. A curved continuous archway made the bright, lively place a home for the exotic - all of the essences from across the hot, humid centres of the world contained into one singular market.
Slowly she breathed in, a smile coming to her lips. So luxurious, so unique. A world which she hardly experienced, which she hardly knew. For the first time her hoof had stepped upon sand, and carved a mark into the Fallien soil, strode through the sandstone streets of Irrakam and experienced the flavours of the fiery foreign.
"Hi," she said, rather embarressed to a man with tanned skin - the natural tone of this area - who was staring at her.
Humans here, apparently, had not seen the few fauns that existed in the world. Which was entirely understandable, seeing as they rarely ventured from their home of Paradisia in the forests of the Jagged Mountains. Philomel was a great exception, and though she was quiet about her exact heritage she did not shy away from being proud of her ancestry.
"Your fabric there," she gestured to a soft purple silk that was printed with small images of desert deer and harpies, "How much would it be?"
His eyes blinked wide with surprise as he realised that she spoke the common tongue of Althanas. His own voice was in a gorgeous stacatto tone of his land, "Uh ... So you ... Right." Feeling somewhat annoyed by the man's reaction the faun began to frown before he continued. "Where you come from? I can give you good price based on this. Yes?"
Blinking at his forgetting of definite articles, Philomel was taken aback slightly but knew that the man was trying. So she kept her patience and answered in a polite, though frank, tone. "Corone. I have coins from there, but I have things to trade, as I know-"
"20 Corone Crowns," the man beamed. He had dimples on his chin that prodded in like tiny sinkholes.
"But I have ..." she began to say, reaching for her bag where she had stored her items.
For in Fallien she knew that they traded in stock more than anything. Currency of other realms and cities was accepted, but they preferred their ways. Thus she had brought with her all the herbs and fabrics and artistry of her world that they might find interesting. Basil from Underwood, holy fleece from Akashima and scrolls from the Am'aleh religion in the Tylmerande barony were all in her possession.
The man, however, waved a cinnamon coloured hand at her nearly sickly pale face. Which matched her white cotton travelling shirt, her ivory over skirt, the blades of her five mythril daggers that were stuck into her belt. Immediately her face fell and she couldn't help but feel slightly put off by him. In all honesty she had been wanting to buy the silk for her mother, who was into brighter things than her, and certainly needed cheering up after her recent ordeals. Rape, a bit of murder, politics. Gods, if anything please not let it be politics.
"20 Crowns and no less."
"I am not interested," suddenly she said, twisting around on hoof. "I am sorry, but its fine." She had to do it, had to pull out. She could not deal with this man, and before she ending up swearing in his face she wanted to be away, to offer her wares to another trader.
The man tried to call after her, but the faun was hurrying now, clutching onto her bag. Her knuckles were white, her face was hard, but she did not want to make his day worse. So she left, and exited. Keeping her eyes wide for another opportunity.