Between One War And Another (Solo)

[Cydnar]

The wilderness and ruin of the city of Dheathain and the recumbent nature of its citizens often irked Cydnar. Despite their current conflict against a nest of vipers within its own walls, the Comataidh would commit to no direct action except exile, cutting of the prospect of business, expansion and discovery for many of the artisans, adventurers and cultural paragons of their secular society. He supposed that the Hummel were no different, but the circumstances in which that paranoia had arisen were worlds apart. With the blanket of sorrow that was the brief war with the undead in Raiaera passed, the Salthias had returned to the city to tend to his dust-laden workshop and the pile of notes, invoices and demands that had accrued on his mantle and doorstep in the interim period.

“No rest for the wicked,” he muttered, picking up the pile of paper with a swooping motion whilst drinking from a slender glass of almost obsidian wine. It was so rich and expensive he had to salivate over its aroma more than enjoy the actual drinking. It was his subtle, lonesome way of celebrating the fact that he was still alive and free once more of the taint of duty. The military hierarchy and prominence of the Council had been lost at the battle of the Long Road, his future and ties to the city scattered to the shadows and dust of indecision and idiocy. He was looking very much forward, and the future was one of toil and artistry, not one of adventure, childhood dreams and danger.

“I hope,” he amended; placing his glass onto his desk to tear open the first of his communicates. He read it aloud, re-ensuring himself of the dimensions of the work required and the time it would take to complete it. “Dear Sir, I am looking to acquire a small pillar of crystal for…” he tossed it aside, starting a pile for things to leave and another for immediate attention. One after another he came to the last envelope, and traced the elegant script on its front. It was his name, and the title of his occupation in the city as was registered with the Circle of Artisans, but the ink was vermillion, and the accent of his title was a small seal, that was all too familiar. He tore it open and picked up the glass without looking, honing his ability to acquire alcohol without thought as he did so.

“It has been too long, Brother,” he spat red gobbets of his livelihood across the letter, and stared with a stunned expression at the sheet of paper as the liquid was absorbed; it formed faint circles, like little suns on a spring morning. He had not heard word of his kin since he disappeared, thirty years ago during an excavation of an Umbra stone beneath the mountainous ice of Salvar. “I,” he read on within trepidation, “Forgive me for not informing you that I was alive sooner, but I was detained in the course of our goal amidst the brutal civil war between the League of Salvic State and the Church. With the collapse of the former, I was able to recall my crystalline aura and was rescued by the geomancer Ilea and the Prime Chamberlain himself, plucked from desolation and despair through melting earth and subterfuge.”

Cydnar paused for a moment, to find distraction in the many bookcases and shelves laden with quartz shards that lined the walls of his office. His workshop was a two part building, bunkered beneath a taller and more productive artisan workshop above; it was the scale and cost he could afford, and all that the citizens of the city would allow a Hummel to have without inciting a riot. Suspicion was rife wherever you went in the over world, even the fae showed no exception to their magical and ancient Elvin kin. His heart beat twice, skipping like the galloping hooves of a stallion across the plains of indecision and he turned his pounding head to the letter once more.

“I long to see you, long to recount my tales and my exploits and hear of your struggles as the Salthias Nyllan; there is no limit to the pride I display knowing what you did. I await your company in the Reagent Hold of Jakarta. I would take my leave of this place but I am too backward in my ways to come to the over world without the mandate of Yrene; I am not as strong as you brother. I am forever yours and eternally patient, Famfrit.” Too anxious to scream, or vocalise any mention of his sudden anguish Cydnar placed the letter calmly onto the desk and shot the remainder of his glass down, the blackcurrant and clove after taste scouring his blurred vision from his eyes to reveal a very sudden and illustrious view of the world. “Normality is not mine to relish,” he muttered, taking up his travelling possessions from their place by the workshop door and sheathing Freya and Altheas on each of his hips. Calmly and devoutly he stepped out into the cool calm air of the Spring evening, and turned the locking mechanism of the door with a wave of his hand and a telekinetic radix.

[Cydnar]

Long ago, when the Hummel first emerged from the Under Dark to take a claim on the lands above, they made ancient way stations beneath Dheathain and Luthmor to act as anchors between realms. Those born with geomantic abilities that did not permit travel directly through the ground itself would seek out this secretive way stop network and procure travel deep into the shadows to return to their homes from whatever assignments or homesteads they held stock of in the sun. As Salthias, a title depicting command of nobility and military honour, it was Cydnar’s right to use these secrets to his ends whenever he deemed it appropriate. Of course, if the Council of the Fae ever knew that the Hummel held bonds to their city and worked their brand of magic under the nose of the racial stigma, there would be all out war.

He skulked with a grace halfway between a lynx and an ox, unsure of himself in the twill lull in activity between afternoon trade and evening revelry. The nearest Warder was two streets away, hidden in an old workshop basement under a noble’s household, concealed from detection by illusion magic of an ancient source and passwords in the Hummel tongue few except a Hummel himself could pronounce. It did not take too long for the elf to arrive at the oaken door and tap on the right panel, between the knocker and the central motif of a lion’s head, warped to the diametric Tantalus of the Fae architecture. A few moments passed before a voice replied, “Oh whom or what does the Nautilus speak?”

Cydnar cleared his threat and pulled his long hair behind his ears, reminding himself of the entry code. It had been months since he had last travelled to the city this way, and the knowledge was slipping him by as he distanced his life from his former responsibilities. “The Abyss of Quartz beneath the sundered sky.”

The door opened slowly and a pair of crimson eyes peered out at the perceived stranger. “Ah – Brother Cydnar, I am glad it is you and not watchers come to spy us out.” He remembered the Warder’s name and replied with a courteous bow as the door opened and he slipped inside in a flourish of purple silk. “What can I do for you and how fares the trade in the city of charlatans?” Cydnar had not heard that word in so long he was taken aback by its use. The Hummel viewed the Luthmor society in equal scorn, but it was one born of persecution and centuries of hatred for no reason other than being so new in the ancient lore of the island – secretly, they wished for nothing more than acceptance, for nothing more than the right to smile and hold one’s head high in the midday sun.

“I am afraid I come on business of a foul nature, and as for the city,” he moved over to the centre of the small chamber which was in a state of disrepair and decorated with nothing more than a simple snake motif on the larger wall and a bed, desk and small pile of books. The candle light flickered to occupy the long hours that the Warder had to dwell in solitude and silence. Everyone in Hummel society had a rank or role to play, in the great performance of time, Cydnar had often wished he had been given something more humbling that his stock – he wished for normalcy, he wished for mundane reality. “The city is treating me with as much distrust as it ever did, although demand for my work and artistry has risen dramatically in the last month.” A silence fell over them both and they stared into the flame deep in thought, prying open ideas to ease their passing from pleasantries to comfort.

[Cydnar]

“Ah,” the Warder nodded, realising a connection, “The Drothmallaign comes, the festival of the Fae folk to celebrate the rise of the sun to the zenith and the start of the High Season. I should expect you to attend with the rest of the Luthmorian Warders Cydnar, we would be most grateful of your company!” For a moment, Cydnar considered agreeing with his distant acquaintance, but he had no idea how long his brother’s arrogance would keep him in the stone tomb below the ground. The Warder caught Cydnar’s vacant expression and stopped his enthusiasm, “Forgive me, but is something the matter?” The sun was almost gone from the sky and the darkness of the chamber made Cydnar tired and weary. The two men shuffled their feet for a few moments, struggling to interject the silence.

“It is not that something is the matter, nor is something troubling me. I simply have to return to the city and I do not wish to dwell their longer than is necessary, but my family is not of the temperament to enjoy short reunions. Tell me, Dakar, do you see your relatives whilst you are positioned here?” He raised an eyebrow to accentuate his inquisitive nature, and descriptively examined his surroundings to occupy the long dwindled response. The cities below were so splendorous, it was hard to imagine a Hummel could suffer this destitution and rank odour for too long. Somehow, Cydnar had not missed it; he had found a home in the most unlikely of places.

“Not much, though I dare say when I am relieved of my duties in two days time I shall make a visitation and then spend my freedom exploring the mountains to the north. They say that a Jabberslythe dwells in the caverns behind the waterfall of Nyldia, I and two other Salthias wish to explore this myth.” The mention of nobility drew Cydnar from his days of distraction. He took a sharp breathe and fell back into conversational conformity.

“Who are these nobles you speak of?” Dakar cursed himself, slapping his forehead in an overt display of humanisation and walked over to the bed to sit on its rumpled pile of blankets. “Forgive me, I should not address nobility in such abstract terms – they are Hellene and Mithrandir and I do not think you are acquainted. Or do you wish to be, I am lost in the dichotomy of conversation sometimes?”

Cydnar laughed and waved Dakar to his side, “good gracious me, Brother, no! I wish no more than to know the names of the new heroes of Luthmor, forever forgotten by the racial tensions of its people!” They exchanged pleasantries and smiles and the laughter died. “We should be going, if you wish me to accompany you to the festival I shall acquire a costume to disguise this abhorrent visage of mine and make merry with you all; should you hurry the journey, I despise the smothering sensation the magic of Yrene gives.” He smiled enough his time to reveal the very tips of his canines and Dakar seemed to take on a new urgency.

“Yes Brother, at once.”

A hum grew in the air, one which immediately reeled Cydnar’s senses and brought his focus to staying conscious. The corruption of magic had grown so strong in the world that he could detect even the sorceries and righteous nature of his own kin. Either his new found abilities gained in the grip of death with the necromancer had bestowed a new and nauseating perspective of the world, or he had grown sick and tired of living, sick and tired of the hypocrisy of being a mage who lived to hunt mages. In his scorn, Cydnar and Dakar faded into the floor as the rock turned to quicksand, and it solidified as easily as it had given away after they had gone.

The flame of the candle flickered, and the great crystal geode in the depths of Althanas that houses one of the greater cities of the Hummel loomed upon them, with all the sense of foreboding that came with being reunited with an old enemy. All the memories of his childhood came flooding back, and he felt little and small and worthless once more.

[Cydnar]

The city of Ayden was the largest of the Hummel strongholds, crafted into the heart of a great quartz geode many miles under the surface of Althanas proper. In the days before Donnalaich had prospered, the internal matrix of bridges that suspended a person between the glistening towers shining in the twilight had held the true seat of power of Luthmor. At its heart stood the Oracle, the temple of the Salthias where all newborn Hummel were brought in high brow ritual to be exposed to the Font, the nest of the World Eater Yrene.

In the great shining fountain, the snakes that were prophesised to be Yrene’s firstborn would write and slither from the darkness and bite the child innumerable times. Such a pain would linger in the mind of the child for an eternity, serving as a reminder to the Hummel that he was in eternal servitude, of coarse gratitude to his deity. The geomantic power that was bound to the child’s soul would then be revealed in its elemental form or dichotomy of power, and then the celebration of Birth would commence and the city would decide the child’s fate.

As Cydnar had been borne from the Oracle, it had been decided that his heritage and birthright would give him the role of Salthias, and that he would fight as a Captain and Knight Provost in the armies of the Hummel Templarite. It had been this single revision of destiny that had brought him to bear arms on the plains above, and rebel against all that he might gain in a show of defiance of free will. As they fell through the earth, a sensation not unlike drowning whilst breathing, Cydnar closed his eyes and relived the tentative years of his youth. Each step he had taken had been one closer to freedom, but each step had caused him to take two back.

Wherever one went in Ayden one could not help but notice the distant glimmer of the geode. Even though the city was part of the crystalline structure itself, and the buildings and temples suspended from stalagmites and geomantic anchors were high and low, the distance it created in the head was mind boggling. The shining purple flexes were like stars in the night sky, illuminated by the many thousands of torches and floating runes that littered every sky way and hall and Hummel abode. It was a grotto, Cydnar’s mother had once said, a grotto not to the beauty of nature, but the beauty of co-operation. The historic fact that the high elves and drow had once come together in unison and that coalition had formed the Hummel was one of the few things that kept him sane, kept him loyal.

After what seemed like an eternity two pairs of boots appeared in the ceiling of the entrance chamber and quickly formed into two robed individuals. The first room a newcomer would see when arriving in Ayden was a simple crystalline sphere, perfectly smooth and crafted of the darkest purple quartz a geomancer could conjure. The column which held the sphere aloft was of pure granite, made by the power of Yrene to act as a conduit to bring the Warder’s quarry to the centre of the city amidst the mind-boggling maze of walkways, merchant shops, temples and offices. The raucous sound of conversation, cracking stone in the distance as the earth and tectonic plates moved and the gentle hum of the enchanted lights brought it all back.

“We are home, Brother Cydnar,” Dakar said with a coy smile. He enjoyed the fleeting glimpses of the crystalline homage to secrecy even if his visitation was fleeting and in the service of others.

Cydnar adjusted his hair, ensured his robes were neat and devoid of dust, and stepped out of the glimmering sphere onto the walkway. “Indeed we are, indeed we are…” He walked on, apprehension rising in his stomach at the sensation of landing on one’s feet in a nest he had abandoned a year ago. "What splendurous murder it cries out for too..." he mumbled the last line, making sure his friend did not hear. As the geomancer dissapeared oncemore into the rock, the Salthias made his way along the central boulevard with his head hung low and his feet well timed to the flicks of his robes. He adorned the mantle of importance, and faded into the crowd of tanned skin and stern demeanour.

[Cydnar]

Duty and order, they were draped over the city wherever you looked. Vestigial competitions went on between passing strangers, determined to maintain their veil of secrecy and preponderant arrogance. In the silence and low hushed conversation, Cydnar found it discomforting and awkward. The smell of earth, deep and peaked and stale clung to his nostrils and drowned him in confusion. He was torn between longing to flee, and longing to return, as if his mind was not yet made. He doubted his decision to live in Donnalaich, so easily were his morals broken.

He and his family lived on the Noble estate at the centre of the city, a large crystalline cloud, spheres strung to spheres and bound in security. His robed form passed easily between the two guards clad in hematite armour and brandishing great swords thick enough to cleave through rock. They nodded gruffly and returned to their statue-esque form, acknowledging the Salthias’s robes and symbols of office. He quickened his pace to arrive at the door to his home and stopped in the alcove to gather his thoughts and shed the lethargy of his journey.

The door opened slowly as he manipulated the quartz mechanism in the lock and stepped inside. The chill in the air dissipated and instantly he realised something was amiss. “Hello?” His voice echoed through the smooth crafted curves of the entrance chamber, and the lights of the inert enchantments glittered through doorways leading off into the other rooms. A deep throbbing pulse of magical energy ripped into Cydnar’s mind, forcing him to his knees to vomit.

“Welcome,” the door slammed shut.

It took a while for Cydnar to recover, but slowly he stood and dusted himself down. It was then that he noticed the house was derelict, plastered with the dust and smell of emptiness. Nobody had lived here in a long while, perhaps as long as Cydnar had left – where were his parents, his servant, and his sister? He walked into the chamber to his left and was greeted with the library he had spent many years of his formative youth deep in study. The books were scattered and askew on the shelves, as if someone had searched them in a hurry without any sign of care.

He moved through to the seating area where the fireplace was dormant and papers scattered all over the floor. With a quick stoop he plucked a random sheet and read the first line. It was a theological text on the nature of Yrene that he he had encountered long ago and cast it aside as unimportant to his current predicament. The pulse hit him again, this time knocking him prone. It tingled and made him wretch a second time.

[Cydnar]

As he awoke a deep seated fear rose from his stomach and he brought up bile, only to swallow it again. The taint of magic was so strong, even in the dark and the depths of the crystalline tomb that Cydnar could not help but gag. His sense swirled in an indomitable maelstrom of nausea and anger, until they settled at last and allowed him to take stock of his surroundings. The familiar book shelves of the study came into view and he pushed himself upright on shaky limbs.

“Hello?” He mumbled his voice dry and hoarse with weakness. From the arid parched lips and the dust which had settled on his robes he guessed he had been there for many hours, perhaps as long as a day. The voice which had greeted him was all too familiar to the Hummel, but too distant in his memories to strike a match to a name. He held out both hands to steady him and made cautious steps to the comfort of the tall velvet covered chair his father had spent many long nights in next to the roaring embers of the fire. The ashes in the hearth were ancient now, and the charred remnants of wood and coals served as a reminder that a single moment of heat could scour away life and loam alike.

Something, or rather someone had entered Cydnar’s home and blanched his family from existence. The pieces of a very obscure puzzle came slowly together. He looked around the study for clues with a throbbing head and blurring vision, afraid and alone in his torment. What little remained of his emotions after the loss of his fellow kin on the fell plains of Raiaera and the sacrifices he had made in procuring the death of the necromancer Xem’Zund alongside the Dawnbringer’s stirred. They kindled some vague notion of remorse, but did not cause him tears or cries. He felt numb, withered, and dead.

“What malice has crushed my kingdom? What foul be…” The spark he had been searching for erupted before his eyes. There was no trace of his family, and there was a magical taint in the air so strong that it could not have been Hummellian in origin. The arrival of the letter left only one culprit in the limelight, Famfrit. “Oh brother…where art thou, what hast thou done in greed’s name?”

He sat in silence for an hour and rested his weary head in the wise embrace of his palm. Slouched to one side Cydnar took on the stance of a wise and noble king sat in his throne deep in thought. He was not at all surprised that life did not wish him to lead a normal existence, even though his bones were tired and his thoughts weary of the long journey ahead. He longed for nothing more than normality, simplicity, and brevity in the everyday routine of his simple workshop and the droll machinations of Luthmor far above. Slowly but surely, the dream that should not be dreamt by the servants of Yrene was coming undone.

“Damnation!” He roared with teeth glaring in the gloom. He slammed his fists down onto the chair’s arms and rose along with the cloud of dust. In a swirling and elegant advance he left the study and charged down the cold crystalline steps to the family dowry and temple – the same shrine to Yrene which all houses of noble origin or simple serfdom possessed.

[Cydnar]

Cydnar’s footsteps sounded his arrival in the temple. Beneath each house, or often in an ante chamber leading to the aviary or balcony each Hummel abode possessed a cone shaped chamber in which stood an effigy to the World Eater. Many had a simple a statue of a snake coiled around a perfectly smooth quartz shard, but some had spiralled helixes intertwined, representing the giver and the taker of life to be found in the teachings and deeds of the Snake God. The house of Yrene, the noble Salthias had a woven mass of snakes which stretched from the very top of the chamber to the bottom. Each strand grew at the lower end and expanded across the floor, and it had often been described as a tree, whose roots disappeared into the floor and walls to extend out across the globe.

“Yggdrassil lumay shin tail acakaro!” The customary praise slipped from the warrior’s lips without a conscious thought, and with head hung low he knelt at the foot of the tree. “Oh father, conjure the notion of faith and hope and strength in my heart. Let me know all that I have done shall be remembered, let me know that all my deeds shall not be undone my selfish actions.”

He was too interred in his prayer to notice the woven mass of snakes move. The knots tightened and loosened as if something were alive amongst them. The light in the chamber grew darker and darker and the very fabric of the temple seemed all at once to fade from reality. Cydnar looked up and froze, fear and terror combining into a paralysing wave of agony. “Greetings,” said the pale face protruding from the idol.

The statue moved aside and a tall and deathly man stepped from the sanctuary of his god. He appeared every bit the same as Cydnar, except his attire. They possessed an almost identical nasal bridge and hair parting, and both kept their length and colour exact. It was the traditional and cultural adornment of the warrior caste; but Famfrit did not have the title of Salthias last his brother checked.

“Come, brother, that is no way to greet your kin, is it not?”

Attachment 1925

“No brother of mine would commit such blasphemy!” He rose quickly and rushed forwards. Their hands clashed, Cydnar’s strike deftly blocked with a flat palm. “No brother,” he stepped back and spiralled his leg up towards the head of his kin, “would defy our ways!”

“Please.”

The power behind his words crushed Cydnar’s strength and speed and propelled him backwards with a sickening thud. The heat in the chamber rose several degrees and the eerie glow of the quartz core of the statue grew brighter. Cydnar felt his ears pop as if something had pulsated in his veins, it was the same sensation he had felt in the study and it was no doubt powered by some foul magic he did not understand.

“I turn not my back on Yrene, or the traditions. I turn my back on you, the outcast, the traitorous son.” Famfrit spoke calmly and resolutely, and slowly walked around his prone brother with an elegant gait. He was clad in long robes and wore a thorny crown, but his skin was taut and devoid of life and colour. Cydnar took a deep breath and pushed himself back to his feet, ignoring the stench of death in the stale air of the temple.

“I wished only to see the world and did a great deed for Althanas in doing so, what can be said of you, the spy who was lost to the snow?”

“Ha! My time in Salvar was a ruse, a simple screen to turn the eyes of the council away from the deeper meaning of my departure.”

“What could you possibly have wanted in that wretched land?” Cydnar felt lies and truth intermingle in his stomach and swarm up in a defiant challenge to his brother’s logic. “No council would ever have sent a son of the Noble house on an errand so petty that it would undermine its own family!”

A purple fire erupted across Famfrit’s body and scintillated down to the ground. He smiled wearily, as if expecting the line of questioning. He stepped closer to his brother and held out his palm. The flames gathered into a phantasmal tree, before burning into nothingness. “They sent me to find the World Tree.”

Silence hung expectation in the air.

“They sent me, brother, to reclaim the power of Yrene from the harlot Thayne and charlatans of this world.”

[Cydnar]

Across the night sky a star fell, a blistering sphere of light set to the backdrop of infinite bleakness. With fire and gusto it descended, before falling out of sight beyond the distant mountains on the horizon. The trees lamented the fire that raged in its wake, and the animals of the under dark purveyed a sense of grief for their sudden loss. Each event in the world, especially those of a certain magnitude caused ripples and reciprocal effects in the far flung corners of existence. As the comet struck the plains of Haide, a realm of devilry and malefic glee, deep in the earth something else felt the tremors and pain of the world in shock.

Yrene turned in one of his many dens and opened its eyes. They glowed with a deep resonating purple that was creatural, primordial and flourishing with power. It felt the weight of the comet on its mind and hissed, its tongue flickering in the limelight like a rod of divination. It pointed north to the mountains where the last of the ward stones rested. In ages past, Yrene had left scales of his forgotten selves under the surface all over the world to apply a residual shield to the people of Althanas. In time, they had faded, cracked or had been crushed in the tectonic movements of the continents. Concerned that the last of its kind was under threat from the dawn star, he slithered from the cavern in perfect darkness and passed through the earth as if it were water.

There was no time for the Thayne to slumber following the war, only time to think of the servitude he paid to the Seven, and his life tempered beneath the earth devouring the corruption of man.

[Cydnar]

Cydnar awoke with a start, gasping for air and clawing at nothing. It took a few seconds for him to realise that he was not succumbing to madness in the bowels of his house, and that Famfrit was not corrupted by the very magic they despised. The familiar setting of his workshop fell into place and he let out a long sigh of relief as it dawned on him what had happened. The roaring of the fire and the delicate accent of the wine he had presumed he was only sipping had combined into a sleeping potion his natural resistance to toxin could not overcome.

Still, he thought to himself as he adjusted his posture and sub-consciously tried to work out how long he had slumbered for. There is a message to madness… The dream had carried a message in some twisted form or another. He felt saddened and craved the forgiveness of his family for ever thinking ill of his own kin as he did his brother. For so many years he had dwelt in Famfrit’s indomitable shadow without ever accomplishing deeds greater than he, nothing he did could best him, and nothing he could ever do would wipe the memory of his brother’s deeds from his parent’s proud-clad minds.

The roar of the fire and the crackling déjà vu of the logs in the hearth instilled a sense of calm in the artisan’s mind. He embraced the comfort of his chair, its velvet covered frame identical to the one he had sat in during his illusory distraction and stared into the embers. The late evening light that rolled in through the two small windows of his workshop told him at last that it was gone daylight, and although it meant it would be slower trade, he was still not free from the chains of responsibility. People required repairs and presents and secret indulges all hours, and the Hummel were diligent merchants amongst other traits.

He looked back to the dream as he uncorked the bottle on the small table by his chair and poured the last dregs of the wine into his slender goblet. As he tilted the bottle he created a small quartz funnel in its neck to spiral the liquor strength beverage into froth, and vanquished his creation before he had time to settle the bottle empty with a clamour back onto the side. As far as he was concerned, the lavish expense was worthy of a toast and it stilled his mind from over thinking the consequences of his momentary slumber.

The first clue was the tree of fire, burning with umbrae violence suddenly and inexplicably. He had seen it before many a time, it was a parlour trick of the most tempered of Hummel mages to entice the younger kith to learn the Serpent’s Tongue. His brother had departed for Salvar many a year ago in search of something for the council; his dream was a guess, but now that it solidified into a clear picture he knew that it was a good guess. He had not returned because either he had not found what he was sent to look for…or he had perished in the process. Cydnar shifted uncomfortably at the thought. “My brother is not dead…at least not in the flesh,” he mumbled, sipping from the glass once more.

“Only in spirit and in my eyes – a relic of a bygone era,” he sipped again and toasted the dying days of his family, and the last remnants of the Salthias legacy.

[Cydnar]

The second clue was the state of disrepair that had befallen his house. His parents, his mother especially were too clinical to ever let it turn out like it was. It was a metaphor, therefore, a rhetorical question to Cydnar of allegiance. If he were ever to truly leave the city and discard his title, responsibilities and claim to the table of the Council the Yrene family held the scattered papers and dusty shelves would be all that remained of their name. It would be all that remained of any of them, shadows and dust and decadence.

He cursed the bitterness of the Hummel and the turgid lack of flexibility regarding free will. One of the few things he admired in Luthmor and the cities of the fae was the relative freedom its people treasured. Duty existed here, most certainly, but one was paid and cherished for one’s efforts. “Sub-conscious manifestation of guilt,” he spoke purely to confirm his own thoughts. Lazily he stood up from the chair and walked slovenly over to the nearby workbench. It was a cluttered affair, swarming with quartz cuttings, dust, tools and various pieces of paperwork that displayed architectural designs. These people, his customers, they were swiftly becoming his family. “Would they be any better?” He asked the shadows.

With a haphazard discarding motion he placed his glass onto the heavy oak surface and picked up the nearest sheet of parchment. It displayed a lavish and exquisite demand for a spiral staircase. He forgot the name of the nobleman that requested it but remembered the face fondly. He was one of the few faces that spoke to Cydnar on terms more equal to friends than masters and slaves; it was a sharp and sudden reminder that this new family was no better than the one he wished to run away from.

The dream made more and more sense as he delved deeper into the mystery. His brother needed to be forgiven, and his family needed to be forgotten, but how could he leave them so fleetingly? Should he, would he, could he?

He returned the design to the desk and walked over to the window. Donnalaich still bred sorrow in its shadows and the few movements in the streets sent shivers down his spine. The world was a dangerous place.

“If the dream does not mean abandonment, then it can only mean restoration.”

Cydnar smiled at the realisation. His brother had been sent not to dethrone Cydnar’s entitlement and prominence in Hummel society, but to find a way of restoring the name in unison to the halls of the under dark. He had succeeded in preventing the summons on the plains on Raiaera and aided the fight against Xem’Zund…why did he feel as if he had done nothing in all his years still? He had to find Famfrit, and certainly, he had to speak with his parents and tell them of his fears and hatred about the way he lived his life. He wanted to be free, but one could not simply walk away from destiny, or the fangs of the snake.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this vision was a sign from Yrene…a test of sorts to strike a match to the shadows of doubt in his mind. Cydnar stretched and removed the aches from his body with agile twists and turns before walking to the iron bound door that lead out into the alleyway at the side of his workshop.