Flickering Shadows

[Deus di Eclave]

Flipping through the yellowed pages of yet another useless tome, the dark elf rose from his seat and shut the book with a sigh. Nothing, he pined, his slender fingers tracing the runes of the cover absently. Drow necromancer Drizaghar Maena’triel had come to the Great Library of Ettermire for one reason only: research. It was the one thing that drew scholars from all regions to Alerar; the dark elves were the most advanced culture in all of Althanas. Since he had learned about the library, Drizaghar had traveled day and night to reach its vaults of knowledge and now it seemed as though he had come in vain. Tomes on his ‘trade’ were not found in abundance.

Upon entering the domed building that housed the Ankhas library, the drow had been asked to record his possessions on a scroll as an attendant briefly searched his person. The Alerar dark elves enjoyed flaunting their advanced knowledge, but they wished such knowledge to remain under their control. He was informed that he would be allowed to copy books onto a short scroll, but removing the tomes was prohibited.

The rules had not been a problem for the dark elf hadn’t been able to find a single thing on necromancy. Besides stories of terror and brief mentions in history books, the dark art was rarely described in the pages he had searched. And now, three days after he had arrived, Drizaghar was close to giving up.

“So much for a warehouse of priceless knowledge,” he fumed as he dropped heavily into his chair once again. Leaning his head back in his seat and rubbing his fingers against his throbbing temples, the dark elf closed his eyes and willed his headache to disappear. So much time squinting over the ancient texts had pained him; worse was the fact that he had nothing to show for it. Sighing again in frustration, the dark elf stared idly at the paneling designs on the ceiling as he contemplated his next move.

The drow had three key abilities: necromancy, fire wielding, and ka’thar manipulation. Nothing on necromancy, he thought snidely. Fire wielding has a natural progression; no books needed there. But Ka’thar Manipulation… The dark elf practically launched himself from his chair as he headed for the nearest set of stairs going back up to the ground floor.

He entered the main reading room again and took a second to appreciate the glorious architecture of the place. Flying arches and high ceilings gave the impression that Ankhas rose into the sky. Ornate carvings crafted from exotic wood and expensive metal adorned nearly every corner of the room. The glass paneling in the few windows there were filtered the light to a safe level so that the sun’s rays would not harm the tomes within. All in all, the library itself was as much a testament to the achievement of Alerar as were the books.

Making his way to the center of the room where an ornately carved wooden desk marked the attendants’ station, Drizaghar waited until one of the drow staff was free. “I’m looking for a book on Ka’thars,” he told the dark elf dressed in creamy robes. The older librarian nodded and checked a long scroll before motioning to Drizaghar to follow. They wound their way down a spiral staircase and deep into the levels below before the drow attendant stopped to check a plaque on the wall.

“We have two options,” he mumbled, his raspy voice hard to hear even in the deathly quiet of the library. “Do you have a research clearance?” Drizaghar responded that he did not and the elder drow nodded knowingly. “Thought not. Follow me…” Again they wove their way through the maze of passages for several minutes before arriving at an obsidian table. Motioning for his charge to have a seat, the dark elf librarian shuffled into a nearby bookshelf to search for the correct tomes.

Pulling out an exquisitely decorated mahogany chair from the table, Drizaghar waited patiently for the attendant to return. It wasn’t long before the robed elf returned with a massive tome in his hands. Placing the book on the table’s smooth surface, the attendant asked if he needed anything else before turning away and beginning the trek back to the central desk.

After the man had left, the necromancer finally read the cover: Il Torque di Umbra or The Soul’s Torment. Flipping open the book in earnest, Drizaghar began reading.

[Visla Eraclaire]

The green crystal shard pulsed even as Visla slipped it away into her satchel. It had been giving off the eerie light for some time now, day and night. Even with it covered, the strange object throbbed with an energy that coursed through Visla’s veins. It was insistent. It would not be ignored.

All the same, even if she wanted to do its bidding, she hadn’t a clue what that was. It was just a worthless imitation gemstone, as far as anyone she had spoken too could tell. Gemcutters and arcanists agreed there was nothing special about it. Whenever she presented it to someone it would lie inert like a worthless piece of a sea glass, only to activate again once they had dismissed her.

It was this frustrating predicament that brought her to Alerar, Ettermire specifically, and ultimately the library that lay therein. The library’s reputation was well known even in the relatively secluded island of her birth. The drow that had administered her former academy’s own library drew his credentials from Ankhas, though his reasons for leaving were highly suspect. All in all, Visla was not looking forward to dealing with another dark elf librarian. She found, however, that the scholars of Ankhas were markedly more helpful than the grim guardian she recalled from times past. Whether from pride or not, they seemed unusually eager to unveil the many secrets entombed within the massive vaults of their grand edifice.

The question now was simply what to research. If she presented the stone again she knew she would learn nothing. Research into demons hadn’t revealed much either, though a lack of base knowledge hampered much of her efforts in that avenue. According to a copy of the Lexicon Daemonica she found in Radasanth, there were no less than twenty varieties of succubi, none of which are particularly noted for being shadowcasters and none of which have ever been associated with shards of the sort she possessed. This left her at somewhat of a dead end. There wasn’t exactly a “What is this thing?” section of the library to reference, and so she wandered aimlessly, trying to avoid eye contact with the many scholars who gave her quizzical looks.

Then she heard an unfamiliar voice speak a strange, arcane word. She had never heard it and only read it once, in one of the texts Aelva had translated for her. Ka’thar. The text hadn’t explained it fully, but it seemed to relate to a degree to the traditional concept of a soul. Souls were something that Essence theorists treated with mainly disdain, a thorn in their side when describing all life forces as inherently malleable. She turned and peered around the corner of a bookshelf in the direction the sound came from. A dark elven man sat alone at a dark table with a massive tome. It was placed flat against the table’s surface so she couldn’t see its title.

Turning to the nearest attendant whose gaze she had previously been avoiding, she walked straight up and said quietly, “Get me a book like that one,” pointing over at the weighty tome.

“There are none like that one,” the scholar replied smugly. “You’ll just have to wait.”

She wondered if that was really so, but felt it best not to question the drow in their home. She shrugged and requested a book on succubi, hoping half-heartedly to draw out a clue as to her former mentor’s nature while she waited. When it arrived, she took it from the attendant with a polite bow and made her way to the table. She pulled out one of the chairs and sat without a word, examining her own much smaller text and occasionally peering over it to check on her fellow researcher’s progress.

[Deus di Eclave]

A slight human female pulled out a chair at Drizaghar’s table and slipped into it quietly as she flipped open her book on demons. The drow necromancer barely looked up, human women were of no interest to him and as long as she minded her own business, they would be fine. Burying his nose in the musty tome once more, he continued reading about how to use a person’s soul against them.

The methods detailed were highly involved and the dark elf would never be able to find the spell components for more than half of the abilities. Sighing as he pushed the massive book away from him, he dropped his face forward into his waiting hands and mulled over his thoughts.

Perhaps another reference book for the components used in conjunction with this tome… the necromancer’s mind raced through the possibilities, searching for a way to decode the jargon-injected text with the tools at hand. His head slowly lifted from his hands and his lethal red eyes narrowed in focus. Surely the book he needed would also be close at hand.

Whirling out of his chair in a quick motion that sent his piwafwi billowing out behind him, Drizaghar stalked down the aisles of books, searching for a title which he didn’t know. The Soul’s Torment talked about three separate methods of controlling a person’s ka’thar: manipulating it while it was in their body, extracting it from their body to control it, and forcing your own soul into their body to torture them. The skills detailed in the first section seemed far too tame to the dark elf; the pain was minimal and the abilities were used more for coercion than outright agony. Still, the spells might come in useful later and the drow dearly wanted to know how they worked. However, the components needed were so exotic that he was sure they would never be found.

How old is this book? he wondered. Surely when it had been written the components had been easier to find. Shaking his head as he reached the end of an aisle, he turned down the next to continue his search. The second section of the large tome had seemed like something he would be more interested in; stealing someone’s soul? Perfect, he had crooned. However, the detailed explanation of the spell had been so esoteric that the necromancer had nearly thrown the book across the small underground chamber in frustration. “Why did they have to make it so complicated?” he muttered under his breath as he scanned the spines of several promising books.

Letum Lex. The title called to him for some reason and Drizaghar couldn’t help but pull the book out of its place and leaf through the first few pages. The paper felt as though it would crumble beneath his fingers, but the information on the pages seemed accurate. He couldn’t wait to read it and so he dropped to the floor where he was. Turning to the appendix, his finger traced down the lists of terms until it came to rest on one in particular; deg'rabah. In the language of the drow, this word meant one of two things. To break into another’s home was the common usage, but there was also an older meaning that few knew. Fortunately, the study of High Drow had been paramount in his youth when he had been forced to translate ancient tomes in order to understand them. In fact, that was how he had discovered his ancestor’s Tome of Necromancy that he still carried with him.

The meaning of the word deg’rabah in High Drow meant to enter another’s body; exactly what The Soul’s Torment had detailed in its final section. Knowing without a doubt that this was the book he needed, Drizaghar picked himself up and made his way back to the obsidian table. His skin practically crawled with anticipation as his booted feet carried him closer to finding the answers he needed. Mastering these techniques would put him closer to his one true goal; the death and torment of all elves in Raiaera. A wicked smile crept onto the drow’s face, “Your time is coming,” he whispered into the musty air. “This I promise you.”

[Visla Eraclaire]

As the dark man across the table from her stood, Visla felt a surge of energy run through her body. It wasn’t an uncommon sort of feeling. The crystal pulsed almost constantly, often strongly enough to send a shiver up its owner’s spine, but this intensity was nothing like that. Normally it was like a pebble being thrown into a pond, gentle but noticeable ripples. This time it was like a boulder, large enough to send the whole pond skyward. Visla slammed against the table, her hands twitching as she grasped for the book. It took almost all her strength just to turn it in place so she didn’t have to read upside down.

When she finally laid eyes upon it her heart sank. It shouldn’t have come as any surprise. A tome so old wouldn’t be written in Common. She slammed her head against the table again, this time in frustration. Through she was well-read, she was no linguist. The most study she had ever done in the area was under Aelva’s tutelage. She had learned the alphabet to what she would later find was Infernal. Though she still didn’t know it well enough to be truly literate, she could generally pick out a phrase or two or discern the general purpose of an incantation. As misfortune would have it, the book wasn’t written in Infernal either. She wasn’t sure what it was, drow seemed most obvious given its location and previous reader.

“I should have foreseen this. What’s happening to me…? Impulsive journeys, clandestine studies, careless mistakes,” she muttered to herself. Her mind seemed too overwhelmed to contain a monologue, so it simply spilled out through her lips. “I haven’t seen Alis in months. This isn’t me. I’m Visla Eraclaire, daughter of a trivial noble on a trivial island destined to live a trivial life. I didn’t want any of this.”

The shard send another jolt through her, knocking her against the table a third time. Her face reddened, whether from emotion or impact was anyone’s guess. She reached into her bag and pulled forth the crystal, flinging it across the floor.

She wanted to scream, but what little of herself she could still feel kept her quiet. “I want to go home,” she mumbled, and walked back over to the piece of green torment. Resigned, she picked it up and placed it back in her bag, returning glares to those who looked at her crossly. “But there’s no place like that anymore.”

When she returned to the table, she glanced once more at the book, a mere cursory look that revealed a strange transformation. The foreign characters danced across the page, floating on waves of verdant light as they twisted and turned. Within moments the whole page had changed and Visla could read it, clear as day. Infernal characters spelled out Common words, even the eccentricities of the letters seemed the same, as if she had penned it herself. The painful surges subsided and Visla calmed herself.

The page discussed a peculiar ritual, rarely enacted, and success even more rare: Soul Crystalization. It seemed far too simple. From the moment Visla picked up the stone, she suspected as much. She told her theory to the men who examined the stone as often as was prudent, always dismissed. Nonsense, they said. And it was, the sort of convenient twist of a banal story. The ritual described was far too lengthy to be performed in the few seconds, much less while magically bound. What’s more, why would a casual passerby find the stone and not people bent on Aelva’s destruction? The explanation sitting on the page before her brought up more questions than answers, and yet there it was.

It had been clear for some time that the stone was willful, intelligent. Containing a soul would certainly explain that. But if she could translate text and cause pain, why not just speak, or at the very least spell out a message? There was every reason to doubt it, but Visla was certain she would be given little choice in the matter. After all, what else did she have but that vile green gem?

“Nothing,” she whispered.

[Deus di Eclave]

Back at the obsidian table near the edge of the underground reading room, Drizaghar noticed that the massive tome was not where he had left it. Narrowing his eyes slightly as he slipped back into his chair, the dark elf wondered why his fellow researcher had moved it. His mind searched for reasons, but none came easily. Regardless, she was currently reading her own book. The tome was his once again.

Poring over the ancient text, the drow necromancer was glad to find that the information contained within the pages of Letum Lex came in useful when studying the larger tome. After much cross-referencing, the dark elf had selected three spells for further study. Unfurling his own short scroll, he began copying the spells, their components, and pertinent instructions from the book.

Time passed slowly for Drizaghar, he was intently focused on his work. Minutes, hours, days; he had no idea how long it took him to painstakingly copy the detailed rituals from The Soul’s Torment onto his own scroll. His tiny writing cramped on the short scroll spoke to the wealth of information possessed in the pages of the tome. One mistake could quickly end his life; the extra time was well-warranted. Sighing when his work was finally complete, the dark elf rose from his seat and studied his work.

“Soul Crystallization, Self-Preservation, and Katharsis,” he muttered to himself in Common. These were the three spells he had chosen to take from Il Torque di Umbra. His lips curled back in a delightedly evil sneer. With this newfound information, he would soon be able to tailor his own spells to suit his needs. Pacing the small workspace, the necromancer felt freer than he had in days. Finally, he was taking a step toward his goal. Still, his powers had a long way to go before they would be sufficient. The duplicity of his thoughts raged within him; the warring factions showing clearly on his face So lost in his thoughts was he that he had forgotten just where he was.

“Fascath!” he called into the still air of the dank chamber. The world snapped back into place and he gazed upon the faces on the upset researchers nearby. Angered by his lack of decorum, they shot hid contemptuous glances before turning back to their work. Quietly seething, the dark elf returned to the table he shared with the pale-skinned woman.

His shadowy drow familiar appeared next to him, summoned by the calling of his name. Drizaghar wasn’t worried about frightening the other researcher, both for the fact that she seemed devoted to her work and that no one save Drizaghar himself could hear or see Fascath. In High Drow, he whispered to his familiar, “Xun dos k'jakr inbal l'ka’thar?” The ethereal dark elf nodded and closed its ghostly eyes. Nearly a month and a half ago, Drizaghar had stumbled across a woman’s soul trapped in a Soul Blossom deep in the Red Forest of Raiaera. After freeing it, he had asked Fascath to absorb the soul, keeping it safe in his travels between the Firmament and the Antifirmament. The arrangement had worked out well, the familiar safe-guarded one of its masters most prized possessions effectively.

<< As always, >> Fascath responded, << She is with me. >> A soft glow illuminated the drow familiar, a light pulsating from within.

“Not here,” he necromancer snapped quietly and the glow faded. “Too many others.” He gently closed the massive tome and hefted its weight with his thin arms. If the female researcher had any attention focused on her dark elf companion, she most likely thought he was deranged now. Whispering in several languages as if he spoke to someone; surely she would be glad to see him leave. He shook his head absently as he walked past her and headed for the stairs.

Fascath floated lazily just behind him, following his master as they made their way deeper into the subterranean chambers below. With The Soul’s Torment clutched tightly in his hands and Letum Lex balanced on top, the dark elf necromancer slowly navigated the spiral staircase.

Upon arriving at the lowest level in the library, Drizaghar moved to the farthest corner he could find. No other beings appeared to occupy this floor and the drow contented himself that he had near total privacy. Dropping the books carefully to the table’s surface, he turned to his familiar.

“Summon her,” he commanded.

[Visla Eraclaire]

By the time the drow researcher returned, Visla was looking back at her own book flipping through it. As usual, nothing described therein fit her former companion with any consistency. There were demons that looked like her, but didn’t act like her. There were those with similar habits, but completely alien powers. More than anything, Visla thought, the book described caricatures of beings rather than the beings themselves. Perhaps the tome was right, she considered, that fiends are more like animals than people, owing more to their species than to any true personality. Still, if that was so, then her instructor was either a rare specimen or not a demon at all.

The strongest evidence sat in the book in front of her:

Fiends, both devils and demons, as well as many other extra-planar entities are not subject to many effects which relate to the soul. Most important among these is resurrection. Spells which call back, trap, or otherwise manipulate the soul require a target. It has been long accepted by scholars that Outsiders are not possessed of a soul.

If not a soul, what was the painful little crystal? Visla began to wonder if it was all in her head. No one else saw anything special about the object. Perhaps the lonely traveling was beginning to wrack her mind to the point of dementia. The prospect seemed all the more disturbing when the dark elf across from her returned. She feigned interest in her book as he mumbled to himself in foreign tongues. Just as the display was reaching a point where it was difficult to appear disinterested, he departed.

As he wandered off, Visla thought she heard a few words in Common. “Not here.” It was as good a lead as any. She thought for a moment how degrading it was to be following strangers, but she felt no objection from her cruel crystalline master as she closed the book and glanced over her shoulder at the drow’s destination.

She considered for a moment creating a distraction. An ember from a candle sets a bookcase alight; everyone scrambles as she descends the stair. Wasteful and pointless. Every single person in the library seemed intently focused on their own affairs. She could likely scream at the top of her lungs, “I’m going to follow that dark elf down the stairs!” and none would care, except perhaps her quarry if he remained in earshot.

All the same, she stood and walked as stealthily as she could toward the stairway down. The underbelly of the library was deep and cavernous, but fortunately deserted. She could hear the footsteps of her erstwhile companion echo ahead of her. All the same, she suspected he could hear hers, even as she crept with the greatest care she could muster. Her cane was tucked in the crook of her shoulder and she steadied herself against a wall, sliding town the hallways awkwardly and slowly. She feared the show would be over by the time she arrived, if there was anything to see at all.

[Deus di Eclave]

“Jous uns'aa vel'uss dos zhahen,” Drizaghar chanted in a low voice. Tendrils of his own Ka’thar snaked their way out of him to mix with the glowing ball before him. The light intensified, flashing once as it reached its zenith. When his vision cleared, Drizaghar saw the pale outline of a human woman standing before him.

“Lille d’ain Eisen,” he whispered her name as she materialized as if he called her to him. He had summoned her soon after finding her; the encounter had been brief, but intriguing. He hoped this time he would reveal more information.

“Leave me to my eternal torment,” she told him, her white robes blowing in an unseen breeze. Milky tears fell from her graceful features and her long, wavy brown hair was unkempt and wild. She was as beautiful as the last time he had summoned her, but her appearance was far more disheveled.

“I’m afraid that I cannot let you leave,” he explained to her as she became more ghostlike. She had phased out of the Firmament soon after her first summoning, but this time he needed more information. “Dos z'klaen zexen'uma ghil,” he commanded. As soon as the words of power left his lips, her movements stopped and she became more and more human in appearance. Her skin took on a lively color and her eyes began a brilliant blue instead of a murky grey. The polearm she held pulsed with a green light, anchoring her to the Firmament as per the words to the necromancer’s spell. She would only be able to leave at his command.

“Why do you keep me here against my wishes!?” she shrieked as she tried vainly to move. “May God curse you!”

Drizaghar simply watched in amusement as she struggled valiantly. Eventually, she realized that she was at his mercy and contented herself to stand stoically and answer his questions. “First,” he began, “Where were you from when you lived?”

“I was born in the land of Unity, Justice, and Freedom,” she answered cryptically. “Where are you from?”

Although the drow necromancer knew he was in control, he realized that it couldn’t hurt to tell an animated soul a little bit about himself. “I was born in the Underdark,” he responded.

“A place of fairytales,” she scoffed. “Such a place does not exist.”

“How I wish you were right,” the necromancer muttered. “Regardless, it is my turn. How did you die?”

Lille frowned at this question, but was compelled to answer by the same spell that kept her in the material plane. “My beloved sold his soul to save me. I was slain by the same man who holds his soul.” A single tear traced its way down her cheek, but she ignored it. “Where did you find me?”

“In the Red Forest,” Drizaghar replied. “Your ka’thar was trapped in a soul blossom. Do you have any recollection of how you ended up there?”

“I don’t even know where that forest is or what a soul blossom is,” she answered, her voice becoming more and more annoyed. “What trickery is this?”

They continued to ask questions, but Drizaghar soon realized that Lille had little knowledge of any plane of existence. Althanas was a mystery to her as was whatever afterlife she was currently living. Frustrated at her lack of information, the dark elf decided to practice one of his spells. Soul Crystallization.

“D'anthe athiyk, detholusin whol natha euol; wund natha sanipriya, Usstan tau kus.”

The words to the spell flowed from him and as he finished the movements associated with the incantation, he reached into his piwafwi and produced a dusting of black sand. Casting the singular spell component into the air toward Lille’s ka’thar, the necromancer prayed to the Goddess that it would work.

The sand drifted through the air, carried by an unseen wind to rest on the glowing form of the beautiful woman. In a wink, she formed into the familiar glowing ball of her ka’thar. The sand encrusted the orb until only slits of light shone through the opaque coating. Blue light washed the isolated room and Drizaghar tensed as the orb dropped from the air. Upon impacting the floor of the room, the orb split open and its light was lost. Inside the two blackened halves of what had once been an ethereal ball of light rested a large blue sapphire about the size of Drizaghar’s fist.

Stooping to pick it up, the dark elf gleefully shouted his praises to the writers of the book that had given him this spell. His celebration was short-lived, however; for when he stood and turned around, the pale face of his fellow researcher greeted him at the base of the stairs. Their eyes locked, red piercing into hazel as the dark elf closed his grip on the sapphire which contained the soul of Lille d’ain Eisen.

[Visla Eraclaire]

Visla was still winding her way down the corridors as she heard a conversation echoing in the distance. She could make out a female voice, tortured, vacant, and haunting. Faint glimmers of white light streaked down the hall and the warlock quickened her pace. The clapping of her footsteps against the stonework floor was drowned out quickly by the angry cries of the unseen woman. It occurred briefly to Visla that she was in far over her head, but this was hardly a new position to be in. From the moment she set foot outside her own room, much less her entire homeland, she was merely treading water against an insurmountable tide. All the same, she had managed not to drown yet, and that was courage enough for the moment.

The words of the conversation became clearer as she drew closer. Pausing a moment at the end of the hall, she caught her breath. The interrogation around the corner seemed to be drawing to a close.

“What have I done,” Visla thought to herself, clutching her traveling clothes close to her chest. “If he’s willing to do this to her… Perhaps, I can just turn around.”

”What trickery is this?”

The words pierced Visla’s worrisome monologue. There was no time. She was here and it may as well not be for nothing at all. As she turned the corner to catch a furtive glimpse, the lucent visage of the woman remained but a moment. The drow intoned a spell and tossed a modicum of dust toward her and with that she was gone, replaced by an inert lump which fell to the ground.

Visla drew closer as she saw the dark elf reach down to pick it up. Her hands trembled noticeably as she tried to draw energy into them as a ready defense. As soon as she could coax it forth it seemed to slip through her clammy pale fingers. There was nothing left to do but speak, and speak honestly. Diplomacy of Visla’s sort was just as likely to offend as placate and so she dragged her voice up from the cowering lump it had made in her throat.

“What was that?” she managed to say bluntly, her eyes fixed on the man’s dark features and fierce red eyes.

It seemed equally probable that he would answer her as speak the words of another spell and reduce the young warlock summarily to dust, but the odds were even worse had she managed to call forth her meager powers of shadow. From the aptitude he already displayed, Visla had little doubt she was in the presence of her magical superior. She simply hoped that the difference was vast enough that she was not worth his time, or small enough that she could at least escape with her life.

As she waited to see what his choice would be, she knew that these were the sorts of risks that would become all to common if she were to find any answers too her many questions.

[Deus di Eclave]

She demanded an answer to her question; less by her tone than the look in her eyes. The notion was pleasantly laughable; the weakling before him wanted him to rationalize his actions to her. A fireball burst to life in his hands and the dark elf took a step forward, intent on hurtling it at her head and being done with the whole thing. But then he saw something in her; she was terrified. The timbre of her voice, the way she held herself, the words she chose; Drizaghar recognized fear when he saw it. With a chuckle, he extinguished the fireball and strode forward.

“That,” he stated pointedly, “was a process known as Soul Crystallization. One calls upon a soul in a state of flux, intones the words to the spell, utilizes the proper components, and captures the soul in a more permanent state.” He closed the distance between them easily, his fellow researcher immobile as he began to walk in a circle around her. His gaze never wavered, but to her credit, she matched him with her own silent, seething intensity. There was something to her; something he desperately wanted to know.

“Some find this process and others like it… barbaric,” he explained. “You see, some so called ‘researchers’ confine themselves to a code of ethics that they will not cross under any circumstances.” He scoffed at the notion, a smile forming on his lips. “They play at hunting down knowledge, but then they cast it aside if it does not conform to their ‘code’.” He stopped just in front of her, his piwafwi billowing around him as he did. “Can you see how this limits them? Can you tell that I have no such limits?”

Fascath materialized in the air behind him, choosing a different form than his usual drow one. As naught but a shadow, the ethereal familiar phased into the Firmament slowly as Drizaghar’s voice rose in pitch. “Without the compunctions of morals that plague so many, I am free to pursue whatever dark arts I so desire. Limitless power is at my disposal. I can control life!” With his arms thrust out to his sides and his head hanging back, the dark elf looked like the very definition of a crazed magician. Pulling his attention back to the sallow girl before him, he continued his explanation.

“And I explain this to you,” he said as Fascath became visible to her. “Because you have the same spark. What compelled you to read my tome, to follow me here? What called to you… because it did call, did it not?” As Fascath moved forward to envelop his master in a dark shadow of writhing black and grey, Drizaghar posed one final question.

“What great question did you think I could answer?” With a laugh he folded his piwafwi about him and stepped back into the shadow created by his familiar. With only his glaring red eyes to mark his location, he waited for her reaction to his dramatic display. He hoped he had gauged her correctly; anyone less would be put off by such words.

[Visla Eraclaire]

((Apologies for a slow reply))

The man before her clearly had an air of pride which Visla could never compare to. She found his manner simultaneously alluring and repulsive. Self-assured, eloquent, and clearly powerful, these were qualities that she would be pleased to see in herself. But at what cost had they come for the man? Visla looked down on the strict rules and bright lines of conventional morals, but this man seemed to be outside of any decent system. He was unbound, a freedom that had tempted and terrified people since long before there were magicians colleges passing down ethical procedures and clerics purging heretical institutions.

Still, whatever she might think of him, his knowledge was valuable. Visla wondered if it was worth flattering him for a moment, for he clearly had a streak of vanity, but it was neither within her nature nor her ability to do so effectively. Outright flattery was out, though a keen sense of respect seemed due.

The only remaining question was honesty. Clearly this man was out for himself. Could he be trusted? Even if he could help, wouldn’t he simply twist the result to his own ends, regardless of what suffering it might inflict on Visla, or worse yet Aelva. All the same, it was useless to speculate. She had come this far and the elf was her best chance to learn about the crystal. Whether it had any connection to her lost friend was immaterial. Visla had no intention of being enslaved by the whims of an unknown artifact for the rest of her life.

Drawing the crystal from her bag she held it forth to the elf. “This is what called me, quite literally,” she said with unusual determination, stirred by a warming flow of energy from within the gem.

“Such a story will likely seem petty to you, so I will keep it brief. Someone close to me was killed by the sort of people who limit the search for knowledge to that which they deem ‘proper.’ This is all I have left of her… I think. For all I know, it’s merely a cruel trick of luck that this shard was found where she fell. All the same, it prods me to discover its secrets.”

Placing the shard back in her pack, she began to shake. It felt as if she were suddenly shut out in the cold. Doubt and fear overtook her sense of certainty.

“I want to believe it contains her soul, but that’s impossible. She shouldn’t even have one…”

That final statement chilled her most of all. Whatever a soul was, whatever Visla believed it to be, it felt cruel to say. All the same, it seemed to be the sad truth.