Ataraxis
01-19-09, 05:02 PM
Closed to Terminus Mortis.On this day, breakfast at the Peaceful Promenade had been far from enjoyable. The problem was not the food or the atmosphere: Hal, the innkeeper, was a marvelous cook and his dishes were succulent no matter what the time, while the ambiance was pleasant and warm, the same way it had been every day of this past week. No, the problem was something else entirely, and it had Lillian in low spirits. Sitting at one of the dozen roundish tables that made the dining area, the girl prodded the poached eggs in her plate with a fork while poking at a side of vegetables with her knife. Absentmindedly, she had been arranging the contents of her plate into a particularly cheery face with bright-yellow eyes, a pork sausage smile and broccoli-and-cauliflower sideburns – it was a childhood habit she upheld whenever she ate eggs. Alas, that did nothing to cheer her up, and so she cut into her edible piece of artwork and chewed away dejectedly.
Today was the day she would finally set out into the forest of Concordia for her research. She had spent inordinate amounts of time hunting the markets for various tools and equipment of use: common items of her list consisted of additional lengths of rope, tallow candles, more flint and tinder, rolls of vellum, manila paper and a new set of vials and pipettes. The more unusual items were a hefty number of gunpowder packets and a hermetic container filled with pulverized magnesium, among other things. Rather than field research, most would have thought she was planning the early stages of a particularly explosive bank-job, but the girl was simply a stickler for preparations on top of being an empirically-justified paranoiac. Lillian was not setting out to study flora or meteorological anomalies, as most other scholars were wont to do: she was making preparations to study the infamous Njalian Spidermagi that took nest somewhere in the heart of Concordia. These were not mere dangerous beasts, but a vicious people, born from the unholy hybridization of elf and spider. They were sentient, organized, and violently territorial creatures that can paralyze with a single touch and that could liquefy a grown man in minutes with the fluids of their cocoons. And most of all… they were many.
This would be no jaunt in the park, and she would only have one chance, not at simply studying them, but at doing so and staying alive. Yet, despite her frail appearance of a sixteen-year-old, Lillian could be fearsome in many respects. Very few knew of this, and she preferred it that way. If people thought she was out to gather butterflies and pick flowers to make floral wreaths, then that was for the best: as embarrassing as the notion was, she found it soothing that other people thought of her as the everyday adolescent girl. Moreover, that was better than to have them worry for her life every time she stepped out of a city into the uncharted wilds. In the end, though it did not matter much. Even if she tried to convince them, no one would ever have believed the countless things this unassuming librarian from Fallien had seen, or the awful things this same librarian had survived. And even less likely, the things I’ve defeated.
Lillian was no fool for undertaking this perilous project, yet she would not stint in assuring her survival in any scenario due to something as simple-minded as arrogance, bravado or the illusion of invincibility. Many a strong and celebrated warrior was slain due to this illusive belief, wrought after so many victories that defeat was merely a concept meant for others. She was a librarian, after all: more than simply hearing their heroic ballads, she had read their tales, their biographies, and the texts recounting their demise. No matter how strong her body or how keen her mind had become, death would still await, quiet and patient, somewhere down the line. Needless to say, the girl was in no particular hurry to meet that appointment. Still, she had to do this. She had to study these abominations, not for an inexplicable curiosity or thirst for scientific achievement, but because there was a link between her and these creatures, however tenuous. Indeed, for these last few months, she had come to realize many changes within her body, not all of which were due to natural maturation. No, Lillian was changing in more ways than one.
“I need to know,” she whispered dolefully, eyes set in an almost tearful expression. She looked down at her fork and knife, wincing at their sight. She was startled, but at the same time, she had known all along. Around the silver hafts, strange webs had begun forming, seeping from her fingers and coiling into a thick, wispy film of black. Fighting the shaking in her body, she closed her eyes and visualized her hands, visualized their complete state of normalcy: no webs, no darkness, nothing but human hands. When she opened her eyes, the webs had vanished. Silently, still struggling against her trembling, she set the cutlery down on the plate. Lillian pushed her chair back with a low creak, then set it back with the same careful consideration. For a moment, she rested her hands on the backrest, fingers tightly grasping at the oak.
The wood groaned; it began to shake, its feet clattering on the hardwood below, and she released her hold as soon as she noticed the patrons eyes on her, some watching her curiously, others worriedly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered sheepishly, giving slight bows left and right in apology. Lillian walked away as quickly as she could, weaving a blind path through the disarray of chairs and tables until she reached the stairway leading to the lodgings. The preparations were done, and so she needed to leave now, she needed to know the answer to her question, even if it only supported her greatest fears. And so, she rushed up the stairs, making nary a sound so light her step was. The few whose eyes had not returned to their dishes or breakfast companions did not follow her up; instead, they were still focused on the chair that had quaked in her hands, or rather, the eight distinct holes on the front of its backrest.
I need to know, she repeated in her mind as she ascended the stairs, the words like a soothing mantra. She had felt the fear during this past week, but now that the day had finally come, the prospect of hearing that answer suddenly horrified her to no end. Her feet were feeling heavier and heavier, bogging down with every step: when she reached her lodgings, they came to a dead stop. She pressed her hand on the door, fingers shaking until once again, they began carving into the wood. The sight made her angry and she banged on the surface, only to have the wood splinter and cave in deeper. Weakly, quietly, she lay her forehead there, hiding the welling of her tears. I need to know…
… am I becoming one of them?
Today was the day she would finally set out into the forest of Concordia for her research. She had spent inordinate amounts of time hunting the markets for various tools and equipment of use: common items of her list consisted of additional lengths of rope, tallow candles, more flint and tinder, rolls of vellum, manila paper and a new set of vials and pipettes. The more unusual items were a hefty number of gunpowder packets and a hermetic container filled with pulverized magnesium, among other things. Rather than field research, most would have thought she was planning the early stages of a particularly explosive bank-job, but the girl was simply a stickler for preparations on top of being an empirically-justified paranoiac. Lillian was not setting out to study flora or meteorological anomalies, as most other scholars were wont to do: she was making preparations to study the infamous Njalian Spidermagi that took nest somewhere in the heart of Concordia. These were not mere dangerous beasts, but a vicious people, born from the unholy hybridization of elf and spider. They were sentient, organized, and violently territorial creatures that can paralyze with a single touch and that could liquefy a grown man in minutes with the fluids of their cocoons. And most of all… they were many.
This would be no jaunt in the park, and she would only have one chance, not at simply studying them, but at doing so and staying alive. Yet, despite her frail appearance of a sixteen-year-old, Lillian could be fearsome in many respects. Very few knew of this, and she preferred it that way. If people thought she was out to gather butterflies and pick flowers to make floral wreaths, then that was for the best: as embarrassing as the notion was, she found it soothing that other people thought of her as the everyday adolescent girl. Moreover, that was better than to have them worry for her life every time she stepped out of a city into the uncharted wilds. In the end, though it did not matter much. Even if she tried to convince them, no one would ever have believed the countless things this unassuming librarian from Fallien had seen, or the awful things this same librarian had survived. And even less likely, the things I’ve defeated.
Lillian was no fool for undertaking this perilous project, yet she would not stint in assuring her survival in any scenario due to something as simple-minded as arrogance, bravado or the illusion of invincibility. Many a strong and celebrated warrior was slain due to this illusive belief, wrought after so many victories that defeat was merely a concept meant for others. She was a librarian, after all: more than simply hearing their heroic ballads, she had read their tales, their biographies, and the texts recounting their demise. No matter how strong her body or how keen her mind had become, death would still await, quiet and patient, somewhere down the line. Needless to say, the girl was in no particular hurry to meet that appointment. Still, she had to do this. She had to study these abominations, not for an inexplicable curiosity or thirst for scientific achievement, but because there was a link between her and these creatures, however tenuous. Indeed, for these last few months, she had come to realize many changes within her body, not all of which were due to natural maturation. No, Lillian was changing in more ways than one.
“I need to know,” she whispered dolefully, eyes set in an almost tearful expression. She looked down at her fork and knife, wincing at their sight. She was startled, but at the same time, she had known all along. Around the silver hafts, strange webs had begun forming, seeping from her fingers and coiling into a thick, wispy film of black. Fighting the shaking in her body, she closed her eyes and visualized her hands, visualized their complete state of normalcy: no webs, no darkness, nothing but human hands. When she opened her eyes, the webs had vanished. Silently, still struggling against her trembling, she set the cutlery down on the plate. Lillian pushed her chair back with a low creak, then set it back with the same careful consideration. For a moment, she rested her hands on the backrest, fingers tightly grasping at the oak.
The wood groaned; it began to shake, its feet clattering on the hardwood below, and she released her hold as soon as she noticed the patrons eyes on her, some watching her curiously, others worriedly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered sheepishly, giving slight bows left and right in apology. Lillian walked away as quickly as she could, weaving a blind path through the disarray of chairs and tables until she reached the stairway leading to the lodgings. The preparations were done, and so she needed to leave now, she needed to know the answer to her question, even if it only supported her greatest fears. And so, she rushed up the stairs, making nary a sound so light her step was. The few whose eyes had not returned to their dishes or breakfast companions did not follow her up; instead, they were still focused on the chair that had quaked in her hands, or rather, the eight distinct holes on the front of its backrest.
I need to know, she repeated in her mind as she ascended the stairs, the words like a soothing mantra. She had felt the fear during this past week, but now that the day had finally come, the prospect of hearing that answer suddenly horrified her to no end. Her feet were feeling heavier and heavier, bogging down with every step: when she reached her lodgings, they came to a dead stop. She pressed her hand on the door, fingers shaking until once again, they began carving into the wood. The sight made her angry and she banged on the surface, only to have the wood splinter and cave in deeper. Weakly, quietly, she lay her forehead there, hiding the welling of her tears. I need to know…
… am I becoming one of them?