Blueprints in the Ash

[Paradox]

Note: takes place before the events of the Featured Quest.


<< Solo >>


"Finally..."

A triumphant smile wrapped itself around the young Elf's face as he traced a slender finger over the intricate, azure markings on the crude wall in front of him. The curvy symbols bathed the subterranean tomb in a soft, cerulean glow, making the jagged walls appear even colder than in their usual, slate veil. Surprisingly, the ancient stone was only slightly warm to the touch, as if the mystical energies powering the symbols' shine had faded somewhat. Gilthalad, from his limited experience with excavations, surmised that dust and organics must have formed a strong sheet of calcite crust on top of the original drawings over the ages.

Fortunately so, because the magical force concentrated within these glyphs made the Elf shudder at the thought of what would happen if it were to be unleashed without any prepared magickers to contain the blast. Likely, he would be disintegrated on the spot, despite the light armor of hardened fur that covered his entire body. He retracted his finger from the markings as if restrained by the thought, and quickly shoved his curious hand back into the torrid confines of his gauntlet.

He turned around to face the entrance to this particular chamber, though not without some difficulty; the lower caverns of the sepulchral system had been very roughly hewn, and certainly not high enough for Elven standards. For the past few hours, he and Saviel had been forced to travel on hands and knees, squeezing through far too narrow passages to reach burial rooms about the size of a rich man's bedroom closet. It had been worth it, though. The warmth of the glyphs behind him was a constant, euphoric reminder of that fact.

The prospect of the honor, glory even, that would befall them as soon as they took this discovery to the Istien University of Magics made it hard to concentrate as he folded his armored hands together. Ivory eyelids closed over the Elf's storm grey eyes while he crossed his legs beneath him. Breathing deeply, he dug into his spirit as so many times before, riveting his will to the source of the magic he had inherited through Elven blood. Then, eagerly, he let the energies flow into his vocal chords, and opened his mouth. Although the air around him remained soundless, the voice of his soul rang loud and clear, ebbing through the underground chambers in mellifluous melodies.

It was a technique that Saviel had taught him many years ago. It allowed them to let the other know their exact location, much like a beacon. However, unlike physical means of communication, such as the whistled melodies that Gilthalad had preferred in his youth, the soulsong was unique to the bond between them. Only Saviel would be able to perceive his harmonious tenor. Especially in unexplored territory, the method was to be commended for its silent safety. No predators or other unwanted guests would be able to pick up on the two's whereabouts, unless they were adept at sensing magic, but there were very few creatures capable of that feat. Almost at ease, despite the claustrophobic environment, the Elf sat, waiting for his companion to attend to his message and make her way over to him.

[Paradox]

It wasn't long before the other Elf's ageless visage peered around the corner, long locks of straight, golden hair curtaining piercing emerald eyes. Neither of them spoke, but Saviel's smile became as broad as her partner's as Gilthalad moved aside to reveal what he had discovered. In avid haste, she crawled over to the mysterious signs on the far end of the narrow niche, and Gilthalad was forced to press himself against the side of the alcove to allow her to pass by, bumping his head against the low ceiling in the process. She couldn't stifle a chuckle as he whispered coarse curses in her direction, but she did not take the bait. These brilliant glyphs far outmarvelled even the playful love that existed between her and her younger accomplice.

Being the more experienced of the two, the elder Elf quickly recognized a pattern of symbols that repeated itself throughout the cluttered linescape. Though she was not a linguist of the ancient tongues, she was quite certain that there was a story to be found within the symbols. She licked her lips in avarice. The scholars of Istien would be in for many months of deciphering and systematic guesswork to infer what the markings meant. And the Thayne knew that Elven scholars loved guesswork. The reward would be more than handsome. She turned her head to look at Gilthalad. The way he returned her prehensile smile told her he was equally aware of the implications of the find. She felt like kissing him for a while, even though their cramped position wasn't exactly optimal for romantic escapades.

There was something about the symbols that slightly disturbed her, or rather, the circle that had been drawn around the ancient words. Gilthalad probably wouldn't have noticed, but upon closer examination, Saviel concluded that the circle had only been added after the words had already been grifted into the wall, as if to seal them off from the stone around it. Perhaps there was something evil about the text, and it had been magically shut to protect the mausoleum around it. She cast the worry aside. It obviously hadn't caused trouble for ages, and would not unless one of them decided to mess with it - and she had no intention of besmudging their greatest find in a decade with her or her suitor's fingers.

Her emerald eyes turned to Gilthalad. Again, she felt the urge to hold him, and she could tell that he felt the same, for his hand was subconsciously stroking her hip. It was strange. Lust between Elves was seldom displayed outside private quarters - in fact, Saviel had always taken pride in the fact that she and her partner had never let love guide their decisions on the job. But now, his pure skin seemed irresistible, like the softest white satin. It was as if the niche grew warmer all around them. Without a thought, she moved her head closer to his, her smile falling into a grimacing invitation. That was all it took.

They were kissing. The warm, azure haze around them grew even thicker, though they did not notice it as they wrapped their arms around each other. She was too caught up in the kiss to notice that she was being pushed up against the markings. The temperature of the cerulean lines rose, and she could feel them even though she was wearing the same armor as the one that was holding her. A noise, soft crooning as of the sweetest lullaby, filled their ears. Normally, she would have reacted to such events with caution, but at the moment, they seemed but fleeting worries, destined to fade away with the remainder of her doubts as their loving embrace deepened.

A sharp stab of pain and a ferrous taste upon her lips brought her back to reality with a shock. Their mouths parted, and Gilthalad was looking at her, surprise flickering in his slowly fading eyes. Blood seeped down from his lips. Her mouth moved, but no words emerged. Her chin fell against her chest. The once vivid emeralds registered only the iridescent spike that had impaled them both through the stomach, pulsating with an azure gleam, before a black haze crept over her. She felt something tug at her back.

Then, everything was gone.

[Paradox]

The rays of the spring sun jumped playfully between the magnificent towers of the Raiaeran capital. In the pale light, the alabaster architecture of Eluriand gained a near-crystalline quality. Olbrand's eyes were caught by curvaceous friezes that glittered in fragility, paradoxically depicting nature in lifeless stone. He took the rim of his hat and pulled it somewhat further over his squinted eyes, allowing his dark brows to relax their tense frown as his sight was shielded from the piercing brightness. Although his travels had taken him through many different landscapes over the years, his eyes were still accustomed to the eternal, sulfurous clouds above Haidia, where the sun was but a dim orange orb behind an impenetrable veil of infernal nebulas.

Despite the slight discomfort, he smiled as he paced through the busy streets. Many Elves were out in the streets, clustering together to discuss the latest news or performing music in small groups. Their voices flowed like calm, clear water, triggering chimes of joy in the ears of all that passed by. As the Shylan drew closer to one of the many squares, market stands appeared along the side of the road. Merchants here dealt more in luxury goods than food; Olbrand could smell the intoxicating sweetness of a perfume stand as he stepped onward. He stood out somewhat from the crowd; although he was certainly as tall as an Elf, his fullgrown facial hair led to the immediate dismissal of any kinship. His clothing was simple; rough for Elven standards. His olive-colored coat had weathered more than a few days in the wilds; the edges were frayed and the fabric near the elbows was pale and worn.

His main purpose in visiting the city was to restock his provisions. Even though he had only eaten from his limited supplies very sparingly, his wandering through the twisted expanse of the Red Forest had taken many more days than he'd expected. His quest to discover flora with innate magical properties, that is, magic from nature and not spellcraft, had hardly progressed. Apart from a rather horrendous confrontation with a sentient, carnivorous plant that had swept his feet from under him with one of its thorny appendages and several unsuccesful attempts to capture one of the Forest's many elusive denizens, his journey had been quite uneventful. Certainly, the Shylan was patient. But he could not deny that he felt the itch of frustration even now, buzzing against the inside of his skull.

"Tyli eilyl, torojael! Sor air orolor Shadaerolaes sherolaer!"*

It was strange how the High Elf-language rolled so smoothly off Elven tongues, even when uttering such serious commands. Olbrand lifted his chin to see what had caused such commotion several steps ahead of him. The crowd hastily split into two sides, leaving the centre of the passageway clear for the large patrol of Bladesingers, or Shadaerolaes in their own language, to proceed through. Olbrand quickly joined his fellow passersby on the left side of the road, meanwhile closely eyeing the leader of the patrol as he passed by. Fair skin, ripped with stringy muscle caught his gaze. Sterling hair glittered and swayed in a carefully braided tail, reaching all the way down to the Elf's waist. Leather straps ran along his otherwise naked chest, crossing near his sternum and keeping the two serrated blades on his back tightly in place. Where the straps met, a silver buckle bearing three golden stars shone radiantly in the afternoon sun. Olbrand frowned.

Not a regular patrol, from what I've seen before, he pondered as the crowd rejoined in the Bladesingers' wake. High-ranking officers generally did not engage in something as routine as a city patrol, the Shylan knew. Also, the leading Elf's emerald gaze had been rife with determination, a purpose born of grief, if Olbrand trusted his intuition. He shook his head slowly as he made a sharp left into the next square, where he hoped to find a merchant with the supplies that he required; compact food with high nutritional value. Preferably trentroot, an extremely bitter yet very small type of plant that provided sustenance for at least eight hours when eaten whole. Such roots were quite common on the Haidian plains, though he had not met many shops on this continent that stocked them.

The square greeted him with all manner of stands and more firmly grounded businesses; wooden signs spelling enticing names creaked softly in the breeze. The small fountain in its centre closely resembled a tree, peacefully spurting curved lines of water from its stony branches. After scanning for names that held promises of fulfilling his needs, the Shylan shrugged and headed for the first door on his right. "Glorfel's Goods: Wilderness Survival" he read in simple calligraphy on the sign outside. He shrugged. As good a place to start as any.

* = Move along, citizens! This is official Bladesinger business!

[Paradox]

The store was quite small, or maybe it was the fact that its walls seemed to consist completely of displays and cabinets that forced a tinge of claustrophobia upon Olbrand's mind. Outlandish objects formed precarious piles on top of hardwooden shelves. A mixture of ancient odors clawed its way into the Shylan's nose. He wouldn't be surprised if something was rotting beneath this deluge of supposedly helpful products, many of which, he was quite certain, had once been alive. Had there been any windows, Olbrand was sure he would have been greeted by a cascade of dust motes in the sunlight. However, the only light source right now appeared to be a rickety oil lamp standing on the edge of a small counter on the opposite side of the room, spreading dim flickers over the stock and providing many items with a ghastly quality. The merchant was nowhere to be seen; vague, muffled sounds from the door behind the counter suggested that he might be busy rearranging the products not currently on display.

When he had first entered Eluriand, Olbrand had often wondered why shopkeepers so often left their stock without any apparent form of protection against more larcenous individuals. One particularly friendly merchant had told him that most of the stores were magically protected against such thievery, not only alarming the shopkeeper and the surrounding citizens when a criminal attempted to make away with stolen goods, but effectively turning the shop into a prison by magically shielding the entranceway, completely blocking the only escape route. That also explained why so few of the shops in the capital had windows, as contrary as it seemed to the Elven appreciation of the sun and other things natural. These magical wards had effectively reduced shopliftings and more aggressive heists to an absolute minimum. Looking around the overabundant selection of goods in this shop, Olbrand concluded that this particular store had probably taken quite some time to secure.

His boots scraped over the fabric that covered the floor as he shuffled towards the set of transparent displays that had been fastened to the right wall. Each display was roughly the size of an armoire, but made entirely out of glass instead of wood. Within, four shelves spaced evenly apart held various containers of different length and depth. The air around the shelves was heavy with essence of herbs and roots. It was quite an impressive array of offerings; much to his joy, Olbrand discovered fresh trentroots in a box near the lower right of the second display. His mirth faded somewhat when he saw the price tag connected to that particular box, and disappeared completely when he retrieved a dull leather pouch from inside the vestments covering his torso and discovered that his current funds would be insufficient to buy any substantial amount of supplies.

Wonder if they're actually fresh trentroots, and not the dried sort, he silently wondered. Would explain the prize, at least. He took the handle of the display and checked whether it was locked. His eye was momentarily caught by a piece of reddened parchment that had been plastered to the container's door slightly above the handle. Several words had been scribbled upon it in rough Elvish lettering, however, since the Shylan could make no sense of the Elvish language apart from a few short words for daily use, he had no choice but to ignore it. He grabbed the handle somewhat tighter and slowly pulled the display open.

"Tyri sar pys, aidor!"1 a deep voice erupted from the direction of the counter, momentarily distracting the Shylan. He looked to the side, his gaze immediately being met by the angry glare of an unusually large Elf in the now-opened doorway to the storeroom. Meanwhile, depite the warning he had been issued, his arm absently continued to open the display.

"I'm sorry, master Elf," he politely started in carefully articulated Common, "but I do not speak your fair Elvish - argh!"

He was stopped midsentence as something jumped at him from the display with frightening speed. In reflex, he raised his arms, but too late to stop his unidentified assailant from reaching his cheek. With a horrible, screeching sound small thorns were forced through his skin, as though a group of wetland wasps had suddenly decided to sting him in perfect synchronization. He stumbled backwards, flailing wildly with his arms in an attempt to hit his small attacker away. It was as if he had struck his hands right through a thornbrush. Panicked sounds rose from his closed lips as he fell to the ground; he could feel one of the hostile creatures barbed tentacles pressing against the corner of his mouth, trying to force entry to the soft tissue within.

Heavy footsteps approached him hastily; glasswork clanked together in the background, though most of the sound was blocked out by a red haze of fear that covered his senses as he lay twitching on the floor.

"Cyr mor! Cyr mor, aidor!"2 Surprisingly strong hands ripped his own fingers away from their futile attempts to rip off the thorny leech. In a moment of still torture that seemed to last forever, he suddenly felt the thorns retracting from his face. Small drips of seemingly acidic fluid splattered off the leech's back, which took the full brunt of the contents of the flask that the shopkeeper was carefully splashing over it. The thing screeched in agony, until it was finally forced to let go. Olbrand, coming back to his senses, thought that he smelled a very remote aroma of burnt compost as the shopkeeper helped him back to his feet.

"T-thanks," the Shylan uttered as the shopkeepers spindly hands took hold of his chin and moved his head around, piercing blue eyes scanning the skin where he'd been bitten. "So, I suppose that little sign on the door was supposed to prevent this from happening?" he continued his attempt to establish a dialogue when the Elf did not reply; the Elf grumbled something indeterminate, though his small nod told Olbrand that he at least understood Common. Suddenly, the merchant let his chin go, walked behind the counter, and returned after several seconds with a soft piece of cloth that seemed to be wet with orange liquid.

Olbrand grimaced in pain as the cloth was pressed against his cheek; the liquid stung quite fiercely into the multitude of small, open wounds there. Fortunately, this felt like the sting of healing more than the sting of some unknown plant attempting to eat his face. Silently, the Elven shopkeeper pointed him to a three-legged chair near the end of the counter. It took a while for the Shylan to balance his weight on it. When he finally found a way to sit still on it, his eyes travelled back to the shopkeeper, who had spread a piece of clean cloth over the counter and was now tending to the leech he had ripped from the Shylan's face only moments before. It was a strange sight to see those strong hands cradling the leech, which now seemed like a burnt piece of shrubbery, with a care that approached tenderness. He knew that Elves loved plants and animals, but parasites like these?

"Wait..." he murmured from half behind the cloth as it dawned on him. "Is that a product? Do you sell those things?" The Elf looked up from his work, his lips curled up into something that Olbrand supposed could be called a curt smile.

"I do," the deep voice replied with a hint of satisfaction at his new customer's sense of wonder. "This and many other pieces of wilderness from all over Althanas." He chuckled darkly. "And contrary to this little fellow, some of those are actually dangerous."

1 = Close that door, you idiot!
2 = Hold still! Hold still, idiot!

[Paradox]

The dexterity and precision with which the Elven merchant tended to his carnivorous merchandise was amazing. Slender, bare fingers raced across the back of the leech, which appeared like a limegreen rose with vicious barbs between the petals. Many of those petals were charred near the edges; Olbrand suspected that the acidic brew that the Elf had used to remove the leech from his skin was to blame for that. The sentient flower was no longer shrieking; in fact, after being treated with another liquid that the Shylan could only describe as looking like viscous, cerulean gel, the destructive seedling had become strangely peaceful, sedated even. With the large Elf working in complete silence and Olbrand being reluctant to disturb him, moments passed in a fairly long, though not altogether uncomfortable silence.

The Shylan's recovery from the earlier attack afforded him the time to take a closer look at the Elf, who, truth be told, looked as much as a mundane shopkeeper as a grown Haidian basilisk. Everything about him, from his ridiculously broad shoulders to his calm demeanor, breathed experience. Azure eyes, now fixed upon the subject of his care, gleamed with the wisdom of aging. Sunburnt skin and gilt highlights inside shoulder-length hair, which was partly braided around the back of his head as though to form an incomplete halo, told of numerous adventures on the Raiaeran plains. Olbrand smiled; of all shopkeepers in Eluriand, he had met one that quite obviously knew the value of everything that he was selling. In fact, he was quite sure that the Elf might have once made use of all these different products he had in stock.

"Takes a brave man to smile after ruining valuable merchandise," the Elf grumbled, not looking up from his work but apparently very aware of the Shylan's facial expressions, despite them being half-concealed by the cloth against Olbrand's cheek.

"Truly, I'm s-" the Shylan started a sincere apology, but he was bluntly interrupted.

"Sorry?" that seemed to have gotten the Elf's attention, for those azure orbs now directly stared into Olbrand's own hazel gaze. Although the merchant's face was expressionless, the Shylan felt an indefinable shiver travel through his innards, leaving a trail of trepidation that invariably caused his stomach to contract. The Elf returned his intimidating glare to the leech in front of him, and the feeling dissipated almost instantly. "Apologies are unnecessary," he softly continued, though the tone made Olbrand think it better not to interrupt him. "You break it, you pay for it."

Shite... Although the Elf's perspective shouldn't have come as a surprise, blood still retracted from Olbrand's lips. He had hardly possessed enough coin to pay for the trentroot he required, let alone some incredibly rare piece of fleash-eating shrubbery.

"I'm afraid I don't have the means to repay you," he finally blurted out, ashamed but truthful, as Shylans always were. The Elf did not look up, and several moments, now definitely uncomfortable, passed with no word being spoken. Finally, the merchant's thin lips parted in reply, though his hands were still busy tending to the burnt petals of his product. However, the shop's door crashed open before a sound could leave the Elf's mouth, causing both him and Olbrand to turn towards the entranceway with piqued alertness.

"Maes Glorfel! Maes...!" a young Elf woman ran in, long hair of mousy-brown texture trailing her lithe form. Her cheeks were flushed as she bent over, both hands upon the counter, gasping for air. She'd obviously been running for quite a while. Meanwhile, the merchant, who was in all likelihood the Glorfel mentioned on the shop sign, stepped away from the attempted restoration of his merchandise. Using only a finger, he lifted the young woman's chin up, allowing him to look into her equally blue eyes as she slowly regained control of her breathing.

"Aeria, tor." His voice was now soothing, still deep, like a tranquil lake on a windstill day. "Shar air si taraes?"1

Sentences in swiftly-spoken High Elf dialect cascaded from the woman's well-shaped lips, though the clearly legible fear on her face obscured much of the natural beauty she possessed. Olbrand, not well-versed in any language but his own and tradespeak, did not understand a single word she said. Judging from Glorfel's expression, which slowly transformed from icy calm to slightly disturbed to outright anger, however, the messenger wasn't bearing very good news. When the youngling finished, the elder Elf nodded and waved her away, thanking her with a small nod. As the door closed behind her, Glorfel turned towards the Shylan, worry still clearly legible on his face.

"No money, eh?" he started, his gaze travelling to the rapier that hung loosely sheathed by the Shylan's side. "But you're obviously an adventurer, if not a survivor. How about you help me out with a big errand, and you can keep what little coin you have. In fact, I'll fill up whatever supplies you need if you succeed."

Olbrand shrugged, his stare still locked with the Elf's. "Do I have a choice?" he responded neutrally.

Again, that dark smile, and an unpleasant glitter in the shopkeeper's eyes. "Bai," came the brief response. The Shylan sighed. He did know what that word meant.

1 = Quiet, child. What is the matter?

[Paradox]

Night brought an uneasy chill to the Raiaeran plains that stretched between Eluriand and the unnamed forest that Glorfel had marked on Olbrand's map. The Shylan's long legs carried him through the leaden, nocturnal cover as quickly as they could. A warm cloak of dark-colored, roughspun yarn was wrapped tightly around his hunched form; pretty much the only form of assistance he had received from the shopkeeper aside from an incomplete background story and a set of general directions towards the Loriam'Vaer - or "Nobility's Rest", as was the Common name for the grim, derelict tombs that had served as the final resting place for Raiaera's wealthier inhabitants many hundreds of years ago. According to the Elven shopkeeper, the site had fallen into disuse early in the current era; scholars occasionally visited it to study the dull texts that had been interred there with their equally dull writers, but other than that, there was little to be found.

That last piece of information struck Olbrand as odd, seeing how he had been commanded to retrieve a certain Elf from that supposedly abandoned graveyard. Glorfel had described his niece as a freelance loremistress currently employed by Eluriand's own Istien University. He had been sketchy on the details; the Shylan knew only that her hair was a flurry of golden curls, that her name was Saviel, and that there was another person travelling with her, a younger Elf called Gilthalad. The researchers, who should have reported back several days ago, had not returned, nor sent any message that their stay might be prolonged. Olbrand's attempts to extract more information had failed; Glorfel either did not know why his niece had been sent down there by the University, or he did not want Olbrand to know. Regardless, the Shylan felt as though he was diving blindly into trouble. And, with magickers not returning from damp, secluded sepulchres, Olbrand was absolutely certain he would have his share of trouble before this was over.

He had been loath to agree to running this "errand", as Glorfel had dubbed it, but he had not seen any other way of solving their little impasse. Of course, he had caused some of the Elf's merchandise to break down and he hadn't had the money to provide financial indemnity, so labor seemed a valid way of evening the score. However, from the very start, a creeping suspicion that this journey would cost him more than the price of an overpriced leech had latched onto his thoughts. He hadn't felt much like parlaying with the Elf - who, mind you, had the uncanny ability to cause deep-rooted fear simply by looking at you. But as his destination rose up from the horizon in a jagged, shadowy treescape, he wondered whether simply walking out and taking the hit to his reputation would have been so much worse than this. He sighed.

And then, of course, there's this thing, he thought wearily as he reached into his cloak, retrieving an item of unimpressive size from it. His six fingers wrapped themselves neatly around a chunk of perfectly polished, jet-black stone. It was octagonal and quite flat, not reaching more than two thumbs in breadth. Although the stone fit comfortably into his hand, Olbrand could feel a wild force coarsing through it; he half expected the thing to jump out of his hand as he inspected it more closely on his outstretched palm. It seemed as if a second, smaller octagonal shaped had been carved into the centre of the stone. The heart of the stone also pulsated with a dim, cerulean gleam, or perhaps that was merely the reflection of starlight playing tricks on him.

He had been through three of these episodes of silent observation, but all of them - including the current one - led to the same conclusion: the Shylan did not have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do with this stone. Glorfel had commented vaguely that Saviel and the stone were somehow connected. If there was magic at play, it was very subtle. Olbrand could tell that the stone had mysterious properties, but the nature of those properties continued to elude him. Perhaps that was for the better. He put the strange apparatus away and looked up as he reached the top of a nearly innoticeable hill in the flatland. His destination now appeared much closer; so close that the Shylan could distinguish between different branches near the edges of the trees' silhouettes. Although sounds were plentiful as he approached - wind rushed through long grass and thin branches, unseen insects chirped a dissonant symphony - none of them suggested malign forces at work. Pulling the cloak even tighter around his frame, the Shylan increased his tempo. At least I'm off to a good start, his mind commented in wry cynicism.