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.