AbyssalRoadTrip
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Fluid - 3
🕑 Added 2022-08-22 21:17:57 +0000 UTCEven if the colour wasn’t clear enough, the sound of the loom within chattered at me from houses away. The mechanism’s busy wooden pieces contrast oddly with the house’s empty song, speaking of children grown and years gone. It's not a grim mourning theme, only the sorrow of absence and uncertainty that lays tight across the sole occupant within.
It was a two-story house with wide shuttered windows marking the placement of rooms across the front. Though most sit sealed, the shutters to the door’s right are wide open with the afternoon sun resting on a loom that sounds like it has long sat still. Sitting on the room’s shaded side, a grey-haired lady stays focused on a second, larger loom. Though she’s weaving linen, her attire is a woollen chiton and worn sandals. Handling the loom's mechanism with a steady, beautiful rhythm, she makes the shuttle and treadles dance through their circuits, extending the fabric’s pattern at a regular pace.
Seamstress and weaver; is the second profession by choice or necessary in this small village? Caught in the music of artful creation, I don’t have time to say anything. My presence alone springs alertness through her song, and she spins about on her chair. Her gaze lands on me, not with the anger of the old farmer but merely wary suspicion.
Her rounded face shows far too many lines of sadness and regret. The weight of them slowly pressing laugh lines away and thinning out her kind mouth. Her warm carob gaze matches what colour remains in her hair, which sits well clear of her shoulders. Does she keep it short to avoid tangling in the loom’s parts?
“Do you often go about peeking in someone’s window?”
“My apologies. It was quite distracting, and I wasn’t sure how to interrupt. Your sure hands give your loom a beautiful sound. Are you also the village’s seamstress? Oh, and my name’s Gail.”
My awkwardness draws a smile and bemused notes from within her theme. The woman stands easily with more grace than I’d expected, her nimbleness not reserved for her fingers. “I’m Zosime, the village’s seamstress and weaver. From your dress, you’ve surely no need of my goods. What brings you to my front step, Lady Gail?”
A similar sadness had stirred the farmer to lasting anger, and yet Zosime feels as if she’s manners to spare for them both. “Merely Gail. Please, I need both your goods and your expertise, and I’m happy to pay well for both.”
My assertion is likely unnecessary, but the word pay washes the last suspicion from her. “Many customers trade for clothes, but they’re usually neighbours and I know the quality of goods they’ll offer..”
When I deposit five silvers on the windowsill, her eyebrows rise. “A token in advance for your time, Zosime.”
“If that’s a token, Gail, I’ll be interested to hear what you need,” says Zosime, claiming the coins and pulling the front door open. “Please take a seat. I’ll set the kettle to heat, and we can talk.”
As quick as I step through the doorway to my left, Zosime is already disappearing through an archway at the workroom’s back towards the house’s central room.
She fusses about in the courtyard, and I settle on the chair before the sunlit loom to wait. The coins rasp across stone and rattle off a few battered coppers within her storage spot. Her actions completely muffle the usual sounds, but the metals’ song is still clear from within the hollowed stone brick.
Humming along to a nearby song while I wait, I memorise the fabric’s songs from a nearby chest. The kettle is still warming when she emerges and tilts her head to listen curiously to the liquid notes from my lips.
“That music is strangely appealing, but not what I’d expect from tales of elves,” offers Zosime when I stop.
“What music would you expect to hear from an Elf?”
Zosime wraps her arms around herself despite the summer warmth. “Cold but beautiful music that doesn’t seem part of the world. That tune felt like I could wrap it around me, to stay warm on a winter’s night.”
Since it’s the song of her cloth, it’s not surprising she’d feel that way, yet the earlier comparison is worrying. “Elves are cold?”
“They have a reputation for being cold towards the short-lived humans. Cold, that is, when they’re not seducing and leaving pregnant women behind,” observes Zosime.
“I promise not to do that,” I yelp, dismayed at the idea of children left deliberately with one less parent to care for them.
My quick words have Zosime laughing gleefully, which takes years of strain from her features. The energy in her laughter resonated with the sounds of the family that had grown in this house, but even their old echoes had faded.
“How-”
She looks at me when I bite off my question. Just because there isn’t death doesn’t mean the sadness would cut.
“How?”
The comparison between her politeness and Petrus’ rumours prompts me to ask. “I’ll be upfront and say I’m surprised to be greeted so kindly. A clerk at the Adventurers’ Guild advised me against coming to see you by saying other female members had trouble with you.”
“Of the three, that would be Petrus, I’d wager!” snaps Zosime. “His cousin seduces my daughter and I’m at fault for making her life unpleasant after she broke my Phile’s heart?”
“What did you do?” I ask curiously.
Zosime’s smile returns, holding an edge of dissatisfaction. “They learnt a lesson in not annoying the person who makes your clothing; things can get uncomfortable. Sometimes after Phile, Petrus’ cousin, is Chrysanthe in case you ever hear him mention her. Anyway, she also left the village because of problems she caused other adventuring teams, yet he still tells tales like a troublesome boy.”
“Have you heard from your daughter since?”
Glum notes come with a sheen of wetness in her eyes, but she carries on before I can apologise. “Once or twice a year, from different vessels or merchants, but never from the same place twice. With some letters I’ve received from Phile, it's clear others she sent never arrived. I’m not a Wizard, nor do I know any so talented, so I’ve no way to get word to her.”
“I could help if you like.”
Her gaze regains the wary suspicion from earlier, and I continue quickly. “I’ve left home earlier than mother had hoped, except I can send messages to her easily at least. Will you let me help another daughter hear from her mother?”
“How would you do such a thing?”
My mysterious smile only garners amusement, but at least it eases the sadness I awoke away. “With your permission and a bowl of water to focus the effect.”
“‘Never ask a caster how it works’ holds for elves as well,” mutters Zosime and heads back to the courtyard. When she returns, she’s carrying a tray with a clay pot of mint tea, two battered cups, a shallow wood bowl, and a jug of water.
At least she doesn’t protest when I lighten the tray, setting the bowl and jug on the floor near me. She fusses about and pours the tea, more wanting to distract herself than for hospitality reasons.
Unsure how to tackle the subject, I option the straight forward doesn’t cause pain. “I can feel from your home that you’ve other children.”
The words raise her eyebrows, but she picks up a cup to blow on her tea before she replies. “Three older boys off in the army since before Phile left, and fewer letters between the three of them combined.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. My husband's trade vessel floundered shortly after Phile was born. The boys and their father were close; even years later, they didn't want to stay with the memories,” Zosime offers with a shrug. “The first chance they got, they left.”
“The effect I’ll use will point out the directions of all your children. I didn’t intend the question to bring sadness, I merely sought to manage expectations as if they’re closer it will point to them first.”
“At least you’re not telling me after I’ve already begun to hope then,” allows Zosime.
I leave the bowl on the ground and fill it just beneath the brim. Aware of Imhotep’s powerful reaction to a tiny song, the notes are mere whispers. They spiral along the woman’s theme, drinking up the echoes of her children’s births.
A distant orchestra quickly sounds a reply, then after a few breaths delay come a second, then a third. The water glows, showing the three strong twisting spirals pointing towards each source. With the expectation of loss strong in the woman’s song, I can only hope for the best and continue singing. The song’s aged threads threaten to fray before a distant echo whispers, and a thin spiral shows.
Within each spiral, I listen to the resonance of their Use Name and bring the song to a close.
“Does that mean my children are all alive?” breaths Zosime, smoothing her hands nervously along the chiton’s wool.
“One of your three boys isn’t far away. From the direction of that response, he might even be in Appian, but your daughter has gone far west.”
“They’re all alive,” whispers Zosime, and a wave of tension spills out with her words. “If he’s only in Appian, why didn’t he send word?”
“The only thing it confirms is that he’s presently close, not how long that’s been the case,” I console and smile. “Who did you want to message first?”
“I’ve not even delivered on advice or goods for your silvers, and you’re offering this already?”
“This isn’t anything that needs an exchange. An aunt told me the best way to bring good things into the world is by improving what we can. With all her life’s struggles, it’s hard not to at least try to live up to that advice.”
Zosime's frown is fleeting, but she nods her acceptance, though some scepticism remains. “Phile has been off on her own and still spent coins to send me her news. My boys can explain themselves when they decide to take the time.”
Checking on her only takes a quick Spell instead of a Song, and the water clears to show a younger version of Zosime, with her carob gaze and hair, carefully tending battle-scarred leathers. Her attire comprises a sweat-stained tunic and pants that look frayed and possess repairs that match the armour’s scars in a few places. Her right cheek carries a meshwork of fresh scars from brow to chin, and her right hand is missing a pinkie. From her appearance, she’d paid the price for her survival.
The room she’s in is the worst place I’ve seen yet. The bed’s palate is a mouldy blanket atop rotting straw, with the small room walls and window covered in mildew and soot; it makes even Cemna’s ruins appear nice.
Notes from my lips skip and jump, bridging the distance between Phile and us, and whirl into a glimmering, prismatic-hued archway. Its appearance has Phile stumbling back, but she moves with even more grace than her mother. I take in her music even while they both regard each other in wide-eyed astonishment.
“Daughter,” Zosime gasps, touching her own cheek in sympathy when she sees Phile’s injuries through the Portal.
The lonely notes in the young woman’s song spring about in shock. She takes a half step forward at her mother's voice before hesitating, not from anger but from fear of rejection. I can sense her hesitation and try to ease away the conflict.
“Would you be open to returning home temporarily, Phile? Your mother has missed you, and she has had no means of getting word to you. If you feel you wish to return after speaking, I can easily reopen a Portal.”
With her retreat, I’m still out of her line of sight, and she comes forward enough to lay eyes on me. Her gaze sweeps across me from head to toe, and back again; her music swirling between astonishment and desire. Unlike Petrus, she doesn’t imagine my body, instead desires the success my clothing signals in her mind.
A refusal is on her lips when Zosime beats her to it. “That parasite is gone. Two years past, she caused more trouble and headed out of the village right quick.”
With a glance between my dress and her armour, Phile scoops it and the cleaning kit up before collecting a pack that sits out of sight. She strides through without hesitation or a backwards glance, leading my thoughts to skip about at her lack of attachments. Whatever I let slip gets a smile.
“I’m recently minus a team since they decided not to wait for me to heal up,” states Phile, her song telling me she’d read the question at my glance behind her.
As I let the Portal close, Zosime rushes forward, wrapping her arms around Phile. The tears that had threatened earlier streaming down her cheeks. I stay quiet, enjoying the happiness they both share. Hearing her mother explain our meeting, Phile finally releases her mother and focuses back on me.
“Why the generosity in opening the Portal?” asks Phile cautiously.
“Your mother's account was accurate. If you don’t believe her, I’m not sure you’ll believe me, especially now.”
“What changed in such a short time?” ask Phile.
“You changed the situation, but my initial reason was indeed to bring some happiness to your mother.”
Phile is persistent, and her gaze narrows at my unintentional evasion. “That doesn’t tell me what benefit you see with my involvement?”
“I need adventuring companions who know the area. Could you assist me in gathering some?” I ask hopefully, though the smile I offer makes her wary.
“It's been almost five years since I left; it will depend on who is around. What if I say no?”
“It was a token to consider the offer. I’m not demanding repayment. If you say no, then it's your choice, and I’ll find others myself; I certainly have capabilities to offer a team,” I reply unworried. “Spatial Affinity is still rare, but how many teams have a Wizard strong enough to open a Portal?”
“An excellent point, especially given how far from home I had been,” grants Phile. Torn between wary suspicion and gratitude, she still maintains her guard.
“Oh, might I enquire what rank adventurer you are?”
A token similar to mine spins across the knuckles of her left hand, and when she holds it properly, the guild’s crest shows in silver. “Recently silver, though my luck’s dipped lately.”
“Well then, perhaps I can offer a beneficial arrangement if you’re inclined to stay in the village.”
“Before we get to that, I’d like to know what brings you here seeking adventure?” asks Phile. “It must be a potent reason to bring you so far from home.”
Far further than she knows, but like others, she’s assuming I’m an Isil Elf.
“A lost key is somewhere either on the peninsula or in the ocean east of it. But hopefully, I’ll only need to explore the depths of the former.,” I start and hold up a hand to stay the words on her lips. “I’ve got the means to know when I get close to it, the same way I found you.”
“What’s your offer?”
“Well, I’m a recent bronze adventurer needing a mentor and a team. Would you be interested? I can stand some coin as surety for your time if you don’t find it profitable from the jobs we take on. I’d pay bonuses if you can help me sift through potential candidates.”
“Fancy dress for someone so new to adventuring,” notes Phile. Though she doesn’t make it obvious, she reexamines me from head to toe.
“I’m not new to my classes. I’m just new to the guild,” I state. Phile nods her understanding and begins immediately mentally shifting the possibility. Again comes the noble Elf, and I want to grumble, but I tell her the truth. “The dress didn’t cost me anything but time. I gathered the spiders’ webbing, and after that, friends handled the rest.”
“Did these friends work for your mother or on her lands?”
Trying to name the exact relationship isn’t something I’ve heard a word for yet. Between Amdirlain adopting my mother as her sister and Sarah being Amdirlain’s oath-sworn sister. It’s a tangle of its own, especially since Sarah may have been friends with Andre, but now she’s my godmother, and I’ve no memories of my life as Andre to translate all of what Sarah’s song offers.
Rolling my eyes deducts points in Sarah’s game, but I’ll pay that bill. “One does. The other is a sort of spiritual relative twice removed and has known me since I was days old.”
“I’m not sure I follow, and I shouldn’t have been so snide. When I asked about your offer. The standard arrangement for most teams is equal risk and equal pay. Is that fair to you?” asks Phile.
“More than acceptable, but I’ll still provide a surety of my intentions if you’d allow it.”
“You look like you’ve got more funds than I do now,” quips Phile.
Phile’s recently healed injuries and the energy in most of her scars is annoying now she’s through the Portal. The differing faith energies of the involved priests clash with each other and her natural song. “Might I tend to your little finger as my first token since the wound is still fresh and annoying you?”
“There isn’t anything further anyone can do that I can afford,” counters Phile.
“I wouldn’t offer it as a token of surety if I couldn’t restore your finger.”
I beckon for her hand, though there isn’t a need other than as distraction. Glowing motes shine with every silent note, stitching light into flesh and bone that extends from the stub. My personal experiences with Protean changing flesh have hers quickly regrowing. The moment the glowing warmth of the healing starts, Phile holds still—there isn’t a need.
The finger was quickly done, yet my singing didn’t stop, and the regenerative song continued its work. Its energy wiggled along under her skin, casting out the energies that didn’t mingle true in her flesh. Shiny scars along her wrist were the first to vanish and told me of the trap that had dealt the damage. When I finally stopped, her body was clear of them, even from years past.
“Is that an acceptable token?”
Running her fingers over her scar-free face when I release her hand, Phile barely manages a whisper. “Who are you?”
“Oh, apologies, my name’s Gail. A pleasure to meet you. Should I let the two of you catch up? I’ve still to see if I can get a room at the inn. I’ll be back to speak about garments later.”
Zosime quickly slashes a hand across her body in a negative. “You won’t get a room. I know the inn is full; Georgius has been boasting about his inn’s good fortune of late. Please stay as our guest; our home is practically empty, so it only makes sense. Some rooms are no longer furnished, but you can pick whichever one you like or take mine.”
I smile at them, not wanting to sour the moment by arguing with her firm insistence. “An empty room is fine. I only need a place to sit quietly for a few hours a night. But long-term guests, I’m told, can be a burden. Might I at least contribute household supplies and help with chores?”
Phile coughs at my offer, and laughter burbles in her song, but I bite my tongue instead of calling her on it. Chores and a noble’s dress aren’t something that is expected to go together here. Her mother’s uncertainty at my offer speaks of her pride, but I can tell she edges towards relief.
The hollow sound of her money store and the house’s emptiness reveals the truth, and I continue to plead the point. “Please let me at least buy some of the food; also, I know how to cook and clean. If you’ve no issue, cleaning is faster with some magic, giving us more time for other things.”
“Very well, thank you, Gail.”
With her words, Zosime impulsively steps forward to hug me and stops in shock at herself, disbelief that she almost touched a noble surging within. Before she can lower her arms, I step in close to complete the offered hug and catch their surprise. “You’re more than welcome, Zosime; I hope my mother isn’t worrying too much.”
“Let’s get you settled in first, then Phile and I can catch up.”
Phile flexes her hand, and I catch a hint of worry, but not for her condition. “You said she’s gone?”
Though she warbles with a theme of concern, Zosime maintains a straight face at the question. “Yes, two years now; her family has heard not a word from her. One of her team wrote to their family. They’re up north in Remus, and it doesn’t sound like they’re ever coming home.”
“Then I’ve no reason to rush away, especially not from a team offer with such a marvellous hiring token,” states Phile, wiggling her new finger. “I’m surprised you kept the house, mother; it must have been hard alone.”
“I couldn’t let everything go. Your father was proud he could provide me with a home.” Zosime exhales so hard, and I can hear anxiety and stress from nearly five years of uncertainty lift from her. This time it’s Phile doing the hugging, hastily catching her mother up, and the tears start to flow.
Leaving the two women to their happy tears, I slip through to the courtyard, hoping the offer of guesting means it’s not an intrusion. The centre that is open to the sky is some three metres, in its midpoint is a fire pit with a grill and other implements on a rack nearby. A pot with soup slowly warming through provides an interesting aroma, though it has more vegetables and stale spices than meat. It will be interesting to see what Zosime can cook with more things in her pantry.
Within the covered boundary of the courtyard, and I can see marks where various furnishings once sat. A flight of narrow stairs leads to the balcony above, and I take the empty corner room with a view of the lane. The joyful songs downstairs mix with the neighbours’ curiosity. Women from across the street come over to talk, and the gathering slowly draws in more. Calls and exchanged waves beckoning more of the village in.
I consider my dress and take a moment, but I summon a mirror from Inventory and assess the look. Black leather pants and boots crafted from Manticore hide, with a dark green elven silk top hiding sheathes and magical bracers. Compared to Phile’s battered armour, the newness of the leather makes me aware of what I hadn’t considered. Every other outfit has the same issue, even ones made for male forms, and wearing at their song to scuff them feels an affront.
Singing a simple wooden chair into existence doesn’t take long, but I should have stopped to think. At the first notes, the chatter from below stops and doesn’t begin again until my song is complete. Getting into the habit of always using Silent Song seems like what I need, but mentally singing the notes isn’t as much fun.
That evening’s gathering isn’t the meal Zosime planned, with all the neighbours bringing in various dishes to share. A piece of the village’s community coming together has the song of Zosime’s home resonating with cheer. Upon seeing me, there is undoubtedly the sharp wariness Imhotep had warned me to expect. Yet it’s suspicious ice in their demeanour that the mother and daughter shatter with the declaration that I’m their guest. When her neighbours welcome someone in, they do so wholeheartedly.
Zosime introduces me to all the lane residents, with most having three generations. From the slowing notes of the white-haired sires and dames to the newest baby on the hip. I take in the liveness of their song’s dance and see so much worth protecting among what they hold dear. They're candles burning with an ephemeral brightness, and even those dimming are looking for ways to leave more for the next.
With the next work day ahead, the evening is merry but doesn’t run late. When the first start to drift away, I take that as my cue to retire.
After a time of listening to the village’s evening song, with its closeness and arguments, I send my first Message. I’m now far more aware that I should have taken the time to do so earlier. Though she’d have heard me if I merely spoke the name others use, it’s casting practice, at least.
“Mother, I’ve found a place to stay and joined the Adventurers’ Guild. I blew up two of their imprint plates when I was registering, and all the clothing I brought with me is way over the top for the village I picked. So I didn’t make the good impression I wanted, and I already have a senior member wanting me to leave. I also met a Gold Dragon pretending to be Human.”
“I hope things go well, Gail. You made your choice, though I’d asked you to wait. Remember that choices have consequences for good and ill. Now you’ll need to find out who you are and what you believe before you can come home.”
I don’t think I would have caught the calm sadness in my mother’s undertone before meeting Zosime. A soft wistfulness that her daughter wasn’t present and that I’d chosen to leave the nest so soon.
“I love you, mother; please tell papa that as well. I’ll try not to worry either of you. Well, at least not too much. Just think, now you can bonk like rabbits without me teasing the next day.”
Light-hearted laughter is all her next Message Spell contains, and I settle into reverie with its music buzzing through me.
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