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Abyssal Road Trip - 145 - Sparks in the Darkness
🕑 Added 2021-12-14 14:07:13 +0000 UTCPit’s PoV - Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning
The grey cloud ahead of us is more comforting than the vast emptiness we’ve travelled through, but it’s also unlike anything I’ve ever seen. A sharp odour tickles at my nose and my fur—yeah, that’s still a new thing—tingles strangely, tufts of it standing upright, oddly pressing against my clothing. The closer we get to the clouds, the more solid they look, and limiting the range of my sight, they ease the tension in my shoulders. The endless emptiness of the Plane of Air, frightening after so long in the Maze.
“I put an arrow in whatever attacks?” I ask sceptically.
A smile lights her face, and Lady Amdirlain nods cheerfully, waving at the cloud bank. “The magical energy the bow puts onto even normal arrows will allow you to hurt Lightning Elementals. They’re not incorporeal beings; even if they appear made of energy, they’re in sync with this region, so you’ll be able to hurt them.”
Waving about us, I ask what seems obvious. “How do we find them? This place is open nothingness, but in there is greyness, we won’t be able to hunt them.”
Lady Amdirlain’s laughter sparks the air, and she waves about, copying my gesture with a smile. “We won’t have to find anything; dangers will find us. The Plane of Air and all its neighbouring regions aren’t static places. As we go in further, we’ll pass through regions with a greater chance of serious trouble finding us. I plan to head in until we can find dark clouds and then we’ll skirt along their edge. If we run into clouds that appear blackish-green, we’ve gone too far for you to be safe.”
Running fingers through my hair prompts an amusing thought. “You mean things here will scent us on the wind like a hound?”
“They don’t have a nose as you do, but close, they’ll feel the difference in our energy state. To them, we’re the strange things, and they’ll want to kick us out,” explains Amdirlain after a moment.
“Isn’t it wrong to be invading their home this way just to pick a fight?” I ask.
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. We can go back if you don’t want to fight here. Most of what we’ll find are reactive concentrations of energy. The beings here able to think might talk to us, those that aren’t hateful like the Lightning Mephit. The simple entities are just the Plane’s energy reacting to our presence like a Mortal’s body fighting off disease.”
“Except we’re the disease,” I offer, wrinkling my nose at the vague memory of Ebusuku’s sick wounds.
Lady Amdirlain ruefully nods. “Indeed, to them we’re the disease, we’ll scatter their energy back into the Plane, and their energy will contribute to the formation of a new entity. If we don’t scatter them, they’ll continue to accumulate energy or get absorbed by another entity that feels peckish.”
“If we find something that will speak to us?” I hesitantly ask, hoping for what I’m sure will be a positive response.
A careless glance down makes my head spin, and Lady Amdirlain quickly blocks my gaze. “Look straight ahead. If a local wants to talk to us, then we’ll talk. Maybe we can trade for information.”
With that said, Lady Amdirlain leads the way, heading straight into the cloud mass. Lightning crackling within it, prompting me to halt and notch an arrow. I sign softly in relief when the metallic head doesn’t draw any lightning to me, and Lady Amdirlain calls back. “You’re immune to Electricity, remember. You’ve got two weeks, and I hope you put your grinding shoes on because we’re going to push until Aggie summons you.”
* * *
Shâgórim’s PoV - Massalia - Senator Marcellus’ Ludus - New Arrival’s Cells
Shâgórim groaned as the dim light from the wall’s crystals stabbed painfully into his eyes. The rough straw of the palate poked into his skin, and he wondered when he’d removed his shirt.
“Fuck, now that’s just what I need,” grumbled a deep voice in the rhythmic chant of Khuzdul. “Arseholes could have chained the damn orc to the wall instead of me.”
Even the low words sent a heated blade of pain through his ears, and Shâgórim clapped his hands over them protectively. Bleary-eyed, he stared in the voice’s direction and could only make out a shifting squat form against a wall.
“Hush,” grumbled Shâgórim, and tried to focus on the words he’d learnt. “Dwarf, how did you get into my room?”
“Vergadain’s left nut an Orc that speaks a civilised tongue!” exclaimed the Dwarf, the shouted words eliciting grumbles from multiple sleepy voices. “Now, if only he weren’t a moron.”
Shâgórim wrangled himself into a sitting position against limbs that fought his instructions. A misstep caused him to sprawl fully onto the ground, and the impact against stone instead of wood snapped his eyes fully open. “This isn’t my room.”
The Dwarf shifted position on the straw under him and leant back against the stone—the movement causing the chains that bound to the floor to jingle and slither. “Too right it’s not, green-skin. Now, go back to sleep. It’s not morning.”
Blood pounding in his ears, Shâgórim fought his way to his feet, growing steadier by the moment. A rush of energy cleared his mind and fought back the lethargy in his limbs. His vision cleared, and the pounding ceased as he froze in sheer confusion. Clearly no longer in the inn room he’d gone to sleep in, iron bars divided the stone room into four cells, leaving a clear walkway in front of the only door. Instead of the clothing he’d worn to bed, he wore only a loincloth, and his grasping fingers found only bare skin rather than the amulet around his neck. The cold steel band around his wrist touching his chest had him jerk his hand back in dismay.
“Calm down, green-skin, there is no one to fight here, and it’s late, so no one cares.”
Shâgórim stared at the band and ran his fingers over its seamless rune set surface. “My name is Shâgórim, son of Shâgoral and Urzàl, born of the Seafang Tribe, not green-skin.”
“Well, Shâgórim, there is still no one to fight here unless you consider my chained-up arse a challenge. Now, since you can still actually talk instead of berserk rampaging, go back to sleep,” retorted the Dwarf.
“You’ve still not shared your name with me. I gave you mine,” Shâgórim said pointedly. “Do you not honour your people’s customs?”
“Oh, well-played green-skin, I mean Shâgórim, my name is Durnat, son of Natmar,” stated Durnat, and a shrug set his chains rattling. The noise drawing Shâgórim attention to the veins and bulging muscles showed through the Dwarf’s skin. Many scars naturally and magically healed showed across the Dwarf’s skin, including a notched ear almost hidden in the Durnat’s black hair and twin claws scars that ran down the side of his nose. Durnat’s obsidian gaze weighed on Shâgórim who was taking in his beardless state without even a whisker to show fresh growth.
“How did I get here? Where are my things?” asked Shâgórim, trying to remember a lesson on Dwarven customs involving removing beards.
“The guards dragged you in and dumped you on the floor, and you’ve been keeping me awake with your snoring,” grumbled Durnat. “But you forgot the most important question.”
“Which is?” asked Shâgórim doubtfully.
“Where are you? That’s the important question,” Durnat chuckled dryly. “And the answer to that is we’re both in the same shit hole. Welcome to Senator Marcellus’ Ludus, his school for gladiators, in case you don’t speak Latin,”
“I don’t speak their tongue. I was travelling to Eyrarháls with a caravan Merchant Prodan recommended,” Shâgórim stated.
“Come here, Shâgórim,” stated Durnat, motioning him over. When Shâgórim got within arm’s reach, he spoke again. “Exhale hard. I need to smell your breath; I sure hope you’ve not been eating rancid carrion.”
Shâgórim bit back a string of words and simply followed Durnat’s instructions.
“Just as I thought, your breath still has the sweetness of slaver’s sleep venom,” Durnat sneered. “Need to be careful with recommendations Shâgórim, just because you trust one person doesn’t mean the people they know will like you.”
His hands balled in fists, Shâgórim felt the familiar rage of his kin-folk claw at his self-control. “If you’re so wise, how did you end up here?”
“Wise, I’m not wise; I killed the wrong noble,” Durnat growled in frustration.
“They took you prisoner in battle?” asked Shâgórim.
“No, I got away clean, but the offal that hired me had his men grab me,” Durnat grumbled. “No one told me the stupid human had a twin. Now sit back down. The manacle on your wrist means you’re going nowhere.”
Fingers still rubbing against the steel, Shâgórim stared at Durnat sceptically. “If it is so secure why are you chained and not manacled?”
“They didn’t have one that could hold a Dwarf of my stature,” scoffed Durnat, and spat into the stray nearby. “I’m locked down until they have an Artificer figure out something suitable.”
“Your stature?” asked Shâgórim, the amusement in his tone earned a heated glare. “A beardless Dwarf, what Clan kicked you out and cursed you?”
“I’m stronger than you, green-skin; if I wasn’t in these chains, these walls wouldn’t stand against me, now go back to sleep,” ordered Durnat, his glare still fixed on Shâgórim.
Shâgórim picked a spot in the straw near the cell door and repeated a frequent prayer. “May I endure, overcome, and find my path. Lady Amdirlain guide me from this place to one of my own choosing. Let me find honour in her service.”
“Prayers won’t help you, boy,” muttered Durnat, “just go to sleep.”
“Everything breaks in the end. This manacle will break before I give up hope,” declared Shâgórim, holding firm against the anger that churned in his mind.
The air tasted of the pre-dawn when the main door was pulled open and three men in segmented cuirass, stepped within. Their weapons were a strange mix, though the lead man had a gladius, the second carried an iron club, and the third just wore weighted gauntlets with studs across the knuckles.
Words barked in the local tongue meant nothing to Shâgórim and Durnat just laughed merrily before he spoke up in Khuzdul.
“They want you to step back from the cell door,” translated Durnat.
“Why are they so worried if the manacle is so strong?” asked Shâgórim, tapping the lone manacle with his fingers.
“Oh, they’re not worried boy, but if they activate it you’re going to be in too much pain to walk anywhere,” explained Durnat.
“I don’t speak their language,” stated Shâgórim.
The Dwarf’s broad smile wouldn’t have been out of place on a shark. “I’ll translate for you, for a fee of course.”
Shâgórim eyed him suspiciously. “What sort of fee I’ve nothing left but a loincloth.”
“A future favour,” proposed Durnat blandly.
“That will not be necessary, Durnat,” the lead man stated in Khuzdul. “Step back from the cell door, Orc. I’m gladiator instructor Dante, you will follow my orders.”
“I’m no slave. Let me go,” growled Shâgórim.
“We paid for you. You’re a slave until you’ve earned your freedom fighting,” replied Dante, and motioned Shâgórim back. “Now step away from the door, Orc. Or would you prefer we leave you to cool off for a couple of days without food or water?”
Shâgórim took a careful step back, and another when Dante motioned again. His eyes kept moving over the three men taking in their equipment, and stances. None of them looked concerned at being studied, and the man who wore the strange gauntlets just smiled coldly.
Fixing his gaze on Dante he spoke in clear Khuzdul. “My name is Shâgórim, not Orc.”
“I don’t care. You’ll answer to what it’s decided you’ll be called for the crowds,” declared Dante.
“Where are my things?” asked Shâgórim, concerned mostly for Amdirlain’s symbol and feather.
“We bought you Orc. We didn’t buy whatever primitive rubbish you’re worried about,” replied Dante, his gaze fixed on Shâgórim. “When the cell is unlocked, you’ll come out and join the line in the yard outside. Is that clear?”
Shâgórim nodded, and Dante focused on the men in the cell beside him and spoke again in Latin.
Massalia Markets - Later that day.
Looking over a table of trinkets, Aurelia played with her white braid, wrapping the end around her belt. Ignoring her Mater haggling for alchemical reagents, she regarded the merchant’s assistant keeping an eye on her near the table. Releasing her braid and silk belt, she pointed a delicate finger at a polished disk with a curious emblem she’d never seen before traced in amber. Sunlight glinted off the silver bracelet around her wrist and the host of emeralds nested in the metal.
The assistant clearly had the advantage of a half decade or more, and despite being only sixteen Aurelia held herself with the composure of a Matron. The fine silk of her robes and the silver wire wrapped in her braid held a multitude of runes. Energy within the runes matched the brightness in her eyes for those with the talent to see them.
“How much for the necklace with the long feather and amulet?” asked Aurelia, pointing at the disk that had caught her eye.
“The amulet is Elven woodwork, masterfully done with amber accents. I’d need three tremissis,” the assistant declared.
“I wouldn’t even give you Slav golds let alone Nova Roma issue; the weave of the leather is clearly orcish. Did you scavenge it from a corpse and expect to fool anyone? Two Sestertius,” countered Aurelia, and plucked the coppers from her purse to bounce them thoughtfully. “Though even that is likely too much.”
“That feather alone is worth more than that; clearly, from its size, they took it from a magical beast,” countered the assistant.
“Nonsense, vultures have feathers that large, it could have come from a foul nest. I’ll have to have it cleaned, and there is no beast Mana about it,” stated Aurelia imperiously.
The assistant blinked and angled the wood amulet, carefully letting the sunlight play across the polished wood. “Even if the necklace is orcish, the amulet is still clearly Elven. Look closely, you’ll see the wood is flawlessly formed and the amber pattern of the candle and the broken necklace would-”
“A Nature Wizard’s apprentice can do better work, indeed my Mater tutors an eight year old whose gift could manage it. Four Sestertius is generous for something a novice Wizard could craft as a training exercise.” declared Aurelia.
The assistant looked at her sceptically. “If your Mater’s student can do better, why are you seeking to buy this?”
“Indeed, you are right. What am I thinking about, of course, just forget it,” said Aurelia dismissively, returning her attention to her Mater’s haggling she ignored the assistant’s next two counteroffers. Only turning back to him when her Mater started haggling over a new consignment of goods. “Word of advice when haggling, never ask someone why they’re looking to buy something. You’ll talk them out of a sale completely. Now that I’ve given advice, let’s have some fun, shall we? Where was I, oh yes, one Sestertius.”
When her Mater finally ordered the slaves to pick up her acquisitions, Aurelia tucked the amulet into an empty pouch on her belt. The necklace and its long feather slipped into it without changing its flat appearance in the slightest.
“Did you have fun making him sweat, Aurelia?” The elegant woman asked in a hissing tongue when they were out of earshot.
“It was amusing. Might I have another Denarius?” asked Aurelia, in the same language.
The woman didn’t hesitate to hand her daughter a small coin that flashed silver in the sunlight. “How much should you have paid?”
“A few thousand tremissis, he clearly didn’t know what he possessed, or they’d have held it for auction. There is the scent of Celestial and Abyssal Mana mixed within it. I only caught the taste of it at the table’s edge, but nothing shows to any detections.”
“What? I smelt nothing where I was standing,” whispered her Mater, her lips pressed so tightly their lushness thinned. “Bring it to my study once we’re home, don’t let it out of your hands.”
“Of course not, Mater,” replied Aurelia, and didn’t break eye contact but waited until she looked away first, remembering her Mater’s lessons in manners.
Aegina - Paláti of Apollo
The murky energy writhed oddly within the diamond, unaffected by the sunlight shining through the stained-glass window set with Apollo’s golden lyre. Taking a step back from the gleaming wood of the desk, the novice swallowed as the gemstone shifted position from where she’d placed it. Its shift didn’t continue, and she stood in silence, clasping her fingers tightly together and keeping her eyes downcast.
Intent on keeping her gaze from the two men in purple robes, she doesn’t see the younger’s haughty glare. “Has the Interrogator learnt nothing more from Aleko’s Soul?”
“No, your Highness, he said it was just repeats of his initial report and instructed me to return the soul trap to you.” The girl whispered, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“Very well, return to your duties,” the growl in the man’s voice sent a shiver along the novice’s spine, but she nodded respectfully and departed with a controlled grace.
A far older man, thin with age and with pure white hair, sitting in the cool shadows beside the window spoke up after the door closed. “What will you do now, Charilaos?”
Charilaos carefully composed his expression before he looked at the older man, whose black gaze blended in with the surrounding shadows. “What can I do? I have Apollo’s instructions—greater preparations will need to be made.”
“That is the way you’ve chosen to take his order. Yet she killed the lead Summoner of a full eleven; exactly what greater preparation do you intend?” asked the old man, as he unrolled a scroll. “I do like this line from the Necromancer’s - oh sorry, Interrogator’s report, ‘brushed us all aside as if our summoning was an annoying fly’.”
“They were all mercenaries hardly fit to hold a candle to the will of Apollo’s Priests,” sneered Charilaos. “At least we didn’t have to pay them in the end. I’ll have a greater circle carved to summon and contain her.”
“I’ll let the church elders know you plan to lead the ritual; to show what the favoured of Apollo is capable of,” the old man states, Charilaos’ gaze narrows at his very respectful tone even before he continues. “Unless you believe the strength of your will is in question?”
“Very well, Elder Xanthos. I’ll ensure preparations start at once,” Charilaos replied. Rising casually, he crossed the silk rug, his white-knuckled grip on the door’s handle at odds with the controlled motion it opened with. He walks away at a stately pace leaving the door fully open by him.
Xanthos smile remained pleasant but the warmth of it never touched his eyes; only once Charilaos’s footsteps fade did he carefully secure the scroll.
“Did you expect useful information after he was smothered in our infirmary?” Xanthos sighed to himself and levered his thin frame from the chair. Limping from the room, he passed the desk and slipped the diamond from its surface. “The novice may have done you a favour, you’re too arrogant to handle fear well; always best for stupid men to face their fate in ignorance.”
Outlands - Runa’s PoV
Sage’s wings are so glowing and beautiful, like drifting clouds beckoning the latest Erakkö arrivals from Judgement to follow calmly behind. In the weeks since Amdirlain’s departure with Pit, the Erakkö have become a common sight. Though I don’t understand what Mirage means about being in tune with Amdirlain’s beliefs before she came to their world.
I recognise the common release of tension from their features as they cross the Domain’s boundary. Two of them barely make it fully inside their expressions so blissful I’m not surprised when they simply walk over and sit among some trees. They lean against a trunk looking like they’re about to fall asleep.
Not that I blame them, the sunlight is so warm and relaxing I could melt into the cool wall behind me, its stone vibrating in time to the voice raised in cheer within. The Domain’s energy mingling with it oddly beckoning me to rest, even though I’ve not needed sleep since I died. It was a comfort like laying in amid a field of ripe wheat, watching the golden glow of the stalks rustling dryly in the breeze. The dream-like glow surrounding me as I pray Amdirlain would let me help those in need. A voice calling for help echoes and I hear others in the field moving towards the call. Suddenly eager to be of help first, I rush ahead through the glowing stalks, the light melting around the hand I raise to shield my eyes. Suddenly everywhere I look, brilliant rainbow hues brightly shimmer in a glow whose source I can’t see.
[Evolution obtained, Profile available.]
Profile? That’s what the Archons talk about.
A burst of light sweeps through me and drops me into retreating darkness. The golden light pushes the darkness down the corridors and casts strange shadows across rune carved walls. I’ve never met a woman with bat wings before, let alone skin that is bone white and her presence feels wrong, but wearing Amdirlain’s symbol halts me in surprise.
The second woman is at least dressed, but her clothing is ripped and tied together with rough knots, and doing little to hide the muscles in her arms and torso. Her ash-blond hair shows up all the dirt and blood, but her steel-grey gaze stays fixed on me in wonder. The curve of her lush lips makes for a friendly smile.
They’re both wearing Amdirlain’s symbol, though the winged woman’s looks roughly carved from stone.
The initial burst of light faded into a steady golden glow. “Where am I?”
The feel of the winged woman drifts across my awareness, and wanting to get away from her puts me against the ceiling. I feel my shell bump against the ceiling, and I consider the golden mesh around me in shock.
I’m like Pip! Knowledge rises up through me and I realise the naked woman is a Succubus. Why she’s wearing Amdirlain’s symbol?
“A Lantern Archon, unbelievably useless when alone but at least you’ll be able to see what kills you now. I told you to be careful activating the runes, that was the only summoning one I looted from him.”
“I didn’t hear you offering to cast it, Klipyl,” the second woman says, before looking up at me. “I’m Frey, this is Klipyl. We were escaping a Wizard’s prison and activated a trap. We need help to get out of here. There are wards preventing Klipyl from teleporting out.”
“You wouldn’t have liked the help we’d have gotten,” insists Klipyl. “Don’t shoot me glow bug, it’s not my fault we’re stuck in this place. I shouldn’t have told Ståle where to avoid stepping, but of all the infernal tricks, I wasn’t expecting him to shove Frey into me.”
“I heard someone calling for help? I’m not sure how I can help if you can’t teleport out of here,” I murmur, wondering how I can help anyone without hands.
“We’re hoping there is a way out,” Frey replies. “Klipyl can smell fresh air coming from somewhere, but undead have almost gotten me a few times.”
“Give me a moment please, I just have to check something,” I say, my voice sounding different now that I’m paying attention—it’s airy and a higher pitch.
They think Profile to see them, isn’t that what Mirage said? But even if I can see my Profile, what classes could I use?
[Available Class Options:
Archer
Guide
Explorer
Fighter
Priest
Scout
Zen Archer (Monk variation)]
No point taking Fighter is there if I can’t use any equipment?
Pip shoots at things with radiant bolts; Archer perhaps, but how is Zen Archer different?
A sudden burst of Amdirlain’s intent focus sparring with Ebusuku grips me, and I feel the same energy in her fist wrapping around the energy of my shots. I’m suddenly aware the light bolts could carry the Ki energy wrapped around them.
Pip has four Classes, so Archer, Zen Archer, Priest, and Scout sound good, Yeah, I’ll go for those.
The moment I pick them the meshwork around me changes even though it doesn’t obstruct my vision—a shadow of Amdirlain’s symbol appears on the wall near me.
Profile.
Comments
Håvard
Love it someone asks for help and her people compeates over who can help first.
