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(Vol 7) Chapter 1: Talking Shit
🕑 Added 2024-10-30 15:01:23 +0000 UTC
“Lord Gallust could know any number of capable wizards or warlocks,” Estran Bakesworth commented in his perpetually bored tones. The historian, herald, and political savant was never animated, whether discussing the details of battles, clothing, nobles — or even assassinations, for that matter. “He’s quite the social butterfly and schemer. He’ll certainly maneuver for gain with Agatha’s death and his claim, though rumor goes he’d rather gain concessions than the actual responsibility of Oldaster. He’s built to be, ah, out of harm’s way? A contentious march is certainly not that, despite the great upgrade of station it would represent to him. Could’ve changed his mind, of course.”
As he listened, Crow gazed out of the shuttered window of the highest point in Mot Mekess, a room atop Goldpenny Tower, an integrated fortification of the central fort. No one knew why it was called that. The primary fortress was older than sin, many of its secrets long dead, try as one might to resurrect them. Crow in fact tried himself, to mixed success.
The room was a favored place for meetings, cool from the prevalent winds and fairly isolated. Where Crow’s eyes were directed, he saw a great distance to the low hills of the western road crossing the Muckwood Bridge. The same road Merril pretended to take before veering north to impatiently avoid the bridge, in his intention to circle around and head to Caneboro. Foolish, really. He should’ve gone over the bridge, thereby having more chance to fool pursuers despite the extra time to deal with re-crossing the river north.
But then I might be dead or captured by the Dominion instead of who I am now. A mistake, yet perhaps fortunate. A matter of fate.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Crow offered without turning around, “but Count Ultaboro is very knowledgeable and interested in matters of spellcraft, is he not? His court wizard is highly renowned. He owns many artifacts.”
Whoever is responsible for Agatha’s death, I want to know the hidden details. Who? Why? How? These are the remaining unanswered questions.
Estran could be heard to shift and clear his throat after sipping his glass of chilled wine. Crow’s sensitive ears deduced no nervousness. He might’ve cared more about his wine's fate than Oldaster's. Whoever was at the top, he remained a valuable resource not likely to be discarded. So he likely thought, anyway.
He underestimates the level of idiocy capable of gaining a throne.
“The latter is true, Sir Bard,” Estran answered. “A point of pride for him. As rumors go, his knowledge is more casual familiarity, and the wizard very old, past the prime of his finest days, renowned though he may be. Dozes often, as some might say befits his compensation. The County of Ultaboro and its long line of rulers has an exceptionally litigious reputation, so to speak? They’ve refined and ruthlessly enforced certain old seizure laws related to magical items and the Dominion.”
“Seizure laws? Mmn. So, what you’re implying is that the count and his family took most of their prize pieces?”
“I’d never imply such an insult, no, sir,” the herald remarked dryly.
Crow sniffed in amusement once as he crossed his hands behind his back. “I suppose that wouldn’t be gentlemanly.” The artifacts of Oldaster are a potential extra motive for the Count. “And Baron Fallsland. By all accounts a man with dark connections, and desperate with debt to the Dominion itself.”
Estran grunted disfavorably — as much blatant emotion as he’d so far displayed. “Only the truly desperate would thus entreat with him, but it is indeed best to put absolutely nothing past the good baron. As rumor goes, he rarely disappears through deep dungeons and catacombs in the night, returning bedraggled and sleeping through the day. Whispers about a lover, a cult, an unknown evil ally… all sadly unsubstantiated.”
“Even as rumor, those are damning accusations for a ruler in Dominion territory, are they not?”
“They could be, if one doesn’t consider the debt and existing relationship. No doubt Dominion agents would dismiss these whispers as base lies in such an upstanding, forthright member of their society — unless he manages to weary them of their significant patience.”
Crow nodded thoughtfully. “No doubt. Finally… we come to Lord Doran.” Dangerous territory to speak these words to this one, but ah well. We’ll see. Things need to move along.
“Hmm. What is there to say of the Second Guardian of Oldaster, Sir Bard?”
“You tell me. He has the benefit of access. Motive, apparently. Ever hear of unusual connections in his regard?”
There was a brief pause. “Such an intriguing question requires significant thought, I’m afraid. By all appearances, Lord Doran does not and never had any intentions of leveraging his claim whatsoever. Too much honor in the way and not much ambition. A fighting man through and through, him. I suppose his family is very old and influential. Very loyal and upright members of our great empire. Practically spotless.”
“Do think on it in the coming days, then. Thank you for your time, Mister Bakesworth. If you… happen to overhear more up-to-date interesting tidbits on these assorted characters or our current track of interest in this regard… kindly pass them along?”
“Oh, certainly. Sir Bard.” He took his time, sipping the wine.
“Do take the bottle, if you would. I’m uncertain I’ll finish even my current glass’s worth. I fear I will spoil the rest, delicate vintage that it is.”
“Ah! Well. I suppose that’s wisdom. We could hardly let it go to waste, hmm?”
“My heart would indeed be eased to avoid it, however deep and wide my cellar access and coffers go. I sometimes lament what to do with it all, cursed by my too-particular tastes.” A little bribery and the willingness to bribe goes a long way.
“Very well, then.” The herald could be heard to rise and wipe the wine bottle of condensation before taking it. “May your day be blessed with great wisdom, Sir Bard.”
“And you.”
Before Estran left, he added, “We should discuss the finer details of vintages sometime, hmm?”
“Indeed we should.” A little extra effort of vital information for a rare vintage? I think we can arrange that, and happily.
The door opened and closed as the herald departed.
Crow’s analysis of the captured segment of the artifact had not turned up much other than a very high caster level equivalent, because it was protected and obscured. 16 or higher, and arcane. This didn’t guarantee that level of a [Wizard] by any means, but the creator/creators were no slouches regardless. If that was relevant… the creator could’ve been an ancient, and the artifact simply an owned thing activated, signifying someone of high resources. Either way, it was most likely the plot of one of the scumbag nobles, possessing all the motive to kill.
Only ‘most likely,’ though. Ruling non-rulers out is not a good plan. We should be prepared for anything.
Analysis of magical artifacts wasn’t Crow’s specialty, but, fortunately, they did have such specialists. Crow sent his containment box with the ‘specimen’ to Gierkos, to be seen by the likes of Tashome, Zephyr, and Ash. Most likely, they’d uncover more.
In the meantime, I’ve got more inquiries to make. So much for my little holiday to Caneboro. But we’re all busy… aren’t we, now?
✦•············•✦•···········•✦
Linguist, Stargazer, and Waytaker, ghostly mortal souls from a time so distant that memory of it was all but gone, led Samantha, Azure, and a projected Orswyth through a narrow catacomb beneath the spirit world carcass of Itha Ranon. Within the bowels of that ruin, the aura contained and radiating from the general surroundings was rich and thick, the mystical equivalent of walking through a too-bright steam room.
Aural energy brushed across and through Samantha’s spirit body charged and then double-charged to exit her, as if her existence excited it. That energy bent toward her, crowded and concentrated, slowly pulling from all directions. She was not left unaffected, either. It made her more awake and aware; bestowed a better mood. It made her downright giddy… something she had to suppress.
Incredible! It’s a strange kind of pneumanic construct. Not as crude as I’ve seen elsewhere. It’s like… reinforcement of shapes and structures that once existed. It maintains that memory through faux physical frameworks! Still deteriorating, hence the aural residue, but it stubbornly refuses to leave this place. Too heavy with what it was… the dust and ashes of proud and noble ideals.
“This is a transitional realm,” Linguist had offered when they first stepped spiritual foot within the oddly comforting, dark underbelly. “Only by which way can one enter our king’s courts, one and all, barring the precision of his ire — that, however, is unwise to deliberately stir. Come. Quickly, quietly, let us finish the grave betrayal of servants for nobility’s sake.”
Before they had ever entered, they’d been warned about potential discovery from the first dive to the ruins until the very doors they had to open. Stargazer had offered a rare comment then: “The Interceptor-Twisters are not forgetful this Wicking.”
Linguist then clarified: “Sentinels. Curse-makers in translation to the material realm; evocation and transmutational destruction specialists here. Spellslingers, killers, wraiths.”
Peachy.
Worse, they were positively swarming and on high alert, apparently having picked up on some sort of interloper presence. Though Linguist claimed they had not directly lied, somehow the Sentinels were convinced the trespassers were ‘snakes.’ This was some benefit to them, as they wouldn’t be looking for humanoids.
Illusions had not been advisable due to the numbers and capabilities of the studious wraiths, protecting territory for thousands of years as they had. Even with their minds deteriorating, the operations of their jobs held intact for a large number of them, and deterioration varied by individual and day by day. Trying to disguise and look like them was only good from a far distance, because they still recognized faces and the peculiarity of detailed kits they wore, each more elaborate than a royal figure’s attire.
Instead, they’d simply split into three groups of two and sprinted in flight at opportune times, somewhat rolling the dice on discovery.
They were aided by another potentially beneficial cultural peculiarity, however. According to Waytaker, over the vast period of time, there were occasional points where the rather monstrous appearance changes made them sensitive, and they’d wear hooded grain sack cloaks and masks to hide their ‘embarrassment’ with themselves. It had been a long time, but…
Waytaker, to decide on reliability, tested out a hypothesis that the remnant practice would bear instinctual acceptance. She — rather dangerously — began insulting Sentinels about their appearance. Some didn’t respond, some growled, and some tried to kill her, but in observation many hours later, one of them had indeed re-donned the old getup. It was tolerated without apparent offense by the others.
Poor wraith dude, having a girl call him ugly right to his face. Oh well — being addled, he’ll forget about it soon, I imagine. If he hasn’t already.
So, Sammy, Azure, and Orswyth donned the provided grain sack ‘ugly cloaks’ and attempted a high-speed avoidance leveraging remnant cultural pity older than dirt.
It worked. Sammy zipped after Waytaker down to the ruins as the others waited for their opportunity. She held her cloak bundled around her to avoid any studious attention to her outfit. Two Sentinels — wraiths decked in elaborate robes and tall headdresses, colorful in sharp, aggressive contrasts — paused in their existing route to watch them all pass by with perpetually fierce, intense, zombie-like faces. They weren’t accosted, though.
Yeah, don’t mind me. Just Ms. Super Ugly coming through, along with the lady that’s talking shit about everyone!
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Note: The crown is intended to look ancient and fragmented.
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