Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"A ditz you may be, but no one could venture to say you are not lovable for it," responded the Scholarly Elf as the hand on her shoulder tucked a couple of strands of her hair behind her ear, an amused smile responding to her own. "Whatever we plan to do, we must be quick about it. I don't know just how long it will take for us to find Morrelie, especially if she is making efforts to go undetected by anyone who might interrupt her rampage," he stated, a bit more resolutely than the otherwise playful gesture would have implied.

[C S]

"No kidding. Alright then; we spend some time getting ready in whatever way we can, then make a break for Daaven soon. We arrange for Beshayir's care, and Ceridwen's familiar with the area, so she can roam free without having to worry too much. We find Morrelie... somehow, and then throw her off of whatever trail she may be on," Syria thought out loud. "If you have any ideas about something that might interest her enough to leave Desrium alone for a while, please share. If things go well, we'll be back in Daaven to appreciate a job well done, winter festivities, and then we'll be off to a desert."

Syria took in a deep breath. That was a mouthful.

[The Kingpin]

"I will have to speak to my father about that...I think we can safely say that demons would be the only thing that might draw her off Desrium, if only for a short while...but I don't know if he has fully purged Shadepines yet or not, nor if there are any other places we could send her," responded Septimus thoughtfully. "In the mean time, I believe my time would best be spent meditating...I will need to be completely focused and at the peak of my strength for this, should the worst come to pass," he added, already giving some thought to an acceptable place to meditate.

[C S]

"Right." Syria closed her eyes and pulled in another breath. "I'll need to get back in touch with Desrium before something pulls him away from that attic of his. After that, I think I'll see what else I can see of the city until it's time to leave. Make sure my head's in the right place for... this." She opened them again and then leaned over to nip at Septimus' ear. "That's for luck. More luck than usual."

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar was quick to plant a kiss on the Mage's cheek in response, smiling. "Now now. Plenty of time for that later. Perhaps on our way back from Morrelie," he teased as a hand idly toyed with the amulet hanging from his neck.

[C S]

"I'll be completely honest with you, Scholar; if this plan of mine works and we're all alone for any length of time, I'd request a lot of Northern Cream and a quiet place. Maybe our vacation spot near Brackenvald." Syria pulled away and looked expectantly for Septimus' reaction.

[The Kingpin]

Septimus raised a brow, a wry smirk curling across his elvish features at that. "Oh my...Well then, my dear concordant maiden...I will be sure to take us by there on our way back to Daaven, then. Far be it from me to deny the wishes of one such as you," he stated in a tone that showed he had not been quite surprised, nor quite prepared for what she had said. "All in due time, however," he added afterwards, feeling it necessary, though he could not quite say why, exactly.

[C S]

"Should fate be so kind," Syria added.

"I thank you all the same, regardless. I swear, for all of the things you do to me, I would be nothing but nerves by now if I hadn't run into you in that jungle."

She cleared her throat.

"So... business." With that, Syria pulled herself up the length of her staff, standing up before jumping off of the roof's edge and onto it. It bucked, then balanced, hovering in front of the elven Scholar.

[The Kingpin]

"If you would have been all nerves, how do you think I would have been without your company?" responded Septimus with a smile. "But yes, to business. Tend to what you can. I will speak to my father, and then find some place to hone my mind. Perhaps somewhere beyond the walls," he added, his eyes already gaining a characteristic white glow as he began to reach out to the Stormweaver.

[C S]

"Be sure to pass on my greetings and best wishes to senior Khulruudi, mister Khulruudi," Syria responded while turning the staff about. Back to city hall. She braced herself, leaned forward so that she was flush with her staff, then gave her silent command. With another disturbance, Syria was off like a shot, her wirshah ruffling and whipping about as she flew.

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar smiled after the Mage as she departed, shifting his position to get comfortable as he reached out with the power of the Eye, seeking the Stormweaver.


It was a noisy mind he found himself contacting, the Stormweaver evidently busy with something quite taxing, or at least, something that seemed as such for the younger, less adept drake.

"Father?"

The noise stopped. All at once, it seemed to disappear, the Stormweaver's mind growing quite still and tranquil. "Greetings, Septimus. To what do I owe the pleasure?" rumbled the Experimentalist's voice, deep, yet soft; a voice that was at once both imposing and soothing.

"Good morning, father...I needed to ask you about something... I have a bit of a problem," explained the Scholar.

"Oh? Tell me," responded Arashi, his voice taking on a note of inquisitiveness and concern.

"It's to do with Desrium, or rather, those who want him dead," started Septimus.

"Ah... Desrium has many enemies, son. You know this. Who is it exactly that you mean?"

"Morrelie. A rampant Zuppo Mage, and apparently one with unfathomable power for her age," explained the Scholar, his tone reflecting his concern.

"Age is not always a measure of magical prowess, Septimus. Considering your father is an example of such an oddity, you should know this," responded the Stormweaver. "Though yes, a powerful mage consumed by the kind of fear and hate I saw in that order would be problematic," he agreed.

"She nearly killed Desrium once already. She has some form of magic-negation abilities. I'm not exactly sure what it is she did, but it left Desrium powerless. Usually magic has a limited effect on him because he absorbs it as it reaches him, but this? From his description he felt weak...It was like she's found a way to dismantle magic somehow," expressed the Son of Storms, clearly worried.

"Peredomancy... Deconstruction magic... Interesting. Yes, I can see how dealing with Desrium for several hundred years would lead them to go that route... And one of the forms of magic used to entrap demons does rely on that in order to cripple them... So logically she would have access to the kind of knowledge that would develop that school of magical skill. It makes sense. It's what I would use if I had to face the likes of Desrium," pondered the Stormweaver. But then, that was little surprise. These were the descendants of his own disciples, after all. While they may not have been told all of his tricks, they would have learned many skills based on his own teachings.

"She's hunting him. At this rate, she will find him eventually, and there will be nothing he can do to stop her from killing him," pressed the younger Hueilin.

"Indeed. If she is as powerful as you say, confronting her in an outright battle would be risky," stated Arashi, pausing for a moment, seemingly in thought. "Don't try to fight her, Septimus. Whatever it is you're thinking, don't engage her. Deconstruction magic is possibly the second most dangerous and volatile form after entropy itself. It's difficult to repair damage inflicted by peredomancy, even impossible if the peredomancer in question is sufficiently skilled; that's why I do not worry about Gilgamesh ever regaining his demonic imperative... I have destroyed that aspect of him entirely," he warned, his tone suddenly turning very grave.

"I wasn't planning to. But I need to stall her, so that we can at least buy ourselves some time to figure out a way to stop her," insisted the Scholar.

"Then you will need bait worthy enough to lure her away," realised Arashi, understanding now why Septimus contacted him. There was a long, thoughtful pause, the Stormweaver considering the possibilities. It was a risky and unsure to work, for both of them, but there was a possibility...

"Inform her of Necros. Is the book still with you?"

"No, Thurduunax has it. I've been meaning to ask him to hand it to Buruq to destroy," explained Septimus.

"No time to retrieve it... And not with the current situation...Septimus, tell her that there is a cult wandering Aster; the Brotherhood of Necros, attempting to bring the Archdemon to this plane. She may be insane, but I doubt she has forgotten the purpose of her Order... If she is so self righteous over her belief that Desrium should be destroyed, then she is bound to switch to something so potentially threatening as an imminent invasion from an Archdemon; particularly one as powerful as Instigator. She won't be able to resist," he stated.

"A lie?"

"No, the Brotherhood is very real. I'm currently seeking them out myself... With a bit of luck, it will bring her right to me... A bit of finesse will be required, but I may be able to bend the Brotherhood into focusing on her... Whittle her down a bit, perhaps even end her myself, if I think it has weakened her sufficiently," explained the Stormweaver.

"I don't think a bunch of robed demon-worshipping zealots are going to be that much of a threat to her, father," responded Septimus uncertainly.

"Oh no, of course not. But the golems, the afreets, the banshees and imps, the dhahakas all feeding off the Brotherhood's zealotry... They will be," responded Arashi, the wicked grin audible in his voice. "From what I've been able to ascertain, there's more than one potential Archdemon posing a threat here. Necros is the primary danger, yes, but there is also an ancient, very powerful Dhahaka seeking the Brotherhood out as well. It has yet to reach the rank of a true Archdemon, but it's certainly trying to get there. It was responsible for the deaths of Thurduunax's two expedition partners. That will be a very real danger to her regardless of her abilities, particularly if it gets to the Brotherhood before she or I find it."

"You're using her to fight them? Don't you think she might try to kill you too?"

"Oh, that's not even in question. After I supposedly betrayed them, I believe many of the Order wish death upon me... But that's the wisdom in it. Even if the promise of killing demons doesn't attract her, I doubt she'd be able to resist the urge to get a bit of... payback," explained the Stormweaver.

"Don't put yourself in her line of fire... I don't want you to get hurt because of my problems."

"Septimus, son... You are speaking to a veteran of the Eternal War... A veteran who has served a hundred years on the desolate battlefields of Tyrbenetus. This Morrelie may be powerful, even for the likes of Desrium... but she will not be the worst thing I have ever faced... not by a very, very long shot. After all, I doubt she has the power to match the one that killed your six siblings," responded the Stormweaver, a bitter chuckle slipping into their mental link.

"Trust me, son. I have not survived as long as I have by being reckless and underestimating my foes. She will be treated with no less wariness than Gilgamesh was. I will not attempt to engage her directly if it appears it will be a costly decision," he assured the Scholar, the hum of his other thoughts beginning to seep back into the mental link, Arashi resuming whatever it was that had preoccupied him before their conversation. "That said, do not, and I repeat, do not let her learn of your connection to me. I would advise you to approach her in a form other than your own, so that she does not see the Khulruud rune... That could make her suspicious. And if she attempts to attack you, do not hesitate to run. Get as far away from her as you can, as quickly as you can. If your plan fails, summon me. I will arrange for some... assistance to accompany me when I answer the call," he finally concluded as the link faded, surprisingly of Arashi's will rather than the Scholar's...

[C S]

There was more knocking at Desrium's window. The panes were overtaken by green when they subsequently opened by Syria's direction, as Desrium hadn't locked them after her earlier departure. She floated through into the attic and then hopped off of the staff, holding it against herself as she stood past the ledge.

"I hope you are not upset with me," she broached.

"I cannot be," Desrium replied. The kneeling paladin straightened his back and looked over to the mage, saying, "The guards may be tired of you, however."

Syria nodded. "I don't blame them." After a beat, she asked, "May I join you?"

Desrium glanced to one of the chairs in the background. He did not get the chance to suggest that she use it. Syria sat on the floor and set her staff down beside herself, whistling a short tune.

"Syria--"

The mage waved a hand and leaned backwards to rest her palms on the floorboards behind her. "I spoke to Septimus under similar circumstances. We were on a roof, not under one, though."

"Ah."

"You might be wondering why the conversation was so short."

Desrium shook his head. "I need no mind-reading ability to know that Septimus has joined you in your convictions."

Syria hummed. "I know you're worried. You don't have to be. Septimus is speaking to his father about the matter."

"I don't want you to kill her on my behalf," Desrium stated abruptly.

"No, no, nothing of the sort. Septimus and I have no intention of fighting her at all. We just need to have her go do something else with her time, by her own will. Something that will take her to the other side of Aster or..." Syria mumbled something about it taking her to another continent, by a months-long voyage via ship, as Septimus had described to her.

Desrium, being what he was, heard all of it, but made no indication that he had for her sake. "That is why Septimus is speaking to Arashi, then." There was something about deferring to the one Morrelie once saw as a god for aid that had a pang of irony to it. Some vague thing that Desrium could not quite connect with.

"He's bound to know something that we can use." Or he can make something that will force Morrelie to reconsider a few things, Syria mused. "Septimus and I will be flying out to Daaven sooner, though. We've got to take care of the kids, so to speak." One actual child, and a child-like dragon.

"And then you will search for Morrelie."

Syria nodded.

Desrium ruminated on this for a short while, a few minutes of silence between the two. Syria, not wanting to push, but still very anxious about his thoughts on the subject, waited with bated breath.

"I cannot stop you from doing this. However, I would rather not deal with the uncertainty of your whereabouts after the fact. Please, come with me." Desrium began to rise. "There is someone I want you to contact, should your mission be a success. He is known as the Storyteller."

"Of course," Syria replied as she pulled her legs underneath herself and stood up as well.

Desrium chose not to voice his decision, should Morrelie end up claiming her and Septimus' life.

If that came to pass, then he would find her. The Interceptor had brought much destruction in her stride, and she was kindred spirits with the reaper, so when they met next under this circumstance, the Stalwart, the Justicar and the Champion would descend upon her to avenge the lost. Morrelie took Ithra's mercy for granted. She will not be allowed to do the same to Syria's and Septimus'.

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar was airborne mere moments after he had ended his conversation with his father, and before very long he was outside the city walls, perched on a large rocky outcrop overlooking the road leading to Brodudika. His tail was coiled around the rock, the dragon himself sat on his haunches, neck craned and head held down. His wings were curled around him, partially unfurled and casting a shade over his head, so that he could ignore the glow of sunlight through the clouds, aiding him in blocking out any distractions. Here, he was far enough from the city that the hustle and bustle of daily life did not reach him, instead replaced with the rustle of wind through bare trees. There were no animals to be heard, so cold as it was, and there was no river flowing nearby, so he did not need to worry about that, either. It was perfect.

Perfect indeed.



Faruq could, as per usual, be found in the city hall library, sipping some qahwa as he flipped through the pages of yet another of the archive's numerous tomes. One of the first things he had done when he arrived here was invest some of his personal wealth in acquiring history books from all the major kingdoms in the region. He had the histories of all the major cities in Valenhad, the history of Daaven, the ancient lore of the now defunct Draxon and the rise of the Germanian kingdom and church all delivered to him within a month of his arrival here, and it had provided him with ample reading material. After all, as Loremaster and advisor both, he would need to be well informed on the nature and history of the factions he would be dealing with. How else was he to predict how a certain group would respond to the legislation Desrium, the other advisors and himself were planning to put into effect?

[C S]

Although the armored being led the mage to the library, it was Syria who ended up opening the door at the end of the sconce-lit passage. She held it ajar initially, looking around at the shelves past the reception area, all the dozens of them, with wide eyes. The splendor! She stepped through the door and paid no mind to the huge ring of inlaid metal hanging from the ceiling, danging a whole set of blue-tinted lanterns that gave the library a cool, relaxed ambience. There was no thought to the decorative railings that guided a visitor to the manifest sitting on a round table roughly center in the chamber.

Syria saw books spread out on a wide foyer across two floors and her heart was aflutter. What a tragedy that she was born human, to know that the years would pass her by if she ventured to read each work, without experiencing any of it herself. "Septimus will live the dream." And she was happy with that.

"This way, Syria," she heard Desrium say, and became aware that he had gone quite some distance, almost at the shelves lined up in ways as to be akin to a maze, though far less difficult to navigate. It just showed how much she was caught up in the moment, for an overly cautious Desrium to outpace her.

"Ah, coming!" she whispered, and hastened her pace towards the armored being.

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar found himself once more wandering the shadows within his own mind, corridors in darkness where silhouettes of memories danced and mingled with one another, each a manifestation of a different time, a different place, a different person or being.

As with last time, these were peripheries to the main focus of this little venture into his psyche; the light in the distance. The light the Scholar had learned to associate with his spectral doppelgänger, indeed, the mental counterpart to his Elemental Form.

As before, he saw other glimmers of light manifest around it, each a different hue, one in particular standing out; a magma-like orange one that seemed to burn brighter than the others.

In what seemed to be moments, the Scholar was standing in their midst, surrounded on all sides by versions of him. The inquisitive one, the Scholarly Spectre, stood in front of him, with his hide of shimmering starlight, glimmering and fading in and out of existence at the edges like a living mirage. To his left, a version of Septimus whose gaze, contrary to the white of his 'brothers', was instead more akin to a pair of burning coals, smoke billowing from his nostrils; something he did not remember him doing during his last meditation session. To the right, a smiling, joyous looking version of himself, as happy as the Scholar had ever been. Yet another, behind the Scholar, stared with a morose look, as though he had just suffered a loss; a face the Scholar knew could only have been the one on his face on the day Jiier had sentenced himself to an eternal imprisonment with the soul of the Traitor. Around those, there were other aspects of his psyche, and all faced inwards at the form that bore them all.

"It has been too long since we last did this," stated the Scholarly Spectre before Septimus. He nodded.

"Meditation loses its taste when it's only done in times of hardship," he commented to his Spectral counterpart.

"Then you should make it a regular habit. Who knows, you could stand to grow much faster if you did it more frequently," responded the Spectral Scholar.

"You know as well as I do that circumstances don't allow for it often," responded Septimus.

"And yet here you are now. You made time. You can afford to do it more frequently. So why don't you?" rumbled a rougher, harsher version of his own voice; the voice of anger, the facet he rarely listened to. It had not spoken before. This time, he knew why it did.

"We are each fed by your own thoughts and feelings... We grow stronger, more vocal, more visible, depending on which you are closer to in a given moment. Not unlike the old Elvish story, the Tale of the Two Wolves. I'm sure you remember it," stated the Spectral Scholar, voicing that thought.

"Of course. And my anger has been running unchecked since I learned of Morrelie's plans..." continued Septimus.

"... And so, logically, that anger manifests itself here, as the aspect of your fury," continued the Spectral Scholar.

[Hopeflower]

Removed from the concerns of random flying dogs and the dragons behind them, Arsenic had no idea that he was wandering into trouble of his own. With Vix preoccupied with tracking down every bit of information she could get her hands on, it fell to him to keep Rowan busy. If he didn't, she'd take it upon herself to make her own fun, and in a city of would-be heroes of all types...Rowan terrorizing the locals was bound to end painfully for someone.

So of course when she suggested checking out the local school and seeing what all of the whispers were about, Arsenic was inclined to agree. There was no reason to say no, after all, and he had been itching with curiosity from the moment he'd heard about it.

"I'm not saying shaving Liam's head was the smart thing," Rowan was saying as they approached the school building, most of her focus on picking dirt out from under a fingernail with the blade of a knife. "I'm saying that he deserved it."

'I'm still wondering about the part where he convinced you a cockroach was made of chocolate,' Arsenic muttered.

"Not about the part where I got him to believe eating grass would give him magic powers?" Rowan asked, looking up briefly, one eyebrow raised.

An involuntary smile tugged at Arsenic's lips. 'Rowan,' he said, 'Liam is younger than you. I know how little siblings are.'

"Fair enough," she conceded.

Well above them, Viho's lesson was winding down for a break. Over the past few minutes, the restless fidgeting and jiggling of legs had increased to the point where even he was having some trouble concentrating. He supposed it was as good a time as any to go and stretch his legs. After the fourth time someone's sigh made the psychomancy teacher twitch and bite back a sarcastic comment, he announced, "You know the drill by now. Work off some of that energy and come back ready to pay attention."

Firel was, for once, one of the first out of their seats. He couldn't contain a sigh of relief. As the students, varied as they were, drew closer to being on even footing, it seemed like the lessons had fallen into a pattern of repetition. He supposed that was intentional on Viho's part, but it didn't stop it from getting dull. And maybe that was why Viho was a little more lenient when it came to breaks than other teachers in the building.

It must have been ridiculously easy for Viho to tell when he was losing the class.

[C S]

The fancies of the library all fell away to the domain of leather and pages.There were so many ladders, either attached to the frame of the bookshelves or leaned against them, that the rungs practically became a wooden lattice decoration, to say nothing of some of the flashier bindings to behold. "The Storyteller must feel right at home with all these books around," Syria commented in following Desrium through the aisles of spines and titles. She had been recently informed that she already had a passing familiarity with the elf. She was there when Desrium and his advisors had assembled for their journey to, back then, Grymhaven.

"One would think, but no," Desrium replied. Syria looked at him curiously.

"Oh?"

"I have learned more about Thimeyra through him. There are no archives in Antar's court. The history of desert elves is preserved through speech."

Syria's shock had her placing her free hand on her chest. "Speech? Recitals? As in they don't write these stories down?"

"Correct."

The mage stammered for a while, several thoughts crashing into each other and fizzling out into a nonsensical static that had her mouth convulsing. She shook her head after being fed up with herself, and managed to say, "That's astonishing!" Her eyes shone green in the blue-bathed corridor, and her journal was lifted out of her bag. "I bought this book, and the ink I use to write in it, from the Thimeyran market. They're so well made, I never would have thought that the historians there don't even use them."

"It is a tradition for the Thimeyrans that lends itself well to their lifespans," Desrium replied. "Though, I infer it originated as a necessity of their situation. In leaving the western kingdoms for the desert, the future Thimeyrans would have faced abandoning their heritage."

Syria rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "They couldn't carry an archive with them into the sun and sand, so they memorized an archive's worth of story to keep with them. They did not agree with the shifting of morals, but that did not mean the Thimeyrans completely renounced their old fellowship, back in the west." She found it a touching dedication. One of the most inconsolable splits in Aster's history still retained a semblance of kinship, and it was done without bloodshed as a plus.

It was something she found especially uplifting now. Something to take heart in when she found herself standing before Morrelie herself. An aura of such ill-intent would be choking, but thoughts like this would make the experience just slightly more bearable.



Solaurn remained in her seat beside Gwen. Her slab on her desk in front of her, she continued trying to pry into its collection of magic. It was a bit of annoyance for her, that she wasn't making the most of its charge. If she could get at the small stuff now, it meant that by time she was ready to do something big, the slab would have had ample time to recharge so that she could deliver a spectacle. Solaurn did not let it get to her, though. The dwarf, by the merit of being a dwarf who had lived in a mountain-hold, knew very well what happened when progress was rushed.

She always felt that Koganusan regretted its damnable Bronze Colossus. If only someone had taken the time to plan how the pipes would deal with pressure backups and all those technical details that plagued dwarven ingenuity. For that, she was not pleased, but wasn't upset either, with her slow progress.

Gwenviere, being the lovely thing that she was, had a stick of charcoal and a scrap of parchment that had been left on the floor on her way up to class, and was scribbling away wildly. What she wrote matched no form of writing elsewhere on Aster, how abstract and pictorial each character was. An onlooker would have taken the letters for runes that appeared to be ambiguous leaves, and concepts, such as a series of meandering lines looking like the current of a river.

Or were they supposed to be the movement of wind?

Dahnae, for a change, had been less...

... Erratic. She sat in proximity to the two, and their energy apparently influenced her own vibes. She still sat on her haunches upon her desk, as opposed to her chair. With a zen-like calm, she thought, "Break-time. Work-time." She exhaled smoothly, as per Viho's breathing exercises, and slowly stood up.

Before stepping off of her desk, and striding to the door.

[The Kingpin]

"But while anger is important as a motivator, letting it have free reign will rob you of focus," stated the Spectral Scholar.

"Naturally," agreed Septimus. It was almost unnerving how this whole conversation was unfolding in his head, particularly as each of these facets seemed different enough from himself that they could pass for other figures. With the exception of the main speaker in this exchange. He noted that the aspect of Fury, true to his name, was glaring at the Spectral Scholar with bitter contempt. But as had been handily implied, the fact Septimus was a being of thought, reflection and focus meant that it could not hope to take away from the Spectral Doppelgänger's authority. Septimus's mind was indeed in full control here, not the rage in his heart.

The darkness began to fade. In its place, deep blue seemed to take hold, growing lighter. The assembly of dragons, once standing, now found themselves floating, the very air gaining a thickness to it that would pass for water had Septimus not found he could breathe normally despite it. All in my mind.

The rattle of his many memories faded away as the churning of water filled his ears. He was swimming...somewhere in his memories.

"Drakhunmiir," said the Spectral Scholar, his form a shimmering distortion in the water, looking for all the world like sunlight breaking the water's surface, except that the sunlight and surface both were above the Son of Storms, and his Doppelganger was next to him.

"The first time you meditated after taking on this form," he added.

"It was quiet," acknowledged Septimus. Deep meditation was still a mystery to him then. He was simply letting himself drift in silence, trying to think of nothing. It came after an energetic day of exploring the limits of his new form, the deeper breaths, the speed and agility, the freedom he felt after the rectifying ritual. While he was used to it now, the memory of those first days was still fresh.

But it had been followed by a venture down near the bottom of the lake, further than most of the other Hueilin bothered to go, aside from the odd Onokruun drakes wandering the bottom and venturing into underwater caverns. As for the Scholar himself, he was adrift.

"An Elemental Form arises from the absolute dominion of mind over all else. For what but the mind can wield magic so effectively?" was the Spectral Doppelgänger's rhetorical question, beckoning the Scholar to think on that for a moment. He knew the knowledge was there. Thurduunax himself had stated that the threads of what he sought to achieve awaited him within his own mind...He needed only to find them.

[Hopeflower]

Viho took the time to stretch as best as he could, working some tension out of his good shoulder with a quiet sigh. Absently, he rubbed at his crippled arm, his gaze turning towards the windows as he allowed himself to get lost in thought. It might be time he asked after Desrium's not-quite-promise to help him. He hadn't pushed, knowing that he'd never have the full use of his arm again. Still, something to dull the pain wouldn't have been unwelcome. The colder it got, the stiffer the injury and the deeper the ache. He'd toyed with the idea of giving up the entire limb on his worst days, but flinched away from the thought now.

Putting it firmly out of his mind, Viho cracked a few stubborn vertebrae in his neck and leaned back against his desk. Without anything requiring his immediate attention, he could afford to relax a little while he kept one eye on Gwen and Solaurn.

Several floors below, and still some distance from the school's doors, Rowan let out a low, impressed whistle. She stuck her hands in her pockets and leaned backward, tipping her head and squinting at the building's top floor. "Hell of a school," she remarked. "My bet's on them hiding some beastie in there."

Arsenic snorted. 'Of course it is.'

"You think teaching magic alone needs a building that big?"

The mute shrugged. 'Depending on the kinds of magic they're teaching, probably. I'd imagine they keep a couple of those floors empty, in case something blows up and they need extra rooms.'

"Doesn't do much to convince me there isn't something else going on."

'It's magic. There's always something else going on.' Arsenic shot her an amused glance. 'But it doesn't always involve monsters.'

"Not the beastly ones, anyway," Rowan muttered under her breath, and Arsenic didn't argue that point. She sighed, linked arms with him, and added, "Come on. We're burning daylight, and who knows what Vix might be getting up to while we're gawking."

'Tearing through some library, hopefully,' Arsenic said dryly, allowing her to pull him along.

"Well, yes, but there's research and then there's 'research'."

'Believe me, I'm very aware.'

Vix, as it happened, had asked around to find the best source of information in the city and was making her way toward city hall to try her hand at getting permission to go through the archives. She didn't have many cards to play, admittedly, and she wasn't going to bet that her chances were very good. Still, it was worth a shot. Clutching at her optimism like a lifeline, the innkeeper did her best to keep her back straight and her stride purposeful, as crowds tended to part more easily for people who looked like they had somewhere to be.

[C S]

Pouch draped across her torso. Overly-large coat pulled flush over her thighs. Hood over her pointed ears. Receptionist braced for the worst.

"Be back in a couple," Dahnae said to him without looking at the suited man, going over her shoes one last time to make sure they were firm on her feet. They always were.

"Please, no rush," the man replied, the effort behind the statement markedly resigned and tired. He'd said many variations of it since he'd known the girl. She didn't listen, he knew she didn't listen, and she knew she wasn't going to listen. Some madness calling itself etiquette advised that he say it.

"Ya-huh," Dahnae replied absently as she did, as he expected, and in the next few seconds he saw her cross the lobby, hit the door, throw it open and disappear into the blinding yonder. He jot down a notch on a pad of paper for tally, then logged Dahnae's departure for delivery. That was the routine now.

As was the girl all but flying by the two. Someone approaching the school at an inopportune time saw her, at one point or another, barreling towards them before her heels twisted and she swerved in a seemingly impossible way, her entire upper body bending outwards in the turn. The elastic change in direction had Dahnae step around Rowan and continue her sprint directly behind the older woman, not breaking stride at all.

That happened when she had to vault over a stagecoach making its pass down the road, and that happened with a series of flips up its side, across the roof and off onto a streetlight.


"You look like a lady on a mission," said a particular darkly dressed hydromancer lingering away from the action underneath city hall's chandelier. With her back against one of the support columns, Moira had a view of most of the lobby where people lined up for odd jobs and campaigns. It was why her next comment to the innkeeper was accompanied with a flippant point of her thumb. "Line starts at the door... unless you have a more specific objective in mind?" The way she spoke gave Moira a perpetual mischievous quality to her. Even when her intentions were wholly innocent.

Maybe.

Just by the way she carried herself, the mage had a vapor of mystery around her.


Syria took to flipping through her pages, with her telekinesis of course, as she and Desrium walked the lengths of literature. Her eyes lingered on her descriptions of past adventures for a little more than a moment at a time, then the pages fluttered on by at her behest and grinning features. The sound was louder in the quiet of the archives. Was there even anyone else in here? The armored being seemed convinced, and he had a set of senses that Syria wasn't one to question. She continued reading her old entries, which were new at the time, back when she first visited the desert city.

Which she was handily reminded of by her entries after her confession to Septimus. "Why did I even write this -- as if I would forget -- gah!"

She was thankful that, for all of Desrium's more nebulous forms of perceptions, picking up on the emotions of others was not one of them. She was also thankful that his sights were locked straight ahead, for she was sure her cheeks were as red as his eyes.

As they rounded a corner in the labyrinthine library, the Storyteller in the resting area past it could hear the mage inquire, "... How long can those stories be, Desrium? I need these notes of mine to be able to talk about what I did in the last half of the year for any length of time. The Thimeyrans speak the saga of their entire existence?"