30th of Frost, Year 119
Lw'nafhnah hnah, ymg' mgep mg c'dzhjen ot ahf' Y' ah. Ot ahf' c' ah. Raeth yog llll ymg' bthnknahor, g'tashk c'. C' ah'f'nah ahnnn. Ahlloigehye.
The voices. They were so vile.
"Lethiril, they're so... hungry. What do they want? I don't . . . I don't understand."
"Your aether," he said. "Nothing more, nothing less. It is what all Archetypes want. It is how they feed."
"But--"
"The Vesj'vakar starve. They have so few Summoners, and a demanding Patron."
"But they don't need to eat, do they?" Taelian asked. His lips were pressed together, his expression strained; he appeared uncomfortable, as the Ritual's colors rose from his fingertips. The sound filling the air was deep and disturbing, more than just the voices that whispered around him like a cloak.
"Need is often a subjective quality, despite what others say, and particularly when it concerns the arcane. Want -- that's the metric we shall judge the Archetypes by. They want many things. Sustenance. Power. The chance to roam among us, even if only to play their momentary games. Archetypes often have complex societal dynamics; being called upon by one of us is an opportunity for prestige, a chance to regale in stories. They are like warriors in that regard. Their value is derived from their accomplishments in the field."
He understood. It was not dissimilar to the Ebon Knights who clamored around the Black Revenants, waiting to be called to the field, even if only to die at a Dranoch's hand. These Archetypes were in competition with one another, even if nothing truly valuable came from their dance. He supposed the ether they paid as tribute to their Patron was value in itself; the opportunity to draw favor from the entity that acted as their creator, their all.
It wasn't dissimilar from how he was acting now; willing to put himself on the line to gain the admiration of Lethiril, who he looked up to and adored. His old friend.
"Leth," he whispered. "I'm beginning to feel one, drawing near. Does this mean I've done the Ritual correctly?" he asked.
"It may indeed mean that," the Dratori replied. "Don't move. Let it come to you. Feel its shape, its texture and contours. Describe it to me."
Taelian nodded, and focused. His eyes remained closed. It was strange -- it was like he was living in a separate reality within his mind, thrown to a different space. But he was really there... or it felt like he was. One body was in the flesh, in the Free Cities and their wilds, and another -- an aethereal form -- was in this place. Not the Ebony Nightmare, but... Veravend's domain. Wherever that was.
He felt like he was at the bottom of the sea. It was so dark that only small lights could be made out and determined, but the Archetypes themselves could not be seen, only felt and heard. Their breathing. Their faint whispers. It seemed the closer they drew, the farther they felt.
"It's here!" he exclaimed.
"Touch it," Lethiril bade him. "What does it feel like?"
"It--feels..."
Cold.
