The Orkhan witch remained a bit befuddled as she followed the Dawnmartyrs into their newly-extant keep, but mild bafflement was Imogen's usual state of being. The sanctum's interior was almost alarmingly flash; tones of light and silver and gold in evidence everywhere, each room bespeaking a symbolism of authority and omnipresence. She wondered vaguely if the images in the crystal and glass were merely decoration, or if they were true Windows across the world. That idea defied her understandings of the order underpinning Ransera, but she supposed that was why works of the divine were meant to be impressive.
When the four reached the side room--she supposed that, having just created this citadel, it was natural that the Prince knew its interior--she took the proffered chair, still preoccupied with reflection upon the sudden existence of it.
(An ordinary chair was grown as wood, distilled by life from the surrounding elements for decades, then cut down and reshaped, worn by time and force until it eventually collapsed. What about this chair? Formed ex nihilo, would it too collapse? Would it persist indefinitely, alien to the natural processes of the world, or had it become tainted with materiality upon its creation? Such questions would someday form the foundation of her seminal work on the nature of divinity: What Doeth Chair?.)
Is- Laveriel's tale quickly tore Imogen's mind from such navel-gazing thoughts. She had suspected that the elf was of the generation of Sunsingers who fled Alios, and not the recruits here. The woman's proficiency with a Reaved blade and presence of mind in the face of a great dragon had spoken to experience and power, but it hadn't occurred to her that she might have known the Marshal. It did not surprise her, not even a little, that the leader of the coven had not shared any news of his recent contact with the Dawnmartyr with the rank-and-file.
Gregoire was a tight-lipped bastard at the best of times.
Still, hearing that Laveriel had taken Novuril from the original thief helped to clarify things. Imogen could hardly fathom how this "Master" had stolen the damn thing, but the coven had been pretty convinced that powerful necromancy was involved, and Laveriel had certainly given no indication of such inclinations. Well, she supposed it would be welcome news for a change at the Sanctuary when she reported that Novuril had been found. She could hardly envision Gregoire marching north to demand that Arcas return the sword, especially since the Sunsingers had never seen themselves as owners in any real sense of the word.
Imogen sat quietly through the Dawnmartyr's summery, but it seemed that she expected the Sunsinger to chime in. Imogen didn't have much in the way of experience addressing either princes or divinities, unless you could count her failed attempt to out-drink Vhexur, but she supposed that a professional approach had never failed her yet.
"That report fits with what I know." she began, slowly, "I am Corporal Imogen Ward, of the Sunsinger coven. I was stationed in the perimeter of the High City at the end of Ash, both to assist with refugee matters and... well, I suppose as part of the broader effort to find Novuril's thief, really."
"At that point, in response to reports of dragon attacks in the hinterlands, I was assigned to a small party of dragon-hunters commissioned by the locals, alongside Laveriel. We met with a professional dragonslayer by the name of Jac, who told us that it was- hold on a moment-"
Imogen reached down beneath the table and rooted around for several seconds. Without too much pause, she retrieved a handwritten paper- a copy of the report she'd filed at the Sanctuary last Frost. After her nightmare experience with the Unknown in Drathera, she had taken to keeping written records on her whenever practicable. She skimmed her own messy handwriting, squinting at the page.
"Oh, yes. He told us that the dragon's name was 'Exathun, the Horror Who Dreams', and that Mr. Exathun was the guardian of an artifact called the 'Voice of Tekrah'. When we made contact with Mr. Exathun to sort out the matter, we were forced to engage him, at which juncture Laveriel and myself briefly rendered Mr. Exathun unconscious. When he awoke, he reported that this Voice of Tekrah had been stolen from him and requested its return. Only description of the thief was, well, as Laveriel said."
"We figured it was better to try to sort the theft out than to start buying cannons for when he comes back. Mr. Exathun had suggested we begin with 'the Light's dark past', so the present circumstances naturally suggested themselves. I and my coven would be greatly obliged if you could identify this sorceress who apparently wants to see you and Raxen slain."
When the four reached the side room--she supposed that, having just created this citadel, it was natural that the Prince knew its interior--she took the proffered chair, still preoccupied with reflection upon the sudden existence of it.
(An ordinary chair was grown as wood, distilled by life from the surrounding elements for decades, then cut down and reshaped, worn by time and force until it eventually collapsed. What about this chair? Formed ex nihilo, would it too collapse? Would it persist indefinitely, alien to the natural processes of the world, or had it become tainted with materiality upon its creation? Such questions would someday form the foundation of her seminal work on the nature of divinity: What Doeth Chair?.)
Is- Laveriel's tale quickly tore Imogen's mind from such navel-gazing thoughts. She had suspected that the elf was of the generation of Sunsingers who fled Alios, and not the recruits here. The woman's proficiency with a Reaved blade and presence of mind in the face of a great dragon had spoken to experience and power, but it hadn't occurred to her that she might have known the Marshal. It did not surprise her, not even a little, that the leader of the coven had not shared any news of his recent contact with the Dawnmartyr with the rank-and-file.
Gregoire was a tight-lipped bastard at the best of times.
Still, hearing that Laveriel had taken Novuril from the original thief helped to clarify things. Imogen could hardly fathom how this "Master" had stolen the damn thing, but the coven had been pretty convinced that powerful necromancy was involved, and Laveriel had certainly given no indication of such inclinations. Well, she supposed it would be welcome news for a change at the Sanctuary when she reported that Novuril had been found. She could hardly envision Gregoire marching north to demand that Arcas return the sword, especially since the Sunsingers had never seen themselves as owners in any real sense of the word.
Imogen sat quietly through the Dawnmartyr's summery, but it seemed that she expected the Sunsinger to chime in. Imogen didn't have much in the way of experience addressing either princes or divinities, unless you could count her failed attempt to out-drink Vhexur, but she supposed that a professional approach had never failed her yet.
"That report fits with what I know." she began, slowly, "I am Corporal Imogen Ward, of the Sunsinger coven. I was stationed in the perimeter of the High City at the end of Ash, both to assist with refugee matters and... well, I suppose as part of the broader effort to find Novuril's thief, really."
"At that point, in response to reports of dragon attacks in the hinterlands, I was assigned to a small party of dragon-hunters commissioned by the locals, alongside Laveriel. We met with a professional dragonslayer by the name of Jac, who told us that it was- hold on a moment-"
Imogen reached down beneath the table and rooted around for several seconds. Without too much pause, she retrieved a handwritten paper- a copy of the report she'd filed at the Sanctuary last Frost. After her nightmare experience with the Unknown in Drathera, she had taken to keeping written records on her whenever practicable. She skimmed her own messy handwriting, squinting at the page.
"Oh, yes. He told us that the dragon's name was 'Exathun, the Horror Who Dreams', and that Mr. Exathun was the guardian of an artifact called the 'Voice of Tekrah'. When we made contact with Mr. Exathun to sort out the matter, we were forced to engage him, at which juncture Laveriel and myself briefly rendered Mr. Exathun unconscious. When he awoke, he reported that this Voice of Tekrah had been stolen from him and requested its return. Only description of the thief was, well, as Laveriel said."
"We figured it was better to try to sort the theft out than to start buying cannons for when he comes back. Mr. Exathun had suggested we begin with 'the Light's dark past', so the present circumstances naturally suggested themselves. I and my coven would be greatly obliged if you could identify this sorceress who apparently wants to see you and Raxen slain."
