Glade 71, 122
It had been some days since Imogen had sealed up the bad rock, and she was optimistic that this was the end of matters. After all, how many problems could the element of metal really have in a country without forges or mines? The meteorite had been a dramatic one, admittedly, but between the odd jobs she’d completed thus far it seemed like things ought to be pretty well normalized.
Her dreams had been pretty empty too, and not just because of the nature of that ongoing headache. Nobody had capered and giggled through her nights since the Season’s turn, and she was beginning to hope that they’d finally gotten bored and chosen to go annoy another.
Still, she had chores enough to keep herself busy for at least the season’s duration. She’d resolved to check on the isle with the bad rock regularly in case something went awry, that it wouldn’t be set adrift on the seas, and Kitty was always in need of more shadows- which added nothing to the burden of hunting per se (as she herself was quite happy to eat shadowless meat) but limited how much she could rely on scrounged fruits.
It was on the return from one of those little journeys to her hut that she received the call.
At first, it was just a feeling. A prickling on the inside, a wind across her skin. More and more it felt like the little invisible string of intention which the spirits had tied to her in the past, an inscrutable summonses by beings which could not quite understand how to make themselves known in the ways of mortals.
And then her shield materialized itself.
The huge pane of reflective metal slid smoothly out of nothingness, as though it had merely been concealed behind some screen of invisibility in the air, floating two feet above the earth and just dwarfing its master. As Imogen watched, alarmed and befuddled, the fog within her pact weapon’s luster parted.
Within the Window opened therein, the witch saw a small glade, an opening in the gentle southern stands of jungle trees. The image rippled as Imogen peered into it, trying to discern the message.
The space was quiet and calm, doubtless, and apparently devoid of any life; except, as she scanned it again, she realized that there was a body lying against the trunk of a fallen tree. Small, humanoid–not the right build for an Ork, maybe even too slim for a human–and she gasped aloud.
Was that a crewmate? She couldn’t make out the details, but it didn’t look like any of her companions from The Duck. Still, where else could they have come from? Surely not Avamande’s demon city to the north, Solunarium? Could it be some companion the elf had brought back, or perhaps Destyn, with his bracelet?
As usual, these were not questions she could simply conjure answers for. The figure in the image was motionless, but at this distance the witch could not possibly be sure whether they lived. She would simply have to make haste.
"Damn." swore Imogen, "I’m going, I’m going!"
This was a much more sophisticated cry for help, with an immediate moral dimension that she wasn’t about to shun. There was no question whether she was going to go, only- could she get there in time to save anyone?
~~~
It took Imogen the better part of a day to reach the glade, even with Traversion. If she were only Carina’s equal in the art, perhaps she could have stabilized the Window and made it a proper portal, and been there within moments; as it was, attempting such a spell was more likely than not to end up shunting her into the face of a mountain, or worse. She’d made progress with that Rune, but it felt more like her slow years of study and advancement with Reaving than her easy mastery of Animus.
Still, given her unfamiliarity with the site and the considerable distance, the ork chose not to beat herself up about it. She’d arrived as fast as she could, under the circumstances.
When she did arrive, to her relief, she found that the glade was exactly as it had appeared in her Window (was it her Window? She thought she had been the one to open it, but how could that be?). The Ork approached the prone figure on the ground cautiously. There was no point to haste now; they’d had plenty of time to die or stabilize from whatever had laid them out like this.
Up close, Imogen discerned that the figure was, indeed, an elf woman. A Dratori, she thought, though she’d always had considerable difficulty in reading the nuances which differentiated one elven race from another. Her skin was a darker tone, at any rate, and she was well-muscled for her build. Her face was stunning, and framed by beautiful auburn hair.
Also, she was clearly dead.
There was no sign of decay, or anything, but Imogen had seen enough fresh corpses. Her skin lacked the essential pallor of life, her breasts did not rise or fall beneath her cloak–a heavy cloak, oddly unsuitable for the jungle environs–and her fingers were splayed in an unnatural way characteristic of early rigor mortis.
The ork bent down carefully, aware that if she’d fallen prey to some trap or snare, it could still be about. She reached forth one hand, manifesting her shard-capped quarterstaff and illuminating it in one smooth motion, then brought the light closer to the dead woman, looking for wounds, or signs of struggle.
Nothing presented itself. In the light of the Novafire, no illusions melted away, no cursemarks caught flame. If the scene weren’t so macabre, Imogen might have marveled at how the elf’s demeanor radiated peace.
Ever the professional, Imogen swept the area with her light, looking carefully for darts, or snakes, or any other sort of danger. Spotting none, Imogen cautiously sidled over to the woman’s side and gingerly placed her fingers to the woman’s throat, seeking a pulse.
Nothing.
Disappointing, but only the beginning of her investigation. The ork stood and raised her left hand over the corpse, displaying the complex brand which she had bargained for months prior. The brand began to leak an eldritch violet light as Imogen focused, her eyes on the corpse.
"By the bargain I have made, I compel the spirit before me: manifest, and answer. From thee I will take the burdens of knowledge, that thy journey be light and easy."
A strange breeze filled the quiet glade as power built, Imogen’s impromptu summons given force and form by Lyra’s unaccountable magic. It built, and built, and then… discharged, the spell winding down as it failed to find any suitable spirit to bind.
The witch exhaled, deflated a bit. By the condition of the corpse, she’d been sure the soul would still linger enough for her to question. Still, asked and answered, she supposed. You couldn’t reject the truth of things just because it didn’t immediately make sense.
"I could ask the skeleton, I suppose."
The idea didn’t thrill her. Skeletons were pretty poor witnesses, and to access this one she’d have to carve into the corpse. It felt wrong to do that to this woman’s pristine skin, like despoiling a work of art. Imogen cast around the glade for any additional clues.
She wasn’t gifted at detective work, but there weren’t any private eyes to hire out here either. Still, from her second look about, she noticed something- the fallen tree which the woman was resting against was not fallen from wind or rot, but bore a fresh, healthy trunk, still green and greening, which had been cleft apart.
The witch turned away from the corpse, dropping to one knee to get a better look at the bark. It was cut, alright, but not with an axe. There were no levels to the cut, and it was so smooth that the grain hadn’t risen at all. This tree had been split with a razor-sharp blade, and in one blow at that.
"Whooo." Imogen whistled softly to herself. That was either the work of a kineticist or a real master swordsman. As she reached forward to feel the smooth grain again, a new sensation made itself clear; a sudden, sharp point pressed against the back of her neck.
The ork froze, then raised her empty hands, feeling sudden pressure. She turned her head sideways, to get a better look.
Behind her, the dead elf woman was standing, staring at her. And she was holding a sword.
~~~
“--------------------------”
The woman spoke, and it sounded inquisitive; sadly, the language itself was gibberish to Imogen.
"Sorry," the Ork said, slowly and carefully, "I didn’t quite catch that-"
Before she could finish speaking, the elf lunged, driving her sword towards Imogen’s throat. The elf was fast and accurate, and left the witch nothing like enough time to dodge. In all fairness, it should have been a certain kill.
Unfortunately for the recently-dead woman, Imogen did not believe in fair fights. The moment she’d felt the steel at her back, she’d invoked the power of Animus, altering her reflexes and sight imperceptibly. The tip of the sword drove towards Imogen in slow motion, as though the air was made of molasses, giving her ample opportunity to respond.
Animus didn’t do much to make her faster in this case, but it didn’t need to. Milliseconds before the weapon bit into Imogen’s throat, she tore her body from the physical world and phased into the slipspace beyond, letting the weapon pass harmlessly through her. Still incorporeal, the witch stepped backwards through the fallen tree, phasing back into Ransera proper. Instinctively, she summoned her sword and shield- the zweihander dropping into her right-hand grip with a comforting weight, the shield floating close by her left flank without actually attaching to her.
"The fuck?" Imogen spat the words, still too surprised to be really angry. The elf woman was already rushing forward, unblinking eyes focused on the ork’s lower body, evaluating her stance and watching for the small motions which were the preconditions for a strike.
The ork brought her sword up to guard against the next strike, warding off another two- three, no, four!- attacks in the span of an instant. In spite of her reputation, Imogen was among the best swordsmen in the Sunsingers, a coven dedicated to mastery of the sword; as such, she was able to discern almost instantly that she was outclassed by the elf’s own swordplay. Stranger yet, even though Imogen must have had at least a hundred pounds on the smaller woman, each blow rattled her sword-arm. It seemed the elf was also stronger than her.
That surprised the witch, but didn’t worry her yet. There were a lot of things which determined the outcome of a fight, and skill was seldom the deciding factor. With her powers, Imogen had little trouble blocking each attack, and the aggressive little woman had not yet displayed any sort of magic. A swordsmaster could be ten times better than Imogen, and she would still win every fight.
So Imogen stayed on the defensive, studying her foe. The elf’s clothing was unfamiliar, but the Ork had no real interest in elven culture, so she was never going to learn much there. Her form was mesmerizing, the movements precise and efficient executions of a style she had never before seen. The blows flowed from one into another, stance solid with every movement. It was perhaps a little reminiscent of the Synnekar style, but only a little, and perhaps then only because of the similar weapon.
Speaking of which… the woman’s sword was awful. It was long and thin in the far Northern style, but it was not razor-sharp in the style of the jeweled city. It was blunted and battered, discolored in places and not just a bit hard-worn. It was shocking that it hadn’t broken against her own will-tempered blade already, really.
Maybe that was the weak spot, then.
As the elf repositioned herself for another assault, Imogen poured her focus and power into her sword. When she met the steel with her own, novaflame roared from her weapon, silver-white energy tearing outwards with enough density that it was like a physical force. Imogen watched carefully as the heat and kinetic force of the blow dented the elf woman’s sword, and the other woman staggered backwards, shocked.
“-------------------!” the elf cried, falling back. She circled Imogen for a moment, eyes fixed on the witch’s blade. A moment later, she spoke again.
“You are follow Arcas? Raxen?”
It was Ecitherese, though the words were not all there, or perhaps there were too many. It was like listening to one of the old traditional Geleran operas (the ones Imogen hated most), where the language was just comprehensible, but every idiom was alien.
"Ah-" The Sunsinger did not feel entirely qualified to explain the existence of her order or the relationship between their magic and the sword Novuril. "In some ways."
The elf looked at Imogen, mouthing the words as though trying to work out what the ork’s reply actually signified. After a moment, she nodded, having evidently determined it to her own satisfaction.
“Then service- you must render… to rescue us.”
It had been some days since Imogen had sealed up the bad rock, and she was optimistic that this was the end of matters. After all, how many problems could the element of metal really have in a country without forges or mines? The meteorite had been a dramatic one, admittedly, but between the odd jobs she’d completed thus far it seemed like things ought to be pretty well normalized.
Her dreams had been pretty empty too, and not just because of the nature of that ongoing headache. Nobody had capered and giggled through her nights since the Season’s turn, and she was beginning to hope that they’d finally gotten bored and chosen to go annoy another.
Still, she had chores enough to keep herself busy for at least the season’s duration. She’d resolved to check on the isle with the bad rock regularly in case something went awry, that it wouldn’t be set adrift on the seas, and Kitty was always in need of more shadows- which added nothing to the burden of hunting per se (as she herself was quite happy to eat shadowless meat) but limited how much she could rely on scrounged fruits.
It was on the return from one of those little journeys to her hut that she received the call.
At first, it was just a feeling. A prickling on the inside, a wind across her skin. More and more it felt like the little invisible string of intention which the spirits had tied to her in the past, an inscrutable summonses by beings which could not quite understand how to make themselves known in the ways of mortals.
And then her shield materialized itself.
The huge pane of reflective metal slid smoothly out of nothingness, as though it had merely been concealed behind some screen of invisibility in the air, floating two feet above the earth and just dwarfing its master. As Imogen watched, alarmed and befuddled, the fog within her pact weapon’s luster parted.
Within the Window opened therein, the witch saw a small glade, an opening in the gentle southern stands of jungle trees. The image rippled as Imogen peered into it, trying to discern the message.
The space was quiet and calm, doubtless, and apparently devoid of any life; except, as she scanned it again, she realized that there was a body lying against the trunk of a fallen tree. Small, humanoid–not the right build for an Ork, maybe even too slim for a human–and she gasped aloud.
Was that a crewmate? She couldn’t make out the details, but it didn’t look like any of her companions from The Duck. Still, where else could they have come from? Surely not Avamande’s demon city to the north, Solunarium? Could it be some companion the elf had brought back, or perhaps Destyn, with his bracelet?
As usual, these were not questions she could simply conjure answers for. The figure in the image was motionless, but at this distance the witch could not possibly be sure whether they lived. She would simply have to make haste.
"Damn." swore Imogen, "I’m going, I’m going!"
This was a much more sophisticated cry for help, with an immediate moral dimension that she wasn’t about to shun. There was no question whether she was going to go, only- could she get there in time to save anyone?
~~~
It took Imogen the better part of a day to reach the glade, even with Traversion. If she were only Carina’s equal in the art, perhaps she could have stabilized the Window and made it a proper portal, and been there within moments; as it was, attempting such a spell was more likely than not to end up shunting her into the face of a mountain, or worse. She’d made progress with that Rune, but it felt more like her slow years of study and advancement with Reaving than her easy mastery of Animus.
Still, given her unfamiliarity with the site and the considerable distance, the ork chose not to beat herself up about it. She’d arrived as fast as she could, under the circumstances.
When she did arrive, to her relief, she found that the glade was exactly as it had appeared in her Window (was it her Window? She thought she had been the one to open it, but how could that be?). The Ork approached the prone figure on the ground cautiously. There was no point to haste now; they’d had plenty of time to die or stabilize from whatever had laid them out like this.
Up close, Imogen discerned that the figure was, indeed, an elf woman. A Dratori, she thought, though she’d always had considerable difficulty in reading the nuances which differentiated one elven race from another. Her skin was a darker tone, at any rate, and she was well-muscled for her build. Her face was stunning, and framed by beautiful auburn hair.
Also, she was clearly dead.
There was no sign of decay, or anything, but Imogen had seen enough fresh corpses. Her skin lacked the essential pallor of life, her breasts did not rise or fall beneath her cloak–a heavy cloak, oddly unsuitable for the jungle environs–and her fingers were splayed in an unnatural way characteristic of early rigor mortis.
The ork bent down carefully, aware that if she’d fallen prey to some trap or snare, it could still be about. She reached forth one hand, manifesting her shard-capped quarterstaff and illuminating it in one smooth motion, then brought the light closer to the dead woman, looking for wounds, or signs of struggle.
Nothing presented itself. In the light of the Novafire, no illusions melted away, no cursemarks caught flame. If the scene weren’t so macabre, Imogen might have marveled at how the elf’s demeanor radiated peace.
Ever the professional, Imogen swept the area with her light, looking carefully for darts, or snakes, or any other sort of danger. Spotting none, Imogen cautiously sidled over to the woman’s side and gingerly placed her fingers to the woman’s throat, seeking a pulse.
Nothing.
Disappointing, but only the beginning of her investigation. The ork stood and raised her left hand over the corpse, displaying the complex brand which she had bargained for months prior. The brand began to leak an eldritch violet light as Imogen focused, her eyes on the corpse.
"By the bargain I have made, I compel the spirit before me: manifest, and answer. From thee I will take the burdens of knowledge, that thy journey be light and easy."
A strange breeze filled the quiet glade as power built, Imogen’s impromptu summons given force and form by Lyra’s unaccountable magic. It built, and built, and then… discharged, the spell winding down as it failed to find any suitable spirit to bind.
The witch exhaled, deflated a bit. By the condition of the corpse, she’d been sure the soul would still linger enough for her to question. Still, asked and answered, she supposed. You couldn’t reject the truth of things just because it didn’t immediately make sense.
"I could ask the skeleton, I suppose."
The idea didn’t thrill her. Skeletons were pretty poor witnesses, and to access this one she’d have to carve into the corpse. It felt wrong to do that to this woman’s pristine skin, like despoiling a work of art. Imogen cast around the glade for any additional clues.
She wasn’t gifted at detective work, but there weren’t any private eyes to hire out here either. Still, from her second look about, she noticed something- the fallen tree which the woman was resting against was not fallen from wind or rot, but bore a fresh, healthy trunk, still green and greening, which had been cleft apart.
The witch turned away from the corpse, dropping to one knee to get a better look at the bark. It was cut, alright, but not with an axe. There were no levels to the cut, and it was so smooth that the grain hadn’t risen at all. This tree had been split with a razor-sharp blade, and in one blow at that.
"Whooo." Imogen whistled softly to herself. That was either the work of a kineticist or a real master swordsman. As she reached forward to feel the smooth grain again, a new sensation made itself clear; a sudden, sharp point pressed against the back of her neck.
The ork froze, then raised her empty hands, feeling sudden pressure. She turned her head sideways, to get a better look.
Behind her, the dead elf woman was standing, staring at her. And she was holding a sword.
~~~
“--------------------------”
The woman spoke, and it sounded inquisitive; sadly, the language itself was gibberish to Imogen.
"Sorry," the Ork said, slowly and carefully, "I didn’t quite catch that-"
Before she could finish speaking, the elf lunged, driving her sword towards Imogen’s throat. The elf was fast and accurate, and left the witch nothing like enough time to dodge. In all fairness, it should have been a certain kill.
Unfortunately for the recently-dead woman, Imogen did not believe in fair fights. The moment she’d felt the steel at her back, she’d invoked the power of Animus, altering her reflexes and sight imperceptibly. The tip of the sword drove towards Imogen in slow motion, as though the air was made of molasses, giving her ample opportunity to respond.
Animus didn’t do much to make her faster in this case, but it didn’t need to. Milliseconds before the weapon bit into Imogen’s throat, she tore her body from the physical world and phased into the slipspace beyond, letting the weapon pass harmlessly through her. Still incorporeal, the witch stepped backwards through the fallen tree, phasing back into Ransera proper. Instinctively, she summoned her sword and shield- the zweihander dropping into her right-hand grip with a comforting weight, the shield floating close by her left flank without actually attaching to her.
"The fuck?" Imogen spat the words, still too surprised to be really angry. The elf woman was already rushing forward, unblinking eyes focused on the ork’s lower body, evaluating her stance and watching for the small motions which were the preconditions for a strike.
The ork brought her sword up to guard against the next strike, warding off another two- three, no, four!- attacks in the span of an instant. In spite of her reputation, Imogen was among the best swordsmen in the Sunsingers, a coven dedicated to mastery of the sword; as such, she was able to discern almost instantly that she was outclassed by the elf’s own swordplay. Stranger yet, even though Imogen must have had at least a hundred pounds on the smaller woman, each blow rattled her sword-arm. It seemed the elf was also stronger than her.
That surprised the witch, but didn’t worry her yet. There were a lot of things which determined the outcome of a fight, and skill was seldom the deciding factor. With her powers, Imogen had little trouble blocking each attack, and the aggressive little woman had not yet displayed any sort of magic. A swordsmaster could be ten times better than Imogen, and she would still win every fight.
So Imogen stayed on the defensive, studying her foe. The elf’s clothing was unfamiliar, but the Ork had no real interest in elven culture, so she was never going to learn much there. Her form was mesmerizing, the movements precise and efficient executions of a style she had never before seen. The blows flowed from one into another, stance solid with every movement. It was perhaps a little reminiscent of the Synnekar style, but only a little, and perhaps then only because of the similar weapon.
Speaking of which… the woman’s sword was awful. It was long and thin in the far Northern style, but it was not razor-sharp in the style of the jeweled city. It was blunted and battered, discolored in places and not just a bit hard-worn. It was shocking that it hadn’t broken against her own will-tempered blade already, really.
Maybe that was the weak spot, then.
As the elf repositioned herself for another assault, Imogen poured her focus and power into her sword. When she met the steel with her own, novaflame roared from her weapon, silver-white energy tearing outwards with enough density that it was like a physical force. Imogen watched carefully as the heat and kinetic force of the blow dented the elf woman’s sword, and the other woman staggered backwards, shocked.
“-------------------!” the elf cried, falling back. She circled Imogen for a moment, eyes fixed on the witch’s blade. A moment later, she spoke again.
“You are follow Arcas? Raxen?”
It was Ecitherese, though the words were not all there, or perhaps there were too many. It was like listening to one of the old traditional Geleran operas (the ones Imogen hated most), where the language was just comprehensible, but every idiom was alien.
"Ah-" The Sunsinger did not feel entirely qualified to explain the existence of her order or the relationship between their magic and the sword Novuril. "In some ways."
The elf looked at Imogen, mouthing the words as though trying to work out what the ork’s reply actually signified. After a moment, she nodded, having evidently determined it to her own satisfaction.
“Then service- you must render… to rescue us.”
