Glade 71, 122
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There was an unusual, fey atmosphere in the little firepit behind Imogen’s hut that night. She didn’t usually entertain guests there, and this one hardly seemed entertained.
The elven woman sat on one of the logs Imogen had repurposed as a bench, waiting quietly as the Orkhan woman finished near the fire. There were a lot of ways you could cook fish, but Imogen was a forgettable chef, and had opted simply to make a stew, courtesy of a pot she’d filched from Kalzasi last year. One of the nice things about stews was that you could pretty much do whatever you wanted with them as long as you had enough salt, and it would still be… edible.
Kitty had chosen not to curl up on the woman’s lap, which surprised the witch; the cat wasn’t usually so shy. Instead, he seemed preoccupied with the flickering shadows wrought by the small fire on the walls.
"Right." said Imogen, in Ecitherse, her words measured and slow so the other woman had the time to work each one out as she needed, "So you’re saying that you were… kidnapped? By your sword?"
The elf stared at her for a long time, so long that Imogen was afraid she’d simply failed to apprehend her words at all. Then she shook her head with evident frustration.
“No, you have it wrong again. I will try once more.” Ah. That was the source of the anxiety.
“I am Birchen, warrior of Dalquia. My sword did not “kidnap” me- rather, I am here by dint of his power, though I know not how or why.” Birchen’s eyes narrowed, lost in thought, “It seems that much time has passed, but my recollection is hazy. I cannot recall why he would bring me here, but he is a valiant ally.”
Imogen nodded, as though she understood. She’d caught on to the fact that Birchen’s sword was, apparently, an elemental spirit in the shape of a blade. The sword…spirit in question lay over atop a broad, flat rock which the Ork had been using as a writing table. It–he–did not look any better than he had in the glade. Battered, crumbling, and not at all looking fit for the hands of a great spirit-warrior..
"Fine," the witch stipulated, ”And you cannot ask him because, in this poor condition, he cannot reply. But I fail to see how I can assist either of you."
“The fire you wield, it can burn spirits, yes?” Imogen nodded. “Then it can aid in his restoration. We need only bring him together with appropriate ore and a furnace.”
"We’re not likely to find either of those out here."
“That will be my concern.”
~~~
It wasn’t immediately clear what Birchen intended, but Imogen didn’t press. As a professional who preferred that others keep themselves out of her affairs, she was loath to inquire too much into anyone else’s. More insultingly, it didn’t seem that Birchen was at all interested in her fish stew. Thankfully, Kitty came to her aid, ensuring that the moderate exertion of her cooking was not wasted.
She took the various pots and dishes to the ocean to clean them- it was a bit of a walk from the hut, but Imogen enjoyed evening strolls. The ork knelt in the shallows to scrub the pot with sand, taking a moment to scrub the grime from the travel in the forest off each limb.
When Imogen stood up, she found herself face-to-face with- herself?!
The ork stumbled backwards in the wash, nearly losing her balance and toppling backwards before she realized that she was looking at her mirror-bright shield, which had once again summoned itself without any input from her.
"Raella’s tits," she swore, glaring at her own Pact Weapon, "Do you guys mind? I’m only trying to get your stupid job done!"
The surface of the mirror clouded, buzzing with static as a Window opened. From the window, Imogen was treated to… the view of Birchen, standing outside her hut, holding her broken sword in two hands. The elven woman’s eyes were closed, her body entirely unmoving.
The witch hushed, watching the scene intently. It wasn’t that she wanted to spy on the elf, but if the spirits of Ecith were going to make her watch? Well, she could hardly ignore a client request..
For a full minute, Birchen stood, unmoving, presumably in communion with the spirits. The Ork sympathized- having recently been exposed to their unique and interesting channels of communication, she wondered how frustrating it must be to be raised in a spiritualist community like Dalquia.
Not that Berchen had been very specific about her origins. Part of that was the language gap, of course, but she’d done little more than intimate that she was from a time long past. Inconvenient for a curious mind. It occurred to Imogen that if she were more of an historian, she might be able to use this opportunity to settle important questions. Tragically, her knowledge of Elvish history was faulty to the point of absurdity.
Imogen’s attention was suddenly, sharply recalled as movement occurred within her Window. Birchen moved, but not in any usual way. It seemed almost as though she were-
The elf in the mirror flickered, the details of her form growing fuzzy for a moment. Then she opened her eyes, hand and sword falling to her side, and turned around to stare at Imogen’s hut, again unmoving.
"What the fuck was that?"
As usual, her mirror did not answer.
~~~
The next day, Imogen and Birchen set out.
When she returned to her hut, the elf told her only that the spirits had told her where to find a suitable forge. The witch had thought to object, to explain that South Ecith was devoid of such industry… but what, really, did she know? The whole of Karnor was sat, it seemed, atop the ruins of ancient civilizations, lost to the yawning abyss of the Warrens. Who knew what manner of people had once flourished in these jungles?
The elf couldn’t give her many details of their destination when pressed, could only explain that it was some distance north. Imogen didn’t fancy the idea of an aimless trek into the deep jungles, but she supposed that the real dangers were minimal. With her slowly-growing mastery of Traversion, even if they wandered for a week and found nothing, they would be only a few hours’ travel from her hut and emergency stores.
Still, the Ork made sure to pack sufficient rations, both for herself and Kitty. The little shadow jaguar was precocious, but she wasn’t yet comfortable letting him hunt by himself. Frankly, she wasn’t sure what was safe for a kitten to eat in the jungle, anyway. It seemed like jaguars mostly managed to work that out by themselves, but it wasn’t a risk she felt happy taking.
So they made their way north. Birchen was lithe and light-footed in the way of elves, and was quick on the trail. Imogen was neither of those things, in the way of Orkhan, but was a strong and experienced traveler.
In the end, their travel took only three days, though Imogen couldn’t have estimated the actual distance that encompassed. Birchen’s spirit augury, however it worked, led them on a long and winding path, twisting through valleys, around gulches, and across two rivers through the heart of the unmapped wilds, until at last they came to a completely unremarkable hill.
“Here.” the elf said, indicating the mound, “There is a suitable place below.”
"Right." replied Imogen, eyeing the earth, "And how are we meant to descend?"
Birchen stared at her companion blankly, and it dawned on Imogen that she expected her to have a way down. She supposed that she did, in fact.
"Ah, fine. I’ll handle it."
It was tempting to become a beetle and try to find some burrow into the earth, but Imogen decided against stripping and giving the unnerving elf her stuff to hold. Instead, she settled, cross-legged, atop the mound and projected her spirit outward into a coherent form, much as she had in her hunt for the Bad Rock months ago.
The Orkhan ghost took a moment to look at her body (always a bit of a weird feeling, to see yourself from without), the elf standing next to her, staring. It was not a sight which inspired comfort, but she supposed that if Birchen was going to suddenly murder her, she’d had three nights to do it. The woman never seemed to sleep.
Doubts… not quite assuaged, Imogen sent her spirit downward. It wasn’t all that comfortable, passing through solid matter, but the Ork told herself that it was all part of the job of being a witch. Sometimes you had to phase through ten feet of peat and rock to check for any caverns on the request of a time-displaced elf warrior, she supposed.
Speaking of which…
"I found it."
Imogen opened her eyes, returning to her body. All things considered, it wasn’t that far down, though without Birchen’s incredibly-specific ritual sense, she would never have found it in a million years. She stood, stretching arms and joints which had grown stiff even in the space of just a few moments.
"I’ll take us down." Imogen announced, "Just hold on."
Birchen did not nod, but simply wrapped her arms around the Ork’s back. A shiver passed through the witch’s body. Even with her suspicions, the elf woman was very beautiful, and looking down at the lithe fingers interlaced about her midriff…?
Rather than finishing that thought, Imogen tore through the veil and took them both briefly into Slipspace. The strange un-realm of static and ruins flashed by, thankfully devoid of the enormous things which occasionally frequented it, and the two arrived in the cavern below with but one step more.
It was perfectly dark, of course, so Imogen summoned her staff and brought forth a fierce glow. Sunlight limned the interior, revealing…
Well, it was a cave. If Imogen had been hoping for some clearly artificial surface, for ruins like those found within the First Deeps, then she was disappointed. There were surfaces, here and there, which looked like they might have been the result of tools, of what might have been graven images, long since worn away by the drip… drip… drip of water from rains. Perhaps if she were an archeologist, she would know. She was not.
There were, however, veins of some shining material throughout the southern cave wall, and a small hollow which might have served as an oven… if it had featured a chimney, anyway. Birchen glanced around the cave, inscrutable, then nodded.
“This will suffice.”
The ork raised a skeptical brow, but did not otherwise argue. The elf moved to the ore-laced wall and ran a hand over it, as though communing with the metal. She raised her ratty blade to touch them, and the shimmer of awakened aether ran through the veins.
“My blade does not need fire to liquefy metal, to reforge itself” Birchen explained, “But we will need your fire to complete the rite. Conjure it within the hollow. This will take some time.”
Imogen nodded, and moved to the hollow. She gestured to the oven-hollow, which filled with shimmering air for a moment as her spirit materialized within. The light within the cave grew distinctly brighter as her sword, lying within the hollow, burst into silvery light. Argent fire blossomed within, and Birchen looked at it for a moment, dead-eyed. Then, she carefully laid her own blade atop it.
The tattered sword immediately began to shift within the light, and a light, fey breeze filled the cavern. The air began to sparkle; perhaps just the visual effect of the awakened aether, or perhaps the tiny mineral particles being attracted from the rock.
Imogen looked at the sword, pursing her lips, then looked up at Birchen, the elf woman still gazing at it.
"This could take a while, you said?"
The elf did not answer but, almost begrudgingly, she did look away, towards her companion.
"Well, now that we have some time, why don’t you tell me who Birchen was, and why you’re doing all of this?"
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There was an unusual, fey atmosphere in the little firepit behind Imogen’s hut that night. She didn’t usually entertain guests there, and this one hardly seemed entertained.
The elven woman sat on one of the logs Imogen had repurposed as a bench, waiting quietly as the Orkhan woman finished near the fire. There were a lot of ways you could cook fish, but Imogen was a forgettable chef, and had opted simply to make a stew, courtesy of a pot she’d filched from Kalzasi last year. One of the nice things about stews was that you could pretty much do whatever you wanted with them as long as you had enough salt, and it would still be… edible.
Kitty had chosen not to curl up on the woman’s lap, which surprised the witch; the cat wasn’t usually so shy. Instead, he seemed preoccupied with the flickering shadows wrought by the small fire on the walls.
"Right." said Imogen, in Ecitherse, her words measured and slow so the other woman had the time to work each one out as she needed, "So you’re saying that you were… kidnapped? By your sword?"
The elf stared at her for a long time, so long that Imogen was afraid she’d simply failed to apprehend her words at all. Then she shook her head with evident frustration.
“No, you have it wrong again. I will try once more.” Ah. That was the source of the anxiety.
“I am Birchen, warrior of Dalquia. My sword did not “kidnap” me- rather, I am here by dint of his power, though I know not how or why.” Birchen’s eyes narrowed, lost in thought, “It seems that much time has passed, but my recollection is hazy. I cannot recall why he would bring me here, but he is a valiant ally.”
Imogen nodded, as though she understood. She’d caught on to the fact that Birchen’s sword was, apparently, an elemental spirit in the shape of a blade. The sword…spirit in question lay over atop a broad, flat rock which the Ork had been using as a writing table. It–he–did not look any better than he had in the glade. Battered, crumbling, and not at all looking fit for the hands of a great spirit-warrior..
"Fine," the witch stipulated, ”And you cannot ask him because, in this poor condition, he cannot reply. But I fail to see how I can assist either of you."
“The fire you wield, it can burn spirits, yes?” Imogen nodded. “Then it can aid in his restoration. We need only bring him together with appropriate ore and a furnace.”
"We’re not likely to find either of those out here."
“That will be my concern.”
~~~
It wasn’t immediately clear what Birchen intended, but Imogen didn’t press. As a professional who preferred that others keep themselves out of her affairs, she was loath to inquire too much into anyone else’s. More insultingly, it didn’t seem that Birchen was at all interested in her fish stew. Thankfully, Kitty came to her aid, ensuring that the moderate exertion of her cooking was not wasted.
She took the various pots and dishes to the ocean to clean them- it was a bit of a walk from the hut, but Imogen enjoyed evening strolls. The ork knelt in the shallows to scrub the pot with sand, taking a moment to scrub the grime from the travel in the forest off each limb.
When Imogen stood up, she found herself face-to-face with- herself?!
The ork stumbled backwards in the wash, nearly losing her balance and toppling backwards before she realized that she was looking at her mirror-bright shield, which had once again summoned itself without any input from her.
"Raella’s tits," she swore, glaring at her own Pact Weapon, "Do you guys mind? I’m only trying to get your stupid job done!"
The surface of the mirror clouded, buzzing with static as a Window opened. From the window, Imogen was treated to… the view of Birchen, standing outside her hut, holding her broken sword in two hands. The elven woman’s eyes were closed, her body entirely unmoving.
The witch hushed, watching the scene intently. It wasn’t that she wanted to spy on the elf, but if the spirits of Ecith were going to make her watch? Well, she could hardly ignore a client request..
For a full minute, Birchen stood, unmoving, presumably in communion with the spirits. The Ork sympathized- having recently been exposed to their unique and interesting channels of communication, she wondered how frustrating it must be to be raised in a spiritualist community like Dalquia.
Not that Berchen had been very specific about her origins. Part of that was the language gap, of course, but she’d done little more than intimate that she was from a time long past. Inconvenient for a curious mind. It occurred to Imogen that if she were more of an historian, she might be able to use this opportunity to settle important questions. Tragically, her knowledge of Elvish history was faulty to the point of absurdity.
Imogen’s attention was suddenly, sharply recalled as movement occurred within her Window. Birchen moved, but not in any usual way. It seemed almost as though she were-
The elf in the mirror flickered, the details of her form growing fuzzy for a moment. Then she opened her eyes, hand and sword falling to her side, and turned around to stare at Imogen’s hut, again unmoving.
"What the fuck was that?"
As usual, her mirror did not answer.
~~~
The next day, Imogen and Birchen set out.
When she returned to her hut, the elf told her only that the spirits had told her where to find a suitable forge. The witch had thought to object, to explain that South Ecith was devoid of such industry… but what, really, did she know? The whole of Karnor was sat, it seemed, atop the ruins of ancient civilizations, lost to the yawning abyss of the Warrens. Who knew what manner of people had once flourished in these jungles?
The elf couldn’t give her many details of their destination when pressed, could only explain that it was some distance north. Imogen didn’t fancy the idea of an aimless trek into the deep jungles, but she supposed that the real dangers were minimal. With her slowly-growing mastery of Traversion, even if they wandered for a week and found nothing, they would be only a few hours’ travel from her hut and emergency stores.
Still, the Ork made sure to pack sufficient rations, both for herself and Kitty. The little shadow jaguar was precocious, but she wasn’t yet comfortable letting him hunt by himself. Frankly, she wasn’t sure what was safe for a kitten to eat in the jungle, anyway. It seemed like jaguars mostly managed to work that out by themselves, but it wasn’t a risk she felt happy taking.
So they made their way north. Birchen was lithe and light-footed in the way of elves, and was quick on the trail. Imogen was neither of those things, in the way of Orkhan, but was a strong and experienced traveler.
In the end, their travel took only three days, though Imogen couldn’t have estimated the actual distance that encompassed. Birchen’s spirit augury, however it worked, led them on a long and winding path, twisting through valleys, around gulches, and across two rivers through the heart of the unmapped wilds, until at last they came to a completely unremarkable hill.
“Here.” the elf said, indicating the mound, “There is a suitable place below.”
"Right." replied Imogen, eyeing the earth, "And how are we meant to descend?"
Birchen stared at her companion blankly, and it dawned on Imogen that she expected her to have a way down. She supposed that she did, in fact.
"Ah, fine. I’ll handle it."
It was tempting to become a beetle and try to find some burrow into the earth, but Imogen decided against stripping and giving the unnerving elf her stuff to hold. Instead, she settled, cross-legged, atop the mound and projected her spirit outward into a coherent form, much as she had in her hunt for the Bad Rock months ago.
The Orkhan ghost took a moment to look at her body (always a bit of a weird feeling, to see yourself from without), the elf standing next to her, staring. It was not a sight which inspired comfort, but she supposed that if Birchen was going to suddenly murder her, she’d had three nights to do it. The woman never seemed to sleep.
Doubts… not quite assuaged, Imogen sent her spirit downward. It wasn’t all that comfortable, passing through solid matter, but the Ork told herself that it was all part of the job of being a witch. Sometimes you had to phase through ten feet of peat and rock to check for any caverns on the request of a time-displaced elf warrior, she supposed.
Speaking of which…
"I found it."
Imogen opened her eyes, returning to her body. All things considered, it wasn’t that far down, though without Birchen’s incredibly-specific ritual sense, she would never have found it in a million years. She stood, stretching arms and joints which had grown stiff even in the space of just a few moments.
"I’ll take us down." Imogen announced, "Just hold on."
Birchen did not nod, but simply wrapped her arms around the Ork’s back. A shiver passed through the witch’s body. Even with her suspicions, the elf woman was very beautiful, and looking down at the lithe fingers interlaced about her midriff…?
Rather than finishing that thought, Imogen tore through the veil and took them both briefly into Slipspace. The strange un-realm of static and ruins flashed by, thankfully devoid of the enormous things which occasionally frequented it, and the two arrived in the cavern below with but one step more.
It was perfectly dark, of course, so Imogen summoned her staff and brought forth a fierce glow. Sunlight limned the interior, revealing…
Well, it was a cave. If Imogen had been hoping for some clearly artificial surface, for ruins like those found within the First Deeps, then she was disappointed. There were surfaces, here and there, which looked like they might have been the result of tools, of what might have been graven images, long since worn away by the drip… drip… drip of water from rains. Perhaps if she were an archeologist, she would know. She was not.
There were, however, veins of some shining material throughout the southern cave wall, and a small hollow which might have served as an oven… if it had featured a chimney, anyway. Birchen glanced around the cave, inscrutable, then nodded.
“This will suffice.”
The ork raised a skeptical brow, but did not otherwise argue. The elf moved to the ore-laced wall and ran a hand over it, as though communing with the metal. She raised her ratty blade to touch them, and the shimmer of awakened aether ran through the veins.
“My blade does not need fire to liquefy metal, to reforge itself” Birchen explained, “But we will need your fire to complete the rite. Conjure it within the hollow. This will take some time.”
Imogen nodded, and moved to the hollow. She gestured to the oven-hollow, which filled with shimmering air for a moment as her spirit materialized within. The light within the cave grew distinctly brighter as her sword, lying within the hollow, burst into silvery light. Argent fire blossomed within, and Birchen looked at it for a moment, dead-eyed. Then, she carefully laid her own blade atop it.
The tattered sword immediately began to shift within the light, and a light, fey breeze filled the cavern. The air began to sparkle; perhaps just the visual effect of the awakened aether, or perhaps the tiny mineral particles being attracted from the rock.
Imogen looked at the sword, pursing her lips, then looked up at Birchen, the elf woman still gazing at it.
"This could take a while, you said?"
The elf did not answer but, almost begrudgingly, she did look away, towards her companion.
"Well, now that we have some time, why don’t you tell me who Birchen was, and why you’re doing all of this?"
