Backstage Blues [Aurin]

[Imogen]

Ash 61, 124

~ The Pfenning Theater ~

1:00 A.M.

When the time came for Imogen to actually perform her ritual, she decided to do so in the basement of a theater.

There were various reasons for this; some good, some not so good. The Sanctuary was right out, because of the danger that the rite could compromise the Sunsingers' secrecy, especially in the event that large-scale Traversion was needed. The ork had also chosen to avoid the woods, remote fields, or mountain passes and the like, arguing that while those were traditional venues for witches, they were also going to be difficult to secure, and would be dangerously far from any help if things went south.

Performing a major working inside Zaichaer sounded mad, but the Pfenning had much to recommend it. After night fell, the building was largely abandoned, and it was far enough away from the command centers set up since the fall of the Presidium that nothing should be immediately detected by the Order. More importantly, the Railrunner family who had constructed the Theater in the first place had designed it as a bunker impenetrable to those without Traversion- the structure was filled with secret rooms lacking doors or windows, and the basement featured a large storehouse and bunker which were carefully-warded against detection. In theory, even someone standing inside the theater while the ritual took place should be unable to detect anything.

The witch and Ansel met Aurin in one of the theater's side-rooms. Imogen was dressed in uniform, a rather fetching black outfit limned with golden highlights which had probably been designed for people less broad-shouldered than her. Ansel wore much more casual street dress and a large coat, appropriate both for the season and for someone intent on smuggling something. Though the Sunsingers were usually both unarmed (to all appearances), Imogen bore a large wrapped object, slung casually underarm.

"I'll be going to the basement to set up the Scrivening.” the Ork told Aurin, "And I'm going to take this with me.”

Imogen displayed a small hand-mirror. One side of it was pristine, the other bore careful glyphs in sorcerer's ink, simple markings intended to make it easy to locate with Traversion.

"If you open a Window to this, it'll make it easy to signal you when I need extricated, and make it easy for you to find me. I don't think you'll be able to see much, but ignore anything weird you might hear. And whatever happens, don't try to come down there. That would be a very messy way to kill me.”

2 A.M.

The most comfortable rooms in the Pfenning were the side-rooms, located just across the hallway from the main theater and intended for entertaining important guests. These featured brass fireplaces, gilt-inlaid clocks, fine mahogany drinks cabinets and overstuffed armchairs, enough for a dozen notables. Unfortunately, these rooms had also suffered from want of maintenance in recent years. They had once been kept pristine for the use of visiting Presidium officials, high-ranking Order members and officers, but the great and powerful of Zaichaer were less inclined to throw big parties at the theater these days. Everything happened on high, now, and the Pfenning's renovation and re-opening had focused on getting the main stage back up so that performances could recommence.

As a result, Ansel had chosen to stay backstage in the main auditorium, planting himself in a large couch, meant to let the crew recover between frenzied scene-changes. The old man had chosen to forgo brandy this evening, but had cut a cigar which smelled of spice and oak.

"From Sangen." the Sunsinger explained, offering Aurin one. "The marshes make the tobacco sweeter, somehow."

Gerhard drew deeply and let the smoke worry in his mouth for a while, then blew gently out towards the open curtain. He did not cough, like amateurs sometimes do, but his nose twitched.

"You know, I had hoped they might tear this damn building down after it got damaged in the disaster. For years, they had to run these dreadful historical operas, all wailing in Kathalan about the tragic fates of the sons of Aileor- and for what? To cover up a warehouse? Zaichaer was already lousy with secret warehouses."

Ansel had spent months in Aurin's care, enough for him to know that the man was not usually this vocal- or whiney. Despite his relaxed pose and cigar, the man was clearly tense, worried about something. Probably the ritual, which Imogen had adamantly refused to allow him to assist with, except by providing the use of his Aidolon. The elder Sunsinger hadn't liked that much at all, but there wasn't much argument to be had.

"I assume you don't play many of the old Zaichaeran operas up north? Actually... how do you get the seats to fit all those big bird-men? I should think their wings would be poking the eyes of the patrons behind them."

[Aurin]

1 o'clock in the morning

Aurin had arrived with the voidrillium in a lead-lined and heavily warded box. He had also arrived with an air elemental who was amusing itself by tousling his hair into elf locks. The first was handed over, and the second...

"All right, go fuck with her hair now. Mists!"

It did, though not so roughly as it was chastened.

As he nodded, ran his fingers through his hair, and willed a window into being on the face of her mirror, linking it just right so he could maintain it when she took it out of his field of view, and explained.

"Kindred sent the sentient fart along to freshen up the underground air supplies. Standard practice for such Railrunner facilities. Just make sure to send it along to the next before you open up the box. They're curious little fuckers."

As for what she said, he bit back a snappy quip about sex noises behind a smirk and nodded.


2 o'clock in the morning

The rogue looked around. He had a sort of proprietary interest in the place as it was an anchor of the underground railroad to get compromised witches out of the city and somewhere safe, and as it had been how he tracked down the Railrunners in the first place. While he wanted to pour some funds into bringing it back to its former glory, he didn't want it to be too glorious, not while he was impresario of a different theater in a different city.

He looked back at Ansel when the man offered a cigar. With a smile and his thanks, he accepted it, bit off the tip, and leaned over the table to use the table lighter. Then, he settled back on the dark leather sofa and collected his drink. Ansel could remain sober if he wished; Aurin liked to always take the edge off a little bit. Now he had a vice in either hand.

Amused yet concerned, he listened to Ansel talk himself in circles, talking just to keep the silence at bay. He wondered if the man was just showing his age, worried about his troublesome protégé.

"Not many, no. I made sure we had something appropriate on the boards when the Brothers Dornkirk visited. Poured them Gelerian schnapps in a room not unlike this one. Alas, I'm not much of an amateur diplomat. Relations between Kalzasi and Zaichaer went to shit." While he admired the audacity of their joint venture with the Imperium and he had adapted to profit from the chaos it fomented, he hadn't liked being surprised.

There was the official position of the government of Kalzasi as to what happened, as well as those of Zaichaer and the Imperium. Aurin heard them all, and ferreted out unfiltered information as well.

"The wealthy and powerful ones often opt for the box seats, but there are sections in the orchestra that have fewer seats and more space so everyone can be comfortable. Just have to be adaptable." He quickly changed tacks, pursuing an old line of questioning that was still of interest, but mostly just to distract the man from Imogen.

"So, I'm still terrible at following orders unless they're backed up with payment, but couldn't the Sunsingers use a loose cannon sort of fellow? Mobile as a Railrunner, subtle as a Myshalarai, observant as a Whisper? Let him do his thing most of the time, but call him in for special missions?"

He bore an aversion to necromancy from bad experiences in his youth, and was revolted by the idea of opening himself up to the group consciousness they said the Kindred got up to in their Grove, but he remained on good terms with both covens. He was a member of two covens, an honorary member of another. If he could get himself firmly in the good graces of the Sunsingers, he could begin to make a case for why he would be Witch-King.

And while other men might be uncomfortable with life debts, Aurin was the sort who would call in that sort of favor.

Ansel knew this.

[Imogen]

"Use? Maybe." Ansel snorted, fighting off a yawn. The Sunsinger was surely the sort who spent too much time awake. "Like? Well, there's a reason Ms. Ward is still a corporal, you know. The coven would much rather have discipline than scattershot brilliance. And not without reason."

It was typical military logic, often wrongheaded but never quite entirely wrong. Brilliance and independence were essential qualities in commanders, and seldom entirely desirable in the commanded. There were necessary exceptions, of course, and every organization had to figure out its own ways to channel such people.

"The other Covens don't bring it up much, but the Marshall held the Order from their throats for nearly twenty years. Lot of them were waiting to see how he'd respond to Dornkirk's rise, and don't understand why he hasn't done a damn thing." Gerhard took a long puff, closing his eyes as he relished the flavor of the smoke. "You want to run jobs for the Sunsingers, knock yourself out. But you won't get anywhere unless you get somewhere with Norickson. Figure out what he's up to, make him decide you're a horse worth betting on."

Ansel's musings were interrupted by a noise from Aurin's hand mirror. He could hear Imogen through it, though her voice was quite distant, hard to make out- evidently, she wasn't holding the other Window anywhere near herself. There were only snippets as she chanted some sort of mantra; presumably, for her own sake. Aurin was well-versed enough in magic to understand that the chanting and incanting never really meant anything, it was all about will and writing.

Imogen hadn't shared any more about the rite she was planning, though she'd expressed to Aurin that he wasn't barred from observing directly because of any sort of secrecy, but simply because his presence would make the process needlessly more difficult.

The large wall mirror at the side of the room lit, suddenly, filled with... a reflection of Aurin himself, sitting on the couch, drinking and smoking, eyes closed. When the reflection opened them, there were no pupils or irises behind the lids- just an endless field of shifting white and black. Static, a Gelaran visual engineer might have called it, though neither of the men in the room were such. The Sunsinger jerked his head over to look straight at the mirror, brows drawn.

"So?"

Aurin's reflection smiled and stood, walking up to the surface of the glass. He smudged something dark across them--ink, hopefully--into the shape of looping letters.

The gates of hell are barred therefrom;
The outer planes grow far.
Thiovan's realm is distant now
As shadow is from star.

Ansel grimaced, letting out a long sigh, and turned to Aurin. "More doggerel. This is where she got it from, you know." The Sunsinger turned back to the mirror. "I take it you mean all the doors are properly secured. In that case, go down and help Imogen like she asked."

Aurin's reflection inclined its head, then walked out of frame, leaving him without any image in the mirror at all. The old Sunsinger continued to grumble, then stood and made his way to the little drinks cabinet in the corner, apparently conceding that it was better to take the edge off his nerves in any event. He selected a lead crystal bottle of something dark and began to work the stopper out. Ansel had almost got it open, when a sudden noise swept the room:

"You're... a bit early." Imogen's voice came from Aurin's window, surprisingly clear. A moment later, every light in the room went out.

[Aurin]

If Aurin looked disinterested and bored, well, he wasn't. He paid close attention to whatever Ansel shared.

The rogue rather liked the curmudgeon, but tried to hide that from the man and from himself by playing up the rakish ne'er-do-well persona. A part of him, perhaps, saw something he had always lacked in his life: a positive male role model. He hated and loved his own father, but Mists forbid he admit he cared a whit about the old Sunsinger more than getting back what he was owed. Mists forbid the man actually take him under his wing.

But his mind might have imploded if Ansel just out and out said he thought Aurin would be a credit to the Sunsingers and offered to find a way to make being a Sunsinger work for him. Thankfully, that would never happen.

Once Ansel got talking, Aurin listened actively to keep him going. He would have to see about meeting Marshall Norickson and impressing him. He frowned when the mirror interrupted the flow of information, stowed the cigar between his teeth so he could pick up the mirror and peer at it. Then, the wall mirror lit up and he set his own aside again.

"Mists, I would fuck myself if I could," he said, admiring the independent copy of him moving around in the mirror.

"Yeah, yeah," he said like a recalcitrant teenager. He stood up, finished his drink, set it aside, picked up the mirror, and handed it to Ansel. But then the lights went out, even the cherry of his cigar. He sucked, trying to figure out if the fire had been dampened or just the light.

At the same time, his standard wards came up and he reached out with his arcane senses to find the shape of Ansel and begin to gird him in invisible armor.

"Imogen," he managed around the cigar, then took it out of his mouth. "Sweetheart. Are you ready to be evacuated or are you making a mess of things?"

His voice was cast toward where the mirror still was despite the darkness.

[Imogen]

Imogen didn't answer, but the scene moved forward anyway. The darkness in the auditorium was near-total, broken only by the barest hints of moonlight trickling through the stained glass windows in the little rotunda at the height of the chamber. The heat of Aurin's cigar told him that the embers had not died; they were simply being robbed of their luminescence. But how?

New information arrived quickly, from a sense he'd only recently developed. Slipspace grew taut throughout the whole Pfenning, the fabric of the world suddenly pressed thin as though it were a sheet and someone had just dropped a bowling ball onto it. The mage could feel a sudden pull downward, as though gravity had intensified a hundredfold. Then, moments later, he felt his connection to the Window in Imogen's possession suddenly stretch, as if it were taffy being pulled thin by some vast candymaker. The little tunnel through slipspace spiraled downward through the fabric of the world, and Aurin felt it cross over into another one entirely.

"Aurin!" Ansel hissed, "Ware! We are surrounded."

Light suddenly filled the room as the Sunsinger summoned a golden spear, and the spear erupted into silver-tinged fire. Whatever bizarre magical effect had dampened all the light in the Theater fled before Novuril's borrowed flame, and the leaping flames cast the dark room into stark relief, each detail casting long shadows.

And in those shadows, Aurin could see the wavering shapes of shadow creatures, the Eclipse-spawned creatures which had harrowed the world for a year before mysteriously disappearing. The indistinct creatures focused their developing forms on Ansel, and on the shining banner of his spear. The old man dropped to a crouch, preparing himself for the inevitable assault... but none came. Instead, the shadow-creatures simply stood there, trying to form, struggling to burst through the meniscus of the shadows surrounding them and into the world as they had done throughout the Great Eclipse.

After a moment, Ansel stood back up, too baffled to be embarrassed about his reaction. Motion caught his eye, as Aurin's image reappeared in the mirror, the spirit's static-filled eyes wide with panic and disbelief. He waved at the Sunsinger, frantic.

"What is it?" the witch barked, "What's happened in the storeroom?"

The reflection hesitated, looking at something outside of the frame of the mirror, then leaned forward, and scrawled upon the glass: The Dark One

Ansel drew in a short, horrified breath, but the spirit kept writing.

...'s cat.

"Hä?"

The spirit kept going, but all it wrote was nonsense- apparently, it felt compelled to turn that into a poem (the next lines ended with 'hat', then 'bat', then, perhaps demonstrating a waning creativity, 'smat'). Ansel stood, surveying the theater, bafflement writ plain upon his face.

In the silence, noises resumed from Aurin's mirror, Imogen's voice even more distant- along with that of another. Wherever she'd gotten to, she was apparently having a conversation with someone. An unfamiliar female voice, tone precise, almost condescending.

[Aurin]

"Fucking mists," he muttered around his cigar, exhaling the smoke he had held in his mouth. Still lit—thank Eshar for small miracles.

The mirror in Ansel's pocket or something, he pulled out the blades Torin had made for him. They were clever and might come in handy, though he couldn't exactly sense these foes that apparently surrounded them. Slipspace was warping, though, and that couldn't be good.

"Fucking mists!" he repeated when Ansel's shining weapon revealed the voidborn. He muttered a command word and the illumite brooch hidden upon his person cast a luminous sphere around him. They might hurt him, but he would certainly hurt them back. Also, he wanted that weapon. It didn't seem to be the Sunsinger quirk that gave it fire, but he didn't really have time to scan it. Perhaps if he saved Ansel's life again, he could ask for it...

But when the voidspawn didn't move to attack, he stayed his own hand.

"Ugh, I would never write poetry, and if I did, it would still be better than that." But Aurin listened to many things, always listening, and then sifting through what he heard to separate the gems from the dross. The Dark One's cat made him think of the supposed tiger creatures that apparently attended Shaeoth in the Void. He didn't know if they were real or imagined, or warped by many tellings of what had been true.

Regardless, he didn't like a Railrunner safehouse being unsafe, but he had also made a contract with Imogen. He couldn't just leave her there to alert his fellow Railrunners. He didn't even think he should bail to fetch Eshar; they had proven themselves susceptible to the mists, if not the void, and he didn't want to risk the guardian angel of the covens when he ought to be able to solve a problem on his own—well, not on his own; he had the old bastard and if he could still follow that tenuous thread, he would have Imogen as well.

"Dunno, old man, but I'm thinking I need to fetch Imogen. Coming?"

That said, he wove threads of the slipspace along the same lines as already connected their mirror to Imogen, and strove to open a portal for them.

[Imogen]

Aurin's efforts to open the portal, or perhaps to alter the Window he had been maintaining for the past half an hour, met with oddly limited success. The Slipspace felt sluggish to his power's touch, the veil between worlds strangely rigid. Nevertheless, the Railrunner was a master mage, and had been prepared for this task ahead of time. Slowly, painstakingly, the rift began to grow in front of him.

Through it, from afar, he could see Imogen- but doubtless, she couldn't see him. To his eye, she remained in the large saferoom underground, but his Traverser's senses gave away the lie. The contents of the safehouse had somehow been dragged physically across the planes and into a reflection of the Pfenning, one correct in every particular... but dark. Not dark in the sense of Ransera, of the absence of light, but dark in a more aggressive way.

The Ork stood in front of a ritual circle, surrounded on all sides by a shifting ocean of shadows, which were cast into stark contrast by a radiance hovering ten feet above the ritual circle; a longbow seemingly constructed of light, bright as the noonday sun. Below it stood an entirely unremarkable ranseur, but the spear was surrounded by a multitude of glyphs, a complex Scrivening of the sort that few master mages would have the heart to attempt. A ribbon of blood trailed from Imogen's hand to the haft of the spear, sparkling under the glow from above.

An unfamiliar female voice spoke from the shadows: "Proceed with what you planned next. I will help guide the ritual."

Imogen produced the Voidrillium which Aurin had brought her, holding it in one hand, apparently heedless of the way it blackened her skin. She advanced towards the-

Crackle

Aurin's growing portal suddenly filled with static, visual noise rendered in black and white. Around the room, the shadows lifted and lights began to return as Ansel's aidolon pressed itself bodily against the boundaries of the veil. For a moment, through the portal, Aurin could see a glimpse of the thing's true form- something enormous and indistinct, trapped inside Slipspace. The voidlings struggling to enter Ransera faded along with the shadows, unable to overcome the spirit's ban.

"Typical." Ansel spat, his breath coming long and heavy. His spear drooped, the silvery fire on it charring a light burn into the stage- doubtless an aggravation for whichever unfortunate manager the Railrunners had hired to keep their front. "I am sorry, Aurin, if I waited any longer to reinforce the Veil, the voidlings would escape again. We would have the Order upon us in minutes."

As the lights came back up, every sign of the strange dimensional shift vanished, saving only the big prop mirror in which Gerhard's aidolon had been manifest. It showed nothing now, entirely covered with the same static that filled Aurin's portal. Ansel glanced at it.

"Nothing about the rite should have had that effect. Did she include some other element without telling me...?" The old sunsinger pursed his lips, then shook his head, "No, that would not be like her. Still, I should have expected some of der Unsinn with her. Aurin, I must keep the beasts from manifesting until the worlds stabilize once more. Find somewhere private outside the reach of the mirror-spirit's power to open your portal. The ban's power will weaken fast beyond the theater walls."

[Aurin]

There was quite a bit going on here that Aurin didn't understand. He wasn't in the habit of asking too many questions about another witch's rituals. On the one hand, there was professional courtesy. On the other, the only real training he had received with any of his tricks was the Traversion with Valencia. He did ask questions when he thought he could get away with a cogent one or two, but he didn't want to prove how little he knew about magical theory and seem a fool. He had picked up quite a bit from just being around Torin, as well as all the other mages who helped the master runeforger with his craft. He had learned more about his Negation from lending the power to the young enchanter than he had from the godling who had given him the trick.

Professional courtesy aside, he didn't know what the fuck Imogen was getting herself (and them) into but the brief vision hadn't been soothing. Ansel aborting his portal would have pissed him off, but it hadn't been working right anyway and he didn't know why. As Traversion was the magic he understood the best, this was baffling and more than frustrating.

So, he and Ansel were right where they started. He tipped an imaginary hat to the old coot's aidolon. They were people from what he understood.

"Well, I don't want to deal with the Order, but I also haven't the faintest idea of what's going on down there. That... static...? I've only seen that effect on those screen box things they have in the Imperium. There was someone or something down there with her..." He frowned. The safe house had its protections both from the outside and from within, so hopefully they hadn't caught the attention of Dornkirk's zealot of a brother-in-law and his cronies.

Aurin wanted to take charge, to prove to the old Sunsinger that he could; however, that seemed ill advised when the old man knew better what was going on, or seemed to.

"All right, Lord High Captain Commander..." He sighed. "What do we do now?"

[Imogen]

Ansel Gerhard had a sense of humor, but he wasn't known for it; it wouldn't have surprised any of the many knights he'd trained over the years if he'd boxed Aurin's ears for that remark. Two things stopped him. First, Kavafis had saved his life at considerable pain and expense, and he was too honorable to forget that kind of debt. Second, he was plainly exhausted by the magics he'd done already that night. His breaths were long and deep, but they verged on gasps.

"The interference is my spirit's doing." Ansel said, his voice sounding a bit raspy, "It and its ilk are trapped in the realm of Slipspace; it exists only on the border of things, where one place is and then is not. I have set it to press its flesh against the veil, to thwart the voidlings which seek to manifest, but I'm afraid it has not the leeway to spare your portal."

The old man drove his spear into the floor, sinking it six inches into the wood, and leaned against it, evidently finding some relief. This was going to be a real nightmare for the manager the next day, but those types were paid well to deal with this kind of thing. One had to wonder just how the Sunsingers managed the repair bills for their own facilities. Doubtless novice Reavers put holes in just about everything.

"If I were twenty years younger..." the old knight grumbled, grimacing at how he sounded. When had he gotten so old, anyway? Everything had changed and shifted away, the world beneath his feet becoming something wholly new.

"Imogen's rite was meant to imbue the weapon with the curse- at that point, she'd need to complete a pact battle. One of the cruel tricks of Reaving is that every new Pact requires you to finish with a duel, and not a play-fight, either; something which risks death. It makes it harder and harder to form new Pacts as you grow. None of the initiates left back at the Sanctuary would have lasted five seconds with her, and I told her that at my age, I couldn't manage it either."

Ansel went on, apparently totally unaware of his accidental innuendos, the model of a professional soldier.

"I told Imogen that even if this ritual worked, she wasn't likely to find a suitable spar in Zaichaer. She insisted that it would be 'taken care of'. So, I can only assume the thing which caused this chaos has come to fight her."

The old Sunsinger frowned. He'd read Imogen's dossiers, of course. She had quite a history of fighting monsters, from dinosaurs to dragons to Arbiters, and there was no doubt she was quite talented at coming out on top of those skirmishes. But if his spirit was right, if this monster were of truly divine origin... well, that was hardly going to be a duel at all. Even the Marshal wouldn't try to raise his sword against the newly-ascendant God of Darkness. Or his... cat.

But there was no point making assumptions about a fight he couldn't even see. Ansel let go of his spear and the weapon disappeared, fading away into the silent hall with a shimmering effect reminiscent of a mirage in the desert. He stomped back to the couch and sat heavily, practically falling upon it.

"Whatever she's challenged, she seemed confident that it would do her in without your assistance- so I doubt you have long. You'll need to find a way to reach her again and bring her back."

[Aurin]

'Fuuuuuuuuuck,' he thought to himself.

He remained almost preternaturally still as he listened, as he watched Ansel sway against his spear, and then seat himself, having nothing left to give to this struggle. There was something terrifying about seeing the strong man spent, his aging apparent. Aurin didn't know him all that well, though they had escaped some perilous situations. The idea of him impotent, eventually dying, felt akin to one of the pillars holding up the firmament falling to the ground.

"Right. All right."

Ansel was out. Imogen was engaged with an enemy. Aurin had to take command of himself, at least, and reinforce her.

But first, he opened a window into the Grymalka hospital.

"Send a medic to the Pfenning Theatre. Marshal Ansel Gerhart might be suffering from the effects of overstepping. Yes, and please remember to bring him a lollipop to ensure good behavior. Thanks."

He didn't even comment on the jibe as he closed the window, nodded to Ansel, and disappeared into the slipspace. He vaulted from one secret room to another, testing lines here and there like a spider at her web. Looking for a route that wouldn't harm or distract Ansel's aidolon, nor give an easy path back for any voidborn monstrosities. He didn't wish those little fuckers on anyone, and he was a petty cunt of a man sometimes.

When he thought he had found his in, he paused. A part of him wanted to fetch Valencia, but there was always the chance she was treating with the Order and then he would have to be too circumspect for the time allotted. Anyway, she said there was little else she could teach him, that he merely had to face new challenges and learn from them.

"Fuck."

Connecting threads in a roundabout, creative path, he vaulted directly to Imogen's presence without even opening a proper portal. Knives out, wards invisibly blazing, he was prepared (he hoped). It hadn't occurred to him to ask about helping someone during a pact duel; Ansel would have told him if there were complications to be aware of.

Right?