[Realms #433] A Night Off
"Cool!" Huzair remarked, his excitement showing through his world-weary facade as he shouldered his way passed Ayremac to climb inside the wagon. "An extra-dimensional space, just like on the Mercane vessel!" Dr. Akerman looked up at that, surprised.
"I purchased this
Manor Wagon from a Mercane just last year," he said, drying his hand on his cloak.
"Are you a wizard?" Huzair asked and the Doctor nodded, prompting a wide grin. "Do you have any scrolls or spell books to trade?"
Outside, Shamalin and Morier peered around Ayremac at the extra-dimensional space. "This could easily be a trap," the cleric mutterred softly, hesitating at the entry. Then she shrugged, shouldering past the others to follow Huzair. "I wonder if he has a bath in there?" she considered as she went.
Stepping into Doctor Akerman's estate took Shamalin's breath away. It was a place of beauty and peace, in stark contrast to the world they had just left. The soothing sounds of running water combined wondrously with the warm glow of light in the heavens. Shamalin felt suddenly invigorated, as if responsibility and experience could be lifted and blown away like leaves in the warm air. She found herself grinning childishly. Huzair smirked in return, but she could sense that even he was impressed.
Morier looked at Ayremac. "She's right," he said. "This could be a trap set for us by any one of our many enemies." Ayremac grinned at Morier.
"Living life's about taking chances," he said, tucking his wings to enter the wagon. The albino grimaced after the holy warrior's retreating form.
"What about you two?" the eldritch warrior asked, turning to regard Anania and Ahlear.
"I believe that I will stay here," the elf maid replied, clutching her bow with both hands. "I will keep watch for a time. And I am more comfortable taking my rest in the natural world than I would be in such an unnatural one."
Ahlear got up and grabbed his saddle, negotiating it onto his shoulder before walking over to the wagon. His eyes were in perpetual motion, scanning the surroundings for any sign of trouble as he walked. He stepped up to the wagon and looked inside, treating the inner space to the same visual inspection, his pipe clenched firmly in his teeth. He reached down to lift Nibble into the space and then slowly and deliberately stepped in behind his animal companion. Looking around at the massive interior space he mumbled, "Show off."
Reluctantly, Morier climbed in after and closed the door, sealing out the harsh tundra with a final click of a closing latch.
Huzair immediately sniffed the air. "Who's smoking?" he asked before spotting Ahlear wreathed in a blue-grey cloud. "Oh. A pipe," he said, deflated as the druid walked toward him. Ahlear produced a big, fat cigar from the saddlebag hanging down across his torso and handed it to Huzair. The wizard's face split into a big grin at the sight and he accepted it greedily, raising it at once to his nose.
"OOOH... this is a nice one!" Huzair said, sniffing the cigar.
"Enjoy it," Ahlear replied, puffing on his pipe as he watched the mage's thrilled expression.
"Thanks," Huzair replied. "But this doesn't change the fact that Anania is still my little flower." Again, Ahlear snorted at the wizard's assertion.
"She is not your flower, Huzair. For as much as you would wish any woman on this earth to be yours, she is the least," Ahlear said, casting a glance at Morier. "She has taken fellowship blindly and I detest blind followers." Huzair sighed.
"Bahhh," he commented, favoring Ahlear with a playful wink. "Dr. Akerman, do you have a
Silence spell by chance? I would pay handsomely!" He grinned broadly, clenching the cigar in his teeth. Akerman arched an eyebrow at the two and spread his arms.
"Such could be arranged, I'm sure. But for now, I would suggest that you wait to light that. Dinner will be served within the hour," he said, his arms spread unnaturally. "Attend me!"
At the mage's utterance there was a strange movement in the air, and his cloak and hat lifted from him by some unseen means. They hovered beside him, the cloak neatly folding itself as he grinned at the group.
"How?" Shamalin started to ask but Huzair answered her quickly.
"
Unseen Servant," he said confidently before looking to Akerman for confirmation. "Am I right?"
"
Servant Horde, actually," the Doctor answered. "If you've mastered the Third Circle, I can probably arrange for you to scribe the spell. Meantime, I'll assign a
Servant to each of you. They'll show you to your quarters and where to find the garderobe, the bathhouse, and the dining hall when the meal is prepared."
"IF I have mastered the Third Circle?" Huzair groused under his breath. "What do I look like: Morier?!"
"I don't think that we need to waste any more of your-" Morier started, but the others were already availing themselves of Akerman's hospitality. As invisible hands lifted his cloak from his shoulders, he cursed this further delay.
When their meal was over and
Unseen Servants were bringing the after-dinner wine around, Ayremac wiped once more at his lips and stood. Doctor Akerman and Huzair had been discussing the esoteric minutia of arcane theory, but the conversation died as the holy warrior got to his feet.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said. "I think I am going to do some aerial scouting and see if I can find a camp fire or something where Alechtus may be hiding."
"Are you sure?" Akerman said. "It's cold out there and we'll have some fine dessert after the wine."
"I appreciate it, but the cold doesn't bother me that much," Ayremac admitted. Thanks to his Celestial blood the weather on the tundra didn't bother him at all. "Shamalin... Huzair... well, Dr. Akerman as well, I suppose... Would any of you have any spells that would help me? An
Eagle Eye, or
Detect Supernatural, God-Carrying Bad Guy spells?" he smirked at his own joke.
"How about I send Sparky with you?" Huzair suggested. "You know, so you do not just find the guy and take all the glory for yourself." Ayremac scoffed at that suggestion.
"My intention is to go for an hour or so, starting quite high and looking for signs of a fire," he explained. "Nothing more."
"That's good, holy warrior," Dr. Akerman said, taking a small sip of his wine. "Alechtus is not someone to be confronted lightly... as the string of bodies he leaves in his wake can surely attest."
"Here is the
Ring of Invisibility," Huzair said, placing the band in Sparky's feet. The hummingbird flew it over and dropped it into Ayremac's hand. "Do not let him see you," Huzair told the Officer of Umba meaningfully.
"Thank you," Ayremac said and turned to exit the dining hall. Ahlear raised a hand to forestall him.
"Ayremac, do be careful," the druid said in a soft, kind tone. "Although we might not agree, fly safe." Ayremac studied him skeptically, but sensing no hidden motive he nodded.
"Thank you," he said again and left the chamber.
With the wine flowing freely, it took only a short time for the conversation to resume, and after a little while, Shamalin found herself bold enough to mention the harp. It sat on a podium at the end of the hallway adjacent to the dining room. She had noticed it initially, but with Ayremac gone it suddenly seemed to glow more intensely in her eyes. In response to her query, Doctor Akerman pushed his chair back. Intrigued, Shamalin watched as he dotted his face one final time with his napkin before making his way toward the hallway. Morier cleared his throat trying to catch their attention, but Shamalin pointedly ignored him. A moment later Akerman returned and settled back in his chair with the harp in his lap. He plucked a few chords experimentally and the pure tones echoed throughout the room. Then he turned directly to Shamalin and asked, "Will you accompany me?"
It had been such a long time since she had been inclined to sing. Lifetimes. But given the warm bath, and dinner, and a break in the tension between them all - at least for the moment - she couldn't refuse. Perhaps it was time. And so she added her voice to the sweet and simple melody of Akerman's ballad. And like so many times in the past, as she sang, something changed within her. The magical art of healing bequeathed by the Goddess of Mercy, encouraged by this stranger, entwined with the music. And with each note it converged in the very core of her being, beginning in some small way to soothe that which was broken.
She held the final note of the song until the echoing chords of the harp died away. The room was still. Taking a deep breath, she nodded slowly at the Doctor and whispered, "Thank you."
He inclined his head politely and acknowledged with a warm smile, "You're welcome. Now let's have dessert!"
"This reminds me of a poem," Shamalin said later after they had retired to Doctor Akerman's library. She pulled a rolled sheet of parchment from her robes where she'd hidden it after her bath, hoping to be able to ask Akerman about it at some point. Uncurling it she read:
"As with plague the world becomes stained,
Slaying the righteous of Light slowly waned,
Seek then to free Her, a goddess unchained."
"To seal the fate of the Black Queen's doom,
First free Beast's twin from Her cold prison tomb,
To spill salvation from Her fruitful womb."
Akerman grimaced. "Ah, cryptic poetry. Why does every bit of so-called prophecy have to be in cryptic poetry?" he mused. "I assume that you already have a theory about the interpretation of this bit of verse, so let me give you my opinion and we'll see how the two compare, eh?" He held out his hand and Shamalin gave him the scroll that Ledare had penned some moonsdances past. Akerman adjusted his spectacles and studied the parchment critically.
After a few moments he spoke.
"Well, this first bit about plague certainly seems current," he began. "There are several diseases ravaging settlements from here to Haven, unchecked by either mundane or divine healing. This line about Light slowly waning seems to refer not to illumination, but rather to an individual. See how it's capitalized, like a proper name. Perhaps it refers to Orin, the Lord of Light, or his consort, Shaharizod, who's Mirrors light the dark night. Of course, it could even refer to your own patron, as well, Mercybringer; she is known as the White Lady, after all."
"I thought that might be the case," Shamalin said with a nod. Akerman regarded her over the tops of his glasses.
"Yes. I thought you might," he agreed before returning to the parchment."The last line, tells us something about who wrote the prophecy, yes? See how the pronoun 'her' is capitalized? That sort of thing is typically reserved for when a believer is writing about his patron deity. So, we can assume that whoever wrote this was a druid."
"How do you come to that conclusion?" Huzair asked from across the room. He had a goblet of wine in one hand, a smoking cigar in the other and a massive tome spread across his lap. His face bore a languid grin that spoke volumes about his mental state at the moment.
"Who but one of the druidic faiths, would so revere Dridana as it capitalize a pronoun used to denote her?" Akerman explained and Shamalin leaned forward.
"Why do you mention Dridana?" she asked and the doctor shook the parchment a bit in response.
"Because of this," he said. "It mentions freeing Beast's twin. Who else could it be but the Animal Lord, Brogine's sister, Dridana? And I'd say that trapped as she is between existence and death certainly qualifies as both a prison and a tomb, wouldn't you?" Shamalin's expression brightened further.
"So, you're familiar with Dridana?" she asked and Akerman nodded.
"What sort of a scholar of dead gods would I be if I didn't know about Dridana?" Akerman asked and handed the parchment back to Shamalin. "The Memento Mori have an entire vault dedicated to She Who is All in the Sepulcher of Heaven. But the general consensus is that she's not really dead. At least not in the same way that Rhianne is. Her spirit has been separated from her body, but there's no loosed divinity."
"But her body is on the astral plane," Huzair observed. "Is that not what happens to gods who die?" Akerman raised an eyebrow at the wizard; his expression was impressed.
"Indeed it is," Akerman told them. "Though there are not many outside of Memento Mori who know of the God Islands' existence."
"Have you ever been there?" Huzair asked.
"I have," the doctor admitted. "We journey to the Astral from time to time in order to harvest godsblood or god flesh. It's difficult and dangerous business going there."
"The Buommans give you access to the God Islands?" Huzair asked and Doctor Akerman's face clouded over.
"No," he said flatly. "They and their whole Cabal of the Dirge are a constant thorn in Memento Mori's side, trying to keep others from accessing the dead gods on which they themselves have built their cities. As if that was somehow noble and we were desecrators." Doctor Akerman took a long pull off his wine glass, throat working as he drank deeply.
"What would happen if this spark were reunited with the dead body on the Astral?" Huzair asked and Akerman's face softened. He tugged at his goatee.
"An interesting question, young man, and one to which no one yet has a definitive answer" he said. A light had been kindled in the wizard's eyes. "But it's just because of questions like that that I pursue this subject matter. All existing theories tend to indicate that nothing would happen and I am inclined to agree." Morier frowned.
"So reuniting the Divine Spark in Alechtus with the body that spawned it wouldn't bring the goddess back to life?" the albino asked, entering the conversation for the first time. Akerman chuckled and turned in his chair to look at the eldritch warrior.
"Do you suppose that Alechtus is somehow housing the whole of Rhianne's spirit, elf?" he laughed. "That would make him her avatar, would it not? It would also likely burn out his body in short order. When a god is slain the corpus dei releases up to 40 of these Divinity Sparks. Alechtus houses one or perhaps two of the Sparks at the most."
"What happened to the rest of them?" Shamalin asked and Akerman shrugged.
"Who knows? Many Sparks simply disappear immediately onto the Astral Plane. Others are absorbed by creatures nearby. Others are harvested by collectors such as myself," he explained. "No one knows for certain how many Sparks Rhianne released upon her death, but it is known that the founder of Memento Mori, Brypur Vutha-isk, managed to harvest ten of them. He worked for a time with a dwarven weaponsmith, Brumar Marnakfarlan, to create a succession of magic weapons powered by Divinity Sparks until he eventually learned how to absorb multiple Sparks into himself. He attained near divine status as a result; he's a great role model for us all."
"Is that what you plan to do, Doctor?" Ayremac asked from the doorway. "Absorb the Spark in Alechtus and become some sort of demi-god?" Akerman stood and faced the doorway that led out onto the courtyard.
"Ah, you're back," he said. "I'm afraid that you missed dessert. Was there any sign of Alechtus?" Ayremac looked hard at the doctor, snow melting off his armor.
"No. Visibility was terrible," he said. "I saw no camp fires, but I did see a town a bit north along the road. He could easily be there."
