Fable - Ask Breaking The Chains

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The saga continues.

The old spook nodded to itself, cloaked in shadow. The only illumination came from a cauldron, or rather the not-quite fire that burned beneath it. The surface of the vessel was blacker than the deepest cave, darker than the abyss at the bottom of the ocean. Occasionally a shadowy shape wrought in silvery light would surface and then disappear into the inky darkness.

The figure looked on.

"The break, it will come," said the leather-cased creature. The voice was that of a woman, high pitched and grating. It tittered a laugh to itself.

"Slow, she is," it said again. This time it was an entirely different voice, male and gravelly.

"Does it matter? Does it matter? Why would it matter? Why should it matter?" The high-pitched voice whined again, and the figure laughed again, gravelly and derisive.

"If not her, then another." The sultry voice of a temptress, low and throaty.

Each voice came from the single individual standing before the cauldron. They were of indifferent height, wearing a cowled robe. Their face lay hidden behind a leather mask such that only the mouth and eyes were visible. Or, at least, the holes where such things would lie. The darkness behind the mask allowed nothing but teeth to gleam and the indeterminate shine of eyes - devoid of color and character and soul - to glisten.

"No other. The time of waiting is done. We will find her."

The last voice was cold, ancient and distant as the stars in the sky. The otherworldly timbre reverberated through the undefined space where Traveler stood. There was a presence that rolled off of the strange being in waves. Soul-crushing and implacable as any force of nature, tinged with the poison of chaos.

"She escaped once."

"She will not escape again."

"All the time in the world will not be enough to elude us."

"We will finish what we started."

"What we started! We started! An ending!"

An ending. It was close. So close. The hooded figure reached out a gloved hand and, with great care, ran a finger across the black surface of the cauldron. The dragonette claw sewn into the leather stirred silvery light from within its depths, sending a coruscating wave outward.

Across the surface.

Beyond it.

Ever outward...



...the only thing holding you to them might be your own fear...

The shaman was in the grip of anger now, even if that anger was born of the fear that Alistair had accused her of. It was the truth that she would never, ever admit to herself that kindled that flame. And yet even so, she would not raise her hand against Traveler out of the very fear of reprisal.

It was not physical chains that bound the No'rei to them. Some existential dread seemed to cling to the idea of defying them.

The land had swiftly changed from the hilly, forested country of the Falwood into the ever more sparsely wooded rolling hills that preceded the great Sea of Grass. So close to the Aberessai the air and land became more sere. The town was not an expected feature of the mostly empty Sea even if it was beyond the range of her people and their endless war with anyone and everyone who stepped foot on their sacred soil.

She did not know the name of this place, and did not care. It was like so many other settlements on the fringe; a hub for trade along the margins of the wild and inhospitable grasslands. The major trade routes between Vel Anir and Alliria ran through this part of the world. It was considered safer by many than crossing the grasslands or going through the forest; one was the haunt of unfriendly tribals, the other the domain of thieves and bandits.

As such, it consisted of the expected main street, with its muddy rutted road running through the heart of the settlement and the usual collection of rough wooden structures thrown up on either side. A dozen wagons stood in the wide main avenue with their draft animals left in the traces. Local farmers, mostly. One 'van made up half of the people in town. The guard sat on barrels or leaned against the wooden beams that held up the awnings of the storefronts and eyed everyone else in town with the disinterested menace common to their kind.

She rode into town on a dusty paint. The mare was probably as tired as she was, riding night and day since the latest and last of the strange ordeals that Traveler had orchestrated. Her clothes - such as they were - were travel stained. They also marked her out quite clearly as one of the natives from out on the Sea; a loin cloth and chest wrap in dull brown and faded blue and grey, festooned with the same bone charms and feathers and bits of colored cloth as the braid down her back were as clear as a written sign.

Especially to those who lived on the border between civilization and the so-called savages beyond its grasp.

She guided her mount to the rail in front of a way house. It was the wrong time of year for it to be packed to the brim; aside from the merchants in the caravan hobbled in the street and the handful of guards, there were few others. Certainly few others that were of any means. The rail only had a few other horses tied to them. Slipping from the saddle and swaying on her feet as she landed, she tied the reins off as well and went inside.

It was early evening. The light pouring through the windows held that golden, honey-like quality that only came when the shadows were long. There were a surprising number of patrons at the tables in the large room inside. The low murmur of conversation continued on as if she had not entered even if a few of the patrons looked up and gave her a second glance.

An oddity. Uncommon among civilized lands but not unheard of. Maybe if she wasn't trying to elude some spook - and if she hadn't been so tired - she might have tried to attract more attention to herself.

Too tired to exaggerate the sway of hips. Too hungry to care about eyes. Her twisted, scarred left arm ached abominably after being jolted and bounced for many long hours. It did not make her mood especially good, either.

She stepped up to the counter. There was no bar here, merely a place to keep the strongbox and to keep records of who was staying and who not, and what they owed. There was no one manning it now; judging by the sound of crockery and metal coming from the door nearby, she judged it to be the kitchen and likely where the person she was looking for was.

There was nothing to do but wait, try to shake off the feeling of being watched.
 
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She was never one to excel at reading a map and translating it to her actual surroundings. Roads were easy to process, but the idea of measuring time and distance never seemed to improve for the young Anirian. Fortunately, her friend had left her in the company of his corvus companion, and Repent never had lead her off course in these past weeks of their journey. To leave Vel Anir so quickly in the end, to choose exile and close that chapter behind her, Zephyrine was in an out of sorts. She regretted not securing a faster mode of travel, but she also knew a horse would only attract attention. She knew she shouldn't make so many stops to eat and sleep, but she had a small fortune left to her, the rest of it securely with Kor and Larkin who traveled ahead while she settled her affairs in Vel Anir.
A home left to her was donated to a charity, for she would no longer need of it since she never planned on living in a house she did not grow up in. She parted ways with a boy that ensnared her heart, and she his, but they both knew life and adventure were at their hands, and went their ways to pursue it. Love and let go.
That was what Zeph was telling herself to make leaving a set life back in Vel Anir. It was alright to acknowledge she made friends and met people that softened her, made her more aware, but she was strong and capable enough to let that go. Life... life was about to begin again for her.
Zeph carefully folded her map and shoved it in the thin space left in her pack. She was travelling light, only the essentials she could not part with since serving only three months as a Dreadlord, but furniture, weapons, and shelters she could create with her magic. But there was no need to hide, no need to sacrifice a good warm meal or a soft bed to reset before continuing on her journey north.

With patience — since that was all she could do right now — she waited for the meal she had ordered, nursing the small cup of tea she hadn't ordered. She had tried to purchase a room for the night, but was told to wait while someone made up the rooms and beds clean and fresh for new guests. It had been almost a week since she last stayed at any establishment, and had hoped to bathe and clean up before a meal and sleep, but now her order of things were switched around. She most likely will tire after this meal, and a bath would have to wait until morning.

But the kitchen doors kicked open, and the woman walking towards her and her small table was carrying a large bowl of soup, and placed it on the wooden surface in front of her. The table seemed to wobble under the weight, but with a quick thought, the table righted itself to a perfect level with the aide of her magic, and Zephyrine inhaled the herbs and spices lingering in the steam.

"I forgot your bread! Hang on, girl..." And the woman vanished behind the kitchen door again, completely forgetting about the being lingering by the desk. Zephyrine threw the female a sheepish look, unsure if she should say sorry for something she was not directly involved with.
 
The woman that bustled out of the kitchen swept past her without so much as a sidelong look. Aeyliea's eyes followed her as she hurried to a table with someone's meal. Not a word was spared for the white-haired tribal. Her eyes narrowed, her face darkening further at the perceived slight.

She clenched her good hand into a fist as the woman slipped past again, clearly ignoring her as she went. The patron at the table offered her an odd look; she returned the look with an acidic one of her own. She was exhausted, though, so there would be no words. Anger was tempered by fear, regardless. Anyway, her common was inadequate to a real good tongue-trashing.

She waited with bad grace, arm throbbing in time with her heart.

When the woman came back out and started toward the table, again bypassing her, she stepped into her path with both hands planted on her hips and a tired, dangerous light in her eyes. "Not ignore," she snapped.

The woman, for her part, blinked as though surfacing from some distraction or another. She looked at Aeyliea as though seeing her for the first time, then shook her head. "Apologies, miss," she said as she took in her guest. Her eyes might have tightened a bit at the scales visible on neck and shoulders. Understandable, given her kith and kin's predilection to violence. "I just need to-"

"Need food. Now. For...not here. To leave with me," she said in her thickly accented common. She gestured toward the door to emphasize her desire to eat and run, as it were.

"...but..," the hostess began, but Aeyliea cut her off with a growl.

"Now! Not ... have time. Must go," she snapped. Anger was edged with distinct unease, and she kept glancing back at the door as if expecting some kind of trouble to walk in at any time.
 
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"Are you sure you wouldn't want to stay and eat? The soup is still hot, I can bring some to you now?"

Zephyrine looked around her surroundings again, seeing that no one paid any attention to what was happening. And that gnawing, gods awful urge, that glimmer of care she had begun to witness in her last year at the Academy had made Zephyrine pipe up.
"You can sit with me. Warm yourself by the fire and have a hot meal before you go."

In her dedicated years as an Initiate, she had learned several languages in case of deployment in those areas, but Zephyrine was not too familiar with the accent or manner in which the other young woman spoke with. But the invitation was said, the expectation of the other taking her up on her offer was not one she would wait around for. If she chose to listen, that was fine, and if not... well, Zephyrine would be glad not to try and muster up some small talk.

"Yes, please. Sit. Wait. I can get you fresh bread and soup." And the hostess smiled sheepishly, already making for the kitchen door again.
 
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The tribal made a frustrated sound at the back of her throat, already opening her mouth to protest. Unfortunately, the hostess had used the opening offered by the stranger to slip away. Aeyliea said something exceptionally unflattering in the flowing tongue of her people, stamping a foot and making a complex gesture at the swinging door.

Part of her mind screamed to just forget this and leave. She could go many days without food and water, certainly many more than she already had. Her kindred were hardy and well adapted to the dry interior and tough as nails beside. The twisted, scarred left arm was testament enough to that; the wound that had crippled the limb would have killed most. It would have been a source of pride for her if not for the fact that it greatly complicated her life.

She turned her steel-blue eyes to Zephyrine. There was an anxiety in them she would not admit to. They were also as hard as the steel they looked like.

Aeyliea looked back to the kitchen and then to Zephyrine again, clearly weighing some decision. After a moment she let out a breath and sat. She eyed the woman across from her warily, trying to understand why a stranger would even offer such a thing.

She wouldn't. She distrusted the other, even if the extreme xenophobia had been... curbed... in recent months.

"Why?" The single word was hard as her eyes. Her eyes drifted to the door without her being conscious of it. "Not know me. Many not like me and...mine?"
 
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Zephyrine could not help the snort that left her. She picked up a still warm bread roll and pulled it apart, dipping one half into the soup. It was all vegetables, but Zeph welcomed the warmth of it all. Food was one thing her magic could not recreate, yet, but her own inexperience of hunting for her own food often left her hungry between trips.

At least Repent, Kor's raven keeping watch on her, had learned to stop hunting for small rodents for her.


"I invited you to sit, not talk. Besides, would you rather sit on the other tables that are taken up?" Zeph gave the option to the other female, not at all waiting on baited breath for whichever decision she made.
 
She nodded curtly to the young woman. "Rather take food, go. In hurry. Must make it to the Sea," she said distractedly. She strained senses other than physical, trying to sense the off-putting aura of Traveler coming from the distance. The breath of the land whispered nothing of their presence.

Didn't mean anything. She had never seen what the creature was capable of, but there was a certain sense of existential dread that the spook managed to cloak round their personage like an outer garment. She had little doubt that they were an accomplished sorcerer of some kind.

Magic was not her realm. Cold steel and grit were her bailiwick.

She absently rubbed at her left arm as she stared at the door, thoughts of food momentarily forgotten. The twisted, raw looking scar that seemed to have eaten away at her flesh throbbed dully as it always did.
 
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Zephyrine had learned to read her classmates during her time being trained separately from them. She observed, took note, and assessed the fundamentals of her cohorts, aiding her very well once the Proctors decided it was best to usher her into the lessons along side them. To them, Zeph was new, foregin, a potential threat, but she knew all about them.

All except a few that went under her radar, but she learned to read them too.

And it was that skill that had Zephyrine watching the other, her brows furrowing as she began to calculate her stance.

Her feet were not grounded, her shifting weight to either foot alerted the Dreadlord, because at least she made it that far before choosing this exile, that something was not right.


"Are you alright?" She asked, her expression turning serious. Without more thought, Zeph created a small satchel to place her bread into, in case her meal, would be interrupted. She was becoming alert now, casting a wary gaze about the room with her tawny eyes.
 
Lying was not a strong suit of hers. Really, it wasn't a trait many of her people had; honesty, especially brutal honesty, was a common thing among a people that considered falsehood to be dishonorable and a good reason to drub someone.

Or slit their throat.

"Not know," she said after thinking on whether she would answer or not. "Maybe trouble, maybe not." She eyed the door again, but whatever it was she was looking for did not appear. The appallingly oppressive feel of elder sorcery did not suddenly descend upon them.

People went about their business as though there was nothing wrong which, she supposed, was the truth.

A bowl of soup and a plate with bread on it appeared as if by magic; the proprietress had descended swiftly upon their table and deposited her load with only a murmured wish that she enjoy her meal before bustling off to take care of other guests.

Without any case for how it looked, she took the bread and opened the bag slung at her hip and secreted the crusty piece away for later after wrapping it in a cloth that she kept inside. She eyed the soup with deep suspicion, though. Not standard fare for her, and a thing that seemed uniquely and outsider thing to eat.

She stuck a finger in it and then to her mouth, expression odd as the flavor filled her mouth. She wasn't sure she liked it, but calories were calories. She picked the bowl up and began to drink it slowly.
 
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Zephyrine had no way to trust the female's worry of something yet to come, but even as she watched the foreigner attempt to eat her meal, she could not help her eyes from drifting to the front door, as if trouble would walk in any moment. Perhaps it was paranoia, fed from the other, but the exiled Dreadlord could... sense something in the air.

"Are you in trouble?" She found herself asking, turning to look at the other with furrowed brows. "What trouble?"

She need not have a weapon at her side to reach for. Her magic provided for her, within a moment's thought would a blade be created in her hand, but her hand still moved, itching towards the small pouch of metal pieces that gave the basis to any weapon should she need it.

Aeyliea
 
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She let loose a bitter laugh, shaking her white-maned head so that the various things woven into it clicked and fluttered. If only she could give an answer to the question. It was even odds if she would have answered, anyway, but she certainly could not do it if she herself did not understand...

...well, anything. She could pry no pieces loose on this enigmatic journey. Her flight was born of instinct and premonition and little else.

"Not know," she said with an affected shrug, as though she were unbothered. Couldn't be further from the truth, though. Likely was ineffective in the misdirection, as well; misdirection was not a well-honed trait. Among her kindred, directness was prized. "Will not be chained, not more. Enough, have had. But...not want to let me go," she said.

She was certain, absolutely certain, that she would not be allowed to simply walk away. Unaware of its gradual strengthening, it was then that she noticed an unpleasant... Something. Something in the air, like a spectral smell as foul as the djini of the desert.

Her eyes swiveled to the door again, locked there.
 
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Zephyrine stopped eating.

Her eyes went back to the door, brows furrowing deeply. There was an inevitable about to come to pass, and slowly, her head turned so that she may look upon the other woman once more.
"Should we meet it?"

She surely did not want to remain here and put the other innocent patrons at risk. Not many of them looked capable to fight, merely traveling on their way. Zephyrine didn't also need to assist the foreigner, but her hands itched to be put to work, to weave and recreate weapons and combat.

Clearing her throat, she braced herself for any next move.