Private Tales In Search of a Soul (Sigil)

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

Spoiler: Music

It truly was a travelling life that he was destined for, it seemed.

And here Rae'twyn had begun to find himself a rather cozy spot in Alliria. Plenty of drink, food, company and gainful employment, with all the brothels, bars, dice dens and other houses of vice that a humble drow could ever wish for.

And now, he was here -- flung into the swampy, clustered pocket isles of Bayou Garramarisma, right into its black heart, where sorcery met with a copious amount of alcohol and self-pity among the world's outcasts. Crossroad Mire.

Ah, but he could only scoff at the evident self-loathing that seemed to perpetually droop from every sagging chin, downspout or gutter he saw; all dripping with an unholy mix of tears, rain or urine. Sometimes all three at once. People mirrored their disheveled homes here, not bothering much about presentation or style. Rae'twyn's dainty boots crisscrossed nimbly over rickety planks and gangways half-claimed by the everpresent mud to keep himself clean from its miserable touch.

He dashed straight for the location of his contact: Hagglesnip, right around the main roadhouse The Murky Goblet, where she maintained a shop of curios, of sorts, in a little outbuilding. It was here that Rae'twyn slammed open the door, catching the hairy peddler of sketchy lore by surprise.

"Who in the-- by Khalldryn's nose bones, another one! Who goes there?! I was in the middle of something."

That something seemed to be stacking runed skulls in a strange tower. Rae'twyn swiped out his hand, made a few twirls of said hand, and gave a lavish bow, nose near touching his own knee.

"And greetings to you, Mistress Hagglesnip! I come on the behest of my employer, the Iron Whisper. You've received their letter, no?"

"Oh, right. It's you," Hagglesnip harked, seeming more at ease, stowing away those skulls behind a ragged curtain. "Spare me a moment."

Hagglesnip rifled through her belongings under the counter, to which Rae'twyn patiently waited, folding his arms behind his back, setting one foot before the other as he marveled over the many strange artefacts crammed into such a small space. Finally, Hagglesnip emerged with a rough-looking scroll -- looking like it was fashioned from the hide of some beast rather than paper.

"There you are. I had one other copy left. Mostly legible. In case others wanted to sniff about. You have payment?"

Rae'twyn frowned, wearing a quizzical smile, as he sauntered over to plant a hefty pouch on the counter, clinking with coin. While Hagglesnip greedily opened it, he carefully queried:

"A copy, you say? Dare I ask where the original is?"

"Oh, in other hands," Hagglesnip said, before spitting out the side of her mouth, counting coins. "Another drow. Friend of yours, probably. Didn't mention no Metallurgic Murmur or nuffin', but she did have coin and the desire to buy it. Looks like the discovered Ruins of Ztel'carn attracts many a buyer! Give her my regards, eh?"

Another . . . drow? Rae'twyn's impeccable smile petrified like glass. Near shattered too. Another drow; and she was ahead of him?

Rapidly, he snatched the map and charged out of the shop, all to the cries of Hagglesnip behind him:

"Oy, where you off to?! I haven't even told you the legend of Ztel--"

Slam. Door shut, Rae'twyn ran and feverishly fished out the map, seeking to parse its route from Crossroad Mire, all while looking for a dinghy at the same time, and all this while shakily repeating a profane chant below his breath:

"Shu'iblith, shit, piss on it all, bloody, sod it all, blasted, bull's SHITE--!"

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria cursed as her boot sank yet again into sucking mud. The swamp fought her every step, wet and grasping and utterly devoid of the discipline a proper cavern floor possessed. Somewhere nearby, something large splashed, and she froze for half a moment before realizing it was only another miserable surface creature announcing its existence far too loudly.

She muttered a sharp string of Drow curses under her breath. Once she had not walked anywhere she did not wish to. There had been hands to clear paths, scouts to chart terrain, attendants to ensure her boots never so much as brushed filth. Now? Now she was alone in a gods-forsaken mire, navigating by moonlight and spite, personally negotiating every treacherous step like some common explorer.

She stopped long enough to pull the map free, holding it up beneath the cold wash of moonlight.

The frogs began again, obnoxious, ceaseless croaking from every direction at once. Insects hissed and buzzed and clicked. Something screeched in the distance, answered by another cry farther off. Vyx’aria exhaled sharply through her nose, irritation coiling tight in her chest.

So loud.

Even after decades on the surface, she could never quite reconcile herself to it. The Underrealm had its dangers, its whispers, its terrible silences, but this? This was chaos. Noise without purpose.

She folded the map and tucked it away, lifting her gaze toward the pale moon hanging above the skeletal trees. The ruins were nearby. They had to be.

Rae'twyn Suvalissaere

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

Spoiler: Music

Rushing through a swamp proved difficult, at best. In Alliria, he was used to be able to race through its intricate web of streets; squeezing through crowds where congested, sprinting up and down stairs and terraces where needed. Even in his old home he'd known every crook and underground alley, sliding along Zar'Ahal's elevations and labyrinthine ribcage.

Here? Here every slimy yard conquered was a victory in itself.

Eventually, he had to abandon his borrowed boat. He pulled his cloak further over him, as if it could shield him from the rampant life and buzzing mosquitos hovering above him, seeking his exotic blood.

Slurp, slurp. Slurp, slurp. Each step announced itself like a yochlol suffering from a snotty fever, splurging mucus for speech. Right, here. Right, here, his own steps seemed to say.

Sargh, but if his kindred were here . . . they rarely ventured to the surface alone. He could only pray the chorus of chittering nature would overpower his own little addition to its twilight encore.

He checked his crude map again. Look for a charred willow tree struck by lightning. The map indicated a north-eastern direction from there. Where was north again? Ah, didn't matter; it looked close enough to find. If only he could find . . .

There! A blackened willow sagged over itself, only some of its branches remaining, split down the middle like the sword of some angry god had cut it in twain. Frantically, he glanced around for any tell-tale signs of old stonework. But he found none.

Instead, he saw another figure ahead him, beyond the tree. Another, cloaked soul, rolling up her map, neck arching back to have her charcoal face bathed in silvery streaks of moonlight.

The other drow. He dashed for the cover of the tree, stepping atop its exposed roots, back pressing against its singed bark. A dagger whipped into his palm; the firm grip of its leather hilt reassuring.

Perhaps they'd finally found him now. Perhaps they had snatched the map before him as a final mockery, and led him out here for an immaculate trap. That would be quite praiseworthy of them to concoct such a scheme. Unlikely, but not impossible. In that case he aimed to take down one or two with him. Make them work for his head, at least. His eyes darted, seeking other figures hiding in the wet overgrowth, but so far, none. None but her. What he had managed to make out were a pair of vicious-looking scabbards jutting out from her cloak.

If he caught sight of her by chance, then she would likely have seen him too. At least noticed a shadow move. If anything, the mud would have given out his location. No, for a fellow sharp-eared, keen-eyed drow such as himself, undoubtedly, she now knew of his presence. Now came that delicately and deliciously tense moment -- something he used to savour in his old home -- where each party decided on their particular angle of approach; or whether to make a hasty escape.

His hiding gave him time to think. Should he employ a glamour, perhaps? Distract with an illusion? Strike first, ask questions later? Use honeyed words? So many options, so many possibilities of a deadly outcome.

His breath escaped him in a bemused sigh, all while his heart sought to break out from its cage. How had he ended up here? At least there was something familiar to this cloak and dagger business; the tingling and dreadful thrill of gauging whether one was prey or predator, prickling at his neck like the nippling chelicerae of House spiders.

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

The noise was unbearable. Vyx’aria had already slowed, irritation coiling tight in her chest, when the wet, obscene slurp of careless movement finally crossed from annoyance into invitation. She did not turn at first. She did not need to.

Silver flashed.

The dagger left her hand in a clean, economical arc, no flourish, no warning, burying itself into bark with a sharp thunk, pinning the edge of Rae’twyn’s cloak neatly to the lightning-scarred willow behind him. Close enough to his ribs to make the message unmistakable.

“Stay,” she said calmly, already turning now, voice low and venomously even. “If you tear free, I will nail pieces of you across several trees.”

She began to walk toward him, boots careful and deliberate despite the mire, cloak whispering with each step. Moonlight cut across her features as she closed the distance, eyes sharp and assessing.

Then she saw his face properly.

Vyx’aria slowed.

Just a fraction.

Charcoal skin. White hair. The unmistakable cast of Drow.

“Surface walker…” The words slipped out in Drow before she could stop it, surprise flickering across her features. Her gaze narrowed, recalibrating, not softening, not yet, but no longer assuming surface filth or hired blade. This was something far worse.

Rae'twyn Suvalissaere

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

It seemed the fates had made a decision for him. His eyes slowly tracked down to the knife embedded in his cloak. Right next to his slender, carefully nurtured waist. A few inches more to the right; and that knife would have undone centuries of hard work, spearing through Zar'Ahal's most prized abdomen.

Well, so much for planning. Time to rely on that old, steadfast weapon of his. A smile.

“Surface walker…”

"Guilty as charged!" he cried back in their native tongue, all breezy smiles and chuckles, as if they had merely stumbled upon one another outside a pub. His hands raised above him in surrender; though he couldn't hide the dagger, but he could let it drop, quickly followed by a permissive grin.

He was about to launch into a whole cavalcade of distractions: such as remarking upon the curious wildlife or philosophising on surface customs of greeting. But slowly, memory stole his words.

That voice. That stride. Those regal cheekbones. Could it truly be . . .

His eyes fell down to her longer, as-yet sheathed blades, still jutting out from beneath her cloak with their hilts. Oh, yes -- now there could be no mistaking it.

"Well as I live and breathe," he began, draping his voice in the velvet of purring recognition. The dagger ripped an inch more from his cloak, as he turned to fully face her.

"If it isn't the long vanished Queen of Zar'Ahal herself. Good eve, Your Majesty. I would have bowed, but, ah, I seem to be a tad stuck."

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria’s expression did not so much as flicker at his recognition. Of course he knew her. A slow, knowing smirk curved her mouth.

“Bow?” she echoed dryly. “No. You are far too pretty for that.” Her gaze dragged over him with deliberate insolence. “I would rather see you kneel.”

She did not wait for his answer.

Instead, she brushed past him, boots quiet despite the mire as she circled the tree and its surrounding roots. Her eyes swept the shadows, the reeds, the shallow water, counting disturbances, listening for breath that was not his, marking the absence of it all. No scouts. No blades in the dark. No ambush coiled and waiting.

She returned to him, stopping close… too close. Leaning in, she drew a slow inhale at his throat, her presence cool and invasive. Swamp, travel, surface air, perfumes… but not the deep stone. Not incense. Not blood-magic residue or the iron tang of a war band fresh from below.

Not Underrealm, she confirmed inwardly. Not a raider.

Satisfied, Vyx’aria yanked her dagger free in one sharp motion and stepped back, allowing him his cloak once more, though not his comfort. Her eyes lifted to his, sharp and appraising, authority settling back into her posture like a crown reclaimed.

“So,” she said at last, voice smooth and dangerous in the night, “why are you on the surface?”

Rae'twyn Suvalissaere

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

"Why, for its enthralling climate of course! What's not to love about its wet embrace and blinding glare?"

When his knee-jerk irony didn't find much purchase, he brushed his cloak back into place with an apologetic smile. Her presence radiated danger -- too close for comfort, certainly -- not allowing him the space or breadth to fully relax in his own agility. And yet, at least he recalled this particular form of peril; all coiled muscle and predation that she was, thinly wrapped below her cloak and leather. Much like the proximity of matrons, it felt like bared fangs yet to be sunk into one's flesh, eyes devouring him with a thousand different dark intents.

Strangely familiar, it was. Could he have missed this? Impossible.

Not inclined to share his whole life story, he preferred instead to grant a hint of it:

"Let's just say, not all can appreciate my brilliant company in Zar'Ahal. Everyone's a critic, these days." He gave a helpless shrug and a little flick of luscious hair, but his red eyes gleamed with something like malicious opportunism. "But you must know this all too well, o Queen of Yore. Most believed you to have met with some lonely demise in the Underrealm. How it heartens me to see that tragedy has turned into fortune--" his glance sized her up again, before a musing finger landed on his own cheek. "And such a vigorous display of stubborn life."

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

Her face remained carved from ice as he spoke, crimson eyes fixed on him without warmth, without amusement, only assessment. She let him finish. Let the words hang. Let the swamp answer with its croaking chorus.

“Fortune?” she repeated softly. A thin smile touched her lips at last, sharp and joyless. “Perhaps,” she mused, voice cool as obsidian as she stepped towards him again, her taller form looming as she planted her hands on the tree on either side of him, caging him in. “Or perhaps I shall behave as any proper matron would. Enjoy you briefly…” Her gaze slid over him with deliberate menace. “…and then leave your corpse here for the swamp to digest at its leisure.”

She lingered just for a moment before she turned away from him, already dismissing the thought as she began to walk, boots disturbing water and rot alike. “Alas,” she continued, tone shifting from idle threat to command, “you may yet justify your continued existence.”

She did not look back at him as she spoke.

“I am searching for ruins,” she said flatly. “Ancient ones. And you will aid me in that search. A search you are familiar with if you are out here.” A pause. “Do so well, and you live. Do so poorly…”

She did not finish the sentence.

Rae'twyn Suvalissaere

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

Ah, there it was. That old fear of his. A familiar thrill tickling down his spine like electric eels; lightning charging his bones; deep-seated dread mixed with a generous dollop of excitement.

When she caged him in, his hands twitched equally towards his dagger and to cradle her in his arms. Perhaps both -- Maelzafan knew he'd done it before. An embrace yielded itself mightily to a stab in the back.

But here, he was at a disadvantage. She had full view of him -- he'd never reach his dagger in time. So instead of doing either, he did nothing. Nothing but quaver in his boots and press himself up against the tree, nearly pressing both eyes shut, one half-open to anticipate the worst outcome.

Relief flooded through him as she left him. Allow him to justify his existence? Why, he did that every day, against all the other forces that would like to see him dead.

He was tempted to play dumb and pretend he had no knowledge of these ruins. Perhaps even make a run for it. But she already saw through the first ploy. As to the second . . .

There was something within him that didn't want to yield this quest to her. By the deep, he'd done nothing but yield to the high and mighty matriarchy of Zar'Ahal all his life. His fist clenched next to him, fingers twitching for the grip of his dagger. She reminded him all too much of their palpable arrogance, their dark and self-indulgent smugness, their haughty superiority. Even here, seemingly alone and with no guard, she displayed the swagger and bloodlust he remembered all too well.

Perhaps it was time to turn the tables, for once. And for once, maybe a ja'luk could win.

He knelt down and reached out for his dropped dagger, eyes peeled at her back. Fingers found its hilt. Lifted it and . . .

Sheathed it. He brushed off his vest, gripped his swinging ruby pendant that had come loose and tucked it below his collar. And of course, he drew a dazzling smile instead of any blade.

"What an incredible coincidence that we should both be looking for these ruins. It must be fate. How could I ever refuse? A quest to unearth the Soul Sigil with the Queen of Shadows!"

He chuckled good-naturedly. Too good-naturedly. His step light and safely distanced from her, Rae'twyn sauntered up next to Vyx'aria, following her prowl. Even though she was likely to be the biggest threat out here, he found it weirdly consoling not to be the only drow about. It made him feel less strange in a strange world, perhaps.

Soon enough, they did come upon the Ruins of Ztel'carn.

Spoiler: Music

Spoiler: Ruins Reference

A wet miasma hung over oxidised rock and slimy moss alike. The ruins seemed rather to grow from the swamp like jagged and ill-maintained teeth, instead of serving as distinct architecture; steadily losing the battle against the rampant march of plantlife. But they were there -- and clearer to the two pairs of drow eyes than they would have been to most, as sun had retreated before remorseless night.

Faint wisps of teal light seemed to ocasionally flicker and dance, like weak will'o'wisps, among these ruins; brief, lethargic swirls of faerie life, before they would wink and die out.

Rae'twyn pointed out a path he saw of mostly dry footing, following some old stone base of this derelict temple interspersed with gnarled root. All while readying a hand crossbow, pulling back its string for a placed bolt.

"There. That way should keep our boots dry."

His voice had lowered, already sensing the quiet menace emanating from these old ruins. The air thrummed with unspoken secrets and morbid yearnings, buried deep within the soil.

He almost wished he had learned the silent language of hand gestures that drow cadres mastered. He'd never had a need to, nestled comfortably enough in the Pleasure District.

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria slowed only slightly at his words, crimson eyes sliding to him in a long, measuring look. There was no humor in her face, no answering smile, only the cold, appraising stillness of a predator deciding what something was worth.

“Do not mistake what is happening here,” she said at last, voice low and even. “You are here because I am dangerous. Not because I am your queen.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Remember that.”

She turned away again, already dismissing the title he had so carelessly resurrected. “This is the surface. I have no crown here nor in the Underrealm. You owe me no kneeling, no obedience, no duties carved into you by matron hands and old law.” A pause, then…quiet acknowledgment. “And I would not impose them.”

The swamp gave way beneath her next step with a soft collapse. She stopped, looking down as the mud sagged unnaturally, swallowing itself in a slow, hollow sink.

“…Hm.”

Vyx’aria crouched without ceremony and drove her hands into the muck, tearing away sodden roots and rotted growth with efficient force. Stone emerged beneath her fingers. Steps. She cleared more away until a short stairwell revealed itself, descending into blackness beneath the ruin.

“If you have survived this long out here,” she said over her shoulder, “then you are no fool.”

She straightened and glanced back at him, her expression stripped of threat, stripped of cruelty, left only with something quieter, heavier. Understanding. Not mercy. But recognition.

“The path descends,” she said simply. “Below.”

Her eyes held his a moment longer than necessary. “Can you stomach that again?”

There was no mockery in the question. Only the unspoken truth beneath it: some wounds were not left behind in the Underrealm. And some fears followed, no matter how far one climbed toward the light. Descending even a level below could trigger everything.

Rae'twyn Suvalissaere

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

She turned away again, already dismissing the title he had so carelessly resurrected. “This is the surface. I have no crown here nor in the Underrealm. You owe me no kneeling, no obedience, no duties carved into you by matron hands and old law.” A pause, then…quiet acknowledgment. “And I would not impose them.”

Rae'twyn lifted the armed hand crossbow next to his head, and froze. A frown wormed its way to his brow, quietly considering Vyx'aria; her words yes, but more so her tone.

Old dictums bubbled up into the surface of his mind. Heresy. Blasphemy. No weakness is tolerated. Matrons are your gods. Maelzafan sees all.

He'd never heard such words of acknowledgement from a jalil, before. None except perhaps for . . .

He suppressed the memory. This was no time to be reminiscing on the past. Thinking back rendered him soft, weak and useless as a dull blade. Better to stay rooted in the present, to think of the past as some distant fantasy, to be handled in another time, another place.

It felt more than a little strange to walk here as equals. Even if he knew the truth of her words already -- old habits died hard.

As she crouched with the patience of a huntress and cleared off undergrowth, it dawned on him that she must truly have changed. Certainly, her actions seemed more congruous with a measured ranger rather than the proud, ill-tempered regent he recalled. But perhaps memory was playing a trick on him here. It had been some time ago. Perhaps his memories of her in Zar'Ahal had been shaped by rumour and gossip more than anything.

How strange that life kept throwing new surprises one's way. And here he thought he'd lived to see it all.

“If you have survived this long out here,” she said over her shoulder, “then you are no fool.”

She straightened and glanced back at him, her expression stripped of threat, stripped of cruelty, left only with something quieter, heavier. Understanding. Not mercy. But recognition.

When she met his gaze, a split second caught his genuine expression behind her back; pouting with intrusive thought, protecting himself with an arm slung across his chest, which supported his other arm holding the crossbow. But a second more and he rearranged his composure, granting her a completely non-plussed smile and opening up his body language by resting his free hand on his hip instead, like he didn't have a single care in the world.

Even if standing in the middle of no man's land, above a dangerous ruin, in even more dangerous company.

"Oh? Well, I'll take that."

“The path descends,” she said simply. “Below.”

Her eyes held his a moment longer than necessary. “Can you stomach that again?”

His eyes sought the darkness. Going underground . . . it did give some associations back to his harrowing journey through the Underrealm. Defenceless as a newborn infant, skulking among darkness and stone, praying to be unseen by predators and drow scouts alike.

But this was no Underrealm, he told himself. This darkness was but a pale imitation of its vast, devouring depths.

"Please, I'm certain we have both seen much worse. The Underrealm poses real danger. This? A little jaunt into some iblith ruin? Why, this'll be child's play in comparison."

Spoken as much to convince her as himself. In truth, he didn't like any of this. Even the pressing darkness of endless caves in the Underrealm might be preferable to this open, exposed swamp of murky terrors.

Descending, their darkvision penetrated the darkness, revealing a stairway leading down by about twenty feet, before ending in a flooding corridor. Water leaked in from both sides, splintering through cracks in old faces of statues. Multiple alcoves dotted the narrow, low-ceilinged corridor, carrying the remnants of strange urns and pottery, most of which were broken; leaving traces of ash down the walls.

Vyx'aria

 

[Vyx'aria]

She descended first, boots finding the worn stone of the stair with practiced ease, one hand trailing along the wall as if to feel the ruin’s breath beneath her palm. The air cooled as they went, damp and metallic, the scent of old water and older magic clinging to every surface. The swamp’s noise faded behind them, replaced by the slow drip of seepage and the hollow echo of their steps.

At the foot of the stairs, the corridor ended abruptly.

A wall of worked stone rose before them, spanning from floor to ceiling. No door. No seam. Just a monolith set deliberately to deny passage. Vyx’aria slowed, eyes narrowing as she approached, her darkvision catching what the surface light could not.

Markings. Faint, but intentional, etched symbols arranged in a broad circular pattern across the wall. Not writing. Not quite runes. Stylized shapes: a crescent, a spiral, a jagged fang-like glyph, a vertical line bisected twice. They were worn with age, some nearly swallowed by mineral growth, yet each bore a subtle discoloration, as though they had been touched at some point.

Vyx’aria lifted her hand and brushed moss aside from one symbol. The air thrummed in response, low and almost imperceptible, like a great thing stirring in its sleep.

“This is not a barricade,” she said quietly. “It is a question.”

Her gaze slid sideways toward Rae’twyn, expression unreadable in the half-light. “And these ruins will not tolerate the wrong answer.”

She stepped back half a pace, giving them both space to see the whole of it. “Look closely. Whatever opens this wall will require intention. Order. Perhaps sacrifice.” A pause. “Perhaps memory.”

Her eyes flicked to him again, sharp and assessing. “What do you see?”

Rae'twyn Suvalissaere