Private Tales Keepers of the Keys

[Noiraeve Talastra]

The hall was entirely foreign, but somehow Noiraeve Talastra knew where she was whenever she dreamed she was there. The knowledge, sufficient to guide her feet in the shadow realm of dreams, could not bridge the gap between her unconscious self and the waking world. The hall's vaulted, gilded ceiling was high, as high as ten waking Noiraeves, she thought, and half-again as high as she was here in the realm of shadows. The walls were hung in rich tapestries, telling a story that Noiraeve could not quite make out, even though she could clearly see the fine weave of the tapestries and the glint of gold thread standing out against the rich dyes.

She had been there before, many times in the shadow realm, but never as far as she could tell in the physical, but she somehow knew that there would be food at the end of the corridor. Cakes and canapes and sweet wine, the former two she could very nearly taste but the latter of which Noiraeve knew was still forbidden. But how?

The voice -- otherworldly but certainly Noiraeve's -- was deeper and gruffer than it should have been. The incongruity rent the fabric of the shadow realm like it was silk. The great hall -- with its beautiful gilded ceiling, its fine brass braziers, its rich tapestries, its plush carpets -- collapsed, not brick by brick but more like fiber by fiber, like fabric tearing. The people she could hear and sense evaporated, steam in a stiff breeze. Noiraeve jolted awake, her eyes jerking open.

She was not in her bedroom, which was -- unusual. The college library was less comfortable than her quarters, but warmer, with large fires roaring in fireplaces along the perimeter walls. Something about the heat combating the humidity; she couldn't quite recall. Noiraeve sat up straight in the high-backed chair and looked down at the book that had bored her to sleep: a tome on the study of the cosmos and the impact of the movement of the stars on the practice of magic, a subject she had recently taken her interest.. She made a face and shut the book, then picked it up and took it back to the librarian, at the entrance a hundred yards through the stacks. "Thank you, Madame Lefevre," said Noiraeve, offering it back.

"Did it help?" asked the wizened older woman as she took the book back. As if Noiraeve wasn't even there, she appraised the book as if to see if the younger woman had left any filthy fingerprints on it, marked any pages. "Other than as a cure for insomnia, that is."

"It -- yes," Noiraeve said, flushing slightly.

The librarian set the book to one side, then glanced at the high windows over Noiraeve's shoulders. "Nearly midday, I'd say. Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Noiraeve inhaled sharply. "Yes, Madame Lefevre. Good day."

"Good day."

Ten minutes later she was standing in the outer office of the leader of the college. If she was following the rules, Noiraeve would have gone directly to Madame Korkova and reporter her dream. The disclosure of dreams was mandatory, although Noiraeve had been unofficially exempted from the rules since the only dream she had was of the hall with the gilded, vaulted ceiling. Your dreams mean nothing, child, she could hear Madame Korkova insist now, as she had said the first two dozen times she had reported the dreams. Best to forget it and focus on your studies.

The door opened and Noiraeve straightened self-consciously. A woman in a red dress emerged, wearing a simple chain of large links around her neck. They were primarily the faintly-growing red-orange emberstone links that signified mastery of the fire school of magic, but there were a few others in the same size but different materials: two blown glass and one dull bone. One of the emberstone links glowed a little brighter than the others. Noiraeve favored the woman with a smile. "Sister Jocasta," she said pleasantly. "Congratulations on your new link. Soon you will have to coil your chain around your neck or you may trip."

"Thank you, Sister Noiraeve," said Jocasta. "Are you -- that is, will you get a new link?"

Noiraeve tried not to look abashed. It was as likely that she was there for a new link of her own as that she was there because she needed a ticking off from the leader of the order. It suited her to have her Sisters think she was at odds with the establishment in the order; people were more likely to speak freely if they thought those in their midst were unlikely to repeat it to those in power and, for the most part, Noiraeve didn't repeat it.

For the most part.

"Among other things," she told Jocasta with a confidential smile.

"Talastra!" the sharp voice of an older woman called from inside the sanctum.

"Better go before she assigns me to the kitchens. Congratulations again." Noiraeve waited for Jocasta to leave before entering the sanctum and closing the door behind her. She closed her eyes and Harnessed the air around her, gently crafting a stifling ward so that their meeting would not be overheard. "Consul," she said, bowing slightly.

"Sit down, Talastra," the older woman said briskly. "And tell me what you found out while I Harness your new link."

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

"When was the last time you reported in?"

How Detlan had ended up with an Acolyte of the Order he couldn't quite recall. Between dodging the White Hand around Aniria and losing his mind and power in the southern reach, there came a moment when his stream of consciousness simply ceased. Thousands and thousands of miles traversed across the stretch of Arethil's great continents, lost from memory. Conversations had, bonds made and broken, discoveries and dangers vanished like the memory of a dream just after waking.

Detlan sighed, feeling more his age now than he ever had before in such a very long, long time, "I'm overdue."

"I've never met a High Mage of the Order before," said the boy, dark of skin and eager of eye, "where's your chain? Don't you have one?"

"No," a scathing response, Detlan heeled his mount forward unkindly to continue following the treacherous clif path deeper into the wilds.

"No? I thought everyone in the Order wore a chain. You're a High Mage, doesn't that mean you should have at least a hundred links?"

The High Mage licked his teeth, and began fishing through his jacket for his pipe.

"I met Sister Verona before. Fifty links, twice looped around her waist. I couldn't believe my eyes."

"That so..."

"Yeah, so is yours like tucked under your cape or something? Come on, show it off then. You should be proud of it, display it for all the world to see. How many people live long enough to have a hundred links or more?"

"Not nearly enough."

Detlan wagered he'd make it back to the tower by nightfall. If he was lucky he'd find some place to dump the Acolyte before he got within the Order's realm.

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

The debriefing took time. The elder woman interrogated Noiraeve, challenged her observations and assumptions, asked for more details. Noiraeve watched the shadows travel as she answered each question, provided each detail. By the time she had indulged the elder's curiosity and let her know that despite the movements and machinations that took place in what people laughingly referred to as the civilized part of Arethil, nothing had really changed.

Nations warred.

People killed other people.

Children were orphaned and starved.

The more things changed, Noiraeve observed internally, the more they stayed the same. Everything seemed cyclical. One might say that it time was a wheel. Or might not.

Then there was the matter of her demonstration. Part practical examination, part component of a long-abandoned ritual, before a Mage of the Arethiin Order was awarded a chain link, he or she had to demonstrate to the satisfaction of the presiding mage that she had mastery over the elemental magic at play.

The magic of the Order was as unique as its individual practitioners, each having their own particular take. Even the terminology differed; some of her instructors had called their use of the magic "casting spells" and others had labeled it "channeling weaves" and still others had referred to it as "harnessing elements". These were not necessarily synonyms, in Noiraeve's experience, but rather descriptions as to how someone manifested magic. People who "cast," she noticed, performed their magic in a subtly different way than someone who "channeled."

For her part, Noiraeve had middling success with the casting and channeling and other techniques. She was a Harnesser. To her the magic was a source of power which could be overwhelming in strength, but which could be tamed. Like a wild horse that could do unspeakable damage if left unchecked or put in the wrong hands, it could also plow fields to feed the multitudes under the right reins.

And so this was her frame of mind when Noiraeve reached for the power. She was an advanced mage by then, a full High Sorceress in the Order as evidenced by the forty-some-odd links in her chain, and so she needn't have been limited by the elements that were present in the room. But as her period of study had been for air, she had plenty of it around. Noiraeve held out a pale and delicate hand. This seemed rote by then; though it was not required to perform any kind of physical motion to cast or to channel or to harness or to do any other technique to manifest magic, many did use gesticulations (or staves, or wands, or crystals, or... or... or...) as a kind of -- if not crutch -- then at least as an aid.

The elder mage did not look impressed at first, which Noiraeve understood. She couldn't imagine performing a feat that the older woman had not seen a hundred times nor done a hundred times herself. But the woman Noiraeve had called 'Consul' leaned forward with some interest as, in the palm of Noiraeve's hand, a tiny vortex manifested. This was not the thing that interested the elder mage, indeed she had seen such a thing many times, but its power was undeniable even for its size. No sooner had she sensed it did papers begin circulating on her desk, then the quills scattered among them, and then the books, and an earthenware teacup --

"That will do, Talastra" said the elder witch as strands of silvery hair freed themselves from behind her ear, pulled as if by invisible strings. Noiraeve smirked internally as she continued, rattling the crossed axes on the wall behind her before the elder witch said more sharply: "That will do."

Noiraeve relented but did not stop immediately. The papers settled around the room and the books slammed to the ground and the desk and it was only her flair for the dramatic -- and her desire not to be sent to the kitchens as a scullery maid with misbehaving acolytes -- that motivated her to snag the teacup from the air with such a flourish that the tea sloshed, but did not spill.

"Consul," she said with an air of obedient reverence, although she suspected the elder mage could sense the smirk in her voice.

Whether she did or not, the elder witch held up Noiraeve's chain, sporting a shiny new link made from what appeared to be blown glass. Given that Noiraeve had watched the elder woman conjure it from the ether, she wondered whether it actually was, but it didn't matter much. Noiraeve rose and bowed slightly over the desk, allowing the older woman -- nearly a foot shorter than she -- to reach up and place the chain over her neck. "Congratulations, Sister. May you depart in peace."

"My next assignment, Consul?" Noiraeve asked as she straightened and adjusted her chain, reaching up to coil it once around her neck.

"The Circle will meet after we have received all reports. Take the opportunity to study and rest. Perhaps find an Acolyte to mentor. And don't forget you are entitled to a Sworn companion if you so choose. See the Marshal about that if you need to."

"I'm not to depart right away?"

The older woman shrugged enigmatically. "Who can say what will be written on the scroll of our lives, Noiraeve? The Circle of Seers must digest the information you and -- well, all the information we have -- before we dispatch operatives again. Patience. Not your strongest suit, perhaps, but valuable to possess nonetheless. It's past the end of lessons already; you should wash up for dinner -- though you ought to be washing pots for that display. If you'd broken that teacup..."

"Apologies," said Noiraeve hurriedly as she frowned and bowed again, already backing towards the door. "With your leave, Consul, I will bid you a good afternoon."

Detlan

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

"H-high Mage Auguste...."

The wide, doe-eyed, slack-jawed stare was not the sort of greeting Detlan would have preferred. Had he his way, the perimeter guards stationed around the Crescent Valley would have simply deferred to him in silence. Or even scrambled to get out of his way, faces paled in fear. Alas, it had been too many years since his last stint in any seat of power to garner such respect.

Now he was relegated to the stupification of hapless sentries. Detlan made no effort to hide his disdain.

"Move," the order appeared to have something of a useful effect as the guard collected his wits and moved aside on the jungle path. Detlan nudged his horse one without another word.

"I'm with him," said the Acolyte with a broad and cheeky grin, pointing over his own horse's ears at the man riding ahead of him, "with High Mage Auguste. I'm his Apprentice, you know."

"No, you're not."

He'd learned the boy's name to be Alder, if only because he'd required it to give the pest a direct order to shut the hell up about an hour ago. Apparently that order's effect had worn off. Alder's lips were moving and noise had begun to come out again.

Detlan pressed on, doing his best impression of a reticent and exceptionally grumpy looking statue. His pale gaze was fixed on the pathway ahead of him, the bobbing of firelillies along either side of the trail lighting the path ahead. Here in the thick of the Ixchel Wilds, they had to spare a great deal of time to provide safe passage through an otherwise untamed and savage environment. If the predators didn't get you first, something else usually tried.

It wasn't advisable for any man, woman, or child to travel alone along the trails - magicked though they were with wards of protection and concealment - because one never knew just what lurked in the jungles beyond.

"What do you mean, you've been gone for 20 years!"
"Ten," Detlan corrected him with a roll of his eyes.
"Ten then - you've been gone a long time. You need someone familiar with the new way of things around here. I'm just the Acolyte for the job."
"No."
"I know everything there is to know about all the latest rumors, trends, fashions, and who's on the up for the next Turn Elections."

Detlan narrowed his eyes at that last part, "Elections?"
"Oh yeah, they're up in two moons time. The Turn of the Tigress is coming to an end - thank the Rift, if you ask me. Archon Rezwa is a huge bit-"
"Who's the current Consul?"
"Oh that's -" Alder paused, grinned, and clucked his horse up alongside Detlan's, "so about that Apprenticeship..."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Though Noiraeve Talastra had not been a regular resident at the Arethiin Order's gilded pyramid city in the jungle for years, she still kept quarters there. And though she had not been a regular resident there for years, her rooms seldom sat empty for long; Brothers and Sisters of the Order had turned it into something of a private social club -- a smaller common room, separate from the rest of the rabble. By convention, access was restricted to High Sorcerers, Archmages, and High Mages, because it would look suspicious for Sorcerers and Acolytes to be milling around the more generous halls provided to High Sorcerers, but occasionally when an underclassman wormed his or her way into the good graces of the group, they could explain away their presence by carrying a sealed scroll and claiming to be on duty.

Word traveled fast around the isolated pyramid. As in any insular society like the Arethiin Order, the speed at which gossip -- or news, if one was feeling generous -- traveled depended primarily on three factors: first, whether the news was good or bad, and bad news always moved like the wind; second, how important the person about whom the gossip was being spread was, and the more important the faster the spread; and third, whether there was more interesting news being spread.

Ordinarily, the arrival of Noiraeve Talastra would have found its way to the informal salon that had taken up residence in her rooms, but unfortunately for them, the arrival at the sentry perimeter of a former Archon and general Man of Mystery Detlan Auguste took precedence, and the four mages that had gathered in Noiraeve's rooms were busy trading theories about this occasion when the door opened and Noiraeve herself entered.

Cool blue eyes traversed the room, taking in the shocked faces. The hurried actions and protestations of surprise she abruptly waved away. "Peace, friends," Noiraeve said. "I have known my rooms were being used for other purposes since I came home three years ago to find peach pits in the trash barrel and half a winning hand of -- " She surveyed the card game being played on her bed " -- Queen's Luck, if I had to guess. Feel free to stay. Pray tell me, what news is there?"

She kicked off her shoes and shrugged out of her cloak and climbed onto her bed, signaling to be dealt in on the next hand while a boy who had been in most of her classes, Race Hellar, told her what they had heard about Auguste showing up at the sentry perimeter. "With an apprentice, no less," Race insisted.

"Can you imagine?" asked Joiya Ulfrim as she tossed a card into the discard pile. "Detlan Auguste with an apprentice."

"No, I can't imagine it," Noiraeve confessed. "Mostly because I thought he was dead. Are you sure it was him?"

"That's what Befram said," Race said as he picked up the card Joiya had discarded. Noiraeve made a mental note; he's collecting sixes or staves.

"Belfram is not usually prone to flights of fancy," Noiraeve said thoughtfully as she watched the state of play. "Then again, he is also not usually prone to gossip. But I suppose when it is an ex-Archon it ceases to be gossip and becomes a matter of importance." She drew a nine of stones and tossed her five of staves onto the pile. Race did not reach for it. Sixes, Noiraeve thought.

"Why do you think he's come?" asked Joiya. She was a Magesworn, of the armed defensive wing of the Order, and clearly thought that Noiraeve's position as an operative gave her special insight. Joiya drew a card and discarded a queen of stones.

"Collect a pension?" Noiraeve mused aloud as she took the seven of roses from the discard and stroked her chin with it before slotting it after the nine, ten, and jack of stones. "Or responding to a summons? The Consul did seem to be..." She hesitated, glancing around at the others. "Well, she was anxious for news. Even less patient with me than normal." She discarded a jack of coins.

If Detlan Auguste is back, then there may well be something to be anxious over, she thought to herself as she reached over for one of the plums Belfram had just split. "Take the pits with you next time," she said idly as she examined her hand.

All she needed now was the King of Stones for a winning hand.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

"You realize Apprentices are hand-picked by the upper echelons," Detlan said scathingly, "especially so for High Mages."

The higher level the mage, the more selective they were of their Apprentices. It was generally expected of the upper tiers to take them on, but by no means an obligation - which meant Detlan had-

"And you've never taken an Apprentice. Ever. Not in the five-hundred years you've been with the Order," Alder leaned toward him, his grin painfully persistent.

Detlan snorted at the boy but gave no reason why. Five-hundred years was a gross overestimation of his tenure, but the less specifics people actually knew about him the better. They came upon the rise of the valley along the crescent arch that encompassed the city below, the Arethiin Tower sitting at the cusp of the of the mountainous curve and gleaming like a prized jewel centerpiece of a crown. The scene hadn't changed much for the duration of his dealings with the Order, and as he suspected hadn't changed at all for his 10 years away.

"So imagine the pride and credibility for the mage-"
"Acolyte," Detlan corrected him.
"Acolyte that you take on as your very first Apprentice. I alone am deserving of such honor - I was top of my class. Even graduated a year early."
"Is that so..." Detlan replied, distracted as his horse moved on down, down, down into the jungle's belly again. The city and tower were once more consumed from sight by the overwhelming abundance.

"I've Apprenticed with Sister Harra, Brother Luthier, and the Sorceress formerly known as Xeva."
Detlan raised a brow at that last one, "She's not dead yet?"
"Oh she died last year, blew herself up. There was a whole scandal because she took down three Bladesworn and a regiment of Sworn in one fell swoop. Massively unfortunate. Very, very messy. Guts everywhere. It was awful."
"What happened to the other two?" the High Mage wasn't necessarily curious, but Xeva's end begged the question of why wasn't the boy with the prior two still? Better yet, how had he landed Xeva as a mentor at all? That woman had been utterly mental.
Alder sat back in his saddle with a low sigh, "I got bored with them."
"You got bored?"
"They weren't teaching me anything!" the boy flung his arms out in protest, "They just had me sitting around doing their paperwork. It was a massive waste of my potential."
"And what, exactly," Detlan eyed the boy, looking for the telltale links that would give away his magical proficiency and finding nothing, "is your potential."
"Ah," Alder grinned, lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. As if someone was pouring water over the boy's head, his appearance melted away from that of a dark-skinned human, to a green-skinned orc youth wearing a necklace of small, glass-like links filled with an ephemeral fog. As Detlan watched this shift continue, even the boy's horse mount shifted to that of an oversized wildcat.

Illusion magic.

Detlan's brows lifted while his eyes narrowed. The cogs began to turn.

"Yeah," Alder grinned and pointed at the man, "I'm your Apprentice."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

The King of Stones didn't come, and Noiraeve lost the hand to Joiya who, as it turned out, was hoarding the sixes that Race coveted until he gave up and pursued another trick. Incidentally, Race had had a trio of kings, including Stones, all along. In the next hand, she won with a rare 11-card hand. The last two hands she played were won by Race, at which point the party broke up in favor of trading peaches for real food.

By then, night had settled over the Tower, bringing with it a cool mist. The mist occurred naturally but was fortified by magic in one of the many safeguards that the Order had established to conceal and protect its headquarters and school. Noiraeve enjoyed the mist; it felt good on her skin, cleansing and pure. She thought about going to the student dining hall; as an alumna she was entitled to join students there, but she was usually peppered with questions and not-so-subtle insinuations about taking on an Apprentice. It had been charming and flattering at first, but after a few rounds of mentoring -- and having her assignments made more difficult for it in the field -- she had elected to pause her pursuit of education and focus on the work.

There were other locations in the tower and in the surrounding village where one could eat, and so Noiraeve went to a tavern where they served claret from Vel Anir. She'd always had a taste for it, though she couldn't quite remember the first time she'd tried it. A few minutes after leaving Joiya and Race, she sat at a stone bar, cradling a cup of pinky-red wine, and caught up on the latest gossip from a fellow operative and friend, Terese Balorra. Terese was a year older than Noiraeve, a High Sorceress in her own right although with a dozen less rings than Noiraeve had.

Terese took things at her own pace. Studies, slow. Wine, fast.

"Are you back for the Turn election?" she asked over the rim of her glass. "You'd be a good Consul. Can't be any worse than what's-her-face."

Noiraeve smirked internally. "The Consul has been good to me, Rey." The younger operative tore a piece of the flatbread she had ordered from the larger bulk and ate it thoughtfully. When she had swallowed, she said: "Possibly because I take assignments and get them done. How long has it been since you left the Tower, anyway?"

"I went to Alliria three months ago," Terese said defensively.

"For your cousin's funeral, I recall. I think it counted as a mission because you took some letters to the Chapter there."

Terese raised a finger. "Still a mission."

"Still a mission," Noiraeve conceded. She ate some more flatbread, drank some more wine.

"But is that why you're here?" The older woman reached over and snagged a piece of cured sausage from the flatbread, popped it into her mouth. "For the Turn?" She licked her thumb and forefinger clean of the resulting grease.

"The Turn is months away," said Noiraeve. She suspected she was driving her friend a little batty by not giving a definitive, yes or no answer. Well, that was part of the fun. "Besides, by convention, most people wait to stand for an election until they reach Archmage and I am still a few links short."

"That's just convention," said Terese, exaggerating the last word derisively. "Anyway you could get those links by the elections."

Noiraeve laughed and motioned to the barkeeper for a refill after draining her cup. "Rey, if I were Consul, you would spend much less time in your quarters in the Tower and much more time out in the world. The Empire is nice this time of year, don't you think?"

Terese blanched. "The Empire isn't nice any time of year," she said. She fell into a mopey silence for a moment, then slapped Noiraeve's elbow lightly. "D'you think that's why he's back? For the elections? How long has it been since his last Turn? Surely he's eligible by now."

Noiraeve didn't need to ask who she meant. "I'm sure the man will announce his intentions when he is ready. Until then, let the wheel weave as it may." She slapped at Terese's hand as the woman again filched another piece of cured sausage, this time carrying away rather a lot of congealed cheese in the process. "Blood and ashes," she said, the curse softened with a chuckle, "get your own!"

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

Alder had not been prepared for the High Mage's speed or his strength and soon found himself pulled off his large wildcat mount and into the air. Detlan reined his horse against the edge of the path and held the boy out beyond the glimmering coil of protective spells.

The young Acolyte yelled in surprise, his own mount hissing and backing away from the threat of flailing back hooves from the horse.

"Who is the present Consul," Detlan's voice was a deep growl.

Alder, dangling from his arm, gave a wild look around the constantly moving, breathing, watching shadows of the wilds surrounding his very open and vulnerable sides and gulped, "S-sister Amaranthe."

A darkness that had settled over the elder's expression seemed to leaven just enough to make a visible difference. Familiarity registered in his eyes and memories within his mind. Amaranthe and he went back a long time and, many many decades ago, he might've said he cared for her beyond that which mere friendship beget. He dropped the boy without preamble and kicked his horse on, the gruff words don't follow me echoing back through the magic tunnel as Alder frantically clamored back within its safety.


Twilight settled across the tower grounds when Detlan emerged from the cover of the jungle. Despite the hour, dozens lingered in the courtyards and walking paths, mingling in the gardens or conversing at the fountains. His horse cantered down the central approach, cutting through the walking traffic and parting both mage, citizen, and guard alike. Heads turned in offense and shock, whispers quickly caught wing. When he reached the main entrance he handed off his sweat-slicked horse to a stablehand and hurriedly made his way up the alabaster steps.

Moving quickly through the halls and sparing no one a look or a word, Detlan rudely shoved his way through a gaggle of Initiates and up a stairwell, sending one toppling over their white robes - papers and books spilling everywhere.

By the time he'd made it to the proper floor he was winded and beading sweat. Though they managed some control of local climate within the bounds of the tower and city, the humidity was a difficult challenge to overcome. Detlan spotted the woman in question as she was leaving her office and had just pocketed her ring of keys when he called out to her.

"Unlock your door, Consul. Dinner will have to wait."

The Consul's face turned red at the audacity of this person, "In the irreverent words of the Late Archon Dailiff, who the fuck do you think you're talking to-" and when she turned she found the words tumbling from her lips as silent puffs of disbelief, "...Auguste?"

"Amaranthe," he said in response, strides maintaining purpose as he closed in upon her.

"W-where have you ... what happened to you? It's been-"
"Ten years," he finished for her, "not here."

There were echoes down the hall behind him, curious Mages and students alike that had trailed him in from the courtyard. Amaranthe spied them around his shoulder, thin brows lofting, and nodded, "Oh I see, yes of course." The woman fumbled with her keys, hands shaking, unlocked her door and let him in, closing it behind them.

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Terese, Noiraeve, and Hakor Repka strode through the tower. Most of the tower had gone to sleep; certainly the Initiates and Acolytes were in bed because chores and classes started early. There were others, graduates, scurrying about hither and thither, finishing chores or visiting friends, but they were few and far between. Noiraeve suspected that those they passed in the halls were doing what Terese and Hakor were doing: going someplace quiet for a tryst.

They at least had the good graces to see her safely to her door, which Noiraeve appreciated, especially since it had been months since she'd slept at the tower. Normally she was there a few hours to debrief, to eat, have her things laundered, and then she was off again on some new mission or errand. And if she was having a tryst, she did it during daylight hours and went on her way, though it had been some time. It was hard to take a lover these days, with her work taking so much of her attention, and the nature of it preventing her from speaking about it, even to a partner.

There were plenty of years for that.

Still, when the trio stopped at her door and the slightly drunk Terese wound a coil of Noiraeve's chestnut locks around her finger, and the tall and curiously well-built Hakor -- well built for anyone, but particularly for a mage who had been assigned to the tower library for the last three years -- loomed over her with a murmured proposition, she was somewhat tempted. At any rate, it was nice to be wanted, but --

"I'm flattered, but -- Terese needs a lot of attention," Noiraeve said, reaching up to tuck a strand of red-brown hair behind her older friend's ear fondly. "Don't deny it."

"One day, Reave," said Terese with a smirk.

"One day," Noiraeve replied. She glanced up at Hakor and smiled tightly. "On your way, then."

The pair left, arm-in-arm, and Noiraeve watched them for a few moments before shutting the door behind her. She had barely wriggled out of her boots and clothes was about to harness some hot water in the granite tub when there was a knock on the door. She sighed and pulled a dressing gown on, cinching it around her waist. She opened the door, prepared to tell off Terese and Hakor for not taking no for an answer, but they weren't there. Instead, a Sorceress stood in the hallway.

"From the Consul," said the Sorceress. "Eyes only."

About time, she mused to herself as she thanked the messenger. She shut the door, broke the seal, and examined the note. It was short: Come to my study immediately. Burn this note. -A

Amaranthe was not known for her verbosity, either in person or by paper, but something about this note suggested something urgent. Noiraeve shed her dressing gown, dressed again, and after burning the note entirely with a brief harness of fire, she made her way quickly and quietly to the Consul's office for the second time that way. No, she amended herself; it was after midnight, so technically this was her first trip.

Had the earthenware teacup broken? Was she finally ready to send Noiraeve on her way with a new mission? Either way, she supposed, she was going to find out.

Detlan

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

"Auguste, you..." Amaranthe moved to place her keys on the desk and gave the man a short once-over with her gaze, frowning, "look like hell."

"Is that all?" he muttered back, stepping over to her fireplace and forcing the dying embers back into a healthy crackle with a rather abrupt gesture of both hands. He stood there before it, soaking in the warmth which struck Amaranthe as odd given how warm out it was.

"Drink?" she offered.

Detlan grunted in response. She took it as an affirmative and moved to a small shelf and serving stand to withdraw a glass of amber liquid. Tempted to ask if he wanted for one splash or two, she leaned into a healthy two, poured herself a single, and stepped over to join him before the fireplace.

For several moments they sipped in silence. Auguste did not look to her, but seemed to be lost in agonizing thoughts with his eyes in the flames. Not necessarily out of character, but after ten years away she'd have thought he had something to say for it.

"It has been ... chaotic since your departure," she said, "Archon Dumain was elected shortly after you left.

"I suspected as much," he remarked, "there was no legitimate competition for him."

"He proved himself quite capable, as he should have being your second for your last Turn. Level headed, never missed a detail. Kept things tidy, neat. Too neat, one might venture."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, he was taken seriously ill about two years into his Turn and died within the month. No one knows for sure what caused it, but speculation and rumor are rampant on murder. Though I scarcely think that his second had the motive, devoted to him as he was."

"Who was his second?"

"An elf from the Isles named Marul. Smart as a whip but too young for the Seat. He did well enough to finish out the Turn, but I daresay the entire experience has warded him away from any future in politics." Amaranthe took another sip and licked at her lips, glancing between flames and the man who looked as though he'd been living on the road for his decade gone. He was careworn in every way defineable and she had to actively arrest her maternal instincts to sit him down to a full meal and send him off to the Healers for every magical remedy they had.

"It's not like you to hold your tongue, Amaranthe," Detlan's gaze hardened.

"Where have you been Detlan?" she unleashed with vigor, "Ten years and you return looking like this? What's worth that much?"

"I found Dumain's lead on the Heart."

Amaranthe's glass shattered on the ground, the remaining contents splattering across her polished boots.

"There were ..." the man's lips drew thin behind his unkempt and overgrown beard, "complications."

"Stop, stop there-" Amaranthe flustered over the mess, dithered between two very important things to do and settled on leaving the glass there, "don't move. I need to send a missive."


By the time Noiraeve Talastra arrived, Detlan was seated in one of the armchairs by the fire and the mess had been magic'd away. Amaranthe opened the door, the anxiousness of her gaze as she checked down the hall for any onlookers easily covering up her late-night fatigue. She ushered Noira in and promptly closed and locked the door behind her, issuing a privacy ward around the doorway before quickly moving to lead the younger woman in.

"Talastra, this is High Mage Detlan Auguste. Auguste, this is High Sorceress Noiraeve Talastra."

Detlan remained seated, the unrelenting onus of his otherwise poor mood reflected in the dark glower on his face. He spared Noiraeve a look before rounding his gaze back on Amaranthe, "I work alone."

"Nonsense, look at you. You may have worked alone for the last ten years but clearly it's not producing the results you're after. I insist ... in my last days as Consul, I command it."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Noiraeve was admitted to the Consul's study. In the night it was a completely different animal. The trinkets and artifacts that she and her predecessors had gathered over the ages which looked like mere curiosities in the daylight cast twisted shadows in the flicker candlelight. The same could be said of the glowering relic that sat in the armchairs by the fire, a man who needed no introduction but received one anyway. Noiraeve was well aware of Detlan Auguste, by name and by reputation if not by face.

Before she even knew what was happening, the former Archon had given her a glance that, in the context of his dismissive statement, transformed in Noiraeve's memory into a sneer as if by magic. "Excuse me," she interjected hotly. "I work alone, too." You can't reject me. I reject you. "And I've never had any complaints about the nature of my work."

The Consul lifted a finger as if to correct her but in an uncharacteristically confrontational moment a characteristically impatient Noiraeve snapped: "Don't!"

Amaranthe looked affronted. "You forget yourself, Talastra. Sit down."

Noiareve lifted her chin willfully but followed the Consul's direction to sit opposite Detlan. You drag me out of bed -- out of my bed, by the grace of the Power, the tapestry knows what would have happened if I had gone with Terese and Hakor -- to be insulted by this shambling wreck of a man. Archon -- humph. My eye. But she said nothing further and knit her fingers together in her lap.

"You were eager for an assignment this afternoon, so here we are. And you," she said to Detlan. "You stumble back in here, years after anyone has seen or heard from you, and think to dictate to me who you will work with and how? The last time I checked, you haven't been Archon for some years and an emeritus isn't imbued with any authority."

Amaranthe needed a drink, she decided, but she recalled now that she had dropped it a few moments before. She went to the sideboard and took another glass to fill. "Want one?" she asked, offering it to the High Sorceress, who took it. She then offered to top up Detlan's glass before she took her own and settled on the ottoman in front of the cracking fire, forming the third point of the seating triangle.

"We have had a Prophecy," Amaranthe said quietly, as if she was concerned that even with the privacy wards they might be overheard. When she spoke again, she seemed to be quoting the words of the Seers. "The lone tower stands empty, missing its heart. The heart must be bound or unravel will the world's magic. Ancient of ancients, novice of novices, the lone tower stands empty, ready to receive. The source of the source, the depth of the depths, must be bound or unravel will the world's magic. A calamity, the likes of which has not yet been seen, unless it is bound. A power unlike any that has ever been touched. The breaking of the world in the wrong hands. The lone tower stands empty... Well -- it repeats on a bit, you know how the Circle is -- but it ties in to a hypothesis, you might say, of the late Archon Dumain."

Amaranthe glanced at Detlan, her brows furrowing. "The timing of this new Prophecy could not be coincidental to your return, Auguste. Tell us what you've found, and for all our sakes, please tell me it's in plain tongue and not the Seers' deranged ranting." She rolled her eyes impatiently, shaking her head as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

Noiraeve had leaned forward while Amaranthe spoke, and held her breath. It was her first time hearing a Prophecy; often the Seers had visions and portents, but seldom enough capital-P Prophecies and rarer still were they shared outside the Council. Only when it was necessary. Only when there was no other way. She let out the breath and took a drink, then followed Amaranthe's gaze to the man sitting in the other armchair.

His arrival had been interesting before, but now it seemed -- portentous, somehow. Her gaze fixed on him intently. Work alone, do you? We'll see.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

Detlan was no stranger to disregard or affront. The many-times former Archon regarded the young Sorceress with a lack of intrigue. Typical hot-headed, middle ranked, something to prove, vaguely unimpressive. Detlan had nothing to prove to her, to the Consul, to the entire Order. He turned his gaze away from the woman and settled it, instead, on the fire where he ruminated on the misgivings of the very Order he once proclaimed to uphold and honor.

Now it was little more than an irritating tagalong to much more pressing matters at hand.

He gave Amaranthe the dignity of his silence if only for the history they shared and the small but noteworthy respect he had for her. She was allowed to reaffirm her own standing and then muddle on with her tellings of the Prophecy.

"It's not a new prophecy," the man grumbled without so much as a blink in her or Talastra's direction, "and it's not Dumain's hypothesis. It's mine."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

The Consul gave the one-time-multi-time Archon a slightly alarmed look. "But-- " She fell silent a moment, then said thoughtfully: "If you say it is not a new prophecy, then certainly I will take your word for it." Amaranthe's deference was a thin layer of oil over a sea of mixed wonder and concern. Amaranthe had come up under Detlan -- in fact, it hardly seemed like anyone in the Order had come up through the ranks untouched by the man's influence, given how often he had held high office. "But I was in the room when Seer Patrisa went into her trance and gave the same prophecy not two days ago. It is rare for a prophecy to be turned out more than once, as you well know," she said, directing her gaze towards Detlan.

Amaranthe stood up and frowned thoughtfully, then sat down again and sipped her drink. After a few moments she looked at Noiraeve, who clearly needed some kind of explanation. "We have recorded it only twice before," Amaranthe went on. "And while prophecy remains something of an enigma, even to us, our working hypothesis is that when a prophecy is a matter of significant importance, it can be turned out again."

Noiraeve raised a curious eyebrow, then asked: "What were the others?"

"Don't even hope, Talastra," said Amaranthe with a derisive chuckle. "I'm already pushing it telling you this one."

The High Sorceress made a half-shrug as if to say you can't blame a girl for trying and turned instead to Detlan, who seemed to be doing his level best to pretend that she wasn't there. "So this isn't new for you, Archon. What's your hypothesis?"

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

"We have recorded it only twice before,"

That she knew of.

The issue with the tower was not in its people, but its politics. Subterfuge had been a tool and an errand for as long as he'd called himself part of the tower's economy, and no amount of power or knowledge ever got someone the whole story. Pieces were missing, whether lost, stolen, or hidden, there was never an instance of total completeness.

The title of Archon did managed to get Talastra the attention she was seeking, but perhaps not the kind she was hoping for. Detlan stabbed her with a heated stare, though in the moment he couldn't say if the ire was from offense or simply from exhaustion.

"This one must be one of yours," the words sounded over a low, perturbed rumble, a glance shifting shortly to Amaranthe with the weight of accusation. One of her pupils, reared on the expectations of knowing more than deserved and sticking their noses where they aught not be.

"I have spent the last ten years uncovering the truth behind the ancient of ancients. Unfortunately, my resource was ...depleted."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Moody thing, isn't he?

Noiraeve returned the Archon Emeritus' gaze without flinching -- well, without much -- and allowed herself a tight smile. She and Detlan were not destined to be the best of friends, it seemed, which was a shame. Noiraeve didn't like to make an enemy for no reason, but in this she felt the decision was being made for her. Alas, nothing to be done about that. Not now at any rate.

"Indeed," Amaranthe said simply, not acknowledging the inherent insult in the insinuation. "And despite being a generalized pain in the ass, she happens to be a reasonably competent operative. You could do worse. She has, at a minimum, opposable thumbs, which is more than I can say for that flea-ridden stray you usually keep company with."

The High Sorceress raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Amaranthe went on: "As it happens we have been tackling the problem from the opposite end, and we believe we have discovered a lead. In the notes of the late Archon, he made reference to reports of a ruined tower in a distant land with a central tower layout identical to this one. "

"The northern dig?" asked Noiraeve, her eyebrows furrowing.

"No. It's -- thousands of leagues away."

The High Sorceress gazed at the Consul, eyes darting left and right as she tried to process that. "That -- how is that possible? I thought the Tower was built by the natives here -- using construction techniques that were unique to their civilization. That's what the historians always told us, anyway."

"Don't be pettish," said Amaranthe. "We provide instruction to the best of our knowledge."

"So where is it?"

"That's the thing. The notes only describe it. The page providing the location is -- "

Noiraeve pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand and closed her eyes. "Let me guess. Suspiciously missing."

Amaranthe maintained a diplomatic silence for a moment, then turned to Detlan. "I'm hoping your reappearance means that you are prepared to shed some light on this."

Keep dreaming, Noiraeve thought acidly, lifting her drink for another sip with a wry smirk.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

"You may say what you like about me," Detlan grumbled at Amaranthe, "but you will keep your petty slander about Mimir to yourself."

The heat of his gaze could only belie the serious affront taken by the woman's choice opinion on his long-standing travel companion. Familiar though he may be, Mimir was the only thing he could depend on. The Elder Mage hunched back into his seat a little more and tore his gaze away from the two women to stare into the fire. He was listening intently, of course, but it certainly didn't look that way.

So much could be said on the subject of their present discussion, but it was - all of it - muddled together in one big knot. The location of the, allegedly, original tower was only one loop sticking out of the knotwork that couldn't be pulled until another was loosened first. The web had not woven any of this, but at some point the loom controlling the weaving had splintered and allowed this jumble of threads to complicate and tighten.

And they did not want to let go of one another.

It would have been much easier to cut them all loose and watch the weight of the Order's history fall away, consequences be damned, to forge ahead unfettered by them. Free to move and weave and will however they wished. But mortals, as Detlan had been told and come to learn on his own, were creatures of habit with a penchant for looking at where they'd been instead of where they were going.

"The ruined tower is a non-starter and a distraction," he replied bitterly, "until further progress is made on this end. I am here to attend to the Order's knowledge of the Eldyr Tree."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Noiraeve set her glass down and lifted her hands to rub at her temples. As charming as she found Amaranthe, she was struggling to keep the thread. She allowed her gaze to flit between one and the other, like she was watching a game of court tennis, but with much less athleticism on display. She was interested in further interacting with this Mimir at a more appropriate time. Noiraeve thought she could sense irritation rolling off the Consul in almost tangible waves. She closed her eyes as if she was saying a silent prayer -- for patience, presumably.

Aafter a few moments of this thoughtful silence, Amaranthe straightened and smiled with as much serenity as she could muster. "Very well, Archon," she said. "What is it we can do to assist you with your endeavor?" Noiraeve suspected that by this point Amaranthe was ready to ge the former Archon on his way and the hell out of her hair.

She looked across at Noiraeve and said: "You will have all the benefit of the High Sorceress' attention. Not, perhaps, as a replacement to Mimir. Think of her as a supplement."

Detlan

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

Oh he caught that intense terseness and he knew what it meant. Where he not so exhaustively grumpy he might have taken mirth in having needled Amaranthe so easily. Usually she was quite unflappable, but apparently the end of her tenure as Consul had her rocking on her titled laurels.

She was always so cute when she was infuriated at him.

"Hmph," he grumped to himself, the faintest teasing of a smirk on his lips well hidden by the overgrowth of his beard, "fine." With a weathered sigh, Detlan pushed himself up from his seat and turned to face Noiraeve fully, "You can start by pulling the Valeain Scrolls from the lower archives and bringing them to my private study in the morning. The sooner I find what I need, the sooner we can depart."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Noiraeve rose when the onetime Archon did. His reluctant agreement to be aided by his junior rankled the High Sorceress, but she didn't let that appear on her face. She maintained a coolly pleasant demeanor. "The Valeain Scrolls. Of course, Archon. What time will you want them?"

When all the details were settled, and the Consul had written her instructions for the librarians to let her into the lower archives, Noiraeve departed, pulling the hood of her cloak up around her head. It was one of her more bizarre meetings, to be sure, but she suspected that the once (and future?) Archon might well be a wellspring of odd an unusual meetings.

The next morning, Noiraeve rose early and went directly to the archives. The librarian regarded her signed note from Amaranthe with no mean amount of suspicion before leading the High Sorceress to the locked gate to the staircase that went down to the lower archives. The librarian locked the gate behind Noiraeve and told her to ring the bell when she was ready to be let out.

"What the hell is down here?" she asked herself as she descended the circling stairs. As she reached the bottom, the archive was a cavernous room with towering bookshelves. She harnessed herself a flame, tied it off so that it rotated slowly around her head. No danger to the books, but enough light to find her way.

"Looking for something?" asked a voice, and Noiraeve nearly leapt out of her skin. She turned to see a librarian in a dark dress. Noiraeve wordlessly handed the note over and the librarian studied it for a moment before squinting at Noiraeve. "What need have you for the Valeain Scrolls, Talastra? What need has the Consul?" She inclined her chin. "Or could this be related to rumors of the return of a certain Archon?"

Noiraeve returned her gaze coolly. "Ours is not to reason why, Mistress, but to do or die."

"It's "do and die' I think you'll find," the librarian said dryly, then cleared her throat. "All right, keep your secrets. You might be among the few who can around here. Wait there a moment." 'A moment' turned out to be almost ten minutes. The librarian handed it over. "Do be sure it returns to us in one piece, Talastra."

Noiraeve agreed to do her best which seemed to satisfy the archivist, and twenty minutes later, at the appointed time, she was standing outside the private study of ex-Archon Detlan with the scrolls in her satchel and a tray with two teaming cups of strongly caffeinated beverage and knocked on the door.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

"No."

The response from within was by and large the greatest personification of Detlan Auguste anyone could sum up into a single word. He'd forgotten entirely about the appointment, whether on purpose or by accident was anyone's guess.

While Talastra stood there, likely cross and fuming at the rebuff, a scratch-scratching sounded at the door, followed by an insistent mewl. Four legs cast shadows as they prowled back and forth at the door, sniffing at the gap beneath.

Mrooow.

The sound of clattering. Swearing. Tumbling thuds and bumps. The distinct clanking of a foot making contact with the corner of a piece of furniture. Louder swearing.

Mraiow.

"Enough, enough! Off with you - no questions, no consuls, no apprentices, no-" the door suddenly swung open with a squeal and the face of ex-Archon Auguste appeared in all its careworn, sleep-deprived, disgruntled glory, "you." The man grimaced, eyes flashing with disdain as they affixed the woman with their stare, then fell to the tray in her hands.

"Is that coffee...?" his brows rose and the petulance of his gaze dimmed.

Maooow. A flash of orange at his feet.

Oh, right. The Valeian Scrolls. Detlan sniffed and yanked the door open for her before stepping back into the room, muttering something about the time as he milled around behind his desk, "Lock that door behind you, Talaber and set the tray over there on the table."

Wearing the exact same outfit he had on the evening prior, the bags under his eyes and the disheveled state of his hair heavily suggested he'd not slept at all. Or if he had, it likely had not been in his bed, but at his desk amidst the mess of scrolls, stacks of books, and various unknown artifacts lay strewn about. The fire in the fireplace had burnt out hours ago.

"I trust you brought the scrolls..."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Noiraeve was not accustomed to being treated like a young, wayward scholar. She was senior to most of the mages she came across these days, or at least of equivalent rank. Her fingers flexed on the tray and she glared at Detlan's retreating back, her glassy blue eyes narrowing slightly. Wordlessly, she shifted the tray to one hand and moved through the door, carefully shutting and locking it behind her before resuming a two-handed grip on the tray.

"It is coffee," she confirmed levelly. She wanted to add that if he stopped being such a shit, she may well share. But something about the man's demeanor told her that he would be less than impressed by the gesture, and chalk it up to the temper tantrum of a much younger student.

Nor, she suspected, would he have reacted well to her retorting that it had not been Noiraeve who set the meeting time, but she stowed that too and for much the same reason.

"Yes," she said. "In my pocket. Don't tell the Mistress of the Scrolls, I'm sure she'd have a conniption. Where can I set this?" asked the High Sorceress, gesturing vaguely with the tray. There did not seem to be an empty surface anywhere in the room.

"Nice cat" she said dryly once it was all settled and she was fishing in the pocket of her cloak for the scrolls. The cat seemed nice, at least. She held out the scrolls, looking around the room inquisitively. "What -- no breakfast?"

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

"The Mistress of the Scrolls would have a conniption if you farted in her doorway..." Detlan grumbled back as he near moved to retake his seat at his desk, then paused halfway there as Noira asked after a place for the coffee. Scowling, Detlan waved a hand, "The table, on the-" and when his gaze quickly glanced that way he noted the rather lack of table surface. With a huff, he moved to clear a space; setting books upon stacks of other books, papers into the nooks and crannies on other surfaces between stacks of books and things.

Mow.

The orange tabby watched this from atop a sidetable, large blue eyes curiously alike to its owners own save the whole ... lack of unsustainable exhaustion.

A grunt uttered in response to her comment on the cat, "Mimir," he said shortly but gently, glancing to the feline before plopping himself back into his luxuriously aged, high-backed, finely hewn from some exotic wood, padded by wool beneath worn midullan suede, chair. Though his entire office was furnished in finery, the chair was about the only piece visible through the chaos of his studies. Nevermind the years worth of dust that had settled everywhere.

"Breakfast," Detlan's scowl persisted as he shook his head, "no. The scrolls are of utmost priority." He handled them deftly and not daintily, in the manner of someone who was exceptionally familiar with the use of ancient and irreplaceable things. Muttering under his breath as he pushed several things aside, Detlan unfurled the scroll across his desk and released a long, low breath with a tone that suggested he were looking upon an old, long forgotten friend.

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Noiraeve set the tray in the space that Detlan cleared -- possibly begrudgingly -- for her. She was disappointed but not surprised to learn that there was no breakfast and so, as he fussed over the scrolls, Noiraeve reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a croissant which, despite haven't traveled in her pocket for some time, was perfectly flaky and delicious. She munched carefully, carefully so as to avoid getting crumbs all over Detlan's apartments.

The cat absorbed Noiraeve's attention almost as much as her croissant. She reached over experimentally, holding her hand out to the critter if it wanted a sniff.

Noiraeve suspected that the man had a good reason to know just how irate the Mistress of Scrolls got and why, down to the particulars of who farted and where. "Well," she muttered reasonably, "these are really old, delicate documents, and you've been out of the Tower for such a long time..."

The High Sorceress' voice trailed off as she peered around the former Archon to get a good look at the scrolls he had spread out. But see as she could, the younger woman couldn't make herself understand what she was looking at. "What is that?" she asked incredulously. Then, holding up a hand, she leaned closer. "No -- scratch that -- what I mean is: what the hell is that?"

Detlan

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

Mimir the cat watched with wide, blue, glassy eyes as the hand approached, orange ears pricked and whiskers flared. It sniffed. It sneezed. It batted a harmless paw at her hand.

"Mmm..." Detlan absently murmured in reply to the woman at her mention of his extended absence from the tower. A father distractedly validating a child's thoughts.

Absorbed in his moment with the Valeain scrolls while reaffirming some long-lost connection with them, he did not register her first intrusive remark. The second, marked by gesture and proximity, did. Lower lids pressing up into his eyes, the man glowered upwards at her for the audacity she had at interrupting his reminiscings.

"That," he sharply replied, straightening himself with dignity, "is the language of the Eirae. Feel free to treat it with some respect."

 

[Noiraeve Talastra]

Noiraeve suppressed a sigh and the roll of her eyes. Detlan was so grumpy. It seemed to be an unpleasant surprise to the former Archon that not everyone had knowledge of these ancient and special scrolls from the archives. This was by design, of course; the Valeian Scrolls were secluded for good reason, she assumed, and even if not for a good reason, they were still secluded.

Forgetting the cat for a minute, she turned and gave her full attention to the Scrolls. Her eyes widened as she tried to take it all in. The language of the Eirae, whatever that was, was certainly -- interesting. She had never heard of the Eirae before, or at least she couldn't remember having done. She stepped closer to the table, bending her neck to study it.

It was... unique. And somehow unsettling, though she couldn't quite place why or how. She itched to harness something, but she didn't know what. Flames to incinerate the scroll -- well, no, she was in enough shit with Detlan as it was. A shield, perhaps, but against what? Still, it couldn't hurt the scroll...

She wove a barrier between herself and the scrolls and looked expectantly at the former Archon. "I assume you can read that. I certainly can't."