Private Tales Limited Editions

[Rhys]

It was the changing weather that had drawn Rhys’s thoughts to this particular book. As the warm sun melted the packed snow at the edges of Elbion’s streets, Rhys was reminded of a book in his collection that focused entirely on runic magic inscribed upon ice. How fascinating, that a magic so inherently complex and tedious would be possible on such an impermanent substrate! Naturally, as soon as he arrived home, he sought out the reference to quench his curiosity.

Rhys’s one-room chamber at the college was filled with boxes of books, stacked nearly to the ceiling somewhat precariously as though they might topple upon his narrow bed at any moment. He rooted through three boxes before he found the book he sought. Several hours into his study, Rhys realized that ice in some parts of Arethil must be more permanent than it was in Elbion, for some of the runes that the book described could be active for years. He was even more surprised to learn that it was possible to embed and freeze blood within an ice-carved rune. Perhaps far in the north, where there were glaciers.

As he turned the last page of the book, Rhys considered that despite its unique and fascinating subject matter, it was completely impracticable in the context of his life and talents. He weighed this fact against his ever-pressing need to meet his rent for the month, and sighed forlornly. It was always difficult to part with a book that one enjoyed.

The next morning, Rhys made his way to The Guilded Feather. Though the shop was one of his favorite places in the city outside of the college library he seldom visited, for he could not afford to hire a pony and carriage and it was a slow and difficult journey with his cane. Rhys arrived out of breath, and Maester Osric kindly offered him a chair and a cup of tea. The two were kindred spirits and acquaintances of many years, and easily fell into a discussion of their favorite topic: books. After his hands had grown warm again, Rhys withdrew the book on ice runes and offered it for sale.

Focraig'Diin

 

[Focraig'Diin]

He strode through the cobbled streets with a giddiness more appropriate on a child. Rare were the opportunities where he could indulge in the simple blessing of reading. Sometimes for knowledge, other times for enlightenment. He nearly hopped and skipped on the wet roads, forgetting he was leaving patches of ice as he stepped - a nasty surprise for any unwary citizen, as the occasional shouts would attest. One titled book shop caught his eye as he passed, a simple establishment named as The Gilded Feather.

He stopped in his path, choosing this particular place to be his current paradise of literacy. Eyeing the books on the windowsill, he even found a couple on the practice of cryomancy, of a brand he had yet to discover. He could spot more flamboyant shops off the corner of his eyes, but still, he chose what he chose. Mentor had been strict in that regard, beating the concept of choice into him.

"Either do it or don't Focraig. Now, JUMP OFF THAT CLIFF!! AHOY!"

*CRACK* [A scream that slowly trails off, followed by a heavy thud onto the snow-covered plains beneath]

"That's the spirit! Now get up here so I can kick you off again, until you jump off willingly!"

He shook his head to clear that particular memory. Damn it all. He still had to suppress a murderous urge to blast cliffs with a hoarfrost blast a decade after. Not to mention his inadequacy at the element as his Mentor pointed out without fail, last words not counting. And so engrossed he was in the memory flashbacks, he failed to notice his radiating magic freeze the wet ground beneath his own feet into a sheen of ice, tripping a few unfortunates unlucky enough to pass him by.

He of course, was not except. How likely were the odds of an ice mage tripping on his own ice?

*THUD!*

"By the Eretejva!"

Very, very likely.

Massaging his aching hip - it was literally a hard drop onto the cobblestones - he made his way to the two men, catching a glimpse of the book to be exchanged. The word Ice on the cover was enough to grab his attention, and withdrawing the heaviest bag of gold he could find on his belt - the size of a satchel - he held it up and called.

"Hail, fellow artists of the word. Might I be chanced for a glimpse of that book? I am a practitioner of that element you see, and would welcome all knowledge upon the subject!"

 

[Rhys]

Rhys felt a sharp chill as someone entered the bookseller’s shop, and pulled his wool cloak tightly around himself to guard against what he presumed was a draft from the briefly opened door. Maester Osric looked up from his perusal of the book Rhys had offered him to greet the new customer, and Rhys’s eyes followed the Maester’s gaze. The customer was a man, seemingly ordinary in appearance, but with an air of magic to his very skin and an elated expression that embodied Rhys’s rarely outwardly expressed feelings for a newly encountered room of books. Sensing a kindred spirit, Rhys stood alongside Osric to greet the newcomer.

"Hail, fellow artists of the word,” the newcomer said. “Might I be chanced for a glimpse of that book? I am a practitioner of that element you see, and would welcome all knowledge upon the subject!"

Maester Osric smiled warmly. “Of course, my friend. It is seldom that I find a buyer for a new acquisition so quickly,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “I would log the text in the shop’s inventory before parting with it, of course, and mark it with a fair price. In the meantime please join us, and tell us of yourself and where you come from. May I offer you some tea? I am Maester Ignatius Osric, and this is my good friend Rhys, a fellow book enthusiast who is familiar with just about every library and private collection in Elbion.” Rhys nodded amicably and offered his hand to shake.

Focraig'Diin

 

[Focraig'Diin]

"An introduction? By all means, allow me!"

Taking the hand with an eager grip - he hoped the chill would be tolerable - he shook it with enthusiasm, his other placed on his chest. Shaking off his hood to reveal the almost pale features of his face, his lips curled up into a cheery smile.

"The lone practitioner of Rith'Equisid Aeonic Cryomancy, Focraig'Diin. I am an ice mage, in short. Apologies for my... cold hands. It is a by product of my craft."

Releasing the handshake, and to demonstrate, he snapped his free fingers, and a chair of ice froze into existence, misting off the warmth in the room. With a white like snow, it was shaped exactly like the ones the other two men, Rhys and Osric, were using. He plopped down on the frigid furniture without so much as a grunt of discomfort. Thank the Tundras for its climate.

"I hail from the Eretejva, just shy of its coast. Learned my craft from an eccentric mentor. Now I travel this land in search of knowledge, to further my own and perhaps spread some myself!"

 

[Rhys]

The chill from the ice-mage’s touch spiked sharply up Rhys’s arm, causing the old wounds deep within his shoulder to ache intensely and a brief pang of discomfort to flash across his face. The sensation passed quickly, but Rhys reflexively pulled his woolen cloak around himself to guard against the mage’s cold aura and settled back into his chair nearest the hearth.

Focraig’Diin called up an icy construct of a chair, and Rhys leaned forward eagerly and watched the process with fascination. Maester Osric, however, regarded the presence of ice in his bookshop with some trepidation. “See to it that your magic does not drip water on my books, my new friend,” he said amicably as he brought another cup of tea and resumed his own seat.

Rhys considered his own introduction. He found himself torn between curiosity and shyness, for his personal history was shameful by his own judgment, and certainly his magical abilities were modest in comparison to those of the ice-mage. “It is my honor to meet you, sir,” he managed warmly, but with the hesitancy of one who is shy of character. “My specialty is oneiromancy, but lately I have spent most of my time at study in Elbion. I believe there are several texts relating to ice magic in the city that may interest you, though we have few practitioners here.” He took a sip of his tea to calm his nervous energy. “You have traveled a long way, even using portal stones; I admit I’ve not met anyone from your realm before.”

 

[Focraig'Diin]

"The Tundra is a cold, unforgiving place. Not reallu meant for the average human to live in. I was an unfortunate happenstance that Mentor picked up."

Not really pleasant by all means.

"And do not worry about any book damage, Maester Osric, I value literature and by proxy, knowledge, with all the importance it should be deserved. No tome nor scrap of paper will be touched while I still breath!"

The mage rapped on his chair for emphasis , describing an aspect of his craft.

"My cryomancy is a mix of alteration, construction, and am recently evolving with a new branch of magic I was fortunate enough to discover at Elbion. Lithomancy, it was called. What you see here is the air's water crystallized into a solid structure, and can be dispelled with no liquid aftereffects whatsoever!"

He noted Mr. Rhys' magic with a delightful glint. "And you practice oneiromancy, craft of mind and dream? I have one friend you would be delighted to meet, indisposed as heis at the moment. He has an artifact related to the aspect of Dream itself!"

Focraig'Diin was honestly speaking half-truths. The Dreamsbane Sword was indeed capable of manipulating Dream, but to what extent the mage himself did not know. And the sudden onslaught of coughs reminded him why he did not speak for prolonged periods.

"Apologies... I am not an avid speaker, lest my interests are provoked."

 

[Rhys]

“Nor I,” Rhys admitted, glancing reflexively away from Focraig’s blue gaze. And yet the other mage’s enthusiasm was catching, and Rhys found his spirit lifted somewhat from the dreary depths of solitude in which he had been living. He slowly sipped his tea, enjoying its warmth and allowing his enlivened thoughts to mull upon the other mage’s words as the conversation lulled comfortably.

“Artifacts with the ability to transcend into the dream realm are rare indeed,” Rhys said at last, “And I would truly be curious to encounter one. But for those who make a lifelong study of dreams, such objects are of little benefit. You see, an oneiromancer’s manipulation of dreams is limited only by the boundaries of the mind, and a talented walker of dreams can easily create an object, or call forth a power, through the manipulation of thought and the use of magic. An artifact would certainly save the effort of using magic to perform certain tasks, as such objects do in the real world. But this in itself represents a boundary; a reliance on a task that is performed easily. Whereas the greatness of an oneiromancer is his or her ability to conceive a world of boundless possibility, without limitations. Save the Laws of Magic, of course,” he added with a grin.

Rhys wet his throat with another sip of tea. “In truth, many oneiromancers have found that the creation of such artifacts results in their misuse, or the use of their own magic against them. We are taught the philosophy that our mind is our greatest power.”

And we are often shunned because of it, he thought, for implicit in the power of manipulating dreams is the power of manipulating mind and thought. Inherent in Rhys' bones was the knowledge that he should not advertise his talents, though he felt he was in trusting company. His very presence at the college was only tolerated due to the blessings of several influential professors and the knowledge that Rhys was not actively practicing his magic. Rhys knew Elbion was not a place he could stay long-term.

Judging that his new acquaintance had recovered from his coughing, and eager to indulge his curiosity for all things new and unfamiliar (which could hardly be concealed), Rhys proceeded to question Focraig on the topic of cryomancy further. “Tell me more of this magic you wield, my friend,” he said, gesturing towards the chair-construct upon which Focraig sat. “For it seems you are converting water from a gaseous state to a solid, and back again. From what I know of alchemy, this suggests that your craft involves the manipulation of pressure as well as temperature. Most impressive.”

Focraig'Diin

 

[Focraig'Diin]

"Tis a bit more... complex than simple temperature alteration, yet at the same time, it is exactly as you say."

With nary a twitch, the chair dissipated, the mage waving away the dust into thin air. Eyes alight in cerulean magic, the mage formed a sphere of ice this time, on the table. But while the previous construct was simple, clear ice, this one was pitch black. Almost like a hole in reality itself. It levitated a few centimeters off the table, mist wafting off it in tendril of white, but no frost nor chill could be sensed from the construct.

"My craft involves an... intimate correlation with oneself and the practiced element. In my case and my craft, ice. Knowledge in the elemental composition of matter, as well as its building blocks, was a part of my education, aside from more.... physical practices."

He viciously suppressed the memories. It would do no good for him to have a relapse after all that progress in blocking it out. Damn his mentor anyway for subjecting him to that hellish training.

It still didn't prevent the... fear from leaking through in his tone. He would deny it, but it was true.

"My craft involves a study of weather patterns and sequences, a bit of... physics, for a term, and of course, the ability to blast things apart. The third is not my specialty, mind you - my expertise lies in more... subtle areas."

To demonstrate, he raised a hand, mimicking the motion of turning a key in a lock. But as his hand twisted clockwise, the temperature likewise, dropped. A slow steady decrease in heat, replaced by a cold that had the trio breathing mist in the indoor space. Even the fire was not spared, dimming into embers.

Then he reversed the motion, and the chill present vanished instantly, the fire roaring to life with such force, sparks flew from the fireplace. "Using myself as a conduit, I can will the... thermal energy of all things in a specific area to cease all movement. The resulting static state is naturally, quite dangerous."

Breath of Murath could attest to that.

"But it is one of my many talents. My magic is flexible and designed to be adaptive."

He rapped at the black ice. "And at its pinnacle, my magic even toes the line of mortal... and divine. This sphere is one such example. Though not something that defies the Laws, it is still an anomaly. Go ahead and touch it - you will feel nothing. The residual cold of the ice, you can feel. But the object itself? You can see it, but not be able to feel it."

He would know. He had nearly died once to practice it. He still had the capability - mayhaps even surpass his mentor in application - but he dared not.

Not yet. He still had a shadow to find.

Rhys

 

[Rhys]

“...aside from more.... physical practices."

Rhys felt the fear in Focraig’s tone, an echo of his own, and met the other mage’s eyes. Pain. Yes, he, too, remembered pain, and understood the unspoken agreement not to discuss it. Such things were best forgotten, and quickly suppressed when they surfaced.

And yet as Focraig turned his hand and lowered the temperature in the room, the chill quickly spread into Rhys’s bones, and pain shot through his body at the site of each old injury. He maintained his composure with some difficulty, his expression strained and his eyes watering, until the other mage reversed the motion and allowed warmth to surge back into the room. Rhys immediately reached for his tea, finding it still hot, and masked his relief with a long sip from his cup.

He peered in fascination at the construct Focraig had created, curiosity quickly distracting him from his discomfort. It was surprising that the black sphere was made of ice, with no trace of the colors white or blue save the thin stream of frost that trickled upwards from its surface. At Focraig’s suggestion he reached out and touched the construct, and found that while his hand stopped at the object’s location he was indeed unable to feel its surface on his skin.

“This magic you wield is most unique,” said Rhys, “and must take incredible focus to command. I confess that I find the ability to create constructs of ice makes cryomancy much more alluring than the antithesis practice, pyromancy, as fire by nature resists attempts to mold or shape it to one’s will. The mental focus and years of practice required to attain such skills are evident, and you truly are a master of your craft. I would hope to read a book that explores the mysteries of these constructs one day, if you should choose to write one.”

As Focraig demonstrated his skills, Master Osric's expression took on an eagerness that did not reflect the flow of conversation. His eyes brightened and his gaze shifted away from their circle as he considered a private thought. He stood and quietly walked to a desk behind the shop counter where he sifted through a stack of letters.

“As it happens,” he said, revealing a letter from the stack, “I received a request some weeks ago from an acquaintance-a former student at the College-to recommend scholars suited to assist in the curation of books for a new library. He writes, ‘I have enclosed a list of texts that I have confidence you can procure with your resources at the Gilded Feather. However, the scope of this project requires travel throughout Liadain to locate more specialized works, ideally by one or two well-educated individuals who possess a more broad-minded view of the world than is typically found in Elbion. If you should know of any such individuals who may interested in the position, please relate that they would be compensated with a modest salary, and all travel expenses covered.’ He has enclosed additional lists of texts and subjects, as well as instructions for communications and payment.”

Master Osric resumed his seat, and passed the pages of the letter to Focraig for inspection. “I had considered that Rhys would be a fine choice for this position, save for his recent disinclination for traveling. But Mr. Diin strikes me as an ideal choice also, and he has just demonstrated that he would be more than capable of ensuring the safety of both of you, should the situation call for it. Perhaps his presence would assuage any concerns you would have about taking this job, Rhys? You have spent far too long holed up in Elbion’s library, in my opinion, and I think it would do some good for you to venture out into the world again. Assuming, of course, that you are both amenable.”

Focraig'Diin

 

[Focraig'Diin]

"Master, you say? You flatter me, Mr. Rhys. I am simply an adept at best."

He was not speaking out of humility, but the cold truth. He had yet to even grasp the fundamentals of Destruction properly, and while his skills and talent with the remaining three branches of his craft weren't too shabby - he could only produce explosions of rime and frost, or a razor-thin beam of negative hoarfrost that turned a specific target to ice dust in moments. Certainly by themselves these two spells were powerful, but when mastered, he would wield might that could perhaps match a dragon in offensive capability. And he was definitely not there yet. The Amulet helped, with its occasional whispers and visions, but he was still winging the process as he went, even with the spell tome, the Cryocodex, for reference.

With a gleam of his unnatural azure ecliptic eyes, the sphere of black ice dissipated into dust, swept into nothing the next moment. The mage then flexed his fingers, the appendage having gained a transparent sheen, like frozen water. The affliction had spread only to his wrist, thankfully, and no further. Any further and he would have lost the limb for several minutes. He had yet to train his physical body to better handle the ice. Perhaps a trip to the Spine or the Tundra was required.

"And like all spells, my craft comes with consequence. The Laws still apply, no matter how esoteric it is."

He rapped the icy knuckles on the wooden table, testing if he could at least feel a reaction, or a sensation. He had nothing. Which was to be expected. However, he had wagered his progress would have rectified the issue. "Like I have said before, a correlation between myself and my chosen element is required to practice the craft. But by correlation, I mean the element itself is a literal fifth limb. Having your blood slow, then eventually freeze entirely as you channel the art. The skin turn blue and white from the raw cold emanating from your pores. And eventually this."

He breathed a trail of cold mist above their heads. "Too much and my blood vessels rupture, my organs shorn and torn from the frozen blood. At worst, I will become a brittle ice sculpture. Thankfully this condition will remove itself with time, but nevertheless, a sensation you will not wish on most." The caster was literally freezing oneself to cast the magics after all, and many were the times he had cut it a bit too close. Breath of Murath being one such example of extremity.

At Rhys' desire of a manuscript, the mage plopped down a thick hardback, a large spell tome the size of his torso. "If you desired to read one, all you had to do was ask! This contains what you may like to know, or maybe not. The history, fundamentals, and the legacy of my craft is written here. I say this because I am its last practitioner, and few individuals are capable of practicing it. The Cryocodex."

He would have offered up the original version he had carried before, but the Crowkeeper demanded an exchange for the Amulet. But this one was updated, so it was not that much of a loss. And it was an enchanted pocket edition, capable of folding in upon itself to become a book less than a tenth its original size. And so he did, folding it until it was around a sixth its original volume, the size of a novella. "You may want some magnifying lenses or some sort to view the contents like this - smaller it is, the tinier the words become."

Then the Maestro chipped in with a most interesting offer, handing the ice mage a letter. Forcraig had originally been searching about for any tomes of ice runes, to supplement his original arts, and perhaps sightsee the city that had the so-called academy of magics. "More tomes to read and acquire? Color me interested. And throughout all of Liadain? And eventually establish a library in the end?" He was quite invested now, as he read the letter's contents. At the Maestro's concerns regarding the oneiromancer, the ice mage put them to rest. "I am familiar with the dangers of traveling. Rest assured no harm will come to either of us for the journey's duration."

He then turned to the oneiromancer in question. "What say you Rhys? I am up for some traveling and collecting!"