Private Tales Looking for Trouble Brewing

[Teodron]

In retrospect, maybe Teodron should’ve been more stealthy in his reconnaissance of the shop before him. He’d been so excited to finally have found a clue in his mother’s disappearance that he’d rushed off without thinking. Granted, stealth wasn’t his strong suit so he probably would’ve drawn more attention to himself if he’d skulked about—and granted, he’d been parked on a nearby bench, taking notes, looking like the student he was, even occasionally pretending to practice a spell—but there were both magical and mundane ways to detect observation. Still, it was too late now.

It had been pure dumb luck that had led him here. He’d been browsing through the College of Magic’s extensive collection of books on rune magic (for a supposedly dying art, they had a lot of information on it), when he’d noticed that one of the books had been returned by his mother on the day of her disappearance. His excitement had been nearly palpable, and he’d eagerly made his way to the head librarian. She had a mind like a steel trap and, although she was getting on in years, she could remember that day clearly.

“Ah yes, young Salmira. Shame what happened to her,” the librarian mused, voice scratchy with age.

“We still miss her,” Teodron replied softly, resisting the urge to shake her.

Her piercing eyes fixed on him, and recognition dawned. “You’re her son! That’s right, I remember now, you joined shortly after she…” the librarian coughed to avoid finishing that sentence. “So what did you want to know again?”

Holding up the book, the half-dwarf pointed to the entry showing his mother had returned the book on a specific date. “Do you remember whether she did or said anything unusual when she dropped this off?” He was practically vibrating with tension at this point.

Sympathy tinged the librarian’s expression and her voice as she considered the question. “Nothing too strange. I remember she was in a hurry, since she had gotten notice of a package. Must’ve been something exciting in it, the way she ran off. So unlike her.” The woman nodded with certainty. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Teodron shook his head firmly. “No, thank you very much though!” And then, like his mother had years before him, he ran from that library (though not before putting the book back where he belonged) and made his way down to the package sorting room. Seeing as magic required all sorts of strange materials, it was a fairly extensive operation. While there were full time staff, students did sometimes worked there to raise some personal spending money as well, especially those from poorer families. The half-dwarf had done a few shifts, so it was easy to sign himself up for another.

During the shift, he waited for his moment. Then, when the supervisor went out for a break, and the rest of the workers were too busy—or too uncaring—to be paying much attention to Teodron, the half-dwarf ducked into the records room. It was easy to find the date in question (even though it was years ago, since magical reagents were used at different rates and therefore needed to be reordered irregularly), and skim through it. Flipping page after page, Teodron finally found the entry he was looking for: Salmira Stonecutter, small box, contents unknown. The half-dwarf frowned at that last part; contents unknown was unusual, since they needed to make sure there was no contraband in the walls, but maybe that was a recent policy they’d implemented. Alternatively, maybe the wards had flagged it as safe. Regardless, he took down the shop it had come from, then slipped back out, no one the wiser,

Which had brought him here and now, as he watched said shop. It wasn’t clear from the outside what it sold, nor did he see many people enter or exit, though those that did go in always came out with something wrapped or in a box. Maybe that would be confusing to some, but a lot of the high-end specialty shops let word of mouth bring the clients to them. It wasn’t the best strategy, in the half-dwarf’s mind, but this place seemed to be doing fine. Finally, the end of the day rolled around, dusk descended, and a woman left the shop and locked the front door, humming cheerfully all the while. Waiting as long as he could contain himself, Teodron eventually stood up, gathered up his supplies, and walked confidently over to the front door. Again, acting suspiciously would draw suspicion, though his palms were sweaty from nerves. Checking to make sure there were no guards within sight, the mage whispered an unlocking spell and was relieved when the door opened afterwards.

It was dark inside—between the darkness outside and the lack of a light source inside it was impossible to see—and Teodron bit his lip before pulling a rune from his belt pouch. For this particular endeavor, he’d prepared every supply and spell he could think of. After a brief moment of concentration, the half-dwarf’s rune began to glow softly. Raising it, he was surprised to see that this looked like a fairly typical magic supply shop: crystals and stones, papers and powders, herbs and animal parts, even a few books and scrolls that had to be magical. There was a counter, with a door behind it, presumably leading to a backroom. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but Teodron would not be deterred. If there was something here, he’d find it.

Mischa Ven'rohk

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

The city in the north.

Such was the prompting of the Great Holy One. Her ordeal in Vel Anir finished, her trial complete. And the vision came within a few days. Images of a place she had never seen. Structures of white and red. Vague notions of north. There she had been bidden to go. And there the Great Holy One sought to bestow another boon upon her.

And she walked along the dirt road. A solitary figure in the Savannah. The great stretch of Arethil to either side of her. Her traveling pack empty. Her stomach having ceased rumbling now.

She knew not how far she had come from Vel Anir, or how far yet she had to go. But she had to walk. She had to. Perhaps this journey, in and of itself, was another test. A continual proving of worth to the Great Holy One. A cleansing of doubt and weakness. Her charge simply to walk north. And she would. She must. All of the Dm'rohk tribe lived such a life, the nomadic journeying all across the ancestral lands called home.

And she was kin to the Dm'rohk.

Her legs quivered.

She was one of them. Even if father had exiled her for own 'good'.

Her steps grew shorter and tinier.

She was. A tribesorc. Of the Dm'rohk. And she would prove it. To everyone. To everyone.

Figures in the distance. Down the road.

And she collapsed under the weight of the Savannah's sun.

* * * * *​

Mischa awoke.

Night. The orange glow of a campfire. Tents erected about her. Human men sitting about the fire and walking this way and that, some eating and some tending to their armor or weapons. Her own armor had been taken off, and she was clad only in her old Templar arming doublet and arming pants. Both garments and her hair were wet. A bucket beside her.

Mischa sat up immediately, garnering the attention of most of the men about her. She snapped her head left and right, ignoring the clawing soreness of her body. There. To her right. Her armor. Her shield. And the Lightbringer. She reached for the sword and grabbed it and clutched it close to her body, the quiet presence of That Which Makes Pure known again as her hand so touched the hilt of the blade.

"Whoa, whoa," said one of the human men sitting by the fire. A hand to the weapon on his belt. "Easy there, orc."

Mischa said nothing. Just held the sword and sat and looked warily to all the men illuminated by the fire.

"My name is Batten," he said. "What's yours?"

After a moment, she said, "Mischa Ven'rohk."

The other humans, seemingly content that nothing was going to happen, ignored her then and continued with their various tasks. Batten said, "You a Templar, Mischa?"

Her mouth twitched. Eyes averted from his for an instant so small as to be near imperceptible. And she said, "I was."

Batten simply looked at her. "We'll leave it at that." He straightened his back and called out to someone, "Hey. Bring a piece of that kill over here."

And, after a moment, a human brought a leg of antelope to Batten. And Batten took it and stood and walked the few steps to Mischa and offered it. Mischa eyed it for hardly a second, before she grabbed it and hungrily tore into it. Eating the meat raw, as was the way of nomadic orcs. Humans had tamed fire but also had allowed themselves to be tamed by it, for they seldom ate or could even handle eating as orcs regularly did. Here in the raw meat lay the visceral nature of the kill, and to taste of it was to know directly the respect for Arethil and all her creatures whose death and whose flesh gave orcs life.

"You almost made it," Batten said. A flat statement. "The watering hole was right close to where we found you. Just past that collection of Acacia trees yonder and down the slope. So we set up camp here. Took off your armor and kept you in the shade until the sun went down and dumped a few buckets of water on you all the while. Hell, we thought you were going to die." A pause. "Where are you headed, Mischa?"

Mischa chewed and chewed and swallowed and held the leg before her in one hand and the Lightbringer in the other. Said, "North. There is a city there. Of white buildings and red rooftops. And a towering structure. I do not know the name of this city nor the structure."

Batten narrowed his eyes. Considered. Said, "Elbion? You're going to Elbion? That it?"

Mischa froze. Mouth open and poised over the leg of antelope. Her eyes trailed upward to Batten's. And she said, "El-bee-on? The city with the mages?"

Batten couldn't help but to grin. "You're tellin' me you didn't know that?"

Mischa's eyes trailed down, the opposite motion of before. There was no cleansing of doubt, if such had been intended. Now, a resurgence of it. She gripped the hilt of the Lightbringer tighter but the Great Holy One sent no guidance nor reassurance nor anything. It merely observed.

"Listen," Batten said. "I don't know what you're doin' Mischa, and I'm not sure if you do either. But you've armor and you've a sword. How 'bout you consider joining with us. We're headed to Vel Anir. War's coming, and the pay is always good for war."

And there in that moment Mischa did so consider it. For she did not fear war and battle. A choice, clear and present, for her to make. Between the known and the unknown. To trust in the Great Holy One, that It would fulfill Its promise to grant her the strength her body could never achieve on its own, or to forego all she had endured and all she had done thus far on account of fear.

And she thought of Marcie.

* * * * *​

Mischa walked into the city of Elbion. Overwhelmed, yet again, as she had been during her first visits to Alliria and to Vel Anir. Her time spent in travel and walking along the vast expanse of the Aberresai Savannah had conditioned her sensibilities back to that of nomadic life. And here in Elbion as with the other cities, humans and others so confined themselves to cages of wood and stone and 'brick' and other materials. Their passage upon the world prescribed by 'streets' and the enclosures made by the clusterings of the permanent buildings. Here a pervasive scent in the air that was anything but fresh, the noses of the city-dwellers numb to it.

Batten thought her odd. For pursuing a thing she could not elaborate on. But he had graciously sent her on her way with a filled waterskin and a pack full of leftover meat. And Mischa had survived the rest of her journey without another harrowing brush with death.

And she was here now. Elbion.

The festering hive of mages.

Mischa wandered the streets of Elbion for days. Taking up odd jobs as she had in Bhathairk for meager pay or food or a night's rest, for the guards were surely like those in Alliria and Vel Anir and would not allow her to sleep outside of an inn. Curious glances. Confusion, over why an armed orc clad in armor would clean a home or wash linens or aid tavernkeepers. Less so when she aided blacksmiths with armor repair.

And during her wanderings she saw them. The humans and elves and dwarves in robes. Overheard them speaking of this thing called a 'College'. Witnessed displays of magic in the streets and in the market squares. They lacked the reverence and respect the shamans of the tribe had. The boastful flaunting of the gift granted to them from Arethil.

Many among their number suffered from hubris. But which were callous? Which would use their gift for malevolence? Which would see Mischa not as an orc or even as a living being but merely as a 'specimen'?

And she wandered. Awaiting a guiding vision from the Great Holy One.

One came. At last.

Dusk. As she walked she saw there in the distance a short human, shorter even than herself it seemed, outside a shop of little description. She thought nothing of it. Kept walking--

In her mind. Back in the locked room. The mage. Marcie. The shop she had just witnessed. The door open. Her inside. Darkness save one light. Held by the short human. He with features of a dwarf. A feeling of trust. A sealed Gate with a Symbol. A Heart in her hand. And the banishing of fear.

She stopped. Gasped. Reality and perception snapping back to her.

Mischa looked again to the plain shop. The short man gone. Inside. Surely. And she hurried at a brisk pace. Approaching the shop. She raised her left arm and let the straps of her shield slide down her forearm and she pushed open the door.

The light inside born from the short human's doing stronger than that of the waning dusklight to her back. A great many things in the shop, only some to which Mischa had an idea as to their purpose and use. And there the short man stood.

An uncanny sense of awkwardness, as she stood there in the doorway. The Lightbringer in hand, for she had no sheath for the sword.

Still, she said, "I mean you no harm."

 

[Teodron]

It was a good thing Teodron was a mage instead of a thief, because he definitely didn’t have a bright future of breaking and entering in front of him. It had occurred to him that a shop that catered to mages might also employ or by from mages; that meant there could be magical defenses inside the shop, just waiting to be triggered. Of course, there could also be more mundane traps, but he had less experience with those and would just have to hope the protection charm strung around his neck would, well, save his neck if it came to that.

Better safe than sorry, though, so he fumbled in his belt pouch for a stone with a detection spell carved into it (pretty standard stuff, it would glow in the face of hostile magics). This little endeavor was already going more poorly than he’d intended and he hadn’t even really begun. While most of his attention was on getting his spell up and trying to catalogue the contents of the room at the same time, in the back of his mind he was trying to see if there was anything else he should be concerned about.

As a result, he was not at all paying attention to his surroundings. So when the voice spoke up behind him, he was not all prepared to be interrupted and he was surprised to an embarrassing degree. He had yelped in a most unbecoming manner and whirled around, dropping the rune emitting light in the process and stumbling backwards a few steps. Concentration shattered and physical contact lost, the light had winked out, spell broken just like that. Not for the first time, Teodron reflected that rune magic was versatile and powerful, but required a lot of focus and finesse that he often lacked. Or at least, he lacked it in the field; in the laboratory and the classroom it was much less of a problem.

He had more important issues to worry about that either his magic or the lack of light. Luckily, as a half-dwarf, he could see fairly well in the dark. Almost he wished he couldn’t: he was confronted by the sight of an armed and armoered orc that was taller than he was, with a sword and shield out. It was a sight that would cause anyone to panic, and it took a moment for his mind to catch up with his body and inform him of the meaning of the words the orc (he assumed) had spoken.

Taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart, the mage knelt to retrieve his fallen rune. This was all in an attempt to buy him a few more moments before he had to speak. Eventually, though, it was inevitable. “I’m sorry, you startled me!” If anything, that was an understatement.

Then, however, it occurred how suspicious this must look. Sputtering, the half-dwarf tried to come up with a convincing cover story. For some reason, it had taken him a while to put two and two together and get guardswoman. After all, there wasn’t any other reason someone in such a getup would’ve followed him into the shop. Granted, if she’d suspected him of a crime, she probably should’ve arrested him already, but he wouldn’t waste this opportunity. “I uh, left something behind, was just picking it up.” It wasn’t a terribly convincing cover story—nor did he do a good job selling it, as subterfuge wasn’t his specialty—but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice.
"Miss" he added belated. He had absolutely no idea how to tell orc ages, but it was always best to be polite.

Hurrying behind the counter (and hoping both that he wouldn’t trigger something and that he looked like he belonged there), Teodron pretended to rummage behind it. At that point, it occurred to him that maybe she hadn’t been coming to arrest him at all. It might simply have been that she saw him in here and wanted to buy something. He could’ve kicked himself for not coming up with such an obvious solution before now. Best to try and cover his bases, though. “We’re closed, uh, miss, but you know, if you come back in the morning we can help you.” Hopefully she’d go away soon and leave him to investigate, but if she waited for him to lock up again, he might be in trouble.

Assuming he got out of this, he was going to spend a long time in the college libraries seeing if there was a spell that could warn him of situations like this, because this was incredibly stressful and not something he ever wanted to repeat.

Mischa Ven'rohk

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

Darkness. Near immediate, following her words. A tensing, and a narrowing of her eyes. Did he mean to attack her? Had she misinterpreted the Great Holy One's vision? Did It desire her to slay the short man as part of her trial?

But there Mischa stood. Watching the vague silhouette of him in the dark. She heard nothing save him taking some number of breaths. Saw in the uncertain movement of his outline against the blackness him crouching down to pick something up. The light returning as he had in hand that which he had dropped.

You startled me.

The full force of the awkwardness taking hold of Mischa then. In that instant she realized how incredibly strange this must be for the short man, and there embarrassment took hold of her and her face betrayed it. The Great Holy One provided guidance. It did not provide the means, nor even the sight of a definite end. Simply guidance. The showing of the path. And it was left to Mischa to figure out how best, or how even, to walk the path laid out before her.

This time, it was not simple. In Vel Anir, with Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink, the vision from the Great Holy One had come and so prompted her to protect the woman in her time of need. It was battle; that which Mischa craved and was comfortable with. No explanation was needed. Only action.

But this. To simply approach someone she did not know and say what? The truth? It was not the way of her tribe and of true orcs who followed the old ways to lie. Speak plainly, speak the truth. But the truth was strange. Only the tangible strength of That Which Makes Pure's presence allowed even Mischa to believe in It when she first took hold of the Lightbringer back in the Sunken Tomb. And she was keenly aware of how her testimony would sound to one lacking such initiation.

And she stood there. Embarrassed. And the short man with the features of a dwarf stood there, tumbling over his own words as he spoke. Left something behind. This was his building then. City-dwellers liked to own their buildings to the exclusion of others. A strange custom. So much space wasted. It made no sense. They all acted as if communal sharing would be the same as ingesting poison.

Miss. What did he miss? She did not see him throw anything.

He went behind the counter. Made noise as he searched for the thing he had left behind. Perhaps he would be more open to talk once he had found it. Still, she did not know what she would say, but she could...try. And so she watched him search.

We're closed. Who was this we? And he missed again. He was quick, but inaccurate. And he wanted her to come back in the morning. But what if he was not here? Whatever the Great Holy One desired of her involved this man, or the circumstances around this man, and if some mishap were to occur then she would fail in her trial.

She needed to endear herself to him. Somehow. Garner trust such that he would accept her company.

And all she could think of was a portion of the truth.

"I...my name is Mischa Ven'rohk. Forgive my intrusion. But I saw you in a dream."

Dream. Instead of vision. Dreams were mysterious. Things of portent. The domain of the shamans to interpret. So perhaps in the natural and shared awe of dreams would such sound better to his ear than Mischa saying 'vision'.

And she stood in the doorway.

 

[Teodron]

The good news was that his subterfuge seemed to be working, at least for now, and at least to keep him from further trouble; the bad news was that his subterfuge seemed to be working, and Teodron knew both that he couldn’t sustain this for long and that he’d backed himself into a corner in more ways than one. He was already starting to feel fairly ridiculous—and no doubt looked ridiculous as well—rummaging about back here while the orc’s eyes bored into him. Unfortunately, after his initial rush of inspiration that had led him to this ruse, his mind was coming up shockingly blank.

He didn’t dare speak again, for fear that he’d do or say something that would rouse the orc’s suspicions. Casting a spell was out too: in his current anxious state, he’d probably botch it anyway. Besides, he didn’t know what spell he would even cast. Illusion magic and hypnotism had never been his strong suit, and those were the only two disciplines that would serve him well here. Rune magic and protection spells were great, but they really didn’t have much utility in social situations or in sneaking about. Not for the first time, Teodron reminded himself to look into spells that would divert attention from him, make him unnoticeable. True invisibility was hard to maintain: anonymity, on the other hand, would allow him to navigate much more easily.

Thinking about spells that he couldn’t cast was not going to help him out of this bind.

They were all just distractions for the fact that the mage was at a complete loss. The silence stretched between the two of them, tense and awkward. While the half-dwarf’s words had stalled the orc, it hadn’t gotten rid of her completely. Giving up all pretense of finding a lost item—honestly, he needed to come up with a more convincing cover story in the future, not that he planned to be doing this often—the half-dwarf straightened up to his full height, and placed his arms on the counter. Of course, the counter was designed for a human, so his head was barely visible over it. Yet another sign that he didn’t quite belong here.

Alright, so magic was out, which meant words. Fighting his way through was obviously not an option; the orc held that sword like she knew what she was doing, like it was a part of her, and all Teodron had was his belt knife. He’d left his staff behind. It was the only weapon he knew how to use, but if he had to fight his way out, he’d probably already failed. Besides, it was hard to maneuver with it, and certainly quite memorable, what with the carved runes and all.

Again, a distraction, and the moments stretched on seemingly infinitely as he desperately searched for some way out of the mess he’d created.

Then, the orc spoke, and Teodron couldn’t believe his ears. His mouth dropped open and he just kept staring at her, floored by her statement. “A...what? A dream? About, about me?” That was so totally not what he’d been expecting (and he’d been so wrapped up in panicking about what to do next) that he couldn’t quite process the words for a while. They were utterly incomprehensible and improbable. There was no reason she would be dreaming about him, of all people, a lowly student, a half-dwarf in a college full of true mages.

Then, of course, it occurred to him that she hadn’t told him a whole about said dream. “So...uh...what kind of dream? Did it,” and here he swallowed, suddenly much more worried, “did it show you something specific or...just me? And...how’d you find me?” Actually, the more he thought about it the more nervous he got at the implications. Maybe it was a prophetic dream or some sort of divination, which meant that the orc had been sent here by a higher power for some unknown purpose. Alternatively, someone or something had implanted the dream; either way, it meant that the orc wasn’t here randomly, but had been sent here for him specifically.

And he still didn’t know why.

Was she supposed to get something from him? Help him? Was the only reason she hadn’t struck yet because she hadn’t gotten what she needed? The fact that this wasn’t serendipity, bad luck, or his own incompetence made him far warier than he had been before, since it meant this meeting had been orchestrated or planned. His hand crept to his belt pouch, which thankfully she couldn’t see, and he rested it on the runes there, many of which he could employ before she could get to him. “What do you want?” This time, when he spoke, there was no uncertainty, although he couldn’t prevent the hint of fear from creeping into his voice.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

She wished that this had been battle. As it had been in Vel Anir with Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink. This was instead more like her ordeal with Isaac. But there at least the man had been soliciting help. What Isaac required help for was a thing Mischa was unfamiliar with--a 'party'--but the initial meeting with him went well enough.

Here. This. It was uncomfortably different. She had never felt as she did now among her tribe, even when speaking to those tribesorcs she did not know so well. Still, a certain bond of kinship. A mutual belonging and understanding, for all lived together and contributed to the same purpose.

Not so in the cities of the world, she had found.

An anxious look from the short man. More stumbling over his words. And she became acutely aware of the Lightbringer in her hand. Yes. That was threatening to city-dwellers. They preferred for people to keep their weapons sheathed. She had no sheath. The problem was clear.

Mischa turned the blade about slowly and rested the point of the sword to the shop's floor, holding it by the pommel. Still she could feel the presence of the Great Holy One. Maybe she could purchase a sheath. Acquire the shiny coins the covetous humans called 'merchants' so desired to have one made to fit the Lightbringer's unique shape. She could rest her hand on the pommel of the sheathed blade as she was doing now and thereby keep contact with That Which Makes Pure. And that would make the guards of all these cities stop giving her hard looks and questioning her randomly.

The short man. He seemed very confused. Yes. Fair. She would be too, in truth. She did not know if saying 'dream' instead of 'vision' was indeed the wise choice, but both likely would have resulted in this.

An averting of her eyes. Thoughts. Many of them. Lacking coherency. Half-formed ways of explaining herself to him. Laments of her embarrassing situation. Yearnings for him to simply attack her and for that to be the test instead. Quiverings of fear about his attire and the thing which was not fire yet emitted light in his hand.

Mischa steadied herself. Found her resolve. And looked back to him and said, "I know this is strange. I am not of this city nor this land. But...I have been following dreams. You seek something, and so do I. My dreams will lead me back to my people, my tribe, for I will not be allowed to rejoin them until my journeying is complete."

She didn't want to mention the Great Holy One. It seemed too much.

"Our fates are like the meeting of two rivers. I believe this. In your seeking, so too will I find what I seek. I do not know what dangers await you, but I wish to be your shield."

Was there something she was supposed to do now? Some gesture? The orcs of the Dm'rohk had one for similar occasions, but it didn't seem right here. Humans and elves and dwarves and the rest must have their own. But she did not know them, and did not wish to offend.

So she simply stood her ground.

 

[Teodron]

The orc’s words were not particularly reassuring.

Granted, she’d set aside the sword. Well, kind of: instead of continuing to hold it she’d lowered it so it was no longer pointed in Teodron’s general direction. But she still gripped the pommel firmly, and she stood in the doorway, so the half-dwarf had little doubt she could pick it up again if he made any move to get past her. More and more this was feeling like a trap; she’d been sent here, for reasons unknown, and was preventing him from doing basically anything.

Unfortunately despite her arrival, the mage knew he’d been lucky so far. The guards hadn’t come to investigate their behavior. Even more importantly—since Teodron could probably get out of trouble with the authorities by claiming it was mandated by the college or some such nonsense, to which the guards of the city showed much deference—the owners of this shop had not noticed anything amiss. It was likely they were normal shopkeepers, so maybe there wasn’t all that much danger there.

But there was a chance, however slim, that they were something more than that. Something darker, more nefarious. Too much didn’t add up in the college. Too many mysteries, too many secrets, too many people with their own hidden agendas. If they were a part of some conspiracy that had claimed his mother, then Teodron might very much be in danger.

That thought sent a shiver down his spine.

It also didn’t help him resolve this impasse. Nor did it give him any insight into what he should do about the orc. She’d claimed she meant him no harm, and so far had been holding true to that. She even said she was here to be his shield. But she also claimed that she’d been dreaming of him, and that their meeting was no happenstance, but carefully orchestrated. That worried the half-dwarf, who’d been hoping his activities would remain unnoticed. Now it seemed that someone or something was paying attention to what he was doing.

So much for stealth and subterfuge. If indeed the orc was telling the truth—which he wasn’t going to assume without proof—then there was no way he was going to be able to get rid of her. Actually, that seemed like a safe assumption whether she was here to help or hinder him. Given that, he should probably make the best of it, and watch for potential betrayal down the line.

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. This had just gotten a lot more complicated. “Look, can you step away from the doorway? I’d rather not draw attention to myself, or, well us, I guess, and you’re pretty conspicuous at the moment.” That seemed to be the most pressing issue at the moment; plus, if she moved, it would not only provide him with a way to escape, it would also show whether he could trust her in at least one small way. He wasn’t going to give her all the information (that would be foolish, and he’d been through too much, seen too much darkness to be that naive), but he could give her a little, and she if she let something drop.

Regardless of whether she moved, he was going to ask her more about these dreams. They must’ve been pretty accurate, to lead her here. “So. These dreams. How long have you been having them? Are they only about me or do you see other people, places and things? Are you a diviner, an augur, or a priest? Does something trigger them or are they at random?” He was throwing a lot of questions at her, but seeing as she was the one springing this whole ‘I was sent here’ thing on him, he felt he was entitled to a bit more information than ‘I saw you in a dream.’ Besides, maybe she’d slip up and reveal something she shouldn’t.

Grudgingly, he decided to drop his own act, at least in part. “Listen, if you are really here to assist me, than I guess you should know that I’m actually investigating this shop for wrong-doing. I’m looking for anything out of the ordinary, especially of a magical nature.” Let’s see how she reacted to that bit of information: until he got some sort of confirmation that she was actually on his side, he wasn’t budging from behind this counter. The wooden barrier made him feel a little bit better about his chances.

Not that he’d feel good about them if she attacked. She held her sword like she knew how to use it, and though the half-dwarf had been through his own battles lately, he was under no illusion about his chances in a fight with a skilled warrior. He’d only survived his previous encounters through Metisa’s grace and the assistance of a much more experienced and competent teammate.

Right now, though, despite what the orc might say, Teodron knew he was completely on his own, and way out of his depth at that.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

The short man pinched his nose. Mischa did not know the gesture, but she had seen it before. It was associated with frustration, agitation, or sneezing. But he did not sneeze. He spoke. Was he frustrated or agitated? Yes. That was fair. She had interrupted him from whatever task he was attending to and after his shop had 'closed'. Being 'closed' was a matter of great concern for city-dwellers. Only the keepers of places called inns and taverns seemed not to close, yet they also conducted business well into the night when they and everyone else ought to be sleeping.

Step away from the doorway.

And so Mischa picked up the Lightbringer and took a few steps inside and set the sword back down. She left the door open. He had said he didn't want to draw attention to himself. To himself and Mischa both. He was shy, perhaps. Such a thing surely made her intrusion more egregious to him. But closed doors made her nervous. Locked doors inspired terror. And he had not said to close it. So she did not close it, and was glad.

Standing a bit closer to him now inside the shop, she could more clearly see that, yes, she was by a small margin taller than him. It brought her comfort. And in this she felt more like an orc in his presence. For there were many humans and all else that she had to look up at, while her fellow tribesorcs, all naturally tall as orcs should be, would look down at the same. Yes. It was not often that she felt as they felt, standing taller than those around her.

Many questions. At least he did not banish her from his presence. Such would make the fulfilling of the Great Holy One's task more difficult.

She would answer him in order.

"I have been having them for months." Months ago. The Sunken Tomb. Marcie. The Great Holy One's offer. Her betrayal of the Templars. Of Marcie, she who had shown Mischa only kindness and compassion.

"Not only you. Yes, I have seen others. Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink. Isaac Makalov. I was led first to Bhathairk, then to Alliria, then to Vel Anir, and now here. In the first two cities I merely passed through. In Vel Anir I protected Ynsidia, Conjurer of the Ink, and aided Isaac Makalov."

Mischa struggled in thought for a moment. "What is a diviner and what is an augur? I do not know those words in Common. Are they like priests? I know what a priest is. I have seen them. A priest is like a shaman; they speak with the spirits. I am not a shaman nor a priest."

Then, the last. The question actually gave her some pause. Some doubt. Were the Great Holy One's visions random? It seemed not. For the Great Holy One had led her to Vel Anir and to the Vault. But, random or not, did she truly know Its intent?

The Great Holy One's presence. Still there. Still felt through her hand on the Lightbringer. It did not send her any visions or attempt to sway her one way or the other. It merely observed.

And she said, "They are trials. This I know. And I am being tested. For at the end of these trials and these tests I will be made strong. Strong enough to--" Her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed. Composed herself. "Strong enough to be accepted by my kin. I..."

Am unfit to be called an orc. Words unspoken.

And she felt herself a tiny, wretched thing. A runt who needed more than she contributed and a weakling who in her lack could not even toughen her fellow tribesorcs in an Umrogk. A shame and a dishonor to deprive them of this and to fail time and time again to provide the challenge that was supposed to be mutual.

Little Elf Teeth.

The short man spoke again. And she looked to him. Banishing the thread of sorrow that had been unwinding in her mind.

A magical nature. She looked past the short man to all of the things assembled about the shop, her eyes tracking slowly across the collection. A mounting trepidation as she considered them in a new light. Was this the test? To come face-to-face with the darkest moment of her life once again? Here in the very city that the callous mage had come from?

"I am ignorant of the ways of magic. I would not know what is and is not ordinary."

A hesitation.

"Are...you a mage?"

 

[Teodron]

They were making some progress. Teodron supposed he had to call the orc moving a short distance from the doorway that, though annoyingly she left it open. They were visible to anyone who passed by, especially the half-dwarf, given he was standing at the counter. So, experimentally, he moved to one side of it. It was the side opposite the orc—he wasn’t going to get near her if he could help it—so there was still a decent amount of space between them.

This wasn’t getting any easier or less awkward. They were wasting precious time, and the chance of something going wrong was increasing with every passing instant. Really, he simultaneously wanted to trust the orc, close the door, and continue searching the shop and run away, try to lose the orc, and come back and try another time. But he was so close to finding out what he’d come for that it wasn’t really an option.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he’d been able to get rid of her, what with the dreams and the patience with which she stood there regarding him.

He felt very much like prey, a fact not helped by her weapon, her height, and her stare. Nervously, he started flipping the rock around in his hand. It didn’t make the light any less bright, but it did shift where it landed, causing shadows to dance. Teodron didn’t even notice, too wrapped up in trying to figure out just what was going on here. With each response from her, he grew more and more confused. “Did something happen a few months ago? And have you been dreaming of me for a few months, or just dreaming in general?” The half-dwarf didn’t know which one would bother him more.

None of the names she listed sounded familiar to him, not even the so-called ‘Conjuror of Ink,’ and Teodorn thought he knew any mage with enough of a reputation to deserve a title. Maybe it was self-appointed, and the conjuror was just a hack. “Who are those people? Do we have anything in common?” Different cities—ones the mage had only heard of, not ever seen—and not ones Teodron had any ties to, as far as he knew.

“Why did you only pass through the first two cities and why were you asked to help people in the third? Did something change, in your dreams or your life?” Some pattern would help the half-dwarf make sense of it all. To establish that, though, he needed more information.

Which might be difficult to get, since the orc didn’t understand all the terms Teodron was using. Sighing, the mage tried to explain it as succinctly as possible. “A diviner is just a general term for someone who practices divination, whether that be attempting to see things or find things in the present, or attempting to predict the future. They can be mages or receive their visions from another source, usually divine.” At least, that was the basic theory behind it; it wasn’t a field or discipline Teodorn had explored much. “An augur is a priest who practices divination.” At least the mage wasn’t forced to explain what a priest was. He didn’t even know where he’d begin with that one.

Though the half-dwarf didn’t know much about orcs, the anguish in her voice was clear. Whatever had caused her to separate—or be banished, as the case seemed to be—from her people, she clearly yearned to return to them. He focused on that fact. “So uh, forgive me if this is...insensitive I guess, but, well, are the dreams a test set by um other orcs? To somehow see if you’re strong enough?” Then, half because he was trying to stay on her good side and half because the sadness in her voice compelled him to do something about it, he added, "I'm sorry they don't accept you. You seem plenty strong to me." The half-dwarf knew pretty much nothing of their culture, and this seemed to be a roundabout way to test her strength, but that made as much sense as anything else in this situation.

Which is to say, it made no sense at all and he was just muddling his way along, out of his depth as always.

And then she set presented him with another problem: she didn't know anything about magic. At least this was something he could do something about. It would mean approaching her (which he was still worried about), but seeing as they’d been talking for a while now and nothing bad had happened, he supposed he’d have to risk it. At a certain point, he had to have some faith in something or someone. Metisa as his witness, Teodron was going to trust this orc apparently. Hopefully it wouldn't get him killed.

Rummaging in his belt pouch, he explained as he went. “There’s too much to explain about magic, but don’t worry. I have a rune that can detect it.” In fact, he’d refined it after having to use the basic version one time too many. “It will glow in the presence of magic. The stronger the magic, the stronger the glow. Blue if it’s friendly or neutral, red if it’s hostile.” Maybe one day he’d be able to incorporate more colors to tell him more information, but even this was an improvement over the general detection runes he’d been using.

Then she spoke again, and something in her voice made him pause. Eyeing her, then the distance to the relative safety of the counter, Teodron considered his options. But he was going to cast magic, presumably, so this wasn’t something he could lie about. “Yes. Why do you ask?” He held his breath as he awaited her response.

Hopefully he hadn’t just sealed his fate.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

He was persistent in his questions. Inquisitive. Very much so. Her half-truths seemed to answer nothing for him. None of them served as being good enough. He wanted details. And she did not know how long she could keep from revealing the whole truth. A certain peril. That in order to gain his trust she might have to risk losing it permanently.

For she did not know how he would react to the revelation of the Great Holy One's existence.

A few months ago.

"Yes. The dreams found me." A weak answer. But the full truth would surely be abhorrent to his ears. "And I dreamed of you only recently. Very recently."

Those people.

"They are the people that my dreams led me to. I do not think you have anything in common other than that but I do not know."

Pass through.

The specifics the short man asked for that Mischa had not even considered. She thought nothing of saying that she had passed through Bhathairk and Alliria. Inconsequential parts of the story that had led her here. He craved knowledge of things big and small, the short man did.

And she said, "I think I needed to go to Vel Anir first. In both Bhathairk and Alliria I was led to acquire means of travel. And so I traveled. There was no significant change."

At least the short man explained what a 'diviner' and an 'augur' were. A brief reprieve from his questions and the mounting discomfort in answering them. He drew back some. A preface of his next question with an asking of forgiveness for possible offense. In the mere asking she found a small measure of relaxation, a loosening of tension.

"Maybe...maybe I am a diviner, then. These are not tests set by any orcs that I know or could even imagine. The true nature of the source I cannot explain."

Yes. That much was certainly true. The Great Holy One had allowed her to see It. It never spoke. Only watched, as it was doing now, and sent visions and freely imparted Its gift of Fire at her behest. She knew of Its intent in the myriad images It had sent when she first touched the Lightbringer; faded grasses being made greener, paltry ore being smelted into perfect steel, the waning red sun of some other world being made bright again.

Yet, none of the stories of her tribe had prepared her for It. For It was no spirit, no ancestor, no god or goddess of humans or otherwise. What It was, how It came to be...none could be answered.

But It had made her an offer. Something her meager body could never attain on its own. And so she had accepted.

The short man then...apologized? And said something she had never once heard anyone say of her before. It was all she could do even to say, "Oh."

It was completely disarming. His compliment. And all at once she felt horrible for not living up to the standard of the spoken word by speaking the truth--the whole truth--to him. Her heart was tortured, and her eyes drifted down.

The sound of his footsteps. He spoke of magic. A rune. Arcane things favored heavily by dwarves, as talismans often were by orcs. If such would aid him in his search and if that was all it did, then it should be fine. Hopefully those runes would be easy to use.

He didn't give her one. Not yet. Her question, hesitantly asked, and his answer, hesitantly given.

He was a mage. Like so many in this city. And here she was. Alone. With him. Here. In this room. The only difference now that the door remained open.

She had to be strong. To fight her fear. Even if it leaked into her expression.

"Do you see me as a 'specimen'?"

He had been cordial enough. But so had the other mage. All up until he locked her in.

 

[Teodron]

Alright, so she dodged the question about what happened a few months ago. Teodron narrowed his eyes. That was not the first thing that had concerned him about this situation, but it seemed to the half-dwarf that if the orc had been sent for the mage specifically then he deserved to know a little more than she’d dreamt of him and been told to be his ‘shield.’ Even for Elbion that was weird. “What do you mean they ‘found’ you?” His tone was a little bit sharper than it had been for the rest of the questions.

Apparently the people targeted by the dreams didn’t have anything in common. That meant it probably didn’t have anything to do with those individuals. Still, she didn’t seem certain, which frustrated the mage. While the half-dwarf knew he didn’t have time to figure out more about the people she’d mentioned—nor did he know where he would even start—he would’ve dearly loved a more satisfying answer.

In fact, he would’ve dearly loved a lot of things in that moment that he was unlikely to get.

If the reason she’d been in the first two cities was to acquire some means to travel to the third then it seemed there was some greater intelligence behind these dreams. The mage tried to plot the course she’d followed in his mind, but geography had never been a strong suit of his. “How do you know from a dream whether you’re supposed to approach a person rather than simply travel to a specific destination? Do they tell you what you’re supposed to do when you get there or find the person you're looking for, or just where you’re supposed to be?”

After all, it didn’t seem that the orc knew exactly what she was doing here either, as evidenced by the long back and forth they were having. It also didn't seem that she had information beyond Teodron's appearance. Then again, maybe the dreams wanted her to answer his questions in a way that just lead to more questions. He had to prevent himself from snorting at that thought.

However, all thoughts of levity disappeared at her next statement. Teodron frowned, parsing her words more closely. She knew it wasn’t the orcs, but couldn’t say what it was. However, she didn’t explain why it was impossible to explain. While he might be reading too much into her last comment, he wanted to press her a bit on it. “Why can’t you explain it? Because you don’t know what it is or because you don’t have the words to express it.”

It suddenly seemed very, very important that he know which one it was, or at least that’s how it felt to him.

The orc seemed taken aback by the half-dwarf’s statement, which made the mage’s heart break a little; whatever he might think about the situation (and he was still half-convinced she wasn’t really here to help him), it was clear she was hurting. While he was trying to be harder these days—his mind flashed back to the woman he’d killed, and he felt bile rise in his throat—he wasn’t always succeeding. Still, the thoughts of the horrors he’d experienced in the woods and the ruins temporarily distracted him from the present situation. He shivered in remembered terror and revulsion.

Her next words, however, brought him completely back to the situation at hand. His jaw dropped. “What? No! Absolutely not.” Shock colored his voice and he simply stared at her, not quite able to grasp all the implications of what she’d said.

Then, however, it hit him fully and he felt outrage suffuse his entire being. “Did someone call you that? Did they...did someone treat you like one?” He was so angry it was hard to talk, and while he was aware he might be scaring her—though hopefully she could figure out it was anger on her behalf and not that he was angry at her—Teodron found he couldn’t help himself.

“What did they do? And who was it?” he demanded, not willing to take an evasive answer this time. The mage needed to know, needed to find out who this monster was.

Then he would destroy them.

The violent thought surprised him, but he welcomed it. Evil like that needed to be rooted out wherever it might lurk. Of course, in an instant he realized that perhaps anger was not the most productive response to her question. While he couldn’t tamp it down completely, he did close his eyes and take a few deep breaths (not worried for once she might attack him). Once he felt calm enough to speak without fury coloring his tone, he opened his mouth again. “I’m sorry. Both for my reaction and that someone...did that to you.”

It occurred to him that he was making a lot of assumptions here. But it was hard not to, especially given the rather dark secrets and history of the College of Magic, which Teodron was only now starting to discover. Still, he found himself trusting the orc more now, oddly enough. If this was a ploy to get him to lower his guard, it was working.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

Half-truths did not survive scrutiny. Neither did lies. And those with a sharp mind could bring forth the truth from the spoken word, wring out the fullness of one's testimony that lay unspoken. The short man was one such person. He who did not accept unsatisfactory answers. He who, in this current moment, respected the spoken word more than she did.

They 'found' you?

"I had no such dreams before. And then they started. And I believed in them, for I had nothing else. I was lost and without hope of ever returning to my tribe."

Harder and harder. To continue leaving out the Sunken Tomb. The Lightbringer. His question had been asked in a deeper tone than those previous. She could be losing him, the chance of any trust.

How do you know from a dream?

"I follow what I see in the dream. The things I do, the things others do, spoken words. All inspire feelings that lead to action, and thus I am guided. They do not tell me exactly what it is I am to do when I arrive at a place or find a person. There is vagueness that must be interpreted."

The truth, there, in the functioning of how the Great Holy One's visions. And it was much easier and more natural for her to say it aloud. The flowing of her words like a river downhill, therein a slight contrast to her statements of half-truths.

The short man frowned. That could not be a good sign.

Why can't you explain it?

The Great Holy One's continuous observation. There in the very back of her mind. A tiny squirming of her armored fingers upon the pommel of the Lightbringer.

Her voice quiet. "Both."

It did not seem a god nor did It seem a spirit. It did not seem a monster nor did It seem a demon. And It did not seem to be from Arethil, but someplace else. Someplace that Mischa could not say, for she did not know and lacked the words. It did not speak, not in any way that Mischa could understand, but It did communicate. Raw images in the mind and emotions in the heart. She did not know if It had a true name, 'Great Holy One' and 'That Which Makes Pure' a description and a name of her own devising. And even then, she wondered if such fell short.

There the truth, even if the short man was currently under the impression that she spoke of something else.

Then the fear. The short man's admission of being a mage. Her question. His answer.

And it was surprising. His reaction. What he said. He seemed just as surprised--shocked, even--as she was. And a turning of that surprise into an admirable rage. The manner of rage summoned before the charge into battle. The fierceness of a warrior protecting home and kin. It was orcish. Endearing. Something she did not expect from a mage. A distant callousness or hubris or general coldness, they all seemed to have; at least by Mischa's reckoning. All as if they were no longer part of the world on account of their magic, but thought themselves above it and all those who lacked.

It did not seem so with the short man. He even apologized for something he did and something he did not do. And Mischa stood. Regarding him in a new way.

The feeling of trust. That central part of the Great Holy One's vision. Perhaps it was meant less so for Mischa to gain trust from him, but instead for her to extend trust to him. And she had an idea for how to do it, for it was clear, but difficult. Despite his surprising reply to her question, a certain degree of fear still gripped her heart. For the past had come around again. He was a mage. And they were in a room. And they were alone. And she was going to give up all means of defending herself.

This was the essence of trust. To believe in the sincerity of his words and actions, even as she had with the mage in Bhathairk. To believe that he, unlike that mage, did not harbor a secret intent for malevolence.

Mischa shrugged her left arm and her shield slid down and with another shrug it fell to the floor. A spot of hesitation, and she let go of the Lightbringer, the Great Holy One's presence instantly vanished from her mind and she was truly alone and had merely the meager strength of her body to rely upon. The sword clattered on the floor and came to rest.

She slowly spread her arms wide. "I trust in you. Do as you will."

 

[Teodron]

Sighing, Teodron rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was getting a bit tired of asking questions that the orc couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. Given the amount of time had passed—and the fact that she seemed relatively honest, if not entirely forthcoming—the half-dwarf felt comfortable trusting her. To a degree, at least. After all, he couldn’t stay paralyzed like this forever. At a certain point he’d need to learn to trust someone or else he’d go insane.

That’s what this came down to: trust, and how the mage’s trust in the college and those who ran it had been shattered. It was that which had brought him here to begin with. To find out who and what could be trusted and what couldn’t. So far it had been frustratingly difficult to determine.

The orc definitely wasn’t helping on that front, showing up as she had.

Considering everything she’d told him, Teodron bit his lip. There were only so many variations of the same questions he could ask. Still, he wasn’t going to give up until he felt he’d exhausted the information he could get from her. That persistence, that drive, was what made him the best mage and the best student in the college among his peers. Not natural talent, not brilliance, but sheer, stubborn determination.

“And nothing happened to trigger the onset of these dreams?” Magic was weird, true, but usually there was some explanation behind it, however unreasonable and unlikely. Her comment about the tribe was confusing to him. “Did the dreams have anything to do with your desire to return to you tribe? Did you seek out something that would facilitate, er, I mean, allow that?” He was slipping into the sort of language they used among academics, and he had to pointedly remind himself to keep it simple for the orc. She seemed smart enough, just not particularly well-read.

She was also a person who still seemed lost, in her own way. Though he was reminding himself not to feel sympathy for a stranger he didn’t know he could trust—who’d been sent here for mysterious reasons she would not disclose—it was hard. “I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t return to your people.” Empty words, maybe, but he meant them. “But if you don’t know what brought about the visions and you, at your own admission, started experiencing them unexpectedly and when you were feeling lost, how do you know they can be trusted?” He felt a little bad picking about her story like this (though not that bad). However, better that than her dreams get him killed.

Again, a frustratingly vague answer: the mage supposed he couldn’t exactly blame the orc for that, but he certainly wanted to. “How do you interpret it?” Certainly Teodron didn’t have any guidance for what to do here.

He tapped his foot anxiously as she stated simply that she couldn’t explain it. As someone not particularly given to mysticism and spirituality—which was funny for both a mage and a believer in Metisa—the half-dwarf found it distressing that the orc hadn’t investigated the source of her dreams. That would've been the first thing he did, rather than gallivanting across two continents following them.

“So you really don’t know what causes your dreams?” Teodron didn’t know why he sought confirmation when her answer had been clear, but he did.

His rage still simmered under the surface. He still felt an irrational hatred for someone who would treat another being—a sentient, living, innocent person—as a specimen. Whoever it was deserved to be punished, for such behavior needed to be stamped out, wiped from existence. But he held himself still as she slowly removed her shield and then dropped her sword. He was perplexed by the behavior, though he’d admit it did make him feel a bit more relieved.

However, when she spoke the mage really didn’t know how to react.

They stared at each other for a long moment before he realized he should say or do something. “Uh...thanks?” He didn’t really know what to make of what to do with her offer to ‘do as you will.’ There wasn’t anything to do, as he could see it. All traces of his anger were momentarily suppressed as he considered the puzzle.

However, the moment he considered it from her perspective he could’ve kicked himself. Here she was, in a strange city, for some unknown reason, told by her dreams to seek out someone who just so happened to be a mage. A mage like the one who had tortured her. His heart skipped a beat as he thought about the courage that must have taken her. Still, he wasn’t entirely sure what the appropriate response was.

“I’m ah...not going to do anything?” His voice was tentative, uncertain. “I'm mean, I'm not, I just wasn't, um, sure what you meant by that." He nodded at the sword and shield. "You can uh, pick those back up if you’d like.” Suddenly the awkwardness of the situation started getting to him again, and he coughed as he returned his attention to the rune pouch. He might as well acquire the detection rune while he waited for her to get her gear back.

With that, he realized that he was going to let her join him. It was surprising, but he supposed that it made sense. Worst case he could probably stall her long enough if he had to escape.

When he pulled out the detection rune and started walking towards her, however, it started to flare up, brilliant in the gloom of the shop. He yelped and shaded his eyes as he retreated back. When the stars cleared from his vision—and he’d put the rune back in the pouch, he eyed her, suddenly wary again. Either there was something in this shop that was incredibly powerful (possible, but unlikely) or she had something on her that was very magical (he had absolutely no way of knowing.”

He might as well ask. “So...do you have an artifact of some kind on you?”

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

There.

She had offered herself unto his mercy. Had he malicious intent, had he been a brother in deeds to the mage in Bhathairk, he would have seized upon the opportunity. There was no better time to do so.

But he had not. Instead a look of confusion, a delay in his words brought on by bewilderment. It was not the nature of the predator to gaze as such upon the vulnerable prey. He was not a predator. He was not that mage in Bhathairk. He was not the crazed mages and sorcerers that the Keepers of Oath hunted. He was of a temperament that she did not expect given all she knew.

A slow and steady breathing out, and a collapsing of her arms back down to her sides. Relief plain upon her face. She very well could have made a grave misinterpretation of the Great Holy One's vision. Invited the darkest moment of her life to surface again. But it was not so. And she was glad.

Mischa said nothing as he stammered over his words. Just watched him. A lack of apprehension or need for preparation for the worst in her gaze. The implicit assuming that he would not harm her. The softness of viewing a friend, instead of the hardness of viewing a potential enemy.

He pulled out that rune he had spoken of. The one that detected magic. And yes, it seemed to do exactly as he had explained, for it shone a brilliant and blinding blue, banishing the dark inside the shop. A shielding of her eyes as well until he put it away.

Yes. She would tell him. She had left some of his questions unanswered, but this would perhaps answer all of them. For it was the Great Holy One's apparent will that she trust him. And that meant telling him all she had withheld.

"I have not told you the whole truth. Because I feared you. I feared you and feared trusting you."

A temporary closing of her eyes. A breath taken. Eyes open.

"Yes. I have an artifact with me. My sword. It is ancient. And when I touch its hilt, there is...a presence which watches me, and which watches the world through me. I have called this presence the Great Holy One, or That Which Makes Pure. It is not a god or spirit or demon, none that I know of. But...It saw into me. It knows what I desire, and It wants to help. It will grant me boons if I follow Its guidance, the visions or 'dreams' that It sends me."

A looking away.

"I would not achieve the strength I needed to return to my tribe as a Templar." She tapped her armor. Unique to the Keepers of Oath, a chapter which operated east of The Spine. "So I betrayed them. Broke my oath and abandoned them. And I killed one of them. Marcie Armentrout, was her name. She...she had shown me nothing but kindness. I do not know why the Great Holy One asked me to do that."

A pause. A swallowing of shame. She wiped at her eyes with her hand. A ragged breath.

"But I trust It. Because I want to go home."

Another pause. She looked to him again.

And then away.

 

[Teodron]

Finally the orc spoke truthfully and Teodron almost wished she hadn’t.

Her words about trust did little to clarify the situation. If her dream had sent her here, then surely she should trust in him. But apparently the dreams didn’t exactly explain the what or why, just the where and the who. None of this made any sense to the half-dwarf—nor did it match any magic that he knew about—and her answers just added to the confusion. He knew there were magics and mysteries outside the halls of the college, but this was so far from what he knew that he didn't know where to begin.

Great Holy One? That Which Makes Pure? The names spoke of ancient, primal forces, beings beyond comprehension, but if that was the case then who had bound it to this sword and why? People usually didn't go through the trouble of containing benevolent entities, in his experience. The mage took a closer look at the sword. It did indeed look ancient, but despite that and despite possessing an unusual design, it seemed like a relatively normal sword. Granted, the mage knew little of blades, but there weren’t any obvious symbols on the blade or the hilt. Indeed, there was nothing there that would cause anyone to give it a second glance.

Besides the fact that it was, well, a sword with no sheath, which looked quite threatening.

Still, the half-dwarf soon had much more to worry about that the revelation that there was some entity bound to the sword. As the orc recounted her tale (or snippets of it at least), Teodron felt the blood drain from his face. She sounded demented, possessed even, speaking of a presence that watched her and guided her. Even if he believed her—which he had no reason to—he certainly didn’t want to be around someone like that. Fanatics had an unfortunate habit of being, well, fanatical in their cause to the point of harm to themselves and those around them.

Then she dropped the most damning piece of information: the murder of a friend of hers. “So let me get this straight. You picked up this sword, started getting dreams from it, and the first one told you to kill your friend and you never questioned it?” The mounting horror in his voice was clear and the mage very much regretted ever showing this orc sympathy. “You killed her just so you could return to your tribe?” The accusation rang between them.

But that wasn’t all: Teodron backed away, fingers darting to his pouch instinctively, as if to pull a rune out in his defense. Which one didn’t matter, since they were all useful in their own way; he would just feel better with one in his hands. “And you never thought to wonder just what this Great Holy One was?”

It was clear from the orc’s reaction that she knew killing this Marcie was wrong. But the orc had done it anyway. And for an understandable, but unforgivable reason: to go home. But to trust an unknown being with no information when it said to kill someone, someone she knew, well, that spoke to something deep and dark and insidious. It also spoke to the weakness of her character, that she would follow orders like that.

The mage moved back behind the counter. Just because the detection rune had emitted a blue light didn’t mean the magic or presence behind the blade wasn’t evil. It just meant it wasn’t actively hostile to the half-dwarf at the moment. While that was consistent with the orc’s tale, Teodron wanted nothing to do with her or her sword. This was beyond the student, beyond any mage he knew, and all he wanted now was for this orc to leave as suddenly as she’d arrived. All thoughts of exploring the shop were gone for now; Teodron just wanted to be as far away from that sword as possible.

And maybe it would be best for the orc to do the same.

When he spoke, his voice was hard and unforgiving. “I want you to go. And my advice? Ditch the sword and go home.” He didn’t wish to inflict a murderer on her tribe. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t stand by her. And that seemed to be the quickest, easiest way to get rid of her.

 

[Mischa Ven'rohk]

She couldn't look at him.

Therein the terrible reckoning. The raw acknowledgement of her betrayal. That which the Great Holy One had deemed necessary for her to begin her journey.

She had not questioned It. She had not pondered the true nature of the Great Holy One. Such was her yearning to return home. Such was the hope that it would be possible through Its guidance. That It would allow her to transcend the limitations of her frail and pitiful body.

Here.

Now.

She did not know what to do.

Mischa sheepishly bent down and collected her shield by a single strap and held it. A hesitation. And she reached for the sword and touched the hilt and there the presence of the Great Holy One. It observed. She picked up the sword by the pommel and held it such that its tip almost touched the ground.

She walked to the open door. Stood in the doorway with her back to him.

"I..."

And she left.

 

[Teodron]

The tension stretched between them, thick enough to cut.

Teodron wasn’t going to move until the orc did. There was no way he was moving ahead with her. In fact, he might not move ahead at all at this point; his confidence was shaken, and now that he knew he was being watched, at least by some eldritch being, he was going to do a lot of research before proceeding. Hopefully the shop wouldn’t go anywhere.

He could feel fear creeping up his spine, and he did his best not to panic. Slowly, the orc picked up her shield; the half-dwarf held his breath as they both stared at the sword, then let it out as she picked it up. Teodron’s anxiety spiked at that point: he’d almost convinced himself that she’d take his advice. Of course, then he’d be left with the monstrosity inside the sword to deal with, but surely a mage would be better equipped to deal with that horror than an orc who seemed unwavering in her faith.

No such luck. She left—although hesitantly, saying one last word—and took the Great Holy One with her.

Immediately, the energy drained from the half-dwarf’s limbs and he sagged against the countertop. He knew he couldn’t, shouldn’t stay there, exposed like that, but he needed time to recover from what now felt like a brush with death. Of course the orc hadn’t done anything directly threatening to him. But he felt chilled just thinking about how she’d admitted she’d killed a friend just because some being had promised her...power? Acceptance? Whatever the orc’s heart desired? It made him sad to think of all the tragedy that would flow from that.

Almost, Teodorn hurried after her, as if to help free her from this thing’s grasp. But she’d clearly shown that she didn’t want to be free. And he couldn’t help her if she didn’t want to help herself.

A long time passed before he finally moved. He scanned the room to make sure nothing was too disturbed and that they hadn’t left other signs of their presence behind. Then, he closed the door and focused, casting a brief telekinetic spell to relock the latch. Tonight was not the night he wanted to investigate the potential dark magic or conspiracy in Elbion. His nerves were too rattled for that.

However, he wouldn’t forget. Instead, he would prepare better next time. He would bring more spells and more supplies, and he’d have a cover story ready if he needed it.

Most of all, though, he was going to do his best to come up with a spell that would protect him from all means of observation, mundane, magical, mystical, divine or...other.