Private Tales Of Sand & Dragonfire

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Seteta gave an exasperated sigh, but let the subject drop as Chaceledon leaned down to kiss her. They were, at some point, going to need to have a serious discussion about the value of people, regardless of their looks.

She took a moment and tied her hair back with a small scarf, then went downstairs to meet Rheinhard in the garden. When she found him relaxed, lying in the grass, she couldn't help but smile. Finding a spot of dappled shade under a small tree, she made herself comfortable near him. Lying back on the grass under the tree, she closed her eyes and slipped back into the Well, gently tugging at the cord of magic connecting her and Rheinhard as she did.

"Oh thank Abtatu," she murmured when she found herself in the office, and it was no longer marble and mirrors and animal skins. Now it had the appearance of one of her tribe's nomadic tents, softly illuminated by sunlight hitting the sides. There was a brass brazier, and all of the books had been replaced with scrolls. Seteta reached for one and hesitantly unrolled it, but the script was still Common tongue. She set it aside with a sigh, and left the office.

"Nestor? Rheinhard?" she looked around for either of the two men.

Chaceledon
 
Rheinhard and Nestor were in the Arena. Being the two least likely to engage in shenanigans amongst the remnants, they were enjoying a bit of practice. Nestor was dressed not in his usual comfortable garb but in a close-fitting wool jacket and trousers, with long jackboots up to his knee. He held a rapier with a bone hilt in his hand, knees bent slightly in an impeccable fencing stance.

Rheinhard was up on the balls of his feet, blades in hand. He was dressed similarly to how he normally dressed, in a simple linen shirt and trousers with light leather boots. He lunged at Nestor, who turned the blade aside and scored a deep strike to his cheek. Rheinhard broke away and circled, with Nestor following every movement seamlessly.

Rheinhard rushed to close the distance, and Nestor slashed at his knee. Rheinhard caught the blade and slammed the tip downward into the sand, redirecting Nestor’s energy. He opened his mouth to bite, and caught Nestor’s fist in it. Rheinhard broke away again, stunned, and earned another slash to the thigh for his trouble.

Rheinhard struck again, and Nestor barreled forward in a lunge. Rheinhard turned his blade wide and sank his knife into Nestor’s belly. The rapier was too long to bring around in such a short distance, and bashing Rheinhard’s skull did little good. Rheinhard brought them both to the ground and grabbed Nestor’s face in his teeth. He crunched down, and the other sank under the sands.

Of course he popped out just as quickly, and held up a hand for the stop signal. “Hello Seteta.” Nestor greeted her. Rheinhard spat blood and nodded to her. “That’s three three then. Evenly matched.”

“Agreed.” Rheinhard panted, and saluted Nestor. The other returned the salute, and tugged his calfskin gloves off.

“What brings you here?” Nestor asked.

Seteta
 
Seteta caught the sounds of fighting coming from the arena when there was no verbal answer to her calling out. She wandered that way just in time to see Rheinhard take Nestor out, and bit back a grimace. When Nestor greeted her, she gave him a friendly nod.

"Rheinhard and I were discussing some things earlier over breakfast," Seteta answered Nestor. "He was going to show me some memories."

She reached up and rubbed her neck. "I... also gave Chaceledon free rein with his makeup and my face while I was in here. Not sure yet if I'll regret it. I'll need to kill some time, so I thought we might look for that... power focus you mentioned before too."

Chaceledon
 
Nestor cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, well, I’ll be here if you need me. It was nice to have a proper duel for once, and not just monkeys brawling off extra testosterone. I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He snorted, and tapped the sand with the tip of his rapier. It rose slightly and flattened itself, becoming cool stone. Lines were drawn for fencing drills, which Nestor leapt into with the aura of a regimented soldier.

Rheinhard walked outside, and waited for Seteta. He pulled down a shard, and tossed it into the sheet of sand cascading around them.

Jason adjusted the shoulders and looked down at himself. He arranged his hair, silently wishing he could grow it longer. The closest he could get away with was just brushing his shoulders, and only if he wore it in a masculine enough style that his mother wouldn’t burst into tears. At sixteen his body was changing in ways he hated. He was already an artist with the razor, refusing to let a beard grow. He was proud of his pretty blue eyes, but in his mind that was the only redeeming quality. Why couldn’t he have leaned more delicately?

He turned in the dress. He’d kept a good, slim figure. His chest was becoming broader, so he’d had to wear bindings around his stomach to shift the focus inward. It made him feel better, even in a shift like this.

Jason smoothed down the front and sat down on the bed, sighing. These moments were private, at night, by candlelight. He eyed the door. Padlocked, as always, by his mother. Reinforced with iron bars, just like the window. Thirteen years of pacing a rut in the wood floor.

But not anymore. Not today. Jason got up and knelt on the floor, pulling an old dinner tray out from under the bed. Saltpeter came from natural plants like celery, spinach and sunflower. It had taken years to figure out what it was and how to isolate it, but he’d had nothing but time. Thirteen years of nothing but listening faintly to the alchemist shop next door.

Charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur scraped away from the birds that shit on his windowsill, combined carefully in a wooden vessel. It had to be wood; stone or metal would ignite the powder. He only had a small amount, so tiny, a generous pinch. He prayed it would be enough. He poured the dried black powder out onto a piece of parchment and folded it in half.

He held his breath. He didn’t dare sneeze. He didn’t dare pant or cough. It would waste eight months of work. Tap by gentle tap, he poured the powder into the lock.

Jason picked up his room candle and burned the paper in a quick flare of sparks. He couldn’t leave evidence behind. He closed his eyes, and blew flame into the lock.

A loud bang sounded and sparks guttered out of either end of the lock. It was over in half a second and Jason stared. He’d done it. It had worked! He bit his lip and waited a precious few seconds. No noise, but he had to move fast. He opened the door, and snuffed the candle. He padded in his bare feet down the stairs and packed a bag of food, yanking one of his mother’s shawls from a basket and putting it around his head.

Time to leave. He turned to the back door and stopped. His mother’s fat little dog lay in her basket by the back door. Anger blossomed in Jason’s chest. That little shit was given a seat at the table, loving pets, and the blanket it laid on was handmade. Thirteen years. Thirteen years of all her love going into this rotten little animal instead of the son begging for love on the other side of a padlocked door.

His teeth clenched so hard he felt like they’d shatter in his head.

Jason seized the dog by the neck and yanked it out of the basket. It whined and kicked, struggling wildly as he squeezed. Vessels popped in those hideous brown eyes, her fat pink tongue rolling uselessly out of her head. No. Too quick. Jason put a hand around her muzzle to stop any barking and tucked her under an arm. He pulled a heavy stewpot onto the kitchen fire, and poured water in. Just enough to go up to her shoulders. He threw the little dog angrily into the quickly-heating water, and jammed another pot between the lid and iron pot arm.

He heard the dog panic, sloshing and whimpering, then a genuine scream as the water reached a boil and steam flooded out from under the lid. Scrabbling, screaming and wild bucking against the lid. Jason grinned madly, lit by firelight, until the muffled cries devolved into begging whimpers. Then they ceased entirely.

Jason slid out the back door, pack over one shoulder. Moonlight. He stared. Finally...the street he’d always heard from his window. Cobblestones, the alchemist shoppe that had become his savior. He smiled at the vial-shaped sign swinging in the autumn air. “Thank you.” He whispered. He’d find a way to thank the old man somehow.

He struck off down the street. A carriage stopped briefly to look at him. “Miss, this ain’t a part o’ Underhill to be wanderin’ in...with no shoes? You lost?” The driver asked gruffly.

Jason smiled shyly. “I...I was being held captive.”

“Look, there’s an inn a ways outside the town. Kitty runs it. Folk there are real nice. They can help ya.” The man offered. “Ain’t right seein a girl wanderin barefoot. Winters comin’ and all. What’s your name?”

Jason hesitated. Well, he’d come this far. Why not give in to what he always knew was true? This was beyond a fantasy to stare at in his little mirror now. This was the chance to be someone else...and all he had to do was open his mouth.

“Jessica.” He said, smiling and climbing up into the seat.

He left the body of the driver by the road just outside of town. The man hadn’t known what was coming. Jess had wedged a nail out from the boards of the carriage seat, and buried it into the side of his skull the second they’d passed a bend in the road. He was easy to shove and roll into the ditch. She unhooked one of the horses, scowling at the wildly prancing animal. It’s eyes were rolling and it was trying to rear and get away from her.

“Stop it you stupid beast!” Jess snarled at the horse, yanking it closer.

They can smell madness you know.

Jess released the reins and the horse bolted, running down the road. Before she could grab the other it did the same, dragging the empty traces alongside it. “Damn it!” Jess swore. “Who the fuck is there?!”

Her anger died in her throat when the wraith stepped out onto the road. A friend. I saw your escape. Or rather your mother told me. We had a deal, her and I...she’d keep you alive until I came for you. I didn’t mean for her to lock you away.

“Should have been more fucking specific.” Jess snapped. “What do you want with me, wraith?”

To offer freedom, and work. Your real father worked for me. You have the same greatness. I saw the lock. No stupid man would be able to do that...you’re only a boy.

“I’m not a boy. And I’m sixteen.” Jess said, looking at the wraith suspiciously. “What do you mean my real father?”

You are part of a proud bloodline of killers. Your last name isn’t Rosebury. It’s Volker. Your fathers and your grandfathers before them served me faithfully. I offer you the same. Clothes, bedding, a way to exercise those nasty little tendencies.

“What nasty tendencies?”

I saw the dog.

Jess grinned. “Did she like it?”

Your mother screamed and cried. Everything had boiled to mush but it’s little head. Bobbing on the cooling water. Rosebury was quite upset.

Jess laughed. “Serves her right. She never gave me a scrap of attention but that dog was served first on Midwinter. It would come and bring the goose fat outside my door and let me smell the meal while I ate my mash.”

The wraith extended a hand to her. I can teach you how to do that to people. Not just irritating cart workers but anyone who gets in your way.

Jess smiled even broader, and reached for his hand. The wraith ignored it, and went straight through her dress. Good boy. I think you might work out as well as the last one.

Rheinhard pulled the shard away. “That is when Jess became enslaved. Tricked by the lure of power just as Klaus was.” He said with a heavy sigh. “Her father Atacama died in that moment.”

Seteta
 
Seteta flinched, squinting her eyes shut at several moments as Jess's memory played out. She sighed and rubbed her forehead when it finished.

"I know very little about the Silent Court," Seteta said after a few moments. "I didn't even know it existed until after I met you and Chaceledon. But what little he's alluded to... why have they let Oor continue this on for so long?"

She could see what Rheinhard meant about madness now, though, and she would need to go through all the record books for the Volkers before she woke each one up, to be adequately prepared. But right now... what she needed to know was what role Chaceledon had directly played in Jess's life after she'd been reeled in by Oor.

"Are there any memories of her and Chaceledon?" she asked quietly. She didn't really want to see these, not any more than she'd wanted to be the Well's steward, but at some point she would have to face the fact that her lover... had not been good. Even if he'd been enslaved by Oor, there were things he had done which were not within her right to forgive, and some of them might not be forgivable by the people he'd hurt.

Realizing her question was rather vague, Seteta clarified. "Memories... like the first time they met, or any major arguments they had. You said... you said she came close to actually killing Oor and Chaceledon. Those memories too."

Chaceledon
 
Rheinhard shrugged. “They only deal in the dead. They have communicated that the Well is fundamentally against the laws of the Silent Court and of Fae…but it is housed in a living man’s skull and only contains humans. It is a grey area between the laws of Fae, man, and the undead. A grey area that no one wants to step into, for cause of angering the other two. By the laws of man I should be hung immediately. By the laws of Fae I do little wrong, but I tread on their territory. By the laws of the dead, I should have the men in my head put to eternal rest with the Titan of Death, Carruth.” He shook his head. “It is complicated. Legally, morally.”

He looked up, and tossed the old shard up to its fellows. The first time they met. He pulled it down, and tossed it into the black.

Jess stared at the gates of Witherhold, hand over her chest, curled over in the arms of the wraith. Blood had poured down her chest, her breastbone burned in pain, and blood bubbled around the edges as though the bone itself was rejecting healing. She groaned, laying her head limply against Oor’s shoulder.

The wraith stepped through the front gates, the metal swinging shut behind him. He sighed in frustration, looking down at Jess. Useless, at least for now. Oor strode into the garden and dumped Jess on the stone bench. She barely scrabbled to grab it before she flopped off.

“CHACELEDON!”

Oor roared, and ripped open the doors. “Chaceledon gods damn it!” He snarled. The dragon lifted his head, defiant. Jess drunkenly sat up, and saw a heavily dressed man cradling a body. There was no head to said body. It looked like it had been torn free by an angry giant.
“You said we could let him die in the church!” Chaceledon growled.

“If he believed me that’s his problem. The new one is on the bench. Get him in here and get him cleaned up. And throw that out. Religion in my Volkers was a terrible idea.” Oor sneered, and marched out. Chaceledon glared daggers into his back, and lowered the body of Jess’ father to the floor. He silently rose and gathered his clothing around him, walking out into the garden.
“Ye gods at least youre old enough to feed yourself. Get up. That pain only lasts about a day. How is the Well? Stable? Would whoever is in charge say something?”

Jess spat at the annoying fop of a man. Her head felt like it was going to explode, which made the resulting backhand feel like a smith’s hammer. She snarled and recoiled against the bench. “Fuck you!”

“A nice vocabulary as well. What did he choose this time, a coal mine? Get up.”

Jess slowly raised herself off the bench, almost tripping over the dirty shift. Chaceledon’s eyes raked up and down her figure, but said nothing. The dragon turned on his heel and walked past him. “Follow. Now. And don’t touch anything.”

Jess slowly staggered after Chaceledon. As much as she hated the perfumed idiot in front of her, she did want a bath. The master bathroom was unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was larger than the room she’d grown up in and the tub could fit four men! She pulled the shift over her head and slowly unstrapped the makeshift binder around her waist. Chaceledon eyed them as Jess dipped into the bath and began scrubbing carefully around the wound.

She felt a hand at the back of her neck, in her scalp, and her hands flew up. Searing pain across her palms as the shears scored her skin. She yelped and yanked her hand away. A few sharp snips…and she saw pieces of her long hair fall into the water. “There. Consider that a favor; opponents love convenient handholds. That clothing will have to be burned. I’ll get your measurements and make you something.” The dragon sighed and set the long, filthy ponytail aside. “I can only imagine where you came from dressed like that. Jason, was it?”

“Jessica.” She croaked.

“Jason it is.” Chaceledon muttered under his breath. “And here I was hoping for another Ferenzi. Bathe yourself. This is the last time you’ll see the inside of the house except for events and holidays. You bathe in the fish pond, you sleep in your room…next to mine. Training starts tomorrow. Just to get you used to the Well. Don’t bother me; your father was a good man and while we weren’t the closest I resent him dying in my closet like an animal.”

Jess glared over her shoulder at him. “That isn’t my name.”

The memory faded. Rheinhard shook his head. “Not the best first meeting. Most of us meet Chaceledon much younger. I was only a toddler.” He mentioned.

Seteta
 
So much wrong. There was so much wrong with all of this, and it made Seteta sick to her stomach to think of the sins Oor had committed against this entire family, let alone Chaceledon. While Chaceledon hadn't dealt well with it either, he would have never been in the position to deal with it if Oor hadn't captured him.

It was so clear what had happened with Jess now. Unable to properly mourn Atacama, unable to stop Oor's constant cheating of death, Chaceledon had taken his anger out on Jess, even if he hadn't intended it. Trapped in his own anger and grief, he'd lashed out in the way that it was most obvious to cut Jess to the core.

"What about when she almost killed Oor? Did that happen at the same time that she almost killed Chaceledon?"

She looked at Rheinhard then. "You keep speaking of putting them to rest... is it possible? Is there a way for it to be done?"

Chaceledon
 
Rheinhard sighed. “According to the laws of magic and the tenets of the Silent Court religion it is possible. Nestor thinks we are sealed in here by our memories. The shards form a link between the remnants and whomever is alive. But it’s unclear what the physical link is. What links this spiritual maelstrom to the outside world. At first we thought it was our own corpses, but Chaceledon buried them personally and some were too destroyed to form any sort of link.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it is possible.”

He pulled down the last shard. “Jess’ son, Gere.” He mentioned, and threw it into the sands.


Gere had always loved Vhora. While Jason sulked behind a steel face mask, picking up contracts or performing spectacularly bloody executions, Gere got to play. Oor chose good partners for him, and Gere was talented enough to satisfy even the pickiest client. He knew where every erogenous zone was. His tongue was so agile he could weave cherry stems with it, a fun little trick he liked to perform while Chaceledon nursed liquor at bars.

Jason traded in blood. Gere traded in secrets. So many lips loosened with a Hawal in the throes of passion, so many secrets spilled from under chambermaids’ skirts, so many whispers from neglected mates.

Gere flopped on his back in the bed, his exhausted partner laying next to him with a giggle. “Oh you are definitely worth more coin than he’s charging.” The sidhe laughed, snuggling up to put her head on his chest. “And so pretty for a human. You sure you’re not a pet?”

“Pleasure pet stock. My mother was one.” Gere said with a smirk. He knew he was handsome. His narrow, fae-like features, almond shaped eyes, and generous manhood appealed to quite a few fae. All he had to do was look at them with those aquamarine eyes and knees went to jelly. “Want to go again?”

“Fiend. I might never walk again.” She slapped his chest playfully, and leaned over to pluck a piece of jewelry off the nightstand. “A tip for your master.” She dangled the sapphire down the bridge of his nose and dropped it on his chest. “Feel free to bathe on the way out.”

“A gentlewoman as well.” Gere snickered and took the earring off his chest so he could kiss her farewell.

He strolled out of the hotel feeling relaxed and sated. He adjusted his robes and pulled out his own mask, settling it over the bottom half of his face. Oor liked his dogs muzzled when they weren’t in use. Pity he had to hide his lips; they were one of his best features.

He stopped along the way to barter a quickie with a pet for some spare tips; pet masters sometimes just liked to watch their pets get railed, and Gere could smell a fae pet in heat from a mile away. He never felt bad about finishing inside them either. Putting bastards in pets, maids and gentlewomen was his way of getting back at his oh-so-benevolent captor. He got decent information about wraiths this time as well, and where seals were put.

Gere tucked himself away with a charming smile at the pet and her master, heading down toward the fighting arena to find Jason. Oor would be with Chaceledon, probably reminding the dragon of his place in the bedroom of a swanky hotel. He picked up a few compresses from an herbalist on the way.

“I like the new look,” Gere snickered at Jess as the other Volker came out of the arena. By the blood on her face and chest, and soaking his hair, it had been an explosive match.

“Shut up.” Jess snapped at him. “What did you find out?”

“If we kill the bastard and you’re still bonded to him, you’ll die. You said the owner of the Well needed to transfer it, right? That means everyone goes, not just you.” Gere said, his voice low.

“Great. So we’re back to square one. Again.” Jess spat out a tooth. “Can’t you bond with me?”

“You want me to be in charge of you?” Gere grinned.

“...No.” Jess admitted with a glare. “We also don’t know what happens if an Heir holds the reins. Magic doesn’t like paradoxes. Chaceledon can’t take it because dragons can’t have warlocks. Rosebury?”

“Don’t see why not, Rosebury loves me. Hates you though.” Gere pointed out. He knew how much Jess hated the easy smirk on his face. “Why don’t we bathe you before you get all sticky? You’re attracting flies.” He waved a hand in front of his face.

“You want me to rearrange that cute face? Keep talking.” Jess bristled. She pushed past Gere, purposefully trying to get blood on his clothes. Gere easily dodged the attempt. He was light on his feet. He turned to follow the older Volker. “I’ll keep trying. There’s an embassy from Volta here, could see what they know about warlock magic. What does Nestor say?”

“Nothing. Oor puts him to sleep any time he tries to help us.” Jess grunted. “I’ve explained the situation three times.”

“Point one to the old man.” Gere sighed heavily, and returned to the hotel with Jess. Jess immediately went to use Oor’s bathroom (and presumably paint it in drying blood), while Gere went to sit next to Chaceledon. The dragon was in a foul mood, nursing a bruise on his cheek.

“Hey. That’s going to swell.” Gere offered him the compress and Chaceledon sighed, unwrapping it and pressing it to his cheek.

“Handsome and considerate. Are you sure you’re related to this family?” Chaceledon rearranged his hair.

“Not always.” Gere smirked, and offered him the earring. “Here. The metal is crap work but the sapphire’s a decent grade. A or AA I’d say, theres an inclusion on the shoulder near the table.”

Chaceledon held the stone to the light. “Correct. A+ grade though, not A. See how there is a split in the table on the head? Poor tools make poor gems. You’re learning. I’ll turn you into a good lapidary yet.”

Jess came out of the bathroom, toweling himself dry. Gere saw Chaceledon’s eyes fly to the bloodstained towels, and his jaw tighten. Chaceledon looked away, however, and pried the sapphire out of its setting.

Oor entered the room, back from whatever errand he’d been on, and eyed Jess. The pair looked at one another for a moment, hostility bristling along the invisible line Chaceledon and Gere weren’t privy to. Gere. I have a gift for you. It’s time you started training with a real weapon. Not just the set in the Arena.

Oor came to the bed, and settled a leather box down. Gere looked at him questioningly, and opened it. A set of teeth. Bone teeth, with serrated steel edges. He gingerly plucked them out of the box and turned them over. They hooked into the tiny spaces between his teeth, and gave him a set of rending fangs a stripecat would be proud of.

“Go on, try them on. We had them enchanted to punch through steel.” Chaceledon said. “I crafted them when your mother went to processing.”

Gere felt a twinge of horror at those words. So his mother was dead then. Unable to have any children, or replaced by her progeny. He tried not to think about it. He slid the bottom set along his teeth and set them, and did the same with the top. They felt odd. He rolled his jaw and bit down. They didn’t get in the way at all. They did corral his tongue to the bottom of his mouth but they weren’t painful or ill-fitting. Oor grabbed his chin and lifted his lips, examining the fit and tightening them with a little toggle hidden along his gum line.

Perfect. Keep them clean. Oor instructed. Jason, come here. Your time has passed, and I’ve had enough of dealing with your insolence. The master of ceremonies told me you were asking around about wraiths today. Oor’s voice was low and dangerous.

Jess glared and turned toward the bathroom, where her explosives no doubt lay. You can try, but they’re damp after your bath. You’re getting lazy. Oor sneered.

“You can’t just replace me like that. Not with him. He’s a squealing puppy! All he does is rut.” Jess bristled at Gere.

Gods. Gere knew he didn’t stand a damn chance against his father. He might have been fast, and he showed promise in training, but Jess was a seasoned killer. Moreover, she enjoyed it. “Jason…” Gere started.

“That is not my name.” Jess had that evil little light in her eyes. She didn’t need explosives to be dangerous.

“Stop, listen. Oor. He still has quite a few years left in him, and he promises to stop asking about you.” Gere said levelly, one hand out toward Oor and the other toward Jess. The last thing he wanted was a fight. Not when they were so close. He cursed inwardly; they were close to killing the bastard! Why now had Jess slipped?!

He’s older, and has disappointed me more than this. You pull more coin than he does, and your clientele have started to ask when they can hire you on a more lethal basis. Besides, you don’t come with that irritating little chip on your shoulder about having a cock.

“Oor, please. He’s right, I still have a lot to learn. If you put me out there now I’ll be shredded.” Gere took his eyes off Jess for one second.

The other flew at Oor. The wraith sidestepped him easily and Chaceledon got off the bed, rolling his eyes and sweeping out of the room. Gere backed into a corner as Jess followed the shadows with her eyes. The minute Oor materialized, Jess kicked something under the bed.

Gere didn’t think. He flung himself out the adjoining window onto the small roof. Flames and smoke burst forth from the bedroom, billowing wildly.

“You didn’t think I trapped the room before I left you twisted fuck?!” Jess roared. Gere looked up and winced. The wall above him was half gone.

Oor materialized on the roof next to Gere. You missed, you stupid bastard. Oor sneered, and rammed his arm into Gere’s back, between his shoulder blades. Not into, Gere realized as blood wetted his robes. Through.
 
"I think perhaps this is enough for today," Seteta murmured when the memory finished, both because seeing these things was... intense, but also because she needed time to absorb the information from each memory. Clearly, an explosion or engulfing fire--like Chaceledon's flame--would be enough to take out the wraith if he were actually caught up in it in the first place. That would be the hardest part, regardless of where his seal was.

She turned to face Rheinhard. "At some point, I'd like to interview each inhabitant of the Well. Find out what they know about the Well, what Oor might have let slip in front of them at some point. About anything: his own weaknesses, how the Well actually works, and how to lay them to rest. Between all of you, everything we need to know is probably here. There's no way Oor didn't slip up somewhere along the way. It's impossible."

Seteta turned back to the arena, then. "Whenever you're ready, Nestor," she called out as he continued through his fencing drills. "Let's see if we can find... whatever it is you wanted me to find."

Chaceledon
 
Rheinhard nodded in agreement. “You just have to hope he didn’t realize his mistake later and break the memory. Every memory here can be shattered and destroyed by the person who owns the Well. It would be a simple as snapping it over your knee. To speak with a member all you must do is go into the hallway where they sleep, and wake the man you wish to speak with.” He shrugged. “You can do this even when I am conscious. We do not both need to be here. I will feel it happening, but I cannot monitor your conversation.”

He let the shard drift up into the Well. Nestor came out of the arena, sheathing his weapon. The armor and blade scattered away from him, as though he was shedding a crust of sand. His clothing returned to normal, and he perched his glasses on his nose. “What I want you to find is the nerve center of this spell. Every spell has a focal point, surely you can spot this one. If what Oor’s implied is to be believed, there is a heart here.”

Nestor pulled his book free from his pocket and approached her, flipping through his pages. He showed her a map of the magical flow of the Well. “Look. I always thought the big draws to magic would be in the Library and the well of memory shards.” He tapped a finger on the labeled areas. “But the flow isn’t heavily concentrated there, or the arena, or the craft room, the forest, or even the office. It’s got to flow out from somewhere. I can only see the areas I can access. I thought it was the office at first but when you left the door open…no significant outflow.” He explained. “The scars on our chests and the fact that Oor must touch us on our hearts implies a connection there.”

He snapped the book closed. “Thoughts?”

Seteta
 
Seteta shook her head. "There's no way Oor would have possibly caught every slip of his tongue and destroyed it. Not with the span of time the inhabitants of the Well cover. Unfortunately, it also means that it might take... a very long time for us to uncover them all."

She turned to Rheinhard then, her expression grave. "I will never destroy your memories, or any memories that exist here," she swore. "Never."

As Nestor came over, Seteta turned her attention to him, listening to his theories and looking over the sketched illustration he provided, though it meant little to her with the references she had. When he mentioned the scars on their chests, though, Seteta's brow furrowed.

"The other night," she said, slowly and thoughtfully, "just after I'd taken the Well, and we were fleeing from Annuakat. Persian was tending to Rheinhard's wounds, and he... knocked his knuckles against Rheinhard's sternum, but I also felt it in my head. Maybe... maybe it's that. Or it's connected to that.

"Has Rheinhard showed it to you, since I took the Well?"

Chaceledon
 
Nestor nodded. “I watched the memory. Opal. A rare mineral, even rarer for things long dead to become opalized. I believe if you go into your newly-renovated office, you can try and locate this nerve center. Or at least give us an idea of how to get there. If it is his heart…perhaps you can open a new door there. When Oor created the library, he simply walked into the black and tore it open, and commanded it to be what he wanted. I’m assuming you can likely do the same now that everything is stone and sand. Try to command that sand abyss the same way you would sand under your feet.” Nestor suggested.

Rheinhard frowned, and took a glance toward the hallway. “You’re the only one awake. Are you sure that is wise?” He asked.

Nestor frowned. “I’m the most intelligent man here. The last thing she needs is a bunch of uneducated wild dogs telling her what to do.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Let the adults talk. You’re too young and you haven’t spent enough time here.”

Rheinhard folded his arms across his chest. “You seem quite willing to burrow a new hole in my brain.”

Seteta
 
Seteta looked around the Well again as Nestor spoke, her thoughts beginning to whirl. She knew little about magic other than geomancy and illusions, and had been hesitant to try anything terribly new to her within the Well because of that. But with what Nestor said...

"Command the abyss the same way I would the sand beneath my feet," she muttered thoughtfully, and then rolled her eyes at Rheinhard and Nestor's bickering.

"Let the adults talk?" she echoed, gnawing at her lip. "What's your definition of 'adult'?"

Seteta eyed Rheinhard with curious apprehension. "I've been meaning to ask for a while now... how old are you?"

Chaceledon
 
“Someone who’s extended beyond the normal human lifespan.” Nestor muttered angrily. He shook his head. Rheinhard didn’t need to be a part of this. It’s not as though anyone had asked to be in his head, but Nestor would be the one to solve it. Rheinhard couldn’t even read!

“Sixty five.” Rheinhard told her. “I am old, approaching the age Oor would have destroyed me at.”

“At least I’m not stuck with you yet. You don’t even appreciate the elegance of this spell!” Nestor growled.

Seteta
 
Seteta laughed weakly, at both of their answers. She'd known Rheinhard was... not young, for a human, but she hadn't expected he was quite that old. She'd thought that surely he was within a five or ten years of her own age.

Not that he was almost twenty years older.

"Well..." she sighed, giving Nestor an ironic grin. "If Rheinhard's not an adult by your standards I... am definitely not, because I'monlyfortyseven."

She delicately cleared her throat after she blurted that out, and then turned back to Rheinhard. "I won't do anything to the spell without asking you first," she said. "Even if Nestor is impatient, this is your mind and your soul being the most affected right now, and I don't take that lightly."

Chaceledon
 
Forty-seven? They both stared at her.

“Oh dear gods the dragon is a pedophile.” Nestor groaned into a palm, running a hand down his face. Forty seven compared to what, the dragon’s nearly twenty thousand years of age? His own age numbering in centuries? Even Rheinhard was almost twenty years older! That made her practically a child! Aluid was older than she was. “We gave ownership of the Well to a child.” Nestor’s voice was flat with realization.

“Does Chaceledon know how young you are?” Rheinhard asked. It didn’t matter to him; Seteta had more than proven herself. She was intelligent, more mature than Chaceledon at times, and fully capable of caring for herself. She may have been young, but Rheinhard didn’t consider her a child. “It matters little. Get to know the Well and the people here; you’ll be fine.”

“Chaceledon will want to wake Klaus up at some point. I’d recommend ignoring that.” Nestor muttered. “Chaceledon can embroider your wedding robes without the aid of a madman.”

Seteta
 
Seteta cringed at Nestor's reaction. "To be fair," she pointed out, "no matter who he ended up with, unless it was a god or another dragon, there was always going to be a vast age difference."

She took a deep breath and stood up tall then. As tall as she could manage. "And I may be young, even for an elf, but by the traditions of the Inizae I have been an adult for three decades. Both of you should be aware of the challenges that come with being an Abtati, let alone one of the Inizae. We don't have the luxury of long lives. Not like most elves."

When Rheinhard asked if Chaceledon knew, though, she winced and shook her head as she bit her lip. "It hasn't... come up," she said quietly. "I think he probably assumes I'm at least 100. I'm not sure when I should bring it up... or how."

When Nestor brought up marriage robes, Seteta laughed weakly again. "He already suggested once that I get Klaus's help with his robes... but I'm still not sure that Klaus won't kill me on sight. And what is the deal with the robes?" She was fairly certain that Chaceledon had started on hers already. "He hasn't explained much about them, other than that we're supposed to make them for each other."

At some point, she was sure they'd get back to the magic discussion. But she wouldn't pass up the opportunity to learn more about these things while she had the chance.

Chaceledon
 
"How long does an Inizae live?" Rheinhard asked, though his tone was grave. Chaceledon was deeply in love with her, yes, but how long would that last? To the dragon, a hundred years was but a summer. If she could only live two or three hundred years, what would that mean for Chaceledon? He looked at Nestor, who was chewing his lip in thought. Both of them looked at her as though she were a mathematical problem on a chalkboard. "We will have to solve that." Nestor grumbled.

Immortality wasn't a possibility for the fae. They lived twenty, thirty, forty thousand years but they all died eventually. But giving a mortal the lifespan a faerie wasn't unheard of. Rheinhard shook his head. "Don't tell Chaceledon your age." he said firmly. "As for the robes, they symbolize love and commitment. You are clothing your mate, protecting her, folding your wings around her. You do the same for your man, to show that he is under the blanket of your protectiion. That you protect each other, until the end. Faeries believe that it is this mark that allows souls to find each other in the afterlife." he explained.

"It isn't just foolish fancy, either. If I hadn't seen couples find each other in the land of the dead, I would have never believed it." Nestor muttered. "As you are, as I am, like a circle unbroken. That circle meaning the cycle of birth, death and rebirth. We are somewhere in the center, hidden from that doorway to the next life. The last great adventure, and we are stuck in the foyer."

Rheinhard gave Seteta a gentle smile. "Robes do not always have to be given in two sets. He will make robes for himself and for you. Rings, as well. I hope we have not spoiled the surprise. Knowing Chaceledon, he will wait for the right moment." he reassured her.

"Yes well, congratulations lovebirds and all that." Nestor said sourly.

Seteta
 
Seteta's expression turned somber then. "How long does an Inizae live?" she repeated Rheinhard's words softly, and her gaze flickered to Nestor for a moment. She wasn't sure how much of the Inizae's near-annihilation Rheinhard was aware of. "Abtati in general, regardless of tribe, have been known to live as long as a thousand years. But life in Amol-Kalit is harsh. Not all Abtati are friendly with each other. And the humans, the Kaliti, can be as fearful of the Abtati as Anirians are of anyone not human.

"Most Abtati rarely live to see three hundred years of age. And when you add in Persian's long obsession with the Inizae and our abilities with the earth, our reduced fertility to prevent him from taking our children" --Supti hadn't said it blatantly, but Seteta was smart enough to figure out the reasoning behind the decision her ancestors had made-- "and the fact that we would rather give up our lives than be taken by him" --assumption, anyway, but on her end she knew if she had to choose slavery to Persian or death, she would take death-- "for an Inizae to see two hundred is... rare."

Supti was close to that age, she realized, and she bit the inside of her cheek as worry made her breath catch. She nodded when Rheinhard said not to tell Chaceledon her age. She'd suspected as much, at least for now.

As he spoke of the marriage robes, she let the subject take her mind away from the Inizae. From her older cousin's age. When Nestor chimed in, uttering that phrase she'd heard from Chaceledon the other morning, her eyes softened for a moment. But when Nestor spoke of the natural circle of life, and she heard the bitterness in his voice, she sighed.

She looked back at Rheinhard for a moment. "You haven't spoiled any surprise," she reassured him. "He and I have already talked some of marriage. For a while now it hasn't been a matter of if but when. And I do not know what the garments and rings he is crafting will look like."

Seteta took a deep breath then, and after a moment of thought, she reached over for Rheinhard's hand, and then for Nestor's.

"I will do everything in my power to get you unstuck from the foyer into the afterlife," she swore. "I promise. This madness will have an end."

She squeezed each of their hands gently, then let go and stepped back. Seteta took a deep breath, and looked around the Well again.

"You think I can locate the... nerves of this place from the office?" Seteta asked Nestor. "I guess it's time to try."

Quietly, she stepped back into the office, leaving the door--now just the flaps of the ornate tent--cracked open. She bent down and pulled up one of the woven rugs that covered the floor of the tent from wall to wall, exposing the sand.

"Try commanding the abyss the way you use your magic," she murmured, remembering Nestor's other instructions as she sat down. Glancing up at the two men for a moment, she nodded, and then reached down and touched her palm to the sand, closing her eyes as she reached out to try and touch whatever magic was inherent to this place.

Chaceledon
 
Nestor looked at her. "Did you ever think that you are in a position to end the suffering of your people? Persian, for all his faults, isn't unreasonable. Think about why he would want one of the Inizae; this place runs on the earth. Iron, steel, minerals, trade. The situation is untenable for him. The last of his Inizae will be old, if they exist at all. You're in an excellent position to bring peace to both parties, and maybe end some suffering." he pointed out. "You have his ear. You have property in Pedeo; in the Inner Wheel, no less. Start making your point. Go to Auction and drive up the price on every Inizae you can find. Make it known. The people here live in a bubble of manicured gardens and champagne. I'd bet half of them don't even realize how your people have suffered."

Rheinhard took her hand, but Nestor pulled away. "If we're just going to drivel on about promises, I'm going to continue researching." he said sharply, and wandered to stand by the Office. Rheinhard looked after him, and squeezed Seteta's hand a little.

"You aren't the first to make such a promise. I could show you a hundred such memories. Try not to take offense." He told her quietly. He let her go, hesitant. Probing deep into the spell was something Nestor had wanted to do for ages. Now he had someone who would do it. He wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing, but at least he was there to stop Nestor from overstepping his bounds. Nestor might have been good with a rapier, but hand to hand combat was where he failed. Rheinhard wouldn't hesitate to break his neck if he threatened the Well.

The Well under her fingertips wasn't just woven strands off magic. It was like a thousand layers of cloth, each strand a spell, each intersection a spell, each fibre a spoken word or ritual. It had taken effort and time, and constant work to create, and was a solid mat of power that drove so deep into Rheinhard it looked endless at first. Spidering out from the center column were cords, thick and with thousands of strands, each extending out to another platform of layers. The Office and Library were large islands of spellwork, with the recreational rooms and arena to a lesser extent. There was nothing else. An endless stream of memory magic plunging down, down into a sandy abyss, and the islands where the remnants spent their time.

If she probed deeper, it would be like swimming through those fibers. They would obey her touch, but some of the deeper ones hadn't been exposed in a very long time. The Heart was there, but even Oor had neglected to visit it for some time.

Seteta
 
Seteta heard Nestor's advice, but for now just tucked it away, not sure what to make it all. She had no desire to bring about any peace for Persian's benefit. Not until she knew more about her tribe's history. And she doubted that the people here would care how her tribe had suffered.

At Nestor's hesitant bitterness at her promise, and Rheinhard's explanation, she wanted to point out that she'd already kept one seemingly impossible promise so far: to set Chaceledon free of Oor. But trust could not be gained in a moment. It would be better to let her actions speak for themselves over time.

As she sat in the office, the Well's magic beneath her fingertips, the layers upon layers of strands of magic were nearly overwhelming. It was like sinking into a fluid web of magic.

Carefully, cautiously, she would brush her senses along strands, asking what its purpose was, how it connected to the rest of the Well.

It would take a lifetime, or several, to fully understand the workings of the Well, she realized.

She made no alterations to any thing, just began to cautiously delve deeper and deeper.

Show me, her mind and magic whispered over the strands. Show me your source, where everything connects and begins.

Chaceledon
 
The web moved aside at her bidding, answering her calls passively. The Library was a repository of information on past Volkers, a practical reference guide. The hallway was pure storage, and the least complex. Most of the magic seemed to revolve around suppressing the remnants to prevent them waking themselves. The Arena had the most potential, being almost infinitely customizable. Deeper she went, and the older strands of the spell had different senses to them. They were striated like sandstone, with bands representing the memories added by the residents.

Her command rang true. She wanted to see where it all began. Seteta vanished from the office, and reappeared in the true bottom of the Well.

Rheinhard’s heart, or a representation of it, hovered above her like a bee’s nest in a cavern. Beneath her feet was a fine white sand, with tiny trickles falling from above at odd intervals. Occasionally a larger shard would ping around the strands of spell and fall at her feet, before dissolving into more of that sand. Old memories, and inconsequential ones. Things like using the restroom, or sleeping, or making campfires. Things done a thousand times, or which only one or two truly needed retention.

Rheinhard’s heart looked as though it had been embroidered. Shot through with millions of strands of spell work, piercing the flesh itself. They were old, the scars black and dead, though his heart beat through it’s flexible magic cage. Above her, opal lined the chamber, though only glints if it’s beauty could be seen in low light.

This was where the Well tied itself to her, and Rheinhard’s life. This was what kept them all here, spirit and memory. Their souls, tiny lights each with its own color, floated aimlessly around the chamber. Occasionally they would be shot through by one of the spell strands, as though the Well was reassuring itself they were all still there.
All still chained. It was why they could kill each other in the Arena and still pop back whole. The souls were intact.

It was eerily silent here, but for Rheinhard’s heartbeat and the occasional tinkle of glass hitting the dunes and shattering.

Seteta
 
Seteta looked around the space, and found her mind drawn back to the stories she'd heard as a child. Of spirits trapped in lamps of magic, forced to live there and buried in sand until someone unearthed them again and made a wish to set them free.

She looked up at the beating heart--unsure whether it was an illusion or truly Rheinhard's heart--and swallowed roughly. The silence was all encompassing.

As the memory shards fell around her from time to time, Seteta watched to see which things were static. The strands of magic. Rheinhard's heart and its beating. And... the strange, hovering lights. She extended her hand toward one, but didn't touch it, just drew near. The sense she felt was similar to the way it felt when one realized they were being observed from a distance, as if there were eyes drilling into the back of her head.

"These are their souls," she whispered quietly, feeling as if to break the silence here was sacrilegious.

She bit her lip thoughtfully, pivoting on her heel as she looked up at Rheinhard's heart, and around the dimly-lit cavern, an idea coming to her.

Her own presence in the Well had to be more like that of the sleeping Volkers, and Nestor. Rheinhard was physically bound to the well, but the rest of the souls--and herself--were not bound in quite the same way. Rheinhard couldn't be killed here because he was the Well, and his physical body sustained his life. Everyone else, herself included, were just here... in a temporary state, though the Volkers' souls were forcibly bound.

"I doubt I can bring Rheinhard here," she murmured. "That would be akin to cracking his own skull open to show him his brain. But... if Nestor's soul actually resides here, and the presence of the Volkers in the hall are just illusions... then I should be able to call him in here."

She took a deep breath, and looked around at the colored, floating lights.

"I hope," she whispered, then closed her eyes again, and calling on the strands of magic.

Nestor.

She sent the call through the Well, though not a forced command to appear before her. She wasn't truly sure if it would work, and didn't want to shred all of their minds in the process of trying to make the magic do something it couldn't.

But a simple call might at least show her if it was possible.

Chaceledon
 
Her call was heard, and answered quickly. Instead of the surly academic appearing before her, however, one of the lights drifted down. It was a soft and rather drab looking tan, utilitarian like the man himself. It hovered in front of her, and the illusion formed around the soul. It stood quietly, arms folded, as nude as he’d been brought into the world.

She had called upon Nestor. The soul itself. He blinked, and looked at her, then the chamber around him. What a boring tomb this is. He muttered. His voice sounded far away, echoing like she was hearing him through a glass pane. He walked around her in a circle, leaving no footprints. You’re not him.

The souls voice was flat, without inflection, dreamlike.

Seteta
 
Seteta opened her eyes as Nestor spoke, her brow arching as he stood before her as naked as she had stood before him in the Well the other day.

"Him?" she asked. "Do you mean Oor?"

She huffed quietly. If this Nestor and the Nestor she usually communicated with in the Well didn't share information... this was going to be infinitely more difficult.

"My name is Seteta," she said. "I'm the current steward of the Well. Chaceledon--do you know him? Remember him?" --she couldn't recall if Nestor was one of the Volker's Chaceledon had known in person during his time with Oor, but she thought so-- "I'm..."

She hesitated for a moment again. They had moved well past courtship now, really. But she wasn't his betrothed yet.

"Lover," she said a moment later, then sighed again. "Do you... not remember anything from... up there?" She gestured vaguely, unsure of how to differentiate this part of the Well from the other part of the Well.

Chaceledon
 
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