Knights of Anathaeum Talisman and Teaching

[Abalon Shallows]

The scent of frankincense layered over everything in steady ebbs from the thurible that roiled it's cargo outwards from the center of the chamber in wisps of the rich scent. Consecration of the room was a point of safety, no divine will did flow to guard against the Dark, yet the will of the magic and the laws of the arcane were being satiated by such careful respectful gestures. Candles of deep purple were half spent, the incense pouring consistently throughout their stable illumination, as the Pursuant of Death did make the place of learning safe for all who would come here, living or otherwise.

A bone white open palm shimmered with the ethereal ghostlight, issuing protections within the room of learning. The books sealed by glass, apparatus confined by lock and key and binding ward, raw components of the domain of unlife which did accept the placations of the smoke as they lurked in darkness. With each word of protection issued softly, like a prayer on gentle breeze, attaching itself to each cardinal direction as Abalon Shallows did turn and bid his will to prevent disaster to those who would learn here. Charms of silver were hooked on loops from the ceiling, pieces of amber locked in silver claws that did spin idly as they were secondaries to the ritual performed. They flickering with that same ghostlight as energies did sink into stone, permeate into wood, singe to the air and with confidence commit itself to the task given unto it.

This chamber was a place of safety to those who ventured into the antithesis of life, Abalon rendered such true with the regularity of the motion of the moons. When the domain was approached by the curious and willing, practised, delivered in speech and by will, there lay echoes of possibility within the weave of magic. Witting or no, each mistake if performed without the proper precautions, could render much consequence.

Boundaries had to be maintained, the structure of reality had to be reinforced, this place had to have allowances for the unsure hands that did first make their gestures to make demands of the magic concerning the ends of things. This was not a place of ambition, but of humble service, to spirit gone and to esprit de corps. Abalon made sure of that in his tutorings.

No wild eyed necromancers that did bid those decayed and forgotten to rise and serve, no covens that did command the spirit to torment. This was a place of learning for those with knightly ideal and goal, to fend against those who would command such things, and further, best them with understanding of what they rendered.

Abalon placed open palm against fist, and did bid a pulse of the gathered smoke entwined with his will and mana to finish the ritual begun some hours ago and reaching it's conclusion in this gesture. The smoke gave out it's last exhumation, the wave of possibility did confide with reality and render itself so, safety assured, the zone of peace geometrically sound. A shockwave of gentle smoke as it found what niches could home it. The echoes of the dead would not reverberate to dissidence, this place would be safe for those who wished to learn how to navigate the threshold of the passed and the vital acting for another quarter of the year.

The Pursuant of Death did look to the candles that lay on windowsills, wordlessly bidding each to die out, their purpose served. Daylight still sluggishly pierce the clouded skies that promised a gentle shower to those who might drill still with blade and shield, daylight in rare solid beam that did see the remnants of smoke that did lick at the feet of Abalon and rise, free of arcane bidding.

The chains of silver with interlocked amber did spiral anticlockwise, their purpose too complete, languidly shimmering with ghostlight as they did settle about their own purpose. Abalon looked to them in with contentment.

He gestured at the door, unlocking it with an upwards digit. The lock performed it's unsealing, numerous mechanical methods asking permission from the runes that marked it.

He did replace the thurible to a glass box, which set against the wall, an ornament and reassurance of the deed performed. The dull black of the device was in contrast to the perfect sheen of the glass that snapped close, confiding it for the time between protection seals were issued.

The door unlocked with a satisfying click and a sound of a chime, issued by the runes to mark the occasion.

Abalon had made summon of one of the newer members of the Order to this place, providing squire with the task of rendering the message delivered at the proper time to the one would be bid to learn, appreciate, and be gifted. Sealed by black ribbon, the letter would provide direction. The nature of the meeting was that of edification, that word written in elaborate script from quill by Abalon himself, and scant else.

He sat himself down until that moment the door would knock at a dark oak desk that held all manner of talismans dedicated to the craft within it. His lilac eyes looked to each talisman that hung from rafters, as the light did catch in glimmers as they twisted upon themselves. His hands intertwined as his back aligned with the chair, and he exhaled through thin lips as he rendered one task completed, and the next, soon to begin.

For what was a chamber of learning without new students to guide correctly?

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Sitra could not deny her surprise at the summons; the crisp parchment issuing the proclamation of an invitation to learn, appreciate, and be gifted by a Knight Pursuant of Death.

How curious of a thing, to be served by a stuttering squire who had presented the missive as if it were the writ of death.​

Not to mention a familiar thing, for she had her own share of experience with servants and so dealt with the boy of fifteen with a practiced, inoffensive magnanimity that appeared to have soothed most of the youth's anxiety, and had left him standing at attention reassured of having done his duty while she examined the neatly written orders hidden within the sprawling cursive.

To have prodded her from the bedside reading she'd been indulging in was normally seen as nothing short of a slight, bordering on the act of war, yet she could not deny the flutters of excitement and worry alike warring in her stomach like so many butterflies trapped inside a cage. Oh yes, this was something she'd been looking forward to without even knowing it to be a possibility. For she could not deny her own experiences with this domain; her long hours from beneath the cover of night as she studied the esoteric.

All for a good cause, of course. But she could not deny a rather more personal fascination with the subject.

And so after reading the parchment in its entirety - twice at that - she subsequently dismissed the squire who'd originally brought it before her, despite the fact that where she was only in residence of Astenvale for days, the boy in question had been living here far, far longer than that. Yet he still did nothing more than to apologize for disturbing her repose, bowing low at the perceived slight before taking his leave.

An easy enough battle to win, the virtues of age and grace beating out lived experience.

Not all battles would be so simple, she knew that, and despaired a little to stand before this Knight Pursuant in the same way the boy had to her. To that end she made no small preparation to ensure that she did not suffer the same fate, for she was of the Vené Tanyakoettirs and so had the responsibility of confronting everything that stood in opposition to her with a quiet, elegant dignity.

The rhythm of her heart easily kept pace with the hurried and indecisive selection of her wardrobe as she combed through her travelling trunk of clothing, in the search for the armor that she would wear in a very different kind of battle. This was her first real introduction to a Knight Pursuant beyond that of her cousin Bebin, and the first true taste of tutelage besides the typical training in the yard when it came to the intricacies of combat and all those conventional etiquettes of knighthood. She couldn't rush this, nor could she take any chances.

Oh yes, she would at least try to impress, practicality be damned.

When finally she arrived before the threshold of the broad oaken door, she was dressed modestly enough for a Saknne noblewoman; the white blouse she wore sported lush sleeves and narrow, fitted cuffs. Her overshirt consisted of an underbust bodice that had imitated the subdued emerald dye of her long pleated skirts, trailing off into unassuming stockings and buckled, ankle-length shoes. As she considered jewelry a bit much, all that shined or glinted were the polished silver eyelets adorning the front of her bodice. Did it matter whatsoever to Abalon? Probably not.

Sitra had waited instead of immediately setting foot inside, quite a bit more uncomfortable now that she was there - that the moment had come to introduce herself to a stranger who she'd known nothing about, and held very few expectations about in terms of matching personality, nor age, nor temperament.

That was to say that she knew nothing at all of this new mentor of hers other than that he dabbled in death in a world where many would cringe at the mere thought of doing so.

And she wondered about the kind of person who would consign their souls to such a risky world; would he be as they depict them in taverns by drunken bards? Or perhaps she'd liken him to one of those ghastly phantoms in so many fairytales that were read around the flames of a campfire, as a warning to the folly of curious youth? She had stopped herself then, for what was the purpose of contemplating these things? No good would come of unkind expectations.

So instead she took a few careful breaths, forcing her eyes closed while she inhaled the subtle musk of the frankincense in the air, bidding her heart not to beat so loudly. For a moment she thought it had done the job, up until her closed fist rapped the unadorned wood of the door standing between the two of them, asking in no uncertain terms for permission to enter. All those feelings then returned.

Also, yes. She was not simply going to barge in like that.

If and when permission was granted, Abalon Shallows would find himself sitting across from the young squire who had paused in the doorway until further orders were given. The fact that she knew the proper customs might have been some relief, since she otherwise looked every bit as anxious as the squire who'd originally delivered the missive. The feelings that played across her face like an anxious dance were smoothed over as best she could. Yet traces obviously remained, spoiling her otherwise neutral mask and dispassionate, static gaze with a small frown of uncertainty about how to proceed.

Her hands remained hidden behind her back, idle fingers twirling about the black string she'd kept.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

The word, "Proceed," uttered as knock sounded. The door opened with simple gesture from the mage, the door yawning open silently.

The desk at the end of the room was occupied by the Pursuant who wore robe of white and ornaments of withered bark and vine. His lilac eyes blinkless, instinct to blink lost to the weave. Ossified of skin, Abalon bore the pallor of bone.

He regarded her blankly, revealing nothing by curl of lip nor frown of brow, blinkless eyes holding lilac hue consistent, unflickering, unwavering. The talismans above did intertwine themselves about their chains as they spiralled from clockwise to anticlockwise, amber glimmering in the daylight that struggled to pierce grey cloud.

The window began to issue soft taps as a light drizzle began to descend, and if reminded of the passage of time by the movement of the climate, Abalon did speak, soft as the tapping of the rain against the window.

"Tradition and custom of our Order dictates much," Abalon began. "Denial of knowledge in the arts I pursue to those still fledgling in wisdom to our ways is prudent. In favour of the wisdom of the domain of life, of the manners of conduct of arcane vitality before my sphere of speciality be broached. Such does yield much good in the shaping of good praxis within any squire. Indeed, rare is the day that I allow a squire to stand so here. Yet understanding of the nature of your arrival, I did summon you to appreciate what events play out due to the consequence of your undertaking."

He gestured upwards, to the talismans that hung from rafters, as if explaining much by open palm raised.

His hands returned to the center of the desk.

"My name is Abalon Shallows," the Pursuant said matter of factly, the drizzling rain abating for a heartbeat as he did speak his moniker.

"And your presence allows many a duty of our Order to proceed. It is duly noted, and for such, you have my thanks."

Finally, a long blink from Abalon, slow, as if entering a dreamspace for long moments.

Those lilac eyes returned their stare, as gems inlaid in sockets of chalk.

"From binding of book to repairing of stone, from sealing of sanctuaries to offering succour to the needy, all has cost in labour, time, and of course, in coin. This place is of learning and of duty. Of daring and of loyalty. Not everyone can say that they sustain the Order in their initial step into our customs."

He inhaled, as if remembering a tense thought that refused it's grip on his train of thought, a brief stab of delay to his words. He spoke out of requirement, not in wish to smother praise, but to render context. And with this spirit in mind, he did wish for context of his own.

"How might that fact affect you I wonder?" Abalon asked, gaze unyielding, motionless as his frame, the drizzling rain forming patterns upon the glass, water gifted by gentle winds from ebbing grey clouds.

The talismans all turned upon themselves as if willed by Abalon's question in quicker pace, twisting as amber did glint as their potency grew from the time afforded since that final action of the ritual.

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Sitra did not know what to say to that, and so chose silence instead. There was no point in arguing for or against the fact that her family's coin had gone towards the maintenance of their estates; that it had provided the origin of this meeting between the two of them. Not that she kept her silence for the lack of something to say, but because she could very well understand the implication, and could hardly protest against it.

And though she was loath to admit it, it was nothing less than the truth that she was in this chamber of learning only because of her father's patronage, rather than any merits she herself had displayed. This Knight Pursuant knew that as well, yet he spoke so matter-of-factly that she could detect no hint of disparagement nor accusation in his tone. Only a statement of the reality as they both knew it, however crude.

Not that it made it any less of an awkward, unhappy thing for her naïve ears to hear.

Abalon's expression was equally as unreadable as his words. His ossified white skin offering no tells to her practiced eyes.

All nobility were conditioned at least a little bit to decipher those hints that were hidden within the subtlest of human emotions; in the way they reacted as they spoke of this thing or that thing; how their eyes told secrets that their pursed lips otherwise did not spill. Sitra openly wondered what he was while she tried to do just that. For if he was once elven or human, then few traces of that lineage remained from within the confines of his strange appearance and lilac eyes - like someone had played an odd joke and inset gems into the sockets of a lifeless marble statue.

Having resolved herself to neither deny his claims nor discover what he thought of them, she simply opted to bow her head low in a polite gesture of acknowledgement and humility. When he had finished speaking of her indirect assistance to the Monastery as if rehearsing a tired old litany in an equally monotonous cadence and moved on instead to his name, she finally straightened her head from its short, humble bow.

Then came his question.

"My family has been all too happy to assist with funding in the past, Knight Pursuant Abalon. They were once generous patrons of the Anathaeum order," several generations removed, that was true. Yet this was not a detail she felt any interest in divulging, nor was it a detail that she expected this Abalon not to already know, given his intimate knowledge of what her father's tribute had paid for. "However I have to admit my confusion, when you ask me how this may affect my tutelage or the scope of my studies. You must know better than I do, since I did not come here seeking an easy reward for the goodwill that my family's coin might have provided. Nor was I the one to have provided it."

Sitra looked away from the distant vista she was considering, back to Abalon. "Nor was I the one to have accepted it."

The implicit accusation must have been clear to Abalon, even when Sitra tried her best to ensure her voice remained leveled and conversational. She was not so ignorant as to pretend that it didn't render her an advantage otherwise denied to her peers, but she also wanted to make it clear from the beginning that if there was any game being played, then both parties benefited from it. The Knights of Anathaeum were hardly a unique brand of hypocrite if they were so willing to reach out for succor, even as their craws remained stuffed with their own stifling sense of morality.

But she tried not to be cruel about it despite the sting of Abalon's final words, choosing instead to match his own forthrightness as she took the ensuing silence as an allowance to step forth so that she could inspect the glinting of the talismans upon the table and hanging from the rafters with a vague, distracted sense of curiosity. She decided that it was better than to continue speaking; the possibility of saying something ill-advised hung on a knife's edge, she knew, and so did not want to push her luck.

That said, Sitra's eyes were enraptured by the twirling amber display of magical potency, something so long denied to her starving soul. Oh, it was true enough that she studied the arts from time to time and even possessed an amateur's understanding of runes and their portents, but never grasped the intricacies of it in the way that Abalon might understand the craft.

That was part of the reason why she was here, after all. Ranna knew just as little of the arcane.

Only a handful of precious seconds had passed since any words had last spilled from her lips, and it looked as if she was parting them to speak again; her face softening as the stick was promptly withdrawn and replaced with honey, still very much intent on making certain this meeting didn't completely fall apart after her small act of defiance.

"I will not deny my joy of having assisted my order, however indirect. And I will not deny that it provides me certain advantages refused to others, that is something we both know well to be the case. It is why I am standing here now, as you said." Sitra spoke with a surprising modesty, for none could deny that she could act well when necessary. Her almond eyes shared the same sense of the theatrical - they were both warm and filled with an undeniable guilt, steady as well as knowing - when she laid them upon what she assumed to Abalon's own.

Even if she'd never seen eyes of his hue before.

"Still, I cannot answer your question with any certainty. Perhaps you may tell me how it might affect me?"

This was a new situation for her and it required some study. Sitra resolved herself to listen a great deal, and talk only a little after this. If she could help it.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon received the reply with with dutiful ear and unphased feature, scarcely moving from breath drawn much less reaction. Statuesque as the apparatus that was contained behind glass that motionless did wait for their time to be unsealed.

"On the contrary to your statement, such may well disadvantage you, I seek to ameliorate."

He spoke plainly, as a doctor might provide list of ailments and cure in the same breath to question asked, drilled before the moment malady was to be solved within a body. He allowed some small motion in his frame as such news was delivered, leaning slightly to the left.

"The craftsman and artisan before all things does not wish their work warped, from without and within. It is in this spirit of things do I speak. Before my time here within the Order, I have seen practitioners of the domain of death be shaped by background that afforded them exquisite lens in which to focus, and in process, blind them to possibility beyond their scope. Humility to one's own predispositions can prevent much malady and warping. So many times was the utterance of, "I have done much," has rendered so much action moot, so many times the thinking of, "I seek what is owed to me," rendered the once wise foolish. And honest council can become hesitant and muted for many reason, despite it's own accord. I thought the Order deserved to hazard you a fighting chance of greatness, and I thought it best to make you aware of such potentials, without being explicit as their source. You're well suited I am sure of the particulars, should imagination serve. Your path be scarcely begun, yet you must carry much awareness of wayward tread so early in the path, if you are to walk it correctly."

 

[Sitra]

Sitra quietly considered the words that were spoken, the fingers of her right hand pausing rather abruptly before they managed to brush against the spine of one unremarkable leather-bound book or another, deciding suddenly against it as she retracted her hand altogether and set it to rest along the other upon the front of her skirts.

Still, she wandered a few paces around the room before coming again to a halt a few feet from the front of Abalon's desk.

The rain fell a little heavier outside, each drop of rain taking on a percussive note against the thin panel of the outside windows, as if its timing were chosen to accentuate the mood of the meeting. With the clouds letting loose a mournful rumbling to signal yet another renewed downpour, but she didn't mind. She had always been fond of the rain and would watch on for hours from the comfort of her villa, back in Saknne.

And to be fair to Abalon, she did not see it as all doom and gloom. For while his assessment was a rather severe and ruthless thing, it was nonetheless sincere advice that she could appreciate being told. How many times had she made the same arguments, and how many times has it been made for her for one reason or another? Too often to count, yet it was easy enough to forget with enough time and not enough exposure to the consequences beyond her peripheral.

These were all pitfalls she had fallen more than once into during her youth and would no doubt do so again, even as she told herself in quiet tones that she'd do no such thing, this time around. As a matter of fact, she had thought she addressed her own privilege earlier, but that was more to do with the most obvious and material examples. What Abalon spoke of now delved deeper into the heart of the issue.

She turned her gaze away from the window; once more back to the unnerving stranger.

"Yes, I imagine you mean to say that it would not do if the craftsman were blindly unreceptive to criticism, be it from others or from himself." Sitra spoke at some length, her hands at once returned to her back as she stood upright, straight-backed. "Or perhaps I am wrong, but I think I understand and I do value your advice. I know I have my own share of stubborn pride, and I hope I don't seem so proud as to let it get the better of me, or to lead me astray from the path I mean to follow."

Surprisingly enough she accepted the counsel with what appeared to be genuine gratitude, rather than the mild, biting spite from before. She was still not quite certain of where he meant this conversation to go, and again tried her best to gauge what it was by searching his features for a brief, flickering moment. His expression was as empty as ever, save for the faint stirring of his body seemingly too long at rest in the chair.

Having no intention of giving credence to her imagination, or of what she might've seen in that dispassionate mien, she forced herself again to stop with the impromptu interrogation. For the second time already.

"I'm certainly not so proud as to pretend to always see when I stray, so I do hope to find honest counsel in you."

For a lingering second or two, it seemed as if she had wanted to say something, decided against it - then said something else instead. Upon her lips danced a small, polite smile. "For edification was one of the promises in your letter, was it not?"

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon made affirmative nod, small, barely perceptible. He turned his gaze to the talismans that did hang, and made slow snatching gesture at the air. As fingers closed upon themselves in languid motion, the talismans did still themselves from their turning, each piece of an amber an eye that did fix it's gaze upon Abalon, as if irritated. Amber set within each grasp of silver glimmered as the rain did fall, despite lacking the presence of confident ray of sun to illuminate it so.

"Indeed. Look to the talismans, if you would be so kind."

Abalon rose.

And with it did a wellspring of ghostlight about his hands emerge from his will, eerie and pale, akin to the moonlight upon still waters. Such mana born light lingered for a moment, an exhalation of the body that bore the strain of it's creation, a throwing of sleeved hands outwards, fingers spread, and did such light as serpent strike each amber locket in perfect sync. Lashing out at each talisman hanging in perfect unison of timing as a swarm of pale light.

Each talisman hanging did a chime rise as it was struck, as crystalline whine against the minor entropic energies that did will out from Abalon. The ghost light did fade as the amber did devour it, marking itself by such forging. The amber so giving chorus of tone were thus convinced and secured in their purpose, so marked by the affiliation of their defense system. Their hue was marked by purples for the effort, as if fragmented from itself within the grasp of silver, yet more than what it once was for it's stress.

Abalon spoke on, explaining what had transpired, as his hands did slowly return to his side, magic summoned dissipating as cool words did replace it's presence.

"These pendants are designed as wards. What you just witnessed was their awakening to their task. Each one had the potential to ward against but one facet of mana born threat. Their element of defence determined by what first cause them distress. Simply put, before the impulse you witnessed, they were tabula rasa. Now, they serve as wards against the entropic. My field of expertise."

Abalon gave pause as he allowed the talismans time to reveal themselves. They remained motionless, yet almost somehow agitated by Abalon's presence and glance.

"When I first gave out these talismans, I gave them to those who might confront those who wield the entropic for wayward sake against our number. The necromancer, the lich, the harvesters of souls, and the rest. They were more potently made in those days. A veritable shield, worthy for fierce contest. Yet, by providing such boons, did I make error in doctrine. For while they did much to ward, they are not without limit. And when those talismans did reach their limit, and relinquished their favour, the user was oft too reliant on that protection to navigate the danger they were oft shocked to be suddenly alone to fend against. The shock of that which we rely upon's absence can oft be painful. By becoming comfortable to safety that advantage provides, we sometimes make our future folly certain."

Abalon beckoned to one talisman, which did uncoil itself from rafter, amber fixed upon Abalon's vision as it did float towards him in small weaves in air.

"You are not expected to face such proponents of entropy so early in your career. Yet, there are always those who wish to venture into the domain forbidden to squires before their readiness. Should you find your fellow squires bring forth things of the domain of ending, this device shall protect you from their misstep. As well as foe beyond your stations' doing, should that misfortune arrive premature. I give you this talisman as might a healer provide bandage, wishing not it's use, but assured that it might staunch and buy time should something untoward occur. It is sadly inevitable that the curious might seek that which is withheld for good reason. This ward protects, but a kind encouragement from one such as yourself, to guide such errant squires with penchant to deathly curiosity to my door, might work best."

The talisman floated before Abalon, and lost all levitation in slow shudder. Abalon caught it in open palm, gently, cradling it for a moment. He arranged the chain within his grip, and held it aloft for Sitra to take.

​

"To each domain it's dangers and potent deeds. To each station, privilege and unique onus, each task tailored yet uniform, each duty universal in charitable motive to the path the Order bids us walk."

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

With the answer to her question given, Sitra could do no more than as she was bid.

To observe the scene playing out before her with no small degree of fascination, liking especially the concept of imprinting something upon what was referred to as tabula rasa. The theory was not an unknown one to her, but she'd not seen it play out in a literal, tangible way before. At least not like what she was being shown here, tonight.

The concept itself had excited her, and had led her mind astray with so many possible questions that she could hardly pay attention to the remainder of his explanation. She was not so caught up in her wandering enchantment as to not hear the explicit warning being provided however, and made sure to nod along as he spoke this time of the danger wrought by too much dependence on a thing; her eyes briefly diverting to Abalon's own, before returning again to the demonstration.

As much as his discussion about entropy and the domain of death was one that resonated with her previous dabbling in the arcane, she could not help but to discover yet another subject of study in this presentation of how one's physical craft might be fashioned into a magical artifact; a tool in which the possibilities were endless.

She would not hesitate to ask Abalon about it in a future discussion.

No doubt he'd be happy it had naught to do with her fascination with the esoteric and occult, at least not outright.

Perhaps he'd even be pleasantly surprised, in the same way Sitra had been as the talisman was offered to her with an expectant, if silent invitation to receive the gift. Her hand reached out tenderly, at least at first, before she ultimately took it from the Pursuant's own and possessively held it by the length of its chain, between her forefinger and thumb.

It was beautiful craftsmanship, that was not something she could deny. Even if it was a rather simple thing, nothing more than a silver chain holding in its grasp an amber stone that had previously glowed with the potency of whatever Abalon had imprinted on it; the swimming light being devoured in turn by the stone she was now examining with a cant of her chin.

Sitra finally brought her gaze upwards, speaking once more with a genuine appreciation, even if her following words might've been construed as a tad blunt. "I will heed your wisdom, Pursuant Abalon. Please do not mistake my interest for foolishness, or a desire to see others carry out foolishness. And you have my word that I will speak out when I witness such conduct."

Regarding the talisman with some hesitance for a few more idle seconds, she proceeded to enclose her hand around the gift, relegating both of these things to a cradle of an open palm as if she was desperately worried not to drop it. For her it was a precious thing, one of the first times she'd ever had the opportunity to lay hands upon a practical example of what she once only knew in the abstract.

She didn't intend to drop or misplace it, that she knew for certain.

When Abalon had spoken his final words as if they were a mantra, though not one previously known to her, Sitra had answered it with a vague inclination of her head in what was presumably assent that she understood. It was something she committed to memory, permitting her later to reflect upon all of what was said in one of her quiet moments. Hopefully in the gardens, were there no interruptions the next time around.

"Thank you. For all that you've told me, and all you've shown me. I will not deny that it has been a balm to my curious heart."

For a moment it appeared as if she was finished speaking, she'd even taken a cautionary step back in order to widen the distance between her and this stone-faced mentor of hers after receiving the talisman she yet held onto as if seeking its protection, already. It was because of what she held in her possession that prompted her to ask - returning to her earlier thought of doing so.

"I must ask, was this something you crafted, or another? I am... interested in the art."

Both questions were not literal, she had meant the necessary alterations made for the talisman to act as it did - along with anything else that went into such work - as well as the art of crafting something of this nature, an empty vessel destined to be imbued with magic and harnessed in the fashion that Abalon had done so with so much apparent ease.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon received the gratitude with as much affect as a flowing stream might upon the stone bedrock that bore it, for all that his face did change for hearing it. He made small motion with his fingertips against the desk, tapping without making sound. He looked to the black thurible for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the squire, his voice calm, with odd resonance to it as it did undulate.

"Indeed, I made them. The silver is tempered with a sympathetic mana state; the amber reinforced with copacetic resonance to allow the initial stress to guide it's purpose so. You'll learn the arcane methods if you show aptitude, but most of all patience. Have you been introduced the primaries of magic? I don't mean cantrips, I talk of the domains to which we dedicate ourselves in our study and application of the arcane. We're no university of mages, but speciality of later study shapes us considerably, as you have no doubt grasped already. Although there are those who serve with mettle of their arms, and that too is enough for duty's sake be sated. Some lack the gift to weave, but are not lacking in their acts of service to us all," Abalon said, being sure to remember that mages such as himself were often afforded the act of performing their duty by fierce displays of swordplay that was beyond his instinct or reflex.

 

[Sitra]

Sitra had watched Abalon's movements intently, her eyes flicking to the thurible next as his gaze settled upon it. She was still overwhelmed with the stifling scent of frankincense in the room, and the smoke was beginning to stain the inside of her nostrils with a cloying, sickeningly sweet fragrance. Not that she found it necessarily important to comment upon, much too busy going over the Pursuant's words.

The primaries of magic? By whose definition?

Then he spoke of domains, to the study of Astenvale's own understanding of the arcane.

Oh, yes. She'd heard as much from other squires, or from the rare encounter with one of her instructors that had nothing to do with sword practice or the menial chores of hauling firewood to the cook's hut. All pieces of a larger tale that she'd yet to uncover the whole of. And still she remained quiet until he had finished speaking, listening without interruption or interjection as evidence of the fact that she finally decided to tuck her tongue behind her teeth, for once.

Then it was her turn to answer. She chewed at the inside of her lip in thought for but a moment; the reply coming to her after no longer than that. "I am familiar with some of the essentials of magic. But not, I think, what you mean when you speak of domains. I haven't had the pleasure yet of studying under Astenvale's auspices." Her gaze again ended up resting upon the window to the gloomy outside, watching as droplets formed to leave lingering trails down the pane of the glass.

"That said, I have patience enough to wait until I've progressed to that point in my studies."

That was a big fat lie, but it was not a lie that she'd be willing to voice. At least not to this Abalon. All he got was another inclination of her head that signified she had finished speaking; fingers absentmindedly toying with the silver chain she had wrapped around one of her fingers, awaiting his answer to that.

Awaiting the opportunity to begin these studies, or to at least know the date she would be ready.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon did rise from his seat, robes coalescing about himself as if they were a shroud of pale cloud that was herded by shepherd breeze.

"Essentials of magic," Abalon did say, making slight tremor of the shoulders to implicate mild amusement at the turn of phrase. He cocked his head at the notion, indulging it for a moment, as if a well placed witticism, and decided not to follow his own meandering, instead walking to a sturdy oak wardrobe, vast, imposing, set into alcove which did disguise it's depth. Brass fixings did bind it to it's structure and secured it's holdings.

Abalon made slow approach towards it.

His pale hands did run across the doors.

He did knock upon it with knuckles white by nature, not by strain, and stepped back.

Sound of chimes did ring from within it, low fading peals that sounded out in tumultuous tune within the device. Low shufflings and jostling of something metallic against wood did emanate in odd percussive impulses. As the process began at his behest, Abalon did talk on.

"You'll find no universal language of proficiencies within the Order without mention of domains. Unlike orchestras of sound, where instruments be tuned strictly as to allow players to perform across the realm without becoming disharmonious, magic users be diverse in their...timbres. Their educations. Their instruments. The domains, five in total, serve us to allow learning and teamwork. Your essentials, useful no doubt. The domains, vital."

The wardrobe fell silent as if bid to silence by his elucidation. Abalon did turn to look at the wardrobe and did narrow his eyes at the wood panels, looking for augur by the pattern of the wood. Indeed, the oak grain did seem to dredge downwards. Abalon seemed unphased and unfettered by the nightmarish change upon the doors.

The rain did continue to fall which gave light tattoo of sound against the glass. Sunlight did dim, perhaps by cloud movement or perhaps shy to what process Abalon had begun.

"Patience is always good," Abalon did say in exhalation. He raised hand towards the wardrobe, his fingers turning pale in eerie ghost light of magic, maintaining respectful distance as he waited for his beck and call to be acted upon.

Quiet moments.

And then a lurch within.

Sounds of shufflings from within the wardrobe now began in haste, this time more organised, militant. The wood grain did continue to streak downwards, as if emulating the passage of raindrops upon the window.

"Essentials of magic," Abalon said again, more grave and serious about the phrase, "are oft traditions passed down. What of the Weave can you command so far? I ask so as to not patronise to you the nature of what I am about to check upon. What is the nature of your education in these, essentials, before us, before your arrival to the Order?"

Whatever machinations lurked within the wardrobe did stamp heel in echoing, uniform soldiering. And then silence.

Abalon held hand out as ghost light did fade, the next final step in opening the wardrobe delayed as he did await reply. The reply that would shape his commentary of the sight that was about to be revealed by brass hinged doors and whatever will did move matter within the furniture that had such shifting grain.

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

When Abalon's laughter had sounded in response to her claim of knowing the essentials of magic, Sitra could not help but to offer a peevish frown in the direction of the Knight Pursuant's retreating back. To her it was the most inoffensive of statements; the basis of tutelage on the subject of magic everywhere rested upon the same foundations he scoffed at her for admitting that she knew.

The fact remained that it was nothing more or less than a statement of fact. She had already admitted her ignorance on the subject and that she knew little practical applications - that was part of the reason was why she was here in the first place.

But she was hardly in the position to question the mocking tone that Abalon had spoken in, so instead she chose to stand to the side and observe quietly as her apparent mentor silently went through the motions of some vague, unknowable ritual. She had not thought to move from her position in the center of the room, instead casting her gaze from Abalon to this latest demonstration with the wardrobe. Trying to contain her curiosity with mixed results; her lips were yet weighed down with the frown from earlier, as well as the delay she forced upon herself before replying.

And if he had meant to frighten her with this theatrical, then the results would've been considered mixed once again. Sitra refused to give any ground as he stood with his hand upon the doors of the wardrobe, in the same way that this Abalon hadn't bothered with any of her frowns or perhaps overconfident commentary.

When the sounds had died down and yet the doors were not yet thrown open, Sitra raised a brow.

He was wanting an answer, was he? Very well.

"The essentials of magic, as you might know, are the inescapable rules that govern every practitioner of the arcane. They not only bind us, but your domains, however many there are. Coincidentally, there are five as well." Sitra spoke with a measured tone and a demeanor that promised woe to anyone who might've strung the yolk of shame around her neck; she certainly wasn't so gauche as to transform into a stuttering child at her first scolding. After a moment had passed, she looked in particular to the talismans still hanging from the rafters. "I could speak of transference, or I could speak of leylines. I could speak of a great many things that all early students learn in an academic setting in many places of the world,"

Rather than bothering to measure how her words reflected in Abalon's stoic face, she chose to pivot on her heel so that she might face this cabinet of curiosities in its entirety, her idle eyes wandering its surface as if there was some way to discover what lay within from its... rather unassuming appearance, with no particular trappings or runes that otherwise marked the entrance of the study.

"I won't speak of those things, however. As I feel that your question is rhetorical. I am also aware that Astenvale practices their own understanding of magic."

Only then did she look to Abalon, her countenance as blank as his own after her moment of sudden temper had passed. She didn't want to give room for undeserved criticism, but at the same time she was aware that she was still very much a guest here and had desired to learn all that she could from this man of infuriatingly few emotions. And she was beholden to her host.

The essential foundations of the arcane was something meant for classrooms. This was something else. "As for my personal abilities? I do confess my ignorance. Whatever cantrips or spells I did practice were amateur, and done with assistance."

Whether that was only part of the truth, or was the whole of it, she did not say. For what she spoke of specifically when it came to casting, it was all true enough; the small acts of magic she did invoke were done more out of idle interest or the pursuit of further, practical knowledge than for any meaningful purpose. Not to mention that she was oft helped by those far more knowledgeable, as well as all those fashionable little gemstones or rune-engraved charms sold in the more esoteric markets of Saknne to help initiate the unpracticed.

And if Abalon had not meant to patronize, then she had not meant to sound so sharp with her answers.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

Abalon's eyes were to the wardrobe, hand tentatively waiting as the reply was issued.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if refreshing his capacity for patience.

"It wasn't rhetorical," Abalon replied, liberally applying his softest tone, matter of factly and full of allowance, his effort to sustain his forbearance successful. This room was his to command, as was his time and manners within it.

The doors of the wardrobe made small shudders, as if disturbed by a powerful wind that did set the wood to trembling. And then stillness once more, as Abalon breathed deep of the rich air of incense burned so recent.

"But you have answered well enough," Abalon said firmly, praising what there was to praise.

A final utterance, before the doors were to be allowed to reveal their contents.

"Watch then, how the regalia of the arcane, must be contained, respected, given tithe and given place, for while their former wearers have departed their life, their convictions live on," Abalon said, and in so saying, made soft gesture with his hand as if to brush aside motes of dust from the air, but did tug at the tendrils of magic as to wrench the doors open of their duty to contain.

Both doors yawned open, a great dimness of overlapping shadows and lightless dominion within the oak wardrobe. Like a thicket of shade, thorns and barbs, yet softness of petals lurked there too, obsidian shimmering life that lined the walls of the wardrobe. Nebulous was the depth, a tunnel of coalescing darkness, that like twisting intertwining foliage withered and blossomed to where the eye did fix.

Abalon assumed the voice of command, speaking with authority that was well practiced, an assurance that was born from countless times of making such address to things beyond the pale, within the veil, and upon the threshold of manifesting it's will.

"I am here to honour and provide diligence to the echoes of purpose contained within this loyal space," Abalon announced.

The wardrobe answered, measure by small measure, as like a far off silhouette of perfect black within inferior hue of darkness that did shift to accommodate it's arrival made approach. Born from invisible servants that did work their method to retrieve what was asked of it. As if held from many points of the cloth that did make arrival, the perfect black cloth that seemed richer in it's pitch than anything born of ink or deepest sun starved place. A robe did present itself, and hang before the two that stood beyond the threshold of the wardrobe.

Now presented, it made manifest it's smaller details. Small etchings of silver thread that shimmered with potencies and wards, signatures of energy manifestations that still sparked and thrummed with potentials. Shoulders that bore the weight of terrible purpose, thicker material there that had rivulets of energy that swam and ebbed and flowed about it. A talisman that hung heavy about the collar, similiar in design the very one that Sitra had been granted. Yet the amber that was clutched there was far greater in mass, and clustered with smaller minerals and gems that held shimmering colour in rare moments, swallowed by the black as in lashful drownings of that black willful shade that the robe did pulse with.

"This robe," Abalon spoke, educating even as he stiffened at the sight before him, as if seeing an old sight that had braced him, "belonged to my educator in entropy. It was he who was so committed to the path and so virulent against anything but the Art, that left such a thing to the world. The robe a terrible privilege he bore. From the cloth woven countless blessings of the End, some of which he wove himself, adding to the tapestry he had inherited from the previous owner. If donned, all manner of things become easy, all manner of the impossible become abundantly clear and readily grasped. But such privilege was not without it's blinding effect. Had the robes been set aside, he might have seen more than what was possible with the robe. A tragedy I keep, contained here. A tragedy I give remembrance to, and tithe, as does my duty demand to the past, to the craft, and to someone I called friend."

The talismans upon the rafters began to quake. The talisman in Sitra's possession grew colder, yet did not animate by pull. Whatever did set motion into the others knew better than to demand what was not it's to draw upon.

Abalon spoke on, this time entirely to the robe.

"Tithes honoured, and accords understood, I give to you nourishment, and assurances that you shall be donned again. I cast this into your fabric, and know that your loyalty, as is mine, is to the Art. In this deed, I sustain, provide, and protect this item of power, in this deed, that which brings guidance in all matters of entropy may continue it's existence, and serve in times of great need."

The talismans rushed forward as if dragged by long reaching barb into the domain of the wardrobe, and held aloft. They crumbled into powder upon reaching the robe, the amber exploding in nebula of ground dust, and sank lovingly into the robe's material. It seemed rebuffed and reinforced by such a process, the thread of silver growing more illuminous and willful, and that black cloth becoming somehow, impossibly so, a shade darker and all the more alluring for it. To look upon it was to become familiar with envy.

"Until next time, or demands become momentus," Abalon said, an odd lilt in his voice, as if his use of the word momentous could mean something beyond what was reasonable from the robe, or from the world itself.

The doors closed as the robe did rush away into the depths, perfectly poised and held aloft, a perfect pin prick of black against the inferior shadows, as the wardrobe sealed itself with a soft click of brass hinge and latch.

Abalon gave shuddering breath out, but remained composed. His shoulders did not sag, did not yield to what he had provided, but it seemed as if something great had been accomplished; for good or for ill, the cycle had been continued.

"What do you make of such things," Abalon said, voice dry and tight. His lilac eyes held something within them now as he turned to regard her.

Sadness.

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

Sitra's realization of her own churlishness was immediate and no more timely than when it dawned upon her that this was a tribute being paid. By Abalon Shallows to the spirit of the one that had once worn the garment now materialized from the wardrobe, coaxed out from some hidden depths within. The previous wearer of the precious fabric being his tutor, and one that he still held in obvious esteem if his parting words were any indication.

Those words spoke of a hidden warmth she had not expected from him, and had not even considered him capable of producing with all of that stony-faced authority he held in casual possession. Because of that, her resolve to treat him as less of an enemy had come slowly and almost unknowingly; as she found her petulance transforming into peevishness and then into quiet, introspective contriteness.

Her features had long since softened by the end of the tale that Abalon had spoken to that robe of his distant past, as if it could truly understand - not only his words - but his deeds and the care he had taken in maintaining and preserving this piece of fabric. Perhaps a smile had worked onto Sitra's cheeks at the thought, a brief rising of the corners of her lips as she watched without commentary or interruption.

But had Abalon thought to catch a glimpse of such a thing, he'd be without luck. Her face was once again implacable.

Being able to focus upon the lesson being provided had helped her manage any further expression on her face, thankfully. To watch something so utterly alien unfold did incredible things to one's sense of insatiable curiosity, as she continued to observe the ritual with distant eyes; her mind had been racing so frantically that she barely even felt the shift of temperature of the talisman in her hands, nearly forgotten in the midst of watching what might've been one of the most bizarre demonstration of the arcane that she'd ever witnessed.

To assume that there were such things as magical wardrobes was one thing.

To witness it? Quite another, in her humble estimation.

When the talismans that had once adorned the rafters of the room had flown to the wardrobe like moths to a flame, Sitra could not help but to take a step backwards and hated herself in that moment for the display of weakness. Still, it did not change how she was at a loss for words at the sight and tried her hardest to clamp down on the sudden swell of questions threatening to burst from her lips. That she remained silent was a small blessing, and a testament to her training to shut up when necessary.

There was no doubt in her mind that Abalon had long been on the receiving end of a barrage of interrogations already, and so didn't want to add unduly to it without knowing what it was she specifically wanted to ask. Not to mention the fact that she didn't want any more unfortunate misunderstandings to slip out from her traitorous tongue.

And then, silence. She hardly even registered the rapping of rain against the windows, ears long since deafened to the soft background noise.

Only faintly did she hear the newest query being asked by her mentor, his words catching her almost completely unaware; it took several moments longer for her to collect herself, and to tear her gaze away from the wardrobe she'd been staring at - perhaps vaguely concerned that it would suddenly sprout legs and come stomping towards them - and to offer a nod in reply. She was otherwise completely distracted.

She quickly realized that it was hardly sufficient, and so changed tack; speaking her thoughts in a studious, practiced manner, and taking care with every syllable out of her parted lips. With her eyes settled upon the man asking the question, finally. Not the wardrobe. Not the window. Not even to the talisman in her palm that she had finally noticed a chill emanating from.

"I think that it is a heavy burden to bear, heavier than what most are ever capable of shouldering."

The fact that Abalon had such an artifact in his closet was somewhat sobering, that she would not deny. To preserve and protect such a potent source of... whatever it was that prodded the half-elven Knight Pursuant of Death to provide sacrifice to it, in the form of the dangling silver and amber medallions being swallowed whole by the inky blackness of the robe.

The odd relationship with Abalon's wardrobe aside, she continued to speak. Taking her time now to select the words she'd thought to employ, only to discover that they fled from her mind upon looking at Abalon's stern, sad face. Some of the ways she could've chosen to respond were instinctual; the inquiries she had were endless. Others felt thoughtless and trivial; she had no real informed knowledge of something like this, only the whispers of a larger truth.

Much like the truth she'd discovered all those years ago in the catacombs of her grandmother.

Sitra realized it would take actively listening, absorbing, and remaining uncritical to learn anything constructive. At first she'd been all too willing to argue out of pride, no matter the amount of forbearance on Abalon's part, and with each subsequent act of civility and lack of resentment for the way she bared her teeth, she was permitted to continue learning, no matter their differences.

"Beyond that, I will answer truthfully: I struggle with what to make of it. I wish I had the words you might want, but I do not. I realize it's a silly thing to admit, having come here for edification." Sitra could not deny how her own lack of knowledge grated on her spirit, and the resulting frown was one of self-flagellation, and a rare display of humility. To inflict a wound upon her own pride after Abalon had refused to do it for her. She closed her eyes, opened them again after a pause. "The fact that you now preserve and contain the result of your educators life's work in entropy does not elude me, neither does your care in doing so."

But what did it mean? As a warning of dabbling in the art of entropy, perhaps? If so, it was a somber one.

She shifted the talisman into her other palm, quickly glancing in mild curiosity to the trinket.

"You've shown me that you provide sanctuary to these artifacts; to accord them the respect they deserve, but may I ask why you've shown me? If it's to teach how to care for things as you do, then I am willing to listen."

As a warning, as a sign of what he meant to teach his pupil, as an opportunity to show off his wardrobe of horrors. Or possibly all three? She was curious, and more than a little surprised if this was to be her first lesson in the nature of entropy. But she did say she already knew her way around a classroom, so maybe that was on the squire more than Abalon.

 

[Abalon Shallows]

"Our capacity to shape ourselves to what is required of us..." Abalon began, that sorrow in his eyes melting away to a stoic firmness, yet that melancholy living on in his soft reply. He paused, hand closing around nothing, as if the hand were a new addition to his personage, to be tested for tension and release. He inhaled, and resumed his speaking, the tremor of memories now hidden by his countenance in teaching.

"...by what is expected of ourselves to ourselves, matters much in the formation of many a thing in our future. All things do end, by fate, and by choice. Often by conclusions we draw about our decisions, past and to come, and loyalty to them."

Abalon gave a faint smile, wistful.

"Change is the very essence of life. We are born, we change, and then change again. Survival depends on it. Edification requires it. And so, with this spirit of things, I say this. Be not shy to growing beyond what has been bestowed, even if it means discarding what advantage it does provide to cling on beyond utility. Our imaginations often are lacking in how we might become more by becoming changed, even if," Abalon said, and turned grave. He placed both hands on the desk as he drew near to it, looking around at the nature of the place he found himself within in this living moment, collecting inventory of the sight, scent and assurances.

"Even if such change estranges us from what we preciously thought we were. We are changing amalgamations, shaped by ourselves and our minds. And when all things stop, halt, end, well..." Abalon said, and sat down, a heaviness in his shoulders yet a lightness in his voice as he concluded, "...therein lies the purview of entropy. And such things shall be expounded upon when you are ready. I would not expect you to adopt duties before your time, nor would I burden you with them without understanding what demands they bear."

Abalon remained motionless for a few moments, as if transfixed by a hint of the realm beyond in his purple eyes. A faint whisper on his lips as he thought to continue, but felt he had said enough, and muted his further postulations. One could present too much information or too much guidance for such to take hold, he reasoned.

"May the talisman you protect well. I do hope this conversation has been nourishment for thought, if nothing else."

Sitra

 

[Sitra]

There was a pause then, as the Knight Pursuant reflected on... what?.

For what felt like an eternity the silence seemed to hang, too long for Sitra's curious soul. All the same, she waited and then listened with equal patience once Abalon had finally resumed speaking. She decided it was best to say nothing.

For some reason there was a new feeling in the stuffy room that she could not ignore; lingering like some hot, airless summer's day that stifled all other senses aside from the feeling of an oppressive heat that weighed upon one's every word. To be chosen carefully, or not spoken at all.

The gravity of what had been divulged, perhaps? She could hardly be expected to know what exactly it was that she had witnessed, much less prepared to understand it, much like a child grasping at the cogs of a grander design like they might a toy. But if Abalon's furtive explanations were any indication; it was by design, and she found herself unconsciously agreeing to the idea of too much being divulged, far too soon.

She most certainly wasn't about to accuse him of secrecy, nor did she let it color her behavior any further, having learned a degree of humility since the last occasion she tried crossing words with the man standing before her. No matter how patronizing she originally perceived him to be, there was no denying that it was probably not deliberate.

Not as deliberate as her attempts were, at the very least.

And so she decided to listen, instead. She listened because he sounded so very melancholic, and because he looked tired, and because she was quickly discovering that she learned better when she gave herself the opportunity to reflect without jumping so earnestly to conclusions. It had helped, for now she was finally beginning to grasp what this solemn Knight Pursuant was leading towards; the small bits and bobs of a larger story revealing itself like pieces to a puzzle.

Almost paradoxical if he had not made it so clear that these were two stories - and two sides - to a coin. To change was a necessary thing. A healthy thing. And something he had been encouraging all along so that she might better understand his craft. To be a soul free of their own prejudices so that they could more easily learn what he might impart, something he had spoken at length about as well. What he had promised edification upon.

The nature of entropy, that was. When all of it stops and comes to a still.

So yes, rather paradoxical. Her hand once again found the talisman, still weighing heavily in her palm, and traced the amber of the stone with careful fingertips as if she was examining some chip in her tooth with a probing tongue. Trying to seek answers along its edges about where the warmth might have fled, and coming up equally as unfulfilled as that broken, chipped tooth. Still, she tried not to think too hard on it, for this was only the very start of her studies in the Monastery, was it not? It was a reminder of what was to come, and perhaps a token of protection, as well.

Sitra gave a short bow of her head in thanks when it was made clear there was nothing left to be said, with only her gaze shifting after so that she could meet his lilac eyes with her own. For all of the many questions that remained unanswered, there was an equal amount that were, and she was careful not to push him any more than she had. Her guilt still hung heavy in her chest.

The poor man needed a reprieve from all the angst, especially his own.

His own past was not an easy thing, she could see that.

"You have given me a great deal to think about, Syr Abalon," she spoke in conciliatory tones, still aware of the change in the air since the wardrobe had first opened. "I will meditate on all that you've told me, as well as... consider your advice. Thank you, and please know that it wasn't my intention to cause offense, or make it seem like all that you've said went out one ear and through the other,"

No doubt it had seemed that way at times, especially when she was so eager to jump upon any real or perceived slights to her pride. Despite how matter-of-factly he spoke about the reality of who she was, what she was, and where she might lack. It was a trial all the same.

The ghost of a smile graced her lips then, so slight as to appear not at all; the exasperation felt over the last half-hour of their brief discussion yet lingering like that hot, airless summer's day.

"Even if it seemed that way at times, but you are correct, there is still so much for me to learn."

The last vestiges of her wounded pride were put to rest, lifting in the same way as the clouds outside finally decided to relent - at least a little bit - the sounds of rain no longer so harsh a sound to her ears. She could even see faraway dots upon the horizon; little birds prematurely braving the ravages of the weather to seek out the early worms. Soon the earth would be soaked and muddied, and it would be her shoes sinking deep into the dirt as she went about her duties.

Such things were almost offensively mundane in comparison, now.

Nearly as if she'd almost forgotten something, her head had suddenly perked up. Then came the lost words, newly found. "Thank you for the talisman as well, I will cherish your gift."