This story is noncanonical and written solely for fun.
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Sav
She wakes with a start, and finds herself in a place that feels familiar while simultaneously certain she’s never been there before.
There’s no sense of alarm or danger—she feels comfortable, relaxed in a way she only does while deep in puzzling out one problem or another. Her gaze sweeps around, taking in her surroundings. The enormous telescope catches her attention immediately, the white-gold barrel extending down to the center of the room, the eyepiece angling out from the end. Around it are all manner of strange instruments and devices, some of which she’s never seen before—things that look like tiny telescopes pointed downward, crystal balls and astrolabes, a construct that appears to be a giant hourglass with tubes and wires and copper gears hung around it.
Nearby is a large table, covered in books and papers, with an upright board that has numerous diagrams and formulas written on it. Work stools and deep, padded armchairs are arranged around the area, some by the diagram board, some by the table, two by a fireplace that she just now notices, whose chimney rises into a nothing her mind refuses to contemplate. Shelves - row after row of them, creaking and heavy with books and scrolls—stretch away into the deep darkness, their ranks forming long hallways that radiate out from this central study space.
With the ease and fuzzy sense of safety that pervades this place, she is only mildly surprised and mostly unalarmed when she turns to look across the room again and finds a blue-skinned boy sitting in one of the chairs, studying a book. He hadn’t been there before. Then again, she hadn’t been here before either (something her mind accepts as a perfectly reasonable analogy).
“I’ve nae seen a lad wi’ skin ae blue before,” she observes, and without any perceptible step or change of location, she finds herself suddenly standing next to him, peering over his shoulder at the book. “What has ye found there?”
Esmund
Esmund’s eyes flutter open as his gaze struggles to focus for a moment; as his vision slowly clears so to do his other senses begin to awaken. If not for the total comfort he felt in the large, leather seat he finds himself set in, he would have more concern. Goodness though, how comfy this chair was.
A feeling of confusion pervades his thoughts as he looks over the room and finds familiarity and mystery to the setting. He has paid this room countless visits before yet this is the first time he has ever laid eyes upon it—it is safe. Shelves lined with books written in languages and runes that he is unable to decipher, tools and instruments of both science and magic strewn about in a manner that would at first glance would appear haphazard; to the studious eye however, there is order to the chaos and Esmund immediately understands the method of organization that would allow someone to effectively study and work in this space.
His gaze turns downward toward a hefty tome in his lap, as the sudden weight of it rests upon him. Is this what he was doing before, reading? He quickly flips through pages and pages of blueprints, schematics, and notes on the study of clockwork and automatonic designs. He comprehends all of it and seemingly cannot grasp any of it.
“I’ve nae seen a lad wi’ skin ae blue before. What has ye found there?”
A stern yet comforting voice pipes up from behind his chair. As Esmund turns, he finds a young human woman, similar to him in age, with darker skin and blonde hair. He is taken aback by the question of his coloration; it is actually quite common back home after all—including himself there are three people of a blue skin tone just within his circle of companions. Despite her vaguely rude comment, he understands she meant no harm in it. Similar to himself, she has a curiosity for things and a lack of practice in how to address those things that pique interest.
He cocks an eyebrow in response as his own curiosity begins to grow in listening to the amicable stranger, “And I don’t think I’ve ever heard an impossible dialect such as yours before!”
Esmund moves to hold the book out for his new compatriot but the pages are now empty or written in a false language. “Hm. I suppose I wasn’t studying anything of particular importance.”
He begins to shift his weight to stand but finds he already is, moved to the nearby shelf as he surveys the spines of books that cannot be read. “Could I ask what you’re doing here? I don’t often have a chance to speak to others with academic proclivities.”
Sav
She purses her lips and puffs air out between them at the comment on her accent, but - after years away from home - the notice taken of her Spindlemark speech is so common as to not merit much response. She simply cocks an eyebrow at the blue-skinned lad and says, “Ach, ‘tis a wonder, the number of uneducated folk as has never apparently heard o’ Galoring, when ‘tis the greatest city i’ the land.”
She looks about the study space, finding her attention drawn to the board with the diagrams - different now than when she’d first entered the place. There’s a drawing of the world, with Isendel, Moraeth, Jorung and Ishar laid out upon it, and a drawing of the Octurne as it used to be, and of the massive tower that the constructs had been building within the Octurne, with notes and lines pointing to the tower that she cannot seem to read, no matter how her eyes focus on it. Frustration waxes and memory returns. “I cannae say as that I was daein it here—I’ve ne’er been here before. But I reckon—if I recall correct I was tryin tae figure out how the fallin’ ae the tower has changed the world’s axis. For sure it must be that it’s altered aught about the world. By the laws of bulk an’ gravity,” she pauses somewhat self-importantly at that word, one she believes she’s coined, “‘tis impossible for sommat as big as that tae fall an’ not have an effect on the world. The water levels an’ rhythms of the Lake have changed, ‘tis certain.”
She paces over to the telescope and bends down to look through it; of a wonder, she makes every step rather than simply existing next to the telescope. She straightens almost immediately, shaking her head with disappointment. “Naught but pretty lights an’ shifting colors.” Glancing over her shoulder, she inquires casually, “An what brings ye here? Is this not your place, then?”
Esmund
Galoring… Esmund thinks to himself. It’s not a city within Lux but I recognize the name…
Geography was never one of his strong suits and he found it difficult to recall precise information within this space. Why exactly was he here?
Esmund turns towards the stranger as she asks about the tower, his attention pulled immediately towards the subject. She is standing before the board of diagrams and, in a single bound, he begins to float in her direction. What a strange pronunciation of ‘gravity’. Must be her accent…
As he starts to formulate a response however, he blinks, and she has moved to the telescope just as his feet touch down in front of the wall of diagrams. He peers up to study the illustration of the tower but instead finds the lines blurring and swerving in uncomfortable patterns. In a quick motion they reform, initially taking the form of formulae based on the study of arcana. Just as they finish drafting they immediately begin reshaping and appear instead as a medical chart of a human figure before breaking down once more to settle on the initial diagram of the tower.
“Unfortunately,” Esmund responds, turning away from the board and rubbing his eyes, “I can’t claim ownership of this space, though I greatly wish I could. I was hoping you could provide some insight; my initial assumption that you controlled this expanse however, doesn’t seem to have been accurate.”
“Wait!” he suddenly exclaims, rushing over to join his fellow guest be the telescope. “Are you studying the tower as well? I had recently begun to observe it myself but I agree that the axis of the globe has also been shifted!”
Sav
She pauses to watch him float toward the board, her brow knitting; it looks a lot like when she slashes the pull of the ground upon herself so that she might float where she may, but then, this place seems so strange, who can say that the rules are the same? “An’ be that somethin’ ye’re accustomed tae doin then? Floatin around like a leaf on the wind?” she asks, canting her head.
She takes half a step back as the boy rushes toward her, the hand with the elaborately-worked mechanical pulley bracer coming up in an automatic defensive gesture. Despite the calm and ease she feels here, some instincts never quite sleep. The ease she does feel, though, means that she relaxes almost immediately and lowers her hand. “I’ve studied naught else for…” She pauses, suddenly uncertain. How long has it been? She can’t remember. “The Octurne, at least, I studied for Turns an’ Turns. An’ now, wi’ the Octurne gone, the tower remains as the last piece of it.” She smiles, suddenly, wryly amused. “Junk an’ remains an’ ruins, ‘tis everythin’ I’ve always sought after.” Her focus sharpens, becoming more intent at the suggestion that here is something she might learn from someone new. “Oh aye? What’ve ye gleaned?”
Esmund
In his excitement, Esmund sees the young woman flinch and he realizes only too late that he may have come off too strong, so he steps back, settling his mind some. He pauses, looking back to where he landed in front of the board of diagrams before, furrowing his brow. He hadn’t realized that he’d done something strange enough to warrant observation. Quickly, he tapped at his prosthetic fingers with his left hand, attempting to recall if floating was something he could do before arriving in this place. He returns his gaze back towards the stranger, carrying a slight smirk and gently shrugs. “I’m not fully sure actually. It’s odd, some information is easier to recall, while some is…hazy.
“That however,” he continues, gesturing back to where he had landed, “I don’t know. I was just trying to move. Felt as natural as breathing. Could be it has something to do with my lineage as an air genasi—I’ve always had an affinity for wide spaces and the sky.”
Esmund’s eyes light up at the mention of ruins and he immediately wishes Salinger were here with him. I’m sure he’d have a flurry of questions at that single comment alone. His eyeline shifts to the great window that the telescope is set within as he observes the strange, shifting colors that don’t make up a true night sky. And he wonders to himself if he should have learned more about the Octurn when he had the opportunity.
“The tower itself is enormous,” he finally says in response to the stranger’s inquiry. “Absurdly enormous. I don’t have exact numbers, but I’ve run very rough calculations and determined that based on the height that I can see from my village and the angle of the horizon, it stands roughly 70, maybe 80 miles tall. But that’s only in consideration of what I can readily observe - I have no idea how much of it is buried in the ground. Weather patterns have been altered and are now more severe. Perhaps most concerning however, is that magnetic north has been shifted by a few degrees. If that’s a result of the tower, and not just a wayward lodestone within a wide perimeter of my home, entire climates and civilizations could be in danger…”
Sav
“Ye’re experiencin the same thing then?” Sav perks up at this shared unreliability of memory. “We’re both new-come to this place, both havin fuzzy memories - haw now, does it feel queerly familiar to ye too, though ye’d swear on Hunt an Harvest that ye’ve ne’er been here before?”
There are so many questions to ask - her mouth is opening to ask just what an “air genasi” is when she immediately gets derailed as she looks closer and realizes what she’d initially dismissed as a partial gauntlet is instead actual full, working mechanical fingers. The ensuing gasp is entirely unwitting. Her push forward to peer closer at his replacement fingers is entirely her own choice. The question of the Tower, while serious and one that would normally command her full attention, is temporarily shelved in favor of this new discovery. “That’s pure wondrous, those are,” she says, marveling. “Did ye mak those yourself? How dae they work, what’s powerin them? Can they move on their own? Gie us a keek then, would ye?” Her stream of questions, while overwhelming in their rate and possibly incomprehensible as her excitement thickens her accent, doesn’t seem to be coming from a place of unkindness or a desire to gawk. Her directness seems more a lack of tact and a desire to know, her gasp one of admiration at the device rather than dismay at the missing digits. Fortunately, she’s not so tactless as to make a grab for his hand, though by the twitching of her fingers she would very much like to.
Esmund
Esmund chuckles at the sudden and boisterous fascination with his prosthetic, offering his hand for her to gently observe, poke, and prod. It had been some time since anyone had shown such interest in the thing, much less the odd designs he’s developed over the years.
“I agree with your assessment,” he says. “This place is strange because I swear I’ve never been here before, I think, but something about it is…comforting? Is that the word? It’s familiar, like you said, but more than that. It feels like I’m on the verge of recalling why I feel like I know this place but I lose it due to this fogginess in my mind or with getting distract—oh wait don’t pull that one!”
He stops the excited outsider before she pulls a wire that would make the small finger non-functional. “The original design is not my own, not sure I know who developed the original prosthetic. However, this specific iteration of it is my own model, though I’ve attempted to draft and improve on the design at least once a year. There’s no power source and they can’t operate separately unfortunately—that style of prosthetic, while phenomenal, isn’t quite as feasible for just two missing digits. Instead,” Esmund starts, as he proceeds to explain the tiny intricacies of the gears and wires that allow his prosthetics to function, along with the setup of the gear that relies on wrist and hand movement. He loses himself in the impromptu lesson and the shared excitement of discovery and learning.
Sav
Sav is only too happy to take the hand and gently pull and push at the prosthetic fingers. She even pulls out a pair of goggles, sliding a loupe down over one eye, and a complicated tool with some sprockets and a pincer from a bandolier that flickers into existence across her chest, as though the sheer force of her expectation that it would be there causes it to manifest lest it disappoint her. Pulling the fingers up and down, watching the wires and gears slide and catch, she asks, “So how much force can this thing generate? I’ve a grapplin claw built intae this that can go a decent distance—” She straightens and shows the bracer on her right arm, and demonstrates the distance it can go by pointing it at one of the bookshelves, sending the claw arrowing forward and snapping back. The trigger mechanism involves a complicated maneuver with bending her fingers forward and pulling certain wires, which spool back as the claw retracts. “Only betimes I’ve reckoned that it could stand to go a bit further, an how ye can make it curl and uncurl by just tensin and flexin your wrist a certain way makes it look almost like it just happens by thought, which is brilliant I tell ye—”
It’s hard to say how much time passes discussing the configuration and technical aspects of their particular arm mechanisms. After a blur of loquacious interactions and interjections, she sits back in the chair that she’s found herself in at some point along the way, sighing. “What I’m most afeart of,” she says, as though they’d just been talking about it rather than having gotten distracted for a good however long it’s been, “is the tower unbalancin the world an spinnin us outae our path about the sun. I agree wi your reckonin on how tall ‘tis, an that amount of height—while no so much set lengthwise—is staggerin set on end. An if a ball is spinnin, an suddenly gets a stick jammed intae it that maks the center point of its bulk a bit to the side of where ‘twas, an that maks one end of it heavier than t’other—over time, I’d expect that ball an stick to wobble more’n more until it wobbles right outae the path it used tae roll along happy as a rat in trash. Sorry Aloysius,” she asides sotto voce, for no apparent cause, then returns to a normal volume. “I dinnae expect the fleas on that ball-n-stick to have a grand time of it if that happens.
“‘Tis a possibility that its bulk an placement isnae enough to make that happen, though—‘tis partly why I’ve been tits-deep in the maths, as near as I can guess, to figure its chances.”
She pauses for a moment and says reflectively, “Well, ‘tis one thing I’m most afeart of. T’other is that the King in Glory crashed down wi’ the tower an is still alive. Who’s to say though. We still dinnae ken exactly where it landed, beyond nowhere near us.”
Esmund
While the two spoke, an indiscernible time passed, and the young woman had found her way to a comfortable looking chair (had it always been there?) while Esmund continued to walk around the space. Not far enough away so as to have to raise his voice when speaking, but he always thought better when he could move about. He has not had anyone that he could speak with to such a specific and technical degree outside of his own parents in a long time, and he relished the opportunity to pick another brain.
“I attempted the calculations myself at a certain point as well,” he muses, “to determine how the trajectory of the globe could have been altered. But there are simply too many unknown factors to consider to allow for any kind of realistic calculation - for myself at least. I’m incredibly curious to hear what you might have determined, but like I said, climates and whole communities could be greatly affected by the tower and I feel that may be a more immediate concern.”
Esmund pauses and leans against a table to face his new friend, as he folds his arms and cocks his head to the side as he asks, “Who is the ‘King in Glory’? That’s not a title I’m familiar with…”
“Additionally,” he continues, “I apologize if I sound incredulous in my saying this, but you’ve spoken in a way that would insinuate that you’ve not just studied the Octurne or the tower - it almost sounds like you have first hand experience, as though you’ve visited the tower. That’s not possible though…right?” As he asks this question, his body leans forward in her direction as he purses his lips and an eyebrow raises severely as he awaits a response.
Sav
“Well. If the world is—” an unfathomably huge number is said here, “—miles ‘round its mid, as shown by the angle of a stick’s shadow on two different points on its face at midsummer, an’ it takes 360 days for a full Turn to pas—” And she’s off to the races explaining her research on it so far, drawing deeply upon previous research done in Isendel and other lands (at least what was written about that she could steal), buttressed by a significant amount of personal research and deductions done with much study of the stars, the sun, and the observatory near Northgate. It’s exceedingly abstruse and she doesn’t simplify it in the least in her explanation—the details are important, after all.
“—but e’en gi’en all that, it still might be impossible to tell ‘til it happens or a couple Turns have passed an we can see if ‘tis longer or shorter—an ‘tis even more complicated on accountae the world havin turnt itself skewed, makin accurate records even harder.” She sounds a little frustrated by this, but also surprisingly upbeat, even excited by the difficulty of the problem in front of them. Then she eyes him, a realization coming to her. “Ye said ye made some calculations on its height based on what ye could see from your village—ye must ha a pretty fair sight on’t to get sommat so close as to mine own. Where’s your village? Maybe that could help pinpoint where it fell. Have ye been there—no, if ye had, ye would have more specific numbers, ye’re no a dunderheid.”
She loses a little of her previous pep at facing an interesting problem as she continues, “I reckon ‘tis a bigger question than the weather changin—at least people an communities can move, but if the world is feckt then what’s the point of scuttlin ‘round a ball gaun toward the sewers? Research would needtae be done for exitin to other stages entirely.” She makes a moue of frustration, thick brows drawing down. “If any new ways can be found. The auld methods of transportin an far-talkin havin changed has proper feckt a heap of the easy plans. Which I reckon might also be put to the world shiftin’. Hoppin about, at least, takes such a razor kennin of where ye are—an sometimes where another person is—that with the whole set-frame shiftin’ considerable more’n an eyelash, maybe ‘tisnae a surprise those stopped workin until the underlyin formulas are rejiggered an we can find ourselves agin.”
She puffs out her lips again, looking thoughtful, then starts a little as he puts the question about her too-easy familiarity with all this. Her gaze slides sidelong to him, and her own lips press together. “An are ye me gran now?” she asks, a little nettled. “Am no a waggler. How’re ye tae say whit’s nae possible when we sit in an impossible tower daein hings as whit I could ne’er dae?” She stretches out her hand, dropping the tools she’d used to study his mechanical hand, and they vanish before meeting the ground. The chair she sits in vanishes silently a second later, leaving her perched on air. Not that the latter bit is entirely out of character for her, but he has no reason to know that.
She takes a cooling breath—being disbelieved still rankles, it seems - and says more clearly, “There cannae be more’n a handful who can say as they’ve seen the inside of the Octurne since it first returned. But aye, I was one of them. An I was there when it cracked an fell, due to the King in Glory.” A slightly embarrassed look flickers across her face. “It’s nae a real title or aught else, nobody’s hight him that but me. It just seems proper. Glory Befouled maybe, or Stars Corrupted, because he’s nae more’n a twisted version of himself as was, but that’s two or three extra syllables.
“Also, ‘tis a passing long an more’n passing strange tale, an it isnae all mine to tell. But I can tell ye as what might be needful to ken, should he be near by ye.” She falls silent then, almost unnatural after her previous long bouts of speculation and rambling; pensive, and a little unsure in front of someone she suddenly realizes she doesn’t actually know. And yet she finds she really wants him to believe her, especially on such an important matter as this.
Esmund
“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he stutters as she puffs out a quick reply to his inquiry on her first-hand knowledge of the Octurne. Seems as though prior experiences have colored her views on criticisms and disbelief; after spending any time with her, Esmund found the very notion laughable given her obvious intelligence. “I-I didn’t mean to cast doubt! It felt silly to just assume you had actually been to the Octurne or the tower considering their general location before falling to the earth. It seems wildly improbable! But…you’ve done it. You actually visited and walked within the Octurne didn’t you…” Esmund’s jaw begins to slacken as the realization of that feat begins to sink in. What must this young woman have been through, what had she seen and experienced to find herself at the physical peak of scientific and technical study?
He pauses for several moments, as his mind rattles the numerous implications of that accomplishment. “You’ve been to space, to the Octurne, and you don’t lead your conversation with that?” he finally exclaims, at a higher volume than he’d anticipated - his excitement was beginning to overwhelm him however.
“How-but why-I-I mean what did—” Esmund stammers over his words, trying to ask a concrete question, but where would he even begin? “That’s amazing. Hah, you’re amazing!” he finally concludes.
He feels lightheaded, only realizing after a moment that he had begun to float up. It seems that in losing his composure he, in turn, lost his footing. While the visitor appeared to be floating in space where a chair had once been, he wills himself back to the ground, so that he may continue to converse at a face to face level.
“There are so many things I want to question you about,” he says, suppressing an excited smile. “But I suppose the more pressing matter would be this ‘King in Glory’ or ‘Stars Corrupted’. The tower fell north of my home, within the Kingdom of Lux, some time ago. The kingdom had drafted fighters and researchers to travel to the tower and study or defend from it. If there’s anything there that we should be wary of, please tell me! What has corrupted this supposed king? What makes him so dangerous? What do I need to know to save as many peop-” he stops mid sentence, as a pit in his stomach begins to open and he feels his skin become clammy.
His memory outside of this space is muddled, so he cannot recall the reason why, but he instead feels a great dread spreading throughout his body. Seemingly, the very notion of aiding others directly causes the pit in his stomach to open further. As though if he were to continue on this trail of thoughts he would be swallowed whole.
Have I always been so scared to help people? Is it my place to try? What if I fail them…
He blinks hard and clears his throat. “What can you tell me so that I can share it with others? I should be able to spread the word to people in charge who will have a greater idea of how to handle the situation!”
Sav
“Ach, weel, I suppose ‘twas a deep unlikelihood that anybody of the baronies might ha been up there, or that ye’d happen to encounter such a one in this place - where’er ‘tis,” she concedes, magnanimous in the light of his clear admiration.
Her face glows as she remembers that first moment of entry, the light of the traveling circle fading to reveal that hallowed interior, that stronghold of the aasimar, the Citadel. Then she clouds over, mismatched eyes shuttering at the memory of the details that sank in after that first starry-eyed glimpse. The chair reappears, broader and a little worn but comfier, as she depresses into it.
“To keep it curt - the Baroness had found a construct of the skyfolk, an pullt it apart to figure out a way to use its inbuilt power to return home - to the Octurne, hight the Citadel by the constructs. We killt her an I fixed up the hopper she was riggin the rest of the way.” This said as casually as it was raining, so I brought an umbrella. As she speaks, she waves a hand to one side, and an image of the teleporter with the aasimar power orb appears there in mid-air, a curious Nurie’te hovering beside it - all about half life-size, but otherwise whole and realistic, like a diorama in the air.
“When we got there, ‘twas already in the midst of crumblin, rattlin itself apart. Hundreds, p’raps thousands of other constructs were flyin aboot, takin stone an metal from the Citadel to build up the tower - that self-same tower - in the midst of the Octurne, rising up intae the open hollow of the center.” The teleporter disappears in a flash of light, replaced by the gigantic, shadowy interior of the Octurne, speared by a tower and swarming with octahedral constructs, interior buildings pock-marked by stolen stones. “Floating amidst it all, an enormous beast, dark as shadow, akin to one we’d encountered before but far vaster, too vasty to e’en note us.” The inky blot of the Beast swims into sight inside the diorama-Octurne, and below, tiny, motelike figures move across the floor. “We found a passage up to one of the only pieces of floor left, where we found a travel circle that went to other places - other baronies, the other side of the Fadin Wood, two entire other continents. One I’d ne’er seen, one I’d only heard legends of plus seen some kind of clockwork magic hand cannon a sleekit bawbag of a pirate captain claimed he’d brought from there.” Images flash by - the elevator, the rows on rows of pyramids, the much older-looking teleportation circle with the mapped globe shining above it, a red-faced man with an enormous beard and a clockwork rifle over one shoulder. “‘Twas also a library, or mayhaps an archive of the skyfolk, but there were so many - we couldnae get e’en a tiny slice of the whole.” Her voice dwindles, and she’s silent for a moment, clearly affected by the recollection. Years of research, investigation, dreaming. The numbing ecstasy of finally achieving it, reaching the Octurne. The shards of her dream powdering to dust as she realizes she wouldn’t have even an hour there, and that it was dying before she’d ever turned her attention to it. Saving only a small fraction of the knowledge held within, and finding a second aasimar, the highest of them all, corrupted into a being of horror.
She shakes herself from her brown study, and continues on briskly, not meeting his gaze, in turn not noticing his hesitance. “So at any rate, there was also a light - the only light in the entire Octurne, mind - at the tip of the tower, which connected to this archive room by a walkway. We decided we had to ha’ a keek at it before we left, an when we got there the most beautiful, horrible … creature, being, man I’ve e’er seen was there. Four wings, enfolded in golden light that spun wi’ pink an teal an held the dark beast below back, tentacles where his mouth oughtae be, who spoke in our heads that he had searched for this world for a very long time, that his people had lost it but were now here again, an that we should join wi him to finish the work or sommat.” The images shift, slightly, the library pulling away to show the passage to the tower, and the golden silhouette with four wings - and no more than that. No further detail is lent to the image of the King in Glory.
“I dinnae ken if I can true describe what it felt like, his speech in our minds - like sweet flowers, but when it crosses that edge intae fetid rot? Or when ye’ve ate so much the good full belly becomes pain? Anyway, turns out he once was the king of the skyfolk, who’d hidden this world from their enemies in a war they fought - an I reckon lost - across the stars. Only some of them had managed tae find their way back, but not all of them in their right minds. I was told those tentacle-mouth-hings were a sign of the great enemy they fought, an them on the King in Glory meant he’d been corrupted, straight tae his core. Sure he certainly came at us like he was tryin tae kill us, an we only managed tae get away on accountae the travelin circle. An It seems like that was the moment the Citadel fell apart, the tower hurtling down tae land somewhere far awae.” The images zoom out to show the Octurne coming apart in pieces, slowly, grandly, the sheer bulk of it lending a majesty to its dissolution, as the tower falls from its erstwhile womb and pins into the earth. She sighs. “I still wish I’d dared tae have it take us to one of the places I’d ne’er been - with kennin the sigils for the Cathedral, wouldnae ha been hard tae make our way home later anyhow. But ‘Star would ha likely killt me.”
She rubs her eyes wearily, the images vanishing. The retelling - the short version, according to her! - seems to have taken it out of her. Or perhaps it was the focusing here in this particular, peculiar space to produce those images. “An yet, after all that… true tell, I learnt naught of use to ferry on to your people.” Very politely for her, she doesn’t laugh at the idea of the “people in charge” having a better idea of what to do. “I dinnae ken how to defeat the King in Glory or the Mama Fade Beast. They’re strong, an dangerous, but one wouldnae need to be told that to figure that out. The littler beasts, the ones what are only eight to ten feet tall–” She calls up an image of the Fade Beast they’d encountered in the mountains, tiny and floating over her hand, “those can be beat by strong fighters, but they eat up any source of magic - it has a harder time hurtin them, leastwise. –oh, and it chums around wi’ these littler ones, some which scream in your mind, some which just plain burrow intae your brain to take it over an make ye fight to its own strange ends. But I figured out a formula to inoculate humans - or, well, kith in general -” She eyes Esmund again and decides now is not the time to ask if he’s human. ”- from gettin takt over.” She rummages in the bag that’s leaned up against the side of the chair (and had been there the entire time, surely) and pulls out a piece of paper with a recipe on it written in a crabbed, angular hand. As he looks at it, the text twists from sheer nonsense (yet oddly orderly - he’d likely recognize a cipher of some sort) into ordinary language. She squints at it, upside-down. “Ehm. I dinnae ken if some of these ingredients are ready to hand for ye. But hopefully ye can find good replacements.”
Having delivered all that, she leans back again into the chair, skewing bonelessly over to one side and hanging a leg off the arm. “Kingdom of Lux, eh? Ne’er heard of it, reckon it’s either tiny or was ne’er near the auld kingdom what was, before it broke intae all the baronies.” Perhaps reminded by her narration of the Octurne’s interior, she spins up the image of the map in the aasimar archive. “Aught of these look familiar? An’ have ye heard from your people near the tower?”
Esmund
Esmund sits in stunned silence at the strange fellow’s recounting of her visit and near-immediate trial by combat to escape the Octurne. It was simultaneously enrapturing and unbelievable. On the one hand, the premise alone felt ridiculous, impossible to comprehend - who in their right mind would ever visit the Octurne? Yet as she continued, seemingly taking very few breaths - an impressive feat for a human - the tale she spun together and the precise details alongside the floating images that would apparate above her hand painted a story that Esmund found himself nodding along to. He nearly interrupted to speak up about the clockwork weaponry that she didn’t seem to be familiar with but found himself quickly drowned out by her retelling of events.
Finally, she concludes her testimony of the trip to the Octurne by warning of the King in Glory and littler Fade Beasts that apparently produced a type of mind controlling or brain eating worm? The idea itself felt like it should merit no concern, it sounded closer to a tall tale that parents would tell their children to scare them into bed. Yet Esmund found himself shivering at the thought of the harm that could come to his friends and family. This all seemed like so much information to take in and he could feel that pit in his stomach opening wider, his palms becoming more clammy and his mouth drying. He had only just begun to study magic seriously - he was incredibly under equipped to inherit this mess from the stranger and her comrades, how was he supposed to protect everyone -
Just before his mind could tumble further and the pit swallow him whole, the young woman shoves a sheet of paper into his hands, drawing his immediate attention to it. Taking a moment, he is able to read a series of formulas and equations, he mumbles to himself as he quickly does the math in his head. “A type of antidote? No…” he asks, turning the page to its side. “No wait, a-a sort of anti-toxin or venom. For the uh, brain worms? Hmm…you have some odd ingredients listed here. I could probably get some of these but like you said, others will need a suitable proxy. Though my sister’s were the alchemists in the family, I should be able to manage. Hey wait, do you think we take things out of here with us?”
As he looks back down at the sheet of paper, the ink that made up the formulas was sliding off the page and evaporating just before falling to the floor. “Suppose that answers that particular question,” he puffs in annoyance. “Sure hope I can keep some of that memorized…”
As the stranger manifests images above her palm once more, she asks if Esmund recognizes any of them. I wonder if that’s something I’ll be able to do with any practice…? he thinks to himself before responding aloud to her inquiry, “Sorry, can’t say any of them are familiar. Though with this strange brain fog, I wouldn’t be surprised if I actually know them but am simply unable to recall the information.
“We all had family and friends from our village leave towards the tower shortly after it fell. A call from the kingdom requesting any appropriately aged and able-bodied people to defend from any outside sources. Letters would come in from the tower, or near it at least, with updates on how things are but would provide scarce details on the specifics of the tower. Due to the recent loss in magic though, we haven’t heard from anyone anywhere in some time I think.” Esmund pauses considering his next question; he knew it had to be asked but found himself having difficulty drawing the courage necessary to ask it. “Do you think we should be worried? That this King in Glory or the Fade Beast somehow survived and now our families are already gone…?”
Sav
She watches the letters drop down off the page, brows knitting in similar annoyance - though why she’s surprised at anything that happens here now, she doesn’t know. “Ach, mayhaps discussing it will help it stick? This bit here,” she produces another copy of the recipe, and points out a line on the recipe, “the powdered root of the barthic flower - ‘tis used as it has some warding properties, specifically as it helps the body ‘gainst foreign bits. I would ha’ gone wi’ sandalsheer, which tastes better, but when mixed with salt it starts eatin away at flesh an that’s the opposite of what I wanted. Lyestone’s just here as an enhancer, that’s why ‘tis only used as a pestle to grind it—” She’s happy to go over the various elements of the recipe and explain (in probably exhaustive detail) why they were included, making suggestions for possible alternates or listening to his own thoughts of suitable things that might work from his own land.
Strangely, the idea - or at least the implication - that magic and the use thereof is common and accepted among his friends and family passes by without a comment. Perhaps it’s simply that everything here is so geared toward research into magical elements that it feels natural to be discussing it openly. Perhaps it’s just the apparent fact that he’s never heard of Galoring and seemed to evince no recognition of any of the other specific details she’d mentioned, or that he seemed surprised by her surprise at his skin color. She’s more intent on his account of what happened after the tower’s fall. “An how long’s it been since it fell an your folks went off tae it? If ‘twas long enough that letters could come back… ‘twould be grand if the fall killed or sore injured the Elder Fade Beast or the King, but that seems too easy, gi’en our luck.” She grimaces. “Whate’er the answer is, my guess is that they’re no active near the tower an your people, or ye’d no have heard back from ‘em at all. An yet sommat must have happened, if an army was needed an called for up to it.” She sits back, rolling her lips thoughtfully between her teeth. “Either way I’d love tae get there, see what survived, be it structures or creatures. D’ye happen to know what your land looks like? What are the stars an moon’s fragments above like? Could help us get there. An what’s your name an hometown? Would be a deal of relief to ken someone there, have a goal, belike.” She smiles faintly. “Mought be a bit easier tae convince t’others if I have a name an a place - though ‘twill be a difficult path tae talk regardless.
“An so’s ye ken, I’m—” Then suddenly, she flinches, a red pressure mark blooming on her nose. “Ow! Aloysius, what—” She raises her hand to cover her nose as she looks up; as she does so, her form mists and fades out, leaving a glimmering outline that collapses into iridescent dust on the armchair. A second later, even that fades away, as does the chair.
Esmund
Esmund follows along as the young stranger goes over her disappeared formula with him, as he attempts to make a mental list of ingredients while suggesting substitutes. He struggles in places, finding it difficult to keep up with her as the fog over his mind seems to thicken, and he has to stop and ask for things to be repeated. She then lists off a series of questions about his home and the surrounding land and constellations, however, before Esmund is able to respond, she pauses momentarily, and begins to hold her hand out as if to introduce herself.
Oh! Esmund suddenly realizes. We don’t even have each other’s name!
He reciprocates the motion, as he lifts his own hand, and just before they meet and the center, and the stranger provides a moniker, she pops, her figure turning to mist and that gently falls to the ground.
“Huh…
“Should I…be worried? I don’t feel concerned for her safety, though a stranger did just pop out of existence before my eyes and she did exclaim ‘ow’…” As Esmund starts to ponder on this, a cold drop flicks onto his forehead. He reaches up to wipe it off and as he pulls his hand away he sees dark sludge smeared along his fingers. Just as he starts to question what that is, a second drop lands and his eyes shoot open.
He finds himself laid out in his workshop, underneath one of the automatons he was operating on, oil leaking out from it onto his face. Quickly, he slides out from beneath the mechanical figure, reaching for a rag to clean himself with. Pulling away the rag, Esmund is struck by a thought that refuses to leave his mind and finds himself walking over to another workbench and swiftly writes out a note without thinking. With confusion, he looks over the sheet of paper and reads aloud the fresh note, “King in Glory?”
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