The streets grow quieter as you leave the bustling heart of Luminaar behind, the hum of commerce fading into the hush of wealth. The cobblestones become smoother beneath your boots, laid in precise, deliberate patterns that gleam faintly in the light. Whitewashed walls rise around you, ivy trimmed to perfect symmetry climbing over wrought-iron fences. Manicured hedges line every walkway with fountains trickle softly at every intersection. A breeze stirs the perfumed air, heavy with the scent of imported flowers that bloom in window boxes and private courtyards. Above it all, the faint, musical toll of chimes can be heard, enchantment-triggered, perhaps, to warn when guests pass by.
Eventually, your steps bring you before the high gates of House Vareth. A tall, elegant estate rises behind them, its façade draped in a pale stone that catches the light like moonstone. Grand arched windows reflect the sky, while twisting metalwork forms decorative sigils across the wrought-iron bars, clearly arcane in origin. A small plaque on the gate reads simply:
"Knowledge. Power. Precision."
As you approach, you feel a shimmer in the air, like heat ripples on stone, just before the arcane ward around the property pulses faintly, acknowledging your presence. Then, as if expecting you, the gate unlocks with a soft click, and a voice, smooth, rehearsed, and faintly disinterested, calls out from beyond the hedge:
“Guests of House Vareth are rare and rarely welcome unannounced. I do hope you’ve brought something worth the interruption.”
A sharply dressed elven man in deep navy robes steps into view, his features serene but unreadable. Clearly a steward, or perhaps a magical servant. His gaze settles on Teryn with the faintest twitch of amusement in one corner of his mouth. Without waiting for a reply, he turns and gestures toward the main path.
As Teryn suspected, his presence is enough to get them inside at least. Perhaps Saelric thinks he's 'come crawling back' or some such. Well, all the better if it gets them what they need. He doesn't recall this particular servant, but the elf seems to know him somehow. He studies the man carefully as they walk, wondering if he is some sort familiar or illusion of Saelric's.
Rowan eyes the clipped hedges and perfume-drunk air like a farmer surveying a field sown only with peacocks. 'Fancy sprouts for naught but looking at,' he muses quietly, half tempted to ask whether the blossoms taste of coin or just pride. Still, he tugs his cloak straight, lowers his gaze, and falls a respectful step behind Teryn. “Harvest’s yours to claim, m’lord,” he mutters just loud enough for their group, tone all humble soil. “I’ll mind the furrows and keep the crows off.”
Inside the gate he keeps his stride short and obedient, calloused hands folded at the small of his back. Every carved statue and silver fountain earns a silent shake of his head—no crop, no cattle, just polish. For now, though, he plays the quiet farmhand escort, letting Teryn’s lead and Marsh’s writ speak where plainer words might sour the soil.
Vareth’s state was every bit of what Käinen expected, until he saw the words upon the gate. The goliath cringed at their sight. It was so painfully corny that it gave him second hand embarrassment. He could understand if the words were part of a crest. Plenty of companies put their logo by their front gates to mark their properties and make them easier to find for those visiting them for the first time. Nothing but logical for a nobleman to do the same. But only the words felt like someone was trying and hard, way too hard, to self-aggrandize. A kid trying to look cool.
We wouldn’t be here if there was a better option, he wanted to answer the servant. The way he reacted to Teryn made Käinen wish to punch his face. Hard. In the end Merrick kept his silence. He didn’t want to fail their mission. Least of all considering how much the warlock should be enduring. Cutting ties with that kind people had to be one of the best things to happen in the elf’s life.
He stayed besides Rowan, his stride a silent thing and his face a mask of flesh and blood and tried to express nothing. With any luck they would be leaving soon.
Walking into the district, Ellanise immediately feels the pressure of remembering more past indiscretions. Several of these lavish homes fell victim to her own talents. Luckily, she doesn't remember specific residences, and so her guilt is generalized as opposed to specific.
She walks slightly behind Teryn, still feeling a pull toward him as they enter the gates and then are "welcomed" by the elf.
As they near the house, she steps up beside Teryn, laces her fingers into into his and snuggles in beside him, wrapping the fingers of her other hand around his arm in mock possession. When he looks at her, she simply smiles up at him "lovingly".
Teryn stiffens for the briefest moment as Ellanise’s fingers slide into his, the unexpected closeness catching him off guard. He glances down at her, silver eyes wide with surprise, but the smile she gives him is all the explanation he needs. Recognition dawns, followed by a flicker of amusement.
He softens visibly, slipping into the role with practiced elegance, allowing the faintest smirk to curl at the corner of his mouth. With a subtle squeeze of her hand and a lifted brow that says well played, he lets her cling to his arm like a treasured jewel on display.
The manor gates close behind you with a soft clatter of steel. You're led along a perfectly groomed path flanked by lanterns that almost seem to respond to your movement, blooming with soft golden light in your wake, and exotic hedges rustle gently at your passing.
The elven steward says nothing more. He guides you through a tall archway of carved marble into the manor proper. The foyer inside is impossibly tall, ceilings ribbed with darkwood beams and vaulted arches. Massive stained-glass windows depict stylized versions of arcane schools; roaring flames, a shifting serpent, a cloaked skull with blossoming flowers... Everything smells faintly of incense, fresh ink, and old parchment. You're led through a side corridor toward what appears to be a private study. The steward stops before a double door that seems to shimmer as you approach. He doesn’t knock, but instead touches a hand to the sigil, speaking a single word:
“Enter.”
The doors swing open slowly, soundlessly, revealing a circular room lit by a hovering chandelier of floating crystal shards. Bookshelves curve along the outer wall, and the center of the space is dominated by an arcane globe suspended midair, its surface swirling with constellations and lines of light like a map not only of the world, but of ley-lines and magical theory. Seated near it in a high-backed chair of dark mahogany is Lord Saelric Vareth himself.
He looks every bit the part of a noble wizard, early thirties by appearance, youthful and composed, with dark hair combed back in an artful wave and robes perfectly tailored with precision. His eyes are an unsettling gray-blue, piercing, cold, and calculating. He does not rise.
His gaze lands first on Teryn, then briefly on the others, then back again. “Well. I must admit, I didn’t expect this particular arrangement of faces today. And yet, here we are.” His voice is smooth and soothing, like velvet dragged across glass. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Teryn?” He gestures lazily to a semicircle of chairs arranged across from him. You get the impression that no one sits in this room unless invited, and you've just been... delicately granted that courtesy.
Ellanise smiles brightly at the wizard. "You must be Lord Vareth," she says, taking a half step away from Taryn's side, but keeping her fingers laced with his. She turns, visibly admiring the whole of the room.
Turning back to Taryn, she says, "When you said this place was impressive, you weren't kidding." She pulls him toward a chair and sits in the next one in the row, finally dropping his hand.
She locks eyes with Saelric again. "I'm Ellanise," she says, placing a hand to her chest. "That's Käinen. And the little guy is Rowan."
Rowan trails the group with quiet, measured steps, rough boots making hardly a scuff on the polished floors. At Ellanise’s introduction he offers Lord Vareth a respectful dip of the head, settling into the indicated chair with hands folded atop one knee. A single, courteous nod—no words—marks his acknowledgment, his teal eyes calm and unreadable beneath the brim of tousled hair.
Teryn inclines his head slightly, his expression polite and composed, but his silver eyes never leave Saelric’s face. “You do keep your aesthetic sharp as ever,” he says, voice smooth but not quite warm. “It’s good to see you, Saelric.”
He allows Ellanise to guide him toward the chair and sits with careful ease, smoothing the hem of his coat. “We’ve come with a request,” he says simply. “One I expect will cost us, but I know better than most the things you value.”He finally breaks the steady eye contact, just briefly, as if to let the weight of the moment settle. “You are familiar with the Gilded Iris, yes?”
Lord Saelric Vareth’s fingers drum idly along the polished armrest of his chair as each of you settles in, his gaze never once leaving Teryn, at least until Ellanise speaks. He shifts his attention to her with a faint tilt of the head, the barest lift of an eyebrow as if mildly surprised by her candor.
“Ah. Charming,” he says smoothly. “You must be the… newer friends. The ones Teryn has seen fit to replace the rest of us with.” There’s no malice in the words, only that same cultured drawl. He offers a shallow nod in Rowan and Käinen’s direction, then finally returns his focus to Teryn, eyes narrowing with quiet satisfaction.
“Of course I’m familiar with the Gilded Iris,” he replies after a beat, voice growing faintly amused, as if bragging in a way. “A rare gem. Difficult to find. More difficult still to enter. Quite exclusive, you understand... But you already know that, don't you...?”
He leans forward just slightly, enough for the windows above to throw sharp light across the side of his face. His smile widens, not warm, but not entirely cruel, either. Merely entertained at the situation presented in front of him.
“So here you are, walking through my door again. Curious how fate turns the wheel, isn’t it? After all this time, and now you come calling, not for apology, not for closure… but for access...?” His eyes glint. “You must really need this favor to come all this way.” He steeples his fingers beneath his chin and adds, almost wistfully, “Tell me, Teryn. What happened to your pride?”
His words hang in the air like a perfume, precise, calculated. He is enjoying this, but it seems he hasn’t yet declined your request… he’s simply circling, savoring the moment.
Ellanise paints a smile on her face, but she is anything but happy. She turns to look at Teryn, willing him the strength she anticipates he needs in order to continue this conversation.
Rowan keeps his head bowed in placid deference, but his eyes wander like a farm-cat in a grain loft, noting every shiny kernel. He lets his eyes skim the tall shelves, the glass-front cases, the polished side-tables—seeking any trophy, tome, or trinket that might hint at what soil Lord Vareth truly cultivates. A tilt of the head here, a slow blink there, as though merely admiring the décor; in truth he’s weighing every glitter and shadow for leverage when the bartering starts. Content to let Teryn steer the plow for now, Rowan banks each detail in silence, ready to lay the right seed when the haggling turns hard.
Between Teryn words and the insides of the mannor, Käinen could not help but imagine Saelric a small man. Not in stature. Time and experience had long since taught the goliath that height mattered little. Hells, Byldeth and Rowan were close examples of that – the shortest in their group, great men for all meanings and purposes. No, the goliath imagined the wizard a small spirit, full of arrogance and self-importance while devoid of humility. By comparison Vareth seemed almost decent.
The way he talked about favors and pride was far from pleasant but sounded somewhat less poisonous than that of the servant. The nobleman seemed more like a former lover acting petty after a break-up he didn’t quite accept. If at first Vasha brought to his mind the idea of a younger sister to be teased, the lord of the manor made him think of a bratty teenager being annoying. A fitting addition to the actions of a kid trying to look cool.
Keeping his silence Käinen let his eyes wander through the room, taking notice, first and foremost, of entrances and exits. He didn’t imagine they would be attacked or need to run away but it was always useful to know as much and he needed to distract his mind from a conversation that belonged entirely to the warlock.
Teryn’s expression doesn’t flinch under Saelric’s needling, but his silver eyes sharpen slightly, cool and unwavering. “My friends are not replacements,” he says calmly. “You made it quite clear, Saelric, that my…magical temperament disqualified me from standing beside you as an equal. I simply accepted your terms.”
He gives a faint, dry laugh and brushes a hand lightly through his hair, like dusting away the last remnants of the past. “As for my pride? It’s surprisingly intact, thank you. You didn’t break it, if that’s what you were hoping.” Then, with practiced grace, he draws the professor’s sealed letter from his robe and sets it neatly on the desk before him—careful not to disturb the placement of a single pen, book, or etched paperweight. “We’ve come ready to bargain, Saelric. And I believe the currency is something you value even more than sentiment: knowledge. Quite exclusive access, you understand.”
Saelric Vareth reclines in his chair like a king on a throne he’s earned twice over. One leg crosses neatly over the other, and his fingers trace the Academy seal with practiced indifference. "Still dramatic, Teryn,” he muses, turning the envelope slowly between his fingers. “I can’t decide if I admire your consistency or pity it.” His eyes flick toward the others, assessing them like rare specimens on loan from a lesser collection, his gaze landing a little longer with Ellanise. Then back to Teryn. "I’ll admit, though, I never expected you to come back. Not after the way you stormed out. Stars in your eyes. That borrowed power humming through your veins. The invisible leash, oh so tight.” He smiles, and it’s beautiful and cruel all at once. “You didn’t break your pride, no. You sold it. And now you return, a penitent with paperwork. A courier.”
Saelric breaks the seal and unfolds the letter with delicate care, as if the parchment might bruise under lesser hands. He reads silently, the only sound you hear is the faint ticking of an ornate clock somewhere beyond the study’s doors. When he looks up again, his expression is unreadable.
“I know the Gilded Iris,” he says at last, almost lazily. “Everyone who matters does. But you already knew that. You're here because you know that if anyone could buy a door into its heart, it's me.” He leans forward, steepling his fingers. His voice lowers, not conspiratorial, but purposeful. “And you're right.”
He lets the moment hang.
“I could have you admitted. You'd walk through those doors with my name as your key.”
Another pause, another half-smile.
“But I don’t offer passage to old flames for free. That’s not how this works. You're not the only one who’s learned to make a deal.” He gestures with the letter. "This little favor from Marsh might help. It’s... quaint. But you’ll need to sweeten the pot.”
Saelric Vareth stands and turns behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back as he gazes out the tall window. He speaks with measured calm. "There’s a man. Dorian Eltrax. Junior archivist at the Constellarium. Ambitious, irritatingly thorough, and newly obsessed with poking holes in my academic record. He’s accused me of misquoting a First Era inscription in my dissertation, twice. And while nothing will come of it, the gossip is enough to dull my reputation among the Conclave’s less discerning members.”
He turns back to face you all, though his eyes fix on Teryn with a piercing sort of fondness that reads more like venom than nostalgia.
“I want the situation… corrected. Quietly. Discreetly. There’s a particular entry in the ledger vault at the Constellarium, one which, if slightly altered, would cast doubt on Eltrax’s findings and bolster mine. You’d need to forge the correction subtly. Something just credible enough that only someone desperate or foolish would contest it.” A faint smile plays on his lips. “Think of it as a lesson in rewriting history. Just a brushstroke. No need to get your hands dirty... just a little ink-stained.”
Teryn:
You feel something cold ripple beneath your skin. Not physical. Not quite internal. Like a wind that passes through you. Saelric’s voice begins to echo faintly, and then blur as though you’re suddenly underwater. Your vision narrows, and you see the corners of the room darken. A familiar voice, not Saelric’s, laughs softly. Beautiful like a rose, but still laced with thorns.
"Mmm... so easily rattled, that one. Jealous little candle of a man. Flicker, flicker. Would you snuff him, little star? Would you rewrite the truth for a lie? A delicious turn, isn’t it? You should."
You blink. Saelric’s voice returns, crisp again, his chin now tilted as he awaits your reply.
“Do that for me, and you’ll have my signature whispered to the right ears. The Iris will open to you.”
Changing records to satisfy his ego? Ellanise really doesn't know how she feels about this. In her past life, she took what the Rats wanted. Things they could use or sell. Now her path is to atone for those wrongs and to help others. She's never been in a situation where the crime was so ... intellectual.
Saelric’s fingers rest lightly on the edge of his desk, his expression unfazed by Ellanise’s tone. If anything, her hesitation seems to amuse him. “A particular volume in the upper vaults, Ledgers of Provenance, Vol. XIV. It catalogs all accepted citations from the Ardent Spire expeditions. Dull reading unless you happen to care deeply about which stone was discovered by whom, and when.”
He walks over to a nearby sideboard, pours himself a glass of dark golden liquor, and continues, back turned. “Eltrax found a transcription error. A harmless one, really, an extra rune in a rubbing I cited nearly a decade ago. He claims it alters the meaning of a phrase. Thus, would invalidate my theory on the Vestraal Split. Now he’s made noise about appealing to the Academy’s Ethics Board. Not because he wants truth, no, he wants tenure.”
He turns back, swirling the glass idly. “The ledger simply needs an additional line, one citation with an older date, entered in a different hand, suggesting that his preferred interpretation already existed. That’s all. It won’t survive serious scrutiny, of course, but it will muddy the waters long enough for me to publish the revised edition of my thesis and bury the scandal.”
He raises the glass slightly in a half-toast. “I assure you, it’s far from the worst crime committed in that library.” His eyes settle once again on Teryn, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before darting back to Ellanise. “But perhaps your little court of redemption disapproves? What does the high road feel like these days? Lonely, I imagine.”
Ellanise wonders what Byldeth would have thought of this situation if the paladin had continued with them. Was it her job now to swing the pendulum — to balance the scales against the looser morals of the others? Would she be a hypocrite? Perhaps.
"I'm not saying no," Ellanise begins. "But is this the only exchange you're willing to make?"
Teryn's eyes narrow as he considers Saelric's words. Had the man always been so...petty? Perhaps he'd just been too naive to see it at the time. No more. He studies the man's body language carefully, trying to discern if this alteration is as harmless as he'd like them to believe. Does he really just want time to correct his work, or to destroy Eltrax's life?
Insight: 20; also History for if he knows about the Vestraal Split: 15
The streets grow quieter as you leave the bustling heart of Luminaar behind, the hum of commerce fading into the hush of wealth. The cobblestones become smoother beneath your boots, laid in precise, deliberate patterns that gleam faintly in the light. Whitewashed walls rise around you, ivy trimmed to perfect symmetry climbing over wrought-iron fences. Manicured hedges line every walkway with fountains trickle softly at every intersection. A breeze stirs the perfumed air, heavy with the scent of imported flowers that bloom in window boxes and private courtyards. Above it all, the faint, musical toll of chimes can be heard, enchantment-triggered, perhaps, to warn when guests pass by.
Eventually, your steps bring you before the high gates of House Vareth. A tall, elegant estate rises behind them, its façade draped in a pale stone that catches the light like moonstone. Grand arched windows reflect the sky, while twisting metalwork forms decorative sigils across the wrought-iron bars, clearly arcane in origin. A small plaque on the gate reads simply:
"Knowledge. Power. Precision."
As you approach, you feel a shimmer in the air, like heat ripples on stone, just before the arcane ward around the property pulses faintly, acknowledging your presence. Then, as if expecting you, the gate unlocks with a soft click, and a voice, smooth, rehearsed, and faintly disinterested, calls out from beyond the hedge:
“Guests of House Vareth are rare and rarely welcome unannounced. I do hope you’ve brought something worth the interruption.”
A sharply dressed elven man in deep navy robes steps into view, his features serene but unreadable. Clearly a steward, or perhaps a magical servant. His gaze settles on Teryn with the faintest twitch of amusement in one corner of his mouth. Without waiting for a reply, he turns and gestures toward the main path.
“This way, if you must.”
And just like that, the gates swing wide.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
As Teryn suspected, his presence is enough to get them inside at least. Perhaps Saelric thinks he's 'come crawling back' or some such. Well, all the better if it gets them what they need. He doesn't recall this particular servant, but the elf seems to know him somehow. He studies the man carefully as they walk, wondering if he is some sort familiar or illusion of Saelric's.
Arcana: 10 + 5 from book (if allowed)
Rowan eyes the clipped hedges and perfume-drunk air like a farmer surveying a field sown only with peacocks. 'Fancy sprouts for naught but looking at,' he muses quietly, half tempted to ask whether the blossoms taste of coin or just pride. Still, he tugs his cloak straight, lowers his gaze, and falls a respectful step behind Teryn. “Harvest’s yours to claim, m’lord,” he mutters just loud enough for their group, tone all humble soil. “I’ll mind the furrows and keep the crows off.”
Inside the gate he keeps his stride short and obedient, calloused hands folded at the small of his back. Every carved statue and silver fountain earns a silent shake of his head—no crop, no cattle, just polish. For now, though, he plays the quiet farmhand escort, letting Teryn’s lead and Marsh’s writ speak where plainer words might sour the soil.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Zephirah - Demonic Bard - Sands || Merry - Gifted Surgeon - Short || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus || Lan - Dwarf Dragon - Wuxian ||
Vareth’s state was every bit of what Käinen expected, until he saw the words upon the gate. The goliath cringed at their sight. It was so painfully corny that it gave him second hand embarrassment. He could understand if the words were part of a crest. Plenty of companies put their logo by their front gates to mark their properties and make them easier to find for those visiting them for the first time. Nothing but logical for a nobleman to do the same. But only the words felt like someone was trying and hard, way too hard, to self-aggrandize. A kid trying to look cool.
We wouldn’t be here if there was a better option, he wanted to answer the servant. The way he reacted to Teryn made Käinen wish to punch his face. Hard. In the end Merrick kept his silence. He didn’t want to fail their mission. Least of all considering how much the warlock should be enduring. Cutting ties with that kind people had to be one of the best things to happen in the elf’s life.
He stayed besides Rowan, his stride a silent thing and his face a mask of flesh and blood and tried to express nothing. With any luck they would be leaving soon.
Walking into the district, Ellanise immediately feels the pressure of remembering more past indiscretions. Several of these lavish homes fell victim to her own talents. Luckily, she doesn't remember specific residences, and so her guilt is generalized as opposed to specific.
She walks slightly behind Teryn, still feeling a pull toward him as they enter the gates and then are "welcomed" by the elf.
As they near the house, she steps up beside Teryn, laces her fingers into into his and snuggles in beside him, wrapping the fingers of her other hand around his arm in mock possession. When he looks at her, she simply smiles up at him "lovingly".
Teryn stiffens for the briefest moment as Ellanise’s fingers slide into his, the unexpected closeness catching him off guard. He glances down at her, silver eyes wide with surprise, but the smile she gives him is all the explanation he needs. Recognition dawns, followed by a flicker of amusement.
He softens visibly, slipping into the role with practiced elegance, allowing the faintest smirk to curl at the corner of his mouth. With a subtle squeeze of her hand and a lifted brow that says well played, he lets her cling to his arm like a treasured jewel on display.
The manor gates close behind you with a soft clatter of steel. You're led along a perfectly groomed path flanked by lanterns that almost seem to respond to your movement, blooming with soft golden light in your wake, and exotic hedges rustle gently at your passing.
The elven steward says nothing more. He guides you through a tall archway of carved marble into the manor proper. The foyer inside is impossibly tall, ceilings ribbed with darkwood beams and vaulted arches. Massive stained-glass windows depict stylized versions of arcane schools; roaring flames, a shifting serpent, a cloaked skull with blossoming flowers... Everything smells faintly of incense, fresh ink, and old parchment. You're led through a side corridor toward what appears to be a private study. The steward stops before a double door that seems to shimmer as you approach. He doesn’t knock, but instead touches a hand to the sigil, speaking a single word:
“Enter.”
The doors swing open slowly, soundlessly, revealing a circular room lit by a hovering chandelier of floating crystal shards. Bookshelves curve along the outer wall, and the center of the space is dominated by an arcane globe suspended midair, its surface swirling with constellations and lines of light like a map not only of the world, but of ley-lines and magical theory. Seated near it in a high-backed chair of dark mahogany is Lord Saelric Vareth himself.
He looks every bit the part of a noble wizard, early thirties by appearance, youthful and composed, with dark hair combed back in an artful wave and robes perfectly tailored with precision. His eyes are an unsettling gray-blue, piercing, cold, and calculating. He does not rise.
His gaze lands first on Teryn, then briefly on the others, then back again. “Well. I must admit, I didn’t expect this particular arrangement of faces today. And yet, here we are.” His voice is smooth and soothing, like velvet dragged across glass. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Teryn?” He gestures lazily to a semicircle of chairs arranged across from him. You get the impression that no one sits in this room unless invited, and you've just been... delicately granted that courtesy.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Ellanise smiles brightly at the wizard. "You must be Lord Vareth," she says, taking a half step away from Taryn's side, but keeping her fingers laced with his. She turns, visibly admiring the whole of the room.
Turning back to Taryn, she says, "When you said this place was impressive, you weren't kidding." She pulls him toward a chair and sits in the next one in the row, finally dropping his hand.
She locks eyes with Saelric again. "I'm Ellanise," she says, placing a hand to her chest. "That's Käinen. And the little guy is Rowan."
Rowan trails the group with quiet, measured steps, rough boots making hardly a scuff on the polished floors. At Ellanise’s introduction he offers Lord Vareth a respectful dip of the head, settling into the indicated chair with hands folded atop one knee. A single, courteous nod—no words—marks his acknowledgment, his teal eyes calm and unreadable beneath the brim of tousled hair.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Zephirah - Demonic Bard - Sands || Merry - Gifted Surgeon - Short || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus || Lan - Dwarf Dragon - Wuxian ||
Teryn inclines his head slightly, his expression polite and composed, but his silver eyes never leave Saelric’s face. “You do keep your aesthetic sharp as ever,” he says, voice smooth but not quite warm. “It’s good to see you, Saelric.”
He allows Ellanise to guide him toward the chair and sits with careful ease, smoothing the hem of his coat. “We’ve come with a request,” he says simply. “One I expect will cost us, but I know better than most the things you value.” He finally breaks the steady eye contact, just briefly, as if to let the weight of the moment settle. “You are familiar with the Gilded Iris, yes?”
Lord Saelric Vareth’s fingers drum idly along the polished armrest of his chair as each of you settles in, his gaze never once leaving Teryn, at least until Ellanise speaks. He shifts his attention to her with a faint tilt of the head, the barest lift of an eyebrow as if mildly surprised by her candor.
“Ah. Charming,” he says smoothly. “You must be the… newer friends. The ones Teryn has seen fit to replace the rest of us with.” There’s no malice in the words, only that same cultured drawl. He offers a shallow nod in Rowan and Käinen’s direction, then finally returns his focus to Teryn, eyes narrowing with quiet satisfaction.
“Of course I’m familiar with the Gilded Iris,” he replies after a beat, voice growing faintly amused, as if bragging in a way. “A rare gem. Difficult to find. More difficult still to enter. Quite exclusive, you understand... But you already know that, don't you...?”
He leans forward just slightly, enough for the windows above to throw sharp light across the side of his face. His smile widens, not warm, but not entirely cruel, either. Merely entertained at the situation presented in front of him.
“So here you are, walking through my door again. Curious how fate turns the wheel, isn’t it? After all this time, and now you come calling, not for apology, not for closure… but for access...?” His eyes glint. “You must really need this favor to come all this way.” He steeples his fingers beneath his chin and adds, almost wistfully, “Tell me, Teryn. What happened to your pride?”
His words hang in the air like a perfume, precise, calculated. He is enjoying this, but it seems he hasn’t yet declined your request… he’s simply circling, savoring the moment.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Ellanise paints a smile on her face, but she is anything but happy. She turns to look at Teryn, willing him the strength she anticipates he needs in order to continue this conversation.
Rowan keeps his head bowed in placid deference, but his eyes wander like a farm-cat in a grain loft, noting every shiny kernel. He lets his eyes skim the tall shelves, the glass-front cases, the polished side-tables—seeking any trophy, tome, or trinket that might hint at what soil Lord Vareth truly cultivates. A tilt of the head here, a slow blink there, as though merely admiring the décor; in truth he’s weighing every glitter and shadow for leverage when the bartering starts. Content to let Teryn steer the plow for now, Rowan banks each detail in silence, ready to lay the right seed when the haggling turns hard.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Zephirah - Demonic Bard - Sands || Merry - Gifted Surgeon - Short || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus || Lan - Dwarf Dragon - Wuxian ||
Between Teryn words and the insides of the mannor, Käinen could not help but imagine Saelric a small man. Not in stature. Time and experience had long since taught the goliath that height mattered little. Hells, Byldeth and Rowan were close examples of that – the shortest in their group, great men for all meanings and purposes. No, the goliath imagined the wizard a small spirit, full of arrogance and self-importance while devoid of humility. By comparison Vareth seemed almost decent.
The way he talked about favors and pride was far from pleasant but sounded somewhat less poisonous than that of the servant. The nobleman seemed more like a former lover acting petty after a break-up he didn’t quite accept. If at first Vasha brought to his mind the idea of a younger sister to be teased, the lord of the manor made him think of a bratty teenager being annoying. A fitting addition to the actions of a kid trying to look cool.
Keeping his silence Käinen let his eyes wander through the room, taking notice, first and foremost, of entrances and exits. He didn’t imagine they would be attacked or need to run away but it was always useful to know as much and he needed to distract his mind from a conversation that belonged entirely to the warlock.
Teryn’s expression doesn’t flinch under Saelric’s needling, but his silver eyes sharpen slightly, cool and unwavering. “My friends are not replacements,” he says calmly. “You made it quite clear, Saelric, that my…magical temperament disqualified me from standing beside you as an equal. I simply accepted your terms.”
He gives a faint, dry laugh and brushes a hand lightly through his hair, like dusting away the last remnants of the past. “As for my pride? It’s surprisingly intact, thank you. You didn’t break it, if that’s what you were hoping.” Then, with practiced grace, he draws the professor’s sealed letter from his robe and sets it neatly on the desk before him—careful not to disturb the placement of a single pen, book, or etched paperweight. “We’ve come ready to bargain, Saelric. And I believe the currency is something you value even more than sentiment: knowledge. Quite exclusive access, you understand.”
Saelric Vareth reclines in his chair like a king on a throne he’s earned twice over. One leg crosses neatly over the other, and his fingers trace the Academy seal with practiced indifference. "Still dramatic, Teryn,” he muses, turning the envelope slowly between his fingers. “I can’t decide if I admire your consistency or pity it.” His eyes flick toward the others, assessing them like rare specimens on loan from a lesser collection, his gaze landing a little longer with Ellanise. Then back to Teryn. "I’ll admit, though, I never expected you to come back. Not after the way you stormed out. Stars in your eyes. That borrowed power humming through your veins. The invisible leash, oh so tight.” He smiles, and it’s beautiful and cruel all at once. “You didn’t break your pride, no. You sold it. And now you return, a penitent with paperwork. A courier.”
Saelric breaks the seal and unfolds the letter with delicate care, as if the parchment might bruise under lesser hands. He reads silently, the only sound you hear is the faint ticking of an ornate clock somewhere beyond the study’s doors. When he looks up again, his expression is unreadable.
“I know the Gilded Iris,” he says at last, almost lazily. “Everyone who matters does. But you already knew that. You're here because you know that if anyone could buy a door into its heart, it's me.” He leans forward, steepling his fingers. His voice lowers, not conspiratorial, but purposeful. “And you're right.”
He lets the moment hang.
“I could have you admitted. You'd walk through those doors with my name as your key.”
Another pause, another half-smile.
“But I don’t offer passage to old flames for free. That’s not how this works. You're not the only one who’s learned to make a deal.” He gestures with the letter. "This little favor from Marsh might help. It’s... quaint. But you’ll need to sweeten the pot.”
Saelric Vareth stands and turns behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back as he gazes out the tall window. He speaks with measured calm. "There’s a man. Dorian Eltrax. Junior archivist at the Constellarium. Ambitious, irritatingly thorough, and newly obsessed with poking holes in my academic record. He’s accused me of misquoting a First Era inscription in my dissertation, twice. And while nothing will come of it, the gossip is enough to dull my reputation among the Conclave’s less discerning members.”
He turns back to face you all, though his eyes fix on Teryn with a piercing sort of fondness that reads more like venom than nostalgia.
“I want the situation… corrected. Quietly. Discreetly. There’s a particular entry in the ledger vault at the Constellarium, one which, if slightly altered, would cast doubt on Eltrax’s findings and bolster mine. You’d need to forge the correction subtly. Something just credible enough that only someone desperate or foolish would contest it.” A faint smile plays on his lips. “Think of it as a lesson in rewriting history. Just a brushstroke. No need to get your hands dirty... just a little ink-stained.”
Teryn:
You feel something cold ripple beneath your skin. Not physical. Not quite internal. Like a wind that passes through you. Saelric’s voice begins to echo faintly, and then blur as though you’re suddenly underwater. Your vision narrows, and you see the corners of the room darken. A familiar voice, not Saelric’s, laughs softly. Beautiful like a rose, but still laced with thorns.
"Mmm... so easily rattled, that one. Jealous little candle of a man. Flicker, flicker. Would you snuff him, little star? Would you rewrite the truth for a lie? A delicious turn, isn’t it? You should."
You blink. Saelric’s voice returns, crisp again, his chin now tilted as he awaits your reply.
“Do that for me, and you’ll have my signature whispered to the right ears. The Iris will open to you.”
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Changing records to satisfy his ego? Ellanise really doesn't know how she feels about this. In her past life, she took what the Rats wanted. Things they could use or sell. Now her path is to atone for those wrongs and to help others. She's never been in a situation where the crime was so ... intellectual.
She can't help but let her mask slip a little.
"Tell us more about this ledger. And Eltrax."
Saelric’s fingers rest lightly on the edge of his desk, his expression unfazed by Ellanise’s tone. If anything, her hesitation seems to amuse him. “A particular volume in the upper vaults, Ledgers of Provenance, Vol. XIV. It catalogs all accepted citations from the Ardent Spire expeditions. Dull reading unless you happen to care deeply about which stone was discovered by whom, and when.”
He walks over to a nearby sideboard, pours himself a glass of dark golden liquor, and continues, back turned. “Eltrax found a transcription error. A harmless one, really, an extra rune in a rubbing I cited nearly a decade ago. He claims it alters the meaning of a phrase. Thus, would invalidate my theory on the Vestraal Split. Now he’s made noise about appealing to the Academy’s Ethics Board. Not because he wants truth, no, he wants tenure.”
He turns back, swirling the glass idly. “The ledger simply needs an additional line, one citation with an older date, entered in a different hand, suggesting that his preferred interpretation already existed. That’s all. It won’t survive serious scrutiny, of course, but it will muddy the waters long enough for me to publish the revised edition of my thesis and bury the scandal.”
He raises the glass slightly in a half-toast. “I assure you, it’s far from the worst crime committed in that library.” His eyes settle once again on Teryn, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before darting back to Ellanise. “But perhaps your little court of redemption disapproves? What does the high road feel like these days? Lonely, I imagine.”
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Ellanise wonders what Byldeth would have thought of this situation if the paladin had continued with them. Was it her job now to swing the pendulum — to balance the scales against the looser morals of the others? Would she be a hypocrite? Perhaps.
"I'm not saying no," Ellanise begins. "But is this the only exchange you're willing to make?"
Teryn's eyes narrow as he considers Saelric's words. Had the man always been so...petty? Perhaps he'd just been too naive to see it at the time. No more. He studies the man's body language carefully, trying to discern if this alteration is as harmless as he'd like them to believe. Does he really just want time to correct his work, or to destroy Eltrax's life?
Insight: 20; also History for if he knows about the Vestraal Split: 15