Anticipation begins to build in Shiva's chest as she stares at the letter. The warmth of her conversation with Maeve is already beginning to fade in the wake of its arrival, and she takes slowly a seat before it. Would it be a complete dismissal, Mistress assuming that all Shiva wanted was immortality? Or a demand to immediately ride to be at her side, with a promise of being turned?
Before the possibilities overwhelm her, she gingerly opens the letter and reads.
The parchment inside the envelope is thick and the ink a midnight-black with the faintest scent of myrrh. It reads...
My Blue Rose,
your letter found me beneath a sky of unbroken grey. Piotrgrad is ever a cold city, but it felt colder without word from you. To hold your thoughts in my hands was a balm, though the pain and peril woven through your words pierced deeper than any dagger.
First, let me say that I am proud of you. Not for your victories, nor even for your survival, but for your clarity. For reaching out, even in fear. For asking, not groveling. That is strength in its rarest form. That is you.
The curse within your blood is no small matter. You’ve long known that power comes at a price, but I will not stand idly while that price becomes your life. The path that you suggest can preserve you, though it is no small gift. I will not give you a half-answer here, because you deserve the truth and truth is what you asked of me.
Vampirism is not simply an affliction. It is a rebirth into cold eternity. You would lose no small portion of what makes you mortal, even as your body is preserved. The fate of your soul is the real question. I have seen souls like yours endure the change and shine brighter for it. I have also seen them fracture.
If this is the road that you choose, then I will walk it with you. You need not search further. I would give you this dark gift, not as your saviour, but as your Mistress and your lover. Not in haste, not tonight, but when we are together again, with clarity, intention and desire all aligned. I ask that you not beg it from fear alone. I want to see you live, but, more than that, I want to see you endure. You, not merely the shape that you wear.
I will send this letter to the Serpent to await you. Should your path bring you to Piotrgrad, you will find me at the place where we once danced beside the iron fountain. You’ll remember the sound of the bells.
You asked how I have been. The answer is: diminished. You are far and the bracelet that I gave you tells me that you move ever further from me. I find myself reaching out to the charm bearing my name, as if I might conjure you by touch alone.
You write that you wish to know me and I will give myself to you, Shiva. As you’ve given yourself to me in word, in fear, in fire. I will not waste what time remains. I will not withhold. When next I have you beneath me, it will not be as a secret. It will be as yours.
Until then, I wait. Not idly, or coldly, but as a flame waits in the hearth. Ready to be stoked, should your hand return to it.
Iskander smiled at his native tongue, it was the first time he'd heard it in weeks.
"So you are one of the physicians who saved me. I owe you my life." He bowed in respect, undermined as the gesture might be by his seated position above her. "May Imhotep walk with you on your noble path."
"I wanted to thank you before I left. I am leaving," he confirmed. " We are going by portal though?" he added with the pitch of a question. It had to make it better, didn't it? Her face told him what she thought of that.
"I wasn't sure if I'd die from disease before I got here, be executed or imprisoned. I never imagined I'd be leaving so shortly after. On my own two feet at that. In a sense." He clutched the satchel in his hand. "This thing I have to do. It is worth it. I'm done being a bystander and I'm done blindly following orders." Iskander forced a reassuring smile back onto his face. "Your efforts won't be for nothing, if I die I'll make sure it is worth it."
The healer pauses, surprised by the sudden sincerity and warmth in Iskander's voice.
"You speak beautifully," she says, her accent still thick, but her grammar careful and precise. "Your tongue is hard, but I studied at the old hospital in Tareem... and may Imhotep grant you healing wherever you walk," she echoes, bowing her head deeply in return. "I’m no priest, but I lit a flame for you. I thought that you might be the kind of man who would wake up and run."
When Iskander mentions the portal, the healer's mouth presses into a thin line.
"Magic like that pushes the body. Rips it through space. You’ll feel it in your gut, in your wound. You’ll be bleeding again before nightfall, I guarantee it..." Her eyes sharpen, pinning him like a needle to cloth. "...but I see that you've already made your peace with that."
She listens in silence as Iskander shares his doubts and resolve, not interrupting, not rushing him. Then she reaches into a pouch at her belt and pulls out a small, carved sunstone disk. It's flat and about the size of a coin, with a mark of warding etched on one side.
"This is for warriors who’ve already died once," the healer says, placing it firmly in his hand. "Press it to your skin if you fall. It won’t bring you back, but it might buy you the time to crawl back. You’re not the first fool to walk out of this place half-healed and fire-eyed," she tells Iskander with a thin, but genuine smile. "Most of them never come back to say thanks. So, I suppose that that makes you a rare sort of idiot. Go on then. Make it worth it. Also..." She adds hesitantly before Iskander can leave, glancing over her shoulder, as though somebody might be listening. "I overheard you saying something about faking your death? You’re lucky that the Kapikulu didn’t get to you first. The Bastion only stays neutral so long as no one makes a scene. Plus, The elf that you were speaking with..." she continues in a yet quieter voice, "he didn’t give his name, but something about him chilled my bones. Just be careful, will you?"
Shiva reads the letter, then reads it again before gently pressing the parchment to her chest in longing. The sweetness and vulnerability of Mistress's words, the willingness to act in order to save her life, to sire her into an immortal existence. All to be together again. To be hers.
Several tears roll down Shiva's azure cheeks as she considers this thing, this commitment and intimacy that she's wanted for so long. That she's reached out for so many times, only for her hand to be stung in dismissal. And here it is. And she's about to be sent to a foreign place to fight enemies unknown and terrible. She softly refolds the letter and sets in carefully into her bag, then turns to the blanket sheet of parchment before her.
My Dearest Mistress,
The words in your letter have moved me and filled me with a joy that I would diminish in attempting to describe. Gratitude also fails to capture just how much it means to be that you would be willing to lead me by the hand into an immortal life. It is a sentiment that I will spend the rest of my days and nights cherishing, just as I will cherish all that you are.
Thank you. For truly seeing me as you do, for trusting me and opening up to me. I've waited for what has felt like a lifetime to read your words, and desire fiercely to lie in your arms and listen to you give voice to them. To learn about you, likely learning about myself in the process as we spend uncountable nights in each other's embrace. For this and a thousand other intimacies performed and yet to come, thank you, Mistress.
I'm sorry that my absence pains you so, know that a day has not passed that I have not thought of you. In the time since my last letter, things have continued to change. I conquered horrors of my past (I'm sure that you will soon hear about the reappearance of the Demon of Breanne in Five Towers, though I assure you that the story is nowhere near as overblown as it will sound). I have grown as a warrior, and as a friend to those close to me. I have been given a chance to follow a different path that would save my life, though I would be changed as deeply as vampirism would alter me.
Reincarnation. My soul thrown into a new body. I would remain the age I am now upon the change, but the form I would take would be almost completely up to chance, though my will would have some degree of influence, I'm told. It requires a great number of rare, magical items, and I will list them below if you happen to have access to any and would like to assist in the process. I've also received great aid from a powerful wizard in Five Towers, a Warden Elias. He has marked me with a series of magical runes that act as a barrier between my soul and the seed of Chaos that sits beside it. It will slow my degeneration, while giving me access to the magics of the runes themselves while the Warden seeks out some of the ingredients for my rebirth. In return, I have pledged that I would come to his tower's defense, should it ever come under attack.
It sounds like a grand and impossible thing, I know. Yet it seems entirely legitimate. There was a moment when I feared that you would no longer desire me if I were to change so drastically, but the words of your letter banished all my fears.
We will have time now, my darling. I've recently come to understand that a decision made in haste is hardly a decision at all, and we need not be hasty with our decision to turn me. We can both discuss it at our leisure when next we're together.
Gods, the thought of us being together again sends shivers through my body. I desire you as a forest does rain, as instruments desire their infinite songs to be cast into the air and into the hearts of all who may hear them. For all the time that lays ahead of us, know without question that I am, eternally, yours.
My friends and I will soon travel to Beschcadik by magical portal in order to face a great foe that holds many fates in their hands, including several dear to us. I will look for your next letter there, at an establishment similar to the Scarlet Serpent.
-Your Enamored Blue Rose
P.S. Ingredients for Reincarnation are as follows:
Elder amber resin, an elixir of moonlit lavender, powdered bark from an ancient oak and elemental eucalyptus salve would all help to ease the process. Phoenix feather oil would also be ideal, if possible.
In lieu of these, stardust jasmine oil, astral myrrh, celestial larkspur petals and iridescent serpent scales, dragon's blood ambergris, crystalized fey honey and sylvan tears.
Folding and sealing the letter, Shiva finds the attendant who escorted her to the room and gives them her letter. "Please take great care with this." She then hands the attendant her remaining coins before heading for the Warden's Tower.
Upon exiting the arena, Shiva gratefully receives her winnings for the fight, a hefty bag of coins that jingle musically as she puts them away. With this, she would be able to procure all that she needed for the impending trip and the dangers it would present. She finds Alaris to quickly let them know of her intended stops, and that she would meet them back at the Warden's Tower.
Alaris wraps their friend in a powerful hug and gives her words a murmur of acknowledgement, then takes advantage of the crowd's adulation for Shivala to wrap themselves in their tattered grey cloak again and merge into that crowd. Life had been so much simpler when they just lived this way, an unknown presence on the streets of Piotrgrad, caring for their little coterie of street urchins.
Nostalgia is denial, Alaris. Denial of the painful present. The name for this denial is Golden Age thinking - the erroneous notion that a different time period is better than the one ones living in - its a flaw in the romantic imagination of those people who find it difficult to cope with the present.
Oh, are you back? I haven't heard from you in days and days. I wondered if you'd found your peace at last. And the present IS difficult to cope with - my friends are scattered across the world and I know not where. Our enemies are so cunning and so powerful that I feel foolish and hopeless even considering facing them.
Oh wow, kitten... you're usually the cheery and hopeful one. We can't both be doom-and-gloom wielders of snark and sarcasm against the darkness. Tell me this - when was the last time you went to a meeting?
A meeting? I am... I am not sure what you mean. I just came from a great crowd at the fighting arena here. Who should I be meeting?
Hmm. Yeah - I forgot your world is so very different. Let's just say that when I'm feeling hurt, angry, lonely, or tired... a spon ---- a mentor of mine told me that that's when I need to find a group - a meeting of likeminded folks who share my craving, my destructive need. If you're me - just me THERE instead of here - it sounds like you need a meeting too. At meeting, we listen to one another - we share our struggles - and we call each other out on our bullshit. It's as close to church as you'll EVER find me!
I haven't - I don't know - when WAS the last time I communed with followers of the Lady?
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Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid,Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions! I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
The healer pauses, surprised by the sudden sincerity and warmth in Iskander's voice.
"You speak beautifully," she says, her accent still thick, but her grammar careful and precise. "Your tongue is hard, but I studied at the old hospital in Tareem... and may Imhotep grant you healing wherever you walk," she echoes, bowing her head deeply in return. "I’m no priest, but I lit a flame for you. I thought that you might be the kind of man who would wake up and run."
When Iskander mentions the portal, the healer's mouth presses into a thin line.
"Magic like that pushes the body. Rips it through space. You’ll feel it in your gut, in your wound. You’ll be bleeding again before nightfall, I guarantee it..." Her eyes sharpen, pinning him like a needle to cloth. "...but I see that you've already made your peace with that."
She listens in silence as Iskander shares his doubts and resolve, not interrupting, not rushing him. Then she reaches into a pouch at her belt and pulls out a small, carved sunstone disk. It's flat and about the size of a coin, with a mark of warding etched on one side.
"This is for warriors who’ve already died once," the healer says, placing it firmly in his hand. "Press it to your skin if you fall. It won’t bring you back, but it might buy you the time to crawl back. You’re not the first fool to walk out of this place half-healed and fire-eyed," she tells Iskander with a thin, but genuine smile. "Most of them never come back to say thanks. So, I suppose that that makes you a rare sort of idiot. Go on then. Make it worth it. Also..." She adds hesitantly before Iskander can leave, glancing over her shoulder, as though somebody might be listening. "I overheard you saying something about faking your death? You’re lucky that the Kapikulu didn’t get to you first. The Bastion only stays neutral so long as no one makes a scene. Plus, The elf that you were speaking with..." she continues in a yet quieter voice, "he didn’t give his name, but something about him chilled my bones. Just be careful, will you?"
When she talks about Tareem, Iskander remarks that she must have had an excellent teacher. It probably isn't the right reaction but he can't help but chuckle when he finds out that teleportation isn't as smooth as he'd imagined.
"Alas, I thought that might allay your worries a little but I've only made things worse. You couldn't just go back to imagining I'm slung in the back of some cart, with my leg being jostled about with every bump on the road?"
That lightness was dispelled when she brought up his desertion.
"It wasn't luck. Hirn was Hell. We were slaughtered and they were too busy retreating themselves to be concerned with deserters. I've not brought trouble to your doorstep." It had been everything besides the Sarameian military that had hinged on luck, but he didn't need to worry her with that.
He flipped the disk over in his hand, it looked expensive.
"Thank you for the warning. I don't trust him either. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend, but is my ally while we are united in purpose." Iskander closed his hand around the disk and rose from the chair. "I hope I'll be able to come back here one day - to return this to you and tell you I didn't need it." He glanced towards the door. "I should collect my things and go, but it was good to meet you. I'm Iskander, I don't think I introduced myself."
The halfing gives a quiet, approving hmm when Iskander compliments her teacher.
"He was cruel, brilliant and taught me to stitch faster than I could think. I still hear his voice when I thread a needle," she says, with a weary fondness that only the long-recovered student can muster, before laughing at his cart comment, her eyes flicking towards his leg. "Would that you were," the healer replies. "At least then I’d know exactly how much pain to expect."
However, when Iskander mentions Hirn, the halfling's smile fades and she nods, not offering sympathy so much as acknowledgment. She watches him toy with the disk, and when he calls out Caio’s untrustworthiness in polite terms, she raises an eyebrow.
"You know your own limits. That might be more important than trusting anyone else," she answers in a quieter and more measured voice, until Iskander finally introduces himself, prompting a kind smile. "Then may your name be remembered, Iskander. I am Yamina," she replies, speaking the name like a benediction. "Now go. Take what you’ve found and make it mean something. If you do come back, I’ll still be here. Stitching wounds and praying for fools."
Yamina waves Iskander off with a flick of her fingers, already turning back to her work. Nevertheless, there's a subtle, quiet pride to the healer's posture. As though, by saving him, she's placed a bet on a better future.
The Sunhold Baston's teleportation chamber is a vault of silence and stone at the very heart of the fortress, nestled beneath the gleaming spires of Paragon. The air here is cooler and tinged with both incense and the metallic sting of old spells. A ring of gold-veined marble tiles glows faintly on the floor, marking the runic circle, which shimmers with latent energy. Each sigil has been carved with painstaking precision and pulses with a slow, rhythmic light. Torches burn low in their sconces, casting long shadows against the domed ceiling, where a sunburst over crossed spears is inlaid in gold and the scent of the smoke is perfumed with bergamot and cypress, masking the ozone and ash beneath it. Even the echoes in the chamber are subdued, swallowed by heavy stone and deeper enchantments.
Caio stands still and poised, leaning against the wall at the edge of the chamber, like a man who’s been waiting in both body and thought. His cloak is drawn close against his frame, travel-worn yet regal, and the edges of his boots trace the flagstones as though he's rehearsing a memory.
Iskander's low appreciative whistle echoes in the grand space. He's carrying a bag with his scant possessions, and with significantly more ease than he walked away with. Some of this is that he has got used to the pain somewhat and knows how to shift his weight to avoid the worst of it, but mostly it is the effects of the infused sun oil kicking in.
"Pretty grand considering we are not in Sarameia" In truth he had done a few short shifts guarding teleportation chambers, and this was far nicer. He was deliberately opting for a friendlier tone now that he wasn't being ambushed immediately upon waking, it belied his trust in the man beside him.
He comes to lean against the wall by Caio. "Thank you for giving me the time to do that. I'm ready now, but I don't know how this all works" Iskander twirls his finger to indicate the room they are in. "Seen one of these before, but not in use. How do we go through, and what should I expect?"
Caio watches the Sarameian as he enters like a panther watching a deer walk beneath his arboreal perch. Just because he believes their fates are bound, that doesn’t mean Caio trusts him either.
”I will notify the Warden that we are ready to return and he will open the gate. The sensation can be unpleasant for those unaccustomed to teleportation, but you’ve been through far worse.” he smirks, pointing to the bandages which wrap the man. “Our destination is Five Towers, specifically the sanctum of the Rift Warden. He is a powerful mage who my troupe has aligned ourselves with, as it turns out he shares our disdain for the Morgensterns.” Caio steps up to the edge of the circle and closes his eyes. “We will rejoin with my companions, assuming they haven’t gotten themselves killed or worse, and then the Warden will send us to Beschadik.”
Back in the metropolitan city of Five Towers and within the Warden’s sanctum, Ghoul has been the picture of serenity, mostly sleeping and even accepting cuddles or scritches should they be offered. But suddenly the conjured cormorant jolts out his sleepy stupor and begins a hellish squawking. Ghoul leaps up from wherever he is perched and begins flapping about, attempting to get the Warden’s attention to lead him back to the sanctum’s circle.
Caio’s words settle like dust in the charged stillness of the chamber, the elf's figure cutting a clean silhouette against the glimmering lines of power, as he steps into the runes' outer ring. The light around them grows subtly brighter and the runes glow like embers given breath.
Meanwhile, in Five Towers, Ghoul, who had until moments ago been draped lazily over a high-backed chair like a feathered scarf, suddenly explodes into motion. Wings flail, and the cormorant utters a raspy shriek not unlike a broken oboe being throttled. He launches himself towards the hallway with wild urgency, knocking over a stack of gently levitating scrolls.
The Warden's sanctum is a scene of ordered chaos: crystalline tomes suspended mid-air in geometric formations, arcane diagrams etched into floor and ceiling, and the faint scent of petrichor from the ever-present ambient warding magics.
Elias looks up at Ghoul's ruckus from a glowing astrolabe with furrowed brows, immediately grasping the implications.
"A tether," he murmurs, rising. "They are here."
The warden turns on his heel with practiced grace and makes for the teleportation chamber. With a wave of his hand, an arcane field flares, transparent filaments of planar energy lacing the circle’s edge. Elias begins incanting, his voice a measured cadence in a tongue older than the empire that Iskander once served.
Back in the Sunhold Bastion, the circle beneath Caio and Iskander ignites in full. The air before them ripples and distorts, as though reality itself has hiccuped. Their vision fills with light and, in an instant, they are elsewhere.
The scent shifts first: from stone and incense to ozone and fresh parchment. The pressure changes. For Iskander, the teleportation is disorienting. It feels like being turned inside out, like his blood flowed backward for a heartbeat too long, like his soul tried to sneeze. There's no motion, just transposition. One breath in one world, the next in another.
The pair appear within the Warden’s sanctum, at the heart of Five Towers.
The teleportation circle flares one last time and then dims behind them.
Elias Aetherweaver stands at the periphery, his piercing blue eyes taking them in with analytical calm. Ghoul flaps furiously overhead and then settles, pleased.
"Welcome back, Caio," the Warden says, eyes shifting to Iskander with mild curiosity, "and welcome, guest. You are expected."
From a side corridor, the faint sounds of footsteps and distant conversation drift closer. Alaris, Astrid and Shiva drawing near.
“Warden, thank you.” Caio regards the mage with a polite bow of the head and hand to the chest. “The Sunhold Bastion proved far more than just a teleportation circle. I’ve gained not only priceless information on our quarry, but also a guide to Beschadik. This is Iskander. For now at least our goals are aligned.”
Ghoul is quick to flap back to his master’s shoulder, and the ranger indulges the bird with a scratch behind the head as he continues. “Are my companions ready to depart or have they managed to burn down two of the five towers?”
The crystalline facets of the sanctum catch the light as Elias inclines his head in return. He's stiff, but not unfriendly, his robes rustling like paper brushed by wind. The runes along the edge of the circle dim further as their activation concludes, leaving only the low ambient hum of planar energy in the space.
"Iskander," the warden echoes, his tone dry, but not dismissive as his gaze lingers on the bandages, then the man’s eyes. "A guide to Beschcadik is no small thing. You are welcome in this sanctum, so long as your purpose remains true."
Ghoul chirrups, then leans contentedly into Caio’s scratch with a flutter of smug feathers.
The faintest twitch can be seen at the corner of Elias's mouth in response to Caio’s final question. The expression might be a smirk, or perhaps merely a symptom of long exposure to the group in question.
"Your companions have not burned anything down... though Shiva was alarmingly close. I had to reinforce the warded alcove where she was practising her spells." He gestures with one hand towards the archway that leads deeper into the sanctum. "They’re in the antechamber. Final preparations are nearly complete. Astrid was verifying the orientation of the rift map. You'll depart within the hour."
The hallway ahead shimmers with a soft glow, the ever-present arcane energy of the sanctum casting intricate reflections in the polished stone. The clink of metal echoes from within. Caio can hear Astrid’s unmistakable snort of amusement and Alaris’s voice murmuring something patient and likely exasperated.
"Go," the Warden adds, already turning back to his instruments, his fingers resuming a slow recalibration of an orbiting ring of glyphs. "I’ll finalise the planar coordinates while you prepare. Beschcadik awaits."
Iskander only tunes into the conversation partway through. Yamina's warning no doubt helped but even steeling himself as he did, the teleportation was overwhelming. He pulls himself up straight.
He isn't encouraged by what he was hearing. Could this Shiva be a valuable ally? She is sounding more like a liability. Still reeling from the transport, he doesn't manage to supress a sceptical look but it only lasts a moment.
Iskander bows his head to the warden in acknowledgment. "Thank you." He says politely, "I hope I am able to make a difference." He looks back to Caio, "You said there was someone here who could get me back into fighting shape?"
A lean, russet-haired figure with haunted and hollow eyes the color of overcast skies, wrapped in a shabby cloak of almost the same shade, looks over their shoulder from where they stand in the antechamber near Astrid. "Did you hear Ghoul just now? Caio may have returned."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid,Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions! I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
Caio nods to Elias and responds to Iskander with only a beckoning gesture, indicating that he should follow.
”I have, and I’ve brought company.” he responds to Alaris as his frame occludes the entrance to the antechamber. “Everyone, this is Iskander,” he says, moving aside to reveal the janissary. “We met in Paragon by a stroke of fate. He too seeks the downfall of the Morgensterns and he has invaluable knowledge of Beschadik and its politics.”
Shiva sits up, bright smile on her face as she rotates her right arm while pressing down on the shoulder. The jagged, spiral guard of Hellbender is a prominent addition to her appearance, announcing its strength from its place on her hip.
The azure tiefling is an imposing figure, even in the happiness of her smile. Despite her distinctly muscular frame, the simple movements of standing and walking are feather light and terribly efficient, the gait of a life-long fighter. Eyes black as pitch from the sclera to the pupil regard Caio with easy familiarity, then look more closely at the newcomer. Her breathing lifts the soft curls of her sapphire hair as it rests on her shoulders.
"Glad to have you back, Caio. I managed to earn some coin and go back for Hellbender, this blade is a thing of wicked perfection. I fought in the local pits and overcame a demon of mine in the process, no pun intended. Alaris was a wonderful help.”
Only now does she look to Iskander.
“Iskander, was it? Good to have an ally in the field with us to take the Morgensterns down.”
”I’m impressed, I was concerned that we’d be returning to find you having razed half the city and ravaged the brothels of the other half.” Though Caio’s tone is all icy sarcasm, the smirk that plays at his mouth indicates that it’s all in jest. He is genuinely impressed.
“Our ally here was in pretty rough shape when we first met. The clerics of the Sunhold Bastion did fine work, but he could use a tad more healing if we are to be prepared for the worst in Beshkadik. Alaris? Astrid?”
"Morgenstern" Iskander corrects. "Our swords both point at Clarissa, anything else remains to be seen."
Shiva's appearance is unusual, and in a way Iskander is not hugely familiar with, but he's seen all kinds of strange looking people in the capital. Enough that he can maintain a polite manner without gawking like she's some kind of circus attraction.
That doesn't mean he doesn't assess her as a soldier would; his eyes roam over her muscles, they look at her posture, how she wears her weapons.
"Well met, Gladiator." He extends a hand out in greeting. "Congratulations on your victory"
Shiva sneers at Caio's comment, then gladly shakes Iskander's outstretched hand. Her grip is powerful, almost overwhelmingly so, though she doesn't seem to have any ill intent in it. She now gives the man the same bright smile she'd given her shadowy friend.
"Well met, yourself! And gladiator is hardly a title I'd claim these days, you can call me Shivala." Taking several steps back in order for Alaris and Astrid to see to the man's wounds, she crosses her arms as she looks him over once more.
"If your blade is pointing at Clarissa then I can promise you that Valentine's blade will be pointing at you in return. What's your background, if you don't mind me asking? Considering you have inside information on Beschcadik and a bone to pick with a Morgenstern."
"Then at that time we can discuss it." Iskander said with a shrug.
He tried to gauge Shivala's strength by the handshake, he didn't doubt Shivala was stronger than him but such things could often be overcome by technique. He'd need to spar with her sometime to find out if she had skill as well as muscle.
"I served my country and my emperor as a janissary." He was still proud of that service no matter what had happed, and it showed in the tone of his voice and how his chest swelled. "I still serve my people but the janissaries are compromised by Clarissa's scheming."
The parchment inside the envelope is thick and the ink a midnight-black with the faintest scent of myrrh. It reads...
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
The healer pauses, surprised by the sudden sincerity and warmth in Iskander's voice.
"You speak beautifully," she says, her accent still thick, but her grammar careful and precise. "Your tongue is hard, but I studied at the old hospital in Tareem... and may Imhotep grant you healing wherever you walk," she echoes, bowing her head deeply in return. "I’m no priest, but I lit a flame for you. I thought that you might be the kind of man who would wake up and run."
When Iskander mentions the portal, the healer's mouth presses into a thin line.
"Magic like that pushes the body. Rips it through space. You’ll feel it in your gut, in your wound. You’ll be bleeding again before nightfall, I guarantee it..." Her eyes sharpen, pinning him like a needle to cloth. "...but I see that you've already made your peace with that."
She listens in silence as Iskander shares his doubts and resolve, not interrupting, not rushing him. Then she reaches into a pouch at her belt and pulls out a small, carved sunstone disk. It's flat and about the size of a coin, with a mark of warding etched on one side.
"This is for warriors who’ve already died once," the healer says, placing it firmly in his hand. "Press it to your skin if you fall. It won’t bring you back, but it might buy you the time to crawl back. You’re not the first fool to walk out of this place half-healed and fire-eyed," she tells Iskander with a thin, but genuine smile. "Most of them never come back to say thanks. So, I suppose that that makes you a rare sort of idiot. Go on then. Make it worth it. Also..." She adds hesitantly before Iskander can leave, glancing over her shoulder, as though somebody might be listening. "I overheard you saying something about faking your death? You’re lucky that the Kapikulu didn’t get to you first. The Bastion only stays neutral so long as no one makes a scene. Plus, The elf that you were speaking with..." she continues in a yet quieter voice, "he didn’t give his name, but something about him chilled my bones. Just be careful, will you?"
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Shiva reads the letter, then reads it again before gently pressing the parchment to her chest in longing. The sweetness and vulnerability of Mistress's words, the willingness to act in order to save her life, to sire her into an immortal existence. All to be together again. To be hers.
Several tears roll down Shiva's azure cheeks as she considers this thing, this commitment and intimacy that she's wanted for so long. That she's reached out for so many times, only for her hand to be stung in dismissal. And here it is. And she's about to be sent to a foreign place to fight enemies unknown and terrible. She softly refolds the letter and sets in carefully into her bag, then turns to the blanket sheet of parchment before her.
My Dearest Mistress,
The words in your letter have moved me and filled me with a joy that I would diminish in attempting to describe. Gratitude also fails to capture just how much it means to be that you would be willing to lead me by the hand into an immortal life. It is a sentiment that I will spend the rest of my days and nights cherishing, just as I will cherish all that you are.
Thank you. For truly seeing me as you do, for trusting me and opening up to me. I've waited for what has felt like a lifetime to read your words, and desire fiercely to lie in your arms and listen to you give voice to them. To learn about you, likely learning about myself in the process as we spend uncountable nights in each other's embrace. For this and a thousand other intimacies performed and yet to come, thank you, Mistress.
I'm sorry that my absence pains you so, know that a day has not passed that I have not thought of you. In the time since my last letter, things have continued to change. I conquered horrors of my past (I'm sure that you will soon hear about the reappearance of the Demon of Breanne in Five Towers, though I assure you that the story is nowhere near as overblown as it will sound). I have grown as a warrior, and as a friend to those close to me. I have been given a chance to follow a different path that would save my life, though I would be changed as deeply as vampirism would alter me.
Reincarnation. My soul thrown into a new body. I would remain the age I am now upon the change, but the form I would take would be almost completely up to chance, though my will would have some degree of influence, I'm told. It requires a great number of rare, magical items, and I will list them below if you happen to have access to any and would like to assist in the process. I've also received great aid from a powerful wizard in Five Towers, a Warden Elias. He has marked me with a series of magical runes that act as a barrier between my soul and the seed of Chaos that sits beside it. It will slow my degeneration, while giving me access to the magics of the runes themselves while the Warden seeks out some of the ingredients for my rebirth. In return, I have pledged that I would come to his tower's defense, should it ever come under attack.
It sounds like a grand and impossible thing, I know. Yet it seems entirely legitimate. There was a moment when I feared that you would no longer desire me if I were to change so drastically, but the words of your letter banished all my fears.
We will have time now, my darling. I've recently come to understand that a decision made in haste is hardly a decision at all, and we need not be hasty with our decision to turn me. We can both discuss it at our leisure when next we're together.
Gods, the thought of us being together again sends shivers through my body. I desire you as a forest does rain, as instruments desire their infinite songs to be cast into the air and into the hearts of all who may hear them. For all the time that lays ahead of us, know without question that I am, eternally, yours.
My friends and I will soon travel to Beschcadik by magical portal in order to face a great foe that holds many fates in their hands, including several dear to us. I will look for your next letter there, at an establishment similar to the Scarlet Serpent.
-Your Enamored Blue Rose
P.S. Ingredients for Reincarnation are as follows:
Elder amber resin, an elixir of moonlit lavender, powdered bark from an ancient oak and elemental eucalyptus salve would all help to ease the process. Phoenix feather oil would also be ideal, if possible.
In lieu of these, stardust jasmine oil, astral myrrh, celestial larkspur petals and iridescent serpent scales, dragon's blood ambergris, crystalized fey honey and sylvan tears.
Folding and sealing the letter, Shiva finds the attendant who escorted her to the room and gives them her letter. "Please take great care with this." She then hands the attendant her remaining coins before heading for the Warden's Tower.
Alaris wraps their friend in a powerful hug and gives her words a murmur of acknowledgement, then takes advantage of the crowd's adulation for Shivala to wrap themselves in their tattered grey cloak again and merge into that crowd. Life had been so much simpler when they just lived this way, an unknown presence on the streets of Piotrgrad, caring for their little coterie of street urchins.
Nostalgia is denial, Alaris. Denial of the painful present. The name for this denial is Golden Age thinking - the erroneous notion that a different time period is better than the one ones living in - its a flaw in the romantic imagination of those people who find it difficult to cope with the present.
Oh, are you back? I haven't heard from you in days and days. I wondered if you'd found your peace at last. And the present IS difficult to cope with - my friends are scattered across the world and I know not where. Our enemies are so cunning and so powerful that I feel foolish and hopeless even considering facing them.
Oh wow, kitten... you're usually the cheery and hopeful one. We can't both be doom-and-gloom wielders of snark and sarcasm against the darkness. Tell me this - when was the last time you went to a meeting?
A meeting? I am... I am not sure what you mean. I just came from a great crowd at the fighting arena here. Who should I be meeting?
Hmm. Yeah - I forgot your world is so very different. Let's just say that when I'm feeling hurt, angry, lonely, or tired... a spon ---- a mentor of mine told me that that's when I need to find a group - a meeting of likeminded folks who share my craving, my destructive need. If you're me - just me THERE instead of here - it sounds like you need a meeting too. At meeting, we listen to one another - we share our struggles - and we call each other out on our bullshit. It's as close to church as you'll EVER find me!
I haven't - I don't know - when WAS the last time I communed with followers of the Lady?
Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid, Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck
Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions!
I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
When she talks about Tareem, Iskander remarks that she must have had an excellent teacher. It probably isn't the right reaction but he can't help but chuckle when he finds out that teleportation isn't as smooth as he'd imagined.
"Alas, I thought that might allay your worries a little but I've only made things worse. You couldn't just go back to imagining I'm slung in the back of some cart, with my leg being jostled about with every bump on the road?"
That lightness was dispelled when she brought up his desertion.
"It wasn't luck. Hirn was Hell. We were slaughtered and they were too busy retreating themselves to be concerned with deserters. I've not brought trouble to your doorstep." It had been everything besides the Sarameian military that had hinged on luck, but he didn't need to worry her with that.
He flipped the disk over in his hand, it looked expensive.
"Thank you for the warning. I don't trust him either. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend, but is my ally while we are united in purpose." Iskander closed his hand around the disk and rose from the chair. "I hope I'll be able to come back here one day - to return this to you and tell you I didn't need it." He glanced towards the door. "I should collect my things and go, but it was good to meet you. I'm Iskander, I don't think I introduced myself."
The halfing gives a quiet, approving hmm when Iskander compliments her teacher.
"He was cruel, brilliant and taught me to stitch faster than I could think. I still hear his voice when I thread a needle," she says, with a weary fondness that only the long-recovered student can muster, before laughing at his cart comment, her eyes flicking towards his leg. "Would that you were," the healer replies. "At least then I’d know exactly how much pain to expect."
However, when Iskander mentions Hirn, the halfling's smile fades and she nods, not offering sympathy so much as acknowledgment. She watches him toy with the disk, and when he calls out Caio’s untrustworthiness in polite terms, she raises an eyebrow.
"You know your own limits. That might be more important than trusting anyone else," she answers in a quieter and more measured voice, until Iskander finally introduces himself, prompting a kind smile. "Then may your name be remembered, Iskander. I am Yamina," she replies, speaking the name like a benediction. "Now go. Take what you’ve found and make it mean something. If you do come back, I’ll still be here. Stitching wounds and praying for fools."
Yamina waves Iskander off with a flick of her fingers, already turning back to her work. Nevertheless, there's a subtle, quiet pride to the healer's posture. As though, by saving him, she's placed a bet on a better future.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
The Sunhold Baston's teleportation chamber is a vault of silence and stone at the very heart of the fortress, nestled beneath the gleaming spires of Paragon. The air here is cooler and tinged with both incense and the metallic sting of old spells. A ring of gold-veined marble tiles glows faintly on the floor, marking the runic circle, which shimmers with latent energy. Each sigil has been carved with painstaking precision and pulses with a slow, rhythmic light. Torches burn low in their sconces, casting long shadows against the domed ceiling, where a sunburst over crossed spears is inlaid in gold and the scent of the smoke is perfumed with bergamot and cypress, masking the ozone and ash beneath it. Even the echoes in the chamber are subdued, swallowed by heavy stone and deeper enchantments.
Caio stands still and poised, leaning against the wall at the edge of the chamber, like a man who’s been waiting in both body and thought. His cloak is drawn close against his frame, travel-worn yet regal, and the edges of his boots trace the flagstones as though he's rehearsing a memory.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Iskander's low appreciative whistle echoes in the grand space. He's carrying a bag with his scant possessions, and with significantly more ease than he walked away with. Some of this is that he has got used to the pain somewhat and knows how to shift his weight to avoid the worst of it, but mostly it is the effects of the infused sun oil kicking in.
"Pretty grand considering we are not in Sarameia" In truth he had done a few short shifts guarding teleportation chambers, and this was far nicer. He was deliberately opting for a friendlier tone now that he wasn't being ambushed immediately upon waking, it belied his trust in the man beside him.
He comes to lean against the wall by Caio. "Thank you for giving me the time to do that. I'm ready now, but I don't know how this all works" Iskander twirls his finger to indicate the room they are in. "Seen one of these before, but not in use. How do we go through, and what should I expect?"
Caio watches the Sarameian as he enters like a panther watching a deer walk beneath his arboreal perch. Just because he believes their fates are bound, that doesn’t mean Caio trusts him either.
”I will notify the Warden that we are ready to return and he will open the gate. The sensation can be unpleasant for those unaccustomed to teleportation, but you’ve been through far worse.” he smirks, pointing to the bandages which wrap the man. “Our destination is Five Towers, specifically the sanctum of the Rift Warden. He is a powerful mage who my troupe has aligned ourselves with, as it turns out he shares our disdain for the Morgensterns.” Caio steps up to the edge of the circle and closes his eyes. “We will rejoin with my companions, assuming they haven’t gotten themselves killed or worse, and then the Warden will send us to Beschadik.”
Back in the metropolitan city of Five Towers and within the Warden’s sanctum, Ghoul has been the picture of serenity, mostly sleeping and even accepting cuddles or scritches should they be offered. But suddenly the conjured cormorant jolts out his sleepy stupor and begins a hellish squawking. Ghoul leaps up from wherever he is perched and begins flapping about, attempting to get the Warden’s attention to lead him back to the sanctum’s circle.
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
Caio’s words settle like dust in the charged stillness of the chamber, the elf's figure cutting a clean silhouette against the glimmering lines of power, as he steps into the runes' outer ring. The light around them grows subtly brighter and the runes glow like embers given breath.
Meanwhile, in Five Towers, Ghoul, who had until moments ago been draped lazily over a high-backed chair like a feathered scarf, suddenly explodes into motion. Wings flail, and the cormorant utters a raspy shriek not unlike a broken oboe being throttled. He launches himself towards the hallway with wild urgency, knocking over a stack of gently levitating scrolls.
The Warden's sanctum is a scene of ordered chaos: crystalline tomes suspended mid-air in geometric formations, arcane diagrams etched into floor and ceiling, and the faint scent of petrichor from the ever-present ambient warding magics.
Elias looks up at Ghoul's ruckus from a glowing astrolabe with furrowed brows, immediately grasping the implications.
"A tether," he murmurs, rising. "They are here."
The warden turns on his heel with practiced grace and makes for the teleportation chamber. With a wave of his hand, an arcane field flares, transparent filaments of planar energy lacing the circle’s edge. Elias begins incanting, his voice a measured cadence in a tongue older than the empire that Iskander once served.
Back in the Sunhold Bastion, the circle beneath Caio and Iskander ignites in full. The air before them ripples and distorts, as though reality itself has hiccuped. Their vision fills with light and, in an instant, they are elsewhere.
The scent shifts first: from stone and incense to ozone and fresh parchment. The pressure changes. For Iskander, the teleportation is disorienting. It feels like being turned inside out, like his blood flowed backward for a heartbeat too long, like his soul tried to sneeze. There's no motion, just transposition. One breath in one world, the next in another.
The pair appear within the Warden’s sanctum, at the heart of Five Towers.
The teleportation circle flares one last time and then dims behind them.
Elias Aetherweaver stands at the periphery, his piercing blue eyes taking them in with analytical calm. Ghoul flaps furiously overhead and then settles, pleased.
"Welcome back, Caio," the Warden says, eyes shifting to Iskander with mild curiosity, "and welcome, guest. You are expected."
From a side corridor, the faint sounds of footsteps and distant conversation drift closer. Alaris, Astrid and Shiva drawing near.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
“Warden, thank you.” Caio regards the mage with a polite bow of the head and hand to the chest. “The Sunhold Bastion proved far more than just a teleportation circle. I’ve gained not only priceless information on our quarry, but also a guide to Beschadik. This is Iskander. For now at least our goals are aligned.”
Ghoul is quick to flap back to his master’s shoulder, and the ranger indulges the bird with a scratch behind the head as he continues. “Are my companions ready to depart or have they managed to burn down two of the five towers?”
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
The crystalline facets of the sanctum catch the light as Elias inclines his head in return. He's stiff, but not unfriendly, his robes rustling like paper brushed by wind. The runes along the edge of the circle dim further as their activation concludes, leaving only the low ambient hum of planar energy in the space.
"Iskander," the warden echoes, his tone dry, but not dismissive as his gaze lingers on the bandages, then the man’s eyes. "A guide to Beschcadik is no small thing. You are welcome in this sanctum, so long as your purpose remains true."
Ghoul chirrups, then leans contentedly into Caio’s scratch with a flutter of smug feathers.
The faintest twitch can be seen at the corner of Elias's mouth in response to Caio’s final question. The expression might be a smirk, or perhaps merely a symptom of long exposure to the group in question.
"Your companions have not burned anything down... though Shiva was alarmingly close. I had to reinforce the warded alcove where she was practising her spells." He gestures with one hand towards the archway that leads deeper into the sanctum. "They’re in the antechamber. Final preparations are nearly complete. Astrid was verifying the orientation of the rift map. You'll depart within the hour."
The hallway ahead shimmers with a soft glow, the ever-present arcane energy of the sanctum casting intricate reflections in the polished stone. The clink of metal echoes from within. Caio can hear Astrid’s unmistakable snort of amusement and Alaris’s voice murmuring something patient and likely exasperated.
"Go," the Warden adds, already turning back to his instruments, his fingers resuming a slow recalibration of an orbiting ring of glyphs. "I’ll finalise the planar coordinates while you prepare. Beschcadik awaits."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Iskander only tunes into the conversation partway through. Yamina's warning no doubt helped but even steeling himself as he did, the teleportation was overwhelming. He pulls himself up straight.
He isn't encouraged by what he was hearing. Could this Shiva be a valuable ally? She is sounding more like a liability. Still reeling from the transport, he doesn't manage to supress a sceptical look but it only lasts a moment.
Iskander bows his head to the warden in acknowledgment. "Thank you." He says politely, "I hope I am able to make a difference." He looks back to Caio, "You said there was someone here who could get me back into fighting shape?"
A lean, russet-haired figure with haunted and hollow eyes the color of overcast skies, wrapped in a shabby cloak of almost the same shade, looks over their shoulder from where they stand in the antechamber near Astrid. "Did you hear Ghoul just now? Caio may have returned."
Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid, Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck
Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions!
I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
Caio nods to Elias and responds to Iskander with only a beckoning gesture, indicating that he should follow.
”I have, and I’ve brought company.” he responds to Alaris as his frame occludes the entrance to the antechamber. “Everyone, this is Iskander,” he says, moving aside to reveal the janissary. “We met in Paragon by a stroke of fate. He too seeks the downfall of the Morgensterns and he has invaluable knowledge of Beschadik and its politics.”
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
Shiva sits up, bright smile on her face as she rotates her right arm while pressing down on the shoulder. The jagged, spiral guard of Hellbender is a prominent addition to her appearance, announcing its strength from its place on her hip.
The azure tiefling is an imposing figure, even in the happiness of her smile. Despite her distinctly muscular frame, the simple movements of standing and walking are feather light and terribly efficient, the gait of a life-long fighter. Eyes black as pitch from the sclera to the pupil regard Caio with easy familiarity, then look more closely at the newcomer. Her breathing lifts the soft curls of her sapphire hair as it rests on her shoulders.
"Glad to have you back, Caio. I managed to earn some coin and go back for Hellbender, this blade is a thing of wicked perfection. I fought in the local pits and overcame a demon of mine in the process, no pun intended. Alaris was a wonderful help.”
Only now does she look to Iskander.
“Iskander, was it? Good to have an ally in the field with us to take the Morgensterns down.”
Caio raises a brow at the warrior’s boasting.
”I’m impressed, I was concerned that we’d be returning to find you having razed half the city and ravaged the brothels of the other half.” Though Caio’s tone is all icy sarcasm, the smirk that plays at his mouth indicates that it’s all in jest. He is genuinely impressed.
“Our ally here was in pretty rough shape when we first met. The clerics of the Sunhold Bastion did fine work, but he could use a tad more healing if we are to be prepared for the worst in Beshkadik. Alaris? Astrid?”
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
"Morgenstern" Iskander corrects. "Our swords both point at Clarissa, anything else remains to be seen."
Shiva's appearance is unusual, and in a way Iskander is not hugely familiar with, but he's seen all kinds of strange looking people in the capital. Enough that he can maintain a polite manner without gawking like she's some kind of circus attraction.
That doesn't mean he doesn't assess her as a soldier would; his eyes roam over her muscles, they look at her posture, how she wears her weapons.
"Well met, Gladiator." He extends a hand out in greeting. "Congratulations on your victory"
Shiva sneers at Caio's comment, then gladly shakes Iskander's outstretched hand. Her grip is powerful, almost overwhelmingly so, though she doesn't seem to have any ill intent in it. She now gives the man the same bright smile she'd given her shadowy friend.
"Well met, yourself! And gladiator is hardly a title I'd claim these days, you can call me Shivala." Taking several steps back in order for Alaris and Astrid to see to the man's wounds, she crosses her arms as she looks him over once more.
"If your blade is pointing at Clarissa then I can promise you that Valentine's blade will be pointing at you in return. What's your background, if you don't mind me asking? Considering you have inside information on Beschcadik and a bone to pick with a Morgenstern."
"Then at that time we can discuss it." Iskander said with a shrug.
He tried to gauge Shivala's strength by the handshake, he didn't doubt Shivala was stronger than him but such things could often be overcome by technique. He'd need to spar with her sometime to find out if she had skill as well as muscle.
"I served my country and my emperor as a janissary." He was still proud of that service no matter what had happed, and it showed in the tone of his voice and how his chest swelled. "I still serve my people but the janissaries are compromised by Clarissa's scheming."