Viewing Single Post From: [PG-15] The Seekers

Viewing Single Post From: [PG-15] The Seekers
Sentrovasi	Nov 15 2007, 01:25 PM
White Night Posts: 278 Group: Dimension Warriors Member #1 Joined: June 3, 2007	Episode One - Chapter One Too Many Questions The bright sphere of flame that was Fyoris rose almost lazily over the horizon, its rays breaking through the darkness with a hesitancy that seemed almost tentative, as though unsure of whether or not it was quite the time. Once light had taken root, though, warmth came with it, and the Eye of Fire rose, now, with none of the same reticence it had before. The velvet blanket of night, perforated in an instant, obligingly drew back from Terres, taking with it sleep and leaving wakefulness behind. In the Thieves’ Quarter, though, the sun and moon were impotent as far as day and night went – each individual woke and slept as per his own agenda, while the taverns practically never closed. The Silver Wolf was one such tavern, set deep within the Quarter – it stood apart from the other buildings about it in that it seemed unlikely to collapse upon itself at the slightest provocation. While the exploits of the Thieves, as a result of the constant strife between the nobles inviting brisk business, allowed the Quarter much in terms of improvement, many a man would hoard his gala than spend it on what was, after all, just a place to stay in between jobs. This particular establishment, though, had a reputation that almost demanded its constant renovation: it was one of only four taverns with affiliates, and perhaps the most respected of the four. Greth Stonefist, the Guardian-class Thief, and Andreas Locke, of the Assassin class, were both almost legendary in their fields. Besides these patrons, a few other select Thieves of potential made their homes here – as a result, the job requests were invariably of a higher quality than those found in other, seedier taverns: a fair trade-off for a modest amount of gala, its occupants thought. The few individuals who sat at the many tables which occupied the first floor of the tavern were not making much of a noise: the Wolf was most alive in the evenings and well into the night: those here now were most probably waiting to fulfil meetings with their clients, or else just idling time away until their next missions. Most of the men preferred brothels than drink as a method of passing the time, but the man who stood behind the counter could hardly care less: the musky bar was all he had – all he wanted – and that was enough. The landlord cum barkeep was a man who could keep secrets well-enough – Elric had had his tongue severed by an Assassin before he’d reached twenty. He’d killed the older man eventually, but that he’d done so as an Assassin, himself, gave him little comfort. Once a Thief, he no longer had a last name – while he could make himself understood when he needed to, Elric never made too much of an effort with anything to do with his past. As the owner of the Silver Wolf, though, he was impeccable. He asked no questions, nor demanded any explanations – he had no desire to be caught up in the life of a Thief again: helping the Quarter out, though, was a whole different matter. At this moment, though, Elric was curious: curious about one of his Rogue-class Thieves; curious because she’d always been an enigma to him – even more so than the others, and that was saying something. That she had a mysterious past at the age of thirteen – when she’d first become a Thief – was remarkable: that she had skills enough to earn her a last name in a mere three years was something else. But that was secondary. She was a child with the mind of an adult, and like most adults, she was predictable: as far as her habits went, anyway. That she’d come home – he’d always regarded the Wolf as their home, even if they would never acknowledge the emotional significance that came with it – without launching into a tirade of how much work she had to do, or commenting on how many agents she’d killed – he knew for a fact that she detested the Houses: another mystery he had yet to unravel – was curious enough. What had been more disturbing was that she’d returned covered in blood – mercifully, dried – with her clothing practically ripped to shreds. She hadn’t seemed to be conscious of the stares coming at her from every direction: hadn’t looked in any direction but straight ahead, heading to her room. The slam of a solid oak door had returned the tavern to its usual cacophony of sound, but unlike his patrons, Elric could not forget. The fact that she was not down yet, with Fyoris burning bright in the sky, was one other thing that had him worried. But the landlord had never been one to pry. And he wasn’t about to start. --- The warmth of day on her skin told her what she didn’t have to open her eyes to see. She should’ve been awake hours ago. She struggled to open her eyes, but they refused to obey her – she recognized the symptoms of acute tiredness when she felt them. Stuck in a state of limbo between being asleep and awake, she made to at least roll out of the sun, so she might sleep in more comfort. She winced. It hurt to move, and no wonder – her wounds had been numerous, if none of them had been fatal, and— The sudden realization struck like lightning, jolting her out of her paralysis and forcing her to sit up: she opened her eyes, seeing nothing for a second as the thought filled her mind: she shouldn’t have been alive. The flash of a blade; the brief, fleeting pain of a blade slammed into her chest; the merciful release from life that had followed… and that should’ve been it. She shouldn’t have been able to sit up in her bed, even if she was hurting from… She stared, not believing what she saw. Her skin was tinged with blood; at points, it was soaked in the liquid… but there were no wounds: not even the slightest scratch on her body. Her body ached, but her unblemished skin was all the proof she needed that she was very much unharmed. That she had been in a fight was clear: her outfit hung from her body, cut to ribbons – there was even that damned tear about her chest where the blade had gone into her, but there was no wound behind it: just a dark brown blossom of blood like a wilted flower, and the dark streaks running down her naked midriff which indicated that blood had once flowed down them. Her red vest was gone, but at the moment, she hardly thought she’d miss it. “I am alive,” she spoke to no one in particular. She knew she didn’t sound convinced at all, but it was all she could do to prove her existence. Logic demanded that she would be dead, her corpse perhaps lying on the ground in Vis’faren, or, she reminded herself darkly, given to those of Fyrre as they’d been promised. But she was alive. That fact, too, was incontrovertible – if she could speak, could talk, could breathe – and could feel hungry, her stomach reminded her – then she could hardly be said to be dead, could she? And now she saw that last – the proof that the previous night had happened – that she had fought the agents and defeated them and escaped and continued running and got stabbed—no, scratch that part and what? The orb lay on her bedside table, resting on the cloth he’d provided her to hold it before: beside the leather straps bound to her sheathed dagger. She could not remember how she’d managed to get it back to her room: it was all she could do to hope she hadn’t touched it in the process. It looked pristine, the cloth that held it also as undefiled. She was relieved for a second, when she realized that her hands, too, were covered in dried blood. “How…?” she spoke in a throaty voice, her tongue feeling heavy in her mouth as she struggled to come to terms with everything. There was too much she didn’t know – too much for a two-thousand-gala-job: too much for anything. What she needed was a moment to calm down; to release from herself the nagging pain of the day before and remove the lethargy that still claimed her body. She needed a bath. She opted to just tear her top off her body than waste time trying to pull it over her head – in the state it was in, it probably had more utility as a rag, anyway. Her shorts, though, were mercifully unharmed – as were her legs, she noted: apart from the crusted blood which coloured her skin a dark brown, her body seemed in pristine condition. She soaked the tight leather in a bucket of warm water and threw her knife in with it: it wouldn’t do much for the stains, but it would do for a start. The Wolf had bathrooms for every room: it was a luxury few other taverns could afford, and one reason why a few clients had even deigned to stay in it – albeit only if they had some reason to hide: the baths still paled in comparison to those in the Merchants’ Quarter. Still, it was more than ample for a Thief – hot baths were luxuries normally enjoyed only in the few bathhouses scattered about the city. She liked to think the tub served a more practical purpose: as she slowly lowered herself into the hot water, she tried to remind herself that she only meant to make herself presentable, and perhaps clear her mind a little. The steaming water lapped over her skin, taking with it the blood and turning a dark red as it did. But now as the water covered her belly, then her chest; as she lay back against the side of the tub and felt her tense muscles begin to relax, she realized just how much she needed the bath. Her eyes closed involuntarily, her hands pausing in their efforts to rub some of the harder stains off her body. Her body lay still but for the gentle rising and falling of her chest as she breathed – it protested even the slightest movement she made, and she could do naught but oblige it, lying, relaxed in its luxuriant warmth. Her worries melting away, she felt herself succumb to unconsciousness again. The lull might have lasted a minute, or it could have lasted an hour. Judging by the temperature of the water now, the latter estimate was probably more in order. She was vaguely aware that it was long past the hour at which she would have been up and about already, but it was still only with a tremendous effort that she opened her eyes. And found herself in a lake of blood. Oh gods, not— She panicked, the red liquid about her sloshing as she flailed violently. Her head went under for only a moment, but that moment of sudden asphyxiation seemed an eternity as she tried to fight her way out of her red-tinged prison. She choked as she breathed, against her better judgement: a gasp as much in desperation as surprise. Release came suddenly as the tub tipped over and allowed the water, discoloured by the blood she’d washed off her, to merrily bubble down the drainage grille. She shivered, her dark, shoulder-length hair now plastered against her cheek as she knelt on the lacquered floor, as much because of the sudden contrast of cool air to warm water as the memories she’d almost been forced to revisit. As she struggled to calm herself, her face began to colour – the absurdity of her situation was only made worse by her stark nakedness: still shivering, she dried herself with the coarse towel hanging from a nail by the bath, then removed her one of her only other two sets of clothes – and this the only fresh one – from the small, slightly dank cupboard. She wouldn’t normally wear a skirt: even ones which were short enough not to hinder her movements; but today, she had a client to meet: a fact that required her to at least look somewhat presentable. She made to strap her dagger to her thigh, and then remembered that it wouldn’t make any difference: her skirt was short enough that it wouldn’t exactly be a concealed weapon, and she had no wish to agitate the man, anyway. Sighing at her sudden lack of coordination, she slipped the knife into her boot instead. Smoothing down her blouse – which smelt faintly of the same musky wood – she took the orb, throwing it into a leather satchel she slung over her shoulder, and left her room, not bothering (or wanting) to right the tub. There would be time for dark memories later. No, she corrected herself flatly; there will never be time for those. --- The silence of the tavern as she stepped into its main room was as much as she’d expected: a few raised heads turned her way, but most of the other patrons were either too nervous or too engrossed in their thoughts to give a single nod. Returning the greetings, she turned to notice the barkeeper staring at her. “Give it up, El,” her voice sounded strange in the silence, “you know I’m too young for you.” Her light tone hardly matched her own sombre thoughts, but the serious look he gave her was something she found far more uncomfortable. With a sudden jolt, she realized that he must have seen her enter the Wolf whenever it was she’d come back the night before: remembering the sheets streaked in dried blood and her top practically torn to rags, she wondered if— “El, tell me: when did I return last night?” Her voice was serious now, with none of the flippancy she’d used before. The barkeep had invented a language of sorts, over the years, to remedy his lack of a tongue: it was impressive, really, the way he’d managed to come up with a language used by none but himself. Over time, though, most of his close acquaintances had become familiar enough with the language to communicate with him effectively – it had almost become a ritual to learn it upon gaining his trust: a ritual that Äris, too, had gone through. While she was not able yet to articulate herself in the words of Riklan – hands of Rik, quite literally – she knew enough to understand that she’d gone straight up to her— “What’s that word?” she interjected. Elric faltered, before pointing in the direction of the stairs. —gone straight up the stairs to her room… and that she’d been in exactly the condition she’d woken up to find herself in. Her face flushed as she realized how many men she must have walked past in her state of relative undress, but that, too, passed. She summoned the courage “… And was I carrying this orb in my hands?” The translucent surface of the sphere winked innocently back at her as she removed it from where she’d kept it, holding it out for the barkeep to see. But there were no long sentences this time – the man just shook his head. “Then how—”she paused: there was no point in trying to get any further: it was at times like this she wished the barkeep would be a little less discreet – but then she had enough reason to be thankful that he was as professional as he was. However she might have looked the night before, he would never have checked up on her, or given her more than a cursory – if effective – glance. There was little else she could do than offer a hurried thanks and farewell as she left the Wolf for the bustling square beyond; the facts corroborated, and that was as much as she could discern. The mystery of the orb was one she would have to leave up to her client to explain… but she was afraid that it was a mystery she’d rather not have solved. He’d arranged for them to meet in a private room at a tavern at the outskirts of the Quarter – most of those who lived outside the Thieves’ Quarter would have as little to do with the place as possible, and it was probably most convenient for him there. That she had awoken at the tenth hour and lingered an hour in the bath meant she had to hurry to get there on time – hurrying, though, was one thing she was relatively good at: few could stand in her way when she had somewhere to get. In three leaps she had scaled the ledges which jutted out from the Wolf’s main façade. The Quarter was busy at this hour, filled with the colour and sound of everyday life: the shouts of the street hawkers touting their wares – some of them contraband – competed with the din of a constant stream of people moving from one end of the Quarter to the other: while the Thieves’ Quarter was shunned by the merchants and the Houses, men and women of all other walks of life still found the place convenient enough: even the wizards deigned to stop by from time to time, the artefact emporiums where Hunter-class Thieves auctioned their rare finds almost always at the top of their agenda. There were four classes of Thieves – decades ago, jobs could be taken by any class of Thief, but there had come a time when the clients had decided that specifications would have to be supplied: the failure rate of all but the best of Thieves had become somewhat embarrassing, even, with the Houses gaining the upper hand with their own specialized agents. From the practice of putting up specific requirements came the time when the Thieves themselves had begun their division – a few individuals, at first, but eventually everyone had learnt to classify themselves under a specific group: two, if they found themselves adept enough – Assassins, Guardians, Hunters and Rogues. The Assassin-class Thief specialized in ranged weapons, most of the time: melee fighters were not nearly as preferred: while they’d work well at close quarters, most Assassins would gladly bide their time for the clean, undetected kill. Andreas Locke was a renowned Assassin, armed with his gun Beowulf – it was a remarkable achievement, given that the nature of his work meant no one actually knew when he did kill someone: that his clients had never been disappointed were all the clues they had. The Guardian-class Thief did not normally have to kill: intimidation played a big part in his role. Still, their melee skills were still impeccable – they had to be, acting as bodyguards or delivering high-priority goods: treasures like the one she’d obtained. Greth Stonefist was a master of the broadsword and also, more notably, unarmed combat. His weapon, the Sinstriker, seemed almost too large to be of any earthly purpose: a giant blade of glowing moonsteel which was almost as long as she was tall, and as wide as the trunk of a good-sized tree. Like Greth, its imposing size seemed to serve enough as intimidation, but she’d seen him perform at the Fyr’cet, and knew that the weapon was no idle threat. If it’d been for her to decide, she knew he would’ve been a better choice than her for the mission – she knew for a fact that in the close confines of a room, the agents would have stood no chance against him. The Hunter-classes were again different: stealth was their key attribute – that, and an almost uncanny knack for knowing where to look. What seemed almost like child’s play to others was really a lot of hard work on their part, learning to discern fact from fiction in the rumours passed by the street-ears and training themselves to be able to sneak in and out with any given item without being noticed. As a result, though, few were especially good at fighting – probably the one reason they weren’t popular in any intrigue the Houses took an interest in. As it was, though, the mercenary role of the Hunter-classes had already begun to take a backseat to a newer trade – that of finding treasures on their own to sell: the curio and artefact shops in the Thieves’ Quarter were among the best-stocked in the Western Continent, let alone Terres. And then there were the Rogue-class Thieves. They were considered the jacks-of-all-trades by most: a class which was neither here nor there. That might have been true, but they were extremely good at what they did, nonetheless. Unlike the Guardian-class, which specialized in protecting and killing at close quarters, or the Assassin-class, which focused on killing from a distance, undetected, or even the Hunter-class, which hardly killed at all, the Rogues were a scouting class: speed and dexterity were their strengths. Useful for a variety of purposes, but rarely put to any one specific task, they focused on incapacitating enemies and moving on: killing would take too much time, and be far too messy. They had not the stealth of Hunters, but they were fast enough not to need it. And she, Äris Windblade, was a good enough example of that. “Good enough?” she murmured to herself, hardly believing that others thought so highly of her, “then explain what in Lenval’s name happened yesterday.” Her voice sounded calm despite the anger she felt towards herself now. She landed with barely a sound on the roof of the Wolf, looking out over the busy thoroughfare: her keen eyes sought out the spire rising from the building that was to be their rendezvous point, and in another second, she was off. Rogue and Hunter-class Thieves were the only ones who knew to successfully traverse the Serafa – the Windway, as it was otherwise known. Guardians and Assassins lacked the requisite agility and luck to successfully traverse the rooftops of Terres, replete with surprisingly strong winds, the city being situated atop a large hill – and even the most agile Assassin wouldn’t know which roofs were solid enough to leap to and which were rotting wood. The Rogues and Hunters had a grapevine all their own, which served as information enough: over the years, too, a few Thieves had set up their own residences where they might conveniently serve as stepping stones over routes that were just a little too difficult to traverse. The Wolf itself was one of several congregation points which were built conveniently in such a way as to allow easy access to the Windway. She always felt free up here, away from the stifling crowds and loud noises. Here, there was naught but her and the wind – her namesake. In a leap she had cleared the width of the busy street below her, barely touching the ground where she landed before she was off – some of the more suspect roofs necessitated such technique, but it had served her well in more ways than this one. Her course took her veering at a thirty-degree angle away from her destination: where winds were concerned, a straight line was not always the most practical route – one might easily be knocked off by a single malevolent gust. For the Rogue and Hunter-class Thieves, this was an embarrassing prospect – their dexterity was probably the only area in which they could trump their stronger cousins. For that reason, reading the winds had become almost a quintessential part of their lives: a part she relished. She leapt again, the wind almost throwing her across the length of the gap – a light step, and she was over. None of the peddlers or passersby below had noticed her: if they did look up, it was to monitor Fyoris’ passing – none of them had ever bothered, and in all fairness, she’d never bothered, either. They were but passing shadows, moments of life, fleeting, with the brevity of a word in a sentence in a paragraph in a page in a chapter in a book in a volume in a library – a brevity like the single, silent flicker of a candle going out in the Cathedral of Lenval: without significance. Like her own life, she reflected. But I’ll make that candle shine brightly, she promised herself, as she had so many times before. She jumped up as well as forward now: now that she had come into a denser residential complex, the buildings were getting taller – working through them was a strenuous work-out for even her lithe body, but it was better than the alternative – the tightly-packed buildings blocked any marauding wind from spiting her efforts. To the left, right, left and left again: she moved about the taller buildings than scaled them, not wanting to try contesting the winds which raged above her head. She leapt from the last building onto the roof of the inn he’d chosen as their meeting point: The Hunting Stag. Nimbly she swung from its drainpipe to the sill of a window to the tarpaulin drawn over a stall to the ground. There were few stares – she was still in the Thieves’ Quarter, after all, and she wouldn’t have drawn any more attention if she’d materialized out of thin air – although she thought perhaps they might have suspected she’d applied translocation in that case; it would have been a little more difficult to explain away. Dusting herself off as she stepped back into the warm press of the crowd, she made her way casually to the front of the inn and stepped in. She surveyed the room a trifle distastefully, her eyes lingering on the few distended patrons and the less-than-pristine bar counter – she was used to far less than this, but she felt more than a little resentment at how her client would have preferred the Stag over the Wolf. Beads of perspiration she’d scarcely noticed before made themselves known now as her body thawed in the gentle warmth of shelter – she brushed them off irritably as she approached the counter. The boy tending the bar seemed scarcely older than she was: he didn’t seem to know how to interpret the look in her eye as she approached him – he paused his absent-minded drying of a mug for a second to speak, then stopped before a word passed his lips and closed his mouth again – probably new, she thought silently, and unaccustomed to seeing young females in a bar. Exasperated, she was about to speak when a gruff, broad-shouldered man made his appearance through a stout, oak door set in the back. His step was enough excuse for the boy to mumble a few words in a tone that was almost comical before ducking into the back. She watched his retreating back quizzically for a moment before turning to the man before her. She’d met Klaus Irido before – the proprietor of the Stag, he was friendly enough, but inclined to be curt towards other Thieves – his was an establishment with affiliates of its own, as well. She was well aware of the animosity between them today: that her client would have chosen such a place as their meeting point indicated either ignorance on his part… or a lack of tact that she found quite unsettling. The former, she decided, was the more probable. “’Scuse the boy,” he spoke: his voice was a gruff, sonorous one, but with a certain dulcet quality, “don’t think he’s had much experience with girls like yourself.” The tone he used was casual, and his words carefully chosen, but she knew that the phrase ‘girls like yourself’ was not meant as a compliment – an insult, maybe, but not a compliment: maybe he was just irritated at her being here, she thought. Or maybe, a voice deep inside her voiced the uncomfortable truth, he’s just as distrusting of you as most of the others here. It had always been that those of her profession – especially Assassin-class Thieves – were viewed with mistrust: the Thieves’ Quarter owed its success to their resident mercenaries, and she’d helped the Quarter on more than one occasion, but the unwelcome thought was still there; the Thieves were mercenaries – if the day came that they’d to kill one of the common folk, there could be no refusal: not with the right price. But we wouldn’t do such a thing, she’d reasoned on more than one occasion. The answer had always been a mocking silence that revealed more than she wanted to know. She roused herself from her thoughts in time to hear that her client was waiting for her in the second private room: nodding in affirmation and thanking him as an afterthought, she headed up the stairs and located the room: the door was of rough oak, with the number two carved into it – she had an idea that the Stag’s affiliates were none as generous with their reward money as the Wolf’s had been. The door opened at her tentative knock. Her client, seated in a chair at one end of the sparsely decorated room, seemed to have been expecting her – expecting her enough to have two men flanking his sides – not Thieves, she noticed, they were clothed in the livery of a Family she did not recognize: inconsequential; since the man before her had taken every pain to disguise his identity, she didn’t doubt he’d altered their uniforms as well. “You’re late,” he informed her, the cleverly-hidden look of anticipation on his face hardly escaping her notice – she had the feeling he’d have waited another hour. The orb seemed to be gaining importance by the second: the Houses might have their own, macro agendas, but that this noble had his eyes on it as well suggested something deeper. Something, she reminded herself again, that she had no business getting into. “It was a rough night,” she answered off-handedly, suddenly stretching as though to emphasize the point. She glanced at the men: none of them had moved a muscle: they were either well-trained enough to judge sudden movements, or else slow, and just smart enough to hide it. She turned to face her client, his eyes asking the question neither of them had any need to voice. “I did get it, so stop with that look already.” Her client seemed to start for a moment – she’d known when she’d first met him that he was unused to being treated with anything less than complete respect: a commodity she was less than willing to trade. She pulled the strap of the satchel over her head, dropping it to the ground before him before striding over to the nearest chair and settling into it. “Go on, check if it’s the one. I’m in no hurry.” She leaned against the somewhat dingy armchair, lounging with an almost nonchalant air which belied the fact that her eyes were still on him. He wasn’t too bad an actor, she thought as he brought the satchel onto his lap with an almost casual indifference. It might’ve helped if his hands were not shaking, but even that was a slight detail only a trained eye might notice. She sighed luxuriantly as she leant against the armrest, swivelling as she brought her legs up to dangle off the other end: the epitome of exaggerated boredom. She was that, but her hand, as she brought it to her forehead, left a subtle space between the fingers for her eyes to see through. He was taking the orb out now, casting away the cloth, and— Now he turned toward her, the anticipation in his eyes draining away to be replaced with puzzlement, then mute horror. Recognizing her own vulnerability, she flipped herself off the armchair, smoothing down her skirt as he made to speak. “You didn’t – did not touch it, did you?” His voice was a strangled whisper, laced with a perplexed tone she couldn’t quite comprehend. “You couldn’t have—” “No,” she replied instinctively, with just a slight hesitation, “I didn’t.” Her eyes didn’t quite meet his, and the slight arrogance she’d shown was gone, now. But she knew her real answer – I don’t think I did – was going to cut any ice with him. Damn the Houses and damn this intrigue, she caught herself thinking, two thousand gala was no price to pay for any of this. A failed mission would mean a sharp drop in her reputation: one she’d worked hard to attain. But it was more than that – for some reason, she knew the orb had far greater implications: a story she’d become a part of, now, however much she wanted to remain out of the web of delicate threads which shone with mystery but cut with the keen sharpness of cutting-wire. She found herself bound in those threads now, constricting, cutting her, leaving her defenceless. “I never screw up,” she stated, her words more of a whisper than the cocksure answer she wanted to hear, “and you’d best remember it.” Trying to recover her composure, she thought that perhaps it might’ve been he who’d been mistaken, who was only trying to find someone to blame, now. The dagger in her boot, though, was just another reminder she didn’t need at the moment. She started again as the man rose from his seat, holding the orb up for her to see. It shone innocently in the light a single window provided them – a prize many men had died for: that she’d almost given her life to retrieve. For all its supposed importance, it seemed harmless enough: an opaque mirror which reflected nothing and everything. An opaque mirror which crashed to the floor, shattering; forming a million other crystals, none of them round; glimmering, reflecting light without substance, winking merrily up at her from the hard, wooden floor on which her client – the one man to whom she thought it’d have mattered – had dashed it to pieces. She took a step back – no, two, she thought futilely; two steps – in the direction of the door, trying not to tread on any of the pieces of what once had been a priceless magical artefact. Her client, though, had made no attempt to move: he knew, she thought, he knew that she wouldn’t be able to escape. She was caught in it now, and her escaping now would only complicate matters for herself. But what, she wondered, had she gotten herself into? If she had expected answers from the man before her, though, she would have been sorely disappointed. Questions were cheap, she knew, and answers were just too damned expensive for her to pay. “Where in Lenval’s name,” he spoke, enunciating each word clearly as he walked towards her, his boots crunching on the remains of the orb underfoot, “is the Vol’Sera?” Hundreds of miles away, Sybil Ilran, Mistress of House Tundra, wondered the same thing.


[PG-15] The Seekers · Original Fiction