Kevril Loreweaver
Kevril gave Caelin a long, cautious look. He was not one to turn down healing magic. Growing up around elves, he was more comfortable with clerics than magic users, and he recognized the need to prevent infection. Plains-cat cuts were more prone to infection than almost any wound. Did he trust this Caelin, however? The monk was no elf, and he had heard of even elven clerics doing more harm than good with their magics. Healers were known to turn, to kill…
Why would Caelin do any of this? He gave his had a sharp shake and stepped towards Caelin.
“Please,” he whispered, angling his shoulder towards Caelin. He glanced at his bow and arrowed. He would have to pause and collect them later… and with this arm, even with healing magics, he would not be able to draw the string until he had rested. “Let us pray that we do not meet any more.
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Narisaa Feledor and Yasryne Everhund
“Perhaps because you came here knowing that you dealt with magic users?” Narisaa suggested quietly. He glanced again at Yasryne, gave her a closer inspection, and understanding seemed to come into his eyes. In a sweeping of black robes he moved down the stairs to stand before them, pausing several feet away from the temptress. He did not particularly care if he startled her. Or would not, except that drow temptresses – according to his master – were known to be quick with their knives. He was mage, not fighter. He did not relish the thought of having his belly slit open by a jagged drow dagger. “Please come inside. It is darker there.”
Yasryne perked up slightly at the thought of a darker place to stand.
“Gladly,” she gasped, stepping towards his quiet voice. Narisaa did not wait for Luna to agree, or for Yasryne to catch up. He turned on his heel, robes flaring, and climbed back up the three short steps which lead to the great front doors of the necromancer’s tower. He paused in the doorway, beckoning for them to follow, and vanished into the shadows.
Only once encased in the magic of the tower did Narisaa pause. He had spent little time beyond the tower in recent years, and was unaccustomed to the light, scentless air of the outdoors. At least, scentless compared to the air within the tower. Of course, the city had its odor, but when one was accustomed to the thick herbs and smoke of Kitherine’s dwelling, even the city smelled clean. Unused. Foreign. He much preferred the magic-laden breathing within the tower, but he was going to have to learn to adjust. Kitherine had, after all, finally presented him with a mission.
He stood just inside the tower, feeling the magic of it weave through his body, feeling the shadow-spirits his master commanded weave around him almost like invisible, affectionate cats. He did not bother to cast a light. Yasryne would be more comfortable without. Luna, the unexpected guest, would just have to live with what she had. He turned to gaze at the entrance, waiting for the drow and the half-drow to follow. Before they could, however, the air in the tower changed. Something shivered, a wind passing through the dark servants he had come to love.
A whisper. An echo of Claenereth’s voice, breathed through the shapeless mouths of servants who bore no physical form.
Narisaa! Claenereth cried through the voices of those who had never lived. Narisaa straightened, gazing up through the ceiling, towards the top of the tower where he had left the elfmaiden and his master.
What is it? he asked sharply, never one for gentle conversation. Never one for patience.
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Kitherine Damacus
Kitherine stood in the brilliant, dimensionless white of Helkara’s realm. He wore nothing, for clothes were not necessary before the Goddess. She saw all, everything in the deepest recesses of his soul. He had tried once to hide something from her. He did not relish the thought of the pain. He would never try it again. Perhaps that was why being summoned here now made his heart thunder with painful anxiety. What would she demand of him now?
He did not see her, for she – like many creatures divine and magical – required no form to exist. She came to him as a crushing awareness, a voice which echoed in his mind, which caused him physical pain every time he heard it. There were few positions as miserable as that of the chosen prophet of Helkara. He sacrificed his health and his wholeness for a position he had never asked for. The Gift of the Goddess, Helkara called it. He called it a curse.
This thought made his Goddess laugh. The laughter pounded through his head like the hooves of a billion infernal steeds, but he kept his face free of pain. Pain was weakness in Helkara’s eyes, and weakness was unforgiveable.
Luckily, cleverness was largely rewarded.
“You found a hole in my command, little mage,” Helkara boomed through his mind. He could feel her sinister smile watching him. “Congratulations.”
Kitherine bowed his head in respect. He dared not speak. She was not finished.
“Very well,” she whispered. “You will send these people to retrieve the item. I will permit Narisaa to take this journey, and he will go with my blessing.”
Kitherine breathed a soft sigh of relief, but too early.
“The price will be death.”