Skylar grunted in annoyance as the votes trickled in; everyone wanted him to ask Levan about Arts, but he'd just barely gotten out of the last conversation about them unscathed only moments ago. I'll need more time for the topic to not look suspicious. "Do we have any food or water or anything?" he asked no one in particular.
Reine scowled. "None for cultists. What water we have is blessed by Svata with healing powers; we must preserve it for wounds, not thirsts. And food we have had none of since before the swamp."
Skylar blinked. "For real? That sucks. Let me see if I can go forage for something."
He stood up, but Reine was abruptly barring his way, arms crossed. "Planning to try to escape again?"
"How?" Skylar asked incredulously. "There's only one exit from this place, and you're guarding that. And even if I did find some kind of back door and slip out, wouldn't I just get eaten by all the monsters outside?"
The elf woman's eyes flicked back and forth between him and Levan, then seemed to come to a decision. "The Loathborn will stay here and watch over Aymon; he has proven himself too honorable to let a comrade come to harm, even if the blood of the dark Devari does run in his veins." She turned a disdainful expression upon Skylar. "You, on the other hand, are about as trustworthy as you are threatening..." -- in other words, none at all, Skylar understood -- "...so I will accompany you. Likely this place is as empty of provisions as it is of Lucia's grace, but lead on."
Skylar shrugged. "Sure thing, if that makes you feel better." The elf bristled, but did not object; Skylar simply turned away and began to limp away into the dark recesses of the structure, heading for the place where he'd found the tapestry first.
As he'd expected, the initial part of the building he'd already surveyed was largely empty and full of dust; but further corridors and rooms deeper within showed signs of being more undisturbed, including a number of sealed doors that looked as though they had last been opened by the long-vanished occupants. Skylar tried one, but it only rattled obstinately in the frame; he peered into the keyhole, curious. "Looks like some kind of storage room. Don't suppose you pick locks?"
Reine sniffed. "What do you take me for, a thief?"
A thief. That's right, I might be a thief. Skylar didn't have a clue why he found the label so mysteriously appealing -- it didn't seem like this world had any Classes or Systems or any corresponding diegetic taxonomy of capabilities -- but there was no guarantee they didn't exist in a subtler fashion. "What about a needle or something?" he hazarded. "I don't know how to pick locks either, but I could try anyway."
With a grunt of annoyance, Reine stepped past him swiftly and lashed a heavy boot into the door's lockplate; with a crash, it burst open, spraying ancient wood bits in every direction as Skylar involuntarily dove for cover. "Hey, watch it!" he yowled, scrambling to his feet. "You just smash everything in your way?"
"A Justiciar does not waste time," the elf replied primly, striding past him to survey the room grimly; dust lay in thick carpets upon the crates, cabinets, and barrels within. "Still, your larcenous Zuzan instincts may have served us well; some of this may be salvageable." Rummaging through a cabinet, she came up with four bottles of dark green glass, stoppered with cork and wax; a deft swipe of her gauntleted thumb opened one, and she sniffed at it experimentally. "Wine, though of a weak vintage. Still, it seems drinkable; let us begin with this." Unceremoniously, she shoved the three unopened bottles into his arms, then shoulder-checked him back towards the door. "Return to the camp. I will search for other provisions; do not stray or tarry." Skylar opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and left.
"Stupid sorbnek elf sakpa," he muttered to himself as he trudged back, grunting with annoyance as he nearly dropped one of the bottles for the third time. "Couldn't have taken the time to search around for a bag, noooo..."
"Taking orders from elves now, are we? Tsk."
Skylar froze, then whirled around; he recognized the dual-toned voice instantly. "How did you even get in here?" he fumed at the masked man, who reclined nonchalantly against a pillar a few yards away. "Go away, whoever the skek you are. You've caused me enough problems."
"Don't be foolish," the masked man admonished him. "You can hardly afford to make an enemy of me, Skylar Kass. Particularly if your little band plans to make for Garlan's Fork tomorrow." Stepping backwards around the pillar, the mysterious figure nudged a large box from out of concealment with his foot, scooting it towards him. "You are already ill-informed and ill-equipped; you would be ill-advised to also be ill-tempered." The smirk in his voice was so irritating that Skylar's blood nearly boiled in his veins.
This frosak, he fumed. "Give me one good reason why I should listen to you, grak-breath. All you've ever done is get me in trouble -- any help you'd give me is at least half likely to be a trap, so drotz off."
"My coat seems to be serving you well," the masked man observed with mirth, "so you might at least consider accepting other gifts, even if you disdain my advice or guidance." He kicked the box lightly, sending it sliding over to Skylar with great force; Skylar's eyes narrowed. That's not normal strength, either. "But the real truth remains that I need you alive, at least for now; or, more accurately, I need at least some of your little troupe alive, and their odds of survival are greater the more of you there are." Skylar scowled at the implication that he was a useless casualty waiting to happen, but couldn't really contest it.
"Look," Skylar sighed, giving in to the inevitable as he opened the box and began loading the wine bottles inside, "at least tell me who you are. I've got enough mysterious beings constantly showing up and being inscrutable at me as it is."
"Do you, now?" The masked man cocked his head, and Skylar realized he'd made a mistake; he doesn't necessarily know about the Devari. "Well, if you require a moniker for me, 'Professor' will do well enough; though there is, of course, no guarantee that we shall meet again." He chuckled in a way that raised the hair on the back of Skylar's neck. "But, if you survive, perhaps you will be useful to me at least once more; one never knows the future, after all."
"Professor of Melodrama, maybe," Skylar commented, rolling his eyes. "If you're that worried about us surviving, why not pitch in? Our odds to reach Garlon's Fork would probably be even better with five people." But when he looked back, the masked man was gone again; it was as though he'd been talking to a shadow or a blank wall. Good thing this chest is here, or I might start worrying that I was talking to a hallucination. With a sigh, he hefted the chest and began the walk back; not like it's gonna get any lighter.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
When he returned, Levan was still deep in thought over Aymon's slumbering form; the Loathborn nodded to him, but made no other comment. With a groan, Skylar set down the chest near the lantern and flopped wearily onto his back. "Some wine in there. Maybe some other stuff too, I dunno."
Levan nodded, opening the box and beginning to withdraw the bottles. "Thanks. I fight better when I've had a few," he joked with a dour grin. As he rooted around, Skylar noticed other things he hadn't glimpsed in there previously: a long, thin box, a collection of little flat circles wrapped in wax paper, and a thick cylinder that appeared to be made of wrapped metal rods, all tied together. The Loathborn whistled as he arranged them all on the stone, then glanced at Skylar. "Quite a haul. Did you murder Reine, or something?"
"I wish," Skylar groused. "She's bringing back more stuff; probably right behind me." As if summoned, the elf Justiciar strode out of the gloom within, her arms laden with more bottles and canteens; she knelt at the edge of the lantern's light, placing them deliberately around her in a circle on the ground.
"Mostly more alcohol," the elf noted grimly, "but there are a few canteens which may contain water, though we have no guarantees of its potability." She picked up one particularly badly-dented and rust-stained specimen, rattled it next to her ear, then tossed it contemptuously to Skylar. "You can test it for us."
"Oh boy, a good old-fashioned poison tasting." Skylar struggled with the sealed tin cap for a few moments, then managed to get it free; the inside smelled musty, but overall there was no scent of decay or moulder. Shrugging, he let a few drops trickle onto his palm, where he examined them; "Looks clear enough." Touching his tongue to the moisture, he grimaced, but swallowed nonetheless. "Drinkable, even if it's a little gross."
"There, see, Reine?" The Loathborn chuckled him on the shoulder much too hard, and Skylar staggered and nearly fell over. "He's a team player. Tastes water for you and everything."
Reine shook her head. "Cultists are not to be trusted. Perhaps the Zuzan poisons himself, in hopes of also poisoning me." Haughtily, she swept past them both, still holding the open wine bottle she'd procured earlier, and began to drink while facing away from the both of them.
Skylar scowled at her retreating back. "Is it just me, or is she a major frosak?"
"It might not be just you," Levan waffled, "but you probably shouldn't antagonize her, either. No sense pissing off somebody who's going to testify at your trial." He began to sort through the other items from the chest, starting with the wrapped disks. "Wanderment rations -- mostly probably spoiled, but a few might still be good. I'll see if I can bake them over the fire later."
"What are those? Some kind of bread, or something?" Skylar guessed.
"More or less." The Loathborn had turned his attention to the long, slim box, now. "Hello, what's this..." His breath caught as he undid the latch and withdrew the object inside.
It was a sword, Skylar noted with interest, but an unusual one; rather than the straight, double-edged longsword Reine carried, this was a more artistically-wrought blade, with a single edge and a heavy guard made of solid metal. The blade and pommel were both formed in the shape of a dancing flame, and the overall form reminded him of a scimitar or shamshir. It was pocked and pitted with rust in a few places, but most of the blade still shone brightly, and he could see at a glance that its edge was still keen, bearing the marks of many sharpenings. "That is a cool-brux sword," he commented.
"It is, indeed, a cool-brux sword," Levan breathed; holding it aloft, he turned it this way and that, watching the complex interplay of light and shadow along its reflective surfaces and feeling the weight as it moved. "You think she'll arrest me if I keep it?" he joked.
Skylar shrugged. "She'll probably try. But you'll need to be armed if we run into monsters anyway, so maybe Aymon will talk her out of it." He pulled the bundle of rods over to himself and began to untie the bindings; in a few moments, he could see that there were nine of them, seven identical and two slightly different. "Any idea what this is?"
"Yeah, actually." The Loathborn picked up two of the rods, examined them, then began to screw them together like parts of a curtain rod. "It's a kind of staff -- see, this piece is the bottom, with a thick ferrule for absorbing impacts." Quickly and deftly, he fit the pieces together in only a few moments; fully assembled, the staff was nearly five feet long, and had a strange iron sphere on the top seated within an iron cup. "Here, hold this in the fire."
Bemused, Skylar did as he was told; in an instant, the tip of the staff took flame, and began to burn with an eerie blue radiance. "Whoa. Some kind of magic staff?"
Levan shook his head. "It's oil -- well, alcohol really. The ball keeps the liquid inside while letting the vapors out; that's what's actually burning."
"I get it." Skylar raised it aloft, trying to look cool. "You pour spirits over it, then light it, and it looks like you're all mystical and drotz. Guessing priests use them, or something?"
"Something like that." The Loathborn took the staff back, then flipped it upside-down; the flames bent back around the bowl, withered, and went out silently. "Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing if you don't know how to fight." He handed it back to Skylar, then began arranging the Wanderment rations along the flat of the rust-pitted sword's blade. "Not as good as a real griddle, but might do in a pinch."
Skylar jerked abruptly as his original goal came back to him, skek, that's right, I was supposed to be asking about Arts. He thought carefully to himself as Levan warmed and roasted the cakes, throwing several away but eventually managing to get a handful that seemed edible; he turned scenario after scenario over in his mind, thinking thorugh each of the different ways the Loathborn might react to his questions even as he ate and drank and prepared for sleep.
When he finally found a course of action that satisfied him, he put it into action with great care; placing his sleeping position cautiously within the Loathborn's line of sight but outside of Reine's, he waited until everyone was dozy but not yet slumbering. Then, with his best attempt at inept surreptitiousness, he cupped his hands in front of him and began to mumble into them, trying his best to approximate the spidery muttering that Levan had used to summon flame. At first, no one took notice, but after his seventh or eighth attempt the Loathborn groaned and made a swatting gesture at him. "Quit it, will ya? It ain't gonna work."
"Why not?" Skylar demanded, suppressing a smirk of triumph. "You never know. I might have a talent for magic!"
The Loathborn rolled his eyes. "They don't work that way, kid. Even for Achieved Arts, you still have to have a link to a Devari's power; a bloodline, a blessing, something that ties you to your patron. Without that, you're just playing pretend."
"Achieved Arts? Are there different kinds of Arts?" Skylar pressed.
The Loathborn frowned, but Skylar could already see he was committed; he'd have to explain at least a little, or risk looking ignorant. He sighed. "Arts can be Granted -- bestowed on you by someone with the authority -- or Achieved, like studying or meditation and stuff. But your Arts all come from the same Devari, so you can only learn a handful no matter what." He nodded in Aymon's direction. "The Ilkon gets his Arts from Svata, the Devari of the Wilds; so he can only use the Arts She grants him, and the Way of each Art is different."
Skylar nodded. "Right. Like how Reine's were chants, or something, but Aymon just, like, does stuff."
"That's Open Arts and Closed Arts, that's different." The Loathborn settled down into a sleeping posture, closing his eyes. "But don't worry about it. Unless you become a Lucian or find an Anticuary, you're not gonna be slingin' Arts around anytime soon." He chuckled to himself. "Unless you really are a cultist of Gram, I guess."
Skylar frowned and shut his eyes. Drotz it. Not something I want people thinking about. But learning that there were objects -- Anticuaries, apparently -- that could grant Arts was much more useful than anything else he'd gotten from the conversation; now I can start putting together a plan.
He tossed and turned for a few minutes, then finally got comfortable enough to doze; First time sleeping in another world can be scary. But the fourth time he turned over, something was strange; the hard ground had become yielding, and the cold stone had become... blankets?
Confused, he jolted upright, fighting away the thick bedding that threatened to suffocate him; wildly, he cast about himself and regarded the sumptuous bower surrounding him with distaste. Did I get transported somewhere again? Or is this a dream?
"It's a dream," the feminine voice he'd heard in the underground temple whispered in his ear; he jumped, then whirled.
A woman was in the bed with him -- a tall, well-built woman with hair of coppery auburn, deep blue eyes and long black lashes. As his body stiffened with shock and other sensations, he watched transfixed as she wrapped her long-nailed hands around his face and leaned closer to inspect him more thoroughly. Her scent -- spicy and vaguely fruity -- filled his nostrils, and he felt his lips beginning to part of their own accord.
HOT CHICK, WHAT DO?
