Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"It starts in the middle of the page," he said, hovering a finger over the start of a paragraph. Beshayir had walked over to him then, and Ceridwen craned her neck around the doorway, not daring to enter the small and potentially fragile setting herself for fear of damaging something.

"Primary sources for the acts of gods do not exist. Our travels to Aster have revealed hints that there are disciples who live on other lands, followers of a pantheon that are absent from modern records. Aderalia and I do not have the time or resources to seek them out, but their existence alone supports my hypothesis. A divine act was bestowed upon Leyuna, and in the pursuit of goodness, I will attempt one of my own. There will be an angel equipped with the weapons of applied demonology. It will have the mind of a djinn, to repel any temptation and corruption. It will have a command over magic, like that of a primal elemental..."


"Quite explicit, would you not agree?" he asked.

[C S]

"Well, keep reading, then. What else does it say?" Syria prodded, figuratively and literally. She shook the Celestial Elf by the shoulder, eager to learn more.

[The Kingpin]

"Patience, dear. I'm reading." It was all he said as he continued through the journal entry, looking for other mentions of Desrium, or what was to become Desrium...

[C S]

Syria sighed an exasperated sigh. To think, they had come to Zuppoland to learn and through a fluke of fate, had discovered that which hadn't been seen in eight hundred years! And now it was a matter of translating the material in its entirety, prolonging the incredible wait that much more. The Mage-Maiden gripped her staff tightly. Where mana did not echo the past, old fashioned paper and ink would offer a look into another time.

As with all things, Liorick's account of events that would prove greater than himself began at the very beginning...


***


There was a passageway that overlooked the inner courtyard of the old mage sanctuary. The afternoon glow over Zuppoland shone through the open straight, interrupted only by the frames of arches that blended into one another seamlessly, etchings of conch fractals decorating each junction. At this hour, the majority of the mages that called the sprawling grounds their home were at work in their individual chambers or were conducting or attending classes.

At this hour, one mage in particular shirked her responsibility and was walking down the hall, her shoes clicking against the brown tiles. Aderalia, dressed in white and blue, hefted a leather satchel underneath one arm. It was packed so full that its contents pressed against the fabric and created painful, angular shapes. The shell clasp danced about on the conical hat she wore over her head of short blonde hair, and she huffed and puffed with all the flustered worry of someone charged with babysitting a toddler.

And that toddler happened to be called Liorick. Aderalia walked with such purpose for it, too. Her shadow marched with her on the wall opposite the veranda, and the shadows of the arches fell over her as a lattice of orange and dark. Just before she rounded the corner at the end of the walkway, one of the doors lining it opened, and a curious silver-haired woman peeked out to catch a glimpse of Aderalia's back.

You have got the loudest feet on this island," Ithra commented, which made Aderalia seize mid-step. She took in a breath, spun on one heel and slammed the other one down to punctuate her words with an echoing clack.

"I do not!"

Ithra slowly tilted her head to one side and gave Aderalia a sideways look. "I can't do that with my shoes. Hey, do me a favor and do a dance."

Aderalia shook her head and leaned forward into her protest. "No!"

Ithra smiled and stepped out of her room, easing the door shut but not all the way closed. She was in less eye-catching colors. Her shirt was a cream color and her skirt was a plain black. The other mage leaned against the stone wall, next to one of the lighting sconces, and asked, "Don't you have class now? On the..." Ithra rubbed her chin then stepped out into the middle of the hall. She put one hand over her eyes and pantomimed blocking sunlight from her eyes. Naturally, she knew exactly where Aderalia was supposed to be, and exactly what she wanted to say. This was all for the show of it.

"On the..."

"Other side of the sanctuary, yes. I do. And I'll stop in late, is all." Aderalia hiked her bag up and hugged it a little tighter. Uncomfortably so.

Ithra turned to look at her friend, and her smug countenance deflated. "Is he...?"

Aderalia shuffled in place. "I... I don't know. He hasn't been talking to me, lately."

"That doesn't sound like him," Ithra observed with a frown.

"I don't think he's been feeling much like himself." Aderalia's gaze drooped gradually, and she looked away from Ithra just in time to see another's shoes step into view. She stepped back with a small fright, and bowed apologetically after, now highly aware that she was standing in a position where someone was bound to bump into her when turning around the corner of the hall.

Morrelie blinked. It took her a moment to realize what it was she'd narrowly avoided, and once she was up to speed, she couldn't help giggling at the other lady's silliness. Morrelie marked the page of her book of charms with a finger and moved it away from her face.

"All dressed up for class? I didn't know there were classes in session in the dorm wing." She gave Aderalia a kind, if a little teasing, smile. Morrelie, like Ithra, carried on in her casual clothes. In her case, she wore a yellow robe over her black dress.

"Yeah... I'll be heading in late." Aderalia found it difficult to look Morrelie in the eyes, only stealing fleeting looks before gazing down at her feet.

Morrelie came from mainland Aster, her family lineage that of traders with a fleet of ships, their canvases catching the winds up and down the coast. She landed in the harbor aboard one of her family ships, completely unattended despite being relatively young, with her enrollment and sanctuary permit in hand and her luggage to roll down the offloading ramp. The girl also spoke fluent Zuppo and dabbled with other languages, experience garnered from traveling on the trading vessels. Morrelie took to schooling like an upperclassman though she were still a few semesters apart from Ithra and Aderalia, and took it all in stride.

Aderalia wished she had the same charisma Morrelie had. Her prestigious background was a plus as well. She didn't have anything of the sort to claim herself. Her father did the best he could for her and her mother... she didn't like to talk about her mother.

"Hey? What's wrong?" Morrelie had one arm wrapped around Aderalia's waist, tying herself up with the girl clutching the packed satchel.

"Wrong?" Aderalia took notice of her situation and told herself not to blush, but her body didn't listen. "Oh. Well, Liorick's been acting a little odd. I'm off to see him now. Other than that, there's nothing... wrong." She cleared her throat as Morrelie released her.

"Keep your chin up. A girl like you is too pretty to have her face down all the time."

"Oh... that's very kind of you, Morrelie."

"The same goes for you, Ithra."

Ithra gave Morrelie the sideways look now. "I don't think I was looking at my shoes."

"I meant just the pretty part, in your case." The black haired mage hopped over to her and patted Ithra on the head. Morrelie then curtsied and started off on her way, not wanting to make Aderalia any more late than she was already making herself.

Ithra watched her go, and commented when she was far enough away, "What a nice person."

Aderalia nodded with some trepidation. "She's nice, she's talented. She's renown because of her family name... she's just amazing."

Ithra thumbed her nose. "Aderalia, please stop idolizing the underclassman. You're too strong-willed to be starstruck. And you have a Liorick to look after."

The wizard's name brought the purpose and alertness back into Aderalia's eyes. "I do."

"And you have a class to try to not be too late for."

"I do!"

"And you," Ithra smirked, "have some loud feet."

"I-- wait. Ithra!"

"You're strong-willed but you tend to lose your humor. A pinch too literal at times. You don't tell me things unless I ask specifically about them, now that I think about it."

"I'll tell you more about that later. Go back to your room!"

Aderalia mocked a salute by thumping her chest. "Yes mom."

"Do you salute your mother?" Aderalia was genuinely concerned. And she thought her mother was overly strict.

"There you go, taking things too literally again." Ithra swung her door open with a fanfare, twirled on a heel, then closed the door when she was behind it.

"How do you stay so mild-mannered and cool all the time?" Aderalia sighed. With self-conscious steps, she started walking again, trying to keep the clicking of her heels to a minimum. Slow, methodical. She was going to be pretty late to class.

Some time later, Aderalia stopped outside of the door to Liorick's room. She knocked a few times and then, without much patience at all, announced, "If you don't open up, I'll just use my spatial-kinesthetic magic to bust the lock."

She was considering keeping her word up until she heard the lock unlatch. The wild-haired mage eyed her after opening the door just a crack. "Don't yo--"

"I'm going in late."

"There won't be a class to go to if you have to walk all the way across the--"

"Don't worry about that." Aderalia picked up her bag and stepped forwards. Liorick, without any other recourse, let her into his room, which he had arranged to be a study. He had a positively massive desk that dominated the space, compared to his bed which was just a roll on the ground tucked away in the corner not occupied by the personal bookshelf, stocked with books.

Aderalia set her satchel down on a patch of desk that wasn't covered in the clutter of Liorick's notes.

"Is this what you've been up to for the last several weeks?"

"Yes." Liorick started to pace in the small space between the back of his desk chair and the bookshelf.

"... Is that also wh--"

"Mhm, it helps me keep calm."

"Are you going out of your mind?"

Liorick stopped, laced his fingers together, and bore a look of deep contemplation. After a prolonged silence, one that filled Aderalia with worry, he smiled. "Yeah, I guess this is what it feels like."

"Liorick. Talk to me." Aderalia pulled his chair out and offered it to him. He declined, so she sat down instead.

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"I'm already thinking you're crazy, boy." Aderalia patted her lap. "But I'm here to help."

"I'm not sitting on your lap."

"How about you rest your head?"

"Not doing that either."

Aderalia cocked her head and did her best to hide the hurt that blatant rejection packed. Had she done something wrong? Was that why he was so coarse with her?

Liorick sensed what he'd done and bit his knuckle. "Ah... well. My head catches fire, as of late. That's why."

"What in the f--"

"I'm not lying, either. I don't want it to happen now, but my hair catches fire; it doesn't burn... it's weird and it doesn't help me feel... stable. It might not be a good idea to be around me for a while."

Aderalia hummed. "What kind of twisted magic have you gotten yourself involved in?"

Liorick stiffened. Aderalia was always a sharp one. Was it written in his aura? "... What do you know of gods? Or... a god. I don't know which."

Aderalia narrowed her eyes. "What kind of a question is that, Liorick?"

"Every culture has a creation myth. Every single one, regardless of distance from one another, heritage... species. Elementals... I've been doing some reading on them. What they look like, what we've qualified so far. They aren't like anything else alive, you know. It's as if they don't belong on this world... so different from us they are."

Aderalia countered, "Ever thought that maybe it's us who are strangers to them?"

"What?" Liorick shook his head. "That's not the point. Every culture believes in creation, but none of the myths take into account the elementals. From what we know... they are ancient. Older than we are, but we share no similarities. Not in form, anatomy. Mana. This tells me they are just... completely different forms of life from you and I."

"So... they were here first? So where did the... un-elemental life come from?" Aderalia was less incredulous and more enthused. Where was this tangent leading her?

"Every culture has their god... or gods. All of them represent different things, have done different things, are all different characters. But what if, somewhere in that jumble, there was some smidgen of truth?" Liorick wondered out loud. His hands shook with an excitement he could barely contain, and it disturbed him.

"Aster's headed for something bad," he added, more somberly. "Worse than how things are already. The wars are going to escalate. The consequences of victory on either side, elven or human, are going to be horrible. The bloodshed is only the start: the hell waiting, waits for the living."

"Are you trying to contact deities? A deity? Either or?"

Liorick hung his head. "No. That's just insane." He bit his lip and snuffled. "I want to make an angel."

Aderalia shot out of her seat, took Liorick by the collar of his shirt and was poised to punch him right in the forehead.

"WAIT. Hear me out. Some gods in these creation myths have these messengers that warn people of their follies. That's all I want."

"You want to make a lesser divine. Do you understand that?" Aderalia spoke evenly, but her uncompromising tone made Liorick feel small.

"Trying to pray for one to come to us is useless. And insane," Liorick replied meekly.

Aderalia set her jaw firm and flexed her knuckles. She should just hit him anyway.

"I have the foundation. I just need... time. It'll take years but I think I can do it. I think I can... help, by making something stronger than myself. Stronger than an army -- several armies-- but wise... and just. Kind to those who have known no kindness, and unforgiving to those who would give no quarter to mercy and peace." Liorick's voice cracked, and he fought to keep his tears in check.

Aderalia sighed. Her grip on Liorick loosened and she proceeded to smooth out his shirt. "You have to understand that this is just fantasy. You know that, don't you?"

"I don't know until I fail at doing it. When I fail, I'll just have to try something new, and something newer if that fails, and keep on going until it's too late to help anyone."

Aderalia hummed thoughtfully. "You're going to get yourself killed one day if you do this by yourself. I volunteer my services for the next... several years, if need be."

Liorick arched a brow and wiped the collection of tears from the corner of his eye. "I-- you... what?"

"I don't know what you've done already, but your head supposedly catches on fire. You won't get anywhere without my help."

Liorick let out an exasperated breath, then grabbed Aderalia by the shoulders. "You don't know how much this means to me."

And that's when his scalp combusted into green and purple arcane flames. Aderalia stared at him blankly. Liorick rolled his neck, seeming unperturbed by the tongues of magical flame interwoven with his strands of hair.

"It'll have wings of righteous light, our angel."

"Your hair is on fire." Was she being too literal, as Ithra put it? Fearing so, Aderalia added, "Your hair is righteous light." That fixed it.

"Our angel will be as a knight is. Our angel will be a master of the blade, to protect the self, and to protect others. A hero that stands underneath the sun and moon equally, ending injustice at every hour."

"Can... can I put that out? Did you find out how to extinguish yourself yet, boy? Oh, I'm not going to make it to class today, am I?"


***


Yet still, there were the memories that only the Stalwart possessed, in the months after he fell from the Order's castle...


Cheering echoed in the streets. People who were virtually dangling out of windows tossed handfuls of rice from baskets, and waved to the wagons decorated by wreaths and brass bells. People in costumes, many of them relating to the tropical fish that lived off the nearby reef, danced alongside the parade. They cared not for the slick, icy roads that came with the Singajingle season.

There was singing to go with the cheering. The whole kingdom was decked with holiday spirit. Couples exchanged kisses under the first streetlamps lit for the coming night, as per tradition. Ribbons and flags flew and fluttered in the cold winter breeze. Brightly colored kites were sent into the evening sky, to send off the sun and greet the stars that were due to show themselves over the Jade Sea.

The canals also had their holiday displays to be admired by people gathered on the walkways. Literal floats, the small boats were adorned with intricate sets upon which caricatures of political figures sat. One quite extensive parody portrayed the current king in an extravagant powdered wig. The wig had the usual regal curls, with the added bonus of a ponytail that was wrapped around the suited actor. It made it visibly difficult for him to dab his fingers on the wig while acting through his facial expressions, flamboyant and especially attentive to the young, attractive men in the crowd.

Separated from the rest of the city due to their usual haunts being flooded for the events, Ithra and her metal companion enjoyed the festivities from the harbor. Business had ended early for the holiday, and most people wanted to forget about any notions of hard work for the next several hours. Consequently, the docks, with all of its ships, crates and ropes, were absolutely deserted.

Ithra was sat atop a box and squinted to see the shapes lit up by lanterns drifting along the canal current. She had a mug of frothy Singajingle brew that she sipped from, and Desrium was standing beside her with a narrow bottle of honey mead in his hand. He did not eat this one, but he did have some difficulty drinking from it as it was intended. It was what happened when one did not have lips, and instead had a sharpened maw affixed with fangs.

Unlike Ithra, his view of the parade was not lessened by the distance from it. So acute was his vision, he commented on the long-haired wig: "Is the humor derived from the king's need to look effeminate by wearing hair that is not his?"

"Hmm?" Ithra searched around with her eyes. She spotted what she thought Desrium was talking about and let out an understanding 'ah'. "That. And the fact he's gay."

"He does seem happy."

"Gay in that he likes men, Desrium."

Desrium struggled with this imperceptibly. "Is he not king? Is a king not supposed to like his fellow men?"

Ithra shook with silent laughter. "I never thought I would say this, but you are so adorably innocent. Adorable... for a suit of armor with sharp teeth, spiked shoulders and glowing red eyes... at least."

"Thank you." Desrium glanced about the dock, something Ithra had come to associate with the armored being dealing with an internal conflict. "Would I be more adorable with a similar wig?" he asked her after a short pause.

"You would look... odd." Ithra gave him a well-meaning smile. "It doesn't matter what wig you wear -- you'd only look 'right' to me being bald."

"Bald?"

Ithra huffed and gave Desrium a mildly exasperated look. "That fin on your helmet doesn't count as hair."

Desrium looked off into the aether, letting this sink in. "I am bald."

"Yes you are. It suits you."

"Suits me." Desrium raised his bottle and poured some more mead into his mouth. He then began to walk about the dock, to ponder the intricacies of being bald.

Ithra went back to "watching" the parade, taking a swig of her own drink in turn. The blurry shapes went down the canal to the contemplative rhythm of Desrium's boots on the planks.

"Merry Singajingle, Desrium, Aderalia, Liorick."

She smiled sadly at the rim of her mug.

"You still have some loud feet, woman."

[The Kingpin]

It was some time before they managed to unravel the mystery of this sanctuary within the sanctuary. The Celestial Scholar promptly made the decision to collect the contents of the study once it became apparent that there was no way to reseal this place without destroying them. As it stood, Liorick's notes, the tomes he had used to put together his theories, his decades of work to create an angel, were meticulously compiled and put away, to be included in the Scholar's personal library, and to keep out of the hands of the Order.

Beshayir had been in silent awe of it all the entire time. She had always felt uncomfortable around Desrium, even after their time spent in his city as honoured guests. But seeing all this work that it had taken to create him, and indeed, hearing the creator's reasons for doing so, shed a new, more sympathetic light on this unfortunate being. It was a tale as inspiring as it was tragic. She had heard Willow once say that 'to make a very good dish, you have to pour your heart and soul into it'. She had never imagined the expression being quite so literal before, but here she was looking at it.

Ceridwen was not so different, at least in that she was silenced in awe as Beshayir was. In her case however, it was more that it made no sense. Why sacrifice one's own life and livelihood to create such a thing? Why, when so many wandering warrior-mages, alchemists, apothecaries and other such figures existed in the world, did this particular mage go for the most dangerous, experimental route, to create something so unheard of, so unknown, so taboo? In doing so he would have forsaken himself even if he had been successful, and cursed himself, his creation, his loved ones, and perhaps even all he sought to help, had the experiment gone wrong and resulted in that which the Order believed Desrium to be. It was an unnecessarily selfless act, and one that had very little return. It simply didn't add up.

"We will need a cover story to give Sheemaka. If he learns that people have been dying while seeking Liorick's Sanctum, then all our efforts to clear Desrium's name will be undone. He and Liorick will be vilified," said the Celestial Elf, the underlying rumble of his draconic voice faintly audible even in this form.

[C S]

"It was a golem," Syria spouted off without a moment's apprehension by all appearances. Septimus would be right in deducing that she had been at work doing just that in her own silent introspection, sat upon the glowing floor, clicking the heels of her boots together. "The Order, in the depths of their superstition and distrust for one another, created an automaton to prowl their lands endlessly. As the centuries went on, the magic that sustained it waned, and its purpose was skewed. It then began claiming the lives of those who left the safe limits of the capital, until this day, whereupon the Scholar of Drakhunmiir struck it down in the center of its domain."

The Mage-Maiden looked from her feet to Septimus. "What do you think?"

[The Kingpin]

"A romantic idealisation," stated the Scholar flatly. "...But one within the realms of belief. After all, it's not unlike the outcome in Yuraelia...though admittedly I had very little to do with the fall of that particular golem."

"I thought you said there were Order members in Sheemaka's council?" asked Ceridwen curiously, shaken from her thoughts by the conversation.

"Which is why the distrust element is so important. It could easily have been a member of their order that had no faith in the others. One fearing a second 'Liorick' who created a golem to guard the grounds and destroy anyone who proved to be a threat. If such a rogue Order acolyte existed, it would not be outside the realm of possibility that none of the present remaining Order members, or former members, would know of him. After all, they only learned of Liorick's work after he was dead and his creation free," explained the Son of Storms.

[C S]

"If we were a vindictive lot, we would place the blame on Morrelie. Their prized hunter of deceit, their most zealous enforcer. Someone who could wriggle their way around the Order's inquisition, with the power to make it so?" Syria shuddered at the mere notion. There was an inherent dishonesty that they were dabbling in, but to be able to take it to this extent. It was like she were staring into the crater Septimus left in the foundation of the tower, dark and desolated, a more apt depiction of Morrelie's soul and deeds. Syria felt like she was seeing that in herself, and she trembled because it frightened her.

[The Kingpin]

"It sounds like something my father would do," responded the Scholar thoughtfully as he waved a hand at a book case; the last portion of the study that had not been cleared of its material. With disarming simplicity, the books stacked themselves up and floated over in columns, before disappearing into the gaping satchel to join the rest of the tomes, notes, diagrams and sketches that filled the room earlier. All that remained were a couple of inkwells, a mug containing some form of tea, and a single worn quill. And a moment later, only the tea remained, sitting in the middle of Liorick's desk.

"I have gathered he was the vindictive sort," agreed Ceridwen.

"While that is true, that's not what I mean," responded Septimus as he turned around, leaning against the desk for a split second before thinking better of it when he felt himself phase through it, stepping away a moment later. "He is practical. He would see that opportunity and decide the best way to assemble allies against a threat like Morrelie would be to bend the truth and facts to serve his needs. And for once, I am inclined to do the same, if only because Morrelie is rampantly unpredictable and dangerous. A millennium spent being powered by pure hatred and an obsession with revenge will not simply disappear even if she gets her way." He swallowed to wet a parched throat brought about by the weight of his thoughts. "If Desrium were... If Desrium were to die, she would not stop there. She has reached a state where she has forgotten how to live in any other way. Her hatred, arrogance and toxic self righteousness will simply steer her warpath on to other things. Brodudika next. Then Thimeyra and Valenhad for supporting it, then Zuppoland for not supporting her, and onwards," he concluded, looking between the three.

Beshayir, surprisingly, was the first to react. "Then that is what we tell Sheemaka. Morrelie's golem was killing curious wanderers," she said simply.

[C S]

Syria pulled in a breath and held it, to keep her excited and noisy mind from overflowing and dragging the rest of her body down into throes of panic. Those days were behind her, and right now she needed to be present and collected. "I will accept lying for a good cause -- and perhaps this is the only worthwhile cause there is," Syria began evenly, her tone somewhat disconcerting with how disjointed it was from the rest of the conversation. Her countenance and disposition recovered as she continued, "I do feel as if we will need to redeem ourselves for it, nevertheless. Not here, as Sheemaka would find our willingness to serve after performing a service unquestionably guilty."

Because they were guilty, in her eyes.

"I don't know." The Mage-Maiden looked to Septimus searchingly, as if her answer would come to her from the tapestry of cosmic dust and light that was her love. "Keep an eye out for people who are having a hard time crossing roads. Maybe we can start by helping them."

[The Kingpin]

"Syria, dear," he started as he walked up to her, squeezing her shoulders comfortingly as he leaned in. "...You're talking to a dragon who regularly seeks out those in need, commoner or king alike. You needn't worry about any spiritual ramifications for tilting the scales against a monster," he concluded.

[C S]

"It is the principle of it more than the end it will bring," said the mage plainly. "If I had my say in things, we wouldn't have to lie about the past of someone tortured and ruined by the lies others have told about him, but we must for the sake of some kind of justice in this world of ours. But a lie is a lie, and so it shall be until I can settle my conscience. Blame it on my frail, petty humanity." Syria smiled in a self-deprecating manner, and shrugged. It couldn't be helped; this was just the type of person she was.

[The Kingpin]

"The world is a tangled mess of grey yarn, it's true," admitted the Scholar. "Sometimes what is right has negative consequences, and can inflict pain on those undeserving. All we can really do is try our best to make sure the world evens out in the end. Balance in all things," he explained as he released the Mage-Maiden's shoulders, letting a hand trace down to her elbow as he helped her to her feet. With that, he began to walk, leading her towards the door, beyond which darkness had begun to fall.

"We will tell Sheemaka it was Morrelie's golem, killing intruders because whatever directive it once had, has decayed to the point it is no longer recognised. We will warn him of the mould, to keep away trespassers," he added, looking over his shoulder at the sanctum once Beshayir had left it. A casual wave of his hand sent a cloud of stardust spilling forth from his runes to his palm, manifesting in a reddish pulse of magic that washed into the room. Almost instantly, a sharp crack echoed from within. The sound of crumbling stone could be heard for a moment as the room, as well as the gateway enabling the pocket space to exist, began to warp. A shimmering shield of white burst into existence around himself, the mages and the dragoness, sheltering them from the destructive force of what was to come.

The entropic singularity bent the light cast from within as it consumed everything around it, the desks, chairs arcane lamps and even the very floor seeming to bend in ways that could not have been possible. In moments, images ceased being, and instead a haze of light orbited around the crushing darkness of the singularity's core. The entire space that Liorick had brought into existence collapsed in on itself at the Scholar's will, until finally, with a decisive crack, it ceased to be. Where it once stood, a shallow indentation, about as deep as the gateway itself had been, remained. "And if he sends investigators...well, there'll be nothing to convince them that we were anything but absolutely truthful," he concluded.

[C S]

The destruction of the portal was expected and not. Syria knew it had to be dealt with, but she did not think that it would be dispatched so handily. The Celestial Septimus was much more casual about his destructive potential than the Scholar would be otherwise. All the more in line with his draconic inclination for all that it appeared that his emotions were in check. Syria maintained her steady breathing to calm her heart rate after the start. At least the demise of the enclosed space wasn't as loud as the decimation of the sanctuary tower.

"He won't be bothered to send investigators; I'm not worried about our fib being found out," The mage then said, which was another bother for her: the sheer lenience of the matter, just so long as the problem was handled. It was as Septimus said, the world was rendered in shades of gray, even underneath the blue ocean, in this realm of colors. There were more valid qualms to be had.

"I do hope Sheemaka does something for those who have lost their life here. A monument to pay respects elsewhere, in favor of tearing down the glorified hazard this place is."

[The Kingpin]

"I suppose we'll have to wait and see," responded Septimus simply, wanting to offer some comfort to the mage, but having no way to do so. It was as frustrating as it was tiresome sometimes. What it meant to be a dealer of justice in the company of an absolute pacifist. He wanted so strongly to see her happy, but knew that it was no more possible than it was for a cat to resurrect the divines.


Ceridwen was completely oblivious to the Scholar's lament. She was oblivious to just about everything in that moment, to be technical. So utterly flabbergasted was she that everything said may as well have been a muffled murmur. He erased an entire room from existence. His magic just literally bent time and space. For all intents and purposes, what he was doing simply was not possible. "How?" she asked in a choked tone.

"Hm?" asked Septimus, as his skin shone brighter for a moment, the light focusing around his head and eyes briefly before a pulse scattered the glow into luminescent dust. For a couple of seconds, he had taken on an appearance not unlike that of the destruction of the Sanctum, shining bright, but not blindingly so. In the next moment, as darkness fell over them once more, Ceridwen, Syria and Beshayir saw him once more as the Scholarly Elf, the one they had always known.

"You...How did you remove an entire room from existence? There's nothing but rock there now..."

"It was never technically there," responded Septimus simply. "I just sent it back from whence it came. As it turns out, aetheromancy is a handy field for that...and one that is a lot more accessible in my soul form. It's just an adaptation of other fields of magic I am familiar with into something a bit more...versatile."

[C S]

Syria knew that the Hueilin were known as 'Spirit Dragons', which put an ironic tinge on hearing Septimus describe his breakthrough as a soul form. Validation for early pioneers who encountered scales endowed with bioluminescence and were enthralled with notions of the paranormal and arcane. Seeing as they were justified in their thinking, the mage walked on with a chip on her shoulder to go with the weight she was feeling in her gut. Of course the Spirit Dragons had soul forms.

Syria understood how Willow felt when she heard about the thunderbird. As within her habit, Syria found solace in discussing magic. "Aetheromancy... I wonder what that gate looked like to those barred from it by the seal. A utility shed? A bathroom?" she broached, tangents of thought exploring the implications therein.

How many innocuous doors had she opened in her lifetime, which were actually portals to hideaways contrived by wizards? She quickly realized that the answer to that one was none, the gateway notwithstanding. Any hidden doors in Daaven would be of a more physical, practical sort. Trapdoors and entrances hidden behind rotating bookshelves. Mechanical magic, rather than magic magic.

[The Kingpin]

There was a thoughtfulness to the Scholar's expression as he contemplated the mage's thoughts for a moment. She had a point. The idea of calling it a Spirit Form was not so alien as to be unacceptable, originating in a different tongue as it did. And it certainly had a better ring to it than Soul Form. With an inward decisiveness, he settled to call it such henceforth.

"Or nothing at all," was the Scholar's outward response to the mage's musings, shrugging non-committally as he walked ahead at a brisker pace than the others. A moment later, they saw why. The source of the destruction may have halted, but the courtyard and the tower at its heart were still a jagged, broken pit of rubble that was nigh untraversable. The Scholar took on his draconic form moments later, wings spreading wide and kicking up dust as he flexed them experimentally in preparation for flight.

Beshayir was atop her staff in moments once the dragon emerged from behind his disguise. She didn't kick off just yet, knowing that him taking flight would be accompanied by a gust of wind and dust that would certainly make flying difficult, but she braced for it so that she would not fall behind. Ceridwen, meanwhile, was already airborne. She didn't quite understand what the Scholar had said, or why it made sense, but it was all she was going to get. It was still scary to see, however, considering it was a form of magic she had never witnessed from any other Hueilin, and that it seemed vastly more powerful than what she'd seen from things several multiples the Scholar's age. The closest she had seen so far was something Thurduunax had done during his return to Drakhunmiir, when he had condensed the attacks of one of the Khulruud elders and turned it against them. The thought of the Son of Storms using a technique that resembled, or perhaps even surpassed that of a fifteen thousand year old Well-Warden...It was something that terrified her.

[C S]

Once Septimus was aloft in the sky underneath the sea, the mages on their staves flew in close formation. They flew over the colorful cityscape of shells, coral and aquatic vegetation, ultimately chasing after Ceridwen as they made their way to the towering conch. From above, it was easier to see the hanging gardens that lined whole districts of the city, hanging, in that the seaweed that the people cultivated draped down from lines and rolls, watered by spouts attached to the sides of homes that drew water upwards from below. The runoff from the gardens was channeled by drains cut into the streets, which merged with the renewed canals, closing the circuit of recycled water.

After reaching the Great Conch, Syria and Beshayir were taken under Ceridwen's care. Her administrations of restorative magic ensured that the two would not suffer from pathogens that were scattered into the air by the destruction at the sanctuary. The quartet returned to a court tasked with responding to crowds of Zuppo disturbed by bedlam before dusk had fallen. The way to the palace was clear and it was no hassle at all for them to reach the alabaster room, but letters had been circulated on the backs of crabs to convey the mass discontent and worry. It was under these constraints that apologies were offered and the explanation produced, to sate the people of Zuppoland, and to reimburse their anxieties with uplifting news.

[The Kingpin]

"So all this was because of decaying magic?" asked Sheemaka, somewhat surprised.

"Yes and no," responded the Scholar. "On the one hand, the directive the golem was tasked with made it highly aggressive. On the other, that wasn't the only danger there."

"There was something else?"

"Yes. Mould so dense and prolific I had to investigate the main halls of the castle on my own. It would have killed anyone else who entered with its spores."

"I see. Yes, I do recall my predecessors' memories on such things. It was a serious problem in the early days of Zuppoland. But what of the golem? Do you know why it was as it was?"

The Son of Storms nodded slowly. "It was probably a guardian of something within the ruins of the sanctuary. The magic powering it was very familiar. The last time I encountered it, I was face to face with an Order mage by the name of Morrelie. I believe she may have created the golem to supervise her brethren in the Order. It seems logical, considering Liorick acting outside of the Order's supervision was what led to the creation of Desrium. Whatever the case, the golem has persisted long after its original duty ended, and the magic sustaining it had an allure of some sort. Ceridwen was drawn in by it, and we believe the same happened with the victims lost in the ruins as well."

"Morrelie? Hm...I have heard word of her, mostly through contacts within the city. Observers, you could call them. She was one of those Order mages that was apparently too bitter and temperamental to have been able to infiltrate the ranks of my council. But that's irrelevant now. The golem is gone, correct?" asked Sheemaka.

"Yes. It was destroyed in the same blow that destroyed the tower. But the mould still persists. I do not think you need to worry about it spreading beyond the ruins, but all should be warned that the air in that area is lethal. I would burn the entire place to ash, but it is not my decision to make," stated the Scholar finally, his hands clasping behind his back as he stood before the Sovereign of the Sea-City.

"I see. Yes, I believe I will need to discuss the matter with the council, but I will need to wait until the panic has died down. Our hands are still full with the current flood of complaints, the City Guard are practically going door to door to assure everyone that all is safe. But you needn't bother yourself with that. We will tend to it. We have learned to be very efficient in dealing with mould."

[C S]

"How did you solve that problem?" Syria inquired, leaning forward in the same chair she had been sitting in earlier to convey her interest. In one small part, it was to prevent the topic of Morrelie from hanging over the council. Her name carried with it so much negativity, and yet it refused to go unmentioned for any great stretch of time. It could only be buried by other thoughts until it became relevant again. However, Syria's constant strive for the sake of learning made it easier for her to bury the Millennial Mage. Yes, how did Zuppoland deal with the wreckage of the nation as the dome was expanded over the years?