Tzanntiel returned to Neriak the next day, and checked in with her contacts at the Library and the Tower of the Spurned. Neither one had found anything. Tzann thought it was probably because the books Shaede had were from their libraries. She showed each one the books, and they agreed on the previous opinions, that there was no information about opening the collar. As with the others, Tzanntiel left them with instructions to contact her if they found anything new.
Next she returned to House S`Therik. The stately manor house was quiet as she entered. She was about to walk up to her sister's room when a servant stopped her in the hall. He bowed as he handed her a sealed scroll, saying that it had been delivered the day before, but that they had not known where to forward it. Apologizing for the delay, he bowed again and hurried off to his other duties.
Tzann went into her room and closed the door. Sitting at her writing desk she broke the seal on the scroll and slowly read it.
Dear Tzanntiel,
The culling has returned, Innoruuk's word has reached me, and I am sure you know what I mean by this, for you have no doubt had something of the vision as well. The Grange has opened, and I dwell inside. Return to Innoruuk at haste, I await your arrival.
Daiunus Darkenvalor
Loyal servant to our Father
Frowning, Tzanntiel read the letter once more. She pondered what Daiunus meant by visions. She had never had one herself, not a true vision like her sister and brother did. She felt the Father's Hate keenly, ever since Anari had almost ended her life, but she was just not able to See as the others did. She thought for a moment that she should not go to Daiunus. She had so much work to do, and she was not certain it would be safe to be among so many ex-Harvesters. Shaede had insinuated that others of their number had been involved in the plot against her brother.
She sat and thought for a long while, but finally decided that she would go. Something stirred deep in her gut the longer she considered the letter. It was like the tension she felt when slinking through the shadows of Neriak, or out in the wilds and dungeons when she hunted and the warriors called out that the enemy approached. Some part of her felt that call, that excitement, and she couldn't deny its lure.
Tzanntiel walked to the hearth in her room which was kept burning hot by the servants. She tossed the letter into the flames, and watched it burn to ash, stirring it slowly with a poker to be sure it was completely destroyed.
Next Tzanntiel went to Vhalshae's room. As always the younger woman was meditating or praying, kneeling beside her bed. She looked up as Tzann walked in, the slightest of smiles twitching at her lips.
"You are closer, Tzanntiel. I can feel it," Vhalshae said in her whispery voice.
Tzann sighed deeply, "I don't feel closer. Every time I turn the news seems to grow worse. Did those sketches help you at all?"
Vhalshae turned and looked at the wall beside her window. All the parchments had been tacked up there, one next to the other. She nodded, "In some ways, yes. I sense the mystery in them, but I cannot quite see the solution. Those runes are the ice and amber I felt. We must learn how to thaw them."
"It's a secret I've had no luck in unearthing, Vhal. I'm starting to doubt the answer exists anymore."
Vhalshae was standing in front of her sister in an instant. She grabbed Tzann's chin in a fierce grip, forcing her to look deep into her endless black eyes. "Never doubt, Tzanntiel S`Therik," she hissed. "Do not dare to doubt the Father's Will."
Tzann flinched at the pinching grip and the venomous words, but she did not try to pull herself free. "I'm sorry Vhalshae. I just don't know where to turn now."
Vhalshae released her sister's face with a look of disgust. "To your faith, dear sister. Perhaps you need to spend more time in prayer than in your drinking houses scrabbling after scraps with those rats. The Father will provide."
Sighing, Tzanntiel turned away from Vhalshae, lost in thought. "I will try, Vhal. It doesn't come as easy for me as it does for you."
"You are the Father's daughter, Tzanntiel. Just as I am. Stop doubting and go do what needs to be done."
Tzann walked out slowly, feeling more uncertain than ever. She looked back just as she was about to shut the door.
"Soon, more than a month, but less than two, our Matron will bear her newest and last child, Tzanntiel. Be certain you are ready, or the opportunity may have passed," Vhalshae whispered as she settled back down to the floor, running a fingertip across the symbol of Innoruuk she wore around her neck.
Daiunus' meeting was the next evening. Tzanntiel spent the day at House S`Therik, but kept to herself. She didn't feel like talking to her siblings or cousins, or even her favorite playthings among the servants at the moment. She tried to pray, as her sister had suggested, but her thoughts would not be still enough for her to concentrate on the litanies. Growing agitated, she paced her rooms, frowning. "What does Vhalshae know of what I do and how I do it", she thought. "Prayer may solve her problems, but not mine. I am of the Ebon Mask. We find our answers in the shadows, down in the dirt and the blood. Kneeling on marble floors is all well and good for the Prophets, but not the stealthy Eyes of the Father." Silently she resolved to do whatever she had to, but she would do it in her own way.
"My eyes are the Eyes of Innoruuk, the seeds of Hatred shall be sown amongst all," Tzanntiel muttered softly. It was the section of the Litany of Purpose spoken by the Rogues of the Ebon Mask as part of one of the high rituals of the Spires. As a youth the words hadn't meant much to her, but now she understood and savored each word.
When Tzanntiel entered the Grange the next evening, she felt a chilling calm over the hate that burned within her. She couldn't recall a time when she had felt so directed. She paused at the gate, looking over the pair of Trolls who guarded the door, outfitted in piece-mail armour that she recognized. It had been re-fitted for the large creatures from the armour of the Teir'Dal guards who used to serve the Grange in the time of the Harvest. She raised an eyebrow as she walked past them, wondering what other changes and surprises the once-Thresher had in store for the meeting.
More Trolls patrolled and guarded the halls, looking awkward and uncertain of their new duties. One noticed her wandering and directed her to one of the larger meeting rooms. Inside she found Daiunus, and more than a dozen other people. It seemed the spirit of the Harvest still moved many hearts pure in hate. Some of the people she recognized, others she'd never seen before. A few kept to the shadows so well she could not even identify them.
The meeting itself was fairly brief as such things go. Daiunus explained his vision, and what he planned to create. Some of those gathered seemed uneasy, they argued for the new company to be more like the Harvest had been. But Tzanntiel could see the wisdom of what Daiunus had planned. The Harvest was over. If they simply tried to recreate what the Prophecies had wrought, they would fail. This new group, Hate's Culling he called it, would be something different, founded in the new age the Harvest had prepared for Norrath. Tzanntiel also liked the idea of the non-Teir`Dal having more freedoms that they had had in the Harvest. She herself used many contacts and allies from outside the Chosen Race, and she knew how capable they could be when given free rein. By the end of the meeting, everyone present was in agreement, and loudly supported Daiunus' new guild.
As Tzanntiel left the Grange, she felt buoyant, as if the secret weights she bore had been set aside for a while. No one had mentioned her brother during the meeting, and she felt that was a good sign. If one or more of the conspirators had been there, they must have no idea that Khasirath had been removed from their hiding place. Though it may feel like time was growing shorter, no one was directly opposing her efforts in any way she could divine.
Leaving Neriak behind, Tzann returned to Shadow Haven. Her holiday was over, and it was time to return to work.
Tzanntiel walked into the apartment in Shadow Haven with a spring in her step. She found Shaede in the small kitchen eating her lunch. Smiling, Tzann tossed her pack to the floor and sat down in an empty chair. Shaede blushed as she smiled at her.
“It’s good to see you again, Tzann,” Shaede said.
Tzann chuckled, “I’m glad to see you again too.” She opened her pack and pulled out a scrap of parchment and a quill, and quickly wrote down the name ‘Archerius Talnathian’, then pushed the parchment next to Shaede’s plate.
Shaede looked down at it and asked, “What is this?”
“My best lead so far. I’ve heard this Erudite was an artificer who specialized in temporal magics. I need you to go and find out everything you can about him for me. It’s possible in his research and works we’ll find some information about disabling items like that collar. It may be hard to find, as he lived a long time ago, but I need you to find everything you can,” Tzann said, her eyes all but glowing with excitement as she watched Shaede’s face.
Shaede’s smile was warm and hopeful as she folded the parchment and tucked it into her newly repaired robes. She looked like a new woman compared to what Tzann had found in Torsis. Her hair was clean and freshly trimmed, her skin soft and radiant. “I’ll get right to it, Tzann,” she said.
“Thank you, pet,” Tzann purred. She stood up and walked around behind Shaede’s chair, leaning down to wrap her arms around the Mage’s shoulders. Shaede ran her hands gently across Tzann’s wrists, tilting her head forward. Nuzzling into Shaede’s hair, Tzann kissed the back of her neck. “You are simply too beautiful for words,” she mumbled, leaning over more to press her cheek against Shaede’s ear.
Shaede blushed so deeply that Tzann could feel the heat against her cheek. “I… I should go get started. I want to help you every way I can,” Shaede whispered.
Tzanntiel hugged her tightly for a moment, brushing her lips against Shaede’s cheek. “You are right, beautiful pet. I may have to go out again, but once you find what you can, bring it back here and wait for me.”
Once Tzann let her go, Shaede got up and grabbed her things, pausing only to give Tzann a quick kiss before she was out the door.
Checking through the window to be sure the Mage was out of sight, Tzann let out a sigh. The name was a red herring she’d made up by scrambling up a name she’d overheard someone say in the Bazaar. But it would keep Shaede busy for a few days, and out of the apartment. Though she was bound to Tzann now, she still didn’t feel she could trust Shaede completely. At least it would make Shaede feel like she was being useful.
Tzanntiel had gone back to the Echo Caverns and seen her Shadow Knights the day before. It had taken all day to properly reward them for guarding her boxes, and to explain to them what she wanted them to do. She grinned mischievously as she thought about it, grateful as always for her ability to heal quickly.
About an hour after Shaede had gone, Tzann went to the apartment door, and took her time propping it open. Grabbing a broom she swept the floor, brushing the dust out onto the streets, as almost everyone in the city did. Leaving the door open for fresh air, she went into her bedroom and shut the door.
“It’s safe now,” Tzann said with a grin.
One of the Shadow Knight brothers appeared, holding one of Tzann’s trunks in his hand. He grinned widely and set it down on the floor, walking over to hug Tzann tight. “Just as you ordered, Mistress Bloodthorne.”
Tzann curled her fingers into the man’s wild hair as she kissed him deeply. He hugged her so tight it almost hurt, but she didn’t complain. One of his legs nudged between her thighs and she chuckled. “Still hungry after yesterday, pet?”
He laughed deeply and nodded, “Always. My brother will be here in a few minutes. He took a different route, just like you said.”
Tzann smiled brightly, “Excellent.” She pulled the big man’s head down for another deep kiss before pushing him away gently. “Stay out of sight, I’ll open the door for him.”
The Knight stood against the wall beside the bedroom door obediently while Tzann opened it. She lay down on her bed, pillowing her head on one arm as she lay on her side, watching the man beside the door. He stood still, watching her with dark and dangerous eyes as she spread her legs teasingly, her one leg hanging off the bed, the other foot flat on the bed, her knee bent. She slid a hand languidly along her inner thigh as she waited, watching the desire raging against the Knight’s control in his eyes.
A short while later the man beside the door nodded to Tzanntiel and she got up and closed the door. Almost immediately the second brother appeared, setting the trunk he carried next to the first one. He looked almost exactly like the first brother, except his hair was a tiny bit longer. Even their armour and weapons matched exactly. Not many could tell them apart easily.
Both men embraced Tzanntiel roughly, and she chuckled as she encouraged them, kissing them and teasing them with her hands. She so loved being trapped between the two of them, yet still being the one in control. She let them play for a while, reveling in the bruising roughness of their embrace. Finally she pushed free enough to speak, “Let’s go take care of the last box, my pets. I don’t like the thought of it being left unguarded.”
Reluctantly the two men pulled away, nodding in tandem. “Whatever you want, Mistress Bloodthorne,” one said.
The two Knights called their spells of shadows to hide themselves, and followed Tzanntiel as she got her pack and cloak. She locked the door after them and led the way back to Echo Caverns. Halfway to the hidden entrances she slid into her own kind of shadows, certain of the fact that her pets would be able to keep track of her. In truth she wasn’t that concerned about the last trunk. The Rogue guild leader would be watching the Knights’ house. Anyone who was foolish enough to even knock on the door would no doubt be dead before they realized what had happened.
Once they were past the last hidden door, the Knights dropped their shadows, and led Tzanntiel into their house. She stepped into sight once the door was closed. One of the brothers opened a secret space under the floorboards and pulled out the last trunk. “We wanted to be certain it was as safe as possible while we were both away,” he explained proudly.
It was time again for Tzanntiel to take the lead as they returned to the safety of the shadows and left the outpost of thieves. The two Knights followed her closely. One carried the trunk while the other walked with his weapons drawn.
Any city requires a way to dispose of wastes. While above ground, some small villages can get away with trenches and dumps, underground cities require more complex measures to ensure the city will stay clean. And this means sewers and catacombs. When Tzanntiel had found her place within the outpost, she had learned all she could of the sewers from the other Rogues who lived there. Shadow Haven was a big city, and its sewers were very complex. Rogues and other practitioners of Dark Arts had improved on them over the years, adding their own access points and hidden areas into the near-endless maze of tunnels and aqueducts.
Tzanntiel led the Knights confidently into the maze of tunnels, following memory and instinct, and the occasional subtle way-marks to one of the more remote hidden rooms. The trio stepped out of the shadows at Tzanntiel’s quiet order. The brother who carried the trunk put it down carefully in one corner of the empty chamber while the other brother searched the room carefully to be sure there was nothing around to disturb them.
Tzanntiel smiled at the two Knights as she watched them. “You two are simply incredible. I can never thank you enough.”
One brother chuckled deeply as he grabbed her from behind in a fierce bear hug. “You always know how to take care of us, Mistress. We’re happy to return the favor.”
Tzanntiel arched back to run her fingers through his hair while his brother came up in front of her, pressing her back roughly into his brother’s arms as he kissed her hungrily. Tzann purred deeply as she wriggled between them, trying to caress and tease them both at once. Their hands seemed to be everywhere, exploring her body, creeping under her light armour. She grinned, moaning softly as one bit at the back of her neck. She really didn’t want to make them stop just yet. But she knew she had to, there was far too much to be done.
“I really have to get to work, my pets. I’ll go with you back to the edge of the outpost, but then I’ve got to go. I’ll stop by your place as soon as I can, and show you again how much I appreciate your help,” she smiled, running her hands across their breastplates.
They each let out a deep sigh at almost the same moment, and Tzann chuckled softly. “I really am sorry I don’t have the time to play today, pets.”
“We understand,” one of the brothers said as they both cast their shadow spells again. Tzann slid into hiding easily and led them back to the outpost by a different route than they had come in. She knew the two of them didn’t know the catacombs very well, and she wanted to do all she could to ensure they wouldn’t find their way back to the room the trunk was left in. Not that they had any interest in the trunk itself, of course. But their delicious distractions were hard to refuse.
After parting ways with the Knight brothers outside the outpost, Tzanntiel hurried back through the twisted sewers to the hidden room. The trunk had remained undisturbed, as she expected. Very few went this deep into the catacombs for any reason. Tzann picked up the trunk and slipped back into the shadows.
It took her almost a half hour to get to the small chamber she had found during her own explorations. It wasn’t as large as the chamber she had the Knights bring the trunk to, but it was far more secure. Only one passage led into it, and it was very hard to reach. Tzann could also tell the small chamber had been undisturbed a long time, no doubt forgotten by whoever had built it.
Tzanntiel opened her pack and laid out her bedroll against the far wall. She lit a small lantern and set it on the floor beside the trunk. Carefully Tzanntiel checked her tell-traps, disabling each one after verifying that it hadn’t been disturbed. All of them were just fine, and she let out a sigh of relief as she finally un-strapped and unlocked the box.
Opening the trunk, Tzanntiel’s breath caught in her throat, her blood chilling in her veins. Khasirath was there, just as she had left him, but tucked in next to him was a basket of woven rushes dyed black. Tzann’s hands trembled as she leaned closer, checking to see if there were any traps attached to the basket. Part of her couldn’t accept what she was seeing. The trunk had been well guarded and the traps hadn’t been broken. No one should have been able to do this!
Finally certain that it was safe, Tzanntiel picked up the basket and looked into it. It was lined with a dark red cloth, and inside were a dozen chocolate fish. Each one was almost twelve inches long, and looked something like a trout. They were so perfectly detailed that she could see each scale along their sides. In the mouth of one fish hung a fishing fly. After a moment Tzann realized it wasn’t a real fly, it had been made of red paper with a golden pattern on it. Carefully she pulled it free, and looked at it more closely. It was one piece of paper, folded cleverly into the shape, and Tzanntiel could see faint indentations on the paper, as if there was writing on the inside.
Tzann set the basket and paper fly aside quickly, returning to the trunk. Carefully she lifted Khasirath out and laid him on her bedroll. She looked him over carefully. He looked about the same as she’d last seen him, and she was relieved to see the bites on his wrist were mostly closed now. It didn’t look like anything had been done to him, and she could tell his condition was the same as before. The thick collar gleamed dully in the feeble light of her lantern.
Tzanntiel tucked the blankets and furs around her brother carefully, and then returned to the basket. She sat down on the stone floor and picked up the paper fly. Carefully she began to unfold it, a frown of concentration creasing her brow as she carefully puzzled out the intricate folds so as not to tear it. Finally she had it undone, and carefully smoothed the thin paper against her thigh.
Inside the paper were words in a language Tzanntiel had never seen before. The words were mixed with strange symbols that she felt had to be related to magic in some way. The script was tight, precise, every symbol and letter carefully crammed onto the small square of paper. Tzann stared at the paper, shaking her head in confusion. What could this mean? And who could have put it here?
Standing on the stone circle that marked the portal to the Faydark forest, Tzanntiel was lost in troubled thoughts. Before she left the catacombs under Shadow Haven, she had set every trap she knew in the narrow passage leading to the room where her brother slept. At the crumbled tunnel entrance she had carefully scribed the tiny way-marker for ‘bad air’. In the sewers pockets of gas that could steal a man’s breath or burst into fire were common and Rogues tended to try to warn each other where not to go. She’d also been careful to make it seem the mark was old, and that the passage was as unused as she had found it originally. It was very deep in a remote section of the catacombs, and normally she would think all her precautions had been enough. But since she had already been proven wrong once in that respect, she was full of doubts.
For a while she thought that perhaps she should just break down and bring Khasirath right to House S`Therik. No one from outside the House could harm him there. But there were plenty within the House that might want to take advantage of his condition. She had not worked this hard and this long only to give him over to death. Especially not when she felt this close to a solution.
The writing was meaningless to her, but someone had gone to great lengths to get it to her. She prayed silently to the Father that it would be the cure she was seeking. Now she just had to find someone to translate it. She had a perfect idea of who could do it, but he was never an easy one to deal with. This was someone she had no chances of controlling, or binding. She would have to play her cards just right to get something useful.
For the twenty-fourth time since she had left the catacombs, Tzanntiel smoothed her cloak around her shoulders, her fingertips grazing the edge of the small note in it’s hidden pocket along the edge of the cloak. Her weapons were in their sheaths at her belt, close to hand. She sighed in relief as the stone circle sprang to life suddenly, blue and white energies enfolding her, carrying her to a momentary black void before she blinked, and was standing within the ancient forest of the light elves once more.
Walking slowly, Tzanntiel wandered under the ancient pines, letting the sounds of the forest surround her, following the faintest prickling sense to what she sought. The small creatures hardly took notice of her stealthy form whispering through the trees; even the fairies, who loathed Teir`Dal, fluttered by on sparkling wings without bothering her.
Every tree in the Faydark seemed to live an enchanted life. They grew straight and tall, their boughs so thick that only the mistiest green twilight shone through from the sun far above. Tzanntiel walked through them, looking at each one she passed. Finally she stopped, and walked closer to one particularly large pine. Its roots were old and deep, and its branches disappeared into the gloomy green of the upper canopy. Under the circle of the old tree’s branches, Tzanntiel knelt down. She was not within arm’s reach of the thick trunk, but she was close enough to feel the knees of some of the giant tree’s roots under her shins. The air buzzed with unmistakable slow, lazy snores.
Tzanntiel reached into her pack and pulled out an old glass wine bottle. The glass was smoky grey, its surface etched with delicate runes and scrolling patterns of intertwined dragons. Slowly, as if performing some unspoken ritual, Tzanntiel pulled the cork free, and began to pour out the thick red blood from the bottle onto the ground below the tree. She moved her arm slowly, spreading the blood over the roots as far as she could without rising from her kneeling position.
The old pine began to stir faintly, as if a breeze ruffled its branches. But there was no wind to be felt. Tzanntiel smiled. “Greetings, old one,” she said softly.
The whole tree suddenly seemed to awaken, the stout wood of its trunk creaking deeply as its branches stretched upwards to the sky. “Hmm, who is here?” came a mumbling voice. Then suddenly the tree roared, “I AM THE GREAT WISE TREE!! WHO GOES THERE!?”
Tzanntiel sat quietly for a moment, watching in wonder as the tree stretched and shivered. The sound of its needles hissing against one another was almost hypnotic.
More quietly, the tree muttered, “Mmmm… Whomever it is comes with some good drink….”
Smiling, Tzanntiel looked up into the tree’s branches, and spoke respectfully, “Simply a young Rogue in search of wisdom, great one.”
Growing still once more, the tree said, “Come closer… My eyes aren’t that good anymore.”
Tzanntiel stood up, leaving the old bottle sitting on the grass. With a measured step she drew closer to the thick trunk, stopping barely two paces away from it. Suddenly a pair of pale blue eyes opened in the rough bark, a little bit above Tzann’s own eye level. The tree’s needles shook with what seemed to be a chuckle, “Ah, I know you…” it said slowly. “You are… You are… the Teir`Dal… Forlourne’s friend, aye?”
Tzanntiel bowed her head, a slight smile on her lips, “Yes, I know Forlourne well, old one.”
The eyes in the tree slowly drifted, looking over Tzann, then seeming to focus on something past her left shoulder. Tzann did not turn to look, keeping her head slightly bowed.
“Yes… yes, as do I… We had our… hmm… arguments,” the tree said slowly, it’s gaze trailing off through the still forest. “Where is that pup, anyways?”
“I am sorry to hear that you and Forlourne have argued, wise one. Last I saw him was on Luclin, in Shadow Haven,” Tzanntiel answered quickly.
The tree stretched again, its trunk creaking like a ship’s mast. “Ah, the moon. Foolish travelers….” Its words faded off like a breeze into incomprehensible muttering.
Tzanntiel chuckled softly, still studying the tree through her lashes as she kept her head bowed.
The blue eyes focused sharply on her once more. “Soo… I am sure you did not come merely for my lovely company, child…”
Tzanntiel lifted her eyes, taking in the full view of the tree’s massive arching branches, the arrow straight strength of its trunk. She smiled as she nodded appreciatively. The tree’s eyes turned up to follow her gaze. “You are quite impressive to behold, in truth. But I was hoping you would be able to help me with a little something, if you have the time.”
The eyes traced over Tzann’s face slowly, “You like my branches? I know of an ancient art… to make trees beautiful.”
Tzann met the tree’s eyes, smiling softly. “Indeed?”
The eyes moved up and down, as if nodding, “Aye, aye… I have the time, especially for one who brings such gifts.”
Grinning warmly, Tzanntiel bowed her head to the tree, “It should be an easy thing for you. I know how very wise you are.”
The tree’s eyes wandered off again, into the misty spaces between the trees. “Aye, it is an ancient art, lost to this world… My branches cut as angles… My roots nurtured like none others….” Its soft voice trailed off to silence for a moment. Then it returned its attention to Tzanntiel. “And you are buttering me up… I like that too,” it muttered softly.
Suddenly, as if she had blinked, the tree was gone. Standing on the dark ground was instead a High Elf man, whose pale eyes were the same as the tree’s had been. Pine needles drifted down slowly like a green rain from nearby trees that had a moment before been leaning against the forest giant. With a dreamy smile the man sat down, ignoring the dirt under his robes. “Sit, sit,” he said with childlike excitement.
As Tzanntiel sunk to the soft ground, she reached into the secret pocket of her cloak and pulled out the small square of red and gold paper.
The High Elf sat forward, his eyes widening quizzically, “Hmmm…. What is this?”
Tzanntiel handed him the paper with a small smile. He took it quickly, his eyes flicking back and forth quickly as he read it. “Ah, I haven’t seen this in ages… since my days as a guest at Castle Mistmoore… before the undead plagued his walls.”
“That was quite long ago. It must have been fascinating to see it before it fell to such ruin,” Tzanntiel said.
The Elf looked up at Tzanntiel, “It is an ancient form of shorthand. Something not seen by most… remembered by less… And understood by… me.” He grinned proudly, and Tzann could see the long sharp canines beside his even, gleaming white teeth.
Tzanntiel smiled warmly in appreciation of the Enchanter’s skill at languages, keenly aware of the man’s powers. She couldn’t let herself forget it for a moment, despite his open and charming demeanor. Like the winds, his moods could change in an instant.
“Aye, it was before the great Elven wars as well,” he mumbled softly, his eyes returning to the small page of script.
Tzanntiel smiled brightly, “I knew you would be the one to understand it.”
Looking up suddenly, he all but shouted, “HA! Understand it? There is a possibility I wrote this!!!” Frowning he turned back to the paper, muttering softly.
Sitting back, Tzanntiel bowed her head, trying to look properly impressed and rebuked. Her palms itched with the desire to hold her blades, but she quelled it. This one was easy to offend at times.
Looking up, the Elf seemed to return from his wandering thoughts. “Well… These are some powerful ingredients.”
Tzanntiel looked up to meet his eyes, a trill of excitement racing down her spine. “Ingredients? For what, a spell?”
He nodded, his gaze wandering back to the paper. He traced the runes and symbols with one gracefully pale finger. “Aye, aye.” His eyes closed for a moment as he thought silently. “Spell… aye a spell.”
Shaking his head suddenly, he met Tzanntiel’s eyes, “It is… Well, bah, let me write this out… What language do you need it in?” He held out a hand, and began to tick off languages on his fingers. “Dragon… elder or modern of course… Fae, Elemental…”
Suddenly he snatched at the air to his right with a hand. Gripping his fist closed tight he brought it to his mouth and acted like he was popping something into his mouth. Thoughtfully he chewed at nothing.
Tzanntiel looked down at the ground as she thought a moment, “Perhaps you could manage to put it in the Dark Speech? I doubt ye would know the Cant….”
He grinned slyly, leaning forward. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone, “The Cant? My dear… I was a Rogue for 500 years…” He winked at her as he sat back, chuckling softly.
Tzann grinned openly, “Indeed! I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
He laughed openly, “HA! You are a nice one for the betrayers.” He looked down at his hands, and started in surprise as he saw the page in his hand. When he spoke it was in the soft sibilant tongue of the Thieves’ Cant, “Oh! Now let me see here…”
He pulled a parchment and quill from his robes, and began to jot down notes from the page in the chicken-scratch scrawl of the Cant as easily as if it were his native language.
Sitting back he muttered, still in the Cant, “Well that should be all of it.” He looked from the page to his notes, peering at them more closely. “Hmm… Do you know what this is for?”
Tzanntiel smirked mysteriously as she met his gaze, “I am hoping it’s an answer to all my current problems.”
Tilting his head, he switched back to the Common tongue, as Tzann had spoken in, “It is a method of releasing something… Although I do not know what.”
Tzann nodded thoughtfully, watching as his gaze wandered off again.
“But your secrets are your own. I can not ask to know what is not for me.” His eyes seemed to follow the path of something unseen as it wandered through the forest. “Or something like that….” He muttered.
Tzann smiled as she watched him closely, “You are very kind, to be so understanding. I hope I will be able to repay you some way for this…”
The Enchanter continued to gaze into the distance as if he had not heard. “Let’s see… Your secrets are yours…. What is for me to know is mine…. What is not for me is yours, and not mine…” Softly he continued to mutter off different combinations of the words. Tzanntiel looked down at the papers still in his hands, the quill having fallen to the forest floor forgotten.
Suddenly he looked up, his eyes focusing again on Tzanntiel’s face. “Oh? Oh yes… the favor… Well, think nothing of it.” He smiled patronizingly, sitting up straighter. “It is my pleasure to see you trying to foil ancient magics!” he winked roguishly.
Tzanntiel smiled warmly at the Enchanter as he smiled happily, as a child might.
Standing slowly, he began to brush the dirt from his robes with the papers still in his hand. Tzanntiel bit her lip, trying to hide her wince. She stood up as well, staying a respectful distance from the man. He began to whistle a simple little tune, looking off into the trees.
Tzanntiel bowed her head to him as she said, “May I have the translation now, wise one? And the other paper as well, please?”
Looking up at her with a touch of surprise in his eyes, he said, “Hmm? What? Ohhh that paper... of course…” He looked down at his hands and frowned, “Ohhh!!! It got dirty… Damn Orcs, I always blame the Orcs, see? They are dirty creatures.” He handed out the notes and the red paper rolled up together.
Tzanntiel bowed her head again as she took the papers, subtly brushing the dirt off of them as she folded them up and tucked them away into her cloak. “They are indeed. Filthy beasts,” Tzanntiel agreed.
The Enchanter continued on, looking through the trees. “Aye!! Hmm, speaking of which… I think Emperor Crush owes me a dance.” Looking back at Tzann he saw her tucking the papers back into her cloak. “What is that?” he asked.
Tzanntiel smiled widely. “I doubt Emperor Crush will be too happy to see you…”
He laughed aloud, “Bah, he will love me in seconds.” Again his grin revealed his fangs. Tzanntiel watched his eyes as he gazed through the forest.
Smiling, Tzanntiel said, “Indeed he will. You are very… charming…” She chuckled softly over the ‘charming’ part, throwing the Enchanter a wink.
He laughed again, “Ha!! Always a charmer!!’
Tzanntiel smiled, smoothing her cloak with one hand, her fingertips brushing the pages in their pocket reassuringly.
The Elf turned back to her from his wandering thoughts. “Well, Tzanntiel, Daughter of Forlourne, I bid you good eve.”
Tzanntiel bowed deeply, as if before the King of Neriak himself. “Thank you again for your help, Elder Galtran. If I can ever assist you in turn, you need only call upon me.”
Galtran bowed in return, smiling evilly. “I will. Thank you.”
Keeping her eyes down, Tzanntiel added, “I never forget a favor.”
Grinning, he replied, “And I never forget a pretty face.”
Tzanntiel smiled warmly as Galtran began to name Elves of beauty from ages long past, smiling as he wandered off into the mists of the forest. Once he was out of sight she set out at a lope towards the stone book near Felwithe that would transport her to the Plane of Knowledge.
The great library of Myrist was on odd place to find a Rogue, but Tzanntiel had found a quiet little niche on one of the highest floors away from the researchers and lore keepers where she could study the notes that Galtran had written for her. She leaned her back against the stone wall between two immense bookshelves full of neatly organized tomes that were no doubt worth more than some kingdoms.
The ingredients were an odd collection, some easy to find, others near impossible. A gill of the juice from green seedpods of the white poppy, the scale of a dragon, a draught of the blood of a vampire, a dram of dust from Kerafyrm’s tomb, five leaves from the hemlock plant, two grams of pure granulated amber, the bezoar of a poisonous frog, and something from a person whom the cursed one loves enough to live for. Reading that last one, Tzann idly wondered if she could just double up on the dust from Kerafyrm’s tomb.
The poppy extract and the hemlock leaves Tzann had established suppliers for; she was fond of both for different reasons. Sure a gill’s worth of the poppy extract was a lot, but she was certain her suppliers could come through for her. The vampire blood was also a simple enough matter for her. Amber could be bought almost anywhere. Khasirath had a number of dragon scales he had saved from different hunts stored in his rooms at House S`Therik. Normally Tzann wouldn’t dream of stealing from her brother’s trophies, but under the circumstances, she felt he would approve. The bezoar was an oddity, but Tzanntiel had heard of them. She knew a few merchants who would sell her something they swore was one, but she thought it would be better to slaughter the poisonous frogs on her own until she could retrieve the reddish stone from one of their heads and be sure it was authentic. A side benefit of that would be restocking her supplies of their venoms.
All those things were simple enough. It was the other two ingredients that worried her. Sleeper’s Tomb was a fearsome place, and not many hunted there. Doubly so now that Kerafyrm had been awakened. Finding someone who knew the secrets of entering the place would be hard, but she felt not impossible. Her mind already raced through possibilities for gaining the dust.
Staring at the page of notes without seeing it, Tzanntiel tried to think hard. Did her brother truly love anyone? And enough to want to live for them? She knew of her brother’s lovers, even a few dalliances that would make such lovely blackmail material if he weren’t her favorite sibling. But she sincerely doubted that Khasirath loved any one of them. If one were to twist the meanings of the words, her brother did want to live to serve Innoruuk, but she somehow felt twisting the meanings of words in a recipe such as this one could be disastrous. Even if it would work, she wasn’t about to go off hunting the Plane of Hate for the Father’s nail clippings.
Further, so many of these ingredients were fatally toxic. Sure the bezoar was purported to neutralize poisons, but she didn’t know if she would trust her brother’s life to that legend. And was Khasirath supposed to drink this concoction? She may have the recipe, but it didn’t answer everything. And a part of her still doubted that it was the cure. It could be a trap; something designed to kill her brother despite the collar’s wards. But why wouldn’t the person who placed the basket and note simply have killed him then? Or they could have stolen him away and done it elsewhere. Perhaps they were trying to trick Tzanntiel into doing it for them. But why go to such lengths?
Putting the notes back into her cloak, Tzanntiel rested her face in her hands, sighing deeply. She had too many questions and too few answers.
Tugging her cloak more tightly around herself, Tzanntiel stood up. She left the library at a leisurely pace, thinking while she walked to the southern end of the Plane where she found the portal to Neriak. In an instant she was transported to the welcoming familiarity of Nektulos forest, and she walked slowly to Neriak, then down to the Third Gate and into House S`Therik.
No one bothered her as she went to Vhalshae’s room, but she found it empty. Frowning she wandered the huge manse, searching for her sister. Stopping a servant, she found out that her sister had been called into the Matron’s chambers earlier that day, and had not yet emerged. Tzanntiel returned to her room with a sigh, waiting for Vhalshae to return.
Sitting at her desk she pulled out the notes again and read them over. She pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from her desk and copied the list out in Teir`Dal script. She carefully blotted and dried the ink, then folded the new page up with the others and tucked them back into her cloak pocket.
Restlessly Tzanntiel paced her room for a few minutes. She despised waiting. Wandering into the hall she walked down the corridor and stopped in front of a door near the staircase. She rested a hand on its smooth surface, taking a quick moment to look it over for any traps or wards. With a bit of surprise, she realized it was safe. She looked up and down the hall and stairs, listening closely to be sure she was alone. Then she pulled some slim lock picks from her pouch and bent to unlock the door. It only took a moment for her to open the door silently and slip inside, closing the door behind her.
There was no light in the room she entered, but she could see well enough the simple chairs and table next to a small shelf of books. Two doors led deeper into the suite. Crossing the floor as silently as a ghost, Tzanntiel pushed open the leftmost door. She stood in the doorway silently for a long while, looking at the simply decorated bedroom. The bed was neatly made with dark furs over the equally dark blanket; the floor was covered in a rust red rug. An armour chest sat at the foot of the bed, and an armoire of ebon wood stood against one wall. There was only one small high window in the room, and underneath it was a small altar table. The pale mage-light Eye of Innoruuk over the window shed the only light in the entire suite.
Tzann wrapped her arms around herself, holding onto her shoulders as she looked at her brother’s room. She hadn’t been in here since he’d gone missing. It was so still and dark, yet somehow she felt that she was being watched. She shook off the feeling with effort. She knew where Khasirath was, and there was nothing here that could harm her.
She crossed the room to the altar table, and stood silently looking at the staff and sword under the window. Her gaze traveled slowly down to the altar itself, with the brass brazier, the minotaur-horn drinking cup, the old bone and blade all carefully arranged on a red silk cloth. She could smell the faded spicy aroma of the unlit incense in the brazier. She wanted to touch these things, wondering what rituals her brother had performed here, wondering what he has Seen while staring at the flame that would have filled the brazier. She stopped herself though, it just didn’t seem right. She knew Khasirath would be furious with her for even being here.
Kneeling, Tzann lifted the hem of the altar cloth and looked under the table. She pulled out an old dark wood trunk and gently opened it. Inside were many bundles of different colored silken cloth. With a softly muttered apology, she began to sift through them, setting each one aside carefully. There were all manner of fangs and claws, bones, tufts of hair and fur. A small jar held what looked to be a preserved tongue; a scrap of parchment across the cork of the jar was labeled ‘Nindyilied’. Shrugging Tzann set that too aside, and kept searching. Finally in a large black velvet pouch she found a number of bright red and shining white scales. Each one was only a bit larger than her hand, and she knew them to be from dragons that Khasirath had slain. Looking through them, she selected one of the red ones, and then packed everything else back into the trunk carefully. Sliding the trunk back under the altar table, Tzann stood back up, looking around the bedroom with a sigh.
Though she wasn’t often given to prayer, Tzanntiel paused as she was about to leave the bedroom, staring back at the altar she softly muttered her hope that the Father would see to it that this room wasn’t empty for long.
Tzann leaned her ear against the door leading out to the hall before she opened it, and heard a faint tread moving down the hallway. She waited, counting the soft footsteps until she heard a door open, then a moment later it closed. Counting slowly to twenty, she heard nothing more. Carefully she slipped the door open and stepped into the hall. Resetting the lock she pulled the door closed and made sure it was well latched.
Finally she walked down the hall to Vhalshae’s door. If her guess was right, the footsteps had stopped there. Sure enough, when she gently rapped at the door, her sister opened it. Vhalshae stepped back to let her in without a word. Her eyes shone dully, as if she were deeply exhausted.
As Tzanntiel walked in she shut the door. “Are you alright, Vhal?”
The Prophetess walked slowly to her bed and sat down, rubbing her face with one hand. “Aye. Our Matron grows weary of carrying this child. She demands attendance at odd hours, insisting I stand and pray for the child’s strength and quick coming. She only just permitted me to leave.”
Tzanntiel chuckled softly, “As much as she enjoys increasing our ranks, I’ve never felt she liked bearing children.”
Vhalshae nodded slowly, “Aye. Six children is quite a good number, and at her age it is not getting easier.”
Tzann reached into her cloak and pulled out her newest translation of the notes, “I hate to do this when you are already so tired, but I have something I need you to look at.”
Vhalshae held out her hand without looking, and Tzann gave her the page. Vhalshae read it over slowly, her brow creased faintly in thought. “This is a strange list, sister. What is it?”
Tzann shrugged, “I’m not certain, and that is what has me worried. It could be a cure, or it could be a trap. I need you to pray, to see if you can divine its purpose.”
Vhalshae sighed deeply, and refolded the page. She slipped it under her pillow and lay down on the bed, still in her plain dark robe. “Let me sleep on it, sister. I am too weary for the rituals. Perhaps I shall See in my dreams. If not I will pray when I wake.”
Nodding, Tzanntiel moved to the side of the bed, looking down at her sister. Though she was a woman now, there still seemed to be a child-like frailty to her. It was a strange contrast to the ageless wisdom and ancient powers she wielded. Almost hesitantly, Tzanntiel bent down and kissed Vhalshae on the cheek. “Good luck, sister. I will be in my rooms if you need to see me.”
Vhalshae put her hand over her own cheek gently, holding the place that Tzanntiel had kissed. She looked up into Tzanntiel’s eyes silently for a long moment, her face almost unreadable. Tzann couldn’t decide if it was shock or something else she saw deep in those endless black eyes. “Hate guide you, sister,” Vhalshae whispered softly, rolling over to face away from Tzann.
Silently Tzanntiel left her sister’s room, and walked back to her own. She shook her head faintly, wondering at what had possessed her to do that. Yes, Vhalshae was her sister, but she was a Priestess, and a Prophet! People had been slain for far less.
As Tzanntiel slipped out of her clothes and prepared for bed, she looked over her other copy of the notes. It was just as meaningless now as it had been, but she couldn’t get it out of her thoughts. Drifting off to sleep, her mind pulled forth the image of her brother, pale and cold, and so very far away. A small shiver ran through her as sleep stole her sight.
Re: Visions of Darkness Rising
(Originally posted by Creapiing)
Creapiing took her pole and went to the lake. “Today,” she thought, “ they will find my gift today.” The golden lure on the end of her line spun in the moonlight as she cast it nearly halfway across the dark pool of water. Creapiing sat on the edge of the water spraying pebbles into the lake and causing ripples that spread beyond her sight. “That is my purpose now, to make barely discernable ripples in the world of Norrath,” she reflected.
Memories crowded her mind of her days with the Violent Harvest. She had felt powerful then. Her gauntleted hands had felt as if they could crush lightlovers with such ease. The irony amused her. That power had been a façade. Certainly she had wielded one of the best trained, most ambitious, and tightest knit group of Dread Lords ever gathered for Innoruuk’s cause. And they had been successful, and rewarded by Innoruuk with powers which superceded that of the kings of old. But the power she had once held in the palm of her hand as the Reaper of the Violent Harvest was simply a small part of that which she now wielded. Once she had waged war against lightlovers, now she quietly and effectively manipulated events in Norrath, Luclin, and even on the Planes of Power.
Creapiing grinned as she set the hook on a fish and reeled it up and onto the shore next to her. The slender silver fish was plump and would be very good eating tonight. She suddenly laughed remembering how many fish she had casually wasted when she had first left the Violent Harvest. Her one regret had been leaving behind Khasirath. So much unfinished business lay between them. Her departure had been a bloody trail that led nowhere. She had left no clue or even a sign that she still lived. For days she had been morose without realizing why. Then one day she realized….Khasirath. How could she leave him? What meaning could her life have? She felt trapped, her position now required total secrecy, and any relationship for one who was part of the Breagan D’aerthe would be exploited to the fullest. She could not allow Khasirath to be used, or used against her. Like a dark cloud gathering, her mind formed a plan. She would fish until she found the perfect fish, then she would snap its neck and make a perfect mold. The mold could then be used to make chocolate fish. When these were sent to Khasirath, no one would think it was more than an infatuated lovers fancy. Only Khasirath in all of Norrath would think chocolate fish was a message from her. She must have wasted half the fish in the lake to find the perfect one.
Creapiing had pressed the fish into warm wax, taking a mold of its beautiful form. On her mission to Mistemoore she had stopped by the brownie village to kill a few…they made the most fabulous chocolate. Finally, she had filled the mold with chocolate to form a perfectly formed fish. Meticulously she had spent weeks and weeks painting silver scales on each one. Each eye and fin had taken her a full day. By the time her basket of fish was ready, Khasirath was missing.
Reports thicker then her fist flowed through their encampment. Weeks went by with scant information. Finally Khasirath was located. The Breagan D’Aerthe discussion on the subject had ended abruptly with the decision that Khasirath was better off left where he was at this time---until he was needed. Creapiing had only managed to wrangle one concession, that she be allowed to find the cure, for the day when Khasirath would need to be found, for the benefit of the Breagan D’Aerthes plans. Years had flown by, and the cure had been discovered, but yet they waited. Creapiing could not afford to seem too interested in Khasirath’s well-being, and yet, every person in the Breagan D’Aerthe routinely found his file on their desks.
Ten years later Creapiing got her opening. Khasirath had been found by Tzann…at last, and without any influence from her. Now she was free to act. Carefully she took a sheaf of rich red and gold paper, enscribed the cure upon it, and spent hours meticulously folding it into the shape of the lure she had once hooked upon his armor. He will know, he will be safe, he will be well again, she prayed to herself.
Tzanntiel woke suddenly, instantly aware that there was someone standing next to her bed, leaning closer. There was no time for rational thought, no time to even remember where she was. Before she could think to scream for help, she flung her blankets at the figure, rolling off the other side of her bed as she snatched up her fungus beast spine dagger from under her pillow. Her fingers clenched the leather wrapped hilt with panicked strength as she crouched low, using the bed as her shield. A hissing snarl twisted her lips as the first waking terror congealed into pure focused hate.
Spine dagger angled offensively, she snapped her body up, poised on the balls of her feet ready to charge in or duck away. She looked across the bed at the figure and watched as her silken sheet slithered down to the floor off its shoulders. Her blanket still hung over the person’s face and most of their body, and they made no move to free themselves of the covering. Tzanntiel blinked quickly, her eyes wide to draw in the dim light as she watched. The figure did not move at all, and made no sound. The hairs along Tzann’s naked arms and shoulders prickled as she stared, waiting for some reaction. There was absolutely none.
Quickly Tzann sprang onto the bed, stepping closer with her dagger ready to strike. When the person did not react again, she reached out, grasping the blanket. As she pulled it back, every muscle in her body tensed, preparing to drive her weapon right into the figure’s gut at the first sign of hostility. The blanket fell away to reveal Vhalshae in her plain robe, standing as still as a marionette on its stand. Her short white hair was tousled from the blanket and her own pillow, and Tzanntiel could see how wide dilated her eyes were. Even now, she did not react in any way to where she was, or what was happening.
Tzann tossed her dagger onto her pillow as she stepped down from the bed, reaching for her sister’s shoulder. Vhalshae turned to face her awkwardly, her head turning more slowly than her body, lolling on her neck as it came back in line.
“Vhal? Are you ok?” Tzann whispered, reaching up to touch Vhalshae’s cheek. Her skin was icy chill and smooth. Tzann could almost swear there was a thin layer of ice over her pale flesh.
At the soft touch, Vhalshae’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting Tzann’s piercingly. Vhalshae’s mouth opened slackly, and an inhuman sigh left her. Then she spoke slowly, and it was not her own voice, but a chorus of voices, deep and resounding, harsh and hissing. The voices spoke in Elder Teir`Dal, their words pouring from Vhalshae’s motionless lips. “The Eyes behold the Path, yet fill with doubt. Hate is not pleased by hesitation. Thaw the Sword. Free the blade. Serve Me well.”
Vhalshae stood a moment longer, swaying unsteadily as the last words rang in the air. Suddenly she crumpled to the floor, as if the strings that controlled and supported her had been severed all at once. Tzann knelt beside her, landing heavily on her knees as she reached for her sister. The younger woman’s breathing was rapid and weak, her heart racing. Slowly her skin warmed in Tzanntiel’s hands, but she would not respond to her gentle shaking and pleading whispers.
Looking down, Tzanntiel saw something clenched in her sister’s fist. Prying her fingers open gently she retrieved the page of notes she had given her. Vhalshae’s grip had been so tight that her nails had torn through the thin paper, drawing blood from her palm that stained the page. Tzann sighed deeply as she set the page on the floor.
After trying to rouse her for a few minutes, Tzanntiel gave up. She scooped Vhalshae up in her arms and carried her back to her own room. Laying her on the narrow bed, she tucked the blankets around her tightly. Vhalshae’s breathing had relaxed some, and her skin wasn’t as cold as it had been. Tzanntiel stood there watching her for a while, wondering at the price her sister must pay for the gifts the Father had given her.
Slowly Tzann returned to her room, and put her sheet and blankets back on her bed. She sheathed her fungus beast spine and slid it back under her pillow with a soft sigh. The crumpled note on the floor caught her eye and she stooped down to pick it up. Sitting on the edge of the bed she smoothed it out and looked at the list yet again, marred by her sister’s blood. As she stared at the page, something seemed odd. She frowned as she tried to puzzle it out. Suddenly she realized that her sister’s blood formed a rough image of the Elder Teir`Dal rune for ‘truth’. Tzann blinked for a moment, sitting straighter.
Without another thought, Tzann tossed the bloodstained page in the hearth, and quickly donned her armour and gathered her things. She left House S`Therik without another word to anyone. She had suppliers to see.
It took Tzanntiel a few days to meet with her suppliers and gather the items that she could on her own. She already had the dragon scale from Khasirath’s trophies. In Neriak she bought the amber and had it ground to her specifications. She met with her poppy supplier who said it would take about a week to get a full gill of the fresh juice. Normally he only had dried powder on hand. She spent a few hours in the mountains of Lavastorm, fighting goblins until she had gathered enough hemlock leaves. As always, she wondered where the goblins found the leaves. It would be so much easier if she could cultivate her own.
In the swamp of Innothule she trapped and killed poisonous frogs by the score until she finally found a stone inside one of their skulls. As she rinsed it in the murky water, she smiled. So far, so good. Only two items remained on her odd list.
She had in idea of who could help her, but her contacts around Neriak said he had not been seen for years. This was worrisome, but Tzanntiel doubted that he was dead. He’d always been far too careful, too focused. She wandered further from Neriak, trying to decide where best to find the Wizard. She hadn’t seen him since the time of the Harvest. He’d left on his own some time before Khasirath had disappeared. This was one of the reasons she felt it would be safe to enlist his help. It was very unlikely that he’d been involved in the plot to trap her brother.
She tried to remember his habits, his hobbies. All she could recall was that he had always been seeking knowledge. New spells, new lore, forgotten history, that sort of thing. She decided to return to the library of Myrist. Perhaps someone there would have heard of him; it seemed like a place he would be interested in, if he were still around.
Once she reached the library, Tzann found the normally chatty Lorekeepers were surprisingly tight-lipped when it came to discussing current patrons of their library. None of them would acknowledge her questions about the Wizard she was seeking.
Tzanntiel was annoyed as she continued to wander through the many floors of the library. She tried to ask a few of the people studying and passing through if they had seen the man she was looking for, but few even took the time to respond. Everyone was busy with their own pursuits, and made it quite clear they did not appreciate her interruptions.
Sighing, Tzanntiel climbed the stairs up to one of the highest floors, planning to sit and think for a bit on where to check next. As she looked around for a quiet spot, she noticed a Teir`Dal man standing next to one of the innumerable bookcases. He wore purple robes and his head was bald, though he had a small wisp of beard upon his chin. He stood very still, his head bowed slightly as he thumbed through an old tome. In a loop at his belt rested the legendary Staff of the Four, and nearby his ebon drake familiar hovered. His face held an almost noble bearing, yet was lined subtly with age. His eyes still showed the keen intelligence and focus she remembered. Tzanntiel approached him respectfully.
“Hate with honor, Vinar,” she said quietly, so as not to disturb the librarians or other patrons.
The Wizard looked up at her slowly as he closed the book and slid it back onto the shelf. His gaze pierced her deeply, seeming to judge her in an instant. Tzann had the disquieting sensation that he had known she was coming. “Hate with honor,” he replied finally. “Why are you here?”
Tzann lowered her eyes respectfully as she answered, “I came to ask for your help with something. I need something I can’t get on my own, and I believe you could get it for me easily.”
Vinar’s eyes narrowed a bit as he watched her. “The Chosen do not normally ask for handouts. It is beneath us. Why are you asking for something like this?”
Looking up into his eyes again, Tzanntiel spoke softly. “I am trying to save another of the Chosen, Vinar. They are under a curse, and I am trying to break it.”
Vinar arched an eyebrow curiously. “Indeed? And are you sure it is right to break this curse? Will it serve the Father to save this one you speak of?”
Tzanntiel nodded again as she looked down at the floor. She found she simply could not bear meeting his intense gaze for long. “Aye, I do believe this is what the Father wills. A Prophetess encourages me on this quest.”
“Very well,” Vinar said. “What is it you need?”
Tzanntiel bowed as she spoke, “I need some dust from Kerafyrm’s Tomb, an ounce should be more than enough. I know you saw him awaken, I remember the tales.”
Vinar scoffed softly, “You do not need to repeat my history to me. I remember Kerafyrm. Does this dust need to come from any specific place in the tomb? It is quite a large place.”
Tzanntiel shook her head. “I do not believe so. All I know is dust from the tomb.”
Vinar watched her closely, looking thoughtful. “I will do it. Meet me here in two days. You will have what you need then.”
Tzann bowed deeply, “Thank you, Vinar. If I can repay you in any way, please tell me.”
A faint, cold smile touched Vinar’s lips. “Very well,” he muttered. Then he called the powers of his magic and was gone in an instant.
Walking down the stairs and out of the library, Tzanntiel thought about the Wizard. She did not remember him having that effect on her before. It was almost like facing the Elders of her own kind; you could not help but be cowed by their power. Vinar certainly had not been changed, though; his power was something altogether different. She was very grateful that he hadn’t asked who it was under the curse. She would not have been able to lie to him.
Tzann found the portal stone to the Nexus, and returned to her apartment in Shadow Haven. Shaede was not there, though there were signs that she had been recently. In her room, Tzanntiel laid out the items she had already gathered on the bed, each one in its own glass jar. The ruddy bezoar stone, the hemlock leaves, the ground amber, and the red dragon scale. That was half of what she needed. Tzann took another glass jar from her pack and set it next to the others. She removed the cork with one hand while drawing a blade from her belt. She held her arm steady over the mouth of the jar and sliced deep across her wrist. Her blood flowed fast and hot, pouring into the glass jar. Tzann watched as if transfixed, staring deep into the crimson depths of her own blood. When the jar was full, she brought her wrist to her mouth, lapping up the rest of the blood as she licked the wound, feeling it close almost instantly. She sealed the jar tightly, and sat back staring at the five jars.
Vinar would have the dust in two days and the poppy juice would be in her hand a day or two after that. That left only one ingredient to find. “Something from a person whom the cursed one loves enough to live for,” Tzann muttered from memory. Sighing deeply, Tzanntiel slid all the jars back into her pack carefully. She was no closer to finding that last ingredient than she had been at the start.
Tzann walked over to the trunks that were still stored in her room. She removed the tell-traps from one and opened it. She began to pull out Khasirath’s armour and gear, looking through each piece carefully. She knew her brother did not keep a journal, or anything similar. Even if he did, he would not be foolish enough to write of love in it. Among Teir`Dal, such a thing was heresy, and Khasirath would not risk such a thing being found. But if there was someone… Tzanntiel hoped she would find some clue in his things.
In Khasirath’s packs and pouches, Tzann found mostly things she would expect; food and water, all ruined now, extra items of magical power, spare weapons. She found a few bottles of kalish down deep in his pack, and blinked in surprise. She could not remember her brother ever drinking spirits unless a ritual was involved. Of course there was a pouch of bone chips and other spell components, and a few keys from various places around the world. Setting aside all those things, Tzann kept looking. She found a tiny black leather pouch on a long cord. She remembered it had been hanging around Khasirath’s neck, under his breastplate. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was some form of talisman, but now she looked more closely. She did not feel any magical aura on it. A small, carved bone button held the pouch’s flap closed. Tzann carefully unfastened it and looked inside. The tiny pouch was full of white hair. Tzann blinked, her fingers almost tingling as she pulled the hair out of the pouch. Tangled up in the hair was an old fishing fly. Its hook was tarnished, the wispy bits of feathers and such were faded and worn, but Tzanntiel could see they had once been scarlet and yellow. Her heart beat faster as she stared at the hair and the fly in her hands. She quickly pulled the fly free and slipped it back into the small pouch. She divided the white hair into two bundles, putting one half back into the pouch. The rest she took to her bed, and pulled a new jar from her pack to put the hair in.
After putting Khasirath’s gear back into the trunk, Tzann relocked it and set the tell-traps again. She lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling as she thought. It will work, she thought. It has to work. She thought of the little pouch, and wondered just whose hair it was inside. Tzann rolled over as she got ready to sleep. Within a week, she mused with a smile, he will be free within the week.
Four days later, Tzanntiel was in Shar Vahl. As she walked between the beautiful buildings, she smiled. She had had no trouble meeting back up with Vinar at the library of Myrist, and he had handed her a small pouch of dust without a word, only bowing his head slightly before he disappeared once more. Her supplier for the poppy extract had been equally punctual in delivering the flask of milky fluid. The ease with which everything had come together almost worried her, but she refused to let doubt get in her way again.
A faint breeze stirred the palm trees that lined the city’s streets, filling the twilight sky with the scent of exotic blossoms. As Tzann reached a small home, she paused to draw in a deep breath. She knocked on the door and stepped back as she waited for a reply. After a minute, a Vah Shir male opened the door. His fur was patterned like a black leopard, and his purple eyes looked down at Tzann curiously.
Tzanntiel bowed, still smiling. “Well met, noble Bishounen. I am Tzanntiel, a friend of your lifemate. I have come to humbly request that I be allowed to pay a visit to the honorable House of Neko.”
The large warrior smiled, his long tail swishing slowly behind him in amusement. “I greet you in turn, honorable Tzanntiel. And I bid you welcome to our House.”
Stepping back from the door, Bishounen motioned Tzanntiel inside. Tzann slipped out of her boots, setting them on a rack next to the door. Bishounen closed the door behind them, and led her deeper into the house. Though their home was smaller than some of the buildings in Shar Vahl, it was as richly and warmly decorated as any. Beautiful rugs covered all the floors, while intricate frescoes and tapestries decorated the walls. The furnishings were well carved and upholstered, and looked incredibly comfortable and inviting.
Bishounen took Tzann through the house to a cozy den. Rather than chairs or couches, the sunken floor was covered in humongous pillows to sit or lay on. Another Vah Shir reclined against one of the pillows, grinning widely as he watched the two approaching him. This one has the sandy color and pattern of a lynx, his ears tipped in small black tufts of fur. “It has been some time since I have seen you, noble Tzanntiel. Please, join us.” Though his greeting was formal, his wide grin and the purr in his voice showed that he was very glad to see her again.
Tzanntiel bowed deeply, “I thank you for your kind hospitality, wise Yaoi.”
Tzanntiel set her packs near the doorway of the room, and settled herself comfortably onto the floor near Yaoi. Bishounen lay on some pillows behind Yaoi, resting one hand on his lifemate’s hip. A very low circular table sat in the middle of the room. On it was a tray set with cups and a pitcher of tea. Yaoi leaned forward to pour Tzann a cup, sliding it across the table towards her. As she drank, he prepared an ornate narghile for them. It was made of porcelain, painted and gilt by skilled hands. Yaoi filled the bulb from a pitcher of water, and carefully packed the bowl with an aromatic blend of honeyed and herbed tobacco.
After Tzann finished her tea, the three of them sat and chatted for a long while, occasionally smoking from the narghile’s long hoses. Yaoi told Bishounen about how he had met Tzanntiel in Freeport long ago, and then they spent some time telling each other about their recent hunts and hobbies. Tzann couldn’t help but smile as she relaxed into the comfortable pillows and the soporific effects of the smoke. It had been a long while since she had felt so peaceful and carefree.
Yaoi smiled warmly as he looked up at Tzann, “I sense you have not only come for our companionship, my friend. Is there some way I can help you?”
Tzann chuckled softly, “You are very insightful. I do have something I could use some help with. I have a recipe that I think is for some manner of potion or spell. I have gathered all of the items, and was hoping you could see if you might be able to do something with them.”
“Then please, show me what you have,” Yaoi said, sitting up and moving closer to the table.
Tzann went and got her pack, and pulled out the eight jars. She lined them up on the table, reciting from memory the descriptions of each one as she placed them down. The Vah Shir only have a limited written language, passing almost all of their history and knowledge down by oral tradition. She knew the notes she had would be of little use to the Shaman.
Yaoi picked up each jar in turn, seeming to weigh them in his hands as he thought. His eyes were heavy lidded, his ears perked forward intently as he focused on the strange ingredients. Bishounen moved closer, resting behind Yaoi to support his back as he worked. The warrior closed his eyes, looking as if he might take a nap while his mate and the Dark Elf talked business.
After a few minutes of concentration Yaoi looked back up into Tzanntiel’s eyes. “Powerful items, my friend. I believe I can blend them, though. Do you know how the final preparation is to be used?”
Tzanntiel sighed deeply, “Sadly I don’t. The recipe did not explain what to do with these things.”
Yaoi frowned a bit, creases appearing on his striped forehead. “I see… Do you have a guess, perhaps? Something more you can tell me?”
“The ‘cursed one’ that was mentioned in the recipe, he is cursed by a magical collar bound around his neck. I need to remove it. I think this potion is the way,” Tzann explained.
The Vah Shir nodded thoughtfully, his claws tapping across the corks of the jars slowly. “Yes… That feels right. This will be too potent to drink. I believe applying it to the collar will be far safer.”
Tzann smiled brightly, “Oh Yaoi, I can’t ever tell you how much this means to me. Thank you.”
The Shaman chuckled softly. “I think I can see how much this means to you. This will take some time, and a great deal of concentration to do properly. Please, rest in our home tonight. I should have the mixture ready by morning.”
While Yaoi bundled up the jars and took them off to work on, Bishounen led Tzanntiel to a guest room. Once he left, she laid down on the soft round bed, but she simply could not get tired enough to sleep. She wished she could watch Yaoi work, but knew she’d be no help. It would do no good to distract him during such a delicate task.
Tzann lazily paced the room for a while, and eventually sat on the windowsill, watching the dark sky swirling overhead while she waited for morning. It couldn’t come soon enough for her tastes.
Tzann returned to Shadow Haven quickly the next day. She kept the surprisingly heavy jar of unguent that Yaoi had prepared in her belt pouch, close at hand. She stopped in at her apartment, and found Shaede was there, reading through some books in the small living room.
“I have not been able to find anything about that Erudite you wanted me to research,” Shaede said, looking rather crestfallen.
Tzanntiel smiled as she walked over to the Mage. She bent down and brushed her lips across Shaede’s cheek gently, “It’s alright, pet. I’ve had a breakthrough. I don’t think I will be needing that information anymore.”
Shaede smiled brightly, caressing Tzann’s cheek with one hand. “I’m so relieved. I was so worried.”
Tzann chuckled softly. “Never worry, Shaede. This will turn out just fine. I know it will.”
Shaede nodded, and then looked up, “Oh, there are some scrolls for you in the desk. I don’t know who they are from.”
Still smiling, Tzann wandered to the desk, and found a small stack of sealed letters and rolled parchments. A number of them she recognized easily. The fine papers and inks were from Qeynos, and the writing on their fronts was in Kassy’s elegant script. Tzann pulled them aside and slipped them into a drawer with a number of similar ones, some opened, but most not. Each one had been about the same, asking for news, offering to help again and again. Tzanntiel wasn’t willing to share her news, and she was even less ready to ask for more help from the Enchantress. Tzann had replied a few times to the earlier ones, saying that things were going well, and making vague promises to ask for help if she needed to. Since these had obviously not reassured Kassy, or helped her settle down, Tzann had pretty much stopped sending the replies so often. She made sure to send one at least once a week now, just to show her that she was still around, in the hopes she wouldn’t try anything desperate.
There were three letters from some of Tzanntiel’s other contacts, keeping her up to date that they were still searching. None had found anything worthy of note though. Tzann thought for a moment to reply to them, and tell them that she didn’t need the help anymore, but she decided to remain cautious. Until Khas was awake, she couldn’t be so certain that she did have the cure. Should it fail, she would need them working hard.
The last scroll was on a darker parchment. Tzanntiel recognized the work of Neriak’s paper millers. Her name was neatly scribed in pure black ink on the outside of the scroll, and black wax sealed it shut. The imprint of the seal was a bit smeared, but she was able to recognize a few designs common to members of the Lodge of the Dead. Slightly uneasy, Tzann used a knife from her writing table to slice off the seal and unrolled the scroll to read it.
Dark Greetings to you, Tzanntiel Bloodthorne of House S`Therik,
My name is Elentrae, and I write this missive at the request of my Masters at the Lodge of the Dead. I am the youngest child of House D`Sreth, though I serve not that House, but another. I am a Knight in training, and I have been instructed to offer my services to you so as to help you in your quest in any way that I might. I do not know what your mission may be, but my Masters at the Lodge imply that it may be important to them.
I am your to command, and I await your instructions.
Elentrae
Tzanntiel read the letter over again, frowning. What did the Lodge know of her quest? And why would they send her help? Admittedly, Khasirath was a powerful member of the Lodge, but they were not known for their helpfulness. Knights were supposed to be self-sufficient; those that were not were culled to strengthen the whole of the Guild. How did they know what she was trying to do? She knew Vhalshae would not have mentioned House matters to anyone. And none of the others she had sought for help in gathering information would have gone to them, or known enough to put together her plans.
She folded the parchment up tightly and slipped it into one of the hidden pockets in her cloak. She would have to contact the young Knight soon, she did not want to anger the Lodge of the Dead by ignoring their offer. The Lodge held a lot of power in Neriak, just a step behind the Spires of Innoruuk who spoke for the Father. They were the elite Knights and Necromancers of Hate, the guardians of the Church, and the elite fighters in the Wars of the Empire.
Turning back to Shaede, Tzanntiel smiled again, hiding any signs of worry. “Thanks for letting me know about the letters,” she said.
Shaede lowered her eyes, “Good news, I hope.”
Tzann chuckled and nodded, “Good enough for my tastes.” She sighed softly, “I wish I could stay longer, but I have to go out again. I just wanted to stop in and make sure you were ok.”
Shaede nodded, still looking down at her lap, “I’m fine. And I’m glad I saw you, even if only for a little bit.”
Tzann walked over to Shaede’s chair, and knelt in front of her to lean forward and hug her tightly. “This will all be done with soon, pet. It will be better then.”
Shaede hugged Tzann back tightly as Tzann stroked her hair. “I know. I am praying that it will be.”
Smiling, Tzann leaned up and kissed Shaede gently on the lips. “I’ll see you again soon, beautiful. I promise.”
Shaede smiled softly as Tzanntiel stood back up and walked out the door. Tzann paused to blow her a kiss before she was gone.
Staying to the shadows of the crowd, Tzann passed through the city to Echo Caverns, and the entrance to the sewer tunnels. She made her way through the maze to the tunnel where she had hidden her brother carefully. Swiftly she checked and disabled each of the traps she had set, and was somewhat relieved to see that none had been tripped or tampered with as far as she could tell.
In the small chamber, Khasirath lay wrapped in the blankets and furs; the chest that had hidden him was pushed up against the wall where she had left it. Tzann knelt beside him, looking down into her brother’s face. Gently she pushed aside the blankets, and ran her hands over his chest. He still felt so cold, though the underground tunnels in the heart of Luclin were fairly warm. She could feel his ribs through his dry pale skin. She sighed as she lifted one of his wrists, and turned it over to check his wounds. They were fairly well healed now, the swollen puncture scars standing out next to the thin parallel lines from his rituals. Tzann ran her fingers over the scars, feeling the bumps and wrinkles. Her fingers slid slowly up Khas’ arm, tracing the faded red patterns that covered it.
Tzann laid Khas’ arm across his chest and sat back. She looked down at her own unscarred wrists. A sudden sensation of loss surrounded her. She had never been through those rituals. The Harvest was gone before she could take her Binding, though she had completed her Culling quest. All the others considered her a true Harvester, one of the Paragons now. But she wondered what she had missed by not drinking from the Bloodstone Chalice.
Tearing herself from her morose thoughts, Tzann pulled the jar from her belt pouch. She cradled it between her palms as she prayed silently for a moment to the Father. With her belt knife she carefully broke the wax seal Yaoi had put around the ceramic lid, and pried it off. The unguent was silvery-grey, and seemed to gleam even in the darkness. Leaning closer to Khas she dipped her fingers into the pasty cream, and began to apply it to the collar. She spread it evenly over the rune-carved metal, using both hands as she lifted his head enough to cover the back as well. Her fingers began to tingle, going numb and she rubbed the potion over the collar.
Tzann held her breath as she added the last bit of potion to the collar, running her fingers over it one more time to be sure every bit of it was covered. Her eyes were wide, every muscle tensed, waiting for some response, some light or noise or magical energies to show that it was working. She almost jumped when she heard a soft crack, like someone stepping on an egg. A thin straight seam opened on the front of the collar, right along Khasirath’s windpipe.
Tzann grabbed the two sides of the collar swiftly, as if she was catching a snake. She held them apart as she lifted Khasirath’s head, and jerked the collar away. Without looking at it, she tossed it to the far side of the small chamber, where it clattered dully against the stone. She put a hand to Khas’ throat; two rings of abrasions from the top and bottom of the collar ringed his neck, and his skin where it had been covered was so pale it was almost the color of frost.
Gently rubbing his throat, Tzann leaned closer, whispering, “Khas, can you hear me? Please open your eyes…”
She felt his neck tighten as he drew in a breath, still slow, but deeper than she’d seen since she had found him. Suddenly his body jerked, a spasm that startled her, though she did not move away. His hands lifted feebly towards her, then dropped back to the floor as he hissed softly in pain.
Tzann placed her hands on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart through his skin. It was still slow, still weak, but far more regular. His head rolled side to side slowly, and he tried to open his eyes, only to close them again immediately.
“I’m here Khas, you’re somewhere safe,” Tzann whispered.
Khas’ lips moved weakly, but he wasn’t able to speak. Keeping one hand on his chest, Tzann pulled a water skin from her pack. With her fingers she rubbed some water across his dry lips, then she shifted around to pillow his head and shoulders on her lap. Carefully she brought the water skin to his lips. “Try to drink,” she said softly as she began to tip it, dribbling a few drops of water into his mouth.
He had some trouble swallowing at first, but it became easier. She stopped after he drank almost a third of the skin. He licked his lips slowly, drawing another slow breath.
“Tzann…” he whispered, his voice so rough it was a raspy growl.
“Yes brother. It is me, I am here to help you regain your strength,” Tzann said, running a hand across his brow gently. She could feel him trembling. She reached down and pulled the blankets up tighter around him.
“So weak,” he gasped slowly, every word a struggle. “What happened?”
Tzann sighed softly, smoothing his hair, “You were betrayed, abducted, hidden away for a long time under magical bonds. But you are free now. You will recover your strength, and I will help you find the ones who betrayed you.”
He was still for a long moment, but Tzann could see him slowly coiling and uncoiling his fists. His face was calm, though Tzann imagined in his weakened condition even such small motions must be causing him great pain.
“The Harvest, our House?” he asked, almost a demand.
“We will talk about them once you are well, Khasirath. We must focus on one thing at a time.”
He let out a frustrated growl, opening his eyes to look up at her. His silvery eyes watered in pain, though he stubbornly would not close them. Tzann frowned with worry as she looked down into his eyes, and she laid a hand on his cheek.
“Do you think you are strong enough to recall some spells and work some magic, brother?”
He frowned, letting his eyes close again. He drew a deep breath and finally said, “I think I can.”
Tzann nodded, “Good. I want you to take some of my life, Khas. I will go find you some better prey as soon as I am sure you are well enough to leave alone.”
He laid still a long while, and Tzann was worried he may have fallen back into a kind of sleep. But slowly his eyes opened again. “Are you ready?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she replied, sitting very still.
Khas began to mutter softly, unnatural words coming slowly back to his memory. An angry glow surrounded them both for a moment as Tzann felt herself weaken a bit. Khas drew in a deep breath, seeming stronger.
“Again,” Tzann urged.
It took some time for him to be able to focus the spell again, but Tzann was patient. She had him repeat the spell a number of times, until she felt he was strong enough. Her body ached dully, but she ignored it.
He reached up and grasped her hand, and Tzann smiled. He still trembled, but his grip was firm. She could almost swear some color had returned to his face, though he was still terribly pale.
“You will be safe here, Khas. I will go find you something else to drain for energy, and I will return as swiftly as I can.”
He nodded, letting his eyes close again. Tzann leaned down and gently kissed his forehead. Carefully she moved away, putting a rolled up blanket beneath his head to cushion it.
As she stood, Khas opened his eyes again, “Where are my weapons, my armour?”
“They are not far, but they are in need of repair. I will see to it, and bring them to you soon.”
He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. “Very well.”
Tzann paused, and knelt down to look through her pack. Near the bottom she found one of her spare blades, a finely crafted short sword. She walked back to Khas and laid the sheathed sword across his chest. “In case you need it,” she whispered softly, smiling.
He placed a hand on the sword’s hilt, gripping it tightly. He nodded, “Thank you, Tzann.”
Tzann backed towards the tunnel slowly, watching him. She didn’t want to leave, but she knew she had to get things to help him recover. That simple thank you had held a lot of unspoken feeling. She knew he meant far more than a simple thanks for the blade.
She stopped a moment, and grabbed the collar from the floor. She put it into her pack and closed it up. Finally she turned and walked into the tunnel, carefully setting the traps as she went. She would have to hurry, she had a lot to do and she wanted to be back with Khasirath within the hour.
Tzanntiel returned to her apartment in Shadow Haven, and sat at her desk to write a number of letters. To each of her research contacts she sent a short note saying that she had found her answer, and thanked them for their help. A quick note to Elentrae thanked her formally for her assistance, and thanked the Lodge of the Dead for sending her. Further she added a few quick instructions on how the young Knight could help.
She debated for a moment on sending a letter to Kassy, but finally decided against it. When Khasirath was ready, he could seek her out. The Enchantress kept hinting in her letters about some debt between them, but Tzann knew that it was a simple ruse. Better that Kassy did not know what Tzann was aware of, in the end.
Sealing each letter carefully, Tzann gave them to Shaede and asked her to get them delivered, since she was in a hurry. Shaede smiled warmly and hurried out to find a messenger to take the letters.
Grabbing the trunk of Khasirath’s armour and gear, Tzann left the apartment. She took it to the hidden city in Echo Caverns, to a smith there. He did a lot of work for the Shadow Knights and other fighters of the outpost, and Tzann knew his skill was superb. She gave him Khasirath’s armour, and half his fee up front. He told her that the repairs would be done within the week.
Finally Tzann wandered to the Bazaar, the center of commerce on Luclin, and in truth, for most of the known world. She found a quiet corner not far from the stables and set out a bowl of cream as she unwrapped a small packet of meat scraps from her pack. Before long a small crowd of half-feral cats were swarming around her, vying for the treats. No one paid much mind to her or the cats; they were a common enough sight there. Softhearted folks would often toss them food, though they flourished well enough on dropped scraps and unattended meals. Some of them were tame enough to rub against Tzann’s legs, and she stroked their ears and chins as they ate her offerings.
One cat curled up next to her, blinking as it drifted suddenly to sleep. Tzann scooped it into a leather sack nonchalantly, and leaned the sack against her leg. And then another cat dropped to the ground. This joined the first in the sack. Soon Tzann had seven cats in her bag, though a number still milled about her, eating meat and drinking cream. She petted them as she tied her sack closed, and slipped it into the now lighter trunk from Khas’ armour. The paralytic poison she’d hidden in pockets cut into some of the meat would keep the cats asleep more than long enough.
Hefting the trunk, she wandered into the main trade building, and went to one of the tailors. She purchased a few shirts and pairs of pants, and a pair of soft boots from another merchant. All these she placed in the trunk, and closed it up again before she headed back to the caverns, and then into the sewers.
Khasirath was laying on his side facing the entrance of the chamber when she came in. The short sword was still sheathed beside him, his hand resting on its hilt. She placed the trunk down with a soft thump, and Khas opened his eyes. She smiled at him as she opened the trunk, and pulled out the clothes.
“I thought you might like to get more comfortable. Let me help you get dressed,” she said.
Khas sighed softly, and nodded as she approached him. It was a bit of a struggle to get the shirt and pants on. Khas tried to help, but he was still very weak. The shirt hung off his thin shoulders loosely as Tzann helped him sit up leaning against the wall. His eyes were cold and focused as he fought through the pain.
“I despise this weakness,” he whispered. His voice was still raspy, but stronger than it had been.
Tzann squeezed his wrist gently. “It will pass, Khas. You have been through worse than this, and you will survive this as well.”
Tzann turned back to the trunk and pulled out the other sack. She pulled out one of the unconscious cats. “This is all I could get quickly, but I have made plans to get better soon. As I recall, drawing the full extent of a creature’s life will make you stronger than simply taking little bits from me.”
Khasirath regarded the cat with distaste, but nodded. “Aye. It will suffice.” He closed his eyes a moment as he marshaled his concentration, and then muttered his spell, drawing all the life force from the cat in a single incantation. Tzann felt a shudder crawl through the animal’s skin as the red glow stole its life. She dropped the carcass to the floor and pulled out the next cat.
It took a long while for Khasirath to recover the energy to recast his spell. Tzann waited patiently for him each time, without speaking or interrupting his meditation. After all the cats had been drained, Khasirath sat up a bit more comfortably. Tzann handed him a water skin to drink from, then pulled out a knife and skinned and cleaned the carcasses. She set up a portable spit and put one of the cats over it to roast. The poison she had used only affected animals, so she knew the meat would be safe to eat.
While the meat roasted, Tzann pulled the rest of Khas’ gear out of the trunk, and brought it over to him. He began to go through it slowly, his hands trembling slightly. He shook his head as he saw the condition of some of it. “How long has it been, Tzann?” he asked.
Tzann sighed softly, unsure if it would be best to tell him or keep it from him. Such a revelation could be demoralizing, but she felt her brother was stronger than that. “It has been more than ten years, Khas. I’ve been searching for clues, for signs of you, but it took me a long time to track you down and free you from the magics that bound you.”
Khas let out a soft sigh, but it was more of a growl. He gripped the haft of his lance, and lifted it with both hands. His arms shook with the strain. “Ten years….” He muttered, staring at his shaking hands.
Tzann knelt close to him, watching. She did not know what to say to help him. She wanted to reach out and hold him, but the cold bitterness in his eyes kept her at a distance. Though she may want to, her brother would not be coddled. And he deserved more respect than that, she admitted to herself.
Setting the lance back down, Khas shook his head. “Too long… I can’t really remember anything beyond teleporting away from Nektulos, and then arriving somewhere… unexpected. But I can almost remember more. It was as if I were a ghost, a wraith, drifting between the Father’s Realm and Norrath. But it is like a dream now. I can’t recall what I was able to see in that state.”
Turning his unnatural silver eyes on Tzann, Khasirath looked at her silently for a few long minutes. “You no longer wear the insignia of the Harvest. Have you left, or is it gone?”
Tzann lowered her eyes for a moment. She didn’t want to tell him everything now, but she couldn’t lie to him. He needed to trust her now, at least until he was recovered. She couldn’t risk alienating him. “The Prophecies were fulfilled, Khas. Innoruuk ordered we disband. We could not disobey His Word.”
Khas nodded slowly, thoughtfully, “We must never disobey, Tzanntiel. Our lives are His alone.”
Tzann looked up at Khas again, trying to judge his thoughts. But his face remained closed and she could not read him.
“Many of the Harvesters are still alive, we are now known as the Paragons of Hate. Honored by Innoruuk for our success. Recently, Daiunus has called many together to form a new Guild, Hate’s Culling. I was there for the meeting, and I plan to join. Many have had visions that support his plan,” Tzann said softly.
Khas nodded again, watching her. “I will need to determine who did this to me before I can follow anyone. Unless Innoruuk sends me some sign, I will remain on my own until I have my answers.”
He returned to sifting through his belongings, slowly looking through his packs and his weapons. Tzann saw him pick up the small leather pouch that held the hair and fishing lure. Without looking at her, he looped the cord around his neck, and slipped the pouch under his shirt. Tzann wanted so much to ask him about it, but she held her tongue. As much as she dealt in secrets, she did not feel right prying into her brother’s so openly.
Khas met her eyes again, his look piercing. “And how does our House fare?” he asked.
Tzanntiel didn’t like being so on the spot, but Khas had every right to question her, and she knew it. “Well enough, considering the age of the Matron and her Consort. Matron Sikaethia is due to bear her sixth child in about a month. I feel it will be her last.” Tzann let her tone on the last few words carry a deeper meaning, one she knew her brother would understand. His eyes narrowed a touch as he considered her silently a few moments.
“She weakens, then? You are sure of it?” he asked in barely more than a whisper.
Tzann nodded, “Vhalshae has helped me search for you. Her words have verified what I have observed. We know what must come. House S`Therik needs a new leader.”
“The Prophetess’ words alone, or her visions?” Khas’ eyes were all but glowing with intensity now. Tzann realized with a bit of surprise that he was no longer trembling.
Tzann swallowed as she continued, remembering her sister coming to her room in House S`Therik. “Her visions and her words, Khas. The Father led us to find you, and I believe at least part of the reason for it is for our House.”
Khas lowered his head, looking down at his hands for a long while. When he finally looked up into Tzann’s eyes again, a feral grin she knew well was on his lips. He nodded to her, “Then I imagine we will have to work hard and fast to recover and prepare. I will not fail the Father.”
Tzann couldn’t help but smile at the fire she saw in her brother’s eyes. “I know you. This recovery will not take long at all, with your determination.”
He chuckled softly, the dark bitterness still thick in his voice, “Not long, perhaps. But still every day I feel this weak will surely increase my hate. I long to return to Neriak.”
Tzann covered his hand with hers, giving it a squeeze. “Soon, Khas. Very soon we will go home.”
Consciousness returned slowly, the blood red haze of meaningless dreams fading into the bone deep ache that life had become. Without opening his eyes, Khasirath slowly stretched each of his limbs, feeling the familiar burning through every muscle. Slowly he moved more, arching his back until he could feel that burn throughout his back and his chest and his stomach. Reawakening every fiber of his body with the pain of rebuilding. Then he lay back again, stilling himself as he focused on his breath, deepening his chest as he focused on the air moving in and out of his body. And as he breathed, he meditated, reciting the litanies of Hate within his mind.
Once the litanies were done, he opened his eyes. The chamber was almost pitch black; the lantern Tzanntiel had left in the corner was unlit. But he could still see well enough, his eyes translating the heat of the stones around him into sensible images. Even this form of sight caused an ache deep behind his eyes. He resisted the urge to rub them, knowing it would only bring greater pain.
Rolling over onto his side, Khasirath steeled himself and pushed himself up onto his elbow. After a moment’s rest, he sat up more, until finally he was sitting cross-legged on the bedroll. A water skin and a bowl of roasted meat waited for him next to the bed, and he picked up the skin, ignoring the food for the moment.
As he drank, he thought about the progress he had made in the past few days. With the life force of the creatures Tzanntiel brought him, he had healed all of the wounds he had sustained in his torpor. But the magics could not rebuild his strength and muscle for him. He was working out as much as he could in his pathetic state, but he tired quickly. The more he thought of his infirmity, the more the rage filled him.
Even as a boy he had always felt strong. He had mastered and trained his body, molding himself into a perfect Knight of Hate. His body had never betrayed him like this before. The weakness that followed resurrection was a dull throb when compared to the pain that every waking moment was now.
Tzanntiel had offered him herbs that she said would dull the pain, but he refused them. Without the pain he feared he would have nothing to drive him on. In ten years he had lost so much. But whenever he thought on that, he pushed it away by remembering his purpose. He must regain the strength he had lost so that he may properly serve the Father. He had ten years to atone for.
After he finished his water, Khasirath drew himself up into a kneeling position. Though the pain drew a hiss from his lips he reached forward, and picked up the weights he had fashioned by filling some small sacks with remnants of his gear. Each day he added a bit more weight to them, keeping them as even as possible. Slowly and methodically he began to exercise his arms, lifting the weights at different angles, working each set of muscles in his arms, shoulders, chest and back carefully.
As he exercised, he focused his mind, drawing the pain deeper into himself, melding it into the hate at the core of his being. The hate and pain became one, so that he was better able to master it. He concentrated on his breathing as he moved, drawing in deep full breaths.
Once his arms had had enough, he knelt forward and carefully stood. His balance was returning swiftly, but he still hadn’t recovered full trust in it. He walked around the room, pausing now and again to stretch out the tendons of his legs, leaning against the walls of the small chamber to squat and crouch. He stopped at the entrance of the room, looking down the sloping passage. Tzanntiel had warned him of the traps she had set, and he knew that for now that he was in effect a prisoner here.
Tzanntiel had left him sometime earlier to go to the meeting of Hate’s Culling. He did not know how long ago that was, for he had fallen into a deep sleep yet again. He also had no idea when she would return, but he had no doubt that she would. No matter how much Tzann followed her own pleasures in life, he knew that she was devoted to him, and to their House. Let the others believe the half-truths she showed them, he knew her better.
After walking the length of the room twenty times up and back, Khas knelt to pick up the short sword that Tzann had given him. He unsheathed it and tossed the scabbard onto the bedroll. Standing once more in the center of the room he began to go through the steps of the katas he had learned as a boy. He practiced the motions slowly, moving as smoothly and evenly as he was able. Though weak, his body remembered the routines. And he admitted that his hand was steadier than it had been the day before.
After the fourth kata, Khasirath returned to the bedroll and resheathed the sword. Picking up a fresh water skin he drank more slowly. Finally he picked up the bowl and began to eat. His mind wandered as he sat, remembering the distant past. Before the Violent Harvest, before the Flame of Hate, back to the time before he had been accepted as a Knight of the Lodge of the Dead. The memories of his schooling at the Spires of Innoruuk filled him. From when he was little more than a toddler until he was a young man, he’d lived at the school. The lessons, the training, the discipline and the truths of Hatred that he had been shown all came back to him. The faces of the Priests who had been his teachers stared back from within his mind’s eye. He couldn’t help but imagine the way they would react to seeing his weakness now. He grit his teeth as he pushed that thoughts away.
Settling back down on the bedroll, Khas pulled a blanket over himself. It disgusted him to admit how tired the effort of exercising made him. He settled the short sword at his side in easy reach, and sighed deeply. Listing his left arm, he pushed back his sleeve. In the darkness her ran his fingers over the multitude of scars across his wrist. The memory of each ceremony flowed back to him, the rich sensations of drinking from the Bloodstone Chalice, the preternatural bond it formed between himself and the other members of the Harvest. He wondered if somewhere, some of them yet sensed him, if his awakening might have registered somehow on their senses through those bonds of blood and hate.
Feeling the tiny puncture scars from the vampires’ fangs, Khasirath frowned deeply. The scars from those bites covered and distorted the scars he bore for the Harvest, for the Father. They were his badges of honor and dedication, and the fact they had been marred, defiled, by such beasts angered him greatly. Soon, he would have to see that they paid for their actions.
Closing his eyes, Khasirath grew still. He let all the hatred and frustration he felt flow down deeply into him, banking it all for when he would require the strength. As the calm of that focused hate filled him, he slipped into meditative prayer. If sleep was to embrace him again, he wanted to have his communions properly completed. Edited by: Tzanntiel at: 4/25/03 11:24:44 pm
(Originally posted as 'Memories and Questions' VoDR, Part 24b, or 'What Tzanntiel was Doing')
Tzanntiel smiled to herself as the meeting of Hate’s Culling drew to a close. Some made plans to hunt, or excused themselves for their evening’s rest. But Tzann lingered, watching the few who remained. A familiar woman in sapphire robes approached the small group of people who stood around chatting at the meeting site.
A number of the members of Hate’s Culling recognized Kassy at once. There was some exchanging of formal greeting, a touch of malice. Tzanntiel just smirked to herself as she stepped forward. She figured she was the real reason that Kassy had come, though in truth, it was not unusual for the Enchantress to skulk about when the Chosen came together.
“You have always turned up when we gather, Kassy… Curious, is it not?”
Kassy turned to Tzann, her expression unreadable, “I find it useful to keep those I would watch within my sphere of knowledge.”
Tzann chuckled, lowering her eyes in a mock bow, “Indeed. I feel quite the same.”
Kassy’s even expression did not change as she replied, “So I have learned, young Rogue. So I have learned.”
Khaet, the Ogre who was freed of his slavery to Cearyn’s House that very day, was very curious about this Teir`Dal who was so obviously unlike the others. Tzann took great amusement in dropping some not so subtle hints about what Kassy really was. All of the Harvesters knew her story well. Kassy clenched her fists in annoyance, not liking this mocking attention.
Kassy raised an eyebrow at Tzann, giving her a pointed look. “Tell me Tzann, why do you linger here? Do you not have more important matters to attend?”
Tzann had to stifle a chuckle, keeping her face neutral. Such a lack of subtlety in this one. One would think an Enchantress whose powers were designed for misdirection and obfuscation would be more adept at the play of words. “I was just thinking that myself. But I wouldn’t want to be rude, since you obviously wanted to talk…”
Kassy’s eyes darkened a touch as she replied. “Though I would enjoy a nice… chat, with you, S`Therik, I would do so in private.”
Khaet made to leave, mumbling about how he could take a hint, but Cearyn lingered at Tzanntiel’s side. Softly whispering in the tongue of the thieves, she offered to follow and watch. But Tzanntiel reassured her that Kassy had a vested interest in her well being right now, and added that the Enchantress would no doubt detect her anyway.
As the two Rogues spoke in hushed tones, Kassy crossed her arms over her chest, waiting impatiently.
Cearyn looked up at Tzann, and her face suddenly paled, her whispered words stopping mid-sentence.
Both Kassy and Tzanntiel looked at Cearyn, and Tzann frowned in concern. The younger Rogue just continued to peer at Tzann’s face intently. “So like him,” she muttered.
Tzann arched an eyebrow, trying to puzzle out Cearyn’s strange actions. “What do you mean? So like who?” she asked.
Cearyn lowered her eyes for a moment, “I… don’t know his name.” She paused as Tzann shifted her weight uneasily. “You… his face…”
Tzann shook her head a bit, glancing towards Kassy before she looked back at Cearyn. “I’m still not sure what you mean. Where did you see someone with a face like mine? In Neriak? Perhaps it was one of my cousins. Many people say that the S`Therik’s all look a bit alike.”
Kassy chuckled softly to herself.
Cearyn sighed sadly. “I saw him in one of my visions…”
Tzanntiel raised an eyebrow in surprise. She was starting to get a strange feeling that she knew who it was that Cearyn was talking about. She suddenly wished that Kassy were not nearby. If she were to say the wrong thing, it could be very bad.
“His eyes… they were… unusual,” Cearyn said.
Tzann licked her lips quickly, shifting her weight again restlessly, trying to think of how to control where this was going.
“And a mark… between his brows that you don’t have,” Cearyn said softly, touching her own forehead, her gaze far off as she remembered her vision.
Kassy turned to look at Cearyn sharply, betraying her listening more closely than she no doubt meant to. The young Rogue seemed to take no notice, watching Tzanntiel instead.
Tzann cleared her throat softly, “A mark… A red sword?”
Still speaking softly, Cearyn nodded. “Blood red… a sword of thorns.”
Tzanntiel blinked, her eyes widening. There was no mistaking or ignoring this now. “When did you see him? When was this vision?”
Cearyn shrugged slightly, “Several weeks past, perhaps a full month.”
Tzann glanced towards Kassy, praying silently that she would hold her tongue. The Enchantress stood a few feet away from them, her face unreadable. Tzann turned back to Cearyn. “The one you saw was my brother. I know no others who bear the mark that he does.”
Cearyn lowered her eyes, whispering very softly, “He… saved me from my madness…”
Tzann sighed softly. She knew very little of Cearyn, where she was from, why she had joined with Hate’s Culling. The fact that the young Rogue had visions was a revelation to her. She realized suddenly that with all that she’d been focusing on, she’d been shirking her normal information gathering on the workings of Neriak. “Strange… but very interesting. My brother, Khasirath S`Therik, was the last Reaper of the Violent Harvest.” Tzanntiel paused. She hated to lie to a member of her own guild, but she could not take any risk at this point with her brother’s safety. “He has been… missing… for a very long time. More than ten years now.”
Cearyn looked back up at Tzann. “I… have a need to find him again… In more than vision. So that I might thank him for the gift he has given me.”
Tzanntiel looked away, turning to look over the grasslands. Why did lying to this girl bother her so? She had visions, but she was not a Priestess. Did the visions alone make her a Prophetess? Tzann somehow felt very wrong lying to her. But she had to do whatever she must to keep Khas safe. As she turned back to Cearyn, Tzann realized that Kassy had disappeared. Though her mask allowed Tzann to see invisible things, she couldn’t see the Enchantress anywhere. “Perhaps you will get your chance to do so someday, Cearyn. But no one has seen him since the last meeting of the Harvest, before the Father ordered them to disband.”
Cearyn frowned slightly. “What happened to him?” she asked.
Tzanntiel sighed softly, recounting what her original investigations had found out. “He was there, at the last meeting of the Harvest. After the meeting he left to go hunting in the Hole near Paineel, but he was never seen again.”
Cearyn said slowly, “It seemed to me… as though he was unused to physical form.”
Tzann frowned slightly. The thought that her brother had somehow contacted someone while in his unnatural torpor disturbed her greatly. “It was over ten years ago, as I said. It is unknown if he lives, or if he has passed on to the Father’s Realm.”
“Much of the Father’s Realm is with him. To see it… as he does… was what was shown to me,” Cearyn said.
Tzann sighed softly again. The thought of being able to share such a vision with Khasirath made her almost jealous of the younger Rogue. “He has ever been close to the Father, in a way that… to be truthful… I envy.”
Cearyn looked down at the ground, a thoughtful crease between her brows. “I don’t think it was… as a passing on. He seemed very much alive to me. But if he… had parted ways from his body… by means other than death…”
Tzann frowned as a look of panic crossed Cearyn’s face.
“You have to find him,” Cearyn said suddenly.
“I know,” Tzann said softly. “I have been searching for him since he has been gone. He is my brother, after all.”
Seeming somewhat calmed, Cearyn bowed her head. “If you have need of me… for any reason… in this search, just say it.”
Tzann smiled softly, holding back a chuckle again. “Thank you Cearyn. I will let you know if I do.”
Cearyn met her eyes, almost smiling, but looking somehow too weary to do so. “When you find him… thank him for me.”
“I will. Your faith that I will find him is quite… touching.”
Cearyn nodded faintly. “You will, because you have to.”
Tzann smiled more warmly, her eyes glittering with amusement. It was getting harder not to let loose the fact that her brother was awake and would soon be well.
Cearyn’s own eyes shone with tears that she quickly blinked away. She seemed to mistake the gleam in Tzann’s eyes to be for the same reason, and offered her a small sympathetic smile.
“I’ll be sure to tell Khasirath when I find him for you, Cearyn,” Tzann promised.
Cearyn softly whispered, “Khasirath…” Then louder she said, “I like the sound of it…. Thank you.”
Tzann turned to look around the hilly plain, wondering where the Enchantress had gone. “I think I should go find Kassy, see what it was she wanted to say to me. I’ll be fine if you want to go on ahead…”
Cearyn laughed softly. “She wanted to speak with me as well.”
Tzann chuckled as she wandered off, looking for Kassy. She sighed as she looked around. She didn’t see any sign of her. “Kassy?” she called out loudly.
The Enchantress stood up from the tall grass, brushing off her skirt, and walked towards Tzann. “Finished with your meeting, Harvester?”
Tzann smiled, wondering for a moment if Kassy meant to use the old title in a hurtful manner. But Tzann could only take it as a compliment. “Aye, for the moment I am done. You wanted to speak with me?”
Kassy came closer, nodding. “I did. You have not returned any but a handful of notes to me.”
Tzann paused to look around them slowly, as if simply enjoying the vista that the small hill they stood on afforded. Once she was sure there was no one nearby she turned back to Kassy, speaking softly. “I have been a bit busy, traveling all over Norrath and beyond in search of information… I don’t often have time to catch up on mail.”
Kassy’s eyes were steely. “I wish to know your progress. You know more than you let on.”
Tzann sighed softly. “All I will say is that it is going very well. Within the month you should see results.” Inwardly she steeled herself, but she was careful to keep her expression relaxed and open. She couldn’t be certain exactly how desperate for information Kassy was getting.
“I want to know the results currently, not in a month’s time,” Kassy growled.
Tzann smiled reassuringly, tilting her head a bit. “The results are not complete as of yet, therefore I can say no more.”
Kassy clenched her fists. “Damn it, Tzanntiel.”
Tzann opened her hands at her sides, almost shrugging. “I only speak so carefully for the safety of the venture, Kassy…”
The Enchantress cut her off with a hiss, “Why do you treat me like a child rather than an adult capable of understanding?”
Tzanntiel continued as if she had not been interrupted at all, holding on to that façade of calm and openness. “It is a very delicate thing. One never knows what may be overheard or seen. Every person that knows of a thing adds to the risk of the wrong person learning about that thing.”
Kassy’s eyes were flashing in her outrage. Tzann swore she looked a heartbeat away from drawing steel or magic. Inwardly she weighed her chances of escaping the woman’s wrath if it came down to it. She knew she had no chance to beat the Enchantress. And for the help she had been, Tzann had no desire to harm her for the moment. She could prove useful again later, possibly.
Kassy bristled, staring hard into Tzann’s eyes. “And do you think I would hinder you? You, more than anyone, should know better!”
Tzann shook her head reassuringly. “I know you only wish to help, Kassy.”
Kassy rolled her eyes, turning to look out over the plain. After a moment she looked back at Tzann, a slight smirk on her lips. “You are just like him, you know.”
Tzann couldn’t help but chuckle, taken completely off guard by the thought that someone thought she and Khas were alike.
“Just as stubborn and set in your ways…” Kassy continued.
Tzann smiled. “Not completely… There are a lot of things I do that he does not approve of.”
Kassy nodded slowly. “Yes, there are, aren’t there?” She smiled mischievously.
Tzanntiel raised an eyebrow, wondering exactly what Kassy meant, but decided quickly it was better not to pursue it. “Anyway… I should return to my work.”
Kassy nodded slowly. “Go then, and for Tunare’s sake, keep me updated.” She looked over the fields and whistled a long low note. Immediately a pure white stallion charged up, and Kassy mounted him smoothly.
Tzann stepped closer, patting the horse’s neck gently. She looked up at Kassy and very softly added, “Things are going very well, Kassy. I will say this much… I have found the cure.” She paused, studying Kassy’s face. “Within the month, you will see…” she left the word ‘him’ unspoken, hoping Kassy would follow her thought.
Kassy chewed her lower lip lightly, watching Tzann as she gripped her horse’s reins.
Tzann nodded seriously as she looked up, no jest or mischief in her eyes this time.
Kassy said, “That is what I have hoped to hear. A cure.” She smiled softly, “Luck go with you, S`Therik.” She bowed from the back of her steed as she guided his head to the south.
“Safe travels, Kassy,” Tzann said as she watched her ride off, a smile lifting her lips.
Re: Visions of Darkness Rising
(Originally posted by Cearyn)
They had been battling the undead of Castle Mistmoore, and had been cornered outside of the castle's graveyard. During a short lull in the battle, Cearyn was carefully applying her latest poison to her dagger when the vision claimed her. The vial containing her precious poison tumbled from her hand and came crashing to the ground, shattering into a million tiny shards of glass. Her world shifted into slow motion, and she was able to watch each piece of glass float lazily through the air before arriving at its final resting place. When she looked up, she was staring at her own body from the outside, and they were no longer in Mistmoore.
She recognized this place. She was in the Western Commonlands. This was the night of the meeting. The night she freed Khaet.
"You requested a moment of my time?" Cearyn asked, stepping from the shadows, hoping to catch the enchantress off guard.
"Where's that lovely dress you had?" Kassy asked, chuckling softly.
Cearyn waved her hand flippantly, as if brushing off that she was even wearing one, "I didn't want it torn by some skeleton on the way."
Kassy's expression instantly sobered, "I wish to speak to you."
"Then speak," Cearyn was suspicious, she didn't trust this enchanter.
"You mentioned a name that I have not heard in some time," Kassy said, "That of the Reaper of the Harvest."
Trying to gauge what it was that she wanted, Cearyn danced around the enchantress's words, "I was but a young child when the Harvest slept for its winter."
"You may be young," Kassy responded, "But you know things that you should not, by all rights."
"And what do you know of my knowledge," Cearyn glared at Kassy, angry that somehow, this woman knew of her visions.
Kassy raised her staff, looking into the serpent's eyes before turning the staff to face Cearyn, "Beautiful, isn't it Cearyn? The Staff of the Serpent, a jewel in the crown of that which was long ago forced upon me."
Sensing that something was not right, panic crept over Cearyn and she began to back away.
Shaking her head, Kassy spoke, "No... Stay and talk with me, Cearyn."
"No," Cearyn shook her own head, trying to clear it from the haze that was coming over her, "I... can't. I have to..."
"There are questions Cearyn," Kassy closed in on her," Questions I need answered. You are going to answer them for me."
Cearyn stood helplessly watching as she saw her eyes fog over and become cloudy, her will to fight sapped from her. She wanted to reach out and shake herself, bring herself out of it, anything, but she was forced to merely sit back and watch, "Anything you wish." the version of herself that stood below responded.
"You spoke of a vision," Kassy continued, "A vision in which you met Khasirath S`Therik... Tell me of it. The Teir`Dal with the silver eyes and the Crimson Tattoo. You must tell me all you know of him."
Slowly, as if she could not focus her thoughts, Cearyn responded, "He swims in the River of Hate m'lady. A river of blood red. It is a part of him, and he of it."
Suddenly, sensing her distraction, a denizen of Mistmoore closed in on Cearyn, striking her, and violently ripped her mind back into her body. Cearyn screamed out in agony, taking the next few moments to focus her thoughts as the monstrosity struck her again and again. The monk she fought with was able to distract the beast long enough for her to focus her thoughts, and for a few moments, Cearyn allowed herself the lull of a well fought, planned out battle.
As soon as the haze of pain cleared from her head, and Cearyn began to focus on her thoughts again, she became frantic. "I have to find her," she whispered to herself.
"Tzanntiel... She needs to know." Cearyn whispered, fervently hoping that this battle would end soon.
After her hunting party was safely out of Mistmoore, and Cearyn had made her way back to the Plane of Knowledge, she began scribing a lengthy letter to Tzanntiel, explaining what she had seen in her vision, the charm, not remembering what had transpired. She also explained that her vision was violently cut short, and she did not know how much she told this enchantress. Once the message was scribed, she sealed it with her House seal, and sent it to Tzanntiel, hoping it would get to her in time to be useful.
Sorry it's been so long since I've been able to post on this. RL and writer's block have been a pain. At this point you'll have to assume that all that gets added from this point is in the past, having continued from April or whenever it was I stopped. Things would have wrapped up storyline wise well before the current date (August 2003). So for now look at the rest of what comes as historical, as opposed to real time.
Sorry for the time bending, on with the tale...
/ooc off
--------------------
About a week had passed since the first meeting of Hate’s Culling. Tzanntiel had been surprised to learn at the meeting that Elentrae was illiterate, and had not been able to read her letter or instructions. During the meeting she quietly told the young Knight what she wanted her to do. And soon trapped animals from Nektulos and other areas were being delivered to her apartment in Shadow Haven, reducing the time Tzanntiel needed to spend gathering things to help Khasirath recover.
Tzanntiel had also returned to the outpost in Echo Caverns to pick up Khas’ armour, and he was very pleased to have it back. Thankfully, he’d been satisfied by the quality of the repairs. Normally he would have done all of the repairs himself. As he recovered his strength, he began to wear some of the armour as he practiced. Adding first the bracers, then other pieces as he could handle the added weight and restriction of movement.
Sometimes, Tzanntiel would sit and watch him practicing. She was honestly amazed at the speed of his recovery, and by his determination. He never complained, and he never let up. Each day he pushed himself a little harder, a little further. She couldn’t help but think that if she was in his shoes, that she would not be doing half as well.
Today she was watching him work out again while she sat and thought about the letter she had received that morning at her apartment in Shadow Haven. It had been from Cearyn, and told her of a vision that revealed that Kassy had charmed the young Rogue after the meeting. Tzanntiel frowned a bit as she wondered what the Enchantress had learned. Cearyn didn’t seem to know much about Khasirath, and Tzann had been very careful not to tell her anything important. What bothered her most of all was that Kassy had been bold enough to charm a member of Hate’s Culling simply to try to gain information about her brother. Tzanntiel was afraid she’d have to keep a careful eye out for Kassy now. Who was to say what she might try next?
Khasirath set down the mace and shield that he’d been practicing with and knelt in front of Tzanntiel as he began to unfasten his armour. He took off the bracers, boots and vambraces, wiping them clean before he set them aside. After taking a drink from a water skin, he looked up at Tzann. “I think it’s time we talked some more about the time I’ve lost. What you told me before is not all of it. I need to know everything,” he said.
Tzann looked down at her hands, frowning. He couldn’t wear all of his armour and he hadn’t even tried practicing with his lance yet. He had a lot of recovering left to do. She looked back up, meeting his eyes. “You aren’t ready yet, Khas. I’ll tell you later.”
Khas frowned, and Tzanntiel saw him clench his hands into fists. “Tzanntiel… I need to know what happened. You can’t keep me in the dark on this. I need to prepare more than just my body, you know.”
Sighing deeply, Tzann stood up and slung her pack over her shoulder, turning away from Khas to walk towards the tunnel. “I’ll be back later,” she muttered.
Khasirath growled in frustration as he stood. “Don’t turn your back on me, Tzanntiel.” He grabbed her wrist to stop her from leaving.
Suddenly the air between them crackled as Khasirath’s hand was wrapped in a blackish aura that instantly shot into Tzanntiel’s arm. She convulsed and staggered forward against the cavern wall as agonizing pain tore through her. Khas let her go, stepping back in shock.
Tzann braced herself against the wall, breathing heavily. The initial shock had passed quickly, but her whole body ached from the damage of the Father’s Touch. She looked back over her shoulder at Khas, blinking in disbelief.
Khasirath stood there, looking just as shocked as she felt. He shook his head, speaking softly, “Tzann… I didn’t mean… I couldn’t control it.” He looked down at the ground, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
Swallowing hard, Tzanntiel pushed herself off the wall and walked unsteadily into the tunnel. With trembling hands she disarmed the traps, resetting each one behind her before she walked off into the maze of catacombs.
After wandering a long way from the hidden room, Tzann found a quiet corner to sit and rest. Her hands were still shaking from the lingering pain. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and rested her forehead on her knees, letting out a shaking breath. Her thoughts were a whirl of chaos. Though the pain of Khasirath’s attack was fading, the feeling of betrayal lingered.
She simply didn’t know what to do or where to go now. She certainly didn’t want to go back to Khasirath. He’d said he couldn’t control it, but she didn’t know if she could believe that. She’d never seen him lose control, never imagined he could. His whole life he’d always been a master of control and focus. Never doing something on impulse, always full of purpose. Though he had been weakened, she couldn’t imagine that his control would have suffered the way his body had.
Most of all, Tzann was bitterly angry. She’d worked so hard to help Khas recover; she’d spent many months, used up so many favors, all but drained her own coffers simply to free him from the curse of the collar. And in return, she got pain. Parts of her wanted to go back into the room, and just take it out on him, beat him into the ground and make him pay. As that fantasy flitted through her mind, Tzann realized that she’d almost matched Khas’ power while he’d been missing. It had been many years, but she’d never realized it before. If he were at his full strength, she’d have no chance against him, but as things stood right now, it was more than a possibility. And Khas had no idea how strong she really was.
Sighing in frustration, Tzann pushed the idea from her mind. Angry as she might be, hurting Khas wouldn’t solve anything. It would only make things worse. She decided it would be best to simply find something to distract herself with until she could calm down enough to face him again.
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