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(Vol 6) Chapter 29: Pots Will Stir
🕑 Added 2024-08-27 15:06:02 +0000 UTC“I see,” Deikmorn replied, eying the young woman expressionlessly.
It was obvious who had sent her. The Witching Hour of Old was under certain stars. Year-round, it was quite calculable. How would she know he could do so, though? He was no witch or warlock. The old order of assassins taught it as a logical time to strike in the night, timing accuracy, and general synchronicity, but she shouldn’t know that. That he was once such a member was at most fanciful rumor, just as their existence itself was considered.
Am I reading too much into it? No. She is subtle enough. She may suspect and desire to verify through my accuracy. Perhaps this is a good thing… if she acknowledges the danger of playing such deadly games with my ilk.
The girl took another step forward and her smile returned. “Acceptance is the reception of her gift. In the meantime.”
Deikmorn glanced at her attire. Robes with a big bow in the middle. He recognized the way it was tied. “You, in other words? One to unwrap?” Pulling it open would drop the robes instantly.
“Correct. A gift should not be left unopened, after all.”
“I’ve never been so impolite as that, it’s true.” He nodded to his brother, who rolled his eyes and excused himself from the tent, closing the heavier flaps down behind him.
My targeted distraction while she cements whatever her plot is. Fine! It’s not my bloody clan, anyway. A bunch of sneering stiffs, if you ask me.
Deikmorn reached over to grab some goblets. “Sit, then. Have some wine. Tell me how someone so lovely as you isn’t living it easy across the sea with a rugrat or two running around already…”
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The Borderlands are a mess.
Arthen Wybayer sat at a desk in a nondescript room, in a nondescript, old manor off the beaten path between Restwater and Caneboro. The owner was one of unquestionable loyalty. It had once been an inn of an ancient route north to the fallen city of Otreall and past the desert to the Dreamborne Valleys. All defunct and forgotten, though. The opium had been going east to Red’s Point, then south by sea for untold centuries. Or — even more secretly — west to the Capital.
He’d read his third report from spies in the night. Capable and discrete elements in Mot Mekess and Caneboro. He’d even been sent discarded personal effects and leftover food items from political figures in Mot Mekess.
His ‘taste’ of things in terms of the link he was searching for was vague only, but he knew there was a conspiracy afoot. Their scent was not what he needed to clear them of suspicion. Not even Agatha herself, whom he’d studied before. There was a new, ‘Back Up,’ hackles-raised scent he suspected made her part of a new pack.
Sir Oliver’s knightly order was leaky with some cultic developments they had been getting righteous about when they’d never been righteous about anything but defense before.
Nibbles and bits of suspicious meat.
But the latest thing sent by his spy largely decided it for him. The high-speed river run conducted from Mot Mekess was indeed an Agatha special. Something she did to send or receive messages and packages quickly. It was not a common means, arrangement, or spellcraft by any stretch. And she had done it in precisely the same timeframe as the escapee’s flight.
She either smuggled her somehow or moved agents for this cult. She’s thrown in with these Caneboro rebels. Fae sympathizers. No surprise, with Mot Mekess’s ancient heresies. Her steward is of the very blood itself. Enough for a feather of the taste to still be there.
A newly invigorated Redberry was risen, as he’d heard when calling in his favor in the Capital. She had a powerful ally, too, one that had unthinkably cured her. Or multiple allies. This likely added up when considering the bizarre information he was getting about the escapee’s break.
Not things to expect of Redberry. But she is involved and possibly orchestrating things. A worthy target for the Hunt, just her alone, and she even has an equal by her side?
Caneboro was in the midst of a full-on, underground war. The legendary rogue leader, Lucky Lucille, was as deadly effective and elusive as ever. She and her elites dealt the lion’s share of damage in the shadows, and rumors were she’d made ghosts into allies. A wall of flesh was nonetheless in her way. Mercenaries were flocking there on the promise of the ridiculous coin being dangled by the Inquisitors. Sheer stupidity, but it was their way of engaging without risking what they cared about most: their own skins.
To a degree, he understood the feeling. The feed of information reflected incredible danger. His favor also related the very hush-hush death of one of the senior Inquisitors, something that had shocked them to their core.
Seldom is hunting about simply stumbling on prey and leaping for the kill. This will be a new work of art to pull off, in contrast. We are hunting a predator and could turn a corner to find ourselves the prey.
He seemed to be called to do it, though. The Inquisitors were floundering uselessly, putting on airs of wanting to solve the problem, as if concerned with the appearance more than the reality. Perhaps that was as things should be. They maintained the simple, day-to-day status quo. They wouldn’t generally go around violating or changing it, wouldn’t bother adapting or evolving to an amorphous foe — they’d just attempt to contain them.
Arthen’s warg, Winterseed, lifted his head suddenly from the floor, looking at his master with his ears up. He sensed a change of energy, clearly. Sensed a decisive shift. The poised ruthlessness before a strike.
“Change it is, Winterseed,” Arthen declared. “Let’s stir the pot and see what we manage to bait out, hmm? The choicest meat should do the trick.”
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Orswyth, Ash, and the Cat Sith Pythia waited at the meeting point in the Spirit World. Orswyth was sure Samantha had not wanted her mortal followers risking themselves for the mission, but she hadn’t thought to ban the option, so there they were. He figured it was better for the results. After all, in terms of true presence, Samantha’s Servitors could not equal the incarnation of a cosmic entity.
These ancient beings will relate to me on some level and vice versa. Or is it ‘us’? Bah. Orswyth was aware of his higher self observing through him on some level. But the connection was nothing like what Samantha seemed to have with the Fortuneteller. That or The Hermit considered direct communication crass. Which was highly likely. At the very least, rare seasoning.
They were a little early. The ‘Stargazer’ was not. No surprise those types would be precise in their timekeeping. At least they could expect punctuality.
Orswyth turned his gaze to Ash, who was caught staring, and he smiled as she looked away. “Yes?” Orswyth asked.
“Sorry,” Ash said, meeting his eyes more dispassionately. “I’m amazed how well your image projection translates detail here. You are very different, but more real than real. A unique skill.”
“Ah.” Orswyth looked down at his hand. Indeed, he was very vibrant and glowing, with a light golden color. A reflection of Enlightenment. Only partly mine. “There’s more to it, but I can’t discuss it at this time. If we’re trading amazements, a question: are you not helping Tashome with his project?”
“That’s correct. A regenerating helper golem. Something like that.”
“And are you not also designing a complex spell to assist Samantha? And helping train the ritual-using crew? And assisting the Brain Trust with your inside information?”
“All correct, yes. I’m also baking pies. Do you have a favorite? Cherry, I bet. I’m making cherry.”
“You’d have won money if you thought to wager. I will take a piece. But, in addition to all of this… you’re here?”
She had a little smirk on her lips as she nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Don’t mind me,” Pythia said as she yawned from her little floating platform. “Just watching two nerds have nerdgasms over each other and trying not to fall asleep. Ah! There they are. Thank the Goddess. Wait. They?”
Two ghostly erudite figures in robes and chaperon caps came up to the obscured spot and passed through it to float before them. For a brief moment, he thought he detected dismay, but it passed quickly. Their eyes fell on Orswyth principally, and they bowed their heads. They could be told apart mostly by slight shade differences in their clothing, or if one focused carefully against the challenge of their transparency, their facial features.
One said, “Honor covers us, before the Enlightened of Distant Moons.” Just as Samantha warned, the translation was highly bizarre.
The other might’ve smiled as he swept his gaze over them. “Salutations. We’re honored by your presence. All of you, who come in the stead of your Empress.” Surprisingly, the translation was quite fine with him.
Orswyth bowed as well. “Salutations. We’re honored as well, and pleased by your punctuality. One of you speaks as if more knowledgeable on language.”
“Yes. I am a Stargazer but also a Linguist. You may address me so, as well. With painstaking difficulty, I find ways to maintain concurrency of understanding foreign tongues, even as I maintain the discipline necessary in the mind. Thereby, I can serve as a translator or spokesperson. But I alone have this dedication and skill.”
“I understand. We’re grateful. In part, we came as three to assist with translation and understanding through the difficulties.”
They both bowed their heads solemnly, their eyes apparently closed. “Please forgive us for our oversight. We did not answer in three, not foreseeing the pattern.”
“It’s quite alright. We aren’t offended at all. The gesture was practical, not symbolic.”
They both accepted this easily enough. The Linguist continued, “Your Empress is an apocalyptic figure. We do not fear this, however. The stars suggest she is truthful in a desire for the maximum possible preservation. We align with the stars though we sadly risk our premature destruction. Some of us abstain from ambition, but swear also not to interfere, dedicated to observation alone.”
“Alright. We can hardly blame them.”
Ash spoke up. “Could you clarify what is so dangerous that you are planning?”
The Linguist nodded. “Yes, Sorceress. The Great King is mad and full of rage. We would disobey him, and he can — should he see the reins of our souls which he holds clearly — simply cast them aside.”
“How would you disobey, specifically?”
“Most things, other than guarding the island, cursing interlopers, and so on. His only real charge to us. Outside of his domain, he does not know our behavior, but he may see it when inside. If we ever go. Generally, we do not. Rarely, he has pulled egregious members in.”
“So, you’re offering us a way in,” Pythia mused. “Is that it? You want us to deal with your king in some way.”
“Yes, Faerie Feline. We can open a closed way and slip you in. The solutions within are to your deduction or discussion. Can you heal a Great King’s mind?”
“We’re uncertain,” Orswyth replied. “Possibly. Such a thing depends on the direction of the will. Does something within him actually want out of it, or is he lodged in it by decision? Entrenched?”
The two ghosts were quiet and subdued for a moment, before the Linguist said, “That is very possible, due to grief.”
“Samantha could find… other means of resolution,” Pythia added.
The Linguist seemed sad. “We’d not only vastly prefer the non-violent, we fear that his end would be ours. All of ours.”
“Our Empress holds the reins of fallen souls, too,” Orswyth said. “Perhaps there is a way to steal you over, regardless of your Great King’s mind and temperament.”
The Stargazer and the Linguist shared a glance. The Stargazer replied this time. “Miracles magnify under her Moon.”
Orswyth smiled and nodded. “That they do, my friend.” The quiet voice within him, rare as it was, finally spoke. ‘Of course they do. By design. Even she does not fully understand the Hand that will play. Nonetheless, Enlightenment shall prevail.’
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