INTO THE FRYING PAN
Silver fought off a yawn as Tomek explained a fresh form that required Silver's attention. The clerk's voice droned like the buzzing of a house fly and he had prattled on at length about each document; Silver was having difficulty maintaining focus. Silver eyed the clock centered high in the Chapterhouse space, watching as its long hand ticked forward a quinute from twenty-five to one. The right hand followed, changing the pentan from five to one with a click and setting a new tide as the left hand moved from one to two. It was now One of Two One, nearly midday–eleven quinutes had passed since arriving. Silver sighed, the sheer amount of documents had felt substantially longer than a near half pentan.
As Tomek’s continual buzzing about the essential procedures of Guild bureaucracy faded into the background; Silver fixated instead on Sledge's analysis of the townhouse. Silver was in agreement, the place had been searched and someone had tortured the Ardorfolk occupant before killing him, likely fleeing at the Greypelts’ arrival.
Silver reflected on the magic they had smelled, it had not had the correct texture. Usually, Silver was able to categorize what they smelled distinctly into one of the five magical paths and from there further narrow it into one of the fifteen magical domains. There were some noted exceptions; Knives sometimes displayed abilities similar to magic, resontry was able to replicate magical effects, and many of the Numen’s chosen could open themselves as a conduit to realize the immanence of the divine. Each of these exceptions had a unique body of flavour; the magic at the townhouse did not fit clearly into any previous recollection. Perhaps his unconscious ego would have clarity, he could commune when he next slept.
Running his long tongue over his veritable maw of teeth, Silver determined he did not have sufficient information for any conclusions save the obvious; the flight of the assailant indicated they wished to remain undiscovered and the victim had something worth killing over. Multiple blossoms of thought budded: what was being sought for, what was its value, and who did they need to hide from?
The Regency did not maintain a Magistrate posting within the Caldera and Evangelist Ventris did not leave the Novell often, so avoiding Imperial authorities was likely not their primary motivation. Silver reasoned it was most probable they desired the secrecy of anonymity. The degree and precision of violence inflicted indicated it was unlikely that the culprit had simply panicked and fled; the flight felt more intentional than a pure emotive response.
Silver could not shake the feeling that the other deaths Tomek had mentioned were related–his intuition was rarely misguided. Each ask of the details several had been rebuffed with yet another form or rambling explanation of Guild policy.
Steadily growing frustrated, Silver had unintentionally reverted to the communication of ligona. The Starborn language of ligona was not one of words, it instead was a collection of hand motions that directly conveyed emotion. The Children of Fate were generally unable to show facial emotions, their scales and faces unable to create such precise combinations. Silver highly preferred relying on the ligona, there was no ambiguity nor incorrect attribution of subtle body language. Silver was well aware that most ancestries were not learned of the ligona, but burgeoning irritation had swept this awareness to the wayside; this clerk was seemingly ignoring Silver's clearly gestured emotions.
“Okay Silver.”
He sat up in alert as the utterance of his moniker; Tomek was gesturing at a form.
“Please make your mark here, here, and here.”
Doing as instructed, Silver completed the document. In the momentary break, he pressed a discourse of his choosing, showing a ligona of distressed grievance as his right hand's thumb and middle finger pressed firmly together in a curl directed at Tomek.
"So, I wish to speak of the deaths you..."
Tomek interjected as his hands raised in a universal motion of slowing down.
"Hold on now, we are nearly there. Now please shift your attention here, this document is..."
Silver groaned as his ligona more clearly signaled growing chagrin; he could not handle yet another 'necessary' form. Dealing with the Guilds near always made for an unpleasant amount of documentation, but what truly irked Silver was the rudeness. Silver’s normally calm demeanor vanished as his patience finally ran empty.
Feeling a tempest crackle within his chest, Silver spoke with a harsh and forced tone.
"Enough of this, you have all you need. I can only repeat myself so many times."
Tomek's eyes widened in alarm as some of the moss on his face folded flat.
"I um, yes. Yes I think that will be everything."
Silver pinned his hands behind his back as he continued pressing the clerk–a ligona of extreme vexation.
"Excellent. Now tell me of the other two deaths this morning."
Tomek flinched and recoiled as he answered, ignoring Silver's unambiguous gestures.
"I am afraid that is Guild business, which I..."
As the clerk meandered, Silver lost himself to anger and his temper lashed out in elemental manifestation. Silver was of the Starborn and they were the keepers of the Breath, a burden passed down from the vanquished Wyrms of old. The storm in his core coalesced and Silver could feel it demanding to be unleashed.
With a measured breath in, Silver closed his eyes and felt the angry power of his lightning excite his scales with potential. He allowed it a moment to inundate his mind before permitting a slow exhale; carefully limiting its exit through his snout–he did not wish this man harm.
Lightning rushed from his nostrils and danced down his scales in a cascade of galvanic blue before vanishing into the floor. Popping noises exuded from each spark and the arc lights of the room seemed to grow towards him in yearning hunger as long shadows waxed away.
The unintentional display lasted many heartbeats as Silver fully emptied their lungs and endured the frolicking parade of sparks. Silver opened their eyes as the tumult in their chest became reticent; Tomek had frozen still, his eyes wide in shock as the moss of his face had fully extended and unfurled, creating well tufted mounds across his face and head.
Silver spoke plainly, his hands still clenched behind his back.
"Apologies. You were saying?"
Tiny wisps of grey-black vapor rose from Tomek's facial growths as he cleared his throat in response–Silver must have inadvertently singed him.
"I, um, am of course happy to comply with an Imperator in this matter."
Silver nearly interrupted to correct him, but instead allowed it to pass. He noted a future apology to Gale; hypocrisy was not something Silver could stomach.
Tomek continued, seemingly unaware of Silver's inner turmoil.
"The Guilds have not yet been able to perform a full investigation, but it seems that each individual was attacked in their home. Based on the state, it appears each residence was ransacked. Rather curiously, their heads were removed. I suspect the involvement of bastard crews, perhaps..."
There was an uncomfortable twinge in his gut as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Silver was no magewright and knew little of their ways. But the removing of a corpse’s head; Silver knew the answer to this riddle.
Silver turned and sprinted away without a further word to the clerk. Feeling his body twist in anxiety, Silver recalled the stories of his hatchling days. There were only two real reasons to take a head; either you wished to prevent someone from communing with the deceased or you intended to interrogate them after death–only a gravewright’s involvement gave reason to perform such an act. The practice had been a hallmark of the Broken Circle, a treasonous collection of mages whose rebellion had brought the Empire to its knees. Though the Realmatic War had ended nearly twenty four years ago, Silver could remember the stories told in creche with a clarity untouched by those decades.
If Silver’s hunch was correct, that meant it was likely the assailant would return to the scene to retrieve the head–Ink was in danger!
Bells rang out across the Caldera, clanging in seeming applause of the conclusion.
Knives stood just outside the green-white inferno, a hand covering his face to block the worst of it. His arm throbbed in pain as crimson blood ran down his arm in narrow streams. When the strange virid flame had taken hold of his arm, he had been forced to cut the flesh free–it refused to extinguish. The flesh yet sizzled nearby on the stone steps, crackling and popping as it blackened into a shriveled husk. Thankfully, the blaze seemed unable to consume the stone.
The fire had eaten through the walls and had begun to spread to the units below with unnerving speed as the fibrula burned and melted. The window shutters had long since turned to a resinous ooze, sealing the opening shut. As pendulous suspensions of burning exudate threatened to obscure the doorway, Knives hacked each threat free. A trio of his favorite blades had been permanently marred by amalgam.
Following the issuance of Ink’s Conveyance spell, a modest sum of folk had hurriedly retreated outwards–most dressed in simple linen shifts. Among them, one took charge to fully clear the building; a Sternfolk woman with the burly build of a blacksmith. After assigning others to each unit of the complex, she had run to the source of the fire, stopping in alarm as her brow furrowed at the sight of Knives.
Hesitant to disquiet her further through direct mental contact, Knives instead motioned to her with very basic hand signals, a solemn look occupying his face.
"One there me there"
She raised an eyebrow and, using Imperial Sign, motioned crudely with a curious look about her.
"I use little sign, one person inside?"
Knives smiled in relief--it was rare for most folk to be able to understand Imperial Sign let alone use even the basics--and emphatically signed back.
"Friend within I rescue. Get others out."
She nodded and motioned back before retreating down the stairs.
"May Nine speed you."
Knives was now focused entirely on spotting Ink, a task made near impossible by the brilliance of the inferno. There was a swift rush of air from within as Knives felt the breeze and was able to catch a glimpse of the room. Much of the ceiling had caved in, the supports of the roof now blocked off the room near its middle. A large crossbeam support forming much of the obstacle looked near completely reaved by the inferno, smoldering gently with tiny embers of white.
The doorway remained alight with flame and began to creep back inwards toward the center of the space. He could not comprehend how the fire behaved in this fashion without a flamewright. Knives had checked for a wright when he first arrived; no one had exited this unit and there were no apparent casters nearby.
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A mass appeared atop the obstacle, moving more awkwardly than an automaton. Knives could not make out the shape with clarity, it had the quality and mass of a hempen bag filled with rice and moved with an ambling gait–this was surely Ink. Knives smiled in relief which abruptly turned to dismay as the Ink bundle jumped and hit the floor, bending in an obtuse fashion at the impact.
Knives winced as he prodded Ink once more.
Ink gave no response as the smoke and luminance became overwhelming once more–Knives could not see.
Fighting blaze and smoke to gain vision back into the room, Knives messaged again.
INK MOVE
INK>
Finding a singular view, Knives watched the inferno roll over Ink's fallen form, the crackling of fire uncannily mirroring that of laughter. Knives mentally proffered a stream of expletives that would have earned a raised eyebrow from even Sledge. From the fallen form of Ink, Knives saw strange patterns in the air; it bent and contorted and spun chaotically like heat rising from pavement on a warm day.
Knives reached out to Ink once more.
Bells clanged in Ink’s continued silence as the Caldera came alive in alarm.
Knives threw his gaze down in despair; he could not watch Ink be devoured. A playfulness in the air captured his sight. Some fifteen hands away–half the divide to Ink–strange oscillating streaks danced in the air, a mirror to those emerging from Ink's bundle. In a moment of reprieve, Knives discerned a sparse salient in the blaze. At its center was a glass orb filled with a black light; a lone beacon fighting against the immensity of light. Confusion haunted until an enormous grin broke his face in realization of Ink's intentions.
Hopping into a squat, Knives drew his favorite throwing knife from the small of his back and kissed it for luck. He gripped the weapon lightly by its hilt, bouncing it against his palm as he reassured himself; he had hit smaller targets at ranges further than this. He drew a careful line to the target and at the bottom of an exhale, shot upward; delivering the knife with as much force as could be mustered. He overbalanced and tumbled forward as his landing failed, nearly falling into the flames.
As Knives slammed his head into the trim of the door, he heard first the twang of metal's impact.
Then, the shatter of glass.
Finally, a rush of air.
Dazed, Knives dizzily lifted himself and saw a clear path to the huddled mess of Ink, the flames which had covered his form were momentarily quenched.
Knives raced forward, dragging himself along the stone landing as it turned to burnt fibrula and scrambled to his feet, fighting to reach Ink. Black smoke plagued his sight and lungs, burning his eyes and throat as all his senses struggled against the onslaught. Knives arrived at the bundle and fell into a kneel. It was a quilt, its square patterns permanently marred by blackened scars and masses of solid grey similar to the resinous ooze dribbling from the walls. Knives tore open the blankets and found Ink within; their form compressed to the size of a child, their skin a ruination of wrinkles. They remained deathly still, grasping their knees in a tight embrace; but Knives found no sign of burns.
Ink drew a sharp pained breath and Knives nodded in thanks to whomever was watching over the pair.
Knives connected once more.
Tossing Ink's limp form over his left shoulder, knives fought to his feet. Knives coughed and heaved against the smoke, feeling lightheaded as he moved for the door; how Ink had made it this long Knives would never know.
As he fully stood, Knives exhaled in exasperation; the fire had returned once more, fully obscuring their exit in a verdant torment.
Knives growled and frantically checked the space for any opportunities. The opening in the roof was too high up. The walls remained alight. The floor was solid to create an opening in time.
In disbelief, Knives shook his head; what was there even left to feed the flames? Flames continued to encroach towards Knives as he sputtered against the ubiquitous thick smoke as his vision began to fade.
With a deep sigh, he stepped back and his feet crunched onto Ink’s bundle; frost had formed on the exterior of the scorched quilt.
Knives exclaimed a mental message of delight to Ink as he fell to a knee and dug through the sticky mess.
He found the pain of cold as his fingers wrapped around a glass orb; Knives had never been so thankful for agony. A thousand tiny blades stabbed into his hand as Knives whirled, spinning towards the flame. As his shoulders aligned with the door he released the stone, aiming for the floor near the door.
Knives kept his balance this time and used the momentum of the throw to rush forward, hunched as he carried Ink. Glass shattered and black light washed over Knives as cold air explosively burst outwards.
Knives felt countless gashes into his exposed skin as glass chips allayed the numbing frigidity but he remained undeterred–they were nearly free.
As salvation neared, the floor shook and trembled as the room cracked and broke; Knives' footing vanished and he tumbled. Knives threw the pair’s combined weight as the floor dropped out from under him. They smashed into the remaining floor as the building collapsed, Knives’ legs dangled in the divide. Knives swung a leg to the edge and forced themself to sanctuary, Ink miraculously remained perched. Pushing up, the wall opposite to the pair groaned and crumbled. Knives tensed in a brace as the structure slammed against his body.
Deafened and coated in ash, Knives did not give up. He heaved, pulling the pair free of mounded debris with a sputter. Trying to stand, he found weakness in his leg. A spar of fibrula was lanced through his thigh and crimson blood sprayed free; he did not endure pain.
Knives stumbled forward, his body protesting each step, his leg threatening to yield. Blood continued to spurt free, coating the blackened floor with beads of scarlet life. Exhaustion wore upon him as his heart beat at double time; all sensation dulled as Knives fell forward.
As twilight knocked to claim him, Knives consoled Ink.
Silver had rushed through the street towards the black smoke, the awful feeling in his chest grew worse with each new tolling bell. Divinity thrummed through his muscles, turning each step into a leap. His senses too were enhanced, dozens of voices threatened to overwhelm him. Several magic scents filled in the air; a cluster of Gloom magics, a singular Stone source, and a strange assortment of unkindness; it reminded him most closely of resonant objects.
The source of the thick smog came into view and dread filled Silver; the townhouse was coated in green flame.
He heard a woman’s cry over the clamoring voices.
"STOP, THERE ARE PEOPLE IN THERE STILL!"
With renewed vigor, he became faster than the wind. Blocking his path was a crowd ringed around the furious blaze.
Silver bellowed a simple command as divinity filled his voice.
"MOVE!"
The crowd parted with a cacophony of screams as Silver leapt through them. All appeared delayed, but Silver was processing at speeds most could not comprehend. He was upon the townhouse and saw two figures standing near the foundation, an Anchorborn magewright and burly Sternfolk woman.
The air was filled with a Stone spell near completion.
Silver was a few bounds away as he heard the Anchorborn incant with a dull rumble; the Stone spell invoked.
Mere steps away, the foundation cracked and shattered, opening a massive pit opposite to the crowd. The building shrieked in recalcitrant obstinance as it gave way and halved, collapsing against itself as its once steady homes folded in a crush. What remained of the demolition tilted up and threatened to fall before reaching a precarious balance at the crater’s edge.
Silver turned on the pair and exclaimed as flutters of divine radiance peeled off his scales.
“WHERE ARE THEY?”
Both Anchorborn and Sternfolk receded at Silver’s boom but, in a swift recovery, the burly woman pointed to the topmost unit. It was a ruin of broken rubble, the flames paused at the savage downfall. The Anchorfolk again began weaving Stone.
Silver calmly boomed a command at the Stonewright with divinity.
“Give me nine beats.”
As Silver readied to jump, his latent Ego rose, slithering like a wet tendril around his mind as it whispered moistly into his ear with an unfortunate excitement.
“No no no, you know as well that few could survive such violence. Especially not Ink, his tricks and lights are of no real import. Why risk it?”
Silver mentally corrected his Ego as he leapt upwards.
Silver rocketed upwards, divinity enhancing his jump far beyond any who bore no such radiance. His path settled on the remnants of the stone landing, it was cracked and tilted; barely able to support Silver’s mass. Smoke billowed out and seized him, the smog bit hard into his throat and eyes as fires raged throughout. Radiant light spilled out from Silver and he saw two forms covered in soot and smoke and burning things; Knives and Ink. He scooped the pair up–they were just outside the doorway–and threw himself backwards to the ground below.
The Stone incantation completed; the Anchorborn had given him eleven beats–he would need to thank the wright.
The foundation cracked and the building fell in tempo with Silver.
Silver tensed and tucked his head in while tightly cradling his fellow Greypelts. The pavement fractured at his forceful arrival, taking the entirety of the impact squarely on his back, but his divine imbuement did not permit a breaking of bone nor flesh nor muscle. The former Imperator lifted his fellows just outside the resulting crater and immediately observed a coating of scarlett blood. Knives was the only one present who bled crimson and Silver searched him with immediacy. He soon found the shard of fibrula in Knives' upper leg and Silver set to the task before him.
Silver pulled the chunk free and pressed firmly above and below, pushing the flesh together as tightly as possible and willed divinity into Knives. The light of the Ennead flowed from his hands and Silver directed it in careful cadence. Silver wove the puncture shut as he joined Knives' femoral artery whole once more. Within Knives' bones, he mustered and stirred blood not yet whole and forced weeks of effort into that of seconds. Silver felt Knives’ heart, which had grown faint and frail, begin to pound once more with life.
Knives would live.
He reached over to Ink, the Lucidfolk remained unresponsive but breathing with no obvious injury, though they were much more compressed and wrinkled than normal. Silver would have to wait until Ink was fully cognisant; Lucidfolk anatomy was uniquely complex and subject to rapid internal shifts. Silver laid back against the ground, the expenditure burnt him to exhaustion. The Anchorborn and Sternfolk woman approached and stood over him, smoke continued to pour skyward.
The Anchorborn squatted next to him and spoke with a dull rumble as the burly Sternfolk looked over his compatriots.
"I’m sorry. Couldn’t let the fire spread. Are you all well enough?"
Studying the Stonewright, the Anchorborn had a green gem planted in their exposed chest and their grey skin was ornamented by growths of rose-tinted crystals; they were an Anchorborn of Stone. Their face was dotted by the same clusters, they had a thin slit of a mouth, a nose that looked broken many a time over, and eyes knowing eyes tinted by green.
Silver offered an exasperated reply born of enervation.
“We will all recover in time. Your names?”
The Anchorborn rumbled after.
“Mordechai Efraimiel Aharoniel. And you?”
“Mordechai, thank you for the permittance earlier. Call me Silver.”
The Sternfolk woman stalked over and offered him a hand to sit up.
“I’m Addinell, pleased to have made your acquaintance. Would that you were here earlier when the fire first took.”
Silver waved off the good intentions with a polite gesture; he desired the sturdy embrace of the pavement.
“I simply gave them their last steps, I am sure my presence would have resulted in little impact.”
His ego sniggered in a wet laugh.
“We know that is not true. Do not endanger this vessel in such futile recklessness again.”
The Ego vanished into slumber as Addinell fussed over him, shoving a waterskin to his face.
“Fine. At least have some water.”
Silver assented and took deeply of it, the water burned more than any vintage. She had a firm build; not quite to the degree of Sledge, but Silver had yet to meet the Pridefolk’s match. Her skin was of a tan olive with hands of well-built calluses, her eyes of hazel and discerning, with black braids woven into a tight bun.
He spoke as the skin ran empty.
“You have my thanks as well. Now, I would very much like to know what happened here.”