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Everything was black and tingling. Sel was blind in a void. For an eternity of a second, all the man could sense was a buzzing sound. Then, a foggy line across the bottom of his vision began to manifest. The faint mists of a deep green river flowed in front of him. Sel could feel damp sand, almost clay-like beneath his bare feet. He wriggled his toes in the sand, the smothering suction of the shore was real. Sel blinked once, then twice, and on the third time he could see. With astonishment, he spun around, blinking rapidly, trying to take in the new realm.
Green water flowed in front of him, with flecks of golden, glowing metal drifting lazily to his right. The shores on both sides were white sand, fine and grooved with intricate, twisting lines and patterns. For a dazed moment, Sel felt sad that his bare feet had so unceremoniously broken the natural calligraphy. Behind Sel, the sand continued into an alien forest of black, green, and red fans. They all plumed upwards, drifting slowly in an unfelt wind, yet suspended as if underwater. There were squirming things in its shadows. Finally, the shaman looked back across the green river. His stomach dropped.
The dark mass on the opposite bank seemed at first to be an infinitely rough wall of black, painted stone or ebony. But, as Sel’s eyes focused, he began to see it bend and twist, its fuzzy form buzzing loudly. He smelled the carrion and burning metal emanating across the bank from the black swarm. The cleric’s staggered breath came in ragged heaves, and his knees sunk into the sand. He didn’t understand why he was crying.
“Seems like you have an admirer. Mnima preserve you, initiate, that is unlucky.” It took a moment for Sel to realize the words were not his confused thoughts, but crafted instead by someone to his right. “It is your first time, no? An accident, I am assuming. I hope you will not be staying here.” The queer voice was talking in a flowery tongue, one which Sel had never heard spoken except by himself and his late mother. It was Mnemonic, a language of the ones who kept to the old ways, who practiced blood magic of healing and the Behemoths. It was not a language spoken in the Great Desert.
When Sel’s cracked voice broke free from his lightly sobbing throat, it responded with his Mnemonic tongue. “We are not in the desert?” He chided himself for the foolish question. “Where are we?” He followed up.
“I don’t know.” The voice- that of a man, Sel felt- laughed as he answered the question. He blew a strange, melodic whistle, then clicked his tongue twice. “I have never found this place in the Nauract.”
Nauract? Sel wondered. The thing on the other side of the bank was still standing in front of where the dark man collapsed. Sel thought he could see eyes- deep black of shining obsidian- poke out of the insect haze for a moment. That brought a new wellspring of unsolicited tears.
“Still.” The man continued. “It is good to have found someone else here, in this in-between place. At least one who is lucid, if even partially so.” The sound of shuffling sand caused Sel to intake a shuddering breath. “Stay safe, traveler. You will be leaving this dream soon, and so I should keep on moving. This is not a safe place to walk alone. May your breath keep you, and may the Eltyr never find you.”
Muffled footsteps began to fade away from the dazed cleric. The creature in the center of the swarm began to move back, the swarm diminishing and pulling along. It blinked once, the obsidian eyes hungry, scared, pleading, and Sel felt a pain shoot around his heart. He took a sharp breath, his chest arched upwards with his mouth gaping wide, before he fell onto his back. The night sky above him faded swiftly, and as the world faded from his mind, the shaman thought that it couldn’t be right. He was raised as a Zandai man, and he knew the stars better than any on Tierre.
But he must not know as much as he thought, because, as black curtains fell on his mind, Sel couldn’t recognize a single one of the celestial dots.
——––
A sharp intake of breath and a half-dozen surprised gasps heralded Sel Maishan’s return to the waking world. His eyes shot open, and immediately felt bile rising in his throat. The cleric turned and vomited onto the sandstone ground beside him, spattering the wooden floor with a mixture of his last dinner and dark purple blood. As Sel blinked and coughed up spittle, he felt thick tears falling from his eyes. Purple liquid dripped down his cheeks. His vision was bleary, but stable, and he was shaking badly.
“Git now, give them some space! You can gawk later.” A block of a Torman looked down at Sel. His mutton chops jutted out to create a cube-like structure from his divot of a chin. He was pale, and stuffed into an all-too rigid frock coat over a leather skirt and tunic. An Idran.
A couple others shuffled out of the small, damp room, two saloon-style doors flapping behind them, where other people looked on curiously. The backroom was a small cube. The sandstone tiles were covered in metal crates, dried hay, and burlap sacks from the isles. The sound of carts moving reverberated through the windowless, stone walls- if he was still in Dra’angel, he must be in one of the warehouses at the docks. Still the inner city, at least.
“You’re awake. Thank Neia. I thought I might have done you in for good.” A voice he recognized sounded beside him. But, as he leaned forward, he saw that Canna Sa’or had changed. Or, rather, had never been Canna Sa’or, but rather a blonde Sacriman in a doublet, holding a gilded quill that sung with magic. His mace was strewn across his lap. “Are you still hurt? I tried activating that rune of yours to keep you from passing over entirely.”
Sel leaned forward. He could tell- the quill he was holding held a particular pull to it. His Signifier. “You’re an adventurer?”
“Secondarily to my artifice, yes.” The sacriman explained. “I couldn’t keep that form for very long, back at the tavern. I don’t have much experience with this culture yet.”
Adventurers absorb experiences from their life and death fights, personal triumphs, and social challenges- they then use those experiences to change their appearance, skills, and identities in society. Still, Sel, though a mage and capable of technically absorbing experience, would never have done what this sacriman did. If he changed his identity for a goal or in such a way that people nearby are afraid of- for exploitation, murder, or other kinds of manipulation- he risked being turned into a Nightmare. As an outlaw, Sel could never safely use such an experience.
Neither could someone impersonating an army officer. The shaman rubbed the bandages on his head. “Taking that identity was suicide! You risked corruption every minute.” The Artificer didn’t have his Signifier visible at the time, so it was even more dangerous.
“I know.” Jero Kahn bowed his head in apology (Sel knew his name because he had learned Canna’s, the magic twisting Sel’s memories as if he had always been Jero). “It was foolish. But I needed to take the risk. To meet and, well, kill you.”
The other, square-faced man placed a hefty hand on Sel’s shoulder. Sel had slipped his hand onto his dagger. “Easy there.” He said. “You are not fully healed. Your magic pulled you back from the brink, but you’ll be suffering from a concussion for a while longer- at least until you can heal yourself again.” He held out his other hand to shake Sel’s. “I’m Valakir, field medic for these hopeless idiots. We won’t hurt you again.”
Sel shook the hand nervously. His other hand reached towards his chest, finding one of the nodes had been broken. Consumed by magic- presumably the spell used to bring him back from the land of the dead. “Why?” Sel finally asked. “Why kill me, then bring me back?”
Jero looked past the slightly ajar doors. Boots clinked heavily on the sandstone. “I think you should ask him that.”
The wooden door slammed open hard enough to break its hinges, causing it to list and fall to the ground. Sel spun to the threat. He was confronted by a massive, scarred torman. His head was freshly shaven, and his ears and nose were deformed from countless battles. He had a tattoo of a blue pickaxe on the side of his neck. His skin was rusted with the southern sun’s red tan.
The torman’s piercing eyes flicked past Sel, not even considering the shaman a threat, and landed scathingly on Jero. “You went without my command?” Among a flurry of other Idran swears, Sel could only pick out those words.
“The Commandment insisted that ‘only adventurers shall meet’-”
“Do that again, Goldie, and I’ll tear your spine out of your ass.” That shut the sacriman up. The torman turned his gaze down onto Sel. “Sorry about my friend.” He said. “You’re the Archwood Cleric?”
His Signifier name. How adventurers address each other while using different identities. Sel nodded. “I see you all know quite a bit about me,” he said, calculating whether or not he could make a break for the door. “I’m at a bit of a disadvantage here, you see. I don’t know anything about you?”
The torman straightened his back. He was freakishly tall, even for one of the warrior caste. “Angean le Tourneau. I was cavalry commander during the Sandanese and Sanguine Crusades.” He grimaced. His eyes were dull jade for the briefest of moments. “Now, I’m looking to stop another, by following the prophecies of Lake Valya.”
Sel knew of it- oracles of the Lake were capable of giving directions to mold a specific future. A reclusive order, similar in power to the Pitchwood witches who taught Sel. “Why do you need me?” He asked. “Did your prophecy tell you to bludgeon me in public and drag me away?”
“Not exactly.” Jero Khan didn’t exactly pick up on the sarcasm, as he excitedly rifled through an overstuffed satchel propped beside him. He pulled out a series of charcoal-stained notebooks, finework devices with gently ticking clockwork, and a crystal surrounded by a wreath of dried mint. “Here! Let me show you…”
Angean raised his eyebrow. “Jero, is this really the time?”
“He needs to work with us. Willingly.” Jero explained. He set out the crystal and tiny devices on a circle in front of him. Some began to tick with internal, esoteric machinery. He turned to Sel. “This crystal is our Commandment. It gives me visions for our quest, programmed by the oracles, but the next vision can only be seen by those who have seen the River of Memory, beyond death’s door. That’s why it directed me to find and, uh, kill you.”
“Because only a green mage could return after death.” Sel understood. He still wasn’t sure why Jero didn’t just ask. He’d done stupider things before. “What do you intend to give me in return?”
Angean fished out a silk pouch with the same blue pickaxe symbol on it. It fell with a heavy clunk at Sel’s feet. “I hear you are searching for a tribute for the Dragon Empress.” He said. “In there, you will find a blessing coin from the sacred cities of the Silk Pact, as well as my own phylactery as insurance. Take them as an apology for killing you.”
Sel’s eyes opened as he untied the pouch. The blessing coin- a square of pressed cloth and petrified wood held together with prayer beads- vibrated with magic, even through the silk bag’s inner, cristagin lining. If it was the real deal, it was probably the most valuable thing currently in the city- more than enough to pay off his bounty and start on the Empress’ tribute. He tied it shut quickly. “Apology accepted.” He couldn’t help his voice from squeaking.
“We can continue to pay.” Angean nodded toward the crystal. “Will you work with us?”
Sel wondered, holding the coin with a tight fist. “If I refuse?”
Angean crossed his arms. “We’ll just have to find another blood mage.” He said. “Through the proper channels, this time.” He growled at his artificer.
Sel didn’t sense any deceit from the crusader. He slowly stood, his dagger and pouch both held in hard grips. “I… I’ll think about it.” He said. “If this coin checks out, and you are who you say you are… maybe.”
Angean nodded. “We’ll remain here for a week.” He explained, stepping aside to open the path to the door. “Beware, though. Something is coming to this city.”
Sel raised an eyebrow. “Dra’angel is a fortress. What could threaten it?”
The crusader shrugged. “I don’t know. But, I’ve seen my fair share of grand cities on my tours.” He leaned back against the wall. “This one is a powder keg, ready to burst. It just needs a firebrand to do so.”