Golloriel tries to keep a straight face but is unable to keep the disbelief off of it as Kroft speaks, and then pays them for committing treason. She shakes Kroft's hand and is barely able to stammer out a "thank you for the opportunity" before leaving with Andakos.
What just happened?
Caladaer doesn't realize how tense and ready to fly into his escape plan he was until Kroft told them they were safe; his entire body relaxed at once in a moment of sweet relief, and then the aches that come from having tensed one's muscles for hours begins to set in. Sleep will come slowly tonight, if at all.
Turns out he was wrong about Kroft; she protected Andakos, and by extension, Cal and Golloriel. That earned his respect. He shakes the Commander's hand, looks her in the eye, and nods his thanks.
As he leaves the office, he thinks about all he's seen. Something is fishy around Korvosa, and he hates that his natural curiosity has him interested in finding out what it is. Golloriel will want to stick around to train with her holy friends; maybe it wouldn't be the worst idea to stay?
Andakos returns to the barracks to gather his things. As he does so, he talks to Golloriel and Caladaer. "Congratulations, you two; you now hold the record for the shortest employed city guard." He laughs, but there isn't much mirth in it. "The Acadamae is still closed so I suppose I'll be heading to my parents' house. They have plenty of room if you'd like to join."
Golloriel shakes her head. "Oh, no, thank you, Andakos. It is kind of you to offer, but we have rooms at the Temple of Sarenrae. One of the paladins there has agreed to train me."
Andakos doesn't have eyebrows, but there is a ridge of bone where eyebrows would be, and this ridge raises at Golloriel's reveal. "Ah, truly? Good for you. I have a feeling this city is going to need more holy warriors before this mess is over." He turns to Caladaer. "And you?"
"The first thing I am going to do is spend a few days studying, then after that..." Cal shrugs. "Something will come up."
Caladaer's vagueness isn't lost on Andakos, but he doesn't press the wizard. He finishes packing his things, then faces the others. "Shall we go get paid?" He leads the others down to the Master of Coin to turn in the documents Kroft gave them.
You each hand the writs to the Master of Coin, who goes through the lengthy and hair-pullingly bland process of bookkeeping, scrawling in a massive ledger and then digging through multiple large clay pots full of rolled-up scrolls, searching for several minutes until he pulls out three scrolls, then turns the ledger around and holds out a quill. "Sign here and here."
Once he has the signatures, he hands out the new scrolls. "Take them to the Bank of Abadar if you wish to cash them in." He then turns away and patently ignores the party's existence
Each writ is a favor worth 750gp.
Caladaer spends his time off studying Vreeg's spellbook. These are the first new spells he has had a chance to learn in many, many years, and his greedy anticipation is palpable.
It has been a while, though, so on the first day, he starts easy: Vreeg's cantrips.
DAY 1
It's a good thing he started slow; both detect fiendish presence and penumbra gave him some trouble. He will come back to those later, but for now, he is utterly exhausted.
DAY 2
On the second day, he continues on the remaining cantrips.
Those went well! Time to move on to more difficult spells.
Although cause fear and chill touch in particular make his head hurt, he has no issues learning them.
DAY 3
Onward!
Command undead nearly broke his brain. He'll try it again in a week.
DAY 4
DAY 8
DAY 10
DAY 11
DAY 18
DAY 21
Although he is angry about his inability to learn fly, he knows he isn't even able to cast it yet, so he can keep trying. Otherwise, his mind is nearly bursting with new possibilities.
Andakos spends the first couple days of his downtime doing as little as possible. He sleeps a lot and spends the rest of the time with his parents and Lyse, chatting, playing cards, and eating amazing food (made even more incredible by the fact that Andakos has eaten Acadamae and Citadel cafeteria food almost exclusively for the past 20 years).
On the third day, he wakes Lyse up at dawn. "It's time to resume your training." He shows her how he prepares his extracts each morning, explaining that he is using all of his available materials for the day to create crafter's fortune extracts -- a relatively straightforward concoction that clears his mind and gives him a laser focus on his alchemy. He takes extra time while doing so, showing her the formula for the extract and explaining what each step means and how it affects the final product.
Then he spends the next eight hours creating alchemist's fires, with Lyse's help.
He and Lyse repeat this pattern daily, gradually working toward more difficult creations.
DAY 3
DAY 4
DAY 5
DAY 6
DAY 7
DAY 8
DAY 9
DAY 10
DAY 11
DAY 12
DAY 13
DAY 14
After the end of week two, Andakos admires the veritable mountain of alchemical goodies he and Lyse have created. He has been successful beyond his wildest dreams, due in no small part to Lyse's help. He decides it is high time they take a well-deserved break from daily work. Luck has been on their side, but eventually fatigue or complacency will make one or both of them blow something up, and not in a good way.
He spends the first day with Lyse, talking about nothing and everything. At one point she grows quiet for a few minutes, then works up the courage to ask if Andakos ever wonders about his heritage. She didn't know her parents, and so she likely will never discover where and when the celestial influence entered her bloodline. But he does know his parents; had he ever asked them about it?
Andakos doesn't answer for a long time. Finally he lets out a long sigh. "No. No, I've never asked. I can feel the taint in my blood; it is always there, but it is especially bad when I am upset or stressed. The time between finding out that Lamm had taken you and getting you back was the worst it has ever been. It makes me angry -- but not in a normal way. It is rage; it is fury; it would take me over if I let it." As if on cue, he has a small coughing fit. Andakos chuckles and shakes his head. "And it makes me cough, but not because of any illness. It's like the cough is the taint trying to get out of me." He looks Lyse in the eyes. "So, no, I haven't asked. And I won't. I am a good person, and I won't let it change that."
There is, in fact, one mishap on day 4, where Lyse gets a little overzealous with the sulfur while admixing one of the alchemist's fires. "I bet if I added a pinch of black ceramite..." The resulting explosion mostly just blew her hair back and singed her eyebrows, but it did inspire you to put her on cleaning duties for a few hours. Still, her alchemical instincts were shockingly spot-on: the black ceramite powder made the alchemist's fire significantly more volatile, but you can't really fathom a way to make it practical since it would have to be added on the fly, which seems impossible since it couldn't be done without a lab. Still, perhaps the girl has even more promise than you thought.
After Andakos explains about his heritage, Lyse is quiet for several moments before she speaks. "Some of the older students at the Academae, they look at me weird. Like I don't belong there. Not because I'm an orphan, but I get that sometimes too. Because I'm... this." She makes an all-encompassing gesture at her slight frame. "Because I'm part celestial, they think I'm some goody two-shoes and I can't summon horrific monsters like they can." She stares morosely at the floor. "Thing is, I think they're right. I don't wanna summon imps, or dire rats tainted by the Abyss, or scary fire elementals. I... I don't know if I like magic. It scares me. I like what you do. With the science and the formulas and--" she glances up at you, blushing "--the explosions. It's pretty cool. And no scary monsters involved."
***
Cal's readings go surprisingly well, with only a few spells evading his sharp mind. Fly is particularly dodgy, but that's fine. He knows he has more work cut out for him before he can even cast that caliber of spells anyway.
His nights are not so pleasant. More than once, a voice whispers in his dreams, something he can't quite make out. It sounds like a promise, but he just cannot grasp what it is. He wakes with the unshakable sensation that if he just knew what the promise was, he would unlock something spectacular. Power? A secret? His daughter's respect? He doesn't know. But he can't quite shake the sensation that Golloriel's mother is somehow to blame for it.
***
For her part, Golloriel wakes up the day after the debacle with the botched execution and heads down to the cellar of the House of Dawn, where Brother Ephraim waits. The area feels a little cramped due to the low ceiling (it is only eight feet high) but has a decent amount of horizontal space, and is well-lit. Racks of weapons and armor line the walls, and a small smithing station occupies one corner. It has no forge, but has several tools for repairing and fitting armor and weapons.
Brother Ephraim stands in his dirty robe, without armor, holding a longsword at rest. The blade is wrapped in heavy layers of cloth. He immediately tosses another practice blade to Golloriel as soon as she reaches the foot of the stairs, and she almost drops the weapon. It's significantly heavier than she expected. The dull blade feels unnaturally dense. It gives her the impression of sullen, boorish anger bent on killing.
"Come at me," Ephraim says. He is not in a combat stance. He is, in fact, leaning against the longsword as if it were a cane; its dull point digs into the thick, padded mat covering most of the floor in the cellar. He sees Golloriel's hesitation and smirks. "I see that look. You're worried about hurting me. I promise, you won't."
Golloriel steps in with a testing swing of the practice blade, but it is like nothing she's ever used before; its weight distribution is oddly balanced compared to a heavy mace, which is the closest weapon she can attribute it to with which she has any experience. Ephraim barely tilts his head, and his whole torso follows suit, causing the swing to slice through empty air. The heft of the blade pulls Golloriel along with it through its arc, leaving her staggering. A sudden, sharp agony in her back makes her stand bolt-upright and drop the blade, clutching the rising welt just short of her spine.
"First rule," Ephraim drawls. "Never show your enemy your back."
He waits for Golloriel to pick up the practice blade and heft it again. The halfling puffs out a breath. "Oof. Okay. Second lesson, never ever stand like that." He comes over and manually adjust her footing. "See? Bend at the knees slightly. There you go. Always keep your feet roughly shoulder-length apart when you swing, and keep your knees bent to lower your center of gravity."
He steps back into position across from her. "Third. Know your weapon. The moment you pick up a sword, a flail, an axe--anything. Know it. Know its balance, its heft, where it's weighted. a hammer is weighted differently than a longsword. How you wield a weapon depends entirely on how that weapon's weight is distributed." He raises the practice blade up. "Again. This time, remember. Feet firm, knees bent. Don't put all your weight behind the swing or you'll end up with another welt on your back."
As it turns out, she ends up with a lot more welts regardless, but after two weeks, Ephraim looks less and less dour about your footwork. By the time two and a half weeks are up, he's grinning as Golloriel--well, she still hasn't beaten Ephraim, but she has managed to tag him once or twice.
On day eighteen, as they ascend the stairs sharing a waterskin, both covered in sweat and welts (well, Golloriel covered in welts and Ephraim bearing a pair of them on his left arm), they have covered not just an array of weapons, but how to effectively move in heavy armor, how to carry and wield a shield properly, and how to effectively handle great-weapons and a much wider array of polearms than just the longspear.
"You are one heck of a student, Sister Golloriel," Ephraim says breathily, taking another pull of water from the skin as they head upstairs toward the kitchen. It is customary for Ephraim to cook eggs after a rigorous bout of training to build strength. "Few learn so quickly. It helps you're no stranger to battle already of course, but still." He stops once you reach the nave and turns to face you soberly. "I think it is time, Sister. I'm going to speak to the Captain and request you undertake the Oath."
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Panting.
Panting in the thick, close air of the wood, darkened by the heavy canopy above. The animals are all silent, eyes following the prey warily, crouched in their hiding spots lest they take the quarry’s place as the hunted. The sickly-sweet odor of rotting vegetation permeates the air from the dead grass and underbrush that feeds the current layer of living underbrush. Layers of life and death in this wood, centuries--millennia, even--of layers one atop the other, building a nearly impenetrable forest, and this place is old even by the reckoning of the trees who live in it.
A figure bursts through the trees, lithe and nude, her skin pale to the point of alabaster, her hair black as the sultry, starry night. Her form has inspired lust and loathing in many mortals, and her beauty has blinded many a cruel human out to despoil nature. She detests such violence, but also doesn’t hesitate to use it when her wood is in danger.
But today, it is she who is hunted. Today, the danger is hers.
The nymph stumbles through underbrush she normally knows so intimately that she can sprint through it full-bore without fear of so much as stubbing her toe, but terror and adrenaline send the nymph careening through the trees at a stumbling gait. Behind her, a figure patiently strides ever-forward, unhurriedly following their quarry to the end of the hunt.
The pursuing woman steps through the trees, bright red hair splayed out in wild abandon behind her, darkleaf dress accentuating her curvatures in a more mundane fashion than the nymph, but far more suggestive. A power both ancient and unknowable radiates from her outstretched hands, and the vegetation bows toward her power lustily, as if she walks through a desert of parched travelers pouring water from her palms.
The nymph turns to look back at her pursuer’s progress--and runs directly into a massive figure blocking her path, thick as stone. She bounces hard off the creature’s thick slabs of muscle coating its gray-skinned, humanoid torso. Its oddly-rounded head, containing naught but one mouth and almost a dozen glowing yellow eyes, stares down at the nymph, who lies on the ground shaking her head woozily. Full of panic now, she looks up at the creature and unleashes the full might of her awesome, blinding beauty--
To no effect.
The hairless gray humanoid hunkers down--it is over nine feet tall--and plucks the nymph up by her head, gently pinching it between its massive thumb and forefinger. The nymph struggles, but to no avail. Finally, she droops in the creature’s grip, dangling two feet off the ground, shuddering with silent sobs.
The red-haired figure stops and looks up to her wet, dejected face and clucks disapprovingly. ”No tears, now, sweet Niamh. Honestly, it is embarrassing. Have some dignity.”
Niamh looks at the woman with equal parts fear and hatred. ”Leanan Sidhe.” She spits the name like a curse. ”Kill me and be done with it, but for The First’s sake, do not go into one of your inane speeches.”
Leanan Sidhe sweeps out a hand unhurriedly, nevertheless slapping Niamh in the mouth with enough force to loosen one of the nymph’s teeth. ”Such impertinence toward the mistress of your sad little wood that I gave you. And you know full well I am not allowed to kill you, Niamh, so stop with the theatrics of bravery. You are a cowering, quivering wretch, and I’ll not suffer your vain attempts to pretend otherwise.” Her tone and demeanor melt in a frightening instant, one long finger tracing the nymph’s aqualine features delicately, even lovingly.
”Sweet girl,” she whispers. ”You were my favorite. Why did you betray me?”
Niamh’s lip trembles. ”You know why. You took him from me.”
Leanan Sidhe snorts in a very unladylike fashion, turning away from Niamh. She waves a hand dismissively in her direction, and the gray render drops the nymph unceremoniously, lumbering off into the wood to await its mistress’s call. ”I didn’t steal him, stupid girl, he left you for me. You offered him some brief respite from his carnal urges.” She turns and smirks at Niamh. ”Whereas I offered him real power. And in an act of jealousy you neutered that power. It’s pathetic.”
Leanan Sidhe kneels down before the huddled form of Niamh and tilts her drooped chin upward to look at her, brushing her cherry-red lips against the nymph’s ever so slightly. ”Just because I can’t kill you, Niamh, does not mean I can’t make your life a living Hell. Release him from your magics, and let me have him once more.”
This time, Niamh’s face lights up with a savage glee. ”Sorry, Leanan Sidhe. I cannot. The effect was instantaneous and irreversible. He will never know you dug your claws into him.”
Quick as a striking serpent, Leanan Sidhe’s fingers grasp the nymph’s neck and squeeze. The sorry creature flops and flails uselessly against the woman’s shockingly powerful grip, pupil-less eyes bulging in sudden terror. ”You little wretch! How dare you deny me what is mine!” For several long, horrid seconds, as Niamh struggles desperately to remain conscious, she thinks the Leanan Sidhe is going to forget the ancient Laws of Custom and kill her. But finally the woman remembers herself, and throws the nymph down in frustration.
She steps back and smooths out the wrinkles in her darkleaf gown. ”Fine,” Leanan Sidhe says, drawing a long, calming breath. ”Fine. If you will not give him to me, I will simply go find him and take him back.”
Niamh gasps and coughs feebly. ”W… why…” she rasps. She swallows and tries again. ”Why do you want him? He’s no one of importance. Why can’t you just leave him alone?”
Leanan Sidhe’s narrow features break into a wide, predatory grin. ”Idiot nymph. You lack vision. He is of no importance now. But he will be, with my guidance.” She sniffs derisively and folds her hands across her stomach. ”You should have been more cooperative. Now when I find him, I will extract payment for your insolence with your daughter’s life.”
Niamh rubs her throat and scowls at the Leanan Sidhe’s retreating form. ”Touch her and you will die horribly, witch.”
Leanan Sidhe doesn’t even turn around. ”We both know you don’t have the power to kill me, Princess.”
Despite having no pupils, Niamh’s eyes express a fiery hate. ”No, I do not, Leanan Sidhe. But Golloriel does.”
At this, Leanan Sidhe hesitates, but only for a moment, before disappearing into the forest.
Niamh sits dejectedly, rubbing her bruised throat, weeping quietly, and wondering if her daughter is safe.
Graekimus rubs absently at the weird flesh-sack he finds himself stuck in. He hates walking around as one of these meat-bags, but orders are orders. You would think, after over a decade wearing it, he’d get used to it, but he hasn’t. It feels weird; he can feel the meat sliding around on the bones. Disgusting. It only serves to remind him of the importance of his purpose.
He hunches back down over the petri dishes before him, the hood of his crimson robes drooped low over his brow and obscuring his face; he prefers as few people see this shameful pile of blood and meat as possible, nevermind that he's currently alone in his lab.
With the dropper in his hand, he sucks in a tiny drop of a translucent, sickly-yellow fluid. He carefully transports the dropper to the cage next to him, where a large, thirsty mouse gazes up expectantly with bright red eyes. Graekimus reaches the dropper in and carefully feeds to the fluid to the eager mouse. He likes those red eyes, and can’t wait to see what this new batch does to them. He hopes they melt, that would be interesting. He’s never seen a creature’s eyes liquefy before.
A sound like buzzing electricity erupts behind him, and Graekimus turns irritably toward the interruption. The air in the lab behind him crackles with power, then splits like cloth rent with a dull blade. Through the dark rift in reality, a tall, bony creature with leathery skin steps out. It stares dully at Graekimus with cataract-clouded eyes, but Graekimus is all too aware that the Leukodaemon standing before him can see him with alarming clarity.
A moment later, the horrid, withered beast drops to one knee before him. ”Master.”
Graekimus waves a hand impatiently. ”Enough with the formalities, Batthus. You were due back to me four days ago. Report.”
The creature’s vulture-like head tilts upward to stare at the middle-aged man before him and opens its yellowed, bony beak. ”The scion lives. Word has reached us she is in Korvosa. She has been there this whole time.”
Graekimus’ hand clenches hard on the dropper, and the fragile blown glass shatters to powder in his hand. ”She—what—how?? How has she been under our f+&%ing noses this whole time? Answer me, Batthus! How did you miss this?”
Batthus’ head droops subserviently again before answering. ”Her presence has been hidden from us by powerful forces. I am still uncertain who has done so. I am looking into it. Shall I send the Cacodaemons to scout the city?”
Graekimus, mollified by the Leukodaemon’s servility, waves his hand again. Ugh, he can hear the bones popping. What pathetic creatures these mortals are. ”That won’t be necessary, Batthus. In fact, this is oddly fortuitous. I will be heading to Korvosa shortly for work.”
Batthus is quiet for a moment before speaking very hesitantly. ”There is… word… from our Master, as well.”
Graekimus gives the Leukodaemon a long, inscrutable look before saying in a dangerously neutral tone, ”You spoke to the Master without my presence?”
”He sought me out to deliver a message,” Batthus adds hastily. ”That is all, Master.”
Graekimus supposes that’s all he’s going to get out of the Leukodaemon. Their kind are schemers by nature, after all, so if there’s more to the story—and Graekimus is dreadfully certain there is—he’s not going to hear it from Batthus. ”Very well. What is the message?”
Batthus hesitates again. Clearly he isn’t happy to be the one to deliver the news, which causes the bile to rise slightly in Graekimus’ throat. Yet another reason to hate this flesh-sack he’s toting around. ”The Master,” Batthus says meekly, ”is displeased with your association with this mortal cult.”
Graekimus clears his throat and does his best not to let the Leukodaemon see him sweat. ”Did you explain to him that I am only using them for my own ends? Obviously the Pallid Princess is ultimately our enemy, but the zealous fools are useful to me for my project.”
Batthus nods vigorously, not making eye contact. ”Yes, Master, of course. He says… he says he does not care. They are anathema to us. You are to be rid of them as soon as possible. He also says he expects a report on your progress with the scion.”
Graekimus clenches his jaw. ”Did you tell him?”
Batthus visibly shudders. ”I had no choice, Master. He is… most persuasive.”
There are a great many things about this mortal form for Graekimus to hate. One thing for which he is thankful is the fact that it does not dull his formidable strength. With the blink of a mortal eye, his hand is vice-gripped around Batthus’ throat and drawing its hideous, desiccated beak-face to be inches from his own. ”You dare threaten my work with your sniveling boot-licking? That was a mistake, Batthus.”
The creature twists in his hand, trying to writhe its way out of his grip like an eel, but Graekimus doesn’t so much as flinch. ”M-master! P… please!” it squeals in its dry, dead whisper.
Graekimus ignores it, glancing at the table with a sigh. The mouse is already dead. And no eyeball melting. Another dead end. The death is too quick. His employers are not going to be happy about his failures.
Unless…
Graekimus turns back to the wriggling, panicking Leukodaemon, and a wicked grin slowly forms on his fleshy mortal façade. ”Good news, Batthus. I am going to spare you. I have found a way you can make this lapse in judgment up to me.”
Far from being relieved, Batthus struggles harder, panic overtaking it as it looks into its master’s furious green eyes.
Daemons are not known for forgiveness.
Andakos smiles. "If you want to summon horrific monsters, you could learn." Before she can protest, he raises a hand. "No, no, I know you don't want to. I don't either. I'm just saying that you could. Your heritage, your blood... they don't define you or what you can or cannot do." He taps her forehead. "This. This is who you are. I am happy that you like alchemy and I am happy to help you learn. You are damn good at it. Keep at it and you'll be better than me. But you need to know that you can do anything. Those kids..." He looks her in the eyes, then sighs. "I'm 43 years old and I still deal with s#@* like that, Lyse. People..."
He shakes his head. He feels like an idiot. But he didn't have anyone to help him with this when he was her age. He needs to get through it.
"Okay. People are insecure. People are scared. People are ... well, they're idiots, Lyse. And they think making people like us feel bad will make them feel better. But it doesn't, and then everyone feels like s!&%, and nothing ever gets better. The best thing you can do is find the people who aren't insecure and scared, and you spend time with them. Why do you think I hang around with you?" He flashes a big smile, winks, and ruffles her hair.
Golloriel is exhausted. Like, to the bone. She has become keenly aware that you use different muscles to fight with different weapons; muscles that she did not even know she had scream at her with every step and every movement. And so it is saying something that she feels absolutely none of this when Brother Ephraim tells her it is time to take her Oath. She has been studying it every day and she believes she can recite it from memory. (She doesn't actually know if she will be required to do so, but it certainly can't hurt to know it. To know it is to live it.)
Her mind is racing and nearly bursting with excitement, but she tries to remain stoic. Still, she can't help a smile from crossing her face briefly. She quickly returns to a straight face and nods. "Yes, Brother, I believe that I am ready. Thank you."
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!
Lyse giggles at his statement, flushed at so many swear words. Andakos had heard the dorm masters were strict, but for a twelve-year-old to be so unfamiliar with swearing just seems downright unnatural.
After a moment, Lyse's smile fades and her brow furrows in thought. "I'm gonna think about it. I do like other magic. I'm pretty good at evocation. I almost made a ball of light! Before the school closed, anyway." She chews her lip. "I don't want to go back. I mean I do, but... I don't. I miss my friends, and I wanna learn how to make that light ball! But... the teachers are so mean. And they look down on everyone, except a couple of the nobles' kids. It sucks. But I guess I should go back. Do you know when the Academae is opening back up?"
Come to think of it, Andakos has not heard anything about when the Academae is opening back up. The city has been settled for over two weeks now, and no word has reached him of the doors re-opening. That is... odd.
As he contemplates this, Alvor quietly clears his throat from the entrance to the living room where he has stopped. His thick arms are folded behind his back as he stands at parade rest, not making eye contact as he gives his proclamation. It's always strange seeing Alvor so formal, but decorum dictates it inside the house. Whenever they were in the yard practicing his sparring, Alvor was always much more friendly. It's like this Alvor is a different dwarf altogether.
"M'lord. Lady Alecta desires yer presence in the parlor. She be entertainin' unexpected guests, and she requests yer aid in doin' so. She also requests Lady Lyse join Maester Palin fer a history lesson meanwhile."
Andakos certainly has many unpleasant memories of being tutored as a child by Maester Palin. The half-elf tutor isn't a cruel man on purpose, it's just that his lessons are so heinously boring that it feels like torture, and they have apparently only become moreso over the years, if Lyse's face is any indicator.
To her credit though, she makes no fuss, simply hugs Andakos and scurries off to find Maester Palin.
Alvor looks somewhat distracted. Once the young aasimar is gone, he says, "Ah, m'lord. The, ah. The guest. I thought I aughter give ye a heads-up. It's Lord Glorio."
Now that is odd. Lord Glorio Arkona has been a family friend since before Andakos was born, but he rarely ever comes to the house. In fact, it seems like he's rarely in the city at all; his textile company is wildly successful and has been for generations, and Glorio and his sister Meliya are often traveling between here and Vudra on business. The Arkonas essentially bought their way into the nobility over a century ago and have gained a shocking amount of influence.
And of course, now the name "Arkona" brings back that strange memory Andakos saw when he came inches from death. Was it real? And what did that conversation even mean? It seems awfully coincidental that this memory resurfaces and within mere weeks, the very namesake--whom, to Andakos' knowledge, has not visited in almost a year--suddenly decides to say hello.
Alvor leads Andakos through the halls of the Viden Estate to the parlor. The drab stone of this room has been draped with silks and satins of bright shades of sunset, dandelion, cream, and robin's egg. Open windows let in a breeze to alleviate the oppressive summer heat, while several pastoral paintings adorn the walls. White-coated wrought-iron furniture are scattered decoratively about the room, but the focal area is a series of cream plush couches and love seats surrounding Alecta's prize possession: a coffee table magically crafted from a single piece of near-perfectly clear quartz, adorned with embellishments in the shapes of wisps of cloud, with clawed feet and golden runes etched all the way around the rim. More than once in his childhood, Andakos received a mighty spanking for placing a cup on that thing without a cork coaster under it.
Sitting at a thick, heavily cushioned chair almost like a plush throne, placed strategically at the head of the quartz coffee table, Alecta Viden sits. Despite her arrow-straight posture and imprudently high-necked, long-sleeved day gown in the eighty-five degree humid weather, she manages to exude a comforting ease with a demure smile that seems far younger than the wrinkles and care lines on her face. Her long silver-and-black hair is tied back in an elegant braid, and she fans herself politely with a white lace fan as she speaks to her guests in low tones.
Andakos knows his mother better than anyone else in his life, even his father, and he can see the lines of tension in her neck and forehead. She is well-versed in hiding it, but he knows better. Alecta does not like one of the guests present, and he can guess which one.
For his part, Glorio Arkona stands when he sees Andakos enter, a broad smile across his face. His deeply olive skin offsets his bright, emerald green eyes. His black beard is neatly trimmed and his long hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail. His clothing fairly reeks of money: satin waistcoat and overcoat, both a powerful shade of crimson; his black trousers neatly buttoned and free of wrinkles; his shoes buckled with gold; and not a finger unadorned of a garish ring.
"Andakos, dear, you remember Lord Glorio," Alecta says.
"Please, Alecta, just Glorio! We are all friends here." The man bounces jovially over to Andakos and offers his hand. "So long since I have last seen you, Andakos! I have heard you were instrumental in returning our city to order. Well played! I always knew you had greatness in you. Runs your family!"
You're pretty sure you saw your mother's eye twitch slightly at Glorio's last sentence. You're not sure what that's about but for some reason, she didn't like it.
It's only then that Andakos realizes another person is there, as well. The familiar lean, whipcord frame of his superior, Captain Cabe Melandrus, stands up after the others. The Brevoyan expatriate stands with his hands clasped firmly behind his back, mithral dueling sword at his hip, gray eyes hard as ever. His crisp uniform is slightly worn but clean and pressed. The only discrepancy in his crisp appearance, as always, is his bushy gray-white beard and haphazard ponytail. Andakos isn't entirely certain how old the captain is, but he was already Captain of the Guard at the Academae when Andakos joined twenty years ago.
Alecta clears her throat. "And you know Captain Melandrus, of course."
The next morning, unsurprisingly on Oathday, Golloriel is awoken an hour before dawn. She is dressed in a plain white gown embroidered with the blessed ankh and rising sun, symbol of the Dawnflower. She is led to the nave, where the other members of the Dawnbreakers, in similar garb, line the path toward the large altar at the end of the room. Standing before the altar, the only one in full arms and armaments, is Captain Brokenev. Sword in hand and pointed down to the ground, she watches Golloriel approach with a neutral expression.
And all the while, Brother Ephraim strides at her side, calling incantations to Sarenrae as they walk in steady, rhythmic steps toward the altar.
At the foot of the dais, Talia raises a hand. Ephraim's incantations end, and she says in a powerful, authorial voice, "Initiate Golloriel. You have been called to the service of Sarenrae, goddess of the Dawn, light in the dark places, redeemer of the guilty and destroyer of True Evil. If you wish to answer Her call, repeat after me, and may the words forever echo in your soul:"
At this point, she begins reciting the edicts of the Code of Sarenrae, pausing after each edict for you to repeat it.
"I will protect my allies with my life. They are my light
and my strength, as I am their light and their strength.
We rise together."
"I will seek out and destroy the spawn of the Rough
Beast. If I cannot defeat them, I will give my life trying.
If my life would be wasted in the attempt, I will find
allies. If any fall because of my inaction, their deaths lie
upon my soul, and I will atone for each."
"I am fair to others. I expect nothing for myself but that
which I need to survive."
"The best battle is a battle I win. If I die, I can no longer
fight. I will fight fairly when the fight is fair, and I will
strike quickly and without mercy when it is not."
"I will redeem the ignorant with my words and my
actions. If they will not turn toward the light, I will
redeem them by the sword."
"I will not abide evil, and will combat it with steel when
words are not enough. I do not flinch from my faith, and
do not fear embarrassment. My soul cannot be bought
for all the stars in the sky."
"I will show the less fortunate the light of the Dawnflower.
I will live my life as her mortal blade, shining with the
light of truth."
"Each day is another step toward perfection. I will not
turn back into the dark."
Golloriel stands at attention and recites the oath, especially proud that she knows it so well that she doesn't need to 'repeat' it.
"I will protect my allies with my life. They are my light and my strength, as I am their light and their strength. We rise together."
Easy! And rather obvious, she thinks.
"I will seek out and destroy the spawn of the Rough Beast. If I cannot defeat them, I will give my life trying. If my life would be wasted in the attempt, I will find allies. If any fall because of my inaction, their deaths lie upon my soul, and I will atone for each."
She likes that this one expressly calls out something which is maybe not obvious: that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.
"I am fair to others. I expect nothing for myself but that which I need to survive."
Another easy one.
"The best battle is a battle I win. If I die, I can no longer fight. I will fight fairly when the fight is fair, and I will strike quickly and without mercy when it is not."
This one is a bit confusing to her. Was there ever a time when evil fought fairly? Isn't that part of what makes them evil? She supposes it may come down to honor on the battlefield; even if a general and his plans are evil, the individual soldier may not be, regardless of which side he (or she!) fights for.
"I will redeem the ignorant with my words and my actions. If they will not turn toward the light, I will redeem them by the sword."
This is a good one. She hopes she will have the eloquence necessary for the former so that the latter is unnecessary.
"I will not abide evil, and will combat it with steel when words are not enough. I do not flinch from my faith, and do not fear embarrassment. My soul cannot be bought for all the stars in the sky."
Basically a repeat of the last one?
"I will show the less fortunate the light of the Dawnflower. I will live my life as her mortal blade, shining with the light of truth."
Sarenrae, b&%@@!
"Each day is another step toward perfection. I will not turn back into the dark."
Her voice breaks on this last one. She cannot help but think of her father and the darkness that she knows lives (grows?) in him. She fears for his soul.
Try as she might, she is unable to stop her eyes from welling up with tears, and a single one runs down her left cheek as she continues to stand at attention.
Andakos gives each man a polite bow. "Begging your pardon, but this is quite out of the ordinary. What is this about?" His mind races with the possibilities.
He keeps one eye on his mother during the conversation that follows.
Glorio nods soberly. "I understand, it's most unusual. But the Academae has a problem, one that I came to Captain Melandrus with, and he naturally suggested you. It appears he has followed your exploits with the Korvosan Guard. And in point of fact, I was rather pleased he suggested you." He gives a grin of alabaster teeth.
Behind him, Alecta's jaw clenches, but she manages to keep the irritation out of her voice. Her concern is unabashed, however. "I appreciate that you have certain... investments in the Academae, Glorio, but I don't like the idea of my boy being put in harm's way just for you to protect your interests."
Glorio blanches at her words. "Words cannot express my hurt, Alecta. This is not merely some power grab. The Academae serves an important function in the city. Its current situation is untenable." He gives her a level gaze. "And besides, I think Andakos has a right to choose for himself." Alecta flushes and looks pleadingly at Andakos, but says nothing.
Glorio turns to Captain Melandrus. "The captain can explain, I think."
|
Captain Melandrus nods curtly at Andakos. "Viden," he says in a thick Brevoyan accent. "Good to see you well. Apologies for the intrusion, but when Glorio told me of what was occurring at Academae, I thought of your recent work with the Guard and knew you were someone I could trust with this. Before I go on, I need your word you will not speak to anyone outside this room of what I am about to tell you. If certain people learned of this, it could put many lives in danger."
Talia Brokenev lifts an unadorned steel chalice off the altar behind her and brings it to Golloriel. "Kneel." When she does, Talia brings the chalice to Golloriel's lips. "Drink deep. The time has come to see if Sarenrae deems you worthy."
This is not something Golloriel has ever heard of for a paladin ceremony. Is this normal? A trick? But the other paladins don't look concerned, merely solemn. It seems the only way out is through, and besides, the liquid is already in her mouth, pouring down her throat.
The liquid is dry, bitter, with strong undercurrents of gooseberry and lilac. Wine. But, less palatable than any wine she's ever had. And it goes directly to her head, too, making her vision swim. It's a good thing she's already kneeling, because she feels herself falling...
***
When Golloriel opens her eyes, she is atop a grassy hill. The pale grass is the color of amber, and sways gently in a light summer breeze. The sky overhead is filled with the brilliant radiance of a midday sun. But it was still before dawn when she fell unconscious... and in a city. There is not so much as a rooftop as far as the eye can see.
Twenty feet away is a stunted tree with a small boulder wedged into the ground next to it. The boulder juts from the hilltop some three feet, and very nearly abuts the tree trunk, it's so close to it. A lithe figure sits on the boulder, brushing a hand against it gently, as if caressing a lover. The figure is tall, masculine, and made entirely of fire.
He turns his face to Golloriel, and it is also pure fire. His brow dances and flickers like a candle flame, his eyes swim and smolder like hot coals. Two burning lumps emit from his back, and it takes a moment of squinting for her to realize they are wings. This man is... well, not an angel, but something similar.
His face shifts where the mouth should be, and Golloriel gets the sense he is smiling. He exudes power like a pungent musk, but one that is not altogether unpleasant.
He opens his mouth, where teeth like cinders line in perfect rows, and he says in a surprisingly delicate voice, "Hi, Lori. Can I call you Lori?"
Dammit.
His mother's obvious (to him) discomfort makes him want to run these men out of his house, but he can't help feeling intrigued. He had been wondering why the Acadamae hadn't reopened. Maybe this would even be an opportunity to prove his worth beyond a simple guard.
He gives his mother an apologetic look, then turns to the Captain. "You have my word, Captain."
Golloriel at first can't quite place the creature. Some kind of fire elemental? But she's never heard of a humanoid fire elemental, least of all one with wings.
Then the creature slowly stands from his seat on the boulder and stands to his full height--then grows. The flames seem to lick away from his form, revealing segmented plates of mithral coating his body, and the wings become mithral feathers, their tips glowing like burnished gold in the sun. Two more arms sprout from his abdomen, and the fire on his face slips back into a wavy, flaming mane surrounding a silver face.
Golloriel's mouth dries up as she stares up at Sunlord Thalachos, Herald of Sarenrae.
The Sunlord smiles slightly. "I take it you recognize me."
|
|
He nods gratefully to Andakos. "We are not at the Acadamae right now, Viden. You can call me Cabe."
He gestures for Andakos to take a seat, and sits back down himself. "As soon as the king was pronounced dead, Headmaster Ornelos sealed the doors, wisely surmising what would transpire. King Eodred II was not well-liked by the common people, but the Queen even less so. He knew the transitory period would be difficult and tumultuous. He felt the school would be best served by closing its doors until it all blew over. There were... some... who argued that some of the students had nowhere to go if they sealed the school. Toff decided to put the needs of the school itself over the needs of its students."
While his affect remains flat throughout, there is a slight twitch in his hand at this last statement which leaves no room in your mind for doubt. The "some" at the Acadamae who argued for keeping its doors open included Cabe himself, and he was less than pleased at the Headmaster's response.
Cabe clears his throat. "At any rate, the Acadamae should have reopened weeks ago, but the wards remained up. Most of the faculty had remained inside with Toff, so it was something of an ordeal to find one who had left with the rest of the staff. I ended up going to one of the more prominent students, older fellow by the name of Ezren, and requesting his aid. He did his level best to penetrate the wards of the school, but they are many and potent. He had no luck." Cabe's face gets somewhat pale. "He did have luck scrying for the Headmaster, however, albeit for only a moment."
He considers each of the faces in the room before continuing hesitantly. "Before managing to sever the connection, Ezren saw Toff Ornelos bound and bloody, in a tower. He managed an approximate location for the tower about sixty miles northwest of the village of Harse. That was a week ago. Ezren has not been able to scry the headmaster since."
Cabe wrings his hands a moment. "I am no stranger to violence, Viden. Before coming to Korvosa I was a soldier in Brevoy. I saw the Numerian hordes commit heinous acts, and my own superiors do even worse, in the name of winning. Though I have never committed it myself, I am more familiar with the art of torture than I care to admit. From Ezren's description, they were torturing Toff for information. If that is the case, they have likely gotten it by now and disposed of him. We need to find and infiltrate that tower and see what they learned. If Toff is alive, we will rescue him, but at this point it is foolish to hold out hope. Most importantly, we cannot let whoever did this leave with the information they extracted from him. The Acadamae--and particularly its Headmaster--guard secrets for Korvosa that could be deadly if the wrong powers got hold of it."
Glorio nods vigorously. "You can see now why I thought of you, Andakos. You have proven yourself quite capable. Also these new companions of yours. The Eglens, yes? Do you think they would be willing to help?"
Golloriel's eyes widen as the realization hits her, and she almost involuntarily falls to her knees and bows her head. "Sunlord! Y-- yes, of course you may c- call me whatever you wish!" Intense feelings of awe and fear vie for control of her mind and her words. This... this is Sarenrae's herald! She is one step away from the Dawnflower herself! Why? Why is she worthy of such attention?
"I..." What do you even say to a being such as this? What could she possibly say that he doesn't already know?
Is this even real? Without lifting her head, she risks a quick glance upward. Thalachos's radiance is nearly blinding, and her eyes flick back down to the ground. She can feel his aura washing over her. If it isn't real, it is the most convincing illusion she could possibly imagine.
When she finally speaks, she manages not to stumble over her words, but her voice trembles. "What does my Lord wish of me?"
Andakos recognizes Ezren's name; he is something of a minor celebrity within the Acadamae. "This is not much to go on; do we know anything about who might have taken the Headmaster or what they might have been after?"
Turning to Glorio, Andakos shrugs. "I wouldn't know whether they would be interested. I will need to ask them."
So far as Andakos can tell, Glorio is on the level. Clearly it's not entirely altruistic--your mother already mentioned he has business investments with the Acadamae--but he also seems to genuinely want to protect the city and is genuinely concerned about the Headmaster's disappearance.
***
The huge, resplendent figure before Golloriel sighs exasperatedly. "I am not a monarch, Lori, you don't need to kneel. The Dawnflower prefers you show your reverence through action, not platitudes."
He sits back down on the rock, but now it seems more like an adult sitting down on a child's stool. His top pair of arms are behind his head, fingers laced comfortably, while the lower pair rest on his knees. It's an odd figure that Thalachos cuts. "You must wonder why you're here. It's... a complicated answer." His lips purse thoughtfully before he continues. "I don't want to stroke your ego and tell you this is a rare occurrence. But I also don't want you to think you're not special. When Sarenrae blessed you with her gifts of healing, She did so intentionally. She saw potential in you and acted accordingly. She is not a prophet, however. She did not foresee your interest in the Paladin's Code. It is concerning." He puts up two of his arms defensively. "Not because you are necessarily a poor candidate. But... your blood, Golloriel. Your blood is of concern."
Thalachos stands and paces thoughtfully. Flames lick his boots and scorch the grass as he walks. From the cinders of his footsteps, new golden grass grows moments later.
"You have much good in your heart--and indeed, in your blood. But you also have the First World swimming within you, pumping through your veins. That chaos will always gnaw at your being. Do you think you can control your emotions enough to follow the Code?"
He turns to her as he says it, with a mithral face that is utterly unreadable.
|
|
Cabe considers Andakos' question carefully before answering. "Ezren only got a brief visual glimpse. He described humanoids in pale robes. He could see no faces. One had a symbol around their neck. He said he couldn't be sure, but it might have been a death's-head fly."
Glorio and Alecta both return blank stares. Cabe sighs. "That is the symbol of Urgathoa. Pallid Princess. Goddess of undeath." He turns to Andakos. "I shudder to think what this means for the city. If you have allies, as Glorio mentioned, their help would be most welcome. But no more than them, I think. Moving too large a group would get people asking questions, and the last thing we need is a new cause of panic after your hard work settling the city."
Sarenrae knows who I am?
Golloriel stands but still finds herself unable to look directly at Thalachos for longer than a moment at a time. Nothing in her life experience has prepared her for this moment. She is dumbstruck. She hears his words and understands them, but she is utterly unable to convince herself that she can just speak to the Sunlord without supplicating herself, lest her eyes and tongue light on fire. Or something like that.
Then his last question snaps her back to herself.
Caladaer.
She looks up, and this time finds that she is able to hold his gaze for longer. "You mean my father." She takes a deep breath. Deep down, she has known that this conversation had to happen eventually. Granted, she expected to have it with herself, not the HERALD OF SARENRAE. She stands a little straighter. "My father is all that I have had for most of my life. Until recently, he taught me literally everything that I know. I love him with my whole being." She swallows the tears that try to make an appearance. "But if I am faced with the choice between my Code and my father... I will choose the Code." She looks Thalachos in the eye.
Andakos's face darkens at the mention of Urgathoa. "We just eliminated a necromancer in the Dead Warrens, and we know that his master was an even greater necromancer. Undead everywhere, and now some sort of Urgathoa cult." He sighs. "It's almost certain that there is a connection." He turns to Alecta. "Mother, it is high time we invite the Eglens for dinner."
Alecta blinks. "Oh! Gods, I've been waiting for you to invite friends to the house for dinner for about thirty years, dear. I'll have Alvor send the invites at once."
Glorio stands and offers his hand again to Andakos. "I am glad you came to this decision, Andakos. The city is in good hands. When you return, there are things we should speak on. But for now, I must away. Much to do at Arkona Textiles!"
He bows deeply to Alecta and strides out.
What the hell, mom? Andakos side eyes Alecta. That sort of comment isn't like her; she must be under more stress than he realizes.
He shakes Glorio's hand -- reminding himself that he doesn't quite trust that guy -- then turns to Cabe. "Moonday is fine. Shall I have Alvor arrange horses?"
After Cabe is gone, Andakos turns to his mother. "It just occurred to me: I truly do not remember the last time I left Korvosa."
Once the guests are gone and decorum is no longer necessary, Alecta allows herself to look like she feels: stricken. "I don't like it. You running about like this. Sticking your neck out. It's dangerous. The post at the Acadamae was easy, at least. Every night you were out there when the streets were pure anarchy, it nearly killed me. And now this!" She quite literally clutches at her pearls. "I've heard Toff Ornelos is one of the most powerful wizards in the city. If something killed him, what are you going to do against it? Please don't do this, dear..."
There's not much conviction in her voice. She knows her son better than that.
***
Sunlord Thalachos shakes his head. "You misunderstand. I'm not talking about your father's blood. He is a man in pain, and you have the skills and the love to alleviate that pain, but whether he chooses to walk in the light is his own.
"No, child. I'm talking about your mother's blood. Your mother's blood is the blood of the Fey. They are dangerous, capricious creatures. That power is within you. It is a temptation and an urge that will forever be a part of you. Words of promise mean little; I have spoken to many servants of Sarenrae and heard the same. Sometimes they end up being the truth. Sometimes..." Despite his metallic features, Golloriel can clearly see sadness and regret in the Sunlord's eyes. He sighs and returns his gaze. "But therein lies the rub, you see. As a mortal, you have the ability to lie, even to yourself. And so, only actions may prove your worthiness."
He strides up to her and places a massive mithral hand on her shoulder. Flames lick across it, but they do not burn her. It feels comfortable, like the bright, welcome warmth of new summer.
"So, your actions will tell if you are worthy of the gift Sarenrae gives you now. Act well, and act kindly, and remember the Code. It may one day save your soul--or the soul of someone you love."
The warmth begins to spread throughout Golloriel's body, until it suffuses her entire being. Sunlord Thalachos erupts in blinding flame, and the whole world is light and warmth and power.....
When Golloriel's vision returns, she is lying on the stone floor in front of the dais. Ephraim's face is incredibly close, and he grins at her. "There you are! Caliban, help her up."
The aasimar woman offers Golloriel her hand, hefting her up from the ground with ease. "The ritual is complete," Talia Brokenev intones. "You are now a Dawnbreaker, and a paladin of Sarenrae."
Ephraim smirks. "Welcome to the club, kid."
Andakos hugs his mother. "You know that I have to. I can't shake the feeling that something bigger is going on, and that the Queen is somehow involved. Somehow I have ended up in the middle of it and the number of people I can trust dwindles by the day. The Eglens have powerful magic; if they refuse to go, I won't go either."
Golloriel allows Ephraim and Caliban to help her to her feet. Her legs are wobbly but they support her. She hears Brokenev's words but barely processes them; was any of what just happened real? She knows that it felt real, but now that she is back, it is already fading, just like a dream would.
She looks down at Ephraim. He has shown her kindness and understanding since the day they met; she needs to get him alone as soon as possible to talk to him about what she saw.
For now, though, she simply says, "For the Sun and the Fury." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
Alecta sighs and places a loving hand on his cheek. "You are entirely too much like your mother, darling." She gives him a playful pat. "Escort me to the kitchens, would you? I want to oversee dinner. Alvor! Send an invitations to the Eglens, would you? See if they wish to join us for dinner tonight. They're at--er, where are they at, dear?"
Once he has their location, Alvor bows and hustles off to deliver the invitation.
***
Ephraim takes Golloriel's hand. "Come on, lass. You should lay down for a bit. The Communion is always something of a process."
He heads toward the stairs and the dormitory. It's a little odd being led so paternally by one so small, like a child who cares for an invalid parent.
"Hell of a thing, isn't it?" he asks once you're away from the others. "Mind if I ask you what you saw? You're under no obligation," he adds hastily. "It's about as personal an experience as you can get, so I understand if you don't wanna talk about it."
Things are still a little off-kilter in Golloriel's brain, but from the sound of it, seeing... well, seeing something appears to be the norm. Thalachos has yet to be mentioned, however.
Andakos offers his arm to his mother and heads to the kitchen. "Ooh, can we have reefclaw cakes?!"
Golloriel looks around to make sure they are alone, then leads down and speaks softly. "I saw Sunlord Thalachos, Ephraim. I saw Sarenrae's herald, and he spoke to me like he knows me and like Sarenrae knows me. I almost couldn't speak. Was it real?"
Ephraim blinks in mild surprise. "Thalachos? Huh. Now I feel kinda robbed. I just saw my Mum." He ribs Golloriel good-naturedly (though with his height, it's more hip than rib). "No worries. Everyone sees someone different. Nobody's really sussed out if there's any rhyme or reason to who sees who."
He rubs his bestubbled chin thoughtfully. "Some theorize they're all Sunlord Thalachos, in different forms. He can change his shape you know. Look like anybody. As to whether or not it's real?" The halfling shrugs helplessly. "Your guess is as good as mine."
He stops outside Golloriel's door. "Go get some rest, kid. You've earned it."
Golloriel is suddenly overcome with the urge to hug Ephraim. And so she does. "You have been so kind to me since I arrived. Thank you. I couldn't have a better teacher."
Ephraim blushes furiously. "Ah, stop it," he grumbles. "Course there's better teachers, but I'm what ya got. Mum used to say, 'the gods don't give you what ya need. They give you what you get and you gotta make it work.' Smart woman, my mum." He pats her hand again and takes his leave.
After a few hours, just before lunch, there's a knock on Golloriel's door. She finds a heavily armed and armored dwarf standing at attention, looking somewhat flustered and out of breath. "Lady Golloriel Eglen, ye and yer father are hereby invited by Lord Andakos to join his fam'ly fer dinner this evenin'. If'n ye need directions, I can oblige the lady." The dwarf takes a deep breath after.
Golloriel almost leaps with delight. What a day this is turning out to be! She has been preoccupied with training, but she has wondered how Andakos is doing in her rare moments of quiet.
She thanks the dwarf with a gold piece (in hindsight, she would realize that was entirely too much, but she has had a good day; why not spread the joy a bit?), gets directions, and then heads to her father's room. On the way, she realizes that convincing him to go to this dinner may be the most difficult thing she has had to do these past three weeks.
It also occurs to her that she has barely seen the man since they were fired from the Citadel.
She takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. She is just about to knock again when the door finally opens. What lies beyond is shocking to her: it is clearly her father, but he is noticeably thinner, has deeply sunken eyes, and smells terrible. Behind him, the room is a cluttered mess, covered with open books, scroll parchment, quills and ink, and his dirty undergarments. He says nothing.
"Oh. Well, this just won't do."
Caladaer hasn't been sleeping. For the first week, it was because he was spending every moment of every day studying Vreeg's spellbook. He did not sleep in the bed a single time that week, invariably passing out at the desk while working and studying; it is a minor miracle that he avoided spilling entire bottles of ink into his spellbook. He ate only when his body refused to continue working without food. And bathing was the furthest thing from his mind.
But then the second week came, and he was already almost done learning all of Vreeg's spells. He didn't need to study every moment of the day. But still he wasn't sleeping. His daughter hadn't come to see him a single time in over a week. It was the longest they had ever gone without speaking, and they were in the same building! He considered seeking her out, but ... well, his pride won that battle. If she wanted to see him, she would come.
Several more days passed. Several more days of not seeing his daughter. His only family; his only friend. He protected himself from the sadness and the loneliness by smothering them with anger, and that was when the nightmares started.
He finally remembers Golloriel's mother, only to discover she is a horrific shapechanging demon.
He finally remembers his family, only to discover that they all hated him from the moment he was born.
He is surrounded by zombies rising from the earth, and they drag him down to live among them.
Golloriel herself stabs him through the heart.
---
And on and on like that, until he began to fear sleep itself.
Why doesn't she come?
---
Another week passed, and he had long since given up hope. He would die of starvation in this room in a temple of Sarenrae, of all places. He had lived a decently long life by the standards of most races. His daughter had somehow turned out to be a good person. Sure, she had eventually stopped needing her father, but isn't that the goal of raising children? Well. Not many people would remember him, but he was certain they would remember her, and that's not bad for a legacy.
---
When the knock on the door comes, he is only semi-conscious. At first he is certain it is another nightmare, but the terrible things that come into his room to eat his face in his nightmares don't tend to knock first. He lifts his head with no small amount of effort, sees (and smells) his surroundings, and somehow convinces himself that he is alive and awake, and that knock was real. He stands, shuffles to the door, and opens it.
She looks ... resplendent. She almost seems to emit her own light; his rational mind tries to tell him it's just an illusion, a side effect of spending three weeks in a room lit by a single candle, but he doesn't believe it. Something is fundamentally different about her.
They stare at each other for what seems an eternity, each shocked at the other's appearance. He yearns to speak to her, but what would he say? Then her expression softens and she speaks, and he can no longer stand. His legs give out and he falls.
Golloriel catches her father, and is horrified by how light he is. Her training has strengthened her, but she should not be able to handle a full grown man with such ease. She lays him gently in the bed and throws open the heavy curtains, filling the room with light. She immediately regrets her decision, as the light shows just how foul his current living arrangements are. She wrinkles her nose, looks down at him for a long moment, then sighs. She grabs her father's quill and a sheet of parchment and scribbles out a quick note. She leaves the room and walks around until she finds an acolyte. "If you please, will you send water, bread, a bathtub, scrub brush, soap, and towels to Master Eglen's room? No water necessary; I can make it myself. And get this message to the Viden estate." She gives the acolyte the note, a gold piece (apparently becoming a paladin has also made her an overtipper), and her thanks.
The note reads:
My dear Andakos,
I received your invitation with mixed emotions: elation and excitement at hearing from you, and bitter disappointment that I must decline, for tonight at least. My father is quite unwell and unable to leave the Temple. Would it terribly inconvenience you to postpone until two evenings from now? I must give my father my full attention now, but I will not keep you waiting any longer than two days; if he is still unwell, I will leave him in the care of a trusted friend and visit you alone.
My sincerest apologies. I do so wish to see you soon.
Yours,
Golloriel Eglen
The dwarf politely refuses the gold coin. He does a fine job of remaining stoic, but Golloriel gets the feeling the gesture was somehow offensive.
The acolyte also declines the gold piece, because he is an ascetic and has no worldly possessions, but takes the note and vows to return within the next twenty minutes with the requested items.
Cleaning such a tiny living space should not be an ordeal, but it is. His chamberpot appears to have something growing in it. Oddly enough, whatever it is seems to be eating whatever part of feces causes the smell, because the chamberpot hardly has any odor anymore at all, which is somehow more disturbing. The most pungent of the smells doesn't even come from the filthy, fly-ridden plates piled up haphazardly next to the writing desk. No, the most offensive of the odors comes from Cal's sheets.
The white sheets are stained yellow-brown with layer upon layer of sweat. While it's not unusual to see some sweat stains on white bedsheets--it is summer, after all--this much is far beyond the norm. From what Golloriel can tell, though, the worst of the stains seem to be a couple weeks old.
With the acolyte's help--Brother Halfast, as it turns out--the two of you manage to change the sheets and clean out Cal's filthy dishes and chamberpot. He leaves the bowl and sponge to you to take care of, sensing privacy is probably best here. Halfast offers not a whisper of complaint throughout, nor does he allow you to do this work alone. "We must be willing to take succor as well as give it," he reminds her if any objections are voiced. But when it comes time for the bathing, he excuses himself quietly and leaves her to it.
***
In the late afternoon, Andakos receives a letter via a messenger boy. The kid can't be older than eleven, and is painfully thin. Andakos is suddenly reminded of the children in Gaedren's clutches little more than a month ago, and the two dead by the old man's hands before he and the others rescued them. This boy seems to sense some of it in Andakos' face and is clearly uncomfortable, but steadfastly stands his ground with his palm out expectantly.